If anyone ever has the patience and interest to read to this point, there is something I'd like you to know, and that thing is: writing the nautical portion of a geo-political (no emphasis on political, or even Geo. I didn't name the genre) thriller is tough work. Throughout all my editing, included a total overhaul in early July, I'm still not sure I have all the Diego business straightened out. Did I retain any of the mistakes I thought I'd cleaned out? If you see one, please say so in the review, thanks.

A few changes are occurring that could alter your life here: I'm changing my internet service provider, and an address change will go with it. I don't yet know what my new provider will be called, but I'll keep "Typewriter King" in the address.

I also plan on righting more of the story, and less of the commentary in the future, but there are still some things I want to say now.

1. I've never read the Gundam comics.

2. If you truly want to understand Trowa Barton's psychology, read Lost Horizon.

3. I saw the series on American cable before watching the DVDs and Endless Waltz on DVD.

4. I'll make a simple website soon, but don't expect much at first.

5. I'm going to type up an old Star Wars fan fiction I wrote a long time ago (nearly a decade has passed), and consider putting it up on the site.

I'm wondering if this site will support pictures in my docs. Just testing.

Medellín, Columbia

"I'm working to restore my family, and to do that, I must finance the restoration with funds I don't have."

I actually told my mother that when I outfitted my expedition to South America in AC 187, when the first Gundam operation temporarily weakened the Alliance's foothold on this area. If you had ever met my mother, you would guess she'd think my idea as just another way out of- something! I can't understand what she believed I was running from, but I'm no deserter.

If you asked my mother, or my aunts and their husbands, for that matter, what the family business plan is, they'd laugh and explain the family drips in wealth.

Truth be told, the estate is a bigger drain on our wealth than they estimate, if they estimate at all, and their hosting and touring doesn't help the situation much, either.

I let them cavort about Europe and North America, living the "proper" lives of genteel women, while I compile a real business plan with the common man in Medellín, Columbia.

Here I can contact smart people with callous and sometimes bloody hands, and we can come to an understanding that will maximize the profit of the Bartista Estate.

That Texas troubleshooter, the one that's bailing on me, can be replaced by anyone that properly applies an education, and I'm already at work filling his shoes with someone. I have no need to keep people here against their wills; except some of the hookers and cookers.

I market products, while my mother markets marriages. Who do you think really generates the money? I do, man, I earn it.

It isn't easy, though. You have to throw out a lot of capitol like stinky fish if you're going to build up a narcotics empire.

I started by casing the big fish of the time, a local don born and raised in Medellín, a fat guy with a degree in marketing. That intrigued me. For so long, we've been bombarded with the mantra that these guys were uneducated punks with little vocabulary, and even though I held a suspicion that the truth was completely contrary, the surprise of seeing someone like me already in place confounded me.

Still, I whacked him anyway, after casing his entire operation. He had a network with the opium and khat cartels, in Asia and Africa, and some contacts with designer dealers in America and Europe. He had some family bonds with the amphetamine crowd in the United States and Mexico, much like the arranged relationships in the aristocracy.

He had an understanding with the less chemical, more electrical, gangsters of Japan as well, though not so cozy there.

I inherited it all in a thirty-hour period, when I had all my elements set around the country. I do worry that karma can catch up with me, that someone could eventually flash in here and pull it all away, but the venture has already rolled back the family debts an entire lifetime. I'm also reassured by the world stabilizing so fast, though I must admit the chaos over the last few years allowed me to work my way into the new system.

About that: my relationship with the Preventers isn't working out. The Peacecrafts are coming after me, would you believe it? That petite dove and her crackpot brother are sending my traffickers reeling with that museum piece suit and a lot of flowery rhetoric, while mother sends me messages that in summery never fail to say "I told you so."

It's vexing, and my Conglomerate partners aren't fairing any better, it seems.

And as if I didn't have enough to digest, Peacecraft "ghost" bombers are wrecking my hard-earned real estate.

But enough of this internal strife; this is just another problem I can use my wit and will to fix.

Medellín, Columbia

In my researching of the Medellín electric power grid, I discovered that most of the cities suburban power lines converge at an unintentional hub atop a hill near a golf course. Here, the power company's high voltage line rest on a tower built on this high ground, where, coincidently, the power men placed their set-down transformers for the low voltage lines. It must have been of some convenience, I suppose.

This hub is the objective of my latest mission, the last one before I check out for the night.

Bartista gave thought to his power grid, it seems, because the tower is within a guarded compound, taking up roughly a hectare from the golf course.
But I'm not planning on attacking that directly.
The weapon of choice in this case is a simple Russian remedy, a dumb Strela missile, with the IR seeker ripped out, and replaced by a small active infrared proximity fuse. I replaced the warhead, too, with a chaff dispenser.
From a community garden, I pointed the grip stock at a forty-five degree angle, and let the missile fly roughly four and a half kilometers. Surely I could trust a Russian missile to fly straight into a stationary target.
If I'm right about this, the chaff, made of twelve-inch aluminum strips, will land on the exposed high voltage lines, and temporarily close a pointless circuit, effectively cutting power long enough for the Preventers to do their work.

I'm pleased to see lights fade.

"Mission complete."

Two hundred miles up, low orbit

"When you pour iodine and oxygen together, you get a sports drink that excites photons like saccharine in a kid's metabolism," so Howard explained the function of chemical laser integral to fighting land targets from space.

"It's true that the chemicals stimulate the photons like mad," Sally corroborated, "but kids aren't really juiced up by saccharine. That's a myth advanced by parents that are just finding fault with the normal behaviors of children."

To that, Director Une quipped: "that's academically correct, but you'll rethink that, after spending some time with kids."

She'd signed away on the satellite anyway, and here it is, in it's first real application as a weapon platform.

It snaps photos of two known Bartista ranchos with a Keyhole 12 camera, giving the gunner at MO-2 a one-meter resolution image to target.

"I'm taking the shot," he announced, keying the trigger that mixes the "saccharine cool aid," as the Preventers have come to know the chemicals.

Once triggered, several megawatts of electricity spanned from space to the Spanish roof of yet another home.

"That's one, now the other shot." Another hit, another great big scorch mark.

"Counting down for the ETA (do you prefer Dorothy's, or the accepted version?) of the BDA (bomb damage assessment) bird. Mission complete."

Another mission perfectly pulled off at a hypersonic speed.

Germany

Rule 17. The challenged chooses his ground; the challenger chooses his distance; the seconds fix the time and terms of firing.

-The Code Duello

To the esteemed gentleman, Duke Hapsburg,

Your apparent disregard for my honor has been a great disturbance in my life, so much so that my only course of action is to seek satisfaction on a field of honor, one of your choice. I'll of course accept an apology, and a public extraction of your comments, with an explanation for your earlier remarks. Don't think you'll weasel out of this any other way. For a poltroon such as you, I only offer two roads; the hard way, or the easy way.

I am waiting for your reply. Be quick.

Sincerely,

Lady Antoinette Une

The letter, written on Romefeller stationary, arrived by way of an express courier. The destination was Duke Hapsburg's Napoleon Era Austrian palace overlooking the Lake of Constance.

The Duke himself entertained a trove of World Government peers in the wing built by Nazi SS men when the letter arrived.

Rule 16. The challenged has the right to choose his own weapon, unless the challenger gives his honor he is no swordsman; after which, however, he can decline any second species of weapon proposed by the challenged.

-The Code Duello

To demand guns or swords, that is the question. He knew the lady had mastered both, so would the demand for an unorthodox duel be acceptable? Yes, if it's not too outlandish, but is there anything that would diminish Une's obvious physical advantage?

Winchesters? Too lethal. Trebuchets? To unwieldy, and that's a siege weapon, anyway! Mobile-suits? Don't be an idiot!

Others noticed his fit.

"Master Wilhelm, what has you in a fit?" Nathan is a young butler, but should have known to leave things alone. He's crafty, though. See what he thinks.

"Nathan, take a look at this," the Duke handed over the challenge.

"Oh my! What should I do, Sir, write up your retraction now, or wait for the party to dissolve?"

Wilhelm had never struck a butler before, but only so much impudence can be bared.

"You retarded imp! You're fired, effective immediately!" At once he felt the murmuring in the palace, and the chatter of gossip. The Duke, himself young for his responsibilities, quietly simmered as his guests grudgingly gave their patron some space.

Such a duel can only be resolved with traditional dueling pistols.

"Courier!"

His shout echoed off the marble walls, audible to all ears.

"Will you kindly inscribe my reply?"

"Well certainly, Sir."

He cast an intense expression as he recited the terms.

"I gladly accept your challenge. See me with official Romefeller dueling pistols at the foundation's reflective pond at high noon tomorrow."

"Very good Sir. Where should I take this message?"

"The return address of the letter you brought in should be acceptable, if you have it."

The courier consulted his notebook PC.

"Director Une, Sir?"

No one spoke. Even the string quartet quieted.

"Yes. She challenged me to a duel, and I accepted."

The quartet resumed playing, and with the patter of applause, conversation grew more exited than before.

The Duke took the opportunity to theatrically sweep his hand across the room.

"I'm auctioning off the chance to be my second! Do I have any takers?"

That's the proper way for a person of class to raise money.

Rule 14. Seconds to be of equal rank in society with the principals they attend, inasmuch as a second may either choose or chance to become a principal, and equality is indispensable.

-The Code Duello

Okay, maybe not.

Turkey (not Thrace)

Hello again, this is your old buddy, Stalingrad, the sharp-shooting Russian from the Urals. I've followed our old enemy, who are Armenian, I should point out, on their eastern exodus, through a miasma of deceit long enough to discover they aren't running back home to Armenian territory. Instead, they kept moving east into Kurdish territory, where you guys aren't welcome.

As I'm writing this letter, I'm parked in a mountainous border town, at an RV park. I've got a tiny little camping trailer most western people would only find suitable for storage, but it's dry, warm, and reasonably comfortable, for someone used to trudging through the environments I'm known to fight in.

Through my sliding screened window, I can see kids in oversized t-shirts and bare feet playing with dogs of large sizes. The elderly are vending all kinds of things under the shade of a yellow and white umbrella, sipping margaritas and wine coolers, while a more firm looking man watches things over with a sawed-off shotgun. They wear hats and flannel shirts.

Most people around here wear jumpsuits, t-shirts, fatigues, or flannel, that's just the way it is. I've made conversation with some, but my thick accent gets in the way. Tell me, friend, why didn't it impede our conversations?

At least I can listen to others, and that has help tremendously. Turns out a border guard has family in this RV park, which I've come to recognize as a slum of sorts. In Russia, the slums are crammed apartment complexes, you know?

I promised to reveal my real name some time back. That name is meant for my retirement. I've preserved the name pretty well, so I can one day retire with it. I even go home with it right now.

I'll get back to my name in a bit, but first, let me give the license plate numbers of those trucks to you. The border guard saw three trucks full of men pass, and their numbers were as follows:

364-D215 364-L319 364-H3405

Just to let you know I'm not goofing off.

I'll follow them into Kurdistan at daybreak, and see about sniffing out their trail. How convenient that they'd hightail it into one of the few countries not formally integrated in the World Nation? Will this mean the Foreign Minister will come out and negotiate our right to follow them? I'll give you a head start. For the record, I know the'd come this way.

Goodnight,

"Stalingrad."

Somalia

Trowa kept one finger on a metal rail under his bed all night, so when Duo walked by to make a jerk of himself, he could preempt whatever heathen thing he planned to wake the group with. This paid off a little more than an hour before sunrise, when the resonance of Maxwell's bunny hopping ran into Barton's index finger.

He quickly tumbled out, and presented himself before his friend.

Who had a fire extinguisher in his hand.

"That isn't even clever, Maxwell. Keep quiet."

Duo held a vulnerable expression, mouth agape.

"Don't wake the others, except maybe Dorothy. The others can't really help."

The American colonist absently picked his nose.

"Sorry, bad habit. Help with what?"

Trowa elaborated on his plan.

"I've read the detective's report, and wrote instructions to Catherine, outlining the details of how best to proceed on that end. We'll be back by sundown, and I can pick up on the investigation from there. But for now, you and I need to go do some armed reconnaissance."

Duo reverted to scratching.

"But how to wake Ms. Catalonia up, without arousing a scream?"

Trowa scoffed.

"That shouldn't be a problem, if you tap her in non-threatening areas- best let me handle that job."

'What makes me think you're indirectly calling me a pervert?' Duo wanted to ask.

A minute later, Dorothy schlepped out, looking vacant.

"Good morning, Ms. Catalonia, would you care joining our expedition?" Trowa invited, steadying the woman's wobbly condition.

Tension built at her throat, but in a moment, she managed to speak.

"I'll need a shower and clothing, but then we can head out."

She walked past on her own power, remembering where the shower was.

"I'll leave the door unlocked, so you can drop my clothing in, but don't consider that an invitation for anything more. And keep Maxwell out at all costs, will you?" She directed the question at Trowa.

"As you wish, Ma'am."

She exited the corridor in a flourish, something that comes naturally with hair of that length.

"Luckily, neither Dorothy nor I moved our packs from our lockers, so entering the sleeping quarters isn't necessary," said the circus star, all of three seconds before the Gundam duo heard evidence of running water.

"Don't bother her, Duo. That sort of hazing is bad for morale."

Duo thought his partner had gone a little to far with that one.

"What are you accusing me of, buddy?"

But before the junkyard kid could berate his bud, the stoic one tottered for the lockers.

"In L2 we call that a hit-and-run, pal! By taking a shot at me, you're obligated to stick around for my tirade! Curse you!" Arms crossed over his chest, Duo muttered a time longer.

"You think I'm some sort of predator, do you? Well, I'm not that sort of person. I grew up in a religious atmosphere, I'm a moral person, I fought for the colonies before it was fashionable, I, I… I wonder what Dorothy Catalonia looks like under her clothes?"

Hand on the doorknob, Duo looked both directions down the hall, peeked Trowa's direction again, and spied his return.

"Crap it, that clown's back."

Trowa seemed to stare beyond the junkman as if he's a specimen.

"Care to explain yourself?"

Be cool.

"I posted myself beside the door, better to make sure no one intrudes."

The mind of 03 took the answer skeptically.

"I see you're starting to think like a soldier. Heero would be proud."

"Really?"

"Yep. These are the exact actions I'd expect from a soldier; one stationed away from womankind for consecutive months."

Ouch.

"Time has turned you into a verbal sadist, my friend."

Trowa stuttered an apology.

"Sorry, Duo. I'm still in the process of integrating back into society, and my sense of humor is yet to be perfectly honed. Now let me through."

Trowa turned the knob, landed the lady's gym bag beside the sink, locked the door, and closed it, all without peering toward the shower stall, or inserting the majority of his body in the room.

"Case closed. For your information, Duo, her body is very taut, shaped athletically, without any disfigurements whatsoever."

"How do you know?"

"The mirror, and a one-tenth of a second glance on my part. I'd say she's able to handle her part of the mission. Sorry, Duo, I know as a soldier, you'd like to inspect your soldiers yourself, but she insisted on a level of privacy from you. Let's go."

Kurdistan

I came across the border expecting people to be even poorer on this side, but to my disbelief, the Kurds are running a cooperative agricultural society like all the nuts of the late twentieth century dreamed of. I see private plots, a bit more modest, providing things other than the staples grown in the community fields.

I learned one group pitched together to by one of those great big American tractors to run in a huge valley, and I've even seen a neighborhood silo-raising, like you see in a nostalgic American movie. I noticed a twist, however. True, they did lift four wooden walls, as you see Americans do in a barn-raising, but they added the roof in the new style, blowing a large balloon, then smearing concrete all over it. I'm always amazed by the simplicity of the new construction method.

Imagine, if you will, your ancestors doing that. You, being a Turkish Moslem, my friend, can now build a domed mosque in a day.

Take a look at Hagia Sophia for me, and imagine the Byzantines using the method. If they'd had such methods, they'd have never gone bankrupt, and you'd probably be talking to Jesus, rather than praying in a mosque. Something as simple as a new construction method can change everything, can't it?

The Sanc Kingdom is talking about installing a set of "planet defensors" around Newport City. Could this be such an innovation? I'm hoping it will be a healthy contribution to our times.

Maybe it's time for me to live as Constantine Alexander Pushkin. Or, if I continue working in the defense community, go by the convenient acronym it makes in English: CAP. I think that makes a perfect name for a deadly sniper, do you?

I'll muse over it.

Your dear friend,

Constantine Alexander Pushkin, AKA

"Stalingrad"

Anther segment of the Author's Note:

Today I have all the promised elements, save the detective story, typed up and ready to go. That part could take a little longer because I must be careful with that. I, of all people, shouldn't make careless mistakes when writing about police work.

I promise to put Detective Louis Noin to the top of my writing priorities, and flesh out his work. I'll try to write as authentic a work as possible. I'll also write more about Duo and Trowa's op, and write a somewhat Rainbow Six type description of a Turkish police paramilitary unit in action.

One more thing! I'm sketching possible artwork in theory for the hypothetical website that I may or may not be working on. Hope everything works out.