August 1, 2004
Bon journo, my readers. Today, Angelfire is hosting the site I'm progressively building. As of July's end, I only have a proof-of concept existing to tell everyone I have a website in the making. I have a highly unique picture, a link to the story you want to read, and not much else, but as anyone that knows me will say, I always deliver.
For the near future, this site will be about gundams, but later, I hope to tie in more things centered on Typewriter King.
A shout-out to the Viscount, who put in some secretarial work while I handled artistic details.
I've almost reached my writing quota for August already, so I'll have plenty of extra time to build up the aesthetics of the site. I'm going for something really classy and quick for dialup, preferably something more than the usual fanfic-fanart warehouse. I'll provide links to those, but I have the opportunity to do something more unique.
Please excuse the ads.
About the story: After giving Zechs and Noin some proper privacy (who wants to read smut?), I reintroduce Zechs for a moment of shaking off Zero's effects. Then I return to the more pressing threads in the story.
Your comrade,
Typewriter King
Havana
He's been a brazenfaced poltroon to coordinate this dastardly plan of entrapment for his pallid paramour, but Milliardo Peacecraft, Prince of Sanc, felt the endorphin pinnacle of his scheme washed away by an unlikely confrontation with that unlikely portcullis.
After all that merriment regaling his affianced woman, his soul cage returned in time to spoil his sleeping bliss.
He retired away from his refulgent lover upon waking, scribbling a letter in all haste to explain.
"Noin," he wrote, just Noin, "I won't be leaving you for long. I'll be by the seagulls at the boardwalk. My carotid arteries are running rapid, too rapid for my carrion heart muscle to comply with. I feel a little faint this morning, and I think some necrotic cells may be building up in my chest. If you sleep in late, I may already be at the doctor's. Remember my heart problem?"
He struck a line through the last part, though he couldn't fathom the reason. She surely remembers the liberation of Sanc.
'Well won't she be flattered,' he morosely mused, 'perhaps she won't take a literal interpretation of my note. I'm known as an awkward flirt, after all.'
He left the hotel clutching his chest, gritting his teeth. Truly, he felt comfortable within Lucrezia's company, always has. No throb in the heart, no ache in the stomach's pit, not if she's a comfortable distance away, at least. She's his security, she's home, alluring even, but she's never been a source of stress. Would Noin be disappointed at not being his tormenter? To put the question in a more honest light, would she be hurt to know that she's just a mistress, second fiddle to Zero?
Zechs left the lobby, muttering insane reason to himself.
"This is a conundrum, breaking from the slavery of a machine, weaning from my dependence on it, while it's in some ways physically offering to save my marriage, only to sap all meaning from the union in doing so."
He snapped his mouth shut, uncertain of how valid that declaration was. 'Are these two unions incompatible in one life?' A PVC chair invited him a seat, and he took it to the dock. The cerulean haze alerted of Sol's cresting over the Earth, and somewhere, a rooster crowed. Zechs brayed as well, sardonically exclaiming the delights of fishing. He cast the reel anyway, sat watching his lure bob atop the sea.
"Huh," he smiled, "this business is resting my pulse. Imagine that."
Turin, Italy, late AC195 (as retold by Victor)
The old observations of Italian driving skills seemed to hold true this night. The paramedics had yet another code three, meaning an emergency call requiring lights and sirens, and our department needed to dispatch someone over to escort.
The department has been rotating cops over to look after the medics ever since that ambulance attack near St Gabriel's. Some EMTs began refusing to go out on rides without backup, after that attack/hijacking, and worse, hospital bombing.
I'm the chief of an elite plain-clothed strike team, so you'd think I'd be excerpt, but then you'd be thinking without the next bit of valuable information. The attacker was widely rumored to be a Gundam terrorist from the colonies.
Most of us were skeptical, but we weren't exactly the authorities in charge, were we?
The code three was for a routine smashup, and we did nothing but watch a few hurt people intubated and chest-compressed. Luckily, the meat wagon didn't need to show.
We let the ambulance go on its way, and responded to a normal call, one about more speeding cars. This is Italy, got to love it.
An old lady talks to us about street races on her block, telling us we should do something about it. Like anyone, I don't like being berated, so I level with her.
"Okay, lady, I'll perch over here and control traffic with the radar." Her face soured, and she came at me from another tangent.
"Can't you cops ever be civil? You go off entrapping people, like a slithering serpent." This is the sort of grunt work normal cops have to put up with every day, but I'm special enough to get the cooler jobs, most of the time.
Anyway, I went ahead with this type of regulating when I noticed a Jag turn a corner with the dome light on. That means I've hit pay dirt.
I flashed it down on that spot, where it couldn't accelerate much at all. I pinned it between my Diablo and a rotted billboard, and illuminated my flashlight into their mirror, an old trick I picked up.
I ordered them out with the megaphone. My voice boomed like God's. Sure enough, they sprawled out with the syringes still hanging from their forearms. You see, I hunched that they were using the dome light to find a vein while they were shooting up.
My unit carries lapel radios. I used mine to radio in the call, even as I sprinted from my car.
I caught the first guy as he lay on his hands and knees. This isn't exactly textbook, but I whipped out my nightstick and kind of used it as a rolling pin kneading dough. I got him down fast, so I could cuff him and roll clear before the other guy had a chance to be brutal on me.
The demands of the paramedics are spreading us kind of thin, you see, so we kind of have to find innovative new methods for sending out solo patrols at times.
I don't like it, but as I said, I called this in before acting. The other "guy" turned out to be a woman. I guess they were a typical recreational drug-using couple.
Another Lamborghini black-and-white showed at the scene, and we bagged the evidence together. Our evidence inventory gained the two syringes, and two small bags of white crystals. These two were on crank. If you zap them with a TASER, their hearts go all aflutter and explode, we're told. That'd be fun to watch.
Recreational users are pretty easy to frighten. All you got to do is tell them we can accommodate them with some really nice rooms for an extended occupancy.
We usually tell the male we can arrange for him to see a "real knuckle-dragging single male-"don't let the PC thought-police hear about this. Our secret.
That type of talk usually does the trick, and as usual, these two accept our plea-bargaining terms.
Before you know it, they spill the dealer's description, his haunts, his modus operandi. The guy on the street is always a middleman, a link between the smuggler and the buyer.
He's typically more afraid of the smuggler than us, but then again, you've never seen our strike team.
Louis, you know our interrogation techniques are guarded secrets, but let me tell you this; this kid wasn't a hardened criminal, just a refugee paying off a debt.
He gave in, identified the two suspects you wanted to know about, and later testified in court, just as the two users did.
We wrote this up differently, mind you, because any lawyer can convince a jury that plea-bargained testimony isn't worth the paper their confessions are written on.
We got our convictions, and you know the rest. Put them back into the cage, will you, Louis?
Kurdistan
In the city of Amadiya, Constantine Alexander Pushkin tried to shop his trade at the unemployment office. He waited patiently in a single-file line, behind men and women in conservatively cut indigenous brown and white clothing, in a long two-tone hallway. The government clerk processed people rather quickly, normally just stamping a paper, directing someone to head somewhere else, and calling the next person. Pushkin flipped through a Cyrillic print of The World Military Review, until he reached the booth. The clerk was a man of barely thirty, with closely trimmed hair and gold- rimmed glasses. "Yes?" Some greeting. Someone needs to head back to bureaucrat school.
"I'm seeking employment in the service sector. In the trade, I'm known as CAP." The clerk absently ran a search, found many hits on CAP.
"Profession, sir?" The corners of CAP's mouth crested upward.
"Assassin."
"Yes sir, bringing up the list of contracts. A printed copy is a tenth of a credit." Things are just done differently in Kurdistan.
Later
In only a matter of hours, a certain group of Armenians got word of a legendary Russian, and rang "Stalingrad," as he's alternately known, at his hotel.
He didn't know what language to answer in, so best to fall to the old default.
"Hello?" The caller breathed into his ear.
"Is this CAP?"
"Yes, Partner?"
"I'll send someone to meet you."
"Alright, you know the hotel?"
"Someone will knock on your door in fifteen minutes. Let him in, and he'll discuss the hit."
"Got it." The line clicked dead.
Someone in an Armenian wool sweater entered from a Prussian blue hatchback exactly a quarter hour later. Constantine rushed from his hidden trailer and merged into the sea of parked vehicles, planted a small Global Positioning transponder, zigzagged a spell, and followed into the lobby. He climbed the stairs, noted the elevator doors were opening, and crashed through his open room door.
Seconds later, the knock pealed as advertised.
"Come in." The man in the wool sweater did, and offered his hand. Constantine accepted, and offered a seat. When the Armenian declined, the Russian took it.
"How would you like to be addressed?"
"Noah will be fine."
"So, Noah, tell me about your offer." He put his hands together, and gathered his wits.
"Sure thing. We need the Cypriot Garrison Commander out of the picture. It's hard finding quality professionals willing to remove a Preventer. Can you do it?"
CAP rested his hands in his chair.
"What's his name?" Noah passed over a picture.
"He's called Auda. Worked closely with a Gundam pilot during the war. That scares away practically every wet-works specialist." Constantine feigned musing it over.
"This I could do. A Maguanac, is he?" Noah relaxed in his chair.
"Heard of them, I gather?" He nodded.
"I've killed Arabs before. Worked with them, too. Some of my earliest work was within the Winner family, in fact. I can understand why lesser assassins would opt out."
"So you'll do it?" Pushkin shrugged.
"Sure, but can't you think of anyone bigger to kill?" Noah liked the comment.
"He's to be removed for a specific purpose, in this case, and must be removed within the next hundred hours."
"I see. A rescue operation, I take it?" Noah blinked.
"How did you surmise that?"
"Fits what I know about you Armenians. Your loyalty seals your group cohesion." Noah approved.
"He'll be somewhere within the Preventer's ninety-nine kilometer security zone. That's all I can tell you."
"I'll find him, within those bounds." Noah the Armenian let himself out.
The Parking Lot
The Armenian keyed his ignition, entered his car, felt satisfied his wagon hadn't been tampered with, and trail blazed away.
Stalingrad's device received constant location updates from the colony's global positioning constellation, kept memory of the route, and only sent word back to the user through brief, irregular, burst transmissions.
Through these means, it avoided the usual detection schemes for finding tracking beacons.
Soon the vehicle came to rest at a massive aluminum warehouse.
That Night
Ankara's finest eight SWAT operatives stuffed themselves into there truest bluest police helicopters for dangerous insertions, the force's Lynx "little bird" helicopter, a rotary aircraft with enough room to pinch all of them inside. Istanbul's twin little bird doubled the force, and both cities provided escorting up-gunned Super Apache Warrior attack helicopters, for a measure of support.
Both cities also suited up their Bell Jet Rangers, seating six cops each, for fast-roping drops further from the "hot zone," for the purposes of this op, meaning a few blocks around the warehouse.
Note the birds are full, and the authorities surely mean to extract all the SWAT cops. They have a license to kill, Amigo.
All team members wore gray-and-blue urban battle dress uniforms (UDU) with their torso armor, Kevlar crash helmets, and load-baring harnesses.
The Apache gunships stayed roughly two hundred meters ahead of the little birds, flying nap-of-the-Earth (low-level) through the severe mountain landscape making up the border.
Warrant Officers, second grade, flew the little birds. A Crew Chief sat beside the pilot. Over flat terrain, the CW2 pushed in the collective, picking up more speed. He sees no reason to linger. He has a wonderful control touch, so he needs no cushion.
Mosul is now in their faces. Stalingrad is blinking his strobe light, telling them where to land. Both little birds comply. The Bell Jet Rangers land close by.
The sniper shows the paramilitary fighters through the cut chain link barrier, and let's them into the warehouses back service door.
The lead guy wields a Remington 870 12 gauge shotgun with 14" barrel, which he uses to blow the door off its hinges. Trios of 37 mm gas guns chase the door in, accompanied by the filing assault team.
The first guys in carried the burden of high-yield titanium or boron chest plates, 10mm MP-10 H&K submachine guns, muffs, and eye protection from the CS gas, percussion grenades, and Wily Pete burning in the structure.
The clash of H&K and AK played out for a minute, sometimes punctuated by the sporadic report of the Remington's 70mm explosive Argentine-produced shells, or a potato-masher. Some sentries Stalingrad never noticed discharges some old .51 AA guns in the tall grass, only to succumb to rotary-cannon shells dished out by the circling Apaches. The revetments in both Lynx birds held up under the fusillade, and the victorious SWAT officers confidently loaded back up for the flight back to Turkey. The mission's duration matched the time needed to take a pee and wash up.
Author's Note: Did I deliver? A "Wily Pete" is a white phosphorous- whatever. It can be a grenade or any kind of white phosphorous projectile. Notice the name comes from the phonetic letters. Do I need to explain any more jargon?
Bon journo, my readers. Today, Angelfire is hosting the site I'm progressively building. As of July's end, I only have a proof-of concept existing to tell everyone I have a website in the making. I have a highly unique picture, a link to the story you want to read, and not much else, but as anyone that knows me will say, I always deliver.
For the near future, this site will be about gundams, but later, I hope to tie in more things centered on Typewriter King.
A shout-out to the Viscount, who put in some secretarial work while I handled artistic details.
I've almost reached my writing quota for August already, so I'll have plenty of extra time to build up the aesthetics of the site. I'm going for something really classy and quick for dialup, preferably something more than the usual fanfic-fanart warehouse. I'll provide links to those, but I have the opportunity to do something more unique.
Please excuse the ads.
About the story: After giving Zechs and Noin some proper privacy (who wants to read smut?), I reintroduce Zechs for a moment of shaking off Zero's effects. Then I return to the more pressing threads in the story.
Your comrade,
Typewriter King
Havana
He's been a brazenfaced poltroon to coordinate this dastardly plan of entrapment for his pallid paramour, but Milliardo Peacecraft, Prince of Sanc, felt the endorphin pinnacle of his scheme washed away by an unlikely confrontation with that unlikely portcullis.
After all that merriment regaling his affianced woman, his soul cage returned in time to spoil his sleeping bliss.
He retired away from his refulgent lover upon waking, scribbling a letter in all haste to explain.
"Noin," he wrote, just Noin, "I won't be leaving you for long. I'll be by the seagulls at the boardwalk. My carotid arteries are running rapid, too rapid for my carrion heart muscle to comply with. I feel a little faint this morning, and I think some necrotic cells may be building up in my chest. If you sleep in late, I may already be at the doctor's. Remember my heart problem?"
He struck a line through the last part, though he couldn't fathom the reason. She surely remembers the liberation of Sanc.
'Well won't she be flattered,' he morosely mused, 'perhaps she won't take a literal interpretation of my note. I'm known as an awkward flirt, after all.'
He left the hotel clutching his chest, gritting his teeth. Truly, he felt comfortable within Lucrezia's company, always has. No throb in the heart, no ache in the stomach's pit, not if she's a comfortable distance away, at least. She's his security, she's home, alluring even, but she's never been a source of stress. Would Noin be disappointed at not being his tormenter? To put the question in a more honest light, would she be hurt to know that she's just a mistress, second fiddle to Zero?
Zechs left the lobby, muttering insane reason to himself.
"This is a conundrum, breaking from the slavery of a machine, weaning from my dependence on it, while it's in some ways physically offering to save my marriage, only to sap all meaning from the union in doing so."
He snapped his mouth shut, uncertain of how valid that declaration was. 'Are these two unions incompatible in one life?' A PVC chair invited him a seat, and he took it to the dock. The cerulean haze alerted of Sol's cresting over the Earth, and somewhere, a rooster crowed. Zechs brayed as well, sardonically exclaiming the delights of fishing. He cast the reel anyway, sat watching his lure bob atop the sea.
"Huh," he smiled, "this business is resting my pulse. Imagine that."
Turin, Italy, late AC195 (as retold by Victor)
The old observations of Italian driving skills seemed to hold true this night. The paramedics had yet another code three, meaning an emergency call requiring lights and sirens, and our department needed to dispatch someone over to escort.
The department has been rotating cops over to look after the medics ever since that ambulance attack near St Gabriel's. Some EMTs began refusing to go out on rides without backup, after that attack/hijacking, and worse, hospital bombing.
I'm the chief of an elite plain-clothed strike team, so you'd think I'd be excerpt, but then you'd be thinking without the next bit of valuable information. The attacker was widely rumored to be a Gundam terrorist from the colonies.
Most of us were skeptical, but we weren't exactly the authorities in charge, were we?
The code three was for a routine smashup, and we did nothing but watch a few hurt people intubated and chest-compressed. Luckily, the meat wagon didn't need to show.
We let the ambulance go on its way, and responded to a normal call, one about more speeding cars. This is Italy, got to love it.
An old lady talks to us about street races on her block, telling us we should do something about it. Like anyone, I don't like being berated, so I level with her.
"Okay, lady, I'll perch over here and control traffic with the radar." Her face soured, and she came at me from another tangent.
"Can't you cops ever be civil? You go off entrapping people, like a slithering serpent." This is the sort of grunt work normal cops have to put up with every day, but I'm special enough to get the cooler jobs, most of the time.
Anyway, I went ahead with this type of regulating when I noticed a Jag turn a corner with the dome light on. That means I've hit pay dirt.
I flashed it down on that spot, where it couldn't accelerate much at all. I pinned it between my Diablo and a rotted billboard, and illuminated my flashlight into their mirror, an old trick I picked up.
I ordered them out with the megaphone. My voice boomed like God's. Sure enough, they sprawled out with the syringes still hanging from their forearms. You see, I hunched that they were using the dome light to find a vein while they were shooting up.
My unit carries lapel radios. I used mine to radio in the call, even as I sprinted from my car.
I caught the first guy as he lay on his hands and knees. This isn't exactly textbook, but I whipped out my nightstick and kind of used it as a rolling pin kneading dough. I got him down fast, so I could cuff him and roll clear before the other guy had a chance to be brutal on me.
The demands of the paramedics are spreading us kind of thin, you see, so we kind of have to find innovative new methods for sending out solo patrols at times.
I don't like it, but as I said, I called this in before acting. The other "guy" turned out to be a woman. I guess they were a typical recreational drug-using couple.
Another Lamborghini black-and-white showed at the scene, and we bagged the evidence together. Our evidence inventory gained the two syringes, and two small bags of white crystals. These two were on crank. If you zap them with a TASER, their hearts go all aflutter and explode, we're told. That'd be fun to watch.
Recreational users are pretty easy to frighten. All you got to do is tell them we can accommodate them with some really nice rooms for an extended occupancy.
We usually tell the male we can arrange for him to see a "real knuckle-dragging single male-"don't let the PC thought-police hear about this. Our secret.
That type of talk usually does the trick, and as usual, these two accept our plea-bargaining terms.
Before you know it, they spill the dealer's description, his haunts, his modus operandi. The guy on the street is always a middleman, a link between the smuggler and the buyer.
He's typically more afraid of the smuggler than us, but then again, you've never seen our strike team.
Louis, you know our interrogation techniques are guarded secrets, but let me tell you this; this kid wasn't a hardened criminal, just a refugee paying off a debt.
He gave in, identified the two suspects you wanted to know about, and later testified in court, just as the two users did.
We wrote this up differently, mind you, because any lawyer can convince a jury that plea-bargained testimony isn't worth the paper their confessions are written on.
We got our convictions, and you know the rest. Put them back into the cage, will you, Louis?
Kurdistan
In the city of Amadiya, Constantine Alexander Pushkin tried to shop his trade at the unemployment office. He waited patiently in a single-file line, behind men and women in conservatively cut indigenous brown and white clothing, in a long two-tone hallway. The government clerk processed people rather quickly, normally just stamping a paper, directing someone to head somewhere else, and calling the next person. Pushkin flipped through a Cyrillic print of The World Military Review, until he reached the booth. The clerk was a man of barely thirty, with closely trimmed hair and gold- rimmed glasses. "Yes?" Some greeting. Someone needs to head back to bureaucrat school.
"I'm seeking employment in the service sector. In the trade, I'm known as CAP." The clerk absently ran a search, found many hits on CAP.
"Profession, sir?" The corners of CAP's mouth crested upward.
"Assassin."
"Yes sir, bringing up the list of contracts. A printed copy is a tenth of a credit." Things are just done differently in Kurdistan.
Later
In only a matter of hours, a certain group of Armenians got word of a legendary Russian, and rang "Stalingrad," as he's alternately known, at his hotel.
He didn't know what language to answer in, so best to fall to the old default.
"Hello?" The caller breathed into his ear.
"Is this CAP?"
"Yes, Partner?"
"I'll send someone to meet you."
"Alright, you know the hotel?"
"Someone will knock on your door in fifteen minutes. Let him in, and he'll discuss the hit."
"Got it." The line clicked dead.
Someone in an Armenian wool sweater entered from a Prussian blue hatchback exactly a quarter hour later. Constantine rushed from his hidden trailer and merged into the sea of parked vehicles, planted a small Global Positioning transponder, zigzagged a spell, and followed into the lobby. He climbed the stairs, noted the elevator doors were opening, and crashed through his open room door.
Seconds later, the knock pealed as advertised.
"Come in." The man in the wool sweater did, and offered his hand. Constantine accepted, and offered a seat. When the Armenian declined, the Russian took it.
"How would you like to be addressed?"
"Noah will be fine."
"So, Noah, tell me about your offer." He put his hands together, and gathered his wits.
"Sure thing. We need the Cypriot Garrison Commander out of the picture. It's hard finding quality professionals willing to remove a Preventer. Can you do it?"
CAP rested his hands in his chair.
"What's his name?" Noah passed over a picture.
"He's called Auda. Worked closely with a Gundam pilot during the war. That scares away practically every wet-works specialist." Constantine feigned musing it over.
"This I could do. A Maguanac, is he?" Noah relaxed in his chair.
"Heard of them, I gather?" He nodded.
"I've killed Arabs before. Worked with them, too. Some of my earliest work was within the Winner family, in fact. I can understand why lesser assassins would opt out."
"So you'll do it?" Pushkin shrugged.
"Sure, but can't you think of anyone bigger to kill?" Noah liked the comment.
"He's to be removed for a specific purpose, in this case, and must be removed within the next hundred hours."
"I see. A rescue operation, I take it?" Noah blinked.
"How did you surmise that?"
"Fits what I know about you Armenians. Your loyalty seals your group cohesion." Noah approved.
"He'll be somewhere within the Preventer's ninety-nine kilometer security zone. That's all I can tell you."
"I'll find him, within those bounds." Noah the Armenian let himself out.
The Parking Lot
The Armenian keyed his ignition, entered his car, felt satisfied his wagon hadn't been tampered with, and trail blazed away.
Stalingrad's device received constant location updates from the colony's global positioning constellation, kept memory of the route, and only sent word back to the user through brief, irregular, burst transmissions.
Through these means, it avoided the usual detection schemes for finding tracking beacons.
Soon the vehicle came to rest at a massive aluminum warehouse.
That Night
Ankara's finest eight SWAT operatives stuffed themselves into there truest bluest police helicopters for dangerous insertions, the force's Lynx "little bird" helicopter, a rotary aircraft with enough room to pinch all of them inside. Istanbul's twin little bird doubled the force, and both cities provided escorting up-gunned Super Apache Warrior attack helicopters, for a measure of support.
Both cities also suited up their Bell Jet Rangers, seating six cops each, for fast-roping drops further from the "hot zone," for the purposes of this op, meaning a few blocks around the warehouse.
Note the birds are full, and the authorities surely mean to extract all the SWAT cops. They have a license to kill, Amigo.
All team members wore gray-and-blue urban battle dress uniforms (UDU) with their torso armor, Kevlar crash helmets, and load-baring harnesses.
The Apache gunships stayed roughly two hundred meters ahead of the little birds, flying nap-of-the-Earth (low-level) through the severe mountain landscape making up the border.
Warrant Officers, second grade, flew the little birds. A Crew Chief sat beside the pilot. Over flat terrain, the CW2 pushed in the collective, picking up more speed. He sees no reason to linger. He has a wonderful control touch, so he needs no cushion.
Mosul is now in their faces. Stalingrad is blinking his strobe light, telling them where to land. Both little birds comply. The Bell Jet Rangers land close by.
The sniper shows the paramilitary fighters through the cut chain link barrier, and let's them into the warehouses back service door.
The lead guy wields a Remington 870 12 gauge shotgun with 14" barrel, which he uses to blow the door off its hinges. Trios of 37 mm gas guns chase the door in, accompanied by the filing assault team.
The first guys in carried the burden of high-yield titanium or boron chest plates, 10mm MP-10 H&K submachine guns, muffs, and eye protection from the CS gas, percussion grenades, and Wily Pete burning in the structure.
The clash of H&K and AK played out for a minute, sometimes punctuated by the sporadic report of the Remington's 70mm explosive Argentine-produced shells, or a potato-masher. Some sentries Stalingrad never noticed discharges some old .51 AA guns in the tall grass, only to succumb to rotary-cannon shells dished out by the circling Apaches. The revetments in both Lynx birds held up under the fusillade, and the victorious SWAT officers confidently loaded back up for the flight back to Turkey. The mission's duration matched the time needed to take a pee and wash up.
Author's Note: Did I deliver? A "Wily Pete" is a white phosphorous- whatever. It can be a grenade or any kind of white phosphorous projectile. Notice the name comes from the phonetic letters. Do I need to explain any more jargon?
