Casus belli. Cause of war.

Sic ad nauseam: And so on to the point of nausia

Thanks for the review, Cheah.


Casus belli

"Tape a pencil flashlight with a very narrow beam to the barrel, exactly in line with it, and rig it so that you can comfortably turn the beam on for an instant with thumb or finger. Then stand in a room in the dusk, turn and fire, spin and fire, fall and fire, at the lamp, the corner of the picture, the book on the table, a magazine on the floor. Point naturally as if pointing the forefinger, arm in a comfortable position, never bringing it up to the eye to aim. An hour of practice can develop an astonishing accuracy."

-Travis McGee, THE SCARLET RUSE

"If you give a mouse a cookie, he's going to want a glass of milk, then he'll request a straw, Sic ad nauseam. So, does everyone understand why we can't negotiate?"

It is April of 2004, and fighting has livened up in the North. Roger Gordian has taken up residence within Camp William Eaton, and Sword's general area is completely clean of violence. Besides, in the Sunni North, the only remaining non-foreign threat is the single rebel cleric and his Mahdi Army, bankrolled and trained by Iran's Revolutionary Guard.

"Sir, Yes Sir!"

According to the doctrine of the enemy, now that practically none of their direct attacks are succeeding in any measurable way, they'll fight even more asymmetrically, taking hostages, assassinating mayors, executing captured friendly militiamen, et cetera, ad nauseam.

And to beat them, mused UpLink's founder, we must act less reactive and passive to these inevitable events.

"Listen up, my friends. We don't yet have all the international support we've asked for," the crowd in the mess shouted a mixture of oaths, "but through a long series of negotiations, I've managed to convince a few treaty nations of the clear and present need to temporarily relocate the international anti terrorist taskforce, RAINBOW SIX, from the United Kingdom, to here."

The attentive crowd stoically remained still. Rainbow hasn't yet been officially recognized to exist by any government, but when asked by the press, members of participating governments haven't denied the group's existence, either.

"The team will be restricted to members from governments taking part in OPERATION IRAQI FREEDOM, specifically meaning team members from Germany, Canada, Russia, and now Spain, will not attend this posting. However, an axillary half of the team, including members of those states, will remain to conduct operations in Europe. This IS the second offensive front in the worldwide war on terror! There will BE kidnappings, there will BE hostage-taking, and there will BE firefights right here, where we will BE returning fire right back at them. We are in the open desert. This is a free-fire zone. The civilian village is more than a klick away, so the rules of engagement are eased enough for us to return fire at encroaching targets in the distance. Some of you have big .50s, some of you have XM8s, and some of you have long rifles. The Al-Mahdi Army, Al Quada, or even the Revolutionary Guard can approach us, and think we're soft for being mere contractors. Shoot them!"

The men listened, and understood. The restraints of Lawyer Infested Conflict weren't on them, so long as they were defending the base. They lent their applause.

"We aren't playing lawyer ball here," he brushed a rag across his moist forehead.

"You heard me, no lawyer ball. A firm just like ours has four of it's comrades hanging from a bridge right now. They were former SEALs, a fire team of men working security in the town of Falluja. They died in a roadside attack, and I told you where they are now.

Pundits on the news stations are babbling futile assertions that the clerics around here will shame their killers into never doing such things again. It's an election year in the US, so others- you know who they are- bring up the memories of Somalia, and are likening the perpetrators of this attack to the khat-chewing tribal fighters of that time, saying the United States government could pull the plug again-"

He let the men vent disapproval, waiting the duration.

"We've performed smarter than any known non-national military force in the recorded times of this planet, and we're about to up the intelligence quotient of what it means to work in Sword. We've unraveled the Gordian Knot; now let's tie it around their necks!"

"HOO RAAH!"

"HOO YAAH! Remember, The SecDef and I couldn't keep the embed reporters from coming in, not (sigh) ironically, after CBS showed those prison photos. But remember, operating procedure isn't changing. Shoot, then we'll lawyer you up.

"Hoo RAAH!"

"Dismissed!"

They fell back single file, Paul Evens leading the Marine Mickey Mouse March.

"Born in the woods, trained by a bear;
Double set of dog-teeth, triple coat of hair.
M - Mean as hell
A - All the time
R - Rough and tough
I - In the mud
N - Never quit
E - Every day
S - Semper Fi! "

From the short-lived FOX series, Space: Above and Beyond.

OUTSIDE

Lyrics adopted from Full Metal Jacket

Sargent Evens paraded them before film and lenses, stood them at attention.

"I don't want no teenage queen.
I just want my M-16.
If I die in the combat zone.
Box me up and ship me home.
Pin my medals upon my chest.
Tell my mom I've done my best."

They formed a line of khakis and load-bearing harnesses. Some wore dark shades that dehumanized them a degree, most glared ahead with naked eyes.

Evens maneuvered to face his men.

"Salute!"

"One ubi sol non lucet!" (Put it where the sun don't shine!) (Put it where the sun don't shine!)

The TV journalist sauntered between the rolling camera and the contractors. His mike moved under his mouth, as he prepared to talk to the studio.

"That was the Sword contract workers of Sword's Camp William Eaton, saying hello in their group's way. Sword, of course, is the armed branch of Roger Gordian's entity, UpLink. Soldier, how are you?"

The journalist, a veteran field reporter, one of the first notable Hispanic war reporters, extended a gloved hand to Evens.

"Would you like to introduce yourself to the world?"

The marine withdrew his hand.

"Not really."

"Don't be shy, go ahead!"

"OK. I'm Master Sergeant Paul Evens, retired, formerly of the United States Marine Corp 1st Expeditionary Force, Helicopter Aviation."

"Semper Fi, Rock 'n' Roll! Who's next?"

The news crew let several of the employees give testimonials about their jobs and lives, usually briefly, and with pointed questions. They didn't seem overly concerned in pursuing comments contrary to the 'army line,' but that could change.

When the segment ended, the television's viewer switched attention to the studio, where the pundits busily thought for the world. The host thought out loud about Evens.

"Isn't it true that a helicopter pilot has to be an officer?"

In a beat, the pundit furthest from the host spoke up.

"Goodness, he said he was in helicopter aviation, he never claimed he was a pilot, Billy!"

The host halted him with both hands.

"True, my mistake. There's a good chance he isn't a pilot, or maybe he was busted in rank. My apologies. Now, what of the whole piece? Go ahead, free-associate, and let's get to the truth. So what did you think?"

Outside the studio, in Iraq, the television news field crew moved forward with filming, talking, sometimes interacting, and monitoring their surroundings. One can never know what will make a good documentary, with the right editing, surprises, and compiled poll numbers.

Evens dismissed the men. Some chose to mingle outside, maybe get some face time before the camera. Everyone got a chance, fully knowing most of this footage would never see airtime on television. Despite that, most said Hola to someone, or someones. The lens was a focus, the center of the agora.

A tall tanned guy from Tempe, Arizona, performed a "Sammy Sosa" kiss for his mom when Roberto "Robin" Molina and Richard "Rollie" Thibodeau returned a fire team of Marsh Arabs from an expedition.

"Did we miss it?" Robin yelled from the behemoth APC. Rollie echoed him from up top, where he manned the Ma-Deuce.

"Yeah, but the TV crew says we'll be back on in the hour's last half," replied Paul Evens, helpfully, "Thibodeau, what are you doing up there? We have the fancy Israeli system in there so you won't get sniped."

"Yeah, maybe we do," he drawled, "but a fella my size needs out fur air."

The camera crew hustled over, starved for a Pulitzer-worthy action shot.

"It's a wonder we don't see more Israeli soldiers with rock-sized wounds- with the aptitude of these guys with their slingshots," remarked Molina, "they got a lot."

ah huh, Evens nodded.

"So how bountiful was the catch?"

Molina shrugged boyishly.

"Dang, you couldn't squirm, there are so many dead mice and snakes in there. Gross, man, I hope the water's working, 'cause we're crawling with desert fleas." He walked off, looking for the latrine. Evens shouted at his back.

"No use letting their potential erode; I'll put them on the grill right away."

Abruptly, Robin turned back.

"Huh? Oh, I almost forgot. I put some snakes up to roast on the manifold. Those need taken out, before someone doing mechanic work gets spooked by them."

"Or Thibodeau."

"Or Thibodeau. Right, almost forgot. Later, Bro!"

"Alright. Be back before the end of the hour."

A little later

"Here is a really special man on campus, the Tiny Terror, a fellow Hispanic, a former Special Forces Soldier. Tell everybody your name and rank, Soldier!"

The reporter exchanged the microphone from his black thermal gloves to the soldier's hands.

"I'm Communications Sergeant Robin Molina. My last assignment was actually classified, but my last non-secret unit was within the 5th Special Forces Group. Is that good?"

"Very good. De Oppresso Liber. That was some impressive booty you brought in. Care to talk about it?"

Robin was a ham for the camera.

"OK, sure. They don't call us snake-eaters for nothing. I went out woven in with a fire group of a friendly Arab militia, hunting mice and snakes from the open desert. The locals out here live within an ecological wasteland created by Saddam, so living can be pretty tough. Really, we can and do import a lot of stuff, but these people need a staple. Besides, if we give them everything except skills to do this alone, they only become dependent on us. We've taught them so much- much more than just how to shoot a gun. We're really covering everything the cowering civilian weenies are supposed to, so we're doing something of a double duty.

"They're really getting an education with us, and they in turn are giving us some needed experience at this. We're also getting to know and trust one another, which is more than the diplomats are doing. Really, they can identify with soldiers a lot better than weenies who wilt without air conditioning.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"I don't know, can you? Just kidding, go ahead."

"How is it that all the news that happens in a day can fit on a twenty-five minute news show?"

Iran

'Plenkanov suffered tunnel vision that entire engagement,' reflected Mikhail Ruzhyo, as he studiously lifted his body weight from some parallel bars inside a loft in the Southwestern town of Khorramshahr, a Petroleum exporting Town in southwestern Iran with around 70,000 people on the west bank of the Karun River.

'Man, he shot the same guy ten times, like some kind of rookie conscript peasant. He's been familiar with only computers for far to long.'

His own weight offered no resistance to his firmly cut arms. He remained silent, deep into his workout, like a puritan at a barn-raising. His mind wandered wherever it pleased, and his eyes sealed to a 24 hour news station, prowling for regional news, and the Americans' take on events. Besides "different day, same Shiite," he thought. '

That's how most of them are treating it now, though some of the boldest against the occupation are predicting civil war this month. If they weren't atheists, they'd print their prediction that the Mahdi (Islamic Messiah) would come to wipe out the capitalist warmongers.'

Ruzhyo read the papers from time-to-time, when he felt nostalgic for the Soviet Union. He didn't see much difference in ideology, but then again, he didn't remember much about Soviet rule.

On the screen was the familiar veteran mustached reporter, after another Peabody, it seems. He had those same gloves he wore in Tora Bora, and has since picked up a matching jacket, and some red-tinted glasses.

So, first you cover Capone's empty vault, and now Saddam's? You must be welcomed as some sort of charm!

He ended the exhaustive workout, sat in a chair, and palmed his own talisman, a custom gift from Vladimir. It was a Strayer Voigt Infinity, chambered as small as they come, with the tiny OKO fiber optic site. It was a heavy steel gun, built on the classic 1911 design, but with the finest twenty-first century performance.

Ruzhyo had practiced with it earlier, proving it's reliability at a hundred feet, and placed one hundred out of one hundred shots within two inches of one another. And it never jammed. It was a fine target pistol, even though he had to cut it down to a length of four-and-a-half inches. He watched the news.

They passed the gate, sharing a traditional exchange with the checkpoint guards.

"Fac ut gaudeam! (Make my day)"

"Sit vis nobiscum! - (May the Force be with you)"

As they left the compound, the camera panned for a shot of the base's banner:

"Numquam obliviscaris tua tela facta ab eis qui minima liciti sunt"

(Never forget your weapon is made by the lowest bidder)

Then back to the bumper sticker of the lead convoy vehicle:

"Si hoc legere scis nimium eruditionis habes, (if you can read this, you're overeducated)

"Sona si latine loqueris - (Honk if you speak Latin)

"Quid quid latine dictum sit, altum videtur(Anything said in Latin sounds profound)"

"This terrain is practically featureless, but when I tell you to, stop filming. We're going into a friendly village, and I don't want our friends compromised," said the man in the shotgun seat.

"No problem. I've dealt with gangsters, myself. I know the extreme danger these people are facing every day. They're faced with threats of death everyday for collaborating with Coalition forces..."

'That's right, pour on the melodrama.'

The commander prepped his soldiers, alerting them they're in Indian Country.

"Men, we're heading into danger. On three. One, two, three..."

They shouted together.

"Osculare pultem meam! (Kiss my grits!)"

Mikhail the Rifle felt tired enough to attempt sleep. He'll need it, because the old team shows up in the morning. The team, that will mean Shooter, Hero, and the Snake. They'll unite with the Rifle, and cast themselves over the border. Just as long as Vladimir has things together...

Unknown Location

"(Cyberspace is...) A graphic representation of data abstracted from the banks of every computer in the human system. Unthinkable complexity. Lines of light ranged in the nonspace of the mind, clusters and constellations of data. Like city lights, receding... A consensual hallucination experienced daily by billions of legitimate operators, in every nation, by children being taught mathematical concepts... "

-William Gibson

They've restructured overnight! Back in Dover, well, the physical location doesn't matter much, command of Sword's Iraq mission had been controlled by San Jose. It had specifically been in the oversight of one Megan Breen, the acting Chief Executive Officer, but over a weekend, that had changed. Reports are no longer regularly funneled to San Jose, California, they are now WALKED to the former CEO, the founder, Roger Gordian.

The hacker once again proves short of real power in a world that is still very real. Vladimir shouted at space. He vented at the air around his console, batting wildly, but grew tired, and surrendered back to his rational self.

A sensible means of salvaging this carefully laid plan must exist.

He probed the menu, found the personnel dossiers still outside the trash bin. So he brushed up on the roster. Do they have anybody to investigate- something too embarrassing for public consumption?

Somewhere on the data tree branched a limb housing their personnel in Iraq. Hmm, this Paul Evens guy's file is thicker than the others...