Hey FanFiction, how's your summer been going? Mine's been going well, had some adventures 'n' such, went to Cedar Point for the first time ever, so that was fun. I started running to try and get some wind back in my lungs, so that's not fun. But I gotta do it. Anyway. The format is the same as last time: two chapters that were originally written as one. I have no problem reading a 20,000+ word chapter, but I know the rest of you have lives, obligations, duties, and responsibilities. In this installment, we hear some Weasel Words from the Wascally Politicians, meet with Patrolman Hynen, have some Rush music, I think that makes a pretty good time.
. . .
"…Sentenced to ninety days probation, and as many days community service." Judge Ryan ordered with a sharp crack of his gavel. It was a slow morning at Clearfield County Courthouse, and for Judge Ryan, mind-numbingly boring. "Bailiff, see the Defendant out. Next case." Mondays, and a sluggish, muggy one too. The rain from the weekend had refused to evaporate in a timely fashion. Most of Judge Ryan's days in court were such bores. Stuck in what he viewed a backwater coal-country Hickville, with mostly civil cases, the occasional drunk driver, and dumb kids pulled over on their way to smoke dope at the end of the Midstate Airport's runway. It logically followed Judge Ryan would find some way to liven up his days.
"Your Honor, next case is…" A clerk consulted the list. "Ledbetter versus Clower. Domestic dispute over betting on the outcome of a NASCAR race, and failure to pay up. Plaintiff claims Defendant assaulted them with a taxidermized catfish. They are filing suit for damages, suffering, mental and emotional trauma, and medical expenses."
"I see…" Judge Ryan looked down at the casework before him. 'Maybe I'll take Him up on his offer after…no. I won't give Him the satisfaction.' He wrestled with his thoughts before shunting them aside. "Let's begin."
The humidity and aging air system made the courthouse a stuffy furnace. But Judge Ryan didn't perspire a single drop. It was a curiosity that threw many trial lawyers off their game. In fact, as the testimony wore on and parties deliberated, Ryan appeared rather cool and comfortable, relaxed; at ease even. This was due to a dirty little secret he alone knew. Not anyone on staff, no friend, colleague, nor his wife. It was an indulgence in his long closeted hobby of voyeurism. The Most Honorable Judge Ryan didn't feel the heat, because he had taken to going stark naked under his official robes.
. . .
"Mornin' Naota, Mizz Haruko, and Canti, of course." Rig gave his morning greeting between gulps of coffee. "Hey, hey! Down! Down with you Sirs!" Bolt, Gus, Sam, and Piddles: The Wonder Dog, made their own enthusiastic salutations. "How was the rest of y'all's weekend?"
"Alright. We had a Skype call with Tasuku." Naota said. They followed Rig into the shop and to the drafting table designated to hold all the project drawings. He already had a job lined up for them. "Talked for a good four hours."
"How'd that go?" Rig sifted aside rolls of paper and uncovered a heavy manila folder. "The 'Toona Curve plays…Wisconsin this coming weekend, right? Away game?"
"They do. It's supposed to be a really good game. We're going to watch it live; provided it doesn't rain again."
"Very nice. Anything new, with you, Mizz Haruko?"
"Eh. Not really, no. Just hung out."
"Hmm. Well, that's disappointing." Rig shrugged and started thumbing through the folder's contents. "'Fore we get sidetracked, I must let you know the cops found Clyde."
"They did?" Naota tried to imagine where Clyde could have ended up, and how he had gotten caught. "Where, and how'd they catch him?"
"I didn't say catch. They found him." Rig's tone this morning was baseline deadpan. To Naota, it looked like a robot was piloting Rig and merely checking off a list of motions.
"Found him? You mean…?"
"Dead as a hammer. Saturday morning, way out in Munson."
"Munson?" Even Haruko had to break in. "What in the hell was he doing out there?"
"Eating himself to death."
"No, really." That would have been a joke dark even for Rig.
"Really." Rig looked up, and didn't blink. His face and ear were still swollen and garishly colored, but the un-Rig-like clipped and short speech was the worrying issue. Something heavy was on his mind, and if Naota had been forced to guess it was whatever had happened at Clyde's trailer. Both Rig and Haruko were off-kilter that day. Aside from their playing on Friday night, they had been subdued and moody since. Naota couldn't tell why, but knew all was not well in the world.
"Explain that one."
"They found Clyde behind Casanova Nostalgia…"
"The Italian place?"
"The same. Behind Casanova Nostalgia, next to a tipped over dumpster. He'd eaten so much of the junk and throw-away his stomach had split open. All the stomach acid inside ate up his guts. Liver, intestines, kidneys, appendix. Died in agony."
"Good Christ…" Naota felt his own stomach churn at the thought of his own body eating itself from the inside out. "While we're on Clyde. You promised you'd tell me what happened, and ducked me all weekend. So let's have it."
"Fair 'nough." Rig spat tobacco and coffee swill into a trashcan with a solid Puh-Klank! "You know all what we found and how Clyde was runnin' things, and there was a fight."
"Yep, got that. Go on."
"Clyde had enough propane, fertilizer, and gasoline in his trailer and basement to make an ANFO bomb that'd do Timothy McVeigh proud. Not to mention the two hundred and fifty gallon liquid natural gas tank just outside. When the bunch of us got to fightin', there was a lot of stuff getting' thrown around, a lot of bodies movin', and a lot of stuff got knocked down and smashed up. The generator got flipped on its side, there was some gasoline leaking from it, some of the propane too. I also knocked over some fertilizer, bag of ammonium nitrate stuff, and it got spread everywhere too." Rig stopped to have a drink and went on in the same flat monotone. "Without getting into too much gore, Tommy and I gave better than we got; but made a lot of noise and mess doin' so. So there we are, looking like Hell, in a basement belonging to a brother of a state trooper, with blood, teeth, and God-knows else all over the floor, and the place is not only filled with illegal plants, but filling with gas and fumes. Clyde had split the second the fightin' started, so the real reason we was there at all was gone. So…" Rig took a steadying, heavy breath. "So, we hauled ass on outta there. I don't know how the place went up. It could have been any number of things. A static spark, an alarm clock going off, a heating element, a bursting UV light…"
So Rig and Tommy weren't psychotic murderers, Naota determined. They hadn't marched everyone into the basement, executed them, and then blown the place to splinters to cover it up. The reporters and news, under strict orders from police to keep the issue controlled and downplayed, had omitted one of the bodies had a massive hole in the back of its skull from a close-up pistol shot. Without that information, Naota could not find any reason to ask the question his friend had been praying to avoid: Did you kill anyone?
"Okay…okay…that balances out."
"Still, I dunno…" Haruko wasn't as easily satisfied. "Six guys, against two? I wouldn't put money on those odds."
"Tommy and I were extraordinarily lucky." Rig answered in resolution, and a twinge of slighted pride. "By rights, we should be dead. But, I understand you are not of this planet. So, Mizz Haruko…never discount the ferocity of a Human when cornered, and given no other way out."
"Hmmm. Jury's still out for me." She dropped her own question seeing Rig wasn't about to be cowed. "Anyway. What's next, that for us?"
"This week's gonna be busy. Lots of shop work. I know, I know…" Rig held up a hand with bandaged knuckles. "We should follow up on Clyde, yes. But not right after his trailer blew up and Cole is no doubt on the warpath; looking for an ass to skin alive. Before we go out, we need to let this die down a bit. Give it a week or two; fair?"
"…Well…" Naota felt like they were finally starting to really gain traction. It pained him to think of sitting around when they could be looking into mentioned connections to city hall and the county commission, or ties to police. But going after such targets when they were on high alert and searching for suspects, sounded tantamount to suicide. "One week, no more, no less. Take it or leave it."
"Done. Now, Sir Nandaba and Lady Haruhara, your latest quest." Rig handed them a parts list. It was dozens of items long. Some were simple pins or small plates, while some required extensive machining and lathe time. "A drinking fountain company in Scranton is working on some new designs. They don't want to take anyone off the line to fiddle with a small prototype batch, so we're going to build it for them. They want a preliminary set to see if we can match their standards, then they'll place a larger order for prototype work and testing."
"A drinking fountain company?" Both flipped through the scaled-down drawing printouts. "That would explain these pipes."
"But not why there are spiral grooves cut into them…" Haruko added without looking up from her copy of the drawings. "And on the inside too."
"I'm not sure what the deal with those are. The guy on the phone said some of the info was proprietary, but I think it's to put a spiral pattern in the water; so it comes out in a smaller, tighter stream instead of the usual burble." Rig offered his suggestion with a shrug and a yawn.
"Uh-huh…New question." Haruko peered over her drawings at Rig; giving him a mean stink eye.
"Uh…new answer?"
"Are these…novelty, decorative, drinking fountain parts?" She asked with arching eyebrows. It seemed she already had her own answer, but wanted to hear what Rig said.
"No, they're a potential long running and well-paying project for us." Rig corrected. "If we do this right, it'll be about ten thousand bucks a week; in profit. So, I need you two on top of your game. Johnny, Josh, and Mike, and I too, if I dare say so, and I do, have taught you well. Can I ask for a one thousandth of an inch tolerance on all of these dimensions?"
"You can, especially if it's worth ten grand a week." Naota promised, feeling a swell of pride. A ten thousand dollar a week project was no small assignment, and it really spoke to Rig's trust in him, and Haruko too, that he thought them up to task. "How many of each do you want of the list?"
"Start for three runs of the list today. That'll give you time to set up a process and make adjustments. I'll have my micrometer charged and calibrated for quality control. If you're kosher, we'll up production as prudent. Agreed?"
"Agreed. Are we sourcing material or…?" His question was answered as a truck pulled into the lot outside. Its flatbed was laden with steel plates, tubes, and rounds. "Perfect timing! Can we start now?"
"You can start ten minutes ago." Rig seemed anxious to be headed out. "I have to run some errands, but if you need any, any help on this, please ask one of the guys."
"Relax man, don't worry 'bout it." Haruko soothed. She was already drawing a part's rough cutout on a flat plate with her soapstone. "This'll be easy-peasy next to those *ahem* novelty decorative paperweights."
"But it is a lot more important. So please…"
"Hey Rig, it's alright." Naota smiled at Rig, who was failing to conceal his uneasiness. "We've done jobs more complex than this; we'll be fine. Go run your errands." Rig seemed to brighten up a little, said his goodbye and departed in his Bronco. As Naota and Haruko set up the shears for their first set of cuts, Josh was briefing Canti for a special project of his own.
. . .
"What is it? How can I help?" The words scrolled across Canti's monitor. "Do you have a project for me?"
"Oh do I! If you'll have it." Josh ushered him over to his bank of computers. "It's something I'd love to do myself, but I don't think my own processor…" Josh tapped his temple. "Is up to the challenge. Before I get ahead of myself, I'm…not really sure how you tick. But, to me anyway, I think there's someone home in here." Josh pointed to Canti's head. "So, just know we won't make or ask you to do anything you, or your code, or Ghost, or whatever, doesn't want to do. Cool?"
Of all things he had experienced thus far, factoring for Mabase, this was the strangest. So strange it was even The Something within Canti roused from snooze and sat bolt upright. Medical Mechanica did not abuse or neglect any of their equipment or robots. They designed, built, deployed, maintained and repaired them with great pride. With all the work and effort put into each unit, Medical Mechanica was well incentivized to keep their bots in top order. But such a life for a machine belonging to Medical Mechanica had conditions. Chief was complete and total obedience. Orders given were not questioned, requests never refused. The ability to say 'No' to someone above your own station, much like the rest of society under The Red Star, did not exist. An offer to refuse, at any time of his choosing, seemed too generous to Canti.
'What do you think?' He asked The Something.
'What do I think? He asked you. Not me.'
'Is there a difference? Or have we still not determined that yet?'
'When I know the answer to that, you will too. Are you going to help; yes or no?' Since this decision was his own to make, it was rather easy.
"That is too kind of you. Yes, I will help."
"Awesome!" Josh's smile filled the shop. He indicated for Canti to plug into the main computer via his hardline. "So here's what's up. I got the street camera program from Craig's phone fully dissected, and I'm going to start reworking it for our own purposes. But there's another, newer project that's come up. Now again, if you don't want in, feel free to say no." The Something and Canti wondered what this project could be since it had Josh so animated. Both wanted in, whatever it was.
"I will have to know what it is first." Josh's smile morphed into a fox's smirk.
"Do you know what a Botnet is?"
. . .
"Hey Larry, you catch the Cubs game?" One Guard asked his partner on duty. Their task was to secure the loading dock, overseeing transfers in and out, of Virginia's War Museum. Within was displayed a collection of martial antiques and treasures. Some exhibits still ran, drove, and fired, or so the rumors went. "I think they've got a good chance this year, a reeeaalll good chance."
"To what? Break the curse?" As they chatted, a delivery truck backed up to the dock. A driver in a denim jumpsuit, company ball-cap, and sunglasses, approached with his clipboard of official looking paperwork. "Gary, you're my friend and all; really. But you're all wrong on this. Think of their lack of momentum. It's been over a hundred or so years. You're gonna see Hell freeze over first before…hey, hey, hey. Who are you, and what're you doin' here?"
"Mornin'!" The Deliveryman's smile was infectious. Luckily for Larry and Gary, they were immunized. "Ah'm here for tha transfer of…uh…wait…s'here somewhere's…" He flipped pages on his clipboard, smile drooping into a puzzled frown. "H-hang with me fellahs, Ah got it…maybe, no…tha' ain't it…"
"Look uh, Waylon…" Gary read the name patch on the man's jumpsuit. "Before you get upset, we weren't even expecting any traffic today. No deliveries or pickups. Can you at least tell me who sent you?"
"Yes! Yessir, Ah can give yah that!" Waylon's smile was back. "Tha Smithsonian Institute of Tha United States, in Washin'ton Dee-Cee!"
"Oh…kay." Larry and Gary both exchanged a glance that read 'Is this guy for real?' It was Monday, too early, and they considered themselves paid too little to care. "Do you have the paperwork or not?"
"Tha's tha thang, should be right here." Waylon flipped pages again. "Ohhhh…Ah'll betcha Ah know wha' happened."
"This'll be good." Gary sighed. "Let's hear it."
"We've got this new manager-type doin' shippin' an' such. She's ah real sweetheart…but still on tha wrong side of tha learnin' curve, if yah know what Ah mean. Ah'll bet she gave me tha wrong sheets this mornin'."
"Well…even if that's true, we can't release anything without proper authority." Larry shrugged. "Sorry Waylon. Rules are rules."
"Ah got her number here…" Waylon patted his pockets and produced a slip of paper. "Tha's tha direct line to her office." Gary used the phone box between the dock's doors to make the call.
"Smithsonian Institute, Department of Resource Acquisitions." A soft female voice, with hints of Eastern Europe, answered. "My name is Gretel, how can I help you?"
"Hi Miss Gretel. I'm Larry Ward, of the Virginia War Museum. There's a deliveryman named Waylon here; claims he works for you. Ring a bell?"
"Ah, Mister Williams, yes." Gretel answered in a resigned tone. "What's he done this time?"
"He says that he's supposed to make a pickup of something of ours."
"And he doesn't have his paperwork, does he?"
"No ma'am. He does not."
"He told you I'm new here and gave him the wrong sheets, didn't he?"
"Yes ma'am. He certainly did." Larry eyed a stupidly smiling Waylon.
"It's not the first time he's done this. I'll have a discussion with him the moment he gets back. I am so, so, terribly sorry for any problems he's…"
"No, that's alright. I just need a copy of the work orders faxed over. Do you have our number?"
"Yes I do. I'll send a copy now. Thank you so very much for your assistance Mister Ward."
"Oh, well, you know…s'nothing really."
"All the same. Good day, Mister Ward."
"You're in hot water pal." Larry informed Waylon as he hung up. "Your boss doesn't sound too pleased with you."
"Ahhhh….shit." Waylon groaned. "She's gonna have me doin' inventory counts fer ah month."
"It'll serve you right." Gary chided as the phone rang. He answered this time. "Gary, shipping dock."
"Gary, hi. It's Paulette from the front office. I just got a fax from the Smithsonian. They're borrowing a few of our artifacts for a Labor Day exhibit on The Mall. A Miss Gretel said she had spoken with Larry?"
"That's right." Gray confirmed. "Just make sure a copy of the fax gets in our file too." Gary hung up and said: "Well, Waylon. Sounds like you got lucky this time."
"Really?! Aw, thank y'all so much! Ah'm real sorry 'bout tha hassle. Ah'll git on outta yer hair fast as possible." With a printed copy of the work order, Larry, Gary, and Waylon, loaded a crate into Waylon's truck. The robust wooden crate was five feet long, two feet wide, and two feet tall, and weighed two hundred pounds. Stamped on the lid was: BMG, Cal 0.50, M2HB USN. Gary and Larry, neither being a firearm or history enthusiast, had no idea what the letters meant; nor did they care. With the crate stowed and many profuse thank-you's, Waylon finally departed.
It would not be until Wednesday afternoon that someone conducting inventory would realize the error. A frantic call to the Smithsonian discovered that neither a Gretel nor a Waylon was currently employed there; or had ever been. The tracing of Gretel's number sent them to an unlisted cell phone. Its last known location was a fifty mile wide circle between Tennessee and North Carolina. Searching for the fax number's origin lead back to a vacant warehouse in Norfolk. The work order itself proved to be an elaborate and involved fake. Security camera footage of the truck's license plate showed a number registered, and reported stolen, from Tallahassee, Florida. Finally, the camera images of Waylon's face drew blanks in all law enforcement databases. The BATFE was looking into it…but with six other similar cases up and down the Eastern Seaboard, they were not optimistic.
. . .
"Hey Jim! C'mere, yah gotta meet this guy." Jim was waved over to the table Shigekuni Nandaba was occupying with his regular morning coffee group: Ken, an F-4 Phantom II pilot, Franklin, a deaf artilleryman, and Ralph, a nuclear missile 'boomer' submariner. "May I have the pleasure of introducing: Sergeant Shigekuni Nandaba of The Imperial Japanese Army."
"Sergeant; a pleasure." Jim saluted as Shigekuni stood to return with his own salute; still crisp despite the decades. Both then shook hands.
"Pleasure's mine, Corporal." Shigekuni smiled, seeing the chevron pin on Jim's hat. "The Bloody Bucket I see?"
"That's right." Jim tapped another pin, keystone shaped that shone red and gold. "Twenty-Eighth Infantry Division; oldest in the U.S. We were the guys who marched first into Paris. I'm sorry to bother, I've been on vacation and just got back. What about you, where did you serve?"
"Seventeenth Division of the IJA. Our code was the Moon Division. I was assigned first to Shanghai, then sent to the Solomon Islands, New Britain, Bougainville, Cape Gloucester, and was stationed in Rabaul when the war ended."
"That's amazing! I'd really like to swap stories…if that's okay? I'll understand if, you, you know…"
"If I'm still bitter?" Shigekuni waved around the table. "Would I be here, with these knuckle-heads, if I was? Don't worry. It has been seventy one years. I've long forgiven what was and moved on."
"Whew! I'm glad to hear that. So, how'd you…"
"Hey, check this out!" Another veteran shouted from across the Osceola Mills' V.F.W. hall. "They're talking about that explosion in Philipsburg." A crowd gathered around the television and watched the camera focus on an interview with several police officers and firefighters. In the background, a forensics team was cleaning up and taking down the yellow scene tape. Intrigued, Shigekuni and his table took their coffees and ambled over to join in. The reporter was asking a State Patrolman for his opinion.
"…response to this tragic accident, Patrolman Kauffman?"
"It is, indeed a, ah, tragic incident to have lost Clyde like this." Cole Kauffman's words were slow and deliberate. "It is a dark day for the Kauffman Family, but we are a resilient family, and I know together we will find the strength to pull through."
"Our thoughts and prayers are with you, and your family. I must say, I find it admirable you are still on active duty and at work; even with all that has happened."
"This is how I cope, by staying busy. And it's the only way I can be sure to find and catch who did this." Cole concluded by ignoring the reporter's eyes, and instead looked dead-on into the camera. "If you're watching, whoever did this, know that I always get what I set my mind to; and you're top of my list."
"You, I'm sorry Officer, but you think this was no accident?"
"No. I do not think so."
"Do you think it was something else; murder?"
"I do not think it was murder. I know it was."
"Jumpin' Jimmeny Crickets, he give me the creeps." One veteran remarked. "He's got them crazy eyes. Ole' Smokey here's on a power trip."
"That's for dern sure." One agreed, then expanded. "But I'd use a different s-word than 'Smokey'. I'd say the oldest Kauffman looks a little more Schutzstaffel…" A small clamor of protest rose at the comparison. "Bah, all of you! Just look at the guy!" Shigekuni did look and had to agree.
Cole was at least six feet and five inches tall, towering over the diminutive reporter. His posture and physical build were regally composed, with a proud chest and shoulders. A straight-razor shaved rectangular face, sharp and narrow blue eyes, and strong Nordic nose, were all topped by dark blonde hair cut and immaculately combed in a parted-side and tapered sides hairstyle. The polished leather of his knee high boots, Sam Browne belt, magazine pouch, and holster for his H&K-45 pistol, all gleamed in the morning sun; all over a deep, dark blue uniform, stark white undershirt, and black tie. In his hands, Cole fussed with a similarly blue and silver peaked cap. What disturbed Shigekuni most was the combination of Cole's smile, perfectly aligned and blinding teeth, and his eyes. The smile was a clever rouse. Beautiful as a bullfighter's cape to watch, while behind it hid the swords of Cole's omnipotent gaze. Just looking at Cole as a whole, let alone just his eyes and smile, made Shigekuni's skin crawl.
"We will keep you updated as this story develops." The reported was wrapping up. The crowd of veterans remained to discuss.
"Don't like it, don't like it one bit." A man in a Screamin' Eagles, 101st A.B. shirt declared. "My grandkid's a grade 'hind one've those Kauffmans; Cody I think. He says the whole family is a buncha whackos."
"Wasn't Cole one of Solomon's supervisors?"
"Was, 'till he got shit-canned for being a Got-dammed psychopath. And now look who he's hanging with. With the biggest bunch of psychos around: the State Cops."
"Are American police really that bad?" Shigekuni asked Ken. "I was under the impression they were mostly lay-around doughnut eaters."
"Far from it." Someone had overheard them. The chimer-in wore a shirt stating: And on the 8th Day, God created the Tanker; and the Devil himself stood at attention. "You wanna talk roid-rage? You wanna talk God-complexes? You wanna talk megalomania? Then you wanna talk about the American Cop."
"And crooked too! I'll bet Cole's integrity and record's as straight as a dog's hind leg!"
"What makes you say that?" Shigekuni turned to the newest speaker.
"Judge a man by the company he keeps; or the company his family does, to an extent. Friend of mine lives down Water Street from the trailer park. He's seen a whole host of shady characters hanging around. Six were the scrougiest lookin' meth-heads you ever did see, another this dumb doofus, and then this F.B.I. lookin' spook. All seemed to know that Kauffman, Clyde? The one'd got his place blown up."
"Now there's F.B.I. too?" Jim shook his head. "Just what we need botherin' us now…the damn Feds."
"Didn't say he was F.B.I. Said he looked like F.B.I. Could've been anyone, or no one."
"Looked F.B.I. huh?" For an odd reason, the mention of a shadowy spook gave Shigekuni a second set of chills. He couldn't remember why, but knew it was important. "Maybe he's here to investigate all the other things going on? Like the train derailing."
"Could be…could be…but really, who knows?"
"There's supposed to be a speech today at Town Hall. The Mayor, City Council, Chiefs of Police and all." This offered information was downplayed with hisses and dismissive hand waving. "Bugger off, the lot of you…"
"That's what they're supposed to be doing, since they're in charge." Shigekuni defended, then looked around. All were sad smiles, and some shook their heads. "You voted for them, put them into office, right?"
"If voting changed anything at all, they wouldn't let us do it."
"The Mayor and his City Council couldn't pour piss out of a boot with instructions written on the heel."
"Sounds just like some of the Butter Bars I knew when they were fresh from OCS." A 1st Air Cavalryman shook with reminiscent laughter. "You look surprised Shigekuni."
"I'm still getting used to living here, it seems. I thought higher positions were peopled by those who know what they're doing."
"I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news…" Ralph clapped him on the shoulder. "But get used to that feeling of disappointment in American politicians. It's the rule, hardly an exception. Hey, we've still got time before the speech. Let's get another cup and you and Jim acquainted. He's got a great story about…well, I'll resist spoiling. He calls it: The Great Noodle Incident."
"Oh, not The Great Noodle Incident, again?!" Jim heard them and began half-hearted protest. "Oh, alright. For the new guy. So, I'm at this bar in Allentown right? And…"
. . .
"We really should've given a statement Friday night." Mayor Aldrich said to his Deputy, Mr. Vanderlip. They were alone in the lobby of Philipsburg's Town Hall. In the next room, the meeting hall, were a gaggle of reporters for the small papers, and many locals as well. This group eagerly awaited the Mayor's statement about the recent events plaguing the county; and what he planned to do about them.
"That would have given everyone the weekend to forget about it, yes." Deputy Mayor Vanderlip agreed. "But, well, you-know-who insisted we wait."
"I'm sure he has his reasons." Aldrich and Vanderlip reviewed the flashcards The Man in Black had written for them. "But I must say, it's very nice to not have to make the decisions ourselves. The Man really does make things easier."
"Mm-hmm. The lifting of responsibility feels just…so, liberating." Vanderlip concurred and flipped a card. "It's already as He said, how The Red Star takes care of you."
"Heh-hem! Are you two ready?" Chief of the State Patrol, Captain Chojnacki, hissed from the doors to the hall. His own flashcards peeked out from his uniform's breast pocket. "They're getting impatient!"
"We're ready."
. . .
"Whaddyah think?" Josh had taken a break from his project to check in on Canti.
"Their coverage of both towns, and in and around them to the surrounding area, is impressive." Canti reported. He had been reviewing and cataloging the police camera feeds of every unit in and around Philipsburg and Osceola Mills; live and in real time. Josh's reworking of Craig Kauffman's phone application had proven itself in accessing any camera Canti wished. "But not complete. I am creating a map of all areas left unobserved."
"That's good thinking. Man Canti, you're almost done?" Josh leaned over to watch the screens. "This would have taken me a day or two, you've done it in a few hours."
"It is nothing. Really."
"Let yourself have a little swagger, at least. Oh, how's that other thing coming?"
"Slower. I am not as well versed in the Ice Pick program, but another problem has arisen."
"Uh-oh. What's up?"
"The targets we are looking at, and Ice Pick has tried to infiltrate, are encrypted."
"Encrypted? Well that figures…that's not all, is it?"
"No. The encryption type is one I would recognize anywhere. It is Medical Mechanica's handiwork."
"How sure of that are you?"
"Ninety-nine point two percent."
"That's…pretty damn sure. How long will it take?" Canti noticed Josh did not ask 'if' Canti could break the encryption. He knew Canti could.
"It may be as little as a week. Or as long as several months. I understand time is a limited commodity. I will not disappoint."
. . .
In Osceola Mills a similar meeting to Philipsburg's was taking place. Mayor Andrew and his Deputy Davison were presenting along with Sheriff Sarabyn and Chief Strong. This meeting was being held outside on the front steps of City Hall. Mayor Andrew nervously thumbed his pre-written flashcards. The crowd viewed him with withering skepticism. Best get this over with.
"Good morning to everyone, citizens of Osceola Mills, members of the press, and our partners in law enforcement. Today we will be addressing rising concerns over recent events. Before I do, let's have a round of applause for the brave men and women of our law enforcement departments." A smattering of polite golf claps rolled over the crowd, and promptly ceased. "They have worked tirelessly to ensure our safety and security, for which we must be grateful. Now, about certain happenings around our town and county. While everyone certainly has a part to play, and an obligation to assist law enforcement whenever asked, second-guessing and uninformed speculation are detrimental to that responsibility. Such formulation of ideas is best left to trained professionals. Now, my next point of order…"
. . .
"…Is to make perfectly clear, that such acts as arson, sabotage, disruption of social order, sedition, and other such terroristic and treasonous deeds, will not only never be tolerated, but will be pursued and punished to the fullest extent of the law." Mayor Aldrich decreed. He paused, both for effect and a sip of water. "In the name of the very best of your safety, security, and interest, I have preemptively consulted with our partners in law enforcement. They too have taken notice of your concerns, voiced through calls, editorials, and letters, and have drafted common sense resolutions to implement a dynamic, sophisticated, and efficient task force to root out those deplorable degenerates hidden in our midst. To better explain these common sense measures, I have invited Captain Chojnacki and Chief Warburg to speak today. Captain, the podium is yours.
. . .
"Thank you Mayor Andrew for those reassuring remarks." Sheriff Sarabyn laid his flashcards on the podium. "I would like to begin with some reassuring remarks of my own. Please know everything possible to be done, is being carried out as I speak. While it is not my intention to alarm the public, it cannot be ignored that a network of radicalists have descended upon us. To counter this threat, deputies, patrolmen, and even local officers under Chief Strong, have begun mapping the hierarchal makeup and identified persons of interest, through intensive intelligence gathering. Our next step, which will be rolling out within days…"
. . .
"…Will be to put these troublemakers on notice, to let them know we are not a po-dunk push-over, but a capable and competent force to be respected, and reckoned with." Captain Chojnacki promised his audience and flipped to his next flash card. "That we are not a reactionary, but proactive force. That we are vigilant and on constant watch. That we are unafraid to be on the street instead of hiding in an office behind a desk. That we are willing to go into harm's way, to make the tough, uncomfortable decisions no one else is willing to even contemplate. So, to those out there that have carried out these cowardly deeds, know that your days are numbered, all of us are coming for you, and justice will be served. Thank you for your time, and Mayor Aldrich for this opportunity to speak. Mayor, I'm turning the podium back over to you."
"Let's have another round of applause for the inspiring message, and commitment to their sworn duty!" Mayor Aldrich resumed his station at front and center. "It is unfair to follow that, so I think we'll take a few quick questions…"
. . .
"…Yes, you!" Mayor Andrew selected an unfamiliar face. In a sea of Hungarian, German, Scotch-Irish, English, and Polish ancestry, the man's Japanese features set him apart. "What's your question?"
"Thank you Mayor Andrew. I was wondering: what tangible…?" The man began but Andrew interrupted.
"I'm sorry sir. I didn't catch your name and paper?"
"Arsene Lupin, Futabasha. Now, what…?"
"I don't recall seeing your name on the press list, Mister…?"
"Lupin. And no, you didn't. But that's not important." Arsene continued on before Andrew could get another objection in. "What tangible measures and actions can the people expect to see and experience? I have heard many reassuring platitudes, but no words on what will actually happen; on the street so-to-speak."
"Oh. Well, I…think that would be best answered by Chief Strong. Care to field Mister Lupin's question Chief?"
"Certainly." Chief Strong stepped up to the podium. This was off the flashcards, but he was willing to take a shot. "Now, Mister…?"
"Lupin." Arsene politely reminded.
"Lupin. You can expect to see an increased presence, focused on deterrence and community outreach."
"And…?"
"And…strategically placed zones for cautionary inspections, to clamp down on trafficking illicit materials used in the attacks."
"And…?"
"Annnd…checks on suspicious persons or loiterers around buildings or utilities of critical importance."
"AND…?"
"Annnd…exhaustive efforts to track down the perpetrators and deny them safe havens. Anything else, Mister Lupin?"
"That will do for now." Lupin wasn't taking notes or running a recorder. He instead was looking Chief Strong straight in the eye; and the Chief blinked. He couldn't match the stare. "Please correct me where I go astray, but it sounds like you're saying we should expect armed patrols, roadblocks, random searches and frisking, and house-to-house raids. Is that correct Chief?"
"Well, I, I wouldn't use such forceful words Mister Lupin. That kind of inflammatory language…"
"You are avoiding my question." Arsene interjected. "Let's expand on it, since you're focused on wording rather than denying what I said. Wouldn't all the tactics you propose, be a grievous violation of the Fourth Amendment, and I suppose the Third as well?"
. . .
"I'm pleased, Mister…?" Chief Warburg stumbled as he tried to recall the name of the irritating teenager in motocross boots.
"Bowman, sir. Henry Bowman."
"Mister Bowman, I am pleased someone your age is taking an interest in your community, but this line of questioning is…"
"All I asked is if your officers will be randomly stopping people to search them and asking for our identification at will."
"Which is unhelpful to the discussion Mister Bowman…"
"Allow me to phrase it differently." Henry said from his corner at the back of the room. "Ihre Papiere, bitte."
"Mister Bowman, I…"
"German didn't do it? How about this: Tovarishah. Vashi dokumenty, pozhaluysta."
"That is quite enough young man!" Chief Warburg motioned for one of the officers present in the hall. "Please remove Mister Bowman from the hall. He is causing a disturbance, and acting childish."
"Don't bother. I'll see myself out." Henry Bowman, as he called himself, was halfway out the door. He stopped to ask one last question. "At least answer the crowd this: Why did you frame Rick Stilton? He's just the manager of McDonalds. What did he ever do to you?" Henry Bowman tossed this last thought grenade, letting it go off in a stunned silence as he slammed the door shut behind him.
. . .
"Mister Lupin, this is hardly conduct befitting a reporter; if that's really what you are." Chief Strong's eyes narrowed in suspicion at the ponytailed and bespectacled man insisting on rocking the boat. "Or are you here to cause trouble?"
"You are correct in that I am not a reporter." Arsene agreed, much to the surprise of everyone. Then he stunned them further by saying: "I am a journalist. My role is to ask questions, to draw out answers you do not wish to see the light of day. A reporter merely reports things, and regurgitates your cliché talking points like a trained parrot; with no will or original thought of its own. An insult to journalism, and to an informed citizenry. Unless, of course, that's what you actually want. A society that doesn't question you, and does whatever it's told?"
"If you do not stop this, this, seditious speech, I will have you removed from this discussion!" The words just slipped out. Chief Strong knew he had crossed a line. A ripple went through the crowd, a series of troubled whispers and murmurs followed, and deadness crept into the air. Arsene Lupin, as he called himself, looked on Chief Strong, the Mayors, and City Council, with a surprised disappointment. After a moment of painful silence, he slowly spoke.
"So not only the Third and Fourth, but the First as well. Tell me, what's next? Our Second? No, don't answer. I already think we know." He looked around at wide-eyed faces. "Excuse me. I apologize for causing a scene. It is unlike me. I don't know what came over me; forgive my conduct. I would stay for the remainder of this conference, but I have heard more than enough." Before anyone on the steps recovered enough to order him stopped, Arsene Lupin turned on his heel, marched away, and disappeared around the corner.
. . .
"Well! That was a complete, fucking catastrophe!" Deputy Mayor Vanderlip collapsed on the couch in Mayor Aldrich's office. After the departure of Henry Bowman, the meeting had dissolved into chaos. The gathered crowd turned into a frothing mob, hurling questions and demands faster than could even be understood. The officials had tossed off a closing remark before scurrying up to their fourth floor offices. Left behind were the police officers, Chief Warburg, and Captain Chojnacki, to disperse and clear the hall.
"I didn't expect even half that many people!" Aldrich slumped at his deck. "Sure, we had our points prepared ahead of time, which helped. But usually it's just a bunch of doddering old fucks, bitching about some kid on his dirt bike. Did you see how many people there were?! And man, were they pissed!"
"It was that Bowman kid, he started it; got everyone riled up." Duke Smith, Head of Clearfield County Clerks, made his accusation. "Everything was hunky-dory up 'till then."
"Who, in-the-blistering-fuck, is Henry Bowman anyway?" Vanderlip wondered aloud.
"Dunno. But he's added himself to The List; that's for Goddamn sure." Aldrich decreed. "Find out if we have anything on a Henry Bowman."
"What I want to know, is where was The Man?" Vanderlip was still wondering aloud. "No support from him, at all. Sure, he gave us flashcards. But was he there when we got in trouble? When the hard questions came up? Noooo…"
"You shut up. You shut up right damn now with that kind of talk." Smith growled from the Mayor's computer. "It's above my rank to say so, but if The Man finds out you're back-talking, we're all dead."
"You are both reasoned in your statements." Aldrich sought to soothe the tension in the room. "While The Man holds considerable power, that does not mean he is immune from criticism. I would agree with Vanderlip that we cannot be blamed if this plan of The Man's does not work." A nodding consensus was shown as they all shirked responsibility. "We never stood a chance. The Man said he's done this before. Shouldn't he have known what we'd be up against? No coaching, nothing. No backup when the people started going feral, nothing…"
"I have something on Henry Bowman." Smith piped up. He waved his smartphone and read: "Henry Bowman is the principal character of the novel 'Unintended Consequences' by John Ross. The story chronicles the history of gun culture, gun rights, and gun control in the United States, from the early nineteen hundreds, to the late nineteen nineties. Although…"
"Where are you reading this from?"
"Wikipedia."
"What is the plot of the book?" Chief Warburg had finally joined them, and was catching up on the conversation.
"It's kinda long…but basically Henry Bowman fights off a bunch of corrupt and immoral ATF agents, and starts a civil war where hundreds of government agents and politicians get killed…oh…oh good Christ…"
. . .
Osceola Mills' City Hall had not fared any better. If anything, it was much worse. Beating a hasty retreat, the officials and police had pulled the doors shut behind them. Fists still pounded on the doors and rattled the office windows. With the shades and curtains drawn, the faces couldn't be seen, but the shouting was still clear.
"What the HELL was that?!" Mayor Andrew rounded on Sheriff Sarabyn. "Let me see your cards."
"I read what was on them word for word." Sarabyn smacked his cards onto Andrew's desk. "Don't throw me under the bus. I was just following the script."
"It wasn't a well-written script, I'll say that much." Deputy Mayor Davison peeked around a set of shades. He shrank back when an angry face appeared in the gap. "I really hope they'll leave soon. I've got a tee-time at noon."
"You're worried about your golf game?!" Head of Centre County Clerks Elliot Rogers was aghast. "Respectfully, don't we have bigger problems?"
"No, I think it's more of a bigger problem. Singular." Strong seemed to have mortal harm on his mind.
"That Lupin guy?" Sarabyn guessed.
"NO…" Strong rolled his eyes. "Yes! That little rat bastard made us look like jackasses!"
"Do we have an Arsene Lupin in the database; or on The List?" Davison asked. Andrew offered his computer for Rogers to use. "I've never seen that guy before. Did anyone recognize him?"
"Must be an out-of-towner." Sarabyn shrugged. "Strong. Anything?"
"Nope. I thought it'd be the Mayor's responsibility to know his citizens…"
"I can't be expected to know every Tom, Dick, and Harry in this town!" Andrew protested. "What the hell do you think any of us have staff and secretaries for?! Rogers!"
"Sir!" Rogers jumped at his name.
"Got anything?!"
"N-not in the database, no."
"Well…just, fuckin' Google him, or something." Andrew ordered and paced his office.
"Penny for your thoughts?" Davison prompted after an unbearable thirty seconds.
"I'm…" Andrew lowered his tone to a hoarse whisper. "I'm starting to think That Man, sold us a lemon. See, here's the thing…"
"Found him, or…something…" Rogers reported.
"Let's hear it."
"Arsene Lupin is a fictional gentleman thief and master of disguise created by French writer Maurice Leblanc." Rogers read to an eyebrow raised audience. "Now, in reference to that Futabasha he mentioned. There's a comic called 'Lupin the Third', the grandson of Leblanc's Lupin. And the publisher of Lupin the Third is…Futabasha."
"Let me see that." Davison looked at the Wikipedia article and the comic's cover of its title character. "Wait. Wait a hot, damn minute. Wasn't the guy today…wasn't he wearing a red suit jacket, and a yellow tie?"
"He was. What're you gettin' at?" Sarabyn asked with a hint of dread.
"I'm gettin' at this." Davison turned the computer's monitor around so everyone could see the image results and likeness of clothes. "I'm gettin' at that we just got punked by a grown man dressed like a goddamn cartoon character."
. . .
You'll no doubt have noticed by now, that while Naota and Haruko have spent most've this tale and their time hangin' out in a work truck, by themselves, for hours on end, alone…and Tommy goes down 'roundabouts Harrisburg, and Johnny, Josh, and Mike are up to their usual shenanigans at the shop, my day-to-day has been left to the best of your imaginations. Wonder no more, for I shall tell you. Why yes! It is very much illegal what I've been doing. How'd yah guess?
When I'm not meeting with our eyes and ears to find out the what's-what and who's-who, I'm out on some long-forgotten logging or access road that was last mapped sometime around the 1950's, doing looking and listening of my own. For what? Microwaves. The same kind the guvernmint beams into our brains, defeat-able only by cranial covering of aluminium sheets molded into a cap…
RRR—yeeaacckk-ack! Let's pull that record off the turntable, and ATTEMPT being serious, eh Rig?
Spoilsport. Fine.
I was listening for encrypted radio broadcasts and looking for their main broadcast towers or relay stations. Relay stations are where the signal would be picked up, then amplified again to shoot on to the next station. To do this, I had a few cool toys in the back of my truck.
The sum of the tools makes up what's called a Radio Direction Finder, or RDF. What it does is measures the direction from which a signal was transmitted. This technique is well used in signals intelligence in the military. Using RDF is how the Brits sunk a quarter of all German U-Boats lost during the war. They may have been sneaky, quiet, and stealthy, but eventually they had to surface and get orders from Berlin. While my quarry wasn't as dangerous itself, or underwater, the basic idea is still the same.
In my truck there is, of course, the police scanner, the CB, and now the RDF unit I added in the past month. The RDF has three parts: a receiver, the antennae, and what's called an attenuator; to filter out unwanted signals. The way this works is inside the receiver is this little Wizard, excuse me, computer, that listens to the radio wave and determines what directions it came from. Notice how I said direction(s). Smart as the computer is, it can't tell if the signal is coming or going. It will give you a compass bearing, but also a bearing in the complete 180-degree opposite direction. To do that, I have a small array of antennae on the roof that'll pick up the radio's broadcast at differing strengths. The antennae that pick up the strongest signal are used to plot the line of direction.
Since that'll only give you a 180-degree line, say, either north-east and south-west, you need more data! That means you have to drive a mile or so away from the first line at a 90-degree angle, which you plotted in pencil on your big ole' map of the county…you did that? Good. After relocating, and sometimes relocating two or three, or four or five, times because you lost the signal, your RDF listens in and plots again. Now you have two lines, one ends going away from each other and the other ends converging. Where these lines intersect is the broadcast location. Not terribly complicated but you can see why it's so time-consuming. More so when there are so many ridges and valleys a radio signal can reflect off, get lost in, or sail unheard over your head.
Once I had the location relatively pinpointed (Within a mile or so is close enough if you don't mind walking. You do mind? Well…tough. Spend your own money on a fancier set-up, I'm not made of money.) I'd drive as close as I could, then walk, then sneak, the rest of the way. The favorite habitat of radio companies to place their towers is on top of mountains, or in a line along a ridge. An updated topographic map will help you find the highest and most likely perches. Most of these towers are in the middle of bumble-fuck-nowhere, dozens of miles from the nearest town, so the most security you'll run into is a chain link fence with rusty barbed wire and a hefty padlock. While I wish I could tell you of a clever fence scaling technique, or how to pick a heavily corroded padlock in ten seconds flat or your money back…I'd be bullshittin' you. Ain't nobody got time fo' dat.
The easier, and less sophisticated, way is to bring a pair of bolt cutters.
H.K. Porter Powerlink 24-inch Bolt and Wire Cutter, all yours at the low-low price of $49.99, at Shantz Hardware in Phillipsburg, PA.
Rated 10/10, would cut fences with again.
Snip a single line in the fence up from the ground, just enough so you can bend the wires back and crawl under. Do not cut the padlock. That will let someone know you were there. Also do not get your backpack hooked on the fence, or you will squirm for a good ten minutes like a rolly-polly dog squeezing through a too-tiny flap door. Just take the extra second to pull your backpack in behind you. Once inside the fence, you climb. Oh yes. I hope you're not afraid of heights. How does 100 feet up with 20-mph winds sit you?
One reason the towers aren't guarded well is because of their remoteness, low attractiveness to thieves, (What kind of doofus is gonna trek through the woods for hopes of finding something of value on a radio tower? Oh. Right.) and because they put the damn technician's box halfway up the friggin' tower; the clever, sadistic bastards they are.
First thing's first. Put your backpack of tools on the front of your body; yes, like that one weird as fuck kid in middle school. Don't lie to me, we all had that one weird kid. Maybe you were that kid. You know, the one that ran with his arms behind his back like some autistic ninja 'cause he watched too much Naruto. Anyway, hook your two straps into the brackets on your belt; there should be one on each hip. Hook the other ends of the straps onto the tower, and start climbing.
Along the way, stop to enjoy the scenery, admire the view, and try not to get blown off while being alone in your head. People can quickly get tired of an overlook like one a hundred feet above a thousand foot tall ridge. I guess I'm not one of them. They just see a green carpet of leaves, occasional outcroppings of boulders. I see greens, yellows, greys, blacks, even in summer before the fall changes the colors. Look long enough and you'll realize there are no such things as those brown tree trunks you colored in kindergarten. They're actually mottled greens, mossing over patchworks of grey, and forbidding black, but never have I ever, seen a brown tree trunk. Look farther and longer still and you'll find clefts and dimples in the mountains where criks have made their marks over tens of thousands of years, the jagged valleys gouged by a glacier's slow march and rapid retreat; some of its buried water still bubbling up in springs. Then you'll look up. Clouds passing miles above and even miles taller, each millions of gallons of water in composition. And if you're lucky, there will even be a few stars out. Each star potentially a sun with planets of its own, or the finally arrived light of a galaxy thousands of light years removed.
Here a lot of people would remark that the knowledge I have of Overwatch, the other agencies, and Galactic Government with its 1,387 different life supporting planets, would all conspire to make me feel infinitely small and statistically insignificant; and such remarks would be couched with a hint of fear. I don't see it that way. To know there are others besides ourselves in the great nothing of space, and I would someday go off-planet like George, Tommy, Shifty, my Dad and Grandad had all before me, and see the first fringes of an ever-expanding realm, and to know my actions here against Medical Mechanica and The Red Star will have ripples across ALL of that…makes me feel not so insignificant anymore. Just because you are small in the grand scheme of things, does not make you unimportant.
In my hands and under my boots, the tower rattled and groaned, straining against its tethering cables. The wind was picking up. A technician's box is about the size of a shoebox, covered in 1040 painted and galvanized steel, and secured with, of all things, a simple tubular lock. If you happen to have a lathe and a pile of scrap steel at home, and know what you're doing, you can easily make dozens of blank keys and forget the bother of picking each lock once you find a key that works. Opening the door will give you the tech's panel, with its display screen, access ports, and a choke point for all the tower's cables. Plug in your handy-dandy diagnostic tool for digital broadcasting radios (you got this off flea-bay for $20) and bring up broadcasting options.
'Wait, why aren't you shutting down the tower? Isn't that the point?'
Nope. That would be waaaaay too easy. If I did that, the cops would know someone was screwing with their communications and would use some other form to talk. They would also send someone out to see what the problem was, potentially catching me with my hand up their girl's skirt, and certainly fixing the tower in short order. All I was telling the radio to do was, once it had received the incoming transmission, rebroadcast in two frequencies instead of just one. And as a matter of course, the second frequency was our own Overwatch encrypted signal. With that done, I removed the diagnostic tool and inserted a device Josh had designed and Mike had built. Because technicians don't like climbing towers unless they have to, the tower can also be worked on remotely for minor issues. So they broadcast their own unique signal for this purpose. I spliced our little device into the company's broadcast line to their private dish at the tippety-top, and then the other two wires into the electric power supply from the solar panels. Then I cut the power line between the two new leads I had spliced and taped in.
Now the power went through our device and into the unit itself. All our device was, was a remote activated switch. Whenever we wanted, we could remotely access the radio tower and tell the device to open, cutting the power off. Granted, we had neglected to figger out how to turn the damn thing back ON because it relied on the same power as the radio tower…but we'd decided we'd have bigger problems if it came to that. Last, as a finishing touch of my own, I'd leave two surprises for any repairman sent out to get the radios back online if we killed the power. You'll have to be patient and find out what I did later. I almost feel sorry for 'em. Almost.
Back on the ground, and under the fence again, I hustled back to the truck. It was close to noon now and there was no telling how many more towers were out there. So far, over a month of listening, I'd found eight. That's an average of two a week folks. There could only be those eight…or there could be fifty. So I had no time to waste. Once again in my truck I was just about to start up when my phone rang. An unlisted number. Hmmm…interesting.
"Man-Eater BBQ; you kill 'em, we grill 'em."
"Good one Cuzzin' Jeff. Ah'll haftah borrow tha' one!"
"Country?! How'd you get this number?"
"Very carefully." In the background I could hear something mechanical running; loudly running. He was airborne, somewhere. "Hey, is tha runway out-back ah yer house still operational?"
"Not at the moment. There's a huge crater in it."
"There's ah wha'…never mind. Is at least half open?"
"Yep."
"Good, tha's all Ah'll need. Be comin' 'round 'bout an hour or so."
"Wait, hang on…" He'd hung up. Welp…change of plans.
. . .
The parts had been easy to make once their tolerance issues had been sorted. That had been the challenge, getting everything down to 0.001 of an inch took some figuring. For most parts, Naota and Haruko had made several custom jigs, forms, and clamps from spare parts and scraps. The most complicated part on the list had been the long tubes with their spiral grooves. Those had taken most of the morning to get the lathes set just right. The rest of the parts, Naota believed, could be made in a barn, garage, or basement if needed or that was all you had. A tabletop drill press, a hacksaw, (they had used a benchtop and powered saw to speed things along) files, an angle grinder, a hammer, square, reamer set, taper cutter, countersink tool, and a sturdy vice, would be all you'd need. Even the bakery in Mabase had most of those tools on hand, and the rest were a quick trip to the hardware store away.
In summary, each list consisted of 44 parts. A small, L-shaped plate, a cut-down hex key, 14 shaft lock collars, 4 very large lock collars, the tube with spiral grooves, 3 flat bars and strips of steel, 2 machined steel rods, a roll of thick piano wire, 2 pieces of spring steel, a steel rod put under a hydraulic press to bend it into a mild curve halfway down its length, a strip of steel folded in half and molded around tubes to act as a kind of collar, and 12 socket screws. They had separated the parts into a divided plastic tool tray and awaited Rig's return. While they waited, Haruko stared down at the box.
"Hey, are you gonna help me or not?" Naota had one of the lathes open and was cleaning out the steel shavings that had gotten inside.
"In a minute." She had her arms folded and stared down with a puzzled frown. "No, that's not…could put that…no, that's not right…"
"Heh-hem." He reminded. Nothing. "Heh-hem!" Still nothing. "Hey, wanna-be!...Has-been!...Evil alien…"
"You say something?" Good to know that one still worked.
"What are you doing, staring at the parts?"
"It looks like they're supposed to go together, somehow."
"Well, duh. They're, what did he say? Novelty, decorative, drinking fountain parts. Of course they fit together. That's the point."
"It's not like that."
"Then what is it like?" He hefted a torsion wrench to make certain all the lathe's bolts were properly tight. It would not do for the 15-foot long machine to rattle apart at 3,000 RPM.
"It, they, the parts, look like…" She trailed off, then shook her head. "Never mind. Seeing things…"
"That's called Pareidolia." Mike explained. He was passing by to check Naota's maintenance.
"Para-what?"
"Pareidolia. A psychological phenomenon where the mind responds by seeing a familiar pattern where none exists." Mike peered down his glasses into the lathe's gearbox. "Think of, say, The Man in the Moon, The Face on Mars, those hidden messages in music."
"Like the Satanic verses in Led Zeppelin albums when yah play 'em backwards?" Haruko volunteered.
"You could consider that Pareidolia, I suppose, yes." Mike agreed. He approved of Naota's work by shutting the gearbox. "Do you believe in those messages?"
"Nah." They both dismissed the idea. "You?"
"Well, I don't know about the messages, be they from Led Zeppelin, Judas Priest, Chicago, or otherwise." Mike stroked his beard as he did while in thought. "But I do know of a Satan."
"You DO?!"
"Oh yes." He gave a hearty chuckle. "If you're at my house, using my good stereo, destroying my good needles, to wreck my good turntable, and ruining my good Led Zeppelin vinyl's, listening for Satanic messages…I've got news for you. You ARE, Satan."
"Yah know what?" Haruko gave Mike and Naota alternating sideways glances, before settling on Naota. With a jerk of her thumb, she pointed at Mike. "He ain't wrong, Nao'. I'll say that much. He ain't wrong."
"I think if someone did that to my Dad's, or Gramps', records, they'd get to meet Satan."
"I'd believe that." Mike agreed in a tone stating he truly meant it. "No doubt."
"Wait, really?" Naota felt a tad sidetracked. His Dad, reader of Monkey Punch? His Gramps, purveyor of Playboy? Either of them really, truly, furiously angry? He couldn't imagine it because he'd never seen it. "I mean, I was just kidding." Mike slowly smiled.
"There are three things a wise man must fear. Can you guess them?"
"Fear itself?" Haruko threw out as a half-guess.
"One: The Sea in a storm."
"Obviously." Haruko drolled. It wasn't obvious. But, we'll let her have this one.
"Two: A night with no Moon."
"And third?"
"And Three: The Anger of a Gentle Man."
. . .
"Ten-hut!"
"As you were." Captain Chojnacki let the Patrol officers return to their seats. "Okay, assignments for the week. You should've gotten the emails. All that's left is to decide who gets Black Moshannon." At mention of that dark forest, the proud and brash Patrolmen shrank into their chairs. Each tried to look as small as possible to avoid the patrol of the twisting woodland roads. Most of the officers in the State Patrol had not grown up hunting, they lived outside of the gun culture, and within the security of their subdivisions. To them, Black Moshannon was a come-to-life Mirkwood; giant spiders, goblins, orcs, The Necromancer and all.
"I'll…I'll go."
"Patrolman Hynen?" Captain Chojnacki peered at the young officer at the back of the briefing room. "You bucking for a promotion son?"
"No Captain. Just, someone's got to go, and I don't mind Black Moshannon; too much." He explained with a shrug.
"You've always been a strange one. Alright, anyone wanna fight for it? No? Okay. Hynen, you're dismissed. Good hunting."
"Thank you Captain." Hynen stood, saluted, collected his things and left. Chojnacki finished the rest of the assignments, leaving the Special Weapons and Tactics teams for last.
"Sir, have you kept us back for something…special?"
"Yes, Kauffman. I have." Chojnacki pulled down the projector screen and connected his laptop. "Here's the deal. The Man met with me, Sheriff Sarabyn, and Chiefs Strong and Warburg. All of us have been given the go-ahead." A series of smiles and grins filled the remaining troopers.
"Finally!" One burst out, unable to contain his excitement.
"Keep in your pants, Royster." Chojnacki restored decorum. "Our job is to clip some wings around here. Before anything major kicks off, the big show, it's up to us to make sure the stage is cleared. We are NOT going to let some goddamn gun nutter, with his basement full of little-dick compensators, get the jump on us because he thinks he's some 'Arsenal of Liberty'. We're gonna do this quickly before anyone around here can figure out what's going on and mount some kind of defense. Which means, we have to get it right, the first time. Am I clear?"
"Yes Captain!" They couldn't wait to be let off their chain.
. . .
Patrolman Hynen had found a perfect spot to sit. He'd backed his Dodge Charger into a small turn-out, a parking spot for hunters to leave their trucks during the fall. Drumming his fingers on the wheel, he scanned the Charger's radio for something to pass the time. It was 'against procedure' to have the car's music radio playing, but not 'technically' an infraction. Besides, he was on solo patrol, so who would know anyway? The only trouble was the reception. It wasn't that great, and the radio only could find the Triple B: Beau's Beats Buffett. Deciding it was better than nothing, he left the knob where it was. Settled, he started checking for any updates on the computer over the console. An orange and black blur blew past his hiding spot, setting off his dash mounted radar.
WwwwwhhhHHHOOAAAAMMMMMmmmm…
*BEEP!* *BEEP!* *BEEP!*
"Holy shit, seventy-nine!" He swore, putting the Charger in gear and stomping on the gas to give chase. Instantly he recognized the truck ahead of him, even though it was several hundred yards distant. He'd chased it many times before. Digging two new potholes, Patrolman Hynen felt his body press into the seat and the car rumble as it bounced across the rough dirt road. Although he reflexively punched the button for his lights and siren, in his excitement he forgot to turn off the radio.
"…today's special is all things vehicular. Bikes, cars, trucks, you name it, the Triple-B has a song about it. Here's just a sampler!"
My Uncle has a country place, that no one knows about.
He says it used to be a farm, before the Motor Law.
And on Sundays, I'd elude 'The Eyes', and hop the Turbine Freight,
To far outside The Wire where my white-haired Uncle waits…*
. . .
Jump to the ground as the turbo slows to cross the borderline!
Run like the Wind as excitement shivers up and down my spine!
Down in his barn, my Uncle preserved for me an old machine, for fifty-odd years.
To keep it as new has been his dearest dream!
I felt like singing some on the ride back home, it was the perfect day for it. Doofus I am, I wasn't minding my speedometer as closely as I'd ought've. It was only when I saw that single, red dome light flashing in my rearview did I bother to check.
"What the hell is he…ohhh…fuckity-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-Fuck-Fuck-FUCK!" Okay, okay, think, breathe, think, keep calm, breathe. Shift, up into overdrive. Put that pedal to the floor, drop your gun into the false-bottomed console, right hand goes back to the shifting lever. Check your mirrors, yep, still back there. 200 yards, closing, 150, 100 yards. That's a Dodge Charger Pursuit: best at straight lines on the paved highway. But we ain't on the highway, and the road ain't paved. And…I glanced in the mirror as often as I dared, and caught a glimpse of the Patrolman's face.
"Well Hell. That's Patrolman Hynen! This'll be fun!" Might as well keep singing then, can't hurt none.
I strip away the old debris that hides a shining car.
A brilliant red Barchetta, from a better, vanished time.
We'll fire up a willing engine, responding with a roar!
Tires spitting gravel, I commit my weekly crime!
. . .
Patrolman Hynen had caught up to the Bronco but now the challenge was to pull it over. Catching up on a straight stretch of road was always the easy part. As long as the Bronco stuck to the main roads, Hynen stood a good chance of running him down. Sure enough, the Bronco's driver seemed to know this. At the first chance he got, the Bronco took a hard right, its radio antennae snapping around like a metallic whip. The road it had chosen was an access road for a series of hunting camps; seasonal and chocked full of ruts, holes, and rocks. Both vehicles bounced and tossed their drivers 'round their cabins, Hynen cracking his head against the roof when his front left tire struck a basketball sized rock jutting out from a pothole.
With a street minded suspension, the Charger was putting a beating on its driver. His 5.7 Liter Hemi V8's 370-HP did not help negate his mere 5 whole inches of ground clearance. The terrain was putting up a better fight than his quarry. The Bronco, with at least a foot of clearance, was glossing over the smaller holes and stones, edging away despite its slower speed. That little luck ran out as the first camp appeared and the road improved with it.
Wind…in my hair, shifting and drifting…
Mechanical music…adrenaline surge!
Well-weathered leather, hot metal and oil!
The scented country air!
Sunlight on chrome, the blur of the landscape!
Every nerve aware!
Now he was right behind again, just two car lengths away. The Bronco jinked right, then swerved left across a camp's driveway. He left a pair of tracks across the lawn for Hynen to follow, forcing the steering wheel against its stop to force the Charger to do the one thing it loathed doing: Turn.
Around the camp he chased, swerving to avoid the cinderblock fire ring that would've damaged the Charger enough to take it out of the running. Having spun a grass ripping and dirt throwing doughnut in the back lawn, the Bronco bore down on him. In a split second Hynen had to choose between ramming the Bronco head-on, plowing into the camp's back porch, or stopping. The lesser of the evils, he slammed on the brakes and pulled the parking brake as high as it would go, bringing the Charger to a squealing stop inches shy of the screen door.
"Crazy, reckless, sunova bitch…" He cursed and threw the shifting lever up to reverse, spun forward, dropped the lever down to drive, and took off again as the Bronco fled back down the driveway. "Get your ass back here…" He wondered if the Bronco knew this road was a dead end. Then he wondered, as the Bronco's suspension let it slide over a buried log that rattled Hynen's teeth when the Charger fought its way over, if that the Bronco had chosen this road for the fact it was a dead end.
Sure enough, as the packed dirt turned to leaves and foliage, the Bronco plowed straight on and down the hill beyond. At the bottom of the hill flowed a shallow stream, low enough for the Bronco to clear, but deep enough to swamp a Charger. Taking the downstream route, the Bronco slipped out of sight. But not all was lost. Hynen knew where the stream emptied, into the Black Moshannon River itself. He backtracked up the camp road, watched by spectators on cabin porches. On the main road, Route 504, again, he skidded a right turn, rumbling on sifting dirt as his tires scrabbled for traction. Finding grip he raced north on Black Moshannon Road, and towards the bridge over the stream.
Suddenly ahead of me, across the mountainside!
A gleaming alloy air-car shoots towards me, two lanes wide!
I spin around with shrieking tires, to run the deadly race.
Go screaming through the valley as another joins the chase!
There was a gentle, graded slope on either side of the bridge; perfect for climbing out of the stream. Hynen came up to the bridge, glancing left and right, but saw nothing. Could the Bronco have beaten him and continued north? He crossed over, still headed north. Then, in his rearview mirror, he saw a flash of orange.
"He was under the bridge?! Sneaky little…" The Bronco darted down the rest of the stream to where it joined the Black Moshannon. "Is he nuts?! He'll swamp trying to cross…oh wait. The beavers!" The DNR had been keeping tabs on them, the gang of beavers living along the Black Moshannon. The toothy rodents had dammed it up, leaving the river north of it a small trickle through a swath of drying, but still soupy, mud. Seething in jealous envy, Hynen watched the Bronco sling mud as it crossed the riverbed, nearly up to its wheel-wells in the muck.
"If I was in my Jeep instead of this damn street car…wait, I know where he's going!" Hynen continued north, now at full flank speed. The needle climbed on its journey to the 160 MPH mark…100…110…120…the Charger thrummed with power down the straight-aways. "He's headed for Huckleberry, then it's up onto the strippin's past I-80; I'd never catch him in there." A strip coal mine, let alone miles and miles of them, would eat his city cruising Charger whole, then spit it out and demand seconds.
He pushed the pedal further, now at 137 miles an hour he flew; now hardly noticing the potholes as he breezed right over them. Coming up to the intersection of Black Moshannon, the old trail on the other side, and Benner Run Road, he saw no Bronco waiting for him.
Drive like the Wind,
Straining the limits of both Machine and Man!
Laughing out loud, with fear and hope!
I've got a desperate plan!
At the one lane bridge, I leave the giants stranded at the riverside.
Race back to the farm, to dream with my Uncle at the fireside…*
"I beat him here! Now to get ahead on Huckleberry and set up...what the HELL?!" Behind him the Bronco dashed across the intersection and instead took Brenner Run Road. "No, no, noooo!" Patrolman Hynen, pointed downhill towards Huckleberry Road, tried to swing his Charger around without brakes; hoping letting off the gas alone would lose enough speed. If it had been a paved road, even just a sturdier, better maintained dirt road, he would have made it. Downhill he slid, his tires slipping and sliding across shifting stones and dirt. Across a bed of pebbles and dust his Charger's back end hydroplaned, throwing him rear first into the ditch. With his Charger pointed skywards at forty-five degrees, Hynen could feel the solidness of Earth under his seat. His Charger's five inch clearance had done him in: the souped up pursuit car was solidly bottomed out. Without a winch, he was stuck.
Slowly he exited his vehicle and stood along the roadside with his thumb in the air; waiting. The engine beside him quietly hissed and plinked as it cooled, having been nearly redlined on his last sprint. He didn't have to wait long. A minute later the Bronco emerged from Brenner Run Road, a thin wisp of steam around it, and pulled up next to his Charger.
. . .
With my hands still shaking, throat desert-dry, and engine temperature degrees shy of 'Do not exceed: Here be Dragons' I stopped next to Officer Hynen. He was standing in front of his Charger, its front end aimed skyward. On his face he wore a frown, and his right hand had a raised thumb. After shutting down and keeping my hands visible, I rolled my window down.
"Good afternoon, Officer." I greeted as politely as I could without sounding like a jackass. Without batting an eye, and maintaining a professional manner enviable of any man, he asked:
"Do you know why I stopped you today?"
"No sir, I do not."
"I have you clocked going seventy-nine in a fifty mile an hour zone; twenty-nine miles an hour over."
"I am terribly sorry Officer. I should have been paying better attention."
"Yes, you should have. Just what compelled you to drive at such a reckless speed?"
"Honestly sir? I am just trying to keep up with the flow of traffic."
"Keep up, with the flow, of traffic." He looked up Black Moshannon Road, back to me, down Black Moshannon Road, then back to me again. "That's strange. I don't see any traffic."
"Well respectfully Sir; that just proves how far behind I am." Judging by his facial reaction, you'd have thought I'd just said the dumbest combination of words strung together by the sum of all mankind; this side of 'I know winter is coming soon, but I think we should invade Russia now all the same.' He shut his eyes tight, pursed his lips tight and a vein ticked on his temple. I feared for a moment he was about to explode. Then, my saving grace. The corner of his mouth tugged into the smallest of reluctant half-smiles. Then he opened his eyes, no longer filled with malice.
"You're a cheeky bastard, Carson. Alright…that was a new one." He said, then added: "And it was even funny."
"I'm glad you think so." I looked past him at the deep blue Charger, now half brown in dust. "Do I have time to render assistance, or should I be on my way?
"No, I didn't call for backup." He swept off his hat and scratched his buzzcut hair, rubbing a small bump atop his head. "I'm not a sore loser."
"I really do appreciate that Sir. If it's alright, I have a few chains in the back we can use."
"That'd be fine. Come on out, I know you're not gonna try anything stupid." Officer Hynen waved me out and walked back to his car to put away his hat and put the gear in neutral. Even though he seemed at ease, I knew to behave. On his hip hung a brand new H&K 45. Oh, I realize you have to be confused as HELL. So I'll clear some stuff up now, cool?
Officer Hynen is, well obviously a State Patrolman. We do not count him amongst our number in Overwatch. Risking the effort to recruit a cop has been deemed too high. He is one of the youngest officers, only about 25-26 years old. The two of us have crossed paths before while searching for truck parts; me for my Bronco, him for his treasured rock-crawling Jeeps. His build was that of a marathon runner, but with a pair of powerful and calloused mechanic's hands; the tell-tale dark marks of oil and grease under his nails. A strong chin, short, hard nose, and solid brow made up his face. A sprawling tattoo covered his left forearm, and the fringes of another peered from the edge of his lapel; indicating at least one more on his shoulder and chest. The origins behind the tattoos are stories I do not know to tell, and knew better than to ask.
In short order we had pulled his Charger free of the ditch. After checking it for damages and finding none, he asked if he could see under the Bronco's hood. I didn't have a problem with that. He wasn't being a sore loser by arresting me, so there was no point in being a poor winner.
"A Ford Coyote, not bad. How did you get one though?" He asked, inspecting the still warm engine.
"Estate auction. I actually found most of the parts I needed there. This old man had kicked the bucket and his kids came over from New York City to settle everything."
"Let me guess…a bunch of no-good, young urban professionals, driving around like royalty in their Escalades?"
"The very same, Sir. Cadillac: Can American Designers Invent Lovely Lines? Apparently, Can't."
"That sounds about right. So what was wrong with the original this engine came in?"
"It was a run of the mill frame, and rusted to Hell and back; more holes than metal."
"Then what is this one?" He stood back to look at the truck as a whole. "There's a reason they call it Found On Road Dead. And this's a…seventy-eight. You should have rattled it to pieces."
"It is a seventy-eight that had been converted and strengthened to be a Baja truck. I just put the seventy-eight body back on, after a great deal of coaxing to make it fit."
"So, you could drive this up and down sand dunes?"
"In theory, yes Sir."
"I don't know if I could do that with my Jeep, run dunes."
"That's what you get with Junk Engineering Executed Poorly."
"Hey now…" He started to say something, then looked back at his Charger. "Then again, I have to bomb around in Dear Old Dad's Garage Experiment. Jeep sounds pretty good next to that, eh?"
"I would say it does, yes."
"You still got lucky today."
"I have no illusions, or delusions, Sir. If we had been on pavement instead of dirt, even with the same routes and turns, and it was anyone else, I'd be wearing handcuffs right now. You had me dead to rights at least twice."
"And don't you forget it!" He wagged a finger at me. "So now, since you've won, that makes us even. Right?"
"We are tied, two to two."
"So we are…Well?" He sat down on the hood of his Charger as if waiting for something.
"Sir?"
"Whenever we run into each other, you always have questions, things you want to know."
"To be honest, I had not planned to find you today. You surprised me."
"Did I? Now that's funny. Seriously though, what's up? Remember, I am a police officer. I'm trained to read people."
"Alright." I truly had not planned on running into him. All the same, it never hurts to have a few ruminating questions on deck just in case the opportunity arises. "What are the new MRAP's for?"
"How do you know about those?" He didn't deny it…
"When the last truck delivering a new pair slid off the road and nearly rolled over, we were the ones who brought out the mobile crane to pick it up and put it back on the road."
"Mmm…that follows." He reluctantly nodded.
"I got to talking with the driver, asking how he had messed up. His complaint was the MRAP's are too top heavy. That's why he nearly rolled on a curve he'd taken a dozen times, with heavier loads."
"That too follows. I'm sorry, I can't tell you what they're for."
"Okay, how about the Bearcats then?"
"How did you know about those too?" I'm full of miscellaneous info.
"Toll booth operator on I-80, and a gas station clerk in Woodland. The first saw the trucks come through his gate. The second pumped their diesel for 'em. Four brand new Bearcats, built by Lenco. Painted State Patrol blue too."
"That's…impressive, of you. And you are right about them. But I can't tell you what they're for either."
"How about what they aren't for? Are the Russians planning an invasion?"
"No, no…no Russians."
"Surely, the Chinese PLA then?"
"Nope, not the Chinese then."
"Oh my God…it's the North Koreans!"
"None of them are invading! Where do you get these ideas Jeff?"
"Must be those violent video games."
"Sure, why not. Look, there are no Russians massing at the Alaskan border, no Chinese paratroopers ready to take Hawaii. Nothing like that to worry about."
"Respectfully Sir, I have to disagree."
"Oh? Why?"
"You know of my cousin Georgie; he's deployed to Afghanistan right now. His last deployment, he was in an MRAP; same as yours but with different paint. They were out 'n' about, and ran over an IED. His guess was it was made from an unexploded artillery shell. It flipped them over, rolled them halfway down the mountain, and scrambled everyone inside like they were in a washin' machine. No one got hurt."
"The MRAP is one tough mother. What's your point?"
"If an MRAP can take a hit from a one-oh-five, what do you guys here at home need ten of them?"
"You started with two. How did you get to ten?"
"The other ones that arrived by rail. I know one of the yardmasters."
"I hate a smart kid, I really do…" He mumbled to himself, shaking his head. "You've obviously done your homework, so I guess you've earned a hint. Now remember. Not a word leaves this conversation."
"Of course."
"…The Brass are worried. With the election going on, economy as it is, people on and offline making a lot of noise that sounds serious, they're worried about people trying to make themselves into modern John Brown's at Harper's Ferry."
"I know that story. Brown tried to start a slave revolt by taking a Federal Armory."
"That's right. And they're worried, with everyone so keyed up these days, someone's going to crack and do something incredibly dumb. They're trying to make sure no one gets hurt, or hurts themselves trying."
"So, it's a preemptive thing?"
"It's just being prepared; but in a way, I suppose you could think of it that way, yes."
"Anyone I should avoid being seen with out in respectable society?"
"If you're asking for names, I can't give you those." His face twisted at the edges and he shifted on the Charger's hood. There was more, reams more. For whatever reason he couldn't, or wouldn't. You decide which is worse. "But there are some people around here that are of interest that we're keeping an eye on."
"An eye on? Like, a watch list?"
"…Yes."
"…Am I on it?"
"Don't fill yourself with delusions."
"Seriously, Sir. Should I be worried?"
"Jeff, you're a good kid…"
"Then should I be worried for my family?"
"…The Carson name…is not popular at the office. My advice would be to keep your heads down. Be like one of those Ohio class submarines: a hole in the noise."
"The nail that sticks up gets hammered down."
"Take a vacation." He suggested, starting to become visibly uncomfortable. Now he was looking up and down the road, the trees behind me, his boots…anywhere but at me. "Get out of town. Go on an adventure for the rest of the summer before school starts."
"Something terrible's coming, isn't there?"
"…I hope not…" He said more for himself, I think. "Things are, things are going to change Jeff. Things are going to change, and in ways you cannot imagine, and I cannot begin to explain. When it's all over, we both will not recognize the results for what they are. I know I shouldn't tell you any of this…but…"
"But what, Sir?"
"But I know I owe you, your Cousin, and Uncle, my life. So this is the least I can do. You have, at best, two weeks. Realistically, one week. One week to take a vacation that will last past Labor Day. And anyone you care about, take them with you."
"Officer Hynen, forgive me for asking…but is there anything I can do to help you? Is there…?"
"NO. I owe enough already as it is. So no. I've made my decisions on my own circumstances, and have to live with them."
"…As you wish."
"That all, for today?"
"For today, yes. If you have no objections, I'll be on my way."
"Get going. But hey, seriously. My dash camera can only malfunction so many times. Slow it down."
"Yes Officer, I understand; and I will." I got into my Bronco, started back up and turned to home. "It was good to race again. Bring your Jeep over to the shop sometime, if you feel inclined."
"I'll think about it." And he left it at that.
"Good day, Officer Hynen."
"Good day, Mister Carson. Drive safe."
. . .
*Red Barchetta - Rush
I had originally written out the chase between Rig and Patrolman Hynen to be 'Eastbound and Down' by Jerry Reed. It was used to great effect in 'Smokey and The Bandit', a great movie about a car chase. I also considered 'I can't drive 55' by Sammy Hagar. But neither didn't seem to fit quite as well as Rush. Red Barchetta seemed to fit better with the theme. Maybe I'll find an excuse to use 'Eastbound and Down' some other time.
If there's one profession I hold in lower standing than payday loan sharks, it's politicians. What a bunch of weasels. Nothing against actual weasels, of course. This group reminds me of the politicians in 'Atlas Shrugged' and how nothing was ever their fault when anything went wrong, but they were front and center when something went well; even if they had nothing to do with it.
Patrolman Hynen seems caught between a rock, a hard place, his conscience, and knowing what's coming down the pike. I hope things work out for him, somehow; and it's not too late for him to see the light.
Also, let's give a round of applause for Shigekuni, and Based Mon-Chan. I actually spent an evening reading on IJA divisions and their histories, trying to find one that saw some action, but wasn't completely wiped out or captured, and also drew recruits from around Mabase. The 17th Division was the closest I could find. Question though, what was Kamon doing in Osceola Mills, so far away from Penn State, and under his favorite alter ego? Who knows...
I am sorry I didn't get this, and Chapter 16 as well, out sooner. But, okay, I'll be real. I picked up Fallout 4. Biggest, and most fun time waster I have ever encountered. It was a little touch and go at first, but that all changed when I found a Fat Man. Things got a lot easier, and more fun, after that.
Thank you again for reading, I know it's got to be a pain waiting for two-three months at a time. You are such a patient group, bless you all! Let me know how I'm doing, and I'll see you over in Chapter 16, thanks again!
