The Game's Afoot¹

(Source)

On the drive back to their motel in Maryland, Johansen, who was driving, posed the question, "So where are we going to get enough ammunition and weapons to entice the Feds to look into this place in Green Ridge? Do those Rod and Gun Club fellows have enough? Would they be willing to risk losing it?"

Morgan started to answer when Rossi interrupted him, "Don't need the real thing."

Morgan looked puzzled, then he got it, "We just need crates that look right and stencil the outside to make them look like the real deal. Nice!"

"We can buy stuff, ready made, a lot of it is military surplus. But I see a couple of problems with that." Rossi said.

"Such as?" Morgan asked.

"The shit can get expensive and if we start buying enough of it to look like we're serious, we leave a paper trail. But you can get plans on line to build them, don't even have to buy them. Any decent carpenter can make them look like the real deal." Rossi said, his excitement rising at the idea.

Morgan said, "I'll bet a few of those good old boys back at the Rod and Gun Club know their way around building stuff out of wood."

Rossi nodded, "Yup, heck I'll bet I could do it."

"So let's do that, build enough of 'em to make it look good. Ammo crates, even a few that could hold ARs or maybe even a Ma-Deuce.²

Johansen chimed in as he made the turn which would take them to their motel, "Then we just make sure that someone sees us moving those crates to tip off the Feds. I mean we could do that, but they might be suspicious."

Morgan looked at the back of Johansen's head, "Maybe ambushing that SWAT team wasn't such a great idea after all, Ephraim."

"No, it was a great idea. Make 'em think they went in too cocky and too weak. We want more targets, not less. We want them coming in in strength. Like I said, more targets, more grist for the mill."

As Morgan and Johansen went back and forth on that, Rossi had a thought. He knew guys that went to work for the Feds, a lot of ex-military were on local and state police SWAT teams in the area. Jesus, he didn't know how he felt about that. Ambushing guys he might know, might have worked with. Second thoughts are a bitch, he realized.

Damn.

Francis Monroe was at the office late, which was no different that any other night. They had no further leads on the ambush of the Park Police's SWAT team. That trail was as cold as Monroe's heart. As his ex-wife might put it.

He hadn't heard from Johansen in a few days, what was that bastard playing at? Maybe he'd been too heavy-handed with the man. I mean, threaten to have someone killed and that someone might try avoiding you as best he could. Maybe he'd spooked him, Monroe just didn't know. Maybe he was being played for a fool.

His phone rang, his private line.

"Yeah?"

"US-13, Painter, Virginia, old DOT facility."

The voice was disguised electronically, before he could ask anything, the line went dead. He didn't hang up but went out to his assistant's desk, she'd been home for hours. He picked up her phone and punched the number for the technical staff.

"Hey Joanie, working late?"

"This is Deputy Director Monroe, can you trace the call which just ended on my private line?"

Monroe imagined the look on the techie's face, "Yes Sir, the 7556 number?"

"That's the one ..."

"Standby Sir, let me get on my computer. Sorry about the 'Hey Joanie' thing."

"Just run the trace."

There was silence on the line, Monroe could hear the keys on the man's keyboard clicking, then the man spoke.

"Can't get a proper trace, but a call came in from a cell tower out in Hillandale."

"That's it, huh?"

"Yes Sir, I can set up a program to monitor your private line, in case they call back?"

"No, the guy's not going to call back. Thanks, who is this?"

"Ferguson, Sir, Theodore Ferguson."

Monroe hung up. He had wanted to chew the guy's ass, but he already had a reputation as a heartless prick, and it was late. He got on his computer and ran a couple of queries in the FBI's database. He came up with an address. He picked up his phone again and called the legal guy on duty.

"Jerry, Deputy Director Monroe here, I need a warrant to perform surveillance on an old DOT facility out on the Eastern Shore." He read off the address.

"Judge will need probable cause, Sir."

"Tell him it's related to the ambush of the Park Service's SWAT team a couple of weeks back. We have heard rumblings of another possible assault, I just had an anonymous tip about the place. No details, just the address."

"How fast you need it Sir?"

"Yesterday."

"On it, I'll call you as soon as I have it."

"Thanks, Jerry."

He needed to think who he wanted on this aspect of the investigation, for now he called the duty section and told them to send two agents up to his office.

"We'll need to check out a van and some surveillance equipment. It's out in the boondocks, Eastern Shore to be exact. No warrant yet, but these guys can get started now. I'll brief them when they get here. Might be a long night."

"We could send someone out of the Salisbury office, Sir, they're a lot closer."

"Nope, this thing is close hold for now, I want to run it out of my office for now."

"Okay, Sir. Moriarty and Golden are on the way up. They just came on shift so they should be good to go."

"Good."

After Monroe hung up, he toyed with the idea of going down there himself, he missed being in the field. But the Director would have his ass for breakfast if he did that. He yawned and looked at his watch, after midnight again. Looks like another night on the sofa, he grumbled silently.

¹ Henry V, Act 3, Scene 1, near the end of King Henry's "Once more into the breech ..." speech.

² Ma-Deuce is slang for the M-2 .50 caliber, crew served machine gun.

Tyvek, the devil's tape!

 Well to start off on an up note, a week from this Wednesday will be a good day in the juvat household.  Mrs. J will get zapped for the last time on that day.  (Beans, zapped is the official juvat terminology for radiation treatment. It just sits better with me.)  Once we get through that, there's a 30 day R&R period and then surgery mid-June to, hopefully, visually confirm the little buggers are in fact dead and then remove their rotten bodies.

Yeah, it's been a long ride since October.  Looking forward to not visiting medical folks every day.  Not that they haven't been great. No, they've been very supportive, generally upbeat and answering my stupid questions without laughing (too much).  Well done y'all!

But it will be nice for the both of us to go places and visit family and not have to worry if that's just a cold Miss B has or if it's the flu.  It will also be nice to be able to go out to dinner and not have to worry about that issue. And, maybe, just maybe, fall asleep immediately after hitting the bed. Yeah, been a long ride for both of us, and I had the easy part.

But... Thank all y'all for the prayers and kind thoughts throughout.  VERY MUCH APPRECIATED.

Now, on with the post.  One of the sanity enhancers for me over the last few months has been the construction of a Pikler triangle for my middle Grand child.

 This would be a Pikler Triangle. Source

My Mental Picture is a little different. Here's the triangle itself, just the slide still needing construction.

I had a piece of melamine covered particle board left over from a project a couple of years ago.  I decided I'd use that for the slide as shown in the top picture.  LJW had said she didn't want the climbing grips on it, she wanted a slide.  So it is written, so it shall be.

I went into my wood storage loft and found the left over melamine.  It was just about the right dimensions and I'd even covered it with plastic tape to keep the melamine from getting scratched and ruined.

Little did I realize the enormity of that mistake.

I had confided to LJW that I'd have the project finished in a day or so.  That was Monday after my last post. 

I think that's called "hubris", and we all know how that ends.

 In any case, I was on the last step in the plan, so, I pulled my melamine board out of storage, noted that I had preserved it by covering the melamine with Tyvek and patted myself on the back for keeping it looking good.  Put it on my work bench, got out my pocket knife and got ready to pull it off.

I think Tyvek in the original ancient Greek means "Stronger than the gods'.

So, in actuality, I started to TRY to pull it off.  Just wasn't happening.  Knowing that my wonderful wife has lots of concoctions with various powers in the house, I went there and asked her for something to remove tape. 

She recommended Goo Gone which she already had stored in her witchcraft cupboard.  Grabbed it,  went and soaked a smallish area of the Tyvek, went away for a half hour or so to let it work it's magic.  Returned, not much removal improvement.  Reapplied and tried again. This time, I tried that in conjunction with a hot air gun.

Nope!  It wasn't coming off very well, lots of very small pieces coming off, even more left behind.  So, I decided to visit Lowe's and ask my good friends there (who had sold me the Tyvek) what the best way to remove it was.  They huddled for a few moments throwing furtive glances at me over their shoulders.  Came back and recommended Goo Gone.  I told them I had and it didn't work.  They then recommended Goof Off and/or Paint Thinner.  

I bought both.  I also saw a angled scraper and bought it.  Went home and got to work. 3 days worth of about 3 or 4, 2 hour scraping sessions per day with R&R for wrist and Dust Mask/Face shield recovery as well as chemical smell recovery in between. (Yes Beans, the Fan was on and the windows were open).

 I'm now at this point.

Most of the Tape, per se, is gone, but...

As one can see, although the tape is gone, the glue, however, is still remaining.  I'm pretty sure that should Miss B start to slide down it under these circumstances, she's going to get about 6" and come to a screeching stop stuck to the board.

I'm going to give it one more once over with the chemicals to try and remove the glue.  However, IMHO, my sanity is worth more than $50, should that fail, I'm going to buy a new melamine covered particle board and start over.

I'm open to suggestions.  No, Beans, a flamethrower will not be considered a viable option, fun though it may be.

Peace out, y'all.

juvat

Plans and Schemes

By U.S. Army Materiel Command - Flickr, CC BY 2.0

Jarrett Jefferson, newly promoted to sergeant, was watching the DC police SWAT team in training. Members of the FBI's Hostage Rescue Team were putting the DC SWAT people through their paces. He shook his head, they carried on like they were soldiers and he thought that that was bullshit.

"Problem, Sergeant?" DuPont was there as well, with his team short five men, four dead, one in hospital long term, his team would be backing up the DC cops and the HRT, if necessary.

"Let's talk outside Cap'n, I've seen enough."

The two men went outside of the facility, it was a very muggy day in DC. DuPont looked expectantly at Jefferson.

"Sir, that bunch acts like they're soldiers, they're not."

"I don't know, Jarrett, there are some similarities ..."

"Not really, Sir. Soldiers go up against an organized, well-armed opponent, these guys usually deploy to take out nut jobs, individual fanatics, and the occasional terrorist cell. They're not used to going up against heavy weapons, nor the proper use of those by their teams. Damn it, Sir, most of them are no better than well-armed civilians. They'd fold against a serious, unexpected threat."

Jefferson paused, he looked down at his feet, then up to the sky. His eyes followed a Southwest aircraft probably headed to Reagan, maybe Dulles. Then he looked at DuPont.

"We folded, Sir. Heavy automatic weapon took out the team, in the blink of an eye. We weren't ready for that. Hell, Sir, if this threat is as serious as the big shots think, we should use the Army."

"You think Posse Comitatus doesn't apply here?"

"No Sir, I don't. Congress amended that act in '81. Military can't arrest people, but they can provide assistance and support to law enforcement, especially in drug cases. But insurrection applies as well, in that case the military can be brought in to act directly."

"Scary shit, Sarge."

"I know Sir, but there's something big brewing, and I don't like it."

Wilt Thompson spread the map out on a pool table, with the exception of five men, everyone else from the Rod and Gun Club had gone home.

Thompson looked at the locals, "You fellas want to keep an eye on things outside? I'd rather not have unexpected visitors."

"Alright gentlemen, gather 'round. It's your show, Ephraim."

Johansen nodded, then began. "We first thought to do this out here on the Eastern Shore, until I realized that we didn't want to be martyrs, we wanted them to be martyrs. Out here they could cut us off by blocking both ends of the peninsula. We'd have nowhere to go, the Navy and the Coast Guard would nail us if we tried to get out by boat."

"Thing is, we want to be able to pull back, but not run, do you know what I mean?"

Rossi stepped in and looked at the map, he saw rough terrain, lots of trees, with one or two good roads going through.

Rossi's hand circled an area on the map, "Green Ridge State Forest, I like it. It's state property, but there's no way Maryland could handle what we have in mind, they'd have to call in the Feds."

"And that's a fair piece from DC," Morgan nodded then looked at Johansen, "They'd have to fly in, wouldn't they?"

Johansen nodded, "I think Hagerstown Regional can handle C-130s, not sure about Potomac Air Park, in a pinch probably, the Herky bird was designed for rough fields. There's also Greater Cumberland, in West Virginia. But all of those are a ways out, and there aren't many places to land a helo in the area you're looking at, Wilt. They'd have to come in by road, one way or the other. Is that what you have in mind, Wilt?"

Thompson nodded, "There's an old farm out that way, off on a side road. A few big outbuildings, my thought was tipping off the feds to either drugs or guns at that location."

Morgan spoke, "It's gotta be guns, the American people will be rooting for druggies to be taken down. People are starting to wonder about the Second Amendment, we've got to be seen as defending our rights."

Everyone nodded, then Johansen said, "Get us all the details on the place you can, Wilt. I'll plant the seeds in DC."

Rossi spoke up, "We ought to have a name for this operation."

"Got something in mind, Al." Morgan smiled as he asked the question.

"I do, Operation Lexington. Or maybe Operation Lexington and Concord."

Thompson asked, "Isn't that a little obvious?"

Morgan spoke up, "How about Operation North Bridge?"

"Shit yeah, that's even better, same day, the shot heard round the world, all that stuff." Rossi nodded enthusiastically.

Johansen chimed in, "I can go one better, fellas. Operation Rude Bridge. Only someone up on his Emerson would figure that one out quickly."

Rossi and Morgan looked puzzled for a moment, then Thompson spoke up:

By the rude bridge that arched the flood,

Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled,

Here once the embattled farmers stood,

And fired the shot heard round the world.

− Emerson, "Concord Hymn"

The others smiled.

"That'll do. That's perfect." Rossi felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, he was ready.

Meetings

(Source)

At one time the facility had belonged to the Virginia DOT, replaced by a newer facility, paid for largely by the federal government, it now belonged to the Eastern Shore Rod and Gun Club. That group was meeting this very night.

Morgan and Johansen were in attendance, they'd managed to spread enough rumors in the DC area to keep the Feds busy for a week or two. The federal agencies they were most concerned with were intently focused on the District of Columbia, not looking outward, but inward.

"Hey fellas, long time no see." Wilt Thompson was a bear of a man, a veteran of the war on terrorism, now a local farmer and the president of the Eastern Shore Rod and Gun Club.

"Mr. Thompson, good to see you," Johansen looked expectantly at Morgan.

"Wilt, how they hanging? This is a buddy of mine, lives down in Virginia Beach, retired Navy, Al Rossi, Wilt Thompson."

Rossi shook Thompson's hand, "Nice place you got here. Lot of members?"

"About fifty come to the meetings, the others, another fifty or so, just use the facilities. The range, the bar, place to hang out. You on the Atlantic or the Bay?"

"On the Bay, got a nice house, private beach. It's small, one bedroom, cost me an arm and a leg, but hey, I got my own dock and a high hedge around the place. Neighbors are close, but ya can't see or hear 'em, most of the time."

"So you fish the Bay?"

"Yeah, in the fall I hunt, I got used to being outside all the time in the Navy. Love the sea, hated the routine though."

"I hear ya brother, hey the meeting's about to start. Why don't you guys go chill at the bar, this won't take long."

Though Johansen had his doubts, Morgan was convinced that these men would be perfect. They were rural, they loved to hunt and fish, 90% of them were veterans, 100% of them had a deep and abiding distrust of DC.

As one man had put it, "Sonsabitches don't know how to mind their own damned business."

Johansen's backers wanted a big showdown between some militia types and the Feds, these people fit the bill nicely. What Johansen's backers didn't know, is that Johansen planned to screw them, big time. He remembered talking about it with Morgan some months ago.

"So some big shots want a Lexington and Concord moment, only this time the redcoats win?" Morgan had asked.

"Yup, big shootout, they hope, lots of Federal casualties, only this time they kick the militia's ass, just barely. More screams for gun control and they think Congress will act this time. Hell, if they succeed, you'll be lucky to get permission to own a flintlock." Johansen was disgusted with the whole thing.

"What about the Second Amendment ..." Morgan began.

"Do you think those bastards give a shit about the Constitution? Most of Congress are lawyers and most think they know it, but most have never read it. The media is on their side, the big corporations as well."

"So you think it's time to water the tree?" It was Morgan's favorite expression, he was a big fan of Thomas Jefferson, though like most he assumed that everything ever attributed to the third President was gospel.

"Sic semper tyrannis¹ brother." Johansen raised his glass as he said that.

"Give me liberty ..." Rossi began.

"And give them death." Morgan finished.

Rear Admiral (select) Alex Choe was walking with his hands clasped behind his back, Chapman thought he looked a bit Napoleonic walking that way, but said nothing. Choe stopped and turned to her, they were at Arlington, the cemetery provided a good place to talk away from prying eyes and ears.

"So this is about gun control?" Choe asked incredulously.

"More than that, Sir. These people are concerned with Federal overreach in damned near every walk of life. Big money wants the American people calm, quiet, and unarmed." Chapman said.

Choe shook his head, "This is ridiculous, Beth. You wearing a tinfoil hat these days?"

"Negative, Sir. I'm on the inside, I see the memos, I sit in hearings with Congress. Come on, Sir, every time some asshole shoots up a bar the media goes nuts, calling it a 'mass shooting.' Hell, Sir, Chicago has these events all the time, but no one cares. If it happens on the bad side of town, no one cares. But shoot a few white people and bang, it's all over the news. You don't see an agenda here, Sir?"

Choe thought for a moment, then he nodded, "I trust you, Beth, what do you need from me?"

"Nothing, Sir, just keep your eyes and ears open. There are elements in the military who like the idea of a disarmed populace as well, you know that."

"Well most civilians aren't trained to ..."

"Bullshit, pardon my French, Sir. A lot of firearms owners have had some training, heck, Sir, a lot of them learned proper firearms handling in the military. We may have some shitty training we put people through, but firearms training isn't one of them.²"

"Could you have your agency make a formal request?"

Chapman just stared at Choe, "Sure Sir, I'll commit career suicide, no problem." She shook her head.

"Sorry, Beth, you're right, we'd both get put out to pasture."

"Or worse."

"Seriously?"

"Yes Sir. These folks will kill to preserve their rights. The tide's changing. We don't want to be on the wrong side of history. There won't be a chance to write memoirs, people are going to die if we f**k this up. Lots of people."

"I'll do what I can, Beth. But I can't make any promises."

"Just keep an open mind, Cap'n, it's all I ask at this point."

The two found themselves at the Tomb of the Unknowns just as the guard was changing. Both stood at attention, both remembered people lost. Choe made up his mind.

"I'll do what you ask, Beth."

"Thank you, Sir."

¹ Latin for "thus always to tyrants," the motto of the Commonwealth of Virginia. In other words, tyrants must always fall.

² Unless you were in the Air Force, the training I received in Basic was ludicrous. NATO did a better job, where we had to qualify every year.

The Fog Lifts, A Little

(Source)

Ephraim Johansen went into the J. Edgar Hoover Building from the E Street NW entrance. After going through the metal detectors he saw his escort waiting for him. The man didn't say a word, he just gestured that Johansen should follow.

While Johansen thought that odd, he also knew that his contact in the Bureau didn't really want to be seen talking with him. So he followed the man down into the basement and into a secure conference room. His contact was seated at the end of the conference table.

Johansen started to speak, but his contact held up a hand and waved him to a chair. So he sat down and waited.

"So, why did you want to see me today?"

"I have indications that there's a leak, either here or in my shop. I figured you'd want to know."

"It's on your end."

"How can you be sure, I mean ..."

"I'm the only one here who knows what you're up to, Johansen. No one else at the Bureau has any knowledge of this."

"Damn. So it's one of my people, has to be." Johansen flashed a sick grin. "Unless you leaked the intel?"

"Yeah, dumbass. I want to go to prison for the rest of my life by conspiring in an assault on law enforcement officers. An assault which killed four and put a fifth in a coma. Yeah, great plan."

"Sorry, Sir, I didn't mean anything ..."

"Yeah, you're a funny f**king guy, Johansen. I'm half tempted to swear out a warrant on your ass right now. We can hold you damned near forever, maybe even ship you down to Gitmo, with the other terrorists. And no one would believe your bullshit. Trust me."

"I guess I better find out who ..."

"Yeah, sooner, rather than later." With that remark hanging in the air, FBI Deputy Director Francis Monroe got up and left. He spoke a few words to Johansen's escort before leaving.

The escort came into the room, "Come with me. Speak to anyone else and I've been ordered to kill you. Right on the spot."

Johansen started to protest as the man spun Johansen around and shoved what felt like a holstered pistol into the back of his trousers.

"What do I need a gun for?"

"So if I have to kill you, I can testify that I saw a gun."

Johansen broke out in a cold sweat, his escort was wearing surgical gloves.

Captain Harry DuPont of the United States Park Police was at the hospital to see his sergeant, Thomas Murdock. He'd been in a coma for nearly a month. He'd come out of it the night before, doctors were allowing some limited visits, he was on the list.

As he walked in, he saw Jarrett Jefferson coming out. "How is he?"

"He's pissed Cap'n. At you, the Park Service, everybody, guess he ain't pissed at me, probably cause the Docs say I saved his life. But that is one angry man in there."

DuPont looked at the floor, he was angry at himself, but he had to talk to Murdock, let him know he'd be taken care of. "Look Jefferson, I know this sucks but ..."

DuPont was surprised when Jefferson picked him up by his coat lapels and slammed him against the wall. "What the f**k were we doing there? The damned DC cops should have been on that, not us. What the f**k, Captain?"

Jefferson let out a sigh, then let go of DuPont. He reached into his jacket and removed his badge and his sidearm, handing them to DuPont.

DuPont was shaken, Jefferson was a big man and could have snapped him in half. "What's this?"

"I just assaulted you, Sir. I know you'll want these while IA investigates."

"Put that shit away, Jefferson. What assault? We were just talking, you grabbed my coat to make a point. Which you did."

DuPont straightened his coat and tie, "Look, this is supposed to be need to know, but I think you do. DC SWAT was on another raid, which turned up nothing. It was a distraction so somebody would be called in. The FBI was training down at Quantico, so we were up. The DC SWAT raid is tied to your guys getting ambushed. We're trying to develop a couple of leads, but it's early days yet."

"How about those guys who got blown up in that warehouse? I heard about that shit, they were the shooters, weren't they?"

"Who'd you hear that from?" then DuPont waved the question away. "Doesn't matter I guess, yeah, they were probably the guys on the M-60. BCDs from the Army, all three of them. Drugs, insubordination, trouble from day one. Someone hired them to do this, then left them hanging in the breeze."

"Forensics tie them to the gun?"

"Yup, they were careful handling the weapon, but not the ammunition. Multiple prints on the brass, all belonging to them, save one."

"Who was the other print?"

"We don't know yet, it was a partial, we're still trying to trace it."

DuPont didn't mention that he suspected that the partial print they'd found on the cartridge at the farmhouse was probably from the same guy. He suspected someone was trying to throw them off the trail. So far, that was working.

"I want in, Sir."

"You're a tactical guy, Jefferson, not an investigator."

"I want in when you take the bastards down, I lost four friends that night. Four good friends. Four damned good men."

"All right, fair enough. Now I gotta see Sergeant Murdock."

Jefferson looked sheepish and put his hand out, "Sorry, Cap'n, I was outta line."

DuPont shook the hand, "Don't worry about it, nothing happened."

DuPont stepped into the room, Murdock was awake, looking out the window at the night. He looked up, "Cap'n." He didn't sound friendly.

"Sergeant, I know you're angry, I don't blame you. But we are going to catch these guys, and when we do ..."

"What, Sir, send 'em to prison? Wilson, McCutcheon, Jones, and Lincoln, they're all in the f**king ground, Captain. Somebody set us up, had to be. Why us, why the f**king Park Police, where were the Feebs, the DC cops, hell, even the f**king IRS has a SWAT team now, why us?"

DuPont looked at the floor, something he was getting tired of doing, but he couldn't help it, his men blamed him. Right or wrong, they blamed him. "Look Murdock, it was a screwed up night, nobody was where they were supposed to be, DC SWAT was off on a wild goose chase, which we believe was part of the same thing you guys got caught up in, the FBI was down at Quantico. Really, Sarge? The IRS? The call was about illegal firearms, not misfiled tax returns."

Murdock shook his head, he even grinned a little, "Yeah Boss, send in the f**kin' accountants."

Gathering himself, Murdock continued, "But I lost a bunch of my guys, if Jarrett hadn't patched me up, I'd probably be in the ground right now. But why, Sir? Why?"

"There's stuff going on I can't tell you about right now, not even sure if half of what I think I know is true. But I'll tell you this, it's domestic, not foreign."

Murdock looked up, "When I get out of this hospital, I want to work this case."

DuPont shook his head, "You're in for weeks of rehab, that bullet that hit you in your lower belly bounced all around inside you, You might even be medically retired."

Murdock shifted his position, and winced.

"You in a lot of pain, Sarge?"

"It comes and goes. Hey Sir, at least keep me in the loop. First time I ever lost anybody under my command. It hurts, Cap'n."

DuPont thought back to Afghanistan, then he said, "Yup, it's gonna haunt you for a long time, Sarge, but ya gotta fight through it. Don't surrender to it."

Murdock was pressing his call button, he nodded, but it was obvious he was in a lot of pain. At that moment a nurse came in.

"Sir, you need to leave." She walked over to Murdock, checked his machines, then took his pulse.

"Tommy, you need to relax. You want pain killers? Morphine?"

"Nah, Jenny, something lighter, see if I can handle this without the big drugs."

She shook her head and saw that DuPont was still there.

"Out. Now."

DuPont left, now he was angry.

A Disturbance in the Force

(Source)

Ephraim Johansen glanced out the window of his car as his driver went by the Navy Yard. His gut told him that somehow the Navy was involved in what was happening. That damn Jack Morgan was always dropping hints that he had someone inside the Pentagon, Navy just like Morgan had been, but nothing concrete.

"Bill, swing by the EEOB."

"Yes Sir. West Executive Avenue side?"

"That'll work."

When they pulled up to the entrance he saw his buddy waiting for him.

"Bill, go get some lunch or something." Looking at his watch, he continued, "Be back in an hour."

"Yes Sir."

After his car drove off, his buddy walked down to the street to meet Johansen. "Let's go for a walk, Ephraim, it's a nice day out."

Johansen looked askance at his friend, he wanted to talk where the chance of being picked up by a bug was minimal. He looked around, no suspicious looking vans, no obvious parabolic microphones in evidence, as if he'd spot one anyway, but this was probably as safe as things were going to get.

"Well, spill it Mike, I can tell something is eating you up."

Mike Yamaguchi looked around, as they walked, he lit a cigarette.

"Jesus, Mikey, those things are going to kill you."

"Yeah, if I live that long. You got a mole in your outfit."

"What?"

"I overheard a conversation this morning outside one of the NSC's offices, seems they heard that the ambush of those Feebs¹ was an inside job."

"Bullshit," was Johansen's first response, but he also felt his heart leap into his throat.

"That's what I thought, but this guy is retired Navy, has contacts in the E-Ring, at the Navy Yard, Norfolk, the guy is buddies with a dozen heavy hitters in the Navy."

"Why would he be talking about it in the EEOB? Has he got a death wish or something?"

"All I know was that I saw these two guys going into a SCIF², and the guy I mentioned said, and I quote, 'Inside job Mac, smells like SpecOps ...,' then the door closed and that was that."

"Idle gossip, some guy trying to impress another guy, you know how it is in DC. 'Hey look, my dick is this big.' 'Oh yeah, well mine's bigger.', they're probably both up for promotion. I wouldn't worry about it."

"Damn it, Eph, I'm paid to worry about shit."

Johansen grimaced, he hated being called 'Eph,' but he shook it off. He saw a bench, which he made a beeline for. Yamaguchi followed.

"Look Mike, ya done good. This is what I want from you, rumors, innuendos, facts, it's all information, my job is to separate the wheat from the chaff. What's this guy's name anyway?"

"Harold Peschanski, he got out of the Navy last year, retired as an O-6. Like I said, he knows a lot of people."

"Okay, I'll have my people run the name. Thanks, now I need to get back, get this ball rolling. I have some other shit on my plate now too, gonna be a long day."

"You headed back out to McLean?" Yamaguchi asked.

"Nope, I have a meeting with the FBI at 2 o'clock. Hey, there's my car, I gotta run, stay in touch Mikey."

As Johansen got into his car, Yamaguchi shook his head. "I've told the bastard that I don't like being called 'Mikey.' But he does it anyway. Man's an asshole of the highest order."

Chapman sighed as she looked around, another meeting in a restaurant, Murphy's Grand Irish Pub in Alexandria. If she wasn't careful she was going to get fat. She ordered an appetizer, the Jameson baked oysters looked good, and she said the heck with it, she ordered a Guinness as well. "For strength," she said to herself.

She recognized the guy when he came in, still in the Navy she'd heard. He'd commanded the ship she had been on briefly in the Gulf, USS McFaul (DDG 74). She'd been with the Ike's Air Wing at the time. McFaul had a helo deck, but she had no organic aircraft assigned. No hangar. But it was where she'd met Jack Morgan, which had been fun.

She stood up, "Captain Choe, thought I heard you got picked up for Rear Admiral, good to see you, Sir. It's been  a while."

Choe grasped her hand and shook it, "Beth Chapman, I was sorry to hear of your accident. You were a shoe-in for squadron command from what I understood. Doing good things now from what I understand?"

The two sat, Choe ordered an appetizer, the same thing Chapman went with, he also ordered a Guinness.

"I'll bet you're wondering why I wanted to see you." Choe began.

"As a matter of fact, yeah, this is kind of out of the blue, Sir."

"Call me Alex. The Navy needs you, Beth."

She rolled her eyes at that, which made Choe laugh out loud.

Morgan didn't like this, Johansen seemed to be running all over DC meeting with people and not keeping him in the loop. And that made him nervous. Was Johansen on the side of the angels or was he throwing his lot in with the establishment?

He'd been following Johansen around most of the day, dumb shit thought he was an operator, heck the dumbest ensign Morgan ever worked with would have found it easy to trail the guy.

I wonder what he and that snake Yamaguchi talked about, no matter, things were moving faster now.

As soon as he got home, he wandered down to the pool area and pulled out his cell phone. After one ring on the other end, it picked up.

"Rossi."

"Hey Senior Chief, you still f**king goats or do you have a real job now?"

After he stopped laughing, Alphonse Rossi, MMCS , U.S. Navy (retired), said, "What do you want, Jack? Miss me?"

"You remember all the fun we had in VBSS?"

"Heh, I do. Navy thinks we hate each other."

"You still down in Virginia Beach, Al?"

"Sure am, come on down."

"I'll be there tomorrow morning. Have your go bag packed."

"Roger that, Skipper. See you in the oh-dark-thirty."

Morgan walked back to his apartment, said hello to Mrs. Johnson on the way and asked if she could watch his cat for a few days.

"Sure thing honey, when you leavin'?"

"Around midnight, I'll feed her before I leave. She should be good until lunchtime."

"Alright, goin' fishin' again?"

"Yes, ma'am with an old Navy buddy."

"Have fun, sugar."

"Thanks, Mrs. Johnson, I really appreciate it."

A little after midnight, Morgan rolled out in his FJ Cruiser, he needed the big wheels for this. No doubt Rossi would give him shit for owning a Japanese vehicle. Senior Chief thought Ford was the only good vehicle on the planet.

He liked Rossi, but the man was something of an asshole.

Which is perhaps why the two got along so well.

¹ Insulting term for an FBI agent.

² Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility, an enclosed area within a building that is used to process sensitive compartmented information types of classified information.