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.

Back in the Day ...

GULF OF ADEN (May 26, 2009) Members of a visit, board, search and seizure (VBSS) team from the guided-missile cruiser USS Gettysburg (CG 64) and U.S. Coast Guard Law Enforcement Detachment (LEDET) 409 respond to a Yemeni dhow that had been drifting at sea for two days due to engine problems. Gettysburg is part of Combined Task Force (CTF) 151, a multinational task force established to conduct counter-piracy operations under a mission-based mandate throughout the CMF area of responsibility.
(U.S. Navy photo by Mass Communication Specialist 1st Class Eric L. Beauregard/Released)

Back aboard USS McFaul, Chief Alphonse Rossi turned to Lieutenant Jack Morgan, "What the f**k was that all about, Sir?"

Morgan lit a cigar and looked at his Chief, "What's got your panties in a twist this time, Rossi?"

"WHAT?!?" the Chief sputtered before getting right up in Morgan's face.

"Damn it, Sir, you butt stroked that fisherman over there, probably broke his f**king jaw."

"Look Chief," Morgan bumped Rossi backwards, Rossi was solidly built but Morgan spent a lot of time in the weight room, his sailors liked to joke that he could bench press a helo if he needed to, "I told the little bastard not to move, he moved."

"Maybe your Arabic sucks, LT."

One of the other men, STG3 Imad Aziz, looked up, "Nah, Chief, what he said was what he meant to say."

Rossi turned on the young man, "Nobody f**king asked you, Aziz."

Lieutenant Commander Amanda Nolan came out onto the helo deck, "Stand down, Chief. You guys get your shit squared away. Lieutenant Morgan, come with me. Give your shit to Aziz."

Nolan and Morgan headed up to the wardroom, where the Captain, Commander Alex Choe¹, was waiting for them.

Morgan wondered what this was all about, he'd nearly come to blows with Rossi once before. The guy played everything safe, everything by the book, someday he was going to get someone killed out here. But that wasn't it at all.

"Have a seat, Jack. Thanks Amanda, I'll get with you later." CDR Choe was not looking forward to this talk.

"What's up, Cap'n?" Morgan asked, a little nervous.

"I'll be up front with you Jack, you didn't make rank, again. You've got one more shot, but ..."

Morgan interrupted the captain, "Sir, you know as well as I do that there's no way I'm going to make lieutenant commander. I've stepped on too many toes, bent too many rules to make it any higher than where I'm at right now. I love this shit, Cap'n, but you know as well as I do that there's no way Uncle Sugar lets me stay for twenty as a lieutenant."

"Hhmm, so what do you want to do, Jack? I can get you on a plane inside a month, can't let you go until I get a replacement. I assume you want out?"

"Well, that's just it, I don't want out, I've done six and a half years, most of it at sea. But there's really no point in staying. I'm young enough to find similar work in the civilian world. If I wait too long ... You never know."

CDR Choe shook his head, "I hate losing you, Jack, but you have to do what's right for you. I'll keep you posted."

"Thanks, Cap'n, I appreciate it."

Three weeks later he stepped aboard NAS Norfolk as a Lieutenant, a week later he walked out the gate as a civilian with a job offer. He rented a car and went to Arlington, VA. Where he'd been working out of ever since.

Chapman woke up in a cold sweat, she sat up quickly, shivering, desperately trying to get herself back into the here and now.

She'd had the dream before, the dream about the crash. She was ferrying a group of VIPs back to the carrier when a sudden storm had come up. She had tried to gain altitude to get out of all of the sand boiling up from the desert below, but in vain.

The aircraft was too heavy, she'd let her boss convince her to let another Congresscritter's aide aboard. It shouldn't have mattered, but when the sand started getting in everywhere, she knew they didn't have enough spare power to get above the storm. So she looked to set the bird down as gently as she could.

As her co-pilot testified later as part of the mishap investigation, any other pilot in the fleet would have probably killed everybody on board, but Lieutenant Commander Bethany Anne Chapman had managed to put the ship down more or less in one piece. One Congresswoman had sprained an ankle, a drunken Senator received a nasty gash on the forehead (he hadn't been belted in properly), but that was it.

Well, other than LCDR Chapman's broken back, that was it.

As she'd told her father back home, someone had been on the controls with her when the bird went in. He knew what she meant, he'd experienced it himself as a young man flying F-4 Phantoms out of Danang. Sometimes it was only with God's help and your having paid attention during training which got you home.

Chapman had looked at her Dad and nodded, "It wasn't the training this time, Pops."

She came out of it and looked around, her cat, Buster was watching her with concern. She gave him a scritch on the head and he went back to sleep. She got up and went to the kitchen.

Opening the fridge, she grabbed a bottle of Modelo and opened it. Eschewing a glass, she drank straight from the bottle. She remembered telling someone once, perhaps a roommate at the Academy, that using a glass was a waste, just had to clean it later.

She walked over to her laptop and fired it up. As she did so she sniffed the old HSC-7² t-shirt she normally slept in, "Hhmm, might want to throw this in the wash later."

When the machine booted up, she logged in and checked her email. Junk, junk, spam, spam - ah, she needed to pay her car insurance soon - and there it was.

The email looked innocuous enough, one might almost consider it spam, and if it went to the wrong place someone would probably delete it as spam. But this one was addressed to her and alleged to be from "Buttercup Enterprises, LLC."

She opened it, "Well, there go my plans for Friday."

(Source)

Her callsign at HSC-7 had been Buttercup.

¹ A Korean family name (최) pronounced "chway" by some, "chay" by others.

² Helicopter Sea Combat Squadron 7, the Dusty Dogs out of NAS Norfolk.

DC

(Source)

Chapman had the host seat her at a table with a nice view of the Potomac, her server came by, she ordered water with a lemon slice, and a chopped spinach salad. While it was a meeting, it was in a restaurant, and it was lunchtime, so she was going to eat. The drive from her office hadn't been too bad, but it was still DC traffic.

She heard a familiar voice as she was digging into her salad, she looked up and sure enough, it was the man she was supposed to meet with.

"Hi, Beth," Jack Morgan said with a grin as he sat down across the table from her.

"Pretty ballsy, Jack, meeting like this."

"I remembered that when you lived in Old Town you liked this place."

"Well yeah, I still get down here from Annapolis from time to time. I didn't move to the moon you know."

Morgan blushed, he and Chapman had been a 'thing' when they were in the Navy. She flew helicopters, he had been a surface warfare officer, specializing in boarding operations.¹ They had spent a number of months in the Persian Gulf, he had been assigned to a destroyer, she had been on the same ship as part of the Air Detachment. They had behaved aboard ship, but the few port calls the ship had made, they had not.

After her helicopter had gone down in a sandstorm and she had badly injured her back, they had gone their separate ways. She had been stationed at ONI while undergoing rehabilitation, he had stayed at sea until he got out of the Navy a year later. Eventually she had been medically retired with three years to go until her twenty, he had separated from the Navy when he'd been passed over for lieutenant commander for the second time.

She often wondered what would have happened had they been closer in age, she had at least six years on him.

"Anything I need to know about?" Morgan asked.

"You've got no worries on my end." Chapman answered.

"What's good here?" Morgan asked as he glanced at the menu the server had dropped off.

"Food's better in the evening, the only reason I'm here at lunch is I like the view."

"Hhmm, ah, I'm not hungry anyway, call me?" Morgan said as he stood up to leave.

"Only if I have to, Jack. Only if I have to."

Johansen was just hanging up his phone when Morgan walked into the office. Johansen gave him a sour look.

"Where the hell have you been?"

Morgan sat, uninvited, before he answered, "I was down in Alexandria, thought I had a lead on something, but it turned out to be nothing."

"What kind of lead?"

"Let's go for a walk Ephraim, it's nice outside."

"Spill it, Morgan."

"I heard a rumor that someone who works at the Pentagon, the E Ring² mind you, may, or may not, have heard something about our little after hours activities."

Johansen's face paled slightly. "Anybody important, or some staffer?"

"Like I said, it didn't pan out. The guy I talked to, a staffer, is an old buddy of mine, another blackshoe³ sailor, he'd heard one of the flags say something offhand about 'traitors in our midst.' Turns out he was talking about a Marine who's rooting for Army this fall."

Johansen raised an eyebrow at that.

"The Marine's son plays tackle for West Point."

"Ah. So this was much ado about nothing?"

"It kinda concerns me that this staffer would think to bring it up to me, what does he know, or thinks he knows?"

Johansen, "I'd ask for a name, but I don't want to go poking around over in Arlington. Best let sleeping dogs lie. If something comes up, will this guy get in touch?"

"I doubt it, he's headed back to sea in a couple of months."

As Johansen walked back to his building, Morgan went to his car. In the glovebox was a burner phone, he opened it and hit a single button.

"Yes?"

"I brought the bait, don't know if the fish are biting."

The phone clicked off on the other end.

On the way back to his apartment, Morgan stopped at a convenience store and picked up a six pack. The phone, which he'd snapped in half before putting it in a paper bag with a rather ripe banana peel, went into the trash outside the door. The chip from the phone was somewhere on 295, just past the sign for Exit 1A. He had snapped that in half as well.

Vice Admiral Tom Shaeffer was tired. It had been a long day and it wasn't over yet. It was just past 1900 and he had another meeting over at the Navy Yard which would probably run until midnight.

As he settled into the back seat of his car, his driver, Master Sergeant Turner Johns, USMC, turned to him, handing him a paper sack. "I bought you a sandwich, Admiral. Tomatoes and cheese on dark rye. Mayo, no pickles."

"Thanks, T. Did you get to eat?"

"Yessir, went home to Mama and the kids while you were hobnobbing with the Congresscritters. Had some red beans and rice, some boudin, and a nice cold beer. Ya shoulda come with me, Sir."

"You're right. Talking with those bastards from up on the Hill always makes me want to shoot myself."

"Take it easy, Sir. They'll get theirs. You know what they say, right?"

"I do, T, I do. What goes around, comes around. After you drop me off at the Yard, go ahead and go home. I'll leave a message as to what time to collect me tomorrow morning."

"Roger that, Sir."

"I have not yet begun to fight," the Admiral said softly as he exited the car.

MSgt. Johns nodded as he drove off, "Amen to that."

¹ Morgan would have been part of the Navy's Visit, Board, Search, and Seizure (VBSS) teams. Very active in the Persian Gulf at certain points in history.

² The most senior military and civilian officials of the Department of Defense and their staffs work in the E Ring.

³ Surface Warfare Officers (SWOs) are often referred to as "black shoes" due to the color of their footwear when not in whites. Naval aviators are especially fond of referring to them that way. Aviators wear brown shoes, my son, a SWO, did some heavy eye-rolling when his baby sister, a Naval Flight Officer, bought her first pair of brown shoes to wear with her khakis after being winged.

Texan Weather*

Howdy folks! It's another juvat Monday!  But, as usual, this is getting written on Sunday.  

As such, some of this post could be old news to some readers, e.g. Cletus or STxAR. Being in the same area of Heaven (AKA Texas) they may have seen some of the wonders about to be revealed to the rest of our loyal readers.  

First, one may notice that the color of the font is different.  Our beloved blogmaster, having decided (wisely) to make some changes to the blog, sent me some HTML to setup the approved fonts and their color.  However, despite having 20+ years as a webmaster and teaching that to HS students, I could not get it to work in blogger.  When I copied it into the HTML page of the post then went to the text view, blogger translated it into gibberish.  Perhaps there's a supersecret HTML page for style sheet level settings?  Who knows?

But, on with the show.  This morning about 0400 Mrs J woke up and brought the GP's (Great Pyrenees, wonderful dogs) in from outside.  Apparently a large thunderstorm was about to strike.  Myself, still wrapped in the arms of Morpheus, knew nothing about this until lightning struck pretty close to Chez Juvat (e.g. the bright light and loud bang were nearly simultaneous).  

 

That was the lower level of the storm,  Cloud to Cloud lightning was pretty spectacular.

Realizing that there was little I could do now that the torrential downpour had commenced, I rolled over and went back to sleep.  Having been a tad sleep deprived recently, and frequently, by one of the other adopted dogs, a hyper Golden retriever.  Seems he won't use the doggie door to exit the abode and do his business, he requires someone to arise and let him out in the back yard.  He then arouses the GP's, they all do their business, spend a bit of time with them, barking at spirits of the night, or the wind, or something then after an hour or so (aka just as soon as I get back to sleep) starts pawing and howling to be let back in.  

Yes, I'm tired and cranky.

In any case, due to the storm, Mrs J made the executive decision to let the GP's sleep in the garage.  A compromise since it's neither outside in the wet and lightning nor inside the house where their mortal enemies, the Cats, reside.

It's still dark when the alarm goes off and I arise.  It being Sunday, we regularly go to the 0730 Mass.  As there's also an 0900 Mass, we choose the early one as that puts a limit on how long our long winded Priest can lecture us.  Not that he doesn't push it to the limits, but it is somewhat disconcerting to him when he's not done and the doors are flung open and the next group of parishioners start making their ways into the pews.  

He's learning, slowly, but learning.

Back on story, juvat!

Aye, Sarge.

As I said it's dark, it rained very hard and we have a dry creek that our access road crosses that I'm concerned is no longer dry and possibly flooded.  I talk to Mrs J and say that for safety sake, maybe we should go to the later Mass.  I can tell from 40+ years of being schooled on her body language that even though she said "Okay", she did not mean "Okay".  

What to do?

I dress, grab my raincoat, sprint to the truck, drive to the wash and, lo and behold, no flowing water.  I rush back to the house and issue Mod 1 to the Morning Op Order and off we go.

Finding an empty pew this morning  was surprisingly easy, and it was the visiting Sri Lankan Priest saying Mass.  Nice guy but with a  strong accent that you really have to pay attention in order to understand his sermons.  I suppose that's a good thing.

By lunchtime, the skies were clear blue and little wind.  Quite lovely Spring day.

Onward with updates on a couple of other ongoing projects.

I really thought I was going to be finished with the Piklar triangle Saturday.  The triangle itself is complete, However, late in the project, negotiations were reopened about the details.  Adding a slide was agreed upon by all parties.  

Said slide was constructed, mostly.  A couple of attachment braces were made.  

 

Then I decided to get a bit fancy as the slide is plastic covered particle board.  The slide portion looks pretty good, but the sides reveal the ugly particle board.  I cut some 2x4's to fit the sides, but forgot one other measurement, the width of the triangle it rests upon.  

So....Negotiated with Mrs J for another trip to Lowes later today to find some edge banding or quarter round molding to finish it up.  I'm not going to say "Shouldn't be hard", as I don't want to tempt fate, but...

Finally, I had a lot of entertainment overhead Rancho Juvat Saturday and Sunday..  Seems the Airport was hosting "Formation School" and at least 4 WWII North American T-6 Texans were in attendance.  Pretty sure they used my house as a rendezvous point or a turn about a point practice reference.  

Four ship over the property. I apologize for the wind noise. It was pretty windy Saturday,20-30K.

We were resetting our guest houses after Church this morning and I heard an engine. Got outside just in time to see this Lucky Son of a Gun flying his Texan and pulling out of a loop.

 

Damn, I wish I was rich!

One more Weather Update.  MBD and The Rev's house flooded last night.  8" of rain in about an hour.  Fortunately a group of student's The Rev deals with came over to build dams around the house.  Good to have friends.

Peace out y'all

 

 * Get it? Weather and Texans?