More Careful This Time

225.

Julie has the jump. Her tail of Bartowsky took them to Dulles Airport where he boarded an early commercial flight to Orlando. By 0745 EST she was back in the office checking the morning chatter and asking for field updates from the group. By noon the wisdom behind the adage warning one to be careful about what one asks for, was playing out in real time.

Harlan has the chance to apply the letter of the law to his surveillance of Mr. 38. His law degree from Georgetown, a solid background for a career in criminal law, has set the stage for a live demonstration of the many nebulous gray areas stemming from the rushed passing of the outlandishly dubious Patriot Act. The act clearly defines search warrants into two categories, one for surveillance of suspected terrorist activity, and the more common, legitimate criminal action, the former is ex-ante, the latter ex post. Harlan wants to push the verdict on this shady character known to carry a concealed weapon. The shady in this case is proxy for possible connection with domestic terrorists. And that he feels is sufficient to ask him a few questions. In this case he justifies his intent as being in the category of it being 'better to do and beg forgiveness than to ask and be denied permission.' Mr. 38 parks his ugly white Ford Taurus in the driveway of the Colonial brick house. Harlan pulls in behind him and quickly meets him as he exits the vehicle. With his Homeland Security credentials he asks him to please provide positive identification as he is a POI in a recent attempted homicide investigation. As 38 reaches for his wallet his jacket opens revealing the Smith & Wesson loosely held in a leather shoulder holster.

"And I will also need your concealed weapon permit," Harlan says, although thinking 'Gotcha.'

It is already ninety degrees in the desert and not even ten o'clock. Davis in full costume navigates the several layers of casino security, finally reaching the executive suites where Adelson presides. He sits in the plush foyer waiting for an audience. Finally one of the lawyers enters the lobby, greets him with practiced professionalism and asks about the nature of his business. Davis recognizes him from their past negotiations so cuts to the heart of the matter, "We're back and ready to roll. Like to pick up where we left off and get to work."

This takes the lawyer somewhat by surprise but he nonetheless nods his head in non-plussed understanding. "I'll let Mr Adelson know, can you wait a bit longer?"   

"Sure," Davis says playing the self important charade by glancing first at his borrowed Rolex.

Twenty minutes later he is seated at the huge mahogany conference table with Adelson and a pair of his counselors opposite him. The counselors appear uncomfortable and slightly anxious as if waiting for direct orders or a script. Davis waits for Adelson to open the dialogue.

"You have been away, left us out in the cold Mister, ah, Cooper. I thought we had a deal."

"Are you telling me that you are unaware of the reason behind our absence and the delay of the project?" Davis, as Cooper, responds.

Adelson looks at the pair of his uninformed legal representatives and continues, "We heard about the incidents but assumed they were independent of our business and had something to do with your past - and not the present."

"So you had nothing to do with it?" All three bristle at the direct accusation, Adelson adjusting his slight slouch into a more upright and formal position.

"I admire your fortitude Mr. Cooper. It is most likely one of the traits that has fostered your success," he says, "But no, we did not. And why would we? Do you have something to hide?"

"Of course we do, how about the codes and infrastructure for a device capable of transferring a trillion dollars into an off-shore account? So yes, we like to keep that under our hats."

"I assure you we had nothing to do with either of the unfortunate situations," Adelson says in what Davis takes to be as close to the truth as he is going to get.

"Fair enough then. I am proposing that we get back to business under the same terms and conditions initially agreed to. Call and raise sir, bet is to you. Are you in?

Adelson again briefly looks at this counsel as if to justify their presence and value, and then back to Davis. It is the cold, cunning glare of a seasoned gambler smelling live action and blood in the water.

"Adjusted time frame?" He asks.

"Less than thirty days, before New Years."

Adelson, having already made his decision, plays out the drama by engaging Davis in an old fashion stare down. Neither budge, neither blink. Finally he says, "How is your girl friend?"

"Ready to rock. I am asking for your decision. The clock is running."

Adelson nods his head deliberately with the affirmative up-down movement.

"We're in. But do try to be more careful this time."

Easy and Obvious

 224.

In Montana, having spent three solid days of 24/7 surveillance has provided enough intel to put the revised and updated plan in motion. Merle, Drysdale and Mustang and I review the few intricacies wrapped around the basic 'grab and go' power play. As the core group assembled in the compound represents the hierarchy of the cell's food chain, taking the head of the snake lessons the need for complete stealth, with the trickle down being the word of mouth reports from the only surviving hostile. The news of  'a hundred bad-ass Feds' shutting down the terrorist stronghold from the designated survivor is exactly the headline Hartaugh and Adelson might have interest in reading to conclusion.

In Vegas, Davis and Saunders, now armed with the results of Eddie Acosta's back-door canvasing of Adleson's security lieutenant, and with the subsequent information cross-check, make the gutsy call to set up a meeting. Gutsy for the simple fact that although the word on the street suggests Adelson to be innocent of the three attempted assassinations and the possible poisoning of TOM, this is no sure thing with no polygraph data to confirm and no guarantee that they are not inviting themselves into the very den of the wolf who failed to have them permanently silenced eight months ago.

In DC Julie and Harlan have been busy. Julie, as well as her daily duties in data analysis and communications, has been on the tail of known Hartaugh fixer, Anton Bartowsky. It appears that Mr. Bartowsky, who has a history with the group sufficient enough to include him as a person-of-interest, has been in regular contact with Adelson's crew. Additionally incriminating are the frequent calls to and from Warden Daniel's office. The last of which, Julie was able to painstaking remake from a garbled shotgun microphone recording of a conversation resulting in the question on the whereabouts of a certain Major George H. Mason, onetime liaison and point of contact for the now infamous and mysteriously cancelled super drone test at the Florence penal facility.

Harlan has been tracking the person, aka Mr. 38 in and around DC, primarily in an area between Foggy Bottom and American University. A small residential brick Colonial that by all appearances is the quiet home of a professional couple working at some level of government, perhaps patents and copyrights, has been the focus of his surveillance. Mr. 38 comes and goes several times a day, in and out like a cabbie on call.  

I consider these events in combination. Is there something missing? Are we overlooking an obvious conclusion? Is the fat needing to be trimmed similar to the lesson behind William of Occam's famous cutting to the bone razor suggesting that the solution to any situation is usually the easiest and most obvious one?

I can't help but answering to myself the reality that in this situation nothing is easy and very little obvious.

Hopeless

223.

No surveillance is necessary on Mr. Big. He sits in a 10 x 10 square concrete room containing a mattress and a stainless steel toilet with a sink above the water tank at its rear. To pass the time he alternates push ups with doing crossword puzzles in his head. The lights are always on for the 23 hours he will spend every day in maximum security at the joint they call SuperMax.

The missing hour is for outdoor 'exercise' in the cold Colorado mountains. His physical health is as poor as his mental. As he walks outside in a cheap gray cotton coat, self-hugging arms wrapped around his shoulders, exhaling blasts of warm air into the frigid early evening sky, he considers the events leading to this day and trusts there soon to be news of a second take. He is frail, having followed the directions to lose twenty-seven pounds for the daring escape on a crash diet, one that he has maintained for eight months, calling it a hunger strike. White bread and water will eventually starve your soul of reasons to endure.  

Warden Daniels takes great delight in his suffering. His reasoning that anyone sentenced to his facility, it a virtual Who's Who of celebrity criminals, deserves as much penance for their crimes against humanity as he can legally inflict. The enlightened observer might consider this to be cruel and unusual punishment with the greater of the crimes committed by the keeper of the keys. This single thought has kept Mr Big dry on the paradoxical high moral ground for many months, it is the protein that sustains his diet of protest.

It has been eight months since his breakout was scrubbed. Infrequent rumors suggest that a mole somewhere ratted out the plan and three of the major players were killed in a spectacular Las Vegas firefight. Perhaps even more sensational is the hoosegow gossip that the girl who took his place as the CEO was herself captured in a coup and remains a prisoner of the terrorist rank and file on a island somewhere in the South Pacific. Fair, balanced and accurate news is hard to come by when the talking heads are felons doing life without parole.

Mr. Big paces deliberate circles in the yard, every boot-strike crunching frozen snow underfoot. A pair of sentries watch his every step with menacing eyes and leveled automatic weapons as he somberly searches for an eight letter word for despair ending in s.

Mojo's Trifecta

 222.

"Who indeed," Davis ends the thread on a note of cathartic finality.

Eddie reminds that motive always plays the primary part in criminal activity, adding that around here the motivation is nine times of ten about money. "And the larger the payout the greater the risk."

Saunders is quick to point out to him that in a wide radius surrounding their HQ money sometimes takes back seat to power on the political circuit.

"Money and power. Win and place. Although revenge will occasionally take a longshot upset," Eddie comments, "You guys have hit the proverbial trifecta, having all three."

Davis, silent in this phase of the conversation, reaches for a salt shaker resting at the center of the table and places it in front of Saunders as if it were a white pawn moving into a forward attack position, "Alright, this is the money play, there is only one reason why Adelson would order a hit on the people bringing him a six figure gift, and as we can find no indication that our covers were blown, then…" he dramatically slides the pepper shaker to Eddies's space adding live color commentary, "we have the power motive of Hartaugh in DC, but why? What does he gain by biting the very hand that feeds BOTH his greed and political agenda? Leaving….."  he continues rubbing both index fingers across his thumbs like quivering violin bows and finally pinching the huge silver and crystal sugar canister with both hands and guiding it to the open space in front of the fourth chair, "MBI has all three motives plus mens rea as the lawyers call it, criminal intent. Money, power and revenge." He releases the sugar container and looks at Saunders and then Eddie in a non-verbal request for surrender or at the least, approval.

"We put MBI in check," Eddie plays along.

"But only after confirming that Adelson had nothing to do with it," Saunders adds subconsciously massaging her throbbing shoulder.

"I know one of his guys," Eddie offers, "I can do a light shake and see what drops."

"And I think we need to schedule another visit with Mr. Adelson," Davis suggests, again with the bravado of a pending end-game move.

In sympathetic harmony, the sharp pain in Saunders's shoulder rings like the bell announcing the start of another round. Another round in the life and death game where money is a horse race, power a chess match and revenge a heavyweight title fight.

The Obvious in Ragtime

 221.

Davis and Saunders's new guy, Eddie:

"Let's take it from the top one more time so I get all this straight. As undercover agents you two, Davis and Saunders, using the guise of rich, successful and entrepreneurial gamblers, float shares of a billion dollar scam to a notorious Vegas mob boss who also contributes to the Republican campaigns of a corrupt Southern Senator from South Carolina. The plan is your basic sting operation. Set 'em up and knock 'em down. Que the ragtime.

Our fearless pair of debonair agents demonstrate one of their many casino tricks by hitting a series of slot machines for a million dollar payout. Knowing the casino security protocols, they are summarily ushered into the inner sanctum of upper management where they talk their way into a meeting with Sheldon Adelson, the capo dei capi, and his team of attack-dog lawyers and enforcement captains.

As the sting progresses and information secured, Saunders is ambushed while walking to the condominium that has doubled as their operations safe house. Davis barely avoids similar disaster by out maneuvering a drive-by hit in heavy downtown Vegas traffic. Simultaneously in DC, the under cover team's point man is gunned down and left for dead while in a synchronistic stroke of fate, or possibly - still unconfirmed - enemy action, the head of operations dies of an apparent heart attack. Meanwhile.…

…the terrorist cell whose young female leader is a valuable asset, the brains behind their domestic terror high-tech activities, falls victim to a mutinous coup, captured by her own staff and held hostage until she rats the codes and schematics of a super drone she has designed and the same for a software program with casino hacking capabilities and, ultimately, that of the Wall Street bog board as well. How we doing' so far?"

"Major players captured or killed, the sting stalls-out. Six months pass. Saunders and your boss, Bogart miraculously recover from the GSWs. The unit regroups. Under new management they convince the seedy Senator to reopen the mission and fund the operation with off-book black bucks from the Homeland Security budget that he oversees. He is also a target in the elaborate sting operation, the bait being a huge payday and support for his racist political agenda. A hundred verses in ragtime play," Eddie sings accompanied by his one-hand air piano.

"The central player in the sting sits in a SuperMax high-security facility in Florence, Colorado. He WAS the terrorist's leader prior to the current one, the young female double-agent, and responsible for a pair of terrorist strikes, one involving the jacking of several USAF jets and hacking of both civilian and military radar systems, plus the assassination attempt of the former VP. He is the linchpin in the sting operation, as his former business associates, the Senator Scumbag and the Vegas Mob Boss are the marks. The sting stalled, whaddya call him? Biggie? sits in isolation, granted but one miserable hour per day of faux 'freedom'. Poor bastard."  

Davis, Saunders and their new hire, the well-connected former head of security for the MGM Grand, retired and current consultant, Eddie Acosta, sip coffee and review the details once again. The most compelling and urgent of them also being the most obvious:

"Who ordered the hits?"

Taking the Beach

 220.

Forced to touch-down in Missoula due to extreme weather conditions, we quickly transfer our gear to the waiting SUV. Drysdale's contract informer, more a scout in these Western applications, is there to meet us at the snowy general aviation hangar. The four of us slowly make our way towards the hotel with heater and fan circulating warm air to the cramped space. Drysdale introduces us to our local contact Merle, tonight doubling as driver, along the short ten miles from airport to hotel. As Drysdale makes the introductions along with the responsibilities along with chain of command notations, Merle moves his eyes from the treacherous road conditions to his rear-view mirror to make a name-face association. When he turns his eyes on me I notice a rugged resolve and an unblinking commitment to duty, common in many of the special forces personnel I have had the pleasure to serve beside. It is the pigment of valor, and I nod respectfully in the code of respect.

"Thank you for your hard work brother, has there been any recent movement?" I ask.

"Several vehicles, mostly 12-20 foot rental trucks, in and out of the compound on a regular rotation over the last three days. We followed them to a warehouse outside of town but couldn't get a good look at cargo," Merle announces in a smooth, deep tenor with an accented hint of a Native American that I consider to be either Blackfoot or Pend d'Oreille.  

"Any sign of The Queen?" I press, foot to pedal.

"She gets out for exercise about an hour a day, but normally uses to time to chain smoke and walk head down in a tight circle. Other than that she appears to be in 23 a day lockdown."

"Is she alone when outside?"

Merle grunts and says, "Just her and a hostile on the deck with an AK on his lap."

"What about access, fencing?"

"Nothing but cedar rails around the perimeter but they installed an inner pen with hurricane fencing about six months back. That is the exercise area. Ten feet, razor wire on top. They planted some pines to hide it but they all died so they built a wall on the road side."

"Who owns the property?"

"Group called MBI." Drysdale shoots me a quick look.

"How long have they been here?"

"Since '17. It's the old Zimmerman place, 120 acres of scrub, mostly ranch land, but over the years they've reclaimed a bit for soy production. They keep one hand on full-time and until this latest go-round only use it for what lightly passes as hunting retreats. That and target practice."

"You know the honcho?"

"Yeah, Joey Krebs, good guy, bit slow, unambitious, invisible. Lives in an Airstream out back. His Dad was at Normandy."

We ride the last mile in respectful silence, the latest snowfall crunching under the steel-belted all-weather tires. I can almost hear the others piece together the plan of attack upon factoring this updated intel as we slow to a stop at the hotel.

The door of the SUV swings open on my imagery of us taking the beach.

Imperfect Subjunctive

 219.

"Humility removes limits," I consider as I reach for my cane. We are about to begin the daily physical therapy routine that has become the norm. Our flight to Condon, Montana is scheduled for a 0900 departure, leaving us precious little time to exercise, eat, prep and scour the latest intel. Mina and Mustang are enjoying what appears to be something of an inside joke in Tagalog at my expense. My grasp of the imperfect subjunctive takes a few additional seconds in translation and by then the subjects and objects are solidly in the past tense. I recognize their banter as both witty and good natured.

"I trust that somewhere in this closet transfer I will find my cold weather gear," I ask knowing that the late November winters in the Big Sky can freeze a cup of hot coffee in seconds flat.

"Mina has asked if you were to get frost bite on your left hand or foot, how would you know?" Mustang chuckles, again, apparently at my expense.

"Funny," I respond assuming the role of straight man, "Even a blind man knows when the sun is shining." We share a quick laugh and return to the business of packing for the trip, burdened with a search and rescue mission of indeterminable duration.

It has been decided that until we get a GPS fix on The Queen's 20, we'll make temporary camp in Missoula providing quick access to I-90 about halfway between Spokane and Bozeman, the last assumed location range of our target. We will meet with Drysdale's scout for the latest intel immediately upon arrival.

My morning exercise completed, nothing more than walking with greater range and mobility with each session as the muscles, tendons, ligaments and axons reacquaint themselves with the combined effort necessary for successful ambulation, we check the packing list once more. Mina calls us to the table for eggs, fresh cantaloupe and steel-cut oatmeal.

"How long will you be gone?" She asks.

"All depends on variables out of our control," I answer, "Weather being one, location of The Queen being another,"

"Fortification and size of enemy combatants a third," Mustang adds.

"And then there is the question of our strike force readiness," I say. "If our major asset of the past is now a present liability."

Unsure if I am referencing The Queen, TOM, Saunders, Mustang or myself, we all enjoy the meal, our time together and the beauty of the imperfect subjunctive.

Just Like a Glass

 218.

"We are stacking protocols," I announce to the group, "Julie and Harlan at home, getting a solid handle on this mysterious Mr. 38, Drysdale, Mustang and myself on the trail of The Queen, which at this point seems to lead to somewhere in the Northwest, and Davis and Saunders in Vegas with 24/7 eyes and ears on Adelson's white-collar felons." Julie adds that "There is significantly increased chatter regarding a gathering, meeting or confluence of major players happening soon, actions that normally precede some type of large-scale criminal activity."

"The natives are restless," deadpans Davis on the video conference call.

"We need to dial up the urgency on all fronts," I respond, leaning forward into the camera to emphasize the up close and personal nature of the mission's jump-start. I am not against taking the standard safe and secure steps in forcing movement, we can be a touch more aggressive without losing our covers. Do it smart. And be careful. We can make plays while keeping faces in the shadows."

This comes as a positive note as everyone on our group. We are well trained and patently prepared to take it to the street in execution of our plan. As in football, playmakers make plays. The bigger the game the bigger the payoff. "We'll update on Wednesday, same time. Let's step on the gas folks, but keep an eye on the rear-view."

It seems that my sports metaphors are lost on Mustang, a pragmatic scholar, scientist and criminologist. "I've never had time for games," she admits, "Dad took me to a Yankee game once and I read Salinger all four quarters."

I resist the all too easy comeback and change the subject to the current situation, my rehabilitation and firefight procedures. Over the weekend she and Drysdale coordinated the purchase and outfitting of a new wheelchair, what he calls a 'Musclechair,' carbon-fiber with a 10 horsepower assist motor, storage compartments and two hidden holsters, one per side, to house a pair of nine mils and spare clips. The upgrade transfers Mustang's primary responsibility from mover to shaker, powerplant to navigator, a change for which she accepts full responsibility.

Our teamwork is progressing, evolving with every outing, like, perhaps the relationship between a blind man and his service dog, or horse and rider; always works better when the duties are known, understood and rehearsed.

Of this she says, "it is just like the regeneration of damaged axons, nerve fibers. They respond better with cognitive capacity and caring."

"Just like a Glass."

Zen of No Zen

 217.

The decisions are not easy ones. There is no binary yes or no, black, white, high or low. Not as simple as go or no-go. Adding to the consternation is my philosophical tendency to apply Zen logic, or no-logic, to the equation. The paradox renders the possibility that as a result of my non-resistance and full acceptance of circumstance I am admitting to weakness and defeat, having matured into asking who I have become rather than the youthful query of who am I?

Mustang calls me on it. "You might consider that your acceptance philosophy is limiting the complex chemical activations necessary for a faster and more complete recovery. We all know that you can stand the pain, but our immune systems work best when the biological lessons of evolution are used in conjunction with modern medical technologies."

"So fight instead of flight?" I inquire.

"Pick your battles carefully. A battery left always on is useless when the power goes off. Stress and then rest is the surest path to adaptation, an absolute you should be familiar with by now."

I am being schooled, coached and mentored, an academy which I graduated - with honors - from student to teacher a long time ago. The juxtaposition is jarring - but fascinating - for the same reasons that my practice of not 'pushing the river' and 'merging consciousness with reality', provides  the delicious choice of growth or stagnation, of expansion or constriction, of participation in this sport of life or merely being a spectator to it. We pass through failure.

"You can accept the current reality and leave it at that, or commit to the process of improvement. And please let me make this perfectly clear," she continues in a dramatic segue, "to regain the use of your left side, you will need everything from everybody, doctors, PTs, therapists, training partners, coaches, lawyers, gurus and probably even a few shamans."

I am playing with her meaning that I trust will be found between the lines of her lecture, and not above or beneath. Sure, there is a robust backstory and I am not one to easily toss the white flag, so what then? What am I to take from this spontaneous dressing down? Go harder, easier? Get more sleep? Lighten up? Charge? Chill?

"Are you through?" I ask this brash Irish-Italian ball of fire.

Silence. Thought. Respect.

"Are you?"

One Notable Mezzo-Soprano

 216.

Upon completion of Dr. Sandhi's rudimentary examination I am met by the team at 0900; Drysdale, Julie and The Neurologist. I notice what appears to be a farewell moment between the two medical professionals as the duty nurse preps me for discharge. I am feeling particularly good this chilly November morning, thinking that the steroids have done their job as advertised. Evidently Julie has made the offer of employment to The Neurologist, which pleases me, especially the part about the timely nature of transition from neurology to undercover police work, not your standard change of hats. I look at her, now in street clothes, "You in?"

"I'm in," she says with more than a touch of pride.

"Outstanding, let's connect the dots from here to the office a tutta froza."

"At full speed, ricevuto," she responds appropriately in Italian.

"Parla italiano?" I test.

"Si, anche Francese, Español e Tagalog."

"Magnifico, andiamo." And we are off.

Back in the office, also doubling as my halfway-house and temporary rehabilitation center, we stage an impromptu staff meeting to address the current situation and our first course of action. Harlan joins us as Mina prepares a light and healthy brunch of avocado toast, smoked salmon and fruit smoothies, plus the obligatory pot of French roast. The five of us sit at the round conference table, enjoy the meal and open the file brief prepared by Julie and Harlan.

I scan the brief and immediately notice movement at both ends of our current watch, intel from Davis and Saunders and the other end from Drysdale, who reports that one of our CI's, contracted informers, has reported signs of activity from the group we believe to be holding The Queen hostage. I am processing both as Julie takes the floor to formally announce the addition of the Neurologist to our team, finishing with her introduction after a lengthy accounting of her vast accomplishments, family history and special certifications, including use of firearms and her knowledge of the criminal justice system, as Ms Patricia 'Pearl' Ford, who will be known by the code name of Mustang during the transition from the civilian world to ours.

Drysdale raises his steaming mug of coffee to ask for a celebratory toast in her honor, "Welcome Mustang."

"Welcome Mustang," we repeat in makeshift chorus.

"Business at hand," I announce, feeling as if I have allowed the horse to escape the corral, "I think the three of us need to pay an immediate visit to the site where The Queen is reported to be, and trigger something a little more aggressive than surveillance."  

All heads nod silently in agreement. Harlan offers a closing comment raising his mug of steaming joe, "Rodeo on." It is echoed promptly and vociferously by all, including one notable mezzo-soprano.

"Giddyup"

An Offer

 215.

Sentenced to an overnight stay for observation, I try to use the time wisely to our advantage. We have a lot to do, and without credible intel, no telling how fast this game-clock is running. I am alone in my suite, a talking head from the small TV recapping the election results, aftermath and fallout from the recent popular AND electoral college beheading of a wanna-be King. "Where votes are a razor sharp guillotine," I add to her commentary.

I have all but decided to hire The Neurolgoist to our team, per her request. The pros of this decision are several, her medical acumen, familiarity with police practice and protocols and, perhaps most important what feels to me like her being family. She will also replace Drysdale as my 'motor' freeing him to tend to the more important duties of a field agent. I make a mental note to get additional information on her fathers's professional relationship with TOM. The cons are her lack of tactical experience and special training. Regardless, she will go through the vetting process as any other newbie prior to actual admission to the team. Julie will be here shortly to discuss her being added as the additional member of our team, joining myself and Drysdale on the front lines.

I have the same gut instinct with The Neurologist that I recall having with Violet Hayes, a very clear and positive vibe whispering that this is not only a good hire, but potentially a great one. I recall how during my Director days, the motto saying to 'always hire people that are smarter than you' regularly seemed to pay off. It certainly has with Julie, Davis and The Queen. It again strikes me that on this particular mission, the IQ factor will play as large a role as the SWAT one. We are going to out-smart them I hear myself say, the terrorist group, Hartaugh, Adelson and his goons, or anybody else dumb enough to sand between us and the ultimate success of Operation Firecracker, or OF 2.0 I immediately correct.

A courteous knock announces Julie's arrival. She enters the dark room and pulls a chair close to bedside as I mute the TV. I am not surprised in the least when, after the usual pleasantries and updates, she hands me a file folder. I look at her wondering if I missed an assignment and then at the file. It is a complete bio, background, education and work history executive summary on The Neurologist. We exchange nods as I understand where she got the tip and she where I got its stimulus.

"She already has a low-level security clearance," Julie tells me. "It would take very little to get her up to speed in that department, and you will notice an interesting item in her work history, just prior to her current capacity."

I scan the impressive resume with my right index finger. It comes to a complete stop on the line announcing a three year stay in Quantico, Virginia.

"Bureau?" I ask.

"Strategic Information, Operations and Fingerprints and Biometrics, second in her class."

"Impressive."

"You can pick 'em," she adds, affirming my hunch.

"You know her history with TOM?"

"Being her Godfather?"

Caught unaware of this detail, I close the folder and hand it back to Julie, she my hire who has taken the top spot in our small clandestine operation, replacing the legendary figure who lives on as the spiritual advisor to our current applicant.

"Make her an offer," I say with as little subtextual innuendo as possible.

Everyone But Me

 214.

I am considering the wisdom more than the poetry. Fight or flight, the central nervous system's built-in survival mechanism is officially in play. I recognize this as the narcotic cocktail used for anesthesia during the forty-seven minute procedure is slowly metabolized and I start the journey from darkness back towards the light. I rationalize that since I cannot take flight I had better put the dukes up and defend myself, because in this drugged state of awareness purgatory I am being chased by demons and devils who are catching up to me at an alarming rate as I have but a single arm to spin the wheels of my chair. I hear myself cry for more speed, faster, and lastly, 'Don't even think about surrender.'

I wake to an alarmed audience apparently caught up in the drama as all eyes are upon me. I am slightly embarrassed as I auto correct my vision and recollection of the situation. One of the nurses puts a calming hand on my shoulder and I instantly relax upon her touch. There is more chaos in the small room than before the start of the procedure, nurses, techs and assistants mopping up. I quickly bring my awareness back to the present moment and make an assessment of the situation. Always a third option: Relax and breathe deep. Fight, flight or freeze. I am all ice.

Making a critical analysis of my current state of being, I step it down and accept the reality of post-op fatigue. Outside of the dull ache in my head, everything seems 'normal' at least nothing worse than prior to the procedure. This applies, my intuition tells me, to more than simply the physical. The door opens and The Neurologist, leading the way with Drysdale holding it for her, enters the room. They are all smiles and I consider that for once, every star in the galaxy could be perfectly aligned.

"How ya feeling?" she asks placing her hand on my good arm, where I feel an immediate electrical charge.

"Like I've been playing Australian Rules Football with Tasmanian Devils."

She doesn't seem to get the macho-sports simile, but grins when Drysdale snorts a knowing response. She looks from Drysdale back to me, saying that while I was out playing with the boys, they have had a very productive conversation, a home-run, she tries.

I look at Drysdale and he gives me the 'thumbs-up' nod, all good, nothing like a walk-off homer to end a match.

"Alright then, when do I get outta here so we can get back to work?" I inquire of no one in particular.

Dr. Sandhi returns to bedside, looks at the stat-board for vitals and says, "Tomorrow, we need to monitor you overnight - tomorrow, that is, if everything is first-rate and copacetic."

Drysdale, totally out-of-character, laughs again saying that 'there is no way he will be first-rate, let alone copacetic by tomorrow." Everyone in the room laughs, his intention all along being to add some goodnatured levity into the terse atmosphere.

Everyone laughs but me.

Let's Do This

 213.

Having gone through the standard operating pre-procedures, I am wheeled down the hall and into the operating arena. I am met there by Dr. Sandhi and his team, consisting of maybe eight specialists and a few, what I assume are assistant researchers, interns and med students. They all seem to be in jovial moods as far as I can tell reading facial and body language from behind masks and inside aquamarine gowns. I, on the other hand, am a bit nervous.

Nervous for what I consider to be a pair of solid and somewhat intertwined reasons.

The first being a frightening thought I considered on the slow ride down the corridor. What if this is all a set up? What if The Neurologist is working with the group responsible for my attempted assassination, Saunders' hit and the kidnapping of The Queen? A clever plant at the Hospital and as we have had insufficient time to investigate and validate her story on Mr. 38, Dr. Sanghi and the very clinic I amount to submit to general anesthesia and an experimental surgical procedure, who is to argue that a perfect storm of loss of patient would NOT serve the dual purpose of finishing the assassination task while providing a cover of plausible medical deniability? I struggle with the defense, finally taking refuge in my judgement of character and dismiss the charges as an over-reaction to an anxious state of mild paranoia.

The second reason, tossing the mild paranoia with a pinch of apprehension, is that I am very familiar with the sedative that will be administered for the procedure. Propofol is as amazing as it is frightening. My experience, gained while undergoing several cardioversion procedures in the attempt to correct a sick-sinus syndrome, in my case chronic atrial fibrillation, were profound. I soon learned, as with many things, that the best way to enter the dark state of total sedation nothingness is to relax and try not to fight the hopeless battle of drug vs will. I have tried and lost, learning through the drama that the last thoughts that one takes into the void are the ones that one comes out with - only amplified a thousandfold. I remember this as I try to move my consciousness from the negative of The Neurologist being a jihad seeking terrorist orchestrating a sinister plot to finish the dirty deed of my demise, to the positive of her actually providing a valuable service to our team - at a time we need it most.

I see the faces of the medical team all looking down at me. Dr. Sandhi asks if I am ready. I look deep into their eyes for last second validation and then to the camera attached to a wall, its red tally light blinking in 4/4 time. I know who is watching. I speak to the camera.

"Let's do this."

I Want In

 212.

I am being prepped for the surgical procedure, one I am told involves relatively minor surgery to insert a stent valve to allow better hematomal flow removal, and thereby dramatically reduce the negative pressure impact on the delicate nerves controlling my left side. I will also receive the first shot in a series of steroids, specifically designed to, among other things, control endovascular carotid revascularization flares in the damaged areas. "Speeds the healing process significantly," proclaims Dr. Sandhi. I appreciate his attempt to split the cross-hairs of precise medical terminology with a lay audience, a trait I find useful when giving instructions to novice or rookie agents, or boots, as they are often referred to, as in 'right out of boot camp.'

I am sitting on the hospital bed, wearing nothing but a cotton gown adorned with what I take to be frolicking unicorns in a field of rainbows, when The Neurologist enters after a quiet pair of knocks. "The anesthesiologist will be here shortly, maybe five minutes, so I'll cut to the chase," she says, "I have done a bit or research, called in a chit or two, and pretty much filled in the blanks, so I have a fair idea of who you are and what you are doing. I wanted to provide the best information possible about our friend, Mr. 38, and felt it would help if I had some background on you and your operation."

I assure her that despite my pending procedure I am all ears.

"Without a ton of superfluous irony and more than a little paradox, you will recall that I told you my father was  a NYPD shield for twenty-five years. During that time I was in school with a double major of Neuroscience and Criminology." At this I unconsciously begin to listen to her introduction as an oral resume, impressed but not surprised. "It turns out," she continues, "that my Dad and your former CEO, the guy you call TOM? were partners in RHD in the late seventies."

Once again I assure her that she has my full attention.

"I also know about Hartaugh and his, shall we say, socio-political tendencies, and his connection to certain nefarious factions headquartered in Las Vegas. This, along with other intel I was able to access, leads me to suspect that you are heading a back-channel counter-terrorism team, of what? vigilantes, mercenaries, special ops, patriots?"

I keep a poker face as she looks at the clock on the wall and proceeds with her testimony.

"What I don't know, but a few of your comatose confessions suggest, is who the third party is, whether your code involves royalty, chess or beekeeping, but what I do know is that they, you, your team and possibly a large percentage of the American people are in, again, great and immediate danger."

The anesthesiologist knocks and enters.

The Neurologist looks at me unblinkingly, waiting for my move. I giver her the hand-eye gesture indicating, 'what next?'

"I want in."

A Favor to Ask

 211.

I sit with my emotions at thirty thousand feet. Surprised and more than a little amazed at their dramatic return, I am running on what fumes remain from the adrenaline and serotonin mix of the last twenty four hours. My heart beats well above normal but my back hurts and my head spins. I remember these feelings well, also recalling the remedy, an available on demand cure for this gross imbalance. I breathe deep into my belly, trying to make each in/out cycle last as long as possible. By the third complete breath I am back to what I consider to be normal operating range.

Our gathering has provided a much needed return to structured duty, like a hawk after a broken-wing grounding retaking flight for the first time. It is our nature. We are comfortable in conflict, birds of prey. Ask any soldier about the challenge of war and many will paradoxically tell you it is the peace between them. A boxer boxes and a fighter fights. In an age of specialists we are throw-backs to a time when the objective was the complete, superior soldier, capable of appreciating the nuanced art of war, the army of one. To me that concept has always implied not so much special weapons but the special tactical use of the brain. True, it is difficult to outrun a sniper holding high-ground advantage, but keeping one's head in the heat of battle more often than not flips that advantage.

I am to meet The Neurologist at the clinic where the first phase of the procedure will take place in three hours. I am not sure why she instructed me to fast for ten hours prior, but I am in begrudging compliance.

Harlan and Julie are heading to the office and Drysdale will accompany me to the clinic, acting as chauffeur and security attaché. I have been informed that the procedure will take less than two hours, with no lingering side effects from regional anesthesia. I plan an extended period of in-house R&R upon completion of the procedure.

We arrive at the clinic at the agreed time, Drysdale powering our arrival up the ramp and into the reception area where we are met by The Neurologist and another gentleman who introduces himself as Dr. Sandhi, the lead research scientist for the clinic's cellular rejuvenation department. We move into a small conference room where everyone takes a chair except for me having brought my own.

Pleasantries and introductions, outlines and backgrounds, risks versus rewards, agreements and understandings all covered, it is time to get on with it.

I ask The Neurologist if she will be a part of the team doing the hands-on part of the procedure and she says no, but that she will be watching on a closed circuit video feed in a room down the hall. I am a touch disappointed as I find her presence calming but ask a favor of her as a trade, requesting first a private word. Dr. Sandhi and Drysdale leave us in the room.

"First off, thank you very much for all that you have done for my rehab. You must know by now that I am not…"

"…Mr Larsen?" she correctly interjects.

"Yes. And that I am…"

"…a spook with the CIA?"

My quizzical answers for me, so she continues, "Gun-shot wounds, a 24/7 security detail and you talking in your deep sleep pretty much blew your cover Larsen."

"Bringing us to the heart of the matter, while Dr. Sandhi is doing whatever it is that he is going to be doing, could you please give Agent Drysdale, whom I assume you already know, all the details on Mr. Thirty-Eight Special that you can remember?"

She pauses to consider. "I will but…"

"But?"

"I was hoping to give them directly to you, because…"

"Because?"

"I have a favor to ask."

He's Goin' Down

 210.

Directive established, we move to the second level of logistics and tactics discussion. There are a thousand questions, a hundred hunches, fifty gut reactions and one or two ideas that have a legitimate chance at success. One of those is classic old-school, Police 101, 'go stick your nose in it'. I offer the caveat that we must remain stealthy and patient during this process, further, that due to the compromised status of two of our six, we will add a pair of boots, new faces, into the mix to augment our existing cover. One assigned to work with Davis and Saunders and the other to imbed with myself and Drysdale. Saunders appears to be genuinely apperceiatve of the additional personnel, as their duty will be mostly surveillance. I try my best to downplay the importance of an extra pair of eyes, ears and arms as our plan is to stick our noses directly into the red-hot inferno.

We spend the remainder of the crisp fall day exchanging intel, Harlan taking notes and keeping the exchange focused and on-topic, no cake-walk chore. Davis admits that after months of investigative effort he can find no thread connecting Adelson or his gaggle of legal thugs to have sufficient concrete motivation to put a contract on us. Saunders seconds this adding that there is no reason, outside of their suddenly pulling a volte fase due to a blown cover, a highly unlikely scenario, to order a hit. I can't help but thinking what a tough gal she is, taking a high-powered, shoulder shattering slug and then, sans emotion, objectively playing the pain back in slow-motion reverse to attempt discovery. As it always does a huge swell of pride and respect wells inside of me as I watch her replay the tapes one more time.

Julie uses the brief to update us on the political side, our funding and status, full and supportive, as well as Hartaugh's current psychological state of being, arrogant and bullet-proof. My emotions ping from one extreme to the other as I listen, but I remind the group, this is exactly the way we want him to feel, as if he can get away with anything.

As the trap is further refined and reviewed or bond deepens. I am at once appalled and further motivated when I learn that for the last two months no one on this elite team has been drawing a paycheck, it has all been voluntary. Julie and Harlan echo exasperation, as their efforts drew blanks to rectify the unfortunate reality of TOM's death and the end of contract re-negotiation he was actively pursuing.

"That son-of-a-bitch Hartaugh," I hiss through clenched teeth, "One, you will be compensated and two, he's goin' down."

Find The Queen

 209.

Sleep improbable, I consider the difference between hitting the ground running and landing in full stride. The news from the Neurologist has certainly tossed a monkey-wrench into the works, dialing up our need for speed to max. I decide to prepare a more formalized presentation to the group than initially planned. If there is someone out there still stalking us they most likely have sufficient motivation and reason to do so. Additionally, the possibility exists that they may attempt to 'bargain' their hostage, putting The Queen at even greater risk than her current scenario. Either way, we need several solid answers and actionable updated intel.

Our reunion is pleasant and business like, all parties veterans of our many campaigns together. The cast; Drysdale, Davis, Saunders, Harlan, Julie and myself represent as good a core group of professionals as you could find, military or civilian, every one from a special forces background with field experience and law enforcement training. I trust them completely.

We have all filled our plates with the breakfast served up by the galley staff; potatoes, scrambled eggs, toast along with steaming mugs of industrial strength coffee, a re-fueling with high octane motivation. Saunders sits opposite me and I notice she is favoring her right arm as she struggles somewhat with her fork, obviously using her off-side. I received the information on the flight that she took a sniper shot in the right shoulder, shattering the scapula and causing massive damage to her dominant side neuromuscular system. Being alone at the time the only evidence comes from the ballistics of the spent shell casing, resulting in a dead-end forensic inquiry.

"How is the shoulder? I ask as sensitively as possible.

"Still healing, and much better than last week, had another procedure to remove scar tissue," she informs us in an impressive objective tone. Her honesty removes all doubt as to her commitment to the team. The silence that follows this brief exchange amplifies our dedication to both our cause and to each other. As I consider this, the silence is broken as Davis jumps in, still on-topic but redirected at me.

"And how are you, sir? He asks looking above and beyond his porcelain mug.

I am completely unprepared to provide an accurate prognosis and fall into the trap of opening with a oral pause followed by a negative, "Ah, well, I guess you could say I've been better, but, we did get some good news about an hour ago from the hospital. A experimental new procedure I have been selected to, ah, partake in." Wanting to change the subject I redirect the conversation to the matters at hand.

"The new re-org and teams for the follow-on campaign are: Harlan and Julie in Admin and communications in DC, Myself and Drysdale, and Davis and Saunders. Admin will liaise with the DoD and Senator Hartaugh as well as keeping us up to speed with data analysis. Drysdale and I are going to SAR Her Majesty and Davis and Saunders will resume surveillance of Adelson and his crew. These combined will no doubt yield enough credible intel to move us closer to the objective."

"So you feel that the mission hasn't been compromised?" Saunders asks.

"They may know who we are, and it is obvious that they consider us threats to whatever agenda they have, but they don't know what we plan, outside of the face value legal implications." I reply.

"We don't know, yet, if our covers are blown or if the ambush was part of something completely outside of the initial operation. Or even related. Personally I don't think Adelson would bite the hand that feeds his greed, and by all indications there was no security breach. Leaving us with one prime directive."

They all know what that directive is without me saying it aloud.

Julie comes to my rescue, rising to the dramatic occasion, and issues the order with a mere three words:

"Find The Queen."

Dad was a Cop

 208.

"Can we talk, now?" comes her SMS response.

Despite the hour and my fatigue I enter her number and press the telephone icon. She picks up on the first ring.

"Hi, sorry to bother you but two things have come up that concern me that I thought you should know about asap," she says in a slightly troubled voice, not in her normal calm and in-control tone.

"Sure, tell me."

"The first is that we finally heard back from the testing clinic about the experimental procedure and they have agreed to make an exception to their rules and protocols and use you as test case Alpha. This is big news and they feel confident that the results will be groundbreaking, even without the FDAs blessings."

As ecstatic as I should be over this news I return a simple 'OK' along with the follow on question of, "why is this so urgent?"

"Because their research data indicates there to be a radical drop-off in the success rate after a very definite post-traumatic period of time, in other words time is of the essence, worse, you are at that point right now, give or take a few hours."

Now having my attention I mutter a more interested sounding, "I see."

"But that isn't the main issue," she continues in an obviously agitated - or overly concerned? - volume, making a melodramatic segue from the first issue to the encore of the second.

"Oooo-K."

"Since your arrival at the hospital there has been a man, claiming to be from your insurance company, who has made regular weekly visits. Every Friday for eight months, usually just before noon, he has arrived, chatted up the receptionist and gathered as much info as possible without actually going through the proper channels."

She now has my full code red attention. I tell her so.

"He often tried to get your status from the staff but stayed clear whenever one of the agents was present." She continues.

"Why didn't you tell anyone about this?" I ask.

"I didn't think it was a particularly big issue, and as long as I did my part in ignoring his requests, as I know the others did, I didn't see any immediate cause for alarm, until yesterday."

"What happened yesterday?"

"He showed up at his usual time and when he discovered that you had been discharged he flew into a rage, screaming at the staff and rifling through papers and files."

"Hummmm, go on."

"I was down the hall and came to see about the commotion when he dropped one of the patients clipboards and reached down to pick it up." She tells me in a quiet voice as if the security level has just been elevated, "his jacket opened as he did and I saw that he was wearing a shoulder holster….and a…. gun."

I am silent in contemplation. After a pause long enough for me to consider several angles and possibilities, she says, back in her normal tone and volume,

"What kind of insurance agent packs a .38 in a hospital?"

"You know it was a .38?"

"My Dad was a cop. NYPD, twenty-six years. Yeah, Smith & Wesson."

"Roger that."

"Worth a call at 0430?"

"Absolutely, I'll call you this afternoon for details and to set a time for the procedure. Thanks you did the right thing," I say, adding, "did anyone else see his weapon, or feel in any way threatened by his actions?"

"No."

"Good, keep this quiet. Get some sleep, talk later, and thank you again. I owe ya."

"Please be safe."

Urgent

 207.

The reorganization takes less than ten minutes. Harlan and Julie will act as co-chiefs of staff, Drysdale and I will team up on the search and rescue mission to find and free The Queen, with Davis and Saunders continuing to track down the perpetrators responsible for the ambush. Internally I will continue my thrice daily physical therapy sessions and outfit a transportation enhancer, aka motorized wheelchair, to prepare to re-engage in field work. We decide to squeeze all this into our existing facility, meaning Mina, now acting as full time housekeeper and aide, will see her living area reduced by half, and as a gesture of solidarity, so will I. Construction of the new multi-use space has already begun with the general contractor guaranteeing a short transition period of less than three days. We decide to stage an intelligence brief in our Colorado facility as the work unfolds, Mina left behind to supervise and liaise.

Comfortably aboard the Gulfstream we are greeted by the familiar faces who have so well served us in the past. I am humbled to receive a crisp salute and hearty, 'welcome back, sir' from the attendant. "I see you've been busy," I say noticing another chevron on his uniform sleeve, "congratulations Senior."

"When I heard of the flight I volunteered, pleased to be of service sir."

Julie, Harlan and I use the flight time to discuss the pertinent administration details of immediate concern. We need to be up and running by yesterday. Perhaps more important is our overall game plan and how I, now for the time in my service career, will require an assistant. The time it will take to develop, practice and implement on-demand situational response is something we will have to perfect on the fly.

We are met in Colorado by Davis, Saunders and Drysdale. The core six is united. We make our way in the Rocky Mountain early November chill to the camp where we have all spent many hard days and sleepless nights, sleepless not so much because of uncomfortable bunks but because there is always a live mission, an open protocol under way as we try to catch a few winks in the transient Officers quarters.

We check in and Drysdale escorts me to my room, asks if there is anything I need and offers a pleasant night of rest. We have scheduled our first meeting for 0730 meaning that night translates literally to 'a few hours'.

What used to be the simple chore of preparing for sleep is now an effort taking almost twenty minutes. Finally I lay my head on the pillow and close my eyes, making an internal total systems check and damage report. Satisfied I begin my breath-counting exercise to induce deep relaxation.

My phone vibrates. Mina has texted that the Neurologist has called twice with a message, the second time flagged as urgent.

Considering the hour and time change I decide to call her back first thing in the morning.

But I am haunted by the unknown and after trying to sleep, switch on the light and text her at the number Mina left.

"Hi, urgent?"

Never Fold

 206.

"Shall we first address the elephant in the room?" Harlan asks as we make our way down the busy DC sidewalk towards our office. It is his shift to power my old-school chair and I silently vow to upgrade at the earliest opportunity. Asking someone, especially a friend and confidant, to push me as one might a shopping cart, is on one end humiliating and emasculating on the other. Julie, perhaps sensing this, fires a congratulatory salvo, adding that, in her opinion, the deal was done the moment Hartaugh gave me the floor.

"He sees you as a war hero, brave, committed to duty and ready to make any sacrifice for flag and country. Traits he wishes of himself, but sadly lacks."

"It was too easy," Harlan says, "he's got something up his sleeve."

"Sure, he wants to ride your coattails for the benefit of his ego, his political career and, did you catch the part about 'our needs satisfied'? How blatant is that?"

"I feel like we're being played," Julie adds, "But….."

"But that is exactly the response we needed, back in the game, full support and the ring leader unwittingly taking six giant steps towards the trap. He is going to walk right in and most likely shoot himself in the foot on the way. We got way more then we bargained for."

"That is the part I find too easy, the trap, Hartaugh is smarter than that."

"If not smarter, certainly sneakier," Harlan adds.

"Smarter or sneakier he has dared us to play the hand. If it's a bluff, we got him, if he has the cards, we got him, the only way we lose is to fold."

"Still, he should know that is something we would never do."

"You think he is in it for the juice, just to prove he's smarter than us?"

A brisk wind meets us head-on as we round the corner. It has been a long time since I've had the sensation of being reminded that sometimes the things you cannot see are the most powerful.

"I hope that is exactly what he thinks."

Meeting Adjourned

 205.

By the time we sit opposite Senator Hartaugh it felt as if I had already been through a battle. Just getting up, showered, dressed, fed and assisted to the meeting site, his palatial executive suite, I am muscularly fatigued and mentally drained.

Something inside me jumps as I sat and notice the Senator's prized possession, the double barrel over and under 12 gauge shotgun neatly encased inside an oiled walnut museum-quality box. I recall our last meeting here when TOM pointed out the gold plated inscription on the trophy, which ominously hangs behind the Senator's matching desk. It had been presented to him 'for services rendered and battles fought' by someone or something known by the initials MBI. My heart skips another beat as I reconnect the levels of corruption connecting those dots. Julie notices my temporary distraction and slides an icy glare of warning in my direction, the stare that unmistakably says, 'keep it here and don't go there.' She knows that I know what lurks behind those three italicized letters.

From left to right I sit alongside Julie and Harlan. I am choreographed far left to lessen the impact of my left side hanging loosely, out of commission, a tactic I consider cheap, but not worthy of resistance. Hartaugh's assistant offers us tea or lemonade, Harlan ordering for all with a polite request for three glasses of water, please. By the time our refreshments arrive, Hartaugh has covered, again, the entire lurid history of his family, their plantation, the Civil War, neo-con politics in the modern age and his unique influence on our operation. His superficial condolences for TOM took less than two seconds, sandwiched between his blatantly racist take on the rhetorical use of the word 'systemic' and his self-serving vow to keep America safe from terrorism, both foreign and domestic.

His opening monologue is a star-spangled segue from the ramparts to the vanguard finishing with "which brings us to you." I find it telling that he splits the pronunciation of you and y'all to a more professionally acceptable degree of phonetics.

Julie opens with a recapitulation of the initial understanding of our team's charter and mission, its funding and primary directive. Hartaugh sits with his hands clasped, as if in prayer, beneath his chin, wordless. I watch as his eyes unblinkingly fix on hers. He gives no outward signs of either approval or disapproval, neither agreement nor disagreement.

Harlan follows Julie with the liabilities, terms, conditions and potentialities included in our contract, one which will again remain invisible on any budgetary line in the DoD budget, as overseen by the Senator and his committee on Homeland Security.

All apparently needing little discussion by quick decree from the Senator from South Carolina as he nods his head slightly and turns his gaze on me, twisting his head as a 125 mil canon atop a turret.

"It is my understanding that you have some interesting news to relay to us, sir, an update that might shed some light on the dark areas of your failed attempt to satisfy our desired outcome."

Nonplussed and unbristled by his intentional bombast, I gently place my crystal water glass on its desktop coaster and address him directly, mano a mano, eyeball to eyeball.

"Hardly a failure, sir, we have spent the requisite time to quell a pair of terrorist attacks and have managed the coup of infiltration on those responsible with eyes and ears, giving us the rare opportunity to both know of current nefarious activity and monitor future ones. This is a full-time, 24/7 operation upon which the safety and security of the American people, guaranteed by our constitution, are protected. In any war there are casualties, in our short existence we have witnessed the reality of this, but the progress we have made, our ingress and current status is of great value to the American people, we would be remiss in stopping now. This is a critical juncture, we can quit and go home, failed, as you say, defeated and humiliated by radical fringe groups who's only victories come from the terror of the total disregard of democratic rules they spit upon, or…"

"We can fight fire with fire," he says emphatically finishing my speech for me.

"Yes sir, we can."

"It is a courageous soldier who volunteers a return to the battlefield after suffering at the hands of an enemy," he commends, "I sense a degree of retribution in your voice Commander, one that leads me to believe that there is a modicum of unfinished business at the heart of your - our - agenda. I trust that you will see to it that our needs are satisfied as well as those of the good people we serve."

I fill the pause in his layered response with a compilation of bullet points I failed to deliver, having gone off-script about as far as one can.

"Life, liberty and the relentless pursuit of all that oppose it," I say, riffing on the emotional flow of conversation.

"Then get to work and good luck."

Hartaugh stands, the meeting adjourned.

Your Neighbor Too

 204.

Having spent all day Sunday on the 80% it is time to detail the 20. I have the outline and script prepared for my presentation. It has been edited, revised, updated and stripped clean of exposition. It is a bare facts review that at last count contains nary an adjective nor a single adverb. It is, as one of my favorite TV characters used to say, "Just the facts." It has always struck me as an interesting paradox that there are two ways to tell a good story; one, to pick a subject that by its very nature is exciting, dramatic and controversial, and two to select a subject matter that is not, but by the skill of the author, make it so. In this assignment I am firmly in the iron-clad grip of the former. The only thing missing from the Hollywood perspective is the motive. And that I see as my license to create the necessary response from the audience of one.

Drysdale's update was spectacular. His investigative work, spanning the eight months since the ambush, contained enough intel to plausibly leverage her situation in pushing our narrative. She, by Drysdale's testimony, is under the terrorists version of house arrest. His source has revealed her health to be decent and morale acceptable. Seems, true to her modus operandi, her only issue is one of attitude. We each chuckled over that bit of no-news. While not exactly sure of her location Drysdale has narrowed it to be somewhere between the Idaho panhandle and Bozeman, Montana. He answered my inquiry about the drone and related accessories with the update that the hack crew of mutineers are trying to reverse engineer its mechanics, electronics and operating system. One of the reasons, he feels, she is still alive is due to her knowledge of these billion dollar engineering secrets. She is, Drysdale offers, to her estranged group what Einstein was to the Manhattan Project. This gets no chuckle.

We talked well into the night, finally wrapping our session with barely time to sleep, Mina reminding us with a last call from the soon to be closed kitchen.

Our meeting with Hartaugh is less than six hours away, so it now appears that I will be running on my favorite elixir, adrenaline and purpose. Accepting this I skip the pain killers and sleep enhancers Mina delivers along with the nightcap cup of steaming camomile tea. Thanking and dismissing her for the night, I look over at my wheels. There, tucked into the side pocket is the card that the Neurologist presented at my discharge ceremony.

I slowly make my way from the bed to the chair, pinch the card with my good hand and open it. In a fine and flowing cursive hand it reads:

"You're always better off when your neighbor is too."

The Portal as Metaphor

 203.

Like most, my PCS, permanent change of station, is bittersweet. I am being discharged from the facility that has been my home for the last eight months. True, I entered as an urgent care patient with gun shot wounds, my life literally hanging by a thread, and spent 90% of the time in a coma, but the relationships established and transformation from 'unresponsive' to leaving today under my own power, I find a borderline miracle. I will clarify my usage of 'under my own power' to the more precise, 'in a wheelchair'. My farewell is somewhat formal as the specialists, nurses and aides are all lined up like stage actors about to open the Nutcracker. Present also are Davis, Drysdale, Hank and Julie. The paperwork done, I stroll past them for the final time wondering if a salute or a handshake is the appropriate gesture.

The Neurologist who has literally been by my side since her job description changed from life support to ambulatory assistance, steps forward from the line, wraps her arms around my neck and places a card in my lap. She is fighting back tears, ones I trust are of joy. I return her gratitude and sentiment with equal sincerity. Hank is pushing me slowly out the door and as we pass through the portal I sense the metaphor of one closing while another opens as a spine tingling jolt. I am suddenly vulnerable. Exposed. Wounded. No longer the alias Mr. Larson.

My team has established a temporary station for me in what used to be our office. The small space converted from a war room to a halfway house, an apartment with good access and a security staff. Julie introduces me to my full-time aide, a short haired Filipina named Mina. She has been busy it appears cleaning the room as the dustbroom she carries looks well used.

"Magandang hapon, kamusta ka?" I ask.

"Mabuti naman, salamat po, at ikaw?"

"Walang problema, salamat."

Julie interrupts our introduction to guide the tour, showing me the work station, computer, TRX system for physical training and the lock box that she opens to reveal my Glock. She has set up a cell phone and we go over the associated user names and passwords. She has, I assume it was her, delivered a small wardrobe from my cabin to the apartment. I wonder if anything will still fit after my dramatic loss of muscle mass.

We move to the kitchen and I see it is well stocked with my favorites.

Davis has pulled back the protective lid of the serving tray on the island countertop. I can smell rice and vegetables, hoping that it might be vegetable sinagag. Mina smiles as I recognize the dish from its intoxicating aroma.

Indoctrination complete, they prepare to leave, Julie reminding me that they will be back at 0900 tomorrow for final prep and the 1030 meeting with Hartaugh.

I nod in affirmation.

I look at Drysdale.

"We need to talk."

Behind My Back

 202.

After my Saturday round of physical therapy, three sessions of the now infamous yoga flow zen salutation martial arts dance of destiny, Harlan, Julie and I meet in my room. I am scheduled to be discharged tomorrow afternoon. In conjunction with the hospital staff and team of specialists, they have preformed a magnificent choreography of what I call a miraculous rehabilitation operetta.

The three items on our agenda today comprise the current scope of my universe.

1) Smooth out the rough edges of my presentation to Hartaugh.
2) Solidify the logistics for my return to civilization upon discharge.
3) The news from Drysdale.

As Julie outlines the discussion, I promptly ask for their consideration in the order of topical presentation, item number three being the one I see as potentially having highest priority. They see no issue and agree, not wanting to hear me say that was an order hiding under the thin veil of politeness and parliamentary procedure.

Julie's glance at Harlan is met by his own exactly half-way. The question being who gets to anchor the news. I recognize each of their tendencies and ask for the proverbial cut to the chase. Julie leads, "Drysdale has been working the streets and monitoring chatter since the hit," she reports. Harlan jumps in, seeing no need to leverage the silence to build additional tension and drama, "there has been some activity suggesting the Queen is…"

"Alive?" I interject, unable to hold my own horses back.  

"With a high degree of probability," adds Julie.

"Probability or certainty?"

"We are getting regular updates from Drysdale and hope to have something solid in the next few days."

"Fucking outstanding," I react like a knee jerk, "We can use this in the narrative. Hartaugh doesn't need to know the who, just the what. He needs to be firmly reminded that we will never leave one of our fallen behind. We find our MIAs."

I try to slam my left fist to the table with dramatic theatrics but am immediately scolded my my central nervous system and forced to improvise the considerable weaker gesture of asking for their views.

Harlan's a, "Hell yeah." And Julie's a, "Damn right."

We have a consensus yet I can't escape the image of rescuing the Queen with one arm tied behind my back.

Ten to Twenty

 201.

The only thing we have to lose, I consider just prior to my evening set of therapeutic exercises, is the chance to win. I drag my left leg forward moving like one trite but true cliché to another. Game on. I have three full days to kung-fu my story, and hence our strategic narrative and last remaining hope, into a pitch. There will be no dress rehearsal, no coaching sessions, no practice. We will get a single shot at it. It needs to be our absolute best and despite my fragile physicality, the circumstance suggests that if it is to be - it is up to me.

The idea is simple; Use the reality of the ambush, TOMs passing - and the secrets he left behind - the kidnapping of our main asset and, perhaps most importantly, the door left slightly ajar to the billion dollar scam, to persuade the Senator to re-commit operating capitol to our group. This commitment also provides the necessary political cover to conduct our operation within the boundaries of our legal system, as there exist checks and balances keeping the scales of justice equally balanced, our clandestine operation a classic example. I consider the distance we normally operate to be 'close to' the boundaries whenever not entirely within them. The subject of that debate is the reason we retain the considerable services, expertise and experience of our legal counsel, Harlan. I am glad we do.

Julie thinks likewise. I will have to tight-rope the narrative to be within the letter of the law, leaving however several critical areas subject to legal interpretation - a grey area commonly known as wiggle-room. We reserve the right to make value decisions in the heat of battle when necessary. Julie and I believe this clause to mean 'always' but Harlan, more often than not, sides with 'sometimes'. The trick it to get Hartaugh to seeing the end and not the means.

Thought time concluded, I take another step forward with my right foot and attempt another forty-five degree pivot, a move I can only execute when leading with my dominant side. The left remains numb and useless for anything but balance.

I swallow hard and twist. The Neurologist, who has been assisting in the drills, reaches towards me as a spotter does when safeguarding their partner bench-pressing a new weight. She has been invaluable in the rehabilitation process, cheerful, supportive and encouraging. She has the patience of a saint, a commodity in which I struggle one or two parcels short of a pallet. But it remains our dance as she delights in my progress and I in the creation of the plan, a living, growing, evolving vision that will soon be the blueprint for a building of monumental size and scope.

I see it as a Big House. Where we hope to soon see the Senator reside for, maybe, ten to twenty.

The Rock

 200.

"Brother, we'll have you hip-hoping a rocker step before too long." Harlan tosses the compliment like a pass in which he'll get the credit for an assist.

"Give me the rock," I return the code.

It is code for teamwork. Without relentless reinforcement among teammates, reminding them of the focus, effort, vision and sacrifice necessary for success at this level, we might as well take the poles down, fold the canvas, cage the lions and take the circus to another town, one with dramatically lower expectations. Where, perhaps all that is necessary are a couple of clowns and cotton candy. Child's play.

At the level we play, the very highest, one's ability to operate in a dynamic, constantly changing lethal environment with total focus and attention is the skill we stake our reputation upon. That reputation, often preceding us, is one of our greatest assets, in many cases more important than the size, armament or location of those we vow to keep distanced from those under our protective canopy. Should one not take all this with the seriousness of a judge, one should seek employment elsewhere. It is not for the faint of heart, the weak of knee or those adrift in the sea of doubt and indecision. One lapse of presence can cost a life, making it crucial that our partners, our teammates and especially our enemies, never questions our total commitment to delivering the business end of that code. No matter what and no matter where. Code says I Got Your Back.

Continuing with the hoop allegory, Harlan announces that we have a meeting scheduled with Hartaugh on Monday. "It'll be an away game for us, his place, but we have the numbers on him, three-on-one. I say let's fast-break his racist ass, take him to the cleaners for some bleach and starch."

"You, me and Julie?"

"We think anymore would limit our ability to control the situation and keep it on topic. Drysdale really wanted to go and Davis volunteered also."

"And the topic is?"

He takes a blow to consider the best way of saying the glaringly obvious.

"You got the rock, you tell us."

Amen Brother

199.

I am in the noon session doing the therapeutic two-step. I am now measuring progress in terms of hours not weeks, using a clock instead of a calendar. I have the mojo, motivation and purpose. I can feel sweet satori returning.

Today during the balance phase of each movement, the space allowed for imagination, contemplation and formulation of the plan, I am presented with a Zen koan, a riddle forcing thoughts without a thinker.

The riddle is in the form of a question. It asks me - or am I asking It? - about the sincerity, the altruistic, true nature of my deepest motivation. The banal translation to English asks, 'why are you doing this?'

Because its my job?
Because I get paid to do it?
Because I am good at it?
Because it is my only tangible skill?
Because I can?
Because I am warrior paying back karmic dues?
Because I took an oath to defend our system of rules and laws?
Because of a code?

I hear a sound that stirs an image of wind over a field of mature tasseled corn. Meditative now I continue the practice, forcing the image to black. I can answer the riddle by affirming what it is not. Stripping away the possibilities, eliminating the spin, the subjective, the mythical, the unkind and harmful, exploitative and manipulative, eventually leaves nothing but the naked truth, like the cob of an ear of corn.  

"Let us be clear that this is NOT about revenge. It is about justice."

"Amen, brother," says Harlan.

Let it Grow

 198.

Seed planted, I see my stewardship to entail water and sun. Feed and weed as my uncle from California's Central Valley used to say. Julie, in conjunction with Harlan, assuming the 'next up' role in our rusty chain of command, have developed a plan. The plan was delivered to my doorstep, my small farm, for consideration. It took me less time than it takes to yank a ripe carrot from the ground to get the picture and volunteer wholeheartedly for its roster.

Sure there are problems, issues, questions, doubts, considerable risk and less than a 10% chance of success - a rather pessimistic and crude number I pulled from my cap - but a starting point nonetheless. We are here (in whatever condition) and it is now (as always).

Julie has another meeting with Hartaugh today, the main topic being that of moving forward with either dissolution or discovery. I trust her to present a very rough, yet enticing, outline of the plan we discussed yesterday, the Plan One gambit featuring my reveal of the 'behind the scenes' story of what went down (way down) on that fateful day eight months ago. I also trust her to make the presentation compelling enough that Hartaugh will take the bait.

Anticipating her success, I begin scripting my part in this dramatic tragedy. As I do so it seems I must multitask its creation with the physical reality that my delivery vehicle is in desperate need of urgent repair. 'Broke down and rusted out', my uncle used to say. The need for multi-tasking obvious, I isolate a pair of cash crops to hoe and fertilize as I continue physical therapy.

It is a walking meditation as I stretch hamstrings, glutes and quads, trying to balance them in whatever harmonious grace I can generate. Faithful to the attention and focus necessary for right effort, I develop a somewhat macabre dance step, a painfully slow two-part shuffle. Zombie-like I take a step forward with my right foot and slide (more of a drag) the left to meet it. Here I pause, re-establish balance, take a breath and allow my mind to use the interval to process data and develop the plan. I allow thirty seconds for this and then the dance continues. As I practice this, as I gain strength, confidence and endurance, as my body responds to the stress in a positive way, the plan begins to emerge, vague, out of focus and distant at first, but gaining clarity with the frequency of effort.

And then an interesting thing happens.

As my practice continues, I am working this dance, doing this maintenance, the care and nurturing of my crop, three times a day, I feel the presence of another power source. There is a light shining brighter and brighter in the direction of my resolve. The light is feeding my body and illuminating the view along this treacherous path of discovery. It is a light so powerful, so pristine, so pure, that I must close my eyes to see.

It is my spirit reaffirming that right effort and mindfulness make the vision. And the vision is without failure.

It will grow.

Solid Gold

 197.

Emboldened by the experience of having embarrassment turn to opportunity, what I once called a similar circumstance like stepping in a bucket of shit and it turning to gold, Julie attempts once again to provide a brief. She pulls a chair to bedside and asks the agent on duty for the room.

"How are you doing today?"

"I feel like I just finished an Ironman, but OK," I reply, "We culled some critical intel from the accident, er, from the cleverly disguised laboratory experiment, and we need to push things down the highway at top speed."

Julie puffs her cheeks filling them with air and exhales as if blowing out birthday candles. I can't resist and ask if she made a wish first.

She gives me the smirk and opens a new thread.

"That hair-ball Hartaugh wants to pull the plug on us, or rather what is left of us. I think he and TOM had a solid relationship, so with his passing and the firecracker massacre, we are a shout away from losing our life line. Not to mention that he detests working with women."

I adjust my pillows to sit more upright. "Not surprising. A good deal of our plan was dependent on his misogyny and greed."

"And racism?"

"Especially his racism. In your estimation, what, if anything, could we do to keep the ship afloat?"

"I have been thinking about that a lot. Harlan and I each have our ideas, and interestingly enough, they both involve you," she reports.

"In what way?"

"Remember that old vulgar cliche you used to use when things seemed bleak and suddenly turned completely around?"

"The one about the bucket of shit?"

"Yes, that one."

"Quite the alchemy, no? How does it apply here?"

"Our two possible plays as a result of your stepping directly into that stinky bucket. Play one is the intel you have been unable to share for these eight long months that directly affect the original plan of enriching the Senator while providing a path for additional political exploitation of African-Americans."

I quickly run the numbers and smile.

"And the second play?" I ask.

"Blackmail."

I consider her angle, knowing that Harlan was the architect. I see it shining in my mind like a 24 carat phoenix. She sees that I am mentally working it and gives me the time to bring each plan to visual fruition.

After the pause she raises one eyebrow in my direction, the timeless mimic, meaning, 'well?'

"Solid gold."

Back in Your Box

 196.

A thousand conscious decisions comprise my day. The choices I make define the results. Simple cause and effect. I require little additional evidence that the synergy of mind and body can - will - produce dramatic change. It has always intrigued me that we place such doubt on this phenomena, seeing it somehow as scientific voodoo. If indeed luck is the residue of design, then magic must be the vessel into which it flows. I prefer to believe in magic and the power of mind over - or rather alongside - matter. What purpose is served by cherry-picking the juice and leaving the seed? I am appalled by the muggles who lift the contextual keywords from the Bible or our Constitution to satisfy their dismal worldview. We have two options with every choice, one can expand or one can constrict. Grow or shrink. Go out and face the music or pretend that it doesn't exist. Face your fears or run and hide from them. The magic is in unity not division.

In my allegory yesterday of the three boxes, it became apparent that one of them belonged to someone named Pandora. I naively opened it and took a look inside. What I saw there continues to haunt my consciousness. It wants me to accept my circumstance and surrender. It suggests to me that the battle I am about to fight is unwinable, a lost cause, hopeless. She seductively whispers into my ear, in a direct line to my heart and soul, that I will be better off in the long run should I decide to allow the medical staff to think for me, the empaths to feel for me and the enlightened to guide me. After all the reality is that I am weak, wounded and weary. Just wave that white flag and surrender to the easy way, floating down the path of nothingness, numb and dumb. It is, she insists, what the bulk of humanity does in similar situations. We'll take away all the pain and you will never feel another tug at a heart-string or stirring in your soul. There will be no questions which need solving, you need to seek nothing. There will be no risk. No change. No fear. You won't have to waste your precious time thinking about the metaphysical, the moral or the social, we've done all that and found the answer. Tap out. Give up. Dummy down.

"You are questioning my soul, my very spirit. Perhaps you forgot that I am a warrior and will never give up, never surrender. To an enemy or to a corrupt agenda. The minute I compromise my code, to even the slightest degree, it becomes all the easier to do it again, and then it becomes habitual. I refuse to live a life of compromise. So I will offer to you, in as tactful a rhetorical response as I decide to apply, this in response;

Get back in your box bitch."

Three Boxes

 

CHAPTER SEVEN

195.

Resting comfortably I decide to process, to examine, the events in three parts. I will categorize them into three boxes, the known, the unknown and everything in between. This format quickly reveals itself to be more challenge than initially suspected. I might as well label the boxes mind, body and spirit. Or objective, subjective and inert. Or democratic, republican and independent. Or high priority, low priority and irrelevant. Or for that matter, good, bad and ugly.

I am alone in my room. The medical staff have gone to, I assume, make their rounds, Julie to a meeting and my security agent to stand outside the door. I am left with my thoughts.

In box one, the objective known intelligence of democratic high priority good, I add (in slightly smaller font) 'includes moral, jurisprudence and ethical considerations', the reality that my physical self is a wreck. An accurate metaphor, painfully appropriate, is of my poor body feeling, looking and acting like a once finely-tuned muscle car - I envision my old Formula 400 Firebird - that is now, after a grand of hard miles, in the junkyard, totaled. I put the fact that cars labelled as totaled by the seedy auto insurance cartels are not always so, into the number two, the subjective, unknown, red-zone, low priority bad box.

My limited intel on the state, if there is one, of Operation Firecracker, leads me to believe that several questions need immediate answering. Moreover, that if Julie is fighting, as I suspect, an overwhelmingly impossible skirmish with the Senatorial committee that once funded our clandestine operations, I need to know about it. Now. Fucking pronto Tonto.

Central to the formulation of any feasible response, if indeed we need one, as the mission - always protected by the black cloak of plausible deniability - never existed as a political budgetary line item, is the mysteriousness of TOM's demise and the whereabouts and situational status of the Queen.

The flip side of every question, the yang, the shadow-side of the myriad possibilities of a thousand scenarios, I toss into box two. I give all these the about the same indifferent treatment I do all things in the middle, telling them that to have a voice they must get off the fence and commit. One way or the other, brother.

Box three I truly care about. It is the soulful, the spiritual, the magical and mystical, the sacred and the profane. Box three, the hut of the misunderstood superior man, asks only one question in return for the secret of its power:

'What are you going to do?'