Countdown: H Hour by Tom Kratman Page B

Burgh, then vocally supplemented the tune with the letters “L-B-F-M . . . ”
    “Everything in its own time, Sergeant Graft,” Welch said, thinking to avoid offending Pedro. Welch had seen the girl, too.
    “Yessir.” Graft, taking the hint, shut up.
    “Don’t bother me,” said Pedro, with a shrug. “She little. She brown. She not much more than machine for fucking.”
    Welch sat up front, beside Pedro, with Lox sandwiched in the back between the other two. Lox had an open folder on his lap. Welch had a laptop with integral GPS on his.
    Pedro had managed to fill about nine tenth’s of the shopping list. For the rest: “Working on it. Few days.”
    Everybody had a hidden pistol, with suppressor, and a fairly legal appearing license to carry it. Everyone but Lox likewise carried a knife and a TASER pistol. Everybody had a local cell phone. (Actually, everybody had two of them, one provided by Mrs. Ayala’s man, Pedro, which they didn’t trust, and another obtained by Lox, which they didn’t let Pedro see.) All of them wore light cotton suits. In the trunk were a couple of sets of night vision goggles. None of the heavier weapons Pedro had acquired were there. It wouldn’t be too hard to pass off a pistol, with license, as legal, should a cop stop them. It might take a substantial bribe, of course, but still not too hard. Machine guns, submachine guns, and assault rifles, however, were an altogether different story.
    In his right breast pocket Graft kept a sub-cigarette pack-sized GPS tracking device, suitable for attachment to a vehicle. The tracking device operated off of a long life battery, good for at least two weeks. It could be attached directly to a vehicle’s battery, for more or less infinite operational life. Two weeks, though, was thought more than sufficient life expectancy for this particular job.
    “Ahead, on the right,” Lox said, pointing his chin in the direction of a kei , or bantam, car. Welch turned his eyes only to glimpse a blue Suzuki bearing the license plate, JBB 806. Between the numbers and letters was the image of a monument, an obelisk surrounded by statuary, appearing between the numbers and letters. A motto, “MATATAG NA REPUBLIKA,” was inscribed below. The Suzuki was one identified in Aida’s file as belonging to a journalist—if that was quite the word—apparently in deep sympathy with various Moro groups, likewise with the remnants of the Huks, and, it was believed, often enough in close contact. In addition to the name, the car model, and the license number, the file also gave the locale of the journalist’s little piece on the side, along with a few other possible addresses.
    Pedro’s taxi slowed to a stop about fifteen yards shy of the Suzuki. “Gentlemen,” Welch announced over his left shoulder, “your show. Pick you up four blocks down and right one.”

    Graft, Lox, and Semmerlin formed in just that order, left to right, and began a slow walk down the sidewalk, stopping occasionally to let Lox chat up the streetwalkers in Tagalog.
    “Damned shame we don’t have time to sample the merchandise,” Semmerlin observed.
    “Maybe later,” Lox replied, turning briefly from the girl he’d been talking to. He returned his attention to the girl, then quoted a price calculated to be insulting. Infuriated, she said, “ Jackol ,”—go jerk off—then turned her nose up, spun on her heel, and stormed off.
    It wasn’t more than a few more steps after that that they’d reached the blue Suzuki. Semmerlin stumbled on the uneven pavement. Oddly, the pavement was no more uneven here than it had been for the last fifteen yards. Still, Semmerlin went down to hands and knees. Lox and Graft both bent to assist their comrade, though Lox angled right while Graft turned just slightly left.
    Lox assisted Semmerlin back to his feet, providing a barrier to vision with their legs. After a few moments, Graft likewise stood.
    Lox asked, “Any trouble getting it