a stalled career drove him to withhold vital tactical information from the FBI arm of the operation, to violate the rules of engagement by pursuing the helicopter observed fleeing the burning Radiant Dawn hospice village, and to "fabricate a bizarre counteraccusation regarding possible government collusion with the perpetrators." Fabricate. They didn't even have the balls to call it lying when they accused him of it. But he could stuff their lies down their throats with these documents, and go to his grave a vindicated man. Or he could use them to get what he wanted all along: to hunt the egghead terrorist organization himself, on his own terms.
He knew there would be files. The government could do nothing without leaving a paper trail. Even at the star chamber level of black budgets and blacker ops, everyone wanted their ass covered, though they stood ready to shred the lot at the merest hint of Congressional oversight. Official documents would be outside the military's, and, thus, his reach.
But there was another assumption about government that had yet to steer him wrong. There was always someone listening.
It had been pathetically easy to play Lt. Durban; after reviewing his nonclassified military record, he had the punk's number and dialed it. He was a geek, but he dreamed of being regular Navy, a war hero. He needed somebody to pin balls to his chest, because he wasn't born with any.
What would he tell his geek bosses at No Such Agency? That he'd been carjacked by the Russian Mafia, probably. At least, that was what they hoped. About a week before he first called Lt. Durban, he'd begun placing ads in every website linked to the Soldier Of Fortune set, soliciting "Stateside wetwork" for a bunch of "hungry former Spz. Commandos," knowing full well that the FBI and/or the CIA would ferret out the Spz. as the common abbreviation for Spetznaz, the Soviet Special Forces. He had a host of responses placed through dummy e-mail accounts at Internet cafes in twelve states. They got eight more offers that they hadn't doped up themselves, which gave Greenaway hope for the future as a free agent.
The INS and customs were even now looking up the asshole of every Ivan who came into the country with forceps and a flashlight. The FBI was surely watching the criminals and white separatists across the nation whose credit card numbers he'd bought from a guy who hacked the IRS for a living.
Once before in his career, he'd turned away from the Army in disgust, and printed his own ticket back in when the time was right and Delta Force was looking for a few bad men. Now, in the teeth of disgrace, he would buy an even sweeter posting, and prove the truth to the only person whose opinion he, in the final analysis, gave a shit about.
The computer tech brought up the first page of a document.
ABOVE TOP SECRET-ROYAL CHANNELS ONLY
MAUVE Intercept 0121010-07-99
FW: MACHETE
07-10-99; 19:48:15 PDT
(No Match/ID for either Voice)
VOICE 1: Colonel, you've been less than cooperative in the course of this investigation.
VOICE 2: You've been less than baggage, Cundieffe.
VOICE 1: I expect it was under such an opinion that your goon squad left us in Titus Canyon a little while ago. Your conduct has been criminal if they were under your orders, and incompetent if it was not. All of this is being recorded and transmitted to my superior's offices in Washington, by
the by.
VOICE 2: Then I have nothing to say.
VOICE 1: I do. I thought you'd like to know where they are.
He didn't need to read the rest. He was Voice 2. And Voice 1, that junior G-man bookworm the FBI had scapegoated with the whole mess, was probably chasing stolen snowmobiles in Alaska, if he worked at all. "Print all of it," he said, "except that one."
~4~
Heilige Berg, Idaho
A snowy, moonless midnight in the mountains of the Snake River Valley is a scary time to be out in the woods alone with only a rifle you don't know how to use and a world of
He knew there would be files. The government could do nothing without leaving a paper trail. Even at the star chamber level of black budgets and blacker ops, everyone wanted their ass covered, though they stood ready to shred the lot at the merest hint of Congressional oversight. Official documents would be outside the military's, and, thus, his reach.
But there was another assumption about government that had yet to steer him wrong. There was always someone listening.
It had been pathetically easy to play Lt. Durban; after reviewing his nonclassified military record, he had the punk's number and dialed it. He was a geek, but he dreamed of being regular Navy, a war hero. He needed somebody to pin balls to his chest, because he wasn't born with any.
What would he tell his geek bosses at No Such Agency? That he'd been carjacked by the Russian Mafia, probably. At least, that was what they hoped. About a week before he first called Lt. Durban, he'd begun placing ads in every website linked to the Soldier Of Fortune set, soliciting "Stateside wetwork" for a bunch of "hungry former Spz. Commandos," knowing full well that the FBI and/or the CIA would ferret out the Spz. as the common abbreviation for Spetznaz, the Soviet Special Forces. He had a host of responses placed through dummy e-mail accounts at Internet cafes in twelve states. They got eight more offers that they hadn't doped up themselves, which gave Greenaway hope for the future as a free agent.
The INS and customs were even now looking up the asshole of every Ivan who came into the country with forceps and a flashlight. The FBI was surely watching the criminals and white separatists across the nation whose credit card numbers he'd bought from a guy who hacked the IRS for a living.
Once before in his career, he'd turned away from the Army in disgust, and printed his own ticket back in when the time was right and Delta Force was looking for a few bad men. Now, in the teeth of disgrace, he would buy an even sweeter posting, and prove the truth to the only person whose opinion he, in the final analysis, gave a shit about.
The computer tech brought up the first page of a document.
ABOVE TOP SECRET-ROYAL CHANNELS ONLY
MAUVE Intercept 0121010-07-99
FW: MACHETE
07-10-99; 19:48:15 PDT
(No Match/ID for either Voice)
VOICE 1: Colonel, you've been less than cooperative in the course of this investigation.
VOICE 2: You've been less than baggage, Cundieffe.
VOICE 1: I expect it was under such an opinion that your goon squad left us in Titus Canyon a little while ago. Your conduct has been criminal if they were under your orders, and incompetent if it was not. All of this is being recorded and transmitted to my superior's offices in Washington, by
the by.
VOICE 2: Then I have nothing to say.
VOICE 1: I do. I thought you'd like to know where they are.
He didn't need to read the rest. He was Voice 2. And Voice 1, that junior G-man bookworm the FBI had scapegoated with the whole mess, was probably chasing stolen snowmobiles in Alaska, if he worked at all. "Print all of it," he said, "except that one."
~4~
Heilige Berg, Idaho
A snowy, moonless midnight in the mountains of the Snake River Valley is a scary time to be out in the woods alone with only a rifle you don't know how to use and a world of
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