(F.J. Dagg before he grew the Hemingway beard)
Oh my lobotomous Literati!
Who among us woulda thunk that F.J. could top his first entry, the tell all about Mary? But here it is. It shames me to think that I usually dream about women–how unimaginative– but F.J. ? Let’s just say that his dream team and mine differ, genderally speaking. And nobody on my dream team wears uniforms, though perhaps, as with F.J.’s, eye shadow is the norm.
But I do want to caution all who enter this site: We succeed because this is a Literary and not a Political forum. Though I prefer coffee to tea any day of the week, I recently edited out a derogatory comment regarding the Tea Party. It is difficult for a writer, if not impossible, to keep his social and political leanings off the page, I know. This one tip-toes(leaps) over the line, but, what the hell. One transgression every now and then won’t kill us. But if you would like to be overtly political, there is always FaceBook. If you want to be covertly political, there is always Facebook.
Nuff said. No matter what your politics, F.J.’s piece is well written and he will always have a place at the table here, as will all of you. But I will remain the guy who carves the turkey.
They told me to put together my dream team. And why wouldn’t they, given the stakes? My client was a new player on the scene–savvy, aggressive, and with a fresh outlook not married to failed ideas of the recent past.
I was stoked about the team for personal reasons, too. I’m an old Cold Warrior, and assuming I came back from this one, it’d be my last. Even the fastest horses–and I was damned fast in my day–have to go to pasture eventually. But I was determined we were going to rock this one, and if anyone could do it, this handpicked crew of mine could.
Aside from Jackson, they were all thirty years younger than me, which means young enough to be harder than steel and quicker than a snake, but old enough to have been around the block a time or two–American ninjas, if you like. Jackson had been with me since before the Wall came down–so long that we could read each others’ minds. As for the younger guys, they’ll be working ops for a while yet, so the less said the better.
Our objective was a high profile political figure who had been disappeared by Big People–people whose names you know–who feared him deeply. As they should–he had the power to bring down the regime single-handed. There’d been a lot of chatter about his absence, but no one could say where he was–no one except our intel people, that is. All the same, I have to hand it to the opposition–they had our man concealed well, under deep house arrest. Not exactly “hiding in plain sight,” but something quite like it.
Saddling up for this one was almost a letdown. We usually go to work on stealth helos, by HALO jumps, or on modified subs. But since our man was just across town, we piled into a couple of plain white vans and moseyed on over to Massachusetts Highway NW.
The first trick was to get onto the Observatory grounds undetected. Which wasn’t all that tricky given that a couple of our young snipers can routinely hit a flea in the ass at four hundred meters. The perimeter guards presented targets considerably larger than fleas’ butts, though, so you can guess the outcome. But then we had to get inside the residence, which meant things would get up close and personal.
Any operator will tell you that clearing a house is one the biggest stressors in the trade. But our luck held and we took down the interior security people without incident.
The most dangerous moment was when we breached the bunker beneath the residence. Steel blades, saps, and suppressed submachine guns don’t make noise worth worrying about, but there’s no quiet way to blow a hole in a steel door that would do nicely for a bank vault. We knew that if we’d missed any of the inside security, things could get very sporty very fast.
As it turns out, we did miss one. But only one, and our two rear guard guys rolled her up while the rest of us plunged through the smoking hole in the door and took down the two personal guards. Then we had our man.
Jackson hauled him through the wrecked door. I gave him the good news. “We’re friends, sir! You’re free! Keep your head down, your mouth shut and come with us. We have a studio prepared for you. In a couple of hours, you’ll address the nation!”
He was stunned to uncharacteristic silence, but went along with all the alacrity you’d expect of a man who had been confined for months and suddenly found himself free. Back in the van, he finally spoke–to ask the date. When I told him, his face lit up with that famous smile.
“Just in time for the election!” he chortled.
Our communications group handled the last part of the op: hijacking the major broadcast channels to let our man preempt all the talk shows.
It was Sunday, November 6, 2016. He went on at 0600. Over fifty million viewers were shocked when, instead of their favorite pundits’ accustomed greetings, a deep, unfamiliar voice intoned, “Ladies and gentlemen, the vice president of the United States.”
The vice president flashed his legendary grin to the camera, took a deep breath, and was off and running.
“Let’s talk about the number-one job facing the middle class, as Barack says, a three-letter word: jobs. J-O-B-S! I promise you, the president has a big stick…I promise you! This is a big fucking deal!”
For reasons clear to anyone who has heard the vice president utter more than a dozen words, the Democratic Party had held him prisoner for the six months prior to the historic election. Now, as his voice blasted America’s airwaves that fateful Sunday with a hurricane of gaffes, gaucheries and absurdities, emergency sirens began to wail all over DC. But still we kept him on for six hours.
“…They’re going to put y’all back in chains! You cannot go to a 7-11 or a Dunkin’ Donuts unless you have a slight Indian accent! When the stock market crashed, Franklin D. Roosevelt got on the television and didn’t just talk about the, you know, the princes of greed! Do you know the Web site number? If we do everything right…there’s still a 30% chance we’re going to get it wrong! Just fire the shotgun through the door! A successful dump! Pretend you like me!”
To borrow one of the left’s favorite tropes, we “made history.” The president resigned eleven weeks before the end of his term. The vice president served those last weeks, then vanished again. The former Secretary of State fled the country–declaring that she “felt safer in Benghazi.” Best of all, my client, the new Constitutionalist Party, annihilated both the Democrats and the Republicans at the polls.
I swear it’s not too late to save the Republic.
And here is a link to F.J.’s website
The Lowlands of Heaven on Amazon: Amazon: http://amzn.to/lyi526