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Special Ops - Terminating the Snake
By: Jim 'Old Guy' Hume Date: 2005-07-08 TERMINATING THE SNAKE Prequel: Pantywaist City, 1998 SecWar: The . . . uh . . . the mission is a go, sir. Veep: All Right! The Big Guy gave the go ahead? SecWar: Well . . . sort of. Veep: Um . . . sort of? SecWar: He . . . ah . . . he . . . wouldn’t let me in the room. I had to holler through the door. Veep: What door? The Oval Office door? SecWar: No . . . it . . . uh . . . was the . . . (laughs) . . . the bathroom door. He was in the tub. I think. Veep: The bathroom. Well, it’s not the first time he’s conducted business from there. SecWar: (laughs nervously) I think he had someone with him. I don’t think it was the . . . uh . . . Veep: The First Lady? I’d be surprised if it was. So what did he say? SecWar: He . . . uh . . . he told me to get the hell out and go play Army. Veep: Damn! I’m impressed! A real decision. SecWar: Yeah. Said he was playing battleship and rubber ducky and to leave him alone. Veep: Okay. Well, you’ve got your marching orders. Let me know what happens. SecWar: Yes, sir. I’ll . . . uh . . . I’ll let you know. Special Ops: Gathering the Clans Master Sergeant Cobra stalked into the squad bay and shouted, “It’s a go! The mission’s a go!” The sound echoed in the still room. He rotated slowly. Nobody was around, except Geg. In a voice dripping with menace, Cobra asked, “Where the hell is everybody?” Geg shrugged and tossed aside his well-worn copy of ‘Pride and Prejudice’. “I think they went across the street. To the garage sale.” “Garage sale!” thundered Cobra. “This is the home of Gun Team Eagle, the toughest goddamn bunch of wild-eyed killers ever hatched! What would they want at the GARAGE SALE!” Geg flinched from Cobra’s baleful stare. “Well . . . sticks for one thing.” He held up an ornately carved walking stick. “Like this one. I got it for thirty-five cents.” He proffered it to Cobra. “Don’t you think it’s neat?” Snarling wordlessly, the big sergeant stomped from the squad bay. He wrenched his shoulder trying to slam the hydraulically dampened door. Geg watched him go, then retrieved his reading material. Carefully rearranging the latest issue of ‘EAW Babes’ inside the book, he relaxed once more. Cobra strode around the barracks, detoured across the parking lot to put a few moves on the chesty blonde demolitions expert assigned to the Force Recon unit next door, then hopped over the chain link fence, being careful not to disturb the Colonel’s flower beds, and made his way across the street - to the Garage Sale. Baskets and boxes of junk were arranged across the front. One wicker basket held a selection of walking sticks. Cobra snorted. Trash! Then something caught his eye. In a low box next to the cash register lay a single beret. A black beret. Nodding to the proprietor, he ambled over and casually picked it up. “Where’d you get the beret?” The stoop-shouldered junk dealer pushed the thick glasses up on his nose and laughed, “They came in the last shipment.” He stared vacantly, clawing at his butt with one hand and fingering the cash register keys with the other. “You wanna buy one?” “How much?” Cobra plopped the beret on at a jaunty angle. “You got a mirror?” “Three-fifty.” The dealer handed over a cracked makeup mirror. Tilting his head, Cobra admired the beret. “Hell, that ain’t half bad.” He eyed the dealer suspiciously. “Three-fifty’s pretty cheap. You steal these?” “No, I never stole nothing. You guys always think a smart business man is some sort of thief.” “Smart business man? Where?” Cobra grinned. “Here’s a fiver. Don’t try to shortchange me. I can add to five or six just as well as any Marine - or Air Force jock neither.” Transaction completed, Cobra, sporting his new headgear, pushed his way through the double doors, glancing briefly at the flickering neon sign. Buzzing fitfully, the sign proclaimed, “Garage Sale Bar and Grill – Sporting Lounge”. Joker spotted Cobra standing inside the doorway, blinking in the dim light. “Cobra, my man! Come on over!” The whole team, save for Geg, of course, sat in the corner booth, along with several large breasted young women. Cobra dragged up a chair and plopped down. “What’s going on, boss?” asked Joker. “I see you got one of the berets, too.” All the men and two of the women sported new black berets. “Snazzy ain’t they?” “I came over for something,” said Cobra, frowning. He couldn’t remember. “Ah, it’ll come to me.” He waved at the barmaid. “Beer!” “I swear,” giggled one of the blondes. She was alternately swilling a beer and wallowing all over Baltar. “My old man’s dumber a box of rocks.” She giggled again. “I just tell him I’m going to the garage sale and he don’t bat an eye. Not even when I come home tanked and wearing something other than what I left in.” Baltar grinned across the table at Cobra. The Garage Sale was the team’s favorite watering hole. “My old man’s a goddamn snake,” said the other blonde. Cobra choked and sprayed beer across the table. The two blondes immediately began removing their T-shirts. “It’s a go!” screamed Cobra. “It’s a gooooo!” As one man, the team members sprang to their feet, shouted, “OOOOOORAAAAH!”, and ran for the door. Red wanted desperately to stay and help the blondes with their tops, but duty called. Pausing only to splash some more beer on the ladies, he dashed off after the others. Back in the squad bay, Cobra paced the between the bunks, checking gear. Stag called to him, producing a stream of pure Cockney. Cobra ignored him. “I can never understand a word that guy says,” he whispered to Reginald 'Skip' Skipper. “Me neither,” replied Skip. “I just nod and smile. Eventually, he goes away. Probably thinks I’m some sort of halfwit.” Thirty minutes later the team assembled in front of the barracks. Cobra inspected equipment, mostly to kill time. The other team members discussed the upcoming mission in low tones. Except for Stag, who stood over Skip, carrying on a loud, one-sided conversation. Another half hour went by. Stag ran out of gas and sat down. Some of the others were sleeping. It began to get dark. The street lamps blinked on. Cobra eyed Geg with sudden trepidation, “Geg, when is that damn truck supposed to be here?” Staring open-mouthed, Geg didn’t reply right away. Finally, he glanced around and said, “What truck?” The C-130 crew members were shooting dice in the cargo bay when Team Eagle finally arrived. There was a further delay while Cobra hustled everyone for cab fare. At 1030 hours, nearly two hours behind schedule, the heavily laden Hercules lifted off. “Okay, guys!” yelled Cobra, straining to be heard over the engines. “This is it! We have the word!” He glared around. “What’s the word?” As one man, the team roared, “Thunderbird!” Cobra tossed his pack to the deck. “No goddamn it! The MISSION WORD!” Nobody said anything. The big non-com slumped into one of the web seats. “Snake! SNAKE! SNAKE IS THE WORD!” The team members nodded, mumbling, “Oh yeah!”, “Crap!”, “Sure, now I remember!”, and “Oh, that word!”. Soon they were chanting their mantra – “Snake! Snake! Snake!” Geg tried a variation. “Gimme an ‘S’,” he hollered. But the others frowned him down, too embarrassed to be caught dead doing a ‘Snake’ cheer. Finally Cobra stepped forward and quieted them. The C-130 leveled off and conversation was easier. “We got the order!” he said firmly, “Right from the top!” “From the top?” asked Baltar in confusion, “Hillary gave us the go-ahead?” Joker shook his head sadly, “No, you moron,” he said, punching Baltar, “I heard the Big Guy interrupted a game of rubber ducky so he could give the order.” “Right,” agreed Cobra, wondering where Joker got his info. “We have our orders. The Snake is to be terminated.” The others fell silent. Cobra made a fist. “Terminated With Extreme Dislike.” He frowned. “Wait a minute. That’s not right. It’s supposed to make a word. One of them . . . ah . . .” “Acronyms,” said Geg. “It’s supposed to be an acronym. TWED doesn’t sound right.” “Wait, I have it,” exclaimed Skip, “Killed Until Reasonably Dead. K.U.R.D.” “Bite your tongue!” said Baltar, shocked. “None of our mission names have bad words like ‘kill’ and ‘dead’ in them! What’s the matter with you, Skip?” “Oh, yeah. Sorry.” The Air Force crew chief had come down from the flight deck during their conversation. Standing beside Cobra, he shook his head. “Wassamattawhichuguys?” he asked, a statement that stopped Stag and Red cold. Absently scratching himself, the man went on, “Ugonna killda Snake! Doneedno fancy mumbojumbo bullcrap!” Nodding in satisfaction, he made his way back to the cockpit. After some discussion, the Team decided that whatever the crew chief had said, he meant no real harm and was probably not a security risk. “I remember the proper phrase,” said Joker. The others waited expectantly. “It’s Terminate Using Russian Devices.” Cobra slapped himself on the forehead. “Of course! How could I forget? T.U.R.D.” Baltar nodded. “Make everyone think the Russians did it. Smart thinking.” “What Russian devices?” asked Geg. **** |