A Tan Beret Goes to Nellis

[Wolfman]

Well, he did have it out for Sophie for some reason…

[jemhouston]

Well, he did have it out for Sophie for some reason…

1. Sophie was highly dangerous and a valuable tool for an even more dangerous General Officer.

2. Adam was hunting him at least part time and getting rid of Sophie would knock him for a loop.

3. Baltar was a jerk.

[Wolfman]

Well, he did have it out for Sophie for some reason…

1. Sophie was highly dangerous and a valuable tool for an even more dangerous General Officer.

2. Adam was hunting him at least part time and getting rid of Sophie would knock him for a loop.

3. Baltar was a jerk.

Precisely why he could conceivably be blamed. Not that I’m saying that he’s to blame here…

[Poohbah]

16 January 1988
MAG-11 Headquarters
Sheppard AFB
Wichita Falls, TX

Major Wiser stopped at the entrance to the Group CO's office.

The adjutant waved him in. "Skipper wants this done fast."

Wiser knocked once, and heard, "Enter!"

He marched in and heard Brady say, "Shut the door and stand at ease, we've got a problem."

Wiser did so, and then realized Chief Henrix and a male Marine warrant officer were also in the room.

"Major Wiser, meet Gunner Sikorski, from the 3rd Marine Air Wing Counterintelligence Team. He requested this meeting, and I figured you need to be read in."

Wiser noted that Sikorski wore a silver bar split lengthwise by a red horizontal stripe.

One of the new CWO-5s. Very senior, very knowledgeable.

Sikorski stood to attention. "Good morning, sir."

"Good morning, Gunner. So, what's the issue?"

Sikorski gestured to Sophie, who said, "I found out yesterday afternoon that AFOSI is dangling me."

Wiser asked, "Dangling?"

Brady said, "As in 'using her as bait,' Guru."

Wiser sighed. "We do not need this kind of stupidity right now--especially since AFOSI seems to be purchasing bulk quantities."

Brady nodded. "Agreed. I've briefed Gunner Sikorski on the outlines of your mission, and some of the requirements that entail."

Wiser nodded. "Any recommendations for security on our end?"

"Sir, I'd recommend a technical sweep of the planning space."

"Technical sweep?"

"Make sure there's no extra ears in the walls, sir."

Wiser nodded. "Anything else?"

"Well, Chief Henrix told me about the talk she gave yesterday, and I plan to turn it into an ad campaign across the wing. 'Shut the Fuck Up for the Gipper.' That's pure gold."

Brady said, "The church ladies will have conniptions."

"The church ladies ain't here, sir."

Everyone in the room laughed.

"Gentlemen, if I may . . . I believe I may have the outlines of plan to find likely agents."

Brady snorted. "Going to twiddle a slide rule?"

"Actually, this is going to require a computer, sir. The math is pretty basic--matrix algebra--but the scale is kind of imposing, it's not really amenable to a slide rule."

Brady rolled his eyes and asked, "Matrix algebra? That's your notion of 'basic' math?"

Sophie said, "Well, it is for me, sir. What I'm going to need is rosters of all of the MAG-11, squadron, and the base-level working groups for stuff like supply, munitions, operations, admin, MWR, et cetera. And then I'm going to need to know who is supposed to be talking to whom."

Brady said, "The S-1 can help you out with that. What are you looking for?"

"That's why it's still an outline of an idea. I'm not sure what I'll find, but I'll know it when I see it, sir."

Sikorski said, "Chief, not meaning to rain on your parade, but this is akin to looking for a needle in a haystack."

Sophie smiled. "Gunner, if you think of manually searching a haystack, you're absolutely right. But I'd never manually search a haystack for a needle. Always choose the right tool for the job, sir."

Brady asked, "So just what is the right tool for finding a needle in a haystack?"

Henrix said. "A big magnet, sir."

Brady blinked, then said said, "Gunner Sikorski, stand fast, Guru, you can get back to your squadron, and Gunner Henrix, please wait outside."

* * *

Once he was alone with Sikorski, Brady asked, "Look, I told General Tanner that we can't use a slide rule to solve every damn problem. He said that I can't, but Gunner Henrix can. And, apparently, she can out-think most people, including me. Your thoughts?"

Sikorski quiet for a long moment, then said, "Sir . . . she thinks carefully about the problem and figures out exactly what it is before she tries solving it. A lot of people don't think with that kind of precision--and I have to admit that includes me, sir. The needle in a haystack? It's the one thing in the haystack that isn't made of hay. Most people don't even think about that. I sure didn't. Using a magnet . . . it's kind of embarrassing, because it's so damn obvious in hindsight. If she thinks math is the way to find spies, I'm going to hear her out before I say it's garbage, sir."

[jemhouston]

Search for the next Mythbusters Needle and Haystack

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L9Subid ... c3RhY2s%3D

OG Mythbusters did it also. At least one method was burning the hay.

https://youtube.com/shorts/BdP_QKbq7R0? ... YWGpKTmgD0

[Poohbah]

16 January 1988
MAG-11 HQ S-2 Shop

Sikorski came back after lunch to find Sophie with a few printouts and the computer running a program.

"All right, Gunner Henrix, walk me through this."

Sophie held up Fischer's book, Paul Revere's Ride. "Have you had a chance to read this, sir? It's short-listed for the History Pulitzer."

"Can't say that I have."

"All right. Doctor Fischer taught my frosh US History class at MIT--he bluntly told us he was looking for some extra beer money, so he was slumming from Harvard. He spent about ten years doing research into who was who in Colonial Boston--not just the famous names, but the less well-known ones--and who they were talking to. He was expecting to spend seven or more years writing the book . . . and then he didn't have anything else to do with the war snagging all of his students, so he got it written in just one year."

"All right. So where are we going with this?"

"Fischer spent ten years figuring out that Paul Revere was the critical man in colonial resistance to His Majesty's Government."

"Sure, the midnight ride."

"But he found that it went way further than that, sir. He was the main connector between a lot of separate groups; he really was instrumental in connecting up a bunch of people who had sort of the same ideas, but otherwise wouldn't have met. Like I said, it took Fischer a decade to find these connections. I can find them in about ten minutes of computer time. I spent this morning loading the data."

"And you can show this through math?"

Sophie said, "Yes, sir. Let's step over to the whiteboard, and I'll walk you through the basics of matrix multiplication."

Sophie said, "First, the number of columns in the first matrix must equal the number of rows in the second matrix."

Sophie then showed the details of matrix multiplication. "You multiply these two numbers together, those two numbers together, and then add the products, and they go in this cell of the matrix. And you just do that for each of the cells in the final matrix."

"All right, so how many people are we talking about?"

"254. In seven different groups."

"Gunner Henrix, I'd say 'it's like finding a needle in a haystack, but you showed me what was what on that metaphor."

"Well, sir, I loaded a table of data into the computer. 254 rows--one for each of our guys--and seven columns, one for each group they were a member of. I then wrote a program to do the matrix multiplication. Now, the only data I have is who belonged to which group. Now, understand this: in this model, I have no idea of the content of their communications, or their relations to each other in their various groups. All I have is what groups each man was in. What I did was tip the first matrix on its side, to get a 7 row matrix with 254 columns. I then multiplied the first matrix by the second, and got a 7x7 matrix that shows how many in each group were connected each of the other groups."

Sikorski examined the screen. A pentagram with a lopsided star inside was displayed. "All right, that's interesting--this North Caucus group seems to have a lot of connections to the Tea Party, the Boston Committee, and the London Enemies--but I'm interested in people."

"Yes, sir. The North Boston Caucus was a highly connected political club that could get their people into local elected positions, just by building a consensus as to who should be elected alderman, et cetera, and then everyone worked their own networks." Sophie tapped the keyboard, and another diagram appeared with hundreds of lines.

"So, I did it the other way, and got a 254 by 254 matrix of individuals, showing how many groups the two men at the row and column intersection both belonged to. Sir, put yourself in the position of an officer in one of His Majesty's regiments in Boston. Imagine you know nothing about any of these people on this diagram--all you know is that these people belong to certain groups that are of interest to His Majesty's senior officials. Some crazy Tory loyalist woman--who is obviously courting madness and sterility by studying ciphering to an unhealthy degree--has done a great deal of calculation and says to you, this chap here seems to be at the center of the treasonous web."

Sikorski chuckled.

Sophie zoomed in on the center of the diagram, and the name "Revere, Paul" came into focus.

"Again, sir, I stress that this model doesn't know who's talking to whom, or what they're talking about. It's just an set of data of which people belong to which organizations."

"So he really was the linchpin. Lots of connections."

"Yes, sir." She then handed the printouts to Sikorski. "This first sheet is what we call 'betweenness centrality' for each of the people on the list.

"What's that?"

"It measures how many of the shortest paths between any two different people on this list happen to pass through a particular person."

Sikorski looked, then said, "Mr. Revere seems to score quite highly."

"Yes, sir."

Sikorski flipped to the next page. "Eigenvector centrality. Can you explain that in English?"

"Sir, these people form a huge network--each person is a node in the network. Now, some nodes are more central than others, and this measures both the person's own overall centrality, and his centrality in comparison to other centrally placed people."

Sikorski nodded, then said, "So, we already know that Mr. Revere is quite connected, and we look at that in relation who the people he's connected with . . . and they're pretty connected, too. Again, he scores highly." He flipped the page. "Hmm." He affected a posh British accent. "I say, this Revere chap has a very low score on this one--one of the lowest, in fact."

"On this one, the lower, the better. It's called 'Bonacich Power Centrality.' It's a measure of how connected Mr. Revere is to people who don't have a lot of other connections."

Sikorski frowned. "Why's that important?"

"The fewer connections a person has, the more reliant they are on anyone who is highly connected, which means that the highly connected person has more actual power. If someone has a lot of high-quality connections to highly connected people, that's it means he's highly influential--because he can get word out quickly--but it doesn't mean he has actual power--"

Sikorski grinned, and Sophie swore she could see a light bulb coming on. "Because highly connected people aren't solely relying on him--they have other options to get things done."

"Exactly, sir."

Sikorski was silent for a moment, then said, "All right, you've sold me. This doesn't give me probable cause--but it does give me an idea who I would need to keep an eye on. Counterintelligence work starts with who has access--one of the Cambridge Five spies, Kim Philby, he came within an ace of heading British intelligence--said, 'In order to betray, you must first belong.' This sort of thing gives me an idea of who might have too much access."

Sikorski then scratched his jaw. "And I might have another use for this. The Army's Counter-Intelligence Corps is trying to vet people out in town--part of handing governance back to the civil authorities. The local resistance recruited from civic associations. They always had security problems--nothing high-grade, but there were too many times where people were lifted by PSD or the KGB, or the coast wasn't clear and a meeting or operation would have to abort. Can you run this for all the people who were in the Resistance?"

Sophie said, "Yes, sir."

"All right, let's get you the groups and their memberships."

* * *

17 January 1988
MAG-11 Headquarters
Sheppard AFB
Wichita Falls, TX

Sophie finished putting the data in and ran the groups first.

She got a lopsided star again.

Sikorski said, "Damn it. There shouldn't be that much connectivity between all those groups."

Sophie tapped the screen. "You see how thin those connections are. Remember, in the example I used, the North Caucus connectors were thick--lots of members in common with the St. Andrew Lodge and the Tea Party. This might be just one guy. And I think I know who it is from when I was cranking the data, but let's see if I'm right."

She looked, and said, "Andrew Johnson. A very bland name for a guy with a lot of interesting connections."

* * *

17 January 1988
Texas State Archives
Office of the Texas Government in Exile
Indianapolis, IN

Seana Mulvaney rolled into work after lunch.

Literally.

She liked to joke that everything from groin up still worked, but that she wasn't going to be that athletic in bed, given that a chunk of spall from the turret of her M60A3 had left her a paraplegic.

Charlotte Pennington, a cheerful grandmother, smiled. "And she's even early back from lunch. Great attitude. Listen, we just got a rocket--Doc Preble wants this worked immediately, if not sooner."

"Roger that."

"It's at your desk."

Mulvaney rolled over and picked up the folder, glanced at the name and locale, and went over to the driver's license index, starting with 1980.

And got a hit . . . in Arlington, from 1983.

Mulvaney kept going--and found another hit on the same license number, but reissued in Wichita Falls in March of 1985.

"Charlotte?"

"What's up?"

"How often do people move from Arlington to Wichita Falls?"

Pennington walked over and asked, "Where's Wichita Falls?"

Mulvaney looked at the map. "Uh . . . right on the Red River, on the Oklahoma border."

Pennington frowned. "That's . . . odd. Arlington's right in the Dallas-Fort Worth area. That and Houston are the places where young men go to seek their fortune."

"Guy moved there in March of '85."

"That is strange. Most relocations take place over the summer. What's in Wichita Falls?"

Mulvaney pulled a clipboard across her desk and said, "Sheppard Air Force Base . . . before the war it was home to the Air Force intelligence schools."

"Spies?"

"Not really. Targeteers--they lay out where the enemy is, and what weapons you're going to need--and intelligence officers--those guys aren't spies, they basically present what information we have to the commander to support the mission."

"Hmm. All right, let's hand this over to Doc Preble and he'll get it to whoever asked."

[jemhouston]

Instead of Sophie, I heard Charlie Eppes making that speech to Don, David, Colby, and Megan.

[Poohbah]

18 January 1988
Wichita Falls, TX

Staff Sergeant Jeremiah Weed, USMC adjusted the focus of the zoom lens, then watched through the viewfinder of the camera as Andrew Johnson stepped out of the apartment building over a thousand yards away.

He spoke quietly into a microcassette recorder. "Subject is an adult male between the ages of 30 and 40, approximately six feet in height. Blond hair, mustache, and beard, hazel eyes. He is fit and alert."

Johnson happened to turn in Weed's general direction, and Weed took three pictures. He tracked Johnson as the man headed west. As he reached a bus bench, he put his foot up as if to retie his shoe. Instinct prompted Weed to turn on the motor drive, and he watched as Johnson reached into his pocket, then tied his shoe--and his hand reached quickly under the bus bench.

"Gotcha."

* * *

18 January 1988
MAG-11 HQ
Sheppard AFB

Walker looked at the pictures and said, "I'm pretty sure I've met this guy, working a case in Dallas. He was active in the community. Thing is, he didn't have a beard . . . and I'm pretty sure his name wasn't Johnson."

Sikorski said, "We can pick him up on that basis alone. False personation is kind of serious."

Walker nodded. "We could. But it'd be nice if we could catch him in the act." He looked speculatively at Sophie.

Sikorski said, "Give her a Marine cover and blouse, say, Corporal's stripes . . . she works in the comm center. Has some gambling debts, willing to sell some yellow."

Sophie blinked. "Yellow?"

Sikorski smiled. "Raw teletype printout. Ivan's always looking for that stuff."

There was a knock on the door. Sikorski answered it and let in a middle-aged man in civilian clothes.

"Pete, you know Ranger Walker, and this is Chief Warrant Officer Sophie Henrix, United States Air Force. Sophie, this is Pete Hebern. He was active in the resistance."

Hebern looked her over and nodded. "You're a meat-eater."

Sophie returned his look levelly, weighing him. "Likewise, I assume."

"Tunnel rat in 'Nam, worked in and out of the sewers and storm drains here in Wichita Falls."

Sophie stood up, and Hebern said, "Now, ma'am, I was just a Spec 4, nothing special."

Walker asked, "What did you get, Pete?"

"It's a dead drop, magnetic key holder under the bench, got a good look from the storm drain with a dental mirror. Frank Merrill cleared it about 37 minutes later."

Walker nodded. "Thanks, Pete."

After Hebern left, Walker said, "Merrill was a black marketer . . . and a weathervane."

Sophie nodded at the slang for a man who supported whoever happened to be winning.

Sikorski said, "Figure Ivan's got enough to blackmail him into doing what they want." He looked at Sophie. "He runs an illegal gambling joint. Off-limits, but enough of our people go there that you'd have some cover."

* * *

Sophie was two thousand dollars down, and she only had $300 in scrip on her. She'd surrendered her sidearm--a regular .45 rattly as hell--at the door, and a large gentleman was standing behind her.

She quietly wondered if she'd need her CIA letter opener.

The man said, "Mr. Merrill would like to speak to you."

Sophie went with him to the upstairs office.

Merrill was chubby--which set her alarms off. People didn't get fat in the occupation unless they were really working for Ivan.

"What am I going to do with you, Corporal . . . "

"Corporal Goren."

"Goren. First name?"

"Mary."

"Mary Goren. So, you owe me two grand. Now, I don't suspect you have that much on you. So, the way I see it, you can work in my brothel to pay it off. Unless you've got something else to trade besides that cute ass."

"I can sell you some yellow."

"I've got three guys selling me yellow already."

Time to play the hole card.

"There's yellow, and there's yellow."

"Yellow is yellow."

"Unless it's SPECAT."

Merrill blinked.

"I'm listening."

* * *

Sophie climbed the stairs of the apartment building, headed down the third floor hallway, and knocked on the door of apartment 306.

The door opened, and Andrew Johnson blinked in surprise, said, "Yo' tvoyu maht'!," then slammed the door in her face.

She tried the door; locked. She took a tensioner and pick out of her hair and had the door opened in ten seconds.

Johnson was by the sliding glass door to the balcony.

She kept her voice casual as she pulled a suppressed Walther TPH out of her left sleeve. "Try your own, she's cheaper."

Johnson managed to get the door open, then ran onto the balcony and jumped.

* * *

Johnson rolled to his feet after making a parachute landing fall to see a Texas Ranger pointing a pistol at him. He raised his hands and said, "I'll tell you whatever you want to know! Just keep me away from that crazy bitch!"

"Now, now, that's not a very nice thing to say. This way, please."

* * *

18 January 1988
JSOTF Facility
Sheppard AFB
Wichita Falls, TX

"What the hell was that guy's problem, anyway?"

Sikorski chuckled. "Chief . . . you have to admit, you do have a certain reputation, courtesy of Las Vegas."

"We nuke Cherepovets, and nobody bats an eye. I cook one kiddie diddler extra crispy, and everybody loses their fucking minds!"

Sikorski's jaw dropped. Finally, he managed to say, "Seriously?"

Sophie nodded. "Caught him in the act, even."

Sikorski took a swig from a can of Dr. Pepper. "Bastard had it coming, I guess."

They looked at the television screen, showing the camera feed from the interrogation room.

Sikorski said, "He's scared shitless."

"Let me talk to him."

"That ain't going to calm him down."

Sophie grabbed a can of Dr. Pepper and a can of 7-Up from the geedunk refrigerator, then dropped a few scrip bills into the coffee can.

"Maybe. Maybe not."

* * *

Sophie walked into the interrogration room, put a can of Dr. Pepper in front of Johnson, then sat down.

Sophie cracked open the 7-Up. "Andrei Ivanovich, calm down. Drink."

He opened the can and sipped. Sophie did likewise with hers.

She spoke quietly. "You and I are professionals, Andrei. We're not chekisti, and we're not the drooling psychopaths the PSD recruits." She took another sip, then said, "I serve the United States."

She looked expectantly at Johnson.

He sighed, then said, "Exactly so." He paused, then said, "I didn't expect to meet Baba Yaga herself . . . let alone survive."

"Is that what they call me?"

Johnson nodded.

"I see." She paused, then said, "The cover name I used is that of a friend. She helped me adapt to life at MIT. In 1985, she graduated and went on to pursue a master's degree at Columbia."

Johnson nodded slightly.

"I'm sure Tovarisch Chebrikov would say it wasn't anything personal . . . but it sure feels personal, sometimes. But, as I said . . . we are professionals. I don't hate you. Whatever rage I have is reserved for Chebrikov and any other idiots who started this war."

"Kosov."

Sophie sipped her soda and raised an eyebrow. "Do tell."

"That chekist bastard Kosov cooked the books on net assessment. To make a war seem winnable."

"Ivashutin and the other senior officers at the Aquarium didn't agree, I take it."

"More like anyone with the good sense that God gave a crabapple disagreed. And here we are."

Sophie nodded. "And here we are. Here's the deal. We're going to interrogate the shit out of you. Officially, it's over your connections to Merrill and his antics, which represent a threat to good order and discipline, and you're only peripherally involved. From then on, we're going to run you as a double. You pass what we want you to pass. When the war's over, you'll have an unfortunate accident, and the good folks at the US Marshals's WITSEC program will stash you away and let you live out your life quietly. Or you can go up in front of Hanging Joe Lessig at III Corps Staff Judge Advocate. He's called that for a reason."

"As you serve the United States, I serve the Soviet Union."

"We're going to win. We both know this. The sooner we win, the fewer good folks on both sides die. That's my notion of a win-win at this point. The sooner the Soviet Union loses, the better position it--or whatever successor state arises--will be in." She sighed. "Any damn fool can die for his country. God knows I've seen enough do so."

Sophie stood up, taking her 7-Up with her.

"Think about it."

[Matt Wiser]

The offer one can't refuse. Be a double agent, or push up daisies after a necktie party.

[jemhouston]

I used to have a CIA letter opener. Never could open an envelope with it. No, I wasn't stupid enough to try to get it past a secure area.

I also have the knife it's based on. Never have worn it.

[Poohbah]

18 January 1988
Area 51
Nevada Test Site

Colonel Mitchell Gant and Major Viktor Belenko stood to attention as the door of the C-20C came open and Major General Samuel Lodge climbed down to the hangar floor.

"Good afternoon, sir."

"Good afternoon, Colonel, Major. Good to see both of you again."

* * *

Lodge laid out the briefing documents on the conference room table. "Hate to bug you again, but I want you to sanity test my thinking about the Firefox. This is going up before the President's Foreign Intelligence Advisory Board."

Gant nodded, then glanced at Belenko, who likewise nodded.

They went over each item--satellite photographs

"Well, sir, you know my thinking. Maybe they're just having trouble getting the program back on track; most of the engineering team died, after all." He gestured to Belenko with an easy smile. "Viktor Ivanovich probably disagrees with me."

Belenko returned the smile and said, "I don't always disagree with you, Mitchell Petrovich! Just in this matter. They may be doing a . . . what do you call it here, a technology demonstration? Perhaps try to get the weapons system into something that ordinary conscripts could repair. But nothing beyond that."

Lodge asked "Why do you think that?"

Belenko smiled. "Because the PVO hates the SR-71s only slightly less than they hate your B-52s. Every time you send one on a dash from Kaliningrad to the Kola, or past Vladivostok or Kamchatka, you utterly humiliate them. You make them look incompetent in front of the General Staff and the Defense Minister, and you make the General Staff and the Defense Minister look incompetent in front of the Politburo."

Gant looked at Belenko. "So, you are arguing that absence of evidence really is evidence of absence."

"In this particular case, yes, sir. This aircraft can bring down an SR-71. If the PVO had their way, we would have seen it by now. Therefore, someone must have intervened against them."

Gant sipped some coffee and said, "All right, then, who?"

Belenko asked, "How good is that plane, Mitchell Petrovich? Really?"

Gant chuckled. "Blazingly fast and high. Goes like a bullet--and, admittedly, it turns like one, too. Downside? It's a fuel hog--I flamed out while I was rolling down the runway at Lossiemouth--and the antiradar coating is well behind our own low-observable technology."

Belenko riffed through the documents on the desk, found one, and passed it to Gant. "This is what they were saying about it to their superiors during flight testing."

Gant flipped through the document and tossed it back onto the table. "Well, that explains why everyone wanted me to steal the damn thing. But it wasn't that good. Not by a long shot."

Lodge asked, "What happens in the Soviet Union when there's a major cock-up like this?"

Belenko said, "Well, it's similar to here. The bosses want to know what went wrong, and they want someone's scalp. The usual phrase is, 'There is more than enough blame for everyone.' They identify the ones who screwed up the most, and . . . "

Belenko drew a finger across his throat. Both men nodded.

"And they would've done all that before found out the plane wasn't that good, that test results were fabricated, et cetera. If it enters service and it's not that great, who cares? Everyone got their bonuses and special rewards. But if something goes really wrong before it enters service, well, everyone's going to be looking into just what went wrong. And when the bosses find out it wasn't going to work that well, two things happen. One of them is that all the people who got purged get all the blame for the failure to perform."

Gant asked, "What's the other thing?"

Belenko said, "You know those pictures of Stalin, where people who annoyed him got airbrushed out?"

Gant chuckled. "That's what happens to the program? Airbrushed out of history?"

"Exactly so." Belenko snapped his fingers. "Poof, it's gone. And it's never spoken of ever again."

Gant scratched his jaw and finally said, "I'm not entirely convinced. But . . . it's actually a damn good argument."

* * *

The hangar was almost a quarter mile long, over a football field wide, and 18 stories high. It had been built in haste in late 1985.

Inside, the airship squatted on the floor. A work crew was installing equipment on it.

"OK, this the High Altitude Long Endurance platfom, or HALE. We call it Nathan."

Lodge blinked. "Horrible pun, Mitch."

Gant smiled. "Thought you'd like it, sir."

Lodge looked at it. It seems so . . . insubstantial.

"How high is high?"

"23 miles."

Lodge let out a low whistle. That was over 120,000 feet.

Gant said, "The SDIO did a test with one a ground-based telescope and a relay mirror. Watched tanks maneuvering at the Sacajawea Training Area from over 800 miles away on the ground. Adaptive optics in the relay mirror took away all the atmospheric refraction. They said you could read unit markings." Gant smiled. "The really fun part was that the unit was under cloud cover. A satellite directly overhead wouldn't have seen anything.

"Pretty impressive. So, what about range?"

"Photovoltaics across the upper surface; they charge the batteries while it's in daylight, and the batteries can last a good 48 hours by themselves. We like to haul it back in after two weeks or so and do a teardown inspection on all the major mechanical and avionics, but that's mostly because we've never soaked an airframe at that altitude for that long. We're learning interesting things."

Lodge nodded. "What about the payload?"

Gant said, "They've flown it before. NSA guy's already loaded in the software, E-Systems is just doing final checkout at this point. Whatever you're looking for, if it's there, you'll find it."

Lodge nodded. "Ivan's been tracking our GLCMs in near real-time. We think he's got some trucks running around behind our lines with nuclear detection gear. Figure they're sending data to their low-altitude ELINT birds for immediate download. So we're shoving a flight into a patrol box around Wichita."

Gant nodded. "Makes sense. All right, then, we're now using this thing for operational work. Maybe we build more after the war."

As evening fell, the winds died down.

Operations at Genesis--the call sign for the base--were a lot simpler now than they used to be. The exclusion area went out two ridgelines from the ops area, and the launch windows were a lot wider than they used to be due to most Soviet recon sats being knocked out.

Now, they simply waited for nightfall. For HALE, the reason for nightfall was to get calm air for bringing the fragile airship out of the hangar.

Lodge remembered the early A-12 test flights; the aircraft had thundered down the runway, J58s creating shock diamonds in their exhaust.

HALE was . . . quiet. An electric motor drove a huge propeller; it was spinning so slowly you could watch each blade, you didn't think it was generating any thrust. But it pushed the airship ahead steadily, and it rose skyward with surprising quickness for something so quiet.

The running lights winked out, and it was invisible.

19 January 1988
Sheppard AFB
Wichita Falls, TX

Sophie wore her tan beret, a cartridge belt, and an OOD brassard on her right sleeve. Her pistol hung in her gunfighter holster, and drew the occasional look.

She walked through the enlisted mess tent and inspected the kitchen area for cleanliness and proper maintenance, then stepped into line and got a tray of food. It was acceptable, and she so noted in the OOD's logbook.

She ignored the bubble of silence around her table; she ate quickly and left. One thing she'd learned in two years and change was that, while officers needed to visit the dining facility and make sure things were up to snuff--one could only expect what one took the time to inspect--it were one of the few places--along with their billeting and the enlisted club--where the troops could unwind and relax.

And complain about officers, of course.

The troops needed their space. So her duty was to make sure everything was good, and quickly leave.

Sophie stepped through the door to the scullery, and she heard the conversation pick back up.

The night was chilly, and Sophie made her way to the enlisted club tent, observing that things were pretty quiet in the enlisted billeting area. Too cold to be out doing stupid stuff.

In the club, she went straight to the bar, inspecting the taps, sink area, and overall cleanliness, then stepped into the kitchen and did likewise. She remembered CAYG from her time at Jack in the Box: Clean As You Go. The kitchen staff had been doing that.

She thanked the club manager for outstanding work, then bailed as quickly as she had at the mess hall.

Then she made her way to the Staff NCO club. Here, she went in through the kitchen entrance and inspected the kitchen area, then stepped into the main area of the club.

Conversation stopped.

She moved through the area quickly and efficiently, inspecting the bar facilities' cleanliness and equipment serviceability.

An attractive blonde woman was at the end of the bar, and Sophie smiled at her. "Warrant Officer Henrix, I'm standing OOD tonight. Quiet night so far, Miss . . . ?"

"Kovacs. Jackie Kovacs. Pretty quiet."

Sophie nodded and looked directly at the blonde, holding eye contact for what she hoped was just one instant too long. "Well, everything's clean and serviceable. Thank you for your hard work."

Kovacs flushed slightly at the compliment.

And she's heard about me, despite working at the Staff Club. Interesting.

* * *

Kovacs watched the other woman leave, then went back to getting orders to tables, turning the encounter over in her mind as she did so. Attractive enough, if you're into women. And she's definitely into me.

She'd had the "sparrow" training, like all KGB women of a certain attractiveness did. She'd bedded a few women as potential sources. Most had been desperate, needy, and unattractive--even, in a few cases, repulsive. Most had pawed at her inexpertly at best.

Henrix was none of these. Her gaze was confident, even cocksure. She was attractive and she knew it; and she'd been on a tear through the known deviants, starting (unsurprisingly) with Captain Thrace. And her partners were themselves attractive, and had apparently enjoyed their time with her, with raised eyebrows and knowing smiles if she came up in conversation.

And she has a tan beret, those are high priority. We've captured two, and one had managed to get himself killed in an escape attempt, the other had managed to break EVERYONE out of the holding facility. Who knew you could build an explosively-formed penetrator out of a jailhouse toilet?

She went back to the bar and saw it was time for her break. She went through the kitchen area and sat down in the break room they'd rigged up.

She's a tad reckless. Maybe I can use that. But I need to keep her away from Abercrombie. Why didn't I just kill her when she first showed up?

Abercrombie had been a true believer. But she was also, Kovacs had learned, a damn lunatic.

Enough. I'm going to need that PSD stay-behind team. They're competent. We can grab her and make our way south until the VDV can extract us.

But a nagging voice kept asking her if it was worth it.

If we're winning, why are the Americans back in Texas?

[jemhouston]

I hate it when the enemy is smart, Kovacs is smart and sane.

[Wolfman]

Nice Macgyver shoutout.

[jemhouston]

I just remember, in either Space Wars: The First Six Hours of World War III, A War Game Scenario or the sequel, they deployed something like HALE to fill in GPS Coverage.


Good book https://www.amazon.com/Space-Wars-First ... 150&sr=8-3

[clancyphile]

Hmmm... Genesis?

Wonder if an Old Dog is hanging out there?

[Matt Wiser]

Well, now. if Major Belenko is right-and there's no reason not to think otherwise-the Firefox will be....removed from Soviet History. And those involved with the program who are not already dead will be reminded of the penalties for divulging state secrets.

HALE will no doubt generate some UFO sightings over its AO.

[Poohbah]

19 January 1988
Sheppard AFB
Wichita Falls, TX

Chief Ross said, "Sir, you know there's a certain number of goofy rumors that fly around any base, right?"

Guru Wiser nodded. "You should only worry when things get too quiet."

Ross said, "Well, sir, there's a few new rumors that just dropped. I mean, in just the past few nights. Including one about a major fighter sweep aimed at Flankertown."

Guru's eyebrows went up. "At the Staff NCO club?"

"Yes, sir."

Guru nodded. "All right. After we launch this sortie, I need you to go over to the base comm center, ask for Chief Warrant Officer Henrix, and she's going to have some questions."

* * *

Ross hadn't known what to expect.

He hadn't expected woman who looked barely old enough to drink, was seriously ripped like Rachel McLish, and wore a dive bubble and some sort of wings with an upthrust dagger.

And wearing a pistol in a gunfighter rig on her thigh.

Her eyes missed nothing, but her expression and demeanor were utterly relaxed.

"Good morning, Chief, I'm Warrant Officer Henrix."

"Good morning, ma'am. I didn't know the Air Force had reinstated warrant officers."

She smiled. "Not a lot of people do. Special program under AFSOC. So, what brings you to my humble abode?"

"Ma'am, there's some new rumors that suddenly started circulating around the O Club in the past few days."

"I see. Before we go any further, I'm the source for those rumors. So, what did you hear, who's passing them along, and who's paying special attention?"

Over the next hour, Ross talked about what he'd heard and who'd been passing them along. Sophie wrote names and numbers--presumably shorthand for the rumors she'd written up--on 3x5 cards.

She asked questions: where did Master Sergeant So-and-so work? If one of your people had a pay gripe, who was the go-to guy at Finance? Who grumbled about young and foolish officers too much? Who said too little? Who could you trust to keep things under their hat, and who were the incurable gossips? Who joined in, who just kind of kibitzed, and who wandered off when the usual suspects started flapping their jaws? Did any of the club staff seem overly familiar with some of the customers? Who was guaranteed to listen to whatever was bugging you?

As he answered, she made tick marks with colored pencils on various cards.

* * *

Sophie looked over her index cards.

She'd gotten some things from Gunnery Sergeant Elizabeth Porton with the comm center staff. The information from Ross had filled in some blanks.

The phone rang.

It was Susan Martinez, down the hall; one of her Staff Sergeants had some stuff.

She went down to the Group intel shop and repeated the same questions she'd asked Chief Ross.

Once back in her workspace, she shuffled the 3x5 cards, then dealt them into groups by various colored tick marks. She did this several times, varying how she grouped the cards, getting a feel for how information flowed inside the staff club.

She built matrices and let the numbers out to play.

An hour and a half later, she came out of her fugue, and saw where everything had converged.

* * *

Chief Ross had just watched the latest sortie go.

"Chief?"

Ross turned. "Yes, ma'am?"

"How well do you know Master Sergeant Vreeland?"

"With the bulk fuels shop, ma'am?"

Henrix nodded.

"Ma'am, let's walk. I think we need a little privacy."

They walked away from the revetments.

Ross finally said, "Ma'am, I don't claim to be the perfect NCO, I just try my best."

"All anyone can ever do, Chief."

Ross nodded. "Vreeland . . . Vreeland's an E-7. Not an NCO. An NCO owns the bad and shares the good. Vreeland plays politics at base HQ, he gossips worse than an entire city of church biddies, he's first to grab credit and the last to accept blame. Now, he was supposed to retire on high year tenure at the end of '85--apparently, the Air Force did not see any real future for him. Well, we're at 100% stop loss for the duration, and he's still here over two years later. Date of rank is summer of '81. That should tell you something."

Henrix nodded once.

"Anyone he hangs with?"

"The staff mess isn't overly impressed with him. We spend a whole lot of effort keeping him away from the Marines because all he'd ever do is piss them off. Say what you want about Marines, they demand results, not excuses. Now, for some reason, there's a waitress at the club that likes him."

"Jacqueline Kovacs?"

Ross blinked. "You know her?"

"Met her last night. You're not the only one who's talked to me. Conspicuous by his absence is Vreeland, who keeps popping up over and over. And you're not the only one who noticed Kovacs seems to like him."

Ross said, "Uh, ma'am . . . look, it's none of my business, but--"

Henrix was regarding Ross with an amused look.

"Let me guess. Tongues are wagging about the sorta butch, sorta femme warrant officer who's scoring with the ladies?"

"Well . . . yes, ma'am."

She smiled "Good."

Ross felt that the smile reminded him of a lion that had just spotted prey.

* * *

Tonight's partner was Second Lieutenant Joan Walker, a newly commissioned officer from the Army's Counterintelligence Corps. They'd snuggled together in a converted shipping container--nothing beyond that, which suited both of them just fine.

At 2200, Sophie faintly heard the bell chime three times in the O Club, signaling that the club was closed for the night.

Joan said, "Be careful."

Sophie smiled. "Always am."

She donned AN/PVS-5 night vision goggles and slipped out of the shipping container, and settled in to wait.

Candy Sutherland appeared at the back exit of the big tent, and began working her way along the road. Her red-lensed flashlight lit her up brilliantly in the NVGs. Sophie trailed her, moving silently, raising each foot high and testing the ground before planting it.

To her surprise, Sutherland didn't employ any tradecraft--no doubling back or stopping. But she wasn't headed straight to the main gate to catch a bus, either.

When she saw the staff club tent, Sophie forced herself to relax, to be nothing more than a hint of a whisper of a zephyr, using the noise of the emptying club to cover her movement.

Sophie worked her way to within thirty feet of the back entrance to the tent, then went absolutely still while squatting in a dumpster's shadow.

Another woman came out, and Sophie was able to make her face out relatively clearly. Her hair was bright green in the NVGs. Probably blonde.

Even at thirty feet, Sophie couldn't make out the details of their murmured conversation.

Interesting. Amateurs trying to have a private conversation whisper, but you can tell they're whispering. Pros murmur so you can't make out the sibilants. These two are pros.

Sutherland then headed off, and the other woman watched her go, then went back into the tent.

* * *

21 January 1988
Sheppard AFB

Blanchard sighed. "Interesting. Still not enough, but the picture's getting clearer."

Sophie nodded. "CIC doesn't want to move just yet, either. They want an operational act. Enough to hold out the prospect of going to the gallows."

Blanchard nodded. "So, what's the next step?"

"Master Sergeant Delmar Vreeland."

Blanchard made a face.

"Why does everyone seem to take an instant dislike to him?"

Blanchard said, "It saves time."

"Still, he's the center guy. Time to zoom in on him."

Blanchard nodded. "How do you plan to go about it?"

"I'm the base wing duty officer tonight--the Ell-Tee who was supposed to have it is now officially indisposed with a fever of unknown origin. As part of my official duties, I shall make the rounds of the dining facilities and clubs, ensuring that good order and discipline are maintained, sanitation and hygiene measures are properly enforced, and that the food is fit for human consumption."

Blanchard gave Sophie a wry grin, and Sophie said, "I've had worse, seriously."

Blanchard sighed. "Yeah, I suppose you have." She paused, then said, "You're getting a solid reputation here as a dyed-in-the-wool lesbian with a taste for good-looking women. People are talking."

Sophie nodded.

"And you want that."

"Yes. Either the PSD agent, or her handler, will make a move."

"Might invite you to their place. Either Pleasant Valley for Sutherland, or Iowa City for Kovacs. You might want someone to watch your back."

Sophie asked, "Got anyone good with the long gun, ma'am?"

"Staff Sergeant Danielle Tucker. She's our designated sniper. Got a school billet at Nellis. Eleven confirmed kills, if that matters."

Sophie nods. "Actually, it does. Good to know. I'm working up an OPLAN. Ever hear of a jack-in-the-box?"

* * *

21 January 1988
Scott Air Force Base
Belleville, IL

Offically, it was the Military Airlift Command Rapid Operations Support Staff, or MACROSS. If you were "read in," the compartment codename was "SENIOR VALKYRIE."

Unofficially, it was simply "The Detachment." Inside the Detachment, there was Falcon Side--the 3-man Falcon teams--intended to be the AFSOC equivalent of Vietnam-era Long Range Reconnaissance Patrols, or LRRPs--and Eagle Side--home of the Ghostrunners, General Lodge's non-official cover intelligence operators.

Master Sergeant Maria Elena Hidalgo--product of a marriage between a Marine embassy guard and an Irish schoolteacher--was proctoring a brush-pass practical application for two trainees when Master Sergeant Todd Bacon came up to her and said, "I'll take over, Chief Walton wants to see you immediately."

* * *

Chief Walton smiled as Hidalgo came in to his office.

"Senior Master Sergeant Hidalgo, you're deploying with a flight from the 887th Tactical Missile Squadron. You're going back to being a CSP for the mission."

Walton sketched out the parameters, and Hidalgo followed along, suggesting minor changes to track with the CSP assignment. The mission was simple enough: look for anomalies and report in. She quickly memorized the accommodation phone numbers in each area code they would operate in, and she stared at the authenticator sheets for an hour, forcing them into her memory, then raced to the flight line to catch her flight.

McConnell Air Force Base
Wichita, KS

The last GLCM tractor-trailer of the flight rolled out of the rear ramp of the C-5 Galaxy and into the secure hangar.

Inside, Hidalgo--now wearing chevrons with a diamond inside, indicating that she was the first sergeant for the CSP element--walked with Captain Frank Moss, the element leader.

"Can't say I'm especially happy to be losing Christensen as my first shirt. Especially for secret squirrel stuff. Whose idea was it to have a spook along for a missile convoy?"

"Sir, my CSP quals are current--for various reasons, I was expected to keep those quals properly maintained. I've been in the business over 14 years. I'm just doing another job on top of this."

Moss nodded. "I think Major Thomas knows something's up. He's been pretty close-mouthed, but I know he's worried about going south of I-80."

* * *

Major Thomas looked at the leadership team and said, "All right, people, we're getting a brief from --"

A man in ABUs stepped into the room, carrying a large folio. Hidalgo stood to attention and called, "Ten-HUT!"

General Stroud called, "As you were!" He looked around the room, then asked, "This everyone?"

Thomas said, "Yes, sir. All principals present."

"Good. Close and lock the door, please. I've had my security detail kick everyone out of this building."

Stroud placed the folio on an easel and opened it, revealing a USGS topographical map sheet.

"All right. First off, as you can have likely guessed, you're going back into the box. You're going to operate in 26 Charlie, then head west to Dodge City on receipt of a force direction EAM over Theater Broadcast November 11 X-Ray, subsequent moves to be determined out of AAFSOUTH, but you will be going to Box 41 Delta at some point. During this entire operation, your CSP team is to be especially watchful for anomalies. Senior Master Sergeant Hidalgo, I am deferring to you for this portion."

Hidalgo stood and went to the easel. "All right, the first thing I'm going to do is introduce myself. I am Senior Master Sergeant Maria Hidalgo. I enlisted in the Air Force in 1973, and became a Security Police officer. I have served at Glasgow, Little Rock, a schoolhouse tour at Lackland, and at Greenham Common with the 38th. I am currently TDY from my parent command for this mission.

"This next part does not leave this room."

Hidalgo looked around and saw everyone's assent.

"Ivan was getting way too lucky. Some very smart people have figured out that Ivan was getting a look at our cards. The brief I got was that it's almost certainly some sort of technical system that detects nuclear material, most likely in a shipping container or a semi trailer. All right, back on record: we're looking for any unusual patterns. Vehicles we see too often. Vehicles behaving weird; we know the pattern of the American wartime highway, we're looking for people breaking that pattern. At truck stops and approaching hide sites, be watchful for people paying too much attention to us, and people trying too hard to look like they're ignoring us. Anyone sees anything, they write it down and pass it to me at a stop, DO NOT USE THE RADIO." She paused, then said, "I know you're thinking I'm going to get a bunch of silly reports, but I have faith in the good sense of our airmen. We don't let weirdos ride these convoys, only the steady hands." She turned to Stroud and said, "That concludes my portion of the briefing, sir."

Stroud nodded and took his place at the easel.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I have to be honest--and just like that little tidbit Master Sergeant Hidalgo passed, this does not leave this room. A lot of assets are going to be watching over you, and we're putting some really smart people on the analysis side." Stroud looked everyone in the room and said, "We have a critical mission--ensuring that theater escalation is a non-starter. We haven't been able to perform that mission for a while. We need to get back out there, and let Ivan know that we're back in business. Major Thomas, your briefing."

The remainder of the briefing was the usual for GLCM convoys--prospective hide sites, route security, logistics, etc.

Stroud spoke up. "Excellent brief, Major. If I could have a moment of your time, I'm sure everyone else has a lot of things they have to do before you roll out."

Thomas took the cue. "All, dismissed, be ready to roll at 1300."

* * *

Once everyone else had left the room, Stroud said, "You're worried that the Fencers will show up."

"They're going to know we're here."

Stroud smiled. "That's what this is all about. We have made major shifts in operations to get to this point. We drove back their theater missiles down to San Antonio; it will take a few days to relocate any of them to strike range, too long to be useful. We've deployed a lot of assets to pick up their chatter reporting your position. We're going to be monitoring their reconnaissance operations and letting some missions make it while others get shot down. Your flight is there to be an irritant. Just driving around, out of SOF range, out of theater missile range. But someone's going to be under a lot of pressure to scratch that itch. That's why we're here. We are here to compel others, and to not be compelled, as Sun Tzu put it. We're going to make the enemy react--but we intend to know he's coming before most of his people know they're going. And we're going to use that knowledge to maximum benefit. When this operation wraps up, every other GLCM flight is going to do the Oklahoma Land Rush all over again. We're going to hold strategic and theater targets in Mexico and Cuba at risk, and that's going to help us win this war."

"And if it doesn't work?"

"A bunch of people, myself included, will probably end up getting court-martialed."

Long chuckled. "Well, sir, I guess you're all in, then."

Stroud nodded and extended his hand.

Long shook it, his grip as sure as Stroud's.

"Good luck and good hunting, Major."

"Thank you, sir."

* * *

The MAN KAT1s had been replaced by Oshkosh HEMTTs, and LAVs--both LAV-25s and LAV-ADATS--were now part of the convoy security, but everything else was familiar from her time at Greenham Common.

Hidalgo climbed onto the second LAV-25, dropped into the turret commander's hatch, donned a Combat Vehicle Crew helmet, and made sure the umbilical was plugged into the intercom.

She flipped the intercom switch to DRIVER. "All right, Hoffman, we ready to roll?"

Airman First Class Hoffman said, "Top, it's 106 miles to Chicago, we got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it's dark, and we're wearing sunglasses."

"Hit it."

* * *

21 January 1988
Sheppard Air Force Base
Wichita Falls, TX

Sophie halted and stood to attention as she entered the SCIF.

"Chief Warrant Officer Henrix reports, ma'am!"

Major Katherine Barzanian gestured for Sophie to shut the door.

Once it was closed and locked, Barzanian's expression went from neutral to barely contained anger.

"Warrant Officer Henrix, just what in the hell do you think you are doing?"

"Running my end of an op, ma'am."

"And that includes screwing every woman on the base? Starting with Kara Thrace, of all people?"

Sophie said, "Cover for status, ma'am."

Sophie hadn't known what to expect.

She definitely hadn't expected Kathy Barzanian--General Samuel Lodge's star student, protégé, person of hench, and likely heir apparent--to lose the angry expression and look . . .

Sad? Defeated?

And then it her her. Broken.

"Ma'am?"

Kathy let out a sigh that stayed just barely on the "sigh" side of "sob," then said, "Sophie . . . ranks are off until further notice. I'm Kathy. Uncle Samuel sent me out here."

Kathy patted the chair next to hers. "Sit down, and let's talk."

Sophie sat down and saw that Kathy's eyes were brimming with tears.

"Sophie . . . Adam . . . is family to me. The whole Lodge clan is. Maybe a year or so before you were born, I was a little girl freezing to death in Turkey. My family had walked over the damn mountains from Soviet Armenia. And we were going to die. Somehow, I understood that--and that's a hell of a thing to lay on a four-year-old. And then an American jeep came along. Within minutes, I was in the Jeep, under the canvas top, and the heater felt wonderful. And a man in fatigues named Master Sergeant Lifsey gave me a little water and food. And he sang to me. I still have no idea what song it was, but he made me giggle, mostly because he made silly expressions while he sang. His boss--Captain Lodge--drove us to the base at Incirlik.

"Three weeks later, I was getting off of a plane in America, and my family eventually ended up in Fresno. Captain Lodge made sure we were settled in, and visited when he could. He became 'Uncle Samuel' over the next 14 years."

Kathy dabbed at her eyes with a tissue.

"And so I went and became an intelligence operative like my hero. I speak Russian, Armenian, Spanish, and French. I've whored myself out for intelligence. You're not a spy like me. You're a warrior, Sophie. You deserve . . . honor. Dignity."

Sophie took Kathy's hands in hers.

"Ma'am--Kathy--I am whatever I need to be to get the job done. So are you. And so is Adam. We talked about this possibility and made our peace with it when he went off to whatever he's doing. Adam's still the only man for me. With a woman? That's different--it's a different kind of closeness. And I will stay away from it when this war is won and I'm betrothed to Adam. Here and now? It builds me a cover, and lets me bait the trap."

Kathy nodded. "Which leaves one question: who are you trying to trap? Why run a trap on top of your assignment?"

"AFOSI decided to dangle me to catch the Queen of Clubs, which really is a stupid thing to do in the middle of helping bring off an op to kill Ivan's long-range strike assets."

Kathy nodded and said, "Agreed. And I think I know who at AFOSI is behind the op. Special Agent In Charge Harlan Svaresen. If brains were rifle oil, he wouldn't have enough to grease the dynamo in a firefly's ass."

"I figure I'm dealing with both her and her KGB handler, and that means I had to come up with a plan."

Sophie reported the state of play.

Kathy's face went neutral as she considered, weighed, and judged the information presented, and put on her game face. She was floored by the mathematical analysis.

"Sophie . . . when this op is done, burn this. All of it. Your math voodoo blows covers faster than a defector from the enemy camp. More reliably, too; everyone tries to plant walk-ins on the enemy."

At the end, Kathy pronounced herself satisfied. "All right. So, tonight, I'm your cover for status. And your chaperone."

Sophie raised an eyebrow.

"Absolutely not!"

Sophie giggled.

"I'm dead serious, Sophie."

Kathy sounded . . . nervous.

Sophie leaned over and whispered three words into Kathy's ear--the same three words Renee Sorensen had.

In spite of herself, Kathy laughed, then said, "And if you ever do tell Adam?"

Sophie smiled and said, "First, I'd say 'it was cover for status.' Then, we'd be bouncing off the walls after I get finished--if not before--and maybe wishing you were there. It's every straight guy's fantasy, right? And it's one of mine, now. And you might think of him as family, but he has definitely noticed you as a woman."

"Sophie . . . I noticed him, too."

Sophie smirked. "For a certain demographic, which we both are apparently in, he is definitely one who can scratch that itch."

After a long pause, Sophie said, "And besides . . . tonight, let us eat, drink, and be merry, because tomorrow may find either or both of us turned into chunky salsa."

Kathy nodded once. "True." She sighed again. "So many good kids gone." She looked at Sophie, and said, "If we end up screwing each other's brains out tonight, it's cover for status . . . and to honor the memory of those who can never have the opportunity."

Sophie nodded, then whispered. "And for the hope of better days to come."

[Johnnie Lyle]

The offer one can't refuse. Be a double agent, or push up daisies after a necktie party.

Depends.

We’ll kill you, but it’s most likely going to be quick and clean, with as much decent treatment as we can muster. You’re weighing that against what the Sovs will do to you if they remotely think you’ve turned.

Even if the Sovs never cash that check, you’re sweating their vengeance every day - plus waiting for us to do you dirty, because that’s both what the Sovs would do and you are doing.

So, either way, we get a modicum of payback.

[Matt Wiser]

Caught the Blues Brothers shout-out...

And the GLCMs are moving in as bait. Time to see what 16th Air Army decides to do about it.

[jemhouston]

Once you're used for bait, you're not good for much else. I'm hoping I'm wrong.