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From:	shadowtk@*********.com (Paul J. Adam)
Subject:	Discussion and Aftermath
Date:	Sat Jan 19 05:05:01 2002

Message no. 1 *****PRIVATE: BGen J R W Lynch
>>>>>[I thought you might appreciate this, just so you know where you
stand.

+++++begin transcript
D: David J H Coppinger
G: Representative Gowne

G: Thank you for meeting me so quickly, David.

D: It's not as if I'm busy these days.

G: Not officially, anyway. But I have to say, I was very impressed with
your manoeuvre.

D: Hopefully *just* impressed...

G: Pleased, too, that you at least honoured the spirit of my intention.
And just a little bit annoyed at the end result.

D: You had left us very little room to work in, Representative, and your

own choice of actions forced the outcome. Believe me, Jason is no
happier about it than you are.

G: Oh, I'm actually glad about the final outcome.

D: Really?

G: It galls me to have to punish soldiers like Lynch. I know that may
seem hard to believe, but it's true. Yet if we declare that the law
can be waived, or ignored, or glossed over, when we judge it
convenient...

I sometimes imagine a great dam, David, holding back a vast press of
water. And while it might be tempting to bore a few, tiny holes, to
let just a trickle of water through - when you do so, the torrent
follows, destroying the dam and wreaking havoc on all below. The law
has to be applied to all, and the test is how we honour it even when
we would prefer not to.

D: You'd get on well with Drake.

G: I do, as a matter of fact. I was surprised by his defence of Lynch.
Perhaps that was part of why I'm adequately content with the final
result. Everyone got what they wanted, and the law was upheld.

D: Except Lynch.

G: Oh, come on, you can't tell me he isn't pleased-

D: No, he most certainly is not. Don't assume that, because many of
the officers you meet in this town lust after power and promotion,
that Jason does. And remember that Ernang forced his promotions
through to *hurt* and *weaken* the Lynches, not to reward them.

G: He doesn't have to accept it-

D: He had no choice, any more than you did. And if he quits now he's
a civilian, and either someone else will have to fill his role, or
it will go unfilled.

G: Am I meant to feel bad about this?

D: No. Lynch will do the job he's been given, and I hope he'll do it
well. You enforce civilian control of the military, and make it clear
that the law is paramount. It's a good outcome, and I'm sure Lynch
will find ways to make his position tolerable.

G: Under proper oversight, of course.

D: Which brings me to my other issue. Representative Menges is stepping
down very shortly.

G: I heard. His wife's very ill, isn't she?

D: Yes. She's expected to recover, but the therapy is going to be slow
and unpleasant for her. Louis is taking a sabbatical to care for her.

That leaves a vacant seat on the Oversight Committee.

G: After all this, you're offering *me* a seat?

D: If you'd been involved earlier in cleaning up Ernang, we might have
been able to observe more of the legalities. Also, you're honest
and trusted, if not liked; and you understand the difference between
the way the world should be, and the way it actually is.

G: I'll need to think it over carefully.

D: Of course. I thought I should let you know in person, before you were
formally invited.

G: ...And what's your role in all this, David? You don't have a formal
post.

D: Or any ability to act by myself. I'm an adviser and counsellor,
perhaps, able to inform and guide others but powerless myself.

G: You? Powerless? I doubt it. Still, thank you for your time and your
honesty.

D: You're welcome.
+++++end transcript

I hope I did your feelings justice.]<<<<<
-- David J H Coppinger <10:06:42/01-19-63>

From:	shadowtk@*********.com (Mark Imbriaco)
Subject:	Discussion and Aftermath
Date:	Sat Jan 19 11:45:01 2002

Message no. 2 >>>>>[ Who let the Toad in here? ]<<<<<
-- Cdr Z Turner, UCASN <11:38:23/01-19-63>
Commander, SEAL Team Two

***** PRIVATE: BGen J R W Lynch
>>>>>[ Brigadier General? You poor bastard. I've heard some rumblings
about selection for Captain, and I pray to God daily that they refuse to
confirm it. Give me a call if you want to commiserate over a few cases
of beer. ]<<<<<
-- Cdr Z Turner, UCASN <11:40:12/01-19-63>
Commander, SEAL Team Two

From:	shadowtk@*********.com (Paul J. Adam)
Subject:	Discussion and Aftermath
Date:	Sat Jan 19 12:20:00 2002

Message no. 3 >>>>>[I did.

Wanna make something of it?]<<<<<
-- The Two Jakes <Jim:Morrison:The/Doors-Of-Infinity>

From:	shadowtk@*********.com (Paul J. Adam)
Subject:	Discussion and Aftermath
Date:	Sat Jan 19 12:35:01 2002

Message no. 4 *****PRIVATE: Cdr Z Turner, UCASN
>>>>>[Yeah, the sonsabitches sneaked it in on me.

I guess it could have been worse... dishonourable discharge, jail,
whatever - but damn it, wouldn't busting me back down to a Reserve 1Lt
have shown everyone to respect civilian authority enough?

I guess it was because... ah, hell, watch it and figure it out for
yourself.

+++++begin video
Lynch jolts awake: among the other displays in his vision is a warning
that its 07:30:01 and getting later by the second. "Damn!"

"What? Oh, the time! Don't worry, you'll be okay." Lilith, beside him,
pushes him back down. "I set everything up last night. You needed the
extra sleep."

Lynch takes a deep breath, lets it out. "Thanks. Not sure if it helped,
though."

"Bad dreams? That's unusual, for you." Lilith sits up, leans over to
caress her husband's face. Her long, dark-red hair falls across him.
"Whatever happens, Jason, you're going to be okay."

"I wish I was so sure. We've buried Ernang, but I rubbed their noses in
their own shit. Gowne and his crew won't forgive *that* quickly." Lynch
does relax, though, looking up at his wife's exotic beauty:
copper-skinned, auburn-haired, with huge dark blue eyes, Lilith's human
form still echoes with her pantherine genetics.

"Just get dressed and let's go hear the verdict." Lilith smiles. Not the
slightly cruel, feline smirk most people see from her, but a warm,
loving, somehow vulnerable smile. Lynch pulls her face down to kiss her,
then stands and walks to the wardrobe where his Class-As are hanging-

"Where's my good jacket?" he asks. While the blue jacket on its hanger
is clean and immaculately pressed, when you're up close it's noticeably
worn in places, the victim of much use-

"Needed cleaning. A solid week of hearings and it was getting grubby.
Your spare's fine, outside arm's length it looks great." Lilith, getting
out of their bed, is a distractingly attractive sight: too long-limbed,
narrow-hipped and muscular for some, and yet almost disturbingly
beautiful with her graceful, feline movements.

Lynch breaks off from watching his wife, steps back, examines the
jacket. "Yeah, it's serviceable... just seems like a bad omen."

"Don't worry about it." Lilith sounds unconcerned, as she begins to
dress herself in Air Force Class-B blues. Both Lynches, unusually, are
wearing *all* their medal ribbons (or at least, some of their ribbons,
plus the grey silk strips that hide the ones they are not meant to wear
in public), though not the medals themselves; and as they dress both are
wearing sidearms, neither an issue pistol (Lilith her Enforcer, Lynch
his antique Python revolver).

Lynch goes a step further, and makes rare use of the loops on his dress
belt in order to hang his dress sword from it. There's a certain look to
the weapon... perhaps the way the chamois leather grip is rubbed black,
perhaps the nicks and scars in the basket hilt, that suggest that it
sees more use than most officer's swords (which for many years have
traditionally cut more wedding cakes than enemy throats). The heavy,
straight-bladed sword (an Army M1913 "Patton Skewer", not the official
Marine-issue curved, Mameluke-hilted Marine sabre or the almost
mediaeval hand-and-a-half broadsword Lynch favours for combat use) hangs
at his hip in a frighteningly comfortable, natural way, though, as if
he'd adjusted the harness to make sure his dress sword was out of the
way and yet ready for instant use.

Of course, most modern officers wouldn't think of their dress sword as a
useful weapon...

Lynch stares at himself in the mirror, as he settles his cap in place
and makes sure his appearance is adequate. Unusually, he's not wearing
his sunglasses: probably they're not considered appropriate for a
Congressional hearing. Meeting his own grey-eyed stare, he sighs.
"Fuck'em, they shouldn't have joined if they can't take a joke."

+++++pause
+++++resume

Lynch sits in the corridor, smoking. Various functionaries and
secretaries scurry by, some giving him filthy looks for polluting their
atmosphere, others ignoring him, a couple seeming amused. As the
Marlboro burns down towards its filter, Lynch takes a flat steel case
from an inside pocket, opens it-

"Colonel Lynch? Your presence, please, sir." The elderly Army
master-sergeant says.

"Thank you, Mr Denton." Lynch disappears his cigarette case, snuffs the
butt in the dregs of his coffee, drops the paper cup in the trash and
rises.

His gait going in is just short of a military march: formal enough to
show respect, casual enough to avoid coming to the halt or saluting or
other such timewasters.

Eight of the nine members of the Special Investigative Committee sit in
a row before him, faces grave (there's one empty chair)

In the centre, in a more ornate and elaborate chair, is Gowne.

Before Gowne are the three leather-bound volumes that have been there
throughout (the UCAS Constitution, the Uniform Code of Military Justice,
and the Holy Bible) and a new addition: a combat knife. The knife is out
of its sheath, its naked blade pointed at Lynch.

A guilty verdict, then.

Lynch apparently relaxes into a 'at ease' position, facing the
Committee... his body winding up ready for fight-or-flight.

"Colonel Lynch." Representative Gowne says in firm, determined tones.
"This hearing has heard considerable evidence concerning your service to
the UCAS, your actions and your behaviour. We have conducted additional
investigations into the operations of the Fast Response Action Group. We
have reached a conclusion based upon those enquiries, hearings and
investigations.

"This Special Investigative Hearing has concluded that, while your
conduct does not merit criminal prosecution, it precludes continued
service in the regular forces of the United Canadian and American
States. It is therefore the judgement of this hearing that you should be
asked to resign at once without prejudice from the armed forces of the
United Canadian and American States, and that if you refuse to offer
such resignation that you should be immediately discharged without
honour from that service."

Lynch closes his eyes, bows his head.

To some, a forced resignation would be small penalty. To Lynch, a
fourth-generation Marine who had to fight his way into the Corps as a
reservist, it's a shattering blow. Eyes shut, ignoring his ears, he
takes three deep breaths and gets himself under some semblance of
control.

Gowne is still speaking. "...recognition of your previous courageous
actions in the service of the UCAS, the rank you have achieved, and your
contributions towards the training and ability of all our combat arms,
we approve the traditional bequest of a final promotion on your leaving
Regular service, and in addition grant a full and free pardon for all
your actions in that service... provided you shall then resign your
commission immediately and without prejudice."

So, a final promotion before they kick him out. Lynch, who had been
perfectly content as a first lieutenant and whose advancement since then
had all been down to outside influence - usually hostile - doesn't greet
this news with joy.

Still, as Gowne seems to be at the end of his spiel, Lynch has to
answer. He comes to attention, salutes (a crisply precise and perfect
salute - from the laid-back and casual Marine, that itself is a discreet
insult) and says simply "Thank you, sir." Before turning to the right
and executing a drillbook-perfect 'dismiss', the sort of perfect
manoeuvre that with the salute borders on "mute insolence".

He marches cleanly and crisply out of the hearing room: the usher
hastily shoving the door open as the Marine approaches, because
otherwise there might have been a Lynch-shaped hole smashed clean
through it.

"We're not done with you yet, Marine." The missing panel member says.
General Motors, UCASMC, a two-star from Special Operations Command, who
seems to have been waiting in the corridor as a furious Lynch pauses and
wonders what the fastest route out of the Capitol might be.

"I'm a _discharged_ Marine, General." Lynch says, his words freighted
with bitterness. "Just an overdressed civilian now."

"No, jarhead, you're just resigning from the Regulars. Check your
contract, pal, you're still liable for and committed to at least ten
years of Reserve duty after you leave the Regs, and I'm calling you up
for it right now. Your appointment as a colonel was a Regular billet,
working for General Ernang as his S-2, and Gowne decided to shitcan
*you* to cover up how *he* didn't move far or fast enough against
Ernang." Motors is a short, powerful man, with little remaining hair and
no detectable sense of humour. "Damage control so he still has *some*
career. He gets to say how he screwed you, I get to show my people how I
look after mine.

"You shafted Ernang, you broke the rules, you got to be seen to be
punished, but you did what the Boss wanted even if he hadn't explicitly
asked for it so he, we, I, even Gowne, take care of you. Now, he says
you've got to resign your *Regular* commission, but he conveniently
forgot that on leaving the Regulars you still owe me at least ten years
in the Reserve before you can walk away. Says so in the UCMJ, and on
your enlistment contract you lodged with Ernang."

"I never signed any contract-"

"I say you did. So does a grapholologist. Okay, she's my
daughter-in-law, but she knows more about handwriting than *you* do.
I'll produce eyewitnesses if you like. Or maybe you never signed it, in
which case you never *had* a Regular commission to resign, and you're
*still* a reservist. Heads I win, tails Gowne loses."

"So where is this going, General?" Lynch snaps. "You want *more* chances
to fuck me over? Didn't Ernang and Gowne do a good enough job for you-"

"He means, Jason, things are back the way they were except they're
different. Take off that jacket." Lilith, who naturally had been in the
spectator's gallery, approaches with a dark-blue garment in hand.

"And don't call me 'General' like that." Motors says. "You were a
General too, for about thirty seconds, before you agreed to resign your
commission. Final promotion, remember? You made Brigadier-General. All
sorts of hoops to jump through normally, to get flag rank, but von
Drexler and Ernang trying to hurt you made it _easy_."

Motors actually smiles (and seismologists probably register alerts, as
his iron jaw creaks into the unfamiliar expression) "Trouble is, now
you're a resigned civilian ex-Regular who's still a Reserve
brigadier-general. And you owe me not less than ten years of service as
a reservist at your final rank, if and when I ask you to come back. So
guess what, jarhead, I want you back. I'm probably going to regret this,
but you're recalled, effective as of right now. So get into the correct
uniform. Your wife there has a jacket with the correct insignia, why
ain't you wearing it?"

"I thought-" Lynch manages to get his belt off, does start to take his
jacket off but fails because his hands are shaking.

"Let's just say I had a certain instinct, that this might happen. Or
maybe I was warned off killing Gowne." Lilith helps him lose the jacket,
hands him its newer, less-worn sibling (immaculately cleaned, too, as
she promised) with just his Purple Heart ribbon and two pieces of grey
silk - signifying medals called 'I won it but I can't wear it in public'
- replacing the clutter of medal ribbons on his older jacket. Otherwise,
the same insignia of flight wings and marksmanship badges, except where
before there were silver eagles... now there are single silver stars.

Lynch buttons the jacket, clasps the belt around his waist with its
sabre and sidearm, then touches one of the stars on his collar.
"They're... heavy."

"You feel the weight. The last owner didn't." Lilith says to him, very
softly, too quiet for anyone else to hear.

"You mean..."

"What did the prophecy say? The best version is

'And the Man Who Cannot Die will be kissed by the stars
That are dropped by the Red Woman's slave.'"

Lilith replies. "But the translation in Ernang's computer read

"And the Man Who Cannot Die will be engulfed by the thunderbolts
That are hurled by the Red Woman's lover."

"Always the problem when you rely on machine translation of archaic
languages, without getting second and third and fourth opinions. He
thought you'd be destroyed by the glory of his rank, not that you'd
inherit it. It's all in the language. Or perhaps the prophecy's
meaningless. You decide. With such antique language, you can interpret
it as many ways as you want."

"I don't believe in prophecies, and I don't want this." Lynch says,
still soft and quiet.

"Too bad, because you've got it. Congratulations, General Lynch." Lilith
says, too soft for anyone else to hear. "Now make it work, if you can.
For you, for the Corps, for us all."

"So what's the deal?" Lynch finally asks Motors, who has managed to get
rid of the smile.

"Same as before, jarhead. Mostly you go around trying to screw over our
boys and girls in training the way the Bad Guys would for real. If
they're good, praise'em. If they're not, fix'em. Sometimes we'll turn
over a rock, find something festering underneath, well, you clean it up.
You won't get permanent troops, one of the safeguards, but you know
plenty of people to ask for. And doing the high-intensity training
routine means you know who's hot and who's not, who you can work with
and who you can't.

"Before, lots of folks expected you to either be a clueless first-looey,
or to be bright but ignorable. Now, you're a brigadier-fucking-general,
so you can kick ass and take names. Plus nobody is going to expect an
assessor brig-gen to be personally flying one of the OPFOR MiGs or out
at the FEBA leading a fighting patrol." Motors takes out a pack of
cigarettes, puts three in his mouth, lights them all, hands two to the
Lynches. "I mean, take a fucking *vacation* first or something, you got
enough time due and you look like you need it, but after that we - me,
Kowalski, Cunningham, Coppinger - got plenty of work for you to do."

An usher scurries up. "Sirs, you are not permitted to smoke within the
precincts of-"

"Son, why don't you go away and fuck yourself, else I'm gonna tear your
eyeball out and shit *directly* into your brain, okay?" Motors
interrupts calmly, and the usher squawks and flees.

Lilith chuckles and blows a perfect smoke ring: Lynch just sucks on the
cigarette the way an asthmatic gulps at their inhaler.

"Look, Psycho, I'd rather, you'd rather, _everyone_ would rather, you
were just an overage unsackable Reserve first lieutenant, that _worked_
for a living. Easier for you, simpler for me, better all around." The
Marine three-star calmly informs his new fellow flag officer. "But Von
Drexler, and then Ernang, decided to try to punish you with promotion.
We can't bust you down four paygrades for doing your job, not and keep
you in the service. We can't leave you where you were without having
Gowne scream that we're disobeying his orders. All I can do is promote
you and kick you back to the Reserves. So now you're a general. Same
basic job, though. Just do what you gotta do, okay? You still work for
Jane, who still works for me for the next eighteen months. Then you just
work for Jane, or whoever takes over from her. And maybe four years from
now, you'll have *my* job. You know what you got to do. You just get to
be saluted more often, and you get paid... okay, you get to not draw a
higher salary than you didn't claim before. There'll be other shit as
well, just *use* it to do your damn job."

Lynch walks to the wastebasket, taps ash off his cigarette. "What about
Gowne?"

"Gowne will accept the facts of life. He got his victory for the press.
That's what he wanted and what he can peddle. He didn't really want your
scalp, he just wanted to be able to *say* he got it and that he put the
military in their place." Lilith replies. "He's not stupid, he expected
something like this. We don't boast about how we beat him, he lets
things lie. And maybe one day he'll come to you and ask your help with
someone in the military who's gone bad."

"Not 'maybe'. Not 'if'. He *will* need your help." Motors growls. "We
ain't superhuman. Well, maybe you two are, and I just don't give a shit
any more, and Jane's too mean to care, but there are plenty of potential
Von Drexlers out there. We haven't done too well at policing ourselves.
We got to get better. That Curry asshole's still out there, right?"

"Yeah, Zach never managed to get to him. He's disappeared... meaning
he's still stirring the shit, just under a different name."

"Well, Commander Turner now has a SEAL team to command and that limits
his flexibility, but you got a whole division of your own - small 'd',
jarhead! - and so long as Jane don't bitch to me about you I'll back you
all the way. Once you get back from your vacation, you might want to
attend to that matter. Gowne will do the prosecuting, you just need to
find the defendant."

Finally, Lynch shrugs. He might even have managed a smile. "Needs doing.
That's not a good guy." He pauses, blows a half-decent smoke ring (it
turns into a sideways 'omega' and breaks up). "Oh well..."

Lilith smirks. "What the hell..."

And all three, in unison, roar "Just say 'Fuck it!' and drive on!" and
clasp hands together.
+++++end video

The usual problem. The job's gotta be done, and if I don't pick it up,
some other poor SOB gets tagged for it. What else can I do?

When are you in DC next? I think we need to show the suits of this town,
how real soldiers tie one on.]<<<<<
-- BGen J R W Lynch <17:34:53/01-19-63>
CO Executive Division
Special Operations Command

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