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From:	Paul J. Adam Shadowtk@********.demon.co.uk
Subject:	Urban Warfare
Date:	Sat, 17 Jul 1999 00:46:40 +0100

Message no. 1 *****INTERNAL: The History of the Forsaken
>>>>>[The last of my unit.

I am, truly, forsaken now. I contracted for the deaths of all my comrades.

And yet, was that any bad thing? Cholo was the only one worth a chance
of salvation, and he chose to end his own life rather than fight and live
on. The others collapsed into the cruelties we once mocked.

All three of them were killed by one young reject from the British Army.
Cholo could have killed Jules but took his own life instead. That alone
should say much.

I wish Cholo had listened to me and left the house. I admit, I miss him.
Friend, lover, commander, even before that night of fire and death in
Tacoma.

But, life goes on. Jules is an acceptable companion. Intelligent, with
enough training to be useful, and both besotted with my charms and a
competent lover. He is no dupe, but he trusts me enough to relax in my
presence. Sufficient. He knows, I am sure, that I am using him: he is
enjoying being thus used, for now.

His companion, Harold... is strange. A tiger shapeshifer: such as he seem
to gravitate to cities like Seattle. He is attracted to me, but he fears me.
He is a savage predator, yet as a human he will not kill. A being of
contradictions. Yet Jules is devoted to him, and the friendship is mutual.

I had thought them homosexual, at first, but that impression was false:
there is nothing erotic in their love for each other, and both are ardent in
their pursuit of the female. For love seems to be what it is: they know
each others' thoughts, despite being different _species_. They are all but
inseperable. Very Shakespearean.

Harold's qualms present some minor difficulty, but he is not so human that
he objects to _others_ killing: he keeps his morals to himself. Jules is not
an enthusiastic murderer, but he is willing to take the life of strangers for
enough money.

This pair show potential. I am not sure I shall stay long with them... but I
will do what I can to establish them once I leave. Absolution, perhaps, a
gesture of apology for my crimes. To leave two men I respect before I
destroy them, to establish them as men of respect... all I can do.

Cholo chose the time and place of his death, and died by his own hand.
Perhaps he was right. I have nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide.

No. I will not choose suicide. I am a magician, I can kill myself any time I
wish, and I wish to live. I have more options than the mundane. I will
fairly earn enough money, disappear from sight, and find new
employment.

I wonder if Jules will miss me when I vanish?

I wonder why I care?]<<<<<
-- Alba <00:46:42/17-07-60>

From:	Paul J. Adam Shadowtk@********.demon.co.uk
Subject:	Urban Warfare
Date:	Sat, 17 Jul 1999 00:46:40 +0100

Message no. 2 *****INTERNAL: The History of the Forsaken
>>>>>[The last of my unit.

I am, truly, forsaken now. I contracted for the deaths of all my comrades.

And yet, was that any bad thing? Cholo was the only one worth a chance
of salvation, and he chose to end his own life rather than fight and live
on. The others collapsed into the cruelties we once mocked.

All three of them were killed by one young reject from the British Army.
Cholo could have killed Jules but took his own life instead. That alone
should say much.

I wish Cholo had listened to me and left the house. I admit, I miss him.
Friend, lover, commander, even before that night of fire and death in
Tacoma.

But, life goes on. Jules is an acceptable companion. Intelligent, with
enough training to be useful, and both besotted with my charms and a
competent lover. He is no dupe, but he trusts me enough to relax in my
presence. Sufficient. He knows, I am sure, that I am using him: he is
enjoying being thus used, for now.

His companion, Harold... is strange. A tiger shapeshifer: such as he seem
to gravitate to cities like Seattle. He is attracted to me, but he fears me.
He is a savage predator, yet as a human he will not kill. A being of
contradictions. Yet Jules is devoted to him, and the friendship is mutual.

I had thought them homosexual, at first, but that impression was false:
there is nothing erotic in their love for each other, and both are ardent in
their pursuit of the female. For love seems to be what it is: they know
each others' thoughts, despite being different _species_. They are all but
inseperable. Very Shakespearean.

Harold's qualms present some minor difficulty, but he is not so human that
he objects to _others_ killing: he keeps his morals to himself. Jules is not
an enthusiastic murderer, but he is willing to take the life of strangers for
enough money.

This pair show potential. I am not sure I shall stay long with them... but I
will do what I can to establish them once I leave. Absolution, perhaps, a
gesture of apology for my crimes. To leave two men I respect before I
destroy them, to establish them as men of respect... all I can do.

Cholo chose the time and place of his death, and died by his own hand.
Perhaps he was right. I have nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide.

No. I will not choose suicide. I am a magician, I can kill myself any time I
wish, and I wish to live. I have more options than the mundane. I will
fairly earn enough money, disappear from sight, and find new
employment.

I wonder if Jules will miss me when I vanish?

I wonder why I care?]<<<<<
-- Alba <00:46:42/17-07-60>

From:	Paul J. Adam ShadowTK@********.demon.co.uk
Subject:	Urban Warfare
Date:	Sun, 10 Sep 2000 17:06:37 +0100

Message no. 3 *****PRIVATE: Admiral Jane Kowalski
It's not good news... not for us, anyway.

+++++begin video
Lynch twists back from the window, blue smoke curling from the breech of
his AK-97 as he changes magazines in a controlled frantic frenzy.
Outside, at least half-a-dozen automatic weapons are firing at him,
bullets thudding into the concrete walls or whipcracking through the
window as he works the bolt and chambers a round.

Lilith tosses two grenades out to explode in the street outside, as
Lynch holds the Kalashnikov around the windowframe and sprays off twenty
rounds, mostly blind but using the slightly grainy image from his
thumbcam to aim. Smoke and dust cut visibility to nearly nothing, and
the ghosts of movement could be camouflaged soldiers or just eddies in
the fug -

The Marine staggers back from the window, dropping the rifle to dangle
on its assault sling and clutching his right arm. Bright crimson wells
through his gloved fingers. "Oh, *fuck* that hurts!"

"Time to leave?" Lilith suggests.

"Damn right!" Lynch empties the rifle one-handed out of the window,
traps it against his chest with his right elbow while he reloads (sticky
crimson flowing over the barrel from his injured forearm) "West, up, and
along the attics. Go."

"Check." Lilith darts out through their building's side door, sprints
across the street, Lynch giving covering fire as best he can with his
injured arm-

Dust kicks up around her and she's tossed and battered by multiple
impacts, falling to sprawl on the asphalt, hit by at least a dozen
rounds from the machinegun team commanding the street.

"Oh, *no*." Lynch says in quiet dismay, returning the fire with two
quick bursts before ducking for cover (a storm of bullets coming down an
eyeblink after his retreat). Limping into another building, the rifle
braced across his injured right arm, he slows to reload, then turns and
heads east through the empty concrete shell of the half-finished
tenement-

A fast-moving blur and a muzzle flash and Lynch breaks sideways, firing
back, the thunder of automatic gunfire in a confined space deafening
even through cybernetic dampers. His bullets miss high but still send
this new threat ducking back -

Crossfire. Centred on him.

Bullets smash into Lynch's torso, one slamming into his helmet, and he
falls, gasping and choking for breath. Vision blurred by a sticky red
film, he chokes and coughs as he tries to breathe, crimson wetness
bubbling over his chest.

Two camouflaged figures approaching, weapons levelled, moving in short
wary rushes with mutual cover. Good cautious battle drill. Lynch tries
to reach for his holstered pistol, hardly able to make his fingers move-

The radio crackles. "ENDEX, ENDEX, ENDEX. All units acknowledge.
Exercise complete. Smoke'em if you got'em, people, safe'em and let'em
hang."

Sending the acknowledgement code is cybernetic and manageable: done as
both the camo-clad soldiers safe their weapons, hurry forward to check
Lynch for serious injury.

"You okay, Colonel?" one asks.

"I'll live." croaks Lynch, accepting their help to sit up before he
takes his helmet off: at least one gel round has hit the visor squarely,
covering it with red goo, and he's got half-a-dozen more of the sticky
splatters across his chest. "Damn, you guys got good!"

Up close, with their helmets open, the two soldiers are shown to be
young PFCs from the 1st Ranger Battalion, faces filled with a mixture of
concern and pride as they help Lynch to his feet. "This new gear kicks
ass, sir. We had you zeroed in for half the engagement, we just had to
get in for the kill and make the shot."

"Outstanding!" Lynch sounds like he means it, too, as he takes a few
deep, painful breaths before finding a battered pack of Marlboros in his
sleeve pocket and his old Zippo to light one with. One of the Rangers
waves it off, the other gratefully accepts a slightly creased cigarette.
"But k3w1 t0y2 don't mean jack unless you've got good, steady troops
using them. I was shitting my pants back there, everywhere we went we
had Rangers shooting at us from cover, laying accurate fire that shut us
down and kept us running. Do that for real, and you can stack the odds
heavily your way."

"Yeah, well..." the nonsmoker says, "We lost four guys getting you."

"Four cas, or four KIA?" Lynch asks with both professional interest and
personal curiosity.

"Wait one..." the nonsmoker (PFC Pronne) says with the eyes-unfocussed
head-cocked look of someone accessing a cyberlinked system. "Four scored
KIA, nine serious casualties, fourteen minors. Jesus!"

"Age and treachery will always prevail over youth and vigour. Am I not
right, Colonel?" asks a Rangers major as he walks into the room. PFC
Ling almost swallows his cigarette, then decides to brazen it.

"DBF, Major Callins." Lynch replies cordially. "I was just
congratulating your men on their performance."

"There's a ways to go. Twenty-five casualties to take down two
opponents, is unacceptable." Callins signals to the two PFCs, who hurry
out.

"Individually we still outclass your men, Major, and they lack
experience in this type of combat. Their teamwork is superb and their
personal battle skills most creditable." Lynch taps ash off the
cigarette. "You realise this is the first time we've done an exercise
like this where Lilith and I have both been scored 'dead' in the opening
engagement?"

"Really?" Callins unbends slightly. It seems he and Lynch cordially
dislike each other (though both are setting that aside for the moment)
and also both are professional soldiers, whose primary concern is
further improving the abilities of this Ranger company.

"Yeah. And we're here until Thursday, so you've got another... six to
nine engagements, and from tomorrow there's magical opposition too. You
still don't smoke?"

"No, I don't, but you can poison yourself all you like..."

"Thanks." Lynch might be grinning as he lights another. "Anyway, Tom,
your guys are already fucking good and they just need some corners
knocking off and a little polishing. Congratulations."

"I bet that hurt to say, Jason."

"Well, don't let it go to your head, Tom, we won't be taking long hot
showers together any time soon. But, damn, you did well getting the best
out of your guys. Good soldiers with some top-flight gear. They've even
got *me* scared."

"You won't be so magnanimous on Thursday, Colonel Lynch, believe me."
Callins sketches a salute, which Lynch returns: both men leave in
opposite directions. Lynch joins Lilith, who's waiting for him in the
'street' outside (the whole area just a part of the Urban Combat
Simulator, on more leisurely examination).

"So, how's Tommy?" his wife asks. Like Lynch, she's splattered with the
sticky crimson residue of the gel rounds.

"Mellowing with age. Still thinks we're cowboy commandos, but hey, if
that pushes him to excel... and he's really good at developing his
troops. A hell of an officer even if he's a humourless careerist - no,
scratch that. He's ambitious, not careerist."

"And his Rangers are doing damn well on Day One." Lilith hooks an arm
around Lynch's waist, as he puts his across her shoulders, and they head
for the exit and the formal debriefing, both walking awkwardly around
their bruises. "We may be due an upgrade if this is the standard to
meet."

"Looks that way. Now they've got the tactical net pushed down to
fireteam level... life just got a damn sight more interesting. How long
until *that* hits the street?"

Lilith muses. "Years, for most shadow teams, but a few of the best will
be going for it right now. Corporate... the varsity will have it by
year's end. The Joe Bozos will never get it, can't justify the cost.
Basically, we watch our asses until we figure out how to beat it."

"Which we need to do before Thursday."

"Yep. I want at least one clear win out of the engagement."
+++++end video

We got the clean win we wanted this evening - ran them ragged once we
got a look at their tactical comms and worked out how long they needed
to update the data. That, plus Quinn doing some illusion work, meant we
hammered them. (It made up for another two losses today, the Rangers are
getting good and most importantly their casualties are coming down each
time)

Tomorrow, though, they're bringing in a drone unit for backup: Condors
for spotting and a couple of Steel Lynx microtanks, and I think we're
going to have to hide-with-pride for those scenarios.

Kudos to Major Callins - he's managed to be civil and friendly the whole
time, and his troops have been downright amiable when they aren't trying
to kill us.

And, regarding some of our other concerns... the consensus among the
Rangers, from Callins down to the newest private, is "Take on the Sioux?
Are you kidding?" A few admitted they sort of liked the idea of getting
payback for the war (some had lost family to SAIM terrorism) but the
consensus (correct in my view) is that if the Sioux Nation comes east,
the Rangers will be in the frontline of righteously kicking their
asses... but the idea of going west into their home turf is *not* viewed
with eager enthusiasm, and the notion of paradropping into key points
which are either secured by, or will be counterattacked by, Wildcats who
have home-team advantage is extremely unpopular.

See what I mean.

+++++begin video
The bar is half-full, not too well-lit, and loud with thump-rock: some
Boston-based group pounding out a heavily synthesised track. Not too
bad.

As Lynch walks in with his broken gait, someone shouts 'Ten-hut!',
triggering an instant 'As you were!' from the Marine. Obviously used to
this, not many of the patrons reacted... waiting the necessary half-a-
second before rising, since most officers visiting the NCO Club don't
demand formality.

Lynch heads for a group of Rangers he obviously knows, joining them at
their table and dropping into a chair with a sigh of relief.

"You all right, Colonel?" one asks.

"Yeah, just got a simuslug in the side of the knee this afternoon. You
guys are getting too damn good."

"Any advice?" another of the group asks (five of them, all platoon
sergeants or squad leaders).

"Let me think... you need to cut down on the radio traffic. The tactical
net's working for you, but active emissions are still bad. Try
practicing with long silent intervals and compressed-burst transmissions
for updates, it means it's harder to DF your positions."

"You're direction-finding us?"

"That's how come I got your snipers this afternoon. The guy in the
church tower, he was easy, you _always_ put an RPG into a natural OP
like that on general principles. The other two, were continuously
broadcasting their target state and we got a crossfix on them and
countershot them, and that's how we were able to move around so easily."

"Damn! I *wondered* how you did that!" Sergeant Lee nods.

"You need damn good comms gear, but some of your opponents will have
that-"

"You're listening in on our traffic?" another asks.

"Nope." Lynch checks for 'No Smoking' signs, sees none, lights up.
"Can't crack the encryption fast enough. But you *are* broadcasting
noise, even if I can't read it. Don't know what you're saying but you're
standing out above background levels and that gets me a bearing line.
Ain't electronic warfare fun?"

"What you have to understand, Lyssie, is that Colonel Lynch here flies
fast-movers when he's not pounding ground." Lee explains. "Pretty good
at busting SAM sites. So, he gets good at all kinds of radio games."

'Lyssie' (SSgt Elysium Raye) nods. "So, what else do you do, other than
fly and fight?"

"Restore old planes, collect old movies and old guns..."

"I mean, military-wise."

Lynch shakes his head. "Only so many hours in the day, Lyssie. I got to
be a half-decent decker... back in 2052. Then I discovered I liked
flying, and I was suddenly too busy qualifying IFR to keep my deck up to
date or to keep up with the game, so now I've got a '51 Excalibur at
home that's just about good for word processing and playing Qube today,
and no idea at all what the Matrix is like now. I can do ground and air
combat, and that's about it."

"Right. What about the old planes part?"

"I've got two restoration projects going. Have done for years. One's
nearly done, I just need a lower wing skin... an old A-4 Skyhawk.
Beautiful little plane. Always wanted to fly one. The other... I've got
most of an F-4 Phantom in shrinkwrap. Once I finish the Scooter, maybe I
can get started on the Rhino, but that's a *real* vanity project.
Anyway, I had some stuff I wanted to ask you guys off the record."

"Shoot." Lee says, and the others sit up. The slightly awkward
socialising apart, this is business.

"Suppose you got told, we're going to war with the Sioux Nation. What do
you do?" Lynch asks.

"Oh, *frag*." Lyssie mutters, a sentiment shared by the other NCOs.
"We're gonna die."

"Why's that?"

"You *know* why, sir-"

"Don't 'sir' me and tell me why, Lyssie, else I'll use your given name."

"You wouldn't. Yeah, you would. Okay, well, way I see it, we'd go in
across the plains, heavy on armour and firepower, bypass anywhere that
put up a fight and just cut it off. But the Rangers, we'd get
paradropped onto key communications nodes, airfields, rail junctions,
highway intersections, to stop the Sioux being able to move forces to
react. They're pretty lightly armed, they figure on a mobile defence,
right?"

"Spot on." Lynch nods.

"So we're holding places they need, probably just a platoon or company
at each, with no resupply except by air. So then we get a faceful of
Wildcats fighting on home turf. And we all die. Sir."

"You're that scared of the Wildcats?"

"In the UCAS? No, sir, they're good but so are we. But on their home
ground? It's what they train for, it's pretty much *all* they train for,
and they ca take a day or two to nickel-and-dime us to death, or at
least chew us up so much we can't stop their reinforcements getting
through." Lee confirms. "What armchair commando wanted a study on going
after the Sioux?"

"Ernang, in SOCOM." Lynch replies after a moment.

"Oh. *Him*." one of the Rangers says contemptuously. "He got pencil-
whipped through his jump course because he was tapped for the SOCOM job.
Orders from Fort Fumble that he *was* going to get his Ranger tabs and
qualify, no matter what..."

"Yeah, I know. Have you seen his private army?" Lyssie asks. "Bunch of
rejects. There's four or five guys in there I remember washing out of
Ranger selection. Clueless losers."

Lynch asks, curious, "Why pick rejects?"

"Well... my guess?" Lyssie suggests. "If you were more interested in
loyal attack dogs, than in talent, then picking washouts and telling
them they're actually the greatest might do it. I mean, these guys were
good enough to make it *to* selection for the 75th, they just washed out
during."

"Yeah. That's... not good." Lynch sighs. "Thanks, guys, I really
appreciate the info. And you and your troops really did good this week.
I'll leave you to it, okay?"

The NCOs make token protests, but while they might not object to Lynch's
company, a lieutenant-colonel's presence always puts a damper on the
evening and life's easier if his visits are short.
+++++end video

Good guys, the Rangers. Lots of ego, but they're good soldiers.

Anyway... plenty of weirdness going on. Ernang playing games, plus the
CIA up to something apparently-unsanctioned in New Zealand... I thought
being retired was meant to be relaxing?]<<<<<
-- Lynch <18:48:52/09-10-61>

From:	Paul J. Adam ShadowTK@********.demon.co.uk
Subject:	Urban Warfare
Date:	Tue, 12 Sep 2000 00:09:40 +0100

Message no. 4 *****PRIVATE: Admiral Jane Kowalski
More followup.

+++++begin video
This time, it's the O-Club: this time, nobody tenses or salutes when
Lynch ambles in with his kneeshot half-crippled walk. He gets himself a
bottle of Newcastle Brown and a double shot of Jack Daniels, carries
them over to a table.

"Hey, it's Major Pain!" one of the table's occupants greets him. "Except
now you're a chicken colonel! Where's Lilith?"

"Flown out to Quantico. We've got a naval exercise to be airborne OPFOR
for, she's prepping for us." It seems Lynch doesn't stand on formality.

"Ouch!" another of the officers groans. "I pity the squids."

"We worked you out some, huh?"

"Oh, man... 'Just two or three opponents', Major Callins told us.
'Dangerous but fragile', he told us. Jesus wept! I've sweated off ten
pounds in a week!"

"You can afford to lose it." Lynch snorts, lighting a Marlboro with his
battered old Zippo.

"Yeah, right, Psycho. You been talking to my platoon sergeant?" Captain
Cowper (or so her fatigues identify her) says.

Lynch blows a passable smoke ring. "Too right. National security shit.
Figured it was the quickest way to brief you guys."

"War with the Sioux? Frag that! No chance. Fast track to a posthumous
Distinguished Service Cross." another of the Ranger officers suggests.

"What would you need to make it work?" Lynch asks innocently.

"You can't." Cowper replies, with the conviction of drunken honesty. "No
matter how much you frag with their command structure, the Wildcats are
build around and trained by guys who fought the old US to a standstill
against the worst odds they could get. You oughta know."

"Yeah... leave my father outta this."

"Okay. Point is, the Wildcats are the nightmare opponents from Hell,
then retired Wildcats are town sheriffs with responsibility for raising
militia, and you have a fracking horrible insurgency eating you alive
unless you opt for total genocide. And I don't do genocide." The other
officers nod in agreement. "You can't seize and hold Sioux land without
killing maybe a third of the Sioux Nation. We won't do that drek. You'd
need something pretty radical to make it even plausible."

"Like what?"

"I don't know... call it a five or ten per cent mutiny of their fighting
strength. One in twenty switching sides might maybe be enough. But I'd
want one in three before I felt happy."

"Any advance on that?" Lynch asks the table.

"I'll take one in four." 1Lt Harding says after a moment. "Colonel, can
I speak freely?"

"I don't want you to speak any other way."

"Colonel... I know people, mostly one-term enlisteds who I've said
should never get past PFC, who are unguarded in their speech."
Lieutenant Harding picks his words with care. "They seem to have learned
that I had certain sympathies before I enlisted and perhaps that's why
they speak less carefully in my presence."

"Go on." Lynch asks.

"Sir, you know my sympathies?"

"You're a racial separatist who believes the metatypes should be kept
apart. You're also a believer in nonviolent segregation, and until
that's achieved you've shown you can bury your prejudices and work with
any metatype who presents in uniform. You saluted my wife and followed
her orders without question even though you know she's a shapeshifter.
In short, you're a good soldier who keeps his prejudices to himself. Any
errors, Lieutenant?"

"No, sir. A fair summary." Harding replies with equal formality.

"Then tell me what you know."

"Sir." Lieutenant Harding pauses. "Sir, as a known Humanis sympathiser,
I hear things that others might not. There are two sentiments that cause
me alarm, and that I don't know who to report them to. The first, is
what you confirm, that there seems to be this undercurrent that we could
and should fight a war against the Sioux. Apparently ten per cent of the
Sioux will fight for us. Or so I heard. The second..." Harding
hesitates.

"Speak, Lieutenant, I only kill and eat O2s on Fridays."

"Sir, the other comment is that anyone who gets booted from the Rangers
for... for being overt about anti-Native feeling, is guaranteed a place
in this new unit that makes the Rangers look like pussies." Harding says
in a rush.

"Ernang's FRAG?" Lynch asks gently.

"I don't know, sir. Just that apparently, anyone with a grudge against
the... sand niggers can speak up now and there're a safe place for them
to go to. That's pretty verbatim, sir-"

"I've heard worse, Harding. Thanks."

"Jesus! I never heard *that!*" exclaims Captain Morgan.

"Yeah, well, Rattler, you never paid Humanis subscriptions either. We
might have a problem. Or we might have some human-supremacists with
delusions of grandeur. Either way, ears to the ground, people."

"This isn't what I enlisted for." grouses Cowper.

"To defend the United Canadian and American States against all enemies,
foreign and domestic." Lynch recites. "This is *exactly* what we
enlisted for. Maybe it's nothing. But... maybe there's a problem."

The four officers - lieutenants and captains, platoon commanders and
company staff - all show reluctant assent.

"I'm just saying... keep an ear to the ground. How many Ranger rejects
have got snapped up by Ernang's FRAG?"

"How many Marine Recon rejects?" asks Harding sharply.

"Nineteen that I know of, in the last year. Eleven binned for racial
intolerance, six for excessively violent behaviour, one pulled out of a
court-martial for striking an NCO, one dropped for repeated range-safety
violations." Lynch replies flatly.

"Jesus!" Harding's eyes go wide at that toll. "What a bunch of fragging
losers!"

"Good enough to get through Parris Island. Good enough to select for
Marine Force Recon. Just not good enough to pass." Lynch replies. "But a
particular set of failures get grabbed. None of the washouts on the
physical fitness. None of the marksmanship failures. Ernang's picking
himself a private army of Indian-hating psychos."

"We got a problem." Cowper confirms. "Who do we take this to?"

"Admiral Kowalski. The Intelligence Oversight Committee. General Motors.
After that... pass. We just be aware and be alert."

"Because the UCAS needs lerts." Harding snorts, then looks around.
"Sorry."
+++++end video

Suspicions confirmed, then. At least as far as the Rangers are
concerned.

I don't know what Ernang's up to, but he's got his eyes looking
westward.

No discernible link to Nar'moh'ach or any remnant of his organisation we
knew of... which is good news and bad in one. Ernang must have *some*
ace in the hole, and we have no idea what it is. Christiansen and Thomas
both tagged Ernang as one of the Farmer's children, but also agreed that
he was unaware that he was being boosted beyond his abilities.

What worries me is that someone's doing the same to me. I wasn't happy
being a major and I *really* don't like being a lieutenant-colonel. NCOs
stand at attention and clam up except for 'yes, sir, no, sir' and even
officers go all snotty and cautious on me.

Another promotion, and I won't be able to do my job any more.]<<<<<
-- Lynch <00:09:45/09-12-61>

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