| From: | "Paul J. Adam" <shadowtk@********.DEMON.CO.UK> |
|---|---|
| Subject: | One Answer, More Questions |
| Date: | Tue, 25 Mar 1997 22:17:29 +0000 |
>>>>>>[TO: D J H Coppinger, Alexander Monroe, LCdr R E Tarkington, 1Lt L
R W Lynch, Sgt J S Karlsbruhn, Major M Hunter
CC: SAC Chris D'Arkan, FBI
Well, I found a partial on where those eight missing shells went, and I
don't like the answer one little bit.
+++++begin trideo
Lynch is walking towards a small cabin in the woods. A burly man of
sixty or sixty-five is sitting on the porch, filing burrs from a length
of copper pipe.
"Ho, Jason. Good morning. Nice to see you again. You back at the cabin?"
"You too, Lee."
"Hey, what was all that commotion on the water? They pulled some old
plane out of the water. You gummint types know anything about it?"
"Sure." Lynch studies Rafferty. "Where'd you put Charlie's body?"
"Say, what?" Rafferty lays the file down deliberately and looks at Lynch
with exaggerated curiosity.
"Your friend Charlie pulled up the nose gear, fishing in the lake. He
got you to dive the wreck. You were a Navy diver, he was a demolitions
expert: when you found the cargo, you decided to sell some, but he got
scared or you got greedy, and you killed him. Sliced off a hand and a
foot, and set off some dynamite then threw in the pieces: enough to ID
him. You sold eight of the shells, all told, and left Charlie's corpse
down in the Hercules, where nobody would find it."
Lynch lights a cigarette. "Then these government types turn up on
vacation, and find the nose gear in Charlie's basement. When I come
around asking questions you do a perfect Beverly Hillbillies routine
that I swallow whole. Except, when you watch me diving the wreck, you
panic and remove Charlie's body, probably burying it miles away in the
woods or sinking it right out in the lake. If he'd still been there when
the aircraft came up, nobody would have been able to tie you to
anything."
"Still can't." says Rafferty, examining Lynch carefully. "No body, no
proof. Ain't a jury alive who'd convict on that."
"A jury, maybe not, but you're playing in the big leagues now." Lynch
blows smoke. "National security, Lee. No jury, no questions. Not to
mention the problem that you got made by a KH-14 satellite as you hauled
the corpse out. Or at least someone in your Jeep did. Those weapons are
hot property."
"Because they was gas shells?" Rafferty grins. "Shoot, Lynch, once we
got the first few ashore it took Charlie all of two minutes to work out
they was some kind of poison gas. We got in touch with Maxim Arms and
they sent a geeky little guy out here, he took one look and paid us
fifty grand a shell. "
"Great. Should have guessed that part. And the rest is easy. Charlie got
cold feet about selling poison gases and you decided you liked the money
more than you liked Charlie."
"Close. Actually, Maxine killed Charlie. Blew a chunk of his spine into
his heart and out through his chest. She's one hell of a good shot. Let
Jason know you're there, honey." The sound of a rifle being cocked
behind Lynch, and a cartridge hitting the ground.
"Ruger Mini-Twenty." Lynch says calmly. "Caseless ammo. Might be scoped,
sounds like a tuned ejector. She uses oil, not drylube."
"You see, Jase-my-man, Maxine and I need enough money to Leonise on, and
if Maxim research those shells right, and it's good stuff, they'll pay
that money for more." Rafferty grins. "Got no intention of ending our
days in jail, Lynch, when we could get young and beautiful instead. Kind
of dumb, your coming here alone and unarmed like this. You figger we'd
just raise our hands, say 'ya got me, Officer, I'll come quiet-like?'
Damn, you're dumb."
"You left the service in, what, thirty-six?" asks Lynch casually.
"Sure. Why?"
Lynch is suddenly moving sideways and turning, a shot whipcracking
through the space he'd occupied a moment before, and the display for his
left hand's smartlink flaring active as he draws his Python. Maxine
Rafferty fires again and misses again, as Lynch shoots her twice in the
chest: the old woman is thrown backwards, the rifle flying from her
hands.
Lee brings the pipe down hard on Lynch's gun arm: the mercenary rides
the blow and twists away as he grabs the old man and throws him to crash
against a column of the porch. Rafferty staggers, grabs the edge of his
workbench to support himself, and snatches a knife out of a toolbox: a
huge, saw-backed Bowie, the blade a foot of black steel.
"Fight like a man, sand nigger!" he gasps, waving it back and forth.
Lynch says something in Lakota back, holsters the Python and draws a
knife of his own: a six-inch, spear-pointed spline-bladed knife -
Redfeather's knife - rather less dramatic than Rafferty's monster.
"What was that, Injun-boy? What'd you say?"
"I said, be careful what you ask for. You're going to get it." The
mercenary circles slowly, and Rafferty lunges, slashing at his face:
Lynch twists aside easily.
"You're gonna die, sand nigger, I bin cutting up men since I was
eighteen!"
"My father put a knife in my hand before I could walk." Lynch almost
effortlessly steps inside Rafferty's wild swing, makes a precise cut
across the man's thigh, ducks the backslash as he moves clear. "I went
to war before my classmates could drive. I killed my first man at
fourteen." Rafferty hesitates for a split-second and Lynch darts low and
left, grabs the man's wrist, neatly slicing across the inside of the
elbow.
Rafferty, bleeding and howling in pain, drops the knife and staggers
back. The fingers of his right hand flop uselessly, slick with crimson.
"Give it up, Lee. You'll live, if you get to hospital." Lynch watches
the man warily.
"Fuck you, Geronimo!!!" Rafferty, left-handed and awkward, snatches up
the dropped Mini-20 and is trying to aim at Lynch before a shot rings
out and he falls, shot cleanly through the head: he'd forgotten the
speed of Lynch's draw. The mercenary holsters the Python again, wipes
the knife and sheathes it, turns to walk away.
+++++end trideo
Convenient, in its way. A trial would have been difficult - too much to
reveal - and with a good lawyer they might well have walked. Luckily,
they gave us all the information we needed before they started to fight,
solving most of our problems.
Wonder why Maxim have been so quiet about those shells? They've had them
for years.
I say we just ask for them back. Opinions?]<<<<<
-- 1Lt J R W Lynch <22:17:51/03-25-58>
Strategic Intelligence Gathering Agency
