The Enemy of my Enemy

[Turn 360 and walk away]

"Directions: Aim towards Enemy"
~Instructions for use, printed on many U.S. Army Rocket Launchers
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"Welcome to Hell, McCarthy. Did you enjoy your trip?"
"I did, as well as could be, sir."
"Don't salute. there're snipers all along here," An old, work worn, hand pointed, using all four fingers, all around the horizon of our little tent city. "That would see to it that every officer in the camp got a bullet right through his head." The work-worn hand drove it's point in by, with it's index finger, thrusting into my forehead a few times.
"Yessir."
"Good. Now, there's your combat gear, over there. We're going for a walk in a few minutes, here."
"Yessir, Lieutenant."

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26 August, 2006
Newark Federal Penitentiary, Northern Georgia, USA
23:00 hours

My name is Rodney. Some of you might remember me by one of a few other nicknames, or by my face. But this isn't then. This is right where you ought to be. Good Ol' Rod, sitting, waiting for Old Sparky to get hungry. Waiting to get zap-fried. Of course, they don't use that God-forsaken chair any more. They favor the cleaner, lethal injection. But I like to think about it as the electric chair. Seems like more of a punishment. I don't know why, seeing as how I'm in that line. Maybe it was my upbringing? My job? I don't know.

You know, it's a lot nicer in these cells, in this wing, than in any other cell. We get our books. we go outside once a day (except on Tuesday, when the rest of the inmates play Football), but not to break rocks, or anything. Just, to be. Nice and quiet inside, too. There's only one other guy, in the E-block. Some guy named Delacriox, an old frenchman, born and raised in Louisiana, who managed to tame a mouse that holed itself up in his cell. Keeps it in a little match box. Named him Bonaparte.

I just can't Goddamn believe I'm in this situation, I guess. I could be in Fiji. Maui. But, nope. Well... I suppose i should get on with it, huh? Here... where'd I leave...?

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3 January, 1991
Kuwait-Saudi Arabia Border
08:00 hours

The hike was disheartening, to say the least. 10 miles uphill over loose, slippery sand dunes, having to stop and wrestle into our biological hazard suit every five minutes. Goddamn, was it hot. The suits weren't heavy, not at all. but they were complicated, and if not on in 30 seconds, we'd be melted, or some shit, buy Hussein's bio weapons. At least, that's what they'd have us believe. I don't like believing in that sort of shit. But, we're in war, and hell, Why not cherish it? it's not like you have anything else to look forward to. Either you're gonna get shot and die, get shot, and wish you were dead, or get shot, and come home to find your wife screwing the neighbor.

Let me tell you, firsthand. Being in the marines is possibly worse that eating out Satan's asshole. The posters made it look really good, though. Those commercials made me run my ass out and enlist, so I could walk up and down mountains of sand, watching out for what doesn't fucking exist!

Well, maybe I'm exaggerating. Maybe it isn't so bad. We fire at rocks, and fight scorpions. the champion right now is a little white thing, caught by Bobby Brown. No one can catch something that can beat it. Speedy little thing.

And finally, we stopped. From on top of this dune, it wasn't hard to see why no one ever came to our door. All around us were wastelands, oil fields. Scalding hot, air too thick to breathe. But we kept through, to the very end. We were all blackened from the smoke, red from the heat, heaving from breathing coal for miles. We put down whatever we could carry, that was once, our camp. the tent city was folded up and in a few backpacks. Supplies and whatnot on the backs of others.

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26 August, 2006
Newark Federal Penitentiary, Northern Georgia, USA
23:34 hours

Look, it was the Gulf War.We all know what happened. We won. Yay. We also didn't do shit, my company. My entire military career consisted of 3 kills, and 15 bullets. But i guess i did something special. Made my bed up nicer every morning, I guess. I got a few awards and medals. I also got to shake a few important hands, talk to a couple important people, and was able to get my hands on one helluva Government job. "Senior Intelligence-- something". It was like the military, only I got to wear a suit and tie into the crossfire. My job was to get to know our enemy as well as anyone could, before my friends (used here very lightly) blow them to hell. I think I might try to sleep some. It is Tuesday, tomorrow, isn't it? I'll have plenty more time to talk to you then. Good night. Westly should help you out; go look for him. Short guy. Kinda looks like Moe, from the Three Stooges. G'night, Delacroix.

[Turn 360 and walk away]

"They have no idea..."
~Stealth Tank, Command and Conquer Three, upon selection


27 August, 2006
Newark Federal Penitentiary, Northern Georgia, USA
09:00 hours

"Ah, Charlie! It is Charlie? Good, good. And you brought a voice recorder this time? Glad to see I'm not too boring. Okay... for the record, I suppose? My name is Rodney McCarthy. I was born May of sixty-eight, making me, um, 40. This is what you could call a biography? Okay... Where was it I left off? Only a few days after I landed that job, I got my first assignment. It was an intervention in Bosnia and Herzegovina. Year was nineteen ninety-five.

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10 January, 1991
Airspace above Franco-Itallian Border
11:00 - 12:00 hours (approx., Atlantic Coast time.)

"So, this is what my first-class ticket bought me?" A man clad in a blue-gray jumpsuit with a rye grin and jet-black hair, wearing large, reflective sunglasses and a dark blue beret, mused.

The man beside him payed no attention. he, too, was dressed in the jumpsuit, but his hard, granite face was bare, and his beret was more red than blue. "Okay. Your goal is to get in as close as you can to the Serbian Prime Minister, Stanko Radmilović. It's pronounced "Rayd-mill-oh-viCK", with a hard "c" sound. We're inserting you in Romania. A Serbian diplomat is expecting you on their border; You're playing the part of an American Government official who sympathizes in their cause for a greater Serbia -- plus whatever Romania has to offer. Corrupted and maybe a little sick in the head."

The man in the sunglasses removed the frames, and furrowed his brow.

"Come on, Rod. It can't be hard, just remember to remove the flight suit before you leave the country, huh?"

"I'm sure. Tell me, was I picked for this because a few years of Drama courses in high school?"

"No. You were chosen because you are quite possibly the one man in this world who simply doesn't give a shit."

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27 August, 2006
Newark Federal Penitentiary, Northern Georgia, USA
09:27 hours

Well, I guess, as it turns out, he was right. Though I had given a flawless performance quite a few times, even pulling off a "perfect" (as my teacher, Mr. Berko-something, put it) Willy Loman my Junior year. Yeah, life was good back then; I didn't make my own breakfast, lunch, and as far as supper went, so long as I poured a few glasses full of juice, or something, I helped enough to earn a bite to eat. Delacroix! You ever go through High school? Get that diploma? Silence, huh? Thought not. I swear, Mr. Charlie, sometimes i think that mouse is smarter than it's master. I've never seen a mouse in here, other than that one, though. Not a one before Delacroix, not another since Bonaparte. That little furry thing is one-of-a-kind. Yeah, Delacroix? I know you heard it, you old bat... Go do your thing. It's Tuesday. You should head to the Library.

Anyways, Charlie. So, they flew me in, and having checked myself ninety times, I landed in Romania, and was pushed through the checkpoint (oddly enough, the one into Serbia was pretty close to empty) and shook hands with Milan.

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10 January 1991
Serbian-Romanian national Border - Serbian side
12:00 hours

"Ah, Mister Smith?"

"Yessir. You are Milan Solokov?"

"I am. I believe you hired me to bring you to the Embassy, did you not?"

"I'll go there later. for now, I wish to go to the capital. See the sights."

"That is what you are here for. Are you hungry? Tired? I understand how such a flight can be taxing."

"No, no. I'll eat at the embassy, later."

"Yes sir." Milan opened the rear door to the limousine. Though short by American Standards, it was still pretty flashy. "Prime Minister Radmilović wishes you to have an enjoyable trip."

"Thank you, Milan." Rodney got into the rear of the chocolate-brown car. Inside, the seats were plush leather, and in a console between every few seats sat a black, cushioned metallic box. Rodney opened one and checked inside. Italian wine. And glasses. Confounded, he raised his head and examined the rest of the cabin. Two women sat on the other end, dressed no differently that a High School girl would, a prom. Except These women seemed eager to get some alcohol in them, and even more eager to sit by, on, and around Rodney. and each other. And the wine bottles.

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11 January 1991
American Embassy in Serbia
01:32 Hours

Rodney's eyes opened, and surprised by the darkness in the room, shot up. damn jet lag. He shuffled downstairs in a suit and tie, without a jacket and tie on sideways, and waited in the dining area until the kitchen was open.

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27 August, 2006
Newark Federal Penitentiary, Northern Georgia, USA
10:07 hours

That's where I met David... Ol' Davey. he was aways to my right. To my left was anything that could actually help me win, but Davey was a good man to have around in case you find yourself short a pair of hands. I gotta take off; this book is lat and i'd hate to have to work in the kitchen. Talk to you after a nap, maybe?

[Turn 360 and walk away]

27 August, 2006
Newark Federal Penitentiary, Northern Georgia, USA
13:07 hours

You know, Charlie, may i call you Charlie? Charlster? I saw that damn mouse... Bonaparte, the night it got in here. It was the weirdest thing. Came under that door, that you come through, and scurried right up the alley. Every time there was someone in a cell, the little furry thing would stop and look to see who it was. Once he found the Frenchman, he scurried right under the bars. I swear, I'll bet that mouse was tame already. I'm sorry, D'you mind if I eat? Snagged some extra food at lunch. Thanks. But, ahnehwahs, lih I sawd, The fluffball passed up everyone... Me, Mr. President, even Chief. But he saw Delacroix, and ran a bee-line. The President shrugged and took to taking a leak. But Chief seemed ah luhtle uhfunded. He tried to throw out a couple pieces of cracker, and the mouse ignored him.

Who're they? a couple of good-f'r-nothing guys, who got to shure theh tom en deat row-- this is pretty good, as far as crap prison food goes-- with me. The President got his name, because, when he was new, the guards were in his power, seemed like. Was outta control. But a few good smacks over the head, and he knows his place. Killed a couple little girls. Paper said it could have been rape-murder, but I don't know. Prez said 'S'all a lawd uh CRAP!' whenever we tried to get 'im to spill the beans.

Chief. Thomas Whitekiller. He was almost the exact opposite. Stoic. Emotionless, even. Was an Elder of some Indians, South Florida, I think? He was led into his cell easy as if he was being led to a Yankees game. Had, uh, shoulder-length hair. Steel grey. Granite face... it was kinda scary. Let me tell you something. he was scarier than Prez ever was. Because he accepted it all. He only beat his wife to death with a two-by-four, in a drunken stupor. But I'd rather be with the Zodiac killer. Chief, he was the kinda guy that would snap and snap your neck--if you were lucky-- if you so much as came within fifty feet of his hands. Because he knew it couldn't get worse. What? oh, sorry. Go ahead and tell me if I get to rambling, huh?

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11 January 1991
American Embassy in Serbia
05:32 Hours

"Glad to meet you."
"Same. Name's David ."
"Roger."
"What're you in for?"
"Meeting with the Prime Minister."
"Oh yeah? Me too. What about?"
"I can't talk about that."
"I understand. America's 'we can't trust you unless you have no mouth' thing."
"Something tells me you aren't American."
"Technically, I'm representing France."
"Why in here? The American Embassy?"
"It was closer to where I was headed."
"Fair enough. Say, you know when the kitchen opens?"
"About twenty minutes, why?"
"I'm starving, and the jet lag has had me up since two."
"Ah, I see!"

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27 August, 2006
Newark Federal Penitentiary, Northern Georgia, USA
13:28 hours

Yes, 'Roger'! I couldn't go telling him who I was, and that I was going to sympathize with the prime minister in an effort to assassinate him and overthrow the set government in place of a democracy, now could I? Right, well, as I was saying...

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11 January 1991
American Embassy in Serbia
06:48 Hours

The same chocolate brown limousine pulled up in the rain. Rodney, under a blue umbrella, walked up, and shimmied into the rear seat. Today there was no wine, however, his favorite two girls were happily there to serve him breakfast, no clothes attached.

Milan approached the door, and pulled it open violently. "We're here. Do try to avoid the rain, Sir and madams, and please do hurry."

Once inside, it struck him just how powerful this guy was. massive, high-ceilinged rooms. Tapestries adorned every wall. Even the anteroom was made of marble and gold. Stanko Radmilović himself was a plump, jovial man. He had a bad case of acne as a kid, and his face was full of pockmarks, and his cheeks were rosy, either for the occasion, or maybe he'd had a few drinks. I didn't blame him either way. His English was no better than Rodney's Slav, so there were some minor communication issues near the beginning. That night, They had a dinner, and the talks started that next morning.

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27 August, 2006
Newark Federal Penitentiary, Northern Georgia, USA
13:28 hours

Had you asked me about any of this two years ago, You know what I'd have said? I would have not been able to even greet you. I payed my taxes (which took more than the average man lost), and I served my country, but, somehow, they found it fair that I get less freedom than Joe Schmoe over there. Still do. I tried to send a letter a few months ago, and the recipient got arrested by MP's. Had to take an oath to silence. What kind of crap is that? it's not like you can't see any of this on the Discovery Channel.

[Turn 360 and walk away]

27 August, 2006
Newark Federal Penitentiary, Northern Georgia, USA
13:30 hours

D'you wanna know why? Why he got arrested, after a postcard reached his hands? I'll try to make this a little quicker, then. Well, where was I? Ah-hah, I used t ask Pres that, all the time. 'Hey, Pres! You remember those two... where was I?' and crap like that. Pissed him off. Aww, shut up, Del, you weren't in here until the day after they took Chief. You wouldn't know Pres if he came back and started beating you off! hey! Tell Mousie to come-- I know his name's Bohn-Ay-Part, but it's easier. Whatever, Lemme pet 'im-- No? doesn't wan-- Whispered it... in your... ear? Okay, who am I to question it's-- his Mousie knowledge? Don't shoot me that look! Fine! Fine! I'm gettin' to the story...

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12 January 1991
American Embassy in Serbia
11:42 Hours

Rodney rolled over and lightly palmed at a small button, to stop the incessant buzzing that was coming from the nightstand (at least for the nine minutes it provided). Last night he had been up late; he didn't plan on waking early, despite what the alarm clock felt he should do. With all the agility of a old woman, he rolled to his back, and finally pulled himself up, into what could be considered a "sitting position." It was very bright outside, even through the tiny windows his room allowed, and the bar of white light cut through the darkness of his room harshly. The beige carpet, trodden in the same areas for so long the padding felt like plywood, and the white-painted walls, which were actually the color of tire rubber in the joints, where it had never, apparently, been cleaned. It's amazing, really. Embassies are only, truly, grand and awe-inspiring in the first three rooms the media can enter. Once you walk past all the places cameras are allowed to go, it's like a Motel 6.

Trying his hardest to look enthused as he descended into the lobby with half a hash-brown in his hand and a briefcase in the other, Rodney stormed through the large room without so much as a glance towards anything but his shoes. Outside, like always, a limo, this time creme, was parked outside, and Milan was standing at attention beside Rod's door.
"Hello Milan. You know where to head?"
"Yessir. In a hurry today?"
"Me? Not if you drive fast enough."
"Eh?"
"Run reds and don't stop for 'baby On Board' stickers."
"Sure... thing...? As I believe you say it?"
"Yes."
"We'll be on our way, sir." And with that, Rodney's door slammed shut, and Milan took up the driver's seat. Inside the passenger compartment, this time, was bottles of distilled water, and most of a pair of stockings from his last foray, but neither of his favorite women, nor anything to drink (the water bottles were open, so Rodney stayed far away) in the entire car. Obviously, today meant nothing but business. Rodney finished the hash-brown and tried to do some deep breathing.

"Welcome!" a translator said, after some garbled English-Slovak slur. He was a short man, who's coke-bottle glasses and bushy mustache took up most all of his face. He fussed with his hair, which was in a perfect comb-over, and told the Prime Minister what I assumed, and hoped, was something along the lines of what I said: "Hello! It's a pleasure to be back!"
"Mr. Radmilović bids you come in, so he can talk to you about what he needs from your service."
"Go ahead and tell him 'It's be my pleasure'."
Some garbled Slovak, then "Follow me, Mr. McCarthy."
Rodney did as he was asked, going in the same tapestry-filled room as he was in the night before, and he took a seat where the prime Minister gestured. Radmilović eased down his weight and began to talk to me through the translator, whom I learned was named Bradley. "Mister Prime Minister wished for nothing more than American support for his cause, be it with men, supplies, propaganda, or whatever else may come to mind."
Rodney leaned back, deep in thought, for a second before speaking, "America would most certainly provide support, given this is seen a war."
"It does not?" asked Bradley, less astounded than Radmilović appeared.
"No. In fact, it looks like bullying, over there. looks like genocide."
"That is what it is."
"But America's not going to commit to that. In fact, America's whole-heartedly against it. They are sending the insurgent forces support."
"So there is no American Support?"
"I can make a case. I'll tell them that you are defending your land from them, and that you're winning, but stretched too thin, and will lose without aid. Collapse, even. America wouldn't want the blood of a country on their hands."
Radmilović began to smile as the translator took over. Once he finished, I immediately took back up the leader of the negotiations. "But you'll need to play this part. You'll need to begin losing your perimeter. Maybe even begin to get pushed back."
Radmilović's smile turned into a look of disappointment, and he pulled his lips into a thin line before speaking again. "Will this require much time? I cannot afford to lose my army left and right while you talk to American war-makers."
"If you lose enough, fast enough, America will be in your ranks within days. And that will be the end of it."
the Prime Minister closed his eyes, and let out an inaudible sigh, but finally accepted the terms.
"Of course, I won't steer the most powerful nation in the world towards you for free; I am not a charity."
Radmilović did not look the least bit surprised, and called for a butler to come, bearing a lockbox filled with American currency and Slovak bank notes, totaling more zeroes than Rodney had hoped to ever see. Half of the Lock-box's treasure went into Rodney's briefcase, the other half stayed until later. They shook hands and Rodney offered to meet him here at Eight that night; Radmilović refused and said tomorrow evening would be better, and that he knows the perfect place. A dance club not too far from the embassy.

[Turn 360 and walk away]

“Make the lie big, make it simple, keep saying it, and eventually they will believe it” ~ Adolf Hitler
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14 January 1991
Serbia
18:42 Hours

The next day was much less than exciting for Rodney, who, for that twenty-four hours of his life, did far less than he had ever thought possible. Nothing was on the table today. Radmilović canceled on him, so quickly that he almost thought something went wrong; of course, nothing had. he was the only American in the country, or it's airspace not under constant surveillance, but nonetheless, it felt a little off. He turned on the news and his the little "cc:" button on the remote, causing white scoll to read down the screen.
"--sends his greetings to Prime Minister Radmilović. In the news, Serbian naat'l aRmy got push out of Mitrovica, in the dead of last nights..." This gave him some comfort. What gave him more was a creme-colored limo pulling into the driveway of the embassy.
Rodney rushed down towards the car, but instead of sitting in it, Milan opened the door for people to exit. Three men, two of whom had cameras in hand, and one who was mouthing words towards Milan. Behind them was one of Rodney's favorite girls. She was dark-haired, and the cropped, short hair framed a gaunt, Nordic face. She had on a silvery slip, which looked a lot more like a bed sheet than a dress, and large, dark-tinted sunglasses. As Milan slammed the door and made way towards the driver's seat, the men in the cameras turned towards Rodney, and in response, he backed away, and wiped his palms dry on his pant legs.
"Mister Smith! Mister Smith! how is it you came to dating Miss Tonya so soon?"
Rodney looked between the camera lenses for a moments, and greeted the men to stall for a little time. "We have a mutual friend that introduced us," he grunted, "Please, no questions. I have important things to attend to, and it doesn't involve you." All the while, a mousy little man was repeating everything I had said in whatever tongue it was they spoke, and another, taller man, was relating the questions in English. As Tonya and Rodney walked away, he began with a bunch of questions of his own, starting with things like "why did they say we were 'dating'?" and "Why did you want to come?"
Eventually, that day came and went, and Rodney did the same. But Tonya demanded she accompany him to the club that night, and, sinking faster than a cardboard boat, he accepted.
"Hey Major--"
"McCarthy! Good to see you."
"Is this line secure?"
"As it can get."
"The plan is gonna change. We have a third guest."
"Priority?"
"Do you like me?"
"Yes."
"Red."
"Who is this?"
"My girlfriend."
"What?"
"Yeah. Wouldn't you know.. you can't escape paparazzi for love nor money."
"Same club?"
"Yeah. We're leaving now."
"This it?"
"Yes, Mom, I know. I know! I'll be home soon, I promise. Don't go crying wolf. Yeah, yeah, Good morning!" And with that, he hung up. There's going to be hell for that call, later, but Tonya grabbed his arm and began dragging him to the car.

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27 August, 2006
Newark Federal Penitentiary, Northern Georgia, USA
14:26 hours

Tonya was a hot piece of ass, and, off the record, I did kinda feel bad fo' 'er. The "club" was a bomb shelter, with windows on the top floor. I left for a smoke, and Tonya came with me, clung to me arm like a puppy. She told me, as i was reaching for my lighter, that she couldn't stand cigarette smoke, so I moved a few steps away, and we continued to talk. Once the cigarette was done, I flicked it, and made a Thumbs-Up, and a bullet big enough to down a bull moose without a hassle sailed through her head. it kinda "pinged", as it hopped off the wall, but it was flawless. I gate the team my soiled dinner jacket, and they handed me a black bag full of an identical, given a lack of blood spatter, geddup. I went in and got Radmilović up, and in front of a window, and he ate it up. Like the stupid asshole he is. But what the plans didn;t call for was that the windows were bullet-proof. A loud "thunk", a good spider-web cracking, and a scared P.M. is all we got. I high-tailed it out of there. Once in Romania, I heard news that there was a manhunt for me. It was a blown job, sure, but he stepped down within weeks. It's funny I say that. He got incinerated two weeks before "he" resigned. it was a body double. The thing is, I learned how to do my job: 1) don't be stupid. 2) Don't care. 3) Carry a gun.