By the time everyone was buckled in, the chopper was rocking and bouncing in place like a hyper child on a trampoline. With the clock ticking toward the call to prayer, it seemed to take years for it to finally lift off. The wind from the rotors kicked up a dust storm all around the helipad as the Chinook got airborne.
The pilot, Wade Haugen, had once flown Harriers for the US Marine Corps. Since transitioning to a paramilitary career, he had mastered a variety of fixed-wing aircraft and added choppers to his repertoire. After being hired by SSI, he converted the old Chinook into a combination troop carrier and gunship. There were rocket pylons on both sides, topped by miniguns. He had flares and chaff, too—not that he should need them on this sortie.
The fuel tanks were full. Every weapon system was go. Haugen was primed to deliver these ground-pounders and get waist-deep in some close air support.
Underneath the reaction force, the land gradually transformed from the fertile ground of the Euphrates Valley to dry, harsh desert.
The Chinook (an ugly beast resembling an old telephone receiver upside-down) was a fairly fast bird, stable and tough, mostly due to its absence of a tail rotor. It got the QR force to its debark point quickly. The ramp dropped as it settled onto the ground just long enough for the light platoon to pour out, then the chopper tilted nose-down and accelerated to max speed at low altitude.
Leon, his spotter, Warner and his gun crew remained on the bird.
Up in the cockpit, the target compound came into view. As the chopper neared, Figures came into view—several men, bowing toward the east in an open area between buildings. But several rose from their penitent positions and scattered.
“Guess they hear us coming, eh?” Ryan Flees, the British copilot groused. “And that looks like a lot more than ten hostiles.”
Haugen shrugged. “Intel is sketchy—based mostly on what the Iraqi cops can see from their location.”
“Which apparently wasn’t too bloody much.”
“Patch my mike through to the loudspeaker,” Haugen said.
Flees did so and said, “You’re live.”
They were close enough now to make out faces on the men running, pointing, and leveling weapons at the helicopter. Haugen popped his bubblegum and keyed the mike. “What’re you all looking at me for? You’re supposed to be facing Mecca!”
The miniguns opened up and Haugen raked fire across the compound as he came over, banking left to catch a concentration of fleeing hostiles…and to avoid the building where the women were supposed to be. A few hostiles were shredded by the streams of 7.62mm rounds.
E-Book link (Amazon)
Down below, the first squad was moving into position to take their first building, trusting the bedlam caused by the gun run to divert attention from them. By the time the Chinook cut loose the miniguns on its second pass, they were ready. During the BRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAPPP!!! of Haugen’s burst, the lead man used a shotgun to breach the door and First Squad burst in to sweep and clear, room by room.
They encountered no hostiles in the building, and declared it secure. Now watching key avenues of approach from in and around the building, First Squad held their position while Second Squad took the adjacent building.
Only one hostile was found inside—an armed adult male trying to escape the big, ugly gunship. He lost a quick draw contest with Chris Reecio and the second building was soon secured. One fireteam from each squad was left to hold the two buildings and the rest of the force linked up, preparing to move to the next position.
On the ground, with eyes on the small building where the cops were trapped, Mac keyed his radio mike. “Double Dragon, this is Hudson Hawk. We’re ready for Santa Clause…Mechanic, over?”
“Roger, Hudson Hawk,” Haugen replied. ”Santa Clause One coming in.”
The Chinook came around again, this time settling into a hover low over the roof of the first building. Leon and his spotter dropped down onto the roof. Flees told Haugen they were off, and the chopper slid over to drop the machinegun crew on the second roof.
Small arms fire was incoming now, but poorly aimed and sporadic. Haugen swung wide out to the northwest and charged back into the thick of it. His amplified drawl echoed throughout the compound over the noise of the rotors, “Out on the streets, they call it MUUURRRDEEERRR!”
Flees put hands to both sides of his helmet as if covering his ears. “Oh, bloody hell, Wade! I’m sure that must be against the Geneva Convention. Open fire already, and put them out of their misery.”
So instead of singing it again, or worse: trying to rap the lyrics; Haugen opened up with the miniguns.
Leon and Anwar, his spotter, dropped to the prone at the edge of the roof. They were down less than a second when a man popped out of a doorway, shouldering an RPG and pivoting to track the Chinook.
“RPG!” Anwar cried.
“Got ‘im,” Leon said, taking up trigger slack. “Welcome to Jam-Rock, baby.” The Monolith SWAT spoke, and the man with the RPG nearly folded in half backwards as he fell.
Three men, who had been hiding behind a wall, ran for the building where the women were, once the chopper had passed by. The assistant gunner yelled and pointed. Warner traversed the Vektor SS77 on its tripod and put the trio in the dirt with a couple of eight-round bursts.
On the ground below, Mac led the bulk of the QR force out and around the back of the compound. They came at the third building from the flat desert, bounding forward by fireteam.
A figure appeared behind the scratched, dusty glass of a window. The mercs caught the movement and dropped in their tracks. Fire crashed through the glass to the familiar tune of an AK47 on full auto.
A gunner in Second Squad ripped a burst through the window, and the man. Mac shot to his feet and closed the rest of the distance to the building’s wall. The other shooters did the same, as the SS77 laid covering fire. One merc cooked off a frag grenade and dunked it through the shattered window. When it detonated, the covering gun crew rushed to join their comrades.
Ideally, a mouse hole should be blown in this back wall. But the wall was the only cover they had, so they couldn’t go somewhere else when the charge went off. Around the corner seemed the best plan, since not that much enemy fire was concentrating there.
Mac peeked around the corner nearest the second building and yelled to get the rooftop crew’s attention. “Warner! Yo! Warner!”
Warner’s ammo bearer heard him, looked down and to the right until he spotted Mac. “Yo!”
Mac pointed in the general direction of the rest of the compound and yelled, “Cover!”
The ammo bearer nodded, turned to Warner and the assistant gunner and said something inaudible from where Mac was. Warner poured it on, raking fire back and forth across his sector.
Mac turned back to his men, holding out one hand, palm-up. “Demo!”
Barry Teor, the new demo guy, slapped a crude shaped charge into his hand and Mac rounded the corner. He slammed the charge against the wall facing the second building and got back around the corner with no new bullet holes in him.
“Fire in the hole!”
The charge blew. He allowed time for the dust to settle, then peeked around the corner again. The outside wall now sported a four-foot-diameter mouse hole. He turned back to his men. “Breach!”
The lead fireteam plucked grenades from their vests. There would be no flash-bangs on this sweep. They knew there was opfor (opposing force) in the building and they could afford to take no prisoners until they broke through to the besieged police. Hopefully there were no women or children inside.
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The lead team stacked on the corner while other shooters got out of their way. With a strangled grunt the team leader rounded the corner, lurched sideways and tumbled through the mouse hole. The second man went through almost on top of him. A short burst from an AA12 sounded inside, then one of the mercs called back through the mouse hole, “We’re in a hallway! We’re going left; next pair go right!”
The next two men jumped through the breach. The next fireteam stacked on the corner, waiting for their turn to go in.
Inside, the shooters cleared each room methodically: kick in the door, toss in a grenade. After the blast, the first man entered the room and buttonhooked left; the second man entered, buttonhooking right. Anyone still moving or breathing got a double tap. In fact, they got a double tap even if they weren’t still breathing. Mark the room secure and move on to the next door.
It was the kind of overkill professional soldiers hadn’t employed probably since Stalingrad or Kassino. Fragmentation grenades in every room; universal double taps…
But SSI’s quick reaction force believed in overkill. Big Jake McCallum swore by overkill.
The building was secured quickly with no friendly casualties and six opfor dead. By now it was obvious, even to the mercs at ground level, that enemy strength had been underestimated.
With a team pulling security outside to the rear, the remainder of the force gathered inside the freshly-cleared building. Now four of them, including Mac, positioned themselves at doors and windows facing the inside of the compound. The windows were smashed out with rifle butts. They yanked pins and hurled smoke grenades into the gap between their building and where the police were holed up.
“Litter teams up!” Mac barked.
Six men moved toward the front door and readied their litters—still collapsed so far. Mac glanced outside several times to assess how the smoke was spreading. Second Squad’s gun crew set up their SS77 on an old desk, poking out the front-facing window. The litter teams assumed the ready-scat position.
Mac switched his radio to the Iraqi Police frequency. In Arabic, he said, “This is Hudson Hawk. We are coming to get you in one minute. I say again: 60 seconds. We have litter teams for your casualties. We’ll be coming from the building west-southwest of you. Do not fire at us! I say again: do not fire on us. Do you copy, over?”
“We copy, Hudson Hawk,” a quavering voice replied. “We are ready.”
Mac switched back to the QRF frequency. “Double Dragon, this is Hudson Hawk. Are you ready to bring smoke, over?” He could hear the Chinook hovering outside and knew it was in position, but had to be sure its weapon systems were still functioning.
“Hudson Hawk, this is Double Dragon,” Haugen drawled. “We are guns-up and awaiting your verbal, over.”
“All shooters…all shooters,” Mac broadcast. “Covering fire initiates on Double Dragon’s gun run.” He glanced once more at the smoke, now probably at its maximum spread. “Double Dragon: execute!”
The turbines throttled up and the pounding of the rotors grew louder. Mac turned his back to the door, making eye contact with the litter teams.
BRRRRRRRRRRAAAPPP!!!
The QR force opened up with everything they had, and the noise was terrific.
“GO! GO! GO!” Mac bellowed, running to get out of the litter teams’ way as they charged through the door and across the open ground. Tracers streaked over their heads in such volume that nothing downrange of them could possibly survive.
Atop the roof of Building One, Anwar screamed to be heard above the din. “Target two o’clock, 90 meters, window!”
Leon’s peripheral vision had already caught the jihadi popping up in the window. His cross hairs centered on the head—a chip shot from this range—and he tickled the trigger. The man disappeared from view, leaving a splatter of blood and brain on the wall behind him as a memorial to his curiosity.
Below, the litter teams reached the small building. The door opened. Verbal conversation impossible at that location in the circumstances, the litter bearers pointed, gesticulated, then finally yanked and shoved the cops into motion. Three cops dashed for the secured building across from them as the litter teams entered the building.
When they reemerged, the litters were deployed, bearing three human figures. The litter teams sprinted back across the open ground. When they reached cover, the firing slowed to a trickle.
At the same two-o’clock building from Leon’s position, a jihadi appeared on the rooftop with an RPG.
“See that?” Anwar asked.
Leon could barely hear him over the ringing in his ears, but nodded and said, “I see him.”
“How did he get up there?”
“Your guess good as mine,” Leon drawled. “But I got a hunch how he gonna get back down.”
The Les Baer rifle fired. The man spun half-around and tumbled over the edge of the roof, the RPG flipping up in the air like a baton during a majorette’s juggling trick.
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As the litter teams burst back in the doorway of Building Two, Mac examined their cargo. Thankfully, the wounded cops were still alive. He turned to the three still on their feet. “What can you tell me?” He asked, in Arabic.
One of the men in plainclothes pointed back the way he had come. “As you were laying down fire, most of them gathered in that building.”
“What building?” Mac demanded, unslinging his fag-bag. He extracted the aerial photo and held it out.
“That building!” The cop said, pointing to Building Seven.
Mac stared at the photo for a minute, thinking. He turned to his men. “Weapons check, reload and head count! Get ready to move!” Hey keyed his radio. “Santa Clause One and Two: exfil in two mikes. Over.”
“Wilco, Hudson Hawk. Santa Clause One out,” Leon replied, and Warner replied right after. “Roger: exfil in two. Santa Clause Two out.”
Mac pulled out his cell phone and texted Haugen about the concentration of opfor in Building Seven. His following text said, “Whatever u do, don’t violate R.O.E.”
After a few seconds, he heard Haugen’s voice on the radio. “Hudson Hawk, this is Double Dragon. I’m afraid we must have taken some hits. We seem to be experiencing a weapons malfunction.”
And then the rockets fired—three in rapid succession. Through the window, Mac and his men watched Building Seven obliterated in a strobing flash, quickly replaced by a tremendous cloud of dust and smoke.
Two of the Brits grinned at each other. “Weapons malfunctions are such a nuisance,” one of them said.
“I just hate it when the Rules Of Engagement are blown to hell and gone,” one of the Americans added.
The squad leaders reported to Mac with head counts and ammo inventory. None of the mercs had been lost or even wounded. He would celebrate later, but for now he didn’t want to wear out his welcome with Lady Luck.
“Alright, move out!” Mac bellowed. “Rally Point Echo!” Then, supervising the exfiltration by squads, Mac muttered, half under his breath, “They can stick the Rules Of Engagement where the sun don’t shine.”
The truck bounced around the corner toward the checkpoint.
Leon Campbell yawned and stretched, rolling over to the prone and getting behind his rifle, still resting on its bipod. He keyed his radio mike. “One truck. Two bodies—driver and passenger. Tarp coverin’ somethin’ in the truck bed.” His voice spoke in a marble-mouth Georgia drawl. His lazy brown eyes found the sight picture through the Les-Baer Custom SWAT’s scope. His brown hands, now much darker from the desert sun, slid into a familiar grip on the sniper rifle. He flipped off the safety and his index finger rested against the trigger guard.
Leon had a nice pair of gloves, but didn’t like having them on for “surgical work.” For some reason, it was a lot more difficult for him sensing when the sears would trip with glove material between his skin and the trigger—no matter how thin that material was.
“Get ready, girl,” he told the three-year old Shepherd mix sharing the shade of a jujube tree with him. Shotgun rose from her sitting position so that all four of her legs were straightened and she watched the truck as he did.
Below the hill Leon and Shotgun observed from, Johnny and Drew got into position, their rifles at the ready. Drew stood in the roadway with one hand raised, palm toward the approaching vehicle, while Johnny remained off to the side.
The truck rolled to a stop some ten meters from Drew. Johnny stepped up to the driver’s window and asked the standard questions. The driver produced his ID and answered the questions.
Examining their faces through the scope, Leon recognized both men in the cab as regular visitors to the power plant. But that meant nothing, of course, in this part of the world.
“On station,” he said, and Shotgun charged down the hill to the truck.
She sniffed all the way around the vehicle and made no fuss. Now Johnny had the two Iraqis get out of the cab. Drew sidled over to stand a safe distance from both of them while Johnny moved around back to have a look under the tarp. Seeing nothing that caused alarm, he lifted Shotgun off the ground and let her snoop around in the truck bed. She finished and wagged her tail a bit.
Satisfied, Johnny put her back on the ground. They let the two men climb back in the vehicle and start it, then waved them on their way.
Shotgun climbed back up the hill and joined Leon with a wagging tail and a dripping tongue. Leon gave her a piece of jerky and said, “Good girl.”
“Mechanic, this is Home Alone, over?” squawked the radio.
“This’s Mechanic,” Leon replied. “I copy, Home Alone. Over.”
“Scramble hot. Romeo-Fox is hammer down, over?”
Leon bolted upright, gathering his rifle and gear. It was time to play war, finally. He’d shot nothing but paper targets for months.
The quick reaction force (Quebec-Romeo-Foxtrot, or Romeo Fox for short) only scrambled when hostile contact was made. “Hot” meant live rounds were already flying. Home Alone was the current call sign for their base camp, and Statler was the one minding the store today.
Leon ran down the opposite hill slope from the checkpoint, where the HMMWV was parked, Shotgun trotting along beside him. Over the radio, Statler gave him the code for the link-up site.
A rough, dusty ride later and Leon’s Hummer rolled up next to the QRF’s helipad. There were two dozen men standing near the ugly old surplus CH-47 Chinook, all armed to the teeth but weighted down with little more than their ammo and ballistic protection.
The other Black American working for Secure Solutions, International happened to be the vice president, Jake McCallum—who was also leader of the quick reaction force. McCallum had the frame of an NBA superstar, but with a lot more muscle on it. His stature was intimidating for a lot of men, offset by a face which somewhat resembled the comedian Eddie Murphy’s.
There was nothing comical about Mac’s expression right now. He was hungrier than anyone else in SSI to get some trigger time and now that it was imminent, he was all business.
“Okay, we’re all here,” Mac said. “Gather ‘round.”
He squatted at the corner of the helipad, spreading a topographic map out, then setting an aerial photograph next to it. The force mobbed in around him.
Mac pointed to a grid on the map. “Here’s where we’re going. Anybody remember those guys from Interpol that came by last week?”
A few men nodded.
“Well,” Mac said, “they got a lead on Liberace.”
“Liberace” was a confirmed leader of a terror cell responsible for over 50 deaths, most of them westerners, with some west-friendly Iraqis, mostly unfortunate Sunnis, thrown in. Nobody could pronounce his real name.
Mac pointed at the photo. “Them and some Iraqi cops came into this place, showing mugshots, asking questions, as if they were in Mayberry with Sheriff Taylor and Barney Fife.”
Most of the men looked confused by this reference. Mac frowned. He had forgotten that the younger generations grew up with a lot more than three channels to watch; all kinds of cartoons and kids’ shows to choose from and never had to watch reruns in their life.
“Like they were on CSI or Law and Order or something. Never mind. As you can see, it’s a collection of 13 abandoned buildings. It’s been populated for a while now, by what were assumed to be just a few families of squatters.”
Leon leaned in to get a better look over the shoulders of a couple contractors. The compound was a scattershot of various-sized flat-roofed structures, out in the middle of nowhere.
“One of the cops has been killed,” Mac went on, “two others wounded. They’ve locked themselves in this small building, here. They’ve only got sidearms and not much ammo to hold off the hostiles. It’s only a matter of time before the door or a wall is breached. When the jihadis give up on having hostages to torture and decide to just kill them, they’ll run up there and plant some demolitions, or just fire an RPG at the building. We gotta get there first.”
A couple of the mercs barked their enthusiasm.
Mac nodded, approvingly, shifting focus back to the map. “We’re coming in east-southeast. The chopper’s gonna set us down in this draw right here. It’s got to be a quick offload, folks. Pilot drops the ramp; we unass the bird; he continues on for the first gun run. It needs to happen so quick that the hostiles don’t realize he’s dropped us off.” Mac pointed back to the photo. “First Squad takes this building with Second in overwatch. Once secure, Second Squad takes this building right next to it.”
Mac continued on with the plan, only going over it once and entertaining few questions afterward. He was investing supreme confidence in his squad and team-leaders because, frankly, he had no choice with the time crunch he was faced with. One question he did answer pertained to the enemy’s strength.
“Estimate is ten armed men,” Mac said, then his expression turned especially grim. “Twice that many women, and an unknown number of rugrats.”
The mercs moaned, groaned and cursed.
“I know. I know,” Mac said. “But this is nothing new. When they can’t hit us, then disappear inside a mosque, they hide behind women and children. They understand that ‘weak infidels’ don’t normally have the stomach for that.” He took a deep breath and tried to grin. “But we’re a bunch of bloodthirsty, cold-hearted mercenaries, right?”
“Hoo-hah!” cried one of the Brits.
Mac abandoned the morbid humor tack, and nodded toward the pilot, who nodded back, shared a look with his copilot and climbed inside the Chinook. “If we go wheels-up right now, we’ll catch them during the next call to prayer.” He pointed at a building in the photo. “The women all gather together in this building.” He made eye contact with Leon and Warner, one of the machinegunners. “That’s why I want you guys where I put you. You get me?”
Leon nodded. “Roger that.”
“Loud and clear,” Warner said, in his Cockney accent.
The Chinook’s turbines whined to life, and the rotors began to turn.
“One minute for weapons check,” Mac shouted over the noise of the turbines. “Then let’s go.”
The mercs formed a rank facing west, where there was nothing but empty countryside, and did a brief test fire. The crackle of small arms echoed across the plain, then safeties clicked back on and they loaded the bird, some topping off their magazines as they went.
Two vessels knifed through the waves, away from the port and out to open sea. The Barbara Gee was a recreational trawler, and the Tinseltown was a diving support craft once used for underwater cinematography, as well as towing robot sharks and other sea monsters. It was now stripped of all deck machinery and had plenty of open space inside the horseshoe-shaped fence of antennas and satellite dishes, bristling from just inside the gunwales like the mutant quills of a giant aquatic porcupine.
Tied down to the deck was what looked like a radio-controlled airplane. Only it wasn’t a scale model of an existing aircraft. There were no fake windows or any markings at all. It was made of smooth, nondescript aluminum painted dull green on top, blue on the bottom.
Rocco Cavarra had procured both the watercraft and the captains when Tommy gave the green light. The line of credit provided by Vince’s new pal in New York paid for them, and a whole lot more.
“How does that work again?” Josh Rennenkampf asked, pointing at the German Shepherd mix on the deck of the Tinseltown.
“First you gots to put her in demo search mode,” Leon Campbell replied. He called down to his dog, “On station!”
Shotgun put her nose to the deck and ran immediately to the ammo crates not yet loaded in the hold below. She bellowed low, like a cold engine being turned over with a weak battery.
“That’s her bark for powder-type explosive,” Leon explained. “Good work, girl. Now check that one.” He pointed to the foot locker which contained bricks of C4.
Shotgun trotted over to the footlocker and yelped repeatedly at a higher pitch.
“And that there’s her bark for putty-type ordnance. Good job, Shotgun. Stand down.”
Shotgun stopped barking and returned to Leon’s side, sitting beside his feet.
“I bet she comes in handy in Iraq,” Tommy said.
Leon nodded. “She saved a few lives.”
“How long did it take you to train her?” Gunther Scarred Wolf asked.
“Well, I ain’t done with her, yet,” Leon replied. “Folks say I shoulda’ trained her like the bomb squad dogs, but I didn’t know I’d even be able to teach her this much. She still tend to put herself in demo search mode all by herself when new ordnance come into a secured area. I’m workin’ on it.”
“The last thing we need on this trip is a mutt,” Vince said. “You better clean up behind it, ‘cause the first time I step in something that stinks, I’m throwing it overboard.”
Tommy glared at his brother, then slapped Leon’s shoulder. “Hey, we’re glad to have a mascot, buddy.”
Dwight Cavarra came up the ladder from belowdecks huffing and puffing. “Okay, somebody else’s turn to stack gear down there.”
Shotgun slunk away to the stern and curled up on a coil of ropes.
Rocco caught Leon’s attention before he climbed down. “Hey, I think I found a stock for your M21 you’re gonna like.”
“Not one of them ‘chassis’ I hope,” Leon replied. “The ones cost both arms, a leg and your firstborn.”
“I can get you a deal on those, too,” Cavarra said. “But no. This is a polymer stock with a nice grip, and an adjustable cheek piece. A fraction of the price. We’ll talk about it later.”
“Okay, sounds good,” Leon said, and disappeared into the hatch.
“Speaking of weapons,” Tommy said, nodding to Josh, “we’re far enough away from snooping eyes, now. Show me what we got.”
Josh nodded, kneeling beside a large plastic case. He unlocked it and swung it open, pulling out a heavily-oiled M10. Out of habit he racked the bolt to check the chamber before handing it to Tommy. “It’s Christmas, Chief. Mr. Ingram has seen to our short-range room-clearing needs.”
Tommy worked the bolt himself, peering into the empty chamber, then inspected the exterior of the little blocky box of a machine pistol.
Vince stepped closer for a look at the weapon. “Is that a MAC-10? Those are illegal.”
Josh cocked an eyebrow up at him as he pulled another Ingram from the case. “According to who?”
“According to the law,” Vince said.
Tommy groaned. He knew there was a volatile mixture of personalities aboard, but it looked like they were going to touch off even faster than he feared.
“The law says the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed,” Josh said. “If you’re a cop, and you sure act like one, then you swore an oath to uphold that law…not the so-called laws that violate it.”
“Those are easily converted into automatic weapons,” Vince declared. “And full-auto weapons have been banned from civilians for 80 years, hot shot.”
“These are full-auto, Vince,” Tommy said.
Vince’s complexion darkened. He appeared ready to blow a gasket. “Do you even know…? I mean, I could throw all of you… I could lose my badge just for…”
Josh handed one of the submachineguns to Cavarra. “Why waltz when you can rock & roll? Do you know what the difference is between an ‘illegal’ semiautomatic weapon and an ‘illegal’ full automatic weapon?”
Cavarra worked the bolt and gave it the once-over. “Yup. Firepower.” He snapped the fingers of his free hand and strode across the deck, stooping to unzip a nylon rifle case. From it he produced a Galil rifle with an M203 grenade launcher mounted underneath. “Remember this?”
“Fondly,” Tommy said. “In fact, I got a variety of 40mm rounds for it in some crates downstairs. Brought a 60mm mortar too, just for giggles.”
“Tommy,” Vince protested. “You know better than this! These guys are all…” the words froze in his mouth when he saw Josh screwing a suppressor onto the threaded barrel of an Ingram. “Silencers? Silencers!”
Josh rose to his feet with an irritated scowl, gesturing toward Vince with his free hand, and asked Tommy, “Is he gonna do this the whole trip?”
Below is a link to the petition for the Internet Bill of Rights. If you want to stop the Leftist Thought Police from censoring everything that doesn’t agree with their Narrative, you really need to get on board.
Do you want a few monopolies like Goolag, FascistBorg and Twatter to determine what information can be published and what can’t?
They’ve avoided anti-trust litigation by lobbying their fellow travelers in government to designate them as utilities. Then they censor and purge those who express non-leftist political opinions. In other words, they are denying utility services to people for political reasons.
Contrast this with say, private bakeries choosing who they will bake wedding cakes for (the worst atrocity since the Holocaust!). The Thought Cops have made this bed–they should be forced to lay in it.
Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.
First Amendment to the Constitution of the United States of America
I could use some feedback on these covers. I plan on replacing my cool retro-men’s adventure cover for the E-book version of Tier Zero…at least temporarily.
Here’s Alternative 1:
And here’s Alternative 2:
I’m having trouble deciding which I like better. Any constructive criticism would be helpful. Shouldthe font be more like it is in the other books of the series? Do you think the overall tint should be tweaked to the muddy, muted colors of the other books? (I know the weapons and gear don’t reflect exactly what’s in the story–this is more an attempt at a striking image that connotes, thematically, the content in a general sense.)
Layer after layer of corruption and abuse are being peeled back from the political swamp in Washington, proving what some have suspected for a long time: that the US government–nominally of the people, for the people, and by the people–has been hijacked.
The hijacking took place a long time ago, but sadly, the truth would never be known to the mainstream if it weren’t for alternative media.
More facts are turning up every day, so the picture we have now is not definitive. Undoubtedly, more information will be added as this unravels. But here is a tentative summary of the sequence of events leading to what some are now calling “Obamagate”:
The deep state’s plan for the “choice” we would have for President in 2016 came down to Hillary (Evil) or Jeb Bush (Evil Lite). They rigged the Democrat primary so Hillary would beat Sanders (who is a little too honest about his ideology), and tried to rig the Republican primary in favor of Jeb, by splitting the vote with so many candidates that he would win a plurality.
Unfortunately for them, one of those candidates on the Republican side–despite being rather ignorant in some ways, and a former Clinton/Obama supporter–was not a “made man,” and inspired more enthusiasm in voters than any other single candidate–despite the establishment backing of Bush III. In order to cover all bases, they needed some way to either bribe, threaten, or blackmail him so that he’d dance to their tune (and gracefully lose to Jeb). Bribes and threats evidently didn’t work, so they had to find or manufacture some kind of dirt on him, just on the remote chance he might present a serious challenge to their made man (and made woman).
Trump stunned the deep state by trouncing Jeb and all other opponents, despite all the efforts of the lapdog media (and despite his unpolished speech and politically unorthodox personality).
While using their MSM puppets to proclaim that Hillary would obliterate Trump in the general election, the deep state developed an “insurance policy” against the rogue upstart just in case the unthinkable happened.
It turns out Carter Page might have been an FBI employee or informant long prior to these events, involved in surveilling actual Russian agents (not that the Obama Administration was interested in stopping Russian threats to our country, as proven by the Uranium One fiasco). Moreover, the Obama DOJ/FBI may have planted Carter Page inside the Trump campaign for the very purpose of generating a “Russian Collusion” Narrative. Hopefully this will become more clear as information is released.
Using Carter Page and his Russian contacts as an excuse, the witch hunt began. Page being associated with the Trump Campaign would give Obama’s dirty secret police a toehold from which they could “inadvertently” find or manufacture dirt on their real target: Trump.
An avowed Trump-hater and British spy Richard Steele was contracted by the Hillary Campaign/DNC for “opposition research” against her political opponent. It’s been assumed for months that Steele’s “sources” for the Dossier were Russians happy to receive Yankee Dollars for lying about an American; but it’s beginning to look like the sordid tales of golden showers in Moscow hotels were actually invented by long-time Clinton henchmen, including Sydney Blumenthal.
Knowing the Dossier was fabricated by agents of the DNC/Clinton Campaign, the dirty cops in Obama’s Secret Police (the hijacked FBI & DOJ), took it to a secret court (FISA), which rubber-stamped it. The warrant was subsequently renewed every 90 days by the same secret court. This gave Robert Mueller the justification to assemble a team of partisan dirty cops and spend over a year and millions of taxpayer dollars trying to dredge up some kind of scandal on Trump. Jim Comey has admitted the Dossier was “salacious and unverified,” but that didn’t matter to the criminals in charge.
Steele leaked excerpts from his dossier to the press, then Obama’s Stasi used the resulting press coverage to “corroborate” the Dossier to the secret court.
Despite Hillary’s “98% probable victory” in November, and despite massive election fraud and a painfully partisan press, Trump won the presidency. Deep state operatives and their useful idiots across the country broke out in hysterical panic. A Hillary presidency would have ensured that the astonishing levels of corruption, high crimes and treason taking place for years would have been swept under the rug. But now they were missing an essential tool for keeping everything under wraps: the Chief Executive. Hence all the FISA renewals and the “Russian Collusion” Narrative, coinciding with shrieks about impeachment for undefined reasons.
After all the time and money spent on the witch hunt, Mueller’s “investigation” has been unable to turn up any evidence that Trump colluded with Russians (which, apparently, is not a crime anyway). To this day, nobody in the DNC/media machine is able to even provide a hypothesis as to how “Russian Collusion” “hacked” the election, or has influenced President Trump’s policies. But while pushing this nothing-burger on their audience of TV zombies, the MSM has dutifully helped cover up a number of actual scandals which do have supporting evidence.
After obstructing justice and stalling Congress for months, the FBI finally released evidence (what they didn’t still try to destroy/hide). Some of this evidence was summarized in the Nunes Memo. The Democrat/Media machine shrieked that the memo couldn’t be made public because “muh democracy!” Once it was released, however (proving they were lying about a danger to national security or revealing sources and methods), they immediately adjusted The Narrative to convince the public we shouldn’t bother to read it because it’s a dud. “Nothing to see here, folks. Just move along!”
Adam Schiff and his fellow deep state operatives concocted a counter-memo, purposefully including sources and methods so that it would have to be heavily redacted for national security purposes. In other words, they themselves did what they (falsely) accused Nunes & Co. of doing, knowing the Lapdog Press would parrot their Narrative: “Trump has a double standard! He’s obstructing justice!”
Other memos are coming out in the mean time, proving what many in the alternative media have been saying for a year. And evidence is beginning to trickle down that Obama himself was directly complicit in the illegal surveillance of American citizens, including President Trump and associates.
There’s been more than enough evidence to indict these and other high-level criminals in our government for some time, but they have yet to face any consequences. Meanwhile, folks like General Flynn were ruined with the flimsiest of cases. There is an undeniable double standard, completely determined by the partisan divide. It seems little has improved with the appointment of Jeff Sessions as Attorney General (in fact, the appointment appears to be another multi-level deep state coup, as his vacated Senate seat was handed to the Democrats via election fraud and a demonization campaign based on the flimsiest of cases). There might be an avalanche of additional revelations coming, but if nobody in the “Justice” Department acts on it, the swamp will never be drained anyway.
Both sides are trash-talking about a resounding victory in the mid-term elections. The left’s arrogance is well-founded, since their voter base is on-board for destroying America by any means necessary, and couldn’t care less about truth or the depravity of their own political champions. The deep state also pulls the strings of the MSM, Hollywood, etc., which will force-feed The Narrative to the public 24/7. The right does not have such a fanatical voter base–in fact, it tends toward apathy and defeatism. Also, the GOP is rife with swamp creatures merely masquerading as ideological adversaries to the Democrats, and some of Trump’s own appointees are proving to be ineffectual at best. Trump is alone on a raft made of popsicle sticks, surrounded by deep state sharks.
There is scuttlebutt circulating among the anons that Trump is playing 4D chess here, and has trolled the Democrat/Media Machine. Specifically: that Sessions is actually hard at work behind the scenes and that heads are already rolling as he herds the swamp critters into a trap often referred to as “the Storm.”
During the 2016 campaign, when fielding questions about military operations, Trump said he wouldn’t follow the idiotic practice of previous administrations by warning our enemies (ISIS was the specific enemy discussed) before we struck. (In fact, this was what first started pulling me toward the Trump Camp. This simple little nugget of wisdom hinted at a foreign policy more sensible than any since Reagan…maybe since Coolidge.) If he applies this logic to domestic as well as foreign enemies, then this “4D chess” theory may not be farfetched.
The “mainstream” (left-wing lapdog) media first tried to convince their audience that the FISA memo was a “threat to the rule of law” (as if they care about that), would undermine the fabric of our “democracy,” etc. Notice how, once the memo was released, the Spin Machine reversed gears and now tries to convince you that it’s much ado about nothing?
In fact,you can tell there’s chaos in the enemy camp because their coordination has broken down. Some Democrats and media talking heads (but I repeat myself) are still pushing the first official story (lets call it Narrative 3.1), while their fellow travelers have already switched to Narrative 4.0. Corporately, at least, the Democrat/Pop-Culture Machine is broadcasting cognitive dissonance throughout the land. Releasing the memo will end life as we know it; but at the same time the memo is insignificant and laughable.
The more I watch Dr. Corsi, the more I appreciate that there are still a few good men who love our country and hope to save it. Here he discusses Q Anon’s recent coded messages to the patriot community, and the significance of the Nunes memo.
There could yet be hope for America. My son may yet grow up in a free country.
The investigation leading to the FISA memo barely scratches the surface of the tip of the iceberg. There is a lot more that the people need to find out, and hopefully they will.
It remains to be seen if the “Normies” are jarred out of their trance; if Trump’s counterattack is forthcoming; and if the perpetrators will finally suffer consequences.
Here’s a summary (because the document is in pseudo-legalese):
The Hillary Clinton campaign and Democratic National Committee, using shells or front companies, paid to have former a British spy and anti-Trump fanatic fabricate a story that would malign Trump’s character during the 2016 campaign. He put this disinformation material into a dossier, which was subsequently leaked to the press.
Two media organizations that spread the story were Yahoo and Mother Jones.
The corrupt, weaponized FBI and DOJ, controlled by Obamunist lackeys at the top levels, used the dossier, and the news coverage of it, to illegally obtain a FISA warrant to spy on American citizens, despite knowing who funded it and why. It appears likely that the FBI helped pay for the dossier (with our tax dollars). Furthermore, the FISA warrant was renewed twice during and after the election.
The initial warrant, and subsequent renewals, were for the purpose of justifying a witch hunt against Trump and his campaign and administration (initially via Carter Page). The alleged reason for the witch hunt was “collusion” between Trump and “the Russians.” The ultimate goal was to ensure Trump would lose the election. After that failed, they (with their willing accomplices in the media) hoped they could use it to overturn the election. This was possibly part of the “insurance policy” spoken of by FBI bureaucrats in the 15% of private texts the FBI is not still hiding from Congressional oversight.
Among those involved in these crimes and abuses of power were Jim Comey; Andrew McCabe; Rod Rosenstein; Sally Yates; and Dana Boente. And, of course, they worked for Barack Hussein Obama.
This is the tip of the iceberg, but also part of the reason the traitors to our country were so desperate to keep this information from We the People. The most important immediate question is: Will Attorney-General Jeff Sessions have the guts now to do his job and bring these criminals to justice?
Coincident with the German blitzkrieg into France, Heinrich Himmler assigns a special detail to “protect” Wilhelm Hohenzollern, the former Kaiser of the Second Reich, who is exiled in Holland.
The assignment is passed down to young Captain Brandt, a veteran of the Poland Campaign who was wounded winning the Iron Cross, but also got on the wrong side of the SS after witnessing an atrocity. Still recovering from shrapnel wounds to his stomach, he nonetheless doesn’t want this cushy rear-echelon job. But orders are orders, so off he goes.
Brandt is quickly caught in a tug of war between the Kaiser’s military attache; the Gestapo; Wermacht Intelligence (trying to track down a British spy in the area), and a young, nubile war widow who is down for cheap, meaningless sex.
It’s a pleasant surprise how good this movie is. While it certainly has its faults, it’s not always easy to guess what will happen next.
Even the most fanatic revisionist white knights couldn’t ruin a story set in the Mongol Empire during the conquest of south China, right?
Ahem.
I wish I could say I’m surprised by what they’ve done with the subject matter.
First off is the main character, Marco Polo. His motivations are sketchy at best, beyond some vague desire for a father figure. In the first season he’s habitually stupid…but not as stupid as the series writers assume their audience is.
The sad fact is, that assumption may prove correct.
There’s all the formulaic theater, white-knight feminist tropes, and contrived plot devices you can find in any other TV show, and the Trojan beach head of perversity we can expect from a Weinstein Company-backed tale of palace intrigue.
(But to be honest, it’s doubtful Harvey Weinstein is any worse than the other producers in Hollywood. In fact, he’s probably mild compared to some of them.)
But the sterling character of the morally pure saints headquartered in Homowood, Commiefornia never rests until it has delivered a hypocritical moral message. And so their favorite perversion (pedophilia) is represented not accurately (like, say, in the character of an entertainer or leftist politician), but in the form of a Christian Mongol.
Nothing special here.
Red-Blooded American Men Examine Pop-Culture and the World
Down below, the first squad was moving into position to take their first building, trusting the bedlam caused by the gun run to divert attention from them. By the time the Chinook cut loose the miniguns on its second pass, they were ready. During the BRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAPPP!!! of Haugen’s burst, the lead man used a shotgun to breach the door and First Squad burst in to sweep and clear, room by room.
Down below, the first squad was moving into position to take their first building, trusting the bedlam caused by the gun run to divert attention from them. By the time the Chinook cut loose the miniguns on its second pass, they were ready. During the BRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAPPP!!! of Haugen’s burst, the lead man used a shotgun to breach the door and First Squad burst in to sweep and clear, room by room.
The sad fact is, that assumption may prove correct.