Operation: Pacifica, A Late Delivery from Aggieland
by Admiral J-Rock, aka Slider the Feral (NYAR!)






"This has all happened before, and it will all happen again." --
  Information Society, "Seek 200"





SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA




        "If there's one thing worse than air travel, it's the
  layovers," J-Rock was heard to remark as he languished in Frisco
  International's snack bar. He had just completed a two-month TDY (whatever
  the frak that meant) in Hawaii, teaching some BJSF drivers how to fly
  Sullas, Visigoths, and Jagatais.  And now he was stuck here, on the tail end
  of a three hour layover. Next to him, a pair of businessmen were engaged in
  a heated discussion over the small sum of money each had shelled out for 12
  oz. bottles of fruit juice. Must be headed to Japan, J-R thought. Wait'll
  they get a load of how expensive things are over _there._


        "Two dollars for this little bottle of juice? That's
  outrageous!"


        "Hey, it's even worse on the plane, ok?  So quit your
  bellyachin'."


        "Still, two dollars is a bit much."


        All this just to help Confed set up an air station on Oahu.
  How much longer do I have to stay here, an hour?  J-R took another sip of
  coffee (something he hardly ever did) and sighed. On top of all that,
  airplane resources had been tight, forcing him to fly round-trip on America
  West from Houston Hobby to Frisco to Honolulu and back. Whee.


        Finishing off his coffee, J-R got up and leisurely walked
  over to the video arcade. And that was when he first saw them. Seven people
  of varying genders, all with shaved heads, puke-purple robes, and glazed
  looks in their eyes. They were currently playing tamborines and prancing
  around in one big circle, chanting "Hare Barney, Hare Barney." Oh God, he
  thought. They've spread this far west. Time to put them out of my misery.


        J-R calmly put his back to the wall and unzipped his carry-
  on, which held his Plasmatronix 2000 Handheld ER PPC. As he felt for the
  grip, his mind began to issue a small warning. After all, pulling a gun in a
  crowded airport was simply not done if one wished to avoid the attentions of
  airport security. Then his hand brushed across a plastic bottle of some
  sort. "Forgot I had put _this_ in here," he muttered to himself. This would
  do rather nicely, indeed.


        He immediately walked back to the snack bar and ordered 14
  half-pint cartons of milk, paying with a $50 bill. As the cashier started to
  hand him back his change, he said, "Keep it."


        "Thanks," the cashier replied, already starting to blush.


        "Can I get some glasses with this? I've got some guests
  coming."


        "Sure can," she responded, setting the glasses on the
  counter. J-R used this time to get a spoon out of the silverware rack. He
  then proceeded to fill the glasses with milk, emptying two cartons at a
  time. Next, he extracted the bottle from his bag and set it down on the
  counter. The contents of the bottle were a new invention from the kitchens
  of WEDJEE's Despongification Section.  White chocolate syrup is one of the
  most insidious tools of field desponging ever developed. It doesn't change
  the color of the milk, nor its odor. The only way of detecting this is by
  taste, and by that time it's far too late. Not only did it have sugar (duh),
  but some caffeine was included for a nice "round" epicurean delight. He
  proceeded to squeeze a generous portion into each glass and stir it up.
  "Ok," he said while putting the bottle back, "time to get the guests. Can
  you please watch over this while I'm away?"


...



ONE MINUTE SEVENTEEN SECONDS LATER...




        "Excuse me, sir, we're from the Church of Dinosaur
  Consciousness," the lead cultist said to J-Rock as he approached. "Would you
  like a free Barney doll?"


        "Thanks," he said as he took the doll. "I'm afraid I have
  something to confess. Until now, I used to hate Barney." He took a breath
  and went on, trying not to gag on the name of the Satanic Purple Saurian
  from Hades. "But now, I have seen the light! I know now that Barney only
  seeks to provide games and fun for everyone!"


        "A believer! A believer!" chorused the rest of the cultists.


        "In fact, the Healthy Snacks are on me! To the snack bar,
  everybody!"  As he led the cultists off toward the snack bar, they started
  to sing some saccharine song. J-R just hummed along, as it was sung to some
  traditional melody that B'Harne had ripped off. But the falsettos that the
  Minions insisted upon singing in were starting to bother him a little bit.
  As they rounded the corner and saw the milk glasses arrayed on the counter,
  the Hare B'Harnates ran for them at a full sprint. J-Rock, without breaking
  his stride, walked towards the cashier. Slipping her a c-note as the minions
  took big gulps of their milk, he whispered, "They're probably gonna want
  some hot dogs or something next.  Give them anything they want as long as
  this holds out." J-R could already hear the cultists asking for Cokes as he
  walked out of the snack bar. "Sometimes, it's so easy," he mused. "I'm
  ashamed of myself... NOT!"


        He flushed the small B'Harne idol down the toilet two
  minutes later.


...



AND THEN...




        After placing a call on the JihadLinker (tm) to B/CS to send
  a DropShuttle to pick him up first thing tommorrow morning, J-R stood in
  line with several others at the America West counter to get both his money
  and his luggage back. As he got to the counter, two men in the uniforms of
  the Doberman Empire approached. "J-Rock?" they asked.


        They didn't include my rank, he thought as the alarm bells
  began to go off inside his head. Turning his head toward them, he asked,
  "Who wants to know?"


        "We've here to take you to the Presidio," one of them said.


        "Yeah," said the other.


        "May I help you?" the clerk asked.


        "In a minute," J-R replied. To the Dobermenschen, he asked,
  "Who sent you?"


        "Samhain," came the reply.


        Forgot _his_ rank too! Time to seperate the men from the
  sponge. "In this day and age, we must be careful. In order to prove to me
  that you are who you say you are, I propose a test. Can you sing the last
  verse of 'One' by Metallica for me?"


        "Um, uh, that's a hard one," said the first.


        "Why can't it be easier, like 'Buckle My Belt'?" asked the
  second.


        "Bloody hell," muttered J-R as he tightened his grip on the
  carry-on bag.



# Butthole Surfers "Pottery" _"Escape From L.A." soundtrack_




        J-R then drove the bag firmly into the nearest impostor's
  belly, forcing air out of his lungs in the key of "whuff" before bringing
  the bag firmly into his jaw. The impact staggered the Spongin as his buddy
  approached.  J-R sidestepped this attack, and grabbed a handful of hair. He
  then proceeded to slam the Minion's face into the counter with authority.
  Just as his body went limp, the staccato burst of submachinegun fire split
  the air, followed almost immediately by terrified screaming. J-R vaulted the
  counter and pulled his PPC, drilling the last Dobe-wannabee in the chest. He
  also saw four Men in Black with submachineguns before their renewed fire
  drove him back down behind the counter. Turning to the scared-out-of-her-
  mind clerk, he said, "This may seem like a bad time to ask, but I really
  need to have my bags taken out of the plane."


        The clerk could only whimper as a shadow started to loom
  over the counter at the two. Springing into action, J-R grabbed the MIB's
  SMG by the barrel and lifted it up out of harm's way at the same time as he
  placed the PPC's business end under the MIB's chin. After the MIB's
  braincase experienced the deep clean that only a cerulean bolt of manmade
  lightning could deliver, J-R flipped the SMG around so that the grip faced
  him. He then used the MIB for a (sub)human shield, smirking as its
  compatriots filled it full of lead.  Dropping his PPC to the countertop at
  the same time as he let the MIB fall to earth, he switched his grip on the
  SMG and sprayed the remaining MIBs. As they fell to the ground, he sighed
  and dropped the SMG on the counter. It had been a long evening, and he
  didn't even think he could make it to nearby Mountain View, where his great
  aunt lived.


        Yep, he thought as he fished through his wallet for his TRES
  Corps ID card, tonight I'll just head on over to the Paramount (or was it
  the Fairmont?) Hotel, get a room near the penthouses, order room service,
  and doze off watching HBO.


        Sounds like a plan to me, the left side of his brain chimed
  in as he put away his wallet, grabbed both PPC and carryon, and bumped into
  another Doberman. Warrior-grade, by the look of him; and leading a squad of
  six Troopers, too. "Admiral!" he said. "You ok?"


        Snarling, J-R put his PPC's muzzle firmly into the Warrior's
  nose. The Troopers immediately brought their XRifles (tm) to bear, but J-R
  said, "Don't even try it, Troops. You may be able to get me in a rush, but
  not before your scoutmaster's brains see the light of day. Now, put your
  guns down." The Warrior motioned for them to lower their weapons. "Listen
  up. I'm tired, I'm hungry, and I've had to deal with Spongin who liked to
  pretend they were Jihaddi. So, I'm 'a give you the same test I gave them,"
  he said. "Either sing any verse of Metallica's 'One', or I start shooting. I
  know I don't really want that, you don't want that, and Warrior..." -- he
  glanced at the Warrior's name badge -- "Cochraine most certainly does not
  want that."


        Silence reigned for the catalogable period of two seconds.


        Then the Troopers started into song: "I can't remember
  anything/Can't tell if this is true or a dream/Deep down inside I feel a
  scream/This terrible silence stops me--"


        J-R pulled his PPC up to high port before letting his arm
  fall to his side. "That's good enough," he said.


        "Glad you came around when you did, sir," Cochraine said. "A
  few more seconds and we would have been staring down the barrel of a inter-
  Jihad incident. Also, be advised: I don't particularly like guns pointed at
  me by senior officers."


        "Relax," J-R replied. "I'll apologize later. Besides, you
  know what they say about paranoia being good for group unity."


        "As long as it's reasonable, sir."


        "Now, could you please send somebody to get my luggage?"



...



ONE HOUR LATER




        With his luggage sitting on top of a desk chair and a nine-
  piece order of Chicken McNuggets in his belly, J-Rock flopped into the bed
  waiting for him in the guest quarters. Once he'd apologized to Cochraine,
  the Dobermensch Warrior had proven to be a gracious host, even informing him
  that FleetCom Samhain had gone out with Trooper Surtur (translation:
  CyberPyro) for the evening. As such, paying his respects would have to wait
  until morning.


        Which was ok with him, as he fell asleep almost instantly.



TO BE CONTINUED...