International Intrigues

Brigadier General Herbert LeMont stood with the telephone gripped so tight the black plastic was creaking and his forearm bulging as Col Melbourne relayed the information from one of his field offices within the OSS Secret Intelligence division. "I see." he said, his voice not betraying his rage. "No, no. This is was bound to happen sooner or later." he said, flipping open an old wooden telephone number index on his walnut desk. He listened intently as the particulars were relayed as he found the card he was looking for: R. Covington; British Intelligence. "I'll get my staff on it immediately. Tell Jackson good work and to keep me updated. She now has authority to contact me directly." he concluded, doing everything in his power to not slam the phone onto the receiver. "Fuckin' Stadtis....here!" he said through gritted teeth.

He stood up to his full height, a surprisingly average 5'10 for a man of his position within the Brass, and ran a hand through his graying hair. While he could hold his own in a fistfight, as a twice broken nose and three false teeth bore witness to; his true strength was in his sharp, focused intellect; which is why the War Dept had tapped him to lead the OSS, a secretive branch of the U.S. Military that ran counterintelligence, commando, and signals operations. He calmed himself, remembering the words of his mentor Col McCormack: "Hot blood stops at the neck and makes your mind go dark." He **** himself to pick up the phone slowly before he dialed the operator. Moments later, a cultured British voice answered.

"Covington. Speak."

"This is Herb. I've got some bad news for you, Rich; and I need you to know just how bad. Stadti spies locally transmitted the whereabouts of two factories in Ireland that produce steel necessary for the R.A.I.D gear." Gen. LeMont relayed as he surveyed the seven portraits of his known children before him.

"Excellent!" came the enthusiast response. LeMont twitched a little, tightening his grip on the phone once more.

"Come again?"

"Its something Sullivan and I worked on before the old man died. We called it Operation Tattletale. The old boy and I surmised that the best way to keep our enemies guessing was to provide them with targets that would put them right in line for our countermeasures while posing no risk to us; all the while routing out spies." The Brit jovially remarked.

LeMont smiled, even as he shook his head. The OSS was a fine organization; but they still had a thing or two to learn from the Brits. "And just how did you do that?"

"Simply really. We told the factory workers to instruct their female family members and friends on the basic design and operation of the R.A.I.D system under the pretenses of them "needing to know if something were to happen to their poor old parents." We still produce steel there, but we've been working on something that'll really give the Jerrys a fit for some time. How long has it been since you've seen an Aston Martin?" LeMont could practically hear his wry grin over the wire.

"Okay, I'll bite. Not since the factory was bombed a couple of years ago." LeMont said, already knowing where this was headed.

"Mmm yes, yes. Quite the tragedy. Pity they actually bombed a spoon factory two miles down the road by "mistake." Lovely bit of misinformation, that one." He didn't add that 185 people died in that bombing run to cement the cover up. LeMont remembered the headlines, and saw just how far the Brits would go to obfuscate their machinations.

LeMont let out a sigh. "Alright. So where do I start looking for the rat?" he said, flipping open a notebook. He jotted down the important information in shorthand. "Irish refugee. Age 15-25. Female." he repeated back. "That should narrow it down to a few dozen in the search area. I'll get my men on it." he said, keeping his voice calm. "Oh, and Richard..."

"Yes?" Covington replied, the distinctive tinkling of liquid being poured into a cup accompanying his words.

"If you ever run an op in my country again without telling me I'll rip your smug fucking head off. Right. The fuck. Off, Rich." LeMont said through gritted teeth, but as calmly as if he were ordering a burger. There was a long pause before Covington finally responded.

"Understood. To make up for it, why don't you jog on down to 44th street and ask the newsstand vendor named Alonso there for a copy of "British Toys and Models", July '58. I think you and the R&D boys will find the "Gryphon" blueprints most interesting. Good day." The line went dead. He nearly slammed the phone onto the receiver and started to breath slowly as he counted backwards from ten. When he was sufficiently calm, Gen. LeMont buzzed in his secretary. His door opened, and standing there was Bonnie Rigley, a 20 something Dame that was starting to show. She had been his secretary for five months, and was now four months pregnant.

"Yes, Mr LeMont?"

"Tell Station 16 they need to get some coffee. They've got a lot of work to do."

"Right away, General." she said, starting to leave.

"And send Lt. Nichols in. I don't think I've knocked her up yet."

..........................................................................................

Bridget sat down at her small kitchen table, the slab of steel leaning against the wall. She had already showered and exercised, and was now sketching out the basics for the support from memory while a stew cooked on the stove. It wasn't a terribly difficult design, but honeycombing anything with a cutting torch instead of an industrial press would be a tall order; and one she wasn't sure she could do with her home set up. When a R.A.I.D pack was decommissioned, it was policy to cut or bend the frame, remove the boosters, and puncture the tanks before it was scrapped with other assorted metals. Fortunately for Bridget, she didn't have to make this Mil-Spec; only good enough to get Elliot off the ground and back down safely. She started sketching, and it hit her.

"I never saw that before..."she thought, realizing the hard angles of the inner and outer profile of the frame that made it easier for mass production would add uneven pressure to middle, limiting the amount of **** the frame could withstand. She quickly erased the lines, and started to trace "x" marks along what would now be a gradual curve. Her mind raced as she continued to make minor adjustments to the bolt hole locations, reinforcement points, and mounting brackets until she had something that wasn't a R.A.I.D frame, but rather something of her own design.

She stopped, realizing that this had to have been thought of before. Her design would cause such a massive whiplash that no amount of training would prepare someone to take the full **** of the thrust. She sighed, dropping the pencil. She was a mechanic, not an engineer. "Might as well just tell Elliot I'm sorry, go back to the shop and let the boys fuck me senseless till I have spend an hour with..."

Her eyes shot open. She quickly ran to the bathroom and picked up her vaginal exerciser. She clicked it together, watching the springs pick up and them release tension as she clicked the squeaky, wet device like a delighted child. "Springs!" she nearly yelled out loud. By absorbing the initial shock of the launch, a series of springs could absorb enough of the **** to both ease stress on the frame and keep the user's neck from snapping. She ran back into the kitchen, the stew boiled to the point of ruin, and hauled the plate onto her table, sketching on it directly with a piece of soapstone.

"Elliot's gonna love this!" she said as she continued to make further minor adjustments and modifications until the frame she designed barely resembled a R.A.I.D pack at all. She'd have to get the parts for the boosters from somewhere, remembering Johnny's boast about the high-end gear the Meatheads possessed. After her trip to the factory, she was sure that she could handle whatever they threw at her.

She sat the soapstone down, imagining how proud her father would be; even as a squadron of Luftwaffe bombers were crossing the English Channel on the way to Ireland...