OPERATIONS OTHER THAN WAR:

Another Tale of Bubblegum Crisis

By SSG Michael B. Jackson

The e-mail had hit Chief Todo’s desktop just like a hundred others did every day.  But this one had many attachments, including an API news-clip, and an odd subject line:  Request for Civilian Law Enforcement Consultants. 
Even odder was the sender line.  The message had reached Todo from the mayor’s office, but had been forwarded down from a long line of recipients, climbing all the way up the bureaucratic hierarchy to the Diet and beyond.  The original sender, in fact, was listed as the Neo-NATO CJTF197 J-3, whatever the hell that was.
Opening it with a frown, Todo pored over the contents suspiciously.  As the sense of it penetrated, his frown slowly relaxed, and his eyebrows climbed upward in surprise instead.  “Huh!” He finally muttered as he finished the brief text and began to dig into the attachments, which contained the real meat of the message.  
After ten or fifteen minutes of reading, the Chief sat back in his chair thoughtfully.  And then, after a few moments, he leaned back over the computer.  Smiling in a satisfied way, he too forwarded the message, this time to two of his favorite officers.
Still smiling, he pressed the intercom system’s talk button and said, “Naoko!”
From the other end, there was a startled gasp, and then, “Sir?”
Drumming his fingers on the desk top, the Chief said, “As soon as McNichol and Wong read their e-mail and come up here raising hell, send them my way.”  Then, pausing to consider, he added, “And when that happens, get Romanova in here too.  They’re also going to need an admin specialist for this crap.”
In a tone of bewilderment, Naoko replied, “Uh, sure Chief.  Can you tell me what this is about?”
The Chief grunted, and said, “Oh, nothing big, Naoko.  Just a little paid vacation, that’s all.”

Standing in front of the Chief’s desk, Daley beside him and Nene doing her best to fade into the background behind, Leon said angrily, “What the hell did we do this time?”
Frowning, Chief Todo said, “Do?  Who the hell said you did anything?  Think of this as an opportunity to get out for a while, McNichol.  You’re the one always bitching about this place, so what’s the big deal?”
Leon shook his head slowly, and said, “Yeah, I get it.  Shuffle us off for a while so you can have a little peace and quiet, that’s it.  Well, I hope this whole damn town doesn’t fall down around your ears while we’re gone.”
Rolling his eyes heavenward, the Chief said, “You’re the most arrogant son of a bitch it’s ever been my pleasure to meet, McNichol.  But I’m sure Mega Tokyo will manage to survive without you somehow for a few weeks.”
As Leon was about to launch a fiery retort, Nene finally made her presence know in her own nervous way.
“Um, sir?” She said tentatively, addressing the Chief.  
Turning his frowning gaze on her, Todo said, “Yes?  What is it, Romanova?”
Obviously bewildered, Nene said, “Well, sir, I just, er, that is-  What’s going on, sir?  I don’t even know why I’m here.  Did I do something wrong?”
The Chief shook his head, his frown dissolving into an expression of amusement, and he said, “No, Romanova, you didn’t.  In fact, the reason I wanted you for this was that you’ve done some things very right in the last few months.”
“Huh?” She said in puzzlement.
The Chief sighed, and, turning his monitor to face out, said, “Here, Corporal, take a look at this.”
Stepping forward, she saw that he’d opened an e-mail and one of it’s attachments.  From the screen, the headline ‘Rash of Boomer-Related Incidents Hinders Neo-NATO Operations in Afghanistan’ glared out at her.  Frowning, she read on.
‘API News- Kabul, Afghanistan, June 17th, 2034.  In what appears to be a series of coordinated attacks against both Neo-NATO forces and local Afghan authorities, anti-coalition forces have been employing a number of new techniques involving cyberdroids.  These include the retro-fitting of stolen labor and mannequin types as improvised combat boomers, as well as the extensive use of covert models as ‘droid borne improvised explosive devices’ or DBIED.  Also, there has been a sharp rise in the rate of catastrophic failure or ‘rouge boomer syndrome’ among the labor and construction models used by the provincial liason teams and non-governmental organizations providing humanitarian relief and infrastructure improvements nationwide.  This has given rise to the theory among the military intelligence community that terrorists are employing a virus or some other sort of electronic warfare technique to…’
There was more, but Nene had read enough.  Looking up at the Chief, she said, “Um, does this mean what I think it means?”
The Chief just smiled, and said, “Relax, Corporal.  It’s only six weeks, and you’ll be drawing a hefty consultant’s fee, courtesy of Neo-NATO.”
“Yeah, that’s fine,” Leon interjected, “but what the hell do they want us to do?  Take on a whole damn terrorist cell by ourselves?”
The Chief sighed loudly, and said, “Christ, McNichol, didn’t you even read the damned e-mail before you came storming up here?”
Leon frowned, and said, “I got about as far as ‘consultants needed in theatre ASAP’.  That was all the hell I needed to know to start bitching.”
The Chief growled, his dark skin darkening further as his blood pressure rose, but before he could explode all over Leon, Daley carefully intervened.  “Well, I read it, Chief, and I can see why they need us.  None of those military guys, except maybe a few MP’s, has any experience dealing with boomers except in a combat situation.  And you can’t cut loose like that in the middle of a civilian population you’re trying to protect.”
The Chief nodded slowly and said, “Exactly.  What the three of you will be doing is train-the-trainer stuff, both for the military and for the local authorities.  Cyberdroid recognition, anatomy and vulnerabilities of common models, anti-boomer tactics in populated areas, crap like that.  I’ll have Takashi send you some training outlines from the academy.”
“Ah, shit,” Leon said, shaking his head.  “You’ve gotta be kidding, Chief.”
Blood suddenly boiling again, the Chief stood and yelled, “Do I look like I’m goddamn kidding, McNichol?!  You and Wong think you’re the hottest damn cops I’ve got here, so take your asses over there and prove it!”  And then, cocking his head slightly, the Chief added quietly, “Unless you’re scared, McNichol.  It is a combat zone, after all.”
This had exactly the effect the Chief intended.  First Leon’s eyes widened in incredulity, and then narrowed in anger.  “Scared?!” He yelled.  “Who the hell are you talking to?  When was the last time you had your ass out anywhere it might get shot at?!  Scared!  Hell with it, then!  Where are my goddamn plane tickets?!”
As Daley did his best to hold back a snicker, Nene frowned and said, “Uh, Chief?”
Turning from Leon, he looked at her and said, “Yes?”
Screwing her courage up after seeing how he’d dealt with Leon, Nene said, “Sir, I can see why you’re sending Leon and Daley.  But why me?  I’m just an operator, after all.”
The Chief nodded, a small smile on his lips now, and said, “Oh, but that’s just it, Romanova.  You’re an admin specialist.  And there’s going to be lots of admin to take care of.  E-mails, coordinations, certificates of training, after-action reviews, request forms for EVERYTHING, AND- receipts and vouchers for any incidental expenses that Neo-NATO doesn’t cover.  Get it?”
As he’d said this, Nene’s eyes had grown wider and wider, and she felt a sinking sensation in her stomach.  “Got it, Chief,” she replied weakly.
“Good!” He said briskly, and then, “The first thing you can do is get a hold of the JSDF’s Neo-NATO liaison and make your travel arrangements.  And you’ll need to make them for as soon as possible.”
Nene sighed tiredly, and shoulders slumping said once again, “Got it, Chief.”

After a long hour and a half of slowly cutting her way through military red tape, Nene finally had the hard copy of their flight itinerary.  It’d taken forever to even find the right person to talk to, and then another eternity before she could convince that person that she actually needed and was entitled to what she’d called for.  And then she’d had to call back twice and e-mail three times before they’d finally sent her the right paperwork.  She was exhausted, and she hadn’t even left the office yet.  This, she thought, didn’t bode well at all for what lay ahead.
Sighing resignedly, she shut down her work station, intending to take off for home and pack.  But as she left the building, she was struck by the realization that there was at least one more phone call she needed to make.  Taking her cell from her jacket, she hit a particular speed dial key.
On the second ring there was a click, and a low feminine voice said, “Yes?”
“Hey, Sylia,” Nene said tiredly.  “You’ll never guess what just happened to me…”

SGT Stephan Asakura just knew he was in for it.  He only wished he knew why.  So far as he knew, he hadn’t done anything wrong.  Nonetheless, as he’d been sitting in the motor pool’s maintenance bay, working through the weekly-level preventative maintenance checks and services on his K-11 Enforcer, the motor sergeant had yelled his name.  Stepping into the dispatch office, he was informed that he needed to collect up his platoon sergeant and platoon leader and then head down to see to the commander.  When he’d pressed for more information, the motor sergeant had told him that he had no idea, he’d just taken the call.
Standing resignedly now in front of the CO’s door, his grim-faced PSG and PL beside him, he knocked three times, firmly but not too loudly.  Hearing a muffled, “Enter!” from inside, he efficiently opened the door, and marched in.  Stopping the required two paces from the desk, he stood at attention and saluted, saying, “Sir, SGT Asakura reports!”
His company commander, a large, good-natured black man by the name of CPT Jameson, looked at him a bit oddly, and said, “At ease, Sergeant.  Relax.  You’re not in trouble or anything.”
Asakura sagged just slightly in relief, but maintained his military bearing as he said, “Yes, sir.  So then, sir, what’s this about?”  And then, a sudden sick familiarity with such situations dawning on him, he blanched and said, “It’s not something at home, is it sir?  My family-!”
But the commander shook his head quickly, and said, “No!  Nothing like that, Sergeant.”
This time Asakura sagged visibly, and didn’t really care.  Images of his wife and baby son, his parents and grandparents, any one of them possibly sick or hurt or dying half a world away, had assailed his mind all in a second.  He was only grateful that this hadn’t been the case.
Finally, his curiosity reasserted itself, and he said, “Then what, sir?”
“Got a mission for you, Sergeant, that’s what,” he said, smiling in an odd way.
Suspicious again, Asakura said, “Uh, what kind of mission, sir?”
The CO grinned wider, and said, “One only you, out of everybody on Kandahar Airfield, can do.”
Truly puzzled now, Asakura said, “Uh, ok sir.  And just what do I have to do?”
“A little bit of babysitting, Sergeant,” the CO replied.
Frowning, Asakura said, “Babysitting, sir?”
Nodding, the commander replied, “That’s the best way to put it.” And then, apparently changing the subject, he said, “You speak Japanese, don’t you, Sergeant Asakura?”
Still completely lost, Asakura said, “Yes, sir.  My Dad’s from Japan, and we lived over there for a few years when I was a kid.”
“Well,” the CO said cheerfully, “then you’re exactly the non-commissioned officer I need for this job.  Go see Master Sergeant Perch in ops, and she’ll square you away with everything you need to know.”
With a sigh, Asakura came back to attention, saluted, and, as the commander said, “Dismissed,” did an about face and headed for the door.  He couldn’t help but see the smug expressions on both his PSG and PL’s faces, and hoped that they thought the situation was funny, because he didn’t.  He had no idea what was required of him, but he was pretty sure his original thought had been on the money.  He was in for it.

Nene blinked rapidly and squinted her eyes in the glaring sunlight that assailed her as she stepped off the drop ramp of the old cargo plane.   It was so bright!  And hot!  She thought she knew what heat was, but this was like nothing she’d ever felt before.  It must have been a hundred-ten in the shade, and there wasn’t any damned shade!  Looking about, she beheld a landscape that could just as easily have greeted her if she’d taken a trip to the lunar colony.
The old asphalt landing strip stretched off for as far as she could see to their left and right, and in front of them was a wide expanse of tarmac, leading up to the terminal building that used to house the Kandahar International Airport, over thirty years ago.  Now, it and the attached control tower had been converted over to military use, and a number of old plywood buildings and large metallic containers seemed also to be a part of the operation.  Forklifts and power-loaders made their way, seemingly at random, around the landing strip, loading and unloading the planes and choppers as they came and left.  Behind them, beyond a widely spaced row of several air defense variant BU-12B’s, apparently part of the airfield’s security force, a low range of brown, barren, rocky mountains, as devoid of vegetation as the foreground leading up to them, completed the picture.
“Huh!” Leon said beside her, slipping on his ubiquitous shades against the sun.  “This place must be in the dictionary under ‘shit-hole’.  And if it’s not, it should be.”
Frowning, Daley said, “People do live here, you know.  And I imagine they call it ‘home’, not ‘shit-hole’.”
“Ah, hell, what difference does it make?” Leon said.  “We’re only here for a few weeks anyway.”
Daley just sighed, rolling his eyes heavenward.  
“Anyhow,” Leon continued, “Where the hell is the welcoming committee?  I thought they said there’d be somebody to meet us.”
“Um, I think that must be them,” Nene said, pointing to a disconcertingly large group of people who’d just entered the flight line and were walking in their direction.
“About damn time,” Leon muttered caustically.

As they walked toward the three rather confused looking civilians who’d just stepped off the cargo hauler, CPT Jameson leaned toward SGT Asakura and said, “Huh!  They don’t look very Japanese, do they?  And with names like McNichol, Wong and Romanova?”
Asakura shrugged and said, “There are a lot of immigrants in Japan these days, sir.  Especially in Mega Tokyo.  Hell, sir, my Mom was born in Germany, raised in the States, and ended up living in Kyoto after she married my Dad.  Now they’re both back in Oregon near where my grandparents live.  People get around a lot more nowadays than they used to, sir.”
The CO gave a short laugh, and said, “You sure like long answers, don’t you Sergeant?”
Asakura shrugged, and said, “I guess I just like the sound of my own voice, sir.”
The commander just shook his head, and said, “Well, lets hope they do too, Sergeant.”

Nene had done a little cramming on the trip over, and so recognized most of the rank insignia on the collars of their greeters.  There was a full-bird colonel, two lieutenant colonels, several captains, a number of senior non-commissioned officers whose rank she couldn’t decipher, and one lone sergeant.  It was this sergeant, Asakura by his nametag, who approached first.
He was, Nene had to admit, kind of cute.  He was young, probably not much older than her, and he had the dark eyes and epicanthic folds that, along with his name, proclaimed his oriental heritage.  But he also had very blonde hair that she was reasonably sure wasn’t dyed, indicating some occidental heritage as well.  He wasn’t really tall, but wasn’t short either, and seemed to have a compact muscularity about him, as near as she could tell through the loose-fitting desert/urban-pattern camouflage uniform he wore.  But, unfortunately, she also noticed that he wore a prominent gold band on his left hand, and she knew what that meant.  ‘Oh, well,’ she thought, ‘business before pleasure anyway I guess.’
Bowing politely to Leon, Asakura said, in fair Japanese, “Officer McNichol?” 
Leon returned the bow, and then, reaching out to clasp the sergeant’s hand in the American fashion, said, “That’s me, here whether I want to be or not.  So what the hell have you guys got planned?”
Taken a bit aback, Asakura said, “Well, sir,-“
But Leon cut him off, saying, “None of that sir crap, now.  I’m Leon.  And you?”
Smiling tentatively, the sergeant said, “SGT Asakura.  Or Stephan if you’d rather.”
Leon nodded, and said, “Stephan it is.”  And, after Daley cleared his throat pointedly, Leon said, “Oh!  And these are my friends.  Daley Wong and Nene Romanova.”
Asakura bowed to each in turn, exchanging pleasantries, and then turning to his commander, said in English, “Well, we’ve broken the ice, sir.  What do you want me to tell them now?”
The CO said, “First, let’s make introductions all around.  Then let’s get the hell off of this hot pavement and into some AC.   I’m sure Colonel Barnard and the others will have a few things to say before we get them billeted down.”
Asakura sighed, and, turning back to their guests switched once more to Japanese.  “Ok, after I introduce all these big-wigs, we’ll go inside so they can bore the hell out of you for a few minutes before we get you a place to stay.  Just nod a lot and pretend you’re interested, but don’t ask a lot of questions.  If you do that, this’ll be relatively painless, and I’ll let you know what you need to know later.  Preferably after you’re settled and maybe over some chow.  Sound good?”
“Huh!” Leon said.  “Sounds like we’re gonna get along just fine, Asakura.”

After the obligatory pleasantries from the chain of command, which had included the Task Force Maverick commander, the 720th Military Police Battalion commander, the 1st Battalion, 504th Parachute Infantry Regiment commander, the 411th Military Police Company commander, and a bunch of operations officers from the S-, G-, and J-Shops, the three AD Police officers were released to SGT Asakura’s care for theater inprocessing and billeting.  Much to their relief.
 First, Asakura took them to the VIP billets, located about a hundred meters across the street from the terminal building in the middle of a cluster of other buildings.  The accommodations were Spartan at best, consisting of roughly partitioned rooms inside of a brown, tin-sided one-story building that Asakura called a C-hut.  Each room featured a bunk bed, a pair of wall lockers, and a miniature refrigerator, as well as a window HVAC unit.
While Nene, thanks to her gender, got a room to herself, the two male ADP officers were forced to bunk up together, an arrangement about which they grumbled, but to no avail.  Asakura simply apologized and said that the billeting had been arranged by Base Ops, so there was little he could do about it.
After dropping their gear, the three were hustled into an old, beat up Ford Explorer for a short trip across post to a place Asakura called the TLS Building.
“TLS?” Nene said, frowning.
Asakura, climbing behind the wheel, said, “Yeah, it’s where Base Ops and a bunch of other admin activities are located.  There’s some paperwork you guys will have to do there, and they’ll issue you the ID’s and badges you’re gonna need.”
Nene nodded slowly, and said, “Ok, that makes sense.  But what does TLS stand for?”
Asakura smiled, and said, “Taliban’s last stand, actually.  It was the last building held by Taliban forces when the coalition took this place back in ’01.  A whole shit-load of Taliban soldiers holed up in there, and most of them didn’t come back out.  At least not standing.”
Eyes wide in surprise, Nene could say only, “Oh!”
Asakura shook his head, still smiling, and said, “Don’t worry.  They cleaned up the place a long time ago, and there’s been a lot of remodeling since then.  Of course, my Granddad told me that when he was over here in ’04, there was still soot all over the ceiling in there from the fires and explosions, and bullet holes in the walls.   But that’s all long gone now.”
Daley raised an eyebrow and said, “Huh!  So your grandfather was over here at one time, then?”
Asakura nodded, and said, “Yeah, and he gave me an earful when I was home on block leave before we came over.  Went on and on about what this place used to look like, and how it was going to be a hell of a lot better for us.  But the worst they ever had to deal with was the occasional rocket or mortar attack, and from what he said, they were few and far between.  No boomer-bombs or terrorist kit-bashes back in those days.”
Leon grunted, and said, “Tell me about it.” Then, pointing to the brassard on Asakura’s left arm, he said, “I can see by that arm-band you’re an MP, military police.  But what exactly do you do down here?  When you’re not playing tour guide for visiting foreigners, that is.”
“Well,” Asakura said slowly, “A lot of us say that MP really stands for multi-purpose, because it always seems like we end up doing a little of everything.  But, aside from being a team leader, my main job is mecha support.  I’m the K-11 pilot for my platoon.”
Warming to this subject quickly, Leon said, “Huh!  So you’re a powered armor jock then.  What variant do you guys use?”
“The one used by MP units is code-named ‘Enforcer’,” Asakura said.  “Basically, it’s a lot like the stripped down basic infantry model you guys use, but it incorporates some features from the Jager variant used by the Euro guys and a few things unique to us.  We have a sub-variant that’s used for garrison work, all painted up like a damn patrol car and lightly armed, but the main workhorse we use over here comes with the fusion resistant up-armor kit and a lot of modular weapons packs.  We switch them out depending on the mission and threat.”
“Wow!  That’s fascinating,” Nene said in an over-eager voice, obviously trying to derail a conversation that looked like it might continue indefinitely.  And then, looking around, she said, “Are we almost there?”
Asakura, catching her intent, chuckled, and, pulling onto the gravel shoulder next to an unimposing yellow concrete building, said, “Yeah, we’re there.  Let’s go on in and get started.”

After about an hour spent inprocessing, they loaded back up in the Explorer, and headed back to the VIP billets.  Asakura dropped them there, saying that he had to check in with his higher, but that he’d return in about a half-hour to join them for chow.  Left alone together, the three ADP officers congregated in Leon and Daley’s room, feeling a little lost.
“Well,” Leon said slowly, “This is turning out to be just about as exciting as I thought it would.”
“What did you expect?” Daley said mildly.  “This operation has been running for over thirty years.  All of the really hot issues were settled a long time ago.  What they’re doing now is what they call ‘sustainment operations’.”
Leon frowned, and said, “Yeah, and that’s one of the things I can’t figure out.  If Neo-NATO’s been here so long, why is this place still so screwed up?  What the hell are they doing here?”
“Well,” Nene chimed in, “From what I read on the way over here, it’s mostly just that things have never really stabilized.  Every time they just about get a handle on things, something else happens.  A fresh wave of terrorist actions, natural disasters, governmental scandals or collapse, fundamentalist uprisings, you name it.  To read all that stuff, it just seems like this place is cursed or something.”
“Huh!” Leon said skeptically.  “And what are the odds of all that shit just happening?”
Nene cocked her head and said, “Um, I guess pretty good, since they did happen.  What do you mean, Leon?”
“Shit, I don’t know,” McNichol said.  “Just seems damn coincidental that all this shit keeps happening.  I’m not a big believer in coincidence.”
Daley frowned, and said, “Did the stuff you read mention any kind of pattern to all this, Nene?”
“No,” Nene said slowly, and then, “But it did kind of look like the most stuff seemed to happen around election years.  These guys have a constitution modeled off of the U.S. constitution, and they have similar terms for elected officials and all.  I guess that is kind of funny, isn’t it?”
“Funny?” Leon said in a tone that indicated that he found it anything but.  “Shit, that kind of pattern has power-brokering written all over it.   And I can just guess who the big player there would be.”
Daley nodded slowly, and said, “Well, there are a lot of natural resources over here.  Petroleum, natural gas, and a lot of different minerals and ores, I think.  If I remember right, both Genom and Gulf and Bradley have pretty big operations here.”
Nene frowned, and said, “Yeah, they do.  Say, if that’s the case, then why is the economy here still so bad?  The stuff I read said that most of the people here, at least outside the cities, are still living like they did over a hundred years ago.  There are still a lot of places without even electricity or running water!”
Looking thoughtful, Daley said, “Y’know, for a foreign mega-corp, a crappy local economy isn’t really a bad thing.  They’re not really part of it anyway, and it means that they can buy products and hire local labor dirt cheap.  Probably even cheaper than labor boomers in a place like this.”
“So it’d be in their best interests to keep things stirred up,” Leon said.  “And having the military around…”
“Probably keeps just enough of a lid on things so that they don’t get out of hand,” Daley finished.  “Plus makes it all look legit for the U.N. and everybody else.”
“Son of a bitch!” Leon said, frowning.  “And this has been going on for around thirty years?”
“Um, guys?” Nene said tentatively, “If all this is true, how come nobody’s figured it out before?  It’s not like we’re a bunch of political geniuses or anything.”
Smiling cynically, Daley said, “Who says we’re the first?  Anyone with a brain and Net access could figure out what we just did.  But who’s going to do anything about it?  And for that matter, who out there really cares what’s going on here?  Has the word ‘Afghanistan’ even crossed your mind in, say, the last year?  I doubt it.”
Nene nodded, and said, “Yeah, I guess you’re right.  But what do we do about it?”
Leon snorted, and said, “Do?  Shit, Nene, we do the job we were sent here to do and then we go home.  What the hell else is there to do?”
Frowning, Nene said, “Well, there’s got to be something.  I mean-“
But Daley just shook his head and said, “Nene, some things are just a little too big to take on.  We all know that a hell of a lot of the problems back home are directly attributable to Genom, but what can we do?  Go storming the Tower?  Not even the Knight Sabers are that crazy.”
Taken slightly aback by this turn of conversation, Nene said, “Well, actually, they did storm the Tower.  Twice, if you remember.”
“Naw,” Leon slowly, “That wasn’t really it at all.  The first time, it was just Mason they went after.  That was some kind of personal grudge match, I imagine, and do you really think they would’ve made it all the way up there if the Old Man hadn’t let them?  I mean, shit!  All they ran into on the way up were a couple of BU-12B’s, for Christ’s sake!  And then, the number two man at Genom goes toe-to-toe with them in a shitty old prototype battle suit that they canceled production on years ago, with only a BU-55 for back up?” Leon shook his head and continued.  “No, that damn Tower is a fortress.  If Quincy had given a shit about Mason at that point, there’s no way in hell the Sabers would’ve made it up there.  At least not without breaking out a hell of a lot more fire-power.  My theory is, Mason had flipped his wig, and Quincy knew it.  So when the Sabers came charging up, he left Mason’s ass hanging out in the breeze and figured whatever happened just happened.”
Disturbed by Leon’s interpretation of events a lot more than she wanted to show, Nene said, “Ok, then what about the second time?  With that Largo guy?”
Leon exhaled loudly, and said, “Don’t even remind me about that prick.  But basically same damn thing again.  He’d already gotten into the Tower and was playing hell there when the Blue Saber showed up.  Or at least that’s the best story we were able to get after the fact.  And then, after he’d just about kicked her ass real good, the other Sabers showed up and cleaned his clock.” And, grinning in an overbearing manner, he said, “With a little help from yours truly, of course.  But the point is, that whole damn thing turned out in Genom’s favor too.  So storming the Tower never even came into play there.”
Nene sighed, and said, “Well, you’ve got your opinions on things, Leon, but-“
At that point, there was a knock at the door, and Asakura poked his head in.  “Hey,” he said, “you guys ready for some chow?”
“Hell, why not?” Leon said.  “Beats the hell out of sitting around here waiting for that damn meeting tonight.  What time was it again?”
“1500 Zulu,” Asakura replied.  “Late as hell, like all the other meetings they have.”
“Zulu?” Nene said, puzzled.  “What’s that mean?”
Asakura grinned, and said, “Yeah, that’s what all of us said too.  But seriously, Zulu time is just Grenwich Mean Time, that’s all.  We use that here in theatre so that there’s no confusion about time on an operation.  We have to coordinate with so many people in so many different time zones, it’s just easier to use one standard.  ‘Course, nobody’s exactly sure why we’re LIVING on Zulu time.  Local time is four and a half hours later, so you can get really screwed up if you’re not careful.”
“Uh, I see,” Nene said in a tone that plainly said that she didn’t.
Asakura just chuckled, and said, “Come on.  Let’s go eat.”