Douglas Bunger's Blaze Of Glory

Chapter 33



 
 
 
    Brad was thankful to have been able to sleep in a bed, even if it hadn't been his own. It had been two days since he'd spent the night in the hotel, but that had not counted as a good nights sleep because he had been too nervous to sleep soundly. Yet, the thought that Asher was in the beach house with him was sufficient to put his mind at ease. He felt that as long as Asher was nearby, he need not be concerned about the authorities.
    Asher woke him a little before six with all the finesse and consideration of a Marine drill instructor. He allowed Brad to shower and dress (in borrowed clothes) then eat a wholesome and nutritious breakfast of week-old pizza and coffee. Brad was use to eating pizza for breakfast. Being a bachelor, Brad had learned that pizza was one of the four major food groups.
    As he ate, Asher disassembled the kitchen shelf and placed the nightvission scope they had use on the recon into its hiding spot. He then left the room for several moments. When he returned he was carrying what appeared to be a backpack sized radio. He explained that he would use it for contacting the helicopter during the rescue. Again he left the room, but this time he returned with two additional utility belts like the ones they had carried. It held two ammo pouches, two canteens, a poncho, and a set of suspenders with first aide pouch.
    He placed the belts, radio, and the combat boots they had both worn in one of the back packs. "On your feet, soldier," announced Asher, throwing the ruck over one shoulder. "We've got two stops to make before we head to Vegas, this afternoon."
    Brad reluctantly chugged down his remaining coffee, and obediently followed Asher to the LTD. He was relieved to find that this time Asher slipped behind the wheel. For several moments, they drove along the highway, until they reached a mini-storage complex. Asher showed the guard a key, provided him a fake name, and an assumably legitimate account number. The guard let them pass, and Asher drove the car to a small bay with a standard size steel door.
    "What are we doing here?"
    "You'll see," explained Asher, as he turned the key on the door's deadbolt lock. He opened the door and turned on the overhead light. Brad followed him into a small storage area that measured five by fifteen.
    "Holy Shit..." uttered Brad in total amazement. "You've got enough guns in here to fight a small war!"
    Asher laughed. "Hell, there are hardly enough here to outfit a squad. Anyway, this is our small weapons arsenal."
    "When you say small, do you mean quality or quantity?"
    "Both. These are the weapons we don't mind the police finding."
    Brad watched as Asher unlocked a rack that contained six matte black colored weapons. He removed the first one and handed it to Brad. Brad took the weapon, uneasily, and examined it from butt to barrel. It was the first time he had touched an M-16 rifle. "Asher. Uh... This is an assault rifle."
    "Very good," stated the man sarcastically.
    "Yeah, but aren't assault rifles are illegal in Los Angeles?"
    Asher turned his attention from the second weapon that he was fitting into a wood crate, and looked at Brad with an annoyed glare. "I don't know. I'm a criminal-- I don't care if it's legal or not."
    "Seriously, man, don't you understand how much trouble you could get into for this?"
    "Let me explain this one more time for you: I don't care whether it's illegal to own an assault rifle or not. The definition of the term 'criminal' is someone who does something that is against the law. Well, I'm a mercenary-- in case you hadn't noticed-- and that is against the law. So, as long as I'm breaking one law, why be concerned with any others?"
    "Where did you get these?" asked the still shocked reporter.
    "What do you mean where did I get them? That's a stupid question. I bought them."
    "There are laws against owning guns like these because they kill children."
    "Dartmouth, you bleeding-heart pansy, gun control doesn't work. It never has, and it never will. If you make it against the law to own a gun, the law abiding citizens will turn in their weapons, but those people who intend to use their weapons for unlawful purposes will not admit to owning them. They'll lie about weapons ownership, because they don't give a shit about your laws."
    "Gun control can control crime, Asher. It's you and your right wingers who don't understand," contested Brad hotly. "The only reason gun control doesn't seem to work is because the politicians are too afraid for their jobs to make real steps to stop the problem"
    "Yeah, they know their constituents will vote them out of office."
    "Wrong: they're afraid that the NRA has so much power, they'll campaign against them. Hey! I bet you're a member of the NRA, aren't you?"
    "No, actually I'm not, because I don't care if the government bans guns. I'm a criminal, remember?"
    "Oh, you will be," started Brad. "There will come a day when enough laws will be passed to make it unprofitable for the gun dealers to stay in business and manufacturers to continue to produce their tools of death. When that day comes, the only step that will remain will be to round up the weapons already on the street and destroy them."
    "When the average citizen no longer has a pistol, the suicide rate will decrease, accidental shootings will stop, and the murder rate will be cut in half. Furthermore, the criminals won't be able to steal guns from a home to use it in a crime. No new criminals will have access to guns, and as the old criminals are caught, their guns will be thrown into the pot to be melted down, too."
    "And soon," interrupted Asher, "we will achieve Utopia..."
    "It's the first step to a truly civilized society."
    "Yeah, right, but you've missed one major point."
    "And what is that?" asked Brad skeptically.
    "No law that is passed in American can effect weapons production in Brazil. Think about it: the US bans weapons, the new criminals want weapons, but can't buy them. So, somebody buys the weapons in Brazil, smuggles them into the United States and sells them for a tremendous profit. That's what's going on with drugs."
    "Sure that sounds good, Asher, but you'd have to be able to out smart the FBI, Border Patrol, and local police to accomplish it."
    Asher threw his arm in the air. "I don't know why I bother. You liberals are so blind. Drug smugglers manage to bring millions of tons of narcotics into this country every year. Wilson, the helicopter pilot, can bring a half- a-ton of drugs into the country at a time. What's the difference if its a thousand pounds of grass or a thousand pounds of machine guns? Truthfully, the machine guns are easier to transport, since they take up less space."
    "Smuggling drugs and guns are two completely different things-- you're comparing apples and oranges."
    "Think, Dartmouth! Why did you hire me? Because Johnson suggested me. How did Johnson know me? I showed him how the U.S. was smuggling Stinger missiles to the Afghan rebels. Not one missile... Not a dozen... Hundreds! They flew them in to Pakistan in C-5's. That's the largest plane the Air Force has got, and they were packed."
    "Now, consider the fact that the border was being guarded by Soviet Spaznats troops. Those boys are Russia's best, kind of like our Green Berets, and they make the U.S. Border Patrol look like a bunch of boy scouts. We sneaked those missiles in there and turned that war around. If we could get Stingers into Afghanistan, the gunrunners can get weapons into the United States."
    "Well," snorted Brad, "If that's the case, the Air Force will just have to bomb the factory."
    "Sure. The Air Force won't drop Napalm on the cocoa fields of Colombia now, I don't see how they can justify an act of war in the future."
    Brad gave up on Asher. He could have convinced anyone who wasn't a total barbarian that he was right, but Asher was beyond help. He was, like all anti-gun-control believers, just another criminal trying to perpetuate the system of lawlessness and injustice. Anyone with any sense could see that guns had no legitimate use in today's society. No one needed to hunt, target shooting was a ridiculous and useless sport, and self-defense was irrelevant because the Los Angeles police department is more than capable of protecting the citizenry.
    Asher packed a total of four M-16 rifles into the crate before latching the top to it, and, with Brad's help, loaded it into the trunk of the Ford. He returned to the store room to collect a plastic milk crate with several twenty round magazines, four black leather holsters, and four long barreled 38 special revolvers. He explained that he wasn't sure what type of sidearms the Air Police were using these days, but that the revolvers would probably get them by.
    Brad didn't understand what Asher was implying, and was still too overcome by the presence of the weapons to ask. Before locking the door to the storage room, Asher slipped a box of 38 shells into his jacket pocket and loaded a heavy, green box into the trunk. The side of the green box were the words "M193 5.56 MM BALL" stenciled in yellow. Asher motioned for Brad to mount-up, and drove to their next stop.
    Asher's next stop was not at all what Brad had expected, because he never would have given the man credit for having the subtly to have considered it. The building was an old brick warehouse with only a few windows around the top, and one door. Asher pressed a button on the intercom and waited for the reply. A moment later a man's voice emitted from the speaker, Asher identified himself, and the electronic lock disengaged with a buzz.
    "Carl, I'm so happy to see you," stated the man. Brad said his voice had that certain unmanly lilt, if you know what I mean. "Who's your friend?"
    "This is a business associate of mine," explained Asher.
    "Oh, more business. I was hoping you'd finally come to pay a social visit."
    "Only in your dreams," joked Asher. "Need a favor: Four uniforms, desert camouflage, Air Police markings."
    "Sizes?"
    "Large for me, with Master Sergeant Stripes, medium and X-large with buck Sergeant stripes, and the runt here will take a small. Make him a one stripe Airman," said Asher with a grin.
    "Don't worry, I'll give you a medium," the man told Brad with a wink, before disappearing down a hall.
    Asher and Brad moved into a living room and sat two of the low, leather chairs. "Tom's one of the best costume people in Hollywood; believe it or not, he specializes in military uniforms. When a director is concerned with realism, he hires Tom. It took him a while to get the business rolling, however, so he had to do some things to make ends meet. We found that we could always count on him to supply us with uniforms-- be them American, Soviet, Lebanese. He charges us a little more than an Army surplus store, but we know the insignia will be right."
    The men waited for about half an hour, as Tom precisely positioned and skillfully sewed the insignia on each of the four tunics. When he emerged from his work room, he was carrying a box that contained the neatly folded uniforms, and a shopping bag. "I took the liberty of making up names for each of you, and I also found these: four blue military berets. I didn't have any AP beret devices, so I used a small Air Force Crest. If anyone questions you, you can say you're a Special Services unit. From a distance, they'll pass."
    "Great. How much do we owe you?"
    "Since you're a special customer, I'll say eight hundred."
    "Eight-hundred!" yelled Brad.
    "Feisty, isn't he," whispered Tom to Asher.
    "That's a fair price Dartmouth. Pay him."
    "I don't mean to be a problem child, or anything, but I don't have any money and you made me throw away my credit cards."
    Asher knew Brad was telling the truth. Rather than scrap the operation and blow his chances of bringing down an additional five grand, Asher pulled eight one hundred dollar bills from his wallet. "I'll pick up the tap this time, Dartmouth-- but you owe me."
    Brad carried the box of uniforms to the car, because he didn't want anyone to see him walking out of Tom's place carrying a shopping bag full of berets. Asher followed (with the shopping bag), and tossed Brad the keys. "You're driving, son."
    "Yeah... Where am I driving to?" asked Brad as he started the engine, and merged into traffic.
    "We're off to Vegas to see your honey. You know, since you don't have money for a hotel, she might let us stay at her place. We could have a nice dinner, maybe a little wine. Then she'd slip off to the bedroom to slip into something more comfortable."
    "Asher, stop it."
    "Something thin and wispy... A virgin-white negligee loosely clinging to the curves of her waist. Her full breasts pulling the front open invitingly, as her firm and erect nipples strain to press through the material of her lace teddy..."
    "Asher!" Brad protested hotly (only partially from anger).
    "Her stockings would slip erotically into four inch spike heeled shoes, then climb her legs until they hugged her thighs. She'd stand there, her legs spread, the teddy unsnapped at the bottom-- a soft, narrow, patch of pubic hair beckoning for you to fall on your knees and take her in your arms."
    Brad slammed on the brakes of the LTD and nearly threw Asher against the dash. "Damn you! I don't want you to touch her! Do you hear me?"
    "Jeeze, I just wanted to watch."
    Brad pressed the gas pedal, and allowed the car to continue down the road. "Man, you're a pervert."
    "Am not," stated Asher. "Do you think she's got a thirteen year-old sister?"


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