Lies & the Lying Liars Who Tell Them_ A Fair & Balanced Look at the Right - Al Franken [96]
“That’s what HQ thought. But they sent ’em out again with a freshly minted shavetail from the Point. This time they were back in twenty minutes, again without their officer.”
“Twenty minutes? That doesn’t smell right.”
Kerry nodded. “According to Gingrich and Limbaugh, he stepped on a mine. Gramm said he fell into a pungee stick trap and died of an infection. But the fishiest story came from Private George Will.”
“George Will? You mean Stoner?” Gore asked. “I know Stoner. I bought a bag of killer sticky icky off him.”
“Yeah, same guy. He said the shavetail was eaten by a tiger.”
Gore was putting it all together. “So these chickenshits were fragging their squad leaders?”
“It was obvious to everybody. Except General Westmoreland. He sent ’em out five more times. All told, they bagged four lieutenants, a sergeant, and two captains.”
“Oh, man. So they killed all their officers?”
“All except Captain Max Cleland. They left him for dead, but he crawled back to base. That’s when they went AWOL.”
Gore shook his head in disgust, then looked back down at the dossier. He held up the picture of a young black man holding a Playboy and sweating. “This Private Clarence Thomas looks very familiar.”
“That’s because he’s standing next to you,” Kerry said with a bob of his head.
“Coke?” Thomas asked, holding out a can of Coca-Cola to Gore.
“Thomas here made military history. When he deserted from a group of deserters,” said Kerry.
“I’m the first double-deserter since the Spanish-American War.” Thomas beamed.
Gore felt that the young man’s pride in his dubious accomplishment was more than a little displaced. “Keep your Coke, Thomas. You oughta be in the brig.”
“I would be, but Colonel Scalia took a liking to me. He gave me a choice. Execution by firing squad, or lead the Skipper here upriver to my old unit’s last position. And then Scalia’ll give me a recommendation for law school on the GI Bill.” Thomas strolled into the head with a magazine under his arm.
“So we’re going to terminate our own men with extreme prejudice?” Gore asked, intrigued.
“No.” Kerry said with obvious disappointment. “We made radio contact with Limbaugh and cut a deal with Gingrich. They’re hiding in a cave fifty klicks upriver. We extract them, and they all go home with an honorable discharge and a unit citation.”
“That hardly seems fair,” Gore commented.
“HQ just wants the problem to go away. Bring ’em up on charges and we’ll have a giant shitstorm.”
“I still don’t see why we can’t just kill them.”
“I hear ya. But I got my orders,” Kerry said, idly picking a short, curly hair off the Coke can. “Thomas!” Kerry yelled over his shoulder. “Get out of there!”
Meanwhile, in a dank, foul-smelling cave fifty klicks upriver, Rush Limbaugh was eating his eighty-third raw snail of the day.
“At least pick ’em outta thair damn shells,” Gramm said irritably.
“The fiber keeps me regular,” Limbaugh snapped defensively.
“Regular? Eight dumps a day ain’t regular,” Buchanan shot back. “Maybe this cave wouldn’t smell so bad if you ate newborn bats like the rest of us. Stoner here hasn’t taken a shit in a week.”
“That’s because of the opium. And I told you, baby bats don’t agree with me!” Limbaugh sniped, reaching for another snail.
“When are they getting us outta this fucking hole?” said Gingrich, as he nervously flicked the safety catch of his M-16 on and off. Click-click, click-click, click-click.
“Stop that!” Gramm and Buchanan hissed in unison.
Limbaugh threw the snail at Gingrich, hitting him in his generous belly. Gingrich leveled his rifle at the radioman. “I am this close to splattering you all over this cave. All of you!”
Just then, the radio crackled to life. “Foxtrot Romeo, this is Sea Lord.” Kerry’s voice echoed through the cave. “Come in, Foxtrot Romeo.”
Limbaugh grabbed the handset. “Sea Lord, this is Task Force Brave Eagle. I told you ‘Foxtrot Romeo’ sounds faggy.”
There was a pause. “Very well, Brave Eagle.