Vice-President's Underground Bunker
Naval Observatory Grounds
March 13, 2008
1000 hours local time
"Scooter", the VP's hand picked assistant and go to guy, was thinking it's a good thing that these walls are bomb and sound proof, for if they were not, most of Washington, DC would get to hear the one everybody called "Dick" go another of his rampages.
"Goddamn it, I want to know NOW why that false-flag attack against one of our carriers in the Gulf, why that hasn't been pulled off" screamed "Dick."
"We should have been bombing the hell our of Tehran by now. That attack was planned with utmost care, from the speed boats we stole from Iran off Kish Island, to painting those damn things to look like they belonged to the Quds Force, to filling the damned thing with explosives, to having freshly dead Persians on board, with copies of the Koran in their robes, to our friends in the Israeli submarine service planting a sub-atomic device below the ship's hull where the boat was primed to hit. All of that planning, time, effort and money spent and just what in the hell have we got to show for it, huh. I want answers and I want them NOW" thundered "Dick" and for effect, he slammed his fist down on the table.
"Scooter" looked around the table. This was a collection of mostly young, aggressive types, hand picked by "Dick" and himself, to fill out the VP's staff years ago. The ones chosen for this project had shown on past ops, to get excited at the sight of another's blood.
And not just spilled blood, no, not for this group. The blood of another had to be spilled in a most gruesome way. A favorite among this group was jetting down to Gitmo, where they practiced "enhanced interrogation" techniques on those lost souls. One way to give this group a rise in their Levi's was to let one personally disembowel a subject with a straight razor, so they could watch in awe the man slowly suffer a drawn out death.
What they lacked in experience, they more than made up for by enthusiasm, with any project, now matter how bloody or depraved thought out by "Dick", any of his ideas these kids took the ball and ran with it.
Eyeing the bunch, "Scooter" thought that a few of them had probably pissed in their pants, so venomous were "Dick's" tirades.
Except one. That one was Elliot Abrahams, senior member of this group and veteran of several presidential administrations. Elliot had served with distinction 25 years ago, in Central and South America, running black bag ops for then President Reagan's National Security Council.
Some of the more homicidal recruits for the never ending war against democracy in the region were personally trained by Elliot.
He personally showed the the American backed and funded troops in El Mozote, El Salvador, how to scare the hell out of the locals by grabbing babies from their mothers, then tossing the child into the air and using a bayoneted rifle to catch the kid.
Elliot, between Republican administrations, had taken a "sabbatical" to Israel for training with the MOSSAD's Department 2800. "Scooter" wondered who was the teacher and who the pupil in those sessions.
Yes, Elliot was one cool customer, alright, thought "Scooter" and one he didn't want to piss off.
"Mr. Vice-President" said Elliot, "If I may, sir. The scheduled operation in the Gulf, as you so brilliantly oversaw, was planned with exquisite care. And yes sir, Tehran should already be a smoking ruin by now."
"Where the operation failed was in its human element. The driver of the speed boat demanded more money, much more than the 10 million dollars his family was to get. As a result, the operation was called off and the recruit and his family, including aunts and uncles and nephews, taught a lesson. A lesson which will not be lost on the other recruits for our Middle East black bag ops, as we brought those "volunteers" to see what happens to one who backs out of an agreement. The mutilated bodies that are missing heads, that had been cut off with a dull saw, should have sufficiently put the resolve back into those folks."
A perverse grin crept across "Dick's" face. "Dammit Elliot, you always know how to get my heart pumping fast. OK, what's done is done, let's keep this thing going. We need a good excuse to invade Iran, so what else do we have planned for sinking that carrier? As everyone knows, just telling a pack of lies to our compliant MSM won't do the trick this time. They fell for our line of BS before we invaded Iraq, but this time, we need to send them a message that will scare the hell out of America and get them so mad that they'll demand we bomb Iran into rubble."
"So gentleman, how do we sink a US carrier in the Persian Gulf and pin the blame on Iran?", asked "Dick" to no one in particular.
"Sir, if I may", ventured NSC rep Mark Grossberg. "As you know, the Iranian Air Force has some of our older F-14's still in service that they acquired when our man in Tehran, the Shah, purchased those jets. Sir, we still have a number of F-14's on hand, in reserve mode. Sir, we could paint up several of them to look like they belonged to the Iranian Air Force. Install some of those automated flight devices, like we had on the 747's that slammed into the WTC and use those F-14's to attack the carrier. Sure, there will be wreckage, but most of that will be on the sea floor. To cover up our trail, we'll use that same Navy dive team that recovered TWA flight 800 off Long Island Sound, sir."
"And by using some of those same sub-atomic devices that were to be used in the false-flag boat attacks, we can be sure of doing heavy damage to the carrier, if not sinking her outright. I've crunched some numbers on the expected deaths and of the 5,000 or so sailors and marines onboard, we should see a mortality rates of around 80% Which means, sir, that over 4,000 dead Americans will be available to show non-stop on some of our friend's cable TV news channels. Sir, that's more than was killed in our 9/11 attacks and it would all but guarantee Americans demanding vengeance and immediate retaliation against Iran, sir."
"Sounds like a plan, wonder boy, but who in the hell are we going to use for pilots, huh, answer me that one?"
"Sir, we have an excellent selection of brainwashed automatons at Gitmo. As you know, sir, some of those people have been held incommunicado from their families for over six years. Throw in the propaganda sessions, administered by a trained psychiatrist using psychoactive drugs, the torture sessions, lack of adequate food and complete isolation from other humans and sir, I am proud to say we have a whole company of Sirhan Sirahn's at our disposal."
This time, the VP didn't grin, but was smiling from ear to ear. "Damn fine work, Marc. Why don't you and Elliot take care of that and let's plan this op for the middle of May. That will give you time to put in place the "smoking gun" evidence that those idiotic embedded reporters in the ME theater need to push our version of the story 24/7."
"Scooter" breathed a sigh of relief. "Dick" was not one to piss off, even by making an offhand comment about simple matters, like how he couldn't shoot a quail for shit, like his friend in Texas had unfortunately mentioned. For that off the cuff remark, "Dick" had shot his friend in the face. No doubt, all of that 12 yo single malt Scotch in the VP's body helped pull the trigger, but still "Dick" was a man of action and by gosh, action he was going to get to make his dreams of nuking Iran turn into reality.
"Sir, one more question", some under assistant to the Secretary of Defense asked. "What about President Bush?"
Shit, thought "Scooter", this guy has a death wish.
With blinding speed for a man of his size, "Dick" vaulted over the table and proceeded to beat the living hell out of the man for asking that question.
The VP kept pounding the man's face until it was turned into a bloody pulp. "Scooter" could tell he was still breathing, by the way the bloody foam bubbled up out of his nose.
The beating only stopped when "Dick" became winded. "Goddamn it, I told you clowns before that we leave Junior out of these sessions. He is not to be informed of anything until the day it happens. That damned moron might blurt out something to the press and we'd all be in deep shit."
"Now, anymore questions?", asked "Dick"
The room was silent.
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