In the desert, during the monsoon season, sometimes you get a plague of locusts. Right now they are everywhere: on the streets, in the nooks and crannies of buildings, clinging to the walls and spazzing out near streetlamps at night. You can see cats chasing the damn things until one is pinned and squirming in its mouth - it’s legs kicking the last futile kick of the damned. It’s a nice biblical touch to make one feel one is in Egypt during the time of Moses. The proverbial Judgment Day seems to be at hand.

We’re outside some Arab drug kingpin's desert mansion doing surveillance. Not surprisingly, many live in the desert - perhaps because it reminds them of home. Tech7 has transformed from a buffed-out, kick-rear Tech into some sort of a goddess sleek and finessed in an Armani gown and pumps that would put any of the Victoria's Secret models to shame. She is partying with some very well connected Arab lowlifes. Tech’s 2 and 5 are with me here in an SDAI modified GMC Safari which acts as our observation and data nerve center. Our eavesdropping audio equipment is working perfectly and pulling in conversations from the revelers.

Two 6’5+ bodyguard types are talking about their latest diet, an Atkins type thing, with “all-protein and no carbs.” I can tell their doing some sort of steroids too. They speak with a Slavic accent and look Russian - probably Russian mafia thugs. Their wielding Russian firepower as well - two shoulder slung Nikonov Abakan assault rifles are on display. The Nikonov was meant to replace all the Russian military Kalashnikov AK-47 assault weapons but have mainly gone to Russian special forces with many in the hands of the underworld through corrupt dealings within the government. The double burst mode is especially dangerous as it fires two high speed rounds to defeat conventional body armor. Fortunately, we don’t wear conventional body armor, but it is still not a weapon to be taken lightly. Seeing the comradery between the Russian underworld and wealthy Arab terrorists reminds me how they are all brothers in a seriously dysfunctional global family.

I don’t like to see Tech7 in harm’s way. I think I like even less the way other men ogle her and watch her posterior as she walks past them. But feelings like that are unprofessional and get compartmentalized into a small spot within my consciousness, lest they compromise my performance and the mission. Someday, I will have to address my growing personal feelings for her - but today is not that day. I think she took this mission knowing I would see her in a new light and perhaps to spur our unspoken attraction and take it to that next level - then again maybe I’m just imagining it. Her dress has a very flattering, very low-cut back revealing a tanned perfectly formed and smooth back and I am surprised she has no tan lines anywhere.

Damn. I’m not focused.

Her earrings are two highly miniaturized transmitters, even though the sparklers on them are real. Tech5 speaks fluent Arabic and all of us have learned to dabble in the language as amateurs since 9-11.

“You have that look like your lost in Space again. Don’t pull a Billy Mumy on me ok?” says Tech2 who always demonstrates keen observational abilities with a penchant for sci-fi references.

“Danger. Danger Will Robinson,” chimes in Tech5 who is monitoring our IR video feed.

I turn and look at the 7” LCD screen which pops out, like a slice of toast, from the dash-mounted Sony XAV-7W car stereo. It is being fed a signal by a 360 degree rotating IR camera in the roof rack.

“There he goes.” says Tech2.

Indeed. Our quarry is leaving in a blood red Lamborghini Muricelago.

In the old days one would follow the quarry in stealthy pursuit. These days our satellites provide our quarry’s destination and we can reach it at a leisurely pace.

“Don’t look now but we have company!”

Two pimped out BMW’s with the fat Z tires and "bling-bling" chrome 22" wheels are parking behind us and a very large truck with a crew cab is attempting to block us in.

“Isn’t double-parking illegal?” queries Tech2 in a calm voice as if not worried a bit.

The bodyguards, on the monitor are listening to commands over their earpieces and are making their way over to our van. Where the glove compartment used to be exists a retrofitted console for such hazardous emergencies. I await until the men emerge from the cars and the bodyguards draw closer. What appears to be a small army of stocky arab men wearing ill-fitting suits emerge all brandishing firearms.

With a push of a button eight canisters are shot out from concealed under car ejectors. Four cans of a nerve agent and four more of a fast acting smokescreen.

The men open up automatic weapons fire upon the Safari. I feel like the van has turned into a skeet target and the whole shooting club is on hand. The armor is designed to take the punishment for a minute or two but not much longer. Several men succumb to the gas and fall where they stand, the others retreat firing blindly through the smoke. It is only a very short matter of time before they let loose with something more dangerous than bullets.

“Let’s go find a better party shall we?”

The stock engine has been replaced with a Gale Banks twin-turbocharged 454cid engine putting out 800 horsepower and some ridiculously high figure for torque I can‘t recall, but Tech2 probably would. It’s a brute of an engine shoehorned into a slot where a 232cid engine used to reside. The stock looking front and rear bumpers are filled with solid metal and welded to the frame.

Tech2 turns the ignition and with a flip of the accelerator I hear the turbos kick in and spool up. The rear bumper smashes into the rear BMWs with great force and I watch the two small oval plastic grills crumple up like a wad of toilet paper about to be flushed. With the pedal to the metal we continue to push the vehicles into one another and back. The sticky tires spin a little but get enough traction to get the job done. An opening has been made and Tech2 uses it. With a shift of the gear selector into drive we lurch forward like a hungry hell-hound and onto the street. Bullets and rifle rounds start hitting us from all sides now despite the heavy smoke.

“Do you ever get the feeling somebody doesn‘t like you?” I ask as if it’s 1977 and I’m driving a Lotus in Italy.

“Hey, no one likes party crashers. Besides we didn‘t even bring chips and dip.” replies Tech2 grinning.

Time to put some distance between us.

Even as we evade pursuit, I worry more about Tech7 and whether or not she will be discovered. She’s a big girl and can take care of herself so I shouldn’t be worrying - but there it is.

We retreat to a side street miles away near a Circle K where the prostitutes are plying their trade under yellow high sodium street lamps and emerge to assess the damage. Shattered windscreens, a tire down to its run flat core and a body that would be envied by the kids who stick fake bullet hole stickers on their cars to look “cool.” I suspect the vehicle will become a donor vehicle for its electronics and drive train,

“Hey baby, your ride looks like it rides like shit. You can ride with me and I promise it’ll be smooth and fine.” hollers one of the more aggressive women.

Tech5 is muttering under his breath. “Yes I’d like the disease du jour for 14.95 please.”

Despite the tempting offer we decline. It’s time to race over to one of the special federal vehicle depositories located in nearly in every major city of the US. We don’t have the time to go all the way back to Shamballa and we know that there are a few suitable vehicles located near the airport.

After open the gate by entering a combination via cell phone. The facility is skeleton staffed at this hour and relies on the heavily fortified walls and gated underground parking garage to keep the vehicles safe.

We park the battered Safari and emerge with bags of gear, weapons and electronics. The sleepy night guard looks like he has never had a visitor before the whole time he has held this job. He approach us, looks us over and the bullet riddled Safari.

“You guys look like you’re refugees from a Bruce Willis or Arnold movie.”

“We need a vehicle. We’ll bring it back.” I say in my finest Austrian accent.

“Hey, check the terminal in the office. We got a lot of cars to choose from.”

We make our way to the office. The smell of Cheetos and coffee fills the small room. Obviously trans-fats are not on this guy’s list of worries. Tech2 starts to work on the terminal.

“Did you bring your rabbit’s foot or something?” Tech2 asks me, “cause they have a Secret Service level Suburban available as he checks the roster of vehicles, “parked in row C, lot 12.”

I grab the keys from a particle board key rack. We pack the gear into the Sububan and Tech 5 is having difficulty with the red second seat latch that allows access to the third seat by sliding up a third of the second seat.

“Just throw the bag over it, for chrissakes. We don’t have all year.”

I look at the mileage: 3234. The car is still spanking new even though it was manufactured and modified in 1999. In a moment we are racing back towards the drug kingpin’s small palace. They know the police don’t come near the place anymore, regardless of the gunfire. This is due in part because they have no near neighbors on their remote Scottsdale hillside location and also because the home’s registered owner, as well as the vehicles, is an Arab diplomat with immunity from prosecution.

“Give me an update on the Muricelago. Where is it?”

Tech5 brings in the satellite data, “It’s just sitting in a remote location. Just out in the lonely desert about twenty miles from our location.”

“IR Heat signatures?”

“Engine still hot and one occupant.”

“What’s out there?”

“Saguaro, Gila monsters and coyotes.”

This whole operation was intended to identify and capture one of the biggest Al Qaida operatives in the US. Intelligence linking this party with a meeting and a transfer of millions of dollars in cash had been acquired by ongoing activity in Syria and deemed very reliable.

“He’s probably waiting for someone. This has got to be it.”

“Could be. Can we get a wider sweep of the area and surrounding roads? Let’s get some air support in position as well. No mistakes. They’re going to be on their toes now .”

“We are picking up another car en route to that locale. We’re trying to pull a plate number and ID it but is too dark for even “Magic Eye” to distinguish.

I buzz Tech7’s watch with a signal. A small yellow light will be activated on the dial by a satellite signal. She will know that she can and should leave because the operation is going down elsewhere. She’ll know that we’re not there in a hurry and so I take the liberty of having Tech5 call a “cab” for her from our mobile communications center. Of course this yellow cab is not really a “real” cab - but hopefully it will easily fool the bodyguards with the splitting headaches and cases of smoke inhalation.

We intend to let the drug Kingpin go. He is a useful sleazebag who can help point us towards Al Qaida and other bad actors. The key is to let the transaction occur and nab the Al Qaida operative after he has departed. In the back of my mind I’m worrying about what tipped them off to our presence, and if Tech7 was already compromised before she even arrived.

I watch as minutes pass and the second vehicle parks next to the Muricelago. A briefcase and a handshake is given to the Al Qaida operative and Magic Eyes has recorded the whole event for our archives and will surely be useful later when we justify expelling a certain group of diplomats.

“Let’s follow and intercept.”

We push the Suburban to it’s limits and in about eight minutes we are approaching within a mile of the Al Qaida vehicle.

Two F-16 Fighting Falcons have been scrambled from Luke AFB and are already within firing position should it be necessary.

We close in on our quarry and the vehicle speeds up - it is aware it is the hunted. It is doing 90 and accelerating and this Suburban has a slightly massaged 454 good for only about 100-110mph considering the armoring of the Secret Service vehicle.

“Shall I divert weapons power to the engines Captain?” queries Tech2 mockingly as we begin to lose the Al Qaida vehicle: a humble looking and innocuous Chevrolet Caprice Classic, vintage circa 1979.

“We’re too damn heavy.”

“Hey just keep her steady and I’ll take out one of its tires.” says Tech5 removing a M40A1 sniper rifle from his gear.

Tech2 laughs incredulously. It’s 800 yards ahead and gaining ground with every minute.

“Oh what the hell. Give it a shot. But just one. We want this guy alive.”

Tech5 rolls down the window and the wind of a car going 104mph buffets the interior. I try to keep the car as straight as possible while I drive towards the left side of the deserted two-lane highway.

I hear the crack of the 7.62mm shell leaving the barrel and hope that Tech5 is an even better marksman than I thought.

“Nice try!” says Tech2. However, the vehicle keeps barreling along.

“Call in the F-16C’s and let’s see if they can put the fear of Allah in him.”

In a moment I see a plane flying so low it scared me. I back off the speed and get back down to 90mph. The pilot is actually planning to buzz over the driver.

In the distance I watch in amazement as the plane does indeed fly less than twenty-five feet over the Caprice It’s exhaust gases a terrifying sight and making an unbelievably loud noise when it passes overhead. The Caprice veers off the highway and comes to a halt some two hundred yards apparently after colliding with a large cactus.

In less than thirty seconds we are out of our vehicle and chasing a man toting a briefcase and running into the desert.

The man stumbles and falls. We are upon him and I am surprised, yet grateful, he has no weapon on him.

Tech5 cuffs him and it is over.

The man spits at us.

Tech5 tapes his mouth and eyes.

I shoot open the lock on the briefcase. Inside are packs of crisp 100 dollar bills, tons of them with the bank bands still on.

“Million dollars of drug money to fund terror seized. How come I don’t think we’ll be reading about our exploits on the Drudge Report anytime soon?”

Suddenly and without warning a strange and frightening sound can be heard as we make our way back to the car. Something akin to hundreds of people clapping and screaming at the same time.

“Oh Shit! Run for it.”

A horde of locusts like a black cloud approaches us from the east and overtakes in an instant. The sound is as deafening as the jet and even more terrifying as the hundreds of locusts land all over one’s body attempting to eat one’s clothing.

The Al Qaida operative is screaming behind his tape. He can’t see what the hell is landing on him and I can barely see him through the swarm.

We manage to throw him and ourselves back into the Suburban. Locusts which have landing on my face and hair leave me grabbing them off and crushing the disgusting things with my hands, till my hands are full of locust guts and discombobulated locust heads, etc. The others are doing much the same thing. Hundreds of them entered the car and I start the car up to drive out of this plague nightmare come to life. Literally the locusts are so thick it is impossible to see more than a few feet ahead of the car.

I point the car back towards the highway and once on it, accelerate through the swarm. Countless dead and living locusts clog the windshield and I turn on the window wipers.

At last we emerge from the cloud. The interior is hopping with the spastic things and we open our doors to let them fly out while killing the rest.

“Tribble problems Captain?” says Tech2 calmly even though he is equally covered in locust guts and stains.

“Yes. Let’s transport them over to the Klingon ship at once.”

The red moon casts the desert sky in an eerie hue of red. Like rivers of blood the desert sand takes on a crimson hue, the winds howl steadily and quietly in the background.
Our signal device is ringing.

“Tech7 reporting in...en route to Shamballa.”

I breathe an audible sigh of relief. I catch myself before I get misty eyed in front of the others.

This is not going to be our Judgment day.