Where Legal Eagles Dare: An Opco Boone Adventure

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The eighteen-wheeler rumbled on through the desert, flanked by a convoy of COO gunships.
Schweiner set his jaw, his gimlet eye fixed on the horizon. The rig was handling nicely. Sweet ride, he thought. Seventy tons of state-of-the-art super-modernist management technology under the hood, you’d expect that. This baby practically drove herself. Schweiner was calm — tense; on alert — but calm. He blinked to bring up the MIS radar feed in his HUD. The MIS feed swept a sixty-five degree field in front of the rig, left and right. The RAG indicators read green. Expense management mostly optimal — just a couple of minor blips, 300 yards out, at 40 degrees from true.
“You seein’ these, Bugsy?”
“On the MIS? Yaaah, Schweiner, I’m seeing them,” Bugsy was Brooklyn-tough. Schweiner dug his earthy attitude. “Docs jocks, I think. All cool.”
Schweiner screwed in the scope and brought up a video feed. Sure enough: a couple of negotiators ambling distractedly around a watering hole. Little threat at this distance, but Schweiner could tell it narked Bugsy all the same.
“Want me to clear them out, Schweiner?”
Schweiner shrugged. “Nah, we’re all good, Bugsy.”
But Bugsy had a wild streak. Most of the uniform bulls in legal ops, did. This was no reluctant performance of duty for Walter N. Buggs, M.B.A. (Insead). This was job satisfaction. “Ahh, hang it. Why the hell not?”
Bugsy’s gunship let rip — it lit up the GMLSA guy like a candle. Bugsy whooped. “SOX attest that my litte paisan! Ha-ha!”
Bugsy blammed out another — a lame-ass two-way confi — just for the hell of it. This was a weak round but caught the futures guy square on his control panel. He squealed, turning circles while his escalation circuits crackled and burned. Three rotations, and they smoked. Futures jockster conked out and crashed face-down in the sand.
“Yee-hah!”
Schweiner re-blinked up the MIS readout in his head-up display. It flatlined.
“That’ll do, Bugsy, you mad bastard,” Schweiner chuckled. “Confirmed kills. Chalk up the KPIs and let’s get those portfolios reassigned to Bucharest.” “On it, boss.”
Bugsy called up Operations HQ on the encrypted two-way com link. Bugsy rocked the sing-song ham radio chit-chat idiom “Central control, this is KPI-Delta-One-Niner filing our hourly stakeholder check-in, do you copy?”
“KPI-Delta-One-Niner, this is Central Control: we copy you loud and clear, Bugsy. Go ahead, over.”
A static burst shook the set. Bugsy punched in. “Central Control, the coast is clear. Repeat: The coast is clear. We are fully operationalised and all systems go, Request go for payload.”
“KPI-Delta-One-Niner, this is Central Control: you are confirmed go for payload. Rock that house, Schweiner, you crazy sum’bitch. Central Control out!”
Schweiner punched in. That’s an A.O.K., Blitzer. We are gunning in for final approach. We’ll be home by five: put the beers on ice. Out.”
Schweiner checked the clock. They were making good time. The cargo was steady. They were rocking now: there would be dogfights later. Let’s keep the gang loose for now. We’ll have plenty to get done later on.
“O.K., Bugsy. Stand down and accelerate.”
Schweiner stomped on metal.
Bugsy gunned the wagon.
The foghorn screamed.
The rig kicked up a desert plume. Fifteen klicks down the line the peaceable lawyers settlement was oblivious as the hounds of hell descended.

From high on the mountain promontory, Seven klicks to the left and 4,000m above of the oncoming rig, Opco Boone observed the rising plume one the desert floor. He didn't need his telegraphic scope. These suckers were coming on, clear as day. Brazen. He spoke into his wrist comm. “All right, Chip, I’m going in.”

Boone stood on the cliff edge. As he snapped it down, the sun caught his visor for an instant. If Schweiner caught the sparkle ten klicks away it didn't register.

Boone flipped off the safety catch and dived.