* * * * *

MILES STONE'S P.O.V.

"Shit!" I exclaimed: "Not again! I swear, this frigging game must be rigged."

My name is Miles Stone. And, up until four years ago, I was a USAF captain, previously attached to NASA as an astronaut.

I had been playing "Camp Capers," the newest first-person RPG from Nakafusa Games. It was all about this guy (the teenage son of a widowed summer camp director) who gets shrunk to six inches tall by a kryptonite-like meteor. And, he spends the rest of the game trying to avoid everything from great horned owls to horny high school cheerleaders!

The only trouble is, I had already played it forty-nine times before. Yet, no matter what I tried to do differently, in each successive game, the outcome never varied. He--the little guy--still wound up being won, in a game of poker, by a card-sharp debutante!

[Hopefully, I'll have better luck when "Camp Capers II" hits department stores, next Christmas.]

That's when virtual reality reared the ugly head of Myron Meriwether; Director of Operations for the Multi-Agency Counter-Homunculist Organization. Better known as M.A.C.H.O., for short.

Four years earlier, I had been shrunken down to six inches tall as the unexpected result of an experimental space flight (yes, you read that right!). And, M.A.C.H.O. had rescued me from spending the rest of my life as a living dildo to some half-impotent druglord's nymphomaniacal mistresses.* Since then, I had been attending "Kleinmann University." A scale-model replica of Yale University that taught me, and other male "shrinkies," how to readjust.

Just yesterday, I had graduated with honors. So, I was expecting the customary down-time of one week before I would find myself being assigned to field work, alongside some female "normie" as my bodyguard-cum-partner. Evidently, however, Fate was against me in that regard.

"Sorry to interrupt, Captain Stone. But, I need to see you and Ned Fogarty in my office, right away. I'm sending Agent Belmondo to collect the both of you."

Melissa Belmondo, an ex-DEA agent of French Basque descent, was one of the two women who had rescued me from those coke-cartel cuties I mentioned earlier. And, Myron Meriwether had persuaded the three of us to join M.A.C.H.O. as field operatives.

Anyway, the moment I came out of my cyber-telepathic trance, I heard knocking on the detachable roof of my "dormitory." A second later, I went outside to see the smiling face of my favorite auburn-haired giantess.

"How's it going, Mel?"

"Same-old/same-old, Miles. How about yourself?"

"Can't complain! Meriwether doesn't allow it."

"Very funny," commented Ned Fogarty, the former investigative reporter: "But, you know how Myron feels about punctuality. So, could we please get going?"

Mel nodded, and gently picked us up. One in each hand. Five minutes later, we entered Meriwether's office, alongside Gladys Crabtree (an ex-cop from Miami, Florida). They sat down in regular chairs, while Ned and I were placed between them and atop the desk.

"Greetings, ladies and gentlemen," said the portly DOO: "I apologize for accelerating the pairing off process. But, an urgent matter has arisen. One involving this woman."

Meriwether turned to the flat-screen TV fixed to the wall behind his desk. He raised his right hand, and pressed one of the buttons on his remote control. The image that appeared on screen had apparently been reproduced from a driver's license photo. In this case, the picture of a beautiful woman, of Japanese heritage, in her early to mid-thirties.

"Meet Dr. Hana Nozama, of the California Institute of Technology."

tbc

MYRON MERIWETHER'S OFFICE
(NED FOGARTY'S P.O.V.)

* * * * *

"Meet Dr. Hana Nozama of the California Institute of Technology. Marital status: single. Dating history: quite extensive! More specifically; she's dated fifty men over the last five years. And, believe it or not, most of them have never gone out with her on a second date. For the very simple reason that they all disappeared, shortly afterward!"

"Is she a serial homunculist?" asked Mel.

"That's what I'm sending you to L.A. to ascertain. Mr. Fogarty will go with you. His years out there, as an investigative reporter, will make him useful to you as a guide."

"If she's been making men shrink, for the last five years," remarked Gladys: "...how come you haven't busted her before this?"

"Probably because it's only her most recent date that raised a red flag," I replied.

"Very astute of you, Mr. Fogarty."

Whereupon, he clicked his remote control for a second time. This led to the beautiful face on screen being replaced by someone else of Japanese descent. In this case, a man about ten years younger than Dr. Nozama.

"Meet Okada Takeo. Only nephew--and heir apparent--of Okada Hideki. The oyabun, or yakuza 'godfather,' of Tokyo's Okada Clan!"

"Oh, shit!" Mel and I chorused.

Meriwether nodded: "Exactly."

* * * * *

MEANWHILE, SOMEWHERE BENEATH CAL-TECH...

It had originally been built as a fall-out shelter, during the earliest days of the Cold War. But, now, it served another purpose.

The little people gathered in their "town square," upon hearing the tell-tale sounds of the gigantic metal door clicking open. And, they shuddered with fear. Because, they knew what it meant.

Hana Nozama had returned.

Sure enough, she strode over to the "town" (really just a collection of scale-model dollhouses) and smiled down at its inhabitants. Whereupon, she began the all-too familiar litany.

"Eenie, meany, miny, moe.
Catch a shrinkie by the toe.
If he hollers, just ignore,
And proceed, same as before."

The little man her right index finger pointed at, as she concluded, started screaming and pleading in denial. He even tried to run for it! But, it was no use. She caught him up, in her cupped hands, quite easily. And, she swiftly cut off his screaming by mummy-wrapping him in a piece of gray duct tape.

When she was done, the only thing visible was his head, from the nose upwards. Making him resemble one of those "Kilroy Was Here" cartoons from the Second World War. She then placed him directly beneath what looked like a crystal art-deco chandelier from the Roaring Twenties.

It soon became obvious, however, that it was much, much more than that. For, Hana Nozama quickly went behind a lead shield to press some buttons on a control panel. Moments later, the little man was bathed in a rainbow-colored shower of light.

Thirty seconds later (according to her stopwatch), the little man began growing.

At the forty-nine second mark, he burst through his duct tape bonds. At one minute/ten seconds, he had reached a length of eighteen inches. At two minutes/thirty seconds, he was over a yard long. And, at the three minute mark, he had regained his normal height!

But, at three minutes/five seconds, Hana Nozama's smile vanished as she watched the re-enlarged man suddenly begin to convulse, and scream in pain. And, at three minutes/twenty seconds, he was dead. His body resembling nothing less than the dessicated fossil skeleton of a prehistoric caveman!

With her left hand, Dr. Nozama raised a digital audio recorder, and turned it on.

"11:15 A.M.(PST)," she intoned, with a frustrated sigh: "Subject 38 has expired. Back to the proverbial drawing board."

tbc

M.A.C.H.O. HEADQUARTERS,
MYRON MERIWETHER'S OFFICE
(NED FOGARTY'S P.O.V.)

* * * * *

"Oh, shit!" Melissa and I chorused.

Myron nodded: "Exactly."

You couldn't blame us for reacting like that. During my investigative reporting days, with the LOS ANGELES PICAYUNE, I had heard a lot of second-hand stories about the Okada Clan. And, if even half of them were true, this Dr. Nozama might have over-reached herself, serial homunculist or not.

For one thing; they were reportedly the biggest crime family in the Yakuza. With expatriate branches ranging from Honolulu to Sao Paulo, Brazil! It was also reported that every Occidental law-enforcement agency that had tried to gather evidence against them, by having someone work undercover, had ultimately lost contact with that operative. Mysteriously...and permanently.

"Do you think she's already killed him?" I now asked.

Myron shook his head: "We've established that the last time they were seen together was at a new resort in the Bahamas. You might have heard of it; the Hotel Lilliput?"

"Oh, yeah!" exclaimed Gladys: "That's the one where the guests (usually rich fat-cats) get to interact with those little animatrons."

"Correct," replied the DOO: "But, as those animatrons are supposed to be of Japanese manufacture...? Well, I'm sure you can see what I'm driving at."

"A shrinkie-trafficking front?" guessed Miles.

Myron nodded again: "Our forensic accountants have uncovered that the hotel has a silent partner in the form of one Mark Tolliver, Junior, of Las Vegas. Now, in case you're unfamiliar with that name, his father--Mark, Sr.--was born Marcantonio Taliaferro. Eldest son of Don Pietro Taliaferro!"

"The original 'Moustache Pete?' " I exclaimed.

"None other. Following the latter's assassination, in 1955, Marcantonio legally Americanized the family name. And, his own son has since become what the FBI calls an 'MBA gangster.' A white-collar criminal for whom the ball-point pen is mightier than the bare-fisted kidney punch, when it comes to painlessly separating honest people from their hard-earned money. But, definitely _not_ averse to using the Old School methods, when he deems them necessary. Nor is he reluctant to do business with this man."

A third click of the remote control brought up the most chilling image, yet. A white-haired guy (age sixty-ish) wearing a gray Nehru suit, smoking a cigarette in an old-fashioned holder, and sporting a piratical-looking black patch over his left eye.

"Meet Igor Getzov; head of the Russian Mob in Petersburg. Though we've yet to prove it, we strongly suspect him of being a leading black market supplier...of Solution 62.* "

"Is he also a silent partner in the Lilliput?" I asked, after he paused to let us consider that ramification.

"No. But, if the management really are shrinkie-traffickers, he could easily have provided them the means. Unless, of course, they've found a much less-expensive alternative. If that alternative is the one used by Dr. Nozama (assuming we're right about her), then she might be in danger on two fronts. Because, Igor Getzov has a reputation for zero tolerance, when it comes to...competition."

"So, are Ned and I going out there to investigate her?" asked Mel: "Or, to protect her?"

"A little of both," Myron replied: "In the meantime, Captain Stone and Officer Crabtree will be going to the Lilliput."

"I get a free trip to the Bahamas?" exclaimed Gladys: "Woo-hoo!"

I couldn't help smiling as she started to do that "butter-churning" victory dance in her seat. And, Myron's smile was even bigger as he not-so-sadly corrected her.

"I'm afraid not. You'll be posing as an employee. Someone with complete access to almost all the rooms in the hotel. Including the business offices! Thereby giving the captain a chance to do that cyber-telepathic voodoo that he does so well. In short; you'll be posing as a cleaning woman."

tbc

AIRPORT HILTON HOTEL,
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
MAY 19, 2009 (1:30 PM/PST)

* * * * *

NED FOGARTY'S P.O.V.

The four of us departed, the next morning. In our case, Melissa and I were shuttled by helicopter to the naval air station in Key West, Florida. There, we transferred to a Learjet that took off, for California, shortly afterward. During the six-hour trip, I thought about all I had learned concerning M.A.C.H.O.'s history, during my re-orientation training at "Kleinmann University."

It had started out as the Miniscule Operations Command of the CIA. With a name like that, most people automatically assumed it dealt with low-priority stuff. A.k.a. "matters of relative bureaucratic unimportance."

Which is exactly what the CIA had wanted outsiders to think!

In reality, half their operatives (then, as now) had been "bio-miniaturized." That is; reduced in both weight _and_ height, thanks to Solution 62. A biochemical originally developed by the Soviet Union. But, stolen/analyzed/duplicated by the Company.

Of course, when the Cold War had ended, the M.O.C. had been disbanded. A year later, however, it was reactivated and reorganized under the leadership of Myron Meriwether. You see, with the break-up of the Soviet Union, large quantities of Solution 62 wound up flooding the CBR black market!*

As a result, many innocent people--folks who had never had anything to do with the Cold War--started getting shrunk around the world. So, it became M.A.C.H.O.'s responsibility to police the ones doing the shrinking.

In any event, we landed at LAX at one o'clock local time (4:00 PM, back home). And, with me safely ensconced in her purse, Melissa promptly checked us into her hotel room. When we were alone, there, she withdrew both me and her cellular scramblephone.

"Are we clean and green?" she asked Myron, when she established contact with him.

"Affirmative," he replied.

"How did it go, with making an appointment to see Dr. Nozama?"

"You're scheduled to meet with her, in her office at Cal-Tech, tomorrow during her lunch hour. You'll be posing as a private investigator hired by Lloyd's of London. Okada Takeo's policy carrier is a genuine member of that august body. So, your cover should stand up to any normal background check."

"Do you wish me to ask her anything special?"

"No; just whatever would be standard if you were a legit private eye. But, do so in a way that will keep her attention focused on you while Mr. Fogarty bugs her office."

"Copy that," replied Mel: "Belmondo and Fogarty, signing off."

* * * * *

MILES STONE'S P.O.V.

Gladys and I had a less auspicious send-off than Ned and Mel. For one thing, a Civil Air Patrolman from Panama City (in northern Florida) flew us by De Haviland Turbo-Beaver to a rendezvous, just beyond the territorial limit, with the shrimp fishing boat, "Mal De Mer."

It was skippered by Marcel St. Denis; a Louisiana Cajun who moonlighted as a third-generation smuggler of Cuban cigars! And, it was Marcel who transported us to the docks of Nassau, on the Bahamian island of New Providence. Upon our going ashore, he gave Gladys the name of a local cabbie who occasionally peddled some of those cigars to the wealthy American tourists he chauffered to and from the Hotel Lilliput, on Paradise Island.

Upon arriving at the hotel (and, with me safely ensconsed in the cleavage of her ample bosom), Gladys asked the doorman for directions to the personnel director's office. While en route there, I heard a public announcement start blaring through the lobby.

"Ladies and gentlemen. Don't forget; tonight, in our Grand Ballroom, marks the debut of Eastern Europe's latest gift to stage magic. Don't miss that lovely lady of legerdemain; Juliet Merlinova!"

tbc

PARADISE ISLAND,
THE BAHAMAS
MAY 19, 2009

* * * * *

MILES STONE'S P.O.V.

As it turned out, there was an opening for a cleaning woman that the hotel needed to fill, right away. It seems that Gladys would be replacing someone who had just won the Publishers' Clearinghouse Sweepstakes!

Following her routine perusal of the job application, the personnel director gave Gladys a key to the bungalow, where she'd be staying, on the hotel grounds.

"When you're properly dressed, report to the Gulliver Suite, immediately," she added.

"Yes, ma'am," was all Gladys said in reply.

In case you've never seen pictures of it, the Hotel Lilliput is shaped like a giant capital "h." With the left and right towers linked by a centrally located suite at each one's fourteenth floor. Imagine the Venetian Bridge of Sighs decorated like guest quarters at the White House!

That is the Gulliver Suite.

Anyway, ten minutes later, Gladys had unpacked everything (including me). Following which, she went into the bathroom to put on her gray housekeeper's uniform. While she did that, I went into cyber-telepathic mode in order to inform Meriwether of our arrival.

"Were you able to infiltrate the premises without any difficulty?" he asked (the text appearing, in my mind's eye, like the wording on a giant holographic billboard).

"Yeah," I replied: "God bless the Dirty Tricks Department for being able to forge Ed McMahon's face!"

"And, where are the alleged animatrons kept?"

While Gladys had been filling out the job application, I had hacked into the hotel's clerical database. The little robotic figures that had made it such a household name, among the Jet Set, were kept somewhere in the backstage area of the nightclub. An area designated "Misc. Props."

"Only the manager and the chief electrician have access to it, as a rule," I told him: "But, this new entertainer seems to have been made an exception to the rule. I found a memo giving her permission to use some of the 'Lilliputians' in her act!"

I then mentally pictured a copy of Juliet Merlinova's lobby card likeness (as depicted in the hotel brochure Gladys had picked up en route to the bungalow) coming out of Meriwether's desk-top printer. And, speaking purely for myself, that likeness was pretty easy on the eyes!

Long red hair flowing down slightly past her shoulders. A slightly darker red bow tie around her throat. A white top hat in her left hand. And, her semi-tuxedo just as black as her high-heel shoes and translucent nylons.

"If the animatrons really are shrinkies," I remarked: "...selling some of them to a professional magician would be a perfect way to make some of them disappear."

"Good point," he replied: "I'll have our State Department contacts make some inquiries via Interpol."

"Do you really think Nozama would be reckless enough to shrink a Yakuza prince, and sell him to the Russian Mob?"

"I hope not," declared Meriwether: "Because, the last thing we need is a re-enactment of the Russo-Japanese War on American soil!"

* * * * *

Twenty minutes later, Gladys went up to the Gulliver Suite. With me, once again, tucked safely away in her cleavage!

I didn't try to take advantage of that, though. For one thing, we were partners. So, any physical mischief on my part would be highly unprofessional. Then, there was the fact that she was bigger than me, and could spank my rear end black-and-blue with just one of her index fingers. Most important of all, however, was the fact that Gladys was wearing "spectacle-cams." Black, plastic-rimmed eyeglasses, with earpieces that were really microelectronic camcorders!

And, it would be necessary for me to auto-hypnotically enter C-T mode in order to relay the images it picked up directly to M.A.C.H.O. Headquarters.

Gladys knocked on the front door to the Gulliver Suite, and was told to come in by a shout that was decidely female in origin. As I suspected, the shouter was Juliet Merlinova. And, the first image I relayed of her, as a live person, showed her playfully rehearsing with one of the "Lilliputians."

Only, this one was dressed like a samurai warrior. And, more astoundingly? His face bore a distinct resemblance to Okada Takeo's!

tbc

* * * * *

THE GULLIVER SUITE,
HOTEL LILLIPUT,
MILES STONE'S P.O.V.

Through the special glasses being worn by Gladys, I got my first good look at Juliet Merlinova in the flesh (metaphorically speaking). She was, indeed, a long-haired carrot-top. Yet, at the moment, she wasn't wearing her customary semi-tuxedo. Rather, she was dressed in a pink bathrobe that showed off a tantalizing bit of her left leg. What caught more of Gladys' attention, however, was what Ms. Merlinova was doing while wearing it.

She was manipulating some kind of marionette with those nearly invisible wires used in the Dancing Cane (a.k.a "Levi-stick") illusion. A marionette that resembled nothing less than a minotaur with white-and-red kabuki face paint!

"Take that, Issun-boshi," she said (in obvious caricature of a deep masculine voice): "Take that...and that...and THAT!"

The marionette's club (imagine a baseball bat with raisin-like wrinkles) was trying-but-failing to hit what I had initially thought was a microelectronic animatron fashioned to look like a medieval Japanese samurai. There were two things, however, that quickly made me realize it wasn't. Its resemblance to the missing Okada Takeo.

And, the beads of nervous sweat on "its" forehead.

If it was him, though, I had to give him credit. For a shrinkie, he sure was feisty! He kept trying and trying to get close enough to that marionette to leap up and sever those strings. But, of course, his opponent's "magic mallet" wouldn't let him.

Finally, however, the Russian magicienne had had enough. She simply laughed, and put the "minotaur" away in a wooden chest lined with red velvet. Then, she turned back to "Issun-boshi," and pointed at him with her right index finger.

Faster than you can say "Peter Parker," a string of rainbow-colored handkerchiefs shot across the room; lassoed the little dude like a prize steer; and, then, reeled him in like a fish on a hook!

Any other normie might have been duly impressed. But, Gladys had been well-trained by M.A.C.H.O. She kept her lower jaw down just long enough to make her astonishment look real. Reinforcing "the sell" with a quick shake of her head.

"You sent for me, Ms. Merlinova?"

"Oh! Da!"

The shapely Russian carrot-top put "Issun-boshi" in a glass mayonnaise jar (with a multiply-punctured lid) before bringing her semi-tuxedo over to Gladys.

"I wish to have this dry-cleaned before my opening night performance, tonight."

"Yes, ma'am," replied Gladys (with a curtsy): "I'll bring it straight to the cleaners with just that instruction."

I was contacting Meriwether even as we left the suite.

* * * * *

LAX HILTON HOTEL,
MAY 19, 2009
5:00 P.M.(PST)

NED FOGARTY'S P.O.V.

Melissa ordered supper for both of us. A bacon cheeseburger (with the cheese made from skim milk), hash browns, and orange juice for her. And, a demitasse of decaffeinated coffee for me.

While we waited for room service to arrive, Mel used the TV remote control to turn on the local channel menu. She then settled back on the bed nearest the door. Her head resting on the left-hand pillow, while I sat on the one to the right. I didn't remain sitting for long, though.

"Oh! Oh! Oh! Mel! Turn that one on. Please-please-please-please-PLEASE??????"

Mel laughed at my boyish enthusiasm, and switched on "Invasion of the Baton Twirlers From Outer Space." A 1979 cult-classic of science fiction, as it marked the one-time only collaboration of Roger Corman and Ray Harryhausen!

Forty-five minutes later, just as I was beginning to get aroused by the sight of gorgeous girls (in gold lame' bikinis) using majorette batons to shrink a bunch of heavily armed soldiers, there came a knock on our hotel room door.

"Room service!" came the somewhat muffled announcement.

"Be right there," she called out. Then, she turned to me...and smirked (only half-sympathetically)

"Sorry, Ned," she whispered: "It's in between the pillows for you."

I grumbled under my breath. And, I only stopped grumbling when Mel--who had opened the door only half way, by this point--got shoved to the floor by someone kicking it in the rest of the way!

The kicker wearing a nylon-stocking mask. Just like the two accomplices flanking him.

tbc

* * * * *

NED FOGARTY'S P.O.V.

"Grab her," said the spokesman.

Immediately, his two followers move forward as one. But, if they expected a typical damsel-in-distress, easily paralyzed by fright, they didn't know Melissa Belmondo. She was the daughter of one of Uncle Sam's Misguided Children! And, she demonstrated this when she did a reverse sit-up with the lower half of her body. Thereby giving her the leverage necessary to spring to her feet, and land in a monkey-like crouch.

From this position, she spun about in a counter-clockwise circle. Using her outstretched left leg to sweep her first attacker off her feet, and flat on his ass!

Her second attacker dodged that leg sweep by leaping over it. But, while he was still in mid-air, Mel sprang upward herself. Consequently kicking him in the chest, with the sole of her right foot, and knocking _him_ flat on his ass!

But, while she was doing that, her first attacker had regained his feet. I needn't have worried, though. Mel saw this for herself, and moved her right leg backward like the pendulum of a grandfather clock. And, catching that guy, with the heel of her foot, right smack-dab in the cajones!

He collapsed--with a falsetto whimper--like the proverbial wet sack of organic fertilizer.

That was when the spokesman got into the act. Quicker than you can "Oh, shit!," he flicked open a Filipino balisong. As did the second attacker, who had now regained his own feet.

They rushed her from both sides. Yet, Mel wasn't exactly unarmed, herself. From the left inner pocket of her blazer, she whipped a telescoping jutte made of stainless steel! And, she slashed downward with it as the spokesman came at her from her left.

Consequently, he dropped his balisong, as the wrist of his right hand was promptly broken! Yet, he was barely able to utter one syllable in pain before Mel slashed upward with the jutte...and bruised his larynx.

As a result, he fell to his knees, gurgling in pain while clutching at his throat with his left hand!

While he was doing that, however, Mel leaped to her right. Dodging the third guy like a matador in a bull ring. As she did so, she lashed out with the edge of her left hand. Bringing it down on the nape of the third guy's neck in a shuto karate chop. Consequently, between that and his forward momentum, he now fell flat on his face!

Mel followed through, in subduing him, by leaping up and forward. So that she landed with one foot to either side of him. Straddling him like an auburn-haired Colossus of Rhodes! But, she didn't maintain that pose long.

Only as long as it took to bring the jutte down, across the back of his head, like an old-fashioned blackjack.

She then went over to the still-gurgling spokesman and knocked him out with a left-footed kick to the jaw. A blow she duplicated, a moment later, with Signor Falsetto.

"Holy Shit!" I exclaimed, as I came out of hiding.

In less time than it takes to tell, she had single-handedly brought down three attackers roughly half her age! I say "half her age," because when Mel unmasked them, she revealed her attackers as being Chinese-Americans in their late teens/early twenties. Each of their foreheads bearing the same tattoo. A white circle surrounded by what looked like eight capital "L's." Half of them upside-down, atop the circle.

I have to confess that I found the symbol to be strangely familiar to me. Then, it hit me.

"Uh-oh!"

Mel looked at me, just as she was about to call hotel security.

"You know these creeps?"

"Not by name," I replied: "But, I once crossed paths with some of their brethren, back during my investigative reporter days. They're Ghost Spiders! Chinatown street muscle for the local branch of the Earth Tiger Tong."

tbc

* * * * *

NED FOGARTY'S P.O.V.

The first thing Melissa did was contact M.A.C.H.O. on her cellular scramblephone. Then, she gave a terse report, to Director Meriwether, on what happened. Including her call to hotel security!

"There was no way to get around that without blowing our cover. And, they're bound to be here, any second."

"Put the phone on speaker mode," she was advised: "So we can listen in, and plan our cover story, accordingly."

"Affirmative."

No sooner had she said that than security arrived, just as predicted. They were followed by the arrival of two LAPD Robbery/Homicide detectives: Sergeant Lori Dillinger; and Detective Francisco Fernandez.

As it turns out, they were also old acquaintances of mine from my days as an investigative reporter. Dillinger (no relation to the famous gangster) was a blue-eyed blonde who could have passed for the younger sister of actress Sheri Wilson (Chuck Norris' D.A.-girlfriend on WALKER, TEXAS RANGER). While her partner had once boxed Golden Gloves as "Paco Wallop" Fernandez.

Melissa gave them a slightly edited version of the truth. Basically claiming that they--the three Ghost Spiders--had burst in to try and mug her.

"But, I've verified enough medical insurance claims, of aggravated assault, to know they'd probably have done worse than that!" she added: "So, I fought back."

"That was very brave you, Ms. Belmondo. But, it could also have been very foolhardy," replied Dillinger: "What if they'd been packing small-caliber guns in their pockets? Like Beretta .380's, for instance!"

"Believe me, Sergeant. If I'd been calm and collected enough to think along those lines, I would've probably been too scared to act!"

"Well, we'll run these three into custody," Fernandez declared: "...and let you get some sleep. But, we _will_ expect you to come by headquarters, first thing tomorrow morning, for a much fuller statement."

"Thank you, Detective. I deeply appreciate that."

After that, the night manager of the LAX Hilton personally escorted us (or, rather Mel) to another room. The Honeymoon Suite, as it turned out! She'd only be charged the same rate as our original room, however, as compensation for being so rudely distubed.

Thank God for hotels that are addicted to good publicity!

When we were alone, again, Mel took her cellphone out of her left blazer pocket, while withdrawing me from her right. And, placing it next to me on the nightstand of the master bedroom.

"Did you get all that?" she asked.

"Affirmative," said Meriwether: "And, frankly, I don't think it's coincidence that they work for a crime syndicate we've had trouble with, in the past."

"Do you think Nozama might have hired them to discourage us from questioning her, tomorrow?"

"Possibly. Although, that implies that she already knows you're more than an insurance investigator."

"That doesn't necessarily mean she knows about M.A.C.H.O.," I interjected (at the top of my lungs): "She might simply think Mel is secretly working for the Yakuza. Because, I can tell you for a fact; the Yakuza and the Earth Tigers do not play well together! So, it's possible the tong _paid_ to have Okada shrink-napped."

"Enough conjecturing," ordered Meriwether: "The two of you get some sleep. So you can have fresh minds on just _how_ you're going to interrogate Nozama."

And, with that, he signed off.

tbc

* * * * *

THE HOTEL LILLIPUT,
PARADISE ISLAND, THE BAHAMAS
MAY 19, 2009 (8:30 P.M./EST)

MILES STONE'S P.O.V.

"And, now, ladies and gentlemen? Direct from thirteen successful weeks in Sofia, Bulgaria: JULIET MERLINOOOOOOOOOOOOOOVA!"

Following the emcee's melodramatic announcement, there was a puff of white smoke. Followed instantly by the "magical" materialization of the Russian redhead.

I was cyber-telepathically watching her, via the hotel's CCTV surveillance cameras, while Gladys snuck backstage to infiltrate the Miscellaneous Props Room. It had been a busy first day for this "emergency replacement housekeeper." But, finally, she had gotten off-duty. By which time, I had secured the master electrician's electronic passcode from his computerized personnel file.

"How's she doin'?" Gladys whisperingly inquired.

"She's giving them their money's worth," I replied: "The female guests are entranced by her tricks. And, the male guests are entranced by her legs!"

Gladys chuckled, as she finished pressing the numbered buttons with her rubber-latex gloved fingers. She then slipped inside the room, and turned on her pocket flash light, before slowly closing the door until it had re-locked from the outside.

Two minutes later, she announced that she had found the puppets.

"How do they look?" I asked.

"Pretty standard issue. Strings and all."

"What about the ones without strings? The ones that look battery-operated."

I slowly felt her body move, as she swept the flash light along.

"Found 'em!" she exclaimed, in a thrilled whisper: "They're on the top shelf in..."

Her pause made me ask the obvious.

"In what?"

"Well, let's put it this way," she replied: "Since when do animatrons have to be kept in hamster cages with those upside-down water bottles?"

I then heard the slight scraping of chair (or step-ladder) legs on the floor. Followed by the feeling of Gladys climbing that chair or ladder.

"Okada? Okada Takeo. Wakari masa desu?"

That last part translated as "Do you understand?" A question frequently asked, by Watanabe-sensei, of all the normie bodyguards he trained for M.A.C.H.O.

"Yeah!" came a squeaky reply: "I understand my ESL is better than your Japanese! Who are you?"

"Your oyabun hired me," she replied: "I've come to get you back home."

"About frigging time! Did you see what that rabid Russian cougar did to me?"

"Never mind her, for now. Let me just concentrate on pickin' this padlock."

I chuckled to myself. That is; till I saw something in my mind's eye that instinctively made me gasp.

"Gladys!" I called up to her: "Hurry it up. Merlinova is performing the Submerged Trunk! Which means she's not really in there. She's somewhere backstage!"

"Roger, that."

"Who the frig is Roger?" I heard Okada ask.

"My should-be silent partner. Now, shut up and let's go!"

I heard her click off the flash light just as she got back to the prop room door. Then, I heard the door slowly open up. Following which I heard (in a tell-tale Slavic accent):

"My-my-my! Fancy meeting you, here."

* * * * *

TARZANA, CALFORNIA
(5:45 P.M./PST)

Chet Northfield's phone rang.

"Hello?"

"It's me. There's been an incident involving the Ghost Spiders."

"I'm on my way."

tbc

* * * * *

1 PARKER PLACE,
LOS ANGELES, CAL.
MAY 19, 2009
(6:18 P.M./PST)

CHET NORTHFIELD'S P.O.V.

I had been after the Heikegani-ryu for over thirty-five years.

The Heikegani-ryu is a Japanese ninja cult that's been behind some of the biggest assassinations in the history of the 20th century. From FDR to Pope John Paul I! And, one of the reasons they've been so successful can be summed up in one word: shrinkage.

Yes, that's what I said. Shrinkage! Each and every ninja in that murderous cult has the power to shrink themselves small enough to ride on the back of a carrier pigeon!! But, that's not the worst of it.

They also have the power to shrink some of their victims. Making them small enough where they can be crushed...literally underfoot! I know, because I once saw them do that very thing to Percy Throckmorton. A retired British spy who had been counting on his old friend (and my mentor), Buck Fogarty, for help.

Help neither of us was ultimately able to provide.*

I've been out to crush them, ever since. That's why I volunteered to be trained in eguzairu-do ninjitsu by my uncle, Anjiro Watanabe. Not only is he a collateral descendant of eguzairu-do's originator. He's also one of the last living direct descendants of Watanabe no Tsuna (one of the four stalwart companions of Minamoto Clan patriarch, Minamoto no Raiko)!

And, with his help, I've been whittling away at them for over three decades. Mostly through the Earth Tiger Tong; one of their oldest fronts.

From what I've been able to unearth, as an investigative reporter for THE NATIONAL INTELLIGENCER, the tong started out as a splinter faction of the White Lotus Society. When the latter tried-but-failed to overthrow the Manchurian founders of the Ching Dynasty, circa the 17th century, this splinter faction fled to one of the nominally Japanese-held Ryukyu Islands. There, they intermarried with the remnants of the Tsuchigumo-jin. A once-powerful bandit tribe, from Japan, that had supposedly been wiped out by the aforementioned Raiko. Whether or not this legend was true, one thing was certain.

The Earth Tiger Tong had allowed the Heikegani-ryu to spread outward from Japan. And, the profits derived from the tong's more conventional criminal activities had allowed this cult to survive far longer than it deserved.

That's why Uncle Jiro's phone call, about the Ghost Spider incident, had piqued my curiosity. The tong normally didn't employ that street gang outside the environs of Chinatown. So, whoever they had gone after, at the hotel, must have been construed as quite a threat to the tong.

"Top of the evening to you, Casey!" I called out, as I entered the lobby of LAPD Headquarters.

The African-American desk sergeant--one Kingston Charles Donahue--looked up at me, and said (with his usual scowl):

"I wish you'd permanently drop that Barry Fitzgerald brogue, Northfield. You're no more Irish than I am!"

I shrugged (with a shameless grin): "Just blame it on one too many re-runs of GOING MY WAY. Seriously, though; I heard about that bust at the LAX Hilton. What happened, and who was involved?"

He scowled even more: "You know I can't talk about an on-going investigation. Even if I was directly involved with it. Which I'm not!"

"Well, if you change your mind, you can reach me at this number."

I wrote down my unlisted cellphone number on the back of a business card, and slid across it to him, over the desk's surface. He picked it up; read the number, half-heartedly; then slid it back to me.

"Forget it! Go worm the info out of someone else!"

"Okay, okay!" I exclaimed: "There's no crime in asking. Is there?"

"Not yet," he replied: "Fortunately, for you."

As I exited the building, I read the back of the business card he had slipped on top of my mine.

"MELISSA BELMONDO
Claims Investigator
Amer. Fidelity Ins.
(Honeymoon Suite)"

I knew that the hotel's in-house security had probably been doubled, by this point. So, I decided to stake out the place from the outside. This entailed my driving back to my apartment, in Tarzana, and grabbing my...stuff.

One hour and fifteen minutes later, I was roosting beneath the fronds of a palm tree. Keeping an eye on the honeymoon suite, in case other ninjas came along, looking to finish what the Ghost Spiders had so miserably started.

"Never send boys,..." and all that jazz.

Just before dawn, I descended from the palm tree and quick-changed back into my street duds. Then, I scurried back to my car (a fully restored Volkswagen Thing), which I'd made sure to leave in the airport's long-term parking lot.

I got my lap top out of the trunk, where I'd hidden it, (beneath the spare tire), and checked my e-mails. Sure enough; good old Uncle Jiro had sent me a photo of Ms. Belmondo!

Now, I knew who to follow when she left the hotel. Which she finally did...around ten o'clock.

"Now, that's weird," I muttered to myself: "You'd think she'd be anxious to give her official statement to the cops, way sooner."

Things got even weirder when I tailed her car (a rented Toyota Camry). I noted, all too soon, that she wasn't headed in the direction of Parker Place. Instead, she was headed for Cal-Tech!

Which prompted me to quote what Arte Johnson used to say, on that old NBC variety show, LAUGH-IN: "Verrrrrrry interestink!"

tbc

* * * * *

THE HOTEL LILLIPUT,
PARADISE ISLAND, THE BAHAMAS
MAY 19, 2009 (9:18 P.M./EST)

MILES STONE'S P.O.V.

For what seemed like an eternity, Gladys and Juliet Merlinova just looked at each other. And, via the "spy-specs" Gladys was wearing, I was getting quite a glimpse of the Russian magicienne, myself. She looked just like the cardboard cut-out of herself in the hotel's lobby. Only more buxom. A difference that was high-lighted by her tuxedo jacket being a half-size too small for her.

And, I had to admit: on her, it looked good!

But, I came back to Earth when Gladys started stammering out a reply.

"M-M-Mi pardon, senorita. N-N-No comprendo. Yo hablo ingles, mui poco!"

This caused Merlinova to laugh.

"You spoke very fluent English, earlier this afternoon, my dear. And, I wish to have a longer talk with you...after my show."

At which point, Merlinova reached inside the left-hand lining of her tuxedo jacket. And, I suddenly got a bad feeling about that.

"Gladys! Duck!"

At the same time as I was "shouting" this warning (cyber-telepathically), I was assuming a skydiver's free-fall position. So I could more hurriedly evacuate Gladys' cleavage!

Unfortunately, Gladys lunged forward. Clearly thinking that Merlinov was going for a gun! As a result, both of her hands wrapped around the magicienne's right wrist. With the intention of both spoiling her aim and wrestling the gun to the floor. It wasn't a gun, though. It was a handful of powder that Merlinova blew right into Gladys' face!

It soon became obvious what that powder was: freeze-dried Solution 62. I had learned about it, in one of my re-orientation classes at "Kleinmann University." The one covering M.A.C.H.O.'s Cold War history as the Miniscule Operations Command.

And, as I ran out from beneath the cuff of Gladys' right trouser leg (she had dressed all in black for the breaking-and-entering), I saw her begin to shrink! And, I considered it a mixed blessing that Merlinova only had eyes for that, as I ran for the nearest appropriately-sized hiding place.

Okada Takeo wasn't so lucky. Gladys had instinctively dropped him in her lunge for Merlinova. And, now, the two of them--Takeo and Gladys--were both the same size.

Whereupon, Merlinova laughed and whipped out a virtual bouquet of handkerchiefs in which she ensnared the both of them. Employing one of those springy squat/thrust moves that Cossack dancers are so famous for. She then stuffed them down her cleavage, before running off to "miraculously" reappear on stage for the grand finale'.

The only thing I could do, at this point, was contact M.A.C.H.O. Headquarters and see if they could send me any back up.

* * * * *

MEANWHILE, SOMEWHERE IN THE RYUKYUS...

The old man was blindfolded and deep in meditation. Moreover, he looked to be a hundred years-old, at least! Yet, he heard her coming, never-the-less.

"Junyo-chen?"

"Hai, Jonin-sama.

The kunoichi reverently bowed as she replied.

"I have an assignment for you, my child. In the American city of Los Angeles. And, it involves a woman named...Hana Nozama."

"Hai, Jonin-sama!"

tbc

* * * * *

M.A.C.H.O. HEADQUARTERS,
MYRON MERIWETHER'S OFFICE
MAY 19, 2009 (9:45 P.M./EST)

"His name is Park Kim Jung," intoned Eric Bravo: "A North Korean national. He started out as a tae kwon do instructor for the Soviet Red Army: 1955-60. Became a wetworker for the KGB (code-named 'Gorky'): 1963-90.* No record of what he did during the three-year interim. But, nowadays, he works for the Vladivostok branch of the Russian Mob. As their personal ambassador to the Okada Clan!"

The subject of this recitation was an Asiatic male, in his late sixties/early seventies, standing in line at a taxicab kiosk, outside of Los Angeles International Airport, a little over six hours earlier . And, apparently, either not knowing or not caring that his picture had just been snapped by a remote-controlled surveillance camera.

"Let me guess," replied Meriwether: "He was able to whiz straight through customs on a diplomatic passport?"

Eric Bravo nodded. He then commented how it was quite possible Park had been sent to L.A. to "interrogate" Dr. Nozama (as to Okada Takeo's where-abouts) on the Yakuza's behalf.

Meriwether shook his head: "This just gets better and better!"

As if to contradict him, his intercom buzzed.

"Sir? This is Sparks, down in Telecommunications. We just got a Class One distress call from Captain Stone. Officer Crabtree has been shrink-napped!"

* * * * *

CAL-TECH, PASADENA, CALIFORNIA
MAY 20, 2009 (11:45 A.M./PST)

NED FOGARTY'S P.O.V.

Melissa made her way to the Biophysics Building. Entering the waiting room, of Dr. Nozama's office, with fifteen minutes to spare. Five of those minutes later, the administrative assistant (a twenty-something post-graduate, from what I could see of him from inside Mel's partly unzipped purse) led the way into her office.

And, Mel waited until he had left the room before presenting her well-faked credentials.

"American Fidelity Insurance?" Nozama read aloud: "I don't understand."

"They belong to Lloyd's of London, just like Nihon Life and Casualty. And, the latter hired me--through the former--to find out what happened to Okada Takeo. From what I've been able to determine, prior to coming here, you were the last one to see him alive, doctor. In fact; the two of you evidently took a little side trip, to the Bahamas, aboard his Cessna Citation!"

"Yes," replied the beautiful Sansei scientist: "And, I must admit, he certainly knows how to sweep a girl off her feet (figuratively speaking)! But, he's used to doing that with girls his own age. Whereas (much as I hate to admit it), I'm a tad more mature than he is. Physically, as well as emotionally! So, I regained my feet a lot quicker than his previous dates. And, unlike them, I told him I'd prefer that he and I just remain...good friends."

Melissa couldn't help herself.

"Ah, yes!" she replied (trying unsuccessfully to sound like W.C. Fields): "The old Kiss of Death."

The ploy worked. Dr. Nozama had been successfully disarmed enough to smile and nod. Her attention now riveted fully on Mel, while I planted the last of the wi-fi bugs under her desk.

But, just as I was turning around (in order to creep back to where Mel had placed her purse on the carpeted floor by her chair), I noticed something. Something happening above, on the white tile ceiling of Dr. Nozama's office.

A piece of it seemed to be coming loose.

A minute later, it did. Only, the closer it got to the ground, the bigger it seemed to grow. And, the bigger it grew, the faster came its descent. Until, suddenly, I was looking at a white-clad ninja sporting bungee cords...and standing no taller than me!

tbc

* * * * *

The aircraft was a Fairchild C-123-J Provider, with turboprop-driven engines and turbojet-assisted take off. Normally, it was used by the Alaskan Air National Guard to transport equipment and supplies. And, once in a while, it was also used for the airborne insertion of forest fire-fighting "smoke jumpers!"

But, today, its pilot and co-pilot were bound for Coronado, California, and the U.S. Navy's Special Amphibious Warfare School.

Twelve hours earlier, they had picked up a contigent of South Korean marines, at the jointly operated Atsugi Naval Airbase, in Japan. Then, while refueling in Honolulu, they had been joined by an American SEAL team.* Yet, unbeknownst to either military unit, they were being accompanied by a most unusual stow-away.

Junyo-chen ("The She-Falcon"): newly initiated kunoichi of the Heikegani-ryu!

She had spent most of the trip in deep meditation. She snapped out of it, however, when the captain of the SEAL team activated the public address system.

"Good morning, gentlemen!" he began (pausing while the South Koreans' C.O. translated): "We will soon be passing the three-mile limit. Which means we'll be in American airspace. And, I can think of no better way to commence our counter-terrorist cross-training with the U.S. Army Green Berets of Delta Force, than a good old HALO/SCUBA insertion!"

"As you know, that's an amphibious variant of the standard High Altitude/Low Opening skydive. But, this morning, we'll be performing it with a high-tech twist. We'll be doing it while wearing...squirrel-suits!"

He explained (for the benefit of the South Koreans) how these were jumpsuits with glider wing membranes between the armpits and hips. Membranes that supposedly made a human skydiver look more like an overgrown "flying" squirrel.

"And, once we swim ashore, we'll be taken by deuce-and-a-halves to Fort Irwin, for the next phase of the cross-training."

Almost on cue, the steady red light above the cockpit door switched to an equally steady amber. Whereupon, the good captain instructed everyone to start donning the squirrel-suits. When this had been accomplished, the co-pilot came out of the cockpit and joined them.

"Two minutes to jump-point, Skipper!"

The SEAL team captain nodded. Following which, he ordered both units to line up, single-file. And, no sooner had that been accomplished than the amber light switched to a rapidly blinking green!

The co-pilot promptly opened the rear hatch, and a great wind filled the interior.

"Go-go-go!" shouted the captain over his helmet's built-in microphone. Ninety seconds later, he was all by himself. But, by no means, was he the last one to leave the plane!

As soon as both the SEALS and the South Koreans were sufficiently both ahead of and below her, Junyo-chen re-enlarged herself! She then withdrew her pet kestrel, and re-enlarged that, as well, before taking off its blinding leather hood.

Two seconds later, she had shrunk back down to one inch in size, so she could ride on the back of the kestrel's neck. And, ten seconds after that, the pair of them were flying over the main gate of the S.A.W.S., while the SEALS and the South Koreans were still a good mile out at sea, swimming towards the beach.

* * * * *

HOTEL LILLIPUT, PARADISE ISLAND,
THE BAHAMAS (11 HOURS EARLIER)

MILES STONE'S P.O.V.

From my hiding place, backstage, I entered my auto-hypnotic trance. And, in that state, my cyber-telepathy chip helped me give Meriwether the whole story about Gladys' capture (and Okada Takeo's recapture) by Juliet Merlinova.

"I need some back-up," I concluded: "ASAP! Before she stuffs GC in a match box and saws in her half with a nail file!"

"Relax," he texted back (the letters appearing in my mind's eye like a Times Square billboard): "Marco Polo is headed 4U, even as we speak. He and his partner will have enough re-N4-cements to extract both parties."

"I hope so," I replied: "This is Maj. Minor. Over and out."

* * * * *

CAL-TECH BIOPHYSICS BUILDING
(17 HOURS LATER)

NED FOGARTY'S P.O.V.

I couldn't believe it! One minute, that white ninja was my size. The next minute? He was towering over Melissa by at least half a foot!

Something that became obvious when she sprang to her feet. Her snub-nose .44 magnum Terminator already in a steady two-handed grip as that white ninja lunged...towards Hana Nozama!!

"Muhon-nin!" he growled: "What have you done with Okada Takeo? Talk! Or, I will..."

"Let her go," replied Mel: "Slowly, and gently."

And, she cocked the revolver's hammer back, for emphasis.

"Oh, great!" I muttered: "All we need now are the Sergio Leone Singers."

tbc

* * * * *

PARADISE ISLAND, THE BAHAMAS
(NAOMI WATANABE'S P.O.V.)

We arrived at the hotel as "Mr. and Mrs. Charles Forsythe," at eleven o'clock, that night. The both us of wearing sunglasses and Panama hats. But, that's where the "marital" resemblance ended. Where my new partner wore white slacks (with matching sneakers) and a blue Hawaiian shirt, I wore a translucent pink midi-skirt (with matching vest) over a yellow one-piece swimsuit, while carrying a big wicker purse.

My previous partner was the reason I had agreed to join M.A.C.H.O. You see, six years earlier, San Francisco was being terrorized by a homophobic serial killer. The tabloids, in their collective lack of imagination, had dubbed him "the Conductor" for his use of an orchestral baton in stabbing his victims...through each of their left eyes.

The FBI was called in, to aid the SFPD, because the latter couldn't figure out how this guy was getting into locked-and-bolted apartments; killing his victims without the slightest struggle; and then vanishing!

I was one of the special agents assigned to the case. The other one was Elmo Blood (born Guglielmo Sanguinelli) of North Beach. And, before long, we had narrowed our pool of suspects down to Jordan Trask. An ex-marine who had become a teacher of English-as-a-Second Language at the University of Tokyo. It seems that his sister had been a choir director at a parochial school in Frisco. And, one day, while driving back to the school (from picking up some dry-cleaned choir robes), she had been broadsided by a drunk driver.

He survived; she didn't. And, the press had a field day with the fact that he had been coming home from an all-night gay bar!

The first of the "Conductor Killings" occurred two days after the funeral. With the guilty driver being the first victim. And, with Mr. Trask not being listed as a passenger, on any Tokyo-bound flights, beforehand. When we finally tracked him down to a flea-bag hotel room in Oakland, we saw the strangest thing on charging in. The strangled corpse of a three-foot tall man...who had been listed on his passport as twice that height!

Furthermore, the initials "S.O.B." had been carved into Trask's forehead. Initials that most of us took at face-value. Elmo, on the other hand, became obsessed with the height discrepancy. Thinking that it and the initials were somehow linked.

He must have been right. Because, one day, he failed to report for work at the Sacramento field office. And, when I went to his apartment to see if he was sick?

I found him shrunken (down to three inches tall), instead!

Within twenty-four hours of my showing him to the Special Agent-In-Charge, I wound up meeting two men. One of them was my grandfather; Anjiro Watanabe. The other was his boss; Myron Meriwether.

Director of Operations for M.A.C.H.O.

Eric Bravo, on the other hand, had been recruited into M.A.C.H.O. by a different route. He was an Air Force brat. Born and partly raised at the U.S. airbase in Thule, Greenland, during the early 1960's. His father had been Portuguese-American (from Gloucester, Massachusetts), and his mother a half-Danish Inuit. Ultimately earning a Rhodes Scholarship to Oxford University, he was on the eve of graduating when he lost the both of them. Discourtesy of the IRA time bomb that blew up the London department store where they'd been shopping for his graduation present!

His career choice was clear after that.

He joined the U.S. Army. Ultimately working his way up to the Special Warfare School at Fort Bragg, North Carolina. Then, cross-training with the British SAS and the West German GSG-9. And, when the Soviet Union dissolved, thereby ending the Cold War? He became an anti-terrorist wetworker for the CIA.

Code-name: Marco Polo.

Well, one day, he was assigned to investigate the theft of some limpet mines from the U.S. naval base in Cadiz, Spain. One of which was used to blow up the yacht of a certain oil sheikh, shortly afterward! A Turko-Cypriot nationalist group, calling itself "the New Janissaries," had taken credit. Claiming the sheik had been a traitor to pan-Islam, what with his oil going stateside aboard tankers owned by a Greco-Cypriot shipping magnate. So, Eric tracked down the group's leader and... "persuaded" him to name their arms dealer.

This turned out to be one Dolores Gutierrez; a former KGB agent-provocateur, born and raised in Cuba, of Basque parentage. She had a penthouse suite in Paris, and Eric went there to "confer" with her. Only to find her already dead!

Her shrunken corpse half-devoured by her white Persian cat.

Eric had seriously expected to be discharged from the CIA on a Section 8 when he wrote this down in his official report. Instead, he wound up becoming a field operative for M.A.C.H.O.

And, now, the two of us had come to the Bahamas to deal with a homunculist named Juliet Merlinova.

tbc

* * * * *

After Meriwether had signed off, I snuck behind the nearest trash can and went into "dormancy mode." The term that NASA had used for the auto-hypnotic version of sleep we (the other astronaut-candidates and I) would endure, as part of our training for Project: Silenus. And, in that altered state of consciousness I had the strangest dream.

I dreamt I was in a big circus wagon. The kind that doubles as a business office for the Old School traveling shows. And, suddenly, I found myself being lifted into the air! When I stopped, I found myself looking into a mirror. My reflection, there, showed me that I had been bound (from shoulder to ankle, in green ribbon) and gagged (with a yellow sticker). It also showed me being ogled by three of the most beautiful character actresses I had ever seen in the movies.

Valeria Golino, from BIG TOP PEEWEE; Susie Plakson, from BINGO; and Kristina Wayborn, from OCTOPUSSY. Except they were all going by their character names from those movies!

"What do you think, Ginger?" asked the latter (wearing her black sequined ringmistress outfit).

"How cute!" cooed Susie (as Ginger): "You've tied him up the same color as my costume! Thanks, Magda."

Kristina (as Magda) shrugged: "Considering you're the one who's going to be training him, like you do your toy poodles, I thought it only appropriate."

"But, what if-ah he proves stubborn?" inquired Valeria (wearing a strapless, silver lame' leotard).

Magda shrugged: "Then, we'll just put him down your cleavage, Gina! That way, you can use him as a living pencil test. To see if he stays in there while you're fifty feet off the ground, rehearsing triple somersaults."

Naturally, I went frantic when I heard this. Shaking my head, and squirming like a worm on a fish hook, while shouting "mmmph-mmmph-mmmph" in denial.

They all laughed, as Magda put me down on her office desk. Propping me up against the base of a lamp. While all three leaned down a little further, to show off the low-cut necklines of their costumes.

"Be our little circus slave, and we'll untie you," they chanted in unison: "We'll even let you ride in our cleavages for free! Please, say you'll do that. Please-please-please-please-PLEEEEEEEEEEEEEASE?"

I struggled for all I was worth. Shaking my head, vehemently, and trying to break free of my bonds like I was Superman, no longer having to pretend to be Clark Kent.

"Please, Major Minor. WAKE UP!!!!!"

I snapped out of the trance, and looked around me. Initially amnesiac as to where I was. Then, it came flooding back to me. So, I looked at my wristwatch. One of many shrunken, via Solution 62, and awarded to graduates of "Kleinmann University."

It was nine o'clock in the morning. I had been asleep for nearly twelve hours! Yet, like most dreamers, I felt like I had only just closed my eyes, ten seconds earlier. Then, I remembered the "voice" that had awakened me. So, very cautiously, I re-entered "communication mode."

"Maj. Minor 2 Marco Polo," I cyber-telepathically broadcast: "Maj. Minor 2 Marco Polo. Do U copy? Over?"

A minute later, I finally got a reply.

"Trophy Girl 2 Major Minor. About time, dude! We've been texting U all night. Where R U?"

I e-mailed directions to the Miscellaneous Props Room, and the nearby trash can. Then, I asked if she or Marco Polo had found Gladys, yet.

"Negative," she replied: "MP and I R pretending 2 be newlyweds. So, we've got the top floor penthouse. MP went down 2 the 14th floor, pretending 2 be lost while going 2 get a bottle of champagne 4 our wedding night. But, the Gulliver Suite had a pair of guards out front. And, judging by their stance, he thinks their ex-Spetsnaz. No way 2 subdue them w/o losing element of surprise."

"Fine," I countered: "Then, just collect me, and we can have a council of war in the penthouse."

"Will do. Trophy Girl; over and out."

No sooner had I signed off and re-awakened, however, than trouble started looking for me, once again. Because, at that precise moment, a bevy of chorus girls-- in black leotards and tap shoes--started walking by the trash can. Evidently headed for the stage for rehearsal. And, one of them chose that particular second to deviate from her course.

In order to throw some chewing gum into the trash can!

tbc

CALIFORNIA INSTITUTE OF TECHNOLOGY,
BIOPHYSICS BUILDING,
MAY 20, 2009 (12:05 P.M./PST)

NED FOGARTY'S P.O.V.

* * * * *

"I will not ask a second time," Melissa growled: "Let her go, or I drop you. With a bullet right between the eyes."

The ninja in white squinted at my normie-bodyguard. And, he must have seen it, in her own eyes, that she meant it. So, he lifted both hands above his head.

"Get over here, doctor. Now!"

Dr. Hana Nozama did not need to be told twice. We had come here to question her because M.A.C.H.O. had suspected her of being a serial homunculist. Now, we were trying to save her life. Emphasis on "trying."

Because as soon as she was half-way to Mel's side, the ninja in white suddenly bent down on one knee...and lassoed Nozama's right ankle with the metallic ball-weighted end of a kusarigama! He then spun counter-clockwise one hundred and eighty degrees, so he could throw the sickle-weighted end with his left hand!!

The snub-nose Terminator revolver went flying from Mel's hands faster than I could've said "Oh, shit."

But, Mel wasn't my bodyguard for nothing. She was an ex-DEA agent who had been born and raised at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, long before training with Watanabe-sensei. So, without even pausing to blink, she whipped out her collapsible jutte and somesaulted towards that ninja with a "ki-ai" shout that was practically deafening to a shrinkie like me!

Her objective, you see, was to either knock him to the floor by striking him in the Achilles' tendon of his right foot. Or, make him dodge the blow by jumping upwards. And, then, catch him in the groin, with an upward-sweeping return strike, when he came back down!

This guy was good, though. Because, while he did jump upwards, he also leaped over her!!

Of course, to Mel's credit, she did spin around (while simultaneously springing back to her feet), to meet his counter-attack, faster than it takes to describe it. Yet, as fast as she was, this guy was faster. As, before I could even attempt to yell "Watch out!," he had entangled her jutte in the chain of his kusarigama. Following which, he used the blunt side of the sickle's handle to club her across the forehead.

She fell to the floor like a wet sack of manure.

The surprises didn't there, however. After making sure Mel wasn't playing 'possum, the ninja in white calmly-yet-quickly strode over to Nozama (whose fall to the floor, face-first, had knocked the wind out of her). He then flipped her over on to her back; clutched her throat in a right-handed grip; and shrank her!!!

A few seconds later, he had done the same thing to Mel, herself. I'm serious! Both women were now my size. Allowing this character to put them in a silken-white pouch as easily as I might have deposited a couple of my old childhood marbles in there.

He then shrank down to about an inch in height...just before the student receptionist in the outer office came barging in with two campus security guards.

They didn't find the ninja, or the two women, or me. Although, in my case, it's because I had taken the precaution of hiding inside Mel's purse. Which she had instinctively dropped to the floor, after drawing her revolver, with the lid still unfastened!

And, while I might not have a cyber-telepathy chip in my head, like Miles Stone, I do know how to press the buttons on a giant cellphone to call M.A.C.H.O. for back-up.

tbc

* * * * *

MELISSA BELMONDO'S P.O.V.

I don't know how long I was out cold. But, I awoke with a splitting headache. One far worse than the hang-over I had gotten the morning after my 21st birthday party at Gitmo (when I had tried to drink my Dad's whole platoon under the table)!

Nor was the pain in any way lessened by the periodic shaking my body was experiencing.

"What...the frig...is going...on?" I somehow managed to ask aloud.

"We've...been...shrunk."

The female voice that spoke to me in reply had come from my right. So, I carefully looked in that direction. Rubbing my eyes with my left hand, and blinking rapidly a few times. When she finally came into focus, I instantly recognized Dr. Hana Nozama. Which, in turn, brought all the rest of my memories flooding back.

"That crazy ninja was after you. He even called you a traitor! So, I repeat my first question, doctor. What the frig is going on????!"

She told me everything.* About her top-secret research for NASA. About the re-enlargement failures. About her occasional "favors" for the Yakuza. And, most unexpectedly, of all?

About the love she had developed for Joshua Buckler.

"It wasn't easy. But, somehow, I remained calm and collected in front of those smug bastards who hired me. Calm enough to convince them I had shrunken Josh...and then flushed him down my apartment toilet! That's when I promised myself I'd do the same thing to each and every one of them."

One by one, she kept her word. Each one, turning out to be a big name sportscaster who'd been jealous of Buckler's innovative sports format at Jericho Cablevision.

"It was their self-proclaimed spokesman who gave me Okada's name. Evidently, _he_ had approached _them_ with the idea of making Josh 'disappear.' He just wanted an expendable front, to hide behind, in case of...unexpected repercussions. So, I decided to fight fire with fire."

She knew that Okada's Uncle Hideki did a lot of business with the Vladivostok branch of the Russian Mob. Therefore, she made a deal with the St. Petersburg branch headed by Igor Getzov! She would pretend to develop the hots for Okada Takeo. And, in the process, she would lure him to the Hotel Lilliput...for shrinkage by Getzov's Bahamian associates.

"That, in turn, would leave me free to bury myself in my original line of work. And, thereby, hopefully forget Josh."

"You should've known better than that," I replied: "The Yakuza are practically _addicted_ to honor (as they define it). And, anybody who smears it is on their shit list for life!"

She nodded, dejectedly, before adding: "I assume this means he'll probably torture us for information?"

I couldn't help being sarcastic in my response.

"I'd say that's a pretty safe assumption, yeah!"

* * * * *

HOTEL LILLIPUT, THE BAHAMAS,
MAY 20, 2009 (3:10 P.M./EST)
MILES STONE'S P.O.V.

I froze in place. Doing my best not to attract the attention of the chorus girl who was slowing approaching the trash can. Unfortunately, her aim did not match her looks. Because, the wad of chewing gum she tried to spit into its depths missed the lid, completely!

As a matter of fact, it over-shot the lid...and landed on me.

"ARRRRRRRRRRRRGH!" I exclaimed, as I suddenly found myself enveloped by a saliva-drenched cousin of the Blob.

Of course, I realized later that I should have tried to remain calm. Because trying to extricate myself from that wad, by thrashing around, only got me more entangled within its folds. Sort of like panicking in quicksand, I guess. Anyway, all I really succeeded in doing was attracting that chorus girl's attention. Because, the next thing I knew, I heard a female voice squealing (in half-fear/half-disgust):

"EEEEEEEEEEWWWWWWWW! There's a bug in my wad!"

tbc

* * * * *

GLADYS CRABTREE'S P.O.V.

I don't know what happened right after Okada Takeo and I got stuffed down that Russian bee-yotch's cleavage. Partly, because we were wrapped up like mummies in those friggin' handkerchiefs. And, partly, because her tits were so close together the body heat made me pass out!

The next thing I knew, it was daylight. And, that over-endowed redhead is wakin' me up with a cold shower. . .in her bathroom sink.

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

She laughed at how high-pitched my scream sounded to her giant-sized ears.

"It sounds like you have been snorting helium!"

I would have told her what I thought of her if my teeth hadn't been chatterin' like castanets from the cold. But, she must have seen that for herself. Because, she took me out of the sink and dried me off with a washcloth. Then, to cover up my nudity, below the waist, she gave me a red handkerchief to wear like a maxi-skirt. My upper torso, she forced me to keep naked. Especially, my breasts! Because, when I tried to cover them for lack of any bra, she shoved an unsharpened pencil across the small of my back, and under both my armpits. Securin' it in place with some tightly-wound elastic bands.

The humiliation didn't end there, though. Because, the next thing I knew? She was attachin' some near-invisible wires to that pencil, while attachin' the other ends to some cross-shaped pieces of wood. Then, she took out an old audiotape cassette, and put it inside an even older Panasonic cassette player!

She pressed the "play" button. . .and out came the openin' bars of Michael Jackson's "Thriller."

"Oh, God!" I muttered: "Please, tell me she ain't thinkin' what I think she's thinkin'."

That's _exactly_ what she was thinkin', though. Because, thirty seconds later, she was havin' me dance the marionette version of the Zombie Shuffle!

"You know, it's Thrillerrrrrrr! Thriller Night."

* * * * *

CAL-TECH (OFFICE OF HANA NOZAMA)
MAY 20, 2009 (12:20 P.M./PST)

NED FOGARTY'S P.O.V.

I gave Myron Meriwether a terse summary of what had happened. I then asked him what I should do when the local cops came to collect the evidence.

"Stay hidden, unless and until they find you," he replied: "Then, give them a slightly edited version of the truth. How you'll do that, specifically, I'll leave to your imagination. Your past articles for the L.A. PICAYUNE are certainly proof you have one!"

"Thanks...I think."

"When they call this number to verify your story," he continued (ignoring my sarcastic gratitude): "...we'll take over from there."

Less than five minutes after he hang up, I felt the purse being lifted up. Which naturally made all its contents suddenly lurch forward. Me, included!

This was followed by a massive swaying back and forth of the purse by whoever was now carrying it. Fortunately for my stomach, the swaying soon stopped. It was followed by the sound of two car doors being opened and closed...and the purse being jounced as it was put on the floor of somebody's front seat.

About twenty minutes later, the purse resumed lifting and swaying. Only to stop when it was deposited, left side down, atop some hard surface in what sounded like a crowded room. Then, it was lifted one last time...diagonally. So, that all its contents came spilling out. Including me!

And, that's how I got officially reacquainted with Lori Dillinger and Frankie Fernandez of the L.A.P.D.

tbc

* * * * *

HOTEL LILLIPUT, THE BAHAMAS
MAY 20, 2009 (3:12 P.M./EST)
MILES STONE'S P.O.V.

Suddenly, my surroundings got slightly darker. And, I knew right away what the source of it was: the shadow of a shoe about to descend on me.

Thank God for all that re-orientation training at "Kleinmann University!"

Despite the encumbrance of the bubblegum wad on my upper torso, my legs were still free enough that I could lunge to my right and avoid being stepped on. At least, on the first try. Unfortunately, I had difficulty using my momentum to spring back up from the ensuing somersault. Because, the gum caused me to lose a fraction of it.

On the plus side, I also got a good portion of that stuff (quite literaally) off my back. But, I had still been slowed down enough that I was vulnerable to a second attempt. And, what's worse?

Now, the other chorus girls were joining in!

I counted nine of them. All of them wearing black leotards with no tights, and only one sleeve. Four long-haired blondes (one with brown eyes, and three blue-eyed triplets); two brunettes (a petite one with long hair, and a tall one with a shoulder-length Goth cut); a long-haired redhead with blue eyes; a Bahamian girl with a top-knotted pageboy cut (the same shade of light brown as her complexion); and a pony-tailed African-American girl.

It was the last one who had started the impromptu flamenco dance. And, she was the one most determined to end it by ending me!

It was the redhead who finally noticed something.

"Hey, guys! Wait a minute. Look!!"

She went over to where I had come out of the somersault, and picked up a piece of red fabric from my cover-alls.

"That's no bug. It's one of the hotel animatrons!"

"Are you sure of that, Rhonda?"

"See for yourself, Myrna. Since when do bugs wear polyester?"

My pony-tailed persecutor did just that. I tried to use the opportunity to escape. I was still surrounded by the other seven, however. So, when Myrna nodded in confirmation of Rhonda's discovery, my doom was apparently sealed. Because, gone was the collective look of revulsion that had been on their faces.

It had been replaced by expressions of carnal interest.

And, before I could make one last desperate bid for escape, the brown-eyed blonde squatted down, and then sprang back up. With me, snatched up in a two-handed iron grip in between. The next thing I knew? She ahd handed me off to Myrna, who then stuffed me inside the upper half of Rhonda's leotard. After which, I heard the muffled voice of the hotel choreographer ordering the girls to get on stage "toot-sweet."

Five minutes later, I found myself enduring an earthquake to the tune of Beyonce's "All the Single Ladies."

* * * * *

NAOMI WATANABE'S P.O.V.

Eric and I had arrived too late to recover Captain Stone, as we'd been delayed by a stage hand with the soul of an extortionist. He wouldn't let us backstage, to get vidphone pictures of Juliet Merlinova's dressing room (our public excuse, if caught), until we had bribed him with a travelers' check for five thousand dollars!

"Now, what'll we do?" after we had lived up to our proffered excuse.

"You wait in here," Eric instructed: "Keep the door open a crack so you can see when those girls get through with rehearsal. In the meantime, I'll go back up to our room and get the microndos ready."

I nodded. The two of us had hoped we wouldn't have to deploy those guys. Their regular duties being hazardous enough, already! Yet, circumstances had left us little choice. So, Eric slipped out of Merlinova's dressing room. And, I turned off the light so nobody would notice a brightly lit slit in the hinged portion of the doorjamb.

tbc

* * * * *

LORI DILLINGER'S P.O.V.

I looked at my wristwatch, for what felt like the millionth time, then looked at my partner's digital desk clock for comparison. And, I finally had to admit it:

"Our witness is now more than two hours late. Which makes her an official no-show! Let's go, Paco."

"Material witness bust?" he asked, standing up and putting his sport jacket back on.

I nodded. Just as I had finished donning my blazer, however, my desk phone rang.

"Dillinger," I said, identifying myself.

I listened for a minute. And, I noticed Paco's eyebrows arching in imitation of my own.

"We'll be right over!"

"Change in plans?" Paco asked, as we ran to our assigned car.

"That was the L.A. County Sheriff. There's been some kind of disturbance over at Cal-Tech. And, now, two women are missing. One of them, our tardy witness!"

Fifteen minutes later, we showed our badges to one of the deputy sheriffs guarding the crime scene.

"What do you have for us?"

"Not much, so far," he admitted: "Mostly ear witness accounts of shouting; furniture smashing; and what might or might not have been a gunshot. Reports of the latter are contradictory, at best. All we do know, for certain, is that the two women who were in this office are gone. And, the receptionist swears neither one of them exited past him!"

"Was one of those women Caucasian. With auburn hair and green eyes?"

The deputy sheriff checked his little black notebook.

"Yep! The other woman works here; a biophysicist named Hana Nozama."

"Mind if we take her visitor's personal effects with us? Or, are your crime-scene guys still processing?"

"No, they're through. So, you've been cleared."

"Thanks."

As it turns out, there wasn't much to bring back to Parker Place where Melissa Belmondo was concerned. Just her Cal-Tech visitor's badge; her purse; and--most interesting of all--a .44 magnum Terminator snubnose revolver. All three of which Paco put in separate transparent plastic bags.

When we got back to our desks at HQ, Paco had a unie* take the gun to ballistics to see if it had been fired. Meanwhile, I emptied out the contents of Ms. Belmondo's purse. And, at first glance, every single item appeared to be the same kind of stuff every other woman (me, included) carries around in her purse. At second glance, I found one thing unusual; a four inch-tall male action figure wearing red cover-alls.

"Heh!" I couldn't help muttering out loud, to myself: "I would've thought this gal a little too old for playing with dolls."

"Hey! I resemble that remark."

To this day, I don't know which of was more stunned when that little guy sat up, and started imitating Curly Howard of the Three Stooges. But, I do know that I was the one who recovered first! Whereupon, I grabbed up this doll man in my right hand, and ran for the nearest single-toilet women's room. Paco was right behind me. And, when we got to one that fit the bill, I ordered him to stand guard outside it.

"OK!" I declared (after putting him down on the sink): "I admit I'm a little freaked out. But, I know I'm not hallucinating. Because, my partner saw you sit up and speak, as well! So, what are you? Some kind of mini-android that missing doctor invented? Is that why she and my material witness are missing?"

"Whoa-whoa-whoa! Slow down, there, Detective Sgt. Dillinger. First, let me introduce myself. My name is Ned Fogarty. And, I work for a top-secret government agency that specializes in fighting a new kind of terrorism. Bio-miniaturization! English translation? Plain old shrinking. And, I'm one of the human guinea pigs who went to work for that agency after being rescued by them."

I shook my head, still not quite able to believe it. And, I said as much! To which this Ned Fogarty replied:

"If you want confirmation, why not use your cellphone to call the number I'm about to give you. The operator who answers will identify the business address as 'American Fidelity Insurance.' Naturally, that's just the cover. When she asks you who you want to speak to, you reply: 'Thomas Thumbkin, Esq.' "

I followed his instructions to the letter. Though, very nervously. Even so, what the little guy predicted would happen...did happen.

"Hello?" said a baritone voice into my left ear.

"This is Sergeant Lori Dillinger; LAPD (Robbery/Homicide). Who am I speaking to, please?"

"Myron Meriwether; Director of Operations for M.A.C.H.O. And, Mr. Fogarty works for me, sergeant."

tbc

* * * * *

CHET NORTHFIELD'S P.O.V.

I had initially been looking for homing pigeons.

You see, over the years, I had gradually learned that those were the preferred choice of aerial transport for the rank-and-file genin of the Heikegani-ryu. Yet, I had also learned that some of their more elite chunin often rode specially-trained birds of prey (including barn owls, honey buzzards, and even New Zealand keas*). Consequently, I had learned to include various copies of Peterson ornithology guides with me whenever I staked out potential Heikegani-ryu targets.

That, in turn, was why I was only half-surprised to see a Eurasian kestrel (subspecies Falco t. interstictus) hovering above Cal-Tech's Biophysics Building, in the back-and-forth manner that had earned these particular birds the unflattering nickname "wind-friggers!"

I must have watched it through my binoculars for, at least, fifteen minutes before I saw another exotic specimen leave the roof of that same building. This one, a gray hawk-owl (Sumia ulula), normally found much farther north. And, when the kestrel finally broke off its hovering, to follow the much larger bird, I knew I'd been right!!

Now, for anybody else, how to follow them would be a problem. You see, I'm not a "shrink-and-grow" ninja like the Heikegani-ryu. Instead, I'd been trained in eguzairu-do ninjitsu which (according to family legend) was partially based on the philosophies and teachings of Nichiren, himself. And, like the Boy Scouts of America, practitioners of this ninja art were trained to be well-prepared.

"You ready, Clairice?" I asked, as I opened the door to the bird cage previously positioned on the backseat of my VW Thing.

"Ready! Ready!" she repeated.

"Then, go get 'em, sweetheart!"

And, I released the half-starling mynah bird into the air. She was accompanied by Tai, the Western kingbird that I had hand-reared alongside her, so that he would always feel protective of her. Sort of my own personal variation of the foster parenting techniques used by cuckoos and cowbirds.

I then activated the micro-electronic transceiver imbedded inside Clairice's leg band before turning the ignition key and driving off.

Keeping track of the signal from the ground was the real challenge, what with L.A.'s justifiably notorious traffic and all! But, ultimately, I followed the signal to a Motel Six located on the outskirts of Venice Beach. And, it's only after I found a parking space a block up from the motel that Clairice and Tai came back to me.

"What room are they in, sweetheart?"

"658!" she chanted: "658!"

"Good girl! An extra cricket for each of you, tonight."

I put the two of them back in their cage, before locking the car up (with the windows rolled down just enough to let in some air) and, then, sauntering up to the motel's lobby, as casually as possible.

"Hi," I said to the clerk behind the registration desk: "I'd like to leave a message for the party in Room 658. Do you have any note paper?"

"Certainly, sir!"

He handed me a blank piece of paper, and I took out my ball-point pen. I then wrote a message in Japanese ideograms which only someone who'd spent considerable time in that part of the world would be able to translate. When I was done, I handed the note back to the clerk.

"Thank you, again."

"Not all, sir."

Translated into English, the message I had left was simply this:

"I know who you are, and what you are planning. I will not permit it. Leave L.A. by sundown, tonight, or by tomorrow, dawn, you will be dead."

I had then signed it "Bonin-san." Which roughly translates as "Mr. Nobody!"

tbc

* * * * *

MILES STONE'S P.O.V.

"OK, ladies!" ordered an effeminate voice: "One more time from the top."

"AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!" came the collective response.

I sympathized with them. But, not out of any concern for the tired tootsies of these colossal chorines. It was more out of dread for what was coming next. And, which I was increasingly finding it difficult to tolerate!

"If you like it, then you shoulda put a ring on it.
If you like it, then you shoulda put ring on it.
Don't be mad when someone else likes seein' it.
Whoa-oh-oh! Whoa-oh-oh-oh-oh! Whoa-oh-oh!
Whoa-oh-oh-oh!"

Imagine you're "Indiana" Jones, trapped in one of those rooms where the walls close in from both sides. Now, imagine that same room beginning to move back and forth, then up and down, and side to side. Sort of like a giant brandy-shaker. Well, that's what I felt like, stuck inside the cleavage of a redheaded chorus girl named Rhonda.

Talk about "booby traps!"

Never in all my astronaut training had I had a wilder ride. Frig!! Even the experimental space flight that had caused me to shrink in the first place had been like a carousel ride compared to this!!!

Finally, however, the choreographer was satisfied with the dress rehearsal and allowed Rhonda and her fellow chorus girls to return to their dressing room. Something that I regarded as a mixed blessing. You see, I had used my cyber-telepathy chip to tap into the public address system of the theater where these girls had been rehearsing. And, by that means, I eavesdropped on their conversations during a prior rest break.

It seems they thought I was one of the "mini-animatrons" this hotel was so famous for. More specifically, one that had somehow escaped from the "Miscellaneous Props" room, backstage. And, as "those things" were supposed to be for the private use of the high-paying guests, only,...well, let's just say the temptation proved too great for them to resist.

They were not going to turn me over to the Lost-And-Found Desk, until the next morning.

* * * * *

ERIC BRAVO'S P.O.V.

As I re-entered the Honeymoon Suite, I made sure to put wooden blocks under both doors after locking them. I then disconnected all the phones installed by the hotel. Because, what I was about to do called for complete privacy.

I opened my "wife's" toiletry case, and looked at the guys hibernating in yoga lotus positions. Whereupon, I formed a ring with my right thumb and index finger before doing a falsetto imitation of a bugler blowing "Reveille!"

While it was the oddest post-hypnotic suggestion I had ever heard of, there was no denying it was effective. The "microndos" woke up and stretched. Then their commanding non-commissioned officer happened to look up and spot me.

"Ten-hut!"

He and his fellow microndos snapped to attention.

"At ease, guys. Time to go to work."

"Sir! Yes, sir!" they chorused.

The microndos (short for "micro-reconnaisance commandos") were battle-hardened veterans with years of ultra-covert operations experience behind them. And, all of this, _prior_ to being _voluntarily_ shrunken by Solution 62!

You see, originally, M.A.C.H.O. had used such shrunken men to infiltrate the homes of suspected serial homunculists, and implant them with subcutaneous tracking darts. But, after Nine-Eleven, they were used in a much more extensive anti-terrorist role.

This particular microndo team--nicknamed the "Scorpionflies" because of their shrunken jet packs and nine millimeter Skorpion machine pistols (used to fend off spiders and such)--was now about to be deployed against the current occupant of the Gulliver Suite.

Ms. Juliet Merlinova: the giantess holding Gladys Crabtree hostage.

tbc

* * * * *

The Scorpionflies suited up. Five minutes later, the NCOIC (Sergeant Major Duntz) reported they were ready. So, I brought the "toiletry case" over to the window overlooking the roof of the Gulliver Suite.

"There's the target, gentlemen," I said: "Any further questions?"

"Sir!" they chorused: "No, sir!"

"Alright, then. I've got my earwig unit on.* When you're ready to enter in force, let me know. And, I'll take out her bodyguards."

"Affirmative," the sergeant major replied.

At which point, I emptied the case. Seconds later, the entire team of microndos was spiraling downward like one of those "heliccpter seeds" that litter the driveways of New England, every fall. The only difference between that and the Scorpionflies being the sound of their jetpacks (which grew less audible, to me, after the first five feet of descent).

Ten minutes after that, I was standing behind the stairwell door just to the right of the Gulliver Suite's main entrance. That is; to the guards' right. Because, Merlinova's minions were once again flanking that entrance (assuming they had ever gone off-duty, at all).

"Scorpionfly Alpha to Marco Polo. Scorpionfly Alpha to Marco Polo," Sgt. Major Duntz finally transmitted: "We are in position. Will blow hole in target window with shrunken shape charge in T minus one minute. Tap twice if message received; over."

So, I lifted my right index finger and tapped the earwig. After that, I opened up the stairwell door all the way, and staggered towards the two burly ex-Spetsnaz commandos.

"Snookums!" I called (in my best slurred speech): "Oh, Snookums! Daddy's back with some more cham-pag-nee."

I deliberately mispronounced it to rhyme with "Cagney" (the way Bugs Bunny might have), while raising the left hand holding it straight up in the air.

"Hey, Snookums! Open up...in the name of (hic!) love."

The Russian to my left looked at his comrade and muttered (not knowing I could translate him):

"This mother-frigger is drunk."

So, I replied to him (in equally fluent Russian):

"I resemble that remark."

It worked. He was so momentarily taken aback, I was able to bring the bottle straight down on his head. I then broke his nose with a right-handed palm heel strike, before lunging (with a counter-clockwise spin) to my right. In the process, I used the jagged edge of the bottle to slice the other guard's carotid artery before he had even finished drawing his gun!!

As a result, both hands instinctively flew up to his throat, leaving his groin vulnerable to a left-footed snap kick. Which, in turn, doubled him over enough that I broke _his_ nose with my left knee!

All of that in less time than it takes to tell.

Furthermore, by the time I had accomplished all that, the Scorpionflies had infiltrated the Gulliver Suite from outside. Consequently, there was a momentary scream, followed by some Slavic swearing. And, when I kicked open the right-hand door of the main entrance, I found Juliet Merlinova alternately ducking, and attempting to swat, the Scorpionflies as they buzzed around her head.

I used this to my advantage. Pulling a fountain pen, from the left lapel pocket of my white shirt, and then racing forward to squirt its contents (a mixture of mace and chloral hydrate) straight into her face!

She fell to the carpeted floor like the proverbial wet sack of manure. When I made sure she wasn't playing 'possum, I asked the sergeant major (via earwig) if he had located Gladys Crabtree, yet. He replied that she was in the master bedroom of the suite. So, that's where I ran next. Sure enough; she was laying on the bedspread.

Dressed like one of those topless West African women I used to read about in NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC.

"Gladys? You all right? I'm Marco Polo. Major Minor sent me."

She recognized Miles Stone's code-name, instantly. She then feebly smiled and nodded. Whereupon, I took off my white shirt, and told her to climb aboard. I radioed the Scorpionflies to join her. Then, I carefully folded up the shirt into the semblance of a laundry bag, before doubling back to the main entrance and dragging the dead Russians inside. After that, I put out a "Do Not Disturb" sign, locked those double doors behind me, and then exited through the alternate entrance to the Gulliver Suite.

[Don't worry; I wasn't barechested. I had made sure to put on a T-shirt, beneath the long-sleeved white shirt. One bearing a likeness of Jimmy Buffet holding a hyacinth macaw on his right wrist. And, with a caption just beneath that likeness reading: "Parrot Heads Rule!"]

By the time, I had returned to the Honeymoon Suite, police cars were beginning to arrive at the hotel. Which meant that somebody must have come across those dead Russians, despite my initial precautions. Perhaps one of those cleaning ladies who pretend they can't read English, when it comes to "Do Not Disturb" signs!

Anyway, Sergeant Major Duntz gave Gladys one of his spare camo-fatigue outfits, so she could feel less self-conscious about her nudity. Meanwhile, I tried to raise Naomi on my earwig, to update her on the status of my part of our mission. Yet, all I got was static.

Needless to say, that did not bode well.

tbc

* * * * *
ROOM 658, MOTEL SIX
VENICE BEACH, CALIF.
MAY 20, 2009
(1:30 P.M./PST)


MELISSA BELMONDO'S P.O.V.

The shaking and swaying had finally stopped. Which meant that our captor had finally reached his destination.
Sure enough; the bag we were in swayed only once more. This time, in accompaniment with the opening and closing of a door. After that, we were placed on some kind of smooth, cold surface while the bag collapsed on top of us like a hot air balloon with all the air sucked out of it.

Then, the bag opened up and a humongous left hand reached in. Grabbing up Hana Nozama, first; followed by yours truly.

It wasn't until that moment that I got a good look at his face. He was obviously Oriental. But, definitely _not_ Japanese, despite his evident fluency in the language. I mentally guessed either North or South Korean. In his early sixties, at least. Yet, definitely _not_ someone to be underestimated in hand-to-hand combat!

After memorizing his facial features, I looked at our surroundings. And, I immediately got goose bumps. Because Nozama and I were standing on a bathroom sink...just above a toilet bowl with the seat up!

He grinned as he saw that realization hit both of us. He then held up what I would have once described as a "small" metallic object in his right hand.

"Recognize this?" he asked Nozama: "You should, muhon-nin. It is a chrome toenail clipper. And, I am going to use it on you! I am going to ask, again, where Okada Takeo is. If you refuse to answer? I clip off the little toe of your left foot! And, if at the end of---ten toes---I still do not have a satisfactory answer from you? I will flush you down this toilet and begin to question your 'leetle friend.' "

He uttered those last two words in an unsuccessful attempt to sound like Al Pacino from SCARFACE. But, I could tell he wasn't kidding...and so could Nozama. Because, she immediately bolted in panic. Aiming to kill herself instantly by a swan dive to the bathroom floor!

But, even as she leaped off the counter top, the Korean's left hand intercepted her with very little effort.

"A brave attempt, little one. You will not deny me satisfaction, however."

Whereupon, he held her upside down, by her ankles, as he deftly used the toenail clipper to remove each of her shrunken shoes. Then, he raised her up a little higher (although, still upside-down).

"What have you done with Okada Takeo?"

"I shrank him!" she yelled up to him, defiantly: "Alright? I shrank the arrogant little bastard to an even smaller size. And, then, I sold him to a hotel in the Bahamas."

"Which hotel?" the Korean demanded.

"The Hotel Lilliput on Paraside Island. It's a money-laundering front for the Castelluci family in Miami. And, shrinkies like Takeo-ko fetch big money, there.* As living dildos!"

The Korean glowered when he heard this. Yet, he also half-smiled...with grudging admiration.

"For someone in your current situation, you have courage worthy of a samurai, addressing me so."

"You're going to kill me when you're done interrogating me, anyway," Nozama retorted: "And, then, you'll kill her because she's a witness! So, why give you the satisfaction of prolonging our agony by being tight-lipped?"

"Because I need you alive!" exclaimed a new (and decidely female) voice: "To help me identify Okada-san's new 'owner.' "

My head whipped around to my right, and the Korean's to his left, as the owner of that voice literally rose into view.

"Konichiwa, Sofu-san?"

tbc

* * * * *

PARK KIM JUNG'S P.O.V.

I could not believe my eyes.

"So-yeung?" I softly half-whispered.

"Iei, Sofu-san! I am now Junyo-chen of the Heikegani-ryu. And, you will address me as such!"

"What do you here, child?" I asked, ignoring her disrespectful demand.

"You heard me. I need the little muhon-nin alive. So give her to me. At once!"

"But, why? I am already on the same mission, on behalf of the Okada Clan."

"Perhaps. But, my current employers wish to _ransom_ him back to Okada-sama! Which puts us at cross-purposes. So, for the last time, Sofu-san. Stand aside...or I will kill you and take her, anyway."

"Then, that is what you will have to do."

Whereupon, she did withdraw a pair of sais from beneath her cloak; aim their central prongs at me; and press a hidden stud on each sai's handle.* Causing those prongs to fire at me!

If not for my immediate shrinkage, below their trajectory, I would have been skewered through the throat by them. As it was, they did nothing more but lodge themselves within the pink tile wall behind me. Leaving me free to re-enlarge myself to full height, even as I lunged forward and tackled my long-estranged granddaughter around the waist.

The momentum of that lunge took us straight through the wood of the bathroom door with a resounding crash. Yet, even as she landed flat on her back, she was re-positioning both of her legs, and thrusting upwards, so that both of her feet rammed into my chest. Flipping me up and over her!

By the time I had somersaulted back on to my own feet, and spun about, she had divested herself of her hooded cloak. So that she might face me unencumbered...and armed with a brace of ssang-tos. This, in turn, left me no choice but to unsheath my white-handled nagamaki (accordingly strapped across my back). For, only by going through her, would I regain my shrunken captives.

"KIAAAAAAAAAAAAAAI!"

* * * * *

PARADISE ISLAND,
THE BAHAMAS
(1 HOUR EARLIER)

NAOMI WATANABE'S P.O.V.

I had been in Juliet Merlinova's dressing room, peeking out through her fractionally opened door, when I saw the chorus girls returning from dress rehearsal. I saw two of them (addressed, by the others, as "Myrna" and "Rhonda") making baby noises over something Rhonda was carrying in her cupped hands. And, I had no doubts as to who that might be.

Captain Miles Stone, USAF ("retired").

I had told my partner, Eric Bravo, that I would get the little guy back. And, I intended to do just that. But, I would need a disguise! So, I hurriedly began rummaging through Merlinova's wardrobe. Within five minutes, I was wearing an orange mini-dress with balletic tutu and a gold sash; black, open-toed high heels; a pony-tailed blonde wig; and a domino mask. I then exited the dressing room as casually as I could, and headed for the chorus girls' dressing room next door.

Unfortunately, when I tried to gently turn the knob and sneak inside, I found it locked. So, I carefully reached down within the neckline of my disguise...and removed my lock-picking kit. By the time I got inside, I knew I would have to act fast. Because Little Miles had been stripped naked.

And, while one chorus girl was dangling him by his arms, another was tickling his feet!

tbc

* * * * *

MILES STONE'S P.O.V.

Rhonda, the red-headed giantess, dangled me by my wrists. While Myrna (the light-skinned African-American girl) tickled my feet! The gyrations this subsequently put me through made the seven other chorus girls present giggle like pre-adolescents.

"Ooooh!" squealed the pony-tailed Bahamian girl: "I wish the Ken doll I'd had, as a little girl, had been as anatomically correct."

"Yeah," agreed Rhonda: "It's no wonder these things are so popular with the rich pervs from the mainland!"

"Well, then," replied Myrna (with a sly grin): "Let's see if he's ticklish anyplace else?"

Whereupon, while supporting my feet in the palm of her left hand, she began tickling me with the index finger of her right. Above and between my feet!


"WHOA! OH! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! OH, NO! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! S-STOP...HAHAHAHAHAHA! STOP THAT! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! PLEASE, N...HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

I guarantee you; I was the only one laughing in that room who was _not_ enjoying my predicament.

* * * * *

NAOMI WATANABE'S P.O.V.

I had seen enough. There was no way the poor little guy was going to survive the night with these bitches. So, I took off my "earwig" transceiver and put in some yellow, foam-rubber earplugs. Then, I got out my egg-shaped flash/bang grenade (don't bother asking from where!); kicked open the door to the chorus girls' dressing room; and then threw the egg up toward the ceiling.

A few heads turned to look at me (hence, my ad hoc disguise), just before the "flash/bang" occurred. Then, they were all on the floor, writhing around, either covering their ears or rubbing their eyes. I used that opportunity to run forward and snatch Little Miles up off the floor. Depositing him down my cleavage...for temporary safe-keeping, of course.

Then, while everybody else in the backstage area was running to the chorus girls' dressing room, I ran back to Juliet Merlinova's dressing room. Calling out once or twice, along the way, for somebody to call a doctor. I then locked Merlinova's door so I could resume wearing my street clothes. Although, I made sure to keep Miles hidden within my cleavage. So nobody would notice his naked little self!

It was only when I had put the earwig back under my right earlobe that my partner, Eric, got through.

"MARCO POLO TO TROPHY GIRL! MARCO POLO TO TROPHY GIRL!"

"AHHHHHH! Not so loud, dude! I read you, loud and clear."

"Where the frig have you been?"

"Well, I ain't been London to see the Queen! I was too busy rescuing Major Minor. How about you?"

"The other two subjects are likewise secure. Meet me at the front entrance to the hotel, ASAP! I've arranged for transport to the docks."

"I'm en route, as we speak. Trophy Girl out!"

Five minutes later, Eric and I were in the back seat of the same taxi cab that had brought Miles and Gladys here, in the first place.

* * * * *

MOTEL SIX, VENICE, CALIF.
(ROUGHLY ONE HOUR LATER)

CHET NORTHFIELD'S P.O.V.

I slowly walked around the motel, pretending I was looking for better cellphone reception. When I got to the rear entrance, near the garbage dumpster, I hurriedly put on my shuko climbing claws...and scurried up the palm tree closest to the roof.

I made the requisite leap across, somersaulted on landing, then got up and put on my jungle-camo ninja togs. And, a good thing, too. Because, I suddenly heard the sounds of fighting from one of the rooms along the sixth floor balcony! And, when I had determined which room it might be, I swung down to the balcony...

...and dove through its shaded window, head-first.

The two chunin who had clearly been fighting each other looked at me in bewilderment.

"Who are you?" demanded the sixty-something male.

"You can call me...Darth Brooks!"

NEXT: NINJA THREE-FOR-ALL

* * * * *

PARK KIM JUNG'S P.O.V.

"You can call me...Darth Brooks."

I knew not who this genin was. But, he was clearly mad. For, he was confronting both myself and my granddaughter brandishing nothing more than a bokken!*

Thus, I opted to put him out of my misery, first.

I swung my nagamaki at him in a clockwise semi-circle and easily cleaved the blade-like portion in two. But, it swiftly became evident that that had been his intention. Because, he hurriedly caught the chopped-off portion of the bokken in his left hand...and blew through it.

It is true! The top half of the bokken was a blowgun!! And, I subsequently wound up with a drug-tipped dart in my right foot. It must have been! Because, my right leg went numb, almost immediately. At the same time, this "mad" genin pressed a hidden stud on the blowgun. Causing a stainless steel billhook to pop outward from its underside, like an Occiental switchblade. Thereby turning the blowgun into a kama!  Whereupon, he used it to dislodge the bamboo covering the wakizashi hidden within the right half of the bokken. And all in less time than it takes to tell.

"You want some of me, too, beeyotch?"

Junyo-chen's reply was immediate and unequivocal.

"KIAIIIIIIIIIIII!"

She charged forward and the genin met her half-way. He used the wakizashi to block the simultaneous downward thrust of her ssang-tos, while trying to disembowel her with his kama. But, she evaded the blow by shrinking down to an inch tall!

I am certain it was only I who saw her somersault between his legs at ankle-height. Otherwise, her re-enlargement behind him would not have taken him by surprise. Although, he must have been expecting it to some degree. For he then pivoted, counter-clockwise, and used the kama to graze her just above the left knee!!

I heard my granddaughter instinctively gasp in pain. But, a second later, she rallied herself...and glared at the genin.

"First blood to you. Yet, it's last blood that wins a fight. KIAAAAAAAAI!"

Her counter-attack was a virtual whirlwind of steel as she quickly put the genin on the defensive. And, this impasse would most likely have been broken only when one of them tired out from the strenuous speed being employed. That is; if the sound of approaching police sirens had not been heard, first.

Junyo-chen re-sheathed her swords.

"We shall meet, again, meddler."

Whereupon, she threw a "flash-bang" egg upon the ground. Disappearing in a quite literal puff of smoke! The genin then looked at me.

"I'm gonna confiscate whoever you took prisoner back at Cal-Tech. Because, you've got enough to worry about, just hauling your own ass out of here."

Unfortunately, he was right. For it proved difficult enough, just for me to stand upright while leaning on my nagamaki.

"What, may I ask...?" I began, pointing to my leg.

I could not see his grin, of course. But, the mirth in his reply was unmistakable.

"Industrial-strength novocaine."

He then rushed into the bathroom, and rushed out again. His wakizashi and kama now sheathed at his belt. And, his right hand (now devoid of the shuko whose twin was still obvious on his left) clenched in a fist. Though, not tightly so.

With no other recourse on my part, I shrank down to one inch tall, and whistled for my hawk owl.

tbc

* * * * *

MELISSA BELMONDO'S P.O.V.

As soon as the ninja calling himself "Darth Brooks" had grabbed us up, Hana Nozama and I found ourselves in darkness for what felt like half an eternity! But, a quick check of my wristwatch (when we could see again) showed me we had only been concealed for little over an hour. By which time, we found ourselves on some kind of office desk top.

With a giant Japanese woman, in her late seventies/early eighties, smiling down at us from a swivel chair.

"Who are your little friends, my nephew?"

I yelled upward to her, identifying myself and Nozama. I then asked who she was. To which "Darth Brooks" replied:

"This is Connie Watanabe (nee Kitahara Tsune), my father's sister. And, the ex-wife of your sensei at M.A.C.H.O.* "

I looked up at him in shock.

"What???"

He nodded: "You heard me, correctly. In fact, I'm now going to contact Uncle Jiro and have him tell your boss where to find you."

I face-palmed myself, like Macaulay Culkin in HOME ALONE, as "Darth Brooks" whipped out a cellphone. When Myron Meriwether heard about this breach in security, I had no doubt he'd go ape-shit!

* * * * *

M.A.C.H.O. HEADQUARTERS,
MYRON MERIWETHER'S OFFICE
(TWENTY MINUTES LATER)

ANJIRO WATANABE'S P.O.V.

The Director of Operations glared at me with undisguised anger after I had filled him in on Chet's rescue of the two shrunken women.

"Jiro? I've kept you on a pretty long leash over the years, because of the way you saved my ass back in '62."

He briefly paused to pound the top of his office desk with his right fist.

"BUT, WHAT THE FRIG WERE YOU THINKING, LEAKING CLASSIFIED INFO TO A REPORTER???!"

"With all due respect, Mr. Meriwether, I've never told my nephew about anything that did not involve the Heikegani-ryu. And, even then, I only relayed the information through my ex-wife. You see, Chet's on a personal crusade against the Heikegani-ryu. He wants to wipe them out, to the last genin, due to the giri--the obligation--he feels he owes Buck Fogarty's family. A feeling I can empathize with!"

Meriwether shook his head in dismay.

"The oversight committee may not be as willing to split those semantic hairs as finely as you do. Breached security is still breached security. No matter what motivates it!"

"Will they take that same position," I replied: "...when you make the usual recruiting pitch to Detective Sergeant Dillinger at the time she hands over Ned Fogarty?"

"That's different, and you know it!"

"Actually, I don't. All the contacts we have, in all the bureaus of missing persons around the country, are still police officers proper rather than undercover Federal agents. So, why should it be regarded as treasonous to have an investigative reporter as a non-Federal affiliate, as well?"

"Even if the committee sees your point," he retorted: "...you should've made that suggestion through the proper channels."

"In this particular case, there was literally no time! Any unreasonable delay could have led to a re-enactment of the Russo-Japanese War on American soil."

There was an awkward pause as he barely stifled a gasp.

"How on Earth...?"

I grinned: "No, I don't have your office bugged. Agent Belmondo simply told my nephew about her original mission briefing. And, then, put that together with what she had heard Park and this Junyo-Chen arguing about. Seeing as how the Yakuza are on relatively good terms with the Vladivostok Apparat, it only made sense that a rival faction--like Igor Getzov's St. Petersburg Apparat--might hire the Heikegani-ryu to upset that arrangement!"

"I see," Meriwether muttered in reply: "Well, hopefully, we've nipped that frightening possibility in the bud."

To Be Concluded

* * * * *

M.A.C.H.O. HQ.
(MAY 25, 2009)

MILES STONE'S P.O.V.

The cabbie dropped off Eric Bravo and Naomi Watanabe at Lyndon Pindling International Airport, New Providence, the Bahamas, where they subsequently boarded a Cessna Caravan amphibian disguised as a pair of Red Cross doctors carrying an organ transplant cooler. If some anal-retentive customs inspector had wanted to verify that fact, he or she would've been allowed to open the lid. Because, all that inspector would have found was a surgically removed heart (that was being electrically kept beating) atop a pile of crushed ice!

In reality, though, it was just an audio-animatronic replica of such a heart. And, the "crushed ice" was merely bubble wrap coated with aerosol snow. You know; like the kind that simulates frosted glass, on department store windows, at Christmas time! Beneath all that bubble wrap was a false compartment. And, within that false compartment (in addition to myself) were the microndos; Gladys Crabtree; and Okada Takeo.


Within an hour, we were back inside headquarters, being separately debriefed.

Twenty-three hours after that, we were rejoined by Ned Fogarty and Melissa Belmondo. Accompanying them were Hana Nozama and Detective Sergeant Lori Dillinger of the LAPD. Being normal-sized, of course, the lovely young sergeant had to spend most of the trip eastward blindfolded. And, just like the rest of us, she was debriefed in a one-on-one interview. So that there could be no comparing of notes before the fact.


Basically, Okada's story confirmed what Nozama had told Mel. She had shrunken the young creep in revenge for what she had been forced to do to the only shrunken man she had ever loved. And, Nozama's story--about "donating" Josh Buckler to a Chinese all-girl high school band in Taiwan--was quickly confirmed, as well. The little guy was living among them as their willing, naked foot-slave!

So, Myron Meriwether acceded to his request...and just left him there.

The rest of Nozama's story was also confirmed when normie agents followed her directions to that old sub-basement, at Cal-Tech, and found the shrinkie town set up within it. The statements obtained from the latter confirm that this bee-yotch has a lot to answer for! And, she knows it. So, she didn't kick up any fuss about being sentenced to life-without-parole in our R&D Division. Trying to help our resident eggheads find a way to safely re-enlarge the poor bastards.

As for Okada? Agent Watanabe and her grandfather have personally taken him to the Japanese embassy in Washington, D.C. I don't know how the rest of his Yakuza clan will react when they get a load of him. But, I wouldn't want to be the Earth Tiger Tong after they do!

You see, it turns out that Mel's hunch was right. The Ghost Spider punks who tried to waste her, in Los Angeles, _were_ part of a pre-arranged precaution that Nozama had set up with their tong bosses, shortly after selling Okada to the management at the Hotel Lilliput. If anybody but cops came asking questions about the little guy? Sayonara, sucker!

Speaking of the Hotel Lilliput; it was raided over Memorial Day weekend by the DEA in concert with the Bahamian Constabulary. It seems the former had received an anonymous tip about a load of heroin that had been smuggled to the hotel, for trans-shipment to Florida, via a large consignment of Japanese electronic toys. They didn't find any China white! But, they found something even more ominous. A bunch of gunmetal-gray oil drums with Cyrillic lettering on the outside of each one.

And, some kind of fluorescent-green fluid inside each one.

At the same time, out west, the DEA and the LVPD raided the hotel-casino owned by Mark Tolliver, Junior, for similar reasons. Unfortunately, their raid would prove less fruitful than the one on Paradise Island.

As for Chet Northfield? He's disappeared...as only a ninja can. My best guess is that he's resumed his personal crusade against the Heikegani-ryu. So, Meriwether will just have to take Watanabe-sensei's word for it that the guy will keep his mouth shut about M.A.C.H.O.'s existence. Even so, Sgt. Dillinger--who did agree to being our newest police contact on the West Coast--has likewise agreed to keep her eyes and ears peeled for Northfield's next appearance.

* * * * *

SOMEWHERE NEAR RACHEL, NEVADA

Dr. Ezra Long had been born Ezio Cristoforo Longobardi in Chicago, Illinois, on October 12, 1930. His father, Dr. Enrico Longobardi (from the Swiss canton of Ticino via Corsica) had been serving as Red Cross liason to the U.S. Public Health Service, and the American Medical Association, since the Spanish flu pandemic of twelve years earlier. While his mother--a Red Cross nurse of French-Canadian parentage (nee Marie-Marguerite Rivois of Woonsocket, Rhode Island)--had spent six of those years serving as the good doctor's interpreter, prior to their marriage in 1925!

With a background like that, it came as no surprise to them that he chose to serve in the Korean War as a U.S. Army medic. Nor did it greatly surprise them when he told them, following his honorable discharge, that he was legally changing his name in order to become a psychiatrist! And, thereby, treat American ex-prisoners of war still suffering the after-effects of North Korean pyschological warfare. What would have shocked them, however, was the truth behind his recruitment, by the CIA, in the fall of 1962.

Namely; helping one Pepe Garcia (a Mexican fighter-pilot during World War II; and a Company operative since the Berlin Airlift) adjust to spending the rest of his life at only FOUR INCHES TALL!!

By the tenth anniversary of the Cuban Missile Crisis, Long had succeeded his original recruiter, Bryce Paxton, as head of Miniscule Operations. It would be another seventeen years before he named his own successor in the form of Myron Meriwether. During the interim, he spent a great deal of time involving himself in the covert operations at the Nevada research facility code-named "Dreamland."

Better known to the rest of the world as Area 51.

A white Learjet landed upon the main runway of this facility, and gradually decelerated. Coming to a complete stop next to an electrically motorized golfcart. Dr. Long, its sole passenger, descended the hatch way steps with great care. Subsequently demonstrating why, as he limped towards the cart, while leaning on his cane of fire-hardened and polished oak as he did so.

The octagenarian gentleman was just as careful in climbing on to the shotgun seat of the cart. Shaking hands with the USAF officer seated behind the steering wheel.

"Nice to see you again, General Consternation."

Lt. General Raphael Considine quickly withdrew his hand from the other's grip.

"You _know_ I hate that nickname, Long!!!"

The older (and balder) man chuckled...like a shamelessly mischievous little boy.

"So sorry. But, it's true what they say. You can take the man out of the psychiatrist's office. But, you can't take away his love for pushing emotional buttons."

"Whatever! Let's get going."

The golfcart promptly made its way down a subterranean ramp. Not stopping until it reached a section with white double doors. Each door bearing what looked like a ship's porthole. And, with the wall above the doorway bearing just one word in impossible-to-miss capital letters.

"QUARANTINE"

Considine helped Long into a haz-mat suit, before donning his own. Only after that did the identically-clad armed guards on the other side of the door let this pair enter.

Almost immediately, they heard a voice within their heads, telepathically demanding a report.

"Joshua Buckler is alive and well, master," replied Long: "He was shrunken, as we thought! As it was by a process other than yours, however, I am uncertain if we should risk retrieving him from his current captors for re-enlargement."

"It matters not," replied Emissary Zudar of the C.U.P. Council: "The plan proceeds as scheduled. And, Supervisor Barton assures us that it will be _implemented_ on schedule. Five Earth-years from today? Mankind, as a race of self-destructive individuals,..."

"...will be no more."

THE END?