Oscar Rat's Secret Missions, Page 2

  ***

  "Get ready, sir," the pilot told me over the intercom. "I'm gonna swing down to 2k meters and pop your hatch. That's your signal to jump ... and good luck, Mr. Rat. I wouldn't want your job."

  "Neither would I," I replied. As the jet tipped upward at full throttle, I felt my whiskers trying to flow from a greatly flattened muzzle to the back of my head. Meanwhile, my teeth seemed to crawl back into my throat as we hit five "g"s. Hours later, the reverse. Going down at a fast rate, I almost floated into his part of the cockpit. As the plane leveled off, I settled toward the floor. With a "crack", I was shot upward, bouncing against the inside of the Plexiglas as it left the aircraft. I didn't have to jump out, the difference in pressure did the job for me.

  The ground rushed toward me. Whenever sore eyes swung back toward the earth, I got a flash of a large white building complex. With a jerk, my parachute snapped open. After that, it was a long lazy trip to a concrete parking lot.

  I tried jerking on those lines leading to the chute part, but didn't have time to figure out just how to go about it. Nobody had taken the trouble of showing me. When I'd asked Dickie to send me to CIA school, he'd declined, saying, "No can do, Oscar. I'm afraid having a rat in class would be too disruptive to the other students."

  So, there I was, on the ground near the Euphrates River and a town named Qaryat Al Gharab -- not knowing a damned thing about the spy business or even how to get the hell back to the United States. When I'd asked Dickie, the idiot told me, "You're a smart rat, Oscar. I'm sure you'll find a way back." On the pro side, he had offered to have a special shotgun made for me, and to teach me how to use it -- after I returned, that is.

  When I landed on concrete, I released the parachute. Rolling it up, I wondered where to hide the thing. The nearest place seemed to be a potted plant in front of a building fifty-yards away. To get there, I'd have to drag that white chute across a dark lot where guards could be stationed anywhere.

  Well, I did strip that flight suit off in record time, feeling my bowels -- formerly clutched in fear -- ready to release. I didn't make it, the legs on the suit filling up with shit before I could get my own furry legs out. Fine. Now I had to drag not only a parachute but also a pile of shit off the lot. I sincerely wished I'd stayed home.

  While working on my courage, and wishing I'd brought a roll of TP, or at least a paper towel to wipe my legs, I turned the flashlight on and swung it in all directions. Someone should have been there to meet me.

  From out of nowhere, a female voice uttered, "Saddam sucks."

  "What was that?" I looked around, seeing nothing close by except concrete.

  "Saddam sucks."

  Oh, yeah. The password. "Uh ... sucks what?"

  "You tell me."

  "Camel coc ... I mean cigarettes. Camel cigarettes."

  "Clang." A manhole, I mean rathole, cover opened a few yards away, a head sticking out. It was female and smiling.

  "Am I glad to see you," I said. I started over, dragging silk and crap behind me. She started to help me, pulling the chute inside. "What the hell is this? Leave that shit outside. dump it."

  It was pitch black inside a tunnel. I turned my flashlight on, a reddish beam illuminating a corridor, going off into the distance on both sides. I could see it'd been carved into the earth, with a dirt floor.

  My companion was a real knockout. A beautiful young girl rat.

  "So you're Oscar, uh? Not very impressive, are you? I hope you know your job."

  "Now hold on there, miss.... I was sent by the Vice, himself."

  "Which doesn't say much. My name's Raena, Raena Al-Ratwan."

  "Well, Raena, I do know my job. I'm a famous rat fiction writer in the States."

  "Figures."

  "If it means anything, I do find you impressive. Very much so. What's next?"

  "I take you to Dr. Hassan Kufi Mousaibi, for an interview. He's an expert on our country's armament."

  "Even the hidden stuff?"

  "I don't know of any 'hidden stuff', but that's the doctor's specialty," lovely Raena told me. "All I do is keep lists on conventional armaments. He's my boss and knows more than I do."

  It took us ten minutes to get to to the end of our tunnel, in the basement of one of the buildings. We emerged into a human-sized storage room with some kind of large cannon shells stored on endless rows of shelving. There were also pallets of wooden boxes stacked at one end of the room. I couldn't see to the other end. Fluorescent bulbs lit the space in a harsh white light.

  Raena led me along one wall, finally angling off under a row of shelves. We approached a large but flabby old mouse sitting at a toy desk. She introduced me to the doctor. We shook paws and I -- tired from the jump and walking -- flopped down in front of the desk.

  "I'm here to find proof of hidden weapons, Doctor Mousaibi," I told him. "Apparently, our President doesn't believe UN inspectors."

  "He should, cause there aren't any hidden WMDs," the doctor replied. "Saddam destroyed them, all that were left over from killing Iranians and Kurds."

  "Are you certain? He and his Vice seem to think they exist."

  "Certain? Of course. It would be impossible to hide them from us rodents. Our spy system is superb. Nothing gets by us." He turned to Raena. "See if we have a towel or something he can wipe his legs with?"

  "Do you have proof I can take back?" I asked. I looked over at Raena's rear swishing seductively at me as she hurried off to find a rag.

  "Yes, friend Oscar. We'll get you cleaned up. I was thinking all American rats smelled that way. Full of shit." He laughed. "Do you have a camera with you? I have several papers that prove my point."

  I pawed him my camera and he took a half-dozen reduced photos. Then, Doctor Mousaibi laid the smaller pictures down in a square and took a final microfilm shot of all six together.

  "Saves on space." he said, showing it to me. I noticed the distinctive CIA border, purple-and-yellow striped for authenticity. "Now, in case you get caught," he told me, "I'll place this microfilm under a stamp on a personal letter to your President. I can have my people get it into a diplomatic pouch to the US."

  "If you can do that," I asked, surprised, "why did I have to come here?"

  "For several reasons, Oscar. First of all, as an officially trusted American witness. Secondly, to furnish an official CIA camera to take the picture. And, finally, he-he-he, to throw Saddam's people off the track. All the way back to the States, they'll be trying to find it on you, not even suspecting I simply had it put in that diplomatic pouch."

  I shuddered. "You mean they know I'm here?"

  "Of course they do. I'd be a fool to think Saddam doesn't have his own spies among my people."

  "Uh, I'm not used to this spy game. How can you be so sure of that?"

  "Because," he told me, in a confidential whisper, "Raena's one of Saddam's spies. That's why I asked her to bring you here."

  "Oh!" About that time, I could see the beautiful Raena hurrying back with a paper towel.

  "I also asked her to help get you out of the country. Have fun, but be careful."