Disclaimer: The original Patlabor series was created by
Masami Yuuki. This is a tribute to it, and thus is not
intended to step on his toes or the toes of anyone else
involved in its production. :)

Previous episodes, along with current progress reports, are
archived on my Patlabor Stateside page, at:
http://www.cis.ohio-state.edu/~kelsey/fanfics.html

They can also be found at R&C Books:
http://www.geocities.com/Tokyo/Bay/1375/

Author's note:  Special thanks go to Jae Shin, Philip Cross,
and Rick Bailey for their ideas and C&C.  

*****

     Styles set down his newspaper and took a moment to
curse Alexander Graham Bell, without whom the world would
have never known that heinous contrivance, the telephone.
"Hello?"
     Pause.
     "Undercover work?"
     Another pause.
     "Well, don't you think someone running around in a
labor would be a bit /obvious/?"
     Pause.
     "Oh.  I see."
     Pause.
     "Eleven o'clock?  Yeah, that's fine."
     Short pause.
     "Alright, see you then."
     Styles hung up the phone, sipped his coffee, and hit
the PA button.

*

Patlabor Stateside
Episode #6: CAMP Undercover
by Bart Kelsey

     Mitch stood on the boarding platform, hunched over so
that his head was all the way inside the Apollo's open chest
panel.  "Yeah," he said over his shoulder, "battery's really
at ninety-three percent--it's not just an instrument problem-
-which means that the idle power draw is about twice what it
should be."
     Tony looked up from the floor.  "Think you can find the
leak?"
     "Yeah, shouldn't be too much of a--"
     "Attention all personnel--this is your captain
speaking."  Weaver, taken by surprise by the captain's
voice, jumped slightly and cracked his head on the top of
the opening.
     "Captain Stillman from the Metro police is going to be
visiting at eleven o'clock to brief us on an undercover
operation that we'll be taking part in as of tomorrow.  I
need everyone in full uniform and ready for inspection by
ten-thirty.  That is all."
     Mitch groaned and rubbed the newly-acquired lump on the
pack of his head.  He sat down on the platform and leaned up
against the labor, taking in the cool, fresh air that was
blowing through the open mech bay, a product of the late
July downpour.

*

     "Weaver, since when was a Blue Jackets cap part of our
uniform?"
     "Just supporting professional ice hockey, sir."
     "Well, support it on your own time."  Styles took the
cap from Mitch's head and tossed it back toward the mechanic
area.  Waldo, who had up until this point been sleeping
blissfully at the base of the stairs, perked up suddenly, as
if some sort of supernatural canine sense had picked up on
the new target.  He plodded over and sniffed the hat, then
turned around and took aim.
     "Waldo, NNNNOOOOOOOOOOO!" yelled Weaver, in a manner
that would have made Luke Skywalker himself stand and take
notice.  But it was too late.  Waldo's mark of ownership was
now forever upon Mitch's cap.  Mitch glared at the dog, and
then at his coworkers, and finally his captain.  They were
all trying as hard as they could to hold back a laugh--even
the damn dog.  He leaned forward slightly and glowered down
the row at Ron.  "Paccini, you owe me a new hat."
     "Anyway," continued Styles, "as I mentioned earlier,
I'm told we're going to be doing some undercover work.
Precisely what this entails is beyond my limited ability to
comprehend, but Brett Stillman should be here pretty soon to
clarify things for us.  Now, while he's here, do me a favor
and try not to do anything too idiotic, alright?"
     The majority of the CAMP Task Force attempted a salute
and muttered something that sounded vaguely like "yes, sir."
     "The briefing will be in the break room in fifteen
minutes," said Styles.  "Dismissed."

     Brett Stillman was in his early forties, making him
somewhat young for his post as captain of the Columbus Metro
Police Department.  However, despite his age, he carried
himself with the confidence and dignity befitting of someone
of his status.
"Captain Styles," he said, knocking lightly on the door of
Styles' office.
     "Come in, Brett."
     Brett moved through the door and shut it behind him.
     "Have a seat," said Styles.
     Brett did so.  "Haven't seen you for a little
while...how are things going?"
     "No better or worse than could be expected under the
circumstances."
     "That bad, eh?  Wish I could help you, but
unfortunately I don't have the resources to get you a
transfer," he lied.  "At any rate, how are Ron and Tony
doing?"
     "I'd say they've adjusted a bit better than I have...of
course, that's to be expected, especially with Paccini.  I
don't know if that guy has ever had a problem with anything
in his life.  As far as Tony goes, well, he adjusts because
he doesn't have much of a choice."
     Brett nodded.  "Oh, and how's the New Yorker working
out?"
     "Larson?  No problems with him just yet.  I'm not
exactly an authority on labor piloting, but I can tell he's
a lot better than the rest of the squad."
     "Speaking of Larson," said Brett, "I got a call about
him a couple weeks ago from a woman named Clancy something-
or-other out at NYPD.  I gather she was a bit annoyed that
we stole one of her best pilots."
     Styles shrugged.  "Oh well.  Sorry about her luck, I
guess."
     "That's the spirit.  Anyway, why don't we head into the
briefing room so I can get started."
     Styles nodded, standing up.  "Right this way."  He
opened the door and let Stillman out of the office, then
followed along behind him.
     Stillman saluted casually as he entered the break room,
glancing appraisingly at the assorted pilots, drivers, and
engineers.  "Well," he said finally, "there's a few faces in
here that I don't recognize, so, for those of you who don't
know me, I'm Brett Stillman."
     "Well," said Styles, "you already know Ron and Tony.
The ones you haven't met are Jody Morisato, Mitch Weaver,
Laura Vance, Tom Harris, and Gabe Larson."
     The five of them waved, nodded, and/or muttered
miscellaneous greetings.
     "So," Stillman hiked his pants, "as you may or may not
have been told, I'm here to brief all of you on some
undercover work that you'll be participating in over the
next few days."  He pulled a large brown envelope from his
briefcase and emptied its contents (several photographs,
some blueprints, and a few documents) out onto the table.
"Metro police has been tracking a drug rung, which we
believe to be a major supplier of cocaine for Ohio, as well
as eastern Indiana and parts of southern Michigan.  The
person believed to be the leader of the operation," he
continued, rummaging through the papers on the table and
producing a photograph, "is a man by the name of Leroy
Betts."
     The picture was grainy, as if it had been taken from a
distance and blown up considerably.  It was of a man with
short brown hair, round glasses, and a slight five o'clock
shadow.  Stillman reached into his briefcase and pulled out
another photo; this one appeared to be the shot from which
the former was enlarged.  It depicted Betts standing near an
unmarked white Uhaul-type truck, apparently speaking
(possibly giving orders) to two men dressed in grungy jeans
and maintenance uniforms.
     "Now," said Stillman, "we're not entirely sure who the
other two are, but our main priority is to nail Betts--the
rest are just scrubs.  This truck they're standing in front
of is the one that makes all of the shipments.  It arrives
at the warehouse on the corner of Hudson and Medina on
Tuesdays and Wednesdays at approximately quarter after two
in the afternoon."
     He unfolded a blueprint of the warehouse and flattened
it out on the table with his hands.  "The truck pulls up at
the south entrance, located here.  They then proceed to
unload a number of unmarked cardboard boxes and take them
into the warehouse, storing them here."  He indicated a
place on the blueprint that was circled in red.  "The
contraband is then distributed a few boxes at a time
throughout the week on trucks bound for various cities
throughout the state.
     "Now, I'm sure you're all wondering where you will fit
into all of this.  Basically, we need two people to pose as
stocking labor pilots to assist us in gathering evidence
and, when the time comes, arresting the suspects.  The
majority of the investigation has already been done, so all
we need now is to gather some solid proof and make the
arrest...we'd like to get this wrapped up by Wednesday, or,
failing that, within a week."
     He glanced around the room again.  "Now, it's important
to remember that Leroy Betts is believed to be armed and
dangerous, so it's imperative that you use caution at all
times when dealing with him.
     "As far as deciding who exactly is going to be doing
the undercover work, I'll leave that up to your captain.
I'll need whoever is going to be doing this to meet me at
the metro police station tomorrow at twelve o'clock sharp.
Any questions?"
     There was a general muttering and shaking of heads.
     "Well then, thank you for your time."  He picked up the
bulk of the documents on the table, leaving only the
blueprint and the two photos.  "Take some time to study
these.  Good day, and thank you, captain."  He turned and
shook hands with Styles, and then left the room.
     Styles sighed.  "I apologize for not taking volunteers
on this one, but the only logical choices for the job are
Paccini and Larson, because they've both had experience
working on the police force.  Objections?"
     There was another general murmur.
     "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go eat lunch."
     "Well," said Ron as Styles left the room, "this should
be exciting."
     "You could call it that, I suppose."  Gabe leaned back
in his chair, crossing his arms and propping his feet up on
the table.  "Back on NYPD, we used to do this kinda thing
every week."
     "Hey," said Mitch, "that reminds me of something I've
been wondering for a while.  Why /did/ you leave NYPD Mech?"
     Gabe shrugged.  "Needed a break," he said.
     "Needed a break?  Wasn't there a desk job you could
have taken somewhere?"
     "What, and let these skills go to waste?  Hell no,
kid."
     "And what skills might those be?"
     "Tell ya what.  Climb into one of the labors during
hand-to-hand practice today, and I'll show you.  In fact,
take the Nova if you want.  After all, it's not the size of
the labor that counts--it's the pilot at the controls."
     Mitch grinned.  "That's just what people with small
labors say to make themselves feel better."
     "Good one, kid.  Are we on, or not?"
     "We're on."

*

     Styles emptied the last of his coffee into his mouth
and lit a cigarette.  "I must admit, Weaver, this has got to
be one of the stranger requests I've heard."  He swung his
chair around and refilled his mug at the machine behind him.
"Now, if you really think you're up to it, it's alright by
me.  Technically I'm not supposed to let you do this, seeing
as you're a mechanic and not a pilot, but I think you'd be a
bit better for it if Larson were to knock some sense into
you."
     "Thank you, sir."  Weaver gave his trademark sloppy
salute and exited the office.
     "Well," said Jody when he got out into the hallway,
"did he go for it?"
     "Yeah, on the condition that I go easy on Gabe."
     "Right."  She eyed him skeptically.  "Are you really
sure you're up to this?"
     "Of course.  I'm gonna cut Larson down to size.  That
old fart's never gonna call me 'kid' again after this is
over.  Besides, you know I can pilot.  You were in my intro
to labor piloting class back at OSU."
     "And five more labor piloting classes after that."
     "Well, it doesn't show.  Heyheyhey!  Don't hit me!  I'm
just kidding!"
     Jody shook her head.  "Anyway, Tony's got the Nova all
ready for you...and remember, you're going to be in a
larger, faster mech, so be sure to use that to your
advantage.  You're gonna need all the advantages you can
get, and to be perfectly honest, I can't wait to see Larson
embarrass you like he's been doing to us for the past two
months."
     "Well, my darling," said Mitch as they entered the
labor bay, "I'm afraid you're going to be disappointed on
that score."
     Jody just smiled.  "We'll see."

*

     "Ready in there, Weaver?"
     Mitch slipped his helmet on and adjusted the seat
straps.  "Yeah, all clear.  Go ahead and release."
     The clack resounded through the Nova's frame,
signifying that he was now released from the upright
transport deck.  He punched an auto-pilot command in on the
keyboard, and the labor stepped down off the truck.
Checking once more to make sure the motion sensors were in
place on his legs, he flipped down the visor on his helmet,
threw the manual control switch, and slid his arms into the
control gloves.
     It was at times like this that Mitch wondered why he
had chosen to major in Labor Engineering rather than
piloting.  Looking into the visor's video display made him
feel as if he /was/ the Nova--not just the pilot, but the
labor itself.  The sensation was incredible.
     "You might want to move around a bit and let the labor
get used to you."  Tony's voice rang out clearly through the
intercom.
     IPA (or Intelligent Pilot Adaptation), Mitch recalled,
had been standard in combat-model labors ever since the
concept had been introduced in the Ingram back in 1998.  A
revolution in labor design, it allowed the labor to learn
the motion patterns of the person piloting it, allowing it
to move more efficiently.
     Mitch stepped out of the labor bay and into the
practice area outside, pausing to pick up one of the padded
sparring poles on his way out of the bay.  He took a few
practice swings, noting the audience that was starting to
gather along the east wall of CAMP Headquarters.  Tony, Ron,
Laura, Jody, Tom, and even the captain were leaning up
against the side of the building, apparently waiting for the
match to start.
     He zoomed in on them and turned up the sensitivity of
his labor's audio receptors.
     "--stand a chance," Tony was saying.  "Should be
interesting to watch, though."
     Jody grinned.  "No kidding.  Boy, am I gonna rub this
in."
     "Honestly, though," said Tony, "it amazes me that he
didn't have the sense to back down."
     "Sense?  Mitch?"  Jody sniffed.  "As if.  You're
talking about the guy who used to sit in the back of my
biology class and crack up every time the professor said
/Homo erectus/."
     "Alright, that's enough, people," said Mitch over the
Nova's loudspeaker.  "You realize I can hear you from here,
don't you?"
     The members of the small but enthusiastic audience
grinned sheepishly at him.
     /CLANG!/
     Mitch sat bolt-upright in the pilot's chair and turned
the Nova's audio sensitivity back down to level four.
Everyone turned to watch as Gabe Larson, veteran pilot and
defending champion, emerged from the mech bay in the Apollo.
     Mitch took a step backward and stood ready with his
sparring pole.  Larson approached him assuredly, then
stopped about twenty yards away from him and readied his
weapon.
     "Any last words, Mitch?" Gabe said through his
megaphone.
     "None here...how 'bout you?"
     "Nope.  We're ready to start, Captain."
     Styles grinned at the rest of the crew and spoke into
his headset.  "Alright, you both know the drill--first one
to pin or otherwise disable their opponent wins ... and try
not to do any major damage, alright?  Go."
     The two labors stood still for a moment, assessing each
other.  Larson stepped forward first, holding his spar
crossways in both hands.  Mitch backed off slightly, taking
a couple warning swings.  Then, he took a brief sidestep and
advanced quickly toward the Apollo, intending to meet it
hand-to-hand.
     Larson, all too familiar with Mitch's overbearing
tactic, ducked down and thrust, placing his sparring pole
between the Nova's feet and twisting.  Mitch, taken off-
balance by the attack, was forced down to one knee to
recover his footing; not to be overcome this quickly, he
turned his low position into an advantage by lunging upward
and using his lower center of gravity to lift the smaller,
lighter Apollo up off its feet.
     Larson's mech toppled over backwards and dropped its
sparring pole, but rolled out of the way before the Nova
could pin it down.
     "Thirty seconds," said Tony, glancing at his stopwatch.
"Impressive."
     Pushing the Apollo's controls to their limits, Gabe
sprang back up to a standing position and grabbed the Nova's
arm from behind, twisting it behind its back.
     Mitch clenched his teeth and spun the Nova around
quickly, trusting its superior strength.  With his free
hand, he dropped his own sparring pole to the ground and
brought his palm up, connecting solidly with the Apollo's
chin.  Larson reeled backwards, losing his grip on the
Nova's arm, but regaining control quick enough to dodge out
of the way of the Nova's badly-telegraphed punch.  He then
sprang forward past the larger labor and landed a solid blow
with both fists into the middle of the Nova's back.
     The momentum of the missed punch, combined with
Larson's strike, was too much for Mitch to handle, and the
Nova sprawled forward and landed face-first in the grass.
Before he could roll and stand up, the Apollo's knee was in
his back, preventing further movement.
     "Pin," said Captain Styles.
     Tony clicked the stopwatch and shrugged.  "Fifty-seven
seconds."
     Ron grudgingly handed Tom a twenty dollar bill.  "Three
more seconds, Harris.  That's all it would have taken."
     Tom shrugged and pocketed the bill in his coat.  "Close
only counts in horse-shoes and hand grenades, Ron.  Better
luck next time."
     "Well," said Mitch over his loudspeaker, "that was
quick and painless.  Mind letting me up now?"

*

     One of the things Mitch hated most about his job was
scrubbing grass stains off the labors after combat training;
and today in particular, the job was insult added to injury,
since the stain on the Nova was his own fault.
     And what a stain it was.
     The greenish-brown mark ran all the way from the Nova's
white-plated feet up to its chin--a reminder of the
embarrassing fall Mitch had taken that had ended the match.
     Grudgingly, Mitch trudged over to the far wall and
pulled the hose from the roller.  It was heavy enough that,
in order to keep his balance, he had to lean forward while
dragging it to the labor.  He stopped for a moment to catch
his breath, then twisted the nozzle.  As usual, the force of
the water jerked him backward slightly, forcing him to brace
himself with his foot, so as not to fall over backwards.
     "Well, well, well.  Look at the conquering hero
celebrating his victory."
     "Shut up, Jody."
     "Don't you wish."  Jody put her hand on her hip and
grinned impishly at Mitch.  "I'm gonna rub this in until
we're both old and gray."
     "Is that so?"
     "You better believe it."
     Mitch rubbed his chin.  "I think you're forgetting
something."
     "And what might that be?" she asked suspiciously.
     "I," said Mitch, "have a fire hose."
     Jody shrieked and bolted for the break room, but by
then it was too late.

*

     It was at eleven-thirty the following morning when Ron
and Gabe climbed into CAMP's single patrol car and drove
over to the metro police station.  While there, they
received a short briefing, some fabricated identification,
and one shipping clerk uniform apiece.
     "Now," Stillman explained, "just slide your card
through the slot on the Hudson street entrance.  Security
isn't terribly tight there--in fact, as far as we can
surmise, the owners of the warehouse don't even know what's
been going on.  They just rent space out to different
businesses around the city."
     "Hold up just a second," said Ron.  "If someone's
trafficking this much cocaine, wouldn't they want to put it
somewhere where it can be guarded a bit better?"
     Stillman shrugged.  "Not necessarily.  If you think
about it, tight security is a good way to attract unwanted
attention ... whereas, if you blend in with a bunch of
legitimate businesses, nobody's gonna even look twice."
     "That brings up an interesting question," Gabe
interjected.  "If these guys are so low-key, then how did
you hear about them to begin with?  Is your source
reliable?"
     "Sorry, that's classified.  And yes.  Now, just to be
sure we're clear on this whole thing, I want to go over the
procedure one more time."
     Gabe yawned.  "We get there and we run our keycards
through the slot at the north entrance.  Then, we set up the
camera by the south entrance to record the vehicle's
arrival.  We keep an eye on Leroy and his thugs while they
unload the truck, but try not to be too obvious about it.
Once they're done and gone, we load a box of evidence into
the car to take back to the station, pick up the camera, and
leave."
     Stillman nodded and handed Gabe three sets of keys.
"This key is to the car out back; the other two are for the
stocking labors once you get to the warehouse.  Any
questions?  If not, then get to it."

*

     Mitch thought he heard a knock at the front door.  If
he had, then it was a very small knock, but it was still
worth getting up to check on, since all he was doing was
sitting in the break room watching reruns of Days of Our
Lives.
     When he reached the door, he discovered that, sure
enough, someone had knocked on it.  That someone was a
little girl with red hair, about five or six years old,
wearing blue shorts and a white T-shirt that was no less
than three sizes too big.
     Mitch cracked the door open.  "Can I help you, ma'am?"
     "Hi, Mister Policeman."
     "Hi there."
     "Can you help me find my kitty?"
     "Welllll, I really don't think I'm supposed--"
     "Pweeeeeeeeese?"
     Mitch, for all his tenacity and pride, was occasionally
smart enough to recognize when he had absolutely no chance
whatsoever of winning a battle.  This was one of those
times.  "Ok, tell you what.  Why don't you come in, and I'll
take a police report, then we'll go out and I'll help you
fund your kitty.  How's that sound?"
     "Ok."
     Mitch held the door open for the little girl, and led
her into the break room, where he lifted her up onto a chair
and then sat across from her.
     "Now," he began, "where was the last place you saw your
kitty?"
     "Ummmmmmm ... that way!"  The girl pointed off in a
seemingly random direction.
     "Ok.  What's your kitty's name?  And for that matter,
what's yours?"
     "Bobby," said the girl.  "He's my cat.  I'm Lisa."
     "Do you have a picture of Bobby that I could take a
look at?"
     The girl rummaged through the front pocket of her
shorts and presented a wrinkled piece of paper.  Drawn on it
was a stick figure of a cat.
     Mitch examined the picture closely.  "This is a good
photo," he said, "but unfortunately it's in black and white.
Can you tell me what color Bobby is?"
     "He's brown with black stripes."
     "Mitch, what's going on?"  Jody stood in the doorway to
the mech bay and looked in curiously.
     "I'm conducting a missing kittens investigation.  I
just finished questioning the witness, and now I'm going to
go out and help her look for her kitty.  Wanna come along?"
     "Well, I dunno, Mitch.  I mean, if the captain finds
out..."
     "Hey," Mitch whispered to the girl, "I bet she'll come
along if you say please."
     "Pweeeeeeese?" said the girl.
     Jody groaned.

*

     Ron looked around the warehouse and gestured at the
cardboard box he was carrying.  "Alright, now where's this
thing go again?"
     "Anywhere it'll fit in so the camera's pointing at the
south entrance."
     Ron picked an empty spot on one of the many shelves,
and deposited the amateurishly-hidden camera-in-a-box there,
checking several times just to make sure the hole in the box
wasn't facing the wrong direction.  "Ok, that's done ... now
what?"
     Gabe pointed over at the neat row of ten-foot-tall
cargo labors.  "We climb into those and pretend like we work
here."
     Ron shrugged.  "Works for me."

*

     "This way," said the little girl, following Mitch's
recommendation that she lead them to where she last saw her
kitty.
     With Mitch and Jody in tow, she headed eastward down
front street, toward downtown Columbus.  After several
blocks, she turned right, taking them down a seldom-used
alley.  They followed her up to a mid-sized house, where she
stopped and pointed into the yard.
     "Bobby's not supposed to go outside," she said.  "He
ran out the door this morning."
     Mitch rubbed his chin thoughtfully.  "Do you remember
which way he went when you opened the door?"
     The girl shook her head.
     "I guess we should just start looking around here,
then."
     It took them a good ten minutes of intense searching
and calling before Jody heard a faint meow from up above
her.  She looked up, and sure enough, there was a small
tabby kitten stuck up in the tree over her head.
     "He's up there."  Jody pointed up at the wayward
kitten.
     "How can we get him down?"  Lisa tugged Mitch's sleeve.
"Can you climb up there and get him?"
     Mitch shook his head.  "There aren't any low branches.
I'll never be able to get up there ... unless ..."  He
looked at Jody, a smile slowly forming on his face.
     "Oh no.  Captain Styles will have a conniption fit if
he finds out."
     "He doesn't need to find out, Jody.  And besides, would
you really feel right about yourself if we left this poor,
sweet, innocent little kitty marooned in this tree?"
     Jody wavered.
     Mitch whispered into Lisa's ear:  "Say please again."
     "Pweeeeeeeese?"
     "Oh, alright."
     "I knew I could count on you, Jody."  Mitch gave his
colleague a friendly pat on the back.
     "Well, that's all well and good, but how do you plan to
sneak a whole labor out past the captain without him
noticing?"
     Mitch looked at his watch.  "He'll probably be out to
lunch.  It's just a matter of driving out here, rescuing the
cat, and driving back before he gets done.  He'll never know
the difference."
     "You know we're gonna get in trouble for this."
     "That's part of the fun," said Mitch.
     The three of them trekked back to the station and found
that Captain Styles was in fact out for lunch.  Satisfied
that their escape would go unnoticed, Mitch helped Lisa into
the passenger side of the transport and climbed in himself,
then waited for Jody to get into the Apollo.  She did so,
albeit against her better judgement.
     The three of them drove back to the site in question,
and Mitch released Jody's labor from the transport deck.
     "Hey," said Jody over the intercom, "how exactly were
you planning to go about this, anyway?"
     "It's simple, really," Mitch replied.  "I just climb
into the Apollo's hand, and you lift me up to where I can
reach the cat."
     "Isn't that a bit unsafe?"
     "Not if you're careful."
     Mitch took off his headset before she could reply, and
got out of the truck.  Looking around, he noticed that about
five people had gathered around to watch the goings-on.
Labors, Mitch noted, have a tendency to attract public
attention.
     He waved up at Jody and gave her the okay sign.
Reluctantly, the Apollo knelt over and placed its hand on
the ground, palm side up.  He climbed into the hand and sat
perfectly still as the labor slowly lifted him up into the
air.
     The kitten eyed Mitch curiously.  Shifting his weight
slowly, he turned over so that he was on his hands and
knees, and reached toward the animal.
     "I need another couple feet!" he yelled back over his
shoulder.
     Jody obliged, slowly moving the Apollo's hand closer to
the branch.  When the hand stopped, Mitch, who was already
balancing precariously, lost his equilibrium, and toppled
forward over the labor's outstretched fingers.  Making a
wild grab with his arms and yelling a word that he probably
shouldn't have yelled in the presence of a little girl, he
managed to catch hold of the tree branch, and ended up
clinging desperately to the limb with his arms and the
labor's forefinger with his feet.
     The kitten, intrigued by the ruckus, decided at that
moment that it would be entertaining to crawl out and sit
down on Mitch's back.
     "Oh man."  Mitch tightened his grip on the tree with
his left arm, and, closing his eyes, reached very slowly
around his back with his right.  Through what he would later
attribute to divine intervention, he managed to get hold of
the cat and ease it around in front of him, holding it up
against his chest.
     "Help me," he mouthed at Jody.
     The Apollo's hand moved downward very slowly, then
lifted up, once safely below Mitch.  Breathing a heavy sigh
of relief, Mitch released his grip on the tree branch and
settled back down into the labor's outstretched hand.

*

     "I think that's them over there," Ron said to Gabe,
being careful to appear as if he wasn't paying attention to
the truck that had just pulled up outside the south entrance
of the warehouse.
     "That'd be my guess," Gabe agreed, picking up a box on
one shelf and depositing it in a stack on the floor.
     "We gonna put all this stuff back before we leave?"
     Gabe turned his open-topped stocking labor toward Ron
and shrugged his shoulders.  "Why bother?  We've got a
warrant.  I mean, why do extra work when we can avoid it?"
     Ron rolled his eyes.  "The modern work-ethic."
     The two of them continued to move crates around
randomly, casting occasional glances at the thugs who were
unloading the boxes full of cocaine and stacking them neatly
on shelves.
     Finally, Leroy Betts and his two goons climbed back
into the cargo truck and drove off.  Gabe and Ron waited a
few minutes so as to be sure that the outlaws weren't going
to be coming back in the near future, then climbed out of
their labors and took one of the offending boxes off the
shelves.  Gabe pulled a pocket-knife out of his pocket and
cut through the packaging tape.  Sure enough, the box held
about six pound-sized vacuum sealed bags of cocaine.
     "Doesn't this just seem a bit too easy to you?"  Ron
peered worriedly over his shoulder.
     "Not really, no.  Boldness is about the best sort of
cover there is."
     Ron looked at Gabe.  "How's that?"
     "Well, think about it for a second.  If the police
hadn't had a tip-off about this guy, do you think we'd ever
have suspected anything?  Armed guards and secret meeting
places and stuff tend to attract all sorts of unwanted
attention.  On the other hand, if you do everything out in
public and act like you're not breaking the law, people
won't even look twice."
     Ron sighed.  "If you say so.  I'm gonna go grab the
camera so we can get out of here."

     "Now, was that so bad?" asked Gabe, once they were
driving out of the parking lot.

*

     Captain Styles was still out to lunch when Jody and
Mitch returned to the station.  Laura and Tony weren't much
of a worry either, since Tony was taking a nap after last
night's late shift, and Laura had agreed that their kitten-
rescuing secret was safe with her.  The two of them parked
the transport where it had been before they drove off with
it, and went to the break room to watch TV.
     "See," said Mitch, "I told you we wouldn't get caught."

*

     Gabe had never liked debriefings very much.  It seemed
to him like a lot of useless, boring logistics and repeating
things that everybody already knew anyway.
     What made this particular debriefing different,
however, was the fact that, about two-thirds of the way
through it, a lab technician burst in through the door with
some startling new information.
     "Captain Stillman!  That white stuff isn't cocaine--
it's powdered sugar!"
     Stillman, who was busy yammering about some sort of
police procedure, stopped mid-sentence.
     Ron and Gabe looked at each other.  Ron coughed
nervously, trying vainly to hide his smirk behind his hand.
Gabe folded his arms, his expression still serious.  He sat
there for several seconds and then began to laugh
hysterically.  Ron followed suit, unable to keep his
composure despite the fact that Stillman still appeared to
be in a state of shock.
     Finally, after the mirth had diminished to a manageable
level, Captain Stillman cleared his throat.  "Well," he
said, "this concludes the debriefing.  The Metro Police
Department appreciates your assistance."
     Ron stood up, taking a last look at the television that
was running the videotape in the back corner of the room.
He turned to leave, then did a double-take.  "Hey, could
somebody hand me the remote for a minute?  I need to see
something."
     Brett frowned.  "Mister Paccini, that television is for
police purposes only.  If you want to watch Baywatch or
something, do it somewhere else."
     "No, I mean the VCR remote."  Seeing it on the table,
he reached over and grabbed it and rewound the tape a few
seconds.  "Now, take a close look as they close up the truck
and pull away."
     "What about it?" asked Gabe.
     "There's still about ten boxes in there.  They didn't
unload the entire thing.  Now, doesn't that strike you as a
bit odd?"
     Stillman nodded slowly.
     "You said earlier that your source was reliable," Gabe
continued.  "Maybe they're using the whole powdered sugar
thing to throw us off."
     "That's an interesting thought."
     "In that case," said Gabe, "we're going to have to take
this bastard by surprise and arrest him at the scene, 'cause
I doubt he'll appreciate someone climbing into his truck and
unloading his cocaine."
     Stillman nodded again.  "Alright, here's what we'll do.
Tomorrow, the two of you need to wait at the warehouse until
all but a few of the boxes have been unloaded.  Wait until
they're about to leave, then show him your warrant and place
him under arrest, and take the rest of the boxes out of the
truck.  If he gives you any trouble, radio for backup and
we'll take it from there."
     "Works for me," said Ron.
     "At any rate, we'll work the details out tonight.  I
need the two of you back here for briefing at noon
tomorrow."

*

     Todd Styles rubbed his eyes, took a sip from his
coffee, and picked up his Wednesday morning paper.  The
front page bore the usual assortment of sports stories,
stock market crashes, and political scandals.
     It also had a picture of a man clinging desperately to
a tree branch with his arms, and his feet hooked on to what
appeared to be the hand of a moderately large labor.  On the
man's back was a small cat.  The caption under the picture
read "/No case too small./  Mobile Police officers Mitch
Weaver and Jody Morisato use a labor to rescue a local
girl's kitten."
     Styles hit the PA button.

     "Would Mitch Weaver and Jody Morisato please come to my
office?"
     "Uh-oh," said Mitch.
     Jody slapped him in the back of the head.  "Now look
what you've gotten us into."

     The captain handed them the newspaper when they entered
the office.  "What a cute little waste of time and money."
     "Thank you, sir," said Mitch.
     Styles sighed.  "Next time you decide to run off with
one of our labors, I'd appreciate it if you told me first."
     "Aren't you going to rip our heads off, sir?"
     "Weaver," said Styles, "if being an asshole were a
crime, I'd have been thrown in jail a long time ago--but I'm
not so inhuman that I can really be mad at you for rescuing
a kitten."  He chuckled softly.  "Now get out of my office."
     Mitch saluted.  "Yes, sir!"

*

     The noon briefing went faster than expected, and Ron
and Gabe once again found themselves driving toward the
warehouse wearing maintenance uniforms.  Their activities at
the building were basically a repeat of the previous day's.
They waited for Leroy Betts' truck to arrive, then milled
around in the warehouse, trying to look as though they were
busy.
     When it finally appeared as if the truck was about to
leave, Gabe jumped down out of his labor.  "Be ready to back
me up," he said over his shoulder as he started toward the
vehicle.

     One of Betts' grunts stared coldly at Gabe as he
approached.  "Can I help you with something?"
     Gabe nodded and pulled out his badge.  "Sure can.  I'm
with the Columbus Police, and I'   m here to confiscate the
rest of the boxes in your truck."
     There was an ominous click uncomfortably close to
Gabe's right ear.
     "Just what do you think you're doing?"
     Another click.  "He's doing the same thing you are,"
said Ron from the doorway.  "Standing there with a gun
pointed at his head."  With his free hand, Ron lifted the
microphone on his collar.  "We could use a little back-up
now."
     "Shit."  Betts turned around and bolted for the truck.
     Gabe drew his sidearm and neatly shot a hole in the
vehicle's rear right tire.  Betts, hearing the gunshot,
stopped mid-stride and tossed his own weapon to the ground
and raised his hands into the air.

*

     Somewhere in the Midwest, a balding man dressed in
camouflage sat behind a desk in a grungy office, smoking a
cigar.
     "Sir?" said a young man standing in the doorway.
     "What is it?"
     "Leroy Betts got busted, sir."
     "Dammit!"  The man pounded the desk with his fist.  "He
was a good fifth of our funding," he said, regaining his
calm quickly, "but no matter.  Betts can be replaced.  Find
me someone to take over for him."
     "Right away, sir!"
     The man put his cigar out and leaned back in his chair.
"The U. S. Labor Militia isn't going to go down that
easily," he said to himself.

*

Epilogue:  Leroy Betts was apprehended by the Columbus
police and charged with multiple counts of drug trafficking,
and Ron Paccini eventually bought Mitch Weaver a new Blue
Jackets cap.