"Tick-tock."

"Huh?" Birkoff glanced up from his monitor, annoyed.

Walter grinned and pointed to the date on the screen. "It's that time."

Birkoff paled. "Oh God."

"What?" asked Michael, wandering over from watching new recruits in martial arts training.

"The date."

"Michael looked puzzled, then stiffened. "Oh God."

Nikita turned away from watching the training. "What's wrong? Why is the date so important?"

"Mr. North," Birkoff whispered.

"Of The GAO. General Accounting Office. This is the day he makes his annual audit." Walter nodded up to Operations' office. "Do you think he realizes this is the day?"

Birkoff shrugged. "He's been pacing and smoking all morning."

Nikita shook her head. "An accountant? You're all afraid of an accountant?"

"Auditor," Birkoff corrected.

"From Hell," Walter added.

"Actually, from the Office of Budget Management," Birkoff replied, "which is, technically, the outer reception room of Hell."

"And this 'accountant'," added Michael, "has the power to reduce or completely terminate our funding."

Nikita rolled her eyes. "They're not going to cut our funding. As you all so eloquently, frequently tell me, we do very important work here."

Walter sighed. Birkoff shook his head.

"Nikita," Michael said, slowly, calmly, like he had the first day in Section, "Within a government, accountants are far more deadly than the likes of us."

A half an hour later, Nikita had come to the conclusion that watching Operations pace and blow heavy billows of gray smoke was hypnotic. In fact, it was only when she heard the sound of Madeline's far-too-chipper voice did she fully awake from her reverie.

"--And of course you remember Michael, Walter, and Birkoff from your previous visits. This is Nikita, one of our field personnel." She made it sound like they sold Avon.

Mr. North offered his hand. It was small, like the rest of him, and gnarled from years of holding pencil nubs to scraps of paper and filling them copiously with cramped, tight little letters comprising memos. He surveyed Nikita solemnly, stopping at her boots. "I hope those aren't Italian."

"Ferragamos, actually." Nikita smiled.

Mr. North harrumphed. "I trust you have a receipt."

"I don't---"

Michael intervened. "I'm sure you'll find all the appropriate documentation down in bookkeeping." North regarded Michael. "I see that Section One has at least cut back on spending for hair cuts for its operatives. Perhaps we'll find enough money in this year's budget to restore that benefit, or at least give you enough of a cost of living raise to pay for a hair cut once in a while."

Every muscle in Michael's body tightened and Nikita was planning how to break his choke hold on Mr. North when Madeline stepped in. "I think he's ready to see you now, Mr. North."

"Yes, I suppose he is. It's not as if he has anywhere else he has to be." Mr. North got two steps away, then turned back to Birkoff. "And you, young man. Playing games on government equipment on government time is not only an ethical violation, but can be prosecuted as a class E felony as theft by deception, whicha carries a minimum penalty of six months and a $5000 fine." Mr. North's eyes bored into Birkoff's.

"Yes, sir. This isn't a game, sir. This is what we really do, sir."

Mr. North harrumphed again. "Yes, well, we'll speak further of this when I go over each of your DOT-2945's. And don't go anywhere until I do, unless, of course, you have actual work to do." Following Madeline up to Operations' office, he said, "I suppose you are the only I would speak to about implementing a dress code. You know, as federal employees, we . . ."

And they watched him go, looking up at the glassed gallery like coyotes at a rising moon.

************

Three hours later they were all still there when Operations came down, hair disheveled, shirt sleeves rolled up. "Coffee!" he roared. "He wants coffee!" Half a dozen operatives scrambled like pilots on a flight deck.

Operations rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm. "God, I need a cigarette."

Michael handed him a fresh pack.

"Thanks." He lit one up and took a long draw.

"Is it over?" Nikita ventured.

"Over. Ha. He's just getting started." Another long draw. "I hate him."

"Oh. Sorry."

"I hate him. I mean I really hate him." He stubbed out the first and lit a second cigarette. "I am going to snatch him up by his skinny little neck and twist his little pointed head off. I am going to kill him."

"Excuse me," Walter said, trying not to smirk, "But isn't that how you got your job? When your predessessor tried to do the same thing to his predessessor?"

Operations thought for a moment. "He could turn up face down in Fort Marcy Park with a .38 in his hand and a matching hole in his mouth."

"It's been done," Michael monotoned.

"His plane could crash into a mountain while on government business in Serbia."

"Used it."

"Disappear in a canoeing accident?"

"They've done that, too."

"Damn NSA, they steal all our best material!" He stubbed out his cigarette. "Walter, I want a car bomb."

"Uh-uh, no way. He's not a terrorist."

"You weren't in my office! North is every bit as much a terrorist as any Red Cell member! Do you remember that little request for a gross of Stinger missiles you put in? Gone."

"But--"

"And Birkoff, your money for hardware upgrades. Poof. In a puff of smoke. He says DOD has some old 386 Macs we can have and you ought to be able to order anything you need to upgrade them from the Radio Shack catalog."

"But--but--" Birkoff sputtered.

"And Michael, remember those nice SmartBullets we talked about making standard issue?"

Michael straightened, preparing to take the bad news with dignity. "No SmartBullets?"

"Oh, better than that. Apparently Fish & Wildlife ordered too much ammo, so we're getting their surplus. Never mind that its most 16 gauge shells and moose tranquilizer. Can you imagine the next time we're taking down an assassin using shot guns and tranquilizer darts? But, no, the government has the money to immunize all the children of the world, but we can't afford decent ammo!" He rubbed hs temples. "I am going to have a stroke."

"You are not going to have a stroke," Madeline said firmly.

Operations glanced up. "Maybe not, but you are. He says you have to start shopping at K-Mart."

"That little weasel!" Madeline shot up out of her chair. "He even had the nerve to pat me on the--" She fell back into her chair, disgusted. "That little weasel."

Operations grinned. "I though that would get your attention."

Nikita took that as a good sign and smiled. "Hey, its not all that bad. Maybe they've cut some frills, but we still have most of our funding, right?" She nodded her head vigorously, hoping to get someone to agree. She was glad when a young operative she knew only as Gina brought in a take-out tray from the coffee shop down the street.

"I got extra cream and extra sugars."

Operations smiled and Nikita was certain she had a front row seat for a major psychological meltdown. "Thank you, dear."

"Sir," Gina replied, and scurried away, obviously spying the impending psycho-Chernobyl on her own.

"I am," Operations began, in an oratory tone usually reserved for Congress and large churches, "the chief of operations for the most effective, most covert anti-terrorist organization in the world. I have for years put my life and the lives of my people on the line to ensure the safety of the people of the Western world. At last count, I have been shot nine times, stabbed twelve, beaten God knows how often, poisoned--"

"Twice," Madeline added.

"No, that time in Berlin was actually, well, never mind, it wasn't duty related. I've crashed in a plane, three cars, two trucks, a helicopter . . ."

"A motorcycle."

"Oh, yeah, I forgot about that--a motorcycle, survived a fall from a sixth-story balcony, five explosions, and would you like to know what Mr. North tells me? I, he said, have to quit smoking. Apparently one smoker per hundred people ratchets up the medical insurance premiums 8.4 %."

"Well, sir, I guess it's like in that movie 'Patton'," Birkoff said. "You can send 'em off to die, but you just can't let 'em smoke."

"Thank you, Birkoff." He looked at the cigarette again, then dropped it. It seemed to take a hundred years to fall. When it landed, it bounced precisely three times. When it stopped, Operations stood up, and with the heel of his boot, painstakingly ground the cigarette into the floor. "Well, I'd better see that Mr. North gets his coffee."

"The government won't really cut off funding will it?" Nikita asked once Operations was safely back in his office assuaging Mr. North's thirst for both coffee and documentation.

Walter grinned. "Naaah. Next week North audits Housekeeping. By the time they get done torturing each other, we look like angels and he's more than happy to give us what we ask for, plus some."

Madeline smiled reassuringly. "It's just something we go through every March. North and his ilk delight in bullying anyone they can, the tougher and more powerful, the better they enjoy it. He's a petty bureaucrat who likes to flex his muscle, even if its all on paper."

"At least this time we didn't have to hear how Operations saved the world from nuclear annihilation while simultaneously competing in the '84 Olympics," Birkoff said.

"So every spring we get to watch Operations be driven crazy by an auditor?" Nikita asked.

"The rites of spring," Michael said. He looked at Nikita. "But I would find that receipt for those boots if I were you."

End

Send suggestions and comments to ranma.
OR
If you would like to send a comment to Ursula click HERE.