We were in the lead vehicle. The lead vehicle is supposed to set the pace of the convoy in such a way that it provides a smooth ride for the VIP carrier behind it and ensures that the convoy never (ever) comes to a complete halt for any reason.
The follow-car should be aggressive like you can’t even imagine, racing all over blocking vehicles from getting near the VIP carrier, blocking traffic upfront so we can coast through red light intersections, and preventing any outsider from infiltrating the convoy. You put your best wheelman in the chase/follow-car.
Right out of the Embassy gate, the driver of our car began taunting other drivers, tapping their bumpers and aggressively steering them off the road onto the road shoulders.
“What in phuq sake is he doing?” Crapshoot lamented.
Opposite Day
“I don’t know… maybe today is Opposite Day?” I postulated emptily.
Suddenly the driver just felt like we weren’t going fast enough (or wanted to show off to the Delta pukes) and jumped across the median, slamming Crapshoot’s and my head into the roof. We were now plowing into oncoming traffic, honking and swerving, swearing, and forcing all oncoming cars off onto the road shoulders.
Ahead was an intersection with red lights against us. We plunged into cross-traffic, causing a horizontal-tower-of-Babble traffic jam in the intersection. Our driver careened us through the intersection and into a sliding right turn, still into oncoming traffic.
The rest of the convoy was behind us, moving in proper lanes with traffic, and we pushed upriver, looking for other horny Sockeye Salmon to mate with.
“How is this even still a convoy?” Crapshoot called out.
I totally got him and had to query our SEAL driver:
“What in the actual $hite is this horsephuqery?!? JUST PULL THIS CAR OVER NOW, DUMB-$HITE!!”
Rather than pull over, the SEAL cut hard to the right in an attempt to jump the median again and gain the lead position once more in front of the VIP carrier, which was totally unprotected to its front. He failed — really? — to take into account that this median on the main drag carried the trolly train tracks. He hit the tracks so hard that he knocked both front tires off of the rims, instantly deflating them as we came to a stop, straddling the rails.
The two remaining “convoy” vehicles raced by us, the bulging eyes of Kevin glaring at us in disbelief as they passed. I got out of the car, slammed the door as hard as I could, and started walking away from it. Crapshoot was right with me. We walked far enough away that if the car were to be suddenly swarmed by angry citizens of Sarajevo… it wouldn’t include us.
Crapshoot and I were livid as we discussed the unlikelihood that these Barnum and Bailey ST-6 boys were capable of doing the first thing right. Local cops of Sarajevo descended on them quickly with the glee of three months of frustrations finally getting paid back. The SEAL driver exited and moved toward us at a quick march.
“Go back to your vehicle, man; keep us the phuq out of your bursting radius! Besides, we’re not females, right?!” I called to him.
“We were told you speak Bosnian!” he called back nervously.
“He does!” returned Crapshoot, “Now get the phuq back to your vehicle.”
Two Embassy cars approached us. One sped off west toward the airport, and the other stopped for Crapshoot and me. It was Cos, our Delta convoy follow-car driver, coming to lift us back to the Embassy.
“We heard,” Cos began, “Kevin S. called over the radio saying what happened and to send a car to pick you up and another one to meet them at the airport so they can have a full convoy to bring the admiral back. Crowfoot is in the car that continued on to the airport.”
So, this simple move for the SEALs was about to end in mission failure due to their immature borderline schizophrenic hijinks, if not for the Delta trash, which they completely disrespected, coming to back them into a graceful mission save.
“Cos, swing by that broke-dick car on the tracks… I want to tell those cops that those two SEALs are Serbian spies who say the Cops of Sarajevo are all flagrant crossdressers.”
“Really, G?”
“No, Cos; no, not really…”
Back with a Brother
On the way back to the embassy, Cos laid on the skill that gifted him the wheelman position in the convoy follow-car, weaving through traffic at a high-speed rate, break jabbing and chowing down on the gas. We flew by inches from a line of cars parked on the shoulder. Cos’ side-view mirror struck a car and the mirror exploded, showering the entire interior of the car with tiny glass flechettes. Cos drove the rest of the way back with one eye tightly closed, swearing…
Crapshoot and I shot each other one more this-is-going-to-be-interesting glance.
By Almighty God and with honor,
geo sends
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Editor’s Note: Let’s all do Geo a solid. Go out and buy his book and visit his website. I promise it’s all good stuff. — GDM
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