Operation Hail Storm

by Brett Arquette

  “Right,” Renner said, his voice so mushy with sarcasm that they both started laughing.

  Wonsan, North Korea—Warehouse

  T

  he wooden chairs in the office of the warehouse were hard and unforgiving on Victor Kornev’s tailbone. He looked at Trang Won Dong, sitting across from him. The man appeared to be quite happy with the chairs as well as his surroundings.

  The office was hot, and the only relief came from a single fan that was sitting on the desk making squeaky passes as it oscillated back and forth. Dong seemed ambivalent to the heat. In a more civilized nation, what would have been called a coffee table was actually a small crate that occupied space between the wooden chairs and the desk. On the crate sat an assortment of tasty North Korean dishes. A large container of snakehead fish stew appeared to be the main entree. A bowl of rice and a smaller bowl of fermented cabbage were the side items. A jug of murky water that had specs of silver in it (maybe fish scales) was the nonchilled beverage.

  The North Korean bureaucrat appeared to be comfortable. The chairs didn’t seem to bother him one bit. And as he reached over the crate and began to help himself to dinner, Kornev realized that the North Korean was accustomed to it. Accustomed to everything. He was used to the heat. Content with the hard chairs. Pleased with the disgusting food. This hot, hard office was no more out of the norm for Trang than it was for Kornev to eat Russian chilled soups based on kvass, such as tyurya and okroshka. Or even pelmeni, a traditional Russian dish usually made with minced meat filling wrapped in thin dough.

  Even so, Kornev couldn’t wait to get out of there. After the last stage of the missile arrived and he got paid, it would be a quick ride over to the Wonsan Airport. From there, Dong would escort Kornev to a nondescript cargo plane, and he would get the hell out of this bizarre country.

  Through a mouth full of food, the minister of state security asked Kornev in Korean, “When will the last stage of the missile arrive?”

  The problem with that question was that Kornev didn’t know. The route the last missile segment was taking was the most complicated. It entered North Korea at the mouth of the Taedong River, south of Nampo. From there it would continue its route up the narrowing Taedong, past the city of Pyongyang until it reached the fork of the Nam–gang River. At that point, the cargo would be transferred to a smaller ship or barge, and then it would slowly meander its way up the twisting Nam–gang River until it reached the town of Sinpyong. The river voyage would then be over, and the cargo would be transferred to a truck and trailer and then driven fifty kilometers along the Pyongyang–Wonsan Highway until it reached the warehouse.

  Kornev was an expert at moving contraband by using many different types of routes and vehicles. But North Korea was a communication nightmare unto itself.

  The biggest problem was that cellphone service in North Korea was horrible, and it always had been. Going back to 2011, no mobile phones could dial in or out of the country, and there were no Internet connections. Ninety-four percent of the population had cellphones, yet only fourteen percent of the country had cellphone coverage. That made it difficult to carry out a sensitive and specialized job, like buying and selling weapons. Kornev could handle all the complicated methods of moving materials into North Korea. The spotty cellphone service made it a bitch to monitor the progress of shipments once they had entered North Korean borders.

  Kornev dialed the number he had listed for the driver of the diesel rig that was hauling the last missile part. He held his phone high in the air in hopes that the single bar on his phone would become two bars. He pressed the button to activate the speaker on his phone, so Trang Won Dong could hear the voice of whoever answered.

  A prerecorded Korean voice came on the line and said, “The party you are trying to reach is unavailable. Please try again at another time or leave a message.”

  Kornev listened and shook his head toward Trang. “I have a signal, but the truck driver does not,” Kornev said in his best Korean. He ended the call.

  Trang nodded his head in understanding and shoved another spoonful of snakehead fish stew into his mouth.

  Victor thought that he looked very happy sitting there eating his Korean crap, sitting on a wooden chair and baking in the office oven. Kornev thought about leaving to drive into Wonsan and maybe get a room at their best establishment, the Dongmyong Hotel. But that was a lot of effort to stay in a hotel that lacked maintenance and only intermittent electricity to power their elevators. But if you caught it on a good electricity day, you might even get to take a hot shower. Victor had been there once before and remembered the smell of the lobby was so bad he had to apply tiger balm to his upper lip to neutralize it. He could find the hotel’s restaurant without a problem by looking for the highest density of flies.

  Trang chewed with his mouth open, smacking his lips, making disgusting gooey sounds with his mouth. Kornev groaned slightly as he leaned forward and stretched his back. His ass felt like hamburger. He was tired and wanted to sleep. He was hungry and didn’t want to die by eating what was sitting on the crate. He just wanted the last missile part to arrive, so he could get his bag of diamonds and get the hell out of North Korea.

  His mind drifted back to his hotel stay in Nizhny Novgorod, Russia—at the beautiful Volna Hotel. And he also thought about the beautiful Tonya Merkalov he had met. He closed his eyes and imagined lying there in the air-conditioned room on the big overstuffed mattress with the lovely redhead in his arms. He could almost smell her female scent and feel her soft white skin against his—

  “Where’s the truck?” the North Korean grunted again.

  Kornev opened his eyes just in time to see a small wad of rice and fish fall out of the man’s mouth, landing on the dirty floor. Kornev felt his stomach turn.

  “Where in the hell was the damn truck?” Kornev thought to himself.

  Sometimes his job really sucked.

  Sea of Japan—Aboard the Hail Nucleus

  H

  ail heard a knock on his stateroom door. Either that or he was dreaming that he heard the sound. Drifting back to sleep, the annoying sound resurfaced. He rolled his face out of his pillow and toward the clock on his nightstand which read 12:05. What did that mean? Was it 12:05 a.m. or 12:05 p.m.? He started to close his eyes again. Louder now, he heard three hard bangs on his door.

  “Coming,” Hail said.

  He swung his legs over the side of his bed. He assumed it was Renner, so he didn’t bother pulling on a robe. He stood up, tugged his underwear into its proper location and answered the door.

  Through his blurry old eyes, he saw beauty.

  Kara Ramey was standing there making a T symbol with her fingers. Her index finger on her right hand was pointing up, and her index finger on her left hand was pointing sideways, crossing the other finger.

  “Truce,” she said with a smile.

  Hail was still trying to determine the time.

  “Nice tighty-whities,” Kara said as she looked at his white underwear.

  Hail looked down at his bare chest and followed Kara’s gaze down to his underwear.

  He quickly closed the door a few inches and stood behind it—two parts embarrassed to one part sleepy.

  “What do you want?” His words came out more drowsily than pissy.

  “Well, sleepyhead; if you had been looking at your phone, then you would have received an e-mail from Pepper with the aerials that you requested.”

  “Ummm,” was Hail’s response.

  “Can I come in?” Kara asked.

  “No,” Hail said with the same tone as if she had asked to shave his back.

  “Believe it or not, Marshall, I’ve seen guys in their underwear before. They look just like white Speedos. What’s the big deal?”

  Hail held his ground and asked, “Why are you here again?”

  “Two reasons. The first is to ask you out for breakfast or lunch or whatever you want to call it. The second is that Gage organized a meeting at one o’clock to discuss the ne
w photos. He told me to come get you up.”

  “Ummm,” Hail grunted again.

  “Can I come in?” Kara tried again.

  This time Hail shrugged his shoulders and said, “It’s your funeral.”

  He stepped back from the door and turned and began walking toward his bedroom.

  Kara pushed the door open the rest of the way. Before Hail had disappeared into his room, Kara commented, “Nice ass!”

  Hail ignored her. “I would ask you to make yourself at home, but I don’t think you have any issues with that,” Hail called out.

  “That’s OK,” Kara called back. “I have plenty of other issues to compensate.”

  Kara plopped down on the couch, somewhat disappointed that there was so little to look at in Hail’s stateroom. She scanned the walls and surfaces for something of interest. Nothing. Hardly a single item that would differentiate his room from that of an average hotel. Then she looked to her right and there on the end table, next to the couch, was a single framed 4 x 5 color photograph of Marshall Hail and his family.

  Kara was actually taken aback by how young and happy Hail looked in the photograph. The family was all dressed in heavy jackets, colorful puffy coats of down and nylon. Marshall had a pair of ski goggles strapped to his forehead. His wife was pretty, blond, petite and she looked timid. Her smile was fabricated. The manifestation of worry under the smile was genuine. Hail’s wife looked like she had something on her mind. Hail’s daughters were also blond and precious. His daughters’ smiles were real, not like the fake ones that Kara used in all the photos she had taken with her parents. Hail and his girls were kneeling in the deep snow with a giant snow-covered mountain in the background. Hail had a jacketed arm wrapped around each of his girls, and his wife was propped on his right shoulder. His wife—what was her name? Kara thought Madalyn looked uncomfortable. Kara wondered what Madalyn was thinking about that made her appear antsy. Maybe it was the first time her girls had skied and she was afraid they might get hurt. Maybe Madalyn was afraid that her husband would get hurt. But Kara sensed there was more.

  She reached over and picked up the photo and held it in her lap. She stared intently at Hail and wondered why he looked so different. Sure, he was a few years younger, but there was a fire in his eyes that Kara had never seen in him. A fire for life. A fire for being a father. And there was something deeper down under those blue eyes of his. Trapped behind that stare was the essence of what made Hail tick—the crux of what she felt Hail was all about. If she had to put it into a single word, then warmth would be the one she would choose. Hail had more than a fatherly look to him, he had a humanitarian look as if he would let the entire world stay at his home if it would make a difference. And as for his wife, Madalyn, she had the exact opposite look. She would not only refuse to let anyone stay at their home, but if they did, Kara thought Hail’s wife might hide under the bed.

  Kara set the photo back on the end table and felt guilty judging a woman that had been killed. But not horribly guilty. Kara would get over it. But Marshall Hail, on the other hand, was still very much alive, and Kara would continue to judge the hell out of him until she was sure she knew what made him tick. Whatever it was, things were different now. Back then, Hail was all about family. Now, Hail was all about killing. Damn, how far down the hill had he slid? But the real question that needed answering―was he still sliding?

  Hail walked out of his bedroom wearing a green polo shirt and brown cotton chino shorts. It was the typical outfit that she had come to expect from Hail. As Hail mentioned, the Hail Nucleus wasn’t a military ship. It wasn’t really a corporate vessel either; therefore, his crew could be dressed in just about any type of clothing that could be purchased from the ship’s mall.

  “Where do you want to eat?” Kara asked, rising from the couch.

  “I don’t know,” Hail said, finding his sandals next to the coffee table and stabbing his feet into them.

  “How about something breakfasty?” Hail suggested.

  Having successfully attached footwear to his feet, Hail looked up at Kara, who was now standing next to the door.

  She was wearing tight jeans and a white scoop neck blouse. Her red hair was done up in a neat ponytail, but she had left her bangs loose. She was wearing just a hint of makeup, but Hail felt that she really didn’t need it. It was like touching up the famous painting by Marcel Dyf called Claudine a l'Estampe. Kara Ramey looked remarkably similar to the woman in the French painting, ponytail and all.

  “They serve a good breakfast in the American restaurant,” Kara said.

  Hail walked toward the door, and Kara opened it and walked into the hallway, holding it open for Hail.

  Neither of them spoke as they made their way toward the restaurant.

  The breakfast bar was still open, and a half-dozen tables were occupied. Marshall and Kara helped themselves to an assortment of breakfast items and then found a table with a degree of separation from the others.

  Before Kara began eating, she said, “I wanted to apologize if I—if I—agitated you yesterday.” She chose the word agitated carefully, as it didn’t imply that she was either wrong, responsible or out of line in any manner. It was up to Hail how he chose to perceive her words, which could be negatively or possibly constructively.

  Hail looked away and stuck a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth.

  Kara took a sip of her apple juice and waited for Hail to respond. When he didn’t, she told him, “I think the main bone of contention we have right now is Kornev. If you can tell me any other issues we have, and I’m assuming you can’t, then we just need to come to an understanding about Kornev and we should be good, right?”

  Hail said nothing. He took a bite of bacon and looked at her passively.

  “So, this is my suggestion,” she said. “For now, you shelve your thoughts of whacking Kornev during this mission and give me time to see if I can get the information I need out of him. If you do that, then I promise I will deliver Kornev to you, all tied up in a pretty ribbon, and then you can do whatever you want to do with him.”

  Kara looked expectantly at Hail. “Deal?” she asked, offering out her hand.

  Hail reached out his hand, but instead of grasping Kara’s hand, at the last second, he moved it to the right and picked up his glass of orange juice.

  He took a sip and smiled at her. It was the first expression, other than somnolence, she had seen on his face all morning.

  “Now you’re smiling?” Kara said, reeling back in her hand. She wanted to call him an asshole but held her tongue.

  She said, “I don’t think you get it, Marshall. This means a lot to me. Believe it or not, I’m not colored red, white and blue. I do not work for the CIA because I love my country or I want to make a difference or any of that crap. I’m doing what I do in order to find out who killed my parents, and Kornev is the only link I have to that information. Do you understand?”

  Hail spoke, “I understand, but do you realize how crazy that sounds?”

  “Oh,” Kara huffed, “and kazillionaire making it his life mission to exterminate everyone on the FBI’s terrorist list isn’t crazy?”

  Hail considered her counter and said “Well, maybe you have a point.”

  “Marshall, let’s face it. We’re both screwed up individuals. I’ve got a demented program in my brain that just keeps running and so do you. There are plenty of other assholes in the world you can kill, so all I’m asking is that you refrain from killing my special asshole, and I promise I will help you kill more of yours.”

  Kara held out her hand again, and this time Hail shook it.

  “Great, now that we have that out of the way, we have about ten minutes to finish eating before Gage’s mission planning meeting starts,” Kara said.

  Hail responded by sticking a piece of toast into his mouth.

  The White House Oval Office—Washington, D.C.

  P

  resident Joanna Weston was sitting in one of two chairs at the end of the co
ffee table. The FBI Director Trevor Rodgers and General Quentin Ford were sitting on the couch to her right. On the couch to her left sat the director of the CIA, Jarret Pepper, and the Director of National Intelligence, Eric Spearman.

  Since Pepper had called for the meeting, he was the first to speak. “I wanted to provide everyone an update on Hail Storm,”

  “Hail Storm,” the president repeated, as if she were trying the words on for size. “I like that. Did you come up with that name, Jarret?”

  “Yes, I did,” Pepper lied.

  Pepper smiled at the group and continued, “My operative, Kara Ramey, was successful in tracking the shipment to a warehouse in Wonsan, North Korea.”

  Pepper looked the group over, and they looked impressed.

  Continuing, Pepper said, “She called in and reported that ninety-nine percent of the missile parts had arrived at the warehouse. She also sent me the exact coordinates of the warehouse itself.”

  The president interrupted and asked, “Just a little clarification. Ms. Ramey is working with Marshall Hail on this operation. So what part of this is Ms. Ramey, and what part of this is Marshall Hail?”

  Pepper considered the question and responded, “She is currently aboard one of Hail’s cargo ships, the Hail Nucleus. Hail has had every opportunity to keep her out of the operation’s specifics, but Kara has used her CIA training to obtain direct access to their mission center. She is providing us timely updates as to the progress of the mission as well as Hail’s internal capabilities.”

  “And what’s the latest update?” General Ford asked.

  “It’s Ramey’s understanding that Hail is preparing to make a strike on the warehouse.”

  “How and when?” the general asked.

  Pepper answered, “Kara reported that those mission elements have not been decided at this time.”

  “Not been decided?” the general repeated for effect. “There is no telling how long those parts will be in that warehouse. They could move them again at any time, and we may never find them again until—” The general hesitated and then finished, “Until it’s too late.”