by Rawlin Cash
He cursed himself for being stupid.
He shouldn't have told her anything.
He should have left
He'd told her too much.
And he'd made it too obvious that he was watching Lin.
He knew he was about to get an earful. And, he knew it was all justified.
Eight
"We're in a lot of shit now," Hank said. "I just got off the phone with Deputy Director Aspen. We're to head back to Langley. We can't risk this getting any bigger than it already is. Not right now. "
Hunter was sat on a wooden chair looking over a series of computer monitors Hank had set up. Littered across were empty potato chip bags and crushed cans of Coca-Cola. The guy had been up all night. Stress-eating. Hunter was looking over the security footage from the night before.
The Chinese special forces were good.
They were clean.
They ran in and ran out of the bar, most likely knowing that most patrons were too drunk to notice.
"What's Fawn worried about?" Hunter asked, not turning away from the monitor but zooming in on and digitally enhancing a bag the Chinese forces were carrying.
Hank waked back and forth. "It's not her as much as the CIA Director himself. Asher. That tight-assed prick who didn't want to send us here in the first place. He's worried that our operation may affect the President's meeting with the North Korean Supreme Leader in three days. The Chinese are all pissed off about it. They worry it will upset the balance of power in the region. Asher doesn't want China on edge. He wants East Asia to be at peace, at least until the President's summit is over."
"Makes sense," Hunter said.
Hunter had read in the news that the President was going to meet the Supreme Leader of North Korea in a historic meeting. President Raynor Ryan was going to get the Supreme Leader to sign a denuclearization pact and sign a document that would officially end the Korean War. As a result, the US would pull back on the sanctions they'd enforced on North Korea for decades.
"Yeah, well… Director Asher hasn't yet heard that the Chinese doctor we were after is dead."
Hunter laughed.
“You know, you shouldn’t have turned your headset off. I was in the dark.”
"You were a distraction."
"A distraction? Jack, I was your eyes and your ears. You need to trust me, man."
"I usually work alone. I'm not used to this."
"Fawn warned me that you were roguish. She asked if I was okay with dealing with someone who was going to treat me like trash. I told her I am used to it. My whole life, I've been bullied—mistreated. Ever since I was in grade school. Kids who like numbers and math like I did, well, they didn't make it through the system without getting a little messed up, without scars etched into their personality. I figured that whatever the hell you did to me, it wouldn't be as bad as what I had to deal with my whole life growing up, but, fuck… man… You are an asshole."
Hunter looked at him and nodded. "I know."
"You shouldn't have turned off your earpiece."
"There was girl," Hunter said, turning away from the monitors and looking at Hank. "A British woman. She was MI6. She spotted me watching the doctor."
"You didn't tell me there was a girl."
"I thought I'd wait until we spoke in-person."
"What was she after?"
“Lin.”
"Damnit," Hank said. "Looks like the whole world was after that guy."
Hunter nodded. "Looks like it."
"Shit," Hank said. "This is big then. eh?"
"Yeah... and by all accounts, we have to assume that the Chinese have the Mantis files. They most likely raided that room and got what they needed in that bad they pulled out.”
“Fuck,” Hank said. “That’s not good, man. Why’d the doctor kill himself?”
Hunter shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense. Questions on top of questions. We’ll need reevaluate everything in Langley.”
"Where's the woman now? The MI6 agent."
"In the hotel room I left her in."
"She's dead?"
"No," Hunter said. "I slept with her."
Hank laughed. "That's why I'm not a field operative." He grabbed hold of his belly and jiggled it. "Too many potato chips."
"And too much soda," Hunter said.
"Are you ready to leave? I've booked a flight for this evening. We're flying commercial. We'll be in Washington by the morning."
"I'm ready," Hunter said.
Nine
President Ryan Raynor was the youngest President to hold the office since JFK. He'd been recently elected on the promise that he would "Eradicate Corruption in DC." He'd campaigned on promises of changing the rules for the lobbyists and insiders who'd infected the capital like a disease. They'd been on a free ride for too long. He was a man who wanted reform, and, perhaps most dangerously, he was an outsider. He wasn't knee-deep in the swamp.
What made him realize he was on the right track was how he upset people on the political spectrum's left and right. Everyone seemed to hate him.
He'd replaced the first female President. President Meredith. She had four disappointing years in office, and the American people had had enough—she was more of the same. A dud. Corporate trash. The American people wanted a fresh start. They wanted someone who wasn't tied to the deep state, who wasn't bankrolled by massive finance companies on Wall Street, and who was willing to follow through with their promises of reform.
Raynor was a man of the people.
He was a veteran.
A businessman.
A father.
And most importantly, he was a bit of an asshole.
He told it like it was, which garnered him praise and criticism.
After serving eight years in the Navy and four on SEAL Team 4 in the War in Afghanistan, reaching the rank of Lieutenant Commander, he went home. He served as a legislative assistant to a Congressman in Nebraska. He thought politics would be a peaceful venture.
He learned he was wrong.
But Raynor wasn't afraid of a fight, and he didn't mind playing dirty. Helping matters, not one of his opponents could touch his record. The man was a bonafide hero.
During an operation in the Helmand province in Afghanistan, with his SEAL team badly outnumbered by Taliban fighters, Raynor had guided them all to safety. He managed to get them all out of there without losing one American.
"Is it true?" a New York Times reporter asked during his first televised press conference after he took office. "It's reported you killed at least five Taliban fighters."
"I'd rather not talk about that," Raynor said. "It's classified."
Of course, the media ate that up that response. Half of them called it brash and insensitive. Half said it was badass.
Again, he seemed to exist between the left and right spectrum.
Raynor wasn't trying to get the media excited by his responses. He was trying to change the conversation—he wanted to talk about policy and government. They just wanted to talk about him—about his past.
They were fools, the lot of them. Desperate for cheap clicks and a scoop. He was a man who'd worked hard all his life and wanted what was best for his country.
Still, it was impossible to be elected as President without getting a little muddy. The swamp was deep, and the creatures inside owned it.
Raynor had to accept certain truths.
If he were going to be elected, he'd have to be okay with a few insiders on his side. One of them was who he chose as a Vice-President, Kenneth Cosgrove. An insider who snarled every time Raynor walked into the room.
Raynor had selected Cosgrove because he knew that he needed a shield from the machine. If they fucked him over, they'd be fucking over one of their own.
For a while, the strategy seemed to work. But Raynor knew that he was earning new enemies daily. It was only a matter of time before his party turned on him or had him killed.
Still, he did what he felt he had to do.
He
did what was best for the American people.
They were the only thing that mattered to him.
His passion for the people destroyed his relationship with his wife. She'd been the first-lady for less than three months before they met the lawyers. When she signed the divorce papers, she called him the last true American patriot and just another American asshole.
Raynor didn't miss his wife as much as he missed his dog, an Irish Setter named Clancey.
After sitting in the office for almost a year, he decided to reach out to the Supreme Leader in North Korea, Kim Jong-Lee. He wanted to change things up. US policy wasn't working in the region. Tensions were growing by the hour. Nuclear war was not something he desired. He wanted to de-escalate. He wanted to give North Korea a chance to redeem themselves.
Jong-Lee was more than happy to agree to a meeting. Raynor told him the conditions and told him what was at stake. The beleaguered young Supreme Leader who helmed the unstable country was more than happy to establish a communication channel.
When Raynor told his advisors and Vice President Cosgrove that Jong-Lee had tentatively agreed to a tentative peace treaty, their mouths all dropped. Cosgrove was most upset—Raynor had taken a step too far, he'd crossed the line. He was going to piss off not just people on the left and right, but he was going to piss off big business.
"You realize they're our enemy?" Cosgrove said. "Jong-Lee is not to be trusted."
"Enemy?" Raynor asked. "The whole world is our enemy. Let's not parse words here, Kenneth. I know why you're upset. Peace is not profitable. Your investments will suffer. But look me in the eye and tell me that peace isn't the best option for the American people. Tell me with sincerity that this isn't the right move."
Cosgrove looked away from Raynor.
"Well, then it's settled," Raynor said. "Peace it is."
Cosgrove muttered under his breath.
Raynor dismissed it. He'd rather go to war with the military industrial complex and the deep state, the same assholes who'd sent him to Afghanistan and Iraq, the same dickheads who'd murdered thousands of American troops in the name of profit, than with North Korea and China.
It was time to put Americans first.
It was time to settle the wars of the twentieth-century once and for all.
Ten
Air Force One was the call sign used by official air traffic controllers to designate the United States President's aircraft.
The idea of a unique aircraft that carried the President first arose in 1943. Military and government officials realized that the aircraft that carried the President should convey a certain level of symbolism and power.
The first specialized aircraft that carried the President was a reconfigured C-87 Liberator Express. It was code-named Guess Where II. The Secret Service rejected the aircraft, however. They did not believe its safety record was up to par. So, a new aircraft came into service. It was a C-54 Skymaster—a twenty-six passenger beast with integral fuel tanks in the outer wings.
All that said, the Presidential aircraft wasn't given the call sign Air Force One until 1953, after the President's Lockheed Constellation aircraft, Columbine II, entered the same airspace as a commercial airline flight using the same flight number. The air traffic controllers working at the airport that day needed some way to distinguish between the two, and thus the name Air Force One came to be.
The current Air Force One model was a Boeing VC-25. It was a highly modified Boeing 747-200BS, and it cost well over 3.9 billion to manufacture. Embellished with the American flag, the American seal, and the words 'United States of America' on its fuselage, it was more than just a symbol of American exceptionalism—it was a symbol of power and fear.
The current Air Force One was as tall as a six-story building and looked like an authoritative presence wherever it flew. Inside, there were more than four thousand square feet of interior floor space, including a conference room, a dining room, private quarters for the President, offices for senior staff members, a medical operating room (a doctor flew on every flight), a press area, two food-preparation galleys that together provided over one hundred meals per flight, and multifrequency radios for air-to-air and air-to-ground communication. It had more than 238 miles of electronic wiring inside. According to leaked documents, the aircraft had a special shielding that protected it from electromagnetic pulses associated with a nuclear blast.
It was a military fortress in the sky.
It was the most powerful aircraft in the world.
It cost the American taxpayer more than $206,337 per flight, which was why President Raynor made sure that the taxpayer was in mind when he used its services.
Not the lobbyists.
Not the scum in Washington.
Not his Vice President.
Raynor was in the Presidential Suite. Thirty thousand feet in the sky. He looked out the window. Foreign land. Land that had very rarely played nice with the United States.
North Korea.
He played with his wedding ring. He'd have to take it off before exiting the plane. He couldn't be seen with it on. He was the first sitting President to be divorced on the job.
She didn't like his commitment.
Unfortunately, that was non-negotiable,
The pilot's voice came through the intercom.
"We're going to be experiencing some slight turbulence as we approach for landing, Mr. President."
"Understood," Raynor said. "Just bring us in nice and slow."
He strapped himself into his seat, and as the aircraft warbled up and down in the pockets of air pressure, he closed his eyes.
He forgot about his wedding ring.
He couldn't think about that now.
His mission was too important.
As the aircraft touched down, he remembered that he hadn't checked the Kansas City Chiefs game's score.
When Air Force One came to a complete stop, he pulled out his phone and checked the NFL scores.
The Chiefs were playing the New England Patriots.
They'd won.
41-31.
A close game.
He unbuckled himself and stood up, checking that his suit was still sharp and not wrinkled. "
The head of his security opened the door.
His name was Sid Jackson. He was an Iraq war vet and the same age as Raynor. The two men got along well.
"How're you doing, Jackson?"
The stoic Jackson smiled. "I'm doing fine, sir."
"Did you see the score of the Giants game?"
Jackson didn't want to give away that he knew the score. He was supposed to be on alert always.
"Don't be an asshole," Raynor said. "I know you and the boys in the back were watching the game. It went to overtime. That quarterback. He's got an arm."
Jackson smiled. "Yes, he does, Mr. President."
Raynor smiled.
The two men left the Presidential suite and made their way out of the aircraft.
Before leaving, Raynor met his press secretary, Clark Gibb.
Gibb leaned in toward him. "They've brought a damn parade for you, sir."
"They have?"
"Yes, sir."
"Fuck," Raynor said. "I told him to keep it quiet."
"According to our security on the ground, there's more than ten thousand people waiting to greet you on the tarmac."
Raynor smirked. "I'm here to sign a paper. Nothing more. Once it is done, we head back to Washington."
"Absolutely."
Jackson stuck his head out of the aircraft first. If this whole meeting were a trap, he'd take the shot to the head first. He scanned the crowd—right to left. There didn't seem to be any threats, but he couldn't be sure with that many people.
Raynor pushed past Gibb and followed Jackson out of the aircraft. He waved and smiled at the thousands of North Koreans.
He realized halfway down the Air Force One steps that he'd forgotten to take off his wedding ring.
He cursed himself and kept walking.
At the far end of the red carpet was the diminutive, plump Supreme Leader of North Korea, Kim Jung-lee.
The plump little man seemed happy. He waved furiously at the American President and had a bright, stupid smile plastered across his face. His armpits were damp with stains. His forehead glistened with sweat.
Raynor made his way toward the stout man. He smiled and acknowledged the waving crowd, knowing full well that those people, those citizens, were terrified for their lives—he couldn't see it. Still, he knew a gun was to each of their heads, if not literally, then definitely metaphorically.
Be happy.
Smile.
Or die.
Those were the orders they'd all been given.
Everything in North Korea was make-believe. Fake. Done up to make the world believe that they were peaceful, more powerful, and happier than they were.
Propaganda was the name of the game in the country. Hell, a small village in the Korean Demilitarized Zone, the DMZ, had become synonymous with this game of deception. Kijong-dong was situated one mile away from a South Korean village, Daeseong-dong in the DMZ, but Kijong-dong was no normal village. It was widely referred to as Propaganda Village, not just because of the loudspeakers that blasted DPRK propaganda toward the South, but also because many of the village's brightly painted buildings were believed to be empty shells—built to imply that North Korea was better off than they were.
Deception. Lies.
Raynor knew those smiling faces staring at him as he walked toward the Supreme Leader were like those buildings, empty shells. Nothing more to them than that.
He walked up to the Korean Supreme Leader, extended his right hand, and shook it sternly.