by Rawlin Cash
By the end of the day, he'd hope that the threat of a nuclear war with the country would be a thing of the past. He was a soldier, but he knew peace was always the best option.
Fourteen
Hunter walked into the dark conference room in Langley. Director Asher was sat at the head of a large conference table. He was smoking a cigar and shook his head when he saw Hunter.
"You're Jack Hunter?" Asher asked.
The two men hadn’t met yet.
"Yes," Hunter replied.
"You're in a load of trouble, boy."
Hunter smirked. He pulled up a chair and sat down beside Fawn. She looked like a disappointed child, like her father had just scolded her for breaking a family tree ornament.
"Just get to the point," Hunter said.
Asher smirked. "Deputy Director Aspen begged me to allow you back in the agency. I shouldn't be surprised that it all turned to shit. Everything you touch turns to shit. You were one of Hale’s men—a legion of morons. Hell, up until a month ago, I thought you were dead.”
Hunter laughed. "You're not lying about being a moron.”
Asher continued, "Since you’re a black ops officer, most of your records have been blacked out, erased. It's my understanding that you were a Mantis operative."
"That's right."
"And the reason I agreed to let Fawn bring you back was that I thought the fact that you had a personal connection to the project and the deceased, former CIA Director Jeff Hale, that you would treat this operation with a kind of respect. That you wouldn't go in there guns-akimbo."
Hunter stared at Asher and didn't flinch. He studied Asher’s every gesture. The new CIA Director was in the dark about Hale's past, that much was obvious. He was precisely as Fawn had described. He was a different. "So, I take it I'm off the operation?"
Asher smiled. "You're not getting off that easy. You were supposed to interrogate the suspect and then kill him. If I'm to believe Fawn, after you walked to the room, the suspect died. Did you forget how to do your job?”
Fawn lifted her head and spoke. "Sir, I told you Jack denies killing him.”
"This is ridiculous," Asher said. "You know why I was chosen to be Director? Because I don't give this paranoid, spy-game bullshit any credence. We need to move out of the Cold War as an agency. We're too messy. If Doctor Lin was killed, it was because you made a mistake."
"So, you want me to bring him back from the dead?" Hunter asked, with a slight chuckle.
"You both think because I am new to the CIA that I am easily dismissed," Asher said. "That's simply not the case. You're going to stick around Langley. What I find odd is that you're the only surviving member of the Mantis division. I've set up a group of psychologists and lawyers to ask you questions. You're not leaving until I find out what this is all about. I don’t trust you.”
"Fuck you," Hunter said.
Asher laughed. "Big words for a man with a drinking problem."
Hunter gritted his teeth.
"Ah, I see I've finally got through to you," Asher said. "Fawn told me all about the state she found you in. Her report mentioned suicidal tendencies—that’s why I agreed to the G-12. Listen, I want you to stick around until I know as much about the Mantis division as you do. And I don't want either of you to leave the country. Chinese authorities are already investigating the death of Doctor Lin. This could blow up in our face.”
Hunter sighed. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll do whatever you want.”
“I want you to stay here. The President is in North Korea. We need to be careful. If we upset China, it could throw us into another Cold War.”
"We're already in a Cold War," Hunter replied.
"We're not!" Asher snapped back. "You are too old school. The world is changing, bucko. Big data and big tech are changing the way we do business around here. Do you want to know who our competitors are now? They're not who you think—China? Russia? The biggest intelligence companies in the world are all located in Silicon Valley. The CIA let their guard down by acting like the Cold War was still a thing. Hale was wrong to invest in programs like Mantis. He should have been hiring computer programmers. Technology is where we should be investing our efforts in. Hell, a kid with a computer can uncover more information than six officers out on the field."
Hunter sighed. Asher was putting too much into technology. He was ignorant of the messy truths of the world. "A kid isn't going to put a bullet into someone's head," Hunter said. "A computer program can only do so much."
Asher shifted in his seat. "A computer program wouldn't have let a Chinese doctor kill himself in a brothel."
"Our intel was bad. We should have known better."
"Our intel was fine," Asher shot back. "It's your old-school antics that resulted in his death. You should have been more careful."
"Are we done?" Hunter asked.
"You've got somewhere to be?"
"The sight of your face is making me sick, and I need a drink."
Asher laughed. "All you old school types, you always find a way to drown your sorrows."
Hunter pushed himself up.
Fawn followed.
Before leaving, Asher said to Fawn, "You're on probation Deputy Director Aspen. I don't want to see you in Langley for the next two weeks."
Fawn nodded.
Outside the Director's office, Fawn and Hunter took a moment to connect.
"You want to get a drink?" Hunter asked.
"Yes," Fawn said.
Fifteen
Fawn and Hunter walked into a bar thirty minutes away from the Langley campus. It was a small place called Doogies, and it shared a parking lot with a Walmart and McDonalds.
It was eight PM, and they were both tired. They were still adjusting to the time difference, and after spending an hour listening to the Director harp on them for fucking up the Amsterdam operation, they needed a drink.
Hunter was nursing a pilsner.
Fawn was drinking a Manhattan.
They were sat at a booth.
On the television above the bar was a live feed of the President's cavalcade and security detail as they made their way through the North Korean capital of Pyongyang. The President's limo had just parked outside the Supreme Stadium, where the peace treaty was going to be signed. The early morning sun cut through a thick fog and cast the whole ceremony in pink.
Hunter chuckled as he watched the news.
Fawn sipped her Manhattan and leered up at him. She was feeling depressed. She'd thrown her life into her work since taking over as Deputy Director, believing that she was on the path to become the CIA Director one day—but now that felt like a pipe dream. And if it was nothing more than fantasy, what did she have to fall back on? Nothing. She'd neglected her personal life for work—no relationships, no friends. She even turned down the opportunity to get a dog, believing that she wouldn't have had time for it.
Hunter listened to the news anchor on the television. The anchor was smarmy, and he had a high-pitched voice. "Many see this meeting as a publicity stunt and condemn the President's actions—they see it as nothing more than a distraction. The Vice President has publicly declared that he is not on-board with the peace treaty and has called President Raynor's actions to meet with the North Korean Supreme Leader foolish."
Hunter finished his beer and called out to the bartender for another. He then turned his attention back to the TV. The Vice President's ugly mug was plastered across it. Hunter growled.
Fawn turned her attention to Hunter. "Do you think this is going to make a difference?"
"What?"
"The peace treaty?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Raynor's going to get himself assassinated before he gets what he wants. The elites in Washington thought they were getting a war hero. They didn't anticipate that he'd want peace."
"I hate this city," Fawn said.
"It's just the way it is."
The bartender brought Hunter another pilsner and then turned his attention
to Fawn. "Another Manhattan, miss?"
"Yes," Fawn said, quickly downing the rest of her drink in one gulp.
The bartender smiled. "My kind of lady." He grabbed the empty glass and disappeared.
Hunter kept watching the news.
Fawn looked at him and felt sorry. She was the one that had brought him back into this mess. He was a broken man—and all she could offer him were the drugs he needed to sedate the mind experiments Hale had performed on him.
Hunter noticed her gaze.
"Don't look at me like that," he said.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be."
"I'm just as bad as Hale… and everyone else," she said.
"No," Hunter said. "You're not."
"I am."
"Fuck that 'woe is me' shit. You are what you are. The one thing you have going for yourself is that, unlike most in DC and Langley, you're trying to do what's right. You remind me of the President, actually. You're honest, but you're also… foolish."
The bartender appeared back at the booth with the Manhattan.
Fawn clenched her jaw and grabbed hold of the glass by the stem. She slugged back the whole drink in one gulp. She didn't care how sweet it was, how many calories were in each one.
"Wow!" the bartender said.
"Another one," Fawn said.
The bartender shuffled back to the bar.
Hunter turned his attention back to the television.
President Raynor was making his way across the stadium field toward a large stage. With any luck, history was about to be made. Raynor was about to end an almost century-long war.
Hunter noted the security detail surrounding the President as he walked toward the stage. The Secret Service members looked tense. That didn't surprise Hunter, though. After all, North Korea was one of those countries that the United States had never gotten along with. They had every right and reason to be paranoid.
President Raynor had a broad smile on his face. He looked confident and self-assured. Hunter had a relic of sympathy for the poor bastard. He knew that Raynor was a soldier and a man who'd seen some bad shit. The President was taking a risk going to North Korea—a risk that he, most likely, sincerely believed was going to make the lives of the average American citizen better.
As the President walked on to the stage, the news channel cut to an interview.
"And here it is, the President of the United States shaking hands with a dictator," the Vice President said. "How far has this great nation fallen? How low can we go as a country? Is this what the future of America holds? We're going to be bed buddies with the worst of the worst?"
Hunter chuckled when he heard that turn of phrase.
"What's so funny?" Fawn asked.
"It's just the same old military industrial complex bullshit," Hunter said. "They're trying to make the President look weak because he doesn't want to drop any bombs or send any of our boys to die. It's a fucking shit show. No one wants to change a damned thing.”
Fawn joined Hunter in watching the news.
The President was shaking hands with the Supreme Leader. They were smiling. Cameras flashed. All of a sudden, the camera that was filming the event fell on to its side. Bright flashes appeared in the direction where the President was standing.
Explosions.
Men with weapons appeared.
Screams.
Then the signal cut to black.
Hunter watched it calmly.
The peace treaty had failed.
Sixteen
The President's entourage of security vehicles pulled up to the stadium entrance. KPA soldiers created a barrier for Raynor to enter through. Screaming hordes of North Korean citizens were on the other side—waving flags, proclaiming their love for the President and the Supreme Leader, and smiling. It was an intimidating scenario, one full of danger and power.
Jackson stepped out of his SUV and approached Raynor's limo. He had secured at least fifteen bullet-proof SUVs to protect the President. He'd also gotten access to a variety of nearby skyscrapers to provide overwatch. He'd sent a team of Secret Service members to North Korea two weeks before. Their mission was to up security positions and analyze the surrounding area—the KPA had helped with the setup. The KPA gave the Secret Service security camera access to all the surrounding streets and allowed the President's team to set up radio frequency jammers.
The stadium where the peace treaty was to be signed was in the unused Supreme Stadium. A building designed to hold over 120,000 guests and one that had never been used. The previous Supreme Leader had constructed it in the middle of their capital, Pyongyang, in the hopes that it would garner international attention. He was hoping for either the World Cup or the Olympics to be hosted in his nation. He didn't get either.
Jackson opened the door of the President's limousine, scanned the tops of the nearby buildings, and then radioed the nearby Secret Service members.
"Are we clear?" he asked.
"All good," a voice in a nearby tower that overlooked the stadium said.
Raynor walked out of the limousine and nodded at Jackson. "You ready to make some peace?"
Jackson nodded.
The two men and an entourage of Secret Service staff and Cheryl made their way into the stadium. A group of North Korean KPA special officers met them past the front doors. Jackson looked at them all wearily. He didn't like the looks on their faces. They seemed too calm, too eager.
"Sir, I think we should pull back," Jackson said.
"Nonsense," Raynor said. "They're not going to try anything. Your team has been here for weeks. We're good."
Jackson grunted and acknowledged that the President was probably right.
Raynor took the lead. He guided his team toward the stadium grounds. As he stepped out into the large, expansive field, he felt a sense of awe. The place was packed. The tenants were holding up giant North Korean and American flags in the stands.
A long pathway had been set up for Raynor to follow. At the far end was the Supreme Leader, a stout, round young man with an unusual haircut.
Raynor took a deep breath, smiled, and waved. He knew that the whole world was watching the interaction. He knew how important optics were in Washington, and he wasn't going to give his Vice President another excuse to criticize him.
The Supreme Leader of North Korea stood just under five feet. He had wide legs and a round stomach that pushed out his awkward military suit. He wore it like his grandfather and father. Beads of sweat were dripping down the young leader's face. He looked like a man under as much stress as Raynor.
The US President walked up the steps toward where the Supreme Leader was waiting for him. He extended his hand, smiled, and then turned toward the group of photographers at the base of the stage.
The sweaty palm of the Supreme leader grasped Raynor's.
"This will be a great new dawn of peace for both of our countries," the Supreme Leader said.
"Absolutely," Raynor said.
The cameras flashed.
The crowd cheered.
It was going exactly as planned.
The hard part was almost done.
Jackson and Cheryl were at the wings of the stage. Cheryl was smiling, clapping her hands along with the crowd. Jackson had the same nervous look on his face that he'd had when he walked into the stadium.
Raynor kept hold of the Supreme Leader's hand as the cameras continued to flash.
It was then that he heard the first bomb go off. He thought it was a firecracker, but he'd soon learn that it was something far more awful. The bombs continued to go off and were quickly replaced by sounds of gunfire and screams. Raynor dropped to his knees. He'd let go of the Supreme Leader, who looked just as panicked as he was.
Was he wrong to trust the Supreme Leader?
Was it all a grand ploy?
When the Supreme Leader's head burst into chunks of bone and flesh, Raynor knew that something far more sinister was afoot.
Seventeen
Raynor
lay face-first on the floor of the stage. His hands over the back of his head—he was doing what he'd been trained to do in the event of an assassination attempt—but also, he was scared. All around him were dead bodies. The Supreme Leader was on the floor, a hole the size of an orange in his head.
Raynor froze in terror when he saw the dead leader drop in front of him. The man who just a few seconds earlier was looking him in the eye and smiling. Everyone had warned him that it was a risk coming to North Korea, but he'd pushed through with it anyway. He'd believed he was doing the right thing. Was he wrong?
In the distance, the sounds of military vehicles, explosions, and gunfire erupted. The hundred and twenty thousand people in the crowd were fleeing in all directions—doing whatever they could to get out of the stadium. Some had run onto the field. Some had run into the hallways and stairwells. It was a calamity.
Jackson screamed at the President to get up.
"Mr. President! Mr. President! Get off the stage!"
Raynor heard Jackson, but he couldn't move.
Jackson saw that the President was stricken with fear and ran to him. The head of the Secret Service had pulled out his Sig Saur P229 handgun and helped the President up.
"Mr. President, are you okay?"
Raynor shook his head. It'd been a while since he'd been in a battle, but that didn't explain the fear he felt. He didn't know why he felt so nervous.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"Follow me, sir."
Raynor pushed himself up and followed Jackson off the stage of the stadium. Cheryl was hiding behind a group of speakers. Jackson turned to her. "Follow me."
Cheryl ran from cover and followed the head of the secret service.
Jackson led Raynor and Cheryl to a small booth that had been set up on the field. He looked out at the stadium grounds. The exit was at least fifty yards from their position. But the only way to get to it meant that they would have to run out into the open.
"Fuck," Jackson cursed.
"Who are they?" Raynor asked.
"I don't know, sir."