Hollow Point

by Rawlin Cash

  "Yeah, but I have no damning evidence on the Vice President yet," Hank said. "That's what we're waiting for. We're Plan B."

  "We need to act as if Jack has already failed," Fawn said.

  "You're not giving him much of a chance, eh?" Hank said.

  "No."

  "Why's that?"

  "He's in a foreign land. He's alone. And..." She stopped herself from continuing. She didn't need to tell Hank that Hunter's mind was fractured like broken glass, that he was addicted to a strange CIA produced drug.

  "I don't have many connections with the media," he said.

  "I do."

  "So, you want me to hand the transcripts over to you?"

  "Yes."

  "Alright," he said. "But I'm still betting on, Jack. I bet he gets the job done."

  "In any case, releasing the transcripts will buy him time. It will take weeks before Washington decides to act. You know how it is."

  Hank nodded. She was right. "I guess that's why you brought me along, eh?"

  "Exactly."

  Fawn attempted a smile, but she couldn't do it.

  Hank left her office, and she closed her eyes.

  She shook her head.

  She wanted Hunter to succeed, but she couldn't rely on him. This wasn't like Saudi Arabia or Mexico. The entire geopolitical establishment was under threat. World order was on the line. If Hunter failed, the entire world would change.

  Thirty-Two

  Cosgrove's meeting with the joint chiefs went as expected. The nuclear strike thirty miles west of Hawaii was unprecedented in all of American history. They wanted war. He wanted patience.

  The Chinese had made assurances to him that if he played along, he’d become one of the richest men in the world.

  The joint chiefs argued in favor of a unilateral strike. They told Cosgrove that the North Korean coup d'etat would have to be put to a stop, by any means possible. NATO allies were frustrated by the lack of response from US forces. They wanted to know why the Vice President was standing idly by while the President was being held captive.

  The chiefs of the Air Force and Navy made it clear to the vice president that they were ready. With the help of the Army, their forces were already mobilizing and could be in North Korea within hours.

  All Cosgrove had to do was give the word.

  They were sat in a large room in the basement of the White House. The situation room. They were seated around a long Brazilian oak wood table.

  The chairman and vice-chairman made up the plan. They presented it to the Vice President, the secretary of Defense, and the Homeland security and national security council.

  Cosgrove pushed the documents detailing the plans for invasion aside.

  "We're not going to war, gentleman," he said. "Not yet, at least. I've ordered to remain on standby. You need to follow my orders."

  "Sir," the chief of the Air Force said. "America looks weak right now. If we don't act when our President is in danger..."

  Cosgrove cut him off. "The President acted foolishly. He went to a foreign land, and he tried to make peace. I'm doing what is best for America."

  The joint chiefs shared nervous glances at each other.

  "Sir, if we just sit by and let this happen, China and North Korea will dominate the region for decades to come. They'll think we won't respond to signs of aggression. We can't let that happen."

  Cosgrove waved his hand dismissively. "The United States doesn't need to have its fingers in every cookie jar around the planet," he snapped. "Let China have Asia. We have North and South America. We'll control our domain. They can control theirs."

  There was a look of shock across the joint chiefs' faces. Vice President sounded like a traitor.

  The Director of National Intelligence, the DNI, spoke up. He was an ally of Cosgrove’s. "I've spoken with the Chinese ambassador. He supports our stance. We will look for a peaceful resolution to the conflict. Hopefully, General Woo will give up President Raynor."

  "You're going to make a deal with Woo?" the chief of the Navy said.

  “Perhaps,” Cosgrove said.

  "We can't let a rogue general do what he's done to us. We can't back down," one of the chiefs said.

  Cosgrove turned back to the rest of them. "I'm going to issue a statement with my allies tomorrow."

  "They're going to execute him in four days?" the chief of Navy said.

  "Then we have four days."

  Suddenly, Cosgrove felt a tapping at his back. It was the NSA. "Sir, Mr. Vice President, you should see this..." He showed Cosgrove his phone.

  "Fucking.... hell," Cosgrove muttered. He looked up at the joint chiefs. "You're all dismissed. You sons of bitches leave my sight at once."

  The joint chiefs looked at each other with confused expressions. They didn't realize that Cosgrove had just read the latest headline of the Washington Herald.

  A leaked document revealed that the military was upset with the Vice President. Half of DC was up in arms. His political rivals would seize this leak and use it to undermine him.

  Cosgrove gritted his teeth.

  He had an idea of who had leaked the document, and he was going to stop at nothing to put whoever did leak it six feet under.

  Thirty-Three

  The last people on the planet to hear about the scandal in Washington concerning the Vice President were Hunter and Margot. It'd been three days since they'd left Hawaii, and it'd been the first time in months that Hunter could get some good sleep.

  They hadn't heard about the events in Washington because submarines are severely limited when it comes to electronic emissions. They do this because enemies could decipher their location by pinging the signal.

  Still, the fact that they're submerged for months on end means they can’t be blind for that period of time, they need the ability to communicate. And because salt water is not a very good electrical conductor, radio waves do not travel well through it. In order to communicate with their command authorities, subs use very low frequency, or VLF, radio waves to transmit information.

  All of this meant that Hunter did not know that Fawn doubted the operation. She was already working on Plan B. She was trying to undermine the Vice President from the inside. A hazardous proposition.

  Margot knocked on Hunter's cabin door.

  "We're going back under. Next stop the Sea of Japan."

  Hunter pushed himself up from his bed and let Margot into his room. He hadn't seen her since the night in the mess hall.

  "You look well-rested," she said.

  "I'm feeling more like my old self," Hunter said.

  "Are you ready?"

  "Yes."

  "Good," she said. "In four hours, we should be in position."

  "Did you read over the instructions for operating the delivery vehicle?"

  “You mean the torpedo you're going to strap me to?"

  "Yes," she said.

  "I've read them."

  “You have two days to find your President and save Asia,” she said.

  He chuckled.

  Margot had given Hunter six gigantic textbooks of instructional and theoretical writing on the submersible delivery system taking him toward North Korean soil. The more Hunter read about it, the less he wanted to know.

  Essentially, he'd be crammed inside an augmented torpedo shell. The instructional manuals mostly went over what to do in the case of emergency, but Hunter knew that was bullshit. If something went wrong, he'd be dead. He wouldn't have the time to react, nor the space to put on any scuba gear. And, even if he had the time and even if he managed to squeeze his way out of the submersible, the water would be so cold that he'd die from hypothermia in seconds.

  "When we're done here, what are you doing?" Hunter asked.

  "The Triumph is scheduled to head back to Hawaii. From there, I'll head back to London."

  "So after this, we may never see each other again."

  “Never say never.”

  He didn't want to say goodbye, but she was too good f
or him. He'd just bring her down into the depths of his pain like the submarine was miles under the surface of the ocean.

  Margot left the room, and Hunter fell back onto his bed.

  His mind had felt less fractured thanks to the drugs, but he didn't feel right. He'd noticed that lately, he was having to up his G-12 dosage to get the same effect in his system. It was a problem that he wasn't sure how he was going to get around. He had enough to last him at least a week, but if shit hit the fan, he'd need more.

  He closed his eyes.

  His time of rest was over.

  It was time to get to work.

  Thirty-Four

  Before heading to the torpedo chamber, Hunter went to the armory and stocked up. He had to be picky with what he brought to North Korea, though. Based on the size of the delivery vehicle, he had to travel light.

  In the armory, he picked up an M9 with an attached Beretta 02 Series Gen 3 barrel, Spartan Tritium sights, and Grade 3 deluxe grips. In terms of his primary weapon, he chose to go with an M4 carbine. He wanted something small and light. He attached an A4 sight to the M4 and grabbed six magazines. He hoped that the Liberators he'd be meeting on the shore had extra ammo and firepower.

  With his gear all set, he traversed the sub's narrow passageways and made his way to Margot and Gus. He met Gus in the hallway just outside the torpedo room's doors.

  "Are you ready, mate?" Gus asked.

  "We'll soon find out."

  "I've tried to talk to Margot the past couple of days, but she's ignoring me."

  "Why are you telling me that?" Hunter growled.

  "Do you guys have a thing for each other?"

  Hunter rolled his eyes. "No."

  "She likes you."

  "I don't care."

  "You should," Gus said. "She's a one-in-a-million."

  Hunter shrugged. "Are we going into the torpedo chamber or not?"

  Gus pushed open the door, and Hunter walked inside.

  The captain of the S-91 Triumph was standing next to Margot. They were going over logistics.

  Margot looked at Hunter and smiled. "Did you get what you needed from the armory?"

  "As long as your boys in North Korea take me directly to where the President is, I should be fine. Hopefully, they should have some extra ammo on them."

  "They're the biggest rebel group in the whole country. You should be fine."

  Hunter looked at the delivery vehicle. It was loaded into the tube that he was about to be fired from. It looked smaller than what had been printed up in the schematics and manuals he'd been reading.

  "You think you're going to fit into that thing?" Captain Murray said with a light chuckle.

  "Tell me again why you need to fire me from a missile?" Hunter said to Margot. "I think I'd prefer my chances if I swam."

  "North Korea has quite a radar system. We need this to be quick to avoid detection. If they detect an unusual signal coming from the Sea of Japan, they'll throw their army at it. You won't have much time, and the Liberator's you're meeting will be quickly overrun. This is stealthy. This is secure."

  "It's smaller than it was in the manuals..."

  "The engineers needed to make a few concessions in regards to the size. It was last minute."

  "Fuck," Hunter grunted.

  The submersible was ten feet long and three feet in diameter. The small chamber that Hunter was supposed to lie down in was no longer than six feet. He'd have to bend his knees and twist his back to fit into it properly. He'd then be pushed farther into the torpedo launch tube and then fired into the cold water. Three seconds after launch, he'd have to take control of the device and manually guide the missile to the shore. They wouldn't be able to remotely control the device as that might ping North Korean radar. It had to be manual, and Hunter would have to rely on a series of numbers in front of him. There was a small screen that would be inches from his face detailing all the vital information. It would show his knots, depth, and, thanks to a small sonar, his distance from nearby objects. The closer he was to the shore, the louder the sonar pings would be, and the sooner he would have to surface. All he had to do was guide it straight. His controls were limited to speed and up and down.

  It wasn't unlike a SEAL delivery vehicle or SDV—a small manned submersible used by the Navy SEALSs and their equipment for special operations missions. The only difference, this was smaller and much, much faster.

  The SEAL delivery vehicle was twenty-two feet long and was much slower. Its top speed clocked at six knots.

  The first SDV dated back to World War II by the Italian Navy. The British copied the vehicle, and its specifications—the Italian name for the device was Siluro a Lenta Corsa or 'Slow-running torpedo.' While the British never launched the device as part of an actual operation, they kept it in their tech.

  The first American version of the SDV was launched in June 1972. It was one man and didn't seem very functional. But years later, and after much re-engineering, it became an essential part of operations.

  “Alright,” Hunter said. “What are we waiting for.”

  He put on a wetsuit and oxygen tank, loaded his weapons, and G-12 vials into a water-proof duffelbag, and kissed Margot on the head. “I guess this is goodbye."

  "You don't know that,” she said.

  Gus watched the exchange and clenched his jaw.

  Hunter climbed into the delivery vehicle and got himself ready. He was about to experience what it felt like to be a torpedo.

  Thirty-Five

  Three officers were operating the torpedo chamber. Hunter was inside the small delivery vehicle. On the tiny digital screen in front of him, he could see a countdown. In ten seconds, he'd either be blasted to smithereens or be sailing at an incredible velocity toward hostile territory. He didn't know what was worse.

  When the timer hit zero, he felt a sudden force pull him back. It was like a jet engine was pulling him into the ocean. He gripped the control of the delivery vehicle and took big deep breaths just in case the thing broke apart in the sea. It didn't matter that he had an oxygen tank on. he wanted to make sure he had enough air in his lungs.

  The delivery vehicle shook violently as it cut through the thick and powerful currents.

  Hunter watched the numbers on the screen flash in and out in an absurd-like fashion.

  He was traveling at twenty knots.

  Not necessarily fast by surface speeds, but underwater it felt different.

  He carefully adjusted the controls of the vehicle. Lifting or pulling down on a tiny joystick by his hands.

  He was a minute from the shore at his current speed.

  The next sixty seconds of his life felt like an entire day. Warning sign after warning sign flashed across the digital display. He was prepared for death at any moment.

  But after a minute of sheer terror, he lifted the vehicle so that it broke the surface of the sea just about fifty yards from the rocky beach where he'd meet Liberator forces. He pulled the vehicle to a stop.

  Once at the surface, he pushed a small button, popping open the hatch.

  He felt sick and needed to breathe fresh air. Making matters worse, the sudden change in pressure had messed up his head. He could feel a swell of blood rush to his brain. His vision grew dark in the corners. He felt nauseous but worse, bits and pieces of his memory came flooding back like a waking nightmare. The faces of the CIA operatives he'd slaughtered flashed in front of him. He remembered the crimes he'd committed in Mexico to get close to El Sucio.

  He was a monster. It was clear to him. He was not a good person.

  He wanted a drink.

  He wanted a drug.

  He pulled back on the lever that controlled the vehicle's speed and reached for the duffel bag with his supplies. He pulled out his stash of G-12, but he felt his head swell again. It was bad. He dropped the bag into the water.

  His drugs were gone.

  He desperately reached for them, but he couldn’t get them.

  He waded in the water in the vehicl
e for a few seconds.

  He wasn’t sure what to do.

  He didn’t know how long his mind would hold out.

  Two days.

  He just had to last two days.

  He cranked on the throttle and guided it toward the rocky shore.

  The moon was out, and it was cold.

  Each breath emitted from his mouth hung in the air like a tiny cloud. The only saving grace was that the water was relatively calm.

  Once he made it to the beach, he dragged the vehicle and hid it behind some rocks. He then took off his wet suit and checked his weapons.

  He was ready.

  But he had one question: Where the hell were the Liberators?

  Thirty-Six

  Kim Seung-gi had grown up poor. His father was a farmer, and his mother was a school teacher. In North Korea, that meant that they were almost destitute. In the winter, Kim had to sleep in his snowsuit since their farmhouse did not have any heating. His older brother, Lee, died of influenza when Kim was twelve.

  During his brother's funeral, after his father laid the small wooden casket he'd built into the still-frozen soil, two government officials arrived at their house. They informed Kim's father that the house was going to be brought down for a mining project. They had one week to leave.

  Seeing his father's face that day made Kim hate the Supreme Leader more than anything else. And he grew angry when his parents didn't share that same hatred.

  They had a strange adoration for the Supreme Leader. They believed him a god.

  Kim's parents grew up in the 1970s when Pak Jong-Lee, the father of Kim Jong-Lee, espoused his political philosophy of Juche across the country. Everything from thought, education, culture, and life was affected by this ideology. Juche was the belief that the North Korean people were the masters of their own destiny and that by becoming truly self-reliant and strong, their nation would achieve true socialism.

  Juche, of course, was a load of shit.