The Hit Back Series (order from chaos)

Chapter two

CHAPTER TWO

“What better fuel is there to revenge? Which burn almost everything in close contact and the very thing that feeds its fury.”

Heads were turned at will, eyes bulged in their sockets in utter surprise, jaws fell wide open, as she scooted past the mezzanine on Langley—the CIA Headquarters in Fairfax County, Virginia. Director Wells ignored the askance looks hurled at her from personnel and officials alike, her attention wholly set on the elevator dead ahead.

She was super-late for her morning briefing due to her tight docket for the day. She had earlier reported at the ODNI, and afterward, had a session with a small circle from the presidential cabinet, before driving down here like crazy, breaking several driving rules in the process.

Fines? That I can handle, she thought as she watched the elevator open with a ping, regorging two suited men, who bowed slightly upon sighting her. She let the gesture pass without a word like she did others, seizing the chance to thrust herself right into the waiting embrace of the car.

In little less than thirty seconds, the car began its ascent for her destination on the seventh floor at a crawl; It gained on speed by the seconds, steamrolling up the shaft.

Alone in the enclosed cavity of the elevator car, she dared a look at her watch:10:30 Am.

I was just only thirty minutes behind, she thought, now flooded with relief.

“Anyone here ready to fill me in?” Director Wells saidad strutted into the briefin room. Almost immediately, five pairs of eyes turned and were pinned on her like darts would the bull’s eye at the sound of her voice.

“Good morning, madam director.” Greeted one of the men assembled in the room.

“You can save that for some other time, Arnold.” She complimented her words with a wry smile. “Let it all out already, Executive Director Wycliffe.” She later added, taking it easy in a swivel chair.

Situated on the seventh floor of the building’s many floors above ground level, the room the director walked into overlooked the vast domain of unincorporated suburban community of Virginia. And like every room on Langley, the briefing room was equipped with cutting-edge gadgets, ranging from next-generation computers and spy gadgets as well as, various reconnaissance devices. In winter, warmth was maintained by the walls’ built-in heaters, while in summer times like this, the rather warm temperature was handled by the room’s air conditioning systems.

“We’ve made a huge progress on the attack on ‘Fort Freedom’ two days ago,” Wycliffe, a man in an all-white suit with blond curls began smoothly. “We now have several proofs to back up our prior surmission that the North Koreans are responsible for the attack on our military installation in southern Raqqa, Director.”

“What proofs are we talking about, Executive Director?” she asked, still maintaining her casual comport.

“This ma’am,” Said a heart-faced lady from the IOC [Information Operation Center]—CIA’s largest division, as she projected the schematic view of a missile on the large computer monitor screen across the room. “Is the model of the North Korean Hwasong 15 ballistic missile, and we’ve every reasons to believe this missile struck our military base in Raqqa.”

“In addition to that ma’am; the South Koreans monitors were reported to have picked a tremor of an unusual nuclear activity around the Tong-Chang-Ri region of the North.” Another man with a hooked nose put in.

“Also, we got hold of a keyhole satellite footage of a possible missile launch not too long ago, confirming the existing proofs, ma’am.” It was the guy from earlier that added this time.

The screen came alive once more, as a feed zipped into view. The sat. feed rendered on the big monitor screen this time was however blurry and was taken from a far-off aerial distance from an underground silo, Tong-Chang-Ri, Korea. Where it fell short in picture quality, the feed makes up for in audio, with a plain seismic tremor playing in the background as it rolled to an end.

“One more thing, ma’am,” Came the velvety voice of the other lady of Hispanic descent. “The seismic ratio on the attack site was valued by our seismographs to be around 6.1 magnitudes, the same rate as the Koreans’ last test carried out with the missile of same code name.”

Convinced by the teams’ dead-on analysis, Director Wells had her say. “I must speak with the Director of National Intelligence, ASAP.” Once she was up on her feet, she added. “Good job everyone.”

Then she shot out of the room as she did earlier.

*****

With one hand clipping the phone in place to his left ear, and the other busied flipping through the pages of the PDB [Presidential Daily Brief], which had come in earlier from the ODNI, President Mikhail Mayor listened to the clipped English of his counterpart from South Korea at the other end.

There was no mistaking the tough time the other man was into having to stick to English, but this actually brought him much more relief than his condolences ever will.

“I’m putting it to you, President Son, that the United States will never let such unforgivable act go unpunished.”

“I’m counting on you… the world I mean is counting on you to deal with this in the most diplomatic manner, President Mikhail.” The voice croaked back.

“The North will be given a fair chance as a show of our goodwill at the JSA [Joint Security Area] if only, they’re willing to play by our rules.”

“I believe they’ll in the interest of the world. I don’t think we’re ready for WWIII.”

“And that will be decided soon, I guess.”

“Again from myself and the republic of South Korea, we sent to you and the people of America our earnest condolences.”

“Thank you, Mr. President. We’re glad you find at your earliest convenience to condole with us. As always, the American people and I pledge our support to the people of the South.”

“Likewise we do, President Mikhail.”

“Indeed you do, sir; annyeong{bye}.” The phone went dead at that instant, affording him a respite from the long chain of calls, which had been the order of the day.

As duly expected, he has been in recipient of many telephone calls from Presidents and world leaders alike, all of whom had called to sympathize and pledge their support for the United States on the recent attack on her military base in southern Raqqa, Syria. Although sickening and tiring as they may have seemed, he hadn’t a way around them.

And lucky enough for him, there was not much left to him on the issue of the attack. Having decided at a meeting with policymakers and big tops in Congress to handle what lay on ground with par diplomacy, which will see any retaliation from their end on hold, and a peace talks scheduled with the North Koreans at Panmunjom; the home to the JSA of the South and North, off the western coast of the Korean peninsula. The ball was now left in North Korea’s court.

And even though he so much wished they could come to terms with the North, a part of him—the warmonger side of him hoped the North Koreans blew their only chance of a truce.

*****

Deep in Northern Pyongyang, the Presidential palace, equally known as ‘Residence No 55’ spread-eagled across the Ryongsong district of North Korea. The complex which serves as the President’s dwelling measured out around 4.6 sq. miles, with as many large buildings, well-tended lush gardens, man-made lakes, waterslides, shooting range, and other recreational facilities filling up the complex acreage.

Thumps of scurrying feet traveled ahead of him. Wild shouts of command bounced off walls whilst he made down the wide concourse of the palace. With a swagger as commanding as his compact build, he walked through doors held open by his men, who saluted with puffed chests as he breezed past.

These gestures of reverence were no strange thing to General Lee-Puk of the Korea People’s Army, who halted right before two large, oaky double doors, earmarked with the republic seal.

Two years as the Army’s General was such luxury after all, in a nation like theirs, where blind loyalty was bound to leaders and there exists a cult of personality. Men quake at the sight of him, while at the snap of his fingers, they do his biddings with blind faith.

After much hesitation, the double-door glided open at the slightest of contact from him, while he walked into the exotic room beyond.

Once inside, his vision was greeted by the luster within the Presidential workplace. Dusting the room in accents of red and blue was the pendant that hung from the plastered ceiling overhead. Scattered rugs laid in patches over the lucent, linoleum floor. Oriental paintings and drawings curtained half the section of the walls, and the most notable of these were: the portrait paintings of Kim-Ii-Sung, the country’s ‘Eternal President’ and his son Kim-Jong-Il, also known as the republic ‘Eternal General Secretary.’

President Kim-Jong-Ju tore his gaze from the several newspapers that strewn his desk, and stared dead-on at his General, decked up in his elegant, full-dress uniform.

“General Lee.” He sounded brassy as he motioned him to the plushy chair from across him.

“At your call ‘Great sovereign’.” General Lee paid him obeisance, before subsiding in the chair.

“The cocky Americans are at it again, blaming us for their own misery.” The President said a little inflamed.

“They are willing to have a peace talk with us at the JSF in the next forty-eight hours.”

“The balls on them!” President Kim snapped, bolting from his seat. “We owe them no explanations, General. And there will be no agreement with them on arms proliferation”

“But I was thinking—” His voice trailed off.

“f**k what you think General!” His voice boomed through the office. “There won’t be a peace talk with any at the JSF. Let the White devils go f**k themselves!”

“Okay, Great Sovereign.”

“If there's nothing left for you to say General, then, buzz off!”

Knowing better than to step on the cobra’s tail, the General was up on his feet in a second, and out of the office in another.

“f*****g Americans thinking they can boss the world.” The words came out a bit slurred as he polished off the content in his glass. “Now, we’ll see who boss the world better.”

*****

Mr. Hess Lippmann glanced at his Patek wristwatch for the umpteenth time today. It’s been three straight hours of nothing, but seating around Elmy polished roundtables of the JSF conference hall, guzzling coffees and espressos and eating cakes and buns.

This was a lost cause and total waste of time, after all, he thought resignedly to himself, frustrated and angered even more by the political consensus to have them come over here to the Korean JSF.

If having to travel across from America to the eastern part of the world with other five diplomats to seal a truce between the two countries was nothing. Then, the inclination of risking their own lives at the President’s and the country’s behest sure was something.

And besides, if it were left to his whims alone, he wouldn’t have bought into the idea of coming here, knowing fully well that the North Koreans will decline their peace talk proposal, which came with the sticky choice of shutting down and handing over every of their WMD’s stockpiles and operations in accordance with the GENEVA convention acts. There’s no way in hell that the North will stoop to doing that.

Having considered the situation thoughtfully for a long time, and deciding to live up to his charge, he began. “Gentlemen, for three long hours now, we all have waited on the North Korean delegates, who have refused to show up yet. And in the advent of this unfortunate turn in events, as the top US assignee to the North Koreans, I think we should call it a day here.”

Hungry for such a move all along, the now relieved United States diplomats sprang to their feet with unease calm. Followed the lead of their chosen security details back to the convoy, which will take them back to the safest soil—South Korea, where they will eventually make the final lap of their journey back to home soil.