The Hit Back Series (order from chaos)

Chapter one

Chapter one

“Revenge is sweet as it gets ugly”

Just like most times on Her busiest day, ‘Time square’—often referred to as the ‘crossroads of the world’, was chocked up with pedestrians. Only this time, the multitude wasn’t streaming to and fro Her streets but were converged before one of the scores of giant-screen televisions rigged in the square. Also, the fluxation of bright lights and tons of advertisements—neon, zippers, and electric that used to be the order of every other day was at standstill. Although famous and noted for Her bristling around-the-clock, on this early Saturday morning; Time square was a shadow of herself, with no luster whatsoever to her outlook.

Bringing to the crowds’ hearing the breaking news was the talking head of a lady, whose golden, feathered hair framed both prominent cheekbones on her oval face. There’s definitely much more allure to her features, which none of her riveted listeners gave a hang about at the moment.

“The attack earlier on Fort Freedom, the nation’s proving ground turned military installation in southern Raqqa had been labeled a monstrosity act, which left at its wake a stroke of catastrophe.” She delivered the news with the fluency requisite of an adroit reporter. “While the identity of the attackers of the missile strike, which dealt a huge blow on the site, claiming no less than two hundred lives on the spot and injuring a hundred more are as yet unknown. Top brass policymakers and diplomats of the country have called such act, a sucker punch to the face of the United States.”

A secondary window covering a giant tower of a mushroom cloud at the attack site fast broke into the right bottom screen.

“I must also add that, there’s been no response whatsoever from the White House as yet...”

With that last deet of information, the talking head blurred out of the screen. In its stead for the viewing of the sullen-faced crowds, was the billowy image of the ‘Old Glory’ with 'The Star-Spangled Banner' playing in the background.

*****

With about six million, five hundred thousand square feet in size; the Pentagon sat pasted from across the Potomac River, Arlington county, Virginia, Washington D.C. The grand edifice, sometimes considered as the world’s largest office building, as it measured up to many large ships and buildings of the world was laid up in stripped classicism, with five sides as its name suggests: five floors above ground, two basement levels and five ring corridors per each floor. Further in its compass, was the ‘Central Plaza’—also shaped as a Pentagon and informally known as ‘Ground Zero’, which takes up as much as five acres of its demesne.

Seating around a dark polished desk within the enclosed SCIF hall, pronounced ‘Skiff’ [Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility] of one of the many ring offices on Pentagon were five unsmiling faces.

Perched on the black leathered chair, whose headrest was branded with the seal of the Department of Defense, with lithe arms gingerly draped over the branches of his seat was the Secretary of Defense. Prettied up in his black, two-piece suit, with half his face curtained by his shock of dark hair; the young man in his late twenties, was at the height of power, having under his command all agencies charged with the issue of National Security in the United States.

Flanking him on his right in a blue flannel suit, was his creased-face counterpart from the ODNI [Office of the Director of National Intelligence]. Just like him, the much older man being the Director, wield power over the Intelligence Communities of the nation.

Inches away from the Director sits the only woman in the room; proxying for other HUMINT senior officials. Director Jamie Wells of the CIA had been a top gun in the intelligence world for long. And had been a recipient of the United States medal of honor for her ten years’ service in the Army; a cause which had led to the induction of her name on Pentagon’s Hall of Heroes.

Farther to his left, was the stern-faced General Sousa, clad in his service, full-dress army uniform. From his spry and the way, he carried his two-hundred-pound frame, one would argue the fact that he was inching towards his seventies.

And up close to the General’s left, was the only man with no servicemen background, even though his conduct and close-crop military haircut speak otherwise. Given that the bridle of Secretary of State was ever-demanding, it can well be said that Mr. Hess Lippmann had been fine-tuned by the functions of his seat

They had all seen several live broadcasts of the missile attack on TVs, even worse, they’ve had to slip away from the nosey men of the press to get here. Now convened in the hall like Generals would in a War room, they were out to debate on the recent act of terror.

“Is anyone here ready to break the ice?” The thin voice of the Secretary of Defense canceled out the wide gap of silence in the room.

“I’m afraid there’s been an increase in the figures of dead victims at the attack site.” The General said outright.

“And what new figures are we talking here General Sousa?” Mr. Hess enquired this time.

“We’ve hundred more to our body count, and a fifty in casualties.” Director Wells answered in his stead.

“Quite a figure that is. I think it right to put a lid on this and let the media and masses make do with the already known figure, at least for now.” The Secretary of Defense made a sad face as he watched them nod in concession. “Moving on to far pressing matter; have we any names to place on the mastermind of the attack yet?”

“Yes...,” the Director of National Intelligence said haltingly. “But, they’re basically unfounded theories as of now, sir.”

“According to some CIA sources, it can be surmised that the attack was a lash out from ISIL. Also, we may have reasons to believe the North Koreans are behind the attack.” Wells filled in for him.

"I think I’ll go with the latter, Director.” Sousa pointed out.

“Come to think of it good people,” Hess said. “An attack from both ends speaks no good: if really it was ISIL, then, that’s a despicable case of an act of terror, and if otherwise—.”

“An unforgivable act of war.” Director Wells finished for him.

“So having no Air defense system over there in Syria, some cocksuckers think they can f**k with the free world and walk free?” The Secretary of Defense demanded in outrage.

“Some ordinary birds are spreading their wings, it seems.” Mr. Hess added offhandedly.

“Then I guess now is the time to get POTUS in the picture,” The Defense secretary stated, clicking his tongue. “Let’s put a call through to the White House.”

Reclined in his seat affront the three-large-south-facing windows of the Oval office was President Mikhail Mayor. Slung over the desk from across him were his long, slightly bowed legs. Two years short of forty; it’s a fair thing to say, the brown-skinned man was in his salad years, having risen to the helm of power at age thirty-six. Standing six-feet-two” tall with a little add-on brawn, he was trimmed to the fit of an athlete, and could even pass as ‘Mister Universe’ with his facial exuberances, which had earned him the nick; “The pretty face behind the ‘Resolute desk’”.

With the Oval now transformed much to his taste under the masterful stroke of the First Lady’s office and the White House curator, with such features as; the teal carpet that bore the presidential seal, sprawled over the cross-patterned, quarter sawn oak and walnut floor, sunset orange draperies that hung about half the section of the walls, and Louis XVI furnishings.

Still, the silent hums from its past occupants could be heard over his, through fixtures and objet d’art such as the ‘Porthole’ portrait of Washington by Rembrandt Peale, the Bronco buster from the time of President Lyndon Johnson, a bust of Lincoln stand on its pedestal at the Southern end; the longcase clock—commonly known as the Oval office grandfather clock, that stood next to the Northeast door since the seventies, and the potted Swedish ivy that sat atop the mantel at the Northern end.

Like most things, he had come to know the seat came with a price, one which he paid for through such situations as the dumps he was in at the moment.

“‘The White House is a hot seat that takes all from you.’” He often heard from many before him, and now that he was a witness himself, he had learned it was no myth.

His absorption was sawn through just as the Northeast door swung open, to reveal the midget figure of his middle-aged secretary, dressed in a pinstriped, two-piece suit. And seemingly unbothered by his unethical pose in her presence, he c****d a questioning brow.

“There’s a call on wait from the Pentagon on line three, Mr. President.” She announced in a pinched voice.

“Patch it through.” There was no mistaking the dispiriting tone that laced his tone as he dismissed her with a wave of his hand.

“Mr. President.” The phone on his desk came alive on instant, with the rich falsetto voice of the Secretary of Defense.

“Please go on, Mr. De Bakey.”

“I believe you must have seen the broadcast of the recent attack, sir.”

“Couple of times, already.”

“With all due respect sir, I think we should address what’s on ground ASAP, as there’re many raised brows to our silence.”

“What’d you have me do at such pass, Mr. Secretary?” He demanded with a little flare to his voice. “I want answers, and I want them soon.” He finished, withdrew his legs from the desk, and sat upright in his seat for the first time today.

“I’m afraid I’m in the dark just like you are, Mr. President.”

“Screw that! It could have been right here in the Oval where I sit my ass. It could have been just anywhere for Christ’s sake, De Bakey. You know what, you handle your goddamn business while I handle mine.” He accented his words with a pound on the desk. “Just get me answers. I don’t care a hang if you’re in a damn black hole.” The phone went dead right after that from the shattering impact of his fist.

In normal times, he wouldn’t have blown up like this, but this was not normal times, so, hell if he cares.

“He’s lost it.” General Sousa remarked a little drily.

“So have I, General,” De Bakey said to the room's utter surprise. “I’m hungry for answers than he does.”

“Answers which I promise to provide you with soon.” The Director of National Intelligence tried sounding convincing.

But not too convincing for the Defense Secretary as he countered. “Soon won’t do, not anymore! The president is on the ropes with no options.” And he added for effect. “What would do now is get as many men in field to speed things up, Director Liverfield.”

“I’ll definitely see to that.”

“I guess we’re finished here then.”

Spurred by the Secretary’s words, they rose to their feet in tandem, traded handshakes, and vacated the hall.

A little cooled-off, President Mikhail Mayor watched as his secretary moseyed into his office through the door from before, holding in her gnarled hands, a steaming mug of coffee.

“I don’t remember calling you, Mrs. Wurst.” He said as she inched closer.

“I think you’ll need this to relax, sir.” She explained, placing the mug on his desk.

“Quite thoughtful of you.” He muttered with his crow’s feet crinkling in a smile.

He knew deep down there was no window-dressing his recent outburst from the astute woman. If nothing gave him away, the pounding was sure to, just as the splinters of the shattered phone on his desk would. He had hit the phone so hard that he wondered to himself why the impact hadn’t drawn blood despite the damage done.

“I must add that the Press is ready to have you, sir.”

“Oh, that! It must have slipped my mind.” He scrunched up his nose at the thought of the Press conference he had earlier asked his Chief of Staff to set up. “No cream! This will do.” He remarked, just as he took his first crack at the coffee.

“I figured, Mr. President.”

“I should be ready in about… Let’s say ten minutes.”

“Aight sir.” She curtsied, turned on her heels, and made gracefully out the Northeast door.

Silence gripped James S. Brady Press Briefing hall as the ‘Ruffles and Flourishes’ were sounded by the liveried Navy band. Right on the coattails of that, ‘Hail to the Chief’ blared up, ushering in the President of the United States, meanwhile, spurring all in attendance to their feet in reverence to the first person of the republic.

The blind flashes of cameras had him batting his eyes, as did the scattered applause that pricked his ears, while he stood upon the rostrum. Two years in office and President Mikhail Mayor could still feel the deadweight tons of his seat on his shoulders as he readied himself to address the world, and cleared the fog of silence long hovering in the air since the missile strike.

He began his speech just as the anthem ended. “The true measure to the greatness of a republic like ours could only be known to the world in times like this. Occurrences of this gravity are our only pathways to rebuilding; the scale by which we know our worth. The determiners of the substance of our faith. The Hows and whys to our strength as a nation.”

There was a pause, then, a minute glance around the hall before he continued. “Today, I’m saying before you all that, the United States will rise from the rubble of this, to grow even stronger, better, and reliable than we once were; for it’s this creed that the cornerstone of this nation was built upon. It’s this substance from which the United States was made. It’s the very cause that got us here. Also, we sent our heartfelt condolences to the loved ones of our unsung fallen heroes, who gave their lives at the call of this country. Never will they be forgotten; never will their names part with the history of America, and forever will the flame of their love glow in our hearts, for the heroics and gallantry with which they served their beloved America. Their names will be held high just like they did the nation’s badge. God bless you all! God bless these United States of America!!!”

Applauses boomed all around him just as the recurring flashes of cameras. But there’s no chance whatsoever at stealing a glance back at the hall for him, as he was walked out through the backdoor by his dark-suited, ear-pieced men of the Secret Service.