H
ail heard a knock on his stateroom door. Either that or he was dreaming that he heard the sound. Drifting back to sleep, the annoying sound resurfaced. He rolled his face out of his pillow and toward the clock on his nightstand which read 12:05. What did that mean? Was it 12:05 a.m. or 12:05 p.m.? He started to close his eyes again. Louder now, he heard three hard bangs on his door.
“Coming,” Hail said.
He swung his legs over the side of his bed. He assumed it was Renner, so he didn’t bother pulling on a robe. He stood up, tugged his underwear into its proper location and answered the door.
Through his blurry old eyes, he saw beauty.
Kara Ramey was standing there making a T symbol with her fingers. Her index finger on her right hand was pointing up, and her index finger on her left hand was pointing sideways, crossing the other finger.
“Truce,” she said with a smile.
Hail was still trying to determine the time.
“Nice tighty-whities,” Kara said as she looked at his white underwear.
Hail looked down at his bare chest and followed Kara’s gaze down to his underwear.
He quickly closed the door a few inches and stood behind it—two parts embarrassed to one part sleepy.
“What do you want?” His words came out more drowsily than pissy.
“Well, sleepyhead; if you had been looking at your phone, then you would have received an e-mail from Pepper with the aerials that you requested.”
“Ummm,” was Hail’s response.
“Can I come in?” Kara asked.
“No,” Hail said with the same tone as if she had asked to shave his back.
“Believe it or not, Marshall, I’ve seen guys in their underwear before. They look just like white Speedos. What’s the big deal?”
Hail held his ground and asked, “Why are you here again?”
“Two reasons. The first is to ask you out for breakfast or lunch or whatever you want to call it. The second is that Gage organized a meeting at one o’clock to discuss the new photos. He told me to come get you up.”
“Ummm,” Hail grunted again.
“Can I come in?” Kara tried again.
This time Hail shrugged his shoulders and said, “It’s your funeral.”
He stepped back from the door and turned and began walking toward his bedroom.
Kara pushed the door open the rest of the way. Before Hail had disappeared into his room, Kara commented, “Nice ass!”
Hail ignored her. “I would ask you to make yourself at home, but I don’t think you have any issues with that,” Hail called out.
“That’s OK,” Kara called back. “I have plenty of other issues to compensate.”
Kara plopped down on the couch, somewhat disappointed that there was so little to look at in Hail’s stateroom. She scanned the walls and surfaces for something of interest. Nothing. Hardly a single item that would differentiate his room from that of an average hotel. Then she looked to her right and there on the end table, next to the couch, was a single framed 4 x 5 color photograph of Marshall Hail and his family.
Kara was actually taken aback by how young and happy Hail looked in the photograph. The family was all dressed in heavy jackets, colorful puffy coats of down and nylon. Marshall had a pair of ski goggles strapped to his forehead. His wife was pretty, blond, petite and she looked timid. Her smile was fabricated. The manifestation of worry under the smile was genuine. Hail’s wife looked like she had something on her mind. Hail’s daughters were also blond and precious. His daughters’ smiles were real, not like the fake ones that Kara used in all the photos she had taken with her parents. Hail and his girls were kneeling in the deep snow with a giant snow-covered mountain in the background. Hail had a jacketed arm wrapped around each of his girls, and his wife was propped on his right shoulder. His wife—what was her name? Kara thought Madalyn looked uncomfortable. Kara wondered what Madalyn was thinking about that made her appear antsy. Maybe it was the first time her girls had skied and she was afraid they might get hurt. Maybe Madalyn was afraid that her husband would get hurt. But Kara sensed there was more.
She reached over and picked up the photo and held it in her lap. She stared intently at Hail and wondered why he looked so different. Sure, he was a few years younger, but there was a fire in his eyes that Kara had never seen in him. A fire for life. A fire for being a father. And there was something deeper down under those blue eyes of his. Trapped behind that stare was the essence of what made Hail tick—the crux of what she felt Hail was all about. If she had to put it into a single word, then warmth would be the one she would choose. Hail had more than a fatherly look to him, he had a humanitarian look as if he would let the entire world stay at his home if it would make a difference. And as for his wife, Madalyn, she had the exact opposite look. She would not only refuse to let anyone stay at their home, but if they did, Kara thought Hail’s wife might hide under the bed.
Kara set the photo back on the end table and felt guilty judging a woman that had been killed. But not horribly guilty. Kara would get over it. But Marshall Hail, on the other hand, was still very much alive, and Kara would continue to judge the hell out of him until she was sure she knew what made him tick. Whatever it was, things were different now. Back then, Hail was all about family. Now, Hail was all about killing. Damn, how far down the hill had he slid? But the real question that needed answering―was he still sliding?
Hail walked out of his bedroom wearing a green polo shirt and brown cotton chino shorts. It was the typical outfit that she had come to expect from Hail. As Hail mentioned, the Hail Nucleus wasn’t a military ship. It wasn’t really a corporate vessel either; therefore, his crew could be dressed in just about any type of clothing that could be purchased from the ship’s mall.
“Where do you want to eat?” Kara asked, rising from the couch.
“I don’t know,” Hail said, finding his sandals next to the coffee table and stabbing his feet into them.
“How about something breakfasty?” Hail suggested.
Having successfully attached footwear to his feet, Hail looked up at Kara, who was now standing next to the door.
She was wearing tight jeans and a white scoop neck blouse. Her red hair was done up in a neat ponytail, but she had left her bangs loose. She was wearing just a hint of makeup, but Hail felt that she really didn’t need it. It was like touching up the famous painting by Marcel Dyf called Claudine a l'Estampe. Kara Ramey looked remarkably similar to the woman in the French painting, ponytail and all.
“They serve a good breakfast in the American restaurant,” Kara said.
Hail walked toward the door, and Kara opened it and walked into the hallway, holding it open for Hail.
Neither of them spoke as they made their way toward the restaurant.
The breakfast bar was still open, and a half-dozen tables were occupied. Marshall and Kara helped themselves to an assortment of breakfast items and then found a table with a degree of separation from the others.
Before Kara began eating, she said, “I wanted to apologize if I—if I—agitated you yesterday.” She chose the word agitated carefully, as it didn’t imply that she was either wrong, responsible or out of line in any manner. It was up to Hail how he chose to perceive her words, which could be negatively or possibly constructively.
Hail looked away and stuck a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth.
Kara took a sip of her apple juice and waited for Hail to respond. When he didn’t, she told him, “I think the main bone of contention we have right now is Kornev. If you can tell me any other issues we have, and I’m assuming you can’t, then we just need to come to an understanding about Kornev and we should be good, right?”
Hail said nothing. He took a bite of bacon and looked at her passively.
“So, this is my suggestion,” she said. “For now, you shelve your thoughts of whacking Kornev during this mission and give me time to see if I can get the information I need out of him. If you do that, then I promise I will deliver Kornev to you, all tied up in a pretty ribbon, and then you can do whatever you want to do with him.”
Kara looked expectantly at Hail. “Deal?” she asked, offering out her hand.
Hail reached out his hand, but instead of grasping Kara’s hand, at the last second, he moved it to the right and picked up his glass of orange juice.
He took a sip and smiled at her. It was the first expression, other than somnolence, she had seen on his face all morning.
“Now you’re smiling?” Kara said, reeling back in her hand. She wanted to call him an asshole but held her tongue.
She said, “I don’t think you get it, Marshall. This means a lot to me. Believe it or not, I’m not colored red, white and blue. I do not work for the CIA because I love my country or I want to make a difference or any of that crap. I’m doing what I do in order to find out who killed my parents, and Kornev is the only link I have to that information. Do you understand?”
Hail spoke, “I understand, but do you realize how crazy that sounds?”
“Oh,” Kara huffed, “and kazillionaire making it his life mission to exterminate everyone on the FBI’s terrorist list isn’t crazy?”
Hail considered her counter and said “Well, maybe you have a point.”
“Marshall, let’s face it. We’re both screwed up individuals. I’ve got a demented program in my brain that just keeps running and so do you. There are plenty of other assholes in the world you can kill, so all I’m asking is that you refrain from killing my special asshole, and I promise I will help you kill more of yours.”
Kara held out her hand again, and this time Hail shook it.
“Great, now that we have that out of the way, we have about ten minutes to finish eating before Gage’s mission planning meeting starts,” Kara said.
Hail responded by sticking a piece of toast into his mouth.
P
resident Joanna Weston was sitting in one of two chairs at the end of the coffee table. The FBI Director Trevor Rodgers and General Quentin Ford were sitting on the couch to her right. On the couch to her left sat the director of the CIA, Jarret Pepper, and the Director of National Intelligence, Eric Spearman.
Since Pepper had called for the meeting, he was the first to speak. “I wanted to provide everyone an update on Hail Storm,”
“Hail Storm,” the president repeated, as if she were trying the words on for size. “I like that. Did you come up with that name, Jarret?”
“Yes, I did,” Pepper lied.
Pepper smiled at the group and continued, “My operative, Kara Ramey, was successful in tracking the shipment to a warehouse in Wonsan, North Korea.”
Pepper looked the group over, and they looked impressed.
Continuing, Pepper said, “She called in and reported that ninety-nine percent of the missile parts had arrived at the warehouse. She also sent me the exact coordinates of the warehouse itself.”
The president interrupted and asked, “Just a little clarification. Ms. Ramey is working with Marshall Hail on this operation. So what part of this is Ms. Ramey, and what part of this is Marshall Hail?”
Pepper considered the question and responded, “She is currently aboard one of Hail’s cargo ships, the Hail Nucleus. Hail has had every opportunity to keep her out of the operation’s specifics, but Kara has used her CIA training to obtain direct access to their mission center. She is providing us timely updates as to the progress of the mission as well as Hail’s internal capabilities.”
“And what’s the latest update?” General Ford asked.
“It’s Ramey’s understanding that Hail is preparing to make a strike on the warehouse.”
“How and when?” the general asked.
Pepper answered, “Kara reported that those mission elements have not been decided at this time.”
“Not been decided?” the general repeated for effect. “There is no telling how long those parts will be in that warehouse. They could move them again at any time, and we may never find them again until—” The general hesitated and then finished, “Until it’s too late.”
The president looked concerned. “Is this something we should prepare for?” President Weston asked her staff.
“I vote yes,” General Ford said.
“I agree,” Eric Spearman said. “I mean; we don’t know if Hail can pull this off. And if he can’t, and we have actionable intelligence, and we just can’t ignore it.”
“What do you think?” the president asked the FBI director.
Trevor Rodgers made a concerted effort to remove his personal feelings and friendship from the situation. “I think having a reasonable drop-dead date and time would be prudent,” he suggested.
Joanna Weston thought about the consequences of launching an attack on the North Korean warehouse. If it was quick and surgical, and they could get in-and-out without detection, then it was something to consider. And even if they were caught red-handed, how in the world could North Korea spin it so anyone gave a damn. Would North Korea complain to the international community that the bad Americans destroyed all the new ICBMs that North Korea intended to launch at them? It was best if Hail succeeded in the task, but her advisors were right. They had to have a Plan B in case Hail failed.
Weston asked, “What do we feel is an appropriate amount of time to wait for Hail to complete this mission?”
Pepper spoke up, “I would be surprised if he doesn’t take action tonight, Pyongyang Time.”
“I agree,” General Ford said. “Hail has to understand, the same as we do, that all the parts can be moved at any time. If I were in his shoes, I would hit the warehouse tonight as well.”
“So, we’ve decided that our cutoff time is tonight?” the president confirmed.
Everyone in the room nodded in agreement, except for Trevor Rodgers, but no one noticed.
“So, our Plan B is sometime before sunrise?” the president confirmed.
“I think around four in the morning, North Korean time, would be the latest we would want to strike,” the general suggested. “It would give us time to get out of theater before the sun comes up and paints our jet in the sky.”
“What assets do we have in that area?” the president asked.
“Off the top of my head, I know that the new Gerald R. Ford aircraft carrier is approaching our Fleet Activities Chinhae Navy Base in Busan, South Korea.”
“Is the Gerald R. Ford equipped with Predator drones?” Spearman asked.
“No,” the general responded, the sound of disappointment in his tone. He understood that sending a drone in to do the dirty work would be much better than sending in a manned aircraft. Less downside all the way across the board.
“But I’m confident that our new F-35 Lightning II can do the job just fine,” the general said.
The general was referring to the new Lockheed Martin F-35, an all-weather stealth multirole fighter. It was a fifth-generation combat aircraft and was designed to perform ground attacks. The 337-million-dollar fighter was the best of the best, and the general had complete confidence in its abilities.
“What’s the flight time to the target?” Spearman asked.
“Well, I’m sure we don’t want to fly directly over the DMZ border for this sortie. It would be much better to make a big looping flight path over the Sea of Japan and then come in low, avoiding ground radar,” the general explained.
No one in the room could fault the general’s logic.
Continuing, the general said, “But hell, at 1300 miles per hour, it’s like taking a stroll around the block to an F-35. Time is not a real issue. From takeoff to target, we’re talking maybe fifteen minutes.”
The general paused to see if anyone had anything to add.
After another moment the president asked, “Does anyone else have anything to add?”
The man from the FBI spoke up. “What if Hail is successful in blowing up the warehouse. How will we know?” Rodgers asked.
Pepper fielded the question, “We’re watching the warehouse closely with one of our satellites. Of course, it can’t see the building in the dark, but it will detect a flash if the building blows up. Also, I’m sure that my agent Ramey will notify me of the strike.”
“Unless anyone has anything else, then that sounds like the plan,” the president said. “I would like us all to be in the Situation Room tonight to observe the operation.”
The general said, “Excuse me, Madam President, but there is a thirteen-and-a-half-hour difference between Washington and North Korea. Four o’clock in the morning would be 2:30 p.m. tomorrow.”
“I will see you then,” President Joanna Weston told the men. “But right now, I have a lunch meeting with the President of Nauru.”
There was silence for a moment, and then Trevor Rodgers asked, “Where is Nauru?”
“It is more like what is Nauru?” Eric Spearman asked. And then answering his own question he added, “It happens to be the smallest country in the world.”
“Third smallest,” the president corrected, already getting up from her chair and heading for the door.
“And they get a lunch with the President of the United States?” Rodgers asked to no one in particular.
The president had exited the room so the general answered, “You never know when you’ll need a military base on a tiny island in Micronesia, and if all it cost you was a lunch with the POTUS, then that sounds like a good deal to me.”