Becky went to contact the CIA, and during the wait for feedback, Owen thought about a lot. He couldn't figure out where the operation had gone wrong—what tipped the enemy off. Regardless, after this encounter, the opposing side would definitely go into hiding, and their follow-up work was bound to get more complicated.
Thanks to Becky's efficiency, the CIA's response came quickly: "Owen, the situation with Dan White is confirmed. He was declared dead in a CIA mission a year ago, but there have always been suspicions within the agency that he faked his death. The photo we captured during the operation just confirmed it. The CIA has officially placed Dan White on the defector list…"
Owen was tempted to tell them not to bother—he had personally killed Dan White.
Becky continued, "The Intelligence Office has been notified, and—wait—they're pushing more data through. Let me check… wow, I'm sending this to you. Looks like a big case."
Owen's phone chimed twice. Two pictures came through. One showed the suited man from yesterday—Hakwell Morton from MI5—meeting with the Bosnian war criminal, General Bourbon. It appeared to be a covertly taken photo, poor angle but still clear enough for facial recognition. The second photo showed a forest with an ominous yellow mist hanging over it—clearly unnatural.
Becky explained: "The photos were taken by military surveillance. That forest used to house a chemical weapons factory located within a zone controlled by the Bosnian Serb militia. It was destroyed during the armed conflict, but recently, signs suggest it's being reactivated…"
"Chemical weapons?" Owen frowned. If this intel was accurate, this was indeed a major incident. What were the British doing—on one hand, participating in NATO operations against the Serb militia, and on the other, secretly having MI5 agents meet with the most notorious war criminal?
"Becky, contact the military. Have them dispatch aircraft for reconnaissance—we need solid intel. Also, try to reach out to yesterday's seller again. See if there's any chance we can reel him back in."
After giving his instructions, Owen hung up. Chemical weapons inside a Serb-controlled zone, and the man in charge colluding with a rogue MI5 agent—this had serious implications. Even more puzzling was Morton himself. MI5 generally handled internal British affairs, like counter-subversion and counter-espionage, somewhat akin to the FBI. Foreign operations fell under MI6, the British equivalent of the CIA. So why was an MI5 agent involved?
The fact that Morton was officially listed as missing—and Dan White had turned out to be a CIA defector—made Owen even more suspicious. Maybe he'd misread the entire situation. Perhaps this wasn't an official MI5 or British government operation at all. Maybe it was the work of rogue agents.
Thinking that, Owen called Becky again and asked her to reach out to British intelligence for clarification. In the world of international espionage, MI6 was a force to be reckoned with.
M, the legendary female head of MI6, had led the agency for over twenty years. Under her command, the famed "00" series operatives had made names for themselves worldwide, going toe-to-toe with elite agents from all countries without losing an inch.
About half an hour later, Becky reported back: "The British authorities have confirmed that Hakwell Morton is a defector. All his actions are personal and have nothing to do with the UK."
Owen acknowledged the message. Becky hesitated before finally blurting out, "Boss, we really need a proper liaison officer. I'm not cut out for this…"
Owen could tell from her tone she'd had a rough time dealing with the Brits—no surprise they weren't particularly cooperative. He nodded, "Alright, Becky. I'll start looking for someone suitable. For now, I'm counting on you to hold the line…"
Owen had no idea where to find such a person. For now, Becky would have to pull double duty—an unfortunate necessity.
…
In the Adriatic Sea, a massive steel behemoth floated on the deep blue waters. Aboard the nuclear-powered aircraft carrier USS Carl Vinson, everything was in motion. Two fighter pilots jogged toward an F-18 Hornet.
The aircraft underwent pre-flight checks. All systems were green. The runway crew gave a thumbs-up and waved their flags. Flames roared from the jet's afterburners. The Hornet began its roll, catapulted forward, and launched into the sky.
Guided by a navigator, the Hornet followed a predetermined route. This sortie had been dispatched at Omega's request for a reconnaissance mission.
The mission was classified top secret—NATO had just signed a ceasefire with the Bosnian forces, including a no-fly zone. This operation was taking place inside that restricted area.
"Arrived at designated coordinates."
"Camera systems online. Camera position optimal. Commencing capture…"
The pilot pressed a button. High-resolution cameras mounted on the aircraft began recording. At jet speeds, the pilot's eyes couldn't see much, but the cameras captured every frame of the terrain below.
Suddenly, beep-beep-beep—the radar warning system blared. The backseat navigator shouted, "Shit—we're locked on!"
On the ground, a trail of white smoke rose—SAM launch. The missile, guided by its seeker head, locked onto the Hornet.
Inside the cockpit, alarms wailed. But the pilot didn't panic. With expert control, he began evasive maneuvers—sharp turns, sudden climbs.
"Where the hell is it?" he barked.
Without visual on the incoming missile, his evasive options were limited.
The navigator scanned in all directions. Finally, he spotted it: a white streak in the rearview, closing fast.
"Got it—4 o'clock, closing in. Intercept in 6 seconds… 5, 4, 3…"
As the countdown began, the pilot launched into aggressive aerobatics. Climbing, diving, rolling—the Hornet twisted in the sky. The missile was faster but couldn't match the Hornet's sudden shifts. Still, every time it was shaken off, it recalculated and came right back on target.
"Deploy flares!"
The pilot shouted. The navigator hit the button, launching a spread of dazzling flares behind them. But the SAM wasn't fooled—it stuck to the Hornet like a bloodhound.
"Reporting to command—we're under SAM attack. Attempting evasion…"
The navigator relayed the message up the chain of command. It quickly reached the captain of the Carl Vinson.
Then, beep-beep-beep—another alert. "Second missile incoming," the navigator warned. One wasn't enough—they'd launched a second.
"Prepare to jettison fuel tanks…"
The flares hadn't worked. The pilot resorted to another trick. Dropping the external fuel tanks would lighten the plane and boost its speed—and if one exploded, it might distract the missile just like a flare.
In the sky, the tanks detached from the wings. One fell into the river—no reaction. The other hit solid ground and exploded.
The sudden heat bloom caught the missile's sensors. It locked onto the explosion instead. Boom! The missile hit the impact site and detonated.
One missile diverted—but there was no time to celebrate. SAMs had intelligent seekers. Once one hit something, the next missile automatically chose a different target. Soon enough, the Hornet's afterburners were in its sights again. The second SAM recalibrated and surged forward, closing in on the Hornet.
______
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