Episode 4 - Why Pick on Me Alone? The Magic Tower's Declaring Independence
"The Magic Tower is going independent. Right now. I haven't gotten any concrete plans yet, but it's certain they'll declare it soon."
"What the hell is this? It's not like the Berlin Wall's coming down or anything. Why the fuck announce it first and deal with the shit later...?"
"What's Berlin?"
"...It's a thing."
Of course, there was no objective evidence. Just Veronica's testimony. But dismissing it as one person's wild guess wouldn't fly—Veronica's political and social standing rivaled the Pope's, and her intel network outshone most intelligence officers. She was a lobbyist, after all. Not some two-bit hustler, but a high-level informant for the intelligence agency, a direct hotline between the Imperial Guard and the Church's State Department. The kind of person who could snag premium intel with ease.
It was surprising the Imperial Guard had leaked this to a "traitor" like her, but in a way, it was the most solid corroboration for the spy report.
What to do. This intel, the events to come, the changing world. What impact would it have on me? On Camilla Lowell?
One thing was clear: I knew nothing right now. Not where I was, not where I was headed.
But I had to do what needed doing.
"...Saintess. Got any proof? Anything I can report?"
"Hold on. I got a pardon from a Guard guy..."
"A pardon?"
"Started with cash, but when he kept stonewalling, he tossed this in. Even slammed the Prime Minister's seal on it."
"You took that instead of money?"
"Got both."
I compiled the intel and evidence from Veronica, gauging its impact on our government and upcoming ops. A quick calculator run gave me a rough estimate. If things stayed on track, we'd need a full plan overhaul.
"......"
Overtime confirmed.
Luckily, I didn't end up pulling that overtime.
The Military Intelligence Agency needed to verify my report's credibility, which meant cross-checking with agents and case officers scattered across the continent. So my seniors in the Agency burned the midnight oil instead.
And the next morning, the results came in.
"They're prepping independence, alright."
The Magic Tower was indeed gearing up to go rogue. I couldn't hide my dismay, covering my face and squeezing hard.
"...So what now, sir?"
"What do you mean, what? If they go independent, they go independent."
Clevins replied with striking calm. But after years at his side, I could tell: he wasn't calm—he was acting calm.
"How'd the meeting go? Any good countermeasures?"
"You think?"
The Counterintelligence Bureau chief clicked his tongue.
"Count yourself lucky you weren't in Room 503. It was chaos. The Director tore into the field commanders about what the hell they've been doing out there. If you'd been there, it'd just turned uglier."
The Director had ripped apart the overseas division's joint ops. I pressed him.
"Which ones...?"
"Foreign Intel, Foreign Ops, Tech Intel, Open-Source Intel, Special Activities."
The entire overseas division had been shredded. Sure, those weren't all the desks, but those five were the heavy hitters. Effectively, the whole overseas side got reamed.
They didn't just watch the Magic Tower, of course. But that didn't matter. What counted was their intel failure.
"Keep doing what you're doing for now."
"That okay...?"
"What choice? Can't decide without intel. You don't get it falling from the sky just 'cause you pray over an empty bucket."
The US could probably pull some from the sky or space, but whatever.
The Agency ordered no plan changes—proceed as is. To revise, you'd need fresh intel, analysis, decisions. No intel? Adapt on the fly.
If the analysis held and the Tower declared while the Empire went hardline, the op was toast. Couldn't linger if war popped off.
"Think war's coming, Colonel?"
"Who knows. Hope not."
Clevins shared his personal take, caught his breath, then continued.
"Independent or war, push the plan. Find who sent those spies. Everyone's swamped—no one else for it but you."
Everyone busy gathering intel, so handle it solo.
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Pull everyone from your plan, requisition any gear. Director's orders—no rejections. Report new intel ASAP."
*
The Agency's mid-level brass went into emergency overtime, but I had nothing to do. Special directive: focus on op setup.
Ironic, since I lit the fuse. Normally, the intel-bringer keeps delivering. But I had zilch to add, and I had my own mission.
No new intel or orders? Full steam on the op ahead.
"Seen the plan?"
"Yes."
"Good."
This op's goal: track the spy handlers.
For success, I built a team. Alternating orders to Pippin and Jake.
Jake first.
"Hey, Special Activities status?"
Tracing handlers meant potential firefights. Third-country tail? Fine. But Magic Tower turf? Needed serious firepower for contingencies.
Special forces were ideal. Simple strikes? Call Special Ops Command. But intel overlap? Borrowed from Special Activities.
They were elite picks from spec ops anyway—no doubts on skill. Just needed Director's nod, easy since he issued the special order.
Jake's spec ops background and prior op with me (Raoul hit) made contact simple.
Jake answered.
"Team's geared up, on the train. Tomorrow, probably. Gear transport's the issue..."
"Handled."
I'd prepped all gear transport for Agency Special Activities.
"Ghost corp from Intel makes electronics exports. Load on foreign-flagged ship, dump at sea coords."
Classic DPRK forex hustle: ghost firm, third-country vessel drops payload; pickup ship grabs, pays up.
Stealing commie tricks.
"Fixed agent grabs, stashes in Drvojk. We retrieve, deliver. Next."
Pippin hurried over.
"Analysis team you mentioned? Hit up Tower desk buddies—got 'em."
"How many?"
"All."
I pulled analysts. Sending field intel back for processing? Too slow. Needed on-site crunching.
We three could do basics, but for mission precision? Pros.
Not just those desks.
"Counterintel?"
"Lab handover done—heading to capital."
"Techs?"
"At HQ, waiting."
Ops team, analysts, counterintel—pulled from everywhere. They whined about shortages, but Director's word shut 'em up.
Small op ballooned huge.
"This is basically a task force..."
Somehow, I'd landed way above my paygrade. Done similar before, but not this scale. Joint agency, not solo.
Anyway, I hustled everywhere, ticking every box for op success.
Of course,
"Uh... Captain."
"Yeah? What's up?"
Not problem-free.
"Intel team you wanted. Hit Intel and Ops—zero slack."
"And?"
"Refused support. Well, not refused..."
"But?"
"No vets free—sending rookies from field instead."
*
"Director, you sure no manpower?"
-'Sorry, that's how it is.'
"Come on, sir. Short-staffed or not, rookies on our critical slot? If it blows..."
-'...Sigh. Director's special order—I checked. Only field-ready bodies are newbies. Think I'd dump this on you otherwise?'
"Director."
-'Did what I could. Pulled experienced where possible—no big hit to mission. Meeting now—talk later.'
"No, Director! Dir—shit. Hung up."
I yelled at the dead line, then flopped on the sofa, head back.
"Hoo..."
Teamed up fine, but HUMINT—the foot-pounders for field intel? Fail.
Couldn't build my "battle-tested elite" squad. Agency bone-dry.
Managed to snag a few Tower embeds from Foreign Intel, though. Problem: newbies.
"...Sigh."
"Newbies dispatched overseas? Gotta have skills, right?"
"Rookies with 'skill'? Nah."
"Think positive?"
Generous: 3-5 years on short hauls. Not "skilled." But beggars can't.
No external pulls quick. At least not total greenhorns—some missions under belt. Dodged a bullet; pure new meat would've tanked the op.
I beckoned Pippin and Jake from the lounge sofa.
"Kids. When's the crew landing? Should be here."
"One sec... Text says train station soon. Pick 'em up? Logistics could bus or mage-port."
"Haven't met 'em—rudeness to summon. Taxi it."
After day's prep, I headed to greet future coworkers.
Chatting casually with the subordinates as we left Agency HQ—rare treat.
"Everyone good?"
"What'd wreck me at this age?"
"Knees shot."
"Humping gear up mountains daily—miracle cartilage left. Saintess heal?"
"If she would, hell yes."
"Right, Tower's got killer resorts. Time up, wanna hit one? You've slaved too much, Captain."
"Few days off covered it. Better spots near Tower... but surveilled. Yeah. Time free, your spot."
"Tower return means drug test? Us too?"
"Dunno. Check regs."
Idling chit-chat down stairs to 2F. Locker room: ditched fatigues in cabinet, suited up, grabbed ID from gate, out.
"...Brr, cold."
Summer gone? Autumn chill biting. Fatigue or thin clothes? Shivered, zipped jacket.
"What age you acting? Chilly weather?"
"Trade: you overnight for me."
"Buddy snagged taxi—hurry. They're waiting."
We piled for station pickup.
But no taxi for us.
Royal Intelligence Bureau crew rolled up, parking blockade out front.