Episode 5 - Journalist, Diplomat, Soldier, Spy
Though I'd served in the military twice on Earth, I had almost no experience with hot field meals. Mostly it was vinyl-packed rice or combat rations to tide me over—no proper field kitchen grub except for a few days at KCTC. Even then, the opposing force's flanking maneuver hit the chow truck, so I barely got a taste. If memory serves, one of my buddies yelled "commie bastards" right in their faces, sparking a brawl that got us reamed by the controllers. Funny in hindsight, but back then tempers were sky-high from no food or showers. Anyway, that was my last field meal experience, on Earth or here. Honestly, I'd probably eaten more retro Korean snacks from the local market than actual MREs.
"What's on the menu today?"
"Let me see... spaghetti, boiled potatoes, salad, mushroom soup... yep, that's it."
Camilla and I grabbed our trays from the chow truck. Lunch was meh, as expected. When you're cooking outdoors—especially army chow—you don't hold your breath for gourmet. Too many mouths to feed, too few cooks, cheapest bid ingredients, crap equipment. High cuisine? Dream on.
Splat.
Still, watching that ketchup blob ooze over the clumped noodles made my appetite vanish.
"...This is supposed to be food?"
"What's wrong?"
"You see this and ask that...?"
"Tastes fine to me."
Camilla demolished the noodle lump like it was gourmet, her expression picky as hell. Figured—she was from the land of jellied herring pies. Iron stomach, or taste buds in a coma.
I set my tray next to hers and stood.
She looked up mid-fork-stab, poised to murder the pasta.
"Where you going?"
I silently held up my comms device.
"Gonna make a call. Eat without me."
Duty calls.
Preparing an operation is a nightmare. Planning alone is a full job: set end goals, estimate timelines, break into short/medium/long-term phases. Fake IDs, infiltration methods. Personnel, budgets—food, salaries, bribes for border guards and customs, office rentals for bases, vehicle leases. Comms linking field and HQ, supply routes, threat assessments (counterintel first), target areas, intel gathering, escape routes, emergency nets. All before launch. Before. No wonder they didn't trust me. Seasoned field agents flounder when handed ops; why bet on an untrained newbie like me?
Not that it mattered to me. I'd prepped nonstop, skimping sleep. Used official cover agents' networks tracking targets as embassy staff. Secured fake corporate IDs and infil routes via state enterprise help. Stashed initial funds and gear in Dvork via fixed assets.
"...Exchange confirmed, sir. Package received?"
"Affirmative. Was worried about port weather, but the consulate folks greased the wheels. Heh."
Translation: Kien customs inspectors eyeing our gear ship got palms greased by our embassy intel guys.
Sounded mundane, but between two spooks? Coded as hell.
"Glad it's sorted. I'll drop by soon to say thanks."
"Oh, right—how's that thing going? Heard there was noise."
Agreman status?
"State Department handles it, so... higher-ups say it'll pass soon."
"Rep office econ team says negotiations on mutual private sector expats opened today—for econ coop boost. Situation's dicey, but no need to tank it; should go smooth..."
Corporate expat covers for infil? Green light. Politics tangled, but Tower didn't block private investment.
Our freezing assets or defaulting Tower bonds? Infil dead. Lucky break.
I hung up and dialed ops.
"...Ops officer. It's me."
"Section chief! What's up?"
"Covers locked. Just confirmed—no issues."
"Phew. Just snapped promo pics for the press release—close call on face leaks."
Agents posed as corp expats, but we amped it: Trade Promotion Agency helped plant a "major firm eyes Tower market survey" article.
"Cars in the Tower? They broom around."
"Not all wizards. Normals, students, expats, biz folks live there. Some mages need wheels."
Pure fake, but airtight: bribed real journo (our domestic intel pet), photo op, even rumor-mill stock pump. Institutions, foreigners, retail bit—perfect cover.
Insider trading? Not my problem. Don't play if you hate it.
Covers sealed. Agents infil, grab offices, set comms, collect gear/funds. By then, I'd be Tower-side.
"I'll monitor HQ intel feeds."
"Prep takes ~2 weeks. Target recon where?"
"Locals handle. Daily DB dumps at dawn for your review."
"Thanks. Briefing...?"
"On-site, formal. Team not assembled yet."
"Roger. See you in theater."
"Stay frosty."
*
Back from MOUs, the chow line was buzzing. Irregular sleep and meals breed ills, but ops tempo made it routine. I slid in quiet, asked chin-propped Camilla:
"Done eating?"
"Huh? Where'd you go?"
"Phone call."
She startled—must've zoned—then tilted her head.
"Why so long...?"
"Dunno. Calls pouring in today."
Outgoing, but whatever. My spaghetti? Bloated mush, stone-cold clumps.
Poke test: inedible. Refill?
"Warm it up?"
Camilla sparked a fingertip flame.
"Won't burn? Direct heat..."
"Looks melt-ready."
"Not ice cream..."
Real fire risk: poof, charcoal. No pots handy, and whining for extras? Rude with rations scaled tight.
"...Hmm."
No fix. Beg mage microwave it was.
Camilla dialed flame low, focused—bubbles edged the sauce. Heating!
"Neat. Tried before?"
"Nope, first time."
Marshmallow-roasting muscle memory worked: drowned corpse revived edible. Not boiling, but forkable.
She killed the flame, wiped sweat.
"Done!"
"Good to eat?"
"Yep!"
Trusted her. Big fork flip.
Splat!
"......"
"......"
"...Camilla. Major in humanities? STEM?"
"...Conflict studies..."
"...Smells lit department."
Perfectly warmed. The top millimeter.
*
Two lib arts majors nuking pasta? Fail. Surface heat only—duh. Mom warned: STEM or bust. "No business/lib arts on exams." No casualties, no witnesses—lucky. Embarrassment kill-shot dodged. Fire-free.
"Sorry..."
"No harm, no foul."
Fresh trays: cooks over-prepped, kept warm. Tower-sourced gear, ironically. Eating spy-supplied grub? Life's absurd.
Fork-twirl, sauce mix: opener.
"Camilla, sticking with No Man's Land ops awhile?"
"...Yeah? Good magic practice."
"Sign this, then."
Pulled contract, slid it over. Eyes wide: "What's this?"
"MoD form. Pay for op participation."
"To who?"
"You."
"Me? Why?"
"You're no soldier. MoD can't freelance civilians—especially Heroes—for free without backlash."
Politically toxic enslaving the Hero. She didn't need details.
"Think annual construction bids—management outsources."
Facilities go private everywhere. Our MoD outsources labor shortages; same here. Royal Intel/MilIntel HQs? Local megacon builds. Embassies too—security favors domestic materials/labor.
Thus: contract dodges pol heat, spins PR via press to parliament/media.
"No poison pills, but lawyer it up."
"Broke."
"Hotel then. Church guests include lawyers."
Leak risk? Inquisition ties: lean on Bernard or Pedro.
She scanned, nodded.
"...Cool, got it!"
Pocketed it, asked:
"Contracting with the nation—feel anything?"
"...Nah, meh."
Playing cool or numb? Whatever. Rolled noodles. Starving.
Late lunch bite—
Honk!
"Gahk—!"
"Whoa? You okay?"
"Ch-chokin... tissue...!"
Horn startled sauce spray. Wiped frantic; she thumped my back. Coughs lingered.
Finally, stood like others. Who honks mid-meal? Face needed seeing.
Found him quick.
"Fancy meeting again. Good to see you."
"......"
"Chat aside, quick?"
Royal Intelligence Bureau.