Rescue Operation (2)
Vroooom. The boat sliced through the choppy waves. The sky was dark, and the sea roiled violently, making the vessel pitch and yaw constantly. Watching it all on the central control room's massive screen and booming speakers felt like being in a blockbuster theater. It was like watching a movie about U.S. troops storming Normandy—but with two key differences.
First, this wasn't virtual reality. There were no do-overs if things went south. One slip, and it wouldn't just be a player's life; dozens of lives would vanish.
Second, the soldiers aboard showed zero tension. They sat facing each other, rifle butts planted on the deck, muzzles pointed skyward, utterly motionless—like some religious ritual frozen in time. No grizzled sergeant chomping a cigar with a stony glare. No green recruit trembling in fear. Pure cliché-free.
Across the top of the screen, satellite maps displayed the distance to the target pier, ETA, boat speed, squad status, and ammo counts—all aggregated in real time. It mimicked a real op command center for spec-ops missions, but instead of vital signs, each squad member's info showed operational efficiency. A human soldier losing an arm mid-op would spike vitals wildly, but for these guys? Just a dip in accuracy. All that mattered was what percentage of combat effectiveness remained.
Slurp. The warm, bitter brew sharpened my senses as it filled my mouth. I didn't love bitter, but right now, anything else was a luxury.
Jinsu. Incoming comm request from the offshore prison.
"Getting antsy? Patch it through."
Beep.
The voice wasn't interim warden Lee Seyoung. Fluent standard Korean, but with a 2% off accent. Foreigner, probably.
"That's me. Who the hell are you? Where's Warden Seyoung?"
I recalled the commotion at the end of Seyoung's last comm.
"You expect me to buy that? Bet the warden's pacing a cell right now. Cut the bullshit—bring her on. I deal with the warden."
"Last warning. Want to keep talking? Get the warden. If she's dead or can't comm, I'm ordering the rescue team to pull out."
Over the line, Sofiya yelled in a foreign tongue.
'Get that bitch here now! Not her—the idiot in solitary!' Artemis translated in real-time on my situation board—in Ukrainian.
Look at miss prim and proper dropping the mask.
'Ha, fuck.'—Ukrainian, faint as a sigh, but Artemis caught it sharp as a knife.
She wasn't covering the mic properly. Basic reservist skill in Korea.
A beat later.
She'd ditched the radio lingo for polite speech.
"Been waiting. Looks like you were locked in solitary. What's the situation?"
A sharp gasp over the line.
"News to me. Yesterday's comm implied guards held it."
Thinking back, she never explicitly said guards controlled East Block.
"Isn't omission still deception?"
Slurp. Coffee down.
"Calm down. Just sipping coffee."
The brief silence had her assuming I was pissed. Withholding info irked me, but this started from pity anyway. Prisoners or guards—whoever held the prison, we'd crush and control them regardless.
Swallow audible even here.
"Explain the situation. That self-proclaimed East Block rep and the guards. Looks less like partners, more like boss and underling."
"Two weeks. Damn fast takeover."
"West and East prisoner groups opposed?"
"Why wait till now to comm? Weird to hold out starving before requesting rescue."
Slurp. My coffee gulp made her flinch audibly. Food situation must suck.
"Ran out, realized all would die, so called in guards for repairs?"
"Switch. She'll know the ground better than you locked up."
Chair scrape.
"Nah. My secretary does."
Artemis shot me a displeased look from the top of the screen.
"So, what?"
"Three squads of combat bots on boats."
"Hit the pier, seize the ferry, cram everyone aboard. Over capacity, but deal."
"Pack tight."