Operation Hail Storm

Langley, Virginia ― Central Intelligence Headquarters

Three people sat around a large mahogany table. Two men and one woman.

The man at the end of the table was the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency, Jarret Pepper. He was new to the job; appointed by the new President only a month prior to this meeting. Pepper was a tall man in his early fifties. He had a long stern face and full head of grey hair that always looked like it needed to be combed. Newly divorced, Pepper had streamlined the essentials. Every suit he owned was identical. Never possessing the talent of being able to match a tie to a shirt to a suit, after his wife had signed the papers, he had thrown his entire closet in the Goodwill dumpster and started over. Immediately after leaving the dumpster, he had gone directly to an outlet men’s store and bought fourteen new identical grey suits, fourteen new identical white shirts and fourteen identical ties. The men at the store told him he looked great. So if he looked great in the store, then he would look great at work — everyday. Pepper didn’t even have to waste time thinking about getting dressed in the morning. And that was good, because he had more important items on which to focus. His co-workers would just have to deal with the same suit every day.

“OK, I would like to resolve this issue during this meeting so we can move onto other matters.” Pepper told his staff.

The Directorate of Analysis, Karen Wesley, was the first to speak. She took a moment to clear her throat so her voice would be loud and assertive. She made a habit of inflecting a bite into her tone. After all, she worked in an agency that was dominated by men. Even though forty-six percent of the workforce was women, those numbers were confined to the GS-13 to the GS-15 levels. The top senior executive ranks were still predominately filled by men. Wesley continually felt that she had something to prove.

“We have hammered out the entire list of bounty evaluations. I believe the only bit of business we need to clear up is the evaluation of our number one most wanted, Kim Yong Chang.”

Karen Wesley looked like a bureaucrat. She didn’t buy all her pant suits in bulk, as did her boss, Jarret Pepper, only because it had never occurred to her. She wasn’t naive. She knew she wouldn’t win any fashion contests. Wesley was all business. Her business suits implied nothing but business, dark blue, dark black, dark green, cut tight to her thin frame, presenting an image of a mid-forties go-getter. She could have been one of the CIAs great spies, because she was totally unremarkable. This was a great trait to have when it came to the spy game, because no one noticed you. Potential counter-spies never thought, “What a great looking woman,” nor did they think, “What a hideous creature.” Karen Wesley was positively unremarkable and she liked it that way. Introspectively, she associated her plainness with her efficacious rise in the agency. She wasn’t one of the girls and not really one of the boys either. She existed in another category entirely. A classification so semi-visible that she didn’t ping on any challenger’s radar. Her short black hair was just long enough to make her look womanly, but short enough to where a quick comb was all it took when she got out of the shower. Her face was normal. Not pretty. Not ugly, but just right. She had been the Directorate of Analysis for about five years and had every intention of surviving her new Director.

“So what are your thoughts?” asked Pepper. “Our current reward is already at twenty-five million dollars on Chang.”

Wesley looked down at her notebook and flipped through a few pages.

“Research shows that larger bounties entice greater and more sophisticated responses. It’s not just Chang’s butler that would give him up, but entire underground coordinated gangs will make a run at that kind of money. It’s more money to go around. I think we should move the bounty on Chang up to fifty-million.”

Paul Moore, the Directorate of Operations, said, “Does it really matter if it’s twenty-five million or fifty million. Realistically, how many times have we ever paid out any of these bounties? Meaning, how many times has someone killed or turned over anyone on the CIA or FBI’s top ten most wanted list? Like never. It just doesn’t happen. So why not just make it a gazziion dollars. It’s just chump-change anyway. What’s the CIA’s annual budget? Like sixty-billion a year? And that’s not including our black ops.”

Being new on the job, Jarret Pepper didn’t really know how to take the brash Paul Moore. In previous meetings, Paul had demonstrated that he had a big mouth. Moore said what was on his mind. Sometimes the stuff that flowed out of his pie-hole was right on the mark and at other times Pepper got the sense that Moore just wanted to move the meeting along so he could get in a few swings on the back nine before it got dark. Most of the CIA’s executive officers lived and breathed their coveted positions, but Pepper admired Moore for the fact that he had the ability to compartmentalize his tough job. Sure, it was a demanding job, but there should still be a little time to breathe easy and have some fun.

Karen Wesley started to say something and Moore talked over her.

“All of this ― putting prices on terrorists’ heads ― seems a little wild-wild-West to me. Does it really work?” Moore asked.

Pepper looked at Moore and wondered who bought his suits for him. Today, Moore was dressed in a blue pinstriped suit. Moore was short and wide. Not fat. Not over muscular, but he was thick. Thick everywhere. His neck was thick. The head that sat on his thick neck was big and bald. Moore had a pinkish fleshy face. His lips were full and most of the time they were moving. To Pepper, it seemed that words were always coming out from between Moore’s lips.

Wesley answered, “It’s more than just a figure. Our evaluation places a monetary value on the target. The size of the reward doesn’t only indicate who is important to us; it indicates who is more important to us. It’s a method of ranking these dangerous individuals in a fashion that the public can understand. The more we want them, the higher the reward.”

Pepper remained silent, absorbing the back and forth between Wesley and Moore.

Moore said, “I don’t think this is worth meeting about. We know who we want to capture or kill and we know the order, so why go through this exercise? Why not just add five million a pop, like the reward for the tenth guy on the list is ten million, number nine is fifteen million, number eight is twenty million and so on?”

There was a long silence and it appeared that Wesley was waiting on Pepper to add his two-cents to the conversation.

Pepper wondered if Moore’s wife bought his suits for him. Moore’s ties perfectly matched the colors in his shirts and that indicated a female touch. Pepper felt a tinge of envy for his Director of Operations. Moore appeared to have it all figured out. Great wife. Great kids. Great job. Low golf handicap. Moore was even able to squeeze in a little fun on the side.

The silence continued.

Moore looked at Wesley and then at Pepper.

Wesley looked at Moore and when Moore’s eyes shifted to Pepper, she looked at Pepper as well.

Pepper was in no hurry to say his piece. He considered the fact, that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. It was his job to predict the reaction.

Pepper finally said, “I need to brief our new President in two days. The people attending that meeting will be the Director of National Intelligence, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the Director of the FBI. I would like to have a solid reason for spending more of the taxpayer’s money, just on the outside chance that we have to pay off one of these bounties. Placing arbitrary amounts on highly sought terrorists really doesn’t do it for me, and I don’t think it will do it for the people in that meeting either.”

Pepper looked at Moore, expecting him to say something, but Moore remained silent.

Pepper continued, “So, I would like a written justification why some of the detestable people on our top ten list are worth only five million and why we feel that others are worth fifty-million. I am not expecting a one-inch-thick slab of paper on my desk, but on the other hand, we should have research and corresponding data that relates to how we arrived at our bounty numbers. Are we good with that?”

“Sounds good to me,” Wesley said.

Moore looked like he could see a light at the end of what was supposed to be a long meeting and said, “Absolutely, Jarret. Makes perfect sense.”

Pepper didn’t detect a tone of placation in Moore’s response, but on the other hand, he didn’t know the man all that well.

“So are we all good with fifty-million for Chang’s head?” Wesley asked.

“Sure, but make sure you justify how much we’ll pay for the rest of him,” Pepper joked.

No one laughed.

Tough crowd, Pepper thought.