Permafrost. M. Schwartz

to the overpowering night, and Gomez called in the helicopter to pick them up. The blacked-out stealth chopper was not only fast, but its sharp angles and classified paint job resulted in a minimal radar signature. Coupled with a state-of-the air rotor and exhaust system, the platform was magnitudes quieter than his older cousins, the Black Hawk or Osprey. The team piled on and carried the body of the unconscious man to the deck of the helicopter.

      “Who the hell is that?” the pilot asked, concerned.

      “Just get us to Seoul,” Coleman replied.

      “Damn SEALs,” was all the pilot said in reply.

      The normal two-hour trip by train from Cheorwon to Seoul was done in forty-five minutes flat by the sleek helicopter. Their ride out of the mountains landed on a large concrete H helipad on top of an unmarked building covered in polished blue glass. They hopped off and carried the impostor inside. Coleman came up to a pad and typed in eight numbers given to him during the mission brief for a one-time use: 17751790. A light ringing sound emitted from the panel, and the door popped open. The hiss from the emerging door made it sound like the entry system had been pressurized inside and was made to be airtight. Once fully open, the team piled into the building and down two stories. Coleman typed in another pin, and the second door opened.

      The room they entered was nothing more than a dolled-up office full of a people in average black-and-gray suits, business casual garb, and a lot of generic and cheap art like a lake surrounded by trees or birds flying near clouds hanging on the wall. Baron couldn’t think of it any other way than a cliché office space you would see on TV. There were office cubes walls made of cheap fiber, large TVs on the walls displaying various satellite images, and the standard fare of white halogen tube light bulbs screwed into the ceiling illuminating cubes for people to work. People Baron didn’t know, or care to, milled about holding documents in their hands dressed appropriately for an office job. A medical team in blue-and-green scrubs came up to the SEALs and confiscated the unconscious man. Behind them, a tall elderly man with light-brown skin, gray hair, and a clean black suit with a white button-up shirt and a blue tie walked up to them. Baron noticed that he had more creases and wrinkles on his face, as well as a receding hairline, no doubt due to stress, than the average male his age. All the lines covering his face gave him a more withered and tired appearance than he probably intended.

      “Good work, folks,” the man said with no hint of a smile.

      “I don’t know about that, Admiral, but it went as smoothly as it could under the circumstances,” Coleman replied. Baron looked at the man and thought that this must have been Rear Admiral Hatch, the new commanding officer for Naval Special Operations Command. Baron gave him a once-over and noticed the one thing that seemed to stick out over any other detail. On his left lapel was a small golden pin in the sign of the Navy SEAL badge, an eagle emblazoned in gold over top of an anchor holding a pistol in one claw, and a trident in the other. The admiral caught Baron’s eye and commented on it.

      “That’s right, son. I was with the teams,” Admiral Hatch said as just another fact like the sky was blue or he was wearing a suit.

      “Aye, Admiral,” was all Baron said in reply.

      “Well, let me be the first to welcome you to the CIA’s outpost in Korea.” The admiral gestured with a wave of his hand. “Now let’s get you and your boys into a more secure SCIF and talk about what the hell happened out there.”