Chapter 375: Visiting the CIA
"Boss, I really don't see the point of visiting such an incompetent and garbage organization as the CIA. Any random squad of ours could easily outperform their entire department!"
Arthur whispered in Ron's ear, speaking with a refined British accent. If Ron were a typical American girl, she would absolutely swoon over his distinguished bald head.
But unfortunately, Ron wasn't.
"There's an old saying, 'Even a broken clock is right twice a day.' In other words, 'Even in a junkyard, you can always find usable parts.' Even the seemingly worst organization has something you can learn from, Arthur." Ron said casually, "Stay sharp, Arthur, use your trained eye to observe everyone here."
After Thanksgiving, besides Howard's wedding, the most important event was Christmas. Ron had originally planned to go back to his hometown in Texas; he hadn't been back in a long time.
But just as he was about to leave, a phone call forced him to attend this liaison visit with the CIA.
The White House gave the order directly, and Ron had no choice but to comply. But with the simple sentiment of "if I have to suffer, you're all coming with me," Ron didn't forget to drag his subordinates along.
"I don't understand, why me of all people?" Arthur followed behind Ron, feeling frustrated.
"Mr. and Mrs. Smith requested vacation time a month in advance to go to Tuscany, and Frank and his crew of old-timers went on a deep-sea fishing trip... In other words, everyone except you asked for leave in advance, so blame yourself for being too slow to submit your PTO request."
Ron patted Arthur on the shoulder to comfort him, then turned to the CIA liaison officer who was leading them and smiled: "Sorry, please don't mind my subordinate's blunt assessment. He didn't call you 'trash' specifically—he said everyone here is trash. Please don't take it personally."
The CIA liaison's jaw twitched, and he took two deep breaths to restrain himself from immediately drawing his sidearm and shooting the two guys in front of him: "Right. Okay, follow me, take this elevator down. Our operations center has always been located in the basement levels."
"Now our field operatives all carry specialized cameras and earpieces, which allow us to direct the agents' actions in real time through the command center, down to every single movement. This has dramatically reduced the casualty rate of our field operatives. I think this is a technology that's definitely worth adopting."
"Sure, for mediocre operatives, this method can indeed keep them alive longer, but if you want to protect them better, I have a suggestion: don't send these amateurs out on missions in the first place."
Ron arrogantly surveyed the operations center: "If they don't go looking for trouble, they won't get killed. As long as they all stay huddled together in this underground bunker... Excuse me, what did you just say this place was called?"
"The Special Operations Command Center." The CIA liaison's face turned red.
"Right, the Special Operations Command Center," Ron pointed to the female agents chatting idly in a cluster: "I don't remember any intelligence agency that allows birthday parties in the office during working hours like this."
Following Ron's gesture, the liaison saw several middle-aged men and women gathered together, with a sliced cake in the middle, which made him visibly embarrassed.
"What are you doing?! It's working hours, get back to your stations!" The liaison angrily dispersed the crowd, frowning at the woman spitting cake onto a plate: "What's going on?"
"Ugh~ there are mouse droppings in this cake." The female agent said weakly.
"Hahaha..." Ron couldn't hold back his laughter anymore. What had he just said?
No sooner had he mentioned the "underground bunker" than "mouse droppings" appeared to validate his point. It seemed the visit to the CIA wasn't as boring as he'd anticipated; at least, watching these CIA agents embarrass themselves was quite entertaining.
"Sorry you had to witness that unfortunate incident," the liaison said, turning to Ron after the reprimand. "Today is just an unusual situation. The CIA has always considered it our mission to defend global security. You absolutely cannot imagine the sacrifices we've made to maintain the peace you take for granted."
The liaison quickly tried to save face. Ron thought to himself: If you didn't work so hard, the world might actually be more peaceful.
Of course, he would never say that out loud.
"For example, right now, we're using remote tactical support technology to track a tactical nuclear device. Come with me."
The liaison led Ron and Arthur behind a heavyset woman wearing a headset. In front of her, displayed in a first-person perspective reminiscent of a video game, a luxurious ballroom was filled with countless elegantly dressed men and women.
"The Baccarat crystal stemware, exquisite!" The agent admired the glass for a moment, then suddenly flung it aside. The glass shattered at a woman's feet, immediately drawing everyone's attention. At that moment, he slipped through a service door, navigated through a few corridors, and entered the vast underground vault beneath the ballroom.
"This is our division's top operative, Bradley Fine. What do you think?" Seeing the agent's performance on the screen, the liaison finally felt vindicated and proudly introduced him to the two visitors.
"A diversion, a very old-school tactic, but effective. But if this is the caliber of your division's top operative, then I finally understand why Luke Hobbs is so exceptional," Ron sneered. "It's all because of the low bar you guys set."
"You!" The liaison glared at Ron, but Arthur glared back without hesitation.
However, this dispute didn't interfere with the female handler's work. She continued directing the agent, bypassing several security patrols, and soon arrived behind the target.
"Rayna Boyanov, hands up!" The agent pointed his weapon at the woman on the phone.
"Bradley Fine," the woman actually called out the agent's name, "What a pleasure to finally meet you."
"This is the top operative you were just bragging about?" Arthur joined the mockery. "Okay, he might be competent, but you people are a massive liability. An agent on a covert operation being identified by name at first glance—do you understand what that means?"
The liaison shook his head awkwardly.
"It means your agency leaks like a sieve, you moron!" Arthur shot back without hesitation. As a field operative, no one understood the danger better than him.
Being a covert operative is a life-or-death profession; their greatest asset is anonymity, but this CIA agent had been compromised from the very start.
(End of Chapter)
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