"Did you trace the source?"

Three minutes later, the supervisor of Department P hurriedly walked toward the monitoring room, followed closely by the analyst who discovered the issue.

"They suddenly appeared on forums of major news websites. I've already taken emergency measures to block and intercept them, but if it's happened once, it'll happen again. Since these images surfaced, it's clear the publisher has a much deeper agenda—they'll definitely release them again."

"Have the tech team trace them immediately. Find out where these images originated, the initial source, and the IP address they were sent from."

Then, the two had already entered the office.

The supervisor sat in front of the computer. At this moment, the interception count displayed in the system's bottom-right corner was still rising—it had already reached thousands.

He opened the contents, and the images that popped up furrowed the supervisor's brow.

He turned and asked, "Have you verified the classified level of the individuals in these photos?"

"Highest level."

"Highest?"

The supervisor couldn't help but turn his gaze back to the analyst.

"Are you certain?"

"I'm certain. These individuals are all former Special Forces who retired for various reasons and were subsequently categorized as classified personnel. Their access level is 5A."

"Highest clearance level?"

The supervisor seemed to grasp the gravity of the situation.

"You and the tech team continue tracking the source. Print these photos for me—I need to find the director. This is a serious matter and must be contained."

"Rest assured, domestic networks are under our control. There shouldn't be any issues."

The technician nearby reassured the supervisor.

But soon, his tone shifted.

"What if the images aren't just released in our country but distributed globally, say on networks in Europe or the Z-East region?"

At this point, he showed an expression of helplessness.

"We can't openly block allied networks."

The supervisor considered this briefly and replied, "Leave that to me. You just need to follow protocol and trace the source. Inform me immediately if there's any progress—remember, no delays."

The documents were soon printed.

The supervisor picked up the stack, signed his name in the sensitive materials register, then turned and left.

Soon, he returned to his office and immediately picked up his phone to call his superior.

"Sir, this is Robert. Today the 'Dock' system intercepted some 5A-classified sensitive data. These materials suddenly surfaced on our network and were posted to several websites and forums. We've used technological methods to temporarily block them, but based on our assessment, the source isn't done—they'll likely publish more, possibly beyond our domestic networks. We now need to initiate contingency protocols and reach out to allied intelligence agencies for assistance."

"5A-classified?"

The supervisor's superior sounded shocked.

"Are you sure?"

"The system flagged it automatically—I trust it's even more accurate than human judgment. It seems to have cross-referenced the database and detected anomalies before issuing alerts. These materials are photographs, likely taken during post-battle cleanup operations. The backdrop appears to be in the Z-East region, and the personnel are all former Special Forces, retired under unusual circumstances and mysteriously disappeared. I suspect…they may not belong to our own system. Could they be tied to brother agencies?"

Robert's words carried a subtle implication.

His superior on the other end of the call caught on immediately.

"Alright, bring the materials to me in an hour. In the meantime, I'll contact the CIA and other Secret Action agencies. I'll arrange a video conference—make sure the documents are ready and bring them to my office."

"Understood, sir."

One hour later.

In the NSA director's office, two deputy directors were already present:

One was in charge of intelligence analysis; the other oversaw operations.

Robert arrived punctually with the documents and was standing by for directives.

The director gestured to everyone to gather around the small conference table in his office. He checked the time, looked at Robert, and said, "Robert, come sit here. You'll be presenting the materials to them later."

"Yes, sir!"

Robert restrained his excitement and promptly took a seat next to the director.

There was no doubt.

This was his chance to showcase himself.

The system was never short of talented individuals.

What it often lacked were opportunities for them to stand out.

That was true anywhere.

The meeting time arrived. The LCD screen mounted on the wall began displaying several frames.

Numbered from 1 to 10.

The frames soon filled with faces.

Robert recognized all of them.

On-screen were leading figures across America's military, security agencies, and intelligence bureaus—most were deputy directors.

The frame in the top-positioned box remained dim.

A few minutes passed, and the people in the frames had begun fidgeting.

Some checked their watches, tidied their documents, or sipped coffee...

Finally, after another two minutes, the top-positioned box flickered and displayed a picture.

The image revealed a man with blonde, neatly parted hair, wearing wire-rim glasses. His background was a blank wall adorned with the American flag.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize; I'm late because a conversation with the President ran over schedule."

Evidently, there was no actual apology in his expression—his words didn't match his demeanor.

Changing the subject, the blonde man adjusted his tie, his gaze sweeping across the screen in his office.

"It appears everyone's here. OK, let's begin the meeting. Adam, would you mind briefing us on the situation?"

He raised a hand in a commanding manner.

"Here's the situation..."

NSA Deputy Director Adam began elaborating on the events that transpired.

The news was explosive—every participant in the video conference paid close attention, except for one individual whose disinterest was unmistakable.

That man within one of the frames was Pence, visibly distracted.

A few minutes later, Adam handed the floor to Robert, who presented some of the photos to the attendees.

"The backdrop appears to be a battlefield, and it's nighttime."

The blonde man's brows knitted tightly.

"Are they ours? Are you sure? Not other database entries concerning terrorists?"

"They're not terrorists—they're all ours, former Special Forces personnel."

Robert seized the opportunity to explain to the blonde man.

He knew opportunities to interact with high-ranking individuals like this were rare—he needed to showcase his capabilities efficiently.

Thus, he began detailing the monitoring of the source, the timely alerts, the swift intercepts, and blocking operations, embellishing the complexity and difficulty to bolster his own reputation, as if the entire effort had been spearheaded by him alone.

As Robert explained the image analyses, one of the boxes containing Pence showed him shifting uncomfortably several times, as if he'd been bitten by a venomous snake under his suit and couldn't sit still.

"Right now, we must secure allied cooperation to stop further leaks, or by tomorrow these images could flood newspapers and television across Europe. Explaining them will be difficult, especially since the individuals involved are tied to 5A-classified backgrounds—the fallout would be enormous."

Both the screen and the conference room fell silent.

Everyone refrained from speaking.

But their facial expressions varied greatly.

Pence's awkwardness was the most conspicuous.

The representatives from the military eyed him coldly, their lips curled into sneers of schadenfreude.

"Communicating with allies to suppress this is feasible—our influence over Europe still holds. The real question is: whose system do these individuals belong to? Any guesses?"

There was no response.

The silence persisted.

The blonde man could already deduce a fraction of the truth from the silence.

"Could it be that these individuals are simply former Special Soldiers who, after leaving active duty, became mercenaries in Z-East and wound up killed in Siria, as depicted?"

Still, no response.

The blonde man sneered. "Allow me to remind everyone present that I know you oversee intelligence agencies and secret operations departments. But let me caution you: these individuals died in Siria and all served in Special Forces. If their images go public, the consequences extend far beyond identity leaks—they'll spark diplomatic incidents. After all, this involves 5A-classified intelligence."

"Sir!"

The Pentagon representative suddenly spoke up.

"Let me state clearly that these individuals did indeed serve in our military, but I assure you they were never rehired or involved in any of our secret projects. Frankly, I have no knowledge of why they ended up in Siria. If it had been our operation, we wouldn't have left their bodies behind for someone to photograph."

The Pentagon's military representative was an elderly white-haired man with a full general rank; his cropped military haircut resembled perfectly chiseled steel spikes, and his sharp eyes evoked the likeness of the American bald eagle—a fitting national symbol.

Cleverly distancing the Pentagon from the matter, he then directed subtle accusations toward Pence.

Pence's complexion turned even grimmer.

He glanced at the "bald eagle" but hesitated to speak.

Secretly, he cursed under his breath.

"Fuck! Your Marine Corps casualties were his doing too, so stop pretending you have nothing to do with this!"

But he couldn't say that.

Pence was acutely aware that Song Heping was likely behind the photographs.

Only he had the means to capture such images and the intent to leak them online.

Yet mentioning Song Heping here would only complicate matters.

Should he disclose the CIA's spat with Song Heping?

Confess they'd used Song Heping to deal with the Mexican drug lord?

Admit the fallout stemmed from their dispute over Little Curtis?

Merely mentioning it could cost him his deputy director position before Monday.

"This matter is unrelated to us."

"We can also confirm these aren't our personnel."

Seeing the Pentagon's representative had distanced itself, other department heads and representatives also disavowed any connection.

Everyone at this meeting was a seasoned bureaucrat and cunning strategist. They recognized this situation as a toxic issue—whoever touched it would bear the stench.

In the end, only Pence remained conspicuously silent.

All eyes turned toward him.

Pence found himself under unprecedented pressure. Eventually, he coughed twice and said, "This operation is somewhat related to our Secret Action Department..."

He immediately activated his skillful blame-shifting, throwing the responsibility onto the absent Kelly.

After prepping his scapegoat, Pence added, "Regarding the identities of these individuals, their 5A-classified status means only your department director has clearance to view their profiles."

The subtext being: Aside from Khalid's top-ranking status, all you deputies have no leverage here—stop posturing!

"Mr. Khalid, the situation is extraordinarily complex. I request to terminate this meeting and report to your office privately."

Khalid, a sharp and astute leader, immediately grasped Pence's implication that this meeting was no longer productive.

"It seems the matter is truly complicated. Given that, we'll schedule a follow-up meeting once we clarify the specifics. Pence, prepare the necessary documents and come to the White House at 3 p.m. for a full briefing."

"Understood, sir."

Pence felt a sense of reprieve, his strained expression finally easing.

Khalid glanced around the screen and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, since this matter will be addressed privately, the meeting concludes here. Everyone's busy—let's not waste time."

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by lotustale.com