Homeland Security

by William L Casselman

  Knowing he had sincerely blown it, he presented his best smile to the two uniformed federal security officers in front of him, both who had assumed a challenging two-handed shooter’s stance, with their Glock Model-17, 9mm pistols, now aimed at the center of his chest. He also knew that to each side of him were other security officers, also in the same stance and they would most likely shoot him if he attempted to bring his hands down before he was advised to do so.

  “I have a loaded forty-five pistol in my back. I also have my federal officer’s credentials in my right back pocket, last name is Jefferson, first name is Clay. My only excuse for being so stupid is a lack of sleep. I was ordered here at the completion of my last assignment, and again, I apologize…especially for my odor. I’ve been in the woods for a long time.”

  “Shut-up and very slowly drop to your knees. If you are a federal officer, you know how to assume the correct position. Anything else and you may force me to shoot you and ruin the waxing job the custodians did last night. Now assume the position!”

  Clay knew this was the detail’s senior man speaking, and these officers took their job very seriously. Normally he was glad they did, but he also knew one of these younger officers might be applying just a little bit more pressure on their triggers than they should be. Reality and the excitement they might have bagged a real-live terrorist, made for a dangerous situation. So, very slowly, he dropped to his knees while keeping his hands appear above his head; he slowly dropped forward until his palms hit the floor, followed by his forehead and then his chest.

  “Keith, holster your pistol and carefully move in. First, remove his weapon from his back. You know what to do if he tries to move. And sir, just so we understand each other…if you do move, I will place two bullets into your upper backside. Do you understand me, sir?”

  “I’m frozen solid, Officer….no problems,” Clay replied. He actually wanted to kick himself for causing all of this, knowing whoever he reported to was bound to go over the incident he had created and then filed a written report in his personnel file. This was not his best showing for an undercover officer to display, but it had clearly provided some entertainment for all those who had witnessed his major blunder. Maybe they’ll send me back to the Army, and then they’ll retire me after spending 6-months washing dishes at the camp chow hall.

  Clay felt the pressure as his .45 was removed and then very carefully, he heard the sound of the chambered round being removed from his pistol, followed then by the handgun’s magazine. The round was then inserted back into the magazine. The magazine was then reinserted into the pistol. The officer then placed the weapon behind his back, held in place by a wide leather basket-weave police belt.

  Keith then returned to remove Clay’s wallet but found no police or federal credentials inside of it. “Sergeant, all I have is an I.D., and his name isn’t Clay Jefferson.”

  “Handcuff him…slowly, I do not like the looks of this dude.” The supervisor looked about and saw that people were beginning to move around again, and he shouted, “Everyone freeze! We’re not finished here yet, and this man could still be carrying a bomb. So, stay where you are until I’ve released you!”

  “Oh, Shit!” Clay’s younger FBI agent and driver, was stunned. He couldn’t believe the man he was responsible for was laid out on the entryway floor. “What happened?” He asked.

  “Do you know this guy, Agent?” The senior guard asked. He knew this man was an FBI agent, but couldn’t recall his name.

  “Sure, he’s a federal officer I just drove in from the airport. I’ve got to take him upstairs, but I’m betting he left his credentials in his bag. We took him right off his last assignment, he didn’t even have time to grab a shower, and man does he stink. I’m also betting he even forgot he was carrying…right?”

  “Can you go get his bag and bring me his credentials. I’d like to take your word, but then I might lose my extra $2.50 an hour I draw as being the shift supervisor.”

  “No problem, but you might let him sit up, that position’s got to be rough on the knees and forehead.”

  “Sure.” He then addressed Clay and allowed him to turn around and remain seated on his butt.

  “Thanks, this feels a whole lot better… Look, this is all my fault. They flew me straight up here without time off, and I just blew it. I can’t believe I came in here without my proper I.D., especially being armed. Normally I would’ve turned my weapon over to the senior agent on scene, where I was working, but this is my own pistol, and I didn’t want it getting lost. Over the years I’ve had two pistols, and a rifle go missing on me. That .45 is match-class and fitted perfectly for my hand.”

  “It’s not a problem, sir…keeps my guys on their toes.”

  “Can I buy you all a beer later tonight…unless I’m going right out again.”

  “You look like you could use a good night of sleep, maybe a decent steak.”

  Clay grinned. “I was down in the south. I think nearly half my blood was sucked out by those carnivorous insects down there, but it was worth it. I was hoping for a couple weeks of leave, but they ordered me here right away.”

  “Well, if you’re going to be hanging around Washington, make sure you carry those federal credentials…the D.C. cops can be heavy-handed at times. They’ll make you go through the system, spend twenty-four hours in lock-up before even calling your boss. They’ve done it to a few of us, real embarrassing.”

  Now with his credentials in hand and his .45 back in place, Clay shook the detail’s hands and then grabbed the elevator up to the 5th floor. According to the Senior Agent, he met in Tennessee, Room # 512 was where he was to report too.

  Clay was alone now; his driver was busy returning his vehicle to the motor pool, located in the basement. Walking down the hallways, checking the room numbers, he was breathing in the cool air conditioning and was so pleased to be out of those mountains and away from all those terrible people he had come to know. He now hoped 88% of them would be spending the next thirty years in some desert prison, breaking big rocks into little ones. Clay had grown so tired of listening to KKK jerks and their hate-all non-whites’ lecturers, anti-Semitic literature in the latrines and imitation Hitler monsters stomping about the camp.

  Seeing the men’s room up ahead, he decided to give himself another quick face and hand wash, take care of the dust he had picked off the downstairs floor. Looking into the huge wall mirror, he jumped back in time for a moment and recalled those long night when he sat around a desert campfire, and his mind had wrestled with the problems back home in the U.S. political system and the effect it caused to his country. He liked to come up with solutions and talk them over with his team members, who often agreed with him. Of course, he usually outranked everyone, and he knew it was smart to agree with either the top kick NCO or the junior officer stuck out there with them. Most majors and above had spent their time in the sandbox and now enjoyed an air-conditioned room and steak every night at the Officer’s Club.

  Clay had told them of how he thought the President should be treated the same as a five-star general; a rank used up until the end of the Korean War era. He believed the man or woman would receive the same pay scale, housing, and allowances compatible with this rank, while appointed cabinet members would receive equal pay to a military’s Chief of Staff. For elected Senators and Representatives, they would receive equal status to that of full colonels or one-star generals. Clay also felt that Congress could not pass a pay raise for only them, as they had done in the past unless it was across the board for all military and civilian government workers. He’d also like to see term limits for all government elected offices and political appointees, to include the federal court judges and elect the President for 6-year term, so he or she isn’t using half of his first term running for reelection instead of doing their job. To retire all federal judges at the age of seventy or before, if they are found to be operating within diminished mental capacity and to establish a law that prevented a politician or federal employee fro
m going to work for any company he had any dealing with while in office for a minimum of five years, to help prevent corruption and to also abolish paid lobbyists. But, Clay was a realist; he knew that chance of these things happening was one in a million or brought about by the Second Coming of the Lord. But at least the people who held the office wouldn’t be doing it for the money.

  Clay then noticed there was no room number or name on the double wooden doors now in front of him, nor was there a placard tacked to the wall beside the doors to identify what was inside. But, there was another agent who stood there and the man, who wore a sullen expression, only nodded his head once to acknowledgment Clay’s arrival.

  “If you wish to enter, you’ll have to show me an I.D., sir.” The man was younger than Clay, he wore his dark brown hair short and had no facial hair. With hazel eyes, the man stood about five foot and ten inches and appeared to be in good physical shape and Clay estimated him to be about 190lbs. Clay also saw the his sports coat had a hard time concealing the holstered firearm on his right side.

  “How long ago did you leave the academy, Agent?” Clay asked as he withdrew his credentials and handed them to the agent.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Well, if you’re guarding something real important behind those doors, you should never allowed for me to get this close to you. An expert in martial arts could have taken you down and disarmed you within fifteen-seconds, left you unconscious…or dead and then went through these doors. So, I’d estimated you graduated less than a year ago, and you dislike this posting. You are also basing your own security on the hope the security downstairs would’ve already insured I was disarmed. But, I could’ve picked up a weapon at any point, left by a paid-off night custodian, if I was sent here to assassinate someone. But you never thought of that, did you?”

  Once he had checked his credential, identifying Clay as a Federal Officer with a GS-11 rating, the agent felt much like a child being chastised by his father, and he knew he deserved it.

  “Yes, sir, I graduated eight-months ago, and I feel much like you just said. I hate this posting, and I’ve grown lax…I apologize, sir. No excuse.”

  “Look, the reason I said all that was to wake you up. You were apparently put here because someone sees something in you, something you’ve probably not seen in yourself. I know who’s behind that door because I’m reporting to them and they wouldn’t want a dunce out here protecting them. So, wake up. A long time ago, I was given this same talk, and it ended up saving my life.”

  “Saving your life…how?”

  “That’s another story for another time, and we’ve had a couple beers. Right now, I’m late. So, knock on the door and advise the gentleman that I’m here.”

  “Yes, Sir.” The agent had returned Clay’s credentials, smiled, and said, “Thanks.” He then knocked on the right-side door twice and made entry after hearing, “Come in.” He left the door open, walked in, and was right back in mere seconds. “Come on in Mr. Jefferson.”

  Clay was surprised to see he had entered a mid-sized conference room. A quick once over revealed three men at a conference table and a windowless room with walls and ceiling constructed of privacy sound tiles. He stood at one end of a highly expensive wooden conference table; large enough to comfortably sit ten-people. There were ten very nice leather upholstered high-back chairs on chrome legs with caster-wheels. At the other end of the table set the three men, all of whom were now studying him as he had studied the agent outside.

  The room, paneled in light gray cloth-like material, was brightly lit up by overhead fluorescent lighting. Behind the men, there was a large Toshiba 72-inch flat screen TV mounted on the wall. Below the screen was a wooden table on wheels with two white ceramic urns; one marked by felt pen for coffee and the other for tea. Clay also noticed the small Bose speakers mounted in each corner of the ceiling. Always the best for the Feds! Bose yet… my tax dollars at work.

  The table top had several yellow legal-sized writing tablets; one in front of each chair and three brown leather handle-less cups holding an assortment of official FBI black ink pens and brand new sharpened yellow number-two pencils spread out across the length of the table.

  Of the three men who set at the far end of the table, the one at the end was a heavyset elderly white gentleman with short curly white hair; with tufts about the ears and back of his head, but he was bald on top. Clay took notice of the older man’s previous broken nose, old ear injuries and swollen rheumatoid arthritis about his battered knuckles, all of which told Clay the man had once been a boxer; either amateur or professional in his early years. The man wore a tightly groomed white and gray mustache, had heavily bloodshot medium blue eyes, with a drooping left eyelid; with a small reddish wart planted on it. There was an ample supply of crow’s feet wrinkles sprouted from the corners of both eyes and a lot of facial wrinkles that ran along the length of his cheeks. On his temples were the reddish age spots that women tried to hide with make-up and his chin and jaw already displayed the five o’clock shadow of a man who was troubled with a heavy beard. Bald on top, but the beard wants to come out to make you look like Santa Claus. It is so strange how that happens to so many old men.

  From this observation, Clay knew the man worked a stressful job and was clearly nearing retirement age; probably counting the days to when he could put his papers in and find a nice condo in Arizona or Florida to live out his days in and write a book about his exploits with the government. The older gentleman was the only one without a sports coat on or a military uniform blouse. He wore only a light blue button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. No tie and his collar’s top button was unbuttoned to show he was wearing a white t-shirt. What troubled Clay was the presence of a half-full glass ashtray in front of the older man; for all the federal premises were now non-smoking areas. There was even a “No Smoking” sign inside this room also, but apparently, it was ignored.

  The second fellow who set to the older gentleman’s right was much younger by a good twenty years or more margin, and he appeared to be quite tall; well over six-foot. But, since he was sitting down, Clay was only able to make an estimation based upper body size. He was of a thin build, with a long narrow face, hawkish nose and long ears to correspond with the nose. His brown hair was cut short, with one-inch bangs in front and he had a menacing mustache-goatee affair going, which told Clay he was probably not military unless he was Delta Force and Clay knew most everyone in Delta Force. No, this gentleman was a complete stranger to him. He wore an expensive brown tailored suit with pearl-looking buttons, a multi-colored blue, gold and yellow wool vest and a brown tie with small yellow stripes. Clay thought it a bit too warm for the current outside temperatures. Clay then suspected the man might have come from a very hot climate; Washington weather, though warm for the locals, cooled visitors off who came from Central America to the Middle East. The gentleman also wore an official blue and white “AGENT” identification badge, which hung from a beaded chain around his neck, with a non-flattering photograph of him on it. Clay was wearing a similar identification badge on a chain, but his only said , “VISITOR.”

  The man’s goatee caused Clay to remember how two CIA agents in Egypt had similar goatees, and their careless actions had gotten two of his team killed. He glared back at the man’s deadpan expression and wondered if this man could sprout a set of devilish horns and spit fire from his mouth. From his presence here, Clay would’ve turned around and walked right back out through the doors right then, but he stayed because of the presence of the third man who sat at the table. This was someone he knew; an old and dear friend.

  Lt. Colonel Richard Jessup set to the old man’s left, and he wore a sincere smile for Clay. When he saw how uncomfortable Clay had gotten, Jessup waved him toward the chair beside him. Jessup and Clay had known each other since the first day Second Lieutenant Clay Jefferson entered John F. Kennedy Special Warfare School in hopes to become a Green Beret. Clay never forgot Jessup’s welcoming speech. It wa
sn’t pleasant, but in fact it was sprinkled with dire threats and profanity and by the look in the man’s eyes, Clay believed Jessup, who was only a major back then and one of the senior training officers at the training center, was up to the task at hand to make or break the junior officers and non-commissioned officers. It was Jessup’s job to make their lives a living hell, to see if they could cut the mustard and had what it took to wear the coveted Green Beret. For the officers, this meant to eventually become one of two A-Team Commanders, responsible for the enlisted men in their small unit. So, Jessup was especially rough on his young lieutenants and captains. He didn’t want a man getting killed because he allowed some college boy to coast through the program, especially because this officer knew some congressmen, his daddy was filthy rich, or he was serving a high ranking officer. At the John F. Kennedy Special Warfare School, the students quickly learned rank meant little here. This became soon apparent when the enlisted men stopped saluting the student officers, and the torture began.

  Today, Lt. Colonel Jessup wore his dress greens, and this allowed him to display his ribbons and qualification badges. He was built much like an NFL middle linebacker, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. His square jaw and muscular physique made him a poster child for the Green Beret. But, his several small battle scars below the lower lip and hard piercing hazel eyes from too much time as a hunter in the bush, would scare off too many mothers, who would see him and send their sons to the Air Force or the Navy. He wore his gray and white hair cut close, just enough to show the color and he had no mustache. His uniform pants are highly creased, giving one the impression the edge could cut silk. His well broken in jump boots were highly polished, a chore he still did himself, and his pants were bloused airborne style, right at the top of his boot laces. His uniform blouse was spotlessly clean and displayed his award ribbons; two Silver Stars, two Purple Hearts, various other awards, plus an assortment of colorful “I Was There” ribbons. Above his ribbons, he wore his Combat Infantry Badge with two battle stars and Master Jump Wings. He had other awards he could wear, but these were the ones he personally held in esteem, and he didn’t want to overdo it.