by Lee Brainard
Her mind reeled. This was disturbing. No Miranda rights. No police report. No formal charges. And no access to a lawyer. Seriously? That brand of law enforcement wasn’t unusual in Russia. But America? She continued to read. The author compared the Fort Worth incident to eight similar Security Act incidents across America in the past two weeks.
Then he opined, based on several inside tips, that those arrested in these incidents were being detained at a secret FEMA camp that housed only Security Act arrests. Really? FEMA Camps? That sounded far-fetched to Irina as FEMA camps, which had only been operating for two weeks, were the cornerstone of a brand new federal program known as Fresh Start that was being touted as America’s best hope to get the homeless off the streets and give them a new start in life. Besides, the idea that the government was using FEMA camps as secret prisons was an old urban legend that had been in circulation for at least a decade. It was still a favorite soundbite for the firebrands in the prepper and patriot camps.
She continued reading. While she was parsing the nuance of an insinuating statement three paragraphs later, the article vanished . . . the page was gone . . . and replaced by a “404 page not found” error. She tried to navigate to the homepage and discovered that the entire website was down. She stared at the screen . . . confounded . . . spooked . . . was this related to the WikiLeaks closure? . . . or was this a coincidence? Lot of strange coincidences for one day.
24
Cornell University
Thursday, January 18, 2018
Dr. Goldblum stormed into Irina’s cubicle and slapped a magazine on her desk. It was the February edition of Sci-Fi Today. Her eyes practically jumped out of their sockets when she saw the splashy cover—a picture of an enormous comet headed for Earth—and the provocative headline, “Cover-up or Ludicrous Conspiracy Theory?” Wow. They really were going to run my story.
“Follow me to my office,” he said quietly, but firmly. He picked up the magazine, wheeled about, and headed back to his office. She got up and followed him. He closed his door behind them with agitated force and motioned for her to sit in the chair across from his desk. She obliged.
He placed himself directly in front of her, perched his backside on the edge of his desk with his feet still solidly on the floor, tossed the magazine into her lap, crossed his arms, scowled at her for a moment, then growled, “What do you know about this article?”
She looked up. He was livid . . . and seemed a bit worried too. “Not much. I haven’t read it. In fact, I’ve never even read the magazine before.”
He scowled, “Are you positive?”
She met his glare and said, a little coolly, “As positive as positive can be.” I am positive that I have never read the magazine before . . . and I am positive that I haven’t read the editor’s version of that article . . . and I am positive that “not much” is a good subjective answer when telling the truth seems to be a worse crime than a deceptive answer.
“Somebody leaked highly classified information which ended up in the hands of this pseudo-science rag and now I have federal agents in my office asking a thousand questions. We are going to get to the bottom of this, and the responsible party is going to pay . . . pay dearly.”
Thanks for the juicy niblet . . . it confirms my fears . . . we are definitely dealing with a government cover-up and not merely corporate secrecy . . . but what’s this “we” stuff . . . has the FBI made you a junior investigator?
He continued, with worry in his voice, “We don’t know who leaked the information, whether an insider or a hacker. But if it was an inside job, it won’t take us long to figure out who the culprit is, for there are fewer than seventy people who are privy to the information that was leaked.”
Good thing I didn’t know that . . . if I had known how few people were in the know, I might not have mustered up the courage to send the article.
“Are you listening, Miss Kirilenko? We have a situation on our hands, a security breach which threatens the stability of the entire nation and has the entire security infrastructure engaged. People in high places are demanding answers.”
She nodded. . . . bet he’s unaware how much he just divulged . . . this goes all the way to the top . . . the president and his cabinet are calling the shots here.
“Thankfully, we got lucky and the breach was nipped in the bud before the information was leaked to the public. An assistant editor had gotten a little nervous about the story and called Homeland Security the day before their scheduled press run to ask about the legality of the story. It turns out that he had been on vacation when the story arrived by anonymous email and was unaware of its existence. On the evening that he returned from vacation, his boss called him at home informing him that he would be attending a one-day seminar on HSA 2017 the next morning in Dallas. New regulations required all media outlets and publications to train their employees on the ramifications of this bill for their industry. Every company was required to send an individual to a training session and appoint them to be their security representative, who would be responsible for training the rest of the company.
“The day after the seminar, his first day back to work, the story was placed on his desk by an associate—not for editing, but to bring him up to speed on the upcoming issue. The story piqued his interest, but it also raised a few alarms based on the information he had learned the previous day. He now knew that apocalyptic fear mongering, a long-standing and deeply-revered tradition among the religious right, was now regarded as a federal offense. During his lunch break, he called the 800 number he had been given, a hotline for concerns about efforts to create panic with supposed impending apocalyptic scenarios. He called because he wanted to know whether the story would pass muster with Homeland Security. The counselor on the other end of the line—the lines were manned by FBI and Homeland Security agents—told him he would gladly look into it for him, gave him a fax number, and advised him to fax the story ASAP, but not from his office. He suggested that he drive to the FedEx Print & Ship eight blocks south of him.
“The next morning FBI and Homeland Security agents arrived just as Sci-Fi Today was firing up the presses. They stopped the presses, took the employees into custody, and confiscated everything pertinent to the security breach. Less than a hundred copies were printed, and all of them are in our possession. We dodged a bullet this time.”
“We” dodged a bullet? . . . in “our” possession? . . . what is he hinting at? . . . is he a big player in this game? . . . or is he suffering from delusions of grandeur?
“Loose tongues may have talked to spouses or friends, but steps have been taken to make sure that the recipients of secure information will never compromise any classified information that was divulged to them.”
Steps? . . . that sounds pretty cold-blooded . . . what kind of steps? . . . sequestering them in a gulag like they did in the old Soviet Union?
Dr. Goldblum fixed a cold stare on her for about a half a minute. Irina found it unnerving and fought a sudden wave of uneasiness that bordered on panic. Does he know more than he is letting on?
Then he sprang an unexpected angle on her. “The sender was probably an amateur. He left a trail of crumbs that the NSA thinks it will be able to trace in the next forty-eight hours.” He cocked his head and looked at her knowingly as if he expected her to fess up and get it over with.
She cringed and hoped that he hadn’t noticed. “Well, I hope the wrongdoers in this matter get the justice that they deserve.”
“Oh, they will,” he replied, matter-of-factly. His cold, soulless glare continued. She hoped this conversation would end soon. It was hard to listen to his agitated voice—it reminded her of the rasping drone of an air conditioner on its last legs. Moreover, she was tired of the mind games that he was trying to play with her. Good thing he’s an amateur at psychological manipulation.
“One more thing. NASA has decided to remove you from the Orion project and make you a department assistant. You will aid the other researchers: entering data, t
yping reports, running errands, whatever they need you to do—”
“What?” she interrupted, as a stab of pain shot through her breast and made her wince. She hadn’t seen this coming. Her voice rose in irritation, “First you removed me from my research in Taurus. Now you’re removing me from Orion and demoting me.” She wiped the hot tears that glistened on her cheeks. “Why?” she demanded, her tone lowered, but still obviously aggravated.
“Because you can’t be trusted. It was a stretch in the first place to bring you on board because of your association with the religious right. Since then, you have shown yourself to be insubordinate, independent, and unbalanced. You challenge authority, refuse to be a team player, make your own rules, and squabble with accepted science.”
He hesitated for a moment, then continued, “Plus, we took into consideration the fact that you were enough of a security risk to be on the FBI’s list of insiders who were the most likely suspects for the Sci-Fi Today incident. The fact is, if the FBI hadn’t received credible claims from several Anonymous hackers claiming that their organization was behind the leak—that they had hacked into a secure network at a NASA-linked university, downloaded hundreds of files, and passed them on to Sci-Fi Today—and if the FBI hadn’t found these files on several computers confiscated from the Sci-Fi Today office, you wouldn’t be sitting here with me today. You would be sitting in a dismal interrogation room wired up to Casper—an acronym for Cerebral Stimulation Pattern Recognition, the newest hi-tech lie detector—answering a stream of questions posed by FBI interrogators.”
Praise the Lord! . . . someone at Sci-Fi Today contacted Anonymous hoping to verify my story . . . Anonymous verified the story and forwarded the proof to Sci-Fi Today . . . the FBI found this information on their computers . . . Thank you, Lord, for delivering me from the mouths of the lions.
“Are you listening to what I’m saying? You need to take this seriously. Don’t think that you are out of hot water. You may be in the clear as far as the Sci-Fi Today incident is concerned. But you are still on the FBI’s list of problematic insiders—people in the know on the Taurus phenomenon whom they regard as potential troublemakers. You need to be on your best behavior. If you give them any further reason for concern, you will not only find yourself no longer employed by Cornell University . . . you won’t be employed anywhere ever again.” He spoke the last line with a dark tone designed to intimidate her. Irina cowered and stared blankly at him . . . unsure what he meant, but certain it wasn’t good. He continued, “Let’s just say that the authorities will put you in a situation where you and your unhealthy ways will be kept at bay . . . permanently . . . no contact with the outside world . . . no legal recourse . . . no escape.”
Irina’s heart sank. Maybe the rumors about Homeland Security arrestees being held in secret FEMA camps are true after all? She sat in silence, occasionally touching a Kleenex to her moist eyes, wishing she could retreat to her apartment and have a good cry. She was hurting . . . she was battered into compliance for the time being . . . but she was unbroken . . . and far from submission . . . her tears merely salted her resolve.
Dr. Goldblum softened a little on seeing the change in her demeanor, not certain she was in the process of changing her ways, but hopeful. “If you keep your nose clean for the next six months and stay out of trouble, we might be able to pitch another research proposal for you. If you do your part, I will see what I can do about it. Okay?”
She nodded and said, “Okay.” When he didn’t continue with his onslaught but cracked a faint, slightly forced smile, Irina assumed that her ordeal was over and stood up to leave.
He motioned to her to remain sitting. “I might be done talking to you, but there are others who are waiting their turn.”
She nodded glumly and sat there trembling, not so much from fear, but from weariness and frustration.
Dr. Goldblum strode out of his office, briskly walked down the hall to the empty office, and summoned two agents who had been patiently waiting. Without speaking a word, they rose and followed him back to his office.
Irina wasn’t too surprised when two young men wearing suits and ties walked in. She looked down and noted their freshly polished black wingtips. Feds . . . the government must be dead serious about the ban on communication.
They were polite but curt. The tallest one began, “We would like to ask you some questions.”
Irina fixed her gaze on the one that had spoken, “What is the purpose of this visit? Why am I being interrogated?”
He replied, with a hint of a Boston accent, “Ma’am. We are not here to answer your questions. We are here to ask you questions.”
She shot back. “That’s miss, not ma’am.”
“My apologies, miss.” Their eyes locked for a moment, then he continued. “
“Do you have or have you ever had any association with Anonymous?”
“No.”
“Do you know anything about the leak of classified information to Sci-Fi Today?”
“Only that somebody leaked classified information to Sci-Fi Today.”
The questioning continued in this vein for a little over an hour. Abruptly they changed the tenor of the conversation from interrogation to pressure. “Are you willing to set aside your personal beliefs and work as a team-player with your fellow team member?”
She looked intently at them, processing the question and her answer. I have to comply . . . otherwise . . . I may never have an opportunity to disseminate the truth about the Rogue. “Yes. I can do that.”
“Will you do that?”
“Yes. I will do that.”
The grilling continued for another thirty minutes. They probed her commitment to her understanding of the anomaly in Taurus . . . her willingness to sacrifice her own opinions for corporate good . . . her view on the apocalyptic teachings of the Bible. They inquired whether she thought it was possible that she might be reading her views on Bible prophecy into current events . . . imagining fulfillment where none exists. The questions were nerve-racking, but she figured she must have answered them satisfactorily, for nothing came of her answers.
The tallest agent brought the session to a close without warning. “That will be all. Thank you for your time, Miss Kirilenko. There will be no further questioning at this time.” With that, the two stood up and prepared to exit.
Irina blurted out, “Out of curiosity. What would happen to someone if they didn’t comply? Let’s say, for instance, that someone thought this situation called for Copernicus to challenge the ‘accepted’ paradigm? What if they believed that political expediency was trampling on science?”
“Then they would be taken into custody.”
“On what basis would they be arrested?”
“I didn’t say arrested, I said taken into custody.”
“Then what does take into custody mean?”
The tall agent hesitated and looked to his partner. The short agent calmly answered, “It means to be treated like a prisoner of war—without rights, legal representation, or recourse. Criminals, who mistreat their fellow human beings, are arrested. Terrorists and security threats, who threaten the well-being of the entire nation, are taken into custody.” He peered deep into her eyes, “You aren’t rethinking your compliance are you?”
“No sir.” Irina was compliant—on the outside. Her inner tiger, however, wanted to run amok and fix the stupidity that seemed to reign whenever politics got the upper hand over science. But she kept a firm grip on the tiger’s chain—her grandfather’s counsel echoing in her ear, “Outbursts of anger never fix anything. They break things. You need intelligent, controlled anger if you want to fix things.”
After that day, the agents stopped by two or three times a week. They snooped around. They observed. And they made everyone feel nervous. Not even Dr. Goldblum seemed to appreciate their presence. But it was their detached and aloof demeanor that made folks the most nervous. They rarely talked. And they never smiled or laughed. Eventually, they became an inside jo
ke at the Cahill Center—they were really experimental cyborgs developed in Area 51.
25
Washington, D.C.
Thursday, June 28, 2018
Jack slumped into his familiar booth at Madigan’s—it had been a tough day at work—and made eye contact with the waitress. He and his entire department had been busting their butts with an extensive security upgrade for the past six months—working sixty to seventy hours per week. Now they were approaching their deadline, and things had gotten even more intense. As soon as dinner was over, he would be headed back to his office for another four or five hours of work. He was a little peeved. His bed tonight would be a cot, and his breakfast would be fast-food breakfast sandwiches, which always gave him indigestion. A shower wasn’t going to happen, nor a shave. If he didn’t put in north of a hundred hours this week, it would be a miracle.
He propped his right elbow on the table, leaned his head on his hand, and ruffled his hair—an odd little habit that he indulged when he was either frustrated or exhausted. He understood the push . . . the urgency . . . the president’s security program was absolutely necessary to meet the threats and contingencies America faced in the increasingly complex world . . . we needed a massive technological gap between ourselves and the rest of the world . . . so we can hack them, but they can’t hack us . . . we needed this advantage in the face of the arms race with Russia and China . . . and the ramping up of the war against terrorism and insurgency . . . and the war against illicit drug trade and illegal arms trade . . . but why did NASA need the same security and intelligence measures as the CIA and the NSA . . . was something going on in high places that he wasn’t privy to? . . . were the space race and the arms race now inseparably entangled? . . . he wished he knew.
He was startled from his reflections when he noticed that Darleen was at his side with the coffee pot. “Let me guess,” she said with a smile and her delightful Southern drawl, “the 12-ounce bourbon-soaked sirloin, medium rare, with western fries, and salad with ranch dressing.”
