One Man Two Votes (The Robert Carlton Series Book 1)

by J Russ Briley

  They reached the aluminum and glass exit. The door, walls and ceiling were polished and buffed like a brand new airplane. Six people stood waiting.

  “We’re too late, Terri. This will take forever,” Marty gruffed at her, turning to leave.

  She grabbed him by the arm. “Come on. You can make it. It’s only a couple of minutes. They’re moving pretty quickly today.”

  They watched as the employees approached the door and the framed glass plate next to it. Placing the right hand on the plate for scanning, each person walked through the door alone. It was the first stage of “the Airlock.” A handprint got you into the booth, which took a full body and retina scan before letting you go out the other side. It also scanned magnetically, and once a week, employees got reference scanned with ultrasound. If you had a new tooth filling put in, they would have to adjust your file to match before you could get through. If you failed the test, you were locked in. Security would interrogate the individual before releasing him or her. That happened to Marty about once a month. For some reason, the machine hated him.

  No employee could take anything in or out. No car keys, change, wallets, belt buckles, or jewelry were allowed through the door. All of that stuff had to stay in the outside lockers. Most employees kept separate glasses for the work side, just to avoid hassles. Marty wore a belt he had modified to use Velcro instead of a metal buckle to hold up his pants. The whole thing was a pain in the butt. Plus he had never gotten used to the guards looking at him naked. The images were much too clear for his liking. They were so clear that an electronic blur they jokingly called, “the grape leaf” had been added over the groin area. The female guards looking didn’t bug him as much as the males. Terri seemed to get a kick out of it.

  Terri did comment once that it was disappointing to never meet the guards who did the visual checks. They were in some back room, or maybe even in a different building. The guards by the door had other functions. The employees had no idea who saw the images, or where they were sent. “It’s kind of like having your picture on the Internet.” Terri said. Marty found that irritating.

  Terri went first, then stood in the outside lobby waiting for Marty to come through.

  “Damn thing takes longer every time,” he groused.

  “It does not. You just like to bitch. Here’s your stuff.” Terri handed Marty his keys, and wallet. Since they usually arrived at the same time and left at five on the dot, they had exchanged locker combos to speed up their departures. First one through the airlock got the personal effects.

  “Thanks. Whose turn is it to buy?”

  “Mine…I’ll drive.” Terri took the lead. Marty grimaced. She had a lead foot and the roads were slick. This was always a test of his nerves.

  “I tell you what. I’ll buy if you let me drive.” He tried.

  “Chicken. No way. You know the rules. The driver picks the place and I know just where we’re going. It’s something new.” She had a big smile on her face.

  She wasn’t fooling Marty. There weren’t that many restaurants within ten minutes, and even with an hour and a half lunch, time was precious. So it had to be one of the usual spots.

  Terri didn’t scare him too badly at first, only sliding once in the parking lot. Marty was forty-three and Terri was thirty-two—almost thirty-three, but sometimes she seemed like a teenager when driving. As she came past the last stand of trees and turned into the strip mall, Marty’s life passed before his eyes. This time it wasn’t from her driving. It was the “Grand Opening” banner and the name over the restaurant.

  “Mongolian Fusion? Not a chance, I’m not going in there!” He wasn’t sure she’d pay any attention to his protest, but he knew he didn’t want to try out another stomach churning batch of weird food.

  “It just opened. According to the rules I drove, and you have no choice. You set up the lunch deal.”

  “Well, I’m not eating anything.” He insisted.

  “Oh, yes, you are. Get out of the car, Marty. You’ll love it.” Terri slammed her car door, and crunched through the frost toward the red doors of the restaurant.

  “If I die, it’s your fault.” Marty called after her, following.

  “I’ll buy you some Tums, or Geritol, or whatever.” Terri called back.

  “It’s no joke. Wait ‘til you turn forty. No spicy food without antacid pills, no spicy body without diet pills, and no spicy sex without blue pills. You’ll see.”

  “Promises, promises.” Terri giggled.

  Marty was divorced, and Terri had never found her “Mr. Right.” She and Marty had started this flirtatious, teasing repartee the first day they’d met, but had kept it strictly in the joking category. Marty was a little on the shy side. He was attracted to Terri, but didn’t know how far he should take their flirting. For all he knew, she was just toying with him. That made sense, given her age, and since they worked together every day. He tended to let Terri deliver the winks while he played the stiff, awkward role. It came naturally.

  Lunch went surprisingly well. Despite his protests, Marty could handle almost anything except jalapeños, and they weren’t on the menu. He had a weird chicken with pineapple thing that sounded better than it tasted, but it didn’t attack his stomach. Their conversation was lively, as always, if a bit one sided. Politics, movies, and even the latest cable shows came up. Terri did most of the talking. His knowledge of most subjects was limited anyway. She did have a knack for hitting things he knew something about, like the latest episode of whatever he’d watched on cable. It was good to talk about anything but work. Work was top secret, and rarely went past the airlock. They both had a standard set of non-work subjects to fall back on.

  Terri only gave him one or two adrenaline rushes driving back to the building. Unlike NSA headquarters the building they worked in was little known, and off the beaten track. Heavy trees formed a natural screen around the facility, and the tall metal fence within the trees seemed invisible. Only the automated entry gate with its badge check was visible. That was pretty common for company entrances anymore. The wide-open parking lot made security very controllable. Passersby would never notice the heavy electronic warning systems, or cameras that tracked every deer and stray dog, or the ground sensors that noted even the lightest footfall. The trees helped provided a natural visual shield against optic infiltration.

  As they entered the lobby Terri handed Marty a pack of Rolaids.

  “Hey, don’t you care about my calcium?” Marty joked.

  “They didn’t have Tums, so get over it.” Terri started to say something else, but the guard interrupted her, looking at Marty.

  “Dr. Torrance, you have a message. The Director asked to see you immediately.” The unemotional face of the guard told him nothing.

  “Thanks, Don.” Marty sighed. Karlovich had a habit of wanting one of his employees the minute they all left for lunch or the bathroom. The rest of the time they didn’t know if the Director was even in the building.

  As always, conversation went to zero at the airlock. By the time they both got through the hand scan, the body scan, or the occasional cavity search, no one could remember what they had been talking about anyway. Marty entered first and went straight to the Director’s office.

  He was only gone a few minutes when he came out and stormed straight to his desk, plopping himself into his chair.

  “What’s wrong?” Terri peeked over the cubicle wall.

  “We don’t get the extra headcount to support OPOV. Damned politicians have us on a resource freeze. They have no idea how complex this project is. They’d rather spend billions on bailouts, drones, and pork.” Marty spun around in his chair to look at Terri, who was hanging over the top edge of the wall. “They constantly underestimate the man hours it takes to do this job right.”

  “Drones and pork? Would that be pigs flying? Jeez, the way you were acting I thought it was something serious, or at least something new. Speaking of new and serious, has Christen found a lover at school, yet?”

>   “That’s not funny, Terri. Just wait till you have a daughter.” Marty often felt that Terri related more to his daughter than to him.

  “One like Christen? That would be great! She’s indestructible; reminds me of me.” Terri smiled. “So, no more headcount, eh? Well, don’t worry about it. We got the system running this far without help. Besides, it’s too close to the first nationwide run. We don’t have time to train a newbie.” Terri sat back into her chair and typed in the pass code to her workstation. “So, how’s that lunch settling?”

  “I already upchucked.”

  “Bulimic. I knew that’s how you kept your figure!” Terri quipped back.

  Chapter 15

  Lt. Colonel Grady Barlow had been walking the halls of the Pentagon all morning. The numerous passages went on forever—seventeen miles, so the guidebooks said. Grady figured he could wear out a pair of shoes and never pass the same door twice—and that was only the above ground office levels.

  Descending below ground under the Mezzanine, Grady entered the basement. It was cold and dim all year round. He always needed a jacket or a sweater down here, and running shoes would have been a plus. The Pentagon had been built during WWII when the government had been trying to save as much metal and money as possible. With that idea in mind, they’d put in ramps instead of elevators—but these hadn’t been just any ramps. They were ten-lane super highways, stretching hundreds of feet, and sloping from floor to floor in one long straight shot. Grady’s polished leather shoes slapped the hard vinyl flooring, his footfalls echoing off the bare walls. He assumed the government had saved money on air ducts, too, since the place had a suffocating lack of circulation.

  Grady spent plenty of time at the Pentagon, as did most rising officers. Being Air Force, much of Grady’s time was spent near corridors eight and nine. High-tech innovations were forcing government agencies farther underground for better security, so a lot of his work was on these basement levels. Since windows could allow laser microphones to tap conversations, the military spooks were down deep in the building—mostly out in rings F and G. Grady wondered how people worked in these offices year after year. He found the atmosphere depressing; like grey and white rectangular caves.

  Surrounded by webs of copper wire, Tempest Qualified operations like the one he was visiting today blocked vibrational, RF, electronic, and visible signals from penetrating or escaping their rooms. Faraday Chambers were only part of their precautions. Grady knew about a few of the spy defeating materials inside and outside the walls that were constantly being updated from within. Some rooms had oil-dampened floors which effectively blocked low frequency vibration detection. Buried here were the gurus of technical espionage—the top of the espionage pyramid. No leaks of any kind could be tolerated in this group.

  These weren’t the glamorous spies of the movies. They were more like scientists scratching out formulas. They were laborers of listening, deciphering, and reading to find hidden meanings, and developers of technological security. The Colonel was seeking the working class spies who went unnoticed. These were the members of the invisible intelligence community who seemed to be typical U.S. citizens. They commuted home to hug their spouses, yell at and love their kids, and mow the lawn like everyone else.

  Grady’s problem was that these people were used to keeping their secrets to themselves. Everyone was paranoid down in the basement. People talked very little, and shared even less. Grady knew he could approach only those people who had worked with him in the past. Trust was earned, and hand-to-hand referrals were the only way to meet new people.

  Grady passed one door after another marked with obscure department names. “MVCD,” branded one nondescript doorway, which Grady knew was the Mantle Vibration Communications Division. “SOSUS Sound Surveillance System” labeled another. It was probably a spill over office from the Navy.

  Grady opened a plain grey door. Its appearance could have indicated it was a closet except for the old-style bumpy glass, and the label that read “PSC.” Grady translated “Phase Shifted Crypto” in his mind as he entered a lifeless, tiny room, housing a dull grey desk and dark green vinyl padded chair. There were some stacked boxes in the corner. The chair’s arm pads were torn, with shreds of aged yellow foam showing through. The grey, rubbery writing surface of the disused desk showed years of dents, scratches and abuse. Completely bare now, the desk had once been a secretarial post before headcount reductions. The advent of computers, e-mail, and secure networks had changed the landscape. Government secretaries had nearly been rendered extinct.

  Like most of these reception areas, this one had been repurposed into an oddly designed entry and storage area. Grady opened another door, and continued down a narrow hallway leading to several unmarked offices. The first held grey metal shelves of supplies, and a coffee maker. The darkly stained glass pot made the coffee sludge appear unappealingly black. It smelled burned. Grady’s lips curled as he flipped the hot plate switch off.

  “Anybody here?” Grady called out.

  “Down here.” The voice came from the very end of the hall, where one door was ajar. “I’m in the last one on the right.”

  Grady strode down the hall and pushed open the door.

  “Grady! It’s been a long time.” John McGarrity stood up behind his desk, simultaneously pushing a file drawer closed, and spinning the combination lock. Security was a mandatory habit in this area, no matter who visited. John offered a wide smile and his hand.

  “It really has been a long time. Sorry about that, John.” Grady responded with a solid handshake and equally warm smile. “The schedule always seems so full. How have you been?”

  “Same as always. I don’t think I’ve seen you since we were on that Pakistan ‘what-if’ communications task force. So, what brings you to the dungeon?” John’s gesture indicated which chair Grady could safely use, as he sat back down in his seat. “What department are you in these days?” John inquired casually.

  Grady smiled. These guys would never discuss anything without knowing which branch they were speaking to. “No change. I’m still in the same Military Intelligence group.”

  “You know your job’s a contradiction in terms, don’t you?” John laughed.

  “Yeah, I know. Oxymoron—just like ‘jumbo shrimp.’ Not much different than your job.” Grady agreed with a smile, pointing at John’s division "Internet Security" plaque on the wall.

  “Too true.” John nodded. “Still flying?”

  “Only to keep my qualification rating current. I had a 16C up last month.” Grady answered.

  John cut the pleasantries short, and got right to the point. “It’s good to see you, Grady, but what’s up? Why are you here?” He asked, easing back in the chair. The worn springs allowed the chair to lean almost to a reclining position.

  “I’m just doing a little feasibility survey.” Grady said easily. “Last minute check before the big day. I need to know if the OPOV system can be cracked.”

  John rocked in his chair a little, only to fall back into the reclining position again, his hands clasped behind his head. “You came to the right place, but the reports on that have already been done. Why did you really come all the way down here?”

  Grady smiled and waited. He knew John would rather decode the puzzle himself than be given all the answers. He’d be reading between the lines, anyway, no matter what Grady told him.

  “I would guess,” John explored, drawing out the words as he put the answer together himself, “that since security has been tightened around OPOV, you’re here to ask whether OPOV can be broken by someone who is inside the safeguards. How am I doing so far?”

  Grady smiled wider, but said nothing. John loved a good deduction, and Grady enjoyed watching him reach his conclusions. It was a game they’d played since they’d first met.

  “But that particular question was asked and answered in the reports. So why would you be asking it again?” John continued, rocking forward. He placed his elbows on the desk, gripping his hands
together. “Someone,” he reasoned, “is double-checking a rumor. Must be someone high up, or you wouldn’t be here. Let’s see...whether it’s for personal or ideological gain isn’t really the issue, is it? What you’re concerned about is something more specific. Obviously any system can be compromised from the inside, as long as the perpetrator has enough access, and is smart enough to cover his or her tracks. So, what you’re really asking is, if OPOV is compromised, can the break be detected? Is there some way to find out, and can we stop it before the vote occurs, or at least know about it afterward?” John stood up, and began pacing behind the desk. “Well,” he continued, “NSA has the system operators, the security managers, the remote site operators, and the software coders. They’re all human, so we must assume that any of them could be had for a price.”

  Grady’s face turned grim. He never liked hearing that someone who’d committed to a trusted position could be bought. It felt like a degradation of the whole system that he had pledged his life to protect. His jaw clenched, the muscles in his cheeks flexing involuntarily.

  “Hey, I’m only telling it like it is, Grady. If you didn’t want to hear my opinion, I know you wouldn’t have come to this office.” John said flatly.

  Grady’s eyebrows eased, his eyes becoming clearer. “Sorry. Treason gets under my skin.”

  “Not everyone’s an Academy grad, and not everybody feels like you do about their job, and their country,” John pointed out, remembering Grady’s background. “Most people don’t have an honor code that’s as clear cut as yours. You know as well as I do that almost everybody has his or her price. Some prices are higher or have a different structure than others, but there are breaking points for just about everyone. Bribery, extortion, torture—they’re realities. And you can’t discount what it can do to someone’s mental state if they have an ailing relative, serious financial problems, or a compulsive habit. Kids—now there’s a big one.”