by John Brown
“We can’t confirm anything of a specific nature at this particular timeframe, but it looks like it — it may have involved a, um, a robust effort targeting killer deliverables.”
He instantly regretted uttering such gibberish. He never used to speak like this, but everyone around him spoke in jargon and acronyms, and it was rubbing off. Mrs. Cherkov had told him many times that he should stop trying to impress people with big, fancy words. It only made him look more foolish, she had said.
He shuffled through his papers, during which there was a long, strained silence in the briefing room, until, at last, he found what he was looking for.
“Oh, and in order to, uh, maximize interactive capabilities, the president has issued Executive Order 16058 to facilitate synergies re security optimization. This order is designed to help roadblock similar, unfortunate episodes moving forward.”
“Mr. Secretary! Mr. Secretary!”
“Yes, you over there.”
The secretary pointed to a woman standing in a field of reporters. Her face was somehow familiar although he couldn’t quite recall the name. Denise, Desiree, Denisha, something like that. The White House chief of staff had told him to avoid calling upon a reporter by name unless he was quite sure. It would avoid an embarrassing gaffe that would be played endlessly over the Internet. The secretary made a mental note to make all these reporters wear name tags next time.
“Mr. Secretary, what should ordinary people do in another attack, and like, what if it’s bioterrorism?”
Secretary Cherkov blinked and fidgeted. He removed his reading glasses and then put them on again. He scanned his notes but there was nothing there of any help. This wasn’t really his area. He wished to God that they would ask something about aviation security for a change. For the next briefing, maybe the questions could be submitted in advance, too.
“Stock up on plastic sheet and duct tape. Next question? Yes, you over there.”
President King took the ceremonial seat before two thick documents, labeled Volume One and Volume Two, both impressively bound in black leather, the paper edges covered in gold leaf, the official seals of the Office of the President and the Central Intelligence Agency embossed in their padded covers. The desk at which he sat was decorated with a “Protecting The Homeland™” banner and the presidential seal. A giant flag hung in the background. With ceremonial signing pen in hand, he looked to his left and right, politely acknowledging the senators and representatives behind him. They stood stiffly with fixed smiles while the photographers clicked away.
King held the pen aloft for all to admire.
“My friends, today I’m proudly signing into law The USA PATRIOT Enabling Act.”
He wore a triumphant smile.
“This will be sort of a roadmap going forward.”
With the mall attack still painfully fresh, the legislation had met with only halfhearted opposition. By pitching it as just a technical update of existing law, he was able to push it through rather swiftly. It demonstrated real leadership and working together, just as he’d promised in the campaign.
“This new law will help unite and strengthen America by providing the appropriate tools required for intercepting and obstructing terrorism,” King read from a statement before him. “In other words,” he said, looking up, “our police, intelligence and military communities are gonna be tracking the terrorists. We’re gonna watch what they say, where they go, who they meet. We’re gonna intercept their communications and obstruct their plans. We’re gonna come down hard on them before they cause trouble.”
King scrawled his hallmark illegible signature on the inside covers of Volume One and Volume Two, stamped “SECRET.”
“This terrible mall bombing holocaust, where hundreds of decent, law-abiding Americans suffered a cruel death in a blazing inferno, cut down by razor blades and nails, among them innocent young mothers and their little girls and boys playing in the courtyard, people out buying things and supporting the economy, paying their taxes, minding their own business — we dedicate USA-PEA to their sacred memory. Our hearts go out in prayer to them. Let’s now take a couple seconds to reflect in silence.”
He bowed his head for a moment.
“Having these new tools could help thwart terrorists before they even get started, and just because we’re providing these special tools to our protection communities doesn’t mean we’re gonna just use them indiscriminately. There will be strong oversight within the executive branch. The proceedings of the secret court authorized by the Act will be periodically reviewed by select members of Congress in private committee. ‘Judicious’ is the word we’re using — there’ll be judicious oversight and review.”
He set his pen down and gazed at his signature on the landmark statute, his first major achievement in office.
Breaking the uncomfortable silence, a white-haired senior statesman unclenched his transfixed smile. Sporting flag pins on both lapels of a navy suit hanging limply from his bony frame, he launched into an unsolicited commentary.
“Americans, why, they oughta feel proud of us for the remarkable speed we showed by, ah-h, passing all this classified legislation.” He beamed, baring a mouthful of unnaturally perfect, starkly white teeth. “This 2,409-page bill — it hasn’t even all come back from the printer, but it’s already law.”
The president congratulated each of the dignitaries by warmly shaking their hands and even hugging some of the more attractive ones.
Make eye contact; keep it moving. It could make an audience of thousands feel as if they were personally connected to the speaker. President King stood on the podium looking out upon the multitude of cheering admirers, acknowledging them with waves and smiles, fixing his attention on particular people in the middle distance and then directing his gaze at those in the foreground. A gigantic movie screen above the stage followed his movements, capturing everything, framing his face in close-up. Now and then he pointed at someone and grinned while nodding, as if they were sharing between themselves something lighthearted and private. He silently clapped as he moved around the stage, as though he was congratulating the audience for something wonderful they had done.
Red, white, and blue banners were draped around the stage, emblazoned with “Celebrate America National Tour™” and a promotional website, CelebrateAmerica.biz, where fans could buy merchandise and hand-signed souvenirs.
Secret Service agents positioned themselves at the corners of the stage, clasping their hands in front of them, their eyes constantly moving from behind dark sunglasses. Exceptionally large men unaccustomed to the confining fit of their dark suits, they shifted on their feet and squirmed.
King held up his hand and the crowd quieted. He graciously thanked the local dignitaries present, astonishing them with detailed praise for particular accomplishments each had pulled off over the last year. Adopting a thoughtful expression, he paused, and then read his speech as it scrolled slowly down the hidden teleprompters. His amplified voice boomed throughout the coliseum.
The speech was a rousing history of the Republic, from its revolutionary founding to the persistent threat of insurrection even today. The movie screen filled with gorgeous panoramas of sacred, legendary battlegrounds; of doting, model-like parents preparing their adorable, cooperative children for school in the morning; of weary soldiers marching against lush sunset backdrops. The accompanying soundtrack provoked awe and lumps in the throat.
“Freedom is never more than one generation from extinction,” King said, coming to the end of his speech.
He looked out upon the audience with grim resolve.
“With the distance of history, the questions will be narrowed and few.”
He pointed to the audience.
“Did this generation of Americans take the threat seriously,” he said, his voice breaking with emotion, “and did we do what it takes to defeat that threat?”
He put his hands on his hips, a fleeting but intent gaze fixed on random individuals as his eyes swept acros
s the crowd. Their passions powerfully stirred, the multitude leapt to their feet in jubilation.
“King! King! King! King!”
With the wild crowd chanting and dancing, King raised his arms in triumph.
“Celebrate America! A stronger America begins at home!”
He repeatedly punched his fist into the air for emphasis.
“It’s morning again in America! A thousand points a’ light! Putting people first! Workin’ together! Freedom’s on the march! Win the future! Reporting for duty! Hope’s on the way! Yes, we can! Country first!”
“King! King! King!” roared the audience.
“Thank you, New Mexico! You are indeed the Land of Enchantment.”
Hundreds of analysts wearing clip-on badges and headsets sat before banks of monitors located in a massive office complex. A former warehouse, the newly converted command center’s open-beamed ceiling soared dramatically. The second and third floor catwalks led to offices framed in floor-to-ceiling windows, out of which the supervisors and assistant supervisors, managers and assistant managers, and directors and assistant directors could observe the worker bees in the dimly lit work gallery below.
Video walls surrounding the work gallery were grouped by type. One group featured local and national newscasts, another focused on talk-show podcasts; still others monitored morning television programs and local police reports. The largest video wall was for the Incident Map, a satellite view of geographic sectors that could be zoomed in and out, filled with blinking icons in different colors representing the locations of “Terrorism Events and Other Suspicious Activity,” according to the map’s legend.
Dominating the central wall was a circular logo of white lightning bolts radiating from the center of a dark pyramid set on a blue background, framed by a circle of white stars. “Scientia est Potentia” was inscribed on the bottom of the dark blue ring surrounding the logo. “Driftnet Fusion Center 86” curved around the upper half. These centers had sprung into operation almost overnight. Here, magazine subscriptions, travel and telephone records, print and electronic book purchases, social networking site transcripts, emails, judicial records, website browsing histories, and procedures from the National Medical Databank were linked to a central database for threat analysis.
Despite the initial excitement, monitoring the routine activities of the local population had turned out to be exceedingly monotonous. Listening in on random telephone conversations could take hours each day and was generally boring work. Reading all the texts and emails proved far too tedious for the analysts to wade through over a work shift of seven long hours, including union-mandated breaks and lunch. With few exceptions, the entries on Facebook, Twitter, and the other social networking sites were deathly dull, filled with blurry pictures and cryptic accounts of people revealing what they had for breakfast and the movies and TV shows they had seen recently, along with inane comments from their friends and followers. Who cared? Even the people for whom they were ostensibly posted weren’t much interested. To the analysts’ profound disappointment, the titillation factor was just about zero.
These intelligence analysts, most of whom were quite new on the job, were told only to watch for “suspicious things.” The Analyst’s Desktop Binder helpfully supplied 377 keywords in 14 categories ranging from Domestic Infrastructure Security to Weather Emergency. Among the keywords to be on the lookout for were “assassination,” “attack,” “Taliban,” “nuke,” “anthrax,” “bomb,” “narcotics,” “enriched,” “IED,” “jihad,” and even the seemingly innocuous “Iran,” “exercise,” and “DHS.” It further specified that analysts should catalog media reports “reflecting adversely” on DHS or the federal government, as broadly defined. Such suspicious things, they were told in training, might indicate a terrorist plot in the works.
After the first few months of operations in Driftnet Fusion Center 86, no one had stumbled across any such plots, eager though they were to find them. Sadly, it seemed that they probably never would.
To help while away the time, the analysts set up a betting pool on the most lewd conversations they came across, whether originating by voice, text, or online, voting for the winners in the staff lounge where they took their lunch every day at 11:30 a.m., sharp. The supervisors, managers, and directors stayed in their offices most of the time doing email and reading, trying to keep up with the latest issues of Intelligence Today, CIA World Intelligence Review, Daily Intelligence Summary, Weekly Warning Forecast, NCTC Terrorism Dispatch, IC Terrorist Threat Assessment, and a vast catalog of publications from hundreds of agencies.
One day, two analysts peered at a monitor, thrilled by what they saw. It was exceptional to turn up something that looked even remotely suspicious.
“Dude, check out the entry on this blog,” Carlos said to his colleague, Rusty. “Says here, ‘I’d nuke those terrorist assholes myself, mass assassination or like poison their narcotics with anthrax.’ Is that messed or what? There’s also stuff here mentioning jihad, terrorist attack, and Taliban. Those are the magic words, my man. Let’s run it through the dictionary, link their identities in GUARDIAN with something on the voice-traffic analyzer, and we’ll forward it to NSA and our FBI terrorism unit. Maybe we’ll get a bonus for this one.”
“Yeah, I think I saw it yesterday, but I wasn’t sure what to do. I got these transcripts with words like “narcotics” and “nukes” and “prepping,” plus emails and a tip that was called in, but I dunno, Carlos, the whole thing looks sketch, for sure, but Guardian’s a lotta trouble, you know that. It takes, like, days, to go through it, you gotta get special FBI clearance, you gotta download all the service packs…”
Rusty shook his head doubtfully.
“I don’t know if it’s worth the trouble. How about we just send them everything we have and let them figure it out? And anyways, that’s their job, not ours.”
10
Show Him His Room
UPON BOOKING, BENSON WAS ESCORTED TO A BASEMENT interrogation room by a gloomy policeman. The small room of unfinished concrete block walls was furnished with a scarred, bare-metal desk and a few folding metal chairs. On one of the chairs sat Lieutenant Millstone. His boss, the commander, stood near the desk, his shredded coat draped over the back of a chair.
“Please, have a seat, Mr. Benson.”
After all that had happened, Lieutenant Millstone was astonishingly friendly, as though they had never met.
“Can I get you some coffee?”
Benson stared into his eyes. It unnerved the lieutenant and he looked away. He rose and left the room without a word.
“Mr. Benson,” said the commander, “do you know why you’re here?”
Benson sighed.
“I thought you would tell me.”
“Please, have a seat. I’m sure we can get this all straightened out before too long — with a little cooperation.”
Lieutenant Millstone returned, setting down a white foam cup of coffee on the desk before Benson. Next to it he placed a pink packet of artificial sugar and a white plastic container of imitation cream.
“I’m Commander Kip Clancy. You can just call me Kip, and this is Lieutenant Michael Millstone. Tom, do you know why you’re here?”
“Yes, we’ve already been formally introduced — back at my house, wasn’t it? Kip — that short for Kipling, I take it? You can just call me Mr. Benson. How are you, Kipling? Things are well with you? Another routine day of armed robbery and felony animal cruelty?”
“I go by the nickname — if you don’t mind,” said Clancy, slightly ruffled. “Mr. Benson, you do realize the Homeland is at war, don’t you? The old rules don’t apply. There is a time for war and a time for peace, with different laws for each. And this is a time of war.”
“That’s absurd, ridiculous. I won’t say anything without proper counsel. I’m an American — I have my rights.”
He looked around at the tiny room with its harsh, softly buzzing lights.
“What is this place?” Be
nson shouted. “Why am I here?”
“You hear that?” Lieutenant Millstone sniggered. “He has rights!” Millstone shook his head and slapped his hand on the desk, heartily amused. “Terrorists have no freakin’ rights.”
Commander Clancy barely suppressed a snicker himself. He folded his hands on the desk and leaned forward.
“‘Unlawful Enemy Combatants,’ Mr. Benson, come under different legal jurisdiction.”
“Enemy combatant? What the hell are you talking about? No, you’ve got the wrong man.”
“It’s all duly reviewed and official,” Lieutenant Millstone said, opening a thick folder filled with loose papers. He went to the first document and spread it out on the desk. Locating the relevant paragraph with his index finger, Millstone read haltingly.
“‘An Unlawful Enemy Combatant is a person who has engaged in hostilities or who has purposefully and materially supported hostilities against the United States who is not a Lawful Enemy Combatant.’ You see?”
“I do not see.”
“Read the rest,” Clancy said.
“Okay … yeah. Here it is … ‘Be it known that Mr. Thomas David Benson has been determined to be an Unlawful Enemy Combatant, as defined in section 3930-2, §948(a) of the Military Commissions Act of 2006, as amended, by the Combatant Status Review Tribunal established under the authority of the Secretary of Defense.’”
Commander Clancy studied Benson’s face during Millstone’s little recital. He had taken a class in human “affect” at the academy, a one-day course in the interpretation of emotional states observed under duress. The instructor had said that one could learn to read facial expressions and look for “tells” during interrogations. With this knowledge, the instructor claimed, one could also learn to be a pretty fair poker player, too.
