by Vincent Heck
Michael was a tall muscular man, with the perfect shade of tanned-skin and dark-gelled hair. He often wore button up shirts with the top few buttons free.
They had been through college together, were members of the same fraternity, served in the military, and had, seemingly, worked together their entire lives.
“Who?” Jason responded. “Jacinda or…”
Michael was eating a muffin he had balanced on the top of his coffee cup lid. Much to Jason's chagrin, he played, at times, Jason's life advisor.
"You still watching those messages, I see. Give yourself a break. You know what they say, don't you? ‘What you don't know can't hurt you.’"
"Mike, one: I already know. And two: Jacinda doesn’t know she just let a terrorist board a plane. And three: what if you didn't know that I put rat poison in your muffin and coffee? In those cases, what you didn't know could hurt you and others, right? Possibly kill you."
Mike took a bite out of his muffin. With his mouth full he said, "Well, I guess we'd have to just see. Anyway, what you are doing is highly illegal. In addition, you should be more concerned with the protests in Egypt."
“How is it illegal when I suspect Max to be a terrorist? I’m gathering intelligence – PATRIOT ACT. And why should I care about Egypt? It’s what people do. They constantly cry about privacy and rights.” Jason shrugged. “People protest. Always have.”
“Privacy, rights... police brutality, freedom of speech, low wages, corruption, high unemployment...”
“Well, congrats,” Jason said. “I don’t mean to trivialize what’s happening over there, but it sounds like Egypt has learned how to act like the American constituents.”
Michael took another bite out of his muffin. “Look, I’ve known you long enough to know you’re not this apathetic. Or stupid. In fact, you’re probably losing sleep. You’re just unwilling, right now, to admit you’ve gotta step away from these messages. I understand – it’s emotional.” Followed by a gap of silence filled with the ambience of office chatter, Michael continued. “Anyway, we’ve got some info coming in from the NSA. It’d probably be wise of you to raise the HSAS to high when you get it.”
“What is it?”
“NSA got overloaded with some high priority key word triggers; connected people using words that point to a conspiracy of some sort. Their analysts are looking into it now. You’ll get a continuing briefing on the situation. But, to begin, you’ll get an email from Kim.”
Michael started to walk away before stepping back towards Jason. He leaned in close to Jason while he still sat behind his desk. “Now, I know this is all new to you, but remember: It’s our job to maintain this luxury vehicle – we’re the airbag – and it’s our job to make sure the president looks good while doing it.”
When walking away, he shouted back, "And don’t forget there’s a cabinet meeting tonight. 7 p.m."
“I can’t make it, Mike. I have a lot going on tonight. You all will have to get along without me. Send my best regards to POTUS and FLOTUS Harris.”
Michael laughed.
Jason looked towards his monitor which lit up a new message in blue and orange from Max.
"Wow, a weekend seems good. Just let me know."
I’ll show you what can’t hurt me.
Jason clicked the ‘intercept-edit’ button and he typed, in behalf of Max, "I don't know, just let me know, though. You know how busy sometimes things can get on the weekend for me."
He accepted the changes and forwarded the message.
II
White House Cabinet Room, Washington D.C.
Friday, May 23, 2003
CURRENT HOMELAND SECURITY ADVISORY SYSTEM: YELLOW—ELEVATED TERRORIST RISK
Michael pulled his chair up to the legendary cabinet oval desk. One meeting at a time, his uneasiness became more static. The light-hearted nature of the President’s Cabinet had worn thin since he was appointed at the start of President Milton B. Harris’ term.
“Morning, ladies and gentlemen.” Harris started, with his voice which always seem to originate from the bottom of his belly. “Glad you can be here, as usual. And let’s get right into it because we’ve got a lot of things to think about. First thing: everyone has left their cell phones in the basket by the door?”
The usual silent head-nod was met with Homeland Security Council, Josh Grambling’s fingernail concert ba-da-dump on the wood table.
“OK. We’ve had leaks. I don’t know that we have much clue as to where it comes from, but it’s not anyone too far up. That’s my thought. The info has only been enough to fuel conspiracy theorists to stretch their imaginations further. But, the problem is, it’s not helping Operation F.A.I.T.H. Michael, Mr. Grambling, let’s start with you two. Is this going to be a problem?”
Grambling glanced towards Michael. His fingtips drummed on the wood, again.
“I think your question may need to be directed to Zoe.” Michael deflected. Zoe Maclin was the current director at the NSA. “Seems the leaks may have come from a cyber attack launched on us, or maybe, a journalist probing – and possibly, both. But, we need intelligence.”
Zoe was finishing a sip of her coffee. “Our decoders are working at gaining the right amount of info. We don’t have it all.”
“Why not?” The president asked.
“It seems whomever is leaking this, is very good. He, they, she, or whatever it is, is very –“ Zoe looked into empty space in the cabinet room. A portrait of George Washington stared back into her eyes as she searched for the right word.
“Experienced?” President Harris asked.
“Patient.” She responded.
“Alright.” Harris said. “Because, slowly, our people are getting equally impatient. Our constituents are getting restless, and you can see it in everything they’re doing. Operation F.A.I.T.H. can not work in a continually growing cynical atmosphere.”
“Mr. President. With all due respect.” counterterrorism chief, Harold Davis interrupted.
“Go ahead, sir.”
“I don’t think Operation F.A.I.T.H. is the answer.”
“You’re kidding?” Zoe snapped. “Now? This, again? You choose to bring this up…again? We’ve gone over this, Harold.”
“It’s just that, the thing we have to do, is gain back the control of this country – and, really, this government, too. We’re going along with a path other administrations set up for us, and we’re sitting here wondering why the people groan so much about ‘more of the same’ every new administration. What if this is wrong? Are we doing our jobs by inheriting a plan? Or should we be starting fresh?”
“The main thing we need, right now, is favor from our people. We’re getting that. It’s working.”
“What?” Harold retorted. “Which country are you looking at? There are protests all over this country. They’re occupying everything and cyber-attacking everyday. In fact, there’s a MyFace page with over 19 million members which is dedicated solely to recreating the revolutionary war against us. So, what? We’re going to wait for another crisis to try to take the opportunity to convince them that they need us while the other growing half continue to think we’re incompetent? No. It’s not the best plan, ever, folks.”
“Harold.” Grambling raised his voice a bit over a small rustle of voices. “You may want to cool it. We don’t want you taking your stress home to Mrs. Davis, now do we? She wouldn’t be happy. And I want no responsibility in her being unhappy.” His fingertips tapped on the desk again.
No one made eye contact with either Harold or Grambling after Grambling made that statement. Michael broke the silence. “Let’s get back to the issue. We’ve come a good bit of the way in gathering and sharing intelligence since September 11th. We do have some unrest, and here in the DHS, we’ve been preparing. As we speak, someone may be launching an attack on us; a cyber-attack, possibly. And if so, there’s a good chance we already may be at war. I mean between the hacktivists and underground militia movements we may be in
a few of them, now. So, that’s what we need to deal with. We need to know if we’re at war. Zoe, we need your codebreakers. Grambling, Harold, we need cooperation. Let’s focus.”
President Harris nodded. “I think that’s fair enough. We’ll deal with F.A.I.T.H. when it’s appropriate. If we’re at cyber-war, then we’ll have to adjust the operation, anyway. For now, I’ll take each department’s briefing. Let’s go around the room starting with defense.”
III
World Trade Center, Building 7
Tuesday, September 4, 2001
Her delicate voice was one of the wonders of the world. She meant everything to Jason. Everyday she’d call him while he sacrificed a lot of family time to attend to the most important of national situations at work.
Nothing was like hearing her voice in real life, however. For now, the cellphone calls would have to do.
“Daddy, guess what?”
“What’s up, sweet pea?”
“This time, next week, I’m going to be at your work. We’re having a field trip to The Top of the World!”
“Oh, wow!”
“You didn’t know that?”
“Actually, I did. Mom told me. I figured you’d like it better as a secret to tell me yourself.”
“Daddy, you’re silly. Hey, class wants to know if we can come by to see you? The teachers say if they can, they’d love to. They say there are a lot of great things in your building.”
“I don’t know if that’s possible, sweetie, but I sure will check. What time will you be here?”
“We’re leaving at 7.”
“I’ll be sure to see.”
“OK. I love you daddy.”
“I love you, too. Go to bed, now.”
Vanessa was his baby girl. In the cruel and impossible world he had begun to know, she was his peace.
The secure line on his desk phone purred. He answered.
“Jason, this is floor 8. Silverstone wants to know if the policies were completed.”
“For the buildings? Yes. They are. I sent the paperwork off to him just now.” Jason scattered to find the email and forward it to Mr. Barry Silverstone, property owner of the WTC.
“OK. I’ll let him know.”
“Tell him to check his email.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Upton. I’ll let him know.”
THURSDAY, MAY 22, 2003:
(CURRENT HOMELAND SECURITY ADVISORY SYSTEM: ORANGE —HIGH TERRORIST RISK)
A phone call on Jason’s work desk jolted him out of his daydream.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Jason. This comes down from The Summit.” The lady said over his speakerphone. That was the simple code that told Jason the message was the highest of national priority. He picked the phone up off of the hook.
“Go, ahead.”
She continued. “We have an email coming through from Summit to you on a list of possible terrorists. Please check your email.”
“Thanks, Kim.” Jason said as he hung up the phone.
He checked his secure email address; another 486 names on the Terrorist Watch List. Two files were attached. One, a list of names to collect, and the other was a file of small town’s approval for increased police monitoring.
His skin always tightened when he’d get these file requests. We’ve gotta keep this place safe. Stretching out his arms and taking the same redundant swallow and deep breath that would push the lump in his stomach momentarily down, he sent out a request to MyFace social networking company.
He typed in the routine request, “Full detail.”
It was common mythical knowledge, amongst the people, that technology could, and was, tracking everyone. But what wasn’t: was the fact that hundreds of people were being logged everyday. All, it seemed, he ever did was receive MyFace’s logs, and file them away. Each status update, each page they viewed, pictures they looked at, places they’ve travelled, statuses they’ve liked – all logged into government computers. Special cases had their every activity live-streamed into the system.
The work email detailed preliminary suspicion of a group of conspirators aiming to perform terrorist acts at the upcoming Super Bowl events.
While looking at that, a new email buzzed through to his cell phone on one of his personal email accounts from “Unknown”.
“Time to begin #OpConn, tonight into tomorrow morning. We’re going to the Connecticut Courthouse to take these rapers down. Bring your masks, bring your guns.”
At times, Jason felt like he had bitten off more than he could chew.
He had felt out of the loop at work. They all operated in ways that indicated that everyone knew something more than he did. The surface wasn’t adding up like it used to. He had no clue what the plan for the future was. There were myriads of threats towards the U.S. and it didn’t seem like progress was moving fast or urgently enough.
His desk phone rang. The aqua blue screen on the phone displayed Michael’s extension.
“What’s up, Mike?”
“Bro, you about to leave?”
“Yeah. Wrapping up, now.”
“You get the email?”
“Yeah. I put in the request to raise the HSAS, too.”
“Cool. Hey, bro. Have you ever noticed anything weird with the way Grambling acted at these cabinet meetings when you were in here on them?”
“He’s fidgety. He always has been.”
“He never says much, either. Neither does the Vice President. They may as well be wall-flowers. The last meeting, Grambling, basically, threatened Harold.”
“Well, who hasn’t at one point or another?” Jason chuckled. “Are you being a codebreaker again? We’re not at the NSA anymore.”
“Well, listen to you. As if you’re not reading into everything, yourself.”
“I have my reasons.” Jason laughed. “It’s OK. Harold has always been Harold, and Josh, Josh. Hey, I’ve gotta run. I’ll see you back tomorrow.”
D.C. traffic always reminded Jason of 9/11. There was no way around it. As soon as a thought would put him back on that day, his body would physically jump. His nerves would overload to the point of feeling like needles simultaneously sticking him all over from the inside out. After that daily occurrence, followed the inescapable questions that nagged him: How could they let 9/11 happen? He was there – it was right in his lap. He still couldn’t shake that thought.
With that, and too much else on his brain, he anticipated his arrival home with dread. There was something that made him sick about his wife's actions, yet he looked forward to the day he would be able to confront her.
His car, a 2002 Mercedes S 500, was wired with various types of custom technology. The black paint on the hood reflected the peaceful blue DC sky. Jason would look at the reflection, often. He envied the sky. The sky had the rare privilege to be apart of the great city, while keeping its distance from the dirt.
Jason wore a set of glasses which held the various commands and current vehicle information. It was 76 degrees outside, and 68 degrees inside. The car was at half-tank and an oil change was due in two months.
A message popped up into his left lens.
::Message from Christine Upton to Maxwell Bradley--Intercept?::
Jason intercepted it.
"Hey babe, I miss you.”
::Forward Message?::
Jason didn't understand why his life continually conflicted with his plan.
::Message Erased.::
He touched the screen on the center console in his vehicle to wake it up. He wanted to see the picture of his beautiful wife on the desktop of the screen. Her long, dark, perfectly nourished, hair with her flawlessly manicured hand resting on her cinnamon brown cheek; her dark-brown eyes were the eyes of the woman he first married. The look in her face told the story of a woman he once fell in love with.
This particular woman he was going home to, however, he had no clue who she was.
::New message from Christine Up
ton to Jason Upton—Forward?::
Jason accepted. Almost instantly Jason's phone beeped.
"Hey, are you coming home soon? Dinner is ready."
"Yes dear, I'll be home soon; ten minutes."
As he arrived to his $600,000 home just outside of D.C. in Arlington County Maryland, he put his satellite device in the car on auto. As much as he hated doing that, he knew that he had to.
He walked in through his huge front door which lead to the vestibule of the house. Upon entering the building, fully, he saw Christine sitting in the living room watching TV. His plate was sitting in the dark on the dining room table. Christine looked his way with her feet and legs scooted up on the couch underneath her.
"Hey."
"Hey." Jason responded. Her cell phone was perched on the arm of the chair two millimetres from her hand. As it buzzed, Christine immediately snatched it up.
She paused.
"What?" She said staring at Jason with a slight giggle.
Jason turned to head to the dining room to grab and put his plate into the microwave. He pulled a handheld device from his pocket and took the application off of auto-send.
::New message from Clareese Mitchell to Christine Upton--Forward?::
Jason accepted, put the device back on auto, and into his pocket.
"How was your day at work?" Jason asked Christine from the kitchen.
"It was ok.” She shouted back. “And you?"
"It was alright, I guess."
Jason's job was a sore subject in the Upton household. Working for the government was hard. You couldn't tell anyone what's going on and there were a lot of long days -- sometimes not even coming home at night. In the beginning, the job was something that made Christine nervous. But, apparently, only two years later, to Jason’s vexation, she had found a way to cope.
