by Tony Teora
Joey had never thought the agency was watching him before, but maybe the old man was right. Maybe he was being bugged. "Sorry Dad, look. I want to come home but I’m not feeling well today. It’s nothing big. Look, I’ll call you later when I feel better and see if I can fly out tomorrow." Joey was lying and his father could tell.
"Son, you take a good care of yourself now, you hear? If you need anything call immediately. I have a few friends in Colorado, Capeesh?"
"Yeah Dad I understand, thanks. I’m ok, I love ya. Please tell Mom I love her too."
Joey could not fly out tomorrow. He felt like he was eating his father’s words on a ham-on-rye buttered with shit.Son, if yo want to stop bad folks you can start by quittin’ the NSA. Today Joey wanted to quit. The e-mail he’d received on a private and secure NSA channel made no sense. Worse, it turned Joey’s stomach. The mail even deleted itself from the server within five minutes after receipt—a mission impossible trick. Was it a test by the NSA? The base was pretty funky with all the extra security. But hell, this was the tightest encryption system---not even the NSA could break it in less that a year using the main server. Joey had to change his password daily. How the hell could someone be sending this message? Joey read the e-mail again.
To: Joey Milano
From: PIT
Subject: Private
YOUR LIFE IS IN DANGER. CANCEL VACATION TO ILLINOIS. IF YOU TELL ANYONE YOUR LIFE WILL BE AT GREATER RISK. TRUST NO-ONE. CHECK INTO MILSAT-ONE TRANSMISSIONS. TELL NO-ONE. SYSTEM HIGHEST PRIORITY. DO NOT RUN REVERSE CARNIVORE THIS WILL GIVE YOU AWAY BECAUSE OF NEW MSAT PROGRAM. CHECK TO CONFIRM AT MILSAT-ONE. SECURITY UNTRACEABLE AT MILSAT-ONE.
DEFENDING…DEFENDING…DEFENDING…
********END OF MESSAGE
Joey sat in his second story apartment overlooking the orange-brown dirt plains of Colorado Springs. He had brought home a printed copy of the message.
Hell, he thought, if I get caught with this they’ll take my job. Worse, there is no copy on the server. They’ll think I wrote it myself! They’ll think I’m nuts! Maybe I am nuts?! No! That’s how we get the enemy, we make them think they’re nuts! Must be a test—some test to move to some new level. Did I pass? Need to check out the MilSat one transmissions. Maybe there is an answer there.
Joey held the message in one hand and a coffee in another. He swallowed some coffee and read it again. Fuckin’ e-mail, why me?
Goosebumps popped up all over Joey’s body when he thought about how difficult it was to really understand the idiosyncrasies of e-mail technology, and to understand how impossible it was to get an untraceable e-mail. It was like filling a gas tank with water, then having the engine start up as if it was 99-octane gasoline. Freaky man…freaky was all Joey could think. Use the brain Joey; use the math and computers. You can figure it out!
This e-mail came from the main NSA server at MicroIntel. Someone had to have rewritten the government’s most secure e-mail system. To do that required core access to the NSA program module called SEC. To get core access required not one, but five engineers who would not know each other. The NSA discovered long ago that the chance of five programmers putting in a Trojan and getting away with it was less than a billion-to-one. Getting five people with government clearance who didn’t know each other to conspire was unheard of, maybe even impossible. Once the program was created it was locked in a silicon chip. No one could add and delete programs.
Joey knew the code for the NSA SEC chip and knew it was impossible to change unless there was some massive conspiracy at the NSA.
Outside the wind blew hard against the trees. I feel like that tree over there, thought Joey watching a tree buckle in the wind. The tree resisted with all its might. Christ, he thought, if it weren’t for that asshole college recruiter I wouldn’t be in this fuckin’ mess!
The recruiter had told Joey that the NSA was different than what people thought, that it had integrity and that it was important for protecting the American way of life. Joey wanted to do something different, and the agency seemed right at the time. The NSA was able to take an Illinois college kid from a life of Budweiser into a life of caviar, champagne, and intrigue. After graduation he joined the "No Such Agency" as it was called. His background in computers and mathematics was the perfect knowledge base for tracking satellite data transmissions and all kinds of cell phone transmissions.
Recently it was e-mail tracking; everyone was online, and only a few were smart enough to use coded e-mail. Cracking regular e-mail on the Internet was easy. There was no code encryption; just pick up a copy as it moves from one person to another on the Internet. Store the stolen copy under a person’s name and have it all categorized. Hell, Joey and his NSA buddies used to search the ten-year-old database to find old messages they’d thought they’d never find. Checking old girlfriend’s e-mail was the shit. It amazed Joey what people would put in e-mail, even company e-mail. Once in a while Joey thought about what his father said about the US Constitution but Joey rationalized like many others: if I don’t do it some other happy mathematics graduate sap would. Better to keep your enemies close, like they say inThe Godfather.
The satellite and cell phone transmissions were Joey’s main job in cracking code. Most of the cell phone stuff was easy, no encryption. Most people in the US didn’t even know that with the right frequency scanner, all cell phone calls could be picked up (and were picked up by the government since the beginning) except for some of the new CDMA stuff. This made the job of the NSA mostly data collection and sorting. It was all breakable, even the CDMA. Joey could write a program to do that too; the only thing dependent on the system was the amount of time. The export laws on encryption, although unconstitutional as noted by Joey’s dad, made it a lot easier to crack the encrypted mail. But foreign bad guys always used this best. Joey liked this challenge. His programs could crack the best. Only a few, like the Big Blue, had encryption that was virtually uncrackable.
After only four years Joey became one of the best at the NSA and got orders to Colorado. That day seemed like yesterday. Joey remembered landing in Colorado Springs and immediately noticed that the air was dry, not like the wet DC weather. If felt good at first but then Joey’s nose started to dry out and turn runny. Joey looked at the trees in the wind and went back a few years in his mind to the time he arrived to Colorado.
Upon arrival at Colorado Springs, Joey had picked up his rental car at the Hertz express. Although this cost an extra hundred dollars per year, Joey didn’t care. The custom treatment and rapid service really impressed his girlfriend. Joey believed that a Hertz Preferred Membership, a Visa Gold card, and membership in a country club could bring almost any woman into bed. The agency showed Joey how small things could be used to manipulate the general masses. That was why Joey didn’t like the e-mail---he was being manipulated, he was being invaded, and he felt powerless.
The NSA did have interesting work. The current job was working on secret missile code cracking at Eagle Air Force base in Colorado. On that first day Joey drank two large Seven-Eleven coffees (two for the price of one, a special on Hazelnut), drove for forty-five minutes, and wound up on a dusty road outside Colorado Springs. Around the base he found miles of chain linked fences posted with signs saying:
US Government Property: DANGER Deadly Force Authorized.
As Joey drove up to the gate in his mid-sized Ford Taurus Hertz rental he handed his orders over to a guardsman who wore a 9-mm on his side. Inside three other marine types sported M-16s. One talked on a phone.
"Is this your first time on Eagle Air Force base Mr. Milano?" asked the MP.
Although Joey’s father had served in the Army, he had no idea of ranks or military formality. Joey tried politeness. "Yes sir, it’s my first time." The Air Force MP looked at the picture again and then at Joey. "Who is your escort?"
The name was on the second page. Joey wanted to say "It’s on the second page, stupid", but thought it rude. "I’m meeting Lieutenant McCumber."
The MP went insi
de and spoke to someone. Two minutes later he came back.
"Are you sure you’re meeting Mr. McCumber?" the man asked?
Joey had to take a piss and his nose was running. Too much hazelnut coffee, no place to stop and now I have a guy who can’t even read page two! Where’s my tissues? No tissues! Well, the side of my shirt will do fine.Joey nonchalantly wiped his nose on his shirt and spoke. "Yes, that’s what they told me, I believe if you go to page two you’ll see his name listed."
Joey noticed some grey in the MP’s hair. The MP looked inside the car and then at Joey. "I didn’t ask about page two Mr. Milano, I asked if you were sure you were meeting Mr. McCumber. Now hold on a second while we confirm something."
Hold on? I’m gonna pee my pants you shit! Joey waited for what seemed forever. The MP went inside again, then came back out, saying: "You’ll be meeting Mr. Johnson. There’s been a change. Now, drive straight and at the end of this road make a left into the contractor entrance. There’s a bunch of phones on the wall; you can ask the operator to connect you. Ask for Mr. Johnson"
"Thanks," said Joey praying for a toilet. As he drove on he looked in his rear view mirror at the MP. He’d probably shoot first and never ask questions.
The first day was strange but Joey would get accustomed to the routine. Drive up to the main contractor gate, pick up a phone and call Major Johnson (but first, find the toilet!). The call was the same that first morning as it would be any other:
"Hi, is this Major Johnson?"
"Yes, this is he. Is this Joey Milano?"
"Yes, I’m at the contractor entrance."
"I’ll be there in five minutes."
The Major was your long term veteran, a man who had stayed in longer than he’d wanted, (or should have), taking $40,000 in sign-on bonuses to stay on for thirty-six years. Johnson planned to retire as soon as he hit fifty-five, which was only six months away. These last five years had required all his patience. Johnson wanted the pension and a second life. It was no time to make waves.
Joey would usually use the men’s room and then read the newspaper waiting in an area that looked like the security check at an airport. The only difference was that besides the baggage and ID check there was a retina check for Major Johnson and other military escorts. Joey didn’t have the authority for entrance alone, but he did have authority on systems the Major would never understand. Must be some kind of checks and balances, thought Joey, no way to get in without the Major. The Major could get in anytime but his computer skills (and thinking skills) weren’t much better than a streetcleaner’s; no-one had to worry about himlaunching a missile or taking over some Pentagon computer system.
Yet Johnson was the key to the other side. Joey normally hummed the Doors tune upon entering:
I’m goin thru to the other side…
I’m goin thru to the other side…
The Major thought Joey was nuts. W, who would want to work all day sitting at a pc?
Once inside Joey discovered he moved from Base Level One security to Base Level Two. Level Two was mostly for dining. It was Level Three where Joey worked. Level Three had a barbed wire fence and guarded by what looked like marines.
On his first time entering, Joey asked Major Ken Johnson a simple question.
"Major Johnson, why is there still security when we went through all that other security?"
The Major looked over at the barbed wire, confused. "Mr. Milano, I’ve got six months left before I retire and I’ve been stuck on this base for two years. In six months I go back to Tennessee. I have as much idea about it as you do. Let’s just do our time and get out." The Major lit up a cigarette and took a few drags before putting it out on the ground. "And by the way, please don’t lose your orange badge. The security monkeys will jump all over your ass, and mine too, if you misplace it or you aren’t wearin’ it. Make sure you have it on all the time, got it?"
Joey looked at the badge and noticed writing on the back. "This base authorizes lethal force. Please do not forget your badge."
Joey looked at the marines protectinga square, windowless, desert-sand red, camouflaged building no bigger than your local Denny’s. On top was an odd-looking, oversized white soccer ball dome, about ten yards in diameter. The ball was built in triangular sections. Joey knew this had to be the microwave radar dome tower. The white ball was actually just for weather protection.
At the gate were marines carrying 9-mm pistols. Joey wanted to ask why marines were on an Air Force base but could guess Johnson’s response. Johnson showed his pass to the marines, as did Joey.
Now welcome to Base Level Three.
Getting in required the opening of a large 8 feet by 8 feet door about a foot thick. At first Joey thought this was joke but he then discovered the reason for the door: protection against radiation from a nuclear war. This building couldn’t take a direct hit but had radiation protection. Joey wondered what the chances would be that the radiation levels could get too high to go outside if Russia or some other nuclear power had not bombed the base into the ground. Must be more for spy satellite protection, thought Joey.
Once through the first door, lock it, and walk through the hallway. Open the other one-foot thick door, and then close that too. Now after only forty minutes of security you were at work.
Commander Johnson said he hated NSA projects because on more than one occasion a NSA spook would drop his orange card and the marines wouldn’t acknowledge it. At that point they’d put Johnson, and whomever he was supposed to be watching up against a fence and frisk them like spies. It didn’t matter that they had seen Johnson every day for two years, what mattered was the rules. For all they knew Johnson was there just to test the marines and the marines were ready for any test.
Now Joey sat back at his apartment looking at the e-mail again, drinking his coffee. No more reminiscing, Joey. Get a plan. Who can I trust? Maybe my buddy Robert Davichi at MicroIntel? Smartest Professor at Carnegie Melon. This guy could memorize a blackboard of formulas in two seconds. How do I contact him? I’ve got to find a way to figure out what’s going on. I hope he listens. He’s been a depressing bastard of late, ever since his wife started to write. I should never have given them Snookers. Dad said cats relaxed women. Man oh man, the bitch drowned the cat. No wonder he’s all fucked up! Can never trust marriage after seeing all those e-mails. I’ve got do something -- Robert will think I’m paranoid. I’d better be careful on the letter or he’ll think I’ve lost it.
Chapter 6: Samurai Salary Men
Date: February 12, 2021
Place: Tokyo, Japan
Location: New Davichi Home
"I was speaking to my wife Mary about how I wanted to have that feeling of being in love again, she was flattered and mentioned that we could do another honeymoon. I then told her what I meant was that I wanted a second wife."
--Polygamist, John Crotch --1845
"After hundreds united in prayer for rain to end a four month drought in Shaturia, Bangadesh, water came on April 26, 1989. Unfortunately, it was brought by a tornado that created winds up to 120 MPH, leaving around 1,300 dead and at least 30,000 homeless."
--Guinness Book of World Records 1997
Hollywood movies show a glamorous Japan; families living in traditional homes, green gardens filled with carefully cut miniature bonsai trees, bedrooms decorated in rich flower patterns with rice paper sliding doors, and women wearing silk kimonos. The wives gladly bring husbands their slippers when they arrive home from a hard day at work. They never complain about money or question the late hour of arrival. The men are sharply dressed, and in personal and business matters act like samurai warriors who own the town.
But things changed after the economic bubble got blown to shit in the lost 90’s. Japan looked as if it had fixed things in 2005 and another bubble came, but that bubble also popped in a massive banking crash in 2015. The money had never been in the banks anyway. Instead it had flowed directly into losses on corrupt business deals. When everyone figured it out,
they made a run on the banks.
With modernization and a loss of an economic empire, life changed. The Japanese now lived in electronically wired tin cans; apartments designed by the same people who designed miniature golf courses. These new architects shrunk everything into a home that was five times smaller. An American housewife teaching English in Japan described her government-issued apartment, "It’s been over 30 years since I played "house"; everything is so small."
The sword-carrying Samurais now carried small electronic planners and WebLink cell phones. They were called "salarymen", a Japanese attempt at English, meaning "white-collar worker". Because of the recession some received no salary but still dressed in suits, looking for work. They could be spotted at cheap coffee shops smoking cigarettes, or singing songs in Karaoke bars while drinking cheap whiskey. Many songs were about the good old days. When they found their way home, it was usually after the bar had closed after midnight. The wife usually allowed them the privilege to sleep in the guestroom on a futon mattress, which was on the floor next to the kitchen since most people could now only afford homes that were just one room.
Robert Davichi arrived in Japan as an "Expat", defined as one fortunate enough to get a company paid apartment costing $15,000 per month not including parking fees. It was half the house he’d had in Seattle. Robert’s new neighbor, Shinnichi Yamaguchi was the apartment complex manager. "Yama-san", as he was called, managed three apartments for his father "Mickey-san". Yama-san took this job rather than working in the family owned construction business.
Yama-san’s dad, Mickey, was rich, controlling a few Japanese banks. Mickey-san had received over 50 million dollars in loans during the Japanese bubble and only paid the interest because business was bad in Japan. The banks would not foreclose because it was too embarrassing, plus Mickey was in the Japanese Mafia and a friend in the ruling political party. Mickey could make bank officers squeal like pigs. Mickey’s real name was Seichi, but because of his large ears an American business friend called Rick gave him the nickname Mickey. Seichi liked the new name. Encouraged by Rick, Mickey built expat apartments called GreenHills for rich foreign businessmen. Business at GreenHills was the only profitable part of the Yama-Guchi partner’s construction business. The only other profitable business was not listed on the Yamaguchi partners tax returns -- that business was hostess, S&M and sex clubs. Yama-san, was not introduced to that part of the business as father Mickey kept these activities secret, especially to family members (or so he thought).
