by Lois Winston
“I thought I read somewhere that Carnivore had been terminated,” said Cassandra.
“Yes and no,” said Noreen. “Carnivore was only one of many spy programs. Others remain. And they’re much more sophisticated now.”
“There’s so much data being collected over cyberspace that the people who are supposed to be protecting us can’t keep up,” said Hanna. “They have to pick and choose which leads to follow. And because many of today’s terrorists are so computer savvy, they often create false trails to misdirect law enforcement.”
“Which explains why the bad guys continue to get away with what they do,” said Noreen.
“That’s where we fit in,” said Hanna.
Finally, we were getting down to the nitty-gritty, thought Cassandra. “I’m all ears.”
Over the next hour Hanna and Noreen explained the who-what-where-when-and-how to her. “We have eight teams working here,” said Hanna. “Four on each of two floors. The basement houses a gym, shower, et cetera. Gavin’s apartment, a small cafeteria, and a conference room large enough for all of us to occupy at once are on the third floor.”
As a single mother now juggling double duty, Cassandra couldn’t help but focus on the more mundane aspects of maintaining such an operation. “Where do you find people you can trust to staff the cafeteria and clean the toilets? Or is that part of the job requirement I’ve yet to hear?”
Noreen laughed. “Don’t worry. We won’t be issuing you a toilet brush. We have support staff who have been thoroughly vetted.”
For accountability purposes they were known as the Mothers Advisory Council, MAC for short, an appellation that sounded totally benign for all intents and purposes. Internally they referred to themselves as the Mom Squad, and they were anything but benign if you happened to be on the wrong side of the law.
“MAC is guaranteed not to raise any red flags within the various branches of government should someone start digging,” said Noreen. “No congressman is going to waste his time snooping around our business, especially since we never appear as a line item on any budget request.”
“Because of the grant from the private sector?”
“Exactly.”
“So who is this wealthy benefactor?”
“Liam Hatch,” said Hanna.
“I guess you have no budget constraints?” According to Forbes, Liam Hatch, a genius computer software developer who preferred to stay out of the spotlight, was reportedly one of the wealthiest men in the country, if not the world.
“None,” said Noreen.
From what Cassandra remembered, Hatch also had a vested interest in bringing down terrorists. “He lost some family members to a terrorist attack several years ago, didn’t he?”
“His sister and her kids,” said Hanna, “in a European train bombing four years ago. They were on vacation.”
“Liam and Gavin were college roommates,” said Noreen, “The Mom Squad is their brainchild. Liam’s sister was Gavin’s wife.”
A wave of grief washed over Cassandra. She and Demarco—and Hatch—shared a tragic bond.
“So you can see how important this organization is to them,” said Hanna.
“And the reason behind their commitment and dedication,” added Noreen.
“And the government connection?” asked Cassandra, fighting to keep her emotions in check.
“Attorney General Anthony Granville,” said Hanna. “The third roommate.”
“And someone else who lost a loved one to a terrorist attack,” said Cassandra. Granville’s aunt had been a passenger on the plane that went down in Shanksville, Pennsylvania on 9/11. What were the odds of three college roommates losing loved ones in terrorist attacks?
However, combining Demarco’s expertise, Hatch’s unlimited financial resources, and Granville’s government connections made for one very unique and powerful organization. And explained how they could operate beneath the government’s radar.
“We’ve all lost someone to terrorism,” said Noreen.
Cassandra’s mouth dropped open once again. “Are you saying—”
Hanna nodded. “Every member of our organization has a vested interest in taking down terrorists. We’ve all been directly impacted by terrorism, even the cafeteria and janitorial staff. My husband died in Afghanistan, Noreen’s husband in Iraq.”
Cassandra jumped to the obvious conclusion. She didn’t stumble upon savingtheworld.us; they’d targeted her the moment she began searching for a new job. Big Brother—or more accurately, Liam Hatch—definitely had eyes and ears everywhere, including, apparently, within her computer. The guy had probably created all the software used by the NSA and now employed it—or a version of it—for his own triumvirate-created operation. “You’re recruiting people who have a direct connection to terrorism.”
Noreen nodded. “Haven’t you wished from the moment your father and brother died that you could do something to avenge their deaths?”
Of course she had, but at the time she was only seventeen years old. It wasn’t like she could join the army and head off to Afghanistan in search of Osama bin Laden.
“And this is all legal?” she asked once more, even though Demarco had already assured her it was. The idea of a quasi-government agency that most of the government knew nothing about raised more than a few red flags for her, and once again Cassandra began to question her own sanity in accepting a job offer that didn’t outline her specific duties and responsibilities ahead of time.
“Perfectly legal and legitimate,” said Hanna. “Like Gavin said, those who need to know are well-aware of us. We’re the secret weapons in the fight against crime.”
Which puts an all-new spin on the term Supermom.
“We do mostly computer surveillance,” continued Hanna, “although there are times we’re out in the field. As we already mentioned, middle-aged moms blend into the woodwork and can snoop around and eavesdrop without drawing suspicion to themselves. No one pays any attention to us.”
So true. How often had she been ignored by store clerks or worse yet, bypassed for the younger, cuter customer standing next to her? When was the last time she had walked past a construction site and heard a wolf whistle? Not that she’d ever appreciated them, but none had been directed toward her in more than a decade.
Noreen continued to explain the savingtheworld.us organizational chart. “Gavin reports directly to Carla Jordan who oversees a half dozen MAC satellite groups across the country. When we identify a possible threat, Carla coordinates with Granville to determine the best course of action and which agencies to call in, depending on the situation.”
“I’ve heard that name before,” said Cassandra. “Didn’t the government accuse her of treason?”
“Don’t believe everything you read in the newspapers,” said Noreen. “Carla is one of the good guys. She’s saved more lives than you can imagine.”
“Then why—?”
“Politics,” said Hanna, practically spitting out the word.
“I see.” Although she wasn’t sure she did, but she pushed that thought to the back of her brain for now. “And you’ve been so successful that you’re expanding the operation?” asked Cassandra.
Noreen and Hanna exchanged a quick glance before Hanna answered. “In a manner of speaking. We’ve found that we work best in teams of three. This is the Greek Satellite. We’re Alpha Team. Gavin’s other teams are Beta, Gamma, Delta, Epsilon, Theta, Sigma, and Omega. The teams in the other satellites have their own unique designations. One chose planets, for instance, another mountain ranges.”
“There are only two of you,” said Cassandra. “Am I replacing someone?” She caught Hanna dart another quick glance toward Noreen as some silent communication passed between them.
“That’s right,” said Noreen.
“Why did she leave?”
“She didn’t quite work out,” said Hanna. “Not everyone does.”
The stern set of Hanna’s mouth told Cassandra she wouldn’t be hearing any furth
er details regarding her predecessor. Another red flag sprang up in her gray matter.
“For the next couple of months you’ll spend part of your day going through training sessions,” said Noreen. “But at the same time you’ll be working alongside us, learning as you work.”
“What kind of training?” she asked.
“Everything from various computer software programs to self-defense.”
“Self-defense?” The red flags were now sprouting up in every nook and cranny of her brain.
“Every woman should know basic self-defense,” said Hanna. “You may never have the need to use it, but it’s still a skill worth acquiring.”
Cassandra supposed that made sense, whether she was a member of the Mom Squad or not, especially as a single woman. Muggers lurked everywhere, even in upscale New Jersey suburbs, and she’d been putting off taking a self-defense course for too long. Just like she’d put off any form of exercise, no matter how much she needed it. Maybe a side benefit of this job would be losing that muffin top and underarm jiggle.
She eyed her fellow Moms. Neither one of them had the figure of a Victoria’s Secret model, but neither did they have muffin tops nor sagging upper arm flesh from what she could see. They both looked like they could run a marathon; she’d have trouble finishing a fifty-yard dash.
While Cassandra wrapped her mind around the idea of breaking bricks with a hand chop and disabling a three hundred pound thug with a well-placed elbow jab to the solar plexus, Hanna continued speaking, “We’ll give you a quick tour, grab some lunch, then process you.”
“Process?”
“All the requisite paperwork and then some,” said Noreen. “Rules and regs. Gotta follow them even if we’re off the government radar.”
~*~
Four hours later Cassandra arrived home, having been fingerprinted, photographed, and processed in triplicate to the nth power. She’d received a state-of-the-art smart phone with enough bells and whistles to make her iPhone look like a Fisher-Price toddler toy. She was instructed to keep it charged and with her at all times. She’d also received a cover story about her new job. No one was to know who she really worked for or what she really did.
“We’d have to kill you and anyone you blabbed to,” said Hanna.
Cassandra had looked from her to Noreen, then back to Hanna. Both had worn deadly serious expressions—emphasis on the deadly. But then Hanna had grinned. “Only kidding about the killing part,” she said.
“But seriously,” Noreen had added. “What we do is never to go beyond us and Gavin. We don’t even discuss our work with other Mom Squad teams unless it’s an operation that requires a larger task force. We can’t afford to jeopardize a mission.”
Cassandra had nodded that she understood, but she wasn’t a hundred percent sure they were only kidding about the killing part. As she prepared dinner, she once again pondered what the hell she’d gotten herself into.
I guess I’ll find out soon enough.
~*~
Later that evening as she ate dinner with her kids, Cassandra told her first lie about her new job.
“What exactly does the Mothers Advisory Council do?” asked twelve-year-old Hayley, talking around a mouthful of lasagna.
“We study current and proposed legislation that impacts families, then we make recommendations regarding changes.” The lie slipped out of her mouth with an ease that startled her. Meet Cassandra Davenport, Mata Hari Mom.
“Sounds boring,” said Hayley’s twin brother Cooper.
“It pays well and comes with benefits,” said Cassandra. “I can do boring.” But something told her that her life would never again be boring.
“Whatever.” Cooper shoveled a huge forkful of the lasagna into his mouth.
The twins were at that age where kids often spoke to their parents mostly in monosyllables—if they spoke to them at all. She knew part of Cooper’s belligerent attitude was due to the divorce and his father’s abdication of parental responsibility, not that The Ex had ever embraced parenthood when they were married.
The other part she chalked up to the beginnings of the hormonal rollercoaster that hit all adolescents. Cassandra knew she was only at the beginning of what would be a long and tumultuous ride. If she lived long enough, she might survive to see her kids come out the other side of the hormonal maelstrom.
The Ex’s recent marriage to the Double-D had only compounded Cooper’s insolence. Like all children of divorce, he and his sister had harbored a secret hope that their parents would eventually reunite. The impending birth of what her kids viewed as replacement twins killed that hope.
When they were married, she and The Ex had discussed eventually having kids at some point in the future. So she’d been completely blindsided by his fury over the failed birth control that had resulted in the conception of Cooper and Haley. Ironically, The Ex seemed more than happy to marry Double-D when confronted by her pregnancy.
“How much are you going to be making?” asked Cooper, drawing her back into the here and now.
“None of your business.”
“Mo-om!”
“Enough that we don’t have to worry about losing the house if your father continues down his Deadbeat Dad path.”
“Enough for me to get a car for my sixteenth birthday?”
She stared at the hopeful expression on her son’s face. Maybe a breadcrumb would go a long way toward an attitude adjustment. Besides, she had four years to worry about it. “Possibly.”
Mr. Belligerent morphed into Mr. Happy Face, his dark brown eyes growing wide, a smile spreading from ear to ear. “Really?”
“I said ‘possibly.’ We’ll see how things pan out—including keeping your grades up.”
“Cool! I can’t wait to tell the guys.” With that he jumped out of his chair and headed upstairs without so much as a may-I-be-excused? Or clearing his plate.
“I guess he didn’t hear the ‘possibly’,” said Hayley.
“Parenting Lesson Number One,” said Cassandra. “Kids only hear what they want to hear. Remember that.”
“I hear you, Mom.”
“Right. I’ll remind you of that the next time you ignore me.”
In typical Hayley fashion she stuck out her tongue. Cassandra stuck hers back at her daughter. Then they both shared a laugh. She wished she could freeze the moment because she certainly knew Hayley hadn’t escaped the attack of the raging hormones. She knew it was only a matter of time.
FIVE
The next morning Cassandra dressed in a black A-line skirt, black fitted T-shirt, and black blazer for her first full day as the newest member of the Mom Squad. She assumed black was the official uniform, even though no one had mentioned an office dress code. Fine by her. She had plenty of black in her wardrobe, given its slimming properties.
When she drove down the driveway to the garage entrance, the door magically rose in front of her. She parked her car and took the elevator to the second floor, arriving ten minutes early. Noreen and Hanna must have been monitoring the security cameras because they greeted her as she stepped from the elevator. Either that or Big Brother had alerted them to her arrival.
The thought of constant surveillance unnerved her. No, she didn’t pick her nose, but would the high-tech spying software record how often she scratched an itch or took a pee break? Did it monitor her caloric intake at lunch? Send down a laser beam to shock her if her eyelids grew heavy mid-afternoon? Or notify someone in the cafeteria to bring her a cup of coffee?
She had no chance to ask any of these pressing questions, though, because within minutes she found herself huddled in front of an enormous computer monitor with Noreen and Hanna seated on either side of her. Her two other team members explained how they sifted through the hundreds of thousands of pieces of data scoured by Liam Hatch’s software.
“It’s like a huge jigsaw puzzle,” explained Hanna. “Liam has designed specific programs to look for certain patterns and keywords, and the programs are always being refined a
nd tweaked. But even the most sophisticated software can only go so far before the human element is required.”
“Much of what we do involves gut instinct,” added Noreen. “Finding pieces that fit together where the program found no correlations or dots to connect because the dots were so far apart and hidden within other information.”
They showed her a few examples of previous cases, including evidence they’d uncovered that led to the arrest of a Chinese arms dealer and the group of white supremacists he’d supplied with nearly a hundred Russian Kalashnikov rifles.
“One part gut instinct, one part mind reading,” said Cassandra as she read through the documentation.
“Yeah, the alphabets didn’t pick up on those guys at all,” said Noreen. “If it wasn’t for something Hanna noticed, the True Believers, as they called themselves, would have succeeded in their plan to mow down countless Green Bay Packers fans in the stadium parking lot as they headed back to their cars after a game.”
“They earned their salaries that week,” said Demarco, coming up behind them. He passed file folders to the two other women. “Take a look at these.” Then he turned to Cassandra. “You’re with me.”
She reached for her purse.
“You won’t need that,” he said. “We’re not leaving the building.”
She hesitated for a split second before the absurdity of her second-nature action hit her. This place was as secure as Fort Knox, if not more so. She could leave the Crown Jewels sitting on her desk with full confidence they’d still be there when she returned.
Demarco led her to the elevator and once inside hit the button for the basement. When the doors opened, she found herself in a narrow concrete hallway. Demarco headed for the first door on the left and punched a code into the panel on the wall. The door sprung open to reveal the “et cetera” Hanna had referred to the day before—a firing range.