by Shane Kuhn
A few weeks before his thirtieth birthday, he became an independent consultant and inked a specialized skills contractor agreement directly with TSA and the Department of Homeland Security. Back then, it was extremely rare for individuals to have direct contracts with DHS and TSA, and this status expanded Kennedy’s reputation in the airport security industry worldwide, winning him contracts with foreign governments.
As they did every year on Kennedy’s birthday, he and his father had dinner in Los Angeles at Morton’s. Richard was beaming with pride, a very rare condition indeed, but Kennedy thought he looked tired and underweight, a stark contrast to his usual robust self. When he asked Richard about it, his father said he’d had the flu and was on the mend. Six weeks later, Richard was found dead in his home. Unbeknownst to his family and friends, he’d been battling lung cancer for over a year. He had tried to hide that, like he used to try to hide his pack-a-day Marlboro Red habit from Belle and Kennedy. At least with the cigarettes, they could smell the evidence. With this, there was only the stink of death. His own father had not had the decency to allow him to say good-bye, something he was also denied with Belle.
Kennedy had already been struggling to assimilate himself into some semblance of a normal life. Richard’s death killed that for good. Work became the false idol he worshipped nearly every waking moment. It was the only thing that made him feel safe from the constant betrayals of people and the outside world. He stopped calling friends and broke off a six-month relationship with a young woman he’d met and fallen for at Lockheed. It was impossible for him to imagine connecting with anyone beyond the superficialities of the job. For Kennedy, it all came down to a choice. He could allow his pain to swallow him up into the same dark mire he’d been in with Belle—and run the risk of suffocating to death—or harden his heart and channel his rage into his work. He never looked back. Now, at age thirty-three, he was making a very high six-figure salary, consulting with every major airport in the United States and many in Europe and Asia, and living in the hermetically sealed, disposable world of the frequent flier.
* * *
“Good morning,” he said to Lizzy, the young Starbucks barista who knew him by name and his order by heart.
Despite the line of caffeine junkies snaking all the way around the kiosk, she waved him over to the pickup counter to get the latte that was already waiting for him.
“Damn, you look tired,” she said.
“You forgot old.”
“Shut up”—she laughed—“or I’ll call out your embarrassing order in front of all these people.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Double tall coconut half caff cinnamon dolce latte, extra whip!”
Teenage girls pointed and laughed.
“Thanks, Lizzy, you’re a mensch,” he said, handing her a twenty.
“Anytime,” she said. “But when are you going to really show your gratitude and take me out on the town?”
“When I’m not old enough to be your . . . cool uncle,” Kennedy said.
“Eleven years is not that far apart.”
“Maybe not in Utah.”
She laughed again, and Kennedy was eager to change the subject.
“Seen any of my sworn enemies?”
“You mean like that massive toolshed from Homeland Security?”
“That’s Mr. Massive Toolshed to you, young lady.”
“Haven’t seen him. And my boss isn’t here either, so you can kiss me now.”
“Maybe I should go to Peet’s,” he said, blowing her a kiss as he walked away.
“I better not catch you cheating on me!” she yelled across the concourse.
* * *
As he walked to the TSA office, dreading another training session full of recently unemployed 7-Eleven clerks, his mood took a nosedive. In the past few months, he had begun to hate his job, something he had never dreamed possible. His career had always given him purpose where he had none, and it was one of the few things in his life he genuinely felt proud of. That was back when he thought he could make a difference. But that buoyant illusion sank like a stone when he saw the recent TSA “progress” reports all over the national news saying the agency was failing on an epic scale.
As much as he wanted to nail himself to the cross, he knew the situation was completely beyond his control. Equipment suppliers who skipped testing and oversight because they had half The Hill in their back pockets, bureaucratic interference, and an overworked, underpaid officer workforce that was never given enough time to train and mentor in real-world situations—these were enough to destroy the TSA long before Kennedy arrived on the scene. Put simply, Washington and its parasitic fauna sucked the life out of a program that, in the beginning, had great promise and was formed for all the right reasons.
The end result for Kennedy was a monkey on his back telling him that his life’s work was a complete waste of time and taxpayer money. His passion for traveler safety had increased over the years, but his sense of purpose was beginning to ebb. The only thing that kept him going was knowing they were still out there, plotting their elaborate schemes to burn the good old US of A to the ground and stomp on the ashes. When he focused on that, and thought of all the time, money, and manpower terrorists were spending to get the upper hand, it didn’t matter how fucked up DHS and TSA were. All the cynicism, laziness, and pointless internal bickering weren’t going to change the fact that passengers still needed to be kept safe.
As he often did when he was facing a crisis in his life, Kennedy turned to Noah Kruz, a “life mastery coach” who had published a dozen best-selling books and spoke all over the world on the art of creating a life that reflected a person’s true self versus one that reflected the demands of others. Kruz believed that the egos of people around us had the power to influence and control everything we did, from romance, to career, to health. Once a person was able to filter all of that out and identify what it was that they wanted in these areas, getting it was a far simpler and more rewarding process.
Kennedy could relate. His father had lorded over his life for so long, it took estrangement and, ultimately, death for him to get clarification about his own dreams.
Kennedy had a Noah Kruz app on his phone and referred to it regularly for inspiration. That day, he selected PICK ME UPS and the app pushed him a quote:
There is no escape. Life has you in its clutches and you can either struggle in vain to free yourself, inviting the world’s predatory forces to tear you to pieces, or you can allow yourself to be swallowed whole and join them in the hunt.
On that note, it was time to get to work.
As he walked in to train a crop of TSA agents, he was carrying a new sense of purpose in the form of a Homeland Security threat memo sent to all TSA chiefs three days prior. “Global intelligence sources” were warning of a “large-scale, coordinated attack on an indeterminate number of US airports.” Kennedy had seen a lot of threat-level-orange bullshit issued by Homeland, usually when they needed free Fox News PR to get their bloated budget rubber-stamped before the holidays, but this was different. It wasn’t just Homeland. Global intelligence sources was what made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.
When Kennedy got the memo, he’d been in London so he hit up his college buddy Wes Bowman from the CIA to pick his brain. Wes came from a wealthy Boston family, which had pretty much disowned him when he refused to be a paper doll exec in their restaurant food service empire. Working at the CIA, and having to live on a middle-class wage, had put some city miles on him. Even though they were the same age, Wes looked more like Kennedy’s much older brother with his retreating hairline and box-cut Men’s Wearhouse suit.
He was an IT geek servicing global field offices—not a master spy by any stretch of the imagination—but his security clearance made him privy to agency workings. Kennedy had taken him out to one of the best steak houses in town, hoping to
butter him up for information. After polishing off a couple of bone-in rib eyes and nearly three bottles of French burgundy, Kennedy awkwardly brought up the memo.
“You didn’t have to wine and dine me, dude,” Wes said. “I could have told you over the phone that Langley and all the cousins are in a tizzy about this so-called threat.”
“True, but I already know that.”
“What you don’t know are the specifics of the threat, which you think I might have. And now you’re greasing my wheels with prime-cut marbling to get what you want. Does that about sum things up?” Wes said, taking a large draught of wine.
“Think of it more as a bribe,” Kennedy said. “I really want to get a jump on this for my TSA chiefs if I can.”
“I don’t blame you. They don’t jump very high, do they?”
“No, and after their F-minus report card, they’re poking one another’s eyes out pointing fingers.”
“Shocker. Can’t imagine this is doing much for your business.”
“Let’s just say I need to maintain a high level of relevance these days.”
“I wish I could help you, man, but that information is north of my clearance. I can tell you what I’ve heard round the watercooler as long as you promise to take it with a grain of salt.”
“Anything will help.”
“We’ve been butting heads with the bureau for weeks about this. We don’t think they’re doing enough. And we definitely don’t think Homeland is doing enough.”
“Which makes this much more than speculation,” Kennedy said.
“This is intelligence. Everything is speculation, even when it’s happening right in front of you. What is it about this one that’s got your panties in a bunch?”
“Gut feeling, I guess. And global intelligence sources.”
“Sounds like they’re trying to differentiate it.”
“TSA gets too many warnings and no one’s paying attention. I doubt that little bit of language is going to help,” Kennedy said.
“Can I see the memo?” Wes asked.
“That would be a violation of my employer’s NDA,” Kennedy said. “Unless you came by it accidentally. Like if it fell out of my jacket.”
Wes looked at the floor under the table and saw the memo.
“Promise me you’ll never try to be a spy.” Wes laughed.
“Ha-ha. Going to take a leak.”
Kennedy went to the restroom and waited long enough for Wes to read the memo. He felt a little silly doing it this way, but he couldn’t risk ruffling feathers at Homeland for breaking his NDA. They were already questioning his role and asking for more detailed accounting of his work with TSA. When he got back to the table, the look on Wes’s face told him perhaps he had not been cautious enough.
“How about a cigar?” Wes asked.
“I could murder one,” Kennedy said.
He paid and they went for a walk. Wes took a long drag on his cigar, looked around to confirm they weren’t being observed, and handed the memo back to Kennedy.
“What’s up, Wes? You look a little spooked. No pun intended.”
“Based on what I’ve heard, this memo grossly underplays the potential threat.”
“Shit,” Kennedy hissed. “In what way?”
“Let’s just say at this point I should probably see if I can dig up some actual facts for you.”
“You’d do that?”
“Yeah. You’re the only person who’s going to take this seriously and you might be the only person who can get them to take it seriously.”
They stopped by the river. The sluggish, murky green water looked like the back of a snake.
“Do me a favor?” Wes said.
“What’s that?”
“Don’t be a hero. You got lucky with that JFK thing years ago. Could have gone the other way and scrubbed all those people you were trying to save.”
“What’s your point?”
“I get why you’re doing this,” Wes said. “And I’m willing to stick my neck out a little to help you. But remember there’s a reason even we separate the spooks from the cleaners. You get in over your head and you call in the cavalry. Dead is for martyrs and movie stars.”
The TSA training center was a dank, fluorescent cinder-block hole that could easily pass for a CIA torture cave. Kennedy surveyed his pupils—newly recruited Transportation Security Officers, or TSOs, to staff the checkpoints at JFK and LaGuardia. All he could think was that if the country could see the people sitting in front of him, being hired to protect them, they would never set foot on another airplane. Many of them wouldn’t cut it as crossing guards, let alone critical gatekeepers to the world’s airways, expected to observe hundreds, sometimes thousands, of travelers in a ten-hour shift and spot the ones that just might manage to fly another commercial jet into the Pentagon. Glenn, their fearless leader, inspired even less confidence as he sat on a stool at the back of the room and dunked a stale cruller in a cup of swamp-water coffee. With his swinish build and beady eyes, Glenn looked like a freshly shaven migrant from Middle-earth. Kennedy hated Glenn. The feeling was mutual. So he dispensed with pleasantries and got right to the PowerPoint.
“Good morning. Who’s ready for a pop quiz?”
A collective groan passed through the room. Kennedy pulled a .45 caliber handgun from his pocket and pointed it at them. They all gasped, screamed, and hit the ground for cover. Kennedy laid the gun down on the table in front of him.
“That, ladies and gentlemen, is a successful act of terror in a nutshell. It happens quickly and unexpectedly, and it induces panic and chaos. By the time you realize what’s happening, you’ve got a bullet in your head. Which is why in this business, an ounce of prevention is worth far more than a pound of reaction.”
He allowed them to settle back into their seats and observed. Those still dwelling on the outrage they felt from the gun stunt were not going to make the cut. His Israeli instructors had taught him that emotional control is the most important characteristic of a good security screener. You had to keep your head.
“Prevention begins with knowing your enemy. I’m going to show you pictures of actual weapons that TSOs—people just like you—found at airports around the country. Then we’ll look at traveler surveillance photos. See if you can guess which weapon belonged to which person.”
Kennedy switched off the lights and fired up his laptop projector. The first image he displayed was a photo of the .45 he had just pulled on them.
“You’re familiar with this item. When it was confiscated, it had a full fourteen-round magazine and one in the chamber. Anyone know where it was found?”
“Iraq?” someone joked.
“Right here at JFK,” he said. “Last week. If you read your confiscation logs, you would have known that. Perhaps Glenn will make that a job requirement.”
“It’s posted every morning at seven. Right by the doughnuts.” Glenn grunted.
“Outstanding. Then at least I know you’re reading them.”
Kennedy projected a new image on the screen with the same .45 and three surveillance photos of travelers—a young black man, a Caucasian man in his fifties dressed like a Hells Angel, and a middle-aged Hispanic man with a neck tattoo. Murmurs among the mostly black recruits vibrated through the ranks, followed by playful banter between them and a few Hispanic recruits.
“Anyone care to guess who this weapon belonged to?” Kennedy asked.
No takers. Most had the Please don’t pick me look on their faces.
Kennedy pointed to a young woman immersed in her phone screen.
“How about you, Facebook?”
Roars of laughter. The young woman looked up defiantly.
“Take your pick,” she spat. “I’d pull every one of them out of line.”
The laughter quickly turned to grumbles of contempt. Kennedy displayed his n
ext slide—a sixty-year-old grandfatherly man with thick glasses and a sweater-vest.
“And you’d be wrong every time,” Kennedy said.
“Ah hell no,” one of the young black men blurted out.
“How many times have you been stopped by the police without probable cause?” Kennedy asked him.
“I stopped counting,” the young man said cynically.
“Profiling. Many of you have experienced it because of your race. The majority of cases that involve police using excessive force are with minorities—”
“And the cops doing it are usually from the same minority groups,” a young black woman chimed in.
“Good point. So there’s prejudicial thinking that goes with it. And let’s not forget gender bias,” Kennedy said to Facebook girl. “Why do people profile?”
The room was silent, but he could see many were itching to answer.
“Come on. I know you have an opinion on this.”
“Racist motherfuckers,” one of the Hispanic men said boldly.
“That’s only part of the problem. What else?”
“It’s easier to just blame it on a brother than to do any actual work to find the guy that did it,” another young black man said.
“Especially when you think all brothers look the same!” his friend added.
“Exactly,” Kennedy agreed. “People are lazy and always take the easy way out.”
Kennedy switched the screen to a collage with pictures of Ted Bundy, Dennis Rader, Charles Whitman, and Timothy McVeigh—candid shots from their earlier lives, not mug shots or police blotter photos. They looked very normal.