by Will Mosley
“Everyone, shut up!” Yelled Representative Stuart Hunt from Georgia's 7th District, silencing the room instantly.
He had sat and listened to the men cackle like hens when, outside, his constituents were wondering whether he deserved a third term.
Stuart liked business, but loved control far more, and after learning the finer aspects of shrewdness from Stuart Hunt Sr., began his first solo venture into the business of computing systems in the mid-seventies, learning from his father who developed business systems for Bell Labs. After starting, growing and selling several successful companies, a need arose in the field of private security. He purchased a fifteen percent interest in Thomas Kimble's start-up security firm and, since 1987, served as one of the companies few board members.
“This is not good for me, boys! Not at all. The last thing I need is a bunch of cackling ninnies laughing and not fixing this shit! I need this to be over!”
“We know, Stu. It's the reason we're here.” Thomas said. “Just trust our decision –,”
“I did that once already and look where it landed us. Fix this shit, Tom.” He pointed a stern warning finger and returned to his seat. Thomas simply nodded and hid himself behind the separation papers.
The outside heat that warmed the brick facade of the two-story building combined with the prospect of impending confrontation, produced a stagnant tenseness in the conference room. They all had at least heard of Heather Luzader, but not all knew her personally. Philip Kirby had known her since he trained her in the second phase of operations management when she was a young and eager lass back in January of 1994. The company was still new, then, and its leadership fully expected to train up any operations managers considering the $18,250 starting pay. However, when 22 year-old Heather applied for the position, accompanied with an Associate's degree in political science from South Georgia College, and two years military experience, they stopped their search with her. He was initially fearful of keeping his position with the firm after realizing her nearly limitless ambition and potential, but he had grown fond of Heather, which made parting ways like this that much more upsetting. He didn't want to contrarily interject in this matter because he had a family to feed. But he knew Heather's stellar work record and, due to the inefficiencies of Central Intelligence bureaucracy, questioning all fund expenditures, project Trojan was doomed from its inception and she would now be thrown to the dogs. Did Heather have some blame? Of course, but the company couldn't go to Congress with their complaints and if they redirected blame, it would be focused on the agency that paid him handsomely to be nothing more than a consultant. In what other industry could a Gulf War veteran and Army Ranger get to use his special knowledge, occupy a chair for most of the day, shoot all the ammo he cared to shoot and collect a six figure income for doing so? Phil simply wanted to sit back, observe and let the suits do what suits did best: postulate, talk and keep their seats warm. That's all the suits were good for. Yet, day by day, he felt that they were intentionally bringing him in from the field to make crucial decisions, grooming him to become a suit. The thought made him uneasy and he began feeling uncomfortable in his seat, in his clothes, in this stuffy room.
“How long?” Thomas eyeballed Frank from above his glasses.
“Soon, Tom.”
“That's not a number.”
Frank huffed and looked at his watch. “Three minutes and thirty five seconds, Tom.”
“Thank you, Frank.”
“I'm surprised she's not here already.” Phil said.
“Oh?” Thomas leaned the separation papers down and turned to Phil.
“Well, she's just punctual is all. She's probably –,” Phil stopped in mid-sentence, stood up and walked to the window that looked out onto the employee parking lot. Rows of sun lit silver and beige and dark blue vehicles speckled the parking lot that butted up to an upholstery store and a McDonald's restaurant. In the farthest corner of the lot, a silver Ford Focus was parked facing the office. Phil could barely make the silhouette of a female sitting in the driver's seat in dark glasses and a headset, her face illuminated by a faint light in her lap – probably a computer – and she was looking directly at Phil. The female smiled when Phil bent the blinds down. From the years they spent in the field, he knew her mode of operation like a father knows what new version of the iPod to get his daughter for Christmas. However, he didn't always know what songs she wanted.
Silver was probably chosen because it was a common color and wouldn't bring much attention, as was the generic Ford Focus. She's listening to us. Phil thought and smiled. Always working.
“What's out there, Philip?” Thomas beckoned.
“Just checking to see if she's here. Looks like she just pulled in.” Phil found his seat, but still no comfort.
“Arriving late? And you say she's punctual?” Thomas scoffed. “Questionable judgement, I'd say.”
“But she's being terminated, Tom. Can't you give –,”
“She doesn't know that. Punctuality is a lifestyle, not a time. You'd be wise to learn that.”
Minutes later, with no warning, the office door flung open, it startling everyone in the office. Phil stood and placed his hand on his holstered Glock out of instinct, but sat back down when he saw who it was.
She wore little or no make-up with only a tiny bit of foundation to hide freckles high on her cheeks. Regal, standing three inches under six foot, she never wore pants, believing that they defeminized her to the lower, less intelligent male form. Instead, she donned a simple dark blue, Elie Tahari Kayla dress which stopped at her knees and black Nike Cross-trainers. She had that exact same dress in virtually every color. Phil knew that the dress was chosen absolutely for its functionality: she had them tailored to conceal weapons and to slip off quickly. Beneath it she wore a sports bra, Spandex bike shorts, and a Glock 23c holstered in a modification at the small of her back. Always.
“Let's get this shit over with.” She demanded. She grabbed a fold-up chair from beside Phil, unfolded it with brute strength and no elegance, placed it in front of Thomas's desk and sat down. “What's your reason for termination?”
“Uh... well,” Thomas murmured. He prided himself on preparedness and his order of things, and had even made three small stacks of papers on his desk from which to draw when it came time for her signatures. However, the intrusion unsettled him and he shuffled papers on his desk erratically. “Uh, Ms. Luzader? How do you know –,”
“The reasons, fatty. Give'em to me. Can you do that? Are you capable of that?”
“Ms. Luzader, please! This is not how –,”
“Is it because of Trojan?”
“Well, uh, yes. Yes it is. But, we need to –,” Thomas was badly shaken and began meddling with his ordered paper stacks as if her interruption had somehow upset their balance.
“I need these things, now: Separation letter, severance check –,” She demanded, her finger pressed to her palm.
“Well, Ms. Luzader,” Thomas smiled and waved his hands in false submission. “Why on Earth do you think we'd pay you before –,”
“Because it's right there on your desk!” Heather reached up, snatched the severance check and a handful of papers from his desk before he realized what was happening. Thomas attempted to retrieve them, but was stifled by his stomach's placement behind the desk and flopped back in his seat, defeated.
“That's quite enough from you, missy!” Stuart stood targeting her with a finger. “This is a place of business, not some jungle! You'll behave here!”
“Shut your mouth, Representative, and sit down. I'm sure we've heard enough of your bullshit for two terms.” Heather said, crossed her legs and began reading over the separation letter, dismissing Stuart without second thought.
“Now, look here,” Stuart slowly approached her. His arms crossed and voice low. “I –,”
“Cheryl Turner.” Heather said from memory, without looking up from the letter. “310 Cascadia Avenue. Married to Albert Winston Turner, Rear admiral of the US
S Ronald Reagan. Former Navy Seal. 1964 Annapolis graduate.” Stuart uncrossed his arms and his jaw hung slack. “Now, if I know about Cheryl Turner, Mr. Congressman, and the media doesn't know about Cheryl Turner –,”
“You don't know shit –,”
“And they, along with Admiral Turner, were to get pictures of a certain congressman in compromising situations with Mrs. Turner,”
“Okay! Dammit, okay. Hush your smart ass mouth! I'm sitting.”
Except for the small clicking noise created by Phil's pen tapping his wedding ring as he nervously twirled it through his fingers, the room was silent while Heather read the four pages of the separation letter. She nodded occasionally, shrugged often, and turned to Phil twice. Both times he shrugged.
“I'm sorry, Heather.” He said the second time.
“Don't be, Phil.” She replied. “You didn't do this. I expected as much from these twats.” She looked up from the papers and into Thomas's eyes. “So, you make me screw those boys up, then fire me for it. Is that correct?”
“Ms. Luzader, the funding for the project was $27.5 million, as it says there on page two,” Thomas pointed to the documents. “You exceeded it by nearly a third!”
“You wanted it done right –,”
“Without approval, I might add,”
“Hell, the job still may not be complete as we speak! We're weening them, Tom –,”
“Without oversight, without any managerial responsibility –,”
“There's more there! There's more to learn –,” Heather said and Phil leaned forward.
“...And that's just not acceptable.” Thomas continued.
“Your rules, fatty. Your rules. I just followed them.”
Phil interrupted. “Not complete? Heather, what do you mean, not complete?”
“Ask Central Intelligence, Phil. Specifically, Harris Marchment's screwed up son, Kaiser! He was in charge of...” Heather stopped herself and looked back at Thomas. She knew that he didn't have a clearance as high as her's and Philip's, and began to change her wording. “He was in charge of... it. You know. Prior to Trojan.”
“Yes, I do.”
“He told me that the cost overruns on our end were only the beginning. He ran a similar operation in 1988 before Desert Storm. They had problems and the technology wasn't good then. $28 million? Are you kidding? For it to be complete, we were talking more than triple that figure!” Heather turned back to Thomas. “As I said, fatty, it's not my fault. I did as I was ordered and I did a damn fine job for what was given me.”
“Well, I can't speak to that.” Thomas said. Heather removed her cell phone from her purse, snapped a photo of the check, which sent the routing numbers to her bank for verification and deposit, then looked back to Thomas.
“You don't have to. Phil can. My integrity can. I started here in 1994 as a girl and headed up project Trojan from its inception. Me and my team never failed to complete an assignment. We procured valuable –,”
“And the extraction, Ms. Luzader,” A condescending smirk stretched across Thomas's face. “I guess that fiasco just happened was someone else's fault too, right?”
“My guys were under fire from United States Marines, Tom! What is going through your sick little mind? According to your logic, I should have had my men open fire on them, right? Gun down our own statesmen, Tom? Is that something you would've liked to explain in a congressional hearing? How about you, Congressman?” She tuned to Stuart. “You want to tell your constituents that your company was directly responsible for murdering United States Marines? You can question my integrity as much as you'd like, but doing so only brings your integrity into question.”
“Well,” Tom interjected and stretched with finality, rolling his head to the window. An awkward conclusion lingered on the board member's faces between ruminating gazes. She was the scapegoat and no one was going to fall on any sword for her. The responsible parties, the CIA, Whitewash LLC, weren't going to risk what they'd built for a 42 year-old operations manager. She conceded the termination because it was what the company had to do. However, she did have one last card to play.
“The point is moot now,” She said. “So I'm done talking about it. However, there is one other issue more important than this... bullshit firing squad.”
Phil perked up in his seat because he knew what she was about to say. It was the question he spent years trying to decode. It would wake him at night as pieces of the question would reveal themselves, and slip into dream mist as sleep receded from his eyes. He would wonder, 'how far did these guys go? How black were they? What kind of mess could potentially explode out of this?' Neither he, nor anyone he knew could answer that question. There was an answer and only a handful people on the planet knew it but, thanks to Heather, they no longer did. Then, as if the sunlight that spilled through the blinds slightly darkened and as the silence in the office became palpable, she said it.
“What about the transmission?”
Besides Phil, the faces in the room drew questioning glances. The congressman's brow furrowed. Frank Richardson's eyes rolled to Phil, then he asked, “Transmission?”
“Transmission?” The congressman said. “Is this something we need to know about?”
“It's nothing. Literally.” Thomas slowly shook his head, reassuring the board members. “We initially thought it was of some importance, but it proved otherwise.” He turned back to Heather. “What about it, Ms. Luzader?”
“What about it? Are you kidding? Do you know what it says?”
“Ms. Luzader, your former team, minus Philip, tried for three years to –,”
“I figured as much, Tommy. You can't figure it out. No one can.”
“There is nothing to figure out, Heather,” he emphasized, cupping his hands in front of his face in frustration. “And it no longer concerns you. You don't work here anymore.”
“It absolutely concerns me! And you can bet that marshmallow ass of yours that I will see this through.”
“You have made copies, then?” Thomas asked.
Heather grinned and shook her head. “No.”
“Well, I hope not. Be warned that the tape is the property of this company –,”
“That means it's property of the United States government, sweetheart!” Stuart interrupted.
“Correct,” Thomas said. “And we will not see it stolen and misused for your personal profit.”
“If it is nothing, as you say, then why does it matter what I do with it?”
“It is our property and that is all I will say about that. I hope my warning has been understood.”
Heather stood up, signed the separation letter and slid it to Thomas. He then stapled several sheets together and handed her a copy of the same letter. “So we're done here?” She asked.
“We are.” Thomas stood and extended his large hand to her. “We have enjoyed your time with –,”
Heather scoffed at his hand, “I don't want to get any pork grease on me.” Then turned and left the office leaving the door open.
“I expected as much. Philip, please escort her out.”
Phil allowed her distance as he exited Tom's office, assuming she'd want to say her farewell's to former team members, some of whom worked in the cubicles that lay straight ahead. But as Heather reached the end of the main hallway whose right intersecting hall diverted towards the building's entrance, she turned left and rushed around the corner. Stepping up his pace, Phil could not think of anyone of importance down that hall – including the computer geek in his stinking cave – that she'd want to talk to. He jogged to the split, looked to left and saw Heather leaned into the dank dwelling of Lucas Haskert.
“Heather,” Phil spoke loud enough for her to hear, but not to draw anyone's attention. “You have to leave. Please don't make this hard.”
She looked back at Phil. “Oh, hey! I was just telling Luke goodbye.”
It couldn't have been as simple as that. When Phil reached the door to Luke's office, a gust of stale farts and tangy, age
d energy drinks asphyxiated him. He recoiled, then re-inserted his head into the office, looked at Luke's computer monitor where a game of Solitaire was ending and streams of digital red cards bounced around the screen. Luke's hands were tucked under the desktop. Nothing was happening here.
“I see you brought the gym socks with you, Heady.” Luke snarled at Phil.
“He's just making sure I leave without incident.” Heather said.
“Everything okay here, Luke?” Phil asked, still scouring the scene, looking for anything out of place.
“No, Sargent Slaughter, but we will need a lot more storage than the single 750 Gigabyte storage drive that you and corporate feel is sufficient. And while you're here, the RAM sucks! I would bring a stick from home but –,”
“Well, whatever, Luke. Take it up with maintenance.”
Luke whispered to Heather, “But I am maintenance, Heady. He has no idea what's going on!”
Phil pulled his head from Luke's cave, grateful that he had not succumbed to the stench. “Clean that shit hole, Luke.” He turned to Heather. “Okay, I'm going to need you to leave.”
“Sure, Phil. I just have to use the bathroom first. Is that okay?” She pushed passed Phil on her way to the lavatory. He reached around and grabbed her arm before she could get too far away.
“Heather, please.” He whispered.
“Phil, I won't be home until after 1800. I have to start looking for work, you know.”
She knew the game and was well versed in its intricacies. She knew that she'd be followed home and would be subject to sensitive observation for no less than three months. If she didn't want to be followed, in case she had another safe haven besides the ones they already knew about, the bathroom provided her easiest escape from the facility.