by Deforest Day
“Oh, Sweet Mother of God!”
Major Machler spoke up. “Screw the FBI. What did I hear them called recently? The Foul Ball Institute?” The remark brought cheers, laughter, applause. “FFL dealers also file Form 4473 with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives. And we can talk to their data base. You can also get help from the local police departments. Go through the Fusion Centers; they’re already up and running. Local cops will know who and where the gun dealers are. Especially the part timers, working out of their basement. So far it’s been 7mm munitions. Look for sales of older military weapons. Pappy’s bolt action Enfield.”
Levon picked up the thread. He and Geneva had been working so many eighteen hours days they often finished each other’s thoughts with the easy familiarity of long married couples. A few of the Fifth Floor veterans gossiped about it. “I doubt if private gun dealers will have cctv images, but tell the agents to ask, anyway. The big box stores will have video, and they digitally archive it at their HQ. Unfortunately, without a time stamp on a register receipt, there’s no way we can search it.”
“Yes, there is.” All heads turned as Kat walked to the front of the conference room. She turned, stood beside Levon. It was her patriotic duty to share results, but not necessarily methods. “Facial recognition software. You’re all familiar with London’s Street Surveillance System. Their TrafficMaster lamp post cameras, the facial mapping units, the gait and posture program.
“As part of my thesis I wrote some new integrational enhancement features that are SmartSearch compatible. Once you get more than one image of the mystery man we can run all the cctv data through my software, and if we see the same guy buying trucks, lumber, and rifles in these six cities, we got him. He can run, but he can't hide.”
“Yeah, I like it. I like it a lot!”
“One good photo, and we got him!”
“Where can I lay my hands on this software?”
Kat held up a jump drive. “Right here.”
—o—
Nick came downstairs, found Patty and Liz in the kitchen, finishing breakfast. The Good Day USA! happy talk team were working their way through the usual celebrity rehabs and missing blonde stories when BREAKING NEWS BREAKING NEWS BREAKING NEWS scrolled across the screen, accompanied by an audio snip of Mussorgsky’s ‘Night on Bald Mountain’.
“Look’s like Frank is all slickered up, and ready for some serious wetness, Barb. What happening out there, Weather Dude?”
“Hey, howdie doodie, folks! Yessiree, I’m in full super-soaker mode, here on the golden sands of Galveston Island. Weather Central tells us Tropical Depression Debbie is all grown up, Harry! The fourth l’il sister of the season has turned from a mere debutante into a full-bosomed, Class IV Herry-cane! And she’s headed up the Yucatan, full of tequila, and lookin’ for mischief. Lock up the kiddies, coastal Texas! Debbie is about to do Dallas!”
Nick poured himself a cup of coffee, kissed the top of his daughter's head. “How did you make out with your computer homework?”
“Good, Daddy. Kat is so cool. She taught me a couple of tricks last night. She said to show it to my computer teacher, then she’d drop by after school, and we’d polish it up.”
“She did, eh? OK, I’ll see you when I get home.”
Chapter Nineteen
Kat napped in Geneva’s office while the teams chased the ghost of ‘José Martí’ through the night. She slept on a sofa more comfortable than her bed in an office quieter than her apartment. It was like some sensory deprivation chamber; all that money had included some serious soundproofing.
She blinked awake, momentarily forgot where she was, and raised the blackout blinds. During the night someone had deposited her Bug curbside. Either a note or a parking ticket was under the wiper. Be funny if it got towed back to Impound. Either way, she was going to go see Mr. Paloma. Nick. She needed to talk to his father-in-law.
Across the river the morning sun bounced off the windshields of the daily migration. Apparently the gasoline shortage and high prices had little effect on the government of the United States. Last night she’d overheard a couple of analysts griping they'd paid seven dollars a gallon, and had only gotten a full tank by showing their HomSec ID.
She started a pot of coffee, pretty sure she was following Geneva's recipe. Two scoops per cup. It was the last of the can; she dropped the olive green container in the trash, found several more in the major’s credenza. Like everything else military, it was labeled with a description of the contents, along with lot numbers, and time-stamped with the date of manufacture.
While the machine gurgled and spat, sounding like a smoker with a bad head cold, she used Geneva’s powder room. Evidently Major Machler pretty much lived at HomSec; it was as well stocked as Kat’s apartment. She washed her face, squeezed a ribbon of toothpaste on her finger, and left the room feeling close to human. Coffee would complete the job.
The major came through the door, inhaled. “I hope you followed my instructions. The gourmet joe they brew upstairs may win restaurant revues, but sometimes you need Army Issue to put hair on your chest. So to speak.”
She dropped a glossy printout on her desk, and poured herself a cup of coffee. She noticed the empty can in the trash. She carried the new can to her desk, peered at the lid, then answered Kat’s puzzled look. “I change my password every time I open a new can of coffee. Which around here is about twice a week. Even my magnificent brain can’t remember that.” She played a coda on the keyboard. “You will forget everything you just heard.”
Kat felt a surge of pride that trumped her acceptance to grad school. “I’m honored. First, the combination to your office door, then this. The password to my computer downstairs is—”
“Already know it. You have a Level Two clearance, along with about half the people working here. Level Three is limited to about a dozen cybergods. Meantime, without nobody’s knowledge, I assigned myself a level so high it don’t have a number.”
She tapped her hard drive with her fingernail. “I know all about your childish shenanigans with the IRS, and makin' fake ID’s. Know too, you sent a bot out, roamin’ the halls, while you tried to track down whoever been watchin' our every move since the day Levon and I set up the new system. Somebody don't like independent thinkin'.
“When we get a moment, I expect between the two of us, we’ll track ‘em down. And then I’ll show you some real nasty shit.” Geneva flashed white teeth at Kat. “Special forces shit. Don’t stink, just kills your ass dead.”
Kat noticed the major wore desert cammo boots that had seen some action. Special forces shit. From the moment they met she'd sensed Major Machler's mind ran at twice normal speed.
Geneva handed Kat the printout. “Got a photo match with the fake Illinois driver's license. Dulles airport. Señor ‘Martí’ use the driver's license of a Ramon Chibas, and bought a one-way ticket to Boston, day before the attack on 495.” She settled behind her desk, put her feet on it. “Now they runnin’ around like a greased pig rodeo, scrambling for Logan images at the Arrivals terminal.”
Kat dropped on the sofa, stared at a man handing cash across the JetBlue counter. A grainy, slightly out of focus image. A room full of experts worked all night, and this was all they had?
“I’ve only been here for a few days, so I guess I’m way out of line when I say this place doesn’t seem to work very well. At securing the homeland. It’s like a DMV on steroids. And what's with the morning pledge and prayer? Have I joined a cult?”
“Like I said; you sharp. Took me a month before I realized I was the only one is this building with real-world experience.” She lifted the hem of her Army Ranger T-shirt, showed Kat three dime-sized puckers on her flat belly. “I been shot, and shot back, which tends to separate the important from the bullshit.”
Kat refreshed her coffee. “Levon seems different from the guy I used to know, when I was at BU, and he was a few years ahead of me at MIT. Back then he was a Guess dresser, rode a bicycle. Ate tof
u, smoked dope. Now, he’s got the suits, the Beamer.”
Kat dropped José on the desk, moved to the window, put her forehead against the cool glass. “Maybe he just grew up, and I haven’t.”
Geneva picked up the photo. “Naw. He caught a dose of CYA. Foggy Bottom Fever. An old friend of his, like you described, Grunge 101, hadn’t had a haircut since Noah beached the boat, dropped by. Levon was polite and all, but got rid of him quick. And told the people downstairs to do a better job of screening visitors. I mean, we all change, but, hey. There were some pretty bad dudes, and some pretty sad dudes, in my West Point class. I wouldn’t invite either kind to dinner. But we formed a bond, if you can understand what I mean.” She caught Kat’s puzzled look. “I guess not. Computer geeks don’t spend their Plebe summer shittin’ in the woods and eatin’ snakes.”
“It’s easy, isn’t it? In the Army. You know who the enemy is, and you shoot them.”
Geneva laughed. “Girl, you thinkin’ Eighteenth Century. All lined up in their pretty uniforms, while some fool on horseback waves his sword. Now the guy shooting at you at night is serving slop in your mess hall in the morning. It’s been that way since 'Nam; only now your civilian world is catching up with the real one.”
“We’re fucked, aren’t we?”
Geneva dropped her feet on the floor, stood. “To quote General McAuliffe, ‘Nuts’. Not while I’m on duty, Honey. And you quit thinkin’ that way. I need to get you into one of these Snake Eater shirts, keep you focused on the pledge.”
“Pledge?”
“When you came on board you raised your right hand and swore to uphold the Constitution. That dusty old document supersedes everything else around here, and don't you forget it.”
Kat stood tall and saluted. “Yes, Sir. And thanks for the use of your sofa. I was wasted.” She waved her arm at the world outside. “Something hit me as I was waiting for the coffee to perk. Looking out the window, at the traffic. This really is the center of the universe, isn’t it? Anyway, I wondered if this ‘José’ character spends a lot of time here. I mean, it would stand to reason, wouldn’t it?” She ran her fingers over the image, as though reading braille.
“I was fooling around yesterday with Mr. Paloma’s sister-in-law. Showing off. I ran her DMV picture through my software.” Kat pulled her laptop from her bag, searched her archives for Aunt Patty's file, showed Geneva. “She attends a lot of rallies on the Mall, and these are all crowd shots. And I wondered where they came from. Are they NSA images?”
Geneva played with her beaded dreadlocks, shook her head, said, “Shee-it! Only one place all these different pictures came from. Don't matter who they belong to, it's the where has got me grinnin' 'bout your software, girl.”
“What? Am I missing something?”
“Kat, you was backdoorin' the Utah Data Center.”
“The what?”
“NSA's billion dollar storage facility.” Major Machler laughed, and pulled up Wikipedia on her iPhone, handed it to Kat. The data center is alleged to be able to process all forms of communication, including the complete contents of private emails, cell phone calls, and Internet searches, as well as all types of personal data trails including parking receipts, travel itineraries, and bookstore purchases.
Kat handed the phone back. “I thought the NSA was supposed to be super secret. How come this is on wiki?”
“You musta been out of touch, up in your grad school ivory tower. You ain't heard of Snowden? Fella worked for them, before he spilled the beans, and run off to Russia.”
“So my software didn't just run José through the big box store security cameras. I accessed classified data bases. I wonder if I'm in trouble.”
“We'll find out soon enough. When the NSA learns they been hacked, they'll come looking for who did it.” Geneva poured another cup of coffee, chuckled. “Them spooks will be pissed as hell when the ISP address turns out to be at DHS.”
“Shit. I better go tell Levon. Before those FPS goons come after me.”
“Sit tight, don't say nothin' to nobody. NSA will have to sort through a whole heap of big shots, before they reach a little ole newbie like you.” She picked up the picture of José. “Meantime, I’m gonna see what I can sniff out, about this man. Has to be back channel; there’s no way it can be an official HomSec-CIA deal. You have no idea how spooky those spooks can be.
“I remember an incident; well, hell, I bet you do, too. That NFL player, caught some Blue on Blue, in Afghanistan? He was part of a night op, and we asked for realtime imagery. CIA swore they didn’t have any. And I know goddamn well they did, because I was runnin’ that particular show from Kandahar, and ballin’ one of their boys at the time. You didn’t hear that, girl.
“Anyway, they had a Predator drone in the air, caught the whole thing in high def. Piss me off. They could have saved the op, saved some lives. So, let me make a phone call. From outside this building, from a pay phone. If I can find one that still works. You got any change?”
Chapter Twenty
Mason Drubb stood, alone in the Oval. One of the few people on the planet with that perk. Wander in, kick back. Although he would never dream of doing it, he could sit in The Chair, put his feet on The Desk.
But then, he was also one of the president’s oldest and closest friends. No, not friends. Associates, advisors, confidants. The president only had one true friend, and more than once Drubb had found the president holding long conversations with himself.
The president saw people as political capital; useful currency, discarded when they no longer served the exigency of the moment. Guest stars in a thirty minute episode.
SAP had been at the man’s side, through fat and lean, feast and famine, cancellations and Emmys, for nearly thirty years. He’d thought, once they won this office, this sacred room, he would receive his reward. Chief of Staff. Maybe a cabinet position in the second term. Drubb had been on a Future Farmers of America scholarship. Secretary of Agriculture would be a nice fit. All that food stamp power to wield. But no. He was just a SAP.
Eight years ago Mason hired the speechwriters, twisted contributor's arms, and operated the T-shirt canon, firing hundreds of Safety in Numbers: .45—.357—.223 shirts to adoring crowds. The president's father had said Drubb was the smartest man he’d ever come across. And his son had replied, “Oh, yeah? Does he know the words to Louie, Louie?”
Drubb ran his hand across the polished surface of The Desk, empty but for the symbolic red telephone, and a small brass sign that said, A cluttered desk is the sign of a cluttered mind —Albert Einstein. Drubb smiled. And what is the sign of an empty desk?
After the quack Kellogg prescribed Cipro for the president's tummy, Mason was quick to look up the drug’s side effects. Dizziness, confusion, tremors. Hallucinations, depression, increased risk of seizures.
Shades of Nixon; wandering the halls at midnight, stewed to the gills, and talking to the portraits. Tricky Dick had his Dilantin, and Shorty is on Cipro.
He should mention the possibility of Cipro's adverse side-effects to the vice president, although the man in the on-deck circle probably knew it already.
The VP seemed to be a step ahead on everything else. One of the reasons Drubb had decided to switch horses in mid stream. An arsenal of clichés led others to underestimate Mason Drubb.
Speak of the devil. DEERSLAYER strode into the Oval, swept the room with a glance. “Looks like we’re the first to arrive. Good morning, Iago. Who among us is today’s ‘ignorant, ill-suited’ Cassio you’re plotting against?”
“Mea Culpa. None here, I assure you; it is ‘the wealthy curled darlings of our nation’ that have my focus.” Mason knew the vice president's fondness for Shakespeare, and had memorized a few useful quotes of his own.
“This time tomorrow quite a few of those wealthy darlings will find themselves labeled enemy combatants.”
“And it will continue to be my lot ‘to suckle fools and chronicle small beer’.” Drubb wandered to the window, watched a mem
ber of the protective detail walk the First Lady's pooch. “Speaking of chronicles, the Director of Communications wants to know why he has been told to set up in the Oval for an address to the nation. What should I tell him?”
“Tell him to suck your dick.”
Drubb studied his shoes to hide the smile. He recalled an incident a few years back, when the vice president still toured the Sunday Circuit to explain policy to the peons. A non verbal speech coach had been making suggestions for a coming Meet the Press appearance. “Hands send subliminal messages to the viewers, Mr. Vice President. A raised fist shows strength, resolve. A pointed finger is accusatory, confrontational. And an open hand is conciliatory, welcoming. If I may be so bold, sir, you could use a little of that. At least on the screen.”
The man a heartbeat away had offered his middle finger to the coach. “And what message does this send?”
Drubb turned from the window. “I also told the Press Office to get us twenty network minutes this afternoon. Drive time. Are we sure we want to do this on a Friday? Usually—”
“Usually bad news is dumped on Friday. Exactly. We want as little reaction to this as possible. Give the sheeple the whole weekend to get the word, if anyone is listening.
“We have the perfect storm coming. An actual one, building in the Gulf. You know how dearly cable television loves a weather event. Plus, it’s sweeps week, so the networks all have extravaganzas on tap. And Showtime's Sex With a Superstar is having its grand, two hour finale at nine. They expect seventy-five million pay-per-view hits, at fifty bucks apiece.
“Sunday morning’s talking heads are followed by the NFL, followed by Monday Night Football. And then the icing on the cake, if you will. Congress is out of session; home for Tuesday’s election. No way anyone can coordinate a reaction until the entire nation is safely locked down.”
General Bainbridge strolled into the Oval Office from his lair down the hall. He smiled, recalling something Dr. Brzezinski said to him, years ago, when the General had been a lowly Colonel, and learning his way around the White House. “The Secretary of State has the illusion of power”.