by John Brown
“I’m sorry, it’s impermissible to articulate further in reference to controlled data.”
“What the hell am I supposed to do in the meantime?”
“Okay, look, sir, there’s a backlog of 8.1 million names in the register. This might take a while, okay? In the meantime, just carry on like normal pending final disposition. You don’t have to do anything right now. Please be patient until we initialize your PPI if the department decides—”
“My what?”
“Preliminary Pre-Investigation, like I already said. If you wanna check on your status, we’re open from 0930 to 1100 hours and from 1400 to 1500 weekdays except for State holidays and inservice days and—”
“But if there’s a problem with my ID I could lose my employment authorization. I wouldn’t have permission to drive, take a train, or fly. Already, I can’t access my bank account. How am I supposed to live?”
“Hey, I’m just doin’ my job, you know?”
There was a moment’s awkward silence, and then, as pleasant as ever, she said, “Now you have a nice day.”
Sirens wailing, a squad car and armored SWAT vans raced down a quiet suburban street, screeching to a halt at a stately house in an affluent Virginia neighborhood. Paramilitary police clad in camouflage assault uniforms, reinforced body armor, and combat helmets streamed out of the vans, their snub-nosed M4A1 carbines at the ready. They took up their positions on the front lawn and covered the entrance. The film crew from the reality television show “COPS” scrambled to set up their equipment. Once the cameras starting rolling and the sound check was completed, the lead camerawoman gave the thumbs-up.
Two officers in long black coats exited the squad car. Strolling up the front walk, looking back to ensure that all was ready, one of them banged hard on the door with a meaty fist, rattling the sidelight windows. The police hunkered down on the lawn, training their weapons on the door.
Benson opened his front door a crack. He peered out at the curious scene before him. Petey howled furiously, launching into a series of piercing barks echoing through the house.
“You are Thomas Benson?” one of the officers shouted above the din, his question barely intelligible.
Benson took a long moment to observe these officers and their contingent spread out before him. Judging from their uniforms, gear, and general demeanor, it appeared that they anticipated some resistance. This veritable strike force couldn’t have been assembled just to apprehend jaywalkers or public littering scofflaws.
One of the officers, whom Benson took to be the man in charge, held up an official-looking shiny badge, but put it away hastily, an annoying formality with which he plainly did not care to be bothered.
“You are Thomas Benson?”
Having to shout over Petey angered the officer, but Benson did nothing to hush Petey’s powerful barking. The officer repeated his question a third time, yelling at the top of his voice, looking back at the television cameras.
Benson gazed impassively at the officer and then commanded the dog to sit. Petey growled, deep and rumbling, reluctantly sitting back on his haunches, against his better judgement, as it were.
“Your identification, please,” Benson said. He motioned the officer to hold up the badge again so that he could properly inspect it. Looking behind him first, the officer begrudgingly produced his identification in its black leather case.
“Take it out of the wallet,” Benson said.
The department and its division were unfamiliar to Benson. These cops were not from the local Alexandria police department. He looked at the officer in his black coat in silence. He directed a cold gaze at the other officer; judging from his white shirt, probably a lieutenant eager to prove his mettle in the presence of his superior. The young men spread out on his lawn squinted through their rifle’s sights.
“I was just on my way to work.”
“We need to ask a few questions first.”
“Where’s your warrant?”
Reaching into his coat, the officer shoved a paper into Benson’s hand. It looked just like any standard business letter, ending with “Your cooperation in this sensitive matter is greatly appreciated,” signed by one Duke Johnson II, Deputy Vice Director, Special Investigations Directorate, Department of Homeland Security.
“What the hell’s this?” Benson crumpled it and threw it to the floor. “That isn’t a proper warrant.”
“It’s a National Security Letter — kind of like a warrant. Lieutenant Millstone, you will record that we were granted permission to search the premises.”
“Yes, Commander.”
“I do not grant permission to search,” Benson said, flatly, to no one.
The lieutenant signaled the men behind him. Charging into the house, they brushed Benson aside. Some headed upstairs and some made for the basement; others rushed through the ground-floor rooms.
Petey growled, low and menacing. Petey had been Benson’s loyal companion for many years. Benson often took him to visit the children’s hospital and the nursing home, wearing his special, little blue service dog vest. The patients and residents would kiss and hug him, and he would bring them some joy in the way only a dog can.
Working industriously inside the house, the police yelled to each other, carting items up and down the stairs, taking them outside. Benson’s electronics gear, a sophisticated collection of audio and communications equipment he had assembled with pride over the years, was ripped from the walls and carried right past him, the electrical cords and wires dangling free.
“Mr. Benson,” said the commander, “you have any hidden safes here? Any weapons or cash?”
Benson gazed at the commander with a stony face.
“Raise your arms for me, please.”
The commander felt under Benson’s arms, then patted down along his torso.
A harsh, guttural growl emerged from Petey, low and steady and rumbling deeply. His body stiffened and his hair stood on end.
The commander ran a hand down Benson’s chest and felt the inside pockets of his jacket, pulling out a wallet and phone, which he dropped onto the floor. He squeezed the jacket’s front pockets and removed keys and some coins, tossing them on the floor, too. Coming in closer, he reached around to Benson’s shoulder blades and felt down his back. He grabbed Benson’s buttocks, feeling the back pockets, and then patted and squeezed the front pants pockets, one at a time. He cupped Benson’s groin, making him wince.
Petey gave a bloodcurdling snarl. The commander backed up a step, his attention riveted on the dog. Petey bared his fangs and leaped, knocking the man hard onto his back. Jumping on top of the commander, he tugged at his black coat, ripping it to pieces, as if possessed.
“Petey, stop,” Benson said, but only halfheartedly.
Nevertheless, Petey stopped to look at Benson. The commander seized the brief respite, swiftly unholstering his gun and bringing the muzzle to Petey’s belly. A deafening explosion ricocheted through the house. Petey’s guts were sprayed over the floor and walls. The police came running madly down the stairs and up from the basement.
“You killed my dog.” Benson balled his hands into clenched fists. “You shot my dog, you son of a bitch!”
The commander got to his feet clumsily, training his gun all the while at Benson, who looked as if he might himself leap and attack. At length, apparently satisfied that Benson wasn’t going to tackle him, he looked down at his tattered coat, examining the multiple rips with great concern.
“Mr. Benson—”
The commander took a deep breath. He held up his shredded belt with dismay.
“You can collect your things on the floor and then you will please come with us. We’ll explain on the way.”
Hustling him to the squad car and roughly pushing his head down to fit inside, they shoved him in and slammed the door shut. The sides of the car displayed the new police motto, “For Your Own Protection.” The rear and side windows were blacked out. The flat vinyl rear seat was torn in places, stained,
and reeked of disinfectant. A metal grid in front of a thick plate window partitioned the front seat from the back. Up front were Lieutenant Millstone and the commander, whose name Benson had forgotten. An armored SWAT van drove in front, another following exceedingly closely, its powerful headlights shining directly into the rear seat.
The lieutenant occasionally removed the car’s police radio handset and said something into it, but Benson couldn’t make out any of the words.
“Hey! Aren’t you going to tell my wife where I am?” Benson yelled, banging on the partition. “Where’re we going? Do you hear me? Hello?”
The cops paid him no attention. Benson turned around to look behind but could see nothing, the looming headlights of the rear van dominating his sight with its blinding glare.
The procession of vehicles continued along the highway, traveling in the empty special express lane reserved for official use. The commuter lane to their right was snarled with traffic. Over the roadway there appeared a colorful threat-level meter. “Today’s Threat Level Is Orange,” said a sign below the meter in glowing letters. “Report Suspicious Items or Activities to the Authorities.” Cameras on either end of the sign were trained on the highway.
The procession arrived in front of three bleak, imposing concrete buildings. The street was strangely deserted. Watchtowers were set high on the corners of each building. Snipers patrolled the labyrinth of catwalks connecting the complex. The vehicles pulled up to the entrance, blocked with a heavy sliding gate on which was written “No Photography/Prohibido Fotografiar.”
The van driver in front swiped a card and the creaky gears pulled the gate open. The squad car and the two vans drove past a glass booth holding a listless guard. He watched them pass into the courtyard. Etched into the walls of the building in front was “Honor Bound to Defend Freedom.” A prominent symbol some 50 feet overhead depicted a pyramid with an open eye at the top. Light shone from the eye onto a globe of the world. “Scientia est Potentia” was inscribed at the base of the pyramid.
Everyone got out but Benson. The police moved to the rear of the car and opened his door. The two officers in their long black coats walked in front, a few of the paramilitary police following closely behind. Entering one of the buildings, they headed swiftly down a long corridor, passing an official portrait of President King mounted on the wall. He wore a faint, lopsided smile, a flag hanging limply behind him. Descending a flight of winding steel stairs to the basement, the clack of their heels echoed off the concrete block walls. The place smelled of fresh cement and new paint.
Benson emptied his pockets of his wallet, keys, phone, coins, watch, and pen, depositing them into a gray plastic bin. He removed his belt and put it into the bin. A bored police sergeant placed the bin on a shelf holding other such containers. Benson stood in front of a painted cement wall with heights marked in one-inch increments for a series of mugshots, facing in one direction and then the other.
The sergeant led Benson to a room for fingerprinting and body scanning. When they were done, he pushed some forms across a counter for Benson’s signature.
Benson started to read the fine print but quickly gave up.
“What’s all this?”
“Jus’ sign ’em,” the sergeant said, grumbling under his breath, “asshole.”
9
Providing the Appropriate Tools
IT WAS JUST AFTER KING TOOK OFFICE that a skinny young man wearing a backpack opened the heavy glass door to a shopping mall near D.C. His backpack was so large that he was having difficulty negotiating the entrance. Seeing him struggling, a woman ran out in front and opened the door wide for him. He said nothing and entered the mall.
Spinning around, he took in the multitude of shops with their brightly colored signs advertising deep discounts and special offers. It was the President’s Day weekend holiday in February, one of the biggest sales events of the year. People strolled past the stores weighed down with shopping bags. Festive music drifting from the second floor caught the young man’s attention. A nonstop stream of shoppers went up and down the escalators.
He lumbered past a kiosk and paused again to have a look around. The place was absolutely bustling. A personable young salesgirl in a checked apron suddenly appeared, startling him.
“Hi, I’m Jasmine, would you like to try one of our truffles? They make great gifts; we can even spell the name of the recipient, one letter on each chocolate. Everyone loves chocolate, don’t you?”
“I am not. I am not feel my hungry at this time.”
The heavy pack dug painfully into his spindly shoulders. With a jump, he hiked up his load and moved a short distance away to a play area in a central concourse jammed with parents and toddlers. He removed his pack and sat on a bench, watching the youngsters play on the climbing structures, their mothers and fathers hovering over them. He stared out into space. A few of the mothers shot him a sharp glance before returning to their tykes.
Jasmine had watched him leave her kiosk and followed him to the play area, careful to stay just out of sight. Was she being stupid? The mall was always full of strange people, and it wasn’t right to discriminate. She’d seen plenty of other foreigners acting oddly, but so what? They just weren’t acclimated to their new country, that was all. They had different customs, different mannerisms. This one looked like he was from Afghanistan or Iraq or someplace far away like that. That shouldn’t make any difference, should it? After all, many of her American customers had bizarre piercings and rings and tattoos all over their bodies and they were perfectly normal. It wasn’t right to judge by appearance. Maybe this poor guy was confused or upset. Maybe he was just plain tired.
Even so, the look in his eyes wasn’t right. It gave her an uneasy feeling. She watched him sitting on the bench, gaping at the children playing. After deliberating awhile, she finally pulled out her phone and dialed 1-800-TIPS.
A voice came on the line.
“Hello, I wanna report a suspicious item and a socially dangerous person. So this guy, he’s got a big backpack and he seems sort of crazy, so I just thought maybe it’s, like, I don’t know, a bomb or something? It sounds crazy, right? Hello? Anyone there?”
The phone went silent, long enough for Jasmine to seriously consider hanging up and trying again. Then a recording came on.
“Thank you for calling 1-800-TIPS, a public service of your Department of Homeland Security. All operators are currently busy serving other customers. Your call is important to us and will be answered in the order received.”
Jasmine kept watching the man. He was gawking at the young mothers, a bewildered look on his face. He wiped his nose on his sleeve. She became convinced that he was clearly not normal and had no business here, becoming increasingly anxious while waiting for her call to be taken.
“We are presently experiencing an unusually high call volume. For faster service, please visit us on the World Wide Web, at www.dhs.gov. Otherwise, please stay on the line, and your call will be answered in the order received.”
The young man rummaged through his pack. He got down on the floor on his knees. He silently mouthed something and gazed upward.
“Hello, this is 1-800-TIPS, a public service of your Department of Homeland Security, my name is Lateshia, ID 878-61-B264, this call is being recorded, what is your name and ID number, please?”
“What’s the difference? We got an emergency here!”
Again, the phone went silent, and then clicked.
“I’m sorry,” Lateshia said. “We are presently experiencing technical difficulties. Your call is very important to us. Can I put you on hold for a minute?”
The explosion ripped through the concourse several hundred feet in every direction. People were knocked violently to the hard tile floors and smacked against the walls, coming to lie amid the glass shards and wreckage. Razor blades and nails slashed through their flesh.
Farther out in the mall, panicked shoppers fled for their lives, scrambling to get outside, vainly screaming above t
he pandemonium to reach their families and friends. A few brave souls bucked the fleeing crowds, running back inside to help the survivors writhing on the floor. Sirens blared in the distance.
The reporters took their seats in the press briefing room. The flags off to the side hung half-mast. On the lectern, below the DHS logo, appeared its new signature slogan: “Only YOU Can Prevent Terrorism.” Brawny agents in dark suits stood on either side of the podium.
Secretary Cherkov made his entrance, plopping down some papers. Gaunt, with slumping shoulders and a small paunch, he had an unhealthy, cadaverous look about him, with sunken eyes, bony cheeks and strands of hair plastered in an unconvincing sheet over his head. A longtime running enthusiast, he was often photographed jogging with the president, a pack of Secret Service agents trailing just behind.
He fussed with his half-eye reading glasses before removing them from his nose entirely, letting them dangle from their cord around his neck. A few reporters stood, waving their hands in the air, hoping to be the first to be granted permission to ask questions.
He looked up at the reporters, cleared his throat, and put his glasses back on as he read in wooden tones from his prepared statement.
“The department has issued a preliminary finding.” He cleared his throat again, intermittently looking at the reporters over the top of his glasses as he spoke. “Our fact-finding determination is still ongoing, however, we are prepared to say at this time that this mall tragedy is a cowardly act. We believe this may not have been a ‘lone-wolf’ terrorist incident, but may have been part of a vast network of sleeper cells hidden somewhere in the Homeland. We plan to hunt these vermin down and bring them to justice. There is no hole these animals can crawl into that we can’t also crawl into.”
Secretary Cherkov looked up from his papers and peered at the gathering over his reading glasses. The cameras recorded every tic of his face, everything he uttered, and it made him jumpy. He wasn’t normally like this. He had temporarily left a high-paying job as the CEO of a prominent aviation security company with lucrative State contracts to head DHS. Normally relaxed and forthright at department meetings and even cabinet sessions, the intense scrutiny here put him on edge. Highly self-critical, he had stopped watching his own performances on the news.