by Leslie Wolfe
The anchor's voice was bubbly with excitement, moving at an incredible pace from one stock price to the next.
"NanoLance Incorporated, ticker symbol NNLC, lost almost 8 percent in trading today, bringing the stock price to $134 per share. This decline is attributed greatly to the findings released in the friendly fire incident in Kandahar. NanoLance has been confirmed as the manufacturer of record for the Kandahar drone. The market was quick to react, instilling relatively high volume sell-offs that brought NanoLance's stock price down significantly for a single day of trading.
"All UAV manufacturers shed blood on the markets today, but NanoLance took the biggest loss, declining from yesterday's closing by 7.69 percent. Further declines in this stock's performance are to be expected, but not as severe. Analysts still call NanoLance a definite "buy and hold" investment, and, after all, the full results of the Kandahar inquiry are yet to be revealed.
"From Money Markets Review, this is Vincent Moran, wishing you a fortunate day."
...29
...Saturday, June 12, 7:38PM
...Alex Hoffmann's Residence
...Carmel Valley, San Diego, California
A multi-tone electronic chime startled Alex, unfamiliar with her new home's doorbell.
"Oh, crap," she muttered softly, then continued in a louder voice, "Just a minute!"
She wasn't expecting anyone. The frantic day of moving had left her tired and excited, ready to step into the shower and then call it a day. Her new three-bedroom rental house was clean, functional, friendly, and accommodating, despite the fact that the property owner wasn't all that bright. The movers had come and gone, having little trouble relocating her few belongings. These seemed even fewer now, because of the larger space. They were scattered here and there, without a clear concept, in an attempt to furnish all rooms, no matter how minimally.
Grabbing her bathrobe, she headed for the door and looked through the peephole. No one was there, but she could hear the sound of a small truck pulling away. She cautiously opened the door and looked around; there was no one there. As she was about to close the door, her eyes caught the large flower basket on her doormat. She picked it up, took it inside, and set it on her kitchen table. Under the lush flower arrangement, made of at least three dozen roses, lay a bottle of Martini Dry Vermouth, and a simple, white card with the words "Congratulations on your new home" on one side, and "Tom and the gang" on the other. With a sigh of relief and a smile reflecting the warmth she felt in her heart, she grabbed the bottle and put it in the fridge.
For the flowers, the solution was not so simple. Alex didn't have a vase. With a quick glance at the recently hung electronic clock on the wall, she decided to go out and get a vase that was suitable for the nicest flowers she had ever been given.
Almost an hour later, in line at one of the check-out registers of the Mira Mesa Target store, she was pushing a flat-bed shopping cart, filled with so much more than the vase she had come for.
A new 53 inch LCD TV that happened to be on sale, catching her eye. A wireless 5.1 surround system to go with it, a Blu-Ray player, and a TV stand to accommodate all that. A couple Blu-Ray movies she loved. A set of tall, cocktail glasses made of Bohemian crystal, and a vase, of course.
Chatting casually with the cashier, she noticed a skinny, bony man with intense eyes, two registers down, checking out with a mega-size pack of Charmin toilet paper. He was looking at her, but when their eyes met, he looked away.
"Sorry, ma'am, it's declined," the cashier woke her up to reality, returning her Visa card. "Do you have another card you can use?"
"Oh." Alex smiled uncomfortably, unzipping her wallet. "Let's see." Many cards were in her wallet, most of them still maxed out. None of them had room for the splurge. With a bit of hesitation, she pulled The Agency's Gold MasterCard, with the still unknown spending limit. She'd have to explain the expense to Tom and pay him back on her payday. He'd understand.
"This one worked just fine, ma'am, here you go," the smiling cashier invited her to sign the receipt. "Will you need help loading all that in your car?"
"Yes, much appreciated," Alex said. Seconds later, she was on her way toward the parking lot, with a store associate in tow.
The man who had caught her attention was nowhere in sight. Oh, well, Alex thought, with so much toilet paper on his shopping list, I bet he's run home to his fifteen kids. Then, if that's the case, why was he checking me out?
The man Alex had seen in the store was behind the wheel of a gray Ford sedan, no toilet paper anywhere. He flipped open a cell phone, speed-dialed a number, and then said: "She checks out." A pause. "Yes, sir." Another pause. "She was even declined on her credit card, sir." A silent frown. "Yes, sir, I will stay on it."
...30
...Saturday, June 12, 11:00PM
...News of the Hour, Special Edition Report
...Nationally Syndicated
Stephanie Wainwright's perfectly arranged hair filled the TV screen.
"April 20th marked a day of tragedy for our allied forces, as friendly fire from a drone took the lives of four Canadian Combat Logistics Patrol servicemen and wounded two more. Official findings are yet to be released on this case, but, despite the dust of time settling, there are many Canadian and American families who are still waiting for answers to their questions."
The image zoomed out, making room for a view that showed an elderly man, seated on an armchair in his living room.
"With us today, we have Salvatore Romero, the father of Leonard Romero, who was killed on April 20 in Kandahar. Good morning, Mr. Romero, and thank you for speaking with us today."
"Good morning." The man's voice was frail and faint.
"We are sorry for your loss; please accept our heartfelt sympathies," Stephanie said warmly.
"Thank you," the man answered.
"Could you please tell us how you feel about this tragedy?"
"Umm . . . how can I feel? I feel dead inside . . . I'm finished. A man should never live to bury his child. That should never happen. And why? Because of some . . . some flying machine!" His eyes were filling with tears of anger and pain. "A machine! We don't even have people to fly the damn things anymore! A pilot might have seen the Canadian flag on their transport, might have thought about it . . . before firing, before firing . . ."
"Have you been told what happened? Has anyone brought forth an explanation for this tragedy to you?"
"No, nobody spoke to us. Not to me, not to any of the other . . ." His voice was drowned in tears. He made an effort to continue, "the other parents, and wives, and children. Maybe they'll never tell us anything. Maybe there's nothing to tell, just a machine, a damn robot, a flying piece of junk that made a mistake. Is that what took my Lennie away? How am I supposed to go on living with that? Who knows if they're ever gonna tell us anything?"
"We will press for answers, that I personally promise you," Stephanie said dramatically. "We will relentlessly pursue the answers to this tragedy, so that we can foster the hope that such senseless loss never happens again."
She turned to face the camera. "This is Stephanie Wainwright, with News of the Hour."
...31
...Monday, June 14, 8:48AM
...NanoLance HQ—Information Technology Floor
...San Diego, California
Travel coffee mug in one hand and briefcase in the other, Alex was mingling with other morning-rush NanoLance employees as they were making their way to one of the elevators in the large lobby. On her first day, she already had her day planned to the finest detail. See her office, get set up—30 minutes. Meet her new team—one hour. Meet with a series of directors and vice presidents from all areas of the company—the rest of the day. No time had been set aside for her to spend with her new boss; atypical, yet she felt grateful for that.
The elevator doors slid open on the third floor. She stepped out, trying to find her new office. Just steps away, in the opposite corner of the floor from Sheppard's office, was her workplace, with he
r name printed neatly on the glass wall and the door open. She stepped in. Her office had no windows and was rather small, but it gave her the privacy she needed to do her job. Both jobs, she thought with a silent chuckle.
She sat down at her new desk and opened her new laptop. Everything felt different from what she had envisioned her first day as an executive to be, but she didn't feel like a real executive either. This job was about something else, she reminded herself, this job was about finding the way to right some wrongs, some extremely serious wrongs.
A knock on the glass wall disrupted her thoughts. A young man popped his head in.
"Hi, I'm Louie, Louie Blake, your analyst?" The young man paused.
Alex smiled, acknowledging him with a nod.
"When you're ready for us, we're in conference room 302," he said, gesturing vaguely.
"Just a minute," Alex said. She sat up, grabbed her briefcase and laptop, and followed Louie across the IT floor.
"The conference rooms are numbered. The first digit or digits stand for the floor number, and then most floors have the same layout for conference rooms, so it's quite simple to remember. You can book the conference rooms, just like you'd book any resource, through Outlook."
They were there. Conference room 302 also had glass walls. There didn't seem to be much privacy anywhere in this building, which was going to be quite helpful from one perspective and a potential problem from another.
At the conference table, two men and a woman were already seated. Louie sat next to the woman, leaving Alex to take the seat at the head of the table. She sat with imperceptible hesitation. It was the first time she had ever led a meeting.
"Hello, everyone, I'm Alex Hoffmann, your new director of support and infrastructure," Alex said, smiling encouragingly.
Without delay, the people around the table started introducing themselves.
"Bob Foster, infrastructure manager." Middle-aged, with a nice smile and kind eyes, he leaned across the table and firmly shook her hand.
"Nice to meet you," Alex replied.
"Alan Walden, hardware deployment manager, nice to meet you." A tall man stood to come around the table to shake her hand. He had intense eyes and a look of permanent worry on his face, yet still managed to convey an image of reliability and dependability.
"Nice to meet you too," Alex replied.
"Lisa Murphy, your support manager. It's a pleasure to meet you." This was a young woman with long, sleek, dark hair, and a look of shyness on her face. She didn't have the face for technology; she seemed more the soft, artistic type.
Alex shook her hand with a smile. Lisa's handshake was in contradiction to her soft demeanor, expressing determination and openness.
"And I'm Louie Blake, senior analyst for infrastructure and support." Louie looked professional in his charcoal suit and gray shirt, yet his build and gait were revealing of some military background of sorts.
"Nice to meet you, Louie, and thank you for showing me to this conference room." Curious, she continued. "Let me ask you, were you in the Army?"
Chuckles were heard around the table.
"Navy SEAL, retired last year," Louie said. "How could you tell?" he asked, with a wide smile, denoting pride in his background.
"Oh, well," Alex responded with a hand gesture, bringing more smiles around the table, and a more relaxed attitude by all the team members.
Their new boss appeared to be all right.
...32
...Wednesday, June 16, 7:19PM
...L'Italiano Restaurant
...San Diego, California
"Let's allow the lady to order first," Steve said, inviting the waiter to break the old etiquette and pay attention to his guest.
Blushing slightly, Alex picked up the menu.
"I'll have the controfiletto al pepe nero, medium well, please."
"Umm . . . nice accent!" Steve smiled and continued, "I'll have the lombatina di vitella alla griglia, if you please. Oh, and could we have another bottle of this wonderful wine?"
"Yes, sir, I'll bring another bottle of Chianti."
"So, how's everything going for you?" Once the waiter was gone, Steve's voice had come down to a pleasant, intimate whisper.
"Well, I've met almost all the senior executives, met with my team, but I am yet to meet with my boss for more than five minutes. The guy hates me. I never had that happen to me before. But the feeling is mutual, he gives me the creeps."
"It's normal to have feelings of all sorts regarding the people we work with, but you have to remember not to let those feelings cloud your judgment. On the other hand," Steve continued, not allowing Alex to reassure him, "these feelings can be strong indicators of potential problems, or, as Tom would call it, the voice of your gut. Listen to your gut, but find proof before drawing your conclusion." He took a long, appreciative sip of wine. Then, as he put his wine glass down, he reached and touched Alex's hand.
She almost jolted from the unexpected emotion she felt from the contact with his warm hand.
"What I want to know, first and foremost, is how you feel."
"I feel that with every day I spend there, I am descending lower and lower into a snake pit. The head of operations, Walker, is cynical and aggressive from what I've seen, but I haven't spent too much time with him yet. Kramer, the CFO, is tired and preoccupied. It's as if her mind is constantly on something else, while she struggles to pretend she's there with you. Chandler Griffiths, head of sales, is the only one who behaves somewhat along the lines you'd expect; very driven, very energetic, yet not pushy or intimidating. Prescott, the human resources executive, is the fashion leader of the company, showcasing high-end suits, jewelry, and shoes. As a business leader though, she seems to do exactly what's expected of her, nothing more, and nothing less. I think this woman is beyond politically correct, even in her sleep."
"Most HR people are like that; it's ingrained in their natures. Because they usually have to terminate the employees who make mistakes of all kinds, early on they learn the lesson of acceptable, corporate behavior, and they get reminded daily."
"I get that, but here's what I am noticing. All of them, I mean all the employees, not just the leaders, are stressed in an impersonal, business-only type of behavior. They all seem to want to demonstrate just how professional they are, and how well they can behave. This tells me there is an artificially created stressor at play."
"Good call, Alex, do you know what that is?"
"Wait for it," Alex said, in a playful tone of voice, "I've only been there three days."
"You're right." Steve paused, as the waiter set their plates in front of them. "Looks yummy. So let's shift gears. How's your new home?"
Alex's face lit up. "I absolutely love it! You know, this is my first house since. . . since I left my parents' home. It's peaceful and quiet, the neighbors are reasonably far away from me, I don't even see them, and it's great! You should come visit sometime," she said, then stopped abruptly, blushing at the thought of how Steve might interpret the invitation.
"I will," he responded quickly, unperturbed.
Silverware clattering and casual conversation flowing with ease, they started exploring the exquisite taste of Tuscan cuisine at its best, oblivious to anything else but each other.
Two tables away, munching casually on a selection of cheeses from his plate of festival di formaggi, a man watched every move they made.
...33
...Thursday, June 17, 4:24PM
...NanoLance HQ—Information Technology Floor
...San Diego, California
The laptop on her desk was powering up. Alex impatiently waited for it, so she could get a few things checked before ending her day. Her first week at NanoLance had been quite intensive, with back-to-back meetings with executives, department leaders, program and project managers, and other people she had identified as potentially valuable to meet. Using the cover provided by a somewhat formal on-boarding plan, she was able to meet with almost everyone of interest at this earl
y stage. The only team she was yet to meet was the manufacturing team at the Alpine plant. She was carefully delaying that, waiting for the meeting with her boss to take place first, rather than surprise him with her visit at the plant.
A chime advised her that the laptop was ready. She started digging through system folders and registries, looking for any indication of spy programs or keystroke loggers. Of course, she thought, there you are. I was expecting nothing less. A software-based keystroke logger was installed on her machine, configured to save in a particular place on the hard disk every single keystroke she typed. This was the perfect surveillance tool for the person who wanted to know everything she did in a day.
With more digging, she was able to locate another spyware program, this one configured to capture screenshots of her work at fixed intervals. The third component to the perfect electronic surveillance was the browser log, a small piece of software that would record all the websites she visited and the time spent on each one.
Alex paused, considering her options. She could install a personal firewall. They'd find that in no time, she thought, dismissing the idea. She could uninstall all these pieces of spyware, but they'd also figure that one out pretty fast. She could change the registry settings on her laptop, so that the spyware programs would never start, but they would be on to her immediately, as soon as they got no input from these programs.
She closed the laptop, pulled the power cord from the wall plug, and stuffed everything in her laptop carrying case. She knew exactly what she needed to do.
Almost two hours later, she was ringing the doorbell at Tom's house, laptop bag in one hand, bottle of Martini in the other. She smiled, remembering how stressed she had been on her first visit. Now it felt more like coming home.
Tom opened the door, his eyes directly on the laptop bag.
"How are you, sweetie? How was your day?"