“Dalisay Jones. Just call me Dali.”
I was right. Dalisay was a Filipino name.
She and I also shook hands before Seth suggested, “Shall we?”
We three strangers, acquainted only by our common experiences of the morning, set off together, but I already knew more about Seth and Dali than I should have. The nanomites had broken Seth and Dali’s chip encryption (Ms. Amali’s, too) and uploaded their PIV information to Alpha Tribe—including their identity certificates, electronic keys, credential number, PIN, and biometric data.
The nanomites were already constructing a database of appropriated PIV cards even as Gamble’s warnings and admonitions ran like ticker tape through my thoughts: I want you to be nothing more than a model low-level NSA contractor employee until we determine our first step forward.
Nope. Doesn’t work that way, Gamble.
After lunch, Ms. Amali escorted us to the IT Department. “Call the IT Help Desk for anything computer related.” She pointed across the hallway. “And there’s the Security Department. If you have checkpoint access issues, see them.”
Huh. Convenient.
We sat in a row of chairs while Ms. Amali presented our paperwork to the IT Help Desk. IT personnel called us one at a time to issue us security key fobs or tokens—the second part in a two-factor network authentication process.
An IT guy instructed us to use our key fobs to log in to an IT terminal where we were prompted to type a fourteen-character complex password of our choosing. It took about half an hour for the three of us to complete the process—enough time for the nanomites to swarm IT servers and return to me.
I saw what the nanomites saw, but I set it aside for the time being.
“We are finished with today’s orientation,” Ms. Amali said. “We’ll walk to the HR department so that you will know where our offices are located. There you will meet your department liaison, and he or she will escort you to your department and introduce you to your supervisor and coworkers.”
Armed with our network authentication tokens, we followed Ms. Amali outside to yet another building, where she led us to the HR suite. Three individuals were waiting for us. Before Ms. Amali made introductions, she gave us these parting instructions.
“At the end of your day, please check in with me before you leave. If you have any questions or concerns, you may address them with me at that time.”
Perfect.
A contingency of nanomites flew from me to her. I would pick them back up in a few hours. Until then, their task was to download every scrap of information in the HR files on Wayne Overman, the President’s missing friend.
“JAYDA, THIS IS MACY Uumbana. She will escort you to your department.”
I smiled and shook hands with the young woman whose gleaming smile shone from a face as black as a starless night. She was tall, drop-dead gorgeous, and very pregnant. Her belly jiggled all on its own, and my lips parted in amazement.
Macy laughed at my consternation. “Twins. They’re sparring in there and, yes, I’m about ready to pop. In fact, this is my last week. That’s why they hired you.”
I couldn’t think of a thing to say except, “Oh?”
She gestured, and we started down the hall. “Can’t tell you how glad I am you’re here. We can chat and get to know each other between here and our department, but nothing work-related. Got it?”
“Er, yes.”
“So, you’re from New Mexico? I’ve never been there.”
“Yup.” Taking her cue, I filled her in on Albuquerque and a few personal tidbits.
“You just got married?”
“Three weeks yesterday.”
“Well, welcome to the East Coast. I imagine it’s a lot different than what you’re used to.”
We left the main building via a short breezeway, entered another building, and stopped at a set of double doors with an access checkpoint.
Macy inserted her badge, keyed in a pin number, and walked through the turnstile. “Now you.”
I did the same, relieved that my PIN number didn’t trigger bells and alarms and a blaring voice shouting, “Intruder alert! Spy! Spy! Spy!” cuz that’s exactly what I felt like.
The turnstile flipped over to the blessed absence of claxons, the lock on the double doors released, and we stepped inside.
“Welcome to the Repository, Jayda.”
Like the newbie I was, I rubbernecked the wide room filled with cubicles, more excited than I could let on.
“Repository?”
“The Repository is the NSA’s digital content management system, the database for indexing and cataloging the NSA’s ‘take’—all the information our stations gather.”
She headed toward an office off to the right. “I’m going to introduce you to our department head, after which I’ll take you to our team to meet your direct supervisor.”
The department manager was on the phone but motioned us into his office as he finished his call. When he hung up, he stood and shook my hand. “Eugene Stephanopoulos.”
His somewhat perturbed countenance mirrored the expression Ms. Amali had worn earlier in the day when she had first laid eyes on me.
“Hurry, Nano,” I whispered.
On it, Jayda Cruz.
To the man I said, “Jayda Cruz. It’s good to see you again.”
“Right.” He was amiable in a harried, rumpled kind of way, but he was also perplexed as he studied me . . . and then his puzzlement faded, and he blinked as though waking from a dream. “Right. Jayda. We met at your . . . interview.”
“Yes. I’m delighted to join your department, Mr. Stephanopoulos. How is your little ballerina doing?”
Gene and his wife had a nine-year-old daughter who was showing promise in ballet. The nanomites planted the memory of Gene telling me about his daughter’s recent recital at our interview. My reference solidified that “memory.”
“Thanks for asking, Jayda. She’s doing great. By the way, please call me Gene.” He looked to Macy. “Macy will show you to your workstation, introduce you to your team, and help you get settled. Do you have any questions at this point?”
“A million, but I’m sure they will get answered in the course of time.”
He smiled. “We’ll knock out a few of them today at the least.”
Macy led me through a maze of cubicles to a “room” of chest-height cubicle walls. Eight workstations lined the inside perimeter of the cubicle walls so that the backs of those seated at their workstations faced the center of the area.
“Everyone, this is Jayda Cruz, our new team member.”
Seven sets of eyes fastened on me, including a middle-aged woman who stood and came toward us.
“Hello, Jayda. I’m Sherry Woods, the project controls team lead.”
She introduced the other team members—Neville, Chantelle, Lynn, Neri, James, and Saul.
I said, “Pleased to meet you,” six more times before Sherry turned me back over to Macy.
“Macy will talk to you about your role on the team; she will be training you all this week.”
Macy showed me to the only unoccupied workstation. “This was, until last Friday, my workstation. It is now yours. I’m making do across the way,” she pointed across the hallway to another cubicle-walled area, “until I leave at the end of the week. Why don’t we sit over there where we won’t disturb the team while I give you a broad rundown of what we do here?”
She showed me to a chair by her computer. “As Sherry said, we are the Repository’s project controls team. I should explain first that you are taking Neville’s place on the team because he has been promoted to my spot.” She laughed. “That, of course, makes you low man on the team’s totem pole, but it’s not a bad place to be while you are learning the ropes.”
Macy tipped her head over. “You have me for only a week, so I hope you are a quick study?”
“I think I can keep up.”
“Good. Okay, I’m assuming you have some sort of background in intelligence? C
ryptology? Signals? Analysis? Cybersecurity? Military security?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
Her lips parted like she wanted to say something. Finally, she murmured, “So, you’re from Albuquerque where you worked at . . .”
“Sandia National Laboratories. Project Manager for the AMEMS lab. Before that, Lockheed Martin in Littleton, Colorado.”
“AMEMS?”
“Advanced Microelectromechanical Systems.”
“Uh . . .”
I laughed. “Tiny electrical-mechanical devices.”
“Project management for tiny devices . . . but no intelligence background?”
“No. I assumed they hired me for my project controls skills.”
“Uh-huh.” But she seemed more confused.
“Something wrong?”
“No, well, it’s just curious and . . . out of the norm for our contractors to put forward applicants with no military or intelligence experience, and more unusual for the NSA to hire someone without such a background.”
Macy tapped a pen on the surface of her desk. “Also, while this position doesn’t necessarily require intelligence experience, another contractor who already works in this department on another team had applied for this job and . . . well, I think we all got the impression that she was a shoe-in for it. She has all the skills and five years in Navy Intelligence . . .”
I could almost hear the unspoken, “whereas you have no intelligence training at all.”
“Kiera—that’s the woman who wanted the transfer to our team—applied for this position through your company, of course. However, as all the positions in the Repository report to federal oversight, a federal team that included Gene conducted the interviews. After the interviews ended, Gene mentioned that I would have little trouble training my replacement, so I guess we all thought . . .”
“You all thought Kiera had been selected.” I cleared my throat, “Interesting.”
And awkward!
Jayda Cruz, Kiera Colón was the applicant who scored highest in the interviews—before we inserted your application and interview results.
“You probably should have given me some kind of intelligence background, don’t you think, Nano?”
We can add to your resumé, if you wish.
“Kind of late for that, seeing as how I just told Macy I don’t have intelligence experience.”
Macy lifted one slim shoulder. “Yes. It’s interesting.”
“Well, I, uh, I hope Kiera doesn’t have hard feelings.”
Macy slanted her eyes sideways and lowered her voice. “Maybe that’s why I asked you about your background. Kiera is a lovely person, but she has kind of a sharp edge to her if you rub her the wrong way—you know what I mean? Her shifting temperament was, in my opinion, the only downside to her joining our team. She tends to take things personally.”
“Well, um, I’ll just try not to get on her bad side.”
Macy gave me a look that might have meant, “That horse has already left the gate.”
I fumbled to flip the conversation elsewhere. “How long will you be out on maternity leave, Macy? I was told that the contract I’m working under is for twelve months?”
That did the trick.
“Oh, I won’t be coming back to work for a few years. My husband and I already have a three-year-old son, Daniel. We weren’t planning on twins, of course, and the daycare expenses for three would eat us alive. I’ll stay home with the kids at least until our boy is in kindergarten or first grade.”
Macy then returned to business. “Since you don’t have a background in intelligence, I’ll begin with some basics about us here in the Repository. As you might imagine, intelligence gathering means nothing if analysts, theorists, and intelligence officers cannot retrieve information as they need it. Our department’s job is to classify, catalog, and cross-index NSA information. When you consider how much data the NSA looks at daily—in the realm of 1.6 percent of all Internet traffic or around 30 petabytes—the task is Herculean in nature.
“The NSA monitors electronic signals and systems used by foreign targets, terrorist organizations, and suspected terrorist actors within the U.S. We catalog and index digital images, video and audio recordings, and the content of text messages, emails, websites, chat rooms, bulletin boards, and every form of social media. We also track FISA court proceedings—warrant requests to monitor suspected bad actors on U.S. soil.”
“Do the actual files sit here in the Repository?” The idea of all that data nearby sent me into a giddy tailspin.
“Although this department is called the Repository because we manage the data, technically, the cataloged files themselves are the actual Repository and we are the Repository’s managers. The files reside elsewhere in this building, in a secure server farm. No one who works in this department is allowed physical access to the server farm. And, although we rename files according to strict NSA conventions and organize files and folders electronically as they are cataloged and indexed, we cannot open data stored in the Repository.”
What? Bummer!
“The NSA is the world leader in cryptology—the art and science of making and breaking codes—and all files are encrypted before they are sent to us. Anyone attempting to view the contents of a file would require both an encryption key to open it and the correct encryption software to decipher it.
“We have no means of loading software of any kind on our workstations, and IT scans our computers nightly to ensure that they have not been tampered with. Even should an insider threat attempt to copy or delete a file, it would be impossible. This entire building has no Internet access. Also, the Repository and its computers are air-gapped in that they, physically, have no connection to any other on-site network and have no data ports such as disk or USB drives. Basically, our workstations have access to the Repository catalog. Period.”
“How are files, er, sent to the Repository team to be cataloged?”
“They come from NSA listening posts throughout the world through a one-way portal into a separate secure network where the files are scanned for malware or malicious code. The files are then downloaded to us nightly. That means that each morning our department has a substantial number of files to classify, catalog, index, and merge into the Repository. Every file contains unencrypted metadata, including code names, that helps us to determine where it belongs.”
“This department has several teams. One team manages the Repository’s taxonomy—the system’s classification and nomenclature, the means by which content is indexed and retrieved—a structure of close to one million nodes. The taxonomy is plain text but highly classified. The taxonomy team maintains the catalog’s structure and integrity, ensuring that its nodes are unique and inclusive, that is, comprehensive without duplication.
“Another team of analysts and security classifiers determines the security classification levels of the data and marks the files accordingly.
“A third team, working with the classification team, determines where data will reside within the catalog. Then they cross-index the files and place them in the catalog.
“Our team has two specific jobs. The first is to answer information requests by searching the catalog and providing encrypted files to the requestors. Our second task is to track incoming traffic to the department and our ongoing progress. We track our department’s progress in project management software. We report our progress to Gene, who manages department resources accordingly.
“Neville, who moved up to my position, is now the primary project controls person on our team. You will be his partner. The other six members of the team answer information requests.”
Macy logged into her workstation and showed me the department’s workflow and network structure. The Repository’s taxonomy was, as Macy had warned, huge, and the size of the database astronomical. Forget petabytes. The amount of data in the NSA Repository was far up in the xenottabytes.
As mind-boggling as was the number of “bytes” in a xenottabyte, I ad
mit that I was practically salivating. I had landed next door to every bit and byte of data the NSA had. I would be sitting on the complete catalog of all NSA information.
I couldn’t believe my luck.
No. Not luck, I amended. Christians don’t “do” luck. I believe that the Lord directs my steps. Even the nanomites were part of God’s plan for me to help the President, I reminded myself.
We might not have access to other networks on campus, but the entire Repository was open to the nanomites. Encryption keys? Encryption software? Child’s play to the nanomites. While I learned the Repository’s systems and managed my daily workload, they would search the Repository for clues to the conspiracy.
I would have to get creative to sneak them into other NSA networks.
In the meantime, Repository wire taps and phone logs would yield their data and, hopefully, provide us with important leads. FISA court warrants would open to the nanomites, too, and if those warrant applications provided grounds to surveil anyone in the President’s administration, the nanomites would trace the applications back to those who had requested them.
As to the evidence we found pertinent to the conspiracy against the President? We didn’t need the Internet or flash drives to download what we found.
We had Alpha Tribe.
WHEN THE DAY ENDED, I followed the crowd leaving the Repository to their parking area, making note of where to park and enter in the morning. Then I hoofed it over to HR
I poked my head into Ms. Amali’s open doorway. “Checking out as requested, Ms. Amali.”
“Any questions or concerns?”
“No, ma’am. But thank you for asking.”
“Then have a pleasant evening, Ms. Cruz.”
“Same to you, ma’am.”
The nanomites I’d left with Ms. Amali flowed back to me. I drove home with one eye on the road, the remainder of my attention on what the nanomites had found on our first day.
Wayne Overman’s HR file gave me some insight into who he was as a person: husband and father—and an exemplary employee, if the commendations and promotions in his long work history were to be believed. And while we were at the IT helpdesk, I’d had the nanomites map the other networks on the campus and look into the NSA’s badging software.
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