Deep State Stealth

by Vikki Kestell

  We have the identities of the four SPOs who carried him down to the loading dock, Jayda Cruz. However, to confront and question them would not be advisable at this juncture. It would alert others who are involved.

  The nanomites were right. We could surveil the SPOs, even surveil Deputy Director Danforth, but we could make no overt move on any of them—not until the extent of the conspiracy was known and could be proved. Gamble would have to decide how to handle surveillance.

  I sighed. How many NSA personnel had been involved in the conspiracy? Members of the in-house security force, yes. And an individual or individuals to doctor the video feeds and badge tracking data—and not just anyone. Someone very good at it.

  How high in the NSA had the conspiracy gone? Deputy Director Danforth certainly. Who else? And where else? How could we identify all of the conspirators? How would we ever know if we’d gotten them all?

  President Jackson has placed his hope and trust in me and in the nanomites to uncover what is hidden, but I am no spy. I have no training—and I have already made mistakes.

  Suddenly, what he expected of me was overwhelming.

  Eggshells. I was walking on eggshells, the fate of the president’s safety and his administration resting on my shoulders. My shoulders!

  If I were to make another mistake—give myself away and lose the tactical advantage of the nanomites—would the President and Mrs. Jackson suffer for my error?

  O Lord, I am so out of my depth here.

  I couldn’t wait for this wretched day to end.

  ROB SIGHED. “OKAY, so I did what you asked, Kiera. First thing this morning after I got to my workstation, I checked out Jayda Cruz’s movements yesterday.”

  “What did you find?”

  He was quiet for a moment.

  “Well?”

  “Something kinda strange. I mean really strange. Like, really strange. And I, um, I am not nuts. I swear it.”

  “Yeah? I’m beginning to wonder, Rob.”

  “No, I’m serious. You said she was going outside to take a walk? Well, her badge never left the building. Instead, it looks like she came to IT from the cafeteria.”

  “She went back to IT after lunch?”

  “Yeah, like, in and out of the restroom, then to IT. That’s the first strange part. I took an early lunch and was back on the desk when the tracking software said she crossed our department threshold, except I never saw her. She was not here.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Rob snapped at her. “Give me a break. Like I could miss anyone walking in the door. My desk is practically in the doorway.”

  “Sorry. Simmer down. Has to be a reasonable answer. Did you check the video feeds?”

  “Well, of course I did, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “That’s the second strange thing. She walked into the restroom around the corner from the cafeteria.”

  “And?”

  “And six minutes later, she came out.”

  “So?”

  “Listen. Her badge says she went into the restroom, immediately left the restroom, came to IT, then returned to the restroom. But, the video feed didn’t show her leaving the restroom for six minutes—not until after her badge went to IT and came back.”

  “Glitch in the video feed? In the badge software?”

  “A glitch is when a camera goes down or a server crashes. Glitches don’t explain two functioning systems contradicting each other.”

  “I assume you double-checked.”

  “Triple checked. Just to be sure, I rewound the video footage, took a screen cap of her entering the restroom and leaving the restroom and pasted the two images into a Word doc—then I checked the timestamps of the screen caps against her badge movements. Same result. Badge says one thing; video footage says something else.”

  He blew out a breath. “So, now we’re getting to the creepy and strange part.”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “Lunch time today. I was tracking this Cruz chick in real time. Actually, I set an alert on her badge to signal me when she was on the move. Same thing happens. She goes into the same restroom outside the cafeteria—and doesn’t come out for nineteen minutes. But, her badge says she came to IT and was here, in the waiting area, for fifteen minutes.”

  “I think your fears have been realized, Rob. You are nuts.”

  “Nope. I screen capped the time-stamped video feed of her entering the restroom, screen capped her badge coming here to IT, and a second cap of the restroom entrance while her badge was in IT. I tell you, Kiera, I was tempted to send that file to my personal email account and then forward it to you.”

  Kiera answered, “No, don’t do that. The firewall might flag it, and we can’t chance blowing our covers.”

  “Said I was tempted, Kiera, not stupid. Anyway, that’s not all of it.”

  “All of what?”

  “All of the creepy-strange stuff.”

  The voice on the other end sighed. “What else?”

  “Well, see, I’m glad I took those screen caps, because after her badge left IT? I went back to the video feed of the restroom. Sure enough, a minute or so later, she came out.”

  “No big eye-opener there,” his caller retorted.

  “Yeah, except . . . except, when I went back to the badge tracking software? It was all . . .”

  “It was what?”

  “Changed. It had changed. It no longer shows that she came to IT, today or yesterday afternoon.”

  “Rob . . .”

  Rob’s voice sank to a whisper. “I swear to you, Kiera, it changed. I can prove it, because I have the screen caps of both the tracking and the time-stamped video feed.”

  Before she could answer, he pushed on with dogged determination.

  “There’s definitely something off about this Cruz woman. Big time.”

  He didn’t mention how he’d felt eyes watching him, how he’d heard the creak of a chair when no one else was in the room.

  My credibility is in enough trouble as it is.

  She cleared her throat. “Yeah, okay. Well, thanks, Rob. I’ll think about what you’ve told me.”

  Not “what you’ve found” or “what the tracking software and video take proved.” Just, “I’ll think about what you’ve told me.”

  Rob hung up and closed his eyes. He thought about what he hadn’t revealed to his caller.

  For a long time that day, he’d stared at the open document on his workstation, before he’d minimized it and chewed on the inside of his cheek. After considering his options, he’d chosen what he believed was the safest one. He toggled back to the file, navigated to a junk folder on the IT network, and saved the doc with the innocuous file name of “misc-labels,” then changed the document’s file extension from .docx to “.exe.”

  Should anyone notice the file, they would assume it was an executable file, not a Word doc.

  He whispered to himself, “I know what I saw, Kiera. And I know there’s something crazy weird about Jayda Cruz.”

  I FINISHED OUT MY FIRST full week at the NSA and said goodbye to Macy.

  “Don’t forget,” I said, writing out my number for her. “Call me when those bouncing baby boys make their landing.”

  “Bouncing? Don’t encourage them to come out like that. I just hope the doctor has quick reflexes.” Macy took my number and, surprising us both, I think, we hugged.

  “Take care, Jay.”

  “You, too. I . . . I’ll be praying for you.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate your good thoughts.”

  Jesus is more than good thoughts, Macy. I hope I can tell you how wonderful he is someday soon.

  In a thoughtful mood, alternately praying for Macy and thinking about Wayne Overman, I drove home through the mad Friday commuter traffic. I was looking forward to the weekend—not particularly for R&R, but for time with Zander and for the opportunity to burn off the excess energy percolating through my body. Sitting behind a computer screen most of the
day was difficult for me with my overcharged metabolism.

  I could tell that Zander was feeling antsy, too.

  How could I tell?

  Here it was, Friday evening, the weekend stretching before us. We’d scarfed down a substantial dinner, and now Zander was pacing our apartment living room, his stalking back and forth a passable rendition of a caged tiger at the zoo.

  Yes, he’d run five miles with me every morning, and he’d spent the week pounding the pavement searching for employment, but we were both overdue for a real workout—something challenging and, most definitely, exhausting.

  And we hadn’t heard back from Gamble regarding Lawrence Danforth. Had Gamble conveyed our findings to Axel Kennedy? I think the “not hearing back” was grating on both of us.

  I interrupted his umpteenth journey between the front door and the kitchen. “Hey, how about we get out of here? We may have started Gamble’s ‘Spy 101’ course, but I think it’s time to get going on the serious training we talked about.”

  Zander halted. “Stick fighting?”

  He was eager, and I grinned at his enthusiasm. Perhaps I grinned, too, because I knew what the nanomites’ virtual reality trainer had in store for him.

  It would be highly entertaining to observe.

  “Yup. That dojo Gamble arranged for us is a few miles from here. He said the owner teaches stick fighting. That means he has escrima sticks. Want to check it out?”

  “Let’s go.”

  We parked in a packed theater parking lot two blocks from the dojo and, rendered invisible by the nanomites’ mirrors, strolled down the alley behind the theater to the dojo’s rear door. Since Zander had a lot to learn concerning the nanomites, I figured our outing could serve multiple purposes.

  “Zander, ask the nanomites to unlock the door and disable the alarm.”

  “Right.”

  A moment later we were inside. A contingency of nanomites flew ahead of us to explore the interior. They returned with the dojo’s simple floor plan and an inventory of its contents.

  “Equipment this way,” Zander said.

  When we found the equipment lockers, I suggested that Zander choose two practice sticks—full-size padded rattan sticks about 24 inches long—and padded headgear. I appropriated a set of sticks for myself.

  We went into the dojo and took off our shoes. Stood on the wood floor in the middle of the rectangular room.

  “We’ll need shoes for this eventually, but tonight we can practice barefoot,” I said.

  Zander looked from his sticks to mine. “What kind of sticks are those?”

  “Regulation-weight escrima sticks. Made of seasoned hardwood.”

  Zander frowned. “You’re going to come at me with those?”

  I went all wide-eyed and innocent. “What? Oh dear, no. You and I are not going to spar. The nanomites have prepared a training program for you.”

  “They have a training program?”

  “It’s virtual reality, like how we walked through the 3D rendering of the NSA buildings. You close your eyes, go into the warehouse, and the nanomites will begin your training. And you won’t need your practice sticks right away.”

  Eyeing me with a smidge of distrust, Zander set his sticks aside and closed his eyes.

  I did, too.

  I wouldn’t miss this for the world.

  The nanomites’ tank-sized VR instructor, Gus-Gus, appeared in front of Zander.

  As I had observed in my first encounter with Gus-Gus, he was built like a boulder—a boulder with bulging tendons the size of lead pipes and muscles that resembled rocks popping out of his skin.

  Zander freaked.

  I opened my eyes in the dojo to find my husband halfway down the room. When he realized he was back in the dojo, he stopped running and spun around, his panicked eyes jittering back and forth. “What the devil was that?”

  I couldn’t answer.

  “Are you . . . are you laughing at me?”

  I was doubled over and couldn’t breathe. My sides ached.

  Zander’s eyes narrowed. “You could have warned me.”

  Where’s the fun in that?

  I sat on the floor. Still could not draw air. I was laughing too hard.

  I gasped, “S-s . . . sorry.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Nooo,” I agreed, another bout of glee stealing my breath away.

  Zander shook his head. “Brat. What was that thing?”

  I drew my knees up to my face and sucked air. “G-Gus-Gus.”

  “Gus-Gus?”

  “VR . . . trainer.”

  Zander Cruz, your training program is running. Please reenter the warehouse and follow your trainer’s instructions.

  With a parting glare at me, Zander closed his eyes. I went with him into the warehouse’s training environ and stood at a safe distance from Zander and Gus-Gus.

  “I am your instructor, Zander Cruz. You will follow my directions.”

  I watched as Gus-Gus demonstrated the same simple three-part hand and foot movement drill he’d shown me in my first lesson.

  Zander followed suit. Easily. Gus-Gus added steps and sped up the routines. Zander followed flawlessly what had taken me hours to master when I started my training. Yeah, me: Gus-Gus’ uncoordinated, non-athletic, couldn’t-even-throw-like-a-girl student. It had taken hours of repetition and perseverance just to come up to where Zander started.

  I stopped laughing. “Dumb jock,” I grumbled.

  “Jayda Cruz.”

  My head jerked around at the unfamiliar voice. Behind me was a faceless, black-clad figure, more intimidating than Gus-Gus for his ominous lack of features.

  “It has been months since you trained, Jayda Cruz. You have lost your edge and are no longer optimal in this art.”

  The figure drew his sticks. “I will soon have you back in fighting form.”

  Before I could react, he was on me.

  “Owww!” I hopped away from my opponent, my left thigh stinging. I scrambled to locate my sticks. Before I got them in hand, my opponent had landed another blow.

  Then my rusty training began to come back to me. I sidestepped, weaving my sticks in a fluid blur, and attacked. Over the next hour, I even managed a strike or two—my one to his five.

  Yikes. I’m going to hurt tonight.

  The nanomites would mitigate the bruising of my workout and even relieve much of the pain, but I would still suffer the stiff soreness of not having used my body this fully in weeks.

  No, in months, I admitted. Not since the nanomites and I had rescued Dr. Bickel from the house on the White Sands Missile Range and Colonel Greaves had shot me with a Taser, killing most of the nanomites. Nearly killing me in the process.

  Distracted by my thoughts, I miscalculated and fell into my trainer’s trap. His slicing attack connected with my elbow, sending a shock wave clear up to my shoulder and into my neck.

  “Yiiii!” I opened my eyes, dropped my sticks, and limped to a bench alongside the dojo’s wall. I leaned my head back and cradled my deadened arm.

  “That was fun.” Zander plopped down on the bench next to me.

  “Um . . .” The nerves in my arm were waking up, screaming like an outraged troop of monkeys.

  Jayda Cruz, we are sending aid to your injuries and inducing pain-alleviating neurotransmitters.

  A long sigh of relief burbled in my throat.

  Meanwhile Zander, ebullient and oblivious to my discomfort, raved on about Gus-Gus and what he had learned from his training program. “Best workout ever. Can’t wait for our next session. How often do you think we can do this? I might have to find somewhere I can train in the daytime while you’re at work. Say, let’s order our own sticks and some shoes tonight.”

  I didn’t answer him, and I didn’t say what I was thinking just then.

  Dumb jock.

  Chapter 9

  OUR FRIDAY NIGHT WORKOUT was just what we’d both needed, but when I dragged myself out of bed Saturday morning, I was sticky and d
amp. For some reason, I’d heated up and sweated through my t-shirt during the night. Twice.

  “Ugh.” I started stripping the sheets from our bed.

  Zander wandered into the bedroom, coffee in hand. “What’s up?”

  “Washing our sheets. I got all sweaty last night.”

  “With the air conditioning on?”

  “Yeah. I know. Weird.”

  He helped me get the load in the washer and clean sheets on the bed, then handed me my coffee. Although we slept in an hour on Saturdays and enjoyed a first cup of coffee together on our little balcony, we basically followed the same routine after that: a five-mile jog, followed by Bible time.

  By eight, we were out the door, pounding through our morning run.

  Gamble called us later that morning, and we put him on speaker phone. Our conversation was brief and to the point. “I conveyed your findings up the chain and received a reply: The President wants to see you. Both of you.”

  Zander and I exchanged a look of consternation.

  “Uh, when?” I asked.

  “This evening. Five o’clock in the Residence dining room. Kennedy asked me to tell you that the President urges you to bring your appetites.”

  Even over the phone, I could “see” Gamble’s bemused expression.

  “Hmm. Well, then I guess maybe we should.”

  “Yeah. Message received,” Zander added.

  I glanced his way and snorted. My husband’s normally healthy and tanned complexion had paled.

  I’d been nervous when I’d met the President, too.

  ZANDER AND I DROVE into D.C. and parked near Union Station. From the station, we took the Red Line Metro west three stops, got off, and hoofed it west toward the White House. Nearer our goal, the long outlines of late afternoon sun made it easy for us to walk into a patch of shadow and emerge under the nanomites’ cover.

  I could tell Zander was nervous, and I can’t say I blamed him. By the time we reached Pennsylvania Avenue, he was a big bag of jitters.

  “Hey,” I whispered. “You know it’s going to be okay, right?”