People Raged: and the Sky Was on Fire-Compendium (Rick Banik Thrillers Book 1)

by Craig Martelle

  “I don’t know, we’ll see. You need your time with your family. And I’m not sure we’re going to see a weekend for a while. I hope we get Thanksgiving. My two from Florida are coming up on Friday after and flying back Sunday. Short, but better than nothing and I won’t have to cook a turkey. I’m thinking pizza, burgers, and tacos.”

  They shook hands as Travis got out and headed up the stairs to a nondescript apartment complex in a nondescript part of town.

  Rick said a short prayer thanking his wife for sticking with him through the military moves, a stressful life, and his personal foibles. They’d found a good home here. Rick had bought his house before the market exploded. Most of his neighbors sold and moved way. The new buyers had more money. One of his neighbors was a U.S. Senator. Maybe Rick had arrived or maybe he’d gotten lucky. Either way, he looked at the one-bedroom apartment, happy he had a home to go to.

  He napped through the afternoon, ate dinner, and then went to bed early with the rest of his family so he could get up early. He wanted to be in the Fusion Center by 5 am. He wanted to get caught up without the distraction of a full shift on hand.

  He wasn’t the first one in. He counted ten people at various desks, lost in their computers. Someone had set up a more formal coffee bar, which meant a thirty-cup silver bullet and a couple three-pound cans of Maxwell House. He wondered who funded that until he poured his first cup of the tarry swill. A hand-written sign on the wall point pointed to a can with a slot in the lid asking for donations. He dropped a ten in. It was cheaper than Starbucks. Once he tasted it, he knew why.

  The dregs of a percolator coffee maker were not as thick as tar, but comparable in taste. Rick dumped the grounds and took the pot to the deep sink to clean it out. The IC boasted some of the most intelligent people in the U.S. Government, and they made coffee by dumping egregious amounts of grounds into the basket of a percolator.

  Barbarians.

  At EPEC, they boasted a Keurig with a seemingly endless supply of variety cups. Everyone had their favorites, but the worst K-Cup was better than the best the silver bullet could offer.

  He refilled the tank, added a more reasonable amount of grounds, and plugged it in. People would drink through this in no time, wondering why it was better, but doing nothing to make the next pot. Rick shook his head at the travesty of a communal system where too many people thought themselves better than others.

  Thorny Rose, a program so highly classified, they couldn’t find someone with clearance enough to make the coffee, Rick mused. So we had to do it ourselves, and that’s the story of sacrifice and strife that many of these people will tell. They know, but they don’t know. They stay inside, apart from the real world. It is an intellectual exercise, not a calling. That's the difference.

  “Damn, Rick. I came in early because, you know, Army versus Marine, but I should have known.” Travis’ broad smile suggested he got plenty of sleep.

  “Maybe you should get a cat,” Rick said.

  “Whoa! Where’s that coming from?” Travis looked to make sure no one was too close. “You know I have commitment issues.” He slapped Rick’s arm, probably harder than he intended. Rick remained unperturbed.

  “So do cats, so what’s the problem? Too manly for a cat?” Rick pressed, knowing that the day would be intellectually challenging. He needed the banter, something he missed at EPEC.

  “Allergic. And I’m away from home too much for a dog, although the kids have both. Both kids have both in both places…” He meandered, then shook himself from his descent. “So what’s new?”

  “Just got here. Just made the coffee.” Rick held up his cup, a kaleidoscopic oily streak floated on top of the pitch-black liquid. Travis handed Rick a super-sized cup of Starbucks. He’d brought two.

  “So you would have beat me here if you hadn’t been hooking me up?” Rick took the cup greedily. “You win the morning, my friend. Army one, Marines zero.”

  They each logged on to available terminals and perused the system for new information, new emails, and overall updates. It appeared that the Thorny Rose night shift produced an OpSum, an Operations Summary. All of it was news to Rick, except he should have known that no matter what, the generation of paper was paramount. It was a government operation after all.

  “What do you think of this Travis? How many reports and tippers can we get that say absolutely nothing? People want to contribute, but have nothing, so they offer it with great enthusiasm. Where’s our collection plan?” It had disappeared from the main screen, and Rick’s caricature with the “FIND THIS MAN” arrow had been scanned and filled the screen.

  It was a nice touch and Rick felt honored, but it added nothing to tracking the collection plan and new information gleaned from those efforts. He pulled up the computer driving the projector, found the collection plan which someone had moved from the root Thorny Rose directory to a sub-directory labeled Collections. He opened the file and projected it.

  He and Travis walked to the big board and looked at it. “What the hell? Look at these dates. They’ve been moved, two weeks here, a month there. Look at this one! Next year?”

  A crowd started to gather. Rick looked around. They all looked the same to him. “Who’s in charge of the night shift?” Rick asked.

  “I guess that’d be me. I’m Tula, Tula Penofsky from DHS.” They shook hands all around.

  “I’m Rick Banik, and this is Travis Strong. We built the collection plan. Do you know why the dates were changed?” Rick asked straightforward.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t know. They were like that when we came in. I just assumed that was the approved plan. Are you in charge of the day shift?”

  “In charge of the day shift?” Rick looked incredulous. “I’m lucky to be in charge of myself, but I do have skin in the game. The original report that Bob McClendon sent to the world was mine. It’s kind of my baby, and I’m very protective. Just ask my kids.” He ended with a smile.

  “Hey, Rick! I wanted to get here early to brief you up on things before the big wigs rolled in.” Bobbie Mac looked older. He’d probably put in more long days the past three than any time in the previous ten years. Sometimes hard work was good for the soul, too. Bob appeared to stand taller, prouder.

  “Bobbie Mac. Yes, 7 am when the big wigs roll in, or later unless they are unavoidably detained, of course.”

  Bob waved the others away so he could talk with Rick and Travis alone. “I know you’ve already seen the dates. There was nothing I could do. At the highest levels of each agency, this is the best they could commit to answer the question. I know. There’s an imminent threat and the terrorists are already here.”

  “And ICE will give us a list of those who’ve overstayed their visas next year. Maybe.” Rick said, nostrils flaring. “And why did NSA’s dates slip a week? They have the best chance of finding that golden nugget.”

  “FISA Court. I guess NSA and DOJ are duking it out behind the scenes, with the FBI ready to jump in depending on what they can convince the court to give them.” Bob spoke confidently, experienced in traversing the rough waters of the American legal system and how it related to the IC.

  “What does the FISA Court have to do with it? Bad guys! Right here in DC!” Rick was almost yelling. People at their desks feigned working while listening intently.

  “C’mon Rick, we’ll go get the bad guys, but if we ignore our law, we’ll almost be as bad as they are.” Bobbie Mac held up a hand as Rick prepared a retort. “Okay, we’ll never be as bad as ISIS, but the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Court has to hear the pitch and give approval for the warrants to surveil people in the United States. Even if they’re foreigners, the Fourth Amendment applies – no warrants without probable cause and all that?” Bob’s patience stretched thin.

  “Freaking bureaucrats. Sorry, Bob. I’m not mad at you; I’m just mad. So, where do we go from here, Bobbie Mac?” Rick forced himself to calm down. These were the challenges he didn’t like. Why did they fight among themselves like that
?

  The American government was the single greatest organization in the world and one populated heavily by the self-serving. Which also made it the most dysfunctional, but it proved the theory that if you threw enough money at something, eventually the work gets done.

  “Sidebar,” Rick said calmly. They secured a more secluded side of the room. “Let me think out loud for a minute or two and then let’s see where we need to go. Here’s what I see.” Rick took a deep breath and looked at a spot on the ceiling.

  “The agencies want to play, but see this as an opportunity to get a slice of the black budget. I expect the FBI and NSA will take the FISA warrant, and turn it into a funding request based on our original timelines. You can get it quick, or you can get it cheap. You can’t have both. They’ll move the timelines up once they get some additional funding. How can we leverage this to shorten the response times? Do we need the SSCI brought up to speed? The Senate Select Committee on Intelligence could make things happen quickly, especially with DC as the target, but what would they look at? They are notorious for spilling secrets under the impression that they’ll gain a political advantage. We can ask, but that’s way out of our league. What can we do at our level? How can we get the ball rolling to get information today, not next week, next month, and heaven forbid, next year?”

  Rick looked to the other two for input. They remained silent. “I’m done. Now we need your ideas because I’ve got squat,” Rick finished.

  Bob and Travis glanced at each other, then back to Rick. Travis spoke first. “Let’s further prioritize the list. We put it together mainly to get the best from each agency focused on what the best intel would be. What if we forgot about which agency did what, and instead we focus on the dark areas wherein our faceless man hides?”

  “Intriguing. Visa overstays move to the bottom of the list. That doesn’t help us answer the question that is first and foremost – Who are you, dark stranger?” Rick asked the question using his diabolical voice, then added in a normal tone. “Continue, please. You’re on a roll.”

  “The business visa question, multiple trips from the Middle East. I think that gives us our initial list of, what do we call them, persons of interest? We should be able to weed them out by who is here right now on one of these multi-entry visas. Do we have any incidents where we can establish another window where he was here?”

  “That’s a great question, and if we can answer that, it gets us that much closer to the bad guy. I think we need to add it, and then your average pogue analyst can dig in without any kind of oversight. We don’t need anything to be an exercise in hand-holding or babysitting,” Bob said quietly, looking at a spot on the wall as he concentrated.

  “Well, Bobbie Mac! It’s good to see you rise to the appropriate level of cynicism regarding your fellows in the IC.” Rick smiled, close-mouthed with a short chuckle.

  “Great plan Travis, Bobbie Mac. Let’s refine some things, take charge of what we can, and start digging into the data instead of looking at how to collect it. You know! Let’s do some cool analyst stuff!” Rick said with a grin, then took a long drag from his Starbucks.

  “Yup. Cool analyst stuff, like strap ourselves to our computers for the next eight hours,” Bob said half-heartedly, although this is what he loved. For Rick, he had his doubts. Rick was a great analyst, but Bobbie Mac thought he excelled elsewhere. He needed to stand on the big stage, engaged with a crowd, selling his vision to them.

  And he wouldn’t get the credit. Bob had taken some for himself. By issuing the report first, taking Rick’s analysis wholesale, he stole it. Even afterward when he let Rick brief, the powers that be figured Bob had done a favor for a friend. They still gave the credit to Bob.

  He suddenly felt dirty, watching Rick grab a computer and get to work. No matter what Rick came up with, someone would assume somebody else did it. The DDI wouldn’t send a letter to EPEC, but he’d sign whatever outrageous invoice the private contractor sent for Rick’s service. Rick was an upstart, outside of the community because he didn’t work directly for the government. As a civilian, it didn’t matter if he got the credit. There’s nothing he could do with it, where a civil servant could parlay the kudos into a promotion and more money.

  While probably still doing the same job.

  Bob would continue to keep Rick energized and moving forward. He would hate to see someone Rick didn’t like take credit for his work. Bob sighed. He committed to treating Rick to a Ruth’s Chris steak when Thorny Rose was over. It was the least he could do.

  Gap Analysis

  The three of them couldn’t come up with better questions. When Andrew Bridges, Deputy from DHS arrived, Rick had everyone at the Smart-Board where he was running a mind mapping exercise. He redrew the caricature of the faceless man. He put the one assumption on which he hung his hat. If it was wrong, they’d go a long way down the wrong path. It was the best they had and without it, they had no starting point at all.

  “Middle Eastern man with multi-entry visa. Currently in the US, probably DC,” was written in small bold letters. Around it, Rick drew magnifying glasses, a satellite near the top of the Smart-Board, and another caricature, but this one of a police officer.

  “Can we see him with a satellite?” Everyone shook their heads. There would be no indications. “No reason to task the satellites. We leave the Talent-Keyhole and Geospatial Intel reporting alone.” Rick drew a red circle around the satellite with a slash through the middle.

  “What can NSA or the FBI hear from this man, assuming we get our warrants?” Rick put the pen to the board and waited for someone to say something.

  “We hear him talking with his people back in the Middle East.” Rick drew two phones, old style with the curly cords.

  “And what kind of keyword can we tell NSA they need to look for? There must be millions of calls a day going that way. We’ll need the computer to look for something specific so it can port the conversation over to a human.” Rick added, trying to dial in the collection effort.

  “What exact words did the original conversation take and where were the two entities who talked?”

  “Good questions! I like you. Who are you and where are you from?”

  “I’m Sergeant Felipe Navidad from NSA.” The young Hispanic man offered to the group in a low voice.

  A typical introvert, Rick thought. “Thanks for speaking up Felipe. It’s not easy in a group like this, but we have a problem to solve. Which service?”

  “Air Force, sir.”

  “I’d say don’t call me sir as I was a Marine Staff Sergeant, but since you’re Air Force, it’s okay. Do you speak Arabic?” The man nodded. “Beautiful. I think my preliminary analysis and text of the original conversation is in a folder inconspicuously labeled ‘Original Report.’ Maybe it’s just me, but I think that’s too cryptic.” The Sergeant hurried back to his computer to dig up the text, comb through it, and determine specific keywords they could program into NSA’s massive trawling program that reviews every conversation between the United States and someone not in the States. The dragnet made the news, was vigorously and universally condemned by politicians of all ilks before they let it recede into the shadows where it continues unimpeded, a necessary evil.

  Rick pressed on with the remaining members of the group gathered around the board. “Local LEOs? Remember the 9/11 attackers? How many speeding tickets did those guys get? They were stopped but released. Let’s cross reference traffic stops on those with the multi-entry visa. See if anything pops up. Who would we task with that?” Discordant calls for DOJ, FBI, and Secret Service came through the din.

  Rick held up his hands. “Let me rephrase that. Which one of you here, will commit to doing this, finding the right people, and asking the right question?” One small hand appeared above people’s heads. “You, in the back, I can’t see you.” A diminutive woman stepped forward. She looked like a little kid to Rick.

  “What’s your claim to fame?” Rick asked. She looked terrified. Maybe she was a li
ttle kid. “You think your agency can handle this one?”

  She nodded slowly. Rick waved his hand for her to say more.

  “Yes, we can take it. I’m Becky with DOJ. We can coordinate with state and federal LEOs.”

  “Sounds good, Becky. What do you do for the Justice Department?”

  “I’m a lawyer. Finished Georgetown Law at seventeen, passed the Bar on my eighteenth birthday.”

  “What are you, some kind of genius?” He asked.

  “So they say,” she said in a small voice.

  “Thanks, Becky. Start making phone calls, sending emails or whatever you need to give us a look at the law breakers. We may get lucky. Okay, next question, will he do it himself?” Rick looked at the caricature. He started drawing stick figures around the faceless man.

  “You don’t think he’s the one who’ll do the deed, do you Rick?” Travis asked. Becky still stood there. Rick gave her a thumbs up. She nodded and elbowed her way through the crowd to get to her desk.

  “If he has a multi-entry visa and is savvy enough to operate here without anyone noticing, he’s not going to blow himself up. He’ll get others to do it. Recruiting front line soldiers has to leave a footprint. Doesn’t it?”

  “You bet it does,” said a grossly overweight man with a heavily wrinkled button down shirt, tie askew, collar loose. “Eddie Davis, FBI JTTF. We have our eyes on all the mosques, as well as the halal delis and Arab coffee places. There’s a great deal of fertile ground here, unfortunately. They come here to enjoy American freedoms while at the same time hating us.”

  “Right now, Eddie, I don’t care about the why. When this is over, maybe we can include something on deradicalizing the immigrants, but for now, we need to find out how you would know if someone was being recruited for a terrorist mission.” Rick hadn’t asked a question. He simply hoped the FBI’s counter-terrorism specialist would be open.

  He wasn’t. He stood there, head held high, acting superior.

  “We need the FBI’s JTTF to tell us about any ongoing recruiting efforts. Can you do that for us, Eddie?” Rick said condescendingly. It didn’t get the response he wanted.