by Vincent Heck
As he clicked the tab the first thing he saw labelled at the top was Operation FAITH, before he could click further, the computer screamed out, and the screen flashed a red message:
::ERROR: ACCESS NOT PERMITTED.::
His phone began to beep violently, as did his computer screen. Red letters flashed: "Devices being tracked, abort activity immediately."
Jason dropped to his knees and barrelled under his desk pulling every plug out of the surge protector. Numerous computers in the immediate vicinity shut down. He pulled his cell phone, which displayed the same urgent messages, out of his desk, and popped the battery out of the back of it.
With his heart now racing, he listened outside of the door of his office. He kept his finger firmly on the power button to his batteryless phone. Holding the power button would drain any power it may have left in it. They needed power to track the phone – even if it were only running on fumes.
Lots of chatter rustled outside of the door. It felt like a routine power-down drill, but Jason was short on time, since the rest of the department hadn’t been alerted to any drill. He had entered his agent passcode into the computer. No way they weren’t going to know it was him.
The intelligence engineers in their cubicles outside of the door questioned. “Yo, what’s going on?” one guy just outside of his office asked.
The muffled commotion outside of his cherry oak office door grew to a rumble.
He continued to listen.
"Where is the power box?" One analyst said.
“Don’t do anything without letting Upton know.” Another responded.
Immediately, the captains of the floor sprung into action the way they had been trained.
In Jason’s head, he weighed his options. What to do? What excuse when they realize—if they realize—it’s not a drill.
Jason’s realization grew -- he had no excuse. If it were some employee under his rank coming to question him it would be no problem. If it were one of the 4 or 5 men over him, he may, very well, be in trouble.
Jason crouched back down to the floor, crawled back under his desk and slowly plugged one of the plugs back in; he heard a knock at his door.
In a haze of confusion, his mind indecisively suggested an array of responses. Who’s gonna know it was me? He thought. I’m second in command in this particular department.
Authority is the way out of this.
Jason bounced up from behind his desk, banging his elbow on the side of the chair, nearly tipping it over. He dusted himself off, tucked in his shirt, straightened his slacks, and walked his calm, authoritive, stride to the door. He swung the door open. It was one of the analysts positioned under him.
Before the officer could speak, Jason said, “Not a drill – possibly a malfunction; probably a hacker. I'll fix it. Tell the guys I’m on it, then go back to your station."
He went back into his room and plugged the computers back in. When his computer rebooted, there wasn’t a single item on the desktop besides the picture of the DHS seal. Jason stared at the screen as the computer finished rebooting.
Then, seemingly, in nonchalant fashion, centered at the bottom of the screen, a peaceful but threatening message rested: "Computer tracked and contents seized."
Jason gathered his blazer, and briskly exited his office. As he walked by the cubicles he addressed the analysts on the floor.
"There may have been a breach, I will be back. Leave your computers off. I repeat: leave your computers off."
VI
Connecticut Courthouse
Protest crowds chanted outside of the courthouse in front of a parade of speakers who took a microphone and tearfully purged their traumatizing rape accounts in front of hundreds.
Police in military gear encircled the crowd for blocks. Putters of UAVs filled the sky in every direction.
Czyra Michaels, a young teen from New York City, was no stranger to this sort of activity. He was associated with The Unknown Hactivists.
He sought out injustice via the internet and harassed the accused until he got what he saw fit as justice. This time, a town that continually hid rape crimes that their star high school football players would commit.
“We’re not going to tolerate injustice, anymore.” One masked woman shouted. “Sports does not trump what really matters in this world. You let these boys get away with way too much – we’re tired of it. The Unknowns have come to our help where the authorities and local government has not. This is crazy. People are going missing. Women and victims are dying. This is mass madness!”
Czyra stood tall with his long scraggly blond hair tucked into his hood. His slender nose rested perfectly in a nose protrusion the mask cut out for it. The only thing that showed through to the public were his deep brown eyes. He received the mic from the last speaker and began speaking his thoughts.
“We’ve got to always remember there is more out here than we think. Have you noticed how so many professional sports players all come from the same general areas and go to the same general colleges all to be filtered to the same places? They’re all friends and, at some point, have met in some similar childhood setting. Is it a conspiracy? Maybe – I have my doubts – but, one thing is for sure: There’s a controlling. At the very least, it’s a broken system. Sports are essential to the American culture, and what happens in this land when something is in demand? It’s fought for, manufactured, processed, coddled, amplified and marketed. No longer will The Unknowns accept unacceptable grades or behaviour in exchange for money and notoriety. Justice will be served. We’ve got our eye on you U.S. government!”
The crowd roared in the cheers of Czyra’s words. Another Unknown took the mic to speak next. He whispered in Czyra’s ear, “Wow, man. You speak pretty good. Good stuff.”
“I just speak the truth.”
The brisk day continued in a lively pep-rally for American justice. The crowd outside of the courthouse continued to grow in number and noise. More military police showed up – shields in hand.
Czyra’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He had been waiting on a call the entire day from his girlfriend, Jasmine.
Some months back, Jasmine and Czyra had applied for jobs in hotels owned by the mighty Brendenhall Group. They had hoped to gain inside access to the Brendenhall’s activity. This was Jasmine’s third month as a housekeeper there. It was gruelling work, but they had made it so far and she was dedicated to the cause her boyfriend had in being an activist.
“Hello, babe?” Czyra answered.
“They’re arriving.”
“You’re still there?”
“Yes.”
“Do you see him, yet?”
“No. But, everyone else has arrived. I’m in the housekeeper’s closet. In here you can hear every little detail from the conference room they’ll be talking in.”
“Sweetie, this is going to be great! I’m blown away by you. You’re simply amazing.”
“Thanks love-bunch. I couldn’t do it without you.”
“Now, sweetie, you remember the drill, right?”
“Yeah. I’m recording. I doubt sound will be very good, though. But, I have my notepad and memory.”
“When they’re done, is there a place you want me and Dany to pick you up?” Czyra asked.
“Yes. Gate B, back of the hotel. It’ll let us hit 95 in stride and we’ll glide straight out of country.”
“Babe, I’m so excited about this. Before we expose Brendenhall and this weasely U.S. government for getting in bed with them, we’ll all go on our get-away, and celebrate this. You’ve earned it – whatever you want.”
Jasmine sounded exhausted. She barely responded. “Thanks, babe.”
“Just a few more days, sweets. Maybe just hours … maybe we only need hours. Just get some bombshell recordings and enough that they can’t cover. It’ll be like Dan Ellsberg all over again. Except bigger. Much.”
“Babe, Mr. Brendenhall just walked into the door, I think.”
“OK. L
ay low.”
“Yeah, it’s him.” Jasmine whispered very low. “He just walked in and he’s starting the meeting immediately.”
Czyra could very vaguely hear Brendenhall’s voice in the background. Even through the wall, his deep, loud, voice resonated. The room the group of men had gathered in was a quiet room; a room that blocked all sounds and technology from going in or out. A few, like the one Jasmine had found, had loopholes for spy purposes. Spy purposes that Czyra and Jasmine had stumbled upon. Jasmine listened in quietly as the men moved from their friendly exchanges into business.
“Babe.” Jasmine whispered. “What’s a security check?”
“I’m not sure. Where did you hear that? There? Are they going to do a security check?”
“Yeah. They’re doing it right now.”
“Anyone leave the room?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Find somewhere to tuck away. It’s probably not that extensive.”
There was a silence over the phone. No background noises, either.
“Hun?” Czyra whispered to Jasmine. “You there?”
“Yes.” She responded even lower than before. “It’s so quiet.”
Czyra heard a door open in the near background on the other end of the phone. “Babe, are you OK? What’s going on?” No response.
Suddenly, chaos broke out on Jasmine’s end of the line. All he heard was commotion – no signs of her voice, still. His skin tightened. His heart pounded through his chest. Something was wrong. He didn’t know if he should say something, hang up, or stay on the line. So, he just waited. He and Jasmine had come this far – and if Jasmine had returned, she wouldn’t be able to make a phone call afterwards due to the signal a phone call sends out when first connecting. Certainly, it would breach the security measures of some of these men who are pioneers to world technology.
So, Czyra just waited. He waited another ten minutes only to hear the beep his cellphone let out when the caller had disconnected the phone call.
VII
Nebraska Complex, Washington D.C.
Jason's whole world seemed like a dream. He pressed his thumb on a small pad next to his steering wheel. “Welcome, Mr. Upton.” A computer voice, greeted. She had no clue the trouble he had gotten them into.
The soft leather on the steering wheel, and the light in his eye, were the only two of the five senses he still had which told him he wasn't dreaming. He couldn't smell the leather interior as he usually could. The only thing he was able to experience was the marvel of the Theodore Roosevelt Memorial Bridge that stretched across Theodore Roosevelt Island. It was a beautiful spring day, that Jason could not experience.
What will happen? Jason wondered.
“Sirus”
“Yes, Mr. Upton?” The computer responded.
“Classified voice log.”
“You may now begin your secure voice log.”
“I’m wondering why a Behaviour Detection Officer was killed? They don't bother anyone, up high, really. And they barely ever even confront the public. I’m not even sure anyone knows what a BDO is.”
As Jason passed a church on the left, he approached a bit of traffic. He continued.
“And ‘Operation Faith’, what the hell is that? The last tab said that it came from the Summit.”
Jason returned to his home. As he approached the door an aroma rushed into his brain that eased his anxieties for the moment. He opened his front door to the beautiful scent of his wife.
"Honey?" He called.
No answer.
"Honey, you here?"
His beautiful wife appeared at the top of the long winding staircase. She placed her hand on the golden brown wooden rail. Her long white gown fit tightly around her slender curvy hips. She looked as if she were attending a dinner at the White House. She stepped down the steps in a pair of red heels that complimented her feet.
"Hey, babe, you haven't worn that perfume since..." He took another whiff of it as she approached him. He wanted to jog his own memory.
"Since our first date." She finished.
Her half-smile startled him. It warmed his heart, but only a portion of her looked at him the same.
"I didn’t expect you home, so early.” She said as she reached the bottom of the stairs. The statement was met with no response from Jason. He didn’t know what to say. It left his stomach in knots.
“I'm going out tonight, Jason."
He had a million questions for her, and in his heart he wanted to drop everything and spend his life mending whatever had broken between them. But, it wasn’t that simple. In fact, it was far too late. "I had figured you had gotten dressed up to watch an episode of Jeopardy.” Jason joked. “Where ya goin?"
Christine laughed. "Just out—wit some friends. I need some time."
"When will you return?"
"I don't know."
Jason felt his saliva thicken. Swallowing hard, he responded.
"Will you be back at a reasonable hour?"
Christine moved her eyes down to the floor and shrugged her shoulders.
With that same deep breath in through his nose, Jason straightened himself up. His problems were bigger at the moment. "Ok, well have fun." He responded with an abrupt departure towards the dining room.
As stone faced as he can find himself, it was becoming evermore difficult to hold it together.
He pulled out his phone to find the telecom-interceptor on auto.
Sitting at his dining room table, he loaded all the Tameka Files into his computer as Christine exited the door.
His gut told him that their files on Tameka's death could tell him a lot. He missed something, somehow, and he didn’t see how it was possible.
He searched the police report on the USB and found the recorded tapes between Tameka and the authorities.
Jason entered a code that encrypted his laptop’s activity, even should anyone be able to gain access to it.
With that, he pressed play on the filed recordings.
"This is Officer David Daley and I'm responding to a phone call placed Thursday, May 22, 2003 at 8:09 p.m. in Fairfax county, Maryland."
The recording started with Tameka’s quivering voice.
"There were two of them, they were both black, only one of them came to my door, the other stood out of my view until...I'm sorry, I'm just a little shaken up." She said.
"It’s ok ma’am. Take your time, then start from the top. I'm recording so state the dates and approximate times."
"Ok, thanks. I was sitting here on Monday, May 20th, 2003 at around 6:30 p.m. going through all of the security paperwork, when my doorbell rang. I knew something wasn't right because usually, when someone is waiting on the other side of the door there is at least a little bit of noise."
"You didn't know the man?"
"No, I had no clue. When I went to the door he was standing there dead still."
"Did he say anything?"
"That’s the thing, Officer, I walked softly to the door in suspicion, but as soon as I reached the peep hole he said my full name, 'Tameka Washington' it was very, very, eerie sir. When I answered, he said: 'FBI I've come to talk to you for a moment if I may.'"
"Well it’s a good thing you didn't open the door, he--"
"Could have been anybody."
"Right. Did it end there?"
"Well, being that I work for the government I asked to see a badge, he had one."
"He had one?!"
"Yes but he didn't have a warrant, so I told him to come back with a warrant."
"Did he?"
"We'll that's what’s funny, he left, and I kept watching out of the peep hole when I saw the second guy come from the right and follow him."
"Did he return?"
"The other man did today, May 22nd 2003 at around the same time, six-thirtyish, posed as a Fed Ex employee, saying that I needed to sign for this box, same eerie door bell stance, same routine."
"Ma’am, is there another place y
ou can stay until we sort all of this out?"
"There is. I can stay with my mother Betsy, until all of this pans out, but she lives outside of the city."
Jason wrote down the name of the mom. He continued to listen to the recording as she described her position at the DHS.
David found another voice message from Tameka. He played it.
"Hello 911? My name is Tameka Washington and there are two stalkers at my door right now..." She shrieked out loud before continuing.
"I need someone now they are pounding on my front door, yelling my full name!"
The call continued until her unsteady, quivering voice whispered. "I think they are leaving. Please send someone."
Upon further review of the police report he found that Tameka had placed a few calls that day in reference to the mysterious vicious visitors.
He pulled up her cell phone records for the month of her death on his computer and printed them out.
While looking through them he highlighted key calls at key times. Nothing in his database showed anyone deployed from their working stations in his department at the reported times of the stalkers’ visits.
It wasn't anyone from the DHS.
His computer screen popped up an alert,
::Message from Jessica Caldwell to Maxwell Bradford.::
Max stood at the gangplank marina waiting for his guilty pleasure to arrive. His phone buzzed. Under his breath he mumbled. "Ugh, Jess. I told you I’d be out now. I’m not answering."
His fingers tapped the side of his leg as he nervously awaited Christine. He had longed to have this date with her. She always seemed reluctant to go forth with their side relationship, fully.
His phone buzzed again. This time, it wasn't Jess.
He clicked the ‘read’ button.
"Hello, Maxwell Douglas Bradford. Who lives Bowie, MD, My name is Jason Upton, that's right, the one and only. . ."