Last War (4 page)

     He accepted the changes and forwarded the message.



II

White House Cabinet Room, Washington D.C.

Friday, May 23, 2003

CURRENT HOMELAND SECURITY ADVISORY SYSTEM: YELLOW—ELEVATED TERRORIST RISK

     Michael pulled his chair up to the legendary cabinet oval desk. One meeting at a time, his uneasiness became more static. The light-hearted nature of the President’s Cabinet had worn thin since he was appointed at the start of President Milton B. Harris’ term.

     “Morning, ladies and gentlemen.” Harris started, with his voice which always seem to originate from the bottom of his belly. “Glad you can be here, as usual. And let’s get right into it because we’ve got a  lot of things to think about. First thing: everyone has left their cell phones in the basket by the door?”

     The usual silent head-nod was met with Homeland Security Council, Josh Grambling’s fingernail concert ba-da-dump on the wood table. 

     “OK. We’ve had leaks. I don’t know that we have much clue as to where it comes from, but it’s not anyone too far up. That’s my thought. The info has only been enough to fuel conspiracy theorists to stretch their imaginations further. But, the problem is, it’s not helping Operation F.A.I.T.H. Michael, Mr. Grambling, let’s start with you two. Is this going to be a problem?”

    
Grambling glanced towards Michael. His fingtips drummed on the wood, again.

     “I think your question may need to be directed to Zoe.” Michael deflected. Zoe Maclin was the current director at the NSA. “Seems the leaks may have come from a cyber at
tack launched on us, or maybe, a journalist probing – and possibly, both. But, we need intelligence.”

     Zoe was finishing a sip of her coffee. “Our decoders are working at gaining the right amount of info. We don’t have it all.”

     “Why not?” The president asked.

     “It seems whomever is leaking this, is very good. He, they, she, or whatever it is, is very –
“ Zoe looked into empty space in the cabinet room. A portrait of George Washington stared back into her eyes as she searched for the right word.

     “Experienced?” President Harris asked.

     “Patient.” She responded.

     “Alright.” Harris said.
“Because, slowly, our people are getting equally
impatient
. Our constituents are getting restless, and you can see it in everything they’re doing. Operation F.A.I.T.H. can not work in a continually growing cynical atmosphere.”  

     “Mr. President. With all due respect.” counterterrorism chief, Harold Davis interrupted.

     “Go ahead, sir.”

     “I don’t think Operation F.A.I.T.H. is the answer.”

     “You’re kidding?” Zoe snapped. “Now? This, again? You choose to bring this up…again? We’ve gone over this, Harold.”

     “It’s just that, the thing we have to do, is gain back the control of this country – and, really, this government, too. We’re going along with a path other administrations set up for us, and we’re sitting here wondering why the people groan so much about ‘more of the same’ every
new administration. What if this is wrong? Are we doing our jobs by
inheriting
a plan? Or should we be starting fresh?” 

     “The main thing we need, right now, is favor from our people. We’re getting that. It’s working.”

     “What?” Harold retorted. “Which country are you looking at? There are protests all over this country. They’re occupying everything and cyber-attacking everyday. In fact, there’s a MyFace page with over 19 million members which is dedicated solely to recreating the revolutionary war against us. So, what? We’re going to wait for another crisis to try to take the opportunity to convince them that they need us while the other growing half continue to think we’re incompetent? No. It’s not the best plan, ever, folks.”

     “Harold.” Grambling raised his voice a bit over a small rustle of voices. “You may want to cool it. We don’t want you taking your stress home to Mrs. Davis, now do we? She wouldn’t be happy. And I want no responsibility in her being unhappy.” His fingertips tapped on the desk again.

     No one made eye contact with either Harold or Grambling after Grambling made that statement. Michael broke the silence. “Let’s get back to the issue. We’ve come a good bit of the way in gathering and sharing intelligence since September 11th. We do have some unrest, and here in the DHS, we’ve been preparing. As we speak, someone may be launching an attack on us; a cyber-attack, possibly. And if so, there’s a good chance we already may be at war. I mean between the hacktivists and underground militia movements we may be in a
few
of them, now. So, that’s what we need to deal with. We need to know if we’re at war. Zoe, we need your codebreakers. Grambling, Harold, we need cooperation. Let’s focus.”

     President Harris nodded. “I think that’s fair enough. We’ll deal with F.A.I.T.H. when it’s appropriate. If we’re at cyber-war, then we’ll have to adjust the operation, anyway. For now, I’ll take each department’s briefing. Let’s go around the room starting with defense.”



III

World Trade Center, Building 7

Tuesday, September 4, 2001

     Her delicate voice was one of the wonders of the world. She meant everything to Jason. Everyday she’d call him while he sacrificed a lot of family time to attend to the most important of national situations at work.

    
Nothing was like hearing her voice in real life, however. For now, the cellphone calls would have to do.

     “Daddy, guess what?”

     “What’s up, sweet pea?”

     “This time, next week, I’m going to be at your work. We’re having a field trip to The Top of the World!”

     “Oh, wow!”

     “You didn’t know that?”

     “Actually, I did. Mom told me. I figured you’d like it better as a secret to tell me yourself.”

     “Daddy, you’re silly. Hey, class wants to know if we can come by to see you? The teachers say if they can, they’d love to. They say there are a lot of great things in your building.”

     “I don’t know if that’s possible, sweetie, but I sure will check. What time will you be here?”

     “We’re leaving at 7.”  

     “I’ll be sure to see.”

     “OK. I love you daddy.”

     “I love you, too. Go to bed, now.”

     Vanessa was his baby girl. In the cruel and impossible world he had begun to know, she was his peace.

     The secure line on his desk phone purred. He answered.

     “Jason, this is floor 8. Silverstone wants to know if the policies were completed.”

     “For the buildings? Yes. They are. I sent the paperwork off to him just now.” Jason scattered to find the email and forward it to Mr. Barry Silverstone, property owner of the WTC.

     “OK. I’ll let him know.”

     “Tell him to check his email.”

     “Sure thing, Mr. Upton. I’ll let him know.”



THURSDAY, MAY 22, 2003:

(CURRENT HOMELAND SECURITY ADVISORY SYSTEM: ORANGE —HIGH TERRORIST RISK)

     A phone call on Jason’s work desk jolted him out of his daydream.

     “Hello?”

     “He
y, Jason. This comes down from The Summit.” The lady said over his speakerphone. That was the simple code that told Jason the message was the highest of national priority. He picked the phone up off of the hook.

     “Go, ahead.”

     She continued. “We have an email coming through from Summit to you on a list of possible terrorists. Please check your email.”

     “Thanks, Kim.” Jason said as he hung up the phone.

     He checked his secure email address; another 486 names on the Terrorist Watch List. Two files were attached. One, a list of names to collect, and the other was a file of small town’s approval for increased police monitoring.

     His
skin always tightened when he’d get these file requests.
We’ve gotta keep this place safe
. Stretching out his arms and taking the same redundant swallow and deep breath that would push the lump in his stomach momentarily down, he sent out a request to MyFace social networking company.

     He
typed in the routine request, “Full detail.”

     It was common
mythical knowledge, amongst the people, that technology could, and was, tracking everyone. But what wasn’t: was the fact that hundreds of people were being logged everyday. All, it seemed, he ever did was receive MyFace’s logs, and file them away. Each status update, each page they viewed, pictures they looked at, places they’ve travelled, statuses they’ve liked – all logged into government computers.   Special cases had their every activity live-streamed into the system.

     The work email detailed preliminary suspicion of a group of conspirators aiming to perform terrorist acts at the upcoming Super Bowl events. 

     While looking at that, a new email buzzed through to his cell phone on one of his personal email accounts from “Unknown”.

     “Time to begin #OpConn, tonight into tomorrow morning. We’re going to the Connecticut Courthouse to take these rapers down. Bring your masks, bring your guns.”

     At times, Jason felt like he had bitten off more than he could chew.

     He had felt out of the loop at work. They all operated in ways that indicated that everyone knew something
more than he did. The surface wasn’t adding up like it used to. He had no clue what the plan for the future was. There were myriads of threats towards the U.S. and it didn’t seem like progress was moving fast or urgently enough.

      His desk phone rang. The aqua blue screen on the phone displayed Michael’s extension.

     “What’s up, Mike?”

     “Bro, you about to leave?”

     “Yeah. Wrapping up, now.”

     “You get the email?”

     “Yeah. I put in the request to raise the HSAS, too.”

     “Cool. Hey, bro. Have you ever noticed anything weird with the way
Grambling acted at these cabinet meetings when you were in here on them?”

     “He’s fidgety. He always has been.”

     “He never says much, either. Neither does the Vice President. They may as well be wall-flowers. The last meeting, Grambling, basically, threatened Harold.”

     “Well, who hasn’t at one point or another?” Jason chuckled. “Are you being a codebreaker again? We’re not at the NSA anymore.”

     “Well, listen to you. As if you’re not reading into everything, yourself.”

     “I have my reasons.” Jason laughed. “It’s OK. Harold has always been Harold, and Josh, Josh. Hey, I’ve gotta run. I’ll see you back tomorrow.”



     D.C. traffic always reminded Jason of 9/11. There was no way around it. As soon as a thought would put him back on that day, his body would physically jump. His nerves would overload to the point of feeling like needles simultaneously sticking him all over from the inside out. After that daily occurrence, followed the inescapable questions that nagged him:
How could they let 9/11 happen?
He was there – it was right in his lap. He still couldn’t shake that thought.

     With that, and too much else on his brain, he anticipated his arrival home with dread. There was something that made him sick about his wife's actions, yet he looked forward to the day he would be able to confront her.

     His car, a 2002 Mercedes S 500, was wired with various types of custom technology. The black paint on the hood reflected the peaceful blue DC sky. Jason would look at the reflection, often. He envied the sky. The sky had the rare privilege to be apart of the great city, while keeping its distance from the dirt.