The action begins to take place in the high desert of Nevada, The scenes change to the Georgia hills north of Atlanta, Flamingo in the Everglades, Kansas City, and St Augustine. In three different and seemingly unconnected threads, they each face an unusual cadre of enemies of America who have infiltrated our federal government and are planning a major catastrophic event for America. Both the unconnected and finally the coordinated efforts of the three lead characters are needed to try to foil this planned unusual cataclysm. The dramatic climax takes place in St Augustine on Labor Day, 2015, at the culmination of the 450th anniversary celebration of the founding of the city.
Published 2016.
Excerpts:
These chapters introduce the three threads and main characters.
✸ Calder Voss ✸
Chapter 1 - Attack on Geothermal Well #2
✷ Saturday, March. 2, 2013 ✷
A coyote lifts his muzzle and howls. He stands on a rocky Nevada hill named Elephant Head sprinkled with sage brush and mesquite. The night sky is cloudless, moonless, and star peppered. Light pollution from the town of Battle Mountain to the northeast and the brightly lighted well site to the west hides all but the brightest stars. Headlight beams of cars and trucks traveling I-80 pierce the darkness as they ramble east and west. “Voted The Armpit of America” according to one huge sign west of town by the interstate, Battle Mountain is a desolate, treeless human presence in the high desert.
At four in the morning, the sound of the starting of a powerful diesel engine breaks the silence. The truck engine from the tractor of the drilling rig at the center of the fence-protected well compound is running and should not be.
✷ ✷ ✷
The pleasure of spending several cold Nevada nights in the equipment warehouse running 48 hours of tests on one of the new countercurrent heat exchangers for the planned power plant is not much fun. This equipment will use the heat from Geothermal Wells number two (GTW2) to generate steam to drive the turbines of the power plant. On the hour for two days I record temperature and flow readings. In between night readings I catch some Zs on a cot in the warehouse office. Calculations based on those readings are done by computer back at the main office of Berne and Associates near Roswell, New Mexico. I’m Calder Voss, chief engineer for the drilling of GTW2.
Designed to tap into a geological hot spot deep in the earth, the well will become the heat source for a geothermal power plant connected to the grid. My engineering responsibilities will continue through the construction of the power plant. Well number 1, about a hundred miles east of Elko, had to be abandoned. Fault problems discovered shortly after drilling started proved the well to be economically impractical
.✷ ✷ ✷
The unmistakable sound of a large diesel engine morphs into my dream. In the dream I am operating the drilling rig’s big diesel engine. The sudden absence of the sound takes me out of my dream and causes me to sit up startled and wide awake. The dead silence woke me. My watch shows a quarter to five, about ten minutes before my hourly alarm will go off.
Did I dream the diesel sound or did I hear it? No diesel should be running at this time. An uneasy feeling grips my insides. A sixth sense warns me something is amiss. I climb out of my sleeping bag, stand up and stretch. Starting to shiver in the cold warehouse I slip into my denim work pants and flannel shirt, and put on my shoes. The time for the five o’clock instrument readings and operations check is near at hand.
A single step on the cold floor and BANG . . . THUD. A deafening explosion and following concussion shakes the building. A sharp jolt bounces the concrete floor and almost knocks me off my feet. I stagger for the outside door through air fouled by showers of dust shaken from the bar joists in the ceiling. I reach the door and step into the clean, cold early morning air, coughing, choking and unable to see much from the dust in my eyes. When my eyes clear, I observe the compound bathed in the pinkish orange light of the cesium vapor lighting that keeps the site near daylight bright. The quarter mile wide clearing around the well is empty. The drilling rig is nowhere in sight. The sound heard while dreaming was the engine of the rig. The flat pad of crushed rock where the rig stood for a month is now a low mound of broken rocks and soil about twenty feet across. Clouds of steam rise from the entire mound. GTW2 has been blown up by a large charge exploded deep underground.
While standing and looking across the empty compound, I wonder who, why, and how. Two small flashes from the far side of the well clearing are followed by the thunk, thunk of two bullets piercing the wall within a foot of my head. Instinct drops me to the ground. Then the crack, crack of gun shots reaches my ears. What the hell is going on? I struggle to decide what to do. Some sort of attack is in progress, who and why?
My deer rifle is in the trunk of my car on the other side of the warehouse. My mind clicks in place as old Army Ranger training kicks in. Gotta get that rifle. The distance to my car is about five hundred feet, almost all in the open. I take off at a weaving run and put the warehouse between me and the shooter. The sound of three bullets hitting the wall before I reach cover around the corner of the building spurs me on. I dive for the ground and peer back around the corner to find from where the shots are coming. No luck! The firing stopped. I pick myself up and cross behind the warehouse. My car is about three hundred feet away, out in the open. The intervening space is partially shielded by the warehouse. Two of our trucks are parked between me and my car. I back up a few feet, make a running start, and dash for the closest truck. The truck provides momentary cover. Then I charge for the next one.
The bright flash of an RPG headed for the second truck catches my attention. The truck is my obvious destination for cover. A quick detour from my original path keeps me a good eighty feet from the truck when the rocket hits. The truck explodes in a white-hot blast, somersaults and lands upside down. The explosion and fire shield me from the shooter’s sight. The remaining open space between me and my car is about a hundred feet. With few choices, I zigzag across the space and reach my car which fortunately faces the shooter’s position. I open the trunk and grab my rifle and a case of cartridge clips.
My eyes scan the area for cover. Two figures are running for a service truck about a quarter mile across the clearing near the guard shack. They must think the explosion of the truck got me.
About eighty feet in front of my car and off to the right are several stacks of steel drilling pipe strapped together, a relatively good spot of cover for a sniper. I run to it, slipping a cartridge clip into the rifle as I move. As I near the stacks of pipes, the delivery van starts across the open space toward the warehouse. I’m thinking the truck is loaded with explosives to blow up the warehouse and everything in it. I must stop the truck. I reach the pipes, position myself, adjust the scope, and tighten the sling on my rifle. The truck is half way across the clearing, heading for the warehouse.
My first and second shots kick up dust right in front of the left front wheel. My third shot blows the tire and the truck careens left, close to rolling over. Somehow the driver regains control and starts again for the warehouse. I pour the rest of the clip into the engine compartment hoping to damage something vital and stop it—no luck.
I slip another clip into the rifle. A fusillade of automatic weapon fire spatters the stacks of pipe. The sound is of dull bells ringing in rapid succession. None of them comes close. I concentrate firing the next clip into the driver’s seat. The truck slows and turns to the left. The driver’s door flies open and a body tumbles to the ground. Again, the truck starts toward the warehouse under the control of its new driver. I concentrate the third clip on the front brakes. My bullets hit and shatter the rotor. The wheel locks and the truck shudders to a stop.
Two figures jump out and run away from the truck. I try to pick off one and miss before a white fireball erupts vaporizing the truck. Thank you! I mutter, knowing the explosion was intended to destroy the warehouse and all the vital equipment inside along with yours truly. Concussion from the explosion breaks the straps holding the pipes together. They roll and bounce toward me. I scramble away from the cascading pipes in time to keep from being crushed. The end of the nearest pipe catches the calf of my left leg, rips the entire pant leg off and gashes the back of my calf. The wound is a nasty one, but no blood is spurting so no artery is cut.
Keeping low and hoping to be unseen, I rip up the torn off pant leg and tie several lengths around my calf to hold the skin on my leg together and stop most of the bleeding. I can worry about properly dressing my wound if and when I am out of this battle alive. My hiding place now a flat jumble of steel pipes, I am back out in the open. I need a new sniper spot ASAP.
The explosion ripped the front of the cab and hood off the truck and dropped them in a mangled pile in a small gully about half way between the truck and my position. I take a few moments to hobble over and dig in behind the remains of the cab. The flattened hood is a near-perfect sniper’s blind providing a wide field of view and hiding the flash of the rifle. The gully only offers a degree of cover, but wanders off down the slope on the north side of the compound opposite from where the shooters are. This wash will provide a likely escape route if needed.
For the first time since that big bang, things are quiet. With the rifle scope I survey the area across the field, the location of the source of the shots. Four men in uniform are in front of six or eight men in black coveralls and hoods. A truck is moving behind the men in black. This truck, like the one blown up, has “Orwell’s Well Service” in blue letters on the side of the van body. My guess is they will use this truck for another attempt at blowing up the warehouse. They will need to hurry since the bus carrying the day crew will arrive in an hour. In the eastern sky is the faint glow of the coming dawn. I realize the four men in dark blue uniforms are the guards from the gate, two from each of the shifts. The gate is the only possible entrance or exit for vehicles into or out of the compound.
Chuck! What the hell happened to Chuck? Chuck Long, the future chief of operations at Geothermal Wells Number 2 power plant, is a hands-on guy who wants practical knowledge of each piece of equipment to be used at GTW2. I expected him to meet me in the warehouse as my test on the heat exchanger finished. I planned to go through its operation with him as I shut down the test. Chuck, a close friend I met in Ranger training, was to arrive at the warehouse about the time of the big bang. I hope he hasn’t walked in on the guys in black or he will be dead or captured like the four guards.
The truck moves into the well clearing and heads for the warehouse, the four uniformed guards walking in front of it. Plainly, the attackers are using the guards as human shields protecting the truck.
Chapter 2 - The Tide of Battle Turns
A new sound startles me, the sound of a vehicle laboring up the steep hill behind my position. Someone is coming up the gully toward me. My back against the truck cab, I bring my rifle around to bear on this new threat. The vehicle is hidden from view in the gully below me. My finger gently on the trigger, I wait, prepared to fire. Those gooks aren’t going to catch me unaware. There’s time for me to dispatch this new threat and turn and stop the second truck loaded with explosives.
A jeep with two occupants rounds a rock outcrop and comes into view. I take careful aim and tighten my finger on the trigger as the vehicle climbs toward me through the gully. I hesitate and hold off firing. In the early dawn light, the bright orange of Chuck’s jeep comes into view. The cavalry to the rescue I think and smile, lowering my rifle. After a moment torn between staying at my position or slipping down the gully to meet Chuck, I choose the latter.
“Where the hell did you come from and how did you get inside the compound?”
Chuck grins and replies, “Heard several loud explosions and saw flashes coming from the site. This spelled trouble so I lit out in my jeep. We cut a hole in the chain link fence where it crosses the gully and drove up the gully. Aren’t you even glad we’re here?”
“Damned right I am! I’m glad you’re safe. I thought you may have walked in on our friends in black and were dead or captured.”
“By the way, Calder, this is Emory Boozer, a neighbor I grabbed on the way. He happens to be an ex Navy Seal.”
“Nice to meet you, Emory, and I won’t hold the Navy bit against you.”
Emory, a large man well over six feet with straight, long, brown hair, grins and replies, “If you Rangers can do half of what we do, things are about to go our way. Incidentally, what is the situation any way? Chuck here shows up at my door in the middle of the night and tells me to grab my fighting gear and come with him. Here I am. What happened to your leg?”
I explain the injury and what I think is about to happen. They grab several satchels of what I assume to be firepower out of the back of the jeep. We head up the gully for my sniper den keeping low and hidden till we are under the truck hood. A quick look through the scope brings me up to date on what’s happening.
“The truck and the guards walking in front are starting across the clearing toward the warehouse,” I shout.
“I think old Betsy here is the first thing we’ll need,” Emory remarks as he opens a heavy case and begins assembling his sniper rifle. “One shot of these depleted uranium rounds in a truck engine will stop it dead.”
Concerned about the guards I ask, “Did you happen to bring an automatic rifle? We should use all the firepower we can and all at once. Otherwise, they will kill the guards.”
“How about this?” Emory pulls out an assault rifle with barrel cooling fins and a huge magazine. “It’s an NDAR, the Navy’s new combination of the M16 and what the old BAR tried to be, but lighter and more accurate.”
Urgency pushes me. “We had better hurry. The truck is half way to their target and the men in black are spreading out. Emory, hit the truck first. Fire when you are set. Your first shot will be our signal to fire. Chuck, take the men in black starting from the left. I’ll take out the driver and anyone left standing when you are both through.”
We spread out flat on the ground in the gully and behind the remains of the truck and aim our weapons.
“OK!” Emory says, and BLAM! His rifle goes off like a cannon. The engine of the truck disintegrates, and the NDAR chews up several of the men in black. On the first shot, the guards hit the deck. They can’t run or get away from each other. Their legs are tied together loosely enough so that they can shuffle, but not walk or run. I pour a full clip into the driver’s seat of the truck, slam in a new clip and start firing at the men in black. The remaining men and the two in the truck move fast, putting the truck between us as they run for the guard shack and cover.
In the sudden silence Chuck hollers, “Grab your knife, Calder. Let’s cut those guards loose before the truck blows up. Emory, cover us.”
Emory picks off one of the men running for cover when he turns and tries to shoot at the guards.
“Are any of you hurt?” I ask the guards when we reach them.
“We had the hell scared out of us and thought we were done for, but I’m OK. Are any of the rest of you hurt?”
“My pride’s a bit injured by them foolin’ us like they did, but otherwise I’m OK” another reports.
The other two echo similar thoughts.
“Can any of you run a dozer?” Chuck asks.
Raleigh, one of the guards answers, “I can. Why?”
“Go start the one in the equipment shed. Lift the blade and use the dozer like a tank to go across the compound. We’ll be close behind you to clear out any of these goons who are still alive. OK? The key’s in the ignition. Go!.”
“OK! Boss!” Raleigh calls out, as he sprints toward the shed.
A rumble and a puff of black smoke tell us Raleigh is on his mission. We grab our weapons and follow the dozer closely across the compound and toward the office and entrance gate.
A gray SUV takes off from behind the office and heads for the gate.
“He’s mine!” Emory shouts as he drops to the ground, sets his rifle in firing position and spreads out prone.
A single loud report and the SUV shudders to a halt, spilling its occupants. All of them wave their arms over their heads in surrender and shout, “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”
“So much for dying for your cause,” Emory says
.
A cursory examination of the area and Chuck says, “Those four are the only ones left of the attacking force unless some sneaked off before the dozer started.”
“Let’s round them up and try getting some answers before the locals get here,” I suggest. “We’ll have no chance for a real interrogation once they are in the custody of the local police and their lawyers arrive.”
“We can lock them up in the back room of the guard shack. There are no windows and only one strong door,” Raleigh says.
Chuck takes charge. “Thanks Raleigh. Lock the prisoners up in that room. We must do something about these souvenir weapons. We don’t want them around when the locals get here.”
The guards secure the prisoners’ hands behind their backs with plastic Tywraps for handcuffs, herd the four into the back room and lock the heavy door. We enjoy the first quiet moment since the well explosion. I carefully examine Emory’s rifle, a strange gun with a large breech and bolt
.
Curious about the sniper rifle I ask. “Emory, before you go, tell me about that riffle of yours. What the hell is it? Never even heard of anything like it.”
Emory grins. “It’s a World War II long range sniper rifle called a squirt gun. Few of them were made, about a hundred I believe. They came out late in the war in 1944. They fire rounds starting off in a 20-mm barrel which narrows down to 13 mm for the final six inches. The soft lead compresses in the barrel and the resulting acceleration greatly increases their muzzle velocity and range. A good sniper can pick a man out of a tree from as far away as two miles.”
“I wondered how one shot from your rifle destroyed that truck engine. Hell, it’s almost an anti tank weapon.”
Emory hands me a huge and oddly shaped a cartridge. “Funny you say that. The design is based on a larger caliber Russian light antitank gun. The Russians punched lots of holes in German tanks with the original. Those soft lead fins on the front hold the shell in the center of the barrel. They compress going out the narrowing bore. The lead skirt at the rear of the shell seals the barrel and compresses the same way. The pressure increase behind the shell coming out through a barrel reducing in size kicks the shell up to unbelievable muzzle velocity, presto, a squirt gun.”
“How in the devil did you manage to own that, and where do you obtain the shells? They must be rare.”
Emory laughs. “My dad shipped aboard one of the ships carrying arms and ammunition to Europe at the time the war there ended. They were ordered to turn around and dump their entire load of arms into the Atlantic. Everyone aboard thought that to be a stupid waste. They hid everything small enough in duffle bags and every other conceivable container they could find. He thinks the officers turned a blind eye to what went on. He broke the gun down and stuck the parts in a huge duffle bag. None of the hand guns went into the ocean. No one searched anyone as they left the ship. In addition to the rifle, he took about fifty rounds of ammunition, two 45s and a Sten gun. He made three trips to take everything from the ship. By the time I inherited his weaponry there were about twenty rounds left plus thirty shell casings. My dad never threw any of them away so I make my own rounds reusing the shell casings.”
Chuck says, “You told me about your gun, but I never thought I would see it in action. I am impressed. You must take both guns out of here before the local authorities arrive. They would frown on those weapons being in civilian hands.”
Emory breaks down the rifle and stores the parts in the case. He then searches for and picks up the two big shell casings from the sniper rifle.
“Don’t want anyone finding these,” he says as he stuffs them in the bag along with the gun case.
“Let’s pick up those casings from the NDAR. They’re different from the ones from your deer rifle.”
“Right away,” Chuck replies.
Emory puts the weapons into the jeep and prepares to head down the gully toward home.
Before he drives away I say, “Emory, thanks for the help! Why don’t you act like none of this ever happened? No need for your name or information about those weapons to be brought up. That will save lots of explanations for all of us.”
“Good idea, but how you gonna explain the holes old Betsy put in the truck engine, and in the SUV? They’re bound be noticed.”
“Over by the shack, those rocket propelled grenade launchers our friends left behind will do the job.”
I reply grinning. “Need I say more?”
“Right you are. A truck loaded with explosives will obliterate them and a blown up SUV may only be examined casually.”
“You got it!”
“Thanks for the invite to your party, Chuck. If you ever need me again, gimme a call,”
“You bet!” Chuck says. “Wouldn’t be a party without you. I’ll stop over to pick up my jeep later today.”
They all grin at the exchange. Emory heads the jeep toward the gully and away from the upcoming investigation and reports.
Emory drives away as Chuck says to me, “After the authorities are finished and things quiet down, remind me to tell you the sad story about Emory.”
“Oh? He appeared to be a with-it guy. One you could depend on in times of troubles.”
“That he is—sometimes. I’ll explain once we are not under such pressure. Right now we had better prepare for the coming storm of investigators. We have lots to do, and little time. You should take care of that leg right away.”
✸ Carol Mitchell ✸
Chapter 8 - A Walk on the Beach - Meet Jack Chandler
✷ Wednesday, April 3, 2013 ✷
A smartly dressed young woman prances down the beach, her bare feet dance in and out of the far reaches of the surf which barely sloshes over her toes. The bubbling surf never reaches the hem on the skirt of her business suit. The only sounds are of those of the breaking waves, the wind in the beach grass, and seabirds calling. In the west, beyond the beach homes, the sun is about to complete its plunge below the horizon. A narrow, bright orange bank of clouds hangs above the setting sun. In the clear sky above the cloud bank several short white contrails with arrowheads of tiny swept wing jets identify air travelers heading both north and south. An osprey glides west, searching for its evening meal. Several black vultures soar toward their roost.
In the east a thin bank of dark clouds hangs just above the horizon, almost blending with the dark water of the Atlantic. No planets or other celestial objects are visible in the eastern sky.
Just beginning to be visible, low in the western sky is the planet Mercury. Pale pink and barely visible, Mercury is knowingly observed by few people. Far above Mercury, Saturn is the evening star, the only bright object yet visible. No other visible planets grace the clear, darkening sky as they are elsewhere in their orbits. At this time, the moon, Venus, Mars, and Jupiter are only visible in the dawn sky. The sky is still too bright for any stars to be out. Everything appears peaceful and serene.
✸ ✸ ✸
After the usual harried drive home from my office, I head straight for the beach and my daily exercise. I walk south toward a rocky outcropping about a mile from my apartment. To the west the sun is dropping behind the forest beyond the Intercoastal Waterway. Kicking off my heels, I step onto the sand, enjoying the warm, dry grains oozing through from beneath my toes. Savoring the flow of sand at each step, I prance toward the water, dodging the edges of the waves as they bubble and dance up the sand and then sink into it. I enjoy this little game of tag with the ocean most evenings as I take my treasured daily dose of outside exercise. This walk is my one daily private moment when I loosen the bonds of business cares and worries and revel in just being alive. I reverse course at the rocky marker and retrace my footprints northward. The breeze flows through my hair and assails my nostrils with the delicious smells of the salt water shore.
Carol Mitchell, you are a most fortunate woman, twenty-eight and owner of a successful travel arrangement company that practically runs itself, I think as I side step a piece of kelp on the wet sand.
An old man walking down the beach toward the water interrupts my thoughts. At the pace we are moving we will meet at the water’s edge. I resent anyone invading my private space. The temporary intrusion irritates me. The prospect of looking eye to eye at another person, let alone an old man, brings uncomfortable feelings. I find little in common with older people, avoiding contact whenever possible. Nedra, my capable assistant, directs all of our older clients to one of our associates. I handle ‘special’ clients: celebrities and the wealthy, important people. I’m a bit snobbish about my business, but I worked hard to earn it.
Before reaching the wet sand, the man drops to his left knee, leans on his right knee, and rests his bearded chin in his right hand. White hair flows out from beneath a faded blue cap with an ancient military insignia. He stares intently at the sand a few feet in front of him, a forlorn figure in wrinkled khaki shorts and shirt. He huddles as if cold, even in the warmth of late afternoon. He continues staring at the sand as I pass a few feet in front of him. I am grateful he doesn’t acknowledge my presence; I can continue my private thoughts as I walk on uninterrupted.
Then my thoughts startle me. That old goat’s gonna walk into the water and end it, pops into my mind. A knee-jerk reaction causes me to whirl about and head back to the huddled figure.
“Are you all right?” I ask, stopping in front of him. He looks up at me trying to focus on this intrusion into his private world.
“Why - uh - yes,” he replies. “I’m okay. Just doing a bit of reminiscing.”
He seems forlorn, on the brink of tears.
“Are you sure? I was worried. You were staring at the sand, oblivious to everything. I thought you might . . . I mean . . .”
His eyes change from dull to clear blue with a bright twinkle and look right through me.
“Gonna throw myself in the ocean and end it all? Is that what you thought?” His lined face broke into a friendly grin. The accuracy of his words surprised me.
“It has happened.”
“No chance. I’m not the kind to do stupid things like that. Life’s too precious. I am quite sad though.
I guess it showed.”
“I’m glad you’re okay. You are all right, aren’t you? I’m not nosy; concerned, yes, nosy, no. You seemed so . . . defeated as I passed you. I try to avoid older people because they usually tell some sad story, or complain about the insensitivity of young people.”
He pauses, wistful for a moment. “I am a bit sad at the moment. I found out my wife died last week. Brought back many memories . . . ghosts from my past you could say.”
“I’m sorry. Was she ill?” I am right, another sad story. I decide to walk away from him shortly.
“She had several strokes a few years ago, then she had one big one last week that did her in.”
“It must have been hard on you, taking care of her I mean.”
I wonder how I can end this and leave without being cruel?
He shakes his head. “It wasn’t that way. We divorced more than thirty years ago. I was only with her a few times since then. She lived with one of our daughters. The news of her death brought back a flood of memories. I guess I am sort of revisiting the past and feeling sad that past was so long ago.”
I start to go, but something about the sparkle in those clear blue eyes stops me and turns me back.
Surprised by my interest in this old man, I am at a loss as to what to do. Normally I would avoid him like jellyfish poison on the wet sand.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“No need to apologize. Old memories die hard. But making new ones, there’s the real joy in life.”
“That’s quite profound. Makes good sense.”
He no longer seems so forlorn and uninteresting.
“Take right now for instance. Here I am, an old coot, moonin’ about things that happened so long ago they’re hard to remember and along comes a beautiful young woman to bring me out of the past and back into a pleasant present. I’ll remember this for a long time.”
“Thank you. You made a good day even better for me. I too will remember it.”
My curiosity is suddenly and unexpectedly aroused. I want to learn more from him.
“Do you mind if I sit here on the sand with you and talk for a while?”
“Mind? I love it. A current reality beats a long past memory every time.”
His transformation from the somber to the merry, even mischievous surprises me. No longer does he seem huddled, but strong and full of life.
“I’m glad I returned to talk to you and I did worry about what you might do.”
He shifts his position, sits on the sand and leans back on his hands. “How wrong first impressions can be? You’re a bright young lady and from the clothes, you must be quite successful, at least financially. Or do you have a sugar daddy?”
“A sugar daddy? What’s that?”
Mischief again crinkles the skin around those blue eyes. “Sorry, I forgot about the multiple generation gaps. That’s a word from the dark ages, a name for a man, usually wealthy, who keeps a young woman in clothes, cars and apartments so she will grace his arm when he goes out and please him in bed when he doesn’t, all without the commitment of marriage.”
I feel almost insulted. “Not in this life! I make my own way. I’m proud to say I own a travel arrangement company, Travels by Carol, right in downtown St. Augustine. My business is not called a travel agency because we do so much more. Our main business is guided tours to exotic places. The business keeps me so busy I have no time for anything else in my life, men in particular.”
“So your first name is Carol and you’re a fancy tour guide with a positive professional attitude and no time for fun or men. What’s your full name?” His question rolls pleasantly with a broad smile.
“Mitchell, Carol Ann Mitchell, and I don’t dislike men. Only most of the ones I meet are either immature or sickeningly macho. At least they act that way and I deplore wrestling matches. Real men seem quite rare these days. And what is your name?”
“Jack, Jack Chandler. And I agree with you about real men.”
“Where are you from, Jack Chandler, and how come you are on this beach?”
“I’m certain you don’t want my life story,” he says.
A merry chuckle follows his comment. “I built the little house behind us about six years ago. I came here to relax, walk the beach, fish a little, read a little, find interesting conversations and write whatever comes into my mind.”
“You’re a writer?”
“I write strictly for my own enjoyment or as an outlet for anger about all I find wrong about people. Sometimes I write about the things I find are right, my own opinions of course. I even had a few op-ed pieces published in the newspapers. I’d rather fish most of the time. I find few people to talk to, mostly small people and small talk, few interesting conversations.”
“I hope I don’t fall into that category.”
“No way of knowing yet. We ‘ve had no real conversation and might never have one. Most young people lack the patience and intellect for real conversation. A verbal wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am is all they ever take time for. That’s why they like to text. Most older folks’ conversations center on kids, grand-kids, the weather, their aches and pains and, on rare occasions, a social or political subject. Once those are dispensed with, there’s not much they ever say except how bad things are.”
“Interesting. I never quite thought about it that way. I agree with you. That’s a fair brief description of the conversations of my friends. The young ones I mean. I rarely speak to the older generations, except those in my family.”
“Most of you young people seem to think folks more than fifty are out of the loop: no feelings, no emotions, no zest for life, no dreams, no drive, no hopes for the future. Things changed in that direction since the sixties. I view the growing youth culture as an effort to avoid or at least ignore the inevitable. I think one should lie back and enjoy it, to paraphrase an old saying.”
“I sort of understand what you say. You lived a good part of your life before the boomers came along, like my grand parents.”
“You don’t need to remind me.”
“I didn’t mean it that way. My parents are boomers. That makes me a generation Xer. Those labels are gross generalities. Boomers are quite different from both you and me. Your generation and mine are much more in sync than either of us are with boomers.”
“Never thought about generations that way, but you may be right. That’s a rather astute observation.”
“People like my parents think so differently from my generation, and from yours. I understand my grand parents better than my parents. We are close, but there are many subjects we don’t communicate about. People over forty—boomers especially—I avoid them when I can.”
He cocks his head like a dog twists its head at a strange sound. “If that’s true, why did you stop and talk to me?”
“Honestly, when you headed down the beach, I dreaded coming face-to-face with you. I was relieved when you stopped and ignored me as I walked by.”
His eyes laugh. “You came back to keep me from doing myself in. Right?”
“True, I’m afraid. Then something about your eyes triggered my interest. I surprised myself when I sat down beside you, but it—it seemed the thing to do.”
Jack laughs hard at that. He intrigues me even more. This is an unusually different me. I have no idea where I am headed, but fascinated to find out.
“Possibly there’s a real person inside the cover-girl shell. I watched you come down the beach. You switched from a little girl to a sophisticate and back in rapid succession. You dodged the waves and then walked like a clothes model on a runway. The dichotomy of your actions fascinated me. I admire the little girl. She is real. She belongs in the scene. The other one—a plastic caricature.”
“That may be why I enjoy my daily walk on the beach. Walking in the surf makes me feel so—free—one of the few things that does.”
“You’re afraid to let go except when you’re alone on the beach. You ought to let that little girl out more often, and in other places. You might be surprised at what happens.”
“I can’t spend the time. My business keeps me too busy.”
“Big mistake. I remember another young woman who was like that. No time for anything but work. How long have you been in business? Can’t be too long. You’re not old enough.”
“Four years. The bank and the ex-owner own more than I do, but that’s changing rapidly. My debt to them will be paid off in seven or eight years and the business will be all mine. The ‘all mine’ sounds positively delicious.”
“Then, what will your plans be?”
“I’ll probably open several branch offices by then.”
“Why?”
“So I can make more money.”
“Odds are you’ll be borrowed to the hilt and having little real fun. What will you do when your work isn’t fun anymore, keep on pushing?”
“I enjoy my work. I meet lots of usually interesting people and travel to many exotic places to check them out for clients.”
“So everything you do centers on your business?”
“That’s right.”
“What do you want for your life? Build a mountain of debt and own a whole lot of things?”
“With any luck, I’ll be able to retire at forty and do whatever I please. You know, a home near the ocean, time to do what I want, not what I’m compelled to do.”
“No husband? No kids? You all by yourself?”
“No interferences. No compromises. No arguments. Things I don’t need. Yes, I rather like that.”
“How about family? How do they fit in?”
“My family are fantastic. Two older sisters, Renee and Andrea, and my father is a retired Marine whom we three adore. Renee has two kids, a boy about five and a baby girl who’s four months. I visit them fairly often in the highlands of the state near Mt Dora. Nice thing about being a visitor is if the kids get to me, I can leave. Renee can’t. Dirty diapers and snotty noses are not my favorite things.”
Jack laughs again. His face crinkles and dances with life. “Don’t you think she is happy with her life and family?”
“Deliriously so. Mack, her husband, manages a large herd of beef cattle in the cattle country where they live. Started off as an accountant for a rancher, a bookkeeper to be correct. In two years he took over running the place. They hope some day they will own a ranch of their own. Renee’s a legal secretary. Had a great job in town which she gave up when Terry came along. Since then she’s been a stay-at-home mom. She helps out with the ranch. Keeps track of all kinds of things using her computer right from home where she can care for the kids. Their finances are tight, but they manage each month to save a little toward their dream ranch. I hope they make it. They’re both good people and hard workers.”
“Sounds like quite a different way to live from your own. I take it you don’t care for the lifestyle?”
“Occasionally I wonder how I could find a man like Mack. He’s a kindhearted gentleman and devoted to his family. They’re a great couple. Men like Mack are few and far between.”
“I’ll bet the little girl in you could find one if you let her.”
“She’s tired of searching.”
“Looking in all the wrong places is my guess. What about Andrea? Where is she and what is she doing?”
“Andrea is an engineer, has a great job working for KC Power in Kansas City, Missouri. She owns a lovely home in Raytown, a KC suburb. Like me she is into her career big time and doesn’t need a man in her life. She’s a classy lady and a bit too accomplished and independent for most men. We manage to get together at least once each year, usually here in St. Augustine or at Renee’s. I visited her place in Raytown twice, a lovely home with a huge pool and lots of art she collects. We’re a lot alike and close.”
“You remind me a lot of my ex when I first met her.”
“Oh? Tell me about her. Let’s talk about you for a while.”
“You don’t think an old man’s story will bore you to death?”
“I suppose I had that coming. No, I don’t think so. Anyway, how did your ex fit into this picture?”
He was wistful and removed for a moment, then he came back. “---Cheryl? A year after returning from Nam, I ended up in Austin, Texas hunting for a job in May 1972. I walked into a pilot training school to discover if I could become a real pilot. For that I would need a multi engine rating and flying those beautiful Northrop F-5As in combat wasn’t enough.”
“What do you mean, a real pilot?”
“Commercial pilot I should say. I loved flying, thought being a pilot a great way to make a living. Flying those F-5s from Carriers in Nam was exhilarating. We had great pilots in our combat group. We learned not to form friendships, but to keep everything light and impersonal. You never knew who wouldn’t be coming back from a mission.”
I turned twenty-seven the day before I was shot down. We were guarding a flight of B52s on their way back from a run when a large flight of MIGs jumped us. One of my engines caught a piece of flak from ground fire or broke something about the time the MIGs broke off combat. My group saw me losing altitudes and slowing down so two of them broke formation and headed back to follow me. Before they reached my position, a couple of MIGs jumped me from above, and put me in the drink. I ejected and landed in the water uninjured but a bit too close to shore. My buddies got both MIGs before they could come around and machine gun me in the water. I found out later they radioed my position for rescue. Before our rescue craft could reach me, a North Vietnamese patrol boat picked me up. They banged me around before they deposited me in a tiny prison at their base.”
“You were in the Viet Nam war? I never met anyone who fought in the war and talked about it. A lot of those who were in the war don’t like to talk about it.”
“I can understand why, but I don’t mind talking. Not much to tell, but Sherman said it, ‘War is Hell.’ I was soon transferred to Moa Lo prison, the Hanoi Hilton, where life was pure hell. I was finally released as part of a prisoner exchange in 1972. The most significant thing I remember about prison is the visit by Hanoi Jane and the lies she told afterwards about prisoner treatment. I can’t say for certain, but she was possibly responsible for many of my friends being severely beaten. You probably heard the story.”
“Didn’t she gather notes sneaked to her by a number of the prisoners and then hand them to the guards? And weren’t the ones who wrote the notes severely beaten?”
“That’s the story we heard which sounded reasonable. I wasn’t in the group used in that propaganda piece so I had no first hand knowledge. The story could have been cooked up. They never did use any of us that had recently been beaten, only the ones who looked healthy. There wasn’t a man there who wouldn’t have given a lot to get his hands on that traitor. I’m surprised none of those men ever got to her. I don’t want to start talking about those people. Thinking back makes my blood boil.”
“Sorry about that. How about getting back to the flight school?”
“OK. The school trained jet fighter jockeys to fly heavy, multi engine aircraft. Quite different from flying those jet fighters.”
“I sort of understand. How did your ex fit into this picture?”
“This multi engine school was a private company that trained military pilots to fly multi engine jets and become certified to fly commercially. I finished their entrance exam and went in for my interview. She was the interviewer. Here’s this gorgeous female staring at me like she’s my drill instructor and firing questions at me about my record. She was all business. By the time I left she had convinced me she was hard as nails and I would have great difficulty graduating. That was one of the toughest interrogations I ever endured. A week passed before I received my acceptance.
“About three weeks into my training I ran into her at lunch in the school cafeteria which was a stark room, a place to satisfy the basic need for food. Everyone sat at long tables, ate, and left. The place wasn’t conducive to conversation. I had started on my usual dry sandwich and carton of milk when she sat down next to me in the one open seat at the table. She glared at me like I had no right to be there. She made some comment on how the school must have dropped their standards to let me in. I replied something to the effect that she could chew up the spoon propped in her coffee cup and spit out bullets, an inauspicious occasion. My fellow students described her as a drill instructor in babe’s clothing and referred to her as miss B with the obvious meaning. We wondered if she slept on a bed of nails and ate nuts, hull and all among other nastier ideas.”
“She was merely protecting herself from the horde of horny young guys back from who knows where who came through the school. I’ll bet most of them wanted to bed her. You men are so predictable.”
“You’re right on that, I found out. I had taken a small room in a private residence where seven other guys stayed. I became friendly with Carla, the lady who owned it. She was a sharp old gal who took a special liking to me. Quite a few times she invited me for dinner with her and her husband, Armano, in their private section of the rooming house. One night Carla told me she had a special surprise for me at dinner and I should dress in my best uniform. I walked into their dining room and there sat miss B at the table. In complete innocence, Carla introduced her friend’s niece to me. Cheryl gave me a look that would freeze a firecracker. When she greeted me with an icy, ‘We’ve met.’ I started expecting an uncomfortable evening filled with tension. Carla gave me a look of complete surprise at Cheryl’s cold response.”
“I can imagine. Why did she try to put you two together?”
“I doubt she knew anything about Cheryl’s cold relationship with the students. She liked us both and wanted us to meet. A few moments of tension and Cheryl got up and rushed into the living room, crying. Carla ran to her and I could hear their conversation clearly. Things were just as you called them, a protective device. I felt uncomfortable and wanted to leave, but Armano told me to hang on. Apparently, he knew what was happening.”
“So, miss B wasn’t hard at all. Of course, otherwise you would never have married her.”
“Right again. She came back to the table red eyed and apologized. A totally different Cheryl sat down at the table next to me. Much later she confessed she treated me hard because she was attracted to me and wanted to avoid any entanglement. To make a long story short, we were married a month after I graduated from school. I stayed on as a trainer at the school and Cheryl continued interrogating prospects and putting the fear of God into them although less convincingly than before. She had a little gold band for protection and me around the corner. She was no longer referred to as miss B, but as Mrs. Chandler, a more complimentary name.”
“I’ll bet you two were quite a pair. You mentioned a daughter before. When did she come along and were there any others?”
“Sandra was a bit of a surprise, unplanned, but welcomed and loved once we got over the initial shock of realization. Three years later we had twins, a boy and girl, Jack with a different middle name from mine and Rebecca.”
“Sandra and Rebecca are pretty names, but couldn’t you come up with something other than Jack? Or did you want a namesake?”
“Cheryl wanted to name him Jack. We had a major disagreement over that and you see who won. The skirmish was between two strong-willed people. We had some donnybrooks over the years, but they were fair, clean, verbal battles, no nastiness. Neither of us ever wanted to back down, but one of us always did. We enjoyed the making up. I used to accuse her of starting fights so we could make up.”
“So you think people can fight and be in love.”
“If you don’t fight once in a while, you can’t be in love. They’re both strong emotions and I think one can lead to the other. Of course brutal fights are out of the question. We had strong disagreements over some things and our battles were to decide those disagreements. Our love was never in doubt in spite of those highly charged emotional conflicts.”
“That’s a strange philosophy about love. I don’t think everyone could be that way. Emotional scars can be hard to heal.”
“Have you ever been in love? I mean so much it hurt when you disagreed?”
“That’s a strange question. I thought I was in love several times, but things faded away when I found out the guy wasn’t the man I thought he was in the first place. I had one good experience with a super guy I lived with for two years. Ted was wonderful, treated me royally. We got on well for about a year and a half. I was trying to buy the travel business at the time. We argued about the increasing amount of time I spent with my job. I told him things would be that way until I had the business, was on my feet, and with the previous owner gone. A few months later I found a goodbye note on the fridge. He said he loved me and most likely always would. He left me money to pay his half of the remaining lease on our apartment and took a job in San Diego. He’s never contacted me since. I cried for two days. He was a wonderful man, but couldn’t take second place to my work. Now I’m quite wary of relationships.”
“He put up with second place longer than I would have. He must have cared a great deal for the little girl in you. A woman married to her work is a bad bet for marriage or any relationship.”
“Sounds like you speak from experience.”
“It’s what happened to Cheryl and me. I couldn’t handle being a minor part of her life compared with her job. Our priorities grew to be different.”
I shuddered at the familiar feelings. “Ted and I had some of the same kind of problems. What did you do when you separated? What happened to Cheryl?”
“She went back to work full time when the twins started school. Then she took over much of the administrative work I had been doing, and I spent most of my time flying and training. She was much better at running things than I was. Anyway, all I wanted to do was fly. Things went okay for the first few years, but then she was promoted several times. The year the twins started junior high school, she was named general manager. Shortly after that we pooled our resources and bought the flight school when the aging owners made us an offer we couldn’t refuse. That took over her life. She turned into a full time executive. I left a few days after the twins graduated from high school.
“For a year I raced those midget aircraft. I had some success so I decided to turn professional and race the circuit. That meant I would be traveling all over the country. I used racing to forget about Cheryl. The other guys said I had a death wish, flying close to the edge. I was soon winning most of the time, garnered a great sponsor and began making lots of money. For the next eight years I spent each week in a different place. Raced all over the world, Europe, Canada, the US, Mexico and even some in Brazil. One day in the pre race meeting I found myself examining the other pilots. Most were about the same age as my kids and the next oldest to me in age was twelve years younger. That scared the hell out of me. I was way overdue to hit the ground. I heard those kids referring to me as ‘dead man flying’ and decided the time had come to quit. In spite of the fact I was points leader at the time, I packed it in. My sponsor hit the roof, but I didn’t care. I was fifty three years old and thinking I would like to live a long time. I walked away from racing as the oldest three-time international points winner in history. In spite of missing the last two races I came in third in the points standing, the only pilot ever with five consecutive seasons at third in the points or better.”
“You were a natural at racing. I rode a Harley and once a guy I dated took me around a road course in a sports car, but I never even drive fast. I watched a few of those tiny plane races on TV, but never went to one. What did you do after you quit racing?”
“A friend of mine, Roy, ran a charter fishing boat out of Boca Raton. He showed me the ropes for six months and then I bought a boat like his. We started working together. When the fishing wasn’t good, we took sight seers on whale watching trips. I thought I would lose money, but running the boat became fairly lucrative. Between this income, money from the sale of my part of the flight school and my investments from racing, I no longer had to work for a living. I stayed fishing and whale watching with Roy for nearly ten years.”
“Did you ever try to get back together with Cheryl?”
“I thought about it several times, but decided against any return to those days. The kids made a few attempts to put us back together, but she was still running the flight school and I didn’t want to chance it. In case you didn’t notice, the sun is now below the horizon, darkness will soon be upon us, and the brightest star in the sky, Sirius, will appear right about there.” He points low in the southeastern sky. “There’s no moon tonight, so it will be quite dark on the beach. I’m getting hungry and will go home to cook dinner when I take my butt off the sand..”
“You’re trying to get rid of me,” I kidded, standing up. I reached down and took his hand to help him up and looked into those clear blue eyes again.
“Not a chance,” he replied as he straightened up and stretched muscles that had been sitting too long.
“I did enjoy talking with you. Where do you live?”
“In the grey apartment—the two-toned one with white awnings?” I pointed north.
“We’re practically neighbors. There’s only five houses between my house and your apartment. If you’d like, you can join me for dinner. I made a green salad and there are plenty of fresh fish and shrimp. All I need to do is zap ‘em in the microwave. They’ll be ready to savor in five minutes.”
“I don’t know. I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.”
“No more than what I’ll be doing for myself, and I’m a terrific cook. Why don’t you run home and change into jeans or the like, eatin’ clothes for finger food? Uh, you do own jeans don’t you?”
I laugh. “Of course, silly, and I would like to get out of this suit. I’ve worn it this since six-thirty this morning. It’s a bit restrictive, for eating I mean.”
“By the time you return everything will be ready except the sea food. I don’t want to start that until we’re ready to eat. They take just a couple of minutes.”
He heads for his house and I start for my apartment.
“With you in a few,” I call out as we walk away from each other.
The air will be cooling after dark. I put on jeans, walking shoes and a sweater and head down the walk toward his house. I can hardly believe I am so pleased to be having dinner with a white-haired man older than my grandmother.
✸ Brooks McKibben ✸
Chapter 16 - Revelations
✷ Wednesday, September 11, 2013 ✷
Brooks McKibben, child prodigy, expert in several fields including communications and digital security, was generally recognized as the top man in the world in manipulating digital information and communications even before he graduated from the University of Florida at eighteen. The year before he graduated, he founded BMK Systems, which soon was the top information security company in the world. He became wealthy when BMK Systems expanded and then grew to several hundred employees.
Brooks was also thought be part of the group responsible for the creation and introduction of the weaponized malware worm called Stuxtnet. That’s the name of the cyberworm designed to attack and disable the nuclear centrifuges in Iran. No one admitted creating or releasing this dangerous cyber weapon that appeared in 2009. It did considerable damage to Iran’s nuclear program, and spread to computers throughout the world, lying hidden waiting to be activated. If its replications are manipulated maliciously, it’s anyone’s guess what kind and how much damage Stuxtnet could do. All efforts to eliminate it and stop its spread proved futile.
During the growth of BMK, his involvement in spread spectrum communications grew rapidly. Spread spectrum communications use rapidly changing or “jumping” frequencies to mask all kinds of transmissions and make them indistinguishable from normal background noise or static. This technology, developed early in World War II, was used by the military. The glamorous movie actress, Hedy Lamarr, was the co-inventor of the first system to use spread spectrum radio, and together with George Antheil, was issued the first patent on this technology.
One accomplished computer scientist, asked him, “Do you think anyone will ever be able to find and decode spread spectrum communications?”
“Are you kidding?” Brooks said. “That probability is remote. The ability to do so will likely be developed in the distant future, but not in the foreseeable. We don’t have that kind of computing power yet.”
Brooks had already done it and didn’t want anyone to know. The exception was Lydia d’Ober, another free and independent spirit. He met Lydia when she applied for a high level job at BMK. During the second interview she so charmed him he asked her to go to dinner. This led to such an intense relationship that he didn’t hire her. He feared if he did, it would negatively affect their growing relationship. Lydia agreed and continued the free lance computer consulting she had been doing while getting her Masters degree.
✸ Saturday, January 4, 2014 ✸
While working together decoding the first few spread spectrum communication, SSC messages, I lead Lydia into the hidden computer lab beneath my house, revealing its existence to the first and only person I ever told of it.
As we go down the stairs, walk through the library and into the lab she asks, “Wow! Who would ever suspect this hidden place under your house? How did you manage to build this underground lab and library without anyone knowing about it? Obviously it was in place long before we met.”
Brooks laughs. “It’s a complicated story. When I bought the house, I discovered the original builder had been a survivalist who built an underground bomb shelter. He did so in secret, hiding it from his friends and neighbors. He built the shelter in the fifties when everyone expected the Russians were going to hit us with atom bombs. A later owner bricked up the entrance for some reason, sealing it off and hiding it. When I bought the house, I became curious about the unusual brick wall at the end of the laundry room. I wondered about the wall for about two months until I couldn’t stand it any more. I started with a sledge hammer and busted the bricks out. Boy, was I surprised at what I found, a ten foot long passageway and a flight of stairs going down eighteen feet to a twenty by twelve room, all in concrete. It was a mess of course, two feet of water, spider webs, and small critters everywhere.”
“When did you decide to turn it into a secret library and lab?”
“That came a bit later. My first thought was to hire a crew to clean it up and drain the water. I thought I could use it for something. Then it dawned on me. Nobody knew about this. It would make for a secret room if I ever needed one. I decided to do all the work myself. I found wiring for lights and outlets, none of which was connected. There was a sump in the back corner I used to pump the water out. There was even an air vent, a four-inch copper pipe that went somewhere from the ceiling in the same corner as the sump. The pipe ended in a drain in the yard above. That was how the water and all the spiders, insects, and other critters had gotten in.”
“Yuk! it must have been a mess.”
“It was, but it cleaned up surprisingly easily. The wiring was all in conduit connected to a main box beside the entrance. All someone did to disconnect it was remove the connections at the main box in the house. I hooked those wires back up and everything worked. I bought a sump pump, hooked it up to the drain pipe coming out of the wall, and plugged it in. The sump pump worked perfectly.
“It took me more than a year of spare time work to turn that dungeon into a useable room. Several years later I added the powered cabinet/door and replaced the electric service with the generator that is now built into the back wall. I did that when I started working on SSC systems. It morphed into the present form over the years since then.”
“Wow! What fascinating information may lie hidden right beneath your feet.” Lydia says with a broad smile.
I begin to tell her what I discovered. “Speaking of hidden things, you won’t believe the people in our government who are in league with the Chinese, at least they seem to be.”
Lydia is incredulous. “People in our government, in league with Chinese officials. I find that hard to believe. Surely you are mistaken.”
“Not a chance. In my records are copies of communications, bank transfers, numbered and coded accounts. People holding the highest positions in our federal government are playing footsie with their counterparts in the Chinese government. They are planning some kind of a coup involving our currency most likely. The final step was planned for about ten years from now, but they unexpectedly changed their timetable. They have not given the actual date yet, and that date may not be set. It could happen in a few months, right before the next election I’m guessing.”
“My God, Brooks, can’t you tell anyone? Surely someone could do something with that information.”
“Right now my cousin Ralph is the one person connected with the government who knows anything about this. He works for Homeland Security, but is not very high in their hierarchy. There is no one else in any position of power I am certain is not involved in the conspiracy. It sounds paranoid, but that’s the only way I can describe it, a conspiracy. I can’t trust anyone. Hopefully I can change that before too long. I need time to do so, lots of time.”
“How are you going to do that, find someone you can trust I mean?”
“How about we move upstairs, out of this dungeon. We can fix some coffee to sip while we relax and talk?”
As we walk up stairs and into my kitchen, Lydia continues talking.
“That’s unbelievable. What can we do? Can’t you go to the news media? They would at least warn people of what’s going on.”
“Several of the messages I intercepted recently revealed our news media are partly controlled by those consorting with the Chinese. They are the last ones I would tell. One peep to them and my life wouldn’t be worth a plugged nickel.”
“Could they have figured out what you are doing—about their messages I mean?”
“I don’t think so. Should any of this leak out, they might think their confidential means of communication had been compromised. Then my sources of information would dry up. I wouldn’t be able to access any knowledge of what they are planning to do, or who is involved with them. So far that has not happened, thank God.”
“Surely they know of your work on spread spectrum communications. Wouldn’t they be spying on you, tapping your phone line, intercepting your communications? This room might be bugged. Did you ever think of that? Damn! Now I’m becoming paranoid.”
“I realized that several years ago, but fear not. After I decoded the first few messages, I shrouded the lab in grounded metal. No electronic transmission can get out of the lab and no probe can get in. Wiring is the only way information can move in or out. I made sure of secrecy by removing every bit of wiring connected to anything outside the lab, even the electricity. That’s why I use a generator, so I am not connected to the electric grid, a little extra security. You know, don’t you, the electric grid is the perfect way to spy on anyone in a room with an electric outlet.”
“How can that be? Surely some sophisticated equipment must be plugged into the outlet for that to be possible.”
“Come on, Lydia, this is the twenty-first century. Electronic technology is in every product. Code requirements put special specifications on every duplex outlet sold or installed in America for a number of years. There is a little safety device in each one of those outlets, required by law. What no one is telling is there is also a chip in each of those devices that converts sound into digital and transmits it into the grid. Listening devices sort this by key words, store those deemed suspicious, and can identify the location of the source. It’s a huge source of billions of bits of information from millions of locations, all hidden from the public.”
“My God, the power grid is a perfect surveillance system. Big Brother is listening. But isn’t that too much data to handle? How can they make any sense of it?”
“Fast computers can process billions of bits of information in seconds. I’m not sure, but they must employ algorithms that discard all but the most significant messages. A tiny portion are retained and those go through another level of algorithms. Most of those are discarded. A tiny portion of the data gathered, those few that survive several levels of algorithmic examination, are examined by people for significance. The few of those selected by individuals are all that prompt further examination. My guess is there are significant numbers of valid concerns of the state found and acted on. In addition, certain outlets can be monitored individually. That means those who can access the system can listen in 24/7 to any of the locations with those outlets. The entire electric grid is now one giant information gathering system and few individuals know of its existence.”
“Then they might be hearing what we are saying right here in your kitchen.”
“No way. I put a little signal scrambler on my main box. It turns the signal from those chips into what amounts to static.”
“Wouldn’t that make them suspicious?”
“Not a bit. Their algorithms search for specific words and phrases. If no key words or phrases are read, the data is discarded. The grid could work both ways. For me it could be another huge source of data in addition to their SSC messages. As long as I can use their SSC messages to find out what they’re up to that matters, I don’t need the grid. It would take a great deal more effort for me to use the grid than SSC. I would need to set up and monitor a complex set of computers, just to confirm the information by using the SSC messages. It would not be worth the effort. If their SSC messages ever stopped, then I could use the grid. I keep searching and hoping I can uncover what they intend doing, so far with little luck.”
“Did you think of any thing we could do, anything that might be able to stop whatever evil they are planning?”
“That knowledge would be a powerful tool in the right hands and I intend it to reach only the right hands. The big problem is, who can I trust? Who has the right hands? From what I learned by finding and decoding government SSC messages, there are a great many people in our government involved in some extremely dangerous conspiratorial communications, dangerous for Americans that is. And, it’s not just the Chinese.”
“No? Who else?”
“The major players in the world of Islam, including our friends in Saudi Arabia. All of the Wahhabi operatives and activists are involved as well. It’s quite complicated. I must learn about whom all the players are and whom they are working with. They don’t trust each other at all and each of them has their own hidden agendas they want no one to learn about. For that reason, each faction uses their own SSC codes to communicate internally and with each other while keeping their communications secret, or so they think.”
“Typical political intrigue complicated by religious fervor whipped into a frenzy by fanatics. Why do people follow those ridiculous Pied Pipers anyway?”
“Most humans are too lazy to think for themselves. They prefer to let others do their thinking for them. Eric Hoffer wrote extensively about them in his book, The True Believer. One of my favorites of his comments is:
‘Passionate hatred can give meaning and purpose to an empty life. Thus people haunted by the purposelessness of their lives try to find a new content not only by dedicating themselves to a holy cause but also by nursing a fanatical grievance. A mass movement offers them unlimited opportunities for both.’
“Hoffer is still one of my favorite philosophers.”
“Wow. He was right on the money.”
“Unthinking people will take the path of least effort. They eagerly believe the truth of that which they want be true or commit as true since that path requires little effort. Each time an unproven or untrue statement is made and claimed as fact, commitment cements the belief stronger in the mind of the one making the statement. It takes diligent and often painful effort to search out real truth. Such effort is far more than most are willing to spend. This is especially true if the answers found go against one’s previously stated positions or committed beliefs. Humans often follow leaders who espouse those beliefs, even to their own detriment. I think it’s human nature, or maybe overwhelming primate nature. Apes and monkeys do the exact same things on a different scale.”
“My goodness, such a philosophical statement. That sounds quite profound. We’re not so different from our primate relatives, to our own detriment and even demise.”
“Those words are my own version of what Julius Caesar said two thousand years ago. To return to the present, the last significant message I decoded is confusing. It stressed the importance of the original date for their action, yet avoided mentioning the new action date. I believe it is not as yet set and won’t be until the last minute. The Saudis and Chinese are playing a little game of financial chicken and our people, those in the US government, are being deliberately mislead and kept out of the loop. That’s my own conclusion based on many of their messages. No, I do not know for certain that this is true. Vague hints are popping up occasionally in some of their messages. Of course, each nation and group has its own hidden SSC network including the big three, US, China, and the Saudis. All three of those were significantly silent in recent weeks. They may even have developed a new type of SSC system completely unknown to me. That would put an end to my spying on them.”
“It certainly would. Could they be using high level encryption in their SSC messages?”
“Not yet, or the presence of such technology would reveal itself. It would stick out like a searchlight on a dark night. No, they remain confident their SSC messages are secure. They are all much more worried about moles within their organizations. That is the biggest concern of each of them. They are all paranoid about it. It’s what I’m counting on to enable me to create dissension within their ranks.”
“You told me about messing with them. Divide and conquer, you said. Who first said that?”
“I think Julius Caesar said that referring to Gaul.”
“You talk a lot about Caesar.”
“You might be surprised at what he wrote about. I was.”
