Anacostia was a place of contradictions. From the exterior the
buildings seemed locked in the stone architecture of the 1900s.
They were rooted on solid earth as if risen like a tectonic collision
from the pavestones of old cobble streets. There were few glass
and steel structures save the nearby Nationals stadium and a few world
war era military sites. The headquarters for the Department of
Homeland Security was squarely situated in a historic neighborhood that
had successfully fended off both the intrusion of a McDonalds and of
moderately priced housing under the preservationist banner of historical
integrity. DHS occupied the former campus of a civil war era asylum
in a rehabilitated structure that had the turrets and towers of a nineteenth
century fortress.
The understated institutional interior of the facility had been upgraded
to accommodate the tastes of the top brass. Mahogany and
oak even older than the building itself had been reclaimed from barns
of farms long since consolidated by agribusiness conglomerates and used
to upgrade the conference rooms and executive offices. Granite
and precious metal leaf had been supply chained in from across the planet
to compliment the medals, portrait frames and honors that adorned the
walls. Beneath the façade, between the old stone and the even
older decor an uber-modern information infrastructure had been installed
that could rival AMES.
In a nod not entirely
unconscious to its own legacy, the department had set a situation room
in the very room where the office of strategic services had infamously
tested truth serum cocktails of henbane and mescaline on less fortunate
subjects. To the majority of the participants in this room the
history of the place was irrelevant and the wiring was something that
middle managers worried about. These were representatives from
the top corners of the Department. The men greatly outnumbered
the women, and some of the women had broader shoulders than the men.
At the farthest end of the table, stage right of the illuminated
screens, were several individuals, one woman and two men from the Directorate
for National Protection and Programs. Stage left sat two men from
the Directorate for Management. Both groups were greatly outnumbered,
as always by the swarm around the head of the table furthest from the
screens. This was a hybrid public, private and quasi-governmental
contingent that collectively fell under the umbrella of the Directorate
for Science and Technology. .
Of the DST, a heavy ratio
fell into the portfolio of the Director of Innovation / Homeland Security
Advanced Research Projects Agency (HSARPA). This group included
specialists in biological and chemical warfare technology as well as
transition experts – a portfolio that specialized in moving the glacier
of national defense systems. Amongst them sat several smartly
dressed wolves of the private sector. In the collective nom de
guerre of the department, these executives were known as Dulce Phase
Associates.
In the jargon of the Small Business Innovation Research Program,
cooperation in homeland security enterprises was organized into phases
delimited by zeros at the end of the line item. Beyond the
billions they moved into Dulce Phase. These companies and their
worldwide subsidiaries would be the inevitable recipients of the no-bid
contracts awarded to black budget projects representing the most ambitious
of defense visions.
Twin oversized flat screens
projected a bulleted list in a blue font with a glossy header and marketing
flair to the presentation that would have seemed an uncomfortable juxtaposition
of sales pitch and military debriefing to the uninitiated. To
the people in this room, it was simply a West Point style professionalism
that was expected of them all. As the presenter, a square-jawed
and tightly cut man clicked on the remote, a set of new bullets dissolved
in on screen. The points summarized common mutations that were
being reported in industrialized countries.
With the skill of a well
rehearsed orator he spoke to the bullets without reiterating them.
“I don’t have to tell you that understanding these mutations is
going to be essential to national security. Obviously, many of
you are already initiating major research programs to study these subjects.
I also understand that you are isolating certain mutants. This
is all reasonable strategy, and I commend your quick action. Our
country is better off for your initiative.”
A weary looking man in
military officer’s uniform interrupted, “Jeth, stop gushing, you
come off like a Phase 1 suck up.”
Jeth redirected without losing a beat. “Let me cut to it.
You need to do more than understand the mutations. You need to
own them. You need to control them.”
A woman from the side of the room, noticeably removed from the controllers
that had seats at the table spoke up, “What you are suggesting
has ethical implications that go beyond even the constitution.
From where I sit, both as an American and on behalf of The Office of
Policy, I must object. This government can not condone any program
that would venture into anything resembling what you suggest.”
She seemed uncomfortable even repeating the idea.
Jeth nodded with
a sly mixture of overt pity and mock empathy. “With all due
respect, Ma’am”, he lingered on the honorific long enough to make
it clear he meant it as an insult. “You must believe that if you act
ethically that others will not use your own idealism as a weapon against
you. Believe me, the first time your tail is kicked while your
head is in the sand you will rethink your ‘ethics’.”
There was a palatable
discomfort in the room. Few participants willed themselves to
look squarely at Jeth. They would have pretended to work on their
mobile phones, faking an urgent response for some high priority decision
that only they had the authority to make, but they couldn’t.
There were no cellular signals, encrypted or otherwise coming in or
out of this room. They were forced to be present. Yet, nearly
everyone in the room avoided Looking at Jeth. They looked down,
they glanced around at one another, avoiding eye contact or personal
acknowledgment. Something about him solicited a cognitive
dissonance that noticeably made people turn away. He was well
aware of it. It was a response that he had grown familiar with.
Jeth was a handsome man. The guy had been the captain
of the football team and prom king. He was tall and had the build of
a man that was still active. He was still broad and hadn’t folded
over himself like someone who’s body transformed at a keyboard and
monitor. It was unlikely that he had even spent long enough at
a computer to put together the presentation that he was now delivering.
He carried himself with confidence and was easy to look at, that is,
until he began to speak. His callous voice spoke volumes. Jeth
Harbinger’s voice was a grating damaged thing. He was still
articulate, you could understand him, but it was unpleasant to listen
to.
For those that knew anything about him, and nobody knew much more
than basics, his voice was a scar that revealed history.
Jeth had been gassed in a skirmish as a young mercenary working for
a private defense contractor just out of high school. The resulting
stint in quasi-military healthcare inspired him to start a biotech defense
contractor. His ambition married with his ability to spot genius
had put him on the map. His ability to co-opt geniuses, whether
through greed or fear, via blackmail or ideology, had made him powerful.
Jeth got agitated by the
lack of backbone in the room. “We are behind the eight-ball already
people. We don’t even understand what is at the root of these
mutations. There are god-damned Polacks working out of sheds with
nothing more than a personal computer who have figured out more than
what we’ve come up with. We are going to get our asses handed
to us by Derkas who don’t give a shit about ethics. They’d
as soon kill every one of their own than give us our precious peace
and liberty.”
A political looking man
with a head too big for his body and a suit colored to strike a natural
contrast against a green screen spoke up. “Mr. Harbinger, I understand
your enthusiasm. I think everyone here understands the urgency
of this situation. Further, we will take it under consideration
that your company has proposed to provide services to the portfolio
of Innovation in the field of biological transformation research.
However, we will need to ask that you maintain civility in your discourse.”
“I have to agree with
Morgan, Jeth,” said a studious looking man from DNPP. “We
really shouldn’t make any decisions until the probe intercepts the
comet and we are able to analyze the sample. We will know a lot
more after that.”
Jeth tried to correct
without projecting visible emotion. “My apologies for any offense
ladies and gentlemen. I think you all know that I am passionate
on this subject. However, that is not a reason for doing business
together. You also know that BKKN is a company uniquely qualified to
assist you with any objectives that you have in the arena of mutation
research. Our facilities are state of the art and we are extremely
well secured, unquestionably the most secured facilities in the nation.
Our subsidiary already provides security for most of your labs.
Further, we are already contracted to assist in analysis of the sample.
I know I speak for all of BKKN when I thank you for this opportunity
to participate in this truly historic inquiry.”
A project manager type,
a tightly buttoned-up woman from the side of the room steered the meeting
to an end with a summary of takeaways that got drowned out by the noise
of people packing up, murmuring and shifting. As Jeth closed up
his laptop he noticed a few defense men lingering to have a few words,
most likely over whiskeys in a corner office. He smiled.
This was how business was done: formal obfuscations and backroom negotiations.
He was good at what he did. Even when what he did was not always
good.
