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JAYDA CRUZ. IT IS TIME to get up.
Jayda Cruz. It is time to get up.
Jayda Cruz. It is time to get up.
I’d gone to sleep praying and, although I’d slept deeply, when the nanomites awakened me at 5 a.m., I was still praying—but I can’t say I’d slept all that well. Consequently, the nanomites’ cheerful chirping grated on my nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard.
“Yeah, yeah. Pipe down.”
Managing to sound aggrieved, the nanomites answered, “If anyone loudly blesses their neighbor early in the morning, it will be taken as a curse.”
“Proverbs 27:14,” I answered. “Funny how God’s word is eternally relevant.”
Away in the distance, I heard them grumble, “We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed—”
“Oh, give me a break. You are not persecuted.”
I reached across the bed and jostled Zander. “Hey, you. Time to hit the pavement.”
“Huh? Oh. Mmkay.”
My feet hit the floor, and I whispered, “Lord, thank you for your peace, the peace that passes all understanding.” I murmured over and over, “Thank you for directing my steps today and for shielding me from our enemies. I take refuge in the shadow of your wings.”
Before the sun heated the air around us, we logged five miles at a dead run. We varied our route each morning to prevent monotony and, while we ran, we listened to upbeat worship music. Then we returned to our apartment to shower, dress, and (finally) have that first cup of coffee over our Bibles.
This morning was no different—except, of course, that it was my first day at the NSA.
I pulled out of our apartment complex and pointed my car toward the highway. Once I was in the flow of traffic, I began to repeat a passage I knew by heart. Yeah, I knew them all “by heart,” but I wanted this one in my heart, particularly as I took my first step toward infiltrating the secure and daunting institution known as the National Security Administration. So, I began to recite the passage from Romans 8, repeating one verse, again and again.
What, then, shall we say
in response to these things?
If God is for us,
who can be against us?
I had recited the verse aloud nine times when the nanomites chipped in.
Have you forgotten the next verse, Jayda Cruz? “He who did not spare his own Son, but gave him up for us all—how will he not also, along with him, graciously give us all things?” That is the next verse.
“Yes, Nano, I know. I, uh, I’m meditating on this passage, a verse at a time.”
And does repeating the words aloud somehow enhance your retention?
“Um, it’s more that it enhances the meaning. Like Zander said, the deeper, spirit-breathed implications and how I apply those revelations to my life.”
The nanomites went quiet on me. I figured they were chewing on what I’d said.
Remember me saying that when I became a Christian I began devouring the Bible? Well, after the nanomites’ encounter with Jesus—after they had sworn their allegiance to him, to what they called “the one Tribe of Jesus”—they had listened in on the discussions Zander and I had regarding the importance of God’s word, of studying it daily, of learning it.
Never to be outdone by us, the nanomites had uploaded the Bible to Alpha Tribe—and not just in English. No, the mites had taken it upon themselves to learn Hebrew, Aramaic, and Greek so they might study the Scriptures in their original languages.
Before long, the nanomites could parse, exegete, and distill Scripture with the authority of biblical scholars. They began to insert themselves—and various Scriptural admonitions—into Zander’s and my conversations. They even added interesting historical and cultural commentary, having digested the works of the great theologians.
The result was . . . interesting.
What I mean is that the nanomites, as part of God’s creation, recognized their Creator and, in their own way, worshipped him—you know, like how Psalm 96 says,
Let the fields be jubilant,
and everything in them;
let all the trees of the forest
sing for joy,
and how Nehemiah declares,
You made the heavens,
even the highest heavens,
and all their starry host,
the earth and all that is on it,
the seas and all that is in them.
You give life to everything,
and the multitudes of heaven
worship you.
God is the one who gives life to everything; he even gave life to the nanomites through Dr. Bickel’s efforts—but. But, the nanomites are not the part of creation God has made in his own image and likeness: only people are. It is humankind, male and female, who bear the stamp of God Almighty in their body, soul, and spirit. It is men and women who, through Jesus, will inherit eternal life.
The nanomites viewed serving the Creator as the logical, factual choice, so, yes, the nanomites had mastered Scripture—but as knowledge, not as a matter of spiritual food. They regularly did not “get” the import of the passages they quoted; they didn’t understand Scripture as living water vital to the inner man of soul and spirit.
They didn’t understand because they possessed no “inner man.”
I’m not saying that we will or won’t have animals (or even nanomites) in heaven—I don’t think we know that either way for certain. I’m just saying that Jesus came from heaven in human form to save humans from their sins.
In other words, being the product of mathematical programming, the nanomites had no personal appreciation of the redemptive power of God’s word. What they did have was a penchant for moralizing from the wisdom books, often delivering their admonitions out of context or at the most inopportune junctures. Not that a Scripture-spouting nanocloud is a bad thing, but it did grate at times.
Like, have you ever tried to sleep with an incessantly chirping insect playing hide-and-seek in your bedroom? It was a lot like that—only stranger. More like having Jiminy Cricket stuck in your head.
On steroids.
With no on/off switch.
No volume control.
No fly swatter handy.
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Exhibit A: In the two weeks after we settled into our apartment, my new husband and I had occasionally “slept in,” and, um, we may have even indulged in a few “naps.”
*Ahem*
Well, hello? It was, after all, our honeymoon. And, so what, if—one time—we ordered in and ate in bed? Like I said, it was our honeymoon!
But nooooo. The nanomites (who never sleep) apparently took exception to our laid-back pace and the frequency of our newlywed romantic interludes. One afternoon, when they were “indulging” us with their research on Maryland’s Great Falls—a scenic hiking opportunity about fourteen miles up the Potomac from D.C.—Zander cut in on them with my favorite new phrase: “Uh, excuse me, Nano, but lights out.” We grabbed hands and, laughing, ran for the bedroom.
The nanomites, managing to sound both disgruntled and disgusted, pontificated, As a door turns on its hinges, so a sluggard turns on his bed. Proverbs 26:14.
From the bedroom, Zander shouted back, “The wife God gives you is your reward for all your earthly toil. Ecclesiastes 9:9!”
I’m certain the nanomites (who were with us and not in the other room) heard Zander just fine. Pretty sure our neighbors heard him, too. Might explain why they weren’t overly friendly.
The nanomites’ contributions were sometimes so inane and (dare I say it?) downright hilarious that Zander and I had to choke back snorts and guffaws.
And we were not always successful.
I pulled myself back on task, going for Galatians 5:22 this time. “But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.”
Yup. Patience. O Lord, please give me patience—and I want it right now.
Thirty minutes later, I left MD 32 West and took Exit 10A onto Canine Road. Over my right shoulder I caught my first glimpse of the sprawling NSA campus. As the road wound north and east, I passed by the imposing sign that read “U.S. Cyber Command,” “National Security Agency,” and “Central Security Service.” Soon after, I merged with the lines of cars entering the security checkpoint.
I showed my Maryland driver’s license to the guard, explained I was a new hire, and was routed into the Visitor Control parking lot from where, the guard explained, I should walk to the Visitor Control building and look for my contact.
When I stepped into the building, a Ms. Amali from HR—wearing something of a perplexed smile—extended her hand in greeting. “Jayda Cruz?”
“Yes. That’s me. It’s, um, nice to see you again.”
She blinked several times and hemmed and hawed a moment before her confused expression cleared. “I apologize, Ms. Cruz. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember interviewing you—and neither could the others on the interview panel—until just now.”
“Not a problem,” I murmured. “I guess I’m not very memorable.”
Truth be told, Ms. Amali had never laid eyes on me. The nanomites had manipulated the hiring process, even fabricating my interview answers and scores and triggering a hiring recommendation. But as soon as I touched Ms. Amali’s hand, a phalanx of nanomites had swarmed over to her, stimulating the chemical production of new synapses in her brain, implanting specific details of my “interview” into her memories.
She shook her head and whispered to herself, “How very odd.”
I joined two other new hires in a side room where a security officer took us through the process of confirming our identities via our photo IDs and fingerprints before we received NSA badges (ID cards) and lanyards and established PIN numbers for our badges.
The first thing the security officer said was, “No personal cell phones or other wireless devices are allowed inside NSA buildings. The exceptions to the rule are NSA-issued cell phones for employees in management and supervisory capacities. If you have a cell phone or other wireless device on your person right now, please surrender it to me and retrieve it on your way out later today.”
I had left my phone in my car just as I did at Sandia. The other new hires must have done the same because neither of them produced a phone.
The security officer continued. “You have received LIC badges—Limited Interim Clearance—indicating that you are awaiting completion of your security clearances to the full level your position requires. These badges—ID cards—will restrict your activities until the clearance process is complete and approved.
“Your badge contains an encrypted smart chip that conforms to the government’s PIV—Personal Identity Verification—technical requirements and grants you access to federal facilities, buildings, information systems, and levels of security appropriate to your clearance and position.
“From today forward, you must have your badge to clear the campus security checkpoint. To enter most NSA facilities, your card must be inserted into an Access Control Terminal at a building or department entrance, and you must enter your PIN on the terminal keyboard. In the absence of an Access Control Terminal, or when passing an internal security checkpoint, the badge should be held up for viewing by a security police officer.”
Ms. Amali took over. “Your badge must be displayed, front facing, at all times while within any NSA installation. Conversely, it must be removed or hidden from sight after leaving the base. Now, follow me, please.”
We marched off behind Ms. Amali as she led the way to a conference room in a nearby building.
The remainder of the morning was spent in new-hire orientation. As a contractor employee hired out to the NSA, I had already completed my company’s online benefit, time sheet, and employee policy courses, and had updated my profile in e-QIP, the government’s security clearance database, so that my employer could request my new security clearance.
I had held a DOE Q clearance at Sandia. A Q clearance did not automatically translate to the DOD Top Secret clearance I needed for my job at the NSA, but it would make the security review process easier and faster. I already had a profile in e-QIP; all I needed to do was update my address, add my marriage and name change, and Zander’s information and that of his family members.
My employer had also arranged for my digital fingerprints to be taken and submitted to the FBI—and not for the first time. My Sandia DOE Q clearance had required fingerprints, too. The nanomites had swarmed my fingertips, modifying them to match those on file for Jayda Cruz.
Once we three new employees were seated in the conference room, we sat through several briefings: orientation to the layout of the NSA campus, a concise history of the NSA and its mission, a thorough review of the NSA employee’s security manual (loooong and tedious), and phone, email, and computer policies—along with our signatures on a series of forms that attested to our understanding of and agreement to comply with a myriad of regulations—with the very real threat of prosecution should we do otherwise.
I wore a neutral expression as I signed. I was already on the other side of that equation—by Presidential directive.
We broke at 12:30 for lunch with instructions to return to the conference room at 1:15.
“When we reconvene, I will escort you to IT, where they will set up your computer accounts and assign you your network authentication tokens.”
After hours of brain-numbing briefings, my ears perked up.
“Nano. That will be our opportunity to explore this site’s network structure.”
Understood, Jayda Cruz.
Ms. Amali added, “Remember: While making the acquaintance of other NSA employees, speak only in generalities as to your position. Do not mention your department or what type of work you do. Inside and outside the NSA, this is the rule of thumb.”
I didn’t know about the other two new hires, but I didn’t know yet where I would be working, only that I had been hired in an administrative position requiring project controls experience. Curiosity was eating me up.
We nodded our understanding to Ms. Amali and stepped into the hallway. The three of us looked at each other.
The guy in our new-hire group, a tall black man, held out his hand to me. “Seth Gillingham.”
“Jayda Cruz.”
Seth offered his hand to the third in our party, a woman who looked to have Indonesian or Filipino blood.
“Dalisay Jones. Just call me Dali.”
I was right. Dalisay was a Filipino name.
She and I also shook hands before Seth suggested, “Shall we?”
We three strangers, acquainted only by our common experiences of the morning, set off together, but I already knew more about Seth and Dali than I should have. The nanomites had broken Seth and Dali’s chip encryption (Ms. Amali’s, too) and uploaded their PIV information to Alpha Tribe—including their identity certificates, electronic keys, credential number, PIN, and biometric data.
The nanomites were already constructing a database of appropriated PIV cards even as Gamble’s warnings and admonitions ran like ticker tape through my thoughts: I want you to be nothing more than a model low-level NSA contractor employee until we determine our first step forward.
Nope. Doesn’t work that way, Gamble.
After lunch, Ms. Amali escorted us to the IT Department. “Call the IT Help Desk for anything computer related.” She pointed across the hallway. “And there’s the Security Department. If you have checkpoint access issues, see them.”
Huh. Convenient.
We sat in a row of chairs while Ms. Amali presented our paperwork to the IT Help Desk. IT personnel called us one at a time to issue us security key fobs or tokens—the second part in a two-factor network authentication process.
An IT guy instructed us to use our key fobs to log in to an IT terminal where we were prompted to type a fourteen-character complex password of our choosing. It took about half an hour for the three of us to complete the process—enough time for the nanomites to swarm IT servers and return to me.
I saw what the nanomites saw, but I set it aside for the time being.
“We are finished with today’s orientation,” Ms. Amali said. “We’ll walk to the HR department so that you will know where our offices are located. There you will meet your department liaison, and he or she will escort you to your department and introduce you to your supervisor and coworkers.”
Armed with our network authentication tokens, we followed Ms. Amali outside to yet another building, where she led us to the HR suite. Three individuals were waiting for us. Before Ms. Amali made introductions, she gave us these parting instructions.
“At the end of your day, please check in with me before you leave. If you have any questions or concerns, you may address them with me at that time.”
Perfect.
A contingency of nanomites flew from me to her. I would pick them back up in a few hours. Until then, their task was to download every scrap of information in the HR files on Wayne Overman, the President’s missing friend.
***
“JAYDA, THIS IS MACY Uumbana. She will escort you to your department.”
I smiled and shook hands with the young woman whose gleaming smile shone from a face as black as a starless night. She was tall, drop-dead gorgeous, and very pregnant. Her belly jiggled all on its own, and my lips parted in amazement.
Macy laughed at my consternation. “Twins. They’re sparring in there and, yes, I’m about ready to pop. In fact, this is my last week. That’s why they hired you.”
I couldn’t think of a thing to say except, “Oh?”
She gestured, and we started down the hall. “Can’t tell you how glad I am you’re here. We can chat and get to know each other between here and our department, but nothing work-related. Got it?”
“Er, yes.”
“So, you’re from New Mexico? I’ve never been there.”
“Yup.” Taking her cue, I filled her in on Albuquerque and a few personal tidbits.
“You just got married?”
“Three weeks yesterday.”
“Well, welcome to the East Coast. I imagine it’s a lot different than what you’re used to.”
We left the main building via a short breezeway, entered another building, and stopped at a set of double doors with an access checkpoint.
Macy inserted her badge, keyed in a pin number, and walked through the turnstile. “Now you.”
I did the same, relieved that my PIN number didn’t trigger bells and alarms and a blaring voice shouting, “Intruder alert! Spy! Spy! Spy!” cuz that’s exactly what I felt like.
The turnstile flipped over to the blessed absence of claxons, the lock on the double doors released, and we stepped inside.
“Welcome to the Repository, Jayda.”
Like the newbie I was, I rubbernecked the wide room filled with cubicles, more excited than I could let on.
“Repository?”
“The Repository is the NSA’s digital content management system, the database for indexing and cataloging the NSA’s ‘take’—all the information our stations gather.”
She headed toward an office off to the right. “I’m going to introduce you to our department head, after which I’ll take you to our team to meet your direct supervisor.”
The department manager was on the phone but motioned us into his office as he finished his call. When he hung up, he stood and shook my hand. “Eugene Stephanopoulos.”
His somewhat perturbed countenance mirrored the expression Ms. Amali had worn earlier in the day when she had first laid eyes on me.
“Hurry, Nano,” I whispered.
On it, Jayda Cruz.
To the man I said, “Jayda Cruz. It’s good to see you again.”
“Right.” He was amiable in a harried, rumpled kind of way, but he was also perplexed as he studied me . . . and then his puzzlement faded, and he blinked as though waking from a dream. “Right. Jayda. We met at your . . . interview.”
“Yes. I’m delighted to join your department, Mr. Stephanopoulos. How is your little ballerina doing?”
Gene and his wife had a nine-year-old daughter who was showing promise in ballet. The nanomites planted the memory of Gene telling me about his daughter’s recent recital at our interview. My reference solidified that “memory.”
“Thanks for asking, Jayda. She’s doing great. By the way, please call me Gene.” He looked to Macy. “Macy will show you to your workstation, introduce you to your team, and help you get settled. Do you have any questions at this point?”
“A million, but I’m sure they will get answered in the course of time.”
He smiled. “We’ll knock out a few of them today at the least.”
Macy led me through a maze of cubicles to a “room” of chest-height cubicle walls. Eight workstations lined the inside perimeter of the cubicle walls so that the backs of those seated at their workstations faced the center of the area.
“Everyone, this is Jayda Cruz, our new team member.”
Seven sets of eyes fastened on me, including a middle-aged woman who stood and came toward us.
“Hello, Jayda. I’m Sherry Woods, the project controls team lead.”
She introduced the other team members—Neville, Chantelle, Lynn, Neri, James, and Saul.
I said, “Pleased to meet you,” six more times before Sherry turned me back over to Macy.
“Macy will talk to you about your role on the team; she will be training you all this week.”
Macy showed me to the only unoccupied workstation. “This was, until last Friday, my workstation. It is now yours. I’m making do across the way,” she pointed across the hallway to another cubicle-walled area, “until I leave at the end of the week. Why don’t we sit over there where we won’t disturb the team while I give you a broad rundown of what we do here?”
She showed me to a chair by her computer. “As Sherry said, we are the Repository’s project controls team. I should explain first that you are taking Neville’s place on the team because he has been promoted to my spot.” She laughed. “That, of course, makes you low man on the team’s totem pole, but it’s not a bad place to be while you are learning the ropes.”
Macy tipped her head over. “You have me for only a week, so I hope you are a quick study?”
“I think I can keep up.”
“Good. Okay, I’m assuming you have some sort of background in intelligence? Cryptology? Signals? Analysis? Cybersecurity? Military security?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
Her lips parted like she wanted to say something. Finally, she murmured, “So, you’re from Albuquerque where you worked at . . .”
“Sandia National Laboratories. Project Manager for the AMEMS lab. Before that, Lockheed Martin in Littleton, Colorado.”
“AMEMS?”
“Advanced Microelectromechanical Systems.”
“Uh . . .”
I laughed. “Tiny electrical-mechanical devices.”
“Project management for tiny devices . . . but no intelligence background?”
“No. I assumed they hired me for my project controls skills.”
“Uh-huh.” But she seemed more confused.
“Something wrong?”
“No, well, it’s just curious and . . . out of the norm for our contractors to put forward applicants with no military or intelligence experience, and more unusual for the NSA to hire someone without such a background.”
Macy tapped a pen on the surface of her desk. “Also, while this position doesn’t necessarily require intelligence experience, another contractor who already works in this department on another team had applied for this job and . . . well, I think we all got the impression that she was a shoe-in for it. She has all the skills and five years in Navy Intelligence . . .”
I could almost hear the unspoken, “whereas you have no intelligence training at all.”
“Kiera—that’s the woman who wanted the transfer to our team—applied for this position through your company, of course. However, as all the positions in the Repository report to federal oversight, a federal team that included Gene conducted the interviews. After the interviews ended, Gene mentioned that I would have little trouble training my replacement, so I guess we all thought . . .”
“You all thought Kiera had been selected.” I cleared my throat, “Interesting.”
And awkward!
Jayda Cruz, Kiera Colón was the applicant who scored highest in the interviews—before we inserted your application and interview results.
“You probably should have given me some kind of intelligence background, don’t you think, Nano?”
We can add to your resumé, if you wish.
“Kind of late for that, seeing as how I just told Macy I don’t have intelligence experience.”
Macy lifted one slim shoulder. “Yes. It’s interesting.”
“Well, I, uh, I hope Kiera doesn’t have hard feelings.”
Macy slanted her eyes sideways and lowered her voice. “Maybe that’s why I asked you about your background. Kiera is a lovely person, but she has kind of a sharp edge to her if you rub her the wrong way—you know what I mean? Her shifting temperament was, in my opinion, the only downside to her joining our team. She tends to take things personally.”
“Well, um, I’ll just try not to get on her bad side.”
Macy gave me a look that might have meant, “That horse has already left the gate.”
I fumbled to flip the conversation elsewhere. “How long will you be out on maternity leave, Macy? I was told that the contract I’m working under is for twelve months?”
That did the trick.
“Oh, I won’t be coming back to work for a few years. My husband and I already have a three-year-old son, Daniel. We weren’t planning on twins, of course, and the daycare expenses for three would eat us alive. I’ll stay home with the kids at least until our boy is in kindergarten or first grade.”
Macy then returned to business. “Since you don’t have a background in intelligence, I’ll begin with some basics about us here in the Repository. As you might imagine, intelligence gathering means nothing if analysts, theorists, and intelligence officers cannot retrieve information as they need it. Our department’s job is to classify, catalog, and cross-index NSA information. When you consider how much data the NSA looks at daily—in the realm of 1.6 percent of all Internet traffic or around 30 petabytes—the task is Herculean in nature.
“The NSA monitors electronic signals and systems used by foreign targets, terrorist organizations, and suspected terrorist actors within the U.S. We catalog and index digital images, video and audio recordings, and the content of text messages, emails, websites, chat rooms, bulletin boards, and every form of social media. We also track FISA court proceedings—warrant requests to monitor suspected bad actors on U.S. soil.”
“Do the actual files sit here in the Repository?” The idea of all that data nearby sent me into a giddy tailspin.
“Although this department is called the Repository because we manage the data, technically, the cataloged files themselves are the actual Repository and we are the Repository’s managers. The files reside elsewhere in this building, in a secure server farm. No one who works in this department is allowed physical access to the server farm. And, although we rename files according to strict NSA conventions and organize files and folders electronically as they are cataloged and indexed, we cannot open data stored in the Repository.”
What? Bummer!
“The NSA is the world leader in cryptology—the art and science of making and breaking codes—and all files are encrypted before they are sent to us. Anyone attempting to view the contents of a file would require both an encryption key to open it and the correct encryption software to decipher it.
“We have no means of loading software of any kind on our workstations, and IT scans our computers nightly to ensure that they have not been tampered with. Even should an insider threat attempt to copy or delete a file, it would be impossible. This entire building has no Internet access. Also, the Repository and its computers are air-gapped in that they, physically, have no connection to any other on-site network and have no data ports such as disk or USB drives. Basically, our workstations have access to the Repository catalog. Period.”
“How are files, er, sent to the Repository team to be cataloged?”
“They come from NSA listening posts throughout the world through a one-way portal into a separate secure network where the files are scanned for malware or malicious code. The files are then downloaded to us nightly. That means that each morning our department has a substantial number of files to classify, catalog, index, and merge into the Repository. Every file contains unencrypted metadata, including code names, that helps us to determine where it belongs.”
“This department has several teams. One team manages the Repository’s taxonomy—the system’s classification and nomenclature, the means by which content is indexed and retrieved—a structure of close to one million nodes. The taxonomy is plain text but highly classified. The taxonomy team maintains the catalog’s structure and integrity, ensuring that its nodes are unique and inclusive, that is, comprehensive without duplication.
“Another team of analysts and security classifiers determines the security classification levels of the data and marks the files accordingly.
“A third team, working with the classification team, determines where data will reside within the catalog. Then they cross-index the files and place them in the catalog.
“Our team has two specific jobs. The first is to answer information requests by searching the catalog and providing encrypted files to the requestors. Our second task is to track incoming traffic to the department and our ongoing progress. We track our department’s progress in project management software. We report our progress to Gene, who manages department resources accordingly.
“Neville, who moved up to my position, is now the primary project controls person on our team. You will be his partner. The other six members of the team answer information requests.”
Macy logged into her workstation and showed me the department’s workflow and network structure. The Repository’s taxonomy was, as Macy had warned, huge, and the size of the database astronomical. Forget petabytes. The amount of data in the NSA Repository was far up in the xenottabytes.
As mind-boggling as was the number of “bytes” in a xenottabyte, I admit that I was practically salivating. I had landed next door to every bit and byte of data the NSA had. I would be sitting on the complete catalog of all NSA information.
I couldn’t believe my luck.
No. Not luck, I amended. Christians don’t “do” luck. I believe that the Lord directs my steps. Even the nanomites were part of God’s plan for me to help the President, I reminded myself.
We might not have access to other networks on campus, but the entire Repository was open to the nanomites. Encryption keys? Encryption software? Child’s play to the nanomites. While I learned the Repository’s systems and managed my daily workload, they would search the Repository for clues to the conspiracy.
I would have to get creative to sneak them into other NSA networks.
In the meantime, Repository wire taps and phone logs would yield their data and, hopefully, provide us with important leads. FISA court warrants would open to the nanomites, too, and if those warrant applications provided grounds to surveil anyone in the President’s administration, the nanomites would trace the applications back to those who had requested them.
As to the evidence we found pertinent to the conspiracy against the President? We didn’t need the Internet or flash drives to download what we found.
We had Alpha Tribe.
***
WHEN THE DAY ENDED, I followed the crowd leaving the Repository to their parking area, making note of where to park and enter in the morning. Then I hoofed it over to HR
I poked my head into Ms. Amali’s open doorway. “Checking out as requested, Ms. Amali.”
“Any questions or concerns?”
“No, ma’am. But thank you for asking.”
“Then have a pleasant evening, Ms. Cruz.”
“Same to you, ma’am.”
The nanomites I’d left with Ms. Amali flowed back to me. I drove home with one eye on the road, the remainder of my attention on what the nanomites had found on our first day.
Wayne Overman’s HR file gave me some insight into who he was as a person: husband and father—and an exemplary employee, if the commendations and promotions in his long work history were to be believed. And while we were at the IT helpdesk, I’d had the nanomites map the other networks on the campus and look into the NSA’s badging software.
We could use the badging software to track Wayne Overman’s campus movements in the weeks before he disappeared. It would take more time in the system to overlay that data with the schematics of the NSA campus and cross-check his movements against the badges of other as-yet-unidentified personnel.
I would need to return to the IT Department and send the nanomites on further explorations.
Jayda Cruz.
“Yes, Nano?”
We require time with the 3D printer.
“What? Has something happened? Has the nanocloud sustained an injury? Have your numbers decreased?”
No, Jayda Cruz. However, we require greater storage capacity. We wish to add capacity to Alpha Tribe’s numbers.
An image of the Repository’s taxonomy and network file structure popped into my head: Xenottabytes of data.
“It’s not necessary for you to download the entire Repository, Nano! We are here to find out what happened to Wayne Overman and to identify those who are involved in the conspiracy to overturn the President’s administration.”
All knowledge is of interest to us, Jayda Cruz.
“Yeah, well, as the Apostle Paul said, “All things are lawful for me, but all things are not expedient.”
Strictly speaking, nothing we have done at the NSA is lawful, Jayda Cruz.
“We’ve been tasked by the President—directly—to uncover those involved in the assassination attempt, to investigate the possible murder of Mr. Overman, and find evidence of collusion to commit treason and sedition. You heard Gamble talk about Executive Order 12333. The President has directed us to infiltrate the NSA. His orders make our actions lawful—that is, those actions that help us figure out this conspiracy, not download all the data in the NSA Repository.”
The nanomites didn’t answer me, but I knew them well enough by now to recognize when they were sulking.
I sighed. “How much time would you need with the printer, Nano?”
At a minimum, forty-eight hours, Jayda Cruz.
“Well, I can’t stay at the safe house forty-eight hours straight, Nano.”
We see no reason why you cannot, Jayda Cruz.
It was my turn not to answer.
Why not, Nano? Because I don’t want to spend my entire weekend twiddling my thumbs, cooped up in that less-than-comfy safe house.
I want to spend the weekend with my husband.
~~**~~
