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Half a dozen guys casually dressed in shorts or jeans were stretched out in a tiled exercise pit. Nearby, co-workers sipped coffee, made bets on who could hold plank the longest and heckled wobblers. Down-spots mounted below the cooling equipment, used to collect and remove heat generated by computers, lit the work zone.
Only one guy, seated at a PC, was doing anything that looked remotely like work. But based on the general lack of industry, he was more likely making a date with a chick on a chat line.
All my preconceptions of an organization run along military lines went down the tube. Mind you, I wasn’t even aware of the NSA’s existence until it hit the headlines when Eric Snowden broke into their classified computer files. Back then I was flying missions over Syria as part of a joint US-Australia defence alliance. I thought the assertion that Snowden’s disclosures would destroy the credibility of the joint peace-keeping force was laughable. That horse bolted when we’d bombed the shit out of civilians.
“Not exactly what I expected,” I said
“Johnny Jihads don’t work nine to five, which is why this place operates 24/7,” said Kramer. He’d mistaken my frustration at being shanghaied as disapproval of the staff’s casual approach. “Employees are given the autonomy to use the space for personal pursuits ... just as long as the job gets done.” He jerked a thumb at the guy seated at the computer. “When someone is wearing ear-buds it means don’t bother him.”
“Is he ...?”
“Eavesdropping? Hell yes! The US is the top cyber power. It doesn’t matter if it’s the Pope, or the leader of North Korea we’ve got the know-how to tap into his cell phone.”
“As long as there’s a legit reason ...”
Kramer didn’t let me finish. “Is combating terrorism and defending your country from foreign aggression legit enough for you?”
The security agency had come in for a great deal of flak. From the tone of his voice I guessed he took it personally. I nodded and changed the subject to something less contentious. “Why aren’t those guys in uniform?”
“The NSA employs a huge number of civilians. In this division it’s IT technicians ... a weird bunch and PR writers ... even weirder. It’s a relief to have a regular Joe on the team.”
Me ... a regular Joe! Kramer’s appraisal came as a bit of a shock. I saw myself as a devil-may-care maverick.
“Let’s go on over,” said Kramer. “The guys are looking forward to meeting their new boss.”
“Do all these people work for me?”
“Yes, but not exclusively. This unit provides IT and PR support to all the countries involved in Five Eyes.” Raising a massive hand, he counted them off on his fingers, “Canada, Australia, New Zealand, the UK and the States.”
“Sounds like there could have been a mix up ... according to my orders I’ve been assigned to some outfit called ASP.”
“No mix up. ASP is code name for the Australian Surveillance Program, one of the divisions of Five Eyes.” He rolled his big brown peepers. “Top brass like acronyms that are symbolic and the more contentious the better. ASP delivers on both counts, Mo.”
“How, Sergeant?” I said, stressing sergeant. Familiarity was fine in private, but not in front of the ranks.
“An asp is a small but extremely venomous snake, Sir.” Way back in history an asp put paid to Cleopatra, the Queen of Egypt. According to the PR hotshots it’s a metaphor for the Australian division ... small and deadly.”
“How small?”
“You’re it.” He waved an expansive hand at the IT guys, talking noisily and making bets on the last three plankers. “They’re your back-up ... you share them with the other foreign units.”
I’d never seen a more undisciplined bunch. Trouble was they were civilians and I didn’t know the protocol. “Might it be best if speak to the general before I address them.”
“General Lee doesn’t have the time to spoon feed you, Sir.”
Spoon feed me ... I was livid. Ordinarily I’d have balled him out, but I owed Otis my life. “Hooah, Sarge,” I said, the standard military response to anything requiring mandatory enthusiasm, “Let’s get this show on the road.”
