Blinding Fear Page 4

  “And I did some top notch work at the Sacramento Bee. I was in the running for a Pulitzer on my series about the aging dikes on the Sacramento River.” Claire could feel her blood pressure beginning to rise again. “I received the Reporter of the Year award three years in a row from.......”

  Williams-Jones cut her off while making a “T” with her hands, leaning across the desk. “Look, Claire. This debate is getting us nowhere. I’m not trying to disparage how you got here. I only want to remind you of one of the big reasons I brought you all the way across the country and pay you a six-figure salary to work at the most prestigious newspaper in the world. And here it is: In my view, men and women of color, like you and me, in powerful and influential positions such as you and I have, are invested with a sacred duty to the rest of the black community. We must continue the struggle; be ever vigilant. We must do everything possible to ensure the cultural, professional and financial gains we’ve fought hard to achieve are consolidated, allowing further growth of opportunities for those yet to come. Without moving forward we will inevitably fall back. The position you hold at the Sentinel brings with it great responsibility far beyond the mere words you put on paper.” She leaned back in her chain again. “Have I made myself clear?”

  Claire had heard it all before but had never fully accepted the underlying premise of so-called equal opportunity and diversity in the workplace: that to defeat hatred, ignorance and bigotry you had to discriminate against those accused of discriminating against you. She actually admired Anaya’s commitment to her heritage and devotion to civil rights. But Claire admired and wanted to celebrate both sides of her ethnic lineage. She didn’t want to be defined as “Black,” she just wanted to be known as a great female journalist. Unfortunately, she also knew that to openly express that view right now would probably be professional suicide. She would have to fight her definition of “the good fight” another day. She audibly sighed. “Yes, very clear.”

  Anaya’s head turned slightly to one side and her eyes narrowed. “Are you sure? I have no doubt there are other writers who would be more than happy to accept the assignment.”

  “Yes, I’m sure and I’m sorry. I guess sometimes I’m not a very political person, Anaya.”

  “There are times when all of us have to step outside of our comfort zones to take an active part in a greater good.” She smiled broadly and clapped her hands gently again. “Enough unpleasantness, however. Let me give you the details of your assignment.” She reached into a drawer, pulling out a large manila envelope, handing it across the desk. As Claire opened it and began sorting through the stack of materials, Williams-Jones provided an overview.

  “As you may know there is a growing industry in this country and elsewhere for private companies that send satellites and other payloads into Earth orbit for both governmental and commercial entities. There is also a much newer branch of the business that involves sending very-high-paying tourists into space. There are many companies trying to literally and figuratively get off the ground but so far with limited success. Sir Richard Branson, the flamboyant owner of Virgin Atlantic Airways and other businesses, has for a number of years been trying to get one started but like virtually all the rest, has run into a bevy of financial, technological and regulatory issues that have kept him more or less grounded. The Russians started Space Adventures, Inc. and have sent a modest number into orbit. Unfortunately for them their main booster rockets have proven to be somewhat unreliable and in some case catastrophically so. As a result, some customers who might otherwise want to take a trip, have been scared off.”

  At that moment Claire pulled out an 8x10 head-and-shoulders publicity photo of a distinguished looking, middle-aged or older, Asian man. She could also see his ancestry probably included an African branch. As she perused it Williams-Jones continued.

  “That is Kayode Seok, a Korean-African-American, multi-billionaire who seems to be making better progress in getting other multi-millionaires and billionaires into space. He’s got a very interesting life story. He’s the son of a black Korean War M.A.S.H nurse and a South Korean officer she tended at her field hospital after he was wounded.”

  “Interesting!” Claire gushed. “This is way off the beaten path! Usually it’s an American soldier and female Korean civilian. The fact his mother was a black nurse is a story in itself. In the early 1950s the U.S. military nursing corps was nearly 100% white.”

  She picked up a multipage document that appeared to be a biography of Seok and perused it as Williams-Jones continued to provide a summary.

  “Exactly,” Anaya added. “You can see from the biography they had only one child—Kayode—in 1953 shortly after the armistice. They stayed in Korea but unfortunately, because of his mix-race ancestry, when Kayode was a boy he was subjected to vicious discrimination and prejudice that went far beyond what he might have experienced in the U.S. At that time in Korea, and other Asian countries, any one of mixed-race ancestry faced being totally ostracized from society. Somehow the family fought through it all, eventually sending Kayode to Seoul National University where he earned an MBA at the ripe old age of 20. Samsung Heavy Industries hired him, eventually becoming that division’s president at 40. He became Chairman of the umbrella corporation at 43. Along the way he married, had six kids, added a doctorate in business and made untold billions in Japanese, Chinese and US stock and real estate markets. He retired at 55, came to this country and became a naturalized American citizen. After a couple of years he got bored and decided he wanted to get into the space tourism business.” Anaya stopped to allow Claire to catch up.

  Claire sorted through the other materials in the folder; finding several publicity releases from “KS Space Tourism, Inc.,” many photos of what looked like a variety of standard aircraft and others that resembled some kind of space plane sitting on an airfield with a giant hanger in the background.

  She also found a pamphlet outlining her travel itinerary, hotel and airline tickets.

  Anaya continued. “He set up shop for his new adventure on a long-abandoned Air Force base in Texas that was closed down by Jimmy Carter sometime in the late 70s. Seok bought the place for pennies on the dollar from the grateful developers who’d owned it for years. He then spent hundreds of millions upgrading and expanding the facilities as well as doubling the length of the runways. He hired a boatload of techy, engineering and ex-NASA types. He also bought tons of off-the-shelf, space-related equipment—some of it for virtually nothing—from this country as well as Russia.

  Obviously, the main focus of your assignment is to do a feature article about space tourism generally and Seok specifically. I’d like the secondary thrust to be about how he succeeded against racial prejudice and discrimination and how it actually enabled him to be on the verge of success where others are struggling or simply failed entirely.”

  As her boss described her assignment Claire gradually began to feel her nervousness, resentment and frustration melt away to be replaced with growing excitement. She could clearly see—and had to admit—that Kayode Seok was a fascinating man with an against-all-odds story that would enthrall Sentinel readers.

  “So, what do you think?” Williams-Jones asked, breaking into Claire’s thoughts.

  “I think you’ve got a winner here, Anaya. If I can do it justice, sharing Seok’s life story and what he’s doing with space tourism will make fascinating reading!”

  “I can hardly wait to see what you’ll do.”

  Chapter 4

  FBI Special Agent Quinten Gnash pulled the 2016 Hertz Mercedes-Benz C-300 out of the parking lot of the Hampton Inn near Lehi, Utah at 6:35 a.m.. He headed west on Club House Drive and glanced in his rearview mirror at the red glow of the sun rising over the Wasatch Mountains. For a moment he remembered the old sailor’s chantey: “Red sky in morning, sailors take warning; red sky at night, sailors delight.” His two days in the state had so far been dry and he absently wondered if a storm was on the way.

  He tuned the FM radio to KBNZ
, the Salt Lake City jazz station, to help ease him through the circuitous, 15-minute commute to the other side of the Jordan River. As he punched the controls he noticed a small but annoying hangnail on the ring finger of his right hand. He was tempted to turn around and return to his hotel room to clean it up but then realized he would be late for his 7:00 meeting. He frowned, frustrated with the flaw in his appearance, but continued with his morning drive.

  As the percussive, dissonant strains of Thelonious Monk flying across the keyboard in “Round Midnight” filled the car, Gnash tried to push the hangnail out of his mind. It reminded him of his unhappy childhood at the ravaged hands of his taskmaster father, a brutally tough, ex-football linebacker and Gnash’s brilliant, beautiful but volatile mother. Hours after his high school graduation he fled the anarchy of his home by enrolling in the Marines. Gnash’s very high test scores quickly landed him on the fast track to Officer Candidate School. He graduated at the top of his class and eventually found his way into the Marine Cryptologic Support Battalion. After tours in Iraq and Afghanistan where he helped plan the assassinations of insurgent leaders using signal intelligence, the CIA came calling. They wanted him to plan and actually carryout assassinations wherever necessary—including within U.S borders. He’d taken to his new job with great relish. So much so that his bosses had to “counsel” him on his occasionally excessive violence. Then the FBI asked for help with a new assignment: one that would be his most challenging; one that could literally effect billions of people.

  He broke out of the past to remind himself how much he’d enjoyed his trip to the National Security Agency’s “Intelligence Community Comprehensive National Cybersecurity Initiative Data Center.” He almost laughed out loud every time he even heard the pompous and ridiculously officious name. Some had tried to come up with an acronym but eventually given up. Now, the intelligence pros who worked there simply called it the Utah Data Center. It had been his first visit to the massive, 1.5 square mile, $1.7 billion site where the NSA ostensibly “collected,” “stored” and “processed” signal intelligence from its vast array of passive and active, human and electronic resources worldwide.

  Although he saw only a tiny percentage of the security employees during his trips into and out of the highly secured complex, he was always impressed by their professionalism and thoroughness in their dealings with him. In spite of his multiple trips they always treated him as if they’d never seen him before: carefully checking his IDs, cross-checking him against that days expected non-employee arrivals, and searching his car with extreme thoroughness, before finally admitting him.

  His third-day arrival was no different.

  He pulled up to the 12 foot-high steel entrance gate. A stone-faced guard, wearing a Beretta APX semiautomatic pistol on his hip, stepped out of a heavily reinforced door to the guard post and approached the car. Knowing the drill, Gnash released the trunk and engine latches before stepping out, silently handing the guard his IDs and briefcase. The man took them without comment, and returned to his post. At the same time two other guards started going over the C-300 with various sensors, mirrors and flashlights. After a few minutes they were satisfied and returned inside just as the first guard returned with Gnash’s IDs and briefcase.

  “Everything seems to be in order, Agent Gnash. Have a good day, sir,” he said impassively.

  Gnash said nothing in response as he carefully folded his 6 foot, 5 inch, 230 pound frame back into the Mercedes. He was still somewhat irked at the guard’s butchering of his last name the first time he came through. He’d pronounced it with a hard G.

  He eased past the now-opening gate into the sally port. He stopped a few feet inside, in front of a second gate while the first closed behind him. A few seconds later the second gate opened and he was able to continue. The sally port and other much stricter security measures were relatively new. They’d been implemented not long after a garishly colored blimp owned by far-left-leaning political activists flew near the facility taking pictures. The photos and subsequent publicity had inspired other activists to try to get inside the buildings. After one was caught inside the main foyer with video glasses a security crackdown began in earnest.

  As he continued his slow drive toward the complex’s parking lot he passed a massive sign:

  National Security Agency

  Utah Data Center

  Speed Limit 10 MPH

  Authorized Personnel or Visitors Only

  Visitors Must Park in Designated Spaces Only

  Identification Badges Must Be Worn At All Times

  Visitors May Be Searched Without Warning

  All Areas Subject to Continuously-Monitored Video Surveillance

  Use of Cell Phones or Other Electronic Recording Devices Strictly Forbidden

  Deadly Force Pre-Authorization in Place at All Times

  He smiled grimly, admiring the draconian tenor of the sign, keeping very carefully to the posted 10 miles per hour speed limit. He knew from the point he first approached the main gate, every step he took would be watched with extreme diligence by multiple personnel. He also knew that circling relentlessly 5,000 feet above, unseen and unheard, a Predator drone armed with Hellfire missiles was also watching.

  He had to admit the facility was an engineering and technological marvel. When first revealed, the NSA had stated simply that the Data Center was nothing more than a very large complex of buildings housing giant, sophisticated, very powerful computers whose sole function was to do nothing more than what the name implied: store data—albeit it in very, very large amounts. They said there would be no “Big Brother” residing within its walls who would spy on average citizens, trying its best to invade privacy and destroy personal liberties. “Trust us,” they said.

  Nobody believed them for a second.

  Gnash walked through the large parking lot filled with cars toward the four-story, all-glass main entrance. He couldn’t understand how or why the architects had decided on the upward curving, convex design for the facade. He preferred useful, unadorned simplicity in building architecture.

  Inside the lobby there was no obvious security presence although Gnash knew there were unseen cameras and other security devices everywhere. Posted on a wall, signage with arrows provided rudimentary instructions on how to get to various offices, departments and sub-entities. On another wall was the official seal and motto of the agency: “Defending Our Nation. Securing the Future.”

  He walked down the long main corridor off the lobby, his handmade $1,200 Tanino Crisci shoes providing an easy, almost melodic counterpoint to his long stride. He had debated with himself—since there was nobody else in his life to debate—long and hard about his appetite for the finer things in life. But since he was single and from time to time found himself in the position to “acquire” additional “compensation” for his diligence and hard work, he’d thought, “Why not!”

  His more modestly priced, fine-leather briefcase swung easily in rhythm to his steps. He ignored the numerous individuals, both uniformed and civilian, going to and from the myriad of places within the complex. And since his demeanor and deadly serious facial expression virtually shouted “Trouble!” they ignored him as well.

  After a nearly 100 yard walk he came to a set of double doors set on the left bearing no markings. To the doors’ right was an ID badge security scanner. He put his up to it and was gratified to hear a click from the locking mechanism. He opened the door and stepped inside.

  He was immediately greeted by armed guards who again checked his IDs and briefcase. They had him sign in on a touch-screen monitor, walk through a metal detector and finally was sniffed over by an explosives-detecting German Shepherd. Next was the retinal scanner which completed the check-in procedures with a soft beep and slowly flashing green light. He knew if his signature wasn’t recognized, if he failed the scan, or the dog sat down and stared at him or his briefcase, he would find himself in handcuffs, face-down on the highly polished floor within seconds.

  One of
the guards looked at an iPad he held as security procedures were completed. “Mr. Javad is already in conference room six, Agent Gnash.”

  Again Gnash provided no response. Over the years he’d decided that social pleasantries were generally annoying, worthless and sometimes interfered with his ability to efficiently complete many of his unpleasant tasks. He simply nodded and headed off down the brightly lit corridor. Photographs of the many NSA buildings and facilities around the world adorned the walls. After a short distance he came to another unmarked door, which he opened without additional procedures.

  Inside was a windowless, plushly carpeted room approximately 20 by 15 feet. A plain oak conference table sat in the center with a wireless keyboard and TV remote control sitting on it. Numerous small piles of paper along with various pens, pencils and markers were spread about. A dozen comfortably stuffed chairs lined the table and walls. A Samsung 70-inch flat screen monitor filled most of one wall, displaying a spread sheet filled with numbers. Gnash knew the room was “hardened” against any kind of passive or active electronic eves-dropping; and for good reason. Only meetings of the most highly classified status were held in it.

  In the room was another man whom Gnash had immediately ID’d as having Indian descent the first time they’d met. Why he’d gone to work for the NSA was a deep mystery to Gnash. He should have become a doctor or engineer, owned a motel or convenience store. Isn’t that what all upstanding Indian parents expected their children to do? It was also annoying, since he preferred the presence of those with ethnic origins at least somewhat similar to his own.

  Javad looked up briefly from poring over data on various sheets of paper as well as on the screen. “Morning, Gnash.”

  Gnash’s response was as usual perfunctory as he sat down at the head of the table and opened his briefcase. “What’ve we got today?”

  Javad had learned in two days of working with Gnash to ignore the other man’s complete lack of concern for professional and social etiquette as well as just plain good manners. The two had to work together to get a job done, nothing more.