ONE
The Office of
Hank Berringer, Assistant Deputy Director of National Intelligence
George Bush
(the elder) Intelligence Center
Langley,
Virginia
Election Night
Hank Berringer wanted desperately not to believe what
he was reading, and yet there seemed to be no other option. For one thing he
was the one who had written it, this summation of the nineteen separate reports
that had taken him the better part of two sleepless days to read, glean what he
could from each, and then try to connect the disparate pieces into a coherent
whole. None of the reports, taken apart from the others, presented anything
approaching a complete picture, but somewhere around report number thirteen the
pieces had begun to fall into place, and after that the picture just got
clearer, and more vivid, and scary as all hell.
And so, just to make sure he hadn’t
missed something, he went over the whole thing again. And again. Searching,
hoping for a different conclusion that just wasn’t to be found.
“Okay,” he said. “Back up a sec. All
of this…” he set a hand on top of the nineteen bound reports. “…means nothing
unless he wins. Right? Which is not gonna happen. Everybody says so.”
But just in case, Hank Berringer did
something he hadn’t done since his sophomore year at USC when he thought for
sure he had caught a social disease at a frat party by accidentally drinking
out of the same red cup as frat brother Matt “the Clap” McConnell. He placed
his elbows on the desk, laced his fingers, closed his eyes, and prayed.
“I know it’s been a while,” he began,
tentatively. “Okay, it’s been a really long time. My bad. And I know you’re
probably hearing the same thing from other people. Millions, maybe. But they don’t
know what I know. If they did, oh god, can you imagine? Of course you can.
Sorry. Anyway, I hope you’re keeping an eye on it and you’ve got things under
control.”
There was a single knock, the office
door swung open and Anderson Shipe, senior research analyst and Hank’s once a
week tennis opponent, leaned into the room.
“You praying?” said Shipe.
“What?” Hank morphed his prayer hands
into an evil genius fingertip on fingertip bounce. “Of course not. Thinking.
Just thinking.”
“Well, you might want to consider
adding in some prayer,” said Shipe. “He won. They’ve all called it, even PBS
and MSNBC.” He shook his head. “Jesus.”
“You’re kidding,” said Hank. “This
isn’t something to kid about, Andy, but tell me you’re kidding.”
“I wish,” said Shipe. “Thank you very
much you Electoral College and there goes the fucking neighborhood. Never
thought I’d say this, but the private sector is looking really good right about
now.” He nodded at the reports on Hank’s desk. “What are you working on,
anyway?”
“Hmm? Nothing. Data leak at some
airbase. The usual slog.”
“Yeah? Well enjoy it while you can.
I’ve got a feeling things aren’t going to be so usual around here much longer.”
All Hank could do was nod.
“Listen, you’re busy,” said Shipe. “We’ll
grab a beer later, okay? Hey, maybe we can start our own consulting firm. Door
open or closed?”
“Ah, closed. Thanks.”
“Crazy,” Shipe shook his head. “Fucking
crazy.”
He headed down the hall, leaving
Hank’s door open. Just as Hank was pushing away from his desk to go close the
door himself, Shipe reappeared.
“Heading the wrong way,” said Shipe.
“I don’t even know which way I’m going.” He closed Hank’s door.
Hank leaned back in his chair and
directed his gaze at the ceiling, hands no longer in prayer mode but now
gripping the armrests with a white knuckle intensity. “This,” he said
accusingly, “is why you don’t hear from me more often. Kinda seems pointless,
doesn’t it?”
He loosened his grip on the armrests
and gave a couple of ferocious, flat-handed whacks.
“Shit,” he said. “Shit, shit, shit,
shit, shit.”
Then, with a sudden resolve, Hank
Berringer took a thumb drive out of the top drawer of his desk, found the USB
slot, and shoved it in. He chose “Save As” and clicked on the thumb drive icon.
A long minute later he removed the thumb drive, slipped it into the inside
breast pocket of his jacket, and typed in a thirty-seven-character security
code that activated the clean sweep program on his computer. Almost four nerve
wracking minutes later it reported success in rendering all files virtually
unretrievable. Not perfect, but he couldn’t very well take a sledgehammer or
power drill to the thing right now. He dumped all the bound reports into a
reusable shopping bag his aunt had given him three years ago on Earth Day, and
Hank Berringer, Assistant Deputy Director of National Intelligence, left the
building.
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