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Unknown Office Complex, Lower Maryland, 11:00 pm

Well its not as hard as it looks, of course those guys were masters, I’m just some sniveling kid. Now don’t get me wrong, hacking the Pentagon is a feat in and of itself. A feat many have done before me, actually there was an article just last week that had a how- to on just that subject. No, the real cream of the crop they aim for something higher, the Echelon database.

Owned and operated by the NSA, this bugger can hold all the cell phone calls, all the emails, all the communications in the world from there the Echelon’s top super computers interpret and store the information in a hermetically sealed vault. Nobody has ever been able to get in, despite all the attempts; some leading in arrests, for all intensive purposes the network is secure.

Now I, only the most suicidal person alive, am going to try to the very same thing! At risk of my body, life, and very well my entire career as a hacker, I’m going in. Why? The answer is simple, to see if our rights have been violated by those in power. Ever since September Eleventh an unshakable fear has enveloped the nation like a brush fire being spread through winds of propaganda. The needless War on Terror has continued to this day. Since the day John Ashcroft said in short, “If you’re not with me, you’re in league with terrorists,” our people have been under the watchful eye of Homeland Security. The new court system or the lack there of one for declared ‘enemy combatants’ have left hundreds jailed based on petty accusations of their paranoid neighbors and friends. They were good, decent men and women caught in the middle of a witch trial rivaling that of McCarthyism. Their own friends and family accused them of them of terrorist connections in hopes of government rewards. No lawyer was allowed to plead his or her case. Just last week my brother was apprehended on the state’s loose definition of terrorism. They said his hacking was detrimental to national security that it would lead to widespread chaos. They fabricated evidence leading the gullible public to believe he was almost Osama Bin Laden’s right hand man! His real crime, searching for proof the War on Terror never existed, and, if it did it, has long been dead. His crime was searching for the truth in a world of lies.

There’s a buzz, a click, and a hum as I sit in my cheap used Accord, the ‘98 model has been obsolete since the hybridization of 2010, staring at the blue screen of my lap top, a top of the line Intel AI 80, using my black-market satellite connection, I tapped into the weaker wireless connection between the two obsidian buildings. Sure it is one of the most secure connections in the Federal government, way stronger than those in DC and New York, but it is still the weakest point in the network.

The computer busily working out the encryption codes, millions upon millions, I occupy myself by squeezing an orange-pink Martian figure. It’s eyes bulge as I crush it, then with a sigh it squeaks. I hate these things, take forever. As the computer continues to plod through the sea of code, my mouth becomes dry. My back is sweaty with fear, with anxiety, with all the possibilities. My ears and eyes prick up to the slightest movement or sound. With my luck somebody will catch me, probably an MP or a cop.

Variables it all comes to variables, my decryption program is one of the best, but it doesn’t mean jack in the long run. It all depends on how many times the codes change, who changes them, when they are changed, every tiny detail I can’t control. Maybe they will be weaker today, maybe they will be stronger, undoubtedly this is going to be hard. I haven’t even reached the password screen yet. Hell, I haven’t even found the backdoor, yet. For now all I can do is wait and pray.

Suddenly there’s a bang, if I weren’t in such a small car I would jump ten feet into the air. Where did it come from? I look around the cabin for something different something out of place. Beside me, everything is fine. Behind me, just the same equipment as always. I nervously shift to see what’s in the rear view mirror. The red-blue flashing lights of the squad car behind my car blind me. Slowly a large, stocky patrolman walks up to my driver side window.

There’s a slight rapt against the glass as he leans over, cold face behind dark sunglasses. In an official voice he says, “S’cuse me son, but you’re parked in a fire lane.”

My head darts around to all sides of my car, I’m a frightened animal, trapped in his own cage. My heart beats out of my chest, despite how minor my offense. The cop beats against the window lightly again in hopes of getting my attention. “Son, I’m afraid you’ll have to move this vehicle. I don’t want to have to tell you again,” he explains with a hint of a Southern accent. It is a good thing he can’t see through the barely legal tint of my window.

His voice freezes me in place. I don’t know what to do. I’m afraid that if I roll down my window I’ll have to explain what all the computer equipment is for. I don’t want to get caught, but I have to do something. Quickly I change my screen to that of a random site, of all things it ends up being a smut page. Then, pressing the power windows button roll down the window. It jerks as my fingers shake under the pressure. After going up and down a few times, making a fool out of myself, I finally manage to see the face of the nonplussed policeman.

With a smile I say, “I’m sorry officer, what was that again?” Like a deer caught in headlights I completely forgot the request he made.

His mouth flattens; obviously this is not the response he expected. I can’t see his eyes, yet I can feel them pierce my frail body. He breathes deeply; third time is a charm he must be telling himself. Then, my processor in the back goes insane. It broke the encryption codes! I was about to break out the bubbly when reality set in, if I saw the bright flashing lights, and heard the cavalry call of the large machine in the back, the patrolman did also. I notice his head move slowly from the back seat to the screen of laptop.

“Son, don’t you think that is a little too much power for a horn dog such as yourself?” he asks, his smart tone hidden beneath an air of experience.

I stutter, “O-oh y-y-you mean this?” I point to the page; it was too revolting for even my tastes. “My girlfriend, she doesn’t like me on these pages. So I go out h-here to umm… well you know.” An innocent smile crosses my lips in hopes of winning him over.

The cop replies, “But what about that big thing back there?” He gets out his sleek, department issue flashlight, shining the clean white beam at the glittering light show of my processor. Details, details, it comes down to details. How was I to explain this?

I laugh anxiously as I fumble through my glove compartment; I know how I would explain it. I rustle the sea of papers around. Some were official documents; license, registration, insurance; others weren’t quite as legal, a forged ID badge for every government office in lower Maryland. Those really come in handy in a pinch. I don’t have one for these offices though, so I go for my fail-safe. The legitimate security firm I work for issued ID’s for occasions such as this. Giving him another, please don’t hurt me smile, I pass him the card.

Nodding, he dwells over the new information. “So you work for this L & R Security Corp?”

Locke and Rousseau Security Corporation isn’t as big as it sounds. In reality, it is one of the smallest computer security firms in northern Virginia. It is our legal job to secure the information networks of the government offices around Washington, DC. Of course the costumer always gets more than he bargains for, while we are working to “secure” the network, we ferret out weaknesses, if we don’t know find any weaknesses we plant them. The consumer is of course quite oblivious of this fact, government workers, even the best, are no match for our skills. We are the silent frontline soldiers in the war to keep the government from extending its grip on the populace. As quietly as we waltzed, we leave never seen again by any one office.

“Yes sir, I am, these office buildings were hacked just recently,” I explain, lying to the cop with a straight face. “I was dispatched by L & R, as per our contract with Homeland Security, to diagnose the problem and if possible provide a solution.”

Pensively listening to every word I say the patrolman nods; clearly I must be getting to him. “So you have permit for parking here?” he asks. I curse common sense, a permit! The one thing I had forgot! Of course he would ask for a permit. A single blue Accord sitting in the middle of a fire lane is sure to be suspicious!

Just when I have my confidence back, I lose it. I was sure he was going to leave after seeing my ID, why didn’t I anticipate this! I never was good at chess, the moment I think I have a good move, where I think my opponent can’t block me, I get hit by some unknown move! I never look all around me, never consider every detail. Worse yet, I’m not good with high stress situations. The anxiety building in me, I could just tell I would flinch. I could just tell I would be caught.
“So do you?” asks the cop in a kind tone, by now he has realized my edgy disposition.

“I don’t have it on me at the moment,” I explain slowly, as honestly and politely as possible. I don’t want to rile him or make him suspicious, or better yet as suspicious as he already is! After a short, barely two second, pause I continue, “… I can, however, call my boss! He’ll just send it to my PDA…” I anxiously grab it from the armrest near the passenger’s seat, waving it so as to show that its there.

“Okay I can wait,” he said in a monotone. There’s a buzz and crackle over the walky-talky attached to his shoulder. He mumbles something into it, I can only guess. No doubt, they think there’s something wrong with this picture and am running a security check on me. I just know it.

While the cop talks with his commander, I contact the secretary of L & R and request I speak to Jacques, the executive in charge of L & R and our leader. There’s an air of business behind the young man’s face, a deceptive mask that is cracked by the obvious tie-die t-shirt under his black, padded work jacket. He’s stoking his goatee as he surveys reports from the field when I see his face over my PDA. Absent-minded of my worried face staring him into his eyes through my tiny palm pilot, I cough to get his attention.

“Oh, hey man!” he smiles through his ragged goatee. “You get that job done?”

“No…” I pause then look back at the pre-occupied policeman. “I have a… hitch.”

“What?” he asks, trying to see my ’hitch’ from behind my head. “Anything I can I can do.”

“Yeah, Jacques,” he explain. “I need those parking permits you made earlier, ya know for fire lanes.”

My commander laughs and shakes his head. I forgot to mention this was my first day out. It’s company hazing to give the rookie the riskiest mission possible. They say it ’builds stamina’ for the fight ahead. I personally think it’s a cruel burn and a sick joke. Up until know I had spent most of my service with L & R at a desk, usually checking the code for my fellow hackers. I made sure their programs were safe, that no computer would recognize them, that they wouldn’t break down in the middle of their job, and just general little mistakes that could compromise a job. It was a decent job, I enjoyed I was doing my part, but it lacked the flair, the romance of a frontline hacker. When the field agents had parties I was always the last invited, when they were out on missions I was always parroting their information. I listened to their stories, and couldn’t help to be entranced. They were the James Bond’s of L & R. I might as well have been Money Penny.

“So you got caught didn’t you?” Jacques asks kindly.
“Ermm… Yeah,” I squeak in an embarrassed whisper. “So can you get them to me.”

With a giggle he says, “I sent them to already.” He points past me, “I think your lil friend would like to take a peak.”

I turn to see the somewhat annoyed cop looking over shoulder. I smile and respond, “I’ll just print this out right away.” Now, anybody in the early 21st century would have considered this suspicious. I certainly would have, but world has changed. Everything is electronic, ever since the IRS began its push for E-Taxes, official forms such as permits were sent via the internet with specially encrypted “finger prints” to confirm their legitimacy. I took nearly a year for L & R to crack the finger print system in the US government forms.

“No,” he said putting out his large hand, “just send it to my PDA.” I do as he asks. Police PDA’s have a built in confirmation system. He was serious about the permit. After he reads the counterfeit, nodding obviously pleased with my papers. I sigh in relief; hopefully he will go away now. Hopefully I can get back to my job, hopefully.

My brown hair stands on edge as he lingers reading the permit. It shouldn’t be taking this long. He should have left by now. I break out into a cold sweat, there must have been a slight draft in the car, or in the least my brain registered it as such. My pale skin was a bumpy condensing soda can. My glasses could have fogged up with all the sweat. I almost was on the brink of hyperventilating when the cop says, “Okay your fine, go about your business.”

In my own little pessimistic world, I barely hear the confirmation of my innocence. I remained as still as frightened rabbit, I couldn’t move. I could barely breathe. My small, wiry body is tense. My muscles are clenched in fear, as if waiting for the moment to happen. The moment in which I will be arrested as a terrorist by the cop, the inevitable consequence of my rebellion against the silently oppressive post- September 11th government. I awake from my trance; still thinking the cop was still near my open window. In a small voice a make the belated reply, “Thank you, officer.” The officer is nowhere to be seen.