Fatal Justice (Jack Lamburt #1)(17)
I went to my workstation and started my TOR browser. After the normal delay to ensure privacy, I logged in to the HFS portal. HFS, commonly known as Home Front Security, is a top-secret federal agency. So secret that the folks who work there had to sign an agreement never to tell anyone who they really worked for, or what they actually did. I knew because I’d had to sign one.
The agreement stayed in force for life, and every employee was given a custom-made cover story of their job duties. Mine was as a computer specialist for the State Department. If we told anybody about our real job, we forfeited our pension, turned over our firstborn, and were rewarded with an all-expenses-paid extended vacation to Leavenworth’s version of Guantánamo Bay. I wasn’t sure if waterboarding was part of the Club Fed package, but I wouldn’t have been surprised if it was. Not to gain any intel, just to do it for the fun of it. And practice.
HFS had been started after 9/11 and was tasked with gathering information. On everyone. We didn’t discriminate. We spied on every single person. If you had a pulse, we knew how many times a minute it beat. We were the gods of information gathering.
We unofficially labeled HFS “Holy Fuckin’ Shit,” because that was the reaction every single congressman and women had after we showed them examples of our intelligence-gathering capabilities during budget season. You would have said the same thing.
Everything—phones, TVs, Wi-Fi routers, microwave ovens, watches, refrigerators, thermostats, washing machines, water meters, satellite dishes, cable boxes, even your wife’s Tampax—is our electronic probe into your privacy.
But the grand pooh-bah, big daddy of the mac of all eavesdropping devices, is the smartphone. Thank you, Steve Jobs. That’s right, thanks to a little secretive strong-arming by our Twitter-happy president, all manufacturers implant a chip in every single device. Every one. That chip allows HSF to log in to your smartphone whenever we want, to listen, record video, and even check your email. Think you’re safe when your phone is off?
Wrong!
Want to know what Joey in Connecticut was doing at 8:21:30 last night? The little devil had used his mother’s credentials to log in to her laptop while she was out on a date, and was on RedTube watching two MILFs going to town on each other on a sixty-foot yacht while the owner drank champagne from their shoes.
At least Joey was smart enough to delete his browsing history before he shut down. Amazing how smart middle schoolers are these days. Too bad he didn’t know about TOR, though…
While little Joey was learning about life on the high seas, Father George in Michigan was penning an email to one of his parishioners explaining why the rectory needed a new furnace. After a glass or two of red wine, he had this strange habit of typing in the nude. I had to admit, I hadn’t expected such bravado from an Irish priest. Given their, ahem, shortcomings and all.
At least the good Father’s alleged trafficking of old men for sex slaves turned out to be false. He also deserved credit for good posture while typing, back and head straight as an arrow. Part of that comes from his discipline of typing for twenty minutes and standing for five.
I scheduled my breaks to coincide with when he stood up, rationalizing that if I saw him naked one more time I’d be scarred for life and have to go on disability. At least now I knew why he’d become a priest.
The president was taking a little personal time with the first family and watching A Christmas Story. He slapped his knee and laughed like a little kid when Ralphie said “fudge.” It was good to see him relaxing and enjoying life for a change.
Senator XXXXX was hosting a full-blown orgy in an oversized hot tub in D.C. while her husband was visiting his elderly mother in California. Her twenty-years-her-junior lover was a big hit, and easily won the night’s MVP award. Amazing what a little Coke and Viagra could do for one’s recuperative powers. I toyed with the idea of adding myself to the guest list for her next shin ding, but chickened out.
Dr. Klein was… oh, you get the idea.
HFS knows whatever they want to know, about anybody, anywhere. Nobody is safe. If you think you’re safe, email me and within a few minutes, I’ll get back to you with what you had for dinner last night, how regular your bowel movements are, your flaccid penis length, and how much you dial back your scale to convince your wife you’re following her low-carb diet recommendations. Shame on you.
Act right now and as a special bonus I’ll even let you know what percentage of her orgasms are fake.
So how is that massive amount of data organized and archived? That’s where experts like myself come in. My master’s degree is in IT security, and when I first graduated Notre Dame, I went to work for the CIA.
After a few months of working there I got bored with analyzing foreign activity, so I transferred to NSA. My excellent work ethic, plus my father’s millions in political donations, made me pretty popular and labeled me as an up-and-comer in my secretive little D.C. tribe.
When the idea to form HFS was approved by the president, complete with plausible deniability, my name was thrown in the hat. Together with a handful of others who could keep a secret and had no immediate family that might call the police in case we went missing, we ran the most secretive organization in the history of the planet earth. Holy shit, that was fun.
But all good things end and I have since moved on to the greener pastures of sheriffdom. I couldn’t be happier. Watching Father George type emails in the nude was surprisingly stressful. I couldn’t even tell any of my friends about it. Horrible.