Michael sat in his office, once again continuing his endless battle against countless projects and reports waiting for his approval, while taking the occasional sip of black coffee. Upon hearing someone knock on the door, the Admiral raised his head and quirked a brow. "Come in!"
The door opened to reveal a familiar face; a dark-skinned African-American, appearing to be in his mid-50s. He was none other than Langston Graham, Director of the CIA. The Admiral's eyes narrowed in recognition. Back in the day, the two of them worked together on several occasions and carried out some high-risk covert ops in the Gulf. Graham had been very competitive and ambitious even back then, but they had been on good terms.
As time went by and he grew up, the way Michael used to see the world evolved, he got married, fathered two children (a boy and a girl), and bought a house. By the time his children went to college, he also experienced some life-altering events; consequently, many of his philosophies – especially about how the intelligence agencies and personnel in general should operate – had completely changed. This led to him becoming a maverick amongst his fellow agency heads, with whom he occasionally had disagreements on said issues. That said, he didn't interfere with the way they ran their agencies; as much as he hated to admit it, he still had to make a living.
Seeing Graham enter his chambers meant that something unexpected had happened, which unnerved him a bit even though he didn't let it show.
"It's been a while, Warhawk. Good to see you are still managing despite your age." Graham greeted him before taking a seat.
The Admiral gave a slight chuckle. "I still have a lot of fight left in me, Viper. But don't you think the CIA Director has more pressing matters to deal with than my retirement plans?"
"Indeed. The Belgrade bombing. The destruction of the Intersect facility. The loss of the next-gen tank schematics." Graham said, his gaze lingering on the American flag both of them loved and desired to protect in their own ways. "Still, I think I will survive. You know better than most how good I am at surviving."
The Admiral nodded, taking a deep calming breath before slowly taking a sip of coffee. "Time will soon pass us by. I can only hope the next generation lives up to the challenge." He said before turning back to Graham. "And hopefully they won't take the clandestine teachings to heart." Graham's eyes narrowed slightly. "It would be better if they found their own path, based on their own human reasoning and experiences. Anyway, enough beating around the bush. What brings you here?"
"I have heard some interesting stories about a man in your agency; a certain rookie analyst by the name of Charles Bartowski. For example – NIH researchers wanted to know how land use and roadways impacted air pollution and, in turn, how pollution would affect health in local residents. Apparently he played a major role in the creation of an advanced GIS technology, a first-of-its-kind Geo AI that helped them analyze traffic patterns over different times of the day in relation to the concentration of harmful particles in the air. By using this information to predict when pollution levels would become dangerous, the city could issue warnings as early as possible. I believe this success earned you a significant sum of budget dollars." Graham replied.
"Well, he is a gem of a person and one of the most brilliant minds to join our agency," the Admiral said with a hint of pride in his tone.
"Indeed, though I am curious as to why you seemingly plucked him out of nowhere two years ago. He was a proven cheater at the time, was he not?"
"It's a long story. The short version is we initially recruited him for his hacking skills after seeing his performance at a DATACON event. And by the time his polygraph exam was underway, Stanford declared him innocent of any and all wrongdoings." Michael remarked in a casual tone.
"Hmm... Interesting." Graham responded thoughtfully. He actually remembered Charles Bartowski from the Stanford debacle five years prior. George Fleming, the CIA recruiter stationed in said institution, attempted to bring him into the fold after taking note of his intellectual abilities and the knowledge he possessed in various tech-related fields. As it turned out, Bryce "Pain in his Ass" Larkin (a recruit at the time) – God damn him to hell – was Bartowski's roommate. He convinced Graham that Bartowski was a scam artist who made easy money by using his hacking skills to steal test answers and sell them to other students. Bryce even promised to hand him over to the authorities himself, which he did.
Out of anger and disappointment, Graham tried to hurt Bartowski even more and wanted to teach the brat a lesson for messing with his agency's recruitment process. The Provost was initially expected to strip him of his scholarship, give him a few months of community service and let him take his final exam; a light sentence based on his overall upstanding behavior and the evidence pointing towards his supposed guilt being of a low standard. However, Graham used his political might to force Stanford to expel Bartowski outright.
In the end, he was proven wrong. He shouldn't have jumped to conclusions based on what he heard from Larkin and Fleming, which made him feel somewhat frustrated. In his haste to have Bartowski punished, he threw away an opportunity to acquire a bright and brilliant recruit.
"Do you intend to play a bigger role in the new Intersect initiative? Bartowski may prove to be an ideal candidate for Project Omaha." Graham offered with a glint in his eyes. "Great memory, off-the-chart IQ, a keen eye for detail and sharp perception. I believe we can work something out that benefits both our agencies. Besides, keeping an analyst under control shouldn't be difficult."
"I am sorry, old friend." Michael remarked in a dry tone. "I don't mind lending you support or helpful advice as far as technical or scientific aspects are concerned. However, I will personally refrain from getting involved with unethical activities. And I certainly will not force someone in my agency's employ to be part of something which I deem to be neither safe nor ethical. I have no intention of repeating the mistakes of my predecessors, like bringing in Dr Hartley all those years ago." He concluded in a stern tone, leaving no room for further argument.
Graham's eyes narrowed dangerously. "You still suffer from the same stubbornness which has always prevented you from seeing the big picture. It is a shame that you have forgotten your own lessons." Michael's eyes met his glare before Graham turned towards the door. "In any case, I can rest easier for the time being. After all, who knows? NGA policies might not stay the same when a new director swears in." With that closing remark, he left. In truth, he intended to make his own observations as well. He already knew that Bartowski undertook special analyst training and was handpicked by NGA to study at NIU campus for a brief while. In addition to all that. he disappeared for more than six and half months after winning the first prize in some DARPA competition , only to somehow miraculously re appear and start working for NGA as if he was nothing more than your everyday ordinary techspert . Graham couldn't help but feel slightly suspicious about everything. His gut feeling was that Bartowski was part of something big, something important, something which could possibly make or break his entire career. He had learned to listen to that feeling to discern what his mind missed.
He needed to keep a closer eye on Bartowski.
...xxxxxxxx...xxxxxxxxx...
Needless to say, Chuck was still having some difficulty getting to grips with everything that had just happened; a familiar feeling where he was concerned, given the matter at hand. After learning the truth about his father and his ongoing involuntary stint as a host for state-of-the-art software, there wasn't much out there that could faze him. Even the fact he was waiting with Casey in an otherwise empty hallway and could clearly see him playing with his Glock 29.
Who the hell is this person? And how rude can he get? He is treating a guy he just met as an inferior being. Just like that Saiyan prince with the weird haircut who went through an existential mid-life crisis just because he wanted a specific hair color.
Casey, on the other hand, seemed a bit intrigued. To his utmost displeasure he never got the chance to become a drill sergeant because the drill sergeants feared him. Putting the fear of God or himself in civilian employees cheered him up. He could tell Bartowski was a bit nervous but he tried his best not to let it show. He just sat there quietly, concentrating on the contents of the file. To give credit where it was due, he looked the part of a serious company scientist, even though he was just a rookie who finished his Masters at the National Intelligence University last year. At least that's what his file said.
Precisely 115 minutes and 35 seconds later (Chuck was counting), the door opened. Both men stood up expectantly.
"You better behave yourself out there, Bartowski. You are about to meet a very powerful individual in the intelligence community."
Chuck turned to Casey, trying to force a smile on his face.
"I appreciate your concern Agent Casey, but I believe I am more than capable of taking care of myself. My INT levels are over nine thousand." Chuck finished with a two-finger salute.
"Good for you." Casey remarked without a care in the world, throwing him a mild analytical gaze before both of them entered the room. Clearly, the government was splashing out on furniture; there were just two chairs in the room, one of which was placed behind a desk (which had a small laptop on it). Behind the desk sat a woman with reddish hair; she looked about a decade younger than his boss and had a very stern expression on her face. She was looking at him with a measuring gaze, as though he was some sort of equipment she was thinking of purchasing. Her scrutiny made him uncomfortable.
It didn't take him long to figure out said individual was General Diane Beckman, Director of the NSA. She was a public figure so he obviously knew of her.
"Good afternoon, Mr Bartowski. I believe we have met each other before."
"Yes Ma'am. You awarded me my certificate last year alongside many other NIU graduates. I went there to work on a research project back then. If my memory serves me right, You delivered a speech about the NIU becoming the center of academic life for the intelligence community."
"Ah, I remember now. You were part of the team that won the cyber grand challenge that year at DARPA."
"Yeah. It was not all me, though. Everyone worked really hard for that. Besides, anyone can win a competition so it's not that big a deal."
"Perhaps. Perhaps not. But finishing your Masters in Computer Science and Engineering at at Washington State University in the mere span of four and half months is ." Beckman spoke with a hint of curiosity and amusement in her tone. Chuck didn't really know whether to feel happy or sad. Being in the spotlight was supposed to be a good thing but in this scenario he wasn't sure if that held true.
"So what can I do for you, Ma'am?" Chuck asked, clasping his hands together. Sweat beaded down his neck as he spent what felt like an eternity awaiting her response.
Leaning forward from her chair, she sharply narrowed her eyes at him. "After 9/11, all intelligence and law enforcement agencies were asked to play nice and share details with each other. In order to do that, we built a very special kind of supercomputer which not only stored every scrap of data we had but analyzed it in order to discern meaningful chatter and patterns. Metaphorically speaking, it even had its own eyes and ears. Last month, a CIA agent whose codename was Brian Anderson went rogue and attempted to steal it. Before he was killed, he managed to convert everything into a series of encrypted pictures and stored them inside this PDA. Unless we decrypt and extract the data by week's end, this machine will self-destruct and all those secrets will be gone forever."
"And you think I can help you with this... thing?" Chuck found the very idea rather ludicrous.
"Under ordinary circumstances... I wouldn't have allowed it." Beckman replied in a thoughtful tone. "But after seeing one of your past projects, I changed my mind."
"My past projects?"
Beckman unwrapped a bundle in her right hand, revealing what appeared to be a pair of normal-looking glasses. She tapped the bridge, causing the glasses to produce a momentary cerulean glow.
Chuck instantly froze, starting to feel a bit hot under his collar.
Fourteen year-old Chuck was crying on a bench. He had a really bad day today. He was short, he was scrawny and the fact that he was smarter than the entire class combined didn't help much. He hoped to make new friends in the school. He hoped the situation would change. Alas... He always seemed to attract the worst to him. Everyone ignored him like the plague and when they did interact with him, it was just to taunt or make fun of him. He sat in the bus stand alone. He had always been alone. Even his parents were now gone. Ellie tried her best, but the loss of their parents was a void that may never be filled.
Suddenly, the sound of a horn blowing got his attention. He looked up only to see a young woman emerging from an old and rusty, albeit functional car. It was none other than Eleanor Bartowski, his beloved sister / de facto guardian. She blinked at seeing the frail teen crying and immediately sat beside him. She patted his shoulder and spoke in a very soothing tone.
"What happened, kiddo? Why are you crying rivers like this?"
"Big sis! Do you... think I am weak?" Chuck asked hesitantly. The question had been bothering him for a while now.
"Hmm... Where has this come from?" Ellie asked with curiosity.
"I am not very good at sports stuff. I am scrawny and I even have glasses on top of that. Liz said she can't be friends with me anymore 'cause I am pathetic and not cool like everyone else!" Chuck responded dejectedly, barely able to hold his tears. With a comforting smile, Ellie patted his shoulders and forced him to look up.
"Answer me, Chuck! Is water weak or strong? If strong, how strong? If weak, how weak?"
"If it meets obstacles, it avoids them. Water is weak and cowardly. Fire is super cool." Chuck replied, pumping his fists in the air.
"Water is good. It must give of itself endlessly, to embrace all of creation and revive dead seeds, until the ground dries up and cracks because there is nothing more to give. It makes itself humble and flows to where it flows. Thus, because water doesn't try to become strong, it is good." Ellie responded with a smile, ruffling his hair.
"But... that doesn't make sense!" Chuck exclaimed, dumbfounded.
"Everyone has their own definition of strength. Some think physical strength is real strength, some consider themselves cool just because they are wealthy and a number of people say that intelligence is the true strength. It's really difficult to figure out how to be strong and cool by others' standards." Ellie grabbed his hand and put it over his heart. "Don't ever call yourself pathetic again, Chuck. Because true strength lies in your heart."
The former Nerd Herder took a long breath, allowing himself to be free of all thoughts. He rolled his shoulders and flexed his muscles.
"One of my WSU professors was in her 50's when her eyesight started to fail. In the space of a few months, she lost all central vision in both eyes as a result of age-related macular degeneration. Place a peanut on a table, and she wouldn't be able to see it; if she turned slightly and used her peripheral vision, she might catch a glimpse of it. She couldn't see people's faces or read text on a page. After she lost her central vision, she was kicked out of the academy. After talking with some of my sister's ophthalmologist friends, I came up with these glasses. I called them the Explorer. It worked in initial stages but my mentors at WSU deemed the project silly, unrealistic and a sheer waste of their resources." Chuck tried his best to answer in a neutral tone, but his sense of disappointment and frustration was palpable.
"Explain what it did in layman's terms." Beckman motioned for him to continue further.
"CIPS pursued the capability to learn generally applicable and generative representations of action between objects in a scene directly from visual inputs, and then reason over those learned representations. In short, it provides this device with an ability inherent to animals: Visual Intelligence..."
And just like that, he launched into his demonstration.
...xxxxxx...xxxxxxxx...xxxxxx...
In the bathroom mirror, Jonas Zarnow stared at himself. His tired face, his bloodshot eyes, the bags under his eyes, the mess that was his hair. Even his skin looked dull. Yesterday, he couldn't find the engineer. So he arrived as early as possible this morning to resume his search. Yet again, he came up short. There was no finding them. It felt like searching for the tiniest needle in the world's largest haystack.
He could keep trying. Keep sorting through various databases, keep checking every cabinet, every desk, every closet of this agency. But it would do no good. While it may be possible to find this engineer, Zarnow just didn't want to. Why even try? Once he did, the only way for him to get out of FULCRUM's servitude was to pick someone else to take his place.
A part of him couldn't do it. Or didn't want to. Perhaps it was time for him to bite the bullet. He would march into that bastard Roark's office and tell the man in charge that he wouldn't go through with it any longer. If FULCRUM wanted to make his bullet-biting literal, so be it...
...On second thought, he wasn't that brave. Or reckless. Besides, if he had remained a company scientist for a legitimate company, he wouldn't be as well off as he was. He had his family at home to think of. Soon, they would finally leave everything behind and have everything they ever wanted. The dream house. The life.
How was he supposed to find this person? It was a seemingly insurmountable task. He was sure about one thing, though. If Beckman wanted to meet this engineer, she would trust only one person inside the entire NSA to bring them in.
All he needed to do was wait and watch.