Last Word

My name is Irwin Michael Anthony Lemming III. No, I’m not shitting you. My father was I. M. A. Lemming, Jr., and his father was I. M. A. Lemming, the first. I was oblivious until freshman year in high school when my religion teacher, Father Marlow, ten years younger, then, than I am today and the duck’s nuts in that tiny pond, made fun of may name and then made fun of me because I didn’t know what a lemming was. That prompted the first of his many lectures on the importance of independent thinking, being a leader not a follower, and so forth. The irony of that sermon by a priest in the third-tier Order of the Clerics of Saint Viator in an all-boys Catholic school, where neither the students, the teachers, nor the administrators were free to do anything their respective superiors didn’t like, all the way up the divinely-instituted, hierarchical chain to Holy Father Infallible himself, didn’t strike me until several years later.

It’s shortly after 7 a.m. EST, about 7:10 god time, on a Monday in December. I work for the NSA; that’s the National Security Agency. My job is to record all communications made by the President of the United States while he is in the White House—in person, phone, computer, or whatever new gadget Apple has just come up with—24/7. I refer to the President as MP. I used to refer to him as PUS, short for President of the United States. Jerry suggested that I might want to think about changing the acronym. I took his point and went with MP, short for Mr. President.

This is unusual duty for the NSA. Our charter is supposed to be only gathering foreign communications and signals intelligence and protecting U.S. communications and IS—that’s information systems—from foreign information gatherers. Of course, there has been a little data collecting and mining on U.S. citizens inside the U.S.; all perfectly legal, of course. Wink. Wink. Hell, I was on the team that developed PRISM and a dozen other internal surveillance programs that haven’t yet been leaked. But spying on the President kicks it up several notches, so there is no other job like mine in the agency. The work is easy, but I’m paid a lot because of the long hours and what I do is about as secret as it gets. My co-workers are Chuck and Steve. We each work 12-hour shifts in rotation, two on and one off. Like today I’m working from 7 a.m. to 7 p.m.—actually today I started at 6 because Chuck needed to leave early—I’ve got tomorrow off, and then I’ll work from 7 p.m. to 7 a.m. on Wednesday, et cetera, et cetera. Maybe. I guess it depends on how this god thing shakes out. When we get vacation or someone is sick, our supervisor, Jerry, fills in.

The White House is bugged. My mikes automatically activate when they detect MP’s voice in any room or on a telephone. If MP’s user name and password are entered into any device, the communication is automatically recorded. Also, certain rooms are activated at the sound of any voice, such as the Oval Office, the Cabinet Room and hallway immediately outside, MP’s private study and dining room, and his secretary’s office. The mikes send an encrypted, wireless radio signal to my computers at our off-site location. Because of our security clearance, we get access to any place in the White House, any time we need, to repair or replace. Amazing. Nobody ever questions who we are or what we are doing. The first couple of times I was there, I kept expecting one of those pea-brained, steroid-sucking, Secret Service Neanderthals to ask what the fuck I was doing, but no one ever did. My NSA badge says it all. When I’m not over there, I sit in my little broom closet watching monitors, playing with my keyboard, and eavesdropping on MP to be sure that we clearly hear and record everything. For what purpose exactly? I’ve asked Jerry and Chuck and Steve why we’re doing this, but I never get an answer.

Recording these conversations is legal if everyone knows you are doing it. But who is going to say anything interesting if they know that the whole world will see the transcript? They say Nixon stopped all recording of his communications when his tapes became public during the Watergate scandal. Watergate investigators demanded the tapes, and the Administration tried to keep them private by going to court, claiming executive privilege because of national security. The Supreme Court eventually handed Nixon his lunch and required that the tapes be made public. The textbooks tell you that was the end of secret taping in the White House. Plus, in 1978, Congress passed the Presidential Records Act, making records generated by any later presidents and their staffs publicly owned—meaning if you’ve got any, it’s illegal to keep them secret.

I’ve just had this job since the current MP came into office, but Chuck’s on his third president and Steve’s on his second. Chuck says, legal schmegal, I talked to the guys who were here when I came, and these recordings have been made for every administration as far back as anyone can remember, but nobody will ever admit it. So since everyone involved has to lie about their nonexistence, very people know what’s going on. When my supervisor, Jerry, recruited me, he told me that, in addition to the three communication specialists, only him and his boss and a couple of very highly-placed people in the Administration know about it. None of the other federal agencies know. Members of Congress and the Supreme Court don’t know. If the Attorney General knows, he would never admit it. Hell, even MP, himself, doesn’t know—the old plausible deniability.

When I was recruited, I had to take a test. It wasn’t technical. The agency already knew I was good at the technical stuff. It was a psych test. They never told me what it was for, but my guess is they wanted to see if (1) I gave a rat’s ass about whether what I do is against the law, and (2) I would keep my mouth shut when I was inevitably hauled before Congress and grand juries. I passed with flying colors.

I had double majors, undergraduate, computer science and philosophy. It was a Catholic school, so I also had a lot of theology thrown in. My wife says no wonder I’m so screwed up. I tell her I was screwed up at birth, but 17 years of Catholic education just taught me how to enjoy it. Hell, I can do anything I want, whisper a bless-me-father, do three Hail Marys, and I’m good to go.

Speaking of confessions, a digression: beneath my carefully-crafted, autonomous-appearing veneer, I fear rejection. Given the prevalence of child—predominantly male—sexual abuse, covered up to save the Roman Church’s ass, I sometimes wonder why I—being frequently alone with many different members of the clergy over many years—wasn’t a victim. As far as I can recall, I was never even hit on. Not even a gentle touch or come-hither stare. I mean, I’m glad I wasn’t and all, but . . . . Was it chance: I just happened to luck-out and only run across the good guys? Or was it something about me in particular? Did you ever wonder why priests mostly prefer boys and nuns prefer girls? My theory is if you intentionally choose what is supposed to be a celibate life, the opposite sex has never been your thing from the get-go, so how convenient for the Roman Church to provide a well-respected vocational option perfectly suited to your orientation.

While I’m on the subject, do you remember the Penn State scandal? They were more concerned with protecting their football program than they were with protecting boys from one, popular, very sick football coach. The NCAA imposed sanctions, which depending on your point of view were either overreaching or not stringent enough, but at least a regulator took a moral stand and heads at the top rolled, alive and dead. For its part, for years the Catholic Church knowingly and intentionally covered up the abuse of thousands of children by hundreds of pedophile priests, doing nothing to warn and precious little to prevent. It’s a mortal sin to use contraception or to abort, so bring as many kids into the world as you can so they can be buggered by their local clergy. Who is mighty enough to regulate The Church? No one of this Earth. No sanctions, no heads rolled at the top. There was no divine intervention or even a hint from the holy ghost to stop it: you know, a little sign like having the Pope’s pecker petrify and mysteriously fall off and get rammed up his papal posterior. Makes you wonder what 12-year-old JC was up to when he gave his folks the slip and spent three days alone with the priests in the temple. Gives a whole new meaning to his love-thy-neighbor and do-unto-others lessons. As for god the father, que sera, sera. Kids injured physically and mentally. Lives ruined. No biggie, as long as all concerned confess their sins and worship me on Sunday.

Anyway, in college, during our many and varied discussions on ethics, my classmates always seemed to know where the line was and when they crossed it, bright as day. I had a hard time ever spotting a line, so crossing it was problematic. I was always good at guessing what the right answer was supposed to be, however, so my classmates and teachers always thought I was just like them. Jerry says I was born for this job.

The big No-No in my job is: under no circumstances am I to rerecord, or take written or verbal notes of, or, of course, tell anyone about, what I hear or see. No problem, except today.

This is a recording of my comments about this god affair.

Our work area is a sound-proof, secured office with one ergonomically-engineered chair facing a big multi-tiered desk and a ton of computer equipment, a refrigerator, microwave, and the Maserati of coffee makers. We also have a tiny bathroom with a wireless laptop, so we don’t miss a beat. Except for the changeover, there is only one of us here at a time, so the room has all we need. I’ve got my feet up on the desk, and I’m talking into a microphone attached to my headset.

The next 12 hours are going to be interesting and scary as hell, and I intend to keep a running commentary. I’m burying my comments and one copy of the President’s communications in my version of The Cloud so deep that Chuck, Steve, and Jerry will never find them. And, if they can’t find them, believe me, no one can. We are the best the U.S. spooks have to offer, and I am the best of the best. I’m really good at the technical stuff. And someday—god willing—I intend to retire and, like every good former civil servant, make my fortune by publishing a tell-all memoir. Guess what the book will be about?

God’s message hit my head about 7:07:00 a.m. according to the clock above my desk, 12:07:00 a.m., tomorrow, UTC—that’s Coordinated Universal Time. I know because I had just looked at the clock when I heard the voice, and the clock still said 7:07:00 when the voice stopped. No elapsed time. Chuck had already left, so I’m here alone. My clock is supposed to be automatically set at UTC. I got the impression that god thought he was speaking at the top of the hour, however, so his clock must be slightly different than ours. Under the circumstances—including the start of the 12-hour doomsday waiting period—I’m going to throw in with his, so I just moved mine back seven minutes. I figure when you are talking about a time limit on the end of the world, or rather the end of human life, it’s good to know what time it is.

Since the message, MP has been asking everyone what the hell is going on. No one knows, but with his strong encouragement, everyone is sure as shit trying to find out. He has a Cabinet meeting already scheduled for 7:30. He wants a full briefing then: problems and detailed options for solutions, as usual. This MP likes early morning meetings since he can roll out of bed and come downstairs, sometimes in his robe and slippers, and maybe only his robe and slippers, tousled bed–hair and all, and inconvenience the crap out of everyone else. I once overheard MP’s Press Secretary ask MP’s Chief of Staff if she thought he had anything on under that robe. She said it gave her nightmares just thinking about it. Then Press Secretary dared her to pretend to drop her pen next time and take a peek under the table. No thanks, she said, I’m afraid what I’d see, to quote Thomas Hobbes in a different context, would be nasty, brutish, and short, and knowing herself she’d probably laugh out loud, and she wanted to keep her job a while longer. True story. I’m betting MP’ll be running late today because of all the commotion. They’ll be lucky if they get it going by 8.

7:17 a.m.

While there is a lull, I call my wife on my cell phone. Both—using my personal cell phone and talking to anyone other than the guys when on duty—are also big No-No’s, but this is a special day, and they knew my ethics were situational when they hired me. Sarah and I compare recollections, and, as best we can tell, we heard substantially the same thing except for the humans are highly complex part where, in her message, god referred to the loud obnoxious jerk in her book club and left out the part about her brother, Marty. Our golden retriever made both messages. Oh, and god called her Sarah, of course. The voice I heard sounded like a Midwestern non-accent. She was raised in Charleston and thought she heard a familiar drawl.

Sarah believes the message. I agree. After several years of trial and error—we met in one of my classes; she went to one of those heathen, state universities but came over to audit theology courses; how can you help but love that?—neither one of us really believes in a traditional god, so that part wasn’t an issue. In fact, we both found that part rather satisfying in a strange sort of way. No problem with his Golden Rule, either—I mean what’s not to like except the shear impossibility of the whole thing—but she is scared because she doesn’t think that 12 hours is enough time to get anything done, even if people wanted to, plus she doesn’t trust any political leaders, particularly ours. I remind her that the messenger differentiated government from politics, and she says on that point that the messenger was clearly not in touch with our Earthly reality. She uses the term out to lunch. Anyway, she thinks MP is worthless and will find a way to screw it up, let alone the yahoos running the rest of the world. She belongs to the opposite political party; that means MP can do nothing right. You know, if you consistently vote either red or blue, the odds are good that sooner or later you’ll pick a winner. I think of myself as an independent; that means I am free to consistently vote for the wrong guy. My Nikes are firmly planted on what was once considered the dead center of the political spectrum. The last time I was right wing was freshman year on