“Thanks, Judi! See you later today,” Mark yelled over.
“Ok, Mark. Thank you,” Judi replied.
They entered into the rear of the auditorium, opening up the wooden doors quietly from the rear of the large cathedral ceiling sized room. Down in the front of the auditorium, which sloped like a traditional movie theater, were a crowd of people talking quietly, along with a screen that displayed PowerPoint slides. The first few front rows were pretty filled, and the VIP seats closest to the end were still empty. That told Mark and Robert that the Deputy Director was not present yet.
On the title slide already on the screen was a logo for the Missile and Space Intelligence Center, Redstone Arsenal, Huntsville, Alabama. These were the bozos that Mark referred to earlier, because his real loyalty was with the National Air Intelligence folks from Wright-Patterson AFB in Ohio. More bureaucracy and infighting, Mark thought. Wonder who would get the lead on whatever headache the Chinese had today? he asked himself.
The briefer, Michael Klubb, an obese and disheveled civilian government supervisor with a rank status known as a GS-15, stumbled through the start of his morning brief by introducing the missile event that took place at Buckley AFB yesterday. Mike Klubb, thick eye glasses with dark rims, sporting a wrinkled white shirt, short grey pants, white socks and scuffed brown shoes, and balding dark hair, was the spitting image of a government bureaucrat. Mike was well compensated being a Virginia Tech grad, held a high security clearance, and was part of the older, original pension system at near 60 years-old, but would never make it in corporate America. His job started at 6 am, and he took 30 minutes for lunch, the exact amount of time per the Human Resources manual, and was done at 2:30 pm. Not 2:31 pm, and certainly not later, despite whatever hot project he was assigned or when it was due. He was paid for 40-hours a week and that’s what he worked. Stay out of the doorway after 2:30 pm because most likely you’d get run over by Mike and others like him.
A few years ago, Mike was reprimanded by his supervisor when his directorate was assigned a time sensitive operational issue with foreign military missiles on a submarine. During this incident, the U.S. Navy had been tracking a Chinese submarine off the coast of West Africa. A request by the Navy, specifically a Rear Admiral, had come in at 2:03 pm Eastern Standard Time, and needed Mike to do an in-depth analysis on unique signals emitting from the sub’s missile silos. Because Mike always had an eye on the clock, he worked on it for exactly 27 minutes, then departed for the day. His argument was that he worked eight hours a day, and clocked out at 2:30 pm.
This morning, though, Mike was ready for his brief. He was sweating profusely and dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief, and was not more than ten seconds into the first slide when the Principal Deputy Director of DIA, Mr. Calvin Burns, walked in.
Principal Deputy Director Calvin Coolidge Burns, a career Defense Intelligence Senior Executive, spent his entire life in either in the Navy or at DIA. A well respected senior leader, Calvin, a native of Richmond, Virginia, was an intelligence officer’s officer. Educated at the famous Historically Black College, Savannah State, then earning an MBA from the Naval Postgraduate School, along with some doctoral work at The George Washington University, Calvin Burns worked his way up the ladder for the past 31 years. If you included his time at The Power Lab up in Cape Cod, MA, his Federal Executive Institute experience in Charlottesville, VA, and time in the Navy, he had over 36 years of experience. Last year when he was ready to retire, his wife encouraged him to stay, knowing how much he enjoyed the work and people. So, after sleeping on it for a bit, Calvin stayed, but planned on only giving one more year.
Nearly all of the DIA team loved him because he knew so many by name over the years, and those he didn’t know yet, he always showed a sincere effort to get to know them. Calvin Burns knew the military services, knew the Office of the Secretary of Defense (OSD) and the Pentagon, as well as the political ways of Washington. As an example of reaching out to the workforce, just last year he put into effect a new policy that made either himself or the Director of DIA, personally attend each new employee orientation session. The workforce team responded favorably when he walked down the hall, and many employees were recognized personally by name.
“Umm, good, good morning, sir,” greeted briefer Mike Klubb.
“Hi Mike, sorry I’m late. Please continue,” replied the Deputy.
“Yes, sir.” Mike Klubb went on to describe the detection from SBIRS, the internal detection timelines, the actions of the watch standers, and any updates to Chinese intelligence, which was zero. He talked for about 20 minutes or so, and so far, no one asked any questions.
Whispering to Robert, Mark leaned over. “Something isn’t right on this one.”
“I knew you’d have something to say about this. What are you thinking?”
“Huh. Well….I’m going to call out there to Buckley. My old college roommate is stationed there, and I’m gonna find out who was working that day… see if we can get some more info.” Mark told him. “I already have a hunch. Based upon what I have read, and a gut feeling, there is something we are all missing. Something just isn’t right here,” Mark told him.
“What? What is it?” Robert asked, but didn’t get a reply.
Klubb was complete with his short brief, and opened it up for questions. Strangely, no one asked anything. Perhaps it was because the Deputy was present, but in a room of folks that should have been communicating, no one said a word. Status quo with a room full of government employees.
“That’s it. I’m asking questions,” Mark said.
“No, no. Sit down,” Robert said to him, whispering. “What is it? What are you thinking?”
Too late. Mark stood up in the rear of the auditorium, nearly hidden in the shadows due to the lighting being up front.
“Holy shit,” Robert whispered under his breath.
“Hey, Mike,” Mark yelled loudly from the back seats. “Hey, what does the rest of the interagency have to say?”
The audience murmured, and nearly everyone turned their head around to see who was asking from the back of the room, when everyone was sitting up front.
“Who is that back there?”
“What did NSA say? Why aren’t they pulled into this?” asked Mark, walking down the aisle of the room, holding his trademark Starbucks.
The room full of quiet analysts suddenly turned one notch louder, and followed Mark with their heads as he walked.
“Oh, Mark, it’s you. Hi, yeah, ummm, I’m sure you’re interested, but this isn’t in your lane. Its Missiles’ lane. Not yours. And, by the way, this is a closed brief,” Mike Klubb told him, apparently thinking this would put Mark in his place.
Mark held his Starbucks in his right hand, and waved his left hand around the room, pointing to the screen every so often.
“All the intellectual firepower in this room, and no one is asking pertinent questions as to what may have happened in China yesterday? Where’s your critical thinking?”
The Deputy Director turned his head, gave a warm smirk to Mark, but remained silent. He knew Mark well because he hired him years ago out of the San Francisco area and helped bring him to DIA. In fact, Calvin Burns was well aware Mark was against the Washington, DC establishment of short hair, conservative thinking, white shirts and neckties, and being a yes man. It was a very rare concept in any DC organization to be an independent thinker like Mark because most organizations tended to be filled with like-minded yes men. Calvin treasured the diversity, and let Mark go on with his theater.