Protocol 1337 Read online

  PROTOCOL 1337

  By

  D. Henbane

  *****

  Protocol 1337

  Copyright D. Henbane 2012

  CHAPTER ONE

  Balls Deep

  “The way I see it, you got two choices son,” says Judge Anderson. The knot in my gut feels like it's going to explode, and after hearing those words, all thoughts of getting off light have left the room. I grind my teeth and force my-self to stop staring at the marble floor. You know, I never thought about it before, but why are courthouse floors so damn shiny? I mean, do they pay some migrant worker three dollars an hour to spend countless nights hand polishing it to a mirror sheen? Like any of that matters, I am done for, the gig is up, and it's time to accept the consequences. The idea comes to my mind to beg my mother to put lots of money into my commissary fund for lubricating jelly. If I am going to be raped repeatedly, at least I can afford some lube. My court appointed lawyer nudges me in the ribs to remind me I should say something about now.

  “Yes your honor.” I manage to mumble out of my numb lips.

  “Taking into account all of the accusations against you, I don’t want you to think for one moment I am condoning what you have done. I feel that you should utilize your skills in a constructive manner. I am referring to activities that are legal, Mr. Long. You would have a bright future with plenty of success. This is a first, in the many years I have been sitting at this bench, to make such a statement. If you were to be given proper guidance and, more importantly, discipline, your talents could be of use in the world. So, Mr. Long you have a choice to make. The first is to choose a path for your life from this day forward. Number one is the path of redemption, and the other is the path of fulfillment. I will give you 10 minutes to talk to your council, and after that time you will let me know what path you decide.”

  “Take number two” my lawyer says. His mouth keeps moving but I can't hear a word he is saying. Something about judges usually offering the most lenient option first, and then the harsher punishment next. At this moment, I can't help but toss the words around in my mind over and over. Confused as usual, and wondering what my next move is, I rely on a trusted old friend. Like so many times before, I fumble around in my pocket for my maiden of salvation. It is a well-worn coin, an 1892 Silver Dollar, commonly known as the Morgan silver dollar. I pull the coin from my pocket and roll it back and forth amongst my fingers. I Roll it back and forth from the tops of my index finger to my pinky, snatching up the coin into my fist, and holding it close to my heart as if saying a quick prayer and trusting it with my future. Letting all of its magical forces flow into my body, I take the coin into my hand face up. I stare at it for what seems to be an eternity. It's as if I expect the face to talk to me and offer some kind of words of guidance. I close my hand and toss the coin into the air. I think to myself, heads for one, tails for two. I watch the coin for what seems like forever and finally it rests in my hand. My fist is tightly engrossing it in a death grip. I peel my fingers away one by one. A shining portrait of lady liberty stares at me in the palm of my hand.

  “Heads!” I scream.

  “Excuse me son?” Judge Anderson questions.

  “I choose the path of redemption your honor.” I exclaim.

  “Is that your council's advice?” asks Judge Anderson. There isn’t even a moment of hesitation. Screw my attorney; he is a public defender and willing to negotiate to end this fast. He isn’t prepared to represent someone with talent. So I removed him from the trial.

  “Yes sir, me acting alone. I am my own defense. I choose the path of redemption. I realize I have done wrong, but I am willing to correct my ways. I am willing to do whatever the court pleases as punishment.” Throwing me in front of a federal judge on the charges is, well, double suicide at best. What other options do I have right now? I hacked into the CIA, DOD, FBI, random military servers, and, of course, Navy databases. All I ever hear people ask me is why? Why not? Does area 51 have aliens? What happened to Hoffa anyway? Was JFK an inside job? I wanted to know for my own morbid curiosity if any of those accusations had any truth to them. Once inside, the truth actually bored the hell out of me. I didn’t find any secret files about any of that stuff. What I did find was more damaging to any public official. It was total corruption, waste, hookers, drugs, dinners for the other woman, and, of course, money laundering. None of that even made me slightly interested in what I was reading. Hence, why am I so upset at my sentencing? It's like expecting a brand new toy at Christmas and looking at the wrapped box all pretty with a bow. It matches the same height, length, and width of what you are hoping for only to unwrap it and find a used AM radio with a broken antennae.

  “I will accept your plea of guilty, and given the circumstances, will sentence you to 12 years in federal prison,” Says Judge Anderson. At hearing those words, my balls drop three feet. They hit the floor with whatever thought I had that told me to go with door number two. Quickly fading away, all I was left with was this look of total shock. Not to mention the look on my attorneys face of complete confusion.

  “You have already served 1 year during the course of your trial. I will allow that as time served and further amend your sentencing. I will suspend 11 years of your sentence for labor given to the Department of Defense. A total of 2000 hours, and that is being very generous. During that time, you will receive no pay and benefits. After completing your time, it's to the discretion of head officers to extend your employment.” With one quick swipe of the gavel, Judge Anderson sealed my fate.

  I walked out of the court room and ripped the tie from my neck. Finally, I could take a breath, and let my thoughts collect. So now I gotta work for an entire year for free. How am I supposed to pay my bills? I guess I will have to work two jobs. Who am I kidding; I haven’t held a job for more than a month my entire life. Work is for people who aren’t smart enough to scam other people. Well, on the bright side, I can remove all the images of being raped out of my head. I almost leaped out of my own skin when I felt my phone vibrating. I drag my ghetto, pay as you go, phone from my pocket and look at the unknown number. I consider answering it but decide now is not the time to have any conversations not to mention god only knows who it is. Well, they didn’t leave a voice-mail so it must not have been too important.

  I walk over to a bench, sit down, and lean back in the sunshine. Trying to control my trembling body as I think of what my next move should be. My phone starts going postal, and I quickly lose my cool. I don’t even bother looking at the number and answer the call.

  “Yeah what the hell do you want?” I yell.

  “Mr. Long......I want you to listen to me carefully. Answer my questions honestly and without hesitation. Do you understand?” The voice on the phone is digitized badly, and I almost find it amusing.

  “Uhh, yeah sure whatever.” I reply.

  “Is there anyone in your life that you love?”

  What the hell kinda question is that? I have a lot of loved ones in my life. I mean, I got friends, family, and lovers. How am I supposed to even reply to that? You know, only serial killers ask a question like that. I am pretty sure this is one of those dudes I met at Def Con last year messing with me. They couldn’t have picked a better time to pull one over on me. Then the words enter my brain again, and I am forced to think about them. A sick feeling falls across me as I realize that I don’t really have anyone that I love. Aside from mom, I can't actually say I love anyone and even then you have to love your mother. We don’t even really speak except when I need money. I started doing a reality check in my head and named off all my friends. Then I subtracted all the ones that I know from playing video games. Then I removed all the ones I have never met in person. Three people were left, all childhood friends, who I hadn’t seen in yea
rs.

  “Answer the question Mr. Long!”

  “No man! I don’t love anyone and I don’t know what the hell you want from me,” I reply.

  “Just one more thing Mr. Long....... Don’t resist.”

  The phone goes silent and I just sit there staring into the street. I put the phone back into my pocket. I look around at the people scurrying about doing the things that normal people do. I am completely oblivious to the 5 guys behind me. Then, all I see is black, as the hood is placed over my head, and I get thrown to the ground. I don’t even bother to fight back because at this point in time I really couldn’t care less what happens to me.

  They hoist me up from the ground and drag me into some kind of vehicle. I feel the movement of it as it turns corners. It accelerates quickly then comes to an abrupt stop. I hear male voices talking about football, family, and racist jokes. So what I know now is I am blinded, bound, and going somewhere with a bunch of guys who don’t like Mexicans. Then I feel the sting of the needle going into my arm, and my arm starts to burn like someone threw a Molotov cocktail on me. My breathing becomes rapid, my pulse starts to slow, and the feeling of drunkenness starts to fog my brain. I am dying I tell myself, and I try to struggle, but my arms won't cooperate. My legs are like wet noodles and the feeling is becoming more intense. The more I fight, the worse it becomes and my brain is starting to lose control of even rational thought. The urge to sleep comes on hard, and I want to resist it, but I welcome its warm embrace. I plunge into the darkness, wrapped into the embrace of my new found friend.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Omega Phi

  I hear the sounds of medical equipment and I open my eyes only to shut them very fast because the light is intense. The fog in my brain is starting to fade and I try to collect my thoughts. Finally, I get the balls to open my eyes to view my new blurry world that surrounds me. I am in a bed with, an IV and a hospital gown. The worst thoughts come into my mind and I quickly reach down between my legs. I give a big sigh of relief when I realize that President Woodrow is still attached to me and I have not been castrated or worse. Next thought, mentally feel for pain in my rear region. OK, not sodomized without lubrication, and what is this thing attached to my wrist? I examine it a little closer and realize that it's most likely the coolest watch I have ever seen. It's attached to a 3 inch wide arm band, and in the center is what looks to be the equivalent of a Rolex for nerds.

  “I see you're awake. Don’t panic, I am gonna take good care of you.” says a man dressed in military fatigues. His voice is soft and has a ring of genuine caring. I let my guard down; besides, if he wanted to kill me, he would have done it while I was sleeping.

  “I feel like I am gonna hurl....” I strain to say, as I fight back the projectile vomit that is surely coming.

  “It's the sedatives.... in a small group of people, it has a tendency to cause nausea. The feeling will go away after about an hour. Try not to move too much, and the feeling should go away.” I look at his name badge, and see his picture with the numbers 7629400 where a name would normally be.

  “So 7629400, is that your phone number or your model number?” I say jokingly.

  “We don’t use names around here, but you can call me late for supper if you want.”

  “Late for supper?” I glance back down at my new watch and note the time is 7:15 PM. “Gotcha doc! You are here to look after me, and now you are well past grub time. Don’t worry; I am sure your MRE will still be cold and just as disgusting when you get around to eating it.”

  “Actually, our meals are catered and tonight was prime rib which is my favorite, and I can personally tell you it doesn’t taste nearly as good when it's cold. We don’t have microwaves in my wing and unless I start a campfire and roast it cave-man style its gonna be cold which makes me late for supper and shit out of luck!”

  “What? No microwaves! You get catered meals but cant afford a microwave? What kind of operation are you guys running here anyway?” I reply.

  “Microwaves could potentially interfere with certain equipment and are banned from my wing. Look, I am not the guy, nor do I have the patience to explain everything to you. I will get the director and he can help you out. Besides, my job is done, your awake, your vitals are normal, and from my opinion, a clean bill of health. NOW, I am going to go eat some long overdue food.”

  “Hey doc! I know your trying to be funny here and all, but maybe you should look into professional smart ass! You're better at that.” I blurt out as he leaves the room.

  I sit in my bed, look around at the plain white walls, and realize that I was a little harsh on the doc. I mean he genuinely seemed to care about me, and like always, I let my mouth get the best of me. Then again, maybe I wasn’t. The guy gets all of his meals catered. It doesn’t exactly strike me as someone roughing it or even sacrificing to serve his country. Another layer of the fog removes itself from my brain and things begin to get even clearer. I decide to lay my head down for a while. I throw my right arm back behind my pillow to prop my head up a bit. That’s when the pain hits me and I jerk my arm back to examine the affected area. Right there on my right hand, a freshly bleeding tattoo of a bar code. I examine it closely, 5 64821 65430 5 under the bar code.

  “He forced everyone, small and great, rich or poor, free and slave, to receive a mark in his right hand or in his forehead, so that no one could buy or sell unless he had the mark, which is the name of the beast or the number of his name.” The words of John:13:16 echo in my head. My cell door comes open as a man enters. He is cleanly shaven, and the looks of a man who is on a mission.

  “I'm director Reese and I realize all of this may be shocking to you. Hear me out, because it will all make sense once everything is out in the open.” Reese explains.

  “Where the hell am I?” I ask.

  “Mr. Long, we have been watching you for some time. I am the director of Omega Phi and, as you have already seen, we do things a little differently around here. Omega Phi is a select group of brilliant minds with exceptional computer skills. In fact, it was one of our members that finally sniffed you out from the nether regions of the internet. We operate off the books and answer to no branch of the government. We defend our nation's data and counter attack vulnerable enemy targets. Needless to say, your intrusions on our servers were not welcome. Besides, you were looking in all the wrong places if you wanted to find out the juicy stuff. Not really your fault, we purposely mislead the public into thinking sensitive data is held by those agencies'. When in all truth, it's held by our agency, and to be honest, we are much better gate keepers.”

  “So what you're saying is, you want me to break the law, and while doing so, you are going to turn a blind eye as long as it's in your favor?” Reese's face shows no sign of misunderstanding. It's clear that he thinks I am a total moron. I do gotta say it makes me feel important, and mostly it makes me feel the lust of power. The same lust that turned me to hacking in the first place. It's the thrill of doing things to people who had no control over my actions. It's the freedom to come and go as I pleased like a ghost in the real world. Nobody could see me and no one could stop me. This idiot just told me everything I needed to know. He's gonna give me access to the best kept secrets on the planet, and best of all, he can't always be watching me. There has to be downtime where I can roam around and get to know the neighborhood, so to speak.

  “Mr. Long, I take your silence as a confirmation that you are buying into this idea. There’s more you need to know. We can make that whole “doing volunteer” hours go away. In fact, we can make the whole thing never even exist, no arrest, no jail time, no trial, and, best of all, you can make a little money too.” Reese folds his hands into his lap, sits back in his chair, and waits.

  “You can't make me, I’m an American citizen, and I have rights! What about this damn tattoo? You wanna talk about defamation of character? How about defacing my body! Hello! Kidnapping ring a bell? When my lawyer is done with you guys, I am gonna own the pentagon!” I scream as
my rage begins to build. My old backbone has decided to return to me and it's time to swing my Johnson around the room. Yeah, that’s right, I got the law on my side and I am not gonna stand for anymore crap. Reese starts to chuckle, stands up, and I suddenly realize how tall he actually is.

  “You people really are delusional. I suppose now you're gonna demand to be read your Miranda rights? Take a look around, you little piece of shit. I am offering you the chance of a lifetime and willing to erase your pathetic past. The only thing I am asking is for you to cooperate and the best you got, is to reply with hollow threats of suing me? You don’t know where you are; you're confined to a hospital bed, and the best part is.... I bet you didn’t know you have been in a coma for 3 months.” Reese bursts into uncontrolled laughter and my ego takes a nose dive. The confidence I once had has just booked a flight to Rio de Janeiro and didn’t bother to say a proper goodbye.

  “So let's talk reality, for a bit eh? You, Mr. Long, are knee deep in gator shit and your prime directive is to drain the swamp. I have served my time, maybe you are familiar with it, a little something history calls Vietnam. I spent my time in the Hanoi Hilton; I am very well versed in what a human being can endure when it comes to torture. I can personally tell you, that if you think you are ahead in this situation, you are very mistaken. I could have you killed in less than three minutes and your body thrown into any sea of my choosing to be eaten by sharks. No body, no problem in my mind. Or, I could get even more creative and have someone walk through that door, shoot you with magic juice, and then you go back to sleep. While you are sleeping, I invite a group of surgeons to dissect you. Their goal is simple, to cut as much of your body up, while keeping you alive under anesthesia without letting you die. That’s good practice for a field surgeon who has to be ready for anything.”