Author’s note: It’s Red October time on the Korean peninsula and the observable realities look bad. In reaction, the Irish optimist inside me decided to dwell inside a fantasy about the outcome. So, with a tip of the combo cover to Tom Clancy, the CIA, and Jack Ryan here is a short, serialized, not-ready-for-prime time piece on the Red Death.

– old Marlow
—
Editor’s Note: This is going to be an experiment. Marlow has drafted a multi-chapter treatment of how your Intelligence Community really works. Enjoy!

– Vic

Chapter One

​

The year was 2017, a time of vituperation domestically and internationally for the USA, and of comfortable routine in the Naval Intelligence’s Center for Excellence for operational intelligence located out in the hustings of Maryland. This story began in the darkness of yet another in a string of ordinary days as young Lt Marlow, steadfast Rest of the World and Other Navies analyst, ambled into work after a sweaty summer morning walk in from a very distant parking lot spot.

He didn’t actually need to work for the government: he was independently wealthy from several sizeable inheritances and two seven figure lotto wins until he got another court notice to adjust his alimony upwards into the stratosphere from his last lotto win as well as the Virginia personal property tax bill on his three new German engineered, four-wheeled, rockets fresh from their Stuttgart and Munich assembly factories.

Mostly, Marlow loved the mildly charged atmosphere of ever-shortening deadlines, mindless rewrites, happy-to-glad editing and constant surprises. The endless interagency and internal Naval Intelligence coordination battles were mildly unhealthy outlets for his mostly stuffed aggression. Otherwise, he might have had to content himself by hollering drunkenly at his non-English speaking house maid service and neighborhood kids to complement his attempted drop kicking wily local dogs and sneaky cats who daily defiled his front and back yards. Instead, he softly cursed like his fellow junior officer analysts and kicked with malice and forethought the printer whenever its LCD display shouted in capital letters at him “PC LOAD LETTER.”

That morning — a very ordinary morning — Marlow grabbed a cup of dishwater coffee and headed for his big screen terminal to read the morning message traffic. This was one of many things he liked about Naval Intelligence — tens of millions of dollars worth of top-of-the-line computer and display equipment to read what were essentially highly classifed telegrams from other intelligence community analysts and to oogle billion dollar spy satellite photos and open source (i.e., free) GoogleEarth imagery about recent events. Top notch, over-priced, MILSPEC’d equipment always guaranteed top notch analytical products to the Center’s customers, n’est-ce pas?

Marlow quietly paged through the traffic by waving his hands in front of the screen, not unlike how a drunken bum armwave directs rush hour traffic from his stumbly perch astride a busy four-lane street’s double yellow line. Now and then he would finger scrawl notes on the screen or append voice comments onto certain items before filing them into electronic cloud folders on topics he was following. Suddenly he nose-holed some of his coffee, as his hands zoomed in on a message and several small photos on the screen.

Copyright © 2017 From My Isle Seat
www.vicsocotra.com