Time's Up

By Carl Meier

Description.
First contact by a god with a chip on his shoulder, a single commandment, and an impossible deadline. An international conspiracy to destroy mankind by the close of business. Not your ordinary shift for NSA spook Michael Lemming, who has a ringside seat because he’s spying on the U.S. President.

Turns out there is a god and a judgment day, but not exactly what anyone ever expected. At 7:00 a.m., god-time, a voice in their heads delivers the play book on life but warns every person on Earth that, unless he is satisfied, the human race will be annihilated in 12 hours. The voice claims to have pushed the first domino, which created the universe as an unintended consequence of an experiment gone awry, but says he’s had nothing to do with Earth or its inhabitants ever since. Until now. After monitoring the development of humans, he has decided he doesn't like how things are going, so he is offering one last chance to get their act together.

The timing is compelled by the irreversible pushing of the button on a doomsday device by members of a highly-placed, international conspiracy, who believe that by destroying the rest of humanity, they get to fly directly to heaven without
gree to take steps towards reordering the political and social structure to assure the happiness of all of its citizens.
The events of the following 12 hours are reported by Michael, an NSA employee, whose job is to illegally record all White House communications by the President. We listen to America’s best and brightest in action, along with the commentary of Michael’s multiple-personality broadcasting team, which he is recording for the book deal he expects to make should the human race survive. Through Michael’s not-always-completely-reliable reporting and slightly-bent analysis, patterned after most professional communicators, we witness how well the family of man deals with this once-in-a-species opportunity to make the world a better place.

An intense thriller, with more twists and turns than a high mountain road. A thought-provoking meditation on the origin and meaning of life and the future of the human race. What’s not to love. having to go through the usual channels. Only he, the voice claims, can turn the device off. And he will do so only if the leaders of all the world’s governments agree to take steps towards reordering the political and social structure to assure the happiness of all of its citizens.
The events of the following 12 hours are reported by Michael, an NSA employee, whose job is to illegally record all White House communications by the President. We listen to America’s best and brightest in action, along with the commentary of Michael’s multiple-personality broadcasting team, which he is recording for the book deal he expects to make should the human race survive. Through Michael’s not-always-completely-reliable reporting and slightly-bent analysis, patterned after most professional communicators, we witness how well the family of man deals with this once-in-a-species opportunity to make the world a better place.

An intense thriller, with more twists and turns than a high mountain road. A thought-provoking meditation on the origin and meaning of life and the future of the human race.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carl Meier
• Release date: Aug 9, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005798406

Carl Meier

I am a retired lawyer. My job required clear, concise, and persuasive writing; telling a good story; and knowing when to stop. In retirement, I spent one term as a copy editor for the Nevada Legislature, where a lot of fiction was generated

Book preview

Time’s Up

By Carl Meier

Copyright 2020 Carl Meier

Smashwords Edition.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, uploaded, scanned, or

distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.

Chapter One: Past is Prologue

Great idea, Michael. Your recording has been preserved, and our final judgment is included in it. One day, some other species, in this world or another, may find it useful to listen to as a matter of historical or scientific interest and, perhaps, to even learn from.

Chapter Two: Time of Recorded Events—7:10 a.m. to 7:05 p.m.

7:10 a.m.

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 my 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 a few years later. But the former Father Marlow did take his own advice, knocked-up the school secretary—the one with the humongus gazongas: every school boy’s wet dream—and they ran off together to raise little Marlows in Butte, or some such place. Anyway, I go by Michael, most of the time.

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 since originality is my thing, rather than repeating the tired old POTUS, I 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; if there is anyone out there who still doesn’t know—from foreign information gatherers. Of course, there has been a little data collecting and mining of 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, dining room, and bedroom, and his secretary’s office. The mikes send an encrypted, wireless radio signal to my computers at our off-site location, here. 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. Once I was in MP’s bedroom when he walked in. He spied my badge and just asked me to leave him alone for a few minutes. Are you fucking kidding me? 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 during every administration since Nixon, 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. Of course you have to sign a confidentiality agreement, but this one is tied to a sweet lifetime annual payment. That’s my guess why there have been zero leaks by my predecessors. That plus Jerry joking about having to kill me if I ever told.

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, superior-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 few good guys? Or was it something about me in particular? Did you ever wonder why priests mostly prefer boys and nuns go for 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.

But, historically, priests abused girls, women, and nuns, too, and fathered a lot of children. Of course, in the eyes of The Church, pretty much the worst thing a woman can do is have an abortion, so the little priest-bastards would be required to be brought into this world with no papal regard for their and their moms’ future. And what was the priests’ punishment for being sex offenders for most of my life? Nothing as far as I am aware, except maybe some hand wringing and lip service. Probably don’t ask don’t tell. But we will never know, because if they told in confession—where else could they get a free pass for saying a few prayers?—or someone told on them, the Church merely closed ranks around them, and they continued to be held out to the public as the untarnished representatives of Christ on Earth, eminently worthy of our utmost respect and trust. More on this in a second.

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. Except the Church itself. Even now that it has been out in the open for a while, and the Church has grudgingly acknowledged a problem, what has happened? Far too little, way too late. And if it weren’t for hundreds of lawsuits that hit them in their bank accounts where it hurt the most=bad pblicity? Not significant=probably nothing would have happened at all.

And what of the Catholic’s god? There’s been no divine intervention or even a subtle hint to stop it: you know, a little sign from the holy ghost like having the Pope’s pecker petrify, 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 worship him on Sunday.

Everyones got a hot button. This is mine. Trying to do their best, my parents unknowingly put me into this monstrous cult. I was able to escape their mind control. Most haven’t. It makes me sick. Oh, and your religion’s better? Bullshit! Give me a few minutes and I’ll Google-up its long history of atrocities.

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, however: 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? Yeah, I know, I cheated on my psych test, and I’m working on a way around the confidentiality agreement.

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