Quantico

I drove back to my house just so I could get some kind of credentials to at least insinuate that I had some kind of business being in Quantico. My dad always had a identification card he clipped on the front of his shirt, but I hadn't seen that since he died. Since he was at work when he died, it would obviously still be there. I wasn't exactly sure what kind of security there was to get into the city, it wasn't like I was trying to sneak into the Corps base and take pictures of their command center; I just wanted to go visit the University where my dad worked. Most universities enjoy visitors.

Regardless, I grabbed an expired driver's license and his death certificate from the top drawer of the desk in my parent's bedroom. If I had to, I could at least attempt to prove that my dad was my dad. Somehow I was still predicting a rifle butt to the forehead.

The Trans Am took well to the open road. Highway driving with my old car was occasionally a bit of a negotiation, but in this car I could actually feel the engine pulling me. Amy agreed.

Quantico was half an hour north on 95, or halfway to Lorton, the town where I bought a gun and killed a man. I hoped today's road trip would be less traumatic, but I supposed that would all be up to the United States Marine Corps.

I couldn't imagine how my dad made this drive twice each day, it's just so boring. Trees on all sides, a lot of the road unlit; maybe it would have been relaxing. Me, I was rather nervous, and the monotony of the travel just allowed the anxiety to reverberate inside my body.

Amy directed me off the highway and onto Russell Road. For a while it looked like I was cutting through uncharted wilderness, then on my left I passed a giant foreboding building that I couldn't read the sign for, then more trees, then a giant parking lot, then more trees, then a giant foreboding building with a giant parking lot, then more trees, then I came upon a guard station. Both lanes of the road were blocked and between them was a small booth manned by two Corps men. They were both dressed in olive pants and khaki shirts with soft garrison caps. In the other lane there was a car stopped, one of the guardsmen was speaking through the car's window. The other man motioned for me to stop at the gate, walked around the back of my car (probably looking for clearance stickers) then around to my window. He seemed a bit surprised at my age when he saw me, though not unusually so.

"Good afternoon, Sir," he said in a quick tenner, "may I ask your business here?" He looked to be 25 years old, had a flat face. The tag on his chest said his name was Meyers.
"I'm wanted at the Marine Corps University," I said. "My father's car is parked and I'm to remove it."
He looked at me, then at Amy. I was expecting the pepper spray any minute. "Do you have a visitor request on file with the OCS?" he asked.
"No, I don't think so," I said, "we were called at home to pick the car up, I came to pick it up."
"Something should have been set up in advance," the guard said, "visitors aren't allowed on-site without pre-approval. I could call the office of where the car is parked and ask that the car be brought here if you'd like."
That wouldn't work for me. I tried to think of something else to say. I pulled the two driver's licenses from my pocket and said, "There was also some personal effects I was to collect. I believe I was supposed to be granted a visitor's clearance to the University, I just didn't realize it had to be set up first. I thought my name would just be put on a list," I handed him the licenses. "This one is me," I said pointing at the top one, "the other is my father. Could you check his clearance and contact whoever his superior is and ask if I may be allowed in."

The guard made a face, said he would contact the security office, then stepped away.
"Don't think this will work," Amy said. "Security seems to be amped up since 9/11. I don't even remember there being a guard station here."
"Well I don't know what else to do," I said, more to myself, "I believe they make military bases so that you can't talk your way onto them."

The guard had been inside the booth for a few minutes, through the glass I could see him talking into a phone. He eventually hung up, and stepped out carrying something small and orange in his hand. This time, he walked around the front.

"Alright Mr. Baker, you're clear for entry to the base. You can pull forward through the gate and turn into the parking lot just to the left. A private will come around to transport you to the MC University. At that time, the young lady may leave in this car or she may wait in the parking lot for you to return, but she or this vehicle aren't permitted past the parking area."
I looked at Amy, she shrugged. "Ok," I said.

The guard gave me the items in his hand, an orange laminated visitor's pass with a metal clip to affix it to my shirt and the two driver's licenses. He stepped back into the booth and the gate before my car lifted. It seemed I was in.

I pulled into a small parking area as instructed and shut off my engine. I asked Amy if she wanted to wait here or just take my car home. She said she'd wait and make sure I wasn't taken into a basement and set on fire.

Five minutes later, a small green Jeep pulled in and idled next to my car. I got out and asked the driver, "This for me?"
"I'm to take you to the MC University," he said, as if saying anything more would get him shot. I nodded then hopped into the passenger seat, I started to look for the seat belt but the vehicle lurched forward before I could bother. It took a few minutes of driving through the woods before it seemed like we were actually in a city. Old, new-england style buildings were all around. If I didn't know better I'd have thought I was in Cambridge, not a city dedicated to training young men and women to kill. The driver said nothing, so I sat in silence as well, idly fidgeting with the USB drive in my pocket.

At school, I once heard Dale Carpenter talking about his fool-proof idea for getting anything he wanted off of somebody's computer without ever touching the keyboard and using only a USB memory stick, the small portable hard drives that most people use for moving documents or files between computers. He'd said something about making the USB drive trick the computer into copying files from the computer to the memory stick, but I didn't really pay attention at the time because I assumed he was just talking to hear his own voice. While I was at his house, though, when I went back a second time, I asked him about it.

"This genius plan you have for taking files from a computer with a USB drive, what was it?" I asked, returning unexpectedly to his room.
He smiled proudly, and said, "It's simple. I can make a partition on a USB stick and format it to CDFS, so when you plug it into a computer, Windows will think it's a CD, not a memory stick. If Auto-run is enabled, which it always is because people are idiots, it will run whatever program on the USB drive I want. I can put a shell script on there that will run in the background and search the computer's hard drive for files matching any keywords I set, then copy them onto the USB drive. Other than that 'do-dun' file the computer makes when you stick the drive in, someone using the computer would have no idea what was going on. You just plug in the drive, the drive finds the files you want and copies them, then you take the drive out and walk away."
I nodded and tried to process the words that I'd understand.
"So you first program the type of files to look for?" I asked.
"Yeah," he said, "just edit a text file with whatever keywords you want, then when it runs on someone's computer it searches for any files matching your keywords."
"And you're sure this works?"
"Yes it works," he said, defensively, "I've tried it a few times. Was thinking about making it search for doc files so I could get teacher's tests by sticking the drive in a school computer while the teacher is logged in, but I realized they're all so lazy they never make the tests until the day before."
"So you have one, that works?"
"Yeah, a 1 gigabyte stick. Why? You want one?"
"I'll buy that one," I said.
"If you just bring me whatever memory stick you want I'll set it up for you."
"I need it today. I'll give you however much it costs to buy a new one for yourself. One gig, those are like fifty bucks now, right?"
"Was seventy when I bought it, but they've gone down."

I pulled the rest of the cash from my wallet. I'd need to go to the bank again, I thought. He dug through desk drawers until he found a small, silver USB memory stick about the length of half a stick of gum. He looked it over, then plugged it into a free USB port on the front of his computer's tower.

"Yeah," he said, "this is it."
I stepped forward and looked at the screen, there were a few files on the drive. He opened one called kw.txt and said, "This is the keyword file you set. You just enter whatever you want the filenames to match, and anything on the computer that matches will be copied."
"What if you take the drive out before it's done copying?" I asked.
"Then only whatever there was time for will be copied," he said, "and if it's in the middle of copying a single file when you remove it, only part of the file will be copied."
I leaned in to type my keyword. "It uses wildcards?" I asked.
"Yeah, asterisk."
So on the first line, I typed '*baker*.*'. That would match any file with baker in the name, no matter what type of file it was. I saved that, and pulled the drive out.

"This isn't about dirty pictures, is it?" Dale asked as I walked away.

My plan was to use this USB drive on a computer where my dad worked. I hoped someone would be nice enough to give me a tour of where he worked, and I could plug it into the workstation of someone nearby. He must have co-workers, people doing the same stuff as him or working on the same projects. If they were logged in, I could stick this thing in any USB drive and hopefully get a copy of anything with his name on it. I just wanted some idea of what he spent his whole life doing.

I was dropped off in front of a long, narrow building. A half dozen other buildings of equal size were scattered throughout the area. When the driver put the Jeep into park, he said, "Someone will meet you inside."
I got out, looked at the building before me. "This is the Marine Corps University?" I asked.
The driver silently looked at the identical buildings all around, smiled at me, then pulled the Jeep away.

This is it, I told myself. This is what I wanted for so long, this was the place I was never allowed to see. How terribly disappointing.

I walked through the entrance of the building and found myself in a large lobby. I stopped to take it all in, but was interrupted by my name.
"Chris," called a man who was leaning against a long desk parked along the right wall. He stood up straight and walked toward me. He was old, older than my father was, anyway; maybe early sixties. He was in full officer's uniform, with a series of multicolored ribbons decorating his chest. When he got to me, he extended his right hand.

"Lieutenant Colonel Schumer," he said as I took his hand. "I worked with your dad."
"Really?" I said, a bit shocked. "My dad was a researcher, I didn't think he'd be working with a Lt. Colonel."
Schumer chuckled and released my hand. "It's a Marine city and a Marine base," he said. "Everything's run by some kind of officer. The cafeteria's run by a Mess General, even."
I forced a laugh, then stood in silence.
"Come on," he said, "I have your dad's keys and his personal items in my office." He turned and walked to the end of the lobby and turned left into a long, narrow hallway. It seemed like an office building more than a school.
"Is this where he worked?" I asked, trying to read the names on the doors as I passed them.
"Your father worked downstairs," he said, opening a door and stepping inside.

Lt. Colonel Schumer's office was small and kind of cramped. The books lining the back wall and drab shades covering the windows made it feel even smaller. Besides some filing cabinets and a wide oak desk positioned in the middle of the room, there was little appointment or decoration to the room. I sat down in a wooden chair with leather lining opposite the desk while Schumer sat behind the desk. On top of the desk was a healthy scatter of papers, a small wooden clock, and a beige computer sitting horizontally on the desk with a small monitor perched on top of it. The back of the computer was exposed, only a few feet from me. I could see an open USB port among the mess of keyboard, mouse, monitor, power, and speaker cables. The computer was turned off.

Schumer slid a thick yellow envelope across the desk to me. In it was a set of keys to my dad's car, a wrist watch, and a few mildly-expensive looking pens. "These are the things your father left here," he said.
"There isn't more? Books or pictures? Journals? Anything?"
Schumer folded his hands on the desk. "These are the sort of things one keeps at a desk, but your dad didn't really have a desk. He did lap work, mostly, and he used various workstations. People here tend to keep personal effects to a minimum because they never know where they're going to be moving next."

I took another look inside the envelope, then closed it and set it down on the floor.

"Is there anything else I can do for you?" Schumer asked.
"Can you tell me anything about what he did here? How he died?"
He looked down at his hands, and said, "As I said, mostly lab work. There was an unfortunate accident with some equipment, this is how he was injured."
"Lab work. Ok, but that's the weird thing," I said, "As far as anybody knows, this place is just a school for teaching about military history and Marine Corps fundamentals. The web site makes this place sound like the most boring place on Earth. I don't understand why, then, there would be any lab work going on."
Schumer's jaw tightened, then he sighed and his body loosened. "Obviously, Chris," he started, "you know that the work we do here-- not just here, but all over Washington and in any military base -- requires a certain element of secrecy. You should know from the fact that your father never talked about what he did here, that he couldn't talk about it. Now, we're not all out here experimenting on extra terrestrials or assassinating foreign ambassadors, but from a strategic and conventional perspective, some doors we have to keep shut."
I frowned. "So you can't tell me anything?"
"I told you he does lab work, which is more than some people would have me say. Some would have me say that a ceiling tile came loose and fell on your dad's head while he was sitting quietly in a chair performing no activities, but I'm not that cold. My advice is to take what you have, hold on to it, and don't worry about what you don't have. He was a good person, doing good things. That's the best I can do."

The paper bag over my head wasn't getting any lighter, I was still scratching at something I couldn't see or feel. All this secrecy was driving me nuts, when my dad was probably just doing menial work that he never even knew the scope of.

"Tell me something," I said, "if my dad was actually bringing US-made weapons to Uzbekistan to support anti-communist rebels, and he was killed by a stinger missile fired by the man who actually killed JFK, how would you tell me and my family he died?"
Schumer half-smirked, then leaned back in his chair. "I'd probably say that he died in an accident here at the office, that he was a good man and was doing good things."
I folded my arms and said, "So you can see the position this puts me in."
"Clearly," he said. "But this is something many people in this town have to deal with. You might feel cheated or used, but you can't let the unknown take over. It won't bring him back, and it'll only bring you down." He looked at his watch, then compared it to the clock on his desk. "I had to interrupt an appointment to see to your unexpected visit," he said, "and let me tell you, most people who show up at the front gate unexpected don't get the same treatment you've gotten, but Daniel truly was appreciated around here and will be missed. I want you to understand that."

I nodded, he looked again at his watch then pushed the power button on the front of his computer. A quick beep came from inside, then the soft hum of fans spinning began.

"And just to demonstrate that, I want you to come back here and see me if you have any new concerns or questions since I had to cut this short," he said, looking at the computer screen and watching it boot up. "I'll give you a conditional entrance pass and add your name to a clearance list, so you'll be able to get through the gate and be escorted back here if you need me."

The computer was up and running, he typed in a password to log in. I slowly pulled the USB drive from my pocket and held it under my palm. The Lt. Colonel clicked the mouse a few times, then typed a few keys, and said, "There, you're on security's list. If you come to the gate and show them this -- where are those passes?" He turned around the the filing cabinet behind him and opened a drawer. This was my chance. I leaned in toward the desk, and with my right hand I unplugged the green speaker cable from the back of the computer and plugged the USB drive into the open port. My heart stopped beating for a moment, I prayed that the computer had Auto-run enabled and that a big message hadn't jumped on screen saying "Hey, someone stuck a USB memory stick into the computer and is probably trying to steal files." After a few seconds, I could hear the hard drive inside the computer begin spinning and clicking as files were being accessed.

Schumer pulled a plastic folder from the drawer and pulled out a laminated card that looked like my visitor's pass but was white instead of orange, and explained that the bearer was granted conditional entrance by Lt. Colonel Schumer. There was also a magnetic strip, a bar code, and a few series of digits. "Right," he said. "Show them that at the gate, then your photo I.D. and they'll look you up, and let you in here."
"Thanks," I said, though I couldn't really figure out why he was giving me this. If there was nothing he could tell me, why bother letting me come back whenever I want?

Schumer stood up and walked around the desk. I stood up to block his view of the computer's rear. The USB drive had only been plugged in a few seconds, it would need more time to copy any files. Schumer opened the door and held it open for me, repeating that he had an appointment to get to. To buy time, I pretended to look over the desk for where I'd put that envelope, then eventually "found" it there on the floor. I backed up to the computer and pulled the USB drive out behind my back, then bent down to grab the envelope.

"His car is in the back of the lot just outside," he said as I went out the office door, "can you find your way back to the gate or do you need someone to lead you?"
It was a single road, no turns, so I told him I could make it. In the hall outside his office, a man wearing civilian clothes walked by and looked at me like I had a badger clinging to my face. It was probably the youngest person he'd ever seen in this den of secrets. Schumer walked me back to the front door of the building, said goodbye, then walked back to the hall toward where his office was.

I found my dad's Cadillac in the rear of the parking lot like he'd said. The car was about five years old and dark green. I'd driven it twice that I could remember, and wasn't too impressed with it. I unlocked the door with the remote on the keychain, got in, and dropped the envelope in the passenger seat. I hadn't learned nearly as much as I'd hoped to. I hadn't seen exactly where my dad worked, and I'd only met one person he worked with. The USB drive had been plugged in for no more than 30 seconds, so I wasn't sure if I was going to find anything useful on there either. I guessed I'd have to come up with some other reason to come back, and use my suspicious clearance to get back in.

I made my way back to the small parking lot just inside the gate, honked at my own car, and Amy pulled it out and followed me. At the gate, the same guy was there to wave me through.

So this is Quantico, I thought. I wondered why I had always been so afraid of it.