a funny thing happened. A few months after the inauguration, Maestro learned that the Prescott MCI account was still active.”
“Why would the first family even keep the MCI account?”
“I couldn’t tell you. We did what we were hired to do, and that was to monitor the MCI servers. In fact, it was one man’s job to keep an eye out for any emails coming from that account.”
“For three years? He must have been one dedicated SOB.”
The sergeant nodded. “It nearly drove me to drink.”
The rat-tat-tat of machine guns continued in the distance. The pale man said, “I’m sure it did.”
And you’ll have to surrender your life for what you know.
“I pored over nearly two thousand pages of emails each night. After a while I was beginning to think Maestro’s plan was for shit. I knew one thing for sure: Jack Prescott was no longer using his private email.”
Probably true, thought the pale man. In fact, he had read an article on the subject just prior to Prescott’s inauguration— something to do with the Presidential Records Act, if he remembered correctly. If the occasion called for it, a commander-in-chief’s email could be subpoenaed by the courts— even by Congress. That included all electronic communication, including private emails and texts.
“Suffice it to say Jack Prescott gave up his beloved Black Berry the day he walked into the Oval Office. But we weren’t sure about the rest of the Prescott family. Hell, maybe they’d have some use for the account.”
“So you hung around and watched for activity.”
“And there was nothing from that account for the longest time. Then, out of the blue, I came across something very interesting. It was a simple email sent to a girl named Wendy Adams. As it turns out, Adams is Caitlin Prescott’s best friend, and she’s a senior at the Eastland School down in Orlando—the very school Caitlin Prescott attended until the election forced the move to D.C. The message had the IP address 192.168.100.54. Remember that number, friend. When you see it, that’s her.”
“Wait a minute,” said the pale man. “If the White House is using all the latest encryption technology, how did you manage to translate her email?”
“That’s the beauty of it, friend. The messages were sent in plain English.”
“I’m not getting this.”
“My man, the first daughter is sending illicit email through the MCI account that, for some strange reason, is still open. That’s all I know.”
“Why would she do that? Is she blind to the risks?”
The sergeant shrugged. “I guess that, beyond the glitter, she was just a typical teenage girl who was looking for a normal life. Perhaps she’s a little rebellious. I really don’t know and, frankly, don’t care. All I know is that I suddenly had what I was looking for.” He gestured to the gutted PCs lining the back of the trailer. “Other than the substantial time element involved in packet sniffing, it’s a simple process, really. Hardware, capture driver, buffer, real time analysis and decode.”
“What did you do after you discovered the first daughter’s email?”
“I sent word to Maestro.”
“What did he say?”
“He told me exactly what to email back to Caitlin Prescott.”
The pale man said nothing, simply staring back at the militia sergeant.
The sun was beginning to set. There was now a definite chill to the air.
“You’ve never heard of fake email, have you?”
“Does this somehow involve you posing as Wendy Adams?”
The sergeant motioned to the stack. “Go ahead, have a look for yourself.”
The pale man scooped up the papers. His eyes raced across the top page. “’Hey, Cait. What’s up? Can’t talk right now, but I want you to know I’m thinking of you.’” He glanced up. “When did you send this?”
“Twelve days ago.”
“And when did Caitlin Prescott answer you?”
“That same afternoon. Read the bottom.”
He cleared his throat. “’Thinking about you, too, wen. Talk to you tomorrow. I need some sleep! ’”
“Now read what I sent the following day.”
The pale man flipped to the next page, “’Can’t wait to see you again.’ Blah, blah. Bunch of stuff about school and boys.” He frowned. “What’s with the headers? They all read Apparently From:WenAdams12@Eastl.edu. Why Apparently From?”
“I wouldn’t worry about that. Come on. I’ll show you how it’s done.”
“You sure the first daughter won’t pick up on the headers?”
“She wouldn’t know a suspicious header from her toe nail polish.”
The militia sergeant plopped down in front of the field trailer’s only functioning desktop. His fingers raced across the keyboard as he explained the process. After the brief discourse, the sergeant tapped the monitor.
“Here we go. Watch while I telnet to the SMTP socket.”
That took a moment.
Then he typed >telnet Eastl.edu
They both waited for the computer to process this next step.
“Now I’ll give the hello command.” The monitor blinked. “Okay, we’re up.”
Then he typed WenAdams12@Eastl.edu
“Of course, this is a fake return address— in this case, Wendy Adam’s address at the Eastland School in Orlando.” The sergeant sat back. “At this point, you’re ready to go. Simply type your message and send.”
The pale man nodded pensively. “Show me the last message Maestro ordered you to send to the first daughter.”
The sergeant rifled through the stack of papers. “Here we go.”
“Yo, cait. Got to see you some time, girl. When can we see each other?” The pale man glanced up from the paper. “He’s inviting her to meet him.”
The sergeant nodded. “You just read the turning point in this whole saga, guy.” He motioned. “Read Caitlin’s email back.”
“I’m going to Orlando soon. Looks like the week of the 7. It’ll be a blast. Can’t wait, Wen. Kisses.” The pale man thought for a moment. “Orlando. He’s maneuvering her into position. It’s going to be a turkey shoot.”
The
