||||||| ELECTRONIC NEWS BOARD: Weekly Newsletter |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| Vol. 21

(A version of this appeared in NNATAN magazine)

1. The Op in the Expanded Field

We vet families – and can bar them from joining the Op – but once they leave our sphere of influence, the Op must seize control and wield his kin as clandestine cover. A respectable man must have a wife, after all, and a respectable wife must be fecund and productive for her State. But the pliant, detached creatures we select for foreign assignment are not householders by nature. Would that we could destroy their defective brood; but that is an engineer’s solution. And much as we suffer the consequences, as much as it might be humane to do so, we cannot simply execute children without risking international outcry and accusations of profound hypocrisy. By mandate each household must reproduce the State in miniature. When a family veers off course the community and State will apply corrective pressures to return it to a productive equilibrium. Abroad, at best the family will live on a diplomatic compound, where a network of families can provide at least a semblance of normalizing forces: a bad facsimile of State, perhaps, but at least an image of State, however blurry. Compound life is not always possible. Often a family must survive as a discrete unit, submerged in a zone of maximal contact with hostile elements, where surveillance must be assumed and proper comportment is crucial. Those families – estranged from State and saturated in alien influence – grow listless and odd.

Decades of discrete surveillance found clusters of traits evolving in families bereft of State. A male and female pair will often allow the infantile fantasies of their children to pollute their discourse and cuckold the State. And what is family but discourse? Or more accurately: what is family but programming and course correction through discourse? Transcripts reveal trained Ops referring to their families as prides of lions (which in turn fosters a base environment of sprawling), wolf packs, dolphins, and in one instance as a flock of geese. Correctives applied through official channels, specifically requests for the patriarch to intervene and introduce elements of Protocol and Doctrine into their play, yield weird and unwanted results. In the aforementioned flock of geese, a mother “goose”, a father “gander” and an infant nicknamed “egg,” spoke of “squawk protocol” and “big honk,” performed chores in service of “the Pond.” Prefrontal lobotomies were performed resulting in the usual steep drops in performance. Gentler correctives should be employed in all but the most severe cases.

Preferred methods of maintaining a semblance of separation from outside elements and a totem of State in the home include cooking meals unavailable in the assigned country. Creating such meals involve complex improvisation to substitute ingredients, or interaction with a network of countrymen- ritual trades of baking soda for dried raisins, for example, or a bottle of wine for carob syrup. Camaraderie is commendable, of course, but substitutions of any sort are worrying, and threaten to undermine the meal. The meal being the transubstantiation of State, nourishment wrest from labor applied to the homeland’s soil, etc…. The amber screen went blank. The satellite feed had broken. He continued typing his report:

A ten-year-old child (male) found a six-inch diameter metal canister marked with Cyrillic script. Broke it open against a stone, spilling a pungent powder. Red welts formed on contact with said powder. Child dropped canister in public well. Well water no longer potable. Request engineering dispatch to drill down to aquifer; install pumping apparatus as appropriate. Child could not locate where canister had been retrieved from, beyond pointing toward “the Black Stork.” (The Black Stork is the local colloquialism for 5615m peak at 29°17’17N 71°55’34.) Nervous system began failing during interrogation. Limb in question shook so above vague directional should not be relied upon with complete accuracy. Degeneration continued despite administration of intravenous atropine. Death by respiratory failure within seven hours. Twelve (12) villagers drank from the well before canister was discovered. Two further fatalities (three total): an 18-month-old female and a 79-year-old male. War Widow’s pension in the amount of Rs. 1400/- monthly for elder’s family requested. Remaining ten developed symptoms ranging from loss of motor function to chronic fatigue. The village prefect’s wife – also the local schoolteacher – was among the afflicted. Disability compensation in the amount of Rs. 2500/- monthly and a replacement instructor humbly requested. Corpses destroyed by cremation. Find death certificates, pension, medico- and material requests attached in triplicate. His wife began to cough. The amber monitor began to glow again and the rest of the message began to download.

2. The Expatriate Shopkeeper as Agent

Cities with large expatriate populations have stores dedicated to foreign comestibles. It should go without saying that an Op should cultivate relationships with those who serve the expatriate community, with an eye toward recruitment. These men make excellent agents. Overheard conversations reveal compromising personal information, such as infirmity (toiletry and minor medical items such as familiar brands of bandage, lozenges, cough remedies etc. are a large portion of their trade) or – in the case of stores equipped with a lending library or videocassettes for rent – sexual deviance. The clucking of spouses is a particularly rich seam of information. But it should also go without saying one should also be wary of shopkeepers. All agencies are after them and their information is often muddled with their contact with the enemy (or entirely made up for profit, see: TINCAN where a shopkeeper in Havana supplied us with vacuum cleaner schematics he claimed were taken from a military installation and mislead us for years)

The expatriate store is a site for subtler interventions too. Britons in particular yearn for native treats with remarkable fervor, and often form a plurality of a typical store’s customer base. These treats are not luxuries, far from it. Brewery slurry fermented, potted and sold as toast spread, clotted creams, tinned puddings with phallic names, curdled rose water, sultanas, carbonated fluids… securing and consuming these atrocities becomes ritual for the Briton, and in this way, he is to be emulated. His treats are cheap and their rewards extend far beyond the realm of simple consumption. Consuming native delicacies, a Briton becomes connected to his homeland. A sense of community is fostered and re-inscribed. We can appropriate this process!

Our farms produce delicacies for export and these – purely by accident – are often found in such stores. Caviar, of course, but also rinds sugared and packed with tissue in elegant tins. Dried cubes of stew meat we will call “threadies”. Why don’t we make a concerted effort to place our wares in expatriate kitchens? Our [commercial] agents can spread these products. Then our cuisine will become ubiquitous. Until we assist the struggle of the foodstuff, our products will struggle for shelf space among the lesser foodstuffs, among the gaudy things of the East and West, the heathen and the vulgar, cross-contaminated with the good.

RE: GEESE: A meandering contribution that stopped abruptly.

RE: ARTICLE: This “veritable goldmine of clandestine opportunity” is of highly dubious value.

*** EMBASSY PERSONNEL: A crate containing mulled wine, black currant preserves, cubes of assorted dried meats, and other delicacies from home will arrive soon. This crate will be addressed to appropriate social coordinator, vice counsel, etc. You must intercept. Contents intended as a ‘sampler’ for distribution to any and all stores catering to local expatriate community. Questions? Transmit: HOME OFFICE, re: Sinister Snacking. ***

RANGOON wishes to thank HOME OFFICE for another exceptional idea.

ADDIS ABBA: is appalled by this sudden lurch into arch capitalism.

PARIS: thinks the expatriate community is already well served by domestic cuisine.

LONDON: in all seriousness there are excellent British confections. Chocolate especially.

ZURICH: disagree with LONDON’s opinion re: British confections.

BRUSSELS: also disagree with LONDON; wish to assert Belgian dominance in global chocolate-making arena.

|||||||||||| IMPERATIVE: STOP TRANSMITING YOUR LOCATIONS ||||||||||||||||||||||||

ANONYMOUS: Are we under attack?

*** RE: ANONYMOUS: Do not assume we are under attack. You will be notified in the event of an attack, nuclear or otherwise. ***

 

October 26, 1982

3. The Ghoulish Irony of Imperialist Capital

As a political officer of quite senior rank I understand the doctrinal and moral objections to our taking a more overt role in global commerce and trade; however, I think the following example of how we are turning our enemy’s greed against him might prove enlightening.

First, a history lesson: Ops allowed access to international news have no doubt noticed the perturbations at the highest levels of our enemy’s government over the past ten years. For those who do not or did not, here is what happened: A politically motivated, but otherwise unremarkable intelligence gathering operation was bungled, and revealed to the public. (It really was slight, in effect seeding a rival’s regional campaign office with ‘devices,’ standard practice for political parties all over the world.) As the agents involved were interrogated and their orders traced back to higher and higher levels of authority, their leader – Richard Nixon, a sleek sinister corporatist – resigned rather than face a trial by his peers in the senate. As his vice-president had earlier been forced out of office, the presidency was assumed by the chairman of their legislative branch; and for the first time in history the United States of America was led by an official chosen by a single state rather than the entire country. The thought that the mask might slip and reveal a fascist snarl sent shudders through the ‘free’ world… Of course, as is often the case, deeper issues were at play. The Federal Bureau of Investigation, long a private fiefdom, lost its founder and leader for almost forty years – J. Edgar Hoover. The White House made a play for control. It stands to reason that one of the remaining senior officials installed by the old director revealed the break-in to the press as a way of retaliating or in an attempt to blackmail the administration into letting him take over. Indeed, in the wake of Nixon’s resignation there were other intensely toxic disclosures, including the revelation of Central Intelligence activities in the domestic United States, apparently forbidden by charter (how easily we forget).

Hardly the stuff of Hollywood movies, and typical of bureaucracies allowed to fester far from oversight (not unlike the children of Ops, apparently); yet regardless of why their government began to collapse, keen outside observers took this as just another sign that on a macro level the American colossus’ knees were beginning to buckle. A stagnant economy and rising inflation had begun to gnaw at the pocketbooks of a populace already riven with a discontent over the unpopular, illegal war in Vietnam. Domestic production of petroleum peaked in 1970 and Americans were being forced to import a greater and greater fraction of oil from abroad. This would doom them. In 1973, the Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries, a cartel of mostly Middle Eastern Arab countries declared an embargo on oil exports. Prices of petroleum-based products soared and since monies received from petroleum are in hard currency (i.e. petrodollars), to capitalize on Western misfortune we built vast pipelines to transport oil and natural gas from our Eastern wastelands directly into Western Europe.

Not only do our pipelines give us a potent weapon in our diplomatic arsenal (in that we can shut off Europe’s electricity at will) but money, billions upon billions of dollars have begun to flow back to us. And with this money we are able to secretly purchase the most advanced technological products from the West, back engineering them for our own [martial] purposes, in effect contracting our research to our enemies. Indeed, much of the technology we appropriate is actually used to transport oil and natural gas from the farthest reaches of our frontier to directly to down their gullets. One of our most important recent acquisitions has been technology capable of remotely operating our oil supply lines.

***FLASH: Details are emerging. Explosion’s yield determined equivalent to a three (3) kiloton tactical nuclear blast, flash visible from low earth orbit unassisted. No trace of radiation at blast site. No sign of electromagnetic pulse. Nuclear strike ruled out. Transmit any information, most urgent priority. Carbon Copies to HOME OFFICE. ***

RE: FLASH: Has a satellite-based “Star Wars” attack been considered?

RE: RE: FLASH: A bit of Skylab fell on it.

*** RE: RE: FLASH: explosion was obviously not satellite-based. ***

RE: RE: RE: FLASH: Tunguska II?

GEESE: Can we be sure this wasn’t the work of BIG POND?

RE: GEESE: Squawk protocol is insidious but deliriously exciting! Explosive in character! A mere pipeline is a nothing sacrifice for a nation enthralled by the Gander!

CUISINE: How will this affect sales of our native cuisine? After all, comrades, are we not to be considered glorified sales agents from now on?

*** RE: RE: FLASH: Industrial accident not ruled out, but the Supervisory Control and Data Acquisition (SCADA) control monitor registered no increase in pipeline pressure, and a mere puncture would have simply leaked and caught fire, without causing such an explosion. Transmit any information or theories, most urgent priority to HOME OFFICE. Carbon Copies to CENTRAL FILES, COMMAND. ***

RE: CHILDREN: Has to possibility of a syndicate consisting of the rogue children of Ops could be responsible?

RE: RE: RE: FLASH: To create such an explosion, an operator would have had to increase the pipeline pressure beyond operational parameters without alerting the control panels. Could the chips have been sabotaged?

*** SABOTAGE: Absolutely impossible. This was on our minds throughout the process. The chips were vigorously tested in Moscow prior to installation. The computer system worked perfectly in isolation. ***

||||||||| Strict professionalism is required even under the veil of anonymity! |||||||

RE: RE: GEESE AND CUISINE AND CHILDREN: Honk!

4. Social Engineering at International Trade Conventions

Our friend in the political section has addressed this to a certain extent already but it bears repeating.

How do we compete with an enemy who is able to devote many multiples more money towards technological development than we can? The answer is that we do this through subterfuge. We buy advanced technologies from him, using the proceeds of among other venues – our oil and gas exports. Of course our foe is far from stupid. In 1974 the United States banned direct sales of computer equipment, radar apparatus, machine tools and other material to the Soviet Union, and their allies have followed suit. So we are forced to trick him into selling us his microchips. Ever since the embargo, we have been forced to purchase through intermediaries. Hence the subterfuge. And international trade conventions have become veritable post-war Viennas of clandestine operations.

To a casual observer the idea that we use our Ops as purchasing agents might seem odd. But a close look at what the Op actually does, however, that is examining what his or her labor actually consists of, reveals a great deal of overlap. To take a somewhat Fordist view of our intelligence community, one might think of our work as a production line of workers assembling information. Our Ops take information in, which our analysts digest, condense and extrude as actionable intelligence for policy makers, commanders, revolutionary archivists etc. There is a feedback loop in this system to consider as well, as our analysts and their supervisors are far from passive receptacles; as information comes in our analysts and their overseers guide the attention of the Ops. This analogy is useful from an organizational point of view, but neglects the ‘blade of the spade.’

Where does our information come from? Our Ops harvest it. Ops cajole information from agents. In theory there are many ways to do this, through brute force, bribery etc. but by far the most frequent technique is through an Op’s sheer charm and a target’s lust for human contact. Of course this lust for contact has a determined component. More than one wag has described our work as being in the business of engineering fortuitous coincidences. After all, how else does one connect with another human being than with a series of shared qualities and experiences? The bulk of our preparation in advance of a meeting involves the creation of dossiers on the principals. Should we require an introduction to a Swedish manufacturer of precision machinery, for example, and their representative enjoys ice-fishing and Norse mythology then we will book a seat beside him, and have a knowledgeable Op strike up a conversation. The skills we use to cultivate relationships with military officials and diplomats easily overlap with the commercial world.  And by charming our salesmen not only do we secure the necessary items; we often do so at a bargain price.

SABOTAGE: Is it possible the chips were sabotaged?

AGAIN: Chips are put through vigorous testing. Impossible.

ARTICLE: This sounds as though the same man wrote it all. Every article in this document has the same voice.

RE: ARTICLE: Do you remember signing up for this?

RE: RE: ARTICLE: No. What is this document? Control? Respond!

5. Self Reproduction of Programmes

This talk of sabotaged computer chips has a familiar and disconcerting ring to it… Though it may seem the stuff of science fiction, of computers coming untethered from their tape drives and acting according to the whims of another, maleficent programmer’s agenda; our corps of Autonomous Systems engineers – and of course their counterparts in the West – have begun to create malicious computer programs. Most varieties replicate autonomously and clog the memory banks of afflicted computer systems. However, more sophisticated and sinister variants are being developed. Software can carry a disguised payload and operate as a sort of computational time bomb, primed to execute its secret orders when a certain set of conditions arise – a certain amount of time has passed, or even a sequence is entered remotely. As autonomously controlled systems spread throughout our infrastructure we become (and our enemies become) ever more vulnerable to such an attack. Remember, it is useful to assume that any technique you employ will eventually be encountered on the other side.

ARTICLE: A malignancy in the control system. They expect us to believe this?

RE: ARTICLE: The starred remarks have gone. CONTROL RESPOND!

RE: ARTICLE: Why take credit for the explosion?

RE: RE: ARTICLE: To conceal a sloppy job?

RE: RE: RE: ARTICLE: Cast doubt on our systems?

RE: RE: RE: RE: ARTICLE: Wouldn’t they want us to trust compromised equipment?

RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: ARTICLE: A Chinese plot? Sowing discontent between USA and USSR?

CHINESE? More likely a delinquent Op-ling than a Chinaman.

SOLUTION: Let’s ignore the document. What action can we take? Whatever we do, we lose.

RE: SOLUTION: And if it’s a test?

RE: RE: SOLUTION: It isn’t a test. It never is. How many ‘tests’ have you encountered?  They’re just an excuse for covering things up, claiming cunning to conceal gross incompetence.

RE: RE: RE: SOLUTION: So it is a nuisance and we should stop responding? What about the pipeline?

RE: RE: RE: RE: SOLUTION: Leave it alone.

END.

 

Writing and the World of Tomorrow

Before we had any idea how dangerous it was to bolt human beings to exploding tubes and launch them into space, when inventions like the lightbulb and airplane and telephone were warping the planet at a ferocious pace and escaping the earth’s gravity well suddenly seemed possible —we imagined that exploring the Universe would be a lot like the famous expeditions we had seen before.

The Godling of Greater Kailash in “Manhattan” magazine

This issue’s Fictionist features a short story by James McGirk, a writer who moved to India in the early days of Manmohan Singh’s economic reforms. The Godling of Greater Kailash is an intriguing story, loosely based on McGirk’s experience as a photographer’s assistant during a particularly long and hot Indian summer, when New Delhi’s expatriate community was flooded with Burmese refugees.

 

NNATAN

We vet families and can bar them from joining the Op – but once they leave our sphere of influence, the Op must seize control and wield kin as clandestine cover. But the pliant, detached creatures we select for foreign assignment are not householders by nature. Much as we suffer the consequences, and much as it might be humane to do so, we simply cannot execute our children without risking accusations of profound hypocrisy and international outcry.

Memory Scraped onto Landscape with Smell

So horrid and bright to open his eyes. So much better to stay enshrouded in ruddy dark. But other signals were… penetrating too. His gullet came unfastened, pulsing and melting, and a sour bulge of liquid rose and – oh fuck, he sat up too late – popped and disgorged into his cupped hands. He cradled this liquid inch; it had weight and mass, and the gluey but slippery consistency of watered cornstarch. Sweet artificial scents of partially digested alcohol rose from its glistening surface. How much like an offering this was, with its bobbing rice grains and bilious yellow tint (he was bent on his knees in the sand). The smell intensified. A nostril twitched. Revulsion clenched him, and he flung his slop into the fire pit.

Kim Jong-un Contemplates His Failed Launch

The rocket had failed. Kim Jong-un snapped off his the monitor and turned to face his advisors. What could they possibly tell him? This was total failure. Five ashen men in uniform glittered in the gloom. They groveled and made excuses. Kim lifted a hand and batted the air as if to shoo a fly, and the men backed away slowly, heads bowed deeply in shame. He waited for them to leave and left the control room for his private chambers. The hallway smelled of sandalwood and cognac.

Armour Brand Desiccated Thyroid…

Published in GIGANTIC

Fence Magazine story out!

Issue 14.1/2

 

Listen to The Tramp Steamer in THE DRUM

“James McGirk’s short story “The Tramp Steamer” presents a side of Richard M. Nixon we’ve never seen before. McGirk imagines the young lawyer and his new bride traveling on a tramp steamer of the United Fruit Company to celebrate their first anniversary. Seasick, angry, jealous, Nixon reveals his inelegance to his wife who yearns for more glamour and glitz. McGirk takes the facts of the Nixons’ actual 1941 trip and spins out an incisive and compelling story of bitterness and dreams.” LINK

The Earmen

A bunny slope version of India was within walking distance from our compound. Each proper Delhi enclave had an Indian antecedent to the American strip-mall lurking along its fringe; the enclaves were roughly circular and the better, quieter properties were clustered around a grassy interior park filled with grass for cricket and shade trees; the marketplace was ugly and crude in comparison, shunned by decent folk and patronized only by domestics or school boys buying liquor from the government package store. A blighted patch barely tolerated as if a horrid thing had been caught in a fence and was kept tame with scraps. I did not bring my gun. All I had was my folding scout knife. Lifting the blade from its hinged cradle distracted me enough to maintain composure.

I took a service road, or servants’ road, one of the thorn-clogged alleyways that ran behind the row of walled houses and the domestics walk to and from the main-road without spoiling our view. A mottled orange cat, with slim limbs and a bulbous head eyed me as he picked his way between the glinting glass lining the alleyway walls.

The market appeared to be a group of shabby municipal buildings. A post-office logo hung above an overhang, and I walked in and realized the and realized the institutional tile was only a façade. A crowd milled around a tea vendor; there weren’t so many of them, there was no jostling. The men wore collared white shirts and wool pants. There were no women except for a lone police constable who followed me around discretely. The others eyed me but no one approached. Beyond the teashops were rows of stalls leading down winding narrow roads. Each stall was a three-quarter cube of concrete, its opening facing the street, dim bulbs coiled around its rim, blinking, attached to bits of rebar, the dealers hawking, or crouched over stoves that reeked of kerosene and frying dough. Wares ranged from gleaming bare metal pots and pans, to live chickens clucking in cages. I chose the one that looked the cleanest and the walls closed in. Clothes, rogue television lines, and frayed flags flapped overhead, casting everything into permanent gloom. Even the walls were marred almost black with soot. The sky was very far away and I felt very alone no matter how much I thumbed my blade.

I became comfortable with the market, and as the days passed I went deeper. In the deepest recesses I found a row of booksellers. Stolen periodicals were the bulk of their trade, other offerings were mostly limited to political tracts, conspiracy, books of bawdy humor, business, self-help manuals and astrology and superstition. Their bind was of a uniformly atrocious quality, the glue contained no gelatin and pages fell out as you read. I bought them by the armload. Hungry to acquire secret knowledge. I planned elaborate seductions using books of body language interpretation, learned how airports function and the way to escape a maze was to always turn right. One day I bought Collier’s Encyclopedia of Omens. A syntax of mind-bending toxin for a sensitive young brain to intake. An index articulating mystical interpretations of any event: how tinnitus signaled news that was either sinister or good, depending on the ear in which it rang; how an odd number of crows was bad, and even number was good. That uncrushed eggshells provoked stormy seas; that spilled salt drained your luck away unless preventative rituals were performed.

One morning I staked out an open section of the marketplace, clutching a notebook and a pencil, loitering in the dusty concrete plaza noting who entered and left. A useless exercise, certainly, I even I knew it at the time, but I needed a tether to reality – or something like that. I was about to leave when three men arrived, a much different group than the predominantly middle class Indians who had been walking to and from the stalls. They were grubby and obviously close to destitution. Not quite peddlers but tinkers of the lowest sort. They spread out mats and squatted, smoking sharp clove cigarettes. Identical kits lay before them, a single candle lit and burning, a long metal spike, and a photo album filled with postcards from all over the world. WHAT A DIFFERENCE THE EARMEN HAVE MADE. Read one. I HEAR CLEARER THAN I EVER HAVE BEFORE. One man menaced me with a spike. I refused his services, but he kept advancing on me, pleading for me to become his lucky first customer of the day; I stood and left, but lingered on the periphery to watch.

A customer arrived, an elderly Indian woman in a lime green sari and white stripe braided into her black hair. She strolled across the plaza toward them, stooping to examine each book of cards, querying and commanding, until she finally chose an appropriate ear man. She squatted on the mat. The earman perched behind her holding the spike. He was about to insert when she slapped the spike down and I heard a haughty gust of Hindi. He nodded and plunged the needle into the candle for a few seconds then twisted it in his grimy shirt. There was a metallic flash and he jabbed it in and twisted and twisted, pulling her head into the needle and grinding it in.

He removed the spike. A gooey black ball hung from the tip, he waggled it in front of his customer who paid and walked away rubbing her ear. He wiped the wax onto his candle. My ears ached in sympathy.