Terminal Compromise by Winn Schwartau (my reading book .txt) 📖

never bothered to tell him,

that because of his family background, guilt by association if

you wish, his career would be severely limited.

Miles made it to senior analyst, and his family was proud, but

he never told them that over 40% of the staff in his area were

senior analysts. It was a high tech desk job that required his

particular skills as a mathematician. The NSA got from Miles what

they wanted; his mathematical tools modified to work for govern-

ment security projects. For a couple of years, Miles happily

complied – then he got itchy to work on other projects. After

all, he had come up with the idea in the first place, it was time

he came up with another. Time to move on.

In typical bureaucratic manner, the only way to get something new

done is to write a proposal; enlist support and try to push it

through committee. Everyone made proposals. You not only needed

a good idea for a good project, good enough to justify the use of

8 billion dollars worth of computers, but you needed the connec-

tions and assistance of others. You scratch mine, I’ll scratch

yours.

During his tenure at NSA, Miles attempted to institute various

programs, procedures, new mathematical modes that might be use-

ful. While technically his concepts were superior, his arro-

gance, his better-than-everyone, my shit doesn’t stink attitude

proved to be an insurmountable political obstacle. He was unable

to ever garner much support for his proposals. Thus, not one of

them was ever taken seriously. Which compounded the problem and

reinforced Miles’ increasingly sour attitude towards his employ-

er. However, with dimples in command, Miles successfully masked

his disdain. To all appearance he acceded to the demands of the

job, but off the job, Miles Foster was a completely different

person.

*

The telephone warbled on the desk of the IAS Department Chief.

The digital readout on the phone told him that it was an internal

call, not from outside the building, but he didn’t recognize the

number.

“Investigations,” The chief answered.

“This is Jacobs. We’re checking up on Foster.”

“Yessir?” DIRNSA? Calling here?

“Is he gone?”

“Yessir.”

“Anything?”

“No sir.”

“Good. Close the file.”

“Sir?”

“Close it. Forever.”

* September, 4 Years Ago Georgetown, Washington, D.C.

Miles Foster set up shop in Washington D.C. as a communications

security consultant. He and half of those who lived within

driving distance of the Capitol were known as Beltway Bandits, a

simultaneously endearing and self-deprecating title given to

those who make their living selling products or services to the

Federal Government. Miles was ex-NSA and that was always impres-

sive to potential clients. He let it be known that his services

would now be available to the private sector, at the going rates.

As part of the revolving door, from Government to industry,

Miles’ value would decrease with time, so he needed to get a few

clients quickly. The day you leave public service all of your

knowledge is current, and therefore valuable, especially to

companies who want to sell widgets to the government. As the

days and months wear on, new policies, new people, new arrange-

ments and confederacies are in place. Washington’s transient

nature is probably no more evident than through the political

circle where everyone is aware of whom is talking to whom and

about what. This Miles knew, so he stuck out his tentacles to

maximize his salability.

He restructured his dating habits. Normally Miles would date

women whom he knew he could fuck. He kept track of their men-

strual cycles to make sure they wouldn’t waste his time. If he

thought a particular female had extraordinary oral sex skills, he

would make sure to seduce when she had her period. Increased the

odds of good blow job.

Now though, Miles restricted his dating, temporarily, to those

who could help start his career in the private sector. “Fuck the

secretary to get to the boss!” he bragged unabashedly.

Miles dragged himself to many of the social functions that grease

the wheels of motion in Washington. The elaborate affairs,

often at the expense of government contractors and lobbyists,

were a highly visible, yet totally legal way to shmooze and booze

with the influentia in the nation’s capital. The better parties,

the ones for generals, for movers and for shakers, for digni-

taries and others of immediate importance, are graced with a

generous sprinkling of strikingly beautiful women. They are paid

for by the hosts, for the pleasure of the their guests. The

Washington culture requires that such services are discreetly

handled. Expense reports and billings of that nature therefore

cite French Caterers, C.T. Temps, Formal Rentals and countless

other harmless, inoffensive and misleading sounding company

names.

Missile Defense Systems, Inc. held one of the better parties in

an elegant old 2 story brick Georgetown home. The building was a

former embassy, which had been discarded long ago by its owners

in favor of a neo-modern structure on Reservoir Road. The house

was appointed with a strikingly southern ante-bellum flair, but

tastefully done, not overly decorated. The furniture was modern,

comfortable, meant to be and used enjoyed, yet well suited to the

classic formality.

The hot September night was punctuated with an occasional breeze.

The breaths of relief from Washington’s muggy, swamp-like summer

air were welcomed by those braving the heat in the manicured

gardens outside, rather than the refreshing luxury of the air

conditioned indoors.

It was a straight cocktail party, a stand-up affair, with a

hundred or so Pentagon types attending. It began at seven, and

unless tradition was broken, it would be over by 10 as the last

of the girls finds her way into a waiting black limousine with

her partner for the night. Straight politics, Miles thought.

9:30 neared, and Miles felt he had accomplished most of what he

had set out to do – meet people, sell himself, play the game,

talk the line, do the schtick. He hadn’t, though, yet figured

out how he was going to get laid tonight.

As he sipped his third Glen Fetitch on the rocks, he spotted a

woman whom he hadn’t seen that evening. Maybe she had just

arrived, maybe she was leftovers. Well, it was getting late, and

he shouldn’t let a woman go to waste, so let’s see what she looks

like from the front. She looked aimlessly through the French

doors at the backyard flora.

Miles sauntered over to her and introduced himself. “Hi, I’m

Miles Foster.” He grinned wide, dimples in force, as she turned

toward him. She was gorgeous. Stunning even. About an inch

taller than Miles, she wore her shimmering auburn hair shoulder

length. Angelic, he thought. Perfectly formed full lips and

statuesque cheek bones underscored her sweetly intense brown

eyes. Miles went to work, and by 10P.M., he and Stephanie Perkins

were on their way to Deja Vu on 22nd. and M Street for drinks and

dance. By 10:30 he had nicknamed her Perky because her breasts

stood at constant attention. By 11:30 they were on their way to

Miles’ apartment.

At 2:00 AM Miles was quite satisfied with himself. So was Perky.

His technique was perfect. Never a complaint. Growing up in a

houseful without men taught Miles what women wanted. He learned

how to give it to them, just the way they liked it. The weekend

together was heaven in bed; playing, making love, giggling,

ordering in Chinese and pizza. Playing more, watching I Love Lucy

reruns, drinking champagne, and making love. Miles bounced

quarters on her taut stomach and cracked eggs on her exquisitely

tight derriere. By Sunday morning, Miles found that he actually

liked Stephanie. It wasn’t that he didn’t like his other women,

he did. It was just, well this one was different. He ‘really’

liked her. A very strange feeling for Miles Foster.

“Miles?” Stephanie asked during another period of blissful after-

glow. She snuggled up against him closer.

“Yeah?” He responded by squeezing her buttocks. His eyes were

still closed.

“In a minute stud, yes.” She looked up reassuringly at him.

“Miles, would you work for anyone?” She kissed his chest.

“What do you mean?” he asked in return. He wasn’t in the mood

for shop talk.

“Like, say, a foreigner, not an American company. Would you work

for them?”

“Huh?” Miles looked down inquisitively. “Foreigner? I guess so.

Why do you ask?” He sounded a tad concerned.

“Oh, no reason.” She rubbed him between his legs. “Just curious.

I thought you were a consultant, and consultants work for anyone

who can pay. That’s all.”

“I am, and I will, but so what?” He relaxed as Stephanie’s hands

got the desired result.

“Well,” she stroked him rhythmically. “I know some people that

could use you. They’re not American, that’s all. I didn’t know

if you cared.”

“No, I don’t care,” he sighed. “It’s