Chapter 10 – Silent Summons
July 7, 1990 – Professor Leland's Office – 8:33 AM
A summer breeze blew through the half-open windows of the office. The smell of fresh coffee and old paper mingled with the sound of the nearby church bells, marking the middle of the morning.
Logan sat at Professor Leland's oak desk. He wore a light blue shirt and gray dress pants, his hair neatly combed, and his gaze, though calm, held tension and expectation.
Leland slowly leafed through a manila envelope on the desk, bearing the red seal of the Department of Defense. His long, steady fingers seemed to measure time with the turning of each page.
Finally, he looked up.
"Moore…"
Logan straightened in his chair.
"Sir?"
"The contact I mentioned… the chief attorney of the DOD legal unit…" answered.
Silence. Logan's heart raced, but he didn't react physically. He just waited.
"They were impressed with the profile I drew of you. Your background, discipline, background. It's not often that a first-year student at Harvard is mentioned by someone like me. But the truth is that you have something they're looking for: quiet strength."
Logan swallowed.
"And... what did they say?"
Leland smirked.
"They're willing to offer you an eight-week internship in Washington D.C. It starts in ten days. It'll be a limited position, of course nothing that involves sensitive data yet but... it's a door. A very big door."
It took Logan a few seconds to react. The words seemed to echo in the room, as if they needed to be heard more than once to become real.
"I... I don't even know how to thank you, Professor..."
"You'll thank them by working with the same honesty you've shown so far. The rest will come."
"Will they pay you anything?"
Leland laughed, as if he knew that would be the question from someone like Logan.
"Yes. A fair wage. Covered housing. Transportation allowance. Food. It's not much, but it's enough for you to live with dignity and maybe even help your parents, if you want."
Logan blinked, feeling a heat rise in his chest. He stood up, almost automatically, and extended his hand.
"Thank you, sir. From the bottom of my heart."
Leland shook his hand firmly.
"You'll go far, Moore. Just don't forget what brought you here."
July 7th – Gropius Dormitory – Room 216 – 9:42 AM
Logan ran into his room, the envelope still in his hands. The first thing he did was run to the pay phone at the end of the hall.
He dialed the numbers from memory, his heart beating fast.
He rang once, twice, three times.
"Hello?"
"Mom! It's me! Logan!"
"Son!" What a surprise! Is everything okay?
— More than okay... Mom... I made it.
— Got what?
— An internship. In Washington. At the Department of Defense. I'm going there in ten days!
There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line.
— Logan... Oh my God... Is this real?
— It's real, Mom. They're going to pay me, cover housing, transportation... everything. I'll even be able to help you guys with some money every month.
On the other end, Clara started to cry.
— My son... my boy... you made it...
— Where's Dad?
— HERE IT IS! RICHARD! IT'S LOGAN!
The sound of hurried footsteps invaded the line.
— Son? What happened?
— Dad... I was called for an internship in Washington. At the DOD. All expenses paid.
Richard was silent.
— I'm so... so proud, Logan.
— I wish I was there to hug you.
— Just knowing that you're going this far is the biggest hug we could ever receive.
— And I'll send you money every month. I can help now.
Clara came back on the line.
— The only thing we want, Logan... is to see you happy. Money comes and goes. But your dream... that's our treasure.
July 15 – Union Station, Washington D.C. – 5:12 p.m.
Logan disembarked with a black suitcase, a backpack on his back, and his eyes focused on every detail.
The station's monumental architecture surrounded him, with marble columns and flags hanging from the high ceiling. He had never been to D.C., but he could already feel the historical weight of the place as if he were stepping into a living extension of the Constitution.
He was greeted by a young, polite DOD employee named Ethan.
— Logan Moore?
— Yes, sir.
— Welcome to Washington. I'll take you to your accommodation.
— Thank you very much.
The car drove along the wide avenues of the capital, passing monuments, parks and buildings with American flags flying.
Logan watched everything in silence.
He felt like he was playing on another level now.
July 16 – Department of Defense – Legal Office – 8:00 AM
Logan entered the building with his temporary badge. He was wearing a dark gray suit, white shirt and navy blue tie. His shoes were polished, his hair was impeccable.
He was directed to the legal support division. A receptionist led him to a small room with four interns' desks.
There, he met his supervisor: Dra. Amanda Rowe, a military lawyer with 12 years of experience.
—Logan Moore? I heard your name.
— Nice to meet you, Dra. Rowe.
— I hope you're ready to work. I can't give you access to sensitive documents, but we have a lot of case law that needs to be organized, reviewed, and indexed. Do you understand FOIA?
— Freedom of Information Act? Yes, I've already studied the basics.
— Great. You'll be working with me. The goal is clear: accuracy, ethics, and speed.
Logan nodded firmly.
— You can count on me.
July 19 – Temporary Housing – Room 204 – 10:40 p.m.
Logan sat at the desk in the small apartment provided by the DOD. It had a window overlooking an indoor garden, a desk neatly stacked with papers, and a handwritten letter on the table.
"Dear Parents,
I'm settled in. Washington is a city unlike any I've ever seen. Here, every building seems to carry the history of the country. It's imposing, but I feel like I belong.
I'm working with a military lawyer. She's tough, but fair. I already feel useful. And when I received my first bank deposit today, I thought of you.
Dad, Mom… you taught me the value of every penny. That's why I'm sending you my first transfer tomorrow. It's not much compared to what you deserve. But it's a start.
I love you,
Logan"
He folded the letter, put it in the envelope, and smiled.
It was the first time in his life that he could give back.
July 21 – Department of Defense – File Room – 2:17 p.m.
While scanning old documents, Logan was startled by a male voice behind him.
"You're Professor Leland's student, right?"
He turned around. He was an older man, dark blue suit, National Security Division insignia.
"Yes, sir."
"Good. I'm watching you. Work as if you're being evaluated all the time. Because you are."
Logan nodded.
"Understood, sir."
Chapter 11 – In Silence, the Tireless Shine
July 23, 1990 – Department of Defense – Legal Room, 7:24 AM
The building still seemed to be asleep. The lights in the hallway were partially off, the footsteps of security guards echoed in the distance, and the smell of coffee from the pantry was beginning to spread throughout the legal floor.
Logan was already there.
Sitting at his desk in the right corner of the interns' room, with a black mug he had received on his second day ("Classified & Caffeinated"), he was silently reviewing an old petition about preventive measures in maximum security environments. A case dated back to 1982, but which involved grounds that, according to Dra. Rowe, could resurface in future arguments.
He didn't have to do this. But he wanted to understand. Everything. Always.
At 7:30 AM, sharply, the glass door opened. Dr. Rowe appeared, as she did every day, with her neutral expression, folders under her arm and her hair tied in a tight bun. She noticed Logan there, already active.
She didn't smile. But she nodded.
"Moore."
"Dra. Rowe. Good morning."
She headed to her office, stopping before closing the door.
"When you're done reading, come see me. We have a precedent analysis to review."
"Yes, ma'am."
8:50 AM - Dra. Amanda Rowe's Office
The office was austere. Three bookshelves, a dark wood desk, a folded flag on the cabinet, and in the center, Amanda Rowe — a former NSA consultant, a DOD lawyer for 12 years, known for her rigidity and discretion.
Logan sat in front, with his notebook and printed documents.
"Did you receive the material on filing appeals in security procedures on international bases?"
— I did. I read all four precedents.
— And?
— I found a pattern. In three of the four, the appeal was dismissed for lack of extraterritorial jurisdiction. But one of them, Benedict v. United States, 1979 presented an interesting exception, because of bilateral agreements made during the Cold War.
Amanda raised an eyebrow.
—No one had noticed that until now.
—Maybe because the decision was based almost entirely on footnotes in the defense's arguments.
She stared at him for two long seconds. Then she stood up, walked over to a bookshelf, picked up a bound volume from 1979, and flipped through it. She found the reference.
— Impressive.
Logan just nodded, subdued.
— Keep it up, and I might put you on reviewing some classified reports from Maj. Whitaker's staff. You heard that name?
— Major Whitaker, yes. Coordinates legal analysis of overseas operations, right?
She smiled, subtly, for the first time.
"Very good, Moore."
July 26 – Legal Room – 3:11 p.m.
Logan was typing, without stopping, a report on the review of protocols for the temporary detention of foreigners in risk areas. The air conditioning was too strong, but he didn't complain. Nearby, other interns came and went, many with distracted looks, some whispering about their coffee breaks.
One of them, Bryan, a sophomore at Georgetown, walked past him.
"Man… don't you ever get up from there?"
"I haven't finished the analysis yet."
"I finished half of it and went to get a coffee. You should do the same. You're going to go crazy, man."
Logan gave a small smile.
"I have personal goals. I want to go above and beyond what anyone asks of me."
Bryan laughed, but respectfully.
"You're the kind of guy who's going to become an urban legend around here." "The Intern Who Sleeps with the Files."
Logan laughed too, briefly.
—Better than being forgotten.
July 27 – 5:40 p.m. – Legal Wing Corridor
Dr. Rowe was talking to two senior officers. Logan came out of her office carrying scanned files.
She noticed him passing by.
—Moore.
He stopped.
—Ma'am?
She held out a sheet of paper.
—Here's your authorization to access the files on the joint base. Temporary, but valid. You've been granted Level 1 access. Congratulations.
Logan swallowed.
—Thank you, ma'am. I didn't expect—
—You've shown more reliability in two weeks than some here have in two years. Just don't embarrass me.
—Never.
She turned to her colleagues, but first, she murmured:
—And come here on Saturday. We have extra work. And I trust you to do it.
July 28 – Room 204 – 10:12 p.m.
Logan called home.
— Hello?
— Dad! It's me!
— Logan! Hey, how's everything going?
— Much better than I thought. I've been promoted to a limited access type. And I think I'm gaining my supervisor's trust.
— That's great, son!
— I've already sent you another transfer. And I bought Mom a gift—a French cookbook.
— She's going to love it. Seriously. We can't repay you for that, son…
— You've repaid me. With love, patience… and faith. Now it's my turn.
July 30 – DOD – Dr. Rowe's Office – 10:02 a.m.
— Moore. I need you to review these reports. They're from joint operations in legal gray areas. I want you to see if there are any weak points that could be used in future investigations.
— Okay. Any specific focus?
— Drones. Use in home surveillance there are loopholes that can be exploited by civilians.
Logan began to analyze.
Three hours later, he returned with notes.
— Ms. Rowe... the report from the 22nd contains records without a timestamp. This could open the door to questioning the surveillance chain of custody.
She read quickly.
— You have eagle eyes. If the Pentagon finds out about this...
— I'd rather you hear it from us, ma'am.
She smiled, more broadly this time.
— Moore... when you graduate, let me know. I have contacts who would love someone with your profile.
Logan just nodded, but his heart was beating loudly inside his chest.
July 31 – Washington Memorial – 7:23 p.m.
Logan walked alone.
He looked at the orange sky reflected in the reflecting pool in front of the monument. He was tired. Exhausted, even. But alive.
He remembered his room in New York. Of the neighbors' screams. Of the food being told. Of his father coming back sweaty from the workshop. Of his mother reading to him by candlelight during blackouts.
Now he was here.
Working in the heart of the country.
And no one had given him anything. He had built each step.
Slowly. Silently. Tirelessly.
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