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YES: This is the beginning!
This file contains the Introduction and Chapters 1-5 of "Terminal
Compromise."
Please remember this is NOVEL-ON-THE-NET ShareWare. Fees and
address information are in the accompanying file: TC_READ.ME
Thank you for your consideration.
INTER.PACT Press
11511 Pine St.
Seminole, FL 34642
All contents are (C) 1991, 1992, 1993 Inter.Pact
****************************************************************
Note to the Readers of "Terminal Compromise:"
In writing a book like this, it is often difficult to distinguish
fact from fiction.
That is because the fiction is all too probable, and the facts
are unbelievable. Maybe it doesn't matter and they're the same
after all. Other than a few well known names and incidents, the
events in this book are fictional - to the best of my knowledge.
As I wrote this tale, I was endlessly coming upon new methods,
new tactics, new ways to wage computer warfare. I found that if
this story was to be told, I had to accept the fact that it would
always be unfinished. The battle of the computers is one without
an end in sight.
This story is an attempt to merge the facts as they are with the
possibilities. The delineation between fact and fiction is
clouded because the fiction of yesterday is the fact, the news,
of today. I expect that distinction to become hazier over the
next few years.
It is that incongruity that spawns a conjectured extrapolation
indistinguishable from reality.
The construction of the model that gave birth to this tale was
the culmination of many years of work, with a fictional narrative
being the last thing in my mind. That was an accident necessi-
tated by a need to reach the largest possible audience.
In fact, a lot of things have surprised me since "Terminal Com-
promise" was first published. It seemed that we were able to
predict a number of things including Polymorphics, Clipper Chips,
non-lethal warfare . . . and you'll recognize a few other prog-
nostications we didn't expect to come to pass quite yet.
The reader will soon know why.
There were many people who have been invaluable in the prepara-
tion of this document, but I'll only mention a few. If the
reader doesn't want to hear about my friends, please move on to
the next chapter.
Mary C. Bell. Hi, Mom. Thanks for the flashlight.
Lazarus Cuttman. The greatest editor a writer has ever had. He
kept me honest.
Miles Roban. That's an alias. He's the one who told me about
the real NSA. I hope he doesn't get in trouble for what he said.
I owe him a pound of M&Ms. 2 lbs. of them. (NOTE: For over two
years, according to 'high-up' sources, the NSA has been and still
is looking for 'Miles'. They haven't found him yet, despite an
intensive internal NSA search. We need more people like 'Miles'
who are willing to break down the conventional barriers of secu-
rity on issues that affect us all.)
Dad. God rest.
Winn Schwartau, July, 1993
****************************************************************
"Terminal Compromise" is dedicated to:
Sherra
There is no adequate way to say thank you. You are the super-glue
of the family. Let's continue to break the rules.
I Love You
Ashley
She wrote three books before I finished the first chapter and
then became a South-Paw.
Adam
Welcome, pilgrim.
****************************************************************
Prologue
Friday, January 12, The Year After
The White House, Washington D.C.
The President was furious. In all of his professional political
life, not even his closest aids or his wife had ever seen him so
totally out of character. The placid Southern confidence he
normally exuded, part well designed media image, part real, was
completely shattered.
"Are you telling me that we spent almost $4 trillion dollars,
four goddamn trillion dollars on defense, and we're not prepared
to defend our computers? You don't have a game plan? What the
hell have we been doing for the last 12 years?" The President
bellowed as loudly as anyone could remember. No one in the room
answered. The President glared right through each of his senior
aides.
"Damage Assessment Potential?" The President said abruptly as he
forced a fork full of scrambled eggs into his mouth.
"The Federal Reserve and most Banking transactions come to a
virtual standstill. Airlines grounded save for emergency opera-
tions. Telephone communications running at 30% or less of
capacity. No Federal payments for weeks. Do you want me to
continue?"
"No, I get the picture."
The President wished to God he wouldn't be remembered as the
President who allowed the United States of America to slip back-
ward 50 years. He waited for the steam in his collar to subside
before saying anything he might regret.
* * * * *
Monday, August 6, 1945.
Japan
The classroom was coming to order. Shinzo Ito, the 12th graders'
instructor was running a few minutes late and the students were
in a fervent discussion about the impending end to the war. And
of course it was to be a Japanese victory over the American
Mongrels.
Ito-san was only 19 years old, and most of the senior class was
only a year or two younger than he. The war had deeply affected
all of them. The children of Japan were well acquainted with
suffering and pain as families were wrenched apart - literally at
the seams, and expected to hold themselves together by the honor
that their sacrifices represented. They hardened, out of neces-
sity, in order to survive and make it through the next day, the
next week; and so they knew much about the war. Since so many of
the men had gone to war, women and children ran the country. 10
and 11 year old students from the schools worked as phone opera-
tors. It was an honorable cause, and everyone contributed; it was
only fitting. Their fathers and loved ones were fighting self-
lessly and winning the war.
Many of the children's fathers had gone to war, valiantly, and
many had not come home. Many came home in pieces, many others,
unrecognizable. And when some fathers had gone off to war, both
they and their families knew that would never return. They were
making the Supreme Sacrifice for their country, and more impor-
tantly, a contribution to their honorable way of life.
The sons and daughters of kamikazes were treated with near rever-
ence. It was widely believed that their father's honor was
handed down to their offspring as soon as word had been received
the mission had been successful. Albeit a suicide mission.
Taki Homosoto was one 17 year old boy so revered for his father's
sacrifice. Taki spoke confidently about such matters, about the
war, about American atrocities, and how Japan would soon defeat
the round faced enemy. Taki had understood, on his 17th birthday
that his father would leave . . .and assuredly die as was the
goal of the kamikaze. He pretended to understand that it made
sense to him.
In the last 6 months since his father had left, Taki assumed, at
his father's request, the patriarchal role in the immediate
family. The personal anguish had been excruciating. While
friends and family and officials praised Taki's father and fami-
ly, inside Taki did not accept that a man could willingly leave
his family, his children, him . . .Taki, never to return. Didn't
his father love him? Or his sister and brother? Or his mother?
Taki's mother got a good job at one of the defense plants that
permeated Hiroshima, while Taki and his brother and sister con-
tinued their schooling. But the praise, the respect didn't make
up for not having a father to talk to, to play with and to study
with. He loved his mother, but she wasn't a father.
So Taki compensated and overcompensated and pretended that his
father's sacrifice was just, and good, and for the better of
society, and the war effort and his family. Taki spoke as a
juvenile expert on the war and the good of Japan and the bad of
the United States and the filthy Americans with their unholy
practices and perverted ways of life, and how they tortured
Japanese prisoners. Taki was an eloquent and convincing orator
to his piers and instructors alike.
At 8:15 A.M., the Hiroshima radio station, NHK, rang its old
school bell. The bell was part of a warning system that an-
nounced impending attacks from the air, but it had been so over-
used that it was mostly ignored. The tolls from the bell were
barely noticed by the students or the teachers in the Honkawa
School. Taki though, looked out the window toward the Aioi
Bridge. His ears perked and his eyes scanned the clear skies over
downtown Hiroshima. He was sure he heard something . . .but
no . . .
The first sensation of motion in the steel reinforced building
came long seconds after the blinding light. Since the rolling
earth motions in 1923 devastated much of Tokyo, schoolchildren
and households nationwide practiced earthquake preparedness and
were reasonably expectant of another major tremor at any time.
But the combination of light from 10,000 suns and the deafening
roar gave those who survived the blast reason to wish they had-
n't. Blindness was instant for those who saw the sky ignite.
The classroom was collapsing around them. In the air was the
noise of a thousand trains at once...even louder. In seconds the
schoolhouse was in rubble.
The United States of American had just dropped the Atomic Bomb
on Hiroshima, Japan. This infamous event would soon be known as
ayamachi - the Great Mistake.
* * * * *
Tuesday, August 7, 1945
Taki Homosoto opened his eyes. He knew he was laying on his
back, but all else was a clutter of confusion. He saw a dark
ceiling, to what he didn't know and he hurt He turned his head
and saw he was on a cot, maybe a bed, in a long corridor with
many others around him. The room reeked of human waste and
death.
"Ah . . .you are awake. It has been much time." The voice came
from behind him. He turned his head rapidly and realized he
shouldn't have. The pain speared him from his neck to the base
of his spine. Taki grimaced and made a feeble attempt at whim-
pering. He said nothing as he examined the figure in the white
coat who spoke again. "You are a very lucky young man, not many
made it."
What was he talking about . . .made it? Who? His brain wanted
to speak but his mouth couldn't. A slight gurgling noise ushered
from his throat but nothing else. And the pain . . .it was
everywhere at once . . .all over . . .he wanted to cry for
help . . .but was unable. The pain overtook Taki Homosoto and
the vision of the doctor blackened until there was no more.
Much later, Taki reawoke. He assumed it was a long time later,
he been awake earlier . . .or had that been a dream. The
doctor...no he was in school and the earthquake . . .yes, the
earthquake . . .why don't I remember? I was knocked out. Of
course. As his eyes adjusted to the room, he saw and remembered
that it wasn't a dream. He saw the other cots, so many of them,
stretching in every direction amidst the cries of pain and sighs
of death.
Taki tried to cry out to a figure walking nearby but only a low
pitched moan ushered forth. Then he noticed something
odd . . .and odd smell. One he didn't recognize. It was
foul . . .the stench of burned . . .burned what? The odor made
him sick and he tried to breathe through his mouth but the awful
odor still penetrated his glands. Taki knew that he was very
hurt and very sick and so were a lot of others. It took him some
time, and a lot of energy just to clear his thoughts. Thinking
hurt - it concentrated the aching in his head, but the effort
took away some of his other pain, or at least it successfully
distracted him focussing on it.
There were cries from all around. Many were incomprehensible
babblings, obviously in agony. Screams of "Eraiyo!", ("the pain
is unbearable!") were constant. Others begged to be put out of
their misery. Taki actually felt fortunate; he couldn't have
screamed if he had wanted to, but out of guilt he no longer felt
the need to.
Finally, the same doctor, was it the same doctor? appeared over
his bed again. "I hope you'll stay with us for a few minutes?"
The doctor smiled. Taki responded as best he could. With a
grunt and the raising and lowering his eyelids. "Let me just say
that you are in very good condition . . .much better than the
others," the doctor gestured across the room. "I don't mean to
sound cruel, but, we do need your bed, for those seriously hurt."
The doctor sounded truly distraught. What had happened?
A terrified look crossed Taki's face that ceded into a facial
plead. His look said, "I can't speak so answer my
questions . . .you must know what they are. Where am I? What
happened? Where is my class?"
"I understand your name is Taki Homosoto?" the doctor asked.
"Your school identification papers . . ."
Taki blinked an affirmative as he tried to cough out a response.
"There is no easy way to tell this. We must all be brave. Ameri-
ca has used a terrible weapon upon the people of Japan. A spe-
cial new bomb so terrible that Hiroshima is no longer even a
shadow of itself. A weapon where the sky turns to fire and build-
ings and our people melt . . .where the water sickens the living
and those who seem well drop in their steps from an invisible
enemy. Almost half of the people of Hiroshima are dead or dying.
As I said, you are a lucky one."
Taki helped over the next days at the Communications Hospital in
what was left of downtown Hiroshima. When he wasn't tending to
the dying, he moved the dead to the exits so the bodies could be
cremated, the one way to insure eternal salvation. The city got
much of its light from pyres for weeks after the blasts.
He helped distribute the kanpan and cold rice balls to the very
few doctors and to survivors who were able to eat. He walked the
streets of Hiroshima looking for food, supplies, anything that
could help. Walking through the rubble of what once was Hiroshi-
ma fueled his hate and his loathing for Americans. They had
wrought this suffering by using their pikadon, or flash-boom
weapon, on civilians, women and children. He saw death, terrible,
ugly death, everywhere; from Hijiyama Hill to the bridges a cross
the wide Motoyas River.
The Aioi bridge spontaneously became an impromptu symbol for
vengeance against the Americans. Taki crossed the remnants of
the old stone bridge, which was to be the hypocenter of the blast
if the Enola Gay hadn't missed its target by 800 feet. A tall
blond man in an American military uniform was tied to a stone
post. He was an American POW, one of 23 in Hiroshima. A few
dozen people, women in bloodstained kimonos and mompei and near
naked children were hurling rocks and insults at the lifeless
body. How appropriate thought Taki. He found himself mindlessly
joining in. He threw rocks at the head, the body, the legs. He
threw rocks and yelled. He threw rocks and yelled at the remains
of the dead serviceman until his arms and lungs ached.
Another 50,000 Japanese died from the effects of radiation within
days while Taki continued to heal physically. On August 17, 9
days after the atomic bombing of Nagasaki and 2 days after Emper-
or Hirohito's broadcast announcing Japan's surrender, a typhoon
swamped Hiroshima and killed thousands more. Taki blamed the
Americans for the typhoon, too.
Taki was alone for the first time in his life. His family dead,
even his little sister. Taki Homosoto was now a hibakusha, a
survivor of Hiroshima, an embarrassing and dishonorable fact he
would desperately try to conceal for the rest of his life.
* * * * *
Forty Years Later . . .
January, 1985, Gaithersburg, Maryland.
A pristine layer of thick soft snow covered the sprawling office
and laboratory filled campus where the National Bureau of Stand-
ards sets standards for the country. The NBS establishes exactly
what the time is, to the nearest millionth of a millionth of a
second. They make sure that we weigh things to the accuracy of
the weight of an individual atom. The NBS is a veritable techno-
logical benchmark to which everyone agrees, if for no other
reason than convenience.
It was the NBS's turn to host the National Computer Security
Conference where the Federal government was ostensibly supposed
to interface with academia and the business world. At this
exclusive symposium, only two years before, the Department of
Defense introduced a set of guidelines which detailed security
specifications to be used by the Federal agencies and recommended
for the private sector.
A very dry group of techno-wizards and techno-managers and tech-
no-bureaucrats assemble for several days, twice a year, to dis-
cuss the latest developments in biometric identifications tech-
niques, neural based cryptographic analysis, exponential factor-
ing in public key management, the subtleties of discretionary
access control and formalization of verification models.
The National Computer Security Center is a Department of Defense
working group substantially managed by the super secret National
Security Agency. The NCSC's charter in life is to establish
standards and procedures for securing the US Government's comput-
ers from compromise.
1985's high point was an award banquet with slightly ribald
speeches. Otherwise the conference was essentially a maze of
highly complex presentations, meaningless to anyone not well
versed in computers, security and government-speak. An attend-
ee's competence could be well gauged by his use of acronyms. "If
the IRS had DAC across its X.25 gateways, it could integrate
X9.17 management, DES, MAC and X9.9 could be used throughout.
Save the government a bunch!" "Yeah, but the DoD had an RFI for
an RFQ that became a RFP, specced by NSA and based upon TD-80-81.
It was isolated, environmentally speaking." Boring, thought
Miles Foster. Incredibly boring, but it was his job to sit,
listen and learn.
Miles Foster was a security and communications analyst with the
National Security Agency at Fort Meade, Maryland. It was part of
the regimen to attend such functions to stay on top of the latest
developments from elsewhere in the government and from university
and private research programs.
Out of the 30 or so panels that Miles Foster had to attend, pro
forma, only one held any real interest for him. It was a mathe-
matical presentation entitled, "Propagation Tendencies in Self
Replicating Software". It was the one subject title from the
conference guide about which he knew nothing. He tried to figure
out what the talk was going to be about, but the answer escaped
him until he heard what Dr. Les Brown had to say.
Miles Foster wrote an encapsulated report of Dr. Brown's presen-
tation with the 23 other synopses he was required to generate for
the NSA. Proof of Attendance.
SUBJECT:
Dr. Les Brown - Professor of Computer Science, Sheffield Univer-
sity. Dr. Brown presented an updated version of his PhD thesis.
CONTENTS:
Dr. Brown spoke about unique characteristics of certain software
that can be written to be self-replicating. He examined the
properties of software code in terms of set theory and adequately
demonstrated that software can be written with the sole purpose
of disguising its true intents, and then replicate or clone
itself throughout a computer system without the knowledge of the
computer's operators.
He further described classes of software that, if designed for
specific purposes, would have undetectable characteristics. In
the self replicating class, some would have crystalline behav-
iors, others mutating behaviors, and others random behaviors.
The set theory presentations closely paralleled biological trans-
mission characteristics and similar problems with disease detec-
tion and immunization.
It became quite clear from the Dr. Brown's talk, that surrepti-
tiously placed software with self-replicating properties could
have deleterious effects on the target computing system.
CONCLUSIONS
It appears prudent to further examine this class of software and
the ramifications of its use. Dr. Brown presented convincing
evidence that such propagative effects can bypass existing pro-
tective mechanisms in sensitive data processing environments.
There is indeed reason to believe that software of this nature
might have certain offensive military applications. Dr. Brown
used the term 'Virus' to describe such classes of software.
Signed, Miles Foster
Senior Analyst
Y-Group/SF6-143G-1
After he completed his observations of the conference as a whole,
and the seminars in particular, Miles Foster decided to eliminate
Dr. Brown's findings from the final submission to his superiors.
He wasn't sure why he left it out, it just seemed like the right
thing to do.
****************************************************************
Chapter 1
August, 4 Years Ago.
National Security Agency
Fort George S. Meade, Maryland.
Thousands of disk drives spun rapidly, at over 3600 rpm. The
massive computer room, Computer Room C-12, gently whirred and
droned with a life of its own. The sublime, light blue walls and
specially fitted blue tint light bulbs added a calming influence
to the constant urgency that drove the computer operators who
pushed buttons, changed tapes and stared at the dozens of amber
screens on the computers.
Racks upon racks of foreboding electronic equipment rung the
walls of Room C-12 with arrays of tape drives interspersed. Rats
nests of wire and cable crept along the floor and in and out of
the control centers for the hundreds of millions of dollars of
the most sophisticated computers in the world. Only five years
ago, computing power of this magnitude, now fit in a room the
size of an average house would have filled the Pentagon. All of
this, all of this power, for one man.
Miles Foster was locked in a room without windows. It contained a
table, 4 chairs, and he was sure a couple of cameras and micro-
phones. He had been held for a least six hours, maybe more; they
had taken his watch to distort his time perception.
Within 2 minutes of the time Miles Foster announced his resigna-
tions as a communications expert with the National Security
Agency, S Group, his office was sealed and guarded by an armed
marine. His computer was disconnected, and he was escorted to a
debriefing room where he had sporadically answered questions
asked by several different Internal Affairs Security Officers.
While Miles Foster was under virtual house arrest, not the pre-
ferred term, but an accurate one, the Agency went to work. From
C-12, a group of IAS officers began to accumulate information
about Miles Foster from a vast array of computer memory banks.
They could dial up any major computer system within the United
States, and most around the world. The purpose, ostensibly, of
having such power was to centralize and make more efficient
security checks on government employees, defense contractors and
others who might have an impact on the country's national securi-
ty. But, it had other purposes, too.
Computer Room C-12 is classified above Top Secret, it's very
existence denied by the NSA, the National Security Agency, and
unknown to all but a very few of the nation's top policy makers.
Congress knows nothing of it and the President was only told
after it had been completed, black funded by a non-line item
accountable budget. Computer Room C-12 is one of only two
electronic doors into the National Data Base - a digital reposi-
tory containing the sum total knowledge and working profiles of
every man, woman and child in the United States. The other
secret door that guards America's privacy is deep within the
bowels of the Pentagon.
From C-12, IAS accessed every bank record in the country in
Miles' name, social security number or in that of his immediate
family. Savings, checking, CD's. They had printouts, within
seconds, of all of their last year's credit card activity. They
pulled 3 years tax records from the IRS, medical records from the
National Medical Data Base which connects hospitals nationwide,
travel records from American carriers, customs checks, video
rental history, telephone records, stock purchases. Anything that
any computer ever knew about Miles Foster was printed and put
into eleven 6" thick files within 2 hours of the request from the
DIRNSA, Director, National Security Agency.
Internal Affairs was looking for some clue as to why a successful
and highly talented analyst like Miles Foster would so abruptly
resign a senior analyst position. While Miles was more than
willing to tell them his feelings, and the real reasons behind
his resignation, they wanted to make sure that there weren't a
few little details he wasn't telling them. Like, perhaps gam-
bling debts, women on the side, (he was single) or women on the
wrong side, overextended financial obligations, anything unusual.
Had he suddenly come into money and if he did, where did he get
it? Blackmail was considered a very real possibility when unex-
pected personnel changes occur.
The files vindicated Miles Foster of any obvious financial anoma-
lies. Not that he knew he needed vindication. He owned a Potomac
condominium in D.C., a 20 minutes against traffic commute to Fort
Meade where he had worked for years, almost his entire profes-
sional life. He traveled some, Caribbean cruises, nothing osten-
tatious but in style, had a reasonable savings account, only used
2 credit cards and he owed no one anything significant. There was
nothing unusual about his file at all, unless you think that
living within ones means is odd. Miles Foster knew how to make
the most out of a dollar. Miles Foster was clean.
The walls of his drab 12 foot square prison room were a dirty
shade of government gray. There was an old map on the wall and
Miles noticed that the gray paint behind the it was 7 shades
lighter than the surrounding paint. Two of the four fluorescent
bulbs were out, hiding some of the peeling paint on the ceiling.
Against one wall was a row of file cabinets with large iron bars
behind the drawer handles, insuring that no one, no one, was
getting into those file with permission. Also prominent on each
file cabinet was a tissue box sized padlock.
Miles was alone, again. When the IAS people questioned him, they
were hard on him. Very hard. But most of the time he was alone.
Miles paced the room during the prolonged waits. He poked here
and there, under this, over that; he found the clean paint behind
the map and smirked.
When the IAS men returned, they found Miles stretching and exer-
cising his svelte 5' 9" physique to help relieve the boredom.
He was 165 lbs. and in excellent for almost 40. Miles wasn't a
fitness nut, but he enjoyed the results of staying in shape -
women, lots of women. He had a lightly tanned Mediterranean
skin, dark, almost black wavy hair on the longish side but immac-
ulately styled. His demeanor dripped elegance, even when he wore
torn jeans, and he knew it. It was merely another personal asset
that Miles had learned how to use to his best advantage. Miles
was regularly proofed. He had a face that would permit him to
assume any age from 20 to 40, but given his borderline arrogance,
he called it aloofness, most considered him the younger. None-
theless, women, of all ages went for it.
One peculiar trait made women and girls find Miles irresistible.
He had an eerie but conscious muscular control over his dimples.
If he were angry, a frown could mean any number of things depend-
ing upon how he twitched his dimples. A frown could mean, "I'm
real angry, seriously", or "I'm just giving you shit", or "You
bore me, go away", or more to Miles' purpose, "You're gorgeous, I
wanna fuck your brains out". His dimples could pout with a
smile, grin with a sneer, emphasize a question; they could accent
and augment his mood at will.
But now. he was severely bored. Getting even more disgusted with
the entire process. The IAS wasn't going to find anything. He
had made sure of that. After all, he was the computer expert.
Miles heard the sole door to the room unlock. It was a heavy, 'I
doubt an ax could even get through this' door. The fourth IAS
man to question Miles entered the room as the door was relocked
from the other side.
"So, tell us again, why did you quit?" The IAS man abruptly
blurted out even before sitting in one of the old, World War II
vintage chairs by the wooden table.
"I've told you a hundred times and you have it on tape a hundred
times." The disgust in his voice was obvious and intended. "I
really don't want to go through it again."
"Tough shit. I want to hear it. You haven't told me yet." This
guy was tougher, Miles thought.
"What are you looking for? For God's sake, what do you want me
to say? You want a lie that you like better? Tell me what it is
and I'll give it back to you, word for word. Is that what you
want?" Miles gave away something. He showed, for the first
time, real anger. The intellect in Miles saw what the emotion
was doing, so his brain quickly secreted a complex string of
amino acids to call him down. Miles decided that he should go
back to the naive, 'what did I do?' image and stick to the plan.
He put his head in his hands and leaned forward for a second. He
gently shook and looked up sideways. He was very convincing.
The IAS man thought that Miles might be weakening.
"I want the fucking truth," the IAS man bellowed. "And I want it
now!"
Miles sighed. He was tired and wanted a cigarette so bad he
could shit, and that pleasure, too, he was being denied. But he
had prepared himself for this eventuality; serious interrogation.
"O.K., O.K." Miles feigned resignation. He paused for another
heavy sigh. "I quit 'cause I got sick of the shit. Pure and
simple. I like my work, I don't like the bureaucracy that goes
with it. That's it. After over 10 years here, I expected some
sort of recognition other than a cost of living increase like
every other G12. I want to go private where I'll be appreciated.
Maybe even make some money."
The IAS man didn't look convinced. "What single event made you
quit? Why this morning, and not yesterday or tomorrow, or the
next day, or next week. Why today?" The IAS man blew smoke at
Miles to annoy him and exaggerate the withdrawal symptoms. Miles
was exhausted and edgy.
"Like I said, I got back another 'don't call us, we'll call you'
response on my Public-Private key scheme. They said, 'Not yet
practical' and set it up for another review in 18 months. That
was it. Finis! The end, the proverbial straw that you've been
looking for. Is that what you want?" Miles tried desperately to
minimize any display of arrogance as he looked at the IAS man.
"What do you hope to do in the private sector? Most of your work
is classified." The IAS man remained cool and unflustered.
"Plenty of defense guys who do crypto and need a good comm guy. I
think the military call it the revolving door." Miles' dimpled
smugness did not sit well with IAS.
"Yeah, you'll probably go to work for your wop friends in
Sicily." The IAS man sarcastically accused.
"Hey - you already know about that!" That royally pissed off
Miles. He didn't appreciate any dispersion on his heritage.
"They're relatives, that's it. Holidays, food, turkey, ham, and
a bunch of booze. And besides," Miles paused and smiled,
"there's no such thing as the Mafia."
By early evening they let him relieve himself and then finally
leave the Fort. He was given 15 minutes to collect his personal
items, under guard, and then escorted to the front gate. All
identification was removed and his files were transferred into
the 'Monitor' section, where they would sit for at least one
year. The IAS people had finally satisfied themselves that Miles
Foster was a dissatisfied, underpaid government employee who had
had enough of the immobility and rigidity of a giant bureaucratic
machine that moves at a snails pace. Miles smiled at the end of
the interrogation. Just like I said, he thought, just like I
said.
There was no record in his psychological profiles, those from the
Agency shrinks, that suggested Miles meant anything other than
what he claimed. Let him go, they said. Let him go. Nowhere in
the records did it show how much he hated his stupid, stupid
bosses, the bungling bureaucratic behemoths who didn't have the
first idea of what he and his type did. Nowhere did Miles'
frustration and resultant build up of resentment and anger show
up in any file or on any chart or graph. His strong, almost
overbearing ego and over developed sense of worth and importance
were relegated to a personality quirk common to superbright
ambitious engineering types. It fit the profile.
Nowhere, either, was it mentioned that in years at NSA, Miles
Foster had submitted over 30 unsolicited proposals for changes in
cryptographic and communications techniques to improve the secu-
rity of the United States. Nowhere did it say, they were all
turned down, tabled, ignored.
At one point or another, Miles had to snap. The rejection of
proposal number thirty-four gave Miles the perfect reason to
quit.
* * * * *
Miles Foster looked 100% Italian despite the fact his father was
a pure Irishman. "Stupido, stupido" his grandmother would say
while slamming the palm of her hand into forehead. She was not
exactly fond of her daughter marrying outside family. But, it was
a good marriage, 3 great kids, or as good as kids get and Grand-
mama tolerated the relationship. Miles the oldest, was only 7
when his father got killed as a bystander at a supermarket rob-
bery.
Mario Dante, his homosexual uncle who worked in some undefined,
never mentioned capacity for a Vegas casino, assumed the pater-
nal role in raising Miles. With 2 sisters, a mother, an aunt and
a grandmother all living under the same roof with Miles, any
male companionship, role model if you will, was acceptable.
Mario kept the Family Honor, keeping his sexual proclivities
secret until Miles turned 18. Upon hearing, Miles commented,
"Yeah, so? Everyone knows Uncle Mario's a fag. Big deal."
Mario was a big important guy, and he did business, grownup
business. That was all Miles was supposed to know. When Miles
was 13, Mario thought it would be a good idea for him to become
a man. Only 60 miles from Las Vegas lived the country's only
legal brothels. Very convenient. Miles wasn't going to fool
around with any of that street garbage. Convention girls. Miles
should go first class the first time.
Pahrump, Nevada is home to the only legalized prostitution in the
United States. Mario drove fast, Miles figured about 130mph, in
his Red Ferrari on Highway 10, heading West from Vegas. Mario
was drinking Glen Fetitch, neat, and he steered with only one
hand, hardly looking at the road.
The inevitable occurred. Gaining on them, was a Nevada State
Trooper. The flashing lights and siren reminded Mario to slow
down and pull over. He grinned, sipped his drink and Miles
worried. Speeding was against the law. So was drinking and
driving. The police officer walked over to the driver side of the
Ferrari. Uncle Mario lowered the window to let the officer lean
into the car. As the trooper bent over to look inside the
flashy low slung import, Mario pulled out a handgun from under
the seat and stuck it into the cop's face.
Mario started yelling. "Listen asshole, I wasn't speeding. Was I?
I don't want nothing to go on my insurance. I gotta good driving
record, y'know?" Mario was crazy! Miles had several strong urges
to severely contract his sphincter muscles.
"No sir, I wanted to give you a good citizenship citation, for
your contributions to the public good." The cop laughed in Uncle
Mario's face.
"Good to see you still gotta sensa'humor." Uncle Mario laughed
and put the gun back in his shoulder holster. Miles stared,
dumbfounded, still squeezing his butt cheeks tight.
"Eh, Paysan! Where you going so fired up? You know the limit's
110?" They both guffawed.
"Here!" Mario pointed at Miles. "'Bout time the kid took a ride
around the world, y'know what I mean?" Miles wasn't sure what
he meant, but he was sure it had to do with where he was going to
lose his virginity.
"Sheeeee-it! Uptown! Hey kid, ask for Michelle and take 2 from
Column B, then do it once for me!" Even though they weren't, to
a 13 year male Italian virgin, Mario and the cop were making fun
of him. "I remember my first time. It was in a pick up truck,
out in the desert. Went for fucking ever! Know what I mean?
The cop winked at Miles who was humiliated. To Miles' relief,
Mario finally gave the cop an envelope, while being teasingly
reprimanded. "Hey, Mario, take it a little easy out here, will
yah? At least on my watch, huh?"
"Yeah, sure. No problem. Ciao."
"Ciao."
They were off again, doing over 100mph in seconds. The rest of
the evening went as planned. Miles thanked his uncle in a way
that brought tears to Mario's eyes. Miles said, "You know, Uncle
Mario. When I grow up, I want to be just like you."
* * * * *
"He's just a boy, Mario! How could you!" Miles' mother did not
react favorably to the news of her son's manhood. She was trying
to protect him from the influence of her relatives. Miles was
gauged near genius with a pronounced aptitude for mathematics and
she didn't want his life to go to waste.
His mother had married outside of the family, the organized crime
culture, the life one inherits so easily. She loved her family,
knew that they dealt in gambling, some drugs, an occasional
rough-up of an opponent, but preferred to ignore it. She mar-
ried a man she loved, not one picked for he, but had lost him 6
years before. They _could not_ have her son.
Her wishes were respected, in the memory of Miles father, and
also because it wasn't worth having a crazed Sicilian woman rant-
ing and raving all about. But Miles was delectable bait to the
Family. His mathematical wizardry could assist greatly in gaming
operations, figure the odds, new angles, keep the dollars in the
house's favor despite all advertising claims to the contrary.
But, there was respect and honor in their promise to his mother.
Hands off was the rule that came all the way from the top. He
was protected. Miles was titillated with the attention, but he
still listened to his mother. She came before all others. With
no father, she became a little of both, and despite anyone's
attempts, Miles knew about Mario.
Miles was such a subject of adoration by his mother, aunt and
grandmother, siblings aside, that Miles came to expect the same
treatment from everyone, especially women. They praised him so,
he always got top honors, the best grades, that he came to re-
quire the attention and approval.
Living with 5 women and a gay uncle for 11 years had its effect.
Miles was incredibly heterosexual. Not anti-gay at all, not at
all. But he had absolutely no interest in men. He adored women,
largely because of his mother. He put women on pedestals, and
treated them like queens. Even on a beer budget Miles could
convince his lady that they were sailing the Caribbean while
baking in the desert suburbs of Las Vegas. Women succumbed,
willingly, to Miles' slightest advance. He craved the approval,
and worked long and hard to perfect his technique. Miles Foster
was soon an expert. His mother never openly disapproved which
Miles took as approval.
By the time Miles went off to college study advanced mathematics
and get a degree, he had shattered half of the teen-age hearts
within 50 miles of Vegas. Plus, the admiration from his female
family had allowed him to convince himself that he was going to
change the world. He was the single most important person that
could have an effect on civilization. Invincible. Can do no
wrong. Miles was the end-all to be-all. If Miles said it, it
must be so, and he bought into the program. What his mother or
girl friends called self confidence others called conceit and
arrogance. Even obnoxious.
His third love, after his mother and himself, was mathematics.
He believed in mathematics as the answer to every problem. All
questions can be reduced to formulas and symbols. Then, once you
have them on a piece of paper, or in a computer . . .the answer
will appear.
His master thesis was on that very subject. It was a brilliant
soliloquy on the reducibility of any multi-dimensional condition
to a defined set of measured properties. He postulated that all
phenomenon was discrete in nature and none were continuous.
Given that arguable position, he was able to develop a set of
mathematical tools that would permit dissection of a problem into
much smaller pieces. Once in manageable sizes, the problem would
be worked out piece by piece until the pieces were reassembled as
the answer. It was a tool that had very definite uses in the
government.
He was recruited by the Government in 1976. They wanted him to
put his ingenious techniques to good use. The National Security
Agency painted an idyllic picture of the ultimate job for a
mathematician - the biggest, fastest and best computers in the
world at your fingertips. Always the newest and the best. What-
ever you need, it'll be there. And that's a promise. Super
secret important work - oh how his mother would be proud. Miles
accepted, but they never told him the complete truth. Not that
they lied, of course. However, they 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 all the same to me. Unless
they're commies. My former employer would definitely frown on
that."
"Would you mind if I called them, and maybe you two can get
together?" She didn't miss a beat.
"No go ahead, call them, anything you want, but can we talk about
this later?" Miles begged.
* * * * *
Miles felt very much uninformed on his way to the Baltimore
Washington Airport. He knew that he was being flown to Tokyo
Japan, first class, by a mystery man who had prepaid him $10,000
for a 1 hour meeting. Not a bad start, he thought. His reputa-
tion obviously preceded him. Stephanie was hired to recruit him,
that was obvious. And that bothered Miles. He was being used.
Wasn't he? Or had he seduced her and the trip was a bonus? He
still liked Stephanie, just not as much as before. It never
occurred to Miles, not for a second, that Stephanie might not
have liked him.
At JFK in New York, Miles connected to the 20 hour flight to
Tokyo through Anchorage, Alaska. He had a brief concern that
this was the same route that KAL Flight 007 had taken in 1983
before it was shot down by the Soviets, but he was flying an
American carrier with a four digit flight number. He allowed
that thought to remove any traces of worry.
The flight was a couple of hours out of New York when one of the
flight attendants came up to him. "Mr. Foster?"
"Yes?" He looked up from the New York City Times he was reading.
"I believe you dropped this?" She handed Miles a large sealed
envelope. His name had been written across the front with a large
black marker.
"Thank you," said Miles. He took it gratefully.
When she left, he opened the strange envelope. It wasn't his.
Inside there was a single sheet of paper. Miles read it.
MR. FOSTER
WELCOME TO JAPAN.
YOU WILL BE MET AT THE NARITA AIRPORT BY MY DRIVER AND CAR. THEY
ARE AT YOUR DISPOSAL.
WE WILL MEET IN MY OFFICE AT 8:00 AM, WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 23.
ALL ARRANGEMENTS HAVE BEEN MADE FOR YOUR PLEASURES.
RESPECTFULLY
TAKI HOMOSOTO
The name meant nothing to him so he forgot about it. He had more
important things to do. His membership in the Mile High Club was
in jeopardy. He had not yet made it with a female flight attend-
ant.
They landed, 18 hours and 1 day later in Tokyo. Miles was now a
member in good standing.
* * * * *
Thursday, September 3
Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport
"DFW, this is American 1137, heading 125 at 3500."
"Roger American 1137, got you loud and green. Maintain 125, full
circle 40 miles then 215 for 40."
"Traffic Dallas?"
"Heavy. Weather's been strong. On again off again. Piled up
pretty good."
"Sheers?"
"None so far. Ah, you're a '37, you carry a sheer monitor. You
got it made. Have to baby sit some 0's and '27's. May be a
while."
"Roger Dallas. 125 40, 215 40. Maintaining 12 point 5."
"Roger 1137."
The control tower at DFW airport was busier than normal. The
dozen or so large green radar screens glowed eerily and made the
air traffic controllers appear pallid under the haunting light
emitted from around the consoles. Severe weather patterns,
afternoon Texas thunderstorms had intermittently closed the
airport forcing a planes to hold in a 120 mile pattern over
Dallas and Fort Worth.
Many of the tower crew had been at their stations for 2 hours
past their normal quitting time due to street traffic delays and
highway pileups that had kept shift replacements from arriving on
time. Planes were late coming in, late departing, connections
were being missed. Tensions were high on the ground and in the
air by both the airline personnel and travelers alike. It was a
chaotic day at Dallas Fort Worth International Airport.
"Chad? Cm'ere," said Paul Gatwick, the newest and youngest, and
least burnt out of the day shift flight controllers.
Shift supervisor Chad Phillips came right over. "What you got?"
He asked looking at the radar screen.
"See these three bogies?" Paul pointed at three spots with his
finger.
"Bogies? What are those symbols?"
"They just appeared, out of nowhere. I don't think they're
there. And over here," he pointed, "that was Delta 210. It's
gone." Paul spoke calmly, in the professional manner he was
trained. He looked up at Chad, awaiting instructions.
"Mike," Chad said to the controller seated next to Paul. "Switch
and copy 14, please. Fast." Chad looked over to Mike's screen
and saw the same pattern. "Paul, run a level 2 diagnostic. What
was the Delta pattern?"
"Same as the others, circle. He's at 45 doing a 90 round."
"Tell him to hold, and verify on board transponder." Chad spoke
rapidly and his authority wasn't questioned.
"Mike, see if we can get any visuals on the bogies. They might
be a bounce."
Chad took charge and, especially in this weather, was concerned
with safety first and schedules last. In less than a minute he
had verified that Delta 210 was not on any screen, three other
ghost planes meandered through the airspace, and that their
equipment was functioning properly.
"Dallas," the calm pilot voice said, "American 1137, requesting
update. It's getting a little tight up here."
"Roger, 1137," Gatwick said nervously. "Give me a second
here . . ."
"Dallas, what's the problem?"
"Just a check . . ."
Chad immediately told the operator of the ETMS computer to notify
the FAA and Department of Transportation that a potential situa-
tion was developing. The Enhanced Traffic Management System
was designed to create a complete picture of every airplane
flying within domestic air space.
All status information, on every known flight in progress and
every commercial plane on the ground, is transmitted from the 22
ARTCC's, (Air Route Traffic Control Centers) to an FAA Technical
Center in Atlantic City and then sent by land and satellite to a
DoT Systems Center. There, an array of DEC VAX super mini com-
puters process the constant influx of raw data and send back an
updated map across the ETMS every five minutes.
Chad zoomed in on the picture of the country into the DFW ap-
proach area and confirmed that the airplanes in question were not
appearing on the National Airspace System data fields or dis-
plays. Something was drastically wrong.
"Chad, take a look here!" Another controller urgently called out.
His radar monitor had more bogies than Paul's. "I lost a Delta,
too, 1258."
"What is it?"
"37."
"Shit," said Chad. "We gotta get these guys wide, they have to
know what's happening." He called over to another controller.
"Get on the wire, divert all traffic. Call the boss. We're
closing it down." The controllers had the power to close the
airport, and direct all flight operations from the tower. Air-
port management wasn't always fond of their autonomy, but the
tower's concern was safety at all costs.
"Another one's gone," said Paul. "That's three 37's gone. Have
they had a recall lately?"
The ETMS operator asked the computer for a status on 737's else-
where. "Chad, we're not the only ones," she said. "O'Hare and
LAX have problems, too."
"OK, everybody, listen up," Chad said. "Stack 'em, pack 'em and
rack 'em. Use those outer markers, people. Tell them to believe
their eyes. Find the 37's. Let 'em know their transponders are
going. Then, bring 'em down one by one."
The emergency speaker suddenly rang out. "Shit! Dive!" The
captain of American 1137 ordered his plane to accelerate ground-
ward for 10 seconds, descending 2500 feet, to avoid hitting an
oncoming, and lost, DC-9.
"Dallas, Mayday, Mayday. What the fuck's going on down there?
This is worse than the freeway . . ."
The emergency procedure was one they had practiced over and over,
but rarely was it necessary for a full scale test. The FAA was
going to be all over DFW and a dozen other airports within hours,
and Chad wanted to be prepared. He ordered a formal notification
to Boeing that they had identified a potentially serious malfunc-
tion. Please make your emergency technical support crews avail-
able immediately.
Of the 100 plus flights under DFW control all 17 of the Boeing
737's disappeared from the radar screen, replaced by dozens of
bogies with meaningless signatures.
"Dallas, American 1137 requests emergency landing . . .we have
several injured passengers who require immediate medical assist-
ance."
"Roger, 1137," Gatwick blurted back. "Copy, EP. Radar status?"
"Nominal," said the shaken American pilot.
"Good. Runway 21B. We'll be waiting."
* * * * *
By 5:00 PM, Pacific time, Boeing was notified by airports across
the country that their 737's were having catastrophic transponder
failure. Takeoffs were ordered stopped at major airports and the
FAA directed that every 737 be immediately grounded. Chaos
reigned in the airline terminals as delays of several hours to a
day were announced for most flights. Police were needed to quell
angry crowds who were stuck thousands of miles from home and were
going to miss critical business liaisons. There is nothing we
can do, every airline explained to no avail.
Slowly, the planes were brought down, pilots relying on VFR since
they couldn't count on any help from the ground. At airports
where weather prohibited VFR landings, and the planes had enough
fuel, they were redirected to nearby airports. Nearly a dozen
emergency landings in a two hours period set new records that the
FAA preferred didn't exist. A field day for the media, and a
certain decrease in future passenger activity until the shock
wore off.
The National Transportation Safety Board had representatives
monitoring the situation within an hour of the first reports from
Dallas, San Francisco, Atlanta, and Tampa. When all 737's were
accounted for, the individual airports and the FAA lifted flight
restrictions and left it to the airlines to straighten out the
scheduling mess. One hundred thousand stranded passengers and
almost 30% of the domestic civilian air fleet was grounded.
It was a good thing their reservation computers hadn't gone down.
Damn good thing.
* * * * *
DISASTER IN AIR CREATES PANIC ON GROUND
by Scott Mason
"A national tragedy was avoided today by the quick and brave
actions of hundreds of air traffic controllers and pilots working
in harmony," a spokesperson for The Department of Transportation
said, commenting on yesterday's failure of the computerized
transponder systems in Boeing 737 airplanes.
"In the interest of safety for all concerned, 737's will not be
permitted to fly commercially until a full investigation has
taken place." the spokesperson continued. "That process should
be complete within 30 days."
In all, 114 people were sent to hospitals, 29 in serious condi-
tion, as a result of injuries sustained while pilots performed
dangerous gut wrenching maneuvers to avoid mid-air collisions.
Neither Boeing nor the Transportation Safety Board would comment
on how computer errors could suddenly affect so many airplanes at
once, but some computer experts have pointed out the possibility
of sabotage. According to Harold Greenwood, an aeronautic elec-
tronics specialist with Air Systems Design in Alpharetta, Geor-
gia, "there is a real and definite possibility that there has
been a specific attack on the airline computers. Probably by
hackers. Either that or the most devastating computer program-
ming error in history."
Government officials discounted Greenwood's theories and said
there is no place for wild speculation that could create panic in
the minds of the public. None the less, flight cancellations
busied the phones at most airlines and travel agencies, while the
gargantuan task of rescheduling thousands of flights with 30%
less planes began. Airline officials who didn't want to be
quoted estimated that it would take at least a week to bring the
system back together,
Airline fares will increase next Monday by at least 10% and as
much as 40% on some routes that will not be restored fully.
The tone of the press conference held at the DoT was one of both
bitterness and shock as was that of sampled public opinion.
"I think I'll take the train."
"Computers? They always blame the computers. Who's really at
fault?"
"They're just as bad as the oil companies. Something goes a
little wrong and they jack up the prices."
The National Transportation Safety Board said it would also
institute a series of preventative maintenance steps on other
airplanes' computer systems to insure that such a global failure
is never repeated.
Major domestic airlines announced they would try to lease addi-
tional planes from other countries, but could not guarantee prior
service performance for 3 to 6 months. Preliminary estimates
place the cost of this debacle at between $800 Million and $2
Billion if the entire 737 fleet is grounded for only 2 weeks.
The Stock Market reacted poorly to the news, and transportation
stocks dove an average of 27% in heavy trading.
The White House issued a brief statement congratulating the
airline industry for its handling of the situation and wished its
best to all inconvenienced and injured travelers.
Class action suits will be filed next week against the airlines
and Boeing as a result of the computer malfunction. This is Scott
Mason, riding the train.
* * * * *
"Doug," pleaded 39 year old veteran reporter Scott Mason. "Not
another computer virus story . . ." Scott childishly shrugged
his shoulders in mock defeat.
"Stop your whining," Doug ordered in fun. "You are the special-
ist," he chided.
When the story first came across the wire, Scott was the logical
choice. In only seven years as a reporter Scott Mason had de-
veloped quite a reputation for himself, and for the New York City
Times. Doug had had to eat his words from years earlier more
times than he cared to remember, but Scott's head had not swelled
to the size of his fan club, which was the bane of so many suc-
cessful writers. He knew he was good, just like he had told Doug
"There is nothing sexy about viruses anymore," said Scott trying
to politely ignore his boss to the point he would just leave.
"Christ Almighty," the chubby balding sixtyish editor exploded.
Doug's periodic exclamatory outbursts at Scott's nonchalance on
critical issues were legendary. "The man who puts Cold Fusion on
the front page of every paper in the country doesn't think a
virus is sexy enough for the public. Good night!"
"That's not what I'm saying." Scott had to defend this one. "I
finally got someone to go on the record about the solar payoff
scandals between Oil and Congress . . ."
"Then the virus story will give you a little break," kidded Doug.
"You've been working too hard."
"Damn it, Doug," Scott defied. "Viruses are a dime a dozen and
worse, there's no one behind it, there's nobody there. There's
no story . . ."
"Then find one. That's what we pay you for." Doug loudly mut-
tered a few choice words that his paper wouldn't be caught dead
printing. "Besides, you're the only one left." As he left he
patted Scott on the back saying, "thanks. Really."
"God, I hate this job."
Scott Mason loved his job, after all it was his invention seven
years ago when he first pitched it to Doug. Scott's original
idea had worked. Scott Mason alone, under the banner of the New
York City Times, virtually pioneered Scientific Journalism as a
media form in its own right.
Scott Mason was still its most vocal proponent, just as he was
when he connived his way into a job with the Times, and without
any journalistic experience. It was a childhood fantasy.
Doug remembered the day clearly. "That's a new one on me," Doug
had said with amusement when the mildly arrogant but very likable
Mason had gotten cornered him, somehow bypassing personnel.
Points for aggressiveness, points for creativity and points for
brass balls. "What is Scientific Journalism?"
"Scientific Journalism is stripping away all of the long techni-
cal terms that science hides behind, and bringing the facts to
the people at home."
"We have a quite adequate Science Section, a computer
column . . .and we pick up the big stories." Doug had tried to
be polite.
"That's not what I mean," Scott explained. "Everybody and his
dead brother can write about the machines and the computers and
the software. I'm talking about finding the people, the meaning,
the impact behind the technology."
"No one would be interested," objected Doug.
Doug was wrong.
Scott Mason immediately acclimated to the modus operandi of the
news business and actually locked onto the collapse of Kaypro
Computers and the odd founding family who rode serendipity until
competence was required for survival. The antics of the Kay
family earned Mason a respectable following in his articles and
contributions as well as several libel and slander suits from the
Kays. Trouble was, it's not against the law to print the truth
or a third party speculations, as long as they're not malicious.
Scott instinctively knew how to ride the fine edge between false
accusations and impersonal objectivity.
Cold Fusion, the brief prayer for immediate, cheap energy inde-
pendence made headlines, but Scott Mason dug deep and found that
some of the advocates of Cold Fusion had vested interests in
palladium and iridium mining concerns. He also discovered how
the experiments had been staged well enough to fool most experts.
Scott had located one expert who wasn't fooled and could prove
it. Scott Mason rode the crest of the Cold Fusion story for
months before it became old news and the Hubble Telescope fiasco
took its place.
The fiasco of the Hubble Telescope was nothing new to Scott
Mason's readers. He had published months before its launch that
the mirrors were defective, but the government didn't heed the
whistle blower's advice. The optical measurement computers which
grind the mirrors of the telescope had a software program that
was never tested before being used on the Hubble. The GSA had
been tricked by the contractor's test results and Scott discov-
ered the discrepencies.
When Gene-Tech covered up the accidental release of mutated
spores into the atmosphere from their genetic engineering labs,
Scott Mason was the one reporter who had established enough of a
reputation as both a fair reporter, and also one that understood
the technology. Thanks to Mason's early diagnosis and the Times'
responsible publishing, a potentially cataclysmic genetic disas-
ter was averted.
The software problems with Star Wars and Brilliant Pebbles, the
payoffs that allowed defective X-Ray lasers to be shipped to the
testing ground outside of Las Vegas - Scott Mason was there. He
traced the Libyan chemical weapons plant back to West Germany
which triggered the subsequent destruction of the plant.
Scott's outlook was simple. "It's a matter of recognizing the
possibilities and then the probabilities. Therefore, if some-
thing is possible, someone, somewhere will do it. Guaranteed.
Since someone's doing it, then it's only a matter of catching him
in the act."
"Besides," he would tell anyone who would listen, "computers and
technology and electronics represent trillions of dollars annu-
ally. To believe that there isn't interesting, human interest
and profound news to be found, is pure blindness. The fear of
the unknown, the ignorance of what happens on the other side of
the buttons we push, is an enemy wrapped in the shrouds of time,
well disguised and easily avoided."
Scott successfully opened the wounds of ignorance and technical
apathy and made he and the Times the de facto standard in Scien-
tific Journalism.
His reputation as a expert in anything technical endeared him to
fellow Times' reporters. Scott often became the technical back-
bone of articles that did not carry his name. But that was good.
The journalists' barter system. Scott Mason was not considered a
competitor to the other reporters because of his areas of inter-
est and the skills he brought with him to the paper. And, he
didn't flaunt his knowledge. To Scott's way of thinking, techni-
cal fluency should be as required as are the ABC's, so it was
with the dedication of a teacher and the experience of simplifi-
cation that Scott undertook it to openly help anyone who wanted
to learn. His efforts were deeply appreciated.
****************************************************************
Chapter 2
Friday, September 4
San Francisco, California
Mr. Henson?"
"Yes, Maggie?" Henson responded over the hands free phone on his
highly polished black marble desk. He never looked up from the
papers he was perusing.
"There's a John Fullmaster for you."
"Who?" he asked absent mindedly.
"Ah, John Fullmaster."
"I don't know a Fullman do I? Who is he?"
"That's Fullmaster, sir, and he says its personal."
Robert Henson, chairman and CEO of Perris, Miller and Stevenson
leaned back in the plush leather chair. A brief perplexed look
covered his face and then a sigh of resignation. "Very well,
tell him I'll take it in a minute."
As the young highly visible leader of one of the most successful
Wall Street investment banking firms during the merger mania of
the 1980's, he had grown accustomed to cold calls from aggressive
young brokers who wanted a chance to pitch him on sure bets.
Most often he simply ignored the calls, or referred them to his
capable and copious staff. Upon occasion, though, he would amuse
himself with such calls by putting the caller through salesmen's
hell; he would permit them to give their pitch, actually sound
interested, permit the naive to believe that their call to Robert
Henson would lead them to a pot of gold, then only to bring them
down as harshly as he could. It was the only seeming diversion
Robert Henson had from the daily grueling regimen of earning fat
fees in the most somber of Wall Street activities. He needed a
break anyway.
"Robert Henson. May I help you?" He said into the phone. It
was as much a command as a question. From the 46th. floor SW
corner office, Henson stared out over Lower New York Bay where
the Statue of Liberty reigned.
"Thank you for taking my call Mr. Henson." The caller's proper
Central London accent was engaging and conveyed assurance and
propriety. "I am calling in reference to the proposed merger you
are arranging between Second Boston Financial and Winston Ellis
Services. I don't believe that the SEC will be impressed with
the falsified figures you have generated to drive up your fees.
Don't you agree."
Henson bolted upright in his chair and glared into the phone.
"Who the hell is this?" he demanded.
"Merely a concerned citizen, sir." The cheeky caller paused. "I
asked, sir, don't you agree?"
"Listen," Henson shouted into the phone. I don't know who the
hell you are, nor what you want, but all filings made with the
SEC are public and available to anyone. Even the press whom I
assume you represent . . ."
"I am not with the press Mr. Henson," the voice calmly interrupt-
ed. "All the same, I am sure that they would be quite interest-
ed in what I have to say. Or, more precisely, what I have to
show them."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Henson screamed.
"Specifically, you inflated the earnings of Winston Ellis over
40% by burying certain write downs and deferred losses. I be-
lieve you are familiar with the numbers. Didn't you have them
altered yourself?"
Henson paled as the caller spoke to him matter of factly. His
eyes darted around his spacious and opulent office as though
someone might be listening. He shifted uneasily in his chair,
leaned into the phone and spoke quietly.
"I don't know what you're taking about."
"I think you do, Mr. Henson."
"What do you want?" Henson asked cautiously.
"Merely your acknowledgment, to me, right now, that the figures
were falsified, at your suggestion, and . . ."
"I admit nothing. Nothing." Henson hung up the phone.
Shaken, he dialed the phone, twice. In his haste he misdialed
the first time. "Get me Brocker. Now. This is Henson."
"Brocker," the other end of the phone responded nonchalantly.
"Bill, Bob here. We got troubles."
* * * * *
"Senator Rickfield? I think you better take this call." Ken
Boyers was earnest in his suggestion. The aged Senator looked up
and recognized a certain urgency. The youthful 50 year old Ken
Boyers had been with Senator Merrill Rickfield since the mid
1960's as an aide de campe, a permanent fixture in Rickfield's
national success. Ken preferred the number two spot, to be the
man in the background rather the one in the public light. He
felt he could more effectively wield power without the constant
surveillance of the press. Only when events and deals were
completely orchestrated were they made public, and then Merrill
could take the credit. The arrangement suited them both.
Rickfield indicated that his secretary and the two junior aids
should leave the room. "What is it Ken?"
"Just take the call, listen carefully, and then we'll talk."
"Who is it, Ken. I don't talk to every. . ."
"Merrill . . .pick up the phone." It was an order. They had
worked together long enough to afford Ken the luxury of ordering
a U.S. Senator around.
"This is Senator Rickfield, may I help you?" The solicitous
campaign voice, smiling and inviting, disguised the puzzled look
he gave his senior aide. Within a few seconds the puzzlement
gave way to open mouthed silent shock and then, only moments
later to overt fear. He stared with disbelief at Ken Boyers.
Aghast, he gently put the phone back in its cradle.
"Ken," Rickfield haltingly spoke. "Who the hell was that and how
in blazes did he know about the deal with Credite Suisse? Only
you, me and General Young knew." He rose slowly rose and looked
accusingly at Ken.
"C'mon Merrill, I have as much to lose as you."
"The hell you do." He was growling. "I'm a respected United
States Senator. They can string me up from the highest yardarm
just like they did Nixon and I'm not playing to lose. Besides,
I'm the one the public knows while you're invisible. It's my ass
and you know it. Now, and I mean now, tell me what the hell is
going on? There were only three of us . . ."
"And the bank," Ken quickly interjected to deflect the verbal
onslaught.
"Screw the bank. They use numbers. Numbers, Ken. That was the
plan. But this son of a bitch knew the numbers. Damn it, he
knew the numbers Ken!"
"Merrill, calm down."
"Calm down? You have some nerve to tell me to calm down. Do you
know what would happen if anyone, and I mean anyone finds out
about . . ." Rickfield looked around and thought better of
finishing the sentence.
"Yes I know. As well as you do. Jesus Christ, I helped set the
whole thing up. Remember?" He approached Merrill Rickfield and
touched the Senator's shoulder. "Maybe it's a hoax? Just some
lucky guess by some scum bag who . . ."
"Bullshit." The senator turned abruptly. "I want a tee off time
as soon as possible. Even sooner. And make damn sure that
bastard Young is there. Alone. It's a threesome."
* * * * *
John Faulkner was lazing at his estate in the eminently exclu-
sive, obscenely expensive Bell Canyon, twenty miles north of Los
Angeles. Even though it was Monday, he just wasn't up to going
into the office. As Executive Vice President of California
National Bank, with over twenty billion in assets, he could pick
and choose his hours. This Tuesday he chose to read by the pool
and enjoy the warm and clear September California morning. The
view of the San Gabriel mountains was so distracting that his
normal thirty minute scan of the Wall Street Journal took nearly
two hours.
His estate was the one place where Faulkner was guaranteed priva-
cy and anonymity. High profile Los Angeles banking required a
social presence and his face, along with his wife's, graced the
social pages every time an event of any gossip-magnitude oc-
curred. He craved his private time.
Faulkner's standing instruction with his secretary was never to
call him at home unless "the bank is nuked, or I die" which
when translated meant, "Don't call me, I'll call you." His wife
was the only other person with the private phone number he
changed every month to insure his solitude.
The phone rang. It never rang. At least not in recent memory.
He used it to dial out; but it was never used to receive calls.
The warble surprised him so, that he let it ring three times
before suspiciously picking it up. Damn it, he thought. I just
got a new number last week. I'll have to have it changed again.
"Hello?" he asked suspiciously.
"Good morning Mr. Faulkner. I just called to let you know that
your secret is safe with me." Faulkner itched to identify the
voice behind the well educated British accent, but that fleeting
thought dissipated at the import of the words being spoken.
"Who is this? What secret?"
"Oh, dear me. I am sorry, where are my manners. I am referring
to the millions you have embezzled from your own bank to cover
your gambling losses last year. Don't worry. I won't tell a
soul." The line went dead.
Sir George dialed the next number on his list after scanning the
profile. The phone was answered by a timid sounding gentleman.
Sir George began his fourth pitch of the day. "Mr. Hugh Sidneys?
I would like to talk to you about a small banking problem I think
you have . . ."
Sir George Sterling made another thirty four calls that day.
Each one alarmingly similar to the first three. Not that they
alarmed him. They merely alarmed, often severely, the recipients
of his calls. In most cases he had never heard of the persons he
was calling, and the contents of his messages were often cryptic
to him. But it didn't take him long to realize that every call
was some form of veiled, or not so veiled threat. But his in-
structions had been clear. Do not threaten. Just pass on the
contents of the messages on his list to their designees. Do not
leave any message unless he had confirmed, to the best of his
ability that he was actually speaking to the party in question.
If he received any trouble in reaching his intended targets, by
secretaries or aides, he was only to pass on a preliminary mes-
sage. These were especially cryptic, but in all cases, perhaps
with a little prod, his call was put through.
At the end of the first day of his assignment, Sir George Ster-
ling walked onto his balcony overlooking San Francisco Bay and
reflected on his good fortune. If he hadn't been stuck in Athens
last year, wondering where his next score would come from. How
strange the world works, he thought. Damn lucky he became a Sir,
and at the tender age of twenty nine at that.
His title, actually purchased from The Royal Title Assurance
Company, Ltd. in London in 1987 for a mere 5000 pounds had per-
mitted George Toft to leave the perennial industrial smog of the
eternally drizzly commonness of Manchester, England and assume a
new identity. It was one of the few ways out of the dismal
existence that generations before him had tolerated with a stiff
upper lip. As a petty thief he had done 'awright', but one
score had left him with more money than he had ever seen. That is
when he became a Sir, albeit one purchased.
He spent several months impressing mostly himself as he traveled
Europe. With the help of Eliza Doolittle, Sir George perfected
his adapted upper crust London accent. His natural speech was
that of a Liverpuddlian with a bag of marbles in his mouth -
totally unintelligible when drunk. But his royal speech was now
that of a Gentleman from the House of Lords. Slow and precise
when appropriate or a practiced articulateness when speaking
rapidly. It initially took some effort, but he could now correct
his slips instantly. No one noticed anymore. Second nature it
became for George Sterling, n<130> Toft.
Athens was the end of his tour and where he had spent the last of
his money. George, Sir George, sat sipping Metaxa in Sintigma
Square next to the Royal Gardens and the imposing Hotel Grande
Britagne styled in nineteenth century rococo elegance. As he
enjoyed the balmy spring Athens evening pondering his next move,
as either George Toft of Sir George Sterling, a well dressed
gentleman sat down at his tiny wrought iron table.
"Sir George?" The visitor offered his hand.
George extended his hand, not yet aware that his guest had no
reason whatsoever to know who he was.
"Sir George? Do I have the Sir George Sterling of Briarshire,
Essex?" The accent was trans European. Internationally cosmo-
politan. German? Dutch? It didn't matter, Sir George had been
recognized.
George rose slightly. "Yes, yes. Of course. Excuse me, I was
lost in thought, you know. Sir George Sterling. Of course.
Please do be seated."
The stranger said, "Sir George, would you be offended if I of-
fered you another drink, and perhaps took a few minutes of your
valuable time?" The man smiled genuinely and sat himself across
from George before any reply. He knew what the answer would be.
"Please be seated. Metaxa would it be for you, sir?" The man
nodded yes. "Garcon?" George waved two fingers at one of the
white-jacketed waiters who worked in the outdoor cafe. "Metaxa,
parakalo!" Greek waiters are not known for their graciousness,
so a brief grunt and nod was an acceptable response. George
returned his attention to his nocturnal visitor. "I don't believe
I've had the pleasure . . ." he said in his most formal voice.
"Sir George, please just call me Alex. Last names, are so, well,
so unnecessary among men like us. Don't you agree?"
George nodded assent. "Yes, quite. Alex then, it is. How may I
assist you?"
"Oh no, Sir George, it is I who may be able to assist you. I
understand that you would like to continue your, shall we say,
extended sabbatical. Would that be a fair appraisal?" The
Metaxas arrived and Alex excused the waiter with two 1000 Drachma
notes. The overtipping guaranteed privacy.
George looked closely at Alex. Very well dressed. A Saville was
it? Perhaps. Maybe Lubenstrasse. He didn't care. This stranger
had either keen insight into George's current plight or had heard
of his escapades across the Southern Mediterranean. Royalty on
Sabbatical was an unaccostable lie that regularly passed critical
scrutiny.
"Fair. Yes sir, quite fair. What exactly can you do for me, or
can we do for each other?"
"An even more accurate portrayal my friend, yes, do for each
other." Alex paused for effect and to sip his Metaxa. "Simply
put Sir George, I have the need for a well spoken gentleman to
represent me for a period of perhaps, three months, perhaps more
if all goes well. Would that fit into your schedule?"
"I see no reason that I mightn't be able to, take a sabbatical
from my sabbatical if . . .well now, how should I put
this . . ."
" . . .that you are adequately compensated to take time away from
your valuable projects?"
"Yes, yes quite so. Not that I am ordinarily for hire, you
understand, it's just that . . .". Alex detected a slight
stutter as Sir George spoke.
Alex held up both hands in a gesture of understanding. "No need
to continue my dear Sir George. I do thoroughly recognize the
exorbitant costs associated with your studies and would not
expect your efforts, on my behalf of course, to go unrewarded."
George Toft was negotiating with a man he had never met, for a
task as yet unstated. The only reason he didn't feel the discom-
fort that one should in such a situation is that he was in
desperate need of money. And, this stranger did seem to know who
he was, and did need his particular type of expertise, whatever
that was.
"What exactly do you require of me, Alex. That is, what form of
representation have you in mind?" He might as well find out what
he was supposed to do before naming a price.
Alex laughed. "Merely to be my voice. It is so simple, really.
In exchange for that, and some travel, first class and all ex-
penses to which you are accustomed, you will be handsomely paid."
Alex looked for Sir George's reaction to the proposed fees. He
was pleased with what he saw in George's face.
Crikey, this is too good to be true. What's the catch<D>.
As George ruminated his good fortune and the Metaxa, Alex contin-
ued.
"The job is quite simple, really, but requires a particular
delicacy with which you are well acquainted. Each day you will
receive a list of names. There will be instructions with each
name. Call them at the numbers provided. Say only what is writ-
ten. Keep notes of each call you make and I will provide you
with the means to transmit them to me in the strictest of confi-
dence. You and I will have no further personal contact, either if
you accept or do not accept my proposition. If we are able to
reach mutually agreeable terms, monies will be wired to a bank
account in your name." Alex opened his jacket and handed George
an envelop. "This is an advance if you accept. It is $25,000
American. There is a phone number to call when you arrive in San
Francisco. Follow the instructions explicitly. If you do not,
there will be no lists for you, no additional monies and I will
want this money back. Any questions Sir George?" Alex was
smiling warmly but as serious as a heart attack.
Alex scanned the contents of the envelope. America. He had
always wanted to see the States.
"Yes, Alex, I do have one question. Is this legal?" George
peered at Alex for a clue.
"Do you really care?"
"No."
"Off you go then. And good luck."
* * * * *
Sir George Sterling arrived in San Francisco airport the follow-
ing evening. He flew first class and impressed returning Ameri-
can tourists with his invented pedigree and his construed impor-
tance. What fun. After the virtually nonexistent customs check,
he called the number inside the envelop. It rang three times
before answering. Damn, it was a machine, he thought.
"Welcome to the United States, Sir George. I hope you had a good
flight." The voice was American, female, and flight attendant
friendly. "Please check into the San Francisco Airport Hilton.
You will receive a call at 11 AM tomorrow. Good night." A dial
tone replaced the lovely voice. He dialed the number again.
A mechanical voice responded instead. "The number you have called
in no longer in service. Please check the number or call the
operator for assistance. The number you have called is no longer
in service..."
George dialed the number twice more before he gave up in frustra-
tion. He had over $20,000 in cash, knew no one in America and for
the first time in years, he felt abandoned. What kind of joke
was this? Fly half way around the world and be greeted with an
out of service number. But the first voice had known his name.
The Hilton. Why not?
At precisely 11AM, the phone in Sir George Sterling's suite rang.
He was still somewhat jet lagged from his 18 hours of flying and
the span of 10 time zones. The Eggs Benedict was exquisite, but
Americans could learn something about tea. The phone rang again.
He casually picked it up.
"Good morning, Sir George. Please get a pencil and paper. You
have fifteen seconds and then I will continue." It was the same
alluring voice from yesterday. The paper and pen were right there
at the phone so he waited through 14 seconds of silence. "Very
good. Please check out of the hotel and pay cash. Proceed to the
San Francisco airport and from a pay phone, call 5-5-5-3-4-5-6 at
1 P.M. Have a note book and two pens with you. Good Bye. "
The annoying dial tone returned. What a bloody waste of time.
At 1P.M. he called the number as he was instructed. He figured
that since he was to have a notebook and pens he might need to
write for a while, so he used one of the phone booths that pro-
vides a seat and large writing surface.
"Good afternoon Sir George. In ten seconds, your instructions
will begin." Again, that same voice, but it almost appeared
condescending to him now. Isn't that the way when you can't
respond. The voice continued. "Catch the next flight to New
York City. Stay at the Grand Hyatt Hotel at Grand Central Sta-
tion on 42nd. Street and Park Avenue. Not a suite this time, Sir
George, just a regular room." Sir George was startled at Alex's
attention to detail.
"You will stay there for fourteen days. On 56th. street and
Madison avenue is a school called CTI, Computer Training Insti-
tute. You are to go to CTI and enroll in the following classes:
DOS, that's D-O-S for beginners, Intermediate DOS and Advanced
DOS. You will also take WordPerfect I and II. Lastly, and most
importantly you will take all three classes on Tele-Communica-
tions. They call it TC-I, TC-II and TC-III. These eight class-
es will take you ten days to complete. Do not forget to pay in
cash. I will now pause for ten seconds." Alex was writing furi-
ously. Computers? He was scared silly of them. Not that he had
ever had the opportunity or the need or the desire to use them,
just from lack of exposure and the corresponding ignorance. But
if this meant he could keep the $25,000 he would do it. What the
hell.
"After you enroll, go to 45 West 47th street to a store called
Discount Computer Shoppe. Buy the following equipment with cash.
One Pro-Start 486-80 computer with 8 Meg RAM. That's 8 M-E-G R-
A-M and ask for a high resolution color monitor. Also purchase,
and have them install a high speed modem, M-O-D-E-M. Do not, I
repeat, do not purchase a printer of any type. No printers Sir
George. You are never to use a printer. Ever. Lastly, you will
purchase a copy of Word Perfect and Crosstalk. If you wish any
games for your amusement, that is up to you. When you have
completed your studies you will call 212-555-6091. Do not call
that number before you have completed your studies. This is
imperative."
Sir George was just writing, not comprehending a thing. It was
all gibberish to him. Pure gibberish.
"Sir George." The female voice got serious, very serious for the
first time in their relationship. "You are to speak to no one, I
repeat, no one, of the nature of your business, the manner in
which you receive instructions, or why computers have a sudden
interest for you. Otherwise our deal is off and your advance will
be expected to be returned. Am I clear?"
George responded quickly, "Yes!" before seeing the lunacy of
answering a machine.
"Good," the voice was friendly again. "Learn your lessons well
for you will need the knowledge to perform your tasks. Until we
speak again, I thank you, Sir George Sterling." The line went
dead.
George Toft took his computer classes very seriously. He had in
fact bought a few games to amuse himself and he found himself
really enjoying the work. It was new, and exciting. His only
social distractions were the sex shops on Times Square. Red
Light Amsterdam or the Hamburg they weren't, so midnight antics
with the Mario Brothers prevailed most evenings. Besides, there
was a massive amount of homework. Bloody hell, back to school.
He excelled in his studies which pleased George a great deal. In
fact most of the students in Sir George's computer classes ex-
celled. The teachers were very pleased to have a group of stu-
dents that actually progressed more rapidly than the curriculum
called for. Pleasant change from the E Train Bimbos from Queens.
The computer teachers didn't know that a vast majority of the
class members had good reason to study hard. Most of them had
received their own $25,000 scholarships.
* * * * *
Sunday, September 6
SDSU Campus, San Diego, California.
WTFO
the computer screen displayed. That was hackerese, borrowed from
the military for What The Fuck? Over! It was a friendly greeting
that offended no one.
Back on. Summer finals are over. Everyone still there?
BOOM'S STILL AT UCLA, I JUST TALKED TO CRACKER, MAD MAX, ALPHA,
SCROLLER, MR. MAGIC . . .WE MISSED YOU. LOOKING FORWARD TO A
GOOD VACATE?
Yeah, 4 days before next term starts . . .Has anyone got the key
to the NPPS NASA node?
THEY CLOSED IT AGAIN. WE'RE STILL LOOKING. WE WERE BACK INTO
AMEX, THOUGH. CLEANED UP A FEW DEBTS FOR UNSUSPECTING CARD
MEMBERS. HAPPY LABOR DAY TO THEM. GOOD FUN.
And CHAOS? Anyone?
BEST I'VE EVER HEARD. 4 NEW VIRUSES SET TO GO OFF. HIGHLY POTENT
VARIATIONS OF JERUSALEM-B. THEN SOME RUMORS ABOUT COLUMBUS DAY,
BUT NOTHING HARD.
When you get the code send me a copy, OK?
SURE. HEY, REMEMBER SPOOK? STILL ASKING TO JOIN NEMO. SEEMS HE
BEEN UP TO A LOT OF SUCCESSFUL NO GOOD. WE'RE ABOUT READY TO LET
HIM IN. HE BROUGHT A LOT TO THE PARTY.
Careful! Remember 401
YEAH, I KNOW. HE'S CLEAN. GOOD GOVT STUFF . HE BROUGHT US THE
NEWEST IRS X.25 SIGN-ONS, 2 MILNET SUPERUSER PASSWORDS AND, DIG
THIS, VETERAN'S BENEFIT AND ADMINISTRATION, OFFICE OF POLICY AT
THE VA.
What you gonna do, boy? In them thar computers?
I FIGURE I'D GIVE A FEW EXTRA BENEFITS TO SOME NEEDY GI'S WHO'VE
BEEN ON THE SHORT END.
Excellent! Hey, Lori's on the line. gotta go.
TA
<<<<<< CONNECTION TERMINATED >>>>>>
The screen of his communications program returned to a list of
names and phone numbers. Lori said she'd be over in an hour and
Steven Billings was tempted to dial another couple of numbers
before his date with Lori. But if he found something interesting
it might force him to be late, and Lori could not tolerate play-
ing second fiddle to a computer.
Steven Billings, known as "KIRK, where no man has gone before",
by fellow hackers, had finished his midterms at San Diego State
University. The ritual labors were over and he looked forward to
some relax time. Serious relax time.
The one recreation he craved, but downplayed to Lori, was spend-
ing time with his computer. She was jealous in some respects, in
that it received as much attention from Steve as she did. Yet,
she also understood that computers were his first love, and they
were part of his life long before she was. So, they came with the
territory. Steve attended, upon occasion, classes at SDSU, La
Jolla. For a 21 year old transplant from Darien, Connecticut, he
lived in paradise.
Steve's single largest expense in life was his phone bill, and
instead of working a regular job to earn spending money, Steve
tutored other students in their computer courses. Rather than
flaunt his skills to his teachers and risk extra assignments, he
was more technically qualified than they were, he kept his mouth
shut, sailed through classes, rarely studied and became a full
time computer hacker. He translated his every wish into a com-
mand that the computer obeyed.
Steve Billings did not fill the picture of a computer nerd. He
was almost dashing with a firm golden tanned 175 pound body, and
dark blond hair that caused the girls to turn their heads. He
loved the outdoors, the hot warmth of the summer to the cooler
warmth of the winter, surfing at the Cardiff Reef and betting on
fixed jai-alai games in Tijuana. He played soccer and OTL, a San
Diego specific version of gloveless and topless co-ed beach
softball. In short, he was a guy. A regular guy.
The spotlessly groomed image of Steve Billings in white tennis
shorts and a "Save the Whales" tank-top eclectically co-existed
with the sterile surroundings of the mammoth super computer
center. The Cray Y-MP is about as big and bad a computer as
money can buy, and despite Steve's well known skills, the head of
the Super Computing Department couldn't help but cringe when
Steve leaned his surf board against the helium cooled memory
banks of the twelve million dollar computer.
He ran his shift at the computer lab so efficiently and effort-
lessly that over time he spent more and more of his hours there
perusing through other people's computers. Now there was a feel-
ing. Hacking through somebody else's computer without their
knowledge. The ultimate challenge, an infinity of possibilities,
an infinity of answers.
The San Diego Union was an awful paper, Steve thought, and the
evening paper was even worse. So he got copies of the New York
City Times when possible, either at a newsstand, borrowed from
yesterday's Times reader or from the library. Nice to get a real
perspective on the world. This Sunday he spent the $4.00 to get
his own new, uncrumpled and unread copy of his revered paper, all
thirty four pounds of it. Alone. Peace.
Reading by the condo pool an article caught his eye. Steve
remembered a story he had heard about a hacker who had invaded
and single handedly stopped INTERNET, a computer network that
connected together tens of thousands of computers around the
country.
* * * * *
Government Defense Network Halted by Hacker
by Scott Mason, New York City Times
Vaughn Chase, a 17 year old high school student Galbraith High
School in Ann Arbor, Michigan was indicted today on charges that
he infected the nationwide INTERNET network with a computer
virus. This latest attack upon INTERNET is reminiscent of a
similar incident launched by Robert Morris of Cornell University
in November, 1988.
According to the Computer Emergency Response Team, a DARPA spon-
sored group, if Mr. Chase had not left his name in the source
code of his virus, there would have been no way to track down the
culprit.
A computer virus is a small software program that is secretly put
into a computer, generally designed to cause damage. A virus
attaches itself to other computer programs secretively. At some
time after the parasite virus program is 'glued' into the comput-
er, it is reawakened on a specific date or by a particular se-
quence of events.
Chase, though, actually infected INTERNET with a Worm. A Worm is
a program that copies itself, over and over and over, either
filling the computer's memory to capacity or slowing down its
operation to a snail's pace. In either case, the results are
devastating - effectively, the computer stops working.
Chase, a math wizard according to his high school officials,
released the Worm into Internet in early August with a detonation
date of September 1, which brought thousands of computers to a
grinding halt.
INTERNET ties together tens of thousands of computers from the
Government, private industry, universities and defense contrac-
tors all over the country. Chase said he learned how to access
the unclassified computer network from passwords and keys dis-
tributed on computer Bulletin Boards.
Computer security experts worked for 3 days hours to first deter-
mine the cause of the network slowdown and then to restore the
network to normal operation. It has been estimated that almost
$100 Million in damage was caused by Mr. Chase's Worm. Mr. Chase
said the Worm was experimental, and was accidentally released
into INTERNET when a piece of software he had written malfunc-
tioned. He apologized for any inconvenience he caused.
The Attorney General of the State of Michigan is examining the
legal aspects of the case and it is expected that Mr. Chase will
be tried within in a year. Mr. Chase was released on his own
recognizance.
This is Scott Mason wondering why the Pentagon doesn't shoot
worms instead of bombs at enemy computers.
* * * * *
The next day Steve Billings signed on to the SDSU/BBS from his
small Mission Beach apartment. It was a local university Bulletin
Board Service or BBS. A BBS is like a library. There are li-
braries of software which are free, and as a user you are recip-
rocally expected to donate software into the Public Domain. Con-
ference Halls or Conversation Pits on the BBS are free-for-all
discussions where people at their keyboards can all have a 'live'
conversation. Anyone, using any computer, anywhere in the world
can call up any BBS using regular phone lines. No one cared or
knew if you were skinny, fat, pimpled, blind, a double for
Christy Brinkley or too chicken shit to talk to girls in person.
Here, everyone was equal.
Billings 234
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
There was a brief pause.
WELCOME TO THE SDSU/BBS. STEVE BILLINGS, YOU ARE USER #109
Steve Chose (12) for SERVICES:
The menu changed to a list of further options. Each option would
permit the user to gain access to other networks around the
country. From one single entry point with a small computer,
anyone could 'dial up' as it's called, almost any of over
20,000,000 computers in the country tied into any of ten thousand
different networks.
SDSU/BBS WINDOW ON THE WORLD
NETWORK SERVICES MENU
Steve selected CALNET, a network at Cal Tech in Los Angeles.
Many of the Universities have permanent connections between their
computers.
LOGON: Billings014
PASSWORD: XXXXKIRKXXXX
Again, there was a pause, this time a little longer. Now, from
his room, he was talking to a computer in Los Angeles. There was
another menu of options, and a list of other widely dispersed
computer networks. He requested the SUNYNET computer, the State
University of New York Network. From there, he asked the comput-
er for a local phone line so he could dial into a very private,
very secret computer called NEMO.
It took Steve a grand total of 45 seconds to access NEMO in New
York, all at the price of a local phone call.
NEMO was a private BBS that was restricted to an elite few.
Those who qualifications and reputations allowed them entry into
the exclusive domain of hacking. NEMO was born into this world
by Steve and a few of his friends while they were in high school
in Darien. NEMO was a private club, for a few close friends who
enjoyed their new hobby, computers.
NEMO's Menu was designed for the professional hacker.
1. PASSWORDS
2. NEW NETS
3. DANGER ZONES
4. CRACKING TOOLS
5. WHO'S NEW?
6. PHREAKING
7. CRYPTO
8. WHO ELSE?
9. U.S. NETWORKS
10. INTERNATIONAL NETWORKS
11. FOR TRADE
12. FORTUNE 500 DOORKEYS
He selected (8), WHO ELSE? Steve wanted to see who else was 'on-
line' now. He wanted to talk about this Chase guy who was giving
hackers a bad name. The computer responded:
CONVERSATION PIT: LA CREME, RAMBO. DO YOU WANT TO JOIN IN?
That was great! Two of the half dozen of NEMO's founders were
there. La Creme de la Creme was KIRK's college roommate, but he
had not yet returned to San Diego for the fall term. RAMBO,
'I'll get through any door' was the same age as Kirk and Creme,
but chose to study at Columbia in New York's Harlem. Hackers
picked alter- ego monikers as CB'ers on the highways did; to
project the desired image. Steve and his cohorts picked their
aliases when they were only fifteen, and kept them ever since.
Steve typed in a 'Y' and the ENTER key.
WHO ARE YOU?
NEMO was asking for an additional password.
Kirk
Steve typed. A brief pause, and the computer screen came to
life.
WELCOME TO THE CONVERSATION PIT, KIRK. HOW HAVE YOU BEEN?
That was his invitation to interrupt any conversation in
progress. Steve typed in,
Dudes!
HOW'D EXAMS GO? <<LA CREME>>
Greased'em. Ready to come back?
FAST AS THE PLANE WILL GO. PICK ME UP? 7:20 ON AMERICAN?<LA
CREME>
Sure. Hey, what's with the Morris copy cat? Some phreak blowing
it for the rest of us.
SO YOU HEARD. CHASE IS REALLY GONNA SCREW THINGS UP. <<RAMBO>>
What the hell really happened? I read the Times. Said that he
claimed it was accident.
ACCIDENTAL ON PURPOSE MAYBE <<LA CREME>>
HOW MANY WAYS ARE THERE INFECT A NATIONAL DEFENSE NETWORK? ONE
THAT I KNOW OF. YOU PUT THE VIRUS IN THERE. THAT'S NO ACCIDENT.
<<RAMBO>>
Ten-Four. Seems like he don't wanna live by the code. Must be
some spoiled little brat getting too big for his britches . . .
BEST GUESS IS THAT HE DID IT TO IMPRESS HIS OLD MAN. HE SUPPOS-
EDLY CREATED AN ANTIDOTE, TOO. HE WANTED TO SET OFF A BIG VIRUS
SCARE AND THEN LOOK LIKE A HERO WITH A FAST FIX. THE VIRUS
WORKED ALL TOO WELL. THE ANTIDOTE, IF THERE WAS ONE, SUCKED. SO
INTERNET HAD GAS SO BAD, COMPUTING CAME TO A HALT FOR A COUPLE OF
DAYS TILL THEY CLEANED OUT THE PROVERBIAL SEWERS. <<LA CREME>>
SURE SOUNDS LIKE A PUBLICITY GAG TO ME <<RAMBO>>
Jeez. Anyone else been hit yet?
NO, BUT WE'VE BEEN EXTRA CAREFUL SINCE. A LOT OF DOORS HAVE BEEN
CLOSED SO IT'S BACK TO SQUARE ONE ON A BUNCH, BUT WE DIDN'T LOSE
EVERYTHING. THE DOORKEY DOWNLOAD WILL UPDATE YOU. <<RAMBO>>
OK, I'll be supersleuth. Any word on CHAOS? Legion of Doom, The
Crusaders?
IT'S ONE BIG DEAL IN THE E-MAIL: NEW CHAOS VIRUSES, EVERY DICK
AND JANE IS WRITING THEIR OWN VIRUSES. COMPUTING WITH AIDS.
Funny. Why don't you put a rubber on your big 640K RAM? Or your
mouse?
GOT SOMETHING AGAINST SAFE COMPUTING? IF HALF OF WHAT THEY SAY
IS TRUE, WE'RE ALL IN TROUBLE. TAKE A LOOK AT THE PUBLIC BBS'S.
QUITE A CHAT. <<LA CREME>>
Will do. Any word on the new Central Census Data Base? Every-
thing about every American stored in one computer. All of their
personal data, ripe for the picking. Sounds like the kind of
library that would do the bad guys a lot of good.
CAN'T FIND A DOOR FROM THE INTERNET GATE. THE JUSTICE LINK WAS
STILL GOOD YESTERDAY AND THE FBI STILL HASN'T CHANGED A PASSWORD,
SO THAT SHOULD BE AN EASY OPEN ONCE WE FIND THE FRONT DOOR.
GIMME A COUPLE OF DAYS AND WE SHOULD KNOW DAN QUAYLES' JOCK SIZE.
<<RAMBO>>
Zero! Ha! Keep me in mind.
* * * * *
Steve copied several pages of names, phone numbers and passwords
from NEMO's data base into his computer 3000 miles across the
country. These were the most valuable and revered types of files
in the underground world of hackerdom. They include all of the
information needed to enter and play havoc inside of hundreds of
secret and private computers.
National Institute of Health 301-555-6761
USER: Fillstein PASSWORD: Daddy1
USER: Miller9 PASSWORD: Secret
VMS 1.01
SUPERUSER: B645_DICKY
VTEK NAS, Pensacola, Fla 904-555-2113
USER: Major101 PASSWORD: Secret
USER: General22 PASSWORD: Secret1
USER: Forestall PASSWORD: PDQS
IBM, Armonk, Advanced Research 914-555-0965
USER: Port1 PASSWORD: Scientist
USER: Port2 PASSWORD: Scientist
USER: Port3 PASSWORD: Scientist
There were seventeen pages of updated and illegal access codes to
computer systems across the country. Another reason NEMO was so
secret. Didn't want just anybody climbing the walls of their
private playground. Can't trust everyone to live by the Code.
Steve finished downloading the files from NEMO's distant data
base and proceeded to print them out for a hardcopy reference. He
laughed to himself. Big business and government never wizened
up. Predictable passwords, like 'secret' were about as kinder-
garten as you could get. And everyone wonders why folks like us
parade around their computers. He had in his hand a list of
over 250 updated and verified private, government and educational
institutions who had left the keys to the front doors of their
computers wide open. And those were just the ones that NEMO knew
about today.
There is no accurate way to determine how many groups of hackers
like NEMO existed. But, even if only 1/100 of 1% of computer
users classified themselves as hackers, that's well over 100,000
people breaking into computers. Enough reason to give Big Busi-
ness cause for concern. Yet, no one did anything serious to lock
the doors.
Steve spent the next several hours walking right into computer
systems all over the country. Through the Bank of California in
San Francisco, (Steve's first long distance call) he could reach
the computers of several corresponding banks. He read through
the new loan files, saw that various developers had defaulted on
their loans and were in serious trouble. Rates were going to
start rising. Good enough for a warm up.
Steve still wanted back into the NASA launch computers. On line
launch information, results of analysis going back twenty years,
and he had had a taste of it, once. Then, one day, someone
inside of NASA got smart and properly locked the front door. He
and NEMO were ever on the search for a key back into NASA's
computers.
He figured that Livermore was still a good bet to get into NASA.
That only meant a local call, through the SDSU/BBS to Cal Tech
then into Livermore. From San Diego, to LA, to San Francisco for
a mere 25 cents.
Livermore researchers kept the front doors of their computers
almost completely open. Most of the workers, the graduate stu-
dents, preferred a free exchange of information between all
scientists, so their computer security was extraordinarily lax.
For a weapons research laboratory, funded by the Department of
Energy, it was a most incongruous situation.
Much of the information in the Livermore computers was considered
sensitive but unclassified, whatever that meant in government-
speak, but for an undergraduate engineering major cum hacker, it
was great reading. The leading thinkers from the most technical-
ly demanding areas in science today put down their thoughts for
the everyone to read. The Livermore scientists believed in
freedom of information, so nearly everyone who wanted in, got in.
To the obvious consternation and dismay of Livermore management.
And its funding agency.
Steve poked around the Livermore computers for a while and
learned that SDI funding was in more serious jeopardy than pub-
licly acknowledged. He discovered that the last 3 underground
nuclear test explosions outside of Las Vegas were underyield, and
no one knew why. Then he found some super-technical proposals
that sounded like pure science fiction:
Moving small asteroids from between Mars and Jupiter into orbit
around the Earth would make lovely weapons to drop on your ene-
mies. War mongers.
All of this fascinating information, available to anyone with a
computer and a little chutzbah.
* * * * *
Alexander Spiradon had picked Sir George and his other subjects
carefully, as he had been trained to do.
He had spent the better part of twenty years working for West
German Military Intelligence, Reichenbunnestrad Dunnernecht
Deutchelande, making less money than he required to live in the
style he desired. To supplement his income, he occasionally
performed extracurricular activities for special interest groups
throughout Europe. A little information to the IRA in Northern
Ireland, a warning to the Red Brigade about an impending raid.
Even the Hizballah, the Party of God for Lebanese terrorists had
occasion to use Alex's Services. Nothing that would compromise
his country, he rationalized, just a little help to the various
political factions that have become an annoyance to their respec-
tive governments.
Alex suddenly resigned in 1984 when he had collected enough
freelance fees to support his habits, but he was unaware that his
own agency had had him under surveillance for years, waiting for
him to slip up. He hadn't, and with predictable German Govern-
ment efficiency, upon his departure from the RDD, his file was
promptly retired and his subsequent activities ignored.
Alex began his full time free-lance career as a 'Provider of
Information'. With fees of no less than 250,000 DM, Alex didn't
need to work much. He could pick and choose his clients as he
weighed the risks and benefits of each potential assignment.
With his network of intelligence contacts from Scotland Yard, Le
Surite, and the Mossad, he had access to the kind of information
that terrorists pay for dearly .
It was a good living. No guns, no danger, just information.
His latest client guaranteed Alex three years of work for a flat
fee in the millions of Deutch Marks. It was the intelligence
assignment of a lifetime, one that insured a peaceful and pros-
perous retirement for Alex. He wasn't the perennial spy, politi-
cally or dogmatically motivated. Alex wanted the money.
After he had completed his computer classes and purchased the
equipment from the list, Sir George dialed the number he had been
given. He half expected a live person to congratulate him, but
also realized that that was a foolish wish. There was no reason
to expect anything other than the same sexy voice dictating
orders to him.
"Ah, Sir George. How good of you to call. How were your class-
es?" George nearly answered the alluring telephone personality
again, but he caught himself.
"Very good," the voice came back in anticipated response. "Please
get a pencil and paper. I have a message for you in 15 seconds."
That damned infernal patronization. Of course I have a bleeding
pen. Not a pencil. Idiot.
"Are you ready?" she asked. George made an obscene gesture at
the phone.
"Catch a flight to San Francisco tonight. Bring all of the com-
puter equipment you have purchased. Take a taxi to 14 Sutherland
Place on Knob Hill. Under the mat to Apartment 12G you will find
two keys. They will let you into your new living quarters. Make
yourself at home. It is yours, and the rent is taken care of as
is the phone bill. Your new phone number is 4-1-5-5-5-5-6-3-6-1.
When you get settled, dial the following number from your comput-
er. You should be well acquainted with how to do that by now.
The number is 4-1-5-5-5-5-0-0-1-5. Your password is A-G-O-R-A.
Under the mattress in the bedroom is a PRG, Password Response
Generator. It looks like a credit card, but has an eight digit
display. Whenever you call Alex, he will ask you for a response
to your password. Quickly enter whatever the PRG says. If you
lose the PRG, you will be terminated." The voice paused for a
few seconds to George's relief.
"You will receive full instructions at that point. Good Bye." A
dial tone replaced the voice he had come to both love and hate.
Bloody hell, he thought. I'm down to less than $5000 and now I'm
going back to San Francisco? What kind of bleedin' game is this?
Apartment 12G was a lavish 2 bedroom condominium with a drop dead
view of San Francisco and bodies of water water in 3 directions.
Furnished in high tech modern, it offered every possible amenity;
bar, jacuzzi, telephone in the bathroom and full channel cable.
Some job. But, he kept wondering to himself, when does the free
ride end? Maybe he's been strung along so far that he can't let
go. One more call, just to see how the next chapter begins.
George installed his computer in the second bedroom on a table
that fit his equipment like a glove.
C:\cd XTALK
C:\XTALK\xtalk
His hard disk whirred for a few seconds. He chose the Dial
option and entered the phone number from the keyboard and then
asked the computer to remember it for future use. He omitted the
area code. Why had he been given an area code if he was dialing
from the same one? George didn't pursue the question; if he had
he would have realized he wasn't alone.
The modem dialed the number for him. His screen went momentarily
blank and then suddenly came to life again.
<<<<<<CONNECT 2400 BAUD>>>>>>
DO YOU WANT TO SPEAK TO ALEX? (Y/N?)
George entered a "Y"
PASSWORD:
George entered AGORA. The letters did not echo to the screen.
He hoped he had typed then correctly. Apparently he did, for the
screen then prompted him for his RESPONSE.
He copied the 8 characters from the PRG into the computer. There
was a pause and then the screen filled.
SIR GEORGE,
WELCOME TO ALEX. IT IS SO GOOD TO SPEAK TO YOU AGAIN.
OVER THE NEXT SEVERAL MONTHS YOU WILL BE GIVEN NAMES AND NUMBERS
TO CALL. THERE ARE VERY SPECIFIC QUESTIONS AND STATEMENTS TO BE
MADE TO EACH PERSON YOU CALL. THERE IS TO BE NO DEVIATION WHAT-
SOEVER. I REPEAT, NO DEVIATION WHATSOEVER. IF THERE IS, YOUR
SERVICES WILL BE IMMEDIATELY TERMINATED. WE HOPE THAT WILL NOT BE
NECESSARY.
EACH MORNING YOU ARE TO DIAL ALEX AND REQUEST THE FILE CALLED
SG.DAT. DO NOT, I REPEAT, DO NOT ATTEMPT TO ACCESS OR DOWNLOAD
ANY OTHER FILES, OR YOU WILL BE TERMINATED AT ONCE.
FOLLOW THE INSTRUCTIONS IN EACH FILE, EXACTLY. KEEP AN EXACT LOG
OF THE EVENTS AS THEY TRANSPIRE ON EACH CALL.
<<PUSH SPACE BAR FOR MORE>>
George pushed the space bar. The screen was again filled.
ALEX REQUIRES PRECISE INFORMATION. WHATEVER YOU ARE TOLD BY THE
PEOPLE YOU CALL MUST BE RELAYED , TO THE LETTER.
AT THE END OF EACH DAY, YOU ARE TO UPLOAD YOUR FILE, CALLED
SG.TOD. YOUR COMPUTER WILL AUTOMATICALLY PUT A DATE AND TIME
STAMP ON IT.
THEN, USING NORTON UTILITY, ERASE THE SG.DAT FILE FROM THAT DAY.
IF YOU ARE UNABLE TO REACH ANYONE ON THE LISTS, JUST INDICATE
THAT IN YOUR DAILY REPORTS. DO NOT, REPEAT, DO NOT TRY TO CALL
THE SAME PERSON THE NEXT DAY. IS THAT CLEAR?
The screen was awaiting a response. George typed in "Y".
GOOD. THIS IS QUITE SIMPLE, IS IT NOT?
Y
DO YOU THINK YOU CAN HANDLE THE JOB?
Y
WHAT KIND OF PRINTER DO YOU HAVE?
None
ARE YOU SURE?
Y
WILL YOU BUY ONE?
N
GOOD. ARE YOU INTERESTED IN MONEY?
Finally, thought Sir George, the reason for my existence.
Y
AN ACCOUNT HAS BEEN OPENED IN YOUR NAME AT THE BANK OF AMERICA,
REDMOND BRANCH 3 BLOCKS FROM YOU. THERE IS $25,000 IN IT. EACH
MONTH OF SUCCESSFUL WORK FOR ALEX WILL BE REWARDED WITH ANOTHER
PAYMENT. U.S. TAXES ARE YOUR RESPONSIBILITY. IS THAT A PROBLEM?
N
WILL YOU DISCUSS YOUR JOB OR ITS NATURE WITH ANYONE? ANYONE AT
ALL?
N
EVEN UNDER FORCE?
Force, what the hell does that mean? I guess the answer is No,
thought George.
N
I HOPE SO, FOR YOUR SAKE. GOOD LUCK SIR GEORGE. YOU START
MONDAY.
<<<<<<CONNECTION TERMINATED>>>>>>
Sir George was a little confused, maybe a lot confused. He was
the proud owner of a remote control job, a cushy one as far as he
could tell, but the tone of the conversation he just had with the
computer was worrisome. Was he being threatened? What was the
difference between 'Services Terminated' and 'Terminated' anyway.
Maybe he shouldn't ask. Keep his mouth shut and do a good job.
Hey, he thought, dismissing the possible unpleasant consequences
of failure. This is San Francisco, and I have a three days off
in a new city. Might as well find my way around the town to-
night. According to the guide books I should start at Pier 39.
****************************************************************
Chapter 3
Tuesday, September 8,
New York City
But they told me they wouldn't tell! They promised." Hugh Sidneys
pleaded into his side of the phone. "How did you find out?" At
first, Scott thought the cartoon voice was a joke perpetrated by
one of his friends, or more probably, his ex-wife. Even she,
though, coudn't possibly think crank a phone call was a twisted
form of art. No, it had to be real.
"I'm sorry Mr. Sidneys. We can't give out our sources. That's
confidential. But are you saying that you confirm the story?
That it is true?"
"Yes, no. Well ," the pleading slid into near sobbing. "If this
gets out, I'm ruined. Ruined. Everything, my family . . .how
could you have found out? They promised!" The noise from the
busy metro room at the New York City Times made it difficult to
hear Sidneys.
"Can I quote you, sir? Are you confirming the story?" Scott
pressed on for that last requisite piece of every journalistic
puzzle confirmation of a story that stood to wreck havoc in
portions of the financial community. And Washington. It was a
story with meat, but Scott Mason needed the confirmation to
complete it.
"I don't know. . .if I tell what I know now, then maybe . . .that
would mean I was being helpful . . .maybe I should get a
lawyer . . ." The call from Scott Mason to First State Savings
and Loan on Madison Avenue had been devastating. Hugh Sidneys was
just doing what he was told to do. Following orders.
"Maybe, Hugh. Maybe." Scott softened toward Sidneys, thinking
the first name approach might work. "But, is it true, Hugh? Is
the story true?"
"It doesn't matter anymore. Do what you want." Hugh Sidneys
hung up on Mason. It was as close to a confirmation as he need-
ed. He wrote the story.
* * * * *
At 39, Scott Byron Mason was already into his second career.
Despite the objections of his overbearing father, he had avoided
the family destiny of becoming a longshoreman. "If it's good
enough for me, it's good enough for my kids." Scott was an only
child, but his father had wanted more despite his mother's ina-
bility to carry another baby to full term.
Scott caught the resentment of his father and the doting protec-
tion of his mother. Marie Elizabeth Mason wanted her son to have
more of a future than to merely live another generation in the
lower middle class doldrums of Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn. Not
that Scott was aware of his predicament; he was a dreamer.
Her son showed aptitude. By the age of six Scott knew two words
his father never learned - how and why. His childhood curiosity
led to more than a few mishaps and spankings by the hot tempered
Louis Horace Mason. Scott took apart everything in the house in
an attempt to see what made it tick. Sometimes, not often
enough, Scott could reassemble what he broken down to its small-
est components. Despite his failings and bruised bottom Scott
wasn't satisfied with, "that's just the way it is," as an answer
to anything.
Behind his father's back, Marie had Scott take tests and be
accepted to the elite Bronx High School of Science, an hour and a
half train ride from Brooklyn. To Scott it wasn't an escape from
Brooklyn, it was a chance to learn why and how machines worked.
Horace gave Marie and Scott a three day silent treatment until
his mother finally put an end to it. "Horace Stipton Mason,"
Evelyn Mason said with maternal command. "Our son has a gift,
and you will not, I repeat, you will not interfere with his
happiness."
"Yes dear."
"The boy is thirteen and he has plenty of time to decide what
he's going to do with himself. Is that clear?"
"Yes dear."
"Good." She would say as she finished setting the table. "Dinner
is ready. Wash your hands boys." And the subject was closed.
But throughout his four years at the best damn high school in the
country, Horace found ample opportunity to pressure Scott about
how it was the right thing to follow in the family tradition, and
work at the docks, like the three generations before him.
The issue was never settled during Scott's rebellious teenage
years. The War, demonstrating on the White House lawn, getting
gassed at George Washington, writing for the New York Free Press,
Scott was even arrested once or twice or three times for peaceful
civil disobedience. Scott Mason was seeing the world in a new
way. He was rapidly growing up, as did much of the class of
1970.
Scott's grades weren't good enough for scholorships, but adequate
to be accepted at several reasonable schools.
"I already paid for his education," screamed Horace upon hearing
that Scott chose City College to keep costs down. He would live
at home. "He broke every damn thing I ever bought, radios, TV's,
washers. He can go to work like a man."
With his mother's blessing and understanding, Scott moved out of
the house and in with three roommates who also attended City
College, where all New Yorkers can get a free education. Scott
played very hard, studied very little and let his left of center
politics guide his social life. His engineering professors
remarked that he was underutilizing his God-given talents and
that he spent more time protesting and objecting that paying
attention. It was an unpredictable piece of luck that Scott
Mason would never have to make a living as an engineer. He would
be able to remain the itinerate tinkerer; designing and building
the most inane creations that regularly had little purpose beyond
satisfying technical creativity.
"Can we go with it?" Scott asked City Editor Douglas McQuire and
John Higgins, the City Times' staff attorney whose job it was to
answer just such questions. McQuire and Mason had been asked to
join Higgins and publisher Anne Manchester to review the paper's
position on running Mason's story. Scott was being lawyered, the
relatively impersonal cross examination by a so-called friendly
in-house attorney. It was the single biggest pain in the ass of
Scott's job, and since he had a knack for finding sensitive sub-
jects, he was lawyered fairly frequently. Not that it made him
feel any less like being called to the principal's office every
time.
Scott's boyish enthusiasm for his work, and his youthful appear-
ance allowed some to underestimate his ability. He looked much
younger than his years, measuring a slender 6 foot tall and shy
of 160 pounds. His longish thin sandy hair and a timeless all
about Beach Boy face made him a good catch on his better days-
he was back in circulation at almost 40. The round wire rimmed
glasses he donned for an extreme case of myopia were a visible
stylized reminder of his early rebel days, conveying a sophisti-
cated air of radicalism. Basically clean cut, he preferred shav-
ing every two or three, or occasionally four days. He blamed his
poor shaving habits on his transparent and sensitive skin 'just
like Dick Nixon's'.
The four sat in Higgins' comfortable dark paneled office. With 2
walls full of books and generous seating, the ample office resem-
bled an elegant and subdued law library. Higgins chaired the
meeting from behind his leather trimmed desk. Scott brought a
tall stack of files and put them on the glass topped coffee
table.
"We need to go over every bit, from the beginning. OK?" Higgins
made it sound more like and order than responsible journalistic
double checking. Higgins didn't interfere in the news end of the
business; he kept his opinions to himself. But it was his respon-
sibility to insure that the City Times' was kept out of the re-
ceiving end of any litigation. That meant that as long as a
story was properly researched, sourced, and confirmed, the con-
tents were immaterial to him. That was the Publisher's choice,
not his.
Mason had come to trust Higgins in his role as aggravating media-
tor between news and business. Scott might not like what he had
to say, but he respected his opinion and didn't argue too much.
Higgins was never purposefully adversarial. He merely wanted to
know that both the writers and the newspaper had all their ducks
in a row. Just in case. Libel suits can be such a pain, and
expensive.
"Why don't you tell me, again, about how you found out about the
McMillan scams." Higgins turned on a small micro-cassette re-
corder. "I hope you don't mind," he said as he tested it. "Keeps
better notes than I do," he offhandedly said. Nobody objected.
There would have been no point in objecting even if anyone cared.
It was an unspoken truism that Higgins and other good attorneys
taped many of their unofficial depositions to protect themselves
in case anything went terribly wrong. With a newspaper as your
sole client, the First Amendment was always at stake.
"OK," Scott began. His reporter's notebook sat atop files full
of computer printouts. "A few days ago, on September 4, that's
a Friday, I got an anonymous call. The guy said, 'You want some
dirt on McMillan and First State S&L?' I said sure, what do you
have and who is this?"
"So then you knew who Francis McMillan was?" Higgins looked up
surprised.
"Of course," Mason said. "He's the squeaky clean bank President
from White Plains. Says he knows how to clean up the S&L mess,
gets lots of air time. Probably making a play for Washington.
Big time political ambitions. Pretty well connected at Treasury.
I guess they listen to him."
"In a nutshell." Higgins agreed. "And . . .then?"
Mason sped through a couple of pages of scribbled notes from his
pad. "My notes start here. 'Who I am don't matter but what I
gotta say does. You interested'. Heavy Brooklyn accent, docks,
Italian, who knows. I said something like, 'I'm listening' and
he says that McMillan is the dirtiest of them all. He's been
socking more money away than the rest and he's been doing it real
smart. So I go, 'so?' and he says he can prove it and I say
'how' and he says 'read your morning mail'." Mason stopped
abruptly.
"That's it?" Higgins asked.
"He hung up. So I forgot about it till the next morning."
"And that's when you got these?" Higgins said pointing at the
stack of computer printouts in front of Mason. "How were they
delivered?"
"By messenger. No receipt, nothing. Just my name and the pa-
per's." Mason showed Higgins the envelop in which the files came.
"Then you read them?"
"Well not all of them, but enough." Scott glanced at his editor.
"That's when I let Doug know what I had."
"And what did he say?" Higgins was keeping furious notes to back
up the tape recording.
"'Holy shit', as I remember." Everyone laughed. Ice breakers,
good for the soul, thought Mason. People are too uptight.
Higgins indicated that Scott should continue.
"Then he said 'we gotta go slow on this one,' then he whistled
and Holy Shat some more." Once the giggles died down, Mason got
serious. "I borrowed a bean counter from the basement, told him
I'd put his name in the paper if anything came of it, and I
picked his brain. Ran through the numbers on the printouts, and
ran through them again. I really worked that poor guy, but
that's the price of fame. By the next morning we knew that there
were two sets of books on First State." Mason turned a couple
pages in his files.
"It appears," Scott said remembering that he was selling the
importance of the story to legal and the publisher, "that a
substantial portion of the bank's assets are located in numbered
bank accounts all over the world." Scott said with finality.
Higgins interrupted here. "So what's wrong with that?" he chal-
lenged.
"They've effectively stolen a sandbagged and inflated reserve ac-
count with over $750 Million it. Almost 10% of stated assets.
It appears from these papers," Scott waved his hand over them,
"that the total of the reserve accounts will be taken, as a loss,
in their next SEC reporting." Mason stopped and looked at Hig-
gins as though Higgins would understand everything.
Higgins snorted as he made more notes.
"That next morning," Mason politely ignored Higgins, "I got a
call again, from what sounded like the same guy."
"Why do you say that? How did you know?" Higgins inquired.
Mason sighed. "Cause he said, 'it's me remember?' and spoke like
Archie Bunker. Good enough for you?" Mason grinned wide. Mason
had the accent down to a tee. Higgins gave in to another round
of snickers.
"He said, 'you like, eh?'" Mason spoke with an exaggerated New
York accent and used the appropriate Italian hand gesture for
'eh!'. "I said, 'I like, but so what?' I still wasn't sure
what he wanted. He said, 'they never took a loss, yet. Look for
Friday. This Friday. They're gonna lose a bunch.' I said, 'how
much' and he said, 'youse already know.'" Mason's imitation of a
Brooklyn accent was good enough for a laugh.
"He then said, 'enjoy the next installment', and that was the
last time I spoke to him. At any rate, the next package con-
tained a history of financial transactions, primarily overseas;
Luxembourg, Lietchenstein, Switzerland, Austria, Hong Kong,
Sidney, Macao, Caymans and such. They show a history of bad
loans and write downs on First State revenues.
"Well, I grabbed the Beanie from the Basement and said, help me
with these now, and I got research to come up with the 10K's on
First State since 1980 when McMillan took over. And the results
were incredible." Mason held out a couple of charts and some
graphs.
"We compared both sets of books. The bottom lines on both are
the same. First State has been doing very well. McMillan has
grown the company from $1 Billion to $12 Billion in 8 years.
Quite a job, and the envy of hundreds of every other S&L knee
deep in their own shit." Higgins cringed. He thought Ms. Man-
chester should be shielded from such language. "The problem is
that, according to one set of books, First State is losing money
on some investments merely by wishing them away. They disappear
altogether from one report to the next. Not a lot of money, but
a few million here and there."
"What have you got then?" Higgins pressed.
"Nobody notices cause the losses are all within the limits of the
loss projections and reserve accounts. Sweet and neat! Million
dollar embezzlement scam with the SEC's approval."
"How much follow up did you do?" Higgins asked as his pen fly
across the legal pad.
"Due to superior reporting ability," Scott puffed up his chest in
jest, "I found that a good many account numbers listed in the
package I received are non-existent. But, with a little prod-
ding, I did get someone to admit that one of them was recently
closed and the funds moved elsewhere.
"Then, this is the clincher, as the caller promised, today, I
looked for the First State SEC reports, and damned if the numbers
didn't jive. The books with the overseas accounts are the ones
with the real losses and where they occur. The 'real' books
don't."
"The bottom line, please."
"Someone has been embezzling from First State, and when they're
through it'll be $3 Billion worth." Scott was proud of himself.
In only a few days he had penetrated a huge scam in the works.
"You can't prove it!" Higgins declared. "Where's the proof? All
you have is some unsolicited papers where someone has been play-
ing a very unusual and admittedly questionable game of 'what if'.
You have a voice on the end of a phone with no name, no nothing,
and a so-called confirmation from some mid-level accountant at
the bank who dribbles on about 'having to do it' but never saying
what 'it' is. So what does that prove?"
"It proves that McMillan is a fraud, a rip-off," Scott retorted
confidently.
"It does not!"
"But I have the papers to prove it," Scott shuffled through the
folders.
"Let me explain something, Scott." Higgins put down his pen and
adapted a friendlier tone. "There's a little legal issue called
right to privacy. Let me ask you this. If I came to you and
said that Doug here was a crook, what would you do?"
"Ask you to prove it," Scott said.
"Exactly. It's the same here."
"But I have the papers to prove it, it's in black and white."
"No Scott, you don't. What you have is some papers with accusa-
tions. They're unsubstantiated. They could have easily been
phonied. You know what computers can do better than I do. Now
here's the key point. Everybody in this country is due privacy.
You don't know where these came from, or how they were obtained,
do you?"
"No," Scott hesitantly admitted.
"So, someone's privacy has been compromised, in this case McMil-
lan's. If, and I'm saying, if, these reports are accurate, I
would take the position that they are stolen, obtained illegally.
If we publish with what we have now, the paper could be on the
receiving end of a slander and libel suit that could put us out
of business. We even could be named as a co-conspirator in a
criminal suit. I can't let that happen. It's our obligation to
guarantee responsible journalism."
"I see." Scott didn't agree.
"Scott, you're good, real good, but you have to see it from the
paper's perspective." Higgins' tone was now conciliatory. "This
is hard stuff, and there's just not enough here, not to go with
it yet. Maybe in a few days when you can get a little more to
tie it up. Not now. I'm sorry."
Case closed.
Shit, shit shit, thought Scott. Back to square one.
Hugh Sidneys was nondescript, not quite a nebbish, but close. At
five foot five with wisps of brown scattered over his balding
pate, he only lacked horn rimmed glasses to complete the image.
His bargain basement suits almost fit him, and he scurried rather
than walked down the hallways at First State Savings and Loan
where he had been employed since graduating from SUNY with a
degree in accounting twenty four years ago.
His large ears accentuated the oddish look, not entirely out of
place on the subways at New York rush hour. His loyalty to First
State was known throughout the financial departments; he was
almost a fixture. His accounting skills were extremely strong,
even remarkable if you will, but his personality and appearance,
and that preposterous cartoon voice, held him back from advancing
up the official corporate ladder.
Now, though, Hugh Sidneys was scared.
He needed to do something . . .and having never been in this kind
of predicament before . . .he thought about the
lawyer . . .hiring one like he told that reporter . . .but could
he afford that . . .and he wasn't sure what to do . . .was he in
trouble? Yes, he was . . .he knew that. That reporter . . .he
sounded like he understood . . .maybe he could help . . .he was
just asking questions . . .what was his name . . .?
"Ah, Mr. Mason?" Scott heard the timid man's Road Runner voice
spoke gently over the phone. Scott had just returned to his desk
from Higgins' office. It was after 6P.M. and time to catch a
train back home to Westchester.
"This is Scott Mason."
"Do you remember me?"
Scott recognized the voice immediately but said nothing.
"We spoke earlier about First State, and I
just . . .ah . . .wanted to . . .ah . . .apologize . . .for the
way I acted."
Scott's confirmation. Hugh Sidneys, the Pee Wee Herman sounding
beancounter from First State. What did he want?
"Yes, of course, Mr. Sidneys. How can I help you?" He opened
his notebook. He had just had his story nixed and he was ready to
go home. But Sidneys . . .maybe . . .
"It's just that, well, I'm nervous about this . . ."
"No need to apologize, Hugh." Scott smiled into the phone to
convey sincerity. "I understand, it happens all the time. What
can I do for you tonight?"
"Well, I, ah, thought that we might, maybe you could, well I
don't know about help, help, it's so much and I didn't really
know, no I shouldn't have called . . .I'm sorry . . ." The pitch
of Sidneys' voice rose as rambled on.
"Wait! Don't hang up. Mr. Sidneys. Mr. Sidneys?"
"Yes," the whisper came over the earpiece.
"Is there something wrong . . .are you all right?" The fear, the
sound of fear that every good reporter is attuned to came over
loud and clear. This man was terrified.
"Yes, I'm OK, so far."
"Good. Now, tell me, what's wrong. Slowly and calmly." He
eased Sidneys off his panic perch.
Scott heard Sidneys compose himself and gather up the nerve to
speak.
"Isn't there some sorta rule," he stuttered, "a law, that says if
I talk to you, you're a reporter, and if I say that I don't want
you to tell anybody, then you can't?" Sidneys was scared, but
wanted to talk to someone. Maybe this was the time for Scott to
back off a little. He stretched out and put his feet up on his
desk, making him feel and sound more relaxed, less pressured.
According to Scott, he generated more Alpha waves in his brain
and if wanted to convey calm on the phone, he merely had to
assume the position.
"That's called off the record, Hugh. And it's not a law." Scott
was amused at the naivete that Hugh Sidneys showed. "It's a
gentleman's agreement, a code of ethics in journalism. You can
be off the record, on the record, or for background, not for
attribution, for confirmation, there's a whole bunch of 'em."
Scott realized that Hugh knew nothing about the press so he
explained the options slowly. "Which one would you like?" Scott
wanted it to seem that Sidneys was in control and making the
rules.
"How about we just talk, and you tell me what I should
do . . .what you think . . .and . . .I don't want anything in the
paper. You have one for that?" Hugh was feeling easier on the
phone with Scott.
"Sure do. We'll just call it off the record for now. Everything
you tell me, I promise not to use it without your permission.
Will that do?" Scott smiled broadly. If you speak loudly with a
big smile on your face, people on the other end of the phone
think you're honest and that you mean what you say. That's how
game show hosts do it.
"OK." Scott heard Sidneys inhale deeply. "Those papers you say
you have? Remember?"
"Sure do. Got them right here." Scott patted them on his clut-
tered desk.
"Well, you can't have them. Or you shouldn't have them. I mean
it's impossible." Hugh was getting nervous again. His voice
nearly squeaked.
"Hugh, I do have them, and you all but confirmed that for me
yesterday. A weak confirmation, but I think you know more than
you let on . . ."
"Mr. Mason . . ."
"Please, call me Scott!"
"OK . . .Scott. What I'm trying to say is that what you say you
have, you can't have cause it never existed."
"What do you mean never existed?" Scott was confused, terribly
confused all of sudden. He raised his voice. "Listen, I have
reams of paper here that say someone at First State is a big
crook. Then you say, 'sure it's real' and now you don't. What's
your game, Mister?" Playing good-cop bad-cop alone was diffi-
cult, but a little pressure may bring this guy down to reality.
"Obviously you have them, that's not the point." Sidneys reacted
submissively to Scott's ersatz domineering personality. "The
only place that those figures ever existed was in my mind and in
my computer. I never made a printout. They were never put on
paper." Hugh said resolutely.
Scott's mind whirred. Something is wrong with this picture. He
has papers that were never printed, or so says a guy whose sta-
bility is currently in question. The contents would have far
reaching effects on the S&L issue. A highly visible tip of the
iceberg. McMillan, involved in that kind of thing? Never, not
Mr. Clean. What was Sidneys getting at?
"Mr. Sidneys . . .Hugh . . .do you have time to have a cup of
coffee somewhere. It might be easier if we sat face to face.
Get to know each other."
Rosie's Diner was one of the better Greasy Spoons near the Hudson
River docks on Manhattan's West Side. The silver interior and
exterior was not a cliche when this diner was built. Rosie, all
280 pounds of her, kept the UPS truckers coming back for over
thirty years. A lot of the staff at the paper ate here, too.
For the best tasting cholesterol in New York, saturated fats,
bacon and sausage grease flavored starches, Rosie's was the
place. Once a month at Rosie's would guarantee a reading of over
300.
Scott recognized Hugh from a distance. No one came in there
dressed. Had to be an accountant. Hugh hugged his briefcase
while nervously looking around the diner. Scott called the short
pale man over to the faded white formica and dull chrome booth.
Hugh ordered a glass of water, while Scott tried to make a light
dinner of it.
"So, Hugh, please continue with what you were telling me on the
phone." Scott tried to sound empathetic.
"It's like I said, I don't know how you got them or they found
out. It's impossible." The voice was uncannily like Pebbles
Flintstone in person.
"Who found out? Does someone else know . . .?"
"OK," Hugh sighed. "I work for First State, right? I work right
with McMillan although nobody except a few people know it. They
think I do market analysis and research. What I'm really doing
is helping shelter money in offshore investment accounts. There
are some tax benefits, I'm not a tax accountant so I don't know
the reasons, but I manage the offshore investments."
"Did you think that was illegal?"
"Only a little. Until recently that is."
"Sorry, continue." Scott nibbled from the sandwich on his plate.
"Well there was only one set of books to track the offshore
investments. They wanted them to be kept secret for various
reasons. McMillan and the others made the deals, not me. I just
moved the money for them." Again Hugh was feeling paranoid.
"Hugh, you moved some money around illegally, maybe. So what?
What's the big deal?" Scott gulped some hot black coffee to
chase the pastrami that almost went down the wrong pipe.
Sidneys continued after sipping his water and wetting his lips.
"Four days ago I got this call, from some Englishman who I'd
never spoken to before. He said he has all the same figures and
facts you said you have. He starts reading enough to me and I
know he's got what he says he got. Then he says he wants me to
cooperate or he'll go public with everything and blow it right
out of the water." Hugh was perspiring with tension. His fists
were clenched and knuckles white.
"And then, I called you and you came unglued. Right?" Scott was
trying to emotionally console Hugh, at least enough to get some-
thing more. "Do you think you were being blackmailed? Did he,
the English guy, demand anything? Money? Bribes? Sex?" Scott
grinned. Hugh obviously did not appreciate the attempt at levi-
ty.
"No, nothing. He just said that I would hear from him shortly.
That was it. Then, nothing, until you called. Then I figured I
missed his call." Hugh was working himself into another nervous
frenzy.
"Did he threaten you?"
"No. Not directly. Just said that it would be in my best inter-
est to cooperate."
"What did you say?"
"What could I say? I mumbled something about doing nothing wrong
but he said that didn't matter and I would be blamed for every-
thing and that he could prove it."
"Could he prove it?" Hugh was scribbling furiously in his note-
book.
"If he had the files in my computer I guess I would look pretty
guilty, but there's no way anyone could get in there. I'm the
only one, other than McMillan who can get at that stuff. It's
always been a big secret. We don't even make any printouts of
it. It's never on paper, just in the computer." Hugh fell back
in the thinly stuffed torn red Naugahyde bench seat and gulped
from his water glass.
Scott shook his head as he scanned the notes he had been making.
This didn't make any sense at all. Here was this little nerdy
man, with a convoluted tale of embezzlement and blackmail, off
shore money and he was scared. "Hugh," Scott began slowly. "Let
me see if I've got this right. You were part of a scheme to
shift investments overseas, falsify reports, yet the investments
always made a reasonable return in investment." Hugh nodded in
agreement silently.
"Then, after how many, eight years of this, creating a secret
little world that only you and McMillan know about . . ."
"A few others knew, I have the names, but only McMillan could get
the information from the computer. No one else could. I set it
up that way on purpose." Hugh interrupted.
"OK, then you receive a call from some Englishman who says he's
got the numbers you say are so safe and then I get a copy. And
the numbers agree with the results that First State reported. Is
that about it?" Scott asked, almost mocking the apparent absurd-
ity.
"Yeah, that's it. That's what happened." Hugh Sidneys was
such a meek man.
"That leaves me with a couple of possible conclusions. One, you
got yourself in over your head, finally decided to cut your
losses and make up this incredible story. Maybe make a deal
with the cops or the Feds and try to be hero. Maybe you're the
embezzler and want out before it's too late. Born again bean-
counter. It's a real possibility." Hugh's face grimaced; no,
that's not what happened, it's just as I told you.
"Or, two, McMillan is behind the disclosures and is now effec-
tively sabotaging his own plans. For what reasons I could hardly
venture a guess now. But, if what you are saying is true, it's
either you or McMillan." Scott liked the analysis. It was sound
and took into account all available information, omitting any
speculation.
"Then why would someone want to threaten me?
"Either you never got the call," the implication was obvious, "or
McMillan is trying, quite effectively to spook you." Scott put a
few dollars on the table next to the check.
"That's it? You won't say anything, will you? You promised!"
Hugh leaned into Scott, very close.
Scott consoled Hugh with a pat on his wrinkled suit sleeve. "Not
without speaking to you first. No, that wouldn't be cricket.
Don't worry, I'll call you in a couple of days."
His editor, Doug McGuire agreed that Scott should keep on it.
There might be a story there, somewhere. Go find it. But don't
forget about the viruses.
* * * * *
The headline of the National Expos<1B>, a weekly tabloid caught
Scott's attention on his way home that evening in Grand Central
Station.
EXCLUSIVE! S&L RIP OFF EXPOSED!
Scott's entire story, the one he wasn't permitted to print was
being read by millions of mid-American supermarket shopping
housewives. In its typically sensationalistic manner, the arti-
cle claimed that the Expose was in exclusive possession of
documents that proved McMillan was stealing 10's of millions from
First State S&L. It even printed a fuzzy picture of the same
papers that Scott had received. How the hell?
****************************************************************
Chapter 4
Thursday, September 10
Houston, Texas.
Angela Steinem dialed extension 4343, Network Administration for
MIS at the Treadline Oil Company in Houston, Texas. It rang
three times before Joan Appleby answered. Joan was the daytime
network administrator for Building 4. Hundreds of IBM personal
computers were connected together so they could share information
over a Novell local area network.
"Joan, I don't bug you much, right?" Angela said hesitantly.
"Angela, how about a good morning girl?" They were good friends
outside of work but had very little business contact.
"Sorry, mornin'. Joan, I gotta problem."
"What's troubling ya hon." Joan Texas spoke with a distinct
Texas twang.
"A little bird just ate my computer."
"Well, then I guess I'd be lookin' out for Big Bird's data dump."
Joan laughed in appreciation of the comedy.
"No really. A little bird flew all over my computer and ate up
all the letters and words on the screen. Seriously."
"Y'all are putting me on, right?" Maggie's voice lilted.
"No. No, I'm serious. It was like a simple video game, Pac-Man
or something, ate up the screen. I couldn't get it to come back
so I turned my computer off and now it won't do anything. All it
says is COMMAND.COM cannot be found. Now, what the hell does that
mean."
Joan Appleby now took Angela seriously. "It may mean that we
have some mighty sick computers. I'll be right there."
By the end of work, the Treadline Oil Company was essentially at
a standstill. Over 4,000 of their internal microcomputers,
mainly IBM and Compaq's were out of commission. The virus had
successfully struck.
Angela Steinem and her technicians shut down the more than 50
local area networks and gateways that connected the various
business units. They contacted the National Computer Virus
Association in San Mateo, California, NIST's National Computer
Center Laboratories and a dozen or so other watchdog groups who
monitor computer viruses.
This was a new virus. No one had seen it before. Sorry, they
said. If you can send us you hard disk, we may be able find out
what's going on . . .otherwise, your best bet is to dismantle the
entire computer system, all 4,000 plus of them, and start from
scratch.
Angela informed the Vice President of Information Systems that it
would be at least a week, maybe ten days before Treadline would
be fully operational again.
Mary Wallstone, secretary to Larry Gompers, Junior democratic
representative from South Carolina was stymied.
Every morning between 7:30 and 8:00 AM she opened her boss's
office and made coffee. Most mornings she brought in Dunkin'
Donuts. It was the only way she knew to insure that her weight
would never ebb below 200 pounds. Her pleasant silken skin did
not match the plumpness below. At 28 she should have known that
meeting Washington's best and brightest required a more slender
physique.
This morning she jovially sat down at her Apple Macintosh comput-
er with 3 creme filled donuts and a mug of black coffee with 4
sugars. She turned on the power switch and waited as the hour-
glass icon indicated that the computer was booting. It was going
through its self diagnostics as it did every time power was
applied.
Normally, after a few seconds, the Mac would come alive and the
screen would display a wide range of options from which she could
select. Mary would watch the procedure carefully each time - she
was an efficient secretary.
This time, however, the screen displayed a new message, one she
had not seen in the nine months she had worked as Congressman
Gompers' front line.
RAM OPTIMIZER TEST PROCEDURE....
INITIALIZING...
THIS PROGRAM IS DESIGNED TO TAKE MAXIMUM ADVANTAGE OF SYSTEM
STORAGE CAPABILITIES. THE TEST WILL ONLY TAKE A FEW SECONDS...
WAITING....
WARNING: DO NOT TURN OFF COMPUTER DURING SELF TEST!
As she was trained, she heeded her computer's instructions. She
watched and waited as the computer's hard disk whirred and
buzzed. She wasn't familiar with the message, but it sounded
quite official, and after all, the computer is always right.
And she waited. Some few seconds, she thought, as she dove into
her second donut. And she waited through the third donut and
another mug of too sweet coffee.
She waited nearly a half an hour, trying to oblige the instruc-
tions from the technocratic box on her desk. The Mac continued
to work, so she thought, but the screen didn't budge from it's
warning message.
What the hell, this has taken long enough. What harm can it
cause if . . .
She turned the power switch off and then back on. Nothing.
The computer did absolutely nothing. The power light was on, the
disk light was on, but the screen was as blank as a dead televi-
sion set.
Mary called Violet Beecham, a co worker in another office down
the hall.
"'Morning Vi. Mary."
Violet sounded agitated. "Yeah, Mare, what is it?"
"I'm being a dumb bunny and need a hand with my computer. Got a
sec?" Mary's sweetness oozed over the phone.
"You, too? You're having trouble? My computer's as dead as a
doornail. Won't do anything. I mean nothing." Violet was
frustrated as all get out and the concern communicated to Mary.
"Dead? Vi, mine is dead too. What happened to yours?"
"Damned if I know. It was doing some self check or something,
seemed to take forever and then . . .nothing. What about yours?"
"Same thing. Have you called MIS yet?"
"Not yet, but I'm getting ready to. I never did trust these
things. Give me a typewriter any day."
"Sure Vi. I'll call you right back."
Mary looked up the number for MIS Services, the technical magi-
cians in the basement who keep the 3100 Congressional computers
alive.
"Dave here, can I help you?" The voice spoke quickly and indif-
ferently.
"Mary Wallstone, in Gompers office. My computer seems to be
having a little problem . . ." Mary tried to treat the problem
lightly.
"You and half of Congress. Listen . . .is it Mary? This morning
is going to be a slow one. My best guess is that over 2500 com-
puters died a quick death. And you know what that mean."
"No, I don't..." Mary said hesitantly.
"It means a Big Mac Attack."
"A what?"
"Big Mac, it's a computer virus. We thought that Virus-Stop
software would stop it, but I guess there's a new strain out
there. Congress is going to be ordering a lot of typewriters and
legal pads for a while."
"You mean you can't fix it? This virus?"
"Listen, it's like getting the flu. Once you got it, you got it.
You can't pretend you aren't sick. Somebody took a good shot at
Congress and well . . .they won. We're gonna be down for a
while. Couple of weeks at least. Look, good luck, but I gotta
go." Dave hung up.
Mary ate the other three donuts intended for her boss as she sat
idle at her desk wondering if she would have a job now that there
were no more computers on Capitol Hill.
* * * * *
CONGRESS CATCHES FLU - LOSES FAT IN PROCESS
by Scott Mason, New York City Times
The Congressional Budget Office announced late yesterday that it
was requesting over $1 Million in emergency funding to counter a
devastating failure of Congress's computers.
Most of the computers used by both Senators and Representatives
are Apple Macintosh, but Apple Computer issued a quick statement
denying any connection between the massive failures and any
production problems in their machines.
The CBO said that until the problems were corrected, estimates to
take up to four weeks, that certain normal Congressional activi-
ties would be halted or severely curtailed. Electronic mail, E-
Mail that has saved taxpayers millions, will be unavailable for
communications until October at a minimum. Inter-office communi-
cations, those that address legislative issues, proposed bills,
and amendments have been destroyed and will require ". . .weeks
and weeks and weeks of data entry just to get back where we
started. This is a disaster."
The culprit is, of course, a computer virus. The question on
everyone's mind is, was this virus directed at Congress, or were
they merely an anonymous and unfortunate victim?
I have an IBM PC clone at home. Technically it's an AT with a
hard disk, so I'm not sure if that's an XT, and AXT, an XAT, an
ATX or . . .well whatever. I use it to write a lot of my stories
and then I can send the story to the computer at work for an
overdiligent editor to make it fit within my allotted space.
It never occurred to me that a computer could get sick.
I am, as we all are, used to our 'TV going on the Fritz', or
'Blowing a Fuse'. It seems like a lot of things blow: a gasket
blows, a light bulb blows, a tire blows or blows out, the wind
blows. I am sure that Thomas W. Crapper, the 19th century inven-
tor of the flush toilet would not be pleased that in 1988 man has
toasters and other cooking devices that 'crap out'. The Phone
Company 'screws up', the stock market 'goes to hell in a handbas-
ket' and VCR's 'work for s__t'.
It never occurred to me that a computer could get sick.
Computers are supposed to 'crash'. That means that either Aunt
Tillie can't find the ON switch or her cat knocked it on the
floor. Computers have 'fatal errors' which obviously means that
they died and deserve a proper burial.
It never occurred to me that a computer could get sick.
In the last few weeks there have been a lot of stories about
computers across the country getting ill. Sick, having the flu,
breathing difficulty, getting rashes, itching, scratching them-
selves . . .otherwise having a miserable time.
Let's look at the medical analogy to the dreaded computer virus
that indiscriminately attacks and destroys any computer with
which it comes in contact.
Somewhere in the depths of the countryside of the People's
Republic of China, a naturally mutated submicroscopic microbe has
the nerve to be aerodynamically transferred to the smoggy air of
Taiwan. Upon landing in Taipei, the microbe attaches itself to
an impoverished octogenarian who lives in an overpopulated 1 room
apartment over a fish store.
The microbe works its way into this guy's blood stream, unbek-
nownst to him, and in a few days, he's sicker than a dog. But
this microbe is smart, real smart. It has heard of antibiotics,
and in the spirit of true Darwinism, it replicates itself before
being killed off with a strengthened immunity. So, the microbe
copies itself and when Kimmy Chen shakes hands with his custom-
ers, some of them are lucky enough to receive an exact duplicate,
clone if you will, of his microbe. Then they too, get ill.
The microbe thus propagates its species until the entire East
Coast of the US has billions and trillions of identical microbes
costing our fragile economy untold millions of dollars in sick
pay.
However, the microbe is only so smart. After a while, the mi-
crobe mutates itself into a benign chemical compound that no
longer can copy itself and the influenza epidemic is over. Until
next year when Asian Flu B shows up and the process begins all
over again. (The same group of extremists who believe that the
Tri-Lateral commission runs the world and Queen Elizabeth and
Henry Kissinger are partners in the heroine trade think the AMA
is behind all modern flu epidemics. No comment.)
The point of all of this diatribe is that computers can get sick
too. With a virus.
Don't worry, mom. Your computer can't give you the flu anymore
than your fish can get feline leukemia.
It all started years ago, before Wozniak and Apple and the PC.
Before personal computers there were mainframes; huge room sized
computers to crunch on numbers. One day, years ago, Joe, (that's
not a real name, it's changed to protect him) decided it would be
great fun to play a prank on Bill, another programmer who worked
at a big university. Joe wrote a little program that he put into
Bill's big computer. Every time Bill typed the word 'ME' on his
keyboard, the computer would take over. His video screen would
fill up with the word 'YOU', repeating itself hundreds and thou-
sands of times. Bill's computer would become useless.
That was called a practical joke to computer programmers. Joe
and Bill both got a laugh out of it, and no harm was done. Then
Bill decided to get back at Joe. He put a small program into
Joe's big computer. Every day at precisely 3:00 P.M., a message
appeared: 'Do Not Pass GO!'.
It was all good fun and became a personal challenge to Joe and
Bill to see how they could annoy each other.
Word spread about the new game. Other graduate students at the
university got involved and soon computer folks at Cal Tech, MIT,
Carnegie Mellon, Stanford and elsewhere got onto the bandwagon.
Thus was born the world's first computer disease, the virus.
This is Scott Mason. Using a typewriter.
* * * * *
November, 3 Years Ago
Sunnyvale, California.
When Data Graphics Inc. went public in 1987, President and found-
er Pierre Troubleaux, a nationalized American born in Paris
momentarily forgot that he had sold his soul to achieve his
success. The company, to the financial community known as DGI,
was on the road to being in as much favor as Lotus or Microsoft.
Annual sales of $300 Million with a pre-tax bottom line of over
$55 Million were cause celebre on Wall Street. The first public
issues raised over $200 Million for less than 20% of the common
stock. With a book value in excess of $1 Billion, preparation
for a second offering began immediately after the first sold out
in 2 hours.
The offering made Pierre Troubleaux, at 29, a rich man; a very
rich man. He netted almost $20 Million in cash and another $100
Million in options over 5 years. No one objected. He had earned
it. DGI was the pearl of the computer industry in a time of
shake ups and shake outs. Raging profits, unbridled growth,
phenomenal market penetration and superb management.
Perhaps the most unique feature of DGI, other than its Presi-
dent's deal with the devil, was that it was a one product compa-
ny. DGI was somewhat like Microsoft in that they both got rich
and famous on one product. While Microsoft branched out from DOS
into other product areas, DGI elected to remain a 1 product
company and merely make flavors of its products available for
other companies which then private labeled them under their own
names.
Their software product was dubbed dGraph, a marketing abbreviated
term for data-Graphics. Simply put, dGraph let users, especially
novices, run their computers with pictures and icons instead of
complex commands that must be remembered and typed. dGraph
theoretically made IBM computers as easy to use as a Macintosh.
Or, the computer could be trained to follow instructions in plain
English. It was a significant breakthrough for the industry.
DGraph was so easy to use, and so powerful in its abilities that
it was virtually an instant success. Almost every computer
manufacturer offered dGraph as part of its standard fare. Just
as a computer needed DOS to function, it was viewed that you
needed dGraph before you even loaded the first program. Operat-
ing without dGraph was considered archaic. "You don't have
dGraph?" "How can you use your computer without dGraph?" "I
couldn't live without dGraph." "I'd be lost without dGraph."
The ubiquitous non-technical secretaries especially loved dGraph.
DGraph was taught at schools such as Katherine Gibbs and Secre-
Temps who insisted that all its girls were fluent in its ad-
vanced uses. You just can't run a office without it!
As much as anything in the computer industry is, dGraph was a
standard. Pierre Troubleaux was unfortunately under the misim-
pression that the success for DGI was his and his alone and that
he too was a standard . . .a fixture. The press and computers
experts portrayed to the public that he was the company's singu-
lar genius, with remarkable technical aptitude to see "beyond the
problem to the solution . . .".
The official DGI biography of Pierre Troubleaux, upon close
examination, reads like that of an inflated resume by a person
applying for a position totally outside his field of expertise.
Completely unsuited for the job. But the media hype had rele-
gated that minor inconsistency to old news.
In reality Troubleaux was a musician. He was an accomplished
pianist who also played another twenty instruments, very, very
well. By the age of ten he was considered something of a prodigy
and his parents decided that they would move from Paris to New
York, the United States, for proper schooling. Pierre's scholar-
ships at Julliard made the decision even easier.
Over the years Pierre excelled in performances and was critically
acclaimed as having a magnificent future where he could call the
shots. As a performer or composer. But Pierre had other ideas.
He was rapt in the study of the theory of music. How notes
related to each other. How scales related to each other. What
made certain atonalities subjectively pleasing yet others com-
pletely offensive. He explored the relationships between Eastern
polyphonic scales and the Western twelve note scale. Discord,
harmony, melody, emotional responses; these were the true loves
of Pierre Troubleaux.
Upon graduation from Julliard he announced, that contrary to
his family's belief and desire, he would not seek advanced train-
ing. Rather, he would continue his study of musical relationships
which by now had become an obsession. There was little expertise
in this specific area, so he pursued it alone. He wrote and
arranged music only to provide him with enough funds to exist in
his pallid Soho loft in downtown Manhattan.
He believed that there was an inherent underlying Natural Law
that guided music and musical appreciation. If he could find
that Law, he would have the formula for making perfect music
every time. With the Law at the crux of all music, and with
control over the Law, he ruminated, one could write a musical
piece to suit the specific goals of the writer and create the
desired effect on the listener. By formula.
In 1980 Pierre struggled to organize the unwieldy amount of data
he had accumulated. His collections of interpretive musical
analysis filled file cabinets and countless shelves. He relied
on his memory to find anything in the reams of paper, and the
situation was getting out of control. He needed a solution.
Max Jones was a casual acquaintance that Pierre had met at the
Lone Star Cafe on the corner of 13th and 5th Avenue. The Lone
Star was a New York fixture, capped with a 60 foot iguana on the
roof. They both enjoyed the live country acts that played there.
Max played the roll of an Urban Cowboy who had temporarily given
up Acid Rock in favor of shit kickin' Southern Rock. Pierre
found the musical phenomenon of Country Crossover Music intrigu-
ing, so he rationalized that drinking and partying at the Lone
Star was a worthwhile endeavor which contributed to his work.
That may have been partially true.
Max was a computer jock who worked for one of the Big Eight
accounting firms in midtown Manhattan. A complex mixture of com-
puter junkie, rock'n'roll aficionado and recreational drug user,
Max maintained the integrity of large and small computer systems
to pay the bills.
"That means they pretend to pay me and I pretend to work. I
don't really do anything productive."
Max was an "ex-hippie who put on shoes to make a living" and a
social anarchist at heart. At 27, Max had the rugged look that
John Travolta popularized in the 70's but on a rock solid trim
six foot five 240 pound frame. He dwarfed Pierre's mere five feet
ten inches.
Pierre's classic European good looks and tailored appearance,
even in jeans and a T-shirt were a strong contrast to Max's
ruddiness. Pierre's jet black hair was side parted and covered
most of his ears as it gracefully tickled his shoulders.
Piercing black eyes stared over a prominent Roman nose and thin
cheeks which tapered in an almost feminine chin. There was never
any confusion, though; no one in their right mind would ever view
Pierre as anything but a confirmed and practiced heterosexual.
His years of romantic achievements proved it. The remnants of
his French rearing created an unidentifiable formal and educated
accent; one which held incredible sex appeal to American women.
Max and Pierre sipped at their beers while Max rambled on about
how wonderful computers were. They were going to change the
world.
"In a few years every one on the planet will have his own comput-
er and it will be connected to everyone else's computer. All
information will be free and the planet will be a better place to
live and so on . . ." Max's technical sermons bordered on reli-
gious preaching. He had bought into the beliefs of Steven Jobs,
the young charismatic founder and spiritual guiding force behind
Apple Computer.
Pierre had heard it before, especially after Max had had a few.
His view of a future world with everyone sitting in front of a
picture tube playing with numbers and more numbers . . .and then
a thought hit him.
"Max . . .Max . . ." Pierre was trying to break into another one
of Max's Apple pitches.
"Yeah . . .oh yeah, sorry Amigo. What's that you say?" Max
sipped deeply on a long neck Long Star beer.
"These computers you play with . . ."
"Not play, work with. Work with!" He pointed emphatically at
nothing in particular.
"OK, work with. Can these computers play, er, work with music?"
Max looked quizzically at Pierre. "Music, sure. You just program
it in and out it comes. In fact, the Apple II is the ideal
computer to play music. You can add a synthesizer chip
and . . ."
"What if I don't know anything about computers?"
"Well, that makes it a little harder, but why doncha let me
show you what I mean." Max smiled wide. This was what he loved,
playing with computers and talking to people about them. The
subject was still a mystery to the majority of people in 1980.
Pierre winced. He realized that if he took up Max on his offer he
would be subjected to endless hours of computer war stories and
technical esoterica he couldn't care less about. That may be the
price though, he thought. I can always stop.
Over the following months they became fast friends as Pierre
tutored under Max's guiding hand. Pierre found that the Apple
had the ability to handle large amounts of data. With the new
program called Visi-Calc, he made large charts of his music and
their numbers and examined their relationships.
As Pierre learned more about applying computers to his studies in
musical theory, his questions of Max and demands of the Apple
became increasingly complex. One night after several beers and a
couple of joints Pierre asked Max what he thought was a simple
question.
"How can we program the Apple so that it knows what each piece of
data means?" he inquired innocently.
"You can't do that, man." Max snorted. "Computers, yes even
Apples are stupid. They're just a tool. A shovel doesn't know
what kind of dirt it's digging, just that it's digging." He
laughed out loud at the thought of a smart shovel.
Pierre found the analogy worth a prolonged fit of giggles through
which he managed to ask, "but what if you told the computer what
it meant and it learned from there. On its own. Can't a com-
puter learn?"
Max was seriously stoned. "Sure I guess so. Sure. In theory it
could learn to do your job or mine. I remember a story I read by
John Garth. It was called Giles Goat Boy. Yeah, Giles Goat Boy,
what a title. Essentially it's about this Goat, musta been a
real smart goat cause he talked and thunk and acted like a kid."
They both roared at the double entendre of kid. That was worth
another joint.
"At any rate," Max tried to control his spasmodic chuckles.
"At any rate, there were these two computers who competed for
control of the world and this kid, I mean," laughing too hard to
breath, "I mean this goat named Giles went on search of these
computers to tell them they weren't doing a very good job."
"So, what has that got to do with an Apple learning," Pierre said
wiping the tears from his eyes.
"Not a damn thing!" They entered another spasm of laughter. "No
really. Most people either think, or like to think that a com-
puter can think. But they can't, at least not like you and me. "
Max had calmed down.
"So?" Pierre thought there might still be a point to this conver-
sation.
"So, in theory, yeah, but probably not for a while. 10 years or
so."
"In theory, what?" Pierre asked. He was lost.
"In theory a machine could think."
"Oh." Pierre was disappointed.
"But, you might be able to emulate thinking. H'mmmm." Max re-
treated into mental oblivion as Abbey Road played in the back-
ground. Anything from Apple records was required listening by
Max.
"Emulate. Emulate? What's that? Hey, Max. What's emulate?
Hey Max, c'mon back to Earth. Emulate what?"
Max jolted back to reality. "Oh, copy. You know, act like.
Emulate. Don't they teach you emulation during sex education in
France?" They both thought that that was the funniest thing
ever said, in any language for all of written and pre-history.
The substance of the evening's conversation went downhill from
there.
A few days later Max came by Pierre's loft. "I been thinking."
"Scary thought. About what?" Pierre didn't look up from his
Apple.
"About emulating thought. You know what we were talking about
the other night."
"I can't remember this morning much less getting shit faced with
you the other night."
"You were going on and on about machines thinking. Remember?"
"Yes," Pierre lied.
"Well, I've been thinking about it." Max had a remarkable ability
to recover from an evening of illicit recreation. He could
actually grasp the germ of a stoned idea and let a straight mind
deal with it the following day. "And, I maybe got a way to do
what you want."
"What do I want?" Pierre tried to remember.
"You want to be able to label all of your music so that to all
appearances each piece of music knows about every other piece of
music. Right?"
"Kinda, yeah, but you said that was impossible . . ." Pierre
trailed off.
"In the true sense, yes. Remember emulation though? Naw, you
were too stoned. Here's the basic idea." Max ran over to the
fridge, grabbed a beer and leapt into a bean bag chair. "We
assign a value to every piece of music. For example, in music
we might assign a value to each note. Like, what note it is, the
length of the note, the attack and decay are the raw data.
That's just a number. But the groupings of the notes are what's
important. The groupings. Get it?"
Pierre was intrigued. He nodded. Maybe Max did understand after
all. Pierre leaned forward with anticipation and listened intent-
ly, unlike in one ear out the other treatment he normally gave
Max's sermons.
"So what we do is program the Apple to recognize patterns of
notes; groupings, in any size. We do it in pictures instead of
words. Maybe a bar, maybe a scale, maybe even an entire symphony
orchestra. All 80 pieces at once!" Max's enthusiasm was conta-
gious. "As the data is put in the computer, you decide what you
want to call each grouping. You name it anything you want. Then
we could have the computer look for similar groupings and label
them. They could all be put on a curve, some graphic of some
kind, and then show how they differ and by how much. Over time,
the computer could learn to recognize rock'n'roll from Opera
from radio jingles to Elevator Music. It's all in the patterns.
Isn't that what you want?" Max beamed while speaking excitedly.
He knew he had something here.
Max and Pierre worked together and decided to switch from the
Apple II computer to the new IBM PC for technical reasons beyond
Pierre's understanding. As they labored, Max realized that if he
got his "engine" to run, then it would be useful for hundreds of
other people who needed to relate data to each other but who
didn't know much about computers.
In late 1982 Max's engine came to life on its own. Pierre was
programming in pictures and in pure English. He was getting back
some incredible results. He was finding that many of the popu-
lar rock guitarists were playing lead riffs that had a genealogy
which sprang from Indian polyphonic sitar strains.
He found curious relationships between American Indian rhythms
and Baltic sea farer's music. All the while, as Pierre searched
the reaches of the musical unknown, Max convinced himself that
everyone else in the world would want his graphical engine, too.
Through a series of contacts within his Big Eight company, Max
was put in touch with Hambrecht Quist, the famed Venture Capital
firm that assisted such high tech startups as Apple, Lotus and
other shining stars in the early days of the computer industry.
Max was looking for an investor to finance the marketing of his
engine that would change the world. His didactic and circumlocu-
tous preaching didn't get him far. While everyone was polite at
his presentations, afterwards they had little idea of what he was
talking about.
"The Smart Engine permits anyone to cross-relate individual or
matrices of data with an underlying attribute structure that is
defined by the user. It's like creating a third dimension. Data
is conventionally viewed in a two dimensional viewing field, yet
is really a one dimension stream. In either source dimensional
view, the addition of a three dimensional attribute structure
yields interrelationships that are not inherently obvious. Thus
we use graphical representations to simplify the entire process."
After several weeks of pounding the high risk financial community
of the San Francisco Bay area, Max was despondent. Damn it, he
thought. Why don't they understand. I outline the entire
theory and they don't get it. Jeez, it's so easy to use. So
easy to use. Then the light bulb lit in his mind. Call Pierre.
I need Pierre. Call Pierre in New York.
"Pierre, it's Max." Max sounded quite excited.
"How's the Coast."
"Fine, Fine. You'll find out tomorrow. You're booked on American
#435 tomorrow."
"Max, I can't go to California. I have so much work to do."
"Bullshit. You owe me. Or have I forgotten to bill you for the
engine?" He was calling in a favor.
"Hey, it was my idea. You didn't even understand what I was
talking about until . . ."
"That's the whole point, Pierre. I can't explain the engine to
these Harvard MBA asswipes. It was your idea and you got me to
understand. I just need you to get some of these investors to
understand and then we can have a company and make some money
selling engines." Max's persistence was annoying, but Pierre knew
that he had to give in. He owed it to Max.
The new presentations Max and Pierre put on went so well that
they had three offers for start up financing within a week. And,
it was all due to Pierre. His genial personality and ability to
convey the subtleties of a complex piece of software using actual
demonstrations from his music were the touchy-feely the investors
wanted. It wasn't that he was technical; he really wasn't. But
Pierre had an innate ability to recognize a problem, theoretical-
ly, and reduce it to its most basic components. And the Engine
was so easy to use. All you had to do was . . .
It worked. The brainy unintelligible technical wizard and char-
ismatic front man. And the device, whatever it was, it seemed to
work.
The investors installed their own marketing person to get sales
going and Pierre was asked to be President. At first he said he
didn't want to. He didn't know how to run a company. That
doesn't matter, the investors said. You are a salable item. A
person whom the press and future investors can relate to. We
want you to be the image of the company. Elegance, suave, upper
class. All that European crap packaged for the media. Steve Jobs
all over again.
Pierre relented, as long as he could continue his music.
Max's engine was renamed dGraph by the marketing folks and the
company was popularly known as DGI. Using Byte, Personal Comput-
ing, Popular Computing and the myriad computer magazines of the
early 1980's, dGraph was made famous and used by all serious
computer users.
DGraph could interface with the data from other programs, dBase
II, 123, Wordstar and then relate it in ways never fathomed.
Automatically. Users could assign their own language of, at that
time, several hundred words, to describe the third dimension of
data. Or, they could do it in pictures. While the data on the
screen was being manipulated, the computer, unbeknownst to the
operator, was constantly forming and updating relationships
between the data. Ready to be called upon at any time.
As the ads said, "dGraph for dData."
As success reigned, the demand upon Pierre's time increased so
that he had little time for his music. By 1986 he lived a virtu-
al fantasy. He was on the road, speaking, meeting with writers,
having press conferences every time a new use for dGraph was
announced. He was adored by the media. He swam in the glory of
the attention by the women who found his fame and image an
irresistible adjunct to his now almost legendary French accent
and captivating eyes.
Pierre and Max were the hottest young entrepreneurs in Silicon
Valley; the darlings of the VC community. And the company spar-
kled too. It was being run by professionals and Max headed up
the engineering group. As new computers appeared on the market,
like the IBM AT, additional power could be effectively put into
the Engine and Voila! a new version of dGraph would hit the
market to the resounding ring of an Instant Hit on Softsel's Top
40.
Max, too, liked his position. He was making a great deal of
money, ran his own show with the casualness of his former hippie
days, yet could get on the road with Pierre any time he needed a
break. Pierre got into the act hook, line and sinker and Max
acted the role of genius behind 'The Man'. That gave Max the
freedom to avoid the microscope of the press yet take a twirl in
the fast lane whenever he felt the urge.
The third round of funding for DGI came from an unexpected
place. Normally when a company is as successful as DGI, the
original investors go along for the ride. That's how the VC's
who worked with Lotus, Compaq, Apple and other were getting
filthy stinking rich. The first two rounds went as they had
planned, the third didn't.
"Mr. Troubleaux," Martin Fisk, Chairman of Underwood Investments
said to Pierre in DGI's opulent offices. "Pierre, there is only
one way to say this. Our organization will no longer be involved
with DGI. We have sold our interest to a Japanese firm who has
been trying to get into the American computer field."
"What will that change? Anything?" Pierre was nonplused by the
announcement.
"Not as far as you're concerned. Oh, they will bring in a few of
their own people, satisfy their egos and protect their invest-
ment, that's entirely normal. But, they especially want you to
continue on as President of DGI. No, no real changes."
"What about Max?" Pierre had true concern for his friend.
"He'll remain, in his present capacity. Essentially the finan-
cial people will be reporting to new owners that's all."
"Are we still going to go public? That's the only way I'm gonna
make any real money."
Martin was flabbergasted. Pierre wasn't in the least interested
as to why the company changed hands. He only wanted to know
about the money, how much money he would make and when. Pierre
never bothered to ask, nor was it offered, that Underwood would
profit over 400 percent on their original investment. The Japa-
nese buyer was paying more than the company was worth now. They
had come in offering an amount of money way beyond what an open-
ing offer should have been. Underwood did a search on the Japa-
nese company and its American subsidiary, Data Tech. They were
real, like $30 Billion real and did were expanding into the
information processing field through acquisitions, primarily in
the United States.
Underwood sold it's 17% stake in DGI for $350 Million, more than
twice its true value. They sold quickly and quietly. Even though
Pierre and Max should have had some say in the transfer, Under-
wood controlled the board of directors and technically didn't
need the founder's consensus. Not that it overtly appeared to
mattered to Pierre. Max gave the paper transfer a cursory exami-
nation, at least asked the questions that were meaningless to the
transformed Pierre, and gave the deal his irrelevant blessings.
After the meeting with the emissaries from DGI's new owner, OSO
Industries, Pierre and Max were confident that nothing would
change for them. They would each continue in their respective
roles. The day to day interference was expected to be minimal,
but the planned public offering would be accelerated. That
suited Pierre just fine; he would make out like a bandit.
Several days before the date of issue, Pierre received a call
from Tokyo.
"Mr. Troubleaux?" The thick Japanese accent mangled his name so
badly Pierre cringed.
"Yes, this is Pierre Troubleaux," he said exaggerating his French
accent. The Japanese spoke French as well as a hair-lipped
stutterer could recite "Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled
peppers."
"I wish to inform you, sir, that the Chairman of OSO is to visit
your city tomorrow and participate in your new successes. Would
this be convenient?"
Pierre had only one possible response to the command performance
he was being 'invited' to. Since OSO had bought into DGI,
Pierre was constantly mystified by the ritualism associated with
Japanese business. They could say "Yes!" a hundred times in a
meeting, yet everyone present understood that the speakers really
meant "No Way, Jose!" There of course was the need for a quality
gift for any visitor from Japan. Johnny Walker Black was the
expected gift over which each recipient would feign total sur-
prise. Pierre had received more pearl jewelry from the Japanese
than he could use for ten wives. But the ritual was preserved.
"Of course it will. I would be most honored. If you could
provide me with details of his flight I will see to it that he
receives appropriate treatment."
"Very good Mr. Troubleaux." Pierre stifled a smirk at the mispro-
nunciation. "Your trouble will not go unrewarded."
"Mr. Homosoto, it is so good of you to visit at this time. Very
auspicious, sir." Pierre was kissing some ass.
"Troubleaux-San," Homosoto's English had a touch of Boston
snobbery in it, "you have performed admirably, and we all look to
continued successes in the future. I expect, as I am sure you
do, that the revenues raised from your public stock offering will
provide your company with the resources to grow ten fold." It
was a statement that demanded an answer. Another Japanese quirk.
"Yessir, of course. As you know, Mr. Homosoto, I am not involved
in the day to day operations and the forecasting. My function is
more to inspire the troops and carry the standard, so to speak.
I will have to rely upon the expertise of others to give you the
exact answers you seek."
"That is not necessary, I have all I need to know about your
business and its needs. Your offer is most kind."
"Why do you call DGI my business? Aren't we in this together?
Partners?" Pierre clarified the idiom for the rotund bespecta-
cled Chairman of OSO Industries.
"Hai! Of course, my friend, we are partners, and you will be
very wealthy in a few days." That statement had the air of an
accusation more than good wishes. "There is one little thing,
though. It is so small that I don't wish to mention it."
Well then don't, thought Pierre. "Nothing is so small it should-
n't be mentioned. Please, proceed Homosoto-San. How may I
help?"
"That's it exactly!" Homosoto beamed. "I do need your help. Not
today, but in the future, perhaps a small favor."
"Anytime at all, sir. Whatever I can I will." Pierre was re-
lieved. Just some more Japanese business practices that escaped
him.
Homosoto leaned in towards Pierre. His demeanor had shifted to
one of a very serious man. "Mr. Troubleaux, how can I be sure
that you won't disappoint me? How can I be sure?"
The question threw Pierre for a loop. How can he be sure? I
don't know. Maybe this was only an Oriental game of mumbley peg
or chicken. "Sir, what would I need to do to convince you of my
willingness to comply?" When in doubt, ask.
Homosoto relaxed again, leaned back in the plush office chair and
smiled. "In my country, Mr., Troubleaux, honor is everything.
You have nothing, nothing without your honor. Every child, man
and woman in Japan knows that. We are raised with the focus of
growth being honor. During the war between our countries, so
many years ago, many found honor by making the supreme sacrifice.
Kamikaze pilots are of whom I am speaking of, Mr. Troubleaux."
Pierre's face must have given away the panic that instantly
struck him. Suicide? This guy is truly nuts.
"Do not worry, Mr. Troubleaux, I can see what you are thinking.
No. I only speak of kamikaze pilots to serve as example of
honor. The kind that brought honor to Japan in the face of
defeat. That is something Americans will never understand. But
then again you're not American are you?"
"I was born a Frenchman, but I naturalized over twenty years ago,
at the same time my parents did."
"Ah yes. I remember. Then honor does mean more to you than to
most Americans. That will be quite good. Now, for the future
favor. I require nothing of you today, other than the guarantee
of you honor. Is that agreeable to you, Mr. Troubleaux?" Homoso-
to was pushing with the facade of friendliness. Pierre's concern
was not alleviated. All the same, he reluctantly nodded his
assent.
"Very good. Now for the favor." Homosoto stood up and reached
inside his size 48, ill fitting suit. Pierre was amazed at how
much money the Japanese had, yet were apparently unable to ever
wear clothes that fit properly.
Homosoto handed a 5 1/4" floppy disk to Pierre. Pierre took it
carefully from Homosoto and looked at the label. The diskette
was marked only with:
FILE1.EXE to FILE93.EXE
He looked inquisitively at Homosoto, his eyes asking, Yeah, so?
What's this got to do with anything?
"I see now you are confused. It is so simple, really. Sometime
in the future, you will be instructed to add one of the files on
this disk onto the dGraph programs you sell. That's it. So sim-
ple. So I have your word Mr. Troubleaux? Honor among men."
Pierre's mind was racing. Put a file onto a program? What does
that do? What's on it? Does it help dGraph? No that can't be
it. What is it? Why so secret. What's with the honor bit?
From the Chairman of OSO, not a technician? One floppy disk?
Pierre smelled a fox in the chicken coup.
"Mr. Homosoto, sir. I mean no disrespect. But, I hardly know
what to think. I don't even know what this disk is. You are
asking me to promise something I don't understand. What if I
don't agree. At least until I know what I'm doing? I need to
know what's going on here." he said holding the disk up promi-
nently.
"I prefer to think, Mr. Troubleaux of what occurs as long as you
do agree to maintain the honor between us. It is so much more
pleasant." Homosoto edged towards the doors of Troubleaux's
office as he spoke.
"When you agree to act honorably, perform for me this small,
insignificant favor, Mr. Troubleaux, you will get to keep the $20
Million you make this Friday and you will be permitted to contin-
ue living. Good Afternoon." Homosoto closed the door behind him.
* * * * *
Alexander Spiradon was pleased. His students were doing well.
The other students from the New York computer school had already
checked in; they didn't have as far to travel as Sir George.
Everything was in place, not quite a year to the day since he and
Taki Homosoto had set their plans in action. Alex hadn't spoken
to Homosoto in a couple of months. It was now time to report to
Homosoto in Tokyo. It was 17 hours earlier there - Homosoto
would probably be at his desk. The modem dialed a local Brookline
number. The phone in Brookline subsequently dialed a number in
Dallas, Texas, which dialed another phone in Tacoma, Washington.
The Tacoma phone had the luxury of dialing the international
number for Homosoto's private computer.
Call forwarding services offered the ultimate in protection. Any
telephone tracing would take weeks, requiring the cooperation of
courts from every state where a forwarded phone was located.
Then, the State Department would have to coordinate with the
Japanese Embassy. An almost impossible task, if anyone had the
resources. It took about 45 seconds for the call to be complet-
ed.
<<<<<<CONNECTION>>>>>>
PASSWORD:
Alex entered his password, GESUNDHEIT and his forced response
from his own PRG card. His computer terminal paused. If he was
on satellite to Japan, or to Dallas or anywhere else, his signal
could travel a hundred thousand miles or more each time he sent a
character from his keyboard.
CRYPT KEY:
Alex Spiradon chose 43. Each communication he had with Homosoto
was also protected with full encryption. If someone was able to
isolate their conversations, all they would get would be sheer
garbage, a screen full of unintelligible symbols and random
characters. By choosing 43, Alex told his computer and Homosoto's
computer to use Crypt Key 43, one of over 100 secret keys that
both computers held in their memory. This cryptographic scheme,
using the U.S.'s Data Encryption Standard, DES, and ANSI standard
X9.17 was the same one that the Treasury Department and Federal
Reserve used to protect the transmission of over $1 trillion of
funds transfers daily.
<<<<<<TRANSMISSION ENCODED>>>>>>
That was the signal for Alex to send the first words to Homosoto.
Good Morning, Homosoto-San.
AND TO YOU MY ESTEEMED PARTNER. YOU HAVE SOMETHING TO REPORT.
Yes. All is in place.
PLEASE CLARIFY . . .MY MEMORY IS NOT WHAT IT WAS.
Of course. The last of the Operators are in place. We call him
Sir George. That makes 8 altogether. San Francisco, (SF), New
York, (NY), Los Angeles, (LA), Boston, (BM), Atlanta, (AG) Chica-
go, (CI), Washington, (DC) and Dallas, (DT).
AND THEY CAN BE TRUSTED?
They are aware of the penalty. If not, we have others that will
replace them. Besides, you are rewarding them most handsomely for
their efforts.
SO I AM. I EXPECT RESULTS. AND THE OTHERS?
The Mail Men are waiting as well. Four of them in NY, DC, LA and
DT.
YOU SAY MAIL MEN. WHAT IS THAT TERM?
They will deliver our messages in writing to those who need
additional proof of our sincerity. They know nothing other than
they get paid, very well, to make sure that the addressees are in
receipt of their packages.
VERY GOOD. AND THEY TOO ARE RESPONSIBLE?
Yes. Elimination is a strong motivation. Besides, they know
nothing.
WHAT IF THEY READ THE CONTENTS?
That can only help. They do not know where the money comes from.
Most need the money more than their lives. My contacts make my
choices ideal. Death is . . .so permanent.
I AGREE. IT MAKES MEN HONORABLE, DOES IT NOT?
Most of the time, yes. There are always exceptions, and we are
prepared for that, too.
THE SEKIGUN-HA ARE AT YOUR DISPOSAL.
Thank you. The Ground Hogs, the first are in place.
HOW MANY AND WHERE.
Over 50 so far. I will keep recruiting. We have 11 in the long
distance phone companies and at AT&T, 3 at IBM, 14 in government
positions, 12 in major banks, a couple of insurance companies, 3
Hospitals are compromised . . .and a list of others. We will
keep the channels full, I promise.
HOW WILL THEY FUNCTION?
They will gain access to the information we need, and when we
call, they will perform. I will add more as we proceed. It
amazes me, these Americans. Anything for a buck.
DO NOT DISAPPOINT ME.
I will not. That is my promise. When will the information be
ready?
SOON. TOMORROW THE FIRST READER INFORMATION WILL BE SENT TO YOU.
CALLS MAY BEGIN IN DAYS. YOU ORGANIZE IT. THE GROUND HOGS ARE
NOT TO BE ACTIVATED FOR SEVERAL WEEKS. THEY ARE TO PERFORM THEIR
JOBS AS IF NOTHING IS WRONG. DO THEY UNDERSTAND?
Ground Hogs receive 2 paychecks. They understand their obliga-
tions. We pay 10 times their salary for their allegiance. The
Operators and Mail Men will start soon.
THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS ALLEGIANCE. DON'T YOU KNOW THAT YET?
Americans pay homage to the almighty dollar, and nothing else.
They will be loyal.
AS YOU ARE MOTIVATED MY FRIEND, I DO NOT FORGET THAT. BUT OTHERS
CAN OFFER MORE DOLLARS AND WE CAN BE FOUND. I CANNOT RISK THAT,
UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES. DO YOU UNDERSTAND THE RISK?
Completely. I am responsible for my people.
AND THEY ARE PREPARED FOR THEIR JOBS?
Yes. That is my responsibility, to insure the security of our
task. No one must know. I know my job.
DO IT WELL. I WILL LEAVE YOU.
<<<<< CONNECTION TERMINATED>>>>>>
****************************************************************
Chapter 5
Monday, September 14
New York City
Doug! Doug!" Scott hollered across the city room. As in most
newspaper offices, the constant scurry of people bumping into
each other while reading and walking gave the impression of more
activity than there really was. Desks were not in any particular
pattern, but it wasn't totally chaotic either. Every desk had at
least one computer on it. Some two or three. Scott pushed back
into place those that he dislodged while running to McGuire's
desk.
Doug McGuire noticed the early hour, 8:39 A.M. on the one wall
clock that gave Daylight Savings Time for the East Coast. The
other dozen or so clocks spanned the time zones of the globe. It
wasn't like Scott to be his energetic youthful self before noon.
"Doug, I need you." Scott shouted from 3 desks away. "It'll just
take a minute."
Scott nearly dragged the balding, overweight, sometimes harsh 60
year old Doug McGuire across the newsroom. They abruptly halted
in front of Scott's desk. Boxes full of files everywhere; on the
floor, piled 3 or 4 high, on his desk. "Will you look at this.
Just look at this!" He stuck a single sheet of paper too close
into Doug's face. Doug pushed it away to read it out loud.
McGuire read from the page. "A Message from a Fan. Thanks." Doug
looked perplexed. He motioned at the paper hurricane on Scott's
desk. "So, what is this mess? Where did it come from?"
Scott spoke excitedly. "I got another delivery, about an hour
ago. I think it's from the same guy who sent the McMillan
stuff." He perused the boxes.
"Why do you say that?" Doug asked curiously.
"Because of what's in here. I haven't been able to go through
much of it, obviously, but I scanned through a few of the boxes.
There's dirt on almost every company in the Fortune 1000. Copies
of memoranda, false figures, confidential position statements,
the truth behind a lot of PR scandals, it goes on and on.
There's even a copy of some of the shredded Ollie North papers.
Or so they say they are. Who knows. But, God! There are notes
about behind the scene plays on mergers, who's screwing who to
get deals done . . .it's all here. A hundred years of stories
right here . . .".
"Let's see what we've got here." Doug was immediately hooked by
the treasure trove of potential in from of them coupled with
Scott's enthusiasm. The best stories come from the least likely
places. No reporter ever forgets the 3rd rate burglary at the
Watergate that brought down a President.
By late afternoon, Scott and several of the paper's researchers
had set up a preliminary filing system. They categorized the
hundred of files and documents and computer printouts by company,
alphabetically. The contents were amazing. Over 150 of the top
American corporations were represented directly, and thousands of
other by reference. In every case, there was a revelation of one
or more particularly embarrassing or illegal activities. Some
were documented accounts and histories of past events and others
that were in progress. Many of the papers were prognostications
of future events of questionable ethics or legality. It reminded
Scott of Jeanne Dixon style predictions.
From Wall Street's ivory tower deals where payoffs are called
consulting fees, and in banking circles where delaying transfers
of funds can yield millions of dollars in interest daily, from
industrial secrets stolen or purchased from such and such a
source, the laundry list was long. Plans to effect such a busi-
ness plan and how to disguise its true purposes from the ITC and
SEC. Internal, very upper level policies which never reach the
company's Employee Handbook; policies of discrimination, atti-
tude, and protective corporate culture which not only transcend
the law but in many cases, morality. The false books, the jim-
mied numbers . . .they were in the boxes too, but that was almost
accepted accounting practice as long as you didn't get caught.
But the depth of some of the figures was amazing. Like how one
computer company brought in Toshiba parts and sold them to the
government despite the ban on Toshiba components because of their
sale of precision lathes to the Soviets.
"Jesus," said Scott after a lengthy silence of intent reading.
"This nails everyone, even the Government."
There were well documented dossiers on how the EPA made unique
exclusions hundred of times over based upon the financial lobby-
ing clout of the particular offender. Or how certain elected
officials in Washington had pocketed funds from their PAC monies
or how defense contractors were advised in advance of the con-
tents of an upcoming billion dollar RFP.
The cartons of files were absolute political dynamite. And, if
released, could have massive repercussions in the world financial
community.
There was a fundamental problem, though. Scott Mason was in
possession of unsupported, but not unreasonable accusations, they
were certainly believable. All he really had was leads, a thou-
sand leads in ten thousand different directions, with no apparent
coherency or theme, received from an anonymous and dubious donor.
And there was no way of immediately gauging the veracity of their
contents. He clearly remembered what is was like to be lawyered.
That held no appeal at the moment.
The next obvious question was, who would have the ability to
gather this amount of information, most of which was obviously
meant to be kept very, very private. Papers meant not for anyone
but only for a select group of insiders.
Lastly, and just as important to the reporter; why? What would
someone gain from telling all the nasty goings on inside of
Corporate America. There have been so many stories over the
years about this company or that screwing over the little guy.
How the IRS and the government operated substantially outside of
legal channels. The kinds of things that the Secretary of the
Treasury would prefer were kept under wraps. Sometimes stories
of this type made the news, maybe a trial or two, but not exactly
noteworthy in the big picture. White collar crime wasn't as good
as the Simpsons or Roseanne, so it went largely ignored.
Scott Mason needed to figure out what to do with his powder keg.
So, as any good investigative reporter would do, he decided to
pick a few key pieces and see if the old axiom was true. Where
there's smoke, there's fire.
* * * * *
Fire. That's exactly what Franklin Dobbs didn't want that Monday
morning. He and 50 other Corporate CEO's across the country
received their own unsolicited packages by courier. Each CEO
received a dossier on his own company. A very private dossier
containing information that technically didn't, or wasn't offi-
cially supposed to exist. Each one read their personalized file
cover to cover in absolute privacy. And shock set in.
Only a few of the CEO's in the New York area had ever heard of
Scott Mason before, and little did they know that he had the
complete collection of dossiers in his possession at the New York
City Times. Regardless, boardrooms shook to their very core.
Wall Street trading was untypically low for a Monday, less than
50,000,000 shares. But CNN and other financial observers at-
tributed the anomaly to random factors unconnected to the secret
panic that was spreading through Corporate America.
By 6 P.M., CEO's and key aides from 7 major corporations head-
quartered in the metropolitan New York area had agreed to meet.
Throughout the day, CEO's routinely talk to other corporate
leaders as friends, acquaintances, for brain picking and G2,
market probing in the course of business. Today, though, the
scurry of inter-Ivory-Tower calls was beyond routine.
Through a complicated ritual dance of non-committal consent,
questions never asked and answers never given, with a good dose
of Zieglerisms, a few of the CEO's communicated to each other
during the day that they were not happy with the morning mail. A
few agreed to talk together. Unofficially of course, just for a
couple of drinks with friends, and there's nothing wrong, we
admit nothing, of course not.
These are the rules strictly obeyed for a non-encounter that
isn't happening. So they didn't meet in a very private room,
upstairs at the Executive Club, where sensitive meetings often
never took place. One's presence in that room is as good as
being on in a black hole. You just weren't there, no matter what.
Perfect.
The room that wasn't there was heavily furnished and dark. The
mustiness lent to the feeling of intrigue and incredulity the 7
CEO's felt. Massive brown leather couches and matching oversized
chairs surrounded by stout mahogany tables were dimly lit by the
assortment of low wattage lamp fixtures. There was a huge round
dining table large enough for all of Camelot, surrounded by
mammoth chairs in a large ante-room. The brocade curtains
covered long windows that stretched from the floor to ornate
corner moldings of the 16 foot ceilings.
One tired old black waiter with short cropped white hair appeared
and disappeared skillfully and invisibly. He was so accustomed
to working with such distinguished gentlemen, and knew how impor-
tant their conversations were, that he took great pride in re-
filling a drink without being noticed. With his little game, he
made sure that drinks for everyone were always full. They spoke
openly around Lambert. Lambert had worked the room since he was
16 during World War II and he saw no reason to trade occupations;
he was treated decently, and he doubled as a bookie for some
members which added to his income. There was mutual trust.
"I don't know about you gentlemen," said Porter Henry, the ener-
getic and feisty leader of Morse Technologies, defense subcon-
tractor. "I personally call this blackmail." A few nods.
"I'm not about to admit to anything, but have you been threat-
ened?" demanded Ogden Roberts, Chairman of National First Inter-
state.
"No, I don't believe any of us have, in so many words. And no,
none of us have done anything wrong. We are merely trying to
keep sensitive corporate strategies private. That's all. But, I
do take the position that we are being intimidated. I think
Porter's right. This is tantamount to blackmail. Or the precursor
at a minimum."
They discussed, in the most circumlocutous manner, possibilities.
The why, how, and who's. Who would know so much, about so many,
supposedly sacrosanct secrets. Therefore there must have been a
lot of whos, mustn't there? They figured about 50 of their
kindred CEO's had received similar packages, so that meant a lot
of whos were behind the current crisis in privacy. Or maybe just
one big who. OK, that's narrowed down real far; either a lot of
whos, one big who, or somewhere in between.
Why? They all agreed that demands would be coming, so they
looked for synergy between their firms, any sort of connections
that spanned at first the seven of those present, to predict what
kinds of demands. But it is difficult to find hard business
connections between an insurance company, a bank, 2 defense
contractors, a conglomerate of every drug store product known to
man and a fast food company. The thread wasn't there.
How? That was the hardest. They certainly hadn't come up with
any answers on the other two questions, so this was asking the
impossible. CEO's are notorious for not knowing how their compa-
nies work on a day to day basis. Thus, after 4 or 5 drinks,
spurious and arcane ideas were seriously considered. UFO's were
responsible, I once saw one . . .my secretary, I never really
trusted her at all . . .the Feds! Must be the
IRS . . .(my/his/your) competitor is doing it to all of
us . . .the Moonies, maybe the Moonies . . .
"Why don't we just go to the Feds?" asked Franklin Dobbs who did
not participate in the conjecturing stream of consciousness free
for all. Silence cut through the room instantly. Lambert looked
up from his corner to make sure they were all still alive.
"I'm serious. The FBI is perfect. We all operate interstate,
and internationally. Would you prefer the NYPD?" he said dero-
gatorally waiting any voices of dissent.
"C'mon Frank. What are we going to tell them?" Ogden Roberts
the banker asked belligerently. The liquor was having an effect.
"Certainly not the truth . . ." he cut himself short, realizing
that he came dangerously close to admitting some indefinable
wrong he had committed. "You know what I mean," he quickly
added.
"We don't go into all of the detail. An abbreviated form of the
truth, all true, but maybe not everything. I am sure we all
agree that we want to keep this, ah, situation, as quiet as
possible." Rapid assent came from all around.
"All we need to say is that we have been contacted, in a threat-
ening manner. That no demands have been made yet, but we are
willing to cooperate with the authorities. That would give us
all a little time, to re-organize our priorities, if you see what
I mean?" Dobbs added. The seven CEO's were thoughtful.
"Now this doesn't mean that we all have to agree on this,"
Franklin Dobbs said. "But as for me, I have gone over this, in
limited detail, with my attorney, and he agrees with it on a
strategic level. If someone's after you, and you can't see 'em,
get the guys with the White Hats on your side. Then do some
housekeeping. I am going to the FBI. Anybody care to join me?"
It was going to be a lonesome trip.
* * * * *
September, 4 Years Ago
Tokyo, Japan.
OSO Industries maintained its world headquarters in the OSO World
Bank Building which towered 71 stories over downtown Tokyo. From
the executive offices on the 66th floor, on a clear day, the view
reached as far as the Pacific. It was from these lofty reaches
that Taki Homosoto commanded his $30 Billion empire which spread
across 5 continents, 112 countries, and employed almost a quarter
million people.
OSO Industries had diversified since it humble beginnings as a
used tire junkstore.
The Korean conflict had been a windfall. Taki Homosoto started
a tire retreading business in 1946, during the occupation of
Japan. The Americans were so smart, he thought. Bring over all
of your men, tanks, jeeps and doctors not telling us the truth
about radiation, and you forget spare tires. Good move, Yankee.
Taki gouged the Military on pricing so badly, and the Americans
didn't seem care, that the Pentagon didn't think twice about
paying $700 for toilet seats decades later. Taki did give great
service - after all his profits were so staggeringly high he
could afford it. Keep the American's happy, feed their ego, and
they'll come back for more. No sense of pride. Suckers.
When the Americans moved in for Korea, Tokyo was both a command
post for the war effort and the first choice of R&R by service-
men. OSO Industries was in a perfect position to take advantage
of the US Government's tire needs throughout the conflict. OSO
was already in place, doing a good job; Taki had bought some
friends in the US military, and a few arrangements were made to
keep business coming his way.
Taki accumulated millions quickly. Now he needed to diversify.
Realizing that the war would come to an end some day, Homosoto
begin making plans. OSO Radio sets appeared on the market before
the end of the Korean Police Action. Then, with the application
of the transistor, the portable radio market exploded. OSO
Industries made more transistor radios than all other Japanese
electronics firms combined. Then came black and white televi-
sions. The invention of the single beam color TV tube again
brought OSO billions in revenues every year.
Now, OSO was the model of a true global corporation. OSO owned
banks and investment companies. Their semiconductor and electron-
ics products were household words. They controlled a vast network
of companies; electronic game manufacturers, microwave and appli-
ance manufacturers, and notably, acres and acres of Manhattan
Island, California and Hawaii. They owned and operated communi-
cations companies, including their own geosynchronous satellite.
OSO positioned itself as a holding company with hundreds of
subsidiaries, each with their own specialty, operating under
thousands of names. Taki Homosoto wove an incredibly complex web
of corporate influence and intrigue.
OSO was one of the 10 largest corporations in the world. Reaga-
nomics had already assisted in making OSO and Homosoto himself
politically important to both Japan and the US. Exactly how
Homosoto wanted it. American leaders, Senators, Congressmen,
appointees, lobbyists, in fact much of Washington coddled up to
Homosoto. His empire planned years in advance. The US Govern-
ment, unofficially craved his insights, and in characteristic
Washington style, wanted to be near someone important. Homosoto
relished it. Ate it up. He was a most cordial, unassuming
humble guest. He played the game magnificently.
Almost the entire 66th floor of the OSO Bank Building was dedi-
cated to Homosoto and his immediate staff. Only a handful of the
more then 200,000 people that OSO Industries employed had access
to the pinnacle of the OSO tower which graced the Tokyo skyline.
The building was designed by Pei, and received international ac-
claim as an architectural statement. The atrium in the lobby
vaulted almost 700 feet skyward precursoring American hotel
design in the next decade. Plants, trees over 100 feet tall and
waterfalls graced the atria and the overhanging skylobbies. The
first floor lobby was designed around a miniature replica of the
Ging Sha forest, fashioned with thousands of Bonzai trees. The
mini forest was built to be viewed from various heights within
the atrium to simulate a flight above the earth at distances from
2 to 150 miles.
The lobby of OSO Industries was a veritable museum. The Van Gogh
collection was not only the largest private or public assemblage
in the world, but also represented over $100 Million spent in
Sothby and Christies auctions worldwide since 1975.
To get to the elevator to the 66th floor, a security check was
performed, including a complete but unobtrusive electronic scan
of the entire person and his belongings. To all appearances, the
procedure was no more than airport security. However to the
initiate or the suspect, it was evident from the accuracy with
which the guards targeted specific contraband on a person or in
his belongings that they knew more than they were telling. The
OSO guards had the girth of Sumo wrestlers, and considering their
sheer mass, they received little hassle. Very few deemed it
prudent to cross them.
The lobby for all of its grandeur, ceilings of nearly 700 feet,
was a fairly austere experience. But, the elevator to the 66th
floor altered that image at once. It was this glass walled
elevator, the size of a small office, with appropriately comfort-
able furnishings, that Miles Foster rode. From the comfort of
the living room setting in the elevator, he enjoyed a panorama of
the atrium as it disappeared beneath him. He looked at the
forest and imagined what astronauts saw when they catapulted into
orbit. The executive elevator was much slower than the others.
Either the residents in the penthouse relished the solitude and
view or they had motion sickness. Nonetheless, it was most
impressive.
"Ah, Mister Foster! Welcome to OSO. Please to step this way."
Miles Foster was expected at the terminus of the lift which
opened into an obscenely large waiting room that contained a
variety of severe and obviously uncomfortable furniture. Aha!
Miles, thought. That's exactly what this is. Another art gal-
lery, albeit a private one for the eyes of his host and no one
else. White walls, white ceilings, polished parquet floors, track
lighting, recessed lights, indirect lights. Miles noticed that
the room as pure as the driven snow didn't have any windows. He
didn't recognize much of the art, but given his host, it must
have represented a sizable investment.
Miles was ushered across the vast floor to a set of handsomely
carved, too tall wooden doors with almost garish gold hardware.
His slight Japanese host barely tapped on the door, almost inau-
dibly. He paused and stood at attention as he blurted an obedient
"Hai!"
The aide opened both doors from the middle, and in deference to
Mr. Foster, moved to one side to let the visitor be suitably
impressed. Homosoto's office was a total contrast to his gal-
lery. Miles first reaction was astonishment. It was slightly
dizzying. The ceiling slanted to a height of over 25 feet at the
outer walls, which were floor to ceiling glass. The immense room
provided not only a spectacular view of Tokyo and 50 miles be-
yond, but lent one the feeling of being outside.
Coming from the U.S. Government, such private opulence was not
common. It was to be expected in his family's places of business,
the gaming parlors of Las Vegas, but not in normal commerce. He
had been to Trump Tower in New York, but that was a public build-
ing, a place for tourists. This office, he used the word liber-
ally, was palatial.
It was decorated in spartan fashion with cherry wood walls.
Artwork, statues, figurines, all Japanese in style, sat wherever
there was an open surface. A few gilt shelves and marble display
tables were randomly scattered around the room. Not chaoticly;
just the opposite. The scattering was exquisitely planned.
There was a dining alcove, privatized by lavish rice paper panels
for eating in <MI>suhutahksi<D>. Eating on the floor was an
honored ritual. There was a small pit under the table for curl-
ing one's legs on the floor.
A conference table with 12 elegant wooden chairs sat at the
opposite end of the cavernous office. In the center of the room,
at the corner of the building, was Homosoto's desk, or work
surface if you prefer. It was large enough for four, yet Homoso-
to, as he stood to greet Foster, appeared to dwarf his environ-
ment and desk. Not in size, but in confidence. His personage
was in total command. The desk and its equipment were on a plat-
form some 6" above the rest of the room. The intended effect was
not lost on Foster.
The sides of the glossy cherrywood desk were slightly elevated to
make room for a range of video monitors, communications facili-
ties, and computers which accessed Homosoto's empire. A vast
telephone console provided tele-conferencing to OSO offices
worldwide. Dow Jones, CNN, Nippon TV were constantly displayed,
visible only to Homosoto. This was Homosoto's Command Central as
he liked to call it.
Foster gawked at the magnificent surroundings as he stood in
front of his assigned seat. A comfortable, plush, black leather
chair. It was one of several arranged in a sunken conversation
pit.
Homosoto acknowledged Foster's presence with the briefest of nods
as he stepped down off of his aerie. Homosoto wore expensive
clothes. A dark brown suit, matching solid tie and the omnipres-
ent solid white starched shirt. It didn't fit, like most Japa-
nese business uniforms.
He was short, no more than five foot six, Miles noticed, after
Homosoto got down to the same level as the rest of the room. On
the heavy side, he walked slowly and deliberately. Eyes forward
after the obligatory nod. His large head was sparsely covered
with little wisps of hair in nature's futile attempt to clothe
the top of his freckled skull. Even at 59 Homosoto's hair was
still pitch black. Miles wasn't sure if Grecian Formula was
available in Japan. The short crop accentuated the pronounced
ears.
A rounded face was peppered with spots, dark freckles perhaps, or
maybe carcinoma. His deep set black eyes stared through the
object of his attention. Homosoto was not the friendly type,
thought Miles.
Homosoto stood in front of Miles, extended his hand and bowed the
most perfunctory of bows. Miles took his hand, expecting a
strong grip. Instead he was greeted with a wet fish handshake
which wriggled quickly from his grasp. Homosoto didn't give the
slightest indication of a smile. The crow's feet around his eyes
were caused by pudginess, not happiness. When he sat opposite
Foster in a matching chair, he began without any pleasantries.
"I hear you are the best." Homosoto stared at Foster. It was a
statement that required a response.
Foster shifted his weight a little in the chair. What a way to
start. This guy must think he's hot shit. Well, maybe he is.
First class, all expense paid trip to Tokyo, plus consultation
fees. In advance. Just for one conversation, he was told, we
just want some advice. Then, last night, and the night before,
he was honored with sampling the finest Oriental women. His hot
button. All expenses paid, of course. Miles knew he was being
buttered up, for what he didn't know, but he took advantage of it
all.
"That's what's your people tell you."
Foster took the challenge and glared, albeit with a smirk dimpled
smile, politely, right back at Homosoto. Homosoto continued his
stare. He didn't relax his intensity.
"Mr. Foster," Homosoto continued, his face still emotionless.
"Are you as good as they say?" he demanded.
Miles Foster defiantly spat out the one word response. "Better."
Homosoto's eyes squinted. "Mr. Foster, if that is true, we can
do business. But first, I must be convinced. I can assure you
we know quite a bit about you already, otherwise you wouldn't be
here." Miles noticed that Homosoto spoke excellent English,
clipped in style, but Americanized. He occasionally stretched
his vowels, to the brink of a drawl.
"Yeah, so what do you know. Pulled up a few data bases? Big
Deal." Miles cocked his head at Homosoto's desk. "I would assume
that with that equipment, you can probably get whatever you
want."
Homosoto let a shimmer of a smile appear at the corners off his
mouth. "You are most perceptive, Mr. Foster." Homosoto paused
and leaned back in the well stuffed chair. "Mr. Foster, tell me
about your family."
Miles neck reddened. "Listen! You called me, I didn't call you.
All I ever knew about OSO was that you made ghetto blasters, TV's
and vibrators. So therefore, you wanted me, not my family. If
you had wanted them you would have called them." Miles said
loudly. "So, keep my family the fuck out of it."
"I do not mean to offend," Homosoto said offensively. "I just am
most curious why you didn't go to work for your family. They
have money, power. You would have been a very important man, and
a very rich one." Homosoto said matter of factly. "So, the
prudent man must wonder why you went to work for your Government?
Aren't your family and your government, how shall I say, on
opposite sides?"
"My family's got nothing to do with this or you. Clear?" Miles
was adamant. "But, out of courtesy for getting me laid last
night, I might as well tell you. I went to the feds cause they
have the best computers, the biggest equipment and the most
interesting work. Not much money, but I have a backup when I
need it. If I went to work for my family, as you put it, I would
have been a glorified beancounter. And that's not what I do. It
would have been no challenge. Boring, boring, boring!" Miles
smiled sarcastically at Homosoto. "Happy now?"
Homosoto didn't flinch. "Does that mean you do not disapprove of
your family's activities? How they make money?"
"I don't give a fuck!" Miles yelled. "How does that grab you? I
don't give a flying fuck. They were real good to me, paid a lot
of my way. I love my mother and she's not a hit man. My uncle
does I don't know what or care. They're family, that's it. How
much clearer do you want it?" Miles continued shouting.
Homosoto grinned and held up his hands. "My apologies Mr. Foster.
I mean no disrespect. I just like to know who works for me."
"Hey, I don't work for you yet."
"Of course, a simple slip of the tongue."
"Right." Miles snapped sarcastically.
Homosoto ignored this last comment. The insincere smile left his
face, replaced with a more serious countenance. "Why did you
leave your post with the National Security Agency, Mr. Foster?"
Another inquisition, thought Miles. What a crock. Make it good
for the gook.
"'Cause I was working for a bunch of bungling idiots who insured
their longevity by creating an invincible bureaucracy." Miles
decided that a calm beginning might be more appropriate. "They
had no real idea of what was going on. Their heads were so far
up their ass they had a tan line across their chests. Whenever
we had a good idea, it was either too novel, too expensive or
needed additional study. Or, it was relegated to a committee that
might react in 2 years. What a pile of bullshit, a waste of
time. We could have achieved a lot more without all the inter-
ference."
"Mr. Foster, you say, 'we'. Who is 'we'?" Homosoto pointedly
asked Miles.
"The analysts, the people who did the real work. There were
hundreds of us on the front lines. The guys who sweated weekends
and nights to make our country safe from the Communists. The
managers just never got with the program."
"Mr. Foster, how many of the other analysts, in your opinion, are
good?"
Miles stepped back in his mind to think about this. "Oh, I guess
I knew a half dozen guys, and one girl, who were pretty good.
She was probably the best, other than me," he bragged. "Some
chicken."
"Excuse me? Chicken?"
"Oh, sorry." Miles looked up in thought. "Ah, chicks, fox, look-
er, sweet meat, gash, you know?"
"Do you mean she's very pretty?"
Miles suppressed an audible chuckle. "Yeah, that's right. Real
pretty, but real smart, too. Odd combination, isn't it?" he
smiled a wicked smile.
Homosoto ignored the crudeness. "What are your politics, Mr.
Foster?"
"Huh? My politics? What the hell has that got to do with any-
thing?" Miles demanded.
"Just answer the question, please, Mr. Foster?" Homosoto quietly
ordered.
Miles was getting incensed. "Republican, Democrat? What do you
mean? I vote who the fuck I want to vote for. Other than that,
I don't play."
"Don't play?" Homosoto briefly pondered the idiom. "Ah, so.
Don't play. Don't get involved. Is that so?"
"Right. They're all fucked. I vote for the stupidest assholes
running for office. Any office. With any luck he'll win and
really screw things up." Homosoto hit one of Miles hot buttons.
Politics. He listened attentively to Miles as he carried on.
"That's about the only way to fix anything. First fuck it up.
Real bad. Create a crisis. Since the Government ignores whoever
or whatever isn't squeaking that's the only way to get any atten-
tion. Make noise. Once you create a crisis, Jeez, just look at
Granada and Panama and Iraq to justify Star Wars, you get a lot
of people on for the ride. Just look at the national energy
debate. Great idea, 30 years and $5 trillion late. Then,
'ooooh!', they say. 'We got a big problem. We better fix it.'
Then they all want to be heroes and every podunk politico shoots
off his mouth about the latest threat to humanity. "
"That's your politics?"
"Sure. If you want to get something fixed, first fuck it up so
bad that everyone notices and then they'll be crawling up your
ass trying to help you fix it."
"Very novel, Mr. Foster. Very novel and very cynical." Homosoto
looked mildly amused.
"Not meant to be. Just true."
"It seems to me that you hold no particular allegiance. Would
that be a fair observation?" Homosoto pressed the same line of
questioning.
"To me. That's my allegiance. And not much of anything else."
Miles sounded defensive.
"Then, Mr. Foster, what does it take to make you a job offer. I
am sure money isn't everything to a man like you." Homosoto
leaned back. All 10 of his fingers met in mirror image fashion
and performed push ups on each other.
Foster returned Homosoto's dare with a devastating stare-down
that looked beyond Homosoto's face. It looked right into his
mind. Foster used the knuckles from both hands for supports as
he leaned on the table between them. He began speaking deliber-
ately and coherently.
"My greatest pleasure? A challenge. A great challenge. Yes, the
money is nice, don't get me wrong, but the thrill is the chal-
lenge. I spent years with people ignoring my advice, refusing to
listen to me. And I was right so many times when they were
wrong. Then they would start blaming everyone else and another
committee is set up to find out what went wrong. Ecch! I would
love to teach them a lesson."
"How unfortunate for them that they failed to recognize your
abilities and let your skills serve them. Yes, indeed, how
unfortunate." Homosoto said somberly.
"So," Miles said arrogantly as he retreated back to his seat,
"you seem to be asking a lot of questions, and getting a lot of
answers. It is your dime, so I owe you something. But, Mr.
Homosoto, I would like to know what you're looking for."
Homosoto stood up erect. "You, Mr. Foster. You. You are what I
have been looking for. And, if you do your job right, I am
making the assumption you will accept, you will become wealthier
than you ever hoped. Ever dreamed. Mr. Foster, your reputation
precedes you." He sincerely extended his hand to Foster. "I do
believe we can do business." Homosoto was beaming at Miles Fos-
ter.
"OK, ok, so if I accept, what do I do?" said Miles as he again
shook Homosoto's weak hand.
"You, Mr. Foster, are going to lead an invasion of the United
States of America."
****************************************************************
This is the end of Chapter 5.
Chapter 6 begins in the file TERMCOMP.2
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