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This file contains invisible Unicode characters that are indistinguishable to humans but may be processed differently by a computer. If you think that this is intentional, you can safely ignore this warning. Use the Escape button to reveal them.

You're in the right place if you just finished Chapter 5.
This file contains Chapters 6 through 14.
Thanks for reading "Terminal Compromise."
INTER.PACT Press
11511 Pine St.
Seminole, FL 34642
All contents are (C) 1991, 1992, 1993 Inter.Pact
****************************************************************
Chapter 6
3 Years Ago
Sunnyvale, California.
Pierre Troubleaux was staggered beyond reason. His life was just
threatened and he didn't know what to do about it. What the hell
was this disk anyway? Military secrets? Industrial espionage?
Then why put it on the dGraph disks and programs? Did I just
agree? What did I say? I don't remember what I said. Maybe I
said maybe.
Panic yielded to confusion. What is so wrong? This was just
some old Japanese guy who was making some veiled Oriental threat.
No, it was another one of those cultural differences. Like
calisthenics before work at those Japanese companies that satu-
rate the West Coast. Sure it sounded like a threat, but this is
OSO Industries we are talking about. That would be like the head
of Sony using extortion to sell Walkmen. Impossible. All the
same, it was scary and he had no idea what was on the disk. He
called Max.
"Max! What are you doing?" What he meant, and Max understood,
was 'I need you. Get your ass up here now.'
"On my way Amigo."
The next few minutes waiting for Max proved to be mentally ex-
hausting. He thought of hundreds of balancing arguments for both
sides of the coin. Be concerned, this guy is nuts and meant it,
or I misunderstood something, or it got lost in the translation.
He prayed for the latter.
"Yo, what gives?" Max walked into Pierre's office without knock-
ing.
"Tell me what's on this!" Pierre thrust the disk up at Max's
large physique.
Max held the disk to his forehead and gazed skyward. "A good
start. Yes, a good start." Max grinned.
Pierre groaned, knowing full well that the Kreskin routine had
to be completed before anything serious was discussed. Max
brought the disk to his mouth and blew on it so the disk holder
bulged in the middle. Max pulled out the disk and pretended to
read it. "What do you call 1000 lawyers at the bottom of the
ocean." Pierre chuckled a half a chuck. He wasn't in the mood,
but then he had no love for lawyers.
"Max! Please."
"Hey, just trying new material...."
" . . .that's 5 years old." Pierre interrupted.
"All right already. Gimme a break. OK, let's have a look." They
went behind Pierre's desk and inserted the disk in his IBM AT.
Max asked the computer for a listing of the diskette's contents.
The screen scrolled and stopped.
C:\a:
A:\dir
FILE84.EXE 01/01/80 704
FILE85.EXE 01/01/80 2013
FILE86.EXE 01/01/80 1900
FILE87.EXE 01/01/80 567
FILE88.EXE 01/01/80 2981
FILE89.EXE 01/01/80 4324
FILE90.EXE 01/01/80 1280
FILE91.EXE 01/01/80 1395
FILE92.EXE 01/01/80 2374
FILE93.EXE 01/01/80 3912
93 Files 1457 Bytes Remaining
A:\
"Just a bunch of small programs. What are they?" Max's lack of
concern was understandable, but it annoyed Pierre all the same.
"I don't know, that's what I'm asking you. What are they? What
kind of programs?"
"Jeez, Pierre, I don't know. Games maybe? Small utilities? Have
you used them yet?"
"No, not yet, someone just gave them to me. That's all." Pier-
re's nervousness betrayed him.
"Well let's try one, see what it does." Max typed in FILE93.
That would run the program.
A few seconds later the disk stopped and the computer returned to
its natural state, that of the C:\. "That one didn't work.
Let's try 92. H'mmmm. That's curious, it doesn't do anything
either. Looks like a bunch of crap to me. What are they sup-
posed to do?" Max shrugged his shoulders.
Max kept trying a few more of the numbered programs. "I don't
know, really. Maybe it's just a joke."
"Some joke, I don't get it. Where's the punch line? Damn,
nothing." Max punched a few more keys. "Let me have this. I wanna
take me a look a closer look," Max said as he pulled the diskette
from the machine.
"Where are you going with that?"
"To my lab. I'll disassemble it and see what's what. Probably
some garbage shareware. I'll call you later."
At 4PM Max came flying through Pierre's office door again. Pierre
was doing his magic . . .talking to the press on the phone.
"Where did you get this?" bellowed Max as he strutted across the
plush carpet holding the diskette in his hand.
Pierre waved him silent and onto the couch. He put up one finger
to indicate just a minute. Pierre cut the reporter short on an
obviously contrived weak excuse. He promised to call back real
soon. He meant that part. He would call back.
"Pierre, where did you get this?" Max asked again.
"Nowhere. What's on it?" he demanded.
"Viruses. Lots of 'em."
"You mean it's sick? Like contagious?" Pierre was being genuine.
"No you Frog idiot. Computer viruses."
"What is a computer virus? A machine can't get sick."
"How wrong you are ol' buddy. You're in for a lesson now. Sit
down." Pierre obliged. This was Max's turf.
"Here goes. If I lose you, just holler, ok, Amigo?" Pierre had
grown to hate being called Amigo, but he had never asked Max to
stop. Besides, now wasn't the appropriate time to enlighten Max
as to the ins and outs of nick name niceties. Pierre nodded
silent agreement.
"Computers basically use two type of information. One type of
information is called data. That's numbers, words, names on a
list, a letter, accounting records whatever. The second type are
called programs, we tweaks call them executables. Executables
are almost alive. The instructions contained in the executables
operate on the data. Everything else is a variation on a
theme."
"Yeah, so the computer needs a program to make it work. Everyone
knows that. What about these?"
"I'm getting there. Hold on. There are several types of executa-
bles, some are COM files, SYS and BAT files act like executables
and so do some OVR and OVL files. In IBM type computers that's
about it. Apples and MACs and others have similar situations,
but these programs are for IBM's. Now imagine a program, an
executable which is designed to copy itself onto another
program."
"Yeah, so. That's how dGraph works. We essentially seam our-
selves into the application."
"Exactly, but dGraph is benign. These," he holds up the disk-
ette, "these are contaminated. They are viruses. I only looked
at a couple of them, disassembly takes a while. Pierre, if only
one of these programs were on your computer, 3 years from now,
the entire contents of your hard disk would be destroyed in
seconds!" Pierre was stunned. It had never occurred to him
that a program could be harmful.
"That's 3 years from now? So what? I probably won't have the
same programs on my computer then anyway. There's always some-
thing new."
"It doesn't matter. The viruses I looked at here copy themselves
onto other programs and hide themselves. They do nothing, noth-
ing at all except copy themselves onto other programs. In a few
days every program on your computer, I mean every one would be
infected, would be sick. Every one would have the same flu if
you wish. And then, 3 years from now, any computer that was
infected would destroy itself. And, the virus itself would be
destroyed as well. Kind of like Jap kamikazes from World War
II. They know exactly when they will die and hope to take a lot
of others with them. In this case the virus commits suicide in 3
years. Any data or program within spitting distance, so to speak,
goes too."
"So why doesn't someone go looking for viruses and come up with
antidotes?"
"It's not that simple. A well written virus will disguise it-
self. The ones you gave me, at least the ones I disassembled
not only hide themselves, but they are dormant until activation;
in this case on a specific date." Max continued the never ending
education of Pierre. "Besides, it's been proven that there is no
way to have a universal piece of software to detect viruses.
Can't be done."
"Whew . . .who comes up with this stuff?" Pierre was trying to
grasp the importance of what he was hearing.
"Used to be a UNIX type of practical joking; try writing a pro-
gram that would annoy fellow programmers. Pretty harmless fool-
ing around. No real damage, just embarrassment that called for a
similar revenge. It was a game of one upmanship within universi-
ty computer science labs. I saw a little of it while I worked
at the school computer labs, but again it was harmless shenani-
gans. These though. Wow. Deadly. Where the hell did you get
them?"
Pierre was in a quandary. Tell or don't tell. Do I or don't I?
He trusted Max implicitly, but what about the threat. Naw, I can
tell Max. Anything.
"Homosoto."
"What?" asked Max incredulously.
"Homosoto. He gave it to me." Pierre was solemn.
"Why? What for?"
"He said that I was to put it on the dGraph disks that we sell."
"He's crazy. That's absolutely nuts. Do you know what would
happen?" Max paced the floor as he spoke angrily. "We sell
thousands of dGraph's every month. Tens of thousands. And half
of the computer companies ship dGraph with their machines. In 3
years time we may have over a couple of million copies of dGraph
in the field. And who knows how many millions more programs
would be infected, too. Tens of millions of infected
programs . . .my God! Do you know how many machines would be
destroyed . . . well maybe not all destroyed but it's about the
same thing. The effects would be devastating." Max stopped to
absorb what he was saying.
"How bad could it be? Once they're discovered, can't your vi-
ruses be destroyed?" Pierre was curious about the newly discov-
ered power.
"Well, yes and no. A virus that is dormant for that long years
is also called a Time Bomb and a Trojan Horse. There would be no
reason to suspect that a legitimate software company would be
shipping a product that would damage computers. The thought is
absurd . . .it's madness. But brilliant madness. Even if a few
of the viruses accidentally go off prematurely, the virus de-
stroys itself in the process. Poof! No smoking gun. No evi-
dence. Nobody would have clue until V-Day."
"V-Day?"
"Virus Day."
"Max, what's in this for Homosoto? What's the angle?"
"Shit, I can't think of one. If it ever got out that our pro-
grams were infected it would be the end of DGI. All over. On
the other hand, if no one finds out before V-Day, all the PC's in
the country, or Jesus, even the world, self destruct at once.
It's then only a matter of time before DGI is caught in the act.
And then, Amigo, it's really over. For you, me and DGI. What
exactly did Homosoto say?"
Pierre was teetering between terror and disbelief. How had he
gotten into this position? His mind wandered back over the last
few years since he and Max had come up with the Engine. Life has
been real good. Sure, I don't get much music in anymore, and I
have kinda been seduced by the fast lane, but so what? So, I
take a little more credit than credit's due, but Max doesn't
mind. He really doesn't.
The threat. Was it real? Maybe. He tried to convince himself
that his mind was playing tricks on itself. But the intellectual
exercises he performed at lightening speed, cranial neuro-syn-
apses switching for all they were worth, did not permit Pierre
the luxury of a respite of calm.
"He said he wanted me to put this on dGraph programs. Sometime
in the future. That's about it." There was no reason to speak
of the threats. No, no reason at all. His vision became sudden-
ly clear. He was being boxed into a corner.
"Well . . .?" Max's eyes widened as he expected a response from
Pierre.
"Well what?"
"Well, what are you going to tell him? Or, more like where are
you going to tell him to go? This is crazy. Fucking crazy, man."
"Max, let me handle it. " Some quietude returned to Pierre. A
determination and resolve came from the confusion. "Yeah, I'll
take care of it."
"Mr. Homosoto, we need to speak." Pierre showed none of the
international politic that usually was second nature. He called
Homosoto at the San Jose Marriott later that afternoon.
"Of course, Mr. Troubleaux. I will see you shortly." Homosoto
hung up.
Was that a Japanese yes for a yes, or a yes for a no? Pierre
wasn't sure, but he was sure that he knew how to handle Homoso-
to. Homosoto didn't have the common courtesy to say he would not
be coming until the following morning.
In the plushness of Pierre's executive suite, Homosoto sat with
the same shit eating grin he had left with the day before.
Pierre hated that worse than being called amigo.
"Mr. Troubleaux, you asked to speak to me. I assume this con-
cerns a matter of honor between two men." Homosoto spoke in a
monotone as he sat stiffly.
"You're damned right it does." Pierre picked up the diskette from
his desk. "This disk, this disk . . .it's absolutely incredible.
You know what's here, you know what kind of damage it can cause
and you have the gall, the nerve to come in here and ask me,
no, worse yet, tell me to distribute these along with dGraph?
You're out of your mind, Mister." Pierre was in a rage. "If you
think we're a bunch of pawns, to do your dirty little deeds, you
have another thing coming."
Unfazed, Homosoto rose slowly and started for the door.
"Where do you think you're going? Hey, I asked you where you're
going? I'm not finished with you yet. Hey, fuck the deal. I
don't want the goddamned money. We'll stay private and wait for
someone honest to come along." Pierre was speaking just as
loudly with hand, arm and finger gestures. While not all of the
gestures were obscene, there was no doubt about their meaning.
Homosoto spoke gently amidst Pierre's ranting. "I will give you
some time to think about it." With that, he left and shut the
door in Pierre's bright red face.
Three days later DGI stock would be officially unleashed upon
the public. Actually institutional buyers had already committed
to vast amounts of it, leaving precious little for the small
investor before driving the price up. That morning Pierre was
looking for Max. They had a few last minute details to iron out
for the upcoming press conferences. They had to prepare two
types of statements. One if the stock purchase went as expected,
sold out almost instantly at or above the offering price, and
another to explain the financial bloodbath if the stock didn't
sell. Unlikely, but their media advisors forced them to learn
both positions, just in case.
His phone rang. "Pierre, Mike Fields here." Fields was DGI's
financial media consultant. He worked for the underwriters and
had a strong vested interest in the outcome. He didn't sound like
a happy camper.
"Yes, Mike. All ready for tomorrow? I'm so excited I could
burst," Pierre pretended.
"Yes, so am I, but we have a problem."
Pierre immediately thought of Homosoto. "What kind of problem,
Mike?" Pierre asked suspiciously.
"Uh, Max, Pierre, it's Max."
"What about Max?"
"Pierre, Max is dead. He died in a car crash last night. I just
found out a few minutes ago. I gather you didn't know?"
Of all the possible pieces of bad news that Mike Fields could
have brought him, this was the farthest from his mind. Max dead?
Not possible. Why, he was with him till after 10 last night.
"Max, dead? No way. What happened? I don't believe it. This is
some kind of joke, right?"
"Pierre, I'm afraid I'm all too serious, unless CHiPs is in on
it. They found a car, pretty well burned up, at the bottom of a
ravine on I280. Looks like he went through a barrier and down
the, well . . .I . . ."
"I get the idea, Mike. Who . . ?" Pierre stuttered.
"It was an accident, Pierre. One of those dumb stupid accidents.
He may have had a blow out, fallen asleep at the wheel,
oh . . .it could be a million things. Pierre, I am sorry. So
sorry. I know what you guys meant to each other. What you've
been through . . ."
"Mike, I have to go," Pierre whispered. The tears were welling
up in his eyes.
"Wait, Pierre," Mike said gingerly. "Of course we're gonna put
off the offering until . . ."
"No. Don't." Pierre said emphatically.
"Pierre, your best friend and partner just died and you want to
go through with this . . .at least wait a week . . .Wall Street
will be kind on this . . ."
"I'll call you later. No changes. None." Pierre hung up. He
hung his head on his desk, shattered with conflicting emotions.
He was nothing without Max. Sure, he gave great image. Knew how
to do the schtick. Suck up to the press, tell a few stories,
stretch a few truths, all in the name of marketing, of course.
But without Max, Max understood him. Damn you Max Jones. You
can't do this to me.
His grief vacillated from anger to despair until the phone rang.
He ignored the first 7 rings. Maybe they would go away. The
caller persisted.
"Yes," he breathed into the phone.
"Mr. Troubleaux," it was Homosoto. Just what he needed now.
"What?"
"I am most sorry about your esteemed friend, Max Jones. Our
sympathies are with you. Is there anything I can do to help
you in this time of personal grief." Classic Japanese manners
oozed over the phone wire.
"Yeah. Moral bankruptcy is a crime against nature, and you have
been demonstrating an extreme talent for vivid androgynous self
gratification." Pierre was rarely rude, but when he was, he aped
Royal British snobbery at their best.
"A physical impossibility, Mr. Troubleaux," Homosoto said dryly.
"I understand your feelings, and since it appears that I cannot
help you, perhaps we should conclude our business. Don't you
agree Mr. Troubleaux?" The condescension dripped from Homosoto's
words. The previous empathy was gone as quickly as if a light
had been extinguished.
"Mr. Homosoto, the offering will still go through, tomorrow as
scheduled. I assume that meets with your approval?" The French
can be so caustic. It makes them excellent taxi cab drivers.
"That is not the business to which I refer. I mean business
about honor. I am sure you remember our last conversation."
"Yes, I remember, and the answer is still no. No, no, no. I
won't do it."
"That is such a shame. I hope you will not regret your
decision." There it was again, Pierre thought. Another veiled
threat.
"Why should I?"
"Simply, and to the point as you Americans like it, because it
would be a terrible waste if the police obtained evidence you
murdered your partner for profit."
"Murdered? What in hell's name are you talking about?" Crystal
clear visions scorched across Pierre's mind; white hot fire
spread through his cranium. Was Homosoto right? Was Max mur-
dered? Searing heat etched patterns of pain in his brain.
"What I mean, Mr. Troubleaux, is that there is ample evidence,
enough to convince any jury beyond a reasonable doubt, that you
murdered your partner as part of a grander scheme to make your-
self even richer than you will become tomorrow. Do I make myself
clear?"
"You bastard. Bastard," Pierre hissed into the phone. Not only
does Homosoto kill Max, but he arranges to have Pierre look like
the guilty party. What choice did he have. At least now.
There's no proof, is there? The police reports are apparently not
ready. No autopsy. Body burned? What could Homosoto do?
"Fuck you all the way to Hell!" Pierre screamed at the phone in
abject frustration and then slammed the receiver down so hard the
impact resistant plastic cracked.
At that same instant, Sheila Brandt, his secretary, carefully
opened the door his door. "Pierre, I just heard. I am so sorry.
What can I do?" She genuinely felt for him. The two had been a
great team, even if Pierre had become obsessed with himself. Her
drawn face with 40 years of intense sun worshiping was wracked
with emotional distress.
"Nothing Sheil. Thanks though . . .what about the
arrangements . . .?" The helpless look on his face brought out
the mother in her even though she was only a few years older.
"Being taken care of . . .do you want to . . .?"
"No, yes, whatever . . .that's all right, just keep me
advised . . ."
"Yessir. Oh, I hate to do this, but your 9AM appointment is
waiting. Should I get rid of him?"
"Who is it? Something I really care about right now?"
"I don't know. He's from personnel."
"Personnel? Since when do I get involved in that?"
"That's all I know. Don't worry I'll have him come back next
week . . ." she said thinking she had just relieved her boss of
an unnecessary burden that could wait.
"Sheil? Send him in. Maybe it'll get my mind off of this."
"If you're sure . . ." Scott nodded at her affirmatively. "Sure,
Pierre, I'll send him in."
An elegantly dressed man, perhaps a dash over six feet, of about
30 entered. He walked with absolute confidence. If this guy was
applying for a job he was too well dressed for most of DGI. He
looked more like a tanned and rested Wall Street broker than
a . . .well whatever he was. The door closed behind him and he
grasped Pierre's hand.
"Good morning Mr. Troubleaux. My name is Thomas Hastings. Why
don't we sit for moment." Their hands released as they sat
opposite each other in matching chairs. Pierre sensed that Mr.
Hastings was going to run the conversation. So be it. "I am a
software engineer with 4 advanced degrees as well 2 PhD's from
Caltech and Polytechnique in Paris. There are 34 US patents
either in my name alone or jointly along with over 200 copy-
rights. I have an MBA from Harvard and speak 6 languages
fluently . . ."
Pierre interrupted, "I am impressed with your credentials, and
your clothes. What may I do for you."
"Oh dear, I guess you don't know. I am Max Jones' replacement.
Mr. Homosoto sent me. May I have the diskette please?"
* * * * *
The financial section of the New York City Times included two
pieces on the DGI offering. One concerned the dollars and cents,
and the was a related human interest story, with financial reper-
cussions. Max Jones, the co-founder of DGI, died in a car acci-
dent 2 days before the company was to go public. It would have
earned him over $20 Million cash, with more to come.
The article espoused the "such a shame for the company" tone on
the loss of their technical wizard and co-founder. It was a true
loss to the industry, as much as if Bill Gates had died. Max,
though, was more the Buddy Holly of software, while Gates was the
Art Garfunkle. The AP story, though, neglected to mention that
the San Jose police had not yet ruled out foul play.
* * * * *
Wednesday, September 1
New York City
Scott arrived in the City Room early to the surprise of Doug. He
was a good reporter; he had the smarts, his writing was exemplary
and he had developed a solid readership, but early hours were not
his strong point.
"I don't do mornings," Scott made clear to anyone who thought he
should function socially before noon. If they didn't take the
hint, he behaved obnoxiously enough to convince anyone that his
aversion to mornings should be taken seriously.
Doug noticed that Scott had a purpose in arriving so early. It
must be those damned files. The pile of documents that alleged
America was as crooked as the Mafia. Good leads, admittedly, but
proving them was going to be a bitch. Christ, Scott had been
going at them with a vengeance. Let him have some rope.
Scott got down to business. He first called Robert Henson, CEO
of Perris, Miller and Stevenson. Scott's credentials as a re-
porter for the New York City Times got him past the secretary
easily. Henson took the call; it was part of the job.
"Mr. Henson? This is Scott Mason from the Times. I would like
to get a comment on the proposed Boston-Ellis merger." Scott
sounded officious.
"Of course, Mr. Mason. How can I help?" Robert Henson sounded
accommodating.
"We have the press releases and stock quotes. They are most
useful and I am sure that they will be used. But I have other
questions." Scott hoped to mislead Henson into thinking he would
ask the pat questions he was expected to ask.
"Yes, thank you. My staff is very well prepared, and we try to
give the press adequate information. What do you need?" Scott
could hear the smiling Henson ready to play the press game.
"Basically, Mr. Henson, I have some documents that suggest that
you inflated the net earnings of Second Boston to such a degree
that, if, and I say, if, the deal goes through, your firm will
earn almost one million dollars in extra fees. However, the
figures I have do not agree at all with those filed with the SEC.
Would you care to comment?" Scott tried not to sound accusatory,
but it was difficult not to play the adversary.
Henson didn't try to conceal the cough he suddenly developed at
the revelation. "Where," he choked, "where did you get that
information?"
"From a reliable source. We are looking for a confirmation and a
comment. We know the data is correct." Scott was playing his
King, but he still held an Ace if he needed it.
"I have no comment. We have filed all required affidavits with
the appropriate regulatory agencies. If you need anything else,
then I suggest you call them." Henson was nervous and the phone
wires conveyed his agitation.
"I assume, Mr. Henson, that you won't mind that I ask them why
files from your computer dispute figures you gave to the SEC?"
Scott posed the question to give Henson an option.
"That's not what I said," Henson said abruptly. "What computer
figures?"
"I have a set of printouts that show that the earnings figures
for Second Boston are substantially below those stated in your
filings. Simple and dry. Do you have a comment?" Scott stuck
with the game plan.
"I . . .uh . . .am not familiar . . .with . . .the . . .ah . . ."
Henson hesitated and then decided to go on the offensive. "You
have nothing. Nothing. It's a trap," Henson affirmed.
"Sir, thank you for your time." Scott hung up after Henson
repeatedly denied any improprieties.
"This is Scott Mason for Senator Rickfield. I am with the New
York City Times." Scott almost demanded a conversation with
Washington's leading debunker of the Defense Department's over
spending.
"May I tell the Senator what this is in reference to?" The male
secretary matter of factly asked.
"Yes of course." Scott was overly polite. "General Young and
Credit Suisse."
"Excuse me?" the young aide asked innocently.
"That will do. I need a comment before I go to print." Scott
commanded an assurance that the aide was not used to hearing from
the press.
"Wait one moment please," the aide said. A few seconds of Muzak
on hold bored Scott before Senator Merrill Rickfield picked up
the call. He was belligerent.
"What the hell is this about?" The senator demanded.
"Is that for the record?" Scott calmly asked.
"Is what for the record? Who the hell is this? You can't intim-
idate me. I am a United States Senator." The self assurance gave
away nervousness.
"I mean no disrespect, Senator. I am working on an article about
political compromise. Very simple. I have information that you
and General Young, shall we say, have . . .an understanding. As
a member of the Senate Intelligence Committee, you have helped
pass legislation that gave you both what you wanted. General
Young got his weapons and you have a substantial bank account in
Geneva. Comments, Senator?"
Rickfield was beside himself but was forced to maintain a formal
composure. "Sir. You have made some serious accusations, slan-
derous at least, criminal I suspect. I hope you are prepared to
back up these preposterous claims." Scott heard desperation in
the Senator's voice.
"Yessir, I am. I go to print, with or without your comments,"
Scott lied. A prolonged pause followed. The first person who
spoke lost, so Scott busied himself with a crossword puzzle until
Rickfield spoke.
"If you publish these absurdities, I will sue you and your paper
right into bankruptcy. Do you copy?"
"I copy , Senator. Is that for attribution?" Scott knew that
would piss off Rickfield. The line went dead.
Scott made similar calls for a good part of the day, and he
continued to be amazed.
From call to call, the answers were the same. "How did you get
that?" "Where did you find out?" "There's no way you could know
that." "I was the only one who had access to that . . ." "That
was in my private files . . ."
Blue Tower Nuclear Plant denied that Scott held internal memos
instructing safety engineers to withhold critical flaws from the
Nuclear Regulatory Committee. General Autos denied using known
faulty parts in Cruise Control mechanisms despite the fact that
Scott held a copy of a SECRET internal memorandum. He especially
upset the Department of Defense when he asked them how Senors
Mendez and Rodriguez, CIA operatives, had set up Noriega.
The Center for Disease Control reacted with abject terror at the
thought of seeing the name of thousands of AIDS victims in the
newspaper. Never the less, the CDC refused to comfirm that their
files had been penetrated or any of the names on the list.
Useless.
Everyone he called gave him virtually the same story. Above and
beyond the official denial to any press; far from the accusatory
claims which were universally denied for a wide variety of rea-
sons, all of his contacts were, in his opinion, honestly shocked
that he even had a hint of their alleged infractions.
Scott Mason began to feel he was part of a conspiracy, one in
which everyone he called was a victim. One in which he received
the same formatted answer; more surprise than denial.
Scott knew he was onto a story, but he had no idea what it was.
He had in his possession damning data, from an anonymous source,
with, thus far, no way to get a confirmation. Damn. He needed
that for the next time he got lawyered.
When he presented his case to his editor, Scott's worst fears
were confirmed. Doug McGuire decided that a bigger story was in
the making. Therefore, we don't go. Not yet. That's an order.
Keep digging.
"And while you're at it," Doug said with the pleasure of a father
teasing his son, "follow this up, will you? I need it by dead-
line."
Scott took the AP printout from Doug and read the item.
"No," Scott gasped, "not another virus!" He threw the paper on
his desk. "I'm up to my ass in . . ."
"Viruses," Doug said firmly, but grinning.
"Have a heart, these things are such bullshit."
"Then say so. But say something."
****************************************************************
Chapter 7
Thursday, September 17
New York City Times
Christopher Columbus Brings Disease to America
By Scott Mason
Here's a story I can't resist, regardless of the absurdity of the
headline. In this case the words are borrowed from a story title
in last week's National Expose, that most revered of journalistic
publications which distributes half truths and tortured conclu-
sions from publicity seeking nobodies.
The title should more appropriately be something like,
"Terror Feared in New Computer Virus Outbreak", or
"Experts See Potential Damage to Computer Systems", or
"Columbus Day Virus: Imaginary Panic?"
According to computer experts, this Columbus Day, October 12,
will mark a repeat appearance of the now infamous Columbus Day
Virus. As for the last several years, that is the anticipated
date for a highly viral computer virus to 'explode'. The history
behind the headline reads from an Ian Fleming novel.
In late 1988, a group of West German hackers and computer pro-
grammers thought it would be great fun to build their own comput-
er virus. As my regular readers recall, a computer virus is an
unsolicited and unwanted computer program whose sole purpose is
to wreak havoc in computers. Either by destroying important files
or otherwise damaging the system.
We now know that that these Germans are part of an underground
group known as CHAOS, an acronym for Computer Hackers Against
Open Systems, whatever the heck that means. They work to promote
computer systems disruption worldwide.
In March of 1989, Amsterdam, Holland, hosted an international
conference of computer programmers. Are you ready for the name?
Intergalactic Hackers Conference. Some members were aware of the
planned virus. As a result of the negative publicity hackers
have gotten over the last few years, the Conference issued a
statement disavowing the propagation and creation of computer
viruses. All very honorable by a group of people whose sole
purpose in life is to invade the privacy of others. But, that's
what they said.
Somewhere, somehow, something went wrong, and the CHAOS virus got
released at the Intergalactic Hackers meetings. In other words,
files and programs, supposedly legitimate ones, got corrupted by
this disreputable band, and the infections began spreading.
The first outbreak of the Columbus Day Virus occurred in 1989,
and caused millions of dollars of down computer time, reconstruc-
tion of data banks and system protection.
Again we are warned, that the infection has continued to spread
and that some strains of the virus are programmed to detonate
over a period of years. The Columbus Day Virus is called by its
creators, the "Data Crime Virus", a name befitting its purpose.
When it strikes, it announces itself to the computer user, and by
that time, it's too late. Your computer is kaput!
What makes this particular computer virus any more tantalizing
than the hundred or so that have preceded it? The publicity the
media has given it, each and every year since 1989.
The Data Crime, aka Columbus Day Virus has, for some inescapable
reason attracted the attention of CNN, ABC, CBS, NBC and hundreds
of newspapers including this one. The Associated Press and other
reputable media have, perhaps due to slow news weeks, focused a
great deal of attention on this anticipated technological Arma-
geddon.
Of course there are other experts who pooh-pooh the entire Virus
issue and see it as an over-exploited media event propelled by
Virus Busters. Sam Moscovitz of Computer Nook in Dallas, Texas
commented, "I have never seen a virus in 20 years. I've heard
about them but really think they are a figment of the media's
imagination."
Virus Busters are people or firms who specialize in fighting
alleged computer viruses by creating and selling so-called anti-
dotes. Virus Busting Sean McCullough, President of The Virus
Institute in San Jose, California thinks that most viruses are
harmless and users and companies overreact. "There have been no
more that a few dozen viral outbreaks in the last few years.
They spread more by rumor than by infection." When asked how he
made his living, he responded, "I sell antidotes to computer
viruses." Does he make a good living? "I can't keep up with the
demand," he insists.
The Federal Government, though, seems concerned, and maybe for
good reason. On October 13, another NASA space shuttle launch
is planned. Friday the 13th is another date that computer virus
makers use as the intended date of destruction. According to an
official spokesman, NASA has called in computer security experts
to make sure that their systems are " . . .clean and free from
infection. It's a purely precautionary move, we are not worried.
The launch will continue as planned."
Viruses. Are they real? Most people believe they are real, and
dangerous, but that chances of infection are low. As one highly
respected computer specialist put it, "The Columbus Day Virus is
a low risk high consequence possibility. I don't recommend any
panic." Does he protect his own computer agaist viruses? "Abso-
lutely. I can't risk losing my computers."
Can anybody? Until October 12, this is Scott Mason, hoping my
computer never needs Tylenol.
* * * * *
Scarsdale, New York.
The Conrail trains were never on time.
Scott Mason regularly tried to make it to the station to ride
the 7:23 from the wealthy Westchester town of Scarsdale, New York
into Grand Central Station. If he made it. It was a 32 minute
ride into the City on good days and over 2 hours when the feder-
ally subsidized rail service was under Congressional scrutiny.
The ritual was simple. He fell into his old Porsche 911, an
upscale version of a station car, and drove the 2 miles to the
Scarsdale train station. He bought a large styrofoam cup full of
decent black coffee and 3 morning papers from the blind newsman
before boarding the express train. Non-stop to Harlem, and then
on to 42nd St. and Park Avenue and wake up time.
Tyrone Duncan followed a similar routine. Except he drove his
silver BMW 850i to the station. The FBI provided him with a
perfectly good Ford Fairlane with 78,000 miles on it when he
needed a car in New York. He was one of the few black commuters
from the affluent bedroom community and his size made him more
conspicuous than his color.
Scott and Tyrone were train buddies. Train buddies are perhaps
unique in the commuterdom of the New York suburbs. Every morning
you see the same group of drowsy, hung over executives on their
way to the Big Apple. The morning commute is a personal solace
for many. Your train buddy knows if you got laid and by whom.
If you tripped over your kids toys in the driveway, your train
buddy knew. If work was a bitch, he knew before the wife. Train
buddies are buddies to the death or the bar, whichever comes
first.
While Scott and Tyrone had been traveling the same the morning
route since Scott had joined the paper, they had been friends
since their wives introduced them at the Scarsdale Country Club
10 years ago. Maggie Mason and Arlene Duncan were opoosites;
Maggie, a giggly, spacey and spontaneous girl of 24 and Arlene,
the dedicated wife of a civil servant and mother of three daugh-
ters who were going to toe the line, by God. The attachment
between the two was not immediately explainable, but it gave both
Scott and Ty a buddy with their wives' blessing.
The physical contrast between the two was comical at times.
Duncan was a 240 pound six foot four college linebacker who had
let his considerable bulk accumulate around the middle. Scott,
small and wiry was 10 years Ty's junior. On weekends they played
on a very amateur local basketball league where minimum age was
thirty five, but there, Scott consistently out maneuvered Ty-
rone's bulk.
During the week, Tyrone dressed in impeccable Saville Row suits
he had made in London while Scott's uniform was jeans, sneakers
and T-Shirt of choice. His glowing skull, more dark brown than
ebony, with fringes of graying short hair emphasized the usually
jovial face that was described as a cross between rolly-polly and
bulbous. Scott on the other hand, always seemed to need a hair-
cut.
Coffee in hand, Tyrone plopped down opposite Scott as the train
pulled out of the open air station.
"You must be in some mood," Tyrone said laughing.
Scott laid down his newspaper and vacantly asked why.
"That shirt," Ty smirked. "A lesson in how to make friends and
influence people."
"Oh, this?" Scott looked down at the words on his chest:
I'm O.K.
You're A Shithead.
"It only offends them that oughta be offended."
"Shitheads?"
"Shitheads."
"Gotcha," Ty said sarcastically. "Right."
"My mother," groused Scott. "VCR lessons." Ty didn't under-
stand.
"I gave my mom a VCR last Christmas," Scott continued. "She ooh'd
and ah'd and I thought great, I got her a decent present. Well, a
couple of weeks later I went over to her place and I asked how
she liked the VCR. She didn't answer, so I asked again and she
mumbled that she hadn't used it yet. I fell down," Scott laughed
out loud.
"'Why?' I asked her and she said she wanted to get used to it
sitting next to her TV for a couple of months before she used
it." Tyrone caught a case of Scott's roaring laughter.
"Wheeee!" exclaimed Tyrone. "And you an engineer?"
"Hey," Scott settled down, "my mom calls 911 to change a light-
bulb." They laughed until Scott could speak. "So last night I
went over for her weekly VCR lesson."
"If it's anything like Arlene's mother," Tyrone giggled, "trust-
ing a machine to do something right, when you're not around to
make sure it is right, is an absolutely terrifying thought. They
don't believe it works."
"It's a lot of fun actually," Scott said fondly. "It tests my
ability to reduce things to the basics. The real basics. Trying
to teach a seventy year old widower about digital is like trying
to get a square ball bearing to roll."
Even so, Scott looked forward to those evenings with his mom. He
couldn't imagine it, the inability to understand the simplicity
of either 'on' or 'off'. But he welcomed the tangent conversa-
tions that invariably resulted when he tried to explain how the
VCR could record one channel and yes mom, you can watch another
channel at the same time.
Scott never found out that his mother deprogrammed the VCR,
cleared its memory and 'Twelved' the clock an hour before he
arrived to show her how to use it. And after he left, she repro-
grammed it for her tastes only to erase it again before his next
visit. If he had ever discovered her ruse it would have ruined
her little game and the ritual starting point for their private
talks.
"By the way," Scott said to Tyrone. "What are you and Arlene
doing Sunday night?"
"Sunday? Nothing, why?" Tyrone asked innocently.
"My mom is having a little get together and she'd love the two of
you . . ."
"Is this another one of her seances?" Tyrone asked pointedly.
"Well, not in so many words, but it's always possible . . ."
"Forget it." Tyrone said stubbornly. "Not after what happened
last time. I don't think I could get Arlene within 20 miles of
your mother. She scared the living shit out of her . . .and I
have my doubts."
"Relax," Scott said calmly. "It's just her way of keeping busy.
Some people play bingo, others play bridge . . ."
"And your mother shakes the rafters trying to raise her husband
from the dead," said Scott with exaperation. "I don't care what
you say, that's not normal. I like your mother, but, well,
Arlene has put her foot down." Tyrone shuddered at the thought
of that evening. No one could explain how the wooden shutters
blew open or the table wobbled. Tyrone preferred, just as his
wife did, to pretend it never happened.
"Hey," Tyrone said with his head back behind the newspaper. "I
see you're making a name for yourself elsewhere, too."
"What do you mean?" Scott asked.
"Don't give me that innocent shit. I'm a trained professional,"
Tyrone joked. He held up the New York City Times turned to
Scott's Christopher Columbus article. "Your computer crime pieces
have been raising a few eyebrows down at the office. Seems you
have better sources than we do. Our Computer Fraud division has
been going nuts recently."
"Glad you can read." Scott enjoyed the compliment. "Just a job,
but I gotta story much more interesting. I can't publish it yet,
though."
"Why?"
"Damn lawyers want us to have our facts straight. Can you be-
lieve it?" Scott teased Tyrone. "Besides, blackmail is so, so
personal."
Tyrone stopped in mid-sip of his hot coffee. "What blackmail?"
The frozen visage caught Scott off guard. They rarely spoke of
their respective jobs in any detail, preferring to remain at a
measured professional distance. The years of dedication invested
in their friendship, even after to everyones' surprise, Maggie up
and left for California were not to be put in jeoprady unneces-
sarily. Thus far their interests had not sufficiently overlapped
to be of concern.
"It's a story, that, well, doesn't have enough to go into print,
but, it's there, I know it. Off the record, ok?" Scott wanted to
talk.
"Mums the word."
"A few days ago I received some revealing documents papers on a
certain company. I can't say which one." He looked at Tyrone for
approval.
"Whatever," Tyrone urged anxiously.
Scott told Tyrone about his nameless and faceless donor and what
Higgins had said about the McMillan situation and the legality of
the apparently purloined information. Tyrone listened in fasci-
nation as Scott outline a few inner sanctum secrets to which he
was privy.
Tyrone got a shiver up his spine. He tried to disguise it.
"Can I ask you a question?" Tyrone quietly asked.
"Sure. Go for it."
"Was one of the companies Amalgamated General?"
Scott shot Tyrone a look they belied the answer.
"How did you know?" Scott asked suspiciously.
"And would another be First Federated or State National Bank?"
Tyrone tried to subdue his concern. All he needed was the press
on this.
Scott could not hide his surprise. "Yeah! And a bunch of others.
How'd you know?"
Tyrone retreated back into his professional FBI persona. "Lucky
guess."
"Bullshit. What's up?" Scott's reporter mindset replaced that of
the lazy commuter.
"Nothing, just a coincidence." Tyrone picked up a newspaper and
buried his face behind it.
"Hey, Ty. Talk ol' buddy."
"I can't and you know it." Tyrone sounded adamant.
"As a friend? I'll buy you a lollipop?" Scott joked.
Ty snickered. "You know the rules, I can't talk about a case in
progress."
"So there is a case? What is it?" Scott probed.
"I didn't say that there was a case," Ty countered.
"Yes you did. Case in progress were your words, not mine. C'mon
what's up?"
"Shit, you media types." Tyrone gave himself a few seconds to
think. "I'll never know why you became a reporter. You used to
be a much nicer pain in the ass before you became so nosy."
Scott sat silently, enjoying Ty's awkwardness.
Tyrone hated to compromise the sanctity of his position, but he
realized that he, too, needed some help. Since he hadn't read
any of this in the papers, there had to be journalistic responsi-
bility from both Scott and the paper. "Off, off, off the record.
Clear?" He was serious.
"Done."
The train rumbled into the tunnel at the Northern tip of Manhat-
tan. They had to raise their voices to hear each other, but that
meant they couldn't be heard either.
"As near as I can tell," Tyrone hesitantly began. "There's a
well coordinated nationwide blackmail operation in progress. As
of yesterday, we have received almost a hundred cases of alleged
blackmail. From Oshkosh, Baton Rouge, New York, Miami, Atlanta,
Chicago, LA, the works. Small towns to the metros. It's an
epidemic and the local and state cops are absolutely buried.
They can't handle it, and besides it's way out of their league.
So who do they all call? Us. Shit. I need this, right? There's
no way we can handle this many cases at once. No way. Washing-
ton's going berserk."
"Who's behind it?" Scott asked knowing he wouldn't get a real
answer.
"That's the rub. Don't have a clue. Not a clue. There's no
pattern, none at all. We assumed it was organized crime, but our
informants say they're baffled. Not the mob, they swear. They
knew about it before we did. Figures." Tyrone's voice echoed a
professional frustration.
"Motives?"
"None. We're stuck."
"Sounds like we're both on the same hunt."
The train slowed to a crawl and then a hesitant stop at Grand
Central. Thousands of commuters lunged at the doors to make
their escape to the streets of New York above them. Scott won-
dered if any of them were part of Duncan's problems.
"Scott?" Tyrone queried on the escalator.
"Yeah?"
"Not a word, ok?"
Scott held up his right hand with three fingers. "Scott's
honor!" That was good enough for Tyrone.
They walked up the stairs and past a newsstand that caught both
of their eyes instantly. The National Expose had another sensa-
tionalistic headline:
FBI POWERLESS IN NATIONAL BLACKMAIL SCHEME
They fought for who would pay the 75 cents for the scandal filled
tabloid, bought two, and started reading right where they stood.
"Jesus," Tyrone said more breathing than actually saying the
word. "They're going to make a weekly event of printing every
innuendo."
"They have the papers, too," muttered Scott. "The whole blasted
lot. And they're printing them." Scott put down the paper.
"This makes it a brand new ball game . . ."
"Just what I need," Tyrone said with disgust.
"That's the answer," exclaimed Scott. "The motive. Who's been
affected so far?"
"That's the mystery. No one seems to have been affected. What's
the answer?" Tyrone demanded loud enough to attract attention.
"What's the answer?" he whispered up close.
"It's you." Scott noted.
Tyrone expressed surprise. "What do you mean, me."
"I mean, it seems that the FBI has been affected more than anyone
else. You said you're overloaded, and that you can't pay atten-
tion to other crimes."
"You're jumping to conclusions." Tyrone didn't follow Scott's
reasoning and cocked his head quizzically.
"What if the entire aim of the blackmail was to so overwork the
FBI, so overload it with useless cases, and that the perpetrators
really have other crimes in mind. Maybe they have already hit
their real targets. Isn't it possible that the FBI is an unwill-
ing dupe, a decoy in a much larger scheme that isn't obvious
yet?" Scott liked the sound of his thinking and he saw that
Tyrone wasn't buying his argument.
"It's possible, I guess . . .but . . ." Tyrone didn't have the
words to finish his foggy thoughts. It was too far left field
for his linear thinking. "No this is crazy as the time you
though that UFO's were invading Westchester in '85. Then there
was the time you said that Columbian drug dealers put cocaine in
the water supply . . ."
"That wasn't my fault . . ."
" . . .and the Trump Noriega connection and the other 500 wild
ass conspiracies you come up with."
Scott dismissed Tyrone's friendly criticism by ignoring the
derisions. "As I see it," Scott continued, "the only victim is
the FBI. None of the alleged victims have been harmed, other
than ego and their paranoia levels. Maybe the FBI was the target
all along. Scott suggested, "it's as good a theory as any
other."
"With what goal?" Duncan accepted the logic for the moment.
"So when the real thing hits, you guys are too fucked up to
react."
* * * * *
The Federal Bureau of Investigation
Federal Square, Manhattan.
The flat white and glass square building, designed in the '60's,
built shoddily by the lowest bidder in 1981, in no way echoed the
level of technical sophistication hidden behind the drab exteri-
or. The building had no personality, no character, nothing
memorable about it, and that was exactly the way the tenants
wanted it.
The 23 story building extended 6 full floors below the congested
streets of Lower Manhattan. Throughout the entire structure well
guarded mazes held the clues to the locations of an incredible
array of computing power, some of the world's best analytical
tools, test equipment, forensic labs, communications facilities
and a staff of experts in hundreds of technical specialties
required to investigate crimes that landed in their jurisdiction.
The most sensitive work was performed underground, protected by
the solid bedrock of Manhattan island. Eavesdropping was impos-
sible, almost, and operational privacy was guaranteed. Personal
privacy was another matter, though. Most of the office staff
worked out in an open office floorplan. The walls between the
guard stations and banks of elevators consisted solely of bullet-
proof floor to ceiling triple pane glass. Unnerving at first, no
privacy.
There was a self-imposed class structure between the "bugs",
those who worked in the subterranean chambers and the "air-heads"
who worked where the daylight shone. There was near total sepa-
ration between the two groups out of necessity; maintain isola-
tion between those with differing need-to-know criteria. The
most visible form of self-imposed isolation, and unintended
competitiveness was that each camp spent Happy Hour at different
bars. A line that was rarely crossed.
Unlike the mechanism of the Corporate Ladder, where the higher
floors are reserved for upper, top, elite management, the power
brokers, at the FBI the farther down into the ground you worked,
the more important you were. To the "airheads", "bugs" tried to
see how low they could sink in their acquisition of power while
rising up on the Government pay scale.
On level 5, descending from street level 1, Tyrone sat on the
edge of his large Government issue executive desk to answer his
ringing phone. It was Washington, Bob Burnsen, his Washington
based superior and family friend for years.
"No, really. Thanks," Ty smiled. "Bob, we've been through this
before. It's all very flattering, but no. I'm afraid not. And
you know why. We've been through this all . . ." He was being
cut off by his boss, so he shut up and listened.
"Bob . . .Bob . . .Bob," Tyrone was laughing as he tried to
interrupt the other end of the conversation. "OK, I'll give it
some more thought, but don't get your hopes up. It's just not in
my cards." He listened again.
"Bob, I'll speak to Arlene again, but she feels the same way I
do. We're both quite content and frankly, I don't need the
headaches." He looked around the room as he cocked the earpiece
away from his head. He was hearing the same argument again.
"Bob, I said I would. I'll call you next week." He paused.
"Right. If you don't hear from me, you'll call me. I understand.
Right. OK, Bob. All right, you too. Goodbye."
He hung up the phone in disbelief. They just won't leave me
alone. Let me be! He clasped his hands in mock prayer at the
ceiling.
* * * * *
Tyrone Duncan joined the FBI in 1968, immediately after graduat-
ing cum laude from Harvard Law. Statistically the odds were
against him ever being accepted into the elite National Police
Force. The virtually autonomous empire that J. Edgar Hoover had
created over 60 years and 12 presidents ago was very selective
about whom it admitted. Tyrone Duncan was black.
His distinguished pre-law training had him prepared to follow
into his father's footsteps, as a partner with one of Boston's
most prestigious law firms. Tyrone was a member of one of the
very few rich and influential black families in the North East.
His family was labeled "Liberal" when one wasn't ashamed of the
moniker.
Then came Selma. At 19, he participated in several of the
marches in the South and it was then that he first hand saw
prejudice. But it was more than prejudice, though. It was hate,
it was ignorance and fear. It was so much more than prejudice.
It was one of the last vestiges left over from a society con-
quered over a century ago; one that wouldn't let go of its mis-
guided myopic traditions.
Fear and hate are contagious. Fueled by the oppressive heat and
humidity, decades of racial conflict, several 'Jew Boy Nigger
Lovers' were killed that summer in Alabama. The murder of the
civil rights workers made front page news. The country was out-
raged, at the murders most assuredly, but national outrage turned
quickly to divisional disgust when local residents dismissed the
crime as a prank, or even congratulated the perpetrators for
their actions.
The FBI was not called in to Alabama to solve murders, per se;
murder is not a federal crime. They were to solve the crime
because the murderers had violated the victims' civil rights.
Tyrone thought that that approach was real slick, a nice legal
side step to get what you want. Put the lawyers on the case.
When he asked the FBI if they could use a hand, the local over-
worked, understaffed agents graciously accepted his offer and
Tyrone spent the remainder of the summer filing papers and per-
forming other mundane tasks while learning a great deal.
On the plane back to Boston, Tyrone Duncan decided that his
despite his father's urging, after law school he would join the
FBI.
Tyrone Duncan, graduate cum laude, GPA 3.87, Harvard Law School,
passed the Massachussettes Bar on the first try and sailed
through the written and physical tests for FBI admission. He was
over 100 pounds lighter than his current weight. His background
check was unassailable except for his family's prominent liberal
bent. He had every basic qualification needed to become an FBI
Agent. He was turned down.
Thurman Duncan, his prominent lawyer father was beside himself,
blaming it on Hoover personally. But Tyrone decided to 'investi-
gate' and determine who or what was pulling the strings. He
called FBI personnel and asked why he had been rejected. They
mumbled something about 'experience base' and 'fitting the mold'.
That was when he realized that he was turned down solely because
he was black. Tyrone was not about to let a racial issue stand
in his way.
He located a couple of the agents with whom he had worked during
the last summer. After the pleasantries, Tyrone told them that
he was applying for a position as an assistant DA in Boston.
Would they mind writing a letter . . .
Tyrone Duncan was right on time at the office of the FBI Person-
nel Director. Amazing, Tyrone thought, the resemblance to Hoov-
er. The four letters of recommendation, which read more like
votes for sainthood were a little overdone, but, they were on FBI
stationary. Tyrone asked the Personnel Director if they would
reconsider his application, and that if necessary, he would
whitewash his skin.
The following day Tyrone received a call. Oh, it was a big mix-
up. We misfiled someone else's charts in your files and, well,
you understand, I'm sure. It happens all the time. We're sorry
for any inconvenience. Would you be available to come in on
Monday? Welcome to the FBI.
Tyrone paid his dues early. Got shot at some, chased long haired
left wing hippie radicals who blew up gas stations in 17 states
for some unfathomable reason, and then of course, he collected
dirt on imaginary enemies to feed the Hoover Nixon paranoia. He
tried, fairly successfully to stay away from that last kind of
work. In Tyrone's not so humble opinion, there were a whole lot
more better things for FBI agents to be doing than worry about
George McGovern's toilet habits or if some left wing high school
kids and their radical newspaper were imaginarily linked to the
Kremlin. Ah, but that was politics.
Three weeks after J. Edgar Hoover died, Tyrone Duncan was promot-
ed to Section Chief in the New York City office. A prestigious
position. This was his first promotion in 8 years at the bureau.
It was one that leaped over 4 intermediate levels. The Hoover
era was gone.
After hanging up the phone with Bob Bernsen, Tyrone sat behind
his desk going over his morning reports. No planes hijacked, no
new counterfeiting rings and nary a kidnapping. What dogged him
though was the flurry of blackmail and extortion claims. He re-
read the digested version put out by Washington headquarters that
was faxed to him in the early hours, ready for his A.M. perusal.
The apparent facts confounded his years of experience. Over 100
people, many of them highly placed leaders of American industry
had called their respective regional FBI offices for help. A call
into the FBI is handled in a procedural manner. The agent who
takes the call can identify the source of the call with a readout
on his special phone; a service that the FBI had had for years
but was only recently becoming available to the public. Thus, if
the caller had significant information, but refused to identify
himself, the agent had a reliable method to track down the call-
er. Very few people who called the FBI realized that a phone
inquiry to an FBI office triggered a sequence of automatic events
that was complete before the call was over.
The phone call was of course monitored and taped. And the phone
number of the caller was logged in the computer and displayed to
the agent. Then the number was crosschecked against files from
the phone company. What was the exact location of the caller?
To whom was the phone registered? A calling and billing history
was made instantly available if required.
If the call originated from a phone registered to an individual,
his social security number was retrieved and within seconds of
the receipt of the call, the agent knew a plethora of information
about the caller. Criminal activities, bad credit records; the
type of data that would permit the agent to gauge the validity of
the call. For business phones, a cross check determined any and
all dubious dealings that might be valuable in such a determina-
tion.
Thus, the profile that emerged from the vast number of callers
who intimated blackmail activities created a ponderous situation.
They all, to a call, originated from the office or home of major
corporate movers and shakers. Top American businessmen who,
while not beyond the reach of the law, were from the FBI's view,
upstanding citizens. Not pristine, but certainly not mad men
with a record of making outlandish capricious claims. It was not
in their interest to bring attention to themselves.
What puzzled Tyrone, and Washington, was the sudden influx of
such calls. Normally the Bureau handles a handful of diversified
cases of blackmail, and a very small percentage of those pan out
into legitimate and solvable cases. Generally, veiled vague
threats do not materialize into prosecutable cases. Tyrone Duncan
sat back thoughtfully.
What is the common element here? Why today, and not a year ago or
on April Fools Day? Do these guys all play golf together? Is it
a joke? Not likely, but a remote possibility. What enemies have
they made? Undoubtedly they haven't befriended everyone with
whom they have had contact, but what's the connection? Tyrone's
mind reeled through a maze of unlikelihoods. Until, the only
common element he could think of stared at him right in the
face. There was a single dimension of commonality between all of
the callers. They had, to a company, to a man, all dealt with
the same organization for years. The U.S. Government.
The thought alone caused a spasm to his system. His body liter-
ally leapt from his chair for a split second as he caught his
breath. The government. No way. Is it possible? I must be
missing something, surely. This is crazy. Or is it? Doesn't
the IRS have records on everyone? Then the ultimate paranoid
thought hit him square in the cerebellum. He playfully pounded
his forehead for missing the connection.
Somewhere, deep in the demented mind of some middle management G-
9 bureaucrat, Duncan thought, an idea germinated that he could
sell to another overworked, underpaid civil servant; his boss.
The G-9 says, 'I got a way to make sure the tax evaders pay their
share, and it won't cost Uncle Sam a dime!'. His boss says, 'I
got a congressional hearing today, I'm too busy. Do some re-
search and let me see a report.'
So this overzealous tax collector prowls around other government
computers and determines that the companies on his hit list
aren't necessarily functioning on the up and up. What better way
to get them to pay their taxes than to let them know that we, the
big We, Big Brother know, and they'd better shape up.
He calls a few of them, after all he knows where the skeletons
and the phone numbers are buried, and says something like, 'Big
Brother is listening and he doesn't like what he hears.' And he
says, 'we'll call you back soon, real soon, so get your ducks in
a row' and that scares the shit out of the corporate muckity-
mucks.
Tyrone smiled to himself. What an outlandish theory. Absurd, he
admitted, but it was the only one he could say fit the facts.
Still, is it possible? The government was certainly capable of
some pretty bizarre things. He recalled the Phoenix program in
Viet Nam where suspected Viet Cong and innocent civilians were
tossed out of helicopters at 2000 feet to their deaths in the
distorted hope of making another one talk.
Wasn't Daniel Ellsburg a government target? And the Democrats
were in 1972 targets of CREEP, the Committee to Re-Elect the
President. And the Aquarius project used psychics to locate
Soviet Boomers and UFO's. Didn't we give LSD to unsuspecting
soldiers to see if they could function adequately under the
influence? The horror stories swirled through his mind. And they
became more and more unbelievable, yet they were all true. Maybe
it was possible. The United States government had actually
instituted a program of anonymous blackmail in order to increase
tax revenues. Christ, I hope I'm wrong. But, I'm probably not.
The buzzer on the intercom of his phone jarred Tyrone from his
daydream speculations.
"Yes?" He answered into space.
"Mr. Duncan, a Franklin Dobbs is here for his 10 o'clock appoint-
ment. Saunderson is out and so you're elected." Duncan's secre-
tary was too damned efficient, he thought. Why not give it to
someone else. He pushed his intercom button.
"Gimme a second, I gotta primp." That was Tyrone's code that he
needed a few minutes to graduate from speculative forensics and
return to Earth to deal with real life problems. As usual,
Gloria obliged him. In exactly 3 minutes, his door opened.
"Mr. Duncan, this is Franklin Dobbs, Chairman and CEO of National
Pulp. Mr. Dobbs, Mr. Duncan, regional director." She waited for
the two men to acknowledge each other before she shut the door
behind her.
"Mr. Duncan?" Dobbs held his hand out to the huge FBI agent.
Duncan accepted and pointed at a vacant chair. Dobbs sat obedi-
ently.
"How can I help you, Mr. Dobbs?"
"I am being blackmailed, and I need help." Dobbs looked straight
into Duncan's coal black eyes.
The IRS, thought Duncan. "By whom?" he asked casually.
"I don't know." Dobbs was firm.
"Then how do you know you are being blackmailed?" Duncan wanted
to conceal his interest. Keep it low profile.
"Let me tell you what happened."
Good start, thought Duncan. If only half of us would start in
such a logical place.
"Two days ago I received a package by messenger. It contained
the most sensitive information my company has. Strategic posi-
tions, contingency plans, competitive information and so on.
There are only a half dozen people in my company that have access
to that kind of information. And they all own enough stock to
make sure that they aren't the culprits."
"So who is?" interjected Tyrone as he made notes.
"I don't know. That's the problem."
"What did they ask for?" Duncan looked directly into Dobbs'
eyes. To both force an answer and look for signs of deceit. All
he saw was honesty and real fear.
"Nothing. Nothing at all. All I got was the package and a brief
message."
"What was the message?" Tyrone asked.
"We'll be in touch. That's it."
"So where's the threat? The blackmail. This hardly seems like a
case for the FBI." Tyrone was baiting the hook. See if the fish
is real.
"None, not yet. But that's not the point. What they sent me
were copies, yet they looked more like the originals, of informa-
tion that would negatively affect my company. It's the sort of
information that we would not want made public. If you know what
I mean."
Tyrone thought, you bet I know. You're up to and you want us to
protect you. Fat chance. "I know what you mean," he agreed.
"I need to stop it. Before it's too late?"
"Too late?" asked Duncan.
"Too late. Before it gets out."
"What gets out, Mr. Dobbs?" Duncan stared right into and beyond
Dobbs' eyes.
"Secrets. Just secrets." Dobbs paused to recompose himself.
"Isn't there a law . . .?"
"Yes, there is Mr. Dobbs. And if what you say is true, you are
entitled to protection." Duncan decided to bait Dobbs a bit more.
"Even if the information is illegal in nature." Wait for the
fish to bite.
"I grant you I'm no Mother Teresa. I'm a businessman, and I have
to make money for my investors. But in the files that I received
were exact copies of my personal files that no one, and I mean
no one has access to. They were my own notes, ideas in progress.
Nothing concrete, just work in progress. But someone, somehow
has gotten a hold of it all. And, by my thinking, there's no way
to have gotten it without first killing me, and I'm here. So how
did they get it? That's what I need to know." Dobbs paused.
"And then, I need to stop them." His soliloquy was over.
"Who else is affected?" Duncan asked. The question made Dobbs
pause too obviously. The answer was clear. Dobbs wasn't alone.
"I only speak for myself. No one else." Dobbs rose from the
chair. "It's eminently clear. There's not a damned thing you can
do. Good day." Dobbs left the room abruptly leaving Tyrone with
plenty of time to think.
****************************************************************
Chapter 8
Monday, September 21
New York
14 Dead As Hospital Computer Fails
by Scott Mason
Fourteen patients died as a result of a massive computer failure
this weekend at the Golda Meier Medical Center on 5th. Avenue.
According to hospital officials, the Meditrix Life Support Moni-
tors attached to many of the hospital's patients were accidental-
ly disconnected from the nurses stations and the hospital's main
computer. Doctors and nurses were unaware of any malfunction
because all systems appeared to operating correctly.
The LSM's are connected to a hospital wide computer network that
connects all hospital functions in a central computer. Medical
records, insurance filings and treatments as well as personnel
and operations are coordinated through the Information Systems
department.
Golda Meier Medical Center leads the medical field in the used of
technologically advanced techniques, and has been applying an
artificial intelligence based Expert System to assist in diagno-
sis and treatment. Much of the day to day treatment of patients
is done with the LSM continually measuring the condition of
patient, and automatically updating his records. The Expert
System then determines what type of treatment to recommend.
Unless there is a change in the patient's condition that warrants
the intervention of a doctor, drugs and medicines are prescribed
by the computer.
According to computer experts who were called in to investigate,
the Expert System began misprescribing medications and treatments
early Saturday morning. Doctors estimate that over 50%, about
300, of the hospital's patients received incorrect treatment.
Of those 14 died and another 28 are in critical condition.
Until this weekend, the systems were considered foolproof. The
entire computer system of Golda Meier Medical Center has been
disconnected until a more intensive investigation is completed.
In response to the news, the Jewish Defense League is calling the
incident, "an unconscionable attack against civilized behavior
and the Jewish community in particular." They have called for a
full investigation into the episode.
No group or individuals have yet taken credit for the crime. The
AMA has petitioned the Drug and Food Administration to look into
the matter.
Gerald Steinmetz, chief counsel for the Center, said in inter-
views that he had already been contacted by attorney's represent-
ing the families of the some of the victims of this tragedy. He
anticipates extended legal entanglements until such time that the
true cause can be determined and blame can accurately assigned.
The hospital denies any wrong doing on its or its staff's part.
This is Scott Mason, determined to stay healthy.
* * * * *
December, 4 Years Ago
Tokyo, Japan
Miles Foster arrived at Narita Airport as another typhoon shat-
tered the coast of Japan. It was the roughest plane ride he had
ever taken; and after 2 weeks of pure bliss. Boy, that Homosoto
sure knows how to show a guy a good time.
After their first meeting at the OSO World Bank Building, Miles
had flown to Tahiti and spent 18 delightful days at the outer
resort of Moorea, courtesy of OSO Industries, with all of the
trimmings. He was provided with a private beach house containing
every modern amenity one could want. Including two housekeepers
and a cook. Only one of the housekeepers knew how to keep house.
The other knew how to keep Miles satisfied.
Marasee was a Pacific Islander who was well schooled in advanced
sexual techniques. At barely 5 feet tall and 96 pounds, her long
silken black hair was as much as sexual tool as her hands and
mouth. Her pristine dark complexion and round face caused Miles
to think that he was potentially guilty of crimes against a
minor, but after their first night together, he relented that
Marasee knew her business very well.
"Mr. Homosoto-San," she purred in delicately accented English,
"wants you to concentrate on your work." She caressed his shoul-
ders and upper body as she spoke. "He knows that a man works
best when he has no worries. It is my job to make sure that you
are relaxed. Completely relaxed. Do you understand?"
Her eyes longed for an affirmative answer from Miles. At first
he was somewhat baffled. Homosoto had indeed sent him on this
trip, vacation, to work, undisturbed. But Miles thought that he
would have to fend for himself for his physical pleasures. He
was used to finding ways to satisfy his needs.
"Homosoto-San says that you must be relaxed to do very serious
business. Whenever you need relaxation, I am here."
The food was as exquisite as was Marasee. He luxuriated in the
eternally perfect weather, the beach, the waves and he even
ventured under water on a novice scuba dive. But, as he knew, he
was here to concentrate on his assigned task, so he tried to
limit his personal activities to sharing pleasure with Marasee.
In just a few days, a relaxed Miles felt a peace, a solace that
he had never known before. He found that his mind was at a
creative high. His mind propelled through the problems of the
war plans, and the solutions appeared. His brain seemed to
function independent of effort. As he established goals, the
roads to meet them appeared magically before him, in absolute
clarity. He was free to explore each one in its entirety, from
beginning to end, undisturbed.
If a problem confounded him, he found that merely forgetting
about it during an interlude with Marasee provided him with the
answer. The barriers were broken, the so-called 'walls of de-
fense' crumbled before as he created new methods of penetration
no one had ever thought of before.
As his plan coalesced into a singular whole, he began to experi-
ence a euphoria, a high that was neither drug nor sexually in-
duced. He could envision, all at once, the entire grand strate-
gy; how the myriad pieces effortlessly fit together and evolved
into a picture perfect puzzle. Miles became able to manipulate
the attack scenarios in his mind and make slight changes in one
that would have far reaching implications in another portion of
the puzzle. He might change only one slight aspect, yet see
synergistic ramifications down a side road. This new ability,
gained from total freedom to concentrate and his newfound worry
free life, gave Miles new sources of pleasure and inspiration.
As his plans came together, Miles yearned for something outside
of his idyllic environment. His strategies grew into a concrete
reality, one which he knew he could execute, if Homosoto wasn't
feeding him a line of shit. And, for the $100,000 Homosoto gave
him to make plans, he was generally inclined to believe that this
super rich, slightly eccentric but obviously dangerous man was
deadly serious.
As the days wore on, Miles realized that, more than anything in
his life, even more than getting laid, he wanted to put his plan
to the test. If he was right, of which he was sure, in a few
short years he would be recognized as the most brilliant computer
scientist in the world. In the whole damn world.
His inner peace, the one which fed his creativity, soon was
overtaken by the unbridled ego which was Miles Foster's inner
self. The prospect of success fostered new energies and Miles
worked even harder to complete the first phase of his task. To
the occasional disappointment of Marasee, Miles would embroil
himself in the computer Homosoto provided for the purpose.
Marasee had been with many men, she was an expert, but Miles gave
her as much pleasure as she to him. As his work further absorbed
him, she rued the day her assignment would be over.
Miles left Tahiti for Tokyo without even saying goodbye to Mara-
see.
The ritualistic scanning and security checks before Miles got
onto the living room elevator at the OSO Building in Tokyo evi-
denced that Homosoto had not told anyone else how important Miles
was. Even though he recognized the need for secrecy in their
endeavors, Miles was irked by the patronizing, almost rude treat-
ment he received when he was forced to pass the Sumo scrutiny.
The elevator again opened into the grand white gallery on the
66th floor.
"Ah . . .so good to see you again Mr. Foster. Homosoto-San is
anxious to see you." A short Japanese manservant escorted Miles
to the doors of Homosoto's office. The briefest of taps invited
the bellow of "Hai!" from its inner sanctum.
Homosoto was quick to rise from his techo-throne and greeted
Miles as if they were long lost friends.
"Mr. Foster . . .it is so good to see you. I assume everything
was satisfactory? You found the working conditions to your
liking?" Homosoto awkwardly searched for the vain compliment.
He pointed at the leather seating area in which they had first
discussed their plans. They sat in the same chairs they had the
last time they met.
Miles was taken aback by the warm reception, but since he was so
important to Homosoto, it was only fitting to be treated with
respect.
Miles returned the courtesy with the minimum required bow of the
head. It was a profitable game worth playing. "Very much so, Mr.
Homosoto. It was most relaxing . . .and I think you will be very
pleased with the results." Miles smiled warmly, expecting to be
heavily complimented on his promise. Instead, Homosoto ignored
the business issue.
"I understand that Miss Marasee was most pleased . . .was she
not?" The implication was clear. For the first time, Miles saw
a glimmer of a dirty old man looking for the sordid details.
"I guess so. I was too busy working to pay attention." Miles
tried to sluff off the comment.
"That is what she says. That you were too busy for her . . .or
to say goodbye and thank her for her attentions. Not an auspi-
cious beginning Mr. Foster." Miles caught the derision in Homo-
soto's voice and didn't appreciate it one little bit.
"Listen. My affairs are my affairs. I am grateful for the
services, but I do like to keep my personal life just that. Per-
sonal." Miles was polite, but firm. Homosoto nodded in under-
standing.
"Of course, Mr. Foster, I understand completely. It is merely
for the sake of the young woman that I mention it. There is no
offense intended. It is shall we say . . .a cultural
difference?"
Miles didn't believe in the cultural difference to which he
referred, but he didn't press the point. He merely nodded that
the subject was closed. A pregnant pause followed before Homo-
soto interrupted the silence.
"So, Mr. Foster. I really did not expect to see you for another
few weeks. I must assume that you have made some progress in
planning our future endeavors." Homosoto wore a smile that
belied little of his true thoughts.
"You bet your ass, I did." Homosoto winced at the colorful
language. It was Miles' way of maintaining some control over the
situation. His dimples recessed even further as he enjoyed
watching Homosoto's reaction. "It turned out to be simpler than
even I had thought."
"Would you be so kind as to elaborate?"
"Gotcha." Miles opened his briefcase and brought out a sheath of
papers with charts and scribbles all over them. "Basically the
technology is pretty simple. Here are the fundamental systems to
use in the attack, there are only four of them. After all,
there are no defenses, so that's not a problem."
"Problem?" Homosoto raised his eyes.
"Ok, not problem. As you can see here, putting the technical
pieces together is not the issue. The real issue is creating an
effective deployment of the tools we create." Miles was matter
of fact and for the first time Homosoto saw Miles as the itiner-
ant professional he was capable of being. The challenge. Just as
Miles promised earlier, 'give me a challenge, the new, the undone
and I will be the best.' Miles was shining in his own excel-
lence, and his ego was gone, totally gone. His expertise took
over.
"I have labeled various groups that we will need to pull this
off."
"Pull off? Excuse me . . ."
"Oh, sorry. Make it work? Have it happen?"
"Ah yes, So sorry."
"Not at all." Miles looked at Homosoto carefully. Was there a
mutual respect actually developing?
"As I said, we will have to have several groups who don't even
know about each other's existence. At NSA we call it contain-
ment, or need to know."
Homosoto cursorily examined the printouts on the table in front
of him, but preferred to address Miles' comments. "Could you
explain, please? I don't see how one can build a car if you
don't know what it's going to look like when you're done. You
suggest that each person or group functions without the knowledge
of the others? How can this be efficient?"
Miles smiled. For the first time he felt a bit of compassion for
Homosoto, as one would feel for the naive child asking why 1 plus
1 equals 2. Homosoto was used to the Japanese work ethic:
Here's a beautiful picture of a car, and all 50,000 of us are
going to build it; you 5,000 build the engines, you 5,000 build
the body and so on. After a couple of years we'll have built a
fabulous automobile that we have all shared as a common vision.
Homosoto had no idea of how to wage a war, although he apparently
afford it. Miles realized he could be in control after all, if he
only sold Homosoto on his abilities, and he was well on the way.
"You see, Mr. Homosoto, what we are trying to do requires that no
one, except a few key people like you and I, understand what is
going on. As we said in World War II, loose lips sink ships."
Homosoto immediately bristled at the mention of the war. Miles
hardly noticed as he continued. "The point is, as I have it laid
out here, only a handful of people need to know what we are
trying to achieve. All of the rest have clearly defined duties
that they are expected to perform as we ask. Each effectively
works in a vacuum. Efficient, not exactly. Secure, yes. I
imagine you would like to keep this operation as secret as possi-
ble."
Homosoto took immediate notice and bolted his response. "Hai! Of
course, secrecy is important, but how can we be sure of compli-
ance by our . . .associates?"
"Let me continue." Miles referred back to the papers in front of
him. "The first group is called the readers, the second will be
dedicated to research and development." Homosoto smiled at the
R&D reference. He could understand that. "Then there will be a
public relations group, a communications group, a software compa-
ny will be needed, another group I call the Mosquitoes and a
little manufacturing which I assume you can handle." Miles
looked for Homosoto's reaction.
"Manufacturing, very easy. I don't fully understand the others,
but I am most impressed with your outline. You mentioned prob-
lem. Can you explain?" Homosoto had become a different person.
One who showed adolescent enthusiasm. He moved to the edge of
his seat.
"As with any well designed plan," Miles boasted, "there are
certain situations that need to be addressed. In this case, I
see several." Miles was trying to hook Homosoto onto the prover-
bial deck.
"I asked for problem." Homosoto insisted.
"To properly effect this plan we will need two things that may
make it impossible."
Homosoto met the challenge. "What do you need?"
Miles liked the sound of it. You. What do _you_ need. "This
operation could cost as much as $50 million. Is that a problem?"
Homosoto looked squarely at Miles. "No problem. What is the
second thing you need?"
"We will need an army. Not an army with guns, but a lot of
people who will follow orders. That may be more important than
the money."
Homosoto took a momentary repose while he thought. "How big an
army will you need?"
"My guess? Today? I would say that for all groups we will need
a minimum of 500 people. Maybe as many as a thousand."
Homosoto suddenly laughed out loud. "You call that an army?
1000 men? An army? That is a picnic my friend." Homosoto was
enjoying his own personal joke. "When you said army, Mr. Foster
I imagined tens of thousands of people running all around the
United States shooting their guns. A thousand people? I can give
you a thousand dedicated people with a single phone call. Is
that all you need?" He continued his laughter.
Miles was taken aback and had difficulty hiding his surprise. He
had already padded his needs by a factor of three. "With a few
minor specialties and exceptions, yes. That's it. If we follow
this blue print." He pointed at the papers spread before them.
Homosoto sat back and closed his eyes in apparent meditation.
Miles watched and waited for several minutes. He looked out the
expanse of windows over Tokyo patiently as Homosoto seemed to
sleep in the chair across from him. Homosoto spoke quietly with
his eyes still closed.
"Mr. Foster?"
"Yes?" Miles was ready.
"Do you love you country?" Homosoto's eyelids were still.
Miles had not expected such a question.
"Mr. Foster? Did you hear the question?"
"Yes, I did." He paused. "I'm thinking."
"If you need to think, sir, then the answer is clear. As you
have told me, you hold no allegiance. Your country means nothing
to you."
"I wouldn't quite put it that way . . ." Miles said defensively.
He couldn't let this opportunity escape.
"You hold your personal comfort as your primary concern, do you
not? You want the luxuries that the United States offers, but
you don't care where or how you get them? Is that not so? You
want your women, your wine, your freedom, but you will take it at
any expense. I do not think I exaggerate. Tell me Mr. Foster,
if I am wrong."
Miles realized he was being asked to state his personal alle-
giances in mere seconds. Not since he was in the lower floors of
the NSA being interrogated had he been asked to state his convic-
tions. He knew the right answer there, but here, he wasn't quite
sure. The wrong answer could blow it. But, then again, he was
$110,000 ahead of the game for a few weeks work.
"I need to ask you a question to answer yours." Miles did not
want to be backed into a corner. "Mr. Homosoto. Do you want me
to have allegiance to my country or to you?"
Homosoto was pleased. "You debate well, young man. It is not so
much that I care if you love America. I want, I need to know what
you do love. You see, for me, I love Japan and my family. But
much of my family was taken from me in one terrible instant, a
long time ago. They are gone, but now I have my wife, my chil-
dren and their children. I learned, that if there is nothing
else, you must have family. That must come first, Mr. Foster.
Under all conditions, family is first. All else is last. So my
allegiance shifted, away from country, to my family and my be-
liefs. I don't always agree with my government, and there are
times I will defy their will. I can assure you, that if we embark
upon this route, neither I nor you will endear ourselves to our
respective governments. Does that matter to you?"
Miles snickered. "Matter? After what they did to me? Let me
tell you something. I gave my country most of my adult life. I
could have gone to work with my family . . .my associates . . ."
"I am aware of your background Mr. Foster," Homosoto interrupted.
"I'm sure you are. But that's neither here nor there. I could
have been on easy street. Plug a few numbers and make some bucks
for the clan." The colloquialism escaped Homosoto, but he got
the gist of it. "But I said to myself, 'hey, you're good.
Fixing roulette wheels is beneath you.' I needed, I still need
the diversion, the challenge, so I figured that the Feds would
give me the edge I needed to make something of myself." Miles
was turning red around his neck.
"The NSA had the gear, the toys for me to play with, and they
promised me the world. Create, they said, lead America's tech-
nology into the 21st. century. What a pile of shit. Working at
the NSA is like running for President. You're always trying to
sell yourself, your ideas. They don't give a shit about how good
your ideas are. All they care is that you're asshole buddies
with the powers that be. To get something done there, you need a
half dozen committees with their asses greased from here to
eternity for them to say maybe. Do you know the difference
between ass kissing and having your head up your ass?"
"If I understand your crudities, I assume this is an American
joke, then, no Mr. Foster, I do not know the difference."
"Depth perception." Miles looked for a reaction to his anatomi-
cal doublette. There was none other than Homosoto's benign smile
indicating no comprehension. "OK, never mind, I'll save it. At
any rate, enough was enough. I gotta do something with my life."
Miles had said his piece.
"In other words, money is your motivation?"
"Money doesn't hurt, sure. But, I need to do what I believe.
Not that that means hurting my country, but if they don't listen
to what makes sense, maybe it's best that they meet their worst
enemy to get them off of their keesters." Miles was on a roll.
"Keesters?" Homosoto's naivete was amusing.
"Oops!" Miles exclaimed comically. "Butts, asses, fannies?" He
patted his own which finally communicated the intention.
"Ah yes." Homosoto agreed. "So you feel you could best serve
your country by attacking it?"
Miles only thought for a few seconds. "I guess you could put it
that way. Sure."
"Mr. Foster, or should I say General Foster?" Miles beamed at
the reference. "We shall march to success."
"Mr. Homosoto," Miles broke the pagential silence. "I would like
to ask you the same question. Why?"
"I was wondering when you were going to ask me that Mr. Foster,"
Homosoto said with his grin intact. "Because, Mr. Foster, I am
returning the favor."
****************************************************************
Chapter 9
September, 1982
South East Iraq
Ahmed Shah lay in a pool of his own blood along with pieces of
what was once another human being.
The pain was intolerable. His mind exploded as the nerve endings
from the remains of his arms and legs shot liquid fire into his
cerebral cortex. His mind screamed in sheer agony while he
struggled to stay conscious. He wasn't sure why, but he had to
stay awake . . .can't pass out . . .sleep, blessed
sleep . . .release me from the pain . . .Allah! Oh take me
Allah . . .I shall be a martyr fighting for your holy
cause . . .in your name . . . for the love of Islam . . .for the
Ayatollah . . .take me into your arms and let me live for eter-
nity in your shadow . . .
The battle for Abadan, a disputed piece of territory that was a
hub for Persian Gulf oil distribution had lasted days. Both Iran
and Iraq threw waves of human fodder at each other in what was
referred to in the world press as " . . .auto-genocide . . ."
Neither side reacted to the monumental casualties that they
sustained. The lines of reinforcements were steady. The dead
bodies were thick on the battlefield; there was no time to col-
lect them and provide a proper burial. New troops had as much
difficulty wading through the obstacle courses made of human
corpses as staying alive.
Public estimates were that the war had already cost over
1,000,000 lives for the adversaries. Both governments disputed
the figures. The two agreed only 250,000 had died. The extrem-
ist leaders of both countries believed that the lower casualty
numbers would mollify world opinion. It accomplished the exact
opposite. Criticism was rampant, in the world courts and the
press. Children were going to battle. Or more appropriately,
children were marching in the front lines, often without weapons
or shoes, and used as cover for the advancing armed infantrymen
behind them. The children were disposable receptacles for enemy
bullets. The supreme sacrifice would permit the dead pre-adoles-
cents the honor of martyrdom and an eternal place with Allah.
Mothers wailed and beat their breasts in the streets of Teheran
as word arrived of loved ones and friends who died in Allah's war
against the Iraqi infidels. Many were professional mourners who
were hired by others to represent families to make them look
bigger and more Holy. Expert wailing and flagellation came at a
price. The bulk of the civilized world, even Brezhnev's evil
Soviet empire denounced the use of unarmed children for cannon
fodder.
The war between Iran and Iraq was to continue, despite pleas from
humanity, for another 6 years.
Ahmed Shah was a 19 year old engineering student at the exclu-
sive Teheran University when the War started. He was reared as a
dedicated Muslim by wealthy parents. Somehow his parents had
escaped the Ayatollah's scourge after the fall of the Shah. Ahmed
was never told the real reason, but a distribution of holy rials
certainly helped. They were permitted to keep their beautiful
home in the suburbs of Teheran and Ahmed's father kept his pro-
fessorship at Teheran University. Ahmed was taught by his family
that the Shah's downfall was the only acceptable response to the
loss of faith under his regime.
"The Shah is a puppet of the Americans. Ptooh!" His father
would spit. "The Yanqis come over here, tell us to change our
culture and our beliefs so we can make them money from our oil!"
For a professor he was outspoken, but viewed as mainstream by the
extremist camps. Ahmed learned well. For the most part of his
life all Ahmed knew was the Ayatollah Khomeini as his country's
spiritual leader. News and opinion from the West was virtually
nonexistent so Ahmed developed as a devout Muslim, dedicated to
his country and his religion.
When the War began he thought about enlisting immediately, but
the University counselors convinced him otherwise.
"Ahmed Shah, you are bright and can offer Iran great gifts after
you complete your studies. Why not wait, the War will not be
forever, and then you can serve Allah with your mind, not your
body."
Ahmed took the advice for his first year at the a university
student, but guilt overwhelmed him when he learned about how
many other young people were dying in the cause. From his par-
ents he would hear of childhood friends who had been killed.
Teheran University students and graduates were honored daily in
the Mosque on campus. The names were copied and distributed
throughout the schools. True martyrs. Ahmed's guilt compounded
as the months passed and so many died. He had been too young to
participate in the occupation of the American Embassy. How jeal-
ous he was.
Why should I wait to serve Allah? He mused. Today I can be of
service, where he needs me, but if I stay and study, I will not
be able to bid his Will for years. And what if Iraq wins? There
would be no more studies anyway. Ahmed anguished for weeks over
how he could best serve Iran, his Ayatollah and Allah.
After his freshman finals, on which he excelled, he joined the
Irani Army. Within 60 days he was sent to the front lines as a
communications officer.
They had been in the field 3 days, and Ahmed had only gotten to
know a few of the 60 men in his company when the mortars came in
right on top of them. The open desert offers little camouflage
so the soldiers built fox holes behind the larger sand dunes.
They innaccurately thought they were hidden from view. More than
half the company died instantly. Pieces of bodies were strewn
across the sandy tented bivouac.
Another 20 were dying within 50 yards of where Ahmed writhed in
agony. Ahmed regained consciousness. Was it 5 minutes or 5 hours
later. He had no way of knowing. The left lower arm where he
wore his wristwatch was gone. A pulpy stump. As were his legs.
Mutilated . . .the highest form of insult and degradation. Oh,
Allah, I have served you, let me die and come to you now. Let me
suffer no more.
Suddenly his attention was grabbed by the sound of a jeep cough-
ing its way to a stop. He heard voices.
"This one's still alive." Then a shot rang out. "So's this
one." Another shot. A few muted voices from the dying protested
and asked for mercy. "Ha! I give Mercy to a dog before you." A
scream and 2 shots. They were Iraqi! Killing off the wounded.
Pigs! Infidels! Mother Whores!
"You, foreskin of a camel! Your mother lies with dogs!" Ahmed
screamed at the soldiers. It brought two results. One, it kept
him a little more alert and less aware of his pain, and two, it
attracted the attention of the two soldiers from the jeep.
"Ola! Who insults the memory of my mother who sits with Allah?
Who?" One soldier spun around and tried to imagine which one of
the pieces of bodies that surrounded him still had enough life to
speak. He scanned the sand nearby. Open eyes were not a sure
sign of life nor was the presence of four limbs. There needed to
be a head.
"Over here camel dung. Hussein fucks animals who give birth to
the likes of you." Ahmed's viciousness was the only facial
feature that gave away he was alive. The soldiers saw their
tormentor.
"Prepare to meet with your Allah, now," as one soldier took aim
at Ahmed's head.
"Go ahead! Shoot, pig shit. I welcome death so I won't have to
see your filth . . ." Ahmed defied the soldier and the automatic
rifle aimed at him.
The other soldier intervened. "No, don't kill him. That's too
easy and we would be honoring his last earthly request. No, this
one doesn't beg for mercy. At least he's a man. Let's just make
him suffer." The second soldier raised his gun and pointed at
the junction of Ahmed's two stumps for legs. Two point blank
range shots shattered the three components of his genitals.
Ahmed let out a scream so primal, so anguished, so penetrating
that the soldiers bolted to escape the sounds of death. The
scream continued, briefly interrupted by a pair of shots that
caught the two soldiers square in the middle of the back as they
ran. They dropped onto the hot desert sand with matched thuds.
Ahmed didn't hear the shots over the sounds coming from his
larynx. He didn't hear anything after that for a very long time.
Unfortunately for Ahmed Shah, he survived.
He woke up, or more accurately, regained semi-consciousness more
than a week after he was picked up at the site of the mortar
attack. He was wired up to tubes and machines in an obviously
well equipped hospital. He thought, I must be back in Teher-
an . . .then fog . . .a blur . . .a needle . . .feel
nothing . . .stay awake . . .move lips . . .talk . . .
"Doctor, the patient was awake." The nurse spoke to the physician
who was writing on Ahmed's medical chart.
"He'll wish he wasn't. Let him go. Let him sleep. Hell hasn't
begun for him yet." The Doctor moved onto the chart on the next
bed in ward.
Over the next few days while grasping at consciousness, and with
the caring attention of the nurses, Ahmed pieced together the
strands of a story . . .what happened to him.
The Iraqis were killing the wounded, desperate in their attempts
to survive the onslaught of Irani children. All must die, take
no prisoners were their marching orders. In the Iraqi Army you
either did exactly as you were told, with absolute obedience, or
you were shot on sight as a traitor. Some choice. We lost at
Abadan, the Iraqi's thought, but there will be more battles to
win.
Ahmed was the only survivor from his company, and there was no
earthly reason that could explain why he lived. He was more dead
than alive. His blood coagulated well in the hot desert sun,
otherwise the blood loss alone would have killed him. The medics
found many of his missing pieces and packed them up for their
trip to the hospital, but the doctors were unable to re-attach
anything of significance.
He was a eunuch. With no legs and only one good arm.
Weeks of wishing himself dead proved to be the source of rest
that contributed to his recovery. Was he man? Was he woman? Was
he, God forbid, neither? Why had he not just died along with the
others, why was he spared! Spared, ha! If I had truly been
spared I would be living with Allah! This is not being spared.
This is living hell and someone will pay. He cried to his par-
ents about his torment and his mother wailed and beat her breast.
His father listened to the anger, the hate and the growing
strength within his son's being. Hate could be the answer that
would make his son, his only son, whole again. Whole in spirit
at least.
The debates within Ahmed's mind developed into long philosophical
arguments about right, wrong, revenge, avenge, purpose, cause
and reason. He would take both sides of an issue, and see if he
could beat himself with his alter rationales. The frustration at
knowing one's opponents' thoughts when developing your own coun-
ter argument made him angry, too. He finally started arguing
with other patients. He would take any position, on any issue
and debate all night. Argumentative, contrary, but recovering
completely described the patient.
Over the months his strength returned and he appeared to come to
grips with his infirmaries. As much as anyone can come to terms
with such physical mutilations. He covered his facial wounds
with a full black beard that melded into his full short cropped
kinky hair.
Ahmed graduated from Teheran University in 1984 with a cruel
hatred for anything Anti-Islam. One major target of his hatred
was President Reagan, the cowboy president, the Teflon president,
the evil Anti-Muslim Zionist loving American president. Of
course there was plenty of room to hate others, but Reagan was so
easy to hate, so easy to blame, and rarely was there any disa-
greement.
He thought of grand strategies to strike back at the America.
After all, didn't they support the Iraqis? And the Iraqis did
this to him. It wasn't the soldiers' fault. They were just
following orders: Do or Die. Any rational person would have done
the same thing. He understood that. So he blamed Reagan, not
Hussein. And he blamed the American people for their stupidity,
their isolationism, their indifference to the rest of the world.
They are all so smug and caught up in their own little petty
lives, and there are causes, people are dying for causes, and the
American fools don't even care. And Reagan personified them
all.
How does a lousy movie actor from the 1950's get to be President
of the United States? Ahmed laughed to himself at the obvious
answer. He was the most qualified for the job.
His commentaries and orations about the Imperialists, the United
States, England, even the Soviet Union and their overwhelming
influence in the Arab world made Ahmed Shah a popular man on the
campus of Teheran University. His highly visible infirmities
assisted with his credibility.
In his sixth semester of study, Ahmed's counselor called him for
a conference. Beside his counselor was another man, Beni Farja-
ni, from the government. Beni was garbed in Arab robes and tur-
bans that always look filthy. Still, he was the officious type,
formal and somber. His long white hair snuck through the turban,
and his face shoed ample wrinkles of wisdom.
He and the Counselor sat alone, on one side of a large wooden
conference table that could easily have seated 20. Ahmed
stopped his motorized wheel chair at the table, Farjani spoke,
and curiously, the Counselor rose from his chair and slipped out
of the room. Ahmed and the Government official were alone.
"My name is Beni Farjani, Associate Director to the Undersecre-
tary of Communications and Propaganda. I trust you are well."
Ahmed long since gave up commenting on his well being or lack
thereof. "It is good to meet you, sir." He waited for more.
"Ahmed Shah, you are important to the state and the people of
Iran." Farjani said it as though his comment was already common
knowledge. "What I am here to ask you, Ahmed Shah, is, are you
willing again to serve Allah?"
"Yes, of course . . .?" He bowed his head in reverence.
"Good, because we think that you might be able to assist on a
small project we have been contemplating. My son, you have the
gift of oration, speaking, moving crowds to purpose. I only
wish I had it!" Beni Farjani smiled solemnly at Ahmed.
"I thank Allah for His gift. I am only the humble conduit for
his Will."
"I understand, but you have now, and will have much to proud of.
I believe you graduate in 6 months. Is that correct?"
"Yes, and then I go to Graduate School . . ."
"I am afraid that won't be possible Ahmed Shah." Farjani shook a
kindly wrinkled finger at him. "As soon as you graduate, your
Government, at Allah's bidding, would like you to move to the
United States."
"America?" Ahmed gaped in surprise.
"We fear that America may invade Iran, that we may go to war with
the United States." The words stunned Ahmed. Could he be
serious? Sure, relations were in pretty bad shape, but was
Farjani saying that Iran was truly preparing for War? Jihad?
Holy War against the United States?
"We need to protect ourselves," Farjani spoke calmly, with au-
thority. "America has weapons of mass destruction that can reach
our land in minutes, while we have nothing to offer in retalia-
tion. Nothing, and that is a very frightening reality that the
people of Iran must live with every day. A truly helpless feel-
ing." Ahmed was listening carefully, and so far what he heard
was making a great deal of sense.
"Both the Soviets and the Americans can destroy each other and
the rest of the world with a button. Their armies will never
meet. A few missiles and it's all over. A 30 minute grand
finale to civilization. They don't have to, nor would we expect
either the Soviets or the Americans to ask the rest of the world
if they mind. They just go ahead and pull the trigger and every-
one else be damned.
"And yes, there have been better times when our nation has had
more friends, when all Arabs thought and acted as one; especially
against the Americans. They have the most to gain and the most
to lose from invading and crossing our borders. They would love
nothing more than to steal our land, our oil and even take over
OPEC. All in the name of world stability. They'll throw around
National Security smoke screens and do what they want." Farjani
was speaking quite excitedly.
Ahmed was fascinated. A man from the Government who was nearly
as vitriolic as he was about America. The only difference was
Ahmed wanted to attack, and Farjani wanted to defend. He didn't
think it opportune to interrupt. Farjani continued.
"The Russians want us as a warm water port. They have enough
oil, gas and resources, but they crave a port that isn't con-
trolled by the Americans such as in the Black Sea and through the
Hellespont. So they too, are a potential enemy. You see don't
you, Ahmed, that Allah has so graced our country everyone else
wants to take it away from us?" Ahmed nodded automatically.
"So we need to create a defense against outside aggressors. We
do not have weapons that can reach American shores, that is so.
But we have something that the Americans will never have, because
they will never understand. Do you know what that is?"
Before Ahmed could answer, Farjani continued.
"Honor and Faith to protect our heritage, our systems, our way
of life." Ahmed agreed.
"We want you, Ahmed Shah to build a network of supporters, just
like you, all across the United States that will come to our
service when we need them. To the death. Your skills will
capture the attention of those with kindred sentiments. You will
draw them out, from the schools, from the universities.
"Ahmed Shah, there are over 100,000 Irani and Arab students in
the United States today. Many, many of them are sympathetic to
our causes. Many of them are attending American Universities,
side by side with their future enemies, learning the American
way so we may better fight it. You will become one of them and
you will find others that can be trusted, counted on, depended
upon when we call.
"Your obvious dedication and personal tragedies," Farjani pointed
at the obvious affliction, "will be the glue to provide others
with strength. You will have no problems in recruiting. That
will be the easy part."
"If recruiting is so easy, then what will be the hard task?"
"Holding them back. You will find it most difficult to restrain
your private army from striking. Right under the American's
noses, you will have to keep them from bursting at the seams
until the day comes when they are needed. If could be weeks, it
could be years. We don't know. Maybe the day will never come.
But it is your job to build this Army. Grow it, feed it and
keep our national spirit alive until such time that it becomes
necessary to defend our nation, Allah and loyal Muslims every-
where. This time, though, we will fight America from within,
inside her borders.
"There hasn't been a foreign war on American soil since 1812.
Americans don't know what is like to have their country ruined,
ravaged, blown up before their eyes. We need a defense against
America, and when it is deeded by Allah, our army will strike
back at America where is hurts most. In the streets of their
cities. In their homes, parks and schools. But first we must
have that army. In place, and willing to act.
"You will find out all the details in good time, I assure you.
You will require some training, though, and that will begin
shortly. Everything you need to serve will be given you. Go with
Allah.
Ahmed trained for several months with the infamous terrorist
group Abu Nidal. He learned the basics that every modern terror-
ist needs to know to insure success against the Infidels.
Shah moved to New York City on December 25, 1986. Christmas was
a non issue. He registered at Columbia as a graduate researcher
in the engineering department to legitimize his student visa and
would commence classes on January 2.
Recruitment was easy, just as Farjani had said.
Ahmed built a team of 12 recruiters whom he could trust with his
life. Seven professional terrorists, unknown to the American
authorities, thoroughly sanitized, came with him to the United
States under assumed visas and the other 5, already in the
country were personally recommended by Farjani.
His disciples were located in strategic locations; New York was
host to Ahmed and another Arab fanatic trained in Libya. They
both used Columbia University as their cover. Washington D.C.
was honored with a Syrian terrorist who had organized mass anti-
US demonstrations in Damascus as the request of President Assad.
Los Angeles and San Francisco were homes to 4 more engineering
type desert terrorist school graduates who were allowed to move
freely and interact with the shakers and movers in high technolo-
gy disciplines. Miami, Atlanta, Chicago, Boston, and Dallas were
also used as recruitment centers for developing Ahmed's personal
army.
If the media had been aware of the group's activities they would
have made note that Ahmed's inner circle were very highly skilled
not only in the use of C4 and Cemex, the Czechoslovakian plastic
explosive that was responsible for countless deaths of innocent
bystanders, but that were all very well educated. Each spoke
English like a native, fluent in colloquialisms and idioms unique
to America.
Much of his army had skills which enabled them to acquire posi-
tions of importance within engineering departments of companies
such as IBM, Apple, Hughes Defense Systems, Chase Manhattan,
Prudential Life, Martin Marietta, Westinghouse, Compuserve, MCI
and hundreds of similar organizations. Every one of their em-
ployers would have attested to their skills, honor and loyalty to
their adapted country. Ahmed's group was well versed in decep-
tion. After all, they answered to a greater cause.
What even a seasoned reporter might not find out though, was that
all 12 of Ahmed's elite recruiters had to pass a supreme test
often required by international political terrorist organiza-
tions. To guarantee their loyalty to the cause, whatever that
cause might be, and to weed out potential external infiltrators,
each member had to have killed at least one member of their
immediate family.
It requires extraordinary hardening, to say the least, to kill
your mother or father. Or to blow up the school bus that carried
your pre-teen sister to school. Or engage your brother in a mock
fight and then sever his head from his body. The savagery that
permitted one access into this elite circle is beyond the compre-
hension of most Western minds. Yet such acts were expected to
demonstrate one's loyalty to a supreme purpose or belief.
The events surrounding Solman Rushdie and the Satanic Verses were
a case in point. Each of those who volunteered to assassinate
him at the bequest of the Ayatollah Khomeini had in fact already
killed not only innocent women and children in order to reach
their assigned terrorist targets, but had brought the head of
their family victim to the table of their superiors. A deed for
which they were honored and revered.
These were the men, all of them men, who pledged allegiance to
Ahmed Shah and the unknown, undefined assignments they would in
the future be asked to complete. To the death if necessary, and
without fear. These men were reminiscent of the infamous moles
that Stalin's Soviet Empire had placed throughout the United
Kingdom and the United States in the 1930's to be awakened at
some future date to carry out strikes against the enemy from
within. The only difference with Ahmed's men was that they were
trained to die, not to survive. And unlike their Mole counter-
parts, they were awake the entire time, focused on their mission.
Clearly it was only a matter of time before they would be asked
to follow orders with blind obedience. Their only reward was a
place in the Muslim heaven.
Meanwhile, while awaiting sainthood, their task was to find
others with similar inclinations, or those who could be corralled
into their system of beliefs. It was unrealistic, they knew, to
expect to find an entire army of sympathizers who would fight to
the death or perform suicide missions in the name of Allah. But
they found it was very easy to find many men, never women, who
would follow orders and perform the tasks of an underground
infantryman.
The mass influx of Arabs into the United States was another great
mistake of the Reagan '80's as it opened its doors to a future
enemy. The immigration policy of the U.S. was the most open in
the entire world. So, the Government allowed the entry of some
of the world's most dangerous people into the country, and then
gave them total freedom, with its associated anonymity. Such
things could never happen at home, Ahmed thought. We love our
land too much to permit our enemies on our soil. It is so much
easier to dispose of them before they can cause damage.
So the thinking went, and Ahmed and his cadre platooned them-
selves often, in any of the thousands of American resort complex-
es, unnoticed, to gauge the progress of their assignments.
By early 1988, Ahmed's army consisted of nearly 1000 fanatic
Muslims who would swallow a live grenade if the deed guaranteed
their place in martyrdom. And another several thousand who could
be led into battle under the right conditions. And more came and
joined as the ridiculous immigration policies continued un-
checked.
They were students, businessmen, flight attendants who were now
in the United States for prolonged periods of time. All walks of
life were included in his Army. Some were technicians or book-
keepers, delivery men, engineers, doctors; most disciplines were
represented. Since Ahmed had no idea when, if ever, he and his
army would be needed, nor for what purpose, recruiting a wide
range of talents would provide Allah with the best odds if they
were ever needed. They were all men. Not one woman in this man's
army, Ahmed thought.
The biggest problem, just as Farjani had predicted, was the
growing sense of unrest among the troops. The inner 12 had been
professionally trained to be patient. Wait for the right moment
to strike. Wait for orders. Do nothing. Do not disclose your
alliances or your allegiances to anyone. No one can be trusted.
Except your recruiter. Lead a normal life. Act like any Ameri-
can immigrant who flourishes in his new home. Do not, at all
costs, give yourself away. That much was crucial.
Periodically, the inner 12 would assign mundane, meaningless
tasks to various of their respective recruits. Americans called
it busy work. But, it kept interest alive, the belief in the
eventual victory of the Arab Nation against the American mon-
grels. It kept the life in their organization flowing, not
dulled by the prolonged waiting for the ultimate call: Jihad, a
holy war against America, waged from inside its own unprotected
borders. It was their raison d'<130>tre. The underlying gestalt
for their very existence.
* * * * *
February 6, 1988
New York City
"It is time." Ahmed could not believe the words - music to his
ears. It was not a long distance call; too clear. It had to be
local. The caller spoke in Ahmed's native tongue and conveyed an
excitement that immediately consumed him. He sat in his wheel-
chair at a computer terminal in an engineering lab at Columbia
University's Broadway campus. While he had hoped this day would
come, he also knew that politicians, even Iran's, promised a
glory that often was buried in diplomacy rather than action.
Praise be Allah.
"We are ready. Always for Allah." Ahmed was nearly breathless
with anticipation. His mind wandered. Were we at war? No, of
course not. The spineless United States would never have the
strength nor will to wage war against a United Arab State.
"That is good. For Allah." The caller agreed with Ahmed. "But
it is not the war you expect."
Ahmed was taken aback. He had not known what to expect, exactly,
but, over the months he had conjured many scenarios of how his
troops would be used to perform Allah's Will. His mind reeled.
"For whom do you speak?" Ahmed asked pointedly. There was a hint
of distrust in the question.
"Farjani said you would ask. He said, 'there hasn't been a war
on U.S. soil since 1812'. He said you would understand."
Ahmed understood. Only someone that was privy to their conversa-
tions would have known that. His heart quickened with anticipa-
tion. "Yes, I understand. With whom do I speak?" Ahmed asked
reverently.
"My name is of no consequence. I am only a humble servant of
Allah with a message. You are to follow instructions exactly,
without reservation."
"Of course. I, too, am but a servant of God. What are my in-
structions?" Ahmed felt like standing at parade attention if
only he had legs.
"This will not be our war. It will be another's. But our pur-
poses are the same. You will act as his army, and are to follow
his every request. As if Allah came to you and so ordered him-
self."
Ahmed beamed. He glowed with perspiration. Finally. The chance
to act. He would and his army would perform admirably. He lis-
tened carefully as the anonymous caller gave him his instruc-
tions. He noted the details as disbelief sank in. This is
Jihad? Yes, this is Jihad. You are expected to comply. I am
clear, but are you sure? Yes, I am sure. Then I will follow
orders. As ordered. Will we speak again? No, this is your task,
your destiny. The Arab Nation calls upon you now. Do you an-
swer? Yes, I answer. I will perform. We, our army will perform.
"Insha'allah."
"Yes, God willing."
Ahmed Shah put his teaching schedule on hold by asking for and
receiving an immediate sabbatical. He then booked and took a
flight to Tokyo three days later.
"I need an army, and I am told you can provide such services for
me. Is that so?" Homosoto asked Ahmed Shah though he already
knew the answer.
Ahmed Shah and Taki Homosoto were meeting in a private palace in
the outskirts of Tokyo. Ahmed wasn't quite sure to whom it
belonged, but he was following orders and in no way felt in
danger. The grounds were impeccable, a Japanese Versailles. The
weather was cool, but not uncomfortably so. Both men sat under
an arbor that would be graced with cherry blossoms in a few
months. Each carried an air of confidence, an assurity not meant
as arrogance, but rather as an assertion of control, power over
their respective empires.
"How large is you army?" Homosoto knew the answer, but asked
anyway.
"One thousand to the death. Three thousand to extreme pain,
another ten thousand functionaries." Ahmed Shah said with pride.
Homosoto laughed a convivial Japanese laugh, and lightly slapped
his knees. "Ah, comrade. To the death, so familiar, that is why
you are here, but, I hope that will not be necessary. You see,
this war will be one without bullets." Homosoto said waiting for
the volatile Arab's reaction.
This was exactly what Ahmed feared. A spineless war. How could
one afford to wage a war against America and not expect, indeed,
plan for, the death of some troops. There was no Arab transla-
tion for pussy-wimp, but the thought was there.
"How may I be of service?"
"The task is simple. I have need of information, much informa-
tion that will be of extreme embarrassment to the United States.
Their Government operates illegally, their companies control the
country with virtual impunity from law. It is time that they are
tried for their crimes." Homosoto tailored his words so that his
guest would acquire an enthusiasm similar to his.
"Yes," Ahmed agreed. "They need to learn a lesson. But, Mr.
Homosoto, how can that be done without weapons? I assume you
want to attack their planes, their businesses, Washington per-
haps?" Ahmed was hopeful for the opportunity to give his loyal
troops the action they desired.
"In a manner of speaking, yes, my friend. We shall strike where
they least expect it, and in a way in which they are totally
unprepared." Homosoto softened his speech to further his pitch
to gain Ahmed Shah's trust and unity. "I am well aware of the
types of training that you and your people have gone through.
However, you must be aware, that Japan is the most technically
advanced country in the world, and that we can accomplish things
is a less violent manner, yet still achieve the same goals. We
shall be much more subtle. I assume you have been informed of
that by your superiors." Homosoto waited for Ahmed's response.
"As you say, we have been trained to expect, even welcome death
in the struggle against our adversaries. Yet I recognize that a
joint effort may be more fruitful for all of us. It may be a
disappointment to some of my people that they will not be permit-
ted the honor of martyrdom, but they are expected to follow
orders. If they do not comply, they will die without the honor
they crave. They will perform as ordered."
"Excellent. That is as I hoped." Homosoto beamed at the de-
veloping understanding. "Let me explain. My people will provide
you with the weapons of this new war, a type of war never before
fought. These are technological weapons that do not kill the
enemy. Better, they expose him for what he is. It will be up to
your army to use these weapons and allow us to launch later
attacks against the Americans.
"There are to be no independent actions or activities. None
without my and your direction and approval. Can you abide by
these conditions?"
"At the request of my Government and Allah, I will be happy to
serve you in your war. Both our goals will be met." Ahmed
glowed at the opportunity to finally let his people do something
after so much waiting.
Homosoto arose and stood over Ahmed. "We will make a valuable
alliance. To the destruction of America." He held his water
glass to Ahmed.
Ahmed responded by raising his glass. "To Allah, and the cause!"
They both drank deeply from the Perrier. Homosoto had one more
question.
"If one or more off your men get caught, will they talk?"
"They will not talk."
"How can you be so sure?" Homosoto inquired naively.
"Because, if they are caught, they will be dead."
"An excellent solution."
****************************************************************
Chapter 10
Tuesday, October 13
New York
COMPUTER ASSAULT CLAIMS VICTIMS
by Scott Mason
For the last few weeks the general press and computer media have
been foretelling the destruction to be caused by this year's
version of the dreaded Columbus Day Virus. AKA Data Crime, the
virus began exploding yesterday and will continue today, depend-
ing upon which version strikes your computer.
With all of the folderall by the TV networks and news channels,
and the reports of anticipated doom for many computers, I expect-
ed to wake up this morning and learn that this paper didn't get
printed, my train from the suburbs was rerouted to Calcutta and
Manhattan's traffic lights were out of order. No such luck.
America is up and running.
That doesn't mean that no one got struck by computer influenza,
though. There are hundreds of reports of widespread damage to
microcomputers everywhere.
The Bala Cynwyd, PA medical center lost several weeks of records.
Credit Card International was struck in Madrid, Spain and can't
figure out which customers bought what from whom. A few schools
in England don't know who their students are, and a University in
upstate New York won't be holding computer classes for a while.
William Murray of the Institute for Public Computing Confidence
in Washington, D.C., downplayed the incident. "We have had re-
ports of several small outbreaks, but we have not heard of any
particularly devastating incidents. It seems that only a few
isolated sites were affected."
On the other hand, Bethan Fenster from Virus Stoppers in McLean,
Virginia, maintains that the virus damage was much more wide-
spread. She says the outbreaks are worse than reported in the
press. "I personally know of several Fortune 100 companies that
will be spending the next several weeks putting their systems
back in order. Some financial institutions have been nearly shut
down because their computers are inoperable. It's the worst
(computer) virus outbreak I've ever seen."
Very few companies would confirm that they had been affected by
the Columbus Day Virus. "They won't talk to you," Ms. Fenster
said. "If a major company announced publicly that their comput-
ers were down due to criminal activity, there would be a certain
loss of confidence in that company. I understand that they feel
a fiduciary responsibility to their stockholders to minimize the
effects of this."
Despite Ms. Fenster's position, Forsythe Insurance, NorthEast
Airlines, Brocker Financial and the Internal Revenue Service all
admitted that they have had a 'major' disruption in their comput-
er services and expect to take two to six weeks to repair the
damage. Nonetheless, several of those companies hit, feel lucky.
"We only lost about a thousand machines," said Ashley Marie,
senior network manager at Edison Power. "Considering that we
have no means of protecting our computers at all, we could have
been totally put out of business." She said that despite the
cost to repair the systems, her management feels no need to add
security or protective measures in the future. "They believe
that this was a quirk, a one time deal. They're wrong," Ms.
Marie said.
Many small companies that said they have almost been put out of
business because they were struck by the Columbus Day Virus.
"Simply not true," commented Christopher Angel of the Anti-Virus
Brigade, a vigilante group who professes to have access to pri-
vate information on computer viruses. "Of all of the reports of
downed computers yesterday, less than 10% are from the Data
Crime. Anyone who had any sort of trouble is blaming it on the
virus rather than more common causes like hardware malfunction
and operator error. It is a lot more glamorous to admit being
hit by the virus that has created near hysteria over the last
month."
Whatever the truth, it seems to be well hidden under the guise of
politics. There is mounting evidence and concern that computer
viruses and computer hackers are endangering the contents of our
computers. While the effects of the Columbus Day Virus may have
been mitigated by advance warnings and precautionary measures,
and the actual number of infection sites very limited, computer
professionals are paying increasing attention to the problem.
This is Scott Mason, safe, sound and uninfected.
* * * * *
Wednesday, October 14
J. Edgar Hoover Building, FBI Headquarters
Washington, D.C.
The sweltering October heat wave of the late Indian summer pene-
trated the World War II government buildings that surrounded the
Mall and the tourist attractions. Window air conditioners didn't
provide the kind of relief that modern workers were used to. So,
shirtsleeves were rolled up, the nylons came off, and ties were
loose if present at all.
The streets were worse. The climatic changes that graced much of
North America were exaggerated in Washington. The heat was hot-
ter, the humidity wetter. Sweat was no longer a five letter
word, it was a way of life.
Union Station, the grand old train station near the Capitol
Building provided little relief. The immense volume of air to be
cooled was too much for the central air conditioners. They were
no match for mother nature's revenge on the planet for unforgiv-
ing hydrocarbon emissions. As soon as Tyrone Duncan detrained
from the elegant Metroliner he had ridden this morning from New
York's Penn Station, he was drenched in perspiration. He discov-
ered, to his chagrin, that the cab he had hailed for his ride to
headquarters had no air conditioning. The stench of the city,
and the garbage and the traffic fumes reminded him of home. New
York.
Tyrone showed his identification at the J. Edgar Hoover Building
wishing he had the constitution to wear a seersucker suit. There
is no way on God's earth a seersucker could show a few hours wear
as desperately as his $1200 Louis Boston did, he thought. Then,
there was the accompanying exhaustion from his exposure to the
dense Washington air. Duncan had not been pleased with the panic
call that forced him to Washington anyway. His reactions to the
effects of the temperature humidity index did not portend a good
meeting with Bob Burnson.
Bob had called Tyrone night before, at home. He said, we have a
situation here, and it requires some immediate attention. Would
you mind being here in the morning? Instead of a question, it
was an unissued order. Rather than fool around with hours of
delays at La Guardia and National Airport, Tyrone elected to take
the train and arrive in the nation's capitol just after noon. It
took, altogether just about the same amount of time, yet he could
travel in relative luxury and peace. Burnson was waiting for
him.
Bob Burnson held the title of National Coordinator for Tactical
Response for the FBI. He was a little younger that Duncan, just
over 40, and appeared cool in his dark blue suit and tightly
collared shirt. Burnson had an unlikely pair of qualities. He
was both an extraordinarily well polished politician and a astute
investigator. Several years prior, though, he decided that the
bureaucratic life would suit him just fine, and at the expense of
his investigative skills, he attacked the political ladder with a
vengeance.
Despite the differences between them, Burnson a willing compatri-
ot of the Washington machine and Duncan preferring the rigors of
investigation, they had developed a long distance friendship that
survived over the years. Tyrone was most pleased that he had a
boss who would at least give his arguments a fair listen before
being told that for this or that political reason, the Bureau had
chosen a different line of reasoning. So be it, thought Duncan.
I'm not a policy maker, just a cop. Tyrone sank into one of the
government issue chairs in Burnson's modern, yet modest office
ringed with large windows that can't open.
"How 'bout that Arctic Chill?" Burnson's short lithe 150 pound
frame showed no wear from the heat. "Glad you could make it."
"Shee . . .it man," Tyrone exhaled as he wiped his shiny wet
black face and neck. He was wringing wet. "Like I had a choice.
If it weren't for the company, I'd be at the beach getting a
tan." He continued to wipe his neck and head with a monogrammed
handkerchief.
"Lose a few pounds, and it won't hurt so bad. You know, I could
make an issue of it," Bob poked fun.
"And I'm outta here so fast, Hoover'll cheer from his grave," he
sweated. The reference to the FBI founder's legendary bigotry
was a common source of jokes in the modern bureau.
"No doubt. No doubt." Burnson passed by the innuendo. "Maybe
we'd balance the scales, too." He dug the knife deeper in refer-
ence to Tyrone's weight.
"That's two," said Duncan.
"Ok, ok," said Burnson feigning surrender. "How's Arlene and the
rest of the sorority?" He referred to the house full of women
with whom Tyrone had spent a good deal of his life.
"Twenty degrees cooler." He was half serious.
"Listen, since you're hear, up for a bite?" Bob tried.
"Listen, how 'bout we do business then grab a couple of cold
ones. Iced beer. At Camelot? That's my idea of a quality
afternoon." Camelot was the famous downtown strip joint on 18th
and M street that former Mayor Marion Berry had haunted and been
86'd from for unpublished reasons. It was dark and frequented by
government employees for lunch, noticeably the ones from Treas-
ury.
"Deal. If you accept." Bob's demeanor shifted to the officious.
"Accept what?" Tyrone asked suspiciously.
"My proposition."
"Is this another one of your lame attempts to promote me to an
office job in Capitol City?"
"Well, yes and no. You're being re-assigned." No easy way to
say it.
"To what?" exclaimed Tyrone angrily.
"To ECCO."
"What the hell is ECCO?"
"All in good time. To the point," Bob said calmly. "How much do
you know about this blackmail thing?"
"Plenty. I read the reports, and I have my own local problems.
Not to mention that the papers have picked it up. If it weren't
for the National Expos printing irresponsibly, the mainstream
press would have kept it quiet until there was some con-
firmation."
"Agreed," said Burnson. "They are being spoken to right now,
about that very subject, and as I hear it, they will have more
lawsuits on their doorstep than they can afford to defend. They
really blew it this time."
"What else?" Bob was listening intently.
"Not much. Loose, unfounded innuendo, with nothing to follow up.
Reminds me of high school antics or mass hysteria. Just like UFO
flaps." Tyrone Duncan dismissed the coincidences and the thought
of Scott's conspiracy theory. "But it does make for a busy day
at the office."
"Agreed, however, you only saw the reports that went on the wire.
Not the ones that didn't go through channels."
"What do you mean by that?" Duncan voiced concern at being out
of the loop.
"What's on the wire is only the tip of the iceberg. There's a
lot more."
"What else?"
"Senators calling the Director personally, asking for favors.
Trying to keep their secrets secret. A junior Midwest senator
has some quirky sexual habits. A Southern anti-pornography ball-
breaker happens to like little boys. It goes on and one. They've
all received calls saying that their secrets will be in the news-
papers' hands within days."
"Unless?" Duncan awaited the resolved threat.
"No unless, which scares them all senseless. It's the same story
everywhere. Highly influential people who manage many of our
countries' strategic assets have called their senators, and asked
them to insure that their cases are solved in a quiet and expedi-
ent political manner. Sound familiar?" Burnson asked Duncan.
"More than vaguely," Tyrone had to admit. "How many?"
"As of this morning we have 17 Senators asking the FBI to make
discreet investigations into a number of situations. 17! Not to
mention a couple hundred executive types with connections.
Within days of each other. They each, so far, believe that
theirs is an isolated incident and that they are the sole target
of such . . .threats is as good a word as any. Getting the
picture?"
Tyrone whistled to himself. "They're all the same?"
"Yes, and there's something else. To a man, each claimed that
there was no way the blackmailer could know what he knew. Impos-
sible." Burnson scratched his head. "Strange. Same story
everywhere. That's what got the Director and his cronies in on
this. And then me . . .and that's why you're here," Burnson
said with finality.
"Why?" Tyrone was getting frustrated with the roundabout dia-
tribe.
"We're pulling the blackmail thing to the national office and a
special task force will take over. A lot of folks upstairs want
to pull you in and stick you in charge of the whole operation,
but I told them that you weren't interested, that you like it the
way it is. So, I struck a deal." Burnson sounded proud.
Duncan wasn't convinced. "Deal? What deal? Since when do you
talk for me?" Tyrone didn't think to thank Bob for the front
line pass interference. Keep the politicos out of his hair.
"Have you been following any of the computer madness recently?"
Burnson spoke as though he expected Tyrone to know nothing of it.
"Can't miss it. From what I hear, a lot of people are getting
pretty spooked that they may be next."
"It gets more interesting than what the papers say," Bob said
while opening a desk drawer. He pulled out a large folder and
lay it across his desk. "We have experienced a few more computer
incidents than is generally known, and in the last several weeks
there has been a sudden increase in the number of attacks against
Government computers."
"You mean the INTERNET stuff and Congress losing it's mind?"
Tyrone laughed at the thought that Congress would now use their
downed computers as an excuse for not doing anything.
"Those are only the ones that have made it to the press. It's
lot worse." Bob scanned a few pages of the folder and para-
phrased while reading. "Ah, yes, the NPRP, National Pretrial
Reporting Program over at Justice . . .was hit with a series of
computer viruses apparently intentionally placed in VMS comput-
ers, whatever the hell those are." Bob Burnson was not computer
fluent, but he knew what the Bureau's computer could do.
"The Army Supply Center at Fort Stewart, Georgia had all of its
requisitions for the last year erased from the computer." Bob
chuckled as he continued. "Says here that they have had to pool
the guys' money to go to Winn Dixie to buy toilet paper and
McDonald's has offered a special GI discount until the system
gets back up."
"Ty," Bob said. " Some people on the hill have raised a stink
since their machines went down. Damn crybabies. So ECCO is being
activated."
"What the hell is ECCO?" Tyrone asked again.
"ECCO stands for Emergency Computer Crisis Organization. It's a
computer crisis team that responds to . . .well I guess, comput-
er crises." Bob opened the folder again. "It was formed during
the, and I quote, ' . . .the panic that followed the first INTER-
NET Worm in November of 1988.'"
Tyrone's mouth hung open. "What panic?"
"The one that was kept under absolute wraps," Bob said, slightly
lowering his voice. "At first no one knew what the INTERNET
event was about. Who was behind it. Why and how it was happen-
ing. Imagine 10's of thousands of computers stopping all at
once. It scared the shit out of the National Security Council,
remember we and the Russians weren't quite friends then, and we
thought that military secrets were being funneled straight to the
Kremlin. You can't believe some of the contingency plans I heard
about."
"I had no idea . . ."
"You weren't supposed to," Bob added. "Very few did. At any
rate, right afterward DARPA established CERT, the Computer Emer-
gency Response Team at Carnegie Mellon, and DCA set up a Security
Coordination Center at SRI International to investigate problems
in the Defense Data Network. Livermore and the DOE got into the
act with Computer Incident Advisory Capability. Then someone
decided that the bureaucracy was still too light and it deserved
at least a fourth redundant, overlapping and rival group to
investigate on behalf of Law Enforcement Agencies. So, there we
have ECCO."
"So what's the deal?" asked Tyrone. "What do I have to do?"
"The Director has asked ECCO to investigate the latest round of
viruses and the infiltration of a dozen or so sensitive and
classified computers." Bob watched for Ty's reaction, but saw
none yet. He wondered how he would take the news. "This time, we
would like to be involved in the entire operation from start to
finish. Make sure the investigation is done right. We'd like to
start nailing some of the bastards on the Federal level. Besides
you have the legal background and we are treading on some very
new and untested waters."
"I can imagine. So what's our role?"
"Your role," Bob emphasized 'your', "will be to liaison with the
other interested agencies."
"Who else is playing?" asked Tyrone with trepidation.
"Uh, that is the one negative," stammered Bob. "You've got NSA,
CIA, NIST, the NSC, the JCS and a bunch of others that don't
matter. The only rough spot is the NSA/NIST connection. Every-
one else is there just to make sure they don't miss anything."
"What's their problem?"
"Haven't heard, huh?" laughed Bob. "The press hasn't been kind.
They've been in such a pissing match for so long that computer
security work came to a virtual halt and I don't want to spoil
the surprise, ah, you'll see," he added chuckling.
Tyrone sat back in the chair as he was cool enough now not to
stick to it, closed his eyes and rotated his head to work out the
kinks. Bob never had gotten used to Tyrone's peculiar method of
deep thought; he found it most unnerving.
Bob's intents were crystal clear, not that Tyrone minded. He
had no desire to move to D.C.; indeed he would have quit instead.
He wanted to stay with the Bureau and the action but in his
comfortable New York existence. Otherwise, no. But, if he could
get Bob off his back by this one favor. Sure it might not be
real action, watching computer jockies play with
themselves . . .but it might be an interesting change in pace.
"Yes, under a couple of condition." Tyrone was suddenly a little
too agreeable and smug after his earlier hesitancy.
"Conditions? What conditions?" Bob's suspicion was clear.
"One. I do it my way, with no, and I mean, absolutely no inter-
ference." Duncan awaited a reply to his first demand.
"What else?"
"I get to use who I want to use, inside or outside the Bureau."
"Outside? Outside? We can't let this outside. The last thing
in the world we want is publicity."
"You're gonna get it anyway. Let's do it right this time."
"What do you mean by that?" Bob asked somewhat defensively.
"What I mean is," Tyrone spoke up, sounding confident, "that the
press are already on this computer virus thing and hackers and
all. So, let's not advertise it, but when it comes up, let's
deal with it honest."
"No way," blurted out Bob. "They'll make it worse than it is."
"I have that covered. A friend of my works for a paper, and he
is a potential asset."
"What's the trade?"
"Not much. Half day leads, as long as he keeps it fair."
"Anything else?" Bob asked, not responding to Ty.
"One last thing," Tyrone said sitting up straighter. "After this
one, you promise to let me alone and work my golden years, the
way I want, where I want until my overdue retirement."
"I don't know if I can . . ."
"Then forget it," interrupted Tyrone. "I'll just quit." It was
the penultimate threat and bluff and caught Bob off balance.
"Wait a minute. You can't hold me hostage . . ."
"Isn't that what you're doing to me?" Touch<130>!
Bob sat back in thought. To an event, Duncan had been right on.
He had uncannily been able to solve, or direct the solution of a
crime where all others had failed. And, he always put the Bureau
in the best possible light. If he didn't go with him now, lose
him for sure.
"And, I may need some discretionary funds." Duncan was making a
mental list of those things he thought he needed. His sources of
information were the most valuable. Without them, it would be a
bad case of babysitting sissy assed bureaucrats staking out their
ground.
"Yes to the money. Ouch, but yes to hands off your promotion.
Maybe, to the reporter. It's my ass, too, you know."
"You called me," Tyrone said calmly. "Remember?"
I can't win this one, thought Bob. He's never screwed up yet.
Not big time. As they say, with enough rope you either bring in
the gang or hang yourself. "I want results." That's all Bob
had to say. "Other than that, I don't give a good goddamn what
you do," Bob resigned.
"One more thing," Tyrone slipped in.
"What is it?" Bob was getting exasperated.
"It happens out of New York, not here."
"But . . ."
"No buts. Period."
"Ok, New York, but you report here when I need you. Agreed?"
"Agreed," said Tyrone agreeably. "Deal?"
"Yes, except no with the press, this reporter of yours. Agreed?"
"Whatever," Tyrone told Bob.
* * * * *
From his hotel room, Tyrone Duncan called Scott Mason at his
home. It was after 11P.M. EST, and Ty was feeling no pain after
several hours of drinking and slipping $10 bills into garter
belts at Camelot.
"RCA, Russian Division," Scott Mason answered his phone.
"Don't do that," Tyrone slurred. "That'll trigger the monitors."
"Oh, sorry, I thought you wanted the plans for the Stealth Bom-
ber . . ."
"C'mon, man," Tyrone pleaded. "It's not worth the paperwork."
Scott choked through his laughter. "I'm watching a Honeymooner
rerun. This better be good."
"We need to talk."
* * * * *
Thursday, October 15
Washington, D.C.
The stunning view of the Potomac was complete with a cold front
that brought a wave of crisp and clear air; a much needed change
from the brutal Indian Summer. His condo commanded a vista of
lights that reflected the power to manipulate the world. Miles
reveled in it. He and Perky lounged on his 8th. floor balcony
after a wonderfully satisfying romp in his waterbed. For every
action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Sex in a water-
bed meant the expenditure of the least energy for the maximum
pleasure. Ah, the beauty of applied mathematics.
Over the last four years Perky and Miles had seen each other on a
periodically regular basis. She was a little more than one of
Miles' sexual release valves. She was a semi-sorta-kinda girl
friend, but wouldn't have been if Miles had known that she re-
ported their liaisons back to her boss. Alex was not interested
in how she got her information. He only wanted to know if there
were any digressions in Miles mission.
They sipped Grande Fine from oversized brandy glasses. The
afterglow was magnificent and they saw no reason to detract from
it with meaningless conversation. Her robe barely covered her
firm breasts and afforded no umbrage for the triangle between her
legs. She wasn't ashamed of her nakedness, job or no job. She
enjoyed her time with Miles. He asked for nothing from her but
the obvious. Unlike the others who often asked her for solici-
tous introductions to others who wielded power that might further
their own particular lobby. Miles was honest, at least. He even
let her spend the night upon occasion.
At 2 A.M., as they gazed over the reflections in the Potomac,
Miles' phone warbled. He ignored the first 5 rings to Perky's
annoyance.
"Aren't you going to answer?" Her unspoken thoughts said,<MI> do
whatever you have to do to make that infernal noise top.<D>
"Expecting a call?" Miles asked. His eyes were closed, convey-
ing his internal peace. The phone rang again.
"Miles, at least get a machine." The phone rang a seventh time.
"Fuck." He stood and his thick terrycloth robe swept behind him
as he walked into the elegantly simple modern living room through
the open glass doors. He put down his glass and answered on the
8th ring.
"It's late," he answered. His 'I don't give a shit' attitude
was evident.
"Mr. Foster, I am most displeased." It was Homosoto. Miles
curled his lips in disgust as Perky looked in from her balcony
vantage.
Miles breathed heavily into the phone. "What's wrong now?" Miles
was trying to verbally show his distaste for such a late call.
"Our plans were explicit. Why have you deviated?" Homosoto was
controlled but forthright.
"What the hell are you talking about?" Miles sipped loudly from
the brandy glass.
"I have read about the virus, the computer virus. The whole
world in talking about it. Mr. Foster, you are early. I thought
we had an understanding."
"Hey!" Foster yelled into the phone. "I don't know where you get
off calling me at 2 in the morning, but you've got your head up
your ass."
"Excuse me Mr. Foster, I do not and could not execute such a
motion. However, do not forget we did have an agreement."
Homosoto was insistent.
"What the fuck are you talking about?" Miles was adamant.
"Since you insist on these games, Mr. Foster. I have read with
great interest about the so called Columbus Day Virus. I believe
you have made a great error in judgment."
Miles had just had about enough of this. "If you've got something
to say, say it." he snorted into the phone.
"Mr. Foster. Did we not agree that the first major strike was
not to occur until next year?"
"Yeah," Miles said offhandedly. He saw Perky open her eyes and
look at him quizzically. He made a fist with his right hand and
made an obscene motion near his crotch.
"Then, what is this premature event?" Homosoto persisted.
"Not mine." Miles looked out the balcony. Perky was invitingly
licking her lips. Miles turned away to avoid distraction.
"Mr. Foster, I find it hard to believe that you are not responsi-
ble."
"Tough shit."
"Excuse me?" Homosoto was taken aback.
"Simple. You are not the only person, and neither am I, the only
person who has chosen to build viruses or destructive computer
programs. We are merely taking a good idea and taking it to its
logical conclusion as a pure form of offensive weaponsry. This
one's not mine nor yours. It's someone elses."
The phone was silent for a few seconds. "You are saying there
are others?" The childlike naivete was coming through over
12,000 miles of phone wire.
"Of course there are. This will probably help us."
"How do you mean?"
"There are a hundreds of viruses, but none as effective as the
ones which we use. A lot of amateurs use them to build their
egos. Jerusalem-B, Lehigh, Pakistani, Brain, Marijuana, they all
have names. They have no purpose other than self aggrandizement.
So, we will be seeing more and more viruses appear that have
nothing to do with our efforts. I do hope you will not call
every time you hear of one. You know our dates. "
"Is there no chance for error?"
"Oh yes! There is, but it will be very isolated if it occurs.
Most viruses do not receive as much attention as this one, and
probably won't until we are ready. And, as I recall we are not
ready." Miles was tired of the timing for the hand holding
session. Ms. Perkins was beckoning.
"I hope you are right. My plans must not be interfered with."
"Our plans," Miles corrected. "my ass is on the line, too. I
don't need you freaking every time the press reports a computer
going on the fritz. It's gonna happen a lot."
"What will happen, Mr. Foster?" Homosoto was able to convey
disgust with a Japanese accent like no other.
"We've been through this before."
"Then go through it again," Homosoto ordered.
Miles turned his back to Perky and sat on the couch inside where
he was sure he could speak in privacy. "Listen here Homo,"
Miles scowled. "In the last couple of years viruses have been
become techno-yuppie amusements. The game has intensified as the
stakes have increased. Are you aware . . .no I'm sure you're
not, that the experts here say that, besides our work, almost
every local area network in the country is infected with a virus
of one type or another. Did you know that?"
"No, Mr. Foster, I didn't. How do you know that?" Homosoto
sounded unconvinced.
"It's my fucking job to know that. And you run an empire?"
"Yes, I know , and I hope you do, Mr. Foster, that you work for
me." Condenscention was an executive Oriental trait that Miles
found unsettling.
"For now, I do."
"You do, and will until our job is over. Is that clear Mr.
Foster? You have much to lose."
Miles sank deep into the couch, smirking and puckering his dim-
ples. He wanted to convey boredom. "I a job. You an empire."
"Do not be concerned about me. Good night, Mr. Foster."
Homosoto had quickly cut the line. Just as well, thought Miles.
He had enough of that slant-eyed slope-browed rice-propelled
mother-fucker for one night. He had bigger and better and harder
things to concern him.
* * * * *
October 31, 1989
Falls Church, Virginia.
"What do you mean gone?"
"Gone. Gone. It's just gone." Fred Porter sounded panicked.
Larry Ferguson, the Senior Vice President of First National Bank
did not appreciate the news he was getting from the Transfer
Department in New York. "Would you be kind enough to explain?"
he said with disdain.
"Yessir, of course." Porter took a deep breath. "We were running
a balance, the same one we run every day. And every day, they
balance. The transfers, the receipts, the charges . . .every-
thing. When we ran them last night, they didn't add up. We're
missing a quarter billion dollars."
"A quarter billion dollars? You better have one good explanation,
son."
"I wish I did," Porter sighed.
"All right, let's go through it top to bottom." Ferguson knew
that it was ultimately his ass if $250 Million was really miss-
ing.
"It's just as I told you."
"Then tell me again!" Ferguson bellowed.
"Yessir, sorry. We maintain transfer accounts as you know."
"Of course I know."
"During the day we move our transfer funds into a single account
and wait till the end of the day to move the money to where it
belongs. We do that because . . ."
"I know why we do it. Cause for every hundred million we hold
for half a day we make $16,000 in interest we don't have to pay
out."
"Yessir, but that's not official . . ."
"Of course it's not you idiot . . ."
"I'm sorry sir."
"As you were saying . . ." Ferguson was glad he had moved the
psychological stress to his underling.
"When we got to the account, about 9:00 A.M., it was empty.
That's it. Empty. All the money was gone."
"And, pray tell, where did it go?" Templeton said sarcastically.
"We don't know. It was supposed to have been transferred to
hundreds of accounts. Here and abroad. There's no audit of what
happened."
"Do you know how long it will take you to pay for this screw up
Porter?" Templeton demanded.
"Yessir."
"How long?"
"A hundred lifetimes," Porter said dejectedly.
"Longer. A lot longer." Ferguson really knew that Porter would-
n't pay any price. As long as the computer records showed he
wasn't at fault, he would continue to be a valued employee.
Ferguson himself was bound to be the scape goat.
"What do you want me to do, sir?" Porter asked.
"You've done enough. Just wire me the records. I need them
yesterday. I have to talk to Weinhauser." Ferguson hung up in
disgust. It was not going to be a good day.
****************************************************************
Chapter 11
Wednesday, November 4
The Stock Exchange, New York
Wall Street becomes a ghost town by early evening with the night
population largely consisting of guards, cleaning and maintenance
people. Tightly packed skyscrapers with their lighted windows
create random geometric patterns in the moonless cityscape and
hover ominously over dimly lit streets.
Joe Patchok and Tony Romano worked as private guards on the four
to midnight shift at the Stock Exchange on Cortland Street in
lower Manhattan. For a couple of young college guys this was the
ideal job. They could study in peace and quiet, nothing ever
happened, no one bothered them, and the pay was decent.
They were responsible for the 17th. and 18th. floors which had a
sole entrance and exit; controlled access. This was where the
central computers for the Stock Exchange tried to maintain sanity
in the market. The abuses of computer trading resulting in the
minicrash of 1987 forced a re-examination of the practice and the
subsequent installation of computer brakes to dampen severe
market fluctuations.
Hundreds of millions of shares exchanged every day are recorded
in the computers as are the international, futures and commodi-
ties trades. The dossiers on thousands upon thousands of compa-
nies stored in the memory banks and extensive libraries were used
to track investors, ownership, offerings, filings and provide
required information to the government.
Tony sat at the front guard desk while Joe made the next hourly
check through the offices and computer rooms. Joe strolled down
the halls, brilliantly lit from recessed ceiling fixtures. The
corridor walls were all solid glass, giving the impression of
more openness than was really provided by the windowless, climate
controlled, 40% sterile environment. There was no privacy
working in the computer rooms.
The temperature and humidity were optimized; the electricity
content of air was neutralized both electrostatically and by
nuclear ionization, and the air cycled and purified once an hour.
In the event of a catastrophic power failure, which is not un-
known in New York, almost 10,000 square feet was dedicated to
power redundancy and battery backup. In case of fire, heat
sensors trigger the release of halon gas and suck all of the
oxygen from the room in seconds. The Stock Exchange computers
received the best care.
Joe tested the handle on the door of each darkened room through
the myriad glass hallways. Without the computers behind the
glass walls, it might as well have been a House of Mirrors. He
noticed that the computer operators who work through the night
were crowded together at the end of a hall next to the only
computer rooms with activity. He heard them muttering about the
cleaning staff.
"Hey guys, problem?" Joe asked.
"Nah, we escaped," a young bearded man in a white lab coat said
pointing into the room. "His vacuum cleaner made one God awful
noise, so we came out here til' he was done."
"New cleaning service," Joe said offhandedly.
The dark complexioned cleaning man wore a starchy white uniform
with Mohammed's Cleaning Service emblazoned across the back in
bold red letters. They watched him, rather than clean the room,
fiddle with the large barrel sized vacuum cleaner.
"What's he doing?"
"Fixing that noise, I hope."
"What's he doing now?"
"He's looking at us and, saying something . . ."
"It looks like he's praying . . ."
"Why the hell would he . . ."
The entire 46 story building instantly went dark and the force of
the explosion rocked Tony from his seat fifty yards away. He
reached for the flashlight on his belt and pressed a series of
alarms on the control panel even though the video monitors were
black and the emergency power had not come on. Nothing. He ran
towards the sound of the blast and yelled.
"Hello? Hey?" he yelled nervously into the darkness.
"Over here, hurry," a distant pained voice begged.
Tony slid into a wall and stopped. He pointed his flashlight down
one hall. Nothing.
"Over here."
He jumped sideways and pointed the beam onto a twisted maze of
bodies, some with blood geysering into the air from their necks
and arms and legs. Tony saw that the explosion had shattered the
glass walls into thousands of high velocity razor sharp projec-
tiles. The corpses had been pierced, stabbed, severed and muti-
lated by the deadly shards. Tony felt nauseous; he was going to
be sick right then.
"Tony." A shrapnelled Joe squeaked from the mass of torn flesh
ahead of him.
"Holy shit . . ." Tony's legs to turned to jelly as he bent over
and gagged.
"Help me!"
The force of the blast had destroyed the glass partitions as far
as his light beam would travel. He pointed the light into the
room that exploded. The computer equipment was in shambles, and
then he saw what was left of the cleaning man. His severed head
had no recognizable features and pieces of his body were strewn
about. Tony suddenly vomited onto the river of blood that was
flowing his way down the hallway.
"I gotta go get help," Tony said choking. He pushed against the
wall to give him the momentum to overcome the paralysis his body
felt and ran.
"No, help me . . ."
He ran down the halls with his flashlight waving madly. The ele-
vators. They were out, too. Maybe the phone on the console.
Dead. He picked up the walkie-talkie and pushed the button.
Nothing. He banged the two way radio several times on the coun-
ter in the futile hope that violence was an electronic cure-all.
Dead. Tony panicked and threw it violently into the blackness.
Neither the small TV, nor his portable radio worked.
* * * * *
"I know it's almost midnight," Ben Shellhorne said into the
cellular phone. He cupped his other ear to hear over the commo-
tion at the Stock Exchange building.
"Quit your bitching. Look at it this way; you might see dawn for
the first time in your life." Ben joked. All time was equal to
Ben but he knew that Scott said he didn't do mornings. "Sure,
I'll wait," Ben said in disgust and waited with agitation until
Scott came back to the phone. "Good. But don't forget that beer
isn't just for breakfast."
He craned his neck to see that the NYPD Bomb Squad had just left
and gave the forensics team the go ahead. No danger.
"Listen," Ben said hurriedly. "I gotta make it quick, I'm going
in for some pictures." He paused and then said, "Yes, of course
after the bodies are gone. God, you can be gross." He paused
again. "I'll meet you in the lobby. One hour."
Ben Shellhorn, a denizen of the streets, reported stories that
sometimes didn't fit within the all-the-news-that's-fit-to-print
maxim. Many barely bordered on the decent, but they were all
well done. For some reason, unknown even to Ben, he attracted
news whose repulsiveness made them that much more magnetic to
readers. Gruesome lot we are, he thought.
That's why one of his police contacts called him to say that a
bunch of computer nerds were sliced to death. The Cheers rerun
was bringing him no pleasure, so sure, what the hell; it was a
nice night for a mutilation.
"It's getting mighty interesting, buddy boy," Ben said meeting
Scott as he stepped out of his filthy Red 911 in front of the
Stock Exchange an hour later. His press credentials performed
wonders at times. Like getting behind police lines and not
having to park ten blocks away.
The police had brought in generators to power huge banks of
lights to eerily light up the Stock Exchange building, all 500
feet of it. Emergency vehicles filled the wide street, every-
thing from ambulances, fire engines, riot vehicles and New York
Power. Then there were the DA's office, lawyers for the Ex-
change, insurance representatives and a ton of computer people.
"What the hell happened here?" Scott asked looking at the pande-
monium on the cordoned off Cortland Street. "Where are all the
lights?" He turned and gazed at the darkened streets and tall
buildings. "Did you know a bunch of the street lights are out,
too?" Scott meandered in seeming awe of the chaos.
"This is one strange one," Ben said as they approached the build-
ing entrance. "Let me ask you a question, you're the techno-
freak."
Scott scowled at him for the reference but didn't comment.
"What kind of bomb stops electricity?"
"Electricity? You mean power?" Scott pointed at the blackened
buildings and streets and Ben nodded. "Did they blow the block
transformers?"
"No, just a small Cemex, plastic, bomb in one computer room. Did
some damage, but left an awful lot standing. But the death toll
was high. Eleven dead and two probably not going to make it.
Plus the perp."
Scott gazed around the scene. The dark sky was pierced by the
top floors of the World Trade Center, and there were lights in
the next blocks. So it's not a blackout. And it wasn't the
power grid that was hit. A growing grin preceded Scott shaking
his head side to side.
"What is it?" Ben asked.
"A nuke."
"A nuke?"
"Yeah, that's it, a nuke," Scott said excitedly. "A nuke knocks
out power. Of course."
"Right," Ben said mockingly. "I can hear it now: Portion of
17th. Floor of Exchange Devastated by Nuclear Bomb. News at
Eleven."
"Never mind," Scott brushed it off. "Can we get up there?" He
pointed at the ceiling. "See the place?"
Ben pulled a few strings and spent a couple of hundred of Scott's
dollars but succeeded in getting to the corpse-less site of the
explosion. Scott visually poked around the debris and noticed a
curved porcelain remnant near his feet. He wasn't supposed to
touch, but, what was it? And the ruby colored chunks of glass?
In the few seconds they were left alone, they snapped a quick
roll of film and made a polite but hasty departure. At $200 a
minute Scott hoped he would find what he was looking for.
"Ben, I need these photos blown up, to say, 11 X 17? ASAP."
The press conference at 4:15 in the morning was necessary. The
Stock Exchange was not going to open Thursday. The lobby of the
Stock Exchange was aflood with TV camera lights, police and the
media hoards. Voices echoed loudly, between the marble walls and
floor and made hearing difficult.
"We don't want to predict what will happen over the next 24
hours," the exhausted stocky spokesman for the Stock Exchange
said loudly, to make himself heard over the din. "We have every
reason to expect that we can make a quick transition to another
system."
"How is that done?"
"We have extensive tape vaults where we store everything from the
Exchange computers daily. We will either use one of our backup
computers, or move the center to a temporary location. We don't
anticipate any delays."
"What about the power problem?" A female reporter from a local
TV news station asked.
"Con Ed is on the job," the spokesman said, pleased they were
picking on someone else. "I have every confidence they will have
things up and flying soon."
"What caused the power outage?"
"We don't have the answer to that now."
Scott edged to the front of the crowd to ask a question. "What
if," Scott asked the spokesman. "if the tapes were destroyed?"
"Thank God they weren't . . ." he said haltingly.
"Isn't it true," Scott ventured accusingly, "that in fact you
already know that every computer in this building is dead, all of
the emergency power backup systems and batteries failed and that
every computer tape or disk has been completely erased?" The
other reporters stood open mouthed at the unexpected question.
Scott spoke confidently, knowing that he was being filmed by the
networks. The spokesman nervously fumbled with some papers in
his hand. The press pool waited for the answer that had silenced
the spokesman. He stammered, "We have no . . .until power is
restored a full determination of the damage cannot be made . . ."
Scott pressed the point. "What would happen if the tapes were
all erased?"
"Uh, I, well . . ." he glanced from side to side. On his left
were two men dressed in matching dark blue suits, white shirts
and sunglasses. "It is best not to speculate until we have more
information."
"Computer experts have said that if the tapes are erased it would
take at least thirty days to recreate them and get the Exchange
open again. Is that correct?" Scott exaggerated. He was the
computer expert to whom he referred. Journalistic license.
"Under the conditions," the spokesman said trying to maintain a
credible visage to front for his lies, "I also have heard some
wildly exaggerated estimates. Let me assure you," the politician
in him came out here. "that the Exchange will in no way renege
on its fiduciary responsibilities to the world financial communi-
ty." He glanced at his watch. "I'm afraid that's all the time I
have now. We will meet here again at 9:00 A.M. for a further
briefing. Thank you." He quickly exited under the protection of
New York's finest as the reporters all shouted their last
questions. Scott didn't bother. It never works.
One of the men in the blue suits leaned over to the other and
spoke quietly in his ear. "Who is that guy asking all those ques-
tions?"
"Isn't that the reporter the Director was talking about?"
"Yeah. He said we should keep an eye on him."
* * * * *
Thursday, November 5
Tokyo, Japan
<<<<<<AUTOCRYPT MODE>>>>>>
MR. SHAH
Ahmed heard his computer announce that Homosoto was calling. He
pushed the joystick on the arm of his electric wheelchair and
proceeded over to the portable computer that was outfitted with
an untraceable cellular modem. Even if the number was traced
through four interstate call forwards and the original overseas
link, finding him was an entirely different matter. Ahmed entered
the time base PRG code from the ID card he kept strapped to his
wheelchair.
yes.
CONGRATULATIONS ON THE STOCK EXCHANGE.
yes. we were well served by martyrs. they are to
be honored.
CAN YOU HAVE MORE READY?
8 more.
WHEN?
1 month.
GOOD. PUT THEM HERE. SOCIAL SECURITY ADMINISTRATION, IMMIGRA-
TION AND NATURALIZATION, AMERICAN EXPRESS, NEW YORK FEDERAL
RESERVE, STATE FARM INSURANCE, FANNY MAE, CITIBANK AND FEDERAL
EXPRESS.
done.
DO IT AS SOON AS POSSIBLE. THEN MAKE MORE.
<<<<<<CONNECTION TERMINATED>>>>>>
* * * * *
Friday, November 6
New York City
The Stock Exchange didn't open Friday either.
Scott Mason had made enough of a stink about the erased tapes
that they could no longer hide under the cover of computer mal-
functions. It was finally admitted that yes, the tapes were
needed to verify all transactions, especially the computer trans-
actions, and they had been destroyed along with the entire con-
tents of the computer's memory and hard disks. Wiped out.
Totally.
The Exchange didn't tell the press that the National Security
Agency had been quietly called in to assist. The NSA specializes
in information gathering, and over the years with tens of bil-
lions of dollars in secret appropriations, they have developed
extraordinary methods to extract usable information where there
is apparently none.
The Exchange couriered a carton of computer tapes to NSA's Fort
Meade where the most sophisticated listening and analysis tools
in the world live in acres upon acres of underground laboratories
and data processing centers. What they found did not make the
NSA happy. The tapes had in fact been totally erased. A total
unidirectional magnetic pattern.
Many 'erased' tapes and disks can be recovered. One of the
preferred recovery methods is to use NMR Nuclear Magnetic Reso-
nance, to detect the faintest of organized magnetic orientations.
Even tapes or disks with secret information that have been erased
many times can be 'read' after an MNR scan.
The electromagnetic signature left remnant on the tapes, the
molecular alignment of the ferrous and chromium oxide particles
in this case were peculiarly characteristic. There was little
doubt. The NSA immediately called the Exchange and asked them,
almost ordered them, to leave the remaining tapes where they
were.
In less than two hours an army of NSA technicians showed up with
crates and vehicles full of equipment. The Department of Energy
was right behind with equipment suitable for radiation measure-
ments and emergency responses.
DOE quickly reached no conclusion. Not enough information.
Initially they had expected to find that someone had stumbled
upon a way to make highly miniaturized nuclear weapons. The men
from the NSA knew they were wrong.
* * * * *
It took almost six weeks for the Stock Exchange to function at
its previous levels. Trading was reduced to paper and less than
10,000,000 shares daily for almost two weeks until the temporary
system was expanded with staff and runners. Daily trading never
was able to exceed 27,000,000 shares until the computers came
back on line.
The SEC and the Government Accounting Office released preliminary
figures indicating the shut down of the Exchange would cost the
American economy almost $50 Billion this year. Congress is
preparing legislation to provide emergency funding to those firms
that were adversely affected by the massive computer failure.
The Stock Exchange has said that it will institute additional
physical and computer security to insure that there is no repeat
of the unfortunate suicide assault.
* * * * *
Sunday, November 8
Scarsdale, New York
"You never cease to amaze me," Tyrone said as he entered Scott's
ultra modern house. "You and this freaking palace. Just from
looking at you, I'd expect black lights, Woodstock posters and
sleeping bags." He couldn't recall if he had ever seen Scott
wear anything but jeans, t-shirts or sweat shirts and spotlessly
clean Reeboks.
Scott's sprawling 8000 square foot free form geometric white on
white home sat on 2 acres at the end of a long driveway heavily
treed with evergreens so that seclusion was maintained all year
long. Featured in Architectural Digest, the designers made
generous use of glass brick inside and out. The indoor pool
boasted sliding glass walls and a retractable skylight ceiling
which gave the impression of outdoor living, even in the midst of
a harsh winter.
"They're in the music room." Scott proceeded to open a set of
heavy oak double doors. "Soundproof, almost," he said cheerily.
A 72 inch video screen dominated one wall and next to it sat a
large control center with VCR's, switchers and satellite tuner.
Scott's audio equipment was as complex as Ty had ever seen and an
array of speaker systems flanked the huge television.
"Toys, you got the toys, don't you?" joked Tyrone.
"The only difference is that they cost more," agreed Scott. "You
wanna see a toy and a half? I invented it myself."
"Not another one?" groaned Tyrone. "That idiot golf machine of
yours was . . ."
"Capable of driving 350 yards, straight as an arrow."
"And as I remember, carving up the greens pretty good." Scott
and his rolling Golf Gopher had been thrown off of several
courses already.
"A few modifications, that's all," laughed Scott.
Scott led Tyrone through the immense family-entertainment room
into a deep navy blue, white accented Euro-streamlined automated
kitchen. It was like no other kitchen he had ever seen. In
fact, other than the sinks and the extensive counters, there was
no indication that this room was intended for preparing food.
Scott flipped a switch and suddenly the deep blue cabinet doors
faded into a transparent tint baring the contents of the shelves.
The fronts of the stoves, refrigerator and freezer and other
appliances exposed their function and controls.
"Holy Jeez . . ." Ty said in amazement. Last month this had been
a regular high tech kitchen of the 80's. Now it was the Jetsons.
"That's incredible . . .you invented that?"
"No," dismissed Scott. "That's just a neat trick of LCD panels
built into the cabinets. This was my idea." He pressed an
invisible switch and 4 ten inch openings appeared on the counter
top near the sink. "Combination trash compacter re-cycler.
Glass, plastic, aluminum, metal and paper. Comes out by the
garbage, ready to go to the center."
"Lazy son of a bitch aren't you?" Tyrone laughed loudly.
"Sure, I admit my idea of gardening is watching someone mow the
lawn." Scott feigned offense. "But this is in the name of
Green. I bet if you had one, you'd use it and Arlene would get
off your ass."
"No way," Tyrone objected. "My marriage is too good to screw up.
It's the only thing left we still fight about, and we both like
it just the way it is. Thanks, but no thanks. I'm old fashioned."
Scott showed Tyrone how to use the kitchen and he found that no
matter what he wanted, there was button for it, a hidden drawer
or a disguised appliance. "I still buy dishwashers at Sears.
How the hell do you know how to use this stuff," Ty said fumbling
with the automatic bottle opener which automatically dropped the
removed caps into the hole for the metal compactor.
Tyrone had come over to Scott's house for a quiet afternoon of
Sunday football. An ideal time because Arlene had gone to Boston
for the weekend with his daughters. Freedom!
They made it to the Music Room with their beers as the kickoff
was midfield. "So how's the promotion going?" Scott asked
Tyrone in half jest. Over the last few weeks, Ty had spent most
of his time in Washington and what little time was left with his
family.
"Promotion my ass. It's the only way I can not get a promotion."
Tyrone added somberly, "and it may be my last case."
"What do you mean?" Scott asked.
"It's gotten outta hand, totally out of hand. We have to spend
more time protecting the rights of the goddamned criminals than
solving crimes. That's not what it should be about. At least
not for me."
"You're serious about this," Scott said rhetorically.
"Hey, sooner or later I gotta call it quits," Ty replied soberly.
"But this computer thing's gonna make my decision easier."
"That's what I asked. How's the promotion?"
"Let's just say, more of the same but different. Except the
interagency crap is amazing. No one commits to anything, and
everything needs study and nothing gets done." Tyrone sighed.
He had been in Washington working with NIST, NSA, DoD and every
other agency that thought it had a vested interest in computers
and their protection. Their coordination with CERT and ECCO was
a joke, even by government standards.
At the end of the first quarter, the 49'ers were holding a solid
10 point lead. Scott grabbed a couple more beers and began tell-
ing Tyrone about the incident at the Exchange. The New York
Police had taken over the case, declaring sovereignty over Wall
Street and its enclaves.
"They don't know what they have, however," Scott said immodestly.
"The talk was a small scale nuke . . ."
"The DOE smashed that but fast," Scott interrupted. "What if I
told you that it was only the computers that were attacked? That
the deaths were merely incidental?"
Tyrone groaned as the 49'ers fumbled the ball. "I'd listen," he
said noncommittally.
"It was a classified magnetic bomb. NSA calls them EMP-T."
"Empty? The empty bomb?" Tyrone said skeptically. "Since when
does NSA design bombs?"
"Listen," said Scott trying to get Ty's attention away from the
TV. "Have you ever heard of C-Cubed, or C3?"
"No." He stared at the San Francisco defense being crushed.
"Command, Control and Communications It's a special government
program to deal with nuclear warfare."
"Pleasant thought," said Tyrone.
"Yeah, well, one result of a nuclear blast is a terrific release
of electromagnetic energy. Enough to blow out communications and
power lines for miles. That's one reason that silos are hardened
- to keep the communications lines open to permit the President
or whoever's still alive to shoot back."
"Like I said," Tyrone shuddered, "pleasant thought." He stopped
suddenly at turned to Scott. "So it was a baby nuke?"
"No, it was EMP-T," Scott said in such a way to annoy Ty.
"Electro Magnetic Pulse Transformer." The confusion on Tyrone's
face was clear. "Ok, it's actually pretty simple. You know what
interference sounds like on the radio or looks like on a TV?"
"Sure. My cell phone snaps, crackles and pops all of the time."
"Exactly. Noise is simply electromagnetic energy that interferes
with the signal. Right?" Scott waited for Tyrone to respond that
he understood so far.
"Good. Imagine a magnetic pulse so strong that it not only
interferes with the signal, but overloads the electronics them-
selves. Remember that electricity and magnetism are the same
force taking different forms."
Tyrone shook his head and curled his mouth. "Right. I knew that
all the time." Scott ignored him.
"The EMP-T bomb is an electromagnetic explosion, very very short,
only a few milliseconds, but incredibly intense." Scott gestured
to indicate the magnitude of the invisible explosion. "That was
the bomb that went off at the Stock Exchange."
"How can you possibly know that?" Tyrone asked with a hint of
professional derision. "That requires a big leap of faith . . ."
Scott leaned over to the side of the couch and picked up the two
items he had retrieved from the Exchange.
"This," Scott said handing a piece of ceramic material to Ty, "is
superconducting material. Real new. It can superconduct at room
temperature. And this," he handed Tyrone a piece of red glass,
"is a piece of a high energy ruby laser."
Tyrone turned the curios over and over in his hands. "So?" he
asked.
"By driving the output of the laser into a High Energy Static
Capacitive Tank, the energy can be discharged into the super
coil. The instantaneous release of energy creates a magnetic
field of millions of gauss." Scott snapped his fingers. "And
that's more than enough to blow out computer and phone circuits
as well as erase anything magnetic within a thousand yards."
Tyrone was now ignoring the football action. He stared alternate-
ly at Scott and the curious glass and ceramic remnants. "You're
bullshitting me, right? Sounds like science fiction."
"But the fact is that the Stock Exchange still isn't open. Their
entire tape library is gone. Poof! Empty, thus the name EMP-T.
It empties computers. Whoever did this has a real bad temper.
Pure revenge. They wanted to destroy the information, and not
the hardware itself. Otherwise the conventional blast would have
been stronger. The Cemex was used to destroy the evidence of the
EMP-T device."
"Where the hell do these bombs come from."
"EMP-T technology was originally developed as part of a Top
Secret DARPA project for the DoD with NSA guidance a few years
back."
"Then how do you know about it?"
"I did the documentation for the first manuals on EMP-T. Nothing
we got from the manufacturer was marked classified and we didn't
know or care."
"What was the Army going to do with them?" asked Tyrone, now with
great interest.
"You know, I had forgotten all about this stuff until the other
night, and then it all came back to me," Scott said mentally
reminiscing. "At the time we thought it was a paranoid joke.
Another government folly. The EMP-T was supposed to be shot at
the enemy to screw up his battlefield computers and radar and
electronics before the ground troops or helo's went it. As I
understand it, EMP-T bombs are made for planes, and can also be
launched from Howitzers and tanks. According to the manufactur-
er, they can't be detected and leave a similar signature to that
of a conventional nuclear blast. If there is such a thing as a
conventional nuke."
"Who else knows about this," Tyrone asked. "The police?"
"You think the NYPD would know what to look for?" Scott said
snidely. "Their bomb squad went home after the plastic explosive
was found."
"Right. Forget where I was."
"Think about it," Scott mused out loud. "A bomb that destroys
all of the computers and memory but leaves the walls standing."
"Didn't that asshole Carter want to build a nuke that would only
kill people but leave the city intact for the marauding invaders?
Neutron bombs, weren't they?"
"There's obviously nothing immoral about nuking computers," Scott
pontificated. "It was all part of Star Wars. Reagan's Strategic
Defense included attacking enemy satellites with EMP-T bombs.
Get all of the benefits and none of the fallout from a nuke.
There's no accompanying radiation."
"How easy is it to put one of the empty-things together?" Tyrone
missed another 49'er touchdown.
"Today?" Scott whistled. "The ones I saw were big, clumsy
affairs from the 70's. With new ceramics, and such, I would
assume they're a lot smaller as the Stock Exchange proves. A
wild guess? I bet that EMP-T is a garage project for a couple of
whiz kids, or if the government orders them, a couple hundred
thou each." Scott laughed at the absurdity of competitive bid-
ding for government projects. Everyone knew the government paid
more for everything. They would do a lot better with a VISA card
at K-Mart.
"I think I better take a look," Tyrone hinted.
"I thought you would, buddy. Thought you would." Scott replied.
They returned to the game 12 seconds before half time. The gun
went off. Perfect timing. Scott hated football. The only
reason in his mind for the existence of the Super Bowl was to
drink beer with friends and watch the commercials.
"Shit," declared Tyrone. "I missed the whole damned second quar-
ter." He grabbed another beer to comfort his disappointment.
"Hey," Scott called to Tyrone. "During the next half, I want to
ask you something."
Tyrone came back into the Music Room snickering. "What the hell
is that in your bathroom?"
"Isn't that great?" asked the enthused Scott. "It's an automatic
toilet seat."
"Now just what the devil is an automatic toilet seat? It pulls it
out and dries it off for you?" He believed that Scott was kid-
ding with some of his half baked inventions. That Scott subject-
ed any of his guests to their intermittent functioning was cruel
and inhuman punishment according to Tyrone.
"You're married with girls. Aren't they always on your case
about the toilet seat?"
"I've been married 26 years," Tyrone said with pride. "I con-
quered toilet seats on our honeymoon. She let me know right then
that she was boss and what the price of noncompliance was."
"Ouch, that's not fair," Scott said in sympathy. "I sleep-piss."
He held his hands out in front. "That's the only side effect
from too much acid. Sleep pissing."
Tyrone scrunched his face in disgust.
Scott spoke rapidly and loudly. "So for those of us who forget to
lower the seat after use, for those who forget to raise the seat;
for those who forget to raise the lid, Auto-Shit." Ty had tried
to ignore him, but Scott's imitation of a hyperactive cable
shopping network host demanded that one at least hear him out.
Ty's eyes teared.
"Make that woman in your life happy today. No more mess, fuss or
or morning arguments. No more complaints from the neighbors or
the health department. Auto-Shit. The toilet that knows your
needs. The seat for the rest of us. Available in 6 designer
colors. Only $49.95, Mastercard, VISA, No COD. Operators are
standing by."
Tyrone fell over on his side laughing. "You are crazy, man.
Sleep pissing. And, if you don't know it, no one, I mean no one
in his right mind has five trash compactors." Tyrone waved his
hand at Scott. "Ask me what you were gonna ask me."
"Off the record, Ty," Scott started, "how're the feds viewing
this mess?"
Tyrone hated the position he was in, but Scott had given him a
ltoe recently. It was time to reciprocate.
"Off?"
"So far off, so far off that if you turned the light "On" it
would still be off."
"It's a fucking mess," Tyrone said quickly. He was relieved to
be able to talk about it. "You can't believe it. I'm down there
to watch a crisis management team in action, but what do I find?"
He shook his head. "They're still trying to decide on the size
of the conference table." The reference caught Scott's ear.
"No, it's not that bad, but it might as well be."
"How is this ECCO thing put together? Who's responsible?"
"Responsible? Ha! No one," Tyrone chuckled as he recounted the
constant battles among the represented agencies. "This is the
perfect bureaucratic solution. No one is responsible for shit,
no one is accountable, but they all want to run the show. And,
no one agency clearly has authority. It's a fucking disaster."
"No one runs security? In the whole government, no one runs
security?"
"That's pushing it a little, but not too far off base."
"Oh, I gotta hear this," Scott said reclining in the deep plush
cloth covered couch.
"Once upon a time, a super secret agency, no one ever spoke the
initials, but it begins with the National Security Agency, got
elected by the Department of Defense to work out communications
security during the Cold War. They took their job very seriously.
"Then along came NIST and IBM who developed DES. The DOD formed
the Computer Security Initiative and then the Computer Security
Evaluation Center. The DOD CSEC became the DOD Computer Security
and then after NSA realized that everybody knew who they were, it
became the NCSC. Following this?"
Scott nodded only not to disrupt the flow.
"Ok, in 1977, Carter signed a bill that said to NSA, you take
over the classified national security stuff, but he gave the
dregs, the unclassified stuff to the NTIA, a piece of Commerce.
But that bill made a lot of people unhappy. So, along comes
Reagan who says, no that's wrong, before we get anything con-
structive done, let me issue a Directive, number 145, and give
everything back to NSA.
"That pissed off even more people and Congress then passed the
Computer Security Act of 1987, stripped NSA of what it had and
gave NIST the unclassified stuff. As a result, NSA closed the
NCSC, NIST is underbudgeted by a factor of 100 and in short, they
all want a piece of a very small pie. That took over 4 years.
And that's whose fault it is.
"Whose?"
"Congress of course. Congress passes the damn laws and then
won't fund them. Result? I get stuck in the middle of third tier
rival agency technocrats fighting over their turf or shirking
responsibility, and well , you get the idea. So I've got ECCO to
talk to CERT to talk to NIST to talk to . . .and it goes on ad
nauseum."
"Sorry I asked," joked Scott.
"In other words," Ty admitted, "I don't have the first foggy idea
what we'll do. They all seem hell bent on power instead of
fixing the problem. And the scary part?"
"What's that?"
"It looks like it can only get worse."
* * * * *
Tuesday, November 11
White House Press Room
"Mr. President," asked the White House correspondent for Time
magazine. "A recent article in the City Times said that the
military has been hiding a super weapon for years that is capable
of disabling enemy computers and electronics from a great dis-
tance without any physical destruction. Is that true, sir, and
has the use of those weapons contributed to the military's suc-
cesses over the last few years?"
"Ah, well," the President hesitated briefly. "The Stealth pro-
gram was certainly a boon to our air superiority. There is no
question about that, and it was kept secret for a decade." He
stared to his left, and the press pool saw him take a visual cue
from his National Security Director. "Isn't that right Henry?"
Henry Kennedy nodded aggressively. "We have the best armed
forces in the world, with all the advantages we can bring to
bear, and I will not compromise them in any way. But, if there
is such a classified program that I was aware of, I couldn't
speak of it even if I didn't know it existed." The President
picked another newsman. "Next, yes, Jim?"
During the next question Henry Kennedy slipped off to the ante-
room and called the Director of the National Security Agency.
"Marv, how far have you gotten on this EMP-T thing?" He waited
for a response. "The President is feeling embarrassed." Another
pause. "So the Exchange is cooperating?" Pause. Wait. "How
many pieces are missing?" Pause. "That's not what Mason's
article said." Longer pause. "Deal with it."
Immediately after the press conference, the President, Phil
Musgrave, his Chief of Staff, Henry Kennedy and Quinton Chambers
his old time ally and Secretary of State had an impromptu meeting
in the Oval Office.
They sat in the formal Queen Anne furniture as an elegant silver
coffee and tea service was brought in for the five men. Minus
Treasury Secreatry Martin Royce, this was the President' inner
circle, his personal advisory clique who assisted in making grand
national policy. Anything goes in one of these sessions, the
President had made clear in the first days of his Administration.
Anything.
We do not take things personally here, he would say. We have to
explore all options. All options. Even if they are distasteful.
And in these meeting, treat me like one of the guys. "Yes, sir,
Mr. President." The only formality of their caucuses was the
President's fundamental need to mediate the sometimes heated
dialogues between his most trusted aids. They were real
free-for-alls.
"Henry," the President said. "Before we start, who was that
reporter? Where the hell did that question come up about the
weapon stuff?"
"Forget him. The story started at the City Times. Scott Mason,
sir." Musgrave replied quickly. His huge football center sized
body overwhelmed the couch on which he sat. "He's been giving
extensive coverage to computer crime."
"Well, do we have such a bomb?" he asked with real curiosity.
"Ah, yessir," Henry Kennedy responded. "It's highly classified.
But the object is simple. Lob in a few of the EMP-T bombs as
they're called, shut down their communications and control, and
move in during the confusion. Very effective, sir."
"Well, let's see what we can do about keeping secrets a little
better. O.K., boys?" The President's charismatic hold over even
his dear friends and long time associates made him one of the
most effective leaders in years. If he was given the right
information.
The President scanned a few notes he had made on a legal pad.
"Can I forget about it?" the President closely scrutinized Henry
for any body language.
"Yessir."
The President gave Henry one more glance and made an obvious
point of highlighting the item. The subject would come up again.
****************************************************************
Chapter 12
Thursday, November 14
NASA Control Center, Johnson Space Center
The voice of Mission Control spoke over the loudspeakers and into
hundreds of headsets.
THE GROUND LAUNCH SEQUENCER HAS BEEN INITIATED. WE'RE AT T-MINUS
120 SECONDS AND COUNTING.
The Space Shuttle Columbia was on Launch Pad 3, in its final
preparation for another secret mission. As was expected, the
Department of Defense issued a terse non-statement on its pur-
pose: "The Columbia is carrying a classified payload will be used
for a series of experiments. The flight is scheduled to last
three days."
In reality, and most everyone knew it, the Columbia was going to
release another KH-5 spy satellite. The KH-5 series was able,
from an altitude of 110 miles, to discern and transmit to Earth
photos so crisp, it could resolve the numbers on an automobile
license plate. The photographic resolution of KH-5's was the
envy of every government on the planet, and was one of the most
closely guarded secrets that everyone knew about.
T-MINUS 110 SECONDS AND COUNTING.
Mission control specialists at the Cape and in Houston monitored
every conceivable instrument on the Shuttle itself and on the
ground equipment that made space flight possible.
A cavernous room full of technicians checked and double checked
and triple checked fuel, temperature, guidance, computers sys-
tems, backup systems, relays, switches, communications links,
telemetry, gyros, the astronauts' physiology, life support
systems, power supplies . . .everything had a remote control
monitor.
"The liquid hydrogen replenish has been terminated, LSU pressuri-
zation to flight level now under way. Vehicle is now isolated
from ground loading equipment."
@COMPUTER T-MINUS 100 SECONDS AND COUNTING
"SRB and external tank safety devices have been armed. Inhibit
remains in place until T-Minus 10 seconds when the range safety
destruct system is activated."
The Mission Control Room had an immense map of the world spread
across its 140 feet breadth. It showed the actual and projected
trajectories of the Shuttle. Along both sides of the map were
several large rear projection video screens. They displayed the
various camera angles of the launch pad, the interior of the
Shuttle's cargo hold, the cockpit itself and an assortment of
other shots that the scientists deemed important to the success
of each flight.
T-MINUS 90 SECONDS AND COUNTING
"At the T-Minus one minute mark, the ground launch sequencer will
verify that the main shuttle engines are ready to start."
T-MINUS 80 SECONDS AND COUNTING
"Liquid hydrogen tanks now reported at flight pressure."
The data monitors scrolled charts and numbers. The computers
spewed out their data, updating it every few seconds as the
screens flickered with the changing information.
T-MINUS 70 SECONDS AND COUNTING
The Voice of Mission Control continued its monotone countdown.
Every airline passenger is familiar with the neo-Texas twang that
conveys sublime confidence, even in the tensest of situations.
The Count-down monitor above the global map decremented its
numbers by the hundredths of seconds, impossible for a human to
read but terribly inaccurate by computer standards.
"Coming up on T-Minus one minute and counting."
T-MINUS 60 SECONDS.
"Pressure systems now armed, lift off order will be released at
T-Minus 16 seconds."
The voice traffic became chaotic. Hundreds of voices give their
consent that their particular areas of responsibility are ship-
shape. The word nominal sounds to laymen watching the world over
as a classic understatement. If things are great, then say 'Fuel
is Great!' NASA prefers the word Nominal to indicate that sys-
tems are performing as the design engineers predicted in their
simulation models.
T-MINUS 50 SECONDS AND COUNTING.
The hoses that connect the Shuttle to the Launch Pad began to
fall away. Whirls of steam and smoke appeared around portions of
the boosters. The tension was high. 45 seconds to go.
"SRB flight instrumentation recorders now going to record."
Eyes riveted to computer screens. It takes hundreds of computers
to make a successful launch. Only the mission generalists watch
over the big picture; the screens across the front of the behe-
moth 80 foot high room.
T-MINUS 40 SECONDS AND COUNTING
"External tank heaters now turned off in preparation for launch."
Screens danced while minds focused on their jobs. It wasn't until
there were only 34 seconds left on the count down clock that anyone
noticed.
The main systems display monitor, the one that contained the sum of
all other systems information displayed a message never seen before
by anyone at NASA.
@COMPMEMO "CHRISTA MCAULIFFE AND THE CHALLENGER WELCOME THE CREW
OF THE SPACE SHUTTLE COLUMBIA."
"We have a go for auto sequence start. Columbia's forward comput-
ers now taking over primary control of critical vehicle functions
through lift-off."
T-MINUS 30 SECONDS AND COUNTING
"What the hell is that?" Mission Specialist Hawkins said to the
technician who was monitoring the auto-correlation noise reduc-
tion systems needed to communicate with the astronauts once in
space.
TWENTY NINE
"What?" Sam Broadbent took off his earpiece.
TWENTY EIGHT
"Look at that." Hawkins pointed at the central monitor.
TWENTY SEVEN
"What does that mean, it's not in the book?"
TWENTY SIX
"I dunno. No chances though." Hawkins switched his intercom
selector to 'ALL', meaning that everyone on line, including the
Mission Control Director would hear.
TWENTY FIVE
"We have an anomaly here . . ." Hawkins said into his mouthpiece.
TWENTY FOUR
"Specify anomaly, comm," The dry voice returned. Hawkins wasn't
quite sure how to respond. The practice runs had not covered
this eventuality.
TWENTY THREE
"Look up at Video 6. Switching over." Hawkins tried to remain
unflustered.
TWENTY TWO
"Copy comm. Do you contain?"
TWENTY ONE
"Negative Mission Control. It's an override." Hawkins answered.
TWENTY - FIRING SEQUENCE NOMINAL
The voice of Mission Control annoyed Hawkins for the first time
in his 8 years at NASA.
"Confirm and update."
NINETEEN
Hawkins blew his cool. "Look at the goddamned monitor for Chris-
sakes. Just look!" He yelled into the intercom.
EIGHTEEN
"Holy . . .who's . . .please confirm, local analysis," the sober
voice sounded concerned for the first time.
SEVENTEEN
"Confirmed anomaly." "Confirmed." "Confirmed." "Confirmed."
The votes streamed in.
SIXTEEN
"We have a confirm . . ."
T-MINUS 15 SECONDS AND COUNTING.
TEN
"We have a go for main engine start."
SEVEN
SIX
FIVE
"We have a main engine start . . .we have a cut off."
"Columbia, we have a monitor anomaly, holding at T-minus 5."
"That's a Roger, Houston," the commander of Space Shuttle Colum-
bia responded calmly.
"We have a manual abort override. Columbia's on board computers
confirm the cut-off. Can you verify, Columbia?"
"That's a Roger."
The huge block letter message continued to blaze across the
monitors. Craig Volker spoke rapidly into his master intercom
system. "Cut network feed. Cut direct feed. Cut now! Now!" All
TV networks suddenly lost their signal that was routed through
NASA's huge video switches. NASA's own satellite feed was simul-
taneously cut as well. If NASA didn't want it going to the public
it didn't get sent.
CNN got the first interview with NASA officials.
"What caused today's flight to be aborted?"
"We detected a slight leak in the fuel tanks. We believe that
the sensors were faulty, that there was no leak, but we felt in
the interest of safety it would be best to abort the mission.
Orbital alignment is not critical and we can attempt a relaunch
within 2 weeks. When we know more we will make further informa-
tion available." The NASA spokesman left abruptly.
The CNN newsman continued. "According to NASA, a malfunctioning
fuel monitor was the cause of today's aborted shuttle launch.
However, several seconds before the announced abort, our video
signal was cut by NASA. Here is a replay of that countdown
again."
CNN technicians replayed one of their video tapes. The video
monitors within Mission Control were not clear on the replay. But
the audio was. "Look at the goddamned monitor for Chrissakes.
Just look." Then the video went dead.
* * * * *
Steve Billings received an urgent message on his computer's E-
Mail when he got home from classes. All it said was
PHONE HOME
He dialed NEMO directly this time.
<<<<<<CONNECTION>>>>>>
He chose CONVERSATION PIT from the menu. La Creme was there,
alone and probably waiting.
What's the panic?
YOU DON'T KNOW? <<CREME>>
Just finished exams . . .been locked up in student hell . . .
NASA ABORT . . .SHUTTLE WENT TO SHIT. <<CREME>>
So? More Beckel fuel problems I s'pose.
UH . . .UH. NOT THIS TIME. NASA GOT AN INVITATION. <<CREME>>
From aliens? SETI finally came through?
NOPE. FROM CHRISTA MCAULIFFE. <<CREME>>
Right.
SERIOUS. SHE WELCOMED THE CREW OF COLUMBIA. <<CREME>>
Get real . . .
I AM. CHECK OUT CNN. THEY RECONSTRUCTED THE VIDEO SIGNAL BEFORE
NASA SHUT THE FEED DOWN. THE MONITORS HAD A GREETING FROM CHRIS-
TA. ABORTED THE DAMN MISSION. <<CREME>>
I don't get it.
NEITHER DO I. BUT, DON'T YOU PLAY AROUND IN NASA COMPUTERS?
<<CREME>>
Sure I do. Poke and Play. I'm not alone.
AND REPROGRAM THE LAUNCH COMPUTERS? <<CREME>>
Never. It's against the Code.
I KNOW THAT, BUT DO YOU? <<CREME>>
What are getting at?
OK GOOD BUDDY . . .STRAIGHT SHOOTING. DID YOU GO IN AND PUT SOME
MESSAGES ON MISSION CONTROL COMPUTERS? <<CREME>>
Fuck, no. You know better than that.
I HOPED YOU'D SAY THAT. <<CREME>>
Hey . . .thanks for the vote of confidence.
NO OFFENSE DUDE. HADDA ASK. THEN IF YOU DIDN'T WHO DID?
<<CREME>>
I don't know. That's sick.
NO SHIT SHERLOCK. NASA'S ONE PISSED OFF PUPPY. THEY HAVEN'T
GONE PUBLIC YET, BUT THE MEDIA'S GOT IT PEGGED THAT HACKERS ARE
RESPONSIBLE. WE MAY HAVE TO LOCK IT UP.
Damn. Better get clean.
YOU LEAVE TRACKS?
Nah. They're security is for shit. No nothing. Besides, I get
in as SYSOP. I can erase my own tracks.
BETTER BE SURE.
I'm not going back, not for a while.
THERE'S GONNA BE SOME SERIOUS HEAT ON THIS.
Can't blame 'em. What d'you suggest? I'm clean, really.
BELIEVE YOU GUY. I DO. BUT WILL THEY?
I hope so . . .
* * * * *
Friday, November 15
New York City Times
NASA SCRUBS MISSION: HACKERS AT PLAY?
by Scott Mason
NASA canceled the liftoff of the space shuttle Columbia yester-
day, only 15 seconds prior to liftoff. Delays in the troubled
shuttle program are nothing new. It seems that just about every-
thing that can go wrong has gone wrong in the last few years.
We watch fuel tanks leak, backup computers go bad, life support
systems malfunction and suffer through a complete range of incom-
prehensible defects in the multi-billion dollar space program.
We got to the moon in one piece, but the politics of the Shuttle
Program is overwhelming.
Remember what Senator John Glenn said during his historic 3 orbit
mission in the early days of the Mercury Program. "It worries me
some. To think that I'm flying around up here in a machine built
by the lowest bidder."
At the time, when the space program had the support of the coun-
try from the guidance of the young Kennedy and from the fear of
the Soviet lead, Glenn's comment was meant to alleviate the
tension. Successfully, at that. But since the Apollo fire and
the Challenger disaster, and an all too wide array of constant
technical problems, political will is waning. The entire space
program suffers as a result.
Yesterday's aborted launch echoes of further bungling. While the
management of NASA is undergoing critical review, and executive
replacements seem imminent, the new breed will have to live with
past mistakes for some time. Unfortunately, most Americans no
longer watch space launches, and those that do tune out once the
astronauts are out of camera range. The Space Program suffers
from external malaise as well as internal confusion.
That is, until yesterday.
In an unprecedented move, seconds after the countdown was halted,
NASA cut its feeds to the networks and all 4 channels were left
with the omnipresent long lens view of the space shuttle sitting
idle on its launch pad. In a prepared statement, NASA blamed the
aborted flight on yet another leak from the massive and explo-
sive 355,000 gallon fuel tanks. In what will clearly become
another public relations fiasco, NASA lied to us again. It
appears that NASA's computers were invaded.
CNN cooped the other three networks by applying advanced digital
reconstruction to a few frames of video. Before NASA cut the
feed, CNN was receiving pictures of the monitor walls from Mis-
sion Control in Houston, Texas. Normally those banks of video
monitors contain critical flight information, telemetry, orbital
paths and other data to insure the safety of the crew and machin-
ery.
Yesterday, though, the video monitors carried a message to the
nation:
CHRISTA MCAULIFFE AND THE CHALLENGER WELCOME THE CREW OF THE
SPACE SHUTTLE COLUMBIA.
This was the message that NASA tried to hide from America.
Despite the hallucinations of fringe groups who are prophesizing
imminent contact with an alien civilization, this message was not
from a large black monolith on the Moon or from the Red Spot on
Jupiter. A Star Baby will not be born.
The threatening words came from a deranged group of computer
hackers who thought it would be great sport to endanger the lives
of our astronauts, waste millions of taxpayer dollars, retard
military space missions and make a mockery of NASA. After con-
fronted with the undisputed evidence that CNN presented to NASA
officials within hours of the attempted launch, the following
statement was issued:
"The Space Shuttle Columbia flight performing a military mission,
was aborted 5 seconds prior to lift-off. First reports indicated
that the reason was a minor leak in a fuel line. Subsequent
analysis showed, though, that the Side Band Communications Moni-
toring System displayed remote entry anomalies inconsistent with
program launch sequence. Automatic system response mechanisms
put the count-down on hold until it was determined that intermit-
tent malfunctions could not be repaired without a launch delay.
The launch date has been put back until November 29."
Permit me to translate this piece of NASA-speak with the straight
skinny.
The anomaly they speak of euphemistically was simple: A computer
hacker, or hackers, got into the NASA computers and caused those
nauseating words to appear on the screen. The implication was
obvious. Their sickening message was a distinct threat to the
safety of the mission and its crew. So, rather than an automat-
ic systems shut-down, as the CNN tape so aptly demonstrates, a
vigilant technician shouted, "Look at the g_______ed monitor for
Chrissakes! Just look!"
While the NASA computers failed to notice that they had been
invaded from an outside source, their able staff prevented what
could have been another national tragedy. Congratulations!
If computer hackers, those insidious little moles who secretively
poke through computer systems uninvited and unchecked, are the
real culprits as well placed NASA sources suggest, they need to
be identified quickly, and be prosecuted to the fullest extent
possible. There are laws that have been broken. Not only the
laws regarding computer privacy, but legal experts say that cases
can be made for Conspiracy, Sedition, Blackmail, Terrorism and
Extortion.
But, according to computer experts, the likelihood of ever find-
ing the interlopers is " . . .somewhere between never and none.
Unless they left a trail, which good hackers don't, they'll get
away with this Scott free."
Hackers have caused constant trouble to computer systems over the
years, and incidents have been increasing in both number and
severity. This computer assault needs to be addressed immediate-
ly. America insists on it. Not only must the hacker responsible
for this travesty be caught, but NASA must also explain how their
computers can be compromised so easily. If a bunch of kids can
enter one NASA communications computer, then what stops them from
altering flight computers, life support systems and other comput-
er controlled activities that demand perfect operation?
NASA, we expect an answer.
This is Scott Mason, waiting for NASA to lift-off from its duff
and get down to business.
* * * * *
Friday, November 15
New York City.
Scott Mason picked up the phone on the first ring.
"Scott Mason," he said without thinking.
"Mr. Mason? This is Captain Kirk." The voice was serious, but
did not resonate as did the distinctive voice that belonged to
William Shatner. Scott laughed into the phone.
"Live long and prosper." Mason replied in an emotionless voice.
"I need to talk to you," the voice came right back.
"So talk." Scott was used to anonymous callers so he kept the
rhythm of the conversation going.
"You have it all wrong. Hackers aren't the ones." The voice was
earnest.
"What are you talking about?" Scott asked innocuously.
"Your articles keep saying that hackers cause all the trouble on
computers. You're wrong."
"Says who?" Scott decided to play along.
"Says me. You obviously don't know about the Code."
"What code?" This was getting nowhere fast.
"Listen, I know your phone is tapped, so I only have another few
seconds. Do you want to talk?"
"Tapped? What is this all about?" The annoyance was clear in
Scott's voice.
"You keep blaming everything on hackers. You're wrong."
"Prove it." Scott gave this phone call another 10 seconds.
"I've been inside the NASA computers."
That got Scott to wake up from the droll papers on his desk.
"Are you telling me you wrote the message . . .?" Scott could
not contain his incredulity.
"God, no." Captain Kirk was firm. "Do you have a modem? At
home?"
"Yeah, so what." Scott gave the caller only another 5 seconds.
"What's the number?"
"Is this love or hate?" Time's up thought Scott.
"News."
"What?"
"News. Do I talk to you or the National Expos<130>? I figured
you might be a safer bet." The voice who called himself Captain
Kirk gave away nothing but the competitive threat was effective.
"No contest. If it's real. What have you got?" Scott paid atten-
tion.
"What's the number?" the voice demanded. "Your modem."
"Ok! 914-555-2190." Scott gave his home modem number.
"Be on at midnight." The line went dead.
Scott briefly mentioned the matter to his editor, Doug, who in
turn gave him a very hard time about it. "I thought you said
virus hacker connection was a big ho-hum. As I recall, you said
they weren't sexy enough? What happened?"
"Eating crow can be considered a delicacy if the main course is
phenomonal."
"I see," laughed Doug. Creative way out, he thought.
"He said he'd been plowing around NASA computers," Scott argued.
"Listen, ask your buddy Ben how many crackpots admit to crimes
just for the attention. It's crap." Doug was too jaded, thought
Scott.
"No, no, it's legit," Scott said defensively. "Sounds like a
hacker conspiracy to me."
"Legit? Legit?" Doug laughed out loud. "Your last column just
about called for all computer junkies to be castrated and drawn
and quartered before they are hung at the stake. And now you
think an anonymous caller who claims to be a hacker, is for
real? C'mon, Scott. You can't have it both ways. Sometimes
your conspiracies are bit far fetched . . ."
"And when we hit, it sells papers." Scott reminded his boss that
it was still a business.
Nonetheless, Doug made a point that hit home with Scott. Could
he both malign computer nerds as sub-human and then expect to
derive a decent story from one of them? There was an inconsist-
ency there. Even so, some pretty despicable characters have
turned state's evidence and made decent witnesses against their
former cohorts. Had Captain Kirk really been where no man had
been before?
"You don't care if I dig a little?" Scott backed off and played
the humble reporter.
"It's your life." That was Doug's way of saying, "I told you
there was a story here. Run!"
"No problem, chief." Scott snapped to mock attention and left
his editor's desk before Doug changed his mind.
* * * * *
Midnight
Scarsdale, New York
Scott went into his study to watch Nightline after grabbing a
cold beer and turned on the light over his computer. His study
could by all standards be declared a disaster area, which his ex-
wife Maggie often did. In addition to the formal desk, 3 folding
tables were piled high with newspapers, loose clippings, books,
scattered notes, folders, magazines, and crumpled up paper balls
on the floor. The maid had refused to clean the room for 6
months since he blamed her for disposing of important notes that
he had filed on the floor. They were back on good terms, he had
apologized, but his study was a no-man's, or no maid's land.
Scott battled to clear a place for his beer as his computer
booted up. Since he primarily used his computer for writing, it
wasn't terribly powerful by today's standards. A mere 386SX
running at 20 megahertz and comparatively low resolution VGA
color graphics. It was all he needed. He had a modem in it to
connect to the paper's computer. This way he could leave the
office early, write his articles or columns at home and still
have them in by deadline. He also owned a GRiD 386 laptop com-
puter for when he traveled, but it was buried beneath a mound of
discarded magazines on one of the built-in floor to ceiling
shelves that ringed the room.
Scott wondered if Kirk would really call. He had seemed paranoid
when he called this afternoon. Phones tapped? Where did he ever
get that idea? Preposterous. Why wouldn't his phone at home be
tapped if the ones at work were? We'll see.
Scott turned the old 9" color television on the corner of the
desk to Nightline. Enough to occupy him even if Kirk didn't call.
He set the ComPro communications program to Auto-Answer. If
Kirk, or anyone else did call him, the program would automatical-
ly answer the phone and his computer would alert him that someone
else's computer had called his computer.
He noticed the clock chime midnight as Nightline went overtime to
further discuss the new Soviet Union. Fascinating, he thought.
I grow up in the 60's and 70's when we give serious concern to
blowing up the world and today our allies of a half century ago,
turned Cold War enemy, are talking about joining NATO.
At 12:02, Scott Mason's computer beeped at him. The beeping
startled him.
He looked at the computer screen as a first message appeared.
WTFO
Scott didn't know what to make of it, so he entered a simple
response.
Hello.
The computer screen paused briefly then came alive again.
ARE YOU SCOTT MASON?
Scott entered 'Yes'.
THIS IS KIRK
Scott wondered what the proper answer was to a non-question by a
computer. So he retyped in his earlier greeting.
Hello. Again.
IS THIS YOUR FIRST TIME?
What a question! Scott answered quickly.
Please be gentle.
NO . . .AT CHATTING ON COMPUTER . . .
I call the computer at work. First time with a stranger. Is it
safe?
Scott had a gestalt realization. This was fun. He didn't talk
to the paper's computer. He treated it as an electronic mailbox.
But this, there was an attractiveness to the anonymity behind the
game. Even if this Kirk was a flaming asshole, he might have
discovered a new form of entertainment.
VERY GOOD. YOU'RE QUICK.
Not too quick, sweetheart.
IS THIS REALLY SCOTT MASON?
Yes.
PROVE IT.
Kirk, or whoever this was, was comfortable with anonymity, obvi-
ously. And paranoid. Sure, play the game.
You screwed up the NASA launch.
I DID NOT!!!!!!!!!! OK, IT'S YOU.
Glad to know it.
YOU GOT IT ALL WRONG.
What do I have wrong?
ABOUT HACKERS. WE'RE NOT BAD. ONLY A FEW BAD APPLES, JUST LIKE
COPS AND REPORTERS. I HOPE YOU'RE A GOOD GUY.
You called me, remember?
STILL, IT'S NOT LIKE YOU THINK.
Sure, I think.
NO NO NO . . .HACKERS. WE'RE BASICALLY A GOOD LOT WHO ENJOY
COMPUTERS FOR COMPUTERS SAKE.
That's what I've been saying
REALLY. HEY, DO YOU KNOW WHAT A HACKER REALLY IS?
A guy who pokes his nose around where it's not wanted. Like in
NASA computers.
YEAH, THAT'S WHAT THE PRESS SAYS AND SO THAT'S WHAT THE COUNTRY
THINKS. BUT IT'S NOT NECESSARILY SO.
So, change my mind.
LET ME GIVE YOU THE NAMES OF A FEW HACKERS. BILL GATES. HE
FOUNDED MICROSOFT. WORTH A COUPLE OF BILLION. MITCH KAPOR.
FOUNDED LOTUS. STEVE WOZNIAK FOUNDED APPLE. GET THE POINT?
You still haven't told me what you think a hacker is.
A HACKER IS SOMEONE WHO HACKS WITH COMPUTERS. SOMEONE WHO ENJOYS
USING THEM, PROGRAMMING THEM, FIGURING OUT HOW THEY WORK, WHAT
MAKES THEM TICK. PUSHING THEM TO THE LIMIT. EXTRACTING EVERY
LAST INCH OF POWER FROM THEM. LET ME ASK YOU A QUESTION. WHAT
DO YOU CALL SOMEONE WHO PLAYS WITH AMATEUR RADIOS?
A Ham.
AND WHAT DO YOU CALL SOMEONE WHO HAS A CALCULATOR IN HIS SHORT
POCKET WITH A DOZEN BALLPOINT PENS?
In my day it was a sliderule, and we called them propeller heads.
THAT TRANSLATES. GOOD. AND WHAT DO YOU CALL SOMEONE WHO FLIES
AIRPLANES FOR FUN?
A fly boy, space jockey.
A CAR TINKERER?
A grease monkey
AND SOMEONE WHO JUMPS OUT OF PLANES?
Fucking crazy!!!!
FAIR ENOUGH. BUT HERE'S THE POINT. DIFFERENT STROKES FOR DIF-
FERENT FOLKS. AND IT JUST SO HAPPENS THAT PEOPLE WHO LIKE TO
PLAY WITH COMPUTERS ARE CALLED HACKERS. IT'S AN OLD TERM FROM
THE 60'S FROM THE COLLEGES, AND AT THAT TIME IT WASN'T DEROGATO-
RY. IT DIDN'T HAVE THE SAME NEGATIVE CONNOTATIONS THAT IT DOES
TODAY THANKS TO YOU. HACKERS ARE JUST A BUNCH OF PEOPLE WHO PLAY
WITH COMPUTERS INSTEAD OF CARS, BOATS, AIRPLANES, SPORTS OR
WHATEVER. THAT'S IT, PURE AND SIMPLE.
Ok, let's accept that for now. What about those stories of
hackers running around inside of everybody else's computers and
making computer viruses and all. Morris and Chase were hackers
who caused a bunch of damage.
WHOA! TWO SEPARATE ISSUES. THERE ARE A NUMBER OF HACKERS WHO DO
GO PROBING AND LOOKING AROUND OTHER PEOPLE'S COMPUTERS. AND I
AM PROUD TO ADMIT THAT I AM ONE OF THEM.
Wait a minute. You first say that hackers are the guys in the
white hats and then you admit that you are one of those criminal
types who invades the privacy of others.
THERE IS A BIG DIFFERENCE BETWEEN LOOKING AROUND A COMPUTER
READING ITS FILES AND DESTROYING THEM. I REMEMBER READING ABOUT
THIS GUY WHO BROKE INTO PEOPLE'S HOUSES WHEN THEY WERE OUT OF
TOWN. HE LIVED IN THEIR HOUSE UNTIL THEY CAME BACK AND THEN
LEFT. HE USED THEIR FOOD, THEIR TV, THEIR SHOWER AND ALL, BUT
NEVER STOLE ANYTHING OR DID ANY DAMAGE. THAT'S KINDA WHAT HACK-
ERS DO.
Why? For the thrill?
OH, I GUESS THAT MAY BE PART OF IT, BUT IT'S REALLY MORE THAN
THAT. IT'S A THIRST, AT LEAST FOR ME, FOR KNOWLEDGE.
That's a line of crap.
REALLY. LET'S COMPARE. LET'S SAY I WAS WORKING IN A GARAGE AND
I WAS CAR ENTHUSIAST BUT I DIDN'T OWN AND COULDN'T AFFORD A
FERRARI. SO, DURING THE DAY WHEN MY CUSTOMERS ARE AT WORK, I
TAKE THEIR CARS OUT FOR A RIDE . . .AND I EVEN REPLACE THE GAS.
I DO IT FOR THE THRILL OF THE RIDE, NOT FOR THE THRILL OF THE
CRIME.
So you admit hacking is a crime?
NO NO NO NO. AGREED, ENTERING SOME COMPUTERS IS CONSIDERED A
CRIME IN SOME STATES, BUT IN THE STATE OF TEXAS, IF YOU LEAVE
YOUR COMPUTER PASSWORD TAPED TO THE BOTTOM OF YOUR DESK DRAWER
YOU CAN GO TO JAIL. I BET YOU DIDN'T KNOW THAT.
You made that up.
CHECK IT OUT. I DON'T KNOW THE LEGAL JARGON, BUT IT'S TRUE.
THE ISSUE IS, FOR THE GUY WHO DRIVES PEOPLE'S CARS WITHOUT THEIR
PERMISSION, THAT IS REALLY A CRIME. I GUESS A GRAND FELONY.
RIGHT? EVEN IF HE DOES NOTHING BUT DRIVE IT AROUND THE BLOCK.
BUT WITH COMPUTERS IT'S DIFFERENT.
How is it different?
FIRST THERE'S NO THEFT.
What about theft of service?
ARGUABLE.
Breaking and entering.
NOT ACCORDING TO MY FRIEND. HIS FATHER IS A LAWYER.
But, you have to admit, you are doing it without permission.
NO, NOT REALLY.
Aw, come on.
LISTEN. LET'S SAY THAT YOU LIVE IN A HOUSE.
Nice place to make a home.
AND LET'S SAY THAT YOU AND YOUR NEIGHBORS DECIDE TO LEAVE THE
KEYS TO YOUR HOUSES ON THE CURB OF YOUR STREET EVERY DAY. EVEN
WHEN YOU'RE HOME. SO THAT ANYONE WHO COMES ALONG CAN PICK UP THE
KEYS AND WALK INTO YOUR HOUSE ANYTIME THEY WANT TO.
That's crazy.
OF COURSE IT IS. BUT WHAT WOULD HAPPEN IF YOU DID THAT AND THEN
YOUR HOUSE GOT BROKEN INTO AND YOU WERE ROBBED?
I guess the police would figure me for a blithering idiot, a
candidate for the funny farm, and my insurance company might have
reason not to pay me after they canceled me. So what?
THAT'S WHAT I DO. AND THAT'S WHAT MY FRIENDS DO. WE LOOK AROUND
FOR PEOPLE WHO LEAVE THE KEYS TO THEIR COMPUTERS LYING AROUND FOR
ANYONE TO PICK UP. WHEN WE FIND A SET OF KEYS, WE USE THEM.
It can't be that simple. No one would leave keys lying around
for hackers.
WRONGO MEDIA BREATH. IT'S ABSURDLY SIMPLE. I DON'T KNOW OF VERY
MANY COMPUTERS THAT I CAN'T GET INTO. SOME PEOPLE CALL IT BREAK-
ING AND ENTERING. I CALL IT A WELCOME MAT. IF YOU DON'T WANT ME
IN YOUR COMPUTER, THEN DON'T LEAVE THE FRONT DOOR OPEN.
If what you're saying is true . . .
IT IS. COMPLETELY. I HAVE THE KEYS TO HUNDREDS OF COMPUTERS
AROUND THE COUNTRY AND THE WORLD. AND ONE WAY OR ANOTHER THE
KEYS WERE ALL LEFT LYING IN THE STREET. SO I USED THEM TO HAVE A
LOOK AROUND.
I don't know if I buy this. But, for now, I'll put that aside.
So, where do these hacker horrors come from?
AGAIN LET'S COMPARE. IF YOU LEFT YOUR KEYS IN FRONT OF YOUR
HOUSE AND HALF OF YOUR TOWN KNEW IT AND 100 PEOPLE WENT INTO YOUR
HOUSE TO LOOK AROUND, HOW MANY WOULD STAY HONEST AND JUST LOOK?
Not many I guess.
BUT WITH HACKERS, THERE'S A CODE OF ETHICS THAT MOST OF US LIVE
BY. BUT AS IN ANY GROUP OR SOCIETY THERE ARE A FEW BAD APPLES
AND THEY GIVE THE REST OF US A BAD NAME. THEY GET A KICK OUT OF
HURTING OTHER PEOPLE, OR STEALING, OR WHATEVER. HERE'S ANOTHER
SOMETHING FOR YOUR FILE. EVERY COMPUTER SYSTEM IN THE COUNTRY
HAS BEEN ENTERED BY HACKERS. EVERY SINGLE ONE.
That's impossible.
TRY ME. I'VE BEEN INTO OVER A THOUSAND MYSELF AND THERE ARE
THOUSANDS OF GUYS LIKE ME. AT LEAST I'M HONEST.
Why should I believe that?
WE'RE TALKING AREN'T WE.
Throw me off the track.
I COULD HAVE IGNORED YOU. I'M UNTRACEABLE.
By the way, what's your name.
CAPTAIN KIRK.
No, really.
REALLY. ON BBS THAT'S MY ONLY NAME.
How can I call you?
YOU CAN'T. WHAT'S YOUR HANDLE?
Handle? Like CB? Never had one.
YOU NEED ONE DUDE. WITHOUT IT YOU'RE A JUST A REPORTER NERD.
Been called worse. How about Spook? That's what I'm doing.
CAN'T. WE ALREADY GOT A SPOOK. CAN'T HAVE TWO. TRY AGAIN.
What do you mean we?
WE. MY GROUP. YOU'VE ALREADY HEARD OF 401 AND CHAOS AND THE
LEGION OF DOOM. WELL, I AM PART OF ANOTHER GROUP. BUT I CAN'T
TELL YOU WHAT IT'S CALLED. YOU'RE NOT PART OF THE INNER CIRCLE.
I KNOW WHAT I'LL CALL YOU. REPO MAN.
repo man
REPORTER MAN. SUSPICIOUS TOO.
I suspect that hackers are up to no good.
OK, SOME ARE, BUT THEY'RE THE EXCEPTION. HOW MANY MASS GOOD
SAMARITANS OTHER THAN MOTHER TERESA DO YOU WRITE ABOUT? NONE.
ONLY IF THEY'RE KILLED IN ACTION. BUT, MASS MURDERERS ARE NEWS.
SO ALL YOU NEWS FIENDS MAKE HEADLINES ON DEATH AND DESTRUCTION.
THE MEDIA SELLS THE HYPE AND YOU CAN'T DENY IT.
Got me. You're right, that's what the public buys. But not all
news is bad.
EXACTLY. SEE THE POINT?
At least we don't do the crime, just report it. What about these
viruses. I suppose hackers are innocent of that too.
BY AND LARGE YES. PEOPLE THAT WRITE VIRUSES AND INFECT COMPUTERS
ARE THE COMPUTER EQUIVALENT TO SERIAL KILLERS. OR HOW ABOUT THE
GUY WITH AIDS, WHO KNOWS HE'S GOT IT AND SCREWS AS MANY PEOPLE
AS HE CAN TO SPREAD IT AROUND. VIRUSES ARE DANGEROUS AND DEMENT-
ED. NO HACKER OF THE CODE WOULD DO THAT.
You keep mentioning this code. What is the code?
IT'S A CODE OF ETHICS THAT MOST OF US LIVE BY. AND IT'S CRUCIAL
TO A STABLE UNDERGROUND CULTURE THAT SURVIVES BY ITS WITS. IT
GOES LIKE THIS: NEVER INTENTIONALLY DAMAGE ANOTHER COMPUTER.
That's it?
PRETTY SIMPLE HUH?
So, you said earlier that you poke around NASA computers. And
NASA just had a pretty good glitch that rings of hackers. Some-
one broke the code.
EXACTLY. BUT NO ONE'S TAKING CREDIT.
Why would they? Isn't that a sure giveaway and a trip up the
river?
YES AND NO. MORRIS FOR EXAMPLE ADMITTED HIS MISTAKE. HE SAID HE
WAS WRITING A VIRUS FOR THE EXERCISE AND IT GOT OUT OF CONTROL.
OOPS, HE SAID, AND I'M INCLINED TO BELIEVE HIM BECAUSE HE DIDN'T
COVER HIS TRACKS. IF HE WAS SERIOUS ABOUT SHUTTING DOWN INTERNET
HE WOULDN'T HAVE BEEN FOUND AND HE WOULDN'T HAVE ADMITTED IT IF
THEY EVER CAUGHT HIM. PROVING HE DID IT IS NEXT TO IMPOSSIBLE.
So?
SO, HACKERS HAVE STRONG EGOS. THEY LIKE TO GET CREDIT FOR FIND-
ING THE KEYS TO COMPUTERS. IT BUILDS THEM A REPUTATION THAT THEY
FEED ON. VIRUS BUILDERS ARE THE SAME. IF SOMEONE BUILDS A VIRUS
AND THEN FEEDS IT INTO THE SYSTEM, HE WANTS TO GET CREDIT FOR IT.
SO HE TAKES CREDIT.
And then gets caught, right?
WRONGO AGAIN, LET'S SAY I TOLD YOU THAT IT WAS ME THAT DID THAT
STUFF AT NASA.
So it was you?
NO NO. I SAID, IF IT WAS ME, WHAT WOULD YOU DO ABOUT IT?
Uh . . .
WHAT?
I'm thinking.
WHO WOULD YOU TELL?
The police, NASA,
WHAT WOULD YOU TELL THEM?
That you did it.
WHO AM I?
Good point. Who are you?
I DIDN'T DO IT AND I'M NOT GOING TO TELL YOU WHO I AM. YOU SEE,
MOST OF US DON'T KNOW EACH OTHER THAN OVER THE COMPUTER. IT JUST
DON'T MATTER WHO I AM.
I don't know if I buy everything you say, but it is something to
think about. So what about the NASA thing.
I DON'T KNOW. NOBODY DOES.
You mean, I gather, nobody has owned up to it.
EXACTLY
How can I describe you? If I wanted to use you in an article.
STUDENT AT A MAJOR UNIVERSITY.
Sounds like a Letter to Penthouse Forum.
TRY THE SEX BBS.
If you've done nothing wrong, why not come forward?
NOT EVERYONE BELIEVES WHAT WE DO IS HARMLESS. NEITHER DO YOU.
YET. MIGHT BE BAD FOR MY HEALTH.
What time is it?
WON'T WORK GUY. TIME ZONES I UNDERSTAND. ONE THING. IF YOU'RE
INTERESTED, I CAN ARRANGE A TRIP THOUGH THE FIRST TRUST BANK
COMPUTERS,
Arrange a trip? Travel agent on the side.
IN A WAY WE ARE ALL TRAVEL AGENTS. JUST THOUGHT YOU MIGHT BE
INTERESTED.
Let's say I am.
JUST CALL 212-555-9796. USE THE PASSWORD MONEYMAN AND THE ID IS
9796. LOOK AROUND ALL YOU WANT. USE F1 FOR HELP. I'LL CALL YOU
IN A COUPLE OF DAYS. LEAVE YOUR COMPUTER ON.
<<<<<<CONNECTION TERMINATED>>>>>>
****************************************************************
Chapter 13
Wednesday, November 25
HACKERS HAMPER HOLIDAY HELLO'S
By Scott Mason
As most of my readers know by now, I have an inherent suspicion
of lame excuses for bureaucratic bungling. If any of you were
unable to make a long distance phone call yesterday, you weren't
alone.
AT&T, the long distance carrier that provides the best telephone
service in the world, handles in excess of 100,000,000 calls
daily. Yesterday, less than 25% got through. Why? There are
two possible answers: AT&T's official response and another,
equally plausible and certainly more sinister reason that many
experts claim to be the real culprit.
According to an AT&T spokesperson from its Basking Ridge, New
Jersey office, "In my 20 years with AT&T, I have not seen a
crisis so dramatic that it nearly shut down operations nation-
wide." According to insiders, AT&T came close to declaring a
national emergency and asking for Federal assistance.
Airlines and hotel reservation services reported that phone
traffic was down between 65-90%! Telemarketing organizations said
that sales were off by over 80%.
Perhaps an understanding of what goes on behind the scenes of a
phone call is in order.
When you pick up your phone, you hear a dial tone that is provid-
ed by the Local Exchange Company, or as more commonly called, a
Baby Bell. The LEC handles all local calls within certain dial-
ing ranges. A long distance call is switched by the LEC to the
4ESS, a miracle of modern communications. There are 114 Number 4
and 5 Electronic Switching Systems used in all major AT&T switch-
ing offices across the country. (A few rural areas still use
relays and mechanical switches over 40 years old. When it rains,
the relays get sticky and so does the call.)
Now here's the invisible beauty. There are 14 direct connects
between each of the 114 4ESS's and every other 4ESS, each capable
of handling thousands of call at once. So, rarely do we ever get
a long distance busy signal. The systems automatically reroute
themselves.
The 4ESS then calls its own STP, Signal Transfer Point within an
SS7 network. The SS7 network determines from which phone number
the call originated and its destination. (More about that later!)
It sends out an IAM, Initial Address Message, to the destination
4ESS switch and determines if a line is available to complete the
call. The SS7 is so powerful it can actually create up to 7
additional virtual paths for the heaviest traffic. 800 numbers,
Dial a Porn 900 numbers and other specially coded phone numbers
are translated through the NCP( Network Control Point) and routed
separately. Whew! Had enough? So have I.
The point is, massive computer switches all across our nations
automatically select the routing for each call. A call from
Miami to New York could be sent through 4ESS's in Dallas, Los
Angeles and Chicago before reaching its ultimate destination.
But what happened yesterday?
It seems that the switches got real stupid and slowed down. For
those readers who recall the Internet Worm in November of 1988
and the phone system slowdown in early 1990 and then again in
1991, computers can be infected with errors, either accidentally
or otherwise, and forced to misbehave.
AT&T's explanation is not satisfying for those who remember that
AT&T had said, "it can never happen again."
Today's official explanation is; "A minor hardware problem in one
of our New York City 4ESS switches caused a cascading of similar
hardware failures throughout the network. From all appearances,
a faulty piece of software in the SS7 networks was the culprit.
Our engineers are studying the problem and expect a solution
shortly. We are sorry for any inconvenience to our valued cus-
tomers."
I agree with AT&T on one aspect: it was a software problem.
According to well placed sources who asked to remain anonymous,
the software problems were intentionally introduced into AT&T's
long distance computers, by person or persons yet to be identi-
fied. They went on to say that internal investigation teams have
been assigned to find out who and how the "bug" was introduced.
Regardless of the outcome of the investigation, AT&T is expected,
they say, to maintain the cover of a hardware failure at the
request of the public relations Vice President.
AT&T did, to their credit, get long distance services up and
running at 11:30 P.M. last night, only 9 hours after the problem
first showed up. They re-installed an older SS7 software ver-
sion that is widely known to contain some "operational anomalies"
according to the company; but they still feel that it is more
reliable than what is currently in use.
If, in fact the biggest busy signal in history was caused by
intruders into the world's largest communications systems, then
we need to ask ourselves a few questions. Was yesterday a sym-
bolic choice of dates for disaster or mere coincidence? Would
the damage have been greater on a busier business day? Could it
affect our defense systems and the government's ability to commu-
nicate in case of emergency? How did someone, or some group,
get into AT&T's computers and effect an entire nation's ability
to do business? And then, was there a political motivation
sufficient to justify am attack om AT&T and not on Sprint or MCI?
Perhaps the most salient question we all are asking ourselves,
is, When will it happen again?
This is Scott Mason, busy, busy, busy. Tomorrow; is Big Brother
listening?
* * * * *
Friday, November 27
Times Square, New York
The pre-winter overnight snow-storm in New York City turned to
sleet and ice as the temperature dropped. That didn't stop the
traffic though. Hundreds of thousands of cars still crawled into
Manhattan to insure downtown gridlock. If the streets were
drivable, the city wouldn't stop. Not for a mere ice storm.
Steam poured from subway grates and manhole covers as rush hour
pedestrians huddled from the cold winds, tromping through the
grimy snow on the streets and sidewalks.
The traffic on 42nd street was at a near standstill and the
intersection at Broadway and 7th Avenues where the Dow Chemical
Building stood was unusually bad. Taxis and busses and trucks
and cars all fought for space to move.
As the southbound light on 7th turned green, a dark blue Ford
Econoline van screeched forward and cut off two taxis to make a
highly illegal left turn. It curved too quickly and too sharply
for the dangerously icy conditions and began to slide sideways.
The driver turned the wheel hard to the left, against the slide,
compensating in the wrong direction and then he slammed on the
brakes. The van continued to slide to the right as it careened
toward the sidewalk. The van rotated and headed backwards at the
throngs of pedestrians. They didn't notice until it was too
late.
The van spun around again and crashed through a McDonald's window
into the dense breakfast crowds. As it crushed several patrons
into the counter, the van stopped, suddenly propelling the driver
through the windshield into the side of the yogurt machine. His
neck was broken instantly.
Getting emergency vehicles to Times Square during the A.M. rush
hour is in itself a lesson in futility. Given that 17 were
pronounced dead on the scene and another 50 or more were injured,
the task this Monday morning was damned near impossible.
City-ites come together in a crisis, and until enough paramedics
arrived, people from all walks of life tended to the wounded and
respectfully covered those beyond help. Executives in 3 piece
suits worked with 7th avenue delivery boys in harmony. Secre-
taries lay their expensive furs on the slushy street as pallets
for the victims.
It was over two hours before all the wounded were transferred to
local hospitals and the morgue was close to finishing its clean
up efforts. Lt. Mel Kavitz, 53rd. Precinct, Midtown South NYPD
made it to the scene as the more grisly pieces were put away. He
spoke to a couple of officers who had interviewed witnesses and
survivors. The media were already there adding to the frigid
chaos. Two of the local New York TV stations were broadcasting
live, searching out sound-bytes for the evening news and all 3
dailies had reporters looking for quotable quotes. Out of the
necessity created by such disasters, the police had developed
immunity to the media circus.
"That's it lieutenant. Seems the van made a screwball turn and
lost control." The young clean-shaven patrolman shrugged his
shoulders. Only 27, he had still been on the streets long enough
not to let much bother him.
"Who's the driver?" Lt. Kavitz scanned the scene.
"It's a foreign national, one . . .ah . . .Jesef Mumballa. Second
year engineering student at Columbia." The young cop looked down
and spoke quietly. "He didn't make it."
"I'm not surprised. Look at this mess." The Lieutenant took it
in stride. "Just what McDonalds needs. Another massacre. Any-
thing on him?" Kavitz asked half suspecting, half hoping.
"Clean. As clean as rag head can be."
"Ok, that's enough. What about the van?"
"The van?"
"The van!" Kavitz said pointedly at the patrolman. "The van!
What's in it? Has anybody looked?"
"Uh . . .no sir. We've been working with the injured . . .I'm
sure you . . ."
"Of course. I'm sorry." Kavitz waved off the explanation. "Must
have been pretty rough." He looked around and shook his head.
"Anything else officer?"
"No sir, that's about it. We still don't have an exact count
though."
"It'll come soon enough. Soon enough." Kavitz left the young
patrolman and walked into the bloodbath, pausing only briefly
before opening the driver's side door. "Let's see what's in this
thing."
* * * * *
"D'y'hear about the mess over at Times Square?" Ben Shellhorne
walked up to Scott Mason's desk at the City Times.
"Yeah, pretty gruesome. The Exchange . . .McDonald's. You
really scrape the bottom, don't you?" Scott grinned devilishly
at Ben.
"Maybe some guys do, not me." Ben sat down next to Scott's desk.
"But that's not the point. There's something else."
"What's that?" Scott turned to Ben.
"The van."
"The van?" Scott asked.
"Yeah, the van. The van that busted up the McBreakfast crowd."
"What about it?"
Ben hurried. "Well, it was some sort of high tech lab on wheels.
Computers and radios and stuff. Pretty wild."
"Why's that so unusual? Phone company, computer repair place,
EPA monitors, could be anything." Scott seemed disinterested.
"If that were true, you're right. But this was a private van,
and there's no indication of what company it worked for. And the
driver's dead. Personal ID only. No company, no numbers, no
nothing, except this."
He handed a sheaf of computer printouts to Scott. "Look
familiar?"
Scott took the papers and perused them. They were the same kind
that Scott had received from Vito, his unknown donor. These were
new documents as far as Scott could tell - he didn't recognize
them as part of his library. They only contained some stock tips
and insider trading information from a leading Wall Street bro-
kerage house. Pretty tame stuff.
"These," Scott pointed at the papers, "these were in the van?"
"That's what I said," Ben said triumphantly.
"How did you get them?" Scott pushed.
"I have a few friends on the force and, well, this is my beat you
know. Crime, disaster, murder, violence, crisis, death and de-
struction on the streets. Good promo stuff for the Big Apple."
"Are there any more?" Scott ignored Ben's self pity.
"My guy said there were so many that a few wouldn't make any
difference."
"Holy Christ!" Scott said aloud as he sat back in thought.
"What is it? Scott? Does this mean something?"
"Can I have these, Ben? Do you need them?"
"Nah! There's no blood on 'em? Not my kinda story. I just
remembered that secret papers and computers are your thing, so
they're yours." Ben stood up. "Just remember, next time you hear
about a serial killer, it's mine."
"Deal. And, hey, thanks a lot. Drinks on me." Scott caught Ben
before he left. "Ben, one more thing."
"Yeah?" Ben stopped.
"Can you get me into that van. Just to look around? Not to
touch, just to look?" Scott would have given himself a vasectomy
with a weed eater to have a look. This was his first solid lead
on the source of the mysterious and valuable documents that he
had stymied him for so long. He had been unable to publish
anything significant due to lack of confirming evidence. Any
lead was good lead, he thought.
"It may cost another favor, but sure what the fuck. I'll set it
up. Call you." Ben waved as he walked off leaving Scott to
ponder the latest developments.
* * * * *
The interior of the dark blue Ford Econoline van was not in bad
shape since the equipment was bolted into place. The exterior
though was thoroughly trashed, with too many blood stains for
Scott to stomach. It was a bad wreak, even for the Police Im-
pound.
While Ben kept his cooperative keeper of the peace occupied, he
signaled to Scott that he would only have a minute, so please,
make it quick.
Scott entered the van with all his senses peaked. He wanted to
take mental pictures and get as much detail as he could. Both
sides of the van contained steel shelving, with an array of
equipment bolted firmly in place. It was an odd assortment of
electronics, noticed Scott. There were 2 IBM personal computers
with large WYSIWYG monitors. What You See Is What You Get moni-
tors were generally used for intensive word processing or desktop
publishing. In a van? Odd.
A digital oscilloscope and waveform monitor were stacked over one
of the computers. Test equipment and no hand tools? No answer.
Over the other computer sat a small black and white television
and a larger color television monitor. Two cellular phones were
mounted behind the drivers seat. Strange combination. Then he
noticed what appeared to be a miniature satellite dish, only 8 or
so inches across. He recognized it as a parabolic microphone.
Aha! That's it. Some sort of spy type surveillance vehicle.
Tracking drug dealers and assorted low lifes. But, a privately
registered vehicle, no sign of any official affiliations to known
enforcement agencies?
Scott felt his minute was gone in a only few seconds.
"Well, you find what you're looking for?" Ben asked Scott after
they had left the police garage grounds overlooking the Hudson
River.
Scott looked puzzled. "It's more like by not finding anything I
eliminated what it's not."
Ben scowled. "Hey riddle man, back to earth. Was it a waste or
what?"
"Far from it." Scott's far away glaze disappeared as his personal
Eureka! set in. "I think I may have stumbled, sorry, you, stum-
bled onto to something that will begin to put several pieces in
place for me. And if I'm right, even a little bit right, holy
shit. I mean, hoooolly shit."
"Clue me in, man. What's the skinny. You got Pulitzer eyes."
Ben tried to keep up with Scott as their pace quickened.
"I gotta make one phone call, for a confirmation. And, if it's a
yes, then I got, I mean we got one fuckuva story."
"No, it's yours man, yours. Just let me keep the blood and guts.
Besides, I don't even know what you're talking about, you ain't
said shit. Keep it. Just keep your promise on the drinks. Ok?"
Scott arrived at Grand Central as the huge clock oppose the giant
Kodak photograph struck four o'clock. He proceeded to track
twenty two where the four-thirteen to Scarsdale and White Plains
was waiting. He walked down to the third car and took a seat
that would only hold two. He was saving it for Ty.
Tyrone Duncan hopped on the crowded train seconds before it left
the station. He dashed down the aisle of the crowded car. There
was only one empty seat. Next to Scott Mason. Scott's rushed
call gave Ty an excuse to leave work early. It had been one of
those days. Ty collapsed in a sweat on the seat next to Scott.
"Didn't your mother tell you it's not polite to keep people
waiting?" Scott made fun of Tyrone.
"Didn't your mama tell you not to irritate crazy overworked black
dudes who carry a gun?"
Scott took the hint. It was safest to ignore Ty's diatribe
completely. "I think I got it figured out. Thought you might be
interested." Scott teased Duncan.
Tyrone turned his head away from Scott. "If you do, I'll kiss
your bare ass on Broadway. We don't have shit." He sounded
disgusted with the performance of his bureau.
Scott puffed up a bit before answering. The pride did not go
unnoticed by Duncan. "I figured out how these guys, these black-
mailers, whoever they are, get their information." Scott paused
for effect which was not lost on Duncan.
"I don't care anymore. I've been pulled from the case," Tyrone
said sounding exhausted.
"Well," Scott smirked. "I think you just might care, anyway."
Tyrone felt himself Scott putting him into a trap. "What have
you got?"
Scott relished the moment. The answer was so simple. He saw the
anticipation in Tyrone's face, but they had become friends and
didn't feel right about prolonging the tension. "Van Eck."
Duncan was expecting more than a two word answer that was abso-
lutely meaningless to him. "What? What is Van Eck? The ex-
pressway?" He said referring to the New York Expressway that had
been a 14 mile line traffic jam since it opened some 40 years
ago.
"Not Van Wyck, Van Eck. Van Eck Radiation. That's how they get
the information."
Duncan was no engineer, and he knew that Scott was proficient in
the discipline. He was sure he had an education coming. "For us
feeble minded simpletons, would you mind explaining? I know
about Van Allen radiation belts, nuclear radiation . . .but ok, I
give. What's this Van Eck?"
Scott had not meant to humble Tyrone that much. "Sorry. It's a
pretty arcane branch of engineering, even for techy types. How
much do you know about computers? Electronics?"
"Enough to get into trouble. I can wire a stereo and I know how
to use the computers at the Bureau, but that's about it. Never
bothered to get inside those monsters. Consider me an idiot."
"Never, just a novice. It's lecture time. Computers, I mean
PC's, the kind on your desk and at home are electronic devices,
that's no great revelation. As you may know, radio waves are
caused by the motion of electrons, current, down a wire. Ever
heard or seen interference on your TV?"
"Sure. We've been down this road before, with your EMP-T bombs."
Tyrone cringed at the lecture he had received on secret defense
projects.
"Exactly. Interference is caused by other electrical devices
that are running near the radio or TV. Essentially, everything
that runs on electricity emanates a field of energy, an electro-
magnetic field. Well, in TV and radio, an antenna is stuck up in
the air to pick up or 'hear' the radio waves. You simply tune it
in to the frequency you want to listen to."
"I know, like on my car radio. Those are preset, though."
"Doesn't matter. They still pick the frequency you want to
listen to. Can you just hold that thought and accept it at face
value?" Scott followed his old teaching techniques. He wanted
to make sure that each and every step of his explanation was
clearly understood before going on to the next. Tyrone acknowl-
edged that while he wasn't an electronic engineer, he wasn't
stupid either.
"Good. Well computers are the same. They radiate an electromag-
netic field when they're in use. If the power is off then
there's no radiation. Inside the computer there are so many
radiated fields that it looks like garbage, pure noise to an
antenna. Filtering out the information is a bitch. But, you can
easily tune into a monitor."
"Monitors. You mean computer screens?" Tyrone wanted to clarify
his understanding.
"Monitors, CRT's, screens, cathode ray tubes, whatever you want
to call them. The inside of most monitors is just like televi-
sion sets. There is an electron beam that writes to the surface
of the screen, the phosphor coated one. That's what makes the
picture."
"That's how a TV works? I always wondered." Duncan was only half
kidding.
"So, the phosphor coating gets hit with a strong electron beam,
full of high voltage energy, and the phosphor glows, just for a
few milliseconds. Then, the beam comes around again and either
turns it on or leaves it off, depending upon what the picture is
supposed to show. Make sense?"
"That's why you can go frame to frame on a VCR, isn't it? Every
second there are actually lots of still pictures that change so
quickly that the eye is fooled into thinking it's watching mo-
tion. Really, it's a whole set of photographed being flipped
through quickly." Duncan picked up the essentials on the first
pass. Scott was visibly impressed.
"Bingo! So this beam is directed around the surface of the screen
about 60 times every second."
"What moves the beam?" Duncan was following closely.
"You are one perceptive pain in the butt, aren't you? You nailed
it right on the head." Scott enjoyed working with bright stu-
dents. Duncan's smile made his pudgy face appear larger than it
was. "Inside the monitor are what is called deflection coils.
Deflection coils are magnets that tell the beam where to strike
the screen's surface. One magnet moves the beam horizontally
across the screen from left to right, and the other magnet, the
vertical one, moves the beam from the top to the bottom. Same
way as in a TV." Scott paused for a moment. He had given simi-
lar descriptions before, and he found it useful to let is audi-
ence have time to create a mental image.
"Sure, that makes sense. So what about this radiation?" Duncan
impatiently asked. He wanted to understand the full picture.
"Well, magnets concentrate lots of electrical energy in a small
place, so they create more intense, or stronger magnetic fields.
Electromagnetic radiation if you will. In this case, the radia-
tion from a computer monitor is called Van Eck radiation, named
after the Dutch electrical engineer who described the phenomena."
Scott sounded pleased with his Radiation 101 course brief.
Tyrone wasn't satisfied though. "So how does that explain the
blackmail and the infamous papers you have? And why do I care? I
don't get it." The confused look on Tyrone's face told Scott he
hadn't successfully tutored his FBI friend.
"It's just like a radio station. A computer monitor puts out a
distinctive pattern of radio waves from the coils and pixel
radiations from the screen itself, at a comparatively high power.
So, with a little radio tuner, you can pick up the signals on the
computer screen and read them for yourself. It's the equivalent
of eavesdropping on a computer."
The stunned grimace on Duncan's face was all Scott needed to see
to realize that he now had communicated the gist of the technolo-
gy to him.
"Are you telling me," Tyrone searched for the words and spoke
slowly, "that a computer broadcasts what's going on inside it?
That anyone can read anyone else's computer?"
"In a sense yes."
Tyrone looked out the window as they passed through Yonkers, New
York. He whistled quietly to himself.
"How did you find out? Where did you . . .?" The questions
spewed forth.
"There was a wreak, midtown, and there was a bunch of equipment
in it. Then I checked it out with a couple of . . .engineer
friends who are more up on this than I am. They confirmed it."
"This stuff was in a van? How far away does this stuff work?"
Duncan gave away his concern.
"According to my sources, with the proper gear, two or three
miles is not unreasonable. In New York, maybe only a half a
mile. Interference and steel buildings and all. Manhattan is a
magnetic sewer, as they say."
"Shit, this could explain a lot." The confident persona of the
FBI professional returned. "The marks all claim that there was
no way for the information to get out, yet it did. Scott, is it
possible that . . .how could one person get all this stuff? From
so many companies?" The pointed question was one of devil's
advocacy.
"That's the scary part, if I'm right. But this is where I need
your help." Scott had given his part, now to complete the tale
he needed the cooperation of his friend. The story was improv-
ing.
"Jesus," Duncan said quietly contemplating the implications.
"Most people believe that their computers are private. If they
knew that their inner most secrets were really being broadcast
for anyone to hear, it might change their behavior a little."
Scott had had the time to think about the impact if this was made
public.
"No shit Sherlock. It makes me wonder who's been listening in on
our computers all these years. Maybe that's why our jobs seem to
get tougher every day." Duncan snapped himself back from the
mental digression. "Where do you go from here?"
Scott was prepared. He had a final bombshell to lay on Duncan
before specifying his request. "There are a couple of things that
make me think. First, there is no way that only one guy could
put together the amount of information that I have. I've told
you how much there is. From all over the country. That suggests
a lot more than one person involved. I don't know how many,
that's your job.
"Two, these blackmail threats. Obviously whoever is reading the
computers, Van Ecking them is what I call it, has been sending
the information to someone else. Then they, in turn, call up
their targets and let them know that their secrets are no longer
so secret. Then three, they have been probably sending the
information to other people, on paper. Like me and the National
Expose. I have no idea if any others are receiving similar
packages. What I see here, is a coordinated effort to . . ."
Scott held Tyrone's complete attention.
"You still haven't told me what you need. Lay it on me, buddy.
There can't be much more."
"Doesn't it make sense that if we had one van, and the equipment
inside, we could trace it down, and maybe see if there really are
other Van Eck vans out there? For an operation that's this
large, there would have to be a back up, a contingency . . ."
The excitement oozed from Scott as his voice got louder.
"Shhhh . . ." Tyrone cautioned. "The trains have ears. I don't
go for conspiracy theories, I never have. Right now all we have
is raw, uncorrelated data. No proof. Just circumstantial events
that may have nothing to do with each other . . ."
"Bullshit. Look at this." Scott opened up his briefcase and
handed a file folder to Tyrone.
"What is it? Looks like a news story, that . . .uh . . .you
wrote and, it's about some mergers. Big deal." Duncan closed
the folder. "What does this have to do with anything?"
"This. Yes, I wrote the story. Two days ago. It hasn't been
printed yet." Scott took the folder back. "I found this copy in
the van that was wrecked two days ago. It was Van Eck'ed from my
computer the day I wrote it. They've been watching me and my
computer."
"Now wait a second. There are a hundred possible answers. You
could have lost a copy or someone got it from your wastebasket."
Duncan wasn't convincing either to himself or to Scott. Scott
smirked as Tyrone tried to justify the unbelievable.
"You want to play?" Scott asked.
"I think I'd better. If this is for real, no one has any priva-
cy anymore."
"I know I don't."
****************************************************************
Chapter 14
Sunday, November 29
Columbia University, New York
The New York City Times had put the story on the 7th page. In
contrast, the New York Post, in Murdoch's infinite wisdom, had
put pictures of the dead and dying on the front page. With the
McDonalds' window prominent.
Ahmed Shah reacted with pure intellectual detachment to the deba-
cle on Seventh Avenue and 42nd Street. Jesef was a martyr, as
much of one as those who had sacrificed their lives in the Great
War against Iraq. He had to make a report. From his home, in
the Spanish Harlem district of the upper West Side of Manhattan,
3 blocks from his Columbia University office, he wheeled over to
his computer that was always on.
C:\cd protalk
C:\PROTALK\protalk
He dialed a local New York number that was stored in the Protalk
communications program. He had it set for 7 bits, no parity, no
stop bits.
<<<<<<DIALING>>>>>>
The local phone number he dialed answered automatically and
redialed another number, and then that one dialed yet another
number before a message was relayed back to Ahmed Shah. He was
accustomed to the delay. While waiting he lit up a Marlboro. It
was the only American cigarette that came close to the vile taste
of Turkish camel shit cigarettes that he had smoked before coming
to the United States. A few seconds later, the screen came to
life and displayed
PASSWORD:
Ahmed entered his password and his PRG response.
CRYPT KEY:
He chose a random crypt key that would be used to guarantee the
privacy of his conversations.
<<<<<<TRANSMISSION ENCODED>>>>>>
That told Ahmed to begin his message, and that someone would be
there to answer.
Good Morning. I have some news.
NEWS?
We have a slight problem, but nothing serious.
PROBLEM? PLEASE EXPLAIN.
One of the readers is gone.
HOW? CAPTURED?
No, the Americans aren't that smart. He died in a
car crash.
WILL THIS HURT US?
No. In New York we have another 11 readers. But
we have lost one vehicle. The police must have it.
THAT IS NOT GOOD. WHO WAS IT?
A martyr.
CAN THE POLICE FIND ANYTHING?
He had false identification. They will learn
nothing.
BE SURE THEY DON'T. DESTROY THE CAR.
They can learn nothing. Why?
IT IS TOO EARLY FOR THEM TO FIND OUT ABOUT US.
HOW LONG HAS IT BEEN?
I read about it today. The crash was yesterday.
DO ANY OF THE OTHERS KNOW?
It would not matter if they did. They are loyal.
The papers said nothing of the van. They cared only about the
Americans who died eating their breakfasts.
GOOD. REMOVE ALL EVIDENCE. REPLACE HIM.
It will be done.
<<<<<<CONNECTION TERMINATED>>
* * * * *
Monday, November 30
New York City
The fire at the New York City Police Impound on 22nd Street and
the Hudson River was not newsworthy. It caused, however, a
deluge of paperwork for the Sergeant whose job it was to guard
the confiscated vehicles. Most of those cars damaged in the
firestorm had been towed for parking infractions. It would cost
the city tens of thousands of dollars, but not at least for three
or four months. The city would take as long as possible to proc-
ess the claims. Jesef Mumballa's vehicle was completely destroyed
as per Homosoto's order. The explosion that had caused the fire
was identified as coming from his van, but little importance was
placed with that obscure fact.
Ben Shellhorne noticed, though. Wasn't that the van that Scott
Mason had shown such interest in yesterday? A car bombing, even
if on police property was not a particularly interesting story,
at least in New York. But Ben wanted the drink that Scott had
promised. Maybe he could parlay it into two.
"Scott, remember that van?" Ben called Scott on the internal
office phones.
"Yeah, what about it?"
"It's gone."
"What do you mean gone?"
"Somebody blew it up. Took half the cars in the impound with it.
Sounds like Cemex. Just thought you might care. You were pretty
hot about seeing it ." Scott enjoyed Ben's nonchalance. He
decided to play it cool.
"Yeah, thanks for the call. Looks like another lead down the
tubes."
"Know whatcha mean."
Scott called Tyrone at his office.
"4543." Duncan answered obliquely.
"Just an anonymous call." Scott didn't disguise his voice. The
message would be obvious.
"So?"
"A certain van in a certain police impound was just blown up.
Seemed le Plastique was involved. Thought you might want to
know."
"Thanks." The phone went dead.
Within 30 minutes, 6 FBI agents arrived at the police impound
station. It looked like a war zone. Vehicles were strewn about,
many the victim of fire, many with substantial pieces missing.
With the signature of the New York District Chief on appropriate
forms, the FBI took possession of one Ford Econoline van, or what
was left of it. The New York police were just as glad to be rid
of it. It was one less mess they had to worry about. Fine,
take it. It's yours. Just make sure that the paperwork covers
ours asses. Good, that seems to do it. Now get out. Frigging
Feds.
* * * * *
Tyrone Duncan took an evening Trump Shuttle down to Washington's
National Airport. The 7:30 flight was dubbed the Federal Express
by the stewardesses because it was primarily congressmen, diplo-
mats and other Washington denizens who took this flight. They
wanted to get to D.C. before the cocktail parties began and
found the 2-drink flight an excellent means to tune up. Duncan
was met out in front by a driver who held up a sign that read
'Burnson'.
He got into the car in silence and was driven to a residence on
"P" Street off Wisconsin in Georgetown. The brick townhouse
looked like every other million dollar home in the affluent
Washington bedroom community. But this one was special. It not
only served as a home away from home for Bob Burnson when he
worked late, but it was also a common neutral meeting place far
from prying eyes and ears. This night was one such case.
An older, matronly lady answered the door.
"May I help you?" She went through the formality for the few
accidental tourists who rang the bell.
"I'm here to see Mr. Merriweather. He's expecting me." Merri-
weather was the nom-de-guerre of Bob Burnson, at least at this
location. Duncan was ushered into the elegant old sitting room,
where the butleress closed the door behind him. He double-
checked that she was gone and walked over to the fireplace. The
marble facade was worn in places, from overuse he assumed, but
nonetheless, traces of its 19th century elegance remained. He
looked up at the large full length standing portrait of a somber,
formal man dressed in a three piece suit. Undoubtedly this vain
portrait was his only remaining legacy, whoever he was. Tyrone
pressed a small button built into the side of the picture frame.
An adjoining bookcase slipped back into the wall, exposing a
dark entry. Duncan squeezed his bulk through the narrow wedge
provided by the opened bookcase.
The blank wall behind him closed and the lights in the room he
entered slowly brightened. Three people were seated at an over-
sized table with black modern executive chairs around it. The
room was large. Too large to fit behind the 18 foot width of a
Georgetown brownstone. The adjacent building must be an ersatz
cover for the privacy that this domicile required. The room was
simple, but formal. Stark white walls and their nondescript
modern paintings were illuminated by recessed lights. The black
trim work was the only accent that the frugal decorator permit-
ted.
His old friend and superior Bob Burnson was seated in the middle.
The other two men were civil servants in their mid 40's as near
as Duncan could determine. Both wore Government issue blue
suits, white shirts and diagonally striped maroon ties. Their
hair was regulation above the ears, immaculately kept. Reminded
Duncan of the junior clerks on Wall Street. They could only
afford suits from the discount racks, but still tried to make a
decent impression. The attempt usually failed, but G-Men stuck
to the tradition of poor dress. He had never seen either of the
men that flanked Burnson, which wasn't unusual. He was a New
Yorker who carefully avoided the cacophony of Washington poli-
tics. He played the political game once nearly 30 years ago to
secure his position, but he had studiously avoided it since.
"Thanks for making it on such short notice," Burnson solicitous-
ly greeted Duncan. He did it for the benefit of the others
present.
"Yes sir. Glad to help." Duncan groaned through the lie. He
had been ordered to this command performance.
"This is," Burnson gestured to his right, "Martin Templer, our
CIA liaison, and," pointing to his left, "Charlie Sorenson,
assistant DIRNSA, from the Fort." They all shook hands perfunc-
torily. "Care for a drink?" Burnson asked. "We're not on
Government time."
Duncan looked and saw they were all drinking something other than
Coke. The bar behind them showed recent use. "Absolut on the
rocks. If you have it." It was Duncan's first time to 'P
Street' as this well disguised location was called. Burnson rose
and poured the vodka over perfectly formed ice cubes. He handed
the drink to Duncan and indicated he should take a seat.
They exchanged pleasantries, and Duncan spoke of the improvement
in the Northeast corridor Shuttle service; the flight was almost
on time. Enough of the niceties.
"We don't want to hold you up more than necessary, but since you
were here in town we thought we could discuss a couple of mat-
ters." Burnson was the only one to speak. The others watched
Duncan too closely for his taste. What a white wash. He was
called down here, pronto. Since I'm here, my ass.
"No problem sir." He carried the charade forward.
"We need to know more about your report. This morning's report."
Sorenson, the NSA man spoke. "It was most intriguing. Can you
fill us in?" He sipped his drink while maintaining eye contact
with Duncan.
"Well, there's not much to say beyond what I put in." Suspicion
was evident in Duncan's voice. "I think that it's a real possi-
bility that there is a group who may be using highly advanced
computer equipment as weapons. Or at least surveillance tools.
A massive operation is suspected. I think I explained that in my
report."
"You did Tyrone," Bob agreed. "It's just that there may be
additional considerations that you're not aware of. Things I
wasn't even aware of. Charlie, can you elaborate?" Bob looked
at the NSA man in deference.
"Thanks, Bob, be glad to." Charlie Sorenson was a seasoned
spook. His casual manner was definitely practiced. "Basically,
we're following up on the matter of the van you reported, and the
alleged equipment it held." He scanned the folder in front of
him. "It says here," he perused, "that you discovered that indi-
viduals have learned how to read computer signals, unbeknownst to
the computer users." He looked up at Duncan for a confirmation.
Tyrone felt slightly uncomfortable. "Is that right?"
"Yes, sir," Duncan replied. "From the information we've received,
it appears that a group has the ability to detect computer radia-
tion from great distances. This technique allows someone to
compromise computer privacy . . ."
"We know what it is Mr. Duncan." The NSA man cut him off abrupt-
ly. Duncan looked at Burnson who avoided his stare. "What we
want to know is, how do you know? How do you know what CMR
radiation is?" There was no smile or sense of warmth from the
inquisitor. Not that there had been since the unpropitious
beginning of this evening.
"CMR?" Tyrone wasn't familiar with the term.
"Coherent Monitor Radiation. What do you know?"
"There was a van that crashed in New York a couple of days ago."
Duncan was not sure what direction this conversation was going to
take. "I have reason to believe it contained computer equipment
that was capable of reading computer screens from a distance."
"What cases are you working on that relate to this?" Again the
NSA man sounded like he was prosecuting a case in court.
"I have been working on a blackmail case," Duncan said. "Now
I'm the agency liaison with ECCO and CERT. Looking into the
INTERNET problems."
The two G-men looked at each other. Templer from the CIA
shrugged at Sorenson. Burnson was ignored.
"Are you aware that you are working in an area of extreme nation-
al security?" Sorenson pointedly asked Duncan.
Tyrone Duncan thought for a few seconds before responding. "I
would imagine that if computers can be read from a distance then
there is a potential national security issue. But I can assure
you, it was brought to my attention through other means." Duncan
tried to sound confident of his position.
"Mr. Duncan," Sorenson began, "I will tell you something, and I
will only tell you because you have been pre-cleared." He waited
for a reaction, but Duncan did not give him the satisfaction of a
sublimation. Cleared my ass. Fucking spooks. Duncan had the
common sense to censor himself effectively.
"CMR radiation, as it is called, is a major threat facing our
computers today. Do you know what that means?" Sorenson was
being solicitous. Tyrone had to play along.
"From what I gather, it means that our computers are not safe
from eavesdropping. Anyone can listen in." Tyrone spoke coldly.
Other than Bob, he was not with friends.
"Let me put it succinctly," Sorenson said. "CMR radiation has
been classified for several years. We don't even admit that it
exists. If we did, there could be panic. As far as we are
concerned with the public, CMR radiation is a figment of an
inventive imagination. Do you follow?"
"Yes," Duncan agreed, "but why? It doesn't seem to be much of a
secret to too many people?"
"That poses two questions. Have you ever heard of the Tempest
Program?"
"Tempest? No. What is it?" Duncan searched his mind.
"Tempest is a classified program managed by the Department of
Defense and administered by the National Security Agency. It has
been in place for years. The premise is that computers radiate
information that our enemies can pick up with sophisticated
equipment. Computers broadcast signals that tell what they're
doing. And they do it in two ways. First they radiate like a
radio station. Anyone can pick it up." This statement confirmed
what Scott had been saying. "And, computers broadcast their
signals down the power lines. If someone tried, they could
listen to our AC lines and essentially know what was the computer
was doing. Read classified information. I'm sure you see the
problem." Sorenson was trying to be friendly, but he failed the
geniality test.
Duncan nodded in understanding.
"We are concerned because the Tempest program is classified and
more importantly, the Agency has been using CMR for years."
"What for?"
"The NSA is chartered as the ears and eyes of the intelligence
community. We listen to other people for a living."
"You mean you spy on computers, too? Spying on civilians? Isn't
that illegal?" Tyrone remembered back when FBI and CIA abuses
had totally gotten out of hand.
"The courts have determined that eavesdropping in on cellular
phone conversations in not an invasion of privacy. We take the
same position on CMR." Sorenson wanted to close the issue quick-
ly.
Duncan carefully prepared his answer amidst the outrage he was
feeling. He sensed an arrogant Big Brother attitude at work. He
hated the 'my shit doesn't stink' attitude of the NSA. All in
the name of National Security. "Until a couple of days ago I
would have thought this was pure science fiction."
"It isn't Mr. Duncan. Tempest is a front line of defense to
protect American secrets. We need to know what else there is;
what you haven't put in your reports." The NSA man pressed.
Duncan looked at Bob who had long ago ceased to control the
conversation. He got no signs of support. In fact, it was
almost the opposite. He felt alone. He had had little contact
with the Agency in his 30 years of service. And when there was
contact it was relegated to briefings, policy shifts. . .pretty
bureaucratic stuff.
"As I said, it's all in the report. When there's more, I'll
submit it." Duncan maintained his composure.
"Mr. Duncan, I don't think that will do." Martin Templer spoke
up again. "We have been asked to assist the NSA in the matter."
"Whoah! Wait a second." Duncan's legal training had not been
for naught. He knew a thing or two about Federal charters and
task designations. "The NSA is just a listening post. Your guys
do the international spook stuff, and we do the domestic leg
work. Since when is the Fort into investigations?"
"Ty? They're right." The uneasiness in Bob's voice was promi-
nent. "The protection of classified information is their respon-
sibility. A group was created to report on computer security
problems that might have an effect on national security. On that
committee is the Director of the NSA. In essence, they have
control. Straight from 1600. It's out of our hands."
Tyrone was never the technical type, and definitely not the
politician. Besides, there was no way any one human being could
keep up with the plethora of regulations and rule changes that
poured out of the three branches of government. "Are you telling
me that the NSA can swoop down on our turf and take the cases
they want, when they want?" Duncan hoped he had heard wrong.
"Mr. Duncan, I think you may be under a mistaken impression
here." Sorenson sipped his drink and turned in the swivel chair.
"We don't want anything to do with your current cases, especially
the alleged blackmail operation in place. That is certainly
within the domain of the FBI. No. All we want is the van." The
NSA man realized he may have come on a little strong and Duncan
had misunderstood. This should clear everything up nicely.
Tyrone decided to extricate himself from any further involvement
with these guys. He would offer what he knew, selectively.
"Take the van, it's yours. Or what's left of it."
"Who else knows about CMR? How is works?" Sorenson wanted more
than the van.
Duncan didn't answer. An arrogance, a defiance came over him
that Bob Burnson saw immediately. "Tell them where you found
out, Ty." He saw Duncan's negative facial reaction. "That's an
order."
How could he minimize the importance of Scott's contribution to
his understanding of CMR radiation? How could he rationalize
their relationship? He thought, and then realized it might not
matter. Scott had said he already had his story, and no one had
done anything wrong. Actually they had only had a casual con-
versation on a train, as commuter buddies, what was the harm? It
really exposed him more than Scott if anything came of it.
"From an engineer friend of mine. He told me about how it
worked."
The reactions from the CIA and NSA G-Men were poorly concealed
astonishment. Both made rapid notes. "Where does he work? For
a defense contractor?"
"No, he's also a reporter."
"A reporter?" Sorenson gasped. "For what paper?" He breathless-
ly prayed that it was a local high school journal, but his gut
told him otherwise.
"The New York City Times," Duncan said, confident that Scott
could handle himself and that the First Amendment would help if
all else failed.
"Thank you very much Mr. Duncan." Sorenson rapidly rose from his
chair. "You've been most helpful. Have a good flight back."
* * * * *
Tuesday., December 1
New York City
The morning commute into the City was agonizingly long for Scott
Mason. He nearly ran the 5 blocks from Grand Central Station to
the paper's offices off Times Square. The elevator wait was
interminable. He dashed into the City Room, bypassing his desk,
and ran directly toward editor Doug McQuire's desk. Doug saw him
coming and was ready.
"Don't stop here. We're headed up to Higgins." Doug tried to
deflect the verbal onslaught from Scott.
"What the hell is going on here, Doug? I work on a great story,
you said you loved it, and then I finally get the missing piece
and then . . .this?" He pushed the morning paper in Doug's
face. "Where the fuck is my story? And don't give me any of this
'we didn't have the room' shit. You yourself thought we were
onto something bigger . . ."
Doug ignored Scott as best he could, but on the elevator to the
9th floor, Scott was still in his face.
"Doug, I am not a pimple faced cub reporter. I never was, that's
why you hired me. You've always been straight with me . . ."
Scott trailed behind Doug as they walked down the hallway to
Higgins' office. He was still calling Doug every name in the
book as they entered the room. Higgins sat behind his desk, no
tie, totally un-Higgins-like. Scott shot out another nasty
remark.
"Hey, you look like shit."
"Thanks to you," the bedraggled Higgins replied.
"What? You too? I need this today." Scott's anger displayed
concern as well.
"Sit down. We got troubles." Higgins could be forceful when
necessary. Apparently he felt this was an appropriate time to
use his drill sergeant voice. It startled Scott so he sat - on
the edge of his seat. He wasn't through dishing out what he
thought about having a story pulled this way.
Higgins waited for nearly half a minute. Let some calm, normalcy
return before he started.
"Scott, I pulled the story, Doug didn't. And, if it makes you
feel any better, we've both been here all night. And we've had
outside counsel lose sleep, too. Congratulations."
Scott was confused. Congratulations? "What are you . . .?"
"Hear me out. In my 14 years at this paper, this is the first
time I've ever had a call from the Attorney General's office
telling me, ordering me, that I, we had better not run a story.
I am as confused as you." Higgins' sincerity was real; tired,
but real.
Scott suddenly felt a twinge of guilt, but not enough to remove
the anger he still felt. "What ever happened to the first amend-
ment?" Irate confusion was written all over his face.
"Here me out before you pull the switch," Higgins sounded very
tired. "About 10:30 last night I got a call from the Print
Chief. He said that the NYPD was at the plant with a restraining
order that we not print a story you had written. What should
they do, he asked. Needless to say I had to come down, so I told
him, hold the presses, for a half hour. I called Ms. Manchester
and she met me here just after eleven. The officer had court
orders, from Washington, signed by the Attorney General personal-
ly, informing us that if we published certain information, alleg-
edly written by you, the paper could be found in violation of
some bullshit national security laws they made up on the spot.
"I called Doug, who was pleased to hear from me at midnight I can
assure you, and he agreed. Pull it. Whatever was going on, the
story was so strong, that we can always print it in a few days
once we sorted it out. We had no choice. But now, we need to
know, what is going on?" Higgins was clearly exhausted.
Scott was at a loss for words. "I . . .uh . . . dunno. What
did the court order say?"
"That the paper will, will is their word, refrain from printing
anything with regards to CMR. And CMR was all over your article.
Nobody here knew much about it, other than what was in the arti-
cle, and we couldn't reach you, so we figured that we might save
ourselves a bushel of trouble by waiting. Just a day or two," he
quickly added.
"How the hell did they find out ?" Scott's mind immediately
blamed Tyrone. He had been betrayed. Used. Goddamn it. He
knew better than to trust a Fed. Shit. Tyrone must have gone
upstairs and told his cronies that I was onto a story
and . . .well one thing led to another. But Jeez . . .the Attor-
ney General's office.
"Scott, what is going on here?" Higgins asked but Doug wanted to
know as well. "It looks like you've got a tiger by the tail.
And the tiger is in Washington. Seems like you've pissed off
some important people. We need to know, the whole bit. What are
you onto?"
"It's all in the story," Scott said, emotionally drained before
9:00 AM. "Whatever I know is there. It's all been confirmed,
Doug saw the notes." Doug nodded, yes, the reporting was as
accurate as is expected in such cases.
"Well," Higgins continued, "it seems that our friends in Wash-
ington don't want any of this printed, for their own reasons.
Is any of this classified, Scott?"
"If it is, I don't know it," Scott lamely explained. He felt up
against an invisible wall. "I got my confirmations from a couple
of engineers and a hacker type who is up on computer security
stuff. This stuff is chicken feed compared to SDI and the Stealth
Bomber."
"So why do they care?"
"I have an idea, but I can't prove it yet," offered Scott.
"Lay it on us, kid," said Doug approvingly. He loved controver-
sial reporting, and this had the makings of . . .
"What if between this and the Exchange we fell into a secret
weapons program," Scott began.
"Too simple. Been done before without this kind of backlash,"
Higgins said dismissing the idea.
"Except, these weapons can be built by any high school kid with
an electronics lab and a PC," Scott retorted undaunted. "Maybe
not as good, or as powerful, but nonetheless, effective. If you
were the government, would you want every Tom, Dick and Shithead
to build home versions of cruise missiles?"
"I think you're exaggerating a little, Scott." Higgins pinched
his nose by the corners of his eyes. "Doug? What do you think?"
Doug was amazingly collected. "I think," he said slowly, "that
Scott is onto a once in a lifetime story. My gut tells me this
is real. And still, we only have a small piece of the puzzle."
"Scott? Get right back on it," Doug ordered. "I want to know
what the big stink is. Higgins will use outside counsel to see
if they dig anything up, but I believe you'll have better luck.
It seems that you've stumbled on something that the Government
wants kept secret. Keep up the good work."
Scott was being congratulated on having a story pulled, which
aroused mixed emotions within him. His boss thought it wonderful
that it was pulled. It all depends what side of the fence you're
on, I guess.
"I have a couple of calls to make." Scott excused himself from
Higgins' domain to get back to his desk. He dialed Duncan's
private number.
"4543," Duncan answered gruffly.
"Fuck you very much." Scott enjoyed slamming down the phone as
hard as he could.
Scott's second call wouldn't be for hours. He wished it could be
sooner, so the day passed excruciatingly slowly. But, it had to
wait. Safety was a concern, not getting caught was paramount. He
was going to rob a bank.
* * * * *
Washington, D.C.
"I will call you in 5 minutes."
Miles Foster heard the click of the phone in his ear. It was
Homosoto. At midnight no less. He had no choice. It was better
to speak to Homosoto over the computer than in person. He didn't
have to hear the condescension. He turned his Compaq 486 back on
and initiated the auto-answer mode on the modem through the
ProTalk software package.
Miles was alone. He had sent Perky home a few minutes before.
He heard his modem ring, and saw the computer answer. The com-
puter automatically set the communications parameters and matched
the crypt key as chosen by the caller, undoubtedly Homosoto.
Miles set his PRG code to prove to the computer that it was
really him and he waited for the first message.
WE NEED TO TALK.
That was obvious, why state the obvious, thought Miles.
I am listening.
ONE OF THE READERS IS DEAD. HIS EQUIPMENT HAS BEEN CAPTURED.
By whom?
THE NEW YORK POLICE. THERE WAS A CAR ACCIDENT. THEN THE FBI GOT
THE READER. THEN THE NSA, STEPPED IN AND TOOK OVER. THEY EVEN
HAVE INTERFERED WITH THE PRESS. SCOTT MASON WROTE A STORY ON THE
READERS AND THE GOVERNMENT STOPPED HIM.
How? We don't do that sort of stuff.
OBVIOUSLY YOU DO, MR. FOSTER. I HAVE MY SOURCES AS YOU DO.
They don't screw with the press, though. That's frowned upon.
MAYBE SO, BUT TRUE. WE NEED TO GET THIS MASON BACK ON THE TRACK.
HE IS WHAT WE NEED.
Why him?
SIMPLE. WE HAVE SENT READER INFORMATION TO SEVERAL NEWSPAPERS.
THE ONLY ONE TO PRINT HAS BEEN YOUR NATIONAL EXPOSE. THAT PAPER,
I BELIEVE IS SOLD AT SUPERMARKETS AND READ BY WOMEN WHO WATCH
SOAP OPERAS. MR. MASON IS AN ENGINEER WHO UNDERSTANDS. WE NEED
HIM BACK. HE IS VALUABLE TO OUR PLAN. IN YOUR COUNTRY PEOPLE
LISTEN TO THE PRESS. BUT YOUR GOVERNMENT STOPPED HIM. WE CANNOT
LET HIM FAIL.
How much does he know?
AS MUCH AS WE WANT HIM TO. NO MORE. WE WANT TO FEED HIM A
LITTLE AT A TIME, AS WE PLANNED. I AM AFRAID HE WILL BE DISCOUR-
AGED AND ABANDON THE HUNT. YOU KNOW HOW CRITICAL THE PRESS IS.
THEY ARE OUR MOUTHPIECE.
Yes, I agree. I wish I knew how you find out these things.
MANY PEOPLE OWE ME FAVORS. WE MAY HAVE LOST AFTER PEARL HARBOR,
BUT WE WON WITH THE TRANSISTOR RADIO AND VCRS. THE WAR IS NOT
OVER.
What do you want me to do?
MAKE SURE THAN MR. MASON IS KEPT INFORMED. HE IS BRIGHT. HE
UNDERSTANDS. HIS VOICE WILL BE HEARD. HE MUST NOT BE STOPPED.
I WILL DO WHAT I CAN AS WELL. PUT HIM BACK ON THE TRACK.
I know how to do that. That will not be a problem. Do we still
have readers?
YES, WE LOST ONLY ONE, AND THAT IS NOT HURTING. WE HAVE MANY
MORE.
How many?
MR. FOSTER, YOU WROTE THE PLAN. DID YOU FORGET?
No, I know. Curiosity.
KILLED THE CAT AS YOU SAY.
It is my plan.
WHICH I BOUGHT. I WANT THE PUBLICITY, AS PLANNED. SEE THAT WE
GET IT.
Sure.
MR. FOSTER? ONE MORE THING.
Yes.
I DO NOT HAVE A SLOPED BROW NOR IS RICE MY PRIMARY MEANS OF
PROPULSION.
Just an expression.
KEEP IT TO YOURSELF.
<<<<<<CONNECTION TERMINATED>>>>>>
* * * * *
Midnight, Wednesday, December 2
Scarsdale, New York
Since he had met Kirk, Scott had developed a mild affection for
his long distance modem-pal, and pretended informer. Now, it was
time to take advantage of his new asset. Maybe the Government
carries weight with their spook shit, but a bank can't push hard
enough to pull a story, if it's true. And Kirk, whoever that
was, offered Scott the ideal way to prove it. Do it yourself.
So he prepared himself for a long night, and he would definitely
sleep in tomorrow; no matter what! Scott so cherished his sleep
time. He wormed his way through the mess of the downstairs
"study in disaster," and made space by redistributing the mess
into other corners.
He felt a commitment, an excitement that was beyond that of de-
veloping a great story. Scott was gripped with an intensity that
was a result of the apprehension of invading a computer, and the
irony of it all. He was an engineer, turned writer, using com-
puters as an active journalistic instrument other than for word
processing. To Scott, the computer, being the news itself, was
being used as a tool to perform self examination as a sentient
being, as a separate entity. Techno-psychoanalysis?
Is it narcissistic for man's tools to use themselves as both
images of the mirror of reflective analysis? They say man's brain
can never fully understand itself. Is the same true with comput-
ers? And since they grow in power so quickly compared to man's
snail-like millennia by millennia evolution, can they catch up
with themselves?
Back to reality, Scott. The Great American Techno-Philosophy and
Pulitzer could wait. He had a bank to rob. Scott left his
computer on all the time since Kirk had first called. If the
Intergalactic Traveler called back, the computer would answer,
and Kirk could leave a message. Scott checked the Mail Box in
the ProCom communications program. No calls. Not that his modem
was a popular number. Only he, his office computer and Kirk knew
it. And the phone company, but everyone knows about them . . .
Just as the clock struck midnight, Kirk jumped in his seat. Not
only was the bell chiming an annoying 12 mini-gongs, but his
computer was beeping. It took a couple of beeps from the small
speaker in his computer for him to realize he was receiving a
call. What do I do know? The 14" color screen came alive and it
entered terminal mode from the auto-answer screen that Scott had
left yesterday.
WTFO
The screen rang out. Scott knew the answer.
naft
VERY GOOD! COULDN'T HAVE SAID IT BETTER MYSELF.
Welcome pilgrim, what has brought thee to these shores?
I GUESS WRITERS HAVE AN ADVANTAGE ON COMM. MAKE YOURSELF VERY
COLORFUL. CREATE ANY PICTURE YOU WANT.
Seems a bit more sporting that hiding behind techy-talk.
YEAH, WELL, I'LL WORK ON IT.
So, as Maynard G. Crebbs asked, "You Rang?"
AH! DOBIE GILLIS. NICK AT NIGHT!
No, the originals.
WHEN WAS THAT?
You've just dated yourself. Thanks.
TO-FUCKING-SHAY! NOT AS OLD AS YOU. READY FOR A TRIP TO THE
BANK?
You read my mind :-)
I FIGURED YOU'D WIMP OUT ON A SOLO TRIP, FIRST TIME AND ALL.
THOUGHT I MIGHT BE ABLE TO HELP. I MAKE A HELL OF A CHAUFFEUR.
What do you mean?
I MEAN I'M GOING TO TAKE YOU FOR A RIDE.
You're kidding. Just like Superman carries Lois Lane?
JUST ABOUT. FIRST I'M GOING TO SEND YOU A COPY OF 'MIRAGE'
SOFTWARE.
When?
RIGHT NOW. THEN, YOU'LL USE MIRAGE. ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS
EXECUTE FROM THE COMMAND LINE AFTER I DOWN LOAD.
English kimosabe.
OK, ITS SIMPLE. WHEN I SAY SO, YOU ENTER ALT-F9. THAT SETS YOU
UP TO RECEIVE. NAME THE FILE MIRAGE.EXE. THERE'S ONLY ONE.
THEN WHEN IT SAYS ITS DONE, PRESS CTRL-ALT-R. YOU WILL HAVE A
DOS LINE APPEAR. ENTER MIRAGE.EXE AND RETURN.
Stop! I'm writing . . .
USE PRTSCR
What's that?
IS YOUR PRINTER ON LINE?
Yes.
WHENEVER YOU WANT TO PRINT WHAT'S ON THE SCREEN ENTER 'SHIFT-
PrtScr'. LOOK FOR IT. HIT IT NOW.
Thanks! Got it.
OR SAVE THE WHOLE THING TO A FILE. USE CTRL-ALT-S. THEN PICK A
NEW FILE NAME. MEANS MONGO EDITING THOUGH.
Done! I like Ctrl-Alt-S. Suits me fine. No memory needed.
HIT ALT-F9. MIRAGE IS COMING.
Scott did as instructed. The entire procedure made sense intel-
lectually, but inside, there was an inherent disbelief that any
of these simple procedures would produce anything meaningful. It
is inherently difficult to feel progress, a sense of achievement
without instantaneous feedback that all was well.
Less than a minute later, the screen told Scott it was finished.
Did he want to Save the file? Yes. Please name it. Mirage.Exe.
Would you like to receive another? No. Do you want to exit to
Command line? Yes. He entered Mirage.Exe as Kirk had instruct-
ed, hoping that he was still waiting at the other end. The
screen displayed various copyrights and Federal warnings about
illegal copying of software, the very crime Scott had just com-
mitted.
The video suddenly split into two windows. The bottom window
looked just like the screen he used to talk to Kirk, except much
smaller. Only 10 out of a possible 25 lines. The upper half of
the screen was new. MIRAGE-Remote View (C)1988.
Kirk announced himself.
WTFO
Yup! I got something. Two screens.
GOOD. THAT MEANS EVERYTHING PROBABLY WORKED. LET'S TEST IT.
YOU AND I TALK JUST AS USUAL, ON THE SMALL WINDOW, LIKE WE'RE
DOING NOW. ON THE TOP WINDOW, YOU WILL SEE WHAT I'M DOING.
EXCEPT IN MINIATURE. BECAUSE YOU ONLY HAVE 15 LINES TO SEE, AND
A NORMAL SCREEN IS 25 LINES, THE PROGRAM COMPRESSES THE SIGNAL TO
DISPLAY IT IN FULL. DO YOU HAVE A DECENT MONITOR?
vga 14 inch
GOOD. YOU WON'T HAVE ANY PROBLEMS. REMEMBER, WHENEVER YOU WANT
A COPY OF THE SCREEN, HIT SHIFT-PRTSCR.
Can't I save everything?
CTRL-ALT-S, YEAH.
Done. Anything else?
YOU CAN'T INTERFERE. JUST ALONG FOR THE RIDE.
A Sunday drive in the country . . .
WITH ME DRIVING. HA! FASTEN YOUR SEAT BELTS.
Scott watched with his fingers sitting on the keyboard with
anticipation. A phone number was displayed on top line in the
Upper Window: 18005555500.
<<DIALING>>
In a few seconds the screen announced,
WELCOME TO USA-NET, THE COMPLETE DATA BASE.
The graphics got fancy but in black and white.
ARE YOU A FIRST TIME USER? NO
ID? XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
PASSWORD? XXXXXXXX
The video monitor did not let Scott see the access codes.
Welcome to USA-NET, Kirk.
Time synchronizing: 0:04:57 December 18, 1990
DO YOU WANT THE MAIN MENU? Y
Scott's large window began to scroll and fill with lines after
line of options:
(A) Instructions
(B) Charges
(C) Updating
(D) OAG
(E) Shopping Menus
(F) Trading Menus
(G) Conversation Pits
In all there were 54 choices displayed. The lower window came
alive.
SEE HOW IT WORKS?
Fascinating.
THAT WAS JUST A TEST. NOW FOR THE REAL THING. SURE YOU WANNA
GO?
Scott had gone this far. He would worry about the legalities in
the morning. Higgins would have his work cut out for him.
Aye, aye, Captain.
ENGAGE WARP ENGINES.
The upper window changed again.
QUIT? Y
ARE YOU SURE? Y
<<<<<<CONNECTION TERMINATED>>>>>>
Another number flashed in the upper window. 12125559796.
<<DIALING>>
After less than 2 rings the screen announced that they had ar-
rived at the front doors to the computer system at First State
Bank, in New York. Another clue. Kirk was not from New York.
He used an area code.
Scott felt like looking back over his shoulders to see who was
watching him. His automatic flight-or-fight response made the
experience more exhilarating. He tried to force his intellect to
convince himself that he was far from view, unobservable, unde-
tectable. Only partially successful, he remained tense realizing
that he was borderline legal.
<<<<<<CONNECTION>>>>>>
PORT CONTROL SECURITY, CENTRAL DATA PROCESSING CENTER, FIRST
STATE BANK. O/S VMS R31
SECURITY: SE-PROTECT, 4.0 REV. 3.12.1 10, OCT, 1989
TIME: 00:12:43.1
DATE: 04 December
PORT: 214
ARE YOU SYSTEMS ADMINISTRATOR? YES
ENTER SYS-ADMIN ID CODE SEQUENCE: 8854
<<WAITING . . .>>
PRIMARY SYS-ADMIN AUTHENTICATION ACCEPTED. PLEASE BEGIN SECOND-
ARY IDENTIFICATION.
PASSWORD: 4Q-BAN/HKR
<<WAITING . . .>>
SECONDARY SYS-ADMIN AUTHENTICATION ACCEPTED. PLEASE BEGIN FINAL
IDENTIFICATION.
ID: 374552100/1
<<WAITING . . .>>
WELCOME TO CENTRAL DATA PROCESSING, FIRST STATE BANK, NEW YORK
CITY. YOU ARE THE SYSTEMS ADMINISTRATOR.
*****************
WARNING!!!
PLEASE ONLY INITIATE CHANGES WHICH HAVE BEEN TESTED ON BACKUP
PROCESSORS. SEVERE DAMAGE MAY RESULT FROM IMPROPER ADMINISTRA-
TION.
*****************
Scott watched in fascination. Here he was, riding shotgun on a
trip through one of New York's largest bank computers, and there
was no resistance. He could not believe that he had more securi-
ty in his house than a bank with assets of over $10 Billion. The
bottom window showed Kirk's next message.
WHAD'YA THINK?
Pretty stupid
WHAT?
That the bank doesn't have better control
VIVE LE HACKER!!!
* * * * *
Wednesday, December 2
New York City
"Doug," Scott came into the office breathlessly, "we have to see
Higgins. I gotta great . . ."
"Hey, I thought you were gonna come in late today? Wire in the
copy?" He looked at the New York clock on the wall. It was
9:15. Scott broke the promise he made to himself to come in
late.
"Yeah, well, I underslept." He brandished a thick file of
computer printouts. "Before I write this one, I want Higgins and
every other lawyer God put on this green Earth to go over it."
"Since when did you get so concerned with pre-scrutiny. As I
remember, it was only yesterday that you threatened to nuke
Higgins' house and everyone he ever met." Doug pretended to be
condescending. Actually, the request was a great leap forward
for Scott and every other reporter. Get pre-lawyered, on the
approach, learn the guidelines, and maybe new rules before plow-
ing ahead totally blind.
"Since I broke into a bank last night!" Scott threw the folder
down on Doug's desk. "Here. I'm going to Rosie's for a choles-
terol fix. Need a picker upper."
When Scott came back from a breakfast of deep fried fat and pan
grilled grease he grabbed his messages at the front desk. Only
one mattered:
Higgins. 11:00. Be there. Doug.
Still the boss, thought Scott.
Higgins' job was to approve controversial material, but it gener-
ally didn't surround only one reporter, on so many different
stories within such a short time span.
"Good to see you, Mason," snorted Higgins.
"Right. Me too," he came back just as sarcastically. "Doug."
He acknowledged his editor with only slightly more civility.
"John, the boy's been up all night," Doug conciliated to Higgins.
He called all his reporters boys. "And Scott, lighten up." He
was serious.
"Sure, Doug," he nodded.
Higgins began. "O.K., Scott, what is it this time? Doug said you
broke into a bank, and I haven't had time to go over these." He
held up the thick file of printouts. "In 25 words or less."
The legal succinctness annoyed Scott.
"Simple. I tied in with a hacker last night, 'round midnight.
He had the passwords to get into the First State computers, and
well, he showed me around. Showed me how much damage can actual-
ly be done by someone at a keyboard. The tour lasted almost 2
hours."
"That's it?" Asked Higgins.
"That's it? Are you kidding? Let me tell you a few things in 25
words or more!" Scott was tired and the lack of sleep made him
irritable.
"I did a little checking before I went on this excursion. You
bank at First, don't you, John?"
It was a setup question. "Yes," Higgins said carefully.
"I thought so. Here let me have that file. Gimme a minute," he
said flipping pages. "Here it is, and yes, correct me if I say
anything that you don't agree with." His curtness and accusato-
ry sound put both Higgins and Doug off. Where was he going?
"John W. Higgins, social security number, 134-66-9241. Born Rock-
ville, Maryland, June 1, 1947. You currently have $12,435.16 in
your checking account, $23,908.03 in savings . . ."
Higgins' jaw and pen dropped simultaneously. Doug saw the shock
on his face while Scott continued.
"Your mortgage at 115 Central Park West is $2,754.21. Your
portfolio is split between, let's see, CD's, T-Bills, the bank
acts as your broker, and you have three safety deposit boxes,
only one to which your wife, Helen Beverly Simons, has access.
You make a deposit every two weeks . . ."
"Stop! How the hell do you know . . ."
"Jeez you make that much? Can I be a lawyer too, huh? Please Mr.
Higgins?"
Higgins threw his chair back and stormed around his desk to grab
the papers from Scott. Scott held them away.
"Let me see those!" Higgins demanded.
"Say please. Say pretty please."
"Scott!" Doug decided enough was enough. Scott had made his
point. "Cool it. Let him have them."
"Sure, boss!" He grinned widely at Doug who could not, for
reasons of professional conduct, openly condone Scott's perform-
ance, no matter how effective it was.
Higgins looked at the top pages from where Scott was reading. He
read them intently, looking from one to the other. Slowly, he
walked back to his desk, and sat down, nearly missing the chair
because he was so engrossed.
Without looking up he spoke softly. "This is unbelievable.
Unbelievable. I can't believe that you have this." Suddenly he
spoke right to Scott. "You know this is privileged information,
you can't go telling anyone about my personal finances. You do
know that, right?" The concern was acute.
"Hey, I don't really give a damn what you make, but I needed to
shake the tree. This is serious shit."
"Scott, you've got my total, undivided attention now. The
floor's yours. You have up to 100 words." Humor wasn't Higgins'
strong point, or his weak point, or any point, but Scott appreci-
ated the gesture. Doug could relax, too. A peace treaty, for
now.
"Thanks, John." Scott was sincere. "As you know I've been run-
ning a few stories on hackers, computer crimes, what have you."
Higgins rolled his eyes. He remembered. "A few weeks ago I got
a call from Captain Kirk. He's a hacker."
"What do you know about him?" Higgins was again taking notes.
The tape recorder was nowhere to be seen.
"Not much, yet, but I have a few ideas. I would hazard to guess
that he is younger. Maybe in his late '20's, not from New York,
maybe the Coast, and has a sense of responsibility."
"How do know this?"
"Well, I don't know, I guessed from our conversations."
"Why didn't you just ask?"
"I did. But, he wants his anonymity. It's the things he says,
the way he says them. The only reason I know he's a he is be-
cause he called me on the phone first."
"When did you speak to him?" Higgins inquired.
"Only once. After that it's been over computer."
"So it could be anyone really?"
"Sure, but that doesn't matter. It's what he did. First, we
entered the computer . . ."
"What do you mean we?" Higgins shot Scott a disapproving stare.
"We. Like him and me. He tied my computer to his so I could
watch what he was doing. So, he gets into the computer . . ."
"How?"
"With the passwords. There were three."
"How did he get them?"
"From another hacker I assume. That's another story." The con-
stant interruptions exasperated Scott. "Let me finish, then grill
me. O.K.?"
Higgins nodded. Sure.
"So, once we were in, he could do anything he wanted. The com-
puter thought he was the Systems Administrator, the head honcho
for all the bank's computer operations. So we had free reign.
The first place we went was to Account Operations. That's where
the general account information on the bank's customers is kept.
I asked him for information on you. Within seconds I knew a lot
about you." Higgins frowned deeply. "From there, he asked for
detailed information on your files; credit cards, payment histo-
ry, delinquencies, loans on cars, IRA's, the whole shooting
match."
"I have to interrupt here, Scott," Higgins said edgily. "Could
he, or you have made changes, to, ah . . .my account?"
"We did!"
"You made changes? What changes?" Higgins was aghast.
"We took all your savings and invested them in a new startup fast
food franchise called Press Rat and Wharthog Sandwiches, Inc."
"You have got be kidding." Scott saw the sweat drops at Higgins'
hairline.
"Yeah, I am. But he did show me how easy it is to make adjust-
ments in account files. Like pay off loans and have them disap-
pear, invoke foreclosures, increase or decrease balances, whatev-
er we wanted to do."
"Jesus Christ!"
"That's not the half of it. Not even a millionth of it. See, we
went through lots of accounts. The bank computer must hold
hundreds of thousands of account records, and we had access to
them all. If we had wanted to, we could have erased them all, or
zeroed them out, or made everyone rich overnight."
"Are you telling me," Higgins spoke carefully, "that you and
this . . .hacker, illegally entered a bank computer and changed
records and . . ."
"Whoah!" Scott held up his hands to slow Higgins down. "We left
everything the way it was, no changes as far as I could tell."
"Are you sure?"
"No, I'm not. I wasn't in the driver's seat. I went along for
the ride."
"What else did you do last night, Scott?" Higgins sounded re-
signed to more bad news. The legal implications must have been
too much for him to handle.
"We poked around transfer accounts, where they wire money from
one bank to another and through the Fed Reserve. Transaction
accounts, reserves, statements, credit cards. Use your imagina-
tion. If a bank does it, we saw it. The point is, John, I need
to know two things."
John Higgins sat back, apparently exhausted. He knew what was
coming, at least half of it. His expression told Scott to ask
away. He could take it.
"First, did I do anything illegal, prosecutable? You know what I
mean. And, can I run with it? That's it."
Higgins' head leaned back on the leather head rest as he began to
speak deliberately. This was going to be a lawyer's non-answer.
Scott was prepared for it.
"Did you commit a crime?" Higgins speculated. "My gut reaction
says no, but I'm not up on the latest computer legislation. Did
you, at any time, do anything to the bank's computers?"
"No. He had control. I only had a window."
"Good, that helps." The air thickened with anticipation as Doug
and Scott both waited for words of wisdom. "I could make a good
argument that you were a reporter, with appropriate credentials,
interviewing an individual, who was, coincidentally, at the same
time, committing a crime. That is, if what he did was a crime.
I don't know the answer to that yet.
"There have been countless cases where a reporter has witnessed
crimes and reported on them with total immunity. Yes, the more I
think about it, consider this." Higgins seemed to have renewed
energy. The law was his bible and Scott was listening in the
congregation. "Reporters have often gone into hostage situations
where there is no doubt that a crime is in progress, to report on
the condition of the hostages. That's O.K.. They have followed
drug dealers into crack houses and filmed their activities."
Higgins thought a little more. "Sure, that's it. The arena
doesn't change the rules. You said you couldn't affect the
computers, right?" He wanted a confirmation.
"Right. I just watched. And . . .asked him to do certain
things."
"No you didn't! Got that? You watched, nothing else!" Higgins
cracked sharply at Scott. "If anyone asks, you only watched."
"Gotcha." Scott recognized the subtle difference. He did not
want to be an aider or abettor of a crime.
"So, that makes it easy. If you were in the hackers home, watch-
ing him over his shoulder, that would be no different from watch-
ing him over a computer screen." He sounded confident. "I
guess." He sounded less confident. "There is very little case
history on this stuff, so, if it came to it, we'd be in an inter-
esting position to say the least. But, to answer your question,
no, I don't think that you did anything illegal."
"Great. So I can write the story and . . ." Scott made a
forgone conclusion without his lawyers advice. There was no way
Higgins would let him get away with that.
"Hold your horses. You say write a story, and based upon what I
know so far, I think you can, but with some rules."
"What kind of rules?" Skepticism permeated Scott's slow re-
sponses.
"Simple ones. Are you planning on printing the passwords to
their computers?"
"No, not at all. Why?"
"Because, that is illegal. No doubt about it. So, good, rule
one is easy. Two, I want to read over this entire file and have
a review of everything before it goes to bed. Agreed?" Higgins
looked at Doug who had not contributed much. He merely nodded,
of course that would be fine.
"Three, no specifics. No names of people you saw, nothing exact.
We do not want to be accused of violation of privacy in any way,
shape or form."
"That's it?" Scott was pleasantly surprised. What seemed like
common sense to him was a legal spider web that Higgins was re-
quired to think through.
"Almost. Lastly, was this interview on the record?"
Damn good question, Scott thought. "I dunno. I never asked, it
didn't seem like a regular interview, and since I don't know
Kirk's real name, he's not the story. It was what he did that is
the story. Does it matter?"
"If the shit hits the fan it might, but I think we can get around
it. Just be careful what you say, so I don't have to redline 90%
of it. Fair enough?"
Scott was pleased beyond control. He stood to thank Higgins.
"Deal. Thanks." Scott began to turn.
"Scott?" Higgins called out. "One more thing."
Oh no, he thought, the hammer was dropping. He turned back to
Higgins. "Yeah?"
"Good work. You're onto something. Keep it up and keep it
clean."
"No problem." Scott floated on air. "No, problem at all."
Back at his desk, Scott called Hugh Sidneys. He still worked at
State First, as far as he knew, and it was time to bring him out
of the closet, if possible.
"Hugh?" Scott said affably. "This is Scott Mason, over at the
Times?"
"Yeah? Oh, hello," Sidneys said suspiciously. "What do you
want?"
"Hugh, we need to talk."
"About what?"
"I think you know. Would you like to talk here on the phone, or
privately?" Sometimes leaving the mark only two options, neither
particularly attractive, would keep him within those bounds.
Sidneys was an ideal person for this tact.
The pregnant pause conveyed Sidney's consternation. The first
person to speak would lose, thought Scott. Hugh spoke.
"Ah, I think it would be . . .ah better . . .if we
spoke . . .at . . ."
"How about the same place?" Scott offered.
"OK," Hugh was hesitant. "I guess so . . .when?"
"Whenever you want. No pressure." Scott released the tension.
"I get off at 5, how about . . .?"
"I'll be there."
"Yes ma'am. This is Scott Mason. I'm a reporter for the Times.
I will only take a few seconds of his time. Is he in?" Scott
used his kiss-the-secretary's-ass voice. Better then being
aggressive unless it was warranted.
"I'll check, Mr. Mason," she said. The phone went on hold.
After a very few seconds, the Muzak was replaced with a gruff
male voice.
"Mr. Mason? I'm Francis MacMillan. How may I help you?" He
conveyed self assuredness, vitality and defensiveness.
"I won't take a moment, sir." Scott actually took several sec-
onds to make sure his question would be formed accurately. He
probably only had one chance. "We have been researching an
article on fraudulent investment practices on the part of various
banks; some fall out from the S&L mess." He paused for effect.
"At any rate, we have received information that accuses First
State of defrauding it's investors. In particular, we have
records that show a complicated set of financial maneuvers that
are designed to drain hundreds of millions of dollars from the
assets of First State. Do you have any comment?"
Total silence. The quality of fiber phone lines made the silence
all the more deafening.
"If you would like some specifics, sir, I can provide them to
you," Scott said adding salt to the wound. "In many cases, sir,
you are named as the person responsible for these activities. We
have the documents and witnesses. Again, we would like a comment
before we go to print."
Again Scott was met with silence. Last try.
"Lastly, Mr. MacMillan, we have evidence that your bank's comput-
ers have been invaded by hackers who can alter the financial
posture of First State. If I may say so, the evidence is quite
damning." Scott decided not to ask for a comment directly. The
question was no longer rhetorical, it was implicit.
If feelings could be transmitted over phone wires, Scott heard
MacMillan's nerve endings commence a primal scream. The phone
explosively hung up on Scott.
* * * * *
Thursday, December 3
First State Bank, New York
Francis MacMillan, President of First State Savings and Loan,
bellowed at the top of his lungs. Three Vice Presidents were in
his office before 7:00 A.M.
"Who the fuck's in charge of making sure the damned computers are
safe?"
The V.P. of Data processing replied. "It's Jeanne Fineman,
sir."
"Fire him."
"Jeanne is a woman . . ."
"Fire them both. I want them out of here in 10 minutes." McMil-
lan's virulent intensity gave his aides no room for dissent.
"Sir, why, it's almost Christmas, and it wasn't her fault . . ."
"And no bonus. Make sure they never work near banks, or comput-
ers ever again! Got that?" Everyone nodded in shock.
"Al?" McMillan shouted. "Buy back our stock, quietly. When
the market hears this we're in for a dump. No one will believe
us when we respond, and it will take us a day to get out an
answer."
"How much?" Al Shapiro asked.
"You figure it out. Just keep it calm." Shapiro noted it agree-
ably.
"Where the hell are the lawyers? I want that pinko-faggot news-
paper stopped by tonight." McMillan's rage presaged a very, very
bad day at First State.
"And someone, someone, find me that shit hole worm Sidneys. I
want him in my office in 30 seconds. Now," he violently thrust
his arms in the air, "get the hell out of here until you have
some good news."
* * * * *
Friday, December 4
RUN ON FIRST STATE AS IT STALLS ON OWN BAILOUT
by Scott Mason
Since yesterday afternoon, First State Savings and Loan has been
in asset-salvation mode. Upon reports that computer hackers have
had access to First State's computers and records for some time,
and can change their contents at will, the stock market reacted
negatively by a sell-off. In the first 15 minutes of trading,
First State's stock plummeted from 48 1/2 to 26 1/4, a reduction
of one half its value. Subsequently, the stock moved up with
block buying. At the noon bell, the stock had risen modestly to
31. It is assumed that First State itself is repurchasing their
own stock in an attempt to bolster market confidence.
However, at 2:00PM, First State contacted banking officials in
New York and Washington, as well as the SEC, to announce that a
rush of worried depositors had drained the bank of it's available
hard currency reserves, and would close until the following
morning when cash transfers would permit the bank to continue
payments.
Last quarter cash holding were reported in excess of $3 Billion,
and First State has acknowledged that any and all monies would
be available to those who desired it. In a press release issued
by First State at 1:00 PM they said, "A minor compromise of our
computers has caused no discernible damage to the computers, our
customers or the bank. A thorough investigation has determined
that the hacker was either a figment of the imagination of a
local paper or was based upon unfounded hearsay. The bank's
attorneys are reviewing their options."
The combination of the two announcements only further depressed
First State stock. It stood at 18 7/8 when the SEC blocked
further trading.
This is Scott Mason, who reported the news as he saw it. Accu-
rately.
****************************************************************
Chapters 15 through 21 of "Terminal Compromise" can be found in
the file TERMCOMP.3
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