Chapter 16
Wednesday, December 9
New York
The late afternoon pace of the City Room at the Times tended to
be chaotic. As deadlines approached and the paper was laid out
for the printers, the flurry of activity was associated with an
increase in the loudness of the room. Scott Mason listened with
one hand over his right ear and the phone so awkwardly pressed
between his left ear and shoulder that his glasses sat askew on
his face. Suddenly hanging up the phone, Scott sprung up shout-
ing, "I got it." Several people stopped and stared in his
direction, but seeing nothing of concern or interest to them,
they returned to their own world.
Scott ripped a page from a notebook and ran into and around his
co-workers. "Doug, I got it. Confirmed by the President."
"You're kidding me?" Doug stopped his red pencil mid-stroke.
"Give it to me from the top." He turned in his swivel chair to
face Scott more directly.
"It goes like this. A few weeks ago Sovereign Bank in Atlanta
found that someone had entered their central computers without
permission." Scott perused his notes. "It didn't take long for
them to find the intruder. He left a calling card. It said that
the hackers had found a hole to crawl through undetected into
their computers. Was the bank interested in knowing how it was
done? They left a Compuserve Mail Box.
"As you can imagine the bank freaked out and told their computer
people to fix whatever it was. They called in the FBI, that's
from my contact, and went on an internal rampage. Those good ol'
boys don't trust nobody," Scott added sounding like a poor imita-
tion of Andy from Mayberry.
"Anybody that could spell computer was suspect and they turned
the place upside down. Found grass, cocaine, ludes, a couple of
weapons and a lot of people got fired. But no state secrets.
You talk about a dictatorship," commented Scott on the side.
"There's no privacy at all. They scanned everyone's electronic
mail boxes looking for clues and instead found them staring at
invasion of privacy suits from employees and ex-employees who
were fired because of the contents of their private mail.
"The computer jocks unplugged the computers, turned them inside
out and screwed them back together. Nothing. They found nada.
So they tighten the reins and give away less passwords, to less
people. That's all they figured they could do."
"This is where the fun starts." Scott actively gestured with his
hands as he shifted weight to his other foot. "A few days later
they discover another message in their computer. Says something
like, 'sorry Charlie' or something to that effect. The hackers
were back. And this time they wanted to sell their services to
the bank. For a nominal fee, say, a million bucks, we'll show
you how to sew up the holes."
"Well, what does that sound like to you?" Scott asked Doug.
"Extortion."
"Exactly, and ape-shit doesn't begin to describe what the bank
did. Bottom line? They made a deal. We'll pay you a million
bucks as consultants for 10 years. You agree to stay out of the
machines unless we need you. Immunity unless you break the
deal."
"What happened?" Doug said with rapt attention.
"Sovereign bank now has three fourteen year old consultants at a
hundred grand a year," Scott said choking with laughter on his
words.
"You're kidding," exclaimed Doug slapping his knees.
"No shit. And everyone is pretty happy about it. The kids have
a way to pay for a good college, they're bright little snots, and
they get off. The bank figures it's making an investment in the
future and actually may have gotten off cheap. It woke them up
to the problems they could face if their computers did go down
for a month. Or if they lost all their records. Or if someone
really wanted to do damage. Thoughts like that trigger a panic
attack in any bank exec. They'd rather deal with the kids.
"In fact, they're turning it into a public relations coup. Dig
this," Scott knew the story like the back of his hand. "The bank
realized that they could fix their security problems for a couple
of million bucks. Not much of an investment when you're guarding
billions. So they design a new ad campaign: Sovereign. The
Safest Your Money Can Be."
"Now that's a story," said Doug approvingly. "Important, fun,
human, and everyone comes out a winner. A story with a moral.
Confirmed?"
"Every bit. From the president. They announce it all tomorrow
and we print tonight with their blessing. Exclusive."
"Why? What did you have to do . . ?"
"Nothing. He likes the work we've been doing on the computer
capers and crime and all and thought that we would give it fair
coverage. I think they're handling it like absolute gentlemen."
"How fast do you type?"
"Forty mistakes a minute. Why?"
"You got 40 minutes to deadline."
* * * * *
Friday, December 11
Washington, D.C.
Throughout his years of Government service at the National Secu-
rity Agency, Miles Foster had become a nine to fiver. Rarely did
he work in the evening or on weekends. So the oddball hours he
had to work during his association with Homosoto were irritating
and made him cranky. He could function well enough, and cranki-
ness was difficult to convey over a computer terminal, but work-
ing nights wasn't much to his liking. It interfered with his
social responsibilities to the women.
The master plan Miles had designed years ago for Homosoto was now
calling for phase two to go into effect. The beauty of it all,
thought Miles, was that it was unstoppable. The pieces had been
put into play by scores of people who workedfor him; the pro-
grammers, the Freedom League BBS's and the infectors. Too much
had already gone into play to abort the mission. There was no
pulling back.
Only a few weeks were left before the first strike force landed.
The militaristic thinking kept Miles focussed on the task at
hand, far away from any of the personalization that might surface
if he got down to thinking about the kinds of damage he was going
to be inflicting on millions of innocent targets. Inside, perhaps
deep inside, Miles cared, but he seemed to only be aware of the
technical results of his efforts in distinction to the human
element. The human elements of frustration, depression, help-
lessness - a social retreat of maybe fifty years, that was going
to be the real devastation above and beyond the machinery. Just
the way Homosoto wanted it. To hurt deep down.
Miles had come to learn of the intense hatred that Homosoto felt
toward the United States. In his more callous moments, especial-
ly when he and Homosoto were at odds over any particular subject,
Miles would resort to the basest of verbal tactics.
"You're just pissed off 'cause we nuked your family." It was
meant to sting and Homosoto's reactions were unpredictable.
Often violent, he had once thrown priceless heirlooms across his
office shattering in a thousand shards. A three hour lecture
ensued on one occasion, tutoring Miles about honorable warfare.
Miles listened and fell asleep during more than one sermon.
But at the bottom of it, Homosoto kept a level head and showed he
knew what he was doing. The plans they formulated were coming
together though Miles had no direct control over many pieces. The
Readers were run by another group altogether; Miles only knew
they were fundamentalist fanatics. He didn't really care as long
as the job was getting done. And the groundhogs; he designed
them, but they were managed by others. Propaganda, yet another,
just as the plan called for. Extreme compartmentalization, even
at the highest level.
Only Homosoto knew all the players and therefore had the unique
luxury of viewing the grand game being played. Though Miles
designed every nuance, down to the nth degree of how to effect
the invasion properly, he was not privileged to push the chessmen
around the board. His rationalization was that he was being paid
a great deal of money for the job, and he was working for a more
important cause, one that would make it all worthwhile. Perhaps
in another year or two when the final phases were complete, and
the United States was even more exposed and defenseless than it
was right now, the job would be done.
Miles' ruminating provided a calming influence during the inter-
minable months and years that distanced the cause and effect. In
the intelligence game, on the level that he had operated while
with the NSA, he would receive information, process it, make
recommendation and determinations, and that was that. Over.
Next.
Now though, Miles had designed the big picture, and that meant
long range planning. No more instant gratification. He was in
control, only partially, as he was meant to be. He was impressed
with the operation. That nothing had gone awry so far consoled
Miles despite the fact that Homosoto called him almost every day
to ask about another computer crime he had heard about.
This time is was Sovereign Bank. Homosoto had heard rumors that
they were being held hostage by hackers and was concerned that
some of Miles' techies had gone out on their own.
Homosoto reacted to the Sovereign issue as he had many others
that he seemed so concerned about. Once Miles gave him an expla-
nation, he let the matter drop. Not without an appropriate warn-
ing to Miles, though, that he had better be right.
The number of computer crimes was increasing more rapidly than
Miles or anyone in the security field had predicted only a few
years ago and the legal issues were mounting faster than the
state or federal legislatures could deal with them. But, as
Miles continually reassured Homosoto, they were small timers with
no heinous motivation. They were mostly kids who played chicken
with computers instead of chasing cars or smoking crack. A far
better alternative, Miles offered.
Just kids having a little fun with the country's most important
computer systems. No big deal. Right? How anyone can leave the
front door to their computer open, or with the keys lying around,
was beyond him. Fucking stupid.
His stream of consciousness was broken when his NipCom computer
announced that Homosoto was calling. Again. Shit. I bet some high
school kids changed their school grades and Homosoto thinks the
Rosenburgs are behind it. Paranoid gook.
<<<<<<TRANSMISSION ENCRYPTED>>>>>>
MR FOSTER
That's me. What's wrong.
NOTHING. ALL IS WELL.
That's a change. Nobody fucking with your Ninten-
do, huh?
YOUR HUMOR ESCAPES ME, AT TIMES
S'pozed 2
WHAT?
Never Mind. What do you need?
WE ARE CLOSE
I know.
OF COURSE YOU DO. A BRIEF REPORT PLEASE.
Sure. Freedom is doing better than expected. Over a million now,
maybe a million and a half. The majors are sick, real sick.
Alex has kept my staff full, and we're putting out dozens of
viruses a week. On schedule.
GOOD
I'm gonna be out for a few days. I'll call when I
get back.
SHOULDN'T YOU STAY WHERE YOU CAN BE REACHED?
I carry a portable. I will check my computer, as I always do.
You have never had trouble reaching me.
THAT IS TRUE. WHERE DO YOU GO?
Amsterdam.
HOLLAND? WHY?
A hackers conference. I need a break anyway, so I thought I
might as well make it a working vacation. The top hackers get
together and stroke themselves, but I could pick something up.
Useful to us.
DO BE CAREFUL, YOU ARE VALUABLE. NO ONE CAN KNOW WHO YOU ARE.
No one does. No one. I use my BBS alias. Spook.
* * * * *
San Francisco, California
Sir George Sterling checked his E-Mail for messages. There were
only 2, both from Alex. The one week holiday had been good for
Sir George. Well earned, he thought. In less than 3 months, he
had called over 1,700 people on the phone and let them in on his
little secrets, as he came to call them.
Every month Alex had forwarded money, regular like clockwork, and
Sir George had diligently followed instructions. To the letter.
Not so much in deference to the implicit threats issued him by
Alex, over computer and untraceable of course, but by the pros-
pect of continued income. He came to enjoy the work. Since he
was in America and his calls were to Americans, he had the oppor-
tunity to dazzle them with his proper and refined accent before
he let the hammer down with whatever tidbit of private informa-
tion he was told to share with them.
In the beginning Sir George had little idea of what the motiva-
tion behind his job was, and still, he wasn't completely sure.
He realized each call he made contained the undercurrent of a
threat. But he never threatened anyone, his instructions were
explicit; never threaten. So therefore, he reasoned, he must
actually be making threats, no matter how veiled.
He rather enjoyed it all. Not hurting people, that wasn't his
nature, but he savored impressing people with his knowledge and
noting their reactions for his daily reports back to Alex. In the
evenings Sir George searched out small American recreational
centers inaccurately referred to as pubs. In fact they were
disguised bars with darts and warm beer, but it gave Sir George
the chance to mingle and flash his assumed pedigree. When asked
what he did for a living, he truthfully said, "I talk to people."
About what? "Whatever interests them."
He became somewhat of a celebrated fixture at several 'pubs' in
Marin County where he found the atmosphere more to his liking; a
perfectly civilized provincial suburb of San Francisco where his
purchased affectations wore well on the locals who endlessly
commuted to their high tech jobs in Silicon Valley 40 miles to
the south.
Hawaii had been, as he said, "Quite the experience." Alex had
informed him one day that he was to take a holiday and return
ready for a new assignment, one to which now he was ideally
suited. Sir George smiled to himself. A job well done, and
additional rewards. That was a first for George Toft of dreary
Manchester, England.
Since he did not have a printer, there was no way he would jeop-
ardize his livelihood for a comfort so small, he read his E-Mail
by copying the messages into Word Perfect, and then reading them
at his leisure. All E-Mail was encrypted with the Public Private
RSA algorithm, so he had to manually decrypt the messages with
his private key and save them unencrypted. When he was done, he
erased the file completely, to keep anyone else from discovering
the nature of his work. Alex's first message was dated two days
before he returned from Hawaii. It was actually cordial, as far
as Alex could be considered cordial. After their first meeting
in Athens, Alex had taken on a succinct if not terse tone in all
communications.
Sir George:
Welcome back. I hope you had a most enjoyable holiday. It was
well deserved.
We now enter phase two of our operations. We place much faith in
your ability and loyalty. Please do not disrupt that confidence.
As in the past, you will be given daily lists of
people to call. They are some of the people whom you have called
before. As before, identify yourself and the nature of your
call. I am sure your last call was so disturbing to them, they
will take your call this time as well.
Then, once you have confirmed their identity,
give them the new information provided, and ask them to follow
the instructions given, to the letter. Please be your usual
polite self.
Alex
The second message was more Alex-like:
Sir George:
If you have any problems with your new assignment, please
call me to arrange your termination.
Alex.
* * * * *
"Hello? Are you there?" Sir George Sterling spoke with as much
elegance he could muster. "This is John Fullmaster calling again
for Robert Henson." Sir George remembered the name but not the
specifics.
"One moment please," Maggie said. "Mr. Henson?" She said after
dialing his intercom extension. "It's John Fullmaster for you.
Line three"
"Who?"
"Mr. Fullmaster. He called once several months ago. Don't you
remember?" He thought. Fullmaster. Fullmaster. Oh, shit. I
thought he was a bad dream. Goddamn blackmailer. Never did
figure how he knew about the Winston Ellis scam. Good thing
that's been put to bed and over.
"All right, I'll take it." He punched up the third line.
"Yeah?" He said defiantly.
"Mr. Henson? This is John Fullmaster. I believe we spoke a
while back about some of your dealings? Do you recall?"
"Yes, I recall you bastard, but you're too late. The deal closed
last month. So you can forget your threats. Fuck off and die."
Henson used his best boardroom belligerence.
"Oh, I am sorry that you thought I was threatening you, I can
assure you I wasn't." Sir George oozed politeness.
"Bullshit. I don't know how the blazes you learned anything
about my business, and I don't really care . . ."
"I think you might care, sir, if you will allow me to speak for a
moment." Sir George interjected. The sudden interruption caught
Henson off guard. He stood his ground in silence.
"Thank you." Sir George waited for an acknowledgement which
never arrived, so he continued. "Winston Ellis is old news, Mr.
Henson, very old news. I read today, though, that Miller Pharma-
ceuticals is about to have its Anti-AIDS drug turned down by the
FDA. Apparently it still has too many side effects and may be
too dangerous for humans. I'm sure you've read the reports
yourself. Don't you think it would be wise to tell your investors
before they sink another $300 Million into a black hole from
which there is no escape?" The aristocratic British accent
softened the harshness of the words, but not the auger of the
meaning.
Henson seethed. "I don't know who you are," he hissed, "but I
will not listen to this kind of crap. I won't take it
from . . ."
"Sorry," Sir George again interrupted, "but I'm afraid you will
listen. The instructions are as follows. I want $5 Million in
small bills in a silver Samsonite case to be placed into locker
number 235 at Grand Central Station, first level. You have 48
hours to comply. If you do not have the money there, we will
release these findings to the media and the SEC which will no
doubt prompt an investigation into this and other of your deal-
ings. Don't you think?"
Blackmail was anathema to Robert Henson, although he should have
felt quite comfortable in its milieu. It was effectively the
same stunt he performed on many of his investors. Nobody treats
Robert Henson this way, nobody. He needed time to think. The
last time Fullmaster called it was a bluff, obviously, but then
there were no demands. This time, he wanted something. But, how
did he know? The FDA reports were still confidential, and he
hoped to have completed raising the funds before the reports
became public, another few weeks at most. He counted on ineffi-
cient government bureaucracy and indifference to delay any an-
nouncement. Meanwhile though, he would pocket several millions
in banking fees.
"You got me. I'll do it. 235. Right?"
"Very good, Mr. Henson. I'm glad you see it my way. It has been
a pleasure doing business with you." Sir George sounded like a
used car salesman. "Oh, yes, I almost forgot. Please, Mr. Hen-
son, no police. In that case, our deal is off."
"Of course, no police. No problem. Thanks for the call."
Henson hung up. Fuck him. No money, no way.
* * * * *
"Mr. Faulkner, this is John Fullmaster." Sir George was sicken-
ingly sweet. "Do you recall our last conversation?"
How couldn't he? This was the only call he had received on his
private line since that maniac had last called. Faulkner had had
the number changed at least a half a dozen times since, as a
matter of course, but still, Fullmaster, if that was his real
name, reached him with apparent ease.
"Yes, I remember," he said tersely. "What do you want now?"
"Just a piece of the action, Mr. Faulkner."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"Well, according to my records, you have lost quite a sum of
money since our last conversation, and it would be such a shame,
don't you agree, if California National Bank found out they lost
another $2 million to your bad habits?" Sir George instinctively
thought Faulkner was a California slime ball, never mind his own
actions, and he briefly thought that he might actually be work-
ing for the side of good after all.
"You have a real doctor's bedside manner. What do you want?"
Faulkner conveyed extreme nervousness.
"I think, under the circumstances that, shall we say, oh, one
million would do it. Yes, that sounds fair."
"One million? One million dollars?" Faulkner shrieked from his
pool side lounge chair.
"Yessir, that sounds just about right." Sir George paused for
effect. "Now here is what I want you to do. Go to Las Vegas,
and have your credit extended, and acquire small bills. Then,
place the money in a silver Samsonite case at Union Station.
Locker number 12. Is that simple enough?" British humor at its
best.
"Simple, yes. Possible, no," Faulkner whispered in terror.
"Oh, yes, it is possible, as you well know. You cleared up the
$2.4 Million you owed Caesar's only last week. Your credit is
excellent."
"There's no way you can know that . . ." Then it occurred to
him. The mob. He wasn't losing enough at the tables, they
wanted more. Losing money was one thing, his way, but a sore
winner is the worst possible enemy. He had no choice. There was
only one way out.
"All right, all right. What locker number?"
"Twelve. Within 48 hours. And, I probably needn't mention it,
but no police."
"Of course," Faulkner smiled to himself. At last the nightmare
would be over.
"Thank you so very much. Have a nice day."
* * * * *
"Merrill! It's the blackmailer again. Merrill, do you hear me?"
Ken Boyers tried to get Senator Rickfield out from the centerfold
of the newest Playboy. "Merrill!"
"Oh sorry, Ken. Just reading the articles. Now what is it?"
Rickfield put the magazine down, slowly, for one last lustful
gaze.
"Merrill, that Fullmaster fellow, the one who called about the
Credite Suisse arrangements . . ."
"Shut up! We don't talk about that in this office, you know
that!" Rickfield admonished Ken.
"I know, but he doesn't," he said, pointing at the blinking light
on the Senator's desk phone.
"I thought he went away. Nothing ever came of it, did it?"
"No, nothing, after we got General Young onto it," Boyers ex-
plained. "I thought he took care of it, in his own way. The
problem just disappeared like it was supposed to."
"Well," Rickfield said scornfully, "obviously it didn't. Give me
the goddamned phone." He picked it up and pressed the lighted
button. His senatorial dignity was absent as he spoke.
"This is Rickfield. Who is this?"
"Ah, thank you for taking my call. Yes, thank you." Sir George
spoke slowly, more slowly than necessary. This call was marked
critical. That meant, don't screw it up. "My name is John
Fullmaster and I believe we spoke about some arrangements you
made with General Young and Credite Suisse."
"I remember. So what? That has nothing to do with me," Rick-
field retorted. He grabbed a pen and wrote down the name, John
Fullmaster. Ken looked at the scribbled writing and shrugged his
shoulders.
"Ah, but I'm afraid it does. I see here that Allied Dynamics
recently made a significant contribution to a certain account in
Credite Suisse. There are only two signators on the passbook.
It also says here that they will be building two new factories in
your state. Quite an accomplishment. I am sure your constitu-
ents would be proud."
The color drained from Rickfield's face. He put his hand over
the mouthpiece to speak privately to Ken. "Who else knows?
Don't bullshit me, boy. Who else have you told?"
"No one!" Boyers said in genuine shock. "I want to enjoy the
money, not pay attorney's fees."
Rickfield waved Boyers away. He appeared satisfied with the
response. "This is speculation. You can't prove a thing."
Rickfield took a shot to gauge his opponent.
"Believe that if you wish, Senator, but I don't think it is in
either of our best interests to play the other for the fool."
Sir George saw that Rickfield did not attain his position as
Chairman of the Senate Committee on Space, Transportation and
Technology by caving in to idle demands or threats. In fact, in
34 years of Senate service, Senator Merrill Rickfield had sur-
vived 8 presidents, counseling most of them to varying degrees
depending upon the partisan attitude of the White House.
At 65, much of the private sector would have forced him into
retirement, but elected Government service permitted him the
tenure to continue as long as his constituents allowed. Claude
Pepper held the record and Merrill Rickfield's ego wanted to
establish new definitions of tenure.
His involvement with General Chester Oliver Young was recent, in
political terms; less than a decade. During the Reagan military
buildup, nearly 3 trillion dollars worth, defense contractors
expanded with the economy, to unprecedented levels and profits.
Congress was convinced that $300 Billion per year was about right
to defend against a Cold War enemy that couldn't feed its own
people. The overestimates of the CIA, with selective and often
speculative information provided by the country's intelligence
gatherer, the NSA, helped define a decade of political and tech-
nological achievements: Star Wars, Stealth, MX, B1, B2 and other
assorted toys that had no practical use save all out war.
With that kind of spending occurring freely, and the Senate Over-
sight Committee in a perpetual state of the doldrums, there was
money to be made for anyone part of Washington's good ol' boy
network. General Young was one such an opportunistic militarist.
Promoted to one star general in 1978, after two lackluster but
politically well connected tours in Vietnam, it was deemed pru-
dent by the power brokers of that war to bring Young into the
inner rings of the Pentagon with the corresponding perks such a
position brought. But Young had bigger and better ideas.
He saw countless ways to spend taxpayers money protecting them
from the Communist threat of the Evil Empire, but had difficulty
getting support from his two and three star superiors. It didn't
take him long to realize that he had been token promoted to keep
his mouth shut about certain prominent people's roles in the
Vietnam era. Events that were better left to a few trusted
memories than to the history books.
So Young decided to go out on his own and find support from the
legislative branch; find an influential proponent for a few
specific defense programs by which he could profit. Over the
course of a few years, he and Senator Rickfield became fast
friends, holding many of the same global views and fears, if not
paranoias. When Allied Dynamics began losing Congressional
support for an advanced jet helicopter project, Young went to
Rickfield for help. After all, Allied was headquartered in
Rickfield's home state, and wouldn't it be a great boon to the
economy? The recession was coming to an end and that meant jobs.
Rickfield was unaware, initially, that Allied had an arrangement
with General Young to donate certain moneys to certain charities,
in certain Swiss bank accounts if certain spending programs were
approved. Only when Rickfield offered some later resistance to
the Allied projects did Young feel the need to share the wealth.
After 25 years in Congress, and very little money put away to
show for it, Rickfield was an easy target.
Rickfield's recruitment by Young, on Allied's behalf, had yielded
the Senator more than enough to retire comfortably on the island
paradise of his choice. Yet, Rickfield found an uncontrolled
desire for more; considerations was his word for it, just as he
had grown used to wielding power and influence in the nation's
capital. Rickfield was hooked, and Credite Suisse was the cer-
tain Swiss bank in question. Ken Boyers was involved as well,
almost from the start. They both had a lot to lose.
"No, I must assume that you are not a fool, and I know for a fact
I am not one, so on that one point we do agree." Political
pausing often allowed your opponent to hang himself with addi-
tional oration. Rickfield found the technique useful, especial-
ly on novices. "Please continue."
"Thank you." Sir George said with a hint of patronization. "To
be brief, Senator, I want you to keep your money, I think that
dedicated civil servants like yourself are grossly underpaid and
underappreciated. No sir, I do not wish to deny you the chance
to make your golden years pleasant after such a distinguished
career."
"Then what is it. What do you want from me?" The Senator was
doodling nervously while Ken paced the room trying to figure out
what was being said at the other end of the phone.
"I'm glad you asked," said Sir George. "Beginning next month you
are chairing a sub-committee that will be investigating the
weaknesses and potential threats to government computer systems.
As I remember it is called the Senate Select Sub-Committee on
Privacy and Technology Containment. Is that right?"
"Yes, the dates aren't firm yet, and I haven't decided if I will
chair the hearings or assign it to another committee member. So
what?"
"Well, we want you to drag down the hearings. Nothing more."
Sire George stated his intention as a matter of fact rather than
a request.
Rickfield's face contorted in confusion. "Drag down? Exactly
what does that mean, to you, that is?"
"We want you to downplay the importance of security for govern-
ment computers. That there really is no threat to them, and
that government has already met all of its obligations in balance
with the new world order, if you will. The threats are mere
scare tactics by various special interest groups and government
agencies who are striving for long term self preservation." Sir
George had practiced his soliloquy before calling Senator Rick-
field.
"What the hell for?" Rickfield raised his voice. "Security?
Big deal! What's it to you?"
"I am not at liberty to discuss our reasons. Suffice it to say,
that we would be most pleased if you see to it that the hearings
have minimal substance and that no direct action items are deliv-
ered. I believe that term you Americans so eloquently use is
stonewall, or perhaps filibuster?"
"They're not the same things."
"Fine, but you do understand nonetheless. We want these hearings
to epitomize the rest of American politics with procrastination,
obfuscation and procedural gerrymandering." Sir George had
learned quite a bit about the political system since he had moved
to the States.
"And to what aim?" Rickfield's political sense was waving red
flags.
"That's it. Nothing more."
"And in return?" The Senator had learned to be direct in mat-
ters of additional compensation since he had hooked up with the
earthy General.
"I will assure you that the details of your arrangements with
Allied Dynamics will remain safe with me."
"Until the next time, right? This is blackmail?"
"No. Yes." Sir George answered. "Yes, it is blackmail, but
without the usual messiness. And no, there will be no next time.
For, as soon as the hearings are over, it would be most advisable
for you to take leave of your position and enjoy the money you
have earned outside of your paycheck."
"And, if I don't agree to this?" Rickfield was looking at his
options which seemed to be somewhere between few and none. Maybe
he only had one.
"That would be so unfortunate." Sir George smiled as he spoke.
"The media will receive a two page letter, it is already pre-
pared I can assure you, detailing your illegal involvements with
Allied, General Young and Mr. Boyers."
"What's in it for you? You don't want any money?" The confusion
in Rickfield's mind was terribly obvious, and he was sliding on a
logical Mobius loop.
"No Senator, no money. Merely a favor."
"I will let you know what I decide. May I have your number?"
"I do not need to contact you again. Your answer will be evident
when the hearings begin. Whatever course you pursue, we will
make an appropriate response."
* * * * *
"Scott!" A woman called across the noisy floor. "Is your phone
off the hook?"
"Yeah, why?" He looked up and couldn't match the voice with a
person.
"You gotta call."
"Who is it? I'm busy."
"Some guy from Brooklyn sounds like. Says he got a package for
you?"
Holy shit. It's Vito! Scott's anonymous caller. The one who
had caused him so much work, so much research without being able
to print one damn thing.
Not yet.
"Yeah, OK. It's back on." The phone rang instantly and Scott
rushed to pick it up on the first ring.
"Yeah, Scott Mason here." He sounded hurried.
"Yo! Scott. It's me, your friend, rememba?" No one could
forget the accent that sounded more fake than real. He had been
nicknamed Vito for reference purposes by Scott.
"Sure do, fella," Scott said cheerily. "That bunch of shit you
sent me was worthless. Garbage."
"Yeah, well, we may have fucked up a little on that. Didn't
count on youse guys having much in the ethics department if youse
know what I mean." Vito laughed at what he thought was a pretty
good joke. "So, we all screw up, right? Now and again? Never
mind that, I got something real good, something youse really
gonna like."
"Sure you do."
"No, really, dig this. I gotta list of names that . . . "
"Great another list. Just what I need. Another list."
"Whad'ar'ya, a wise guy? Youse wanna talk or listen?" Scott
didn't answer. "That's better, cause youse gonna like this.
Some guy named Faulkner, big shit banker from La La Land is
borrowing money from the mob to pay off a blackmailer. Another
guy, right here in New York Shitty, a Wall Street big shot called
Henson, him too. Another one named Dobbs, same thing. All being
blackballed by the same guys. Youse want more?"
"I'm writing, quiet. Faulkner, Henson and Dobbs, right?"
"That's whad'I said, yeah."
"So how come you know so much?"
"That's my job. I deal in information. Pretty good, huh?"
"Maybe. I gotta check it out. That last stuff was . . ."
"Hey!" Vito interrupted, "I told youse 'bout that. Eh, paysan,
what's a slip up among friends, right?"
"I'll ignore that. Gimme a couple of days, I'll call you."
"Like hell you will. I'll call you. You'll see, this is good
stuff. No shit. All right? Two days."
Click.
* * * * *
Monday, December 14
Washington, D.C.
The FBI runs a little known counter intelligence operation from
the middle of a run down Washington, D.C. neighborhood on Half
Street. Getting in and out is an exercise in evasive not to
mention defensive driving. The South East quadrant of Washing-
ton, D.C. is vying for the drug capital of the nation, and per-
haps has the dubious distinction of having the highest murder
rate per capita in the United States. Since the CI division of
the FBI is a well kept secret, its location was strategically
chosen to keep the casual passerby from stopping in for a chat.
Besides, there was no identification on the front of the build-
ing.
Most Americans think that the CIA takes care of foreign spies,
but their agents are limited to functioning on foreign land. On
the domestic front the FBI Counter Intelligence Group is assigned
to locate and monitor alien intelligence activities. For exam-
ple, CI-3 is assigned to focus on Soviet and East Bloc activi-
ties, and other groups focus on their specific target countries.
Thus, there is a certain amount of competition, not all of it
healthy, between the two agencies chartered to protect our na-
tional interests. The CIA is under the impression that it con-
trols all foreign investigations, even if they tread upon United
States territory. This line of thinking has been a constant
source of irritation and inefficiency since the OSS became the
CIA during the Truman administration. Only during the Hoover
reign at the FBI days was there any sense of peaceful coexist-
ence. Hoover did what he damn well pleased, and if anyone stood
in his way, he simply called up the White House and had the
roadblock removed. Kennedy era notwithstanding, Hoover held his
own for a 50 year reign.
Tyrone Duncan received an additional lesson on inter-agency
rivalry when he was called down to Half Street. His orders were
similar to those he had received from the safe house in George-
town months before. Stick to your hackers and viruses, period,
he was told. If it smells of foreign influence, let the CI fight
it out with Langley. Keep your butt clean.
In 25 years of service, Tyrone had never been so severely admon-
ished for investigating a case that he perceived as being domes-
tic in nature. The thought of foreign influences at work had not
occurred to him, until CI brought it up.
As far as he was concerned the quick trip from New York to Half
Street was a bureaucratic waste of time and money. However,
during the fifteen minute discussion he was told by his CI compa-
triots that both the blackmail and the ECCO investigations situa-
tions had international repercussions and he should keep his nose
out of it. CI was doing just fine without Tyrone's help.The
meeting, or warning as Tyrone Duncan took it, served to raise an
internal flag.
There was a bigger picture, something beyond a classical black-
mail operation and some hackers screwing with government comput-
ers, and he was being excluded. That only meant one thing. He
was pushing someone's button and he didn't know how, where or
why. The Trump Shuttle flight back to La Guardia gave Tyrone
time to think about it, and that only incensed him further.
Aren't we all on the same team? If I stumbled onto something,
and you want me to back off, O.K., but at least let me know what
I'm missing.
Twenty five years and a return to Hoover paranoia. He under-
stood, and advocated, the need for secrecy, privacy and the
trappings of confidentiality. But, compartmentalization of
information this extreme was beyond the normal course to which he
was accustomed. The whole thing stunk.
He arrived back at New York's Federal Square during lunch hour.
Normally there was a minimal staff at that hour, or hour and half
or two hours depending upon your rank. When the elevator doors
opened on Level 5, seventy feet under lower Manhattan, he walked
into a bustle of activity normally present only when visiting
heads of state need extraordinary security. He was immediately
accosted by eager subordinates. The onslaught of questions
overwhelmed him, so he ignored them and walked through the maze
directly to his office.
His head ringing, he plopped himself down behind his desk. He
stared at the two agents who followed him all the way, plus his
secretary stood in the open door, watching with amusement.
Duncan was not appreciative of panic situations. His silence was
contagious.
"Who's first?" He asked quietly.
The two agents looked at each other and one spoke. "Uh, sir, I
think we have a lead in the blackmail operation." Duncan looked
at the other, offering him a chance to speak.
"Yessir, it seems to have broken all over at once." Duncan
opened his eyes wide in anticipation. Well, he, thought, go on.
The first agent picked up the ball. "Demands. The blackmailers
are making demands. So far we have six individuals who said they
were recontacted by the same person who had first called them a
year ago."
Duncan sat upright. "I want a complete report, here, in 1 hour.
We'll talk then. Thank you gentlemen." They took their cue to
exit and brushed by, Tyrone's secretary on their way out the
door.
"Yes, Gloria?" Duncan treated her kindly, not with the adminis-
trative brusqueness he often found necessary to motivate some of
his agents.
"Good morning, or afternoon, sir. Pleasant trip?" She knew he
hated sudden trips to D.C. It was her way of teasing her boss.
"Wonderful!" Tyrone beamed with artificial enthusiasm. "Book me
on the same flights every day for a month. Definite E-ticket
ride."
"Do you remember a Franklin Dobbs? He was here some time ago,
about, I believe the same matter you were just discussing?" Her
demureness pampered Duncan.
"Dobbs? Yes, why?"
"He's been waiting all morning. Had to see you, no on else.
Shall I show him in?"
"Yes, by all means, thank you."
"Mr. Dobbs, how good to see you again. Please," Duncan pointed
at a chair in front of his desk. "Sit down. How may I help
you?"
Dobbs shuffled over to the chair and practically fell into it.
He sighed heavily and looked down at his feet. "I guess it's all
over. All over."
"What do you mean? My secretary, said you were being blackmailed
again. I think you should know I'm not working on that case
anymore."
"This time it's different," Dobbs said, his eyes darting about.
"They want money, a lot of money, more than we have. Last time I
received a call I was told some very private and specific knowl-
edge about our company that we preferred to remain private.
That information contained all our pricing, quotation methods,
profit figures, overhead . . .everything our competitors could
use."
"So you think your competition is blackmailing you," Duncan
offered.
"I don't know. If they wanted the information, why call me and
tell me? We haven't been able to figure it out."
"What about the others," Duncan thought out loud. "The others
with access to the information?"
"Everyone is suspecting everyone else. It's not healthy. Now,
after this, I'm thinking of packing it in."
"Why now? What's different?"
"The demands. I can't believe it's my competitors. Sure, it's a
cut throat business, but, no, it's hard to believe."
"Stranger things have happened, Mr. Dobbs." Duncan tried to be
soothing. "The demands, what were they?"
"They want three million dollars, cash. If we don't pay they
said they'd give away our company secrets to our competitors.
We don't have the cash."
Duncan felt for the man. Dobbs had been right. There was noth-
ing the FBI could have done to help. No demands, no recontacts,
and no leads, just a lot of suspicion. But, now, the Bureau was
in a position to help.
"Mr. Dobbs, rest assured, we will pursue this case aggressively.
We will assign you two of our top agents, and, in cases like
this, we are quite successful." Duncan's upbeat tone was meant
to lift Dobbs' spirits. "Was there anything else demanded?"
"No, nothing, they just told me not to go to the police."
"You haven't told anyone, have you?" Duncan asked.
"No, not even my wife."
"Mr. Dobbs, let me ask you a couple more things, then I will
introduce you to some fine men who will help you. Do you know
anyone else who is in your position? Other people who are being
blackmailed in similar ways?"
Dobbs shuffled his feet under the chair, and picked at the edge
of the chair. Duncan hit a raw nerve.
"Mr. Dobbs, I don't want names, no specifics. It's a general
question. Do you know others?"
"Yes," Dobbs said almost silently.
"Do you know how many?" Duncan needed details if his current
line of thinking would pan out into a viable theory.
"No, not exactly."
"Is it five? Ten? More than Ten? Twenty-five? More than twenty-
five?" Dobbs nodded suddenly.
"Do you mean that you know of 25 other companies that are going
through what you're going through? Twenty five?" Tyrone was
incredulous at the prospects. The manpower alone to investigate
that many cases would totally overwhelm his staff. There was no
way. The ramifications staggered him. Twenty five, all at once.
"Yeah. At least."
"I know you can't tell me who they are . . ." Duncan hoped that
Dobbs might offer a few.
"No. But, look at their stocks. They're not doing well. Our
competitors seem to be getting the best of the deal."
Twenty five cases in New York alone, and he knows of at least 6
others, so far. The rekindled blackmail operation, after months
of dead ends. Duncan wondered how big the monster behind the
head could get. And how could the FBI handle it all. Poor
bastard. Poor us.
* * * * *
Tuesday, December 15
New York
It was before 8:00 A.M. and Scott cursed himself for arriving at
his office at this ungodly hour. He had found the last piece of
the puzzle, didn't sleep very much, and was in high gear before
6:00. Scott couldn't remember the last time he had been awake
this early, unless it was coming round the long way. He scurried
past security, shaking his ID card as he flew through the closing
doors on the express elevator. The office hadn't yet come to life
so Doug McGuire was available without a wait or interruption.
"I need some expense money," Scott blurted out at Doug.
"Yeah, so?" Doug sounded exasperated with Scott's constant
requests for money. He didn't even look up from his impossibly
disorganized desk.
"I'm serious . . .," Scott came back.
"So am I." Doug firmly laid down his pen on his desk and looked
at Scott. "What the hell kind of expenses do you need now?"
Scott spent more money than several reporters combined, and he
never felt bad about it. While a great deal of his work was
performed at the office or at home, his phone bills were extraor-
dinary as were his expenses.
Scott had developed a reputation as willing to go to almost any
lengths to get a story. Like the time he hired and the paper paid
for a call girl to entertain Congressman Daley from Wisconsin.
She was supposed to confirm, in any way necessary, that LeMal
Chemical was buying votes to help bypass certain approval cycles
for their new line of drugs. She accidentally confirmed that he
was a homosexual, but not before he slipped and the lady of the
evening became the much needed confirmation.
As Scott put it, Daley's embarrassed resignation was unavoidable
collateral damage in stopping the approval of a drug as poten-
tially dangerous as thalidomide.
Or then there was the time that Scott received an anonymous tip
that the Oil Companies had suppressed critical temperature-emis-
sion ratio calculations, and therefore the extent of the green-
house effect was being sorely underestimated. As a result of his
research and detective work, and the ability to verify and under-
stand the physics involved, Scott's articles forced a re-examina-
tion of the dangers. He received a New York Writer's Award for
that series.
When Doug had hired Scott, as a thirty-something cub reporter,
they both thought that Scott would fit in, nice and neat, and
write cute, introspective technical pieces. Neither expected
Scott to quickly evolve into a innovative journalist on the
offensive who had the embryo of a cult following.
But Scott Mason also performed a lot of the more mundane work
that most writer's suffer with until the better stories can
justify their full time efforts. New products, whiz bang elec-
tronic toys for the kitchen, whiz bangs for the bathroom. New
computer this, new software that.
Now, though, he was on the track, due in part he admitted, to
Doug coercing him into writing the computer virus bits. Yes, he
was wrong and Doug was right. The pieces were falling in place.
So, no matter what happened, it was Doug's fault.
"I'm going to Europe."
"No you're not!" thundered Doug.
"Yes I am. I gotta go . . ." Scott tried to plead his case.
"You aren't going anywhere, and that's final." Doug retorted
without a pause. He stared challengingly through Scott.
"Doug," Scott visibly calmed himself, "will you at least hear me
out, before telling me no? At least listen to me, and if I'm
wrong, tell me why. O.K.?" Same routine, different day, thought
Scott. The calmer, sincere request elicited empathy from Doug.
Maybe he'd been too harsh.
"Sorry, it's automatic to say 'no'. You know that they," he
pointed down with his thumb, "have us counting paper clips.
Sure, explain to me why I'm going to say 'no'," he joked. Doug's
overtly stern yet fatherlike geniality returned.
"O.K." Scott mentally organized his thoughts. He touched his
fingers to his forehead and turned to sit on the edge of Doug's
desk. A traditional no-no. "Without my notes . . ."
"Screw the notes, what have you got? If you don't know the mate-
rial, the notes won't help. They're the details, not the story."
Scott had heard this before.
"Sure, sorry." He gained confidence and went straight from the
hip. "Fact one. The FBI is investigating a massive blackmail
campaign that nobody wants us to talk about, and probably for
good reason from what I can see. As of now, there is no clue at
all to whom is behind the operation.
"Fact two. My story got pulled by CIA, NSA or someone that pushed
the AG's buttons. And this Tempest thing gets heads turning too
fast for my taste." Doug nodded briefly. Scott made sense so
far, both things were true.
"Three," Scott continued, "First State has been the target of
hackers, plus, we have Sidneys . . ."
"Sort of. McMillan hasn't caved in on that yet."
"Agreed, but it's still good. You and I both know it." Doug
grudgingly nodded in agreement.
"Then we have all those papers that came from a van, or more than
one van I would guess, and not a damned thing we can do with them
according to Higgins." Again, Doug nodded, but he wondered where
all of this was going. "Then the EMP-T bombs, NASA, the Phone
Company, and all of these viruses. What we have is a number of
apparently dissimilar events that have one common denominator:
computers."
Scott waited for a reaction from Doug that didn't come so he
continued. "Don't you see, the van with the computer data, the
endless files, the Sidneys problems, pulling my stories, the
hackers? Even the viruses. They're starting to get a little out
of hand. It's all the same thing!"
Doug rolled his head from side to side on his shoulder. Rather
than boredom, Scott knew that Doug was carefully thinking through
the logic of it. "Aren't you acting the engineer instead of the
reporter here? Miss the old line of work 'eh?"
"Give me a break! You and your viruses are the ones who got me
into this mess in the first place." Scott knew it would come up,
so he had been ready and grabbed the opportunity Doug had just
given him. "That's exactly the point!" Scott leaped off the
desk to his feet. "All we have are technical threads, pieces of
a puzzle. It's a classic engineering problem." Although Scott
had never been a brilliant engineer, he could argue the issues
fluently.
"Let me give you an example. When I was in defense electronics,
whenever someone built something we had to document, without
failure, it didn't work. Radar, navigation, communications, it
didn't matter. The engineers forever were releasing products that
failed on the first pass." Doug stopped rolling his head and
looked at Scott with a blank stare.
"We had these terrifically advanced products meant to defend our
country and they didn't work. So, we had to tell the engineers
what was wrong so they could figure it out. Our own engineers
and I got involved more times than we liked because the response
time from the contractors was for shit. They didn't care any
more. Since we hadn't designed it, we only saw the pieces that
were on the fritz, we had symptoms and had to figure out what
they meant in order to diagnose the failure so we could get the
designers to come up with a fix. The point is, we only had
shreds of evidence, little bits of technical information from
which to try to understand the complete system. That's exactly
what's going on here."
"So?" Doug said dead panned.
"So," Scott avoided getting incensed. "You're damn lucky you have
me around. I see a pattern, a trail, that leads I don't know
where, but I have to follow the trail. That's my job."
"What has Europe got to do with it?" Doug was softening.
"Oops, thanks! I almost forgot." Scott felt stupid for a second,
but he was without notes, he rationalized. "Kirk is my hacker
contact who I've been talking to over my computer. Gives me real
good stuff. He says there's a conference of hackers in Amsterdam
next week. It's a real private affair, and he got me an invite.
I think, no I know, there's something bigger going down; somehow
all of these pieces tie together and I need to find out how."
"That's it?" Scott looked disappointed at Doug's reaction.
"No, that's not it! You know that the Expos
has been publishing
bits and pieces of the same stuff we haven't been publishing?"
Scott didn't know which of his arguments made the case, but Doug
certainly reacted to the competitive threat. "How much?"
"How much what?" Scott wasn't ready for the question.
"For Europe? How much play money will you need. You know I have
to sell this upstairs and they . . ."
"Airfare and a couple of nights plus food. That's it. If you
want," Scott readied the trump card he had never used at the
Times. "I'll pay for it myself, and submit it all when I come
back. Then, you make the call. I'll trust you."
"You really think it's that important?" Doug said.
"Absolutely. No question. Something's going on that smells
rotten, bad, and it includes the Government, but I have no idea
how." Scott spoke as if he was on a soapbox. He had shot his
wad. That was it. Anything more was a rehash of the same stuff
and it would have been worthless to say more. He shut up and
waited for Doug who enjoyed making his better reporters anxious
with anticipation.
"Have a good trip," Doug said nonchalantly. He leaned forward
to hunch over his desk, and ignoring Scott, he went back to
redlining another writer's story.
* * * * *
Tuesday, December 15
Scarsdale, New York
Kirk delivered on his word. In his E-Mail repository at the
Times, Scott found a message from Kirk. It was short, but all
Scott needed to hear. Never mind how Kirk broke into the comput-
ers.
Tues. 12/15 00:02:14.1
<< FREEDOM BBS >>
Repo Man,
When you arrive, call 602-356. It's an Amsterdam number. Jon
Gruptmann is your contact. I told him you were a reporter, but a
good one. I said you're working to preserve freedom of electronic
information and you were sick and tired of the police and media
beating up on hackers. He thinks you want to give the other side
of the story to the public.
Jon is one of the best in Holland and anywhere.
He agreed to meet and talk with you himself. He will show you
around. Have a good trip. Call me, oops, no can do.
Oh, Yes. Mona Lisa frowned. I will call you.
Kirk
<< TRANSMITTED BY THE FREEDOM BBS SERVICE >>
When Scott got home from work he checked his E-mail and found the
same message from Kirk, telling him to be on the line tonight.
The Mona Lisa frowned. That meant to Scott that someone was
interested enough in Kirk's activities, or alleged activities at
First State to break in and ruin his computers. And Da Vinci's.
Who was so scared of hackers, or of what they knew to go to these
lengths? How many have had their computers ravaged?
As anticipated, midnight brought Kirk calling.
WE'RE GOING AFTER THEM
After who?
FREEDOM. NEMO AND SOME PHREAKS PHRIENDS ARE GOING TO FIND OUT
WHAT'S GOING ON.
What's wrong?
DID YOU EVER TALK TO ANYONE AND FEEL THAT THINGS WEREN'T QUITE
RIGHT?
Sure.
WELL SO DO I. DA VINCI IS A STRAIGHT WHITE HAT HACKER. I HAD
HIM CHECKED OUT BY PHRIENDS. THEN I CALLED FREEDOM AND JOINED
UP. I GAVE THEM A BUNCH OF SOFTWARE AND I TOOK SOME. I ASKED TO
CHAT WITH THE SYSOP AND WE'VE BEEN TALKING DAILY. STRANGE GUY.
Strange? Over a computer?
YOU CAN TELL. HE SPOKE WITH AN ACCENT.
You're putting me on.
REALLY. EVER READ A VCR MANUAL TRANSLATED FROM THE JAPANESE?
THEY LEAVE OUT THE the's FROM EVERYTHING. IT HAS AN ACCENT. AND
THE WORD DUDE ESPECIALLY UPSET HIM.
Dude? Good reason to be suspicious.
THEN I HACKED HIS SYSTEM WHEN I KNEW HE WASN'T ON LINE. JUST TO
LOOK AROUND MIND YOU.
How can you do that?
BBS'S ONLY COME IN SO MANY FLAVORS. THEY'RE PRETTY EASY TO
CRACK, ESPECIALLY IF YOU HAVE A COPY TO WORK ON.
Ah hah!
I FOUND HUGE AREAS OF HIS COMPUTER NOT ASSIGNED TO THE BBS.
So?
A BBS COMPUTER IS DEDICATED TO ONE FUNCTION, BBS'ING. SO I POKED
AROUND AND FOUND ANOTHER COMPLETE BBS SYSTEM, NOT PART OF FREE-
DOM. TOO MUCH WAS ENCRYPTED, THOUGH, TO LEARN MUCH. BUT WE
WILL.
Don't get yourself into hot water again . . .
NOT TO WORRY. I'LL BECOME ONE OF THEM. PLAY THEIR GAMES. IT'S
EASY TO BE ANYONE YOU WANT. I WANT TO SEE WHAT'S GOING ON BEHIND
THE SCENES. SHOULDN'T TAKE LONG.
* * * * *
Friday, December 18
New York
U.S. Army on Virus Vigil!
by Scott Mason
In July of 1990, the United States Army joined the inner sanctum
of the Computer Hacker.
The Pentagon had finally realized that the computer is as essen-
tial to battlefield operations and communications as is the gun
and the radio.
Therefore, as the logic goes, why shouldn't the computers be
directly attacked as are other military targets. In keeping with
that line of thinking, the Army said, use computer viruses.
Viruses are those little gremlins which roam throughout a comput-
er system, hiding themselves in silicon gulches, waiting to
ambush mountains of megabytes and erase deserts of data. Perfect
for modern warfare.
The Army issued an RFP, (Request For Proposal) asking the private
sector to study and design computer viruses and other methods to
be used offensively against enemy computers. The half million
dollar contract was awarded to a Beltway Bandit, a small govern-
ment sub-contractor so named for their proximity to Interstate
495, which loops around Washington, D.C.
So, the Army is going into the hacking business, but this brings
up quite a few questions.
Question I. How long has the Government known that computer
viruses and other maladies could be used in a strategic militari-
ly offensive fashion? RFP's are always preceded by much internal
research and consultation with private industry. The Government
typically will have issued RFI's, (Requests For Information) and
RFQ's (Request For Quotes) and already have a darn good idea of
what's available and from whom.
Question II. Has the Government already sponsored such research?
The existence of the EMP-T Bomb has created quite a furor.
Question III. What if the Army created experimental computer
viruses and they get loose? Who is responsible for silicon based
biological warfare on desktop computers?
Question IV. Have any computer viral outbreaks actually been
Government projects gone out of control?
Question V. If the Government knew that civilian and military
computers could be systematically attacked and destroyed, why
haven't we done anything to defend ourselves against a similar
assault?
Last month's attack on the Stock Exchange by secret EMP-T bombs
prompted an investigation into such military capabilities, and
some surprising answers were uncovered.
In an attempt to get specific answers from various Government
agencies, I located a secretive group called OCTAG/0N. (Offensive
Computer Technology Applications Group/Zero-November). OCTAG/0N
is a highly classified interagency project whose sole function is
to develop methods to destroy or disable computers from great
distances.
According to a highly placed source at the Pentagon, OCTAG/0N
allegedly developed computer viruses that will destroy the ene-
my's hard disks. Successful deployment, to use Pentagon-ese, is
the hard part. "If we can get at their computers," an engineer
with OCTAG/0N said requesting anonymity, "we can stop them in-
stantly. Getting them there has been the problem. But now we
know how to get at their computers from great distances."
In the battlefield, for example, advanced tactical communications
groups explode small Magnetic Bombs (EMP-T) which emit very
strong electromagnetic pulses at certain frequencies. The EM
pulses destroy nearby computers, (RAM, ROM, EPROM, Magnetic
storage). Some computer systems are 'hardened' with extra
shielding as in the Tempest program. Other computers, such as
those in Air Force One, inside missile silos, or in the Pentagon
War Room are additionally protected by the secret C3I programs
which 'super-hardens' the computers against the intense magnetic
pulses associated with above ground nuclear explosions.
Intensely focussed energy beams of low power can totally disrupt
an unshielded computer as far away as three miles. Synchronized
Interference Techniques provide double duty to both listen in on
and jam air borne computer traffic. One of OCTAG/0N's pet tricks
is to broadcast a computer virus from a small antenna so that it
is caught by a computers communicating on the same frequency. So
simple, yet so devious.
In conversations with computer experts and the underground hacker
community, the existence of such high tech weaponry has been
confirmed, although the Department of Defense is still issuing a
predictable 'no comment'.
So, I have to ask again. Why hasn't our Government been helping
us protect ourselves against an apparently formidable computer
weapons complement? I hope "The Other Guys" aren't so well
armed.
This is Scott Mason, adding a chastity belt to my modem.
****************************************************************