Chapter 2
Friday, September 4
San Francisco, California
Mr. Henson?"
"Yes, Maggie?" Henson responded over the hands free phone on his
highly polished black marble desk. He never looked up from the
papers he was perusing.
"There's a John Fullmaster for you."
"Who?" he asked absent mindedly.
"Ah, John Fullmaster."
"I don't know a Fullman do I? Who is he?"
"That's Fullmaster, sir, and he says its personal."
Robert Henson, chairman and CEO of Perris, Miller and Stevenson
leaned back in the plush leather chair. A brief perplexed look
covered his face and then a sigh of resignation. "Very well,
tell him I'll take it in a minute."
As the young highly visible leader of one of the most successful
Wall Street investment banking firms during the merger mania of
the 1980's, he had grown accustomed to cold calls from aggressive
young brokers who wanted a chance to pitch him on sure bets.
Most often he simply ignored the calls, or referred them to his
capable and copious staff. Upon occasion, though, he would amuse
himself with such calls by putting the caller through salesmen's
hell; he would permit them to give their pitch, actually sound
interested, permit the naive to believe that their call to Robert
Henson would lead them to a pot of gold, then only to bring them
down as harshly as he could. It was the only seeming diversion
Robert Henson had from the daily grueling regimen of earning fat
fees in the most somber of Wall Street activities. He needed a
break anyway.
"Robert Henson. May I help you?" He said into the phone. It
was as much a command as a question. From the 46th. floor SW
corner office, Henson stared out over Lower New York Bay where
the Statue of Liberty reigned.
"Thank you for taking my call Mr. Henson." The caller's proper
Central London accent was engaging and conveyed assurance and
propriety. "I am calling in reference to the proposed merger you
are arranging between Second Boston Financial and Winston Ellis
Services. I don't believe that the SEC will be impressed with
the falsified figures you have generated to drive up your fees.
Don't you agree."
Henson bolted upright in his chair and glared into the phone.
"Who the hell is this?" he demanded.
"Merely a concerned citizen, sir." The cheeky caller paused. "I
asked, sir, don't you agree?"
"Listen," Henson shouted into the phone. I don't know who the
hell you are, nor what you want, but all filings made with the
SEC are public and available to anyone. Even the press whom I
assume you represent . . ."
"I am not with the press Mr. Henson," the voice calmly interrupt-
ed. "All the same, I am sure that they would be quite interest-
ed in what I have to say. Or, more precisely, what I have to
show them."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Henson screamed.
"Specifically, you inflated the earnings of Winston Ellis over
40% by burying certain write downs and deferred losses. I be-
lieve you are familiar with the numbers. Didn't you have them
altered yourself?"
Henson paled as the caller spoke to him matter of factly. His
eyes darted around his spacious and opulent office as though
someone might be listening. He shifted uneasily in his chair,
leaned into the phone and spoke quietly.
"I don't know what you're taking about."
"I think you do, Mr. Henson."
"What do you want?" Henson asked cautiously.
"Merely your acknowledgment, to me, right now, that the figures
were falsified, at your suggestion, and . . ."
"I admit nothing. Nothing." Henson hung up the phone.
Shaken, he dialed the phone, twice. In his haste he misdialed
the first time. "Get me Brocker. Now. This is Henson."
"Brocker," the other end of the phone responded nonchalantly.
"Bill, Bob here. We got troubles."
* * * * *
"Senator Rickfield? I think you better take this call." Ken
Boyers was earnest in his suggestion. The aged Senator looked up
and recognized a certain urgency. The youthful 50 year old Ken
Boyers had been with Senator Merrill Rickfield since the mid
1960's as an aide de campe, a permanent fixture in Rickfield's
national success. Ken preferred the number two spot, to be the
man in the background rather the one in the public light. He
felt he could more effectively wield power without the constant
surveillance of the press. Only when events and deals were
completely orchestrated were they made public, and then Merrill
could take the credit. The arrangement suited them both.
Rickfield indicated that his secretary and the two junior aids
should leave the room. "What is it Ken?"
"Just take the call, listen carefully, and then we'll talk."
"Who is it, Ken. I don't talk to every. . ."
"Merrill . . .pick up the phone." It was an order. They had
worked together long enough to afford Ken the luxury of ordering
a U.S. Senator around.
"This is Senator Rickfield, may I help you?" The solicitous
campaign voice, smiling and inviting, disguised the puzzled look
he gave his senior aide. Within a few seconds the puzzlement
gave way to open mouthed silent shock and then, only moments
later to overt fear. He stared with disbelief at Ken Boyers.
Aghast, he gently put the phone back in its cradle.
"Ken," Rickfield haltingly spoke. "Who the hell was that and how
in blazes did he know about the deal with Credite Suisse? Only
you, me and General Young knew." He rose slowly rose and looked
accusingly at Ken.
"C'mon Merrill, I have as much to lose as you."
"The hell you do." He was growling. "I'm a respected United
States Senator. They can string me up from the highest yardarm
just like they did Nixon and I'm not playing to lose. Besides,
I'm the one the public knows while you're invisible. It's my ass
and you know it. Now, and I mean now, tell me what the hell is
going on? There were only three of us . . ."
"And the bank," Ken quickly interjected to deflect the verbal
onslaught.
"Screw the bank. They use numbers. Numbers, Ken. That was the
plan. But this son of a bitch knew the numbers. Damn it, he
knew the numbers Ken!"
"Merrill, calm down."
"Calm down? You have some nerve to tell me to calm down. Do you
know what would happen if anyone, and I mean anyone finds out
about . . ." Rickfield looked around and thought better of
finishing the sentence.
"Yes I know. As well as you do. Jesus Christ, I helped set the
whole thing up. Remember?" He approached Merrill Rickfield and
touched the Senator's shoulder. "Maybe it's a hoax? Just some
lucky guess by some scum bag who . . ."
"Bullshit." The senator turned abruptly. "I want a tee off time
as soon as possible. Even sooner. And make damn sure that
bastard Young is there. Alone. It's a threesome."
* * * * *
John Faulkner was lazing at his estate in the eminently exclu-
sive, obscenely expensive Bell Canyon, twenty miles north of Los
Angeles. Even though it was Monday, he just wasn't up to going
into the office. As Executive Vice President of California
National Bank, with over twenty billion in assets, he could pick
and choose his hours. This Tuesday he chose to read by the pool
and enjoy the warm and clear September California morning. The
view of the San Gabriel mountains was so distracting that his
normal thirty minute scan of the Wall Street Journal took nearly
two hours.
His estate was the one place where Faulkner was guaranteed priva-
cy and anonymity. High profile Los Angeles banking required a
social presence and his face, along with his wife's, graced the
social pages every time an event of any gossip-magnitude oc-
curred. He craved his private time.
Faulkner's standing instruction with his secretary was never to
call him at home unless "the bank is nuked, or I die" which
when translated meant, "Don't call me, I'll call you." His wife
was the only other person with the private phone number he
changed every month to insure his solitude.
The phone rang. It never rang. At least not in recent memory.
He used it to dial out; but it was never used to receive calls.
The warble surprised him so, that he let it ring three times
before suspiciously picking it up. Damn it, he thought. I just
got a new number last week. I'll have to have it changed again.
"Hello?" he asked suspiciously.
"Good morning Mr. Faulkner. I just called to let you know that
your secret is safe with me." Faulkner itched to identify the
voice behind the well educated British accent, but that fleeting
thought dissipated at the import of the words being spoken.
"Who is this? What secret?"
"Oh, dear me. I am sorry, where are my manners. I am referring
to the millions you have embezzled from your own bank to cover
your gambling losses last year. Don't worry. I won't tell a
soul." The line went dead.
Sir George dialed the next number on his list after scanning the
profile. The phone was answered by a timid sounding gentleman.
Sir George began his fourth pitch of the day. "Mr. Hugh Sidneys?
I would like to talk to you about a small banking problem I think
you have . . ."
Sir George Sterling made another thirty four calls that day.
Each one alarmingly similar to the first three. Not that they
alarmed him. They merely alarmed, often severely, the recipients
of his calls. In most cases he had never heard of the persons he
was calling, and the contents of his messages were often cryptic
to him. But it didn't take him long to realize that every call
was some form of veiled, or not so veiled threat. But his in-
structions had been clear. Do not threaten. Just pass on the
contents of the messages on his list to their designees. Do not
leave any message unless he had confirmed, to the best of his
ability that he was actually speaking to the party in question.
If he received any trouble in reaching his intended targets, by
secretaries or aides, he was only to pass on a preliminary mes-
sage. These were especially cryptic, but in all cases, perhaps
with a little prod, his call was put through.
At the end of the first day of his assignment, Sir George Ster-
ling walked onto his balcony overlooking San Francisco Bay and
reflected on his good fortune. If he hadn't been stuck in Athens
last year, wondering where his next score would come from. How
strange the world works, he thought. Damn lucky he became a Sir,
and at the tender age of twenty nine at that.
His title, actually purchased from The Royal Title Assurance
Company, Ltd. in London in 1987 for a mere 5000 pounds had per-
mitted George Toft to leave the perennial industrial smog of the
eternally drizzly commonness of Manchester, England and assume a
new identity. It was one of the few ways out of the dismal
existence that generations before him had tolerated with a stiff
upper lip. As a petty thief he had done 'awright', but one
score had left him with more money than he had ever seen. That is
when he became a Sir, albeit one purchased.
He spent several months impressing mostly himself as he traveled
Europe. With the help of Eliza Doolittle, Sir George perfected
his adapted upper crust London accent. His natural speech was
that of a Liverpuddlian with a bag of marbles in his mouth -
totally unintelligible when drunk. But his royal speech was now
that of a Gentleman from the House of Lords. Slow and precise
when appropriate or a practiced articulateness when speaking
rapidly. It initially took some effort, but he could now correct
his slips instantly. No one noticed anymore. Second nature it
became for George Sterling, n<130> Toft.
Athens was the end of his tour and where he had spent the last of
his money. George, Sir George, sat sipping Metaxa in Sintigma
Square next to the Royal Gardens and the imposing Hotel Grande
Britagne styled in nineteenth century rococo elegance. As he
enjoyed the balmy spring Athens evening pondering his next move,
as either George Toft of Sir George Sterling, a well dressed
gentleman sat down at his tiny wrought iron table.
"Sir George?" The visitor offered his hand.
George extended his hand, not yet aware that his guest had no
reason whatsoever to know who he was.
"Sir George? Do I have the Sir George Sterling of Briarshire,
Essex?" The accent was trans European. Internationally cosmo-
politan. German? Dutch? It didn't matter, Sir George had been
recognized.
George rose slightly. "Yes, yes. Of course. Excuse me, I was
lost in thought, you know. Sir George Sterling. Of course.
Please do be seated."
The stranger said, "Sir George, would you be offended if I of-
fered you another drink, and perhaps took a few minutes of your
valuable time?" The man smiled genuinely and sat himself across
from George before any reply. He knew what the answer would be.
"Please be seated. Metaxa would it be for you, sir?" The man
nodded yes. "Garcon?" George waved two fingers at one of the
white-jacketed waiters who worked in the outdoor cafe. "Metaxa,
parakalo!" Greek waiters are not known for their graciousness,
so a brief grunt and nod was an acceptable response. George
returned his attention to his nocturnal visitor. "I don't believe
I've had the pleasure . . ." he said in his most formal voice.
"Sir George, please just call me Alex. Last names, are so, well,
so unnecessary among men like us. Don't you agree?"
George nodded assent. "Yes, quite. Alex then, it is. How may I
assist you?"
"Oh no, Sir George, it is I who may be able to assist you. I
understand that you would like to continue your, shall we say,
extended sabbatical. Would that be a fair appraisal?" The
Metaxas arrived and Alex excused the waiter with two 1000 Drachma
notes. The overtipping guaranteed privacy.
George looked closely at Alex. Very well dressed. A Saville was
it? Perhaps. Maybe Lubenstrasse. He didn't care. This stranger
had either keen insight into George's current plight or had heard
of his escapades across the Southern Mediterranean. Royalty on
Sabbatical was an unaccostable lie that regularly passed critical
scrutiny.
"Fair. Yes sir, quite fair. What exactly can you do for me, or
can we do for each other?"
"An even more accurate portrayal my friend, yes, do for each
other." Alex paused for effect and to sip his Metaxa. "Simply
put Sir George, I have the need for a well spoken gentleman to
represent me for a period of perhaps, three months, perhaps more
if all goes well. Would that fit into your schedule?"
"I see no reason that I mightn't be able to, take a sabbatical
from my sabbatical if . . .well now, how should I put
this . . ."
" . . .that you are adequately compensated to take time away from
your valuable projects?"
"Yes, yes quite so. Not that I am ordinarily for hire, you
understand, it's just that . . .". Alex detected a slight
stutter as Sir George spoke.
Alex held up both hands in a gesture of understanding. "No need
to continue my dear Sir George. I do thoroughly recognize the
exorbitant costs associated with your studies and would not
expect your efforts, on my behalf of course, to go unrewarded."
George Toft was negotiating with a man he had never met, for a
task as yet unstated. The only reason he didn't feel the discom-
fort that one should in such a situation is that he was in
desperate need of money. And, this stranger did seem to know who
he was, and did need his particular type of expertise, whatever
that was.
"What exactly do you require of me, Alex. That is, what form of
representation have you in mind?" He might as well find out what
he was supposed to do before naming a price.
Alex laughed. "Merely to be my voice. It is so simple, really.
In exchange for that, and some travel, first class and all ex-
penses to which you are accustomed, you will be handsomely paid."
Alex looked for Sir George's reaction to the proposed fees. He
was pleased with what he saw in George's face.
Crikey, this is too good to be true. What's the catch<D>.
As George ruminated his good fortune and the Metaxa, Alex contin-
ued.
"The job is quite simple, really, but requires a particular
delicacy with which you are well acquainted. Each day you will
receive a list of names. There will be instructions with each
name. Call them at the numbers provided. Say only what is writ-
ten. Keep notes of each call you make and I will provide you
with the means to transmit them to me in the strictest of confi-
dence. You and I will have no further personal contact, either if
you accept or do not accept my proposition. If we are able to
reach mutually agreeable terms, monies will be wired to a bank
account in your name." Alex opened his jacket and handed George
an envelop. "This is an advance if you accept. It is $25,000
American. There is a phone number to call when you arrive in San
Francisco. Follow the instructions explicitly. If you do not,
there will be no lists for you, no additional monies and I will
want this money back. Any questions Sir George?" Alex was
smiling warmly but as serious as a heart attack.
Alex scanned the contents of the envelope. America. He had
always wanted to see the States.
"Yes, Alex, I do have one question. Is this legal?" George
peered at Alex for a clue.
"Do you really care?"
"No."
"Off you go then. And good luck."
* * * * *
Sir George Sterling arrived in San Francisco airport the follow-
ing evening. He flew first class and impressed returning Ameri-
can tourists with his invented pedigree and his construed impor-
tance. What fun. After the virtually nonexistent customs check,
he called the number inside the envelop. It rang three times
before answering. Damn, it was a machine, he thought.
"Welcome to the United States, Sir George. I hope you had a good
flight." The voice was American, female, and flight attendant
friendly. "Please check into the San Francisco Airport Hilton.
You will receive a call at 11 AM tomorrow. Good night." A dial
tone replaced the lovely voice. He dialed the number again.
A mechanical voice responded instead. "The number you have called
in no longer in service. Please check the number or call the
operator for assistance. The number you have called is no longer
in service..."
George dialed the number twice more before he gave up in frustra-
tion. He had over $20,000 in cash, knew no one in America and for
the first time in years, he felt abandoned. What kind of joke
was this? Fly half way around the world and be greeted with an
out of service number. But the first voice had known his name.
The Hilton. Why not?
At precisely 11AM, the phone in Sir George Sterling's suite rang.
He was still somewhat jet lagged from his 18 hours of flying and
the span of 10 time zones. The Eggs Benedict was exquisite, but
Americans could learn something about tea. The phone rang again.
He casually picked it up.
"Good morning, Sir George. Please get a pencil and paper. You
have fifteen seconds and then I will continue." It was the same
alluring voice from yesterday. The paper and pen were right there
at the phone so he waited through 14 seconds of silence. "Very
good. Please check out of the hotel and pay cash. Proceed to the
San Francisco airport and from a pay phone, call 5-5-5-3-4-5-6 at
1 P.M. Have a note book and two pens with you. Good Bye. "
The annoying dial tone returned. What a bloody waste of time.
At 1P.M. he called the number as he was instructed. He figured
that since he was to have a notebook and pens he might need to
write for a while, so he used one of the phone booths that pro-
vides a seat and large writing surface.
"Good afternoon Sir George. In ten seconds, your instructions
will begin." Again, that same voice, but it almost appeared
condescending to him now. Isn't that the way when you can't
respond. The voice continued. "Catch the next flight to New
York City. Stay at the Grand Hyatt Hotel at Grand Central Sta-
tion on 42nd. Street and Park Avenue. Not a suite this time, Sir
George, just a regular room." Sir George was startled at Alex's
attention to detail.
"You will stay there for fourteen days. On 56th. street and
Madison avenue is a school called CTI, Computer Training Insti-
tute. You are to go to CTI and enroll in the following classes:
DOS, that's D-O-S for beginners, Intermediate DOS and Advanced
DOS. You will also take WordPerfect I and II. Lastly, and most
importantly you will take all three classes on Tele-Communica-
tions. They call it TC-I, TC-II and TC-III. These eight class-
es will take you ten days to complete. Do not forget to pay in
cash. I will now pause for ten seconds." Alex was writing furi-
ously. Computers? He was scared silly of them. Not that he had
ever had the opportunity or the need or the desire to use them,
just from lack of exposure and the corresponding ignorance. But
if this meant he could keep the $25,000 he would do it. What the
hell.
"After you enroll, go to 45 West 47th street to a store called
Discount Computer Shoppe. Buy the following equipment with cash.
One Pro-Start 486-80 computer with 8 Meg RAM. That's 8 M-E-G R-
A-M and ask for a high resolution color monitor. Also purchase,
and have them install a high speed modem, M-O-D-E-M. Do not, I
repeat, do not purchase a printer of any type. No printers Sir
George. You are never to use a printer. Ever. Lastly, you will
purchase a copy of Word Perfect and Crosstalk. If you wish any
games for your amusement, that is up to you. When you have
completed your studies you will call 212-555-6091. Do not call
that number before you have completed your studies. This is
imperative."
Sir George was just writing, not comprehending a thing. It was
all gibberish to him. Pure gibberish.
"Sir George." The female voice got serious, very serious for the
first time in their relationship. "You are to speak to no one, I
repeat, no one, of the nature of your business, the manner in
which you receive instructions, or why computers have a sudden
interest for you. Otherwise our deal is off and your advance will
be expected to be returned. Am I clear?"
George responded quickly, "Yes!" before seeing the lunacy of
answering a machine.
"Good," the voice was friendly again. "Learn your lessons well
for you will need the knowledge to perform your tasks. Until we
speak again, I thank you, Sir George Sterling." The line went
dead.
George Toft took his computer classes very seriously. He had in
fact bought a few games to amuse himself and he found himself
really enjoying the work. It was new, and exciting. His only
social distractions were the sex shops on Times Square. Red
Light Amsterdam or the Hamburg they weren't, so midnight antics
with the Mario Brothers prevailed most evenings. Besides, there
was a massive amount of homework. Bloody hell, back to school.
He excelled in his studies which pleased George a great deal. In
fact most of the students in Sir George's computer classes ex-
celled. The teachers were very pleased to have a group of stu-
dents that actually progressed more rapidly than the curriculum
called for. Pleasant change from the E Train Bimbos from Queens.
The computer teachers didn't know that a vast majority of the
class members had good reason to study hard. Most of them had
received their own $25,000 scholarships.
* * * * *
Sunday, September 6
SDSU Campus, San Diego, California.
WTFO
the computer screen displayed. That was hackerese, borrowed from
the military for What The Fuck? Over! It was a friendly greeting
that offended no one.
Back on. Summer finals are over. Everyone still there?
BOOM'S STILL AT UCLA, I JUST TALKED TO CRACKER, MAD MAX, ALPHA,
SCROLLER, MR. MAGIC . . .WE MISSED YOU. LOOKING FORWARD TO A
GOOD VACATE?
Yeah, 4 days before next term starts . . .Has anyone got the key
to the NPPS NASA node?
THEY CLOSED IT AGAIN. WE'RE STILL LOOKING. WE WERE BACK INTO
AMEX, THOUGH. CLEANED UP A FEW DEBTS FOR UNSUSPECTING CARD
MEMBERS. HAPPY LABOR DAY TO THEM. GOOD FUN.
And CHAOS? Anyone?
BEST I'VE EVER HEARD. 4 NEW VIRUSES SET TO GO OFF. HIGHLY POTENT
VARIATIONS OF JERUSALEM-B. THEN SOME RUMORS ABOUT COLUMBUS DAY,
BUT NOTHING HARD.
When you get the code send me a copy, OK?
SURE. HEY, REMEMBER SPOOK? STILL ASKING TO JOIN NEMO. SEEMS HE
BEEN UP TO A LOT OF SUCCESSFUL NO GOOD. WE'RE ABOUT READY TO LET
HIM IN. HE BROUGHT A LOT TO THE PARTY.
Careful! Remember 401
YEAH, I KNOW. HE'S CLEAN. GOOD GOVT STUFF . HE BROUGHT US THE
NEWEST IRS X.25 SIGN-ONS, 2 MILNET SUPERUSER PASSWORDS AND, DIG
THIS, VETERAN'S BENEFIT AND ADMINISTRATION, OFFICE OF POLICY AT
THE VA.
What you gonna do, boy? In them thar computers?
I FIGURE I'D GIVE A FEW EXTRA BENEFITS TO SOME NEEDY GI'S WHO'VE
BEEN ON THE SHORT END.
Excellent! Hey, Lori's on the line. gotta go.
TA
<<<<<< CONNECTION TERMINATED >>>>>>
The screen of his communications program returned to a list of
names and phone numbers. Lori said she'd be over in an hour and
Steven Billings was tempted to dial another couple of numbers
before his date with Lori. But if he found something interesting
it might force him to be late, and Lori could not tolerate play-
ing second fiddle to a computer.
Steven Billings, known as "KIRK, where no man has gone before",
by fellow hackers, had finished his midterms at San Diego State
University. The ritual labors were over and he looked forward to
some relax time. Serious relax time.
The one recreation he craved, but downplayed to Lori, was spend-
ing time with his computer. She was jealous in some respects, in
that it received as much attention from Steve as she did. Yet,
she also understood that computers were his first love, and they
were part of his life long before she was. So, they came with the
territory. Steve attended, upon occasion, classes at SDSU, La
Jolla. For a 21 year old transplant from Darien, Connecticut, he
lived in paradise.
Steve's single largest expense in life was his phone bill, and
instead of working a regular job to earn spending money, Steve
tutored other students in their computer courses. Rather than
flaunt his skills to his teachers and risk extra assignments, he
was more technically qualified than they were, he kept his mouth
shut, sailed through classes, rarely studied and became a full
time computer hacker. He translated his every wish into a com-
mand that the computer obeyed.
Steve Billings did not fill the picture of a computer nerd. He
was almost dashing with a firm golden tanned 175 pound body, and
dark blond hair that caused the girls to turn their heads. He
loved the outdoors, the hot warmth of the summer to the cooler
warmth of the winter, surfing at the Cardiff Reef and betting on
fixed jai-alai games in Tijuana. He played soccer and OTL, a San
Diego specific version of gloveless and topless co-ed beach
softball. In short, he was a guy. A regular guy.
The spotlessly groomed image of Steve Billings in white tennis
shorts and a "Save the Whales" tank-top eclectically co-existed
with the sterile surroundings of the mammoth super computer
center. The Cray Y-MP is about as big and bad a computer as
money can buy, and despite Steve's well known skills, the head of
the Super Computing Department couldn't help but cringe when
Steve leaned his surf board against the helium cooled memory
banks of the twelve million dollar computer.
He ran his shift at the computer lab so efficiently and effort-
lessly that over time he spent more and more of his hours there
perusing through other people's computers. Now there was a feel-
ing. Hacking through somebody else's computer without their
knowledge. The ultimate challenge, an infinity of possibilities,
an infinity of answers.
The San Diego Union was an awful paper, Steve thought, and the
evening paper was even worse. So he got copies of the New York
City Times when possible, either at a newsstand, borrowed from
yesterday's Times reader or from the library. Nice to get a real
perspective on the world. This Sunday he spent the $4.00 to get
his own new, uncrumpled and unread copy of his revered paper, all
thirty four pounds of it. Alone. Peace.
Reading by the condo pool an article caught his eye. Steve
remembered a story he had heard about a hacker who had invaded
and single handedly stopped INTERNET, a computer network that
connected together tens of thousands of computers around the
country.
* * * * *
Government Defense Network Halted by Hacker
by Scott Mason, New York City Times
Vaughn Chase, a 17 year old high school student Galbraith High
School in Ann Arbor, Michigan was indicted today on charges that
he infected the nationwide INTERNET network with a computer
virus. This latest attack upon INTERNET is reminiscent of a
similar incident launched by Robert Morris of Cornell University
in November, 1988.
According to the Computer Emergency Response Team, a DARPA spon-
sored group, if Mr. Chase had not left his name in the source
code of his virus, there would have been no way to track down the
culprit.
A computer virus is a small software program that is secretly put
into a computer, generally designed to cause damage. A virus
attaches itself to other computer programs secretively. At some
time after the parasite virus program is 'glued' into the comput-
er, it is reawakened on a specific date or by a particular se-
quence of events.
Chase, though, actually infected INTERNET with a Worm. A Worm is
a program that copies itself, over and over and over, either
filling the computer's memory to capacity or slowing down its
operation to a snail's pace. In either case, the results are
devastating - effectively, the computer stops working.
Chase, a math wizard according to his high school officials,
released the Worm into Internet in early August with a detonation
date of September 1, which brought thousands of computers to a
grinding halt.
INTERNET ties together tens of thousands of computers from the
Government, private industry, universities and defense contrac-
tors all over the country. Chase said he learned how to access
the unclassified computer network from passwords and keys dis-
tributed on computer Bulletin Boards.
Computer security experts worked for 3 days hours to first deter-
mine the cause of the network slowdown and then to restore the
network to normal operation. It has been estimated that almost
$100 Million in damage was caused by Mr. Chase's Worm. Mr. Chase
said the Worm was experimental, and was accidentally released
into INTERNET when a piece of software he had written malfunc-
tioned. He apologized for any inconvenience he caused.
The Attorney General of the State of Michigan is examining the
legal aspects of the case and it is expected that Mr. Chase will
be tried within in a year. Mr. Chase was released on his own
recognizance.
This is Scott Mason wondering why the Pentagon doesn't shoot
worms instead of bombs at enemy computers.
* * * * *
The next day Steve Billings signed on to the SDSU/BBS from his
small Mission Beach apartment. It was a local university Bulletin
Board Service or BBS. A BBS is like a library. There are li-
braries of software which are free, and as a user you are recip-
rocally expected to donate software into the Public Domain. Con-
ference Halls or Conversation Pits on the BBS are free-for-all
discussions where people at their keyboards can all have a 'live'
conversation. Anyone, using any computer, anywhere in the world
can call up any BBS using regular phone lines. No one cared or
knew if you were skinny, fat, pimpled, blind, a double for
Christy Brinkley or too chicken shit to talk to girls in person.
Here, everyone was equal.
Billings 234
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
There was a brief pause.
WELCOME TO THE SDSU/BBS. STEVE BILLINGS, YOU ARE USER #109
Steve Chose (12) for SERVICES:
The menu changed to a list of further options. Each option would
permit the user to gain access to other networks around the
country. From one single entry point with a small computer,
anyone could 'dial up' as it's called, almost any of over
20,000,000 computers in the country tied into any of ten thousand
different networks.
SDSU/BBS WINDOW ON THE WORLD
NETWORK SERVICES MENU
Steve selected CALNET, a network at Cal Tech in Los Angeles.
Many of the Universities have permanent connections between their
computers.
LOGON: Billings014
PASSWORD: XXXXKIRKXXXX
Again, there was a pause, this time a little longer. Now, from
his room, he was talking to a computer in Los Angeles. There was
another menu of options, and a list of other widely dispersed
computer networks. He requested the SUNYNET computer, the State
University of New York Network. From there, he asked the comput-
er for a local phone line so he could dial into a very private,
very secret computer called NEMO.
It took Steve a grand total of 45 seconds to access NEMO in New
York, all at the price of a local phone call.
NEMO was a private BBS that was restricted to an elite few.
Those who qualifications and reputations allowed them entry into
the exclusive domain of hacking. NEMO was born into this world
by Steve and a few of his friends while they were in high school
in Darien. NEMO was a private club, for a few close friends who
enjoyed their new hobby, computers.
NEMO's Menu was designed for the professional hacker.
1. PASSWORDS
2. NEW NETS
3. DANGER ZONES
4. CRACKING TOOLS
5. WHO'S NEW?
6. PHREAKING
7. CRYPTO
8. WHO ELSE?
9. U.S. NETWORKS
10. INTERNATIONAL NETWORKS
11. FOR TRADE
12. FORTUNE 500 DOORKEYS
He selected (8), WHO ELSE? Steve wanted to see who else was 'on-
line' now. He wanted to talk about this Chase guy who was giving
hackers a bad name. The computer responded:
CONVERSATION PIT: LA CREME, RAMBO. DO YOU WANT TO JOIN IN?
That was great! Two of the half dozen of NEMO's founders were
there. La Creme de la Creme was KIRK's college roommate, but he
had not yet returned to San Diego for the fall term. RAMBO,
'I'll get through any door' was the same age as Kirk and Creme,
but chose to study at Columbia in New York's Harlem. Hackers
picked alter- ego monikers as CB'ers on the highways did; to
project the desired image. Steve and his cohorts picked their
aliases when they were only fifteen, and kept them ever since.
Steve typed in a 'Y' and the ENTER key.
WHO ARE YOU?
NEMO was asking for an additional password.
Kirk
Steve typed. A brief pause, and the computer screen came to
life.
WELCOME TO THE CONVERSATION PIT, KIRK. HOW HAVE YOU BEEN?
That was his invitation to interrupt any conversation in
progress. Steve typed in,
Dudes!
HOW'D EXAMS GO? <<LA CREME>>
Greased'em. Ready to come back?
FAST AS THE PLANE WILL GO. PICK ME UP? 7:20 ON AMERICAN?<LA
CREME>
Sure. Hey, what's with the Morris copy cat? Some phreak blowing
it for the rest of us.
SO YOU HEARD. CHASE IS REALLY GONNA SCREW THINGS UP. <<RAMBO>>
What the hell really happened? I read the Times. Said that he
claimed it was accident.
ACCIDENTAL ON PURPOSE MAYBE <<LA CREME>>
HOW MANY WAYS ARE THERE INFECT A NATIONAL DEFENSE NETWORK? ONE
THAT I KNOW OF. YOU PUT THE VIRUS IN THERE. THAT'S NO ACCIDENT.
<<RAMBO>>
Ten-Four. Seems like he don't wanna live by the code. Must be
some spoiled little brat getting too big for his britches . . .
BEST GUESS IS THAT HE DID IT TO IMPRESS HIS OLD MAN. HE SUPPOS-
EDLY CREATED AN ANTIDOTE, TOO. HE WANTED TO SET OFF A BIG VIRUS
SCARE AND THEN LOOK LIKE A HERO WITH A FAST FIX. THE VIRUS
WORKED ALL TOO WELL. THE ANTIDOTE, IF THERE WAS ONE, SUCKED. SO
INTERNET HAD GAS SO BAD, COMPUTING CAME TO A HALT FOR A COUPLE OF
DAYS TILL THEY CLEANED OUT THE PROVERBIAL SEWERS. <<LA CREME>>
SURE SOUNDS LIKE A PUBLICITY GAG TO ME <<RAMBO>>
Jeez. Anyone else been hit yet?
NO, BUT WE'VE BEEN EXTRA CAREFUL SINCE. A LOT OF DOORS HAVE BEEN
CLOSED SO IT'S BACK TO SQUARE ONE ON A BUNCH, BUT WE DIDN'T LOSE
EVERYTHING. THE DOORKEY DOWNLOAD WILL UPDATE YOU. <<RAMBO>>
OK, I'll be supersleuth. Any word on CHAOS? Legion of Doom, The
Crusaders?
IT'S ONE BIG DEAL IN THE E-MAIL: NEW CHAOS VIRUSES, EVERY DICK
AND JANE IS WRITING THEIR OWN VIRUSES. COMPUTING WITH AIDS.
Funny. Why don't you put a rubber on your big 640K RAM? Or your
mouse?
GOT SOMETHING AGAINST SAFE COMPUTING? IF HALF OF WHAT THEY SAY
IS TRUE, WE'RE ALL IN TROUBLE. TAKE A LOOK AT THE PUBLIC BBS'S.
QUITE A CHAT. <<LA CREME>>
Will do. Any word on the new Central Census Data Base? Every-
thing about every American stored in one computer. All of their
personal data, ripe for the picking. Sounds like the kind of
library that would do the bad guys a lot of good.
CAN'T FIND A DOOR FROM THE INTERNET GATE. THE JUSTICE LINK WAS
STILL GOOD YESTERDAY AND THE FBI STILL HASN'T CHANGED A PASSWORD,
SO THAT SHOULD BE AN EASY OPEN ONCE WE FIND THE FRONT DOOR.
GIMME A COUPLE OF DAYS AND WE SHOULD KNOW DAN QUAYLES' JOCK SIZE.
<<RAMBO>>
Zero! Ha! Keep me in mind.
* * * * *
Steve copied several pages of names, phone numbers and passwords
from NEMO's data base into his computer 3000 miles across the
country. These were the most valuable and revered types of files
in the underground world of hackerdom. They include all of the
information needed to enter and play havoc inside of hundreds of
secret and private computers.
National Institute of Health 301-555-6761
USER: Fillstein PASSWORD: Daddy1
USER: Miller9 PASSWORD: Secret
VMS 1.01
SUPERUSER: B645_DICKY
VTEK NAS, Pensacola, Fla 904-555-2113
USER: Major101 PASSWORD: Secret
USER: General22 PASSWORD: Secret1
USER: Forestall PASSWORD: PDQS
IBM, Armonk, Advanced Research 914-555-0965
USER: Port1 PASSWORD: Scientist
USER: Port2 PASSWORD: Scientist
USER: Port3 PASSWORD: Scientist
There were seventeen pages of updated and illegal access codes to
computer systems across the country. Another reason NEMO was so
secret. Didn't want just anybody climbing the walls of their
private playground. Can't trust everyone to live by the Code.
Steve finished downloading the files from NEMO's distant data
base and proceeded to print them out for a hardcopy reference. He
laughed to himself. Big business and government never wizened
up. Predictable passwords, like 'secret' were about as kinder-
garten as you could get. And everyone wonders why folks like us
parade around their computers. He had in his hand a list of
over 250 updated and verified private, government and educational
institutions who had left the keys to the front doors of their
computers wide open. And those were just the ones that NEMO knew
about today.
There is no accurate way to determine how many groups of hackers
like NEMO existed. But, even if only 1/100 of 1% of computer
users classified themselves as hackers, that's well over 100,000
people breaking into computers. Enough reason to give Big Busi-
ness cause for concern. Yet, no one did anything serious to lock
the doors.
Steve spent the next several hours walking right into computer
systems all over the country. Through the Bank of California in
San Francisco, (Steve's first long distance call) he could reach
the computers of several corresponding banks. He read through
the new loan files, saw that various developers had defaulted on
their loans and were in serious trouble. Rates were going to
start rising. Good enough for a warm up.
Steve still wanted back into the NASA launch computers. On line
launch information, results of analysis going back twenty years,
and he had had a taste of it, once. Then, one day, someone
inside of NASA got smart and properly locked the front door. He
and NEMO were ever on the search for a key back into NASA's
computers.
He figured that Livermore was still a good bet to get into NASA.
That only meant a local call, through the SDSU/BBS to Cal Tech
then into Livermore. From San Diego, to LA, to San Francisco for
a mere 25 cents.
Livermore researchers kept the front doors of their computers
almost completely open. Most of the workers, the graduate stu-
dents, preferred a free exchange of information between all
scientists, so their computer security was extraordinarily lax.
For a weapons research laboratory, funded by the Department of
Energy, it was a most incongruous situation.
Much of the information in the Livermore computers was considered
sensitive but unclassified, whatever that meant in government-
speak, but for an undergraduate engineering major cum hacker, it
was great reading. The leading thinkers from the most technical-
ly demanding areas in science today put down their thoughts for
the everyone to read. The Livermore scientists believed in
freedom of information, so nearly everyone who wanted in, got in.
To the obvious consternation and dismay of Livermore management.
And its funding agency.
Steve poked around the Livermore computers for a while and
learned that SDI funding was in more serious jeopardy than pub-
licly acknowledged. He discovered that the last 3 underground
nuclear test explosions outside of Las Vegas were underyield, and
no one knew why. Then he found some super-technical proposals
that sounded like pure science fiction:
Moving small asteroids from between Mars and Jupiter into orbit
around the Earth would make lovely weapons to drop on your ene-
mies. War mongers.
All of this fascinating information, available to anyone with a
computer and a little chutzbah.
* * * * *
Alexander Spiradon had picked Sir George and his other subjects
carefully, as he had been trained to do.
He had spent the better part of twenty years working for West
German Military Intelligence, Reichenbunnestrad Dunnernecht
Deutchelande, making less money than he required to live in the
style he desired. To supplement his income, he occasionally
performed extracurricular activities for special interest groups
throughout Europe. A little information to the IRA in Northern
Ireland, a warning to the Red Brigade about an impending raid.
Even the Hizballah, the Party of God for Lebanese terrorists had
occasion to use Alex's Services. Nothing that would compromise
his country, he rationalized, just a little help to the various
political factions that have become an annoyance to their respec-
tive governments.
Alex suddenly resigned in 1984 when he had collected enough
freelance fees to support his habits, but he was unaware that his
own agency had had him under surveillance for years, waiting for
him to slip up. He hadn't, and with predictable German Govern-
ment efficiency, upon his departure from the RDD, his file was
promptly retired and his subsequent activities ignored.
Alex began his full time free-lance career as a 'Provider of
Information'. With fees of no less than 250,000 DM, Alex didn't
need to work much. He could pick and choose his clients as he
weighed the risks and benefits of each potential assignment.
With his network of intelligence contacts from Scotland Yard, Le
Surite, and the Mossad, he had access to the kind of information
that terrorists pay for dearly .
It was a good living. No guns, no danger, just information.
His latest client guaranteed Alex three years of work for a flat
fee in the millions of Deutch Marks. It was the intelligence
assignment of a lifetime, one that insured a peaceful and pros-
perous retirement for Alex. He wasn't the perennial spy, politi-
cally or dogmatically motivated. Alex wanted the money.
After he had completed his computer classes and purchased the
equipment from the list, Sir George dialed the number he had been
given. He half expected a live person to congratulate him, but
also realized that that was a foolish wish. There was no reason
to expect anything other than the same sexy voice dictating
orders to him.
"Ah, Sir George. How good of you to call. How were your class-
es?" George nearly answered the alluring telephone personality
again, but he caught himself.
"Very good," the voice came back in anticipated response. "Please
get a pencil and paper. I have a message for you in 15 seconds."
That damned infernal patronization. Of course I have a bleeding
pen. Not a pencil. Idiot.
"Are you ready?" she asked. George made an obscene gesture at
the phone.
"Catch a flight to San Francisco tonight. Bring all of the com-
puter equipment you have purchased. Take a taxi to 14 Sutherland
Place on Knob Hill. Under the mat to Apartment 12G you will find
two keys. They will let you into your new living quarters. Make
yourself at home. It is yours, and the rent is taken care of as
is the phone bill. Your new phone number is 4-1-5-5-5-5-6-3-6-1.
When you get settled, dial the following number from your comput-
er. You should be well acquainted with how to do that by now.
The number is 4-1-5-5-5-5-0-0-1-5. Your password is A-G-O-R-A.
Under the mattress in the bedroom is a PRG, Password Response
Generator. It looks like a credit card, but has an eight digit
display. Whenever you call Alex, he will ask you for a response
to your password. Quickly enter whatever the PRG says. If you
lose the PRG, you will be terminated." The voice paused for a
few seconds to George's relief.
"You will receive full instructions at that point. Good Bye." A
dial tone replaced the voice he had come to both love and hate.
Bloody hell, he thought. I'm down to less than $5000 and now I'm
going back to San Francisco? What kind of bleedin' game is this?
Apartment 12G was a lavish 2 bedroom condominium with a drop dead
view of San Francisco and bodies of water water in 3 directions.
Furnished in high tech modern, it offered every possible amenity;
bar, jacuzzi, telephone in the bathroom and full channel cable.
Some job. But, he kept wondering to himself, when does the free
ride end? Maybe he's been strung along so far that he can't let
go. One more call, just to see how the next chapter begins.
George installed his computer in the second bedroom on a table
that fit his equipment like a glove.
C:\cd XTALK
C:\XTALK\xtalk
His hard disk whirred for a few seconds. He chose the Dial
option and entered the phone number from the keyboard and then
asked the computer to remember it for future use. He omitted the
area code. Why had he been given an area code if he was dialing
from the same one? George didn't pursue the question; if he had
he would have realized he wasn't alone.
The modem dialed the number for him. His screen went momentarily
blank and then suddenly came to life again.
<<<<<<CONNECT 2400 BAUD>>>>>>
DO YOU WANT TO SPEAK TO ALEX? (Y/N?)
George entered a "Y"
PASSWORD:
George entered AGORA. The letters did not echo to the screen.
He hoped he had typed then correctly. Apparently he did, for the
screen then prompted him for his RESPONSE.
He copied the 8 characters from the PRG into the computer. There
was a pause and then the screen filled.
SIR GEORGE,
WELCOME TO ALEX. IT IS SO GOOD TO SPEAK TO YOU AGAIN.
OVER THE NEXT SEVERAL MONTHS YOU WILL BE GIVEN NAMES AND NUMBERS
TO CALL. THERE ARE VERY SPECIFIC QUESTIONS AND STATEMENTS TO BE
MADE TO EACH PERSON YOU CALL. THERE IS TO BE NO DEVIATION WHAT-
SOEVER. I REPEAT, NO DEVIATION WHATSOEVER. IF THERE IS, YOUR
SERVICES WILL BE IMMEDIATELY TERMINATED. WE HOPE THAT WILL NOT BE
NECESSARY.
EACH MORNING YOU ARE TO DIAL ALEX AND REQUEST THE FILE CALLED
SG.DAT. DO NOT, I REPEAT, DO NOT ATTEMPT TO ACCESS OR DOWNLOAD
ANY OTHER FILES, OR YOU WILL BE TERMINATED AT ONCE.
FOLLOW THE INSTRUCTIONS IN EACH FILE, EXACTLY. KEEP AN EXACT LOG
OF THE EVENTS AS THEY TRANSPIRE ON EACH CALL.
<<PUSH SPACE BAR FOR MORE>>
George pushed the space bar. The screen was again filled.
ALEX REQUIRES PRECISE INFORMATION. WHATEVER YOU ARE TOLD BY THE
PEOPLE YOU CALL MUST BE RELAYED , TO THE LETTER.
AT THE END OF EACH DAY, YOU ARE TO UPLOAD YOUR FILE, CALLED
SG.TOD. YOUR COMPUTER WILL AUTOMATICALLY PUT A DATE AND TIME
STAMP ON IT.
THEN, USING NORTON UTILITY, ERASE THE SG.DAT FILE FROM THAT DAY.
IF YOU ARE UNABLE TO REACH ANYONE ON THE LISTS, JUST INDICATE
THAT IN YOUR DAILY REPORTS. DO NOT, REPEAT, DO NOT TRY TO CALL
THE SAME PERSON THE NEXT DAY. IS THAT CLEAR?
The screen was awaiting a response. George typed in "Y".
GOOD. THIS IS QUITE SIMPLE, IS IT NOT?
Y
DO YOU THINK YOU CAN HANDLE THE JOB?
Y
WHAT KIND OF PRINTER DO YOU HAVE?
None
ARE YOU SURE?
Y
WILL YOU BUY ONE?
N
GOOD. ARE YOU INTERESTED IN MONEY?
Finally, thought Sir George, the reason for my existence.
Y
AN ACCOUNT HAS BEEN OPENED IN YOUR NAME AT THE BANK OF AMERICA,
REDMOND BRANCH 3 BLOCKS FROM YOU. THERE IS $25,000 IN IT. EACH
MONTH OF SUCCESSFUL WORK FOR ALEX WILL BE REWARDED WITH ANOTHER
PAYMENT. U.S. TAXES ARE YOUR RESPONSIBILITY. IS THAT A PROBLEM?
N
WILL YOU DISCUSS YOUR JOB OR ITS NATURE WITH ANYONE? ANYONE AT
ALL?
N
EVEN UNDER FORCE?
Force, what the hell does that mean? I guess the answer is No,
thought George.
N
I HOPE SO, FOR YOUR SAKE. GOOD LUCK SIR GEORGE. YOU START
MONDAY.
<<<<<<CONNECTION TERMINATED>>>>>>
Sir George was a little confused, maybe a lot confused. He was
the proud owner of a remote control job, a cushy one as far as he
could tell, but the tone of the conversation he just had with the
computer was worrisome. Was he being threatened? What was the
difference between 'Services Terminated' and 'Terminated' anyway.
Maybe he shouldn't ask. Keep his mouth shut and do a good job.
Hey, he thought, dismissing the possible unpleasant consequences
of failure. This is San Francisco, and I have a three days off
in a new city. Might as well find my way around the town to-
night. According to the guide books I should start at Pier 39.
****************************************************************