Dude? Good reason to be suspicious.
How can you do that?
Ah hah!
So?
Don't get yourself into hot water again . . .
* * * * *
Friday, December 18New 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 beenGovernment 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.
****************************************************************
Monday, December 28
A/K/A Softwareby Scott Mason
The Christmas Virus is upon is. So is the anticipated New YearsEve and New Year's Day Virus.
Seems like wherever I look, someone is making a virus to attack my computer or celebrate a holiday.
Rather than another rash of warnings about the impending doom and gloom faced by your computers, my editor asked me to find the lighter side of computer viruses. I strongly objected, stating that I found nothing amusing about them. They were a deadly and cowardly form of terrorism that should be rewarded with behead- ing.
However, there is one thing . . .
The geniuses who come up with the names for viral infections; about as believable and laughable as a Batman comic.
I wonder what most of us would think if our doctor told us we had the Ping Pong virus instead of strep throat. Or in spring time we contracted the April Fool's Virus.
It is entirely within the realm of reason that America's comput- ers go unprotected because of the sheer absurdity of the names we attach to each one. Comical names create a comical situation, so no one takes the issue seriously.
The Marijuana virus conjures up images of a stoned orgy, and why would a computer care about that. The Fu Manchu virus conjures up the Red Chinese Army crossing the Mississippi, which is clear- ly not the case, so it is ignored.
Viruses know no national boundary. The Pakistani virus, the Icelandic, the Israeli, Jerusalem A, Jerusalem B, Jerusalem C, Lehigh, Alameda, Vienna, Czech, Rumanian - I found over 900 current and active viruses that are identified by their reputed place of origin.
The Brain virus sounds more sinister than the Stoned Virus, andFriday the 13th viruses are as popular as the movie sequels. TheColumbus Day Virus was actually dubbed by its authors as DataCrime, and might have generated more concern if not for the nick-nom-de-plume it inherited.
So to fulfill my editor's dream, I will list a few of the more creative virus names. Some were chosen by the programmers, others by the Virus Busters and others yet by the media. See what you think each virus would do to your computer, or when it will strike, merely from the name.
The Vatican Virus The Popeye VirusThe Garlic Virus The Scrooge VirusTeenage Mutant Ninja Virus The Ides VirusThe Quaalude Virus The Amphetamine VirusSuper Virus The Tick Tock VirusThe String Virus The Black Hole VirusThe Stupid Virus Stealth
I have a few of my own suggestions for future virus builders.
The Jewish Sex Virus (Dials your mother-in-law during a romantic interlude.)
The Ronald Reagan Virus (Puts your computer to sleep only in important meetings.)
The Pee Wee Herman Virus (Garbage In Garbage Out)
The Donald Trump Virus (Makes all of your spread sheets go into the red.)
Tomorrow, Viruses from Hell on Geraldo.
Namely, this is Scott Mason.
* * * * *
Tuesday, December 29Washington, D.C.
"Why the hell do I have to find out what's going on in the world from the goddamned papers and CNN instead of from the finest intelligence services in the world?" The President snapped sarcastically while sipping black coffee over his daily collec- tion of U.S. and foreign papers.
The early morning ritual of coffee, newspapers and a briefing by Chief of Staff Phil Musgrave provided the day with a smooth start. Usually.
"I've been asking for weeks about this computer craziness. All I get is don't worry, Mr. President," he said mimicking the classic excuses he was sick and tired of hearing. "We have it taken care of, Mr. President. No concern of yours, Mr. President, we have everything under control. We temporarily have our thumbs up our asses, Mr. President." Phil stifled a giggle behind his napkin.
"I'm sorry, Phil," the President continued, "but it irritates the shit out of me. The damn media knowing more about what's hap- pening than we do. Where the hell is that report I asked for? The one on the bank hostage I've been requesting for a week?" The President's mood portended a rough day for the inner circle.
"Sir, as I understand, it wasn't ready for your desk yet."
"Do the goddamned missiles have to land on the White House lawn before we verify it's not one of our own?"
Phil knew better than to attempt any dissuasion when the Presi- dent got into these moods. He took notes, and with luck it would blow over in a couple of days. Today was not Phil's lucky day.
"I want a briefing. Two Hours."
"Gentlemen," the President said from behind his desk in the oval office, "I'd like to read you something I had Brian put togeth- er." The efficiency of the White House Press Office under the leadership of Brian Packard was well known. The President had the best rapport with the press that any President had in a generation.
He slipped on his aviator style glasses and pulled the lobe of his left ear while reading from his desk. "Let's start here. Phone Company Invaded by Hackers; Stock Exchange Halted by Gov- ernment Bomb; Computer Crime Costs Nation $12 Billion Annually; Viruses Stop Network; Banks Lose Millions to Computer Embez- zlers; Trojan Horse Defeats Government Computers; NASA Spending Millions On Free Calls for Hackers." He looked for a reaction from his four key associates: Phil, Quinton Chambers, Martin Royce and Henry Kennedy. "If you don't know, these are headlines from newspapers and magazines across the country."
The President read further from his notes. "Viruses InfectTrans-Insurance Payments; Secret Service Computers Invaded; NSAand NIST in Security Rift; FBI Wasting Millions on ComputerBlackmail Scheme; First National Bank Held Hostage; Sperm BankComputer Records Erased; IRS Returns of the Super Rich." ThePresident removed his glasses wanting answers.
"What is going on here, gentlemen?" the President asked directly. "I am baffled that everyone else but me seems to know there's a problem, and that pisses me off. Answers?"
He wondered who would be the first to speak up. Surprisingly, it was Henry, who normally waited to speak last. "Sir, we have active programs in place to protect classified computer systems."
"Then what are these about?" He waved a couple of sheets of paper in the air.
"Of course we haven't fully implemented security everywhere yet, but it is an ongoing concern. According to NSA, the rash of recent computer events are a combination of anomalies and the press blowing it all out of proportion."
"Do you believe Henry," the President asked, "that if there's smoke, a reasonable man will assume that there is a fire nearby?" Henry nodded obligingly. "And what would you think if there were a hundred plumes of smoke rising?"
Henry felt stumped. "Jacobs assured me that he had everything under control and . . ."
"As I recall Henry," the President interrupted, "you told me that a couple of months ago when the papers found out about the EMP-T bombs. Do you recall, Henry?"
"Yessir," he answered meekly.
"Then what happened?"
"We have to rely on available information, and as far as we know, as far as we're being told, these are very minor events that have been sensationalized by the media."
"It says here," the President again donned his glasses, "DefenseContractors Live with Hackers; Stealth Program Uncovered inDefense Department Computers; Social Security Computers At Risk.Are those minor events?" He pointed the question at not onlyHenry.
"There was no significant loss of information," Coletree rapidly said. "We sewed up the holes before we were severely compro- mised."
"Wonderful," the President said sarcastically. "And what ever happened to that bank in Atlanta? Hiring Those kids?"
"If I may, sir?" Phil Musgrave filled the silence. "That was a private concern, and we had no place to interfere - as is true in most of these cases. We can only react if government property is affected."
"What is being done about it? Now I mean."
"We have activated CERT and ECCO, independent computer crime units to study the problem further." As usual, Phil was impecca- bly informed. "Last years the Secret Service and FBI arrested over 70 people accused of computer crimes. The state of Pennsyl- vania over 500, California 300. Remember, sir, computer crimes are generally the states' problems."
"I'm wondering if it shouldn't be our problem, too," the Presi- dent pondered.
"There are steps in that direction, as well. Next week the Senate hearings on Privacy and Technology Containment begin, and as I understand it, they will be focusing on exactly this issue."
"Who's running the show?" the President asked with interest.
"Ah," Phil said ripping through his notes, "Rickfield, sir."
"That bigot? Christ. I guess it could be worse. We could have ended up with Homer Simpson." The easing of tension worked to the President's advantage, for a brief moment. "I want the whole picture, the good and the bad, laid out for me." He scanned his private appointment book. "Two weeks. Is that long enough to find out why I'm always the last to know?"
* * * * *
Wednesday, December 30New York
"Scott Mason," Scott said answering the phone with his mouth full of hot pastrami on rye with pickles and mayonnaise.
"Scott? It's Tyrone." Tyrone's voice was quiet, just about a whisper.
"Oh, hi." Scott continued to chew. Scott was unsuccessfully trying not to sound angry.
Other than following Scott's articles in the paper, they had had no contact since that eventful phone call a month ago. Since then, Scott had made sure that they rode on different cars during their daily commute into the city. It was painful for both of them since they had been close friends, but Scott was morally obligated, so he thought, to cut off their association after Tyrone broke the cardinal rule of all journalists; keep your sources protected. And, Tyrone had broken that maxim. Scott had not yet learned that the Bureau made their own rules, and that the gentleman's agreement of off-the-record didn't carry weight in their venue.
"How have you been?" Tyrone said cordially. "Good bit of work you been doing."
"Yeah, thanks, thanks," Scott said stiffly.
Tyrone had already determined that he needed Scott if his own agency wouldn't help him. At least Scott wasn't bound by idiotic governmental regulations that stifled rather than helped the cause. Maybe there was hope for cooperation yet, if his little faux pas could be forgiven.
"We need to talk. I've been meaning to call you." Though Tyrone meant it, Scott thought it was a pile of warmed up FBI shit.
"Sure, let's talk." Scott's apparent indifference botheredTyrone.
"Scott, I mean it," he said sincerely. "I have an apology to make, and I want to do it in person. Also, I think that we both need each other . . .you'll understand when I tell you what's been going on." Tyrone's deep baritone voice conveyed honesty and a little bit of urgency. If nothing else, he had never known or had any reason to suspect Tyrone of purposely misleading or lying to him. And their friendship had been a good one. Plus, the tease of a secret further enticed Scott into agreeing.
"Yeah, what the hell. It's Christmas." Scott's aloofness came across as phony, but Tyrone understood the awkwardness and let it pass.
"How 'bout we meet at The Oyster Bar, Grand Central, and get shit faced. Merry Christmas from the Bureau."
The Oyster Bar resides on the second lower level of Grand Cen- tral Station, located eighty feet beneath Park Avenue and 42nd. Street. It had become a fairly chic restaurant bar in the '80's; the seafood was fresh, and occasionally excellent. The patronage of the bar ranged from the commuter who desperately quaffed down two or three martinis to those who enjoyed the seafaring ambi- ence. The weathered hardwood walls were decorated with huge stuffed crabs, swordfish, lifesavers and a pot pourri of fishing accouterments. The ceilings were bathed in worn fishing nets that occasionally dragged too low for anyone taller than 6 feet.
Away from the bar patrons could dine or drink in privacy, with dim ten watt lamps on each table to cut through the darkness. Tyrone was sitting at such a table, drink in hand when Scott craned his neck from the door to find his friend through the crowd. He ambled over, and Tyrone stood to greet him. Scott was cool, but willing to give it a try. As usual Tyrone was elegant- ly attired, in a custom tailored dark gray pin stripe suit, a fitted designer shirt and a stylish silk tie of the proper width.
Scott was dressed just fine as far as he was concerned. His sneakers were clean, his jeans didn't have holes and the sweater would have gained him admission to the most private ski parties in Vermont. Maybe they were too different and their friendship had been an unexplainable social aberration; an accident.
Scott's stomach tightened. His body memory recalled the time the principal had suspended him from high school for spreading liquid banana peel on the hall floors and then ringing the fire drill alarm. The picture of 3000 kids and 200 teachers slipping and sliding and crawling out of the school still made Scott smile.
"What'll you have?" Tyrone gestured at a waiter while askingScott for his preference.
"Corona, please."
Tyrone took charge. "Waiter, another double and a Corona." He waved the waiter away. "That's better." Tyrone was already slightly inebriated. "I guess you think I'm a real shit hole, huh?"
"Sort of," Scott agreed. "I guess you could put it that way." Scott was impressed with Ty's forthright manner. "I can think of a bunch more words that fit the bill." At least Tyrone admitted it. That was a step in the right direction.
Ty laughed. "Yeah, I bet you could, and you might be right." Scott's drink came. He took a thirsty gulp from the long neck bottle."
"Ease on down the road!" Ty held his half empty drink in the air. It was peace offering. Scott slowly lifted his and their drinks met briefly. They both sipped again, and an awkward silence followed.
"Well, I guess it's up to me to explain, isn't it?" Tyrone ven- tured.
"You don't have to explain anything. I understand," Scott said caustically.
"I don't think you do, my friend. May I at least have my last words before you shoot?" Tyrone's joviality was not as effective when nervous.
Scott remembered that he used the same argument with Doug only days before. He eased up. "Sure, ready and aimed, though."
"I'm quitting." Tyrone's face showed disappointment, resigna- tion.
The beer bottle at Scott's lips was abruptly laid on the table."Quitting? The FBI?" Tyrone nodded. "Why? What happened?"For one moment Scott completely forgot how angry he was.
The din of the Oyster Bar made for excellent cover. They could speak freely with minimal worry of being overheard.
"It's a long story, but it began when they pulled your article.God, I'm sorry, man," Tyrone said with empathy. The furrows onhis forehead deepened as he searched for a reaction from Scott.Nothing.
Ty finished off his drink and started on the refill. "Unlike what you probably believe, or want to believe, when you called me that morning, I had no idea what you were talking about. It was several hours before I realized what had happened. If I had any idea . . ."
Scott stared blankly at Tyrone. You haven't convinced me of anything, Scott thought.
"As far as I knew, you were writing an article that had no par- ticular consequence . . ."
"Thanks a shitload," Scott quipped.
"No, I mean, I had no idea of the national security implica- tions, and besides, it was going to be in the paper the next day anyway." Tyrone shrugged with his hands in the air for added emphasis. "Tempest meant nothing to me. All I said was that you and I had been talking. I promise you, that's it. As a friend, that was the extent of it. They took it from there." Tyrone extended his hands in an open gesture of conciliation. "All I knew was that what you'd said about CMR shook some people up in D.C.. ECCO has been quite educational. Now I know why, and that's why I have to leave."
The genuineness from Tyrone softened Scott's attitude some. "I thought you spooks stuck together. Spy and die together."
Tyrone contorted his face to show disgust with that thought. "That'll be the day. In fact it's the opposite. A third of our budgets are meant to keep other agencies in the dark about what we're doing."
"You're kidding!"
"I wish I was." Tyrone looked disheartened, betrayed.
"At any rate," Tyrone continued, "I got spooked by the stunt with your paper and the Attorney General. I just couldn't call you, you'll see why. The Agency is supposed to enforce the law, not make it and they have absolutely no business screwing with the press. Uh-uh." Tyrone took a healthy sip of his drink. "Reminds me of times that are supposed to be gone. Dead in the past. Did you know that I am a constitutional lawyer?"
Scott ordered another beer and shook his head, no. Just a regular lawyer. Will wonders never cease?
"Back in the early 60's the South was not a good place for blacks. Or Negroes as we were called back then." Tyrone said the word Negro with disdain. He pulled his tie from the stiff collar and opened a button. "I went on some marches in Alabama, God, that was a hot summer. A couple of civil rights workers were killed."
Scott remembered. More from the movie Mississippi Burning than from memory.
Civil rights wasn't a black-white issue, Tyrone insisted. It was about man's peaceful co-existence with government. A legal issue. "I thought that was an important distinction and most people were missing the point. I thought I could make a differ- ence working from inside the system. I was wrong, and I've been blinded by it until now . . .you know.
"When I was in college the politicians screamed integration while the poor blacks no more wanted to be bussed to the rich white neighborhood that the rich whites wanted the poor blacks in their schools." Tyrone spoke from his heart, his soul, with a touch of resentment that Scott had not seen before. But then, they had never spoken of it before. This was one story that he had suc- cessfully neglected to share. "Forced integration was govern- ment's answer to a problem it has never understood.
"It's about dignity. Dignity and respect, not government inter- vention. It's about a man's right to privacy and the right to lead his life the way he sees fit. Civil rights is about how to keep government from interfering with its citizens. Regardless of color." Tyrone was adamant.
"And that's why you're gonna quit?" Scott didn't see the con- nection.
"No, goddamnit, no," Tyrone shouted. "Don't you get it?" Scott shook his head. "They want to take them away." He spoke with finality and assumed Scott knew what he meant. The liquor fogged his brain to mouth speech connection.
"Who's gonna take what away?" Scott asked, frustrated by Ty's ramblings.
"I know it's hokey, but the Founding Fathers had a plan, and so far it's survived two hundred years of scrutiny and division. I would like to think it can survive the computer age." Tyrone quieted down some. "My father used to tell me, from the time I was old enough to understand, that law was merely a measure of how much freedom a man was willing to sacrifice to maintain an orderly society."
"My father was a radical liberal among liberals," Tyrone remem- bered. "Even today he'll pick a fight at the family barbecue for his own entertainment. And he'll hold his own."
Scott enjoyed the image of a crotchety octogenarian stirring up the shit while his children isolated their kids from their grand father's intellectual lunacy. What was this about?
Tyrone caught himself and realized that he wasn't getting his point across. He took a deep breath and slouched back in the chair that barely held him.
"From the beginning," he said. "I told you about ECCO, and what a disaster it is. No authority, no control, no responsibility. And the chaos is unbelievable.
"I don't pretend to understand all of the computer jargon, but I do recognize when the NSA wants to control everything. There's a phenomenal amount of arrogance there. The NSA reps in ECCO believe that they are the only ones who know anything about computers and how to protect them. I feel sorry for the guys from NIST. They're totally underfunded, so they end up with both the grunt work and the brunt of the jokes from the NSA.
"NSA won't cooperate on anything. If NIST says it's white, NSA says it's black. If NIST says there's room to compromise, NSA gets more stubborn. And the academic types. At long last I now know what happened to the hippies: they're all government con- sultants through universities. And all they want to do is study, study, study. But they never come up with answers, just more questions to study.
"The vendors try to sell their products and don't contribute a damn thing," sighed Tyrone. "A bunch of industry guys from computer companies and the banks, and they're as baffled as I am."
"So why quit? Can't you make a difference?"
"Listen. The FBI views computer crimes as inter-state in nature and therefore under their domain."
Scott nodded in understanding.
"We are enforcement, only," Tyrone asserted. "We do not, nor should we make the laws. Separation of power; Civics 101. To accomplish anything, I have to be a private citizen."
"What do you want to accomplish?" asked Scott with great inter- est.
"I want to stop the NSA." Tyrone spoke bluntly and Scott sat too stunned to speak for long seconds.
"From what?" A sudden pit formed in Scott's stomach.
"I found out why they dumped on you about the CMR," Tyrone said. "I haven't been able to tell you before, but it doesn't matter any more." Tyrone quickly shook off the veiling sadness. "NSA has a built-in contradiction. On one hand they listen into the world and spy for America. This is supposed to be very secret, especially how they do it. It turns out that CMR is one of their 'secret' methods for spying on friends and foes alike.
"So, to keep our friends and foes from spying on us, they create the secret Tempest program. Except, they think it needs to be kept a military secret, and the public sector be damned. They actually believe that opening the issue to the public will hamper their intelligence gathering capabilities because the enemy will protect against it, too."
Scott listened in fascination. What he was learning now more than made up for the loss of one article. He felt bad now that he had overreacted and taken it out on Tyrone.
"Same goes for the EMP-T bomb," Tyrone added. "Only they didn't know that you were going to publish ahead of time like they did when I opened up my fat trap."
Scott's eyes suddenly lit up. "How much did you tell them?"
"That I knew you and you were writing an article. That's it."
"Then how did they know what I had written? It was pretty damned close. I assumed that you had . . ."
"No way, man," Tyrone held his hands up.
"Then how did . . .Ty? What if they're using CMR on my computers?Could they . . ."
Tyrone's predicament was to decide whether or not to tell Scott that he knew the NSA and others spied on Americans and gathered intelligence through remote control means. "I assume they're capable of anything."
"Shit!" Scott exclaimed. "Privacy goes right out the window. Damn." Scott rapidly spun in his chair and vacantly stared off in space. "Is that legal?"
"What? CMR? I looked into that briefly, and there's nothing on the books yet, but I did find out that tapping cellular phone conversations is legal."
"Phone tapping, legal?" Scott couldn't believe his ears.
"Cellular phones, yeah. The FCC treats them like TV sets, radi- os, satellites. Anyone can listen to any station."
"That's incredible," Scott said, mouth gaping. "I wonder how they'll handle RF LAN's."
"RF LAN's," asked Ty. "What are those?"
"A bunch of computers tied together with radios. They replace the wires that connect computers now. Can you imagine?" Scott saw the irony in it. "Broadcasting your private secrets like that? Hah! Or if you have your own RF network, all you have to do is dial up another one and all the information ends up right in your computer! Legal robbery. Is this a great country or what?"
"Now you know why I'm leaving. The NSA cannot be permitted to keep the public uninformed about vulnerabilities to their person- al freedom. And hiding under the umbrella of national security gets old. A handful of paranoid un-elected, un-budgeted, non-ac- countable, mid-level bureaucrats are deciding the future of privacy and freedom in this country. They are the ones who are saying, 'no, no problem,' when they know damn well it is a prob- lem. What they say privately is in diametric opposition to their public statements and positions."
Scott stifled a nervous laugh. Who wound Tyrone up? A conspira- cy theory. Tyrone was drunk. "Don't you think that maybe you're taking this a little far," he suggested. For the first time in years the shoe was on the other foot. Scott was tempering some- body elses extremes.
"Why the hell do you think there's so much confusion at ECCO and CERT and the other computer SWAT teams? NSA interferes at every step," Tyrone responded. "And no, I am not taking this too far. I haven't taken it far enough. I sit with these guys and they talk as though I'm not there. I attend meetings where the poli- cies and goals of ECCO are established. Shit, I trust the dope- smoking hippies from Berkeley more than anyone from the Fort." The bitterness came through clearly, but Scott could see it wasn't focussed on any one person or thing.
But Scott began to understand. For over 20 years Tyrone had insulated himself from the politics of the job and had seen only what he wanted to see; a national Police Force enforcing the laws. Tyrone loved the chase of the crime. The bits and pieces, the endless sifting of evidence, searching for clues and then building a case from shreds. The forensics of modern criminology had been so compelling for Tyrone Duncan that he had missed the impact that the mass proliferation of technology would have on his first love - The Constitution.
The sudden revelations and realizations of the last several weeks set his mind into high gear. Tyrone introspectively examined his beliefs; he tried to review them from the perspective of an idealistic young man in his twenties. What would he have done then? He realized the answer was easier found now that he was a man of experience: Do Something About It.
Far from a rebel looking for a cause, the cause jumped all overTyrone with a vengeance and the tenacity of a barnacle.
All at once Scott knew that Tyrone was serious and that he would be a better friend if he congratulated instead of castigated.
"You know, I kind of understand a little. Same thing with my ex- wife."
"Hey, that's not fair, man," Tyrone vigorously objected. "Maggie was a dingbat . . ."
"I know that and she knew that," Scott agreed, "but that was what made her Maggie." Tyrone nodded, remembering her antics. "And in some ways we still love each other. After ten years of fun, great fun, she wanted to get off of the planet more than I did, so she went to California." The softness in Scott's voice said he still cared about Maggie, that she was a cherished part of his life, that was and would remain in the past.
Scott shook off the melancholy and continued. "It's the same for you. You're married to the FBI, and while you still love it, you need to let it go to move on with your life."
"Y'know, I don't know why everyone says you're so stupid," Tyrone said with respect. "UFO's aside, you can actually make sense."
"Maybe, maybe not. Doesn't really matter. But I'm doing exactly what I want to do. And the day it stops being fun, I'm outta here."
"Isn't that the arrogance of wealth speaking?" Tyrone asked.
"And you're any different? The 22 room Tudor shack you live in is not exactly my vision of poverty. As I see it, it's one of the benefits," Scott said unembarrassed by his financial securi- ty. "Before I made my money, I swore that when I got rich, I would give something back. You know, to the planet or society or something. Do something useful and not for the money." Scott spoke with honest enthusiasm. "But I don't believe there's a rule that says I have to be miserable. I love what I do, and well, I don't know. The concept of career is different for me. I like the idea of doing a little bit of everything for the experience. You know, I drove a cab for one night. Glad I did, but never again."
"So?" asked Tyrone.
"So, do what you want to do and enjoy it. Period. As a friend of a friend says, live long and prosper."
Scott let Tyrone sit in contemplative silence as the waiter brought them two more. They were doing a good job of sticking to the plan of getting 'shiffaced'.
"You know," Tyrone opined, "INTERNET is only the tip of the iceberg. NASA is having ECCO and CERT look into over $12 Million in unaccounted-for telephone calls. The Justice Department sold old computers containing the names and other details of the Witness Protection Program to a junk dealer in Kentucky and they're suing him to get them back. The Secret Service is rede- signing its protection techniques for the President since someone got into their computers and copied the plans. The computers at Mitre have been used by hackers for years to get at classified information. The public hears less than 1% of the computer problems in the government. And still, no one will do anything. There's even talk that the missing Plutonium that the Israelis theoretically stole in 1981 was actually a computer error."
"What do you want to do about it?" Scott was asking as a friend, not a reporter.
"First," said a newly determined Tyrone, "I'm gonna nail me some of these mothers, and I'll do it with your help. Then, after that?" Tyrone's old smile was suddenly back. "I think I'm gonna kick myself some government ass." Tyrone roared with laughter and Scott joined the contagious behavior. "In the meantime, I want to take a look at some blackmail. I think you may be right."
"About what? I don't listen to what I tell you."
"Remember you said that the blackmail scheme wasn't really blackmail." Tyrone shifted his weight in the chair and he reached for the words through is fogged mind. "You said it might be a way to make us too busy to see our own shadow. That it was a cover up for another dissociated crime."
"Yeah? It might be," Scott said.
Tyrone's body heaved while he snickered. "We finally have a lead.Demands have been made."
"What kind? Who? What do they want?" Scott's journalist mind clicked into gear. "What about the computer virus crap?"
"I'm kind of looking into both, but this morning my interest was renewed. A corporate type I met says not only he, but another 25 or more of his corporate brethren are getting the same treatment. If he's right, someone is demanding over $30 Million in ransoms."
"Jesus Christ! Is that confirmed?" Scott probed.
"Yes. That's why I said you were right."
The implications were tremendous, even to Scott's clouded mind. While the legal system might not be convinced that computer radiation was responsible for an obviously well coordinated criminal venture, he, as an engineer, realized how vulnerable anyone - everyone was. The questions raced through his mind all at once.
Over a few dozen oysters and not as many drinks, Scott and Ty proceeded to share their findings. Scott had documents up the ying-yang, documents he couldn't use in a journalistic sense, but might be valuable to the recent developments in Ty's case. He had moved the files to his home; they were simply taking too much space around his desk at the office. They were an added attrac- tion to the disaster he called his study. Scott agreed to show Ty some of them. After the meeting with Franklin Dobbs, and knowing there might be others in similar situations, Ty wanted an informal look at Scott's cache.
"I've been holding back, Ty," Scott said during a lull in their conversation.
"How do you mean?"
"I got a call from a guy I had spoken to a few months ago; I assume he sent me those files, and he said that key executives throughout the country were being blackmailed. Some were borrow- ing money from the mob to pay them off."
"Do you have names? Who?" Tyrone's took an immediate interest.
"Let me see if I have'm here," he said as he reached for his small notebook in the sports jacket draped over the back of his chair. "Yeah, he only gave me three, not much to go on. A Faulkner, some banker from L.A., a Wall Street tycoon named Henson and another guy Dobbs, Franklin Dobbs."
"Dobbs! How the hell do you know about Dobbs?" Tyrone yelled so loud several remaining bar patrons looked over to see what the ruckus was.
Scott was taken aback by the outburst. "What're you hollering about?"
"Shit, goddamned shit, I don't need this." Tyrone finished one and ordered another drink. He was keeping his promise; well on the way to getting severely intoxicated. "Dobbs. Dobbs is the poor fucker that came into my office."
"You saw Dobbs? He admitted it?" Scott's heart raced at the prospect of a connection. Finally.
"Scott," Tyrone asked quietly, "I have no right to ask you this, but I will anyway. If you find anything, on Dobbs, can you hold back? Just for a while?" A slight pleading on Tyrone's part.
"Why?" Was this part of the unofficial trade with Ty for earlier information?
The waiter returned with the credit card. Tyrone signed the slip, giving the waiter entirely too much of a tip. "I'll tell you on the train. Let's go."
"Where?"
"To your house. You have a computer, don't you?"
"Yeah . . ."
"Well, let's see if we can find out who the other 25 are."
They took a cab from the Scarsdale station to Scott's house. No point in ending up in the clink for a DUI, even with a Federal Agent in tow. Scott's study was in such disarray that he liter- ally scraped off books and papers from the couch onto the floor to find Ty a place to sit and he piled up bigger piles of files to make room for their beers on one of his desks.
Scott and Tyrone hadn't by any means sobered up on the train, but their thinking was still eminently clear. During the hour ride, they reviewed what they knew.
Several prominent businessmen were being actively blackmailed. In addition, the blackmailer, or a confederate, was feeding information to the media. At a minimum the Times, and probably the Expos . Perhaps other media as well were in receipt of simi- lar information, but legitimate news organizations couldn't have much to do with it in its current form.
Presumably then, like Scott, other reporters were calling names in the files. Tyrone reasoned that such an exercise might be a well planned maneuver on the part of the perpetrators.
"Think about it this way," he said. "Let's say you get a call from someone who says they know something about you that you don't want them to. That'll shake you up pretty good, won't it?" Scott rapidly agreed. "Good. And the nature of the contact is threatening, not directly, perhaps, but the undercurrent leaves no doubt that the caller is not your best friend. Follow?"
"And then," Scott picked up, "a guy like me calls with the same information. The last person in the world he wants to know about his activities is a reporter, or to see it show up in the news, so he really freaks."
"Exactly!" Tyrone slapped his thigh. "And, if he gets more than one call, cardiac arrest is nearby. Imagine it. Makes for a good case of justifiable paranoia."
Tyrone nodded vigorously. "I've been in this game long enough to see the side effects of blackmail and extortion. The psycholog- ical effects can be devastating. An inherent distrust of strang- ers is common. Exaggerated delusions occur in many cases. But think about this. If we're right, you begin to distrust every- one, your closest friends, business associate, even your family. Suddenly, everyone is a suspect. Distrust runs rampant and you begin to feel a sense of isolation, aloneness. It feels like you're fighting the entire world alone. Solitude can be the worst punishment."
The analysis was sound. The far ranging implications had never occurred to Scott. To him it had been a simple case of extortion or blackmail using some high tech wizardry. Now, suddenly there was a human element. The personal pain that made the crime even that much more sinister.
"Well, we, I mean the FBI, have seven stake outs. It's a fairly simple operation. Money drops in public places, wait and pick up the guy who picks up the money." Tyrone made it sound so easy. Scott wondered.
"I bet it isn't that simple," Scott challenged.
"No shit, it ain't," Tyrone came back.
"So whaddya do?"
"Pay and have another beer." Tyrone tempered the seriousness of their conversation.
As Scott got up to go the kitchen he called out, "Hey, I been thinking."
"Yeah?" Tyrone yelled.
He popped a Bud and handed it to Tyrone. "Listen, I know this may be left field, but let's think it through." Scott sat behind his desk and put his feet on top of some books on the desk. He leaned back and put his hands behind his head. "We've been talking about the front end of this thing, the front lines where the victims are actually being blackmailed. The kind of stuff that makes headlines." Scott smiled devilishly at Ty who made a significant hand gesture in return. "And now you're talking about how to catch them when they pick up the money. Have you thought of the other side?"
"What other side?" Tyrone was still confused by Scott's logic.
"Assume for a moment that all this information is really coming from computers. The CMR. Ok?" Ty grudgingly shrugged his shoul- ders. "Ok, you said that there are 7 cases across the country. Dobbs said he knew of more here. Right? Well, who gets the information?"
Confusion showed on Tyrone's face. "Gets the information?"
"Yeah, who runs around the country listening in on computers?" The question had been obvious to Scott. All of sudden Tyrone's face lit up.
"You mean the van?"
"Right. How many vans would it take to generate all this?"Scott pointed at several boxes next to the disorganized shelves.
"Damned if I know!"
"Neither do I, but I'll make a wild guess and say that there are quite a few running around. One blew up, or more specifically, was blown up. You guys have the pieces."
"Not any more," Ty said. "They were taken away by CI . Said it was national security . I was told to stay away from it. Told you about us Feds."
"Whatever," Scott waved away the sidebar. "The point is that if a whole bunch of these vans were used, that's not cheap. They held a lot of very expensive equipment. Why not look for the vans? They can't be that hard to find. Maybe you'll find your . . . "
"Holy Christ, Mother Mary and Joseph, why didn't I think of that." Tyrone stood up and aimlessly meandered amongst Scott's junk heaps. "We've been looking in one direction only. The van ceased to exist in our minds since CI took it. The Government can be a royal pain in the ass. The van, of course."
Just as Scott was going to describe how to find villains without wasting hundreds of hours scouring data banks, his computer beeped three times. Scott was shaken from his comfort. "What the . . .?" He looked at the clock. It was just midnight. Kirk! Kirk was calling and he totally had forgotten to mention the computer ransacking to Ty.
"Great! It's Kirk. I wanted you to meet him." As Scott leaned over the keyboard to answer the page, Tyrone looked quizzically at him.
"Who's Kirk?"
"This hacker, some kid on the West Coast. He's taught me a lot.Good guy. Hope to meet him someday." Scott pushed a few keys.The screen came alive.
"Hey," said Tyrone, "that's what we used to say in the Reserves."
Gotta Spook here.
Who's Spook?
Not Spook, a spook. FBI guy.
Don't worry. Tell him yourself. Who is Spook, anyway?
He's a friend. He doesn't know.
Tyrone had come over to the crowded desk to watch the exchange."Who is this guy? What don't I know?"
Kirk, can I tell him? No one knows who you are?
Be back . . .
Scott proceeded to tell Tyrone about the warnings that Kirk received and then how his computers were destroyed. That the calling card warned Kirk to stay away from First State Bank. And how another hacker calling himself Da Vinci on a BBS called Freedom might be a link. Then Scott admitted that he had been in on a bank robbery, or at least breaking and entering a bank's computer.
Tyrone had enough. "I'm not sure I want to hear anymore. You have been busy. So what can I do?"
"Tell Kirk what he can do," Scott said.
"He could probably go to jail. Bank computers, my God! Is that where you get your stories? You live them and then report them in the third person? Stories for the inquiring mind."
"Are you through! I mean, are you through?" Scott sounded per- turbed.
"It's true. What does this guy want?"
"Advice. Talk to him. Here." Scott motioned for Tyrone to sit at the keyboard.
"What do I do?"
"Just type," Scott said with exasperation. "You're as bad as my mother. Type!" Scott ordered.
This is Ty
Scott pulled Ty's hands from the keyboard. "A handle, use a handle, like on a CB!"
"Oh, yeah, I forgot," Tyrone lied.
This is the FBI
Scott looked on in shock. Tyrone laughed out loud. "He already knows who I am. So what? I've always liked saying that anyway."
So I hear. Been to any good banks lately?
Can't take a joke?
Listen, I don't know you from Adam, and you don't have to talk to me, but I am curious. Did your computers really get bashed?
Tyrone pointed his thumb at the computer. "Wise guy, eh?"
"Give him a chance. Generation gap." Tyrone didn't take kindly to references to his age. Sensitive area.
Why?
That's clear.
Do you want to make a formal complaint?
No.
You think it was First State?
Don't you go around poking into other computers, too?
So why not someone else?
"He knows who you are?" Tyrone asked.
"Sure. He likes calling me Repo Man for some reason that still escapes me.
Where else do you go?
Gotcha. Well, I guess that's about it.
<<<<<
"I guess you scared him off." Scott was amused.
"Sorry," Tyrone said.
"He'll call back," Scott waved off the apology. "When the coast is clear."
"Fuck off." Their friendship was returning to the level it once had been.
"Hey, it's getting beyond late," Scott ignored him. "What say we get together in a few days and sort through some of this."
"I know, but one thing. Can you get into your computers, at the paper?"
"Yeah, why?"
"Dobbs said that the other victims had had their stock go down pretty dramatically. Can you look up stock prices and perform- ances over the last few months?"
"Yeah, do it all the time."
"Could you? I want to see if there are any names I recognize."
"No problem." Scott dialed the Times' computer and identified himself. After going into the bank computer with Kirk, every time he dialed up his office, he felt an increased sense of power, and an increased sense of responsibility. He had access to massive amounts of information that if it got into the wrong hands . . .
He shook the thought. The computer offered the 'Stocks and Bonds Menu' and Scott set up a query in a modified SQL that was simple enough for reporters to use:
The computer flashed a message. 'Working'. Scott leaned back."Takes a few seconds. Oh, as I was saying, when I get back,I'll call and we'll see what we can screw together."
"Back from where?" Tyrone sounded accusatory but jealous.
"Europe. Amsterdam." Scott checked the computer screen. It was still busy.
"Rough life."
"No, it's only for a couple of days. There's a hackers confer- ence. I've been invited, by Kirk as a matter of fact."
"Hackers conference, sounds like tons of fun." Tyrone was not impressed.
"The best hackers in the world are going to be there. I hope to get some leads on the First State mess. The Freedom BBS is not all it seems."
"Please stay in touch," Tyrone implored.
"Sure. Here we go. It's ready. Ah, let's see, there are 267 companies who meet that criterion. I guess that narrows it down for you."
"Smart ass. Ah, can you get those in New York only?"
"The city? Sure."
"That'll give us . . ."
"I know what it means." Tyrone shut Scott up in mock defense. In reality he didn't know much about computers, but some things were obvious even to the technically naive.
"That was fast," said Scott. "Only 17. Help any?"
"Might. Can I get that on paper?"
Scott gave him the printout of the finances on the several unfor- tunate companies who had lost more than a third of their net worth in the last year. Tyrone folded it into his jacket pocket. "Hey, call me a cab. I'm too drunk to walk."
* * * * *
Wednesday, December 30Lenox, Georgia
A faded blue Ford Econoline van sat in the Lenox Square parking lot. The affluent Atlanta suburb had been targeted from the beginning. Demographically ,it fit the bill to a tee.
From the outside, the van looked like a thousand other parked cars; empty, with their owners shopping in the huge mall. On the inside though, two men were intently operating a vast array of electronic equipment.
"Here comes another one," said the first. "How many does that make today?"
"A hundred and forty seven. Let's do it." The second man watched the enhanced color video image on a small monitor. A well dressed lady walked up to the ATM machine, card in hand. The first man pressed a switch on another monitor and the snow filled picture was transformed into an electronic copy of the ATM's video display.
Please Insert Card
The screen in the van echoed the ATM screen.
"Can you tune it in a bit?" asked the first man. " It's a little fuzzy."
"Yeah, we must have settled. Let me adjust the antenna." His hand grabbed a joystick on one of the tightly packed racks of equipment and gingerly moved it from left to right. "Is that better?" A small disguised antenna on the roof of the van aligned itself as the joystick commanded.
"Yeah . . .no . . .yeah, back again . . ."
"I see it. There."
"Thanks."
Enter Personal Identification Number:
A third monitor over the second man's cramped desk came to life as the number 3435 appeared across his screen.
"Got it. You, too?"
"On disk and saved."
"I'll back it up."
"Better not. Here comes another one."
"Busy day."
* * * * *
It was a very busy day. Ahmed Shah saw to it that his followers were kept busy, six days a week. As they had been for months.
When his army of a hundred plus Econoline vans were not raiding the contents of unsuspecting computers during the day, they became electronic ears which listened in on the conversations between the ATM's and their bank customers.
Ahmed's vans were used most efficiently. On the road, doing his bidding twenty four hours a day, every day but the Sabbath. Ahmed created cells of eight loyal anti-American sympathizers, regardless of nationality, to operate with each van. Each group operated as an independent entity with only one person from each able to communicate privately with Ahmed over cellular modem. No cell knew of any other cell. If one group was apprehended, they couldn't tell what they didn't know. Therefore, the rest of the cells remain intact.
Absolute loyalty was an unquestioned assumption for all members of Ahmed's electronic army. It had to be that way, for the bigger cause.
All day and night one of Ahmed Shah's computers in his lab at Columbia received constant calls from his cell leaders. During the day it was the most interesting information that they had captured from computer screens. At night, it was the passcodes to automatic bank tellers machines and credit card information.
Once the passcodes were in hand, making fake ATM cards was a trivial task.
****************************************************************
Wednesday, January 6Amsterdam, Holland
Scott Mason had a theory. It didn't matter than no one else believed it, or that they thought him daffy. It worked for him.
He believed that jet lag was caused by the human body traveling across mystical magnetic force fields called Ley lines. The physics of his theory made common sense to anyone but a scien- tist. It went like this: the body is electric and therefore magnetic fields can influence it. Wherever we live we are sub- ject to the local influence of magnetic, electrical and Ley lines. If we move too quickly, as by plane, through Ley lines, the balance of our system is disturbed. The more Ley lines you traverse, the more upsetting it is to the system. Thus, jet lag.
But, Scott had a solution. Or more accurately, his mother had one which she had convinced him of years earlier. Scott carried with him a small box, the size of a pack of cigarettes, that had a switch and a blinking light. It was called an Earth Resonance Generator, or ERG. The literature said the ERG established a negative gravity field through a magnetic Mobius loop. Inside the box was a battery, a loop of wire, a light emitting diode and the back side of the switch. In short, nothing of electronic consequence or obvious function. There was no way in hell that this collection of passive components could do anything other than wear out batteries. All for $79.95 plus $4 shipping.
Scott first heard his mother proselytize about the magic of the ERG when he was ten or twelve. His father, the role model for Archie Bunker ignored her completely and said her rantings in- creased with certain lunar phases. Since his father wouldn't listen to her any longer, she endlessly lectured Scott about the virtues of the ERG whenever she returned from a trip. His father refused to travel, and had never even been on a plane.
His mother so persisted in her belief that she even tried experi- ments. On one of her trips to Rome, she somehow talked the stewardesses into handing out the 400 questionnaires she'd brought with her onto the plane. It asked the passengers how they felt after the flight, and if they do anything special to avoid jet lag. She claims more than 200 were returned and that they overwhelmingly indicated that no one felt jet lag on that trip.
She attributed this immense success to the ERG effects which purportedly spread over one acre. In other words, the ERG takes care of an entire 747 or L-1011 or DC-10.
For years Scott successfully used the ERG to avoid jet lag. Some people put brown paper bags in their shoes, others eat yogurt and bean sprouts before a long flight. Maybe his solution was psy- chosomatic, Scott admitted to anyone who asked, but, so what? It still works, doesn't it? Scott was forever impressed that air- port security had never, once, asked him what this little blink- ing black box was. Scary thought.
He arrived completely refreshed via KLM at the Amsterdam Interna- tional Airport at 9:15 A.M. While he had been to Europe many times, he had thus far missed the Amsterdam experience. He had heard that pot was legal in Amsterdam. In fact it was more than legal. Every morning the marijuana prices were broadcast on the local radio stations and Scott had every intention of sampling the wares. After 20 years of casual pot use, he preferred it immensely to the effects of drinking, and he was not going to miss out on the opportunity.