FLAG!!4,576 Computational Errors
Eileen's attention immediately focussed in on the FLAG!! message.The Computational Error figures were normally '0' or '1' a week.Now, 5,000 in one day?
She had the computer sort the 4,576 CE's into the serial number distribution. The Service Department was able to act as a quali- ty control monitor for engineering and production. If something was wrong - once a few hundred thousand copies hit the field - the error would show up by the number of calls. But CE's were normally operator error. Not the computer's.
There was no correlation to serial numbers. Old Version 1.0's through Version 3.0 and 3.1 were affected as were the current versions. By all reports, Lotus 1-2-3 could no longer add, subtract, divide, multiply or compute accurately. Mass computa- tional errors. The bell curve across serial numbers was flat enough to obviate the need for a statistical analysis. This was clearly not an engineering design error. Nor was it a production error, or a run of bad disks. Something had changed.
* * * * *
Scarsdale, New York
On the 6:12 to Scarsdale, Tyrone and Scott joined for a beer.The conversation was not to be repeated.
"ECCO, CERT, the whole shooting match," Tyrone whispered loudenough to be heard over the rumble of the train, "are moving toNSA control. NIST is out. They all work for the Fort now.Department of Defense."
"Are you shitting me?" Scott tried to maintain control.
"It'll be official tomorrow," Tyrone said. "Write your story tonight. The NSA has won again."
"What do you mean, again?"
"Ah," Tyrone said trying to dismiss his frustrated insight into agency rivalry. "It seems that whatever they want, they get. Their budget is secret, their purpose is secret, and now they have every computer security concern at their beck and call. Orders of the President."
"Aren't they the best suited for the job, though . . ."
"Technically, maybe. Politically, no way!" Tyrone said adamant- ly. "I think the Bureau could match their power, but they have another unfair advantage."
Scott looked curiously at Tyrone.
"They wrote the rules."
* * * * *
Scarsdale, New York
Speedo's Pizza was late, so Scott got the two $9 medium pepperoni pizzas for free, tipping the embarrassed delivery boy $10 for his efforts. Not his fault that his company makes absurd promises and contributes to the accident rate.
As 9:00 P.M. approached, Scott's stomach knotted up. He wasn't quite sure what he would find when he dialed the Canadian number. It was a cellular phone exchange meaning that while he dialed the Toronto 416 area code, the call was probably rerouted by call forwarding to another location, also connected by cellular phone. Untraceable. Damn sneaky. And legal. Technology For The Peo- ple.
<<<<<
Scott listened to the small speaker on his internal modem card as it dialed the tones in rapid sequence. A click, a buzz and then in the background, Scott heard the faintest of tones. Was that crosstalk from another line or was another secret number being dialed?
<<<<<< CONNECTION 4800 BAUD>>>>>>
The screen hesitated for few seconds then prompted . . .
Scott wondered what to enter. His real name? Or the handleKirk's hackers gave him.
Scott Mason aka Repo Man
Again the computer display paused, seemingly pondering Scott's response.
I'm getting used to it. Paranoia runs rampant in your line of work.
You can't keep your eyes off of Sonja's chest as I recall.
So you're Miles Foster.
Like I said, you're Miles Foster.
Let me see if I understand this right. You will tell all, the whole story on the record, as long as you stay the Spook? Use your name, Spook, in everything?
The paper has given me procedures. I have to record everything.Save it to disk, and give a copy to the lawyers.
No. Not until we agree. Then we outline the terms and go.
The lawyers, who else?
So. Do we have a deal?
Scott and the Spook exchanged notes over their modems and comput- ers until they arrived at terms they both could live with. After Kirk, the rules Higgins had established were clear, easy to follow and fair. Scott set his computer to Save the conversa- tion.
This is Scott Mason, speaking to a person who identifies himself only as the Spook. I do not know the sex of this person, nor his appearance as all conversations are occurring over computer modem and telephone lines. The Spook contacted me today, through my office computer. This is his amazing story.
Spook. Why did you call me?
* * * * *
Wednesday, January 20National Security Agency
Marvin Jacobs had a busy day and evening. And night, preparing for his meeting with the President. He would have a chance to make his point, and win it, with an audience in attendance. The high level bureaucrat craved to aspire within the echelons of the government hierarchy, but his inate competence prevented his goals from being realized.
During Korea Lt. Marvin Jacobs served his country as 90 day wonder straight out of ROTC. A business major with a minor in civic administration did not prepare him for the tasks the Army had in store for him. Army Intelligence was in desperate need of quality analysts, people with minds more than marshmallows for brain. The Army Intelligence Division G-2 personnel staff poured through new recruit files in hopes of recruiting them into the voluntary program. But the catch phrase, 'Military- Intelligence,' a contradiction in terms' made their job doubly difficult. So they resorted to other tactics to recruit quali- fied people for an unpopular and often despised branch of the military: they made deals, and they made Lt. Marvin Jacobs a deal he couldn't refuse.
Young Captain Jacobs returned to the United States at the end of the conflict as a highly skilled and experienced communications manager for the evolving communications technology; as antiquated as it appears today. His abilities were widely needed by emerg- ing factions of the government as McCarthyism and the fear of the Red Menace were substituted for Hot War.
The super secret NSA, whose existence was unknown to a vast majority of Congress at that time, made him the best offer from all the Federal Agencies. The payscales were the same, but the working conditions promised were far superior at the Agency. Marvin Jacobs had studied to serve as a civil servant, but he imagined himself in Tecumseh, Michigan politics, not confronting the Communist Threat.
He was rewarded for his efforts, handsomely. In the sports world, they call it a signing bonus. In the deep dark untrace- able world of the National Security Agency they call it All Paid Reconnaissance. APR, for short. Travel when and where you like, ostensibly on behalf of your government. If worse comes to worst, attend a half day seminar and make yourself seen.
By the time he was thirty-five, Marvin Jacobs, now a well re- spected management fixture at the NSA, had seen the world twice over. Occasionally he traveled on business. For the first ten years with the Agency he traveled with his wife, college sweet- heart Sarah Bell, and then less so as their three children ma- tured. Still, although he now travels alone more often than not, he was on a plane going somewhere at least twice a month, if only for a weekend.
The Directorship of the NSA landed in his lap unexpectedly in 1985, when the schism between the Pentagon and the Fort became an unsurvivable political nightmare for his predecessor. Marvin Jacobs, on the other hand, found the job the deserved cherry on a career dedicated to his country. It was largely a political job, and managing the competing factions of his huge secret empire occupied most of his time.
The prestige, the power, the control and the responsibility alone wasn't enough for Marvin Jacobs. He wanted more. He wanted to make a difference. A very dangerous combination.
* * * * *
"It is so good to hear your voice, Ahmed Shah," Beni Rafjani said in Farsi over an open clear overseas line.
"And you. I am but Allah's servant," replied Ahmed, bowing his head slightly as he spoke.
"As we all are. But today I call to say you can come home."
"Home? Iran?" The excitement in Ahmed's voice was more due to the call than the news. "Why?"
"I thought you would be pleased, now that the Red Sun has set." The cryptic reference to the death of Homosoto wouldn't fool anybody listening, but inuendo was non-admissible.
"Yes, my work is going well, and I have learned much, as have hundreds of students that attend my classes. However, with all due respect, I think we may accomplish more by continuing the work that our esteemed leader began. Why should we stop now? It goes very well - in our favor."
"I understand," Rafjani said with respect. "You are honored for your sacrifice, living among the infidels."
"It must be done. I mean no disrespect."
"You do not speak disrepectfully, Ahmed Shah. Your work is important to your people. If that is your wish, continue, for you do it well."
"Thank you, thank you. Even though one grain of sand has blown away, the rest of the desert retains great power."
"Ahmed Shah, may Allah be with you."
****************************************************************
Thursday, January 21The White House, Washington, D.C.
He wanted to make them wait.
The President decided to walk into the breakfast room for their early morning meeting a few minutes late. Even with intimates, the awe of the Presidency was still intact. His tardiness added to the tension that they all felt as a result of the recent revelations. Perhaps the tension would further hone their atten- tion and dialogue.
He had not slept well the night before; he was prepared for anything he understood, but computers were not on his roster of acquired fluencies. A President has to make decisions, tough decisions, life and death decisions, but decisions of the type that have a history to study and a lesson to learn. And like most of those before him, he was well equipped to make tough decisions, right or wrong. Presidents have to have the self confidence and internal resolve to commit themselves, and their nation, to a course of action. This President's political life trained him well; lawyer, local politics, state politics and then Washington.
But not computers. He was not trained in computers. He had learned to type, a little, and found that sending E-Mail messages was great fun. To him it was a game. Since the first days when microcomputers had invaded the offices of governmental Washing- ton, he had been able to insulate himself from their day to day use. All the same, every desk he had occupied was adjoined by a powerful microcomputer fitted with the finest graphics, the best printer and an elite assortment of software. He used the memory resident calculator and sent and received electronic mail. That was it.
The President, as most men of his generation, accepted the fact that computers now ran the show. The whole shooting match. Especially the military. The communications and computer sophis- tication used by the Allies enthralled the world during the Iraqi War: bombs smart enough to pick which window they would enter before detonating, missiles smart enough to fly at 2000 mph and destroy an incoming missile moving at 3000 mph. It turned out that hitting a bullet with a bullet was possible after all. Intuitively, the President knew that the crisis developing before his eyes meant massive computer damage, and the repercussions would be felt through the economy and the country.
However, the President did not have enough computer basics to begin to understand the problem, much less the answers. This was the first time during his administration that major tactical and policy decisions would be made primarily by others. His was a duty of rubber stamping. That worry frustrated his attempts at sleeping and nagged at him before the meeting. And then, of course, there was the press.
"Gentlemen," the President said sauntering towards his chair at the head of the large formal breakfast table. He opened the door with enough vigor to startle his guests. He maintained his usual heads-up smile and spry gait as he noticed that there were new faces present.
In addition to the inner circle, Marvin Jacobs asked two key NSA security analysts to be observers at the meeting. Only if the President asked a question was it then all right to speak. Accompanying Phil Musgrave, under admitted duress to repay a previous favor, was Paul Trump, Director of NIST, the eternal rival of the NSA in matters of computers. The President was introduced to the guests and smiled to himself. He recognized that the political maneuvering was beginning already. Maybe the competition would help, he thought.
"Marv," the President said leaning away from the waiter pouring his coffee. This was the same waiter who had spilled near boil- ing liquid in his lap last month. "I guess it's your show, so I'll just sit back and keep my mouth shut." He leaned even further away as the waiter's clumsiness did not inspire confi- dence.
Group chuckle notwithstanding, everyone in the inner circle knew what the President really meant. The President was hungry and Marv Jacobs would not be eating breakfast. He would be answering questions.
"Thank you, sir," Marv said as he courteously acknowledged the presence of the others. He handed out a file folder to everyone in the room. Each was held together with a red strap labeled TOP SECRET that sealed the package. Not until the President began to open his package did the others follow suit.
"We've only had a day to prepare . . ." Marvin Jacobs began.
"I know," the President said wiping the corner of his mouth with a white linen napkin. "That should have been plenty of time." Marvin, wisely avoided responding to the President's barb. He took the caustic hit as the other breakfast guests quietly thanked the powers on high that it was someone elses turn to be in the hot seat. All in all, though, the President was a much calmer person this morning than during his verbal tirade the day before. But, if needed, the acerbity of his biting words would silence the boldest of his advisors or enemies. The President was still royally pissed off.
"We have developed a number of scenarios that will be refined over the next weeks as we learn more about the nature of the assault by Homosoto." He turned into his report and indicated that everyone should turn to page 4. "This is sketchy, but based upon what we have seen already, we can estimate the nature of what we're up against."
Page 4 contained three Phrases.
1. Malevolent Self Propagating Software Programs (Viruses) 2. Unauthorized Electromagnetic Pulses and Explosions 3. Anti-TEMPEST Coherent Monitor and Pixel Radiation.
Marvin Jacobs described the observed behavior of each category, but nonetheless the President was unhappy. A rehash from the newspapers.
"That's it?" the President asked in disbelief. "You call that an estimate? I can find out more than that from CNN."
"At this point, that's about it."
"I still can't believe this," the President said, shaking his head. "What the hell am I going to say when I have to face the press? 'Sorry folks, our computers and the country are going down the toilet, and we really don't know what to do about it. Seems as if no one took the problem seriously'" The President gazed at Marvin and Henry Kennedy, half expecting them to break into tears. "Bullshit!"
"Sir, may I be blunt?" Marvin asked.
"Of course, please. That's what we're here for," the President said, wondering how blunt was blunt.
"Sir, this is certainly no time to place blame on anyone, but I do think that at a minimum some understanding is in order." All eyes turned to Jacobs as he spoke. "Sir, the NSA has been in the business of safeguarding military computer systems for years."
"That's arguable," said the President critically.
Marvin continued unaffected. "Cryptography and listening and deciphering are our obvious strong points. But neither Defense nor Treasury," he said alluding to each representative from their respective agencies, "can spend money without Congress's approv- al. Frankly sir, that is one of the major stumbling blocks we have encountered in establishing a coherent security policy."
"That's a pile of bull, Marv," said NIST's feisty Paul Trump. Paul and Marv had known each other for years, became friends and then as the NIST-NSA rift escalated in '89 and '90, they saw less of each other on a social basis. "Sir," Paul spoke to the Presi- dent, "I'm sorry for interrupting . . ."
"Say what you have to say."
"Yessir." Trump had no trouble being direct either. Nearing mandatory retirement age had made Trump more daring. Willing to take more risks in the best interest of NIST and therefore the nation. Spry and agile, Paul Trump looked twenty years younger with no signs of slowing down.
"Sir, the reason that we don't have any security in the govern- ment is due to Congress. We, Marv and I, agree on that one point. Martin, do you concur?"
Treasury Secretary Martin Royce vigorously nodded in agreement. "We've been mandated to have security for years, but no one says where the money's coming from. The hill made the laws but didn't finish the job."
The President enjoyed the banter among his elite troops. He thrived on open dissent and debate, making it easier for him to weigh information and opinions. That freedom reminded him of how difficult it must have been for the Soviets to openly disagree and consider unpopular positions.
It seems that after Khrushchev took over, in one Politburo meet- ing, he received a handwritten note which said: 'If you're so liberal, how come you never stood up to Stalin.' Khrushchev scoured the room for a clue as to who made the insulting comment. After a tense few seconds he said, 'would the comrade who wrote this stand up so I may answer him face to face?' No one stood. 'Now, you know the answer.'
The President's point was, around here anything goes, but I'm the boss. The difference is the democratic process, he would say, the voters elect me by a majority to institute a benevolent oligarchy. And I, he pointed at himself, am the oligarch.
Paul Trump continued. "In reality sir, NIST has tried to cooper- ate with NSA in a number of programs to raise the security of many sectors of the government, but, in all fairness, NSA has put up constant roadblocks in the name of national security. The CMR problem for the commercial sector has been completely ignored under the cloak of classified specifications."
"TEMPEST is a classified program . . ." Marvin objected strenu- ously.
"Because you want it to be," Trump retorted instantly. "It doesn't have to be, and you know it. Sir," he turned to the President. "TEMPEST is . . ." The President nodded that he knew. "The specification for TEMPEST may have been considered a legitimate secret when the program started in the '70's. But now, the private sector is publishing their own results of stud- ies duplicating what we did 20 years ago. The Germans, the Dutch, the French, just about everybody but the English and us has admitted that CMR is a problem for everyone, not just the military. Jesus, you can buy anti-Tempest plans in Popular Science. Because of NSA's protectiveness of a secret that is no longer a secret, the entire private sector is vulnerable to CMR and anti-TEMPEST assaults. As a country, we have no electronic privacy."
Marvin nodded in agreement. "You're damn right we keep it a secret. Why the hell should we tell the world how to protect against it? By doing that, we not only define the exact degree of our own exposure, but teach our enemies how to protect them- selves. It should be classified."
"And everyone else be damned?" Trump challenged Jacobs.
"I wouldn't put it that way, but NSA is a DoD oriented agency after all. Ask Congress," Marvin said resolutely.
"That's the most alienating, arrogant isolationist attitude I've ever heard," Paul Trump said. "Regardless of what you may think, the NSA is not the end-all be-all, and as you so conveniently dismiss, the NSA is not trusted by many outside the U.S.. We do not have a technology monopoly on TEMPEST any more than we do on the air we breathe." Trump threw up his hands in disgust. "Patently absurd paranoia . . ."
"Paul, you don't have all the facts . . ." objected Marv to no avail. Trump was a master at debate.
"Sir," Trump again turned from the argumentative Jacobs to the President. "I don't think this is proper forum for rehashing history, but it should be noted that NIST is responsible for non- defense computer security, and we have a staff and budget less than 1% of theirs. The job just isn't getting done. Personally, I consider the state of security within the government to be in total chaos. The private sector is in even worse shape, and it's our own fault."
"Phil?" the President said. "Emergency funding. Congress." Phil nodded as the debate continued. "None of this is saying a damn thing about what we should do. How do we best defend?" He bit off the end of crispy slice of bacon waiting for the answer he knew would be unsatisfactory.
"We improvise."
"Improvise! That's the best you can do?" The President threw down his napkin and it slipped off the table to the floor as he shoved his chair back.
"This country is run by goddamned computers," the President muttered loudly as he paced the breakfast room. Those who had been eating ceased long ago. "Goddamned computers and morons."
* * * * *
Thursday, January 21
SPREADSHEETS STOP CRUNCHINGLOTUS AND MICROSOFT STRUCKby Scott Mason
Last weekend's threats made by the late OSO Industries Chairman,Taki Homosoto appear to be a trustworthy mirror of the future.
Lotus Development Corporation and Microsoft, two of the software industry's shining stars are the latest victims of Homosoto's vengeful attack upon the computer systems of the United States.
With cases of 20-20 hindsight proliferating, security experts claim that we should have seen it coming.
The last several months has been filled with a long series of colossal computer failures, massive virus attacks and the magnet- ic bombing of major computer installations. These apparently unrelated computer crimes, occurring with unprecedented frequency have the distinct flavor of a prelude to the promises Homosoto made in the self penned note that accompanied his seeming sui- cide.
The latest virus debacle comes immediately on the heels of the announcement of the dGraph infections.
Yesterday, Lotus and Microsoft and their dealers were inundated with technical support calls. According to reports, the industry standard 1-2-3 and the popular Excel spreadsheets have been experiencing cataclysmic failures in the field. Typical com- plaints claim the powerful spreadsheet programs are performing basic mathematical functions incorrectly; a veritable disaster for anyone who relies upon the accuracy of their numbers.
The leading theory held by both companies as well as software and security experts, is that a highly targeted computer virus was designed to only affect Lotus and Microsoft spreadsheet files. While some viruses are designed to erase files, or entire hard disks, the Lotus Virus as it has been informally named, is a highly sophisticated virus designed only to make subtle changes in the results of mathematical calculations.
Viruses of this type are known as Slight Viruses. They only infect small portions of the computer or program, and then only in ways that will hopefully not be detected for some time - thus compounding the damage.
Fortune 100 companies that use either 1-2-3 or Excel nearly unanimously announced that they will put a moratorium on the use of both programs until further notice. Gibraltar Insurance issued a terse statement: "Due to the potential damage caused by the offending software, we will immediately begin installation of compatible spreadsheet programs and verify the accuracy of all data. Our attorneys are studying the matter at this time."
Lotus and Microsoft stock plummeted 36% and 27% respectively.
* * * * *
I see humility reigns right up there with responsibility.
Not many people share your sense of achievement.
We should get something straight right off.
I am now. I do not approve, in fact I despise what you say you've done.
Not from me.
Don't tell me how to do my job.
Fine. Where did I go wrong in the article?
You mean you built several viruses all aimed at Lotus programs?
100? How many viruses? When?
Why? Why tell me now?
And you want me to print this? Why?
What from happening?
How much of an attack?
That's incredible . . .more than incredible. Why? For what purpose?
So you worked for him?
Equations?
It's a good thing I kind of understand the technical gobbledy- gook.
I got that. So what does happen?
You have a way with words.
So what happens next Mr. Spook?
Cocky son of a bitch aren't you?
Why not?
* * * * *
"Yeah," the deep sleepy voice growled in Scott's ear.
"Ty, wake up."
"Wha?"
"Tyrone, get up!" Scott's excited voice caught Tryone's notice.
"Scott," he yawned. "What's the matter?"
"Are you awake?"
"Don't worry, I had to get up to answer the phone." Then in a more muffled voice Scott heard Tyrone say, "no, it's all right dear. Go back to sleep, I'll take it in the den." Tyrone got back on the phone and barked, "hold on."
Scott paced across his junked up home office, sidestepping some items, stepping on others, until Tyrone came back on the line.
"Shit, man," were Tyrone's first words. "You have any idea what time it is?"
"Hey, I'm sorry," Scott said mocking Tyrone's complaint. "I'll write you a letter tomorrow and lick a stamp and let the Post Office take it from there . . ."
"You made your point. What is it?"
"The airlines are going to be hit next. Homosoto's next target."
"How the hell would you know that?"
"I've been talking to Foster. He told me."
"Foster told you what?"
"It's a huge attack, an incredibly large computer attack. He worked for Homosoto. But the point is, the airlines. They're next. Worse than the radar computer problems."
"Can I get right back to you?"
Waiting for Ty's call, Scott wrote an article for the following morning's paper and submitted it from home to the office comput- er.
* * * * *
COMPUTER TERRORISMAn Exclusive Interview With The Man Who Invaded AmericaBy Scott Mason
The man who claims to be the technical genius behind the recent wave of Computer Crimes has agreed to tell his story exclusively to the New York City Times.
Only known as the Spook, a hacker's handle which represents both an alter-ego and anonymity, he says that he was hired by Taki Homosoto, late chairman of OSO Industries to design and prepare a massive assault against the computer systems of the United States.
The incredible claims made by the Spook appear to be grounded in fact and his first statements alone were astounding. Please note, these are exact quotes from a computer conversation with the Spook.
"There will be thousands of viruses. Thousands of them. I have to imagine by now that every program in America is infected with ten different viruses. There is only one way to stop them all. Never turn on your computers.
"You see, most virus programmers are searching for immediate gratification. They write one and want it to spread real quick and then see it blow up. So most amateur virus builders are disappointed in the results because they don't have patience. But we, I had patience.
"To maximize the effects of viruses, you have to give them time. Time to spread, to infect. Many of the viruses that you will experience are years old. The older viruses are much cruder than those made recently. We learned over time to build better vi- ruses. Our old ones have been dormant for so long, their conta- gion is complete and they will be just as effective.
"We have built and installed the greatest viruses of all time. Every PC will probably be dead in months if not weeks, unless you take my advice. There are also VAX viruses, VMS viruses, SUN viruses, we even built some for Cray supercomputers, but we don't expect much damage from them."
The Spook's next comments were just as startling.
"The blackmail operation was a sham, but a terrific success. It wasn't for the money. No one ever collected any money, did they? It was pure psychological warfare. Making people distrust their computers, distrust one another because the computer makes them look like liars. That was the goal. The money was a diversion- ary tactic.
"Part of any attack is the need to soften the enemy and terrorism is the best way to get quick results. By the time the first viruses came along, whoa! I bet half the MIS directors in the country don't know whether they're coming or going."
According to the Spook, he designed the attack with several armies to be used for different purposes.
One for Propaganda, one for Infiltration and Infection, one for Engineering, one for Communications, and another for Distribution and another for Manufacturing. At the pinnacle was Homosoto acting as Command and Control.
"I didn't actually infect any computers myself. We had teams ofGroundhogs all too happy to do that for us."
According to security experts, Homosoto apparently employed a complex set of military stratagem in the execution of his attack.
It has yet to be determined if the Spook will be of any help in minimizing the effects of the First Computer War.
Scott finally went to bed. Tyrone never called him back.
* * * * *
Thursday, January 21New York City
The cavernous streets of New York on a cloud covered moonless night harbor an eerie aura, reminiscent of the fog laden alleys near the London docks on the Thames in the days of Jack the Ripper. A constant misty rain gave the city an even more de- pressing pallor than winter normally brought to the Big Apple. In other words, the weather was perfect.
On the corner of 52nd. and 3rd., in the shadow of the Citibank tower, Dennis Melbourne stuck a magnetic strip ID card into a Cirrus 24 Hour Bank Teller Machine. As the machine sucked in the card, the small screen asked for the personal identification number, the PIN, associated with that particular card. Dennis entered the requested four digit PIN, 1501. The teller whirred and asked Dennis which transaction he would like.
He selected:
Checking Balance.
A few seconds later $4,356.20 appeared. Good, Dennis thought.
He then selected:
Withdrawal - Checking
Dennis entered, $2,000.00 and the machine display told him that his request exceeded the daily withdrawal limit. Normal, he thought, as he entered an 8 digit sequence: 00330101. The super- visor control override.
The teller hummed and thought for a moment, and then $20 bills began tumbling out of the "Take Cash" drawer. One hundred of them.
The teller asked, "Another Transaction?" and Dennis chose 'No'. He retrieved the magnetic card from the machine and the receipt of this transaction before grabbing a cab to a subway entrance on 59th. and Lexington Ave. The ID card he used was only designed to be used once, so Dennis saw to it that the card was cut and disposed of in a subterranean men's room toilet.
Dennis Melbourne traveled throughout New York all night long, emptying Cirrus cash machines of their available funds. And the next night, and the next. He netted $246,300 in three days. All told, Cirrus customers in thirty-six states were robbed by Dennis Melbourne and his scores of accomplices of nearly $10 Million before the banks discovered how it was being done.
The Cirrus network and it's thousands of Automatic Tellers were immediately closed. For the first time in years, America had no access to instant cash.
Bank lines grew to obscene lengths and the waiting for simple transactions was interminable. Almost one half of personal banking had been done by ATM computer, and now human tellers had to deal with throngs of customers who had little idea of how to bank with a live person.
Retail sales figures for the week after the ATM machines were closed showed a significant decline of 3.2%. The Commerce De- partment was demanding action by Treasury who pressured the FBI and everybody looked to the White House for leadership. The economic impact of immediate cash restriction had been virtually instantaneous; after all the U.S. is a culture of spontaneity demanding instant gratification. Cash machines addressed that cultural personality perfectly. Now it was gone.
Dennis Melbourne knew that it was time to begin on the MOST network. Then the American Express network. And he would get rich in the process. Ahmed Shah paid him very well. 25% of the take.
* * * * *
Friday, January 22New York City
"We had to take out the part about the airlines," Higgins said in response to Scott's question about the heavy editing. To Hig- gins' and Doug's surprise, Scott understood; he didn't put up a stink.
"I wondered about that," Scott said reflecting back on the last evening. "Telling too much can be worse than not telling enough. Whatever you say, John."
"We decided to let the airlines and the FAA and the NTSB make the call." Higgins and Scott had come to know and respect each other quite well in the last few weeks. They didn't agree on every- thing, but as the incredible story evolved, Higgins felt more comfortable with less conservative rulings and Scott relinquished his non-negotiable pristine attitude. At least they disagreed less often and less loudly. Although neither one would admit it, each made an excellent sounding board for the other - a valuable asset on a story this important.
Higgins continued. "The airlines are treating it as a bomb scare. Seriously, but quietly. They have people going through the systems, looking for whatever it is you people look for." Higgins' knowledge of computers was still dismal.
"Scott, let me ask you something." Doug broke into the conversa- tion that like all the others, took place in Higgins' lawyer-like office. They occurred so often that Scott had half seriously convinced Higgins' secretary that he wouldn't attend unless there were fresh donuts and juice on the coffee table. When Higgins found out, he was mildly annoyed, but nonetheless, in the spirit of camaraderie, he let the tradition continue. "Children will be children," he said.
"How much damage could be done if the Spook's telling the truth?"Doug asked.
"Oh, he's telling the truth," Scott said somberly. "Don't for- get, I know this guy. He said that the effects would take weeks and maybe months to straighten out. And the airline assault would start Monday."
"Why is he being so helpful?" Higgins asked.
"He wants to establish credibility. He says he wants to help now, but first he wants to be taken seriously."
"Seriously? Seriously? He's a terrorist!" shouted Higgins. "No damn different than someone who throws a bomb into a crowded subway. You don't negotiate with terrorists!" He calmed him- self, not liking to show that degree of emotion. "But we want the story . . ." he sighed in resignation. Doug and Scott agreed in unison.
"Personally, it sounds like a macho ego thing," commented Doug.
"So what?" asked Higgins. "Motivation is independent of premedi- tation."
"Legally speaking . . ." Doug added. He wanted to make sure than John was aware that there were other than purely legal issues on the table.
"As I was saying," Scott continued. "The reservation computers are the single most important item in running the nation's air- lines. They all interact and talk to each other, and create billing, and schedule planes; they interface on line to the OAG . . .they're the brains. They all use Fault Tolerant equip- ment, that's spares of everything, off site backup of all records - I've checked into it. Whatever he's planned, it'll be a doo- sey."
"Well, it doesn't matter now," Higgins added with indifference. "Legally it's unsubstantiated hearsay. But with the computer transcripts of all your conversations, if anything happens, I'd say you'd have quite a scoop."
"That's what he wants! And we can't warn anybody?"
"That's up to the airlines, the FAA, not us." The phone on Hig- gins disk emitted two short warbles. He spoke into the phone. "Yeah? Who? Whooo?" He held the phone out to Scott and curled his lips. "It's for you. The White House." Scott glanced over at Doug who raised his bushy white eyebrows.
Scott picked up the phone on the end table by the leather couch; the one that Scott seemed to have made a second home. "Hello?" he asked hesitantly. "Yes? Well, I could be in Washington . . ." Scott looked over to Doug for advice. "The President?" Doug shook his head, yes. Whatever it is, go. "I'd be happy to," he said reading his watch. "A few hours?" He waited a few seconds. "Yes, I know the number. Off the record? Fine. Thank you."
"Well?" asked Higgins.
"The President himself wants to have a little chat with me."
* * * * *
Friday, January 22The White House
Only the President, Musgrave and Henry Kennedy were there to meet Scott. They did not want to overwhelm him, merely garner his cooperation. Scott rushed by cab to the White House from Nation- al Airport, and used the Press Gate even though he had an ap- pointment with The Man. He could have used the Visitor's En- trance. Scott was whisked by White House aides through a "Private" door in the press room to the surprise of the regular pool reporters who wondered who dared to so underdress. Defi- nitely not from Washington.
Scott was running on short notice, so he was only wearing his work clothes: torn blue jeans, a sweatshirt from the nude beach he and Sonja had visited and Reeboks that needed a wash. January was unusually warm, so he got away with wearing his denim jacket filled with a decade of patches reflecting Scott's evolving political and social attitudes. He was going to have to bring a change of clothes to the office from now on.
Before he had a chance to apologize for his appearance, at least he was able to shave the three day old stubble on the train, the President apologized for the suddenness and hoped it wasn't too much of an inconvenience. Kennedy and Musgrave kept their smirks to themselves, knowing full well from the very complete dossier on Scott Mason, that he was having a significant intimate rela- tionship with one Sonja Lindstrom, here in Washington. Very convenient was more like it, they thought.
The President sat Scott down on the Queen Anne and complimented him on his series of articles on computer crime. He said that Scott was doing a fine job awakening the public to the problem, and that more people should care, and how brave he was to jump in front of flying bullets, and on and on and on. Due to Henry and Phil's political savvy and professional discipline, neither of their faces showed that they both wanted to throw up on the spot. This was worse than kissing babies to get elected. But the President of the United States wanted a secret favor from a journalist, so some softening, some schmoozing was in order.
"Well, let me get right to the point," the President said a half hour later after two cups of coffee and endless small talk with Scott. He, too, had wondered what the President wanted so much that the extended foreplay was necessary. "I understand Scott, that you have developed quite a rapport with this Spook fellow." He held up a copy of the New York paper headlines blaring:
Computer Terrorism - Exclusive.
Aha! So that's what they want! They want me to turn him in. "I consider myself to be very lucky, right place, right time and all. Yessir." Scott downplayed his position with convincing humility. "It seems as if he has selected me as his mouthpiece."
"All we want, in fact, all we can ask," Musgrave said, "is for you to give us information before it's printed." Scott's eyes shot up in defense, protest at the ready. "No, no," Mugrave added quickly. "Nothing confidential. We know that Miles Foster is the Spook, but we can't prove it without giving away away too many of our secrets." Scott knew they were referring to their own electronic eavesdropping habits that would be imprudent in a court. "Single handedly he is capable of bringing down half of the government's computers. We need to know as much as we can as fast as we can. So, whatever you print, we'd like an early copy of it. That's all."
Scott's mind immediately traveled back to the first and only time
an article of his was pulled. At the AG's request. Of course it
finally got printed, but why the niceties now? They can take
what they want, but instead they ask? Maybe they don't want to
get caught fiddling around with the Press too much. Such activi-
ties snagged Nixon, not saying that the President was Nixon-
esque, but politics is politics. What do I get in return? He
could hear it now, the '
So he proposed to Musgrave instead. "I want an exclusive inter- view with the President when this thing is over."
"Done!" said Musgrave too quickly. Scott immediately castigated himself for not asking for more. He could shoot himself. A true Washington denizen would have asked for a seat in the Cabinet. But that was between Scott and his conscience. Doug would hear a dramatized account.
"And no other media finds out that you know anything until . . ."Scott added another minor demand.
"Until the morning papers appear at the back door with the milk," joked Musgrave. "Scott, this is for internal use only. Every hour will help."
Scott was given a secret White House phone number where someone would either receive FAX or E-Mail message. Not the standard old PRESIDENT@WHITEHOUSE.GOV that any schmo with a PC could E-mail into. His was special. Any hour, any day. He was also given a White House souvenir pen.
"It went fine," Kennedy said to Marvin Jacobs from his secure office in the White House basement. He spoke to Marvin Jacobs up at Fort Meade on the STU-III phones.
"Didn't matter," Marvin said munching on what sounded to Kennedy like an apple. A juicy one.
"What do you mean, it didn't matter?"
"We're listening to his computers, his phones and his fax lines anyway," Marvin said with neutrality.
"I don't know if I want to know about this . . ."
"It was just a back up plan," Jacobs said with a little laugh.He wanted to defuse Kennedy's panic button. For a NationalSecurity Advisor, Kennedy didn't know very much about how intel-ligence is gathered. "Just in case."
"Well, we don't need it anymore," Kennedy said. "Mason is coop- erating fully."
"I like to have alternatives. I expect you'll be telling thePresident about this."
"Not a chance. Not a chance." Kennedy sounded spooked.
Jacobs loudly munched the last bite through the apple skin. "I'll have something else for you on Mason tomorrow. Let's keep him honest."
* * * * *
Friday, January 22Reston, Virginia
"No, mom, I'm not going to become a spy," Scott calmly said into the phone while smiling widely at Sonja. "No, I can't tell you what he wanted, but he did give me a present for you." Scott mouthed the words, 'she's in heaven' to Sonja who enjoyed seeing the pleasure the woman received from her son's travels. "Yes, I'll be home in a couple of days," he paused as his mother interrupted again. "Yes, I'll be happy to reprogram your VCR. I'm sorry it doesn't work . . ." He sat back to listen for a few seconds and watch Sonja undress in front of a full length mirror. Their guests were expected in less than 15 minutes and she rushed to make herself beautiful despite Scott's claims that she was always beautiful. "Yes, mom, I'm paying attention. No ma'am, I won't. Yes, ma'am, I'll try. O.K., goodnight, I love you." He struggled to pull the phone from his ear, but his mother kept talking. "Don't worry, mom. You'll meet her soon." Finally he was able hang up and start worrying about one of their dinner guests. Miles Foster.
Scott had told Sonja nothing about Miles. Or the Spook. As far as the world was concerned, they were two different people with different goals, different motivations and different lives. The unresolved irreconcilliation between the two faces of Miles Foster put Scott on edge, though. Does he treat Miles like Miles or like the Spook? Or is the Spook coming to dinner instead of Miles. Does he then treat the Spook like the Spook or like Miles?
In kind, Sonja had not told Scott that she had been hired to meet him, nor that she had quit after meeting him. The night Miles was arrested, she had successfully evaded his queries about her professional PR functions. Scott accepted at face value that Sonja was between jobs.
She had made a lot of money from Alex and his references, but that was the past. She had no desire to be dishonest with Scott, on the contrary. It was not an easy topic to broach, however, and if things between them got beyond the frenzied sexual savage- ry stage, she would have to test the relationship. But not yet.
The doorbell of Sonja's lakefront Whisper Way townhouse in Reston rang before either she or Scott were ready, so Scott volunteered for first shift host and bartender duty. He took a deep breath, ready for another unpredictable evening, and opened the door.
"Scott," Stephanie Perkins said putting her arms around his neck."Welcome back. It's good to see you." The three of them,Stephanie, Sonja and Scott had gotten along very well. "MaybeMiles can see his way clear to spend the entire evening with ustonight," she said teasing Miles.
Miles ignored Perky's shot at him and brushed it aside without comment. Apparently he had provided Stephanie with an acceptable excuse for getting arrested by the FBI. So be it far from Scott to bring up a subject that might ruffle the romantic feathers which in turn were likely to ruffle the feathers of his source.
Miles dressed in summer khaki pants, a yachtsman's windbreaker and topsiders without socks; the most casual Scott had seen either the Spook or Miles. Scott prepared the drinks and Stepha- nie went upstairs with her glass of wine to see Sonja and let the boys finish their shop talk. Miles opened the sliding glass doors to the deck overlooking the fairly large man-made lake.
"I won't ask," Scott said as soon as Stephanie's feet disappeared from view on the elegant spiral staircase to the second floor.
"Thanks. And, by the way, Perky probably doesn't need to hear too much about Amsterdam," Miles said with a mildly sinister touch.
"We used to call it the rules of the road," Scott remembered.
"I call it survival. Christ, sometimes I get so fucking horny, I swear the crack of dawn is in trouble."
Scott's mind played with the varied imagery of Miles' creative phraseology. The name was different, he thought, but the charac- ter was the same.
"You know," Scott said as the two stood on the deck, drinks in hand, soaking up the brisk lake air. "I really don't understand you."
"What's to understand?" Miles' gaze remained constant over the moonlit water.
"I see that you weren't overly detained the other evening."
"No reason to be. It was a terrible mistake. They must have me confused with someone else." Miles played dead pan.
"You know what I'm talking about," urged Scott. "The Spook and all that . . ."
"Fuck you!" Miles turned and yelled with hostility. He placed the glass of Glenfiddich on the railing and pointed his forefin- ger in Scott's face. "You're getting what you want, so back the fuck off. Got it?"
Scott's blood pressure joined his fight or flight response in panic. Was this the Mr. Hyde of Miles Foster? Or the real Spook? Had he blown it?
Just then, the sliding glass door from the living room opened and Sonja and Stephanie shivered at the first cool gust of wind. Miles instantly swept Stephanie in his arms and gave her an obscene sounding kiss. His face emerged from the lip melee with no trace of anger, no trace of displeasure. The sinister Miles was magically transformed into Miles the lover.
He had had no chance to respond to Miles' outburst, so Scott was caught with his jaw hung open.
"You boys finish shop yet?" Stephanie said nuzzling at Miles' ear.
"We were just discussing the biographical inconsistencies in the annotated history of Alfred E. Neumann's early years," Miles said convincingly. He glanced over at Scott with a wise cracking dimple filled smile. "We disagree on the exact date of his second bris."
Incredible, thought Scott. The ultimate chameleon.
Gullibility was one of Stephanie's long suits, so Sonja helped out. "That's right up there with the bathing habits of the Jamaican bobsled team."
"C'mon," Stephanie said tugging at Miles. "It's chilly out here."
Dumbfounded, Scott shrugged at Miles when the girls weren't looking. Whatever you want. It's your game. Miles mouthed back at Scott, 'you're fucking right it is.'
The remainder of the evening comprised a little of everything. Except computers. And computer crime. And any political talk that might lead to either of the first two no-nos. They dined elegantly, drank expensive French wine and overindulged in Mar- tel. It was the perfect social evening between four friends.
****************************************************************
Sunday, January 24New York City Times
HARDWARE VIRUSES: A NEW TWISTBy Scott Mason
In conversations with the Spook, the man who claims to be the technical genius behind the Homosoto Invasion, I have learned that there are even more menacing types of computer viruses than those commonly associated with infected software programs. They are hardware viruses; viruses built right into the electronics. The underground computer culture calls the elite designers of hardware viruses Chippers. It should come as no surprise then that Chipping was a practice exploited by Homosoto and his band under the wizardry of the Spook.
Chippers are a very specialized group of what I would have once called hackers, but whom now many refer to as terrorists. They design and build integrated circuits, chips, the brains of toys and computers, to purposefully malfunction. The chips are de- signed to either simply stop working, cause intentional random or persistent errors and even cause physical damage to other elec- tronic circuits.
You ask, is all of this really possible? Yes, it is possible, it is occurring right now, and there is good reason to suspect that huge numbers of electronic VCR's, cameras, microwaves, clock radios and military systems are a disaster waiting to happen.
It takes a great many resources to build a chip - millions of dollars in sophisticated test equipment, lasers, clean rooms, electron beam microscopes and dozens of PhD's in dozens of disci- plines to run it all.
According to the Spook, OSO Industries built millions upon millions of integrated circuits that are programmed to fail. He said, "I personally headed up that portion of the engineering design team. The techniques for building and disguising a Trojan Chip were all mine. I originally suggested the idea in jest, saying that if someone really wanted to cause damage, that's what they would do. Homosoto didn't even blink at the cost. Twelve million dollars."
When asked if he knew when the chips would start failing he responded, "I don't know the exact dates because anyone could easily add or change a date or event trigger. But I would guess that based upon timing of the other parts of the plan, seemingly isolated electronic systems will begin to fail in the next few months. But, that's only a guess."
The most damaging types of Trojan Chips are those that already have a lot of room for memory. The Spook described how mostly static RAM, (Random Access Memory) chips and various ROM chips, (Read Only Memory) such as UV-EPROM and EEPROM were used to house the destructive instructions for later release in computer sys- tems.
"It's really simple. There are always thousands of unused gates in every IC. Banks and banks of memory for the taking. Homosoto was no slouch, and he recognized that hardware viruses are the ultimate in underground computer warfare. Even better than the original Trojan Horse. No messy software to worry about, and extensive collateral damage to nearby electronic components. Makes repairs terrifically expensive."
Which chips are to be considered suspect? The Spook was clear.
"Any RAM or ROM chips with the OSO logo and a date code after 1/89 are potentially dangerous. They should be swapped out immediately for new, uninfected components. Also, OSO sold their chips, in die form, to other manufacturers to put their own names on them. I wish I knew to whom, but Homosoto's firm handled all of that."
The Spook also said to beware of any electronic device using OSO labeled or OSO made LS logic chips. Hundreds of millions of the LS logic chips, the so called Glue of electronics, are sold every year. In the electronics world they are considered 'dime-store' parts, selling for a few pennies each. However, in most elec- tronic systems, an inexpensive component failure is just as bad as an expensive component failure. In either case, it stops working.
The Spook continues: "The idea was to build a small timebomb into VCR's, televisions and radios. Not only computers, but alarm systems, cash registers, video games, blowing up all at once. At times it got very funny. Imagine dishwashers spitting up gallons of suds in kitchens everywhere. The ovens will be cook- ing pork tartar and toast a la burnt. What happens when Betty- Jean doesn't trust her appliances any more? The return line at Sears will be a week long."
I asked the Spook how this was possible? How could he inflict such damage without anyone noticing? His answer is as indicting as is his guilt. "No one checks. If the chip passes a few simple tests, it's put into a calculator or a clock or a tele- phone or an airplane. No one expects the chip to be hiding something destructive, so no one looks for it. Not even the military check. They just expect their chips to work in the frozen depths of space and survive a nuclear blast. They don't expect a virus to be lurking."
No matter what one thinks of the nameless, faceless person who hides behind the anonymity of these computerized confessions, one has to agree that the man known as the Spook has awakened this world to many of the dangers that unbridled technical proficiency brings. Have we taken too much liberty without the concomitant responsibility? I know that I find I wish I could run parts of my life in fast forward. Sitting in a movie theater, I feel myself tense as I realize I cannot speed up the slow parts. Has the infinite flexibility we have given ourselves outpaced social conscience?
Ironically, conversations with the Spook tended to be impersonal; not machine-like, but devoid of concern for people. I asked him if he cared.
"That was not the idea, as far as I know. In a way this was electronic warfare, in the true sense of the word. Collateral damage is unavoidable."