At JFK in New York, Miles connected to the 20 hour flight to Tokyo through Anchorage, Alaska. He had a brief concern that this was the same route that KAL Flight 007 had taken in 1983 before it was shot down by the Soviets, but he was flying an American carrier with a four digit flight number. He allowed that thought to remove any traces of worry.
The flight was a couple of hours out of New York when one of the flight attendants came up to him. "Mr. Foster?"
"Yes?" He looked up from the New York City Times he was reading.
"I believe you dropped this?" She handed Miles a large sealed envelope. His name had been written across the front with a large black marker.
"Thank you," said Miles. He took it gratefully.
When she left, he opened the strange envelope. It wasn't his.Inside there was a single sheet of paper. Miles read it.
The name meant nothing to him so he forgot about it. He had more important things to do. His membership in the Mile High Club was in jeopardy. He had not yet made it with a female flight attend- ant.
They landed, 18 hours and 1 day later in Tokyo. Miles was now a member in good standing.
* * * * *
Thursday, September 3Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport
"DFW, this is American 1137, heading 125 at 3500."
"Roger American 1137, got you loud and green. Maintain 125, full circle 40 miles then 215 for 40."
"Traffic Dallas?"
"Heavy. Weather's been strong. On again off again. Piled up pretty good."
"Sheers?"
"None so far. Ah, you're a '37, you carry a sheer monitor. You got it made. Have to baby sit some 0's and '27's. May be a while."
"Roger Dallas. 125 40, 215 40. Maintaining 12 point 5."
"Roger 1137."
The control tower at DFW airport was busier than normal. The dozen or so large green radar screens glowed eerily and made the air traffic controllers appear pallid under the haunting light emitted from around the consoles. Severe weather patterns, afternoon Texas thunderstorms had intermittently closed the airport forcing a planes to hold in a 120 mile pattern over Dallas and Fort Worth.
Many of the tower crew had been at their stations for 2 hours past their normal quitting time due to street traffic delays and highway pileups that had kept shift replacements from arriving on time. Planes were late coming in, late departing, connections were being missed. Tensions were high on the ground and in the air by both the airline personnel and travelers alike. It was a chaotic day at Dallas Fort Worth International Airport.
"Chad? Cm'ere," said Paul Gatwick, the newest and youngest, and least burnt out of the day shift flight controllers.
Shift supervisor Chad Phillips came right over. "What you got?"He asked looking at the radar screen.
"See these three bogies?" Paul pointed at three spots with his finger.
"Bogies? What are those symbols?"
"They just appeared, out of nowhere. I don't think they're there. And over here," he pointed, "that was Delta 210. It's gone." Paul spoke calmly, in the professional manner he was trained. He looked up at Chad, awaiting instructions.
"Mike," Chad said to the controller seated next to Paul. "Switch and copy 14, please. Fast." Chad looked over to Mike's screen and saw the same pattern. "Paul, run a level 2 diagnostic. What was the Delta pattern?"
"Same as the others, circle. He's at 45 doing a 90 round."
"Tell him to hold, and verify on board transponder." Chad spoke rapidly and his authority wasn't questioned.
"Mike, see if we can get any visuals on the bogies. They might be a bounce."
Chad took charge and, especially in this weather, was concerned with safety first and schedules last. In less than a minute he had verified that Delta 210 was not on any screen, three other ghost planes meandered through the airspace, and that their equipment was functioning properly.
"Dallas," the calm pilot voice said, "American 1137, requesting update. It's getting a little tight up here."
"Roger, 1137," Gatwick said nervously. "Give me a second here . . ."
"Dallas, what's the problem?"
"Just a check . . ."
Chad immediately told the operator of the ETMS computer to notify the FAA and Department of Transportation that a potential situa- tion was developing. The Enhanced Traffic Management System was designed to create a complete picture of every airplane flying within domestic air space.
All status information, on every known flight in progress and every commercial plane on the ground, is transmitted from the 22 ARTCC's, (Air Route Traffic Control Centers) to an FAA Technical Center in Atlantic City and then sent by land and satellite to a DoT Systems Center. There, an array of DEC VAX super mini com- puters process the constant influx of raw data and send back an updated map across the ETMS every five minutes.
Chad zoomed in on the picture of the country into the DFW ap- proach area and confirmed that the airplanes in question were not appearing on the National Airspace System data fields or dis- plays. Something was drastically wrong.
"Chad, take a look here!" Another controller urgently called out.
His radar monitor had more bogies than Paul's. "I lost a Delta, too, 1258."
"What is it?"
"37."
"Shit," said Chad. "We gotta get these guys wide, they have to know what's happening." He called over to another controller. "Get on the wire, divert all traffic. Call the boss. We're closing it down." The controllers had the power to close the airport, and direct all flight operations from the tower. Air- port management wasn't always fond of their autonomy, but the tower's concern was safety at all costs.
"Another one's gone," said Paul. "That's three 37's gone. Have they had a recall lately?"
The ETMS operator asked the computer for a status on 737's else- where. "Chad, we're not the only ones," she said. "O'Hare and LAX have problems, too."
"OK, everybody, listen up," Chad said. "Stack 'em, pack 'em and rack 'em. Use those outer markers, people. Tell them to believe their eyes. Find the 37's. Let 'em know their transponders are going. Then, bring 'em down one by one."
The emergency speaker suddenly rang out. "Shit! Dive!" The captain of American 1137 ordered his plane to accelerate ground- ward for 10 seconds, descending 2500 feet, to avoid hitting an oncoming, and lost, DC-9.
"Dallas, Mayday, Mayday. What the fuck's going on down there?This is worse than the freeway . . ."
The emergency procedure was one they had practiced over and over, but rarely was it necessary for a full scale test. The FAA was going to be all over DFW and a dozen other airports within hours, and Chad wanted to be prepared. He ordered a formal notification to Boeing that they had identified a potentially serious malfunc- tion. Please make your emergency technical support crews avail- able immediately.
Of the 100 plus flights under DFW control all 17 of the Boeing 737's disappeared from the radar screen, replaced by dozens of bogies with meaningless signatures.
"Dallas, American 1137 requests emergency landing . . .we have several injured passengers who require immediate medical assist- ance."
"Roger, 1137," Gatwick blurted back. "Copy, EP. Radar status?"
"Nominal," said the shaken American pilot.
"Good. Runway 21B. We'll be waiting."
* * * * *
By 5:00 PM, Pacific time, Boeing was notified by airports across the country that their 737's were having catastrophic transponder failure. Takeoffs were ordered stopped at major airports and the FAA directed that every 737 be immediately grounded. Chaos reigned in the airline terminals as delays of several hours to a day were announced for most flights. Police were needed to quell angry crowds who were stuck thousands of miles from home and were going to miss critical business liaisons. There is nothing we can do, every airline explained to no avail.
Slowly, the planes were brought down, pilots relying on VFR since they couldn't count on any help from the ground. At airports where weather prohibited VFR landings, and the planes had enough fuel, they were redirected to nearby airports. Nearly a dozen emergency landings in a two hours period set new records that the FAA preferred didn't exist. A field day for the media, and a certain decrease in future passenger activity until the shock wore off.
The National Transportation Safety Board had representatives monitoring the situation within an hour of the first reports from Dallas, San Francisco, Atlanta, and Tampa. When all 737's were accounted for, the individual airports and the FAA lifted flight restrictions and left it to the airlines to straighten out the scheduling mess. One hundred thousand stranded passengers and almost 30% of the domestic civilian air fleet was grounded.
It was a good thing their reservation computers hadn't gone down.Damn good thing.
* * * * *
DISASTER IN AIR CREATES PANIC ON GROUND by Scott Mason
"A national tragedy was avoided today by the quick and brave actions of hundreds of air traffic controllers and pilots working in harmony," a spokesperson for The Department of Transportation said, commenting on yesterday's failure of the computerized transponder systems in Boeing 737 airplanes.
"In the interest of safety for all concerned, 737's will not be permitted to fly commercially until a full investigation has taken place." the spokesperson continued. "That process should be complete within 30 days."
In all, 114 people were sent to hospitals, 29 in serious condi- tion, as a result of injuries sustained while pilots performed dangerous gut wrenching maneuvers to avoid mid-air collisions.
Neither Boeing nor the Transportation Safety Board would comment on how computer errors could suddenly affect so many airplanes at once, but some computer experts have pointed out the possibility of sabotage. According to Harold Greenwood, an aeronautic elec- tronics specialist with Air Systems Design in Alpharetta, Geor- gia, "there is a real and definite possibility that there has been a specific attack on the airline computers. Probably by hackers. Either that or the most devastating computer program- ming error in history."
Government officials discounted Greenwood's theories and said there is no place for wild speculation that could create panic in the minds of the public. None the less, flight cancellations busied the phones at most airlines and travel agencies, while the gargantuan task of rescheduling thousands of flights with 30% less planes began. Airline officials who didn't want to be quoted estimated that it would take at least a week to bring the system back together,
Airline fares will increase next Monday by at least 10% and as much as 40% on some routes that will not be restored fully.
The tone of the press conference held at the DoT was one of both bitterness and shock as was that of sampled public opinion.
"I think I'll take the train."
"Computers? They always blame the computers. Who's really at fault?"
"They're just as bad as the oil companies. Something goes a little wrong and they jack up the prices."
The National Transportation Safety Board said it would also institute a series of preventative maintenance steps on other airplanes' computer systems to insure that such a global failure is never repeated.
Major domestic airlines announced they would try to lease addi- tional planes from other countries, but could not guarantee prior service performance for 3 to 6 months. Preliminary estimates place the cost of this debacle at between $800 Million and $2 Billion if the entire 737 fleet is grounded for only 2 weeks.
The Stock Market reacted poorly to the news, and transportation stocks dove an average of 27% in heavy trading.
The White House issued a brief statement congratulating the airline industry for its handling of the situation and wished its best to all inconvenienced and injured travelers.
Class action suits will be filed next week against the airlines and Boeing as a result of the computer malfunction. This is Scott Mason, riding the train.
* * * * *
"Doug," pleaded 39 year old veteran reporter Scott Mason. "Not another computer virus story . . ." Scott childishly shrugged his shoulders in mock defeat.
"Stop your whining," Doug ordered in fun. "You are the special- ist," he chided.
When the story first came across the wire, Scott was the logical choice. In only seven years as a reporter Scott Mason had de- veloped quite a reputation for himself, and for the New York City Times. Doug had had to eat his words from years earlier more times than he cared to remember, but Scott's head had not swelled to the size of his fan club, which was the bane of so many suc- cessful writers. He knew he was good, just like he had told Doug
"There is nothing sexy about viruses anymore," said Scott trying to politely ignore his boss to the point he would just leave.
"Christ Almighty," the chubby balding sixtyish editor exploded. Doug's periodic exclamatory outbursts at Scott's nonchalance on critical issues were legendary. "The man who puts Cold Fusion on the front page of every paper in the country doesn't think a virus is sexy enough for the public. Good night!"
"That's not what I'm saying." Scott had to defend this one. "I finally got someone to go on the record about the solar payoff scandals between Oil and Congress . . ."
"Then the virus story will give you a little break," kidded Doug."You've been working too hard."
"Damn it, Doug," Scott defied. "Viruses are a dime a dozen and worse, there's no one behind it, there's nobody there. There's no story . . ."
"Then find one. That's what we pay you for." Doug loudly mut- tered a few choice words that his paper wouldn't be caught dead printing. "Besides, you're the only one left." As he left he patted Scott on the back saying, "thanks. Really."
"God, I hate this job."
Scott Mason loved his job, after all it was his invention seven years ago when he first pitched it to Doug. Scott's original idea had worked. Scott Mason alone, under the banner of the New York City Times, virtually pioneered Scientific Journalism as a media form in its own right.
Scott Mason was still its most vocal proponent, just as he was when he connived his way into a job with the Times, and without any journalistic experience. It was a childhood fantasy.
Doug remembered the day clearly. "That's a new one on me," Doug had said with amusement when the mildly arrogant but very likable Mason had gotten cornered him, somehow bypassing personnel. Points for aggressiveness, points for creativity and points for brass balls. "What is Scientific Journalism?"
"Scientific Journalism is stripping away all of the long techni- cal terms that science hides behind, and bringing the facts to the people at home."
"We have a quite adequate Science Section, a computer column . . .and we pick up the big stories." Doug had tried to be polite.
"That's not what I mean," Scott explained. "Everybody and his dead brother can write about the machines and the computers and the software. I'm talking about finding the people, the meaning, the impact behind the technology."
"No one would be interested," objected Doug.
Doug was wrong.
Scott Mason immediately acclimated to the modus operandi of the news business and actually locked onto the collapse of Kaypro Computers and the odd founding family who rode serendipity until competence was required for survival. The antics of the Kay family earned Mason a respectable following in his articles and contributions as well as several libel and slander suits from the Kays. Trouble was, it's not against the law to print the truth or a third party speculations, as long as they're not malicious. Scott instinctively knew how to ride the fine edge between false accusations and impersonal objectivity.
Cold Fusion, the brief prayer for immediate, cheap energy inde- pendence made headlines, but Scott Mason dug deep and found that some of the advocates of Cold Fusion had vested interests in palladium and iridium mining concerns. He also discovered how the experiments had been staged well enough to fool most experts. Scott had located one expert who wasn't fooled and could prove it. Scott Mason rode the crest of the Cold Fusion story for months before it became old news and the Hubble Telescope fiasco took its place.
The fiasco of the Hubble Telescope was nothing new to Scott Mason's readers. He had published months before its launch that the mirrors were defective, but the government didn't heed the whistle blower's advice. The optical measurement computers which grind the mirrors of the telescope had a software program that was never tested before being used on the Hubble. The GSA had been tricked by the contractor's test results and Scott discov- ered the discrepencies.
When Gene-Tech covered up the accidental release of mutated spores into the atmosphere from their genetic engineering labs, Scott Mason was the one reporter who had established enough of a reputation as both a fair reporter, and also one that understood the technology. Thanks to Mason's early diagnosis and the Times' responsible publishing, a potentially cataclysmic genetic disas- ter was averted.
The software problems with Star Wars and Brilliant Pebbles, the payoffs that allowed defective X-Ray lasers to be shipped to the testing ground outside of Las Vegas - Scott Mason was there. He traced the Libyan chemical weapons plant back to West Germany which triggered the subsequent destruction of the plant.
Scott's outlook was simple. "It's a matter of recognizing the possibilities and then the probabilities. Therefore, if some- thing is possible, someone, somewhere will do it. Guaranteed. Since someone's doing it, then it's only a matter of catching him in the act."
"Besides," he would tell anyone who would listen, "computers and technology and electronics represent trillions of dollars annu- ally. To believe that there isn't interesting, human interest and profound news to be found, is pure blindness. The fear of the unknown, the ignorance of what happens on the other side of the buttons we push, is an enemy wrapped in the shrouds of time, well disguised and easily avoided."
Scott successfully opened the wounds of ignorance and technical apathy and made he and the Times the de facto standard in Scien- tific Journalism.
His reputation as a expert in anything technical endeared him to fellow Times' reporters. Scott often became the technical back- bone of articles that did not carry his name. But that was good. The journalists' barter system. Scott Mason was not considered a competitor to the other reporters because of his areas of inter- est and the skills he brought with him to the paper. And, he didn't flaunt his knowledge. To Scott's way of thinking, techni- cal fluency should be as required as are the ABC's, so it was with the dedication of a teacher and the experience of simplifi- cation that Scott undertook it to openly help anyone who wanted to learn. His efforts were deeply appreciated.
****************************************************************
Mr. Henson?"
"Yes, Maggie?" Henson responded over the hands free phone on his highly polished black marble desk. He never looked up from the papers he was perusing.
"There's a John Fullmaster for you."
"Who?" he asked absent mindedly.
"Ah, John Fullmaster."
"I don't know a Fullman do I? Who is he?"
"That's Fullmaster, sir, and he says its personal."
Robert Henson, chairman and CEO of Perris, Miller and Stevenson leaned back in the plush leather chair. A brief perplexed look covered his face and then a sigh of resignation. "Very well, tell him I'll take it in a minute."
As the young highly visible leader of one of the most successful Wall Street investment banking firms during the merger mania of the 1980's, he had grown accustomed to cold calls from aggressive young brokers who wanted a chance to pitch him on sure bets. Most often he simply ignored the calls, or referred them to his capable and copious staff. Upon occasion, though, he would amuse himself with such calls by putting the caller through salesmen's hell; he would permit them to give their pitch, actually sound interested, permit the naive to believe that their call to Robert Henson would lead them to a pot of gold, then only to bring them down as harshly as he could. It was the only seeming diversion Robert Henson had from the daily grueling regimen of earning fat fees in the most somber of Wall Street activities. He needed a break anyway.
"Robert Henson. May I help you?" He said into the phone. It was as much a command as a question. From the 46th. floor SW corner office, Henson stared out over Lower New York Bay where the Statue of Liberty reigned.
"Thank you for taking my call Mr. Henson." The caller's proper Central London accent was engaging and conveyed assurance and propriety. "I am calling in reference to the proposed merger you are arranging between Second Boston Financial and Winston Ellis Services. I don't believe that the SEC will be impressed with the falsified figures you have generated to drive up your fees. Don't you agree."
Henson bolted upright in his chair and glared into the phone."Who the hell is this?" he demanded.
"Merely a concerned citizen, sir." The cheeky caller paused. "I asked, sir, don't you agree?"
"Listen," Henson shouted into the phone. I don't know who the hell you are, nor what you want, but all filings made with the SEC are public and available to anyone. Even the press whom I assume you represent . . ."
"I am not with the press Mr. Henson," the voice calmly interrupt- ed. "All the same, I am sure that they would be quite interest- ed in what I have to say. Or, more precisely, what I have to show them."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Henson screamed.
"Specifically, you inflated the earnings of Winston Ellis over 40% by burying certain write downs and deferred losses. I be- lieve you are familiar with the numbers. Didn't you have them altered yourself?"
Henson paled as the caller spoke to him matter of factly. His eyes darted around his spacious and opulent office as though someone might be listening. He shifted uneasily in his chair, leaned into the phone and spoke quietly.
"I don't know what you're taking about."
"I think you do, Mr. Henson."
"What do you want?" Henson asked cautiously.
"Merely your acknowledgment, to me, right now, that the figures were falsified, at your suggestion, and . . ."
"I admit nothing. Nothing." Henson hung up the phone.
Shaken, he dialed the phone, twice. In his haste he misdialed the first time. "Get me Brocker. Now. This is Henson."
"Brocker," the other end of the phone responded nonchalantly.
"Bill, Bob here. We got troubles."
* * * * *
"Senator Rickfield? I think you better take this call." Ken Boyers was earnest in his suggestion. The aged Senator looked up and recognized a certain urgency. The youthful 50 year old Ken Boyers had been with Senator Merrill Rickfield since the mid 1960's as an aide de campe, a permanent fixture in Rickfield's national success. Ken preferred the number two spot, to be the man in the background rather the one in the public light. He felt he could more effectively wield power without the constant surveillance of the press. Only when events and deals were completely orchestrated were they made public, and then Merrill could take the credit. The arrangement suited them both.
Rickfield indicated that his secretary and the two junior aids should leave the room. "What is it Ken?"
"Just take the call, listen carefully, and then we'll talk."
"Who is it, Ken. I don't talk to every. . ."
"Merrill . . .pick up the phone." It was an order. They had worked together long enough to afford Ken the luxury of ordering a U.S. Senator around.
"This is Senator Rickfield, may I help you?" The solicitous campaign voice, smiling and inviting, disguised the puzzled look he gave his senior aide. Within a few seconds the puzzlement gave way to open mouthed silent shock and then, only moments later to overt fear. He stared with disbelief at Ken Boyers. Aghast, he gently put the phone back in its cradle.
"Ken," Rickfield haltingly spoke. "Who the hell was that and how in blazes did he know about the deal with Credite Suisse? Only you, me and General Young knew." He rose slowly rose and looked accusingly at Ken.
"C'mon Merrill, I have as much to lose as you."
"The hell you do." He was growling. "I'm a respected United States Senator. They can string me up from the highest yardarm just like they did Nixon and I'm not playing to lose. Besides, I'm the one the public knows while you're invisible. It's my ass and you know it. Now, and I mean now, tell me what the hell is going on? There were only three of us . . ."
"And the bank," Ken quickly interjected to deflect the verbal onslaught.
"Screw the bank. They use numbers. Numbers, Ken. That was the plan. But this son of a bitch knew the numbers. Damn it, he knew the numbers Ken!"
"Merrill, calm down."
"Calm down? You have some nerve to tell me to calm down. Do you know what would happen if anyone, and I mean anyone finds out about . . ." Rickfield looked around and thought better of finishing the sentence.
"Yes I know. As well as you do. Jesus Christ, I helped set the whole thing up. Remember?" He approached Merrill Rickfield and touched the Senator's shoulder. "Maybe it's a hoax? Just some lucky guess by some scum bag who . . ."
"Bullshit." The senator turned abruptly. "I want a tee off time as soon as possible. Even sooner. And make damn sure that bastard Young is there. Alone. It's a threesome."
* * * * *
John Faulkner was lazing at his estate in the eminently exclu- sive, obscenely expensive Bell Canyon, twenty miles north of Los Angeles. Even though it was Monday, he just wasn't up to going into the office. As Executive Vice President of California National Bank, with over twenty billion in assets, he could pick and choose his hours. This Tuesday he chose to read by the pool and enjoy the warm and clear September California morning. The view of the San Gabriel mountains was so distracting that his normal thirty minute scan of the Wall Street Journal took nearly two hours.
His estate was the one place where Faulkner was guaranteed priva- cy and anonymity. High profile Los Angeles banking required a social presence and his face, along with his wife's, graced the social pages every time an event of any gossip-magnitude oc- curred. He craved his private time.
Faulkner's standing instruction with his secretary was never to call him at home unless "the bank is nuked, or I die" which when translated meant, "Don't call me, I'll call you." His wife was the only other person with the private phone number he changed every month to insure his solitude.
The phone rang. It never rang. At least not in recent memory. He used it to dial out; but it was never used to receive calls. The warble surprised him so, that he let it ring three times before suspiciously picking it up. Damn it, he thought. I just got a new number last week. I'll have to have it changed again.
"Hello?" he asked suspiciously.
"Good morning Mr. Faulkner. I just called to let you know that your secret is safe with me." Faulkner itched to identify the voice behind the well educated British accent, but that fleeting thought dissipated at the import of the words being spoken.
"Who is this? What secret?"
"Oh, dear me. I am sorry, where are my manners. I am referring to the millions you have embezzled from your own bank to cover your gambling losses last year. Don't worry. I won't tell a soul." The line went dead.
Sir George dialed the next number on his list after scanning the profile. The phone was answered by a timid sounding gentleman. Sir George began his fourth pitch of the day. "Mr. Hugh Sidneys? I would like to talk to you about a small banking problem I think you have . . ."
Sir George Sterling made another thirty four calls that day. Each one alarmingly similar to the first three. Not that they alarmed him. They merely alarmed, often severely, the recipients of his calls. In most cases he had never heard of the persons he was calling, and the contents of his messages were often cryptic to him. But it didn't take him long to realize that every call was some form of veiled, or not so veiled threat. But his in- structions had been clear. Do not threaten. Just pass on the contents of the messages on his list to their designees. Do not leave any message unless he had confirmed, to the best of his ability that he was actually speaking to the party in question. If he received any trouble in reaching his intended targets, by secretaries or aides, he was only to pass on a preliminary mes- sage. These were especially cryptic, but in all cases, perhaps with a little prod, his call was put through.
At the end of the first day of his assignment, Sir George Ster- ling walked onto his balcony overlooking San Francisco Bay and reflected on his good fortune. If he hadn't been stuck in Athens last year, wondering where his next score would come from. How strange the world works, he thought. Damn lucky he became a Sir, and at the tender age of twenty nine at that.
His title, actually purchased from The Royal Title Assurance Company, Ltd. in London in 1987 for a mere 5000 pounds had per- mitted George Toft to leave the perennial industrial smog of the eternally drizzly commonness of Manchester, England and assume a new identity. It was one of the few ways out of the dismal existence that generations before him had tolerated with a stiff upper lip. As a petty thief he had done 'awright', but one score had left him with more money than he had ever seen. That is when he became a Sir, albeit one purchased.
He spent several months impressing mostly himself as he traveled Europe. With the help of Eliza Doolittle, Sir George perfected his adapted upper crust London accent. His natural speech was that of a Liverpuddlian with a bag of marbles in his mouth - totally unintelligible when drunk. But his royal speech was now that of a Gentleman from the House of Lords. Slow and precise when appropriate or a practiced articulateness when speaking rapidly. It initially took some effort, but he could now correct his slips instantly. No one noticed anymore. Second nature it became for George Sterling, n<130> Toft.
Athens was the end of his tour and where he had spent the last of his money. George, Sir George, sat sipping Metaxa in Sintigma Square next to the Royal Gardens and the imposing Hotel Grande Britagne styled in nineteenth century rococo elegance. As he enjoyed the balmy spring Athens evening pondering his next move, as either George Toft of Sir George Sterling, a well dressed gentleman sat down at his tiny wrought iron table.
"Sir George?" The visitor offered his hand.
George extended his hand, not yet aware that his guest had no reason whatsoever to know who he was.
"Sir George? Do I have the Sir George Sterling of Briarshire, Essex?" The accent was trans European. Internationally cosmo- politan. German? Dutch? It didn't matter, Sir George had been recognized.
George rose slightly. "Yes, yes. Of course. Excuse me, I was lost in thought, you know. Sir George Sterling. Of course. Please do be seated."
The stranger said, "Sir George, would you be offended if I of- fered you another drink, and perhaps took a few minutes of your valuable time?" The man smiled genuinely and sat himself across from George before any reply. He knew what the answer would be.
"Please be seated. Metaxa would it be for you, sir?" The man nodded yes. "Garcon?" George waved two fingers at one of the white-jacketed waiters who worked in the outdoor cafe. "Metaxa, parakalo!" Greek waiters are not known for their graciousness, so a brief grunt and nod was an acceptable response. George returned his attention to his nocturnal visitor. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure . . ." he said in his most formal voice.
"Sir George, please just call me Alex. Last names, are so, well, so unnecessary among men like us. Don't you agree?"
George nodded assent. "Yes, quite. Alex then, it is. How may I assist you?"
"Oh no, Sir George, it is I who may be able to assist you. I understand that you would like to continue your, shall we say, extended sabbatical. Would that be a fair appraisal?" The Metaxas arrived and Alex excused the waiter with two 1000 Drachma notes. The overtipping guaranteed privacy.
George looked closely at Alex. Very well dressed. A Saville was it? Perhaps. Maybe Lubenstrasse. He didn't care. This stranger had either keen insight into George's current plight or had heard of his escapades across the Southern Mediterranean. Royalty on Sabbatical was an unaccostable lie that regularly passed critical scrutiny.
"Fair. Yes sir, quite fair. What exactly can you do for me, or can we do for each other?"
"An even more accurate portrayal my friend, yes, do for each other." Alex paused for effect and to sip his Metaxa. "Simply put Sir George, I have the need for a well spoken gentleman to represent me for a period of perhaps, three months, perhaps more if all goes well. Would that fit into your schedule?"
"I see no reason that I mightn't be able to, take a sabbatical from my sabbatical if . . .well now, how should I put this . . ."
" . . .that you are adequately compensated to take time away from your valuable projects?"
"Yes, yes quite so. Not that I am ordinarily for hire, you understand, it's just that . . .". Alex detected a slight stutter as Sir George spoke.
Alex held up both hands in a gesture of understanding. "No need to continue my dear Sir George. I do thoroughly recognize the exorbitant costs associated with your studies and would not expect your efforts, on my behalf of course, to go unrewarded."
George Toft was negotiating with a man he had never met, for a task as yet unstated. The only reason he didn't feel the discom- fort that one should in such a situation is that he was in desperate need of money. And, this stranger did seem to know who he was, and did need his particular type of expertise, whatever that was.
"What exactly do you require of me, Alex. That is, what form of representation have you in mind?" He might as well find out what he was supposed to do before naming a price.
Alex laughed. "Merely to be my voice. It is so simple, really. In exchange for that, and some travel, first class and all ex- penses to which you are accustomed, you will be handsomely paid." Alex looked for Sir George's reaction to the proposed fees. He was pleased with what he saw in George's face.
Crikey, this is too good to be true. What's the catch
"The job is quite simple, really, but requires a particular delicacy with which you are well acquainted. Each day you will receive a list of names. There will be instructions with each name. Call them at the numbers provided. Say only what is writ- ten. Keep notes of each call you make and I will provide you with the means to transmit them to me in the strictest of confi- dence. You and I will have no further personal contact, either if you accept or do not accept my proposition. If we are able to reach mutually agreeable terms, monies will be wired to a bank account in your name." Alex opened his jacket and handed George an envelop. "This is an advance if you accept. It is $25,000 American. There is a phone number to call when you arrive in San Francisco. Follow the instructions explicitly. If you do not, there will be no lists for you, no additional monies and I will want this money back. Any questions Sir George?" Alex was smiling warmly but as serious as a heart attack.
Alex scanned the contents of the envelope. America. He had always wanted to see the States.
"Yes, Alex, I do have one question. Is this legal?" George peered at Alex for a clue.
"Do you really care?"
"No."
"Off you go then. And good luck."
* * * * *
Sir George Sterling arrived in San Francisco airport the follow- ing evening. He flew first class and impressed returning Ameri- can tourists with his invented pedigree and his construed impor- tance. What fun. After the virtually nonexistent customs check, he called the number inside the envelop. It rang three times before answering. Damn, it was a machine, he thought.
"Welcome to the United States, Sir George. I hope you had a good flight." The voice was American, female, and flight attendant friendly. "Please check into the San Francisco Airport Hilton. You will receive a call at 11 AM tomorrow. Good night." A dial tone replaced the lovely voice. He dialed the number again.
A mechanical voice responded instead. "The number you have called in no longer in service. Please check the number or call the operator for assistance. The number you have called is no longer in service…"
George dialed the number twice more before he gave up in frustra- tion. He had over $20,000 in cash, knew no one in America and for the first time in years, he felt abandoned. What kind of joke was this? Fly half way around the world and be greeted with an out of service number. But the first voice had known his name. The Hilton. Why not?
At precisely 11AM, the phone in Sir George Sterling's suite rang.He was still somewhat jet lagged from his 18 hours of flying andthe span of 10 time zones. The Eggs Benedict was exquisite, butAmericans could learn something about tea. The phone rang again.He casually picked it up.
"Good morning, Sir George. Please get a pencil and paper. You have fifteen seconds and then I will continue." It was the same alluring voice from yesterday. The paper and pen were right there at the phone so he waited through 14 seconds of silence. "Very good. Please check out of the hotel and pay cash. Proceed to the San Francisco airport and from a pay phone, call 5-5-5-3-4-5-6 at 1 P.M. Have a note book and two pens with you. Good Bye. "
The annoying dial tone returned. What a bloody waste of time.
At 1P.M. he called the number as he was instructed. He figured that since he was to have a notebook and pens he might need to write for a while, so he used one of the phone booths that pro- vides a seat and large writing surface.
"Good afternoon Sir George. In ten seconds, your instructions will begin." Again, that same voice, but it almost appeared condescending to him now. Isn't that the way when you can't respond. The voice continued. "Catch the next flight to New York City. Stay at the Grand Hyatt Hotel at Grand Central Sta- tion on 42nd. Street and Park Avenue. Not a suite this time, Sir George, just a regular room." Sir George was startled at Alex's attention to detail.
"You will stay there for fourteen days. On 56th. street and Madison avenue is a school called CTI, Computer Training Insti- tute. You are to go to CTI and enroll in the following classes: DOS, that's D-O-S for beginners, Intermediate DOS and Advanced DOS. You will also take WordPerfect I and II. Lastly, and most importantly you will take all three classes on Tele-Communica- tions. They call it TC-I, TC-II and TC-III. These eight class- es will take you ten days to complete. Do not forget to pay in cash. I will now pause for ten seconds." Alex was writing furi- ously. Computers? He was scared silly of them. Not that he had ever had the opportunity or the need or the desire to use them, just from lack of exposure and the corresponding ignorance. But if this meant he could keep the $25,000 he would do it. What the hell.
"After you enroll, go to 45 West 47th street to a store called Discount Computer Shoppe. Buy the following equipment with cash. One Pro-Start 486-80 computer with 8 Meg RAM. That's 8 M-E-G R- A-M and ask for a high resolution color monitor. Also purchase, and have them install a high speed modem, M-O-D-E-M. Do not, I repeat, do not purchase a printer of any type. No printers Sir George. You are never to use a printer. Ever. Lastly, you will purchase a copy of Word Perfect and Crosstalk. If you wish any games for your amusement, that is up to you. When you have completed your studies you will call 212-555-6091. Do not call that number before you have completed your studies. This is imperative."
Sir George was just writing, not comprehending a thing. It was all gibberish to him. Pure gibberish.
"Sir George." The female voice got serious, very serious for the first time in their relationship. "You are to speak to no one, I repeat, no one, of the nature of your business, the manner in which you receive instructions, or why computers have a sudden interest for you. Otherwise our deal is off and your advance will be expected to be returned. Am I clear?"
George responded quickly, "Yes!" before seeing the lunacy of answering a machine.
"Good," the voice was friendly again. "Learn your lessons well for you will need the knowledge to perform your tasks. Until we speak again, I thank you, Sir George Sterling." The line went dead.
George Toft took his computer classes very seriously. He had in fact bought a few games to amuse himself and he found himself really enjoying the work. It was new, and exciting. His only social distractions were the sex shops on Times Square. Red Light Amsterdam or the Hamburg they weren't, so midnight antics with the Mario Brothers prevailed most evenings. Besides, there was a massive amount of homework. Bloody hell, back to school. He excelled in his studies which pleased George a great deal. In fact most of the students in Sir George's computer classes ex- celled. The teachers were very pleased to have a group of stu- dents that actually progressed more rapidly than the curriculum called for. Pleasant change from the E Train Bimbos from Queens.
The computer teachers didn't know that a vast majority of the class members had good reason to study hard. Most of them had received their own $25,000 scholarships.
* * * * *
Sunday, September 6SDSU Campus, San Diego, California.
the computer screen displayed. That was hackerese, borrowed from the military for What The Fuck? Over! It was a friendly greeting that offended no one.
Back on. Summer finals are over. Everyone still there?
Yeah, 4 days before next term starts . . .Has anyone got the key to the NPPS NASA node?
And CHAOS? Anyone?
When you get the code send me a copy, OK?
Careful! Remember 401
What you gonna do, boy? In them thar computers?
Excellent! Hey, Lori's on the line. gotta go.
<<<<<< CONNECTION TERMINATED >>>>>>
The screen of his communications program returned to a list of names and phone numbers. Lori said she'd be over in an hour and Steven Billings was tempted to dial another couple of numbers before his date with Lori. But if he found something interesting it might force him to be late, and Lori could not tolerate play- ing second fiddle to a computer.
Steven Billings, known as "KIRK, where no man has gone before", by fellow hackers, had finished his midterms at San Diego State University. The ritual labors were over and he looked forward to some relax time. Serious relax time.
The one recreation he craved, but downplayed to Lori, was spend- ing time with his computer. She was jealous in some respects, in that it received as much attention from Steve as she did. Yet, she also understood that computers were his first love, and they were part of his life long before she was. So, they came with the territory. Steve attended, upon occasion, classes at SDSU, La Jolla. For a 21 year old transplant from Darien, Connecticut, he lived in paradise.
Steve's single largest expense in life was his phone bill, and instead of working a regular job to earn spending money, Steve tutored other students in their computer courses. Rather than flaunt his skills to his teachers and risk extra assignments, he was more technically qualified than they were, he kept his mouth shut, sailed through classes, rarely studied and became a full time computer hacker. He translated his every wish into a com- mand that the computer obeyed.
Steve Billings did not fill the picture of a computer nerd. He was almost dashing with a firm golden tanned 175 pound body, and dark blond hair that caused the girls to turn their heads. He loved the outdoors, the hot warmth of the summer to the cooler warmth of the winter, surfing at the Cardiff Reef and betting on fixed jai-alai games in Tijuana. He played soccer and OTL, a San Diego specific version of gloveless and topless co-ed beach softball. In short, he was a guy. A regular guy.
The spotlessly groomed image of Steve Billings in white tennis shorts and a "Save the Whales" tank-top eclectically co-existed with the sterile surroundings of the mammoth super computer center. The Cray Y-MP is about as big and bad a computer as money can buy, and despite Steve's well known skills, the head of the Super Computing Department couldn't help but cringe when Steve leaned his surf board against the helium cooled memory banks of the twelve million dollar computer.
He ran his shift at the computer lab so efficiently and effort- lessly that over time he spent more and more of his hours there perusing through other people's computers. Now there was a feel- ing. Hacking through somebody else's computer without their knowledge. The ultimate challenge, an infinity of possibilities, an infinity of answers.
The San Diego Union was an awful paper, Steve thought, and the evening paper was even worse. So he got copies of the New York City Times when possible, either at a newsstand, borrowed from yesterday's Times reader or from the library. Nice to get a real perspective on the world. This Sunday he spent the $4.00 to get his own new, uncrumpled and unread copy of his revered paper, all thirty four pounds of it. Alone. Peace.
Reading by the condo pool an article caught his eye. Steve remembered a story he had heard about a hacker who had invaded and single handedly stopped INTERNET, a computer network that connected together tens of thousands of computers around the country.
* * * * *
Government Defense Network Halted by Hacker by Scott Mason, New York City Times
Vaughn Chase, a 17 year old high school student Galbraith High School in Ann Arbor, Michigan was indicted today on charges that he infected the nationwide INTERNET network with a computer virus. This latest attack upon INTERNET is reminiscent of a similar incident launched by Robert Morris of Cornell University in November, 1988.
According to the Computer Emergency Response Team, a DARPA spon- sored group, if Mr. Chase had not left his name in the source code of his virus, there would have been no way to track down the culprit.
A computer virus is a small software program that is secretly put into a computer, generally designed to cause damage. A virus attaches itself to other computer programs secretively. At some time after the parasite virus program is 'glued' into the comput- er, it is reawakened on a specific date or by a particular se- quence of events.
Chase, though, actually infected INTERNET with a Worm. A Worm is a program that copies itself, over and over and over, either filling the computer's memory to capacity or slowing down its operation to a snail's pace. In either case, the results are devastating - effectively, the computer stops working.
Chase, a math wizard according to his high school officials, released the Worm into Internet in early August with a detonation date of September 1, which brought thousands of computers to a grinding halt.
INTERNET ties together tens of thousands of computers from the Government, private industry, universities and defense contrac- tors all over the country. Chase said he learned how to access the unclassified computer network from passwords and keys dis- tributed on computer Bulletin Boards.
Computer security experts worked for 3 days hours to first deter- mine the cause of the network slowdown and then to restore the network to normal operation. It has been estimated that almost $100 Million in damage was caused by Mr. Chase's Worm. Mr. Chase said the Worm was experimental, and was accidentally released into INTERNET when a piece of software he had written malfunc- tioned. He apologized for any inconvenience he caused.
The Attorney General of the State of Michigan is examining the legal aspects of the case and it is expected that Mr. Chase will be tried within in a year. Mr. Chase was released on his own recognizance.
This is Scott Mason wondering why the Pentagon doesn't shoot worms instead of bombs at enemy computers.
* * * * *
The next day Steve Billings signed on to the SDSU/BBS from his small Mission Beach apartment. It was a local university Bulletin Board Service or BBS. A BBS is like a library. There are li- braries of software which are free, and as a user you are recip- rocally expected to donate software into the Public Domain. Con- ference Halls or Conversation Pits on the BBS are free-for-all discussions where people at their keyboards can all have a 'live' conversation. Anyone, using any computer, anywhere in the world can call up any BBS using regular phone lines. No one cared or knew if you were skinny, fat, pimpled, blind, a double for Christy Brinkley or too chicken shit to talk to girls in person. Here, everyone was equal.
Billings 234
There was a brief pause.
Steve Chose (12) for SERVICES:
The menu changed to a list of further options. Each option would permit the user to gain access to other networks around the country. From one single entry point with a small computer, anyone could 'dial up' as it's called, almost any of over 20,000,000 computers in the country tied into any of ten thousand different networks.
Steve selected CALNET, a network at Cal Tech in Los Angeles. Many of the Universities have permanent connections between their computers.
LOGON: Billings014
Again, there was a pause, this time a little longer. Now, from his room, he was talking to a computer in Los Angeles. There was another menu of options, and a list of other widely dispersed computer networks. He requested the SUNYNET computer, the State University of New York Network. From there, he asked the comput- er for a local phone line so he could dial into a very private, very secret computer called NEMO.
It took Steve a grand total of 45 seconds to access NEMO in NewYork, all at the price of a local phone call.
NEMO was a private BBS that was restricted to an elite few. Those who qualifications and reputations allowed them entry into the exclusive domain of hacking. NEMO was born into this world by Steve and a few of his friends while they were in high school in Darien. NEMO was a private club, for a few close friends who enjoyed their new hobby, computers.
NEMO's Menu was designed for the professional hacker.
He selected (8), WHO ELSE? Steve wanted to see who else was 'on- line' now. He wanted to talk about this Chase guy who was giving hackers a bad name. The computer responded:
That was great! Two of the half dozen of NEMO's founders were there. La Creme de la Creme was KIRK's college roommate, but he had not yet returned to San Diego for the fall term. RAMBO, 'I'll get through any door' was the same age as Kirk and Creme, but chose to study at Columbia in New York's Harlem. Hackers picked alter- ego monikers as CB'ers on the highways did; to project the desired image. Steve and his cohorts picked their aliases when they were only fifteen, and kept them ever since.
Steve typed in a 'Y' and the ENTER key.
NEMO was asking for an additional password.
Kirk
Steve typed. A brief pause, and the computer screen came to life.
That was his invitation to interrupt any conversation in progress. Steve typed in,
Dudes!
HOW'D EXAMS GO? <
Greased'em. Ready to come back?
FAST AS THE PLANE WILL GO. PICK ME UP? 7:20 ON AMERICAN?
Sure. Hey, what's with the Morris copy cat? Some phreak blowing it for the rest of us.
SO YOU HEARD. CHASE IS REALLY GONNA SCREW THINGS UP. <
What the hell really happened? I read the Times. Said that he claimed it was accident.
ACCIDENTAL ON PURPOSE MAYBE <
HOW MANY WAYS ARE THERE INFECT A NATIONAL DEFENSE NETWORK? ONE
THAT I KNOW OF. YOU PUT THE VIRUS IN THERE. THAT'S NO ACCIDENT.
<
Ten-Four. Seems like he don't wanna live by the code. Must be some spoiled little brat getting too big for his britches . . .
BEST GUESS IS THAT HE DID IT TO IMPRESS HIS OLD MAN. HE SUPPOS-EDLY CREATED AN ANTIDOTE, TOO. HE WANTED TO SET OFF A BIG VIRUSSCARE AND THEN LOOK LIKE A HERO WITH A FAST FIX. THE VIRUSWORKED ALL TOO WELL. THE ANTIDOTE, IF THERE WAS ONE, SUCKED. SOINTERNET HAD GAS SO BAD, COMPUTING CAME TO A HALT FOR A COUPLE OFDAYS TILL THEY CLEANED OUT THE PROVERBIAL SEWERS. <
SURE SOUNDS LIKE A PUBLICITY GAG TO ME <
Jeez. Anyone else been hit yet?
NO, BUT WE'VE BEEN EXTRA CAREFUL SINCE. A LOT OF DOORS HAVE BEENCLOSED SO IT'S BACK TO SQUARE ONE ON A BUNCH, BUT WE DIDN'T LOSEEVERYTHING. THE DOORKEY DOWNLOAD WILL UPDATE YOU. <
OK, I'll be supersleuth. Any word on CHAOS? Legion of Doom, TheCrusaders?
Funny. Why don't you put a rubber on your big 640K RAM? Or your mouse?
GOT SOMETHING AGAINST SAFE COMPUTING? IF HALF OF WHAT THEY SAYIS TRUE, WE'RE ALL IN TROUBLE. TAKE A LOOK AT THE PUBLIC BBS'S.QUITE A CHAT. <
Will do. Any word on the new Central Census Data Base? Every- thing about every American stored in one computer. All of their personal data, ripe for the picking. Sounds like the kind of library that would do the bad guys a lot of good.
CAN'T FIND A DOOR FROM THE INTERNET GATE. THE JUSTICE LINK WASSTILL GOOD YESTERDAY AND THE FBI STILL HASN'T CHANGED A PASSWORD,SO THAT SHOULD BE AN EASY OPEN ONCE WE FIND THE FRONT DOOR.GIMME A COUPLE OF DAYS AND WE SHOULD KNOW DAN QUAYLES' JOCK SIZE.<
Zero! Ha! Keep me in mind.
* * * * *
Steve copied several pages of names, phone numbers and passwords from NEMO's data base into his computer 3000 miles across the country. These were the most valuable and revered types of files in the underground world of hackerdom. They include all of the information needed to enter and play havoc inside of hundreds of secret and private computers.
National Institute of Health 301-555-6761USER: Fillstein PASSWORD: Daddy1USER: Miller9 PASSWORD: SecretVMS 1.01SUPERUSER: B645_DICKY
VTEK NAS, Pensacola, Fla 904-555-2113USER: Major101 PASSWORD: SecretUSER: General22 PASSWORD: Secret1USER: Forestall PASSWORD: PDQS
IBM, Armonk, Advanced Research 914-555-0965USER: Port1 PASSWORD: ScientistUSER: Port2 PASSWORD: ScientistUSER: Port3 PASSWORD: Scientist
There were seventeen pages of updated and illegal access codes to computer systems across the country. Another reason NEMO was so secret. Didn't want just anybody climbing the walls of their private playground. Can't trust everyone to live by the Code.
Steve finished downloading the files from NEMO's distant data base and proceeded to print them out for a hardcopy reference. He laughed to himself. Big business and government never wizened up. Predictable passwords, like 'secret' were about as kinder- garten as you could get. And everyone wonders why folks like us parade around their computers. He had in his hand a list of over 250 updated and verified private, government and educational institutions who had left the keys to the front doors of their computers wide open. And those were just the ones that NEMO knew about today.
There is no accurate way to determine how many groups of hackers like NEMO existed. But, even if only 1/100 of 1% of computer users classified themselves as hackers, that's well over 100,000 people breaking into computers. Enough reason to give Big Busi- ness cause for concern. Yet, no one did anything serious to lock the doors.
Steve spent the next several hours walking right into computer systems all over the country. Through the Bank of California in San Francisco, (Steve's first long distance call) he could reach the computers of several corresponding banks. He read through the new loan files, saw that various developers had defaulted on their loans and were in serious trouble. Rates were going to start rising. Good enough for a warm up.
Steve still wanted back into the NASA launch computers. On line launch information, results of analysis going back twenty years, and he had had a taste of it, once. Then, one day, someone inside of NASA got smart and properly locked the front door. He and NEMO were ever on the search for a key back into NASA's computers.
He figured that Livermore was still a good bet to get into NASA. That only meant a local call, through the SDSU/BBS to Cal Tech then into Livermore. From San Diego, to LA, to San Francisco for a mere 25 cents.
Livermore researchers kept the front doors of their computers almost completely open. Most of the workers, the graduate stu- dents, preferred a free exchange of information between all scientists, so their computer security was extraordinarily lax. For a weapons research laboratory, funded by the Department of Energy, it was a most incongruous situation.
Much of the information in the Livermore computers was considered sensitive but unclassified, whatever that meant in government- speak, but for an undergraduate engineering major cum hacker, it was great reading. The leading thinkers from the most technical- ly demanding areas in science today put down their thoughts for the everyone to read. The Livermore scientists believed in freedom of information, so nearly everyone who wanted in, got in. To the obvious consternation and dismay of Livermore management. And its funding agency.
Steve poked around the Livermore computers for a while and learned that SDI funding was in more serious jeopardy than pub- licly acknowledged. He discovered that the last 3 underground nuclear test explosions outside of Las Vegas were underyield, and no one knew why. Then he found some super-technical proposals that sounded like pure science fiction:
Moving small asteroids from between Mars and Jupiter into orbit around the Earth would make lovely weapons to drop on your ene- mies. War mongers.
All of this fascinating information, available to anyone with a computer and a little chutzbah.
* * * * *
Alexander Spiradon had picked Sir George and his other subjects carefully, as he had been trained to do.
He had spent the better part of twenty years working for West German Military Intelligence, Reichenbunnestrad Dunnernecht Deutchelande, making less money than he required to live in the style he desired. To supplement his income, he occasionally performed extracurricular activities for special interest groups throughout Europe. A little information to the IRA in Northern Ireland, a warning to the Red Brigade about an impending raid. Even the Hizballah, the Party of God for Lebanese terrorists had occasion to use Alex's Services. Nothing that would compromise his country, he rationalized, just a little help to the various political factions that have become an annoyance to their respec- tive governments.