Terminal Compromise, Winn Schwartau [sight word books txt] 📗

making no

points taking on Pierre Troubleaux. He was too popular.

“Thank you, Senator, I am glad you asked. I was just getting

there.” Pierre’s sugary treatment was an appropriate slap in

Rickfield’s face.

“Please continue.” The Senator had difficulty saying the word

‘please’.

“Yes sir. So, the prognostications made over a decade ago by the

likes of Steve Jobs, that computers would alter the way we play,

work and think have been completely fulfilled. Now, if we look

at those years, we see a multi-billion dollar industry that has

made extraordinary promises to the world of business. Computer-

ize they say! Modernize! Get with the times! Make your opera-

tion efficient! Stay ahead of the competition! And we listened

and we bought.

“With a projected life cycle of between only three and five

years, technology progresses that fast, once computerized, forev-

er computerized. To keep up with the competitive Jones’, main-

taining technical advantages requires upgrading to subsequent

generations of computers. The computer salespeople told us to

run our businesses on computers, send out Social Security checks

by computer, replace typewriters with word processors and bank at

home. Yet, somewhere in the heady days of phenomenal growth

during the early 1980’s, someone forgot. Someone, or more than

likely most of Silicon Valley forgot, that people were putting

their trust in these machines and we gave them no reason to. I

include myself and my firm among the guilty.

“Very simply, we have built a culture, an economic base, the

largest GNP in the world on a system of inter-connected comput-

ers. We have placed the wealths of our nations, the backbone of

the fabric of our way of life, we have placed our trust in com-

puters that do not warrant that trust. It is incredible to me

that major financial institutions do not protect their computer

assets as well as they protect their cash on hand.

“I find it unbelievable that the computers responsible in part

for the defense of this country appear to have more open doors

than a thousand churches on Sunday. It is incomprehensible to me

that privacy, one of the founding principles of this nation, has

been ignored during the information revolution. The massive data

bases that contain vast amounts of personal data on us all have

been amply shown to be not worthy of trust. All it takes is a

home computer and elbow grease and you, or I, or he,” Pierre

pointed at various people seated around the room, “can have a

field day and change anybody’s life history. What happens if the

computer disagrees with you then?

“It staggers the imagination that we have not attempted any

coherent strategy to protect the lifeblood of our society. That,

ladies and gentlemen is a crime. We spend $3 trillion on weapons

in one decade, yet we do not have the foresight to protect our

computers? It is a crime of indifference by business leaders. A

crime against common sense by Congress who passes laws and then

refuses to fund their enactment. Staggeringly idiotic. Pardon

me.” Pierre drained the water from his glass as the tension in

the hearing room thickened.

“We live the paradox of simultaneously distrusting computers and

being required to trust them and live with them. We are all

criminals in this disgrace. Maybe dGraph more than most. Permit

me to explain my involvement.” The electricity in the room

crackled and the novice CNN producer instructed the cameraman to

get it right.

“Troubleaux!” A man’s gruff accented voice elongated the sylla-

bles as he shouted from the balcony in the rear. A thousands

eyes jerked to the source of the sound up above. Troubleaux

himself turned in his seat to see a middle aged dark man, wearing

a turban, pointing a handgun in his direction. Scott saw the

weapon and wondered which politician was the target. Who was too

pro-Israel this week? He immediately thought of Rickfield. No,

he didn’t have a commitment either way. He only rode the wave of

popular sentiment.

Pierre too, wondered who was the target of a madman’s suicide

attack. It had to be suicide, there was no escape.

Scott’s mind raced through a thousand thoughts during that first

tenth of a second, not the endless minutes he later remembered.

In the next split second, Scott realized, more accurately he

knew, that Pierre was the target. The would-be victim.

As the first report from the handgun echoed through the cavernous

chamber Scott was mid-leap at Pierre. Hell of a way to grab an

exclusive, he thought. He fell into Pierre as the second shot

exploded. Scott painfully caught the edge of the chair with his

shoulder while pushing Pierre over sideways. They crumpled into

a heap on the floor when the third shot fired.

Scott glanced up at the turbanned man vehemently mouthing words

to an invisible entity skyward. The din from the panic in the

room made it impossible to hear. Still brandishing the pistol,

the assailant began to take aim again, at Scott and Pierre.

Scott attempted to wiggle free from the tangle of Pierre’s limbs

and the chairs around them. He struggled to extricate himself

but found it impossible.

A fourth shot discharged. Scott cringed, awaiting the worst but

instead heard the bullet ricochet off a metal object above him.

Scott’s adrenal relief was punctuated by a loud and heavy sigh.

He noticed that the assailant’s shooting arm had been knocked

upwards by a quick moving Capital policeman who violently threw

himself at the turbanned man so hard that they both careened

forward to the edge of the balcony. The policeman grabbed onto a

bench which kept him from plummeting twenty feet below. His

target was hurtled over the edge and landed prone on two wooden

chairs which collapsed under the force. The shooting stopped.

Scott groaned from discomfort and pain as he slowly began to pull

away from Pierre. Then he noticed the blood. A lot of blood.

He looked down at himself to see that his white pullover shirt,

the one with Mickey Mouse instead of an alligator over the breast

pocket, was wet with red. As was his jacket. His left hand had

been on the floor, in a pool of blood that was oozing out of the

back of Pierre’s head. Scott tried to consciously control his

physical revulsion to the body beneath him and the overwhelming

urge to regurgitate.

Then Pierre’s body moved. His chest heaved heavily and Scott

pulled himself away completely. Pierre had been hit with at

least two bullets, one exiting from the front of his chest and

one stripping away a piece of skull exposing the brain. Grue-

some.

“He’s alive! Get a doctor!” Scott shouted. He lifted himself up

to see over the tables. The mad shuffle to the exits continued.

No one seemed to pay attention.

“Hey! Is there a doctor in the house?”

Scott looked down at Pierre and touched the veins in his neck.

They were pulsing, but not with all of life’s vigor. “Hey,”

Scott said quietly, “you’re gonna be all right. We got a doctor

coming. Don’t worry. Just hang in there.” Scott lied, but 40

years of movies and television had preprogrammed the sentiments.

“Drtppheeough . . .” Scott heard Pierre gurgle.

“What? What did you say?” Scott leaned his ear down closer to

Pierre’s mouth.

“DGOEROUGH.”

“Take it easy,” Scott said to comfort the badly injured Pierre

Troubleaux.

“Nooo . . .” Pierre’s limp body made a futile attempt at move-

ment. Scott held him back.

“Hey, Pierre . . .you don’t mind if I call you Pierre?” Scott

adapted a mock French accent.

“Noo, DNGRAAAAPHJG . . .”

“Good. Why don’t you just lay back and wait. The doctor’ll be

here in a second . . .”

“Sick . . .” Pierre managed to get out one word.

“Sick? Sick? Yeah, yeah, you’re sick,” Scott agreed sympathet-

ically.

“DGRAF, sick.” The effort caused Pierre to pant quickly.

“Dgraf, sick? What does that mean?” Scott asked.

“Sick. DGraph sick.” Pierre’s voice began to fade. “Sick. Don’t

use it. Don’t use . . .”

“What do you mean don’t use it? DGraph? Hey!” Scott lightly

shook Pierre. “You still with us? C’mon, what’d you say? Tell

me again? Sick?”

Pierre’s body was still.

*

The bullshit put out by the Government was beyond belief, thought

Miles. How could they sit there and claim that all was well? It

was common knowledge that computer security was dismal at best

throughout both the civilian and military agencies. With the

years he spent at NSA he knew that security was a political

compromise and not a fiscal or technical reality. And these guys

lied through their teeth. Oh, well, he thought, that would all

change soon.

The report issued by the National Research Council in November of

1990 concurred with Miles’ assessment. Security in the govern-

ment was a disaster, a laughable travesty if