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

great deal of sensitive data.” The disdain

in his voice was unmistakable.

Even though it was Sunday, it was not unusual for him to be at

his office. His more private endeavors could be more discreetly

pursued. A three decade career at the Agency had culminated in

his appointment to the Directorship, a position he had eyed for

years.

“We have specialists who use HERF technology,” the aide said.

“It’s more or less a highly focused computer-gun. An RF field on

the order of 200 volts per meter is sufficient to destroy most

electrical circuits. Literally blow them up from the inside

out.”

“Spare me the details.”

“Sir, we can stop a car from a thousand yards by pointing elec-

tricity at it.”

“I don’t really care about the details.”

“You should, sir. There’s a point to this . . .”

“Well, get on with it.” Jacobs was clearly annoyed.

“Unlike the EMP-T technology which is very expensive and on the

absolute edge of our capabilities . . .”

“And someone elses . . .”

“Granted,” the aide said, sounding irritated with the constant

interruptions. “But HERF can be generated cheaply by anyone with

an elementary knowledge of electronics. The government even

sells surplus radio equipment that will do the job quite nicely.”

Jacobs smiled briefly.

“You look pleased,” the aide said with surprise.

Jacobs hid his pleasure behind a more serious countenance. “Oh,

no, it’s just the irony of it all. We’ve been warning them for

years and now it’s happening.”

“Who, sir?”

“Never mind,” Jacobs said, dismissing the thought momentarily.

“Go on.”

Jacobs arrogantly leaned back in his executive chair, closed his

eyes and folded his hands over his barrel chest. This was his

way of telling subordinates to talk, spill their guts.

“The real worry about cheap HERF is what it can do in the wrong

hands.” The aide obliged the ritual. “One transmitter and

antenna in a small truck can wipe out every computer on main

street during a leisurely drive. Cash registers, electric type-

writers, alarms, phones, traffic lights . . .anything electronic

a HERF is pointed at, Poof! Good as dead. What if someone used a

HERF gun at an airport, pointing up? Or at the tower? From up to

a distance of over a kilometer, too. Ten kilometers with better

equipment.”

“So it works,” muttered Jacobs so softly under his breath his

aide didn’t hear.

“It’s reminiscent of drive-by shootings by organized crime. In

this case, though, the target is slightly different.”

“I see.” Jacobs kept his eyes closed as the aide patiently

waited for his boss to say something or allow him to return to

his family. “I gather we use similar tools ourselves?”

“Yessir. Very popular technique. Better kept quiet.”

“Not any more. Not any more.”

Chapter 23 Monday, January 11 Washington, D.C.

I don’t think you’re gonna be pleased,” Phil Musgrave said at

their early morning conclave, before the President’s busy day

began.

“What else is new?” asked the President acerbically. “Why should

I have an easy today any more than any other day?” His dry wit

often escaped much of the White House staff, but Musgrave had

been exposed to it for over 20 years and took it in stride. Pre-

coffee grumps. The President poured himself more hot decaf from

the silver service. “What is it?”

“Computers.”

The President groaned. “Don’t you ever long for the old days

when a calculator consisted of two pieces of sliding wood or a

hundred beads on rods?”

Musgrave ignored his boss’s frustration. “Over the weekend, sir,

we experienced a number of incidents that could be considered

non-random in nature,” Musgrave said cautiously.

“In English, Phil,” insisted the President.

“MILNET has been compromised. The Optimus Data Base at Pentagon

has been erased as has been Anniston, Air Force Systems Command

and a dozen other computers tied through ARPANET.”

The President sighed. “Damage report?”

“About a month. We didn’t lose anything too sensitive, but

that’s not the embarrassing part.”

“If that’s not, then what is?”

“The IRS computers tied to Treasury over the Consolidated Data

Network?” The President indicated to continue. “The Central

Collection Services computer for the Dallas District has had over

100,000 records erased. Gone.”

“And?” The President said wearily.

“The IRS has had poor backup procedures. The OMB and GAO reports

of 1989 and 1990 detailed their operational shortcomings.” The

President waited for Phil to say something he could relate to.

“It appears that we’ll lose between $500 million and $2 Billion

in revenues.”

“Christ! That’s it!” The President shouted. “Enough is enough.

The two weeks is up as of this moment.” He shook his head with

his eyes closed in disbelief. “How the hell can this

happen . . .?” he asked rhetorically.

“Sir, I think that our priority is to keep this out of the press.

We need plausible deniability . . .”

“Stop with the Pentagon-speak bullshit and just clamp down. No

leaks. I want this contained. The last damn thing we need is

for the public to think that we can’t protect our own computers

and the privacy of our citizens. If there is one single leak, I

will personally behead the offender,” the President said with

intensity enough to let Phil know that his old friend and comrade

meant what he said.

“Issue an internal directive, lay down the rules. Who knows

about this?”

“Too many people, sir. I am not convinced that we can keep this

completely out of the public eye.”

“Isolate them.”

“Sir?”

“You heard me. Isolate them. National Security. Tell them

it’ll only be few days. Christ. Make up any damn story you

want, but have it taken care of. Without my knowledge.”

“Yessir.”

“Then, find somebody who knows what the hell is going on.”

* Monday, January 11 Approaching New York City

Scott called Tyrone from the plane to discover that the hearings

were being delayed a few days, so he flew back to New York after

dropping Sonja off in Washington. They tore themselves apart

from each other, she tearfully, at National Airport where they

had met. He would be back in a few days, once the hearings were

rescheduled. In the meantime, Scott wanted to go home and crash.

While being in Jamaica with Sonja was as exhilarating as a man

could want, relaxing and stimulating at once, he still was going

on next to no rest.

While the plane was still on the tarmac in Washington, Scott had

fallen fast asleep. On the descent into New York, he half awak-

ened, to a hypnagogic state. Scott had learned over the years

how to take advantage of such semi-conscious conditions. The

mind seemingly floated in a place between reality and conjecture

- where all possibilities are tangible, unencumbered by earthly

concerns. The drone of the jet engines, even their occasional

revving, enhanced the mental pleasure Scott experienced.

Thoughts weightlessly drifted into and out of his head, some of

them common and benign and others surprisingly original, if not

out and out weird.

In such a state, the conscious mind becomes the observer of the

activities of the unconscious mind. The ego of Scott Mason

restrained itself from interfering with the sublime mental proc-

esses that bordered on the realm of pure creativity. The germ

of a thought, the inchoate idea, had the luxury of exploring

itself in an infinity of possibilities and the conscious mind

stood on the sidelines. The blissful experience was in constant

jeopardy of being relegated to a weak memory, for any sudden

disturbance could instantly cause the subconscious to retreat

back into a merger with the conscious mind. Thus, he highly

valued these spontaneous meditations.

Bits and pieces of the last few days wove themselves into complex

patterns that reflected the confusion he felt. He continued to

gaze on and observe as the series of mental events that had no

obvious relationships assumed coherency and meaning. When one

does not hold fixed preconceived notions, when one has the abili-

ty to change perspective, then, in these moments, the possibili-

ties multiply. Scott watched himself with the hackers in Amster-

dam, with Kirk and Tyrone at home; he watched himself both live

and die with Pierre in Washington. Then the weekend, did it just

end? The unbelievable weekend with Sonja. It was when he re-

lived the sexual intensity on the Half Moon Bay beach, in what

was becoming an increasingly erotic state, that his mind en-

tered an extraordinary bliss.

The rear tires of the plane hitting the runway was enough to snap

Scott back to a sober reality. But he had the thought and he

remembered it.

Scott hired a stretch limousine at LaGuardia and slept all the