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

I gather, it means that our computers are not safe

from eavesdropping. Anyone can listen in.” Tyrone spoke coldly.

Other than Bob, he was not with friends.

“Let me put it succinctly,” Sorenson said. “CMR radiation has

been classified for several years. We don’t even admit that it

exists. If we did, there could be panic. As far as we are

concerned with the public, CMR radiation is a figment of an

inventive imagination. Do you follow?”

“Yes,” Duncan agreed, “but why? It doesn’t seem to be much of a

secret to too many people?”

“That poses two questions. Have you ever heard of the Tempest

Program?”

“Tempest? No. What is it?” Duncan searched his mind.

“Tempest is a classified program managed by the Department of

Defense and administered by the National Security Agency. It has

been in place for years. The premise is that computers radiate

information that our enemies can pick up with sophisticated

equipment. Computers broadcast signals that tell what they’re

doing. And they do it in two ways. First they radiate like a

radio station. Anyone can pick it up.” This statement confirmed

what Scott had been saying. “And, computers broadcast their

signals down the power lines. If someone tried, they could

listen to our AC lines and essentially know what was the computer

was doing. Read classified information. I’m sure you see the

problem.” Sorenson was trying to be friendly, but he failed the

geniality test.

Duncan nodded in understanding.

“We are concerned because the Tempest program is classified and

more importantly, the Agency has been using CMR for years.”

“What for?”

“The NSA is chartered as the ears and eyes of the intelligence

community. We listen to other people for a living.”

“You mean you spy on computers, too? Spying on civilians? Isn’t

that illegal?” Tyrone remembered back when FBI and CIA abuses

had totally gotten out of hand.

“The courts have determined that eavesdropping in on cellular

phone conversations in not an invasion of privacy. We take the

same position on CMR.” Sorenson wanted to close the issue quick-

ly.

Duncan carefully prepared his answer amidst the outrage he was

feeling. He sensed an arrogant Big Brother attitude at work. He

hated the ‘my shit doesn’t stink’ attitude of the NSA. All in

the name of National Security. “Until a couple of days ago I

would have thought this was pure science fiction.”

“It isn’t Mr. Duncan. Tempest is a front line of defense to

protect American secrets. We need to know what else there is;

what you haven’t put in your reports.” The NSA man pressed.

Duncan looked at Bob who had long ago ceased to control the

conversation. He got no signs of support. In fact, it was

almost the opposite. He felt alone. He had had little contact

with the Agency in his 30 years of service. And when there was

contact it was relegated to briefings, policy shifts. . .pretty

bureaucratic stuff.

“As I said, it’s all in the report. When there’s more, I’ll

submit it.” Duncan maintained his composure.

“Mr. Duncan, I don’t think that will do.” Martin Templer spoke

up again. “We have been asked to assist the NSA in the matter.”

“Whoah! Wait a second.” Duncan’s legal training had not been

for naught. He knew a thing or two about Federal charters and

task designations. “The NSA is just a listening post. Your guys

do the international spook stuff, and we do the domestic leg

work. Since when is the Fort into investigations?”

“Ty? They’re right.” The uneasiness in Bob’s voice was promi-

nent. “The protection of classified information is their respon-

sibility. A group was created to report on computer security

problems that might have an effect on national security. On that

committee is the Director of the NSA. In essence, they have

control. Straight from 1600. It’s out of our hands.”

Tyrone was never the technical type, and definitely not the

politician. Besides, there was no way any one human being could

keep up with the plethora of regulations and rule changes that

poured out of the three branches of government. “Are you telling

me that the NSA can swoop down on our turf and take the cases

they want, when they want?” Duncan hoped he had heard wrong.

“Mr. Duncan, I think you may be under a mistaken impression

here.” Sorenson sipped his drink and turned in the swivel chair.

“We don’t want anything to do with your current cases, especially

the alleged blackmail operation in place. That is certainly

within the domain of the FBI. No. All we want is the van.” The

NSA man realized he may have come on a little strong and Duncan

had misunderstood. This should clear everything up nicely.

Tyrone decided to extricate himself from any further involvement

with these guys. He would offer what he knew, selectively.

“Take the van, it’s yours. Or what’s left of it.”

“Who else knows about CMR? How is works?” Sorenson wanted more

than the van.

Duncan didn’t answer. An arrogance, a defiance came over him

that Bob Burnson saw immediately. “Tell them where you found

out, Ty.” He saw Duncan’s negative facial reaction. “That’s an

order.”

How could he minimize the importance of Scott’s contribution to

his understanding of CMR radiation? How could he rationalize

their relationship? He thought, and then realized it might not

matter. Scott had said he already had his story, and no one had

done anything wrong. Actually they had only had a casual con-

versation on a train, as commuter buddies, what was the harm? It

really exposed him more than Scott if anything came of it.

“From an engineer friend of mine. He told me about how it

worked.”

The reactions from the CIA and NSA G-Men were poorly concealed

astonishment. Both made rapid notes. “Where does he work? For

a defense contractor?”

“No, he’s also a reporter.”

“A reporter?” Sorenson gasped. “For what paper?” He breathless-

ly prayed that it was a local high school journal, but his gut

told him otherwise.

“The New York City Times,” Duncan said, confident that Scott

could handle himself and that the First Amendment would help if

all else failed.

“Thank you very much Mr. Duncan.” Sorenson rapidly rose from his

chair. “You’ve been most helpful. Have a good flight back.”

* Tuesday., December 1 New York City

The morning commute into the City was agonizingly long for Scott

Mason. He nearly ran the 5 blocks from Grand Central Station to

the paper’s offices off Times Square. The elevator wait was

interminable. He dashed into the City Room, bypassing his desk,

and ran directly toward editor Doug McQuire’s desk. Doug saw him

coming and was ready.

“Don’t stop here. We’re headed up to Higgins.” Doug tried to

deflect the verbal onslaught from Scott.

“What the hell is going on here, Doug? I work on a great story,

you said you loved it, and then I finally get the missing piece

and then . . .this?” He pushed the morning paper in Doug’s

face. “Where the fuck is my story? And don’t give me any of this

‘we didn’t have the room’ shit. You yourself thought we were

onto something bigger . . .”

Doug ignored Scott as best he could, but on the elevator to the

9th floor, Scott was still in his face.

“Doug, I am not a pimple faced cub reporter. I never was, that’s

why you hired me. You’ve always been straight with me . . .”

Scott trailed behind Doug as they walked down the hallway to

Higgins’ office. He was still calling Doug every name in the

book as they entered the room. Higgins sat behind his desk, no

tie, totally un-Higgins-like. Scott shot out another nasty

remark.

“Hey, you look like shit.”

“Thanks to you,” the bedraggled Higgins replied.

“What? You too? I need this today.” Scott’s anger displayed

concern as well.

“Sit down. We got troubles.” Higgins could be forceful when

necessary. Apparently he felt this was an appropriate time to

use his drill sergeant voice. It startled Scott so he sat – on

the edge of his seat. He wasn’t through dishing out what he

thought about having a story pulled this way.

Higgins waited for nearly half a minute. Let some calm, normalcy

return before he started.

“Scott, I pulled the story, Doug didn’t. And, if it makes you

feel any better, we’ve both been here all night. And we’ve had

outside counsel lose sleep, too. Congratulations.”

Scott was confused. Congratulations? “What are you . . .?”

“Hear me out. In my 14 years at this paper, this is the first

time I’ve ever had a call from the Attorney General’s