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

could make a differ-

ence working from inside the system. I was wrong, and I’ve been

blinded by it until now . . .you know.

“When I was in college the politicians screamed integration while

the poor blacks no more wanted to be bussed to the rich white

neighborhood that the rich whites wanted the poor blacks in their

schools.” Tyrone spoke from his heart, his soul, with a touch of

resentment that Scott had not seen before. But then, they had

never spoken of it before. This was one story that he had suc-

cessfully neglected to share. “Forced integration was govern-

ment’s answer to a problem it has never understood.

“It’s about dignity. Dignity and respect, not government inter-

vention. It’s about a man’s right to privacy and the right to

lead his life the way he sees fit. Civil rights is about how to

keep government from interfering with its citizens. Regardless

of color.” Tyrone was adamant.

“And that’s why you’re gonna quit?” Scott didn’t see the con-

nection.

“No, goddamnit, no,” Tyrone shouted. “Don’t you get it?” Scott

shook his head. “They want to take them away.” He spoke with

finality and assumed Scott knew what he meant. The liquor fogged

his brain to mouth speech connection.

“Who’s gonna take what away?” Scott asked, frustrated by Ty’s

ramblings.

“I know it’s hokey, but the Founding Fathers had a plan, and so

far it’s survived two hundred years of scrutiny and division. I

would like to think it can survive the computer age.” Tyrone

quieted down some. “My father used to tell me, from the time I

was old enough to understand, that law was merely a measure of

how much freedom a man was willing to sacrifice to maintain an

orderly society.”

“My father was a radical liberal among liberals,” Tyrone remem-

bered. “Even today he’ll pick a fight at the family barbecue for

his own entertainment. And he’ll hold his own.”

Scott enjoyed the image of a crotchety octogenarian stirring up

the shit while his children isolated their kids from their grand

father’s intellectual lunacy. What was this about?

Tyrone caught himself and realized that he wasn’t getting his

point across. He took a deep breath and slouched back in the

chair that barely held him.

“From the beginning,” he said. “I told you about ECCO, and what

a disaster it is. No authority, no control, no responsibility.

And the chaos is unbelievable.

“I don’t pretend to understand all of the computer jargon, but I

do recognize when the NSA wants to control everything. There’s a

phenomenal amount of arrogance there. The NSA reps in ECCO

believe that they are the only ones who know anything about

computers and how to protect them. I feel sorry for the guys

from NIST. They’re totally underfunded, so they end up with both

the grunt work and the brunt of the jokes from the NSA.

“NSA won’t cooperate on anything. If NIST says it’s white, NSA

says it’s black. If NIST says there’s room to compromise, NSA

gets more stubborn. And the academic types. At long last I now

know what happened to the hippies: they’re all government con-

sultants through universities. And all they want to do is

study, study, study. But they never come up with answers, just

more questions to study.

“The vendors try to sell their products and don’t contribute a

damn thing,” sighed Tyrone. “A bunch of industry guys from

computer companies and the banks, and they’re as baffled as I

am.”

“So why quit? Can’t you make a difference?”

“Listen. The FBI views computer crimes as inter-state in nature

and therefore under their domain.”

Scott nodded in understanding.

“We are enforcement, only,” Tyrone asserted. “We do not, nor

should we make the laws. Separation of power; Civics 101. To

accomplish anything, I have to be a private citizen.”

“What do you want to accomplish?” asked Scott with great inter-

est.

“I want to stop the NSA.” Tyrone spoke bluntly and Scott sat too

stunned to speak for long seconds.

“From what?” A sudden pit formed in Scott’s stomach.

“I found out why they dumped on you about the CMR,” Tyrone said.

“I haven’t been able to tell you before, but it doesn’t matter

any more.” Tyrone quickly shook off the veiling sadness. “NSA

has a built-in contradiction. On one hand they listen into the

world and spy for America. This is supposed to be very secret,

especially how they do it. It turns out that CMR is one of their

‘secret’ methods for spying on friends and foes alike.

“So, to keep our friends and foes from spying on us, they create

the secret Tempest program. Except, they think it needs to be

kept a military secret, and the public sector be damned. They

actually believe that opening the issue to the public will hamper

their intelligence gathering capabilities because the enemy will

protect against it, too.”

Scott listened in fascination. What he was learning now more than

made up for the loss of one article. He felt bad now that he had

overreacted and taken it out on Tyrone.

“Same goes for the EMP-T bomb,” Tyrone added. “Only they didn’t

know that you were going to publish ahead of time like they did

when I opened up my fat trap.”

Scott’s eyes suddenly lit up. “How much did you tell them?”

“That I knew you and you were writing an article. That’s it.”

“Then how did they know what I had written? It was pretty damned

close. I assumed that you had . . .”

“No way, man,” Tyrone held his hands up.

“Then how did . . .Ty? What if they’re using CMR on my computers?

Could they . . .”

Tyrone’s predicament was to decide whether or not to tell Scott

that he knew the NSA and others spied on Americans and gathered

intelligence through remote control means. “I assume they’re

capable of anything.”

“Shit!” Scott exclaimed. “Privacy goes right out the window.

Damn.” Scott rapidly spun in his chair and vacantly stared off

in space. “Is that legal?”

“What? CMR? I looked into that briefly, and there’s nothing on

the books yet, but I did find out that tapping cellular phone

conversations is legal.”

“Phone tapping, legal?” Scott couldn’t believe his ears.

“Cellular phones, yeah. The FCC treats them like TV sets, radi-

os, satellites. Anyone can listen to any station.”

“That’s incredible,” Scott said, mouth gaping. “I wonder how

they’ll handle RF LAN’s.”

“RF LAN’s,” asked Ty. “What are those?”

“A bunch of computers tied together with radios. They replace

the wires that connect computers now. Can you imagine?” Scott

saw the irony in it. “Broadcasting your private secrets like

that? Hah! Or if you have your own RF network, all you have to

do is dial up another one and all the information ends up right

in your computer! Legal robbery. Is this a great country or

what?”

“Now you know why I’m leaving. The NSA cannot be permitted to

keep the public uninformed about vulnerabilities to their person-

al freedom. And hiding under the umbrella of national security

gets old. A handful of paranoid un-elected, un-budgeted, non-ac-

countable, mid-level bureaucrats are deciding the future of

privacy and freedom in this country. They are the ones who are

saying, ‘no, no problem,’ when they know damn well it is a prob-

lem. What they say privately is in diametric opposition to their

public statements and positions.”

Scott stifled a nervous laugh. Who wound Tyrone up? A conspira-

cy theory. Tyrone was drunk. “Don’t you think that maybe you’re

taking this a little far,” he suggested. For the first time in

years the shoe was on the other foot. Scott was tempering some-

body elses extremes.

“Why the hell do you think there’s so much confusion at ECCO and

CERT and the other computer SWAT teams? NSA interferes at every

step,” Tyrone responded. “And no, I am not taking this too far.

I haven’t taken it far enough. I sit with these guys and they

talk as though I’m not there. I attend meetings where the poli-

cies and goals of ECCO are established. Shit, I trust the dope-

smoking hippies from Berkeley more than anyone from the Fort.”

The bitterness came through clearly, but Scott could see it

wasn’t focussed on any one person or thing.

But Scott began to understand. For over 20 years Tyrone had

insulated himself from the politics of the job and had seen only

what he wanted to see; a national Police Force enforcing the

laws. Tyrone loved the chase of the crime. The bits and pieces,

the endless sifting of evidence, searching for clues and then

building a case from shreds. The forensics of modern criminology

had been so compelling for Tyrone Duncan that he had missed the

impact that the mass proliferation of technology would have on

his first love – The Constitution.

The sudden revelations and realizations of the last several weeks

set his mind into high gear. Tyrone introspectively examined his

beliefs; he tried to review them from the perspective of an

idealistic