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

associates came over to rescue Scott. “Sorry, he’s

a little enthusiastic and has some trouble communicating on the

Earthly plane.” Alva, as he called himself, explained coherent-

ly that with some of the newer security systems in place, it is

necessary to manipulate the phone company switches to learn

system passwords.

“For example, when we broke into a Bell computer that used CI-

CIMS, it was tough to crack. But now they’ve added new security

that, in itself, is flawless, albeit crackable,” Alva explained.

“Once you get past the passwords, which is trivial, the system

asks you three unique questions about yourself for final identi-

fication. Pretty smart, huh?” Scott agreed with Alva, a voice

of apparent moderation. “However, we were already in the phone

switch computer, so we programmed in forwarding instructions for

all calls that dialed that particular computer. We then inter-

cepted the call and connected it to our computer, where we emu-

late the security system, and watched the questions and answers

go back and forth. After a few hours, you have a hundred differ-

ent passwords to use. There are a dozen other ways to do it, of

course.”

“Of course,” Scott said sarcastically. Is nothing sacred? Not

in this world it’s not. All’s fair in love, war and hacking.

The time flew as Scott learned what a tightly knitted clique the

hackers were. The ethos ‘honor among thieves’ held true here as

it did in many adolescent societies, most recently the American

Old West. As a group, perhaps even a subculture, they were

arduously taming new territory, each with their own vision of a

private digital homestead. Each one taking on the system in

their own way, they still needed each other, thus they looked

aside if another’s techno-social behavior was personally dis-

tasteful. The Network was big enough for everyone. A working

anarchy that heralded the standard of John Paul Jones as their

sole commandment: Don’t Tread On Me.

He saw tapping devices that allowed the interception of computer

data which traveled over phone lines. Line Monitors and Sniffers

were commercially available, and legal; equipment that was nomi-

nally designed to troubleshoot networks. In the hands of a hack-

er, though, it graduated from being a tool of repair to an

offensive weapon.

Small hand held radios were capable of listening in to the in-

creasingly popular remote RF networks which do not require wires.

Cellular phone eavesdropping devices permitted the owner to scan

and focus on the conversation of his choice. Scott examined the

electronic gear to find a manufacturer’s identification.

“Don’t bother, my friend,” said a long haired German youth of

about twenty.

“Excuse me?”

“I see you are looking for marks, yes?”

“Well, yes. I wanted to see who made these . . .”

“I make them, he makes them, we all make them,” he said almost

giddily. “This is not available from Radio Shack,” he giggled.

“Who needs them from the establishment when they are so easy to

build.”

Scott knew that electronics was indeed a garage operation and

that many high tech initiatives had begun in entrepreneur’s

basements. The thought of home hobbyists building equipment

which the military defends against was anathema to Scott. He

merely shook his head and moved on, thanking the makers of the

eavesdropping machines for their demonstrations.

Over in a dimly lit corner, dimmer than elsewhere, Scott saw a

number of people fiddling with an array of computers and equip-

ment that looked surprisingly familiar. As he approached he

experienced an immediate rush of dja vu. This was the same

type of equipment that he had seen on the van before it was blown

up a couple of months ago. Tempest busting, he thought.

The group was speaking in German, but they were more than glad to

switch to English for Scott’s benefit. They sensed his interest

as he poked around the assorted monitors and antennas and test

equipment.

“Ah, you are interested in Van Eck?” asked one of the German

hackers. They maintained a clean cut appearance, and through

discussion Scott learned that they were funded as part of a

university research project in Frankfurt.

Scott watched and listened as they set up a compelling demonstra-

tion. First, one computer screen displayed a complex graphic

picture. Several yards away another computer displayed a foggy

image that cleared as one of the students adjusted the antenna

attached to the computer.

“Aha! Lock!” one of them said, announcing that the second comput-

er would now display everything that the first computer did. The

group played with color and black and white graphics, word proc-

essing screens and spreadsheets. Each time, in a matter of

seconds, they ‘locked’ into the other computer successfully.

Scott was duly impressed and asked them why they were putting

effort into such research. “Very simple,” the apparent leader of

the Frankfurt group said. “This work is classified in both your

country and mine, so we do not have access to the answers we

need. So, we build our own and now it’s no more classified. You

see?”

“Why do you need it?”

“To protect against it,” they said in near unison. “The next

step is to build efficient methods to fight the Van Eck.”

“Doesn’t Tempest do that?”

“Tempest?” the senior student said. “Ha! It makes the computer

weigh a thousand pounds and the monitor hard to read. There are

better ways to defend. To defend we must first know how to

attack. That’s basic.”

“Let me ask you something,” Scott said to the group after their

lengthy demonstration. “Do you know anything about electromag-

netic pulses? Strong ones?”

“Ya. You mean like from a nuclear bomb?”

“Yes, but smaller and designed to only hurt computers.”

“Oh, ya. We have wanted to build one, but it is beyond our

means.”

“Well,” Scott said smugly, “someone is building them and setting

them off.”

“Your stock exchange. We thought that the American government

did it to prove they could.”

An hour of ensuing discussion taught Scott that the technology

that the DoD and the NSA so desperately spent billions to keep

secret and proprietary was in common use. To most engineers, and

Scott could easily relate, every problem has an answer. The

challenge is to accomplish the so-called impossible. The engi-

neer’s pride.

Jon, the Flying Dutchman finally rescued Scott’s stomach from

implosion. “How about lunch? A few of the guys want to meet

you. Give you a heavy dose of propaganda,” he threatened.

“Thank God! I’m famished and haven’t touched the stuff all day.

Love to, it’s on me,” Scott offered. He could see Doug having a

cow. How could he explain a thousand dollar dinner for a hundred

hungry hackers?

“Say that too loud,” cautioned the bearded Dutchman, “and you’ll

have to buy the restaurant. Hacking isn’t very high on the pay

scale.”

“Be easy on me, I gotta justify lunch for an army to my boss, or

worse yet, the beancounters.” Dutchman didn’t catch the idiom.

“Never mind, let’s keep it to a small regiment, all right?”

He never figured out how it landed on his shoulders, but Scott

ended up with the responsibility of picking a restaurant and

successfully guiding the group there. And Dutchman had skipped

out without notifying anyone. Damned awkward, thought Scott. He

assumed control, limited though it was, and led them to the only

restaurant he knew, the Sarang Mas. The group blindly and happi-

ly followed. They even let him order the food, so he did his

very best to impress them by ordering without looking at the

menu. He succeeded, with his savant phonetic memory, to order

exactly what he had the night prior, but this time he asked for

vastly greater portions.

As they were sating their pallets, and commenting on what a

wonderful choice this restaurant was, Scott popped the same

question to which he had previously been unable to receive a

concise answer. Now that he had met this bunch, he would ask

again, and if lucky, someone might respond and actually be com-

prehensible.

“I’ve been asking the same question since I got into this whole

hacking business,” Scott said savoring goat parts and sounding

quite nonchalant. “And I’ve never gotten a straight answer. Why

do you hack?” He asked. “Other than the philosophical credo of

Network is Life, why do you hack?” Scott looked into their eyes.

“Or are you just plain nosy?”

“I bloody well am!” said the one called Pinball who spoke with a

thick Liverpudlian accent. His jeans were in tatters, in no

better shape than his sneakers. The short pudgy man was mid-

twenty-ish and his tall crewcut was in immediate need of reshap-

ing.

“Nosy? That’s why you hack?” Asked Scott in disbelief.

“Yeah, that’s it, mate. It’s great fun. A game the size of

life.” Pinball looked at Scott as if to say, that’s it. No

hidden