Terminal Compromise by Winn Schwartau (my reading book .txt) 📖

world.

Scott ripped a page from a notebook and ran into and around his

co-workers. “Doug, I got it. Confirmed by the President.”

“You’re kidding me?” Doug stopped his red pencil mid-stroke.

“Give it to me from the top.” He turned in his swivel chair to

face Scott more directly.

“It goes like this. A few weeks ago Sovereign Bank in Atlanta

found that someone had entered their central computers without

permission.” Scott perused his notes. “It didn’t take long for

them to find the intruder. He left a calling card. It said that

the hackers had found a hole to crawl through undetected into

their computers. Was the bank interested in knowing how it was

done? They left a Compuserve Mail Box.

“As you can imagine the bank freaked out and told their computer

people to fix whatever it was. They called in the FBI, that’s

from my contact, and went on an internal rampage. Those good ol’

boys don’t trust nobody,” Scott added sounding like a poor imita-

tion of Andy from Mayberry.

“Anybody that could spell computer was suspect and they turned

the place upside down. Found grass, cocaine, ludes, a couple of

weapons and a lot of people got fired. But no state secrets.

You talk about a dictatorship,” commented Scott on the side.

“There’s no privacy at all. They scanned everyone’s electronic

mail boxes looking for clues and instead found them staring at

invasion of privacy suits from employees and ex-employees who

were fired because of the contents of their private mail.

“The computer jocks unplugged the computers, turned them inside

out and screwed them back together. Nothing. They found nada.

So they tighten the reins and give away less passwords, to less

people. That’s all they figured they could do.”

“This is where the fun starts.” Scott actively gestured with his

hands as he shifted weight to his other foot. “A few days later

they discover another message in their computer. Says something

like, ‘sorry Charlie’ or something to that effect. The hackers

were back. And this time they wanted to sell their services to

the bank. For a nominal fee, say, a million bucks, we’ll show

you how to sew up the holes.”

“Well, what does that sound like to you?” Scott asked Doug.

“Extortion.”

“Exactly, and ape-shit doesn’t begin to describe what the bank

did. Bottom line? They made a deal. We’ll pay you a million

bucks as consultants for 10 years. You agree to stay out of the

machines unless we need you. Immunity unless you break the

deal.”

“What happened?” Doug said with rapt attention.

“Sovereign bank now has three fourteen year old consultants at a

hundred grand a year,” Scott said choking with laughter on his

words.

“You’re kidding,” exclaimed Doug slapping his knees.

“No shit. And everyone is pretty happy about it. The kids have

a way to pay for a good college, they’re bright little snots, and

they get off. The bank figures it’s making an investment in the

future and actually may have gotten off cheap. It woke them up

to the problems they could face if their computers did go down

for a month. Or if they lost all their records. Or if someone

really wanted to do damage. Thoughts like that trigger a panic

attack in any bank exec. They’d rather deal with the kids.

“In fact, they’re turning it into a public relations coup. Dig

this,” Scott knew the story like the back of his hand. “The bank

realized that they could fix their security problems for a couple

of million bucks. Not much of an investment when you’re guarding

billions. So they design a new ad campaign: Sovereign. The

Safest Your Money Can Be.”

“Now that’s a story,” said Doug approvingly. “Important, fun,

human, and everyone comes out a winner. A story with a moral.

Confirmed?”

“Every bit. From the president. They announce it all tomorrow

and we print tonight with their blessing. Exclusive.”

“Why? What did you have to do . . ?”

“Nothing. He likes the work we’ve been doing on the computer

capers and crime and all and thought that we would give it fair

coverage. I think they’re handling it like absolute gentlemen.”

“How fast do you type?”

“Forty mistakes a minute. Why?”

“You got 40 minutes to deadline.”

* Friday, December 11 Washington, D.C.

Throughout his years of Government service at the National Secu-

rity Agency, Miles Foster had become a nine to fiver. Rarely did

he work in the evening or on weekends. So the oddball hours he

had to work during his association with Homosoto were irritating

and made him cranky. He could function well enough, and cranki-

ness was difficult to convey over a computer terminal, but work-

ing nights wasn’t much to his liking. It interfered with his

social responsibilities to the women.

The master plan Miles had designed years ago for Homosoto was now

calling for phase two to go into effect. The beauty of it all,

thought Miles, was that it was unstoppable. The pieces had been

put into play by scores of people who workedfor him; the pro-

grammers, the Freedom League BBS’s and the infectors. Too much

had already gone into play to abort the mission. There was no

pulling back.

Only a few weeks were left before the first strike force landed.

The militaristic thinking kept Miles focussed on the task at

hand, far away from any of the personalization that might surface

if he got down to thinking about the kinds of damage he was going

to be inflicting on millions of innocent targets. Inside, perhaps

deep inside, Miles cared, but he seemed to only be aware of the

technical results of his efforts in distinction to the human

element. The human elements of frustration, depression, help-

lessness – a social retreat of maybe fifty years, that was going

to be the real devastation above and beyond the machinery. Just

the way Homosoto wanted it. To hurt deep down.

Miles had come to learn of the intense hatred that Homosoto felt

toward the United States. In his more callous moments, especial-

ly when he and Homosoto were at odds over any particular subject,

Miles would resort to the basest of verbal tactics.

“You’re just pissed off ‘cause we nuked your family.” It was

meant to sting and Homosoto’s reactions were unpredictable.

Often violent, he had once thrown priceless heirlooms across his

office shattering in a thousand shards. A three hour lecture

ensued on one occasion, tutoring Miles about honorable warfare.

Miles listened and fell asleep during more than one sermon.

But at the bottom of it, Homosoto kept a level head and showed he

knew what he was doing. The plans they formulated were coming

together though Miles had no direct control over many pieces. The

Readers were run by another group altogether; Miles only knew

they were fundamentalist fanatics. He didn’t really care as long

as the job was getting done. And the groundhogs; he designed

them, but they were managed by others. Propaganda, yet another,

just as the plan called for. Extreme compartmentalization, even

at the highest level.

Only Homosoto knew all the players and therefore had the unique

luxury of viewing the grand game being played. Though Miles

designed every nuance, down to the nth degree of how to effect

the invasion properly, he was not privileged to push the chessmen

around the board. His rationalization was that he was being paid

a great deal of money for the job, and he was working for a more

important cause, one that would make it all worthwhile. Perhaps

in another year or two when the final phases were complete, and

the United States was even more exposed and defenseless than it

was right now, the job would be done.

Miles’ ruminating provided a calming influence during the inter-

minable months and years that distanced the cause and effect. In

the intelligence game, on the level that he had operated while

with the NSA, he would receive information, process it, make

recommendation and determinations, and that was that. Over.

Next.

Now though, Miles had designed the big picture, and that meant

long range planning. No more instant gratification. He was in

control, only partially, as he was meant to be. He was impressed

with the operation. That nothing had gone awry so far consoled

Miles despite the fact that Homosoto called him almost every day

to ask about another computer crime he had heard about.

This time is was Sovereign Bank. Homosoto had heard rumors that

they were being held hostage by hackers and was concerned that

some of Miles’ techies had gone out on their own.

Homosoto reacted to the Sovereign issue as he had many others

that he seemed so concerned about. Once Miles gave him an expla-

nation, he let the matter drop. Not without an appropriate warn-

ing to Miles, though, that he had better be right.

The number of computer crimes was increasing more rapidly than

Miles or anyone in the security field had predicted only a few

years ago and the legal issues were mounting faster than