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

be rewarded with behead-

ing.

However, there is one thing . . .

The geniuses who come up with the names for viral infections;

about as believable and laughable as a Batman comic.

I wonder what most of us would think if our doctor told us we had

the Ping Pong virus instead of strep throat. Or in spring time

we contracted the April Fool’s Virus.

It is entirely within the realm of reason that America’s comput-

ers go unprotected because of the sheer absurdity of the names we

attach to each one. Comical names create a comical situation, so

no one takes the issue seriously.

The Marijuana virus conjures up images of a stoned orgy, and why

would a computer care about that. The Fu Manchu virus conjures

up the Red Chinese Army crossing the Mississippi, which is clear-

ly not the case, so it is ignored.

Viruses know no national boundary. The Pakistani virus, the

Icelandic, the Israeli, Jerusalem A, Jerusalem B, Jerusalem C,

Lehigh, Alameda, Vienna, Czech, Rumanian – I found over 900

current and active viruses that are identified by their reputed

place of origin.

The Brain virus sounds more sinister than the Stoned Virus, and

Friday the 13th viruses are as popular as the movie sequels. The

Columbus Day Virus was actually dubbed by its authors as Data

Crime, and might have generated more concern if not for the nick-

nom-de-plume it inherited.

So to fulfill my editor’s dream, I will list a few of the more

creative virus names. Some were chosen by the programmers,

others by the Virus Busters and others yet by the media. See

what you think each virus would do to your computer, or when it

will strike, merely from the name.

The Vatican Virus The Popeye Virus The Garlic Virus The Scrooge Virus Teenage Mutant Ninja Virus The Ides Virus The Quaalude Virus The Amphetamine Virus Super Virus The Tick Tock Virus The String Virus The Black Hole Virus The Stupid Virus Stealth

I have a few of my own suggestions for future virus builders.

The Jewish Sex Virus (Dials your mother-in-law during a romantic

interlude.)

The Ronald Reagan Virus (Puts your computer to sleep only in

important meetings.)

The Pee Wee Herman Virus (Garbage In Garbage Out)

The Donald Trump Virus (Makes all of your spread sheets go into

the red.)

Tomorrow, Viruses from Hell on Geraldo.

Namely, this is Scott Mason.

Tuesday, December 29 Washington, D.C.

“Why the hell do I have to find out what’s going on in the world

from the goddamned papers and CNN instead of from the finest

intelligence services in the world?” The President snapped

sarcastically while sipping black coffee over his daily collec-

tion of U.S. and foreign papers.

The early morning ritual of coffee, newspapers and a briefing by

Chief of Staff Phil Musgrave provided the day with a smooth

start. Usually.

“I’ve been asking for weeks about this computer craziness. All I

get is don’t worry, Mr. President,” he said mimicking the classic

excuses he was sick and tired of hearing. “We have it taken care

of, Mr. President. No concern of yours, Mr. President, we have

everything under control. We temporarily have our thumbs up our

asses, Mr. President.” Phil stifled a giggle behind his napkin.

“I’m sorry, Phil,” the President continued, “but it irritates the

shit out of me. The damn media knowing more about what’s hap-

pening than we do. Where the hell is that report I asked for?

The one on the bank hostage I’ve been requesting for a week?”

The President’s mood portended a rough day for the inner circle.

“Sir, as I understand, it wasn’t ready for your desk yet.”

“Do the goddamned missiles have to land on the White House lawn

before we verify it’s not one of our own?”

Phil knew better than to attempt any dissuasion when the Presi-

dent got into these moods. He took notes, and with luck it would

blow over in a couple of days. Today was not Phil’s lucky day.

“I want a briefing. Two Hours.”

“Gentlemen,” the President said from behind his desk in the oval

office, “I’d like to read you something I had Brian put togeth-

er.” The efficiency of the White House Press Office under the

leadership of Brian Packard was well known. The President had

the best rapport with the press that any President had in a

generation.

He slipped on his aviator style glasses and pulled the lobe of

his left ear while reading from his desk. “Let’s start here.

Phone Company Invaded by Hackers; Stock Exchange Halted by Gov-

ernment Bomb; Computer Crime Costs Nation $12 Billion Annually;

Viruses Stop Network; Banks Lose Millions to Computer Embez-

zlers; Trojan Horse Defeats Government Computers; NASA Spending

Millions On Free Calls for Hackers.” He looked for a reaction

from his four key associates: Phil, Quinton Chambers, Martin

Royce and Henry Kennedy. “If you don’t know, these are headlines

from newspapers and magazines across the country.”

The President read further from his notes. “Viruses Infect

Trans-Insurance Payments; Secret Service Computers Invaded; NSA

and NIST in Security Rift; FBI Wasting Millions on Computer

Blackmail Scheme; First National Bank Held Hostage; Sperm Bank

Computer Records Erased; IRS Returns of the Super Rich.” The

President removed his glasses wanting answers.

“What is going on here, gentlemen?” the President asked directly.

“I am baffled that everyone else but me seems to know there’s a

problem, and that pisses me off. Answers?”

He wondered who would be the first to speak up. Surprisingly, it

was Henry, who normally waited to speak last. “Sir, we have

active programs in place to protect classified computer systems.”

“Then what are these about?” He waved a couple of sheets of

paper in the air.

“Of course we haven’t fully implemented security everywhere yet,

but it is an ongoing concern. According to NSA, the rash of

recent computer events are a combination of anomalies and the

press blowing it all out of proportion.”

“Do you believe Henry,” the President asked, “that if there’s

smoke, a reasonable man will assume that there is a fire nearby?”

Henry nodded obligingly. “And what would you think if there were

a hundred plumes of smoke rising?”

Henry felt stumped. “Jacobs assured me that he had everything

under control and . . .”

“As I recall Henry,” the President interrupted, “you told me that

a couple of months ago when the papers found out about the EMP-T

bombs. Do you recall, Henry?”

“Yessir,” he answered meekly.

“Then what happened?”

“We have to rely on available information, and as far as we know,

as far as we’re being told, these are very minor events that have

been sensationalized by the media.”

“It says here,” the President again donned his glasses, “Defense

Contractors Live with Hackers; Stealth Program Uncovered in

Defense Department Computers; Social Security Computers At Risk.

Are those minor events?” He pointed the question at not only

Henry.

“There was no significant loss of information,” Coletree rapidly

said. “We sewed up the holes before we were severely compro-

mised.”

“Wonderful,” the President said sarcastically. “And what ever

happened to that bank in Atlanta? Hiring Those kids?”

“If I may, sir?” Phil Musgrave filled the silence. “That was a

private concern, and we had no place to interfere – as is true in

most of these cases. We can only react if government property is

affected.”

“What is being done about it? Now I mean.”

“We have activated CERT and ECCO, independent computer crime

units to study the problem further.” As usual, Phil was impecca-

bly informed. “Last years the Secret Service and FBI arrested

over 70 people accused of computer crimes. The state of Pennsyl-

vania over 500, California 300. Remember, sir, computer crimes

are generally the states’ problems.”

“I’m wondering if it shouldn’t be our problem, too,” the Presi-

dent pondered.

“There are steps in that direction, as well. Next week the

Senate hearings on Privacy and Technology Containment begin, and

as I understand it, they will be focusing on exactly this issue.”

“Who’s running the show?” the President asked with interest.

“Ah,” Phil said ripping through his notes, “Rickfield, sir.”

“That bigot? Christ. I guess it could be worse. We could have

ended up with Homer Simpson.” The easing of tension worked to

the President’s advantage, for a brief moment. “I want the whole

picture, the good and the bad, laid out for me.” He scanned his

private appointment book. “Two weeks. Is that long enough to

find out why I’m always the last to know?”

Wednesday, December 30 New