"Terminal Compromise" by Winn Schwartau
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THE WORLD'S FIRST NOVEL-ON-THE-NET (tm) SHAREWARE!!!
By Inter.Pact Press
"TERMINAL COMPROMISE"
by Winn Schwartau
A high tech thriller that comes from today's headlines!
"The Tom Clancy of computer security."
Assoc. Prof. Dr. Karen Forcht, James Madison University
"Terminal Compromise" is a highly praised novel about the inva-
sion of the United States by computer terrorists.
Since it was first published in conventional print form, (ISBN:
0-962-87000-5) it has sold extremely well world-wide, but then
again, it never hit the New York Times Bestseller List either.
But that's OK, not many do.
Recently, someone we know very well came up with a real bright
idea. They suggested that INTER.PACT Press take the unprece-
dented, and maybe slightly crazy, step to put "Terminal Compro-
mise" on the Global Network thus creating a new category for book
publishers. The idea is to offer "Terminal Compromise," and
perhaps other titles at NOVEL-ON-THE-NET SHAREWARE(tm) rates to
millions of people who just don't spend a lot of time in book-
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phreakers and corporate types and government representatives that
putting "Terminal Compromise" on the net would be a fabulous step
forward into the Electronic Age, (Cyberspace if you will) and
would encourage other publishers to take advantage of electronic
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To the best of our knowledge, no semi-sorta-kinda-legitimate
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on.
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"Terminal Compromise" is NOT being entered into the public
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(C) 1991, 1992, 1993, Inter.Pact Press
TERMINAL COMPROMISE - THE REVIEWS
" . . . a must read . . ."
Digital News
"Schwartau knows about networks and security and creates an
interesting plot that will keep readers turning the pages."
Computer World
"Terminal Compromise is fast-paced and gripping. Schwartau
explains complex technology facilely and without condescension."
Government Computer News
"An incredibly fascinating tale of international intrigue . . .
action . . . characterization . . . deserves attention . . .
difficult to imagine a more comprehensive resource."
PC Laptop
"Schwartau . . . has a definite flair for intrigue and plot
twists. (He) makes it clear that the most important assets at
risk are America's right to privacy and our democratic ideals."
Personal Identification News
"I am all too familiar with the appalling realities in Mr.
Schwartau's book. (A) potentially catastrophic situation."
Chris Goggans, Ex-Legion of Doom Member.
" . . . chilling scenarios . . . ", "For light summer reading
with weighty implications . . . ", " . . . thought provoking,
sometimes chilling . . . "
Remember, it's only fiction. Or is it?
TERMINAL COMPROMISE: SYNOPSIS
"It's all about the information . . . the information."
From "Sneakers"
Taki Homosoto, silver haired Chairman of Japan's huge OSO Indus-
tries, survived Hiroshima; his family didn't. Homosoto promises
revenge against the United States before he dies. His passion-
ate, almost obsessive hatred of everything American finally comes
to a head when he acts upon his desires.
With unlimited resources, he comes up with the ultimate way to
strike back at the enemy. Miles Foster, a brilliant 33 year old
mathematician apparently isn't exactly fond of America either.
The National Security Agency wanted his skills, but his back-
ground and "family" connections kept him from advancing within the
intelligence community. His insatiable - borderline psychotic-
sex drive balances the intensity of waging war against his own
country to the highest bidder.
Scott Mason, made his fortune selling high tech toys to the
Pentagon. Now as a New York City Times reporter, Mason under-
stands both the good and the evil of technology and discovers
pieces of the terrible plot which is designed to destroy the
economy of the United States.
Tyrone Duncan, a physically huge 50-ish black senior FBI agent
who suffered through the Hoover Age indignities, befriends Scott
Mason. Tyrone provides the inside government track and confusion
from competing agencies to deal with the threats. His altruistic
and somewhat pure innate view of the world finally makes him do
the right thing.
As Homosoto's plan evolves, Arab zealots, German intelligence
agents and a host of technical mercenaries find the weaknesses in
our techno-economic infrastructure. Victims find themselves
under attack by unseen adversaries; Wall Street suffers debili-
tating blows; Ford and Chrysler endure massive shut downs. The
U.S. economy suffers a series of crushing blows.
From the White House to the Pentagon to the CIA to the National
Security Agency and FBI, a complex weaving of fascinating politi-
cal characters find themselves enmeshed a battle of the New World
Order. Sex, drugs, rock'n'roll: Tokyo, Vienna, Paris, Iraq,
Iran. It's all here.
Enjoy reading "Terminal Compromise."
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GETTING TERMINAL COMPROMISE:
You can get your copy of Terminal Compromise from a lot of
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It consists of either 2 or 5 files, depending upon how you re-
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****************************************************************
Note to the Readers of "Terminal Compromise:"
In writing a book like this, it is often difficult to distinguish
fact from fiction.
That is because the fiction is all too probable, and the facts
are unbelievable. Maybe it doesn't matter and they're the same
after all. Other than a few well known names and incidents, the
events in this book are fictional - to the best of my knowledge.
As I wrote this tale, I was endlessly coming upon new methods,
new tactics, new ways to wage computer warfare. I found that if
this story was to be told, I had to accept the fact that it would
always be unfinished. The battle of the computers is one without
an end in sight.
This story is an attempt to merge the facts as they are with the
possibilities. The delineation between fact and fiction is
clouded because the fiction of yesterday is the fact, the news,
of today. I expect that distinction to become hazier over the
next few years.
It is that incongruity that spawns a conjectured extrapolation
indistinguishable from reality.
The construction of the model that gave birth to this tale was
the culmination of many years of work, with a fictional narrative
being the last thing in my mind. That was an accident necessi-
tated by a need to reach the largest possible audience.
In fact, a lot of things have surprised me since "Terminal Com-
promise" was first published. It seemed that we were able to
predict a number of things including Polymorphics, Clipper Chips,
non-lethal warfare . . . and you'll recognize a few other prog-
nostications we didn't expect to come to pass quite yet.
The reader will soon know why.
There were many people who have been invaluable in the prepara-
tion of this document, but I'll only mention a few. If the
reader doesn't want to hear about my friends, please move on to
the next chapter.
Mary C. Bell. Hi, Mom. Thanks for the flashlight.
Lazarus Cuttman. The greatest editor a writer has ever had. He
kept me honest.
Miles Roban. That's an alias. He's the one who told me about
the real NSA. I hope he doesn't get in trouble for what he said.
I owe him a pound of M&Ms. 2 lbs. of them. (NOTE: For over two
years, according to 'high-up' sources, the NSA has been and still
is looking for 'Miles'. They haven't found him yet, despite an
intensive internal NSA search. We need more people like 'Miles'
who are willing to break down the conventional barriers of secu-
rity on issues that affect us all.)
Dad. God rest.
Winn Schwartau, July, 1993
****************************************************************
"Terminal Compromise" is dedicated to:
Sherra
There is no adequate way to say thank you. You are the super-glue
of the family. Let's continue to break the rules.
I Love You
Ashley
She wrote three books before I finished the first chapter and
then became a South-Paw.
Adam
Welcome, pilgrim.
****************************************************************
Prologue
Friday, January 12, The Year After
The White House, Washington D.C.
The President was furious. In all of his professional political
life, not even his closest aids or his wife had ever seen him so
totally out of character. The placid Southern confidence he
normally exuded, part well designed media image, part real, was
completely shattered.
"Are you telling me that we spent almost $4 trillion dollars,
four goddamn trillion dollars on defense, and we're not prepared
to defend our computers? You don't have a game plan? What the
hell have we been doing for the last 12 years?" The President
bellowed as loudly as anyone could remember. No one in the room
answered. The President glared right through each of his senior
aides.
"Damage Assessment Potential?" The President said abruptly as he
forced a fork full of scrambled eggs into his mouth.
"The Federal Reserve and most Banking transactions come to a
virtual standstill. Airlines grounded save for emergency opera-
tions. Telephone communications running at 30% or less of
capacity. No Federal payments for weeks. Do you want me to
continue?"
"No, I get the picture."
The President wished to God he wouldn't be remembered as the
President who allowed the United States of America to slip back-
ward 50 years. He waited for the steam in his collar to subside
before saying anything he might regret.
* * * * *
Monday, August 6, 1945.
Japan
The classroom was coming to order. Shinzo Ito, the 12th graders'
instructor was running a few minutes late and the students were
in a fervent discussion about the impending end to the war. And
of course it was to be a Japanese victory over the American
Mongrels.
Ito-san was only 19 years old, and most of the senior class was
only a year or two younger than he. The war had deeply affected
all of them. The children of Japan were well acquainted with
suffering and pain as families were wrenched apart - literally at
the seams, and expected to hold themselves together by the honor
that their sacrifices represented. They hardened, out of neces-
sity, in order to survive and make it through the next day, the
next week; and so they knew much about the war. Since so many of
the men had gone to war, women and children ran the country. 10
and 11 year old students from the schools worked as phone opera-
tors. It was an honorable cause, and everyone contributed; it was
only fitting. Their fathers and loved ones were fighting self-
lessly and winning the war.
Many of the children's fathers had gone to war, valiantly, and
many had not come home. Many came home in pieces, many others,
unrecognizable. And when some fathers had gone off to war, both
they and their families knew that would never return. They were
making the Supreme Sacrifice for their country, and more impor-
tantly, a contribution to their honorable way of life.
The sons and daughters of kamikazes were treated with near rever-
ence. It was widely believed that their father's honor was
handed down to their offspring as soon as word had been received
the mission had been successful. Albeit a suicide mission.
Taki Homosoto was one 17 year old boy so revered for his father's
sacrifice. Taki spoke confidently about such matters, about the
war, about American atrocities, and how Japan would soon defeat
the round faced enemy. Taki had understood, on his 17th birthday
that his father would leave . . .and assuredly die as was the
goal of the kamikaze. He pretended to understand that it made
sense to him.
In the last 6 months since his father had left, Taki assumed, at
his father's request, the patriarchal role in the immediate
family. The personal anguish had been excruciating. While
friends and family and officials praised Taki's father and fami-
ly, inside Taki did not accept that a man could willingly leave
his family, his children, him . . .Taki, never to return. Didn't
his father love him? Or his sister and brother? Or his mother?
Taki's mother got a good job at one of the defense plants that
permeated Hiroshima, while Taki and his brother and sister con-
tinued their schooling. But the praise, the respect didn't make
up for not having a father to talk to, to play with and to study
with. He loved his mother, but she wasn't a father.
So Taki compensated and overcompensated and pretended that his
father's sacrifice was just, and good, and for the better of
society, and the war effort and his family. Taki spoke as a
juvenile expert on the war and the good of Japan and the bad of
the United States and the filthy Americans with their unholy
practices and perverted ways of life, and how they tortured
Japanese prisoners. Taki was an eloquent and convincing orator
to his piers and instructors alike.
At 8:15 A.M., the Hiroshima radio station, NHK, rang its old
school bell. The bell was part of a warning system that an-
nounced impending attacks from the air, but it had been so over-
used that it was mostly ignored. The tolls from the bell were
barely noticed by the students or the teachers in the Honkawa
School. Taki though, looked out the window toward the Aioi
Bridge. His ears perked and his eyes scanned the clear skies over
downtown Hiroshima. He was sure he heard something . . .but
no . . .
The first sensation of motion in the steel reinforced building
came long seconds after the blinding light. Since the rolling
earth motions in 1923 devastated much of Tokyo, schoolchildren
and households nationwide practiced earthquake preparedness and
were reasonably expectant of another major tremor at any time.
But the combination of light from 10,000 suns and the deafening
roar gave those who survived the blast reason to wish they had-
n't. Blindness was instant for those who saw the sky ignite.
The classroom was collapsing around them. In the air was the
noise of a thousand trains at once...even louder. In seconds the
schoolhouse was in rubble.
The United States of American had just dropped the Atomic Bomb
on Hiroshima, Japan. This infamous event would soon be known as
ayamachi - the Great Mistake.
* * * * *
Tuesday, August 7, 1945
Taki Homosoto opened his eyes. He knew he was laying on his
back, but all else was a clutter of confusion. He saw a dark
ceiling, to what he didn't know and he hurt He turned his head
and saw he was on a cot, maybe a bed, in a long corridor with
many others around him. The room reeked of human waste and
death.
"Ah . . .you are awake. It has been much time." The voice came
from behind him. He turned his head rapidly and realized he
shouldn't have. The pain speared him from his neck to the base
of his spine. Taki grimaced and made a feeble attempt at whim-
pering. He said nothing as he examined the figure in the white
coat who spoke again. "You are a very lucky young man, not many
made it."
What was he talking about . . .made it? Who? His brain wanted
to speak but his mouth couldn't. A slight gurgling noise ushered
from his throat but nothing else. And the pain . . .it was
everywhere at once . . .all over . . .he wanted to cry for
help . . .but was unable. The pain overtook Taki Homosoto and
the vision of the doctor blackened until there was no more.
Much later, Taki reawoke. He assumed it was a long time later,
he been awake earlier . . .or had that been a dream. The
doctor...no he was in school and the earthquake . . .yes, the
earthquake . . .why don't I remember? I was knocked out. Of
course. As his eyes adjusted to the room, he saw and remembered
that it wasn't a dream. He saw the other cots, so many of them,
stretching in every direction amidst the cries of pain and sighs
of death.
Taki tried to cry out to a figure walking nearby but only a low
pitched moan ushered forth. Then he noticed something
odd . . .and odd smell. One he didn't recognize. It was
foul . . .the stench of burned . . .burned what? The odor made
him sick and he tried to breathe through his mouth but the awful
odor still penetrated his glands. Taki knew that he was very
hurt and very sick and so were a lot of others. It took him some
time, and a lot of energy just to clear his thoughts. Thinking
hurt - it concentrated the aching in his head, but the effort
took away some of his other pain, or at least it successfully
distracted him focussing on it.
There were cries from all around. Many were incomprehensible
babblings, obviously in agony. Screams of "Eraiyo!", ("the pain
is unbearable!") were constant. Others begged to be put out of
their misery. Taki actually felt fortunate; he couldn't have
screamed if he had wanted to, but out of guilt he no longer felt
the need to.
Finally, the same doctor, was it the same doctor? appeared over
his bed again. "I hope you'll stay with us for a few minutes?"
The doctor smiled. Taki responded as best he could. With a
grunt and the raising and lowering his eyelids. "Let me just say
that you are in very good condition . . .much better than the
others," the doctor gestured across the room. "I don't mean to
sound cruel, but, we do need your bed, for those seriously hurt."
The doctor sounded truly distraught. What had happened?
A terrified look crossed Taki's face that ceded into a facial
plead. His look said, "I can't speak so answer my
questions . . .you must know what they are. Where am I? What
happened? Where is my class?"
"I understand your name is Taki Homosoto?" the doctor asked.
"Your school identification papers . . ."
Taki blinked an affirmative as he tried to cough out a response.
"There is no easy way to tell this. We must all be brave. Ameri-
ca has used a terrible weapon upon the people of Japan. A spe-
cial new bomb so terrible that Hiroshima is no longer even a
shadow of itself. A weapon where the sky turns to fire and build-
ings and our people melt . . .where the water sickens the living
and those who seem well drop in their steps from an invisible
enemy. Almost half of the people of Hiroshima are dead or dying.
As I said, you are a lucky one."
Taki helped over the next days at the Communications Hospital in
what was left of downtown Hiroshima. When he wasn't tending to
the dying, he moved the dead to the exits so the bodies could be
cremated, the one way to insure eternal salvation. The city got
much of its light from pyres for weeks after the blasts.
He helped distribute the kanpan and cold rice balls to the very
few doctors and to survivors who were able to eat. He walked the
streets of Hiroshima looking for food, supplies, anything that
could help. Walking through the rubble of what once was Hiroshi-
ma fueled his hate and his loathing for Americans. They had
wrought this suffering by using their pikadon, or flash-boom
weapon, on civilians, women and children. He saw death, terrible,
ugly death, everywhere; from Hijiyama Hill to the bridges a cross
the wide Motoyas River.
The Aioi bridge spontaneously became an impromptu symbol for
vengeance against the Americans. Taki crossed the remnants of
the old stone bridge, which was to be the hypocenter of the blast
if the Enola Gay hadn't missed its target by 800 feet. A tall
blond man in an American military uniform was tied to a stone
post. He was an American POW, one of 23 in Hiroshima. A few
dozen people, women in bloodstained kimonos and mompei and near
naked children were hurling rocks and insults at the lifeless
body. How appropriate thought Taki. He found himself mindlessly
joining in. He threw rocks at the head, the body, the legs. He
threw rocks and yelled. He threw rocks and yelled at the remains
of the dead serviceman until his arms and lungs ached.
Another 50,000 Japanese died from the effects of radiation within
days while Taki continued to heal physically. On August 17, 9
days after the atomic bombing of Nagasaki and 2 days after Emper-
or Hirohito's broadcast announcing Japan's surrender, a typhoon
swamped Hiroshima and killed thousands more. Taki blamed the
Americans for the typhoon, too.
Taki was alone for the first time in his life. His family dead,
even his little sister. Taki Homosoto was now a hibakusha, a
survivor of Hiroshima, an embarrassing and dishonorable fact he
would desperately try to conceal for the rest of his life.
* * * * *
Forty Years Later . . .
January, 1985, Gaithersburg, Maryland.
A pristine layer of thick soft snow covered the sprawling office
and laboratory filled campus where the National Bureau of Stand-
ards sets standards for the country. The NBS establishes exactly
what the time is, to the nearest millionth of a millionth of a
second. They make sure that we weigh things to the accuracy of
the weight of an individual atom. The NBS is a veritable techno-
logical benchmark to which everyone agrees, if for no other
reason than convenience.
It was the NBS's turn to host the National Computer Security
Conference where the Federal government was ostensibly supposed
to interface with academia and the business world. At this
exclusive symposium, only two years before, the Department of
Defense introduced a set of guidelines which detailed security
specifications to be used by the Federal agencies and recommended
for the private sector.
A very dry group of techno-wizards and techno-managers and tech-
no-bureaucrats assemble for several days, twice a year, to dis-
cuss the latest developments in biometric identifications tech-
niques, neural based cryptographic analysis, exponential factor-
ing in public key management, the subtleties of discretionary
access control and formalization of verification models.
The National Computer Security Center is a Department of Defense
working group substantially managed by the super secret National
Security Agency. The NCSC's charter in life is to establish
standards and procedures for securing the US Government's comput-
ers from compromise.
1985's high point was an award banquet with slightly ribald
speeches. Otherwise the conference was essentially a maze of
highly complex presentations, meaningless to anyone not well
versed in computers, security and government-speak. An attend-
ee's competence could be well gauged by his use of acronyms. "If
the IRS had DAC across its X.25 gateways, it could integrate
X9.17 management, DES, MAC and X9.9 could be used throughout.
Save the government a bunch!" "Yeah, but the DoD had an RFI for
an RFQ that became a RFP, specced by NSA and based upon TD-80-81.
It was isolated, environmentally speaking." Boring, thought
Miles Foster. Incredibly boring, but it was his job to sit,
listen and learn.
Miles Foster was a security and communications analyst with the
National Security Agency at Fort Meade, Maryland. It was part of
the regimen to attend such functions to stay on top of the latest
developments from elsewhere in the government and from university
and private research programs.
Out of the 30 or so panels that Miles Foster had to attend, pro
forma, only one held any real interest for him. It was a mathe-
matical presentation entitled, "Propagation Tendencies in Self
Replicating Software". It was the one subject title from the
conference guide about which he knew nothing. He tried to figure
out what the talk was going to be about, but the answer escaped
him until he heard what Dr. Les Brown had to say.
Miles Foster wrote an encapsulated report of Dr. Brown's presen-
tation with the 23 other synopses he was required to generate for
the NSA. Proof of Attendance.
SUBJECT:
Dr. Les Brown - Professor of Computer Science, Sheffield Univer-
sity. Dr. Brown presented an updated version of his PhD thesis.
CONTENTS:
Dr. Brown spoke about unique characteristics of certain software
that can be written to be self-replicating. He examined the
properties of software code in terms of set theory and adequately
demonstrated that software can be written with the sole purpose
of disguising its true intents, and then replicate or clone
itself throughout a computer system without the knowledge of the
computer's operators.
He further described classes of software that, if designed for
specific purposes, would have undetectable characteristics. In
the self replicating class, some would have crystalline behav-
iors, others mutating behaviors, and others random behaviors.
The set theory presentations closely paralleled biological trans-
mission characteristics and similar problems with disease detec-
tion and immunization.
It became quite clear from the Dr. Brown's talk, that surrepti-
tiously placed software with self-replicating properties could
have deleterious effects on the target computing system.
CONCLUSIONS
It appears prudent to further examine this class of software and
the ramifications of its use. Dr. Brown presented convincing
evidence that such propagative effects can bypass existing pro-
tective mechanisms in sensitive data processing environments.
There is indeed reason to believe that software of this nature
might have certain offensive military applications. Dr. Brown
used the term 'Virus' to describe such classes of software.
Signed, Miles Foster
Senior Analyst
Y-Group/SF6-143G-1
After he completed his observations of the conference as a whole,
and the seminars in particular, Miles Foster decided to eliminate
Dr. Brown's findings from the final submission to his superiors.
He wasn't sure why he left it out, it just seemed like the right
thing to do.
****************************************************************
Chapter 1
August, 4 Years Ago.
National Security Agency
Fort George S. Meade, Maryland.
Thousands of disk drives spun rapidly, at over 3600 rpm. The
massive computer room, Computer Room C-12, gently whirred and
droned with a life of its own. The sublime, light blue walls and
specially fitted blue tint light bulbs added a calming influence
to the constant urgency that drove the computer operators who
pushed buttons, changed tapes and stared at the dozens of amber
screens on the computers.
Racks upon racks of foreboding electronic equipment rung the
walls of Room C-12 with arrays of tape drives interspersed. Rats
nests of wire and cable crept along the floor and in and out of
the control centers for the hundreds of millions of dollars of
the most sophisticated computers in the world. Only five years
ago, computing power of this magnitude, now fit in a room the
size of an average house would have filled the Pentagon. All of
this, all of this power, for one man.
Miles Foster was locked in a room without windows. It contained a
table, 4 chairs, and he was sure a couple of cameras and micro-
phones. He had been held for a least six hours, maybe more; they
had taken his watch to distort his time perception.
Within 2 minutes of the time Miles Foster announced his resigna-
tions as a communications expert with the National Security
Agency, S Group, his office was sealed and guarded by an armed
marine. His computer was disconnected, and he was escorted to a
debriefing room where he had sporadically answered questions
asked by several different Internal Affairs Security Officers.
While Miles Foster was under virtual house arrest, not the pre-
ferred term, but an accurate one, the Agency went to work. From
C-12, a group of IAS officers began to accumulate information
about Miles Foster from a vast array of computer memory banks.
They could dial up any major computer system within the United
States, and most around the world. The purpose, ostensibly, of
having such power was to centralize and make more efficient
security checks on government employees, defense contractors and
others who might have an impact on the country's national securi-
ty. But, it had other purposes, too.
Computer Room C-12 is classified above Top Secret, it's very
existence denied by the NSA, the National Security Agency, and
unknown to all but a very few of the nation's top policy makers.
Congress knows nothing of it and the President was only told
after it had been completed, black funded by a non-line item
accountable budget. Computer Room C-12 is one of only two
electronic doors into the National Data Base - a digital reposi-
tory containing the sum total knowledge and working profiles of
every man, woman and child in the United States. The other
secret door that guards America's privacy is deep within the
bowels of the Pentagon.
From C-12, IAS accessed every bank record in the country in
Miles' name, social security number or in that of his immediate
family. Savings, checking, CD's. They had printouts, within
seconds, of all of their last year's credit card activity. They
pulled 3 years tax records from the IRS, medical records from the
National Medical Data Base which connects hospitals nationwide,
travel records from American carriers, customs checks, video
rental history, telephone records, stock purchases. Anything that
any computer ever knew about Miles Foster was printed and put
into eleven 6" thick files within 2 hours of the request from the
DIRNSA, Director, National Security Agency.
Internal Affairs was looking for some clue as to why a successful
and highly talented analyst like Miles Foster would so abruptly
resign a senior analyst position. While Miles was more than
willing to tell them his feelings, and the real reasons behind
his resignation, they wanted to make sure that there weren't a
few little details he wasn't telling them. Like, perhaps gam-
bling debts, women on the side, (he was single) or women on the
wrong side, overextended financial obligations, anything unusual.
Had he suddenly come into money and if he did, where did he get
it? Blackmail was considered a very real possibility when unex-
pected personnel changes occur.
The files vindicated Miles Foster of any obvious financial anoma-
lies. Not that he knew he needed vindication. He owned a Potomac
condominium in D.C., a 20 minutes against traffic commute to Fort
Meade where he had worked for years, almost his entire profes-
sional life. He traveled some, Caribbean cruises, nothing osten-
tatious but in style, had a reasonable savings account, only used
2 credit cards and he owed no one anything significant. There was
nothing unusual about his file at all, unless you think that
living within ones means is odd. Miles Foster knew how to make
the most out of a dollar. Miles Foster was clean.
The walls of his drab 12 foot square prison room were a dirty
shade of government gray. There was an old map on the wall and
Miles noticed that the gray paint behind the it was 7 shades
lighter than the surrounding paint. Two of the four fluorescent
bulbs were out, hiding some of the peeling paint on the ceiling.
Against one wall was a row of file cabinets with large iron bars
behind the drawer handles, insuring that no one, no one, was
getting into those file with permission. Also prominent on each
file cabinet was a tissue box sized padlock.
Miles was alone, again. When the IAS people questioned him, they
were hard on him. Very hard. But most of the time he was alone.
Miles paced the room during the prolonged waits. He poked here
and there, under this, over that; he found the clean paint behind
the map and smirked.
When the IAS men returned, they found Miles stretching and exer-
cising his svelte 5' 9" physique to help relieve the boredom.
He was 165 lbs. and in excellent for almost 40. Miles wasn't a
fitness nut, but he enjoyed the results of staying in shape -
women, lots of women. He had a lightly tanned Mediterranean
skin, dark, almost black wavy hair on the longish side but immac-
ulately styled. His demeanor dripped elegance, even when he wore
torn jeans, and he knew it. It was merely another personal asset
that Miles had learned how to use to his best advantage. Miles
was regularly proofed. He had a face that would permit him to
assume any age from 20 to 40, but given his borderline arrogance,
he called it aloofness, most considered him the younger. None-
theless, women, of all ages went for it.
One peculiar trait made women and girls find Miles irresistible.
He had an eerie but conscious muscular control over his dimples.
If he were angry, a frown could mean any number of things depend-
ing upon how he twitched his dimples. A frown could mean, "I'm
real angry, seriously", or "I'm just giving you shit", or "You
bore me, go away", or more to Miles' purpose, "You're gorgeous, I
wanna fuck your brains out". His dimples could pout with a
smile, grin with a sneer, emphasize a question; they could accent
and augment his mood at will.
But now. he was severely bored. Getting even more disgusted with
the entire process. The IAS wasn't going to find anything. He
had made sure of that. After all, he was the computer expert.
Miles heard the sole door to the room unlock. It was a heavy, 'I
doubt an ax could even get through this' door. The fourth IAS
man to question Miles entered the room as the door was relocked
from the other side.
"So, tell us again, why did you quit?" The IAS man abruptly
blurted out even before sitting in one of the old, World War II
vintage chairs by the wooden table.
"I've told you a hundred times and you have it on tape a hundred
times." The disgust in his voice was obvious and intended. "I
really don't want to go through it again."
"Tough shit. I want to hear it. You haven't told me yet." This
guy was tougher, Miles thought.
"What are you looking for? For God's sake, what do you want me
to say? You want a lie that you like better? Tell me what it is
and I'll give it back to you, word for word. Is that what you
want?" Miles gave away something. He showed, for the first
time, real anger. The intellect in Miles saw what the emotion
was doing, so his brain quickly secreted a complex string of
amino acids to call him down. Miles decided that he should go
back to the naive, 'what did I do?' image and stick to the plan.
He put his head in his hands and leaned forward for a second. He
gently shook and looked up sideways. He was very convincing.
The IAS man thought that Miles might be weakening.
"I want the fucking truth," the IAS man bellowed. "And I want it
now!"
Miles sighed. He was tired and wanted a cigarette so bad he
could shit, and that pleasure, too, he was being denied. But he
had prepared himself for this eventuality; serious interrogation.
"O.K., O.K." Miles feigned resignation. He paused for another
heavy sigh. "I quit 'cause I got sick of the shit. Pure and
simple. I like my work, I don't like the bureaucracy that goes
with it. That's it. After over 10 years here, I expected some
sort of recognition other than a cost of living increase like
every other G12. I want to go private where I'll be appreciated.
Maybe even make some money."
The IAS man didn't look convinced. "What single event made you
quit? Why this morning, and not yesterday or tomorrow, or the
next day, or next week. Why today?" The IAS man blew smoke at
Miles to annoy him and exaggerate the withdrawal symptoms. Miles
was exhausted and edgy.
"Like I said, I got back another 'don't call us, we'll call you'
response on my Public-Private key scheme. They said, 'Not yet
practical' and set it up for another review in 18 months. That
was it. Finis! The end, the proverbial straw that you've been
looking for. Is that what you want?" Miles tried desperately to
minimize any display of arrogance as he looked at the IAS man.
"What do you hope to do in the private sector? Most of your work
is classified." The IAS man remained cool and unflustered.
"Plenty of defense guys who do crypto and need a good comm guy. I
think the military call it the revolving door." Miles' dimpled
smugness did not sit well with IAS.
"Yeah, you'll probably go to work for your wop friends in
Sicily." The IAS man sarcastically accused.
"Hey - you already know about that!" That royally pissed off
Miles. He didn't appreciate any dispersion on his heritage.
"They're relatives, that's it. Holidays, food, turkey, ham, and
a bunch of booze. And besides," Miles paused and smiled,
"there's no such thing as the Mafia."
By early evening they let him relieve himself and then finally
leave the Fort. He was given 15 minutes to collect his personal
items, under guard, and then escorted to the front gate. All
identification was removed and his files were transferred into
the 'Monitor' section, where they would sit for at least one
year. The IAS people had finally satisfied themselves that Miles
Foster was a dissatisfied, underpaid government employee who had
had enough of the immobility and rigidity of a giant bureaucratic
machine that moves at a snails pace. Miles smiled at the end of
the interrogation. Just like I said, he thought, just like I
said.
There was no record in his psychological profiles, those from the
Agency shrinks, that suggested Miles meant anything other than
what he claimed. Let him go, they said. Let him go. Nowhere in
the records did it show how much he hated his stupid, stupid
bosses, the bungling bureaucratic behemoths who didn't have the
first idea of what he and his type did. Nowhere did Miles'
frustration and resultant build up of resentment and anger show
up in any file or on any chart or graph. His strong, almost
overbearing ego and over developed sense of worth and importance
were relegated to a personality quirk common to superbright
ambitious engineering types. It fit the profile.
Nowhere, either, was it mentioned that in years at NSA, Miles
Foster had submitted over 30 unsolicited proposals for changes in
cryptographic and communications techniques to improve the secu-
rity of the United States. Nowhere did it say, they were all
turned down, tabled, ignored.
At one point or another, Miles had to snap. The rejection of
proposal number thirty-four gave Miles the perfect reason to
quit.
* * * * *
Miles Foster looked 100% Italian despite the fact his father was
a pure Irishman. "Stupido, stupido" his grandmother would say
while slamming the palm of her hand into forehead. She was not
exactly fond of her daughter marrying outside family. But, it was
a good marriage, 3 great kids, or as good as kids get and Grand-
mama tolerated the relationship. Miles the oldest, was only 7
when his father got killed as a bystander at a supermarket rob-
bery.
Mario Dante, his homosexual uncle who worked in some undefined,
never mentioned capacity for a Vegas casino, assumed the pater-
nal role in raising Miles. With 2 sisters, a mother, an aunt and
a grandmother all living under the same roof with Miles, any
male companionship, role model if you will, was acceptable.
Mario kept the Family Honor, keeping his sexual proclivities
secret until Miles turned 18. Upon hearing, Miles commented,
"Yeah, so? Everyone knows Uncle Mario's a fag. Big deal."
Mario was a big important guy, and he did business, grownup
business. That was all Miles was supposed to know. When Miles
was 13, Mario thought it would be a good idea for him to become
a man. Only 60 miles from Las Vegas lived the country's only
legal brothels. Very convenient. Miles wasn't going to fool
around with any of that street garbage. Convention girls. Miles
should go first class the first time.
Pahrump, Nevada is home to the only legalized prostitution in the
United States. Mario drove fast, Miles figured about 130mph, in
his Red Ferrari on Highway 10, heading West from Vegas. Mario
was drinking Glen Fetitch, neat, and he steered with only one
hand, hardly looking at the road.
The inevitable occurred. Gaining on them, was a Nevada State
Trooper. The flashing lights and siren reminded Mario to slow
down and pull over. He grinned, sipped his drink and Miles
worried. Speeding was against the law. So was drinking and
driving. The police officer walked over to the driver side of the
Ferrari. Uncle Mario lowered the window to let the officer lean
into the car. As the trooper bent over to look inside the
flashy low slung import, Mario pulled out a handgun from under
the seat and stuck it into the cop's face.
Mario started yelling. "Listen asshole, I wasn't speeding. Was I?
I don't want nothing to go on my insurance. I gotta good driving
record, y'know?" Mario was crazy! Miles had several strong urges
to severely contract his sphincter muscles.
"No sir, I wanted to give you a good citizenship citation, for
your contributions to the public good." The cop laughed in Uncle
Mario's face.
"Good to see you still gotta sensa'humor." Uncle Mario laughed
and put the gun back in his shoulder holster. Miles stared,
dumbfounded, still squeezing his butt cheeks tight.
"Eh, Paysan! Where you going so fired up? You know the limit's
110?" They both guffawed.
"Here!" Mario pointed at Miles. "'Bout time the kid took a ride
around the world, y'know what I mean?" Miles wasn't sure what
he meant, but he was sure it had to do with where he was going to
lose his virginity.
"Sheeeee-it! Uptown! Hey kid, ask for Michelle and take 2 from
Column B, then do it once for me!" Even though they weren't, to
a 13 year male Italian virgin, Mario and the cop were making fun
of him. "I remember my first time. It was in a pick up truck,
out in the desert. Went for fucking ever! Know what I mean?
The cop winked at Miles who was humiliated. To Miles' relief,
Mario finally gave the cop an envelope, while being teasingly
reprimanded. "Hey, Mario, take it a little easy out here, will
yah? At least on my watch, huh?"
"Yeah, sure. No problem. Ciao."
"Ciao."
They were off again, doing over 100mph in seconds. The rest of
the evening went as planned. Miles thanked his uncle in a way
that brought tears to Mario's eyes. Miles said, "You know, Uncle
Mario. When I grow up, I want to be just like you."
* * * * *
"He's just a boy, Mario! How could you!" Miles' mother did not
react favorably to the news of her son's manhood. She was trying
to protect him from the influence of her relatives. Miles was
gauged near genius with a pronounced aptitude for mathematics and
she didn't want his life to go to waste.
His mother had married outside of the family, the organized crime
culture, the life one inherits so easily. She loved her family,
knew that they dealt in gambling, some drugs, an occasional
rough-up of an opponent, but preferred to ignore it. She mar-
ried a man she loved, not one picked for he, but had lost him 6
years before. They _could not_ have her son.
Her wishes were respected, in the memory of Miles father, and
also because it wasn't worth having a crazed Sicilian woman rant-
ing and raving all about. But Miles was delectable bait to the
Family. His mathematical wizardry could assist greatly in gaming
operations, figure the odds, new angles, keep the dollars in the
house's favor despite all advertising claims to the contrary.
But, there was respect and honor in their promise to his mother.
Hands off was the rule that came all the way from the top. He
was protected. Miles was titillated with the attention, but he
still listened to his mother. She came before all others. With
no father, she became a little of both, and despite anyone's
attempts, Miles knew about Mario.
Miles was such a subject of adoration by his mother, aunt and
grandmother, siblings aside, that Miles came to expect the same
treatment from everyone, especially women. They praised him so,
he always got top honors, the best grades, that he came to re-
quire the attention and approval.
Living with 5 women and a gay uncle for 11 years had its effect.
Miles was incredibly heterosexual. Not anti-gay at all, not at
all. But he had absolutely no interest in men. He adored women,
largely because of his mother. He put women on pedestals, and
treated them like queens. Even on a beer budget Miles could
convince his lady that they were sailing the Caribbean while
baking in the desert suburbs of Las Vegas. Women succumbed,
willingly, to Miles' slightest advance. He craved the approval,
and worked long and hard to perfect his technique. Miles Foster
was soon an expert. His mother never openly disapproved which
Miles took as approval.
By the time Miles went off to college study advanced mathematics
and get a degree, he had shattered half of the teen-age hearts
within 50 miles of Vegas. Plus, the admiration from his female
family had allowed him to convince himself that he was going to
change the world. He was the single most important person that
could have an effect on civilization. Invincible. Can do no
wrong. Miles was the end-all to be-all. If Miles said it, it
must be so, and he bought into the program. What his mother or
girl friends called self confidence others called conceit and
arrogance. Even obnoxious.
His third love, after his mother and himself, was mathematics.
He believed in mathematics as the answer to every problem. All
questions can be reduced to formulas and symbols. Then, once you
have them on a piece of paper, or in a computer . . .the answer
will appear.
His master thesis was on that very subject. It was a brilliant
soliloquy on the reducibility of any multi-dimensional condition
to a defined set of measured properties. He postulated that all
phenomenon was discrete in nature and none were continuous.
Given that arguable position, he was able to develop a set of
mathematical tools that would permit dissection of a problem into
much smaller pieces. Once in manageable sizes, the problem would
be worked out piece by piece until the pieces were reassembled as
the answer. It was a tool that had very definite uses in the
government.
He was recruited by the Government in 1976. They wanted him to
put his ingenious techniques to good use. The National Security
Agency painted an idyllic picture of the ultimate job for a
mathematician - the biggest, fastest and best computers in the
world at your fingertips. Always the newest and the best. What-
ever you need, it'll be there. And that's a promise. Super
secret important work - oh how his mother would be proud. Miles
accepted, but they never told him the complete truth. Not that
they lied, of course. However, they never bothered to tell him,
that because of his family background, guilt by association if
you wish, his career would be severely limited.
Miles made it to senior analyst, and his family was proud, but
he never told them that over 40% of the staff in his area were
senior analysts. It was a high tech desk job that required his
particular skills as a mathematician. The NSA got from Miles what
they wanted; his mathematical tools modified to work for govern-
ment security projects. For a couple of years, Miles happily
complied - then he got itchy to work on other projects. After
all, he had come up with the idea in the first place, it was time
he came up with another. Time to move on.
In typical bureaucratic manner, the only way to get something new
done is to write a proposal; enlist support and try to push it
through committee. Everyone made proposals. You not only needed
a good idea for a good project, good enough to justify the use of
8 billion dollars worth of computers, but you needed the connec-
tions and assistance of others. You scratch mine, I'll scratch
yours.
During his tenure at NSA, Miles attempted to institute various
programs, procedures, new mathematical modes that might be use-
ful. While technically his concepts were superior, his arro-
gance, his better-than-everyone, my shit doesn't stink attitude
proved to be an insurmountable political obstacle. He was unable
to ever garner much support for his proposals. Thus, not one of
them was ever taken seriously. Which compounded the problem and
reinforced Miles' increasingly sour attitude towards his employ-
er. However, with dimples in command, Miles successfully masked
his disdain. To all appearance he acceded to the demands of the
job, but off the job, Miles Foster was a completely different
person.
* * * * *
The telephone warbled on the desk of the IAS Department Chief.
The digital readout on the phone told him that it was an internal
call, not from outside the building, but he didn't recognize the
number.
"Investigations," The chief answered.
"This is Jacobs. We're checking up on Foster."
"Yessir?" DIRNSA? Calling here?
"Is he gone?"
"Yessir."
"Anything?"
"No sir."
"Good. Close the file."
"Sir?"
"Close it. Forever."
* * * * *
September, 4 Years Ago
Georgetown, Washington, D.C.
Miles Foster set up shop in Washington D.C. as a communications
security consultant. He and half of those who lived within
driving distance of the Capitol were known as Beltway Bandits, a
simultaneously endearing and self-deprecating title given to
those who make their living selling products or services to the
Federal Government. Miles was ex-NSA and that was always impres-
sive to potential clients. He let it be known that his services
would now be available to the private sector, at the going rates.
As part of the revolving door, from Government to industry,
Miles' value would decrease with time, so he needed to get a few
clients quickly. The day you leave public service all of your
knowledge is current, and therefore valuable, especially to
companies who want to sell widgets to the government. As the
days and months wear on, new policies, new people, new arrange-
ments and confederacies are in place. Washington's transient
nature is probably no more evident than through the political
circle where everyone is aware of whom is talking to whom and
about what. This Miles knew, so he stuck out his tentacles to
maximize his salability.
He restructured his dating habits. Normally Miles would date
women whom he knew he could fuck. He kept track of their men-
strual cycles to make sure they wouldn't waste his time. If he
thought a particular female had extraordinary oral sex skills, he
would make sure to seduce when she had her period. Increased the
odds of good blow job.
Now though, Miles restricted his dating, temporarily, to those
who could help start his career in the private sector. "Fuck the
secretary to get to the boss!" he bragged unabashedly.
Miles dragged himself to many of the social functions that grease
the wheels of motion in Washington. The elaborate affairs,
often at the expense of government contractors and lobbyists,
were a highly visible, yet totally legal way to shmooze and booze
with the influentia in the nation's capital. The better parties,
the ones for generals, for movers and for shakers, for digni-
taries and others of immediate importance, are graced with a
generous sprinkling of strikingly beautiful women. They are paid
for by the hosts, for the pleasure of the their guests. The
Washington culture requires that such services are discreetly
handled. Expense reports and billings of that nature therefore
cite French Caterers, C.T. Temps, Formal Rentals and countless
other harmless, inoffensive and misleading sounding company
names.
Missile Defense Systems, Inc. held one of the better parties in
an elegant old 2 story brick Georgetown home. The building was a
former embassy, which had been discarded long ago by its owners
in favor of a neo-modern structure on Reservoir Road. The house
was appointed with a strikingly southern ante-bellum flair, but
tastefully done, not overly decorated. The furniture was modern,
comfortable, meant to be and used enjoyed, yet well suited to the
classic formality.
The hot September night was punctuated with an occasional breeze.
The breaths of relief from Washington's muggy, swamp-like summer
air were welcomed by those braving the heat in the manicured
gardens outside, rather than the refreshing luxury of the air
conditioned indoors.
It was a straight cocktail party, a stand-up affair, with a
hundred or so Pentagon types attending. It began at seven, and
unless tradition was broken, it would be over by 10 as the last
of the girls finds her way into a waiting black limousine with
her partner for the night. Straight politics, Miles thought.
9:30 neared, and Miles felt he had accomplished most of what he
had set out to do - meet people, sell himself, play the game,
talk the line, do the schtick. He hadn't, though, yet figured
out how he was going to get laid tonight.
As he sipped his third Glen Fetitch on the rocks, he spotted a
woman whom he hadn't seen that evening. Maybe she had just
arrived, maybe she was leftovers. Well, it was getting late, and
he shouldn't let a woman go to waste, so let's see what she looks
like from the front. She looked aimlessly through the French
doors at the backyard flora.
Miles sauntered over to her and introduced himself. "Hi, I'm
Miles Foster." He grinned wide, dimples in force, as she turned
toward him. She was gorgeous. Stunning even. About an inch
taller than Miles, she wore her shimmering auburn hair shoulder
length. Angelic, he thought. Perfectly formed full lips and
statuesque cheek bones underscored her sweetly intense brown
eyes. Miles went to work, and by 10P.M., he and Stephanie Perkins
were on their way to Deja Vu on 22nd. and M Street for drinks and
dance. By 10:30 he had nicknamed her Perky because her breasts
stood at constant attention. By 11:30 they were on their way to
Miles' apartment.
At 2:00 AM Miles was quite satisfied with himself. So was Perky.
His technique was perfect. Never a complaint. Growing up in a
houseful without men taught Miles what women wanted. He learned
how to give it to them, just the way they liked it. The weekend
together was heaven in bed; playing, making love, giggling,
ordering in Chinese and pizza. Playing more, watching I Love Lucy
reruns, drinking champagne, and making love. Miles bounced
quarters on her taut stomach and cracked eggs on her exquisitely
tight derriere. By Sunday morning, Miles found that he actually
liked Stephanie. It wasn't that he didn't like his other women,
he did. It was just, well this one was different. He 'really'
liked her. A very strange feeling for Miles Foster.
"Miles?" Stephanie asked during another period of blissful after-
glow. She snuggled up against him closer.
"Yeah?" He responded by squeezing her buttocks. His eyes were
still closed.
"In a minute stud, yes." She looked up reassuringly at him.
"Miles, would you work for anyone?" She kissed his chest.
"What do you mean?" he asked in return. He wasn't in the mood
for shop talk.
"Like, say, a foreigner, not an American company. Would you work
for them?"
"Huh?" Miles looked down inquisitively. "Foreigner? I guess so.
Why do you ask?" He sounded a tad concerned.
"Oh, no reason." She rubbed him between his legs. "Just curious.
I thought you were a consultant, and consultants work for anyone
who can pay. That's all."
"I am, and I will, but so what?" He relaxed as Stephanie's hands
got the desired result.
"Well," she stroked him rhythmically. "I know some people that
could use you. They're not American, that's all. I didn't know
if you cared."
"No, I don't care," he sighed. "It's all the same to me. Unless
they're commies. My former employer would definitely frown on
that."
"Would you mind if I called them, and maybe you two can get
together?" She didn't miss a beat.
"No go ahead, call them, anything you want, but can we talk about
this later?" Miles begged.
* * * * *
Miles felt very much uninformed on his way to the Baltimore
Washington Airport. He knew that he was being flown to Tokyo
Japan, first class, by a mystery man who had prepaid him $10,000
for a 1 hour meeting. Not a bad start, he thought. His reputa-
tion obviously preceded him. Stephanie was hired to recruit him,
that was obvious. And that bothered Miles. He was being used.
Wasn't he? Or had he seduced her and the trip was a bonus? He
still liked Stephanie, just not as much as before. It never
occurred to Miles, not for a second, that Stephanie might not
have liked him.
At JFK in New York, Miles connected to the 20 hour flight to
Tokyo through Anchorage, Alaska. He had a brief concern that
this was the same route that KAL Flight 007 had taken in 1983
before it was shot down by the Soviets, but he was flying an
American carrier with a four digit flight number. He allowed
that thought to remove any traces of worry.
The flight was a couple of hours out of New York when one of the
flight attendants came up to him. "Mr. Foster?"
"Yes?" He looked up from the New York City Times he was reading.
"I believe you dropped this?" She handed Miles a large sealed
envelope. His name had been written across the front with a large
black marker.
"Thank you," said Miles. He took it gratefully.
When she left, he opened the strange envelope. It wasn't his.
Inside there was a single sheet of paper. Miles read it.
MR. FOSTER
WELCOME TO JAPAN.
YOU WILL BE MET AT THE NARITA AIRPORT BY MY DRIVER AND CAR. THEY
ARE AT YOUR DISPOSAL.
WE WILL MEET IN MY OFFICE AT 8:00 AM, WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 23.
ALL ARRANGEMENTS HAVE BEEN MADE FOR YOUR PLEASURES.
RESPECTFULLY
TAKI HOMOSOTO
The name meant nothing to him so he forgot about it. He had more
important things to do. His membership in the Mile High Club was
in jeopardy. He had not yet made it with a female flight attend-
ant.
They landed, 18 hours and 1 day later in Tokyo. Miles was now a
member in good standing.
* * * * *
Thursday, September 3
Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport
"DFW, this is American 1137, heading 125 at 3500."
"Roger American 1137, got you loud and green. Maintain 125, full
circle 40 miles then 215 for 40."
"Traffic Dallas?"
"Heavy. Weather's been strong. On again off again. Piled up
pretty good."
"Sheers?"
"None so far. Ah, you're a '37, you carry a sheer monitor. You
got it made. Have to baby sit some 0's and '27's. May be a
while."
"Roger Dallas. 125 40, 215 40. Maintaining 12 point 5."
"Roger 1137."
The control tower at DFW airport was busier than normal. The
dozen or so large green radar screens glowed eerily and made the
air traffic controllers appear pallid under the haunting light
emitted from around the consoles. Severe weather patterns,
afternoon Texas thunderstorms had intermittently closed the
airport forcing a planes to hold in a 120 mile pattern over
Dallas and Fort Worth.
Many of the tower crew had been at their stations for 2 hours
past their normal quitting time due to street traffic delays and
highway pileups that had kept shift replacements from arriving on
time. Planes were late coming in, late departing, connections
were being missed. Tensions were high on the ground and in the
air by both the airline personnel and travelers alike. It was a
chaotic day at Dallas Fort Worth International Airport.
"Chad? Cm'ere," said Paul Gatwick, the newest and youngest, and
least burnt out of the day shift flight controllers.
Shift supervisor Chad Phillips came right over. "What you got?"
He asked looking at the radar screen.
"See these three bogies?" Paul pointed at three spots with his
finger.
"Bogies? What are those symbols?"
"They just appeared, out of nowhere. I don't think they're
there. And over here," he pointed, "that was Delta 210. It's
gone." Paul spoke calmly, in the professional manner he was
trained. He looked up at Chad, awaiting instructions.
"Mike," Chad said to the controller seated next to Paul. "Switch
and copy 14, please. Fast." Chad looked over to Mike's screen
and saw the same pattern. "Paul, run a level 2 diagnostic. What
was the Delta pattern?"
"Same as the others, circle. He's at 45 doing a 90 round."
"Tell him to hold, and verify on board transponder." Chad spoke
rapidly and his authority wasn't questioned.
"Mike, see if we can get any visuals on the bogies. They might
be a bounce."
Chad took charge and, especially in this weather, was concerned
with safety first and schedules last. In less than a minute he
had verified that Delta 210 was not on any screen, three other
ghost planes meandered through the airspace, and that their
equipment was functioning properly.
"Dallas," the calm pilot voice said, "American 1137, requesting
update. It's getting a little tight up here."
"Roger, 1137," Gatwick said nervously. "Give me a second
here . . ."
"Dallas, what's the problem?"
"Just a check . . ."
Chad immediately told the operator of the ETMS computer to notify
the FAA and Department of Transportation that a potential situa-
tion was developing. The Enhanced Traffic Management System
was designed to create a complete picture of every airplane
flying within domestic air space.
All status information, on every known flight in progress and
every commercial plane on the ground, is transmitted from the 22
ARTCC's, (Air Route Traffic Control Centers) to an FAA Technical
Center in Atlantic City and then sent by land and satellite to a
DoT Systems Center. There, an array of DEC VAX super mini com-
puters process the constant influx of raw data and send back an
updated map across the ETMS every five minutes.
Chad zoomed in on the picture of the country into the DFW ap-
proach area and confirmed that the airplanes in question were not
appearing on the National Airspace System data fields or dis-
plays. Something was drastically wrong.
"Chad, take a look here!" Another controller urgently called out.
His radar monitor had more bogies than Paul's. "I lost a Delta,
too, 1258."
"What is it?"
"37."
"Shit," said Chad. "We gotta get these guys wide, they have to
know what's happening." He called over to another controller.
"Get on the wire, divert all traffic. Call the boss. We're
closing it down." The controllers had the power to close the
airport, and direct all flight operations from the tower. Air-
port management wasn't always fond of their autonomy, but the
tower's concern was safety at all costs.
"Another one's gone," said Paul. "That's three 37's gone. Have
they had a recall lately?"
The ETMS operator asked the computer for a status on 737's else-
where. "Chad, we're not the only ones," she said. "O'Hare and
LAX have problems, too."
"OK, everybody, listen up," Chad said. "Stack 'em, pack 'em and
rack 'em. Use those outer markers, people. Tell them to believe
their eyes. Find the 37's. Let 'em know their transponders are
going. Then, bring 'em down one by one."
The emergency speaker suddenly rang out. "Shit! Dive!" The
captain of American 1137 ordered his plane to accelerate ground-
ward for 10 seconds, descending 2500 feet, to avoid hitting an
oncoming, and lost, DC-9.
"Dallas, Mayday, Mayday. What the fuck's going on down there?
This is worse than the freeway . . ."
The emergency procedure was one they had practiced over and over,
but rarely was it necessary for a full scale test. The FAA was
going to be all over DFW and a dozen other airports within hours,
and Chad wanted to be prepared. He ordered a formal notification
to Boeing that they had identified a potentially serious malfunc-
tion. Please make your emergency technical support crews avail-
able immediately.
Of the 100 plus flights under DFW control all 17 of the Boeing
737's disappeared from the radar screen, replaced by dozens of
bogies with meaningless signatures.
"Dallas, American 1137 requests emergency landing . . .we have
several injured passengers who require immediate medical assist-
ance."
"Roger, 1137," Gatwick blurted back. "Copy, EP. Radar status?"
"Nominal," said the shaken American pilot.
"Good. Runway 21B. We'll be waiting."
* * * * *
By 5:00 PM, Pacific time, Boeing was notified by airports across
the country that their 737's were having catastrophic transponder
failure. Takeoffs were ordered stopped at major airports and the
FAA directed that every 737 be immediately grounded. Chaos
reigned in the airline terminals as delays of several hours to a
day were announced for most flights. Police were needed to quell
angry crowds who were stuck thousands of miles from home and were
going to miss critical business liaisons. There is nothing we
can do, every airline explained to no avail.
Slowly, the planes were brought down, pilots relying on VFR since
they couldn't count on any help from the ground. At airports
where weather prohibited VFR landings, and the planes had enough
fuel, they were redirected to nearby airports. Nearly a dozen
emergency landings in a two hours period set new records that the
FAA preferred didn't exist. A field day for the media, and a
certain decrease in future passenger activity until the shock
wore off.
The National Transportation Safety Board had representatives
monitoring the situation within an hour of the first reports from
Dallas, San Francisco, Atlanta, and Tampa. When all 737's were
accounted for, the individual airports and the FAA lifted flight
restrictions and left it to the airlines to straighten out the
scheduling mess. One hundred thousand stranded passengers and
almost 30% of the domestic civilian air fleet was grounded.
It was a good thing their reservation computers hadn't gone down.
Damn good thing.
* * * * *
DISASTER IN AIR CREATES PANIC ON GROUND
by Scott Mason
"A national tragedy was avoided today by the quick and brave
actions of hundreds of air traffic controllers and pilots working
in harmony," a spokesperson for The Department of Transportation
said, commenting on yesterday's failure of the computerized
transponder systems in Boeing 737 airplanes.
"In the interest of safety for all concerned, 737's will not be
permitted to fly commercially until a full investigation has
taken place." the spokesperson continued. "That process should
be complete within 30 days."
In all, 114 people were sent to hospitals, 29 in serious condi-
tion, as a result of injuries sustained while pilots performed
dangerous gut wrenching maneuvers to avoid mid-air collisions.
Neither Boeing nor the Transportation Safety Board would comment
on how computer errors could suddenly affect so many airplanes at
once, but some computer experts have pointed out the possibility
of sabotage. According to Harold Greenwood, an aeronautic elec-
tronics specialist with Air Systems Design in Alpharetta, Geor-
gia, "there is a real and definite possibility that there has
been a specific attack on the airline computers. Probably by
hackers. Either that or the most devastating computer program-
ming error in history."
Government officials discounted Greenwood's theories and said
there is no place for wild speculation that could create panic in
the minds of the public. None the less, flight cancellations
busied the phones at most airlines and travel agencies, while the
gargantuan task of rescheduling thousands of flights with 30%
less planes began. Airline officials who didn't want to be
quoted estimated that it would take at least a week to bring the
system back together,
Airline fares will increase next Monday by at least 10% and as
much as 40% on some routes that will not be restored fully.
The tone of the press conference held at the DoT was one of both
bitterness and shock as was that of sampled public opinion.
"I think I'll take the train."
"Computers? They always blame the computers. Who's really at
fault?"
"They're just as bad as the oil companies. Something goes a
little wrong and they jack up the prices."
The National Transportation Safety Board said it would also
institute a series of preventative maintenance steps on other
airplanes' computer systems to insure that such a global failure
is never repeated.
Major domestic airlines announced they would try to lease addi-
tional planes from other countries, but could not guarantee prior
service performance for 3 to 6 months. Preliminary estimates
place the cost of this debacle at between $800 Million and $2
Billion if the entire 737 fleet is grounded for only 2 weeks.
The Stock Market reacted poorly to the news, and transportation
stocks dove an average of 27% in heavy trading.
The White House issued a brief statement congratulating the
airline industry for its handling of the situation and wished its
best to all inconvenienced and injured travelers.
Class action suits will be filed next week against the airlines
and Boeing as a result of the computer malfunction. This is Scott
Mason, riding the train.
* * * * *
"Doug," pleaded 39 year old veteran reporter Scott Mason. "Not
another computer virus story . . ." Scott childishly shrugged
his shoulders in mock defeat.
"Stop your whining," Doug ordered in fun. "You are the special-
ist," he chided.
When the story first came across the wire, Scott was the logical
choice. In only seven years as a reporter Scott Mason had de-
veloped quite a reputation for himself, and for the New York City
Times. Doug had had to eat his words from years earlier more
times than he cared to remember, but Scott's head had not swelled
to the size of his fan club, which was the bane of so many suc-
cessful writers. He knew he was good, just like he had told Doug
"There is nothing sexy about viruses anymore," said Scott trying
to politely ignore his boss to the point he would just leave.
"Christ Almighty," the chubby balding sixtyish editor exploded.
Doug's periodic exclamatory outbursts at Scott's nonchalance on
critical issues were legendary. "The man who puts Cold Fusion on
the front page of every paper in the country doesn't think a
virus is sexy enough for the public. Good night!"
"That's not what I'm saying." Scott had to defend this one. "I
finally got someone to go on the record about the solar payoff
scandals between Oil and Congress . . ."
"Then the virus story will give you a little break," kidded Doug.
"You've been working too hard."
"Damn it, Doug," Scott defied. "Viruses are a dime a dozen and
worse, there's no one behind it, there's nobody there. There's
no story . . ."
"Then find one. That's what we pay you for." Doug loudly mut-
tered a few choice words that his paper wouldn't be caught dead
printing. "Besides, you're the only one left." As he left he
patted Scott on the back saying, "thanks. Really."
"God, I hate this job."
Scott Mason loved his job, after all it was his invention seven
years ago when he first pitched it to Doug. Scott's original
idea had worked. Scott Mason alone, under the banner of the New
York City Times, virtually pioneered Scientific Journalism as a
media form in its own right.
Scott Mason was still its most vocal proponent, just as he was
when he connived his way into a job with the Times, and without
any journalistic experience. It was a childhood fantasy.
Doug remembered the day clearly. "That's a new one on me," Doug
had said with amusement when the mildly arrogant but very likable
Mason had gotten cornered him, somehow bypassing personnel.
Points for aggressiveness, points for creativity and points for
brass balls. "What is Scientific Journalism?"
"Scientific Journalism is stripping away all of the long techni-
cal terms that science hides behind, and bringing the facts to
the people at home."
"We have a quite adequate Science Section, a computer
column . . .and we pick up the big stories." Doug had tried to
be polite.
"That's not what I mean," Scott explained. "Everybody and his
dead brother can write about the machines and the computers and
the software. I'm talking about finding the people, the meaning,
the impact behind the technology."
"No one would be interested," objected Doug.
Doug was wrong.
Scott Mason immediately acclimated to the modus operandi of the
news business and actually locked onto the collapse of Kaypro
Computers and the odd founding family who rode serendipity until
competence was required for survival. The antics of the Kay
family earned Mason a respectable following in his articles and
contributions as well as several libel and slander suits from the
Kays. Trouble was, it's not against the law to print the truth
or a third party speculations, as long as they're not malicious.
Scott instinctively knew how to ride the fine edge between false
accusations and impersonal objectivity.
Cold Fusion, the brief prayer for immediate, cheap energy inde-
pendence made headlines, but Scott Mason dug deep and found that
some of the advocates of Cold Fusion had vested interests in
palladium and iridium mining concerns. He also discovered how
the experiments had been staged well enough to fool most experts.
Scott had located one expert who wasn't fooled and could prove
it. Scott Mason rode the crest of the Cold Fusion story for
months before it became old news and the Hubble Telescope fiasco
took its place.
The fiasco of the Hubble Telescope was nothing new to Scott
Mason's readers. He had published months before its launch that
the mirrors were defective, but the government didn't heed the
whistle blower's advice. The optical measurement computers which
grind the mirrors of the telescope had a software program that
was never tested before being used on the Hubble. The GSA had
been tricked by the contractor's test results and Scott discov-
ered the discrepencies.
When Gene-Tech covered up the accidental release of mutated
spores into the atmosphere from their genetic engineering labs,
Scott Mason was the one reporter who had established enough of a
reputation as both a fair reporter, and also one that understood
the technology. Thanks to Mason's early diagnosis and the Times'
responsible publishing, a potentially cataclysmic genetic disas-
ter was averted.
The software problems with Star Wars and Brilliant Pebbles, the
payoffs that allowed defective X-Ray lasers to be shipped to the
testing ground outside of Las Vegas - Scott Mason was there. He
traced the Libyan chemical weapons plant back to West Germany
which triggered the subsequent destruction of the plant.
Scott's outlook was simple. "It's a matter of recognizing the
possibilities and then the probabilities. Therefore, if some-
thing is possible, someone, somewhere will do it. Guaranteed.
Since someone's doing it, then it's only a matter of catching him
in the act."
"Besides," he would tell anyone who would listen, "computers and
technology and electronics represent trillions of dollars annu-
ally. To believe that there isn't interesting, human interest
and profound news to be found, is pure blindness. The fear of
the unknown, the ignorance of what happens on the other side of
the buttons we push, is an enemy wrapped in the shrouds of time,
well disguised and easily avoided."
Scott successfully opened the wounds of ignorance and technical
apathy and made he and the Times the de facto standard in Scien-
tific Journalism.
His reputation as a expert in anything technical endeared him to
fellow Times' reporters. Scott often became the technical back-
bone of articles that did not carry his name. But that was good.
The journalists' barter system. Scott Mason was not considered a
competitor to the other reporters because of his areas of inter-
est and the skills he brought with him to the paper. And, he
didn't flaunt his knowledge. To Scott's way of thinking, techni-
cal fluency should be as required as are the ABC's, so it was
with the dedication of a teacher and the experience of simplifi-
cation that Scott undertook it to openly help anyone who wanted
to learn. His efforts were deeply appreciated.
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