Wednesday, November 4
The Stock Exchange, New York
Wall Street becomes a ghost town by early evening with the night
population largely consisting of guards, cleaning and maintenance
people. Tightly packed skyscrapers with their lighted windows
create random geometric patterns in the moonless cityscape and
hover ominously over dimly lit streets.
Joe Patchok and Tony Romano worked as private guards on the four
to midnight shift at the Stock Exchange on Cortland Street in
lower Manhattan. For a couple of young college guys this was the
ideal job. They could study in peace and quiet, nothing ever
happened, no one bothered them, and the pay was decent.
They were responsible for the 17th. and 18th. floors which had a
sole entrance and exit; controlled access. This was where the
central computers for the Stock Exchange tried to maintain sanity
in the market. The abuses of computer trading resulting in the
minicrash of 1987 forced a re-examination of the practice and the
subsequent installation of computer brakes to dampen severe
market fluctuations.
Hundreds of millions of shares exchanged every day are recorded
in the computers as are the international, futures and commodi-
ties trades. The dossiers on thousands upon thousands of compa-
nies stored in the memory banks and extensive libraries were used
to track investors, ownership, offerings, filings and provide
required information to the government.
Tony sat at the front guard desk while Joe made the next hourly
check through the offices and computer rooms. Joe strolled down
the halls, brilliantly lit from recessed ceiling fixtures. The
corridor walls were all solid glass, giving the impression of
more openness than was really provided by the windowless, climate
controlled, 40% sterile environment. There was no privacy
working in the computer rooms.
The temperature and humidity were optimized; the electricity
content of air was neutralized both electrostatically and by
nuclear ionization, and the air cycled and purified once an hour.
In the event of a catastrophic power failure, which is not un-
known in New York, almost 10,000 square feet was dedicated to
power redundancy and battery backup. In case of fire, heat
sensors trigger the release of halon gas and suck all of the
oxygen from the room in seconds. The Stock Exchange computers
received the best care.
Joe tested the handle on the door of each darkened room through
the myriad glass hallways. Without the computers behind the
glass walls, it might as well have been a House of Mirrors. He
noticed that the computer operators who work through the night
were crowded together at the end of a hall next to the only
computer rooms with activity. He heard them muttering about the
cleaning staff.
"Hey guys, problem?" Joe asked.
"Nah, we escaped," a young bearded man in a white lab coat said
pointing into the room. "His vacuum cleaner made one God awful
noise, so we came out here til' he was done."
"New cleaning service," Joe said offhandedly.
The dark complexioned cleaning man wore a starchy white uniform
with Mohammed's Cleaning Service emblazoned across the back in
bold red letters. They watched him, rather than clean the room,
fiddle with the large barrel sized vacuum cleaner.
"What's he doing?"
"Fixing that noise, I hope."
"What's he doing now?"
"He's looking at us and, saying something . . ."
"It looks like he's praying . . ."
"Why the hell would he . . ."
The entire 46 story building instantly went dark and the force of
the explosion rocked Tony from his seat fifty yards away. He
reached for the flashlight on his belt and pressed a series of
alarms on the control panel even though the video monitors were
black and the emergency power had not come on. Nothing. He ran
towards the sound of the blast and yelled.
"Hello? Hey?" he yelled nervously into the darkness.
"Over here, hurry," a distant pained voice begged.
Tony slid into a wall and stopped. He pointed his flashlight down
one hall. Nothing.
"Over here."
He jumped sideways and pointed the beam onto a twisted maze of
bodies, some with blood geysering into the air from their necks
and arms and legs. Tony saw that the explosion had shattered the
glass walls into thousands of high velocity razor sharp projec-
tiles. The corpses had been pierced, stabbed, severed and muti-
lated by the deadly shards. Tony felt nauseous; he was going to
be sick right then.
"Tony." A shrapnelled Joe squeaked from the mass of torn flesh
ahead of him.
"Holy shit . . ." Tony's legs to turned to jelly as he bent over
and gagged.
"Help me!"
The force of the blast had destroyed the glass partitions as far
as his light beam would travel. He pointed the light into the
room that exploded. The computer equipment was in shambles, and
then he saw what was left of the cleaning man. His severed head
had no recognizable features and pieces of his body were strewn
about. Tony suddenly vomited onto the river of blood that was
flowing his way down the hallway.
"I gotta go get help," Tony said choking. He pushed against the
wall to give him the momentum to overcome the paralysis his body
felt and ran.
"No, help me . . ."
He ran down the halls with his flashlight waving madly. The ele-
vators. They were out, too. Maybe the phone on the console.
Dead. He picked up the walkie-talkie and pushed the button.
Nothing. He banged the two way radio several times on the coun-
ter in the futile hope that violence was an electronic cure-all.
Dead. Tony panicked and threw it violently into the blackness.
Neither the small TV, nor his portable radio worked.
* * * * *
"I know it's almost midnight," Ben Shellhorne said into the
cellular phone. He cupped his other ear to hear over the commo-
tion at the Stock Exchange building.
"Quit your bitching. Look at it this way; you might see dawn for
the first time in your life." Ben joked. All time was equal to
Ben but he knew that Scott said he didn't do mornings. "Sure,
I'll wait," Ben said in disgust and waited with agitation until
Scott came back to the phone. "Good. But don't forget that beer
isn't just for breakfast."
He craned his neck to see that the NYPD Bomb Squad had just left
and gave the forensics team the go ahead. No danger.
"Listen," Ben said hurriedly. "I gotta make it quick, I'm going
in for some pictures." He paused and then said, "Yes, of course
after the bodies are gone. God, you can be gross." He paused
again. "I'll meet you in the lobby. One hour."
Ben Shellhorn, a denizen of the streets, reported stories that
sometimes didn't fit within the all-the-news-that's-fit-to-print
maxim. Many barely bordered on the decent, but they were all
well done. For some reason, unknown even to Ben, he attracted
news whose repulsiveness made them that much more magnetic to
readers. Gruesome lot we are, he thought.
That's why one of his police contacts called him to say that a
bunch of computer nerds were sliced to death. The Cheers rerun
was bringing him no pleasure, so sure, what the hell; it was a
nice night for a mutilation.
"It's getting mighty interesting, buddy boy," Ben said meeting
Scott as he stepped out of his filthy Red 911 in front of the
Stock Exchange an hour later. His press credentials performed
wonders at times. Like getting behind police lines and not
having to park ten blocks away.
The police had brought in generators to power huge banks of
lights to eerily light up the Stock Exchange building, all 500
feet of it. Emergency vehicles filled the wide street, every-
thing from ambulances, fire engines, riot vehicles and New York
Power. Then there were the DA's office, lawyers for the Ex-
change, insurance representatives and a ton of computer people.
"What the hell happened here?" Scott asked looking at the pande-
monium on the cordoned off Cortland Street. "Where are all the
lights?" He turned and gazed at the darkened streets and tall
buildings. "Did you know a bunch of the street lights are out,
too?" Scott meandered in seeming awe of the chaos.
"This is one strange one," Ben said as they approached the build-
ing entrance. "Let me ask you a question, you're the techno-
freak."
Scott scowled at him for the reference but didn't comment.
"What kind of bomb stops electricity?"
"Electricity? You mean power?" Scott pointed at the blackened
buildings and streets and Ben nodded. "Did they blow the block
transformers?"
"No, just a small Cemex, plastic, bomb in one computer room. Did
some damage, but left an awful lot standing. But the death toll
was high. Eleven dead and two probably not going to make it.
Plus the perp."
Scott gazed around the scene. The dark sky was pierced by the
top floors of the World Trade Center, and there were lights in
the next blocks. So it's not a blackout. And it wasn't the
power grid that was hit. A growing grin preceded Scott shaking
his head side to side.
"What is it?" Ben asked.
"A nuke."
"A nuke?"
"Yeah, that's it, a nuke," Scott said excitedly. "A nuke knocks
out power. Of course."
"Right," Ben said mockingly. "I can hear it now: Portion of
17th. Floor of Exchange Devastated by Nuclear Bomb. News at
Eleven."
"Never mind," Scott brushed it off. "Can we get up there?" He
pointed at the ceiling. "See the place?"
Ben pulled a few strings and spent a couple of hundred of Scott's
dollars but succeeded in getting to the corpse-less site of the
explosion. Scott visually poked around the debris and noticed a
curved porcelain remnant near his feet. He wasn't supposed to
touch, but, what was it? And the ruby colored chunks of glass?
In the few seconds they were left alone, they snapped a quick
roll of film and made a polite but hasty departure. At $200 a
minute Scott hoped he would find what he was looking for.
"Ben, I need these photos blown up, to say, 11 X 17? ASAP."
The press conference at 4:15 in the morning was necessary. The
Stock Exchange was not going to open Thursday. The lobby of the
Stock Exchange was aflood with TV camera lights, police and the
media hoards. Voices echoed loudly, between the marble walls and
floor and made hearing difficult.
"We don't want to predict what will happen over the next 24
hours," the exhausted stocky spokesman for the Stock Exchange
said loudly, to make himself heard over the din. "We have every
reason to expect that we can make a quick transition to another
system."
"How is that done?"
"We have extensive tape vaults where we store everything from the
Exchange computers daily. We will either use one of our backup
computers, or move the center to a temporary location. We don't
anticipate any delays."
"What about the power problem?" A female reporter from a local
TV news station asked.
"Con Ed is on the job," the spokesman said, pleased they were
picking on someone else. "I have every confidence they will have
things up and flying soon."
"What caused the power outage?"
"We don't have the answer to that now."
Scott edged to the front of the crowd to ask a question. "What
if," Scott asked the spokesman. "if the tapes were destroyed?"
"Thank God they weren't . . ." he said haltingly.
"Isn't it true," Scott ventured accusingly, "that in fact you
already know that every computer in this building is dead, all of
the emergency power backup systems and batteries failed and that
every computer tape or disk has been completely erased?" The
other reporters stood open mouthed at the unexpected question.
Scott spoke confidently, knowing that he was being filmed by the
networks. The spokesman nervously fumbled with some papers in
his hand. The press pool waited for the answer that had silenced
the spokesman. He stammered, "We have no . . .until power is
restored a full determination of the damage cannot be made . . ."
Scott pressed the point. "What would happen if the tapes were
all erased?"
"Uh, I, well . . ." he glanced from side to side. On his left
were two men dressed in matching dark blue suits, white shirts
and sunglasses. "It is best not to speculate until we have more
information."
"Computer experts have said that if the tapes are erased it would
take at least thirty days to recreate them and get the Exchange
open again. Is that correct?" Scott exaggerated. He was the
computer expert to whom he referred. Journalistic license.
"Under the conditions," the spokesman said trying to maintain a
credible visage to front for his lies, "I also have heard some
wildly exaggerated estimates. Let me assure you," the politician
in him came out here. "that the Exchange will in no way renege
on its fiduciary responsibilities to the world financial communi-
ty." He glanced at his watch. "I'm afraid that's all the time I
have now. We will meet here again at 9:00 A.M. for a further
briefing. Thank you." He quickly exited under the protection of
New York's finest as the reporters all shouted their last
questions. Scott didn't bother. It never works.
One of the men in the blue suits leaned over to the other and
spoke quietly in his ear. "Who is that guy asking all those ques-
tions?"
"Isn't that the reporter the Director was talking about?"
"Yeah. He said we should keep an eye on him."
* * * * *
Thursday, November 5
Tokyo, Japan
<<<<<<AUTOCRYPT MODE>>>>>>
MR. SHAH
Ahmed heard his computer announce that Homosoto was calling. He
pushed the joystick on the arm of his electric wheelchair and
proceeded over to the portable computer that was outfitted with
an untraceable cellular modem. Even if the number was traced
through four interstate call forwards and the original overseas
link, finding him was an entirely different matter. Ahmed entered
the time base PRG code from the ID card he kept strapped to his
wheelchair.
yes.
CONGRATULATIONS ON THE STOCK EXCHANGE.
yes. we were well served by martyrs. they are to
be honored.
CAN YOU HAVE MORE READY?
8 more.
WHEN?
1 month.
GOOD. PUT THEM HERE. SOCIAL SECURITY ADMINISTRATION, IMMIGRA-
TION AND NATURALIZATION, AMERICAN EXPRESS, NEW YORK FEDERAL
RESERVE, STATE FARM INSURANCE, FANNY MAE, CITIBANK AND FEDERAL
EXPRESS.
done.
DO IT AS SOON AS POSSIBLE. THEN MAKE MORE.
<<<<<<CONNECTION TERMINATED>>>>>>
* * * * *
Friday, November 6
New York City
The Stock Exchange didn't open Friday either.
Scott Mason had made enough of a stink about the erased tapes
that they could no longer hide under the cover of computer mal-
functions. It was finally admitted that yes, the tapes were
needed to verify all transactions, especially the computer trans-
actions, and they had been destroyed along with the entire con-
tents of the computer's memory and hard disks. Wiped out.
Totally.
The Exchange didn't tell the press that the National Security
Agency had been quietly called in to assist. The NSA specializes
in information gathering, and over the years with tens of bil-
lions of dollars in secret appropriations, they have developed
extraordinary methods to extract usable information where there
is apparently none.
The Exchange couriered a carton of computer tapes to NSA's Fort
Meade where the most sophisticated listening and analysis tools
in the world live in acres upon acres of underground laboratories
and data processing centers. What they found did not make the
NSA happy. The tapes had in fact been totally erased. A total
unidirectional magnetic pattern.
Many 'erased' tapes and disks can be recovered. One of the
preferred recovery methods is to use NMR Nuclear Magnetic Reso-
nance, to detect the faintest of organized magnetic orientations.
Even tapes or disks with secret information that have been erased
many times can be 'read' after an MNR scan.
The electromagnetic signature left remnant on the tapes, the
molecular alignment of the ferrous and chromium oxide particles
in this case were peculiarly characteristic. There was little
doubt. The NSA immediately called the Exchange and asked them,
almost ordered them, to leave the remaining tapes where they
were.
In less than two hours an army of NSA technicians showed up with
crates and vehicles full of equipment. The Department of Energy
was right behind with equipment suitable for radiation measure-
ments and emergency responses.
DOE quickly reached no conclusion. Not enough information.
Initially they had expected to find that someone had stumbled
upon a way to make highly miniaturized nuclear weapons. The men
from the NSA knew they were wrong.
* * * * *
It took almost six weeks for the Stock Exchange to function at
its previous levels. Trading was reduced to paper and less than
10,000,000 shares daily for almost two weeks until the temporary
system was expanded with staff and runners. Daily trading never
was able to exceed 27,000,000 shares until the computers came
back on line.
The SEC and the Government Accounting Office released preliminary
figures indicating the shut down of the Exchange would cost the
American economy almost $50 Billion this year. Congress is
preparing legislation to provide emergency funding to those firms
that were adversely affected by the massive computer failure.
The Stock Exchange has said that it will institute additional
physical and computer security to insure that there is no repeat
of the unfortunate suicide assault.
* * * * *
Sunday, November 8
Scarsdale, New York
"You never cease to amaze me," Tyrone said as he entered Scott's
ultra modern house. "You and this freaking palace. Just from
looking at you, I'd expect black lights, Woodstock posters and
sleeping bags." He couldn't recall if he had ever seen Scott
wear anything but jeans, t-shirts or sweat shirts and spotlessly
clean Reeboks.
Scott's sprawling 8000 square foot free form geometric white on
white home sat on 2 acres at the end of a long driveway heavily
treed with evergreens so that seclusion was maintained all year
long. Featured in Architectural Digest, the designers made
generous use of glass brick inside and out. The indoor pool
boasted sliding glass walls and a retractable skylight ceiling
which gave the impression of outdoor living, even in the midst of
a harsh winter.
"They're in the music room." Scott proceeded to open a set of
heavy oak double doors. "Soundproof, almost," he said cheerily.
A 72 inch video screen dominated one wall and next to it sat a
large control center with VCR's, switchers and satellite tuner.
Scott's audio equipment was as complex as Ty had ever seen and an
array of speaker systems flanked the huge television.
"Toys, you got the toys, don't you?" joked Tyrone.
"The only difference is that they cost more," agreed Scott. "You
wanna see a toy and a half? I invented it myself."
"Not another one?" groaned Tyrone. "That idiot golf machine of
yours was . . ."
"Capable of driving 350 yards, straight as an arrow."
"And as I remember, carving up the greens pretty good." Scott
and his rolling Golf Gopher had been thrown off of several
courses already.
"A few modifications, that's all," laughed Scott.
Scott led Tyrone through the immense family-entertainment room
into a deep navy blue, white accented Euro-streamlined automated
kitchen. It was like no other kitchen he had ever seen. In
fact, other than the sinks and the extensive counters, there was
no indication that this room was intended for preparing food.
Scott flipped a switch and suddenly the deep blue cabinet doors
faded into a transparent tint baring the contents of the shelves.
The fronts of the stoves, refrigerator and freezer and other
appliances exposed their function and controls.
"Holy Jeez . . ." Ty said in amazement. Last month this had been
a regular high tech kitchen of the 80's. Now it was the Jetsons.
"That's incredible . . .you invented that?"
"No," dismissed Scott. "That's just a neat trick of LCD panels
built into the cabinets. This was my idea." He pressed an
invisible switch and 4 ten inch openings appeared on the counter
top near the sink. "Combination trash compacter re-cycler.
Glass, plastic, aluminum, metal and paper. Comes out by the
garbage, ready to go to the center."
"Lazy son of a bitch aren't you?" Tyrone laughed loudly.
"Sure, I admit my idea of gardening is watching someone mow the
lawn." Scott feigned offense. "But this is in the name of
Green. I bet if you had one, you'd use it and Arlene would get
off your ass."
"No way," Tyrone objected. "My marriage is too good to screw up.
It's the only thing left we still fight about, and we both like
it just the way it is. Thanks, but no thanks. I'm old fashioned."
Scott showed Tyrone how to use the kitchen and he found that no
matter what he wanted, there was button for it, a hidden drawer
or a disguised appliance. "I still buy dishwashers at Sears.
How the hell do you know how to use this stuff," Ty said fumbling
with the automatic bottle opener which automatically dropped the
removed caps into the hole for the metal compactor.
Tyrone had come over to Scott's house for a quiet afternoon of
Sunday football. An ideal time because Arlene had gone to Boston
for the weekend with his daughters. Freedom!
They made it to the Music Room with their beers as the kickoff
was midfield. "So how's the promotion going?" Scott asked
Tyrone in half jest. Over the last few weeks, Ty had spent most
of his time in Washington and what little time was left with his
family.
"Promotion my ass. It's the only way I can not get a promotion."
Tyrone added somberly, "and it may be my last case."
"What do you mean?" Scott asked.
"It's gotten outta hand, totally out of hand. We have to spend
more time protecting the rights of the goddamned criminals than
solving crimes. That's not what it should be about. At least
not for me."
"You're serious about this," Scott said rhetorically.
"Hey, sooner or later I gotta call it quits," Ty replied soberly.
"But this computer thing's gonna make my decision easier."
"That's what I asked. How's the promotion?"
"Let's just say, more of the same but different. Except the
interagency crap is amazing. No one commits to anything, and
everything needs study and nothing gets done." Tyrone sighed.
He had been in Washington working with NIST, NSA, DoD and every
other agency that thought it had a vested interest in computers
and their protection. Their coordination with CERT and ECCO was
a joke, even by government standards.
At the end of the first quarter, the 49'ers were holding a solid
10 point lead. Scott grabbed a couple more beers and began tell-
ing Tyrone about the incident at the Exchange. The New York
Police had taken over the case, declaring sovereignty over Wall
Street and its enclaves.
"They don't know what they have, however," Scott said immodestly.
"The talk was a small scale nuke . . ."
"The DOE smashed that but fast," Scott interrupted. "What if I
told you that it was only the computers that were attacked? That
the deaths were merely incidental?"
Tyrone groaned as the 49'ers fumbled the ball. "I'd listen," he
said noncommittally.
"It was a classified magnetic bomb. NSA calls them EMP-T."
"Empty? The empty bomb?" Tyrone said skeptically. "Since when
does NSA design bombs?"
"Listen," said Scott trying to get Ty's attention away from the
TV. "Have you ever heard of C-Cubed, or C3?"
"No." He stared at the San Francisco defense being crushed.
"Command, Control and Communications It's a special government
program to deal with nuclear warfare."
"Pleasant thought," said Tyrone.
"Yeah, well, one result of a nuclear blast is a terrific release
of electromagnetic energy. Enough to blow out communications and
power lines for miles. That's one reason that silos are hardened
- to keep the communications lines open to permit the President
or whoever's still alive to shoot back."
"Like I said," Tyrone shuddered, "pleasant thought." He stopped
suddenly at turned to Scott. "So it was a baby nuke?"
"No, it was EMP-T," Scott said in such a way to annoy Ty.
"Electro Magnetic Pulse Transformer." The confusion on Tyrone's
face was clear. "Ok, it's actually pretty simple. You know what
interference sounds like on the radio or looks like on a TV?"
"Sure. My cell phone snaps, crackles and pops all of the time."
"Exactly. Noise is simply electromagnetic energy that interferes
with the signal. Right?" Scott waited for Tyrone to respond that
he understood so far.
"Good. Imagine a magnetic pulse so strong that it not only
interferes with the signal, but overloads the electronics them-
selves. Remember that electricity and magnetism are the same
force taking different forms."
Tyrone shook his head and curled his mouth. "Right. I knew that
all the time." Scott ignored him.
"The EMP-T bomb is an electromagnetic explosion, very very short,
only a few milliseconds, but incredibly intense." Scott gestured
to indicate the magnitude of the invisible explosion. "That was
the bomb that went off at the Stock Exchange."
"How can you possibly know that?" Tyrone asked with a hint of
professional derision. "That requires a big leap of faith . . ."
Scott leaned over to the side of the couch and picked up the two
items he had retrieved from the Exchange.
"This," Scott said handing a piece of ceramic material to Ty, "is
superconducting material. Real new. It can superconduct at room
temperature. And this," he handed Tyrone a piece of red glass,
"is a piece of a high energy ruby laser."
Tyrone turned the curios over and over in his hands. "So?" he
asked.
"By driving the output of the laser into a High Energy Static
Capacitive Tank, the energy can be discharged into the super
coil. The instantaneous release of energy creates a magnetic
field of millions of gauss." Scott snapped his fingers. "And
that's more than enough to blow out computer and phone circuits
as well as erase anything magnetic within a thousand yards."
Tyrone was now ignoring the football action. He stared alternate-
ly at Scott and the curious glass and ceramic remnants. "You're
bullshitting me, right? Sounds like science fiction."
"But the fact is that the Stock Exchange still isn't open. Their
entire tape library is gone. Poof! Empty, thus the name EMP-T.
It empties computers. Whoever did this has a real bad temper.
Pure revenge. They wanted to destroy the information, and not
the hardware itself. Otherwise the conventional blast would have
been stronger. The Cemex was used to destroy the evidence of the
EMP-T device."
"Where the hell do these bombs come from."
"EMP-T technology was originally developed as part of a Top
Secret DARPA project for the DoD with NSA guidance a few years
back."
"Then how do you know about it?"
"I did the documentation for the first manuals on EMP-T. Nothing
we got from the manufacturer was marked classified and we didn't
know or care."
"What was the Army going to do with them?" asked Tyrone, now with
great interest.
"You know, I had forgotten all about this stuff until the other
night, and then it all came back to me," Scott said mentally
reminiscing. "At the time we thought it was a paranoid joke.
Another government folly. The EMP-T was supposed to be shot at
the enemy to screw up his battlefield computers and radar and
electronics before the ground troops or helo's went it. As I
understand it, EMP-T bombs are made for planes, and can also be
launched from Howitzers and tanks. According to the manufactur-
er, they can't be detected and leave a similar signature to that
of a conventional nuclear blast. If there is such a thing as a
conventional nuke."
"Who else knows about this," Tyrone asked. "The police?"
"You think the NYPD would know what to look for?" Scott said
snidely. "Their bomb squad went home after the plastic explosive
was found."
"Right. Forget where I was."
"Think about it," Scott mused out loud. "A bomb that destroys
all of the computers and memory but leaves the walls standing."
"Didn't that asshole Carter want to build a nuke that would only
kill people but leave the city intact for the marauding invaders?
Neutron bombs, weren't they?"
"There's obviously nothing immoral about nuking computers," Scott
pontificated. "It was all part of Star Wars. Reagan's Strategic
Defense included attacking enemy satellites with EMP-T bombs.
Get all of the benefits and none of the fallout from a nuke.
There's no accompanying radiation."
"How easy is it to put one of the empty-things together?" Tyrone
missed another 49'er touchdown.
"Today?" Scott whistled. "The ones I saw were big, clumsy
affairs from the 70's. With new ceramics, and such, I would
assume they're a lot smaller as the Stock Exchange proves. A
wild guess? I bet that EMP-T is a garage project for a couple of
whiz kids, or if the government orders them, a couple hundred
thou each." Scott laughed at the absurdity of competitive bid-
ding for government projects. Everyone knew the government paid
more for everything. They would do a lot better with a VISA card
at K-Mart.
"I think I better take a look," Tyrone hinted.
"I thought you would, buddy. Thought you would." Scott replied.
They returned to the game 12 seconds before half time. The gun
went off. Perfect timing. Scott hated football. The only
reason in his mind for the existence of the Super Bowl was to
drink beer with friends and watch the commercials.
"Shit," declared Tyrone. "I missed the whole damned second quar-
ter." He grabbed another beer to comfort his disappointment.
"Hey," Scott called to Tyrone. "During the next half, I want to
ask you something."
Tyrone came back into the Music Room snickering. "What the hell
is that in your bathroom?"
"Isn't that great?" asked the enthused Scott. "It's an automatic
toilet seat."
"Now just what the devil is an automatic toilet seat? It pulls it
out and dries it off for you?" He believed that Scott was kid-
ding with some of his half baked inventions. That Scott subject-
ed any of his guests to their intermittent functioning was cruel
and inhuman punishment according to Tyrone.
"You're married with girls. Aren't they always on your case
about the toilet seat?"
"I've been married 26 years," Tyrone said with pride. "I con-
quered toilet seats on our honeymoon. She let me know right then
that she was boss and what the price of noncompliance was."
"Ouch, that's not fair," Scott said in sympathy. "I sleep-piss."
He held his hands out in front. "That's the only side effect
from too much acid. Sleep pissing."
Tyrone scrunched his face in disgust.
Scott spoke rapidly and loudly. "So for those of us who forget to
lower the seat after use, for those who forget to raise the seat;
for those who forget to raise the lid, Auto-Shit." Ty had tried
to ignore him, but Scott's imitation of a hyperactive cable
shopping network host demanded that one at least hear him out.
Ty's eyes teared.
"Make that woman in your life happy today. No more mess, fuss or
or morning arguments. No more complaints from the neighbors or
the health department. Auto-Shit. The toilet that knows your
needs. The seat for the rest of us. Available in 6 designer
colors. Only $49.95, Mastercard, VISA, No COD. Operators are
standing by."
Tyrone fell over on his side laughing. "You are crazy, man.
Sleep pissing. And, if you don't know it, no one, I mean no one
in his right mind has five trash compactors." Tyrone waved his
hand at Scott. "Ask me what you were gonna ask me."
"Off the record, Ty," Scott started, "how're the feds viewing
this mess?"
Tyrone hated the position he was in, but Scott had given him a
ltoe recently. It was time to reciprocate.
"Off?"
"So far off, so far off that if you turned the light "On" it
would still be off."
"It's a fucking mess," Tyrone said quickly. He was relieved to
be able to talk about it. "You can't believe it. I'm down there
to watch a crisis management team in action, but what do I find?"
He shook his head. "They're still trying to decide on the size
of the conference table." The reference caught Scott's ear.
"No, it's not that bad, but it might as well be."
"How is this ECCO thing put together? Who's responsible?"
"Responsible? Ha! No one," Tyrone chuckled as he recounted the
constant battles among the represented agencies. "This is the
perfect bureaucratic solution. No one is responsible for shit,
no one is accountable, but they all want to run the show. And,
no one agency clearly has authority. It's a fucking disaster."
"No one runs security? In the whole government, no one runs
security?"
"That's pushing it a little, but not too far off base."
"Oh, I gotta hear this," Scott said reclining in the deep plush
cloth covered couch.
"Once upon a time, a super secret agency, no one ever spoke the
initials, but it begins with the National Security Agency, got
elected by the Department of Defense to work out communications
security during the Cold War. They took their job very seriously.
"Then along came NIST and IBM who developed DES. The DOD formed
the Computer Security Initiative and then the Computer Security
Evaluation Center. The DOD CSEC became the DOD Computer Security
and then after NSA realized that everybody knew who they were, it
became the NCSC. Following this?"
Scott nodded only not to disrupt the flow.
"Ok, in 1977, Carter signed a bill that said to NSA, you take
over the classified national security stuff, but he gave the
dregs, the unclassified stuff to the NTIA, a piece of Commerce.
But that bill made a lot of people unhappy. So, along comes
Reagan who says, no that's wrong, before we get anything con-
structive done, let me issue a Directive, number 145, and give
everything back to NSA.
"That pissed off even more people and Congress then passed the
Computer Security Act of 1987, stripped NSA of what it had and
gave NIST the unclassified stuff. As a result, NSA closed the
NCSC, NIST is underbudgeted by a factor of 100 and in short, they
all want a piece of a very small pie. That took over 4 years.
And that's whose fault it is.
"Whose?"
"Congress of course. Congress passes the damn laws and then
won't fund them. Result? I get stuck in the middle of third tier
rival agency technocrats fighting over their turf or shirking
responsibility, and well , you get the idea. So I've got ECCO to
talk to CERT to talk to NIST to talk to . . .and it goes on ad
nauseum."
"Sorry I asked," joked Scott.
"In other words," Ty admitted, "I don't have the first foggy idea
what we'll do. They all seem hell bent on power instead of
fixing the problem. And the scary part?"
"What's that?"
"It looks like it can only get worse."
* * * * *
Tuesday, November 11
White House Press Room
"Mr. President," asked the White House correspondent for Time
magazine. "A recent article in the City Times said that the
military has been hiding a super weapon for years that is capable
of disabling enemy computers and electronics from a great dis-
tance without any physical destruction. Is that true, sir, and
has the use of those weapons contributed to the military's suc-
cesses over the last few years?"
"Ah, well," the President hesitated briefly. "The Stealth pro-
gram was certainly a boon to our air superiority. There is no
question about that, and it was kept secret for a decade." He
stared to his left, and the press pool saw him take a visual cue
from his National Security Director. "Isn't that right Henry?"
Henry Kennedy nodded aggressively. "We have the best armed
forces in the world, with all the advantages we can bring to
bear, and I will not compromise them in any way. But, if there
is such a classified program that I was aware of, I couldn't
speak of it even if I didn't know it existed." The President
picked another newsman. "Next, yes, Jim?"
During the next question Henry Kennedy slipped off to the ante-
room and called the Director of the National Security Agency.
"Marv, how far have you gotten on this EMP-T thing?" He waited
for a response. "The President is feeling embarrassed." Another
pause. "So the Exchange is cooperating?" Pause. Wait. "How
many pieces are missing?" Pause. "That's not what Mason's
article said." Longer pause. "Deal with it."
Immediately after the press conference, the President, Phil
Musgrave, his Chief of Staff, Henry Kennedy and Quinton Chambers
his old time ally and Secretary of State had an impromptu meeting
in the Oval Office.
They sat in the formal Queen Anne furniture as an elegant silver
coffee and tea service was brought in for the five men. Minus
Treasury Secreatry Martin Royce, this was the President' inner
circle, his personal advisory clique who assisted in making grand
national policy. Anything goes in one of these sessions, the
President had made clear in the first days of his Administration.
Anything.
We do not take things personally here, he would say. We have to
explore all options. All options. Even if they are distasteful.
And in these meeting, treat me like one of the guys. "Yes, sir,
Mr. President." The only formality of their caucuses was the
President's fundamental need to mediate the sometimes heated
dialogues between his most trusted aids. They were real
free-for-alls.
"Henry," the President said. "Before we start, who was that
reporter? Where the hell did that question come up about the
weapon stuff?"
"Forget him. The story started at the City Times. Scott Mason,
sir." Musgrave replied quickly. His huge football center sized
body overwhelmed the couch on which he sat. "He's been giving
extensive coverage to computer crime."
"Well, do we have such a bomb?" he asked with real curiosity.
"Ah, yessir," Henry Kennedy responded. "It's highly classified.
But the object is simple. Lob in a few of the EMP-T bombs as
they're called, shut down their communications and control, and
move in during the confusion. Very effective, sir."
"Well, let's see what we can do about keeping secrets a little
better. O.K., boys?" The President's charismatic hold over even
his dear friends and long time associates made him one of the
most effective leaders in years. If he was given the right
information.
The President scanned a few notes he had made on a legal pad.
"Can I forget about it?" the President closely scrutinized Henry
for any body language.
"Yessir."
The President gave Henry one more glance and made an obvious
point of highlighting the item. The subject would come up again.
****************************************************************