Info-Mac 3/Info_Mac_1994-01.iso/Information/Non-Mac Stuff/Terminal Compromise/TERMCOMP.2

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You're in the right place if you just finished Chapter 5.

This file contains Chapters 6 through 14.

Thanks for reading "Terminal Compromise."


                    INTER.PACT Press
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     All contents are (C) 1991, 1992, 1993 Inter.Pact



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                    Chapter 6

     3 Years Ago
     Sunnyvale, California.

Pierre Troubleaux was staggered beyond reason.  His life was just
threatened and he didn't know what to do about it.  What the hell
was  this disk anyway?  Military secrets?  Industrial  espionage?
Then  why  put it on the dGraph disks and programs?  Did  I  just
agree?   What did I say?  I don't remember what I said.  Maybe  I
said maybe.

Panic  yielded  to confusion.  What is so wrong?  This  was  just
some old Japanese guy who was making some veiled Oriental threat.
No,  it  was  another one of those  cultural  differences.   Like
calisthenics  before work at those Japanese companies that  satu-
rate the West Coast.  Sure it sounded like a threat, but this  is
OSO Industries we are talking about.  That would be like the head
of  Sony using extortion to sell Walkmen.  Impossible.   All  the
same,  it was scary and he had no idea what was on the disk.   He
called Max.

"Max!   What are you doing?"  What he meant, and Max  understood,
was 'I need you.  Get your ass up here now.'

"On my way Amigo."

The  next few minutes waiting for Max proved to be  mentally  ex-
hausting.  He thought of hundreds of balancing arguments for both
sides of the coin.  Be concerned, this guy is nuts and meant  it,
or I misunderstood something, or it got lost in the  translation.
He prayed for the latter.

"Yo, what gives?"  Max walked into Pierre's office without knock-
ing.

"Tell  me  what's on this!" Pierre thrust  the disk up  at  Max's
large physique.

Max  held  the disk to his forehead and gazed skyward.   "A  good
start.  Yes, a good start." Max grinned.

Pierre  groaned, knowing full well  that the Kreskin routine  had
to  be  completed  before anything serious  was  discussed.   Max
brought  the disk to his mouth and blew on it so the disk  holder
bulged  in the middle.  Max pulled out the disk and pretended  to
read  it.  "What do you call 1000 lawyers at the  bottom  of  the
ocean."  Pierre chuckled a half a chuck.  He wasn't in the  mood,
but then he had no love for lawyers.

"Max!  Please."

"Hey, just trying new material...."

" . . .that's 5  years old." Pierre interrupted.

"All  right already. Gimme a break. OK, let's have a look."  They
went   behind Pierre's desk and inserted the disk in his IBM  AT.
Max asked the computer for a listing of the diskette's  contents.
The screen scrolled and stopped.

C:\a:
A:\dir

     FILE84.EXE     01/01/80    704
     FILE85.EXE        01/01/80    2013
     FILE86.EXE        01/01/80     1900
     FILE87.EXE        01/01/80     567
     FILE88.EXE     01/01/80    2981
     FILE89.EXE        01/01/80    4324
     FILE90.EXE        01/01/80    1280
     FILE91.EXE     01/01/80     1395
     FILE92.EXE     01/01/80     2374
     FILE93.EXE        01/01/80    3912

     93 Files     1457 Bytes Remaining
A:\

"Just a bunch of small programs.  What are they?"  Max's lack  of
concern was understandable, but it annoyed Pierre all the same.

"I  don't know, that's what I'm asking you. What are they?   What
kind of programs?"

"Jeez, Pierre, I don't know.  Games maybe? Small utilities?  Have
you used them yet?"

"No, not yet, someone just gave them to me.  That's all."   Pier-
re's nervousness betrayed him.

"Well  let's  try one, see what it does."  Max typed  in  FILE93.
That would run the program.

A few seconds later the disk stopped and the computer returned to
its  natural  state, that of  the C:\.  "That  one  didn't  work.
Let's  try 92.  H'mmmm.   That's curious, it doesn't do  anything
either.   Looks like a bunch of crap to me.  What are  they  sup-
posed to do?"  Max shrugged his shoulders.

Max  kept trying a few more of the numbered programs.   "I  don't
know, really.  Maybe it's just a joke."

"Some  joke,  I  don't get it.  Where's the  punch  line?   Damn,
nothing." Max punched a few more keys. "Let me have this. I wanna
take me a look a closer look," Max said as he pulled the diskette
from the machine.

"Where are you going with that?"

"To  my lab.  I'll disassemble it and see what's what.   Probably
some garbage shareware.  I'll call you later."

At 4PM Max came flying through Pierre's office door again. Pierre
was doing his magic . . .talking to the press on the phone.

"Where did you get this?" bellowed Max as he strutted across  the
plush carpet holding the diskette in his hand.

Pierre waved him silent and onto the couch. He put up one  finger
to  indicate just a minute.  Pierre cut the reporter short on  an
obviously  contrived weak excuse. He promised to call  back  real
soon.  He meant that part.  He would call back.

"Pierre, where did you get this?" Max asked again.

"Nowhere. What's on it?" he demanded.

"Viruses.  Lots of 'em."

"You mean it's sick?  Like contagious?" Pierre was being genuine.

"No you Frog idiot. Computer viruses."

"What is a computer virus? A machine can't get sick."

"How  wrong you are ol' buddy.  You're in for a lesson now.   Sit
down." Pierre obliged.  This was Max's turf.

"Here  goes. If I lose you, just holler, ok, Amigo?"  Pierre  had
grown  to hate being called Amigo, but he had never asked Max  to
stop.  Besides, now wasn't the appropriate time to enlighten  Max
as  to  the  ins and outs of nick name  niceties.  Pierre  nodded
silent agreement.

"Computers  basically use two type of information.  One  type  of
information  is called data.  That's numbers, words, names  on  a
list, a letter, accounting records whatever.  The second type are
called  programs, we tweaks call them  executables.   Executables
are almost alive.  The instructions contained in the  executables
operate  on  the  data.  Everything else  is  a  variation  on  a
theme."

"Yeah, so the computer needs a program to make it work.  Everyone
knows that.  What about these?"

"I'm getting there. Hold on.  There are several types of executa-
bles, some are COM files, SYS and BAT files act like  executables
and  so do some OVR and OVL files.  In IBM type computers  that's
about  it.  Apples and MACs and others have  similar  situations,
but  these  programs are for IBM's.  Now imagine  a  program,  an
executable  which  is  designed  to  copy  itself  onto   another
program."

"Yeah,  so.  That's how dGraph works.  We essentially  seam  our-
selves into the application."

"Exactly,  but dGraph is benign.  These,"  he holds up the  disk-
ette,  "these are contaminated. They are viruses.  I only  looked
at a couple of them, disassembly  takes a while.  Pierre, if only
one  of these programs were on your computer, 3 years  from  now,
the  entire  contents  of your hard disk would  be  destroyed  in
seconds!"    Pierre  was stunned.  It had never occurred  to  him
that a program could be harmful.

"That's  3 years from now?  So what?  I probably won't  have  the
same  programs on my computer then anyway.  There's always  some-
thing new."

"It doesn't matter.  The viruses I looked at here copy themselves
onto other programs and hide themselves.  They do nothing,  noth-
ing at all except copy themselves onto other programs.  In a  few
days  every program on your computer, I mean every one  would  be
infected,  would be sick.  Every one would have the same  flu  if
you  wish.   And then, 3  years from now, any computer  that  was
infected  would destroy itself.  And, the virus itself  would  be
destroyed  as well.  Kind  of like Jap kamikazes from  World  War
II.  They know exactly when they will  die and hope to take a lot
of others with them. In this case the virus commits suicide in  3
years. Any data or program within spitting distance, so to speak,
goes too."

"So  why doesn't someone go looking for viruses and come up  with
antidotes?"

"It's  not that simple.  A well written virus will  disguise  it-
self.   The ones you gave me, at least  the ones  I  disassembled
not only hide themselves, but they are dormant until  activation;
in this case on a specific date."  Max continued the never ending
education of Pierre.  "Besides, it's been proven that there is no
way  to  have a universal piece of software  to  detect  viruses.
Can't be done."

"Whew  . . .who comes up with this stuff?"  Pierre was trying  to
grasp the importance of what he was hearing.

"Used  to be a UNIX type of practical joking; try writing a  pro-
gram that would annoy fellow programmers.  Pretty harmless  fool-
ing around.  No real damage, just embarrassment that called for a
similar revenge.  It was a game of one upmanship within universi-
ty  computer science labs. I saw a little of  it while  I  worked
at  the school computer labs, but again it was harmless  shenani-
gans.   These though.  Wow.  Deadly.  Where the hell did you  get
them?"

Pierre was in a quandary. Tell or don't tell.  Do I or don't   I?
He trusted Max implicitly, but what about the threat.  Naw, I can
tell Max.  Anything.

"Homosoto."

"What?" asked Max incredulously.

"Homosoto.  He gave it to me."  Pierre was solemn.

"Why? What for?"

"He said that I was to put it on the dGraph disks that we sell."

"He's  crazy.   That's absolutely nuts.  Do you know  what  would
happen?"  Max  paced   the floor as he spoke  angrily.  "We  sell
thousands of dGraph's every month.  Tens of thousands.  And  half
of the computer companies ship dGraph with their machines.  In  3
years time we may have over  a couple of million copies of dGraph
in  the  field.  And who knows how many  millions  more  programs
would   be   infected,  too.   Tens  of  millions   of   infected
programs  .  . .my God! Do you know how many  machines  would  be
destroyed  . . . well maybe not all destroyed but it's about  the
same  thing.  The effects would be devastating."  Max stopped  to
absorb what he was saying.

"How  bad could it be?  Once they're discovered, can't  your  vi-
ruses  be destroyed?" Pierre was curious about the newly  discov-
ered power.

"Well,  yes and no.  A virus that is dormant for that long  years
is also called a Time Bomb and a Trojan Horse.  There would be no
reason  to  suspect that a legitimate software company  would  be
shipping a product that would damage computers.  The thought   is
absurd . . .it's madness.  But brilliant madness.  Even if a  few
of  the  viruses accidentally go off prematurely, the  virus  de-
stroys  itself   in the process. Poof! No smoking gun.   No  evi-
dence.  Nobody would have clue until V-Day."

"V-Day?"

"Virus Day."

"Max, what's in this for Homosoto? What's the angle?"

"Shit,  I can't think of one.  If  it ever got out that our  pro-
grams  were infected it would be the end of DGI.  All  over.   On
the other hand, if no one finds out before V-Day, all the PC's in
the  country,  or Jesus, even the world, self destruct  at  once.
It's  then only a matter of time before DGI is caught in the act.
And  then,  Amigo, it's really over.  For you, me and  DGI.  What
exactly did Homosoto say?"

Pierre  was teetering between  terror  and disbelief. How had  he
gotten into this position?  His mind wandered back over the  last
few years since he  and Max had come up with the Engine. Life has
been  real good.  Sure, I don't get much music in anymore, and  I
have  kinda  been seduced by the fast lane, but so what?   So,  I
take  a  little more credit than credit's due,  but  Max  doesn't
mind. He really doesn't.

The  threat. Was it real?   Maybe.  He tried to convince  himself
that his mind was playing tricks on itself.  But the intellectual
exercises  he performed at lightening speed,  cranial  neuro-syn-
apses  switching for all they were worth, did not  permit  Pierre
the luxury of a respite of calm.

"He  said he wanted me to put this on dGraph programs.   Sometime
in the future.  That's about it."   There was no reason to  speak
of the threats.  No, no reason at all.  His vision became sudden-
ly clear.  He was being boxed into a corner.

"Well  . . .?" Max's eyes widened as he expected a response  from
Pierre.

"Well what?"

"Well,  what are you going to tell him? Or, more like  where  are
you going to tell him to go? This is crazy.  Fucking crazy, man."

"Max,  let me handle it. " Some quietude returned to  Pierre.   A
determination  and resolve came from the confusion. "Yeah,   I'll
take care of it."

"Mr.  Homosoto,  we need to speak."  Pierre showed  none  of  the
international  politic that usually was second nature. He  called
Homosoto at the San Jose Marriott later that afternoon.

"Of  course, Mr. Troubleaux.  I will see you shortly."   Homosoto
hung up.

Was  that a Japanese  yes for a yes, or a yes for  a no?   Pierre
wasn't sure, but  he was sure  that he knew how to handle Homoso-
to.  Homosoto didn't have the common courtesy to say he would not
be coming until the following morning.

In the plushness of Pierre's executive suite, Homosoto sat   with
the  same  shit  eating grin he had left  with  the  day  before.
Pierre hated that worse  than being called amigo.

"Mr.  Troubleaux, you asked to speak to me.  I assume  this  con-
cerns  a matter of honor between two men."  Homosoto spoke  in  a
monotone as he sat stiffly.

"You're damned right it does." Pierre picked up the diskette from
his desk.  "This disk, this disk . . .it's absolutely incredible.
You know  what's here, you know what kind of damage it can  cause
and   you have the gall,  the nerve to come in here and  ask  me,
no,  worse  yet, tell me to distribute these along  with  dGraph?
You're out of your mind, Mister."  Pierre was in a rage.  "If you
think we're a bunch of pawns, to do your dirty little deeds,  you
have another thing coming."

Unfazed, Homosoto rose slowly and started for the door.

"Where  do you think you're going? Hey, I asked you where  you're
going?   I'm not finished with you yet.  Hey, fuck the deal.    I
don't want the goddamned money.  We'll stay private and wait  for
someone  honest  to  come along."  Pierre was  speaking  just  as
loudly with hand, arm and finger gestures.  While not all of  the
gestures were obscene, there was no doubt about their meaning.

Homosoto  spoke gently amidst Pierre's ranting. "I will give  you
some  time to think about it."  With that, he left and  shut  the
door in Pierre's bright red face.

Three  days later DGI stock would be officially  unleashed   upon
the  public. Actually institutional buyers had already  committed
to  vast  amounts of it, leaving precious little  for  the  small
investor  before driving the price up.  That morning  Pierre  was
looking for Max.   They had a few last minute details to iron out
for   the  upcoming press conferences.  They had to  prepare  two
types of statements.  One if the stock purchase went as expected,
sold  out  almost instantly at or above the offering  price,  and
another  to explain the financial bloodbath if the  stock  didn't
sell.   Unlikely, but their media advisors forced them  to  learn
both positions, just in case.

His  phone  rang.  "Pierre, Mike Fields here." Fields  was  DGI's
financial  media consultant.  He worked for the underwriters  and
had a strong vested interest in the outcome. He didn't sound like
a happy camper.

"Yes,  Mike.   All  ready for tomorrow? I'm so  excited  I  could
burst,"  Pierre pretended.

"Yes, so am I, but we have a problem."

Pierre immediately thought  of Homosoto.  "What kind of  problem,
Mike?" Pierre asked suspiciously.

"Uh, Max, Pierre, it's Max."

"What about Max?"

"Pierre, Max is dead.  He died in a car crash last night.  I just
found out a few minutes ago. I gather you didn't know?"

Of  all  the possible pieces of bad news that Mike  Fields  could
have brought him, this was the farthest from his mind. Max  dead?
Not possible.  Why, he was with him till after 10 last night.

"Max, dead?  No way.  What happened? I don't believe it.  This is
some kind of joke, right?"

"Pierre,  I'm afraid I'm all too serious, unless CHiPs is  in  on
it.  They found a car, pretty well burned up, at the bottom of  a
ravine  on I280.   Looks like he went through a barrier and  down
the, well . . .I . . ."

"I get the idea, Mike. Who . . ?" Pierre stuttered.

"It was an accident, Pierre. One of those dumb stupid  accidents.
He  may  have  had  a  blow out,  fallen  asleep  at  the  wheel,
oh  . . .it could be a million things.  Pierre, I am  sorry.   So
sorry.   I  know what you guys meant to each other.  What  you've
been through . . ."

"Mike,  I have to go," Pierre whispered.  The tears were  welling
up in his  eyes.

"Wait,  Pierre," Mike said gingerly. "Of course we're  gonna  put
off the offering until . . ."

"No. Don't." Pierre said emphatically.

"Pierre,  your best friend and partner just died and you want  to
go through  with this . . .at least wait a week . . .Wall  Street
will be kind on this . . ."

"I'll  call you later.  No changes.  None." Pierre hung  up.   He
hung  his head on his desk, shattered with conflicting  emotions.
He was nothing without Max.  Sure, he gave great image. Knew  how
to  do  the schtick.  Suck up to the press, tell a  few  stories,
stretch  a few truths, all in the name of marketing,  of  course.
But  without Max, Max understood him.  Damn you Max  Jones.   You
can't do this to me.

His grief vacillated from anger to despair until the phone  rang.
He  ignored  the first 7 rings.  Maybe they would go  away.   The
caller persisted.

"Yes," he breathed  into the phone.

"Mr. Troubleaux," it was Homosoto.  Just what he needed now.

"What?"

"I  am  most sorry about your esteemed friend,  Max  Jones.   Our
sympathies are  with you.     Is there anything I can do to  help
you  in this time of personal grief."   Classic Japanese  manners
oozed over the phone wire.

"Yeah.  Moral bankruptcy is a crime against nature, and you  have
been  demonstrating an extreme talent for vivid androgynous  self
gratification."  Pierre was rarely rude, but when he was, he aped
Royal British snobbery at their best.

"A physical impossibility, Mr. Troubleaux,"  Homosoto said dryly.
"I  understand your feelings, and since it appears that I  cannot
help  you,  perhaps we should conclude our  business.  Don't  you
agree Mr. Troubleaux?"  The condescension dripped from Homosoto's
words.   The previous empathy was gone as quickly as if  a  light
had been extinguished.

"Mr.  Homosoto, the offering will still go through,  tomorrow  as
scheduled.  I assume that meets with your approval?"  The  French
can be so caustic.  It makes them excellent taxi cab drivers.

"That  is  not the business to which I refer.   I  mean  business
about honor. I am  sure you remember our last conversation."

"Yes,   I remember, and the answer is still no.  No, no,  no.   I
won't do it."

"That  is  such  a  shame.   I hope  you  will  not  regret  your
decision."    There it was again, Pierre thought. Another  veiled
threat.

"Why should I?"

"Simply,  and to the point as you Americans like it,  because  it
would  be  a terrible waste if the police obtained  evidence  you
murdered your partner for profit."

"Murdered?  What in hell's name are you talking about?"   Crystal
clear  visions  scorched  across Pierre's mind;  white  hot  fire
spread  through  his cranium.  Was Homosoto right? Was  Max  mur-
dered?  Searing heat etched patterns of pain in his brain.

"What  I mean, Mr. Troubleaux, is that there is  ample  evidence,
enough  to convince any jury beyond a reasonable doubt, that  you
murdered  your partner as part of a grander scheme to make  your-
self even richer than you will become tomorrow.  Do I make myself
clear?"

"You  bastard. Bastard," Pierre hissed into the phone.  Not  only
does Homosoto kill Max, but he arranges to have Pierre look  like
the  guilty  party.   What choice did  he  have.  At  least  now.
There's no proof, is there? The police reports are apparently not
ready.  No autopsy.  Body burned? What could Homosoto do?

"Fuck you all  the way to Hell!" Pierre screamed at the phone  in
abject frustration and then slammed the receiver down so hard the
impact resistant plastic cracked.

At  that  same instant, Sheila Brandt, his  secretary,  carefully
opened  the door his door. "Pierre, I just heard. I am so  sorry.
What  can I do?" She genuinely felt for him.  The two had been  a
great team, even if Pierre had become obsessed with himself.  Her
drawn  face with 40 years of intense sun worshiping  was  wracked
with emotional distress.

"Nothing   Sheil.    Thanks    though  .  .   .what   about   the
arrangements  . . .?"  The helpless look on his face brought  out
the mother in her even though she was only a few years older.

"Being taken care of . . .do you want to . . .?"

"No,  yes,  whatever  .  .  .that's  all  right,  just  keep   me
advised . . ."

"Yessir.   Oh,  I hate to do this, but your  9AM  appointment  is
waiting.  Should I get rid  of him?"

"Who is it?  Something I really care about  right now?"

"I don't know.  He's from personnel."

"Personnel? Since when do I get involved in that?"

"That's  all  I know. Don't worry I'll have him  come  back  next
week . . ."   she said thinking she had just relieved her boss of
an unnecessary burden that could wait.

"Sheil?  Send him in.  Maybe it'll get my mind off of this."

"If you're sure . . ." Scott nodded at her affirmatively.  "Sure,
Pierre, I'll send him in."

An elegantly dressed man, perhaps a dash over six feet, of  about
30 entered.  He walked with absolute confidence.  If this guy was
applying  for a job he was too well dressed for most of  DGI.  He
looked  more  like a tanned and rested Wall  Street  broker  than
a  . . .well whatever he was. The door closed behind him  and  he
grasped Pierre's hand.

"Good  morning Mr. Troubleaux.  My name is Thomas Hastings.   Why
don't  we  sit  for moment."  Their hands released  as  they  sat
opposite  each other in matching chairs. Pierre sensed  that  Mr.
Hastings  was going to run the conversation.  So be it.  "I am  a
software  engineer with 4 advanced degrees as well 2  PhD's  from
Caltech  and  Polytechnique in Paris.  There are  34  US  patents
either  in  my name alone or jointly along with  over  200  copy-
rights.  I  have  an  MBA from  Harvard  and  speak  6  languages
fluently . . ."

Pierre  interrupted, "I am impressed with your  credentials,  and
your clothes. What may I do for you."

"Oh  dear, I guess you don't know.  I am Max Jones'  replacement.
Mr. Homosoto sent me.  May I have the diskette please?"


* * * * *

The  financial  section of the New York City Times  included  two
pieces on the DGI offering.  One concerned the dollars and cents,
and the was a related human interest story, with financial reper-
cussions.  Max Jones, the co-founder of DGI, died in a car  acci-
dent  2 days before the company was to go public.  It would  have
earned him over $20 Million cash, with more to come.

The  article espoused the "such a shame for the company" tone  on
the loss of their technical wizard and co-founder.  It was a true
loss  to the industry, as much as if Bill Gates had  died.   Max,
though, was more the Buddy Holly of software, while Gates was the
Art  Garfunkle. The AP story, though, neglected to  mention  that
the San Jose police had not yet ruled out foul play.

* * * * *

     Wednesday, September 1
     New York City

Scott arrived in the City Room early to the surprise of Doug.  He
was a good reporter; he had the smarts, his writing was exemplary
and he had developed a solid readership, but early hours were not
his strong point.

"I don't do mornings," Scott made clear to anyone who thought  he
should  function socially before noon.  If they didn't  take  the
hint,  he behaved obnoxiously enough to convince anyone that  his
aversion to mornings should be taken seriously.

Doug  noticed that Scott had a purpose in arriving so early.   It
must  be those damned files.  The pile of documents that  alleged
America was as crooked as the Mafia.  Good leads, admittedly, but
proving  them  was going to be a bitch.  Christ, Scott  had  been
going at them with a vengeance.  Let him have some rope.

Scott got down to business.  He first called  Robert Henson,  CEO
of  Perris, Miller and Stevenson.  Scott's credentials as  a  re-
porter  for  the New York City Times got him past  the  secretary
easily.   Henson took the call; it was part of the job.

"Mr.  Henson?  This is Scott Mason from the Times.  I would  like
to  get  a comment on the proposed Boston-Ellis  merger."   Scott
sounded officious.

"Of  course, Mr. Mason.  How can I help?"  Robert Henson  sounded
accommodating.

"We  have  the press releases and stock quotes.   They  are  most
useful  and I am sure that they will be used.  But I  have  other
questions."  Scott hoped to mislead Henson into thinking he would
ask the pat questions he was expected to ask.

"Yes,  thank you.  My staff is very well prepared, and we try  to
give  the press adequate information. What do you  need?"   Scott
could hear the smiling Henson ready to play the press game.

"Basically, Mr. Henson,  I have some documents that suggest  that
you  inflated the net earnings of Second Boston to such a  degree
that,  if, and I say, if, the deal goes through, your  firm  will
earn  almost  one million dollars in extra  fees.   However,  the
figures I have do not agree at all with those filed with the SEC.
Would you care to comment?"  Scott tried not to sound accusatory,
but it was difficult not to play the adversary.

Henson  didn't try to conceal the cough he suddenly developed  at
the  revelation.   "Where," he choked,  "where did you  get  that
information?"

"From a reliable source.  We are looking for a confirmation and a
comment.   We know  the data is correct."  Scott was playing  his
King, but he still held an Ace if he needed it.

"I  have no comment.  We have filed all required affidavits  with
the appropriate regulatory agencies.  If you need anything  else,
then I suggest you call them."  Henson was nervous and the  phone
wires conveyed his agitation.

"I  assume, Mr. Henson, that you won't mind that I ask  them  why
files  from your computer dispute figures you gave to  the  SEC?"
Scott posed the question to give Henson an option.

"That's  not what I said," Henson said abruptly.  "What  computer
figures?"

"I  have a set of printouts that show that the  earnings  figures
for  Second Boston are substantially below those stated  in  your
filings.   Simple and dry.  Do you have a comment?"  Scott  stuck
with the game plan.

"I . . .uh . . .am not familiar . . .with . . .the . . .ah . . ."
Henson  hesitated and then decided to go on the offensive.   "You
have nothing.  Nothing.  It's a trap," Henson affirmed.

"Sir,  thank  you  for your time."  Scott hung  up  after  Henson
repeatedly denied any improprieties.

"This  is Scott Mason for Senator Rickfield.  I am with  the  New
York  City  Times."  Scott almost demanded  a  conversation  with
Washington's  leading debunker of the Defense  Department's  over
spending.

"May I tell the Senator what this is in reference to?"  The  male
secretary matter of factly asked.

"Yes  of  course." Scott was overly polite.  "General  Young  and
Credit Suisse."

"Excuse me?" the young aide asked innocently.

"That  will do.  I need a comment before I go to  print."   Scott
commanded an assurance that the aide was not used to hearing from
the press.

"Wait one moment please," the aide said.  A few seconds of  Muzak
on  hold bored Scott before Senator Merrill Rickfield  picked  up
the call.  He was belligerent.

"What the hell is this about?" The senator demanded.

"Is that for the record?"  Scott calmly asked.

"Is what for the record?  Who the hell is this?  You can't intim-
idate me. I am a United States Senator."  The self assurance gave
away nervousness.

"I mean no disrespect, Senator.  I am working on an article about
political compromise.  Very simple.  I have information that  you
and General Young, shall we say, have . . .an understanding.   As
a  member of the Senate Intelligence Committee, you  have  helped
pass  legislation  that gave you both what you  wanted.   General
Young got his weapons and you have a substantial bank account  in
Geneva.  Comments, Senator?"

Rickfield was beside himself but was forced to maintain a  formal
composure.  "Sir.  You have made some serious accusations,  slan-
derous at least, criminal I suspect.  I hope you are prepared  to
back  up these preposterous claims."  Scott heard desperation  in
the Senator's voice.

"Yessir,  I am.  I go to print, with or without  your  comments,"
Scott  lied.  A prolonged pause followed.  The first  person  who
spoke lost, so Scott busied himself with a crossword puzzle until
Rickfield spoke.

"If you  publish these absurdities, I will sue you and your paper
right into bankruptcy.  Do you copy?"

"I  copy  , Senator. Is that for attribution?"  Scott  knew  that
would piss off Rickfield.  The line went dead.

Scott  made  similar  calls for a good part of the  day,  and  he
continued to be amazed.

From  call to call, the answers were the same.  "How did you  get
that?"  "Where did you find out?"  "There's no way you could know
that."  "I was the only one who had access to that . . ."   "That
was in my private files . . ."

Blue  Tower Nuclear Plant denied that Scott held  internal  memos
instructing safety engineers to withhold critical flaws from  the
Nuclear Regulatory Committee.   General Autos denied using  known
faulty  parts in Cruise Control mechanisms despite the fact  that
Scott held a copy of a SECRET internal memorandum.  He especially
upset  the  Department of Defense when he asked them  how  Senors
Mendez and Rodriguez, CIA operatives, had set up Noriega.

The Center for Disease Control reacted with abject terror at  the
thought  of seeing the name of thousands of AIDS victims  in  the
newspaper.  Never the less, the CDC refused to comfirm that their
files  had  been  penetrated or any of the  names  on  the  list.
Useless.

Everyone he called gave him virtually the same story.  Above  and
beyond the official denial to any press; far from the  accusatory
claims  which were universally denied for a wide variety of  rea-
sons, all of his contacts were, in his opinion, honestly  shocked
that he even had a hint of their alleged infractions.

Scott  Mason  began to feel he was part of a conspiracy,  one  in
which everyone he called was a victim.  One in which he  received
the same formatted answer; more surprise than denial.

Scott  knew he was onto a story, but he had no idea what it  was.
He had in his possession damning data, from an anonymous  source,
with, thus far, no  way to get a confirmation.  Damn.  He  needed
that for the next time he got lawyered.

When  he  presented his case to his editor, Scott's  worst  fears
were  confirmed. Doug McGuire decided that a bigger story was  in
the  making.  Therefore, we don't go.  Not yet. That's an  order.
Keep digging.

"And while you're at it," Doug said with the pleasure of a father
teasing  his son, "follow this up, will you?  I need it by  dead-
line."

Scott took the AP printout from Doug and read the item.

"No,"  Scott gasped, "not another virus!"  He threw the paper  on
his desk.  "I'm up to my ass in . . ."

"Viruses," Doug said firmly, but grinning.

"Have a heart, these things are such bullshit."

"Then say so.  But say something."

****************************************************************

                         Chapter 7
     Thursday, September 17
     New York City Times

     Christopher Columbus Brings Disease to America
     By Scott Mason

Here's a story I can't resist, regardless of the absurdity of the
headline. In this case the words are borrowed from a story  title
in last week's National Expose, that most revered of journalistic
publications  which distributes half truths and tortured  conclu-
sions from publicity seeking nobodies.

The title should more appropriately be something like,

"Terror Feared in New Computer Virus Outbreak", or

"Experts See Potential Damage to Computer Systems", or

"Columbus Day Virus: Imaginary Panic?"

According  to  computer experts, this Columbus Day,  October  12,
will  mark a repeat appearance of the now infamous  Columbus  Day
Virus.   As for the last several years, that is  the  anticipated
date for a highly viral computer virus to 'explode'.  The history
behind the headline reads from an Ian Fleming novel.

In  late 1988, a group of West German hackers and  computer  pro-
grammers thought it would be great fun to build their own comput-
er  virus.  As my regular readers recall, a computer virus is  an
unsolicited  and unwanted computer program whose sole purpose  is
to wreak havoc in computers. Either by destroying important files
or otherwise damaging the system.

We  now know that that these Germans are part of  an  underground
group  known  as CHAOS, an acronym for Computer  Hackers  Against
Open Systems, whatever the heck that means.  They work to promote
computer systems disruption worldwide.

In  March  of 1989, Amsterdam, Holland, hosted  an  international
conference of computer programmers.  Are you ready for the  name?
Intergalactic Hackers Conference.  Some members were aware of the
planned  virus.   As a result of the negative  publicity  hackers
have  gotten  over the last few years, the  Conference  issued  a
statement  disavowing  the propagation and creation  of  computer
viruses.   All  very honorable by a group of  people  whose  sole
purpose in life is to invade the privacy of others.  But,  that's
what they said.

Somewhere, somehow, something went wrong, and the CHAOS virus got
released at the Intergalactic Hackers meetings.  In other  words,
files and programs, supposedly legitimate ones, got corrupted  by
this disreputable band, and the infections began spreading.

The  first outbreak of the Columbus Day Virus occurred  in  1989,
and caused millions of dollars of down computer time, reconstruc-
tion of data banks and system protection.

Again  we are warned, that the infection has continued to  spread
and  that  some strains of the virus are programmed  to  detonate
over a period of years.  The Columbus Day Virus is called by  its
creators,  the "Data Crime Virus", a name befitting its  purpose.
When it strikes, it announces itself to the computer user, and by
that time, it's too late.  Your computer is kaput!

What  makes this particular computer virus any  more  tantalizing
than the hundred or so that have preceded it?  The publicity  the
media has given it, each and every year since 1989.

The Data Crime, aka Columbus Day Virus has, for some  inescapable
reason attracted the attention of CNN, ABC, CBS, NBC and hundreds
of newspapers including this one.  The Associated Press and other
reputable  media have, perhaps due to slow news weeks, focused  a
great  deal of attention on this anticipated technological  Arma-
geddon.

Of course there are other experts who pooh-pooh the entire  Virus
issue  and see it as an over-exploited media event  propelled  by
Virus  Busters.  Sam Moscovitz of Computer Nook in Dallas,  Texas
commented,  "I have never seen a virus in 20 years.   I've  heard
about  them  but really think they are a figment of  the  media's
imagination."

Virus  Busters  are people or firms who  specialize  in  fighting
alleged computer viruses by creating and selling so-called  anti-
dotes.   Virus  Busting Sean McCullough, President of  The  Virus
Institute  in San Jose, California thinks that most  viruses  are
harmless and users and companies overreact.  "There have been  no
more  that  a few dozen viral outbreaks in the  last  few  years.
They spread more by rumor than by infection."  When asked how  he
made  his  living, he responded, "I sell  antidotes  to  computer
viruses."  Does he make a good living?  "I can't keep up with the
demand," he insists.

The  Federal Government, though, seems concerned, and  maybe  for
good  reason.  On October 13,  another NASA space shuttle  launch
is planned.  Friday the 13th is another date that computer  virus
makers use as the intended date of destruction.  According to  an
official spokesman, NASA has called in computer security  experts
to  make sure that their systems are " . . .clean and  free  from
infection.  It's a purely precautionary move, we are not worried.
The launch will continue as planned."

Viruses.  Are they real?  Most people believe they are real,  and
dangerous, but that chances of infection are low.  As one  highly
respected computer specialist put it, "The Columbus Day Virus  is
a  low risk high consequence possibility.  I don't recommend  any
panic."  Does he protect his own computer agaist viruses?  "Abso-
lutely.  I can't risk losing my computers."

Can  anybody?  Until October 12, this is Scott Mason,  hoping  my
computer never needs Tylenol.

* * * * *

     Scarsdale, New York.

The Conrail  trains were never on time.

Scott  Mason regularly tried to make it to the station  to   ride
the 7:23 from the wealthy Westchester town of Scarsdale, New York
into  Grand Central Station.  If he made it. It was a  32  minute
ride into the City on good days and over 2 hours  when the feder-
ally subsidized rail service was under Congressional scrutiny.

The  ritual  was simple.  He fell into his old  Porsche  911,  an
upscale  version of a station car, and drove the 2 miles  to  the
Scarsdale train station.  He bought a large styrofoam cup full of
decent  black coffee and 3 morning papers from the blind  newsman
before boarding the express train.  Non-stop to Harlem, and  then
on to 42nd St. and Park Avenue and wake up time.

Tyrone  Duncan followed a similar routine.  Except he  drove  his
silver  BMW  850i to the station.  The FBI provided  him  with  a
perfectly  good  Ford Fairlane  with 78,000 miles on it  when  he
needed a car in New York.   He was one of the few black commuters
from  the affluent bedroom community and his size made  him  more
conspicuous than his color.

Scott  and Tyrone were train buddies.  Train buddies are  perhaps
unique in the commuterdom of the New York suburbs. Every  morning
you  see the same group of drowsy, hung over executives on  their
way  to the Big Apple.  The morning commute is a personal  solace
for  many.  Your train buddy knows if you got laid and  by  whom.
If  you tripped over your kids toys in the driveway,  your  train
buddy knew.  If work was a bitch, he knew before the wife.  Train
buddies  are  buddies to the death or the  bar,  whichever  comes
first.

While  Scott and Tyrone had been traveling the same  the  morning
route  since  Scott had joined the paper, they had  been  friends
since  their wives introduced them at the Scarsdale Country  Club
10  years  ago.  Maggie Mason and Arlene Duncan  were  opoosites;
Maggie,  a giggly, spacey and spontaneous girl of 24 and  Arlene,
the dedicated wife of a civil servant and mother of three  daugh-
ters  who  were going to toe the line, by  God.   The  attachment
between the two was not immediately explainable, but it gave both
Scott and Ty a buddy with their wives' blessing.

The  physical  contrast  between the two was  comical  at  times.
Duncan  was a 240 pound six foot four college linebacker who  had
let  his considerable bulk accumulate around the middle.   Scott,
small and wiry was 10 years Ty's junior.  On weekends they played
on  a very amateur local basketball league where minimum age  was
thirty  five,  but there, Scott consistently out  maneuvered  Ty-
rone's bulk.

During  the week, Tyrone dressed in impeccable Saville Row  suits
he  had made in London while Scott's uniform was jeans,  sneakers
and  T-Shirt of choice.  His glowing skull, more dark brown  than
ebony, with fringes of graying short hair emphasized the  usually
jovial face that was described as a cross between rolly-polly and
bulbous.  Scott on the other hand, always seemed to need a  hair-
cut.

Coffee  in hand, Tyrone plopped down opposite Scott as the  train
pulled out of the open air station.

"You must be in some mood," Tyrone said laughing.

Scott laid down his newspaper and vacantly asked why.

"That  shirt," Ty smirked.  "A lesson in how to make friends  and
influence people."

"Oh, this?"  Scott looked down at the words on his chest:

               I'm O.K.
          You're A Shithead.

"It only offends them that oughta be offended."

"Shitheads?"

"Shitheads."

"Gotcha," Ty said sarcastically. "Right."

"My  mother,"  groused Scott.  "VCR lessons."  Ty  didn't  under-
stand.

"I gave my mom a VCR last Christmas," Scott continued. "She ooh'd
and ah'd and I thought great, I got her a decent present. Well, a
couple  of weeks later I went over to her place and I  asked  how
she  liked the VCR.  She didn't answer, so I asked again and  she
mumbled that she hadn't used it yet.  I fell down," Scott laughed
out loud.

"'Why?'  I  asked her and she said she wanted to get used  to  it
sitting  next  to her TV for a couple of months before  she  used
it."  Tyrone caught a case of Scott's roaring laughter.

"Wheeee!" exclaimed Tyrone.  "And you an engineer?"

"Hey,"  Scott settled down, "my mom calls 911 to change a  light-
bulb."   They laughed until Scott could speak.  "So last night  I
went over for her weekly VCR lesson."

"If it's anything like Arlene's mother," Tyrone giggled,  "trust-
ing  a machine to do something right, when you're not  around  to
make sure it is right, is an absolutely terrifying thought.  They
don't believe it works."

"It's  a lot of fun actually," Scott said fondly.  "It  tests  my
ability to reduce things to the basics.  The real basics.  Trying
to teach a seventy year old widower about digital is like  trying
to get a square ball bearing to roll."

Even so, Scott looked forward to those evenings with his mom.  He
couldn't  imagine it, the inability to understand the  simplicity
of  either 'on' or 'off'.  But he welcomed the tangent  conversa-
tions  that invariably resulted when he tried to explain how  the
VCR  could record one channel and yes mom, you can watch  another
channel at the same time.

Scott  never  found  out that his mother  deprogrammed  the  VCR,
cleared  its  memory and 'Twelved' the clock an  hour  before  he
arrived to show her how to use it.  And after he left, she repro-
grammed it for her tastes only to erase it again before his  next
visit.  If he had ever discovered her ruse it would  have  ruined
her  little game and the ritual starting point for their  private
talks.

"By  the  way," Scott said to Tyrone. "What are  you  and  Arlene
doing Sunday night?"

"Sunday?  Nothing, why?"  Tyrone asked innocently.

"My mom is having a little get together and she'd love the two of
you . . ."

"Is this another one of her seances?" Tyrone asked pointedly.

"Well, not in so many words, but it's always possible . . ."

"Forget  it."  Tyrone said stubbornly.  "Not after what  happened
last  time.  I don't think I could get Arlene within 20 miles  of
your  mother.  She scared the living shit out of her . .  .and  I
have my doubts."

"Relax," Scott said calmly.  "It's just her way of keeping  busy.
Some people play bingo, others play bridge . . ."

"And  your mother shakes the rafters trying to raise her  husband
from the dead," said Scott with exaperation.  "I don't care  what
you  say,  that's  not normal.  I like your  mother,  but,  well,
Arlene  has put her foot down."  Tyrone shuddered at the  thought
of  that evening.  No one could explain how the  wooden  shutters
blew  open or the table wobbled.  Tyrone preferred, just  as  his
wife did, to pretend it never happened.

"Hey,"  Tyrone said with his head back behind the newspaper.   "I
see you're making a name for yourself elsewhere, too."

"What do you mean?" Scott asked.

"Don't give me that innocent shit.  I'm a trained  professional,"
Tyrone  joked.    He held up the New York City  Times  turned  to
Scott's Christopher Columbus article. "Your computer crime pieces
have  been raising a few eyebrows down at the office.  Seems  you
have better sources than we do.  Our Computer Fraud division  has
been going nuts recently."

"Glad you can read."  Scott enjoyed the compliment.  "Just a job,
but I gotta story much more interesting.  I can't publish it yet,
though."

"Why?"

"Damn  lawyers want us to have our facts straight.  Can  you  be-
lieve  it?"  Scott teased Tyrone.  "Besides, blackmail is so,  so
personal."

Tyrone  stopped in mid-sip of his hot coffee.  "What  blackmail?"
The  frozen visage caught Scott off guard.  They rarely spoke  of
their  respective jobs in any detail, preferring to remain  at  a
measured professional distance.  The years of dedication invested
in their friendship, even after to everyones' surprise, Maggie up
and  left for California were not to be put in jeoprady  unneces-
sarily.  Thus far their interests had not sufficiently overlapped
to be of concern.

"It's a story, that, well, doesn't have enough to go into  print,
but, it's there, I know it. Off the record, ok?" Scott wanted  to
talk.

"Mums the word."

"A  few days ago I received some revealing documents papers on  a
certain company.  I can't say which one." He looked at Tyrone for
approval.

"Whatever," Tyrone urged anxiously.

Scott told Tyrone about his nameless and faceless donor and  what
Higgins had said about the McMillan situation and the legality of
the apparently purloined information.  Tyrone listened in  fasci-
nation  as Scott outline a few inner sanctum secrets to which  he
was privy.

Tyrone got a shiver up his spine.  He tried to disguise it.

"Can I ask you a question?"  Tyrone quietly asked.

"Sure. Go for it."

"Was one of the companies Amalgamated General?"

Scott shot Tyrone a look they belied the answer.

"How did you know?"  Scott asked suspiciously.

"And  would another be First Federated or State  National  Bank?"
Tyrone tried to subdue his concern.  All he needed was the  press
on this.

Scott could not hide his surprise.  "Yeah! And a bunch of others.
How'd you know?"

Tyrone  retreated back into his professional FBI persona.  "Lucky
guess."

"Bullshit.  What's up?" Scott's reporter mindset replaced that of
the lazy commuter.

"Nothing, just a coincidence."  Tyrone picked up a newspaper  and
buried his face behind it.

"Hey, Ty.  Talk ol' buddy."

"I can't and you know it." Tyrone sounded adamant.

"As a friend?  I'll buy you a lollipop?" Scott joked.

Ty  snickered. "You know the rules, I can't talk about a case  in
progress."

"So there is a case? What is it?" Scott probed.

"I didn't say that there was a case," Ty countered.

"Yes you did.  Case in progress were your words, not mine.  C'mon
what's up?"

"Shit,  you media types."  Tyrone gave himself a few  seconds  to
think.  "I'll never know why you became a reporter.  You used  to
be  a  much  nicer pain in the ass before you  became  so  nosy."
Scott sat silently, enjoying Ty's awkwardness.

Tyrone hated to compromise the  sanctity of his position, but  he
realized  that he, too, needed some help.  Since he  hadn't  read
any of this in the papers, there had to be journalistic responsi-
bility from both Scott and the paper. "Off, off, off the  record.
Clear?"  He was serious.

"Done."

The train rumbled into the tunnel at the Northern tip of  Manhat-
tan. They had to raise their voices to hear each other, but  that
meant they couldn't be heard either.

"As  near  as I can tell," Tyrone hesitantly began.   "There's  a
well coordinated nationwide blackmail operation in progress.   As
of yesterday, we have received almost a hundred cases of  alleged
blackmail. From  Oshkosh, Baton Rouge, New York, Miami,  Atlanta,
Chicago,  LA,  the works.  Small towns to the  metros.   It's  an
epidemic  and  the local and state cops  are  absolutely  buried.
They  can't handle it, and besides it's way out of their  league.
So  who do they all call? Us. Shit. I need this, right?   There's
no  way we can handle this many cases at once.  No way.  Washing-
ton's going berserk."

"Who's  behind it?"  Scott asked knowing he wouldn't get  a  real
answer.

"That's  the  rub.  Don't have a clue.  Not a clue.   There's  no
pattern, none at all.  We assumed it was organized crime, but our
informants  say they're baffled.  Not the mob, they swear.   They
knew about it before we did.  Figures."  Tyrone's voice echoed  a
professional frustration.

"Motives?"

"None. We're stuck."

"Sounds like we're both on the same hunt."

The  train  slowed to a crawl and then a hesitant stop  at  Grand
Central.   Thousands  of commuters lunged at the  doors  to  make
their  escape to the streets of New York above them.  Scott  won-
dered if any of  them were part of Duncan's problems.

"Scott?"  Tyrone queried on the escalator.

"Yeah?"

"Not a word, ok?"

Scott  held  up  his right hand  with  three  fingers.   "Scott's
honor!" That was good enough for Tyrone.

They  walked up the stairs and past a newsstand that caught  both
of their eyes instantly.  The National Expose had another  sensa-
tionalistic  headline:

     FBI POWERLESS IN NATIONAL BLACKMAIL SCHEME

They fought for who would pay the 75 cents for the scandal filled
tabloid, bought two, and started reading right where they stood.

"Jesus,"  Tyrone  said more breathing than  actually  saying  the
word.   "They're going to make a weekly event of  printing  every
innuendo."

"They have the papers, too," muttered Scott.  "The whole  blasted
lot.  And  they're  printing them."  Scott put  down  the  paper.
"This makes it a brand new ball game . . ."

"Just what I need," Tyrone said with disgust.

"That's  the answer," exclaimed Scott.  "The motive.  Who's  been
affected so far?"

"That's the mystery. No one seems to have been affected.   What's
the  answer?" Tyrone demanded loud enough to  attract  attention.
"What's the answer?" he whispered up close.

"It's you."  Scott noted.

Tyrone expressed surprise.  "What do you mean, me."

"I mean, it seems that the FBI has been affected more than anyone
else.  You said you're overloaded, and that you can't pay  atten-
tion to other crimes."

"You're  jumping to conclusions."  Tyrone didn't  follow  Scott's
reasoning and cocked his head quizzically.

"What  if the entire aim of the blackmail was to so overwork  the
FBI, so overload it with useless cases, and that the perpetrators
really  have other crimes in mind.  Maybe they have  already  hit
their real targets.  Isn't it possible that the FBI is an unwill-
ing  dupe,  a decoy in a much larger scheme  that  isn't  obvious
yet?"   Scott  liked the sound of his thinking and  he  saw  that
Tyrone wasn't buying his argument.

"It's  possible, I guess . . .but . . ." Tyrone didn't  have  the
words  to finish his foggy thoughts.  It was too far  left  field
for  his  linear  thinking.  "No this is crazy as  the  time  you
though  that UFO's were invading Westchester in '85.  Then  there
was the time you said that Columbian drug dealers put cocaine  in
the water supply . . ."

"That wasn't my fault . . ."

"  . . .and the Trump Noriega connection and the other  500  wild
ass conspiracies you come up with."

Scott  dismissed  Tyrone's  friendly criticism  by  ignoring  the
derisions.   "As I see it," Scott continued, "the only victim  is
the  FBI.   None of the alleged victims have been  harmed,  other
than ego and their paranoia levels. Maybe the FBI was the  target
all  along.    Scott  suggested, "it's as good a  theory  as  any
other."

"With what goal?"  Duncan accepted the logic for the moment.

"So  when  the  real thing hits, you guys are too  fucked  up  to
react."

* * * * *

     The Federal Bureau of Investigation
     Federal Square, Manhattan.

The flat white and glass square building, designed in the  '60's,
built shoddily by the lowest bidder in 1981, in no way echoed the
level of technical sophistication hidden behind the drab  exteri-
or.     The  building had no personality, no  character,  nothing
memorable  about  it, and that was exactly the way  the   tenants
wanted it.

The 23 story building extended 6 full floors below the  congested
streets of Lower Manhattan. Throughout the entire structure  well
guarded  mazes held the clues to the locations of  an  incredible
array  of  computing power, some of the world's  best  analytical
tools,  test equipment, forensic labs, communications  facilities
and  a  staff  of experts in hundreds  of  technical  specialties
required to investigate crimes that landed in their jurisdiction.

The  most sensitive work was performed underground, protected  by
the solid bedrock of Manhattan island.  Eavesdropping was  impos-
sible, almost, and operational privacy was guaranteed.   Personal
privacy  was  another matter, though.  Most of the  office  staff
worked  out  in an open office floorplan. The walls  between  the
guard stations and banks of elevators consisted solely of bullet-
proof floor to ceiling triple pane glass.  Unnerving at first, no
privacy.

There  was  a self-imposed class structure  between  the  "bugs",
those who worked in the subterranean chambers and the "air-heads"
who worked where the daylight shone.  There was near total  sepa-
ration  between the two groups out of necessity; maintain  isola-
tion  between  those with differing need-to-know  criteria.   The
most  visible  form  of self-imposed  isolation,  and  unintended
competitiveness was that each camp spent Happy Hour at  different
bars.  A line that was rarely crossed.

Unlike  the mechanism of the Corporate Ladder, where  the  higher
floors  are reserved for upper, top, elite management, the  power
brokers, at the FBI the farther down into the ground you  worked,
the more important you were.  To the "airheads", "bugs" tried  to
see  how low they could sink in their acquisition of power  while
rising up on the Government pay scale.

On  level  5, descending from street level 1, Tyrone sat  on  the
edge  of his large Government issue executive desk to answer  his
ringing  phone.  It was Washington, Bob Burnsen,  his  Washington
based  superior and family friend for years.

"No,  really. Thanks," Ty smiled.  "Bob, we've been through  this
before.  It's all very flattering, but no.  I'm afraid not.   And
you  know why.  We've been through this all . . ."  He was  being
cut off by his boss, so he shut up and listened.

"Bob  .  .  .Bob . . .Bob," Tyrone was laughing as  he  tried  to
interrupt  the other end of the conversation. "OK, I'll  give  it
some more thought, but don't get your hopes up.  It's just not in
my cards."  He listened again.

"Bob,  I'll speak to Arlene again, but she feels the same  way  I
do.   We're  both  quite content and frankly, I  don't  need  the
headaches."  He looked around the room as he cocked the  earpiece
away from his head. He was hearing the same argument again.

"Bob,  I said  I would.  I'll call  you next week."   He  paused.
"Right. If you don't hear from me, you'll call me. I  understand.
Right.  OK, Bob. All right, you too. Goodbye."

He  hung  up the phone in disbelief.  They just  won't  leave  me
alone.  Let  me be! He clasped his hands in mock  prayer  at  the
ceiling.

* * * * *

Tyrone Duncan joined the FBI in 1968, immediately after  graduat-
ing  cum  laude from Harvard Law.  Statistically  the  odds  were
against  him ever being accepted into the elite  National  Police
Force.  The virtually autonomous empire that J. Edgar Hoover  had
created  over 60 years and 12 presidents ago was very   selective
about whom it admitted.  Tyrone Duncan was black.

His  distinguished  pre-law training had him prepared  to  follow
into  his father's footsteps, as a partner with one  of  Boston's
most  prestigious law firms.  Tyrone was a member of one  of  the
very  few rich and influential black families in the North  East.
His  family was labeled "Liberal" when one wasn't ashamed of  the
moniker.

Then  came  Selma.    At 19, he participated in  several  of  the
marches  in  the  South and it was then that he  first  hand  saw
prejudice. But it was more than prejudice, though.  It was  hate,
it  was ignorance and fear.  It was so much more than  prejudice.
It  was  one of the last vestiges left over from a  society  con-
quered  over a century ago; one that wouldn't let go of its  mis-
guided myopic traditions.

Fear  and hate are contagious. Fueled by the oppressive heat  and
humidity,  decades  of racial conflict, several 'Jew  Boy  Nigger
Lovers'  were  killed that summer in Alabama. The murder  of  the
civil  rights workers made front page news. The country was  out-
raged, at the murders most assuredly, but national outrage turned
quickly to divisional disgust when local residents dismissed  the
crime  as  a prank, or even congratulated  the  perpetrators  for
their actions.

The  FBI was not called in to Alabama to solve murders,  per  se;
murder  is  not a federal crime.  They were to  solve  the  crime
because  the  murderers had violated the victims'  civil  rights.
Tyrone  thought that that approach was real slick, a  nice  legal
side  step  to get what you want. Put the lawyers  on  the  case.
When  he asked the FBI if they could use a hand, the local  over-
worked,  understaffed agents graciously accepted his  offer   and
Tyrone  spent the remainder of the summer filing papers and  per-
forming other mundane tasks while learning a great deal.

On  the  plane  back to Boston, Tyrone Duncan  decided  that  his
despite  his father's urging, after law school he would join  the
FBI.

Tyrone Duncan, graduate cum laude, GPA 3.87, Harvard Law  School,
passed  the  Massachussettes  Bar on the  first  try  and  sailed
through the written and physical tests for FBI admission. He  was
over 100 pounds lighter than his current weight.  His  background
check was unassailable except for his family's prominent  liberal
bent.   He had every basic qualification needed to become an  FBI
Agent.  He was turned down.

Thurman  Duncan, his prominent lawyer father was beside  himself,
blaming it on Hoover personally.  But Tyrone decided to 'investi-
gate'  and  determine  who or what was pulling  the  strings.  He
called  FBI personnel and asked why he had been  rejected.   They
mumbled something about 'experience base' and 'fitting the mold'.
That was when he realized that he was turned down solely  because
he  was black. Tyrone was not about to let a  racial issue  stand
in his way.

He located a couple of the agents with whom he had worked  during
the  last summer.  After the pleasantries, Tyrone told them  that
he  was  applying for a position as an assistant  DA  in  Boston.
Would  they mind writing a letter . . .

Tyrone Duncan was right on time at the office of the FBI  Person-
nel Director.  Amazing, Tyrone thought, the resemblance to  Hoov-
er.   The  four letters of recommendation, which read  more  like
votes for sainthood were a little overdone, but, they were on FBI
stationary.   Tyrone asked the Personnel  Director if they  would
reconsider  his  application,  and that if  necessary,  he  would
whitewash his skin.

The following day Tyrone received a call.  Oh, it was a big  mix-
up.   We misfiled someone else's charts in your files and,  well,
you understand, I'm sure.  It happens all the time.  We're  sorry
for  any  inconvenience.  Would you be available to  come  in  on
Monday? Welcome to the FBI.

Tyrone paid his dues early.  Got shot at some, chased long haired
left  wing hippie radicals who blew up gas stations in 17  states
for  some unfathomable reason, and then of course,  he  collected
dirt  on imaginary enemies to feed the Hoover Nixon paranoia.  He
tried,  fairly successfully to stay away from that last  kind  of
work.  In Tyrone's not so humble opinion, there were a whole  lot
more  better things for FBI agents to be doing than  worry  about
George McGovern's toilet habits or if some left wing high  school
kids  and their radical newspaper were imaginarily linked to  the
Kremlin.  Ah, but that was politics.

Three weeks after J. Edgar Hoover died, Tyrone Duncan was promot-
ed  to Section Chief in the New York City office.  A  prestigious
position.  This was his first promotion in 8 years at the bureau.
It  was one that leaped over 4 intermediate levels.   The  Hoover
era  was gone.

After  hanging up the phone with Bob Bernsen, Tyrone  sat  behind
his desk going over his morning reports.  No planes hijacked,  no
new counterfeiting rings and nary a kidnapping.  What dogged  him
though was the flurry of blackmail and extortion claims.  He  re-
read the digested version put out by Washington headquarters that
was faxed to him in the early hours, ready for his A.M. perusal.

The apparent facts confounded his years of experience.  Over  100
people,  many of them highly placed leaders of American  industry
had called their respective regional FBI offices for help. A call
into  the FBI is handled in a procedural manner.   The agent  who
takes the call can identify the source of the call with a readout
on  his special phone;  a service that the FBI had had for  years
but was only recently becoming available to the public.  Thus, if
the  caller had significant information, but refused to  identify
himself, the agent had a reliable method to track down the  call-
er.   Very  few people who called the FBI realized that  a  phone
inquiry to an FBI office triggered a sequence of automatic events
that was complete before the call was over.

The phone call was of course monitored and taped.  And the  phone
number of the caller was logged in the computer and displayed  to
the  agent. Then the number was crosschecked against  files  from
the  phone company.  What was the exact location of  the  caller?
To whom was the phone registered?  A calling and billing  history
was made instantly available if required.

If the call originated from a phone  registered to an individual,
his  social security number was retrieved and within  seconds  of
the receipt of the call, the agent knew a plethora of information
about  the caller.  Criminal activities, bad credit records;  the
type of data that would permit the agent to gauge the validity of
the call.  For business phones, a cross check determined any  and
all dubious dealings that might be valuable in such a  determina-
tion.

Thus,  the profile that emerged from the vast number  of  callers
who intimated blackmail activities created a ponderous situation.
They all, to a call, originated from the office or home of  major
corporate  movers  and shakers.  Top  American  businessmen  who,
while not beyond the reach of the law, were from the FBI's  view,
upstanding  citizens.   Not pristine, but certainly not  mad  men
with a record of making outlandish capricious claims.  It was not
in their interest to bring attention to themselves.

What  puzzled  Tyrone, and Washington, was the sudden  influx  of
such calls.  Normally the Bureau handles a handful of diversified
cases of blackmail, and a very small percentage of those pan  out
into  legitimate  and solvable cases.   Generally,  veiled  vague
threats do not materialize into prosecutable cases. Tyrone Duncan
sat back thoughtfully.

What is the common element here? Why today, and not a year ago or
on April Fools Day?  Do these guys all play golf together?  Is it
a joke?  Not likely, but a remote possibility.  What enemies have
they  made?   Undoubtedly they haven't befriended  everyone  with
whom they have had contact,  but what's the connection?  Tyrone's
mind  reeled  through a maze of unlikelihoods.  Until,  the  only
common  element  he could think of  stared at him  right  in  the
face.  There was a single dimension of commonality between all of
the  callers.  They had, to a company, to a man, all  dealt  with
the same organization for years.  The U.S. Government.

The thought alone caused a spasm to his system.  His body  liter-
ally  leapt  from his chair for a split second as he  caught  his
breath.   The  government.  No way. Is it possible?   I  must  be
missing  something, surely.  This is crazy.  Or is  it?   Doesn't
the  IRS  have records on everyone?  Then the  ultimate  paranoid
thought  hit him square in the cerebellum.  He playfully  pounded
his forehead for missing the connection.

Somewhere, deep in the demented mind of some middle management G-
9  bureaucrat, Duncan thought, an idea germinated that  he  could
sell  to another overworked, underpaid civil servant;  his  boss.
The G-9 says, 'I got a way to make sure the tax evaders pay their
share,  and it won't cost Uncle Sam a dime!'.  His boss says,  'I
got  a  congressional hearing today, I'm too busy.  Do  some  re-
search and let me see a report.'

So this overzealous tax collector prowls around other  government
computers  and  determines  that the companies on  his  hit  list
aren't necessarily functioning on the up and up.  What better way
to get them to pay their taxes than to let them know that we, the
big We, Big Brother know, and they'd better shape up.

He  calls a few of them, after all he knows where  the  skeletons
and  the phone numbers are buried, and says something like,  'Big
Brother is listening and he doesn't like what he hears.'   And he
says, 'we'll call you back soon, real soon, so get your ducks  in
a  row'  and that scares the shit out of the  corporate  muckity-
mucks.

Tyrone smiled to himself.  What an outlandish theory.  Absurd, he
admitted,  but  it was the only one he could say fit  the  facts.
Still,  is it possible?  The government was certainly capable  of
some  pretty bizarre things.  He recalled the Phoenix program  in
Viet  Nam where suspected Viet Cong and innocent  civilians  were
tossed  out  of helicopters at 2000 feet to their deaths  in  the
distorted hope of making another one talk.

Wasn't  Daniel Ellsburg a government target?  And  the  Democrats
were  in  1972 targets of CREEP, the Committee  to  Re-Elect  the
President.   And  the Aquarius project used  psychics  to  locate
Soviet  Boomers  and UFO's.  Didn't we give LSD  to  unsuspecting
soldiers  to  see  if they could function  adequately  under  the
influence? The horror stories swirled through his mind. And  they
became more and more unbelievable, yet they were all true.  Maybe
it  was  possible.   The United States  government  had  actually
instituted a program of anonymous blackmail in order to  increase
tax revenues.  Christ, I hope I'm wrong. But, I'm probably not.

The  buzzer on the intercom of his phone jarred Tyrone  from  his
daydream speculations.

"Yes?"  He answered into space.

"Mr. Duncan, a Franklin Dobbs is here for his 10 o'clock appoint-
ment.  Saunderson is out and so you're elected."  Duncan's secre-
tary  was too damned efficient, he thought.  Why not give  it  to
someone else.  He pushed his intercom button.

"Gimme a second, I gotta primp."  That was Tyrone's code that  he
needed  a few minutes to graduate from speculative forensics  and
return  to  Earth  to deal with real life  problems.   As  usual,
Gloria obliged him.  In exactly 3 minutes, his door opened.

"Mr. Duncan, this is Franklin Dobbs, Chairman and CEO of National
Pulp.  Mr. Dobbs, Mr. Duncan, regional director."  She waited for
the  two men to acknowledge each other before she shut  the  door
behind her.

"Mr.  Duncan?"  Dobbs held his hand out to the  huge  FBI  agent.
Duncan accepted and pointed at a vacant chair.   Dobbs sat obedi-
ently.

"How can I help you, Mr. Dobbs?"

"I am being blackmailed, and I need help."  Dobbs looked straight
into Duncan's coal black eyes.

The IRS, thought Duncan.  "By whom?" he asked casually.

"I don't know." Dobbs was firm.

"Then how do you know you are being blackmailed?"  Duncan  wanted
to conceal his interest.  Keep it low profile.

"Let me tell you what happened."

Good  start, thought Duncan.  If only half of us would  start  in
such a logical place.

"Two  days ago I received a package by messenger.   It  contained
the  most sensitive information my company has.  Strategic  posi-
tions,  contingency  plans, competitive information  and  so  on.
There are only a half dozen people in my company that have access
to  that kind of information.  And they all own enough  stock  to
make sure that they aren't the culprits."

"So who is?" interjected Tyrone as he made notes.

"I don't know.  That's the problem."

"What  did  they ask for?"  Duncan looked  directly  into  Dobbs'
eyes.  To both force an answer and look for signs of deceit.  All
he saw was honesty and real fear.

"Nothing.  Nothing at all.  All I got was the package and a brief
message."

"What was the message?" Tyrone asked.

"We'll be in touch.  That's it."

"So where's the threat?  The blackmail.  This hardly seems like a
case for the FBI."  Tyrone was baiting the hook.  See if the fish
is real.

"None,  not  yet.  But that's not the point.  What they  sent  me
were copies, yet they looked more like the originals, of informa-
tion  that would negatively affect my company.  It's the sort  of
information that we would not want made public. If you know  what
I mean."

Tyrone thought,  you bet I know.  You're up to and you want us to
protect you.  Fat chance. "I know what you mean," he agreed.

"I need to stop it. Before it's too late?"

"Too late?" asked Duncan.

"Too late.  Before it gets out."

"What gets out, Mr. Dobbs?"  Duncan stared right into and  beyond
Dobbs' eyes.

"Secrets.   Just  secrets."  Dobbs paused to  recompose  himself.
"Isn't there a law . . .?"

"Yes,  there is Mr. Dobbs.  And if what you say is true, you  are
entitled to protection." Duncan decided to bait Dobbs a bit more.
"Even  if  the information is illegal in nature."  Wait  for  the
fish to bite.

"I grant you I'm no Mother Teresa. I'm a businessman, and I  have
to make money for my investors.  But in the files that I received
were  exact copies of my personal files that no one, and  I  mean
no one has access to.  They were my own notes, ideas in progress.
Nothing  concrete, just work in progress.  But  someone,  somehow
has gotten a hold of it all.  And, by my thinking, there's no way
to have gotten it without first killing me, and I'm here. So  how
did  they  get it?  That's what I need to know."   Dobbs  paused.
"And then, I need to stop them." His soliloquy was over.

"Who  else is affected?"  Duncan asked.  The question made  Dobbs
pause too obviously.  The answer was clear.  Dobbs wasn't alone.

"I  only  speak for myself.  No one else."  Dobbs rose  from  the
chair.  "It's eminently clear. There's not a damned thing you can
do. Good day."  Dobbs left the room abruptly leaving Tyrone  with
plenty of time to think.

****************************************************************

                         Chapter 8

     Monday, September 21
     New York

     14 Dead As Hospital Computer Fails
     by Scott Mason

Fourteen patients died as a result of a massive computer  failure
this weekend at the Golda Meier Medical Center on 5th. Avenue.

According to hospital officials, the Meditrix Life Support  Moni-
tors attached to many of the hospital's patients were accidental-
ly disconnected from the nurses stations and the hospital's  main
computer.   Doctors  and nurses were unaware of  any  malfunction
because all systems appeared to operating correctly.

The LSM's are connected to a hospital wide computer network  that
connects  all hospital functions in a central computer.   Medical
records,  insurance filings and treatments as well  as  personnel
and  operations are coordinated through the  Information  Systems
department.

Golda Meier Medical Center leads the medical field in the used of
technologically  advanced  techniques, and has been  applying  an
artificial intelligence based Expert System to assist in  diagno-
sis and treatment.  Much of the day to day treatment of  patients
is  done  with  the LSM continually measuring  the  condition  of
patient,  and  automatically updating his  records.   The  Expert
System  then  determines  what type of  treatment  to  recommend.
Unless there is a change in the patient's condition that warrants
the intervention of a doctor, drugs and medicines are  prescribed
by the computer.

According to computer experts who were called in to  investigate,
the Expert System began misprescribing medications and treatments
early  Saturday morning.  Doctors estimate that over  50%,  about
300,   of the hospital's patients received  incorrect  treatment.
Of those 14 died and another 28 are in critical condition.

Until  this weekend, the systems were considered foolproof.   The
entire  computer  system of Golda Meier Medical Center  has  been
disconnected until a more intensive investigation is completed.

In response to the news, the Jewish Defense League is calling the
incident,  "an unconscionable attack against  civilized  behavior
and the Jewish community in particular."  They have called for  a
full investigation into the episode.

No group or individuals have yet taken credit for the crime.  The
AMA has petitioned the Drug and Food Administration to look  into
the matter.

Gerald  Steinmetz, chief counsel for the Center, said  in  inter-
views that he had already been contacted by attorney's represent-
ing the families of the some of the victims of this tragedy.   He
anticipates extended legal entanglements until such time that the
true  cause can be determined and blame can accurately  assigned.
The hospital denies any wrong doing on its or its staff's part.

This is Scott Mason, determined to stay healthy.

* * * * *

     December, 4 Years Ago
     Tokyo, Japan

Miles  Foster arrived at Narita Airport as another typhoon  shat-
tered the coast of Japan.  It was the roughest plane ride he  had
ever taken; and after 2 weeks of pure bliss.  Boy, that  Homosoto
sure knows how to show a guy a good time.

After  their first meeting at the OSO World Bank Building,  Miles
had  flown  to Tahiti and spent 18 delightful days at  the  outer
resort  of  Moorea, courtesy of OSO Industries, with all  of  the
trimmings. He was provided with a private beach house  containing
every modern amenity one could want.  Including two  housekeepers
and a cook.  Only one of the housekeepers knew how to keep house.
The other knew how to keep Miles satisfied.

Marasee was a Pacific Islander who was well schooled in  advanced
sexual techniques.  At barely 5 feet tall and 96 pounds, her long
silken  black  hair was as much as sexual tool as her  hands  and
mouth.  Her pristine dark complexion and round face caused  Miles
to  think  that  he was potentially guilty of  crimes  against  a
minor,  but  after their first night together, he  relented  that
Marasee knew her business very well.

"Mr.  Homosoto-San," she purred in delicately  accented  English,
"wants you to concentrate on your work."  She caressed his shoul-
ders  and  upper body as she spoke.  "He knows that a  man  works
best when he has no worries.  It is my job to make sure that  you
are relaxed.  Completely relaxed. Do you understand?"

Her  eyes longed for an affirmative answer from Miles.  At  first
he  was somewhat baffled.  Homosoto had indeed sent him  on  this
trip, vacation, to work, undisturbed.  But Miles thought that  he
would  have to fend for himself for his physical pleasures.    He
was used to finding ways to satisfy his needs.

"Homosoto-San  says that you must be relaxed to do  very  serious
business.  Whenever you need relaxation, I am here."

The  food was as exquisite as was Marasee.  He luxuriated in  the
eternally  perfect  weather,  the beach, the waves  and  he  even
ventured under water on a novice scuba dive.  But, as he knew, he
was  here  to concentrate on his assigned task, so  he  tried  to
limit his personal activities to sharing pleasure with Marasee.

In  just a few days, a relaxed Miles felt a peace, a solace  that
he  had  never  known before.  He found that his mind  was  at  a
creative  high.  His mind propelled through the problems  of  the
war  plans,  and  the solutions appeared.  His  brain  seemed  to
function  independent  of effort.  As he established  goals,  the
roads  to  meet them appeared magically before him,  in  absolute
clarity.   He was free to explore each one in its entirety,  from
beginning to end, undisturbed.

If  a  problem confounded him, he found  that  merely  forgetting
about  it during an interlude with Marasee provided him with  the
answer.   The barriers were broken, the so-called 'walls  of  de-
fense'  crumbled before as he created new methods of  penetration
no one had ever thought of before.

As his plan coalesced into a singular whole, he began to  experi-
ence  a euphoria, a high that was neither drug nor  sexually  in-
duced.  He could envision, all at once, the entire grand  strate-
gy;  how the myriad pieces effortlessly fit together and  evolved
into  a picture perfect puzzle.  Miles became able to  manipulate
the  attack scenarios in his mind and make slight changes in  one
that  would have far reaching implications in another portion  of
the  puzzle.   He might change only one slight  aspect,  yet  see
synergistic  ramifications down a side road.  This  new  ability,
gained  from total freedom to concentrate and his newfound  worry
free life, gave Miles new sources of pleasure and inspiration.

As  his plans came together, Miles yearned for something  outside
of his idyllic environment.  His strategies grew into a  concrete
reality,  one which he knew he could execute, if Homosoto  wasn't
feeding him a line of shit.  And, for the $100,000 Homosoto  gave
him to make plans, he was generally inclined to believe that this
super  rich, slightly eccentric but obviously dangerous  man  was
deadly serious.

As  the days wore on, Miles realized that, more than anything  in
his life, even more than getting laid, he wanted to put his  plan
to  the  test.  If he was right, of which he was sure, in  a  few
short years he would be recognized as the most brilliant computer
scientist in the world.  In the whole damn world.

His  inner  peace,  the one which fed his  creativity,  soon  was
overtaken  by  the unbridled ego which was Miles  Foster's  inner
self.   The prospect of success fostered new energies  and  Miles
worked  even harder to complete the first phase of his task.   To
the  occasional  disappointment of Marasee, Miles  would  embroil
himself  in  the  computer Homosoto  provided  for  the  purpose.
Marasee had been with many men, she was an expert, but Miles gave
her as much pleasure as she to him.  As his work further absorbed
him, she rued the day her assignment would be over.

Miles left Tahiti for Tokyo without even saying goodbye to  Mara-
see.

The  ritualistic  scanning and security checks before  Miles  got
onto  the living room elevator at the OSO Building in Tokyo  evi-
denced that Homosoto had not told anyone else how important Miles
was.   Even  though he recognized the need for secrecy  in  their
endeavors, Miles was irked by the patronizing, almost rude treat-
ment he received when he was forced to pass the Sumo scrutiny.

The  elevator  again opened into the grand white gallery  on  the
66th floor.

"Ah  . . .so good to see you again Mr. Foster.   Homosoto-San  is
anxious to see you."  A short Japanese manservant escorted  Miles
to the doors of Homosoto's office.  The briefest of taps  invited
the bellow of "Hai!" from its inner sanctum.

Homosoto  was  quick to rise from his  techo-throne  and  greeted
Miles as if they were long lost friends.

"Mr.  Foster . . .it is so good to see you.  I assume  everything
was  satisfactory?   You  found the working  conditions  to  your
liking?"   Homosoto awkwardly searched for the  vain  compliment.
He  pointed at the leather seating area in which they  had  first
discussed their plans.   They sat in the same chairs they had the
last time they met.

Miles was taken aback by the warm reception, but since he was  so
important  to  Homosoto, it was only fitting to be  treated  with
respect.

Miles returned the courtesy with the minimum required bow of  the
head.  It was a profitable game worth playing. "Very much so, Mr.
Homosoto.  It was most relaxing . . .and I think you will be very
pleased with the results."   Miles smiled warmly, expecting to be
heavily  complimented on his promise.  Instead, Homosoto  ignored
the business issue.

"I  understand  that Miss Marasee was most pleased . .  .was  she
not?"  The implication was clear.  For the first time, Miles  saw
a glimmer of a dirty old man looking for the sordid details.

"I  guess so.  I was too busy working to pay  attention."   Miles
tried to sluff off the comment.

"That  is what she says.  That you were too busy for her . .  .or
to  say goodbye and thank her for her attentions.  Not an  auspi-
cious beginning Mr. Foster."  Miles caught the derision in  Homo-
soto's voice and didn't appreciate it one little bit.

"Listen.   My  affairs  are my affairs.  I am  grateful  for  the
services, but I do like to keep my personal life just that.  Per-
sonal."   Miles was polite, but firm.  Homosoto nodded in  under-
standing.

"Of  course, Mr. Foster, I understand completely.  It  is  merely
for  the sake of the young woman that I mention it. There  is  no
offense   intended.   It  is  shall  we  say  .  .  .a   cultural
difference?"

Miles  didn't  believe  in the cultural difference  to  which  he
referred,  but he didn't press the point.  He merely nodded  that
the subject was closed.   A pregnant pause followed before  Homo-
soto interrupted the silence.

"So, Mr. Foster.  I really did not expect to see you for  another
few  weeks.   I must assume that you have made some  progress  in
planning  our  future  endeavors."  Homosoto wore  a  smile  that
belied little of his true thoughts.

"You  bet  your  ass, I did."  Homosoto winced  at  the  colorful
language.  It was Miles' way of maintaining some control over the
situation.   His  dimples  recessed even further  as  he  enjoyed
watching Homosoto's reaction.   "It turned out to be simpler than
even I had thought."

"Would you be so kind as to elaborate?"

"Gotcha."  Miles opened his briefcase and brought out a sheath of
papers  with charts and scribbles all over them.  "Basically  the
technology is pretty simple.  Here are the fundamental systems to
use  in  the attack, there are only four  of them.    After  all,
there are no defenses, so that's not a problem."

"Problem?" Homosoto raised his eyes.

"Ok,  not  problem.  As you can see here, putting  the  technical
pieces together is not the issue.  The real issue is creating  an
effective  deployment of the tools we create."  Miles was  matter
of fact and for the first time Homosoto saw Miles as the  itiner-
ant professional he was capable of being.  The challenge. Just as
Miles promised earlier, 'give me a challenge, the new, the undone
and  I  will be the best.'  Miles was shining in his  own  excel-
lence,  and his ego was gone, totally gone.  His  expertise  took
over.

"I  have  labeled various groups that we will need to  pull  this
off."

"Pull off? Excuse me . . ."

"Oh, sorry.  Make it work? Have it happen?"

"Ah yes,  So sorry."

"Not at all."  Miles looked at Homosoto carefully.  Was  there  a
mutual respect actually developing?

"As  I said, we will have to have several groups who  don't  even
know  about each other's existence.  At NSA we call  it  contain-
ment, or need to know."

Homosoto  cursorily examined the printouts on the table in  front
of  him,  but preferred to address Miles' comments.   "Could  you
explain,  please?   I don't see how one can build a  car  if  you
don't  know what it's going to look like when you're  done.   You
suggest that each person or group functions without the knowledge
of the others?  How can this be efficient?"

Miles smiled.  For the first time he felt a bit of compassion for
Homosoto, as one would feel for the naive child asking why 1 plus
1  equals  2.   Homosoto was used to  the  Japanese  work  ethic:
Here's  a  beautiful picture of a car, and all 50,000 of  us  are
going  to build it; you 5,000 build the engines, you 5,000  build
the  body and so on.  After a couple of years we'll have built  a
fabulous automobile that we have all shared as a common vision.

Homosoto had no idea of how to wage a war, although he apparently
afford it. Miles realized he could be in control after all, if he
only sold Homosoto on his abilities, and he was well on the way.

"You see, Mr. Homosoto, what we are trying to do requires that no
one,  except a few key people like you and I, understand what  is
going  on.  As we said  in World War II, loose lips sink  ships."
Homosoto  immediately bristled at the mention of the war.   Miles
hardly noticed as he continued.  "The point is, as I have it laid
out  here,  only  a handful of people need to know  what  we  are
trying  to achieve.  All of the rest have clearly defined  duties
that  they are expected to perform as we ask.   Each  effectively
works  in  a  vacuum.  Efficient, not exactly.   Secure,  yes.  I
imagine you would like to keep this operation as secret as possi-
ble."

Homosoto took immediate notice and bolted his response. "Hai!  Of
course,  secrecy is important, but how can we be sure of  compli-
ance by our . . .associates?"

"Let me continue." Miles referred back to the papers in front  of
him.  "The first group is called the readers, the second will  be
dedicated  to research and development." Homosoto smiled  at  the
R&D  reference. He could understand that.  "Then there will be  a
public relations group, a communications group, a software compa-
ny  will  be needed, another group I call the  Mosquitoes  and  a
little  manufacturing  which  I assume you  can  handle."   Miles
looked for Homosoto's reaction.

"Manufacturing, very easy.  I don't fully understand the  others,
but  I am most impressed with your outline.  You mentioned  prob-
lem.  Can you explain?"  Homosoto had become a different  person.
One  who showed adolescent enthusiasm.  He moved to the  edge  of
his seat.

"As  with  any  well designed plan," Miles  boasted,  "there  are
certain  situations that need to be addressed.  In this  case,  I
see several."  Miles was trying to hook Homosoto onto the prover-
bial deck.

"I asked for problem."  Homosoto insisted.

"To  properly effect this plan we will need two things  that  may
make it impossible."

Homosoto met the challenge. "What do you need?"

Miles  liked  the sound of it.  You. What do _you_  need.   "This
operation could cost as much as $50 million.  Is that a problem?"

Homosoto  looked  squarely at Miles.  "No problem.  What  is  the
second thing you need?"

"We  will  need  an army.  Not an army with guns, but  a  lot  of
people  who will follow orders.  That may be more important  than
the money."

Homosoto  took a momentary repose while he thought.  "How big  an
army will you need?"

"My guess?  Today?  I would say that for all groups we will  need
a minimum of 500 people.  Maybe as many as a thousand."

Homosoto  suddenly  laughed out loud.  "You call  that  an  army?
1000  men?  An army?  That is a picnic my friend."  Homosoto  was
enjoying his own personal joke.  "When you said army, Mr.  Foster
I  imagined  tens of thousands of people running all  around  the
United States shooting their guns. A thousand people?  I can give
you  a  thousand dedicated people with a single phone  call.   Is
that all you need?"  He continued his laughter.

Miles was taken aback and had difficulty hiding his surprise.  He
had  already padded his needs by a factor of three.  "With a  few
minor specialties and exceptions, yes.  That's it.  If we  follow
this blue print."  He pointed at the papers spread before them.

Homosoto  sat  back and closed his eyes in  apparent  meditation.
Miles watched and waited for several minutes.  He looked out  the
expanse  of  windows over Tokyo patiently as Homosoto  seemed  to
sleep in the chair across from him.  Homosoto spoke quietly  with
his eyes still closed.

"Mr. Foster?"

"Yes?"  Miles was ready.

"Do you love you country?"  Homosoto's eyelids were still.

Miles had not expected such a question.

"Mr. Foster?  Did you hear the question?"

"Yes, I did." He paused. "I'm thinking."

"If  you  need to think, sir, then the answer is clear.   As  you
have told me, you hold no allegiance.  Your country means nothing
to you."

"I wouldn't quite put it that way . . ." Miles said  defensively.
He couldn't let this opportunity escape.

"You  hold your personal comfort as your primary concern, do  you
not?   You want the luxuries that the United States  offers,  but
you  don't care where or how you get them? Is that not  so?   You
want your women, your wine, your freedom, but you will take it at
any  expense.  I do not think I exaggerate.  Tell me Mr.  Foster,
if I am wrong."

Miles  realized  he was being asked to state his  personal  alle-
giances in mere seconds.  Not since he was in the lower floors of
the NSA being interrogated had he been asked to state his convic-
tions.  He knew the right answer there, but here, he wasn't quite
sure.   The wrong answer could blow it.  But, then again, he  was
$110,000 ahead of the game for a few weeks work.

"I  need to ask you a question to answer yours."  Miles  did  not
want to be backed into a corner.  "Mr. Homosoto.  Do you want  me
to have allegiance to my country or to you?"

Homosoto was pleased. "You debate well, young man.  It  is not so
much that I care if you love America. I want, I need to know what
you  do love.  You see, for me, I love Japan and my family.   But
much  of my family was taken from me in one terrible  instant,  a
long  time ago.  They are gone, but now I have my wife, my  chil-
dren  and  their children.  I learned, that if there  is  nothing
else,  you must have family.  That must come  first, Mr.  Foster.
Under all conditions,  family is first.  All else is last.  So my
allegiance  shifted, away from country, to my family and  my  be-
liefs.   I don't always agree with my government, and  there  are
times I will defy their will. I can assure you, that if we embark
upon  this route, neither I nor you will endear ourselves to  our
respective governments.  Does that matter to you?"

Miles  snickered.  "Matter?  After what they did to me?   Let  me
tell you something.  I gave my country most of my adult life.   I
could have gone to work with my family . . .my associates . . ."

"I am aware of your background Mr. Foster," Homosoto interrupted.

"I'm  sure you are.  But that's neither here nor there.  I  could
have been on easy street.  Plug a few numbers and make some bucks
for  the clan."  The colloquialism escaped Homosoto, but  he  got
the  gist  of  it.  "But I said to  myself,  'hey,  you're  good.
Fixing  roulette wheels is beneath you.'  I needed, I still  need
the  diversion, the challenge, so I figured that the  Feds  would
give  me the edge I needed to make something of  myself."   Miles
was turning red around his neck.

"The  NSA had the gear, the toys  for me to play with,  and  they
promised  me the world.  Create, they said, lead America's  tech-
nology  into the 21st. century.  What a pile of shit. Working  at
the  NSA is like running for President.  You're always trying  to
sell yourself, your ideas.  They don't give a shit about how good
your  ideas  are.  All they care is that you're  asshole  buddies
with the powers that be. To get something done there, you need  a
half  dozen  committees  with their asses greased  from  here  to
eternity  for  them  to say maybe.  Do you  know  the  difference
between ass kissing and having your head up your ass?"

"If  I  understand your crudities, I assume this is  an  American
joke, then, no Mr. Foster, I do not know the difference."

"Depth perception."  Miles looked for a reaction to his  anatomi-
cal doublette.  There was none other than Homosoto's benign smile
indicating no comprehension.  "OK, never mind, I'll save it.   At
any rate, enough was enough.  I gotta do something with my life."
Miles had said his piece.

"In other words, money is your motivation?"

"Money  doesn't  hurt, sure.  But, I need to do what  I  believe.
Not that that means hurting my country, but if they don't  listen
to  what makes sense, maybe it's best that they meet their  worst
enemy to get them off of their keesters."  Miles was on a roll.

"Keesters?"  Homosoto's naivete was amusing.

"Oops!" Miles exclaimed comically.  "Butts, asses, fannies?"   He
patted his own which finally communicated the intention.

"Ah  yes."  Homosoto agreed.  "So you feel you could  best  serve
your country by attacking it?"

Miles  only thought for a few seconds. "I guess you could put  it
that way.  Sure."

"Mr.  Foster, or should I say General Foster?"  Miles  beamed  at
the reference.  "We shall march to success."

"Mr. Homosoto," Miles broke the pagential silence.  "I would like
to ask you the same question.  Why?"

"I was wondering when you were going to ask me that Mr.  Foster,"
Homosoto  said with his grin intact.  "Because, Mr. Foster, I  am
returning the favor."

****************************************************************

                    Chapter 9

     September, 1982
     South East Iraq

Ahmed  Shah lay in a pool of his own blood along with  pieces  of
what was once another human being.

The pain was intolerable.  His mind exploded as the nerve endings
from  the remains of his arms and legs shot liquid fire into  his
cerebral  cortex.   His  mind screamed in sheer  agony  while  he
struggled  to stay conscious.  He wasn't sure why, but he had  to
stay   awake    .  .  .can't  pass  out  .  .   .sleep,   blessed
sleep  .  .  .release me from the pain . .  .Allah!  Oh  take  me
Allah  .  .  .I  shall  be  a  martyr  fighting  for  your   holy
cause . . .in your name . . . for the love of Islam . . .for  the
Ayatollah . . .take me into your arms and let me live for   eter-
nity in your shadow . . .

The  battle for Abadan, a disputed piece of territory that was  a
hub for Persian Gulf oil distribution had lasted days.  Both Iran
and  Iraq threw waves of human fodder at each other in  what  was
referred  to  in the world press as " . . .auto-genocide .  .  ."
Neither  side  reacted  to the monumental  casualties  that  they
sustained.   The lines of reinforcements were steady.   The  dead
bodies  were thick on the battlefield; there was no time to  col-
lect  them  and provide a proper burial. New troops had  as  much
difficulty  wading  through the obstacle courses  made  of  human
corpses as staying alive.

Public  estimates  were  that  the  war  had  already  cost  over
1,000,000 lives  for the adversaries.  Both governments  disputed
the figures.  The two agreed only 250,000 had died.  The  extrem-
ist  leaders of both countries believed that the  lower  casualty
numbers  would mollify world opinion.  It accomplished the  exact
opposite.   Criticism  was rampant, in the world courts  and  the
press.   Children were going to battle.  Or  more  appropriately,
children were marching in the front lines, often without  weapons
or  shoes, and used as cover for the advancing armed  infantrymen
behind  them.  The children were disposable receptacles for enemy
bullets.  The supreme sacrifice would permit the dead pre-adoles-
cents the honor of martyrdom and an eternal place with Allah.

Mothers  wailed and beat their breasts in the streets of  Teheran
as word arrived of loved ones and friends who died in Allah's war
against the Iraqi infidels.  Many were professional mourners  who
were  hired  by others to represent families to  make  them  look
bigger and more  Holy. Expert wailing and flagellation came at  a
price.   The  bulk of the civilized world, even  Brezhnev's  evil
Soviet  empire denounced the use of unarmed children  for  cannon
fodder.

The war between Iran and Iraq was to continue, despite pleas from
humanity, for another 6 years.

Ahmed  Shah was a 19  year old engineering student at the  exclu-
sive Teheran University when the War started.  He was reared as a
dedicated  Muslim  by wealthy parents.  Somehow his  parents  had
escaped the Ayatollah's scourge after the fall of the Shah. Ahmed
was never told the real reason, but a distribution of holy  rials
certainly  helped.  They were permitted to keep  their  beautiful
home  in the suburbs of Teheran and Ahmed's father kept his  pro-
fessorship at Teheran University.  Ahmed was taught by his family
that the Shah's downfall was the only acceptable response to  the
loss of faith under his regime.

"The  Shah  is a puppet  of the Americans.   Ptooh!"  His  father
would  spit.  "The Yanqis come over  here, tell us to change  our
culture and our beliefs so we can make them money from our  oil!"
For a professor he was outspoken, but viewed as mainstream by the
extremist  camps.  Ahmed learned well.  For the most part of  his
life  all Ahmed knew was the Ayatollah Khomeini as his  country's
spiritual  leader. News and opinion from the West  was  virtually
nonexistent  so Ahmed developed as a devout Muslim, dedicated  to
his country and his religion.

When  the War began he thought about enlisting  immediately,  but
the University counselors convinced him otherwise.

"Ahmed Shah, you are bright and can offer Iran great gifts  after
you  complete  your studies.  Why not wait, the War will  not  be
forever,  and then you can serve Allah with your mind,  not  your
body."

Ahmed  took  the advice for his first year at  the  a  university
student,  but  guilt overwhelmed him when he learned  about   how
many  other young people were dying in the cause.  From his  par-
ents  he  would hear of childhood friends who  had  been  killed.
Teheran  University students and graduates were honored daily  in
the  Mosque  on campus.  The names were  copied  and  distributed
throughout the schools.  True martyrs.  Ahmed's guilt  compounded
as  the months passed and so many died.  He had been too young to
participate in the occupation of the American Embassy. How  jeal-
ous he was.

Why  should  I wait to serve Allah? He mused.  Today I can be  of
service,  where he needs me, but if I stay and study, I will  not
be able to bid his Will for years.  And what if Iraq wins?  There
would be no more studies anyway.  Ahmed anguished for weeks  over
how he could best serve  Iran, his Ayatollah and Allah.

After  his freshman finals, on which he excelled, he  joined  the
Irani  Army. Within 60 days he was sent to the front lines  as  a
communications officer.

They had been in the field 3 days, and  Ahmed had only gotten  to
know a few of the 60 men in his company when the mortars came  in
right  on top of them.  The open desert offers little  camouflage
so  the  soldiers built fox holes behind the larger  sand  dunes.
They innaccurately thought they were hidden from view. More  than
half  the company died instantly.  Pieces of bodies  were  strewn
across the sandy tented bivouac.

Another  20 were dying within 50 yards of where Ahmed writhed  in
agony. Ahmed regained consciousness. Was it 5 minutes or 5  hours
later.   He had no way of knowing.  The left lower arm  where  he
wore his wristwatch was gone.  A pulpy stump.  As were his  legs.
Mutilated  . . .the highest form  of insult and degradation.  Oh,
Allah, I have served you, let me die and come to you now.  Let me
suffer no more.

Suddenly his attention was grabbed by the sound of a jeep  cough-
ing its way to a stop.  He heard voices.

"This  one's  still alive."  Then a shot rang  out.   "So's  this
one."  Another shot.  A few muted voices from the dying protested
and  asked for mercy. "Ha! I give Mercy to a dog before you."   A
scream  and 2 shots.  They were Iraqi!  Killing off the  wounded.
Pigs!  Infidels!  Mother Whores!

"You,  foreskin  of a camel! Your mother lies with  dogs!"  Ahmed
screamed  at the soldiers. It brought two results.  One, it  kept
him  a little more alert and less aware of his pain, and two,  it
attracted the attention of the two soldiers from the jeep.

"Ola!  Who insults the memory of my mother  who sits with  Allah?
Who?"  One soldier spun around and tried to imagine which one  of
the pieces of bodies that surrounded him still had enough life to
speak.   He  scanned the sand nearby. Open eyes were not  a  sure
sign of life nor was the presence of four limbs.  There needed to
be a head.

"Over  here camel dung.  Hussein fucks animals who give birth  to
the  likes   of  you."  Ahmed's viciousness was the  only  facial
feature  that  gave away he was alive.  The  soldiers  saw  their
tormentor.

"Prepare to meet with your Allah, now," as  one soldier took  aim
at Ahmed's head.

"Go ahead!  Shoot, pig shit.  I welcome death so I won't have  to
see your filth . . ."  Ahmed defied the soldier and the automatic
rifle aimed at him.

The  other soldier intervened. "No, don't kill him.  That's   too
easy and we would be honoring his last earthly request. No,  this
one doesn't beg for mercy.  At least he's a man. Let's just  make
him  suffer."  The second soldier raised his gun and  pointed  at
the  junction  of Ahmed's two stumps for legs.  Two  point  blank
range  shots  shattered  the three components  of  his  genitals.
Ahmed  let out a scream so primal, so anguished,  so  penetrating
that  the  soldiers  bolted to escape the sounds  of  death.  The
scream  continued,  briefly interrupted by a pair of  shots  that
caught the two soldiers square in the middle of the back as  they
ran.  They dropped onto the hot desert  sand with matched thuds.

Ahmed  didn't  hear  the shots over the sounds  coming  from  his
larynx. He didn't hear anything after that for a very long time.

Unfortunately for Ahmed Shah, he survived.

He woke up, or more accurately, regained semi-consciousness  more
than  a  week after he was picked up at the site  of  the  mortar
attack.   He was wired  up to tubes and machines in an  obviously
well  equipped  hospital.  He thought, I must be back  in  Teher-
an  .  .  .then  fog  .  . .a  blur .  .  .a  needle  .  .  .feel
nothing . . .stay awake . . .move lips . . .talk . . .

"Doctor, the patient was awake." The nurse spoke to the physician
who was writing on Ahmed's medical chart.

"He'll  wish he wasn't.  Let him go.  Let him sleep. Hell  hasn't
begun for him yet."  The Doctor moved onto the chart on the  next
bed in ward.

Over the next few days while grasping at consciousness, and  with
the  caring  attention of the nurses, Ahmed pieced  together  the
strands of a story . . .what happened to him.

The Iraqis were killing the wounded, desperate in their  attempts
to  survive the onslaught of Irani children.  All must die,  take
no  prisoners were their marching orders. In the Iraqi  Army  you
either did exactly as you were told,  with absolute obedience, or
you  were shot on sight as a traitor.  Some choice.  We  lost  at
Abadan,  the Iraqi's thought, but there will be more  battles  to
win.

Ahmed  was the only survivor from his company, and there  was  no
earthly reason that could explain why he lived. He was more  dead
than  alive.   His blood coagulated well in the hot  desert  sun,
otherwise the blood loss alone would have killed him.  The medics
found  many  of his missing pieces and packed them up  for  their
trip  to the hospital, but the doctors were unable  to  re-attach
anything of significance.

He was a eunuch.  With no legs and only one good arm.

Weeks  of  wishing himself dead proved to be the source  of  rest
that contributed to his recovery.  Was he man? Was he woman?  Was
he, God forbid, neither?  Why had he not just died along with the
others,  why  was  he spared! Spared, ha!  If I  had  truly  been
spared  I would be living with Allah!  This is not being  spared.
This  is living hell and someone will pay. He cried to his   par-
ents about his torment and his mother wailed and beat her breast.
His  father  listened  to the anger, the  hate  and  the  growing
strength  within his son's being.  Hate could be the answer  that
would  make his son, his only son, whole again.  Whole in  spirit
at least.

The debates within Ahmed's mind developed into long philosophical
arguments  about right, wrong, revenge, avenge,   purpose,  cause
and  reason. He would take both sides of an issue, and see if  he
could beat himself with his alter rationales. The frustration  at
knowing one's opponents' thoughts when developing your own  coun-
ter  argument  made him angry, too.  He finally  started  arguing
with  other patients.  He would take any position, on  any  issue
and  debate  all night. Argumentative, contrary,  but  recovering
completely described the patient.

Over the months his strength returned and he appeared to come  to
grips with his infirmaries.  As much as anyone can come to  terms
with  such  physical mutilations.  He covered his  facial  wounds
with  a full black beard that melded into his full short  cropped
kinky hair.

Ahmed  graduated  from Teheran University in 1984  with  a  cruel
hatred  for anything Anti-Islam.  One major target of his  hatred
was President Reagan, the cowboy president, the Teflon president,
the  evil  Anti-Muslim  Zionist loving  American  president.   Of
course there was plenty of room to hate others, but Reagan was so
easy  to hate, so easy to blame, and rarely was there  any  disa-
greement.

He  thought  of grand strategies to strike back at  the  America.
After  all, didn't they support the Iraqis?  And the  Iraqis  did
this  to  him.  It wasn't  the soldiers' fault.  They  were  just
following orders: Do or Die.  Any rational person would have done
the  same thing.  He understood that.  So he blamed  Reagan,  not
Hussein. And he blamed the American people  for their  stupidity,
their isolationism, their indifference to the rest of the  world.
They  are  all so smug and caught up in their  own  little  petty
lives, and there are causes, people are dying for causes, and the
American  fools  don't even care.   And Reagan  personified  them
all.

How does a lousy movie actor from the 1950's get to be  President
of  the United States?  Ahmed laughed to himself at  the  obvious
answer. He was the most qualified for  the job.

His commentaries and orations about the Imperialists, the  United
States,  England,  even the Soviet Union and  their  overwhelming
influence in the Arab world made Ahmed Shah a popular man on  the
campus  of  Teheran University. His  highly  visible  infirmities
assisted with his credibility.

In his sixth semester of study, Ahmed's counselor called him  for
a conference.  Beside his counselor was another man, Beni  Farja-
ni,  from the government. Beni was garbed in Arab robes and  tur-
bans that always look filthy.  Still, he was the officious  type,
formal and somber.  His long white hair snuck through the turban,
and his face shoed ample wrinkles of wisdom.

He and  the Counselor sat alone, on one side  of a large   wooden
conference  table  that  could easily  have  seated  20.    Ahmed
stopped  his motorized wheel chair at the table,  Farjani  spoke,
and curiously, the Counselor rose from his chair and slipped  out
of the room.  Ahmed and the Government official were alone.

"My  name is Beni Farjani, Associate Director to the  Undersecre-
tary of  Communications and Propaganda.  I trust you are well."

Ahmed  long  since gave up commenting on his well being  or  lack
thereof.  "It is good to meet you,  sir."  He waited for more.

"Ahmed  Shah,  you are important to the state and the  people  of
Iran."  Farjani said it as though his comment was already  common
knowledge.   "What I am here to ask you, Ahmed Shah, is, are  you
willing again to serve Allah?"

"Yes, of course . . .?"  He bowed his head in reverence.

"Good,  because  we think that you might be able to assist  on  a
small  project we have been contemplating.  My son, you have  the
gift  of  oration, speaking, moving crowds to  purpose.   I  only
wish I had it!"  Beni Farjani smiled solemnly at Ahmed.

"I  thank Allah for His gift.  I am only  the humble conduit  for
his Will."

"I  understand, but you have now, and will have much to proud of.
I believe you graduate in 6 months.  Is that correct?"

"Yes, and then I go to Graduate School . . ."

"I am afraid that won't be possible Ahmed Shah." Farjani shook  a
kindly  wrinkled finger at him.  "As soon as you  graduate,  your
Government,  at Allah's bidding, would like you to move   to  the
United States."

"America?"  Ahmed gaped in surprise.

"We fear that America may invade Iran, that we may go to war with
the  United  States."    The words stunned Ahmed.   Could  he  be
serious?   Sure,  relations  were in pretty bad  shape,  but  was
Farjani  saying  that Iran was truly preparing for  War?   Jihad?
Holy War against the United States?

"We  need to protect ourselves," Farjani spoke calmly,  with  au-
thority. "America has weapons of mass destruction that can  reach
our  land in minutes, while we have nothing to offer in  retalia-
tion.   Nothing, and that is a very frightening reality that  the
people  of Iran must live with every day. A truly helpless  feel-
ing."   Ahmed was listening carefully, and so far what  he  heard
was making a great deal of sense.

"Both  the Soviets and the Americans can destroy each  other  and
the  rest  of the world with a button.  Their armies  will  never
meet.   A  few missiles and it's all  over.  A  30  minute  grand
finale to civilization.  They don't have to, nor  would we expect
either  the Soviets or the Americans to ask the rest of the world
if they mind. They just go ahead and pull the trigger and  every-
one else be damned.

"And  yes, there have been better times when our nation  has  had
more friends, when all Arabs thought and acted as one; especially
against the Americans.  They have the most to gain and  the  most
to lose from invading and crossing our borders.  They would  love
nothing  more than to steal our land, our oil and even take  over
OPEC.  All in the name of world stability.  They'll throw  around
National Security smoke screens and do what they want."   Farjani
was speaking quite excitedly.

Ahmed  was fascinated.  A man from the Government who was  nearly
as  vitriolic as he was about America.  The only  difference  was
Ahmed wanted to attack, and  Farjani wanted to defend.  He didn't
think it opportune to interrupt.  Farjani continued.

"The  Russians  want us as a warm water port.  They  have  enough
oil,  gas  and resources, but they crave a port that  isn't  con-
trolled by the Americans such as in the Black Sea and through the
Hellespont.  So they too, are a potential enemy.  You  see  don't
you,  Ahmed, that Allah has so graced our country  everyone  else
wants to take it away from us?"  Ahmed nodded automatically.

"So  we need to create a defense against  outside aggressors.  We
do not  have weapons that can reach American shores, that is  so.
But we have something that the Americans will never have, because
they will never understand.  Do you know what that is?"

Before Ahmed could answer, Farjani continued.

"Honor  and Faith to protect our heritage, our  systems, our  way
of life."   Ahmed agreed.

"We want you, Ahmed Shah to build a network  of supporters,  just
like  you,  all across the United States that will  come  to  our
service  when  we  need them.  To the death.   Your  skills  will
capture the attention of those with kindred sentiments.  You will
draw them out, from the schools, from the universities.

"Ahmed  Shah, there are over 100,000 Irani and Arab  students  in
the  United States today.  Many, many of them are sympathetic  to
our  causes.  Many of  them are attending American  Universities,
side  by side  with their future enemies, learning  the  American
way  so we may better fight it.  You will become one of them  and
you  will find others that can be trusted, counted  on,  depended
upon when we call.

"Your obvious dedication and personal tragedies," Farjani pointed
at  the obvious affliction, "will be the glue to  provide  others
with  strength.  You will have no problems in  recruiting.   That
will be the easy part."

"If recruiting is so easy, then what will be the hard task?"

"Holding  them back. You will find it most difficult to  restrain
your  private  army from striking.  Right  under  the  American's
noses,  you  will have to keep them from bursting  at  the  seams
until the day comes when they are needed.  If could be weeks,  it
could  be years.  We don't know.  Maybe the day will never  come.
But  it   is your job to build this Army.  Grow it, feed  it  and
keep  our national spirit alive until such time that  it  becomes
necessary  to defend our nation, Allah and loyal  Muslims  every-
where.   This  time, though, we will fight America  from  within,
inside her borders.

"There  hasn't  been a foreign war on American soil  since  1812.
Americans  don't know what is like to have their country  ruined,
ravaged,  blown up before their eyes.  We need a defense  against
America,  and  when it is deeded by Allah, our army  will  strike
back  at  America where is hurts most.  In the streets  of  their
cities.   In  their homes, parks and schools. But first  we  must
have that army. In place, and willing to act.

"You  will find out all the details in good time, I  assure  you.
You  will  require  some training, though, and  that  will  begin
shortly.  Everything you need to serve will be given you. Go with
Allah.

Ahmed  trained  for several months with  the  infamous  terrorist
group Abu Nidal.  He learned the basics that every modern terror-
ist needs to know to insure success against the Infidels.

Shah moved to New York City on December 25, 1986.  Christmas  was
a non issue.  He registered at Columbia as a graduate  researcher
in the engineering department to legitimize his student visa  and
would commence classes on January 2.

Recruitment was easy, just as  Farjani had said.

Ahmed built a team of 12 recruiters whom he could trust with  his
life.   Seven  professional terrorists, unknown to  the  American
authorities,  thoroughly sanitized,  came with him to the  United
States  under  assumed   visas and the other 5,  already  in  the
country were personally recommended by Farjani.

His  disciples were located in strategic locations; New York  was
host  to Ahmed and another Arab fanatic trained in  Libya.   They
both  used Columbia University as their cover.   Washington  D.C.
was honored with a Syrian terrorist who had organized mass  anti-
US demonstrations in Damascus as the request of President  Assad.
Los  Angeles and San Francisco were homes to 4  more  engineering
type  desert terrorist school graduates who were allowed to  move
freely and interact with the shakers and movers in high technolo-
gy disciplines.  Miami, Atlanta, Chicago, Boston, and Dallas were
also used as recruitment centers for developing Ahmed's  personal
army.

If the media had been aware of the group's activities they  would
have made note that Ahmed's inner circle were very highly skilled
not only in the use of C4 and Cemex, the Czechoslovakian  plastic
explosive  that was responsible for countless deaths of  innocent
bystanders,  but  that were all very well educated.   Each  spoke
English like a native, fluent in colloquialisms and idioms unique
to America.

Much  of his army had skills which enabled them to acquire  posi-
tions  of importance within engineering departments of  companies
such  as  IBM, Apple, Hughes Defense Systems,   Chase  Manhattan,
Prudential  Life, Martin Marietta, Westinghouse, Compuserve,  MCI
and  hundreds of similar organizations.  Every one of  their  em-
ployers would have attested to their skills, honor and loyalty to
their  adapted country.  Ahmed's group was well versed in  decep-
tion.  After all, they answered to a greater cause.

What even a seasoned reporter might not find out though, was that
all  12  of Ahmed's elite recruiters had to pass a  supreme  test
often  required  by international political  terrorist  organiza-
tions.   To guarantee their loyalty to the cause,  whatever  that
cause might be, and to weed out potential external  infiltrators,
each  member  had  to have killed at least one  member  of  their
immediate family.

It  requires extraordinary hardening, to say the least,  to  kill
your mother or father.  Or to blow up the school bus that carried
your pre-teen sister to school.  Or engage your brother in a mock
fight  and then sever his head from his body.  The savagery  that
permitted one access into this elite circle is beyond the compre-
hension  of  most Western minds. Yet such acts were  expected  to
demonstrate one's loyalty to a supreme purpose or belief.

The events surrounding Solman Rushdie and the Satanic Verses were
a  case in point.  Each of those who volunteered  to  assassinate
him at the bequest of the Ayatollah Khomeini had in fact  already
killed  not  only innocent women and children in order  to  reach
their  assigned  terrorist targets, but had brought the  head  of
their family victim to the table of their superiors.  A deed  for
which they were honored and revered.

These  were the men, all of them men, who pledged  allegiance  to
Ahmed  Shah and the unknown, undefined assignments they would  in
the future be asked to complete.  To the death if necessary,  and
without fear.   These men were reminiscent of the infamous  moles
that  Stalin's  Soviet Empire had placed  throughout  the  United
Kingdom  and  the United States in the 1930's to be  awakened  at
some  future  date to carry out strikes against  the  enemy  from
within.  The only difference with Ahmed's men was that they  were
trained  to die, not to survive.  And unlike their Mole  counter-
parts, they were awake the entire time, focused on their mission.
Clearly  it was only a matter of time before they would be  asked
to  follow orders with blind obedience.  Their only reward was  a
place in the Muslim heaven.

Meanwhile,  while  awaiting  sainthood, their task  was  to  find
others with similar inclinations, or those who could be corralled
into their system of beliefs.  It was unrealistic, they knew,  to
expect to find an entire army of sympathizers who would fight  to
the death or perform suicide missions in the name of Allah.   But
they  found it was very easy to find many men, never  women,  who
would  follow  orders  and perform the tasks  of  an  underground
infantryman.

The mass influx of Arabs into the United States was another great
mistake  of the Reagan '80's as it opened its doors to  a  future
enemy.  The immigration policy of the U.S. was the most  open  in
the  entire world.  So, the Government allowed the entry of  some
of  the world's most dangerous people into the country, and  then
gave  them  total freedom, with its associated  anonymity.   Such
things  could never happen at home, Ahmed thought.  We  love  our
land  too much to permit our enemies on our soil.  It is so  much
easier to dispose of them before they can cause damage.

So  the  thinking went, and Ahmed and his cadre  platooned  them-
selves often, in any of the thousands of American resort complex-
es, unnoticed, to gauge the progress of their assignments.

By  early  1988, Ahmed's army consisted of  nearly  1000  fanatic
Muslims  who would swallow a live grenade if the deed  guaranteed
their place in martyrdom. And another several thousand who  could
be led into battle under the right conditions.  And more came and
joined  as  the  ridiculous immigration  policies  continued  un-
checked.

They  were students, businessmen, flight attendants who were  now
in the United States for prolonged periods of time.  All walks of
life  were included in his Army. Some were technicians  or  book-
keepers, delivery men, engineers, doctors; most disciplines  were
represented.   Since Ahmed had no idea when, if ever, he and  his
army  would  be needed, nor for what purpose, recruiting  a  wide
range  of talents would provide Allah with the best odds if  they
were ever needed. They were all men.  Not one woman in this man's
army, Ahmed thought.

The  biggest  problem,  just as Farjani had  predicted,  was  the
growing sense of unrest among the troops.  The inner 12 had  been
professionally trained to be patient.  Wait for the right  moment
to  strike.  Wait for orders.  Do nothing.  Do not disclose  your
alliances or your allegiances to anyone.  No one can be  trusted.
Except your recruiter.  Lead a normal life.  Act like any  Ameri-
can  immigrant  who flourishes in his new home.  Do not,  at  all
costs, give yourself away.  That much was crucial.

Periodically,  the  inner 12 would  assign  mundane,  meaningless
tasks to various of their respective recruits.  Americans  called
it  busy  work.  But, it kept interest alive, the belief  in  the
eventual  victory  of the Arab Nation against the  American  mon-
grels.   It  kept  the life in their  organization  flowing,  not
dulled  by the prolonged waiting for the ultimate call: Jihad,  a
holy  war against America, waged from inside its own  unprotected
borders.  It was their raison d'<130>tre.  The underlying gestalt
for their very existence.

* * * * *

     February 6, 1988
     New York City

"It is time."   Ahmed could not believe the words - music to  his
ears.  It was not a long distance call; too clear.  It had to  be
local.  The caller spoke in Ahmed's native tongue and conveyed an
excitement  that immediately consumed him. He sat in  his  wheel-
chair  at a computer terminal in an engineering lab  at  Columbia
University's Broadway campus.  While he had hoped this day  would
come,  he  also knew that politicians, even  Iran's,  promised  a
glory  that  often was buried in diplomacy  rather  than  action.
Praise be Allah.

"We  are ready.  Always for Allah."  Ahmed was nearly  breathless
with  anticipation.  His mind wandered.  Were we at war?  No,  of
course  not.   The spineless United States would never  have  the
strength nor will to wage war against a United Arab State.

"That is good.  For Allah."  The caller agreed with Ahmed.   "But
it is not the war you expect."

Ahmed was taken aback.  He had not known what to expect, exactly,
but,  over the months he had conjured many scenarios of  how  his
troops  would be used to perform Allah's Will.  His mind  reeled.
"For whom do you speak?"  Ahmed asked pointedly. There was a hint
of distrust in the question.

"Farjani  said you would ask.  He said, 'there hasn't been a  war
on U.S. soil since 1812'.  He said you would understand."

Ahmed understood. Only someone that was privy to their  conversa-
tions would have known that.  His heart quickened with  anticipa-
tion.  "Yes, I understand.  With whom do I speak?"   Ahmed  asked
reverently.

"My  name  is of no consequence.  I am only a humble  servant  of
Allah  with a message.  You are to follow  instructions  exactly,
without reservation."

"Of  course.  I, too, am but a servant of God.  What are  my  in-
structions?"   Ahmed  felt like standing at parade  attention  if
only he had legs.

"This  will not be our war.  It will be another's.  But our  pur-
poses are the same.  You will act as his army, and are to  follow
his  every request.  As if Allah came to you and so ordered  him-
self."

Ahmed beamed.  He glowed with perspiration.  Finally.  The chance
to act.  He would and his army would perform admirably.  He  lis-
tened  carefully  as the anonymous caller gave him  his  instruc-
tions.  He  noted  the details as disbelief sank  in.    This  is
Jihad?   Yes, this is Jihad.  You are expected to comply.   I  am
clear,  but  are you sure?  Yes, I am sure.  Then I  will  follow
orders. As ordered.  Will we speak again?  No, this is your task,
your  destiny.  The Arab Nation calls upon you now.  Do  you  an-
swer?  Yes, I answer. I will perform. We, our army will perform.

"Insha'allah."

"Yes, God willing."

Ahmed  Shah put his teaching schedule on hold by asking  for  and
receiving  an  immediate sabbatical.  He then booked and  took  a
flight to Tokyo three days later.

"I need an army, and I am told you can provide such services  for
me.   Is that so?"  Homosoto asked Ahmed Shah though  he  already
knew the answer.

Ahmed Shah and Taki Homosoto were meeting in a private palace  in
the  outskirts  of  Tokyo.  Ahmed wasn't quite sure  to  whom  it
belonged,  but  he  was following orders and in no  way  felt  in
danger.  The grounds were impeccable, a Japanese Versailles.  The
weather  was cool, but not uncomfortably so.  Both men sat  under
an  arbor  that  would be graced with cherry blossoms  in  a  few
months.  Each carried an air of confidence, an assurity not meant
as  arrogance, but rather as an assertion of control, power  over
their respective empires.

"How  large  is you army?"  Homosoto knew the answer,  but  asked
anyway.

"One  thousand  to the death.  Three thousand  to  extreme  pain,
another ten thousand functionaries."  Ahmed Shah said with pride.

Homosoto laughed a convivial Japanese laugh, and lightly  slapped
his knees.  "Ah, comrade.  To the death, so familiar, that is why
you  are here, but, I hope that will not be necessary.  You  see,
this war will be one without bullets."  Homosoto said waiting for
the volatile Arab's reaction.

This was exactly what Ahmed feared.  A spineless war.  How  could
one afford to wage a war against America and not expect,  indeed,
plan  for, the death of some troops.  There was no Arab  transla-
tion for pussy-wimp, but the thought was there.

"How may I be of service?"

"The  task is simple.  I have need of information, much  informa-
tion that will be of extreme embarrassment to the United  States.
Their Government operates illegally, their companies control  the
country with virtual impunity from law.  It is time that they are
tried for their crimes."  Homosoto tailored his words so that his
guest would acquire an enthusiasm similar to his.

"Yes,"  Ahmed  agreed.  "They need to learn a lesson.   But,  Mr.
Homosoto,  how  can that be done without weapons?  I  assume  you
want  to attack their planes, their businesses,  Washington  per-
haps?"   Ahmed was hopeful for the opportunity to give his  loyal
troops the action they desired.

"In a manner of speaking, yes, my friend.  We shall strike  where
they  least  expect it, and in a way in which  they  are  totally
unprepared."   Homosoto softened his speech to further his  pitch
to  gain Ahmed Shah's trust and unity.  "I am well aware  of  the
types  of training that you  and your people have  gone  through.
However,  you must be aware, that Japan is the  most  technically
advanced country in the world, and that we can accomplish  things
is  a less violent manner, yet still achieve the same goals.   We
shall  be much more subtle.  I assume you have been  informed  of
that by your superiors."  Homosoto waited for Ahmed's response.

"As  you say, we have been trained to expect, even welcome  death
in the struggle against our adversaries.  Yet I recognize that  a
joint  effort  may be more fruitful for all of us.  It may  be  a
disappointment to some of my people that they will not be permit-
ted  the  honor  of martyrdom, but they are  expected  to  follow
orders.   If they do not comply, they will die without the  honor
they crave.  They will perform as ordered."

"Excellent.   That  is as I hoped."  Homosoto beamed at  the  de-
veloping understanding.  "Let me explain.  My people will provide
you with the weapons of this new war, a type of war never  before
fought.   These  are technological weapons that do not  kill  the
enemy. Better, they expose him for what he is.  It will be up  to
your  army  to  use these weapons and allow us  to  launch  later
attacks against the Americans.

"There  are  to be no independent actions  or  activities.   None
without  my  and your direction and approval.  Can you  abide  by
these conditions?"

"At  the request of my Government and Allah, I will be  happy  to
serve  you  in  your war.  Both our goals will  be  met."   Ahmed
glowed at the opportunity to finally let his people do  something
after so much waiting.

Homosoto  arose and stood over Ahmed.  "We will make  a  valuable
alliance.   To  the destruction of America."  He held  his  water
glass to Ahmed.

Ahmed responded by raising his glass.  "To Allah, and the cause!"

They  both drank deeply from the Perrier.  Homosoto had one  more
question.

"If one or more off your men get caught, will they talk?"

"They will not talk."

"How can you be so sure?"  Homosoto inquired naively.

"Because, if they are caught, they will be dead."

"An excellent solution."

****************************************************************

                         Chapter 10

     Tuesday, October 13
     New York

     COMPUTER ASSAULT CLAIMS VICTIMS
     by Scott Mason

For the last few weeks the general press and computer media  have
been  foretelling  the destruction to be caused  by  this  year's
version  of the dreaded Columbus Day Virus.  AKA Data Crime,  the
virus began exploding yesterday and will continue today,  depend-
ing upon which version strikes your computer.

With  all of the folderall by the TV networks and news  channels,
and the reports of anticipated doom for many computers, I expect-
ed  to wake up this morning and learn that this paper didn't  get
printed,  my train from the suburbs was rerouted to Calcutta  and
Manhattan's  traffic  lights were out of order.   No  such  luck.
America is up and running.

That  doesn't mean that no one got struck by computer  influenza,
though.   There are hundreds of reports of widespread  damage  to
microcomputers everywhere.

The Bala Cynwyd, PA medical center lost several weeks of records.
Credit  Card International was struck in Madrid, Spain and  can't
figure out which customers bought what from whom.  A few  schools
in England don't know who their students are, and a University in
upstate New York won't be holding computer classes for a while.

William  Murray of the Institute for Public Computing  Confidence
in  Washington, D.C., downplayed the incident.  "We have had  re-
ports  of several small outbreaks, but we have not heard  of  any
particularly  devastating  incidents.  It seems that only  a  few
isolated sites were affected."

On the other hand, Bethan Fenster from Virus Stoppers in  McLean,
Virginia,  maintains  that the virus damage was much  more  wide-
spread.  She  says the outbreaks are worse than reported  in  the
press.  "I personally know of several Fortune 100 companies  that
will  be  spending the next several weeks putting  their  systems
back in order.  Some financial institutions have been nearly shut
down  because  their computers are inoperable.   It's  the  worst
(computer) virus outbreak I've ever seen."

Very  few companies would confirm that they had been affected  by
the  Columbus Day Virus.  "They won't talk to you,"  Ms.  Fenster
said.  "If a major company announced publicly that their  comput-
ers were down due to criminal activity, there would be a  certain
loss of confidence in that company.  I understand that they  feel
a fiduciary responsibility to their stockholders to minimize  the
effects of this."

Despite  Ms.  Fenster's position, Forsythe  Insurance,  NorthEast
Airlines, Brocker Financial and the Internal Revenue Service  all
admitted that they have had a 'major' disruption in their comput-
er  services  and expect to take two to six weeks to  repair  the
damage.  Nonetheless, several of those companies hit, feel lucky.

"We  only  lost about a thousand machines,"  said  Ashley  Marie,
senior  network  manager at Edison Power.  "Considering  that  we
have  no means of protecting our computers at all, we could  have
been  totally  put out of business."  She said that  despite  the
cost  to repair the systems, her management feels no need to  add
security  or  protective measures in the future.   "They  believe
that  this  was a quirk, a one time deal.   They're  wrong,"  Ms.
Marie said.

Many  small companies that said they have almost been put out  of
business  because  they were struck by the  Columbus  Day  Virus.
"Simply not true," commented Christopher Angel of the  Anti-Virus
Brigade,  a vigilante group who professes to have access to  pri-
vate information on computer viruses.  "Of all of the reports  of
downed  computers  yesterday,  less than 10% are  from  the  Data
Crime.   Anyone who had any sort of trouble is blaming it on  the
virus  rather than more common causes like  hardware  malfunction
and  operator error.  It is a lot more glamorous to  admit  being
hit  by  the virus that has created near hysteria over  the  last
month."

Whatever the truth, it seems to be well hidden under the guise of
politics.   There is mounting evidence and concern that  computer
viruses and computer hackers are endangering the contents of  our
computers.  While the effects of the Columbus Day Virus may  have
been  mitigated by advance warnings and  precautionary  measures,
and  the actual number of infection sites very limited,  computer
professionals are paying increasing attention to the problem.

This is Scott Mason, safe, sound and uninfected.

* * * * *

     Wednesday, October 14
     J. Edgar Hoover Building, FBI Headquarters
     Washington, D.C.

The sweltering October heat wave of the late Indian summer  pene-
trated the World War II government buildings that surrounded  the
Mall and the tourist attractions.  Window air conditioners didn't
provide the kind of relief that modern workers were used to.  So,
shirtsleeves  were rolled up, the nylons came off, and ties  were
loose if present at all.

The streets were worse.  The climatic changes that graced much of
North  America were exaggerated in Washington. The heat was  hot-
ter,  the  humidity wetter.  Sweat was no longer  a  five  letter
word, it was a way of life.

Union  Station,  the  grand old train station  near  the  Capitol
Building provided little relief.  The immense volume of air to be
cooled  was too much for the central air conditioners. They  were
no match for mother nature's revenge on the planet for  unforgiv-
ing  hydrocarbon emissions.  As soon as Tyrone  Duncan  detrained
from  the elegant Metroliner he had ridden this morning from  New
York's Penn Station, he was drenched in perspiration.  He discov-
ered, to his chagrin, that the cab he had hailed for his ride  to
headquarters  had no air conditioning.  The stench of  the  city,
and the garbage and the traffic fumes reminded him of home.   New
York.

Tyrone showed his identification at the J. Edgar Hoover  Building
wishing he had the constitution to wear a seersucker suit.  There
is no way on God's earth a seersucker could show a few hours wear
as desperately as his $1200 Louis Boston did, he thought.   Then,
there  was the accompanying exhaustion from his exposure  to  the
dense Washington air. Duncan had not been pleased with the  panic
call  that forced him to Washington anyway. His reactions to  the
effects of the temperature humidity index did not portend a  good
meeting with Bob Burnson.

Bob had called Tyrone night before, at home.  He said, we have  a
situation here, and it requires some immediate attention.   Would
you  mind being here in the morning?  Instead of a  question,  it
was  an  unissued order.  Rather than fool around with  hours  of
delays at La Guardia and National Airport, Tyrone elected to take
the train and arrive in the nation's capitol just after noon.  It
took, altogether just about the same amount of time, yet he could
travel  in  relative luxury and peace.  Burnson was  waiting  for
him.

Bob  Burnson held the title of National Coordinator for  Tactical
Response  for the FBI. He was a little younger that Duncan,  just
over  40,  and appeared cool in his dark blue  suit  and  tightly
collared  shirt.  Burnson had an unlikely pair of qualities.   He
was both an extraordinarily well polished politician and a astute
investigator.   Several years prior, though, he decided that  the
bureaucratic life would suit him just fine, and at the expense of
his investigative skills, he attacked the political ladder with a
vengeance.

Despite the differences between them, Burnson a willing compatri-
ot of the Washington machine and Duncan preferring the rigors  of
investigation, they had developed a long distance friendship that
survived  over the years.  Tyrone was most pleased that he had  a
boss  who would at least give his arguments a fair listen  before
being told that for this or that political reason, the Bureau had
chosen a different line of reasoning.  So be it, thought  Duncan.
I'm not a policy maker, just a cop.  Tyrone sank into one of  the
government  issue chairs in Burnson's modern, yet  modest  office
ringed with large windows that can't open.

"How  'bout that Arctic Chill?"  Burnson's short lithe 150  pound
frame showed no wear from the heat.  "Glad you could make it."

"Shee  .  . .it man," Tyrone exhaled as he wiped  his  shiny  wet
black face and neck.  He was wringing wet.  "Like I had a choice.
If  it  weren't for the company, I'd be at the  beach  getting  a
tan."  He continued to wipe his neck and head with a  monogrammed
handkerchief.

"Lose  a few pounds, and it won't hurt so bad. You know, I  could
make an issue of it,"  Bob poked fun.

"And I'm outta here so fast, Hoover'll cheer from his grave,"  he
sweated.   The reference to the FBI founder's  legendary  bigotry
was a common source of jokes in the modern bureau.

"No  doubt.  No doubt."  Burnson passed by the  innuendo.  "Maybe
we'd balance the scales, too." He dug the knife deeper in  refer-
ence to Tyrone's weight.

"That's two," said Duncan.

"Ok, ok," said Burnson feigning surrender.  "How's Arlene and the
rest  of the sorority?"  He referred to the house full  of  women
with whom Tyrone had spent a good deal of his life.

"Twenty degrees cooler."  He was half serious.

"Listen, since you're hear, up for a bite?"  Bob tried.

"Listen,  how  'bout we do business then grab a  couple  of  cold
ones.   Iced  beer.   At Camelot?  That's my idea  of  a  quality
afternoon."  Camelot was the famous downtown strip joint on  18th
and M street that former Mayor Marion Berry had haunted and  been
86'd from for unpublished reasons.  It was dark and frequented by
government  employees for lunch, noticeably the ones from  Treas-
ury.

"Deal.  If you accept."  Bob's demeanor shifted to the officious.

"Accept what?" Tyrone asked suspiciously.

"My proposition."

"Is  this another one of your lame attempts to promote me  to  an
office job in Capitol City?"

"Well,  yes and no.  You're being re-assigned."  No easy  way  to
say it.

"To what?" exclaimed Tyrone angrily.

"To ECCO."

"What the hell is ECCO?"

"All  in good time. To the point," Bob said calmly. "How much  do
you know about this blackmail thing?"

"Plenty.   I read the reports, and I have my own local  problems.
Not to mention that the papers have picked it up.  If it  weren't
for  the  National Expos printing irresponsibly,  the  mainstream
press  would  have  kept  it quiet  until  there  was  some  con-
firmation."

"Agreed,"  said  Burnson.  "They are being spoken to  right  now,
about  that very subject, and as I hear it, they will  have  more
lawsuits on their doorstep than they can afford to defend.   They
really blew it this time."

"What else?"  Bob was listening intently.

"Not much.  Loose, unfounded innuendo, with nothing to follow up.
Reminds me of high school antics or mass hysteria.  Just like UFO
flaps."  Tyrone Duncan dismissed the coincidences and the thought
of  Scott's conspiracy theory.  "But it does make for a busy  day
at the office."

"Agreed, however, you only saw the reports that went on the wire.
Not the ones that didn't go through channels."

"What  do you mean by that?"  Duncan voiced concern at being  out
of the loop.

"What's  on the wire is only the tip of the iceberg.   There's  a
lot more."

"What else?"

"Senators  calling  the Director personally, asking  for  favors.
Trying  to keep their secrets secret.  A junior  Midwest  senator
has some quirky sexual habits.  A Southern anti-pornography ball-
breaker happens to like little boys.  It goes on and one. They've
all received calls saying that their secrets will be in the news-
papers' hands within days."

"Unless?"  Duncan awaited the resolved threat.

"No unless, which scares them all senseless.  It's the same story
everywhere.   Highly  influential people who manage many  of  our
countries' strategic assets have called their senators, and asked
them to insure that their cases are solved in a quiet and expedi-
ent political manner.  Sound familiar?"  Burnson asked Duncan.

"More than vaguely," Tyrone had to admit.  "How many?"

"As  of this morning we have 17 Senators asking the FBI  to  make
discreet investigations into a number of situations.  17!  Not to
mention  a  couple  hundred  executive  types  with  connections.
Within  days  of  each other.  They each, so  far,  believe  that
theirs is an isolated incident and that they are the sole  target
of  such  .  . .threats is as good a word as  any.   Getting  the
picture?"

Tyrone whistled to himself.  "They're all the same?"

"Yes,  and there's something else.  To a man, each  claimed  that
there was no way the blackmailer could know what he knew.  Impos-
sible."   Burnson  scratched  his head.   "Strange.   Same  story
everywhere.   That's what got the Director and his cronies in  on
this.   And  then me . . .and that's why you're  here,"   Burnson
said with finality.

"Why?"  Tyrone  was getting frustrated with the  roundabout  dia-
tribe.

"We're  pulling the blackmail thing to the national office and  a
special task force will take over.  A lot of folks upstairs  want
to  pull you in and stick you in charge of the  whole  operation,
but I told them that you weren't interested, that you like it the
way it is.  So, I struck a deal."  Burnson sounded proud.

Duncan  wasn't convinced.  "Deal?  What deal?  Since when do  you
talk  for  me?"  Tyrone didn't think to thank Bob for  the  front
line pass interference.  Keep the politicos out of his hair.

"Have  you been following any of the computer madness  recently?"
Burnson spoke as though he expected Tyrone to know nothing of it.

"Can't  miss it.  From what I hear, a lot of people  are  getting
pretty spooked that they may be next."

"It  gets  more interesting than what the papers say,"  Bob  said
while  opening a desk drawer.  He pulled out a large  folder  and
lay it across his desk.  "We have experienced a few more computer
incidents than is generally known, and in the last several  weeks
there has been a sudden increase in the number of attacks against
Government computers."

"You  mean  the INTERNET stuff and Congress  losing  it's  mind?"
Tyrone  laughed at the thought that Congress would now use  their
downed computers as an excuse for not doing anything.

"Those  are only the ones that have made it to the  press.   It's
lot  worse."   Bob scanned a few pages of the  folder  and  para-
phrased  while  reading.  "Ah, yes, the NPRP,  National  Pretrial
Reporting  Program over at Justice . . .was hit with a series  of
computer  viruses apparently intentionally placed in VMS  comput-
ers, whatever the hell those are."  Bob Burnson was not  computer
fluent, but he knew what the Bureau's computer could do.

"The Army Supply Center at  Fort Stewart, Georgia had all of  its
requisitions  for the last year erased from the  computer."   Bob
chuckled as he continued.  "Says here that they have had to  pool
the  guys'  money  to go to Winn Dixie to buy  toilet  paper  and
McDonald's  has  offered a special GI discount until  the  system
gets back up."

"Ty,"  Bob said.  " Some people on the hill have raised  a  stink
since their machines went down. Damn crybabies.  So ECCO is being
activated."

"What the hell is ECCO?" Tyrone asked again.

"ECCO stands for Emergency Computer Crisis Organization.  It's  a
computer crisis  team that responds to . . .well I guess, comput-
er crises."  Bob opened the folder again.  "It was formed  during
the, and I quote, ' . . .the panic that followed the first INTER-
NET Worm in November of 1988.'"

Tyrone's mouth hung open.  "What panic?"

"The one that was kept under absolute wraps," Bob said,  slightly
lowering  his  voice.  "At first no one knew  what  the  INTERNET
event was about.  Who was behind it.  Why and how it was  happen-
ing.   Imagine  10's of thousands of computers  stopping  all  at
once.   It scared the shit out of the National Security  Council,
remember  we and the Russians weren't quite friends then, and  we
thought that military secrets were being funneled straight to the
Kremlin.  You can't believe some of the contingency plans I heard
about."

"I had no idea . . ."

"You  weren't  supposed to," Bob added.  "Very few did.   At  any
rate, right afterward DARPA established CERT, the Computer  Emer-
gency Response Team at Carnegie Mellon, and DCA set up a Security
Coordination Center at SRI International to investigate  problems
in the Defense Data Network.  Livermore and the DOE got into  the
act  with  Computer Incident Advisory  Capability.  Then  someone
decided that the bureaucracy was still too light and it  deserved
at  least  a  fourth redundant, overlapping and  rival  group  to
investigate on behalf of Law Enforcement Agencies.  So, there  we
have ECCO."

"So what's the deal?" asked Tyrone.  "What do I have to do?"

"The  Director has asked ECCO to investigate the latest round  of
viruses  and  the  infiltration of a dozen or  so  sensitive  and
classified  computers."  Bob watched for Ty's reaction,  but  saw
none yet. He wondered how he would take the news.  "This time, we
would  like to be involved in the entire operation from start  to
finish.  Make sure the investigation is done right.  We'd like to
start nailing some of the bastards on the Federal level.  Besides
you  have the legal background and we are treading on  some  very
new and untested waters."

"I can imagine.  So what's our role?"

"Your role," Bob emphasized 'your', "will be to liaison with  the
other interested agencies."

"Who else is playing?" asked Tyrone with trepidation.

"Uh, that is the one negative," stammered Bob.  "You've got  NSA,
CIA,  NIST,  the NSC, the JCS and a bunch of  others  that  don't
matter.  The only rough spot is the NSA/NIST connection.   Every-
one else is there just to make sure they don't miss anything."

"What's their problem?"

"Haven't heard, huh?" laughed Bob.  "The press hasn't been  kind.
They've  been in such a pissing match for so long  that  computer
security  work came to a virtual halt and I don't want  to  spoil
the surprise, ah, you'll see," he added chuckling.

Tyrone  sat  back in the chair as he was cool enough now  not  to
stick to it, closed his eyes and rotated his head to work out the
kinks.  Bob never had gotten used to Tyrone's peculiar method  of
deep thought; he found it most unnerving.

Bob's   intents were crystal clear, not that Tyrone  minded.   He
had no desire to move to D.C.; indeed he would have quit instead.
He  wanted  to stay with the Bureau and the action  but   in  his
comfortable New York existence.  Otherwise, no.  But, if he could
get  Bob  off his back by this one favor.  Sure it might  not  be
real    action,    watching   computer    jockies    play    with
themselves . . .but it might be an interesting change in pace.

"Yes, under a couple of condition."  Tyrone was suddenly a little
too agreeable and smug after his earlier hesitancy.

"Conditions? What conditions?" Bob's suspicion was clear.

"One.  I do it my way, with no, and I mean, absolutely no  inter-
ference."  Duncan awaited a reply to his first demand.

"What else?"

"I get to use who I want to use, inside or outside the Bureau."

"Outside?   Outside?  We can't let this outside.  The last  thing
in the world we want is publicity."

"You're gonna get it anyway.  Let's do it right this time."

"What do you mean by that?" Bob asked somewhat defensively.

"What I mean is," Tyrone spoke up, sounding confident, "that  the
press  are already on this computer virus thing and  hackers  and
all.   So,  let's not advertise it, but when it comes  up,  let's
deal with it honest."

"No way," blurted out Bob.  "They'll make it worse than it is."

"I  have that covered.  A friend of my works for a paper, and  he
is a potential asset."

"What's the trade?"

"Not much.  Half day leads, as long as he keeps it fair."

"Anything else?" Bob asked, not responding to Ty.

"One last thing," Tyrone said sitting up straighter.  "After this
one,  you promise to let me alone and work my golden  years,  the
way I want, where I want until my overdue retirement."

"I don't know if I can . . ."

"Then forget it," interrupted Tyrone.  "I'll just quit."  It  was
the penultimate threat and bluff and caught Bob off balance.

"Wait a minute. You can't hold me hostage . . ."

"Isn't that what you're doing to me?"  Touch<130>!

Bob sat back in thought.  To an event, Duncan had been right  on.
He had uncannily been able to solve, or direct the solution of  a
crime where all others had failed.  And, he always put the Bureau
in  the best possible light.  If he didn't go with him now,  lose
him for sure.

"And, I may need some discretionary funds."  Duncan was making  a
mental list of those things he thought he needed.  His sources of
information  were the most valuable. Without them, it would be  a
bad case of babysitting sissy assed bureaucrats staking out their
ground.

"Yes  to the money.  Ouch, but yes to hands off  your  promotion.
Maybe, to the reporter.  It's my ass, too, you know."

"You called me," Tyrone said calmly.  "Remember?"

I  can't win this one, thought Bob.  He's never screwed  up  yet.
Not big time.  As they say, with enough rope you either bring  in
the  gang or hang yourself.    "I want results."  That's all  Bob
had  to say.  "Other than that, I don't give a good goddamn  what
you do,"  Bob resigned.

"One more thing," Tyrone slipped in.

"What is it?" Bob was getting exasperated.

"It happens out of New York, not here."

"But . . ."

"No buts.  Period."

"Ok, New York, but you report here when I need you.  Agreed?"

"Agreed," said Tyrone agreeably.  "Deal?"

"Yes, except no with the press, this reporter of yours.  Agreed?"

"Whatever," Tyrone told Bob.

* * * * *

From  his  hotel room, Tyrone Duncan called Scott  Mason  at  his
home.  It was after 11P.M. EST, and Ty was feeling no pain  after
several  hours  of drinking and slipping $10  bills  into  garter
belts at Camelot.

"RCA, Russian Division,"  Scott Mason answered his phone.

"Don't do that," Tyrone slurred.  "That'll trigger the monitors."

"Oh,  sorry, I thought you wanted the plans for the Stealth  Bom-
ber . . ."

"C'mon, man," Tyrone pleaded. "It's not worth the paperwork."

Scott  choked through his laughter. "I'm watching  a  Honeymooner
rerun.  This better be good."

"We need to talk."

* * * * *

     Thursday, October 15
     Washington, D.C.

The  stunning view of the Potomac was complete with a cold  front
that brought a wave of crisp and clear air; a much needed  change
from  the brutal Indian Summer.  His condo commanded a  vista  of
lights  that reflected the power to manipulate the world.   Miles
reveled  in it.  He and Perky lounged on his 8th. floor   balcony
after  a wonderfully satisfying romp in his waterbed.  For  every
action there is an equal and opposite reaction.  Sex in a  water-
bed  meant  the expenditure of the least energy for  the  maximum
pleasure. Ah, the beauty of applied mathematics.

Over the last four years Perky and Miles had seen each other on a
periodically  regular basis.  She was a little more than  one  of
Miles'  sexual release valves.  She was a  semi-sorta-kinda  girl
friend,  but wouldn't have been if Miles had known that  she  re-
ported their liaisons back to her boss.  Alex was not  interested
in how she got her information.  He only wanted to know if  there
were any digressions in Miles mission.

They  sipped  Grande  Fine from oversized  brandy  glasses.   The
afterglow was magnificent and  they saw no reason to detract from
it  with meaningless conversation.  Her robe barely  covered  her
firm breasts and afforded no umbrage for the triangle between her
legs.   She wasn't ashamed of her nakedness, job or no  job.  She
enjoyed  her time with Miles.  He asked for nothing from her  but
the obvious.  Unlike the others  who often asked her for  solici-
tous introductions to others who wielded power that might further
their own particular lobby.  Miles was honest, at least.  He even
let her spend the night upon occasion.

At  2  A.M., as they gazed over the reflections in  the  Potomac,
Miles'  phone warbled.  He ignored the first 5 rings  to  Perky's
annoyance.

"Aren't you going to answer?"  Her unspoken thoughts said,<MI> do
whatever you have to do to make that infernal noise top.<D>

"Expecting a call?"  Miles asked.  His eyes were closed,  convey-
ing his internal peace.  The phone rang again.

"Miles, at least get a machine."  The phone rang a seventh time.

 "Fuck."  He stood and his thick terrycloth robe swept behind him
as he walked into the elegantly simple modern living room through
the open glass doors.  He put down his glass and answered on  the
8th ring.

"It's  late,"  he answered.  His 'I don't give a  shit'  attitude
was evident.

"Mr.  Foster,  I am most displeased."  It  was  Homosoto.   Miles
curled  his lips in disgust as Perky looked in from  her  balcony
vantage.

Miles breathed heavily into the phone. "What's wrong now?"  Miles
was trying to verbally show his distaste for such a late call.

"Our plans were explicit.  Why have you deviated?"  Homosoto  was
controlled but forthright.

"What the hell are you talking about?"  Miles sipped loudly  from
the brandy glass.

"I  have  read about the virus, the computer  virus.   The  whole
world in talking about it.  Mr. Foster, you are early.  I thought
we had an understanding."

"Hey!"  Foster yelled into the phone. "I don't know where you get
off  calling me at 2 in the morning, but you've got your head  up
your ass."

"Excuse  me  Mr. Foster, I do not and could not  execute  such  a
motion.   However,  do  not forget we  did  have  an  agreement."
Homosoto was insistent.

"What the fuck are you talking about?"  Miles was adamant.

"Since  you insist on these games, Mr. Foster.  I have read  with
great interest about the so called Columbus Day Virus.  I believe
you have made a great error in judgment."

Miles had just had about enough of this. "If you've got something
to say, say it." he snorted into the phone.

"Mr.  Foster.  Did we not agree that the first major  strike  was
not to occur until next year?"

"Yeah," Miles said offhandedly.  He saw  Perky open her eyes  and
look at him quizzically.  He made a fist with his right hand  and
made an obscene motion near his crotch.

"Then,  what is this premature event?"  Homosoto persisted.

"Not mine."  Miles looked out the balcony.  Perky was  invitingly
licking her lips. Miles turned away to avoid distraction.

"Mr. Foster, I find it hard to believe that you are not responsi-
ble."

"Tough shit."

"Excuse me?"  Homosoto was taken aback.

"Simple.  You are not the only person, and neither am I, the only
person  who has chosen to build viruses or  destructive  computer
programs.  We are merely taking a good idea and taking it to  its
logical  conclusion as a pure form of offensive weaponsry.   This
one's not mine nor yours.  It's someone elses."

The  phone was silent for a few seconds.  "You are  saying  there
are  others?"   The  childlike naivete was  coming  through  over
12,000 miles of phone wire.

"Of course there are.  This will probably help us."

"How do you mean?"

"There  are a hundreds of viruses, but  none as effective as  the
ones  which  we use.  A lot of amateurs use them to  build  their
egos.  Jerusalem-B, Lehigh, Pakistani, Brain, Marijuana, they all
have names.  They have no purpose other than self aggrandizement.
So,  we  will be seeing more and more viruses  appear  that  have
nothing  to  do with our efforts.  I do hope you  will  not  call
every time you hear of one.  You know our dates. "

"Is there no chance for error?"

"Oh  yes!  There is, but it will be very isolated if  it  occurs.
Most  viruses do not receive as much attention as this  one,  and
probably  won't until we are ready.  And, as I recall we are  not
ready."   Miles  was  tired of the timing for  the  hand  holding
session.  Ms. Perkins was beckoning.

"I hope you are right.  My plans must not be interfered with."

"Our  plans," Miles corrected.  "my ass is on the line,  too.   I
don't  need you freaking every time the press reports a  computer
going on the fritz.  It's gonna happen a lot."

"What  will  happen, Mr. Foster?"  Homosoto was  able  to  convey
disgust with a Japanese accent like no other.

"We've been through this before."

"Then go through it again," Homosoto ordered.

Miles turned his back to Perky and sat on the couch inside  where
he  was  sure  he could speak in privacy.   "Listen  here  Homo,"
Miles  scowled.  "In the last couple of years viruses  have  been
become techno-yuppie amusements.  The game has intensified as the
stakes  have  increased.  Are you aware . . .no I'm  sure  you're
not,  that  the experts here say that, besides our  work,  almost
every local area network in the country is infected with a  virus
of one type or another.  Did you know that?"

"No,  Mr.  Foster,  I didn't.  How do you know  that?"   Homosoto
sounded unconvinced.

"It's my fucking job to know that. And you run an empire?"

"Yes,  I know , and I hope you do, Mr. Foster, that you work  for
me."   Condenscention was an executive Oriental trait that  Miles
found unsettling.

"For now, I do."

"You  do,  and  will until our job is over.  Is  that  clear  Mr.
Foster?  You have much to lose."

Miles  sank deep into the couch, smirking and puckering his  dim-
ples. He wanted to convey boredom.  "I a job.  You an empire."

"Do not be concerned about me. Good night, Mr. Foster."

Homosoto had quickly cut the line.  Just as well, thought  Miles.
He  had  enough of that  slant-eyed  slope-browed  rice-propelled
mother-fucker for one night. He had bigger and better and  harder
things to concern him.

* * * * *

     October 31, 1989
     Falls Church, Virginia.

"What do you mean gone?"

"Gone. Gone.  It's just gone."  Fred Porter sounded panicked.

Larry Ferguson, the Senior Vice President of First National  Bank
did  not  appreciate the news he was getting  from  the  Transfer
Department  in New York.  "Would you be kind enough to  explain?"
he said with disdain.

"Yessir, of course." Porter took a deep breath.  "We were running
a  balance, the same one we run every day.  And every  day,  they
balance.   The transfers, the receipts, the charges .  .  .every-
thing.   When we ran them last night, they didn't add up.   We're
missing a quarter billion dollars."

"A quarter billion dollars? You better have one good explanation,
son."

"I wish I did," Porter sighed.

"All  right,  let's go through it top to bottom."  Ferguson  knew
that  it was ultimately his ass if $250 Million was really  miss-
ing.

"It's just as I told you."

"Then tell me again!" Ferguson bellowed.

"Yessir, sorry.  We maintain transfer accounts as you know."

"Of course I know."

"During the day we move our transfer funds into a single  account
and  wait till the end of the day to move the money to  where  it
belongs.  We do that because . . ."

"I  know why we do it.  Cause for every hundred million  we  hold
for  half a day we make $16,000 in interest we don't have to  pay
out."

"Yessir, but that's not official . . ."

"Of course it's not you idiot . . ."

"I'm sorry sir."

"As  you  were saying . . ." Ferguson was glad he had  moved  the
psychological stress to his underling.

"When  we  got  to the account, about 9:00 A.M.,  it  was  empty.
That's it. Empty. All the money was gone."

"And, pray tell, where did it go?" Templeton said sarcastically.

"We  don't  know.  It was supposed to have  been  transferred  to
hundreds of accounts. Here and abroad.  There's no audit of  what
happened."

"Do  you know how long it will take you to pay for this screw  up
Porter?"  Templeton demanded.

"Yessir."

"How long?"

"A hundred lifetimes," Porter said dejectedly.

"Longer. A lot longer."  Ferguson really knew that Porter  would-
n't  pay  any price.  As long as the computer records  showed  he
wasn't  at  fault,  he would continue to be  a  valued  employee.
Ferguson himself was bound to be the scape goat.

"What do you want me to do, sir?"  Porter asked.

"You've  done  enough.   Just wire me the records.  I  need  them
yesterday.   I have to talk to Weinhauser."  Ferguson hung up  in
disgust.  It was not going to be a good day.

****************************************************************

               Chapter 11

     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.

****************************************************************

                    Chapter 12

     Thursday, November 14
     NASA Control Center, Johnson Space Center

The voice of Mission Control spoke over the loudspeakers and into
hundreds of headsets.

THE GROUND LAUNCH SEQUENCER HAS BEEN INITIATED.  WE'RE AT T-MINUS
120 SECONDS AND COUNTING.

The  Space  Shuttle Columbia was on Launch Pad 3,  in  its  final
preparation  for  another secret mission.  As was  expected,  the
Department  of Defense issued a terse non-statement on  its  pur-
pose: "The Columbia is carrying a classified payload will be used
for  a  series of experiments.  The flight is scheduled  to  last
three days."

In reality, and most everyone knew it, the Columbia was going  to
release  another KH-5 spy satellite.  The KH-5 series  was  able,
from  an altitude of 110 miles, to discern and transmit to  Earth
photos  so crisp, it could resolve the numbers on  an  automobile
license  plate.   The photographic resolution of KH-5's  was  the
envy  of every government on the planet, and was one of the  most
closely guarded secrets that everyone knew about.

T-MINUS 110 SECONDS AND COUNTING.

Mission control specialists at the Cape and in Houston  monitored
every  conceivable  instrument on the Shuttle itself and  on  the
ground equipment that made space flight possible.

A  cavernous room full of technicians checked and double  checked
and  triple checked fuel, temperature, guidance,  computers  sys-
tems,  backup  systems, relays, switches,  communications  links,
telemetry,  gyros,  the  astronauts'  physiology,  life   support
systems,  power  supplies . . .everything had  a  remote  control
monitor.

"The liquid hydrogen replenish has been terminated, LSU pressuri-
zation  to flight level now under way.  Vehicle is  now  isolated
from ground loading  equipment."

@COMPUTER T-MINUS 100 SECONDS AND COUNTING

"SRB  and external tank safety devices have been  armed.  Inhibit
remains  in place until T-Minus 10 seconds when the range  safety
destruct system is activated."

The  Mission Control Room had an immense map of the world  spread
across its 140  feet breadth. It showed the actual and  projected
trajectories  of the Shuttle.  Along both sides of the  map  were
several  large rear projection video screens. They displayed  the
various  camera  angles of the launch pad, the  interior  of  the
Shuttle's  cargo  hold, the cockpit itself and an  assortment  of
other  shots that the scientists deemed important to the  success
of each flight.

T-MINUS 90 SECONDS AND COUNTING

"At the T-Minus one minute mark, the ground launch sequencer will
verify that the main shuttle engines are ready to start."

T-MINUS 80 SECONDS AND COUNTING

"Liquid hydrogen tanks now reported at flight pressure."

The  data  monitors scrolled charts and numbers.   The  computers
spewed  out  their  data, updating it every few  seconds  as  the
screens flickered with the changing information.

T-MINUS 70 SECONDS AND COUNTING

The  Voice of Mission Control continued its  monotone  countdown.
Every airline passenger is familiar with the neo-Texas twang that
conveys sublime confidence, even in the tensest of situations.

The  Count-down  monitor  above the global  map  decremented  its
numbers  by the hundredths of seconds, impossible for a human  to
read but terribly inaccurate by computer standards.

"Coming up on T-Minus one minute and counting."

T-MINUS 60 SECONDS.

"Pressure systems now armed, lift off order  will be released  at
T-Minus 16 seconds."

The voice traffic became chaotic.  Hundreds of voices give  their
consent  that their particular areas of responsibility are  ship-
shape.  The word nominal sounds to laymen watching the world over
as a classic understatement.  If things are great, then say 'Fuel
is  Great!'  NASA prefers the word Nominal to indicate that  sys-
tems  are performing as the design engineers predicted  in  their
simulation models.

T-MINUS 50 SECONDS AND COUNTING.

The  hoses  that connect the Shuttle to the Launch Pad  began  to
fall away.  Whirls of steam and smoke appeared around portions of
the boosters.  The tension was high.  45 seconds to go.

"SRB flight instrumentation recorders now going to record."

Eyes riveted to computer screens.  It takes hundreds of computers
to make a successful launch.  Only the mission generalists  watch
over  the big picture; the screens across the front of the  behe-
moth 80 foot high room.

T-MINUS 40 SECONDS AND COUNTING

"External tank heaters now turned off in preparation for launch."

Screens danced while minds focused on their jobs.  It wasn't until
there were only 34 seconds left on the count down clock that anyone
noticed.
The main systems display monitor, the one that contained the sum of
all other systems information displayed a message never seen before
by anyone at NASA.

@COMPMEMO "CHRISTA MCAULIFFE AND THE CHALLENGER WELCOME THE CREW
OF THE SPACE SHUTTLE COLUMBIA."

"We have a go for auto sequence start. Columbia's forward comput-
ers now taking over primary control of critical vehicle functions
through lift-off."

T-MINUS 30 SECONDS AND COUNTING

"What the hell is that?"  Mission Specialist Hawkins said to  the
technician  who was monitoring the auto-correlation noise  reduc-
tion  systems needed to communicate with the astronauts  once  in
space.

TWENTY NINE

"What?"  Sam Broadbent took off his earpiece.

TWENTY EIGHT

"Look at that." Hawkins pointed at the central monitor.

TWENTY SEVEN

"What does that mean, it's not in the book?"

TWENTY SIX

"I  dunno.  No chances though."  Hawkins  switched  his  intercom
selector  to 'ALL', meaning that everyone on line, including  the
Mission Control Director would hear.

TWENTY FIVE

"We have an anomaly here . . ." Hawkins said into his mouthpiece.

TWENTY FOUR

"Specify anomaly, comm," The dry voice returned.  Hawkins  wasn't
quite  sure  how to respond.  The practice runs had  not  covered
this eventuality.

TWENTY THREE

"Look  up  at Video 6. Switching over." Hawkins tried  to  remain
unflustered.

TWENTY TWO

"Copy comm. Do you contain?"

TWENTY ONE

"Negative Mission Control. It's an override." Hawkins answered.

TWENTY - FIRING SEQUENCE NOMINAL

The  voice of Mission Control annoyed Hawkins for the first  time
in his 8 years at NASA.

"Confirm and update."

NINETEEN

Hawkins blew his cool. "Look at the goddamned monitor for  Chris-
sakes.  Just look!" He yelled into the intercom.

EIGHTEEN

"Holy . . .who's . . .please confirm, local analysis," the  sober
voice sounded concerned for the first time.

SEVENTEEN

"Confirmed  anomaly."  "Confirmed."   "Confirmed."   "Confirmed."
The votes streamed in.

SIXTEEN

"We have a confirm . . ."

T-MINUS 15 SECONDS AND COUNTING.

TEN

"We have a go for main engine start."

SEVEN

SIX

FIVE

"We have a main engine start . . .we  have a cut off."

"Columbia, we have a monitor anomaly, holding at T-minus 5."

"That's a Roger, Houston,"  the commander of Space Shuttle Colum-
bia responded calmly.

"We  have a manual abort override. Columbia's on board  computers
confirm the cut-off.  Can you verify, Columbia?"

"That's a Roger."

The  huge  block  letter message continued to  blaze  across  the
monitors.   Craig Volker spoke rapidly into his  master  intercom
system. "Cut network feed.  Cut direct feed. Cut now! Now!"   All
TV  networks suddenly lost their signal that was  routed  through
NASA's huge video switches.  NASA's own satellite feed was simul-
taneously cut as well. If NASA didn't want it going to the public
it didn't get sent.

CNN got the first interview with NASA officials.

"What caused today's flight to be aborted?"

"We  detected a slight leak in the fuel tanks.  We  believe  that
the  sensors were faulty, that there was no leak, but we felt  in
the  interest  of safety it would be best to abort  the  mission.
Orbital  alignment is not critical and we can attempt a  relaunch
within 2 weeks.  When we know more we will make further  informa-
tion available."  The NASA spokesman left abruptly.

The CNN newsman continued.  "According to NASA, a  malfunctioning
fuel  monitor  was the cause of today's aborted  shuttle  launch.
However,  several seconds before the announced abort, our   video
signal  was  cut  by NASA.  Here is a replay  of  that  countdown
again."

CNN  technicians  replayed one of their video tapes.   The  video
monitors within Mission Control were not clear on the replay. But
the  audio  was. "Look at the goddamned monitor  for  Chrissakes.
Just look."  Then the video went dead.

* * * * *

Steve  Billings received an urgent message on his  computer's  E-
Mail when he got home from classes.  All it said was

     PHONE HOME

He dialed NEMO directly this time.

     <<<<<<CONNECTION>>>>>>

He  chose  CONVERSATION PIT from the menu.  La Creme  was  there,
alone and probably waiting.

What's the panic?

YOU DON'T KNOW? <<CREME>>

Just finished exams . . .been locked up in student hell . . .

NASA ABORT . . .SHUTTLE WENT TO SHIT. <<CREME>>

So?  More Beckel fuel problems I s'pose.

UH . . .UH.  NOT THIS TIME. NASA GOT AN INVITATION. <<CREME>>

From aliens? SETI finally came through?

NOPE.  FROM CHRISTA MCAULIFFE. <<CREME>>

Right.

SERIOUS.  SHE WELCOMED THE CREW OF COLUMBIA. <<CREME>>

Get real . . .

I AM. CHECK OUT CNN.  THEY RECONSTRUCTED THE VIDEO SIGNAL  BEFORE
NASA SHUT THE FEED DOWN.  THE MONITORS HAD A GREETING FROM CHRIS-
TA.  ABORTED THE DAMN MISSION. <<CREME>>

I don't get it.

NEITHER  DO  I.  BUT, DON'T YOU PLAY AROUND  IN  NASA  COMPUTERS?
<<CREME>>

Sure I do.  Poke and Play.  I'm not alone.

AND REPROGRAM THE LAUNCH COMPUTERS? <<CREME>>

Never. It's against the Code.

I KNOW THAT, BUT DO YOU? <<CREME>>

What are getting at?

OK GOOD BUDDY . . .STRAIGHT SHOOTING.  DID YOU GO IN AND PUT SOME
MESSAGES ON MISSION CONTROL COMPUTERS? <<CREME>>

Fuck, no.  You know better than that.

I HOPED YOU'D SAY THAT.  <<CREME>>

Hey . . .thanks for the vote of confidence.

NO  OFFENSE  DUDE.   HADDA  ASK. THEN IF  YOU  DIDN'T  WHO   DID?
<<CREME>>

I don't know.  That's sick.

NO  SHIT  SHERLOCK.  NASA'S ONE PISSED OFF PUPPY.   THEY  HAVEN'T
GONE  PUBLIC YET, BUT THE MEDIA'S GOT IT PEGGED THAT HACKERS  ARE
RESPONSIBLE.  WE MAY HAVE TO LOCK IT UP.

Damn. Better get clean.

YOU LEAVE TRACKS?

Nah.  They're security is for shit.  No nothing.  Besides, I  get
in as SYSOP.  I can erase my own tracks.

BETTER BE SURE.

I'm not going back, not for a while.

THERE'S GONNA BE SOME SERIOUS HEAT ON THIS.

Can't blame 'em. What d'you suggest?  I'm clean, really.

BELIEVE YOU GUY. I DO.  BUT WILL THEY?

I hope so . . .

* * * * *

     Friday, November 15
     New York City Times

     NASA SCRUBS MISSION: HACKERS AT PLAY?
     by Scott Mason

NASA  canceled the liftoff of the space shuttle Columbia  yester-
day,  only 15 seconds prior to liftoff.  Delays in  the  troubled
shuttle program are nothing new.  It seems that just about every-
thing  that can go wrong has gone wrong  in the last  few  years.
We watch fuel tanks leak, backup computers go bad, life   support
systems malfunction and suffer through a complete range of incom-
prehensible defects in the multi-billion dollar space program.

We got to the moon in one piece, but the politics of the  Shuttle
Program is overwhelming.

Remember what Senator John Glenn said during his historic 3 orbit
mission in the early days of the Mercury Program.  "It worries me
some.  To think that I'm flying around up here in a machine built
by the lowest bidder."

At the time, when the space program had the support of the  coun-
try  from the guidance of the young Kennedy and from the fear  of
the  Soviet  lead,  Glenn's comment was meant  to  alleviate  the
tension.   Successfully, at that.  But since the Apollo fire  and
the  Challenger disaster, and an all too wide array  of  constant
technical  problems, political will is waning. The  entire  space
program suffers as a result.

Yesterday's aborted launch echoes of further bungling.  While the
management  of NASA is undergoing critical review, and  executive
replacements seem imminent, the new breed will have to live  with
past  mistakes for some time.  Unfortunately, most  Americans  no
longer watch space launches, and those that do tune out once  the
astronauts  are out of camera range.  The Space  Program  suffers
from external malaise as well as internal confusion.

That is, until yesterday.

In an unprecedented move, seconds after the countdown was halted,
NASA  cut its feeds to the networks and all 4 channels were  left
with the omnipresent long lens view of the space shuttle  sitting
idle on its launch pad.  In a prepared statement, NASA blamed the
aborted  flight  on yet another leak from the massive and  explo-
sive  355,000  gallon fuel tanks.  In what  will  clearly  become
another  public  relations  fiasco, NASA lied to  us  again.   It
appears that NASA's computers were invaded.

CNN  cooped the other three networks by applying advanced digital
reconstruction  to  a few frames of video.  Before NASA  cut  the
feed,  CNN was receiving pictures of the monitor walls from  Mis-
sion  Control in Houston, Texas.  Normally those banks  of  video
monitors contain critical flight information, telemetry,  orbital
paths and other data to insure the safety of the crew and machin-
ery.

Yesterday,  though, the video monitors carried a message  to  the
nation:

CHRISTA  MCAULIFFE  AND THE CHALLENGER WELCOME THE  CREW  OF  THE
SPACE SHUTTLE COLUMBIA.

This  was  the  message that NASA tried  to  hide  from  America.
Despite the hallucinations of fringe groups who are  prophesizing
imminent contact with an alien civilization, this message was not
from  a large black monolith on the Moon or from the Red Spot  on
Jupiter.  A Star Baby will not be born.

The  threatening  words came from a deranged  group  of  computer
hackers who thought it would be great sport to endanger the lives
of  our astronauts,  waste millions of taxpayer  dollars,  retard
military  space missions and make a mockery of NASA.  After  con-
fronted  with the undisputed evidence that CNN presented to  NASA
officials  within  hours of the attempted launch,  the  following
statement was issued:

"The Space Shuttle Columbia flight performing a military mission,
was aborted 5 seconds prior to lift-off.  First reports indicated
that  the  reason was a minor leak in a  fuel  line.   Subsequent
analysis showed, though, that the Side Band Communications  Moni-
toring System displayed remote entry anomalies inconsistent  with
program  launch sequence.  Automatic system  response  mechanisms
put the count-down on hold until it was determined that intermit-
tent  malfunctions could not be repaired without a launch  delay.
The launch date has been put back until November 29."

Permit me to translate this piece of NASA-speak with the straight
skinny.

The anomaly they speak of euphemistically was simple:  A computer
hacker, or hackers, got into the NASA computers and caused  those
nauseating  words to appear on the screen.  The  implication  was
obvious.   Their sickening  message was a distinct threat to  the
safety of the mission and its crew.  So, rather than an  automat-
ic  systems shut-down, as the CNN tape so aptly  demonstrates,  a
vigilant technician shouted, "Look at the g_______ed monitor  for
Chrissakes! Just look!"

While  the  NASA computers failed to notice that  they  had  been
invaded  from an outside source, their able staff prevented  what
could have been another national tragedy.  Congratulations!

If computer hackers, those insidious little moles who secretively
poke  through computer systems uninvited and unchecked,  are  the
real  culprits as well placed NASA sources suggest, they need  to
be  identified quickly, and be prosecuted to the  fullest  extent
possible.   There are laws that have been broken.  Not  only  the
laws regarding computer privacy, but legal experts say that cases
can  be made for Conspiracy, Sedition, Blackmail,  Terrorism  and
Extortion.

But, according to computer experts, the likelihood of ever  find-
ing  the interlopers is " . . .somewhere between never and  none.
Unless  they left a trail, which good hackers don't, they'll  get
away with this Scott free."

Hackers have caused constant trouble to computer systems over the
years,  and  incidents have been increasing in  both  number  and
severity.  This computer assault needs to be addressed immediate-
ly.  America insists on it.  Not only must the hacker responsible
for this travesty be caught, but NASA must also explain how their
computers  can be compromised so easily.  If a bunch of kids  can
enter one NASA communications computer, then what stops them from
altering flight computers, life support systems and other comput-
er controlled activities that demand perfect operation?

NASA, we expect an answer.

This  is Scott Mason, waiting for NASA to lift-off from its  duff
and get down to business.

* * * * *

     Friday, November 15
     New York City.

Scott Mason picked up the phone on the first ring.

"Scott Mason," he said without thinking.

"Mr.  Mason?  This is Captain Kirk."  The voice was serious,  but
did  not resonate as did the distinctive voice that  belonged  to
William Shatner.  Scott laughed into the phone.

"Live long and prosper."  Mason replied in an emotionless voice.

"I need to talk to you,"  the voice came right back.

"So  talk."  Scott was used to anonymous callers so he  kept  the
rhythm of the conversation going.

"You have it all wrong.  Hackers aren't the ones." The voice  was
earnest.

"What are you talking about?"  Scott asked innocuously.

"Your articles keep saying that hackers cause all the trouble  on
computers. You're wrong."

"Says who?"  Scott decided to play along.

"Says me.  You obviously don't know about the Code."

"What code?" This was getting nowhere fast.

"Listen, I know your phone is tapped,  so I only have another few
seconds.  Do you want  to talk?"

"Tapped?  What  is this all about?"  The annoyance was  clear  in
Scott's voice.

"You keep blaming everything on hackers.  You're wrong."

"Prove it." Scott gave this phone call another 10 seconds.

"I've been inside the  NASA computers."

That  got  Scott to wake up from the droll papers  on  his  desk.
"Are  you telling me you wrote the message  . . .?"  Scott  could
not contain his incredulity.

"God,  no."  Captain  Kirk was firm. "Do you have  a  modem?   At
home?"

"Yeah, so what."  Scott gave the caller only another 5 seconds.

"What's the number?"

"Is this love or hate?"  Time's up thought Scott.

"News."

"What?"

"News.   Do I talk to you or the National Expos<130>?  I  figured
you might be a safer bet."  The voice who called himself  Captain
Kirk gave away nothing but the competitive threat was effective.

"No contest. If it's real. What have you got?"  Scott paid atten-
tion.

"What's the number?" the voice demanded. "Your modem."

"Ok!  914-555-2190." Scott gave his home modem number.

"Be on at midnight."  The line went dead.

Scott  briefly mentioned the matter to his editor, Doug,  who  in
turn  gave  him a very hard time about it. "I  thought  you  said
virus hacker connection was a big ho-hum.  As I recall, you  said
they weren't sexy enough?  What happened?"

"Eating  crow can be considered a delicacy if the main course  is
phenomonal."

"I see," laughed Doug.  Creative way out, he thought.

"He said he'd been plowing around NASA computers," Scott argued.

"Listen,  ask your buddy Ben how many crackpots admit  to  crimes
just for the attention.  It's crap."  Doug was too jaded, thought
Scott.

"No,  no,  it's legit," Scott said defensively.  "Sounds  like  a
hacker conspiracy to me."

"Legit?   Legit?" Doug laughed out loud.  "Your last column  just
about  called for all computer junkies to be castrated and  drawn
and  quartered  before they are hung at the stake.  And  now  you
think  an  anonymous caller who  claims to be a  hacker,  is  for
real?   C'mon, Scott.  You can't have  it both  ways.   Sometimes
your conspiracies are bit far fetched . . ."

"And when we hit, it sells papers."  Scott reminded his boss that
it was still a business.

Nonetheless,  Doug made a point that hit home with Scott.   Could
he  both  malign computer nerds as sub-human and then  expect  to
derive a decent story from one of them?  There was an  inconsist-
ency  there.  Even  so, some pretty  despicable  characters  have
turned  state's evidence and made decent witnesses against  their
former  cohorts.  Had Captain Kirk really been where no  man  had
been before?

"You  don't care if I dig a little?" Scott backed off and  played
the humble reporter.

"It's  your  life."  That was Doug's way of saying, "I  told  you
there was a story here. Run!"

"No  problem, chief."  Scott snapped to mock attention  and  left
his editor's desk before Doug changed his mind.

* * * * *

     Midnight
     Scarsdale, New York

Scott  went  into his study to watch Nightline after  grabbing  a
cold  beer and turned on the light over his computer.  His  study
could by all standards be declared a disaster area, which his ex-
wife Maggie often did.  In addition to the formal desk, 3 folding
tables  were piled high with newspapers, loose clippings,  books,
scattered notes, folders, magazines, and crumpled up paper  balls
on  the  floor.   The maid had refused to clean the  room  for  6
months since he blamed her for disposing of important notes  that
he had filed on the floor.  They were back on good terms, he  had
apologized, but his study was a no-man's, or no maid's land.

Scott  battled  to  clear a place for his beer  as  his  computer
booted up.  Since he primarily used his computer for writing,  it
wasn't  terribly  powerful by today's standards.   A  mere  386SX
running  at  20 megahertz and comparatively  low  resolution  VGA
color  graphics. It was all he needed.  He had a modem in  it  to
connect  to  the paper's computer. This way he  could  leave  the
office  early,  write his articles or columns at home  and  still
have  them in by deadline.  He also owned a GRiD 386 laptop  com-
puter for when he traveled, but it was buried beneath a mound  of
discarded  magazines  on  one of the built-in  floor  to  ceiling
shelves that ringed the room.

Scott wondered if Kirk would really call.  He had seemed paranoid
when he called this afternoon.  Phones tapped?  Where did he ever
get  that idea? Preposterous.  Why wouldn't his phone at home  be
tapped if the ones at  work were?  We'll see.

Scott  turned  the old 9" color television on the corner  of  the
desk to Nightline. Enough to occupy him even if Kirk didn't call.

He  set  the ComPro communications program  to  Auto-Answer.   If
Kirk, or anyone else did call him, the program would automatical-
ly answer the phone and his computer would alert him that someone
else's computer had called his computer.

He noticed the clock chime midnight as Nightline went overtime to
further  discuss the new Soviet Union.  Fascinating, he  thought.
I  grow up in the 60's and 70's when we give serious  concern  to
blowing up the world and today our allies of a half century  ago,
turned Cold War enemy, are talking about joining NATO.

At  12:02,  Scott Mason's computer beeped at  him.   The  beeping
startled him.

He looked  at the computer screen as a first message appeared.

WTFO

Scott  didn't  know what to make of it, so he  entered  a  simple
response.

Hello.

The computer screen paused briefly then came alive again.

ARE YOU SCOTT MASON?

Scott entered 'Yes'.

THIS IS KIRK

Scott wondered what the proper answer was to a non-question by  a
computer.  So he retyped in his earlier greeting.

Hello.   Again.

IS THIS YOUR FIRST TIME?

What a question! Scott answered quickly.

Please be gentle.

NO . . .AT CHATTING ON COMPUTER . . .

I call the computer at work.  First time with a stranger.  Is  it
safe?

Scott  had a gestalt realization.  This was fun.  He didn't  talk
to the paper's computer.  He treated it as an electronic mailbox.
But this, there was an attractiveness to the anonymity behind the
game.   Even  if this Kirk was a flaming asshole, he  might  have
discovered a new form of entertainment.

VERY GOOD.  YOU'RE QUICK.

Not too quick, sweetheart.

IS THIS REALLY SCOTT MASON?

Yes.

PROVE IT.

Kirk, or whoever this was, was comfortable with anonymity,  obvi-
ously.  And paranoid. Sure, play the game.

You screwed up the NASA launch.

I DID NOT!!!!!!!!!!  OK, IT'S YOU.

Glad to know it.

YOU GOT IT ALL WRONG.

What do I have wrong?

ABOUT HACKERS.  WE'RE NOT BAD.  ONLY A FEW BAD APPLES, JUST  LIKE
COPS AND REPORTERS.  I HOPE YOU'RE A GOOD GUY.

You called me, remember?

STILL, IT'S NOT LIKE YOU THINK.

Sure, I think.

NO  NO  NO . . .HACKERS.  WE'RE BASICALLY A GOOD  LOT  WHO  ENJOY
COMPUTERS FOR COMPUTERS SAKE.

That's what I've been saying

REALLY.  HEY, DO YOU KNOW WHAT A HACKER REALLY IS?

A  guy who pokes his nose around where it's not wanted.  Like  in
NASA computers.

YEAH,  THAT'S WHAT THE PRESS SAYS AND SO THAT'S WHAT THE  COUNTRY
THINKS.  BUT IT'S NOT NECESSARILY SO.

So, change my mind.

LET  ME  GIVE YOU THE NAMES OF A FEW HACKERS.   BILL  GATES.   HE
FOUNDED  MICROSOFT.   WORTH A COUPLE OF  BILLION.   MITCH  KAPOR.
FOUNDED LOTUS.  STEVE WOZNIAK FOUNDED APPLE.  GET THE POINT?

You still haven't told me what you think a hacker is.

A HACKER IS SOMEONE WHO HACKS WITH COMPUTERS.  SOMEONE WHO ENJOYS
USING  THEM, PROGRAMMING THEM, FIGURING OUT HOW THEY  WORK,  WHAT
MAKES  THEM TICK.  PUSHING THEM TO THE LIMIT.   EXTRACTING  EVERY
LAST  INCH OF POWER FROM THEM.  LET ME ASK YOU A QUESTION.   WHAT
DO YOU CALL SOMEONE WHO PLAYS WITH AMATEUR RADIOS?

A Ham.

AND  WHAT DO YOU CALL SOMEONE WHO HAS A CALCULATOR IN  HIS  SHORT
POCKET WITH A DOZEN BALLPOINT PENS?

In my day it was a sliderule, and we called them propeller heads.

THAT  TRANSLATES.  GOOD.  AND WHAT DO YOU CALL SOMEONE WHO  FLIES
AIRPLANES FOR FUN?

A fly boy, space jockey.

A CAR TINKERER?

A grease monkey

AND SOMEONE WHO JUMPS OUT OF PLANES?

Fucking crazy!!!!

FAIR  ENOUGH.  BUT HERE'S THE POINT.  DIFFERENT STROKES FOR  DIF-
FERENT  FOLKS.   AND IT JUST SO HAPPENS THAT PEOPLE WHO  LIKE  TO
PLAY  WITH COMPUTERS ARE CALLED HACKERS.  IT'S AN OLD  TERM  FROM
THE 60'S FROM THE COLLEGES, AND AT THAT TIME IT WASN'T  DEROGATO-
RY.   IT DIDN'T HAVE THE SAME NEGATIVE CONNOTATIONS THAT IT  DOES
TODAY THANKS TO YOU.  HACKERS ARE JUST A BUNCH OF PEOPLE WHO PLAY
WITH  COMPUTERS  INSTEAD  OF CARS, BOATS,  AIRPLANES,  SPORTS  OR
WHATEVER.  THAT'S IT, PURE AND SIMPLE.

Ok,  let's  accept  that for now.  What about  those  stories  of
hackers  running around inside of everybody else's computers  and
making  computer viruses and all.  Morris and Chase were  hackers
who caused a bunch of damage.

WHOA!  TWO SEPARATE ISSUES.  THERE ARE A NUMBER OF HACKERS WHO DO
GO PROBING AND LOOKING  AROUND  OTHER PEOPLE'S COMPUTERS.  AND  I
AM PROUD TO ADMIT THAT I AM ONE OF THEM.

Wait  a minute.  You first say that hackers are the guys  in  the
white hats and then you admit that you are one of those  criminal
types who invades the privacy of others.

THERE  IS  A  BIG DIFFERENCE BETWEEN LOOKING  AROUND  A  COMPUTER
READING ITS FILES AND DESTROYING THEM.  I REMEMBER READING  ABOUT
THIS  GUY  WHO BROKE INTO PEOPLE'S HOUSES WHEN THEY WERE  OUT  OF
TOWN.   HE  LIVED IN THEIR HOUSE UNTIL THEY CAME  BACK  AND  THEN
LEFT.   HE USED THEIR FOOD, THEIR TV, THEIR SHOWER AND  ALL,  BUT
NEVER STOLE ANYTHING OR DID ANY DAMAGE.  THAT'S KINDA WHAT  HACK-
ERS DO.

Why?  For the thrill?

OH,  I  GUESS THAT MAY BE PART OF IT, BUT IT'S REALLY  MORE  THAN
THAT.  IT'S A THIRST, AT LEAST FOR ME, FOR KNOWLEDGE.

That's a line of crap.

REALLY.  LET'S COMPARE.  LET'S SAY I WAS WORKING IN A GARAGE  AND
I  WAS  CAR  ENTHUSIAST BUT I DIDN'T OWN AND  COULDN'T  AFFORD  A
FERRARI.   SO,  DURING THE DAY WHEN MY CUSTOMERS ARE AT  WORK,  I
TAKE  THEIR CARS OUT FOR A RIDE . . .AND I EVEN REPLACE THE  GAS.
I  DO  IT FOR  THE THRILL OF THE RIDE, NOT FOR THE THRILL OF  THE
CRIME.

So you admit hacking is a crime?

NO  NO  NO NO.  AGREED, ENTERING SOME COMPUTERS IS  CONSIDERED  A
CRIME  IN  SOME STATES, BUT IN THE STATE OF TEXAS, IF  YOU  LEAVE
YOUR  COMPUTER PASSWORD TAPED TO THE BOTTOM OF YOUR  DESK  DRAWER
YOU CAN GO TO JAIL.  I BET YOU DIDN'T KNOW THAT.

You made that up.

CHECK  IT  OUT.  I DON'T KNOW THE LEGAL JARGON,  BUT  IT'S  TRUE.
THE ISSUE IS, FOR THE GUY WHO DRIVES PEOPLE'S CARS WITHOUT  THEIR
PERMISSION,  THAT  IS REALLY A CRIME.  I GUESS  A  GRAND  FELONY.
RIGHT?   EVEN IF HE DOES NOTHING BUT DRIVE IT AROUND  THE  BLOCK.
BUT WITH COMPUTERS IT'S DIFFERENT.

How is it different?

FIRST THERE'S NO THEFT.

What about theft of service?

ARGUABLE.

Breaking and entering.

NOT ACCORDING TO MY FRIEND. HIS FATHER IS A LAWYER.

But, you have to admit, you are doing it without permission.

NO, NOT REALLY.

Aw, come on.

LISTEN.  LET'S SAY THAT YOU LIVE IN A HOUSE.

Nice place to make a home.

AND  LET'S  SAY THAT YOU AND YOUR NEIGHBORS DECIDE TO  LEAVE  THE
KEYS  TO YOUR HOUSES ON THE CURB OF YOUR STREET EVERY DAY.   EVEN
WHEN YOU'RE HOME.  SO THAT ANYONE WHO COMES ALONG CAN PICK UP THE
KEYS AND WALK INTO YOUR HOUSE ANYTIME THEY WANT TO.

That's crazy.

OF COURSE IT IS.  BUT WHAT WOULD HAPPEN IF YOU DID THAT AND  THEN
YOUR HOUSE GOT BROKEN INTO AND YOU WERE ROBBED?

I  guess  the police would figure me for a  blithering  idiot,  a
candidate for the funny farm, and my insurance company might have
reason not to pay me after they canceled me.  So what?

THAT'S WHAT I DO.  AND THAT'S WHAT MY FRIENDS DO.  WE LOOK AROUND
FOR PEOPLE WHO LEAVE THE KEYS TO THEIR COMPUTERS LYING AROUND FOR
ANYONE TO PICK UP.  WHEN WE FIND A SET OF KEYS, WE USE THEM.

It  can't be that simple.  No one would leave keys  lying  around
for hackers.

WRONGO MEDIA BREATH.  IT'S ABSURDLY SIMPLE.  I DON'T KNOW OF VERY
MANY COMPUTERS THAT I CAN'T GET INTO.  SOME PEOPLE CALL IT BREAK-
ING AND ENTERING. I CALL IT A WELCOME MAT.  IF YOU DON'T WANT  ME
IN YOUR COMPUTER, THEN DON'T LEAVE THE FRONT DOOR OPEN.

If what you're saying is true . . .

IT  IS.  COMPLETELY.  I HAVE THE KEYS TO  HUNDREDS  OF  COMPUTERS
AROUND  THE  COUNTRY AND THE WORLD.  AND ONE WAY OR  ANOTHER  THE
KEYS WERE ALL LEFT LYING IN THE STREET.  SO I USED THEM TO HAVE A
LOOK AROUND.

I  don't know if I buy this.  But, for now, I'll put that  aside.
So, where do these hacker horrors come from?

AGAIN  LET'S  COMPARE.  IF YOU LEFT YOUR KEYS IN  FRONT  OF  YOUR
HOUSE AND HALF OF YOUR TOWN KNEW IT AND 100 PEOPLE WENT INTO YOUR
HOUSE TO LOOK AROUND, HOW MANY WOULD STAY HONEST AND JUST LOOK?

Not many I guess.

BUT  WITH HACKERS, THERE'S A CODE OF ETHICS THAT MOST OF US  LIVE
BY.   BUT AS IN ANY GROUP OR SOCIETY THERE ARE A FEW  BAD  APPLES
AND THEY GIVE THE REST OF  US A BAD NAME.  THEY GET A KICK OUT OF
HURTING  OTHER PEOPLE, OR STEALING, OR WHATEVER.  HERE'S  ANOTHER
SOMETHING  FOR YOUR FILE.  EVERY COMPUTER SYSTEM IN  THE  COUNTRY
HAS BEEN ENTERED BY HACKERS.  EVERY SINGLE ONE.

That's impossible.

TRY  ME.   I'VE BEEN INTO OVER A THOUSAND MYSELF  AND  THERE  ARE
THOUSANDS OF GUYS LIKE ME.  AT LEAST I'M HONEST.

Why should I believe that?

WE'RE TALKING AREN'T WE.

Throw me off the track.

I COULD HAVE IGNORED YOU.  I'M UNTRACEABLE.

By the way, what's your name.

CAPTAIN KIRK.

No, really.

REALLY.  ON BBS THAT'S MY ONLY NAME.

How can I call you?

YOU CAN'T.  WHAT'S YOUR HANDLE?

Handle? Like CB?  Never had one.

YOU NEED ONE DUDE.  WITHOUT IT YOU'RE A JUST A REPORTER NERD.

Been called worse.  How about Spook?  That's what I'm doing.

CAN'T.  WE ALREADY GOT A SPOOK.  CAN'T HAVE TWO.  TRY AGAIN.

What do you mean we?

WE.   MY  GROUP.  YOU'VE ALREADY HEARD OF 401 AND CHAOS  AND  THE
LEGION  OF DOOM.  WELL, I AM PART OF ANOTHER GROUP.  BUT I  CAN'T
TELL YOU WHAT IT'S CALLED.  YOU'RE NOT PART OF THE INNER  CIRCLE.
I KNOW WHAT I'LL CALL YOU.  REPO MAN.

repo man

REPORTER MAN. SUSPICIOUS TOO.

I  suspect that hackers are up to no good.

OK,  SOME  ARE, BUT THEY'RE THE EXCEPTION.  HOW  MANY  MASS  GOOD
SAMARITANS  OTHER THAN MOTHER TERESA DO YOU WRITE  ABOUT?   NONE.
ONLY IF THEY'RE KILLED IN ACTION.  BUT, MASS MURDERERS ARE  NEWS.
SO  ALL YOU NEWS FIENDS MAKE HEADLINES ON DEATH AND  DESTRUCTION.
THE MEDIA SELLS THE HYPE AND YOU CAN'T DENY IT.

Got me.  You're right, that's what the public buys.  But not  all
news is bad.

EXACTLY.  SEE THE POINT?

At least we don't do the crime, just report it.  What about these
viruses.  I suppose hackers are innocent of that too.

BY AND LARGE YES.  PEOPLE THAT WRITE VIRUSES AND INFECT COMPUTERS
ARE THE COMPUTER EQUIVALENT TO SERIAL KILLERS.  OR HOW ABOUT  THE
GUY  WITH AIDS, WHO KNOWS HE'S GOT IT AND SCREWS AS MANY   PEOPLE
AS HE CAN TO SPREAD IT AROUND.  VIRUSES ARE DANGEROUS AND DEMENT-
ED.  NO HACKER OF THE CODE WOULD DO THAT.

You keep mentioning this code.  What is the code?

IT'S A CODE OF ETHICS THAT MOST OF US LIVE BY.  AND IT'S  CRUCIAL
TO  A STABLE UNDERGROUND CULTURE THAT SURVIVES BY ITS  WITS.   IT
GOES LIKE THIS:  NEVER INTENTIONALLY DAMAGE ANOTHER COMPUTER.

That's it?

PRETTY SIMPLE HUH?

So,  you said earlier that you poke around NASA  computers.   And
NASA just had a pretty good glitch that rings of hackers.   Some-
one broke the code.

EXACTLY.  BUT NO ONE'S TAKING CREDIT.

Why  would  they?  Isn't that a sure giveaway and a trip  up  the
river?

YES AND NO.  MORRIS FOR EXAMPLE ADMITTED HIS MISTAKE.  HE SAID HE
WAS  WRITING A VIRUS FOR THE EXERCISE AND IT GOT OUT OF  CONTROL.
OOPS, HE SAID, AND I'M INCLINED TO BELIEVE  HIM BECAUSE HE DIDN'T
COVER HIS TRACKS.  IF HE WAS SERIOUS ABOUT SHUTTING DOWN INTERNET
HE  WOULDN'T HAVE BEEN FOUND AND HE WOULDN'T HAVE ADMITTED IT  IF
THEY EVER CAUGHT HIM.  PROVING HE DID IT IS NEXT TO IMPOSSIBLE.

So?

SO, HACKERS HAVE STRONG EGOS.  THEY LIKE TO GET CREDIT FOR  FIND-
ING THE KEYS TO COMPUTERS.  IT BUILDS THEM A REPUTATION THAT THEY
FEED ON. VIRUS BUILDERS ARE THE SAME.  IF SOMEONE BUILDS A  VIRUS
AND THEN FEEDS IT INTO THE SYSTEM, HE WANTS TO GET CREDIT FOR IT.
SO HE TAKES CREDIT.

And then gets caught, right?

WRONGO AGAIN,  LET'S SAY I TOLD YOU THAT IT WAS ME THAT DID  THAT
STUFF AT NASA.

So it was you?

NO NO.  I SAID, IF IT WAS ME, WHAT WOULD YOU DO ABOUT IT?

Uh . . .

WHAT?

I'm thinking.

WHO WOULD YOU TELL?

The police, NASA,

WHAT WOULD YOU TELL THEM?

That you did it.

WHO AM I?

Good point.  Who are you?

I DIDN'T DO IT AND I'M NOT GOING TO TELL YOU WHO I AM.  YOU  SEE,
MOST OF US DON'T KNOW EACH OTHER THAN OVER THE COMPUTER.  IT JUST
DON'T MATTER WHO I AM.

I don't know if I buy everything you say, but it is something  to
think about.  So what about the NASA thing.

I DON'T KNOW.  NOBODY DOES.

You mean, I gather, nobody has owned up to it.

EXACTLY

How can I describe you?  If I wanted to use you in an article.

STUDENT AT A MAJOR UNIVERSITY.

Sounds like a Letter to Penthouse Forum.

TRY THE SEX BBS.

If you've done nothing wrong, why not come forward?

NOT  EVERYONE BELIEVES WHAT WE DO IS HARMLESS.  NEITHER  DO  YOU.
YET. MIGHT BE BAD FOR MY HEALTH.

What time is  it?

WON'T  WORK GUY. TIME ZONES I UNDERSTAND.  ONE THING.  IF  YOU'RE
INTERESTED,  I  CAN ARRANGE A TRIP THOUGH THE  FIRST  TRUST  BANK
COMPUTERS,

Arrange a trip?  Travel agent on the side.

IN  A  WAY WE ARE ALL TRAVEL AGENTS.  JUST THOUGHT YOU  MIGHT  BE
INTERESTED.

Let's say I am.

JUST CALL 212-555-9796.  USE THE PASSWORD MONEYMAN AND THE ID  IS
9796.  LOOK AROUND ALL YOU WANT.  USE F1 FOR HELP.  I'LL CALL YOU
IN A COUPLE  OF DAYS.  LEAVE YOUR COMPUTER ON.

     <<<<<<CONNECTION TERMINATED>>>>>>

****************************************************************

                    Chapter 13

     Wednesday,  November 25

     HACKERS HAMPER HOLIDAY HELLO'S
     By Scott Mason

As  most of my readers know by now, I have an inherent  suspicion
of  lame excuses for bureaucratic bungling.  If any of  you  were
unable to make a long distance phone call yesterday, you  weren't
alone.

AT&T, the long distance carrier that provides the best  telephone
service  in  the world, handles in excess  of  100,000,000  calls
daily.   Yesterday, less than 25% got through.  Why?   There  are
two  possible  answers:  AT&T's official  response  and  another,
equally  plausible and certainly more sinister reason  that  many
experts claim to be the real culprit.

According  to  an AT&T spokesperson from its Basking  Ridge,  New
Jersey  office,  "In  my 20 years with AT&T, I have  not  seen  a
crisis  so dramatic that it nearly shut down  operations  nation-
wide."   According  to insiders, AT&T came close to  declaring  a
national emergency and asking for Federal assistance.

Airlines  and  hotel  reservation services  reported  that  phone
traffic was down between 65-90%! Telemarketing organizations said
that sales were off by over 80%.

Perhaps  an understanding of what goes on behind the scenes of  a
phone call is in order.

When you pick up your phone, you hear a dial tone that is provid-
ed  by the Local Exchange Company, or as more commonly called,  a
Baby Bell.  The LEC handles all local calls within certain  dial-
ing  ranges.  A long distance call is switched by the LEC to  the
4ESS, a miracle of modern communications.  There are 114 Number 4
and 5 Electronic Switching Systems used in all major AT&T switch-
ing  offices  across the country. (A few rural  areas  still  use
relays and mechanical switches over 40 years old.  When it rains,
the relays get sticky and so does the call.)

Now  here's the invisible beauty.  There are 14  direct  connects
between each of the 114 4ESS's and every other 4ESS, each capable
of handling thousands of call at once. So, rarely do we ever  get
a  long distance busy signal.  The systems automatically  reroute
themselves.

The 4ESS then calls its own STP, Signal Transfer Point within  an
SS7 network.  The SS7 network determines from which phone  number
the call originated and its destination. (More about that later!)
It sends out an  IAM, Initial Address Message, to the destination
4ESS switch and determines if a line is available to complete the
call.   The  SS7 is so powerful it can actually create  up  to  7
additional virtual paths for the heaviest traffic.  800  numbers,
Dial  a Porn 900 numbers and other specially coded phone  numbers
are translated through the NCP( Network Control Point) and routed
separately.  Whew! Had enough?  So have I.


The  point is, massive computer switches all across  our  nations
automatically  select  the routing for each call.   A  call  from
Miami  to  New York could be sent through 4ESS's in  Dallas,  Los
Angeles  and  Chicago before reaching its  ultimate  destination.
But what happened yesterday?

It seems that the switches got real stupid and slowed down.   For
those  readers who recall the Internet Worm in November  of  1988
and  the  phone system slowdown in early 1990 and then  again  in
1991, computers can be infected with errors, either  accidentally
or otherwise, and forced to misbehave.

AT&T's explanation is not satisfying for those who remember  that
AT&T had said, "it can never happen again."

Today's official explanation is; "A minor hardware problem in one
of  our New York City 4ESS switches caused a cascading of similar
hardware failures throughout the network.  From all  appearances,
a  faulty piece of software in the SS7 networks was the  culprit.
Our  engineers  are studying the problem and  expect  a  solution
shortly.   We are sorry for any inconvenience to our valued  cus-
tomers."

I agree with AT&T on one aspect: it was a software problem.

According  to well placed sources who asked to remain  anonymous,
the  software problems were intentionally introduced into  AT&T's
long  distance computers, by person or persons yet to be  identi-
fied.  They went on to say that internal investigation teams have
been  assigned to find out who and how the "bug" was  introduced.
Regardless of the outcome of the investigation, AT&T is expected,
they  say,  to maintain the cover of a hardware  failure  at  the
request of the public relations Vice President.

AT&T  did,  to their credit, get long distance  services  up  and
running at 11:30 P.M. last night, only 9 hours after the  problem
first  showed up.  They re-installed  an older SS7 software  ver-
sion that is widely known to contain some "operational anomalies"
according  to  the company; but they still feel that it  is  more
reliable than what is currently in use.

If,  in  fact the biggest busy signal in history  was  caused  by
intruders  into the world's largest communications systems,  then
we  need to ask ourselves a few questions.  Was yesterday a  sym-
bolic  choice of dates for disaster or mere  coincidence?   Would
the damage have been greater on a busier business day?  Could  it
affect our defense systems and the government's ability to commu-
nicate  in case of emergency?  How did someone,  or  some  group,
get  into AT&T's computers and effect an entire nation's  ability
to  do  business?   And then, was there  a  political  motivation
sufficient to justify am attack om AT&T and not on Sprint or MCI?

Perhaps  the most salient question we all are  asking  ourselves,
is, When will it happen again?

This is Scott Mason, busy, busy, busy.  Tomorrow; is Big  Brother
listening?

* * * * *

     Friday, November 27
     Times Square, New York

The  pre-winter overnight snow-storm in New York City  turned  to
sleet  and ice as the temperature dropped.  That didn't stop  the
traffic though.  Hundreds of thousands of cars still crawled into
Manhattan  to  insure  downtown gridlock.  If  the  streets  were
drivable, the city wouldn't stop. Not for a mere ice storm.

Steam  poured from subway grates and manhole covers as rush  hour
pedestrians  huddled  from the cold winds, tromping  through  the
grimy snow on the streets and sidewalks.

The  traffic  on  42nd street was at a near  standstill  and  the
intersection  at Broadway and 7th Avenues where the Dow  Chemical
Building  stood was unusually bad.  Taxis and busses  and  trucks
and cars all fought for space to move.

As  the  southbound light on 7th turned green, a dark  blue  Ford
Econoline  van screeched forward and cut off two taxis to make  a
highly illegal left turn.  It curved too quickly and too  sharply
for  the dangerously icy conditions and began to slide  sideways.
The driver turned the wheel hard to the left, against the  slide,
compensating  in the wrong direction and then he slammed  on  the
brakes.   The van continued to slide to the right as it  careened
toward the sidewalk. The van rotated and headed backwards at  the
throngs  of  pedestrians.  They didn't notice until  it  was  too
late.

The van spun around again and crashed through a McDonald's window
into  the dense breakfast crowds.  As it crushed several  patrons
into the counter, the van stopped, suddenly propelling the driver
through the windshield into the side of the  yogurt machine.  His
neck was broken instantly.

Getting  emergency vehicles to Times Square during the A.M.  rush
hour  is  in  itself a lesson in futility.  Given  that  17  were
pronounced dead on the scene and another 50 or more were injured,
the task this Monday morning was damned near impossible.

City-ites come together in a crisis, and until enough  paramedics
arrived, people from all walks of life  tended to the wounded and
respectfully  covered those beyond help.  Executives in  3  piece
suits  worked with 7th avenue delivery boys in  harmony.   Secre-
taries  lay their expensive furs on the slushy street as  pallets
for the victims.

It was over two hours before all the wounded were transferred  to
local  hospitals and the morgue was close to finishing its  clean
up  efforts.  Lt. Mel Kavitz, 53rd. Precinct, Midtown South  NYPD
made it to the scene as the more grisly pieces were put away.  He
spoke  to a couple of officers who had interviewed witnesses  and
survivors.   The  media were already there adding to  the  frigid
chaos.   Two of the local New York TV stations were  broadcasting
live,  searching out sound-bytes for the evening news and  all  3
dailies  had reporters looking for quotable quotes.  Out  of  the
necessity  created  by such disasters, the police  had  developed
immunity to the media circus.

"That's  it lieutenant.  Seems the van made a screwball turn  and
lost  control."   The young clean-shaven patrolman  shrugged  his
shoulders.  Only 27, he had still been on the streets long enough
not to let much bother him.

"Who's the driver?"  Lt. Kavitz scanned the scene.

"It's a foreign national, one . . .ah . . .Jesef Mumballa. Second
year engineering student at Columbia."  The young cop looked down
and spoke quietly. "He didn't make it."

"I'm  not surprised.  Look at this mess." The Lieutenant took  it
in  stride. "Just what McDonalds needs.  Another  massacre.  Any-
thing on him?"  Kavitz asked half suspecting, half hoping.

"Clean. As clean as rag head can be."

"Ok, that's enough. What about the van?"

"The van?"

"The  van!"  Kavitz said pointedly at the  patrolman.  "The  van!
What's in it? Has anybody looked?"

"Uh  . . .no sir.  We've been working with the injured .  .  .I'm
sure you . . ."

"Of course.  I'm sorry." Kavitz waved off the explanation.  "Must
have  been  pretty rough." He looked around and shook  his  head.
"Anything else officer?"

"No  sir,  that's about it.  We still don't have an  exact  count
though."

"It'll  come soon enough.  Soon enough."  Kavitz left  the  young
patrolman  and  walked into the bloodbath, pausing  only  briefly
before opening the driver's side door. "Let's see what's in  this
thing."

* * * * *

"D'y'hear  about the mess over at Times Square?"  Ben  Shellhorne
walked up to Scott Mason's desk at the City Times.

"Yeah,  pretty  gruesome.   The Exchange .  .  .McDonald's.   You
really  scrape the bottom, don't you?"  Scott grinned  devilishly
at Ben.

"Maybe some guys do, not me."  Ben sat down next to Scott's desk.
"But that's not the point. There's something else."

"What's that?"  Scott turned to Ben.

"The van."

"The van?" Scott asked.

"Yeah, the van.  The van that busted up the McBreakfast crowd."

"What about it?"

Ben hurried. "Well, it was some sort of high tech lab on  wheels.
Computers and radios and stuff.  Pretty wild."

"Why's  that so unusual?  Phone company, computer  repair  place,
EPA monitors, could be anything." Scott seemed disinterested.

"If  that were true, you're right.  But this was a  private  van,
and there's no indication of what company it worked for. And  the
driver's  dead.   Personal ID only.  No company, no  numbers,  no
nothing, except this."

He  handed  a  sheaf  of  computer  printouts  to  Scott.   "Look
familiar?"

Scott took the papers and perused them.  They were the same  kind
that Scott had received from Vito, his unknown donor. These  were
new  documents as far as Scott could tell - he  didn't  recognize
them as part of his library.  They only contained some stock tips
and  insider trading information from a leading Wall Street  bro-
kerage house. Pretty tame stuff.

"These," Scott pointed at the papers, "these were in the van?"

"That's what I said,"  Ben said triumphantly.

"How did you get them?" Scott pushed.

"I have a few friends on the force and, well, this is my beat you
know.  Crime, disaster, murder, violence, crisis, death  and  de-
struction on the streets. Good promo stuff for the Big Apple."

"Are there any more?" Scott ignored Ben's self pity.

"My  guy  said there were so many that a few  wouldn't  make  any
difference."

"Holy Christ!" Scott said aloud as he sat back in thought.

"What is it? Scott?  Does this mean something?"

"Can I have these, Ben?  Do you need them?"

"Nah!  There's  no  blood on 'em?  Not my kinda  story.   I  just
remembered  that secret papers and computers are your  thing,  so
they're yours."  Ben stood up. "Just remember, next time you hear
about a serial killer, it's mine."

"Deal.  And, hey, thanks a lot.  Drinks on me."  Scott caught Ben
before he left. "Ben, one more thing."

"Yeah?"  Ben stopped.

"Can  you  get  me into that van.  Just to look  around?  Not  to
touch, just to look?"  Scott would have given himself a vasectomy
with a weed eater to have a look.  This was his first solid  lead
on  the source of the mysterious and valuable documents  that  he
had  stymied  him  for so long.  He had been  unable  to  publish
anything  significant  due to lack of confirming  evidence.   Any
lead was good lead, he thought.

"It may cost another favor, but  sure what the fuck.  I'll set it
up.   Call  you."  Ben waved as he walked off  leaving  Scott  to
ponder the latest developments.

* * * * *

The  interior of the dark blue Ford Econoline van was not in  bad
shape  since the equipment was bolted into place.   The  exterior
though  was  thoroughly trashed, with too many blood  stains  for
Scott  to stomach.  It was a bad wreak, even for the  Police  Im-
pound.

While  Ben kept his cooperative keeper of the peace occupied,  he
signaled  to Scott that he would only have a minute,  so  please,
make it quick.

Scott  entered the van with all his senses peaked.  He wanted  to
take  mental pictures and get as much detail as he  could.   Both
sides  of  the  van contained steel shelving, with  an  array  of
equipment  bolted firmly in place.  It was an odd  assortment  of
electronics, noticed Scott.  There were 2 IBM personal  computers
with  large WYSIWYG monitors. What You See Is What You Get  moni-
tors were generally used for intensive word processing or desktop
publishing.  In a van? Odd.

A digital oscilloscope and waveform monitor were stacked over one
of the computers.  Test equipment and no hand tools?  No  answer.
Over  the other computer sat a small black and  white  television
and a larger color television monitor.  Two cellular phones  were
mounted  behind the drivers seat.  Strange combination.  Then  he
noticed what appeared to be a miniature satellite dish, only 8 or
so  inches across.  He recognized it as a  parabolic  microphone.
Aha!  That's  it.  Some sort  of spy type  surveillance  vehicle.
Tracking  drug dealers and assorted low lifes.  But, a  privately
registered vehicle, no sign of any official affiliations to known
enforcement agencies?

Scott felt his minute was gone in a only few seconds.

"Well,  you find what you're looking for?" Ben asked Scott  after
they  had left the police garage grounds overlooking  the  Hudson
River.

Scott  looked puzzled. "It's more like by not finding anything  I
eliminated what it's not."

Ben  scowled. "Hey riddle man, back to earth.  Was it a waste  or
what?"

"Far from it." Scott's far away glaze disappeared as his personal
Eureka! set in.  "I think I may have stumbled, sorry, you,  stum-
bled  onto to something that will begin to put several pieces  in
place  for  me. And if I'm right, even a little bit  right,  holy
shit.  I mean, hoooolly shit."

"Clue  me  in, man.  What's the skinny. You got  Pulitzer  eyes."
Ben tried to keep up with Scott as their pace quickened.

"I gotta make one phone call, for a confirmation.  And, if it's a
yes, then I got, I mean we got one fuckuva story."

"No, it's yours man, yours.  Just let me keep the blood and guts.
Besides,  I don't even know what you're talking about, you  ain't
said shit.  Keep it.  Just keep your promise on the drinks. Ok?"

Scott arrived at Grand Central as the huge clock oppose the giant
Kodak  photograph  struck four o'clock.  He  proceeded  to  track
twenty two where the four-thirteen to Scarsdale and White  Plains
was  waiting.   He walked down to the third car and took  a  seat
that would only hold two.  He was saving it for Ty.

Tyrone Duncan hopped on the crowded train seconds before it  left
the station.  He dashed down the aisle of the crowded car.  There
was  only one empty seat.  Next to Scott Mason.   Scott's  rushed
call  gave Ty an excuse to leave work early.  It had been one  of
those days.  Ty collapsed in a sweat on the seat next to Scott.

"Didn't  your  mother  tell you it's not polite  to  keep  people
waiting?" Scott made fun of Tyrone.

"Didn't your mama tell you not to irritate crazy overworked black
dudes who carry a gun?"

Scott  took  the  hint.  It was safest to  ignore  Ty's  diatribe
completely.  "I think I got it figured out.  Thought you might be
interested."  Scott teased Duncan.

Tyrone  turned his head away from Scott.  "If you do,  I'll  kiss
your  bare  ass on Broadway.  We don't have  shit."   He  sounded
disgusted with the performance of his bureau.

Scott  puffed  up a bit before answering.  The pride did  not  go
unnoticed by Duncan.  "I figured out how these guys, these black-
mailers, whoever they are, get their information."  Scott  paused
for effect which was not lost on Duncan.

"I don't care anymore.  I've been pulled from the case,"   Tyrone
said sounding exhausted.

"Well," Scott smirked.  "I think you just might care, anyway."

Tyrone  felt himself Scott putting him into a trap.   "What  have
you got?"

Scott relished the moment.  The answer was so simple.  He saw the
anticipation  in Tyrone's face, but they had become  friends  and
didn't feel right about prolonging the tension. "Van Eck."

Duncan  was expecting more than a two word answer that was  abso-
lutely  meaningless  to him.  "What?  What is Van Eck?   The  ex-
pressway?"  He said referring to the New York Expressway that had
been  a  14 mile line traffic jam since it opened some  40  years
ago.

"Not Van Wyck, Van Eck.  Van Eck Radiation.  That's how they  get
the information."

Duncan was no engineer, and he knew that Scott was proficient  in
the discipline.  He was sure he had an education coming.  "For us
feeble  minded  simpletons, would you mind  explaining?   I  know
about Van Allen radiation belts, nuclear radiation . . .but ok, I
give.  What's this Van Eck?"

Scott had not meant to humble Tyrone that much.  "Sorry.  It's  a
pretty  arcane branch of engineering, even for techy types.   How
much do you know about computers? Electronics?"

"Enough to get into trouble.  I can wire a stereo and I know  how
to  use the computers at the Bureau, but that's about it.   Never
bothered to get inside those monsters.  Consider me an idiot."

"Never,  just  a novice.  It's lecture time.  Computers,  I  mean
PC's,  the kind on your desk and at home are electronic  devices,
that's  no  great revelation.  As you may know, radio  waves  are
caused  by the motion of electrons, current, down a  wire.   Ever
heard or seen interference on your TV?"

"Sure.  We've been down this road before, with your EMP-T bombs."
Tyrone  cringed at the lecture he had received on secret  defense
projects.

"Exactly.   Interference  is caused by other  electrical  devices
that  are running near the radio or TV.  Essentially,  everything
that runs on electricity emanates a field of energy, an  electro-
magnetic field.  Well, in TV and radio, an antenna is stuck up in
the air to pick up or 'hear' the radio waves.  You simply tune it
in to the frequency you want to listen to."

"I know, like on my car radio.  Those are preset, though."

"Doesn't  matter.   They  still pick the frequency  you  want  to
listen to.  Can you just hold that thought and accept it at  face
value?"   Scott followed his old teaching techniques.  He  wanted
to  make  sure that each and every step of  his  explanation  was
clearly understood  before going on to the next.  Tyrone acknowl-
edged  that  while he wasn't an electronic  engineer,  he  wasn't
stupid either.

"Good.  Well computers are the same.  They radiate an electromag-
netic  field  when  they're in use.  If the  power  is  off  then
there's  no  radiation.  Inside the computer there  are  so  many
radiated  fields  that it looks like garbage, pure  noise  to  an
antenna.  Filtering out the information is a bitch. But, you  can
easily tune into a monitor."

"Monitors.  You mean computer screens?"  Tyrone wanted to clarify
his understanding.

"Monitors,  CRT's, screens, cathode ray tubes, whatever you  want
to  call them.  The inside of most monitors is just like  televi-
sion sets.  There is an electron beam that writes to the  surface
of  the screen, the phosphor coated one.  That's what  makes  the
picture."

"That's how a TV works? I always wondered." Duncan was only  half
kidding.

"So,  the phosphor coating gets hit with a strong electron  beam,
full  of high voltage energy, and the phosphor glows, just for  a
few  milliseconds.  Then, the beam comes around again and  either
turns it on or leaves it off, depending upon what the picture  is
supposed to show.  Make sense?"

"That's why you can go frame to frame on a VCR, isn't it?   Every
second there are actually lots of still pictures  that change  so
quickly  that the eye is fooled into thinking it's  watching  mo-
tion.   Really,  it's a whole set of photographed  being  flipped
through  quickly."  Duncan picked up the essentials on the  first
pass.  Scott was visibly impressed.

"Bingo! So this beam is directed around the surface of the screen
about 60 times every second."

"What moves the beam?"  Duncan was following closely.

"You are one perceptive pain in the butt, aren't you?  You nailed
it  right on the head."  Scott enjoyed working with  bright  stu-
dents.  Duncan's smile made his pudgy face appear larger than  it
was.   "Inside the monitor are what is called  deflection  coils.
Deflection  coils are magnets that tell the beam where to  strike
the  screen's  surface.  One magnet moves the  beam  horizontally
across  the screen from left to right, and the other magnet,  the
vertical  one, moves the beam  from the top to the bottom.   Same
way as in a TV."  Scott paused for a moment.  He had given  simi-
lar  descriptions before, and he found it useful to let is  audi-
ence have time to create a mental image.

"Sure, that makes sense.  So what about this radiation?"   Duncan
impatiently asked. He wanted to understand the full picture.

"Well,  magnets concentrate lots of electrical energy in a  small
place, so they create more intense, or stronger magnetic  fields.
Electromagnetic radiation if you will.  In this case, the  radia-
tion  from a computer monitor is called Van Eck radiation,  named
after the Dutch electrical engineer who described the phenomena."
Scott sounded pleased with his Radiation 101 course brief.

Tyrone  wasn't satisfied though.  "So how does that  explain  the
blackmail and the infamous papers you have?  And why do I care? I
don't get it."  The confused look on Tyrone's face told Scott  he
hadn't successfully tutored his FBI friend.

"It's  just like a radio station.  A computer monitor puts out  a
distinctive  pattern  of  radio waves from the  coils  and  pixel
radiations from the screen itself, at a comparatively high power.
So, with a little radio tuner, you can pick up the signals on the
computer screen and read them for yourself.  It's the  equivalent
of eavesdropping on a computer."

The stunned grimace on Duncan's face was all Scott needed to  see
to realize that he now had communicated the gist of the technolo-
gy to him.

"Are  you  telling me," Tyrone searched for the words  and  spoke
slowly,  "that a computer broadcasts what's going on  inside  it?
That anyone can read anyone else's computer?"

"In a sense yes."

Tyrone looked out the window as they passed through Yonkers,  New
York.  He whistled quietly to himself.

"How  did  you  find out?  Where did you . .  .?"  The  questions
spewed forth.

"There  was a wreak, midtown, and there was a bunch of  equipment
in  it.   Then I checked it out with a couple of  .  .  .engineer
friends who are more up on this than I am.  They confirmed it."

"This  stuff was in a van?  How far away does this  stuff  work?"
Duncan gave away his concern.

"According  to  my sources, with the proper gear,  two  or  three
miles  is  not unreasonable.  In New York, maybe only  a  half  a
mile.  Interference and steel buildings and all.  Manhattan is  a
magnetic sewer, as they say."

"Shit,  this could explain a lot." The confident persona  of  the
FBI  professional returned.  "The marks all claim that there  was
no way for the information to get out, yet it did.  Scott, is  it
possible that . . .how could one person get all this stuff?  From
so  many  companies?"  The pointed question was  one  of  devil's
advocacy.

"That's  the scary part, if I'm right.  But this is where I  need
your  help."  Scott had given his part, now to complete the  tale
he  needed the cooperation of his friend.  The story was  improv-
ing.

"Jesus,"  Duncan said quietly contemplating the implications.

"Most  people believe that their computers are private.  If  they
knew  that their inner most secrets were really  being  broadcast
for  anyone  to hear, it might change their behavior  a  little."
Scott had had the time to think about the impact if this was made
public.

"No shit Sherlock.  It makes me wonder who's been listening in on
our computers all these years.  Maybe that's why our jobs seem to
get  tougher  every day."  Duncan snapped himself back  from  the
mental digression.  "Where do you go from here?"

Scott  was prepared.  He had a final bombshell to lay  on  Duncan
before specifying his request. "There are a couple of things that
make  me think.  First, there is no way that only one  guy  could
put  together the amount of information that I have.   I've  told
you how much there is.  From all over the country.  That suggests
a  lot  more than one person  involved.  I don't know  how  many,
that's your job.

"Two, these blackmail threats.  Obviously whoever is reading  the
computers,  Van Ecking them is what I call it, has  been  sending
the  information  to someone else.  Then they, in turn,  call  up
their targets and let them know that their secrets are no  longer
so  secret.   Then  three, they have been  probably  sending  the
information to other people, on paper.  Like me and the  National
Expose.   I  have  no idea if any others  are  receiving  similar
packages.   What  I see here, is a coordinated effort to .  .  ."
Scott held Tyrone's complete attention.

"You  still haven't told me what you need. Lay it on  me,  buddy.
There can't be much more."

"Doesn't it make sense that if we had one van, and the  equipment
inside, we could trace it down, and maybe see if there really are
other  Van  Eck  vans out there?  For an  operation  that's  this
large,  there  would have to be a back up, a contingency .  .  ."
The excitement oozed from Scott as his voice got louder.

"Shhhh . . ." Tyrone cautioned.  "The trains have ears.  I  don't
go for conspiracy theories, I never have.  Right now all we  have
is raw, uncorrelated data.  No proof.  Just circumstantial events
that may have nothing to do with each other . . ."

"Bullshit.   Look  at this."  Scott opened up his  briefcase  and
handed a file folder to Tyrone.

"What  is  it?  Looks like a news story, that . . .uh  .  .  .you
wrote  and, it's about some mergers.  Big deal."   Duncan  closed
the folder.  "What does this have to do with anything?"

"This.   Yes, I wrote the story.  Two  days ago.  It hasn't  been
printed yet."  Scott took the folder back.  "I found this copy in
the van that was wrecked two days ago.  It was Van Eck'ed from my
computer  the  day I wrote it.  They've been watching me  and  my
computer."

"Now  wait a second.  There are a hundred possible answers.   You
could have lost a copy or someone got  it from your wastebasket."
Duncan  wasn't convincing either to himself or to  Scott.   Scott
smirked as Tyrone tried to justify the unbelievable.

"You want to play?"  Scott asked.

"I think I'd better.  If this is for real,  no one has any priva-
cy anymore."

"I know I don't."

****************************************************************

                         Chapter 14

     Sunday, November 29
     Columbia University, New York

The  New York City Times had put the story on the 7th  page.   In
contrast,  the New York Post, in Murdoch's infinite  wisdom,  had
put  pictures of the dead and dying on the front page.  With  the
McDonalds' window prominent.

Ahmed Shah reacted with pure intellectual detachment to the deba-
cle  on Seventh Avenue and 42nd Street.  Jesef was a  martyr,  as
much of one as those who had sacrificed their lives in the  Great
War  against Iraq.  He had to make a report.  From his  home,  in
the Spanish Harlem district of the upper West Side of  Manhattan,
3 blocks from his Columbia University office, he wheeled over  to
his computer that was always on.

C:\cd protalk
C:\PROTALK\protalk

He dialed a local New York number that was stored in the  Protalk
communications program.  He had it set for 7 bits, no parity,  no
stop bits.

     <<<<<<DIALING>>>>>>

The  local  phone  number he dialed  answered  automatically  and
redialed  another  number, and then that one dialed  yet  another
number  before a message was relayed back to Ahmed Shah.  He  was
accustomed to the delay.  While waiting he lit up a Marlboro.  It
was the only American cigarette that came close to the vile taste
of Turkish camel shit cigarettes that he had smoked before coming
to  the  United States. A few seconds later, the screen  came  to
life and displayed

     PASSWORD:

Ahmed entered his password and his PRG response.

     CRYPT KEY:

He chose a random crypt key that would  be used to guarantee  the
privacy of his conversations.

     <<<<<<TRANSMISSION ENCODED>>>>>>

That  told Ahmed to begin his message, and that someone would  be
there to answer.

Good Morning.  I have some news.

NEWS?

We have a slight problem, but nothing serious.

PROBLEM?  PLEASE EXPLAIN.

One of the readers is gone.

HOW? CAPTURED?

No, the Americans aren't that smart.  He died in a
car crash.

WILL THIS HURT US?

No.  In New York we have another 11 readers.   But
we have lost one vehicle.  The police must have it.

THAT IS NOT GOOD.  WHO WAS IT?

A martyr.

CAN THE POLICE FIND ANYTHING?

 He had false identification.   They  will  learn
nothing.

BE SURE THEY DON'T.  DESTROY THE CAR.

They can learn nothing. Why?

IT IS TOO EARLY FOR THEM TO FIND OUT  ABOUT  US.
HOW LONG HAS IT BEEN?

I read about it today.  The crash was yesterday.

DO ANY OF THE OTHERS KNOW?

It would not matter if they did.  They are  loyal.
The  papers  said nothing of the van. They cared only  about  the
Americans who died eating their breakfasts.

GOOD. REMOVE ALL EVIDENCE.  REPLACE HIM.

It will be done.

          <<<<<<CONNECTION TERMINATED>>

* * * * *

     Monday, November 30
     New York City

The  fire at the New York City Police Impound on 22nd Street  and
the  Hudson  River  was not newsworthy.  It  caused,  however,  a
deluge  of paperwork for the Sergeant whose job it was  to  guard
the  confiscated  vehicles.  Most of those cars  damaged  in  the
firestorm had been towed for parking infractions.  It would  cost
the city tens of thousands of dollars, but not at least for three
or four months. The city would take as long as possible to  proc-
ess the claims. Jesef Mumballa's vehicle was completely destroyed
as  per Homosoto's order. The explosion that had caused the  fire
was identified as coming from his van, but little importance  was
placed with that obscure fact.

Ben  Shellhorne noticed, though.  Wasn't that the van that  Scott
Mason had shown such interest in yesterday?  A car bombing,  even
if  on police property was not a particularly interesting  story,
at  least in New York.  But Ben wanted the drink that  Scott  had
promised.  Maybe he could parlay it into two.

"Scott,  remember  that van?"  Ben called Scott on  the  internal
office phones.

"Yeah, what about it?"

"It's gone."

"What do you mean gone?"

"Somebody blew it up.  Took half the cars in the impound with it.
Sounds like Cemex.  Just thought you might care.  You were pretty
hot  about  seeing it ."  Scott enjoyed  Ben's  nonchalance.   He
decided to play it cool.

"Yeah,  thanks  for the call. Looks like another  lead  down  the
tubes."

"Know whatcha mean."

Scott called Tyrone at his office.

"4543."  Duncan answered obliquely.

"Just an anonymous call."  Scott didn't disguise his voice.   The
message would be obvious.

"So?"

"A  certain  van in a certain police impound was just  blown  up.
Seemed  le  Plastique was involved.  Thought you  might  want  to
know."

"Thanks."  The phone went dead.

Within  30  minutes, 6 FBI agents arrived at the  police  impound
station.  It looked like a war zone.  Vehicles were strewn about,
many the victim of fire, many with substantial pieces missing.

With the signature of the New York District Chief on  appropriate
forms, the FBI took possession of one Ford Econoline van, or what
was left of it.  The New York police were just as glad to be  rid
of   it.   It was one less mess they had to worry  about.   Fine,
take  it.  It's yours. Just make sure that the  paperwork  covers
ours  asses.  Good, that seems to do it.  Now get out.   Frigging
Feds.

* * * * *

Tyrone Duncan took an evening Trump Shuttle down to  Washington's
National Airport.  The 7:30 flight was dubbed the Federal Express
by the stewardesses because it was primarily congressmen,  diplo-
mats  and other Washington denizens who took this  flight.   They
wanted  to  get to D.C. before the cocktail  parties  began   and
found  the 2-drink flight an excellent means to tune up.   Duncan
was  met  out in front by a driver who held up a sign  that  read
'Burnson'.

He  got into the car in silence and was driven to a residence  on
"P"  Street  off Wisconsin in Georgetown.   The  brick  townhouse
looked  like  every  other million dollar home  in  the  affluent
Washington  bedroom community. But this one was special.  It  not
only  served  as a home away from home for Bob  Burnson  when  he
worked  late, but it was also a common neutral meeting place  far
from prying eyes and ears.   This night was one such case.

An older, matronly lady answered the door.

"May  I  help you?"  She went through the formality for  the  few
accidental tourists who rang the bell.

"I'm  here to see Mr. Merriweather.  He's expecting me."   Merri-
weather  was the nom-de-guerre of Bob Burnson,  at least at  this
location.  Duncan was ushered into the elegant old sitting  room,
where  the  butleress  closed the door behind  him.   He  double-
checked that she was gone and walked over to the fireplace.   The
marble  facade was worn in places, from overuse he  assumed,  but
nonetheless,  traces of its 19th century elegance  remained.   He
looked up at the large full length standing portrait of a somber,
formal man dressed in a three piece suit.  Undoubtedly this  vain
portrait  was his only remaining legacy, whoever he  was.  Tyrone
pressed a small button built into the side of the picture frame.

An  adjoining  bookcase slipped  back into the wall,  exposing  a
dark  entry.  Duncan squeezed his bulk through the  narrow  wedge
provided by the opened bookcase.

The  blank wall behind him closed and the lights in the  room  he
entered slowly brightened.  Three people were seated at an  over-
sized  table with black modern executive chairs around  it.   The
room  was large.  Too large to fit behind the 18 foot width of  a
Georgetown  brownstone.  The adjacent building must be an  ersatz
cover for the privacy that this domicile required.  The room  was
simple,  but  formal.  Stark white walls  and  their  nondescript
modern paintings were illuminated by recessed lights.  The  black
trim  work was the only accent that the frugal decorator  permit-
ted.

His old friend and superior Bob Burnson was seated in the middle.
The  other two men were civil servants in their mid 40's as  near
as  Duncan  could  determine.  Both wore  Government  issue  blue
suits,  white shirts and diagonally striped maroon  ties.   Their
hair was regulation above the ears, immaculately kept.   Reminded
Duncan  of  the junior clerks on Wall Street.   They  could  only
afford suits from the discount racks, but still tried to make   a
decent  impression.  The attempt usually failed, but G-Men  stuck
to  the tradition of poor dress. He had never seen either of  the
men  that flanked Burnson, which wasn't unusual.   He was  a  New
Yorker  who carefully avoided the cacophony of  Washington  poli-
tics.  He played the political game once nearly 30 years  ago  to
secure his position, but he had studiously avoided it since.

"Thanks for making it on such short notice,"  Burnson solicitous-
ly  greeted  Duncan.   He did it for the benefit  of  the  others
present.

"Yes  sir.  Glad to help."  Duncan groaned through the  lie.   He
had been ordered to this command performance.

"This  is," Burnson gestured to his right, "Martin  Templer,  our
CIA  liaison,  and,"  pointing to his  left,  "Charlie  Sorenson,
assistant DIRNSA, from the Fort."  They all shook hands  perfunc-
torily.   "Care  for  a drink?"  Burnson asked.   "We're  not  on
Government time."

Duncan looked and saw they were all drinking something other than
Coke.   The bar behind them showed recent use.  "Absolut  on  the
rocks.   If  you  have it."  It was Duncan's  first  time  to  'P
Street' as this well disguised location was called. Burnson  rose
and poured the vodka over perfectly formed ice cubes.  He  handed
the drink to Duncan and indicated he should take a seat.

They exchanged pleasantries, and Duncan spoke of the  improvement
in the Northeast corridor Shuttle service; the flight was  almost
on time. Enough of the niceties.

"We don't want to hold you up more than necessary, but since  you
were  here in town we thought we could discuss a couple  of  mat-
ters."   Burnson  was the only one to speak. The  others  watched
Duncan  too  closely for his taste.  What a white wash.   He  was
called down here, pronto.  Since I'm here, my ass.

"No problem sir." He carried the charade forward.

"We need to know more about your report.  This morning's report."
Sorenson,  the NSA man spoke.  "It was most intriguing.  Can  you
fill  us in?"  He sipped his drink while maintaining eye  contact
with Duncan.

"Well, there's not much to say beyond what I put in."   Suspicion
was evident in Duncan's voice.  "I think that it's a real  possi-
bility  that  there is a group who may be using  highly  advanced
computer  equipment as weapons.  Or at least surveillance  tools.
A massive operation is suspected.  I think I explained that in my
report."

"You  did  Tyrone,"  Bob agreed.  "It's just that  there  may  be
additional  considerations  that you're not aware of.   Things  I
wasn't  even aware of.  Charlie, can you elaborate?"  Bob  looked
at the NSA man in deference.

"Thanks,  Bob,  be  glad to."  Charlie Sorenson  was  a  seasoned
spook.  His casual manner was definitely practiced.   "Basically,
we're following up on the matter of the van you reported, and the
alleged  equipment it held."   He scanned the folder in front  of
him. "It says here," he perused, "that you discovered that  indi-
viduals have learned how to read computer signals, unbeknownst to
the computer users."  He looked up  at Duncan for a confirmation.
Tyrone felt slightly uncomfortable. "Is that right?"

"Yes, sir," Duncan replied. "From the information we've received,
it appears that a group has the ability to detect computer radia-
tion  from  great distances.  This technique  allows  someone  to
compromise computer privacy . . ."

"We know what it is Mr. Duncan."  The NSA man cut him off abrupt-
ly.  Duncan  looked at Burnson who avoided his stare.   "What  we
want  to   know is, how do you know?  How do you  know  what  CMR
radiation  is?"  There was no smile or sense of warmth  from  the
inquisitor.   Not  that  there had been  since  the  unpropitious
beginning of this evening.

"CMR?" Tyrone wasn't familiar with the term.

"Coherent Monitor Radiation.  What do you know?"

"There was a van that crashed in New York a couple of days  ago."
Duncan was not sure what direction this conversation was going to
take.  "I have reason to believe it contained computer  equipment
that was capable of reading computer screens from a distance."

"What  cases are you working on that relate to this?"  Again  the
NSA man sounded like he was prosecuting a case in court.

"I  have been working on a blackmail case,"  Duncan  said.   "Now
I'm  the  agency liaison with ECCO and CERT.   Looking  into  the
INTERNET problems."

The  two  G-men   looked at each other.   Templer  from  the  CIA
shrugged at Sorenson.  Burnson was ignored.

"Are you aware that you are working in an area of extreme nation-
al security?"  Sorenson pointedly asked Duncan.

Tyrone  Duncan thought for a few seconds before  responding.   "I
would imagine that if computers can be read from a distance  then
there  is a potential national security issue.  But I can  assure
you, it was brought to my attention through other means."  Duncan
tried to sound confident of his position.

"Mr.  Duncan," Sorenson began, "I will tell you something, and  I
will only tell you because you have been pre-cleared."  He waited
for a reaction, but Duncan did not give him the satisfaction of a
sublimation.   Cleared  my ass.  Fucking spooks. Duncan  had  the
common sense to censor himself effectively.

"CMR  radiation,  as it is called, is a major threat  facing  our
computers  today.   Do you know what that means?"   Sorenson  was
being solicitous.  Tyrone had to play along.

"From  what  I gather, it means that our computers are  not  safe
from eavesdropping. Anyone can listen in."  Tyrone spoke  coldly.
Other than Bob, he was not with friends.

"Let me put  it succinctly,"  Sorenson said.  "CMR radiation  has
been  classified for several years.  We don't even admit that  it
exists.   If  we  did, there could be panic.  As far  as  we  are
concerned  with  the  public, CMR radiation is a  figment  of  an
inventive imagination.  Do you follow?"

"Yes,"  Duncan agreed, "but why?  It doesn't seem to be much of a
secret to too many people?"

"That  poses two questions.  Have you ever heard of  the  Tempest
Program?"

"Tempest? No. What is it?" Duncan searched his mind.

"Tempest  is  a classified program managed by the  Department  of
Defense and administered by the National Security Agency.  It has
been in place for years.  The premise is  that computers  radiate
information  that  our  enemies can pick  up  with  sophisticated
equipment.   Computers broadcast signals that tell  what  they're
doing.   And they do it in two ways.  First they radiate  like  a
radio station.  Anyone can pick it up."  This statement confirmed
what  Scott  had been saying.  "And,  computers  broadcast  their
signals  down  the  power lines.  If someone  tried,  they  could
listen to our AC lines and essentially know what was the computer
was  doing.  Read classified information.  I'm sure you  see  the
problem."  Sorenson was trying to be friendly, but he failed  the
geniality test.

Duncan nodded in understanding.

"We are concerned because the Tempest  program is classified  and
more importantly, the Agency has been using CMR for years."

"What for?"

"The  NSA is chartered as the ears and eyes of  the intelligence
community.  We listen to other people for a living."

"You mean you spy on computers, too? Spying on civilians?   Isn't
that  illegal?"  Tyrone remembered back when FBI and  CIA  abuses
had totally gotten out of hand.

"The  courts  have determined that eavesdropping in  on  cellular
phone  conversations in not an invasion of privacy.  We take  the
same position on CMR."  Sorenson wanted to close the issue quick-
ly.

Duncan  carefully prepared his answer amidst the outrage  he  was
feeling.  He sensed an arrogant Big Brother attitude at work.  He
hated  the 'my shit doesn't stink' attitude of the NSA.   All  in
the  name  of National Security.  "Until a couple of days  ago  I
would have thought this was pure science fiction."

"It  isn't  Mr. Duncan.  Tempest is a front line  of  defense  to
protect  American secrets.  We need to know what else  there  is;
what you haven't put in your reports."  The NSA man pressed.

Duncan  looked  at  Bob who had long ago ceased  to  control  the
conversation.   He  got  no signs of support.  In  fact,  it  was
almost  the opposite.  He felt alone.  He had had little  contact
with  the Agency in his 30 years of service.  And when there  was
contact  it was relegated to briefings, policy shifts. .  .pretty
bureaucratic stuff.

"As  I  said, it's all in the report.  When  there's  more,  I'll
submit it."  Duncan maintained his composure.

"Mr.  Duncan, I don't think that will do."  Martin Templer  spoke
up again.  "We have been asked to assist the NSA in the matter."

"Whoah!   Wait a second."  Duncan's legal training had  not  been
for  naught.  He knew a thing or two about Federal  charters  and
task designations.  "The NSA is just a listening post.  Your guys
do  the  international spook stuff, and we do  the  domestic  leg
work.  Since when is the Fort into investigations?"

"Ty?   They're right."  The uneasiness in Bob's voice was  promi-
nent.  "The protection of classified information is their respon-
sibility.   A  group was created to report on  computer  security
problems that might have an effect on national security.  On that
committee  is  the Director of the NSA.  In  essence,  they  have
control.  Straight from 1600.  It's out of our hands."

Tyrone  was  never  the technical type, and  definitely  not  the
politician.  Besides, there was no way any one human being  could
keep  up with the plethora of regulations and rule  changes  that
poured out of the three branches of government.  "Are you telling
me  that  the NSA can swoop down on our turf and take  the  cases
they want, when they want?"  Duncan hoped he had heard wrong.

"Mr.  Duncan,  I  think you may be under  a  mistaken  impression
here."  Sorenson sipped his drink and turned in the swivel chair.
"We don't want anything to do with your current cases, especially
the  alleged  blackmail operation in place.   That  is  certainly
within the domain of the FBI.  No.  All we want is the van."  The
NSA  man realized he may have come on a little strong and  Duncan
had misunderstood.  This should clear everything up nicely.

Tyrone decided to extricate himself from any further  involvement
with these guys.  He would offer what he knew, selectively.

"Take the van, it's yours.  Or what's left of it."

"Who else knows about CMR?  How is works?"  Sorenson wanted  more
than the van.

Duncan  didn't  answer.  An arrogance, a defiance came  over  him
that  Bob  Burnson saw immediately.  "Tell them where  you  found
out, Ty."  He saw Duncan's negative facial reaction.  "That's  an
order."

How  could he minimize the importance of Scott's contribution  to
his  understanding  of CMR radiation?  How could  he  rationalize
their  relationship?  He thought, and then realized it might  not
matter.  Scott had said he already had his story, and no one  had
done anything wrong.   Actually  they had only had a casual  con-
versation on a train, as commuter buddies, what was the harm?  It
really exposed him more than Scott  if anything came of it.

"From  an  engineer  friend of mine.  He told  me  about  how  it
worked."

The  reactions from the CIA and NSA G-Men were  poorly  concealed
astonishment.  Both made rapid notes.  "Where does he work?   For
a defense contractor?"

"No, he's also a reporter."

"A reporter?" Sorenson gasped.  "For what paper?"  He breathless-
ly  prayed that it was a local high school journal, but  his  gut
told him otherwise.

"The  New  York City Times,"  Duncan said, confident  that  Scott
could  handle himself and that the First Amendment would help  if
all else failed.

"Thank you very much Mr. Duncan."  Sorenson rapidly rose from his
chair.  "You've been most helpful.  Have a good flight back."

* * * * *

     Tuesday.,  December 1
     New York City

The morning commute into the City was agonizingly long for  Scott
Mason.  He nearly ran the 5 blocks from Grand Central Station  to
the  paper's  offices off Times Square.  The  elevator  wait  was
interminable.  He dashed into the City Room, bypassing his  desk,
and ran directly toward editor Doug McQuire's desk.  Doug saw him
coming and was ready.

"Don't  stop here.  We're headed up to Higgins."  Doug  tried  to
deflect the verbal onslaught from Scott.

"What the hell is going on here, Doug?  I work on a great  story,
you  said you loved it, and then I finally get the missing  piece
and  then   . . .this?"  He pushed the morning  paper  in  Doug's
face.  "Where the fuck is my story? And don't give me any of this
'we  didn't  have the room' shit.  You yourself thought  we  were
onto something bigger . . ."

Doug  ignored Scott as best he could, but on the elevator to  the
9th floor, Scott was still in his face.

"Doug, I am not a pimple faced cub reporter.  I never was, that's
why you hired me. You've always been straight with me . . ."

Scott  trailed  behind Doug as they walked down  the  hallway  to
Higgins'  office.   He was still calling Doug every name  in  the
book  as they entered the room.  Higgins sat behind his desk,  no
tie,  totally  un-Higgins-like.   Scott shot  out  another  nasty
remark.

"Hey, you look like shit."

"Thanks to you," the bedraggled Higgins replied.

"What?   You  too?  I need this today." Scott's  anger  displayed
concern as well.

"Sit  down.   We got troubles."  Higgins could be  forceful  when
necessary.   Apparently he felt this was an appropriate  time  to
use  his drill sergeant voice.  It startled Scott so he sat -  on
the  edge  of his seat.  He wasn't through dishing  out  what  he
thought about having a story pulled this way.

Higgins waited for nearly half a minute.  Let some calm, normalcy
return before he started.

"Scott,  I  pulled the story, Doug didn't. And, if it  makes  you
feel  any better, we've both been here all night.  And we've  had
outside counsel lose sleep, too.  Congratulations."

Scott was confused.  Congratulations?  "What are you . . .?"

"Hear  me out.  In my 14 years at this paper, this is  the  first
time  I've  ever had a call from the  Attorney  General's  office
telling  me, ordering me, that I, we had better not run a  story.
I  am as confused as you."  Higgins' sincerity was  real;  tired,
but real.

Scott  suddenly felt a twinge of guilt, but not enough to  remove
the anger he still felt.  "What ever happened to the first amend-
ment?" Irate confusion was  written all over his face.

"Here  me out before you pull the switch,"  Higgins sounded  very
tired.   "About  10:30  last night I got a call  from  the  Print
Chief.  He said that the NYPD was at the plant with a restraining
order  that  we not print a story you had written.   What  should
they do, he asked.  Needless to say I had to come down, so I told
him, hold the presses, for a half hour.  I called Ms.  Manchester
and  she  met me here just after eleven.  The officer  had  court
orders, from Washington, signed by the Attorney General personal-
ly, informing us that if we published certain information, alleg-
edly  written  by you, the paper could be found in  violation  of
some bullshit national security laws they made up on the spot.

"I called Doug, who was pleased to hear from me at midnight I can
assure  you, and he agreed.  Pull it. Whatever was going on,  the
story  was so strong, that we can always print it in a  few  days
once  we sorted it out.  We had no choice.  But now, we  need  to
know, what is going on?"  Higgins was clearly exhausted.

Scott  was at a loss for words.  "I  . . .uh . . .  dunno.   What
did the court order say?"

"That  the paper will, will is their word, refrain from  printing
anything with regards to CMR.  And CMR was all over your article.
Nobody here knew much about it, other than what was in the  arti-
cle, and we couldn't reach you, so we figured that we might  save
ourselves a bushel of trouble by waiting.  Just a day or two," he
quickly added.

"How  the  hell did they find out ?"   Scott's  mind  immediately
blamed  Tyrone.   He had been betrayed.  Used.  Goddamn  it.   He
knew  better than to trust a Fed.  Shit.  Tyrone must  have  gone
upstairs   and  told  his  cronies  that  I  was  onto  a   story
and . . .well one thing led to another.  But Jeez . . .the Attor-
ney General's office.

"Scott, what is going on here?"  Higgins asked but Doug wanted to
know  as  well.  "It looks like you've got a tiger by  the  tail.
And  the  tiger is in Washington.  Seems like you've  pissed  off
some important people.  We need to know, the whole bit.  What are
you onto?"

"It's  all in the story," Scott said, emotionally drained  before
9:00  AM.  "Whatever I know is there.  It's all  been  confirmed,
Doug  saw  the  notes." Doug nodded, yes, the  reporting  was  as
accurate as is expected in such cases.

"Well,"   Higgins continued, "it seems that our friends in  Wash-
ington  don't want any of this printed,  for their  own  reasons.
Is any of this classified, Scott?"

"If  it is, I don't know it," Scott lamely explained.  He felt up
against an invisible wall.  "I got my confirmations from a couple
of  engineers  and a hacker type who is up on  computer  security
stuff. This stuff is chicken feed compared to SDI and the Stealth
Bomber."

"So why do they care?"

"I have an idea, but I can't prove it yet," offered Scott.

"Lay it on us, kid," said Doug approvingly.  He loved  controver-
sial reporting, and this had the makings of . . .

"What  if  between this and the Exchange we fell  into  a  secret
weapons program," Scott began.

"Too  simple.  Been done before without this kind  of  backlash,"
Higgins said dismissing the idea.

"Except,  these weapons can be built by any high school kid  with
an  electronics lab and a PC," Scott retorted undaunted.   "Maybe
not  as good, or as powerful, but nonetheless, effective. If  you
were the government, would you want every Tom, Dick and  Shithead
to build home versions of cruise missiles?"

"I  think you're exaggerating a little, Scott."  Higgins  pinched
his nose by the corners of his eyes. "Doug?  What do you think?"

Doug  was amazingly collected. "I think," he said  slowly,  "that
Scott  is onto a once in a lifetime story.  My gut tells me  this
is real.  And still, we only have a small piece of the puzzle."

"Scott?   Get  right back on it," Doug ordered. "I want  to  know
what  the big stink is.  Higgins will use outside counsel to  see
if  they dig anything up, but I believe you'll have better  luck.
It  seems that you've stumbled on something that  the  Government
wants kept secret.  Keep up the good work."

Scott  was  being congratulated on having a story  pulled,  which
aroused mixed emotions within him.  His boss thought it wonderful
that it was pulled.  It all depends what side of the fence you're
on, I guess.

"I have a couple  of calls to make."  Scott excused himself  from
Higgins'  domain  to get back to his desk.   He  dialed  Duncan's
private number.

"4543," Duncan answered gruffly.

"Fuck  you very much."  Scott enjoyed slamming down the phone  as
hard as he could.

Scott's second call wouldn't be for hours.  He wished it could be
sooner,  so the day passed excruciatingly slowly. But, it had  to
wait.  Safety was a concern, not getting caught was paramount. He
was going to rob a bank.

* * * * *

     Washington, D.C.

"I will call you in 5 minutes."

Miles  Foster  heard the click of the phone in his ear.   It  was
Homosoto. At midnight no less.  He had no choice.  It was  better
to speak to Homosoto over the computer than in person.  He didn't
have to hear the condescension.  He turned his Compaq 486 back on
and  initiated  the  auto-answer mode on the  modem  through  the
ProTalk software package.

Miles was alone.  He had sent Perky home a few minutes before.

He  heard his modem ring, and saw the computer answer.  The  com-
puter automatically set the communications parameters and matched
the  crypt  key as chosen by the  caller,  undoubtedly  Homosoto.
Miles  set  his  PRG code to prove to the computer  that  it  was
really him and he waited for the first message.

WE NEED TO TALK.

That was obvious, why state the obvious, thought Miles.

I am listening.

ONE OF THE READERS IS DEAD.  HIS EQUIPMENT HAS BEEN CAPTURED.

By whom?

THE NEW YORK POLICE.  THERE WAS A CAR ACCIDENT.  THEN THE FBI GOT
THE  READER.  THEN THE NSA, STEPPED IN AND TOOK OVER.  THEY  EVEN
HAVE INTERFERED WITH THE PRESS.  SCOTT MASON WROTE A STORY ON THE
READERS AND THE GOVERNMENT STOPPED HIM.

How?  We don't do that sort of stuff.

OBVIOUSLY YOU DO, MR. FOSTER.  I HAVE MY SOURCES AS YOU DO.

They don't screw with the press, though.  That's frowned upon.

MAYBE SO, BUT TRUE.  WE NEED TO GET THIS MASON BACK ON THE TRACK.
HE IS WHAT WE NEED.

Why him?

SIMPLE.   WE HAVE SENT READER INFORMATION TO SEVERAL  NEWSPAPERS.
THE ONLY ONE TO PRINT HAS BEEN YOUR NATIONAL EXPOSE.  THAT PAPER,
I  BELIEVE  IS SOLD AT SUPERMARKETS AND READ BY WOMEN  WHO  WATCH
SOAP  OPERAS.  MR. MASON IS AN ENGINEER WHO UNDERSTANDS. WE  NEED
HIM  BACK.  HE IS VALUABLE TO OUR PLAN.  IN YOUR  COUNTRY  PEOPLE
LISTEN TO THE PRESS.  BUT YOUR GOVERNMENT STOPPED HIM.  WE CANNOT
LET HIM FAIL.

How much does he know?

AS  MUCH  AS  WE WANT HIM TO.  NO MORE.  WE WANT TO  FEED  HIM  A
LITTLE AT A TIME, AS WE PLANNED. I AM AFRAID HE WILL BE  DISCOUR-
AGED  AND ABANDON THE HUNT.  YOU KNOW HOW CRITICAL THE PRESS  IS.
THEY ARE OUR MOUTHPIECE.

Yes, I agree.  I wish I knew how you find out these things.

MANY PEOPLE OWE ME FAVORS.  WE MAY HAVE LOST AFTER PEARL  HARBOR,
BUT  WE WON WITH THE TRANSISTOR RADIO AND VCRS.  THE WAR  IS  NOT
OVER.

What do you want me to do?

MAKE  SURE  THAN MR. MASON IS KEPT INFORMED.  HE IS  BRIGHT.   HE
UNDERSTANDS.  HIS VOICE  WILL BE HEARD.  HE MUST NOT BE  STOPPED.
I WILL DO WHAT I CAN AS WELL.  PUT HIM BACK ON THE TRACK.

I know how to do that.  That will not be a problem.  Do we  still
have readers?

YES,  WE  LOST ONLY ONE, AND THAT IS NOT HURTING.  WE  HAVE  MANY
MORE.

How many?

MR. FOSTER, YOU WROTE THE PLAN. DID YOU FORGET?

No, I know.  Curiosity.

KILLED THE CAT AS YOU SAY.

It is my plan.

WHICH  I BOUGHT. I WANT THE PUBLICITY, AS PLANNED.  SEE  THAT  WE
GET IT.

Sure.

MR. FOSTER? ONE MORE THING.

Yes.

I  DO  NOT  HAVE A SLOPED BROW NOR IS RICE MY  PRIMARY  MEANS  OF
PROPULSION.

Just an expression.

KEEP IT TO YOURSELF.

     <<<<<<CONNECTION  TERMINATED>>>>>>

* * * * *

     Midnight, Wednesday,  December 2
     Scarsdale, New York

Since  he had met Kirk, Scott had developed a mild affection  for
his long distance modem-pal, and pretended informer.  Now, it was
time  to take advantage of his new asset.  Maybe  the  Government
carries weight with their spook shit, but a bank can't push  hard
enough  to  pull a story, if it's true.  And Kirk,  whoever  that
was, offered Scott the ideal way to prove it.  Do it yourself.

So he prepared himself for a long night, and he would  definitely
sleep  in tomorrow; no matter what! Scott so cherished his  sleep
time.   He  wormed  his way through the mess  of  the  downstairs
"study  in disaster," and made space by redistributing  the  mess
into other corners.

He  felt a commitment, an excitement that was beyond that of  de-
veloping a great story. Scott was gripped with an intensity  that
was a result of the apprehension of invading a computer, and  the
irony  of it all.  He was an engineer, turned writer, using  com-
puters  as an active journalistic instrument other than for  word
processing.   To Scott, the computer, being the news itself,  was
being  used as a  tool to perform self examination as a  sentient
being, as a separate entity.  Techno-psychoanalysis?

Is  it  narcissistic for man's tools to use  themselves  as  both
images of the mirror of reflective analysis? They say man's brain
can never fully understand itself.  Is the same true with comput-
ers?   And since they grow in power so quickly compared to  man's
snail-like  millennia by millennia evolution, can they  catch  up
with themselves?

Back to reality, Scott.  The Great American Techno-Philosophy and
Pulitzer  could  wait.   He had a bank to rob.   Scott  left  his
computer  on  all the time since Kirk had first called.   If  the
Intergalactic  Traveler called back, the computer  would  answer,
and  Kirk could leave a message.  Scott checked the Mail  Box  in
the ProCom communications program.  No calls.  Not that his modem
was a popular number.  Only he, his office computer and Kirk knew
it.  And the phone company, but everyone knows about them . . .

Just as the clock struck midnight, Kirk jumped in his seat.   Not
only  was  the bell chiming an annoying 12  mini-gongs,  but  his
computer  was beeping.  It took a couple of beeps from the  small
speaker  in  his computer for him to realize he was  receiving  a
call.  What do I do know?  The 14" color screen came alive and it
entered terminal mode from the auto-answer screen that Scott  had
left yesterday.

WTFO

The screen rang out.  Scott knew the answer.

naft

VERY GOOD! COULDN'T HAVE SAID IT BETTER MYSELF.

Welcome pilgrim, what has brought thee to these shores?

I  GUESS WRITERS HAVE AN ADVANTAGE ON COMM.  MAKE  YOURSELF  VERY
COLORFUL.  CREATE ANY PICTURE YOU WANT.

Seems a bit more sporting that hiding behind techy-talk.

YEAH, WELL, I'LL WORK ON IT.

So, as Maynard G. Crebbs asked, "You Rang?"

AH! DOBIE GILLIS.  NICK AT NIGHT!

No, the originals.

WHEN WAS THAT?

You've just dated yourself.  Thanks.

TO-FUCKING-SHAY!   NOT  AS OLD AS YOU.  READY FOR A TRIP  TO  THE
BANK?

You read my mind :-)

I  FIGURED  YOU'D WIMP OUT ON A SOLO TRIP, FIRST  TIME  AND  ALL.
THOUGHT I MIGHT BE ABLE TO HELP.  I MAKE A HELL OF A CHAUFFEUR.

What do you mean?

I MEAN I'M GOING TO TAKE YOU FOR A RIDE.

You're kidding.  Just like Superman carries Lois Lane?

JUST  ABOUT.   FIRST  I'M GOING TO SEND YOU A  COPY  OF  'MIRAGE'
SOFTWARE.

When?

RIGHT  NOW.   THEN,  YOU'LL USE MIRAGE.  ALL YOU HAVE  TO  DO  IS
EXECUTE FROM THE COMMAND LINE AFTER I DOWN LOAD.

English kimosabe.

OK, ITS SIMPLE.  WHEN I SAY SO, YOU ENTER ALT-F9.  THAT SETS  YOU
UP  TO  RECEIVE.  NAME THE FILE MIRAGE.EXE.   THERE'S  ONLY  ONE.
THEN  WHEN IT SAYS ITS DONE, PRESS CTRL-ALT-R.  YOU WILL  HAVE  A
DOS LINE APPEAR.  ENTER MIRAGE.EXE AND RETURN.

Stop! I'm writing . . .

USE PRTSCR

What's that?

IS YOUR PRINTER ON LINE?

Yes.

WHENEVER  YOU  WANT TO PRINT WHAT'S ON THE SCREEN  ENTER  'SHIFT-
PrtScr'.  LOOK FOR IT. HIT IT NOW.

Thanks!  Got it.

OR  SAVE THE WHOLE THING TO A FILE. USE CTRL-ALT-S.  THEN PICK  A
NEW FILE NAME.  MEANS MONGO EDITING THOUGH.

Done!   I like Ctrl-Alt-S.  Suits me fine.  No memory needed.

HIT ALT-F9.  MIRAGE IS COMING.

Scott did as instructed.  The entire procedure made sense  intel-
lectually,  but inside, there was an inherent disbelief that  any
of these simple procedures would produce anything meaningful.  It
is inherently difficult to feel progress, a sense of  achievement
without instantaneous feedback that all was well.

Less than a minute later, the screen told Scott it was  finished.
Did he want to Save the file? Yes.  Please name it.   Mirage.Exe.
Would  you like to receive another? No.  Do you want to  exit  to
Command line?  Yes.  He entered Mirage.Exe as Kirk had  instruct-
ed,  hoping  that  he was still waiting at the  other  end.   The
screen  displayed various copyrights and Federal  warnings  about
illegal  copying of software, the very crime Scott had just  com-
mitted.

The  video  suddenly split into two windows.  The  bottom  window
looked just like the screen he used to talk to Kirk, except  much
smaller.   Only 10 out of a possible 25 lines. The upper half  of
the screen was new.  MIRAGE-Remote View (C)1988.

Kirk announced himself.

WTFO

Yup!  I got something.  Two screens.

GOOD.   THAT  MEANS EVERYTHING PROBABLY WORKED.  LET'S  TEST  IT.
YOU  AND  I TALK JUST AS USUAL, ON THE SMALL WINDOW,  LIKE  WE'RE
DOING  NOW.   ON  THE TOP WINDOW, YOU WILL SEE  WHAT  I'M  DOING.
EXCEPT IN MINIATURE.  BECAUSE YOU ONLY HAVE 15 LINES TO SEE,  AND
A NORMAL SCREEN IS 25 LINES, THE PROGRAM COMPRESSES THE SIGNAL TO
DISPLAY IT IN FULL.  DO YOU HAVE A DECENT MONITOR?

vga 14 inch

GOOD.  YOU WON'T HAVE ANY PROBLEMS.  REMEMBER, WHENEVER YOU  WANT
A COPY OF THE SCREEN, HIT SHIFT-PRTSCR.

Can't I save everything?

CTRL-ALT-S, YEAH.

Done.  Anything else?

YOU CAN'T INTERFERE.  JUST ALONG FOR THE RIDE.

A Sunday drive in the country . . .

WITH ME DRIVING. HA!  FASTEN YOUR SEAT BELTS.

Scott  watched  with  his fingers sitting on  the  keyboard  with
anticipation.   A phone number was displayed on top line  in  the
Upper Window: 18005555500.

     <<DIALING>>

In a few seconds the screen announced,

     WELCOME TO USA-NET, THE COMPLETE DATA BASE.

The graphics got fancy but in black and white.

     ARE YOU A FIRST TIME USER? NO

     ID? XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
     PASSWORD? XXXXXXXX

The video monitor did not let Scott see the access codes.

     Welcome to USA-NET, Kirk.
     Time synchronizing:  0:04:57  December 18, 1990

     DO YOU WANT THE MAIN MENU? Y

Scott's  large window began to scroll and fill with  lines  after
line of options:

     (A) Instructions
     (B) Charges
     (C) Updating
     (D) OAG
     (E) Shopping Menus
     (F) Trading Menus
     (G) Conversation Pits

In  all there were 54 choices displayed.  The lower  window  came
alive.

SEE HOW IT WORKS?

Fascinating.

THAT  WAS JUST A TEST.  NOW FOR THE REAL THING.  SURE  YOU  WANNA
GO?

Scott had gone this far.  He would worry about the legalities  in
the morning.  Higgins would have his work cut out for him.

Aye, aye, Captain.

ENGAGE WARP ENGINES.

The upper window changed again.

     QUIT?  Y
     ARE YOU SURE?  Y

     <<<<<<CONNECTION TERMINATED>>>>>>

Another number flashed in the upper window.  12125559796.

     <<DIALING>>

After  less than 2 rings the screen announced that they  had  ar-
rived  at the front doors to the computer system at  First  State
Bank,  in New York.  Another clue.  Kirk was not from  New  York.
He used an area code.

Scott  felt like looking back over his shoulders to see  who  was
watching  him.  His automatic flight-or-fight response  made  the
experience more exhilarating.  He tried to force his intellect to
convince  himself that he was far from view, unobservable,  unde-
tectable.  Only partially successful, he remained tense realizing
that he was borderline legal.

     <<<<<<CONNECTION>>>>>>

PORT  CONTROL  SECURITY, CENTRAL DATA  PROCESSING  CENTER,  FIRST
STATE BANK.  O/S VMS R31

     SECURITY: SE-PROTECT, 4.0  REV. 3.12.1  10, OCT, 1989
     TIME: 00:12:43.1
     DATE: 04 December
     PORT: 214

     ARE YOU SYSTEMS ADMINISTRATOR?  YES
     ENTER SYS-ADMIN ID CODE SEQUENCE: 8854

     <<WAITING . . .>>

PRIMARY SYS-ADMIN AUTHENTICATION ACCEPTED.  PLEASE BEGIN  SECOND-
ARY IDENTIFICATION.

     PASSWORD: 4Q-BAN/HKR

     <<WAITING . . .>>

SECONDARY  SYS-ADMIN AUTHENTICATION ACCEPTED. PLEASE BEGIN  FINAL
IDENTIFICATION.

     ID: 374552100/1

     <<WAITING . . .>>

WELCOME  TO CENTRAL DATA PROCESSING, FIRST STATE BANK,  NEW  YORK
CITY.  YOU ARE THE SYSTEMS ADMINISTRATOR.

               *****************
                    WARNING!!!

PLEASE  ONLY  INITIATE CHANGES WHICH HAVE BEEN TESTED  ON  BACKUP
PROCESSORS.   SEVERE DAMAGE MAY RESULT FROM IMPROPER  ADMINISTRA-
TION.

               *****************

Scott  watched in fascination.  Here he was, riding shotgun on  a
trip through one of  New York's largest bank computers, and there
was no resistance.  He could not believe that he had more securi-
ty in his house than a bank with assets of over $10 Billion.  The
bottom window showed Kirk's next message.

WHAD'YA THINK?

Pretty stupid

WHAT?

That the bank doesn't have better control

VIVE LE HACKER!!!

* * * * *

     Wednesday, December 2
     New York City

"Doug," Scott came into the office breathlessly, "we have to  see
Higgins.  I gotta great . . ."

"Hey,  I thought you were gonna come in late today? Wire  in  the
copy?"   He  looked at the New York clock on the  wall.   It  was
9:15.   Scott  broke the promise he made to himself  to  come  in
late.

"Yeah,  well,  I  underslept."   He brandished a  thick  file  of
computer printouts.  "Before I write this one, I want Higgins and
every other lawyer God put on this green Earth to go over it."

"Since  when  did you get so concerned with pre-scrutiny.   As  I
remember,  it  was  only yesterday that you  threatened  to  nuke
Higgins'  house and everyone he ever met."  Doug pretended to  be
condescending.   Actually, the request was a great  leap  forward
for  Scott  and every other reporter.  Get pre-lawyered,  on  the
approach, learn the guidelines, and maybe new rules before  plow-
ing ahead totally blind.

"Since  I broke into a bank last night!"  Scott threw the  folder
down on Doug's desk.  "Here.  I'm going to Rosie's for a  choles-
terol fix.  Need a picker upper."

When  Scott came back from a breakfast of deep fried fat and  pan
grilled  grease he grabbed his messages at the front  desk.  Only
one mattered:

     Higgins.  11:00.  Be there.  Doug.

Still the boss, thought Scott.

Higgins' job was to approve controversial material, but it gener-
ally  didn't  surround only one reporter, on  so  many  different
stories within such a short time span.

"Good to see you, Mason," snorted Higgins.

"Right.   Me too," he came back just as  sarcastically.   "Doug."
He acknowledged his editor with only slightly more civility.

"John, the boy's been up all night," Doug conciliated to Higgins.
He  called all his reporters boys.  "And Scott, lighten up."   He
was serious.

"Sure, Doug," he nodded.

Higgins began. "O.K., Scott, what is it this time?  Doug said you
broke  into a bank, and I haven't had time to go over these."  He
held   up the thick file of printouts.   "In 25 words  or  less."
The legal succinctness annoyed Scott.

"Simple.   I tied in with a hacker last night,  'round  midnight.
He  had the passwords to get into the First State computers,  and
well, he showed me around.  Showed me how much damage can actual-
ly  be done by someone at a keyboard.  The tour lasted  almost  2
hours."

"That's it?" Asked Higgins.

"That's it?  Are you kidding?  Let me tell you a few things in 25
words  or more!"  Scott was tired and the lack of sleep made  him
irritable.

"I  did  a little checking before I went on this  excursion.  You
bank at First, don't you, John?"

It was a setup question.  "Yes," Higgins said carefully.

"I thought so.  Here let me have that file.  Gimme a minute,"  he
said  flipping pages.  "Here it is, and yes, correct me if I  say
anything that you don't agree with."  His  curtness and accusato-
ry sound put both Higgins and Doug off.  Where was he going?

"John W. Higgins, social security number, 134-66-9241. Born Rock-
ville, Maryland, June 1, 1947.  You currently have $12,435.16  in
your checking account, $23,908.03 in savings . . ."

Higgins' jaw and pen dropped simultaneously.  Doug saw the  shock
on his face while Scott continued.

"Your  mortgage  at  115 Central Park West  is  $2,754.21.   Your
portfolio  is split between, let's see, CD's, T-Bills,  the  bank
acts  as  your broker, and you have three safety  deposit  boxes,
only  one to which your wife, Helen Beverly Simons,  has  access.
You make a deposit every two weeks . . ."

"Stop!  How the hell do you know . . ."

"Jeez you make that much? Can I be a lawyer too, huh? Please  Mr.
Higgins?"

Higgins threw his chair back and stormed around his desk to  grab
the papers from Scott. Scott held them away.

"Let me see those!" Higgins demanded.

"Say please. Say pretty please."

"Scott!"  Doug  decided enough was enough.  Scott  had  made  his
point.  "Cool it.  Let him have them."

"Sure,  boss!"   He  grinned widely at Doug who  could  not,  for
reasons of professional conduct, openly condone Scott's  perform-
ance, no matter how effective it was.

Higgins looked at the top pages from where Scott was reading.  He
read  them intently, looking from one to the other.   Slowly,  he
walked  back to his desk, and sat down, nearly missing the  chair
because he was so engrossed.

Without  looking  up  he spoke softly.   "This  is  unbelievable.
Unbelievable.  I can't believe that you have this."  Suddenly  he
spoke right to Scott.  "You know this is privileged  information,
you  can't go telling anyone about my personal finances.  You  do
know that, right?"  The concern was acute.

"Hey,  I don't really give a damn what you make, but I needed  to
shake the tree.  This is serious shit."

"Scott,  you've  got  my total,  undivided  attention  now.   The
floor's yours.  You have up to 100 words."  Humor wasn't Higgins'
strong point, or his weak point, or any point, but Scott appreci-
ated  the gesture.  Doug could relax, too.  A peace  treaty,  for
now.

"Thanks,  John." Scott was sincere.  "As you know I've been  run-
ning  a few stories on hackers, computer crimes, what have  you."
Higgins rolled his eyes.  He remembered.  "A few weeks ago I  got
a call from Captain Kirk.  He's a hacker."

"What  do you know about him?"  Higgins was again  taking  notes.
The tape recorder was nowhere to be seen.

"Not much, yet, but I have a few ideas.  I would  hazard to guess
that he is younger.  Maybe in his late '20's, not from New  York,
maybe the Coast, and has a sense of responsibility."

"How do know this?"

"Well, I don't know, I guessed from our conversations."

"Why didn't you just ask?"

"I  did.  But, he wants his anonymity.  It's the things he  says,
the  way he says them. The only reason I know he's a he   is  be-
cause he called me on the phone first."

"When did you speak to him?"  Higgins inquired.

"Only once.  After that it's been over computer."

"So it could be anyone really?"

"Sure,  but  that doesn't matter.  It's what he did.   First,  we
entered the computer . . ."

"What do you mean we?"  Higgins shot Scott a disapproving stare.

"We.  Like  him and me.  He tied my computer to his  so  I  could
watch what he was doing.  So, he gets into the computer . . ."

"How?"

"With the passwords.  There were three."

"How did he get them?"

"From  another hacker I assume. That's another story."  The  con-
stant interruptions exasperated Scott. "Let me finish, then grill
me. O.K.?"

Higgins nodded.  Sure.

"So,  once we were in, he could do anything he wanted.  The  com-
puter  thought he was the Systems Administrator, the head  honcho
for  all the bank's computer operations.  So we had  free  reign.
The first place we went was to Account Operations.  That's  where
the general account information on the bank's customers is  kept.
I asked him for information on you.  Within seconds I knew a  lot
about  you."  Higgins frowned deeply. "From there, he  asked  for
detailed information on your  files; credit cards, payment histo-
ry,  delinquencies,  loans  on cars, IRA's,  the  whole  shooting
match."

"I have to interrupt here, Scott,"  Higgins said edgily.   "Could
he, or you have made changes, to, ah . . .my account?"

"We did!"

"You made changes?  What changes?"  Higgins was aghast.

"We took all your savings and invested them in a new startup fast
food franchise called Press Rat and Wharthog Sandwiches, Inc."

"You have got be kidding."  Scott saw the sweat drops at Higgins'
hairline.

"Yeah,  I am.  But he did show me how easy it is to make  adjust-
ments in account files.  Like pay off loans and have them  disap-
pear, invoke foreclosures, increase or decrease balances, whatev-
er we wanted to do."

"Jesus Christ!"

"That's not the half of it.  Not even a millionth of it.  See, we
went  through  lots  of accounts.  The bank  computer  must  hold
hundreds  of thousands of account records, and we had  access  to
them all.  If we had wanted to, we could have erased them all, or
zeroed them out, or made everyone rich overnight."

"Are  you  telling me,"  Higgins spoke carefully, "that  you  and
this  . . .hacker, illegally entered a bank computer and  changed
records and . . ."

"Whoah!" Scott held up his hands to slow Higgins down.  "We  left
everything the way it was, no changes as far as I could tell."

"Are you sure?"

"No,  I'm not.  I wasn't in the driver's seat.  I went along  for
the ride."

"What  else did you do last night, Scott?"  Higgins  sounded  re-
signed  to more bad news. The legal implications must  have  been
too much for him to handle.

"We  poked around transfer accounts, where they wire  money  from
one  bank  to another and through the Fed  Reserve.   Transaction
accounts, reserves, statements, credit cards.  Use your  imagina-
tion.  If a bank does it, we saw it.  The point is, John,  I need
to know two things."

John  Higgins sat back, apparently exhausted.  He knew  what  was
coming,  at least half of it.  His expression told Scott  to  ask
away.  He could take it.

"First, did I do anything illegal, prosecutable?  You know what I
mean.  And, can I run with it?  That's it."

Higgins' head leaned back on the leather head rest as he began to
speak deliberately.  This was going to be a lawyer's  non-answer.
Scott was prepared for it.

"Did you commit a crime?"  Higgins speculated.  "My gut  reaction
says no, but I'm not up on the latest computer legislation.   Did
you, at any time, do anything to the bank's computers?"

"No.  He had control.  I only had a window."

"Good, that helps."  The air thickened with anticipation as  Doug
and Scott both waited for words of wisdom.  "I could make a  good
argument that you were a reporter, with appropriate  credentials,
interviewing an individual, who was, coincidentally, at the  same
time,  committing a crime.  That is, if what he did was a  crime.
I don't know the answer to that yet.

"There  have been countless cases where a reporter has  witnessed
crimes and reported on them with total immunity.  Yes, the more I
think  about it, consider this."  Higgins seemed to have  renewed
energy.   The  law was his bible and Scott was listening  in  the
congregation. "Reporters have often gone into hostage  situations
where there is no doubt that a crime is in progress, to report on
the condition of the hostages.  That's O.K..  They have  followed
drug dealers into crack houses and filmed their activities."

Higgins  thought  a  little more. "Sure, that's  it.   The  arena
doesn't  change  the  rules.  You said you  couldn't  affect  the
computers, right?"  He wanted a confirmation.

"Right.   I  just  watched.  And . . .asked  him  to  do  certain
things."

"No you didn't!  Got that?  You watched, nothing else!"   Higgins
cracked sharply at Scott.  "If anyone asks, you only watched."

"Gotcha."   Scott recognized the subtle difference.  He  did  not
want to be an aider or abettor of a crime.

"So, that makes it easy.  If you were in the hackers home, watch-
ing him over his shoulder, that would be no different from watch-
ing  him  over  a computer screen."  He  sounded  confident.   "I
guess."   He sounded less confident.  "There is very little  case
history on this stuff, so, if it came to it, we'd be in an inter-
esting position to say the least.  But, to answer your  question,
no, I don't think that you did anything illegal."

"Great.   So  I  can write the story and  . . ."   Scott  made  a
forgone conclusion without his lawyers advice.  There was no  way
Higgins would let him get away with that.

"Hold your horses.  You say write a story, and based upon what  I
know so far, I think you can, but with some rules."

"What  kind  of rules?"  Skepticism permeated  Scott's  slow  re-
sponses.

"Simple  ones.   Are you planning on printing  the  passwords  to
their computers?"

"No, not at all. Why?"

"Because,  that is illegal.  No doubt about it.  So,  good,  rule
one is easy.  Two, I want to read over this entire file and  have
a  review of everything before it goes to bed. Agreed?"   Higgins
looked  at Doug who had not contributed much.  He merely  nodded,
of course that would be fine.

"Three, no specifics.  No names of people you saw, nothing exact.
We do not want to be accused of violation of privacy in any  way,
shape or form."

"That's  it?"  Scott was pleasantly surprised. What  seemed  like
common  sense to him was a legal spider web that Higgins was  re-
quired to think through.

"Almost. Lastly, was this interview on the record?"

Damn good question, Scott thought.  "I dunno.  I never asked,  it
didn't  seem  like a regular interview, and since  I  don't  know
Kirk's real name, he's not the story.  It was what he did that is
the story.  Does it matter?"

"If the shit hits the fan it might, but I think we can get around
it.  Just be careful what you say, so I don't have to redline 90%
of it.  Fair enough?"

Scott  was  pleased beyond control.  He stood to  thank  Higgins.
"Deal.  Thanks."  Scott began to turn.

"Scott?"  Higgins called out.  "One more thing."

Oh  no, he thought, the hammer was dropping.  He turned  back  to
Higgins.  "Yeah?"

"Good  work.   You're  onto something.  Keep it up  and  keep  it
clean."

"No problem."  Scott floated on air.  "No, problem at all."

Back at his desk, Scott called Hugh Sidneys.  He still worked  at
State First, as far as he knew, and it was time to bring him  out
of the closet, if possible.

"Hugh?"   Scott said affably.  "This is Scott Mason, over at  the
Times?"

"Yeah?  Oh,  hello,"  Sidneys said suspiciously.   "What  do  you
want?"

"Hugh, we need to talk."

"About what?"

"I think you know.  Would you like to talk here  on the phone, or
privately?"  Sometimes leaving the mark only two options, neither
particularly  attractive,  would keep him  within  those  bounds.
Sidneys was an ideal person for this tact.

The  pregnant pause conveyed Sidney's consternation.   The  first
person to speak would lose, thought Scott.  Hugh spoke.

"Ah,   I  think  it  would  be  .  .  .ah  better  .  .  .if   we
spoke . . .at . . ."

"How about the same place?" Scott offered.

"OK," Hugh was hesitant.  "I guess so . . .when?"

"Whenever you want.  No pressure."  Scott released the tension.

"I get off at 5, how about . . .?"

"I'll be there."

"Yes ma'am.  This is Scott Mason.  I'm a reporter for the  Times.
I  will  only take a few seconds of his time. Is he  in?"   Scott
used  his  kiss-the-secretary's-ass  voice.   Better  then  being
aggressive unless it was warranted.

"I'll  check,  Mr.  Mason," she said.  The phone  went  on  hold.
After  a  very few seconds, the Muzak was replaced with  a  gruff
male voice.

"Mr.  Mason?  I'm Francis MacMillan.  How may I  help  you?"   He
conveyed self assuredness, vitality and defensiveness.

"I  won't take a moment, sir."  Scott actually took several  sec-
onds  to make sure his question would be formed  accurately.   He
probably  only  had  one chance.  "We have  been  researching  an
article on fraudulent investment practices on the part of various
banks;  some fall out from the S&L mess." He paused  for  effect.
"At  any  rate, we have received information that  accuses  First
State  of  defrauding  it's investors.  In  particular,  we  have
records  that show a complicated set of financial maneuvers  that
are  designed to drain hundreds of millions of dollars  from  the
assets of First State.  Do you have any comment?"

Total silence.  The quality of fiber phone lines made the silence
all the more deafening.

"If  you  would like some specifics, sir, I can provide  them  to
you,"  Scott said adding salt to the wound. "In many cases,  sir,
you are named as the person responsible for these activities.  We
have the documents and witnesses.  Again, we would like a comment
before we go to print."

Again Scott was met with silence.  Last try.

"Lastly, Mr. MacMillan, we have evidence that your bank's comput-
ers  have  been invaded by hackers who can  alter  the  financial
posture  of First State.  If I may say so, the evidence is  quite
damning."  Scott decided not to ask for a comment directly.   The
question was no longer rhetorical, it was implicit.

If  feelings could be transmitted over phone wires,  Scott  heard
MacMillan's  nerve  endings commence a primal scream.  The  phone
explosively hung up on Scott.

* * * * *

     Thursday,  December 3
     First State Bank, New York

Francis  MacMillan,  President of First State Savings  and  Loan,
bellowed at the top of his lungs.  Three Vice Presidents were  in
his office before 7:00 A.M.

"Who the fuck's in charge of making sure the damned computers are
safe?"

The  V.P.  of Data processing  replied.   "It's  Jeanne  Fineman,
sir."

"Fire him."

"Jeanne is a woman . . ."

"Fire them both.  I want them out of here in 10 minutes."  McMil-
lan's virulent intensity gave his aides no room for dissent.

"Sir, why, it's almost Christmas, and it wasn't her fault . . ."

"And no bonus.  Make sure they never work near banks, or  comput-
ers ever again!  Got that?"  Everyone nodded in shock.

"Al?"   McMillan shouted.  "Buy back our stock,   quietly.   When
the  market hears this we're in for a dump.  No one will  believe
us  when  we  respond, and it will take us a day to  get  out  an
answer."

"How much?" Al Shapiro asked.

"You figure it out.  Just keep it calm."  Shapiro noted it agree-
ably.

"Where the hell are the lawyers?  I want that pinko-faggot  news-
paper stopped by tonight."  McMillan's rage presaged a very, very
bad day at First State.

"And  someone, someone, find me that shit hole worm  Sidneys.   I
want  him in my office in 30 seconds.  Now," he violently  thrust
his  arms  in the air, "get the hell out of here until  you  have
some good news."

* * * * *

     Friday,  December 4

     RUN ON FIRST STATE AS IT STALLS ON OWN BAILOUT
     by Scott Mason

Since yesterday afternoon, First State Savings and Loan has  been
in asset-salvation mode.  Upon reports that computer hackers have
had access to First State's computers and records for some  time,
and  can change their contents at will, the stock market  reacted
negatively  by  a sell-off. In the first 15 minutes  of  trading,
First State's stock plummeted from 48 1/2 to 26 1/4, a  reduction
of  one  half its value.  Subsequently, the stock moved  up  with
block  buying. At the noon bell, the stock had risen modestly  to
31.  It is assumed that First State itself is repurchasing  their
own stock in an attempt to bolster market confidence.

However,  at 2:00PM, First State contacted banking  officials  in
New  York and Washington, as well as the SEC, to announce that  a
rush of worried depositors had drained the bank of it's available
hard  currency  reserves,  and would close  until  the  following
morning  when  cash transfers would permit the bank  to  continue
payments.

Last quarter cash holding were reported in excess of $3  Billion,
and  First State has acknowledged that any and all monies   would
be available to those who desired it.  In a press release  issued
by First State at 1:00 PM they said, "A minor compromise  of  our
computers has caused no discernible damage to the computers,  our
customers  or the bank.  A thorough investigation has  determined
that  the  hacker was either a figment of the  imagination  of  a
local  paper  or was based upon unfounded  hearsay.   The  bank's
attorneys are reviewing their options."

The  combination of the two announcements only further  depressed
First  State  stock.   It stood at 18 7/8 when  the  SEC  blocked
further trading.

This  is Scott Mason, who reported the news as he saw it.   Accu-
rately.

****************************************************************

Chapters  15 through 21 of "Terminal Compromise" can be found  in
the file TERMCOMP.3

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