Terminal Compromise · Chapter 463Chapter 23
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Monday, January 11 Washington, D.C.
I don't think you're gonna be pleased," Phil Musgrave said at their early morning conclave, before the President's busy day began.
"What else is new?" asked the President acerbically. "Why should I have an easy today any more than any other day?" His dry wit often escaped much of the White House staff, but Musgrave had been exposed to it for over 20 years and took it in stride. Pre- coffee grumps. The President poured himself more hot decaf from the silver service. "What is it?"
"Computers."
The President groaned. "Don't you ever long for the old days when a calculator consisted of two pieces of sliding wood or a hundred beads on rods?"
Musgrave ignored his boss's frustration. "Over the weekend, sir, we experienced a number of incidents that could be considered non-random in nature," Musgrave said cautiously.
"In English, Phil," insisted the President.
"MILNET has been compromised. The Optimus Data Base at Pentagon has been erased as has been Anniston, Air Force Systems Command and a dozen other computers tied through ARPANET."
The President sighed. "Damage report?"
"About a month. We didn't lose anything too sensitive, but that's not the embarrassing part."
"If that's not, then what is?"
"The IRS computers tied to Treasury over the Consolidated Data Network?" The President indicated to continue. "The Central Collection Services computer for the Dallas District has had over 100,000 records erased. Gone."
"And?" The President said wearily.
"The IRS has had poor backup procedures. The OMB and GAO reports of 1989 and 1990 detailed their operational shortcomings." The President waited for Phil to say something he could relate to. "It appears that we'll lose between $500 million and $2 Billion in revenues."
"Christ! That's it!" The President shouted. "Enough is enough. The two weeks is up as of this moment." He shook his head with his eyes closed in disbelief. "How the hell can this happen . . .?" he asked rhetorically.
"Sir, I think that our priority is to keep this out of the press. We need plausible deniability . . ."
"Stop with the Pentagon-speak bullshit and just clamp down. No leaks. I want this contained. The last damn thing we need is for the public to think that we can't protect our own computers and the privacy of our citizens. If there is one single leak, I will personally behead the offender," the President said with intensity enough to let Phil know that his old friend and comrade meant what he said.
"Issue an internal directive, lay down the rules. Who knows about this?"
"Too many people, sir. I am not convinced that we can keep this completely out of the public eye."
"Isolate them."
"Sir?"
"You heard me. Isolate them. National Security. Tell them it'll only be few days. Christ. Make up any damn story you want, but have it taken care of. Without my knowledge."
"Yessir."
"Then, find somebody who knows what the hell is going on."
* * * * *
Monday, January 11 Approaching New York City
Scott called Tyrone from the plane to discover that the hearings were being delayed a few days, so he flew back to New York after dropping Sonja off in Washington. They tore themselves apart from each other, she tearfully, at National Airport where they had met. He would be back in a few days, once the hearings were rescheduled. In the meantime, Scott wanted to go home and crash. While being in Jamaica with Sonja was as exhilarating as a man could want, relaxing and stimulating at once, he still was going on next to no rest.
While the plane was still on the tarmac in Washington, Scott had fallen fast asleep. On the descent into New York, he half awak- ened, to a hypnagogic state. Scott had learned over the years how to take advantage of such semi-conscious conditions. The mind seemingly floated in a place between reality and conjecture - where all possibilities are tangible, unencumbered by earthly concerns. The drone of the jet engines, even their occasional revving, enhanced the mental pleasure Scott experienced. Thoughts weightlessly drifted into and out of his head, some of them common and benign and others surprisingly original, if not out and out weird.
In such a state, the conscious mind becomes the observer of the activities of the unconscious mind. The ego of Scott Mason restrained itself from interfering with the sublime mental proc- esses that bordered on the realm of pure creativity. The germ of a thought, the inchoate idea, had the luxury of exploring itself in an infinity of possibilities and the conscious mind stood on the sidelines. The blissful experience was in constant jeopardy of being relegated to a weak memory, for any sudden disturbance could instantly cause the subconscious to retreat back into a merger with the conscious mind. Thus, he highly valued these spontaneous meditations.
Bits and pieces of the last few days wove themselves into complex patterns that reflected the confusion he felt. He continued to gaze on and observe as the series of mental events that had no obvious relationships assumed coherency and meaning. When one does not hold fixed preconceived notions, when one has the abili- ty to change perspective, then, in these moments, the possibili- ties multiply. Scott watched himself with the hackers in Amster- dam, with Kirk and Tyrone at home; he watched himself both live and die with Pierre in Washington. Then the weekend, did it just end? The unbelievable weekend with Sonja. It was when he re- lived the sexual intensity on the Half Moon Bay beach, in what was becoming an increasingly erotic state, that his mind en- tered an extraordinary bliss.
The rear tires of the plane hitting the runway was enough to snap Scott back to a sober reality. But he had the thought and he remembered it.
Scott hired a stretch limousine at LaGuardia and slept all the way to Scarsdale, but lacking the good sense God gave him, he checked the messages on his phone machine. Doug called to find out if Scott still worked for the paper and Ty called requesting, almost pleading, that Scott call as soon as he got back. He had to see him, post haste.
The call to Doug was simple. Yes, I'm back. The hackers are real. They are a threat. Pierre is still alive, I have more material than we can use. I did take notes, and my butt is sun- burned. If there's nothing else, I'm dead on my feet and I will see you in the morning. Click.
Now he wanted to talk to Tyrone as much as it sounded like Ty wanted to speak to him. Where was he? Probably at the office. He dialed quickly. Tyrone answered with equal speed.
"Are you back?" Ty asked excitedly.
"Yeah, just got in. I need to talk to you . . ."
"Not as much as we do, buddy. Where are you now?"
"Home. Why?"
"I'll see you in an hour. Wait there." The FBI man was in control. Where the hell else am I going to go, Scott thought.
Scott piddled around, making piles for his maid, unpacking and puttering around the kitchen. Everything in the fridge needed cooking, and there was not enough energy for that, so he decided to take a shower. That might give him a few more hours before he collapsed.
Exactly one hour later, as promised, Tyrone Duncan rang Scott's doorbell. They exchanged a few pleasantries and then plunged into intense information exchange. They grabbed a couple of beers and sat opposite each other in overstuffed chairs by Scott's wide fireplace.
"Boy have I learned a lot . . ." said Scott.
"I think you may be right," said Tyrone.
"Of course I am. I did learn a lot," Scott said with a confused look on his face.
"No I mean about what you said."
"I haven't said anything yet. I think there's a conspiracy." Scott winced to himself as he said the one word that was the bane of many a reporter.
"I said I think you were right. And are right."
"What the devil are you talking about?" Scott was more confused then ever.
"Remember a few months back, on the train we were talking."
"Of course we were talking." Scott recognized the humor in the conversation.
"No! I mean we were . . .shit. Shut up and listen or I'll arrest you!"
"On what charge?"