Terminal Compromise

by by Winn Schwartau

  "OK, everybody, listen up," Chad said. "Stack 'em, pack 'em and rack 'em. Use those outer markers, people. Tell them to believe their eyes. Find the 37's. Let 'em know their transponders are going. Then, bring 'em down one by one."

  The emergency speaker suddenly rang out. "Shit! Dive!" The captain of American 1137 ordered his plane to accelerate ground- ward for 10 seconds, descending 2500 feet, to avoid hitting an oncoming, and lost, DC-9.

  "Dallas, Mayday, Mayday. What the fuck's going on down there? This is worse than the freeway . . ."

  The emergency procedure was one they had practiced over and over, but rarely was it necessary for a full scale test. The FAA was going to be all over DFW and a dozen other airports within hours, and Chad wanted to be prepared. He ordered a formal notification to Boeing that they had identified a potentially serious malfunc- tion. Please make your emergency technical support crews avail- able immediately.

  Of the 100 plus flights under DFW control all 17 of the Boeing 737's disappeared from the radar screen, replaced by dozens of bogies with meaningless signatures.

  "Dallas, American 1137 requests emergency landing . . .we have several injured passengers who require immediate medical assist- ance."

  "Roger, 1137," Gatwick blurted back. "Copy, EP. Radar status?"

  "Nominal," said the shaken American pilot.

  "Good. Runway 21B. We'll be waiting."

  * * * * *

  By 5:00 PM, Pacific time, Boeing was notified by airports across the country that their 737's were having catastrophic transponder failure. Takeoffs were ordered stopped at major airports and the FAA directed that every 737 be immediately grounded. Chaos reigned in the airline terminals as delays of several hours to a day were announced for most flights. Police were needed to quell angry crowds who were stuck thousands of miles from home and were going to miss critical business liaisons. There is nothing we can do, every airline explained to no avail.

  Slowly, the planes were brought down, pilots relying on VFR since they couldn't count on any help from the ground. At airports where weather prohibited VFR landings, and the planes had enough fuel, they were redirected to nearby airports. Nearly a dozen emergency landings in a two hours period set new records that the FAA preferred didn't exist. A field day for the media, and a certain decrease in future passenger activity until the shock wore off.

  The National Transportation Safety Board had representatives monitoring the situation within an hour of the first reports from Dallas, San Francisco, Atlanta, and Tampa. When all 737's were accounted for, the individual airports and the FAA lifted flight restrictions and left it to the airlines to straighten out the scheduling mess. One hundred thousand stranded passengers and almost 30% of the domestic civilian air fleet was grounded.

  It was a good thing their reservation computers hadn't gone down. Damn good thing.

  * * * * *

  DISASTER IN AIR CREATES PANIC ON GROUND by Scott Mason

  "A national tragedy was avoided today by the quick and brave actions of hundreds of air traffic controllers and pilots working in harmony," a spokesperson for The Department of Transportation said, commenting on yesterday's failure of the computerized transponder systems in Boeing 737 airplanes.

  "In the interest of safety for all concerned, 737's will not be permitted to fly commercially until a full investigation has taken place." the spokesperson continued. "That process should be complete within 30 days."

  In all, 114 people were sent to hospitals, 29 in serious condi- tion, as a result of injuries sustained while pilots performed dangerous gut wrenching maneuvers to avoid mid-air collisions.

  Neither Boeing nor the Transportation Safety Board would comment on how computer errors could suddenly affect so many airplanes at once, but some computer experts have pointed out the possibility of sabotage. According to Harold Greenwood, an aeronautic elec- tronics specialist with Air Systems Design in Alpharetta, Geor- gia, "there is a real and definite possibility that there has been a specific attack on the airline computers. Probably by hackers. Either that or the most devastating computer program- ming error in history."

  Government officials discounted Greenwood's theories and said there is no place for wild speculation that could create panic in the minds of the public. None the less, flight cancellations busied the phones at most airlines and travel agencies, while the gargantuan task of rescheduling thousands of flights with 30% less planes began. Airline officials who didn't want to be quoted estimated that it would take at least a week to bring the system back together,

  Airline fares will increase next Monday by at least 10% and as much as 40% on some routes that will not be restored fully.

  The tone of the press conference held at the DoT was one of both bitterness and shock as was that of sampled public opinion.

  "I think I'll take the train."

  "Computers? They always blame the computers. Who's really at fault?"

  "They're just as bad as the oil companies. Something goes a little wrong and they jack up the prices."

  The National Transportation Safety Board said it would also institute a series of preventative maintenance steps on other airplanes' computer systems to insure that such a global failure is never repeated.

  Major domestic airlines announced they would try to lease addi- tional planes from other countries, but could not guarantee prior service performance for 3 to 6 months. Preliminary estimates place the cost of this debacle at between $800 Million and $2 Billion if the entire 737 fleet is grounded for only 2 weeks.

  The Stock Market reacted poorly to the news, and transportation stocks dove an average of 27% in heavy trading.

  The White House issued a brief statement congratulating the airline industry for its handling of the situation and wished its best to all inconvenienced and injured travelers.

  Class action suits will be filed next week against the airlines and Boeing as a result of the computer malfunction. This is Scott Mason, riding the train.

  * * * * *

  "Doug," pleaded 39 year old veteran reporter Scott Mason. "Not another computer virus story . . ." Scott childishly shrugged his shoulders in mock defeat.

  "Stop your whining," Doug ordered in fun. "You are the special- ist," he chided.

  When the story first came across the wire, Scott was the logical choice. In only seven years as a reporter Scott Mason had de- veloped quite a reputation for himself, and for the New York City Times. Doug had had to eat his words from years earlier more times than he cared to remember, but Scott's head had not swelled to the size of his fan club, which was the bane of so many suc- cessful writers. He knew he was good, just like he had told Doug

  "There is nothing sexy about viruses anymore," said Scott trying to politely ignore his boss to the point he would just leave.

  "Christ Almighty," the chubby balding sixtyish editor exploded. Doug's periodic exclamatory outbursts at Scott's nonchalance on critical issues were legendary. "The man who puts Cold Fusion on the front page of every paper in the country doesn't think a virus is sexy enough for the public. Good night!"

  "That's not what I'm saying." Scott had to defend this one. "I finally got someone to go on the record about the solar payoff scandals between Oil and Congress . . ."

  "Then the virus story will give you a little break," kidded Doug. "You've been working too hard."

  "Damn it, Doug," Scott defied. "Viruses are a dime a dozen and worse, there's no one behind it, there's nobody there. There's no story . . ."

  "Then find one. That's what we pay you for." Doug loudly mut- tered a few choice words that his paper wouldn't be caught dead printing. "Besides, you're the only one left." As he left he patted Scott on the back saying, "thanks. Really."

  "God, I hate this job."

  Scott Mason loved his job, after all it was his invention seven years ago when he first pitched it to Doug. Scott's original idea had worked. Scott Mason alone, under the banner of the New York City Times, virtually pioneered Scientific Journalism as a media form in i
ts own right.

  Scott Mason was still its most vocal proponent, just as he was when he connived his way into a job with the Times, and without any journalistic experience. It was a childhood fantasy.

  Doug remembered the day clearly. "That's a new one on me," Doug had said with amusement when the mildly arrogant but very likable Mason had gotten cornered him, somehow bypassing personnel. Points for aggressiveness, points for creativity and points for brass balls. "What is Scientific Journalism?"

  "Scientific Journalism is stripping away all of the long techni- cal terms that science hides behind, and bringing the facts to the people at home."

  "We have a quite adequate Science Section, a computer column . . .and we pick up the big stories." Doug had tried to be polite.

  "That's not what I mean," Scott explained. "Everybody and his dead brother can write about the machines and the computers and the software. I'm talking about finding the people, the meaning, the impact behind the technology."

  "No one would be interested," objected Doug.

  Doug was wrong.

  Scott Mason immediately acclimated to the modus operandi of the news business and actually locked onto the collapse of Kaypro Computers and the odd founding family who rode serendipity until competence was required for survival. The antics of the Kay family earned Mason a respectable following in his articles and contributions as well as several libel and slander suits from the Kays. Trouble was, it's not against the law to print the truth or a third party speculations, as long as they're not malicious. Scott instinctively knew how to ride the fine edge between false accusations and impersonal objectivity.

  Cold Fusion, the brief prayer for immediate, cheap energy inde- pendence made headlines, but Scott Mason dug deep and found that some of the advocates of Cold Fusion had vested interests in palladium and iridium mining concerns. He also discovered how the experiments had been staged well enough to fool most experts. Scott had located one expert who wasn't fooled and could prove it. Scott Mason rode the crest of the Cold Fusion story for months before it became old news and the Hubble Telescope fiasco took its place.

  The fiasco of the Hubble Telescope was nothing new to Scott Mason's readers. He had published months before its launch that the mirrors were defective, but the government didn't heed the whistle blower's advice. The optical measurement computers which grind the mirrors of the telescope had a software program that was never tested before being used on the Hubble. The GSA had been tricked by the contractor's test results and Scott discov- ered the discrepencies.

  When Gene-Tech covered up the accidental release of mutated spores into the atmosphere from their genetic engineering labs, Scott Mason was the one reporter who had established enough of a reputation as both a fair reporter, and also one that understood the technology. Thanks to Mason's early diagnosis and the Times' responsible publishing, a potentially cataclysmic genetic disas- ter was averted.

  The software problems with Star Wars and Brilliant Pebbles, the payoffs that allowed defective X-Ray lasers to be shipped to the testing ground outside of Las Vegas Scott Mason was there. He traced the Libyan chemical weapons plant back to West Germany which triggered the subsequent destruction of the plant.

  Scott's outlook was simple. "It's a matter of recognizing the possibilities and then the probabilities. Therefore, if some- thing is possible, someone, somewhere will do it. Guaranteed. Since someone's doing it, then it's only a matter of catching him in the act."

  "Besides," he would tell anyone who would listen, "computers and technology and electronics represent trillions of dollars annu- ally. To believe that there isn't interesting, human interest and profound news to be found, is pure blindness. The fear of the unknown, the ignorance of what happens on the other side of the buttons we push, is an enemy wrapped in the shrouds of time, well disguised and easily avoided."

  Scott successfully opened the wounds of ignorance and technical apathy and made he and the Times the de facto standard in Scien- tific Journalism.

  His reputation as a expert in anything technical endeared him to fellow Times' reporters. Scott often became the technical back- bone of articles that did not carry his name. But that was good. The journalists' barter system. Scott Mason was not considered a competitor to the other reporters because of his areas of inter- est and the skills he brought with him to the paper. And, he didn't flaunt his knowledge. To Scott's way of thinking, techni- cal fluency should be as required as are the ABC's, so it was with the dedication of a teacher and the experience of simplifi- cation that Scott undertook it to openly help anyone who wanted to learn. His efforts were deeply appreciated.

  Chapter 2 Friday, September 4

  San Francisco, California

  Mr. Henson?"

  "Yes, Maggie?" Henson responded over the hands free phone on his highly polished black marble desk. He never looked up from the papers he was perusing.

  "There's a John Fullmaster for you."

  "Who?" he asked absent mindedly.

  "Ah, John Fullmaster."

  "I don't know a Fullman do I? Who is he?"

  "That's Fullmaster, sir, and he says its personal."

  Robert Henson, chairman and CEO of Perris, Miller and Stevenson leaned back in the plush leather chair. A brief perplexed look covered his face and then a sigh of resignation. "Very well, tell him I'll take it in a minute."

  As the young highly visible leader of one of the most successful Wall Street investment banking firms during the merger mania of the 1980's, he had grown accustomed to cold calls from aggressive young brokers who wanted a chance to pitch him on sure bets. Most often he simply ignored the calls, or referred them to his capable and copious staff. Upon occasion, though, he would amuse himself with such calls by putting the caller through salesmen's hell; he would permit them to give their pitch, actually sound interested, permit the naive to believe that their call to Robert Henson would lead them to a pot of gold, then only to bring them down as harshly as he could. It was the only seeming diversion Robert Henson had from the daily grueling regimen of earning fat fees in the most somber of Wall Street activities. He needed a break anyway.

  "Robert Henson. May I help you?" He said into the phone. It was as much a command as a question. From the 46th. floor SW corner office, Henson stared out over Lower New York Bay where the Statue of Liberty reigned.

  "Thank you for taking my call Mr. Henson." The caller's proper Central London accent was engaging and conveyed assurance and propriety. "I am calling in reference to the proposed merger you are arranging between Second Boston Financial and Winston Ellis Services. I don't believe that the SEC will be impressed with the falsified figures you have generated to drive up your fees. Don't you agree."

  Henson bolted upright in his chair and glared into the phone. "Who the hell is this?" he demanded.

  "Merely a concerned citizen, sir." The cheeky caller paused. "I asked, sir, don't you agree?"

  "Listen," Henson shouted into the phone. I don't know who the hell you are, nor what you want, but all filings made with the SEC are public and available to anyone. Even the press whom I assume you represent . . ."

  "I am not with the press Mr. Henson," the voice calmly interrupt- ed. "All the same, I am sure that they would be quite interest- ed in what I have to say. Or, more precisely, what I have to show them."

  "What the hell are you talking about?" Henson screamed.

  "Specifically, you inflated the earnings of Winston Ellis over 40% by burying certain write downs and deferred losses. I be- lieve you are familiar with the numbers. Didn't you have them altered yourself?"

  Henson paled as the caller spoke to him matter of factly. His eyes darted around his spacious and opulent office as though someone might be listening. He shifted uneasily in his chair, leaned into the phone and spoke quietly.

  "I don't know what you're taking about."

  "I think you do, Mr. Henson."

  "What do you want?" Henson asked cautiously.

  "Merely your acknowledgment, to me, rig
ht now, that the figures were falsified, at your suggestion, and . . ."

  "I admit nothing. Nothing." Henson hung up the phone.

  Shaken, he dialed the phone, twice. In his haste he misdialed the first time. "Get me Brocker. Now. This is Henson."

  "Brocker," the other end of the phone responded nonchalantly.

  "Bill, Bob here. We got troubles."

  * * * * *

  "Senator Rickfield? I think you better take this call." Ken Boyers was earnest in his suggestion. The aged Senator looked up and recognized a certain urgency. The youthful 50 year old Ken Boyers had been with Senator Merrill Rickfield since the mid 1960's as an aide de campe, a permanent fixture in Rickfield's national success. Ken preferred the number two spot, to be the man in the background rather the one in the public light. He felt he could more effectively wield power without the constant surveillance of the press. Only when events and deals were completely orchestrated were they made public, and then Merrill could take the credit. The arrangement suited them both.

  Rickfield indicated that his secretary and the two junior aids should leave the room. "What is it Ken?"

  "Just take the call, listen carefully, and then we'll talk."

  "Who is it, Ken. I don't talk to every. . ."

  "Merrill . . .pick up the phone." It was an order. They had worked together long enough to afford Ken the luxury of ordering a U.S. Senator around.

  "This is Senator Rickfield, may I help you?" The solicitous campaign voice, smiling and inviting, disguised the puzzled look he gave his senior aide. Within a few seconds the puzzlement gave way to open mouthed silent shock and then, only moments later to overt fear. He stared with disbelief at Ken Boyers. Aghast, he gently put the phone back in its cradle.

  "Ken," Rickfield haltingly spoke. "Who the hell was that and how in blazes did he know about the deal with Credite Suisse? Only you, me and General Young knew." He rose slowly rose and looked accusingly at Ken.

  "C'mon Merrill, I have as much to lose as you."

  "The hell you do." He was growling. "I'm a respected United States Senator. They can string me up from the highest yardarm just like they did Nixon and I'm not playing to lose. Besides, I'm the one the public knows while you're invisible. It's my ass and you know it. Now, and I mean now, tell me what the hell is going on? There were only three of us . . ."