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 did
n'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 querie
d 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 . . ."
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