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- li
ons 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 doe
s 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 . . ."
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