Terminal Compromise Part 15

The headline of the National Expos , a weekly tabloid caught Scott's attention on his way home that evening in Grand Central Station.

EXCLUSIVE! S&L RIP OFF EXPOSED!

Scott's entire story, the one he wasn't permitted to print was being read by millions of mid-American supermarket shopping housewives. In its typically sensationalistic manner, the arti- cle claimed that the Expose was in exclusive possession of doc.u.ments that proved McMillan was stealing 10's of millions from First State S&L. It even printed a fuzzy picture of the same papers that Scott had received. How the h.e.l.l?

Chapter 4

Thursday, September 10 Houston, Texas.

Angela Steinem dialed extension 4343, Network Administration for MIS at the Treadline Oil Company in Houston, Texas. It rang three times before Joan Appleby answered. Joan was the daytime network administrator for Building 4. Hundreds of IBM personal computers were connected together so they could share information over a Novell local area network.

"Joan, I don't bug you much, right?" Angela said hesitantly.

"Angela, how about a good morning girl?" They were good friends outside of work but had very little business contact.

"Sorry, mornin'. Joan, I gotta problem."

"What's troubling ya hon." Joan Texas spoke with a distinct Texas tw.a.n.g.

"A little bird just ate my computer."

"Well, then I guess I'd be lookin' out for Big Bird's data dump."

Joan laughed in appreciation of the comedy.

"No really. A little bird flew all over my computer and ate up all the letters and words on the screen. Seriously."

"Y'all are putting me on, right?" Maggie's voice lilted.

"No. No, I'm serious. It was like a simple video game, Pac-Man or something, ate up the screen. I couldn't get it to come back so I turned my computer off and now it won't do anything. All it says is COMMAND.COM cannot be found. Now, what the h.e.l.l does that mean."

Joan Appleby now took Angela seriously. "It may mean that we have some mighty sick computers. I'll be right there."

By the end of work, the Treadline Oil Company was essentially at a standstill. Over 4,000 of their internal microcomputers, mainly IBM and Compaq's were out of commission. The virus had successfully struck.

Angela Steinem and her technicians shut down the more than 50 local area networks and gateways that connected the various business units. They contacted the National Computer Virus a.s.sociation in San Mateo, California, NIST's National Computer Center Laboratories and a dozen or so other watchdog groups who monitor computer viruses.

This was a new virus. No one had seen it before. Sorry, they said. If you can send us you hard disk, we may be able find out what's going on . . .otherwise, your best bet is to dismantle the entire computer system, all 4,000 plus of them, and start from scratch.

Angela informed the Vice President of Information Systems that it would be at least a week, maybe ten days before Treadline would be fully operational again.

Mary Wallstone, secretary to Larry Gompers, Junior democratic representative from South Carolina was stymied.

Every morning between 7:30 and 8:00 AM she opened her boss's office and made coffee. Most mornings she brought in Dunkin'

Donuts. It was the only way she knew to insure that her weight would never ebb below 200 pounds. Her pleasant silken skin did not match the plumpness below. At 28 she should have known that meeting Was.h.i.+ngton's best and brightest required a more slender physique.

This morning she jovially sat down at her Apple Macintosh comput- er with 3 creme filled donuts and a mug of black coffee with 4 sugars. She turned on the power switch and waited as the hour- gla.s.s icon indicated that the computer was booting. It was going through its self diagnostics as it did every time power was applied.

Normally, after a few seconds, the Mac would come alive and the screen would display a wide range of options from which she could select. Mary would watch the procedure carefully each time - she was an efficient secretary.

This time, however, the screen displayed a new message, one she had not seen in the nine months she had worked as Congressman Gompers' front line.

RAM OPTIMIZER TEST PROCEDURE....

INITIALIZING...

THIS PROGRAM IS DESIGNED TO TAKE MAXIMUM ADVANTAGE OF SYSTEM STORAGE CAPABILITIES. THE TEST WILL ONLY TAKE A FEW SECONDS...

WAITING....

WARNING: DO NOT TURN OFF COMPUTER DURING SELF TEST!

As she was trained, she heeded her computer's instructions. She watched and waited as the computer's hard disk whirred and buzzed. She wasn't familiar with the message, but it sounded quite official, and after all, the computer is always right.

And she waited. Some few seconds, she thought, as she dove into her second donut. And she waited through the third donut and another mug of too sweet coffee.

She waited nearly a half an hour, trying to oblige the instruc- tions from the technocratic box on her desk. The Mac continued to work, so she thought, but the screen didn't budge from it's warning message.

What the h.e.l.l, this has taken long enough. What harm can it cause if . . .

She turned the power switch off and then back on. Nothing.

The computer did absolutely nothing. The power light was on, the disk light was on, but the screen was as blank as a dead televi- sion set.

Mary called Violet Beecham, a co worker in another office down the hall.

"'Morning Vi. Mary."

Violet sounded agitated. "Yeah, Mare, what is it?"

"I'm being a dumb bunny and need a hand with my computer. Got a sec?" Mary's sweetness oozed over the phone.

"You, too? You're having trouble? My computer's as dead as a doornail. Won't do anything. I mean nothing." Violet was frustrated as all get out and the concern communicated to Mary.

"Dead? Vi, mine is dead too. What happened to yours?"

"d.a.m.ned if I know. It was doing some self check or something, seemed to take forever and then . . .nothing. What about yours?"

"Same thing. Have you called MIS yet?"

"Not yet, but I'm getting ready to. I never did trust these things. Give me a typewriter any day."

"Sure Vi. I'll call you right back."

Mary looked up the number for MIS Services, the technical magi- cians in the bas.e.m.e.nt who keep the 3100 Congressional computers alive.