“Worm?” Brinkerhoff groaned. It seemed like a mundane term to describe the insidious intruder.
“Worm.” Jabba smoldered. “No complex structures, just instinct‑eat, shit, crawl. That’s it. Simplicity. Deadly simplicity. It does what it’s programmed to do and then checks out.”
Fontaine eyed Jabba sternly. “And what is this worm programmed to do?”
“No clue,” Jabba replied. “Right now, it’s spreading out and attaching itself to all our classified data. After that, it could do anything. It might decide to delete all the files, or it might just decide to print smiley faces on certain White House transcripts.”
Fontaine’s voice remained cool and collected. “Can you stop it?”
Jabba let out a long sigh and faced the screen. “I have no idea. It all depends on how pissed off the author is.” He pointed to the message on the wall. “Anybody want to tell me what the hell that means?”
ONLY THE TRUTH WILL SAVE YOU NOW
ENTER PASS KEY
Jabba waited for a response and got none. “Looks like someone’s messing with us, Director. Blackmail. This is a ransom note if I ever saw one.”
Susan’s voice was a whisper, empty and hollow. “It’s . . . Ensei Tankado.”
Jabba turned to her. He stared a moment, wide‑eyed. “Tankado?”
Susan nodded weakly. “He wanted our confession . . . about TRANSLTR . . . but it cost him his—”
“Confession?” Brinkerhoff interrupted, looking stunned. “Tankado wants us to confess we have TRANSLTR? I’d say it’s a bit late for that!”
Susan opened her mouth to speak, but Jabba took over. “Looks like Tankado’s got a kill‑code,” he said, gazing up at the message on the screen.
Everyone turned.
“Kill code?” Brinkerhoff demanded.
Jabba nodded. “Yeah. A pass‑key that stops the worm. Simply put, if we admit we have TRANSLTR, Tankado gives us a kill‑code. We type it in and save the databank. Welcome to digital extortion.”
Fontaine stood like rock, unwavering. “How long have we got?”
“About an hour,” Jabba said. “Just time enough to call a press conference and spill our guts.
“Recommendation,” Fontaine demanded. “What do you propose we do?”
“A recommendation?” Jabba blurted in disbelief. “You want a recommendation? I’ll give you a recommendation! You quit fucking around, that’s what you do!”
“Easy,” the director warned.
“Director,” Jabba sputtered. “Right now, Ensei Tankado owns this databank! Give him whatever he wants. If he wants the world to know about TRANSLTR, call CNN, and drop your shorts. TRANSLTR’s a hole in the ground now anyway‑what the hell do you care?”
There was a silence. Fontaine seemed to be considering his options. Susan began to speak, but Jabba beat her to it.
“What are you waiting for, Director! Get Tankado on the phone! Tell him you’ll play ball! We need that kill‑code, or this whole place is going down!”
Nobody moved.
“Are you all insane?” Jabba screamed. “Call Tankado! Tell him we fold! Get me that kill‑code! NOW!” Jabba whipped out his cellular phone and switched it on. “Never mind! Get me his number! I’ll call the little prick myself!”
“Don’t bother,” Susan said in a whisper. “Tankado’s dead.”
After a moment of confused astonishment, the implications hit Jabba like a bullet to the gut. The huge Sys‑Sec looked like he was about to crumble. “Dead? But then . . . that means . . . we can’t . . .”
“That means we’ll need a new plan,” Fontaine said matter‑of‑factly.
Jabba’s eyes were still glazed with shock when someone in the back of the room began shouting wildly.
“Jabba! Jabba!”
It was Soshi Kuta, his head techie. She came running toward the podium trailing a long printout. She looked terrified.
“Jabba!” She gasped. “The worm . . . I just found out what it’s programmed to do!” Soshi thrust the paper into Jabba’s hands. “I pulled this from the system‑activity probe! We isolated the worm’s execute commands‑have a look at the programming! Look what it’s planning to do!”
Dazed, the chief Sys‑Sec read the printout. Then he grabbed the handrail for support.
“Oh, Jesus,” Jabba gasped. “Tankado . . . you bastard!”
CHAPTER 110
Jabba stared blankly at the printout Soshi had just handed him. Pale, he wiped his forehead on his sleeve. “Director, we have no choice. We’ve got to kill power to the databank.”
“Unacceptable,” Fontaine replied. “The results would be devastating.”
Jabba knew the director was right. There were over three thousand ISDN connections tying into the NSA databank from all over the world. Every day military commanders accessed up‑to‑the‑instant satellite photos of enemy movement. Lockheed engineers downloaded compartmentalized blueprints of new weaponry. Field operatives accessed mission updates. The NSA databank was the backbone of thousands of U.S. government operations. Shutting it down without warning would cause life‑and‑death intelligence blackouts all over the globe.
“I’m aware of the implications, sir,” Jabba said, “but we have no choice.”
“Explain yourself,” Fontaine ordered. He shot a quick glance at Susan standing beside him on the podium. She seemed miles away.
Jabba took a deep breath and wiped his brow again. From the look on his face, it was clear to the group on the podium that they were not going to like what he had to say.
“This worm,” Jabba began. “This worm is not an ordinary degenerative cycle. It’s a selective cycle. In other words, it’s a worm with taste.”
Brinkerhoff opened his mouth to speak, but Fontaine waved him off.
“Most destructive applications wipe a databank clean, “Jabba continued, “but this one is more complex. It deletes only those files that fall within certain parameters.”
“You mean it won’t attack the whole databank?” Brinkerhoff asked hopefully. “That’s good, right?”
“No!” Jabba exploded. “It’s bad! It’s very fucking bad!”
“Cool it!” Fontaine ordered. “What parameters is this worm looking for? Military? Covert ops?”
Jabba shook his head. He eyed Susan, who was still distant, and then Jabba’s eyes rose to meet the director’s. “Sir, as you know, anyone who wants to tie into this databank from the outside has to pass a series of security gates before they’re admitted.”
Fontaine nodded. The databank’s access hierarchies were brilliantly conceived; authorized personnel could dial in via the Internet and World Wide Web. Depending on their authorization sequence, they were permitted access to their own compartmentalized zones.
“Because we’re tied to the global Internet, “Jabba explained, “hackers, foreign governments, and EFF sharks circle this databank twenty‑four hours a day and try to break in.”
“Yes,” Fontaine said, “and twenty‑four hours a day, our security filters keep them out. What’s your point?”
Jabba gazed down at the printout. “My point is this. Tankado’s worm is not targeting our data.” He cleared his throat. “It’s targeting our security filters.”
Fontaine blanched. Apparently he understood the implications‑this worm was targeting the filters that kept the NSA databank confidential. Without filters, all of the information in the databank would become accessible to everyone on the outside.
“We need to shut down,” Jabba repeated. “In about an hour, every third grader with a modem is going to have top U.S. security clearance.”
Fontaine stood a long moment without saying a word.
Jabba waited impatiently and finally turned to Soshi. “Soshi! VR! NOW!”