Backslash: A gripping political techno-thriller Read online

  Backslash

  William H. Lovejoy

  © William H. Lovejoy 1996.

  William H. Lovejoy has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in the UK by Kensington Books, 1996.

  This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  NOTE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  The following are excellent sources for anyone wishing to learn more about the myriad and mystical world of the Internet.

  The Internet Companion, Tracy La Quey with Jeanne C. Ryer, Addison-Wesley, 1993.

  The Virtual Community, Howard Rheingold, Addison-Wesley, 1993.

  The Complete Handbook of Personal Computer Communications, Alfred Glossbrfenner, St. Martin’s Press, 1990.

  Internet, The Magazine for Internet Users, February, 1995, General Security Issues.

  NOTE

  This is a work of fiction, and certain places, people, events and processes are utilized in a fictional manner and may have no connection to reality. Certain technological processes have been disguised in the interest of creating a readable story while not adding to the security woes of the Net.

  ONE

  DATE: TUE OCT 13 14:03:14 USERID: pmart

  A blue Air Force passenger van took them from Cannon Air Force Base into Clovis, to the Consolidated Bank of Clovis where disaster was apparently eminent. The airman at the wheel tested the limits posted along the highway.

  The October dryness of Texas, a few miles to the east, spilled over the New Mexican landscape. It was big and open and boring to Peter Martin who was more at home in the congested corridors of the Eastern Seaboard.

  Clovis was a nice little town, though, with wide streets, cheerful smiles on the pedestrians, and banks of deciduous trees that were just beginning to lose their weathered leaves. He felt green and gold and red, though not as overwhelmingly so as when he went home to Vermont for visits with his folks. When he thought about it, those visits had become a trifle rare. He would have to change his ways.

  It was a resolution he made once a month, but so far, not one way had been changed. For a man so in control of his career and so positive about his ideologies, Martin wasn't adept at fulfilling his personal and social resolutions. And since early this morning, he wasn't so certain about his professional objectives.

  He didn't know why he was on the edge of the godforsaken New Mexican high desert except that one never refused a strong suggestion of the President. In his discussions with his two companions since leaving Andrews Air Force Base in Washington, he thought that they were pretty much in the dark, also. His only clue was the note directed to the White House, arriving via electronic mail, which the President seemed to take seriously enough to warrant spending some Air Force bucks sending them to New Mexico.

  The unknown consultant--unknown to Martin--Nathan Gray sat with Luanne Russell in the middle seat of the van, and Martin sat sideways in the front passenger seat next to the driver so he could see them. Gray was a computer nerd, he guessed, but Russell, who had been named chairperson of this trio by the President, was worth a second glance. He hadn't met her before six-thirty this morning, but she was with the Bureau, heading up its computer crimes unit, and he had heard her name mentioned around town a few times. After his first set of inspections, he thought he might like to know her better, and he put that thought in his mental suspense file.

  They were about to find out if anonymous predictions--by some weirdo psychic, he thought--were to come true.

  The driver found space near the glass front doors, and the three of them climbed out of the van and traipsed into the bank.

  The president of Consolidated Bank was present to meet them, and he was on the verge of being frantic. Martin thought he was normally a conservative Republican, judging by his banker's vested uniform and his stout, beef-fed appearance. This being an abnormal day, hosting a few Washington anonymous but obviously important people, he was wringing his hands and his face was haggard. He had probably not slept last night, after the Federal Bureau of Investigation had notified him of the impending visit, though not the reasons for it.

  He was in the dark about the purpose of their visit because the message directed to the President was currently suppressed. Knowing Washington, Martin didn't give it much chance of staying secret for more than forty-eight hours.

  As soon as they were seated in a conference room on the main floor of the bank, Luanne Russell identified herself, then introduced Gray and Martin. Except for herself, she did not tag them with agencies.

  "I wonder, Mr. Belz, if you'd explain your facility layout for us?"

  He coughed, cleared his throat, and said, "I'd be happy to. We have the main bank here, a small branch office at Cannon Air Force Base, and eleven teller machines located in convenient spots. Three of them are on the base, and one is located on the campus of Eastern New Mexico University."

  "Beyond your own telecommunications, you are linked with others?"

  Belz smiled weakly. "Of course. By one route or another, we communicate electronically with almost every financial institution in the world. Primarily for electronic fund transfers."

  "With the Air Force personnel and the college students, you have a lot of small accounts?"

  Martin decided he liked her blonde hair. Like dark cream with ashes in it, thick and heavy. She trimmed it just below her ear lobes; he thought it should be longer, but the Bureau director would probably argue with him.

  "Quite a number, yes.""And you have backed up your account data as we suggested last night?"

  Luanne had rather intense green eyes, also, almost a teal color, barely shaded with eyeliner. High cheekbones, slight concavity to her cheeks. She looked like one of the Irish lasses in the hand soap commercials.

  "We've encountered a rather strange phenomenon in that area, Miss Russell." Belz did not look happy at all.

  "And that is?"

  "For some reason, our computer will no longer backup our data files. The copy program will not execute. Our technicians are working on the problem, have been all night, and I expect a solution soon."

  But not soon enough. Martin looked at the clock on the wall: it was 2:40. He spoke to Nathan Gray. "That compounds the problem?"

  "Immensely," Gray replied. "Every day that goes by, more data will accumulate, and if it cannot be copied and compiled, there will be more to lose as time goes by. Computer tapes and disk media eventually become full and are removed from the machine, but the lack of duplicating ability makes everything riskier."

  Martin asked, "Can we set up some regionalized computer facilities, free of communications access, to provide duplication services for banks?"

  Belz listened to this with increasing anxiety on his face.

  "Yes, but it's going to be costly."

  "I'd suggest, Mr. Belz, that you have your people remove the backup media--tapes, disks, whatever you're using, from the backup drives right now," Russell told him.


  Belz hurried to a phone at the side of the room.

  "Are we being a little paranoid?" Martin asked quietly.

  "We're being safe, Peter. In view of the sudden inability of the bank to make electronic copies, I think our unknown . . . assailant is already making his presence felt."

  "Assailant?"

  "For want of another term at the moment." Her teal eyes gave off little sparks of green fire as she spoke to him. This was a woman who didn't like having her decisions questioned.

  A real challenge, in other words.

  Martin surveyed the severe gray suit of the FBI agent. It was meant to dissuade, he thought, but it was a tough job, what with the full bosom and the flaring hips. She sat slightly slouched in the castered conference chair, her arms resting with her palms up on the cushioned arms. He found the posture inviting.

  When Belz came back from the phone, Luanne asked him, "What is the volume of your electronic funds transfer programming?"

  "Well, I'm not an expert, of course, Miss Russell. The, uh, remote tellers are on the system, and we do the normal amount of transfers in other areas. Usually with the Fed--uh, the Federal Reserve Bank in Albuquerque. Generally, we have large transfers on Air Force paydays. The tellers would be the most heavily used on those days."

  "No large transfers for other customers?"

  "Not normally, no. For a few car dealers, and a couple brokerages, we handle some big transfers."

  "How big? What amounts?"

  "Sometimes as much as two, three hundred thousand."

  "I see," she said.

  Martin asked, "Mr. Belz, what does an average payroll for Cannon run to?"

  "Hmmm. Guessing, I'd say it's close to nine or ten million, sir."

  "I'd have thought it would be larger."

  "That's only the cash, or check, part of the payroll that goes directly to servicemen and that we must be prepared for. Many of them have built-in allotments paid directly from the Air Force Finance Center to savings, checking, or other accounts all around the country. We, naturally, increase our holdings periodically to handle the check-cashing locally. And some of the personnel have direct deposit arrangements with our bank."

  "It'll be interesting to see if some poor airman with a wife and two kids is going to be deprived of his paycheck," Martin said.

  Belz stared at him in amazement.

  When the clock showed five minutes before three o'clock, Luanne Russell asked the president to take them to the computer center in the basement. He led the way, and they followed him, passing through an adequate security check. The computer center wasn't open to tours.

  It was peopled with a dozen experts working at different terminals. Their faces were tired and frustrated, the men showing an overnight growth of whiskers, and all of them the eye fatigue of a long night staring at monitors. Martin assumed they had yet to come up with a solution to their problem.

  Belz gathered them around the blank screen of a computer terminal.

  "Call something up, would you?" Luanne asked. "Almost anything will do."

  Belz spoke to the operator, "Let's see the bank's investment account, Cynthia."

  Martin figured that Belz wanted to show the FBI that there were no irregularities in his accounts. Let's not give anyone the idea that the Consolidated Bank of Clovis was on the brink of anything, much less insolvency.

  Cynthia's fingers flew, and black letters and numerals appeared on the gray background of the screen. Nice long columns of numbers that accountants liked to see.

  Belz started to explain, "This is the current balance of investments in. . . ."

  The screen went black.

  "Uh, Cynthia, would you bring it back up?"

  She tried.

  "Try cash flow analysis."

  Nothing.

  The other technicians in the room had lost their voices, also. Martin looked around and saw nothing but blank screens.

  Nathan Gray spoke, "Could I sit there a minute, Miss?"

  She clambered out of the chair, and Gray took the operator's place. He began tapping keys. Martin thought Gray probably typed way over a hundred words a minute.

  After several minutes, Gray rotated in the swivel chair. "Nothing. The bank no longer has a data bank online, nor does it have a single operating system left in computer memory."

  "Might as well get out the old eyeshades and hand cranked calculators," Martin observed, but to Russell's obvious annoyance. Green fire in the eyes.

  President Belz of the Consolidated Bank looked stricken, his face wan, and Peter hoped he was not going to have a heart attack. "But . . . but . . . but. . . ." he stuttered.

  And Martin wondered how he was going to fight this.

  He had worked strategies in Vietnam, covert intelligence networks in Thailand, Germany, and Moscow, and he had even ordered the deaths of prominent agents in hostile services. In earlier days, he had personally seen to the demise of enemy agents. He had never come up against an adversary that was unseen and yet could reach everywhere in the world with electronic fingers.

  He told Russell and Gray, "This could get downright serious."

  TWO

  DATE: WED OCT 14 11:16:09 USERID: catlas

  Jack Crane slapped the gear shift back from third into second and felt the big tires locked in four wheel drive grip the icy ruts anew. The Blazer quit sliding and straightened itself out. He glanced in the left side rearview mirror to make certain the trailer was tracking. It was.

  He whistled something he knew from 50's musical history, but couldn't quite place. "Baby Elephant Walk?"

  The snow was coming down steadily now, big lazy flakes heavy with moisture. They stuck immediately to the hood and the windshield. On the windshield, they instantly melted because of the warmth of the interior. The wipers swished in rhythmic arcs. Despite the treacherous track he was following, Crane was comfortable. He was enjoying himself.

  The Blazer was a '73 model and looked like a salvage yard reject. Its red paint was faded to rusty orange, and in fact, the color camouflaged a few rust spots on the rocker panels and the lips of the rear fender wells. The hood was buckled on the right side. The interior was shot; worn spots in the bucket seats allowed cracking and deteriorating foam rubber to show through. He had bought the truck for a hundred-and-fifty bucks because second gear was non-existent and the engine had thrown a connecting rod.

  The body was all he had wanted, anyway. He had transferred it to the chassis of a 1993 GMC Jimmy that had been badly crumpled in a rollover. The chassis, engine, and drive train remains had cost him nearly four thousand, but now he had a nondescript truck hiding a smooth-running, fuel-injected 5.0-liter V-8. With a decent heater and radio. He had renovated them, also, and the stereo issued Mary Chapin Carpenter. KYGO out of Denver. Fighting his own wind-driven rendition of Dave "Baby" Cortez.

  Crane wasn't worried about the snow. This early in the winter, it wouldn't last long. Even if he actually bogged down and got stuck, he was prepared. Like any good Coloradoan familiar with the mountains, he carried a survival pack in the back of the truck. He had blankets, matches, a flashlight, batteries, a few cans of food and water. Plus a few weeks' worth of groceries.

  Crane was not a true Coloradoan; he had met few who were. But he had learned the necessities of mountain life from some of the locals after they grew accustomed to him for a few months.

  The track he was following stretched for a mile from County Road 128 which connected Caribou--high in the mountains--with Nederland. And Nederland was fifteen miles up the Boulder Canyon from Boulder, Colorado.

  This road had not been bulldozed much when it was cut through the forest except perhaps in a couple of spots. It followed the terrain, and the terrain was daunting. The ruts rose and fell as they worked along narrow canyons, cut into washed-out arroyos, climbed along the edge of steep drop-offs. Some of the gullies were fifteen and twenty-feet deep. On the other side of the narrow road, the cliff face climbed for over a hundred feet. If he went off the left si
de, into the chasm, he wasn't likely to get back on the road, even with his front bumper-mounted winch. The Ponderosa pine and blue spruce closed in tight, their branches scraping the truck like grasping fingers as it slipped by. Big glops of snow fell from the jostled branches to the hood and roof.

  He passed the almost indistinguishable turnoff leading to the cabin of his closest neighbor, a man from Chicago named Mark-something who showed up for only a couple weeks in the summers.

  Half a mile to go.

  He slowed even more as he approached the landmark he had self-named Stony Point. It was a large outcropping of granite, gripped with greenish moss and marked with the white droppings of birds. The ruts became a rock base and passed in front of the outcropping with a thirty-foot spill on the left, then abruptly turned to the right. At five miles an hour in low-lock, with the tires spinning on the wet surface of the rock, he eased around the turn, keeping an eye on the trailer in the right mirror. The trailer fender cleared the rock face by an inch.

  Then it was a steady rise, back onto gravel and granite-based soil, snaking back and forth like a rattlesnake along the rim of the canyon for a quarter mile. The steep slopes to his right were thick with pine forest. Little clumps of aspen were almost barren of leaves now; a few gold and orange leaves twittered under the weight of the snowfall. He was 8100 feet above sea level. It had taken him nearly two months to acclimate his breathing to the altitude.

  At the top of the pass, with the mountain slopes on either side of him climbing out of sight into the white haze, the road abruptly ended. The other side of the pass was about a fifty-degree downward shot into weed- and shrub-choked oblivion.

  He cranked the wheel hard to the left and nursed the truck along in first gear across a narrow rock bridge, followed the curve into a crevice in the mountain side, and a hundred yards later, emerged into a small box canyon hemmed in by the forest. It was an inhospitable place. In the winter, the sun reached through the trees directly to the cabin for only three hours a day.