When the war started and the Chinese E-bombs knocked out much of Taiwan’s computer capability, Unit 23 was hurriedly pressed into action to restore as much of the military’s computer capability in Taipei as possible. Both the Macau and the Hong Kong web sites continued to operate autonomously, but without any new material on the free sites (free to those with certain prized web addresses — businessmen had to pay by credit card), the number of hits began to decline. A week later, both sites’ traffic was half of what it was at the start of the war.
On Sunday, Min finally had time to turn his squad’s attention back to the web sites. They all knew they had to work fast. Remotely communicating by SATCOM with the computer servers in Macao and Hong Kong, Min unleashed the porno sites’ emergency files. He set the clock for 24 hours.
Immediately, a torrent of new material cued up on the sites. Those who did not visit either site within 12 hours would get a discrete e-mail notice about the posting of fresh photos and quick time videos. The data from Min’s previous trials suggested that 85 % the loyal viewers would return to the site twice within 24 hours, usually doing so from their computers at work (most Party officials did not have computer access at home). When they did, Min’s crew would have a surprise waiting for them.
Feng Goufeng was a mid-level Party functionary in the Ministry of Agriculture. He was divorced. His ex-wife said she left him because of his “problem.” He didn’t think he had a problem — rather, it was she who had archaic attitudes about sex. In any event, his growing appetite for untraditional recreation doomed their relationship. Instead of fighting her divorce, Feng let his wife go (she threatened to tell his superiors about his habits if he didn’t grant her her desire to be set free).
Since Feng was neither particularly handsome, young, rich or powerful, nor even very nice to be around, he had, without exception, been without female companionship since his divorce (prostitutes were too risky for the Party man). So, to fulfill his many sordid fantasies, he turned to the burgeoning Chinese Internet for relief.
Had the Party monitored its own Members’ web use more judiciously, they would have eventually tracked down a disturbing trend within their ranks. Instead, Feng and hundreds of others often enjoyed a few hours of Party-subsidized fun every day. Several users of smut were even praised by their unwitting supervisors for “working late” and “being dedicated.”
Feng got into the office early on Monday morning, as was his tradition. Monday mornings before 6:00 AM were the best time to partake of his pastime without fear of discovery. He entered his favorite site’s address onto his web browser (he didn’t dare bookmark it, that could easily be traced). The site came up and proudly announced a wide new selection of delicacies to view. Feng greedily reviewed the choices and clicked onto a particularly promising page. He was so thoroughly engrossed in the material that he scarcely heard his computer’s innards working harder than normal to process some commands in the background.
Feng heard someone in the hallway outside. He quickly logged off then erased the evidence of his visit from the browser’s history log. He called up his e-mail program and attached a file he had prepared on Saturday outlining June’s rice production numbers. (He had prepared the file early but not sent it, intending to use it later as cover for his early morning romp on the Internet.) He addressed the file to his superior and his deputy. After reviewing the file for errors, Feng knew they would forward it along to other key departmental heads, including representatives of most major ministries — after all, rice production was still one of the chief indicators of his nation’s health (sadly, the numbers weren’t as good as they should have been for June).
Feng’s boss, the Assistant Minister of Agriculture for Rice, held a hard copy of Feng’s report. It was 9:30 AM. He reviewed it, frowning at the modest production numbers. If the trend continued much longer, he knew his position would be at risk—perhaps Feng himself was angling for my job, he thought, noting the early morning time stamp on the document.
Seeing that all was in order, he ordered his secretary to attach the document to an e-mail and sent it out on his distribution list. The report would be considered an informal draft. The official report would be written up this afternoon and sent out on paper over his signature. China was learning to benefit from electronic data exchange, but old methods die hard and paper was still preferred for important official business (especially for classified communications).
Feng’s boss’ secretary moved to close her computer’s e-mail window. Strange, she noticed, the screen was frozen. She rarely had a crash early in the morning when only a program or two had been opened. She heard the processor and the hard drive churning away—very strange.
When China planned its attack against Taiwan, a supporting element of that attack included a cyber assault on the American national security computer network comprising the White House, DoD, State Department and CIA. This computer attack was designed to clog critical e-mail and network arteries to increase confusion and delay the U.S. response.
As it was, both sides overestimated their effectiveness — the Chinese at causing problems and the Americans at defending against them. The Chinese succeeded in penetrating a couple of firewalls protecting internal government networks from outside interference while their e-mail attack enjoyed a little more success, tying up routine message traffic for a few hours (doing things like delaying the White House’s computerized automatic paging system designed to recall key National Security Council Staffers in an emergency). The Americans (everyone except for the computer experts) were shocked that any firewalls were breached at all.
China’s modest effort at disrupting U.S. computer systems (led by a small group of computer scientists and mathematicians, many of whom recently studied in the United States) had no defensive counterpart to speak of. Computers were only recently becoming important to Chinese government and business. While the authorities carefully monitored Internet communications, looking for any signs of unrest or subversion, it never really occurred to them to safeguard their systems. Most in government simply figured if the computers went down they’d simply shift to typewriters, fax machines, telephones and radios.
Against this backdrop, the desperate actions of Taiwan’s Unit 23 produced effects far beyond the imagination of even the unit’s most creative hacker. For the first hour after being downloaded from the Macao porn site, three special macro viruses attached themselves to any compatible document within the Chinese government network. These time-activated programs waited until noon Monday to activate. Once activated, they reworked the grammar of the documents in which they were embedded, changing affirmative statements to the negative, and vice versa. After two hours, the second time released phase of the viralpac kicked in. Based on the virulent “Melissa” virus coded by a lovelorn American hacker in 1999 and on the even more pernicious “LoveBug” virus coded in the Philippines in 2000, the Taiwanese variety (jokingly called “Merissa” by its inventor) worked by infecting a machine’s e-mail system, causing it to send messages to every address in its address book. The messages thus sent also replicated themselves to every known address and so on.