“Here you go!” said the agent as she handed him the boarding pass and passport, looking up with a brave smile. “We’ll be boarding in a few minutes at Gate 10 on the Gold Concourse. Have a real nice trip.”
“I’m sure I will.”
1993: The Uncloaking
“Mr. Johnson, I’m Special Agent Martha Thomas with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I spoke to you about this meeting. This is Agent Mildred Lutsen with the Defense Intelligence Agency.”
“Glad to meet you, Agent Thomas and Agent Lutsen,” said a surprised Richard Johnson, manager of communications quality assurance, Defense Electronics Command. “You’ll have to excuse my surprise, Agent Lutsen, but you sure don’t look like an intelligence agent.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Johnson. I know that my appearance surprises some, but I assure you that I’ve been an intelligence specialist for more than twenty years,” said Mildred using her alias once again. “Why don’t we get down to business?”
“Sure. Now why are you two interested in my little group?”
“This is a newly instituted periodic security check,” said Martha. “New policy established by the Joint Select Committee on Intelligence and agreed to by the President. The FBI and the DIA are supposed to conduct these checks on various components of intelligence activities.”
“Okay, where do we start?” said Johnson.
“I’d like to interview your section managers, particularly the ones actively engaged in quality monitoring or control activities.”
“Sure, let’s go over to the Computer Support Group.”
Johnson led the way over to an office overlooking the gardens between the D-Ring and the E-Ring of the Pentagon.
The small office had three IBM PS/2 computers and color monitors on two standard issue, gray metal desks. A Compaq desktop computer sat on a third desk. An HP Laserjet II printer sat on its own movable stand in the middle of the room. Against one wall, an open metal storage case with three shelves strained under the weight of computer parts, monitors, printers, wires, and other artifacts of the computer age. The floor of the office was littered with computer cards, cables, and brightly colored loose-leaf folders claiming all manner of software.
As Mildred and Martha approached the open door, the first indication that the office was filled with computers was the strong smell of new plastic, a vinyl smell, not unlike the smell of new cars on a summer day. This scent was accented by a sharp electric smell, the smell of printers on computer paper.
On the three desks, dozens of floppy diskettes were haphazardly strewn about, along with empty Diet Pepsi aluminum cans. A cardboard box on one desk demanded that the office occupants RECYCLE NOW! Pads of legal foolscap and yellow Number 2 pencils completed the scene.
The sole occupant in the office, a young man of about twenty-five, sat hunched in front of the Compaq computer. He was quickly typing computer language ASCII symbols into the unit. During pauses in the young man’s input, the video monitor would fill the screen with ASCII symbols, which were foreign to anyone looking at them except for the computer operator and Martha.
Martha recognized immediately that the operator had accessed the Army Material Command computers at Fort Lee, Virginia, and was challenging the computer in its own tongue to run certain simulations and conduct certain defenses. Martha enjoyed watching this chess match being waged between human and machine. She appreciated the push and shove, the give and take. A parry here, a thrust there; it was like a fencing match, a karate contest.
Johnson knocked on the door frame leading into the office. He cleared his throat and said, “Ted, I’ve got some people who would like to talk to you. Could you break free for a minute?”
The operator turned around briefly, grunted and turned back to the Compaq. A few quick keystrokes and the screen returned to — C: \>.
The computer operator turned around. With some effort he got out of his chair and shuffled over to the door. He took out a yellowed handkerchief from his pants pocket and mopped his brow in one swipe. He then took off his small rimless eyeglasses and cleaned them with the same handkerchief, then put the glasses back on his face. The glasses looked pitifully small on his large, round face, which was out of accord with his otherwise medium build.
The man was dressed in a wrinkled long-sleeved white shirt, no necktie, no undershirt, a pair of black trousers, and black loafers with white socks. In his shirt pocket, inside a vinyl pocket protector, were several ball point pens and a small screwdriver. His brown hair was on the long side and he breathed in a heavy, raspy manner.
Johnson introduced everyone. “Ted, this is Martha Thomas from the FBI and Mildred Lutsen from the DIA. Ladies, this is Ted Grayson, my best hacker. Ted is responsible for quality control. Ted, Agents Thomas and Lutsen are conducting a security check and would like to speak to you.”
In a high pitched, almost effeminate voice, Grayson said, “I’m p-pleased t-to m-meet y-you. Are y-you f-familiar w-with computers?”
Martha smiled. “Just a little, I’m a real novice. Can you explain what you have here and what you do?”
“I’ll leave you ladies in good hands,” said Johnson as he headed back to his office.
“c-come in, c-come in,” said Grayson.
Grayson grabbed two chrome seats, removing a pile of computer chips and boards from one. “P-Please s-sit down,” he stammered, but his stutter ceased as he started into the technical aspects of his job.
“My j-job is to test various Department of Defense computer systems for quality and for error generation.”
“How do you do that?” said Martha, noting to herself that Grayson seemed unable to maintain eye contact. Martha was aware of the typical, often unconscious, movement of male eyes toward her nicely shaped, full bosom. This type of eye movement sometimes secretly pleased her, when she was in the mood.
What Grayson did was more troubling. His eyes wandered and flitted about between Mildred and Martha. Occasionally, he would sneak a peek at Martha’s legs. His nervous eyes suggested he had something to hide.
“We conduct raids, mess around in the software and challenge the systems to defend against us.”
“Which agencies of the DOD do you conduct these raids on?”
“All of them, from budget to contracts to operations. The only ones we don’t touch are classified computer systems such as the DIA or special commands like Cheyenne Mountain.”
Martha took special note of Grayson’s comment about Cheyenne Mountain, the location of the North American Air Defense Command, NORAD.
“Do you ever raid substantive files?” said Martha.
“N-No. W-We w-would n-never d-do that.” He wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.
Martha and Mildred exchanged a quick glance.
“Can you show us how you conduct the raids?” said Martha.
“Sure. We first call up the appropriate local area network using this external modem,” said Grayson as he dialed the Army Material Command computers at Fort Lee, Virginia.
Martha made a mental note of the extension number displayed on the modem case.
In a matter of seconds, Grayson had gained access to the Army computer. He typed in DIR to the C: \> prompt and the computer responded with a listing of the various files contained on the master hard disk. Grayson then typed in EDLIN COMMAND.EXE and the screen filled with ASCII symbols: the heart shapes, the squiggles, the smiling faces, the spades, and the diamonds.
Using the function keys, Grayson was able to modify the file with compatible ASCII symbols.
Martha silently marveled at the ease with which Grayson was able to alter the command function, thereby creating an operating file that responded to his requests.