“What do you do then?”
“Once we’re in the program, we could conceivably alter the function of the computers. However, each LAN operating file is supposed to contain defense mechanisms to defeat alterations. Our raids are conducted to test those defenses.”
Sure enough, when Grayson tried to get the Army Material Command system to respond to his altered COMMAND.EXE the system hesitated and the message SYSTEM UNABLE TO RESPOND appeared on the screen.
“This means that the operating system for the Army Material Command LAN recognized that the modified COMMAND.EXE file was defective and crashed the system. I’d give it a B+,” said Grayson. “I wouldn’t give it an A unless it stopped me from modifying the COMMAND.EXE file in the first place.”
“That’s fascinating,” Martha said as she and Mildred stood up as if to leave. “Both Agent Lutsen and I thank you for showing us how this is done. Can I call you if I have further questions?”
“S-Sure,” he replied, turning quickly back to his terminal as soon as Martha and Mildred left his office.
“What do you think?” said Mildred when the two women were out of earshot of Grayson’s office.
“I think we have another birth certificate search,” replied Martha, wearily.
“What have you found?” said Smith of Martha and Mildred as the three sat at the Formica topped conference table.
“Mildred and I thought we were on to something. The chief computer quality checker at the Pentagon is a strange man named Ted Grayson. However, I had him checked out and he seems to be legit. He was born in Boston on June 10, 1965, to an unwed mother. Although his father later married his mother, Grayson apparently kept his mother’s name. He went to Boston College, majored in computer science, and has been at the Pentagon since graduation. He’s considered to be real quiet and a loner.”
Martha paused, thinking. “He’s strange, though. I plan to raid his computer this evening.”
“That guy was weird,” Mildred said. “The way his eyes wandered and how he started stuttering when you asked him about substantive raids. Is there any other information we can develop on him?”
“Even if everything does check out, he could be a bad guy and still be born in America, you know.”
“Do you ever check out families?” said Mildred.
“That’s interesting. I never thought to do that,” Martha replied. “I’ll check that out as well.” Martha turned to Smith, “Do you have a computer with a modem I could use?”
“Sure,” he said. He showed Martha to an empty office in which an Epson computer and modem sat on a desk. Martha thanked George and sat down at the terminal.
Turning on the computer, Martha booted up the computer program that enabled the modem to dial Grayson’s number at the Pentagon. The tone changes and answering tones indicated that the two modems were engaged in establishing a relationship — a courtship ritual between two computers. At the last soft tone, the line was filled with a scratchy caterwauling that could only be described as a bunch of alley cats fighting.
The modem in Grayson’s office asked for a password and Martha deftly typed in an ASCII code word that displayed for her the correct password, which she then typed in. The computer in Grayson’s empty, darkened office in the E-Ring of the Pentagon suddenly came to life.
Grayson’s computer typed out: C: \>
Martha typed in: DIR/P
Martha’s computer screen suddenly filled with information as Grayson’s computer complied with her request.
NAVCOM? thought a perplexed Martha.
Martha continued through the directory listing. After completing the directory listing Grayson’s computer re-displayed C: \>
Martha typed in: cd NAVCOM.
Grayson’s computer responded: C: \NAVCOM>
Martha typed in: dir/p
The computer responded:
Martha typed in CSAC.
Martha stared as the message played out in bluish letters against a black background. Her jaw dropped in amazement at the importance of the information being displayed.
“You ugly fuck,” she muttered. “You knew every step we were taking. How could CSAC be so stupid.”
In a small, darkened one bedroom apartment in Silver Spring, Maryland, the glow from the computer screen illuminated the large round face staring intently at the screen. The only noise in the hot stifling room was the sound of steady, heavy, raspy breathing from the person sitting in front of the screen. The windows were closed despite the searing summer heat. A foul smell permeated the room, a mixture of body odor, decay, and must.
The image on the video monitor was reflected on the small rimless lenses of the computer operator’s glasses. Sweat poured from Grayson’s brow as the importance of the message dawned on him. He took the yellowed handkerchief from his rear pants pocket and mopped his forehead repeatedly.
“Damn it. God Damn it,” said Grayson.
The message, from the modem attached to his computer in his empty office in the E-Ring of the Pentagon, was: IN USE.
“Open up! Federal agents!” said Smith, after knocking vigorously on the door to Apartment 303 in the quiet, three-story, red brick Blue Ridge Apartments on Sixteenth Street, Silver Spring, Maryland.
There was no response.
Smith turned to the superintendent. “Do you have a key to this apartment?”
“Yes, Just don’t break down that door,” said the superintendent.
He opened the door to Grayson’s apartment. As the door opened, the warm rancid air inside of Grayson’s apartment poured out. The stench of unwashed clothes was overpowering — like an unclean gymnasium. The apartment was completely dark, the shades to the windows pulled down and the windows locked shut, even on this hot, humid day. The superintendent, glad that his chore was done, motioned the federal agents to enter.
“She’s all yours!” he said, as he stepped to the side of the door.
Smith was the first to enter the foul smelling-apartment. As he entered he switched on the light. The room was a tumble of dirty laundry and trash thrown about the room. In the kitchenette, the source of the strongest odor could be seen, an uncooked chicken, left out on the stove in an advanced putrescent state. Maggots crawled over the rotting flesh. Smith swallowed hard not to gag at the stench.
Smith and his assistants then conducted a search of the small apartment. It was obvious that Grayson had left in a hurry. His IBM PS/2 was left on and he had made no effort to erase any of the files on the hard disk. Floppy diskettes littered the table in the living room and software manuals were strewn about the tattered sofa and easy chair.
In one corner of the sofa was a pile of Hustler magazines, their pages limp from constant use. On one wall was the foldout from the May 1993 copy of Playboy. Strewn about the floor and on the furniture were pulp novels in paperback with titles like Madam Dominatrix, Whipping Boy, and High School Orgy. Copies of Soldier of Fortune, PC World, and DC Comics littered the floor, along with dirty, worn white athletic socks.
Smith wandered into the equally fetid bedroom. Grayson’s bedroom was messy and sparsely furnished. The bed was a mattress on a bed spring. The mattress was covered with a sheet yellowed with sweat stains. On the floor next to the bed were several empty drinking glasses. The residue of chocolate milk in the glasses had curdled and dried. An empty jar of Bosco, a chocolate mix, lay on the floor, a teaspoon next to it. There was no other furniture save for a straight back chair on which stood a small General Electric color television set, its antenna bent. At the foot of the bed, Grayson had tossed his dirty underwear.