Since the author also requests remuneration, we would ask these

W >> Winn Schwartau >> Since the author also requests remuneration, we would ask these

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46 | 47 | 48 | 49 | 50 | 51 | 52 | 53

"Yeah, sure. No problem. Ciao."

"Ciao."

They were off again, doing over 100mph in seconds. The rest of
the evening went as planned. Miles thanked his uncle in a way
that brought tears to Mario's eyes. Miles said, "You know, Uncle
Mario. When I grow up, I want to be just like you."

* * * * *

"He's just a boy, Mario! How could you!" Miles' mother did not
react favorably to the news of her son's manhood. She was trying
to protect him from the influence of her relatives. Miles was
gauged near genius with a pronounced aptitude for mathematics and
she didn't want his life to go to waste.

His mother had married outside of the family, the organized crime
culture, the life one inherits so easily. She loved her family,
knew that they dealt in gambling, some drugs, an occasional
rough-up of an opponent, but preferred to ignore it. She mar-
ried a man she loved, not one picked for he, but had lost him 6
years before. They _could not_ have her son.

Her wishes were respected, in the memory of Miles father, and
also because it wasn't worth having a crazed Sicilian woman rant-
ing and raving all about. But Miles was delectable bait to the
Family. His mathematical wizardry could assist greatly in gaming
operations, figure the odds, new angles, keep the dollars in the
house's favor despite all advertising claims to the contrary.

But, there was respect and honor in their promise to his mother.
Hands off was the rule that came all the way from the top. He
was protected. Miles was titillated with the attention, but he
still listened to his mother. She came before all others. With
no father, she became a little of both, and despite anyone's
attempts, Miles knew about Mario.

Miles was such a subject of adoration by his mother, aunt and
grandmother, siblings aside, that Miles came to expect the same
treatment from everyone, especially women. They praised him so,
he always got top honors, the best grades, that he came to re-
quire the attention and approval.

Living with 5 women and a gay uncle for 11 years had its effect.
Miles was incredibly heterosexual. Not anti-gay at all, not at
all. But he had absolutely no interest in men. He adored women,
largely because of his mother. He put women on pedestals, and
treated them like queens. Even on a beer budget Miles could
convince his lady that they were sailing the Caribbean while
baking in the desert suburbs of Las Vegas. Women succumbed,
willingly, to Miles' slightest advance. He craved the approval,
and worked long and hard to perfect his technique. Miles Foster
was soon an expert. His mother never openly disapproved which
Miles took as approval.

By the time Miles went off to college study advanced mathematics
and get a degree, he had shattered half of the teen-age hearts
within 50 miles of Vegas. Plus, the admiration from his female
family had allowed him to convince himself that he was going to
change the world. He was the single most important person that
could have an effect on civilization. Invincible. Can do no
wrong. Miles was the end-all to be-all. If Miles said it, it
must be so, and he bought into the program. What his mother or
girl friends called self confidence others called conceit and
arrogance. Even obnoxious.

His third love, after his mother and himself, was mathematics.
He believed in mathematics as the answer to every problem. All
questions can be reduced to formulas and symbols. Then, once you
have them on a piece of paper, or in a computer . . .the answer
will appear.

His master thesis was on that very subject. It was a brilliant
soliloquy on the reducibility of any multi-dimensional condition
to a defined set of measured properties. He postulated that all
phenomenon was discrete in nature and none were continuous.
Given that arguable position, he was able to develop a set of
mathematical tools that would permit dissection of a problem into
much smaller pieces. Once in manageable sizes, the problem would
be worked out piece by piece until the pieces were reassembled as
the answer. It was a tool that had very definite uses in the
government.

He was recruited by the Government in 1976. They wanted him to
put his ingenious techniques to good use. The National Security
Agency painted an idyllic picture of the ultimate job for a
mathematician - the biggest, fastest and best computers in the
world at your fingertips. Always the newest and the best. What-
ever you need, it'll be there. And that's a promise. Super
secret important work - oh how his mother would be proud. Miles
accepted, but they never told him the complete truth. Not that
they lied, of course. However, they never bothered to tell him,
that because of his family background, guilt by association if
you wish, his career would be severely limited.

Miles made it to senior analyst, and his family was proud, but
he never told them that over 40% of the staff in his area were
senior analysts. It was a high tech desk job that required his
particular skills as a mathematician. The NSA got from Miles what
they wanted; his mathematical tools modified to work for govern-
ment security projects. For a couple of years, Miles happily
complied - then he got itchy to work on other projects. After
all, he had come up with the idea in the first place, it was time
he came up with another. Time to move on.

In typical bureaucratic manner, the only way to get something new
done is to write a proposal; enlist support and try to push it
through committee. Everyone made proposals. You not only needed
a good idea for a good project, good enough to justify the use of
8 billion dollars worth of computers, but you needed the connec-
tions and assistance of others. You scratch mine, I'll scratch
yours.

During his tenure at NSA, Miles attempted to institute various
programs, procedures, new mathematical modes that might be use-
ful. While technically his concepts were superior, his arro-
gance, his better-than-everyone, my shit doesn't stink attitude
proved to be an insurmountable political obstacle. He was unable
to ever garner much support for his proposals. Thus, not one of
them was ever taken seriously. Which compounded the problem and
reinforced Miles' increasingly sour attitude towards his employ-
er. However, with dimples in command, Miles successfully masked
his disdain. To all appearance he acceded to the demands of the
job, but off the job, Miles Foster was a completely different
person.

* * * * *

The telephone warbled on the desk of the IAS Department Chief.
The digital readout on the phone told him that it was an internal
call, not from outside the building, but he didn't recognize the
number.

"Investigations," The chief answered.

"This is Jacobs. We're checking up on Foster."

"Yessir?" DIRNSA? Calling here?

"Is he gone?"

"Yessir."

"Anything?"

"No sir."

"Good. Close the file."

"Sir?"

"Close it. Forever."

* * * * *

September, 4 Years Ago
Georgetown, Washington, D.C.

Miles Foster set up shop in Washington D.C. as a communications
security consultant. He and half of those who lived within
driving distance of the Capitol were known as Beltway Bandits, a
simultaneously endearing and self-deprecating title given to
those who make their living selling products or services to the
Federal Government. Miles was ex-NSA and that was always impres-
sive to potential clients. He let it be known that his services
would now be available to the private sector, at the going rates.

As part of the revolving door, from Government to industry,
Miles' value would decrease with time, so he needed to get a few
clients quickly. The day you leave public service all of your
knowledge is current, and therefore valuable, especially to
companies who want to sell widgets to the government. As the
days and months wear on, new policies, new people, new arrange-
ments and confederacies are in place. Washington's transient
nature is probably no more evident than through the political
circle where everyone is aware of whom is talking to whom and
about what. This Miles knew, so he stuck out his tentacles to
maximize his salability.

He restructured his dating habits. Normally Miles would date
women whom he knew he could fuck. He kept track of their men-
strual cycles to make sure they wouldn't waste his time. If he
thought a particular female had extraordinary oral sex skills, he
would make sure to seduce when she had her period. Increased the
odds of good blow job.

Now though, Miles restricted his dating, temporarily, to those
who could help start his career in the private sector. "Fuck the
secretary to get to the boss!" he bragged unabashedly.

Miles dragged himself to many of the social functions that grease
the wheels of motion in Washington. The elaborate affairs,
often at the expense of government contractors and lobbyists,
were a highly visible, yet totally legal way to shmooze and booze
with the influentia in the nation's capital. The better parties,
the ones for generals, for movers and for shakers, for digni-
taries and others of immediate importance, are graced with a
generous sprinkling of strikingly beautiful women. They are paid
for by the hosts, for the pleasure of the their guests. The
Washington culture requires that such services are discreetly
handled. Expense reports and billings of that nature therefore
cite French Caterers, C.T. Temps, Formal Rentals and countless
other harmless, inoffensive and misleading sounding company
names.

Missile Defense Systems, Inc. held one of the better parties in
an elegant old 2 story brick Georgetown home. The building was a
former embassy, which had been discarded long ago by its owners
in favor of a neo-modern structure on Reservoir Road. The house
was appointed with a strikingly southern ante-bellum flair, but
tastefully done, not overly decorated. The furniture was modern,
comfortable, meant to be and used enjoyed, yet well suited to the
classic formality.

The hot September night was punctuated with an occasional breeze.
The breaths of relief from Washington's muggy, swamp-like summer
air were welcomed by those braving the heat in the manicured
gardens outside, rather than the refreshing luxury of the air
conditioned indoors.

It was a straight cocktail party, a stand-up affair, with a
hundred or so Pentagon types attending. It began at seven, and
unless tradition was broken, it would be over by 10 as the last
of the girls finds her way into a waiting black limousine with
her partner for the night. Straight politics, Miles thought.

9:30 neared, and Miles felt he had accomplished most of what he
had set out to do - meet people, sell himself, play the game,
talk the line, do the schtick. He hadn't, though, yet figured
out how he was going to get laid tonight.

As he sipped his third Glen Fetitch on the rocks, he spotted a
woman whom he hadn't seen that evening. Maybe she had just
arrived, maybe she was leftovers. Well, it was getting late, and
he shouldn't let a woman go to waste, so let's see what she looks
like from the front. She looked aimlessly through the French
doors at the backyard flora.

Miles sauntered over to her and introduced himself. "Hi, I'm
Miles Foster." He grinned wide, dimples in force, as she turned
toward him. She was gorgeous. Stunning even. About an inch
taller than Miles, she wore her shimmering auburn hair shoulder
length. Angelic, he thought. Perfectly formed full lips and
statuesque cheek bones underscored her sweetly intense brown
eyes. Miles went to work, and by 10P.M., he and Stephanie Perkins
were on their way to Deja Vu on 22nd. and M Street for drinks and
dance. By 10:30 he had nicknamed her Perky because her breasts
stood at constant attention. By 11:30 they were on their way to
Miles' apartment.

At 2:00 AM Miles was quite satisfied with himself. So was Perky.
His technique was perfect. Never a complaint. Growing up in a
houseful without men taught Miles what women wanted. He learned
how to give it to them, just the way they liked it. The weekend
together was heaven in bed; playing, making love, giggling,
ordering in Chinese and pizza. Playing more, watching I Love Lucy
reruns, drinking champagne, and making love. Miles bounced
quarters on her taut stomach and cracked eggs on her exquisitely
tight derriere. By Sunday morning, Miles found that he actually
liked Stephanie. It wasn't that he didn't like his other women,
he did. It was just, well this one was different. He 'really'
liked her. A very strange feeling for Miles Foster.

"Miles?" Stephanie asked during another period of blissful after-
glow. She snuggled up against him closer.

"Yeah?" He responded by squeezing her buttocks. His eyes were
still closed.

"In a minute stud, yes." She looked up reassuringly at him.
"Miles, would you work for anyone?" She kissed his chest.

"What do you mean?" he asked in return. He wasn't in the mood
for shop talk.

"Like, say, a foreigner, not an American company. Would you work
for them?"

"Huh?" Miles looked down inquisitively. "Foreigner? I guess so.
Why do you ask?" He sounded a tad concerned.

"Oh, no reason." She rubbed him between his legs. "Just curious.
I thought you were a consultant, and consultants work for anyone
who can pay. That's all."

"I am, and I will, but so what?" He relaxed as Stephanie's hands
got the desired result.

"Well," she stroked him rhythmically. "I know some people that
could use you. They're not American, that's all. I didn't know
if you cared."

"No, I don't care," he sighed. "It's all the same to me. Unless
they're commies. My former employer would definitely frown on
that."

"Would you mind if I called them, and maybe you two can get
together?" She didn't miss a beat.

"No go ahead, call them, anything you want, but can we talk about
this later?" Miles begged.

* * * * *

Miles felt very much uninformed on his way to the Baltimore
Washington Airport. He knew that he was being flown to Tokyo
Japan, first class, by a mystery man who had prepaid him $10,000
for a 1 hour meeting. Not a bad start, he thought. His reputa-
tion obviously preceded him. Stephanie was hired to recruit him,
that was obvious. And that bothered Miles. He was being used.
Wasn't he? Or had he seduced her and the trip was a bonus? He
still liked Stephanie, just not as much as before. It never
occurred to Miles, not for a second, that Stephanie might not
have liked him.

At JFK in New York, Miles connected to the 20 hour flight to
Tokyo through Anchorage, Alaska. He had a brief concern that
this was the same route that KAL Flight 007 had taken in 1983
before it was shot down by the Soviets, but he was flying an
American carrier with a four digit flight number. He allowed
that thought to remove any traces of worry.

The flight was a couple of hours out of New York when one of the
flight attendants came up to him. "Mr. Foster?"

"Yes?" He looked up from the New York City Times he was reading.

"I believe you dropped this?" She handed Miles a large sealed
envelope. His name had been written across the front with a large
black marker.

"Thank you," said Miles. He took it gratefully.

When she left, he opened the strange envelope. It wasn't his.
Inside there was a single sheet of paper. Miles read it.

MR. FOSTER
WELCOME TO JAPAN.

YOU WILL BE MET AT THE NARITA AIRPORT BY MY DRIVER AND CAR. THEY
ARE AT YOUR DISPOSAL.

WE WILL MEET IN MY OFFICE AT 8:00 AM, WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 23.
ALL ARRANGEMENTS HAVE BEEN MADE FOR YOUR PLEASURES.

RESPECTFULLY

TAKI HOMOSOTO

The name meant nothing to him so he forgot about it. He had more
important things to do. His membership in the Mile High Club was
in jeopardy. He had not yet made it with a female flight attend-
ant.

They landed, 18 hours and 1 day later in Tokyo. Miles was now a
member in good standing.

* * * * *

Thursday, September 3
Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport

"DFW, this is American 1137, heading 125 at 3500."

"Roger American 1137, got you loud and green. Maintain 125, full
circle 40 miles then 215 for 40."

"Traffic Dallas?"

"Heavy. Weather's been strong. On again off again. Piled up
pretty good."

"Sheers?"

"None so far. Ah, you're a '37, you carry a sheer monitor. You
got it made. Have to baby sit some 0's and '27's. May be a
while."

"Roger Dallas. 125 40, 215 40. Maintaining 12 point 5."

"Roger 1137."

The control tower at DFW airport was busier than normal. The
dozen or so large green radar screens glowed eerily and made the
air traffic controllers appear pallid under the haunting light
emitted from around the consoles. Severe weather patterns,
afternoon Texas thunderstorms had intermittently closed the
airport forcing a planes to hold in a 120 mile pattern over
Dallas and Fort Worth.

Many of the tower crew had been at their stations for 2 hours
past their normal quitting time due to street traffic delays and
highway pileups that had kept shift replacements from arriving on
time. Planes were late coming in, late departing, connections
were being missed. Tensions were high on the ground and in the
air by both the airline personnel and travelers alike. It was a
chaotic day at Dallas Fort Worth International Airport.

"Chad? Cm'ere," said Paul Gatwick, the newest and youngest, and
least burnt out of the day shift flight controllers.

Shift supervisor Chad Phillips came right over. "What you got?"
He asked looking at the radar screen.

"See these three bogies?" Paul pointed at three spots with his
finger.

"Bogies? What are those symbols?"

"They just appeared, out of nowhere. I don't think they're
there. And over here," he pointed, "that was Delta 210. It's
gone." Paul spoke calmly, in the professional manner he was
trained. He looked up at Chad, awaiting instructions.

"Mike," Chad said to the controller seated next to Paul. "Switch
and copy 14, please. Fast." Chad looked over to Mike's screen
and saw the same pattern. "Paul, run a level 2 diagnostic. What
was the Delta pattern?"

"Same as the others, circle. He's at 45 doing a 90 round."

"Tell him to hold, and verify on board transponder." Chad spoke
rapidly and his authority wasn't questioned.

"Mike, see if we can get any visuals on the bogies. They might
be a bounce."

Chad took charge and, especially in this weather, was concerned
with safety first and schedules last. In less than a minute he
had verified that Delta 210 was not on any screen, three other
ghost planes meandered through the airspace, and that their
equipment was functioning properly.

"Dallas," the calm pilot voice said, "American 1137, requesting
update. It's getting a little tight up here."

"Roger, 1137," Gatwick said nervously. "Give me a second
here . . ."

"Dallas, what's the problem?"

"Just a check . . ."

Chad immediately told the operator of the ETMS computer to notify
the FAA and Department of Transportation that a potential situa-
tion was developing. The Enhanced Traffic Management System
was designed to create a complete picture of every airplane
flying within domestic air space.

All status information, on every known flight in progress and
every commercial plane on the ground, is transmitted from the 22
ARTCC's, (Air Route Traffic Control Centers) to an FAA Technical
Center in Atlantic City and then sent by land and satellite to a
DoT Systems Center. There, an array of DEC VAX super mini com-
puters process the constant influx of raw data and send back an
updated map across the ETMS every five minutes.

Chad zoomed in on the picture of the country into the DFW ap-
proach area and confirmed that the airplanes in question were not
appearing on the National Airspace System data fields or dis-
plays. Something was drastically wrong.

"Chad, take a look here!" Another controller urgently called out.

His radar monitor had more bogies than Paul's. "I lost a Delta,
too, 1258."

"What is it?"

"37."

"Shit," said Chad. "We gotta get these guys wide, they have to
know what's happening." He called over to another controller.
"Get on the wire, divert all traffic. Call the boss. We're
closing it down." The controllers had the power to close the
airport, and direct all flight operations from the tower. Air-
port management wasn't always fond of their autonomy, but the
tower's concern was safety at all costs.

"Another one's gone," said Paul. "That's three 37's gone. Have
they had a recall lately?"

The ETMS operator asked the computer for a status on 737's else-
where. "Chad, we're not the only ones," she said. "O'Hare and
LAX have problems, too."

"OK, everybody, listen up," Chad said. "Stack 'em, pack 'em and
rack 'em. Use those outer markers, people. Tell them to believe
their eyes. Find the 37's. Let 'em know their transponders are
going. Then, bring 'em down one by one."

The emergency speaker suddenly rang out. "Shit! Dive!" The
captain of American 1137 ordered his plane to accelerate ground-
ward for 10 seconds, descending 2500 feet, to avoid hitting an
oncoming, and lost, DC-9.

"Dallas, Mayday, Mayday. What the fuck's going on down there?
This is worse than the freeway . . ."

The emergency procedure was one they had practiced over and over,
but rarely was it necessary for a full scale test. The FAA was
going to be all over DFW and a dozen other airports within hours,
and Chad wanted to be prepared. He ordered a formal notification
to Boeing that they had identified a potentially serious malfunc-
tion. Please make your emergency technical support crews avail-
able immediately.

Of the 100 plus flights under DFW control all 17 of the Boeing
737's disappeared from the radar screen, replaced by dozens of
bogies with meaningless signatures.

"Dallas, American 1137 requests emergency landing . . .we have
several injured passengers who require immediate medical assist-
ance."

"Roger, 1137," Gatwick blurted back. "Copy, EP. Radar status?"

"Nominal," said the shaken American pilot.

"Good. Runway 21B. We'll be waiting."

* * * * *

By 5:00 PM, Pacific time, Boeing was notified by airports across
the country that their 737's were having catastrophic transponder
failure. Takeoffs were ordered stopped at major airports and the
FAA directed that every 737 be immediately grounded. Chaos
reigned in the airline terminals as delays of several hours to a
day were announced for most flights. Police were needed to quell
angry crowds who were stuck thousands of miles from home and were
going to miss critical business liaisons. There is nothing we
can do, every airline explained to no avail.

Slowly, the planes were brought down, pilots relying on VFR since
they couldn't count on any help from the ground. At airports
where weather prohibited VFR landings, and the planes had enough
fuel, they were redirected to nearby airports. Nearly a dozen
emergency landings in a two hours period set new records that the
FAA preferred didn't exist. A field day for the media, and a
certain decrease in future passenger activity until the shock
wore off.

The National Transportation Safety Board had representatives
monitoring the situation within an hour of the first reports from
Dallas, San Francisco, Atlanta, and Tampa. When all 737's were
accounted for, the individual airports and the FAA lifted flight
restrictions and left it to the airlines to straighten out the
scheduling mess. One hundred thousand stranded passengers and
almost 30% of the domestic civilian air fleet was grounded.

It was a good thing their reservation computers hadn't gone down.
Damn good thing.

* * * * *

DISASTER IN AIR CREATES PANIC ON GROUND
by Scott Mason

"A national tragedy was avoided today by the quick and brave
actions of hundreds of air traffic controllers and pilots working
in harmony," a spokesperson for The Department of Transportation
said, commenting on yesterday's failure of the computerized
transponder systems in Boeing 737 airplanes.