Since the author also requests remuneration, we would ask these

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

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"In the interest of safety for all concerned, 737's will not be
permitted to fly commercially until a full investigation has
taken place." the spokesperson continued. "That process should
be complete within 30 days."

In all, 114 people were sent to hospitals, 29 in serious condi-
tion, as a result of injuries sustained while pilots performed
dangerous gut wrenching maneuvers to avoid mid-air collisions.

Neither Boeing nor the Transportation Safety Board would comment
on how computer errors could suddenly affect so many airplanes at
once, but some computer experts have pointed out the possibility
of sabotage. According to Harold Greenwood, an aeronautic elec-
tronics specialist with Air Systems Design in Alpharetta, Geor-
gia, "there is a real and definite possibility that there has
been a specific attack on the airline computers. Probably by
hackers. Either that or the most devastating computer program-
ming error in history."

Government officials discounted Greenwood's theories and said
there is no place for wild speculation that could create panic in
the minds of the public. None the less, flight cancellations
busied the phones at most airlines and travel agencies, while the
gargantuan task of rescheduling thousands of flights with 30%
less planes began. Airline officials who didn't want to be
quoted estimated that it would take at least a week to bring the
system back together,

Airline fares will increase next Monday by at least 10% and as
much as 40% on some routes that will not be restored fully.

The tone of the press conference held at the DoT was one of both
bitterness and shock as was that of sampled public opinion.

"I think I'll take the train."

"Computers? They always blame the computers. Who's really at
fault?"

"They're just as bad as the oil companies. Something goes a
little wrong and they jack up the prices."

The National Transportation Safety Board said it would also
institute a series of preventative maintenance steps on other
airplanes' computer systems to insure that such a global failure
is never repeated.

Major domestic airlines announced they would try to lease addi-
tional planes from other countries, but could not guarantee prior
service performance for 3 to 6 months. Preliminary estimates
place the cost of this debacle at between $800 Million and $2
Billion if the entire 737 fleet is grounded for only 2 weeks.

The Stock Market reacted poorly to the news, and transportation
stocks dove an average of 27% in heavy trading.

The White House issued a brief statement congratulating the
airline industry for its handling of the situation and wished its
best to all inconvenienced and injured travelers.

Class action suits will be filed next week against the airlines
and Boeing as a result of the computer malfunction. This is Scott
Mason, riding the train.

* * * * *

"Doug," pleaded 39 year old veteran reporter Scott Mason. "Not
another computer virus story . . ." Scott childishly shrugged
his shoulders in mock defeat.

"Stop your whining," Doug ordered in fun. "You are the special-
ist," he chided.

When the story first came across the wire, Scott was the logical
choice. In only seven years as a reporter Scott Mason had de-
veloped quite a reputation for himself, and for the New York City
Times. Doug had had to eat his words from years earlier more
times than he cared to remember, but Scott's head had not swelled
to the size of his fan club, which was the bane of so many suc-
cessful writers. He knew he was good, just like he had told Doug

"There is nothing sexy about viruses anymore," said Scott trying
to politely ignore his boss to the point he would just leave.

"Christ Almighty," the chubby balding sixtyish editor exploded.
Doug's periodic exclamatory outbursts at Scott's nonchalance on
critical issues were legendary. "The man who puts Cold Fusion on
the front page of every paper in the country doesn't think a
virus is sexy enough for the public. Good night!"

"That's not what I'm saying." Scott had to defend this one. "I
finally got someone to go on the record about the solar payoff
scandals between Oil and Congress . . ."

"Then the virus story will give you a little break," kidded Doug.
"You've been working too hard."

"Damn it, Doug," Scott defied. "Viruses are a dime a dozen and
worse, there's no one behind it, there's nobody there. There's
no story . . ."

"Then find one. That's what we pay you for." Doug loudly mut-
tered a few choice words that his paper wouldn't be caught dead
printing. "Besides, you're the only one left." As he left he
patted Scott on the back saying, "thanks. Really."

"God, I hate this job."

Scott Mason loved his job, after all it was his invention seven
years ago when he first pitched it to Doug. Scott's original
idea had worked. Scott Mason alone, under the banner of the New
York City Times, virtually pioneered Scientific Journalism as a
media form in its own right.

Scott Mason was still its most vocal proponent, just as he was
when he connived his way into a job with the Times, and without
any journalistic experience. It was a childhood fantasy.

Doug remembered the day clearly. "That's a new one on me," Doug
had said with amusement when the mildly arrogant but very likable
Mason had gotten cornered him, somehow bypassing personnel.
Points for aggressiveness, points for creativity and points for
brass balls. "What is Scientific Journalism?"

"Scientific Journalism is stripping away all of the long techni-
cal terms that science hides behind, and bringing the facts to
the people at home."

"We have a quite adequate Science Section, a computer
column . . .and we pick up the big stories." Doug had tried to
be polite.

"That's not what I mean," Scott explained. "Everybody and his
dead brother can write about the machines and the computers and
the software. I'm talking about finding the people, the meaning,
the impact behind the technology."

"No one would be interested," objected Doug.

Doug was wrong.

Scott Mason immediately acclimated to the modus operandi of the
news business and actually locked onto the collapse of Kaypro
Computers and the odd founding family who rode serendipity until
competence was required for survival. The antics of the Kay
family earned Mason a respectable following in his articles and
contributions as well as several libel and slander suits from the
Kays. Trouble was, it's not against the law to print the truth
or a third party speculations, as long as they're not malicious.
Scott instinctively knew how to ride the fine edge between false
accusations and impersonal objectivity.

Cold Fusion, the brief prayer for immediate, cheap energy inde-
pendence made headlines, but Scott Mason dug deep and found that
some of the advocates of Cold Fusion had vested interests in
palladium and iridium mining concerns. He also discovered how
the experiments had been staged well enough to fool most experts.
Scott had located one expert who wasn't fooled and could prove
it. Scott Mason rode the crest of the Cold Fusion story for
months before it became old news and the Hubble Telescope fiasco
took its place.

The fiasco of the Hubble Telescope was nothing new to Scott
Mason's readers. He had published months before its launch that
the mirrors were defective, but the government didn't heed the
whistle blower's advice. The optical measurement computers which
grind the mirrors of the telescope had a software program that
was never tested before being used on the Hubble. The GSA had
been tricked by the contractor's test results and Scott discov-
ered the discrepencies.

When Gene-Tech covered up the accidental release of mutated
spores into the atmosphere from their genetic engineering labs,
Scott Mason was the one reporter who had established enough of a
reputation as both a fair reporter, and also one that understood
the technology. Thanks to Mason's early diagnosis and the Times'
responsible publishing, a potentially cataclysmic genetic disas-
ter was averted.

The software problems with Star Wars and Brilliant Pebbles, the
payoffs that allowed defective X-Ray lasers to be shipped to the
testing ground outside of Las Vegas - Scott Mason was there. He
traced the Libyan chemical weapons plant back to West Germany
which triggered the subsequent destruction of the plant.

Scott's outlook was simple. "It's a matter of recognizing the
possibilities and then the probabilities. Therefore, if some-
thing is possible, someone, somewhere will do it. Guaranteed.
Since someone's doing it, then it's only a matter of catching him
in the act."

"Besides," he would tell anyone who would listen, "computers and
technology and electronics represent trillions of dollars annu-
ally. To believe that there isn't interesting, human interest
and profound news to be found, is pure blindness. The fear of
the unknown, the ignorance of what happens on the other side of
the buttons we push, is an enemy wrapped in the shrouds of time,
well disguised and easily avoided."

Scott successfully opened the wounds of ignorance and technical
apathy and made he and the Times the de facto standard in Scien-
tific Journalism.

His reputation as a expert in anything technical endeared him to
fellow Times' reporters. Scott often became the technical back-
bone of articles that did not carry his name. But that was good.
The journalists' barter system. Scott Mason was not considered a
competitor to the other reporters because of his areas of inter-
est and the skills he brought with him to the paper. And, he
didn't flaunt his knowledge. To Scott's way of thinking, techni-
cal fluency should be as required as are the ABC's, so it was
with the dedication of a teacher and the experience of simplifi-
cation that Scott undertook it to openly help anyone who wanted
to learn. His efforts were deeply appreciated.

****************************************************************

Chapter 2
Friday, September 4
San Francisco, California

Mr. Henson?"

"Yes, Maggie?" Henson responded over the hands free phone on his
highly polished black marble desk. He never looked up from the
papers he was perusing.

"There's a John Fullmaster for you."

"Who?" he asked absent mindedly.

"Ah, John Fullmaster."

"I don't know a Fullman do I? Who is he?"

"That's Fullmaster, sir, and he says its personal."

Robert Henson, chairman and CEO of Perris, Miller and Stevenson
leaned back in the plush leather chair. A brief perplexed look
covered his face and then a sigh of resignation. "Very well,
tell him I'll take it in a minute."

As the young highly visible leader of one of the most successful
Wall Street investment banking firms during the merger mania of
the 1980's, he had grown accustomed to cold calls from aggressive
young brokers who wanted a chance to pitch him on sure bets.
Most often he simply ignored the calls, or referred them to his
capable and copious staff. Upon occasion, though, he would amuse
himself with such calls by putting the caller through salesmen's
hell; he would permit them to give their pitch, actually sound
interested, permit the naive to believe that their call to Robert
Henson would lead them to a pot of gold, then only to bring them
down as harshly as he could. It was the only seeming diversion
Robert Henson had from the daily grueling regimen of earning fat
fees in the most somber of Wall Street activities. He needed a
break anyway.

"Robert Henson. May I help you?" He said into the phone. It
was as much a command as a question. From the 46th. floor SW
corner office, Henson stared out over Lower New York Bay where
the Statue of Liberty reigned.

"Thank you for taking my call Mr. Henson." The caller's proper
Central London accent was engaging and conveyed assurance and
propriety. "I am calling in reference to the proposed merger you
are arranging between Second Boston Financial and Winston Ellis
Services. I don't believe that the SEC will be impressed with
the falsified figures you have generated to drive up your fees.
Don't you agree."

Henson bolted upright in his chair and glared into the phone.
"Who the hell is this?" he demanded.

"Merely a concerned citizen, sir." The cheeky caller paused. "I
asked, sir, don't you agree?"

"Listen," Henson shouted into the phone. I don't know who the
hell you are, nor what you want, but all filings made with the
SEC are public and available to anyone. Even the press whom I
assume you represent . . ."

"I am not with the press Mr. Henson," the voice calmly interrupt-
ed. "All the same, I am sure that they would be quite interest-
ed in what I have to say. Or, more precisely, what I have to
show them."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Henson screamed.

"Specifically, you inflated the earnings of Winston Ellis over
40% by burying certain write downs and deferred losses. I be-
lieve you are familiar with the numbers. Didn't you have them
altered yourself?"

Henson paled as the caller spoke to him matter of factly. His
eyes darted around his spacious and opulent office as though
someone might be listening. He shifted uneasily in his chair,
leaned into the phone and spoke quietly.

"I don't know what you're taking about."

"I think you do, Mr. Henson."

"What do you want?" Henson asked cautiously.

"Merely your acknowledgment, to me, right now, that the figures
were falsified, at your suggestion, and . . ."

"I admit nothing. Nothing." Henson hung up the phone.

Shaken, he dialed the phone, twice. In his haste he misdialed
the first time. "Get me Brocker. Now. This is Henson."

"Brocker," the other end of the phone responded nonchalantly.

"Bill, Bob here. We got troubles."

* * * * *

"Senator Rickfield? I think you better take this call." Ken
Boyers was earnest in his suggestion. The aged Senator looked up
and recognized a certain urgency. The youthful 50 year old Ken
Boyers had been with Senator Merrill Rickfield since the mid
1960's as an aide de campe, a permanent fixture in Rickfield's
national success. Ken preferred the number two spot, to be the
man in the background rather the one in the public light. He
felt he could more effectively wield power without the constant
surveillance of the press. Only when events and deals were
completely orchestrated were they made public, and then Merrill
could take the credit. The arrangement suited them both.

Rickfield indicated that his secretary and the two junior aids
should leave the room. "What is it Ken?"

"Just take the call, listen carefully, and then we'll talk."

"Who is it, Ken. I don't talk to every. . ."

"Merrill . . .pick up the phone." It was an order. They had
worked together long enough to afford Ken the luxury of ordering
a U.S. Senator around.

"This is Senator Rickfield, may I help you?" The solicitous
campaign voice, smiling and inviting, disguised the puzzled look
he gave his senior aide. Within a few seconds the puzzlement
gave way to open mouthed silent shock and then, only moments
later to overt fear. He stared with disbelief at Ken Boyers.
Aghast, he gently put the phone back in its cradle.

"Ken," Rickfield haltingly spoke. "Who the hell was that and how
in blazes did he know about the deal with Credite Suisse? Only
you, me and General Young knew." He rose slowly rose and looked
accusingly at Ken.

"C'mon Merrill, I have as much to lose as you."

"The hell you do." He was growling. "I'm a respected United
States Senator. They can string me up from the highest yardarm
just like they did Nixon and I'm not playing to lose. Besides,
I'm the one the public knows while you're invisible. It's my ass
and you know it. Now, and I mean now, tell me what the hell is
going on? There were only three of us . . ."

"And the bank," Ken quickly interjected to deflect the verbal
onslaught.

"Screw the bank. They use numbers. Numbers, Ken. That was the
plan. But this son of a bitch knew the numbers. Damn it, he
knew the numbers Ken!"

"Merrill, calm down."

"Calm down? You have some nerve to tell me to calm down. Do you
know what would happen if anyone, and I mean anyone finds out
about . . ." Rickfield looked around and thought better of
finishing the sentence.

"Yes I know. As well as you do. Jesus Christ, I helped set the
whole thing up. Remember?" He approached Merrill Rickfield and
touched the Senator's shoulder. "Maybe it's a hoax? Just some
lucky guess by some scum bag who . . ."

"Bullshit." The senator turned abruptly. "I want a tee off time
as soon as possible. Even sooner. And make damn sure that
bastard Young is there. Alone. It's a threesome."

* * * * *

John Faulkner was lazing at his estate in the eminently exclu-
sive, obscenely expensive Bell Canyon, twenty miles north of Los
Angeles. Even though it was Monday, he just wasn't up to going
into the office. As Executive Vice President of California
National Bank, with over twenty billion in assets, he could pick
and choose his hours. This Tuesday he chose to read by the pool
and enjoy the warm and clear September California morning. The
view of the San Gabriel mountains was so distracting that his
normal thirty minute scan of the Wall Street Journal took nearly
two hours.

His estate was the one place where Faulkner was guaranteed priva-
cy and anonymity. High profile Los Angeles banking required a
social presence and his face, along with his wife's, graced the
social pages every time an event of any gossip-magnitude oc-
curred. He craved his private time.

Faulkner's standing instruction with his secretary was never to
call him at home unless "the bank is nuked, or I die" which
when translated meant, "Don't call me, I'll call you." His wife
was the only other person with the private phone number he
changed every month to insure his solitude.

The phone rang. It never rang. At least not in recent memory.
He used it to dial out; but it was never used to receive calls.
The warble surprised him so, that he let it ring three times
before suspiciously picking it up. Damn it, he thought. I just
got a new number last week. I'll have to have it changed again.

"Hello?" he asked suspiciously.

"Good morning Mr. Faulkner. I just called to let you know that
your secret is safe with me." Faulkner itched to identify the
voice behind the well educated British accent, but that fleeting
thought dissipated at the import of the words being spoken.

"Who is this? What secret?"

"Oh, dear me. I am sorry, where are my manners. I am referring
to the millions you have embezzled from your own bank to cover
your gambling losses last year. Don't worry. I won't tell a
soul." The line went dead.

Sir George dialed the next number on his list after scanning the
profile. The phone was answered by a timid sounding gentleman.
Sir George began his fourth pitch of the day. "Mr. Hugh Sidneys?
I would like to talk to you about a small banking problem I think
you have . . ."

Sir George Sterling made another thirty four calls that day.
Each one alarmingly similar to the first three. Not that they
alarmed him. They merely alarmed, often severely, the recipients
of his calls. In most cases he had never heard of the persons he
was calling, and the contents of his messages were often cryptic
to him. But it didn't take him long to realize that every call
was some form of veiled, or not so veiled threat. But his in-
structions had been clear. Do not threaten. Just pass on the
contents of the messages on his list to their designees. Do not
leave any message unless he had confirmed, to the best of his
ability that he was actually speaking to the party in question.
If he received any trouble in reaching his intended targets, by
secretaries or aides, he was only to pass on a preliminary mes-
sage. These were especially cryptic, but in all cases, perhaps
with a little prod, his call was put through.

At the end of the first day of his assignment, Sir George Ster-
ling walked onto his balcony overlooking San Francisco Bay and
reflected on his good fortune. If he hadn't been stuck in Athens
last year, wondering where his next score would come from. How
strange the world works, he thought. Damn lucky he became a Sir,
and at the tender age of twenty nine at that.

His title, actually purchased from The Royal Title Assurance
Company, Ltd. in London in 1987 for a mere 5000 pounds had per-
mitted George Toft to leave the perennial industrial smog of the
eternally drizzly commonness of Manchester, England and assume a
new identity. It was one of the few ways out of the dismal
existence that generations before him had tolerated with a stiff
upper lip. As a petty thief he had done 'awright', but one
score had left him with more money than he had ever seen. That is
when he became a Sir, albeit one purchased.

He spent several months impressing mostly himself as he traveled
Europe. With the help of Eliza Doolittle, Sir George perfected
his adapted upper crust London accent. His natural speech was
that of a Liverpuddlian with a bag of marbles in his mouth -
totally unintelligible when drunk. But his royal speech was now
that of a Gentleman from the House of Lords. Slow and precise
when appropriate or a practiced articulateness when speaking
rapidly. It initially took some effort, but he could now correct
his slips instantly. No one noticed anymore. Second nature it
became for George Sterling, n<130> Toft.

Athens was the end of his tour and where he had spent the last of
his money. George, Sir George, sat sipping Metaxa in Sintigma
Square next to the Royal Gardens and the imposing Hotel Grande
Britagne styled in nineteenth century rococo elegance. As he
enjoyed the balmy spring Athens evening pondering his next move,
as either George Toft of Sir George Sterling, a well dressed
gentleman sat down at his tiny wrought iron table.

"Sir George?" The visitor offered his hand.

George extended his hand, not yet aware that his guest had no
reason whatsoever to know who he was.

"Sir George? Do I have the Sir George Sterling of Briarshire,
Essex?" The accent was trans European. Internationally cosmo-
politan. German? Dutch? It didn't matter, Sir George had been
recognized.

George rose slightly. "Yes, yes. Of course. Excuse me, I was
lost in thought, you know. Sir George Sterling. Of course.
Please do be seated."

The stranger said, "Sir George, would you be offended if I of-
fered you another drink, and perhaps took a few minutes of your
valuable time?" The man smiled genuinely and sat himself across
from George before any reply. He knew what the answer would be.

"Please be seated. Metaxa would it be for you, sir?" The man
nodded yes. "Garcon?" George waved two fingers at one of the
white-jacketed waiters who worked in the outdoor cafe. "Metaxa,
parakalo!" Greek waiters are not known for their graciousness,
so a brief grunt and nod was an acceptable response. George
returned his attention to his nocturnal visitor. "I don't believe
I've had the pleasure . . ." he said in his most formal voice.

"Sir George, please just call me Alex. Last names, are so, well,
so unnecessary among men like us. Don't you agree?"

George nodded assent. "Yes, quite. Alex then, it is. How may I
assist you?"

"Oh no, Sir George, it is I who may be able to assist you. I
understand that you would like to continue your, shall we say,
extended sabbatical. Would that be a fair appraisal?" The
Metaxas arrived and Alex excused the waiter with two 1000 Drachma
notes. The overtipping guaranteed privacy.

George looked closely at Alex. Very well dressed. A Saville was
it? Perhaps. Maybe Lubenstrasse. He didn't care. This stranger
had either keen insight into George's current plight or had heard
of his escapades across the Southern Mediterranean. Royalty on
Sabbatical was an unaccostable lie that regularly passed critical
scrutiny.

"Fair. Yes sir, quite fair. What exactly can you do for me, or
can we do for each other?"