Terminal Compromise - Winn Schwartau (fiction book recommendations TXT) 📗

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GETTING TERMINAL COMPROMISE:

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Note to the Readers of “Terminal Compromise:”

In writing a book like this, it is often difficult to distinguish

fact from fiction.

That is because the fiction is all too probable, and the facts

are unbelievable. Maybe it doesn’t matter and they’re the same

after all. Other than a few well known names and incidents, the

events in this book are fictional – to the best of my knowledge.

As I wrote this tale, I was endlessly coming upon new methods,

new tactics, new ways to wage computer warfare. I found that if

this story was to be told, I had to accept the fact that it would

always be unfinished. The battle of the computers is one without

an end in sight.

This story is an attempt to merge the facts as they are with the

possibilities. The delineation between fact and fiction is

clouded because the fiction of yesterday is the fact, the news,

of today. I expect that distinction to become hazier over the

next few years.

It is that incongruity that spawns a conjectured extrapolation

indistinguishable from reality.

The construction of the model that gave birth to this tale was

the culmination of many years of work, with a fictional narrative

being the last thing in my mind. That was an accident necessi-

tated by a need to reach the largest possible audience.

In fact, a lot of things have surprised me since “Terminal Com-

promise” was first published. It seemed that we were able to

predict a number of things including Polymorphics, Clipper Chips,

non-lethal warfare . . . and you’ll recognize a few other prog-

nostications we didn’t expect to come to pass quite yet.

The reader will soon know why.

There were many people who have been invaluable in the prepara-

tion of this document, but I’ll only mention a few. If the

reader doesn’t want to hear about my friends, please move on to

the next chapter.

Mary C. Bell. Hi, Mom. Thanks for the flashlight.

Lazarus Cuttman. The greatest editor a writer has ever had. He

kept me honest.

Miles Roban. That’s an alias. He’s the one who told me about

the real NSA. I hope he doesn’t get in trouble for what he said.

I owe him a pound of M&Ms. 2 lbs. of them. (NOTE: For over two

years, according to ‘high-up’ sources, the NSA has been and still

is looking for ‘Miles’. They haven’t found him yet, despite an

intensive internal NSA search. We need more people like ‘Miles’

who are willing to break down the conventional barriers of secu-

rity on issues that affect us all.)

Dad. God rest.

Winn Schwartau, July, 1993

“Terminal Compromise” is dedicated to:

Sherra

There is no adequate way to say thank you. You are the super-glue

of the family. Let’s continue to break the rules.

I Love You

Ashley

She wrote three books before I finished the first chapter and

then became a South-Paw.

Adam

Welcome, pilgrim.

Prologue

Friday, January 12, The Year After The White House, Washington D.C.

The President was furious. In all of his professional political

life, not even his closest aids or his wife had ever seen him so

totally out of character. The placid Southern confidence he

normally exuded, part well designed media image, part real, was

completely shattered.

“Are you telling me that we spent almost $4 trillion dollars,

four goddamn trillion dollars on defense, and we’re not prepared

to defend our computers? You don’t have a game plan? What the

hell have we been doing for the last 12 years?” The President

bellowed as loudly as anyone could remember. No one in the room

answered. The President glared right through each of his senior

aides.

“Damage Assessment Potential?” The President said abruptly as he

forced a fork full of scrambled eggs into his mouth.

“The Federal Reserve and most Banking transactions come to a

virtual standstill. Airlines grounded save for emergency opera-

tions. Telephone communications running at 30% or less of

capacity. No Federal payments for weeks. Do you want me to

continue?”

“No, I get the picture.”

The President wished to God he wouldn’t be remembered as the

President who allowed the United States of America to slip back-

ward 50 years. He waited for the steam in his collar to subside

before saying anything he might regret.

* Monday, August 6, 1945. Japan

The classroom was coming to order. Shinzo Ito, the 12th graders’

instructor was running a few minutes late and the students were

in a fervent discussion about the impending end to the war. And

of course it was to be a Japanese victory over the American

Mongrels.

Ito-san was only 19 years old, and most of the senior class was

only a year or two younger than he. The war had deeply affected

all of them. The children of Japan were well acquainted with

suffering and pain as families were wrenched apart – literally at

the seams, and expected to hold themselves together by the honor

that their sacrifices represented. They hardened, out of neces-

sity, in order to survive and make it through the next day, the

next week; and so they knew much about the war. Since so many of

the men had gone to war, women and children ran the country. 10

and 11 year old students from the schools worked as phone opera-

tors. It was an honorable cause, and everyone contributed; it was

only fitting. Their fathers and loved ones were fighting self-

lessly and winning the war.

Many of the children’s fathers had gone to war, valiantly, and

many had not come home. Many came home in pieces, many others,

unrecognizable. And when some fathers had gone off to war, both

they and their families knew that would never return. They were

making the Supreme Sacrifice for their country, and more impor-

tantly, a contribution to their honorable way of life.

The sons and daughters of kamikazes were treated with near rever-

ence. It was widely believed that their father’s honor was

handed down to their offspring as soon as word had been received

the mission had been successful. Albeit a suicide mission.

Taki Homosoto was one 17 year old boy so revered for his father’s

sacrifice. Taki spoke confidently about such matters, about the

war, about American atrocities, and how Japan would soon defeat

the round faced enemy. Taki had understood, on his 17th birthday

that his father would leave . . .and assuredly die as was the

goal of the kamikaze. He pretended to understand that it made

sense to him.

In the last 6 months since his father