22
Gwen walked into the
Parklawn Building on Monday morning with a bit less enthusiasm than
usual. A meeting with Ralph Snyder could do that to a person. Gwen
deliberately wore her PHS dress whites. There was nothing like gold
eagles on a woman’s blouse to keep a man like Snyder mired in his
insecurity. She was going to act professionally and she considered
dressing the part to be essential for a possible confrontation with
this pencil pusher.
When she reached
Snyder’s pallid office suite, Snyder’s secretary motioned for Gwen
to sit, shrugging apologetically. Did the man have anyone who truly
respected him?
The magazines on the
end tables were predictably sterile. Gwen absentmindedly leafed
through twenty pages of Public
Administration when Snyder’s door opened, revealing a man
whose comb-over was less convincing than usual, strands of hair
clumped on his all-too-visible bald pate.
“Good morning, Dr.
Maulder,” he said thinly.
He motioned her
toward the famous “victim’s chair” in his office. Rumor had it that
he’d shortened one leg of this chair to keep his subjects
uncomfortable during their encounters with him, a trick he’d likely
learned from a correspondence course on leadership and
intimidation. The chair kept tottering on its uneven legs, forcing
Gwen to spend much too much attention on keeping her balance. She
flashed on Fitz Rule Number Four: Don’t let the morons of the world
cause you to compromise your beliefs.
“Bring me up to date
on your work in the Epidemiology Division, if you would,” Snyder
began, settling into his armchair. He was a thin man, and his baggy
suit was obviously straight off the rack.
Gwen realized
instantly that Snyder was playing games, asking her to state what
he already knew. She obliged him, however, by going through the
general protocols for her department. She explained that her
division of the Center for Drugs was a support unit for the entire
Center, the mission of which was to track underlying disease
processes in the general population. She often received assignments
that went beyond these parameters, but this explanation encompassed
the main mission statement of her department. If the FDA were
considering approval for a new cholesterol-lowering drug, for
instance, her unit could provide up-to-the-minute information on
how many people in the country had high cholesterol and to what
degree. Along these lines, she related to Snyder the results of a
recent study on the prevalence of asthma in inner-city
children.
Snyder clasped his
hands, elbows resting on the arms of his chair. “That’s all very
interesting, and I’m sure it’s invaluable to the scientific
community, but my job, Dr. Maulder, is to make sure that our
manpower is used to the taxpayers’ maximum advantage. I’m afraid
I’m going to have to shift the focus of your efforts, at least
temporarily. Your colleague, Dr. Wayne Spitzer, will be overseeing
your division’s studies for an unspecified period. I’ve gotten
complaints from the front office that we’re two years behind in
reporting out our Adverse Event files from the Medwatch system—you
know, the voluntary reporting database. It’s all about the 9/11
Commission Report. Someone upstairs is worried that we may have
some data buried in those files related to bioterrorism. Expertise
like yours is our only hope for catching up. I’m assigning you to
examine these files.”
Gwen had prepared
for many different scenarios for this meeting, but not this one.
“But those AE reports and Medwatch belong to the Office of Drug
Safety. That has nothing to do with my mandate. Everybody knows
that the stuff in that database is useless from an epidemiologist’s
perspective.”
“I understand your
concern, Dr. Maulder, but this request comes from the highest
levels. We have increasing intelligence that terrorists might
attempt to tamper with the pharmaceutical supply chain in order to
harm Americans. Rumors have surfaced that there have been some dry
runs. Perhaps the FDA already has evidence that it has overlooked.
Given the post 9/11 climate, we have decided that we need to
examine certain files to be sure that we haven’t overlooked
anything that might indicate terrorist activity.”
“But the CDC has
BioNet to handle that kind of job, sir. With all due respect, I
think we’d be wasting the taxpayers’ money.”
Snyder flashed a
humorless smile. “BioNet is certainly a valuable new asset, but I
still think there’s no substitute for old-fashioned human
intuition. I can think of no one better qualified than you to give
our retro-analysis that indefinable human touch. Moreover, the CDC
budget is grabbing a disproportionate share of the new Homeland
Security allocations. It’s time we got some of that money to come
home to Rockville.”
Gwen’s throat went
dry. This was the bureaucratic equivalent to being sent down to the
minors. What was going on here? She burned inside, but she
maintained a calm, professional demeanor. “Mr. Snyder, there are
thousands of AE files. There’s no way I could do this job in less
than a year. It deserves a staff of several people and should be
handled by a separate division with its own
administrator.”
“I’m afraid the FDA
is not budgeted for that at present. If you want to use an
assistant, I have no problem with that.”
“One assistant?”
Gwen asked incredulously.
“Yes, Dr. Maulder.
One assistant.”
“But—”
“Be thankful,
Doctor, that I’m not assigning you to liaise with the Army on their
combat virus control program. They want to start doing their own
vaccine trials for diseases the civilian sector has never heard of.
The only problem is the assignment will take that appointee to
Somalia for six months. I haven’t figured out on whom to spring
that little nugget. I thought I was actually doing you a favor, as
well as selecting the best person for the job. Your files show that
you were a master diagnostician while in family
practice.”
Gwen felt a migraine
sliding into her brain like a warm front scorching the Midwest.
This didn’t make sense. Assigning a captain in the USPH to go over
Adverse Event files? That was the kind of drudgery first year
medical officers had to endure. This had to be about something
else. She was on the verge of asking Snyder if he knew about her
call to Jan, but decided not to show her hand. She would follow
Fitz Rule Number Five: Act, don’t react. She’d find out later what
was behind Snyder’s ludicrous orders. In the meantime, she had ways
of continuing her investigation in a more clandestine fashion. It
might be risky, but she fully intended to find out what else BioNet
had to say about the seizure stats. She would call Jan from home
and suggest that they both open an account with iPrive.com to communicate
only via secure mail.
“I guess my only
answer is ‘aye-aye, sir’” Gwen said innocently. “I’ll start
immediately.”
“I appreciate your
cooperation, Doctor,” Snyder said smugly. “Your service has always
been exemplary. I’ll note your cooperation in your file. With any
luck, you’ll be back to your regular duties soon.”
What did that mean?
More than ever, Gwen sensed that this new assignment was all about
keeping her from doing other work.
BioNet was
malfunctioning.
Jan Menefee sat at
one of the many computer terminals connected to the medical
surveillance computer, a cup of coffee next to the monitor. She’d
been named director of Project BioNet because she was both an
excellent physician and a master at the computer keyboard, thanks
to some undergrad classes in programming. It was 2:30 in the
morning, and after several hours of prep work, her general plan was
to search for more info on the seizure trends, hoping that BioNet
might have explanations or predictions at its quantum level. All of
this was surreptitious, of course, and she’d have to cover her
tracks. She knew she couldn’t erase the computer’s boot log
completely because there were too many security features built into
the system, but she could shunt the log of the night’s clandestine
activity to a sub-directory that no one was likely to
check.
But the damned
system wasn’t cooperating. She received repeated error messages
more appropriate to a PC running Windows 95 with a Pentium
I:
Input errorBad commandData not availableRequested file does not existProgramming error: If problem persists, please contact system administrator.
Jan folded her arms
and sighed. In the universe of bytes and RAM, BioNet was one of the
Seven Wonders of the World. The problems that BioNet encountered
during trial runs presented in numerical codes, not outdated error
messages. The designers of BioNet did not imprint Microsoft jargon
in its state-of-the-art chips.
Jan got up and
stretched, walking into the adjoining room where the
mainframe—BioNet’s brain—was kept.
“Damn,” she
muttered. Several digital readouts indicated that the system was
not only in optimal condition but was actually in the process of
carrying out various commands. Large spools of tape spun behind a
dark glass casing. “I’m being shut out of the freakin’ system. This
is nuts. Okay, Hal 9000, let’s see why you’re acting
pissy.”
The room was dark
except for the glow coming from the computer screen. Jan returned
to the desktop terminal. “We’ll try something simpler,” she said.
“No programming commands. Just a straightforward
question.”
She opened the
system’s main diagnostic window and tapped a few keys in order to
determine BioNet’s current operating mode. The following text
appeared on the screen: UPLOADING FILE 23789.626.
“No, goddammit,” she
cried. “Stop!”
File 23789.626
contained every byte of information she’d gathered about seizure
activity around the country. But if it was uploading, where was it
going?
She frantically
opened another window and typed in DESTINATION.
The reply from
BioNet was swift: PLEASE WAIT UNTIL UPLOAD IS
COMPLETE.
Frantically, Jan
tried to cancel the upload, but the system ignored her efforts.
Something was overriding.
“Okay, let’s do
things the hard way.”
She took a sip of
coffee and called up a hidden file on her desktop computer. Jan had
been part of Project BioNet from the beginning, but even as
director, she was not familiar with every single command that could
be given to the supercomputer.
The file, available
to administrators only, appeared on her screen, but the options
displayed on its panel were anything but
user-friendly.
Programmers
naturally had to adjust the highly complex system on a daily basis
and she couldn’t stay on top of every single bit of techno-jargon.
Jan studied a line of programming code and saw
“&whoR594job!enteradclear.” Did the “adclear” refer to
“administrative clearance?” Was the panel requesting what amounted
to a password?
She pulled open a
drawer to her lower right and found a floppy handbook titled BioNet
Administrative Job-Control. After several frustrating minutes, she
found an entire directory of “&who” commands. Her index finger
slid down the page until she found the entire line currently
displayed in the panel. Next to it was a password.
She typed in
“biodestination/operator27” and got an immediate response. “Yes!”
Jan proclaimed, throwing her right arm up in victory.
UPLOAD 45D
120,887 KB SUCCESSFULLY SENT TO:
user9187@network.iceland.net
Jan was stumped. Why
should BioNet send the file to an anonymous re-mailer in Iceland?
What had triggered the upload? More importantly, who had triggered
it? She was confident that the system hadn’t been zombied by an
outside party. As director, she had ordered the same level of
security as the National Security Agency—and even more secret
“shops”—to prevent outside hacking. The source, therefore, almost
certainly had to be internal.
The BioNet director
buried her face in her hands. She could hardly believe the
implications of what she just saw. Jan rolled her chair back to the
nearest BioNet terminal to determine what other uploads, if any,
had been sent in the last forty-eight hours. Thankfully, there had
been none.
She would get CDC
security people on the problem first thing in the morning, and she
had a hunch that the investigation into the upload would go even
higher. This kind of penetration was exactly what the executive
branch of the government had been worried about. But here was the
catch. There were many reasons that might drive someone to steal
CDC files, and yet the hot topics on the CDC agenda—Ebola, avian
flu, and other viruses that could turn someone’s face to mush—had
been neglected. Out of thousands of available files, the intruder
chose number 23789.626.
Still, why had any
file been uploaded and sent anywhere outside the CDC
network?
It was a sobering
question and Jan decided it would be prudent to wait awhile before
calling in the agency’s security division. Once they started an
investigation, everyone, including the perpetrator, would run for
cover in a general atmosphere of paranoia. The leak would be
plugged with sophisticated patches and firewalls, rendering any
hope of finding the responsible party virtually impossible. She
owed it to Gwen to keep things quiet for the time
being.
There was another
option, however. In March, she’d been a fly on the wall in the
White House Conference Center at a meeting of the president’s
Information Technology Advisory Council. PITAC was especially
interested in security around cutting-edge antiterror computer
programs, and Jan was there because of her top-level position with
BioNet. One of the presenters, Peter Tippett, had made a great deal
more sense than most of the people babbling for the sake of
recognition in their various fields.
“The most important
action after a penetration has been detected,” Tippett remarked,
“should be no different for computer spying than it was for the
old-fashioned kind. It’s crucial not to let the adversary know you
are aware of the penetration. Use the adversary’s own conduit to
trap him.”
It took Jan all of
fifteen seconds to Google “Tippett” and find his contact
information. She’d call him in the morning.
As originally
planned, Jan sent her boot log to the predetermined sub-directory
and then went home. There, she retrieved a voice-mail from Gwen
that said “iPrive.com” and nothing else.
It was difficult to
believe that was coincidental. She recalled a line from Sir Arthur
Conan Doyle’s famous detective: “The game’s afoot,
Watson.”
What kind of game
was another matter altogether.