All the way across Nevada he had psyched himself up for the effort that would be required to repair the damage. He was only in his mid-forties − surely he could get back in shape. Alright, get in shape for the first time ever.
Anyway, all he’d have to do would be to start watching what he ate, lift some weights, do a little running, and stick with it till he reached his goal weight. It was just thermodynamics, after all. Burn more calories than you ingest, and the pounds must disappear. Piece of cake. Okay, bad word choice.
Before turning south in Utah to intersect the Grand Canyon, he had stopped to shop in the town of St. George. He bought a scale. New sneakers. A sweat suit with “Brigham Young” emblazoned across the chest. A set of weights. He had already spent hours on dieting websites, studying the mysteries of the weight loss game. Armed with his new knowledge, he crisscrossed the aisles of a supermarket for an hour, piling a shopping cart high with all of the food he figured he’d have to eat in order to lose weight. Nothing could stop him now.
Except, he gasped, that he might die trying. Maybe he’d have to build up to the running part a little bit at a time. Straightening up, he set off at a moderately brisk walk, chest still heaving.
A half hour later, he arrived back at his camper, tired, winded and hungry. He opened the refrigerator and stared at the plate of food he had prepared before setting out: four ounces of boiled chicken and six ounces of blanched broccoli. What joy.
He carried the plate outside, paused, and then reentered the camper. But after a second try on the scale, he still weighed exactly what he had before his “run.” It began to dawn on him that it was possible the weight loss process might take some time.
He crunched his broccoli despondently and tried to remember where he had left off the night before. Okay. He’d decided to assume the bad guys hadn’t tampered with the computer or the software before they were delivered to the pollsters, since many of their systems were evidently quite old. Next, he had taken it as a given that the pollsters would be no more security conscious than most small – to medium-size businesses – which was to say barely conscious at all. So it should be safe to assume that the bad guys could have slipped some malware into the systems of every major pollster without exception. But assumptions were one thing; before he could take this one as a given, he needed to know how hard it would be to hack the systems the pollsters were actually using.
He retrieved his satellite phone. A minute later he was connected to his detailer back at Marvin Gardens.
“Vickie, have they finished running the scan yet on the pollsters’ systems?”
“Sure. Do you want the detailed reports?”
“Yes, but at the moment all I need is just the bottom line. Did any of them stand up?”
“Not even close. Surprised?”
“No, but one more question – did they use a Red Team, or just a commercial outfit to attack them?”
“Straight out of the phonebook.”
Okay, that was useful to know. Running a scan meant that someone who knew what they were doing had tried to get past the firewalls of the pollsters’ systems, the same way that a hacker would. A Red Team referred to one of the crack forensic squads of the National Security Agency. There was nobody better than an NSA Red Team, or at least so the government hoped. Since Marvin had achieved success using a commercial firm, Frank could safely assume that any self-respecting hacker would succeed as well.
All well and good. But if the hacker had gotten in, why hadn’t Marvin been able to find the malware?
“So tell me about the server logs. Were they able to find the attack that got through?”
“Yes and no. As you’d expect, we did find some successful entries, but they were all pretty predictable, random ‘bot attacks – nothing targeted at the polling data.”
“’Bots” – short for robots – were networks of co-opted personal computers that hackers had already taken over. Office computers, home computers − any kind of computer – that a hacker had been able to access. Once inside, the hacker would install a program that allowed the owner to continue using her system the same as always, unaware that someone else was using it as well; at most, the computer might seem to run a bit more slowly than before. The malware would also integrate that computer into a network of thousands of other ‘bots, all working together like a super computer to do the bidding of the Black Hat that had recruited them. Like submitting every conceivable password in a matter of seconds to get inside the firewall of a bank, a credit card processor – or even a pollster.
“Any evidence of spear phishing success?”
“Not that we’ve been able to tell.”
“Okay, thanks. Appreciate it.”
He went back to the edge of the canyon and stared out, arms folded. Spear phishing meant masquerading as someone an email recipient thought she could trust, like a coworker. A spear phishing email would contain a link to a website, or would include an attachment that the recipient was asked to open. In either case, the single click the recipient used to open the link or the attachment was all it would take to download the malware to her system. Now not only her computer, but her employer’s entire system would be vulnerable. To be sure the hacker would continue to have access, the first thing the malware would do would be to create a “back door” that the hacker could later open at his leisure. When he did, he could prowl throughout the infiltrated network to his heart’s content, wreaking whatever mischief he had in mind.
So where did that take him?
Since the server logs hadn’t revealed any unusual attacks, that should mean spear phishing was still the most likely explanation for the multiple compromises, even if the scanning team hadn’t been able to find a phony email. It wouldn’t surprise him if at least one employee at each pollster fell for the gambit. Some of the best cybersecurity firms had been publicly humiliated when their own employees fell for such a stunt.
There was just one problem with that theory. Frank had duplicated Marvin’s test with a pollster clone and a clean system. Just as the report predicted, Frank’s test also yielded corrupted data from both systems. So much for the Moby Dick hypothesis – he hadn’t opened any email on the new machine yet, so there was no opportunity for a spear phishing attack to succeed. Still, the bad guys had obviously gotten in somehow. He’d just have to keep running tests and hope to notice something the professional spooks had missed.
He turned on his laptop and logged back on to his pollster system clone. He opened up the polling program, picked a question template used for assessing the popularity of multiple individuals, and filled in the names of the current candidates. Then he input an arbitrary number of positive responses for each one, deciding that today would finally be Hollis Davenport’s chance to lead the pack.
But when he called up a report, sure enough, it was Julian Johnson that came out on top instead. He had exactly the number of thumbs up Frank had assigned to Davenport, and Davenport had been given the favorable ratings Frank had awarded to Johnson.
He drummed his fingers on the arm of his folding chair and mused. There must be some kind of latent feature that had been lurking in the system or program all along, just waiting to be triggered. That would do it, right?
He called Victoria back.
“Vickie, did anyone try to figure out whether there was some sort of time bomb in the polling software? There doesn’t seem to be any other possible explanation for what I’m seeing here.”
“Of course.”
“Well?”
“No time bomb. What do you think we are, stupid?”
In fact, he was still reserving judgment on that question. But his inability to get anywhere so far was making him feel more charitably inclined.
“Of course not. Just frustrated. Thanks.”
Now what? Maybe if he added some new data and checked the server
logs again he’d notice something.
But after five minutes of inputting random polling data, his server froze. Grumbling, he set it to reboot. Two minutes later he was still waiting, so he called up his laptop copy of the polling software and started entering information; he could always transfer the data back when the server came back online.
When he finished, the server was still cycling. And cycling. Annoyed, he ran a local report on his laptop, expecting to find that once again Johnson had tucked it to Davenport. But to his delight, he found that this time Davenport had held on to his lead.
At last he was getting somewhere.
* * *
8
That’s Debatable
Frank was sitting inside his camper, a bowl of diet popcorn at one elbow and a small barbell at the other. The popcorn elbow was getting most of the exercise. On the opposite side of the camper hung a large flat screen TV, and on that set the latest, pre-primary season Republican debate was about to begin.
Like many Americans, he was curious to see how Randall Wellhead, the latest entrant to the Republican field, would fare in his first performance under the scrutiny of the public and the national media. Just like the earlier candidates, he had rocketed to the top of the polls almost immediately after announcing his candidacy.
The candidates were now walking on camera, taking their places at the semicircle of podiums arrayed across the stage. The crowd gave a rousing welcome, and Frank turned up the sound to better hear the pre-debate commentary.
Well, Chet, look at that – Randall Wellhead’s heading straight for one of the two positions at center stage!
That’s right, David. Courtesy of his sudden status as a top contender. You know, Texas is certainly being unusually generous with her native sons this year. Wellhead’s not just another politico from the Lone Star State. He’s the son and grandson of genuine Texas wildcatters. He’s also senior minister of his own evangelical mega church, and a popular all-talk AM radio show host, to boot.
But he’s not all tradition, Chet. Don’t forget that a few years ago he confessed from the pulpit that he ‘used to be’ gay − said that one day he had, let’s see, I’ve got his exact words in my notes here – yes – ‘one day, I decided to give up the homosexual lifestyle. And with the help of the Lord, I put my secret sins behind me.’ Ever since he’s been preaching about how every homosexual can share in the same joys that heterosexuality has brought into his life.
Right, David. He wasn’t in the political spotlight back then, though. Now that he’s in the race, reporters are scrambling to learn whatever they can about his past. According to some of his high school girlfriends he put up a pretty good act for a closet gay.
Ha ha! Well, for those viewers that can’t read those small signs on the podiums, that’s Hollis Davenport standing to Wellhead’s right − governor of a swing state and making his second run for the nomination. And what a resume he’s got − Yale graduate, one prominent position after another in the private sector and now governor. Seems like everyone should agree he’s one of the most capable contenders on the stage.
You’d think so, David, but the voters don’t seem to agree – Davenport’s always number two in the polls. He’s always at least five points behind whoever’s in the lead.
Right, Chet, but they never stay there long. Up until a week ago, the guy on the other side of Wellhead was the latest Great Right Hope − Julian Johnson, Governor of Texas. His turn at the top lasted maybe five days. I expect he’ll be a lot more careful during this week’s debate.
Well, if he isn’t, at least he’ll have company – Roxy’s up there, too.
For our listeners benefit, Chet, let me note that you’re referring to Senator Roxanne Rollins! How about a little respect for the Senate!
Well, David, she is also the former State of Wisconsin Dairy Queen. And she wouldn’t be Senator Rollins if she wasn’t filling out the rest of her ex-husband’s term.
Okay, I’ll give you that. His tenure in office − and their marriage – didn’t survive the headlines when he was caught in the act with the current Dairy Queen.
He must really love that Wisconsin cheese! Huh? Am I right?
The commentators were still having a good laugh over that one when Frank muted the sound. He’d been paying attention to the primaries lately and didn’t need their snarky commentary to catch up. He guessed that next to Davenport must be Roland Overby, an unabashed Libertarian who was constant in his convictions and unimpeachable in his public and private life. Frank had to hand it to the guy – he’d dedicated his career to serving as a passionately independent voice in the partisan gutter of the House of Representatives.
He didn’t have much to show for it, though – not a single piece of adopted legislation with his name on it. You almost felt sorry for him now − an elderly, scarecrow of a man with a shock of unruly white hair and a bleating voice. But he was still going strong, and still willing to speak truths that others were afraid to acknowledge. Too bad he also said things that no one with a robust relationship with reality said, either.
Anyway, he had a loyal following that didn’t seem to mind it when he said the government should close the regulatory agencies, disband Congress, shut down the courts, and let Wall Street run the country. His ranking in the polls was rising, too.
Frank recognized Julian Johnson on Wellhead’s left. And consigned to the boondocks at the ends of the stage Frank could just see Roxanne Rollins, Landa Goshen and Vance Cabot. Goshen was a City Councilwoman from Enid, Oklahoma. In an unfortunate display of bad timing, she had announced her candidacy just before the foreign policy debate. The problem was that a major part of her platform was based on having no foreign policy. She advocated killing three birds with one stone – or, more accurately, with approximately 432 billion large, quarried stones – which she would use to build a thirty foot wall surrounding the entire nation. All at the same time, she’d stop illegal immigrants and foreign invaders while calling the bluff of the climate fanatics on the left. All that nonsense about warming causing the sea level to rise! Once she had her seawall up, they could just shut up and stay that way. She continued to have a fanatical, but diminished following.
That left only Senator Vance Cabot, an elder statesman if ever there was one. He’d held and served honorably in almost every high level post a public servant on the national stage could hold – member of the House of Representatives, a senator and a cabinet member, not to mention serving on several important blue ribbon investigative commissions. As Chairman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, he was as highly regarded abroad as he was at home – a rare occurrence in recent years. A graduate of both Harvard College and Harvard Law School, he had argued several cases before the Supreme Court. Naturally, no one on the far right paid any attention to him.
The camera suddenly zoomed in on the logo that adorned each podium, and Frank saw that the debate was sponsored by conservative cable TV channel POX News, “The Network that tells you what you want to hear.” He recalled that PN’s parent company also owned KPOX, the radio station that hosted Randall Wellhead’s talk show.
Sitting at a desk in the front of the stage was Russ Blovia, the debate moderator and host of one of POX News’ most popular political commentary programs. The theme he had chosen for the debate was, “Is there Anything – Anything at all – that the Democrats Can do Right?” The crowd gave him a warm welcome as he walked across the stage, waving, to take his seat.
When the applause died down, Blovia welcomed the audience and introduced the candidates. Then he turned to the candidates to announce the rules of engagement for the evening.
“During our exchange of views tonight, I will enforce, and you will obey, the usual rules for a televised debate….” He squinted at the teleprompter and stopped to pick up a paper copy of his script. Then he laughed.
“Yes, that’s what
it actually says here! Well, why don’t I go off script for a minute and get real.
“Tonight, I will ask each of you to stay strictly within the time limits, which are three minutes for answers to my questions, and one minute for rebuttals to the statements of other candidates, assuming you haven’t already butted in. When you ignore the time limits, I will interrupt you politely, and you will ignore my existence.”
“Interrupting the other candidates is forbidden, and when you do so anyway, I will jump in, and you will tell me, in so many words, to stuff it. Do I have that right?”
The candidates smiled and nodded in agreement.
“Good,” Blovia smiled back. “So let’s get started.”
“Mr. Wellhead, you’ve made some pretty negative remarks about Democrats in the past. For example, just last Monday in Milwaukee you said that saying the typical Democrat is as dumb as a box of rocks would be insulting to the average box of rocks. Do you have any concerns that comments like that may make it difficult for you to win the election?”
Wellhead flashed his famously white teeth in a dazzling smile. “Not unless we let rocks vote!”
“Very good, Sir. Very good indeed! Just seeing if you were on your toes tonight, and clearly you are. Now what do you think the worst thing is that this Democrat President has done since he’s been in office?”
“Wow – where do I begin? Well, let’s see, how about I say when he sent our troops into Iraq?”
The crowd fell silent. After a moment, the moderator cleared his throat. “Ah! I get it. Now you’re seeing if I’m on my toes! Good one! Of course, we all know that the President’s predecessor, a Republican, took that action.”
The Lafayette Campaign: a Tale of Deception and Elections (Frank Adversego Thrillers Book 2) Page 5
