by Chuck DeVore
Lee Bensui was growing increasingly worried. True, he had the 60 troublemakers behind bars. True, he had executed their ringleader and made a nice profit off his organs—although the thieving doctor charged far more for his services than Lee expected. No, his problems were more complex—he didn’t know what to do next. On top of that, his beloved PAP company was torn from him only yesterday. They were needed for the war effort on Taiwan. He was too dense to wonder why no reinforcements would be forthcoming. (Had he the ability to find out, he would have discovered that the Chinese logistical system was already pressed to the breaking point in its effort to move troops and equipment to Taiwan and keep them supplied—moving other PAP troops into his county to backfill those sent to Taiwan was luxury neither planned for nor executable at the moment.)
Lee furrowed his brow and resolved to handle his problem decisively—After all, there was a war going on. He drew up a letter for the Party headquarters in Amoy. In it, he stated his intent to execute every one of the 60 prisoners in custody as dangerous enemies of the state in a time of war. He sent off the letter via fax under his official seal just minutes before the three buses of religionists arrived from Amoy.
Lee’s complex situation was about to assume another unexpected dimension.
* * *
Unit 23 of the ROC’s Special Cross Straits Action Team was a closely guarded secret. Most of Unit 23’s personnel were technically civilians; a few were intelligence officers. All were complete geeks. Unit 23 was really nothing more than an organized bunch of 145 hackers bound by two loves: Taiwan and computers.
Springing from Taiwan’s national military intelligence directorate, Unit 23 was organized in 1991 out of a growing realization that computers were an indispensable part of modern conflict. Half of Unit 23 was dedicated to computer defense, the remainder were specialists in computer attack.
Min Bo-long belonged to an even more secret squad within the computer attack platoon. He was embarrassed by what he had to do for his job. Thankfully, both of his parents were dead and he had no nosy siblings to worry about. When you really got down to it, Min was a pornographer—at least he felt like one. While he didn’t actually make pornographic movies or materials, he did run a couple of truly disgusting web sites: one in Macao and the other in Hong Kong. Both sites had as their target audience Communist Party officials in China. Min estimated his loyal Party viewership to be about 1,500 people and expanding (with another 5,000 or so businessmen and others on the Mainland hitting the site at least three times a week).
When the war started and the Chinese E-bombs knocked out much of Taiwan’s computer capability, Unit 23 was hurriedly pressed into action to restore as much of the military’s computer capability in Taipei as possible. Both the Macau and the Hong Kong web sites continued to operate autonomously, but without any new material on the free sites (free to those with certain prized web addresses—businessmen had to pay by credit card), the number of hits began to decline. A week later, both sites’ traffic was half of what it was at the start of the war.
On Sunday, Min finally had time to turn his squad’s attention back to the web sites. They all knew they had to work fast. Remotely communicating by SATCOM with the computer servers in Macao and Hong Kong, Min unleashed the porno sites’ emergency files. He set the clock for 24 hours.
Immediately, a torrent of new material cued up on the sites. Those who did not visit either site within 12 hours would get a discrete e-mail notice about the posting of fresh photos and quick time videos. The data from Min’s previous trials suggested that 85% the loyal viewers would return to the site twice within 24 hours, usually doing so from their computers at work (most Party officials did not have computer access at home). When they did, Min’s crew would have a surprise waiting for them.
Feng Goufeng was a mid-level Party functionary in the Ministry of Agriculture. He was divorced. His ex-wife said she left him because of his “problem.” He didn’t think he had a problem—rather, it was she who had archaic attitudes about sex. In any event, his growing appetite for untraditional recreation doomed their relationship. Instead of fighting her divorce, Feng let his wife go (she threatened to tell his superiors about his habits if he didn’t grant her her desire to be set free).
Since Feng was neither particularly handsome, young, rich or powerful, nor even very nice to be around, he had, without exception, been without female companionship since his divorce (prostitutes were too risky for the Party man). So, to fulfill his many sordid fantasies, he turned to the burgeoning Chinese Internet for relief.
Had the Party monitored its own Members’ web use more judiciously, they would have eventually tracked down a disturbing trend within their ranks. Instead, Feng and hundreds of others often enjoyed a few hours of Party-subsidized fun every day. Several users of smut were even praised by their unwitting supervisors for “working late” and “being dedicated.”
Feng got into the office early on Monday morning, as was his tradition. Monday mornings before 6:00 AM were the best time to partake of his pastime without fear of discovery. He entered his favorite site’s address onto his web browser (he didn’t dare bookmark it, that could easily be traced). The site came up and proudly announced a wide new selection of delicacies to view. Feng greedily reviewed the choices and clicked onto a particularly promising page. He was so thoroughly engrossed in the material that he scarcely heard his computer’s innards working harder than normal to process some commands in the background.
Feng heard someone in the hallway outside. He quickly logged off then erased the evidence of his visit from the browser’s history log. He called up his e-mail program and attached a file he had prepared on Saturday outlining June’s rice production numbers. (He had prepared the file early but not sent it, intending to use it later as cover for his early morning romp on the Internet.) He addressed the file to his superior and his deputy. After reviewing the file for errors, Feng knew they would forward it along to other key departmental heads, including representatives of most major ministries—after all, rice production was still one of the chief indicators of his nation’s health (sadly, the numbers weren’t as good as they should have been for June).
Feng’s boss, the Assistant Minister of Agriculture for Rice, held a hard copy of Feng’s report. It was 9:30 AM. He reviewed it, frowning at the modest production numbers. If the trend continued much longer, he knew his position would be at risk—perhaps Feng himself was angling for my job, he thought, noting the early morning time stamp on the document.
Seeing that all was in order, he ordered his secretary to attach the document to an e-mail and sent it out on his distribution list. The report would be considered an informal draft. The official report would be written up this afternoon and sent out on paper over his signature. China was learning to benefit from electronic data exchange, but old methods die hard and paper was still preferred for important official business (especially for classified communications).
Feng’s boss’ secretary moved to close her computer’s e-mail window. Strange, she noticed, the screen was frozen. She rarely had a crash early in the morning when only a program or two had been opened. She heard the processor and the hard drive churning away—very strange.
When China planned its attack against Taiwan, a supporting element of that attack included a cyber assault on the American national security computer network comprising the White House, DoD, State Department and CIA. This computer attack was designed to clog critical e-mail and network arteries to increase confusion and delay the U.S. response.
As it was, both sides overestimated their effectiveness—the Chinese at causing problems and the Americans at defending against them. The Chinese succeeded in penetrating a couple of firewalls protecting internal government networks from outside interference while their e-mail attack enjoyed a little more success, tying up routine message traffic for a few hours (doing things like delaying the White House’s computerized automatic paging system designed to recall key National Security Council
Staffers in an emergency). The Americans (everyone except for the computer experts) were shocked that any firewalls were breached at all.
China’s modest effort at disrupting U.S. computer systems (led by a small group of computer scientists and mathematicians, many of whom recently studied in the United States) had no defensive counterpart to speak of. Computers were only recently becoming important to Chinese government and business. While the authorities carefully monitored Internet communications, looking for any signs of unrest or subversion, it never really occurred to them to safeguard their systems. Most in government simply figured if the computers went down they’d simply shift to typewriters, fax machines, telephones and radios.
Against this backdrop, the desperate actions of Taiwan’s Unit 23 produced effects far beyond the imagination of even the unit’s most creative hacker. For the first hour after being downloaded from the Macao porn site, three special macro viruses attached themselves to any compatible document within the Chinese government network. These time-activated programs waited until noon Monday to activate. Once activated, they reworked the grammar of the documents in which they were embedded, changing affirmative statements to the negative, and vice versa. After two hours, the second time released phase of the viralpac kicked in. Based on the virulent “Melissa” virus coded by a lovelorn American hacker in 1999 and on the even more pernicious “LoveBug” virus coded in the Philippines in 2000, the Taiwanese variety (jokingly called “Merissa” by its inventor) worked by infecting a machine’s e-mail system, causing it to send messages to every address in its address book. The messages thus sent also replicated themselves to every known address and so on.
By noon Monday, the Chinese telecommunications system was clogged with Internet traffic. The government had to switch to backup wireless voice systems to communicate. Lower priority messages simply didn’t go through until Tuesday morning (all through Monday night, Chinese computer experts simply shut down computers, servers, and network switches in an attempt to quell the outbreak). In the end, the Chinese had to make a choice: working computers or a working national phone system—they chose the phones.
* * *
After a rainy night of meditation and prayer in the buses, 300 people from Amoy assembled themselves on a cloudy Monday morning. Foregoing food, they marched quietly into the just-awakening town market where they sat down in silence. In the center of the gathering, one wizened man held a neatly printed sign. It simply said, “Where are our friends the orange growers? Whom will the Party decide to jail next?”
At first, the local merchants and residents were annoyed at the crowd, then they were fearful, expecting the police to show up any minute and haul the protesters away. When no one came to arrest the group, one merchant began handing out oranges to the sitting mass just before noon, “They’re not as good as old Chu’s oranges,” he apologized, “But you may have as many as you want.” Someone tried to pay the fruit merchant and within seconds, vendors were plying the crowd with food and drink.
Seeing an opening, Brother Wang leaned over to “Master” Chao and whispered, “We must march on the jail now.” Saying nothing further, he got up on legs that should have been stiff but felt remarkably strong. He began to walk out of the market. Almost as one, 300 people stood and began to follow. Several merchants and customers tagged along out of curiosity.
Lee Bensui could scarcely believe his eyes. In reply to his memo as to what to do with the Christian subversives, regional Party headquarters in Amoy sent him, via fax, a letter stating that they were to be released and not executed immediately. He was shocked. China was in the middle of a war and the Party was going soft. He weighed calling headquarters. He gave up after the fourth busy signal at Amoy Party headquarters, half glad he didn’t get through to be heard second guessing his superiors. Oh well, at least the memo didn’t direct him to apologize to them too. He gave the order for the prisoners’ release. He considered whether to call in some trucks and buses to whisk them back to their village where they could cause little harm.
By 12:15 a swelling lunchtime crowd of more than 600 people descended on the Lipu County Party complex. Not wanting to project an overly threatening posture, Brother Wang sank to his knees, clasped his hands, and began praying silently. Everyone between Wang and the old man with the sign at the back of the crowd either went to their knees or sat quietly cross-legged. The locals simply stared at the crowd and at the Party headquarters, waiting for something to happen.
There was an urgent rap on Lee’s door, “Comrade Lee, Comrade Lee!” It was his lackey, Ng.
“Come in and still yourself Ng! What is it?” Ng was given to overreaction, still, given the circumstances, Lee was a bit unnerved.
Lee’s door flew open and Ng arrived wide-eyed and panting on his desk, “Oh, Comrade Lee, what do we do?”
“About what?”
“About the thousands of people outside protesting for the release of the prisoners from the village?”
“What?” A cold shiver went down Lee’s spine—he had ordered the 60 immediately released only 15 minutes ago. He swiveled in his chair (Fu Mingjie’s old chair, actually) and looked out his window on the small square below. His eyes focused on the sea of people below, then they panned out to the sign. He looked no further to see that the crowd was not as large as his deputy claimed, he saw enough to know that something bad was going to happen very soon. Lee reached into his desk and grabbed his pistol, “Call the warden immediately, tell him to delay the release. We cannot have those people released into this crowd!” Lee jumped up and ran for the door, yelling over his shoulder, “Then meet me outside!”
Lee raced down the flight of stairs, almost knocking over a couple of female clerks. He burst outside just as the clouds parted to reveal the midday sun. Lee blinked blindly, trying to gauge the situation and decide what to do next. He heard a commotion to his left as three jail guards led the 60 former prisoners out the front door of the local jail. Lee’s legs went wobbly as he tried to shout and move towards the police. His legs and voice seemed to fail him as the crowd behind him rose up with a hearty shout. Scores of people pressed by him on their way to triumphantly mob the released prisoners. Lee just stood, hands at his side, his pistol hanging limp in his right hand.
Lee began to regain his senses. He tucked his pistol into his waistband and slowly pushed his way towards the center of the enlarging crowd. Someone recognized him and shouted, “There’s Lee! Lee’s the one that released the prisoners! God bless Lee!” Lee almost fainted.
A hush began to move over the crowd and a purposeful movement reached towards Lee. A half-minute later a small but unbroken woman stood before the dazed Party boss. It was Mrs. Chu. She bowed to Lee and he awkwardly returned the unexpected bow.
“God bless you, Lee Bensui. You have done right in the sight of the Lord.” She bowed again, hugged her husband’s executioner and walked back into the crowd, which immediately burst out in cheers.
Lee was numb. He heard someone calling his name. His name. Lee slowly wheeled around. It was Ng.
“Comrade Lee, Comrade! Amoy Party headquarters called. It was a mistake! The directive was a mistake! The prisoners must be arres. . .” Ng stopped in mid-sentence and realized what he was saying in the midst of the growing mob. He skidded to a stop, suddenly looking very frightened.
Without his company of PAP goons, Lee was powerless to enforce the will of the “People” on the people. Tears streaming down his face, Lee began to climb the once-imposing steps of the Lipu Party headquarters and head for his office. He walked into his office, slamming the door on Ng’s face. Lee sat down at his big desk—Fu’s desk really—and winced absentmindedly at the stabbing in his back. He reached back and removed the painful lump—his pistol—Fu’s old pistol actually. Lee stared at the pistol for several seconds. Acting on their own, his hands pulled the slide of the 9mm semiautomatic back and released. His ears registered a sharp, ringing shlink. As if he were an observer at his own execution, Lee raised the
pistol to his temple. Before he pulled the trigger, he wondered if Ng or someone else would get the money for his kidneys. The joyful throng in the square now numbered more than 2,500—they heard nothing but the sound of their own freedom ringing out.
* * *
Brigadier General Mao did what he could to rally support to his cause. The garrison commander, General Wong, did what he could to dissuade Mao and anyone else Mao spoke with. The best Mao could hope for was delay.
In what seemed like only a few minutes, 1500 rolled around and they were all back in the meeting room. The mood was pensive. Mao knew his attempt to rally for delay was doomed. This was a defeated cadre simply waiting for the right moment to step out from under a white flag.
General Wong started to address the group from the front of the room. Deciding he had no career left to speak of anyway, Mao rose from amidst his colleagues, “Pardon me, sir.” He turned to look at the remainder of the officers in the room. He held their rapt attention, “I know what you’re all thinking. I know General Wong has convinced you all that we should give in; that it is inevitable that China become whole again. But, may I be permitted to remind all of you that Taiwan is a democracy. The people of Taiwan voted just a few months ago to ratify their separate status from China. Don’t these people, our neighbors and relatives, deserve something more than to be ruled by the Butchers of Beijing? From here I know the struggle may appear to be hopeless, but, what if Chiang Kai-Shek and his men thought that in 1949? Would we have proven to ourselves and world that the Chinese people can govern themselves without dictator or emperor?”
