Denial of Service 2: Meet the Trojans

  Episode 2: Meet the Trojans, blurb: DOS hacking fools

  By Steve Jordan

  1: In The News

  I wasn’t sure when my brother had taken to listening to lite rock, but I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to handle it for long. Okay, maybe when I say “lite rock,” I’m exaggerating… no, I take it back. The radio is queuing up Abba. It was making it hard to concentrate on my web searching.

  At about the time I was about to speak up and beg like a dog for him to find something else to listen to, the doorbell rang. A second later, Pete came out of his room, dressed in the baggies, tank top and sandals that were the standard dress uniform of San Diego. He started for the door… then veered towards the stereo. “Since when do you listen to Abba?” he said, as he punched the program control and an eighties rock station came on. Playing Van Halen. I was only marginally sure it was an improvement, at that.

  When he reached the door and opened it, Reilly, his Starbucks connection, smiled back at him. In her hands, held close enough to her chest to squeeze her cleavage just a bit, she held two cups. She handed one to Pete, and held the other one up for me to see. “Morning, boys! Got you something, handsome.”

  “Thanks,” I said, getting up from the dining room table and crossing over to the foyer. I had to sidestep my gear, cables, power supplies, docks and all, some of which had ended up in a pile around my chair. I’d been using what I’d needed on and off, and after a while, I’d started to get lazy about putting things back. This little corner of my brother’s apartment was starting to look like the local node of a Borg cube.

  Pete looked me over as I came up and accepted my grande double-shot skim milk espresso with room. “Any progress?”

  “Not really,” I said.

  “Well,” he said, but didn’t really finish, as he put a shoulder around Reilly’s shoulder and led her to the balcony. I let them go, and returned to my borgified corner of the dining room.

  I had been investigating the circumstances of my impromptu firing from my IT job in Baltimore, and subsequent blacklisting, for the past week, but I was only having limited success at getting anything useful. So far, about the only thing I had established with any certainty was that none of my ex-clients’ servers had ever actually gone down to a denial-of-service attack… supposedly the reason I was now living in exile in San Diego in the first place. Someone had lied about a DOS attack, and gotten me fired as a result. But who… and why… I could not nail down.

  So far, the best lead I had was related to the strange e-mail messages of one of my ex-clients. Although it was standard operating procedure to change passwords on a system when an IT person like myself was let go, it was also standard operating procedure for IT persons like myself to conceal “backdoor” passwords in a system, allowing us to get back in if necessary. Usually, that kind of thing came in handy when some unscrupulous character got into a server and started messing with things. But it also had its personal gratification and downright sneakiness aspects, which is what I was counting on.

  Anyway, it seemed there was an interesting pattern of e-mail activity around a project referred to as “Merc” within the office. The e-mails dated back to five months ago, and were mostly cryptic… a lot of generalized statements without specific names, that sort of thing. When reading between the lines, they added up to a major project in the works, a lot of resources committed to it, a lot riding on it, and a lot of heads that would roll if something went wrong with it.

  Suddenly, the e-mails got weird for two days: Odd, still-cryptic questions; requests for the status of this person or that in the organization; a lot of “does he know about this or that” kind of stuff. And then, nothing. All mention of the project just stopped dead, with no further inquiries, not even a “whatever happened to” message on a crackberry. Whatever Merc was, it had fallen through a hole in the Earth and disappeared.

  And the last message to be seen related to Merc, happened about an hour before Mr. Gravewort had thrown me out of his server room. It read: “Merc is at 238 status.” Science geeks might recognize that as the atomic number of Plutonium… which suggested being highly radioactive. Something to avoid. Cue mystery music, hit the red-spot.

  So, I had a vague suspicion. There were problems, of course. One, what exactly was Merc? Was it a secret corporate espionage tool, an private database, or an accounting spreadsheet? Knowing how important and sensitive it was would help dictate how serious the problem was. Two, whose project was Merc? I had no idea all of the projects being handled by my clients, so for all I knew, there could be any number of their clients who might conclude that my knowing their business might be bad for my career, my kneecaps, or even my pulse.

  And three: What difference did it make? I don’t mean, Who cares? I mean, will knowing any of this actually help me to get my job back? Do I actually want my job back? And should I maybe be answering number three before I move on to questions one and two?

  At any rate, I had decided to pursue question one first. And in that light, I was trying to ascertain who in the client’s e-mail stream I could get in touch with to ask about it, hopefully without tipping them off that it was me, or alerting anyone about sudden activity on the project. So I was back-tracking their e-mails to find an obscure connection I could spoof, a contractor, a friend or loved one whom someone had mentioned the project to, an out-of-touch employee, anything like that. But it was tedious work, and involved the examining of months of messages by dozens of people. It was only one of the reasons why I needed that grande double-shot skim milk espresso with room… to keep myself focused as I worked.

  The other reason, of course, was that it was as close to my former life as I could get right now.

  At about the time my attention span was beginning to waver again, about an hour further into the e-mail streams, my concentration was broken by Pete and Reilly laughing about something out on the balcony. I decided I needed to take a stretch, so I got up, navigated out of my borg alcove, and made my way to the balcony with them. They were apparently checking out some kid on the beach who was having very little luck flying a kite, and doing a lot of scrambling around trying to get it airborne, then scrambling about and apologizing to people whom the kite narrowly missed as it came back down. “Never a dull moment in San Diego,” I intoned lazily and sat down beside Pete.

  “It’s called ‘peaceful’,” Pete said to me amiably. “It’s the reason people like San Diego, bro. Don’t worry, it’ll grow on you.”

  “Not if I don’t grow out of it first,” I said. But to be honest, I didn’t know what I meant by that. It just sounded cool to say.

  “I have no idea what that means,” Pete said, causing me to make another mental note to check my inner monologues for leaks, “but you’re not giving San Diego a chance. I mean, you got a great place to stay,” and he appropriately waved an arm to encompass the apartment behind us. Then he waved it out beyond the balcony. “Great view of the beach… and the honeys. Great weather. Great company,” he said, waving his arms at himself and Reilly. “And you’ve already gotten yourself a squeeze who’s even found you some work.” He was, of course, referring to Gail, his ex and my new girlfriend. I still hadn’t figured out what was going on between Pete and Gail, but largely I had let it slide, because she kept having sex with me, and he didn’t seem to be opposed to it. Exactly. “What more,” he concluded, “could you possibly want out of life?”

  This time, I didn’t have to stop and think about something cool and meaningless to say. I had something right off.

  “Answers.”

  “Well,” Pete said, “maybe soon you’ll have a good reason to put off the questions for a bit.”

  I
looked at Pete for clarification, and saw that he was looking down… not at the beach, but closer in, like at the complex pool. I leaned forward a bit and took a peek, expecting to see some babe he planned to push me at. And sure enough, there she was: Gail, passing through the grounds from the parking lot, looking easily as hot in street clothes as any of the girls in bikinis at the pool, and heading for the building.

  Something told me I wouldn’t be doing too much more research this morning.

  2: In Local News

  Pete and Reilly stayed on the balcony, while I opened the door for Gail. Gail instantly brightened up when she saw me, and she stepped forward. “Hi,” she said simply, and planted one on me… a good one, complete with spoon-licker, and a little noise to indicate how much she liked how I tasted.

  Pete gave this up? Okay, in the interest of full disclosure, this was not what was on my mind as she was kissing me… it came afterward, when she pulled away from my mouth and said, “How’s my number one Schitz-brother?” That’s when I thought it, and I had to work at it to shove it into the back of my mind, into the corner reserved for things I planned to address later, like working out and learning Hai Lai (long story).

  “Great, babe,” I finally replied, hoping my internal monologue hadn’t been as long as it seemed. “Not working today?”

  “I just came from a morning appointment nearby,” Gail said, walking into the apartment. She quickly spied Pete and Reilly on the balcony. “Hi, guys,” she called out casually.

  “Hey, Gail,” Pete and Reilly replied simultaneously, making it sound like something you’d hear from a sitcom. Pete held up his Starbucks cup, and called out, “Want breakfast?”

  “Thanks, I’m good,” Gail replied, pointedly ignoring the veiled sarcasm, and turned to me. “Doing anything today?”

  I reflected on my investigations, of course, but as quickly decided not to speak of it. Gail, like Pete, did not seem to share my desire to get back to my old life, though I hesitate to say it was just because she liked sleeping with me that much… this girl could land any guy without trying. So, I rolled my eyes theatrically, and said, “Oh, well, I was thinking about visiting the zoo. I hear San Diego’s got a nice one.”

  “It was great,” Gail admitted, “until Hammond let those stupid dinosaurs roam around and eat everything in sight.” She smiled at her own joke, which she had delivered expertly, and I grinned back. “Anyway, I may have something else, if you can squeeze it into your busy schedule.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like a local company that could use someone of your special talents,” she replied. She paused for effect. “In IT.”

  I had to smile… gad, she knew how to push my buttons. “Oh… that,” I replied appropriately. “When did you want to go? I’ll get into some working duds…”

  “No need,” Gail said. “This is a very casual company.” She looked over my jeans and Hawaiian shirt. “Trust me, compared to most of them, you’re already overdressed.”

  So, in no time flat, we were in Gail’s Eclipse, and skating down the highway in the general direction of Mexico. The only thing I’d added to my wardrobe had been a pair of socks and sneakers, even after Gail had suggested I could leave the socks behind. Still, I looked less like a Schitzeiss and more like a Schlemiel next to Gail, in her tailored business suit, stylishly tied-back hair and killer heels. I liked Gail’s car, too: It was sexy like her, and driving it seemed to bring out the best in her. One night she had taken me up into the mountains, and after wildly carving around the dark curves in that car, she had brought me back to her place and… well, it’s a miracle I hadn’t dislocated something during the sex we had that night.

  Soon we were nailing an off-ramp at twenty miles over the posted safe-speed, and swinging into a road that led into what was obviously an office park. Office parks look the same nationwide, and only come in two types: short buildings covering miles of land; and tall buildings covering miles of land. This was the short building kind, generally full of up-and-coming operations and sub-contractors, companies with only a few to a few dozen employees, often owned by some guy whose dad left him with some bucks after he passed on, which was sunk into the business as an investment or tax shelter. The west coast version of the Beltway Bandits we had back in Baltimore. Some of these companies might some day grow into mighty corporations… but right now, most of them were keeping their fingers crossed that they’d meet the next pay window intact.

  “So, which one of these Border Bandits are we going to?” I asked, trying out a flip phrase that had just occurred to me.

  “That one,” Gail said as she pulled into the parking lot. The name on the building said: “Coyote Chow.”

  “I give up,” I said after a moment. “What the heck does that mean?”

  “Go in,” Gail replied, “and find out.”

  We opened the glass front door, and stepped into a small reception room with a few comfy chairs, a coffee table with a few science magazines on it, and a man behind a desk. At least, I was pretty sure it was a man, because from my vantage point I could only see a bald head hovering over an open drawer in the desk. Whoever it was had apparently not heard us enter, I was guessing because of the music playing on hidden speakers somewhere nearby (at least it wasn’t Abba). The presumed He continued to root around in the desk drawer for a few seconds, while we watched. Abruptly, the head popped up, and a hand swiftly popped up in front of it, holding up a tin of cinnamon flavored VerMints. “Aha!”

  “Have you tried the Café Express flavor?” I asked innocently. “It kicks ass.”

  When I spoke, the hand came down, and I was finally treated to the face underneath the bald head. Yes, it was a guy, average in looks, somewhere in his thirties, I’d guess. He looked at me politely, but clearly didn’t recognize me, so he looked to Gail, as he started to say, “I only like the cinnamon—” He stopped, when it was clear he recognized Gail. “Oh, hi, Gail! Here to see Lou?”

  “That we are,” Gail smiled. “She here?”

  “Sure, c’mon,” the guy said. He immediately stepped out from behind his desk… and I got a surprise, because he did it without standing up from his desk. In fact, I quickly realized he hadn’t been sitting down while he’d been behind the desk. He was approximately four feet tall, but with the bodily proportions of a six foot tall man, so there was no way to identify his lack of height without seeing all of him. I immediately flashed back to the first episode of Taxi, where you were introduced to Danny DeVito as he glared down at his drivers from inside a screened cage, then he bolted out to reprimand one of them… and only then did you realize he had been standing on a hidden platform, and was actually a very short guy. If you saw the scene, you know the double-take I did just now. At least I didn’t laugh, the way we all did at Danny.

  The guy was, of course, watching me as I double-took on him. I suppose that was understandable, given his stature… I was sure he was sizing me up, to see if I had issues with short guys. I’d guess he decided I didn’t, because he put out his hand amiably. “I’m Barry.”

  “Mike,” I said, taking his hand. “Nice to meet ya.”

  He nodded, and waved for us to follow him. “Lou’s in the conference room.”

  Barry led us through an office apparently created by the tech gods. Low lighting created a cool, relaxed space that would keep hardcore programmers from popping a gasket every time a variable misbehaved. Young-ish hardbodies of every nation sat behind high-tech desks of silvered aluminum struts and mesh. I swear, every one of them was beautiful… even the one chick with glasses wasn’t half-bad. On each desk was a set of three large LCD screens, all arranged edge-to-edge to form a continuous display oriented towards the user (if you could use such a pathetic word on these casting-call geeks). The computers were big, scary-looking uprights on the floors beside the desks, and each one of them had the trademark LED and neon accents of power-gaming machines. These guys were either trying to take over WOW (and with this equipment, they’d have a good shot), or th
ey were shoving some serious electrons around some serious, serious work. A few of them glanced our way as we passed, saying hello to Barry, or sizing up Gail or myself. Speaking just for myself, I felt like I was sizing up well with the ladies… isn’t that always the way, when you’ve already got a main squeeze that you wouldn’t want to give up for all the Ferraris in Italy?

  We passed through this attention-sapping rubicon and approached some glass-walled spaces in the back. One of them was brightly lit up, and we could see two people inside, a guy and a girl. Like everyone else around here, they both looked good enough to fit in on the set of a prime-time TV show… especially the girl, who was, in an anthropological sense, Asian, and in my professional opinion, drop-dead gorgeous. Barry opened the door for us, whereupon the occupants looked up from what they were doing. The girl said, “Ah, you made it.”

  Gail and I smiled, and as Gail didn’t seem to be about to introduce me, I stuck out my hand at the guy and said, “Lou? I’m Mike—”

  Before I finished, the guy stuck out his left hand and grasped my arm at the wrist. Before I knew what was happening, he was pushing my hand aside. I wasn’t sure whether or not this was some new California handshake, and just as I was about to ask, I realized the guy had let go of my wrist. I looked down at my hand, and I noticed then that it was now pointing at the girl. I looked up at her, and she grinned at me.

  The guy simply nodded at her and said, “Lou.”

  And before I could respond, the girl had taken my hand. “Louisiana Chow.”

  3: Lou Chow

  I threw a quick glance at Gail, one of those “Thanks loads… you could’ve warned me in advance about really short guys and girls named Lou” looks. Gail didn’t bat an eye, though… and, I noticed, neither did our guests.

  “Must be all that East Coast political correctness indoctrination,” Gail finally commented. “You handled your intro to Coyote Chow better than most.”