the key. He was surprised that they allowed it, but that had to be plain ignorance.
Most people just used spreadsheets for basic calculations, but the cells allowed functions, and functions were really tiny programs in their own right.
It was an old trick but a good one. He opened a spreadsheet and created a function that caused an endless loop. A complex mathematical calculation with no end, just whizzing around and around inside itself, going nowhere.
He opened a second spreadsheet page and copied in the same function. Already, the machine was performing like an arthritic snail.
He opened a third page and a fourth. By the tenth, the overloaded computer was taking over a minute just to bring up a page, the hourglass spinning frantically as the processor ground its teeth to nothing.
One more page tipped it. The computer froze. It stayed that way for a couple of minutes until the Managed Environment Controller decided that the machine had died (which it had) and started a reboot.
Too easy, Sam thought.
He caught the machine on the reboot and flicked it into Safe Mode, disabling all the software, including Managed Environment. When it had finished restarting, in the subdued colors and low resolution of Safe Mode, he opened the registry file and disabled the Managed Environment completely before restarting the machine again.
This time it booted up normally, and when it started, everything worked. The restrictions imposed by the security software were gone. The computer was his.
Quickly, keeping one eye on the door, he wrote a trapdoor, deep in the operating system, so that a certain combination of keys would automatically kill the Managed Environment and give him full control. That way he could return the machine to its normal state but still use it whenever he felt like it.
So, he thought, let’s have a look around.
He accessed one of his drones in Mexico, where he permanently stored a copy of Ghillie, and released it into the prison network.
The SAM database was easy, and the SysAdmin rights were his within seconds. He strode through the prison network security without breaking his stride.
Everything was there. Menus for the meals, weekly supply orders, guard rosters (along with their personal and income details).
Even the codes for the electronic doors.
10 | THE WRECK
Recton Hall Juvenile Detention Center is in Brookmont, Maryland, on the shores of the Dalecarlia Reservoir, to the northwest of the nation’s capital and just over the Potomac River from the CIA’s headquarters in Langley, Virginia. It caters to juvenile offenders up to the age of seventeen.
Like many other juvenile halls, or juvies, Recton takes pride in providing a secure environment that does not feel like a prison.
The high-security fence that surrounds the facility is softened, completely hidden in some places, by the tall red maples and river birches planted on both sides of the razor wire.
Inside the perimeter, a white picket fence adds a rustic touch and hides a proximity-and-thermal sensor. An observer with an eye for detail would also notice that the tops of the pickets are white painted metal, not wood, and are sharper than you would usually expect for a picket fence. Also, the fence, at four feet high, is a little taller than usual, just high enough, in fact, to prevent anyone from casually stepping over it. It has to be climbed. The same innocent-looking fence delineates the area in which the inmates, referred to as guests, are allowed to roam.
Every inch of the ground between the picket fence and the wire-mesh security fence on the outside is covered by cameras and monitored by motion sensors. There are plenty of blind spots among the trees, but none at all in the four-yard clear space on either side of the fence.
There is only one way in or out of Recton, and that is through the “cage,” part of the administration block. Large metal gates on the outside and reinforced doors on the inside create a kind of holding area in
Most people just used spreadsheets for basic calculations, but the cells allowed functions, and functions were really tiny programs in their own right.
It was an old trick but a good one. He opened a spreadsheet and created a function that caused an endless loop. A complex mathematical calculation with no end, just whizzing around and around inside itself, going nowhere.
He opened a second spreadsheet page and copied in the same function. Already, the machine was performing like an arthritic snail.
He opened a third page and a fourth. By the tenth, the overloaded computer was taking over a minute just to bring up a page, the hourglass spinning frantically as the processor ground its teeth to nothing.
One more page tipped it. The computer froze. It stayed that way for a couple of minutes until the Managed Environment Controller decided that the machine had died (which it had) and started a reboot.
Too easy, Sam thought.
He caught the machine on the reboot and flicked it into Safe Mode, disabling all the software, including Managed Environment. When it had finished restarting, in the subdued colors and low resolution of Safe Mode, he opened the registry file and disabled the Managed Environment completely before restarting the machine again.
This time it booted up normally, and when it started, everything worked. The restrictions imposed by the security software were gone. The computer was his.
Quickly, keeping one eye on the door, he wrote a trapdoor, deep in the operating system, so that a certain combination of keys would automatically kill the Managed Environment and give him full control. That way he could return the machine to its normal state but still use it whenever he felt like it.
So, he thought, let’s have a look around.
He accessed one of his drones in Mexico, where he permanently stored a copy of Ghillie, and released it into the prison network.
The SAM database was easy, and the SysAdmin rights were his within seconds. He strode through the prison network security without breaking his stride.
Everything was there. Menus for the meals, weekly supply orders, guard rosters (along with their personal and income details).
Even the codes for the electronic doors.
10 | THE WRECK
Recton Hall Juvenile Detention Center is in Brookmont, Maryland, on the shores of the Dalecarlia Reservoir, to the northwest of the nation’s capital and just over the Potomac River from the CIA’s headquarters in Langley, Virginia. It caters to juvenile offenders up to the age of seventeen.
Like many other juvenile halls, or juvies, Recton takes pride in providing a secure environment that does not feel like a prison.
The high-security fence that surrounds the facility is softened, completely hidden in some places, by the tall red maples and river birches planted on both sides of the razor wire.
Inside the perimeter, a white picket fence adds a rustic touch and hides a proximity-and-thermal sensor. An observer with an eye for detail would also notice that the tops of the pickets are white painted metal, not wood, and are sharper than you would usually expect for a picket fence. Also, the fence, at four feet high, is a little taller than usual, just high enough, in fact, to prevent anyone from casually stepping over it. It has to be climbed. The same innocent-looking fence delineates the area in which the inmates, referred to as guests, are allowed to roam.
Every inch of the ground between the picket fence and the wire-mesh security fence on the outside is covered by cameras and monitored by motion sensors. There are plenty of blind spots among the trees, but none at all in the four-yard clear space on either side of the fence.
There is only one way in or out of Recton, and that is through the “cage,” part of the administration block. Large metal gates on the outside and reinforced doors on the inside create a kind of holding area in
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