Unexpected adventures can surprise and dismay me at times: an unpleasant one happened Thursday. There I was, on a lovely autumn morning, sipping the last of my coffee and looking up zonal geraniums’ various colors so I could place a spring order with the Friendly Garden Club- when my Apple Mac computer went nuts! A sea of orange squares smothered the geranium info. The screen blinked nervously as vivid orange boxes stacked up, each one shouting out this and that order.
Good Lord! I was being hacked!
It print-shrieked that I must ring the number in that orange box over there, right now, so white-hatted invisible elves could put things right.
Yeah, right.
Here’s the thing:
I was definitely born yesterday, but with a decent brain. I would not revert to being a shocked old lady who just wanted this plague to go away, please... No way would I ring that number.
It would inject poison into my Apple.
Hackers would cheerfully take all my information, and then....
Be afraid of ‘then.’ (Imagine a spider that bites its victim, injects venom to liquefy everything, and then drains its prey until it’s a dry husk...)
Fine, I thought. I’ll simply log off the net, wait a bit, log back on and continue with my geranium research...
Uh-huh.
I was clueless about these invaders’ persistence.
I wasn’t in charge. I couldn’t erase, move around, log off or even switch off the computer in the usual way.
I also couldn’t think straight, because commands to do this and that RIGHT NOW were flashing at me from those shifting Halloween-orange boxes.
There was only one certain way: a forced shutdown. The malware hung on grimly as I held down the power button. Finally, though, a calming blackness enveloped the screen.
The monster was contained.
(This sort of invasion is happening to businesses, too. The news is full of stories like this one. Our story.
About two years ago my husband’s medical office began its day. The receptionist/nurse opened the office’s IBM computer, only to find that every single medical file- all the info about Joe’s patients- had been encrypted. It’s called ‘ransomware,’ because if he wanted the files back he had to pay a substantial ransom. If he didn’t pay immediately they would remain permanently encrypted.
Every medical test, including visuals, performed in the office, every pertinent observation, everything he’d entered into the computer- would be forever lost to him.
The first reaction: Quick!! Find someone to fix it!!
The horrible reality: There is no fix.
The only way to get them back was to pay the ransom- and hope.
(How’d they worm their way in? Well, beginning in about 2011, the federal government forced all physicians to change forever how they keep medical records. On pain of being paid substantially less from Medicare, and then heavily fined, all doctors had to install an operating system directly connected to the federal government.
Every patient’s private information in this country is now an open book to the Feds. And to hackers.
Joe wouldn’t give up his practice. He couldn’t afford to pay substantial health care fines every year. So, he had to comply. It was a painful, frustrating, exasperating, often unpalatable switch that took over a year. But he wasn’t entirely subservient or helpless. Despite advice from the computer gurus (‘the whole point, you see, is to eliminate paper files’) he elected to maintain his detailed paper files. Staff also backs up the office computer every evening.
Joe refused to pay the ransom. The hackers shrugged, left his medical records permanently encrypted (forever inaccessible) and moved on to other victims.
Joe dumped the compromised IBM computers, bought Apples, installed our backed up files, and carried on. Only two days of information were lost. He set that right, too, by retracing, then re-entering important data taken from his detailed paper files.
Thinking well ahead had saved the situation. Still, the inconvenience, lost time and considerable extra costs were upsetting...)
Now mine was compromised. I was really angry.
But there might be a way to get my computer back in a timely manner. I remembered Mad Mike’s funny, cross-eyed TV ad:
“Are you tired of paying major bucks to have your sick/hacked computer fixed? Do you have to wait weeks?? Dude! Come! On! I’ll fix it quicker and if I can’t- I’ll buy it.”
I immediately rang Mad Mike. He answered, told me he had 150 other computers being scrubbed of their viruses in the back room, but that I should bring in mine. He’d look at it.
Ten minutes later, just after 9 a.m., I was inside his store. This guy is a man of very few words. He mumbled a price to bump it to the head of the line, if I wished. I quickly agreed. “Just fix it, and install whatever you think will help me avoid another hack.” He grunted, took the computer and my phone number and – well, I was dismissed. “We’ll call; maybe today...”
His brain was deep in computer mode, I thought, slightly confused by his brusque manner- but never mind. There was something special about him...I sensed the mess inside my machine wouldn’t be a challenge.
Mad Mike would make it right, right soon.
About 4:30 he rang. “It’s clean. You can pick it up.”
I cheered, drove there immediately and happily prepared to pay. But wait a minute: he’d charged too little. There should have been that $100 bump-up fee. Had he forgotten?
The fresh-faced malware sniffer waiting on me realized I was right. He took the bill over to Mike, who waved it away without even looking up from his work.
“Pay what’s there; it’s fine.”
Wow.
The young man asked me to log on to make sure all was well. But first, I stared at it. This laptop was shining clean. No fingerprints or jam smears on the cover. I knew it was mine only because the cheap sticker on the outside, picturing a goldfinch and my name and address, was there, but faded almost to gone from the cleaning. (The sticker, meant for an envelope’s return address, prevents Joe and me from mixing up our twin computers.)
I opened it. The once-grubby screen gleamed; the keys were as pristine as the day I’d purchased it.
Impressive. I’d forgotten how nice it could look.
Its polished state told me that Mike and his staff take care of the machines - in every way.
I liked his store even more.
Everything checked out. Two rabid apps had been removed. There was a virus guard in there- Kaspersky Internet Security- a type of program essential for PCs, but not considered particularly necessary for Apple Mac computers until just recently, when pasty-faced hackers began to invade and plunder Apple’s fresh electronic fruit.
In 29 days, after the free trial month, the young man explained, a bill would drop down on the screen; I could pay the modest purchase price (about $29) for the Kapersky guard then, or decline.
(I would buy it, of course!)
On the way out I went over to Mike and thanked him again: he was working on another client’s bill and just grunted without looking up. I grinned and left, happy as can be. I’d be back, if necessary. And I’d certainly take his advice.
“Back it up. No ‘fix’ is infallible.”
The guy is succinct. And dead right.
Good Lord! I was being hacked!
It print-shrieked that I must ring the number in that orange box over there, right now, so white-hatted invisible elves could put things right.
Yeah, right.
Here’s the thing:
I was definitely born yesterday, but with a decent brain. I would not revert to being a shocked old lady who just wanted this plague to go away, please... No way would I ring that number.
It would inject poison into my Apple.
Hackers would cheerfully take all my information, and then....
Be afraid of ‘then.’ (Imagine a spider that bites its victim, injects venom to liquefy everything, and then drains its prey until it’s a dry husk...)
Fine, I thought. I’ll simply log off the net, wait a bit, log back on and continue with my geranium research...
Uh-huh.
I was clueless about these invaders’ persistence.
I wasn’t in charge. I couldn’t erase, move around, log off or even switch off the computer in the usual way.
I also couldn’t think straight, because commands to do this and that RIGHT NOW were flashing at me from those shifting Halloween-orange boxes.
There was only one certain way: a forced shutdown. The malware hung on grimly as I held down the power button. Finally, though, a calming blackness enveloped the screen.
The monster was contained.
(This sort of invasion is happening to businesses, too. The news is full of stories like this one. Our story.
About two years ago my husband’s medical office began its day. The receptionist/nurse opened the office’s IBM computer, only to find that every single medical file- all the info about Joe’s patients- had been encrypted. It’s called ‘ransomware,’ because if he wanted the files back he had to pay a substantial ransom. If he didn’t pay immediately they would remain permanently encrypted.
Every medical test, including visuals, performed in the office, every pertinent observation, everything he’d entered into the computer- would be forever lost to him.
The first reaction: Quick!! Find someone to fix it!!
The horrible reality: There is no fix.
The only way to get them back was to pay the ransom- and hope.
(How’d they worm their way in? Well, beginning in about 2011, the federal government forced all physicians to change forever how they keep medical records. On pain of being paid substantially less from Medicare, and then heavily fined, all doctors had to install an operating system directly connected to the federal government.
Every patient’s private information in this country is now an open book to the Feds. And to hackers.
Joe wouldn’t give up his practice. He couldn’t afford to pay substantial health care fines every year. So, he had to comply. It was a painful, frustrating, exasperating, often unpalatable switch that took over a year. But he wasn’t entirely subservient or helpless. Despite advice from the computer gurus (‘the whole point, you see, is to eliminate paper files’) he elected to maintain his detailed paper files. Staff also backs up the office computer every evening.
Joe refused to pay the ransom. The hackers shrugged, left his medical records permanently encrypted (forever inaccessible) and moved on to other victims.
Joe dumped the compromised IBM computers, bought Apples, installed our backed up files, and carried on. Only two days of information were lost. He set that right, too, by retracing, then re-entering important data taken from his detailed paper files.
Thinking well ahead had saved the situation. Still, the inconvenience, lost time and considerable extra costs were upsetting...)
Now mine was compromised. I was really angry.
But there might be a way to get my computer back in a timely manner. I remembered Mad Mike’s funny, cross-eyed TV ad:
“Are you tired of paying major bucks to have your sick/hacked computer fixed? Do you have to wait weeks?? Dude! Come! On! I’ll fix it quicker and if I can’t- I’ll buy it.”
I immediately rang Mad Mike. He answered, told me he had 150 other computers being scrubbed of their viruses in the back room, but that I should bring in mine. He’d look at it.
Ten minutes later, just after 9 a.m., I was inside his store. This guy is a man of very few words. He mumbled a price to bump it to the head of the line, if I wished. I quickly agreed. “Just fix it, and install whatever you think will help me avoid another hack.” He grunted, took the computer and my phone number and – well, I was dismissed. “We’ll call; maybe today...”
His brain was deep in computer mode, I thought, slightly confused by his brusque manner- but never mind. There was something special about him...I sensed the mess inside my machine wouldn’t be a challenge.
Mad Mike would make it right, right soon.
About 4:30 he rang. “It’s clean. You can pick it up.”
I cheered, drove there immediately and happily prepared to pay. But wait a minute: he’d charged too little. There should have been that $100 bump-up fee. Had he forgotten?
The fresh-faced malware sniffer waiting on me realized I was right. He took the bill over to Mike, who waved it away without even looking up from his work.
“Pay what’s there; it’s fine.”
Wow.
The young man asked me to log on to make sure all was well. But first, I stared at it. This laptop was shining clean. No fingerprints or jam smears on the cover. I knew it was mine only because the cheap sticker on the outside, picturing a goldfinch and my name and address, was there, but faded almost to gone from the cleaning. (The sticker, meant for an envelope’s return address, prevents Joe and me from mixing up our twin computers.)
I opened it. The once-grubby screen gleamed; the keys were as pristine as the day I’d purchased it.
Impressive. I’d forgotten how nice it could look.
Its polished state told me that Mike and his staff take care of the machines - in every way.
I liked his store even more.
Everything checked out. Two rabid apps had been removed. There was a virus guard in there- Kaspersky Internet Security- a type of program essential for PCs, but not considered particularly necessary for Apple Mac computers until just recently, when pasty-faced hackers began to invade and plunder Apple’s fresh electronic fruit.
In 29 days, after the free trial month, the young man explained, a bill would drop down on the screen; I could pay the modest purchase price (about $29) for the Kapersky guard then, or decline.
(I would buy it, of course!)
On the way out I went over to Mike and thanked him again: he was working on another client’s bill and just grunted without looking up. I grinned and left, happy as can be. I’d be back, if necessary. And I’d certainly take his advice.
“Back it up. No ‘fix’ is infallible.”
The guy is succinct. And dead right.