Deadline Y2K

by Mark Joseph

  On the Upper West Side, Captain Ed Garcia strolled through the Millennium Religious Sanctuary of the 24th Precinct that he’d created. The Archbishop of New York was celebrating Mass in Central Park, and a coven of witches was holding a circle on 99th Street. At least two dozen preachers held forth, creating a veritable religious marketplace of zealotry. A cheerful committee of Upper West Side residents armed with clipboards circulated among the evangelicals and awarded style points for oratory, fervor and biblical accuracy. A gospel choir was singing on Amsterdam Avenue, and a flock of Buddhist monks beamed serenity and good will on Central Park West.

  In midtown, bubbles of chaos rippled out of hotels as managers realized many guests with expensive New Year’s Eve reservations would never arrive. The stranded were offered their old rooms at exorbitant prices, a seeming godsend until many learned their credit cards were rejected. Since most Asian banks had closed down all electronic data processing, their cardholders were stuck wherever they were. In the surreal light of dusk, deliriously excited partygoers stood toe to toe on crowded sidewalks. The schizophrenic nature of the moment was captured in Times Square where two sets of chanting youth faced each other across Broadway. The crowd on the west side mindlessly repeated, “Two Thou-sand, Two Thousand,” and their rivals on the east side countered with, “Lights out, good night, the millennium bug is gonna bite.” A drunken woman wandered into the street between the two groups, wobbled back and forth, listening first to one side and then the other. Then she ceremoniously tilted a bottle of Jim Beam high in the air, missed her mouth, poured whiskey all over herself and slowly, inch by inch, keeled over backwards onto the asphalt. Aloof and haughty, Mickey Mouse, the unofficial mayor of Times Square, peered down from above with a timeless, silly grin. His digital clock read 4:32.

  Under a gray and darkening sky, a chain reaction of automated computer controls sent bursts of electricity to the streetlights, and block by block, sector by sector, haloes of light cascaded down the broad avenues. In the twilight the electrician’s artifice unveiled a more intimate Manhattan. Like the graceful flowering of a night garden, neon glowed beneath the first stars, a splendid array of 20th Century art, a feast of cocktail glasses and bright marquees, the signs of life. Downtown, the towering skyscrapers emitted a stately sheen as though aware of their solemn majesty.

  In the neighborhoods, a TV in every apartment cast a blue light into the dusk. The only way to escape the news was to watch college football or old movies on TNT. Even those stations ran banner headlines across the bottom of the screen, and there was no relief. Doc stopped in a deli on Canal Street for a sandwich, and the TV was on behind the counter with the Sunkist Lemon Bowl from Tampa, the stands half empty, the game desultory, the announcers talking about the brown-out in Chicago.

  By a quarter to five it was dark and the city underwent a subtle change, grew more mysterious, more willful and full of desire. Doc could feel the difference when he walked out of the deli, bagged sandwich in hand. The early night people hit the streets to offer exotic forms of commerce to the holiday crowds, and as night descended the odor of sex and drugs charged the atmosphere with illicit thrills. The party was heating up as the fearful drank and smoked and swallowed pills to numb themselves against the coming storm. The fearless ingested everything available because it was expected. On New Year’s Eve the rules were always suspended, but on this New Year’s Eve the rules were tossed aside and trampled.

  When Doc arrived on Wall Street, a busload of Japanese tourists clustered under the iron lions for a group photo. They tried to smile, but news from home had spoiled their holiday in New York. The photographer peered through the lens, backed away, looked again, and said something in Japanese. Doc edged closer and saw the camera was a fancy new digital. He knew what had happened. A chip in the lens running on Japanese time had rolled over to the millennium and malfunctioned, killing the camera.

  The bug was invisible, ubiquitous and serendipitous. The next camera off the line might have a different chip, or the configuration of the software burned into the chip might be different, or the chip itself might be assembled from different components, black boxes within black boxes. Doc laughed aloud, startling the tourists who couldn’t fathom why a bearded lunatic in engineer’s boots and hunting cap with ear flaps was hooting and sniggering in their direction.

  “The world is nuts,” he yelled. “I’m nuts. You’re nuts. Everybody’s nuts, and that’s what’s so wonderful. Ha ha ha ha ha.”

  * * *

  The first floor of Copeland Investments on Nassau Street was almost empty, the sales people and account execs long gone. Doc found the remnants of a party, champagne bottles and paper cups, and one saleswoman who remained in her cubicle, her phone miraculously working, speaking German into her headset, then switching to English, then back to German.

  “That’s right, Herr Jager, the basic package for a bank your size is five dollars per line of code, and a bank your size has about forty million lines of code. Yes. We can have a team of consultants there next week. Of course. We can charter a plane or you can send your plane. Yes. That’s right. Ja. Ja. Bitte, Herr Jager.”

  Doc drew his finger across his neck and whispered, “Go home, Maria. You don’t need to be here.”

  She waved at him, winking, pointing at the phone and nodding enthusiastically as she said, “Ja. Ja. Nein. Ja. Bitte. Auf wiedersehn, Herr Jager. Yes. Good-bye.”

  She hung up and beamed. “How d’ya like that? Bingo. Hamburg. Wow!”

  Leaning against the cubicle wall, Doc asked, “When did Copeland raise the rate to five bucks per line?”

  “This morning. Herr Jager doesn’t care. He’s desperate.”

  “It’s been three bucks for a year,” Doc observed. “But you know, you’re right. The clients will pay.”

  The stillness in the office was offset by the sound of firecrackers in Battery Park. The din of distant merriment moved through the night air like an echo from the past New Year’s Eves, simple parties and rowdy fun. Outside, pools of lights around doorways and lamp posts mollified the darkness. On the sidewalks shadowy figures hurried toward the festival and its promise of warmth.

  “You’re a good trooper, Maria. Go home.”

  “Whew!” She grinned like a Cheshire cat. “Hamburg.”

  “Congratulations,” he said cheerfully. “Hope you make the sale.”

  Maria wrinkled her brow and looked thoughtful. “I wonder if Donald would let me use the plane tomorrow,” she said. “If I went, I could close right away.”

  “Maria,” he said gently, “the airports are closed.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “No planes in or out for a few days.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Afraid not.”

  She blinked, leaned over and looked past Doc at the empty office. “Where is everybody?”

  “It’s New Year’s Eve. Don’t you have a party to go to?”

  “Ohmygod. What time is it?”

  “Almost five.”

  “Ohmygod ohmygod. I’ve been on the phone two hours. I’m late I’m late I’m late.”

  She grabbed her purse, pulled out a compact and examined her makeup. “What about the airports? What’s going on in the world anyway, Doc?”

  He stroked his beard, processing millions of possible answers, one for each calamity that had rocked the world. Of China’s eighteen million computers, fifteen million were dead. Runs on banks had spread across South America. The Russians were still rioting in Brooklyn. In five minutes the bug would slam into Eastern Europe. Etcetera etcetera. Maria would find out soon enough for herself.

  He winked and recited, “‘The pump don’t work ’cause the vandal took the handle.’ Bobby Dylan said that. Happy New Year, Maria.”

  She wrinkled her nose and said, “Huh?”

  Copeland’s office was empty and smelled like a smoke bomb. The poor bastard, Doc thought. With people like Maria working for him, he’d make more money than he’d ever dreamed possible
. Customers all over the world suddenly wanted Y2K software to fix their broken machines, but with the phone lines jammed, most calls from overseas couldn’t get through. Eventually the phones would start working again. Hours, days, weeks maybe, but they’d be back. The millennium disaster would fade into history, and Donald Copeland would be one of the big winners.

  On the second floor the customer support staff was trying to communicate with banking clients all over the world. Direct lines to Chase and other local banks were open, but the international staff was through for the day. Busy phone lines had shut them down. Two or three dozed in their cubicles, and the rest were drinking a New Year’s toast in the back of the room. Doc looked at the roster board and saw half the swing shift wasn’t coming in. Annie, the supervisor, threw up her hands and said nothing. Doc understood. There was nothing to say.

  “Heard from Donald?” Doc asked.

  “No one’s seen him for hours. I think he might have gone over to the Tech Center.”

  “I think he’s gone from there,” Doc said. “What’re you doing tonight?”

  “Manning the fort. What else? My relief isn’t coming in anyway. Marty’s drunk. He admitted as much on the phone, and I told him to stay home.”

  “You’re an angel of mercy, Annie.”

  “Ha! No way, pal. What would I go home to? The TV? I got that here.”

  “What’s on?”

  “Berlin.”

  On Annie’s TV a CNN reporter was standing in the middle of a broad avenue with fireworks bursting over his head. Seminude people in Mardi Gras costumes danced around him. Off camera but close by, a band played a rendition of “When the Saints Go Marching In,” and the reporter had to shout into his mike. The camera panned down to a wide yellow stripe that ran across the street from one sidewalk to the other.

  “This stripe under my feet on Freidrichstrasse marked the border between East and West Berlin,” the reporter said, “and where I’m surrounded by a marvelous New Year’s Eve celebration—right here was the exact spot of Checkpoint Charlie, the place where East and West faced off during the Cold War. Fifty feet to the west, as you can see, the guard tower still exists where American soldiers with machine guns stared down their Russian counterparts in an identical tower on the other side. In those days, when you walked through the barricades and razor wire, both sides trained their guns and binoculars on you, front and back. It was spooky and frightening and now it’s gone. There are few traces of Checkpoint Charlie today, only the guard tower and a bit of yellow paint on the asphalt. The Cold War is over and the hot war between East and West never happened. It was a big scare that came to nothing, and that’s exactly how people here in Berlin feel about the millennium bug tonight.”

  “What about everything that’s happened today to the east?” asked the voice of the anchorwoman. “Japan has suffered. China and India and Russia…”

  “People in Berlin are saying it can never happen here.”

  “Didn’t Germany close the banks and stock and financial markets early today?”

  “Yes, as a precaution.”

  “Well, Alexis, you’ve got fifteen minutes to find out who was right.”

  The reporter held up a flashlight and a bottle of water. “I’m ready no matter what happens. This is Alexis Kosigian for CNN news in Berlin.”

  The director cut to the studio in Atlanta and the anchorwoman. “And where are we going next?” she asked. “Moscow and Paul Delaney in Red Square.”

  A talking head surrounded by snow flurries popped up on the screen. St. Basil’s cathedral appeared pristine and immaculate above a squad of soldiers in winter uniforms marching across the square, the tattoo of their footsteps a chilling rhythm of despair.

  “This is Red Square, empty. The world’s largest public plaza is deserted. In the background, you can see the bright onion domes of the Kremlin picked out by spotlights surrounded by darkness. The lights are out in Moscow. In her long history Moscow has been ravaged by Ivan the Terrible, abandoned by Peter the Great, occupied by Napoleon and bombarded by Hitler, and in the last ten years she’s struggled to make it in the bewildering world of free enterprise. And now? This may be the knock-out blow. We have reports of looting in many parts of the city, and unconfirmed reports that many of the looters are the police themselves. The army has been brought in to bring the police under control, and no one knows what’s going to happen. Communications are failing all over the place, and the assumption here is that nothing works. We do know the army is having trouble fueling its tanks. Apparently the diesel pumps at the army depots stopped working a few minutes after midnight.”

  “Are cellphones working?” asked the anchorwoman.

  “No.”

  “Do you know if the hot line between the Kremlin and the White House is working?”

  “I don’t know, but the lights are on inside the Kremlin compound which has its own generators and power supply. I would guess the hot line is open, but as I said, I don’t want to assume anything is working. I think I contradicted myself, but this whole situation is contradictory. Information is at a premium because there isn’t much of it. We have one report from the far northern city of Murmansk. We understand a detachment of Russian Naval spetznatz special forces are holding the operators of the local nuclear power plant at gunpoint, forcing them to keep the plant operating, but we can’t confirm that report because we can’t get through to anyone in Murmansk. Wait a minute now. What? When? Now? Okay, Jane, they just told us we can go inside the Kremlin and that’s what we’ve been waiting for. That’s all for now. This is Paul Delaney for CNN in Moscow.”

  Doc turned away without listening to the anchorwoman’s comments. Like everybody else, the Russians would learn that the millennium bug merely exacerbated older, deeper problems and brought them into focus. It was a catalyst, a watershed event that would weed out weakness in the technological gene pool.

  Doc made his way up to the third floor, passed through the security doors, and told the Midnight Club what they’d already guessed.

  “The passwords are locked in an isolated PC and Sarah has no access. End of story.”

  “You just told us her name, Doc,” Bo observed.

  “Yeah, well, her name is Sarah McFadden. I said I might go down there with a pistol and make her son of a bitch supervisor turn on the computer. Fat chance.”

  “So if the primary goes down, he punches in the password, the override kicks over to the backup and then that fails. Presto, magic, we’re in the dark.”

  “Looks that way,” Doc said.

  “I called Northern Lights in Vermont and told them to get out to their substations and start checking chips, and this guy on the phone, some supervisor says, ‘Who the fuck are you? Whaddaya mean check the fucking chips? We paid some assholes from Burlington to do that.’ Did you check their work? I asked. ‘Who the fuck are you?!’ I love this guy. Guys like that are the reason this whole thing is going down. Guys like him are going to make me richer than rich.”

  “You’ll be a lot richer if you figure out a way to get those passwords and keep the lights on in New York,” Doc said.

  “What about Plan B?”

  “We can’t count on Mayor Rudy,” Doc said. “He might tell us to go fuck ourselves.”

  Bo turned back to his screens, and Doc looked up to check the time. There were at least a hundred clocks in the room, counting all the clocks in the computers, but the one everyone checked was a big Southern Pacific Railroad station clock Adrian had found in an antique store. It had a big analog face with easy to read numbers and long, elegant hands that gracefully swept away the seconds, minutes and hours. It was ten minutes after five.

  “What’re you gonna do after?” Carolyn asked Ronnie for the 500th time that week.

  “Carolyn, please. I’m not interested in after. This is now.”

  “I’m just nervous. These phone lines are getting some heavy use. Close to overload.”

  On Carolyn’s screens an array of charts monitored the core l
oads in telephone trunk lines, and it seemed as though everyone in New York was on the phone. Besides voice traffic, an enormous load of data traffic burdened the lines as millions dialed up the Internet. The T-4 lines were humming as processing centers all over New York frantically transmitted data to other sites for safekeeping. An equal amount was coming into the city, pushing the capacity of myriad systems to the limit.

  Adrian seemed to be pissed off, which was no surprise to Doc. Lately, the kid had started wearing a motorman’s uniform and had taken his identification with the subway to an extreme. He thought of it as his private railroad, and he didn’t like the people who ran it. At the moment, all the trains were late, the platforms overcrowded, the system a mess, and he was upset.

  “What’s the matter now?”

  “These idiots,” Adrian said. “They put all these extra trains on, and they’re using old equipment that keeps breaking down. I’ve got five stalls right now.”

  “How long have you been sitting there?” Doc asked. “When did you sleep last?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Why don’t you take a nap, Adrian?”

  “No way. Fuck that. Leave me alone.”

  Doc gave him a pat on the back and sat down next to Judd in front of the big TV in the lounge.

  “Who’s turn is it now?” Doc asked.

  “Deutschland,” Judd said. “Germany got creamed. Everything in the East went down and took Berlin with it. Some of the West has power, but they shut down all the nuclear plants.”

  “Poland?”

  “Gone.”

  “Romania, Hungary, Bulgaria?”

  “Gone. In Budapest they had seven planes in the air when the air traffic control radars crashed. Six got down, but the pilot of the last one lost it on the runway and hit two of the others. How are things outside?”

  “Bizarre, as expected. How are things here?” Doc gestured toward the cubicles.

  “Tense, as expected.”