by Mark Joseph
Doc looked directly at the camera and began. “It’s three minutes to midnight, Greenwich Mean Time, December 31, 1999,” he began. “In one hundred eighty seconds Big Ben will strike twelve over the River Thames and the 20th Century will end in Great Britain. In the London suburb of Greenwich, former home of the Royal Observatory and for that reason home of the prime meridian, zero degrees longitude, Her Majesty’s Government are celebrating the imminent arrival of the new millennium in the Millennium Jubilee Dome, centerpiece of Europe’s grandest millennium festival.
“Meanwhile, in the skies above, at this very moment, eight thousand nine hundred fifty-four objects are orbiting the earth. One is the moon, and almost eight thousand are bits of space debris, dead satellites, and used rocket parts. The rest are unmanned artificial satellites that are vital components of global communication systems. Satellites are essential for the national defense of many nations, for television broadcasting, corporate data transfers and international bank exchanges. Satellites bring us the weather and the news, and provide universal standards for date and time that allow telephone companies to connect with one another.
“All the satellites in the sky are controlled by radio transmissions from some 75 ground control stations on earth. The radio signals, called uplinks and downlinks, are processed by computers, and as we know, all computers are not equal. More important, all software is not equal. Some satellite companies use cutting-edge technology and advanced, thoroughly Y2K compliant software. However, in most satellite systems, especially those that have been around for several decades, very old software is used to process the streams of data to and from the satellites. Many military and older commercial ground stations use old computer programs for a very good reason. They work. They’ve always worked, and in the risk-adverse environment of satellite control, anything that works is kept. In the early days of orbital flight, satellite control programs were often scribbled on scraps of paper, translated manually into machine code, and the ‘documentation’ was tossed away in the excitement of finding something that did the job. When the crucial test of success was passed, fully operational code migrated into program after program, application after application, and much of that original code is still in use in every country that maintains a presence in the sky. With no documentation, the most diligent, conscientious Y2K remediation will never find the millions of millennium bug flaws that lurk in the old code. Workarounds, patches, kludges and new software have eradicated many problems in satellite ground control systems, but since satellites never take a day off, ground control stations can’t shut down for thorough software testing. In every space installation on the planet, operators and engineers flying the birds know what is coming, and they know it will happen at midnight, Zulu time.”
He stopped his lecture to yell at Judd standing by the audio controls, “Hit it!”
The thundering notes of the cannon chorus of “The 1812 Overture” boomed through the speakers as the Midnight Club geared up for the first major event to affect them directly.
Judd counted down, “Four, three, two, one … Zulu time!”
“Zulu time!” Doc hollered.
“Zulu time!” chorused the rest of the Midnight Club.
Startled by the explosion of sound, Jody took her eye away from the viewfinder, recovered, and started walking around and shooting.
Adrian got into the spirit of the moment by walking over to watch Judd’s screens, one of which was wired into internal communications at the United States Air Force Space Command’s Consolidated Space Operations Center at Falcon Air Force Base in Colorado Springs.
“You ain’t never gonna see this on TV,” Adrian declared.
Judd now took up the running commentary, “50th Space Wing at Falcon has the mission of day-to-day operations of Department of Defense satellites. They have about ninety spacecraft under their control, and they connect to the satellites through nine ground stations in places like Thule, Greenland, Hawaii and Diego Garcia Island in the Indian Ocean. At least they did until now. Checking systems. DSP, commonly known as the air defense early radar warning system, holding. Local air traffic control at Colorado Springs, going, going, gone. The radars are down. DMSP, defense meteorological satellite program—gone. Checking links to ground stations, checking hard-wired ground links, okay, satellite links okay—wait a minute—the DCSC bird is drifting off course—wait—wait—not responding to station-keeping command—now more birds are drifting, drifting, Defense Communications System is down. Early warning radars are now down, all satellite telcom links are down. Telemetry links are down. Link to Naval Observatory is down, GPS sats not responding, uplink is down. GPS is dead. The signals stopped completely, their screens have all gone blank. Space Command is dead. Jesus Christ, for all I can tell, the Air Force is dead.”
The music ended and a heavy silence invaded the room.
“Fuck,” Adrian swore.
“Not in my wildest dreams,” Ronnie declared.
“Well,” Doc said, “looks like nobody can start a war today. Carolyn, civilian telcom?”
Carolyn was watching screens that monitored nonmilitary communications in and out of New York.
“All civilian telcoms set their clocks with GPS because then they’re all on the same page. When the GPS satellites stopped working, the phone companies began losing synchronicity. All have backup systems and run on their own clocks, but those clocks are going to be different. Differences measured in nanoseconds are creeping into the protocols the computers use to talk to one another, and they all will react in different ways. A few will adjust the time difference because the programmer was smart enough to foresee a time difference as a possible problem. Most programmers weren’t that smart, and most computers simply will shut down all connections with any systems that don’t match their time and date. GPS has a backup system broadcasting the time over the air, and that system is not working in New York. I don’t know why and I don’t know about other places. We don’t know what the effects will be, but we’re going to find out. With GPS down, Bell Atlantic and AT&T have synchronized their clocks. Okay, here we go. Trouble in the Midwest. MCI just lost half their satellites and is routing everything to the ground. GTE is dead, their traffic flow is zero. AT&T is good. MCI is wavering. Everyone is routing everything to the ground and we’re having overloads. Hold on, hold on, GPS just came back up. Judd, confirm?”
“They got a signal up, and now, now, shit, it’s gone again.”
The receiver display screen was blank.
Judd said, “The Russian system just went down, too.”
“Test your lines, Carolyn,” Doc commanded.
“Already done. Lines clear.”
“Bo. ConEd’s phones?”
“They’re good.”
“Carolyn, confirm.”
“Confirmed. They can talk.”
“Okay. What’s the situation in London?”
“Lights out in Central London. Lights on in Greenwich because they isolated themselves from the grid. Lights out in Birmingham, Manchester, Liverpool; lights on in Devon and Cornwall. Lights out, Edinburgh, Glasgow. Lights on in York.”
“Someone check the TV.”
Every station offered nothing more than talking heads in studios. In shock, the anchormen and women had ashen faces and quivering jowls.
“We’ve just lost all our satellite connects,” said ABC.
“There seems to be a problem with our connection in London,” said CBS.
“… TV, telephones, data transfers, Internet connections to the rest of the world…”
“… the Millennium Dome is still brightly lit, but everything else…”
“… and here in New York another riot has broken out as police tried to shut down the Religious Sanctuary on the Upper West Side. We’re going now to Washington and a statement by the Secretary of Defense.”
The screen went black and a moment later returned to the studio in New York. “We’ve lost contact with Washington,” said the anchor. “We’re trying to get a
n audio line open. Frankly, I don’t care anymore. I’m going home to take care of my family.” With that, he stood up from his chair and walked hurriedly out of the studio. The camera held on his empty chair.
“Judd!”
“I have eight screens down, four up.”
“Carolyn.”
“My lines are still good.”
“TEOTWAWKI,” Adrian shouted.
“What’s that mean?” Jody asked.
“The End Of The World As We Know It,” Doc replied. “Adrian’s a pessimist. A bunch of computers is not the world, Adrian. Remember that. Somebody put on some music. We have a long way to go. I’d sure like to know what happened to the reactor in Murmansk. Judd?”
“His satellite connection is gone. I’ve lost him. I got short wave, but I can’t understand Russian.”
“See if you can get Norway on-line. They have a new communication satellite system that had a chance to make it. If their radiation detection system is working, they’ll know right away when that reactor blows. Murmansk is fucked. The entire Kola Peninsula is fucked. The Arctic Ocean is fucked. Sometimes I wonder why God made Russians.”
“How about some music?” Ronnie hollered. “We don’t have time to get depressed.”
David Bowie came through the speakers, singing the wistful, haunting lyrics to, “Major Tom.”
* * *
Uptown, Jonathon Spillman couldn’t take his eyes off the nightmare pouring through his TV. The millennium bug had stomped through Europe like Godzilla, crushing everything in its path. The 20th Century was over for them, ending much the way it started, in darkness and fear. Did anyone ever learn from the past? Apparently not. Witness today, thought Jonathon Spillman, sitting in the living room of his third-floor apartment with a shotgun across his knees.
The riot in his grocery store that morning seemed like a long time ago. Since then the bug had circled more than half the globe and plunged into the Atlantic. Brazil was next, and soon enough, New York. An invisible tidal wave as tall as the sky was silently rolling toward America. There was panic in Cincinnati, chaos in L.A. The survivalists in Montana and New Mexico had retreated to their bunkers. Spillman knew all about those crazy bastards. He’d seen them on TV, but now his TV was reduced from sixty-five channels to twelve, all local stations. Satellites down. Uplinks or downlinks or some damned thing. He felt numb. Shirley was in the bedroom sobbing, holding her tears in check every five minutes to call her mother in Queens, but all she got was a busy signal.
“Stay off the phone!” he hollered. “It’s only for emergencies.”
She came out, eyes red and face puffy. “If this isn’t an emergency, then I don’t know what is,” she bawled, close to hysteria.
“Nothing has happened to us, so for God’s sake calm down.”
“Whaddaya mean nothing? What about your store?”
“I’m all right, you’re all right, so just calm down.”
“Calm down? Calm down? Everything is ruined and all you can think of to say is, ‘calm down’!”
“Well, what the hell good does it do to cry about it? That doesn’t solve anything.”
She ran back into the bedroom and slammed the door.
“Boo hoo,” he said to himself. “Shit.”
The door bell rang. Spillman grabbed his shotgun, cracked it to make sure it was loaded, and went into the vestibule to the intercom.
“Who’s there?”
“Copeland.”
“What are you doing here, Donnie?”
“Are you gonna ask stupid questions or let me in?”
“You by yourself?”
“Yes, God damn it, I’m alone, but I won’t be for long if you don’t open the fucking door.”
Spillman buzzed him in, waited for the elevator and checked through the peephole before letting him into the apartment.
“What’s that for?” Copeland asked about the shotgun.
“You never know.”
“Good God, Jon. Put that thing away before you shoot yourself. Is Shirley here?”
“Yes.”
“She okay?”
“No. She’s out of her mind. What’re you doing here?”
“I lost my keys. I need to get my spares from you so I can get into my house.”
“Sure,” Spillman said, walking back toward the kitchen. “How’d you lose your keys?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s it like outside?”
“It’s a fucking zoo. Crazy people all over. I just walked here all the way from downtown Brooklyn.”
“Are you kidding?”
“No.”
“What were you doing in Brooklyn?”
“Business at the Tech Center.”
Spillman rooted around in a drawer until he found Copeland’s emergency keys. “All the satellites just broke down,” he said. “Say bye-bye to the rest of the world.”
“All the satellites?”
“I don’t know. There’s no way to tell.”
“I expected that,” Copeland said. “Some newer systems should be working.”
“What’s gonna happen here, Donnie? The truth.”
“You want the truth? The absolute truth?”
“Yeah.”
“Nobody knows.”
“Fuck you. That’s no answer.”
“Look,” Copeland said, eyeing the shotgun, “wanna walk across the street with me? Just to be safe?”
“You mean go outside?”
“Yeah.”
“I dunno. I saw on TV that Ed has his hands full over on Amsterdam. Did you see that when you were walking over here?”
“No. I stayed away from there. Anyway, we’re not going over there. Just across the street.”
“Okay. Lemme tell Shirley.”
The bedroom door was locked.
“Shirley?” he called, knocking softly on the door. “Donald is here. I’m going across the street with him for a few minutes. I’ll be right back.”
“Nooo. No no no.” The door opened a crack. “Don’t leave me here alone.”
“I’m just going to walk across the street. I’ll be right back.”
“It’ll be all right, Shirley,” Copeland said, and she slammed the door again, yelping, “You can’t see me like this.”
“Christ,” Spillman said. “Let’s go.”
Three floors below they surveyed the street like commandos. As little boys they’d played this game a thousand times.
“Whaddya see?” Spillman asked.
“Sidewalks clear.”
“Let’s go. You first. I’ll cover you.”
“Wait. There’s a guy coming down the block.”
A New Year’s Eve drunk wobbled along the sidewalk, singing off-key in Spanish, “No me puedo amar sin tí.” He stopped to light a string of firecrackers and let the string dangle, fuse hissing like an angry snake before he tossed it into the street.
Spillman shuddered. “I hate that,” he snarled. “I just fucking hate that.”
“Shut up,” Copeland snapped.
The drunk paused in front of the building and saw them. “Happy New Year,” he saluted them, then saw the shotgun and laughed. “Happy New Year. Shoot ’em up, cowboy!” and walked on, laughing.
“See,” Copeland said. “Don’t be paranoid.”
“All right.”
“I’m gonna go now.”
“Okay. Go!”
Copeland sprinted across the street, ran up the stairs to his front door and waved at Spillman to follow. In a crouch, holding the shotgun with both hands, Spillman scuttled between parked cars. At the far end of the block the drunk heard their footsteps and turned to see Spillman fly up Copeland’s stairs. He shook his head and continued his journey toward Riverside Park and the placid, black Hudson River, singing, “Busqué la verdad en la tequila.”
“Want to come in?” Copeland asked. “We could both use a drink.”
“Why not. I’m sure in no hurry to go home.”
“That bad?”
Copeland used one key to open an electronic pad, punched in a code, closed the pad, keyed a second lock and opened the door. Micro came running, spinning in circles with excitement. With the dog at his heels, Copeland opened a closet and reset the alarm. Before he could emerge from the closet, every light in the house started to blink.
“What the fuck?” he growled. He reached for a light switch and snapped it up and down with no effect.
“What’s going on?” Spillman asked.
“I don’t know.”
Spillman turned around to go back outside, but the door wouldn’t open.
“What the hell?”
He kicked the door and jiggled the latch to no avail. Copeland tried the key and it wouldn’t turn. Then the sound system came on, and from speakers in every room they heard Doc’s voice.
“Hello, Donald. You’re locked in. Get used to the idea. I called up Old Blue and he thought it would be easy to seal you in. Old Blue and I became pretty good friends while he was here on Nassau Street. We stay in touch. You know how it is with old friends. You have grates on all your windows, but you’re a resourceful guy and without a doubt you can escape. But if I were you, I’d relax and have a drink. You can’t call out on your phones, so you might as well try and get it over with.”
Copeland ran into the kitchen and saw Doc’s face on TV.
“This is a videotape,” Doc said. “Thirty seconds after you keyed the door it started the VCR in the kitchen, where you’re probably watching me now. I hope you’re alone, but if you’re not, your guests will have to stay with you. I’ll be calling in a few minutes. Enjoy the show.”
“What is this?” Spillman said. “What’s going on? Isn’t that Doc Downs?”
“Give me that shotgun.”
“Why? What’re you gonna do?”
“I’m gonna kill my TV. C’mon!”
Copeland took the gun, pointed the muzzle at the TV and pulled the trigger. Pow! The cathode ray tube imploded with a loud bang. Sparks flew. Bedlam. Yelping dog. The kitchen was a cloud of acrid smoke, the TV a singed wreck. Copeland’s eyes blazed with righteous ferocity as Spillman recovered from his surprise and started to laugh.