by Peter Tonkin
A little cheer went through the crowd, for it was midnight in their homes too, and the beginning of the new millennium for their families and friends far away in Russia. But it soon died, to be replaced by demands that the radio operator get on with his duties.
Everyone crowded forward, with Mrs Agran and her new American friends right at the very front, threatening to overwhelm the poor radio officer. Richard saw him take from Killigan a 3.5 in. floppy and push it into the port of the computer which still read 00:00:00 on its screen above. He put it in the port but did not click it home, his fingers busy on the keyboard. Clearing the clock, no doubt, opening the communications channels.
But the clock was still reading 00:00:00.
Richard realised then. It had to be at least ten seconds after midnight but the clock still read 00:00:00. He walked across to where Varnek was standing by his computer, looking out at the lowering blackness. A winding sheet of snow whipped across the face of it, torn away brutally by an ice-mailed fist of wind. ‘Do me a favour, Mr Varnek,’ he said quietly, just audible over the first pummelling blow of the wind on the ice-laden clearview. ‘Call up communications.’
Varnek followed the gaze of those bright blue eyes down to the screen and his hand moved, obedient to something compelling in Richard’s quiet tone.
Communications filled the whole screen. Varnek looked up.
‘Open any communications file,’ said Richard. ‘Radio, satellite VHF, TV …’
Again, Varnek’s hand moved in obedience, opening the control and monitor file on the Internet function the radio operator was calling up as they spoke. It was as though the snow in the wind outside had found a way of leaking into the ether. Thin whiteness skidded wildly downwards and across the screen. A quick eye might distinguish some letters there. But it was mostly boxes, asterisks, circumflexes, exclamation marks and question marks: computer garbage.
Horrorstruck, Varnek looked up at Richard and down again at the screen. Richard looked through into the radio room, at the immovable clock frozen on the computer screen, set, solid as a tombstone, at 00:00:00. ‘It’s dead,’ whispered Varnek.
‘It’s dead,’ called the radio operator in a horrified echo. ‘It’s all dead.’
‘And it died on the stroke of midnight,’ said Richard. ‘Captain Ogre, I’m afraid your computers have the millennium bug.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
‘That is impossible,’ said Irene Ogre in her day room five minutes later. ‘These computers are the latest model. Look at them. Pentium Processors. Intel inside. Windows Ninety-eight. They are proof against the millennium bug. There is no doubt about it. The bug is a — what do you say? — a damp squid. There must be some other explanation.’
‘The machines are only as reliable as your suppliers,’ said Richard gently. ‘Where did they come from?’
‘They were installed as part of the total re-fit at the St Petersburg dockyard in nineteen ninety-seven. I have all the paperwork.’
Richard nodded. He was beginning to feel a little better. Perhaps he was wrong after all, over-reacting. Since the mid-nineties, the millennium bug had been presented to him as a potential disaster of such proportions that he had had all computers, each programme and every chip aboard every ship he was responsible for individually checked and made guaranteed 2000-proof. He had overseen the virtual re-equipping of Heritage House, headquarters of his two London-based companies, Crewfinders and Heritage Mariner Shipping. From the automatic security gates of the parking in the basement to the global communications system at the hearts of both Heritage Mariner and Crewfinders on the topmost floor, every check that could be made had been made. Even so, he planned to call Heritage Mariner at midnight London time, just to confirm that all had come through into the new millennium unscathed.
But what was he thinking? It seemed highly unlikely he would be calling anywhere at midnight, London time. Or at any other time, unless Radio Officer Kyril could revitalise his defunct equipment.
‘Right,’ he said gently. ‘Say there were regular supplies of reliable computer equipment coming into St Petersburg as late as nineteen ninety-seven, before the crash of ninety-eight. Say this is a one-off incident. The next thing to do is to check that all the other systems are up and running properly. I have to say that I don’t believe they are.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The galley is a shambles. Why don’t you check that programme first?’ He gestured towards the quadrant that said GALLEY.
Her nose went up, her bright eyes flashed. Her expression said, ‘You are wrong, you foolish man.’ But she clicked on the octant he was pointing at. The whole screen went blue as this section overrode the others. ‘You see?’ she said.
‘Open a file,’ he answered. ‘Try that one: DINING SALON.’
She clicked on the little icon and the screen filled with a blizzard of falling computer garbage against a background of flickering black. The speakers hissed like an angry sea. Irene gasped with shock.
‘Yes,’ said Richard quietly, almost to himself. ‘That’s what I got for lunch.’
Irene switched off and tried again. But none of the galley files she tried would open. Numbly, she tried the other octants, and the two central panels. Not all the sections had died. Mrs Agran’s RECORDS program was still running.
‘The bug seems to be switching them off in sequence,’ Richard said, ‘as if each machine is reading midnight at a different time. Is that possible?’
‘Yes. There are ten systems. Each system is governed by one responsible member of the crew. As a part of the re-fit, when the systems were put in in the first place, we were all asked what time we would like the central computer clocks set to. This was good management. It was well thought out, well done. Kalinin spends her time wandering the world. We change the clocks as regularly as we change underwear. So each man and woman was asked what time they would like their computer at. Most of them said they wanted them set to home time. Chef comes from Magadan. Galley computer is set to Magadan time. You see the pattern. The exception was Mrs Agran. They were good Russian workmen. They refused to set her computers to United States central time, so she settled for the time zone of her first husband’s home.’
‘And that is?’
‘Irkutsk. But her computers were brought in by different people.’
‘Her RECORDS program will give us the name of the home cities of the third officer and the chief steward, won’t it?’ said Richard. ‘And the time zones they would have had their central computers set for.’
Irene nodded and called up the information.
‘It looks bad,’ said Richard. ‘The systems that have crashed are all the responsibility of people in whose home towns midnight has already struck. There are three of them so far. I know Mrs Agran may be an exception, but what was it James Bond said? Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence.’ He looked up at Irene Ogre and forced all the power of his character into the cold blue stare of his eyes, ‘And the third time is enemy action.’
The next logical step was to convene a meeting of all senior officers to discuss the probability of Richard’s fears being right and to plan a stratagem should the crisis worsen. This meeting had to take place on the bridge since the weather demanded that the ablest ship-handlers be there at all times. The internal phone system had gone down with the communications program, but at Richard’s suggestion they tested their personal radios and found that they still worked well enough for the chief and his engineers to join in the discussions.
The bridge was cleared of all passengers and crew who had been hoping to call home. Only Kyril the radio officer and the engineer helping him to try to fix his equipment remained, working in grim silence. Vivien Agran also remained. She would have to update passengers and direct staff about the problems they could expect. Unbeknownst to anyone, she had used the confusion of clearing the bridge to slip Killigan’s disk out of Kyril’s machine and into her all too convenient cleavage. Richard was there and he asked that Robin, Co
lin and Kate join them too. Robin knew as much about the bug as he did and a good deal more about computers. Colin and Kate knew more about the conditions gathering around them outside than anyone else on board.
‘It is possible,’ said Irene, opening the discussions, ‘that Kalinin’s computers have the millennium bug. This may be why the communications system is down, and the problems we are experiencing with the lading records, accommodation and the galley computer may arise from this. If this is so, as each central computer clock reads midnight tonight and tries to roll over to tomorrow, the old chips will read 00 for the year and either seize up or decide it must be the year 1900 and act accordingly. It should be possible to either re-set the clocks or re-programme them to accept 00 as 2000 without crashing. But we’ll have to be quick. Once a system goes down we may have to check and re-set almost by hand every chip in every circuit before it all comes up again. The potential problem is enormous. The computer systems have kilometres of circuitry, much of it printed and microscopically small, with thousands and thousands of chips. But the question only arises if the equipment is less than it seems,’ Irene concluded. Her steady gaze rested on Varnek. A short silence fell.
Varnek met his captain’s eyes, clearly weighing his words before he spoke.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘The equipment is almost certainly less than it seems. It looks like the most up-to date and expensive American equipment, running state-of-the-art American programs. But it is not. It was bought on the black market and put in on the cheap. And who by? By the mafia of course. You all know that, you Russians. Even legitimate businesses nowadays have their kickbacks, their little payments. The mafia are everywhere. A way of life. And what do the mafia know or care about the bug? Nothing. The men who put these systems in got them from businesses that had collapsed in Moscow, got them secondhand and cheaply from whomever would accept their roubles or their barter goods. They tarted them up, charged high prices and programmed them with pirate programs. Russia is, after all, the pirate capital of the world. So yes, it is possible they all have the bug.’
White light flashed across the gloomy bridge, as though a magnesium flare had been ignited and instantly extinguished close off the port bow. A rumble of thunder followed close on its heels that made the very teeth in their heads begin to tremble and chatter.
‘That weather’s deteriorating fast,’ said Richard. ‘We need to get all the help we can.’
‘We’ll need anyone with any skill in programming,’ said Robin, interweaving her thoughts with his.
‘We need the people who control the programs to tell us what time their clocks are set for so that we can prioritise the work,’ continued Richard.
‘We need guidance from the engineers about where the systems are located and the best way to get at the master computer for each,’ said Robin. ‘What do they call it? The server?’
‘Can you get into the control mechanisms of all of the systems from one central computer?’ Richard asked Irene. ‘That would speed things up.’
‘No, each system has its own server.’
‘In the meantime,’ rumbled Colin, ‘you’ll have to look for a safe haven and run for it with all the speed you can manage. If you lose your navigation computers, your weather or your propulsion in this lot, you’re dead.’
‘We need to check with you, Chief,’ said Richard, running with that thought, ‘on how quickly you can get the manual overrides on the engines in case the propulsion programs go down. As long as we’ve got steerageway, we have a chance.’ He looked out at the storm and saw a great bolt of lightning pounce down from cloud top to wave crest as though the distance was a mirror cracking from top to bottom.
‘Are we all agreed on the priorities, then?’ asked Irene. ‘Find out who understands enough about computers, passengers or crew, to be confident of re-programming the central clocks. Third Officer Borisov, please do that, then try and get your lading program up and running again. At the same time, we must find out the order in which we can expect the systems to go down if it is the bug.’ Thunder came, and she paused until it passed before resuming, ‘Mrs Agran, please consult your records and establish what time every computer is set to, starting with the next to read midnight. Chief, could you please detail some engineers to guide experts to the relevant servers while the rest see about overriding their own computer systems if need be. Mr Yazov, we will look for the nearest safe haven in case everything goes down in spite of our best efforts. Radio Officer Kyril, you will continue to try and fix the communications as a matter of the highest priority. The instant we can get a message out, alert me. Our first priority must be to alert head office as to our situation. Then we will try for any help we can summon from nearer at hand. Anything else? Very well, it is now fourteen twenty-three local time. I would like everyone back here by fourteen forty-five at the latest. Mrs Agran, earlier than that if possible. Captains Mariner and Drs Ross, will you remain on the bridge, please. Your local knowledge and wide experience might be to our benefit here.’
Richard and Colin both automatically crossed to the chart table. Robin went to look at the weather printouts and Kate went with her. The next bolt of lightning lit their way. ‘The gale will be at its worst between twelve midnight and one a.m. by the look of things,’ called Robin. ‘Just before we get a bit of respite in the eye. If we make it that far. Then it will hit hard again from the opposite quarter at three or four a.m.’
‘Safe haven by midnight then, Colin,’ said Richard. ‘What d’you think? Mr Yazov? Any bright ideas?’ The three of them leaned over the chart, following the line of Kalinin’s laid-in course, looking for the nearest storm shelter and, finding none near at hand, looking further afield. No one spoke for a few moments; they would have been inaudible against the field-artillery rumble of the thunder in any case.
‘We could try for the lee of the South Shetlands,’ suggested the navigating officer, Mr Yazov, uncertainly after the last echo had died.
‘Turn and run back into the Gerlache Strait, in behind Brabant Island there?’ suggested Colin. ‘It’s a good, big, solid island, there are mountains there tall enough to cut the westerlies —’
‘But all the channels east of Brabant are foul,’ countered Yazov impatiently. ‘Look, we would have to run by Liege Island, then Davis, Abbot and Harry Islands. If our navigation or propulsion systems faltered then …’ He made a throat-cutting gesture.
‘Here’s where we’re going,’ said Richard. ‘Right here. It’s chancy but it’s the only hope we’ve got. If we put on all the speed we can from now, re-programme the ship-handler to lay in a course a little more to westward — a lot more to westward, given the wind and the weather — we should make it just before midnight. It’s the one truly safe haven to windward of the whole Antarctic Peninsula. If we can get Kalinin in through the narrows here, we’ll have sheer rock walls on every side except to the south-east, and that’s where the quietest weather will be.’ The broad end of his right index finger was resting on the flooded volcanic caldera of Deception Island.
*
Richard’s identification of a safe haven galvanised them even more successfully than Irene’s string of orders. Having a tangible hope to aim at allowed everything to fall more securely into place, gave the whole of their desperate endeavour a pattern and a clear, acceptable purpose beyond the terrifying, unfocused goal of fighting something as amorphous as a tiny flaw in a computer programme, even though their lives depended on it. Kate, the sci-fi buff, muttered that it was all too much like 2001 for her taste and Richard grunted, ‘You’re only a year and a couple of hours out,’ which brought it home to all of them with disturbing vividness.
Vivien Agran was back by 14.40 with a printout and some handwritten notes. She reported to the captain but her clear voice carried to them all over the wind and the occasional thunderclap. ‘Second Engineering Officer Sholokov comes from Samara. I have checked with him and his computer is set up the same as the others. If it has the bug, it will die in twenty minutes. The
n at sixteen hundred hours our time, midnight will arrive in Arkhangelsk. Vasily, that’s your home town. What do you think?’
‘We’ll have to check carefully. I got my computers from the same batch as Kyril, Chef and the rest. If the weather programmes go down while we’re still eight hours from Deception, things could get very rough indeed.’
There were general nods of agreement on that one, and the first flash of lightning from starboard emphasised that the first of the thunderheads in the van of the army massing westward had passed right over them to hurl its fiery wrath onto the mountains inland. ‘And finally, we have most time to try and fix the most important. The chief is from Murmansk and, Yazov, you’re from …’
‘St Petersburg,’ said Yazov. ‘So, we have until seventeen hundred. But I’d say navigation has to take precedence. Chief can override the engine systems and give us propulsion by hand if need be. If my navigating aids go down, then the best I can offer is a compass I got from a Christmas cracker last week, my not very genuine Tag Huer navigator’s chronograph wristwatch and the captain’s sextant.’
This raised several eyebrows on the bridge for they knew well enough that the lugubrious young officer had a couple of Magellan 3000 hand-held GPS systems at the very least to call on in extremis. But Yazov’s point was well made. If push came to shove, the chief could power the engines and pitch the propeller manually, and the bridge could communicate with him, as now, by the VHF. But coming up to Deception through the full force of this storm, with the wind, the waves and the current all trying to hurl them sideways at more than a 100 m.p.h. would render even the most powerful Magellan global positioning system little more use than Yazov’s Christmas cracker compass.