"c201" - читать интересную книгу автора (Burt Andrew - Noontide Night)

7:40 A.M., Thursday, February 3, 2000
Halifax, Nova Scotia

Building 213, fortunately, said nothing on the outside about latrines. At least this was an established building built solidly of limestone. It smelled of musty old paper inside; or musty old wars. A clerk routed them to a room on the third floor. Nate raised his eyebrows at the directions that the elevators were just around the corner. "Elevators? Such luxury. I'm sure they would never play pranks on raw recruits. I know I trust the electrical power not to go out right now." With a look at Morgan, the two simultaneously said, "Not!" and laughed. They headed up the weathered cement stairs. Nate couldn't help but catch Morgan's enthusiasm at this great adventure. He knew Morgan had a kid barely alive in a hospital controlled by terrorists, and that under a thin veneer the guy was probably about to crack, but he admired how Morgan dived into every new situation like a sizzling steak. It helped him build a similar veneer. If only Nate could keep from wondering if Amber missed him as much as he missed her. The room to which they were directed was a tiny thing jammed in the middle of the elevator core—on the other side of the drab walls were the back of the elevators, two on either side. Nate visualized the floor plan. The back wall must adjoin the bathrooms. Old chemical cleaner smell hung perpetually in the air. This had probably been a utility closet at one point. Inside was a computer laboratory: dull gray metal utility tables lined the walls with a PC or mainframe terminals on each. Several stacks of cardboard boxes towered to the ceiling in one corner, with a few stragglers under the tables. A motley collection of chairs decorated the room—a dirty, orange fabricked 1970s chair that should never have come back into style, 1950s-looking hardbacked visitors chairs, a Scandinavian kneeling chair with stuffing exuding from it, a metal lab stool. In one corner, a bean bag. The "good" chairs were already occupied. In a prayer-group-like circle before one of the dingy looking terminals sat three uniformed people. "You must be Hyland and Zamora. Pull over some chairs," said the large, fortyish black man wearing Captain's bars. He shook Morgan's and Nate's hands. "I'm Samuel D. Haslett, Captain of Bravo Company, 327th Software Maintenance. Zamora, Hyland, this is Ortega," he motioned to a plump, thirty-something Hispanic woman. "Carmen," she said and shook their hands. "And this is Littlefield." Sam ushered to Dick, the test cheater. "Yeah. We've met," Nate said with an unhappy smile. "I like to keep things informal, since I'm as new to this as you all, so you call me Sam when the other brass isn't around." He winked. "I'm actually Army Reserve, but I've been in data processing for twenty years. As I was telling Ortega and Littlefield, this whole CyberCorps structure is new and ad hoc. Some bonehead thought we should be organized like infantry. You four are a platoon, and I've got three other platoons under my command. Normally a platoon would be dozens of men, led by a Lieutenant. This is crazy. Four of you. But it is what it is. Now I know you all are new to the military, so if you have any questions, you come to me. I'll help how I can. But that's the only exception I'll make to the chain of command. Corporal Littlefield had the highest evaluation scores, so he's your platoon leader. You do what he says and we'll all be happy." Nate suppressed a groan. Almost. "Do you have a problem with that, Private Zamora?" Nate couldn't say, "Yes sir, this man's highly obnoxious and almost a cheater." "Sir, no sir." "You don't have to give me that parade ground stuff. We've got a job to do. Let's just get it done." He turned toward the terminal on the table. "Our job is triage. You ever watch M.A.S.H.? You decide which of the wounded are beyond help, which aren't seriously injured, and which are in between. Those are the ones who'll benefit from care first. I want to emphasize you are strictly to inspect. Violating the Don't Fix policy has been deemed a court-martial offense. Don't Fix means don't fix. No matter how simple. That's not our job, and wasting time that way will get you in big trouble. Got that? We don't have time to screw around. Okay. Here's a list of fifty programs on the screen. It'll tell you which computer they're on—some of the source code has been copied to systems of various kinds here on the base. We don't have much, an AS/400, an old HP, a couple UNIX machines, an NT server. They're connected to these terminals," he pointed around the room. "If they have a star next to them, them the program is printed out. Printouts are over there." He motioned to the boxes. "I want a triage assessment on this batch by the end of this week." Nate's eyes went wide. Most of the programs on the list had stars. "We have to look at source code on paper? No Y2K tools? Not even a text editor to scan for the word 'date'?" Nate estimated the number of boxes. "There must be thirty boxes worth!" "That's right. Welcome to the Army." "What are the numbers beside them?" Morgan asked. Next to each software system on the list was a number from 1 to 10. "Don't worry about those. They're a priority rating, how mission critical the thing is. But we've got to inspect them all, so ignore those." "Sam, do we know if they're definitely broken? If they're running fine..." Ortega asked. "No, we're simply to review them." Nate asked, "Where do find instructions on how to run the ones that are on-line? Are there manuals for those?" Sam looked like he was employing great patience. "No, we don't have any documentation. The big brass want us to review them in isolation, by looking at the code. We don't have a single outside communication line to the real systems, so we couldn't run the real ones anyway. All we're ordered to do is evaluate. Look at the code, triage them." "Then why are we here, in Canada, instead of on-site looking at the real programs? Then we could fix them," Morgan said. "I was supposed to be in Boston, anyway. Why am I here?" Sam gave an embarrassed look. "Welcome to the Army." "No, really. There must be some reason." "What they tell me is the other installations have unreliable power. The Canadians were well ahead of us on Y2K readiness." "But if we're only looking at paper..." Nate protested. Sam rose, put on his overcoat. "I'll check in periodically. If you need me, the phone's over there. If it's working, here are numbers on the base where I might be: the other platoons, my barracks, HQ." He scribbled some numbers down. "Corporal Littlefield, you're in charge. Let's save the world."

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Chapter 20.1

7:40 A.M., Thursday, February 3, 2000
Halifax, Nova Scotia

Building 213, fortunately, said nothing on the outside about latrines. At least this was an established building built solidly of limestone. It smelled of musty old paper inside; or musty old wars. A clerk routed them to a room on the third floor. Nate raised his eyebrows at the directions that the elevators were just around the corner. "Elevators? Such luxury. I'm sure they would never play pranks on raw recruits. I know I trust the electrical power not to go out right now." With a look at Morgan, the two simultaneously said, "Not!" and laughed. They headed up the weathered cement stairs. Nate couldn't help but catch Morgan's enthusiasm at this great adventure. He knew Morgan had a kid barely alive in a hospital controlled by terrorists, and that under a thin veneer the guy was probably about to crack, but he admired how Morgan dived into every new situation like a sizzling steak. It helped him build a similar veneer. If only Nate could keep from wondering if Amber missed him as much as he missed her. The room to which they were directed was a tiny thing jammed in the middle of the elevator core—on the other side of the drab walls were the back of the elevators, two on either side. Nate visualized the floor plan. The back wall must adjoin the bathrooms. Old chemical cleaner smell hung perpetually in the air. This had probably been a utility closet at one point. Inside was a computer laboratory: dull gray metal utility tables lined the walls with a PC or mainframe terminals on each. Several stacks of cardboard boxes towered to the ceiling in one corner, with a few stragglers under the tables. A motley collection of chairs decorated the room—a dirty, orange fabricked 1970s chair that should never have come back into style, 1950s-looking hardbacked visitors chairs, a Scandinavian kneeling chair with stuffing exuding from it, a metal lab stool. In one corner, a bean bag. The "good" chairs were already occupied. In a prayer-group-like circle before one of the dingy looking terminals sat three uniformed people. "You must be Hyland and Zamora. Pull over some chairs," said the large, fortyish black man wearing Captain's bars. He shook Morgan's and Nate's hands. "I'm Samuel D. Haslett, Captain of Bravo Company, 327th Software Maintenance. Zamora, Hyland, this is Ortega," he motioned to a plump, thirty-something Hispanic woman. "Carmen," she said and shook their hands. "And this is Littlefield." Sam ushered to Dick, the test cheater. "Yeah. We've met," Nate said with an unhappy smile. "I like to keep things informal, since I'm as new to this as you all, so you call me Sam when the other brass isn't around." He winked. "I'm actually Army Reserve, but I've been in data processing for twenty years. As I was telling Ortega and Littlefield, this whole CyberCorps structure is new and ad hoc. Some bonehead thought we should be organized like infantry. You four are a platoon, and I've got three other platoons under my command. Normally a platoon would be dozens of men, led by a Lieutenant. This is crazy. Four of you. But it is what it is. Now I know you all are new to the military, so if you have any questions, you come to me. I'll help how I can. But that's the only exception I'll make to the chain of command. Corporal Littlefield had the highest evaluation scores, so he's your platoon leader. You do what he says and we'll all be happy." Nate suppressed a groan. Almost. "Do you have a problem with that, Private Zamora?" Nate couldn't say, "Yes sir, this man's highly obnoxious and almost a cheater." "Sir, no sir." "You don't have to give me that parade ground stuff. We've got a job to do. Let's just get it done." He turned toward the terminal on the table. "Our job is triage. You ever watch M.A.S.H.? You decide which of the wounded are beyond help, which aren't seriously injured, and which are in between. Those are the ones who'll benefit from care first. I want to emphasize you are strictly to inspect. Violating the Don't Fix policy has been deemed a court-martial offense. Don't Fix means don't fix. No matter how simple. That's not our job, and wasting time that way will get you in big trouble. Got that? We don't have time to screw around. Okay. Here's a list of fifty programs on the screen. It'll tell you which computer they're on—some of the source code has been copied to systems of various kinds here on the base. We don't have much, an AS/400, an old HP, a couple UNIX machines, an NT server. They're connected to these terminals," he pointed around the room. "If they have a star next to them, them the program is printed out. Printouts are over there." He motioned to the boxes. "I want a triage assessment on this batch by the end of this week." Nate's eyes went wide. Most of the programs on the list had stars. "We have to look at source code on paper? No Y2K tools? Not even a text editor to scan for the word 'date'?" Nate estimated the number of boxes. "There must be thirty boxes worth!" "That's right. Welcome to the Army." "What are the numbers beside them?" Morgan asked. Next to each software system on the list was a number from 1 to 10. "Don't worry about those. They're a priority rating, how mission critical the thing is. But we've got to inspect them all, so ignore those." "Sam, do we know if they're definitely broken? If they're running fine..." Ortega asked. "No, we're simply to review them." Nate asked, "Where do find instructions on how to run the ones that are on-line? Are there manuals for those?" Sam looked like he was employing great patience. "No, we don't have any documentation. The big brass want us to review them in isolation, by looking at the code. We don't have a single outside communication line to the real systems, so we couldn't run the real ones anyway. All we're ordered to do is evaluate. Look at the code, triage them." "Then why are we here, in Canada, instead of on-site looking at the real programs? Then we could fix them," Morgan said. "I was supposed to be in Boston, anyway. Why am I here?" Sam gave an embarrassed look. "Welcome to the Army." "No, really. There must be some reason." "What they tell me is the other installations have unreliable power. The Canadians were well ahead of us on Y2K readiness." "But if we're only looking at paper..." Nate protested. Sam rose, put on his overcoat. "I'll check in periodically. If you need me, the phone's over there. If it's working, here are numbers on the base where I might be: the other platoons, my barracks, HQ." He scribbled some numbers down. "Corporal Littlefield, you're in charge. Let's save the world."


back | next home