Zero Day

68

From her perch above the rest of the employees, Margaret Harper glanced across the darkened room, taking in the screens of eighty-three computers in a glance.

Everything was normal, as it usually was this time of night. One shift was leaving as another arrived. Forty-eight personnel, mostly women, had just eased away from their stations, to be replaced by just thirteen until six in the morning, when the room would go to full complement.

Margaret’s part of CBSC was to handle the few customer-service needs for those banking customers with problems who managed to clear the numerous hurdles their local bank had created to keep them from actually talking to a real live human being. More than a dozen banks outsourced their customer service to CBSC from 9:00 p.m. until 6:00 a.m., Monday through Friday, and Margaret was responsible for making it all work.

It was not an especially demanding job, and given her hours, none of the other supervisors were clamoring for it. The 10 percent pay differential made it worth her while. She couldn’t sleep nights anyway.

“Maggie?” one of the representatives who’d been stuck on a call said into her headset.

“Yes?”

“I’ve got a live one. He insists his statement is off three cents. I’m afraid I was a little testy with him and offered to give him the three cents myself. He says that’s not the point and wants to talk to my supervisor. Sorry.”

Margaret chuckled. “I’ll take him.” But just as she heard the unpleasant voice of the customer on the line, the screens across the room flickered, turned blue, then read:

After a few seconds, the screens flickered again, and read:

Then the screens turned black.

Margaret disconnected the call without comment. “I’m calling tech support!” she shouted over the sudden chatter that filled the room.

Petty Officer Third Class Russell Winters leaned back in his swivel chair and yawned. As always, day or night, the lights in the communications room were subdued with a certain surreal quality he had some difficulty adjusting to. He’d just come on duty and was already ready for a nap. That wouldn’t do. He took a long sip of the strong black coffee with which he began every shift and turned back to his computer screen.

This was a quiet time for the submarine net spread across the Atlantic. Winters manned the very low frequency, or VLF, radio for the ballistic-missile submarines known as boomers. The screen placed each boomer by location, while the silence in his earphones told him no one was calling home. No one was expected to be calling in, so in this case silence was golden.

Six communications specialists were on duty, along with Lieutenant Commander Danielle Alvarado. She ran a quiet station, which was just as well with Winters. His personal life had all the drama he could manage for now.

He took another sip of coffee as every computer screen blinked.

“What was that?” Alvarado asked from her desk, alert.

“Some kind of hiccup, ma’am,” Winters said. His screen turned blue, then went black. They were down.

“What’s going on?” Alvarado demanded, standing in place.

Winters clicked his mouse. “I don’t know, ma’am. But we’re out of contact.”

Alvarado was already on the telephone. “I need every tech you’ve got, now! We’re down. There’s no way we can give an order or receive a message. You understand? We’re naked right now. We’ll be waiting.” She looked up at her confused staff. “Everybody reboot. We need to get back up.”

“Ma’am,” Winters said, “I just noticed that our satellite uplink is down as well.”

James Black ran the numbers one more time. Maybe, just maybe, they were finally turning the corner. The fall season the previous year had been good for the family company, and they’d just come out of the traditionally slow summer with a positive cash flow, a first. If the economy stayed healthy through the holidays, they’d be in the best shape ever since mortgaging their house three years before to finance the company.

Working from home had been their dream. Black had to admit it was pretty good. It sure beat the daily commute and that boss he’d had. What a jerk! But now it was all in their hands, though if these numbers were correct, it was looking as if they’d made the right call. The key to the company’s success was the lack of an inventory and all the associated costs. It had taken him an entire year to figure that part out. Now he took the orders online, placed his own order with the wholesaler for direct shipment to the customer, then processed the charge. Smooth. The computer made it all possible.

Not that it had been as easy as that in the beginning. He’d had to make many modifications to the software to get it to do what their novelty business required, but that speed bump was behind them. Everything was going to be just fine. Black sat back with a sense of satisfaction.

His computer screen flickered, then turned blue and read:

A moment later the screen blinked again, read:

Then turned dark.

Black stared in amazement. He’d never seen anything like it. He killed the power bar, waited, then turned it back on. His attempt at rebooting went nowhere. He tried it repeatedly with no luck. His computer was dead.

Jeez, he thought, what am I going to do tomorrow? I won’t receive, let alone be able to process, any orders. And what about the family photos? “Hell,” he said aloud with sudden comprehension, “what about our financial records and the software?”

He stared at the screen again, as if seeking an answer, his chest beginning to constrict with panic.

Air traffic controller Byron Smith took in the screen with a single practiced sweep. He could close his eyes and place every airplane on the screen exactly. What’s more, he could tell you where’d they’d all be in one minute. As he often told Carla at home, his mind was the best computer of all.

Chicago-O’Hare was one of the busiest airports in the world, and the second busiest in the United States, with more than twenty-six hundred flights daily. Frankly, with their antiquated software, Smith thought it amazing they could juggle so many flights. Still, he enjoyed the challenge and had more than once been called upon to exercise his considerable mental dexterity when the system had become overloaded and sluggish.

This was not an especially busy time for the airport. He didn’t like working nights anyway, and the undemanding work only caused the hours to drag. This was also the time when the techs tended to update the software, and that did not always go without a hitch.

“Stand by!” their supervisor called out. “Any second now.”

Smith had been told this was a minor update. He shouldn’t even notice it, so when the screen blinked, he smiled. So much for techs and their so-called expertise. Then the screen went blue, then black. They were down.

Others shouted while Smith waited. Nothing. He closed his eyes and visualized the planes he’d been monitoring, placing them in their ever-changing locations. The other controllers were now screaming at the supervisor, who was on the telephone, cursing.

“Send them elsewhere!” he shouted. “Emergency landings only. They have no idea what’s going on. Careful now. But clear the sky.”

Calmly, Smith hit the SEND button and began speaking. “United Flight 145, this is O’Hare. Please divert to another airport. We cannot land you. Thank you. American Airlines Flight 334, this is O’Hare. Please divert to another airport.”

Throughout the control room the other controllers were talking to their planes as the supervisor continued screaming into his headset.

Mike Ruiz glanced at his wristwatch, then looked up at the fourteen robots doing their awkward dance. He’d taken over for the recently deceased Buddy once the line was declared ready, and for the last two weeks assembly had gone off without a hitch.

Mike didn’t like the idea of sitting in a dead man’s chair, though. He’d never known anyone who was killed on the job before, and the whole thing made him queasy. But he couldn’t see passing up a good slot like this just because Buddy had been careless enough to get his head cut off.

Mike and his aging coworkers had talked a lot about the accident, and nobody could really figure out just how it happened. The line moved so slowly it seemed impossible that anyone could lie still long enough for that to happen, but apparently it had. Mike had given this a lot of thought, even talked to his wife about it. If the robots ever acted up again, he knew exactly what he was going to do.

Shortly before midnight, Mike Ruiz left his workstation with a clean rag and lubricant can. At the first robot he pressed the large blue plastic button that caused the machine to retreat from the assembly line five feet. Once in place Mike lubricated six points, then wiped them down. Finished, he pressed the button and watched the robot move back into place and resume operation.

Mike was halfway through the chore when the robots stopped doing whatever they’d each been up to. They then moved, as if standing to attention. Mike stepped back and gawked at the machines. He’d never seen them act like this before.

Then, without warning, all fourteen of them moved to their left and dropped down low. For just an instant, Mike was frozen in place. Then he understood how Buddy Morgan got his head chopped off. With a loud grunt, he dropped to the floor, pressing himself as hard to the vinyl surface as he could. Over his head, the nearest machine swung its arm violently forward as if swinging at a ball, just brushing Mike’s pants.

Never more terrified in his life, Mike crawled away as fast as he could, just as they’d taught him in the army. Finally, away from the robots, he rose, then raced over to the shift supervisor.

“Did you see that?” Mike asked breathlessly, looking back at the machines, which were now performing some macabre dance in unison.

“See what?”

“Those … those … things! They just tried to kill me, like they did Buddy!”