The Passage (28 page)

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Authors: David Poyer

BOOK: The Passage
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A
ND three hundred feet aft, another man, balding and gawky in too-small scrub greens, stood too, blinking down at the inky tropic shadows, the dark hills, at a flashlight spot that someone shined on the pier for a little while from up forward, before it went out. And above everything were the stars, caught in the black cage of
Barrett's
masts and antennas.
Hank Shrobo blinked slowly and pulled his glasses up, rubbed his eyes. The eyeballs felt like hot ball bearings. When did we get here? he thought. Was this Cuba?
He stood motionless for a few minutes, mind still seething with the convoluted syntax of computer language. But his eye muscles spasmed at the thought of reading another line of code.
Standing there, swaying-tired, he massaged his face and then his neck as his mind moved back again to square one. Sometimes that helped you break out of a logic jam, going back to the start. He needed some new ideas. Because right now, he was locked up solid.
Back when he'd come aboard, still feeling ill from the helicopter ride, he'd started in the DP center, the “computer room,” as the sailors called it. Already it sounded dated; soon there'd be computers in every room, and not long after most likely embedded in everyone's skull. Trying to push the queasiness away, he'd settled on a stool as the men there gathered doubtfully around him. He'd caught the whisper behind him. “Shit. Who's this? Mr. Peepers to the rescue?”
“So what's the situation?” he asked the black man in dungarees, who stared at him, then turned to look at the monitor, as if he could talk only like that, face-to-face with the data.
“Well, we got a … major glitch here. I've been working this thing for four solid days. Thought I could patch code, but when I do the software runs okay one minute, then it wanders off into the
weeds and the system locks up. Takes a full-system reboot to get it running again. I can't make shit out of it.” He told Shrobo how they'd discovered it, about the missile shoot and the way everything had gone haywire. Told him how they'd found the bad code, corrected it, but then found more, not just in the Version 3 but in the older version, too.
He pondered this. “Did you run the module-level diagnostics that come with the op tape?”
“About fifty times. Every time it reports a different glitch. When I take the recommended action, the system just hangs solid.”
“Have you got the problem in other modules? The communications program, the satellite navigation program, the Link Eleven?”
“Haven't gotten that far.”
“Have you taken the system down completely and reloaded it? I mean down all the way—cold start.”
“Mr. uh … Shrobo,” said one of the men in khaki, and Hank swiveled the stool slowly to him. “I'm Chief Dawson. This is Chief Mainhardt. And, 'scuse me, but we aren't idiots. Every time we do that, it comes up clean for about an hour, then craps in the NTDS module.”
“I know you're not idiots,” he'd said carefully. If only the compartment would quit rolling … “I just like to start the faultlocation logic from block one. Does it lock up in the same segment every time?”
“No, it jumps around inside the module.”
“Have you looked closely at the source code when it does?”
“Shit, Mr.—”
“Hank,” said Shrobo.
“Matthew,” said the black man. “Shit, Hank, we been banging our heads against CMS-2 so long, we're about done in trying to do this manually.”
He thought about this for a while, looking around at the compartment, the memory units, the hulking gray slabs of the shock-mounted, water-cooled mainframes. CMS-2 was the standard Navy programming language. But the executive program itself was written in assembly language, computer-specific code, because it ran faster. It had to run fast because of everything it had to do: schedule and dispatch program modules, manage memory, service input/ output communications requests, as well as the internal stuff, the redundancy, fault tolerance and alternate configuration schemes built into the system architecture.
These men were just technicians, but they sounded competent. So he could assume it wasn't the kind of problem that could be solved by swapping cards or patching a few lines of code. He rubbed his face. It felt wet, though ice-cold air was blasting out of the ceiling. His stomach felt like he was still in the helicopter. That
sensation of utter terror, then swinging around at the end of the line—
“Grab that swab bucket, quick,” said Dawson. “Get his head down. Take him out to the deep sink, Matt.”
When he felt better, he rested in the little broom closet, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve—there was nothing in the closet he felt like touching—and followed the one they called Matt back down the hall.
“Sorry I got sick.”
“No problem, Hank. Hey, call me Ted, okay?”
He looked rather shakily around the room. “Yeah, sounds like you got a problem. My box—there it is. I brought some software tools from the lab. Maybe we need to load those and take a look at this thing.”
“Okay by me.” Williams pulled a knife, sliced through the strapping tape.
As he loaded the program, Shrobo opened his briefcase and put on his working glasses. Thank God he hadn't left
them
in his suitcase. He perched on the metal chair in front of the screen.
“Uh, you gonna be a while? We're thinking of breaking for chow—”
“Go ahead,” he mumbled.
“Somebody better stay with him.”
“I'll stay,” said Williams. “Bring me a sandwich. Chicken, if they got it. You want one, Hank?”
“Half the chicken sold in the United States is contaminated with salmonella,” Shrobo told him.
“Say what? That mean you don't want one?”
“I prefer organic foods.”
Dawson said slowly, “Oh. What—you mean like liver?”
“No.” He swallowed again, wishing they'd abandon the subject. “Look, I'm not really hungry. You go ahead.”
When they finally left, he ran some of the test tools. Williams sat close to him, staring at the monitor. Occasionally he asked a question. Hank replied absently, tapping in commands, then twisting to watch the lights flicker across the face of the computer. He pulled a pad toward him and started jotting numbers in columns. “Huh,” he said at last.
“What's that?”
“Take a look. See this segment here?”
“Uh-huh. What about it?”
“There's something strange about it. Look at these pointers.”
Williams looked at it. “This pointer here,” Hank said, putting his finger right on one line.
“What's wrong with it?”
“This WRITE instruction here creams whatever instructions are
in that location.” He swallowed again as the room and the console took a lean and his chair tried to skid away across the deck. “Do boats always roll like this?”
“Naw, this is nice'n calm tonight,” said Williams. “I better make us some fresh coffee. Sounds like it gonna be a long night. Or would you rather have a Coke?”
Hank thought of the herbal tea he'd tucked into his suitcase. “Yeah. Coke,” he muttered.
 
 
NOW, standing by the rail, Shrobo remembered that night and the long nights and days at sea after it. At first, he'd been intrigued, then entranced, then fatigued, and now he was starting to feel angry and bewildered. The loud warrant officer, Harper, coming in two and three times a day; and his boss, the serious-looking lieutenant; and twice the XO, the one with the Russian name. That didn't bother him; he just shunted them off to one of the chiefs to explain things in one-syllable words. What disturbed him was that he couldn't figure out how so many errors had gotten onto the tape.
The first thing he'd tried was to systematize what the sailors had already attempted randomly. He'd loaded the new Version 3.1 tape he'd brought, ran it for an hour, then done a diagnostic. To his surprise, it tripped over several bad segments, although this same tape had run perfectly back at Vartech. He marked them with break points and started patching line by line, comparing what was in the computer with the printed source listing. That had taken two days, stripping in correct code everywhere he found bad.
But today when he ran it, the computer had locked up on a section he
knew
he'd already fixed.
Something was wrong, but he didn't know what. That was what was so disturbing. The great Henry S. Shrobo, B.S. from Brigham Young, M.S. and Ph.D. in applied physics from Johns Hopkins, senior analyst for Vartech and sometime member of the JHU/APL Advanced Computer Architecture Working Group, stopped in his tracks by an elusive bug in an already-fleet-approved system architecture. If he couldn't crack this one, he'd better start thinking about running an organic vegetable farm.
He stood staring out into the dark, no longer seeing the stars or the hills. The warm wind fanned his face, bringing the scents of the land. But he didn't smell them.
Sometime later, the door opened behind him, and he started, surprised. “Sorry,” someone said.
“Matt?”
It was Williams, startled, too. “What you doing out here, Doc? Thought you'd be ashore.”
“Doc?” He didn't see how they knew. He still hadn't told them.
“‘Doctor DOS.' You picked up a nickname, man.”
“Are we permitted ashore? I didn't know.”
“Remember when they passed the word—‘Liberty call, liberty call'? That's what it means.”
“Why are you here, then?”
Williams grinned painfully. “Duty section. Yeah, you get over and grab you a beer while you can.”
“I don't drink. Maybe I'd better just stay aboard, get back to that bad code in the tracking module.”
“Jesus, Hank. You're like one of those Guild Steersmen, aren't you? Can't get enough of that spice.” Williams punched his arm. “How about a workout?”
“I don't think I'd be able to—”
“Be
able
to?”
“I'm not what you'd call a physical person.”
Williams punched his arm again. “We got us a nice weight room—machines and everything. Me an' Baby J and some of the other dudes, we go down there every night, break a sweat. Get you down there for a couple weeks, I bet you'd be pressing two hundred.”
“Two hundred pounds?” He had to smile. “I don't think so.”
“Give it a try. It's organic, man. Like that good Navy chow.”
He had to laugh at that. He'd been appalled at the food on the mess decks. Milk and hardboiled eggs, that's all he'd found that looked safe to eat. “Okay. Maybe a little exercise will clear my head.”
Taking a last breath of the sultry air, he followed the petty officer below.
T
HE next morning, Dan slumped nervelessly in the TAO chair, grateful for the cool dark. CIC was dim and quiet, the ideal place for a guy with the hangover of the decade.
He couldn't remember it all, but he had to have had at least six planter's punches with the fucking Venezuelans and four or five drinks playing dice after the other officers arrived. After that was a black curtain. He couldn't remember where his bike was. Had he left it at the club? Like he had his motorcycle in Charleston? He didn't think he could have kept it pointed straight all the way downhill to the pier.
Reveille had jerked him awake at 0400 with a feeling of horror at what he'd done to himself. He took one look at breakfast and had to leave and barf in the urinal. Fortunately, he had a break now as
Barrett
got under way.
How could he have done it again? Going into the club, he hadn't planned to get drunk. He'd told himself, One martini with dinner. But that first one had softened his resolution, and the second had washed away any idea of restraint. After that, he'd just drunk and drunk, not caring what, just that the glass was heavy in his hand and then light and that there was another behind it.
I've got to stop drinking so much, he thought. Maybe cut out the hard liquor. It was stupid to get plastered the night before he had to think fast and make the right decisions.
Now he leaned forward. The big SSWC scope showed the land as a green fluorescence, the channel as jet studded with jade. They were second in the morning parade going out.
Dahlgren
led, then
Barrett
,
Federación, Manitowoc,
the LST, and last the oiler, USS
Canisteo
.
Lauderdale, the CIC officer, came by and Dan said, “Herb, what have we got this morning?”
“I taped a schedule up between your chair and the skipper's, sir.”
He blinked at it. Right now, the bridge team was conducting a low-visibility piloting exercise. Offshore, they'd do test firing, engineering drills, a CON-1-EX—whatever that was—seamanship, tracking and electronic drills, and finish with general quarters for chemical, bacteriolocial, and radiological training before heading back in.
“Herb, this CON-one—”
“That's a general quarters, then whatever they assign. Usually like rocket hits or shell hits, to get us spun up for damage control and casualty repair.”
One of the blue coveralls passed through, and the atmosphere seemed to chill. Dan recognized the senior instructor, Schwartzchild. He didn't stop, though, just kept going, swinging his clipboard. Headed down to the engineering spaces, most likely.
“Coming up on the sea buoy,” said Chief Kennedy.
“Then what?”
“We'll be coming left to one-three-seven and slowing to conform to the swept channel. Stand by—”
“Now secure the special sea and anchor detail. General quarters. General quarters. This is a drill. All hands, man your battle stations—”
Life jackets flew through the air to outstretched hands. Dan buttoned his collar and settled his helmet. Into the meat grinder, he thought. It was going to be a long morning.
 
 
THEY went from the swept channel transit to a main space fire drill, simulating a mine hit. Combat and Radio were tied down with system control, tracking, and electronic surveillance and countermeasures drills. The training team moved them along, not very fast yet, but without letup except for a half-hour lunch break. Dan kept chugging coffee and Cokes and gradually lost himself in the exercises.
In the afternoon, they moved farther offshore for tracking and comm drills with
Dahlgren.
At first, they were miles apart, then joined up for the seamanship exercises. When the 1MC called the replenishment detail to stations, Dan got a break to go out and observe.
The day was so bright it hurt his eyes, closed down from hours in the cave. The sky and sea blazed as one, luminous with tropical light, and the deck was baking-hot. He found a vantage point on the Harpoon deck as First Division rigged for under-way replenishment.
His first job in the Navy had been as first lieutenant. It felt
strange to be looking on as they sweated and swore, frantically rigging for a high-line transfer as
Dahlgren
edged closer. He saw himself in Ensign Paul, saw old Harvey Bloch when he looked at Chief Giles. Over the young taut faces seemed superimposed those of his old division—BM1 Isaacs, “Popeye” Rambaugh, Petty Officer Pettus, the loose league of bad boys that called themselves the “Kinnicks.” As both ships steadied up into the wind, the sea went mad between them, leaping and frothing as the two hulls closed on it. Then the line-throwing gun cracked.
At 1400, they broke off and headed for their assigned firing area. Dan checked their coordinates carefully against the surface grid warning areas before requesting “batteries released” from Leighty. Shortly afterward, he heard the tapping of the .50's as they fired the antimine exercise.
The GQ alarm bonged again at 1500 for the chemical and nuclear attack drill. The ventilation died as all over the ship intakes closed and fans stopped. The
Kidds
were the first U.S. ship class that could completely seal themselves off from outside air.
“Now contamination has been detected inside the skin of the ship. All hands don gas masks.”
They started heading back in at 1700, but the drills continued till they were pierside. When the 1MC announced, “Moored,” Dan took off his earphones and sagged in his chair. Maybe he could snatch a shower, lie in his rack for thirty seconds—
“Now all chiefs and officers assemble in the wardroom for postexercise critique.”
 
 
“OKAY, next, the chemical attack.”
Woollie sat and Chief Schwartzchild stood. He read off his clipboard with a poker face, every word the same inflection, so you couldn't tell what was important from what wasn't; you had to listen to it all. Dan, on the settee, made a note in his wheel book.
“It took seven minutes to set Zebra throughout the ship. Nonessential people were still present on weather decks. Ventilation was secured and Circle William was set expeditiously. The damage control assistant passed the word properly and the team was in appropriate dress. However, it did not exit the ship or carry out rescue or decontamination of the wounded. Overall grade, unsat.”
Lohmeyer sat openmouthed. Vysotsky said, “Mr. Lohmeyer, why in God's name didn't you send the decon team out?”
“Uh, I was waiting for orders, XO.”
“Don't wait on normal procedure! In future, just do it, and inform the officer of the deck they're going out. If he has a problem with it, he'll have to let you know.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
The next chief, Narita, stood up. “I was inside the skin of the ship when Chief Bentley dumped the wintergreen into the intakes. I checked four interior spaces ten minutes after GQ went. I found fifteen people without Mark five masks on or with bad seals. Both gun crews and Aux-One personnel were deficient in putting on masks. Number three switchboard operator has a broken mask. Overall grade, unsat.”
Hell, Dan thought. Woollie was saying something about how this wasn't for score yet, but the way the XO glared around,
he
was grading, even if FTG wasn't. Leighty leaned back, looking detached.
Dan tuned back in to Schwartzchild. “The nuclear burst casualty and decontamination drill. Initial notification and water wash-down activation satisfactory. It took one hour for the external survey team to find the hot area on the Harpoon deck. One reason may be it isn't on their route chart. The chart is supposed to show all vital equipment. Is Harpoon vital?”
“I'd say so,” said Vysotsky, staring at Dan. “Mr. Lenson, is the Harpoon a vital system?”
Clenching his teeth, he said, “It'll be on the route chart tomorrow, sir.”
“First aid was not rendered to casualties. No attempt was made to help them until prompted by the observer. Forward decon team did not know assignments or procedures for decontamination. Forward decon station was unusable, with no supplies in place. Overall grade, unsat.”
“Chief Narita?”
“I observed from aft. Eleven men were caught on the weather decks when the blast went. Repair Three didn't know how to rope off or scrub down a hot spot. You need to map out other routes to the decon station; you can't carry wounded up thirty-foot ladders. The damage control officer did not know how to do a log-log of radiation decay. Overall grade aft, unsatisfactory.”
Lieutenant Woollie said, “The overall grade was unsatisfactory. Next was the casualty drill under conditions of nuclear contamination. Chief Bentley?”
“The after director casualty was troubleshot quickly and creatively. However, Petty Officer Fisher was sent for a part. He requested a battle route to supply but decided to take a shortcut over the weather decks. Chief Schwartzchild nailed him on the hot spot. So the part didn't get to the casualty and it didn't get fixed, and the overall grade is unsat.”
“Fuck,” Harper muttered beside him. “Are these guys for real? Fish would have gotten back fine. It was only—what, a hundred rads an hour up there?”
Vysotsky glared, and Dan elbowed Harper into silence. The warrant officer sank back sullenly.
“Attention on deck.” They rose as Leighty got up, nodded to Woollie, and left. Then he stuck his head back in. “Lieutenant Lenson, could I see you in my cabin, please.”
 
 
“TAKE a seat. Be right back,” said Leighty, disappearing. Dan squatted on the settee and looked blankly at the picture of the captain's family. He had a knot in his stomach already.
Leighty came back in T-shirt and trou, combing wet hair. “It gets hot in that damn wardroom when the AC's off,” he said.
“Yes, sir, it gets pretty ripe in there.”
“But if you leave it on, you can't hear a word anybody says. Maybe I'm going deaf?”
“No, sir, it's hard to hear in back even with the blowers off.” He'd expected Leighty to take the seat opposite, but instead the Captain settled beside him on the sofa. “I need to know what's going on with the fire-control system, Dan. We're doing air tracking tomorrow and live firing the day after. Will we be able to shoot without having it go crazy on us again?”
Outside, the 1MC announced: “Sweepers, sweepers, man your brooms. Give the ship a clean sweep-down fore and aft. Sweep down all lower decks, ladder backs, and passageways. Now, sweepers.”
Dan said, “Sir, my guys have been working on it eighteen hours a day. Dr. DOS has tried several things—”
“Who?”
“Mr. Shrobo. That's what the guys call him. He seems to know what he's doing, but apparently this is new to him, too.”
Leighty extended an arm along the back of the sofa, and Dan sat forward to avoid it. “So what is it? Operator problem, hardware problem, software?”
“Sir, we're pretty certain it's software. But Shrobo swears nothing that dicked up would have left FCDSSA.”
“Can it have happened in the supply system?”
“They don't run the tape in the supply system. I don't think they can. They have computers but not UYK-sevens.”
“So it happened here. Who has access to it? Only your guys, right?”
“Sir, it's like this. The ETs and DSs fix the hardware when it's down. The DSs put the tapes on and alter the software routines, usually with the menus, when they have to. The other rates actually operate the programs—the STGs the sonar programs, the FTs the fire-control modules, et cetera.”
“But it's all in your department.”
“Well, no, sir. Dave Cannon's people run navigation programs. The radiomen run the comm system. ACDADS is the first place we noticed the problem. But that doesn't mean that's the first system it hit, see that, sir? Only that it showed up there first.”
Dan felt a trickle down his back. It was hot in the captain's cabin, too. Leighty's foot, propped on his leg, was nearly touching him. The captain's bare arm lay right against his back.
“Okay, tell me how we can shoot without the computers.”
“Can't, sir. Not and have any chance of hitting anything.” Dan took out a pen and pulled a copy of the plan of the day toward him. He turned it over and drew a hierarchical diagram.
“Sir, you remember how it's set up. ACDADS proper is just the controlling program. CDS processes the fire-control data. WDS directs the weapons systems to engage and destroy the target. All three have to be running in order to go to automatic mode. WDS is the only leg that can stand independently. We could fight the ship with just WDS, but we'd have to detect, track, and designate manually.” He looked at the diagram. “Shrobo may have something better to suggest. Can I get back to you after I discuss it with him?”

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