The Fourteenth Protocol

Chapter 7

7

Cade wasn’t exactly solving the server problem. Having Rupert Johnston, a man the size of a modern-day gorilla, standing over him wasn’t helping matters. He tried to concentrate on the endless sea of code spilling across the server log files that were displayed on his monitors. Whatever was causing the servers to yellow line wasn’t going to be easy to find. In fact, it was a giant pain in the ass.

“Dammit!” yelled Johnston, looking over his shoulder. “There goes another one. What the hell is going on with my damn servers, son?!”

The iPhone in Cade’s pocket vibrated, then rang. The ringtone was reserved for Cade’s dad, and Cade scrambled to shut it up.

“Crap, ah, sir, give me a minute, I don’t know. I just need some more time.” Johnston pulled out an actual calculator. One of those ancient HP financial calculators you still see bankers use. Why anyone would carry a calculator is beyond me, thought Cade. Johnston banged away at the thing like a mad scientist.

“We’re down to fourteen minutes. s**t-fire! This thing is cyclin’ faster than we thought. That server is going to crash.” A red strobe light mounted on the ceiling started pulsing and reflecting off Cade’s monitors.

“That’s the warning,” yelled Johnston, “we just hit redline.”

“Fourteen minutes? I thought we had twenty-five . . .”

“Hush, boy, concentrate. Look at them log files. Tell me what cha see.” Cade noticed for the first time that Johnston seemed to revert back to his stronger southern drawl when his blood pressure got up. But this time he sounded more like a football coach revving up his players for the big game. Cade drew a deep breath and exhaled like he was trying to rid his lungs of a toxin. The pulsing red light bounced off his monitors.

This server was cycling on a predictable, timed pattern. The processor was now hitting 89 percent capacity, which was definitely in redline. If the pattern didn’t stop—and quick—the box was going to sputter to a halt.

Cade couldn’t help wondering why there were no redundant servers up here. The pressure was intensifying to stop the server from crashing. But we’re still just talking about e-mail. I mean, no one dies right? It’s just e-mails going out. What’s the big deal? But just then a piercing alarm sounded at the other end of the server floor. The noise was deafening.

“Oh s**t!” yelled Johnston, running towards the lame server rack. People flooded onto the server floor from all directions, and out of the corner of his eye, Cade saw the suits rush back through the door at the far side. They’re running, actually running, thought Cade. The William-Macy-looking one slid to a stop, his leather-soled Johnston & Murphys having no traction on the slick floor. Cade shook his head at all the commotion. People were panicked. Johnston looked frantically back over his shoulder in Cade’s direction; the men surrounded the ill server. Johnston tried to hide it, but his face betrayed an underlying terror. At that moment, Cade knew something was dreadfully, dreadfully wrong. This wasn’t just some e-mail marketing campaign that announced a 30-percent-off sale at Penney’s; this was something far different. Whatever it was, it was serious, and Cade was petrified.