“About ten miles right now,” Lab Rat said. “Closer than we’d like. The captain was just going to ask them to stand off a bit. Ten miles may sound like a lot of distance, but it’s not. Especially not when you’re conducting flight operations and have to run into the wind.”
“So what will the fellows sitting here do?” Edwards asked. He touched the trackball embedded in the keyboard and moved the cursor around on the screen. “I’m not going to start World War III, am I?”
Lab Rat grinned. “No. The console is signed off right now. Your input isn’t going into the link. So feel free to fool around with it. If you’ve got any questions, speak up.”
Lab Rat moved back over to the technicians and began discussing some small detail of the upcoming exercise. They quickly progressed beyond terminology that Edwards recognized, and he began to get bored.
That was the thing about the ship, the close quarters. Except for the flight deck, there was nowhere you could really sort of spread out, Texas style. And as for the decks below the water line, well — it just wasn’t natural. The only way he could feel safe down there was to consciously try to forget just how far below the surface of the water he was.
Curious by nature, Edwards let his fingers roam over the keys, pulling up menus and submenus, examining the options for each. They’d tinkered with his system some, but for the better. Sure, it still had a few rough spots — this organization of options didn’t make sense, for instance. Why not move them over here with the targeting functions?
He pulled up the display of the sensors and checked the status of each. By now, his boredom was becoming serious. This was a completed system, one that no longer needed working on — nothing more boring than a system that worked as advertised.
He flipped through the radar options, marveling at just how many sensors were on board the carrier. That one there he recognized as a fire control radar. He scrolled down to it and called up details. There were a number of different modes for both search and targeting functions. He toggled through them, his fingers dancing lightly on the keys. He experimented with selecting different options, and noted that a few places required two mouse clicks and others required one to change the default settings. Sloppy programming — why hadn’t he caught that? No matter, it would be an easy fix when his folks dove back into the guts of the program.
Off to Edwards’s left, an inadequately shielded high-voltage line arced across a sixteenth of an inch of dead space to energize another circuit. Eight hundred feet overhead, the massive SPS-49 radar shivered slightly. If it had been a sailor, it might have objected to the changes being cycled through its programming. It might have wondered what sort of operational sequence could possibly require search, track, and targeting modes so quickly, particularly when the data wasn’t being relayed to another unit. It probably would have objected to the orders it was receiving, or at least asked for verification.
But radar so finely tuned to capture every bit of metal in the air was not a sailor. Its electronics had no problem keeping pace with the changes that were ordered. As Edwards crawled through each option below, simply highlighting a mode for the radar, a bug in the program automatically switched the radar to that mode. The console wasn’t transmitting data, not into the link anyway. But its link to the radars was still enabled and simply looking at an option on the screen was sufficient to activate it.
“Okay, I think we’re done,” Lab Rat said, turning back to Edwards. “Any questions about the changes we’ve made?”
Edward shook his head. “Couple of places I’d change a single click to a double, but nothing real important.” Edwards then launched into a series of questions about the configuration of the load out and targeting menus, eventually appearing satisfied by Lab Rat’s explanations.
“Well, then.” Lab Rat unlocked a heavy door. “Intelligence brief in fifteen minutes, Mr. Edwards. I do hope you’ll excuse me so I can prepare. If you’d like to join us, we’ll be in CVIC.”
Edwards stretched and yawned. “Might see if I can get outside for bit,” he said. “Get some air.”
Lab Rat nodded. “You should have time. We don’t start flight operations for another two hours. Plenty of time to get in a run, if that’s what you’re thinking. Just watch out for the pad eyes on the deck — nasty road rash if you fall on non-skid.”
Edwards chuckled. “Don’t I know it.”
Lab Rat swung the door shut behind them. “I’ll probably see you after your run, then,” he said.
Eight hundred feet overhead, the SPS-49 radar pulsed once then fell silent.
Lieutenant Ilya Rotenyo was standing his watch in his normal fashion. Rotenyo was an experienced officer, one respected by both his subordinates and seniors. Promotions came more slowly in the Russian Navy than in her American counterpart, and paychecks even more so. For some time, he had been debating whether or not to leave the navy and try to find a civilian job. Perhaps in the shipyard or in one of the defense industries. He would probably make more money, at least after the first training.
Still, did he really want to leave this? His gaze swept over the crowded electronics compartment, assessing each individual’s readiness and recalling the status of all equipment. He knew what he was doing in here, knew it so well that most decisions were made by reflex rather than requiring much thought. Did he really want to trade going to sea for landlocked life?
Not really. But then again, he did have responsibilities, didn’t he? And officers in the Russian Navy had not been paid for two months now. Without socialism, his family would be starving.
He mulled over the options for perhaps the millionth time in his mind, trying to decide what he should do. The more he thought about it, the more tiresome it became. But his wife Irini was pushing for decisions, and he said that when he got back from this cruise he needed to make the change.
Suddenly, a buzzer snapped to life, followed immediately by the intercom system. He snatched at the handset. “What was that?” he demanded.
“Sir, fire control radar — yes, we verified it. It’s coming from the aircraft carrier.”
“Are you sure?” he asked incredulously. A fire control radar — they knew better than that. Targeting another vessel with fire control radar was an act of war and strictly forbidden. “Could it have been anything else?”
“No, sir,” the voice said, offended.
“Very well.” Rotenyo put down the handset and surveyed the shocked faces staring at him around Combat. “Set general quarters. We’ve been targeted.” He turned to his weapons officer. “Prepare for snapshot return of fire.”
All around him, the men sprang into action. They had done this drill so many times that there was no confusion, no hesitation. An edge of adrenaline made them move a bit faster, knowing that this time it wasn’t the drill.
Or was it? The captain could have arranged the buzzer. And the telephone call — perhaps the electronics warfare people were in on it, too. Perhaps it was just a drill, another exercise of their capabilities. Rotenyo tried to believe that, tried to ignore the fact that no one in his right mind would set general quarters this close to the American battle group, and that the weapons officer looked just as worried as he did.
Petty Officer Joe Warner had just popped open his first candy bar of the watch when the ESM data console in front of him beeped a warning. The electronics warfare technician swore quietly and punched the mouse for the details of the offending signal, while peeling back the candy bar wrapper with his teeth.
Just as he’d thought. No different from the hundreds of other warnings it had insisted were threats in the last hour. The last software upgrade had turned his normally reliable console into a sensitive bitch, and the number of false alarms had quadrupled.