He scanned the details again. The specs were consistent with a Russian fire control radar and there was nothing else in the area that the gear could have confused it with.
Better safe than sorry. He toggled on his comm circuit. “TAO, EW — got a brief shot of a fire control radar off them. It’s out now.”
“Roger, I see it,” the TAO acknowledged. “Any other indications of launch?” There was worry in the TAO’s voice. This could be a spurious detection, a mistake on the part of some poorly trained Russian sailor — or the beginning of a world of shit.
“Nothing further, sir,” the EW replied. Warner sighed. New officers were always too paranoid. Until they got the hang of it, they freaked out over every false alarm. It made for a tense and uncomfortable watch. Warner took one last look at his scope. Nothing else.
Warner glanced over and saw the TAO staring at his screen, his finger poised over a fire control switch. Like that would do any good, even if it were the real thing. An attack at this close range would leave virtually no time for reaction. It would be up to CIWS, with its independent radar and fire control system, to detect any incoming missile and react. Even if CIWS did kill the main body of it, the shrapnel would do serious damage.
Neither man considered the possibility that it had been a radar signal from their own ship that had provoked the warning signal. The EW’s console was programmed to ignore his own ship radiations.
Forty frames astern of CDC, the carrier intelligence center, or CVIC, kept watch on all signals, including those emitted by the carrier herself. Under normal conditions, every console was manned and a watch supervisor roamed the SIGINT, or signals intelligence, processing center. But tonight one of the intelligence specialists had tuned one monitor to a replay of a Cubs game — one that the Cubs won—and most of the watch section was popping over there at least intermittently to check out the action.
Most of the watch section, but not all of it. Bill Johnson was tired of being on watch. In fact, he was pretty much tired of the Navy altogether. While everyone else was watching the Cubs, Johnson was responsible for keeping an eye on the consoles and logging the alerts generated. Help was just a few steps away if he needed it.
So when the electronics warfare console warning went off, it was more of an irritation. The EW gear was so sensitive that if you left the audible alert turned on, the warning buzzer sounded at least once a minute. More often, usually. And it seemed to have worse judgment than a sailor on liberty, often alerting on commercial radar and tentatively classifying them as threats, sounding the buzzer, and then immediately downgrading the contact to a friendly or neutral. As a result, except for drills and special exercises, the buzzer was turned off and the techs relied on the flashing red light that replaced it.
Johnson stole a wistful look at the almost-empty plate of doughnuts on the table five feet away. There had been at least two dozen of them when the baker dropped them off, and they’d quickly disappeared. Only two were left, one glazed and one sprinkled with cinnamon sugar. The latter was a particular favorite of his. But here he was, anchored to a console, and there it was, out of reach and everyone else gone, already stuffed with their own favorites.
But no one was watching right now, were they? He stole another look at the doughnuts, and seemed to hear them calling to him. The red light flashed again. He checked the console, quickly locating the false signal, and then hit the reset button. Every twenty seconds now. And for this he’d gone to a year of school?
From the outer room, he heard a ripple of laughter, and his feeling of being left out deepened. Why did he always get left behind? If there was only one person at the console, shouldn’t it be somebody more senior?
He reached a decision. He slipped his headphones off quickly, shoved his chair back, and in one quick motion snagged the cinnamon doughnut. He started to settle back into his chair, and then reached and grabbed the other one as well. Let them be the ones to come back into the compartment to an empty tray for a change.
He had taken his eyes off his console for no more than eight seconds or so. He slid back into the chair, the doughnuts warm and greasy in his fingers. He could almost feel the warmth seeping into his skin.
He slipped the headphones back on and saw that the red light was on once again. Right on time. He mashed the reset button with his right hand, getting a little smear of sugar on it. He quickly polished that off with his sleeve, then wiped his fingers on his pants.
The warning symbol and threat parameters that flashed on-screen when the red light flashed also disappeared. He had a vague impression that he should have looked at them, and then decided it was simply his guilty conscience. The others got away with a lot more than he did, didn’t they? It wasn’t like they were at war or something, was it?
He broke the glazed doughnut in half and took a bite. It was just as light and warm as he’d expected, and he groaned with pleasure as it slid down his throat. He finished off the rest of it, savoring every bite, and then turned his attention to the cinnamon and sugar one. He licked the edge of it first, tasting the pungent combination, letting the anticipation build. Then, one tiny nibble after another. He closed his eyes to concentrate, and saw the red light strobe at him behind his eyelids. He opened them, checked the screen again, and mashed reset.
Five minutes later, the rest of the watch section returned. By then, the only trace of the doughnuts was two greasy streaks on his pants and a sprinkling of sugar and cinnamon on the deck. And a very short but valid detection of a fire control radar radiating, and not from the Russians but from the USS Jefferson. Ignored, negligently relegated to the massive history data banks, the signal was digitally recorded on the CD when the watch section backed up the database prior to watch relief. No one else even noticed it.
Captain Gaspert stared at the ships in the distance. The Russians were just dark blots on the horizon. The American ships were farther away and he could just make out a few running lights. Still, the computer gave a clear record of their track. They were heading away, and Montego Bay would be well clear of them even if they reversed course right now.
But there was something about the geometry that made him uneasy. He couldn’t pinpoint it exactly, hard as he tried. Perhaps it was the instinctive reaction to being the burdened vessel in any encounter with ships in military operations. Normally, the Montego Bay would be the privileged vehicle, the ship entitled to right-of-way should there be any conflict between her course and that of another vessel.
But the Russians were conducting flight operations and had to maintain a particular angle into the wind in order to launch and recover safely. That made the Admiral Kurashov the privileged vehicle, and Montego Bay the burdened vehicle ship.
Why am I even thinking there’s a situation? We’re opening, not closing. There is no reason to be concerned.
Still, he stayed on the bridge, watching the Russian ship as daylight faded. An hour after dark, he instructed the officer of the day to change course by fifteen degrees, increasing the distance between the Russian ship and Montego Bay. Again, he had no real reason to do this, but somehow the added margin of safety made him feel slightly better.