“What do you mean we have no communications?” the USS Gearing’s COMMO asked the radioman chief.
“Just what I said, sir. We lost synch with Sixth Fleet, Commander Task Force Sixty-seven in Naples, and Commander Task Force Sixtyone on the Nassau about an hour ago. I thought it was just something in the patching or a simple software glitch. But, regardless of how we’ve tweaked the systems, we have been unable to reestablish contact.”
“Have you changed the circuits? Checked the fuses?
Rebooted the software?”
“Sir, it’s not the circuits or the fuses or the software and it’s not double-A batteries. We’ve checked every item and run a series of diagnostics. I sent a low-power test message from the transmit antenna to our receive antenna and we got it okay. Well, not exactly okay. There were a lot of garbles in the text. The only thing I can think. Lieutenant, is that we are in the middle of some gosh-awful sunspot activity or we have a problem — a short — between our receive antenna and the receivers. I called Chief Brown in the EMO shop and he is sending a couple of electronic technicians as soon as he can. Right now, the only two sailors with training on this system and the antennas are also the only ones who know how to repair the CIWS system.
“Chief Brown says the Old Man is griping and bitching about CIWS and he can’t leave it without having the Old Man demanding to know ‘what the hell.”
“Okay, Chief. So what you’re saying is that we don’t have comms with anyone right now and it’s not our equipment?”
“No, sir. What I’m saying is that we don’t have comms with anyone and I don’t know if it’s our equipment or what.”
The chief leaned over and lightly slapped the back of the head of a young sailor who had his hands on a knob of one of the receivers.
“What’d I tell you. Seaman Jones, about touching anything in here until you make petty officer?”
“Sorry, Chief, I just thought—”
“Not supposed to think. You’re a seaman. Seamen don’t think, they do what they’re told. Kind of like ensigns.”
Lieutenant Junior Grade Tauten ran his sleeve across his mouth.
“Chief, can I talk with you over here, please?”
They moved near the hatch away from the rest of the sailors in the “Radio Shack.”
“Chief, how much longer until we know what’s wrong?”
“Give me another couple of hours of darkness, sir. The heat from the day will be down and the sun will be far enough on the other side that, if it is sunspot activity, we should be able to make contact on the night frequencies.”
The chief paused and then added, “Mr. Tauten, you need to tell the captain.”
“Not hardly,” Lieutenant Junior Grade Tauten snapped, shaking his head back and forth.
“No way! The last time I told him we were having problems he chewed my butt up one side and down the other. Then he kept me up all night, along with you, until we fixed the cipher gear. No, Chief, before we excite Captain Cafferty, I want to make sure we know what’s wrong.”
“Aye, aye, sir. I understand, but if you don’t tell him and he finds out from someone else that we’ve got problems in Radio … Or at least tell the operations officer.”
“Okay, Chief. You’ve told me. You don’t have to lecture me. I’m not an ensign anymore! Let’s find out what’s wrong before we stir up a hornet’s nest by telling the Old Man. The ETs will be here soon. Then, between our information systems technicians and them, they should be able to troubleshoot the problem.”
“Okay, Lieutenant; it’s your butt, but I recommend you pass it up the chain of command if you want to keep your butt in one piece.”
The communications officer, turning to leave, paused and said in a soft voice, “Chief, one other thing: Quit hitting the sailors. You’re going to get us in trouble.”
“I ain’t hitting them, sir. I’m educating them. This is a warship, not a fucking social barge.” He raised his hands as the lieutenant opened his mouth to say something.
“I remember, sir, what you told me about raising children.
You said those social welfare types believe that correcting a long-term whatever was best done by slow, proper attention and support. But, you know something, sir, problems sometimes need a short-term attention-getter so they’ll still be alive for the long-term solution.”
“Well, for our sakes don’t touch them. All we need is a hot line phone call and there goes our careers.”
“Well, right now, sir, there ain’t no danger of anyone making any hot line phone calls, until we figure out what’s wrong with our comms the chief said, his lips tight.
Lieutenant Junior Grade Tauten pulled the door shut behind him as he departed.
Careers, the chief thought. You ain’t been in the Navy long enough to worry about a career.
“And junior officers shouldn’t be touching things or speaking out until they’re full commanders — unless they’re Naval Academy graduates and then they should wait until they’re captains,” the chief mumbled to himself. He tugged his pants up and ran his hand around the inside of the waistband. At least two inches he’d lost. May even pass the body fat standards this test cycle.
He walked to where the seaman stood and slapped him lightly on the back of the head.
The seaman rubbed his head.
“What was that for. Chief?
I ain’t touched nothing.”
“No, but you were thinking about it.” He tousled the sailor’s hair. Training sailors was a hell of a lot easier than training junior officers. He straightened up as a touch of pride shot through his ego over the young sailors that made up his radio. Damn fine bunch. Navy should never have changed the name of the radioman rating to information systems technician. He still considered himself a radioman regardless of what rating badge he wore on his left arm.
“Hey, Chief!” a petty officer near the transmitter shouted.
“Can you come here? I need some help.”
“Come on. Seaman Jones. Let’s see what teeny-weeny problem Petty Officer Potts has. I’ll watch; you answer.
They probably taught you the solutions in school and I am just dying to see what new and bright things those pencil pushers have dreamed up to help us poor, stupid sailors at sea.” Within seconds the group was deep in animated conversation discussing ways to approach the problem. From seaman to petty officer they tossed out ideas. The chief stood quietly in the background listening to the exchange.
The captain needed to know about this, but he had told the officer. With the old captain he would have made sure the Old Man knew, but with Cafferty, the chief shook his head. The new captain shot messengers, so reluctantly he understood the COMMO’s position. That didn’t make it right, but he understood. He looked at his watch. It’d be breakfast before he could voice this concern with his fellow chiefs in the goat locker. He could sneak down to chiefs berthing and wake the command master chief, but the CMC had not had a full night’s sleep since Cafferty assumed command. A chief’s responsibility was to the ship and its sailors, but sometimes it was a “Christly” hard job to do.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Colonel Yosef dozed under the shadow of the bridge, out of the hot morning sun. He drifted within that gray area of fatigued consciousness so familiar to veteran soldiers awaiting the next battle. The shout brought him fully alert, his weapon coming up.
“Colonel, aircraft approaching!” Sergeant Boutrous pointed north out to sea.
Yosef pulled himself off the deck of the fishing trawler and climbed to the bridge. The fisherman was still at the helm. A night without sleep mixed with a day-old beard and sweat-matted hair accented by red-rimmed eyes gave the fisherman the look of a wild man. Yosef knew he looked as bad. He shoved his shirttail into his pants and ran his hand over his inch-long desert brown hair, blinking his eyes several times to clear them.