Hellfire c-20 Page 5

  Edwards had long since lost touch with the details of the tactical side of things. As much as he enjoyed them, newer and brighter minds now dealt with the details. Edwards was at his most effective as a front man for the company, the CEO out there shaking hands and kissing babies, wining and dining senators and congresspeople in order to keep his name in front of them.

  It wasn’t that Edwards minded that part of his job, not at all. By nature he was gregarious and found he had a lot in common with the politicians he befriended. Occasionally he missed the early days when he had been intimately involved in every technical decision, but he was mature enough to know that he was more valuable where he was.

  One prerogative that he insisted on was his right to be present at every operational test. Edwards was one of those men who always seem like they’ve been in the military, but have never actually served. He affected a military style of speech and had a flight jacket. When he was on board ship or traveling with the ground unit, he took some pains to ensure he never appeared ignorant or inexperienced. This often required hours of staff briefing. But as a result, when he wandered into Jefferson’s CDC, Edwards looked at home.

  “You boys ready to do this?” he asked, his voice carrying to every corner of Combat. “ ’Cause I’m telling you, we’re ready.” He slapped his hand on the arm of one of the elevated chairs as though he’d made a joke. Several sailors smiled. Edwards’s enthusiasm was contagious. “I’m telling you, we’re going to smash that—”

  “Sir!” A voice at his side, an elbow in his ribs.

  “What the hell?”

  “Sir, over here.” Lab Rat touched Edwards gently on the elbow to get his attention. “This console.”

  Edwards looked slightly abashed. He had been briefed on security measures, but had forgotten that not everyone on the ship, not even all the Combat watchstanders, knew what was going on. “Whenever you say, son.” He followed Lab Rat into a compartment located just off Combat. Lab Rat stood aside to allow Edwards to go in first. Once they were both in, Lab Rat swung the heavy hatch shut and slid the dogging bar home.

  Two technicians were sitting at consoles monitoring self-tests in the laser gear. Speakers set high in the corner hissed static broken only occasionally by a cryptic report from an aircraft or shore station.

  “Sorry about that out there,” Edwards said, gesturing vaguely toward the main compartment. “Don’t think anybody noticed anyhow.”

  Edwards was aware of Lab Rat’s cool, light blue eyes studying him carefully. It was an uncomfortable feeling. Edwards was the one that stared people down and made them uneasy. It wasn’t done to him. He was just about to protest, figuring out what to say — after all, it didn’t make much sense to say, “Quit looking at me like that”—when Lab Rat broke the silence.

  “You’re right. I don’t think anyone noticed. If they did, I’ll deal with it.” Lab Rat turned back to the two technicians. “Anything happening?”

  One shook his head. “Not a thing, sir. No indication that anything is out of the ordinary. We’re running system checks every twenty minutes and so far everything is clean.”

  “Good, good. No surprises, okay?” Lab Rat said, a faint note of relief in his voice. He turned back to Edwards. “Come sit over here.” He pointed at a chair mounted in front of a large console in the center of the room. “This is where I will be when we run the actual test.”

  Edwards slid his bulk into the chair, feeling slightly confined. He noticed the seat belt dangling from the seat. What kind of seas could make a ship this big so unsteady that you’d need a belt? He shuddered at the thought.

  Lab Rat stood behind him. “Standard data link input,” he said. “Here we are, and here are the Russians.” He pointed at a set of contacts on the screen. “They’ve been keeping their distance. During the actual test, we’re not going to be able to hide the laser light. But by then, it shouldn’t make any difference.”

  “How close are they?” Edwards asked.

  “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.

  Admiral Kurashov

  2209 local (GMT-9)

  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.

  USS Jefferson

  2210 local (GMT-9)

  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.

  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.

  USS Jefferson

  CVIC

  2211 local (GMT-9)

  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 sl
id 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.

  SS Montego Bay