Chapter 23: The Poisoned Airwaves

The sabotage escalates from petty interference to a calculated campaign of harassment. The sad-hams, emboldened by their anonymity online, bring their toxicity directly to the airwaves. They begin to stalk me. Whenever I get on HF and call CQ, one of them will invariably pop up on the frequency. They do not transmit over me, which would be an obvious FCC violation. They do something far more insidious. They wait for me to finish a contact, and then, in the brief moment before I call again, they will transmit a single, perfectly legal word.

"Cheater."

Or sometimes, just a sound. A long, drawn-out sigh of derision. A snickering laugh. It is psychological warfare. It is designed to get under my skin, to make me feel unwelcome in my own hobby. It is impossible to prove intent. They are just random, unidentified transmissions. But I know who it is. And I know it is for me.

My logbook, once a source of pride, becomes a record of this harassment. Next to the callsign of a new contact in Italy, I find myself scribbling, "Bob on freq, sighing." My on-air confidence, once my greatest asset, begins to crumble. I hesitate before I press the transmit button. My voice, when I do speak, sounds thin and uncertain to my own ears. I start avoiding the more popular bands, retreating to the quieter corners of the spectrum where I am less likely to be found.

My friends are my fiercest defenders. Samuel wants to build a radio direction-finding antenna and hunt them down, a vigilante mission he calls "Operation Foxhunt the Trolls." Doretha wants to wage a counter-campaign online, exposing their behavior to the wider community. Azhar, ever the pragmatist, advises us to meticulously document every incident and file a formal complaint with the FCC. Gregory, meanwhile, tries to handle it the old-fashioned way. He calls Bob on the phone.

I am not there for the conversation, but Gregory tells me about it later. He says he was calm and respectful, explaining how their actions are hurting a young operator and damaging the spirit of the local club. Bob’s response is a torrent of denial and righteous indignation. He claims he has no idea what Gregory is talking about. He paints himself and his friends as the victims, the guardians of tradition who are being pushed aside by a group of arrogant, rule-breaking kids. "That girl thinks she is better than us," he spits. "She needs to be taken down a peg."

The phone call only makes things worse. Now they feel justified. The harassment intensifies. They start a rumor that I am not even a real student, that my college dorm room is just a front for an illegal, remote-controlled station operated by Samuel. The lies become more and more outlandish, but a small, gullible portion of the local community starts to believe them. The airwaves, my beautiful, magical escape, feel poisoned.

The breaking point comes during a smaller, more relaxed weekend contest. I am operating from my dorm, trying to recapture the simple joy of it. I find a clear frequency and start making contacts. For a little while, it feels like the old days. Then, I hear it. A voice, digitally distorted to be unrecognizable, starts transmitting on the frequency below me. It is not talking. It is just repeating a single, looped recording. It is a clip from an old movie, a woman's voice, screaming.

It is a sound designed for maximum psychological distress. The screaming is punctuated by bursts of static and cruel, mocking laughter. It is a sound of pure malice. It makes my skin crawl. My hands start to shake. I try to ignore it, to focus on the real signals I am trying to hear, but the screaming is always there, a horrific soundtrack to my operating.

I change frequencies. Within minutes, the screaming follows me. They are actively hunting me across the band. I try to escape, but they are relentless. I feel trapped, cornered. The walls of my small dorm room seem to be closing in. I cannot breathe. My heart is hammering, a wild bird trapped in my chest.

I rip the headphones from my head and throw them on the desk. I cannot do this anymore. I switch off the radio, plunging the room into a sudden, terrible silence. But the screaming is still there, echoing inside my head. It is the sound of their victory. It is the sound of my defeat. I curl up on my bed, pulling my knees to my chest, and for the first time since my friend died on that mountain, I feel a familiar, terrifying wave of complete and utter helplessness wash over me. The silence I had fought so hard to conquer has returned, and this time, it is filled with the ghosts of their voices.