Chapter 43: The First Volley

The clock on the wall ticks toward 00:00 UTC. It is 7:00 PM local time, Friday night. The sun has set, and the "grey line"—the twilight zone between day and night where radio propagation is at its peak—is sweeping across the globe.

I am sitting in the main chair. The Kenwood is glowing warm and amber. My hands are resting on the desk, not touching the keys yet. Samuel sits next to me at the "multiplier" station, ready to hunt for rare countries while I hold down the main "run" frequency.

"One minute," Samuel says, his eyes glued to the atomic clock on his monitor.

The band is already alive. I can hear the tuning up, the whistles and chirps of operators testing their amplifiers. It is the sound of an orchestra warming up before the symphony, but an orchestra made of electricity.

"Frequency is clear," I say, checking the waterfall one last time. We have staked out a prime spot on the low end of the 20-meter band.

"Thirty seconds."

I take a sip of water. My heart is thumping a slow, heavy rhythm against my ribs. Breathe. Flow.

"Ten seconds. Nine. Eight..."

I put my hands on the keyboard.

"Three. Two. One. Go."

I hit the F1 key. The computer keys the radio.

CQ TEST W1Z W1Z TEST

The signal flies out of the antenna at the speed of light. It bounces off the ionosphere. It rains down over Europe.

I wait. The transmit light goes off. The receiver opens.

Chaos.

It is not a single voice. It is a wall. A sudden, roaring explosion of dits and dahs. It sounds like a cage full of angry electronic birds has just been kicked over. There must be fifty stations calling me at once. The "S-meter" on the radio, which measures signal strength, is pinned to the right.

For a second, I freeze. It is overwhelming. It is indistinguishable noise.

Separate the layers.

I close my eyes for a fraction of a second. I focus my hearing. I listen not to the loudest signals, but to the tone differences. There is a high-pitched station. A low, bassy one. A chirpy one.

I latch onto the high-pitched one.

...D...L...7...A...

I hit the keyboard. DL7A 599 05.

I send his report. He comes back instantly. TU 599 14.

TU W1Z.

I hit F1 again. CQ TEST W1Z...

The wall of noise crashes down on me again. But the dam has broken. I am in the rhythm.

I1YRL. Italy. Logged.

OH2BH. Finland. Logged.

EA8CN. Canary Islands. Logged.

"Rate is 180," Samuel says quietly from beside me. 180 contacts per hour. That is three contacts a minute. It is a blistering pace.

My fingers are flying. I am not thinking about the letters. My brain is a direct conduit between the headphones and the keyboard. I hear the sound, my fingers type the key. It is automatic. It is visceral.

"Multiplier on 21.040," Samuel barks. "Cape Verde. D4C."

"Go get him," I say, never breaking my rhythm on the main radio.

The first hour blurs by. My hands are sweating. The room is getting warm from the heat of the amplifiers and the computers. But I feel cold, sharp, crystalline. This is the "zone" athletes talk about.

Suddenly, a massive signal appears right on top of me. It is incredibly loud, splattering across my frequency.

CQ TEST CR3L...

It is a "big gun" station from Madeira Island. He is trying to steal my frequency. He is bullying me.

"QRM," I say through gritted teeth. "Big signal on top of me."

"Hold your ground," Samuel says. "Do not move. We have the frequency. Send 'QRL'. Send it fast."

I hit the key. QRL QRL - FREQUENCY IN USE.

The big station ignores me. He keeps calling CQ. He is drowning out my callers.

"He is not listening," I say. "He is running automated."

"Fight him," Samuel says. "Narrow your filters. Crank the speed up. Make yourself heard."

I tighten the bandwidth on my receiver. The big station's noise drops slightly, cutting off the edges of his signal. I hit F1 again, but this time I increase the speed to 38 words per minute.

CQ TEST W1Z W1Z TEST.

A station from Germany hears me through the mess. He calls back. I work him. Then a station from Poland. I am working through the interference. I am threading the needle.

After five minutes, the big station realizes he is not getting any answers because I am picking off the callers before they can get to him. He sends a grumpy QSY (change frequency) and moves away.

"Got him," I breathe.

"Nice work," Samuel says. "That is how you hold a run."

We are three hours in. The pileup shows no sign of slowing down. My back hurts. My eyes are dry. But I cannot stop. I am the gatekeeper. I am the voice of W1Z.

It feels like life or death. It feels primal. It is just beeps in a headset, but it triggers the same fight-or-flight response as a physical threat. You have to be aggressive. You have to be fast. You have to be relentless.

"Haruka," Gregory's voice comes from the doorway. "Shift change in ten minutes. Doretha is up."

"I am fine," I say, not looking away from the screen. "I can keep going."

"You are fading," Gregory says gently. "Your error rate is creeping up. I heard you ask for a repeat on that last Swedish station twice. Rest is a weapon too."

He is right. I force myself to finish the hour. When Doretha sits down and plugs in her headset, I unplug mine. The sudden silence in the room is shocking. My ears are ringing with phantom code.

I stand up and stumble toward the kitchen. I am exhausted, drained, shaking with adrenaline. I grab a bottle of water and down it in one gulp.

This is not a hobby. This is an endurance sport. This is a mental marathon run at a sprint.

I look at the operating desk. Doretha is already locked in, her face illuminated by the screen, her fingers dancing. The war continues. And in four hours, I will be back on the front lines.