Chapter 44: The Noise Floor

3:00 AM. The "graveyard shift."

The garage is dark, save for the monitors. The world outside is asleep. But in here, the radio spectrum is a swirling, shifting ocean of noise.

I am back in the chair. The high-energy pileups of the evening are gone. The 20-meter band has closed for the night. We are down on the 80-meter and 160-meter bands—the "low bands."

These bands are different. They are noisy. The static is a constant, grinding roar, like heavy surf crashing on a beach. It is full of pops, crackles, and the hum of atmospheric electricity. The signals here are not crisp and clear. They are mushy, fading in and out, ghosts haunting the noise floor.

"Conditions are rough," Azhar whispers. He is keeping me company, logging on the second computer. "Atmospheric noise is S7. You have to dig for them."

I lean forward, closing my eyes, pressing the headphones tight against my ears. I am straining to hear a signal that is barely a whisper above the static.

...d... dah... dit...

It is faint. It sounds watery, bubbling up from the depths.

CQ... TEST...

"I hear one," I whisper. "Very weak. Maybe Japan?"

I tune carefully. The signal drifts, fading into the noise, then surging back for a second.

JA1...

"Japan," I confirm. "It is a JA station."

I send my call. W1Z.

I wait. Did he hear me? My signal has to travel through the darkness, bouncing multiple times, fighting the noise at his end too.

W1Z... ?

He heard a piece of it.

W1Z W1Z. I send it again, slightly slower, heavier.

W1Z 599 25.

"Got him!" I log the contact. It is worth double points because it is a different continent on a low band.

This is a different kind of intensity. It is not the fast-paced combat of the run. This is a siege. It is a test of patience and focus. The static grinds at your nerves. It creates hallucinations. After an hour of staring at the waterfall and listening to the white noise, I start to hear patterns that are not there. I hear my name. I hear music. I hear voices calling CQ that vanish when I focus on them.

"The fog of war," Azhar says, handing me a cup of black coffee. "Do not trust your ears. Trust the scope."

I look at the waterfall display. The digital lines are faint, ghostly smudges. I have to trust that those smudges are people.

"My brain feels like mush," I admit. "I can't tell a dit from a dah."

"Stand up," Azhar commands. "Do ten jumping jacks. Get the blood moving."

I pull off the headset and do the exercise right there in the garage. It helps. The fog clears a little.

I sit back down. "Okay. Let's dig some more."

Suddenly, a clear, bell-like signal cuts through the grime.

CQ TEST CN8WW.

"Morocco!" I say. "New multiplier."

I call him. He comes right back. It is a burst of clarity in the mud. For a moment, the connection is perfect. I can feel the person at the other end, sitting in a shack in North Africa, listening to the same static I am. We touch hands across the darkness, exchange our numbers, and then the static swallows him up again.

This is the emergency aspect. This is what Gregory talked about. When the disaster strikes, when the power grid fails, the bands will not be clear. They will be like this—noisy, difficult, terrifying. You will have to dig for the signal of a hospital, a shelter, a survivor. You will have to be able to pull meaning out of the chaos.

This contest is not just a game. It is training. It is callousing our minds against fatigue. It is teaching us to listen when listening is impossible.

"Two more hours until sunrise," Azhar says. "The grey line will bring the Europeans back on the low bands. We just have to hold the line until then."

"I am holding," I say, my hand resting on the key. "I am not going anywhere."