Master Chief Sonar Technician Robin Boyd didn’t look old enough for her job. Her bristle cut around her ears and long blonde locks elsewhere didn’t help. She hadn’t learned the difference between a shipmate referencing her punked hairstyle or calling her “Punk” and when she was anywhere other than her sonar station she didn’t ask for clarification.
Chief of the Boat Torah Jensen had her back.
Which was why Boyd was on station now instead of in the brig.
COB Jensen spoke in a loud whisper. “Seaman Clive had no clue.”
“It helps if you don’t talk right now.”
Jensen folded her harms over her chest and leaned back against the station’s doorjamb.
Boyd’s eyes moved from one diagnostics screen to the next. Recumbrance? Check. Integration? Check. ABFAC Cones? Check. Towed Array? Check? Transform Analysis? Check. AI Separation? Check.
Boyd shook her head. One hand kept her headphones tight to her right ear, her other hand played over dials and switches.
Run another series check?
Why?
She turned to a second set of screen along a wall projecting from the sonar displays.
Jensen looked as well. “Anything on the ES-10?”
“Nothing. Unless somebody’s got something way beyond what we have, this is pure biologic.” Boyd ran diagnostics. “Or the most sophisticated ‘droppers DARPA can come up with suck.”
She turned back to her sonar panel. Two screens showed Sherlock’s – the Henderson James’ AI – progress analyzing the signals, one coming out of Boston harbor, the other out beyond the continental shelf.
It kept coming up blank and asking for help.
