Chapter 46: The SuperComm
Steve
The radio crackled with static, then died. Third time this hour.
"Dammit!" Nancy's voice cut in and out. "—lost contact with—junction—can't—"
"Nancy, you're breaking up," I said into the radio. "Repeat your position."
Nothing. Dead air.
Lucas tried from the quarry site. Same problem—interference, dropped signals, electromagnetic chaos from the tunnels screwing with our communications.
"This is going to get someone killed," Hopper said, slamming his radio on the table.
Dr. Owens rubbed his temples. "The tunnel network generates massive electromagnetic interference. Standard radios can't penetrate it consistently. We need better equipment or we're coordinating blind."
"What kind of equipment?" I asked.
"Military-grade encrypted communication system. Which we don't have, can't get in time, and couldn't explain requisitioning."
Bob looked up from where he'd been sketching circuit diagrams in the corner. "I can build one."
Everyone turned.
"You can what?" Owens asked.
"Build a communication network. Custom frequencies, encrypted, designed specifically to penetrate electromagnetic interference." Bob approached the table, laying out his sketches. "RadioShack sells the components. CB radio base, signal boosters, frequency modulators. Give me sixteen hours and I'll have you perfect clarity across ten miles."
Dustin's eyes lit up. "You can really do that?"
"I've been building radios since I was twelve." Bob smiled. "This is just... more complicated."
Bob
Dustin Henderson was the best assistant I could have asked for.
The kid understood electronics intuitively, handed me components before I asked for them, asked questions that showed real comprehension.
"So we're creating a closed-loop network?" Dustin asked, soldering connections on the circuit board.
"Exactly. Each radio syncs to a master frequency that hops across the spectrum. The tunnels' interference can't lock onto a moving target." I connected the frequency modulator. "And encryption means even if someone intercepts, they can't decode."
"This is brilliant! Like... military-level brilliant!"
"It's just problem-solving. See a need, fill it."
We worked through the night. Joyce brought coffee and sandwiches around midnight. Steve checked on us every few hours, monitoring progress while coordinating tunnel surveillance from the cameras I'd managed to install.
The kid was everywhere—treating Will, absorbing Joyce's stress, guiding reconnaissance teams, planning the final assault. Watching him exhausted me. He never stopped.
"How does Steve do it?" I asked Dustin quietly.
"Do what?"
"Everything. He's eighteen and running a military operation."
Dustin paused his soldering. "Steve's different. Always has been. Like he's seen things we haven't. Knows stuff he shouldn't." He caught himself. "I mean, he's just really smart and prepared."
"There's something else. Something he's not telling us."
"Probably lots of somethings. But he keeps us alive, so..." Dustin shrugged. "I don't need to know everything. Just need to trust him."
Smart kid.
Dustin
The SuperComm came online at 4:47 AM.
Bob made the final connection. Static cleared. Perfect audio, crystal clear, no interference.
"Testing, testing," Bob said into the base unit. "All teams, this is Bunker Command. Radio check."
Responses flooded in—Nancy from the junkyard, Robin from the quarry, Jonathan from the east tunnels, Hopper from the pumpkin patch. All perfect clarity.
"Holy shit," I breathed. "It actually works!"
Bob grinned, exhausted but proud. "Never doubted it."
"I doubted it a little," I admitted.
Steve appeared, drawn by the commotion. He tested the system, cycling through channels, confirming encryption.
"This is incredible work, Bob."
"Just doing my part."
"This'll save lives. Coordinating the final assault requires perfect communication. You just gave us that." Steve clapped Bob's shoulder. "Thank you."
Bob beamed like he'd won the lottery.
Steve
The SuperComm proved its worth six hours later when a reconnaissance team triggered a demo-dog ambush near the quarry.
Robin's panicked voice came through crystal clear: "Contact! Multiple hostiles! We're pinned down!"
"Robin, your position?" I asked, already pulling up the map.
"Fifty meters east of camera four. They came from—"
"Eddie, flank left," I cut in, coordinating. "Nancy, you're three hundred meters south. Move to intercept. Hopper, redirect from junction seven."
The SuperComm let me orchestrate rescue in real-time. Eddie's team flanked the demo-dogs. Nancy provided covering fire from elevation. Hopper's shotgun finished what the others started.
Robin's team extracted with minor injuries. Zero fatalities.
"Bunker Command, this is Robin. We're clear. Thanks for the assist."
"Thank Bob. His system made it possible."
When they returned, Robin hugged Bob hard enough to crack ribs. "You saved our asses."
Bob turned red. "Just... doing what I can."
The team gathered around him—The Party, Hopper, Nancy, Jonathan, Eddie. Offering thanks, respect, genuine appreciation.
Bob Newby, RadioShack manager, awkward stepdad-in-training, had become essential team infrastructure.
And that's the problem, I thought, watching him laugh with Dustin. Essential people get asked to do essential things. Essential things get people killed.
Steve
Bob fell asleep at the communications console around midnight, head pillowed on his arms. Joyce found him there, covered him with a blanket, kissed his gray-streaked hair.
"He's been working nonstop," she said softly.
"I know."
"He wants to help. Needs to feel useful."
"I know that too."
She looked at me, fear naked on her face. "Steve, promise me he'll survive this. Promise me I won't lose him."
I wanted to promise. Wanted to lie so badly my teeth ached.
"I'm going to do everything I can."
"That's not a promise."
"It's all I've got."
Joyce left, returning to Will's bedside. I remained, watching Bob sleep.
In canon, Bob dies in the lab. Eaten by demo-dogs while rebooting power. Heroic sacrifice that gets Will and Joyce to safety but costs him everything.
I'd changed so much already. Saved Barb. Positioned people better. Trained them harder. But Bob's death felt inevitable, written in the story's bones.
How do you save someone determined to sacrifice themselves?
I approached the sleeping figure, knelt beside his chair.
"I'll keep you alive this time," I whispered. "I swear it. Even if I have to drag you away from danger. Even if you hate me for it. Even if it costs me everything."
Bob mumbled in his sleep, shifting position. The blanket slipped. I tucked it back around his shoulders.
"Joyce loves you. Will needs you. You matter." My voice cracked. "So please, please survive this. Be the one happy ending I manage to secure."
The SuperComm chirped softly—teams checking in, all secure.
The tunnels breathed beneath Hawkins. The Mind Flayer counted down. Demo-dogs bred in darkness.
Twenty-four hours until the assault.
And Bob Newby slept peacefully, dreaming of circuit boards and RadioShack discounts, unaware he was living on borrowed time.
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