Permission to Shoot 04
Chapter 4: Radars, Guns and Missiles, Oh My.
Travelling with us were several other civilians, contractors’ representatives. They were the people responsible for the design and manufacture of much of Vancouver’s weapons systems. An aloof bunch, I seldom saw them. Despite my entreaties, they made it perfectly plain that they weren’t doing any interviews, on or off camera. They certainly wouldn’t be discussing any of their equipment with the likes of me.
The reasons for their secrecy became evident as we began the sea trials of the systems. The highly integrated weapons suite aboard Vancouver represented the crown jewels of some of Canada’s most capable and secretive defense companies. The entire system was managed from the Operations Center, a control room buried deep below decks and it was from here that our first major test was to take place.
The Ops Center was the ship’s brainstem—dark, hushed, glowing with green cathode light. CRT displays lined the desktops, flickering like distant storms on the horizon. Everyone wore headsets. No shouting. Just murmured commands and fingers flying across backlit keyboards. I’d been in there a dozen times already, struggling to expose properly in the low light, dodging reflections and blocking nobody’s view. But this time was different. I could feel it before I heard it.
On the day of the test, I’d pre-lit the dark Ops Center with as many of my lights as I could manage. To make it look high tech, I stuck multi-coloured gels over the lights and hung them overhead from the ever-present ducting. I rigged them on bulkheads and hid them carefully behind equipment racks. I used all of my lights and every single one of the extension cords the crew had manufactured for me. I lit the hell out of it. I was determined to earn my “Hollywood” nickname. When the time came, and the weapons test unfolded, it was all worth it. The Ops Center looked like a scene from “War Games.”
“Target! Incoming! Bearing two five zero. Range fifteen thousand. Closing. Speed five hundred plus. Estimate inbound anti-ship missile. Probable Exocet.
The captain: “Designate target alpha. Engage primary defense”.
The crew were frozen in place—but alert. No one moved without purpose. This was more than a routine drill, and they knew it. I framed a tight shot of a hand adjusting a gain knob, another moving a trackball. Someone tightening the chin strap on his headset. I cut wide to the Situation Plot—a radar view of the sea, our ship dead center, and a pulsing dot bearing in from the west.
Ships' defense systems are layered. As the threat moves closer, different systems come into play, the first of which are missiles. In this case, Sea Sparrows. Those are anti-missile missiles. Barely 12 feet long and less than a foot in diameter, they’re radar-guided and can range up to twenty nautical miles at mach 2.5. Tiny, smart, fast and lethal. They were our first layer.
Of course, I needed to record the launch. There are two launch canisters, right behind the navigation bridge, one on the port side and one to starboard. I had to shoot from inside through a tiny window. Poison gas accompanied their departure.
“So”, I said to one of the civilians, “Which side will it launch from?”
“I have no idea”, he said. “The computer decides at the last second. All I can tell you is that it’ll probably take the hardest shot first. That way, if it misses, it has the easier shot left.”
“Then, the hardest shot would be the one from the side farthest from the incoming target, right?”
“If you say so.”
Worse, nobody knew precisely when the computer would take the shot. There’d be no warning. I set up the camera on sticks, lens right against the glass and rolled tape, stood back and waited. That’s when I was glad I’d brought “Way too much” tape with me.
A flash. A whoosh. Smoke filled the tiny frame. And then—nothing. The Sea Sparrow was gone, and the camera had barely registered the moment. A whisper on tape.
Over the comms channel came the fateful words:
“Missed.”
They didn’t shout it. They didn’t need to. Everyone heard it. Everyone felt it.
I scrambled to the other side of the bridge—fast, quiet, camera still rolling. I knew there’d be a second shot. The system always fired two. Miss once, maybe. Miss twice? Not on this ship. Not on this cruise.
I set up again, this time on the starboard side. Same cramped window. Same toxic smoke hazard. Same camera lens pushed up against the glass. This was my do-over.
I didn’t wait long.
Whoosh!
Second missile gone. Same deafening silence from the crew. Same tension hanging in the air like mist. I grabbed the camera off the sticks, ran to a larger window and shot the missile’s vapour trail as it arced away from us.
This time, the update came quickly.
“Target splashed.”
A beat. Then quiet nods. Some relief. No celebration.
“That’s exactly what’s supposed to happen”, said the civvie weapons systems boffin.
I stood there letting the camera run, soaking in the moment. I’d gotten the second shot—really gotten it this time. The launch, the vapor trail, even the voice announcing “Target Splashed”. Pure gold.
Later, I played back both takes. The first was a ghost—a puff of smoke and blur. The second was sharp, vivid. The story of a miss—and a kill.
Of course, there was no Exocet, the incoming was just a towed radar decoy, dragged behind some poor bastard in a Learjet or god-knows-what. The kind of thankless job you never want to explain to your mother.
But that’s not how it felt. It felt real.
It felt like war.
The Sea Sparrow test was the main event—but not the only one.
On another day, the deck gun got its turn: a 57mm Bofors turret up front, rapid-firing into empty ocean at an imaginary threat. No incoming, no drama—just noise, recoil, and brass flying. I shot it anyway. I’m a sucker for a good muzzle flash. The Bofors spoke with a deep sonorous voice. It was the businesslike sound of confidence:
“We see you. We warned you. Now you’re gone.”
You felt it in your chest—WHAM-WHAM-WHAM—a rhythm with no doubt, no hesitation. Like the ship itself had flexed and said, “That was your last mistake.”
The CWIS followed—our absolute last-second line of defense if the missiles and deck gun ever failed. The radar guided machine gun shrieked like an angry god, spitting hundreds of rounds per minute into the void. No target, just practice. But if you’ve ever heard it, you don’t forget.
Those were tests. Simulations. Controlled displays of precision. But the .50 cal on the fantail? That was something else entirely. That was pure boys will be boys fun.
We waited until evening as the light was fading, the better to see the tracers. The .50 on the fantail was exposed and vulnerable—the last place you’d want to be in a real fight. Unless, that is, your enemy is a hapless, defenseless weather balloon.
A meter or so in diameter, the white orb appeared an easy target as it floated away to stern. We waited a while as the balloon got farther away. Gotta give the poor thing a sportsman-like chance don’t we? The Captain went first. Rank has its privileges.
Fifty cal ammo isn’t cheap, so each shooter got about a dozen shots. It was up to you to decide whether to carefully husband your shots, one or two at a time, or let it all go in one magnificent, reckless burst.
It looks easy, but it’s far from it. The balloon is moving erratically on the waves, the ship is heaving slowly up and down several feet and the light is fading. Hitting that target is actually an incredibly difficult thing to do. Nobody hit it.
Once a dozen or so sailors had made their attempts, it seemed we were done.
Unaccountably, I piped up. “Can I try?”
There were a few moments of feet shuffling, hemming and hawing as they discussed the fact that we were in fact fresh out of ammunition. But the Captain came to my rescue. “Someone find some ammo for Mister McLennan.” A few minutes later, I stepped up to the machine gun, locked and loaded. Some two dozen sailors looked on.
By this time, it was nearly dark and the balloon was far away, nearly invisible in the gloom. But the tracers! Every third round was a multi-coloured tracer round that clearly showed the bullet’s path against the dark water. They sailed away from me in a deadly arc, better than any fireworks. What fun!
The balloon escaped. It’s probably still out there, smugly sailing across the sea remembering the night it got clean away from one of Canada's premier warships.