Category Archives: Fiction

Maritime and naval fiction.


Fiction Topic Week

By Chris O’Connor

“Anyone sitting here?”

“It’s all yours. Guy just left a few minutes ago to catch a flight.”

“Cool. I like coming to these retro bars; human bartenders, social and facial recognition blocking. My profile is not being constantly scanned… nice to have a little bit of privacy.”

“Yet you are talking to me.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m not going to be personable. Nice arm, by the way.”

“Are you hitting on me?”

“Nope. I’m honestly complementing you on your arm.”

“It’s pretty hard to hide when I am charging it. Even though this is an old-school place, I can charge it on the bar top while it has an OS update. The glowing thumbnail kind of gives it away. Nice face.”

“Thanks. I know, it’s pretty obvious that half of it has been regrown when it doesn’t show any stubble on the right side. My wife wanted me to grow a retirement beard when I got out. Now I am doomed to shave the rest of my life or look like a jigsaw puzzle.”

“At least you have a face.”

“I can hardly complain if you put it that way.”

“I’ll tell you what- I have an hour to burn. You tell the story how you got that face, and I’ll tell you about how I got my arm. Which I technically don’t own, it’s a long-term VA lease from a medtech company.”

“Sure, I have time. My spot on the hyperloop to Denver isn’t for another hour. I think I’ll have the IPA.”

 “An IPA? Are you my Dad?”

“Look, I’m ordering a retro beer in a retro bar. At least I don’t have to pay in cash.”

“What are we, savages?”

 “I’m going to assume we are both former Navy. We are in a bar in San Diego Airport and we are telling tales to each other. My wife says Navy people don’t have conversations, we just take turns with sea stories.”

“A true statement. Former Surface Warfare Officer, you?”

“Expeditionary Supply Chain Officer.”

“Our stories should be pretty different, then. I’m sure they both start when the Curtain dropped.”

 “Indeed. Great. Here’s my beer.”



Our forward logistics site was hidden among a few on-demand manufacturing sites outside of town in what used to be suburbs. Some of our neighbors were forge sites for large multinationals that you are familiar with; distributors or express logistics companies in the last century that have since blended their services so much that you can’t tell who does what anymore.

The pattern of life at our location was no different than the others. Drop drones of various sizes coming and going on a random basis, manufacturing and movement bots moving between the buildings and the central landing pad. Even the structure configuration was the same as the others, designed with a workflow algorithm for maximum efficiency – north and south storage warehouses, two forges with two build units in each to the northwest and southeast, a landing pad, and personnel housing out of the way of the MM bot flow path to the east.

AA1 Garcia and I were the only humans working there. I never walked around in a mil-standard exosuit, and AA1 wore heavy load-bearing civilian one as part of her role, but nothing out of the ordinary for a forge site. Our suit management AIs and comms were military, but externally there was no difference. Our visors were standard augmented safety glasses. If our pattern of life looked “too military” to the VULCAN logistics AI managing the site, it would tell us to do something random, or hide for a while in the housing when it seemed we were getting too much attention on the nets.

Internally, the forges were different than corporate ones. Most of the manufacturing capabilities were more than what our neighbors would need for order fulfillment. We could build to more specific tolerances, add propellants and explosives to what we built, and integrate electronics better than most other small forges. A micro UAS with graphene skin and a metal-augmented shaped charge is usually not built by Amazon. To make sure our things were built properly, the AIs resident in each of the four units would check each other’s work. This was not the HomeBuild machine you probably have in your garage that does everything except replace its own filament cartridges. Hence the presence of AA1 Garcia. She was Additive Artisan with AI and unmanned systems training. With her coding language pay she had a higher paycheck than I did as an LT.

The Navy called the units Augmented Builders, AB for short. Rumor has it a Marine general wanted to call them Awesome Boxes, and that’s where the “AB” acronym came from, but a more official sounding title had to be created.

As for security, we had a standard razor-wire topped concrete wall. Our gate opened to an access road. Down that road was the industrial park’s gate to the four-lane highway leading to the town miles distant and lined by a sprawl of worn-down concrete structures. Security was a few unarmed dog bots, two C-UAS systems, and a tethered drone that kept aerial watch. The TD scanned traffic patterns on the roads and monitored the EM spectrum in the area. All were civilian versions, not visibly different than our neighbors – corporations had to protect themselves against intrusions and sabotage just like we did.

I guess I expected more warning for when the shooting was going to start. Something from the logistics task force, the Marines nearby, or a threat trend on social media. Maybe some sort of drone activity or unusual traffic pattern outside. 

It was a humid afternoon, after lunch. Every time I think of this day, I can taste that lunch, a tropical-variant microbiome bar. A civilian company had air-delivered a cargo pod filled with containers of build materials; graphene canisters, titanium cartridges, and polymer spools. 

The supplies had come from a nearby MALS det. The Marines there always had a sense of humor, and had taped a note that said, “DEER NAVEE, MAK THIS INTOO FUN THINGZ. LUV, MARINZ” to one of the containers. They were so committed to the joke that the writing was in purple crayon.

AA1 and the MMs had just offloaded the cargo pod when the Curtain dropped. Our ‘shades went dark, no AR or VR feeds. No comms at all. VULCAN’s feeds went offline, never to return. We didn’t hear a peep from JANUS, and when the cybernetwork AI is silent, it’s a bad sign. My suit shut down, but I was still able to move my arms, so I clenched my fists behind my back to restart everything. I saw AA1 do the same over by the landing pad. The TD fell from the sky like a box of rocks, narrowly missing its base station, but smashing two of its lift fans. The security dogs stopped in their tracks, as did the MMs.

“What the hell?” AA1 mouthed. The words appeared in my shades.

“We need to get the bots and the security systems up.” I mouthed back.

AA1 restarted the MMs. They were not receiving any VULCAN instruction anymore, so she took local control and sent them to turn the dogs and the anti-drone systems back on. I slapped two new fans on the TD and sent it back up. The site security system was completely off the net. The dog bots and C-UAS couldn’t be revived. My stomach dropped. Their programming was completely erased.

On our visors, a black cloud of attack drones appeared over downtown to our south, rising from rooftops, back gardens, and parking lots. Thousands of them. The ones that look like crabs, definitely more than were in the enemy’s arsenal. I changed modes of the TD’s sensors – they all said the same thing.

“Don’t trust the TD any more. Suit up!” I shouted, running towards the south storage building. My suit took the hint and began assisting my legs, moving me faster than I could on my own. AA1 ran to the north warehouse. One of the walk-in lockers in the warehouse was a go-to-war or, GTW, locker. It opened after scanning my retina and testing my breath. I had practiced for this occasion, so I had the armor panels on my suit and helmet on my head in no time. In the back of the locker was a weapons release panel. I hit the energizing switch and grabbed my rifle on the way out.   

After suiting up, Garcia’s heavier suit had the same level of armor, but had a larger battery pack and could last longer in high-intensity situations. Either way, we were not in exos even close to what the SEALs or Marines had. We lacked heavy armor, EW systems, auto-injectors, and heavy weapons.

We used the entrance doors of the north warehouse for cover so we could see what was approaching from the south while not being in the open. Hopefully, there could be nothing on its way and our video was just being spoofed.

When they did get to us, it was not what we expected. It seemed that every household, toy, and hobby drone in a five-mile radius was co-opted to attack us. Two large ones shaped like a starship collided with the TD, knocking it from the sky. It was surreal to see flying Hello Kitties and unicorns ram the dog bots and MMs until they were a pile of components. 

As this happened, the smaller members of the swarm set upon on us. We raised our rifles and pulled the triggers. The weapons chose based off of our targets how to fire. Some of the drones only got short EM bursts from us, others burst-fused 6.8mm rounds. There was too many of them, even though we had a good lane of fire. The smaller family cambots and airnannies would probably not hurt us in a collision, but they could distract us until a larger drone rammed into us. I had no intention of going out by being impaled by a 5-foot Star Destroyer, so I unleashed the PD guns. Until then they were hidden in the roof of the storage warehouses, but AA1 and I had activated them with the release panel in the GTW locker. 

Up to this point, we could have been a PMC or security company, but the guns were obviously military. 20mm single-barrel point defense systems with laser and high-power microwave. The swarm of civilian drones was sent to bring out our true colors. Communicating with our suits’ sensors and each other, the PDs made quick work of the swarm. It was a sight to see. After a few minutes, the ground was littered with small commercial package drones, toy combat planes, and the like. Some with fried electronics, others with smoldering laser damage. The PDs had refrained from using the 20mm to avoid collateral damage.

I personally took out one of those stupidly-expensive VR broadcasters. I’m glad the bad guys couldn’t get access our suits with one of those, since they were designed to send a reality skin to an entire crowd. Fighting off zombies, dragons, or aliens is fun in my spare time, but it would have been a waste of ammunition shooting at false targets.

For good measure, PDs then fried any surveillance drone within range, even over the neighboring manufacturing sites. I’m sure that really pissed off our neighbors. Couldn’t be certain if the enemy was using their feeds. No host nation security or military UAS were to be seen. Strange in its own right, but it meant we didn’t have to worry about making the decision to neutralize them for protection.

The PDs could protect us from the air, at least for a short while, but a ground attack was another matter, and we had no idea what was moving out there. Since the Curtain dropped, we had no feeds to any assets outside our gates – cameras or other sensors, the town’s traffic system or even civilian mapping apps. Luckily, the ABs built just what we needed. We had just made some deliveries, so most of our stock was gone, but we had six discontinued quadcopters that we hadn’t retrograded. Garcia found them in the north warehouse and sent them airborne. Their sensors weren’t as good as the TD, but at least we had eyes again. 

The real coup was the half-dozen Bulldog LAMs we had in the southwest forge building. We were in the middle of fulfilling an order to a nearby Warbot company when the Curtain dropped. The AIs in the AB units came back up, but were not trusting any of their design files, which could be corrupted after the network attack. We couldn’t build anything else.

I had only used Loitering Aerial Munitions in sims. Luckily for us, AA1 was deployed during the Malay insurgency and had experience with them. She grabbed the 300-pound case of munitions and put them on the ground beside the forge. She got to work checking their programming and giving them combat decision guidelines. There was a lot of mumbling and gesticulating with her hands. 

While she was engrossed in that, I took in what our new eyes were observing. The road traffic was at a standstill. All of the cars out there were shut off. There were a lot of annoyed people milling around the four-lane between us and town. Unwilling to sit in their hot cars, but unable to go anywhere.

Then some of the cars started to move. Starting at a defunct charging stop halfway between us and town, they began to part. Down the middle, like an invisible zipper opening the two center lanes, heading our direction. This was not with their passengers’ or drivers’ permission, mind you. They were caught by surprise. Some trapped in moving cars, the others hit by cars that moved with no regard for humans.

There was something driving down the center that our quadcopters could not see. The people could see it and were shouting at it. The irony is if I was looking at it with unaided binoculars, I would be able to see it plain as day.

“Garcia, how are the Bulldogs?” I mouthed. “Something’s coming.”

“What do you mean ‘something?’ ” She said aloud, still occupied in prepping the munitions. “Can’t see it?”

“Either our new drones are now compromised, or there is a vehicle out there that is proximity hacking cars… I’m guessing it has adversarial network skin.”

“Oh, shit.” She said, seeing the feed. “Good thing Bulldogs can use their transfer cases as launchers.”

She stepped back as all six Bulldogs kicked themselves into the air from the case and began orbiting. Immediately they began talking to each other and our suit information AIs. But the Bulldogs still couldn’t see what was opening up the highway. You could see them trying their multimode sensors for a target lock. A pair of vehicle tracks appeared in the multispectral light mode, driving up the center of the road, pushing the cars aside.

Based off shape and depth of the tracks, the Bulldogs classified it as a Scarab fighting vehicle. This was the first time Scarabs had been encountered in combat, so we had to learn about them as we went… and they were wicked.

After given permission from AA1, one of the Bulldogs dived onto the moving head of the tracks. And then disappeared. There was no shot fired from the invisible vehicle, no active armor response. It was disarmed by the Scarab somehow.

I saw Garcia modify the fuse settings on another Bulldog. She set it for antipersonnel shrapnel burst, turned off its seeker head, and set an aimpoint on the road in the path of the Scarab, about a half mile from the main gate to the industrial park. At this point, the people on the road had run away in panic, so there were not a lot of civilians there.

“Let’s see how thick this skin is.” She mouthed.

The Bulldog detonated above the Scarab. Instantly, the vehicle appeared in our visor feed. It lived up to its name. It looked like a beetle, low to the ground, with protrusions for weapons and sensors. The skin appeared to be flashing randomly, part of an AN pattern that was now incomplete in patches. AA1 released another Bulldog at it. As it dove, its warhead fused into a dual-charge skeet that punched through the top of the armored vehicle, stopping it in its tracks and setting it alight.

“If they have Scarabs out there, they could have attacked us with guided mortars from the beginning. They want the ABs intact. And we don’t have enough Bulldogs to keep this up!” I shouted.

As if on cue, a pack of four autonomous semis, two in a line in each cleared lane, pulled out into the highway and picked up speed.

“Carthage, Carthage, Carthage.” I said aloud. AA1 and I each sprinted to the forges. The AB AIs refused to believe my destruct command over the net, so we had to do it locally.

The local command panel verified my identity the same way as the GTW lockers. Then a door behind the power terminal opened. The button was red, but sadly not large enough to smash dramatically. It clicked quietly as I pushed it.

This action overrode the AB AIs. The first thing that happened in the sequence was a massive EM discharge in the server banks- wiping out the AIs and all memory inside. I was already out and running to the south warehouse for cover, so my suit’s systems were spared. Then an excessive amount of metal build powder was pumped into the AB’s main chamber. When it got to the right concentration, the electron beam was turned on for the last time. The suicidal explosions leveled the forge buildings.  

The first two autonomous semis pushed the burning Scarab out of the way and kept plowing to the front gate, giving a clear path for the follow-on two. They smashed into that gate at 100 miles per hour and collided with our gate, running out of inertia as they punched through, too damaged to continue.

A Scarab charged through after them, skin flashing to my naked eye, but invisible to the drones. Two Bulldogs knew what to do, a frag burst followed by shaped charge. At least our gate was now blocked by a burning armored vehicle.

Almost immediately, the remaining Bulldog was blasted out of the sky by the south PD. The scarab had got to the gun. I took manual control of the north PD and took the south one out with a burst of 20mm, even though I was still in the warehouse below it. Shrapnel punched through the thin roof and pelted my armor, which held. It was the ammo cooking off that got me. The blast knocked me off my feet and scorched the right side of my body. Only the right side of my partially uncovered face was burned. Nothing on the right side of my suit worked anymore. I could still get visual feeds my left eye.

It goes without saying that I was in a lot of pain. I laid on my back, immobile, waiting for the explosive materiel lockers to go up and finish me off. It seemed to be an eternity passed when I was lifted up into the air. AA1 threw me over her shoulder like a rag doll. Her suit could easily sling a 280-pound man and suit combo around. She ran to a low ditch near the housing and threw me in it with little ceremony.

The enemy knew now that the ABs were gone, and decided it was time to finish us off. Our remaining eyes in the sky winked out. Back on auto engage, the remaining PD stopped waves of incoming projectiles and drones, but it was going to run out of ammo soon. When I could open my left eye through the pain, I saw the ammo status steadily dropping. Garcia still had her rifle attached to her suit, but it wasn’t going to help in this onslaught.

Just as the PD ammo status reached less than 10 percent, a Wasp titfan in the armed recon configuration made a low pass overhead, firing at targets to the south. Text appeared in our visors: “CARGO POD. MOVE IT OR LOSE IT. LUV, MARINZ.” It was the first communications we had received from the outside world since the Curtain. The cargo pod, still sitting on the pad, unmolested save a few shrapnel holes, was going to be our way out.

“Let’s go LT.” AA1 said as she slung me over her shoulder again and charged to the pad. A Wasp cleared the north wall by inches and landed on the cargo pod. 

AA1 threw me in and climbed in after me. We sat in the cargo case cradles and grabbed onto whatever we could. Garcia wrapped my right arm and leg in cargo straps. The Wasp linked with our suits and immediately began feeding us aircraft information. It let us look through its optical sensors, giving us the ability to see “through” the aircraft.

Just as we were lifting off, a Scarab blew a hole in the west wall and charged in, patterns flashing across its skin. Our north PD slewed toward our Wasp – it was no longer friendly. The Wasp gunned it, but we were still an easy target. I held my breath, ready to be shot out of the sky, when a finger of God landed on the north warehouse. It was an incoming railgun round, the first of many. Within seconds, our logistics site and everything in it was gone. The Wasp struggled to stay in the air as the shockwaves from the rail rounds threw us around inside the pod. I slammed headfirst into the roof and blacked out.

When I woke, I was in the medical space of a frigate, the Rochester. I had a ringing headache, and my mouth felt like it was filled with metal shavings. I reached up and touched my face. Its right side, eye included, was encased in hardened burn foam.

Garcia was sitting next to me, annoyingly uninjured from our ordeal.

“How?” I managed.

“The Wasp was told to take us here…,” she said

“Rail strike?” I choked.

“The higher ups thought we were goners. In place of a Carthage destruct, they called in a fire mission from the LBJ. The nearby Marines detected our activity and sent the Wasps.”

I attempted to show relief on my face.

“How are you feeling?” She added, cheerily. “Are you hungry? It’s Taco Tuesday!”



“That’s right! They did start the war on Taco Tuesday, didn’t they? The bastards.”

“So that was it. About fifteen minutes of action, followed by months of rehab while I got used to a newly grown face. Your story now.”

“Sure, I could do with another drink, anyway. I prefer being sedated when I take suborbital flights.”



I was the CO of a Lake-class corvette flotilla. There were four of us and a few Fiberclad USVs, spread out and trying to hide in the margin clutter of a Seafarm. It was a massive operation – kelp and mussels. Solar buoys as far as the eye could see. I was onboard the USS Wayne P. Hughes. They have to name at least one ship in a class after a person, right?

Just after the Curtain dropped, the Seneca was snapped in half by an underwater explosion. She was in autonomous mode. Hughes was the only ship of the four with live bodies on it. We went Empty Quiver –it was obvious the bad guys knew where we were, but we had a bead on them, too. We had tapped into the data feed of the farm…”

Chris O’Connor is a Supply Corps officer in the United States Navy and a member of the CIMSEC Board of Directors. 

Featured Image: “Drone arriving at base” by Karl Thiart

A Captain’s Revenge

Fiction Topic Week

By Duncan Kellogg

The soft blue glow of the sonar terminal washed over Lieutenant Ahmadi’s tired face. He rubbed his eyes, trying in vain to stave off the waves of fatigue washing over him as he entered his thirteenth hour on watch.

“How has it come to this?” Ahmadi asked himself.

Truthfully, it didn’t matter. No one knew who had fired first and, at this point, no one cared. The Iranian government claimed that it was the Saudi Navy, the Saudis claimed that it had been an Iranian patrol boat. However, as soon as the bow of the Saudi Badr-class corvette slipped beneath the waves of the Persian Gulf, discussion of which side did what and when they did it became irrelevant.

The Saudis had been quick to engage, firing a salvo of American-supplied cruise missiles into the Iranian naval facilities at Hushehr and Larak, decimating a major portion of the IRGC swarm boat fleet which was in port following a major exercise. Simultaneously, Saudi air assets quickly sunk a pair of Iranian patrol vessels that were forward deployed in the Red Sea. Iran responded to the attacks in kind, launching anti-ship missiles against Saudi surface assets and saturating the Saudi city of Dammam with low-grade unguided rockets. Since then, the Persian Gulf had devolved into a churn of maritime rocket fire, missile launches, and air strikes. It had only been two days since the first attacks, and already Ahmadi hoped for an end.

“Lieutenant,” Ahmadi’s commanding officer said from behind him, “any new contacts?”

Ahmadi regained his focus and snapped his eyes back to the screen. The captain was a strict and harsh man, any daydreaming on the job would get him relieved of duty.

“Negative, Captain.” He responded, “Nothing on the scopes, but the American Ticonderoga-class moving away from us and a few merchant vessels.”

“Any indication that the American detected us?” The Captain asked.

“No, sir. He remains on bearing 337 at 18 knots.”

“Likely headed to Bahrain to meet up with their comrades. Cowards.”

Lieutenant Ahmadi tried not to show his concern at his superior’s attitude. Regardless of the Captains opinions of them, the Americans had not yet fired a shot. The new U.S. President had run on a platform of disengaging from the Middle East and, as such, seemed far more interested in resuming regular trade practices in the region rather than fighting a hot war over the Persian Gulf. American naval assets had been consolidated in Bahrain after the strikes began and a public announcement was made by the U.S. Navy that no U.S. vessel would fire unless fired upon. Ahmadi had even heard a rumor through one of the intelligence officer’s back on shore that the American president was planning on announcing that they would cancel all arms shipments to Saudi Arabia and sanction both the Kingdom and Iran until they ceased hostilities. Granted, that was just a rumor.

“Hopefully the order will come soon,” the Captain said, returning to his post on the other side of the cramped Fateh-class submarine, “inshallah.”

Ahmadi cringed at the Captain’s attitude. He knew that the Captain’s family was from the town of Chogadak near one of the naval bases the Saudis had destroyed. Saudi rocket attacks had been imprecise at best, and a handful of Iranian civilians were killed by the strikes. The Captain’s family, according to the shoreside rumors, had been among them. Ahmadi knew the Captain to be a stoic man, but he had become increasingly agitated in the days since the attacks. 

The days, if one can call them that, since the sinking of the Saudi corvette had been grueling. Ahmadi had been called to his post at the Bandar Abbas Navy Base early on a Wednesday morning. By that evening, his submarine was already at sea with orders to quietly patrol the littoral areas off the coast of Iran and track, analyze, and categorize American and Saudi vessels as they rounded the Strait of Hormuz. The deployment of the Fateh had been rushed following the Saudi strikes on Hushehr, so the dockhands had only managed to pack enough supplies on board to last the submarine a week and a half. It likely wouldn’t matter though, Ahmadi thought, as the widely publicized five week submerged endurance of the new Fateh-class was simply propaganda from the IRGC. Ahmadi himself had never been submerged on the boat for more than two weeks, and even that was pushing the boat’s limits.

As he sat in silence, Ahmadi felt the faint vibration of the submarines diesel-electric engines increase. He watched his console readout as the Fateh ascended two meters and began crawling north along a series of rocky outcroppings, hugging the sandy seafloor. While the Captain was an aggressive man, he was not without caution. The Fateh had been slowly moving from point to point off the Iranian coast in order to remain undetected while it scanned American and Saudi vessels. To Ahmadi’s surprise, he had not yet seen any indication that the Americans had even the faintest idea that they were there. Just as this thought left his mind, Ahmadi saw a new contact appear on his passive sonar display.

            “Captain, new contact directly ahead.” Ahmadi called across the central control room of the submarine, “Loose transient, sounds like a submerged vessel.”

            “Finally,” The captain responded with a smirk, “engines, all stop.”

            Ahmadi verified that the sound signature of the new contact matched that of an American nuclear-powered ballistic missile submarine, likely one of the converted guided-missile variants that the Americans referred to as SSGNs.

            “It’s the Georgia,” The weapons operator sitting next to Ahmadi stated “I tracked it once before. Sounds exactly the same as it did then.”

            Ahmadi raised an eyebrow, hesitating to protect his jurisdiction in case the weapons officer was right. As he did so, a loud metallic ping reverberated around the Fateh’s interior.

            “Captain, active sonar ping from the submarine, likely American.”

            A second ping.

            “Scratch that,” Ahmadi said, “definitely American.”

            The weapons operator chuckled. The Yankees loved to toss their weight around.

            “Understood, Lieutenant.” The captain responded stoically from across the cramped control room and looked towards the weapons officer. “Ready the weapon.”

            The entire crew inhaled sharply and Ahmed’s head snapped up as silence cocooned the vessel. The Captain was referring to one of the only operational models of Iran’s new Hoot supercavitating torpedo. Rather than using propellers to drive the torpedo through the water, the Hoot used rocket engines to propel a warhead towards its target. Small valves in the nose of the torpedo created a small pocket of air for the weapon to travel through, greatly increasing its speed. The Hoot had been publicly tested a few years earlier, much to the chagrin of American intelligence analysts, but had been shrouded in secrecy ever since. In truth, the weapon was one of Iran’s most valuable assets should conflict erupt with the United States. The weapon was simply too fast for American countermeasures, and both sides knew it.

            “Sir?” The weapons officer said, his voice trembling in surprise and apprehension.

            “You heard me.”

            A brief moment of hesitation in the control room told the Captain all he needed to know. He cleared his throat and loudly addressed his crew.

            “Men, you are sailors of the Artesh Navy. Your job is to protect the Islamic Republic and you will do so.” The Captain looked towards the weapons officer. “Ready the weapon.”

            The weapons officer picked up a small headset which had been fastened to the bulkhead to his left. He spoke into it, instructing the sailors in the torpedo room to remove the rocket plugs and valve protectors for the Hoot torpedo. As he spoke into the headset, a third sonar ping echoed around the Fateh’s interior.

            “Captain,” Ahmadi said, “the American is likely signaling for us to leave the area. I suspect he is clearing a path for a surface vessel.”

“That is exactly what he is doing, Ahmadi.” The Captain responded, “Likely one of their aircraft carriers.”

“Should we comply, sir?” Ahmadi asked, hoping the Captain would see what Ahmadi was trying to say. “We do not want to provoke the Americans, sir. We are too valu-”

“Do not instruct me on how to command my vessel, Lieutenant.” The Captain cut Ahmadi off as he spoke, his dark brown eyes boring a hole into Ahmadi’s.

“Of course, sir.” Ahmadi said apologetically.
            Ahmadi turned back towards his console, hoping the entire situation would deescalate and the captain would see reason. It was clear to Ahmadi that the American submarine knew exactly where the Fateh was and it was suggesting that Iranian vacate the area. Ahmadi didn’t want to know what would happen if the American felt threatened. The Captain, however, appeared more interested in defying the Americans than maintaining their vessel’s survivability should fighting break out.

“The weapon is ready, sir.” The weapons officer reported.

“Good.” The Captain responded, “We may have to use it soon.”

Ahmadi held his tongue. He felt the need to object, as the American had not proven himself to be a threat, but he knew he would be berated for insolence. A fourth ping reverberated throughout the vessel. As it did so, Ahmadi felt the tension on board the Fateh increase again. The submarine’s executive officer spoke up.

“Sir,” the XO said, “it would perhaps be wise to move to a more favorable location, the Americans have not yet crossed into our waters.”

After a few seconds of tense silence, the Captain responded.

“You are correct, move us to grid reference 34 by 13.” The Captain pointed to a chart on the bulkhead of the submarine and the submarine’s helmsman replied, turning the ship towards his intended destination.

Ahmadi caught a flash of motion on his passive sonar readout, a new contact had just arrived within the submarines sensor range. It was a massive surface vessel, escorted by two smaller vessels. Ahmadi had seen this moment coming, but he had hoped that the Fateh would have complied with the American submarine’s suggestion before his friends arrived.

“Captain,” Ahmadi called out apprehensively, “we have a new contact. American surface group bearing 210, likely an aircraft carrier and escorts.”

The Captain acknowledged Ahmadi and turned towards the navigator. He held a up chart and pointed to a small rocky shoal just north of their current position.

“You are to make your speed eleven knots and traverse toward this location.” The Captain instructed, “Upon arrival, turn and face the American invaders bearing 210.”

The XO winced at the Captain referring to the Americans as invaders.

“Sir,” the XO said calmly, “is your intent to set a trap for the Americans? Even if it is not, they will see it as such.”

“How the American’s interpret our action is their business,” the Captain said sharply, “we will act as gatekeepers, remaining within Iranian claimed waters and allowing their fleet to pass into the Persian Gulf on our terms.”

“Your tactics are wise, Captain,” the XO responded, “though I fear the American submarine will see our loitering as a threat.”

The Captain gave a small grunt of understanding, though he did not issue further orders.

Ahmadi lost contact with the Americans as the Fateh turned, the baffles of the diesel electric obscuring any clear sensor image. He watched the Captain’s reflection in his sonar panel as he paced around the control room.

For the next twenty minutes, the Fateh remained on steady course toward its destination. Hardly a word was said as the crew aimed to avoid the ire of an increasingly agitated Captain. Ahmadi could hear the Captain mumbling Qur’an verses under his breath. As they approached their next patrol point, the navigator called out.

“Navigation point reached, sir” he said, “coming about.”

The submarine turned back towards the Americans and Ahmadi regained contact with the American submarine.”

“The Americans followed in suit, sir.” Ahmadi reported, “They are now 2,000 meters off the port bow. Currently tracking four vessels, one submerged, three surface. The surface contacts appear to match the signatures of a Gerald R. Ford-class aircraft carrier and two Arleigh Burke-class destroyers.”

“Understood.” the Captain responded, “engage active sonar towards the Americans.”

Ahmadi begrudgingly complied, firing loud acoustic pings toward the American submarine. The Americans responded in kind, pounding the Fateh with active sonar. As they did so, the American submarine adjusted course, coming about to directly face the Fateh and holding still 1500 meters off the bow. Ahmadi reported this development to the Captain.

“Maintain position, disengage active sonar.” The Captain ordered, “The American knows we are here. We will now let them pass into the Gulf.”

The American waited momentarily, and then advanced a quarter mile. It again engaged active sonar in a screening operation for the carrier and a clear request for the Iranian to leave the area.

“Sir,” the XO said, “this could be seen as threatening. The American carrier is approaching.”

“We are in Iranian waters.” The Captain responded coldly.

The Americans continued their advance, making their way toward the mouth of the Persian Gulf.

“How far is the carrier?” The Captain asked Ahmadi.

“Three kilometers, Captain.” Ahmadi responded, “It remains behind the submerged contact.”

The American submarine inched closer, maintaining its sonar harassment of the Fateh.

“Sir-” the XO tried to speak but the Captain quickly cut him off.

“Quiet, Mohammed.”

Ahmadi’s mouth dropped open as he watched his sensor display.

“Sir, the American is opening his torpedo tube doors.” He told the Captain.

“We will do the same. We are in Iranian waters, we will not move.”

The XO tried again to interject, “Sir, we must vacate. We are not at war with the America-”
            “You are relieved, Mohammed.” The Captain said coldly.

As he spoke, the Fateh opened its torpedo tubes.

“Plot a targeting solution for the Hoot,” the Captain instructed, “target the carrier.”
            The weapons officer complied, quickly entering the correct settings into the supercavitating torpedo.

“Solution plotted.” He reported.

Ahmadi reported that the American submarine was moving closer again, increasing its sonar harassment. As the Fateh failed to vacate, Ahmadi feared what came next.

“Sir! The American has released a torpedo!”

“FIRE THE HOOT!” The Captain yelled, slamming his hand onto the table in front of him.

The submarine was soon washed with the sound of rocket engines as the supercavitating torpedo rocketed out of its tube and toward the American carrier. Ahmadi held his head in his hands, knowing what came next.

Duncan Kellogg is a developing naval analyst studying nuclear defense posture and maritime security at George Washington University’s Elliott School of International Affairs. Duncan has been writing about the intersection of deterrence theory and maritime security since 2015. He lives in Washington, D.C. with his fish Maverick.

Featured Image: “Submarine” by INS Kim


Fiction Topic Week

By Evan D’Alessandro

The containers arrived at Norfolk early in the morning, with the snow a powdered sugar-like dusting on the trucks as they moved through the port. The darkness failed to hide their arrival from the Russians watching them through the hijacked security cameras. Another shipment in the cold weather of nondescript containers, their true propose not yet revealed. The containers had traveled for 36 hours to arrive on time and be loaded onto the requisitioned container ship MV Lt. Lyle J. Bouck. The watching Russians marked the containers as convoy supplies without a second thought, oblivious to what they had just missed.

Days before the containers were moved an AI had considered each ship’s cargo carefully. It speed, tonnage, fuel, acoustic signature, and survivability from a number of threats were all variables in the calculation. Ultimately, the AI decided that this convoy was not worth protecting. The cargo was all non-personnel, and the ships were old and only the commander’s ship was manned. The Navy had been stretched thin even with the Royal Canadian Navy and the Coast Guard ships that had been pressed into convoy duty. No ships would be assigned to protect them. They would be listed as unprotected, having to use the winter storms to shield themselves from satellites, as they attempted to dash across the Atlantic, praying for the best.

Vasily Sokolov read the report gleaned from a backdoor purchased off the Dark Web, checked the box for ‘no escort’ and moved on. He scrolled through the supply manifest slowly and then pulled up the satellite imagery for the ships, a satellite composite only four hours old.  The only visible armaments on the ships was the M109 Paladin, undoubtedly with its hypervelocity projectiles for air and missile defense. It sat atop a stack of red and blue containers, moored to them by large metallic brackets. A bulky cable snaked its way back to the superstructure of the ship, terminating in its dark underbelly. Vasily checked the ‘3D’ box and turned the ship, revealing a short ugly dome perched atop the superstructure, the predictive software pulling from known ship plans and previous satellite imagery. Quickly checking the projected dimensions on the dome against shipment records, Vasily confirmed that it contained the fire control radar that had been bolted on by techs the day before. With three of the ships in the convoy carrying a Paladin, it was hoped there would be some protection from hypersonic missiles. Vasily chuckled, as if missiles would be wasted on these low-value ships. A quick look at the aft decks of the ships confirmed that each was carrying two ‘Grasshoppers,’ the ASW drone that the Americans used. As he moused his way through the other ships, he could see Paladins emplaced onboard the other convoy ships, and prefabricated hangers being assembled on the back decks for the Grasshoppers. The tiny dots of technicians on his computer screen would be working through the night to get them finished in time to depart on their dangerous voyage.

The convoy sailed at 0800, picking up a low-pressure front that the predictive weather AI’s expected to turn to rain in the next 16 hours. The winter storms of the Atlantic were notorious, but the front seemed destined only for continual, dismal rain. The Grasshoppers went to work immediately, making sure that they weren’t picking up a tail when they exited the anti-drone net across the mouth of the harbor. The cycle of one hour on, two hours charging would continue as long as the weather permitted.

At 2100, in the darkness of the cloudy night, the containers were opened. Large cylinders were wheeled out and quickly put underneath the superstructure and covered in canvas. In the morning, they would be unseen by any satellite that managed to catch the convoy, and the Russians would be none the wiser. The convoy’s secret weapon, two Mk. 2 Autonomous Underwater Combat Vehicles (AUCVs) were prepared for battle. As their last restraint was being tightened the rain began, cloaking the convoy in its misty hold; the convoy would hide under this front for the rest of its journey.

Vasily Sokolov looked at the computer screen and leaned back. He stifled a yawn, and longed to go back to bed, but, no, there was a war going on, and his job needed to be done. His eyes ran down to the last box simply titled ‘Recommendations.’ Once again he paused, the convoy was equipped to deal with hypersonics, but not torpedo carriers, so that’s what he would recommend. One should be enough for an unarmed convoy, no, two for safety. Better safe than sorry his father had always said. Give them torpedo interceptors? No, the convoy wouldn’t be able to fight back, they only had 12 Grasshoppers. Better to load as many torpedoes as possible. His mind made up, Vasily Sokolov cracked his fingers and began to type.

The rain had begun to lessen in the middle of the Atlantic as the Captain arrived on the bridge from her all too short sleep. The USNR had called her up, and assigned her to what she considered to be little more than a oversized bathtub with propellers. The Captain’s voice echoed out across the bridge as she put on her VR display. “What does the report say?” The Tech looked out at the whitecaped waves as the threat report started to print out.

“Report for 41°37’41.5″N 31°33’22.5″W. Two Type 34 Autonomous Torpedo Carriers detected, no other threats at this time.”

 “Two Mother Hens” the Tech called out, “both are probably carrying a full load of eggs, no interceptors, the Autonomous Acoustic Monitoring AI predicts them to be here, but no one’s sure.” The Captain grumbled, she had never been comfortable with the idea of the football-sized drones floating through the water replicating SOSUS, but it was undoubtedly effective. “They went silent 4 or 5 hours ago, switched over to electric,” the Tech continued. “Any idea on what type of eggs?” the Captain asked with her light southern drawl. “Nope, the report has nothing on the torps,” the Tech replied wearily once again staring back out at the waves. The captain sighed as she stripped off the VR display, and went off to make up for her lack of coffee. For a brief moment her eyes gazed across the overcast rain and the Grasshoppers doing their job. There was nothing else she could do.

Ten miles out the Mother Hens were studying the acoustic signatures of the convoy. The onboard AI’s knew everything that Russian Naval Intelligence had gleaned about the convoy and were locked in deliberations. After a few minutes, they decided on a simultaneous pincer movement from the front and back as their plan of attack, and both slowly set off to get into attack position.

Grasshopper 4 was completing a set of passive dips on the north side of the convoy as droplets of rain pinged off its aluminum body. It had just popped up and moved 300 feet further north, covering the left flank of the convoy, and lowered its sonar when something unexpected happened. Imperceptible to the human ear, but detectable to the computer was a slight rumble. The computer reached a decision in seconds, deciding to stay put in the cold, grey rain, and requested Grasshopper 7 to immediately move into the area. Onboard the Bouck, a track popped up on the freshly-caffeinated Captain’s VR display, simply reading ‘possible threat.’ Beneath the waves of the Atlantic, the Mother Hen continued on its way oblivious to the threat above. Grasshopper 4 asked for permission to go to active sonar but the Captain denied it as  Grasshopper 7 sped its way towards Grasshopper 4, and the Bouck’s own Grasshopper 9 lifted off. The active could wait. As Grasshopper 4 waited it compared the rumble to previously recorded signatures in the Grasshoppers’ database, the VR display showing a rapidly increasing chance that the contact was a Mother Hen.  Calmly, the Captain watched the hostile track as the probability reached 60 percent, and then gave the order to fire.

Across the waves, Grasshopper 4 dropped the lower part of its body. The dull-grey, square casing discarded from the torpedo as it fell into the black water below, and the torpedo immediately went active. The Mother Hen detected the crash of debris ahead, and within milliseconds of hearing the first ‘ping,’ let off its own countermeasures. On the Bouck’s bridge the Captain looked on at the command map. Three of the four-noisemaker patterns were known, having been stolen from Russian firms under cyber espionage, and the torpedo immediately ignored them. The fourth noisemaker was unknown, and the Captain watched as the torpedo waivered for a heart-stopping second, then turned to chase the first Mother Hen.

The first Mother Hen had made it far too close to the convoy, nearly guaranteeing a hit with its torpedoes. The onboard AI considered trying to run but discarded the idea instantly. With an air of sadness, the first Mother Hen turned in towards the convoy and the oncoming torpedo, and unceremoniously fired all of its ‘eggs.’  A wave of  torpedoes lanced out in a spread: the Hen’s final gamble. As the torpedoes left, the two canisters on the Mother Hen’s back were blown upwards in a silver stream of bubbles towards the surface. One immediately broadcast the position of the convoy and the fate of the doomed Mother Hen. The second one popped out, and with an eruption of fire flew after Grasshopper 4. With little formality the missile closed, as Grasshopper 4 tried to hug the dark ocean for safety, before being turned into a bright ball of flame. The sorrow that was felt upon the loss of Grasshopper 4 was immediately overshadowed by the churning sea that signaled the death of the Mother Hen. Grasshopper 7 dipped into the cold waters and went active, ensuring that the Mother Hen was not playing dead. No return on the sonar. A confirmed kill.

Onboard the Bouck, the VR display changed to ‘threat destroyed.’ On the bridge, the Captain had already ordered a hard turn to starboard, turning parallel to the torpedoes and minimizing the convoy’s cross section. With the threat of incoming torpedoes and the possibility of a second Hen, the Captain unveiled her trump card. With an unceremonious crash into the Atlantic, the two carefully hidden Mk. 2 AUCV’s dropped into the waves, their long grey forms diving into the depths. All available Grasshoppers simultaneously rose from their charging ports in a frenzy of activity, as they moved across the convoy seeking out their enemies.

One of the Mk. 2’s now sat underneath the hull of the Bouck, trying to hide the fact that two were now in the water. The other Mk.2 assessed the incoming torpedo spread. The Mk.2’s AI pulled information from Grasshopper 7 and its own sensors, overlaying the convoy’s turn, and projecting forward. Three threats, the Mk.2 AI decided, and it dived and launched. Six ‘Silverfish’ torpedo interceptors raced out from the Mk. 2, closing in on the inbound torpedoes. The Captain looked on from the bridge. By the way the Mother Hen’s torpedoes were dodging, it was obvious they were outdated; clearly the Russians had underestimated the convoy’s defenses.

The Silverfish jabbered the whole way there, determining the Mother Hen’s torpedoes’ type and patterns. The first torpedo went left when it should have gone right, meeting its end in a mess of debris. The second torpedo dodged the first Silverfish, slipping through by diving at just the proper time, only to be met by the second Silverfish. The third torpedo dodged left, then right, the first Silverfish missing by mere inches, shortly followed by the second Silverfish mistaking a feint for a move and shooting underneath the torpedo.

The Mk. 2 looked on impassively, quickly calculating the chance of hitting the third torpedo, and launched a further three Silverfish. The torpedo was within 1000 feet and closing as the Silverfish streaked towards it, separated by mere seconds. The torpedo danced left, right, up, and down in an attempt to throw off the Silverfish gaining on it. But in the end it was not successful, the second Silverfish tearing its engines to pieces leaving it dead in the water. The Captain looked up coolly from the command map, only to hear klaxons blare.

The second Mother Hen had made it much closer to the convoy, slipping in through the convoy’s baffles while they were distracted, and finding itself a wolf among a flock of sheep. Sitting under the hull of one of its prey, it reached its decision and cut its engines, drifting slowly back, unseen in the darkness of the Atlantic.

The Captain sat up in shock as the VR display squealed an alarm, ‘FISH IN THE WATER! FISH IN THE WATER!’ and twisted around to see the tracks of four torpedoes from the second Mother Hen heading towards the Bouck and her sister ship the Sgt. William L. Slape. Behind her the Mk. 2 that had dealt with the initial torpedo barrage spit out the last of its 12 Silverfish at the new incoming wave, hoping that the interceptors would overtake the torpedoes before they hit. A Grasshopper also dropped down behind the convoy and went active, trying to acquire the threat. Within a second, another barrage of torpedoes from the second Mother Hen headed towards two other ships in the convoy, traveling underneath the water, preparing to pop up and hit the ship’s hulls perpendicularly.

The Captain waved her hand and the VR display stopped its alarms and calmly showed the tracks towards her convoy. Below her the fresh Mk. 2 was considering its options. It could try to destroy the torpedoes targeting the Bouck and the Slape, or it could go after the torpedoes targeting the ships farther forward. Grasshopper 5 noticed a lack of sound as one of the torpedoes targeting the Bouck stopped accelerating; it was now unguided and slowing as its propeller stopped, the watertight seals failing and the engine being swamped. The tracks of the Silverfish from the first Mk. 2 glowed green on the VR display, but it was more than clear that they would not stop the torpedoes in time.

The fresh Mk. 2 made its decision, and started to flip 180 degrees. Halfway through its turn it launched all 12 of its onboard Silverfish towardsthe torpedoes planning to pop-up, and brought its motors onto full. The Captain watched as her Mk. 2 launched its Silverfish, and her VR display show a 94 percent kill chance on the torpedoes targeting the ships farther down the line. The fresh Mk. 2 dropped both its torpedoes on the now acquired Mother Hen and pushed its engines to full, accelerating towards the torpedo.

The VR display shuddered as the rear end of the Bouck was lifted six inches from the water and its rear decks were covered in a spray as the Mk.2 met the oncoming torpedo. The torpedo tried to fight until the end, but the Mk. 2 imposed its bulk between the torpedo and the Bouck. An explosion was seen in the distance, the death of the second Mother Hen that had attacked. There was a second of calm then the Slape lifted several feet in the air as she too was hit. Two great spouts of water shot up from the side of the Slape as the torpedoes impacted just below the waterline. The VR display made an all-clear noise as the Silverfish intercepted and destroyed the remaining torpedoes, overtaking them and shattering them into a thousand pieces. Damage reports flooded in from the dying Slape. Like stricken rats, the Slape’s Grasshoppers, recharging from their last shift, fled the ship as it filled with water quickly shuttling to open charging ports on other convoy ships. The VR display marked the Slape as a loss, with a bright red outline, as the Grasshoppers buzzed, diligently searching for more enemies.

Behind the convoy a beacon popped up transmitting the location and death of the second Mother Hen. The Captain watched its progress as the noise of the fight slowly faded from her ears. Slowly the Mother Hen’s beacon was swallowed into the Atlantic, along with the shattered wreck of the Slape. The rain slowly picked back up in intensity as it covered the convoy with its grey cloak.

Vasily looked once more at his computer screen as it displayed the fate of the Mother Hens. “Spasibo”, he said to himself as a wry smile grew on his face, “Thank you for showing me your countermeasures.” He perched a cigarette between his smiling lips, reached out, and began to type, “To all AI Anti-Shipping Deployments….”

Evan D’Alessandro is a student at Luther College studying astrobiology, data science, and international relations. He enjoys military history and policy debate, and aspires to become a naval intelligence officer in the future. He can be contacted at

Featured Image: Torpedo Exexutor, concept art by Markus Biegholdt, 3D art by Miroslaw Cichon.

Non Lethal

Fiction Topic Week

By David Poyer

What would happen if “Thou Shalt Not Kill”….became one of the Laws of War?

     “Drop!” screamed Loftis, his body thumping grass and dead leaves. He slapped his mask down and offed his safety at the same instant.

     “Right clear.”

     “Left flank clear.”

     “Rear clear, Sergeant.”

     When the squad moved warily out onto the crest, breathing hard from the climb, the patch of black Loftis had seen from two hundred yards away was still there. He waved the squad back and moved forward alone. Low and slow.

        This had been a pasture once, this bald patch atop a hill. The russet remains of haystalks hissed against his boots. The bush was ninety meters away, a band of green hazed by the mist of early dawn and the double glaze of mask and his BattleGlasses.

     When he reached the Russian he paused, searching the tree line, then dropped to a knee. He saw the rise of shoulderblades in breath. Quickly, moving clear as he did so, he rolled the man over.

     Fear took his bowels. In six months of war he’d fought across half of Ukraine, first going one way, then the other. Battlefield promotion from lance corporal to sergeant. But he’d never seen this.

     This wasn’t supposed to happen.

     “Holy Jesus,” said a muffled voice behind him. He turned his head. It was Branch, the replacement, standing tall and thin as a goal post. Her weapon dangled in her gloves, and under her shoved-back hood freckles had bleached pale. “What’s the matter with him?”

     For answer Loftis kicked out. The private thudded to the ground, but she rolled, protecting her rifle instead of herself. Good, he thought. Maybe she’s trainable. But aloud he hissed, “Stay down, shithead!  You make a target like a popup at SOI!”

     “Sorry, Sergeant. But…what’s wrong with him?”

     Loftis stared at the body, unsure what to do. He peeled the black uniform cloth away. It was stiff. Gas-impregnated, like the Marines’ colorchanging Cameleons, but cotton rather than synthetic. His hand came away wet, and he lifted it to the waxing light. It glistened.

     “He’s wounded,” he said. Branch’s eyes grew huge.

       Loftis rolled over and examined the sky closely. It was blue, cloudless, and open as a mouth ready to bite. He did not like it at all. He pulled a grenade from his pack and threw it as far as he could upwind. It popped and dark green smoke rolled across the pasture. “Send Joynes and Oleksa up here. We got some crawling to do.”

     This time he didn’t have to repeat the order.



     Sergeant Olin Loftis’s arms bulged under his Cameleons and his boots gripped dirt like the piles of a bridge. Another boot had broken his nose with a pugil at Camp LeJeune and it was humped and spread even more than it had when he was born, two and a half decades before, in Northeast DC. His chin was rough with ingrown beard, and he rubbed it now as he considered the man who sat, waxen-pale, slack-headed, against the bole of an oak on the shaded side of Hill 1132, twenty kilometers behind enemy lines in War Zone J.

     “He gonna make it, Doc?” he asked Joynes.

     The dark-haired corpsman was squatting on his heels, stuffing gear back in his kit. He was Navy, not Marine. He wore the red cross on his shoulder. He didn’t carry a weapon and wasn’t gung ho. Before the war he’d been a teacher, and still liked to quote men no one else in the platoon, including the officers, had ever heard of. Usually his expression was skeptical; now he looked grim. He glanced at the wounded man. “He lost a lot of blood. But he’ll make it.”

     “Is he mobile?”

     Joynes considered. “When he comes around he ought to be able to stagger. Wound’s in the meaty part of the thigh, but it missed bone. I gave him glucose and benzedrine and a combat ‘dorph. But he’ll be hurting, and he’ll be slow.”

     “How’d he get it?”

     “Bullet wound.”


    “Oh, come on, Sergeant. How can I tell that?  Another stupidity of a stupid war by a stupid species.”

     “Fuck me,” Loftis muttered. He looked up at the foliage, which swayed in a gusty wind. The leaves were turning and the wind had an edge, not cold yet, but warning of winter. The men watched him. When he’d gone through his vocabulary he sat on his heels and stared at the Russian.

     Blue eyes had opened during the tirade. They searched their faces wonderingly. His hair was the color of their cardboard ration containers. His lashes were long and his cheekbones heavy, his lips thick, smiling, just a trace, at the corners.

     Their existence must have hit him then, penetrating endorphins and shock. His head and shoulders swiveled from the sergeant with the sudden movement of a reptile, and came face to muzzle with Stankey’s M22. He hesitated, then sank back against the bole.

     “Speak English?” said Loftis hopefully.

     Their enemy’s eyes narrowed. He looked, the sergeant thought suddenly, like the white man who owned the auto shop he’d worked in before the Corps.

     “Shto’ vui skaz’ali?” he muttered.

     Loftis sat back on his heels. “Jack, you talk some Slav, don’t you?”

     “My grandma did, a long time ago.”

     “Whatever, it’s more than me. Come up here and help me out.”

     Jack Oleksa was a reservist, a corporal. He was old, over thirty. He was the smallest, too. He said very little. Before the war he’d worked in a post office, before they all closed. Oleksa settled down by the prisoner. He popped a ration vape and offered it to the Russian.

     “What’s your name?” Loftis began.

     The man stared up at them.

     “Kak vas’ svatz?” Oleksa said, sounding unsure of himself. The Russian studied him, then held out the vape. Oleksa showed him how to turn it on. Both men shielded the smoke from the sky with their gloves.

     “Why you want name?” he said, surprising them all. His accent was thick but they all understood.

     “You figure it,” said Loftis. “We found you on the hill back there. You’re wounded. There’s no ump with us.”

     “Family name Agayants,” the man said slowly. He looked at Loftis squarely. “Vladimir Agayants. Which of you shoot me?”

     “None of us, goddamn it. Don’t you know who shot you?”

     The prisoner shook his head silently. Again suspicion slid over his eyes, like the nictating membranes of an owl. He shifted his leg tentatively. His face went white, but not a muscle moved. He put the vape to his lips and sucked so hard his cheeks hollowed.

     Says he doesn’t know who shot him, Loftis thought. True?  False?  The wound was bad but not fatal. Could he have done it himself? No weapon when they found him. But he could have done it in the woods, thrown the gun away before he passed out.

     But why would he do that?  Where had he gotten a conventional firearm? And why was he in the open? If I were wounded I wouldn’t go into the open, he thought. No, wait, I might if I was behind my own lines. That way the Eyes could see me. Maybe.

     What if someone else had shot him?  Say…his own side? There could be logic in it. Propaganda. But wouldn’t he remember?

     He wanted to ask more questions. But the crickets were tapering off their morning song. He turned on his tablet and called up the map. As if that were a signal the squad moved closer. Even the Russian looked interested.

     Things do not look good, Sergeant Loftis, he told himself. He studied the screen.

    Two days before the line had crumpled under a sudden attack. The lieutenant, before they’d lost track of him, had said there were four Russian divisions opposite the sector fronted by the First Marine Brigade, supported by the 23rd Polish, on their left, and the U.S. First Army, on their right. A three to one force ratio, considering the lower tooth to tail of Allied versus Opposition light troops.

     Loftis didn’t know how, whether it was misunderstanding, tactical foulup, or simply stronger enemy pressure, but the battalion’s right flank had been turned. The next morning brought an all-out attack. A heavy shockshell barrage hit as they sat around morning meal, followed by dozens of short-range drones spewing PK at bush level. Behind them came infantry. The sky was crossed with contrails as the air battle seesawed. The popcorn rattle of weaponry on the platoon’s flank built to a roar.

     They held through the morning in savage short-range firefights before the tactical withdrawal began. It went on into the evening, with the platoon turning every hour to fight another delaying action. If a man fell he had to be left. By nightfall there were gaps in the retreating lines. When dark came, the blessed dark that all the Marines had cursed and prayed for through the day, the lieutenant came by to give him the order.

     Rear guard. Loftis smiled bitterly. Take charge of a squad, hold till dawn, then rejoin. But when dawn came the battalion was gone, his squadtalk earset was full of the buzzsaw whine of jamming, and the hills were thick with black uniforms.

     It was time to do some of that ridge-running.

     He bent to the map. The first-stage stabilization line for the corps was Lubny-Kremenchuk, with the Dneipr on their right flank. He measured. Twenty-five klicks. Not too bad, though in rugged terrain like this bird kilometers turned into two or three on the ground. But they could do it in a day. We got to do it in a day, he thought, glancing at the sky through his leafy screen. If the Allies couldn’t hold there they’d fall back farther.

     They had to rejoin fast, or they’d be trapped so deep in enemy territory they’d never get out.

     Loftis looked at the Russian. He had tilted his head back against the tree. Resting. Most of the squad was looking at him. Only one Marine was watching Loftis. She’d set her rifle aside and was resting her hand on his utility knife. Her eyebrows rose slowly in a question.

     Loftis stood. He flipped up his hood. The squad sighed. They knew the signal. As each Marine climbed to his feet he or she wedged the earset into the aural meatus, settled his BattleGlasses, tightened his hood, adjusted the bulky mask for instant donning, and checked her weapon. From a group of griping youths they became gargoyles, the deindividualized and faceless warriors of a new century.

     Loftis studied the intent eyes, the hands nervously gripping weapons and packs. Oleksa. Joynes. Stankey. Branch. All who were left of the squad. They weren’t numbers to him. They were his people. The men and women he had to bring back.

     And I will, he promised each of them silently.

     “Les’ go,” he muttered. He extended a hand to the Russian, wiggling his fingers impatiently. “Means you too, Waldimeer. From now on, you’re tight on me.”

     “What you doing, sarge?  We can’t take him!”

   Thin, wiry, street-smart, street-suspicious, his aggression and fear masked by sleepy eyes, Leopold Stankey could have been him six years before. He understood Stankey. He was hard to handle, but in battle he was one of the best. “Shut up, Private,” he muttered, holding the man’s eyes. “Do it.”

     Branch’s knife slid back into its sheath. Loftis raised his arm, and tired legs swung into the first step.



     Hours later, after a long downhill tramp, they reached the southern end of the ridge line. Loftis, filtering slowly down a wooded  ravine, studied the trees, the ground, the ferns that nodded here and there among the fallen boles. Ukraine. In his mind it blended together, forest, rocky farms, the pitiful hamlets folded between hills like jelly in a doughnut.

     In all this immense forest there were no civilians. Once there had, before the war. Sometimes the men would come upon vacant homes, farms, broken into by troops before them eager for food or a bed. But there were no people.

     As they moved down the long slope, zigging from cover to cover, he wondered where they all were. Maybe they’d all evacuated. Maybe they were in camps training. He had no idea. It was another funny thing about a very funny war. So funny the enlisted had coined a funny-sounding name for it.

     They called it the Sneekle War.

     It had begun like all wars, with failed politics. The first failure was in the fragile coalition that was Europe. The Donbas Autonomous Republic had asked the Russian Federation for “fraternal assistance.” The Ukrainians, by now used to French wine, Greek music and American TV, called on NATO.

        The Poles had responded, the Marines had landed at Odessa, and the Russians were rolling forward, when it happened. The General Assembly unanimously resolved that if the two blocs resorted to war – or violence in any form – they would be ejected from the world body, which would reconstitute in Beijing and isolate them both with the mother of all embargos. The president, after some initial waffling, agreed. Yet somehow, Ukraine had to be resolved; and the troops were already there.

     The Secretary General had a suggestion.

     One month later, SCLE(NL) began. Sub-Conventional Limited Engagement, Non-Lethal. For the first week nothing happened; nothing could. But quickly-modified weapons were airlifted from the States, and arms techs worked feverishly at Almaz-Antey and Uralvagonzavod. Those early battles were fought with makeshifts and improvisations, some even hand-to-hand. Then the new weapons arrived.

     No one, least of all the troops, had expected such an artificially circumscribed conflict to go on long. But gradually the Weird War had developed a terrible symmetry, with written and unwritten rules, and a brand of ferocity all its own. It was non-lethal, but it was anything but harmless. Troops died from accidents, falls, disease. They could not be machine-gunned or bombed, but they could be blinded with lasers, stunned with high explosives, blistered with microwaves, driven insane with hallucinogens, and captured. In some ways the capture was worse. The U.S. treated its prisoners of war reasonably well, hoping for deserters. Russia treated its badly. It treated everyone badly. It did not want deserters. They had to be fed. It wanted Ukraine.

     Some said it was like war had always been.



     Loftis paused by an exposed boulder. The air was quiet and cool. He looked carefully around. Something menaced him, but he did not know yet what it was. He lifted his weapon and checked it, just as he had ten thousand times in six months.

     In its way, the weapon he carried was the Sneekle War in microcosm: an expensive blend of humanitarianism, violence, and high technology that resulted in something on the very border of rationality.

     The M22 P-gun had been adapted from the air guns used in wargames in the States. About the size of an M4, it fired not bullets but a hollow springloaded pellet. When this projectile hit cloth or flesh it injected a soporific agent. Almost instantly, it sent a man into eighteen to twenty hours of unconsciousness. Only if he were hit by three or more rounds did the dose become dangerous. The M22, like its Russian counterpart the AKPD, had a range of two hundred yards. It could empty a fifteen round magazine in two seconds. Its AI-enabled sight did not require careful aiming, but triggered the weapon as soon as it was on a target that radiated in the infrared.

     He saw something move in the foliage ahead, stiffened, then recognized Oleksa. He and Branch were on point, scouting an open patch. Beyond it was the blue haze of sky. He was staring up at it, his lips framing the curse infantry on both sides greeted open sky with in this war, when he heard a far off thud.

     Fifteen seconds later the forest burst apart.

     Loftis had heard the downward screams. He was already burrowing into the ground beside a fallen log, the Russian on the far side, when the first shockshell went off.

     The planet slammed up at him and then down. Gasping, he scrabbled at dirt. The explosions seemed to be inside his head, a detonation in his brain. White flares went off behind his squeezed lids. The foliage rustled to the flight of fragments. They were harmless. Light plastic. All you had to worry about was concussion, but it was enough. Non-lethal, but men blacked out from it, went into fits with jolted brains, went mad. It was generally combined with a more subtle form of attack. When the sky banged like subway doors opening he stopped burrowing and cinched mask and hood tight as he could pull them.

     Close to his eyes, just beyond the fogging windows of the mask, the log was rotting. He was so close he could watch ants marching up from the interior, each carrying a grain of something he did not care to identify. They moved in steady files across the spongy bark. He raised his head a few centimeters and saw Agayants’ rump, the back of his pack. Good chance, he thought distantly, to see whose gear is better, theirs or ours. Could be useful intel . . . if they made it back.

     A mist was creeping through the trees, finer than fog, all but invisible. “Stankey!  You tight?” he shouted, not trusting squadtalk so close to the ground.

     “Yea, Sarge.”

     He roared for the others, but they were out of range of his voice. He pulled his hood tighter and made sure the velcro on his gloves held them close as a second skin.

     The mist drifted down. He lay motionless, breathing shallow, eyes fixed.

     He was watching the ants.

     Their narrow files had begun to shatter. From obedient robots, highway followers across the rough surface of the log, they began to wander. Individuals weaved off from the collective. The stream itself meandered, reformed. The mist drifted down.

     The ants boiled in every direction, antennae writhing. The disciplined mechanism of the nest was gone. They darted about, colliding, fighting. At last, one by one and then by dozens, they fell from the log into the mold below.

     Six more shells thudded above the treetops, then another dozen, farther off. Then a rolling barrage, scattered all across the saddle between the two hills. A dud plowed through the trees, sending up a spout of dirt and pine needles.

     “Up,” screamed Loftis through the mask.

     He got to his knees. They felt weak. Then to his feet. He pulled the Russian along. Then, unaccountably, found himself pausing. He stared upward, at the moving leaves.

     The sun, blazing through the swaying interstices, was shattering into a million subprimary colors. He swung his gaze to find Oleksa and Branch watching him. Their faces were melting. As he lifted his arm he saw it move in slow instantaneous frames, up stop, up stop, outlined in the terrific color.

     “Run!” he shouted, the words turning to glue in his mouth. He began to stumble forward.

     The forest around him began to deliquesce. It dissolved into light, into sound, slowly, like diamond melting in the terrific heat of a focused laser. The crunch of leaves under his boots shuddered up his legs like breaking bone. The sigh of wind whined like a lumbermill full of bandsaws. The edge of his mask was a scalpel at his neck.

     He ran, panting, sobbing, sucking air. None came. The filter must be going. He was breathing the colorless gas, the psychokinesthenic. He felt something haul him backward, and crashed to the ground. Attack, he thought, pawing clumsily at his rifle. A double bombardment meant attack.

     The flash of black was instantaneous, a glimpse through a gap of brush across the ravine. But he was already on his belly, his weapon already tracking in the same direction. He blinked back colors, waiting – 

     The p-gun pinged, jolting against his shoulder, pinged again. A crash came from the far side of the gully. Something buzzed above him and whacked into a tree.

    Ahead boots pounded across the leafy floor. He swung and almost fired before he recognized camouflage. Stankey slid beside him like a thief into home, and peered over his sights into the tree line. “Shee-it,” he muttered though the mask. “Sure is hot in these body bags.”

     The words melted through his brain. He tried to funnel thought to his lips. “Where’s . .. Oleksa?”

     “Old Dad’ll be comin’ right along.” The private lowered his cheek to the stock, selected manual, and fired four rapid rounds into a patch of bush. Branches whipped, but Loftis saw nothing else. A moment later the short man trotted through the trees and joined them.

     Loftis sucked air, sucked air. His head was clearing. I didn’t take much, he thought. A microgram through some exposed hairline of skin, some badly sealed seam of the suit. Not enough to truly drive him insane.

     He was sweating now, and not only from the growing heat of the closed-up gear. He’d seen troops lying rigid, catatonic, after PK attacks. Their staring eyes told of the horror that gnawed through the framework of their minds, bringing them crashing down. Sometimes it lasted for hours, sometimes for weeks. And for some, for ever. It was a terrible weapon.

     But it did not kill….

     The bushes in front of them parted, and six men charged out. “Front!” he shouted hoarsely.

     Three rifles pinged and bucked. Glass whipped through the air, kicked up leaves, whocked into tree boles. He ejected a magazine, slapped in a new one, fired as fast as the AI could pick up a target. The running men seemed to collapse. One threw his hands skyward, another half-reached for his belt before his rifle dropped from relaxing fingers and he crumpled to the ground.

     Loftis’s ears were ringing from the shells. He shook the earset out and heard distant shouts. He stared around, blinking to clear the last polychrome fringes from his vision. Take the high ground…the ravine rose steeply to their right. There, nearer the top of the hill, they could move in several directions. But could they get up it?

     There was no choice. Even as he concluded the thought he heard the striker click on an empty chamber. He jumped to his feet. “Stankey! Rear guard. Ten minutes, then uphill to right. Oorah.”


     Magazines in the air: Oleksa and Branch’s, flung to the younger man as they backpedaled toward Loftis. Joynes was behind him. He turned and ran for the near-sheer wall, slinging his rifle. Halfway up, then he’d cover as Stankey fell back. He was twenty yards up rock and scree when he heard Joynes. “What?” he snarled, not looking back.

     “Hand, Sargeant!”

     He turned. The corpsman, face reddened with effort, was trying to push the Russian up the slope. Agayants, his face white behind his eyepieces, was struggling upward.

     Loftis stared. His hand came slowly free of the rocky soil of Ukraine, and reached down. It gripped the glove of the soldier in black, paused, and then drew upward. The struggling body came after it, lifted almost effortlessly against gravity up the side of the hill.

     “Stankey!  Fall back!”  the bull roar reverberated from the trees. “We’re hauling ass out of this shitstorm. Fall back on me. I’ll cover!”

      Ahead of them stretched the forest, unbroken, untenanted yet hostile, still and yet dangerous under the eyes, like those of hawks, that searched their prey out from above.



     The sky came to him black, the trees as black on black. He rolled on the crackle of pine branches, and spat the foulness of too-short sleep onto dark ground. “Jack,” he said softly.

     “Here, Olin.”

     “Time is it?”

     “Twenty-three hundred.”

     “Already? Jesus.”

     The darkness stirred. The squad rolled out softly, muttering, yet careful not to drop rifle butts or even boots too abruptly. There had been drones just after nightfall, and there could be sonic sensors within hearing distance. Now, in the darkness, under tree cover, there was a little time when men could relax as soldiers always had. A rattle of water came from somewhere near. Loftis got to his feet, feeling every muscle in his body tighten against the movement.



     “Branch? You doin’ okay?”



     “Still here, goddamn it. Wakeup tabs, come an’ get ’em.”

     “You – Agayants. You awake?”

     “I hear.”

     “Okay, listen up.” Loftis’s whisper was hoarse. “We made I figure five, six klicks good yesterday. Them chasin’ us back up the ridge lost us some. Need to make time tonight. But we got to be careful. Get it?”

     The men muttered. One voice spoke clearly, though it was held low. “Yeah, Sarge. ‘Cepting for one thing.”

     “Yeah, Stankey?”

     “The Russki. We’re beat to shit, and we got to haul him too. I don’t get it. Why the fuck we carrying him for? I mean, we ain’t on recce, askin’ for prisoners. We’re running for our asses.”

     There was a murmur from the others, half in protest, half assent. The Russian said nothing.

     “I ain’t used to having my orders second guessed by no fuckin’ prives, son.”

     “Sorry about that, Sergeant. But we out here in the wilderness. We got to get back, or we’re cold meat. Why we draggin’ him?  I just want to know.”

     “I think the sergeant – “

     “Forget it, Doc. I’ll explain it to the slow learner here. Listen, Stankey. How long you been in this here war?”

     “Six weeks.”

     “How many wounded you seen?”

     “He’s first one.”

     “That mean anything to you?”

     “Sure. The whole war’s Sneekle – nobody supposed to get shot like that. But so what?  We didn’t shoot him.”

     “Can you prove that?”


     “What happens to us if we did?”

     Pause. “They shoot us.”


     “The umps.”

     “What else?”

     “After they shoot us? You got me. The Corps issues us halos?”

     He didn’t like the tone, but he ignored it, glancing at the dim digits of his tablet. You had to let them bitch, but he wanted to wrap this up. “After they shoot us, the other side gets a propaganda bonus. Allies violating Sneekle Treaty. Addicted to violence. Losing ground, so we’re starting to kill. Know what happens next?”

     “Tell me, Sarge.”

     “This war’s been seesawing for six months. The other side wants this country. They want to win. Oldstyle war, hate to say it, but they probably would. Something like this could give them the excuse to go conventional. We’re already on the defensive. We start taking casualties, without real guns in our hands, and the J Line’ll crack so quick Chosin Reservoir will look like a victory.”

     “The sarge is right.”  Oleksa’s voice. “I figure they got their old weapons in rear echelon, ready to come up overnight. All they need is an excuse – and finding this guy, with what I bet is a six-eight NATO-caliber bullet in him, is a dead setup for them. Sergeant’s right. We got to get back with him, or find an umpire, before they get us, or we’re fried.”

     “Come on,” said Joynes. “You’re assuming – “

     “That’s enough,” Loftis’ growl broke in. “On your feet. We got six hours of dark to travel in. Doc.”


     “Slowcoke. One dose each. We’ll be humping it. And Stankey – “


     “You help our friend march.”

     There was no reply, but he did not like the feeling of the stillness. A hand found his in the darkness, and he backhanded the pill into his mouth.

     “Let’s go.”



     The night march. Their BattleGlasses had had IR once, but when battery power fell the illuminators were the first to go. They moved as silently as they could, but time after time the ground dropped away in the dark and they fell, slid, cursed, dropped their weapons to clatter over rock. Or else it rose, and they had to claw their way up through gravel and scrub brush by feel, tearing their fingernails and the skin of their faces. The drug helped, much at first, less as the hours went by. He debated another dose, but decided against it. The time-release enhancers provided energy without a high, but there was a rebound; best to save it for the last dash to safety.

     At five the sky grayed. He called a chow break. They sat, too weary to talk. Doc stared at the ground, Stankey cupped a vape, Branch sucked at her canteen. Only Loftis and Oleksa broke out rations and sat chewing moodily.

     The Russian limped over to Loftis. “You give?” he said, motioning to the food.

     “Sure, if you can stomach ’em. Course, yours might be even worse.”

     “No caviar for the troops, I bet,” said Joynes, staring at him.

     “Keep that vaper covered,” said Loftis.

     “Understand. Sputniki.”


     “Satellites, he said.”

     “Oh. Sputniks, huh?  I get it.”

     “Come on, Doc,” said Loftis, getting up. “Let’s recce.”

     He and Joynes moved forward cautiously. The faint predawn made it easier to travel, but also more dangerous. A few hundred yards farther on the forest ended. Beneath their feet the ground softened, sucking at their boots.

     “Swampy,” said the corpsman. “You got any rivers on your tablet?”

     “Small one. Feeds into the Dnieper. We made good time if this is it.”

     “Think we can get across before full daylight?”

     “Sure like to try. I feel naked out here.”

     “Think they know we’re here?”

     “I don’t know. If that was a sensor drop last night…that rock probably carries sound pretty good. They might.”

     When he stopped whispering there was a silence. He was turning to go back when Joynes muttered, “Sarge, tell me something.”


     “What are we doing out here, anyway?  What’s this goddamn war for?”

     He peered at the corpsman’s face. “We’re here to defend Ukraine. Don’t that make sense?”

     “I guess. I just – I just hoped, once, for something more to fight for than the big-power skirmishing.”

     “Politics ain’t my business. Or yours.”

     “It ought to be.”

     “Goddamnit, Doc, I don’t have time to argue.”

     “All right,” said Joynes. “Forget it, Sarge. We’ll talk about it some other time.”

     “Sure,” said Loftis. “Let’s go back now.”

     The squad straggled forward in the growing light. The stark traceries of the forest fell back. No one spoke, not even when they came out on the bank and looked over the fog-shrouded river. They stood and stared. Branch knelt to rinse her face.

     “How wide you figure?” Stankey muttered.

     “Couple hundred yards.”


     “Higher than a man, for sure. Look how calm it is.”

     “You two, left. I’ll go right. Look for a ford, or rapids.”

     Oleksa found the boat three hundred meters upstream. They shambled up to it. Someone had staked it to a fallen tree on the shingle, and it lay now in weeds. Its quarter had been gnawed by decay. Loftis rubbed his chin. “Think it’ll float?” he muttered, to no one in particular.

     “It’ll float.” Branch squatted by the stern, dug her Ka-bar into rotten wood.

     “You know boats, Boot Camp?”

     “Built one and paddled it all over Lake George when I was twelve. This here punt’ll leak, but we can hang on and bail till we’re across. I can fix it enough so two guys could sit in it and not get wet.”

     “Terrific. Take charge of that. Rest of you, spread out. Look for something to paddle with.”

     The sun was above the hills when Branch pronounced herself satisfied. She’d reinforced the rotten section with cut saplings and stretched a cammie shirt over them. Loftis hung back, willing to follow instead of lead for a few minutes more. The Marines grasped the gunwales and hustled the punt down to the shore. It settled into the river with the unenthusiastic air of a corpse revived by necromancy. Water began rising in bottom. Branch leaped in and settled herself on a thwart, then bent to scoop out the first helmetful. “Let’s go, there, Ivan,” she said sharply to Agayants. “Sarge, you coming?”

     Loftis stood by the side of the river, screened by brush. They beckoned him, eyes alight, like kids. He thought of Huck Finn and Jim on the raft. He’d liked that book. The river smelled like a basement after a long winter. He looked upward. No cloud. His skin crawled at the thought of crossing open water in daylight. The drones circled higher than human sight, long-winged hawks that never came down. Swift killers with digital minds. The troops saw only thin contrails, like the trace of skates on a frozen pond, to mark those battles. But there were rumors of other machines that were only too happy to hunt man….

     “Goddamn,” said Loftis, plunging into the river with the rest. They piled their p-guns in the bow and splashed outward, holding to the sides of the boat. “You might make a fucking Marine after all, Branch.”

     The ground dropped under their feet. He was glad they hadn’t tried to swim, tired as they were. The river was cold and the current swift under the smooth surface, dragging them along with silent power. “Start paddling,” he grunted, glancing past Branch’s head at the open sky. He sculled with one hand, clinging to rough wood with the other. The shore began to recede as they stabbed at the river with scraps of driftwood. Branch bailed steadily over the stern.

     “Eyes!” shouted Joynes.

     They ducked, but there was no cover. The boat rocked, unbuoyant, unsteady. Loftis’s head jerked up. The soarer was too high to see, but its daughter drone wasn’t. It glided in fifty feet above the river, not much bigger than an owl. Sunlight glinted off a lens.

    “Rifles!” he screamed. “Shoot that fucker down!  Right now!”

     Branch and Stankey had their M22s up in a moment. The RPV was faster. Its nose lifted and it buzzed past their heads, rocking to throw off their aim. Loftis caught the camera pod below the wing as it banked for another pass. “It ain’t marked,” Branch said tentatively, following it with his sights.

     “Kill it, I said!”

     Both rifles cracked. The vehicle’s engine jumped to a higher note. Branch fired again. It yawed and wove like a swallow, working steadily closer. Its propellers were blurs against the green of the hills. It dipped and came on, aiming like a hawk now, only five or six feet above the water.

     “Gaz yest!”

     The Russian grabbed for his mask. Loftis saw it at the same instant. A blue mist, swirling in the turbulence behind it.


     They snatched for their masks. Loftis found his under water, but the flap eluded his hand. The Eye buzzed toward them, the wasp whine of the engine filling the river. The Russian snapped his last strap into place. Branch was still firing. She hadn’t registered the PK at all. Oleksa had his mask half on. Stankey was groping for his.

     It flashed over them. The whorls of mist, fading toward invisibility at the edges, drifted down onto the river.

     “Shit,” muttered Loftis. He let go of his mask and heaved himself up on the gunwale, and then down. Branch’s face turned toward him, white and horrified.

     They went over. The Russian screamed as he hit the river. Loftis remembered his wound. He ducked, found what he judged to be Stankey. His reaching hand could not find Branch. He swam downward, ignoring the struggles of the man whose uniform he held. His lungs ached, but he ignored them. His eyes began to burn and the kicking grew more fierce and then weaker. His outstretched hand found bottom. Rock and mud, sweeping by at the speed of current. It was cold down here, cold as death and winter. Stars exploded behind his eyes. He could stand it no longer. A scream tore from his open mouth, clothed in bubbles. He kicked downward.



     An hour later they fought through thorns sharp as barbed wire. They tore at uniforms and skin. The ground was rocky, then soft. A grown-over field of stunted apple trees. Windfall squished under their boots, filling the close air with sweet decay.

     “Uphill,” Loftis gasped. He seized the man nearest him and thrust him ahead with all his remaining strength. “Uphill!”

     Stankey spun away, boots digging into the yielding ground. Jack Oleksa and Doc Joynes were coming up through the trees. The sun slanted behind them. The Russian was panting, his mouth a hard O. His arm was around Joynes’s neck. “What’s the hurry?” said the corpsman. His face was streaked with sweat and mud and blood. A p-gun was slung over his shoulder. Loftis caught that, then noted a bare spot on the corpsman’s cammies.

     “That thing was waiting for us. Patrolling up and down the river. They know we’re here and that we’ve got – him.”  He nodded at Agayants. “Figure we’ll have visitors soon, a blocking maneuver to our front.”

     “We should be getting close to our own lines,” Oleksa managed between gasps. His face was gray to the younger mens’ white.

     Shit, Loftis thought. His own mind was going hazy. He’d saved Stankey by sheer will. They’d almost drowned, but when they broke surface again the psygas had been driven downwind and the Eye was gone. Oleksa and the Russian had donned masks in time. Joynes had used his head, staying under the overturned skiff and breathing trapped air till the gas dispersed.

     No one had seen Branch after the capsize. Loftis had waited as long as he dared, sending the men to search the banks downstream for a body. Nothing. The replacement had gone like so many others in this retreat, walked away into the fog of war.

     It would have a bad effect on the rest. Four left. And one prisoner. Nine kilometers to NATO lines – if they hadn’t retreated farther in the last twenty-four hours.

     “Helos,” came Stankey’s shout, a moment before the roar of the engines reached the others.

     The aircraft roared in ahead of them, to their right. Through the trees he could see flashes of silver. “Troop carriers,” he said to Oleksa, who nodded silently. “Right flank, and ahead.”

     “Let’s break left fast.”

     “High ground?”

     “Yeah. No…which way are our lines?”

     Loftis sighted with the tablet, then pointed to a distant bluff. “That way. But if the line’s still there, anyplace we hit it will be good.”

     “That’s it then.”  hey looked at Agayants.

     “You are going?”

     “Fast as we can. You got to keep up.”

     “I will try.”



     They lay at the edge of the bluff, beneath the ragged leaves of ferns. Water trickled somewhere. Loftis felt it cold underneath him. He searched the ground. Yes, a spring. Muddy water welled up where he lifted the heel of his hand. He sucked the tiny puddle dry, then raised his head an inch. The ferns nodded in stillness. Each nod, each whisper of the still forest below drew his utmost attention, yet without distracting him from the overall situation. The heightened alertness came from within, partly, but it was also chemical: he’d asked Joynes for a CE enhancer.

     The puddle had refilled itself. He lowered his head and drank again, slurping the muddy stuff between dry lips. Fill canteens if we have time, he thought. But no noise. No noise at all.

     The enemy was all around.

     He checked his weapon, seating the magazine, switching it on and off guidance. He remembered when rifles were all-manual, when a shot had to be aimed precisely to hit. Just like the Civil War. Now, with GUID selected, the AI made every boot a sharpshooter. You aimed as best you could, then pulled the trigger. When the waver of your muzzle caught man, when the sensor said something warm existed in the bowed timespace your pellet would describe, it completed the circuit. Your rifle jolted, and an enemy felt the whiplash sting of sleepytime.

     The technology of centuries. He watched the heelprint refill with water, and bent again. All employed in the cause of war. Sometimes, like the corpsman, he found himself wondering about it, whether it was worth all he had seen and endured.

     Something crackled in his earset. He became attentive, concentrating to hear through the steady whine of jamming. It was Joynes.

     “…Just ahead.”

     He lifted his head warily. The lasers could blind a man for life. And you couldn’t see them until they hit you, unless you caught their flash against foliage.

        Somewhere in the leafy distance a weapon fired. Full automatic. The burst sounded strange. Loud. He frowned and pushed himself up a bit more. The Doc said something on the channel, but he couldn’t make it out through the whine. He glanced to his left, to where the Russian lay on his back, staring at the trees. If I feel helpless, how must he feel?

     But he had no time to feel. He had only two choices. Fight and try to escape. Or find an umpire, and “surrender in UN presence.”

     He decided to surrender the moment he saw a white helmet.

     The firing broke out again, louder. It was to his left, in a thicker copse he could see from the edge of the bluff. Joynes was at their edge, with a rifle this time.

      Suddenly he stiffened. The familiar popping of an M22. Only it sounded muffled, weak. What was going on?

     Five soldiers appeared under the trees. They wore black stocking caps and black uniforms. They crouched, then sprinted between cover in short rushes. Loftis lined up his weapon. He selected guidance and set in a drop correction. When the next one broke cover he swung and fired. The man clapped his hand to his arm, dropping his weapon. He shouted something. The others turned to look. He started to point, but halfway up his arm became unsteady. He sagged. His head went back and his cap fell off. He disappeared.

     The lead soldier waved in his direction. Loftis saw their barrels come up. He fired again, but before he could see a hit their muzzles flashed.

     The ferns above his head snapped and flew apart. Something smacked the bluff edge, spraying his face with water and mud. The bullets hissed overhead.


     The enemy was no longer playing sneekle.

     He slid back, heart jumping. He caught a glimpse of the leader, on his knees, head sagging. He’d hit him. Agayants was looking at him. “Get moving,” he said in a low voice. He keyed squadtalk. “Loftis. They’re shooting live ammo. Two-round bursts. AN-94s, sounds like. Fall back. Any you guys see white?”

     “No umps.”

     “Nothin’, sarge.”


     Christ, he thought. Of course there would be no umps. Not if the Russkis felt free to use live fire. He waited. The corpsman didn’t answer. “Joynes!” he shouted to the trees.

     “Get going, jarheads.”  It was the Doc, in a whisper. “Hit. You dudes move out.”

     Loftis felt a blaze of rage. He jumped to his feet, bracing his body against the trunk of an elm. His maneuver caught the men below by surprise, out of cover. They stared up openmouthed. Trigger pressed, he panned the sight over them, correcting as the muzzle jerked at each exiting injector. Two Russians fell but more were appearing every moment, at least a dozen, running out from cover toward the bluff, then pausing to aim up at him. Return fire whacked into the trunk, and then, stunning him from fingertips to jaw, into bone below his elbow.

     He blinked, thinking for a moment that the flash was from a laser. It wasn’t. He saw his rifle on the ground and tried to pick it up. His arm did not respond.

     There was a rustle behind him and someone moved past, picking up the rifle, pulling him back from the bluff edge. “Shee-it,” it said. “Stopped one with your arm, huh, sarge?  Careless. Come on, let’s retrograde.”

     “Doc’s down there.”

     “You heard his transmit. We can’t help. Let’s boogie.”

     He came out of shock a little. Stankey was right. There were too many enemy. Agayants was ahead of them, pulling something from his pack. Tourniquet. Battle bandage. They were cotton, not plastiflesh like U.S. issue.

     Oleksa crawled up. “You hit, Olin?”



     “Got to leave him.”


     “Lay smoke. Lay smoke.”

     Oleksa loped off, head questing from side to side. The dull pop of a grenade. Loftis turned his face to feel the wind. Yes, he was laying it proper. But it wouldn’t cover them for long.

     The corporal came back between the trees. “Old culvert on south edge. Leads down from a spring. Probably a farmhouse down there somewhere.”

     “Wide enough?”

     “Hope so. C’mon, move out.”

     The smoke was thick, choking, like walking the rim of a volcano. It moved with the wind and they moved with it, hearing voices behind them. Oleksa knelt. The mouth of the culvert was hidden by bushes. Stankey started to kick them apart, but the reservist stopped him. The small man went in first. After a moment his voice came up, hollow. “Clear…ah…no, dammit, it’s blocked. Water can get through, but I can’t.”

     A heavy burst came from behind them, beyond the smoke. “We’re fucken trapped,” muttered Stankey, glancing at the Russian with a look at once wild and profoundly sympathetic, as if he recognized for the first time that the other was a man.

     “Get in,” said Loftis.


     “Get in, I said!”

     “They’ll shoot us in there!”

     He shoved the private with his good arm. Agayants had already seen. He ducked into the brush-screened opening. His blue eyes searched their faces before the darkness swallowed them. Stankey cursed. He sat and dropped his legs in. Loftis bent, looking back. The shouts were louder. Through the smoke probed the beam of a laser. It swept from side to side above his head, made visible by the pall.

     The smokes would cover them for a few more seconds. Then it would be luck, only luck. He was thinking this when the beam dipped unexpectedly and struck his eyes. He staggered, raising his arm and blinking. Patterns of light wheeled in front of him. He could see nothing beyond them.

     He slid his rifle by feel into the bushes. He fell into a night of red fire, biting back a cry as his shattered arm hit crumbling stone.



     He waited through the day, shivering in the icy water, falling from time to time into short terrifying dreams. The circle of sky was dark when he unbent, favoring his arm, and began to crawl upward. He went slowly, slowly. They could have left geosensors.

     When he came out of the bushes, p-gun balanced in his left hand, he paused for a long time to listen. He still couldn’t see very well, but the red wheels had begun to fade. The wind sighed through dark trees. The trickle of the spring filled the night. The bluff was empty.

     “Come on out,” he whispered.

     They moved slowly down the slope. Loftis blinked up at the stars and turned a little to the right. Something buzzed mosquitolike above them, and they froze, rigid and unbreathing, each man shielding his bare face from the sky. The whine faded into the wind’s whistle. They moved forward again, easing their boots down into the grass. From time to time a distant explosion rumbled over the hills. No one spoke. Loftis’s arm was a lump of pain. He had no more drugs. Joynes had carried them all.

     You, he thought. Oleksa. Stankey. The Russian. It’s night. Almost out of ammo. You’re hungry and wounded, but you’ve drunk all the spring water you’ll ever want in your life. You have till dawn, about 0500. You have six klicks to go.

     They trudged through the night for a long time. From time to time he looked at his tablet, then at the stars. At half past midnight Stankey muttered something behind him.

     “What’s that?”

     “I been thinking.”


     “You been telling us all along the Russkis shot him,” Stankey muttered behind him, ignoring his sarcasm.

     “What?  Close up if you got to talk.”

     The private moved up. His breath was warm in Loftis’ ear. “I got it figured. The Army shot him.”

     “What you talking about, Stankey?”

     “Talking about our friend. The possibilities. They must be other troops cut off ‘sides us. What if it was our side shot him – the Army, or the Polish – accident, or deliberate?”

     “So what?  We still got to get him back. Russians can still pin it on us, private.”

     “If they can,” said Stankey, lowering his voice still more so that Oleksa, directly behind, could not overhear, “So can the umps.”

     “What are you sayin’?”

     “That if he got a bullet in him, won’t the reffs, when we get back, say we shot him?”

     “Hell, they can tell what kind of weapon a slug came from.”

     “If there’s one in him. What if there ain’t?  He been hiking pretty strong for a man with a bullet in him.”

     “Take a break,” whispered Loftis. “Pass it back.”

     They sighed and let themselves slump against trees. Stankey sat beside him. Loftis’s gaze slid beyond him, to where the Russian was scratching at the soil with his hand. He heard a soft sound, and then the man pulled up his trousers and settled a few steps away.

     “You don’t trust your own mother, Stankey.”

     “Why should I?  The bitch stole from me. He’ll find some way to give us away. We ought to dump him.”

     “Shut up,” said Loftis. “Five minutes. Then we keep moving. We only got five more klicks.”                                                     


     At daybreak they crouched at the edge of a valley, shivering in the morning chill. Light etched the trees. Loftis tried to raise his rifle. His hand shook too much. He passed it to Oleksa. “Take a look. What d’you see?”

     The older man squinted through the sight, then turned it to higher magnification. “Troops,” he said at last.


     “I think so. Can’t see color so good yet.”

     “We’ll wait,” said Loftis. “Till we know.”

     “Think they’re ours?” said Stankey.

     “They’re in the right place.”

     “What you plan to do?”

     “Let’s see…I lost my squadtalk. Have you — “

     “Mine’s dead.”

     “So’s mine. And he don’t have one.”

     “Guess that’s out.”

     “Suppose we just run, then. Make a break.”

     “There’s got to be Russians around if this is the front line. “

     “What if there is?  We got no comms. We out of ammo. We just got to run.”

     “What if our guys got autoguns set, or those shock mines?”

     “Well, they can tell we’re U.S. even if we’re asleep.”

     Loftis nodded. A great tiredness took him and he slumped back. His eyelids slid downward, as inevitably as avalanches.



     He dreamed, there in the dawning, that he and Doc Joynes were sitting on a mountain together. It was west of DC, in the Blue Ridge, and there was a bottle between them. The Doc was sipping from it, and arguing, just like always. They were talking about the war, as if it had been over for years, for a long time. “So what did you think?” Joynes was saying. “That a war without violence would be kind?  It was a step up from a trade war and a step down from conventional. Each side was as ruthless as it could get away with. Nothing had changed.”

     “The grunts on the ground weren’t dying,” grunted Loftis.

     “Tell that to the guys blinded by lasers,” the corpsman said. “The guys who never thought again because they got a PK megadose. Or froze to death while they were knocked out, that winter.”

     “You’re too friggin’ clever.”  Loftis, in his dream, stood up and looked around. The tops of the blue hills were level with his eyes. “You make it seem like it was no progress. Well, by Jesus, I believed in the crazy thing.”

     “‘War contains so much folly, as well as wickedness, that much is to be hoped from the progress of reason; and if anything is to be hoped, every thing ought to be tried,'” said Joynes, his voice taunting, though he did not smile.

     “Who said that?”

     “Madison.”  The Doc laughed then. “And war in his day – not half bad. I’ll bet we lost more people in a battle than they did.”

     “I bet we didn’t,” said Loftis. “My pop was in Iraq and he told me about that hell. I’d rather have took a pellet and starved for a year in a gulag than spent the rest of my life like him. He didn’t have no legs. An IED. And he always told me, he was one of the lucky ones.”




     It wasn’t the Doc. Loftis remembered now that he was dead, left behind. It was the Russian, Agayants. The light was brighter and he was squatting between him and the sun, with Stankey’s face dark behind him, hand on his knife.

     “What?” he said.

     “It’s light,” said Oleksa. He was peering through his rifle scope.

     “Can you see?”

     “It’s our guys.”

     Loftis nodded.

     “But there’s blackyboys moving between us and them. Looks like preps for an assault.”

     Loftis nodded again. His arm throbbed with an insidious pain, as if something were eating its way inside it, next the bone, toward his heart.

     “Loftis,” said the Russian again.

     “What the hell you want, Wal-demeer?”

     “I can help us to other side.”


     “Talk. I tell soldiers we shpionam – spy.”  He looked earnestly at them.


     The corporal raised his eyebrows. “Weird, but it might work.”


     “Don’t call me Leopold.”

     “Okay, Private Stankey. What do you say?”

     “I don’t trust him.”

     Loftis looked at the anxious faces. “Wal-demeer – “


    “Everybody’s worried about his name today. Okay. Vla-di-meer. Now, Private Stankey still wants to know how you got shot. So do I. Sure you don’t have a better explanation than the last one we heard?”

     “I shoot myself,” the Russian said.


     “I shoot myself with gun.”

     The Marines stared at him. “You must have wanted out of the army pretty bad,” said Oleksa.

     “Not out of army. Out of killing.”

     “Come again.”

     The Russian chewed his lip. He looked toward the hill opposite, then seemed to make a decision. Words tumbled out. “I know plan. One general make it. More, more attacks with bullets. No more ni viernaya voina – false war. They give us gun for bullet, not sleep. You see?  So I go off, shoot me, so not to kill other. That, I do not believe to do.”

     “Then we found you, instead of your own people.”


     “What happens if they find you shot yourself?”

     “Trial,” he said. “Prison, el’e death.”

     “Jesus. Why didn’t you say so?”

     “I thought” – he glanced at Stankey, who lowered his eyes — “You not take me back then. That you same as them.”

     Loftis nodded. After a moment Oleksa did too. They faced forward. “Get back on that goddamn scope,” he told them, and lifted his own.

      The other side of the valley; the top of the facing ridge. Through the glass it leapt up so clear and sharp he wondered if he could touch it. “You’ll help us get through?” he asked Agayants.

     “Da. Then I talk to sud’ya. To UN.”


     “I say, I do not like killing.”

     “Well,” said Loftis, “Maybe there’s some kind of program for defectors. I mean, don’t seem like you should be a POW, after that.”

     “I would rather be prisoner.”

     “You mean that?”

     “Yes,” said the Russian. He chewed on the tips of his fingers nervously. “I am not traitor. Just do not want to kill. This war bad, but not like old kind fighting. You know, Sovietsky Soyuz lose twenty, thirty million in Patriotic War. Never, never repeat. Maybe future be like this instead.”

     Loftis turned his head. “Sounds like good sense, don’t it, Jack?”

     “What’s that?”

     “Sneekle War is hell – but  it’s better than the real thing. ‘Cause maybe that’s the way things come in the world, you fight your way uphill a little bit at a time.”

     “Maybe so,” said Oleksa. “Maybe so.”

     “Doc wouldn’t have said so.”

     “Sure he would. He just liked to argue.”

     “Ready to cross?”

     “Any time.”


     “On your ass, Olin.”


     “I am ready.”

     They grinned at one another. The growl of motors came from behind them. Over their  heads, the leaves stirred in the first breath of morning wind.

     Together, they walked down into the valley.

David Poyer is the most popular living author of American naval fiction. His military career included service in the Atlantic, Mediterranean, Arctic, Caribbean, the Middle East, the Pacific, and the Pentagon. His epic novel-cycle of the modern military includes The Med, The Gulf, The Circle, The Passage, Tomahawk, China Sea, Black Storm, The Command, The Threat, Korea Strait, The Weapon, The Crisis, The Towers, The Cruiser, Tipping Point, Onslaught , and Hunter Killer (all available from St. Martin’s Press in hardcover, paper and ebook formats). Deep War, the latest in his War with China series, will be published December 8.  Visit him at or on Facebook.

Featured Image: “The Hunt” by Reha Sakar