Fiction Contest Week

1st Place Finisher

By Sergeant Major Mike Burke, U.S. Marine Corps (ret.), and Major Nicholas Nethery, U.S. Army

Oran, 2038

Lieutenant Holly Forrestal’s exoarmor gouged the doorframe as she ducked back into the utility room. A burst of RPK fire barked, peppering the window she’d just been peeking from. The ClapBack sensor array displayed the azimuth and elevation of the incoming fire on her HUD. Caliphate regulars were on the top floors across the street, opposite her platoon. The upper floor was mostly rubble, and they were dug in like ticks and taking advantage of the elevation. The number of IEDs and booby traps the Caliphate Regular Army had emplaced slowed second platoon’s advance to a crawl.

“SITREP, Hadley!” she said into the platoon command freq. Her radioman was just down the hall, typing furiously into his TuffBook. ROs had become more than mere radio operators—they were IT techs, comms experts, and internet hackers. Forrestal supposed sooner or later some colonel would give ROs a new acronym of some kind and earn himself a Meritorious Service Medal for his efforts.

“Second platoon is spread out down the block, ma’am, shooting it out with another CRA unit,” Hadley said, sending their positions to her HUD. “Third platoon is still supposed to be on our left.” He DM’d their last known position, but they hadn’t seen the slackers from Third Herd since the enemy made contact.

She had shanghaied Lance Corporal Javon Hadley to be her RO after he was caught selling pirated combat footage inside the battalion. Civilians the world over could livestream combat operations in real time, thanks to the efforts of war pornographers, who worked throughout combat zones under the pretext of “journalism.” Hadley had hacked some popular streams and offered them to his buddies at an extremely reduced rate. Naturally, the first sergeant wanted the young lance corporal to be set on fire, hacked to pieces, and his remains processed into rubber dog crap. Recognizing talent when she saw it, Forrestal had gone to bat for him, earning herself an ass chewing from both the first sergeant and her captain—but also a new RO. She didn’t win any points with the company commander, but she had with the grunts.

“The lieutenant owns your ass now,” her platoon sergeant had growled in Hadley’s ear as she nodded sagely. Staff Sergeant Wallace Mills was a thick-necked brute with GRENDEL tattooed down one beefy forearm. He never disagreed with her in front of the Marines, and he only gave her grief when she screwed something up. She was still a boot lieutenant, so that was pretty much most of the time. But she appreciated it, nonetheless.

“Staff sergeant,” she said into the platoon freq. “You have eyes on Gator?” Soon the battalion would demand to know what the holdup was, and the skipper would begin coordinating an assault. Before she sent her Marines into the meat grinder, though, she wanted to check up on the adjacent platoon.

“Negative, ma’am,” Mills responded. He was on the ground below, personally directing fire teams in an attempt to intercept any squirters trying to get past them through the ratlines. “I’m seeing their last known location on the HUD, but I don’t have line of sight on any of them.”

Forrestal tapped another quick inquiry to the third platoon’s commander, asking him to confirm his status and location, and hit send on the TuffPad strapped under her forearm. Judging by the amount of fire, she assumed the Gator team was a little busy at the moment.

She moved to check her own line again. They would get the call to begin the advance at any moment, but something didn’t feel right. She pinged Mills, who was on her left, and moved right to start with her flanking security teams then work her way back to center. Forrestal messaged the squad leaders for a status report as well. She could have monitored all of this from her TuffPad, but there was nothing like having eyes on your Marines.

Hustling through the building, she crouched and moved to avoid windows and headed toward the steps leading down. The CRA on the building across from them would be eager to claim Marine scalps and would fill a window full of lead if given a shot. Forrestal made short sprints through gaps between cover. Occasionally, the articulated third arm of her exoarmor would bump off a wall. She was still getting used to the stupid thing, but she had lance corporals who moved like simian gymnasts in their rigs. She paused at each fire team for a quick word, an ammo check, or a slap on the back.

She linked up with her platoon HQ. Liam Shannon, the surly, bearded corpsman, was back in an interior room. He fixed a straw to the nozzle of a can of spray-clot and went to work on Lance Corporal Camilla Jimenez, who had caught some shrapnel. Judging by her elaborate Spanglish expletives, she’d be fine.

“Doc, you cleaning that wound with sandpaper or just trying to piss me off?” Jimenez grunted.

“How you gonna go home and tell your family you gave up that booty to the CRA and a sailor all in one day?” Shannon snorted at his own joke. Shannon was perpetually in a bad mood and loved to share the misery. Jimenez responded with a burst of Spanish hinting at the promiscuity of Shannon’s mother.

Yeah, she was going to be ok.

Hadley was there, refreshing his special RO TuffBook as he monitored comms chatter and internet traffic. Sometimes, the CRA would livestream its own ops or make boasts on social media platforms, so it could be an occasional source of good real-time intel. The RO’s rig was the only one in any platoon with wifi capability—the Marine Corps long ago realized if every jarhead in the field had wifi, bandwidth would quickly be consumed by porn. Then drones would be falling from the sky. Hadley had even jerry-rigged his own wifi antenna to his shoulder. The company first sergeant would no doubt disapprove of this bit of “illegal maintenance,” but this sort of thing was precisely why Forrestal had kept Hadley around. He flashed her a lip-packed grin before spitting a stream of dip onto the dusty floor beside him.

Forrestal made her way back up the stairs, frog-walking and moving carefully. Marine exoarmor was pretty hardy, but it was no reason to create bad habits. As she came up behind Mills, she heard a series of loud explosions, crumping and banging off to their right. It sounded to her like small, precision-guided impacts, but in the odd acoustic labyrinth of Oran’s downtown, it was hard to be certain.

“What was that?” she yelled, pounding Mills’ shoulder. They shared an anxious glance as the internal platoon net started crackling. The roar of gunfire was quickly dampened by the ear-pro in her helmet. Someone called for a corpsman over the net.

“Ma’am,” said Mills. “I’ll grab Shannon and see what’s up. Don’t let any of them get past us.” He leapt down the stairs a flight at a time, his armor absorbing the shock of each landing.

Judging by the comms chatter, a large CRA force just materialized to their front and laid down a large amount of fire. The Marines responded with overwhelming violence, as was their tradition.

How had they gotten so close undetected? Forrestal wondered. Her squad and fire team leaders were responding satisfactorily. She couldn’t detect any panic, so she decided to monitor comms and stay off the net and out of their way.

“Ma’am,” Mills said over the command net. “These clowns aren’t waiting around. They’re assaulting us!” He paused. “I got three confirmed enemy dead and probably more underneath. Looks like they came in through tunnels.” The CRA had popped up through hatches in an attempt to ambush her far left squad. Apparently, Sergeant Stephanie Kim’s squad noticed them before the attackers could coordinate. Too bad for the CRA, engaging up-armored Marines at close quarters was a great way to get your arms and legs yanked clean out.

Doc Shannon reported the wounded Marine, Lance Corporal Kanji Palmer, was a bit scuffed up, but his exoarmor had prevented any serious injury. Both Marine and equipment were functional. Palmer’s suit had absorbed the blast of a grenade. He’d gotten his bell rung—again—but he’d be okay.

“Kim’s squad assaulted through to the tunnel mouth, and she filled it with about a metric crap ton of riot foam,” Mills reported. “I’m en route to your 20.”

Riot foam was a nonlethal adhesive sticky foam deployed in canisters roughly the size of a coffee can. A single canister could produce several cubic meters of quick-hardening goop, which was often used to temporarily deny roads and alleys, and was handy in stopping vehicle-borne IEDs. Law enforcement had been using it in the antigovernment race riots in the States for years. Asphyxiating enemy combatants in underground tunnel networks might not have been its intended purpose. She had Hadley send an updated sitrep to company HQ—not mentioning the riot foam. Forrestal didn’t need to start fielding a bunch of questions she didn’t have answers to while rounds were snapping around her. At the moment, their CRA ambushers had no rat holes to flee into.

Enemy troops on the rooftops began increasing their fire, pouring rounds and grenades onto the advancing Marines. The Marines stalled, as Forrestal’s troops slugged it out with the CRA on the ground while ducking overhead fire from above. They could rush the building, but Forrestal was loathe to engage in a frontal assault. Nightmare visions of a documentary she had watched about the 1968 Battle of Huế flashed through her mind.

“We’re going to have to make a move, ma’am,” prompted Mills. Then he dropped his voice, “Listen, ma’am.”

Mills’ tone made Forrestal pause, there was something else.

“I got a good look at one of the CRA downstairs,” he said. “The ones in the tunnel that Kim’s guys foamed. . . . Ma’am, he’s a Gennie.”

Forrestal frowned in disbelief. G2 had reported there were rumblings of genetically enhanced enemy troops being processed in Iranian and Syrian labs run by scientists with funding from a particular peer competitor. But intel had insisted that any gen-modified soldiers—Gennies—were in other sectors, if they even existed at all.

“You sure?” she asked.

In reply, Mills tapped his TuffPad and sent her Palmer’s chest cam footage. She watched for a full 20 seconds as unarmored “slick” CRA emerged from the tunnel and fought her Marines in close quarters. It was like a bad kung fu movie. They moved like parkour Olympians, with unnatural timing and speed. In the video, a grenade detonated nearby, probably saving Palmer’s life and allowing the Marines to finish the fight. Forrestal closed the video with a gesture. She could suddenly taste her breakfast MRE.

“Have Hadley package it and send the video to Battalion,” she said.

“Ma’am, is that smart?” asked Mills.

“If the 2 wants to argue in their air-conditioned Manticore, they can argue with the video,” she said. “Send it.”

“Roger, ma’am!” said Hadley. “Sending now.”

He was moving and typing away on his TuffPad as the articulated third arm of his exoarmor aimed his weapon around a gap and fired. He crouch-walked to a new position.

“What now, ma’am?” Hadley asked. Boot or not, Forrestal knew sitting around on your brains was a death sentence. Almost any decision was better than none at all.

Forrestal looked at Hadley as if he were the dumbest Marine alive.

“We attack, numbnuts!”

Mills nodded with approval as he inserted a fresh magazine and ordered the platoon head shed to rally upstairs.

“Corporal Cholico, get your squad up here to my pos,” Forrestal said on the comms as she and the HQ element began to head toward the uncovered roof of the second floor. When Cholico joined her, she indicated the enemy-held building a couple dozen feet away.

“Think we can make the jump?” she asked.

“Hell yes, ma’am!” Cholico seemed to like where this was headed.

“Hadley, suppress the roof with drones. We’re going over.” She nodded to Mills. He would bring over the rest of the platoon in trace of her assault.

Loitering munition drones began detonating overhead as Forrestal and two of Cholico’s fire teams sprinted across the roof. In addition, her platoon had expedient suicide drones made from fast-pressed components from the 3D printers constantly humming in the back of the S4’s ACMV. Assembled in moments as needed by the HQ section, the drones were tiny quadcopters with wifi cameras and the brain of a cell phone. Normally they were just for observation and target acquisition. But add in a tiny bit of C4 from the Army EOD team attached to her company, and they made deadly little suicide bots. For some reason, expedient drone weaponization was streng verboten by the brass at Echelons Above Reality. Only Air Force drones were supposed to be weaponized like that, but needs must. If she got hauled into a Senate select committee over it, at least she’d get hauled in alive. Hell, she was already going to have to answer for the riot foam as it was. In for a penny. . . she thought.

Boosted by the augmented strength of the exoarmor, they leapt from the second-story roof, across the street, to the third-floor windows . . .

Forrestal barely heard the muffled sounds all around her as she hurtled across the empty space, three stories above the killing spree below. Just like training. Breathe. The window she had targeted drifted closer in agonizingly slow motion.

She had misjudged her jump. She was going to miss. Reality suddenly sped up.

She crunched into the wall beside the window, grabbing blindly at an ornate crenellation and ignoring the blood suddenly running from her nose. Her exoarmor’s third arm snapped impotently, not sure what it wanted her to do. Forrestal just managed to heave herself sideways and hook a boot over the lip of the window. A CRA fighter, moving impossibly fast, darted into the room and cranked a few angry rounds in her direction. Her armor painfully absorbed the kinetic impact of two hits, and she nearly lost her grip on the windowsill. As the fighter continued to close, she thrust her third arm into the room and clamped down on his lead hand. He yelped as she yanked him violently out of the window and into the street below.

Using her suit, Forrestal awkwardly hauled herself into the building. She gasped as her suit autoinjected a cocktail of stimulants and pain meds into her system. Mills was going to rake her over the coals later. Cholico and Hadley entered the room.

“Chico, you’re leading the way from here!”

Cholico grinned—she’d used his nickname. He turned and began barking orders to his Marines. As they cleared their way to the roof, a series of detonations like exploding popcorn erupted into a crescendo outside. Forrestal realized that the streams of snaps and bangs, a few every second, were CRA and Marine drones dueling it out above.

Hadley reported that he and other cyber geeks were attempting to hack enemy drone feeds. Exactly what the enemy is doing back to us, Forrestal thought.

“Hopefully we can disrupt their feed or get them to suicide back on their controllers,” said Hadley.

“Well, I hear you talking. Shut up and make it happen!” said Forrestal.

“The drones think faster than I do, Ma’am.”

She stifled a reply and moved into the corridor in the wake of Cholico’s squad. Her earpiece buzzed, and she glanced down at her TuffPad.

“Ma’am,” Hadley said. “COC says Battalion is asking how do you know those CRA are Gennies?”

“Oh, come on!” she exclaimed, keying Mills on the platoon command net.

“You called it, Ma’am,” he said.

“Hadley, tell them because an entire platoon of Olympians just ran through our battle space like villains out of  Assassins Creed!” She suddenly hated the entire Intel community. At least the CRA had the balls to come out and fight. “If we’d reported an enemy soft serve ice cream machine, those POGs would’ve been out here so­—”

“Ma’am, I don’t give a rat’s ass what kind of denial is going on back there, but Gennies or not, we need to stay on mission,” Mills broke in. “Clear that building and the rest of us can advance.”

Forrestal shook herself and lurched forward, heading to catch up with Chico. Her platoon sergeant was right. They could argue with higher later about how she wasn’t “qualified” to determine if enemy troops were gen-mods or not.

“Rooftop clear!” Cholico reported. They began to work their way down, forcing CRA holdouts to retreat to the ground floor and out the other side of the building. Once outside, Marine drones continued to harass them as they retreated across an open square. Forrestal watched on her video screen as Mills brought the rest of the platoon forward. They smoothly took positions up and down the block adjacent to them. Third squad maintained rear security.

Forrestal looked out of window to watch Kim’s squad begin to bound across the square in pursuit of the fleeing CRA. A deafening roar erupted across the battlefield. She watched in horror as two of her Marines suddenly flew backward as if yanked by a tether.

“Contact left!”

A third Marine was hit. His armor ruptured, and his left arm tumbled away in the air. The rest of the squad was hugging the ground, struggling to crawl to their wounded comrades. In the darkness of a parking structure Forrestal could see the massive muzzle flash of the monster that was going to chop her platoon to pieces.

“It’s a ZU-23 or something, mounted on a flatbed!” reported Kim. The four barrels of the 23-mm antiaircraft gun were punching holes through Marines as if they were made of paper.

“Contact rear!” Her third squad leader, Corporal Walter O’Keefe, reported.

“Ma’am, we’ve got Gennies at our rear!” said Mills. “They used the tunnels just like before.”

Forrestal monitored the cam footage and saw how the Gennies moved and shot. These guys were trained. They didn’t just sit and die in place like good CRA soldiers usually did. A thunderclap was followed by a large explosion.

“Recoilless rifles!” said O’Keefe. After a pause, he added, “We’re okay right now.”

“Damn you, Carl Gustav,” said Mills.

“We’re getting the worst of it in the sky,” said Hadley referring to the dueling drones overhead. “There seems to be a mobile drone unit operating out of the back of three pickup trucks behind the parking structure.”

 “We need to bring that building down,” Forrestal replied. She designated the building on her TuffPad. “Call for fire.”

“Got it, Ma’am,” Mills said, and dropped off the net. She stayed with Chico’s squad and attempted to provide some cover fire for Sergeant Kim’s pinned down Marines. Within a minute, Mills was back on the net, furious.

“Battalion said no-go on the strike,” he said, adding some colorful phrases about the ancestry of battalion staff and the fidelity of their mothers. “This area is some kind of cultural site. A Roman fort or something. There’s even a museum and a gift shop.”

“Roman?!” Forrestal asked, bewildered. “There’s no way. Did they bother to tell anyone before they sent a platoon of grunts to shoot up the place?”

“I don’t know, Ma’am. What I know about history could fill a thimble. But we aren’t getting the airstrike.”

“This is—” Forrestal stopped, as the ZU raked the front her building. Cholico’s squad chatter filled the net, but she muted them. She could still hear them yelling as she tried to think. The CRA was trying to assassinate her platoon and quite possibly roll up the entire company’s left flank. In the meantime, those cowards in the rear were dismissing her reports and denying her request for fire support.

“Son of a bitch!” she said.

“I have a really terrible idea,” said Hadley into the command net. “Why don’t we hire it done?”

“Hadley, are you on your . . . one of your websites?” Mills asked.

“My websites?” Hadley said with cultivated innocence.

“You know what he means,” Forrestal said. “Can you get us some ordnance?”

“Ma’am,” Mills broke in, immediately seeing where this was headed. “We can’t do that.”

“Here’s an outfit that’ll support us,” Hadley said as he sent her a link.

A webpage popped up on her TuffPad with an imposing-looking Black Sea Solutions logo. All she had to do was provide coordinates, sat image, and wire the money.

“This is a PMC,” Forrestal said.

“Yes Ma’am, a PMC with a drone available for the next 30 minutes. They’re out of Belarus and provide maritime security to various shipping companies, primarily in the form of UAV support platforms.”

There was silence on the line. “Hadley. How much to buy a JDAM?”

“Thousands,” said Mills. “Tens of thousands. This isn’t like buying a crate of black-market grenades. Are we seriously having this conversation?”

“You’re not gonna like it, Ma’am,” Hadley said.

“We can’t—absolutely cannot do this,” Mills interjected.

“Hadley, how much?” Forrestal asked again.

“Uh. . . . It says 93 grand. I can message their FSR and ask about a negotiation.”

“And how are we supposed to pay for this fine mercenary support?”

“I’ve already set up an account on a crowdfunding site and posted about in on some mil-vet boards,” said Hadley.

“You what?!”

“I mean, everything’s ready to set up. I can do a quick crowdsource hit on Warjumper. That might get us the cash.” Hadley was lying his ass off, and she knew it. The sneaky little genius was way ahead of her.

Another concussive boom sounded from their rear, and then O’Keefe was on the net, calling for the corpsman.

“Do it,” she said.

“Ma’am, you realize we’re all going to Leavenworth over this, right?” said Mills.

“Dead Marines is worse than prison,” said Forrestal. “Go see how O’Keefe is doing.”

“On it,” said Mills. “But I get the bottom bunk if we end up sharing a cell.”

“Are we going to offer any stretch goals?” said Hadley.

“What?”

“Incentives for them to donate more money. Like we offer them 30 or more extra seconds of footage of the mission.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Offer them platoon t-shirts, for all I care.”

“Ma’am, you could send them an autographed picture!”

“Hadley, I will kick you dead in the—”

“The sergeant major is going to tear my colon clean out of me,” said Mills to no one in particular.

“In the meantime, Hadley,” said Forrestal. “I want you to pull some of the drones into reserve.”

“We’re already in a hurt locker, Ma’am.”

“I have a plan, make it happen.”

Mills sent out an all-hands on the company net as he leapt down the stairs half a flight at a time, using his third arm to slow his descent by grabbing the railings and walls.

“Someone nail down that squad of Gennies!” he snarled. “We’re going to give them the good news while the Ma’am flattens that ZU.” They at least needed to buy her time while she wrestled with her conscience about it.

O’Keefe reported two fire teams spread throughout the first deck and a team in the basement below. He didn’t want any surprises like Kim’s squad had gotten.

Two recoilless rifles boomed from the platoon’s rear, the rounds pulverizing the surrounding building as the Marines tried to take cover. This time the enemy fire was accompanied by a crumpling explosion they felt beneath them.

“Gennies in the basement! Contact northwest corner!” Lance Corporal Xander Vandever said over the comms. Shouts and small arms fire accented his words as his squad slugged it out in the background.

“Keep ’em there, Van. I’m en route,” Mills sent.

“Roger th—” Vandever sent, and then his voice was drowned out by another series of dread-inducing booms from below their feet and dead ahead. Mills’ heart jumped up into his throat. He bolted down the hall past two Marines.

“You two, on me!”

“Report, Van!” he sent between breaths. He could see down the stairway to the lowest level. Vandever’s team might be dead or dying down there. The two Marines he’d collected—Szumigala and Bartos?—were right on his six. Snatches of shouts came over the net but kept snapping off again. It sounded like the fighting was close quarters, knife close. No report was coming.

Mills chanced a quick peek over the edge of the stairwell. With Van’s fireteam down there, grenades were out of the question. It was only 20 or so feet down. Mills dropped over the side like a scuba diver.

He landed awkwardly but the servo joints absorbed most of the impact as he went right into a rolling break-fall. He was immediately tackled by what felt like a professional linebacker. The brute’s attack pinned Mill’s rifle to his chest. The Gennie reached for Mills’ throat with one hand, hammering fist blows down on Mills’ face with the other. Mills drew his combat knife in a reverse grip, as he palmed the top of the Gennie’s skull with his third arm. He managed to pull the freak off his chest far enough to plunge the blade into an eye. Mills wrenched the knife free and tossed the body aside, struggling to rise. Another enhanced CRA fighter filled his vision and the muzzle of his weapon looked as wide black as a mineshaft.

The Gennie disappeared under the weight of Bartos’ exoarmor as the Marine landed directly on him. The lance corporal aimed his rifle at the Gennie’s temple but checked his fire. This one wasn’t getting up again.

“Szumi, I’m in. You’re clear,” Mills heard Bartos over the comms.

Szumigala landed in a wet crunch. That Gennie definitely wasn’t getting up again.

“You could’a warned me, jackass,” Szumi said as he shook the gen-mod blood off his boots. He took up a position on their left.

Mills stared at the remains, his knife still held out, the third arm pivoting slightly. Bartos stomped up to Mills and yanked him to his feet. Mills nodded at him and Suzumi.

“Staff Sarn’t,” Bartos said. “Look at that big fella, we got him good.” He was chewing an enormous hunk of bubble gum and grinning.

“Van’s team,” Mills replied. He started to jog down the hall back past the basement landing. As they neared the smoky large room at the end of the corridor, it sounded as if a riot had broken out in a biker bar.

Mills glided in weapon up, Suzumi and Bartos beside him. It was a two-to-one brawl, as Vandever’s fireteam slugged it out with a squad of Gennies in the rubble of a tunnel mouth newly formed by CRA sappers. Knives, rebar, and articulated third arms were the weapons of the moment. The gene-enhanced numbers of CRA were getting the better of it. The three arriving Marines cleanly pressed their triggers, delivering two to the torso and one to the head of the nearest gen-mods. The tide quickly turned, and the rest of the Gennies fell to the bone-twisting strength of Marine exoarmor—or a Ka-Bar to the kidney.

Van’s team looked pretty scuffed up. Vandever himself peered from beneath a body and lifted his chin at them. Lying in a corner, he pushed the corpse off, revealing a leg bent at a bad angle. The initial blast had been a doozy.

“Foam the tunnel,” said Mills.

Szumi and Barto grabbed some cans of riot foam off Vandever’s gear and went to work while Mills tried to figure out who was still ambulatory.

Bartos glanced around at the battered Marines and let out a whistle. “You gals look like you been rode hard and put up wet.”

Mills was about to tell him to shut up when two massive explosions punched the air overhead. Everyone dove to the ground and was covered in a fine coating of dust that settled over them.

“What have the CRA thrown at us now?” someone asked.

“Nah,” Vandever said, wincing as he turned to look at them. “That hit across the street.”

“Oh, hell,” said Mills and left O’Keefe and Vandever to organize first aid and get everyone topside. As he nearly flew up flights of stairs, he keyed his mic to let Forrestal know he was moving to her position.

“How did we manage to buy two strikes?” asked Mills over the command freq.

“Black Sea gave us a break on the price and we ended up going with Hellfires,” said Hadley. “The guy on ChatWomb told me they’re looking to expand into the North African theater, and this will be good for the brand. The backers on Veterati responded right away. We might even be able to buy everyone’s ball tickets this year.”

“Kill me,” said Mills as he appeared in the doorway. “And how did we meet our funding goal so quickly?”  

“Oh,” said Forrestal. “I added a stretch goal to encourage our backers to meet the deadline.”

“What?”

“I promised them a date to this year’s ball,” she said, lifting her eyebrow at him. 

Her platoon sergeant looked puzzled. Then launched into a litany of expletives that began to peel what little paint there was off the wall. She noted that Mills may have been one of the most prolifically profane Marines she’d met since Officer Candidates School.

“Seriously Ma’am! We’re already going to catch all kinds of….” He paused then turned to look her directly in the eyes. “Wait, are you taking them to the ball, or am I?”

Sergeant Major Burke retired in 2018 and now enjoys walking on the grass with his hands in his pockets.

Major Nethery is an Army explosive ordnance disposal technician assigned to NATO as a counter-IED officer.

Featured Image: “Urban Combat” by freguslol (via DeviantArt)

Fiction Contest Week

By Admiral James Winnefeld (ret.), U.S. Navy 

On board the USS Ranger, North Arabian Sea, 1925 local time, 10 January 1984

“They aren’t really going to launch us into this crap, are they?”

“I dunno, Boz.”

The aircraft carrier Ranger had just finished her turn to the southwest, preparing to launch the last sorties of the night. In the distance to starboard, flashes of lightning illuminated the leading edge of the winter Shamal storm that had sped down the Persian Gulf and spilled into the Gulf of Oman.

“Everyone on this deck is thinking the same damn thing: the Iranians aren’t coming out in this stuff, so why do we have to go up there tonight?”

“You wanna be the one to pose that question to the Air Boss?”

“Jimi, is anyone looking out the window? It’s gonna be right on top of the boat when we come back.”

“Just remember, Boz: ‘We’re not happy ‘till you’re not happy.’”

A yellow-clad flight deck director appeared beside the jet, barely visible in the dim lighting, and with a brisk motion of his wands ordered removal of the chains locking the Tomcat to the deck.

“Looks like we’re going flying, Boz. Parking brake’s coming off.”

Five minutes later, past the jet blast deflector, checks complete, and the gentle bump of the jet hitting the holdback fitting.

“Yep, I’m definitely not happy, Jimi.”

The catapult director swept a yellow wand forward and held the other overhead, followed shortly by the thump of the tensioned catapult. Full power, controls and instruments checked, the signal for afterburners, lights on when ready. A sharp downward and forward jolt as the Tomcat accelerated down the track and rotated into inky blackness broken only by flashes against the clouds to the northwest.

“DEPARTURE, PACK 102 AIRBORNE.”

“ROGER, 102, RIGHT TURN TO CLEAR THE MARSHAL STACK. SWITCH STRIKE.”

Changing radio frequencies, Scaggs murmured “At least they’re turning us towards the weather. Thanks for that.”

“STRIKE, PACK 102 CHECKING IN, THREE-THREE-ZERO AT TEN MILES.”

“ROGER, 102, PROCEED TO LIMA, BUTTON 12 FOR YOUR CONTROLLER. REMAIN GREATER THAN 15 MILES OFF THE COAST—WE’VE HAD A FEW CLOSE ONES TONIGHT WITH THE SOUTHERLY WINDS.”

Hendricks chuckled, “I guess everybody’s good for something, even if it’s a bad example.”

During the 1970s the now-deposed Shah invested in the port of Chabahar, on the east side of a small bay along the rocky desert coastline of southeastern Iran. To defend it, Konarak airbase was built on the west side of the bay, and hosted F-4D Phantom fighters previously purchased from the U.S. Even in the wake of the Iranian Revolution and tensions between the two countries, the likelihood of an Iranian F-4 challenging a carrier was low. But who knew? With little else for the air wing to do, it seemed prudent for the Ranger to maintain a combat air patrol station during flying hours, just in case.

Joseph “Jimi” Hendricks and Robert “Boz” Scaggs were the first pilot and naval flight officer from their squadron’s rookie, or “nugget,” class to be allowed to fly together. Crewed together since the beginning of the deployment, the only thing they had in common was callsigns derived from musical artists’ names. Hendricks had grown up deep in rural Oklahoma. An amateur bull rider with few prospects for professional rodeo, he seized on a different approach to risk-taking revealed in a magazine article on naval aviation, which drew him to Officer Candidate School in Pensacola, Florida.

Scaggs came from a vagabond salesman’s family that migrated among a host of cities in the northeast. Graduating from the Navy ROTC program at Rutgers, he lacked the vision to be a pilot and became a radar intercept officer, or RIO.

“What the hell!”

Halfway through their climb, bumping in and out of puffy clouds, a bolt of lightning kicked Hendricks’s feet off the rudder pedals and mildly shocked both crew’s lips through the microphones in their oxygen masks.

“You okay Jimi? Did that hit us?”

“Dunno. Lost my night vision but I can still see the instruments. Engines are good and I’ve got no caution lights.”

In a shaken voice Scaggs replied. “Roger. Should we head back?”

“How’s your radar?”

“It dropped offline but it looks like it’s trying to restart.”

“I think we’re okay, Boz. And we’re almost on station in the clear. Let’s stick around.”

With the approaching Shamal barely to the west of their assigned station, the dim lights of Chahbahar began to appear ahead. Hendricks turned the Tomcat to establish a north-south track, maximizing their radar coverage of the airfield. On these sorties he enjoyed turning his cockpit lights as low as possible, maintaining station using the lights of the Makran coast for a position reference and the stars for heading. No stars tonight, though, thanks to the high pre-frontal overcast. Hendricks and Scaggs were enveloped in darkness.

Just before their second turn to the south, the bright yellow master caution light suddenly lit up in both cockpits.

“What’s up, Jimi?”

“Bleed duct light. Air Source coming off.”

“Roger, securing the radar.”

“I’ve got smoke up here. Dumping cabin pressure, watch your ears.”

“Roger.”

“Hate to say it, Boz, but I’ve now got a right engine fire light, and the controls are tightening up.”

“PACK 102, HOTDOG RED, TURN SOUTH IMMEDIATELY.”

“Crap, why didn’t they give us a Hotdog Yellow call? I should have turned right away.”

“ROGER, WE’RE, UH, DEALING WITH AN AIRCRAFT PROBLEM. TURNING NOW, WILL ADVISE.”

“Boz, this is not looking good. Engine fire, cockpit’s filling with smoke, and I’m really wrestling snakes up here. We’re gonna have to eject before I lose control. Do a quick mayday call, but don’t do it on guard cause of where we are. Then let me know when you’re gonna pull.”

“MAYDAY, MAYDAY. PACK 102 HAS ECS, ENGINE AND CONTROL PROBLEMS. EJECTING NOW AT CURRENT POSITION NORTH OF MOTHER AT CAP STATION LIMA.”

The ejection occurred in slow motion for Hendricks. After the canopy blew off, he saw the red lights of the instrument panel recede below as his seat rocketed up its rails, almost immediately followed by the deceleration of his parachute opening. Looking up in the darkness the chute appeared to be in one piece, and he went through his post-ejection procedures.

Wait a sec. Am I missing something, or did my seat just malfunction? It’s supposed to freefall me to 14,000 feet and then open the chute, but it sure felt like it opened right away.

Let’s see, a thousand feet per minute descent from 20,000 feet, that’s around 20 minutes. With more than 30 knots of wind from the south, that’s at least ten miles of drift. We were 15 miles off the coast when the duct light came on and, thanks to me getting preoccupied, we kept going for at least a minute at 240 knots indicated airspeed, which is roughly 360 knots true. That’s six miles or more plus ten. Holy crap, I could easily land inside Iran.

On board the USS Ranger, 1955

The captain’s phone on the bridge made its usual irritating buzz.

“Sir, Air Ops here. We just got a mayday call from Pack 102 on their station frequency. It sounds like they’ve ejected. We’ve got two beacons on guard frequency, which would correspond to their seat radios.”

“Damn. Okay, where are they?”

“That’s the bad news, sir. They’re on Lima station. With the prevailing winds, we think they could land in Iranian territorial seas.”

“Okay, get the flag staff working on permission for a helo to penetrate 12 miles. I’ll call the admiral myself. I assume you’re launching the alert helo. Meanwhile, turn Ranger north and close the coast.”

Five miles southwest of Chabahar, Iran, 2007

After a lengthy freefall, Scaggs’s parachute had automatically opened. He inflated his life jacket, released his oxygen mask, and pulled the handle to release his life raft, which inflated and dangled below, stabilizing his parachute. Descending through the undercast felt surprisingly like stepping into a freezer. Already shivering, he released his parachute risers as his feet hit the water and plunged into the cool choppy water. Bobbing to the surface, he grabbed the raft’s lanyard, pulled himself forward and up, rolled over and landed on his back.

At least I made it this far. Time to break out all the toys. Radio on, pencil flare ready. This is gonna take a while.

Two miles inland, west of Konarak, Iran, 2013

The descent seemed to take forever, with the lights defining the bay growing closer every minute to his right. Hendricks could readily tell the wind would carry him well ashore on the west side of the bay. With a sickening feeling he crossed over a coast road and continued towards a dark spot beyond.

The ground appeared just before he landed, and he braced himself. Turning his parachute perpendicular to the wind combined with the soft soil managed to break his fall, though the impact knocked the wind out of him. The parachute dragged him through the sand for several seconds before he managed to release his shoulder fittings. He stopped abruptly in a cloud of dust, gasping for air.

Regaining his breath, Hendricks rolled over and gingerly stood up. Although everything hurt, it all seemed to be in working order except for a sharp pain in his left shoulder. He retrieved his parachute and seat pan, deflated his raft with his survival knife, and gathered everything into a pile, placing his helmet on top.

With the stars blotted out by the high clouds, his only sense of direction was the southerly wind blowing from the coast, which meant the dim lights he saw were to the east and south.

What the hell do I do now? First, I have to get away from here. Moving towards the coast is tempting, but it’s not like I’m gonna swim out of here, and there are lights and people in that direction. If I head north maybe I can get to where a helo can safely pick me up.

He pulled his survival radio out of his vest, turned it on, and immediately heard the strong, insistent signal of a distress beacon.

Damn!

Frantically digging into his pile of equipment for his seat pan, he pulled out the radio beacon—which activated when he ejected—and turned it off. The loud beacon on his survival radio immediately stopped; yet a weaker beacon remained barely audible.

Must be Boz. If his seat worked, he’s probably in the water. Hope he’s OK.

All this crap is heavy. I’ve got to hide it, but don’t want to dig. Maybe I can lug it to a better spot.

Hendricks removed his torso harness, unzipped his g-suit and added it to the pile, then put his harness back on to retain its attached survival gear: water, radio, flares, knife. He then gathered up the pile of equipment and started walking north.

Five miles southwest of Chabahar, 2115

Helo lights in the distance!

Assuming it was not Iranian, Scaggs fired his first flare. The H-60F helicopter spotted it right away, quickly established a hover, and lowered a swimmer. After a quick check, the swimmer hooked him to the hoist. Soon he was lying, still shivering, on his back on board the helicopter. It was a textbook recovery. The hoist operator yelled over the rotor noise coming in the open door: “Who are you?”

“Scaggs.”

“Have you seen the other pilot?”

“No. Not possible. Too dark.”

USS Ranger, 2120

The bridge phone buzzed. “Captain, the helo’s picked up the RIO, Lieutenant Scaggs. No sign yet of the pilot. We initially heard two beacons, but everything went silent after Scaggs got in the helo. They’re still arcing around up there looking, but no luck so far.”

“What’s the staff saying?”

“They want to look for another 30 minutes inside Iranian waters. They’re working with FIFTH Fleet to decide whether to pass a message to Iran via Oman.”

“Any reaction from Iran?”

“Nothing yet that we know of.”

Northwest of Konarak, Iran, 2120

It was a tough slog across the soft, sandy soil. The events of the night had drained Hendricks’s strength, and his sore left shoulder made carrying the equipment harder with every step. He stopped for a moment, sat down to rest, pulled out his radio, and turned it to guard frequency. There was nothing but static.

The radio had three modes: transmitting a beacon on 243.0 MHz, also known as guard frequency, and two-way voice on either guard or 282.2 MHz.

I wonder if they’re calling me, thinking I’m in the water. Do I leave this thing on, hoping to hear them, but running down my battery? Should I transmit on guard? Or switch frequencies? What if the Iranians hear me? I sure wish we’d briefed this, but I guess nobody expected anyone to end up in Iran.

Hendricks turned the radio off, re-stowed it, and looked at his watch, noting that it was just after 2130. He picked up his gear and continued north.

After 30 more minutes walking through the sandy terrain, he gradually began to see a low silhouette rising before him. When he drew closer it became a dense thicket of scrub vegetation, standing about five feet high, a hundred feet around, inside a dry wash. Relieved, he pushed into the brush, pulled an extra can of water out of his seat pan and stashed his equipment, carefully covering the orange and white parachute.

He backed out of the thicket and circled around it, continuing to the northwest. It soon became clear he would need to walk between a small cluster of buildings to his left and a brighter set of lights to his right.

If I’m going to keep going this way, I need to eventually talk to someone so they can pick me up.

He pulled out the radio once again, listened to the static on guard frequency, and then transmitted.

“THIS IS PACK 102, IS ANYONE UP THIS FREQUENCY?”

He immediately regretted it.

“BALEH.” And in broken English: “WHO IS THIS SPEAKING?”

USS Ranger, 2158

“Captain, we just heard a brief transmission on guard, asking if anyone was up. It was very short, but we heard the words ‘Pack 102” followed by an accented response asking who was calling, then dead silence. We’ve gotten a few inquiries from the Iranians on guard about our helos, which are now back over international waters.”

“I guess that’s good news and bad news. The pilot must be alive, but the Iranians know something is up based on the seat beacons, the helos flying off their coast, and now the radio call. Ask the staff if we can send a helo back in to continue looking. Can we do it covertly?”

Northwest of Konarak, Iran, 2400

After the radio scare, Hendricks continued walking, shifting to the northwest to pass between the two sets of lights. He checked his watch again.

Midnight, five and a half hours until dawn. Tired, but got to keep going.

As he pressed forward, he noticed an intermittent light piercing the dust-laden darkness. As he moved closer, it suddenly dawned on him that he was looking at a rotating aerodrome beacon.

Of course, they use those here, too! Ha—they even have the two white flashes alternating with green for a military airfield! This warrants a closer look—maybe I can learn something useful.

Hendricks shifted course slightly to his right, aiming for the left, or west, end of the right-hand line of brighter lights. He had carefully crossed two roads, passed another copse of low trees and crossed another two hundred yards of open dirt when he ran into the diagonal corner of a fence line. He followed the fence to the left around the corner, then continued on a straight line to the north along the fence.

After a hundred yards, he looked to his right and saw an airplane that looked like a Boeing 727 directly across the large perimeter road that ran inside the fence. The jet was parked inside a hardened structure consisting of two high north-south vertical walls, open on either end, with a concrete hangar and a small parking ramp set between.

Wow, this really is the airfield. I’ll walk a little further along the fence to see what I can see, then I’ve got to get the hell out of here before daylight.

Further along, another shelter—this one empty—rose out of the darkness, away from the fence. A hundred yards north and yet another set of walls closer to the fence, this time with two concrete shelters. Parked outside the southern hangar, backlit against dim lighting, was the silhouette of an F-4 Phantom.

It looks beautiful. I wonder whether ole’ Mehdi ever flew any of these jets.

Hendricks’s thoughts drifted back to his early days in flight school, just before the Iranian revolution in February 1979. The Shah had sent his future F-14 pilots to be trained in Pensacola, Florida alongside the U.S. Navy. Though he never had any direct contact with them, Hendricks was skeptical of the Iranian pilots’ reputation for difficulty with the swim requirements and the hilarious mistakes they sometimes made in the cockpit. He smiled, recalling stealing a blue Iranian uniform hat lying among all the other hats near the entrance of the Pensacola Officers Club. He had given it to a roommate, but still remembered the name stenciled inside: “Mehdi Bayat.”

His guilt about the prank—how would the officer ever get another hat?—was erased by the subsequent Tehran embassy hostage crisis. But he sometimes wondered about the fate of First Lieutenant Bayat. Did he manage to stay in the U.S. or go home? Did he flee later during the revolution? Was he persecuted, or did he end up flying in the Ayatollah’s air force? Is he even alive?

As he walked further, the fence turned slightly to the right then back to the north. Soon Hendricks saw, close to the fence, four empty aircraft ramps with a small building in the center, angled away to the northeast with a direct path to the runway beyond. Just beyond to the east he saw the backs of four arched-roofed aircraft shelters angled in the same direction, with their own ramp to the runway. The ends facing him were closed.

Cool. These must be their alert shelters. Wish I could see inside, but I don’t see any activity.

He moved further north, reaching a patch of scrub brush angling towards the fence that offered better cover. As he moved, he gradually saw the ramp feeding the second set of shelters. Another aircraft appeared, parked in the open.

Holy crap! I can’t believe it.

USS Ranger, 0200

“Sir, the helos are running low on fuel, with no sign of Hendricks and no more radio calls. Since the helos went dark, we’ve heard nothing more out of Iran, but Fleet is getting worried about an Iranian response.”

“OK, bring the helos back and tell the staff what we’re doing. Tell the Air Boss I want them back out at first light.”

Konarak Air Base, 0200

A Tomcat on the ramp? We were never told F-14s are based here—they’re supposed to be fighting the Iraqis. Maybe it’s here on a cross country—I’m sure the night life in Chahbahar is hot! Or maybe they’re getting worried about us and are checking this out as a potential base. Or is it something we’re supposed to see?

Hendricks backed away from the fence and sat. He pulled out his radio, but once again only heard static on both frequencies.

I’m guessing both Ranger and the Iranians think I’m in the water. That’s good. But if I transmit on either frequency before I get to a safe place, the Iranians might be able to tell I’m ashore and start looking for me, and my tracks will make me easier to find than a lost steer. Best to stay quiet for now.

But that damn Tomcat is sitting right there in the open, with a frigging starter cart next to it!

Naaah. Even if I got it started, then what? But . . .

Decision time. Head west, find an empty spot, then come up on the radio hoping for a helo rescue, or take the bull by the horns? The first is the smart play, but what the hell! If I can start the airplane just before daylight, I’ll have a fighting chance. Good thing I kept my torso harness! No time to go back and get my helmet, though, even if I could find it.

Konarak Air Base, 0500

After waiting and resting in the shelter of the underbrush, Hendricks stood up, passed through a derelict portion of the airfield fence, and walked cautiously towards the closest aircraft shelter.

I walked down the dry riverbed at survival school when they told us not to, and it worked, so maybe this will work as well.

Pausing to crouch by the dense brush growing next to the low wall at the edge of the tarmac, he confirmed the absence of any activity near the shelters. He took a few minutes to rehearse in his mind the exact sequence of tasks he would have to perform in order to get the Tomcat started.

OK, first light approaching, time to go. Never did the faint heart win the fair maiden.

He stepped over the wall, walked past the first set of concrete ramps, crossed seventy-five more yards of desert to the first shelter, then angled directly towards the Tomcat on the tarmac. Heart pounding, he pushed the cart’s electrical cable into the receptacle behind the F-14’s nose wheel, then quickly stepped towards the air connection near the left main tire.

Suddenly, out of the darkness: “cheh ghalati daari mikoni!?”¹

Hendricks froze for a moment, then slowly raised his hands and turned around. A single person faced him in the dim light.

“An American name tag on a flight suit? What are you, a spy? Some kind of saboteur? You’re not dressed like either one.”

“Lieutenant Joseph Hendricks, U.S. Navy.”

“Well how about that. Why are you here?”

Hendricks nodded towards the airplane. “I had to jump out of one of these off the coast, and the wind blew me ashore.”

“And now you have a big idea about stealing this jet.”

“Maybe.”

“Bold! And where would you go?”

“Back to the carrier.”

“That’ll be a neat trick. They won’t shoot you down?”

“I’ll have to take that chance. Better than spending time in an Iranian prison. And I can always eject if they won’t let me land.”

“You’re lucky. Ejection seat parts are the one thing we’ve had no trouble getting. The rest, not so easy.”

“What are you gonna do with me?”

“It’s not what I’m going to do with you, it’s what you’re going to do with me. You’re taking me with you.”

Hendricks put his arms down. “You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m very serious. I hate it here. I want to leave. I love my Iran, my Persia, not the Iran of bloodthirsty mullahs and corrupt Revolutionary Guards. I’ll go get my gear.”

“No, you’re not going anywhere. I’ll take you with me, but I don’t completely trust you yet. Besides, we can’t waste any more time, it’s getting lighter.”

“So, what, you want me to fly without being strapped in?”

“Who said anything about you doing the flying? Do you even know what you’re doing?”

“I’ve got two Iraqi kills in this airplane. How many do you have?”

“Sorry. Didn’t mean that. How many carrier landings do you have?”

“Ah, good point. But I still need to be strapped in.”

“Alright. You trust me, so I trust you. You take the harness. Just promise to put the eject lever in “pilot”—if you punch out, you go alone. By the way, what are you doing out here this time of morning?”

“Believe it or not, I left my prayer mat in the cockpit when we arrived last night. The Guards keep a close eye on religious fervor, Hendricks, and I needed it before morning prayers.”

“Call me Jimi. What do I call you?”

“Mehdi.”

“You’re kidding me. Mehdi Bayat by chance?”

“How do you know my last name?”

“I’ll save it, but I do have a story for you, and I can’t wait to hear about those MiG kills. Let’s get moving. Anything I need to know about the jet?”

“It’s a piece of crap.”

Hendricks wriggled out of his harness and handed it to Bayat, put the radio in his flight suit breast pocket, climbed the ladder and settled into the cockpit. The Iranian hit the start buttons on the cart, and the diesel engine and gas turbine air blower roared to life. The F-14’s electrical system clicked on after several tries, and air flowed into the cockpit shortly thereafter. Hendricks hit the left engine start switch and moved the throttle to idle once the RPM rose.

So far so good!

Bayat disconnected the F-14 from the cart and scrambled up the ladder. Hendricks already had the right engine in its start sequence and lowered the canopy.

“Nice work, Mehdi,” Hendricks yelled over the cockpit noise. “We’ll have to go with the ladder down. Right generator won’t come on. Wings coming forward. I’m not even going to try the flaps. Won’t bother arming my seat, either, but you go ahead.”

Glimpsing people running from the shelter towards the aircraft, Hendricks quickly steered the Tomcat down the ramp and onto the runway.

“Afterburners aren’t working!”

“Yeah, sorry about that—you’ll have to go in mil power only.”

At 140 knots Hendricks eased back on the stick and the Tomcat lifted into the now-still air.

I can’t believe we pulled this off. Wake up everybody!

The F-14 entered a right turn past a sliver of rising sun, and almost immediately was over the water, headed south.

USS Ranger, 0605

“Captain, sir, sorry to wake you. We have indications of an aircraft launching out of Chabahar and heading towards us. We believe it’s an F-4.”

“Launch the alert 15 fighters.”

“We’re doing that right now, sir.”

South of Chabahar, 0610

Hendricks leveled the F-14 at 20,000 feet and dialed up the Ranger’s radio beacon. The needle and distance indicator both spun for a few moments then locked on: due south at 80 miles. He pulled out his radio.

I guess it’s OK to talk now! Boy is Ranger going to be surprised.

“GRAY EAGLE THIS IS PACK 102 ON GUARD.”

“CALLING GRAY EAGLE ON GUARD, SAY AGAIN?”

“THIS IS PACK 102. AIRBORNE IN AN IRANIAN TOMCAT OUT OF KONARAK AIRFIELD, HEADED SOUTH TOWARDS MOTHER.”

“IS THIS SOME KIND OF JOKE? IF YOU’RE ON THE FLIGHT DECK MESSING AROUND, KNOCK IT OFF.”

“NO! THIS IS LIEUTENANT JOSEPH HENDRICKS. I NEED TO LAND THIS JET ON MOTHER.”

“Mehdi, any fighters on alert at Konarak that could launch and mess this up?”

“Two F-4s in 30-minute alert, but they’ll never get off that fast.”

USS Ranger, 0615

“Captain, I have an update. We just got a call on guard that appears to be from the Iranian aircraft, claiming to be Lieutenant Hendricks.”

“You’re kidding.”

“And he wants to land here.”

“Ooohhkaaaay. I assume we’re doing a pull-forward for the alert launches, but I don’t want to land an Iranian Tomcat on Ranger.”

“What should we tell him?”

“Clear him to approach the ship at slow speed. Send one of our fighters to a station off Chabahar, and the other to rendezvous with the Iranian. I need to know more.”

“Aye, sir. We’re also hearing noise from Konarak tower that they may be launching an alert.”

“Any other good news? For heaven’s sake, make sure the admiral knows what’s going on.”

North Arabian Sea, 0628

“Mehdi, there’s an F-14 approaching from our left side. It looks like he wants to join. Now you’ll get to see a real Tomcat!”

“GRAY EAGLE, BRAVE 204. WE’RE WITH THE IRANIAN JET. I CLEARLY SEE HENDRICKS IN THE FRONT SEAT BECAUSE HE’S NOT WEARING A HELMET. THERE’S SOMEONE ELSE IN THE BACK SEAT, ALSO WITH NO HELMET, BUT I HAVE NO IDEA WHO IT IS. WE’RE SWITCHING HIM OVER TO 282.2.”

“PACK 102, HOW DO YOU HEAR?”

“VERY SCRATCHY.”

“ROGER. MOTHER’S CLEARED YOU FOR AN OFFSET DESCENT TO 1200 FEET IN THE VICINITY OF THE SHIP. I’LL STAY ON YOUR WING. WHO’S THAT IN YOUR BACK SEAT?”

“LONG STORY.”

After a few minutes: “PACK 102, BRAVE 204. MOTHER’S DIVERTING YOU TO MUSCAT, OMAN.”

“I HAVE A FUEL TRANSFER PROBLEM THAT’S GETTING WORSE. DON’T HAVE ENOUGH TO MAKE IT TO OMAN. NEED TO LAND ON MOTHER NOW.”

“ROGER, I’LL GET BACK TO YOU.”

After a few more minutes: “PACK 102. GRAY EAGLE WANTS YOU TO FLY ALONGSIDE THE SHIP AT A HALF MILE AND A THOUSAND FEET AND EJECT. YOU ARE NOT, REPEAT NOT, TO LAND ON MOTHER.”

“BRAVE 204, ONE SMALL PROBLEM. I GAVE MY TORSO HARNESS TO THE PERSON YOU SEE IN THE BACK SEAT. I CANNOT EJECT. MY ONLY OPTION IS LANDING ON MOTHER. I ONLY HAVE 2000 POUNDS OF USABLE FUEL, SO WE NEED TO GET THIS DONE ASAP.”

Pierside, Naval Air Station North Island, California, 16 April 1984

The crane lifted the freshly painted F-14A off the Ranger’s starboard aft elevator and gently deposited it on the pier, where it was quickly connected a tow tractor. A brake rider climbed into the front seat.

Two figures, one in a flight suit and the other in civilian clothes, stood in the shadow of a small utility building near the pier. As the tractor drove off with the Tomcat, one turned to the other and, in an accented voice, said, “I always meant to ask, was that a real fuel transfer problem?”

A shrug. “Like we say back in Oklahoma, lettin’ the cat outta the bag is a whole lot easier than puttin’ it back.”

Admiral James A. “Sandy” Winnefeld, U.S. Navy (Retired), graduated from the Georgia Institute of Technology with a degree in Aerospace Engineering and received his commission through the NROTC program. He began his naval service as a fighter pilot, flying the F-14 Tomcat during several deployments to the Western Pacific and Arabian Gulf regions, and serving as an instructor at the Navy Fighter Weapons School, also known as TOPGUN. During this period he also was senior aide to General Colin L. Powell. After fighter squadron command, he graduated from the Navy’s nuclear power school and subsequently commanded USS Cleveland (LPD-7) and USS Enterprise(CVN-65). He also led the Theodore Roosevelt Carrier Strike Group while supporting operations in support of our troops in Iraq. Later he commanded NATO Joint Command Lisbon, Striking and Support Forces NATO, and the United States Sixth Fleet. After serving as the Joint Staff Director of Strategic Plans and Policy, he assumed command of United States Northern Command and the North American Aerospace Defense Command. He retired in 2015 after four years serving as the ninth Vice Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the nation’s number two ranking military officer.

Endnotes

1. “What the heck are you doing?”

Featured Image: “Iranian F-14 Tomcat Aircraft” by HDI VFX (via Artstation)

Fiction Contest Week

2nd Place Finisher

By Michael Barretta

Grace saw him—slim-waisted, broad-shouldered, piercing blue eyes, close-cropped brown hair a quarter-inch past military. He stood apart from the potbellies and balding pates of the leaders. It was perhaps more accurate to say they gave him space. She watched him for a few moments. His eyes scanned the room, automatically assessing threats, figuring out who needed to be neutralized first, the best place for cover, and where to procure a weapon. He would be unapproachable until he finished. She waited. It was more than inevitable that they would find each other.

She signed a contract.           

Without any person in dire need of killing, he focused on her. She could tell. She had just as much training as he in the arts of observation and analysis. Perhaps more. She didn’t have a weapon—technically speaking, in this context, she was the weapon. According to the machine intelligence consulting on the Black September program, they had a natural compatibility rating of 61 percent, an exceptional rating. Old married couples barely breached fifty percent. After training and aesthetic augmentation, the machines estimated her chances of success at 68 percent. She suffered a lot of pain for a measly seven-point bump, but every point counted when their lives hung in the balance.

His twelve years of service, five of which were in the Black September program, should not end on a stainless steel table. No one had ever told her what her fate would be, but she imagined it would be something like that.

_______________________________________

After she passed the background checks and signed the government nondisclosure agreement, the Special Programs recruiter provided background and particulars.

“Do you know who Yasser Arafat is?” asked the recruiter.

“Yes,” she replied. “That was a long time ago.”

“It was,” said the recruiter. “Have you heard of Black September?”

“My history is very broad, but not terribly specific. So, no, I don’t think I have.”

“Black September was a Palestinian terrorist organization. They were the ones who murdered the Israeli athletes at the 72’ Munich Olympics.”

“Okay, yes, my classes did cover that. That, too, was a long time ago.”

“I am sure your classes covered the events, but I bet they did not go into the details,” he said. “The Olympic massacre was a botched operation. Poor execution. Pointless deaths. Black September didn’t achieve any of its stated goals, but the attack demonstrated a willingness to spread conflict beyond the Middle East. It stimulated the West to create specialized, military-trained, counterterrorism units which would make further operations . . . uh, problematic. But more important, Black September’s operation made it difficult for the PLO to portray itself as an aggrieved party. The PLO wanted wins, but they could not win so big that it would prompt their destruction. In every conflict, a certain level of violence is expected and tolerated, but Black September exceeded that threshold by massacring innocents abroad at an international event dedicated to peaceful coexistence. Yasser Arafat needed to decommission Black September.”

“So, Arafat had a problem,” she said.

“To say the least. There he was, a political leader with a very dangerous unit of elite killers. How do you turn them off?” asked the recruiter.

“You kill them.”

“I like your answer. Killing them is one possible solution—if the secret could be kept—but everything leaks, and if it did, it would have sowed violent discord among the PLO factions. Do you understand?”

“I do.”

The recruiter sipped his coffee and then put the mug down. Her coffee cooled in front of her, untouched. He never took his eyes from her, assessing in some predatory cat-and-mouse kind of way. There were programs running behind his eyes, ones he wasn’t born with. She kept herself composed and hoped she wasn’t giving too much away.

“At the very least, killing men responsible for the execution of policy is . . .” He searched for the proper word. “Distasteful.”

“How else do you stop men like that?” she asked.

“With love.”

_______________________________________

The waist-high slit of her black dress parted around her leg. She kneeled, back straight, head up, and adjusted the strap on her right high heel. There was nothing wrong with the strap. She rose and walked toward him holding her clutch just under the swell of her breasts. It was the only thing she carried and the only place she could possibly conceal a weapon. She knew his eyes would follow. Damn near every other male eyeball followed, too, but she kept her focus on him.

She knew him. He knew her, though they had never met. As a Sensor, assigned to the Combined Special Forces Operations Center at Hurlburt Field, Florida, she was one-half of an Alpha Commando team in the Strategic Regional Dominance program. She manned the Q-link console that fed him near-real and real-time intelligence data to aid in tactical decision-making.

“Hello,” she said to him.

“You’re Topsail,” he said.

Even without the benefit of the Q-link, he recognized her. The Q-link, a powerful system of quantum computers and technological telepathic links, transmitted voice, but that was the least of its capabilities. It transmitted urgencies and imperatives, overlays, and orders. She didn’t think the mystery of who she was would have survived the night’s meticulous planning, but he figured her out far faster than she expected. He seized the initiative, but that’s what men like him did.

“My name is Grace. You must be Hoplite,” she replied. “How did you know?”

“My name is Thomas, Tom, and you’re just as I imagined you to be.” He held out his hand.

She thought his statement an innocent lie fashioned as a disarming compliment. The disarming part concerned her. She took his hand and assessed. It was warm, his blood pressure elevated, as was his pulse. A cocktail party was a battleground where the combatants used words and posture and money. The situation might be less fatal than physical combat, but it was even more fluid than contact with armed enemy forces. His self-inhibited fight-or-flight response was normal. She felt the same way.

His handshake was respectfully firm. Many men took a light and loose grip with a woman as if dealing with an inferior. She got a decent read on his blood sugar. Normal. But the bizarre chemical cocktail of his recent demilitarization fogged the remaining parameters. Some of the enhancements, such as the virally delivered augments that rewired his cells for greater speed, strength, stamina, and cognition, were permanent. Anything soft-wired into his nervous system, such as the electroplaques and bioelectronic support measures, were removed. He was probably in some level of pain, though he did not show it.

“Should I be flattered?” she asked. “I hope so.”

“You should,” he said. He released her hand and she let it linger for a moment. He kept his attention on her face and eyes.

Charming, confident, and gracious by nature, she thought. His responses didn’t have the hard-polished edge of training. His file indicated he was raised in a solid middle-class environment. His mother and father were alive and still married to each other. Discretion and courtesy probably played an important role in his upbringing, but it was best not to jump to conclusions. He was a highly refined killer, steeped in a chemical cocktail that soaked up 12 years of worth of regret and remorse accumulated in the service of policy. If she failed this mission, he would probably die.

And perhaps she would, too.

_______________________________________

Grace had gone to school for accounting. Her father had told her that she needed to choose a professional degree and accounting suited her tendency toward introversion and satisfied her aptitude with data. The profession had a generally agreed set of conventions, but a clever individual could bend numbers to suit purposes. While she was in school, breakthroughs in quantum computing gave rise to machine intelligences that could perform all but the most creative human intellectual work. She delayed entry into a soft economy and pursued a master’s degree, but still graduated obsolete. Powerful thinking algorithms perfused across the white-collar landscape. Despondent from the continuous rejection, she stopped at the campus military recruiter.

“The machine minds do damn near everything,” she complained to the recruiter.

“Not everything,” said the recruiter. “There are a few things humans do better.”

“Name one.”

“Art, any of the arts, really. Music, literature, painting, war. You get the picture. No pun intended.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t have any talent in those areas.”

“If you have some time, we can find out.”

Since graduating summa cum laude from a highly respected program into a licensed profession was no guarantee of economic success, all Grace had was time. A practical eternity of pointless service work stretched before her; still, she wanted to leave. Sitting across from a military recruiter didn’t seem like such a good idea. Destructive power had concentrated so acutely that highly dedicated subnational actors could kill tens of thousands and the Western response was to engage in perpetual low-level warfare. Chasing down fanatics with homemade polio or sarin gas held little appeal. She liked to think she could hold herself apart from the world she lived in.

“Okay,” she said.

“Well, come this way. We have a testing room through here.” He stood and she followed.

“How long will this take?” she asked.

“It takes as long as it takes, but you can leave at any time. That is part of the evaluation.”

The room was small but comfortable, with a testing station on a modern wooden desk. She sat. He printed a form that explained her rights and told her that testing was voluntary and would not guarantee acceptance. If she scored well enough, the military would contact her and make an offer.

“You can’t have any devices while testing,” said the recruiter.

 She handed over her phone and jewel and signed the forms. The recruiter smiled with faint embarrassment when he picked up her forms.

“Military,” he said. “We love our paper.”

When the recruiter left the room, the workstation spoke to her, not in the clipped machine manner of the university work stations, but natural language.

“Hello,” said the machine.

“Hello,” she replied.

“Shall we begin?”

The machine offered mathematical problems and asked her opinion on current events and literature. It asked her about life in the sorority house and her parents and little brother. The conversation ebbed and flowed. She felt perfectly relaxed and at ease, as if she was talking to her mother or girlfriends. They talked philosophy and ethics. It showed her images, both gorgeous and grotesque, and asked for her comments. It homed in on her hopes and fears. It knew too much about her.

The machine paused and for a moment, and she thought that it had glitched. She sat in the quiet and waited.

“Do you care?” asked the machine. Its sudden voice in the quiet was like a bullet shot.

“About what?” she replied.

“Do you care?” repeated the machine.

“I don’t understand the question.”

“Do you care?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Damn it, I don’t know. Someone has to.”

“Tell me about love.”

“You’re just a machine,” she said.

“You’re just a human,” said the machine.

The workstation went dark and she sat in the cool quiet. The lights seemed dimmer and she felt very tired. The recruiter opened the door.

“I have been authorized to tender you an offer.”

“For employment?” she asked.

“For further testing at the Special Programs Office.”

“Is that good?”

“I don’t know. I have never met anyone qualified for Special Programs.”

_______________________________________

“Can I get you a drink?” he offered.

“Yes, just water. I like to be clear-headed,” said Grace.

He left and came back and handed her two glasses and poured an equal measure of Pellegrino into each. He set the bottle aside and took a glass back. “To us,” said Tom.

They touched their glasses together.

“Do you want to go on the patio? It’s cooler.” Grace gestured to the crowded room. “Less intimidating,” she said.

He looked around and determined that he would not be missed. Most everyone at the party was completely involved in whatever they were doing. The general who invited him was nowhere to be seen. “Yes, definitely.”

They exited through a set of French doors. The cool breeze set the gauzy curtains billowing. A few irritated glances turned their way. He pulled the door closed, trapping the sounds of the party within. The phosphorescent fruit hanging from ornamental-splice cherry trees cast a cool blue glow, splitting shadows from the light of the moon. He followed her across the stone patio to the raised seating at the perimeter. They sat.

“I told myself that when I made it back, I would find you, and say, thank you, so . . . Thank you,” he said.

“You’re very welcome. Aren’t we supposed to thank each other for our service?” she asked, smiling almost imperceptibly.

“Don’t you have the bumper sticker? I thought cars were supposed to come with them,” he said.

“No, it’s an expensive option.”

“I don’t even have a car, but when I get one, it will have a sticker.”

“Good for you,” she said.

She reached out and touched his lower chest, left side, where the round had penetrated.

“I was there when . . .”

“I know.” He wrapped his hand over hers.

_______________________________________

Her stomach heaved and she vomited all over the floor. She hit the kill switch and gasped for air.

“That’s perfectly normal,” said her instructor. “Actually, you lasted much longer than most first-timers.”

“It’s so disorienting.” The world was a stunning chiaroscuro of sights and sounds. Data flowed and overfilled buffers, clotting her synapses. Vision and hearing and touch were not in the eyes and ears and skin. It was in the brain, and her brain was overloaded from the attempted exchange. She didn’t even recognize the tactical package, much less move it to its destination.

The problem was assertion and resistance. Consciousness, the product of quantum vibrations emanating from protein microtubules in the human brain’s neurons, asserted its worldview and resisted the imposition of another. The conscious mind liked to filter and interpret its own data, and the Q-link made an end run around it. The Q-link bored past the resistance and mediated, smoothing over disparities and implanting intelligence data from one person to another in such a fashion that it was perfectly understood and instantly integrated.

“Have some water.”

She gulped the glass down, unconcerned with appearances. Water dribbled down the corners of her mouth.

“Is it always like this?”

“No, it gets better with a permanently assigned operative. An accommodation is reached. Two become one. It takes a little bit of time to find a rhythm. And, yes—it can get much worse when the operative is engaged.”

“Engaged?”

“In combat, there is feedback. You can feel it. The adrenaline rush, the fear . . .”   

“Your operative was killed, wasn’t he?” she asked the instructor.

“Yes.”

“What did it feel like?”

“It hurts. It still hurts.”

“Did you love him?”

“I don’t know. I never met him. I think so.”

_______________________________________

 “Yasser Arafat had a problem,” said the Special Programs recruiter. “Yes, he could have killed Black September, at least he could have tried, but instead he had a party.”

“A party, sure, why not?”

“He set them up with beautiful women who would become their wives. He provided them with well-paying government jobs and homes. He gave them the possibility of children and a future that did not involve a bloody death.”

“He gave them something to lose,” she said.

“Exactly. They took it. These were men optimized for war. They knew nothing else, and later, he tested his program and tried to recruit these men for further operations. To a man, they refused.”

“Why is this important to me? Are you saying that part of this special program is to marry one of your operatives?”

“Yes, it is a possibility.”

“I think it’s too much to ask.”

“You don’t watch much reality TV, do you? Of course, it is your decision. Participation is voluntary. But consider this, your marriage will enjoy the fullest support of the United States Government, in the form of substantial immediate and lifetime benefits. Understand, that arranged marriages are often more successful than voluntary ones.”

“Why is that?”

“The stakes are higher.”

_______________________________________

Hoplite chased a loose nuke. The Western response to the limited Indo-Pak nuclear exchange was swift. Coalition nuclear forces promised massive retaliation on the next government that used a nuclear weapon. Despite the support of the United States, the remnants of the Pakistani civilian government collapsed and a deeply aggrieved military ruled from underground bunkers. Coalition Special Forces moved swiftly to seize surviving Pakistani nuclear weapons lost in the chaos.

They didn’t get all of them, and fragmented Pakistani forces promised to put surviving nukes back into play. It put the United States in the curious position of having to conduct operations against a nominal ally to prevent catastrophic escalation.

Topsail linked data-fused radiological and topographical satellite maps. A neutron source moved along the M1 motorway between Islamabad and Peshawar. A Deep Black Intelligence satellite rose over the horizon, and she accessed its sensors. The low initial angle was useless, but as it rose higher, she fed a continuous tactical view of a six-vehicle Pakistani convoy a mile and half ahead of the Alpha commando team. The convoy stalled at a massive pileup of disabled and burned-out refugee vehicles. She linked the identities of probable combatants and capabilities.

The pursuit team slalomed among the broken vehicles. Radiation-poisoned bodies of civilians burst under the impact of heavy run-flat tires. Fairy dust—nanoscale sensors deployed over the battlespace—billowed into gray clouds with the vehicle’s passage.

“Hoplite, this is Topsail. One of the vehicles has stopped. Technical activity. Probable IED. Delaying action. They are trying to kill your pursuit.”

The tactical package filled his head. He knew where all the players were and what they were doing—probabilities, capabilities. An artificial intelligence with supernatural power integrated satellite sensor data and fairy dust returns into a comprehensive picture of the fight.

“Copy.” It was less a voice in his head. It was impressions, feelings, intuitions that he had learned to trust. It was like acknowledging yourself, but the verbalization gave it weight and meaning.

“Space it out,” he said to his team. The vehicles were bunching. A single weapon could take them all out.

The vehicles opened, but they couldn’t slow down. Otherwise, they would risk a 100-kiloton warhead detonation. They pushed the Bulldog Light Tactical Vehicles as hard as they could. An IED exploded adjacent to the lead Bulldog and sheared it apart with the force of the blast. Icons and statuses winked out in his mind. His vehicle hit debris and came up on two wheels and rolled. Airbags deployed, pinning the crew in position. The Bulldog slid into abandoned civilian vehicles and came to rest. The bags deflated.

“Out,” he ordered. He climbed out, following the driver. High-velocity rounds snapped and whined around him. Three others egressed the vehicle, took cover, and returned fire. He pinged the battlefield LAN and assessed his casualties. He put them out of his mind.

“Hoplite, this is Topsail. The nuke is stalled, half a klick ahead.” A God’s eye view of the tactical situation filled his head. Wrecked vehicles, heat signatures, topography.

He cast subvocalized orders to the surviving members of the team, and they abandoned the relative safety of cover and ran with inhuman speed, leapfrogging each other, avoiding the worst of the massed fire. He saw the stalled Pakistani convoy. A bulldozer worked to clear a path.

“Topsail, this is Hoplite. Alpha strike?” he asked. The quickest way to end this was for a Lightning II or Pegasus to drop a few JDAMs. It wasn’t likely—too much pressure on intelligence. The only way to know the nuke was out of play was to see it destroyed and make a report. An airstrike could not make guarantees.

“Negative, S-600 missile system is active.” The S-600 missile system covered the entire performance spectrum, from hypersonic glide vehicles to super-agile stealth targets. Nothing but an overwhelming saturation attack would neutralize it. That wouldn’t happen until after the nuke was confirmed destroyed.

His team moved. Leapfrogging forward. Seeking cover. Suppressing.

He selected targets and shot them on the move. He shot the bulldozer driver and the vehicle spun, riding up on vehicles and crushing them. It stopped. He checked his sleeve tab. Radiation had attenuated in the weeks since the exchange, but he still soaked up fallout Roentgens, not quite a lifetime dose, but close enough for a painful course of antirads if he survived the day.

A penetrator round hit him in the lower chest, knocking him backward to the ground.

_______________________________________

She felt the full magnitude of the hit as if someone had shot her below her left breast. She screamed and arched her back, breathless with phantom pain. The tungsten-tipped penetrator had bored through his outer body armor, exploded flesh, and shattered against the layered polysaccharides shielding his organs. The straps in her chair kept her from falling to the floor. A technician rushed to her.

“Stupid, stupid,” said the technician. He dialed the link fidelity to its minimum.       

“I need it. I need it”, she gasped. She reached out and set link fidelity to its original setting. “I’ve never been shot before.”

“You still haven’t,” said the technician.

The pain faded to a dull shadow of its original intensity.

“Are you still in the fight?” the technician asked.

“Yes,” she said.

_______________________________________

The shattered chunks of bio-armor beneath his skin ground together. The pain shunt turned off the agony. He ripped open a trauma bandage with his teeth, peeled back the exterior spiderweave armor plate and fabric uniform, and slapped the bandage on. He felt cool relief.  

“Are you okay?” she asked.

Someone cared, he thought. Someone is watching over me.

_______________________________________

The watch officer spoke to her.

“Failsafe,” he said.

She linked the code word. She had no choice. Once spoken, it was in her head. It was in his head. The situation was spiraling out of control. The stakes were too high.

He acknowledged. Failsafe invoked operational necessity, but he had figured that out the moment the mission came their way. No one wanted a loose nuke in play. The command was unconcerned with his life. The only thing that mattered was mission success. The order just formalized the process. He cast the order over the battlefield LAN.

Reserve stimulants filled his body. Adrenaline and Synthamines dumped into his bloodstream.

“Running Hot,” he said. The clock had started. The human body had its limits. He broke cover and pressed. He reached the target vehicle through heavy fire and blew the door off with demolition charges. The weapon sat in a cradle tied down with thick nylon straps. Outside, his surviving teammates took defensive positions to allow him time to work. They went dark one by one as they fought off the small army arrayed against them.

He took his remaining demolition charges and stuck them over the casing. An external explosion would not result in a nuclear blast, just a radiological one. It would shatter the pit, spreading toxic plutonium across the area, but rendering the weapon useless.

The last member of his team went dark. His relayed info packets bounced back unanswered. There was no one left to receive. His only connection was his Sensor and she was thousands of miles away.

Unimpeded, enemy forces converged.

“I’m sorry,” he said to her.    

He leaped from the truck and ran, directing fire with superhuman accuracy despite trembling, overtaxed muscles. Another round hit him in the back and he spun and fell. The truck exploded and she felt muted white-hot pain.

The connection severed.

_______________________________________

She gripped the Q-link technician’s arm and squeezed, drawing blood. The watch officer loomed over her.

“Hoplite is down,” she said.

With enough bandwidth, you could rule the world or feel it die. She felt crippled, blinded, as if part of her had been stripped away. Not the return to self, the controlled takedown of the Q-link, but a sudden flattening of the world. Color desaturated. Sense attenuated to something dull and lifeless. She started the reboot process.

“Did he finish? Is the nuke destroyed?” asked the watch officer. “Global Strike needs to know now, or they’re calling in a FireFall mission.”

“Yes,” she said, but she didn’t know for sure. “Are they going to get him?”

“I don’t know,” said the watch officer.

The machine rebuilt the connection. She felt him, crumpled against the side of a car, dusted with hot ash of a burst nuke, a penetrated lung filled with blood. Radiation levels rose such that in an hour or two even the clever little nanochines couldn’t repair the damage. A rescue drone orbited outside the engaged area, waiting for Aerospace Force hypersonic glide vehicles to obliterate the S-600 site.

“I’m here,” she said.

“I know,” he replied.

_______________________________________

He leaned forward. Closer, she saw the immense fatigue smothered with radiation medicine and pain killers from his recent demilitarization. Left to his own, he would transgress. He was too strong, too quick, too violent. Too misunderstood by the people he had protected. Violent death was a high probability for his kind.

She met him halfway. How could she not? He had killed so many and she had been with him every step of the way.

She leaned forward and kissed him, and he felt it. He was helpless against it.

So was she. Participation is voluntary, said the Special Programs recruiter. That was not exactly true. Each of them knew means and methods. Each of them had a king’s ransom of cutting-edge technology integrated into their bodies. Each of them was far too dangerous to return to the world unaccompanied. They needed to watch over and keep each other safe. Her heart raced and breath quickened. She didn’t even attempt to resist the cascading reaction. It was too beautiful to be believed.

Even without the drugs, she thought that maybe they could love each other, but nothing was left to chance. The stakes were far too high. Any emotion at all could be chemically catalyzed. Fear. Anger. Hope.

But the greatest of these was love.

Michael Barretta is a retired naval aviator who flew SH-60B Seahawk helicopters. He has master’s degrees in strategic planning from the Naval Postgraduate School and in English and government contracting from the University of West Florida. He is currently employed as a maintenance test pilot at Naval Air Station Whiting Field.

Featured Image: “Black Kit” by René Aigner (via Artstation)

Fiction Contest Week

3rd Place Finisher

By Hal Wilson

The world was burning. Or so it seemed from the after-deck of the MV Rawalpindi.

Whipped from Java’s farthest edge, scorched by the hundred thousand forest fires in-between, the westerly winds rushed at them. From beyond Bandung, beyond even Jakarta, they ran like scalded dogs until they came here, the Lombok Strait. Even out at sea, sweat evaporated the moment that it beaded; lost into air that was dry-baked, as if from an oven. The sky was shaded like thick terracotta, backlit by a disc the color of bleached bone.

Leaning on the ship’s guardrail, First Officer Larissa Barr gave silent thanks for being offshore. The air here tasted like the burnt phosphor of a struck match; inland, it could only be worse. She jerked as she felt a splash of warmth on her neck. Another. On her forearm, now. It was the hot, hard touch of over-cooked rain. She scowled: the water, blackened with ash from the fires, offered no respite from the heat.

“First Officer Barr,” a monotone voice issued from the ship’s speakers. “First Officer Barr to the AI cabin.”

She pushed from the railing and headed amidships, taking the ladder up from the aft deck.  As she went, she glimpsed the Rawalpindi’s funnel, branded with the stylized wolf-head of the Wolverhampton Wanderers: a black outline with two harsh, white eyes. A quixotic quirk, courtesy of the ship’s master, but the 5,000-ton platform support vessel was otherwise outwardly rigged for its last job: supply runs to Indonesian oilfields in the Java Sea.

Boatswain Shekhar Magar saluted her at Rawalpindi’s davit, where he and a workparty fussed over the ship’s rigid-hulled inflatable boat.

“Any problems, Bosun?” She did not slow her pace.

“Just readying for launch, ma’am.” Belying his salt-and-pepper hair and faint paunch, Magar’s dark eyes were as stoic as a younger man’s. She waved him to carry on as she turned at a hatch, stepping with relief into the air-conditioned passageway.

The deck-head inside loomed low and the old fluorescent lamps flickered. But in here, at least, she could breathe. At the AI cabin, a technician greeted her with a dismayed face. Server stacks waited behind him like soldiers on parade; the air was suddenly close again.

“Bad news, boss.” His voice was that of a man accustomed to nothing else. “It’s the heat again. The cooling systems keep dropping out. We’ll have to keep the AI at minimal capacity, unless you want us melting the bloody thing.” Despite the promise of last decade’s futurists, AI technology had still not achieved miniaturization. Rawalpindi’s AI, hastily installed barely three weeks ago, occupied this entire cabin. Barr fanned herself to no avail.

“Will it still be able to run the spike-wedge?”

“Yeah,” the tech nodded, “just tell the captain we’ll need Head Office to cover the rest.”

Barr continued to the ship’s bridge, where the other half of Rawalpindi’s deck department was at work. Captain John Cresswell was a giant of a man, an ex-Royal Navy commander recruited onto this voyage after retiring some years ago. His broad frame was topped with greying hair and a face like a granite cliff—all craggy, harsh edges. He waved.

“Number one.”

“Sir,” she said, “AI cabin reports we’re down to spike-wedge ops only for the duration.”

Cresswell reached for an old-fashioned satellite phone, his face darkening.

“Cressie here. Hark up. The AI’s down to spike-wedge only. Get on with upstairs, will you? They’ll need gap-filling meantime. Get those joint-effects types to earn their keep. Sound.”

“Are we aborting?” Barr asked as the call ended. “We can’t run horizon sims without the AI.”

“Bloody ‘ell we ain’t,” Cresswell snapped. The pressure of the moment betrayed itself as his clipped Naval College tone slipped, replaced by the lilt of his native Black Country accent.

He gestured at the terracotta gloom beyond the Rawalpindi’s generous bridge windows.

“Hainan Bonanza is almost in the Strait. We’ll ‘ave ‘em inside the hour, as planned.”

She stepped closer, imploring him. “If we wait to restore coolant to the AI, we can still make contact as it transits the Java Sea.”

“You saw the algorithms,” Cresswell scoffed. “With each hour we run north, our risk profile skyrockets. This here’s our only shot an’ you know it.”

Barr bit her tongue. She knew he was right. Cresswell held out an e-paper. He jabbed at the flexible polymer screen.

“Now look here: Head Office has our quad-copter arriving in five. Is Bosun Magar ready aft to receive it?”

“Aye, he’s finishing prep with the RHIB meantime.”

“Sound. I’ll hold course and speed: you go back aft and join Magar and his party. With the AI down, I want some senior eyes-on through this op. Keep it on the straight and narrow.”

She took a breath to protest—then relented.

“Aye, boss.”

Cresswell saw her look and a miniature smile quirked at his lips. His accent slipped back in.

“Now get gooin’—and don’t do it for us. Do it for the prize.”

_______________________________________

“What if they just shoot us all?” Boatswain Magar stood with Barr as the oversized quad-copter drone emerged from the terracotta haze. Out there, somewhere, a company-owned Hybrid Air Vehicle mothership was serving as their floating armory.

“You saw the briefings,” she spoke sidelong at him. “It’s a tanker. And not like mine in the Royal Fleet Auxiliary. No guns. 20 crew. And millions of barrels of light, sweet crude.”

“This is a bad idea.” He mused. “Having you fly out with us, that is.”

They raised their hands against the downdraft as the delivery drone approached the deck, its four torso-sized rotors accelerating the moment it detached its cargo container. It raced back into the haze at once, pilot-lights glinting. Magar waved for his party to start unpacking.

“Cressie’s orders. And,” Barr moved to help, “with the AI down, it makes sense. Anyway, I’m on the Letter.” The Letter, with a capital L. There was no need to elaborate further.

“Did you even train to fly these things?” Magar grunted with exertion. Barr pulled away packing tape and retrieved one of the cargo pods from within. Matte-black carbon-fibre frames lay inside: a flight-suit, visored helmet, backpack, and two twin-turbine wrist mounts.

“I trained, Bosun,” she nodded. “And I know better than to get in your way. You go in first.”

The Fairbarn-Sykes knife tattooed onto Magar’s forearm flexed as he hefted the contents of another pod: a shining-chrome tubular barrel, with a pistol grip and a cable-linked backpack. It rested in his arms like a baby.  

“Why join up anyway, ma’am?” he asked abruptly. “On this mission. Why volunteer?”

“You ever try buying a decent house in Berkshire with two kids and this job market?”

“No.”

“It was rhetorical, Bosun.”

Barr started shrugging on the matte-black kit from the cargo pod. Magar said nothing, and she regarded his dark, impassive eyes.

“How about you? What made you sign on as our foreman?” She was curious: was Magar a mercenary, or an adventurer?

“My old man was a Gurkha. All sorts of stories from back in Helmand. Me? 20 years in the fleet with nothing more than bar fights ashore in Singapore.” He shrugged, looking at the haze. “They promised it would be an interesting job. We’ll see if they were right.”

Barr frowned. An adventurer, then. She would definitely let him go in first.

_______________________________________

The Hainan Bonanza loomed from the blood-orange haze as a mountain pierces through fog. The ship’s stark white flanks, streaked with rust and ash like so much war-paint, were as sheer as an iceberg and twice as stern. Its fat, broad bow crushed the waters like a slow-motion avalanche. At some 670,000 tonnes’ displacement, with a hull longer than the Empire State Building, it was the largest floating vessel in human history. And, nestled in its guts, four million barrels of oil lay as snug as a clutch of robin’s eggs.

For a ship so vast, entering the Lombok Strait, just 12 miles wide, is an exercise in discipline.

It is also the ideal ambush point.

Approaching the Bonanza head-on was the Rawalpindi’s RHIB. At barely 26 feet in length, it raced over the waves like an insect on a pond. Stung by the salt spray, chilled by the 30-knot wind speed, Barr looked up at the Bonanza. It filled her helmet visor, looming ever-larger until she felt that this towering vastness was the only thing on all the oceans. Her gorge rose in her throat and her guts knotted tighter than a banker’s grip. Not for the first time, she wondered if they were tilting at windmills: would they be like so many ants, dashing themselves hopelessly against this boulder?

“Final check!” Magar cried over the roaring winds, looking at the four other passengers.

Anonymous behind their matte-black helmets, they each gave thumb-ups. Pulled back from her reverie, Barr noted the green icons on her visor-screen and gave the same gesture. Magar nodded and pulled down his own visor. He used one hand to describe a lazy, vertical rotation. All five passengers got to their feet. Their remote-driven RHIB killed its outboard engine. The thundering motion beneath their feet died away. And each passenger leapt from the craft.

But like marionettes on taut strings, they stayed aloft: on each outstretched arm they wore twin, miniaturized gas-turbine jets—and another on their backs. Engines flaring, they tilted ahead on the final stretch to the Bonanza. Barr, teeth gritted in concentration, kept pace with the rest. But simply holding flight-posture demanded close mental focus and a tense physical core. With the weight of the equipment buckled to their chest rigs, the challenge was doubled. She darted her eyes across the visor, overlaid with a wireless feed of altitude, speed, and fuel data. Magar and the others were beetle-black shapes against the haze.

Riding the 1,000-horsepower thrust, they each made for the planned drop-point: the Bonanza’s distinctive, spread-eagle bridge wings. Unfurled to each flank of the ship, the bone-white protrusions dominated Barr’s vision even as she blinked away nervous sweat. They grew larger, larger, larger, as the jet-suits gained altitude until—at last—they leveled. Crewmen, the size of toy-soldiers against their leviathan ship, dotted her vision. One waved.

Another fired a gun.

Ahead—maybe Magar, maybe another—one of the black-clad figures jerked like an epileptic, lost his flight-posture, and dropped from the air as if dive-bombing the waves. More flashes issued from the bridge-wing: a single point of light, a semiautomatic strobe. Barr bellowed a helpless curse.

She was too close to abort. And the jet-suits carried fuel for only one approach.

Body tensed for an inevitable bullet, Barr accelerated in. Almost there…

_______________________________________

Impact. As hard and fierce as a prize-fighter’s gut-strike. The world goes black.

Then a tang of copper in the mouth. Barr coughs blood, splashing it across her visor interior. She realises that sun-kissed decking rests underneath her. She tenses her body. No spasms of pain from a sucking gut-shot. No jarring of broken bones grinding together. She raises her head from the deck. A silhouette is ahead of her. A figure in coveralls, reloading a pistol with practiced hands.

The clip enters the receiver. The silhouette racks the slide; raises the pistol to take his shot.

Barr lifts her right arm, pulls the thrust-trigger to full depression. The twin engines, still hot, scream into life. They give enough thrust to send her racing along the deck. And to lift the silhouette off his feet, tumbling with a scream over the bridge-wing and clean out of sight. Disoriented and sickened, Barr struggles to her feet. The thought of her children fills her mind.

Nearby, another figure is climbing up the ship’s ladder. In a moment of perfect adrenaline clarity she takes in his every detail. A thickset Chinese man, in blue fatigues with a red star on his heavy-duty Kevlar vest. He needed a shave this morning, and the morning before. OCEAN DRAGON is emblazoned across his shirt-sleeve in crimson. For a big man, he does a good job getting the pistol off his hip—so fast it looked as though the barrel had always been there, staring her down like the mouth of a Tube tunnel.

But he disappears in a blur of smoke and vapor, as if struck by a tidal wave. Barr blinks.

“Thought you said you wouldn’t get in my way?” Magar appears besides Barr, hefting the fire-fighting shotgun he had collected from his cargo-pod earlier. He works its vertical grip with a satisfying clunk, reloading another pressure charge from the tank across his chest. Firing at almost 250 miles per hour, Magar’s concentrated blast sent the Ocean Dragon guard sprawled against the railing. Or, rather, almost through the railing—the force of his impact bent the metal. Passed out mercifully, the guard slumps down to the deck.

“Thanks for that,” Barr murmurs, slipping off her engines. “Who got hit on the way in?”

“Singh, I think. Poor bastard. Come on, we’re not finished.”

_______________________________________

Together, they hustled to the exterior hatchway of the Bonanza’s bridge.

Alarmed, the crew had already locked it. Magar gestured at the adjacent bridge-window.

“Fireball up.” Barr unclipped a spherical device on her rig and lit its fuse. Magar held the shotgun against the window and fired. The impact-proof glass shattered against the intense, concentrated force. Barr tossed in the sphere. Seconds later it exploded with a dull thud. White foam erupted from the shattered window. Magar vaulted through at once, sweeping the bridge. Barr followed immediately. A modified fire-fighting device, the ‘fireball’ had detonated expanding foam laced with percutaneous muscle-relaxant. Incapacitating on skin contact, Magar and Barr were safe enough in their full-body jet-suits. The bridge crew, however, lay about the deck in crumpled shapes—alive, but helpless.

“Spike-wedge!” Barr snapped, and Magar pulled a simple USB from his webbing. He tossed it across to Barr, standing by a console. She jabbed it into a receiving port, letting the intrusion software automatically get to work while they swept the bridge.

“Clear!” Magar barked at length, after policing the crewmen for weapons and injuries.

“Sending the good news,” Barr pulled a flare gun from her webbing. Emerging onto the bridge wing, she fired two green star-shells in quick succession. Caught on their parachutes, they drifted slowly off to starboard, twin emerald smudges among the haze.

She watched them go, chambering a third flare. Red. Abort. Just in case.

In the minute that it took to do so, the spike-wedge software had established a handshake with a dormant Windows machine eleven decks below, down on the middle engine plates. An old unit, long-forgotten, it had been installed under a now-expired third-party agreement—but had never been removed. An ancient TeamViewer application within the machine was activated. Simultaneously, the intrusion software autonomously hijacked the ship’s control network and locked out the main operating panels in the bridge itself—as well as every operator station across the ship. No hidden crew could attempt to retake the Bonanza now.

By then, Barr had fired her star shells.

High above, lost among the haze, the quad-copter drone which had delivered the Rawalpindi’s equipment picked up the infrared signatures of the two flares. It immediately deactivated the blanket electronic jamming it had been laying down since Barr and Magar lifted off from their RHIB. The hijacked TeamViewer application was now able to reach out to the Rawalpindi’s AI. Bypassing the Bonanza’s Engine Interface Control Unit, it afforded remote control of the ship’s navigation, steering, and 100,000-horsepower engine block.

And so, firewalled against outside cyberattack, the world’s largest ship fell to a single USB.

Barr felt the deck shifting as the Bonanza increased revolutions and came hard to starboard. Good: it meant that, despite running hot, Rawalpindi’s AI could still implement the getaway. She toggled her throat-mic radio and spoke to the remaining members of the boarding team.

“Airwaves now clear, people. Magar, you and me are sweeping the containers—the rest of you, secure the prisoners in the bridge.” She unspooled a length of carbon-fibre cabling, tightly coiled in a loop about her waist, and then secured it to the railing. By then, Magar was with her.

“I hate bloody heights,” she muttered as she clipped her automatic anchor to the cable.

“You literally flew here,” Magar quipped, readying his own autoanchor.

“This is different.” Barr clambered over the railing, her mouth sandpaper-dry. Above-deck containers were arrayed below. From up here, they appeared as pieces on a chessboard.

Vertigo cloyed her as she tightened her grip on the autoanchor. Then, with a last gasp, she pushed from the railing, and let gravity take her.

Tied to her chest rig for safety, the autoanchor jolted in her hands as it detected her increasing speed and applied brakes for a slow descent. As she went, the gusting winds from the fires ashore batted her, as a cat might play with a strung-up toy. Glancing about, she spied the guard who had first had her at gunpoint: he painted the deck. She averted her eyes. Instead, she kept the cable between her legs and in a loose hold above with her spare hand. Better safe than sorry.

By the time Barr finished the descent, Magar was halfway behind her. She swept the area.

The Hainan Bonanza had undergone modification to allow above-deck container storage, as well as the vast oil tanks under her feet. She began calling off the ISO container numbers. The briefings had left one particular container code burned into her mind: HNS-U-305438-3.

“Eyes peeled for the precious cargo,” she said. Head Office had given them assurances about the rough location of the container—but it was still down to them to find the bloody thing.

“Head Office was wrong about the guards.” Magar came to a rest behind her. “They could be wrong about this, too.”

“Only one way to find out.”

Down here, the stacked containers were like valleys, funnelling the dry wind from inshore so that it whipped around them. Metal groaned in a discordant, nonsense chorus.

“Movement!” Magar barked, gesturing down a steel canyon. “Two of them.”

Rounding a stack, they found two Ocean Dragon guards coming to a halt at a nondescript container. The first carried a bolt cutter. The second, a rifle.

“Hold it!” Barr snapped. The first ignored her, using the bolt cutters on the container’s padlocked chain. The second pivoted on the balls of his feet. And brought his rifle up to fire.

Magar beat him to it. The concentrated blast hit the guard with such force that he left a matted clump of hair on the container from where his skull struck against it. A spasm passed through the guard’s hands, and his rifle spat a single round with a flat, crisp report. The bullet lodged itself in the meat of Magar’s thigh. He went down hard, snarling. The first guard, finished with the chain, pulled something free from his belt. Barr acted on reflex. Reached for the first thing to hand. The flare gun. She sighted and fired. The red flare crossed the space between them like a crimson lightning bolt, trailing sparks as a comet leaves a spiralling tail. It caught the guard on his collar bone, lodging in his webbing. Dropping whatever he held, he screamed and scrabbled to unclip his webbing—and to dislodge the burning flare. In a moment of tragic comedy, the flare’s parachute automatically triggered. Barr ran to the guard and helped him out of his webbing, tugging away the polyester parachute before it could catch on the searing magnesium.

“You alright?” Barr shouted back to Magar, still sprawled on the deck.

“Never better.” Magar bellowed in pain as he fixed a memory-plastic tourniquet over his leg.

Barr felt the pulse of the Ocean Dragon. Steady enough, despite the burns to his chest. Perhaps already in shock, he did nothing to stop her taking his sidearm.

“You were armed,” Barr mused, “but you didn’t reach for it.” She looked across the deck.

To where an egg-shaped grenade lay waiting, patiently.

“Grenade!” Barr threw herself behind the nearest container, mouth opened, to save the detonation blowing out her eardrums. Not that it would help if it caught the fuel below-decks, then it…

Nothing. There was nothing at all. Barr let the seconds tick past in mounting disbelief. Each one was a blessing. Or a farce. At length, she gathered her wits and got back up. She found Magar, limping and peering down at the grenade.

“Nerves of steel, boss.” He pocketed the explosive. “Hotshot over there didn’t even get a chance to pull the pin.” Barr hesitated, unsure if the quip was earnest or barbed.

“I thought you were shot.”

“Looks that way. Now I’ve got a story to tell my old man, for sure.” Barr shuddered.

“What kind of maniac takes guns on a fuel tanker? Let alone a bloody grenade?”

Magar looked at the freshly unlocked container, reading off the stamped ID code.

“HNS-U-305438-3,” he announced. “Maybe he was planning on tossing it inside this thing.” Together, they opened the container.

Though dark inside, there was no doubting the contents.

“Bosun, tell me you’ve got a camera?”

_______________________________________

“Rawalpindi, we have ship control. Be advised: resistance encountered and cleared. One friendly overboard, one wounded. Two hostiles dead, two injured.” Barr flinched at a pain mounting in her ribs: the adrenaline was wearing off. Her injuries were biting back.

“Chrissakes,” Cresswell’s voice crackled back. “The plan was no guns. No fire risks aboard!”

“Tell that to the home team.” An exasperated sigh issued from the far end.

“Sound, Bonanza. I’ll get Head Office to airlift the injured and run SAR for the overboard. Our AI’s running hot, but the boffins say it’s got your new course locked fine.”

“Getaway is clear, then?” Cresswell made an affirmative noise.

“Joint-effects department cooked up a trick so that any virtual-reality user is going to see Chinese crew topside only; they’re even replicating the crew’s social media like normal.”

“And the AIS?” Barr referred to the automatic identification system for location tracking.

“Spoofed,” he said. “You’re hidden. As far as a ship that big can hide at sea, anyway.”

Cresswell paused. His voice was husky as he asked: “What about the precious cargo?”

“Sending you photos shortly.” Another positive grumble, before he changed subject.

“One last thing: Legal wants you to read the Letter to the crew. Summat about due process.”

“Really? Bloody formality.”

“Legal says just read it. And give ‘em the Mandarin copy. That’s why they wrote it.”

Barr turned from where she stood on the bridge wing. Magar sat nearby, helmet off and teeth gritted with the pain of his wound.

“Medical airlift inbound.” She placed a hand on his shoulder. “And thanks for the quick aim. I owe you.”

He waved her off with a smile. “No fuss.”

She stepped inside the bridge, still shattered and foam-flecked from her forced entry. The bridge team lay about from the muscle-relaxant; their guards were ashen-faced. She picked out the eldest-looking of them, who looked up from his cable-tied wrists with equal parts fury and fear. He stiffened as she lifted her visor and reached into her webbing. Then beetled his brows as she produced two fine vellum deeds. Attached to each was a red-wax pendant seal.

Barr handed one to him before breaking her own seal. The handwritten penmanship was of a sort long-since thought extinct, like some exotic animal. She read the document aloud:

“King Charles III, by the Grace of God, King of England, Wales, and Northern Ireland and Our other Realms, Head of the Commonwealth of Nations, Defender of the Faith, charges and requires John Cresswell and Larissa Barr, of the M/V Rawalpindi, to operate on behalf of J.R. Enterprises S.A., a Corporation with a registered address in Zürich, Switzerland. 

Whereas We are aware of the present hostilities between the People’s Republic of China and the United States of America, by these Documents We see fit to empower the apprehension and seizure of such Vessels carrying Warlike Materials for use by the People’s Republic of China. 

Appended herewith are Our full Terms, and a Secondary Document in Mandarin.

Now therefore know ye that this Letter of Marque is made Patent under the Great Seal of the Realm on the Sixth Day of July.”

Barr folded the vellum, adding: “We hereby take possession of this ship. God Save the King.”

_______________________________________

London

Yang Cixin rolled into Grey’s Club like a stormfront—all dark menace and bluster.

Under the lobby’s vaulted ceiling and the flaxen light of gilded lanterns, Yang marched past the patrician portrait of the club’s founder, Viscount Grey. He ignored its weighty stare, as well as that of the maître d’ standing watch by the Club’s ornate iron elevator. Waving off the uniformed man, Yang strode into the club dining room. The space was vacant. All bar one table, by the tall windows that look into the leafy park of St. James’ Square.

Yang went to it as a knight would have gone to battle: with a hungry stride and clenched fists. At the table, a man looked up from his chateaubriand and claret, glimpsing Yang over his half-moon spectacles. Brushing back his thick fair hair, he waved for Yang to sit.

“Mr. Yang,” he swallowed his mouthful of steak, “please, won’t you have a seat? If I’d have known you were visiting, I would have ordered a whole carafe to share.”

“Explain yourself, Lewis.” Yang snapped.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be rather more specific.”

“The Hainan Bonanza. I just heard that your firm won’t honour the insurance claim.” Yang leaned across the table, letting his voice drop an octave. “Hainan Shipping pays me to be their man in London. The man they trust to know things. To handle things. Why the hell didn’t you come to me first?”

Easing back in his chair, Lewis put his palms up in a laconic shrug. “Open-and-shut case, Mr. Yang. Terribly sorry.”

“Pirates stole the biggest vessel in the Hainan Shipping portfolio—in the whole fucking world—and you say ‘sorry’?” Lewis made a pained face, as if dealing with a truculent child.

“This would be easier if you sat down.” Yang scowled, and took the empty chair opposite.

Lewis reached into his suit pocket, producing a flexible scroll of e-paper. He placed it on the table so that it faced Yang, showing a series of still photos.

Specifically, the contents of an ISO container: ID code HNS-U-305438-3.

Inside, loaded high, were fat-bodied missiles with odd, stubby winglets and flanks daubed with strange, alien script. Yang felt his stomach sinking. He realised the script was Persian.

“Paperwork aboard shows these—and several similar such containers—were transhipped during the Bonanza’s recent visit to the Chinese-owned port of Gwadar, in Pakistan. Silkworm missiles. Stockpiles that China sold to Iran in the eighties. Very retro, I’m told.”

Lewis flashed a toothy smile, lacing his hands together. “But then, I suppose your military fired off so many missiles lately that they’ll take whatever they can still find on the shelf.”

“Why does it matter?” Yang jutted his chin. “And why does it allow you to breach contract?”

“Well,” Lewis frowned, as if it were obvious. “We were forced to activate our illicit cargo clauses. The Bonanza policy was sadly voided.”

“Who sent you those photos?” Yang demanded without pause. “Why do you have them?”

“The new owners were very considerate in sharing them with our firm. And in renewing the vessel’s policy with us.” Lewis splayed his long fingers. “At double your rates, I should add.”

Yang jolted upright so fast that his chair clattered to the floor.

“The Board will transfer the whole portfolio,” Yang spat. “COSCO survived it. So can we.”

“As is their right.” Lewis nodded. “Once they pay their early termination fees, naturally.”

“Do you people realize you’re playing with fire? Supporting this attack on Chinese shipping? We went to war with America for less.”

Lewis sipped his claret. “Yes, I suppose you might drop an EMP, as you did with Taiwan. Although, I hear London is your foreign currency lifeline now—so perhaps you won’t. Awful lot of money at stake.”

Yang stood gaping, almost lost for words. “You really think you can have it both ways. So brazen, so shameless!”

Another shrug. “Someone in Downing Street clearly thinks so.” The maître d’ appeared to one side, discrete.

“Is this gentleman troubling you, sir?” He asked, glancing at Yang. “Shall I ask for security?”

“I’m afraid so, Peter. Please see him out. And then another glass of the claret, thank you.”

Mr. Wilson is a member of the Military Writers’ Guild and specializes in using fiction to explore future conflict. His published stories include finalist contest entries with War on the Rocks, West Point’s Modern War Institute, The Forge, and the Atlantic Council’s Art of the Future Project. He lives in the United Kingdom, where he works in military aerospace.

Featured Image: “Shipping Ports” by Javier Lazo (via Artsation)