The following is an entry for the CIMSEC & Atlantic Council Fiction Contest on Autonomy and Future War. Winners will be announced 7 November.

By Hal Wilson

They were in among the Roaring Forties now. The distant horizon had melted into a gossamer gray, the sea and sky blending into some benign fug. Stampeding whitecaps roiled and tumbled, pinpricks of luminescence against the gun-metal ocean. The winds raced in mercilessly under dead slabs of cloud to deliver their brutal slap. They were the kind of westerlies the old East Indiamen vied for – all well and fine for the return journey. Less so for the southward leg.

Sub-Lieutenant Henry Dalby once hated such weather above all else. But that was before twenty days on this benighted voyage, which taught him to despise HMS Kennet with an even greater passion. It was sometime after Ascension Island that he accepted the hate billowing in his breast. He was almost ready to kill the Kennet personally.

It would be easy enough to do. She was only in the next cabin down.

It wasn’t down to the Kennet‘s sea-keeping: She handled the South Atlantic’s awe with a gambler’s nonchalance. It wasn’t down to the Kennet‘s accommodation: Carrying only fifteen crewmen but designed for forty, she seemed somehow cavernous. It wasn’t even the Kennet‘s advancing age, or its Liliputian size against the ocean wastes. (Though Dalby quailed to think a ship so small, and so far beyond his twenty-three years, was being sent so far south in a sea so vast.)

Dalby hated the Kennet because he knew she was going to kill him – unless he beat her to it. Kennet‘s Artificial Intelligence hub, the ship’s soul, filled the former officer’s cabin adjacent to Dalby’s own. The warmth of her processing power seeped through the bulkhead relentlessly. Offsetting the luxury of a cabin to himself, the sultry heat felt as if she were trying to join him, to enwrap him.

To smother him in his bunk, perhaps.

Failing that, she would kill him with the long knives of exhaustion and despair. The primitive AI operated across each of the ship’s integrated systems – an arrangement that worked acceptably in UK home waters. Thus the old hulls of the Fisheries Squadron – the Cod Squad – ran patrols and drug busts with just five officers and ten ratings, while the ship all but handled itself.

But it took three hard reboots just to reach Ascension, and the AI struggled to handle snowballing machinery problems in the ever-worsening conditions of the South Atlantic. Kennet also fostered a growing imagination. She scolded Able Seaman Carver every evening over an asthmatic condition he never possessed. She daily warned Bateson, the Chief Weapon Engineering Artificer, over illusory power surges. All hands were working flat out to keep her underway. Some doubted it would be enough.

***

Dalby ran his fingers over his scalp as he flopped onto the wardroom’s sickly-cream wall-mounted sofa. Oblivious to his dismay, a pair of black coffees steamed merrily in the nearby dispenser port.
“Two teas, Sub-Lieutenant,” Kennet crooned through monotone deckhead speakers.
Sucking air through gritted teeth, head bowed, Dalby bit down a sob. He silently checked himself, the voice in his head barbed with scorn.
Crying over coffee? Get it together. You need a safe space or something, you bloody idiot?
But where contempt broke on the armour of his fatigue, Kennet‘s caprice went clean through. After all, a mug of tea was banal enough until seen through the looking-glass of a fifteen-hour day.
Footsteps approached. Noise traveled unusually well in the ship’s sepulchral guts, despite the cheap linoleum lining every passageway. Forewarned, Dalby recovered through that ancient, unequaled power – the base need to avoid embarrassment. Able Seaman Carver appeared at the wardroom’s open doorway, knocking politely.
“What’s the matter?” Dalby said, getting to his feet.
“The Captain asked for you to hurry back, sir.” Carver’s voice was reedy and young. “All hands to muster on the bridge.” Dalby collected the coffees as he left.
“I thought he asked for tea, sir?” Carver asked, peering into the mugs.
“Don’t you start.”

***

The bridge was just large enough for the entire ship’s company. The deckhead hung low over them as they ringed a close semi-circle around their CO, Lieutenant Commander Hart. The confined space echoed to the judder–judder-judder of the bridge-window wipers. Beyond the maddening wipers, the upper deck was secured tight against the weather, safety-lines rigged, as the ship ploughed mechanically through spuming waves. Just visible from the bridge was the 76mm gun. It was locked in place, as firm as a lodestone, but the paltry calibre was as reassuring as a toy rifle.

Dalby noticed with a grimace that he and Carver seemed to be the last to arrive: There was Lieutenant Asher and the rest of the bridge team; there, the marine engineers; there, the junior technicians and even the two chefs. Shaking off the eyes boring into him, Dalby handed across a coffee to Hart.
“I asked for tea, sub,” Hart said laconically.
“My mistake, sir,” Dalby lied. “Hit the wrong button.” It was best that the commanding officer didn’t lose faith in his ship’s quality as a barista. He had precious little faith left in Kennet already.

“Listen well, company,” Hart began, setting down the coffee with polite repugnance. “Word has come in from Commander Task Force. Number One, will you do the honours?”
Lieutenant Asher stepped forth at the invitation, clearing her throat. She held a flimsy chit of paper in one hand. Her pinched, sallow face carried a grim solemnity. Dalby knew what was coming.
Judder-judder-judder babbled the mindless wipers.
“From CTF: Mount Pleasant under fire. CinC orders to break blockade regardless. RoE amended, fire on ARG contacts if fired upon. Good luck. God save the King.” Hart stepped forward.
“You know what this means. We trained for this. We volunteered for this.” He turned to Lieutenant Asher.
“Number One, I want you on Bluewatcher. Shout out if Kennet misses anything. The rest of you? Take your refreshers if you’re on watch. If you’re not – get some rest. Merlins will be here to assist with any Shayus, and I want fresh hands on standby for in-flight refuelling.” Hart paused abruptly. “Chief, what is it?”

Dalby craned his neck around – Chief Bateson had just blundered onto the bridge. Soaked from head to toe, the overweight weapons engineer gave a half-hearted, breathless salute.
“Sir, it’s the ISOs. I think the waterproofing is giving way.”
“What?” Hart hissed. “Kennet, confirm Sea Ceptor status.”
Kennet took a teasing moment to reply.
“No problems to report, Captain,” she droned, flat and lifeless.
“Sir,” Bateson interrupted, “we might be catching it early, but the contractors did a shoddy job.”
Hart could see the earnest fear in Bateson’s eyes; he trusted his engineer over his ship.
“Chief, take a gang and get aft right away. The balloon just went up at Mount Pleasant.”
“Christ. Dalby, sir. You and Carver. With me.”
“Everyone else,” Hart looked across the bridge, “dismissed.”

***

Dalby jogged to match Bateson’s surprisingly swift pace. As they rushed aft they passed the ship’s Battle Honours plaque, with Dardanelles 1915-16 and North Sea 1941 immortalised in oak. Dalby hoped they would survive to add ‘South Atlantic‘ to the modest list.

Before they emerged onto the flight deck, Bateson handed out heavy tubes of InstaFoam.
“Just point these where I tell you to,” he said tersely, dripping sea-water. “Hold the cables flush to the deck and pull the trigger-spoon. And keep your hands clear of this stuff, for God’s sake.” The trio clipped safety lines and hastily threw on their foul weather jackets, polyester chafing at their necks. With that, they bundled out. Chief Bateson had the lead.

The sea enveloped them. Lashed into fury by the punishing wind, freezing foam roared over the low freeboard and soaked them to the skin.
“This way!” bawled Bateson. Shivering already, Dalby followed.
The flight deck had been rigged with six ISO shipping containers, each twenty feet tall and speared skyward like smokestacks. Rapid welding work at Portsmouth had bound them as tightly to the deck as if they had always been there. Within each slumbered a Sea Ceptor missile, the bolt-on weapon system giving the Kennet a deadly punch. Dalby looked up. Flush over the mouth of every container was stout plastic shielding, saving the volatile missiles from corrosion.
“Sir! Do it there,” the Chief bellowed, slapping Dalby on the arm and pointing down.

Instantly, Dalby saw the problem. The fat bundles of cabling that linked each ISO to the Kennet‘s generators were coming free, rolling deferentially to the ship’s progress. One was clearly coming apart from the friction, its guts of rainbow wires open to the scourging salt. They got to work swiftly, InstaFoam spray blooming into mushroom caps of anonymous grey. The insulating material hardened instantly and pinned the cables right to the deck. For good measure, Dalby put a double spurt on the exposed length of wiring.
“That’ll have to do, you two,” Bateson shouted, pointing for them both to head back inside. Dalby let the others go first, lingering at the hatchway.

Out over the rear of the ship, the Kennet‘s wake churned fluorescence into the Atlantic’s skin.
Somewhere beyond the bland horizon skulked the escorts – the Type Twenty-Sixes and Type Forty-Fives, as vigilant as mother wolves around their cubs. The heart of their deadly affection would be the Prince of Wales and its Amphibious Task Group: the Albion and Bulwark, with their MoD-chartered RoRos; their tankers and Bay-class landing docks. Most were too old and too tired for such a journey. But between them they carried the greatest prize of all – a Brigade of Royal Marines. It was less than what their grandfathers took south with them before. It might not even be enough. But it would have to do.

Ahead of them all, groping into the Atlantic like lost, blind men, went the Cod Squad. Hart had made it clear before that CTF would not idly risk his irreplaceable F-35s and submarines. Instead these cheap, half-empty ships would be the picket for the vaunted ex-Chinese drone shoals.
Dalby paused, cocking his ear to the wind.
Thunder? He scanned the western horizon. Over there!
Distant, scudding cloudbanks were underlit by the smudge of burning iron oxide, a sick ochre glow. Against the slate aspic of the sky, that unhealthy pall could mean only one thing.
“I think that was the Avon,” Dalby announced through the hatch.
“All hands, brace, brace, brace!”

***

Dalby was a fraction of a second too slow in reaching for the nearest stanchion. He slipped, and before his lifeline could go taught, he flew headfirst into the hatch-frame with a dull thwack. His vision hazed as if his very corneas were abraded; he felt rough hands grabbing his chest to hold him down. The Kennet came about at full helm beneath him, the motion feeling as distant as the moon. Dalby’s head lolled in sympathy to it. Slowly, his vision cleared. He watched in mute fascination as a streak of phosphor fuzzed under the black waves just fifty feet away. Blinking hard, he watched it pass with all the peaceful grace of an express train, charting a path to some unseen appointment in the endless, inky Atlantic.

That was a torpedo, he mused absent-mindedly. We’re under attack.

“Get to your action stations,” Dalby groaned, struggling to his feet. “Go!” he shouted, making to move to the bridge. The two crewmen fled, hastening to their posts. Dalby tasted the tang of copper in his mouth. Ignoring it, he stumbled sternwards. Alone with his thoughts, he wondered in silent disbelief – How did the torpedo miss? We were dead to rights. Bad electronics? Poor maintenance? Dalby had read about similar problems with the enemy arsenal in the last war. The more things change…

On the bridge, the Kennet intoned flatly “Estimate target starboard bow, bearing one-nine-zero, range…”
Judder-judder-judder­ went the damned wipers.
Dalby glanced around. Asher was holding her left arm at an odd angle; Hart’s coffee mug tumbled freely around the deck. Hart noticed Dalby stagger in.
“Sub,” he barked. “You’re injured. Get below for treatment.”
“No, sir, I’m fine,” Dalby lied once again.
Hart himself seemed nonplussed by their close brush with death – but a shiner of a bruise already waxed purple over his cheek.
“The Kennet threw us into a sharp turn, Sub. We all got caught out. Man your post, for now.”
“A torpedo launched close to starboard,” the Kennet explained. “Emergency action was required.”
“Kennet,” Hart interrupted. “Confirm we have a Merlin en route to the target?”
“Yes, Captain. Five minutes’ flight time,” the ship answered.
“I still have it on Bluewatcher,” Asher added, teeth clenched from the pain of her broken arm. “Definitely a Shayu.”
Dalby leaned against his console, light-headed. The console’s blue panelling seemed somehow too bright, forcing him to squint. He rubbed a dribble of scarlet blood from his nose. Shayu, he recalled faintly, was Chinese for ‘Shark’. A disposable killing machine. They were autonomous little torpedo carriers, whose ubiquity grew in direct proportion to Beijing’s post-crash need for hard currency.

The saving grace about the Shayu was its noisy engine, a by-product of the cheap design. Between that and the Kennet’s cues, the Merlin helicopter was hot on the drone’s trail, readying to drop a torpedo of its own against the Shayu.
“Sir,” Lieutenant Asher warned from her sonar console, “target has changed course and increased speed. I think it heard the Merlin’s last set of sonar-buoys.”
“Lieutenant Asher is right,” chimed Kennet. “Cavitation noise increased. The Merlin crew are aware.”
Hart said nothing, arms crossed. He and his company – lacking any subsurface weapons of their own – could only watch and report. Far to starboard, the Merlin trundled above the pitching sea, splaying out rippling circles from the fierce force of its downwash. A crackle came over the radio into Asher’s headset.
“Merlin reports firm active sonar contact,” she announced, looking to the bridge windows. “It’s launching.”
Squinting, his view disturbed by the wipers’ metronome movements, Dalby watched the torpedo separate cleanly. The drop was retarded by the white flag of a small parachute. The Merlin pulled away.

Judder-judder-judder went the wipers.

The torpedo was gone. Not even a splash marked its fall. Dalby rubbed his eyes, hoping the wipers hadn’t erased the torpedo from existence.
“Merlin reports successful launch,” Kennet advised.
“Number One?” Hart asked, keen on a second opinion.
“She’s right, sir,” Asher said. “I can hear it pinging; it’s right on top of the bloody thing.”
Sure enough, the Stingray torpedo was bearing down fast on the Shayu. Even running at full speed, the drone was far too slow to escape. The surface suddenly shook white, like the spider-webbing of shattered glass. But where the Compass Rose might once have found a slain U-boats’ detritus bubbling upwards, nothing remained of the drone.

Only a single buoy surfaced, unseen and unheard, its radio bleeping word of the drone’s demise.

“It’s gone, sir,” Asher said with palpable relief. Hart nodded.
“Tell the Merlin boys good work, and we’ll go halves on the kill,” he quipped. Dalby felt the warm satisfaction of success. Or was that blood running down his neck? I need to get my head looked at, he admitted to himself.

 Judder-judder-judder went the wipers.

“Be advised,” blurted the Kennet, interrupting the bridge’s blissful cheer. “Two possible surface contacts. Range 30 nautical miles. Port bow, bearing two-six-five. Possible Malvinas-class corvettes.”

***

Radar conditions were poor, but the Kennet was not wrong. It was one thing for Kennet to hunt drones. Going toe to toe with two corvettes – ships that matched the Kennet‘s tonnage and carried better armament to boot – was another thing entirely. It was damn near suicide.

The two ex-Chinese corvettes were hustling in like carrion, as if lured by the Avon’s death-fires.  Their radars were powered down, to save revealing their position to the British ESM. They were listening instead to the Shayu shoals up-threat. They were a pair of matte-grey killers on the prowl. They had been waiting for this.

And now they had the fix of the dead drone’s radio beacon.

***

“Sub,” Hart snapped urgently, “did you and the Chief deal with the Sea Ceptors?”
“Yes sir. At least one of them is out of action,” he replied apologetically.
Hart cursed. The Sea Ceptors were their one real hope against these roving predators.
“Number One?” Hart looked to Asher. “We have to assume this is a positive contact. Signal Tamar and Humber – we pull back and draw the corvettes onto the fleet. Kennet? Come hard right to course three-five-zero, and give me maximum revolutions.” Everyone knew the best chance for the Cod Squad was to stay ahead of the corvettes’ grasp.

“Captain, sir. There is an alternative.” Dalby paused, brow furrowed. It was the Kennet. He had never heard the AI provide an ‘alternative’ before.
“The corvettes have almost certainly not yet detected this ship. To turn back now would fail to draw them in as you suggested.”  Dalby watched, fascinated, as Hart listened. Was he the first naval officer in history to be chided by his own ship?
“Go on,” Hart growled.
“You could instead continue on the current course. You could place the radar in standby to avoid detection for now, and re-activate at closer range to act as a lure. They are attempting to ambush us; you could instead ambush them.”
Hart rubbed his temples quietly. He wanted to disagree but his ship – the bloody ship! – was right. The Cod Squad were, for now, the eyes and ears of the fleet. And AI guidance or no, he had to lead by example. Just as his father did in the last war.
“Belay my last. Tamar and Humber will withdraw to the TF outer screen. We will hold this course. Number One, update CTF.”
“Sir,” Dalby started, voice low, “Lieutenant Asher and I are injured…” he trailed off, wilting under Hart’s gaze. He didn’t want to look a coward. But he knew Asher was thinking the same – it was in her eyes.
“Do not worry, Sub-Lieutenant,” crooned the Kennet, “I can handle this myself.”

Dalby’s mouth went dry, a knot of dread in his gut. Their AI would be taking on two corvettes single-handed. And it had volunteered to do so.

***

The corvettes kept their course steadily for some time, minutes passing like the waves that foamed and fell away against their knifelike bows.

They seemed to sniff the air like vultures, hunger overcoming caution as they closed on the dead drone’s buoy. To come this far north was beyond their orders, but the Shayu shoals confirmed that lonely little ships were in the van of the British fleet. With one quick sweep they could notch some easy kills and return home heroes.

Holding a loose formation, they conferred by signal lamp. No-one wanted to risk radio this close to the British carrier. The superior of the two decided now was the time: They would be in knife-fighting range of the little ships. There was a British search radar nearby earlier – now silent – but its owner would surely make for easy pickings. If any larger escorts came chasing, they could still run with the Shayu drones to their backs – and no fool would rush a billion-pound ship into the teeth of the drones.

As if on cue, the corvettes’ radar warning receivers rang out. A rush of panic broke out for the briefest moment. The British radar shut down abruptly, as if equally shocked. The corvettes wondered – could there really be an enemy escort so close in? Have we pushed our luck too far? The lead corvette energised its radar; pulsed once, pulsed twice. There. Relief flooded the command deck: It was only one of the hapless little ships. Orders rang out to make ready for missile launch.

***

But the corvettes were being watched.

With the serene complacency of simple ignorance, they were scrutinised like bacteria under the microscope. Their albatross, hidden higher than any crossbow could ever reach, was a Fleet Air Arm F-35B.  It looked and listened from behind the cloud-layer, categorising all that its sensors found, relaying hushed messages with the daring of a furtive schoolchild.

Far below, the lead corvette’s signal lamp blinked – I am attacking. Its partner acknowledged, watching expectantly like an eager sibling.

The lead ship burst apart, erupting into flames. Where one moment it sailed proudly, the next it was a mangled ruin of shattered steel and flaming fuel-oil. Cotton-wool contrails whickered skyward like a peacock’s plumage, backlit by Titian flames as the corvette died. The sister ship rocked violently, its captain reflexively ordering a hard starboard manoeuvre. But while the first missile struck a magazine, as an arrowhead spears a stag’s heart, the second lanced into the sister ship’s hangar. Barrelling into the after decks like a comet striking earth, it burrowed deep. A dud fuze saved all aboard – but it was too late for the corvette’s eviscerated engines. The ship idled to a stop, literally dead in the water.

Safe in its high castle, the albatross watched approvingly. The F-35 was blinded by cloud but his Minerva-esque sensors saw all.
“Good shooting,” judged the pilot. “One hard kill, one mission kill.” Cued up by Kennet‘s radar warnings, the F-35 had just guided two anti-ship missiles from one of the task force’s frigates. With the corvettes fixed on the Kennet‘s lure, they never saw death coming for them.

***

Hart held another chit of paper, fresh from the printer. His face split into a broad, toothy grin that Dalby found instantly infectious.
“From CTF: ‘Bravo Zulu all aboard Kennet. Drinks on me back at Pompey.’ That’s three assists in as many hours, company. You made me proud already.” Hart paused, speaking to the ship itself: “You too, Kennet. Bravo Zulu.”
“You are welcome, Captain,” the ship replied.

Dalby fancied its voice was somehow different – less monotone. Or was that the concussion talking? He cracked a smile regardless. It was April 25th: 23 days since the first war’s anniversary and the start of its sequel. But the Kennet would protect them through harder days to come. Dalby knew it.   

Hal Wilson was a prior finalist in the Art of the Future Project’s contest exploring the “Third Offset Strategy” through narrative and fiction. Hal graduated in 2013 with first-class honours in War Studies and History from King’s College, London, and now works in the aerospace industry. Hal has been published by the Center for International Maritime Security, and is also launching a Cold War-themed naval-warfare board game.

Featured Image: Flight deck crew preparing to launch the X-47B, an experimental unmanned drone aircraft, aboard the USS Theodore Rosevelt, off the coast of Virginia, Sunday, Nov. 10, 2013. (AP Photo/ Steve Helber)

The following is an entry for the CIMSEC & Atlantic Council Fiction Contest on Autonomy and Future War. Winners will be announced 7 November.

By Scott Cheney-Peters

“Sarah,” I intoned gravely. “Stop it.”

Her toddler feet dangled off the front of the pushchair’s foot rest, acting as a drag anchor. I gave the pushchair a trial shove to judge the effect of my words. It moved freely, and we rolled onward through the brisk autumn air of Kensington Gardens.

“I mean, it’s an awful mess,” Paula said. “I don’t see how they’ll be able to find temps to keep things running when both Jenna and Granderson are out on parental leave.”

“They aren’t thinking of using one of the services, are they?” I asked.

“Oh sure, but of course that’s the fear; once the thing’s in place and all learned up why not keep it? Cost a goodly deal less. The fear of Jenna and Granderson anyway, which naturally means they haven’t moved to select their own replacements.”

“Sarah!” The feet again. We came to a halt as she clapped her toddler hands.

“Look! Look! A duck!” she exclaimed, pointing at a pigeon.

“No,” Paula reminded her. It was the thousandth round of Sarah’s game of Pigeon-as-Duck. “That’s a pigeon.”

“Duck!” she shouted again with a wry grin as we moved on. Within minutes the Albert Memorial loomed in front of us. I think it was Paula who told me once the thing was done up in a Gothic style. But to my eyes it would have been at home with the jungles of Southeast Asia. The central steeple, supporting spires, and arched gables all overflowed in ostentatious detail, bringing to mind the stupas I’d glimpsed during my time with the Royal Marines. Paula hadn’t scoffed at the comment, noting the memorial included a small elephant sculpture. It also marked a sharp turn towards the inner heart of the park, a path becoming an annual pilgrimage; a day of remembrance.

“So their department is exploring its options,” Paula added as a postscript. “But it’s going so slowly I wonder if it’ll be worth turning over the HR decisions to one of those…” Paula’s eyes went wide as her voice trailed off with the knowledge she’d stumbled onto treacherous ground. “Things,” she concluded.

My eyes began to well. It was sooner than last year.

Paula stopped and turned to me. “Cyrus, I’m sorry,” she whispered. We were both relieved when Sarah provided a distraction.

“Look!” she jabbed the air. “Look! A horsey!”

“No, Sarah.” I sniffled and smiled. “That’s a police dog. Remember? It’s not real.” I took a deep breath and pushed off again. Leaning towards Paula I said “It’s okay. I really appreciate you’re coming with…please tell me if it’s awkward.” Before Paula could respond however we saw something fly up in front of us. A shoe.

“Do not take your shoes off, lass,” I hissed in staccato, mustering as many notes of stern father as I could. Last month we discovered their absence only after returning from a trip to the grocer’s. These were a new pair.

“Cyrus…” Paula nodded towards the dog. It had stopped its patrol and stood motionless. I felt an involuntary shudder travel from head to toe. The large, four-legged creature was the size of a Saint Bernard and painted gunmetal grey except for the faux uniform of a Metropolitan Police officer and a squad car’s neon blue-and-yellow checkered stripe running horizontally along its midsection. Paula, an account manager in her firm’s design department, said it testified to a muddled mind, leaving unresolved whether the thing should embody creature or machine, blend in or stand out.

Most thought them a curiosity, and liked that they kept the parks clear of animal droppings. I thought they were an abomination. But most didn’t have my history. For now it was motionless and appeared to be watching us, but of course, one could never tell. In the place where a living dog’s head would be was its Citizen Interaction Panel, covering an array of hidden sensors. On the face of the panel I caught a faint reflection of our family grouping.

“Hi, sorry, just dealing with the little one,” I offered, inclining my head towards Sarah as I handed her back her shoe. She started playing with the Velcro strap. That’s when I noticed the other shoe hanging precariously on her toes. A strong kick sent it flying.

“Sarah!” I yelled as Paula dove for the wayward discard.

“Good morning,” a startlingly upbeat voice emanated from the dog. “I would like to remind you that littering is a breach of Royal Parks Regulations and carries a financial penalty.” It sauntered towards us.

“Yes, yes, sorry again. I don’t think you understand,” I said, failing to keep the edge out of my voice. “We’re dealing with a toddler here…”

“To understand further,” it interjected, voice recognition software keying in on the word I’d emphasized. “Littering is a breach of the 1997 Royal Parks and Other Open Spaces Regulations, as amended in 2022, and carries a penalty of €150.” As the dog inched closer, the Panel displayed a large font-scrolling text of the speech in case we were hearing impaired.

“Okay, we’ve got it,” Paula said. “Thank you.” The dog was beginning to turn when the other shoe dropped, or more accurately, flew into view in a graceful arc. It clanked off the top of the dog’s back and rolled to the ground with a thud.

“Alice!” I yelled, a synapse firing a deep-seated unconscious response from my childhood.  Just as suddenly the dog reared back on its hind legs, facing us. 

“Cease immediately.” The chipper voice was gone, replaced by booming robotic commands. “Your actions have been recorded and will be adjudicated in accordance with the law. It is unlawful to strike an officer in the performance of its duties. Continued aggression will incur further penalties. Leaving the scene without confirming identification will incur further penalties.”

“But we did nothing of the sort!” As I half stepped towards the dog in my plea, Paula gripped my arm to keep me in place. Sarah shrank back in her seat.

“Do you wish to speak with a supervisor?” No longer detecting danger, the dog’s voice was seamlessly gliding towards conviviality as it shifted back to a four-legged presence. I thought I could almost detect an artificial note of sadness in its timbre.

“Yes,” said Paula. “I think that would be wise.”

“Please confirm identification: Cyrus and Paula Percy, 207 Old Marylebone Road?” Our drivers’ licenses appeared side-by-side on the panel.

“Yes, that’s correct, and we’re here with our 2-year-old. She’s the one that threw the shoe,” Paula explained to the reflective void. “Very sorry about that.”

A square-bordered icon for a phone appeared on the panel. “Please wait for the connection. Estimated wait time is 1 hour and 15 minutes.”

“Oh for the love of…!” I had an urge to throw the shoe myself.

“Cyrus, let’s just move on.” Paula grabbed me tighter, anticipating my boiling anger. She nodded towards Sarah, who was beginning to remove her socks.

“All right, cancel. Cancel connection. We’ll just figure this out later, in writing.” I said and felt my phone vibrate. I knew it was an email with a summary of the interaction and options for contesting or pleading our case. But I could deal with it later. We had other matters to attend to. 

Once the dog was out of view and Sarah’s socks and shoes back on we resumed our trek in silence, listening only to the crunch of the gravel underfoot and the huff of passing joggers, lost in the world of their AR visors. Paula walked next to me and placed his hand on mine as we walked. I elbowed him and inclined my head towards Sarah’s dangling legs. She checked under the hood and reported back drooping eyelids in imitation. I empathized; the interaction with the dog had taken its toll on a day already exhausting with somber meaning.

At last the 2nd Falklands War Memorial came into view. On the far side of the Long Water separating Kensington Gardens from Hyde Park, opposite the Peter Pan statue, an oversized curving black bench stretched along the lake. As we walked, reflections of the fallen were visible in the water, seated upside down on the water-logged bench. In the depth a man in fatigues looked up with a proud smile. Another step and I locked eyes with the shimmering reflection of a weary-looking nurse. There were dozens, 134 in all, names and ranks engraved in bronze on the edge of the path. But it was just past the 5^th stanchion that I caught the visage of a woman in an aviator’s jumpsuit, helmet in her lap. My Alice. Paula had offered to explain the optics of it, the secrets of the Dutch artist who’d been commissioned, but I preferred the mystery of it. It was beautiful. It was haunting. Today, as usual, it was too much. The tears began to flow.

The MoD had given assurances that the fight against the forces of Argentina’s coup government would be a cakewalk. Yet when it became clear China was covertly backing their actions, even using the conflict to test experimental kit, the Yanks stepped up with gear of their own. Alice’s F/A-18 Super Hornet was one of these borrowed toys. Hers was designated a tanker for refueling support to the air wing’s strike group, then assembling in the skies over the South Atlantic for its mission against the Port Stanley fortifications. She had just launched and climbed to altitude from the Queen Elizabeth, joining her wingman with a full load of gas, when the Task Group lost HMS Plymouth in a Maelstrom of drones amd ordinance.

The Task Group Commander, aboard Queen Elizabeth and staring at the inbound radar returns of likely second and third drone swarms, judged the situation as unraveling faster than any human mind could resolve. He then made the fateful choice to set the decision-making functions of the integrated command and control system to ‘full auto.’

What happened next is a matter of public record. In Parliamentary hearings after the war, pilots described the disorienting sensation like racecars driver in the midst of turn suddenly finding themselves on an amusement park ride with instruments only for show. I wondered, had Alice had experienced the same bewilderment and loss of control?

Most of the assembled strike group held back as some of the unmanned aircraft skirmished at the perimeter, but Alice and her wingman’s Super Hornets shot forward, afterburners blazing away toward the oncoming storm. Close on their tails were two air-to-air missiles. As the rest of the aircraft and ships began emitting electronic countermeasures and firing chaff and mini decoy drones, the lone Super Hornets approached the front edge of the foes. In the next second they were gone, detonating in brilliant fireballs of oranges and reds, the missiles having found their marks. The blasts succeeded in sucking in the heat-seeking metal multitude, having been calculated to precede the swarms’ dispersal for a multi-axis attack. Our AI had defeated the Argentines’. And my wife was dead.

In private, several asked whether I thought her sacrifice was any less meaningful as it had not come of her own volition. I thought the question asinine.

There were other casualties, of course. During the hearings, whilst MPs alternated between exaltations of the war’s success and railing against the lack of foresight in the command and control software’s scope, my attention was drawn to the faces of those sitting in the visitor’s galleries with me. Those afflicted with a similar pain were hard to miss.

We were given assurances that safeguards would be in place in the future. The terms “man-in-the-loop” and “pre-cleared range of action” were bandied about. In theory, simulations would crunch the numbers on operational scenarios and present as many possible permutations of action to mission commanders for pre-approval. But I knew from the Royal Marines that no predictions of future war could truly anticipate the infinite combinations of an equally infinite range of variables. A columnist in The Guardian noted the command and control AI’s programmers would therefore “likely have to turn to machine learning to ‘sense’ the acceptable boundaries of ethical action.” Count me skeptical.

“Have you talked to her?” Paula spoke at my side. She meant Alice’s mother. We hadn’t exchanged words in a year. After the war I had to move on, and two years later I met Paula. When we’d married she thought it a betrayal and declined to attend the wedding. I’d made the choice of my own free will, but I also knew it’s what Alice would have wanted.

I shook my head and sighed.

Ducks glided across the face of the lake sending ripples through the image of Alice. “Look! Look!” Sarah squealed, having apparently returned to consciousness. “A duck!” she said, pointing at a pigeon by her feet.

“Come on.” I said. “Let’s go home.” Then to Sarah, “What do you think about getting a real dog?”

Scott Cheney-Peters is a civil servant at the State Department, founder of the Center for International Maritime Security (CIMSEC), a Reserve surface warfare officer supporting the Navy’s strategy office, and a Truman National Security Project fellow. The work is piece of fiction and does not reflect the views or positions of any of his affiliated organizations.*

*Due to CIMSEC affiliation this piece was not under consideration during the judging process and is published along with all other pieces submitted in response to the Fiction Contest call for articles.

Featured Image: U.S. Navy unmanned surface vehicle NUWC-4 (Mass Communication Specialist Seaman Scott Youngblood/U.S. Navy)

The following is an entry for the CIMSEC & Atlantic Council Fiction Contest on Autonomy and Future War. Winners will be announced 7 November.

By Chris O’Connor

[Begin VRcast]

[1022 EDT, Location of VRcast unavailable]

[Bthere functionality unavailable]

                The VRcast opens to a view flying low over debris-strewn blue-green water, illuminated by late day sun. The view plans upwards to show a flat beach, punctuated by a single collapsed dock surrounded by small fishing boats. The horizon behind it is broken with the outlines of trees and the low buildings of a fishing village, all of which show earthquake damage. Some are completely destroyed. Smoke rises in several areas around the buildings, creating a haze over the island. The view zooms into a man standing on the rubble of a fallen wall. He is wearing a camera vest, cargo pants, and hiking boots. He has a bandage on the right side of his head.

                As he speaks in an educated British accent, he makes it a point to climb through the rubble, turning towards the camera on occasion to make a point.

                “Good evening from the South China Sea. I’m Wallis Barnes with an exclusive report. I apologize in advance for the latency of this recording… and the lack of Bthere functionality. So there will be no walking around inside this VRcast. This is a recording with no streaming capability, unlike most of our broadcasts. More on that later.”

                “It has been a momentous ten hours here, and most of the outside world has not heard anything of it, apart from official releases from the People’s Republic of China, the United States, and the Red Cross. At 9:24 local time, a shallow earthquake, measuring 8.7 on the Richter scale, rocked this small island and its approximately three thousand inhabitants. The death toll is over two hundred and rising, as this island is not supposed to have any seismic activity nearby- the buildings are not built to withstand the shaking.

                “I travelled here to talk to the inhabitants about how their lives have been changed by the recent fishing wars and the collapse of the nearby fisheries. As we all know there has been heated talk on the international scene for decades about this and other islands, inhabited by people of one nation but claimed by several others, including China.”

“I was indoors when the quake struck, and was lucky to make it out alive. Sadly, my VRshades did not. Fortunately for this report, my camBot did.”

                The VRcast point of view shifts to a shaky first person perspective of someone running down a dark hallway towards the light of an open door, as debris falls from above. Screaming can be heard coming from the left and the right. Just as it gets to the aperture of the door, a dark abject falls from the right, and the view goes dark.

                The point of view switches to a shot a hundred feet over the beach, panning across the destruction. Villagers are picking through the rubble, assisted by day-glow orange tracked robots with manipulator arms, as small legged ground robots act as stretcher carriers. Overhead, quadcopter drones are passing through the rubble, occasionally pausing at buildings to tag them with different color paint pellets. Off in the distance, at a low point in the island by the water, cargo tiltfan drones rise quickly from the surface and speed off to points unknown. Others return to that area and descend out of sight briefly, before rising to follow their peers.

                “As you can see, the rescue and relief operation is underway, it is a lean one- most of the Red Cross, USAID, and US Military presence is in drone form,” the reporter continues as a voiceover.  “It seems unusual out of context; normally efforts such as these would involve hundreds of people, but politics have gotten in the way. The local government has requested aid, but most of the world did not know about the cry for help because they didn’t hear it.

                “Ten minutes after the quake, all communications to the outside world were shut off or became completely unreliable. This included the high altitude internet router drones, communications satellites, and even global positioning systems. That is why this report does not have a geo-tag. The spoofed GPS signals make the systems here think we are in southern Australia. None of the surface radio and cell towers here work. Not only were many of the means to reach the outside world physically destroyed by the earthquake, but there was also a coordinated network attack that shut everything else down. The only communications that surviving islanders received were from the People’s Republic of China, saying that they were coming to their rescue and that Chinese efforts will bring enduring prosperity to the island.”

                The VRcast shows a muted recording of a world famous Chinese actor standing on the island’s beach, smiling as he talks and gestures towards the blue line of the western horizon, from which a massive Red waving flag is stretching across the sky, with a centered yellow large yellow star shooting four streams of smaller stars outward. The tops of dozens of ships can be seen coming over the horizon, as waves of Y-8 and Y-20 cargo planes fly towards and overhead the viewer.

                “It was a slickly produced broadcast, apparently created just for a situation such as this, most probably the aftermath of one of the typhoons that regularly pass through this region. We only found out later that the Chinese declared a maritime exclusion zone around this island and an Air Defense Identification Zone above it. This was to ‘deconflict aid efforts’ and was ‘for the safety of all surface vessels and aircraft’ in the area. Twenty-one minutes later after that broadcast started, the PLAAF made an appearance, with a special delivery.”

                The view changes to a surface perspective of a pair of sleek fighters, flying at high speed seven hundred feet over the surface. A caption overlay keeps the text [Chengdu J-21 (PLAAF)] next to the aircraft as they pass the island with an earsplitting roar. Two long pods separate from each. Drag chutes open, slowing the pods down. A scores of small drones of mixed types fan out from the pods as they fall, dropping close to the surface before racing off to different points over the island. Some of the VTOL variants take position on the ground, while the fixed wing ones start orbits. The pods land upright on the ground and open up like a flower, becoming base stations for the swarm UAS.

                “This was not a welcome development for the locals here, who would have little means to resist a swarm, even if they were not fighting for their lives against Mother Nature.  Chinese personnel were expected next, along with other unmanned systems, but something was keeping them away, a small comfort to the people here who do not identify themselves as part of the Middle Kingdom. They know that once the Chinese arrive, they will never leave- a scenario repeated a number of times in the past. Luckily for them, forces unseen seem to be testing the exclusion zone, keeping the PLAN and PLAAF busy. ”

                A compellation of short videos start. One is of smoke trials reaching something unseen high in the sky, leading to a puff of dark smoke. The next is of flashes in high in the sky. The third depicts several columns of smoke merging into one cloud from sources burning below the seaborne horizon. The final is of a massive fireball thousands of feet up from which flaming objects tumble. They leave streaks of black smoke they falls into the water not too far from the shoreline.

                “It is a reasonable expectation that rescue personnel would arrive via air first, either Chinese occupiers under the guise of helping the people here, altruistic forces from other nations, or unaffiliated aid organizations. After all, the island is a few hundred miles from major airports. But as it turned out, the first human rescuers came by sea.”

                The view changes to two hundred feet in the air, facing out to sea. Through the haze and smoke a grey catamaran vessel is seen bow on to the camera. It is travelling at high speed, evidenced by a boiling white wake behind it. On the center of its flight deck is a pair of large angled missile launchers on wheels. It is accompanied by two small angular vessels, keeping station to each side as escorts. The center vessel has the text [USS Bremerton (T-EPF-14)] over it, while the smaller ones are labeled [‘Fiberclad’ medium Unmanned Surface Vehicle]. A large panel can be seen on the side of the EPF flashing QR codes to the USVs; the black and white shapes are a gray blur, transmitting faster than the human eye can register.

                “This view from the camBot shows the approach of a United States Navy transport vessel with robotic escorts. I was told later what these vessels are, and added their identification to the VRcast. Some of Chinese drones attempted to damage or distract it as it approached the island, but they were ill-equipped to deal with the limited defenses of the American force. This swarm was probably not intended to keep shipping away from the island, but it gave it a try.”

                Over a dozen of the fixed wing drones, flying in an ever-changing swarm formation, pass the camera’s perspective and dive towards the oncoming ship. Tracers reach out from the trapezoidal USVs and strike some, while others burst into flames as they are hit by unseen laser beams. A few lose control and tumble into the water. In less than a minute, they have all been shot down.

                “My camBot kept its distance. To identify it as a journalism asset, it is painted in bright colors so that it is not mistaken for security or military piece of hardware. I imagine that is why it was spared. It was able to capture the transport ship deploying amphibious vehicles, only about a half mile from shore.”

                The video elapses a few minutes. The EPF, now much closer, appears to decelerate slightly, and a ramp extends from a lower deck over the stern of the vessel.  Spaced thirty seconds apart, ten small wheeled vehicles splash into the water, only to partially resurface in the wake, with sensor blisters clearly visible above the water.  The VRstream labels them as [Leatherback scout vehicles]. They fan out as they head towards the shore, leaving deceptively small wakes. They are followed by an eleventh and twelfth vehicle (captioned as [Squad Control Vehicles]) that are larger than the others, and beeline straight into the shore.

                The perspective changes to a view facing the water from the top of one of the destroyed buildings. In the foreground, a small crowd of locals can be seen hiding behind a partially collapsed wall. Two of the scout vehicles, each no larger than an ATV, emerge from the water riding on six low wheels. Their shell-like domes folding open to extend the sensor blister and employ a weapons mount. A small UAS with counter rotating propellers jumps into the air from the rear of each vehicle and climbs away from view.  As the Leatherbacks move toward the camera, sweeping the area, one of the two larger vehicles drive up on the beach, the size of a small SUV. There is a pause before a hatch opens on top of the SCV and the top half of a human emerges, wearing a dark combat suit with a breather mask and a bug like set of goggles.

                An audio broadcast in several local languages and English is heard coming from the SCV. “We are Americans, here to help the local government take care of their people.” The figure waves his gloved right hand, and then uses it to pull the mask off of his face, he keeps the top half of his face obscured behind the goggles. He smiles and continues to wave as the audio rebroadcasts. The SCV continues up the beach as the Leatherbacks advance towards the camera.

                “This is when we first encountered Captain Ellis of the United States Marine Corps.” The voiceover continues, “He is the local commander of the US military forces, which encompass only two humans and their accompaniment of ground and air robots. The transport that delivered the Marines had to depart the area, for it was in danger of being sunk by ballistic missiles as long if it spent too long in one place, allowing long range sensors to cue to it.”

                Cut to a long distance shot of the Bremerton, stern to the camera. It is pumping a dark cloud of obscurants into the air as it churns through the waves in a zigzag pattern. Columns of angry water erupt around it and an explosion appears off to its port, as something hits one of its escorts. It disappears into the afternoon haze. Smaller bursts of airborne explosions can be seen above it as it fades.

                The shot switches to the reporter standing next to the SCV, with Capt Ellis next to the dismount ladder of the vehicle. It is late afternoon. The Marine is wearing Oakley AR ‘shades and a soft cover instead of his full helmet system, but is obviously alert and not relaxed. Gesturing at the amphibious vehicle and the Marine, Barnes continues.

                “Captain Ellis is operating under a pseudonym and will keep his face partially obscured so that he is not easily identified. I have also modulated his voice so that it cannot be used for the same purpose. He will now talk us through what happened after he arrived on the island. It gives us valuable insight into the footage my camBot took. Please go ahead, Captain.”

                “Thank you, Sir.” Ellis begins, looking away from the camera, towards some distant activity.  “It is good to be part of this relief effort. We are here to provide security assistance and aid relief efforts during this difficult time.”

                “Why are you the only outside forces here?” Barnes asks.

                “My Marines were the only unit nearby when the earthquake hit and found ourselves inside the new exclusion zone. My Centaur platoon [US Military term for human-machine team] was just on its way back to Subic on the Bremerton after a COIN [Counterinsurgency] mission in Indonesia. It appears that the PLAN lost track of us among the commercial traffic around here, and when the shooting started, they had bigger fish to fry, anyway. So we were the first to respond and keep the Chinese away until follow-on forces arrived.”

But the Chinese did arrive, in albeit in small numbers. Tell us how you countered that.”

                “Well, the swarm they dropped off was not a very robust one, so we hijacked it and co-opted it.”

                “Co-opted?” Inquired Barnes.

                “Yessir. My platoon now controls the swarm now as if it is ours. My team has network intrusion capabilities with us, and we weakened their resistance by taking over their pod base stations. We convinced the Chinese through their own swarm that the island was covered in US forces, so that they would leave it alone. They still sent a team to be sure… Excuse me. Go ahead, Gunny. Roger. South end sentry? Copy all.”

As he speaks, he reaches up to the air with his right hand. Jabs his index finger out, rotates his wrist in a counterclockwise motion and then moves it downward a half a foot in an arching motion. He then closes his fist, and brings it back down to his side.

“I apologize Sir,” says the Captain. “Still have business to attend to.”

“The Chinese team?” the reporter asks, helpfully.

The VRcast switches to a rooftop view of a small clearing with a floor of low scrub that seems to be away from the residential structures of the island. It has bushes and trees around it. Two blurs (outlined in red by the VRcast) are seen descending from the air, as they touch the ground, they materialize into a pair of soldiers in full wingsuits. The suits change color from the color of the sky to that of the local foliage. They raise rifles in an alert posture.

The Marine continues as a voiceover, “Two infiltrators were sent in about two hours after we arrived. We knew their insertion methods- active camo wingsuits, and they hadn’t changed their tactics since the Malay insurgency. So we lured them with the co-opted drone signals, and dropped them on an EMP mine.”

The two soldiers in the VRcast drop their rifles and try to take off their helmets. They lose balance and fall to the ground, one face first, the other to its side. Two fully combat suited Marines emerge from behind the low buildings. They shrug off faraday blankets and point rifles at the prone insertion team, as a Leatherback emerges from the foreground. The Leatherback begins broadcasting audio in English and Mandarin that is garbled in the recording. One of the Marines lowers his rifle and strides over to the Chinese soldiers. He rips large objects out of the back of their suits, pulls off their helmets, and yanks earpieces out of each of their ears. Covered by the Leatherback and the other Marine, he then handcuffs both of the now helpless opponents. The VRcast cuts back to the interview.

 “They are now in the custody of the local police, for they are trespassing on sovereign territory of another country. We are here to assist with law and order, as part of providing assistance and relief the earthquake. ”

“It seems you were equipped to encounter such a team.”

“In part. My platoon carried some of the standard COIN and network intrusion components with us, but we had to build some items. A cover for the exterior of the mine had to be made so that it would be masked from their sensors and would blend into the environs around the ambush. We also made several types of special handcuffs so we could immobilize whatever model of ‘wingnut’ suit they arrived in. The SCVs have AM systems that can do the job.” Ellis says, as he lovingly pats the vehicle next to him.

“The islanders at this point still had no outside assistance… tell us what you did next.”

“There are Centaur teams that have an engineering capability, but this Raider team is not one of them. The Gunnery Sergeant and I tried to help with some of the rubble, but we need dedicated rescue suits and better drone coverage. Standard HA/DR [Humanitarian Assistance/Disaster Relief] response involves airship delivery if an airfield is not available, so I had the robot platoon members find and clear a suitable field. I had no idea if anyone would arrive with the ADIZ [Air Defense Identification Zone] and exclusion zone up, but it looks like USAID [United States Agency for International Development] and the Red Cross decided to risk it with commercial air carriers. They took a gamble that the Chinese would not shoot down civilian flagged aid deliveries.”

A field that leads to a large flat beach appears in the VRcast. Two Leatherbacks can be seen in the distance. The view pans to two closer ones- they are positioned in a rectangle, marking a clear landing area. A deep hum fills the air. The top part of the view disappears behind a large dark object descending towards the field. The camBot pans back as a massive hybrid airship in FedEx livery descends on a shallow slope. Fifty feet below above the landing area, two shipping containers with “USAID” markings begin to lower to the ground on cables. Just as they touch the ground, they detach from the cables and the airship accelerates up and away from the field, unencumbered by cargo.

The view pans back to where the airship came from as a second FedEx airship approaches. The recording follows it as it drops off two more containers. These are labelled with Red Cross and Red Crescent emblems. As the second airship ascend away from the landing area, the Leatherbacks drive out of away from the field, their assigned roles complete.

The sides of one USAID container open up, issuing forth the legged and tracked recovery bots seen in earlier clips of the recording. Scan and marker UAS launch from the far end of the container. The other container extends launch tubes and launches dozens of small objects in multiple directions. The VRcast captions this as [First Responder Mesh Network deployment].

Captain Ellis provides a voice-over. “This is the standard unmanned first responder package. The USAID boxes carry rescue and recovery systems, and will employ ad hoc network hubs for the whole island. Once those hubs are set up, the drones will distribute low-cost AR glasses so that people on the island can communicate with each other. This will help me with my mission, I don’t have the capability with this team to aerial seed my own nodes, so I can use this network.”

The Marine continues, “The Red Cross boxes carry ‘food flies’ and enough food for thousands of people, for a short period of time…”

“’Food flies?’” Barnes interjects.

“I apologize, sir. That’s the slang for food aid drones. They swarm through the airspace and look like they are buzzing around food sources, when they are in fact picking up the food for delivery to aid points. They can be an annoyance in a war zone, where they complicate our battle picture.”

A small tracked vehicle emerges from the side of the far Red Cross container and drives across the beach into the water, trailing a suction hose for water collection. The top opens up, and packages rise into view on individual platforms. The shot pans to a top down view of the near Red Cross container as the top slides open, creating a series of ledges akin to an open cereal box. Scores of bug like eyes come into view, the sensor systems of small drones pointing upward. The drones move upward and out onto the newly deployed launch platforms, seemingly shaking with anticipation as liftfans fold from their wasp-like fuselage and rotate into a horizontal flight position. The “food flies” lift from the platforms in quick sequence, pick up packages from the other Red Cross container, and fly away at high speed.

“As you can see,” Barnes says, “HA/DR operations no longer involve food lines and people handing out food, the newer Red Cross containers deliver the supplies where they are needed. The food one desalinates its own water and packages it for the drones to deliver, and contains thousands of meals…”

“Excuse me Sir.” Ellis interrupts, “I need to end this interview. The south sentry saw two more cargo ‘zeps coming and we don’t know what they are carrying. I’m hoping it is a MSF [Médecins Sans Frontières] mobile hospital and a rescue team in power suits, but I can’t be too sure. Could be a PLAN Trojan horse.”

The Marine climbs up onto the SCV and puts on his helmet. He looks down at the reporter. “Do you want to send out this VRcast? It would be good to get the word out.”

“You can do that? How can you transmit this off the island?” Barnes asks, pleasantly surprised by this development.

“Yessir. If I told you how, the Chinese would know, wouldn’t they? Anyway, when you are done with post, NFC transmit it to any member of my team and we will get it to your news agency.  Format it so that it is just one way, so no VRstreaming. Have to go.” He folds himself forward into the SCV as it drives off.

                Wallis Barnes turns towards the camera, the expression of a serious reporter returning to his face. “There you have it. This small island, already reeling from a record earthquake, has now become a pawn in the great power competition in Asia. The international community is trying to help while the people here cling to survival. Thank you for joining me for this special report, hopefully the first of many. Have a good evening.”

                The camera zooms back from the reporter, showing the island in the background and the aid efforts. The SCV can be seen rushing off towards the south, where airships can be seen approaching at low altitude. The view centers on the sun, low over the western horizon.

[End VRcast]

[View more on this topic?]

Chris O’Connor  is a Supply Corps officer in the United States Navy. He was a member of the CNO Rapid Innovation Cell and CNO Strategic Studies Group Director Fellow. The views expressed here are his own and do not represent those of the United States Department of Defense.

Featured Image: DARPA’s Anti-Submarine Warfare (ASW) Continuous Trail Unmanned Vessel (DARPA photo)

The following is an entry for the CIMSEC & Atlantic Council Fiction Contest on Autonomy and Future War. Winners will be announced 7 November.

By Tim McGeehan

Ser 00J

01 May 2025

From:    CAPT [NAME REDACTED], U.S. Navy

To:         Commander, U.S. Naval Forces Central Command

Subj:      COMMAND INVESTIGATION TO INQUIRE                      INTO CIRCUMSTANCES SURROUNDING THE                ENGAGEMENT OF CIVILIAN MEDICAL                              FACILITY IN SITE ALPHA ON 29 MARCH 2025

Ref:        (a) JAGINST 5800.7D

Encl:   

(1) Convening Order

(2) OPREP-3 PINNACLE DTG 292334Z MAR 25

(3) Technical Report: Audit of JBN103 HBNS Algorithm in use on 29 March 2025

(4) Technical Report: Audit of Snakehead 573 Engagement-Decision Sub-System Algorithm in use on 29 March 2025

(5) Technical Report: Mission Commander’s Guidance Algorithms in use on 29 March 2025

(6) CDR [NAME REDACTED], U.S. Navy, Mission Commander, Statement

(7) CENTCOM High Value Individual List dtd 15 March 2025

(8) CENTCOM Supplemental Rules Of Engagement Serial 291 dtd 15 March 2025

(9) Battle Damage Assessment dtd 29 March 2025

(10) Snakehead 573 Mission Plan dtd 29 March 2025

(11) Extract from Snakehead 573 Message Log: Request permission to engage, DTG 291203ZMAR2025

(12) Mission Report from Angler 187 dtd 29 March 2025

(13) Concept of Operations (CONOPS) for MQ-30C Snakehead employment dtd 31 January 2020

(14) Air Vehicle Operator (AVO) Chat Log 573-20250329

Preliminary Statement

(1) Pursuant to enclosure (1), and in accordance with ref (a) an investigation was conducted to inquire into the circumstances surrounding the engagement of a civilian medical facility in Site ALPHA on 29 March 2025. I consulted with NAVCENT JAG team for legal advice. All reasonably available and relevant evidence was collected.

(2) The investigation reviewed execution and compliance with the established programs, plans, and procedures in effect within the U.S. FIFTH Fleet on or about 29 March 2025. The Investigation Team conducted site visits, program and instruction review, panel discussions, and interviews. During the course of the investigation, the Team received outstanding support.

(3) However, it must be noted that the proprietary nature of the algorithms (and their associated data) at the heart of this investigation placed an over-reliance on contractor support in recreating the chain of reasoning behind identification, classification, decisions, and actions taken by the autonomous systems involved. This was just one illustration of the lack of transparency into the operating processes of this “system of systems” which led to the event in question.

(4) This incident and subsequent investigation may come to be considered a landmark in how we employ and/or restrict future autonomous systems. As such, all related records, notes, and correspondence will be retained for future reference.

Findings of Fact

(1) A temporary civilian medical treatment facility was engaged by U.S. Navy MQ-30C autonomous aerial vehicle “Snakehead 573” on 29 March 2025 at Site ALPHA.

(2) At the time of the incident, the facility, originally constructed and long used as a warehouse, had been operating as an undeclared civilian medical treatment facility for less than one month. Navy, joint force, and national intelligence organizations were unaware of this development.

(3) Twenty-six civilian medical aid workers were killed in the attack, along with [NAME REDACTED].

(4) [NAME REDACTED] was a high value individual (HVI) linked to multiple attacks on Western civilians and interests.

(5) Snakehead 573 was operating from the aircraft carrier USS GEORGE HW BUSH (CVN 77).

(6) Snakehead 573 launched at 0423Z on 29 March 2025.

(7) Once on station over Site ALPHA, Snakehead 573 joined “Joint Battle Network 103” (JBN103).

(8) JBN103 is the local forward-deployed network of unmanned ground vehicles, low-altitude surveillance unmanned aerial vehicles (UAV), and fixed persistent sensors.

(9) JBN103 employs an algorithm referred to as “hypothesis based netted sensing” or HBNS.

(10) Under HBNS, sensors collaboratively characterize their environment, building an understanding based on how the data of each supports a range of possible hypotheses. The hypothesis that scores highest is considered the most likely, and when criteria are sufficient, acted upon.

(11) JBN103’s HBNS algorithm classified the temporary civilian medical treatment facility as a valid military target, specifically by identifying it as a command post.

(12) An audit of JBN103’s HBNS algorithm revealed that the building was identified as a command post due to the type and number of vehicles parked outside, the pattern of activity (people and vehicles quickly coming and going), type and number of antennas on the roof, and volume of radio and cellular traffic coming from inside the location.

(13) During a system re-initialization on 21 March 2025, JBN103’s HBNS algorithm reverted to a previous version.

(14) JBN103’s HBNS algorithm in use on 29 March 2025 had been originally developed, “trained,” and deployed in another theater.

(15) The civilian medical facility’s location had not been formally declared or even tentatively identified as a medical facility, and therefore did not appear in the database of such locations that were considered “off limits.”

(16) At 0331Z on 29 March 2025 (several hours before the incident in question), [NAME REDACTED] was seriously injured approximately 15 miles SW of the city by a manned (F-35C) airstrike conducted by Angler 187, also launched from USS GEORGE HW BUSH.

(17) At approximately 1030Z on 29 March 2025, intelligence sources indicated that [NAME REDACTED] had embarked a vehicle for transport into the city for urgent medical treatment. It was assessed that his comrades hoped to hide him among the crowd of civilians and non-combatants seeking medical treatment, namely survivors from an unrelated suicide bomb attack that took place at a local Mosque at 0919Z earlier the same day.

(18) As [NAME REDACTED] entered the city en route to the medical facility, his vehicle was detected and tracked by JBN103’s HBNS algorithm. However, it was one of 11 vehicles on the road which were being evaluated by JBN103’s HBNS algorithm.

(19) JBN103’s HBNS algorithm built the case that the vehicle was transporting [NAME REDACTED]. The vehicle came from a direction consistent with that of a survivor of the previous manned engagement by Angler 187, and the time-distance calculation from the previous engagement site (when factoring the rough uneven terrain) supported the possibility of this vehicle transporting him as a survivor. Additionally, a low resolution image was consistent with the approximate age, height, and build of [NAME REDACTED].  However, the hypothesis that [NAME REDACTED] was in the vehicle was not at the confidence level where it was considered autonomously actionable by Snakehead 573.

(20) On 15 March 2025 (two weeks prior to the event), CENTCOM issued Supplemental Rules Of Engagement (ROE) Serial 291, which directed immediate engagement of specific hostile HVIs. A list of the HVIs was included as an Addendum and it included [NAME REDACTED].

(21) On 16 March 2025, the Snakehead Detachment Commander onboard USS GEORGE HW BUSH directed updates to the Engagement Decision sub-system of all Snakehead platforms, to include Snakehead 573. These updates included a protocol to execute Supplemental ROE Serial 291 and automatically engage the designated HVIs as targets of opportunity.

(22) During mission planning on 28 March 2025, the Mission Commander confirmed the thresholds for autonomous action as well as those decision points that required his input and authorization.

(23) Based on Mission Commander input, the HVI supplemental ROE protocol was executed by an algorithm that required positive visual identification (defined as at least 95% probability of a match) of an HVI before automatic engagement. Without a positive visual identification, Snakehead 573 was to seek clarification from the Mission Commander before initiating any engagement.  

(24) At 1203Z on 29 March 2025, Snakehead 573 sent a message to the Mission Commander noting a 90% probability that [NAME REDACTED] was in the vehicle entering the city and requested permission to engage.

(25) The Mission Commander did not respond to Snakehead 573’s message.

(26) Snakehead 573 held fire and continued to track the vehicle.

(27) Snakehead 573 communicated an “information need” to JBN103, specifically to fulfill the visual identification requirement for autonomous engagement.

(28) JBN103 tasked resolution of this “information need” to a low-altitude surveillance UAV operating as part of the network. This platform was able to obtain a high resolution facial scan of [NAME REDACTED] as he was carried from the vehicle and into the facility.

(29) JBN103 relayed the facial scan to Snakehead 573, where it was compared to the onboard biometric library associated with the HVI list. Snakehead 573 determined a 99.2% probability of a match. This exceeded the positive identification threshold previously promulgated by the Mission Commander.

(30) Snakehead 573 initiated the engagement and launched two [REDACTED] at the facility.

(31) Snakehead 573, along with the rest of JBN103 performed a battle damage assessment (BDA), concluded that there was a 95% probability that the target was neutralized, and refrained from follow up strikes.

(32) Two hours later, Snakehead 573 was relieved on station by Snakehead 574.

(33) Snakehead 573 was recovered onboard USS GEORGE HW BUSH at 1554Z on 29 March 2025.

(34) Snakehead 573’s mission data was downloaded and archived with the Mission Commander’s Report.

Opinions

(1) The Mission Commander failed to continuously monitor the operation and update protocols as required.

(2) The Mission Commander, monitoring several distributed operations, was (at the moment of the attack) focused on executing a manual override on another platform to reposition and obtain streaming video to report on the recent suicide bombing that had recently occurred at a Mosque in the city.

(3) The Mission Commander failed to prioritize multiple simultaneous tasks. That said, his priorities at the moment were heavily influenced by pressure from his superiors onboard USS GEORGE HW BUSH and ashore at the Maritime Operations Center (MOC) to provide video for assessment of the suicide bombing.

(4) The Mission Commander did not respond to Snakehead 573’s request to engage when the vehicle transporting [NAME REDACTED] was entering the city, which could have limited collateral damage.

(5) Although the Mission Commander failed to provide continuous oversight to the system, he was not negligent as he had a reasonable belief that sufficient controls were in place.

(6) It is troubling that despite major investments, testing, and operational acceptance, JBN103 could not classify the facility as a temporary medical facility. This is particularly distressing as it was marked with a white and red flag displaying a Red Crescent, a well-recognized medical symbol.

(7) Per [NAME REDACTED], the contractor that developed JBN103’s HBNS algorithms, the Red Crescent would have been recognized, had the correct algorithm not been accidentally replaced with a previous one on 21 March 2025 during the system re-initialization.

(8) It appears that the system re-initialization was not required operationally, but rather was performed as part of a routine maintenance for an ongoing service support contract. The re-initialization was initiated remotely without consultation with those actively executing the operation and thereby jeopardized the mission.

(9) Per the contractor, using the older algorithm, which had been developed and “trained” with data from the U.S. Southern Command (SOUTHCOM) area of operations (AOR), where the Red Crescent is not utilized, some contextual cues used to “frame” the pattern of life may have been missed that could have identified the building as a medical facility.

(10) Most troubling, per the contractor, the older algorithm might have “learned” to perceive the flag of the Red Crescent as a “ruse.” During previous employment of this algorithm in SOUTHCOM, adversaries frequently used the Red Cross symbol and flag to disguise weapons caches and drug labs in an attempt to protect these bases for illicit operations. Apparently the algorithm learned not only to disregard the Red Cross as denoting protected facilities, but it learned to disregard  white and red flags in general (regardless of the symbol).  Furthermore, it might have learned to explicitly distrust flags of this color scheme (and assume them to signify deception), which may have furthered the case for classification as a command post.  However, this cannot be confirmed as that portion of the algorithm’s “learning” is not “auditable.”

Recommendations

(1) Recommend that the Mission Commander be cleared of any negligence. The Mission Commander’s guidance included the heavy weighting of a positive visual identification, which was intended to prevent misidentification and thereby reduce collateral damage. Ironically, without this “more restrictive” criteria (in the name of enhanced safety), Snakehead 573 would have engaged [NAME REDACTED]’s vehicle as it was entering the city (well away from the medical facility) with limited collateral damage.  Put another way, in this case, specifying a lower threshold for lethal force and giving more autonomy to the platform would have prevented the strike on the medical facility and saved lives.  This type of paradox is not covered anywhere in the Mission Commander’s training pipeline, is counter-intuitive, and could not have been predicted, preplanned, or foreseen.

(2) Recommend temporary suspension of any automated engagement protocols.

(3) Recommend that contractor permission to remotely re-initialize battle networks be immediately withdrawn.

(4) Recommend that contractors work closely with Operational Commanders to determine opportune times to conduct maintenance.

(5) Recommend that the Department of Defense advocate for complete control of the networks “in house” (i.e. not contracted) and require the use of open standards vice the proprietary formats currently employed.

(6) Recommend a Mission Commander’s job task analysis review to include task loading and task saturation. If functions to be delegated actually require continuous and detailed oversight, then they are not really delegated. This should be reviewed.

(7) Recommend a complex modeling and simulation campaign to continuously test battle network algorithms under the full spectrum of conditions and situations to discover emergent behavior. This effort should focus on revealing improper associations, such as if the algorithm “learned” that the Red Crescent was a ruse. Additionally, case studies of unusual emergent behavior should be incorporated into future Mission Commander training courses.

(8) Recommend developing the capability for real-time auditing of algorithms. There must be sufficient transparency to enable the Mission Commander to understand what decisions the algorithms are trending towards, what thresholds they are approaching, and why they are arriving at those conclusions.

(9) Recommend increased training for Mission Commanders. The current process of setting priorities and designating decision points where they are to be consulted gives a false sense of control. As missions proceed and reality departs from the anticipated chain of events, the decision points originally envisioned may not come to pass. This problem will become more and more acute as mission duration increases and “nonlinear effects” compound.  There needs to be a means of constantly assimilating data and prompting of the Mission Commander to update priorities and confirm the decision points where he is to be contacted. 

(10) Recommend a comprehensive review of systems in acquisition and procurement. There must be clarity, full disclosure, and a potential recalibration of risk tolerance if future autonomous systems are becoming too complex to fully monitor.

(11) Recommend the incident be officially classified as a system malfunction.

Tim McGeehan is a U.S. Navy Officer currently serving in Washington. He is a graduate of the U.S. Naval Academy and Naval Postgraduate School, and has served on both the CNO Strategic Studies Group and CNO Strategic Actions Group. The ideas presented here are those of the author alone and do not reflect the views of the Department of the Navy or Department of Defense.

Featured Image: The MQ-8B Fire Scout performed precision take-off and landings during a demonstration on the Coast Guard Cutter, USCGC Bertholf near Los Angeles. (Petty Officer 2nd Class Luke Clayton/U.S. Coast Guard)