Fiction Contest Week

By Lieutenant Jacob Rothstein, USN

Part I

“CONN, Radio, in receipt of flash message traffic. For CO’s Eyes Only. Routing to the Captain’s stateroom,” USS Seattle’s Radioman of the Watch announced over the 27MC.

“Radio, CONN, aye,” replied LTJG Michael Lee, the Officer of the Deck, without breaking concentration from his engineering study guide.

Lee looked up after hearing something that vaguely resembled a request to cross the CONN. He linked eyes with the Radioman of the Watch and nudged his head forward, granting him permission to cross the CONN. The Radioman of the Watch thanked Lee and continued to the CO’s stateroom. Lee returned to his engineering notes.

            “Officer of the Deck, the navigation plot is ready for your review,” the Quartermaster of the Watch informed Lee.

            Lee strolled over to the navigation plot in the back left corner of the control room for what he assumed was the 400^th time this watch.

            Course 082. Speed 5 KTS. Depth 60 FT. Everything checked.

Seattle was headed east after an arduous six-month Western Pacific deployment. Their hard work wasn’t over yet, though. An Operational Reactors Safeguards Examination, ORSE for short, stood between the crew and their return to homeport. ORSE, a yearly inspection designed to assess a nuclear-powered warship’s ability to respond to engineering casualties and operate in accordance with naval nuclear power procedures, takes the entire crew’s dedication to successfully complete.

Although just a three-day inspection, the preparation for ORSE begins months in advance. Nuclear operators are required to be proficient in drills, their technical knowledge, and in their ability to operate the reactor plant and associated engineering spaces.

Inside his stateroom, CDR Joseph C. McIntosh read the message handed to him by Radioman of the Watch. Growing impatient, the Radioman of the Watch’s eyes started to wander. His eyes landed upon a picture of who he presumed to be CDR McIntosh at his wedding, many years ago. McIntosh’s younger self was almost unrecognizable to the Radioman of the Watch. His eyes were now sunken, his uniform at least two sizes larger. The remaining bits of his hair, now gray.

Finally, McIntosh completed his review of the message.

“That will be all,” he said, excusing the Radioman of the Watch from his stateroom.

McIntosh’s days as the CO of the Seattle were numbered. His relief was scheduled to arrive in two weeks, just days after the Seattle’s return to port. His Change of Command Ceremony would need to be pushed back now.

“Good morning warriors, this is your Captain speaking,” McIntosh said over the 1MC from his stateroom. “I just received some exciting news.”

The crew groaned. They knew what ‘exciting’ meant in this context.

“Our country needs our help,” McIntosh continued. “We’ve been redirected back to the west. The boss needs us near Taiwan in case anything comes up. Unfortunately, this means our return to home port will be delayed at least one month. I know many of you were looking forward to reuniting with your loved ones, but duty calls. All officers, muster in the wardroom in fifteen minutes. Carry on!”

A few sailors mumbled, “Carry on, aye Sir,” in response to the CO’s message, but most were silent.

“Helm, left ten degree rudder, steady course 280,” said Lee, correctly assuming the CO would want him to turn around.

Lee and the rest of the control room made preparations to descend from periscope depth as they returned to the west.

Part II

            “The good news is, we have another four weeks to prepare for ORSE,” McIntosh said to all of his officers with the exception of LTJG Lee and LTJG Vandors, his on-watch Officer of the Deck and Engineering Officer of the Watch, respectively.

            “Sir, we will enter our holding area in three-zero hours,” said the NAV referencing the chart pulled up on the computer screen for the CO to see.

            “Very well, NAV. ENG, what is your plan for engineering drills once we arrive?”

McIntosh’s attention was already back on ORSE.

            “Excuse me, Sir. Did you say drills?” asked WEPS, interrupting the CO.

            “Is that a problem, WEPS?” McIntosh asked rhetorically.

            “Sir, the PLA(N) intends to execute a huge exercise in the vicinity of Taiwan. There will be a tremendous amount of warship activity.”

            WEPS had a habit of answering rhetorical questions.

            “Do you have a recommendation for me WEPS? Or did you just want everyone to know that you read the news this morning?”

            “Sir, I recommend we do not conduct drills while in our hold box based on our proximity to PLA(N) assets.”

            “Very well, WEPS. I understand your recommendation and do not concur with it,” McIntosh said as he scanned the wardroom. “Does anyone else think drills are a bad idea?”

            Blank stares followed.

            “This back and forth with China over Taiwan has gone on for ages. I’ll be damned if you think I am going to let the crew sit in that operating box and wait for something to happen that’s NEVER going to happen. We need to stay focused on ORSE! ENG, I want to see a complete drill guide by tonight.” McIntosh said as he exited the wardroom.

Part III

            ENG and LTJG Lee, the boat’s Assistant Engineer, waited outside the CO’s stateroom. Lee was promoted to the Assistant Engineer position a few months prior. He was the clear choice for the job after he excelled during his engineering qualifications and assessments during his first 20-months on board the Seattle. McIntosh made it clear to Lee that the AENG position was one of great responsibility, a position that should not be taken lightly. Only the most competent Junior Officer could be trusted as the AENG.  

As the Assistant Engineer, Lee was in charge of the drill team. The Captain trusted him with the safe operation of the engine room and the reactor during drills. Additionally, his duties included compiling the drill critiques for the ORSE Board.

“Enter,” McIntosh said a few moments after ENG knocked on his door.

ENG and Lee entered the CO’s stateroom and presented him the list of engineering casualty drills scheduled for once the Seattle arrived on station.

            “ENG, why is there no single main engine drill?” questioned McIntosh as he flipped through the drill guide. “Did you not see the Nashville’s most recent ORSE report?”

            “I did. Yes Sir,” ENG said. “It’s just after talking it over with WEPS and XO, we all thought it would be best if we maintained both main engines in case of an emergency.”

            McIntosh slammed his desk with both hands and noise echoed throughout the boat’s forward compartment.

            “ENG! DID I NOT MAKE MYSELF CLEAR EARLIER?! THERE WILL NOT BE AN EMERGENCY! WE ARE GOING TO SIT A FEW DOZEN NAUTICAL MILES FROM TAIWAN FOR A FEW WEEKS AND THEN DO ORSE! WHAT DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND?”

            Unlike WEPS, ENG knew better than to answer a rhetorical question.

            McIntosh took a few moments to regain his composure before he continued.

            “Now please get me a drill guide with a loss of one main engine in it.”

            “Actually Sir, I have one right here. I brought it as a backup.”

            Lee handed the CO an additional drill guide.  

            “Excellent job, AENG.”

            A satisfied Lee cracked a smile. Surely this would go a long way on his next FITREP.

            This ORSE held significant weight for CDR McIntosh. It would be his final inspection as the CO of the Seattle. The Seattle had performed admirably during McIntosh’s tenure as captain. McIntosh’s crew twice received the yearly award for the best boat in the squadron, known as the Battle E award, and earned at least an Above Average on all engineering and combat inspections.

If the Seattle continued its unparalleled level of success on inspections, McIntosh would be all but guaranteed major command and eventually, a promotion to admiral. He would not let some Department Heads prevent his team from training simply because they were worried about Taiwan and the PLA(N).

Part IV

            “Drill team, muster in the wardroom,” announced Lee over the 1MC.

            After 30 hours of high speed transit the Seattle finally arrived in its new operating area. The Seattle conducted a short periscope depth trip to confirm their orders. The boat’s directions were simple, maintain in the assigned operating water with a high level of readiness and await further instructions. McIntosh could not think of a better way to maintain a high level of readiness than a drill set in preparation for OSRE.

            Lee checked his watch. Over 90 seconds passed since he announced the drill team meeting over the 1MC. WEPS was nowhere to be seen.

            “Messenger,” barked Lee. “Rack out the WEPS. Tell him to report to the control room to relieve the Officer of the Deck in accordance with our officer rotation plan for drills!”

            The drill brief would not start without Lee. He needed to verify the other drill monitors understood their roles during the simulated casualties.

            The sleepy-eyed WEPS walked into the control room and Lee proceeded to inform him of the conditions of the ship.

            “Everything is normal up here, WEPS. Sierra-seven-eight and Sierra-eight-zero are two distant merchants,” Lee said as he pointed to a mostly blank SONAR screen. “The engine room is ready to answer all bells, for now. I’ll be back in a few hours to relieve you.”

            “Attention, Helm, Dive, Quartermaster, the Weapons Officer has the deck and the CONN.”

            The three watchstanders acknowledged their new Officer of the Deck.

Part V

            The engine room watchstanders performed as expected during the drill set. McIntosh, ENG, and Lee were pleased. Their team took the appropriate actions for a loss of reactor power, fire in a vital ship’s component, and loss of one main engine.

            “CONN, Maneuvering, drill set complete,” the Engineering Officer of the Watch said over the 7MC to the Officer of the Deck.

            “Maneuvering, CONN, aye. Maneuvering, CONN, restore the port main engine.”

            WEPS’ focus remained on maximizing propulsion.

            The Engineering Officer of the Watch reported back WEPS’ order, but had other ideas.

            “CONN, Maneuvering, intend to maintain single main engine in order to complete a clean and inspect of the port main engine.”

            “Maneuvering, CONN, restore the port main engine.”

            Before the Engineering Officer of the Watch could reply, CDR McIntosh arrived on the CONN.

            “WEPS! What is wrong with you?!”

McIntosh heard the conversation over the open microphone in his stateroom.

Without allowing WEPS an opportunity to answer his most recent rhetorical question, McIntosh continued, “the clean and inspect needs to happen. We’ll survive a few hours limited to half speed. Authorize the clean and inspect.”

“Authorize the clean and inspect, aye Sir.”

WEPS gave up trying to rationalize the Captain’s decision any further.

Part VI

            Lee finally arrived back in the control room to relieve as Officer of the Deck after he complied the drill feedback forms.

            “Sorry I’m late WEPS.”

            “It’s fine,” lied WEPS. “No new SONAR contacts. We’re limited to 50% power due to the port main engine clean and inspect. Do you have any questions?”

            “I have no questions, I relieve you of the deck and the CONN. Attention, Helm, Dive, Quartermaster, AENG has the deck and the CONN,” Lee announced to his watch team.

Part VII

            The remaining two hours of Lee’s watch were uneventful. Exactly what he needed, some time to brush up on his ORSE Level of Knowledge.

            “Officer of the Deck, the navigation plot is ready for your review.”

            Lee glanced at the quartermaster. Again? He reluctantly glanced at VMS and signed his review page.

            “Can I go back to studying now?”

            Lee learned how to ask a rhetorical question by observing the CO for nearly two years.

            The quartermaster forced a half smile.

            “CONN, SONAR, gained new surface contact, Sierra-nine-nine, bearing-two-two-zero,” the SONAR Supervisor said over the 27MC.

            “SONAR, CONN, aye,” acknowledged Lee.

            “SONAR, CONN, Sierra-nine-nine updated classification PLA(N) warship.”

            WEPS heard the report over the open microphone in the wardroom and headed to the control room, Lee would likely need his help. He arrived to discover an uncomfortable situation.

            The PLA(N) warship would approach as close as 10 KYDS in eight minutes if the Seattle did not maneuver. Fortunately for the Seattle, there was still time to open range.

            Seconds away from recommending a maneuver to the Officer of the Deck, WEPS saw a bright green trace emerge from Sierra-nine-nine. The SONAR Supervisor’s following report only confirmed what he already knew.

            “CONN, SONAR, torpedo in the water bearing two-two-zero!”

            Lee didn’t move. He hadn’t studied the actions for torpedo evasion since the day before his Fish Board. He knew every immediate action for an engine room casualty, but failed to remember his actions for an incoming torpedo.

            “Attention, Helm, Dive, Quartermaster, WEPS has the CONN, AENG retains the Deck!”

WEPS took control of the ship’s depth, course, speed, and weapons systems.

            CDR McIntosh arrived on the CONN just in time to supervise WEPS’ actions.

            “Torpedo Evasion! Helm, All Ahead Flank cavitate! Right full rudder steady course north! Launch countermeasures!” WEPS’ orders would alert the crew, increase to maximum speed, turn away from the torpedo, and launch decoys to distract the incoming torpedo.

            The Helm acknowledged WEPS’ order and manipulated the Engine Ordered Telegraph to alert the engine room for their immediate need for speed.

            “CONN, SONAR, torpedo range 2,000 YDS!”

            WEPS needed speed and he need it now. The launched decoys would only confuse the torpedo for so long.

            “CONN, Maneuvering, maximum bell All Ahead Standard. The port main engine is down for a clean and inspect.”

            “Maneuvering, CONN, aye. Maneuvering, CONN, emergency restore the port main engine!”

            WEPS knew it would take too long to restore the port main engine, but he at least had to try.

            CDR McIntosh was unfazed, certain he could find a way out of this.

            “WEPS, launch two more set of countermeasures, commence emergency evasive maneuvers.”

            WEPS acknowledged the CO and directed his team to deploy additional sets of countermeasures.

            “Helm, All Ahead Standard. Left Full Rudder. Dive make your depth 100 FT.”

            “CONN, SONAR, torpedo range 1,500 YDS.”

            The decoys would only distract the torpedo for so long. And without maximum speed, outrunning the torpedo would be nearly impossible.

            “CONN, SONAR, torpedo range 1,000 YDS.”

            The drastic course and depth change did not work.

            “CONN, SONAR, torpedo range 500 YDS.”

            One by one the watchstanders realized their fate was sealed.

            “CONN, SONAR, torpedo range 200 YDS.”

            CDR McIntosh’s last words etched into the minds of his control room watchstanders forever.

            “If only I had put Warfighting First.”

LT Jacob Rothstein graduated from the Naval Academy with the great class of 2016. After two years of studying nuclear power in Charleston, Jacob reported to the USS Annapolis (SSN-760) in San Diego. During his three-year tour he completed two WESTPAC Deployments and made enough friends and memories to last a lifetime. Now on shore tour in San Diego, Jacob lives with his partner Rachel and a rotating cast of foster dogs. Jacob spends his free time writing, playing volleyball, and stressing over the Padres. You can read more of his work on his blog The Subpar Group. 

Featured Image: Art created with Midjourney AI.

Fiction Contest Week

By Kevin P. Smith

“Fly low, fly fast, get paid.”

Pops’ words rang through my head, in tune with the sound of my left wing clipping the radar off the top of a Chinese fishing vessel. We were so low I could see the fishermen’s faces yelling at us a few choice words in Mandarin.

Better than taking an Exocet up the gut, I thought. On cue, a white streak crossed on my starboard, the low-flying missile flying past, barely missing my right wing. Thankfully, they’re designed to hit ships moving through the water, not planes flying just above the surface.

Plane is a generous word for the vessel I currently piloted. A wing-in-ground effect, or ground effect vehicle, or just GEV, stays just above the water, airfoils still touching H2O, using the forces of physics to move faster than any other vessel not fully airborne. Being a ground-effect vehicle, the Flying Fish isn’t much different from the sea-skimmer missile. They even share the same name, just different languages.

My girl bucked as its airfoil reconnected with the water. GEVs are designed to skirt over shallows, mines, and torpedoes. What they are not designed to do is fly, and landings are a no-no. I’d prefer not to, except I had to lift off to jump the blockade of Chinese fishing boats surrounding the lagoon.

In mid-air, just above the island canopy surrounding the lagoon, I sighted a white hull on the horizon. Five racing stripes, four small blue and one large orange, meant Coast Guard. Specifically, Chinese People’s Armed Police Force Coast Guard Corps.

What a mouthful. We just called them by their pinjin name, Haijing. Legal arguments that CG shouldn’t be out this far from their Economic Exclusion Zone fell apart with that persuasive ballistic counterargument. A warhead coming at you near Mach One merits a pretty strong objection.  

Reconnecting with the surface, the bump coincided with two shouts – Din, our mechanic, from down below in the engines, Pops above manning the fifty calibers. Guns along the fuselage are not the most aerodynamic, but necessary since the South China Sea became an armed lake.

Bangs reverberating against the metal combined in my head with potshots from our top gunner, confirming its value. Din yelled from below at Pops in his native language, though I didn’t need translating to understand the universal language of ‘GET DOWN.’

We didn’t know our jack-of-all trades’ mechanic’s actual name, so Pops just called him Gunga Din. Yes, like the movie. When I pointed out how politically incorrect that was, Pops had a few choice things to say. So I changed the subject, and we just agreed to call him Din.

Once over the blockade, the crystal-clear waters of the lagoon lapping onto the beach invited us in. Nice place to visit and get lost with a special someone. But I knew if we didn’t get out of there quickly, we’d probably never leave.

Right on cue, our rendezvous came out of the jungle to meet us. He sauntered down to the water, looking like a man on a leisure trip. Except for the full BDU’s, rifle across his chest, and the covering team pointing man portable AShM’s at the blockade, it was a day at the beach.

I grabbed the comms mike and flipped over to ALL.

“This is your captain speaking. We have reached our cruising altitude of no turning back now. Please fasten your seatbelts and hold on to your butts.”

Too bad we didn’t have a drink cart. Although I probably could stand to cut some bad habits out. Especially considering the reason I sat here was the result of one of our brilliant ideas we came up with over too many drinks.

Like all great enterprises, ours started in a bar. Our usual spot, called the Scuttlebutt, was the one Pops had found me in years ago when I pulled chocks and split from the mainland.

Pops had hustled for a long time. Now he worked in the only industry left that made money – selling luxury goods to rich people with bad taste. His latest scheme? Wing-In-Ground effect planes.

“I’m telling you, Garcia,” he said one night, pushing his cons harder than usual. “It’s no different from a SOC-R. Except you can carry cargo at high speeds across large bodies of water, at a fraction of the cost of fuel!”

We were the usual ex-pat crowd: burnouts, dropouts, ex-military, retirees, all brought together by our lack of ability to adapt to a modern society. The place we hung out claimed to have been founded in World War II by a Marine that left home as a kid and never came back, in more ways than one.

The bar even claimed it served its own classic recipe, called the Brunei Breeze. I thought they were just knockoff Singapore Slings with jacked up prices for the tourists.

Pops didn’t mind. He wore a bucket hat and Hawaiian shirts as loud as the drinks he ordered.

“I’m not going to run illegal stuff for the criminals,” I said, taking another sip of my beer. I preferred things simple, drinks with few additions, and clothes that didn’t catch the eye. And I wanted to at least preserve the last shred of morality I had left.

“Find me a legit job, and maybe we’ll talk,” I said, thinking the conversation done.

Pop’s eyes lit up. I didn’t like it when he did that. Meant he had something up his sleeve. He left the room.

I tried to call over the bartender. She gave me a look from over the slammed bar. Meant it was probably going to take a while. I decided to amuse myself by watching the news.

The main story covered the only story worth covering these days – the war.

The war started as all blow-ups do – somewhere else. A confrontation in Africa over mineral rights became a shouting match between the American and Chinese halls of power. A bit of saber-rattling for good measure, except this time, cooler heads didn’t prevail.

Before anyone knew it, China declared their seas closed to all except unarmed merchants, which would be subject to search, especially those of certain nations ‘disruptive to the peace.’ By their seas, they of course meant everything within the nine-dash line, whether or not they legally owned it. The courts lost their minds.

But I’m a student of history. Paraphrasing, as a belligerent man once said, “he has made his decision; now let him enforce it.”

The US balked. Declaring Freedom of Navigation, the Navy sent the fleet forward. War drums beat, ships moved towards the Far East. The Chinese, in retaliation, made good on their threat to invade Taiwan. Said it was time to claim their historical destiny.

Then, a funny thing happened. As any student of history knows, destiny loves chaos. And she doesn’t pick sides.

First, OPTEMPO finally caught up with Navy. Half the fleet got caught in dry-dock, Iran picked the same moment to start a dustup with Saudi Arabia, and the only ships available were already two years into a ten-month deployment.

Then, on the eve of the grand invasion of Taiwan, a massive freak storm blew into the strait. No fool would take the risk. But rather than having to explain to their superiors why they were delayed, the fleet went anyway.

Like the Mongols at Tsushima, half the invasion fleet swamped ashore, and the world got to see what would have happened at Normandy if Rommel received orders to send forward the Panzer divisions.  

The higher-ups in Beijing made a big stink, claiming the US weaponized the weather. Go figure. Climatologists put the blame on rising temperatures from CO2. Biggest contributor? China.

What’s the Chinese word for irony? Don’t bother looking it up – it’s right next to gullible. Whatever floats your armada, or doesn’t.

By that point, like the best quagmires, both sides had gone too far and acquired too many sunken costs, literally in this case. They refused to pull out while saving face, but wouldn’t go far enough to justify further escalation.

Not that hostilities ended. The US Navy, for lack of available force, chose not to enter within range of Chinese ballistic missiles. In return, they set up a blockade at the Straits of Malacca and the Philippine Sea, with the Quad watching the flanks.

The war plan became simple, for both sides: No one in. No one out.

But the commercial needs of one billion people don’t shut off just because the shipping lanes become contested. And the grey area of the embargo attracted a certain brand of entrepreneur.

Everyone who had a vessel that could carry, launch, or dump was either enlisted by one side, or could make a pretty penny working both. It became a boat war. Not between destroyers and aircraft carriers, but fishing vessels, skiffs, anything that could move fast and keep a low profile.

Because of that, the Scuttle became the hive for all westerners looking to get in on the action. Our sleepy tavern filled with NGOs, spooks, soldiers of fortune, and actual gosh-darn privateers. Hence why it was so hard to get a drink.

Real Casablanca stuff. All we needed was Ingrid Bergman.

So of course, she walked in.

Pops introduced her. No ID. No calling cards. No handshake. And an unmarked suitcase with a wireless computer inside, showcasing enough untraceable crypto in any Asian market to buy up the bar. Really live my Humphrey Bogart dreams.

Of course, I was in love.

“This the guy?” she said, disapprovingly.

Pops patted me on the shoulders.

“If you need something moved under the radar, I’m telling you, we’re your guys.”

I gave Pops a look that said, We?

She appeared to stare right through me, though she never took off her sunglasses. She finally spoke.

“Which side do you support? China or US?”

“All money’s good,” I responded. “But I prefer green Benjamin to red Mao. You?”

She side-eyed me for a second. The waitress brought over my drink. Before I could react, my guest grabbed the bottle, taking a sip.

I looked at Pops. He shrugged. Reaching into my pocket, with a sigh, I placed some bills on the now empty tray.

Leaning in, she started to talk.

As she explained, a unique Marine Raider unit was moving up the island chain and needed a resupply. They were called a ‘light artillery mobile interdiction force.’ Whatever that word salad means.

Basically, rather than having an entire amphibious corps take one island at a time, multiple divisions swarmed over as many islands as possible.

The light artillery mobile interdiction mission was simple. Move quick, launch mines and loitering ordinance, leave behind autonomous launchers and other nastiness, and get the heck out of dodge before the island got schwacked. Real fire and maneuver doctrine. WWII island hopping on steroids.

There were two areas where the Marines were most vulnerable. On open sea, and having to stop for resupply, all while playing cat and mouse with a posse of small boats.

On this one particular harbor, the grey navy of Chinese fishing vessels caught up to them, blocking the entrance to the lagoon midway through the island with the most likely area of ingress for replenishment. No boats in. No room for aircraft.

But, perhaps, something that skimmed between them?

Pop’s smile shows me he had planned this one out. I thought through the logistics in my head.

“We need a flight engineer, a gunner, and a mechanic. You think you can find three guys crazy enough to go on the most dangerous beer run ever?”

Pops winked.

“I got one. He’s all you need.”

***

Back in the cockpit, Din moved in a flurry of activity. I watched him wound down the engines. Hustling into the back, he worked the rear controls, lowering the rear cargo door onto the beach. I thought about the bravado to actually undertake a crazy task like this. Didn’t seem to bother Din in the slightest.

The guys back at the Scuttle had affectionately christened us Puddle Jumpers. We considered ourselves adventurers, fortune-seekers, thrill seekers. But those who actually had to fight the war called us something different.

“How’s it going, pond scum?” said the Marine Corporal meeting us on the beach. I noticed he couldn’t have been older than my son’s age. Got me thinking about the home I’d left behind. Wonder if he’d get the innate family urge to serve. Wonder if I’d see him out here.

I lowered the cargo off the back and onto the treaded cargo hauler. Without a word, the rugged drone scurried off the beach and into the jungle.

“One load of ammo, water, fuel, as ordered.”

I held out my phone. The corporal flashed the QR code. With a few bits of data, I had it made. My elation was not met by the Marine. I tried levity.

“Easiest government transaction I ever made.”

“In a war zone, the FAR is just a suggestion,” he quipped.

“Hey, Garcia?” came a familiar gruff voice from behind.

Pops stumbled out of the GEV. Din carried him out. Pops held his side, a wet red liquid appearing in his hand. He gave me a weak smile.

“Flesh wound.”

I looked around the lagoon, trying to figure out the fastest egress. I shook my head.

“We can’t make it back in time, not with that patrol out there.”

The Marine stepped forward, taking Pops under his other arm.

“We’ve got a corpsman at the north of the island,” he said. “But he’d have to come with us.”

I didn’t want to leave Pops behind. But I had to make the command decision. To my surprise, it came from an unexpected source.

“Put him with you,” Din said to the Corporal. He motioned back and forth with me. “We fly out.”

“You speak English?” I said.

He shot me a look like I asked a dumb question. Which, sure, but I didn’t exactly have time for cultural sensitivity at the moment. I let Pops limp into the bush on the Marine’s shoulder. He would go with the raiders to the next rendezvous point.

Entering the jungle, Pops’ looked back at me. Not for the last time, I hoped.

“We’ll find you,” I said. “You better hang on, old man.”

Back in the cockpit, I weighed our options as the engines spun up. Nothing left but choosing the best of the bad ones.

Going over the island would put us out of range of the Exocet and straight into a SAM. Back over the boats would risk running into the Haijing.

As I looked to the east, the blockade ended around a group of shifting shoals. Extremely dangerous to cross. One wrong rock formation and we’d be in the drink. But a fog bank lay just beyond, and no boat would dare go in there.

We’d fight the shoals.

Din took the co-pilot seat. He nudged forward the engines. We’d start back at the beach, then get up to speed. As we left the safety of the lagoon, commotion stirred up in the grey navy, coinciding with a speeding bullet off our port side. We bared down on the shoals.

“You better be right, Pops,” I grunted.

Entering the rocks, I tried to maneuver, but the ever-changing tide and terrain made it no more than a hail mary.

Another Exocet went by. I gave it all she had.

We cleared the shoals.

“We did it!” I cheered, punching Din’s shoulder.

The loud crack and airfoil buckling argued otherwise. I pulled up, pressing on the pedals to keep the left side elevated. Pulling too hard, the vehicle lifted off. I leveled off, then pushed down to increase speed.

 “Go for the fog! Go for the fog!” I said, mostly to myself.

The terrain disappeared into a cloud of gray. The GEV bucked forwarded. First, I saw the white of the sky. Just as quickly, blue came up to meet us.

“Brace!”

Hours later, the overturned Flying Fish had somehow managed to stay above water. Din and I sat back to back on the wing. Every hour we floated, the two of us pushed closer, the amount of space available disappearing.

I tried to think of something to say. I realized this was the first time we’d actually had a real conversation.

“You never told me you speak English,” I said, breaking the silence.

“You never asked,” he said.

I asked the only thing I could think to ask.

“So…what’s your name?”

“Nicolos.”

I had to laugh.

“Patron saint of sailors. So, what happens now?”

Nicolos didn’t take his eye off the fog bank.

“Fishermen find us, probably shoot us. Chinese, hang us as Yankee pirates.”

“Yankee pirates. I like that. Yarr…”

We both heard movement through the water. A boat appeared in the fog. A trimaran.

A grey hull pushed towards us. On the top, colors stuck out. As well as a familiar voice.

“Look what I found, chuckleheads!”

The LCS came alongside us, with Pops on board, all bandaged up.

The crew let down a ladder over the side. I came onboard, shaking the hand of the Lieutenant in charge.

“Us unwanted stepchildren need to stick together,” he said.

Later, the three of us stood on the forecastle, amazed at our fortune.

“So, what now Garcia?” asked Pops.

“Thinking of investing in a business,” I said. “Know where I can find a GEV broker?”

Kevin Smith is a former naval aviator. He has pent the last decade living and working at NAS Patuxent River, MD. He is currently working on a historical fiction adventure novel about the New Orleans pirate King Jean Lafitte.

Featured Image: Art created with Midjourney AI.

Fiction Contest Week

By Commander Ivan Villescas, USN

“Battle Net Active,” the NET box announced. The Officer of the Deck turned his head from the gray horizon to the bridge’s digital overlay, quickly analyzing the subject line.

“Set General Quarters,” the OOD ordered, returning to the horizon as urgent tones sounded throughout the ship.

Petty Officer Joe Guarino scanned the centerline screen in the Combat Information Center. Patiently he waited for the information to download. On this third deployment, he no longer felt anxiety each time the NET called the ship to action. Slowly, colored patterns coalesced into information and a backlogged chat began to scroll on the screen’s right.

“Bridge, Combat,” Guarino said into his headset mic, “hold us on event perimeter, predicted CPA bears due east, outside engagement range.” With the Closest Point of Approach out of range, there was little the ship could do.

“Roger,” the OOD answered, “Coming east, twenty knots.”

“Aye sir,” Guar answered, keeping his communications concise and keyboarding draft orders to push the larger Control and Surveillance drone further ahead, “request recall Roktas, maintain Overcon forward.”

“Roger,” answered the OOD.

Guar activated the Overcon drone’s new orders and felt the Landing Craft Utility wallow in its turn. Guar hoped the Marines had their drone command centers chained properly to the vehicle deck. The LCU had more speed with new, larger engines, yet maneuvered like a school bus.

The Sergeant across from Guar muttered into his headset, passing the order to recover the four Bayraktar Minis, the point defense drones the Marines called Roktas.

First Lieutenant March, the Marine Officer and GQ Battle Watch Captain entered Combat. Closing the hatch he stopped, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the low light. The Sergeant recognized him and stood. “Status,” the Lieutenant said, taking his chair at the interactive table screen.

Guar remained seated at the screen opposite and answered with a standar report, “Battle Net active, current event predicted outside engagement zone. Roktas on recall, maintaining Overcon port side forward. Predicted CPA one six zero nautical miles.” Guar waited to see that the Lieutenant had understood then added, “Surface and Air Engagement Teams manned and ready.” The LT nodded, turning to the Sergeant to his right.

After a brief silence, the Sergeant said loudly, “Sir, defense posts manned and ready.”

The LT keyed his mic, “Bridge, Battle Watch manned and ready.”

“Roger, out,” answered the captain.

Guar felt thumping vibrations as the diesel engines below approached full power. The LT flipped his headset mic under his chin and looked at Guar, “Questions while we transit Petty Officer Guarino?”

The Marines had swapped out just weeks ago and Guar was ready for the newbies’ questions.

“Why pull in the Roktas?”

Guar hesitated, knowing the drones were the first line of the ship’s defense the Marines controlled. “Sir, we are transiting at 20 knots with a cross wind,” pausing to let it process, “the drones were designed for dwell time not speed,” then added, “With Overcon and the NET, we should have awareness up and your guys will have Butterflies at the ready,” referring to the 40-millimeter grenade-launched suicide drones. Guar knew the Marines were manning each cardinal point of the ship and could fire a swarm of Butterflies at short notice.

The Sergeant nodded, while the LT answered, “Makes sense. So why not start the Gas Turbine Generators if we might shoot the railguns?”

“The GTG’s, sir,” answered Guar, “they burn hot and an ass-load of fuel.” Guar coughed then added, “Pardon my language, sir.”

“No pardon necessary,” the officer laughed, “but the Corps uses Metric.” He continued, “Metric ass ton…hot, you mean infrared?”

“Yes sir, you can see turbine exhaust from satellites. We stay spectrum quiet – until we shoot.” Guar pointed at the right side of the screen adding, “We have low probability at this distance and there are four other railgun pickets with closer range.”

“So what are the odds we nail one?” the Marine asked.

 “Two months ago, 85 nautical miles, we hit two with four shots. Under 50 miles, predicted success rate is near 80 percent. This one, the closest we will get is maybe 150 miles. We still close the distance. Ten percent is better than none when we are protecting the destroyers and carriers.”

“Sir,” interrupted the Sergeant, “Roktas recovered. All Butterfly teams on station.” Guar nodded, satisfied. The Butterflies drones were not long on range or firepower, but they could form a massive swarm and overwhelm automated defense systems.

The launch detect sounded and three red arrows formed on the screen tracking due south. Another alarm and four new arrows appeared directly behind the first three.

“Bridge, Combat,” Guar reported, “hostile hypersonics, salvo of three, salvo of four, total seven, Mach 9, course 170. CPA seven minutes, range 155 nautical miles. Firing solution… three minutes, twelve rounds, low probability.”

“So if we fire,” the Lieutenant said thoughtfully, “we get twelve rounds off before they are out of range?”

“Yes sir,” Guar answered, “three salvos from all four barrels, but only the second salvo has a probability greater than 10 percent. At this distance, it’s a narrow engagement envelope. After the third salvo, the railgun has a 30 second cool-down and they are out of range before we can shoot again.”

On the screen, the active picket boats announced shots fired. No one spoke, quiet spectators to distant action. Minutes later a red arrow faded off the screen, seconds later, two more faded. Within a minute, all seven disappeared.

“Guess the Captain made the right choice,” the Lieutenant said, “how long does the net stay up?”

“About three hours,” Guar answered, “low earth orbit satellites pass quickly. Sometimes the bad guys shoot. But,” Guar paused, thinking, “They haven’t shot one down for months.”

The scrolling info on the right screen slowed. Guar pulled the headset away from his left ear, wiping the sweat off the cheap plastic then performed the same with his right.

“Petty Officer?” the Sergeant asked hesitantly, continuing when Guar turned, “can the railguns shoot ships?”

 “Yes…,” he answered, “…just not with the computer’s fire control system. The computer uses input from the radar or GPS cords from the battle net. …but… the railguns have a manual electro-optical mode for alignment and calibration. They can be in manual and fire. But the real problem is the curvature of the earth.”

“A round earth is a problem…?” asked the Marine.

“A ship 30 miles away, from the height of the railgun, you won’t see. At 20 you might see their bridge. Bitch to aim from a wallowing cork like us and it puts us in their missile range.”

The Sergeant stared into the bulkhead, thinking.

Guar continued, “The Navy was in a hurry to get picket boats out here and they slapped us missile defense flotillas together quick after we lost the first two carriers…” Guar lost his train of thought. The carriers made the news, but the destroyers… he didn’t like to think about how many ships, friends, shipmates were lost in the first month of the “Limited Defensive Operation.”

Launch detect sounded, and Guar read quickly as information began to scroll. “New event,” he announced, “predicted CPA 22 nautical miles, bearing 090, 17 minutes.”

“Close,” the Lieutenant said quietly.

Guar replied, almost whispering. “We have pickets on this line, two just south of us. We are primary,” he added as the chat confirmed.

“Bridge, Combat,” he called, “we are primary.”

“Roger,” the Captain answered, “commence prefire checks.”

“Attention,” Guar announced on the ship’s command channel, “we are primary, designated Bruins One. Secondary’s, Bruins Two and Three bearing 160 and 225 true, both at 35 nautical miles.”

Guar sent new guidance to the Overcon drone, keeping it on station to port and forward.

Minutes later, he felt then heard the roar of air from the Gas Turbine Generator. The second GTG started, matching the roar.

“Bridge Combat,” Guar called as a launch warning warbled, “Hostile inbound. Two salvos of four. Eight total. Three minutes to engage.”

“Roger,” the Captain answered slowly and clearly, “batteries release. Pass to Bruins Two, Bruins Three, batteries release.”

Guar repeated the order in chat to the other ships and spoke into his mic, “Weapons, status of solution?”

From Forward Fire Control, FC2 Samantha Hodges answered quickly, “Control in auto…, solution complete, 30 seconds to engagement.”

The LT looked at Guar, “batteries release, engage hostile inbound.”

“Batteries release aye,” Guar answered, turning the Fire Control switch to Auto.

On the screen, Guar watched the countdown announcing, “First salvo in four, three, two, one…” Thump, the ship shuddered, metal straining, vibrating as the railgun projectiles left the ship at Mach 8. The roar of air from the GTGs increased and Guar reported, “four rounds clear…” The second salvo rocked the superstructure and Guar announced, “eight rounds clear, fifteen second cool down.” Reading the scrolling information he added, “Bruins Two and Bruins Three, eight rounds clear, all conditions normal.”

The launch warning sounded again and Guar watched the screen announcing, “third salvo of hostile, correction four hostile salvos. Total sixteen hostile inbound.” Guar selected the fire control screen reading the results of Hodges and the computer calculations.

“Bridge, Combat,” he announced, “two salvos possible on the third wave, one on the fourth, if we override cooling.”

“Go with one and one, save the barrels and leave something for Bruins Two and Three,” answered the Captain.

Guar nodded in agreement. Shots from overheated barrels had little chance at success.

By now, he thought, the first rounds were reaching detonation points. Each projectile was a Mach 8 cylinder filled with heavy tungsten flechettes and a small charge. Approaching the inbound missiles, the flechettes spread into a cloud of high-speed heavy chaff. They didn’t need to physically hit the missiles, only disrupt the air path. Even a slight air disruption could cause a catastrophic wobble to a hypersonic missile and the four-round bursts formed cloud patterns calculated to eliminate the missiles.

Guar saw the first four missiles blank out simultaneously. Seconds later, three of the four in the second salvo blinked off. After a brief pause, the fourth disappeared. The railgun fired again. “Eight of sixteen down, railgun batteries at 60 percent,” Guar announced to the bridge. The railgun fired again, jarring the boat. As he waited for the other two ships to report, a warning flashed again on the screen.

Reading the urgent warning, he announced, “Bridge, Combat, NET reports high speed surface contacts inbound. Tracking seven, bearing 010, 30 nautical miles, closing at 30 knots.” 

“Roger,” the Captain’s voice answered, resigned, knowing the slow moving LCUs couldn’t outrun the speedboats. “Coming right to 210. Closing Bruins Two and Three for combined self-defense. Launch Sleepers.”

The Marine looked at Guar and raised his eyebrows. “Sleepers?” he asked.

“Unmanned Semi-Submersibles. Not powerful, but they give us some standoff distance.”

CIC began to sway as the ship turned. Guar watched missiles from the third and fourth wave wink off the screen. “15 of 16 down,” he announced. Guar hoped the destroyers would knock down the final missile as he announced, “Computer gives us credit for nine,” with hollow cheer.

As the three LCUs range closed, Guar initiated the Defense Link, a dedicated local net to share sensor information, drone, and weapons control. He reset the table monitor and organized the screens showing views from mast mounted cameras on each picket boat. After flipping through several views he transferred control to the LT.

The Lieutenant muttered into his mic, then reported, “Captain, BDC, crew-served weapons manned and ready. Roktas out. Bruins Two and Three report same, I have assumed sensor and fire control for Bruins.”

“Roger,” replied the Captain, “Lieutenant March, you have tactical control of Bruins self-defense.”

Guar followed display and the video feeds on the bulkhead. “NET reports 11 hostile diamond swarm formation,” he announced to both the bridge and combat, “Overcon has closest on radar.” Then added, “NET reports one mothership. Catamaran. Approximately 45 nautical miles bearing 040, inbound 25 knots.”

“Roger,” the Captain replied, “mama hasn’t fired missiles, she doesn’t know where we are. If we can take her attack boats over the horizon, maybe she won’t locate us.”

The lieutenant muttered instructions on his headset while the sergeant began sending orders on the Defense Link. Guar watched the camera feed from Overcon as Rokta drones raced towards the oncoming fast attack boats. The Roktas carried grenades. A close hit would put a small fast attack boat out of action and the Marines, maneuvering them from the control boxes on deck, were experts at it.

At seven miles, the Roktas began dropping payloads. Camera screens blanked white as patterns of grenades detonated. Guar evaluated from east to west using the Overcon camera, “Nine confirmed kills,” he announced, “two remain bearing 015, 022, approximately nine nautical miles, mothership bears 035, 40 nautical miles.”

The Sergeant grunted, sending orders again. Guar zoomed in on video from the Overcon. A grenade exploded, visibly stunning the three-man crew and the boat slowed. A second grenade was a direct hit, Guar shifted video to the final small boat and the white screen faded in revealing floating wreckage.

Close threats eliminated, Guar shifted Overcon focus to the mothership, “Track one-two, inbound, 35 nautical miles bearing 040, speed 30 knots and closing. Frigate. High Energy Laser drone defense… Passing targeting data to Fleet.”

Guar felt cold as he read the Fleet’s answer on the NET. “Bridge, Combat, no missile support for at least an hour.”

Combat was quiet. The only sounds were cooling fans and breathing, Guar could hear his own heart beat as he uploaded new instructions to the Overcon.

“Combat, Bridge,” the Captain announced, “Meet me on the screen.”

Guar blanked the table screen and set it to mirror the bridge display.

Two scribbled dots appeared on the chart and the Captain’s voice began to explain his plan as he drew the situation. “OK,” he said, “the frigate is overtaking us by a little more than 10 knots relative. He’s at thirty miles and hasn’t launched at us yet. He doesn’t have over-the-horizon targeting data. Likely he needs 20 miles or less to lock on us with fire control radars. About the same distance, we might be able to shoot him with our railguns in manual. To improve our odds, we need to knock out his fire control radars, the small dishes and the phased array on his forward mast.”

“Lieutenant,” the Captain continued, “normally we wouldn’t be able to reach him with drones, especially not the Butterflies, but since he is chasing us at 30 knots, if you fire aft at him, at 40 knots, your butterflies will close at 70 relative, in range at less than 30 minutes. We can patch Butterfly control through Overcon and extend guidance control. Guar, coordinate a swarm. Their laser defense is run by an AI, make the solution difficult. The AI prioritizes targets on size, closure rate, and trajectory. Once in his defense range, keep the Roktas slower and focus on attacking the bow so the aft laser can’t engage.”

Eagerly, Guar punched in data, letting the computer predict the solution, timing the drone launches. The sergeant began an animated discussion on the net, typing furiously to send orders. “Four sets of four six-packs ready,” the Lieutenant announced to the bridge, “Total 96 Butterflies plus eight Roktas, launching, now.”

Guar switched the table screen to chart overlay and split the video screens to track the groups of drones. Each Marine controller could control four groups of six Butterflies. The six packs stayed in proximity to receive orders and had pre-programmed group flight instructions. Two Overcon drones surveilled and passed control information from 15,000 feet. The eight Roktar drones were rising to their max altitude of 10,000 feet, their bomblets’ range increasing by altitude, while hopefully decreasing their risk of being targeted by the AI.

“Swarm approaching Laser defense range,” the Marine announced, “initiating swarm algorithms.” Guar could picture each group of six Butterfly drones beginning a scripted dance to evade targeting while closing on the enemy ship. On the screen, green dots danced toward the red dot.

Abruptly, a drone relay alarmed. On the Overcon screen, Guar watched a Butterfly flame and fall from the sky. “They are going for lowest altitude,” he announced, then added, “One of the sleepers is still out there, self-defense mode activated.”

“Sir, 79 Butterflys remain active. Initiating attack algorithms…now.”

On the Overcon camera, the Butterflys began random attack profiles. The camera showed dozens of bright flashes on the topside of the enemy frigate. “Breakthrough!” announced the sergeant.

Zooming in, Guar could see damage visible on the enemy’s mast. “Bridge, Combat, Parabolic dishes destroyed, phased array appears damaged.”

“Coming to starboard, new course 010,” announced the Captain. The ship began to wallow as it turned. The captain announced again, “Combat, you have batteries release, railgun, track zero one two!”

The LCU was now heading directly toward the enemy frigate. FC2 Hodgescalled, “Combat, Fire Control, target in sights.”

“Fire Control, you have batteries release,” the Marine answered.

The LCU shook as four barrels fired. Seconds later, they fired again. “Fifteen second cooldown,” Hodges announced.

“Combat, Bridge,” the captain announced, “she’s turning to starboard”

From the Overcon drone video, the curve in the frigate’s wake was visible. He zoomed in closer, “Smoke from the bow,” he announced. The Frigate continued to turn, presenting her port side and the railgun fired again. They drove on, waiting for the thirty second cooldown. The railgun fired again.

“Breaking off,” the bridge announced and the LCU began to turn and on the Overcon video Guar could see the black smoke on the enemy ship appear thicker, darker.

“Black smoke bearing 035,” announced the bridge, “secondary explosions.”

Guar watched the screen silently as the grey hull belched black smoke and flames.

“Combat, report mission kill track 012,” added the Captain’s voice, “coming south to await further instructions.”

Ivan Villescas enlisted in the U.S. Navy at the precarious age of 18 and was completely unprepared for the end of the Cold War. Quickly realizing submarines and nuclear power were far too restrictive for his travel plans, he pursued further education and a commission as a Surface Warfare Officer. After enjoying six sea tours, he was cast ashore for a decade performing a variety of roles in countries and continents of his choosing. Somehow, the Navy continues to fund both his education and travel, providing familiarity with facets of international security and development as both observer and actor in the world’s economic and political evolution, and perhaps preparing him to be the writer he aspires to become.

Featured Image: Art created with Midjourney AI.

By Dmitry Filipoff

Fiction Contest Week is finally here! For the next two weeks, CIMSEC will run the top stories submitted in response to our Short Story Fiction Contest, launched in partnership with the U.S. Naval Institute for the third consecutive year.

The top 3 winning stories will be jointly featured by the U.S. Naval Institute’s Proceedings and CIMSEC. Additionally, the top 10 stories that advanced to the final round of judging will be featured in CIMSEC’s Fiction Contest Week.

These exciting and thoughtful stories explore the future of maritime security and war at sea. Nascent threats, tactics, and technologies are ingeniously envisioned and applied, with often unexpected scenarios and outcomes. Through these stories we can peer into future challenges and explore how the unthinkable may unfold.

These top 10 stories are listed below, and are not necessarily listed in the order they placed or will appear. Stay tuned to the very end to find out who won!

“Manned Unmanned Warfare,” by Ivan Villescas
“Bulldogs Away,” by Ralph G. Francisco
“Puddle Jumpers,” by Kevin P. Smith
“Splash Twelve,” by Tyler E. Totten
“Warfighting Second,” by Jacob Rothstein
“Valiance,” by Daniel Lee
“Thunder in the Lightless Sea,” by Jonathan French
“Exit Music,” by Ben Plotkin
“Kraken!” by Jon Paris
“Expeditionary Logistics,” by Jack Montgomery

Dmitry Filipoff is CIMSEC’s Director of Online Content. Contact him at Content@cimsec.org.

Featured Image: Art created with Midjourney AI.