Fiction Contest Week

By Jon Paris

*** Breaking News – Breaking News – Breaking News ***

Crisis reported outside the Strait of Malacca today. Cascading collisions clogged the packed waterway. A dozen vessels lay damaged and adrift. Others swing from anchors, unable to proceed. World markets opened in disarray while the maritime industry reels.

This catastrophe’s most puzzling victim is the cargo carrier M/V Lucky Charm, location unknown. Merchants witnessed the confusing events unfold, reporting strange lights in the sky and ear-splitting rumbles in this congested crossroads. Sightings of Unidentified Flying Objects spiked around nautical chokepoints last year, rumored to be responsible for eight un-confirmed disappearances. According to scores of professional mariners, the UFOs are back. Has Lucky Charm become Number Nine?

Opinions vary wildly. Though countless believers swear such disturbances are courtesy of extra-terrestrial visitors, a growing body of research by scientists and defense journalists points towards unacknowledged technology developed and operated by the country’s peer competitors. Others are sure we are seeing the latest black projects from the storied Area 51. With unprecedented candor, intelligence and military officials have been quick to comment recently, indicating the objects – officially referred to as Unidentified Aerial Phenomenon – are not highly classified American programs.

The Department of Defense maintains a specialized team to analyze UFO cases. With international outcry at a fever-pitch and an unidentified threat loose on the high seas, these professionals called in the big guns. The U.S. Navy, no stranger to such phenomenon, is on the way. A Carrier Strike Group surge-deployed to hunt and eliminate the threat. Named Task Force Foo Fighter, the Pentagon pledged the group’s sole mission is to end this mysterious menace and welcomes any ally to the fight.

Will they find hyper-advanced secret technology from an aggressor state, or marauding little green men? The world watches in rapt attention as the Navy arrives on scene.

F/A-18E, Rock 101
Andaman Sea
5 minutes after engagement

Black smoke trailed behind the plane. Peeling metal rattled in the slipstream from a shredded fuselage and wing. Scorch marks marred the Super Hornet’s haze gray paint.

“Rock 101, Strike, copy your mayday. Proceed. Mother at your 030 for 100 miles. Emergency pull-forward in-progress. Air Boss is rigging the barrier. Say state.”

The pilot’s body was cool. No sweat, only icy determination.

She struggled to find words – the first since her mayday call.

“Strike, 101, three-point-niner.”

First get aboard in one piece, then get your revenge. They will not escape.

She put in right stick to head towards the carrier.

F/A-18E, Rock 101
Andaman Sea
30 minutes before engagement

Lieutenant Frankie “Burner” Adams retracted the refueling probe, slid to starboard, and joined on her wingman. She verified “Swine’s” spacing. Her hand pushed out towards the other Super Hornet – the young officer nodded, nudging his plane away.

Burner’s keen eyes scanned – sea, sky, instruments, sea, sky, instruments. The radar was clean – nothing out there. Today’s surveillance hop had, so far, proved fruitless – frustrating Burner’s long-held dream of seeing a real UFO. Everyone made fun of her during the brief back in the ready room.

No matter. She knew the truth.

The radio crackled.

“101, this is Alpha Whiskey. Bogey, Bullseye 350 for 85, low, hot, strength unknown. Heading 180.”

Yes! Unidentified objects. Flying her way!

“101, roger. Rock flight, commit. Declare.”

“101, this is Alpha Whiskey, unknown. But ma’am – we think it’s them.”

“Roger.”

This is it!

Over squadron tactical, Burner transmitted, “Rock, buster.” “Two,” her wingman replied. The section of Super Hornets leapt forward at full military power.

“Swine, bring it left 20 to sweeten intercept.” He clicked the radio twice in response and followed her turn.

Accelerating through 500 knots, the radar chirped, and Burner saw distinct returns connected by a green blob – as if someone had sneezed on her screen. She slaved her infrared sensor to the track. The image snapped around and settled on an object 50 miles away, very low. She peered at the screen, flipping between black and white-hot modes, unable to identify the contact before it abruptly darted away.

“No joy,” Burner called over fighter control, frantically searching for the Bogey.

She saw the radar and her mouth went dry.

F/A-18E, Rock 101
Andaman Sea
15 minutes after engagement

“Rock 101, Approach. Good line-up. You’re set for a straight-in. Take angels two point eight.”

As the pilot slowly repeated the ship’s instructions, the plane buffeted from major damage to its control surfaces. After a jolt to the left, she leveled the wings. Reducing airspeed and bunting the nose down, she inched closer. Must survive. Must relay the enemy’s position.

F/A-18E, Rock 101
Andaman Sea
20 minutes before engagement

“101, Alpha Whiskey – your Bogey jumped! Merge plot!,” the shipboard controller cried.

Adrenaline coursed through Burner’s veins. I knew it!

“Rock, break!”

Burner and her wingman rolled 90 degrees and pulled hard away from each other. Bright flashes blew by. One. Two. Three! Finally!

“Alpha Whiskey, 101, Rocks are anchored defensive! Engaged by three, I say again, three bogeys.”

Three orbs darted up, down, left, and right – in every dimension, bending time and space – creating a furball impossible for the Super Hornets to escape. Their maneuvers defied physics, incurring g-forces incompatible with the human body. The dazzling blobs sported every color of the rainbow – shapeless refractions from an intense prism.

Burner stood her jet on its tail and lit the cans. The plane rocketed up and Burner twisted in her seat, looking back and right – one orb trailed her.

She called out, “Swine, you up?”

“Burner, I’ve got two all over me – riding the waves. Need you down here – NOW!” Her wingman sounded uncharacteristically frantic.

Passing through 35,000 feet, Burner flipped the Super Hornet on its back. The blue sky filling her canopy transitioned to slate-gray ocean. Diving, she searched the surface below. As she looked, the trailing orb flew over her canopy and, an instant later, hovered above a bubbling piece of ocean. A thunderous cacophony consumed her. The aircraft shuddered for five long seconds. Plummeting towards the sea, Burner recovered and locked onto her wingman, 50 feet off the deck. He was impossible to miss – the escaping Super Hornet kicked up a rooster tail of salt water as it skimmed the whitecaps.

Out the windscreen, she spotted the orbs flitting back and forth, causing her to squint. Looking down, the picture on her forward-looking infrared video shocked her. Two cylinder-shaped craft bobbed and weaved ahead and astern of Swine’s jet. Smaller than her plane, with no control surfaces and no visible exhaust. And… semi-transparent! Magnifying her camera, she could see inside the cylinders.

“Alpha Whiskey, 101, captured! Hot damn! Never seen anything like it! They’re… cylinders. Slick on the outside, like flying tubes. I can only see their shape on FLIR; visually they’re just balls of light moving like crazy!”

Burner’s jet chewed up the distance to her wingman. Something caught her eye.

“Alpha Whiskey, standby.”

Burner saw movement inside the closest cylinder! As she stared, her world turned inside-out. An upright, shadowy figure – right there! Burner saw its eyes glow and look back at her. A being was in that craft! A being. But not a human being.

She felt light-headed and a pit formed deep in her gut. The earlier gusto transformed to dread.

Burner’s voice croaked, barely a whisper. “Alpha Whiskey, they’re… here… Engaging.”

Flipping the Master Arm switch to “ARM”, she worked the radar for a lock and received a quick solution. Yes! She pulled the trigger. “Fox Three!”

The AMRAAM entered her camera’s field of view and impacted its target. The smoking cylinder flipped end-over-end.

“101, splash one,” she transmitted.

As she pumped her fist in victory, Burner’s eyes bulged. The cylinder ahead of Swine stopped in its tracks and reversed course. It flew straight through her wingman’s jet. An explosion lit the sky.

Nooooo!

Wreckage fell to the sea, throwing up a plume, but no parachute. A silent scream raged through her body.

F/A-18E, Rock 101
Andaman Sea
30 minutes after engagement

“Rock 101, Approach, 5 miles. Barrier rigged. Dirty up.”

“101.” The pilot closed her eyes, concentrating. After several beats, her hands moved haltingly over switches, eventually slapping down the hook and landing gear. It was strange flying so slow. The plane was difficult to control, and her wings rocked, alternating left, then right, back-and-forth. The pilot wiped away soot from the canopy and the Landing Signals Officer came online.

“101, Paddles, keep it coming. Normal approach but pay close attention to line-up. When you cross the ramp, I’m going to give you a cut-cut-cut order – when I do, kill the engines, and ride it in. Fly your pass and we’ll catch you, Burner. Promise.”

The pilot acknowledged Paddles and focused on the carrier. It got bigger every second. Her excitement swelled. The mission drew to a close.

“101, Paddles, you’re on glideslope, on course, three-quarter mile. Call the ball.”

Two beats, searching for the right words. “101, Rhino ball, two point four.”

The Master Caution light flashed, a red warning light illuminated, and the speaker intoned, “ENGINE FIRE LEFT – ENGINE FIRE LEFT.” No turning back.

F/A-18E, Rock 101
Andaman Sea
10 minutes before engagement

Burner selected SIDEWINDER. A weak tone. “Fox Two!”

The smoke trail streaked away and jinked right, tracking the massive heat signature. A blue ray shot out from the target cylinder and incinerated the missile. Burner slammed a fist on her kneeboard. I had it!

Watching through her canopy, she saw the orb dart north. Pissed, Burner pushed the throttles through the detent into afterburner and gave chase.

The murky being inside turned its… head?… and glanced at her. When it looked away quickly, Burner took stock of the situation. Are they driving me here? Zooming out, she observed twelve – no, maybe twenty – craft of various sizes lurking menacingly in a wide arc above a roiling sea. An ambush! She chopped her throttles.

“Alpha Whiskey, 101. In pursuit of one bandit with one in trail. Interrogative: Do you have a group of contacts 300 for 30 from your posit?”

“101, affirm. Count at least twenty low-slow contacts.”

“Roger, that’s them. I don’t know who they are, but they’re hostile, I say again, contacts are hostile. They splashed my wingman and I am defensive. They’re… they’re waiting for us. Recommend kill with birds. Take ‘em! Do it now!”

Inside the cruiser’s Combat Information Center, the Commanding Officer pointed at the large screen display and nodded at the tactical action officer.

“Air, TAO, kill track 8762 and company.”

The lieutenant at the front table turned his key. Sweat glistened from his forehead under the glow from the large screens.

A junior officer sat 15 feet away in Air Alley. She leaned forward, clicked on the first track, and mashed a flashing button on her screen. “TAO, Air, killing track 8762 and company!”

Through the bulkheads, watch standers could make out the muffled, mournful wail of the salvo siren. Deeply unsettling, the sound was quickly interrupted – SMACK!

Hatches slammed open, fire belched skyward, and gray smoke blotted out the lines of the ship’s superstructure. Standard Missiles jumped from vertical launch cells, climbing steeply before tipping over towards their prey. Two for each contact. Sailors sat transfixed, staring at their consoles during the fifty second flight time.

The missiles glided to their targets at supersonic speeds and lanced into the waiting enemy. Explosions washed out Burner’s screen. She peered outside and saw several orbs remained. They bolted in the direction of the cruiser. Burner put her jet on its wingtip and yanked into a body-crushing turn to follow, but they were too fast and sped out of view.

A glare from her mirror. All but one.

“Alpha Whiskey, 101, bandits are inbound your posit!”

The cruiser heeled over as it settled broadside to the approaching threat. The Combat Information Center was silent. Additional missiles leapt into the sky as the weapons system tried to keep up. The deck guns thundered. Nothing could match the speed and maneuverability of the targets. The ship’s radar showed the craft approaching at 3,000 knots. As they drew near and slowed, the optical sight system showed four blimp-sized craft. The Commanding Officer stared and cursed under his breath as they marked on top of the now-defenseless ship and circled.

“Alpha Whiskey, 101 is supersonic!” Burner closed the cruiser, trying to squeeze every knot she could get out of the Super Hornet. Still miles away, she was ready for battle. To defend herself. The Navy ship. Her country. Her planet. Burner’s thumb chose GUN and her jaw clenched tight. She watched the scene unfolding ahead, terrified.

The craft circled the cruiser at blinding speed, forming a halo of kaleidoscopic light in the sky and a swirling vortex on the ocean. Opening suddenly, a yawning chasm appeared below the ship. It swallowed the cruiser in a flash. The rotation stopped instantly, and the orbs dove smoothly – without splashes – into the water and disappeared.

Dumbstruck, Burner blinked. And blinked again.

The ship is gone.

Rage filled her heart. A primal howl spilled into her mask. She popped flares and chaff and wrenched back on the stick, continuing until inverted, looking down on the orb, and rolled wings-level in the opposite direction. In her mirror, Burner saw it match her maneuver. She pushed the jet to the edge of the envelope, aware of her dwindling fuel, but desperate to escape. Close on her heels, the orb pulsed.

F/A-18E, Rock 101
Andaman Sea
32 minutes after engagement

“Easy with it, easy with it. You’re on and on, Burner. Easy with it. CUT-CUT-CUT!”

The pilot secured the engines and the Super Hornet fell to the deck, yawed, and crashed unceremoniously into the emergency barrier. I made it.

F/A-18E, Rock 101
Andaman Sea
The engagement

Aviate. Navigate. Communicate. Burner centered herself and compartmentalized the fear. She climbed and started a gentle turn to the southwest. The carrier is out here somewhere. Burner would not give up – the thought was anathema to her very fabric. While she looked down to switch buttons, azure light washed over the jet. She jammed in the frequency and transmitted.

 “Strike, 101, mayday, mayday, mayday. Wingman is down, Alpha Whiskey is down. I am engaged with one Bandit.”

The jet shook violently. It took all of Burner’s strength to maintain level flight. Something is wrong! Caution lights flared in front of her. Alarms overwhelmed and assaulted her senses.

“Mayday, mayday, mayday, 101 taking damage, losing control. Request vectors!”

Panic.

Help me! The plane rattled furiously.

She shrieked when light filled her cockpit. Dripping sweat, she sat paralyzed.

The luminous orb settled onto her plane. The collision caused it to roll and yaw.

Stunned, Burner was helpless to stop the uncontrolled maneuver.

Gulping oxygen, she felt a presence. I am not alone.

Stillness.

Time slowed.

Motion arrived in clips.

No words. Terror melted away in waves of euphoria.

The light ceased.

Her head lolled forward and then quickly snapped back.

Time sped back up.

Motion flowed.

The pilot stared ahead with icy determination.

An empty cylinder tumbled to the sea.

Andaman Sea
Flight Deck

Fire crew swarmed the plane, spraying foam and climbing ladders to access the canopy. Sailors in silver hot suits carried the pilot to the deck and away from the smoking wreck.

Following the mob towards a waiting stretcher, the pilot stopped and faced aft. With its face wrinkled in great concentration, it called out to the deep.

They are here. Attack!

LCDR Jon Paris is a double-Marine Corps brat who grew up immersed in Naval Aviation. A career Surface Warfare Officer, he has deployed on cruisers, destroyers, a minesweeper, and an aircraft carrier. This piece is a work of fiction. The ideas are the author’s alone and do not reflect the positions of the U.S. Navy or Department of Defense.

Featured Image: “Preparations for cat shot – F18 Hornet,” by rOEN911 via DeviantArt.

Fiction Contest Week

By Dylan Phillips-Levine and Trevor Phillips-Levine

Near future. Crimean Peninsula.

“White pawn to D-4. Your move, Danil,” said Gregori.

I know his next move—he’s so predictable. Colonel Gregori’s personality showed itself on the chess board. He always opened with the Queen’s Gambit. Colonel Gregori and I began playing chess together when we served in Syria, flying the aging Sukhoi-24 Fencer. She was a fearsome aircraft and even more frightening to fly as of late. She had a checkered safety record, and the turbojets from the 60’s and variable swept wings had a nasty tendency to disintegrate. Only two weeks ago, one broke apart mid-flight, although both pilots ejected safely; the former humbling Russian aerospace engineers, and the latter a testament to Russian rocket scientists—the best rocket scientists in the world.

I moved my pawn to D-5 with my left hand, countering in an equally predictable move. “Your move, Gregori,” I responded. I always enjoyed chess. It’s a game of perfect information with no secrets or chance. The predictable opening choreography gives way to entropy and chaos as the game unfolds.

Before moving his chess piece, the secure telephone broke the silence and his concentration. Gregori picked up the phone and responded, “Yes, sir.”

He then told me, “Danil, our squadron has been tapped to fly a high priority mission, straight from Moscow. It’s called Operation Sovremenny Voyna.”

High priority mission, cryptic language, and old aircraft—”about the Russian standard,” I thought to myself. “If you didn’t want to play, you could have just told me,” I said half-heartedly.

“I’m serious, Danil. Our game will have to wait. I need to brief you and the aircrew for a flight. Call the wardroom for the mission briefing.”

“Yes, sir,” I replied.

In the ready room, Gregori pulled out his issued laptop, courtesy of the Main Intelligence Directorate—in my native tongue, Glavnoye Razvedyvatelnoye Upravlenie, or GRU for short. In it, he opened the classified presentation and began his brief.

“Gentlemen, our squadron has been selected for Operation Sovremenny Voyna. A British warship exited the Bosporus Strait into the Black Sea yesterday. The GRU believes that the HMS Daring, a Type 45 guided missile destroyer, entered the Black Sea with explicit orders to violate Russian territorial waters around Crimea in an operation that Western countries call ‘Freedom of Navigation Operations,’ or FONOPS. A year earlier, her sistership, the HMS Defender, conducted a similar territorial violation while transiting under the guise of ‘innocent passage.’ Our mission this time is to stop the British warship if they violate our sovereign waters under the same guise of ‘innocent passage.’”

I remembered the HMS Defender’s “innocent passage” last year; I flew as the aircraft commander. The situation escalated to the point where my SU-24 dropped 4 x OFAB 250kg bombs in its path after repeated warnings from violating Russia’s sovereign territorial waters. However, despite the bombs, she refused to alter course. Since then, the West brazenly increased their FONOPs and “innocent passage” transits.

Eight hours later, Gregori placed us on immediate alert to be ready to launch at a moment’s notice. He informed me and the aircrew that the intelligence was right. I could have predicted that; it is always the same opening move by the West. After hurriedly donning my flight gear, I scrambled to my aircraft and strapped into the left ejection seat of my Fencer with my copilot strapped in the right seat. To our left sat another Fencer, our wingman. Once strapped in, the ground crew connected the hot fuel lines to ensure our aircraft would be topped off with fuel when given permission to launch. I rocked my left hand back and forth, signaling our wingman to start the engines; the four turbo jets of both aircraft whined as they spooled up and then howled through the airfield as we waited for the call to launch. The noise is deafening, even inside the aircraft with my helmet on.

My wingman and I are the centerpiece of this operation. Moscow tasked us to remind the West that Russian sovereignty is unquestionable and that their warships off the Crimean coast snubbed this very notion. I coyly said to my copilot to make small chat, “How would the West feel if we sailed a warship loaded with missiles through the Florida Keys?”

He didn’t respond. Russian aerospace engineers supposedly designed the instrument panel to reduce stress by making it light blue, but the sea of switches and analog instruments with Cyrillic letters and numbers contrasted against the light blue panel were anything but stress reducing. Nonetheless, my co-pilot cross-checked his instruments again to keep his mind focused. Although he had conducted drills like this before and dropped the bombs with me in the path of the Defender last year, this time was different. This time, our flight profile would be higher than normal, within the radar horizon of the enemy vessel. It ran counter to the tactics we trained for. They wanted us to be seen.

I looked back at my watch and let out a soft sigh, muffled by the oxygen mask hanging by my left cheek. I muttered under my breath at the realization we had been idling for two hours. I can’t help but feel sorry for our ground crew. They’ve been waiting outside for hours to disconnect the hot fuel lines and marshal us since we got the alert call.

“Our ground crew must be deaf by now,” I joked with my co-pilot to break the monotony.

“What?” The co-pilot said as he cracked a smile and then went back to scanning his instruments. He began to check the armament system again.

“Don’t,” I replied. “You’ve already checked it.”

“Yes, sir,” he replied.

I quipped back, “Relax, it’ll be just like last time, only this time, different.”

He smirked back at me.

His uneasiness was then broken as the encrypted radio crackled to life, “Fencer 818 and flight, this is Tower, cleared to launch. Initial vector 210 for 85 kilometers. Check in secure when airborne.” Operation Sovremenny Voyna was a go.

“Fencer 818 and flight, Roger,” I replied.

We clipped our oxygen masks into place as the copilot eased the throttle up. During the engine run up, our wingman’s pilot signaled a thumbs up signifying all systems normal and ready for takeoff. I returned the signal and released the brakes. Our section of SU-24s barreled down the runway in full afterburner and then we turned southward over the water.

As we passed through 3,000 feet, our analog radar warning receiver started going off. S band radar on 3 gigahertz. I tell my copilot, “There she is.”

Passing through 5,000 feet, we turned on our search radar. Protocol required us to ensure that the automatic identification system (AIS) matched radar returns. AIS spoofing has become commonplace in recent years. My copilot manually plotted the bearing line and radar with a grease pencil on his side-cockpit window. Instead of investing in sensor fusion, the Kremlin thought the budget was best spent elsewhere. Why spend millions on sensor fusion when a flick of wrist with a pencil and a sharp mind would do? Well, that and because our defense budget had been diverted to manufacturing nuclear-tipped torpedoes.

The bearing lines matched up with the lone radar blip on our scope; under normal circumstances, there would be multiple radar blips and bearing lines as our Navy and Coast Guard vessels escorted and sometimes shouldered enemy warships away from our coastline. But not this time. The ship was by itself.

After picking up the lone British warship with our surface search radar, I gave the signal to my wingman to commence his approach.

With the wave of my hand, I detached the other SU-24. I watched her bank away and descend towards the British warship.

With our wingman racing towards the British warship, my co-pilot started transmitting in his best English on VHF Channel 16, also known as Bridge to Bridge:

“British warship, you have been repeatedly warned and are in violation of international law. You must immediately leave the territorial sea of the Russian Federation. You broke the rules of innocent passage. I am authorized to strike. The Russian Federation does not bear responsibility if your vessel is damaged or destroyed.”

The aircrafts’ radios broadcasted the warship’s response:

“This is British Warship Delta THREE TWO, we are conducting innocent passage. We have the right to do so in accordance with international rule and the United Nations Convention on Law of the Sea. Your actions are unsafe, unprofessional, and endanger my vessel. Are you threatening me? Over.”

My co-pilot looked at me with unease after the response. I answered his uneasy silence and responded, “Let our wingman carry out his maneuvers first and see if that changes anything.”

We watched as the other Su-24 made two mock dive-bomb attacks followed by a low altitude cut across the bow.

Immediately following the maneuvers, the British warship broadcasted:

“Attention Russian military aircraft, your maneuvers are unsafe and present a hazard to responsible and safe lawful navigation. Your hostile, unsafe, and unprofessional actions are being recorded. Over.”

My co-pilot replied with his canned response, “British warship, you are in Russian territorial waters. Leave now or we will strike. This is your final warning.”

Once more, the British responded with their scripted line:

“This is British Warship Delta THREE-TWO, we are conducting innocent passage. We have the right to do so in accordance with international rule and the United Nations Convention on Law of the Sea. Over.”

I always hated it when they say, “Over.” Fine, have it your way. I keyed up the secure radio and relayed, “Sir, negative response. Awaiting orders.”

After a pause of several seconds, the encrypted radio message came through: “Vonya, Vonya, Vonya.” A codeword authorizing weapon release from Moscow.

“Vonya,” I replied.

I then radioed my wingman, “Break off, RTB at best speed. Advise when feet dry.”

I looked at my co-pilot and said, “Arm the weapon.”

“Yes, sir,” my copilot replied.

I banked my aircraft hard to the right and selected the afterburner, starting a steep climb back to the north, away from the ship. For this operation to be successful, I needed the British to watch on radar and see what happened next. At 80 km from the British warship, I turned the aircraft back around to the south. After my copilot once again confirmed the lone radar blip as the British warship through AIS, radar scope, and bearing line convergence, I pressed the weapon release switch.

My plane made a slight lurch as 1,400 pounds fell away from the aircraft. The Kh-31 antiship cruise missile rocket motor ignited and accelerated to Mach 3.5 in a dive towards the coastline. At that moment my radar warning receiver lit up my cockpit like a Christmas tree.

I immediately rolled the aircraft onto her back, placed the variable wing sweep to 69 degrees to minimize aerodynamic drag, selected full afterburner, and pulled hard to accelerate to the deck to hide in the ground clutter and avoid any return fire from the Daring. I remember being intently focused on my instruments. As I approached maximum velocity, the wing sweep indicator and engine instruments started to oscillate. I held my breath hoping that the oscillations would only be transitory. The radar warning receiver was still lit up and alarming as the aircraft began to buffet. Then, the aircraft began to pitch up violently as warning lights illuminated in the cockpit. I fought to regain control.

My co-pilot might have said something about “smoke” or a “missile,” but I don’t remember. The last thing I remember was pulling the ejection handle. I couldn’t tell whether Russian aerospace engineering or a missile from the Defender caused my aircraft to disintegrate. But that didn’t matter.

As I fell to the sea below, dangling from my parachute, I silently thanked the Russian rocket scientists who designed my ejection seat for saving my life, even if some of my body parts were numb and in pain. I tried to move my left hand to unclip my oxygen mask but couldn’t. My arm hung lifeless. After going through a rolodex of all the cliché things in my life, my mind wandered back to the events that unfolded earlier that day in the ready room that caused this chaos. I thought back to the chess game Gregori and I had played earlier—the game of perfect information. The opening moves are always so predictable. White pawn to D-4, black pawn to D-5. The British sailed through our territorial seas and we, in turn, launched to intercept them. But now, entropic chaos. Missiles had been exchanged, my aircraft destroyed, and my copilot was nowhere to be seen. Just before I impacted the Black Sea below, I couldn’t help but wonder, “what’s the next move?”

Lieutenant Commander Dylan “Joose” Phillips-Levine is a naval aviator and serves with a tactical air control squadron. You can find him on Twitter at @JooseBoludo.

Lieutenant Commander Trevor Phillips-Levine is a naval aviator and serves as a department head in a strike fighter squadron. You can find him on Twitter @TPLevine85.

Featured Image: “HMS DARING – Royal Navy Type 45 Air Defence Destroyer,” by MagicCGIStudies via ArtStation.

Fiction Contest Week

By Major Brian Kerg, USMC

Marine Corps Base Quantico, Virginia. June 12^th, 205X.

Lieutenant General Molly Spears slipped, caught herself, and swore.

Her aide-de-camp, Major William Troy, hurried to her side. “You alright, Ma’am?”

“I’m just fine, Bill,” she said, waving the major aside. “It’s these damn pumps, and the skirt doesn’t help either. I’m just not used to wearing this stuff. I haven’t had to in years. I’ll be glad when they’re phased out next month and we can all stick to slacks and oxfords.”

Bill grinned. “Yeah, I had to dust off the uniform regs to see how to prep your Service Alphas with the skirt instead of pants. But it’s just for the photo, ma’am. I’ve got your normal kit ready in the garment bag.”

“As long as it’s ready for the confirmation hearing,” Molly said. “And don’t go leaving your cover behind in Quantico again before we leave for D.C.! The senators might grill me a little harder if they see you trailing behind me with one hand on top of your head like a recruit.”

“Aye aye, Ma’am,” Bill said, smirking.

Leaving the conference room, the pair walked down the hall of Marine Corps University’s Gray Research Center, heading toward the exit. Bill stopped suddenly, riveted by a painting on the wall.

Molly stopped beside him and followed his gaze to the now familiar image.

“I knew the History Division had a combat artist paint this,” Bill said. “But I’ve never seen it in person.”

The painting depicted a littoral firefight. Under fire, Molly – then a captain – leapt from a jet ski, rifle in hand, to board a patrol boat of the People’s Armed Forces Maritime Militia. Her recon platoon followed behind her, some on jet skis, others farther back in a rigid-hulled inflatable boat, laying down a base of covering fire. The faces of the Marines showed equal parts desperation and defiance.  

Almost involuntarily, Bill glanced at the navy blue, white-striped ribbon at the top of Molly’s ribbon rack, the Navy Cross she earned during the action depicted in the painting.

“I just did what any Marine would do,” Molly said. “We made the best out of a bad situation, and got lucky.” She strode forward and through the set of double doors leading outside. Bill hurried after her.

On the front lawn, the public affairs team stood ready beside a statue of a female Marine. Sighting the general, the team came to life, appeared a little busier, and stood a bit taller. Molly waved them at ease and stood beside the statue.

Molly sighed internally, enduring the usual exchange of formality between her and the young public affairs officer (PAO), keeping a stoic front for the benefit of the young Marines. After, the team went into action, taking photos, asking questions and recording the answers to prepare for release on the Marine Corps’ official social media accounts.

“Ma’am,” the PAO asked, “Thank you for joining us to honor the latest anniversary of the Women’s Armed Forces Integration Act. We know your time is valuable – every general is busy, especially when you’ve been nominated to serve as the next commandant! Can you tell us your thoughts about the importance of today’s anniversary and why you’re appearing in a uniform that the Corps is phasing out?”

Molly nodded. “It’s no coincidence that I carry the same name as this statue, ‘Molly Marine.’ My parents were Marines, and they named me after her,” she said, glancing at the figure.

“She honors all those women who came before her and serves as inspiration for all those who will come after. In one hand, she holds a book said to carry the history of female Marines. In her other hand, she carries a set of binoculars to look forward to the future of our Corps. Today we might consider her uniform outdated – indeed, we are phasing out the skirt and pumps I’m wearing to bring all Marines closer to a single standard, uniforms included. But ‘Molly Marine’ shows us how far women have come, and how far we’ve had to fight to get here.” The general gestured to her own skirt with one hand, and to the statue’s with the other. “It’s my goal to honor that legacy by standing in solidarity with Molly, one last time.”

---

Unit 54777 (Psychological Operations), GRU. Moscow, Russia

Colonel Irina Bravikova read the tweet and slowly smiled.

“Kozlov!” she called, waving over her deputy.

Major Micah Kozlov hurried across the watch floor to Irina’s desk. “Yes Ma’am?”

“We’ve got our opening,” Irina said, pointing at her screen. “Take a look.”

Micah leaned in. The tweet was from the official Marine Corps Twitter account. It featured a photo of Lieutenant General Spears standing beside the statue of Molly Marine. Spears wore a skirt and pumps, matching those of the statue. The body of the tweet commemorated the service and legacy of women in the Marine Corps.

“Forgive me, I’m not following,” Micah said.

“Right now, Marine expeditionary advanced bases only pop up when tensions rise,” Irina said. “We don’t care, because by then it’s too late and we’ve already achieved our objective. It’s why the Americans and the Chinese ended up in a shooting match all those years ago – deterrence failed. Deterrence by denial doesn’t work when you can’t present a credible threat until after the fact.”

Irina pointed an accusing finger at her computer screen. “Spears has been the chief architect of Force Design 2060. If approved, it will put Marines inside our sphere of influence, on a rotating basis, permanently. Their tagline of ‘persist forward indefinitely’ won’t just be a tagline anymore. There are a lot of opponents to her plan, but if she gets confirmed as the next Commandant of the Marine Corps, she’ll see it through to fruition.”

Micah’s eyes raised, understanding. “But if she doesn’t get confirmed…”.

Irina nodded. “Exactly. And if we help our American friends see this photo the right way, they’ll cancel Spears in a heartbeat. And her plan, tenuous as it is, will be forgotten. No Spears, no Force Design 2060.”

“I’ll get the team together,” Micah said. “We can start rolling something out by this evening. What’s our focus? Put a skeleton in her closet? The team has a few new options from the playbook they’ve been hoping to try.”

Irina shook her head. “A gentle hand, Micah, with proven plays. Help the Americans believe what they’re already prepared to believe. There are groups on both sides of the aisle that are just waiting for the next scapegoat. If we tailor the message to the fault lines, Americans will do all the hard work for us. We just need the right groups to take a closer look at Molly Spears.”

Hearing before the Senate Armed Services Committee, U.S. Capitol Building, Washington D.C.

Having just parried the latest round of questions, Molly allowed herself a sigh of relief. It’s going better than I expected, she thought. She stretched her legs beneath the table, filled with a new appreciation for the comfort of her slacks and oxfords.

Senator Howard Gordon lifted his tablet, adjusted his glasses, and leaned forward to read his next question. “General Spears, I’d like to talk about the future. I’m familiar with what you’re proposing in Force Design 2060. But the rest of our audience might not be, and I want to ensure you have a chance to explain, personally, what you’re getting after.”

“Thank you, Senator,” Molly said. “If you will, allow me to step to the past to help understand the future. I joined the Corps just as Force Design 2030 was reaching maturation, and I saw firsthand what the fight was like under that model. And a lot of Marines died because we still had to ‘fight to get to the fight.’” She let that hang, giving the comment extra time by taking a sip from her glass of water.

“Don’t get me wrong,” she continued. “It was a great model, but it was still vulnerable because we – the Marine Corps – couldn’t be where we needed to be in time for it to matter. And the time when it matters is before escalation begins. Force Design 2060 isn’t as revolutionary as it seems – it simply takes the force we have now, and ensures it is forward deployed all the time. This will let our sensors and shooters act as an extension of the Navy’s fleet, and facilitate entry of naval and joint forces into theater. And to do that, we’ll trade on obsolete structure and build more Marine Littoral Regiments (MLR). This way, MLRs can deploy rotationally with the same reliability as the Marine Expeditionary Units of old, ensuring we always have a deterrent presence in the littorals of our adversaries.”

There were murmurs of assent from the members of the committee. Molly wanted to smile but repressed it. She sensed the room, knew she was on the cusp of success, had seen the same group momentum in the countless briefs she’d given in the past. If the conversation stayed on the rails, she’d be a shoe-in. I just might be the first female commandant after all, she thought. She thought once more of Molly Marine, and the women that had blazed the trail for her to reach this moment.  

A congressional aide approached the bench, whispered into the ear of Senator Janine Rathskill, and hurried away. Rathskill raised an eyebrow, looked at her tablet, then cleared her throat.

“All this is very fascinating, general,” she said. “But I think we could benefit from some clarity on how else you plan to change the Corps. Is it your intention to keep female Marines dressing differently from males? Do you want to keep female Marines ‘in a box’, so to speak?”

Molly raised an eyebrow. “No, senator,” she said. “Nearly all uniform requirements across the service are exactly that – uniform. The last gender-specific items, which have been optional wear at the service-member’s discretion for over a decade, will be phased out by month’s end.”

Rathskill scratched her chin. “I’ve got to admit, I’m a bit confused at your intentions, when you seem to be promoting the very gender divide you claim to be fighting against.”

She tapped on her tablet, and it projected a holographic display of the photo that Molly took just yesterday, photoshopped to put an apron over Molly’s uniform. The image was embedded in the tweet of a story from the New York Times, reading, “The Few, the Proud, the Feminized: The Next Commandant Will Lead the Women of the Corps Back to Domestic Slavery.” Floating beside it was a feed of live tweets scrolling beside it, all negative. A common hashtag kept appearing in every tweet: #CancelMolly.

Rathskill shook her head. “Isn’t Ductus Exemplo – ‘lead by example’ – still the motto at Officer Candidates’ School?”

Molly wouldn’t allow herself to rise to the bait. “Senator, you know our history as well as I do. That was the uniform the first women in the Corps were required to wear. While I agree in phasing it out and standardizing the attire of all Marines, it was perhaps the last chance I’d have to stand in solidarity with those women came before me.”

Senator Walter Gray grunted from his chair. Fidgeting with his own tablet, he projected a different image, this one showing the photo of Molly through a rose-tinted filter. The picture was edited to make Molly appear small, fragile, and impossibly young to be wearing three stars on her shoulders. It was embedded in a story from One America News Network titled, “Every Marine A Rifle-Woman? Next Commandant to Lower Standards, Open Floodgates for Our Daughters to Lose the Next War.” Again, a live feed of condemnatory tweets scrolled beside the story, carrying the hashtag #CancelMolly.

“It’s no secret to my constituents,” Gray wheezed, “that the Corps has been lowering standards to get more women into combat arms. Maybe that’s why our little spat with China ended in a draw instead of a win for our homeland. This latest stunt just proves your nomination to be the first female commandant is nothing more than meat being tossed to the president’s base. I won’t abide it.”

Molly clenched her teeth, biting back the easy, low blow that Senator Gray hadn’t been in a position to meet a single physical standard for any military branch his entire life. I’ll think it, but I won’t degrade myself by saying it, she thought.

The other senators tapped at their devices, and hologram after hologram popped up, showing the accelerating churn of developing stories and interactive polls sweeping across social media, pushed by influencers, celebrities, and interest groups across the political spectrum. The stories, tweets, and headlines cascaded down the air in the Capitol Building, a digital waterfall of online outrage:

“The statue of Molly Marine sexualizes women and should be torn down! #CancelMolly.”

“General Spears will be putting our boys in skirts next. #NotMyCommandant #CancelMolly.”

“Women were not meant to fight wars. China is laughing at America today. #AmericaFirst #CancelMolly.”

“The skirt is a symbol of oppression and this ‘general’ should know better. #CancelMolly.”

Molly took a breath to steady herself, then slowly stood. Her commanding presence silenced the muttering from the senators, and they tore their eyes from the digital mudslinging and gave their attention to Molly.

She pointed first to the eagle, globe, and anchor on the lapel of her blouse. “I was with the first class of fully integrated men and women within the same platoons at Officer Candidates’ School, when gender-neutral standards were set. I exceeded every standard, and broke a few records, to earn the title, ‘Marine.’”

Next, she pointed to the jump wings and dive bubbles over her left breast pocket. “I was the first female reconnaissance officer. I exceeded every standard that was set for the job. The standard was the same for men and women.”

Her finger slid down to the navy blue, white-striped ribbon at the top of her ribbon rack. “And for actions during our ‘spat’ with China, I became the first female Marine to receive the Navy Cross.” Finally, she pointed to her Purple Heart. “And I almost died in the process.”

She let her gaze travel across the room, meeting each member of the Senate Armed Services Committee in the eye. “Unless anyone else wants to challenge my credentials, or my commitment to our nation, I’d like to get back to discussing how I’d plan to prepare our Corps for its next fight.”

For a moment, the room was silent. But one by one, the senator’s eyes flicked back to their tablets and feeds showing the furious digital howls of the online electorate.

Unit 54777 (Psychological Operations) GRU. Moscow, Russia

Irina and Micah clinked glasses, shot their vodka, and laughed, slapping each other’s shoulders and backs. Behind them, their screens featured the headlines they’d conjured through the subtlest nudges of social engineering:

“Pressed on both sides, President withdraws nomination for Spears.”

“Future commandant gets #Cancelled, forced into retirement.”

“Molly Marine statue, deemed ‘an edifice to sexism,’ to be torn down.”

“Corps scraps Force Design 2060, mulls return to traditional MAGTF.”

Irina kicked off her heels, fell back into her chair, and put her feet on her desk. “We did it, Micah, we did it! We made them eat their own!”

Micah nodded, smiling. “America lost a general, and Russia is about to gain one.” He pointed at the general’s shoulder boards sitting on her desk, ready for the promotion ceremony next week. “An early ‘congratulations’ is in order, Ma’am.”

Irina waved him down. “It’s not official until I’m wearing it. Don’t jinx me.”

Micah refilled their glasses, sat down, and turned his attention back to the headlines. “I just don’t understand how they keep falling into the same trap. We’ve been running plays like this on America for decades. We build a few dummy accounts inside of divided political groups, then feed a few stories to the angriest voices. And then it’s off to the races as they blast the message we want to send. The Americans run the influence operation for us. In fairness, we should be paying them!”

Irina shook her head. “Not on our budget, we shouldn’t.”

Micah nodded back at the screen. A news feed showed a video of a crane driving up to the statue of Molly Marine aboard Quantico, surrounded by a watching crowd.

“Do you feel bad for her, at least?” Micah asked.

“I do,” Irena said. “I even feel bad for General Spears. But I don’t feel guilty. We are all soldiers, fighting in our own way. If there is anyone to blame, the Americans can look to themselves. A people that won’t stand for their values don’t deserve to keep them. And if they aren’t willing to learn from their history, they don’t deserve that, either.”

Together, the two soldiers watched the feed as the crane gripped the statue, which cracked under the pressure of the crane’s jaws. The crowd gave a frenzied cheer as Molly Marine crumbled to pieces. The book and binoculars she’d held fell to the ground. They shattered into a pile of chips and erupted into a cloud of dust, which was caught by the wind, and slowly blew away into nothing.

Brian Kerg is a Non-Resident Fellow at Marine Corps University’s Brute Krulak Center for Innovation and Future Warfare. He is currently serving as a graduate student at Marine Corps University’s School of Advanced Warfighting. Follow or contact him at @BrianKerg.

Featured Image: “Marines” by Klaus Wittmann via Artstation.

By Dmitry Filipoff

Fiction Contest Week is finally here! Through the next week, 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 second consecutive year.

The winners were ultimately selected by our panel of judges which included August Cole, David Weber, Larry Bond, Kathleen McGinnis, Peter Singer, and Ward Carroll. 

The 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 conflict. The emerging threats, concepts, and capabilities of today are deftly envisioned, and with sometimes unexpected scenarios and results. Through these stories we can peer into the challenges of tomorrow and probe deeper into the unthinkable.

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

“#CancelMolly,” by Major Brian Kerg, USMC
“Security by Obsolescence,” by Captain James Schmitt, USAF
“The Dream of Russia: The Events of September 23rd, 2024,” by Billy Bunn
“Reality Hack,” by Robert Williscroft
“Any Clime and Place,” by Karl Flynn
“First Move,” by Dylan Phillips-Levine and Trevor Phillips-Levine
“Fishbowl in a Barrel,” by Keith Nordquist
“Bone Daddy,” by Michael Barretta 
“The Baffin Bay Turkey Shoot,” by Mike Matson
“Task Force Foo Fighter,” by Jon Paris

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

Featured Image: “PLA Carrier Fleet (#16 Liaoning & #17 Shandong)” by jeffbearholy via Artstation.