Category Archives: Fiction Contest Week

In The WEZ

Fiction Contest Week

By Captain Michael Hanson, USMC

Summer 2026

The Marines lay as still as rocks on the jungle floor. Sweat gushed from their every pore as insects crawled across their bodies and buzzed in their faces. But the Marines remained still. Not a single one moved an inch to wipe their brow or swat a buzzing nuisance. They remained as motionless as logs, and they blended in like logs as well. Their selection of excellent micro-terrain for their ambush site as well as their proficient application of camouflage made them undetectable in the jungle shadows. Their bodies covered in foliage, exposed skin and weapons smeared in earth tones, they were indistinguishable from the ground they occupied. Months of sustained combat in this harsh environment taught them that to survive in the jungle you had to be disciplined, or at least more disciplined than your enemy. They learned these lessons the hard way, by losing Marines. “You only make mistakes once in combat,” they reminded themselves while conducting precombat checks and inspections before going on patrol.

So they lay for hours, carefully watching a small clearing less than 50 meters away that widened their visibility in the thick vegetation. Suddenly they heard a faint rustling sound in the woods. A few seconds later they heard more. No one said a word. The foliage across the clearing shook and out stepped a Chinese infantryman. He slowly crept forward, as quietly and carefully as he could. Behind him three more Chinese soldiers came into view one by one, scanning the jungle ahead of them. Across the clearing, the U.S. Marines slowly switched their weapons off safe. They continued to wait.

Rac-kack-kack-kack-kack!

Suddenly the jungle exploded with fury. Dirt blasted up from the ground and tree limbs dropped, as red tracers tore into the unexpecting enemies. They crumpled to the ground and the firing stopped a second later. Leaves drifted to the ground and dust settled around the motionless bodies, the jungle was quiet again. After 30 seconds of calm two camouflaged U.S. Marines went forward, weapons at the ready, and approached the corpses. They were fast, first scooping up the fallen’s weapons before checking their pouches and pockets for anything of value. From one a radio was retrieved, off another a blood smeared map and a weathered notebook. That was going to be it. The search party looked up and nodded at the Marines covering them from the ambush site, before heading back in with the haul. Deliberately, they passed their buddies that were still in the prone, and pushed into the jungle. Slowly and individually, the Marines rose and the squad disappeared into the jungle. They left the bodies in place.

Assuredly there were other enemy patrols out, and undoubtedly any one that heard the burst of fire was heading for it to help their comrades. “Better not to stick around,” Sergeant Rodriguez thought to himself as he motioned to his Marines to head back to base. The point man acknowledged and picked up the pace.

Sergeant Rodriguez was the squad leader, with 10 Marines under his charge. However, he didn’t start out with this billet. When they landed in the jungle, the squad leader was a staff sergeant and had 12 Marines under him. But he had been wounded in a meeting engagement a month before. The squad made a chance encounter with the enemy on a jungle trail. The two opposing squads walked right into each other. The Staff Sergeant was on point, and wasn’t as fast with his weapon as the Chinese point man was with his. He took a burst of fire to the chest, and Sergeant Rodriguez took charge of the squad. They fought their way out of that engagement, taking another Marine slightly wounded. The casualty evacuation was a nightmare. They carried, dragged, and hauled the Staff Sergeant for hours through the jungle, constantly mindful that they could be overtaken by the enemy on their heels until they linked up with a friendly squad that rushed to assist them. It was pure luck that got them out of that one, though luck isn’t always enough in this environment. Skill and discipline are required to survive in the jungle. And in the months since Sergeant Rodriguez took the squad they improved in both. They adapted, they learned by doing, though they lost a few other Marines in other engagements.

They had been in this place for two months, but two months is a long time in the jungle. Plenty of time to learn how to fight and survive there. After two months in the jungle, Sergeant Rodriguez’s point man knew his business. It was hard though, those first several patrols, when he couldn’t get a signal to his wrist GPS device through the thick jungle canopy. They got lost, they wandered around on several occasions, but eventually he figured it out. Today, navigating by map, compass, pace count, and terrain association, he steered the squad on their course like he was driving a car back home. He was a professional, the best point man in the company, though they were all pretty good. One had to be in this environment.

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The war began by complete accident. Neither side was ready for it, but they jumped in with both feet. It started in the waters west of the Philippines. A Chinese naval vessel collided with a Filipino Navy ship after some reckless maneuvers. The whole thing probably could have been defused, but neither side backed down. A tense standoff ensued between ships of both navies, until the Filipinos fired on the next Chinese ship that came too close. The Chinese struck back, hard and fast, and sank several Filipino naval vessels. The shooting war had started and it quickly escalated.

The Philippines invoked its treaty alliance with the United States and American forces raced for the region. What followed was a scramble for key maritime terrain, with both sides attempting to control strategic chokepoints in the region. Long-ignored islands, reefs, peninsulas, straits, and channels became the scenes of posturing to gain advantage, as well as isolated clashes. U.S. Marines scattered across the Pacific to countless strategic points in the first island chain. They went on the surface and in the air. They traveled on small, hard-to-detect transports and in MV-22 Ospreys. They went to establish expeditionary advance bases, from which further operations could be conducted.

For the U.S., speed was crucial in such a distributed campaign, as Marines were quickly dispatched to reach myriad critical places first. There simply wasn’t enough Marine infantry to seize and defend all the key terrain identified. Nor was there time for Marine infantry to secure ground, turn it over to follow on forces, and redeploy in every location. The Americans accepted the risk of seizing ground with support forces in some places and sent their infantry to other places more likely to be contested.

On some locations, the Marines landed High Mobility Artillery Rocket Systems, or HIMARS, to threaten Chinese ships that came within range. On other sites the Marines established forward arming and refueling points, or FARPs, to threaten enemy ships and to serve as hubs to support other EABS from. In other locations, the Marines went to work from existing EABs established before hostilities erupted. A vast network of interlocking and mutually supporting bases designed to contain the Chinese Navy began to take shape.

However, the Chinese had plans of their own, and weren’t content to just let the Americans box them in. Chinese amphibious ready groups landed their own Marines on ground they deemed important as well, including some of the same islands the Americans prized. US Marine artillerymen found themselves fighting to defend their HIMARs sites from Chinese infantry, as did U.S. Marine FARP personnel. Unfortunately, many of these Marines were ill-trained or equipped to fight off attacks by determined enemy infantry. The American Marine infantry met their match as well. In many places they landed and found a bitter fight for control of terrain determined to be important by both sides.

Whether American or Chinese infantry made it to their objective first, vicious battles ensued. In some places, American platoons landed and encountered Chinese companies waiting for them. In others, American company landing teams arrived and secured their objectives, only to have a Chinese airborne battalion parachute in on top of them. U.S. Marines had not been outnumbered on the ground like this since Vietnam.

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The patrol snaked its way through the jungle following the path of a stream. It wasn’t a straight route, but navigating without the aid of GPS relies heavily on terrain association. Sergeant Rodriguez thought back to when his company arrived here. The news of war was sudden and interrupted an otherwise dull deployment. Within hours, his company was airborne in a flight of MV-22 Ospreys. Their mission was to seize a small island in the Philippine archipelago for use by follow-on forces. Whoever those forces were and what their mission was didn’t matter to him, he was going to set conditions for other Marines to exploit.

Sergeant Rodriguez’s platoon had been in the first wave to land on the island. Due to the limitations on space and weight in an air assault, they didn’t bring much. When the Osprey touched down in a grassy clearing, the Marines shuffled off only with what they could carry on their backs. Resupply would come in a few days after they established the preliminary defense for the EAB. Once the initial EAB was established a steady logistics effort would bring in more equipment and Marines until the node was built up and operational. A look at a map showed that this island was key to the network, so it was important that a lodgment be secured quickly. Unfortunately, things didn’t go according to plan.

The company landed without interference and seized their objective ahead of schedule. As planned, a few Ospreys dropped some pallets of chow to keep the Marines going until the next wave of resupply came in. Yet something else happened before anyone expected it to: a Chinese airborne battalion landed. The Marines uneasily watched hundreds of parachutes descend onto a relatively open part of the island. Attacking such a larger force was out of the question, the Marines hunkered down and hurriedly set about building a defense.

It was quickly apparent that the Chinese had established a lodgment on one side of the island while the Americans had one on the other, with a no man’s land of harsh wilderness in between. The U.S. Marines knew they were outnumbered and immediately requested reinforcement, but were told there would be none. The enemy had quickly and effectively established local superiority in naval, air, and land assets. These were active, and targeting friendly assets, even scoring a few hits. The loss of some important friendly assets had disrupted plans for this EAB. It would be an undetermined amount of time before any more Americans would be able to get through. The company had to hold on until the situation improved enough to get more support into the area. 

Soon Chinese reconnaissance patrols would be searching for them. To keep them back and provide early warning, the U.S. Marines sent out patrols of their own. What ensued was a series of battles between squad-sized patrols in the jungles. A war of chance encounters, meeting engagements, and ambushes. It was a squad leader’s fight, as only small units could efficiently traverse the rugged hills and thick vegetation. Squads and fire teams could move nimbly and quickly in this environment, anything larger was slow and unwieldy.

Resupply was tenuous. In the first week a few Ospreys made it through to drop off a few pallets of chow and ammo. When they returned a week later a Chinese surface-to-air missile downed one of them, causing future air resupplies to cease. Eventually a system of unmanned cargo boats got through. Every so often, in a method so as not to set a recognizable pattern, a few autonomous boats full of chow and ammo reached the shore, each time in a different location. With their resupplies contested, the Marines were often hungry. Patrols would halt to fill their assault packs with bananas and other fruits. Patrols were dispatched specifically to harvest the jungle’s bounty. They soon learned to live off the land. Patrols went out to fill jugs with small pumps that allowed them to filter water from streams. At the company position Marines erected devices to collect rainwater. They turned to the jungle to survive the enemy’s interdiction efforts.

_______________________________________

As the patrol took a security halt near a pond, Sergeant Rodriguez took an MRE snack out of his pocket. He had been saving it since before the ambush but couldn’t wait any longer. He looked at his Marines, his eyes focusing on their load bearing vests and boonie covers. “It would have been smart to leave all the PPE and bring more chow and ammo when we came here,” he remarked in his mind, thinking of his 40-pound body armor kit staged back at the company’s position, untouched for more than a month. The Marines had long ago abandoned their heavy body armor after the first few exhausting patrols in the jungle and close fights with the enemy. The gear was impractical in this environment. It caused them to move slow, snagged on every branch, and decreased the range of their movements. By ditching it they moved faster, stayed out longer, covered more ground, and fought better. He wished his unit had trained this way before the war began.

The war turned out much differently than many thought it would. Operating and fighting in the jungle had changed the ways the Marines conducted their business. Many of the assets that gave them the edge in previous conflicts were of little use in this one. The thick vegetation, not only on the jungle floor but at the canopy as well, imposed severe restrictions on the Marines. In countless places they weren’t able to acquire signals from global positioning satellites, which forced them to navigate the old-fashioned way with a map and compass, pace counts, and terrain association.

The rugged terrain and foliage also inhibited their communications, acting as a barrier that blocked radio waves. What radio waves did get through were often picked up and traced back by the enemy who sought to locate Marine positions from their emissions. The company lost their 81mm mortars early in the operation when an enemy electronic warfare detachment locked on to a radio transmission from the gunline. The mortars were already limited in where they could set up, needing an opening in the jungle canopy to shoot through. But this did not matter when a salvo of enemy rockets hit their position. The guns were destroyed and the few surviving mortarmen were sent to one of the platoons as riflemen. The combination of the jungle wall and enemy electronic warfare capabilities prompted the Marines to use their radios mostly for listening.

The company headquarters limited its use of radios to mostly listening purposes for fear of being picked up, located, and targeted. This became the standard operating procedure shortly after a headquarters node on another island was taken out after poor emissions discipline. When the company needed to transmit, mainly to higher headquarters far away on another EAB, patrols went out to quickly set up their communication gear, transmit a bare bones message, break down the equipment, and displace back to the company’s position before they were located. To keep from being predictable, they did so in different locations each time.

Batteries became a significant problem when the resupplies slowed down, there were never enough charged batteries to facilitate continuous communications with so many distributed elements. The company made effective use of portable solar panels camouflaged and installed in the jungle canopy, but this didn’t alleviate all of their demands for recharging batteries. The Marines only solved the problem by decreasing the demand. Due to the environment, radios were rarely able to communicate anyways. When they could, it was a risk to transmit. So the Marines went back to their roots and followed Marine Corps doctrine, using mission command and commander’s intent to give patrol leaders wide but well-defined space to operate in. The system worked quite well.

Patrols took communications gear out but rarely used it. The environment often didn’t permit, and if they wanted to break through the canopy to talk they had to climb a tree to emplace a field expedient antenna, an untimely task. Still, there were rare occasions when this proved necessary, such as when a squad in another platoon discovered a large enemy patrol base and called in HIMARs from another EAB on top of them, destroying an enemy reinforced platoon. There was always the possibility for such targets of opportunity and the Marines searched for them, but most often patrols operated on strict radio silence.

The other rare event when patrols made radio transmissions was to evacuate casualties. The squad would erect a field expedient antenna through the canopy and push a standardized casevac request to the company headquarters. The request simply informed the listener monitoring the company’s radios the number, type of casualty, nature of injury, special equipment required, and the code name for a pre-designated checkpoint rather than a grid coordinate, that way the enemy couldn’t hunt them down. The company would dispatch another patrol with necessary equipment to link up at the reference point and bring the casualty back to the company aid station, which capabilities were significantly increased from when they arrived on the island. If the casualty needed to be evacuated from the island, a small autonomous boat could be arranged to link up at some point on the coast to take the casualty back to a higher level of care on another EAB. It was far from a perfect system, but it was the best the Marines had in this contested environment.

_______________________________________

Before resuming the patrol, Sergeant Rodriguez pulled his radio out of its pouch and looked it over, wondering when was the last time he used it. It was turned off, per current SOP, only to be used in a vitally important situation. Even the last time his squad took a casualty on patrol, he didn’t use it. He sent a buddy team of runners back to the company to guide another squad to a link up point. He thought about the other things they brought that ended up being of little use after sustained operations. Some of it turned out to be junk, like the exoskeletons designed to allow a Marine to carry 200 pounds of gear. Only a few sets had been issued which didn’t traverse the jungle very easily, and didn’t function as designed after a bullet went through it. They didn’t have the support system to repair them, so every set resided in a big heap back at the company position they called “the boneyard.” Worse yet, when the exoskeleton broke the Marines still had to figure out how to carry all the weight it was supposed to help transport. Other equipment they brought was good gear for a different environment, but did not last in the jungle. All the high-tech gizmos and gadgets ran on battery power they couldn’t produce, or had plasma screens that couldn’t handle the humidity, or electronic ports that shorted out in an environment that never dried.

Whether from humidity, rain, or the need to cross water features, the moisture took a heavy toll on the Marines and their equipment. Weapons rusted. Gear came apart. Skin rotted. The Marines took many casualties from immersion foot at first. They never quite cured it, they just learned to cope. Many had trench foot but patrolled anyways, they didn’t want their buddies going out without them. Then there were the snakes and the insects. The snakes were venomous and there was not much that could be done for a Marine that was bit by one. The insects were terrible, but like trench foot, the Marines just dealt with them. Last were the physical ailments the jungle inflicts on its prisoners. Malaria, disease, boils, and sores. No one had felt completely up to par since the day they landed, whether from a jungle ailment or from the side effects of the medicines Marines took to prevent these. Finally, there was the fatigue and stress from operating in this hot, wet, nerve wracking place. This steaming hellhole was in many Marines’ minds a blight on God’s creation. This awful place was enough to drive a man insane all on its own, without even considering the enemy that was somewhere out there tirelessly working to kill them. 

Combat in the jungle turned out to be nothing like anything they had trained for. The learning curve was steep as the jungle demanded much from the Marines. Those that didn’t adapt didn’t survive. A Marine’s discipline is what kept him alive here. Even more so, a Marine’s discipline kept his buddy alive. There were many facets of discipline in the jungle. Whether it was common sense discipline, like not compromising one’s position with excessive noise and light. Or the hardness of body and mind that prevented a Marine from wiping his face or swatting at a bug in an ambush site, or the toughness required to continue to patrol on rotting feet and an empty stomach. This discipline showed itself when Marines continually improved their personal camouflage or that of their position. Though the Marines’ bodies had shed all of their excess pounds and seemed sickly and weak, their weapons were immaculate. Their discipline is what kept their weapons clean and in perfect working order in an environment that degraded anything foreign to it. They did all of these things without thinking, they just performed. In a way, they were almost like robots. The jungle did that to them, they had been programmed out of habit and repetition. The jungle is harsh, war in the jungle is even more so. Warriors in the jungle must be thorough professionals in every way.

Jungle combat was typically at close range and with direct fire weapons. Hasty and deliberate ambushes, counter ambushes, and meeting engagements were the standard action. Marines quickly became masters of the coup d’oeil, able to hear, see, or smell an approaching enemy, instantly recognize advantageous micro-terrain, and quickly deploy into a combat formation on the terrain that maximized their effect on that enemy. They knew how to use cover and concealment not only to hide from the enemy but to stalk him as well. To move through the jungle quickly and undetected, the Marines operated in small units, typically squads and fire teams. They often operated deep, and for extended periods. For long patrols, a platoon went out and established a patrol base. One squad patrolled further while another rested and the other maintained security. Sometimes fire teams split up and went out from the patrol base to cover more ground. They moved light, lived off the land and out of their packs. Every pound they carried was strictly intended for combat or sustainment. Their packs were surprisingly light. Gone were the days when they took enormous packs full to the seams with gear for every possible contingency, anything unnecessary had been discarded long ago. This was by no means a new type of warfare, only the weapons and equipment had changed.

Discipline in individual actions and proficiency in combat skills were key in this battle, and so was leadership. Leadership was the critical force multiplier here because leaders held everyone to the standard, the standard that separated life from death. Due to attrition, many Marines found themselves taking charge at a higher level than when they landed on the island. Riflemen became team leaders, team leaders became squad leaders, squad leaders became platoon sergeants, and platoon sergeants became platoon commanders. Every Marine had to be prepared to step up, and many did. The leaders in this fight had much more authority and autonomy than Marines of the same rank did in previous wars. It was not uncommon for a corporal to lead a fire team into the jungle for a day or two, or a sergeant to take a squad out or three.

Operations like this require trust. Company and platoon leadership could not go on every patrol with every element. Leaders had to trust their subordinate leaders that took units into the jungle. Once in the jungle, Marines had to trust each other, because in the jungle the only thing a Marine could count on was his fellow Marines. This was perhaps the harshest lesson the company learned since landing on this island, and the one the Marines at every level wished they had trained harder for in peacetime: developing effective teams that could operate on their own in distributed fashion. A team was only as good as its leader because strong leaders train strong teams, they hold their Marines accountable until the Marines hold themselves accountable. Unfortunately for many, they learned the hard lessons that made them effective in the jungle after the war began and not before, and they lost many leaders and teammates doing so.

_______________________________________

Sergeant Rodriguez halted the patrol. They were outside the company position. His eyes scanned the perimeter searching for the defensive posts, and he could see none. A complex integrated network of primary, alternate, and supplementary positions lay before him, but due to ingenious methods of field craft devised by the Marines, every post remained hidden in plain sight. The lost arts of field craft were quickly learned anew when the shooting war began. The pervasive intrusion of enemy intelligence, surveillance, and reconnaissance assets, whether drones or satellites, was omnipresent. At nearly all times and in almost all places there were eyes in the sky searching for anything that might indicate a significant asset or betray a unit’s location. When something was spotted and identified, long range fires rained down on the hapless target. Typically, the discovery was due to poor concealment, most often attributed to a lapse in judgment. However, a temporary lapse in judgement could still lead to a permanent end for those on the scene. All across the Pacific, the combatants on both sides grew wise to the threat of being spotted by the ubiquitous sensors and targeted by long range fires. Thus, the jungle became a refuge to shelter in. Troops on both sides stayed beneath the jungle canopy because it shielded them from detection. Though the sky above was awash with both sides’ ISR assets, these were usually strategic- and operational-level assets. The Marines on the ground had small unmanned aerial vehicles, but these were largely useless as they were short ranged and hard to control with the limitations of radio waves in this environment. If the Marines wanted to use them, they needed to find an opening in the jungle to launch out of and recover from. That could be hazardous. But the main reason why the small UAS was effectively grounded was because they just couldn’t see through the thick jungle canopy, and no one ventured out from under it.

Sergeant Rodriguez gave the near-far recognition signal to one of the posts that guarded the few portals to the company’s position. The post returned the signal, and the patrol moved forward. As they navigated the company engagement area, they passed obstacles designed to slow an attack and channel the enemy into designated kill zones. The ground was covered by machine guns organized into overlapping sectors of fire. Grid coordinates had been recorded for HIMARs targets, should the enemy get close to breaking through. In the event this happened, the forward posts would fall back to successive fighting positions to the rear.

As the patrol pressed further into the company perimeter, the posts came into view. The closer the patrol came to them the more recognizable the posts became. Every fighting position had been firmly hardened and expertly camouflaged. They were dug chest deep into the ground with sandbags rising a meter above ground to form an aperture to fire from. Above this was a roof covered with more sandbags to provide overhead cover. To complete the emplacement, each was thoroughly camouflaged with nets, logs, and living foliage dug up and replanted around and on top of the positions. The only way an enemy would be able to spot one of these positions would be to follow the stream of red tracers pouring out of it, but by then that enemy would be in shock from the combined effect of this defensive network.

“One thing is sure,” Sergeant Rodriguez thought to himself, “There is going to be a hell of a fight here when the enemy finds this location and comes to seize it.” Only by reducing this strongpoint could the Chinese finally seize control of the island and refocus their efforts on the next one in the chain. To the Marines manning this strongpoint, it was a matter of when, not if. Unless they could continue to delay the enemy long enough that American naval and Marine forces could regain the initiative in the near littorals and reinforce them.

Until then, however, he and his fellow Marines would continue to endure the oppression of the jungle and the hardships imposed by the enemy. They existed on a shoestring, far forward, isolated, cut off, in an austere environment, well inside the enemy’s weapons engagement zone, and trying desperately to survive. As he made his way to the command post to hand over his captured items and debrief with the company-level intelligence cell, Sergeant Rodriguez remembered a book he read before the war began. He thought to himself, “This is like Guadalcanal all over again.”

Captain Michael A. Hanson, USMC, commissioned in 2013. He served at 1st Battalion 2d Marines at Camp Lejeune, NC from 2015-2017 as a Rifle Platoon and 81mm Mortar Platoon Commander. Following this assignment, he served at Tactical Training and Exercise Control Group in Twentynine Palms, CA as an Infantry Instructor from 2017-2020. He is currently a student at the Expeditionary Warfare School in Quantico, VA.

Featured Image: “Jungle” by Dan Milligan  (via Artstation)

Don’t Give Up the Ship

Fiction Contest Week

By Major Brian Kerg, USMC

July 10th, 203X. Expeditionary Advanced Base (EAB) Itbayat, Philippines. 156 km from Taiwan.

First Lieutenant Stephanie ‘John Paul’ Jones stood in the company command post with her platoon sergeant, Staff Sergeant Billy Wickem. They were both trying to ignore the stifling humidity that wrapped around their woodland cammies like a hot blanket. The company command post (CP) consisted only of cammie netting tied to trees, a map hanging from five-fifty cord, MRE boxes, and a High Frequency (HF) Low Probability of Detection (LPD) radio connected to a laptop.1 Still, it was a welcome reprieve that caught a fair amount of wind coming in off the coast despite being hidden in the tree-line.

She and her Marines had been persisting at their EAB with the rest of Charlie Company, waiting to be employed in support of the Littoral Combat Battalion for a month. Her hair, rolled in a moto-bun, was starting to get crusty. She wondered how the company commander might react if she asked if she could shave her head or cut it to male high-and-tight grooming standards, both to better cool off and break the monotony for her platoon.

But more than that, the sheer boredom of waiting for their shot was eating the morale of her Marines. Alpha Company was slinging enhanced naval strike missiles at People’s Liberation Army-Navy (PLA-N) ships across the area of operations, and Bravo Company was cruising around in Mark VI patrol boats, boarding and disabling or sinking People’s Armed Forces Maritime Militia (PAF-MM) craft. Alpha and Bravo were racking up notches on their belts. Meanwhile, ‘Check-in-the-Box’ Charlie Company, which covered down on all the other mission essential tasks for their battalion, was still kicking rocks in this godforsaken jungle. Her platoon, which owned the expeditionary mine warfare mission set, didn’t seem to have much of a place in the defense of Taiwan.

A rustle in the brush caught Stephanie’s ear, snapping her from her reverie. Captain Phan stepped out of the jungle and into the CP, followed by his operations chief, Gunny Malone. The skipper, it seemed, was omnipresent, constantly cutting through the network of covered trails, checking in on every platoon day after day, night after night, reminding the Marines that above all else they were there to “persist forward indefinitely!,” a hallmark of Expeditionary Advanced Base Operations (EABO).2

“Lieutenant, Staff Sergeant,” Pham said, smiling and nodding at each of them. “Glad you came so quickly. How’s your platoon holding up?”

“Oh, sir, you know,” Stephanie said, trying to match Pham’s alacrity. “Persisting forward.”

“Indefinitely…” Wickem added, a blunt, tired punctuation.

“Sounds like they’re getting comfortable in the routine,” Malone said, grinning. “Maybe we’ll have to kick ‘em off the island.”

Stephanie raised an eyebrow, glancing from Malone to Pham. “Sir?”

“It’s your platoon’s lucky day, Jones,” Pham said. He tapped on the radio. “You’ve got a mission.”

Stephanie’s heart beat rapidly in her chest, and she fought back a smile, maintaining her bearing. “The platoon’s ready for anything, sir.”

Malone stood in front of the map, and everyone closed in around him. As he briefed them, he tapped at each point on the map. “Here’s us, at our EAB in Itbayat,” he said. “About 150 clicks north of us is Taiwan. When China launched their operation to ‘reclaim’ the island, Taiwan fought back hard. Flooding the Taiwan Strait with mines and surrounding the island with mobile maritime minefields has been the lynchpin of their defense. They can remotely open the minefields to allow shipping to reach the island, then close the fields to keep China out. The PRC didn’t anticipate how long it would take to clear these fields, or that mining would sink more of their ships than any other weapon system in the fight.3 This is what bought our task force time to deploy to the AO.”

“Washington, of course,” Pham said, “isn’t looking to escalate this into a full-blown war with China. If that happens, we all lose. We’re just here to support Taiwan.”

“Right,” Morales said. “And supporting Taiwan means keeping them in the fight. China can’t break through to Taiwan, so they’re looking to blockade Taiwan instead.” He traced a line connecting Japan, Taiwan, and the Philippines.4 “Taiwan’s holding their own within their territorial waters, but they can’t cover the international waters. Chinese ships can hook around and cast a wide net. So, the Coalition has declared an exclusion zone, here.” He traced another line between Indonesia and Taiwan, crossing the Bashi Channel. “Any Chinese ships that try to break through it are fair game, so they can’t effect a blockade. ‘Fair game’ so far has been blasting them with rocket artillery from our EABs.”5

“Sea denial 101,” Stephanie said.6

“But there’s just too many targets,” Pham said. “They have more pawns on the board than we do, and they don’t care how many get killed. We’re starting to run dry on missiles and it’s going to be a minute before our battalion gets resupplied. Hell, at this rate, the entire regiment could go Winchester before we know it.”7

“And we come in where, exactly?” Stephanie asked.  Malone tapped the map between Taiwan and Itbayat. “The Bashi Channel. You’re going to mine it.”

Wickem cleared his throat. “I thought it was already mined. The Navy’s had an Upward Falling Payload at the sea floor there since before things kicked off.”8

“They did, until the PRC detected and cleared the field,” Pham said. “Which is good, because they won’t expect another minefield, and won’t be looking for one inserted like this.”

“Lay the mines, then hold tight at Mavulis Island and control your minefields from there,” Malone said. “Signature management is key. Communicate by exception only. Turn radios on only to receive at our designated comms windows.”9

“And remember,” Pham said.

“Persist forward,” Stephanie said, indulging in a half-smile.

“Indefinitely…” Wickem muttered.

The Bashi Channel

Stephanie sat in the pilothouse of the modified Mark VI patrol boat, staring out at the waters of the Bashi Channel. While usually acting as a maritime, mobile command post for her platoon, their task required most of the boat’s capabilities be avoided. With GPS and other electronic means of navigation disabled to avoid detection, her navigator, Corporal Schwab, was plotting their location on a map using a compass, ruler, and manual calculations. The current plot showed them about halfway between Itbayat, far to the south, and Taiwan’s Orchid Island to the northwest.

“It’s about that time,” Wickem said, looking from the chart to his watch. Stephanie nodded, and stepped out of the pilothouse to watch the payload get delivered.

Sergeant Ortega was at the boat’s stern, watching his team finish preparations of the mine racks. Twenty smooth black orbs were in each of the ten racks, glistening in the noon-day sun.

“Wouldn’t it be awful if Supply screwed up the order and these were bowling balls instead of mines?” Ortega asked, eyeing the racks.

“Bowling balls or mobile mines, all I care is that they can give us a strike,” Stephanie said. “Launch ‘em.”

“Launch!” Ortega ordered.

“Launching!” his Marines replied. They opened the rack gate and flipped a switch. As the boat sailed forward, the mines rolled one after the other into the water with a heavy splash.10 They immediately vanished into the water, following their algorithms to spread out, submerse to the correct depths, and stand by. If any targets met the strike criteria, the mines would close with the craft and detonate. Beyond that, they would sit idly by, in receive-only mode, waiting for an operator to give them the command to move to another location.11

Their mines released, Stephanie eyeballed her watch, giving her other squads operating just in sight to her north and south ample time to deliver their payloads in turn. Satisfied, she nodded at her radio operator, Lance Corporal Kim.

“Confirm delivery for me, would you, Kim?” Stephanie asked.

“You know, Ma’am,” Kim said, pulling a pair of flags out of her pack, “my recruiter told me going into Comm was going to let me work with cutting edge technology. You know, set me up for success in the outside world.” She stood, raised the flags, and sent a semaphore message to the two other patrol boats. She lowered her arms, glanced at Stephanie, and held the flags up helplessly. “This is BS.”

Stephanie couldn’t help a smile. “I guess if it doesn’t get us killed, it’s cutting edge. ‘Everything that’s old is new again,’ right?”

 Kim grinned, and looked back to the horizon. “You’re starting to sound like my dad,” Ortega snorted. “If the lieutenant is our dad, does that mean Staff Sergeant is our mom?” Kim shook her head. “I always imagined Staff Sergeant as more of a drunk uncle.” Stephanie crossed her arms and forced a smile, reflecting on their banter while they set about emplacing their killing field. Was this gallows humor? Anxiety? Or were they too relaxed, taking their eye off the ball?

Kim squinted, reading the flags sending her a message back. “Payloads delivered.” Stephanie nodded. “Let’s go home.”

Kim waved her flags again, signaling all to return to base, then tucked the flags back in her pack. As her patrol boat turned around, three missiles shot across the sky.12

“Theirs or ours?” Ortega asked.

“Ours,” Stephanie said, recognizing their signature from live-fire EABO exercises at Marine Corps Littoral Combat Center-Hawaii. “Looks like Alpha Company is staying busy.”

“Hope that’s three good kills,” Ortega said.

Stephanie shook her head. “We need a three-to-one saturation ratio to make sure we beat most Chinese ship defenses. It’s probably just one target. And its why our magazines are running dry so fast.”

Wickem stepped up behind her, watching the missiles fly. “And bad timing for us. That’s going to bring a whole lot of sensors looking in our direction. Alpha’s shooters are going to scoot to a new island while we head back to Mavulis.”

Stephanie nodded, seeing the missiles now as a bad omen. “We’ll have to go full dark when we get back. Let’s just focus on the next step.”

EAB Mavulis Island. 98 km from Taiwan.

With their boats hidden under signature dampening blankets and the Marines out of sight in the small structure abandoned by the Philippine military at the start of hostilities, Stephanie knew she should have felt confident in their concealment.13 Out of sight, out of mind, she told herself. But a lingering doubt nagged at her gut.

Sitting in an old fishing hut, she was passing the time by playing a game of Go on a small, portable nine-by-nine square board against Wickem. She looked at the black and white stones, mulled her strategy of laying the pieces to keep her black stones connected while simultaneously encircling Wickem’s white stones.

This is how it all fits together, she thought. EAB-hosted precision fires and mine warfare. Sea denial is a game of Go.

The crackling of her HF-LPD radio snapped her back into focus. Then the implications of being contacted crashed against her like a wave.14

Scrambling to the radio, she snagged the handset. Wickem ran to the window, shouted at the Marines to stand-to, then hurried back to his lieutenant.

“What’s the scoop, Ma’am?”

“We’ve been compromised,” she said. “Maritime militia are closing in on Mavulis.”

“How many boats?”

Stephanie’s face was grim. “A lot.”15

“Do we have time to bounce?” Wickem asked.

Stephanie shook her head. “There’s too many and they’re too close.”

Wickem grabbed his rifle from its spot against the wall. “Guess we’re fighting until the cavalry arrives or until the bitter end, then. I’ll get the platoon to their fighting positions.”

“Wickem,” Stephanie said, her mouth widening into a macabre smile.

Wickem sighed. “You’re going to say it, aren’t you, ‘John Paul’?”

Stephanie grinned. “’Don’t give up the ship!’”

“We won’t, but we might just sink with it,” Wickem said, shaking his head, then stepped toward the door. Stephanie held up a hand, her eyes wide, illuminated with a sudden thought.

“Wait. Get me Ortega first.”

Moments later, most of the platoon was covered and concealed in fighting positions with weapons oriented out to sea toward the incoming ships. But Stephanie was on one knee, next to Ortega, over a rugged laptop connected to a receiver-transmitter. The laptop showed a map of their position at Mavulis Island and the surrounding waters. She pointed to a spot about a kilometer out from the beachhead. “There,” she said. “Right there.”

Ortega looked from the laptop to Stephanie. “Are you sure? Sending the signal will blow our cover.”

“It’s already blown,” Stephanie said. “We don’t keep using hand and arm signals after we’ve started shooting. We’re in a firefight already, it just looks different.” Ortega nodded and entered the command. Then, they waited.

Soon, a collection of PAF-MM ships were visible on the horizon, a motley crew of trawlers that Stephanie knew didn’t spend any time trawling. Through her binoculars, she could see medium machine guns on gun mounts, and crews wielding small arms. Stephanie stopped counting at twenty boats, estimating there were at least a hundred.16

“That… is a lot of boats,” Ortega said. “How can they mass so many? So fast? For such a small objective?”

“’Quantity has a quality all its own,’” Stephanie quoted.

“Is this going to work?” Ortega asked.

Stephanie slapped her hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “It worked in our war games,” she lied. “It’ll work here.”

Ortega glanced at Stephanie and smirked. “We never wargamed this, Ma’am. But thanks for trying to keep things positive.” He winked. “We won’t give up the ship.” Stephanie slapped his shoulder again and laughed, and Ortega laughed with her.

They turned their heads to watch the approaching boats, and their laughter died on the wind. Their smiles slid from their faces, which became stone masks, mere witnesses to the next moves of the game.

They saw the explosion before they heard it. The lead boat was consumed in a fiery blast, contrasted by the arcing splash of seawater that burst into the air. Then a second boat, a third, and a fourth were struck. Boat fragments and sailors were sent in all directions. Five, six, seven explosions, then too many together to count. The rest of the trawlers turned, broke, and fled from Mavulis Island.

“Should we pursue?” Ortega asked. “These aren’t just mines, they’re munitions. We can chase those boats down and strike them as easily as return the mines to their original position.”

Stephanie shook her head. “We need to give the Chinese an off-ramp. We can’t escalate. Let them run, make them reconsider.”

Some of the sailors in the water were still moving, thrashing to stay afloat. “Aren’t their guys coming back to scoop them out of the water?” Ortega asked.

“It doesn’t look like it,” Stephanie said, her voice a near whisper.

Ortega watched, confused. “Why won’t they?”

“They don’t need to,” Stephanie said, bile rising in her throat.17

Ortega was breathing, hard, confused. “Then will we?”

Stephanie wondered the same thing, afraid to listen too closely to her conscience. Wickem stepped up behind them. “Only if we want to die. They only sent the militia to try and get some of us alive. Now they’ll just rain missiles down on us. Those aren’t POWs. They’re a trap.” The surviving sailors started disappearing beneath the waves, one by one, toward Davy Jones’ locker.

Stephanie felt a hollowness opening up within her, watching the drowning men. Then she glanced at Ortega, imagined him in the water instead, face down and surrounded by the burning remnants of their patrol boat.

“Staff Sergeant’s right,” she said, clearing her throat and steeling herself. “Let’s get off this rock and bed down at our alternate position.”

Soon, the platoon was sailing away from Mavulis Island. Stephanie watched Ortega issue another command to the mobile minefield, moving the remaining mines back to their original blocking position in the Bashi Channel.

As they departed, she forced herself to watch the burning boats and the drowned men, and imagined that the black, oily smoke rising to the sky was a burnt offering to King Neptune, one mariner’s prayer that the war might end before it got any worse.

Brian Kerg is a Non-Resident Fellow at Marine Corps University’s Brute Krulak Center for Innovation and Creativity, and a Military Fellow with the College of William and Mary’s Project for International Peace and Stability. He is currently serving as the Fleet Amphibious Communications Officer, U.S. Fleet Forces Command. Follow or contact him at @BrianKerg.

References

1. G. Bark, “Power control in an LPI adaptive frequency-hopping system for HF communications,” HF Radio Systems and Techniques, Seventh International Conference, Conference Publication No. 441., August 1997.

2. Headquarters, Marine Corps, “Expeditionary Advanced Base Operations,” U. S. Marine Corps Concepts and Programs,  (accessed 28 Jan 2020: https://www.candp.marines.mil/Concepts/Subordinate-Operating-Concepts/Expeditionary-Advanced-Base-Operations/)

3. Joshua J. Edwards and Dennis M. Gallagher, “Mine and Undersea Warfare for the Future,” Proceedings 140 no. 8, (Annapolis, MD: USNI, 2014).

4. Andrew F. Krepinevich, “How to Deter China: The Case for Archipelagic Defense,” Foreign Affairs (accessed 10 April 2020: https://www.foreignaffairs.com/articles/china/2015-02-16/how-deter-china).

5. Headquarters, Marine Corps, “Force Design 2030,” (Washington, D.C.: HQMC, March 2020).

6. Daniel E. Ward, “Going to War with China? Dust Off Corbett!” Proceedings 146 no. 403, (accessed 11 June 2020: https://www.usni.org/magazines/proceedings/2020/january/going-war-china-dust-corbett).

7. Megan Eckstein, “Marine Testing Regiment at Heart of Emerging Island Hopping Future,” USNI News, (accessed 19 September 2020: https://news.usni.org/2020/06/04/marines-testing-regiment-at-heart-of-emerging-island-hopping-future)

8. Timothy McGeehan and Douglas Wahl, “Flash Mob in the Shipping Lane!”, Proceedings 142 no. 355 (Annapolis, MD: USNI, 2016).

9.  Brian Kerg, “More Command, Less Control,” Marine Corps Gazette (Quantico, VA: Marine Corps Association and Foundation, March 2020).

10. Allan Lucas and Ian Cameron, “Mine Warfare: Ready and Able Now,” Proceedings 144, no. 357 (Annapolis, MD: USNI, 2018).

11. Brian Kerg, “Mine the Littorals and Chokepoints,” Center for International Maritime Security, (accessed 22 June 2020 https://cimsec.org/mine-the-littorals-and-chokepoints-mine-warfare-in-support-of-sea-control/43996).

12. Todd South, “Ship-sinking missile for Marines headed to test fire,” Marine Corps Times (accessed 22 June 2020: https://www.marinecorpstimes.com/news/your-marine-corps/2020/03/05/marine-corps-ship-sinking-missile-headed-for-test-fire/).

13. Tin Hat Ranch, “How to Hide from Drones/Thermal Imaging,” (accessed 21 September 2020: http://tinhatranch.com/hide-dronesthermal-imaging/).

14. National Urban Security Technology Laboratory, Radio Frequency Detection, Spectrum Analysis, and Direction Finding Equipment, (New York: Department of Homeland Defense, 2019), 12.

15. Niharika Mandhana, “China’s Fishing Militia Swarms Philippine Island, Seeking Edge in Sea Dispute,” The Wall Street Journal, (accessed 04 August 2020: https://www.wsj.com/articles/chinas-fishing-militia-swarms-philippine-island-seeking-edge-in-sea-dispute-11554391301).

16. Gonzalo Solano and Christopher Torchia, “260 Chinese boats fish near Galapagos, Ecuador on alert,” The Washington Post,  (accessed 04 August 2020: https://www.washingtonpost.com/world/the_americas/260-chinese-boats-fish-near-galapagos-ecuador-on-alert/2020/07/30/01b0d98e-d29f-11ea-826b-cc394d824e35_story.html).

17. Stephen Rosenfeld, “Human Waves,” The Washington Post, (accessed 21 September 2020: https://www.washingtonpost.com/archive/politics/1984/03/09/human-waves/05544e3f-ed65-49a5-93c3-eb30eb84a8f8/).

Featured Image: “The Jungle Base” by Tom Lee (via Artstation)

Jennings

Fiction Contest Week

By Ryan Belscamper

Seven years ago, the Marine Corps decided they needed a better way to “Kick in doors on foreign shores!” Landing craft were slow and vulnerable, aircraft weren’t as slow, but still pretty vulnerable, and the ships to launch either one of them would not survive for long operating nearby. Shore bombardment was a problem, too. How do you provide enough firepower when you don’t have enough ships? Hitting the beach was only the first insurmountable problem. Once there, Marines would need to fight further inshore, using who knows what for supply lines, and only the equipment that could have been landed in the first place. If someone could just get a foot in the door, take an airfield or knock out local defenses, then more traditional methods could handle everything else. If victory could be won fast enough, then resources might go far enough. That’s where really bad ideas started sounding like good ideas.

_______________________________________

Two years ago, Jennings had been on a patrol in Afghanistan when they’d come under attack. Half the squad was dead or wounded in the first two seconds, the other half fighting for their lives. Reinforcement took four minutes to arrive, and the fight didn’t last long after that. For those four minutes though, Jennings was in a special place. There was no panic, no pain, no fear or loss. For four minutes, Jennings just did his job. Bullets couldn’t touch him, and he couldn’t miss. Two grenades over there, one more to the left. Grab more from McBride, he wasn’t going to use them. Grab an extra magazine while he was at it, and shoot that guy on the right. Combat was supposed to be terrifying, but this was just shooting things.

Afterward, Colonel Walks told Jennings he’d fought well, and asked if he wanted to avoid pulling guard or patrol duty ever again. That sounded pretty unlikely, so Jennings asked what the catch was.

“The catch is, all you’ll ever do again is either train or fight. New unit, handpicked, volunteer only, and you have to get shot at to join.” the Colonel explained. “Today, you got shot at.” 

To Jennings, training was fun, sitting in barracks dull, guard duty was awful, patrol duty was torture, and combat was just shooting things. So he said “Yes, sir.”  That evening, he was in the back of a C-17, heading stateside.

35 Marines made up the new unit. Five squads, seven Marines to a squad, plus a Major everyone called Brickhead, because the man looked like a brick. Seven was a peculiar number to make up a squad, but apparently that was all their new transports could fit. Not that Jennings or any of the other members of his unit got to see those transports yet.

For the next two years, Jennings and the others trained. They trained to enter and clear buildings, and they trained to fight in the mud. They trained as teams, then they trained to fight alone. They got new weapons, new armor, and a fancy new helmet that would show where everyone else was at. The Major called their gear a three-piece suit, though it looked nothing like a suit to Jennings. They spent a lot of time in the weight room, and more time in the ‘Rattle Room.’ The rattle room looked like one of those high-end flight simulators, the kind that move around on pneumatic pistons. This one was all about shaking a squad up, then stopping suddenly to see how fast they could recover.

No-one knew what to call their new unit. It was clearly a platoon, but a platoon of what? They’d eventually been allowed to pick their own names for squads. Someone in Jennings’ squad thought their new armor looked like an armadillo, and the name stuck. Growing up in east Texas, they looked nothing like armadillos to Jennings. Five of second squad’s seven original members were female, so Kline and Phillips just had to live with being called “She-Devils.” Jennings had seen them train, so he thought She-Devils was perhaps a bit too tame. “Vicious Amazonian terror fiends rage killing everything” was a bit unwieldy though. Kicking in doors was exactly what this whole unit was about, so calling themselves “Door-Kickers” made sense. Hedgehogs made about as much sense as Armadillos. Butterflies was a complete mystery, but it wasn’t excessively vulgar or obscene, so it stood. Other units on base supplied the platoon name by always complaining how Brickhead’s men never pulled guard duty.  They weren’t a platoon, or a company, or a brigade. They were “Brickheads.” Jennings was now a Brickhead.

_______________________________________

 “One-way in 30 minutes!” Sitting in the berthing compartment, Brickhead was briefing them on what would be their first operational mission. A Navy special warfare pin painted on one wall revealed the compartment’s usual occupants. Given a little paint, the Brickheads would’ve gladly replaced the Trident with a Globe. Two weeks stuck underwater gave them more than enough time. The slide showed a map of a small island with an airfield. “Armadillos, She-Devils, and Door-Kickers are hitting the north side of the island. Hedgehogs and Butterflies in the south.”

“Armadillos, we’re going down the west shore. Our job is to neutralize the airfield. Nothing takes off once we hit. She-Devils, you’re in the middle. Take down the control tower and main barracks. Door-Kickers, you’re on the east shore. This tower has the island’s main search radar, and this building is the operations center. Level them both.”

“Hedgehogs will come up the west shore from the south, taking out these missile sites. Butterflies will be coming up the eastern shore and taking out that marina. We don’t need to deal with any patrol boats.”  Yellow boxes were drawn around each major objective. Both the map and the boxes would appear on a display inside each Marine’s helmet. As objectives were assessed as either destroyed or neutralized, the yellow symbols would change to black. Blue circles would indicate each other’s positions, while red diamonds would relay enemy positions. A built-in radio would allow them to stay in constant contact with their squad and with the platoon.

While the Major continued, Jennings focused on his armor. Patrol had always sucked, lugging around 50 pounds of gear. Right now, Jennings was bolting on the last of about 120 pounds of armor. With a powered exoskeleton, it felt like about ten. Of course, that would only help for the first few minutes. After that, the armor would feel like about 40 pounds, and eventually he’d have to pull the cord that would shed both the exoskeleton and 90 pounds of his armor. Batteries only lasted so long, ten minutes, give or take. His weapon fired 12mm armor piercing sabots, with an underslung launcher firing up to nine 40mm smart grenades. Each member of the squad also carried four rockets, good to about 300 meters. They’d take the back off a tank, supposedly, if you could get behind one. The last two weapons seemed almost like a joke: a demolition charge about a foot across and three inches thick with foam glue on the dangerous side, and a combat knife that any sane person would call a sword. Just in case you needed to kill buildings or fight the Roman Army.

No one ever said the next part was a good idea. Actually, quite a lot of people had said it was a bad one. But apparently, somebody thought strapping a handful of Marines to the top of a ballistic missile wasn’t that bad of an idea, because Jennings was about to do just that, along with the rest of the Brickheads.

The Armadillos, She-devils, and Doorkickers filed out of the small berthing compartment onboard the converted ballistic missile submarine, into the missile room, through small hatches near the top of each missile tube, and into their deployment pods atop the repurposed missiles. The Hedgehogs and Butterflies would be doing the same aboard another sub somewhere. The corpsmen passed out Dramamine while boson-mates turned armor-techs literally bolted the armored warriors into place. The hatches were sealed, and then nothing happened.

“You sure this thing has room for seven?”

“Why, you don’t like my company?”

“Mom! He’s touching me!”

“No, I don’t like your elbow in my back.”

“That’s not my elbow.”

Laughter.

“How long is this flight supposed to be?” someone else chattered.

“About 500 miles.”

“So, is there a movie?”

More laughter.

Brickhead cut in on the banter, “Combat in eight minutes, jokers.”

One minute, 37 seconds later, something big kicked Jennings in the back. After the initial kick, he was falling backwards for about a second, before the rocket motor kicked in. Obviously, it was the rocket motor because Jennings’ teeth were rattling out and the kick became one continuous shove. At least this was the worst part.

Two minutes later, and the worst part was over. Now Jennings was in free fall and knew why the docs had passed out the Dramamine. His display read four minutes sixteen seconds to landing. Three arcs rose from the map, showing where each squad was rising from the ocean. Two more arcs began rising from the south. Three minutes. Two minutes. At a minute and a half, plummeting back into atmosphere, Jennings learned two things. The first was that he was wrong about launch being the worst part. The second was why those Rattle-Room operators had always tossed them around so much. He was a rag-doll in the hands of an insane child. If he could have moved, he’d have broken every limb flailing about. Things were breaking off the capsule, up and down were alien concepts, the display was a riot of lines and colors, and something went missing. His display changed to an overlay of the island, with a timer counting down from thirty. The violent jolting eased, as the capsule dropped just below Mach five in its descent. At 27 seconds, Jennings again learned he was wrong about the worst part. Retrorockets fired, crushing Jennings in his armor. The pod flew apart around him, bolts released, the ground came with a thump, and he was face down in the sand.

_______________________________________

Jennings could feel the warmth of the coral sand beneath him. Rolling onto his back, he could just barely feel the tropical breeze under his armor. He sat up in the sand, enjoying the peace and quiet, not entirely certain how he got there. The sea lapped at the shoreline a few dozen feet away, while acrid smoke drifted by from the left. He could hear some voices, and off in the far distance there was a staccato popping sound. Looking to his right, Jennings could see the sun just cresting some low, ugly buildings sporting radio towers. Something about the size of a surfboard impaled the sand nearby. To his left was a smoking, hollowed out cone about ten feet high. Why did that voice sound so urgent? And what was that sputtering in the sand all around him?

“JENNINGS! GET YOUR HEAD IN THE GAME!” Brickhead screamed. “She-Devils are out. Ajax, we’re getting shot at, you wanna do something about that?  Flores, Young, take the shore defense. Jennings, Chavez, control tower! Hamlet, you’re with me. Let’s wreck that flight line before anything leaves this island!”

Jennings remembered where he was. This was a hostile island with 500 enemy soldiers and 35 of his own unit trying to take the whole thing out. Scratch that, She-Devils were out? So, 28 against 500. Great. Rolling and turning he got to his knees, then to his feet. He began running. The sputtering in the nearby sand turned to a tapping on his armor as Jennings realized he was being shot at. With a terrific ripping sound, first one, then three rockets launched from the squad behind him. A short tower with a point defense weapon atop it exploded on one side, while other things went crack and boom behind him. Another pair of rockets, one each from Jennings and Chavez into the barricades ahead and the tapping stopped. Spotting one of the island’s cruise missile launchers, he let off a second rocket.

Jennings saw the island’s radar turn to shrapnel and wreckage as a rocket from the Door-Kickers hit. His display didn’t change the objective from yellow to black. None of the other Brickheads appeared on his display either. As Jennings and Chavez approached the control tower, they spotted a number of enemy soldiers improvising a second defensive position. What were they called again? People’s Soldiers? Revolutionary Marines?  Freedom Militia? It didn’t matter, Chavez put a rocket into the position, and Jennings set three grenades to go off just above and behind the barricades that might have saved someone from the rocket. They continued their charge to the tower.

Reaching the back of the tower, the two Brickheads rested for a half-second. The door was not on this side, so they would need to circle the building to find an entrance. Their comms were filled with static, so Chavez pointed first at Jennings, then the corner on their left. Chavez turned and went for the right. As Jennings stepped around the corner he spotted the heavy machine gun waiting for him. He leapt back, barely getting clear before bullets began tearing at the concrete and the air in front of him. Chavez wasn’t so lucky rounding the other side of the building. They wore a lot of armor, and at longer range, laying prone, the bullets might have deflected off. At less than forty feet, catching fire right in the chest, Chavez didn’t have much chance. Jennings bounced three grenades around the corner, then turned to help Chavez. Reaching her ankle, he dragged her behind the building before lobbing three more grenades into that alley. A handful of pockmarks showed where the armor had actually worked, but one furrow dug into the armor showed where a bullet had slid up the chest plate and under her helmet.

Jennings grabbed the demo charge from Chavez’s side, and slapped it onto the wall. He moved as far toward one alley as he dared, stepping back from the wall and crouching as the charge went off. Shaped charge explosives make a heck of a hole in one direction, but still blow a lot of shrapnel out to the sides as well. Jennings avoided most of it by not being in plane with the charge, but his armor still rattled with what he did catch. Jumping to his feet, Jennings dove through the door he had just made. Pulling down two display cases, he blocked the front door. Shoving a flagstaff through the push bar secured it just a little better. After that, he found the stairs.

Reaching the control room, he shot the two guards. An officer of some type still had his sidearm holstered. The officer reached for his weapon, struggling to get it clear, and stopped as he realized the futility of his situation. Jennings took two steps, punching the man in the face with an armored fist. The officer dropped to the floor, unconscious. The horrified controllers in the room broke and ran when Jennings started shouting at them and chasing them with his knife. It was one way to clear a room, and probably faster than shooting everyone. Down the stairs, he could hear revolutionary soldiers or whatever they were called trying to break through the front door. No time to do things neatly, Jennings shot every console and equipment box he saw, smashing two handheld radios to the ground.

Turning back to the stairs, he found the first enemy just reaching the control room. The same exoskeleton that made it possible to run and fight wearing so much armor made a kick to the chest an unstoppable force. Sending the man back down the stairs with two of his buddies, Jennings grabbed a desk and shoved it onto the stairs behind them. While he waited for something to go wrong, he looked out the windows at the island below.

The northern half of the flight line was a smoking wreck, and two fighter-bombers littered the taxiway. Brickhead and Hamlet were doing their job well. A helicopter tried to lift off behind them, flames shooting from the engine compartment before the craft was engulfed in a fireball. The wreckage landed on the runway, blocking its use. To the south, Jennings could see the Butterflies and Hedgehogs working their way north, about a mile distant. Three patrol boats had made it out of the marina and were beginning to shell the Butterflies with grenades and rocket fire. One of the patrol boats exploded as it was hit by a rocket, but the other two kept firing. Surface-to-air missile launchers were elevated on the western shore, but began exploding as the Hedgehogs got close enough to them. One missile launched, then exploded in mid-air. Another spiraled into the sea, holes punched through its guidance systems. Just below, Jennings could see the barracks on fire and partially collapsed. The armory was in worse shape, having taken five or more rocket hits. A radio mast collapsed, and Jennings’ display flickered to life. The operations center appeared to still be intact, so Jennings decided to go there next. Yelling and banging behind him told Jennings his makeshift barricade was at an end.

Moving sluggishly, he realized his batteries were beginning to run low. He checked his ammunition: two magazines with 25 rounds each, no grenades, two rockets, and a demolition charge. And one knife. He put five rounds through the desk to clear the top of the stairs, then pulled it aside. Seeing men coming around the landing, he slid feet first down the stairs, using his armor as a sled and his boots as a battering ram. Bringing out his knife, he dispatched the men who broke his fall. One flight down, four to go, and he’d be outside again. Repeating his armor sled trick, he almost made it. On the last step, the soldier he aimed for managed to jump aside. While Jennings was on the ground, three more jumped on him, pinning his now unpowered form to the ground. His display showed lines of red diamonds all over the island, as the defenders managed to regroup. Eight blue circles remained, all of them surrounded by red. Everyone else had either died or taken their armor off. The good news was that all of the yellow was gone.

His captors didn’t need much time to find the release for his armor as they stripped him of his equipment. With one arm twisted so far behind his back Jennings thought they were trying to break it, he was marched outside toward the flight line. Smoke and a strange buzzing noise filled the air. Distant crunches told of fighting continuing to the south. He looked around, finding a disappointing number of buildings still undamaged. He was punched in the head, and his arm was lifted forcing Jennings to march doubled over as the buzzing grew louder. No more sight-seeing.

The gentle sea breeze erupted into a hurricane, the buzzing replaced by an enormous rush of air and sand. His captors scattered as an aircraft swooped overhead, dropping almost right on top of them. Another landed next to it, while a third circled overhead. Gunfire erupted as Marines poured from the aircraft, running past him. The two Ospreys leapt back into the air, the third dropping to unload its precious cargo. More shouts, then deafening roars as LCACs pulled onto the runway. Landing Craft, Air Cushion; they looked more like metal storage buildings drifting to a stop before sitting on the ground to release armored vehicles from within. Fighting vehicles and armored trucks rolled into the spaces between the various buildings, forming instant bunkers and strongpoints. They were too close to the buildings to protect themselves from rockets or grenades, but those buildings were already being swarmed by infantry. Jennings couldn’t count the aircraft suddenly overhead, but there were plenty.

_______________________________________

The Ospreys and the LCACs had been timed to arrive just after the Brickheads had done their work. By knocking the island’s radar out, grounding planes, ruining air and shore defenses, they’d made the island defenseless. With so much mayhem from the Brickheads, no one had even seen the assault craft. In less than 15 minutes the arriving Marines had secured every building, made prisoners of everyone still moving on the island, and begun setting up their own equipment. After 20 minutes everyone dove for cover when reports came in of enemy aircraft approaching. Five minutes after that it was back to work, apparently they weren’t coming after all. An hour after his own landing, Jennings was regrouped with the other surviving Brickheads, including the Major.

Within another hour, a second landing arrived, bringing a mobile radar station, surface to air missiles, and Seabees. Attack sirens sounded, then cleared, and sounded again throughout the day. Point defense guns went off twice. Long-range rocket artillery dotted the island, telling Jennings that the Marines would be staying here for as long as they wanted. By that afternoon, twelve of those rockets had been fired. Meanwhile, cargo aircraft had begun to arrive on the newly cleared airfield, bringing supplies and removing prisoners from the island. Later, the Air Force would arrive with Warthogs and Eagles, perfect forward deploying patrol forces.

The Brickheads wouldn’t be repeating their performance any time soon. The rockets they’d been launched on, and the capsules they’d dropped into combat in weren’t reusable. The rocket boosters had burned themselves up, and the capsules had shed layer after layer on the descent, ablating chaff and micro-jammers all the way down. What was left of the capsules got shot to pieces as the island’s defenders responded to the Brickhead’s unwelcome arrival. More painfully, half the Brickheads had died that day.

Jennings didn’t know if they had any more rockets to ride, but he knew replacing the She-devils, Butterflies, and others who’d been lost wouldn’t be fast or easy. Then Jennings broke into laughter.

“What’s so damn funny?” asked Ajax.

“I finally get… why the Major… calls our armor… a three piece suit!”  The other Brickheads were looking at Jennings like a strange animal, not sure if they should be worried or scared.

“Okay Jennings, I’ll bite. Why does the Major call our armor a three piece suit?”

Gasping for air and recovering somewhat, Jennings replied, “Because there are three pieces!”  Quizzical looks met him. “We rode in on rocket ships, that’s one.” Nods of vague understanding met him this time. “And our armor and weapons, that’s two.” More nods.

“Alright, so what’s the third piece? And don’t say something cheesy like ‘friendship’ or ‘teamwork,’” Young asked. She could be real sentimental at times.

“Close! We’re the third piece. If we’re ever going to do this again, the Corps need more rockets, more gear, and more of us.” This last part sobered Jennings up. It was the thought of what and who would need replacement that sparked his understanding. It was the reminder that people would need replacing that broke the joke. People he knew. Whether those people would be replaced, whether new recruits would fill their boots, or whether any more of the ballistic missiles they’d launched on that morning would be acquired, it all depended on whether or not anyone thought what they did that morning was worthwhile. And whether it was still a bad idea.

Ryan A. Belscamper is a retired U.S. Navy Firecontrolman with Bachelor’s degrees in Mechanical and Electrical Engineering from Southern Illinois University.  He is currently working as an Engineer with NSWC Crane.

Featured Image: “Soldier” by Richard Bagnall (via Artstation)

Wolfpack Four Six

Fiction Contest Week

By Lieutenant Christopher Giraldi, USN

Lieutenant Commander Markus advanced power on his Boeing P8-B Poseidon U.S. Navy Maritime Patrol Aircraft, turned north, and began the climb to 6,000 feet. It was a standard South Philippine Sea day: a heavy layer of cumulous clouds from 2,000 to 5,000 feet, calm seas, 90 percent humidity, and air temperature of 83 degrees Fahrenheit. He had woken up eight hours earlier for the daily mission brief and preflight. Absent any submarine action or coffee, he was fighting the pull of mid-day drowsiness. The 11-man crew of his aircraft had just finished laying their detection pattern consisting of the Navy’s newest Mk-135 advanced spectrum sonar buoy, codenamed Dragnet, hoping to catch their target in the multi-layered snare of radar and acoustic sensors.

In their brief that morning at the tactical coordination center, his crew, call sign ‘Wolfpack Four Six,’ learned their assignment that day was to locate and stop a convoy of People’ Liberation Army Navy (PLAN) transport submarines. The convoy was en route to deliver supplies to the Chinese People’s Liberation Army Marines attempting to dislodge the American and Australian forces on the island of Papua, part of the PLA’s broader campaign to cut off and encircle Australia as if it were the largest prize on the Go board.

To complicate Wolfpack Four Six’s task, the transport subs were assessed by naval intelligence to be escorted by two advanced Xi-class escort submarines and a single updated Shang II nuclear attack submarine. Their intelligence briefer had grimly reminded the crew that the Xi-class escort subs carried the PLA Navy’s HQ-11 undersea-air missiles.

The HQ-11, nicknamed Dragonclaw by the U.S. Navy, was the latest in China’s push for missile technological dominance. The nine-foot tall missile featured dual radar and thermal guidance systems. When fired from the submarine, the missile would climb within seconds to a height of 45,000 feet before commencing a near-supersonic glide in search of air targets below. Once the guidance system locked on to a target, the weapon simply allowed its kinetic energy to carry it along and then explode at a distance of 50 feet from the target to ensure maximum effectiveness of the directional fragmentation warhead. It was the Dragonclaw missile that kept P-8 crews up at night.

LCDR Markus toggled the intercom switch connected to his headset, hoping some conversation would stimulate him back to the proper level of alertness expected of a mission commander at war.

“TACCO, Flight,” he blurted into his headset.

“GO for TACCO,” LT Adams responded. Adams, a recently qualified tactical coordinator, scanned her screens, monitoring the data relayed to her by her crew mates and the constant feed of information from the various military networks.

“Have the Triton drones detected any periscopes?” Markus asked.

“Negative sir, and no jamming observed either,” answered the crew’s onboard drone manager.

The P8-B aircraft operated by the crew of Wolfpack Four Six was the second variant of Boeing’s militarized 737-800. One of the new capabilities of the P8-B was the ability to coordinate with a number of semi-autonomous MQ-4C Triton drones. The most notable upgrade was the return of nuclear weapons capabilities to maritime patrol aircraft. With the pace at which the Chinese shipyards were building transport submarines, the U.S. Navy could not manage the threat with its older air-dropped torpedoes. Thus, the new Mk-58 torpedoes could be armed with a variable yield nuclear warhead, reviving a warfare concept first developed nearly 75 years ago.

Once China deployed a tactical nuke in a Philippine harbor a few months earlier, the gloves had come off and smaller nuclear weapons were authorized for use across the fleet. Wolf Pack Four Six carried two Mk-58s.

“Very well, thanks Drones,” LCDR Markus responded. “Let’s send one of the Triton’s north, have them drop a few mini-mines, and wait for a reaction.”

“And risk giving away the chance for surprise?” questioned LT Adams.

“I understand your concern, Adams. I don’t like the idea of poking the dragon either, but neither us nor the Allied forces guarding Australia can afford to wait for the convoy to come to us. We have the drones today, let’s press our advantage.”

“Understood, sir,” Adams replied, selecting a drone function command, sending one of the Tritons on its new task. “15 minutes until Triton Two is at designated mini-mine release point.”

The mini-mine, or Mk-52 quick strike depth charge, was a small, unguided weapon about the size of a football with a 30-pund charge of high explosive. The charge was sufficient enough to damage a submarine if detonated within 10 meters of the hull. Perhaps more importantly, the Mk- 52 mini-mines functioned as psychological weapons intended to scare their targets into revealing themselves. They had the additional benefit of putting enough sound in the water to generate a sonar return to any sensors within miles of the area.

“We are descending back down to 1,500 feet, we’ll take whatever missile cover we can get below these clouds,” Markus informed the crew. “Radio back to base and let them know we are starting a mini-mine run.”

LT Adams replied, “Copy all, sending situation re…”

“Prop!” interjected the crew acoustic operator, or sonarman. “Detecting propeller blade cavitation, not far from buoy number 17, indicating twelve knots and accelerating.”

“No surface contact in that vicinity on radar,” the crew radar operator added.

“How far from our present position?” Markus asked, glancing down at the flight station tactical display.

“About 220 miles from present position,” the crew navigator replied.

LT Adams reflexively added a ring on her screen around the possible contact location with a 39 mile radius, accounting for the estimated effective range of the Dagonclaw anti-air missile.

“Copy that missile safety boundary, proceeding inbound, we’ll be there in 35 minutes,” LCDR Markus said, turning his attention back to the P-8’s flight instruments while adding “Send Triton One west of the target’s estimated position. Let’s see what else we find.”

“Copy,” Adams replied, relaying the command to the drone. “Triton One will be in first drop position in 15 minutes.” She then commanded the remining two Triton drones to fly in formation with the Poseidon, providing protection for the crew of Wolf Pack Four Six.

For the next ten minutes, despite the tension and hum of activity at each crew station, the eerie stillness of imminent action filled the aircraft. Everyone sat silently alert, monitoring sensor data and information feeds. The crew’s training ensured that everyone knew what each other was doing, and when the time came, would execute from their well-rehearsed playbook as if coach had just written it up on the whiteboard.

“We’re getting solid sonar returns now, this is directly from a submarine, sounds like a convoy sub diesel engine,” the sonarman said, breaking the silence in everyone’s headset.

“Radar contact! Triton One is detecting multiple radar hits. It looks like the merchant convoy subs are coming up to recharge the batteries,” added the radarman, corroborating the sonarman’s detection. They had their targets now.

“Triton Two is in the vicinity, configuring for mini-mine attack on surfaced targets, five minutes from being able to employ ,” Adams said, updating the crew.

“Navigator here, fleet headquarters is informed of our contact. We are instructed to prosecute at any risk to our own safety, the ready alert crew is taking off in 30 minutes. They will be out here in three hours.”

A brief pause followed as all members of the crew processed what the order meant for them. The only way they would be getting home would be by expending both of their torpedoes, and their opponent had the longer punch.

In short order, everyone’s tactical screen began to resemble a middle school geometry board as the location of the various targets were marked and associated weapons ranges populated. Uncomfortably absent were the escort attack subs with their Dragonclaw missiles. They were flying somewhat blind into the hornet’s nest, and they knew it.

‘MISSILE DETECT’ suddenly flashed against everyone’s eyes. The auto alert informed them that the first Triton had detected a missile being launched, almost certainly a Dragonclaw. Less clear was which of the five American aircraft the missile was targeting.

“Update the tactical display and mark that launch point an escort sub. Assuming the escorts are on the perimeter, show me an estimate for the other two out here,” Markus ordered, before commanding his copilot to turn further east, minimizing exposure to another missile attack.

When the first drone had detected a missile launch, the programming of the two drones flying in formation with the Poseidon automatically executed a decoy maneuver. The drones peeled away from the lead ship and began to make themselves as appetizing a target as possible to the Dragonclaw’s dual mode seeker.

“Convoy subs are going back under, losing radar contact on nine of them, I counted 11 at most,” the radarman informed.

“Triton Two is out of mini-mines, expended all in the vicinity of the convoy pod,” the drone operator added.

“What’s the status of the airborne missile?” Markus asked impatiently.

“Just lost all data with Triton Two,” Drone lead answered.

“Radar here, there are no air contacts where the drone was reporting itself to be. I think that missile took down Triton Two.”

Despite having lost the asset, the crew was temporarily relieved that the missile had not targeted them.

“We need to get these torpedoes in the water stat, run the Mk-58 tactical nuke checklist now,” Markus commanded, removing the nuclear weapons key from his flight suit pocket and placing the lanyard around his wrist, just in reach of the tactical weapons arming panel.

Adams began running through the Mk-58 software, entering target and environmental data. The software calculated the best drop point and determined the appropriate nuclear yield for their tactical situation.

“14 kilotons, 7 miles southwest of where we estimate the convoy to be,” Adams informed the Mission Commander, reading off the calculated attack data. “We will be in the Dragonclaw threat envelope for 12 minutes.” 

“Sounds good, we’ll enter the threat envelope from the east, keep the formation Tritons with us now in decoy mode and get the other one back in formation ASAP,” Markus said, accelerating to just under the aircraft’s airspeed limit.

“With this course and speed, it will be 11 minutes in the threat envelop,” Adams updated, starting the countdown in everyone’s mind.

“Copy,” replied Markus, “we are just beneath the clouds, Dragonclaw seeker is somewhat degraded in the clouds and I don’t want it to pop out of some cumulous puff and reacquire our heat signature skimming the water. We’ll stay a touch higher here.”

The confidence of his tone helped to keep the crew’s collective anxiety down as they were now certainly within reach if any missiles were fired their way.

“Radar here, I am detecting submarine air search radar, about one mile from our estimated escort position, likely targeting the one drone not yet back in formation. I am turning off radar now to help us hide, I can’t provide further submarine positions.”

“We are fishing with hand grenades here Radar, don’t need to be that precise,” joked Markus, trying to break the tension.

“Four minutes until weapons release point.”

“Missile airborne! Multiple missiles airborne!” someone called out.

‘MISSILE DETECT’ flashed again. The drones, already in decoy mode, turned up the temperature coming off their engines and began intermittently releasing chaff, doing their absolute best to entice any missiles in the area their way. The crew of Wolfpack Four Six held their breath.

“Triton One down, our formation birds are still with us but we’ve lost all eyes and ears up north. We are blind to any missiles launched from there,” the crew drone manager informed, providing minimum relief to his teammates.

“Two minutes out from weapons release.”

“They’re painting us with radar now – they got us, ah shit! They know where we are. It’s coming from the third escort, practically right next to us.” An undertone of panic was in the radarman’s voice.

With a refreshing and assured authority, Markus commanded, “Turn radar back on, let him know we got his ass too, and send one of these formation drones at him with a mini-mine run, distract him long enough to get these nukes swimming.”

“One minute out from weapon release point.”

Markus inserted his launch key and turned it, a bright red light illuminated, ‘NUK KILL READY.’ “Nuclear attack is mission commander authorized, release on your discretion at drop point. Adams, you got this.”

“Ten seconds,” said Adams, swapping to manual release mode and fingering the weapons drop switch.

“Weapons away!” she called as the weapons bay swung open and two Mk-58 torpedoes dropped from the aircraft, each already programmed with their attack instructions.

“Time to go,” said Markus, turning as hard as the wings of the Boeing 737 type aircraft would allow.

“Estimating six minutes until we are out of the immediate danger zone.”

Markus advanced the thrust controls, increasing past the aircraft speed limit, trusting that the Boeing riveter who attached the wings to the fuselage back in the Tacoma Washington plant was particularly focused on the job that day. Weighing risk was what a pilot always did. Markus calculated that leaving the threat envelope a few seconds earlier was worth accelerating into the speed margin of safety. He hoped he was right and concentrated to ignore the sound of the overspeed alarm blaring in the cockpit.

“Four minutes.”

Markus saw it before anyone else, even before the automatic sensors alerted the rest of the crew. It reminded him of when he was a junior officer, and would drive down from Jacksonville to Cape Canaveral to watch the SpaceX Falcon 9 launches. He saw the glowing orange plume of smoke at the surface and the ever-accelerating trail up into the clouds above. He knew this one would be coming back down to find them, and soon.

‘MISSILE DETECT’ flashed for the third time.

“I’m tracking at least two missiles in the air, definitely targeting our formation this time,” the radarman groaned.

Markus looked both ways outside his window, giving each robotic wingman a look as if to say, “Here we go.” He could see their engines glowing hot, and the chaff expending as they ran the decoy protocol.

“One minute to safety.”

Three Dragonclaw missiles ripped downwards through the clouds. One struck the port side Triton and Markus watched its wing snap off and begin to tumble into the sea.

“Triton Three is lost,” the drone operator announced, blind to the carnage observed by Markus.

At these ranges, a pilot’s eyeballs were as useful as any onboard sensor. Of the remaining missiles, the first continued its vertical descent into the water, but the second made a hard turn, directly for them. It was now a question of how much kinetic energy was left in the missile, and could they outrun the speed it had left.

“Coming right, brace for impact,” Markus alerted the crew, trying to coax more speed from the plane.

The missile tracked the Poseidon, losing speed with each quarter-mile gained on its prey. It targeted the center of the aircraft’s radar signature, and the highest heat emitter. By the time the missile was 50 yards from the aircraft it had slowed to the same speed as the P-8 – this was as close as it would get. The warhead detonated, launching a barrage of tightly packed shrapnel at the aircraft.

A hail of marble-sized projectiles entered into the port engine, wing root, and lower center fuselage, with a few penetrating through the cabin.

Markus heard someone cry out in the back. His copilot informed him the number one engine was gone, that both hydraulic systems were losing pressure and that the flight controls were only moderately responsive. There was only one option left he realized, and he made his announcement over the public address system.

“Prepare for immediate ditch, time to water impact – two minutes.”

Markus spent the next 120 seconds running through the ditching checklist as fast as possible, and preparing the cockpit for water entry. Markus and his copilot used what little response was left in the controls to get the plane slow and stable over the water. He was grateful that at least the seas were calm.

The water landing was violent. Markus felt himself surge forward, the harness digging into his body. He heard the shearing of metal and the popping of fasteners. Water cascaded over the flight station windows. He was knocked into a daze, where he remained until the flight station became still. The cockpit door was jammed shut. The copilot was unsuccessfully trying to open it with the crash ax. Seeing that water was already seeping in under the door, Markus unfastened himself from his harness, opened the emergency window and commanded the copilot to exit. He followed the junior pilot out, squeezing himself through the tight opening. He fell a few feet, face first into the warm water. He immediately inflated his survival vest, and saw the remainder of the crew boarding one of the 12-man survival rafts.

As he swam to the raft, he could see the aircraft had split in half, just forward of the wings. All that remained afloat of the aft portion was the tail, with the squadron insignia still visible. The front section was mostly submerged as well. Water halfway filled the open front cabin door, and the cockpit windows were still visible, resembling a seal poking its head up for air. It was all gone by the time he climbed into the raft and took another look back.

He was the last to board the raft. The Navy’s water survival classes had prepared them for this. He was still in charge, and the mission was now survival. He counted eight souls on board the raft, including his own.

Seeing the despair on the commander’s face. LT Adams brought Markus up to speed.

“Petty Officer Whipple took some of the missile hit to his legs, he was hurt badly. Cho and Connors dragged him out of his seat to help, but when we hit the water they were thrown around. They did not escape the aft section. The rest of us are mostly ok, certainly some bruises.”

“We didn’t have a chance to make a mayday call,” Markus added.

“Before we lost systems, I commanded the last drone to return to base, it should be able to relay enough data to the next crew, and hopefully coordinate rescue,” said Adams, providing some hope to everyone aboard.

At that moment the crew all felt a shudder as a force bumped the raft from below.

“Sharks?” asked Chief Puhle, the crew radarman.

He was answered shortly by another force whacking the raft, this time from above as the air shockwave traveled over the crew of Wolfpack Four Six. The crew looked to the west and could see the rising column of water vapor expanding out as it rose many miles in the distance. They almost forgot what they had done barely a half hour ago.

As they watched the tower of water vapor climb into the atmosphere, they sat somberly and wondered what they would next see coming over the horizon.

Lieutenant Christopher Giraldi is a P-8 Pilot flying with the Grey Knights of Patrol Squadron 46. He has deployed around the world conducting maritime patrol operations. He is a 2015 graduate of the United States Naval Academy. The views presented here are his own and do not imply consent or endorsement by the U.S. Navy or Department of Defense. He can be reached at chrisgiraldi15@gmail.com or  linkedin.com/in/christopher-giraldi-10b44a1ab.

Featured Image: “Stealth Submarine Concept” by Paul Muller (via Artstation)