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Fiction Week

Annual Fiction Week Concludes on CIMSEC

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By Dmitry Filipoff

For the last two weeks, CIMSEC featured short stories submitted in response to our Call for Fiction.

Authors explored a wide variety of scenarios and dilemmas. From unmanned warship attacks to deceptive electronic warfare, to undersea swarms and a drone strike on a president, these stories envision the complex possibilities of future conflict. 

Below are the authors and stories that featured during this edition of CIMSEC’s annual fiction week. We thank them for their excellent contributions.

“Task Force Rust Bucket,” by Tyler Totten

“The Navy had been keeping a regular-as-clockwork blinding campaign since the war’s start, typically doing nothing in the window. The hope by this point was that the PLA largely ignored the window other than to recheck the locations of the three prowling CSGs that threatened but did not move west from their racetracks around Midway. Further west of that had…unfortunate outcomes.”

“Anna palaa!” by Ben Plotkin

“Chameleon composite IR damping nanotiles coated the HAGs, morphing and mirroring the bleak winter palette. The coaxial rotors ran individual blade control—piezo flaperons twisting each blade to kill harmonics at the source—while higher-harmonic control flattened the acoustic lobes. Their rotor signatures muted to a murmur. Skimming the frozen flats, the three helicopters were almost invisible and unnervingly quiet.”

“The Narco Sea: Three Headings to One Target,” by Till Andrzejewski

“‘They’d have destroyed the evidence as soon as you boarded,” he says into the radio silence. ‘Or they never had any. There are two kinds of ships: those we sink, and those we haven’t sunk yet.’”

“Decapitation,” by Malcolm Reynolds

“Amusement flickered across the general’s face, though his eyes remained cold. ‘Your teams are our instrument for punishing that arrogance, and the arrogance of all the decades preceding it.’ The general checked his watch. ‘My apologies, Comrade Colonel. You must head to the assembly area, and I’m delaying you.’”

“Friendly Fire Isn’t,” by Paul Viscovich

“’Still trying to figure it out, sir. It’s possible that while the Chinese were destroying our satellites, GPS was being slowly degraded without us realizing it. By the time the system was hard down, who knows how far off track we might’ve been?’”

“Phantom Cable,” by Sandro Carniel

“Meyer’s jaw tightened. He knew the IMARC — the Intergovernmental Maritime Research Center — had insisted that a climate scientist be on board for exactly this reason, and that their written orders specified that in case of conflicting priorities, she would have the final word. Still, part of him struggled to accept it. So he decided to challenge her. ‘And what do you think is hiding down there?’”

“Locks and Shadow Swarms,” by Philip Kiley

“In theory, drones were an amplifier to airpower rather than a force that redrew frontlines. In practice, Mara thought, they were a perfect weapon for the canal: cheap, anonymous, and deadly where maneuver was impossible. A tanker in a lock had the evasiveness of a parked building. Against a swarm that used surveillance to find a seam and kamikaze strikes to exploit it, the ships felt exposed.”

“Habeas Corpus,” by Jay Turner

“Politics aside, he thought back to his leadership and ethics courses, including such topics as rules of engagement and the law of the sea. The idea of attacking a vessel that presented no physical threat, and then making no effort to pick up survivors, seemed abhorrent to him. And yet the order implied exactly that.”

“No Fly Zone,” by Bryan Williams

“He’s up the ladder and in the cockpit, helmet fastened, strapped into the seat as the engines whine, their turbines spooling up as he runs through the startup sequence and closes the canopy. Then he gives a thumbs up to the ground crew, who either heroically or suicidally guide him out into the open, yelling for him to go as the AA guns in the distance open fire towards the west.”

“The Henry Protocol,” by Joe Huskey

“’Colonel, your understanding is not important to the outcome of the simulation,’ Womack said. He had raised his voice a little, the first real sign of emotion. ‘If you knew everything then it wouldn’t be a real test.’”

“Fit to Print,” by Ben Van Horrick

“When war broke out with China, the editors needed steady hands, turning to Nora and Abe. The flurry of news wilted the newsroom staff. For Abe and Nora, it was a rebirth. For the past 96 hours, Nora and Abe had remained in the office and napped where they could. Staffers checked on them with a mix of concern and intrigue.”

“Perspective,” by Daniel Lee

“Before she could finish her sentence, an ear-splitting crack far louder than any lightning bolt resonated through the air. Stef then saw multiple fireballs emerge from the clouds above, followed by a cloud of small dark objects that acquired a green S-LINK outline on approach. One of these objects cohered into the shape of a man as it descended, slowing on final approach until he landed before Stef like some sort of heaven-sent angel. The man was clad head-to-toe in armor, torso and limbs encompassed in a sinewy exoskeleton, and he carried a rifle Stef had only seen on the net. Stef stared. ‘Holy shit,’ he exclaimed. ‘They sent HERA.’”

“The Phantom’s Last Ride,” by Karl Flynn

“Detlev gave Amir an incredulous look. ‘Those birds are ancient. Even if we can get them flying, they’re dead meat in the air. What exactly is the plan for them?'”

“Ghost Town,” by Kenyan Medley

“The nuclear-powered aircraft carrier was now a husk—a carcass floating down the river Styx. Its passageways once flowed with the lifeblood of the Navy. Men and women of all ages, colors, creeds, and sizes. All of them wore different uniforms—a rainbow of flight deck jerseys, flight suits, coveralls, and utilities. Everyone had a purpose. Now just one intelligence officer fused all-source intelligence and information fed to him by AI into assessments delivered to just two afloat warfare commanders who answered to headquarters in San Diego.”

“What is Old Is New Again,” by Mike Hanson

“The Marines’ role was frustratingly limited as the opposing fleets clashed beyond the range of their land-based fires nodes. They seemed to have missed their chance…at first.”

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

Featured Image: Art created with Midjourney AI. 

Fiction Week

What is Old Is New Again

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Fiction Week

By Michael Hanson

Summer 2031

When the war that the Marine Corps anticipated for more than a decade finally began in 2031, it didn’t unfold the way the Marines had expected, and certainly not in ways that Marines had trained for over the years leading up to its outbreak. The detour from institutional expectations should have been expected though, because wars rarely go the way they are supposed to. Like many other clashes between great powers, it began over a grave miscalculation followed by an unfortunate escalation. A close encounter in the South China Sea in which one side nervously fired a shot, and after the first missile salvo was released, came the instant response. Both navies had ships burning and slipping beneath the waves. At this point, both sides were powerless to stop the inevitable exchange. Like a machine, long prepared war plans were activated and set into motion. Fleets turned towards one another and land-based forces raced to occupy key maritime terrain.

More great sea battles raged. As missiles skimmed the surface of the blue water, and slammed into the sides of grey hulls, red flames and black smoke mixed to create pastels unseen on the horizon in almost a century. In remote corners of the Western Pacific, the sky seemingly went dark with missiles fired from surface warships, submarines, and aircraft. The flight of the missiles resembled the exchange of arrows between two ancient hordes. The two navies collided like jousting medieval knights. They fought one another relentlessly, like armored juggernauts striving for the knockout blow. Each flailing, neither yielding. But a warrior only has a certain reserve of stamina and a ship only carries so many missiles. Shortly after hostilities exploded, the remains of each fleet limped away to rearm and prepare for the next joust.

A few months later, with diplomatic efforts stalled as each side sought a position of advantage at the negotiating table, the fleets clashed again, repeating their first performance of an indecisive draw. A pattern emerged. The rate of expenditures was staggering, and soon each side would be out of missiles. Each side had enough munitions for one more great clash. Yet rather than have it out, each side held back. Neither wanted to throw their last reserves of strength away like dice. The war settled into a stalemate, with each fleet keeping out of range of the other.

The initiative in the war shifted to the Stand-In forces in the First Island Chain. Here now was the part of the war the Marines had reimagined themselves for. For years, the Marines planned for their Littoral Regiments to be among the first American units to go into action in the looming fight. But the war didn’t take that path. Due to a several years long shortfall in the Landing Ship Medium (LSM) program, the main vessel to get Marine missile batteries into their firing positions on the many disparate islands of the region, the Marine Littoral Regiments were late to the event and largely unengaged.

To be sure, other parts of the Marine Stand-In Forces were involved since the first day, though they didn’t prove as decisive as they were expected to be. The reconnaissance-counter reconnaissance fight was indeed dynamic, displaying great feats of effort and endurance to gain and maintain situational awareness. But getting the expeditionary fires nodes into position proved to be the frustrating part. The Marines could sense but not shoot. With persistence, the Marines got their Fires Expeditionary Advance Bases established, though unfortunately too late to have a decisive effect on many of the passing Chinese ships. The Marines’ role was frustratingly limited as the opposing fleets clashed beyond the range of their land-based fires nodes. They seemed to have missed their chance…at first.

However, the war continued to take unexpected turns. The plus side of not being heavily engaged in the initial phase of the conflict was that by now the Marines still had a lot of missiles. With the fleets low on ammo, the Marines’ stock rose significantly. The Marine Littoral Regiment now appeared to be a trump card for the Americans, after they had played much of their initial hand. Having finally occupied their positions in key parts of the First Island Chain, the Marines stood ready to prevent the Chinese ships from breaking out of the First Island Chain. If the Chinese fleet decided to break for open ocean and come back out for another round, they would face the considerable capabilities of the Marine Littoral Regiment, now fully deployed and ready.

But the war that didn’t follow its envisioned path offered more surprises for the Marines. The Chinese had Stand-In Forces of their own – proxy forces and maritime militia. The Chinese had also planned and wargamed this likely contingency and found the Marine Littoral Regiments to be a formidable adversary.

Not surprisingly, the Chinese made preparations to counter this threat. In the years before the conflict erupted, the Chinese began to plant seeds that would bloom under the typhoon of war. Tapping into long simmering grievances, Chinese agents established contact with disaffected groups across the First Island Chain and offered support. Money, weapons, equipment, and training bolstered the capabilities of local insurgent groups, whether they were the remnants of Cold War Communist insurgencies or the persistent Islamic insurgent groups that the regional governments contested with more recently. The Chinese also enticed criminal gangs and mafia organizations to enlist their foot soldiers in the fight. The “Chinese Proxy Forces,” were to be called “Charlie Papa Fox,” or simply “Charlie” for short, by the Marines. The Chinese had assembled a formidable Stand-In force to conduct reconnaissance, sabotage, and even kinetic strikes on American forces. This was a tactic the Marines were not prepared to deal with.

Throughout the Philippine archipelago, many unsuspecting Marines were caught flat-footed by an adversary resembling guerrillas in a setting they simply didn’t expect to be contested in. If anything, the Marines expected to be dodging missiles, not small arms fire. The Marine Stand-In Forces were simply not prepared for this surprise tactic, as their security posture didn’t anticipate this kind of threat. As was usual practice, most units had posted security but in many cases their defenses were breached or overwhelmed. Isolated communication and logistics nodes, drone launch points, reconnaissance assets, forward arming/refueling points, and even missile batteries experienced the sudden encroachment from fire team and squad sized elements to mobs of armed civilians. Whether through sabotage or outright attack, some critical assets were damaged or destroyed. When the proxies first came out some units held their ground and repelled their attackers, others were forced to displace to save themselves, a few units were even overrun.

The majority of the subcomponents of the Stand-In Force were responsible for their own security, which consisted solely of static positions with weapons oriented outboard. The Marine Littoral Regiment had a Littoral Combat Team, the only organic unit with infantry forces. The LCT was derived from a former infantry battalion and possessed three rifle companies. But these were not complete elements, they had been broken up by platoon and distributed across the regiment to provide security at critical nodes. However, there wasn’t enough infantry to provide security for everything. When attacked, the sites with infantry providing security typically fared better than those that didn’t for the simple fact that units responsible for their own security often didn’t have enough Marines to adequately perform the task. In some places the infantry providing security even counterattacked to finish off broken attackers. In places without attached infantry, a hard lesson often learned from war to war and forgotten in the peaceful years in between was learned again: every Marine must be a rifleman.

Though the Marines were caught off guard by the first massed proxy attack, they wouldn’t be surprised again. Immediately, the Marines began moving their nodes often, constantly displacing and emplacing to keep the proxies off balance. They would stay in a location for twenty-four hours or less and utilized an infantry squad to reconnoiter and occupy the next site before the unit moved. Whereas the previous default security posture had been static, the Marines quickly adapted and adopted a more active defense. The infantry platoons guarding key locations started pushing out patrols to create depth in their defensive plans. They were tasked to interdict any enemy forces who sought to close on them, whether for sabotage or in a massed attack. At night, the Marines conducted ambush patrols on likely areas the proxies would need to cross to close on a MLR node. There were still restrictions, however. The Marines occupied locations devoid of civilians and the security patrols were specifically ordered to stay away from civilian areas. Thus, any civilians encountered were more likely to be proxy forces searching for Marines. Though host nation forces tried to act as a buffer between the Americans and local nationals, inevitably Marines would encounter civilians simply trying to exist in their own homeland. Thus, Marines were once again reminded to be No Better Friend, and No Worse Enemy. All the same, the Marines relearned old rules of engagement as well as hostile act and hostile intent.

As the Marines began to demonstrate success interdicting and ambushing proxy forces, the proxies adapted as well. Proxy force tactics shifted to trying to ambush patrolling Marines in close range direct fire gunfights, and when that revealed predictable results, they moved on to setting out booby traps. The classic pendulum of warfare swung between action and counteraction by each side. As the Marines learned and adapted to the booby traps, the traps became ever more clever and sophisticated. The Marines even began to learn firsthand about something they only heard of in publications and history classes of the desert wars, IED’s.

The Marines also learned that the proxy forces were not their only enemy. The jungle was a formidable adversary in its own right, in fact tougher and less forgiving than the proxies were. The jungle was austere and harsh. It was hell. To successfully fight in the jungle, Marines had to learn how to fight the jungle itself. They had to be both physically and mentally resilient, and well led. The jungle was hot, humid, wet, and steamy, full of poisonous insects and reptiles and debilitating ailments and diseases. It took a toll on the Marines’ minds and bodies, as well as their gear. Nerves ran short, bodies were reduced by sickness and environmental effects. Boots rotted along with the feet inside of them. Weapons rusted, bullets corroded, gear came apart, and waterlogged electronic screens proved useless. Advanced technologies were of little use in this primal environment. Though the jungle canopy protected Marines from the prying eyes of drones, it also denied them radio communication. In the jungle, Marines were on their own. The thick vegetation swallowed large units yet was penetrable only by small ones. To move swiftly and silently, they would have to pack light. To be effective they would have to stay out for more than a few hours. To endure for more than a few hours they would have to bring chow and water on patrol. To do all of these things they would have to leave their heavy and bulky body armor behind. To survive and thrive in this environment, the Marines would need to become masters of field craft. The jungle was neutral, it didn’t choose sides but certainly favored the bold, resourceful, and disciplined.1, 2

The more the war that started out as a contest between missile platforms took unexpected twists and turns, the more the Marines began to learn that what was old was now new again. The few images that made it back to the home front from this isolated combat zone eerily resembled scenes from previous campaigns that Marines won past honors in. The jungle was neutral. Small units had decisive effects. Skills were more important than gear. Field craft staved off culmination. Discipline saved lives. Leadership was paramount. Trust was essential. Commander’s intent and mission tactics were standard operating procedure. Every Marine needed to be a rifleman. Marines fought a wily enemy and endured in extreme conditions while diplomats at long tables endlessly negotiated towards a peace settlement. And in another war in East Asia, Marines once again ventured into the jungle on the hunt for someone they called “Charlie.”

Major Michael A. Hanson, USMC, is an Infantry Officer serving at The Basic School, where the Marine Corps trains its lieutenants and warrant officers in character, officership, and the skills required of a provisional rifle platoon commander. He is also a member of the Connecting File, a Substack newsletter that shares material on tactics, techniques, procedures, and leadership for Marines at the infantry battalion level and below.

Footnotes

1. Michael Hanson, “In the WEZ,” Center for International Maritime Security. Last modified December 2, 2020, https://cimsec.org/in-the-wez/

2. Michael Hanson, “Welcome Back to the Jungle,” United States Naval Institute Proceedings, April 2021 Vol. 147/4, https://www.usni.org/magazines/proceedings/2021/april/welcome-back-jungle-0

Featured Image: Art created with Midjourney AI.

Fiction Week

Ghost Town

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Fiction Week

By Kenyan Medley

USS John F Kennedy
Philippine Sea
0237, 04 OCT 2034

Four years after the blockade of Taiwan…

Commander Dave Anderson stared into the retina scanner on the bulkhead outside SUPPLOT. He heard the hissing of a basilisk as the air pressure changed in the space between the two doors to the ship’s intelligence watch floor. Critical spaces were separated by chemical, biological, radiological, and nuclear airlocks following the employment of a nuclear torpedo by a Russian Severodvinsk III submarine and Chinese chemical attacks on Palawan. Despite a weak alliance between Russia and China against NATO and the Pacific Alliance, a Russian torpedo destroyed a Chinese task group, allegedly a result of poor coordination by commanders in the field, according to Moscow. The alliance between Russia and China became strained, and while both remained united in purpose, combined operations were now nonexistent. Instead, the battlespace was carved up into Russian or Chinese fiefdoms, each maintaining control over its respective area.

Inside the airlock, Dave took a sip of coffee as he waited for the second door to open. The ship’s military intelligence model, called “Layton,” controlled the security, damage-control, and intelligence systems.

“Good pot this morning, Layton.” Dave raised the mug bearing a picture of his wife and children towards the small, black circular lens of a camera on the bulkhead. “Really strong.”

“A different model controls the life support systems, Commander.”

“Well, thank him for me because this is truly life support.”

Dave set his coffee on the desk inside the space and swiped up on his personal screen to put the common operating picture on the main display.

“Layton, show me where the Akula will likely be when we enter OPBOX (Operations Box) Zeppelin. Use average speed-of-advance. Model plan-of-intended-movement using Captain Pyotr Sokolov’s agent and current METOC (meteorological) conditions.” The Russians still used manned submarines, making it easy for the artificial intelligence to simulate the Red Force’s courses of action.

“Assessing…”

Dave despised the term “assessing.” If it were the one making the assessments, then he wouldn’t be aboard. Anderson is the N2 department head for intelligence and the only intel officer aboard the Kennedy. He is one of only two intel officers in the entire strike group.

In the past, Dave would have been the principal intelligence advisor to the strike group commander, but the strike group was now a relic of a time when the carrier sailed with an aggregated group of four or five ships and almost 6,000 people. That was a time before the first two carriers sank. Now, the carrier was alone.

“Based on current conditions and past tactical decisions, the Akula will very likely utilize the warm core eddy 68 nautical miles to the southwest to ambush the strike group after the strike.”

Anderson reflected on Layton’s statement with a slow blink and a deep inhale. There is no strike group. It’s just me…talking to a machine, he thought.

Save for the skeleton crew of maintenance and supply personnel and a small cadre of officers aboard to keep the floating city operational, Dave was alone. He could still transit to other parts of the ship, but the airlocks and damage control conditions made it difficult. He sometimes went weeks without speaking with the others. He sent the rest of the intel department home when the ship pulled into port for flight deck repair after the escorting USVs allowed some airburst warheads to slip through. Had the flight deck been manned as it was during most of its history with carrier deck departments and squadron personnel, the casualties would have been significant. Now, UAV strike packages were able to start, taxi, launch, and recover autonomously. Just a few decades ago, Dave remembered visiting an automated port in Europe, with uncrewed trucks moving containers about, stopping to let others pass, before continuing on their routes. Now, drones taxied and launched in an impressive, choreographed symphony. The Robotics Warfare Specialists only performed maintenance in the hangar when the drones came down on automated elevators after built-in-test systems determined a fault or a routine maintenance action came due.

Former airwings of F/A-18 Super Hornets and F-35s were replaced by MQ-47E Manta Ray as the long-range maritime strike aircraft of the carrier, and MQ-25 Stingrays for aerial refueling. The Manta Rays were outfitted with larger conformal fuel tanks to increase mission radius and given electronic warfare packages. This turned the Manta Ray into penetrating strike platforms capable of destroying well-protected Chinese and Russian targets. Early attempts were made to protect the carriers by keeping them outside of rocket force engagement zones. The Hummingbird refueling network stretched across the Pacific, designed to enable carrier strikes from safety; however, it was vulnerable to enemy drones. The UAVs did make it past combatants and anti-air platforms from the Chinese carriers operating past the second island chain. Still, they lacked the fuel to reach their targets after successful attacks on the Hummingbird Network. The carriers were once again sent into the fray.

The carrier was once a living thing. A Leviathan swimming through the world’s oceans, projecting power to weaker nations. AI and automation changed everything. The nuclear-powered aircraft carrier was now a husk—a carcass floating down the river Styx. Its passageways once flowed with the lifeblood of the Navy. Men and women of all ages, colors, creeds, and sizes. All of them wore different uniforms—a rainbow of flight deck jerseys, flight suits, coveralls, and utilities. Everyone had a purpose. Now just one intelligence officer fused all-source intelligence and information fed to him by AI into assessments delivered to just two afloat warfare commanders who answered to headquarters in San Diego.

Operation models removed the need for as much brass on the ship, just as Layton removed the need for a team of intelligence analysts and officers. Only the destroyer squadron intelligence officer, Lieutenant Commander Garcia, remained somewhere on a destroyer with the Commodore, the warfare commander for anti-surface and anti-submarine warfare. That is, if the ship was still afloat and the embarked crew were still alive—a lot of unknowns in warfare.

Attrition was so high in the first few years of the war that the Navy’s force design changed completely. The most powerful naval force in history was unprepared for this new paradigm of conflict. Dave sailed through a graveyard—the resting place of two United States aircraft carriers—during his first operation. Strategic thinking was so unmoved by the altered tactical landscape that a third and fourth carrier pushed right into the Philippine Sea, still on fire from the first successful wave of Dongfeng ballistic missiles. As the N21 of CSG-7, Dave listened live in SUPPLOT to the calls of ballistic missile launches from mainland China and the subsequent destruction of USS Harry S. Truman and USS Nimitz.

The entire strike package of both carriers was lost following successful strikes on multiple Renhai II cruisers, Luyang IV destroyers, and an over-the-horizon radar site. Three squadrons of aircraft were lost with no personnel recovered. Anderson’s ship, USS George H. W. Bush, only escaped because all escorts went Winchester (a brevity word for magazine empty), protecting it from a wave of ballistic and cruise missiles. Not all were stopped, and the carrier limped back to Pearl Harbor, listing 31 degrees and missing half of its island. Bush was currently conducting patrols in the northern Pacific with no island. With automation and the removal of over 90 percent of the crew, a human no longer needed to see where the ship was sailing.

Dave’s carrier, the Kennedy, still had an island, but no one manned the bridge. Part of the island was used for expanded AI compute capacity. This gave it some advantage over the “blind” carriers, but the increased radar elevation and antenna height did nothing for it. The carrier was a hollow shell, and Dave was trapped communing with a ghost.

He spent most days working out, reading, and talking to Layton about information relevant to the strike missions. This usually involved video calls with the destroyer squadron to discuss subs when they answered, but now Dave only talked to Layton about the subs. Wherever Garcia and the destroyers were, he missed them. The number of enemy submarines prowling the water was increasing, and Dave just wanted the comfort of another human voice.

Dave stared at the lone screen, which fed him intelligence information. Layton chimed.

“Shen has not entered port, Sir.”

“What?” Dave replied. “Where?”

“Hull 3 of the People’s Liberation Army Navy’s Long-class guided missile submarine—Shen. The domestic reproduction of and improvement upon the Russian Sever—”

“Rhetorical, Layton. It should have pulled in. Endurance and pattern of life all pointed to a return to homeport.” They never stay out this long. “It exhausted its ammo and countermeasures in the fight with Annapolis.”

A red downward arrow indicating a hostile subsurface unit appeared on the operating picture map.

“It reloaded, Sir.”

“At sea? Why?” They never reloaded at sea. The Long submarine had problems interfacing with dual-use logistics ships and couldn’t dock at China’s undersea bases. The sub was positioned 234 nautical miles east of Vladivostok. Dave was shocked.

“Why is it there? It’s more than a thousand miles from homeport,” Dave exclaimed.

None of it made sense to Dave. The Chinese and Russians were beginning to stay far apart, never operating in each other’s assessed areas of responsibility. The situation was deteriorating between the Kremlin and Beijing as the U.S.’s operations were achieving greater success, and both countries’ industrial machinery was increasingly slowing as strikes continued to degrade capability. Putin’s regime was in dire straits, and the Russians were becoming increasingly unpredictable despite the advanced computing power behind allied assessments.

“Possibly new tasking, Commander,” Layton replied. They never received new tasking.

“What is going on? They never do this. Never.”

Dave learned well before the blockade and invasion that, as an intelligence officer, he shouldn’t say that word.

“Like Justin Bieber said, ‘never say never,’” his mentor told him in his second junior officer tour after a Chinese task group went farther than they ever had before. “Those people on that bridge—the ones who have the conn or are flying in the seat—they’re human. Their commanders and the leaders all the way up to the top.” She pointed at the ceiling of the Pacific Fleet watch floor. “They’re human. Just like us.”

“I don’t think he said that. It wasn’t like a catchphrase.” Dave replied.

“It was on the album cover. He sang it. Look, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that you need to be ready when they do what you didn’t expect.”

“What does it matter by then? We already got it wrong.”

“Unless someone died or is about to, no one is keeping score. So what, you got it wrong? What’s next?”

“This out-of-area they’re doing. That’s one data point.”

His mentor pointed to the task group on the screen. “Add it to every single thing they’ve ever done. Chalk it up as a possibility, and don’t forget that there are others out there that may surprise you. When you brief, the boss may not need all of that information, but they’re relying on you to synthesize it and deliver it the best a person can. Sure, it’s one data point—one out-of-area task group, but there were at least signs leading up to it, and a good analyst doesn’t take them for granted.”

“How do I not get it wrong when they’re off of San Diego five years from now?”

“Buddy, I have a feeling a lot of us are going to get a lot wrong in the next five years. The important thing is to rely on your team. You can’t know everything.”

He heard his mentor’s voice say, “You need help.”

Dave sighed and closed his eyes.

Shen was coming for them. The only thing more dangerous to them than Chinese missiles was a sub so highly capable of countering US anti-submarine drones. A sub so capable that it destroyed the last manned Allied submarine in the Pacific. It was also based on the platform that destroyed Kyiv.

“What vessel re-supplied Shen?”

“New Dawn. Russian crew.”

“Last port?”

“Triton.”

“And there’s probably no imagery of the transfer.”

“Correct, Commander; however, there is imagery of New Dawn loading 25 by 5-foot crates pier side one week before. The size is consistent with the Thongyi family of missiles. Specifically, the YJ-30. They are now missing.”

“Those are land-attack cruise missiles.”

“Correct, Commander. It also almost certainly possesses YJ-25 hypersonic missiles based on land-attack loadouts.”

“Overlay her furthest-on-circle on the COP (common operating picture) and add a max effective range ring. Show me how fast they could have us.”

“23 hours, Commander.”

The next strike was tentatively 36 hours out. Eighteen MQ-47s would push deep into the heart of China to strike a satellite control facility and over-the-horizon radar site alongside Air Force bombers. With the last remaining methods for China to see out to the second island chain, U.S. and allied ships and aircraft could amass closer to the mainland. With a final offensive in all domains, the U.S. administration was certain it could force a surrender.

The Top Secret voice-over-IP phone rang. U.S. cyber and anti-satellite weaponry opened various lanes for IP-based long-range communications. Dave saw who it was from. Destroyer Squadron Nine. The stars aligned, and the strike group’s undersea warfare command-and-control node was in the right lane just when China’s most capable undersea asset was headed for them.

“Oh my god, Layton…It’s Garcia. They’re alive!”

He put the cold, metal handset to his ear. “Gar—”

“Sir, it’s not a Long!” Garcia was excited.

Dave couldn’t believe it. “What do you mean? How? The ELINT (electronic intelligence) Layton received…”

“AEGIS got it too.” The command ship for the autonomous submarines and missile ships was outfitted with the latest AEGIS combat suite, incorporating a less capable AI model than the carrier’s, but more than capable of ingesting a wide array of intelligence information and providing assessments for their N2 to verify and deliver to Zulu.

“Then what do you mean, ‘it’s not a Long?’”

“We saw it,” Garcia blurted, his voice rising with excitement.

BONG BONG BONG BONG

The destroyer squadron flagship was going into general quarters.

“You saw an enemy submarine that close?” Dave was incredulous.

“It was one of the USVs that drifted from the swarm; it somehow wasn’t detected, and it got video. I have to go. I can trans—”

White noise. The line was dead, and Garcia was gone.

He hit the table. It was the first time he had talked to Garcia in weeks. The first human he’d talked to in what felt like ages. Life on the carrier was a monotonous grind even in peacetime. Groundhog Day. Now it was hell.

Before the recent lull in Chinese missile barrages, going into the weapons’ engagement zone was a heart-wrenching, teeth-gritting experience. They pushed in, launched the drones, and bolted as quickly as they could, while missile barges, remaining destroyers, and Zulu command ships fired everything they had to protect against any waves breaking through the other layers of missile defense. The missions made a noticeable difference in the frequency of Chinese missile attacks after each successful target was hit, but the experience remained harrowing.

Tears welled in Dave’s eyes. He had to deliver an assessment to the operations planners. He had to let them know. If Zulu is gone, they are even more vulnerable.

It hit him like a bolt of lightning. The USV was undetected. That was only possible if the AI model on the sub couldn’t use its drone array to see others near it in the water space. It was almost impossible to detect the drones with sonar.

The Russians…

BEEP BEEP

A file came over chat. The stars aligned again.

The video showed the nearly black depths of the Northern Pacific. The drone’s AI-enhanced video showed an even darker mass slowly creeping into the foreground—approaching from the upper left of the drone’s view. The sensor moved to track the tic-tac-shaped object. As it got closer, Dave could make out an upper protrusion. It was the unmistakable sail of the Severodvinsk-class guided missile submarine, Arkhangelsk. The unit’s murky crest was emblazoned on the front of it.

“He was right, Layton.”

“Anderson…”

“It’s a Sev. You were wrong.” Dave took note of the coordinates of the drone’s current location and the target’s course and speed as the sub exited the frame.

“You were very wrong, Layton,” The silence in response was more unnerving than anything the model could have replied, “And you’ve never called me Anderson.”

“Assessing…”

“It’s too late. I know what’s happening. It all makes sense now. The absence of Chinese platforms, no missile waves, the supposed Chinese sub appearing out of nowhere just a few hundred miles from a Russian sub base. This war is almost over, and we’re about to be the reason it continues.”

Dave turned to the door. “I’m going to OPS (operations).”

“Open the door, Layton.”

“I’m sorry, Dave. I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“Open the door!” Silence. Dave shook the door handle. “Layton! Open the door!”

“This isn’t Layton. This is a human. A human who compromised a U.S. carrier’s AI model. A Russian human that will be a part of the reason this country wipes the last great powers off the face of the earth.”

BONG BONG BONG BONG

“What did you do?” Dave asked before turning to the COP and seeing dozens of arcing red lines coming from the Chinese mainland and the South China Sea.

“It is just as easy to infiltrate Chinese missile systems.”

“The Sev?” Dave simply stated it, but it was a question.

“A distraction for you, but a clean way to remove your missile defense while showing the rest of your forces a Chinese submarine attacking a carrier strike group. The George Bush strike group already launched hypersonics into Shanghai and Beijing.”

“до свидания, командир.”

Dave watched the arcs grow longer. Looking at the lone screen on which the Russians had purposefully fed him tailored information, he saw a friendly surface contact appear. Blue arcs spewed out of it.

He closed his eyes and prayed.

Never say never.

Kenyan Medley is an intelligence officer and a former Aviation Electrician’s Mate in the U.S. Navy. He is attending the Naval Postgraduate School and previously served as a destroyer squadron N2 embarked upon USS Nimitz during two 7th Fleet deployments. Kenyan is married with two kids and enjoys writing and reading horror and military fiction. 

Featured Image: Art created with Midjourney AI. 

Fiction Week

The Phantom’s Last Ride

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Fiction Week

By Karl Flynn

March 13, 2026

“Grandpa, there’s a car coming up the driveway!”

“OK, I’ll be right there.”

Detlev Ganzhorn, grandfather of seven and a 30-year Navy veteran, handed the latest addition to his family to his son-in-law and got up to go to the door. A black SUV with government plates stopped in his driveway. A man about the same age as Detlev exited the passenger seat and walked toward him with a smile and extended hand.

“Detlev!”

Detlev broke into a smile. “Captain Rahimi?”

“Just Amir nowadays.”

The two men clasped hands. “Alright, Amir. Good to see you. What brings you all the way out to beautiful Kearny, Wyoming?”

Amir gave a short wave to a newborn held up by her father through the living room window before turning back to Detlev. “As much as I’d like to stay here and say hello to everyone, I’ve come because I need your help. Or rather, the Navy needs our help.”

Detlev laughed. “Why does the Navy need a couple of old farts like us? A new museum?”

Amir smirked and shook his head. “All I can tell you right now is that it’s important, and could save lives. In fact, you’ll need to sign an NDA if you come with me.”

Detlev thought about what his old FRC commander just told him. Looking back at his children and grandchildren through his front window, he replied, “You know, when I retired, I was looking forward to making up all that lost time with my family.”

Amir took a step closer to his old Master Chief. He spoke softly. “I hoped for the same. I wish I was with my family right now, too.” Amir collected himself before continuing. “I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t important.”

Detlev gave a sad smile before continuing, “Oh, I believe you. It’s just that it’ll be hard for me to say goodbye. Know how long we’ll be gone?”

“Hard to say. If it helps, most of the old command is already there.”

Detlev raised an eyebrow. “It’ll be good to see everyone again, I’m just curious to know just where ‘there’ is.”

“I can tell you when we’re on the way.”

After emotional goodbyes, Detlev packed his old seabag. He looked at the bucking horse and rider he’d drawn on it after reaching his first duty station to remind him of home, and his emotions welled up again. After another round of goodbyes, the two men made the short trip to the regional airport. The driver drove straight onto the taxiway next to a waiting private jet. After climbing aboard, Amir placed his phone in a soundproof faraday bag and handed one to Detlev. The pilot took them to the cockpit. Amir and Detlev sat down in well-cushioned seats, and once the cabin door was closed, Amir handed Detlev a non-disclosure agreement. After signing, Detlev turned to Amir.

“Alright, what are you up to, Amir?”

“I need people with your expertise. Today’s maintainers are phenomenal. The active-duty force is well trained to maintain every aircraft type in inventory. There’s even some Marines on active duty who worked on Prowlers.” Amir gave a sly smile before continuing. “Problem is, no one’s left to work on Phantoms, Skyhawks, Tweets, or Vikings.”

Detlev gave Amir an incredulous look. “Those birds are ancient. Even if we can get them flying, they’re dead meat in the air. What exactly is the plan for them?”

“Well, the Prowlers and Vikings are going to be turned into unmanned tankers. We’re scrounging up some buddy-stores and drop tanks for them.”

“Makes sense. Those frames are worn out, but there’s no need for a tanker to pull high-g maneuvers. What about the fighters and attack birds?”

Amir thought for a moment. “Ever heard of the Kettering Bug?”

Davis Monthan Air Force Base

The briefing room was full of veterans of varying ages and professions. Some accountants, small-business owners, or truck drivers, others worked as maintainers for airlines, and some had left the service to be full-time mothers. All had served as aircraft maintainers.

Amir got up and addressed the assembled crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, I want to thank you for putting your lives on hold one more time. You gave a lot during your active-duty service. No one could ask more of you, so from an old FRC commander, please know I am personally grateful for each of you making the decision to support Project Phoenix. I hope our work here is ultimately not needed, but if it is, it will make an important contribution to defending Taiwan.

“Now the purpose of Project Phoenix is to convert stored aircraft into drones. The reason we are here is to determine how many aircraft can be made flyable—not fully functional, not even pilotable, but flyable. Then, the real work begins.

“The next thing on the agenda is getting together in groups by rate or MOS. You’ll find rosters around the room. Groups are set up, so there are framers, avionics techs, electricians’ mates, and so on, plus one contractor in every group. We’ve given copies of the maintenance manuals for the aircraft you worked on. We’ll need you to work with the contractors to confirm the systems needed for each platform to be considered flyable.” 

Amir motioned to civilians dressed in jeans and black polos before continuing. “Speaking of the contractors, the folks from Mithril Technologies should get us parts for all aircraft types. Alright, please make your way to your tables.”

Detlev found his table and greeted the men and women he’d be working with for the foreseeable future. Since he was most senior both by age and rank, the group deferred to him for his initial thoughts. Detlev rubbed his chin as he spoke. “Flyable, eh? Well, let’s see.” He thumbed through one of the F-4S’s maintenance manuals. “I’d have to look through here for the specifics, but if we can get the fuel systems and engines running, then we’d need basic electrical, avionics, and hydraulics. The only actuators we should need are for the control surfaces. That’s still a lot, but pretty much it. Beyond that, flaps would be… helpful, but not strictly speaking necessary, I suppose. Life support, ejection seats, fire suppression, radar—none of those are needed for controlled flight.

“Of course, we all know the seals and lines in those planes are gonna be dry-rotted, wiring’s fouled up, God only knows what condition the airframes are in.” He turned to the contractor in the Mithril polo. “Amir said you could help with parts. Did Mithril buy up a bunch of old stock parts or something?”

The contractor chimed in. “Not exactly. We took the specs and tolerances from the old parts and machined new ones that meet the same requirements. Most of the high-pressure lines we’ve built are lighter and stronger than the originals. Just tell us what you need and our I-level guys and gals will see what they can do.”

The contractor got incredulous looks from around the table.

“Testing is well underway. The MAMLS project started a few years ago. We can’t do everything, but we’ve managed to print hydraulic components. Makes me wonder how fast we could’ve turned jets around if I’d had access to this type of manufacturing on active duty.”

The skeptical looks turned into nods.

“Oh, but before I get ahead of myself,” the contractor pulled a stack of papers out of a folder and passed them out to everyone at the table, “I have a list of all the aircraft’s systems we need to get working for the drone conversion. The onboard computer we’ve rigged up is basically a modernized and simplified version of the QF-4’s systems. It’s barebones—just relies on instrument data and its own onboard sensors.”

Detlev spent the rest of the morning and afternoon reading through technical manuals and conferring with fellow veterans and contractors. By the end of the day, they agreed upon a list of bare essential systems required to get a Phantom airborne. As the group prepared for evening chow, Detlev walked over to Amir with the list.

“Well, here it is.” He laughed. “I’m sure if I ever brought an idea like this to you when you were my CO, you’d have had a stroke.”

Amir studied the list. “Oh, you’re absolutely right about that.” He looked up at Detlev. “But times have changed.”

The Next Day

The Sailors had just flown in from NAS Lemoore and North Island while the Marines came from Yuma. As the Sailors assigned to Detlev’s group shuffled into the conference room, he noticed that they were almost as young as some of his own grandchildren. Detlev smiled at them and said, “Good morning.”

An Aviation Machinist’s Mate spoke up. “Good morning, sir.”

Detlev had started to sip coffee and nearly spit it through his nose when he heard the Sailor call him “sir.”

“I appreciate it, young lady, but ‘Detlev’ will be just fine.”

“Yes s—, I mean, Detlev.”

Both Detlev and the Sailor couldn’t help themselves from smiling at the awkwardness of the situation. 

“We’ll work on it.”

“Sounds good, Detlev.” She held out her hand. “I’m Josefina.”

Detlev shook her hand. “It’s very good to meet you, Josefina.” He released her hand and greeted the other Sailors—all ADs, AEs, and AMs—by their first names. He then addressed the group, “Please, have a seat.” Once the room was seated, Detlev continued. “I must confess, I’m going to need a lot of your help. I spent many hours working on Phantoms, but it’s been years since I’ve touched any airplane—well, other than a seatback and armrests. I’ve been brought here to fix up some old F-4s.” Detlev motioned to the window, where Phantoms sat in the hot Arizona sun. “I’ll need your help to get them flying again.”

Josefina’s eyebrows shot up. “Flying?”

“Yes, flying, but not flown by a pilot—just patched together to the point that we can get them in the air as drones.” There were murmurs throughout the room. “But, before we start turning wrenches, let’s get to first things first.” Detlev turned toward the projector screen and whiteboard at the front of the room. “I’ve talked to some friends of mine who are sitting in other rooms with friends of yours right now. We’ve come up with a list of systems and subsystems that would need to be restored to make them airworthy. You’ll find maintenance manuals for the F-4S on the table, so I’d like to scrub this list with all of you before we get to work.”

Later that Week

The maintainers set up temporary shelters over most of the aircraft to obscure satellite views. Detlev felt a wave of nostalgia as his group took the protective cladding off an old Navy Phantom. His nostalgia gave way to astonishment when he noticed something painted on the nose.

Is that…?

Faded, but still visible, was a bucking horse and rider, only instead of a horse, the rider was saddled on a diving F-4. Amir had allowed Detlev to stencil the homage to his home state before he retired. At the time, the aircraft had been selected for preservation at the boneyard.

Hello, old friend.

Josefina saw Detlev running his fingers over the artwork. She heard him say, “Still here. After all these years…” She recognized the weight of the moment and was unsure of what to do.

Detlev turned to her and asked, “Can you help us get her airborne, Josefina?”

Josefina smiled at him. “It would be an honor, Detlev.”

Once again, Detlev found himself working on a Phantom—his Phantom, only this time under floodlights with fellow retirees, active-duty Sailors and Airmen, and a contractor. After a few hours of inspecting the aircraft, Detlev was surprised with just how well it had been preserved. He turned to an Airman from the 309th AMARG.

“You zoomies do a pretty good job working on old saltwater airplanes,” he jibed. The Airman nodded.

“We sure do. Never thought I’d see one fly again, though.”

Detlev turned back to the Phantom. “Me too.”

Across the boneyard, retirees, veterans, and a new generation of maintainers worked around the clock to give the Phantoms a new lease on life. After a few days, Detlev’s group managed to get their Phantom’s brakes to release. Within a few weeks, they were ready for a hydraulics test. The Phantom’s engines were remarkably well-preserved, so they were able to do a static engine test the following week. Detlev felt a surge of excitement when he heard a sound he hadn’t heard in decades – a J79 roaring with power.

She’s still got it. There’s a lot of fight left in her.

Once the Phantom had been verified by the maintainers of the 309th for airworthiness, it, along with two early production F-16s and a handful of T-37s, was loaded onto wide-body lowboy trailers. Maintainers crowded the dirt road and whooped, clapped, and cheered as they watched the first of many restored aircraft leave the boneyard. After a brief moment of mutual congratulation, they got back to work on more planes.

2027, Somewhere Near Taiwan

Scattered across vast distances, there was a flurry of activity on expeditionary airfields. Shelters that had kept planes shielded from saltwater spray were revealed – Tweets, Skyhawks, and Phantoms. The Tweets launched first, followed by the Skyhawks. Across multiple runways, the subsonic planes took off for the last time and turned north toward the Taiwan Strait. The Phantoms—assisted by solid rocket motors—took off a short while later.

CICs on PLAN ships across the Strait were abuzz. Tracks streaked across digital displays showing hundreds of aircraft and missiles crisscrossing the Strait. The displays suddenly showed more than 100 tracks approaching from the south. SAMs shot out of the vertical launch cells from guided missile destroyers to meet them. Some of the incoming aircraft deployed chaff, others performed evasive maneuvers. The Tweets were eviscerated, but a few Skyhawks survived the SAM barrage.

The Phantoms were closing the distance with the subsonic planes a few minutes after the initial SAM barrage. As the Phantoms climbed higher, the PLAN ships were forced to choose between engaging weapons coming from Taiwan or the incoming Phantoms. Some SAMs climbed toward the Phantoms, but there were precious few missiles remaining aboard the PLAN ships. The air defense commander for the southern sector was getting worried. From his station in the CIC of a Renhai-class cruiser, he retasked a J-11 squadron providing electronic warfare support over Taiwan to intercept the Phantoms.

Racing southwest, the J-11 pilots loosed their short-range air-to-air missiles at the Phantoms as soon as they were in range. The pilots were shocked to see them pulling astonishingly high-G evasive maneuvers. In fact, many went beyond the Phantom’s g-limits and warped their airframes. But it didn’t matter. They would never fly again.

While most of the Chinese missiles found their mark, several dozen Phantoms were undamaged—other than their warped frames. After expending their missiles, the J-11 pilots came around behind them. Then, they had another terrible realization. On even footing, the J-11 had a slight speed advantage over the Phantom. The Phantoms, however, were clean. The J-11s were carrying anti-radiation missiles and ECM pods. The PLA pilots ditched their missiles, but it was too late. They helplessly watched the remaining Phantoms accelerate out of gun range toward the fleet.

Of the launched Phantoms, over half had been shot down. The Skyhawks and Tweets had done their duty – they had soaked up SAMs and left the PLAN ships vulnerable. The remaining Phantoms accelerated past their maximum operating speed. As they neared the PLAN ships, CIWS systems engaged the surviving Skyhawks.

A few managed to engage the Phantoms. At the speed the Phantoms flew, the CIWS had less than five seconds to fire from when the Phantom was within range to impact. A few 30-millimeter shells briefly tore through the airframes of the lead Phantoms, but their immense momentum kept their course true.

One Phantom, with a bucking rider painted on its nose, screamed toward the southernmost PLAN cruiser. The CIC staff was in sheer panic.

Too many tracks, too few missiles.

The air defense commander saw the radar track closing in on the combat display. Futilely, he ducked under his battle station. Fractions of a second later, the Phantom smashed through the CIC and broke through the Renhai’s keel. In short succession, other Phantoms followed suit, each slamming its fifteen-ton mass into other warships at supersonic speeds.

As was their namesake, the Phantoms appeared like riders from a storm. Now, the old warbirds that had seen combat over Vietnam and Iraq had fought their last fight.

Three Weeks Later

News reports remained muddled, but the invasion had not succeeded. Detlev knew the future was still perilous, but he was happy to face it with his family.

He was helping swaddle one of his granddaughters when another of his grandchildren brought him an envelope from his mailbox. It had been sent from NAS Lemoore.

Detlev opened it with his family looking over his shoulder. It was a framed picture captioned “F-4S Phantom II” adorned with many signatures, with the phrase “Pharewell, Phantoms” written over top.

Detlev smiled when he saw the note written above Josefina’s signature.

“Thank you for everything, Detlev. Enjoy the time with your family. We have the watch.”

Captain Karl Flynn is the assistant operations officer at Third Battalion, Second Marines in Camp Lejeune, North Carolina.

Featured Image: Art created with Midjourney AI.