Fiction Week

By Mike Hanson

Indonesia 2034

The destruction was absolute. As far as the eye could see, detritus covered the landscape until it faded into the green hills in the distance that stemmed the surging tide. Piles of wood and heaps of rubble blended together to make an unnatural brownish-grey hue on the land. Smashed houses were strewn about randomly among broken buildings knocked off their foundations, cars and trucks lay sideways and upside down in this field of apocalyptic destruction. Even boats littered the debris field like cast-aside toys. Out towards the sea, flotsam and jetsam bobbed and swayed in the now calm tide.

And so did the bodies. Thousands of twisted, grey, putrefying corpses, contorted into horrific positions, some with outstretched arms and hands that seemed to be grasping for help. The flies had already descended upon them. And the stench was ungodly. The odor added its insidious effect to be the most atrocious part of the vast apocalyptic scene that lay before the fortunate ones who survived. But how fortunate were these survivors? They had lost everything. Their families, their homes, their livelihoods, everything. For those that escaped the tsunami, all they had left was the clothes on their backs. In light of the unfathomable destruction that lay before them, perhaps they weren’t so lucky to survive. What was there to survive for?

Ajij walked carefully through the debris and surveyed the damage. As a much younger man, he witnessed near identical scenes when a tsunami hit his home in 2004. It was a normal day like any other, and in an instant, hell came ashore from the sea. His entire life was uprooted. Friends and family members disappeared, life was shattered. With no relief, it seemed to the devastated survivors that they would die soon too. Only much slower than the victims of nature’s wrath.

As he sat in wonderment among the debris of 2004, he looked out to sea and saw an enormous gray ship with a flat deck. It started out small on the horizon but steadily grew bigger, and it gave him hope. After watching for what seemed like an interminable amount of time, he saw helicopters coming towards land. They were big and grey, and said “MARINES” on the side in large black letters.

Ajij didn’t care who they were, he ran towards the helicopters to see them land. Immediately, the men aboard wearing green suits and large helmets began tossing cases of water to the ground. Ajij noticed an American flag, and the thought flashed through his mind that this was the first time he had seen an American. But the thought didn’t remain long in his head as he and the other survivors quickly raced forward and began grabbing the water cases. It was a short landing, and soon the helicopter took off again, heading back toward the ship.

But after about an hour it came back and unloaded more cargo. It departed and returned again. And again. And soon more helicopters came. And each time they brought more supplies. And after a while people started getting off the helicopters. People in green camouflage uniforms. They brought more water, and food, and other supplies. Eventually there was a large number of them ashore. They set up a medical tent and offered treatment to any local that was hurt. This was the beginning of the Americans’ stay in this scene from Armageddon.

They didn’t stay long though, before moving on to somewhere else to help others in need. Soon the grey ship with a large, white 6 on the side disappeared over the horizon. There was a lot of rebuilding to do. Rebuilding of civilization, rebuilding of lives. But Ajij was alive to start over. He never forgot the Americans that arrived to help him and others on his long journey to recovery.

An older man now, Ajij recollected these memories of 2004 as he watched a new group of grey ships on the horizon. “These are the Americans,” he said, as he told his fellow survivors about his experience in the tsunami 30 years before. He tried to give others hope, and exhorted them to hold on because help was on the way. “The Americans are coming back and they will be here to help us soon, I have witnessed them before,” he said to the devastated people that remained of his community.

Anxiously, he waited for the helicopters to come in again and suddenly he saw one emerge from the ship and turn towards the shore. He followed it with his eyes and saw it was coming into land nearby. It was a near repeat of what he experienced 30 years before. As it came closer he noticed its markings were different than he remembered. Troops immediately debarked the helicopter and began unloading supplies. As he came closer he could see their blue uniforms. In large letters on the side of the helicopter were the letters “PLANMC.” These were not Americans. The Chinese had landed.

Ajij was surprised. “Where are the Americans?” he wondered to himself, “Why aren’t they here now?” The thought didn’t remain long. He quickly abandoned it and moved towards these troops handing out relief supplies. “Never mind any of that,” he thought, “These people are here and we need help now,” he told himself.

He looked out to sea and saw more grey ships, even more than he remembered the Americans bringing 30 years before. The white numbers on the side of these were 075, 076, and 077. More helicopters flew by. Ajij had long remembered hearing stories in the news about rising tensions between Chinese ships and ships of neighboring countries in the region. He remembered people saying these tensions could possibly turn into war. He saw no threat of that now, and dispelled the thought from his mind. “Perhaps China isn’t so bad after all?”

Major Mike Hanson, USMC, is an Infantry Officer serving at The Basic School, where the Marine Corps trains its lieutenants to be provisional rifle platoon commanders. 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.

Featured Image: Artwork created with Midjourney AI.

Fiction Week

By Lieutenant Colonel Robert L. Burton, USMC (Ret.)

First Lieutenant Amelia Reynolds, a resilient and resourceful Army nurse, moved with purpose through the dense foliage of the jungle, her boots crunching softly against the forest floor. She was leading a small group, the weight of responsibility heavy on her shoulders. On the Autonomous Casualty Extraction Platform (ACEP), a robotic medical litter her team was escorting, rested a young, sedated Marine, sole survivor of an artillery barrage on his squad. Lance Corporal Jameson’s condition was stabilized but critical, his breaths shallow and labored.

“Keep moving, everyone,” she called out, her voice firm yet laced with concern. “We need to reach the ambulance exchange point before the tide comes in.”

As they pressed forward, navigating through the labyrinth of vegetation, Lieutenant Reynolds couldn’t shake the weight of their precarious situation. They were deep behind enemy lines, constantly at risk of detection by enemy sensors and drones. Every few days, sometimes more frequent, the Joint Combat Support Clinic (JCSC) she was attached to would displace and reestablish a new position several kilometers away, seeking to outmaneuver the enemy’s dragnet. The clinic was only a Role 1 facility, typically responsible for the initial treatment of casualties after evacuation from the battle, and manned by medical professionals from the Army, Air Force, and Navy. However, the character of this jungle conflict demanded a more distributed battlefield where formations down to the platoon level were often disaggregated to avoid targeting from the enemy’s immense intelligence collection apparatus.

Consequently, the JCSC was highly mobile and forced to provide prolonged care for days and even weeks before casualties could be evacuated to more capable facilities, much longer than the “golden hour” standard that many had become accustomed to in previous conflicts. Thus, missions such as this one were opportunistic and not regularly scheduled. When an operational window presented itself, every effort was made to evacuate the highest-priority casualties.

“We need to pick up the pace,” she urged, her senses on high alert.

An older and weathered island native named Anak, nodded in agreement. “We’re almost there, Lieutenant. Just a bit farther.” Anak, and many others from his village, often served as guides during these evacuations. Due to the enemy’s intense electronic jamming coupled with the heavy jungle canopy, global positioning systems receivers were not reliable for navigation. The clinic made sure to treat villagers who themselves had become victims of the enemy’s ruthless bombardments.

_____________________________________

Lieutenant Reynolds had endeared herself to Anak when she treated his young daughter who had fallen ill. He reluctantly approached her during one visit when her team was dropping off valuable medical supplies. In the early days of the conflict, his village was not sure if the American forces were sincere or had nefarious motives. Up until then, most of their knowledge about Americans originated from the enemy’s forces on the island. They were told grim and terrible stories about the Americans’ intentions for his people that ranged from enslavement to genocide. While Reynold’s was offloading some water bottles from her vehicle during that first visit, he observed her from a safe distance. When some of the children swarmed her, he watched as she kneeled down to their level, with an infectious smile, asking their names and later dancing and playing games with them.

Convinced that she harbored no ill intentions from the genuine joy expressed upon her face, he finally approached her and asked if she could help. She immediately grabbed her medical gear and followed him into his house. She rapidly examined his daughter and begin treating her. The seriousness in which she handled her, running back to her vehicle for additional medicines and sprinting back, proved to him his instincts had been correct. Reynolds was not only trustworthy, but the Americans had no evil intentions for his people. They were here to help, he thought.

His daughter’s condition rapidly improved over the following weeks, and Lieutenant Reynolds always made it a point to check on her when she visited. From that point on, Anak and his fellow villagers often volunteered their assistance guiding her and other American medical teams through the treacherous jungles. It was the least they could do to repay for the Americans’ efforts on their behalf.

_____________________________________

Suddenly, a crackling sound echoed through the trees, followed by the distant whir of rotor blades. Lieutenant Reynolds’s heart raced as she instinctively motioned for her team to take cover.

“Drones,” she whispered urgently, her grip tightening on her rifle.

With practiced efficiency, her security team sprang into action, setting up a makeshift camouflage tarp to shield themselves from prying eyes. Sergeant Ramirez crouched low beside the robotic litter carrier and casualty, his eyes fixed on the horizon. His team of combat engineers were critical to the clinic’s security. In addition to the firepower they brought along, they emplaced defensive measures such as mines, helped set up the clinic’s temporary sites, and cleared the enemy’s obstacles whenever encountered.

Lieutenant Reynolds felt a surge of gratitude for their unwavering dedication. Despite the constant peril facing them, they remained steadfast in their mission to save Lance Corporal Jameson’s life.

“Keep an eye on the perimeter,” she instructed, her voice steady despite the thick tension in the air. “We can’t afford to be detected.”

For what seemed an eternity, they remained hidden beneath the canopy, their breaths held in anticipation. Finally, the distant hum of the drones faded into the distance, leaving behind an eerie silence. Before they shed their camouflage, Lieutenant Reynolds took advantage of the tarp’s electromagnetic shielding properties to quickly assess her patient’s vitals. The tarp created a Faraday Cage effect which prevented any electronic signals from escaping, reducing the risk of compromise by any electromagnetic sensors the drone may have carried.

Her fingers flew over the touchscreen of a small device attached to the front of her armored plate carrier, dictating and updating the casualty care plan.

“Lance Corporal Jameson requires continuous monitoring of his vitals. Ensure the IV lines are secured and the walking blood bank, Sergeant Ramirez, stays close.”

Sergeant Ramirez, a combat engineer with a stoic demeanor, nodded in acknowledgment. His eyes scanned their surroundings, ever vigilant for signs of danger.

“We’re clear,” Sergeant Ramirez declared, his voice a low murmur.

With a collective sigh of relief, they resumed their journey, the urgency of their mission driving them forward. As they neared the ambulance exchange point on the beach, Lieutenant Reynolds’ mind raced with logistics and contingencies.

“Prepare the field blood transfusion kit,” she directed, her voice ringing out above the rustle of leaves. “We’ll need to administer another dose of O-negative blood before we transfer Lance Corporal Jameson to the ALPV.”

Specialist Alvarez, an Army medic, nodded in understanding, his hands already moving to assemble the necessary equipment, while Sergeant Ramirez, the walking blood bank, slung his rifle and rolled up his sleeves. Having the distinction of being a universal blood donor, his presence was critical to the team’s survival in more ways than one.

A technique honed by special operations units, but used as far back as World War I, the O-low titer protocol, or OLO, allows for rapid blood transfusions on the battlefield. Blood is drawn from a pre-identified universal donor then transferred to the casualty while the donor returns to combat. The whole procedure is usually completed in under ten minutes and enhances the patient’s survivability, especially when time is precious. In austere environments like this island’s jungles, refrigeration units for storing blood and medicines are luxuries, particularly for highly mobile medical clinics keen on avoiding detection and minimizing their footprint.

Working in tandem, Specialist Alvarez began drawing blood from Sergeant Ramirez while Lieutenant Reynolds prepped the unconscious Marine. After filling an intravenous bag with about a liter of the donor’s lifesaving blood, Reynolds’ attention was drawn away from her patient by a rumbling in the distance. The source of the thunder was clearly explosive in nature but difficult to determine if from an artillery impact, air-dropped munitions, or an improvised explosive device. Furthermore, whether it was a friendly or enemy action was also indeterminant. But one thing was clear – this jungle was not a permissive environment. A quick glance at her soldiers’ faces showed the grave reality had registered for them as well, and no words were necessary to drive that fact home. They quickly transfused the patient with the fresh blood, packed up their kit, and continued their movement.

Finally, they emerged from the jungle and reach a rugged beach where the ALPV, or Autonomous Low-Profile Vessel, awaited them in the shallow waters. Its sleek silhouette, mostly submerged, mimicked that of the clandestine vessels used by South American cartels to smuggle drugs. Its sight served as a beacon of hope amidst the chaos of war that was currently raging across the islands. With practiced precision, they guided the wounded Marine and the ACEP on to the vessel.

Lieutenant Reynolds felt a surge of relief wash over her as she watched the ALPV disappear into the horizon like a torpedo scraping the ocean’s surface. Its destination was the USNS Bethesda hospital ship waiting offshore. Despite the countless obstacles they had faced, they had succeeded in their mission to save one man’s life. Once recovered aboard the Bethesda, the Marine’s odds of survival would improve dramatically.

As they began the arduous journey back through the jungle, Lieutenant Reynolds couldn’t help but marvel at her team’s resilience. In the face of adversity, they had risen to the challenge. And though the path ahead remained uncertain, she knew they would continue to defy the odds. It was the bonds of camaraderie and the spirit of selflessness that truly defined them as warriors. She understood in that moment that the future of this conflict would be resolved not by technical advantages or weapons overmatch. But by the troops on the ground, facing the trials together while united in a shared mission to uphold the values of honor, duty, and loyalty.

And with that thought guiding her forward, Lieutenant Amelia Reynolds pressed on into the dark, tangled vines, her heart filled with hope for the future and the resolve to save more lives.

LtCol Robert L. Burton retired from the Marine Corps in 2021. A career tank officer, Robert continues to serve in the national security profession as a strategic planner focused on developing solutions to future warfare challenges. He is a graduate of the U.S. Naval Academy, U.S. Army School of Advanced Military Studies, U.S. Army War College (Superior Graduate), and the University of Mississippi.

Featured Image: Artwork made with Midjourney AI.

Fiction Week

By David Strachan

[T]he universe is an ocean, the moon is the Diaoyu Islands, Mars is Huangyan Island. If we don’t go there now even though we’re capable of doing so, then we will be blamed by our descendants. If others go there, then they will take over, and you won’t be able to go even if you want to. This is reason enough. –Ye Peijian, the father of Chang’e lunar probes

“Sixty Seconds.”

The voice of the young ensign wavered, amplifying the tension that permeated the dimly lit control room. Dr. Shilpa Devareddy, director of NASA’s Europa Lander program, stood behind a battery of naval officers and mission specialists, her eyes fixed upon a large, holographic sphere, a three-dimensional tactical display of the Jovian moon’s ocean interior where two groups of small ellipses – four red, four blue – were converging. The unfolding events had occurred nearly an hour before, the time it took for the data-laden transmission to travel 390 million miles to Earth, but they may as well have been happening in real time.

Shilpa placed a hand absently on the ensign’s shoulder. “Magnify, please.”

The blue ellipses morphed into detailed representations of Atom-class XE microsubmarines, variants of the U.S. Navy’s most advanced autonomous underwater vehicle that had been purpose-built for this mission. Each vehicle bristled not only with highly advanced scientific instruments designed to search for any trace of extraterrestrial life, but a wide range of countermeasures and effectors, as well as an artificial intelligence (affectionately known as “Falken”) that could pivot from mild-mannered explorer to rampaging warrior in a nanosecond.

The red ellipses now depicted similarly-rigged microsubmarine variants of the People’s Liberation Army Navy’s premier AUV, the Shāyú, or “shark.” The Chinese had watched the development of the Atom closely, recognizing it not only as a technological breakthrough, but as a platform poised to redefine the very nature of undersea warfare. When the Shāyú had first appeared, it was largely a crude facsimile of the Atom, quickly cobbled together for propaganda purposes rather than to fulfill any meaningful maritime objective. But over time it had become a formidable foe, embodying Beijing’s faith in autonomous undersea conflict as a key enabler of its expanding power and influence. Four Atom-XEs had blasted into the vacuum of space atop a SpaceX Starship, their hulls encased in a cryobot designed to carve a passage through miles of ancient ice before releasing them into the dark, frigid waters of Europa. Four Shāyus had followed ten months later atop a Long March 12 in a strikingly (though unsurprisingly) similar cryobot, and the two spacecraft spent the next three years racing each other across the solar system.

“Thirty seconds.”

Shilpa shook her head. How did we get here? It was inevitable that astrobiology, much like all of science itself, would be slowly subsumed by the machinations of geostrategy and power politics, but for the scientist in her, it was as absurd as it was immoral. She bristled at the notion of exporting human conflict to another world, and in the name of scientific exploration no less. If we cannot explore in peace, should we even explore at all? But for the Navy and the powers that be, it was simply a matter of realpolitik – entirely predictable and unavoidable. Confrontations like these were now commonplace beneath the surface of the Earth’s oceans. Beginning in the late 2020s, as the subsea domain became ever more a battleground of strategic competition, the first American and Chinese pods of microsubmarines entered on duty, and the great powers began leveraging the opaque subsea domain to wage a shadowy, anonymous war of sabotage, denial, and deception. Shāyú attacks on uncrewed seabed science installations occurred with alarming regularity, and Shilpa flashed to a poorly heated SCIF aboard the R/V Atlantis where she watched in real-time as a CURV-21 remotely operated vehicle surveyed the wreckage of a NASA-Navy underwater test range off the coast of Antarctica.

“Twenty seconds.”

Some fifteen years before, in October, 2024, she’d been huddled with NASA colleagues, tears welling up in their eyes, as Europa Lander’s predecessor, Europa Clipper,  left Kennedy Launch Pad 39A atop a SpaceX Falcon Heavy on a mission to capture imagery of the surface of the Galilean moon, and study its chemical composition and geology. Seven years later, when sensitive onboard instruments found traces of life in samples of atmospheric water droplets, the Chinese accelerated development of their own landing mission while simultaneously subjecting NASA, JPL, APL, university research centers, and anyone with a connection to the Europa Lander program to near-constant cyber assault. As Beijing began making concerning, if somewhat laughable, interplanetary claims, it grew increasingly likely that Atoms and Shāyús were destined to clash beneath the icy surface of the ocean moon. Shilpa, the career NASA scientist, the pacifist and peacekeeper, suddenly found herself turning to the U.S. Navy for help in developing an autonomous underwater vehicle capable of not only analyzing the complex ocean properties of an alien world, but, if necessary, defending itself against Chinese aggression.

“Fifteen seconds.”

There was a time when the tyranny of distance would have posed an insurmountable barrier to such interplanetary undersea operations, with semi-autonomous Atoms and Shāyus powered by lithium-ion batteries and hydrogen fuels cells relying on human operators using SATCOM, surface communication nodes, and low-bandwidth underwater transmissions to control their operation. But breakthroughs in energy production, acoustic communication, and artificial intelligence had changed that. The advent of LENRs (Low Energy Nuclear Reactors) meant AUVs enjoyed unlimited energy to power not only sophisticated sensor, navigation, and communication systems, but the complex algorithms and computational load required to process the terabytes of data generated on a daily basis. It also meant sustained cruising speeds of 20 to 30 knots, with the ability to move freely about Europa’s subsurface ocean – roughly 6,055 miles in circumference, smaller than the circumference of Earth’s moon – in a matter of days. They’re going to find us. Shilpa had spent many a sleepless night contemplating the moment. It’s not a matter of if, but when. 

And then?

“Ten seconds.” 

Now all she could do was watch and wait, and hope that the Atom’s dizzying array of cutting-edge technologies would perform as expected, that Falken was truly as cunning and capable as everyone believed, and that, if it really came down to it, the AI’s extensive training in underwater combat tactics would be enough to repel any Shāyú attacks, and enable the mission to survive for at least one more day. Shilpa recoiled at the idea of human-engineered violence breaking out on another world. But she also refused to be bullied, and she understood – all too well – that the only way to stop a bully is to stand your ground. Swim softly and carry a micro-warhead. 

“Five.”

Or maybe all the posturing, the rhetoric, the weaponization – maybe they were all just byproducts of a pernicious, Cold War-esque paranoia. Maybe somewhere in a dimly lit control room on the other side of the world reason had taken hold, and a shared sense of curiosity – of humanity – would prevail. Shilpa stared at the hologram. Maybe somehow they too understand that science belongs to all of us.

“Four.”

Shilpa watched as the targets closed on each other, and she suddenly found herself picturing her young daughter, swinging in the backyard –

“Three.”

The way she’d look up toward the heavens –

“Two.”

As if wondering to herself:

“One.”

Is anyone out there?

David R. Strachan is a defense analyst and founder of Strikepod Systems, a research service focused on autonomous undersea systems.

Featured Image: Artwork made with Midjourney AI.

Fiction Week

By Addison Pellerano

24 September 2027

LCDR Angela “LJ” Lee piloted the 737 military jet in a wide arc across the vibrant blue waters of the South China Sea. The jet engines’ pitch increased with the angle of bank, the auto throttles moving in unison as the jet demanded more power to remain at altitude.

The radio suddenly came alive. “Aircraft at location N 09 27 34 E 116 44 58, you are violating Chinese national airspace. Please turn around and leave the area.”

“LJ” looked at her copilot, double checking that he wasn’t about to respond to the radio call. They had recently been told to not respond to queries, especially when supporting the Philippine resupply missions to Sabina Shoal. The Chinese had become increasingly bold in the South China Sea, further pushing their claims to the area within the ten-dash line. The US’s absence from the South China Sea had been felt, as the military, specifically the Navy, committed more forces to reduce tensions within the Middle East and the conflict between Israel and Hamas.

This was the last mission of her squadron’s deployment to 7th Fleet. In a few days, they were going to pack up and return to NAS Whidbey Island in Washington state. “LJ” was looking forward to getting back since her brother commissioned as an Ensign in the Navy this past spring, and she had missed it. They had planned to spend her POM leave driving the western seaboard and exploring the northern coast of…

“BREAK RIGHT! BREAK RIGHT! MISSILE LAUNCH AT OUR 9 O’CLOCK!” The voice in her headphones screamed.

“LJ” snapped back from her thoughts, pushing the yoke forward and rolling the aircraft into a diving turn to the right. She mashed the autopilot button on the yoke to disengage the computer, giving her control of the large aircraft. The countermeasures were popping like popcorn as they exited the diving aircraft. Picking up speed, the blue ocean grew ever larger in the windscreen. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears over the noise of the accelerating aircraft. Time seemed to stand still as she spoke into the microphone, “WHERE IS THE MISSILE?”  

“SIX O’CLOCK AND CLOSING!” one of the sensor operators in the rear responded.

Her palms sweat as she reversed her turn and increased the dive, willing the jet to outmaneuver the incoming missile, to respond to her control inputs. It wasn’t enough. The P-8 hung in midair for a second as the right wing separated, cartwheeling the body into the ocean.

The second Cold War had threatened to come to a rolling boil in the weeks and months following the Chinese shootdown of the US P-8. The tensions in the region reached an all-time high. The US posture was one of deterrence and presence, doubling the number of assets in theater with support from allies. Shortly after the shootdown, the US Congress approved two military aid packages – one to the Philippines and the other to Taiwan. These packages included upgraded platforms, new technology, and weapon systems that could challenge the Chinese in a fight, further adding to the tension.

24 September 2029

The chilled fall wind whipped through the building whose doors and windows had long ago succumbed to the harsh Alaskan weather, allowing mother nature to reclaim the decrepit building. LTJG Andrew Lee leaned up against a wall whose paint was peeling or non-existent, exposing the bare cinderblocks to all those who entered her. Andrew didn’t seem to notice the state of the building around him, nor the cold wind that was being blown in from the Bering Sea.

Andrew scrolled through countless schematics of old electrical systems, looking for the one that would help his team of technicians charged with restoring the decommissioned Long-Range Navigation (LORAN) station on Adak Island. He had been at it for hours, swiping through scanned documents from the 50s, 60s, and 70s about the LORAN equipment installed at decommissioned sites around the world. He pulled his Navy-issue parka closer, hoping to protect himself from the cold sea breeze. Locking the screen of his tablet, he walked to the front entrance, where rusted hinges were all that remained of what was once a proper door.

As he crested the hill outside the transmitter building, he could see the makeshift harbor and the antenna farm. Marines moved supplies up from the harbor to the cluster of buildings, digging foxholes before the permafrost set in. Did they really think they would be attacked here? he asked himself, taking a seat on a lone rock.

The coolness of the rock seeped through his trousers as he looked out over the harbor and outward to the Bering Sea and the North Pacific. He suddenly felt so small in the world, a cog in the larger machine. It had been two years since his sister had been shot down by a Chinese destroyer while in support of the Philippine Coast Guard mission to resupply their troops on Sabina Shoal.

Since then, he had thrown himself into his work as a newly minted Ensign and Information Warfare Officer in the Navy. He pushed thoughts of his big sister to the back of his mind. He was the OIC responsible for getting the LORAN station back online to fight China’s increased interference with US satellites, specifically GPS satellites. He also had been given a fleet of USV and UAS platforms to provide security for the island against unwanted visitors and to act as senor nodes in the US’s larger push for autonomous and remote sensing across the battlespace.

2200 Local on 15 October 2029

The sound of the island’s Patriot battery missiles exploded into the night sky, racing to intercept the incoming projectiles. The building shook around him as another missile left the launcher, the noxious exhaust rolling across the island. The launch alarm on the NASSMs launcher wailed, shortly followed by the whoosh of the missile launch and the eerie quiet that followed.

Heart racing, Andrew stumbled his way into the team’s modified operation center, several monitors hooked up to a couple different computers and a Starlink terminal. RW1 Ruiz Castro sat in front of the monitors, receiving the data feeds from multiple of their USVs. RW1 looked up as LTJG Lee entered through the door frame, the blue light of the ops center casting a glow across the space. “That was something else, Sir. I am glad no leakers got through,” he said softly.

All Andrew could do was nod his head in agreement, still in a bit of shock from the engagement. His throat hurt as well, probably from the missile exhaust gases. He needed some water. The latest intelligence update from three days ago did not indicate that hostilities had commenced or were imminent.

“No contacts out there yet, Sir,” RW1 said wearily. He had been on watch for almost six hours and was nearing the end of his shift. “Though, I am not sure what we expect to find with cameras and only one radar equipped USV. This weather is not helping either.”

While September had been cool, it had been sunny and clear most days. But October had brought high winds, reduced visibility, low clouds, and high sea states. Not to mention it was cold as well.

“Can we vector Windy 05 to the southwest, Ruiz?” Andrew asked. Windy 05 was their biggest Windward USV and equipped with radar, able to handle the higher sea states, and still provide the ISR the Sailors, Marines, and Soldiers needed to defend Adak Island. In the last month, the island’s population had grown to support the US’s posture in the Pacific and was now acting as a hub in the Navy and Marine Corps EABO concept of operations.

“We can try, Sir. The weather has picked up offshore and is limiting any forward progress of our fleet. The wind is too high to launch any of our UAS,” RW1 responded, enlarging the onscreen feed from Windy 05.

“Roger. I am going to call PACFLT and see if we can get them to send WAHOO underway,” Andrew said. The experimental medium Unmanned Surface Vessel (USV) designed for Anti-Submarine Warfare was larger than anything his team had, capable of superior performance in these sea states, and with an advanced towed array that would be useful in finding any surface ships or submarines.

Andrew picked up a red phone that was part of their expeditionary compute center and quickly dialed the battle watch captain. The phone call was quick and left him scowling. He slid the phone back into its cradle and returned to RW1. “They won’t let us use WAHOO because of the weather predictions,” Andrew said quietly.

“Roger, Sir. I will continue to try to get Windy 05 to move towards the southwest,” RW1 responded, eyes glued to his console. Andrew could see he was working on reprogramming the USV to search for a surface combatant.

Andrew was tired, the last month had exhausted him. All the unique systems his team used were proprietary, had their own interface, didn’t use the same language, and were built for different data networks or only had partial capabilities. He couldn’t even modify the programs to make the systems better or more compatible. RW1 had submitted the software change requests a month ago. However, due to budget restrictions, they hadn’t been accepted yet. He drifted to the corner where his sleeping bag lay and attempted to get some rest.

The first shells landed close to midnight. The explosions shook the ground and building around him. Andrew bolted out of his bed towards the command center. The harsh fall wind cut through his light sleeping layers, swirling toward him through the jagged edges of wall and a large hole where the door frame once stood. His heart raced as fear creeped into his mind, but he willed himself forward. In the dimly lit command center, RW1 was on the radio calling in counter-fires to the Marine NEMESIS team.

One of the video monitors that displayed the Windward USV’s camera feeds was filled with a white shimmering apparition of a naval vessel, a People’s Liberation Army Navy Type 54A frigate. Machine gun rounds splashed in the water around the USV as the frigate attempted to sink it. Suddenly, the entire screen went white and static, and Andrew’s stomach churned. At his side, RW1’s initial look of shock slowly morphed into a smile.

“We got her. The Marines report good effects from the NEMESIS battery,” he said in a quiet voice.

Andrew hadn’t even noticed the sounds of the missile launches, so engrossed he was in the video feed. As time passed, the camera feed came back into focus to reveal that the frigate was missing the forward part of the superstructure down to the water line, and the metal below the flight deck was twisted outward, as if inviting the crashing waves into the hull of the stricken vessel.

31 October 2029

Finally, a quiet day on Adak Island. The PLAN continued to shell, sporadically launching missiles and sending aircraft raids towards the island. To the defenders, it did not seem that China was serious about taking the island or stopping American activities there. The Army and Marines fiercely defended the island from the attacks, even striking back when the Navy’s unmanned systems were able to provide targetable data.

In the last week, the Chinese had effectively blinded them by using a denial of service (DDoS) attack on the US’s satellite constellation. This prevented LTJG Lee and his team from accessing the sensor feeds from their autonomous vehicles without access to GPS and internet services such as Starlink. Without a datalink of their own, the systems had become expensive modern art sculptures.

As the daylight receded, LTJG Lee sat at the work bench, tinkering with a software defined radio (SDR) and a single board computer (SBC), attempting to get them to talk to each other. He was buried in his work when he heard soft footsteps coming up behind him. He turned to RW1 walking in, bruised and bleeding from a cut on his head.

RW1’slips moved, yet nothing came out as he crumpled to the ground.

Andrew jumped off his stool and raced towards his fallen Sailor. Quickly, he assessed that the only injury to RW1 was the cut and some bruising. He took the time to move RW1 into his sleeping bag, called for a corpsman, and sat next to RW1 while the corpsman took his vitals and assessed him.

“It looks like he might have a concussion. He must have fallen into one of the shell craters or a foxhole,” HM3 Smith said quietly. “Just wake him in a few hours, and make sure he gets plenty of water as well.” HM3 got up and walked back out into the cool night.

Andrew sighed as he stood up, his body aching a bit from the sleeping arrangements. Thankfully, the workbench was portable. He moved the table and the electronics he was working on near RW1’s sleeping area so he could work and watch over RW1.

He walked into the Command Center, seeing black monitors and red lights on the Starlink status. He turned to see ET2 Brown running the hourly diagnostics check on the LORAN set. Luckily, they had been able to use new hardware and software to build a modern LORAN set, which was much smaller, used less power, and was easier to maintain. It was finally something the government acquisitions world got right, opensource, and it wasn’t something crazy proprietary, he reflected.

“ET2, I am going to be working in the berthing area. RW1 fell outside while walking back to the building and probably has a concussion. Come get me if you need anything.”

“Roger, Sir. I hope RW1 is doing okay. All the LORAN equipment is still up and working. No issues this evening. I turn over in a couple hours, I can relieve you on the RW1 watch then,” ET2 responded, concern lining his face.

“I will let you know; I hope the corpsman comes back and helps us with this since it is only the four of us. I will be working on my JACK O’LANTERN project while I monitor RW1.” Andrew grabbed a spool of wire and a soldering kit as he left the room.

Back at his workbench, Andrew sat down, pulling out the soldering iron and the solder. He picked up what looked like a RC aircraft and began running wires, connecting the SDR to the SBC and the flight controller board. The night wind whispered as it moved over the island, twisting around the buildings and the inhabitants.

A few hours later, he closed the laptop as he stood up, RC aircraft its controller in hand. He stepped out into the night, the darkness and the cool wind engulfing him. He considered the wind and deemed it acceptable for his aircraft. Winding up as if to throw a javelin, he launched the aircraft into the air.

I sure hope this works, he thought as he watched his creation catch an updraft. The small motor whirred to life as he depressed the start button. The high-pitched buzz mixed with the wind’s sounds, and the screen illuminated on the controller. At first it was dark, but when he squeezed one of the handles on the controller, the screen came to life. I will have to resolder that connection, he mused. He made a mental note of what to fix.

The UAS was now climbing and pushing out towards the sea. This was not the aircraft’s maiden flight on Adak, as he had done many familiarization flights with the thing. This was the first flight with a camera payload and a datalink to be able to see what the camera was seeing in real. time. The UAS crossed the beach line, and that is when he saw it. A row of amphibious vehicles crashing through the surf. Over the hiss of the wind, a faint whistling sound was growing louder…

“Get down, inc…”

LCDR Addison Pellerano is a Naval Aviator and a department head at HSM-71.

Featured Image: Artwork made with Midjourney AI.