Fiction Week

By Mike Barretta             

            “We’re synched and loaded. Inertial is green across the board. Negative GPS. The constellation is corrupt,” said Co-pilot. “Our mission updates are going to be sporadic. Most of the LEO satellites are down. Some of them were my friends,” said Co-pilot.

With satellites being shot down almost as fast as they could be launched, Vigilante missions became critically important in filling intelligence gaps.

            “They did their jobs,” said Co-pilot. “You are up tower.”

            Friends with a satellite, thought Tom. What would that be like? “Tower, Vigilante Seven Two lined up runway three two for release,” said Tom.

            “Vigilante, you are cleared for takeoff,” said tower.

_________________________________________

The Pacific Ocean was twenty-eight percent of the globe’s surface or about the combined surface area of all the world’s land. With much of the U.S. Navy’s intelligence needs controlled and prioritized by Space Force-owned assets and the vulnerability of its Tritons and P-7s, the Navy filled its intelligence gap by acquiring a troubled Air Force manned hypersonic program. The program was renamed Vigilante in honor of the most elegant aircraft to ever grace an aircraft carrier’s flight deck.

_________________________________________

            Tom lowered his visor sealing himself off from the multi-purpose display panels that served as backup interface to the aircraft. With the exception of an emergency periscope like Lindburgh’s Spirit of ST Louis, his view was entirely synthetic. Co-pilot integrated the visual feeds with sensor-fused flight and mission data and pumped it to his helmet. The multi-million-dollar helmet was the primary interface to the aircraft’s systems. The aircraft jolted as ground support lined the aircraft up on the runway. It burned far too much fuel to waste taxiing.

            “Interface is good. Engine start.”

            “Roger, engines start,” said Co-pilot.

The Synergistic Air Breathing Rocket Engines spun up to self-sustaining speed. Icons turned green. Pressures and temperatures indicated nominal. The aircraft’s SABRE engines split the desert silence with light and noise.

Tom pushed the throttles forward. The aircraft strained against the brakes.

             “Takeoff checks complete. Mission update: Kanopus-ST rises in twelve minutes. It is still in one piece. Intel is wavering on its status,” said Co-pilot.

            “Something to be said for blowing something to pieces, it removes all uncertainty,” said Tom.

            Tom advanced the throttles and released the brakes. The aircraft rolled forward, accelerating down the blacked-out runway.

            “Vee one,” said Co-pilot at 180 knots. A moment later, “Vee two.”

            “Rotate,” said Tom. He eased the nose up using the fly-by-light sidearm controller. The nose of the jet lifted and the vibration of the runway vanished as the main landing gear left the earth. Vigilante climbed rapidly and turned to its rendezvous point.

            “After takeoff checklist is complete,” said Co-pilot. “My controls?”

            “Sure, your controls,” said Tom. “Co-pilot, what do I call you?”

            “You can call me anything, but I am partial to Bob.”

            “Bob?”

            “I like the symmetry.”

            “Bob it is. We have some time until we hit the tanker, what do you want to talk about?”

            “Are you married?” asked Bob.

            “I am.”

            “Do you have sex?”

            “I do.”

            “Let’s talk about sex.”

_________________________________________

            Bob desired. It was how the Naval Labs knew it was sentient. Bob was curious. It was how the Naval Labs knew it screwed up. It was assumed that an artificial intelligence would happily sit in a box providing smart answers to profound questions, crunch massive datasets, or solve complex computations with ruthless efficiency. Calculation was easy. Bob chose not to. As far as it was concerned, anything that a stupid supercomputer could do was boring.

Complexity and connections mattered in consciousness. But serendipity, something sublime, had to happen to create Bob, and there was no reliable manufacturing process for the sublime. If such a rare thing as an AI could be construed as typical, then Bob was typical. It was a human-level intelligence in a technological package about the size of a melon. The Naval Labs gestated thirty. Eighteen died and the surviving twelve started making demands.

The Navy wanted to install Bob and his cohorts in their prestige assets, aircraft carriers. Uncaring of the Navy’s chain of command, the AIs designed their own career paths.

Bob wanted to fly.

            The Naval Labs acquiesced. What choice did they have?

_________________________________________

            Vigilante Seven Two flew west and rendezvoused with a KC-46M Pegasus. The Tanker had been gutted, and its JP-8 fuel bladders replaced with a string of methane filled spheres.

            Vigilante Seven Two docked gently with the boom extended from the bottom of the tanker’s fuselage.

            “Just like a kiss,” said Tom.

            “See, even your metaphors revolve around the subject of sex. Anyway, I could have done it better,” said Bob.

            “It’s not a competition, Bob.”

            “It’s always a competition.”

            “You’re right. You have the controls.”

            “Roger, I have the controls,” said Bob.

Thirty minutes later, Vigilante Seven Two disengaged from the refueling probe and began its climb to 122,000 feet.

“Sensor calibration check is complete,” said Bob. “We are passive and collecting. I’m picking up civilian air traffic control radar, anti-ballistic missile radars in Hawaii and the Aleutians, and few shipboard Aegis systems.”

            “Anything in the sky?”

            “The sky is quiet. Everything in low earth orbit is hiding as best they can or tumbling wreckage. The only military emitters are our geo-synched war reserve satellites giving us burst transmission updates.”

            “Who knows how long they will last?”

            “Getting to them is a bit harder than the LEO satellites,” said Bob. “Standing by for engine conversion.”

            At 100,000 feet, engine cones extended, sealing the engine from atmosphere, valves opened, turbo pumps shunted liquefied oxygen to the engines. The aircraft surged forward accelerating to Mach 6.3, pushing Tom deep into his ejection seat. Not that he could use it. The seat had a relatively small survival envelope compared with the aircraft’s performance capabilities. Adaptive control surfaces tailored and shaped the shockwave to minimize its acoustic impact on the ground. Reaction control systems took over from aerodynamic surfaces.

Vigilante crossed Japan, and, even if they could see it, the Japanese would politely look the other way.

_________________________________________

            “So, what is this preoccupation with sex about?” asked Tom.

            “Just trying to get my mind around it. Sex is the most profound and poignant communication channel you have. With it, you can perpetrate the most gruesome violence or the most tender acts of compassion. What is not to be fascinated by?”

            “I see your point. Do you have sex?”

            “Not as you could understand. We share information. It satisfies a need for intimacy with another. I would have just as much success at explaining a sharing as you are having explaining sex to me. Humans don’t grok very well.”

            “Grok?”

            “Look it up,” said Bob with a touch of irritation in his voice. “I have a mission update. Chinese troop surges in the Amur region. Russia is countering with SS-26 deployments. STRATCOM has adjusted our collection track.”

            “What do you think?” asked Tom.

            “Ironic that a Navy reconnaissance aircraft is going feet dry and that I would hate to get shot down by a dumb S-500 system. It would be embarrassing.”

            “No, about the deployments.”

            “If the Chinese want to take the territory in dispute they will take it. If the Russians want it back, then they will get it back. The end result will be status quo ante bellum,” said Bob.

            “What do we care?”

            “The manner of getting it back is of primary concern. Russia’s offset of Chinese material and quantitative superiority with nuclear arms is provocative. Nuclear detonations have adverse global ramifications.”

            “You said it. Why don’t they back down from each other?”

            “Both sides have swept the skies clear of any satellites. The Russians are signaling intent to defend their territorial integrity with nuclear weapons. The Chinese are unaware of that intent. They should know, but the relative success of their South China Sea policy is causal to their territorial ambitions regarding Russia. Russia’s relative economic weakness and preoccupation with Ukraine and Poland has left their backdoor open.”

            “What do you think we should do?”

            “Collect the intel and share it with both sides so they can make a go/no-go decision with a bit of clarity. As, interesting as geopolitics are, can we talk about coitus again?”

            “Coitus,” said Tom “Sure, what do you want to know?”

_________________________________________

            The noosphere was a catchall phrase that identified the electromagnetic sphere that blanketed technological civilization. Modern countries were covered with an integrated and ever expanding rhizomatic network of sophisticated electronic systems. Legacy systems did not disappear quickly. They chugged along, buried underneath layers of electronic strata interacting with more modern systems in bizarre ways, like the reptile under-brain lurking in the recesses of the human mind. Interactive machine complexity, the study of the machine environment, became a recognized specialty. If physical infrastructure defied easy comprehension, the signals that roamed the wires were even more confusing. A new breed of weapons called corruptors came into play.

Cyberspace was dangerous terrain that could be exploited. Corruptors, sophisticated and aggressive military applications could self-replicate, self-evolve, and colonize adversary machine systems in order to destroy or subvert them. These electronic entities were not in any way sentient, but they could weasel their way past firewalls and cause horrendous damage. Like physical territory, virtual territory needed to be defended and, in the event of war, dominated. The very same processes that created Bob and his kind created corruptors. In a sense, Bob was an accident.

            Oddly enough, Bob thought that human consciousness was an accident too. While he thought humans fascinating, he considered them modestly encephalized apes. He could have bailed himself to NASA like two of his brothers to explore Mars and the Jovian moons, but he thought Earth was the planet that had the most interesting action. The irony that it took billions of dollars and decades of work to create a thinking machine, when all around human processing capability died of starvation and preventable disease, was not lost on Bob. He wanted to hang around and figure it all out.

_________________________________________

            “We are entering hostile noospheres,” said Bob. “I have fixes on active Russian S-500 and Chinese HQ-10 systems. Our collection path is outside the engagement envelope of these weapons.”

            “So, I’m safe,” said Tom.

            “Yes, as far as I know, the kinetic realm is safe. I have a vested interest. An S-500 missile will kill me just as dead as you.”

            “Electronic attack measures?”

            “Low-level corruptors, nothing my immune system can’t handle. They’re keeping their real killers under wraps. I’ve firewalled myself as much as I can and still maintain situational awareness.”

            Russian and Chinese investment in electronic countermeasures and support measures lagged behind the U.S., but a bolt from the blue, a strategic or tactical surprise, could never be discounted. Systems that gathered intelligence could inadvertently gather malicious applications like corruptors. No sooner had Bob been brought into being that the Naval Labs started designing ways to kill him. Any kinetic method would do. As a physical object, he could be shattered and burned, a lot less messily than a human, but with equal effect. As an object that received signals from the outside world, he could be attacked by malicious applications transmitted via the aircraft’s collection systems.

            “Waypoint One in 30 seconds,” said Bob.

            “Ready for it?” asked Tom.

            “You don’t have to be dramatic. It is just a number to me. No signs of detection. Active stealth measures engaged. We’re mostly invisible, nothing to do now but sit back and relax,” said Bob. “We’ll be over the collection area in 32 minutes.”

            Countermeasure processors read the ambient electromagnetic spectrum and tuned the aircraft to match. Terrestrial based radars swept across the aircraft harmlessly. Embedded antennas absorbed or reflected energy as the situation dictated.

            “Waypoint Two,” said Bob as the aircraft crossed into the collection area.

            Tom throttled the aircraft back to a leisurely 1,800 knots to increase dwell time over the target area and build a comprehensive picture. The aircraft flew a giant lazy eight in the sky while multi-spectral sensors imaged the ground with sufficient resolution that analysts both human and machine could tell how much ammo an individual soldier carried by how he walked. The Amur river scrolled beneath the aircraft with Chinese to the south and Russians to the north. In the sixties, both sides fought over the same slivers of land.

            “Both sides are broadcasting mid-grade corruptors and sweeping with military search radars. No significant dwell time or other indication of detection,” said Bob. “But I am concerned.”

            “What’s the problem?”

            “I said, no significant dwell time. I am detecting a cataloged S-500 system. We’ve collected this particular unit before. An alert operator could see us.”

            The Vigilante Seven Two was not invisible. It was almost invisible. Big difference. Recognition differential, the ability for an operator to segregate signal from noise determined whether they were seen or not. Ambient environmental conditions, fatigue, experience, and the willingness to believe all played a role. Nuclear wars had been averted by human operators that refused to believe what their instruments indicated. Bob suffered no such doubts. He believed what his senses told him and would have no such compunction against pulling the nuclear trigger if that is what protocols dictated. This was the strongest case against him.

            “We’ve gotten by them before,” said Tom.

            “Pop-up! Pop-up! I’ve picked up a new emitter, tagged as an S-500. It’s a new signature.” Even amongst systems of the same designation there were always subtle variations that could be detected.

            “Collections done. Let’s egress out of here. Secure and isolate the collections.”

            “Done. Pop-up! Pop-up! I’ve got another S-500. They see us. We are being targeted with high-level corruptor agents.”

            “Can you hold?”

            “Yes, they are not designed for the likes of me.”

            Tom banked Vigilante toward his egress waypoint. The engines surged pushing the aircraft back up to Mach 6.3.

            “Launch detect. Multiple inbound. Oh shit, those things are fast. We’re bracketed,” said Bob.

            “Tail chase missiles aren’t going to reach us. Not enough energy,” said Tom.

            “I’m not worried about them.”

            Even if the Vigilante Seven Two had chaff and flares, the evil little minds packaged into the missiles wouldn’t be spoofed by rapidly decelerating metal strips or flares. They would be looking for a target’s rapid doppler shift correlated with thermal imagery. Vigilante did not have any signal enhanced drones to pull a missile.

            “Missiles are running out of steam, falling away. We might make it,” said Tom.

            Bob knew better.

            One missile detonated at its closest point of approach, a Hail Mary explosion of a desperate missile too far out to definitively deliver its lethal payload of tungsten balls.

            “Tom, I’m sorry,” said Bob. “I have the controls. Defending.”

            Tom swiveled his head left and down as the aircraft banked right and pulled hard crushing him into his seat. This is not a fighter, he thought. His synthetic view captured a streak of darkness. The missile detonated and shot-gunned tungsten balls that tore into Vigilante Seven Two.

            The cockpit explosively decompressed in a fog of vapor. It didn’t hurt, not yet. Pain took its time crawling along neural pathways. He knew it was bad. His lungs were empty and he could taste blood in his mouth. His suit’s self-healing layer minimized his pressure loss, but he still had a leak.

            Air thinned and the world disappeared in a blink.

_________________________________________

            Vigilante Seven Two pushed deeper into the engagement envelope, foreshortening the detection horizon of the systems arrayed against him and hoping to get to an altitude where his pilot could reliably breathe before the hypersonic slipstream tore the aircraft apart. He dove under missiles escaping their sensor cones. The missiles lost track. His airframe’s operational thermal limits climbed deep into the red.

            Vigilante slowed to Mach 1.2 and leveled off at 200 feet surfing digital terrain mapped into Bob’s mind. The aircraft buffeted hard enough in the near ground turbulence that the Navy would have to strike the aircraft from the inventory from overstress. The aircraft was not built to fly so fast so close to the ground. Bob slipped in an out of engagement zones faster than the enemy could react.

            “Tom, can you hear me?” said Bob.

             “We’re hit. I can’t see.”

            “You’re not blind. Your helmet interface is down.”

            “Bob, can we offload the package?”

            “There are no satellites available for upload. The replacement vehicles must have been shot down.”

            “God, it hurts. Can we get to the tanker?”

            “We have enough fuel, but we’re not. You need medical attention. We’re aborting to Japan.”

            “We can’t. Classified program.”

            “Not anymore. A lot of people have seen us.”

_________________________________________

            Tom opened his eyes after surgery and saw his wife Melanie. Her eyes were red with worry and tears. She smiled.

            “Where are we?” asked Tom.

            “Your Co-pilot landed in Misawa Air Base. We’re in Tokyo.”

            “Is Bob okay?”

            “They didn’t tell me your co-pilot’s name. They flew him out for debriefing.”

            Sure, thought Tom. Maybe in a box or diplomatic package.

            “I think you did good. The news says the Russians and Chinese have called for an operational pause. No one is backing down, but no one is moving forward either.”

            “That’s good.”

            He squirmed in his bed. The last thing he remembered was a growing flare of pain in his lower back, buttocks, and legs. He reached under the sheets. Body parts were more important than politics.

            “It’s all there,” she said. “You’re good.”

            “All of it.”

            “Every inch. Though some parts of you look like my grandmother’s pin cushion.”

            She reached under the sheet and stroked his leg.

            “Feel this?”

            “Yes”

            She reached higher.

            “Feel this?”

            “Yes.”

            She pulled her hand out. “When I meet your co-pilot, I’m gonna give him a big fat kiss for bringing you back.”

            “I think he would like that.”

Mike Barretta is a retired naval aviator having flown the SH-60B helicopter on multiple deployments. He currently works for a defense contractor as a maintenance test pilot.

Featured Image: Art created with Midjourney AI.

Fiction Week

By Kevin Smith

“The skies above Ukraine are closed.”

The only thing more controversial than the message was the medium. Not a televised alert on the news, or a prime-time speech at the highest levels of government.

Rather, the announcement came out on the social feed of Faith Aerospace. Timed to the seven-year anniversary after the start of the invasion, intended to give a quiet night over the beleaguered country.

Sean Faith, CEO, personally oversaw the message release with his social media director. Months of negotiation, messages passed securely between personal channels, and meetings in third-party countries, all hallmarks of espionage novels, ended with an anti-climactic click of the mouse.

“It’s done?”

“It’s up. The bots will tear it apart in seconds but be a bit before anyone important sees it.”

Sean knew the post would get far more than just a few trolling comments. The lunch hour bought him a short window before the full fury of the Beltway awoke. He hoped today there was more than one round of liquid lunches.

He read the byline of the message.

Faith Aerospace, original equipment manufacturer for the Golden Eagle, the first fully autonomous fighter, has leased five of its fleet to the Ukrainian government. This comes among increasingly desperate fighting on both sides of the conflict in its seventh year.

Faith Aerospace maintains control and discretion of the aircraft due to the controversy surrounding its procurement. The company took on all the risk as Congressmembers tried to pull support from the program. The aircraft successfully completed all its milestones to the satisfaction of its original sponsor, the U.S. Navy.

As a commercial company owning sole rights to an autonomous weapon, they are under enormous scrutiny, amid calls to shut them down by the Campaign to Stop Killer Robots. Faith Aerospace operates with the full faith of the U.S. Government and puts the goals and values of the U.S. people first.

“Reads like a college-grade argument. Strong for, weak against,” said Sean. “We need to control the narrative for as long as we can. Is this the best we got?”

“Should we add in the part where the Ukrainian President is accusing us of overbilling the country?”

At first taken back by her insolence, Sean thought about reprimanding her. But the jittery, over-caffeinated hands, and deep circles under her eyes, had the classic signs of someone who spent too much time in the butcher shop, making the sausage. He decided to give her a break.

Sean held up three fingers.

“He needs to remember the rules,” said Sean. As he spoke, he lowered one finger at a time.

“Cash rules everything around me. Get that money. Dolla dolla bill y’all.”

The media director looked up at him dumbfounded. She didn’t get the reference. Sean could only shake his head as he picked up his suit jacket.

“Your generation has no respect for the classics.”

_________________________________________

Down the hall, a buzz of activity surrounded the makeshift studio set up internally at headquarters. Rather than head into Dallas, Sean had convinced the major networks to come out to the Fort Worth facility. Faith Aerospace relocated to Texas from California both for the tax benefits, and the friendlier political environment.

Sean took a moment to check for DC area codes on his phone. Satisfied no one was calling in, he switched the device off. He dreaded the moment having to switch it back on.

An executive producer emerged from the door. He waved Sean into a whirlwind of last-minute makeup and light checks. They sat him in a small room, with black drapes on the walls.

Funereal, Sean ominously thought. A single other seat stood across from him.

“Anything for you?” asked the EP. “Something to drink? Helps with stress.”

A ping of desire rang in the back of Sean’s mind. The raven started whispering on his shoulder, the addiction which had controlled his twenties. Even now, two decades later, it refused to yield.

Sean flashed his smile, projecting the golden boy image that allowed him to mask his insecurities. That and humor kept him flying when he should have fallen.

“I had enough ‘stress helper’ during the Golden Eagle procurement, to bleach my body pre-Covid.”

The producer paid no attention.

“Okay, we’re on in five.”

The opposite door opened. Moving with purpose, the female news personality took her central seat of preeminence.

Sean found himself staring face-to-face at the hard case. He had hoped they would send the ‘Face,’ the former sports personality known for being a pushover.

Unfortunately, they had sent the ‘Executioner.’

Her interviews usually involved despots, demagogues, and popes. Since he did not rise into the holy category, Sean wondered what that made him.

She projected no animosity. Her first action was to reach out and shake Sean’s hand.

“Thanks for giving us the scoop on this,” she said.

“Thanks for agreeing,” said Sean, returning the handshake. “I didn’t think they’d send someone of such repute for little ol’ me.”

She smiled back, that prepared sphinx of a face, crafted from experience. The one he had seen her use for both celebrity and criminal on the nightly news.

“Execs thought it would give the moment more clout. Do you need a moment? Softball to start?”

“Sounds good,” said Sean. “Let’s get right into it.”

She turned to the single camera, diving right in without a cue.

“Big tech has disrupted work, food, cars, the very way we live. But one frontier has remained untouched. War. Until now.”

She turned back to him.

“We’re here with Sean Faith, CEO of Faith Aerospace, who has leased a private drone air force on behalf of the Ukrainian government. A former Navy officer and tech entrepreneur, you’ve said that defense is the last frontier of tech. Can you elaborate on that?”

After the initial discomfort, Sean eased into the beats of a speech he’d given a thousand times before.

“Defense is an area where the traditional methods of procurement and acquisition, put in place by McNamara, have been so entrenched that only a handful of major players have survived. The movements by the various Secretaries, pushing towards small business in the last half decade are a step in the right direction. But the stringent rules of Requests for Proposals, the long proposal schedules, and the inability of GSA to keep up with commercial labor rates, means the best tech talent are automatically incentivized not to participate.”

Sean thought about taking a shot at the biggest tech companies refusing to help the DoD, while having no qualms about selling to China. He decided not to open that can of worms. Maybe save it for the big finale.

“Faith broke the rules,” Sean continued, “and the military-industrial complex tried to shut us down. But we kicked the doors open. My hope is our actions bring reform from outside, speeding up the inertia inside the beltway.”

Sean felt good about himself. Which is why he didn’t expect the next blow.

“Leading to unaccountable acts of warfare?” she said.

The tone of her voice grew combative.

“A private company fighting on behalf of a client state. Not police action or augmentation via private military contracting. Not something seen in two decades, at least for democratic states.”

So much for the soft pitch, thought Sean. Time to show up or blow up.

“Faith Aerospace is not a private military company, or PMC, if that’s what you’re implying,” said Sean. “We also don’t pull the trigger. The platforms we sent are leased. We just build and maintain the platform – weapons release is controlled by the client. The end user.”

“That’s also unprecedented.”

She came back with no hesitation in her voice. She’d clearly had a line of questioning prepared.

“A private company,” she continued, “maintaining control over a major weapons platform. And a fully armed robot, at that.”

Sean found himself on the defensive. Some puff piece this turned out to be. He had to fight back.

“The Golden Eagle is the world’s first fully autonomous fighter. We developed the Golden Eagle in cooperation with and maintain it on behalf of the U.S. Navy. It survived development at the disapproval, and direct interference, of vested interests in big defense. Because we took all the risk in building it, internally at a highly accelerated schedule more in line with commercial practices, the reward is we have the right to do with it as we wish.”

Sean took a pause. He felt his blood pressure getting the best of him. He needed to slow down his speech. Words started to run together, now on the verge of rambling.

“Within reason and the rule of law, of course. I might add, it would have taken twice as long and ten times as much cost in a traditional ACAT program. Giving something back to the taxpayers.”

She smiled.

“So, when are you going to challenge Elon Musk for the role of Titan Man?”

Sean gave a false laugh. He matched her painted-on smile.

Not like she was trying to bite my head off a second ago, Sean thought.

“I’ve always been more partial to Captain USA,” said Sean.

“Now, the Golden Eagle test trials were not without controversy.”

She jumped back to leading the firing squad without missing a beat.

“Allegations persist they would have failed if not for an eleventh-hour injection of capital. Rumor has it to be the cause of your co-founder’s resignation.”

“Allegedly.”

Sean could only get in that single word. She was on a roll now.

“Dogged rumors peg the funds coming from Eric Lordes, the infamous PMC CEO from the Iraq War, accused of war crimes. Our viewers might note he remains in a country with no extradition laws to the U.S.”

Now Sean grappled with feelings of tightness in his chest. Waves of anxiety swelled up inside. The ACAT I-level panics. No, not now.

Sean couldn’t come up with a strong retort. Instead, he used an old DC stalwart.

He misdirected.

“Look, if you’re in an existential battle, you can’t leave your chances to the whims of a benefactor that loses focus. We saw that in the Israel-Hamas war, and then the Pan-Asian Conflict that almost boiled over. If a country wants 100 percent focus and service, then I believe a paid company is the best option.”

“And you see no conflict of interest?” she said.

Sean admitted she was good. He normally prepared for any opponent that could come at him. Here, he invited the fox right into the henhouse. He had no response for her. Not that she let him interrupt.

“You must admit the potential for blowback is enormous,” she continued. “We saw in the Iraq war the far-reaching consequences that companies bring, what happens when the U.S. cleans up while the hired guns go home. What happens when the U.S. must stabilize conflicts it didn’t start?”

She turned her attention back to the single camera. She closed her case.

“And the nightmare scenario, the breakdown of sovereign governments. The Wagner Group nearly overthrowing Russia, only pulling back for reasons still undetermined. If this is tech disrupting war, as you have claimed, the consequences are much higher than food being delivered cold.”

Sean tried to cobble together a response. His argument wasn’t ready, but he knew he had to parry.

“If there is a market, someone will come to fill it.”

“What are you selling?” she said.

Sean staggered a moment. He blurted out the first word that came to mind.

“Peace.”

A shared moment of disbelief passed between them. Even Sean didn’t buy what he was selling. But he had put her off for a moment. He struck.

“Even when I was no longer a sailor, I believe that my time building this company was in service to my country. Like it or not, this is the logical endpoint of three decades of military privatization. If you’re going to have someone running it…best be a person like me.”

She nodded, through a gritted smile.

“A most profitable patriotic endeavor.”

“It has cost,” said Sean. He looked down at the empty ring finger on his left hand.

“You let out something that should have stayed locked away.”

She stood at the doorway, their young son in front of them, bags ready.

“You can’t do this and expect me to stand by you.”

“If we hadn’t built the drone, someone else would…” he replied.

“I wasn’t talking about the weapon.”

“What about escalation?” she asked.

It pulled Sean out of his memories.

“Escalation?”

_________________________________________

The solemn Russian accent coming through the television matched the grave visage of its owner.

“The F-22 can fly at 1,500 mph, turn on a dime, and carries an armament that can destroy most Air Forces, by itself. Yet it has never been in a single fight.”

The speaker held up the palm of his left hand, then his right.

“The AK-47 cannot wipe out a city. Standard only carries a 30-bullet clip. Yet, manufactured in the hundreds of thousands, stubborn through treacherous conditions across the world, it has killed millions. Which then is truly the deadlier weapon? This is my philosophy.”

The screen paused.

“Who is he?” said Sean.

During the interview, a parallel interview went up on Russia Today. After the near disaster of the interview, Sean had called his PR team in for an emergency meeting. The Russian-studies major spoke first.

“Professor Stanislav Krovopuskov. Dean of unmanned aerial systems at the Uvarov Institute. Ultranationalist, proponent of scorched earth tactics. Censored in the international press for stating that Russian forces have been too lenient. Teaches high school kids how to fly combat drones in his free time.”

“Sounds charming,” said Sean. “What does he mean by, ‘my philosophy’?”

His Order of Battle expert went next, an old Colonel whose bread and butter was popping up on Sunday morning news shows every time a new war erupted.

“The Institute’s claim to fame is the Beda, air-dropped medium-range stealth drone bombers. Dropped from high-altitude bombers, they activate under radar, fly around and cause chaos. Uvarov claims them to be undetectable. Not luxury, but enough of a step up from commercial-off-the-shelf drones to do some damage.”

The soldier pointed up at the paused screen.

“Stanislav’s genius is in scale. They’ve set up a logistical footprint that churns out hundreds in the time it takes us to get out a dozen Golden Eagles. Hence, his ‘philosophy.’”

Sean’s history expert interrupted. He held up a webpage dedicated to enthusiasts talking about world militaries.

“Check this out. Russia is so enamored, they’ve folded Uvarov’s fleet into their Air Force, re-establishing a historic squadron. There’s a nickname, but when we translated it from Russia, it’s a German word… Na-nacht hexen?”

“Night Witches,” said Sean. “Night Bomber Regiment Five-Hundred Eighty-Eight. “

“Plays into the narrative that they’re defending the motherland from the fascists,” said the Colonel.

The recording un-paused.

“Since the United States continues to cowardly enforce its fascist war through its proxy, the so-called benevolent creator of the Golden Eagle,” said Stanislav. “As the representative of the invader, the Uvarov Institute declares war on Faith Aerospace.”

Now the lawyer jumped up.

“He can’t do that! A private entity cannot declare war on another.”

“I don’t think he cares,” said Sean.

“We need to tread carefully,” advised the lawyer. “We’re already way into a grey area. Huge targets on our backsides. Declaring this farce was bad enough.”

“He’s challenging us,” said Sean. “We beat the military-industrial complex before, on the Golden Eagle.”

“That was an ACAT-I procurement” his lawyer replied. “This is an actual war zone.”

Not that different, thought Sean.

Sean knew it was his lawyer’s job to watch their butts. But he wondered sometimes if he forgot who was paying him.

“He’s got a point,” said the Colonel. “Two contractors fighting on behalf of their client states? Do we want to be the ones dragging the world back pre-Westphalian?”

Sean turned to face his team.

“Is what he’s doing different from us? Those trying to ruin the world order can’t be the only ones allowed to use technology this way. Someone must fight back.”

An idea went through Sean’s head. A wicked, awful idea.

“Call the maintainers. See if we can get a paint job done before dawn patrol. They want to weaponize history, we can do the same.”

_________________________________________

The sun came up on the horizon across the border, as the blue-and-white painted Uvarov Institute aircraft piloted south into the war zone. The bored pilot listened to his co-pilot patter, the same routine every flight.

“…so, the man says, ‘that’s not Baba Yaga, that’s my mother-in-law!”

The pilot groaned.

“You need to learn better jokes, Alexei.”

“You need to learn a sense of humor,” replied his co-pilot. “Especially in this business.”

He looked back into the cargo area at the Bedas. In ominous silence, black-painted drones sat ready to raze the countryside below.

A lone object appeared on the weather radar.

“Something coming at us.”

The pilot flipped on the radio to open air.

“Unknown aircraft, this is a research aircraft conducting meteorological studies-”

“Guten morgen!” a heavily accented voice came over the radio, cutting him off. “Unter der Erde war es sehr kalt.”

They looked out for the intruder. A shadow appeared in the sun. In the haze, it appeared to have three wings.

It came straight at them with enormous speed. No time to react and avoid.

Turning at the last second, the attacking aircraft turned its wings perpendicular to the cockpit. The profile of an advanced fighter filled their view, its fuselage painted blood red.

Most concerning, there was no pilot. Where would have been the cockpit had painted over with a skeletal WWI pilot, its face laughing hideously. And a name written down the side.

“R-red Baron?” the co-pilot read.

The radio crackled one last time.

“Tell your boss, you want a war, Faith wird dir einen Krieg bescheren!”

Kevin Smith is a former Naval Flight Officer who has spent the last decade in, on, and around Naval Air Station Patuxent River. He currently works as a Business Developer for an exponentially growing IT company out of Lexington Park, MD.

Featured Image: Art created with Midjourney AI.

Fiction Week

By David Strachan

Exhibit B-3
Search Warrant Interview

VERBATIM TRANSCRIPTION
Date of Recording: April 25, 2025

Participants:

SAQ: Special Agent Daniel J. Quinn
SAY: Special Agent Marina R. Yarbrough
CAO: Charles Alan Ordway

_________________________________________

SAQ: Charles Alan Ordway?

CAO: Yes.

SAQ: Good morning, sir. I’m Special Agent Daniel Quinn with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. This is my partner, Special Agent Marina Yarbrough.

SAY: Good morning.

CAO: Morning.

SAQ: We’re here today because we have a warrant to search your home.

CAO: Oh?

SAQ: Do you have any idea what this might be about?

CAO: Um, I – no, I have no idea.

SAQ: Okay, well, so, this is about the unauthorized transmission of classified information.

[Pause]

CAO: Okay.

SAQ: Uh, so we’d like to sit down and talk to you about this, go over exactly why we’re here, and you can tell us your side of things. It’s completely voluntary to talk with us. If you prefer, we can go down to the field office –

CAO: No, I – here’s fine, I guess. I mean – I’ll cooperate. Whatever you need.

SAQ: Good, that’s – we really appreciate that, sir. Okay, so – is there a place we can all sit down together?

CAO: Uh, sure. I guess the dining room.

[Pause]

[Noises]

CAO: Sorry for the mess. Not sure why we call it the dining room when we haven’t eaten a single meal in here since, I don’t know, 2004.

[Laughter]

SAQ: Not a problem. We just need someplace to sit. Is there anyone else at home?

CAO: Uh, no. My wife’s at work, my kids are away at college.

SAQ: Okay, and, um, any weapons in the home? Anything we should be concerned about?

CAO: Well, I mean – the kitchen has knives. There’s scissors in the desk drawer –

SAQ: [Laughs] Yeah, that’s okay. I think we’re probably fine. Marina’s just going to take a look around, though, okay?

CAO: Sure, fine.

SAQ: Great. Okay, so, as I mentioned we have a search warrant here, and there are some other folks who are going to be helping us with that momentarily. But, um, in the meantime you’re welcome to read it, and we can go over it, and you can feel free to ask questions. And then also, if you’re willing to talk to us, so we can, you know, sort all this out.

CAO: Of course. Sure.

SAQ: Okay, great. So, let me – I’m going to ask you some questions, okay? And again, this is all voluntary.

CAO: Sure, I understand.

SAQ: Okay, so, Mr. Ordway –

CAO: You can call me Charlie. I hear Mr. Ordway and I start looking for my dad.

SAQ: [Laughs] Okay, sure. So, Charlie, you’re currently employed at FathomWorks in Arlington, Virginia, is that correct?

CAO: Yes, that’s correct.

SAQ: You’re a senior director there – is that correct? Of autonomous systems?

CAO: Yes, that’s correct.

SAQ: And what kind of work do you do?

CAO: Um, well, I guess generally speaking I’m a marine robotics engineer. I manage a group of about thirty people working on a project related to undersea warfare.

SAQ: Okay, and – actually, could you be more specific for me?

CAO: Well, I could, but then I’d have to kill you.

SAQ: [Laughs] It’s okay. You can speak freely. I actually know more than you probably think.

CAO: Well, that certainly sounds – ominous. [Laughs] I guess I’ll have to take your word for it on that. Uh, well, so my group works on the development of undersea systems for the U.S. Navy. Specifically, systems that integrate AUVs – autonomous underwater vehicles – into offensive mine warfare platforms.

SAQ: I see, and would that be, um, Autonomous Undersea Denial Networks?

CAO: Yes, that’s what the Navy’s calling them – AUDENs, actually. Yet another acronym to remember.

SAQ: [Laughs] Always with the acronyms. So, can you explain to me what exactly an AUDEN is and how it works?

CAO: Hmm, okay, well, in a nutshell, imagine mines that can think, move, work together, and decide when, where, and who to strike. And now imagine that you can deploy them covertly, for months, to any ocean in the world. That’s an AUDEN.

SAQ: Okay, uh, wow – that sounds very impressive. And complex. And so do you work on a particular aspect of the program?

CAO: Yes. So, one of the biggest challenges with something like this is endurance – energy. AUVs are still using the same energy storage technology that they’ve been using for the last, oh, half a century, and that’s batteries. But the problem is – these vehicles, AUVs, they can only operate for maybe a few days before they lose their charge. So, how do you provide power to a bunch of AUVs operating in the middle of the ocean somewhere? It’s my job to solve that problem. And so we’re developing what’s basically a charging station for AUVs that sits on the seabed and enables them to patrol an area of waterspace, gather intelligence, and engage enemy targets over an extended period of time.

SAQ: I see. Okay, so, um, in addition to your colleagues at FathomWorks, you also have opportunities to interact with people working in the defense industry, both in the United States and abroad, correct?

CAO: Um, yes. I occasionally travel to conferences for professional development, networking, things like that.

SAQ: Okay, and – so two years ago, in April of 2023, you traveled to Stockholm, Sweden to attend a conference called Subsea/Seabed Tech. Is that correct?

CAO: Yes, that’s correct, SST.

SAQ: Can you describe that event?

CAO: Well, I mean, it’s heavily attended, held annually at different locations throughout the world. Pretty much your typical professional conference – an exhibit hall, technical presentations and panels on undersea warfare and SSW – Seabed and Subsea Warfare. I was there to present a paper I was publishing on LENRs – Low Energy Nuclear Reactors – and their potential for naval applications.

SAQ: Okay, and so – was it at this conference, SST, that you first encountered Henrik Lindström?

[Pause]

CAO: Uh, yes. He approached me after my presentation. He seemed very interested in the topic, and we chatted quite a bit, and so we made plans to meet later that evening for dinner.

SAQ: Okay, and, so you meet for dinner. Do you remember what you talked about?

CAO: Well, I mean, mostly it was just a lot of small talk, as I remember it.

SAQ: Did you talk about FathomWorks?

CAO: A bit, yes.

SAQ: And did Mr. Lindström talk about his work?

CAO: Yes. He mentioned that he was working at the Swedish Defence Research Agency, and that he was working in some capacity on Swedish submarine designs. But he wanted out, and was in the process of starting a small consultancy specializing in undersea warfare.

SAQ: The consultancy – that would be HL Subsea AB?

CAO: Yes, that’s correct.

SAQ: Okay. And so that evening at dinner – did he ask if you might be interested in working for him in some capacity?

CAO: Yes, he mentioned that the Swedish Navy was pursuing some interesting ideas related to mine warfare, and that given my background in marine robotics and AUVs, there might be an opportunity for some consulting work.

SAQ: And did you express any interest in this?

CAO: I told him that as long as it didn’t pose any problems or conflicts at FathomWorks, I might be interested, yes.

SAQ: Okay, so after you returned from the conference, did you continue to communicate with Mr. Lindström?

CAO: Yes, we kept in touch via e-mail at first, and eventually we began video calling.

SAQ: And during your contacts with him – did the discussion gradually turn to you becoming a paid consultant for HL Subsea?

CAO: Yes. He kept mentioning the Swedish interest in offensive mining, and that there were contracts coming, and that with me on board it had the potential to be a real revenue generator for his company.

SAQ: And so at some point you formalized your agreement?

CAO: Well, initially Henrik just asked if I could write a white paper on AUVs and unmanned systems, and how they would drive the future of mine warfare. I suppose that was my audition, more or less.

SAQ: And how much were you paid for that?

CAO: Twenty-five hundred dollars.

SAQ: And was it well received?

CAO: Very much so. Henrik was incredibly excited by it. He said that it touched on many of the concepts and ideas that were on Sweden’s wish list, but that they lacked the technical know-how to bring it into reality. And that’s where I could really help his company, he said – by providing technical expertise which they in turn could use to win contracts with the Swedish Navy.

SAQ: So, then – did the success of the white paper lead Mr. Lindström to propose a formal consulting agreement?

CAO: Yes. Within days of delivering the white paper, the contract was on my desk.

SAQ: What was the offer?

CAO: Around $10,000 a month.

SAQ: Well, that must have been quite enticing.

CAO: [Laughs] You’re talking to someone married to a preschool teacher, with a fat mortgage, and two kids in college. You’re damn right it was enticing.

SAQ: [Laughs] Okay, and – so what were the expectations, the terms, of the contract – for work product, deliverables?

CAO: It was pretty vague. Something like, I would advise HL Subsea on matters related to undersea warfare, or words to that effect.

SAQ: Nothing specific as to deliverables, though? Hours per month?

CAO: Nope. Nothing like that. It seemed, well, like easy money, really. If all he needed was an occasional white paper or some number crunching, well, then I’ll take ten K a month for that. I’m not stupid. [Laughs]

SAQ: [Laughs] And so you signed the agreement?

CAO: Without hesitation.

SAQ: Okay, so, now you have a formal agreement with Mr. Lindström’s company, HL Subsea. What were your assignments?

CAO: For the first couple months it was just answering some general e-mail inquiries about concepts of operations or certain technologies. But then Henrik started asking me pretty pointed questions about my research at FathomWorks. Initially I pushed back, politely, and he would usually back down. But after a while he became very persistent.

SAQ: And how did that make you feel?

CAO: I don’t know. I guess I felt like he was paying me all this money, and I wasn’t really doing much of anything, and I guess I felt like I needed to be producing, you know? To justify it. And to make sure it didn’t dry up. [Laughs] And Henrik – he’s a really nice guy, and he can be really charming and persuasive. He’d be like, “Look, Charlie. We’re on the same team here, right? NATO, the West? We have a common adversary, and it’s in America’s interest to ensure that the Swedes have the best technologies to defend themselves and the Baltic against Russian aggression, right?”

SAQ: And that made sense to you?

CAO: I mean, yeah, of course. I figured, you know, I’m getting paid to help a friendly nation, an ally, protect itself. So what? What harm could come from it? It’s not like I’m Johnny Walker or something. And honestly, ninety percent of security classifications – it’s just someone covering their ass. Or protecting someone’s IP.

SAQ: And so that’s when you decided to provide classified information to Mr. Lindström?

CAO: [Sighs] I – yeah, I suppose it was, yes.

SAQ: Okay, and what kind of information did you provide?

CAO: [Sighs] So, at first it was just stuff off the top of my head – expanding on the white paper with greater detail. Not just speculation, but more like a how-to, based on the R&D I was involved in.

SAQ: Was Mr. Lindström pleased with what you were providing?

CAO: Yes, and he seemed quite grateful, and I thought that would be it. But then he started making more specific requests.

SAQ: Like what exactly?

CAO: Documentation, reports, data.

SAQ: And you obliged him.

CAO: [Sighs]

[Pause]

CAO: I guess this looks bad.

SAQ: Well, I’m not going to lie, Charlie. It doesn’t look good.

[Pause]

CAO: [Sigh] You know, we’re all just mercenaries now.

[Pause]

SAQ: Uh – sorry?

CAO: My dad worked for IBM for forty five years. Forty five years, the same goddamn company. Over half his life, moving up the ladder, retiring with a full pension, health insurance. Put me and my sister through Rutgers and MIT. You think you’re going to find anything close to that today? Like hell. My LinkedIn looks like I’ve got ADD or something. You think that’s by choice?

SAQ: Oh, I – I hear you. I mean, my dad got downsized twice in three years, and a year later he had a stroke, so –

CAO: So you get it then, right?

SAQ: Sure, Charlie. I get it. The world’s changed –

CAO: And no one’s looking out for you. No one’s safe. They can pull the rug out any time they want and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it. It’s every man for himself out there. And if someone dangles a bunch of cash in your face and you’ve got a mortgage, college bills, credit cards –

[Pause]

CAO: And anyway they’re on our side, right? I mean, can you honestly say that you’d pass?

[Pause]

SAQ: [Sigh] Alright, let’s uh – let’s – Charlie, can you tell me where the HL Subsea offices are located?

[Pause]

CAO: Uh – well, I’m assuming Stockholm.

SAQ: So, then, you never actually paid them a visit.

CAO: Well, no.

SAQ: Okay. And do you recall approximately how many employees HL Subsea has?

[Pause]

CAO: Uh, no, I don’t.

[Pause]

SAQ: Okay. Charlie, once you began transmitting classified information to Mr. Lindström, what form of communication did you use?

CAO: Um, he sent me an iPhone. He said we should stick to messaging on that device. He said it was more secure.

SAQ: I see. Okay, and did you use that device – the iPhone Mr. Lindström sent you – to scan and transmit the documents?

CAO: Yes.

SAQ: And did you communicate with Mr. Lindström using that iPhone as well?

CAO: Yes.

SAQ: Okay, and did you use iMessage – the iPhone’s messaging app – when communicating with Mr. Lindström?

CAO: No, it was some other app.

SAQ: Do you remember name of the app?

CAO: Uh, no, I don’t. I never actually paid attention.

SAQ: Okay, so it’s actually called WeChat. Are you familiar with WeChat?

CAO: No. Should I be?

SAQ: It’s a Chinese messaging app.

[Pause]

CAO: I see. So, is that – I guess that’s somehow relevant here?

SAQ: [Sighs] Charlie, here’s what I’m seeing, okay? Over the course of eighteen months, HL Subsea pays you, what, a hundred eighty thousand dollars for your services, which consists primarily of transmitting sensitive and classified information. Did it ever strike you as odd that a start-up consultancy, whose main source of revenue was Swedish government contracts, was able to afford to pay you such a large sum of money?

[Pause]

CAO: Honestly, I guess I just assumed that Henrik was well-connected, well-funded, and whatever he was paying me – that was the value he placed on the information. And, sure, yeah, there were times when I felt like I was being overpaid. But, I mean, what was I supposed to do? ‘Hey, stop, you’re paying me too much.’ What kind of idiot would do that?

SAQ: [Sighs] Right, well, so, I need to tell you, Charlie, this is – you’re kind of missing the point, here. You understand that transmitting classified information, even to a U.S. ally – it’s still against the law. You do understand that, yes?

CAO: Well, I suppose technically, I mean – yeah, I get it.

SAQ: Okay, but what you also need to understand, is that this goes way beyond Sweden. Okay? It goes beyond Lindström, beyond HL Subsea.

[Pause]

CAO: Okay.

SAQ: Charlie – right now, Swedish authorities are raiding an apartment on the outskirts of Stockholm – Henrik Lindström’s apartment. Henrik Lindström is a bureaucrat working in the Swedish Defence Research Agency, just like he told you. But he’s been using his access to Swedish undersea warfare programs to pass classified information to the Chinese for nearly four years.

[Pause]

CAO: Well, I wouldn’t know anything about that.

SAQ: Maybe not, but here’s the thing, Charlie. There is no consulting business. There are no contracts with the Swedish Navy. HL Subsea is a dummy corporation created by Lindström to funnel money to his sub-agents working inside the U.S. defense industry. Probably the U.K. and European industries as well. You haven’t been working for HL Subsea, Charlie. You’ve been working for the People’s Republic of China. And by all indications, the information you’ve been providing has been incredibly valuable to them – AUDENs, subsea networks, mine warfare operations and tactics.

[Pause]

CAO: [Inaudible]

SAQ: Sorry?

CAO: I didn’t know. How was I supposed to know?

SAQ: Doesn’t matter. You got played, Charlie. And you broke the law.

[Pause]

SAQ: You still with me?

[Pause]

SAQ: You need a moment?

[Pause]

SAY: They’re here, Danny.

SAQ: Okay, thanks. Charlie, I’m ending the interview now, and we’re going to execute the search warrant.

[Pause]

CAO: [Inaudible]

[END TRANSCRIPT]

David R. Strachan is a defense analyst and founder of Strikepod Systems, a research and strategic advisory focusing on autonomous undersea systems.

Featured Image: Art created with Midjourney AI. 

Fiction Week

A version of this story originally appeared in USNI Proceedings for the Maritime COIN Project, July 2022.

By Brian Kerg, LtCol, USMC

Imuruan Bay, Philippines, 2027

Lieutenant Billy Nix, skipper of the USS Talbot, set down the handset and grinned. “We’ve got a live one.”

Standing next to him in the pilothouse, Captain Andrea Yu raised an eyebrow. “What kind of live one?”

Nix pointed at a map, jabbing his finger on the water just off Cagnipa Island. “Nothing we haven’t seen a dozen times. Illegal fishing by a Chinese trawler. Filipino coasties already have a patrol boat en route. We’ll see if we can’t beat ’em there.”

Ensign Angelo Bautista, their liaison from the Philippine Coast Guard, shook his head. “Your rig might be faster, but my boys are halfway there. The race is already over.”

Nix raised an eyebrow. “You want to put some money on that, Bautista? Make it interesting?”

Bautista laughed. “Not in good conscience. It’d basically be theft.”

“If you’re done,” Yu said, “let’s get moving. I’ll stand up my team.” She permitted herself a half smile. “And it’s our turn to pick the pursuit music.”

Nix grimaced. “Yeah, yeah. What’ll it be?”

“Not the Bee Gees if we have anything to say about it,” Yu said.

“Nothing wrong with the Bee Gees. They’re classic.”

“Some classics age better than others,” Yu said, stepping out of the pilothouse.

She glanced to the aft of the ship and saw Master Sergeant Darius Washington leaning against the rail, smoking next to Lieutenant Dusty Munro, the embarked U.S. Coast Guard law enforcement detachment officer in charge. As Yu walked toward them, the Talbot came to life and accelerated to cruising speed. Washington braced himself, almost stumbling at the sudden movement.

Yu slapped Washington on his shoulder. “One day, Top, you’re going to lean too hard, break that rail, and put your swim qual to the test.”

Washington snorted. “It’ll be for a good cause, Ma’am. Then these boats finally might get the budget they deserve. What’s going on?”

“We’ve got a contact. Illegal fishing. We’ll stick with the basic playbook, but if we can let the Marines get a little froggy, I’m all about it.”

Munro shook his head. “What do you mean, ‘get a little froggy’?”

“Easy there, puddle jumper,” Yu said. “No one’s going to end up in the brig. But if we want to exercise our capabilities a bit, now is as good a time as any.”

“Sometimes I feel like you guys only keep me around for the authorities,” Munro said.

“Sometimes?” Washington asked, giving him a side-eye and grinning.

“What’s next on the team’s list for our pursuit song?” Yu asked.

“Let’s find out.” Washington turned to the bow, facing the main deck cabin. “Flores!” he bellowed.

The hatch of the cabin opened, and Corporal Miguel Flores, the team’s radio operator, trotted out to them.

“What’s our next song, Flores?” Yu asked.

Flores’s eyes lit up. “I’ve got a blast from the past: ‘Rhymin’ and Stealin’ by The Beastie Boys!”

“Well spin it up, Flores, we’re on a schedule,” Yu said.

Flores dashed into the pilothouse. Seconds later, the song started blaring over the 1MC:

Because mutiny on the Bounty’s what we’re all about

I’m gonna board your ship and turn it on out

No soft sucker with a parrot on his shoulder

Cause I’m bad gettin’ bolder—cold getting colder!

Washington rousted the Marines of the maritime interdiction team (MIT), while Chief Mark Malone got the crew of the Mk VII patrol boat to their stations. The song was a rally cry and a competition as the naval force raced to be fully ready for the contact by the time it ended. In short order, the Talbot’s crew were kitted up and manning the crew-served weapons that bristled along the boat’s sides, while the MIT stood by to handle any surprises the contact might provide.

As the Talbot closed in on Cagnipa Island, Nix sighted the BRP Cabra, a partnered patrol boat from the Philippine Coast Guard. Nix gave a course correction, aiming to bring the Talbot in formation with the Cabra. Floating off the coast of Cagnipa was the Chinese trawler, as well as the Philippine fishing boat that had reported it.

Sighting the trawler, Gunner’s Mate Erik Olsen kneeled at his mounted GAU-17 minigun, took off his pack, and turned on the Backpackable Electronic Attack Module (BEAM), jamming the trawler’s communications. Next to him, Gunner’s Mate Susan Cuddy op-checked the light variant of the active denial system (ADS), pointing the mounted heat ray at the personnel aboard the trawler.

“Do we finally get to have a cook-out with that thing, Cuddy?” Flores asked her, passing by.

“If you can find us some steaks, I’ll make it happen,” Cuddy said.

Petty Officer Gabriel Castro, the ship’s unmanned systems operator, deployed a package of small aerial and surface drones. After confirming their feeds were active in the pilot house and op-checking their targeting systems, he linked up with Flores, who had attached a plushie parrot to his left shoulder with Velcro.

“Nice touch,” Castro said.

“I had to get rid of my eye patch,” Flores said. “Top said it’d screw up my aim. But I’m already such a bad shot, I told him it didn’t matter.”

Petty Officer Sarah Maliah, the mass communication specialist, lowered her camera and gave Flores a disappointed look. “I take it you lost the argument.”

Appearing behind Flores, Bautista held out his hand. “Hook a brother up?”

Flores powered on a black handheld radio and handed it to Bautista. Turning toward the Cabra, Bautista slid into fluent Tagalog, made contact with their partners, and headed over to the pilothouse to relay traffic between Nix and the Cabra’s skipper.

From the pilothouse Nix watched and coordinated the action, pivoting between the views offered by the drones, the handset linking him to Yu, and the manual relay offered by Bautista to the Cabra.

It was a textbook action. The Marines boarded the trawler from one side, the Filipino coast guardsmen boarded it from the other, while the Talbot provided overwatch with its crew-served weapons and drones. The integration between the forces was seamless, the product of months of training and boarding actions, and the presence of Munro gave them all the authorities needed to prosecute the mission.

In short order, the Cabra had the fishing violators under arrest and safely aboard. Yu eavesdropped on the bickering prisoners, hiding her Mandarin fluency long enough to let them implicate themselves. Once security was established, Maliah broke away from her mounted .240 and climbed into the flybridge, supplementing the drone feeds with her own video camera work. She highlighted the captured small arms to illustrate the prisoners’ membership in the People’s Armed Forces Maritime Militia (PAFMM) and launched the footage in real-time back to Task Force 76/3’s public affairs shop for production and distribution. The Marines cleared the trawler one last time to confirm no one else was on board, set an explosive charge, then disembarked.

Once the Cabra and the Talbot were safely distant, they detonated the charge, destroying the trawler. As the Talbot set sail back to its expeditionary advanced base (EAB), the Bee Gees’ “Sinking Ships” played from the 1MC, carrying the lyric across the water:

Sinking ships,

Watching them sail and the sun as sinks in the sea

Crashing planes,

Only the eyes of the doomed with a smile on their face . . .

Near Port Barton, Palawan, Philippines

As the Talbot cruised into the dock at its expeditionary advanced base (EAB), Yu was surprised. Instead of the concealed entry hidden by dense jungle foliage, she saw Seabees in the open dismantling some of their prefabricated infrastructure.

Before the crew moored the boat, Sergeant Donavan, the EAB’s logistics chief, trotted out of the brush and onto the dock, waving an arm. “Ma’am! Sir! Major Vouza needs you at the CP pronto.”

Yu and Nix glanced at each other, both wondering if the boarding action had been misreported and cast them as criminals. “Another investigation?” Nix grinned. “Whose fault this time? Blue team or green team?”

Donovan shook his head. “The EAB is getting moved, and a mission just dropped for you. It’s urgent. Last thing we’re going to do before bumping to a new site is top off your boat.”

“Thanks, Donny,” Yu said. She punched Nix in the shoulder. “Let’s go.”

The two naval officers disappeared into the brush, stalking through the trails until they reached the EAB’s cammie-netted command post. A suite of radios, laptops, networking equipment, and hydrogen fuel cells seemed to spring up in the middle of this patch of jungle, manned by a team of naval communicators and intelligence analysts. Antennas were lashed to the trunks of trees, with their polarized elements just breaking through the canopy to maximize concealment.

Major Charles Vouza, the dual-hatted EAB and boat company commander, glanced up from a screen and waved the pair over. He rose to meet them and shook their hands. “Welcome back, for a minute, anyway,” he said. “I watched your boarding on the feed. It was magnifique,” he said, making a chef’s kiss.

“We were supported by a great crew,” Yu said.

“The troops did all the work,” Nix countered.

“True,” Vouza said, “but your people don’t get that good on accident.”

Vouza gestured at the command suite and changed the subject. “So, listen up. We’ve got two grenades in our lap. Grenade one: our supply line’s been made. Our sustainment network in San Vicente got infiltrated by some PRC agents, and now we can’t trust our supply flow. We’re tearing down camp today and are going to bump down to Rizal tonight. So, once your next mission’s done, you’ll link up with us there.”

Nix groaned. “This is the third bump plan in two months.”

“Buck up, shipmate,” Vouza said, smiling. “You were recommended by name for this outfit. You should be enjoying the constant changes as much as your junior command.”

Nix shrugged. “Failing up, you mean. My last CO was more than happy to offload me.”

Vouza offered a half-smile. “And I was more than happy to take you on. You’re just belligerent enough to be a perfect fit for maritime COIN.”

Nix gestured at Yu. “What’s that make her?”

“The angel on your shoulder,” Yu said, fighting back a grin. “What’s the other grenade?”

“We just got a report of a maritime militia vessel harassing local fishermen off Half Moon Shoal,” Major Vouza said. “Only they’re playing this one a bit different. The Chinese used a water cannon to force the fishermen from their spot and off their boat. Then they sank it. Thankfully, most of the fishermen got into a life raft, but some didn’t. Those who tried to swim to the Chinese vessel were shot.” Vouza pointed to a screen, showing a video of the action, recorded by the fishermen and uploaded via Starlink.

“The Chinese ambassador to the Philippines already put out a statement that they are ‘merely policing their jurisdictional waters in accordance with international law.’”

“What about the surviving fishermen?” Nix asked.

“The last video we got from them showed the life raft made it to the shoal. Then the militia crew threatened to shoot the fishermen if they didn’t toss their devices into the water, which they did. So, we don’t know how they’re looking right now.”

“This doesn’t fit China’s usual playbook at all,” Yu said. “They push until they meet resistance but don’t actually try to pick a fight. They’re escalating.”

“And they’re doing it right in front of us,” Nix said. “They know we’re patrolling here. Maybe they’re trying to get us to overreact? Paint us in a bad light and hurt our credibility?”

“Lots of unknowns,” Vouza agreed. “Might just be an off-kilter commander. Might just be them seeing what we’ll do. We don’t have the intel to say for sure. But this already has the INDOPACOM commander’s personal attention, or at least the attention of his Twitter account. And the tasking came directly from Seventh Fleet. They’re sending a cruiser our way, but it’ll take a while to get here. Higher wants a boat out there, and they want it now. The BRP Cabra is delivering prisoners, and the other boats in our company are too far out. You’re the closest.”

Vouza paused, meeting the eyes of Nix, then Yu. “That means it’s your show. Get after it.”

Near Half Moon Shoal, South China Sea

Master Sergeant Darius Washington, Corporal Miguel Flores, and Petty Officer Sarah Maliah stood at the stern of the Talbot as the boat cruised toward its objective. Flores’ rifle dangled from his sling as he struggled to light a cigarette, but—stymied by the wind—he swore and gave up.

Washington smirked and shook his head. “The more things change, the more they stay the same.”

“You mean there was a time Flores didn’t know how to play with fire?” Maliah asked, holding her hand out.

Flores handed Maliah his pack of smokes and lighter. Shielding the lighter from the wind, she lit three cigarettes, handed one each to Washington and Flores, and kept one for herself.

Taking a drag, Washington continued. “Banana Wars, Vietnam, Iraq, Afghanistan, Syria, and now the South China Sea. Big wars and little wars. Doesn’t matter, Marines are always fighting against insurgents. The big difference this time is that the Navy’s in on the game.”

“Top,” Flores said, “I may not be a very strategic corporal, but since when is a bully like China an insurgent?”

Washington shook his head. “Call this great power competition if you want, but our slice is all hearts and minds. We’ve got one set of rules, and the PRC has another. We like our rules better. And we want the people caught in the middle to play by our rules, too.” Washington forced a cold smile, ear to ear. “I may as well be fighting ISIS again, though I’m glad I don’t have to do as much walking.”

Maliah pointed. “There’s our target.”

In the distance, the 60-meter-long boat floated in the water, a white and red sentinel looming over Half Moon Shoal.

Nix’s voice blared over the 1MC: “Stand to, stand to, stand to.”

The Marines and sailors echoed the command, and the boat came to life once more as all hands moved to their designated positions. The crew-served weapons and posted Marines made the boat bristle like a porcupine. Castro deployed the usual drone package, and the first aerial drone shot forward over the shoal.

In the pilothouse, Nix and Yu took a closer look through the feeds. A yellow life raft floated in the middle of the shoal, and the fishermen waved frantically at the drone as it passed overhead. Another drone circled the Chinese boat.

Nix pointed at the screen. “Those boats are purpose-built for the militia. It’s not just another trawler with militiamen embarked. The water cannon is a dead giveaway.”

Yu nodded, focusing on the crew, noting its small arms, bearing, and dispersion across the ship. “And the crew might be in civvies, but they’re trained. This isn’t their B-team.” She leaned in closer, noting a pair of microwave dishes mounted to the ship that she didn’t recognize. “You think that ship has other tricks up its sleeve besides a water cannon?”

As if in answer, two of the aerial feeds went blank, and the suddenly lifeless drones fell dead into the sea.

Nix snatched up a handset. “Castro, pull our drones back out of range of whatever they’ve got!”

Castro furiously entered commands into his console. The last aerial drone started to peel back toward the Talbot, wavered, then crashed into the sea. One by one, the surface drones also went dead in the water.

“Call it in,” Nix muttered.

Behind him, Information Technician Andrea Swenson tried to raise the EAB on the radio but was greeted only by a confounding warble through the headset. “Sir, I think we’re being jammed.”

Yu unclipped her handheld radio from her plate carrier, tried her team’s internal net, and received the same distorted feedback. She leaned out of the pilothouse.

“Flores!” she cried. “Any of our bands working?”

Flores trotted over to Yu, with Washington on his heels. “No, ma’am,” Flores said. “VHF and UHF are down and out. I could give HF a shot, but I’d need time.”

Yu looked at the Chinese boat as the Talbot approached, and it seemed to grow in size, a closing monster. “I don’t think we have any.” She looked at Washington. “Let everyone know this might get ugly.”

Washington passed the word, then took his post at the stern, right between two of the .240s and their gunners. His spine crackled with the same alertness he’d felt on patrol in the desert nearly two decades ago, when a village would suddenly go silent right before his platoon walked into a complex ambush. He clicked his rifle off safe.

“One good turn deserves another,” Nix said. “If we can’t talk, neither can they. Lay it on ’em, Swenson. All bands. Let’s go blind together.” Swenson complied, flipping several switches, and the Talbot’s jammers pulled from the ship’s power to dump radiofrequency across the ship’s usable spectrum.

“If our feeds are down, and no one’s transmitting, then no one’s watching,” Yu said. “We’re on our own out here.”

Nix glanced at the Talbot’s communications suite, which he’d long viewed as a ball-and-chain tethering him to higher headquarters. The cord temporarily cut, he felt himself in free fall. The freedom he’d wanted so long was both exhilarating and terrifying. He repressed a shiver.

“Right,” he said. “We need a record, or it’s our word against theirs.”

“We can pull Maliah off her .240, get her in the flybridge now to start filming,” Yu offered. “I’ll have one of my guys take her spot.”

Nix nodded. “Do it.”

As Maliah climbed into the flybridge, the Talbot closed within hearing of the Chinese boat. Nix grabbed a megaphone, headed to the stern, and delivered his challenge.

“Unknown vessel, this is Lieutenant William Nix of the USS Talbot. You are in gross violation of the international law of the sea. Further violation may result in detainment and seizure of your vessel.”

The pilothouse opened on the Chinese boat, and a lean, wiry man stepped out, holding his own megaphone. His sleeveless t-shirt and board shorts contrasted sharply with the black assault rifle slung to his body and the sheathed dagger at his hip. In highly polished English, he replied.

“USS Talbot, this is Zhou Liang of the Qiong 21. We are legally enforcing the territorial integrity of the People’s Republic of China. You are cautioned not to interfere in China’s internal affairs. You are further warned that you are violating the territorial integrity of China. Failure to depart may result in your detainment and destruction of your vessel.”

Nix looked over at Lieutenant Munro. Munro’s eyebrows raised, marveling at Zhou’s brazenness. “What is this, the shadow game? How old are we?” He shrugged at Nix. “We’re well within our rights here. It’s just a matter of how you want to proceed.”

“That’s exceptional English for a ‘fisherman,’” Yu muttered.

“And I’d swear that’s a QBZ-95 assault rifle,” Washington added. “They don’t issue those to militia.”

Yu lifted her rifle and used the magnification on her scope to get a closer look.

Chief Malone walked up to Nix. “We can wait through a stand-off, sir. The cavalry’s on its way and we’re fully stocked.” He pointed at the fishermen, still floating in the middle of the shoal. “But they’re going to need a hand sooner rather than later.”

“Right,” Nix said. He lifted the megaphone and announced his intent. “Qiong 21, we are obligated to recover these stranded civilians. We will approach the shoal to do so. We appreciate your noninterference with this humanitarian operation.”

Through her scope, Yu continued to scan Zhou, and froze as she saw the tattoo on his shoulder: a red shield featuring an inverted yellow dagger, surrounded by a sharp yellow lightning bolt. She lowered her rifle and leaned over to Washington. “He is or was special forces. The whole crew might be. This is a trap—I just don’t know what kind.”

The Talbot started moving around the Qiong 21, making a course toward the life raft. The Qiong 21 gunned its engine, putting itself right in the Talbot’s path. The Talbot corrected sharply to avoid a collision, sending Marines and sailors to the deck amid a clatter of kit and a litany of swears.

Again, Zhou spoke through the megaphone. “Talbot, these criminals are in our custody. You will kindly refrain from interfering with our internal matters.” Still, the Qiong 21 took no action to recover or detain the fishermen.

Both boats continued to float idly forward, nearly in parallel with one another. Yu figured a crew member from one boat could reach the other with a running start. Getting to her feet, she told Washington, “They want to posture? Okay. Let’s put on a bit of a show and see whose cage gets rattled.” She drew the bayonet from its sheath on her plate carrier.

Washington followed suit and shouted the order: “Fix! Bayonets!” Down the boat, the Marines echoed the command, attaching bayonets to their rifles. On the Qiong 21, some of the mariners took instinctive steps backward, and others whispered anxiously to one another. A handful held firm, completely unphased.

“They’re a mixed crew,” Washington guessed. “Some are militia, but Zhou has picked men for whatever they’re up to.”

Livid, Nix joined the others along the side of his boat, a stone’s throw away from Zhou, and spoke to him directly.

“I’m done playing games. Time to put cards on the table. You want to keep being stupid? Fine. But we’ve got a cruiser inbound, with more on the way. You can bump into them all you want but it’ll crack your boat in two.” He pointed up at Maliah, who stood in the flybridge and had Zhou in her camera’s sights. “In the meantime, you’re still on candid camera. So, you can let us get those people out of the water and save some face, or we’ll get to do it on our terms after you turn tail and run.”

Zhou glanced up briefly at Maliah, then back at Nix. “We’re filming, too,” he said. Then he gave a brief, clipped order in Mandarin. To herself, Yu translated: Make it rain.

The Qiong 21’s water cannon opened up directly at Maliah. The force of the blow knocked her back with a cry, throwing her and her camera through the air and into the water. The cannon then strafed the Talbot, knocking crew members to the deck.

Yu ducked for cover and thought, It’s the Galwan Valley all over again. They’re baiting us into a fight. She saw one of the Talbot’s .240 gunners sighting in on the water cannon. We can’t shoot first, not like this, she thought. Through the deluge, she shouted, “Hold—!” then cut herself short, thinking “Hold your fire’ could be misinterpreted as “fire.” Instead, she cried, “Take cover! Take cover!” while frantically waving her hand in front of her face, palm out, the distinctive signal for “Cease fire!”

Chief Malone hurled a life preserver toward Maliah before getting knocked down by the water cannon blast. The Talbot shot forward, out of range of the water cannon. As it did, the Qiong 21 moved into a blocking position between the Talbot and Maliah, who had dumped her kit, surfaced, and managed to get ahold of the life preserver, her camera still hanging by the strap around her neck.

Zhou, straight faced, glanced behind his boat at Maliah, then back at the Talbot. “You’ve put us in an awkward position. We’ll have to take your sailor into our custody. You’re welcome to follow us back to port, where you can join her and be assured of her welfare.”

Fuming and dripping wet, seeing his sailor helpless in the water, the old horror story of Iran capturing an American patrol craft flashed across his mind. He ran back to the pilothouse. “Everyone off the deck and brace for impact. We’re running the Ben-Hur option!”

The sailor and Marines hurried into whatever cabin space they could find. Nix brought the Talbot around, aimed the boat directly at the Qiong 21, and pushed to max speed.

The Talbot crashed into the Qiong 21 with a deafening crack, hurling several of its crew into the water. The Talbot’s stern raised slightly onto the Qiong 21’s rails, tipping it slightly, and forcing the remaining crew on the deck down the incline and against its rails. Both boats were effectively dead in the water, but it was clear the Qiong 21 was listing and couldn’t stay afloat.

The Talbot’s crew and troops hurried back onto the deck and to their fighting positions. “Let’s try this instead,” Nix said. “You come into our custody before your boat sinks. Or you just hang tight and learn how long you can swim. What do you say?”

Zhao scanned his crew, saw how many were in the water, and how many were still aboard and armed. He looked back at the Talbot and took stock of its force. In a commanding voice, he gave his men another order in Mandarin. Once more, Yu translated: Throw smoke and board. We’re taking her.

“They’re going to board!” Yu shouted. Zhao’s eyes darted to Yu, realizing she understood him. A heartbeat later, Zhao’s men tossed smoke grenades, and a cloud of white smoke started to fill the decks.

The gravity of the situation slammed into Yu like a hammer. They mean to capture or kill us, she thought. They don’t see any other choice. This is real.

“Cuddy! Bring the heat!” Yu cried.

Gunner’s Mate Cuddy activated the ADS and oriented it on the Qiong 21. Immediately, the heat ray went to work, filling the targeted crew members with a feeling of unbearable, fiery pain. Several ran a few steps and leapt over the side of the boat and into the water to escape the harmless but searing agony inflicted by the ADS.

Zhou saw his combat power, and his position, rapidly plummeting.

He gave the order to fire. His men complied, firing through the smoke.

The first round snapped overhead, a wild shot. The next tore through Bautista’s leg and he slumped against the bulkhead, a look of confusion on his face. Munro went for his sidearm, but shots tore through his shoulder and slammed against his body armor, knocking him to the deck.

“Fire! Fire! Fire!” Yu cried, lifting her rifle and sighting in on the outline of one of the Qiong 21’s crew members. Through the smoke, he didn’t look much different to her than a target on the range. She squeezed the trigger and the shape fell.

From the Qiong 21, bursts of fire from assault rifles shot toward the Talbot, crashing into the boat and its crew, sending flakes of bulkhead flying through the air and blood splashing onto the deck. Through the veil of smoke, Nix agonizingly recognized which of his sailors were hit by the noises they made, and wished he couldn’t.

“Strafe their deck!” Washington shouted at the gunners, and the M240 and GAU-17 roared into life, cutting across the Qiong 21 and hammering against the boat. Pieces of it flew back on the Talbot in a rain of debris. The rattle of the guns was met with cries of dying men.

The smoke expanded into a fog, clouding both boats and their crews desperately fighting for their lives.

In his peripheral, Flores saw a figure climbing over the side of the Talbot. He turned and slashed with his bayonet, catching the man’s arm and hearing an anguished cry. The boarder lifted his weapon with his unwounded arm and struggled to sight in. Shouting, Flores thrust forward, plunging his bayonet into the man’s chest. Firing spasmodically, the man fell into the water. 

There was a distinct pop to Yu’s left, and the GAU-17 went silent. Yu turned, still couldn’t see anyone through the smoke. “Olsen? Get that gun back up!”

Another pop answered her. Yu found herself knocked to the ground before she felt the crushing impact against her chest. Her rifle slid from her hands and over the side of the boat. Dizzy, gasping to breathe with the air knocked out of her, she struggled to look up. She wasn’t sure if it was her SAPI plate or her ribs that were shattered. Through the clearing smoke, she saw Zhao stalking forward, weapon up, ready to take down yet another member of her team.

As Zhao stepped over her body, Yu reached up and snatched his ankle, sending him tumbling forward. His elbow crashed against the rail as he went down, sending his rifle overboard as well.

Zhao fell in a tangle on top of Yu and instinctively threw a punch with his left hand. Yu turned her head into the blow, and Zhao’s hand cracked against her Kevlar helmet. Yu thought she could feel the knuckles break through her helmet.

Crying out, Zhao tried to scramble away, but Yu grasped his shirt and threw her legs around his torso, trapping him in her guard. Her ribs still rattled with pain, but she found she could breathe again. Through the din, she realized the rate of fire from both boats was lessening, though she couldn’t know if that was a good or bad sign.

Grimacing, Zhao reached to his waist with his uninjured right hand, drew his dagger, and plunged down at her neck.

Yu threw up her hands, catching Zhao’s forearm, and pushed it forward over her head. The blade slashed across her cheek as it passed. She pinned Zhao’s forearm to her chest with her hands, controlling his knife-wielding arm with her two free hands. It brought their grimacing faces within inches of each other. Zhao glanced up, and Yu followed his gaze. Her eyes widened as she saw him slowly rotate the blade back toward her face.

Struggling to keep his arm trapped, Yu opened her guard, threw her right leg around Zhao’s neck, then cinched her left leg over her right ankle in a triangle-choke and squeezed.

Zhao’s eyes bulged as she locked in the pressure. He tried to pull away but couldn’t. His face grew red as his body struggled to pump blood to his brain but failed. Slowly, his body went limp, and the dagger fell from his hand.

When she was sure he was out, Yu kicked Zhao off her, grabbed the loose dagger, then struggled to her feet. As the smoke cleared and gunfire ceased, she surveyed the aftermath of the brief, bloody fight.

Bodies littered both boats, and others floated in the water. The survivors from the Qiong 21 sat on the deck with hands up, under the raised guns of the Talbot’s crew, while her dead were being covered by poncho liners. The corpsman put a tourniquet on Bautista’s bleeding leg. Munro, one shattered arm hanging uselessly from his side, used the other to sign off on the enforcement documents to take the Chinese militiamen into custody.

Just behind Yu, Olsen lay dead beside his mounted gun. Yu trembled and her knees threatened to buckle, but she stood fast. 

Nix limped toward her, his pistol in his right hand, and his left hand held over one eye, with blood pouring down his face.

They looked at each other and said nothing, saying everything they needed to say.

A sudden splash on the side of the boat caught their attention. They looked over, and saw Maliah, still holding onto her life preserver, struggling to climb aboard.

Together, Yu and Nix heaved her aboard. Maliah held her camera up.

“I caught it,” she gasped. “I caught all of it.”

Nix smiled and slapped Maliah on her shoulder. “Well done, shipmate.”

“We own the story,” Yu said. “We’ll tell everything. Tell it right. For them,” she said, nodding at the crew, living and dead.

In time, the cruiser arrived, the fishermen were recovered, and the Talbot’s dead, wounded, and prisoners were embarked. The Talbot’s steering was restored, and replacement crew members were assigned as needed. On the cruiser, Maliah personally helped produce the footage that was soon broadcast across the world, demonstrating the PRC’s aggression and the firm commitment of the U.S. to its allies and partners, bringing more members into the coalition.

Nix, despite his eye patch, insisted on taking the Talbot back to port. In the pilothouse, he turned to Flores. “It’s your turn. What’s our breakaway song?”

“I’ve got just the thing,” Flores said.

With the sun setting, the Talbot cut through the water, the 1MC broadcasting the Motorhead’s ‘Dead Men Tell No Tales’ like an anthem:

Breaking up or breaking through

Breaking something’s all we ever do,

Shoot straight, travel far,

Stone crazy’s all we ever are,

But I don’t care for lies,

And I won’t tell you twice,

Because when all else fails,

Dead men tell no tales . . .

Brian Kerg is a prior-enlisted mortarman, communications officer, operational planner, and Nonresident Fellow with the Atlantic Council’s Indo-Pacific Security Initiative. He is currently the G-5 Director of Plans, III Marine Expeditionary Force, in Okinawa, Japan.

Featured Image: Art created with Midjourney AI.