Fiction Week

By Tyler Totten

February 5^th – 0340
Amphibious Strike One
Palanan Bay, Philippines

“Handshake confirmed,” Lieutenant Parodi reported from the copilot seat, his voice low.

“Relax Juan, the drones won’t hear us. Let’s get on the deck.” Commander Valerie Cunningham smirked. Still her own nervousness caused her to glance at the weapon status, seeing green across the board on the defensive systems. While appreciated, she missed the offensive role.

When this was an offensive platform…

“Yes ma’am,” his seriousness remained but his tone level. “Petrel Six, One. Follow us down.”

Cunningham kept further comments to herself. Looking to port, she could see their destination. The base looked half abandoned but she knew better.

“They’ve taken some hits since while we’ve been gone.”

“Docks are holed, yeah.” Cunningham saw impact points in the floating concrete piers, blackened gouges. One broken cargo ship sat on the gravelly bottom. She highlighted it in their joint augmented reality environment. “That wasn’t there before.”

“Most of the spare sections have been slotted in.” Parodi likewise highlighted only two of the floating concrete pre-built sections remained moored off to the side.

They touched down gently and taxied to their mooring point, keeping at least 200 meters of separation from each other and the base itself, dispersing to remain as unattractive a target as they could. An automated small boat was there to collect both aircraft’s crew before their engines even wound down. The tender with fuel and provisions was moving up to Petrel Six as the boat whisked them across to the entrance.

“Welcome, ma’am, sirs.” The ensign saluted them as they stepped inside, their identification read by base security system as they crossed the threshold. “Admiral Stevens is waiting for you.”

“Lead on Ensign.” They all followed him in and below the waterline, feeling the air change as they moved deep underwater. The base’s protection came from its section replaceability and from using tens of meters of water as armor. Stepping quickly into the briefing room and exchanging another round of salutes, Admiral Stevens waved them to their seats.

“Let’s get started.” Stevens was direct and liked to get down to business. Cunningham couldn’t blame him, most of the stiff, stand-on-ceremony flags had either been removed from command or killed. There wasn’t time to be inefficient, the war moved too fast. They had barely sat before Stevens began speaking, gesturing to his aide to bring up the AR briefing.

“As you are aware, losses among manned surface combatants have been heavy. Even with the dispersed approach and pairing each with three or four autonomous surface vessels, the PLA has proven adept at targeting the manned assets specifically. The stealthy command frigates have had better success, but are in short supply. Until that is rectified, we must improvise.” The aide zoomed in, the theater ship loss map fading, replaced by the waters of northeast Luzon and three groups of ten small ships.

“These autonomous squadrons are inbound for strike operations. The PLA has been picking at them for the last four days but they are still 60 percent combat effective and carrying 80 percent of their strike package. You will be providing human-in-the-loop command and control in lieu of manned ships.” An overlay appeared, showing two plane flight with infiltration and exfiltration routes and alternates. Mission time stamps showed their tanking points and flight profiles. “Low and on the deck all the way in, land and establish control of your squadron, wait for the targeting data. Approve the shots, get out. Questions?”

“Are we expecting to pull out our squadron?” Cunningham asked, considering the timings and geometry against known PLAN coverage.

“Negative, these are one-way assets. They have tasking if they survive to launch but it will not be your concern.”

“No on-call support from loitering assets?” Lieutenant Commander Bulan, Petrel Six inquired.

“Not this run. The PLAN has finally pushed substantial numbers of UUVs and that little underwater dogfight has become vicious.” Stevens frowned at that, not mentioning the SSN losses that had come with that surge.

A few additional questions around the room before the admiral dismissed them. Less than 2 hours after landing, both powered up and headed east for the first leg of their route. Behind them, the base’s air raid siren sounded and the base braced for another round.

February 5^th – 0720
Dawn Seas Field Team
Houma, Louisiana, USA

Tim Masson stepped across the gangway, the first morning rays cutting through the light fog and creating glistening outlines across the handful of supply vessels tied up along the piers. This was his first vessel of the day, the hour drive from New Orleans having delayed his normally early start.

“Susan, pilothouse. Mark, topside. I’ll take engineering.” His two engineers nodded, having already known this would be the plan.

“Bet you’ll still be done first,” Susan joked.

“Only if you keep sandbagging,” Tim quipped back.

They parted ways and Tim noted how rough of shape this vessel was in. Not that any of the ones tied up to this set of piers were beauty queens, rusting and covered in flaking paint. It was clear they had not received much maintenance in the two years they had sat idle. Tim was honestly surprised they hadn’t been scrapped altogether, but that had a cost as well.

“Better just get on with it…” He grumbled to himself. Setting his small pelican case down he opened it and extracted his augmented reality glasses. Settling them into place but not energizing the system yet, he opened the hatch and made his way down into the main engineering space. Once firmly on the deck plates he turned the AR glasses on and allowed them to go through their few seconds of boot cycle.

It had taken him some time to get used to them, still feeling he was entirely too old for learning new tricks, much to the bemusement of Susan and Mark, both twenty years his junior. Tim grumbled and complained about the systems yet he wasn’t too much of an old man yet to deny their utility. Even just a quick glance around the space and the computer-vision system was measuring the space and identifying key systems. Much of the basics, like the main engines, were more confirmatory of what limited data they already had. For others, like vales, pumps, and electrical panels, the algorithms got to work matching them and identifying compatibility. Where the system struggled, he helped find the right component. Sometimes he needed to wipe off a greasy label plate or fill in the blanks on a name when it ran up against the CV algorithms’ limits. He still prided himself on knowing most of the systems almost as fast as the system could match them.

As with the dozens of vessels they had already worked on, these old rust buckets were destined to be turned into rapidly automated platforms. His team, and others like them, catalogued their status and systems. The AR glasses of each team member rapidly formed work orders, 3D models, and queued purchases or pulls from existing supply to outfit the vessels. This vessel would take more than most, many of its systems manual or had broken equipment so old that they were obsolete and could not be replaced with a form-fit-function replacement. Even still, he was confident they could meet the deadline. Twenty minutes later he had finished in the engineering spaces and climbed back to the working deck. Susan was already there, confirming the alterations for the bridge systems on her tablet.

“Better,” Tim remarked in jest. “Mark?”

“Here.” Mark said coming down the ladder behind him. “She’s in rough shape, don’t you think?”

“These will be one-way drone ships for sure but that’s still something, if they can launch their missiles before they break.” He considered his data for a moment, AR glasses letting him look back down into the engineering spaces and the work out diesels contained there. He shook his head slightly. “My bet is four days, assuming all the parts can get here on time. Last shipment was delayed by reported drones over Highway 51. Nothing came of it but still snarled traffic.”

“Do you blame them after Long Beach?” Susan shuddered, mentally replaying the footage of an entire bridge span full of cars and trucks collapsing into the water under the surprise drone swarm.

“Fair enough, still destroys our schedule.” Tim shook his head again, trying not to dwell on things beyond control. “Let’s get over to the next vessel.”

Almost 98 hours later, Tim watched six boxes land on the freshly automated OSV. Each housed a variety of missiles, though he didn’t know which types. He suspected these were strike weapons, given the one-way nature of the old rusty wrecks. One express routing through the Panama Canal and they’d be in the war.

Everything west of Panama is “in the war.” He snorted to himself. Shaking his head he turned and walked to his truck. There were still a few more vessels to salvage. He could only hope all that reported new construction was about to start launching. They were running out of wrecks.

February 5^th – 1450
Amphibious Strike One
20 nm north of Farallon de Pajaros

The engines thrummed with power, the comforting sound louder and more in Cunningham’s chest than usual. Her two-plane flight was on the deck and the engines were working hard, having left their buddy tankers behind three hours ago. The run was at a bare 300 meters, staying well below the anticipated radar horizon. It was expected they would even avoid detection by the over-the-horizon systems thanks to their small form factor. The only real risk was getting spotted by a visual or infrared satellite pass. For that, they had to make use of a regular window in which PLA overhead birds would be blinded. The Navy had been keeping a regular-as-clockwork blinding campaign since the war’s start, typically doing nothing in the window. The hope by this point was that the PLA largely ignored the window other than to recheck the locations of the three prowling CSGs that threatened but did not move west from their racetracks around Midway. Further west of that had…unfortunate outcomes.

Cunningham shivered at the thought, remembering their search-and-rescue sortie to recover who they could from the burning ocean around the remains of the Big E. Her stern hadn’t quite slipped below when secondary explosions erupted from her hull as they struggled to pull a few dozen from the dark waters. The surviving escorts had already fled, protecting the wounded Ford running for Midway’s air cover.

“Coming up on initiation point,” Parodi noted. “Confirming Petrel Six in green.”

The laser pulse hit Six precisely on its flank array, the beam tight even at one kilometer. The return pulse was instantaneous.

“Six confirms.” Parodi checked the automated navigator system for their position. “Still good positional fix, within acceptable GPS-denied bounds.”

With that final perfunctory check, the computer would have flagged any issues, Cunningham gripped the controls again and toggled off the autopilot. The computer could fly this alone but she wanted to at least start the run herself.

“Powering up, Six to follow.” Cunningham advanced the throttles, bringing her aircraft up to full power. Like its predecessor, they were capable of a Mach 0.9 sprint. On this lightly loaded run, with only a few defensive weapons, her Seamaster II easily advanced across Mach 0.9 to Mach 0.94. The only change was a small shudder in the stick.

February 5^th – 1635
Task Force Romeo Bravo 15 (TF-RB15)
15 nm south of Taiwan

Self-elected commander of TF-RB15 noted the new command node come online, linking up with one of the task force’s UAVs maintaining a line-of-sight (LOS) laser communication net over the entire group. Having departed Hawaii with 16 ships, the surviving nine pressed on with the same undaunted progress that came with being automated. The command unit had been lucky, positioned mid-group and carrying a majority offensive payload. It had directed the defense against a half dozen raids on the group. Several, mostly outer pickets, had fallen to enemy fire.

As valid command codes filtered in from the new arrival, the command unit transmitted a task force status update. It also added a positional fix, pulling from the collective task force’s GPS-denied positional assessment. A combination of inertial, star fixes, and tracking known satellites in orbit all coordinated with triple-redundant atomic clocks. The result was remarkably accurate, at least for open-ocean navigating.

Receiving a simple acknowledgement of the update but no orders, it continued as before. Launched UAVs passively searched for threats with cameras and radio-direction-finding sniffed for radars. And onward they sailed.

Amphibious Strike One

“Command Unit confirms no contacts,” Parodi reported for the third time in the hour since arrival. Out there somewhere, their brethren should have linked up with the other two Romeo Bravo task forces, more SeaMasters bobbing on the wavetops near the ships plowing west.

“Wow, these things are struggling. Rust Bucket task force indeed.” Parodi looked over the updates, driven by boredom rather than need. The system would flag anything they needed to review. “Half these ships are down an engine. Two only have half power and are running flat out. Lucky if they survive past launch, enemy or not.”

“They just need to launch.” Cunningham checked the time. “Any minute now.”

As if having willed it into existing, a soft trill announced the satellite orders. They saw it simultaneously as it was decrypted.

“Full salvo,” Parodi noted.

“As expected, probably going to get jumped as soon as we light off anyway,” Cunningham said casually as she confirmed the proper codes had been transmitted. She waited, though only a few seconds, for the command unit to provide proposed strike package edits.

“Light edits,” Parodi highlighted, the command unit providing modifications to reflect the latest inventory and positions of the task force.

“I see no issues, let’s get Six’s concurrence,” Cunningham ordered.

“Six confirms.”

“Lock them in, clear task force to fire by the numbers.”

Task Force Romeo Bravo 15 (TF-RB15)

The command unit received the confirmation of its recommended plan and disseminated launch authorization and final timing, syncing the group. Within seconds, each ship was executing at pre-launch. Across the waves in the fading dusk light, containers opened to reveal racks of cruise missiles. A few red and yellow lights came back, weapons not waking or showing partial faults. While there was nothing to be done about unresponsive weapons, the command unit authorized the launch of any partially responsive weapons. Its mission parameters allowed for maximum risk to launch platforms, no self-preservation was required. They sequenced flagged weapons to fire last to mitigate possible damage.

With a minute left to launch, a UAV picket flashed an alert, processed in a microsecond. Inbound missiles, skimming the surface at subsonic speeds but closing fast.

With only seconds to respond, the command unit ordered an interceptor salvo. Though low on interceptor inventory, the outer picket also had few offensive weapons to preserve. The command unit ordered it to maximize its electronic emissions and deploy radar reflectors, making itself a large target. The inbounds may not care but any advantage was worthwhile.

Calculating the closure rates, the command unit ordered an early and immediate launch from all ships. It provided the update to the human-in-the-loop with two seconds to countermand. The weapons could still make their trip, the change in launch distance trivial, but a deviation was a deviation. Command must be allowed a countermand opportunity. The time passed, slowly, and confirmation to deviate was received.

All across the task force, rusty ships were momentarily lit up and then disappeared under billowing clouds of rocket exhaust as each disgorged its deadly cargo into the night.

Amphibious Strike One

“Inbounds!” Parodi didn’t yell but he was still loud. Cunningham set that aside and examined the threats on screen. “Command unit is moving to immediate launch, providing for override.”

“Allowing,” Cunningham confirmed.

She noted the likely enemy launch positions were flagged, well beyond their own engagement range. She queued a prosecution request and set to transmit from one of their task force’s SATCOMs. Those ships were already exposed, she wasn’t risking her position.

“Sub-launched, old YJ-82s.” Cunningham noted. “Must be a UUV, no way they’re loading that trash on a manned sub.”

“We’re clear of all twelve inbounds, definitely targeting the task force.” Parodi’s calm had returned.

Better, she thought.

They watched the task force’s defensive fire, downing five of the approaching weapons. Four more, lacking any in-flight collaboration, slammed into the decoying ship nearly in unison and massive overkill. A final missile was intercepted in terminal by a last-ditch launch, the interceptor not even getting up to speed. Even still, shrapnel ripped into the converted commercial ship and she lost all power.

The last two missiles spread to either side of the stricken ships and found their own targets, slamming into one each as they launched the last of their own missiles. On one, it found a container with two missiles that had failed to launch and added their fuel and warhead to the conflagration that quickly consumed the ship. On the other, the midship strike was mortal but less spectacular. Still under power but with flooding it could not contain, the ship continued forward and prepared to scuttle itself.

“Well, that’s it.” Cunningham turned away from the screen, glancing only momentarily at the horizon where she could just make out two of the burning ships of her temporary task force. “We’re out of here.”

“Yes ma’am. Powering up.” Parodi worked the abbreviated pre-flight and within 90 seconds they were pointed into the wind and starting their take-off run.

“Another successful hurry up and wait for the fearless Amphibious Strike One,” Cunningham remarked, eliciting a snort from Parodi.

“You just want another splash twelve moment. War’s moved on with that sort of opportunity. It’s all drones, drones, drones nonsense now.”

“I can dream, can’t I?”

Tyler Totten is a naval engineer working on autonomous systems, including autonomous surface vessels, in the maritime domain. Previous roles have included supporting several Navy and Coast Guard programs including LCS, DDG(X), and PEO Ships Futures Directorate. He has a strong interest in international and maritime security. He is also an amateur science fiction writer published on Kindle. He holds a B.S from Webb Institute in Naval Architecture and Marine Engineering and can be found on Bluesky at @azuresentry.bsky.social and X/Twitter at @AzureSentry.

Featured Image: Art created with Midjourney AI. 

By Dmitry Filipoff

For the next two weeks, CIMSEC will be featuring short stories submitted in response to our Call for Fiction.

These thoughtful stories examine the future of maritime security and war at sea. Authors creatively envision emerging threats and technologies through novel scenarios and narratives. These stories can help us gaze into the future and flesh out the possibilities of future conflict.

Below are the authors and stories that will feature during this edition of CIMSEC’s annual fiction week. 

“Task Force Rust Bucket,” by Tyler Totten
“Anna palaa!” by Ben Plotkin
“The Narco Sea: Three Headings to One Target,” by Till Andrzejewski
“Decapitation,” by Malcolm Reynolds
“Friendly Fire Isn’t,” by Paul Viscovich
“Phantom Cable,” by Sandro Carniel
“Locks and Shadow Swarms,” by Philip Kiley
“Habeas Corpus,” by Jay Turner
“No Fly Zone,” by Bryan Williams
“The Henry Protocol,” by Joe Huskey
“Fit to Print,” by Ben Van Horrick
“Perspective,” by Daniel Lee
“The Phantom’s Last Ride,” by Karl Flynn
“Ghost Town,” by Kenyan Medley
“What is Old Is New Again,” by Mike Hanson

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

Featured Image: Art created with Midjourney AI. 

By Dmitry Filipoff

Last week CIMSEC featured short stories submitted in response to our Call for Fiction.

Authors explored a wide variety of futures and scenarios. From unique naval capabilities and platforms, to devious tactics and undersea warfare on foreign worlds, authors imagined an array of thought-provoking scenarios. 

Below are the stories and authors that featured during CIMSEC’s 2024 Fiction Week. We thank them for their excellent contributions.

“False Flag,” by Tyler Totten

“Herera looked up from his command display to see empty containerized missile launchers being hauled over the side linked by heavy wire rope. He wasn’t sure why until he saw the next layer of containers opening in turn and starting their launch sequence. Herera realized with horror that the ship could still contain dozens of additional missiles.”

“Aleutian Ambush,” by Addison Pellerano

“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.”

“Rendezvous,” by David Strachan

“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?”

“Veins of Valour,” by Robert Burton

“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 Impending Tide,” by Mike Hanson

“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.”

“Lessons Learned,” by Paul Viscovich

“For their part, the drones in the swarm had no active sensors and were dependent on the accuracy of their pre-programmed flight path until getting close enough for units of the scouting pods to detect the infrared signature of exhaust gases from the enemy’s stacks. The usual noise level in CIC ticked down a few decibels as decision-makers and watchstanders alike strained to follow reports of the unfolding attack. Petty Officer Gary Woytowych, seated at his NTDS console, reported events as they happened.”

“Visual on the Marlin,” by Karl Flynn

“Pahlavi commanded the ROV to slowly move toward the open torpedo tube using the station-keeping mode. He was intently focusing on lining up the resupply capsule with the open tube. At this point, the ROV’s control software was doing most of the work, but Pahlavi could still feel himself sweating. After what seemed like an agonizingly long approach, the finned end of the capsule disappeared into the open torpedo tube.”

“Dark Ocean,” by Vince Vanterpool

“This area was a bald patch on his displays, completely devoid of visually stimulating information, much like the dark ocean Corbin witnessed just before taking the watch, and like it had been for the last two days. Despite the uniformly blank patch of pixels on the screen, Corbin knew that the area was under heavy scrutiny from both above and within the area; dozens of eyes and ears straining in the void to catch a single glimpse or inadvertent squeak of a possible target.”

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

Featured Image: Art created with Midjourney AI.

Fiction Week

By Vince Vanterpool

LT Corbin Jasmin wandered down to the wardroom to get some “fresh” coffee. The lights in the wardroom were dimmed for darkened ship, creating a very relaxed atmosphere despite the persistent shuddering of bulkheads from the high-speed transit. The ship, an older Flight III Arleigh Burke, has been travelling east at top speed for two days now, taking seemingly random maneuvers in a strange, evasive pattern. Corbin stood in front of the Japanese coffee machine, something more akin to a soda dispenser with bright lights and vibrant colors. There were a series of options available on the touch screen above the spout, from dark roast to long espressos. Corbin stood before the screen and hesitated about which one; his finger hovered over the various options. It feels like an eternity, a full sixty seconds, before he settles on simple medium roast black coffee.

Corbin trudged up several ladder wells to the bridge. “Request permission to enter the pilothouse,” he asked softly. “Enter the pilothouse,” the boatswain’s mate of the watch lazily replied. The pilothouse was completely dark with only the faint glow of the electronic chart emanating from a heavy red-tinted filter laid over the screen. Even the small LEDs for the different systems around the bridge were taped over with opaque, black masking tape to preserve every ounce of night vision the bridge team could muster.

Careful not to trip over the knife edge, he stepped forward and cautiously approached the shadowy figure he assumed was the Officer of the Deck, ENS Kamala Karolina.

“OOD, anything significant?”

“Nothing tonight, sir. Traffic has been non-existent and we’ve been adjusting course per SESS’s direction without any issues,” the ensign said casually.

She was right, the traffic picture was in fact empty. The view outside the windows looked like the ship was flying through empty space as the stars shown above them in the moonless sky and below them, reflected by the dark ocean. Corbin mulled over how boring his upcoming watch downstairs was about to be and lamented over having to be in CIC vice enjoying the view up there when, just for a second, he thought he saw the hint of a shadow of a slim mast just poking over the horizon. Kamala must have seen his worried face and quickly replied, “Oh, that’s Betty.”

“Who?”

“Sorry, sir. I meant Ronin 17. All the vessels have been keeping station with no issues from what we can tell without radar.”

Corbin forgot how the bridge teams, notably the more junior officers, have developed affectionate names for the unmanned surface vessels, USVs, in their company. The unmanned vessels also had their radars secured and were maintaining station visually with their mast cameras trained on his ship, a neat trick with properly trained computer-vision models, but can result in interesting maneuvers with the right sea state.

“Very well. Anything to pass down to the next watch?”

“Yes, sir. Next watch has the next balloon launch. Winds have been pretty light so they shouldn’t have any issues like last time.”

Good, Corbin thought. These high-altitude balloons were the only connection back to higher headquarters they had, so any break in the relay chain would mean no updates for a while. Corbin replied back with an attempt to be as equally casual, “Alright, cool. And Stella? How has she been?”

STELLA was the ship’s updated celestial navigation system. Built off of the same named manual astronomical calculator, this version used a simple skyward-facing camera on top of the pilothouse to stare at the cosmos and ascertain the ship’s position automatically.

“Uh, well, wheels says she has been doing fine with the partial cloud coverage, but the next morning fix should help verify that.”

Corbin hummed to himself with concern, but STELLA was all they had with GPS currently as useful as fixing your position by naked eye in open ocean. Corbin thanked the junior officer for the information and made his way to the ladder wells he just climbed a few minutes ago.

In stark contrast to the pitch-black pilothouse, Central Controlling Station, or CCS, was brilliantly lit in austere white overhead lights and twinkling red, green, and orange status lights on the consoles it housed. The Engineering Officer of the Watch and the two console operators were in a loud, friendly debate about if the last Ticonderoga-class cruiser will get its service life extended one more time and actually outlive the last Littoral Combat Ship still in the fleet.

“Good evening, MPA. How’s the plant tonight?”

“Good evening, sir,” the always smiling CWO4 Patrick Rogers swiveled his chair towards Corbin.

“The plant has been temperamental as always. 1A GTM has another broken valve from the fuel service tank, but GSM2 will get to printing a new one once she is done with the part for Shirley. I mean Ronin 22,” he corrected himself holding back an even bigger grin at the mistake. “The next watch should be able to replace it and have the engine ready for use.”

“Shirley?” Corbin asked, half smirking himself. “You’ve been hanging around the ensigns too much. Is Ronin 22’s part supposed to be sent over tomorrow then? The bridge didn’t mention any preps for small boat ops for next watch.”

“Uh… let me check. No, OPS and CHENG talked and given the transit speed we need to maintain, we will just hold onto the part until the next safe box. Shirley, nothing will go wrong!”

MPA said with emphasis, his console operators trying to hold back their own laughs.

Corbin couldn’t help but actually smile at that one, “Alright, that was a good one. Have a good night.”

Amused, he left CCS and heard all three burst out laughing over MPA’s joke as he shut the hatch.

Corbin approached the hatch to Combat Information Center, CIC or simply Combat to many, and instinctually punched in the combination. The lock clicked open from inside the space, but Corbin still had throw his body against the hatch to get it to swing open. He reminded himself that he still needed to talk to Eric, the OI division officer, about getting the maintenance job for that written. He stumbled, almost fell, into Combat and was instantly bathed by the blue lights overhead. Someone long ago told him the blue helped keep watchstanders and console operators awake on watch, but he has seen enough sleeping Sailors to believe that is not the case.

Lately though, just as now, Sailors were alert on watch given how quickly the situation could have changed then. The USV consoles were equally as unmanned as the vessels they controlled as the low latency short wave mesh network was disabled at that time. The warfare coordinators and their supervisors, despite having their radars secured, were maintaining situational awareness from a variety of assets and monitoring the onboard track management and assessment algorithms. Each row of consoles, Air Alley and Surface Street, monitored the recognized air picture and recognized maritime picture, respectively. Each of their weapon target assignment algorithms were deactivated at the time, but could be enabled as requested from the operators or remotely through the aforementioned high-altitude balloons.

LCDR Ryan Hayes got up as his watch relief approached. “And my favorite person has arrived!” he said to Corbin with a large grin.

Corbin replied back with a sheepish grin, “What’s up Ryan? Anything fun happen? Did you win the war?”

“Ah, not yet my friend, but I am sure your decisive and attentive watchstanding will guarantee us victory!” Ryan said with a grand wave of his arms to the mostly empty large screens in front of the TAO and CO consoles.

Corbin plopped himself in the TAO, Tactical Action Officer, chair and got situated as Ryan regaled him with the routine maintenance and reports that occurred over the last three hours.

Before he left, Ryan concluded with, “Oh, and I spoke with OPS and the boat ops is pushed to a later date for Ronin 22’s repair part. Shirley-“

“Shirley nothing could go wrong,” Corbin said as he dryly cuts off Ryan with a small smirk.

Ryan couldn’t help but laugh, “I hope MPA gave me credit for that one.”

“In fact, I think he neglected that part in the turnover.”

An hour slowly passed by for Corbin as the large screens before him remained mostly empty. Each one was an enlarged representation of either the recognized air picture or recognized maritime picture, but with more abbreviated information compared to what the coordinators saw. Both screens largely contained neutral contacts, merchant ships and commercial airliners, trying their best to maintain a sense of normalcy despite the very obvious detours they took around the most dangerous areas. And his ship was driving into the center of one. This area was a bald patch on his displays, completely devoid of visually stimulating information, much like the dark ocean Corbin witnessed just before taking the watch, and like it had been for the last two days. Despite the uniformly blank patch of pixels on the screen, Corbin knew that the area was under heavy scrutiny from both above and within the area; dozens of eyes and ears straining in the void to catch a single glimpse or inadvertent squeak of a possible target.

It all happened quickly.

A simple blip was all it required. An errant transmission under a specific satellite, sailing slightly too close to a saildrone or underwater receiver, or a Sailor trying to connect to the cellular network from a visible island. The blip, a simple glimpse or inadvertent squeak, was the final piece from numerous, ostensibly different data sources, that the autonomous targeting system at higher headquarters needed to complete its puzzle. It selected a series of available candidates to complete the strike mission: an expeditionary missile launcher, an allied airborne maritime patrol aircraft, and a surface action group consisting of a destroyed and three USVs. It sent out the information through what it assessed was the fastest available path, knowing or hoping each candidate was waiting with their finger on the trigger, as any delay would compromise the already small window of opportunity given to them by the adversary.

Corbin looked down under his seat to see where he had placed his coffee. Happy to have acquired his warm prey and while enjoying a simple sip of the needed caffeine, his eyes spotted a new contact appear in the previously empty area. A hostile surface contact fed to them by higher headquarters with fire authorization tags attached. The ship will only not fire if the CO, or TAO in this case given the short time window, feels it will jeopardize their group’s tactical situation, or TACSIT. The ship and others in company’s TACSIT was now the number one measurement of surviving the trip back out of the dangerous area. LT Jasmin didn’t have time to speculate and mull over how effective their deception and counter-targeting had been over the last few days, and had to hope the previous watches had performed well, as the window to shoot would close quickly.

Corbin, satisfied with the information they see and the information verified by his watchstanders over their tactical internal voice net, ordered the missiles to be fired. No acknowledgement back to higher headquarters was needed, nor recommended for survivability reasons, as the weapons transmitted and connected to the weapons network for in-flight updates.

The missiles fired with a familiar explosive shudder through the ship as they left the comfortable confines of their VLS cells. The bridge team reported successful missile launches from Shirley, Betty, and Louisa as well, prompting him to remember to mentor them on professional voice communications on the net afterwards. The USVs, also given the order as seen in the fire authorization tags on the contact, acted on their own accord; the last barrier to a fully autonomous weapon platform and combat system removed out of necessity for environments where communication was a luxury and decisiveness was a necessity.

Corbin could negate the launch with an order over low probability of detection, low bandwidth short wave transmissions, again if he had deemed it required to maintain the veil of covertness for a bit longer.

On his screen, the once empty area displayed the circle of weapons quickly collapsing on the hostile target. As the circle disappeared, the target does as well with a small delay. Most likely, a UAV asset conducted BDA and passed the success message to higher headquarters. Corbin ordered the bridge to increase speed as the thermal plume of the missile launch would attract the same amount of attention they just saw happen to someone else; and if not already inbound, threat missiles would be in a few minutes.

After watch, Corbin goes to get a snack from the Wardroom. The attendants started to set the tables for breakfast as best they can with the ship heeling aggressively back and forth. The maneuvers increased in frequency; if the missiles firing didn’t wake everyone up, the rolls did. With one hand on the bulkhead for support, he arrived at the basket of pastries available.

Without even looking through all the options, he picks a flavor that looks good enough before stumbling to his stateroom.

LT Vince Vanterpool is a Surface Warfare Officer with previous sea tours in FDNF-J onboard USS McCAMPBELL (DDG 85) and USS SHILOH (CG 67). Vince earned his Master’s in Operations Research from Naval Postgraduate School and is currently attending Department Head School at Surface Warfare School Command, slated to be the Chief Engineer on USS SHOUP (DDG 86) in Yokosuka, Japan. Outside of the Navy, he enjoys writing and running TTRPG adventures for his wife, kids, and friends.

Featured Image: Artwork created with Midjourney AI.