Fiction Week

By Karl Flynn

Somewhere in the Philippine Sea…

I can’t believe we’re actually doing this.

Lieutenant Commander Bowman was flying a slow racetrack pattern low to the water to maintain ground effect. Per the rendezvous procedure, she was supposed to set the Marlin down if her crew didn’t visually acquire the submarine after four complete circuits. The intent of the procedure was to save as much fuel as possible for what lay ahead. She had rehearsed resupplying a submarine dozens of times, but never in a warzone. Today, her crew would be doing the real thing.

Who the hell thought this whole thing was a good idea anyway? There’s probably a dozen things that can still go wrong. At least we’re doing this during daylight.

“Ma’am, got a periscope at three o’clock, eight hundred yards!”

Bowman leaned forward to look past Lieutenant Wei, her copilot, and squinted out of the right side of the aircraft to try to see through the sunlight dancing across the ocean surface. Sure enough, she spotted a periscope—or rather, a photonics mast—protruding out of the calm water.

Damn, there she is. Right where she’s supposed to be. Bowman allowed herself to smirk. Nice job, Weems. Maybe the rest of this will be just as easy.

_____________________________________

Meanwhile, aboard the USS Iowa, SSN-797, Lieutenant Weems spotted the Marlin II circling overhead on the LCD screen.

Son of a bitch. This is actually happening.

“Conn, visual on the marlin. Right where she’s supposed to be.”

What a beautiful bird. Weems was tracking the aircraft on the photonics mast admiring the four-engined amphibian.

“Conn, aye.” Weems’ commanding officer, Commander Nguyen, was conning the boat for the resupply. “Alright, Mr. Weems. Proceed with the linkup procedure.”

“Aye, captain.”

Weems selected the visible light from the photonics mast user interface and read through the scripted message. He remembered how his roommate had made him learn morse code with him before their Leatherneck evaluation at the naval academy. He couldn’t help but feel thrilled when they successfully used their lights to coordinate a night attack, only to receive a tongue-lashing from the staff for giving away their position with their lights.

Bet you never would’ve guessed I’d be using morse code for this.

Weems had wanted to commission as a Marine but wasn’t selected. His roommate was and had been assigned to an infantry platoon in the 3rd Marine Littoral Regiment. Based on the sheer volume of shipping the Iowa had encountered over the past few days, Weems wondered if his former roommate—or anyone in the MLR—was still alive.

No. Don’t think about that. Focus on the task at hand.

_____________________________________

Back aboard the Marlin, Wei was deciphering the flashes of light from the submarine.

            “M-A-R-L-I-N-8-0-8…  D-E…  I-O-W-A…  S-T-E-A-D-Y…  C-S-E…  0-1-5…  R-E-A-D-Y…  T-O…  P-R-O-C-E-E-D… K.” Wei turned to his pilot. “Hot damn! They’re ready for us!”

            Bowman felt a surge of adrenaline. She wagged the massive aircraft’s wings three times in accordance with the pre-arranged acknowledgement signal. “Alright, Wei. Let’s go through the landing checklist.”

            “Aye, ma’am!”

_____________________________________

            Weems was fixated on the enormous airplane. He watched it recede behind the boat, circle back, and line up parallel to the Iowa’s track offset by a few hundred meters. As the plane approached, he saw the flaps lower even further, then the sea spray kicked up behind the plane as it descended. Finally, the craft settled down into the water just as it was abreast of the sub. Weems followed it as it taxied well ahead of the sub, stopped, and opened its starboard cargo hatch.

            Weems turned to his captain. “Looks like they’re getting ready to deploy the ROV, sir.”

Commander Nguyen nodded in acknowledgement, then announced, “Flood tube two.”

A reply came from forward of the conn. “Flood tube two, aye, sir.”

_____________________________________

Commander Pahlavi had been a reservist until shortly before hostilities had commenced. Although he was the highest-ranking officer aboard the aircraft, he still felt out of place. His last tour on active duty was years before at a mobile dive and salvage unit that had experimented with industrial ROVs. This made him one of a select few naval personnel to have operated the modified work-class ROV the Navy had used to pioneer undersea replenishment techniques. While based on an industrial ROV design, the Navy’s resupply ROVs had been fitted with additional thrusters and control surfaces to keep up with submarines making minimum steerage while submerged. Pahlavi looked at the unusual craft with a sense of apprehension.

The Navy had over a decade of experience conducting carrier operations in peacetime before WWII. Now we’re going to resupply a submarine underwater with less than a year under our belt?

Pahlavi shook his head and refocused on the task at hand. After completing the built-in diagnostic process, Pahlavi got on the aircraft’s intercom system. “ROV is ready for deployment.”

Bowman’s voice replied, “OK, sir, commence deployment procedure when ready. Wei, signal the Iowa.”

Aviation’s Mate Third Class Orlov was standing by at the edge of the open cargo hatch. When he heard Bowman’s command on the intercom, he immediately began coordinating with Chief Park, the Marlin’s loadmaster, to lift the ROV and get it over the water next to the fuselage. Pahlavi glanced away from his operator’s display at the twenty-year-old Sailor leaning out of the starboard cargo hatch signaling Park to reel out the winch.

Desperate times call for desperate measures, I suppose.

As he watched the rubber padding on the craft’s exterior submerge with the thick umbilical trailing behind it, he turned back to the ROV controls mounted below the touchscreen on his operator’s station. “ROV is away.”

“Aye, sir.”

Alright, everything according to procedure.

Pahlavi started driving the ROV alongside the Marlin’s hull. Orlov was announcing how much length was being spooled out of the umbilical reel. The umbilical served several purposes: it tethered the ROV to the aircraft, fed electrical power and control signals from the aircraft to the ROV, and provided video feed to Pahlavi’s control station. Once the umbilical reel had spooled out two meters, Pahlavi stopped the ROV.

“Bowman, we’re ready to get underway.”

Bowman’s voice replied through Pahlavi’s headset. “Aye, sir. Increasing speed to three knots.” Pahlavi focused intently on the ROV control station to ensure the vehicle didn’t collide with the Marlin’s hull as the aircraft slowly moved forward. Bowman’s voice came back over the intercom a few seconds later. “Speed through water is three knots, sir.”

Alright, here we go.

Park and Orlov were preparing one of many capsules slightly smaller than a Mk-48 heavyweight torpedo to be lowered into the water. Cylindrical in shape, the container was tapered on both ends with fins protruding past the end facing the aft end of the aircraft. It was made of positively buoyant material and retained ten Compact Rapid Attack Weapons—effectively miniature torpedoes. The Iowa had expended several dozen CRAWs in the last few days of fighting, but she still had most of her Mk-48s on board. Pahlavi watched as the Sailors lowered the capsule into the slowly receding ocean just below the open cargo hatch. As it neared the surface, Pahlavi fixed his gaze back on his control station and watched the capsule break the surface from the ROV’s underwater camera.

“Steady…Hold!” At Pahlavi’s command, Park stopped the secondary winch that was still connected to the supply capsule. Pahlavi drove the ROV alongside and watched as one of the ROV’s manipulator arms mimicked his own movements. He grabbed the capsule roughly a third of its length from its front end.

“ROV has positive control! Release the capsule.”

“Release the capsule, aye, sir.” Orlov leaned out of the cargo hatch and pulled a second cable, which released the winch cable from the capsule. Pahlavi carefully watched the ROV’s thruster speeds compensate to keep the capsule steady as the cable disconnected. All were well within the specified tolerances.

Pahlavi switched back to the aircraft’s intercom. “Alright, Bowman. Just like we rehearsed. Bring us to starboard and get us on the same track directly in front of the Iowa.”

“Aye, sir!”

_____________________________________

            Weems was watching the large seaplane keep station just off the Iowa’s port bow on the photonics mast display. Then, he saw the aircraft’s tail signal light begin flashing.

            “New signal!  I-O-W-A…  W-E…  A-R-E…  R-E-A-D-Y…  T-O…  M-E-R-G-E…  T-R-A-C-K…  K.”

            “Alright, Mr. Weems, get them on station,” Commander Nguyen replied.

            “Aye, sir.”

_____________________________________

Rather than relying on GPS, which, for all she knew, was being spoofed, Bowman was shifting the Marlin’s position based on the commands of the Iowa. Wei was relaying the distances being signaled via morse code from the Iowa’s photonics mast.

“Three meters.”

“Three meters,” she replied.

“Two meters, change course to zero-one-six.”

“Two meters, changing course to zero-one-six.”

“One meter, change course to zero-one-five.”

“One meter, changing course to zero-one-five.”

“Iowa’s signaling again. M-A-I-N-T-A-I-N…  P-O-S-I-T-I-O-N…  T-U-B-E…  2…  O-U-T-E-R…  D-O-O-R…  O-P-E-N…  C-O-M-M-E-N-C-E…  R-E-L-O-A-D…  K.” Wei turned to his pilot. “Are you ready to make history, ma’am?”

Bowman allowed herself a smile. “Easy, Wei. We still gotta do the hard part. Signal the Iowa that we’re sending the ROV.”

_____________________________________

            Park was spooling out the ROV’s umbilical reel, allowing Pahlavi to drive the ROV directly astern of the Marlin. As the distance between the ROV and the Iowa closed, Pahlavi could see the sub’s bow emerge from the sea.

            Visibility is great out here. That should help.

            He guided the ROV along the submarine’s starboard side. As the ROV got closer, he could clearly see white numbers painted on the side of her hull.

            There’s the draft marks. Torpedo tube should be right behind the 20… There she is!

            As the ROV approached the sub, Pahlavi could see the fairing over the second torpedo tube was in the retracted position, revealing the open torpedo tube illuminated by the ROV’s underwater searchlight.

            Easy does it.

            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.

Gotcha!

As the ROV’s forward manipulator got close to the open tube, Pahlavi walked the capsule hand over hand—or manipulator over manipulator—into the tube until it was fully seated.

            “I have visual confirmation of clearance on the outer edge of the torpedo tube! Moving the ROV away.” Pahlavi was already driving the ROV away from the Iowa as he spoke.

_____________________________________

            Weems watched as the signal light on the Marlin’s tail lit up again.

            “New message: P-O-S-I-T-I-V-E… V-I-S-U-A-L…T-U-B-E…2…C-L-E-A-R…K…”

            Commander Nguyen nodded affirmingly. “Close tube two.”

            “Close tube two, aye, sir.” In the torpedo room, torpedomen were preparing to onload the capsule and ready tube four for the capsule that would follow.

_____________________________________

            After nearly two hours ferrying CRAW capsules from the Marlin to the Iowa, Pahlavi was mentally spent. In all, the Marlin crew had resupplied the Iowa with 110 CRAWs. Park was reeling the ROV back from the eleventh resupply run when Pahlavi saw the Iowa turn to port and dive while he felt the Marlin turn to starboard. It was surreal watching the submarine disappear out of view. He wondered if he would see his former plebe again.

            Godspeed, Mr. Nguyen.

            A tear made its way down Pahlavi’s face as the Iowa faded into the depths. Once the sub was no longer visible, he buried his face in his hands and wept silently. As he wept, he felt a hand gently grasp his shoulder.

            “Sir, is everything alright? We need to retrieve the ROV,” Chief Park said softly. He had noticed Pahlavi wasn’t paying attention to the ROV control station and realized what was happening. Pahlavi did his best to wipe away his tears and nodded to Park, then looked back at his controls.

“All good, chief. Let’s proceed.”

_____________________________________

After Park and Orlov had finished retrieving and securing the ROV, it had taken Bowman just twenty minutes to reach cruising altitude. The Marlin was significantly lighter than at the start of the mission largely thanks to the lack of CRAWs aboard as well as having expended a significant amount of fuel.

Hm…We burned more fuel than we were supposed to during the resupply.

As though he had read her thoughts, Wei turned to her and said, “I don’t think we’re gonna have enough fuel to make it back, ma’am. Even if we did make it, it’d be way too close for comfort.”

Bowman continued studying the fuel levels and checked the engine’s burn rates. They were flying at cruising speed, but the unexpected headwind was causing the four turboprops to go through fuel faster than was anticipated.

            “Yup, sure looks like it.”

I hope there’s a tanker in the air. I really don’t feel like sitting on the water again.

            No sooner had she spoken those words when the Marlin was buffeted by an even stronger headwind. Wei spoke up again. “Ma’am, we’re definitely not going to make it.”

“Concur. Good thing is we’re out of the EMCON zone. See if you can find a tanker available for tasking.”

            “One step ahead of you, ma’am. There’s no tankers available, and I can’t imagine any will free up any time soon with Enterprise’s air group providing CAP clear out here. Good thing is if we divert south by a bit we can reach a USV towing a dracone that’s only a few miles away. Looks like it was supposed to stage it for an EAB, but that mission got scrapped. Now it’s up for grabs, so we might as well refuel—not like the F-35 can land on water.”

Bowman sighed heavily, resigned to bobbing on the water’s surface while refueling from a drone boat. “Alright. Can you plot a course to rendezvous with that USV?”

“Yes, ma’am, at 159 we should have a visual in about…actually, we should be able to spot it now!”

“Copy, coming to 159.” As she banked the Marlin to turn south, she switched her intercom setting to address the entire aircraft. “All crew, prepare for water landing. We don’t have the fuel to make it back in a straight shot, so we’re going to put down to get fuel from a cargo USV.”

Shortly after the crew acknowledged the landing notice, Chief Park informed Bowman over the intercom that he had acquired the USV with the aircraft’s powerful optical suite. Bowman pulled up the feed on one of the screens in the cockpit, clearly showing the USV slowly plodding along. Since the USV’s course and speed were readily evident to Bowman, she brought the aircraft around behind the USV and set the plane down in the water offset from its track, just like she had done with the Iowa. As she taxied alongside the USV, she said, “OK, Chief, prepare for waterborne refueling.”

“Aye, ma’am!” Once the Marlin was close enough, Commander Pahlavi was able to establish a local datalink with the USV and take control of it. He signaled Park and Orlov to open the cargo hatch and simultaneously got on the intercom to talk to Bowman. “OK, I’m controlling the USV. It’s got plenty of fuel for us, just need to get the refueling boom over here.”

Bowman replied, “OK, sir, I’m coming to a halt. Let’s get ready to refuel.”

“Copy, bringing the USV alongside now.” Once he had driven the USV behind the Marlin’s number three engine, Pahlavi switched settings to have the USV keep itself at the same relative position to the Marlin. He then started to deploy the USV’s refueling boom. He could see himself hunched over the common operating station inside the Marlin’s cargo bay from the refueling boom’s camera.

“Count down the distance, Orlov!”

“Aye, sir!”

As the refueling boom extended toward the Marlin, Orlov dutifully called out the closing distance.

“Five meters!”

“Five meters.”

“Four!”

“Four.”

“Three!”

“Three.”

“Two, alignment is good!”

“Two.”

“One! Steady, sir. You’re lined up.”

Pahlavi carefully brought the refueling boom into contact with the aircraft’s starboard refueling receptacle. Orlov immediately secured the fuel line to the fitting next to the open cargo hatch. “Boom is secure, ready to begin fueling, chief!”

“OK, Orlov—ma’am, did you catch that?”

“Sure did, Chief. Aircraft is ready for fuel transfer.”

“Aye, ma’am! Commencing fuel transfer.” Chief Park opened the fill valves, then Pahlavi switched on the USV’s fuel transfer pump. Both settled back and watched its fuel level slowly fall as it pumped fuel into the Marlin’s depleted tanks.

_____________________________________

            Bowman was glad to be back on land. After spending another hour sitting on the water taking on fuel from the USV, she was eager to sleep on a bed that didn’t move. After post-flighting the Marlin, she briefly conferred with her crew before walking back to her cot. She flopped down without taking off any of her gear.

Her sound sleep was interrupted by another pilot walking to another bunk. Bowman recognized Lieutenant Schmidt, another pilot in her squadron.

            “Hey, Allie. How was your mission? I heard you got tasked with resupplying the Delaware.”

            Schmidt stopped dead in her tracks and looked at the ground. She replied without raising her eyes. “We did…She didn’t show.”

            Bowman couldn’t believe what she’d heard. Oh, God. Allie’s husband was on the Delaware…

            “I’m so sorry, Allie. Maybe they’re still out there. Maybe they—”

            Before she could continue, Lieutenant Schmidt collapsed to the floor in tears. Bowman rushed over to her. The other officers in the female berthing, awakened by the commotion, looked over. Most tried to go back to sleep. They had become numb to the sight; many had already lost husbands, friends, brothers, and sisters. And none of them knew when it would stop.

Captain Karl Flynn, USMC, is a rifle company commander in 3rd Battalion, 2nd Marines.

Featured Image: Artwork created with Midjourney AI.

Fiction Week

By Paul Viscovich, CDR/USN (Ret.)

“Admiral, here’s your copy of the Midday Position Report.”

“Thank you, Mr. Snyder.” RADM Gail Easterling glanced at the 3-1/2 by 5-inch chit recording the flagship’s 1200 latitude, longitude, and a few other datapoints critical to safe navigation.

“This position is partly based on Celestial. With all this cloud cover, when did the Nav Team manage to find a heavenly body?”

“Shortly after sunrise ma’am. There was a break in the weather just long enough for the Quartermaster to shoot a compass bearing and lower limb of the sun.”

“That’s not great but it’ll have to do. I’ll be happier if it clears up enough for them to shoot a couple of sun lines for a running fix. Not as accurate as GPS but better than this.”

“At least when they destroyed our satellites the enemy lost their own GPS capability.”

“True but remember, they don’t have to cross an ocean without it.”

The admiral slipped the Position Report onto a clipboard already straining to hold all the information she judged critical to her grasp of the “big picture” and propped it up on the angle iron in front of her bridge chair.

“By your leave ma’am?”

“Of course. Oh, wait! Tell me, have you ever had to rely on just celestial and dead reckoning for an ocean transit?”

“No Admiral, at least not entirely. When I was an ensign on Canopus, we had this competition among the junior officers. The XO gave us the QM’s daily observations but we had to figure the sight reductions, plot the fixes, and dead reckon from there. The object was to see who could come closest to our actual position when the ship reached the entrance to the Chesapeake.”

“How did that turn out?”

“Well ma’am, I didn’t win. Some did better than others. But I think the lesson was supposed to be the importance of keeping our celestial skills sharp and not getting dependent on GPS. One of the XO’s favorite sayings was, ‘don’t get mesmerized by technology.’”

“As we’re learning now. Speaking of technology, what’s this evening’s test of that experimental drone swarm?”

“Shall I see if Professor Braun is available to brief you, ma’am?”

When Professor Eric Braun appeared on the bridge a short time later, one would hardly guess from his self-confident stride that he’d acquired his sea legs just a few days before. Admiral Easterling swiveled her bridge chair to face him.

“Good afternoon, Professor! I hope I’m not interrupting your lunch.”

“Howdy, Admiral. No, I ate early. I was down in our work spaces. I imagine you’re curious about how this morning’s search and acquisition exercise went.”

She nodded and picked up her tablet, clicking on the file named, “No-see’ems.”

“I think we have a partial fix to the problem imposed by the lack of precision in knowing our starting position at launch. By expanding the search radius of our scouting units out to two standard deviations off the programmed course, we improve our chances of finding the target without sacrificing too much in the way of spreading the scouts too thin.”

“How long did that delay the engagement?”

“Not quite a quarter of an hour, the time it took the main body of the swarm to change course and mass on the target’s actual location.”

She scrolled through the Schedule of Events annex in the file. “I see in tonight’s exercise, the surface target drone will try to defend itself against the swarm. What countermeasures will it use?”

“We’ve found that concussive airbursts are most effective at disabling our nano-bots. We’re using that 3-inch/50 mount on the target USV to fire mechanically fuzed anti-aircraft rounds in a set pattern along the avenue of attack. Even if the air bursts don’t get a hard kill, the concussion scrambles enough of the sensors and organic AI coding of any nearby drones to render them ineffective.”

“Can the swarm evade this danger?”

“Good question ma’am. We’ll be testing that capability too. We coded the AI learning algorithms to recognize the sudden loss of communications with the disabled units as being associated with the concussive blasts.”

“So the surviving units will avoid them?”

“Better than that. We hope to demonstrate that our shipboard central processor can vector the gunfire back to the target, then re-orient the swarm’s angles of attack away from its effective firing arcs.”

“Where’s the best place for me to watch this in real time?”

“From your chair in CIC. In fact, I’ll be there too. Barring any glitches, we’ll launch the swarm between 1930 and 1940. Engagement can occur any time after 2000, depending on the range to the target and how long the swarm takes in finding it.”

“I’ll see you there.”

On a Wasp-class amphibious assault ship, the Combat Information Center (CIC) is located two levels above the main deck, immediately aft of Officers’ Country. To a visitor, it’s a twilight world of borderline chaos, with its crackling overhead voice radio speakers and constant hum of watchstanders passing tactical information between themselves and the decision-makers.

Admiral Easterling picked her way through the maze of radar repeaters, Navy Tactical Data System (NTDS) consoles, and plotting tables toward her chair at the evaluator’s station. Prof. Braun was nearby on a sound-powered phone, chatting with the Meteorology Office. He nodded several times and his brow furrowed with concern. He and the Tactical Action Officer conferred briefly, then approached the admiral.

“What’ve you got for me?”

“A possible problem, ma’am” replied the TAO. “The weather-guessers are predicting scattered showers in the next couple of hours. We’ve already got one on radar. Prof. Braun says the swarm can’t launch or operate in the rain. He’ll fill you in.”

“Evenin’ Admiral. To retain flexibility and minimize early detection, the nano-bots proceed independently to the target before combining into macroforms. But since each ‘bot is so tiny, one rain drop can destroy it.”

“Is it raining now?”

“No, but if a squall pops up on their way to the target, it could wipe them all out.”

“Can’t they avoid it?”

“Negative. The AI’s not that smart yet. We’d have to use manual override to vector them around the obstacle. I recommend we scrub this evening’s event rather than risk putting the swarm at risk.”

“Hmm. We’re running out of time to finish testing the system before we can expect contact with the enemy. What’s the probability of precipitation?”

“Between 35 and 40 percent over the next two hours.”

“How far away can our radar pick up a shower?”

“Twenty miles max, Admiral. Beyond that, they’re flying blind.”

“Not necessarily.”

“You have an idea, TAO?”

“We could launch the ‘Ready Ten’ helicopter to run recon ahead of the swarm.”

“What do you think, Professor?”

He shrugged. “It may work but it’s still risky.”

“Then let’s proceed. In the real world, launching the helo would compromise the element of surprise, but I think the data and lessons we’ll learn are worth trying this now.”

“Bridge, Combat. Inform the Captain, Admiral Easterling directs launching the Ready Ten.”

Days passed. The balance between nautical miles sailed and those remaining tipped steadily toward the former. Crossing the International Dateline was marked only as unusual event where the clocks were set back one hour, as the calendar skipped ahead by one day. Tough luck if this fell on your birthday.

RADM Easterling’s amphibious task group was close to its rendezvous with the USS Ranger carrier strike group and enemy contact could occur at any time. The task group’s passage had not gone unobserved. Several brief but unmistakable radar contacts in the past few hours strongly suggested the presence of hostile periscopes.

Prof. Braun found the admiral where he expected to, right there in the starboard bridge chair. “Got a minute, Admiral?” Her eyes were alert but he sensed her fatigue.

“Watcha got, Prof?”

“I’m sure you’ve been told, the swarm is almost ready for action. Do you have any questions before we go to battle stations?”

“I’m curious about, oh what do you call it, independent recoding?”

“Yes ma’am, the ‘factory setting’ algorithms were written in a way that permits the shipboard central processor, the ‘Brain’ if you will, to analyze feedback from the swarm and modify the operating parameters to make them more effective in evading danger and delivering a lethal attack. We’ve observed this at work in the last two days …”

“Yes. The destruction of the surface target drone this morning was very impressive, kind of like passing your final exam.”

“It wasn’t perfect but we’re working on that.”

“So I heard. What happened?”

“Well, the swarm is divided into utility groups programmed to accomplish separate components of the mission. We call them ‘pods.’ Anyhow, one of the high-explosive pods became disoriented on final approach and failed to deliver the attack as programed.”

“How serious was this?”

“We were able to manually override the algorithm from the ‘Brain’ to put the confused pod back on target but the final detonation was delayed. Though we did disable the target, it would’ve been more effective if coordinated with the arrival of the other HE pods.”

“How’re you going to keep that from happening again?”

“I’ve got the programmers working ‘round the clock trouble-shooting the affected strings of coding.”

“Pardon, Admiral” interrupted Captain Miles Brownell. “I’m heading down to Combat. They think they’ve got an enemy surface formation converging on us from bearing 257 at about 150 nautical miles.”

“Thanks Captain, I’ll join you. And Prof? Please check on that trouble-shooting. Your swarm may have its baptism by fire here shortly.”

_____________________________________

“The Captain’s in Combat,” barked a watchstander by the watertight door. The Commanding Officer climbed into his chair and received a briefing from the Tactical Action Officer. Admiral Easterling proceeded to CIC’s Flag Plot to confer with her watch team before joining the CO in her chair adjacent to his.

“How good is this info, Miles?”

“High confidence and very current. A recon Raptor from the Ranger air wing got visual on five surface combatants before drawing fire. Ranger relayed the data by Link 11 via a Hawkeye dedicated to keeping us in the loop.”

“What’s our combined closing speed?”

“If, as I guess, they’re doing around 25, then I’d estimate about 45 knots.”

“That’s about top speed for the swarm.”

“Yes ma’am. If we launch now, it should be on top of them in about two hours.”

“Then let’s do it and welcome them to the future.”

At night, both the swarm and its targets were largely blind. Lookouts on the enemy destroyers were able to monitor little more than the navigation lights of the ships in company. The search radars were allowed only one sweep every ten minutes to limit the chance of detection by U.S. forces.

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.

“Time, 87 minutes since launch. Swarm lead elements now bearing 262 degrees, range 70 miles. Proceeding on programmed course and speed. Communications link good.”

“Time 95. Scouting elements report negative contact. High-explosive elements remain independent but proceeding in close company. Pre-amalgamation preparations complete.”

“Time 99. Left flank scouts report possible IR signature, west-northwest. Closing to investigate.”

“Time 102. Left flank scouts report multiple, contiguous IR signatures. The Control Pod is activating HE amalgamation and reorienting course to intercept.”

“Time 110. Control Pod calculates target center of mass at Latitude 23 degrees, 47 minutes north, Longitude 127 degrees, 15 minutes east.”

“Woytowych, where is that relative to us?”

“Bearing 264 degrees at 47 miles, sir.”

“Any friendlies in that vicinity?”

“Negative. Closest known friendlies are Ranger strike group, approximately 250 miles to the south.”

Captain Brownell looked to the admiral. She nodded.

“Initiate attack sequence.”

“Time 117. HE Pods One, Three and Four report armed and ready. Control querying Pod Two.”

“Time 121. HE Pods One, Three and Four have detected weak IR signatures on designated targets. Control assesses these as probable navigation lights and directs engagement.”

“Time 126. Control reports strong IR plumes on two targets. Make that three. Assess hits on three target ships. No word on Pod Two.”

“Recall the swarm with exception of left flank scouts. Direct them to loiter and monitor enemy movements until critical fuel state.”

“Admiral, I recommend launching the Reaper at dawn for battle damage assessment.”

“Good idea Miles. Make it so.”

_____________________________________

The shrill of the Bo’sun’s pipe over the 1MC ship’s general announcing system got the attention of all hands, as it was supposed to. “Now relieve the watch. On deck, Condition Three watch section two. Now relieve the watch.”

While the bridge watchstanders quietly performed their turnover briefings, Captain Brownell and Prof. Braun approached Admiral Easterling. The scientist looked particularly haggard after pulling an all-nighter. She raised her coffee urn and nodded toward his cup.“Thanks Admiral, but no. I’ve lost track of how many I’ve had.”

“Progress?”

“Yes, Admiral” replied the CO. “The professor has already briefed me but I’ll let him talk. He can answer any questions better than I can.”

“Bottom line, there was a glitch in the AI learning algorithms. One of my techs noted an abnormal increase in the radio signals between the swarm and the ‘Brain.’ We were able to isolate it to the defective HE pod.”

“Isn’t this the same pod you had problems with during trials with the target drone?”

“No. This one was there, but in reserve. This may amuse you, but even with its limited organic intelligence, that pod learned how to contact the Brain without going through the Control pod.”

“Why do you think it did that?”

“We’re not sure. We found that it was accessing the ‘Brain’s’ memory, especially for data saved from that live fire event a couple of days ago.”

“So this visit to the library distracted it from its mission?”

“That’s a good way to put it, yes.”

“What’s the fix?”

“More of a band aid really. We downloaded those files to magnetic tape so they’re no longer available to the swarm. An online test we ran an hour ago showed the collaborative intel of Pod Two stopped trying to access them when it learned they’re no longer available.”

“You know, these little nano-bots could be a real gamechanger for us amphibs,” commented the CO. “We’ve never had a real, shipboard offensive weapon before. I just hope they can learn to become more reliable.”

“Pardon me for asking,” interjected the professor, “but how successful was last night’s attack?”

“Your little guys did okay! The swarm disabled three enemy destroyers. Hit them in the pilot house or CIC. They can still sail but they can’t fight. So they’re trying to get home as quickly as they can before we hit them again.”

“Do I have time to test the fix?”

“Sorry. Professor. We’re getting very close to our objective. From now on, there’s only time for trials by combat.”

The Bos’un’s pipe shrilled and an excited voice announced, “This is not a drill! General quarters, general quarters, all hands man your battle stations!”

“I’m on my way to CIC!”

“Right behind you, Admiral!”

_____________________________________

“TAO! What’s the threat?”

“Surface action starboard, Captain! Enemy destroyers closing from 335 degrees, 25,000 yards.”

“Launch the swarm!”

Petty Officer Woytowych dropped into his seat at the NTDS console and commenced his narration. “Time Zero. Launching swarm from Bays One, Two and Three.”

“Time 9. Launch complete. Programmed attack course 335 at 45 knots.”

“Time 11. Control Pod reports HE Pod Two failure to sortie. Abnormal radio transmissions occurring between the utility pods. Speed of advance slowing rapidly.”

Admiral Easterling punched in a button on her 21MC intercom. “Launch Control, Combat. Admiral here. What’s going on?”

“Not sure but it looks like one of the pods has gone rogue! It’s signaling the others to initiate self-preservation protocols.”

“Override!”

“Yes Admiral, we’re trying.”

“Time 13. Launch Control reports Pod Two is directing the swarm to ignore orders from the Brain.”

“Time 14. Override signal ineffective.”

“Launch Control, Admiral Easterling. Jam the swarm’s communications!”

“We can’t, Admiral. The coordinated, random frequency-shift function that defeats enemy jamming stymies us too. What? I don’t believe this! Are you sure?”

Confused background chatter came over the intercom before the professor returned. “Admiral, Launch Control. The swarm appears to be acting independently!”

Things were happening too quickly. The intercom fell momentarily quiet.

Woytowych continued to report impassively. “Time 17. Swarm has stalled approximately two miles ahead of the ship. HE Pods One and Three initiating explosive amalgamation protocols.”

“That’s premature! Professor, can you increase power on the override signal to maximum?”

“We’ll try. What? Standby.”

There was an urgent but garbled conversation in the background.

“What’s going on back there?”

“Admiral, it appears HE Pod Two has taken control of the swarm.”

“How?”

“It just transmitted an order using the basic self-preservation header, but the main text is not one of our pre-programmed signals.”

“Can you decode it?”

“Yes, but it’ll take time. What?” The professor paused his report. “That last signal was directed to HE Pods One and Three only?”

“Time 18. We’ve lost communications with swarm.”

“What? Say again, Woytowych?”

“There are no signals from the swarm. Looks like it’s gone radio silent.”

Moments later, the ship was rocked by two enormous explosions.

Paul Viscovich is a retired Commander and Surface Warfare Officer with 20 years service. He graduated from the U.S. Naval Academy in 1975 and earned a Master of Sciences degree from the Naval Postgraduate School in 1987. He writes a current events newsletter on Substack.com and is working on an anthology of short stories, many with a nautical theme. He lives with his wife Christine in Weston, FL.

Featured Image: Artwork created with Midjourney AI.

Fiction Week

By Mike Hanson

Indonesia 2034

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Major Mike Hanson, USMC, is an Infantry Officer serving at The Basic School, where the Marine Corps trains its lieutenants to be provisional rifle platoon commanders. He is also a member of the Connecting File, a Substack newsletter that shares material on tactics, techniques, procedures, and leadership for Marines at the infantry battalion level and below.

Featured Image: Artwork created with Midjourney AI.

Fiction Week

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_____________________________________

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

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

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

_____________________________________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Featured Image: Artwork made with Midjourney AI.