Fiction Contest Week

By Mike Matson

12 December 2077 — 1210 Hours, 88km South/Southwest of Joint Base Thule, Greenland

The Greenland Self Defense Forces (GSDF) were going to war.

Lt. Tame Larsen, GSDF, peered intently at the heads-up display (HUD) built into his flying suit’s helmet showing his flightpath heading through a winding ice-cut valley in northwest Greenland.

Using the valley to mask him from any enemy radar, Lt. Larsen, a third-generation South Pacific climate refugee, flew with twenty linked drones in a loose formation like a flock of seagulls. Fifteen of the drones were powerful swarming munitions, and five were support drones — three jammer decoys; an intelligence, surveillance, and reconnaissance (ISR) drone; and a communications relay drone. Most of the equipment was of Turkish, Indonesian, or Ukrainian origin.

The swarm was nothing more than gray blurs in the twilight dark of the Arctic’s polar night, their presence betrayed only by the wasp-like hum of electric engines as fleeting shadows zipped along the valley floor. Lt. Larsen’s mission tonight was to defend the North Water Ploynya fishery.

Greenland’s North Water Polynya (NWP) was one of the only stable, high-performing fisheries left on the planet, and a strategic national asset for the fledgling independent country. The ‘Big Melt’ over three decades ago had witnessed the loss of the majority of Greenland’s ice sheet, triggering a global fishery catastrophe. Drastic ocean temperature changes disrupted ocean currents and tipped delicately balanced ecosystems into rapid decline. A desperate humanity reeling from the loss of millions of acres of coastal lands to rising seas battled for control of the remaining fisheries.

Now the Chinese were sending an armed fishing fleet to the NWP to take the fishery from Greenland in a de facto act of war.

Lt Larsen and his platoon of 15 Marine Raiders, comprising the entirety of the GSDF special operations forces (SOF), flew individual paths through several valleys, each with their own escorts, totaling almost 300 platforms. Every Raider except two designated heavy weapon specialists had twenty wingmen each as well, mostly a mix of swarming munitions, jammer decoys, and high-speed antiradiation missile (HARM) drones. The two heavy weapon Raiders each controlled five extra-large anti-ship cruise missile (ASCM) drones. The missiles were a Turkish knockoff of a Chinese ASCM packaged in a disposable launch canister integrated into a flying wing.

“Gull Six, prepare for feet wet and final turn,” said a Royal Danish Air Force officer in the joint operations center (JOC) at Joint Base Thule. Lt. Larsen’s Raider platoon was on autopilot, guided by a remote ground station in northern Denmark since their deployment via palleted munition drops out the back of the GSDF’s entire fleet of four regional cargo transports. The transports had transmitted false identification as regularly scheduled Air Greenland flights taking off from Thule’s modern civilian terminal to mask their activity. The JOC had shut down cell and internet service at the airport so the operation could not be exposed.

“Copy,” was all a tense Lt. Larsen reported. His stomach churned from the nervousness of going into action for the first time.

To Lt. Larsen’s left, stretching off into the night, he could faintly see the synchronized blinking of red aircraft warning lights atop the wind turbines which lined the Greenland coast for hundreds of kilometers. The entire west coast of Greenland was lined with thousands of turbines used to generate renewable energy for North America, transmitted via deep-sea, shielded electrical transmission lines.

Greenland’s abundance of wind and hydro power had turned Greenland into the Saudi Arabia of green energy during the tumultuous global realignments caused by the Big Melt. The synchronized light show of the turbine fields was one of the defining memories of Lt. Larsen’s childhood.

“Feet Wet!” He called out, a little too excited, as he crossed the coastline and into a deeper, consuming darkness — the moon casting a soft, pastel glow on the water below. These were waters he had fished his whole life. For him they had never been the frozen, ice-covered wastelands of history books, but a bountiful if temperamental sea he had fished year-round.

The platoon was entering Baffin Bay now from a half dozen points, and one hundred thirty kilometers in front of them, near the southern edge of the NWP, was their target: the invading Chinese fishing fleet with its PLA Navy (PLAN) escorts. Lt. Larsen’s suit banked sharply to the right, setting him on an intercept course, as the rest of his platoon soon settled into a single amorphous swarm stretching 10km from tip to tip.

“Status update on the targets?” Larsen asked the JOC in Danish. Although finally a fully independent country, Greenland maintained close ties to Denmark, and the GSDF and Danish Armed Forces were fully integrated. Lt. Larsen had commissioned out of the Royal Danish Military Academy.

“No change. They still haven’t realized their actual location and are continuing normal fishing operations. The cloud cover helped as expected. Too late for them now even if they figure it out.”

Lt. Larsen grimly smiled in his helmet. The brief patch of clear skies forecast by the meteorological department had dictated the attack take place today. With the ability to use celestial navigation, the Chinese would eventually realize their predicament.

“Excellent. We are approaching phase line green — do we have permission to execute? Confirm.”

“Confirmed Gul Six. Seal detachment engaging as well. Glory for Greenland!”

“Glory for Greenland,” Lt. Larsen repeated, then flipped channels to the platoon net.

“We’re a go,” he said without preamble in Kalaallisut, his native Inuit language. “Remember, disable the factory vessels if necessary, but do not sink them — we need to save the catch. It’s our primary objective after destroying the escorts. Use your swarm on any combatants or fishing trawlers. Glory for Greenland!”

The platoon responded with a chorus of war whoops, curse words in several languages, and ‘Glory for Greenland,’ all to cover their nervousness. They were the best of the GSDF, but none of them had previously been under fire.

Greenland’s growing population of three million people, driven by a standing promise to accept any indigenous refugee whose land was lost to the Big Melt, needed the fishery to survive. Even with the vast, newly exposed agricultural lands in southern and central Greenland, which are home to the fourth largest sheep herd in the world, if the Chinese were allowed to come and take their fish, the fishery would eventually collapse, and Greenlanders, old and new, would starve.

Lt. Larsen, taking local command of the swarm, sent a burst transmission, and the formation seamlessly shifted in the dark. ISR and jammers climbed to 5,000 meters. The HARMs moved to the tips on the flanks, and the two heavy weapon Raiders moved to the center. The swarm formed a crescent, with the tips farthest forward, HARMs waiting for the first electronic signs of its prey.

When the invading Chinese fishing fleet had entered Lancaster Sound at the end of the NW passage, the GSDF had gone to a war footing. The GSDF and their Danish counterparts had been slowly shaping the battlespace since the hostile fleet sailed from China, through a combination of three lines of effort, using old fashioned, yet high tech skullduggery.

The first line of effort involved icebergs.

To push the invading fleet closer to Greenland, the GSDF placed iceberg tracking beacons on thirteen small, unmanned surface wave gliders which sailed in a slow, coordinated movement southward out of the Nares Straight along the Baffin Island current, presenting on navigation charts as a rather large iceberg field that should be avoided.

In peacetime, the Greenland and Danish coast guards operating out of Thule placed these tracking beacons on the now rare icebergs which periodically flowed into Baffin Bay as a navigational aid for commercial shipping. Climate change had created an ice-free year-round route through the NW passage which had become a critical Asia-Europe trade route, compensating for disruptions in southern coastal areas like Florida which had mostly disappeared under five plus meters of rising seas.

The ruse had worked, and the invaders — four ultra-large fish factory vessels with thirty-six fishing trawlers and a robust escorting PLAN surface action group — sailed farther eastward and northward than they would have wanted to get to the NWP, driving them much closer than desired to Joint Base Thule.

______________________________________________________________________________________

The first rotating symbols showed up as over the horizon targets in Lt. Larsen’s HUD: red for the PLAN escorts, orange for the fishing trawlers, and blue for the floating processing factories. The ISR drone nearly five kilometers above him cataloged and processed signals and designated targets.

“Detachments A and B — targets selected. Launch now!” Lt. Larsen ordered. On the tips of the crescent, the HARM drones leapt forward at full speed, heading for the PLAN combatants at Mach 2. To Lt. Larsen’s immediate left and right, there were puffs of hazy smoke as ASCMs were ejected from cannisters by compressed air and then had rocket motors activate meters above the surface, the launch cannisters falling away into the frigid water. Nine supersonic sea skimming missiles sped off along the wave tops while the tenth malfunctioned and splashed into the sea.

“Thule. this is Gull Six. Engaging now. Missiles away!” That got a terse acknowledgement from the JOC.

“Activate jammers,” ordered Lt. Larsen on the platoon net. To his right on the far horizon, he could see dozens of pinpricks of light streaking downwards through a thin film of broken stratus clouds to the north, briefly illuminating the sparse cloud cover. His HUD confirmed the light show was ASCMs from Seal detachment arriving from the north and northeast.

Seal detachment, a squadron of three Danish stealth missile corvettes permanently stationed at the deep-water port which was part of Joint Base Thule, had departed the navy pier in blackout conditions. They took advantage of a coverage gap of Chinese satellite surveillance and raced towards the invaders at 40+ knots to launch their missiles.

The powerful ship-killing missiles closed quickly on their prey, causing the PLAN taskforce commander to briefly wonder how the hell the Dane’s had managed to sail so far from Thule undetected. As the missile count continued to rise on air defense displays, automated warnings screamed alerts out across the fishing fleet.

The TF commander’s confusion was due to the second line of effort: GPS spoofing.

The Danish military, with quiet help from the NSA and Canadian CSE, had initiated an operation to spoof the Chinese fleet’s location, targeting GPS, GLONASS, and their own BeiDou constellation, while altering the broadcasts of several Greenland and Canadian-controlled deep-sea buoys, along with all coastal navigational beacons surrounding Baffin Bay. It was subtle and required careful coordination.

When the battle started the Chinese fleet was 200 kilometers farther southeast than their instruments placed them.

As the PLAN warships fully energized all their radars, Seagull swarm’s missiles were identified racing towards the fleet from an unexpected direction.

The PLAN TF commander, until then still brimming with misplaced confidence, felt the first twinge of dread as the second swarm was plotted. Something was clearly amiss. He did not have time to dwell further, as just then the first missiles struck.

The multi-axis attack behind heavy jamming overwhelmed the PLAN’s integrated air defense network, despite two PLAN escorts successfully launching over a dozen SAMs. HARMs raked phased-array panels and upper decks with cubes of shrapnel, shredding sensitive equipment masts, while ASCMs did the killing down by the waterline.

Explosions rent the darkness. The PLAN’s flagship cruiser was struck squarely in its forward magazine, obliterating the ship. Night briefly turned into day from the flash of the explosion, and the fireball became a boiling mushroom cloud rising hundreds of meters. Another escort took five hits in quick succession, turning turtle in seconds and sliding under the waves with all hands. Missiles continued to find other PLAN combatants with deadly effect.

“Thule, this is Gull Six. I can confirm multiple impacts on at least six warships. Waiting on Walrus to initiate our assault.” He flipped back to the platoon net.

“Prepare to make the run for your targets.” As he said that, he saw the outline of the last surviving PLAN destroyer on the far side of the fishing fleet silhouetted in a glaring backlight that was quickly suppressed by clouds of smoke as multiple streaks of light shot into the air. The ship had picked up Lt. Larsen’s Seagull swarm and started launching SAMs from fore and aft vertical launch systems (VLS).

“Vampires! Vampires!” Came the automated call in all their headsets.

“Evasive action everyone, make your run now! Now! Now!” The swarm broke in multiple dimensions. The jammer decoys tried to suppress enemy missile seekers with digital vomit, while deploying flares, chaff, and miniature decoys. Everyone else went low, fast, and wide.

In just under a minute, the destroyer’s twin 64-cell VLSs were empty, and over a hundred SAMs streaked over the fishing fleet towards the Raiders. The merging swarms twisted, dove, and spun as they converged over the fishing fleet in Baffin Bay. Quick flashes of light in the darkness confirmed successful intercepts between manned and unmanned combatants.

That’s when the third, insidious line of effort came to life.

As Lt. Larsen’s Raiders weaved towards their targets, what the GSDF’s operational plan dubbed “Walrus detachment” started rising like leviathans from the dark deep of Baffin Bay.

The GPS spoofing had pulled the Chinese fleet over a freshly laid field of smart mines. As old as naval warfare itself, the simple sea mine still produced a devastating impact for such a limited investment. When combined with an advanced algorithmic hive mind, a smart sea mine was as deadly a weapon as any anti-ship missile.

The mines acted in a cooperative manner. Able to categorize ships by propellor and plant noise, tens of sea mines began to strike from below, just as Lt. Larsen’s loitering munitions circled and dove on the fishing trawlers and surviving PLAN combatant.

Hundreds of swarming munitions mixed with Chinese SAMs and green tracers from auto-cannons installed on the “civilian” fishing trawlers in a giant invisible furball spread over dozens of square kilometers. Explosions kept rending the night sky as missiles, drones, and mines all found targets in a deadly fireworks display.

Lt. Larsen climbed to get a better view as the engagement winded down. He watched as hundreds of emergency LEDs attached to survival suits activated, bobbing up and down in the dark singularly or in groups, interspersed between fields of burning oil and dark debris. Red flares arched from survival rafts into the sky from all points of the compass. Lt. Larsen knew the unforgiving waters of Baffin Bay would kill anyone in minutes if they were not in immersion suits.

A fisherman before joining the service, he felt a sense of empathy for the terrified Chinese sailors struggling in the dark, icy waters. Lt. Larsen tagged their locations as best he could and sent them to the JOC. The JOC would already be receiving the pings of hundreds of emergency satellite locator beacons in the coast guard watch center.

“Thule, this is Gull Six. All combatants disabled and sinking. Deploy the rescue ship.”

“Raiders, time to take the factories.” The plan had four GSDF SOF personnel assigned to seize each factory. Two soldiers had been shot down, the GSDF’s first and only combat losses of the night, leaving one boarding crew short.

Lt. Larsen streaked up to the forecastle of the fish factory and flared, barely avoiding the fore mast, cutting the engines as he landed. Hitting the quick release on his suit, he flipped his night-vision goggles down over his eyes and raised his rifle as his partner landed to his left. The plan was to land two on the forecastle and two directly on top of the bridge structure of each factory.

They swept forward with their rifles, their goal the steering bridge. They expected resistance, but the crews had apparently followed piracy protocols and locked themselves in safe rooms. They took the ships unopposed.

______________________________________________________________________________________

From the bridge wing, Lt. Larsen watched as the factory was docked alongside the quay with the help of two tugs. Harbor pilots had been flown out by helicopter once everything was secure, along with coast guard teams to process prisoners, relieving him and his men of additional duty.

Klieg lights lit up the quay, turning perpetual twilight into an artificial, harsh daylight filled with people moving in hurried gaits along the concrete pier amid a tumult of machinery noises and honking trucks. Two factory vessels were already docked, and he could see the Danish corvettes had returned over at the naval pier, battle flags proudly flying.

An aging light amphibious warship bought from the Americans years ago was also pulling into port. It had been the designated rescue vessel and held several dozen catatonic, hypothermic Chinese prisoners, along with over a hundred bodies pulled from the water, including the PLAN TF commander.

Smoke on the wind touched his nostrils, and he grimaced, the smell briefly overpowering the musky scent of the catch in the hold he instinctively loved as a fisherman. Lt. Larsen knew it was the burning permafrost in Russia. It had been burning almost non-stop for 30 years and filled the Arctic air with soot which covered snow in a perpetual gray film.

Above him flocks of seagulls circled the quay with their piercing cries as the northern lights shimmered over the mountains beyond Thule.

A chorus of ship horns started blaring in celebration around the port, and everyone on the quay stopped to let out a cheer. Lt. Larsen smiled and walked back into the steering bridge to activate the ship’s horn, watching the celebrations out the window.

He did not know if the Chinese would send another fleet. But for the moment his people were safe and their fishery secure. It was enough.

Mike Matson is a writer based in Louisville, Kentucky. He has 25 years of government and national security experience, and is a member of the Military Writers Guild. He can be found on Twitter at @Mike40245.

Featured Image: “Explorers” by Marat Zakirov via Artstation.

Fiction Contest Week

By Jon Paris

*** Breaking News – Breaking News – Breaking News ***

Crisis reported outside the Strait of Malacca today. Cascading collisions clogged the packed waterway. A dozen vessels lay damaged and adrift. Others swing from anchors, unable to proceed. World markets opened in disarray while the maritime industry reels.

This catastrophe’s most puzzling victim is the cargo carrier M/V Lucky Charm, location unknown. Merchants witnessed the confusing events unfold, reporting strange lights in the sky and ear-splitting rumbles in this congested crossroads. Sightings of Unidentified Flying Objects spiked around nautical chokepoints last year, rumored to be responsible for eight un-confirmed disappearances. According to scores of professional mariners, the UFOs are back. Has Lucky Charm become Number Nine?

Opinions vary wildly. Though countless believers swear such disturbances are courtesy of extra-terrestrial visitors, a growing body of research by scientists and defense journalists points towards unacknowledged technology developed and operated by the country’s peer competitors. Others are sure we are seeing the latest black projects from the storied Area 51. With unprecedented candor, intelligence and military officials have been quick to comment recently, indicating the objects – officially referred to as Unidentified Aerial Phenomenon – are not highly classified American programs.

The Department of Defense maintains a specialized team to analyze UFO cases. With international outcry at a fever-pitch and an unidentified threat loose on the high seas, these professionals called in the big guns. The U.S. Navy, no stranger to such phenomenon, is on the way. A Carrier Strike Group surge-deployed to hunt and eliminate the threat. Named Task Force Foo Fighter, the Pentagon pledged the group’s sole mission is to end this mysterious menace and welcomes any ally to the fight.

Will they find hyper-advanced secret technology from an aggressor state, or marauding little green men? The world watches in rapt attention as the Navy arrives on scene.

F/A-18E, Rock 101
Andaman Sea
5 minutes after engagement

Black smoke trailed behind the plane. Peeling metal rattled in the slipstream from a shredded fuselage and wing. Scorch marks marred the Super Hornet’s haze gray paint.

“Rock 101, Strike, copy your mayday. Proceed. Mother at your 030 for 100 miles. Emergency pull-forward in-progress. Air Boss is rigging the barrier. Say state.”

The pilot’s body was cool. No sweat, only icy determination.

She struggled to find words – the first since her mayday call.

“Strike, 101, three-point-niner.”

First get aboard in one piece, then get your revenge. They will not escape.

She put in right stick to head towards the carrier.

F/A-18E, Rock 101
Andaman Sea
30 minutes before engagement

Lieutenant Frankie “Burner” Adams retracted the refueling probe, slid to starboard, and joined on her wingman. She verified “Swine’s” spacing. Her hand pushed out towards the other Super Hornet – the young officer nodded, nudging his plane away.

Burner’s keen eyes scanned – sea, sky, instruments, sea, sky, instruments. The radar was clean – nothing out there. Today’s surveillance hop had, so far, proved fruitless – frustrating Burner’s long-held dream of seeing a real UFO. Everyone made fun of her during the brief back in the ready room.

No matter. She knew the truth.

The radio crackled.

“101, this is Alpha Whiskey. Bogey, Bullseye 350 for 85, low, hot, strength unknown. Heading 180.”

Yes! Unidentified objects. Flying her way!

“101, roger. Rock flight, commit. Declare.”

“101, this is Alpha Whiskey, unknown. But ma’am – we think it’s them.”

“Roger.”

This is it!

Over squadron tactical, Burner transmitted, “Rock, buster.” “Two,” her wingman replied. The section of Super Hornets leapt forward at full military power.

“Swine, bring it left 20 to sweeten intercept.” He clicked the radio twice in response and followed her turn.

Accelerating through 500 knots, the radar chirped, and Burner saw distinct returns connected by a green blob – as if someone had sneezed on her screen. She slaved her infrared sensor to the track. The image snapped around and settled on an object 50 miles away, very low. She peered at the screen, flipping between black and white-hot modes, unable to identify the contact before it abruptly darted away.

“No joy,” Burner called over fighter control, frantically searching for the Bogey.

She saw the radar and her mouth went dry.

F/A-18E, Rock 101
Andaman Sea
15 minutes after engagement

“Rock 101, Approach. Good line-up. You’re set for a straight-in. Take angels two point eight.”

As the pilot slowly repeated the ship’s instructions, the plane buffeted from major damage to its control surfaces. After a jolt to the left, she leveled the wings. Reducing airspeed and bunting the nose down, she inched closer. Must survive. Must relay the enemy’s position.

F/A-18E, Rock 101
Andaman Sea
20 minutes before engagement

“101, Alpha Whiskey – your Bogey jumped! Merge plot!,” the shipboard controller cried.

Adrenaline coursed through Burner’s veins. I knew it!

“Rock, break!”

Burner and her wingman rolled 90 degrees and pulled hard away from each other. Bright flashes blew by. One. Two. Three! Finally!

“Alpha Whiskey, 101, Rocks are anchored defensive! Engaged by three, I say again, three bogeys.”

Three orbs darted up, down, left, and right – in every dimension, bending time and space – creating a furball impossible for the Super Hornets to escape. Their maneuvers defied physics, incurring g-forces incompatible with the human body. The dazzling blobs sported every color of the rainbow – shapeless refractions from an intense prism.

Burner stood her jet on its tail and lit the cans. The plane rocketed up and Burner twisted in her seat, looking back and right – one orb trailed her.

She called out, “Swine, you up?”

“Burner, I’ve got two all over me – riding the waves. Need you down here – NOW!” Her wingman sounded uncharacteristically frantic.

Passing through 35,000 feet, Burner flipped the Super Hornet on its back. The blue sky filling her canopy transitioned to slate-gray ocean. Diving, she searched the surface below. As she looked, the trailing orb flew over her canopy and, an instant later, hovered above a bubbling piece of ocean. A thunderous cacophony consumed her. The aircraft shuddered for five long seconds. Plummeting towards the sea, Burner recovered and locked onto her wingman, 50 feet off the deck. He was impossible to miss – the escaping Super Hornet kicked up a rooster tail of salt water as it skimmed the whitecaps.

Out the windscreen, she spotted the orbs flitting back and forth, causing her to squint. Looking down, the picture on her forward-looking infrared video shocked her. Two cylinder-shaped craft bobbed and weaved ahead and astern of Swine’s jet. Smaller than her plane, with no control surfaces and no visible exhaust. And… semi-transparent! Magnifying her camera, she could see inside the cylinders.

“Alpha Whiskey, 101, captured! Hot damn! Never seen anything like it! They’re… cylinders. Slick on the outside, like flying tubes. I can only see their shape on FLIR; visually they’re just balls of light moving like crazy!”

Burner’s jet chewed up the distance to her wingman. Something caught her eye.

“Alpha Whiskey, standby.”

Burner saw movement inside the closest cylinder! As she stared, her world turned inside-out. An upright, shadowy figure – right there! Burner saw its eyes glow and look back at her. A being was in that craft! A being. But not a human being.

She felt light-headed and a pit formed deep in her gut. The earlier gusto transformed to dread.

Burner’s voice croaked, barely a whisper. “Alpha Whiskey, they’re… here… Engaging.”

Flipping the Master Arm switch to “ARM”, she worked the radar for a lock and received a quick solution. Yes! She pulled the trigger. “Fox Three!”

The AMRAAM entered her camera’s field of view and impacted its target. The smoking cylinder flipped end-over-end.

“101, splash one,” she transmitted.

As she pumped her fist in victory, Burner’s eyes bulged. The cylinder ahead of Swine stopped in its tracks and reversed course. It flew straight through her wingman’s jet. An explosion lit the sky.

Nooooo!

Wreckage fell to the sea, throwing up a plume, but no parachute. A silent scream raged through her body.

F/A-18E, Rock 101
Andaman Sea
30 minutes after engagement

“Rock 101, Approach, 5 miles. Barrier rigged. Dirty up.”

“101.” The pilot closed her eyes, concentrating. After several beats, her hands moved haltingly over switches, eventually slapping down the hook and landing gear. It was strange flying so slow. The plane was difficult to control, and her wings rocked, alternating left, then right, back-and-forth. The pilot wiped away soot from the canopy and the Landing Signals Officer came online.

“101, Paddles, keep it coming. Normal approach but pay close attention to line-up. When you cross the ramp, I’m going to give you a cut-cut-cut order – when I do, kill the engines, and ride it in. Fly your pass and we’ll catch you, Burner. Promise.”

The pilot acknowledged Paddles and focused on the carrier. It got bigger every second. Her excitement swelled. The mission drew to a close.

“101, Paddles, you’re on glideslope, on course, three-quarter mile. Call the ball.”

Two beats, searching for the right words. “101, Rhino ball, two point four.”

The Master Caution light flashed, a red warning light illuminated, and the speaker intoned, “ENGINE FIRE LEFT – ENGINE FIRE LEFT.” No turning back.

F/A-18E, Rock 101
Andaman Sea
10 minutes before engagement

Burner selected SIDEWINDER. A weak tone. “Fox Two!”

The smoke trail streaked away and jinked right, tracking the massive heat signature. A blue ray shot out from the target cylinder and incinerated the missile. Burner slammed a fist on her kneeboard. I had it!

Watching through her canopy, she saw the orb dart north. Pissed, Burner pushed the throttles through the detent into afterburner and gave chase.

The murky being inside turned its… head?… and glanced at her. When it looked away quickly, Burner took stock of the situation. Are they driving me here? Zooming out, she observed twelve – no, maybe twenty – craft of various sizes lurking menacingly in a wide arc above a roiling sea. An ambush! She chopped her throttles.

“Alpha Whiskey, 101. In pursuit of one bandit with one in trail. Interrogative: Do you have a group of contacts 300 for 30 from your posit?”

“101, affirm. Count at least twenty low-slow contacts.”

“Roger, that’s them. I don’t know who they are, but they’re hostile, I say again, contacts are hostile. They splashed my wingman and I am defensive. They’re… they’re waiting for us. Recommend kill with birds. Take ‘em! Do it now!”

Inside the cruiser’s Combat Information Center, the Commanding Officer pointed at the large screen display and nodded at the tactical action officer.

“Air, TAO, kill track 8762 and company.”

The lieutenant at the front table turned his key. Sweat glistened from his forehead under the glow from the large screens.

A junior officer sat 15 feet away in Air Alley. She leaned forward, clicked on the first track, and mashed a flashing button on her screen. “TAO, Air, killing track 8762 and company!”

Through the bulkheads, watch standers could make out the muffled, mournful wail of the salvo siren. Deeply unsettling, the sound was quickly interrupted – SMACK!

Hatches slammed open, fire belched skyward, and gray smoke blotted out the lines of the ship’s superstructure. Standard Missiles jumped from vertical launch cells, climbing steeply before tipping over towards their prey. Two for each contact. Sailors sat transfixed, staring at their consoles during the fifty second flight time.

The missiles glided to their targets at supersonic speeds and lanced into the waiting enemy. Explosions washed out Burner’s screen. She peered outside and saw several orbs remained. They bolted in the direction of the cruiser. Burner put her jet on its wingtip and yanked into a body-crushing turn to follow, but they were too fast and sped out of view.

A glare from her mirror. All but one.

“Alpha Whiskey, 101, bandits are inbound your posit!”

The cruiser heeled over as it settled broadside to the approaching threat. The Combat Information Center was silent. Additional missiles leapt into the sky as the weapons system tried to keep up. The deck guns thundered. Nothing could match the speed and maneuverability of the targets. The ship’s radar showed the craft approaching at 3,000 knots. As they drew near and slowed, the optical sight system showed four blimp-sized craft. The Commanding Officer stared and cursed under his breath as they marked on top of the now-defenseless ship and circled.

“Alpha Whiskey, 101 is supersonic!” Burner closed the cruiser, trying to squeeze every knot she could get out of the Super Hornet. Still miles away, she was ready for battle. To defend herself. The Navy ship. Her country. Her planet. Burner’s thumb chose GUN and her jaw clenched tight. She watched the scene unfolding ahead, terrified.

The craft circled the cruiser at blinding speed, forming a halo of kaleidoscopic light in the sky and a swirling vortex on the ocean. Opening suddenly, a yawning chasm appeared below the ship. It swallowed the cruiser in a flash. The rotation stopped instantly, and the orbs dove smoothly – without splashes – into the water and disappeared.

Dumbstruck, Burner blinked. And blinked again.

The ship is gone.

Rage filled her heart. A primal howl spilled into her mask. She popped flares and chaff and wrenched back on the stick, continuing until inverted, looking down on the orb, and rolled wings-level in the opposite direction. In her mirror, Burner saw it match her maneuver. She pushed the jet to the edge of the envelope, aware of her dwindling fuel, but desperate to escape. Close on her heels, the orb pulsed.

F/A-18E, Rock 101
Andaman Sea
32 minutes after engagement

“Easy with it, easy with it. You’re on and on, Burner. Easy with it. CUT-CUT-CUT!”

The pilot secured the engines and the Super Hornet fell to the deck, yawed, and crashed unceremoniously into the emergency barrier. I made it.

F/A-18E, Rock 101
Andaman Sea
The engagement

Aviate. Navigate. Communicate. Burner centered herself and compartmentalized the fear. She climbed and started a gentle turn to the southwest. The carrier is out here somewhere. Burner would not give up – the thought was anathema to her very fabric. While she looked down to switch buttons, azure light washed over the jet. She jammed in the frequency and transmitted.

 “Strike, 101, mayday, mayday, mayday. Wingman is down, Alpha Whiskey is down. I am engaged with one Bandit.”

The jet shook violently. It took all of Burner’s strength to maintain level flight. Something is wrong! Caution lights flared in front of her. Alarms overwhelmed and assaulted her senses.

“Mayday, mayday, mayday, 101 taking damage, losing control. Request vectors!”

Panic.

Help me! The plane rattled furiously.

She shrieked when light filled her cockpit. Dripping sweat, she sat paralyzed.

The luminous orb settled onto her plane. The collision caused it to roll and yaw.

Stunned, Burner was helpless to stop the uncontrolled maneuver.

Gulping oxygen, she felt a presence. I am not alone.

Stillness.

Time slowed.

Motion arrived in clips.

No words. Terror melted away in waves of euphoria.

The light ceased.

Her head lolled forward and then quickly snapped back.

Time sped back up.

Motion flowed.

The pilot stared ahead with icy determination.

An empty cylinder tumbled to the sea.

Andaman Sea
Flight Deck

Fire crew swarmed the plane, spraying foam and climbing ladders to access the canopy. Sailors in silver hot suits carried the pilot to the deck and away from the smoking wreck.

Following the mob towards a waiting stretcher, the pilot stopped and faced aft. With its face wrinkled in great concentration, it called out to the deep.

They are here. Attack!

LCDR Jon Paris is a double-Marine Corps brat who grew up immersed in Naval Aviation. A career Surface Warfare Officer, he has deployed on cruisers, destroyers, a minesweeper, and an aircraft carrier. This piece is a work of fiction. The ideas are the author’s alone and do not reflect the positions of the U.S. Navy or Department of Defense.

Featured Image: “Preparations for cat shot – F18 Hornet,” by rOEN911 via DeviantArt.

Fiction Contest Week

By Dylan Phillips-Levine and Trevor Phillips-Levine

Near future. Crimean Peninsula.

“White pawn to D-4. Your move, Danil,” said Gregori.

I know his next move—he’s so predictable. Colonel Gregori’s personality showed itself on the chess board. He always opened with the Queen’s Gambit. Colonel Gregori and I began playing chess together when we served in Syria, flying the aging Sukhoi-24 Fencer. She was a fearsome aircraft and even more frightening to fly as of late. She had a checkered safety record, and the turbojets from the 60’s and variable swept wings had a nasty tendency to disintegrate. Only two weeks ago, one broke apart mid-flight, although both pilots ejected safely; the former humbling Russian aerospace engineers, and the latter a testament to Russian rocket scientists—the best rocket scientists in the world.

I moved my pawn to D-5 with my left hand, countering in an equally predictable move. “Your move, Gregori,” I responded. I always enjoyed chess. It’s a game of perfect information with no secrets or chance. The predictable opening choreography gives way to entropy and chaos as the game unfolds.

Before moving his chess piece, the secure telephone broke the silence and his concentration. Gregori picked up the phone and responded, “Yes, sir.”

He then told me, “Danil, our squadron has been tapped to fly a high priority mission, straight from Moscow. It’s called Operation Sovremenny Voyna.”

High priority mission, cryptic language, and old aircraft—”about the Russian standard,” I thought to myself. “If you didn’t want to play, you could have just told me,” I said half-heartedly.

“I’m serious, Danil. Our game will have to wait. I need to brief you and the aircrew for a flight. Call the wardroom for the mission briefing.”

“Yes, sir,” I replied.

In the ready room, Gregori pulled out his issued laptop, courtesy of the Main Intelligence Directorate—in my native tongue, Glavnoye Razvedyvatelnoye Upravlenie, or GRU for short. In it, he opened the classified presentation and began his brief.

“Gentlemen, our squadron has been selected for Operation Sovremenny Voyna. A British warship exited the Bosporus Strait into the Black Sea yesterday. The GRU believes that the HMS Daring, a Type 45 guided missile destroyer, entered the Black Sea with explicit orders to violate Russian territorial waters around Crimea in an operation that Western countries call ‘Freedom of Navigation Operations,’ or FONOPS. A year earlier, her sistership, the HMS Defender, conducted a similar territorial violation while transiting under the guise of ‘innocent passage.’ Our mission this time is to stop the British warship if they violate our sovereign waters under the same guise of ‘innocent passage.’”

I remembered the HMS Defender’s “innocent passage” last year; I flew as the aircraft commander. The situation escalated to the point where my SU-24 dropped 4 x OFAB 250kg bombs in its path after repeated warnings from violating Russia’s sovereign territorial waters. However, despite the bombs, she refused to alter course. Since then, the West brazenly increased their FONOPs and “innocent passage” transits.

Eight hours later, Gregori placed us on immediate alert to be ready to launch at a moment’s notice. He informed me and the aircrew that the intelligence was right. I could have predicted that; it is always the same opening move by the West. After hurriedly donning my flight gear, I scrambled to my aircraft and strapped into the left ejection seat of my Fencer with my copilot strapped in the right seat. To our left sat another Fencer, our wingman. Once strapped in, the ground crew connected the hot fuel lines to ensure our aircraft would be topped off with fuel when given permission to launch. I rocked my left hand back and forth, signaling our wingman to start the engines; the four turbo jets of both aircraft whined as they spooled up and then howled through the airfield as we waited for the call to launch. The noise is deafening, even inside the aircraft with my helmet on.

My wingman and I are the centerpiece of this operation. Moscow tasked us to remind the West that Russian sovereignty is unquestionable and that their warships off the Crimean coast snubbed this very notion. I coyly said to my copilot to make small chat, “How would the West feel if we sailed a warship loaded with missiles through the Florida Keys?”

He didn’t respond. Russian aerospace engineers supposedly designed the instrument panel to reduce stress by making it light blue, but the sea of switches and analog instruments with Cyrillic letters and numbers contrasted against the light blue panel were anything but stress reducing. Nonetheless, my co-pilot cross-checked his instruments again to keep his mind focused. Although he had conducted drills like this before and dropped the bombs with me in the path of the Defender last year, this time was different. This time, our flight profile would be higher than normal, within the radar horizon of the enemy vessel. It ran counter to the tactics we trained for. They wanted us to be seen.

I looked back at my watch and let out a soft sigh, muffled by the oxygen mask hanging by my left cheek. I muttered under my breath at the realization we had been idling for two hours. I can’t help but feel sorry for our ground crew. They’ve been waiting outside for hours to disconnect the hot fuel lines and marshal us since we got the alert call.

“Our ground crew must be deaf by now,” I joked with my co-pilot to break the monotony.

“What?” The co-pilot said as he cracked a smile and then went back to scanning his instruments. He began to check the armament system again.

“Don’t,” I replied. “You’ve already checked it.”

“Yes, sir,” he replied.

I quipped back, “Relax, it’ll be just like last time, only this time, different.”

He smirked back at me.

His uneasiness was then broken as the encrypted radio crackled to life, “Fencer 818 and flight, this is Tower, cleared to launch. Initial vector 210 for 85 kilometers. Check in secure when airborne.” Operation Sovremenny Voyna was a go.

“Fencer 818 and flight, Roger,” I replied.

We clipped our oxygen masks into place as the copilot eased the throttle up. During the engine run up, our wingman’s pilot signaled a thumbs up signifying all systems normal and ready for takeoff. I returned the signal and released the brakes. Our section of SU-24s barreled down the runway in full afterburner and then we turned southward over the water.

As we passed through 3,000 feet, our analog radar warning receiver started going off. S band radar on 3 gigahertz. I tell my copilot, “There she is.”

Passing through 5,000 feet, we turned on our search radar. Protocol required us to ensure that the automatic identification system (AIS) matched radar returns. AIS spoofing has become commonplace in recent years. My copilot manually plotted the bearing line and radar with a grease pencil on his side-cockpit window. Instead of investing in sensor fusion, the Kremlin thought the budget was best spent elsewhere. Why spend millions on sensor fusion when a flick of wrist with a pencil and a sharp mind would do? Well, that and because our defense budget had been diverted to manufacturing nuclear-tipped torpedoes.

The bearing lines matched up with the lone radar blip on our scope; under normal circumstances, there would be multiple radar blips and bearing lines as our Navy and Coast Guard vessels escorted and sometimes shouldered enemy warships away from our coastline. But not this time. The ship was by itself.

After picking up the lone British warship with our surface search radar, I gave the signal to my wingman to commence his approach.

With the wave of my hand, I detached the other SU-24. I watched her bank away and descend towards the British warship.

With our wingman racing towards the British warship, my co-pilot started transmitting in his best English on VHF Channel 16, also known as Bridge to Bridge:

“British warship, you have been repeatedly warned and are in violation of international law. You must immediately leave the territorial sea of the Russian Federation. You broke the rules of innocent passage. I am authorized to strike. The Russian Federation does not bear responsibility if your vessel is damaged or destroyed.”

The aircrafts’ radios broadcasted the warship’s response:

“This is British Warship Delta THREE TWO, we are conducting innocent passage. We have the right to do so in accordance with international rule and the United Nations Convention on Law of the Sea. Your actions are unsafe, unprofessional, and endanger my vessel. Are you threatening me? Over.”

My co-pilot looked at me with unease after the response. I answered his uneasy silence and responded, “Let our wingman carry out his maneuvers first and see if that changes anything.”

We watched as the other Su-24 made two mock dive-bomb attacks followed by a low altitude cut across the bow.

Immediately following the maneuvers, the British warship broadcasted:

“Attention Russian military aircraft, your maneuvers are unsafe and present a hazard to responsible and safe lawful navigation. Your hostile, unsafe, and unprofessional actions are being recorded. Over.”

My co-pilot replied with his canned response, “British warship, you are in Russian territorial waters. Leave now or we will strike. This is your final warning.”

Once more, the British responded with their scripted line:

“This is British Warship Delta THREE-TWO, we are conducting innocent passage. We have the right to do so in accordance with international rule and the United Nations Convention on Law of the Sea. Over.”

I always hated it when they say, “Over.” Fine, have it your way. I keyed up the secure radio and relayed, “Sir, negative response. Awaiting orders.”

After a pause of several seconds, the encrypted radio message came through: “Vonya, Vonya, Vonya.” A codeword authorizing weapon release from Moscow.

“Vonya,” I replied.

I then radioed my wingman, “Break off, RTB at best speed. Advise when feet dry.”

I looked at my co-pilot and said, “Arm the weapon.”

“Yes, sir,” my copilot replied.

I banked my aircraft hard to the right and selected the afterburner, starting a steep climb back to the north, away from the ship. For this operation to be successful, I needed the British to watch on radar and see what happened next. At 80 km from the British warship, I turned the aircraft back around to the south. After my copilot once again confirmed the lone radar blip as the British warship through AIS, radar scope, and bearing line convergence, I pressed the weapon release switch.

My plane made a slight lurch as 1,400 pounds fell away from the aircraft. The Kh-31 antiship cruise missile rocket motor ignited and accelerated to Mach 3.5 in a dive towards the coastline. At that moment my radar warning receiver lit up my cockpit like a Christmas tree.

I immediately rolled the aircraft onto her back, placed the variable wing sweep to 69 degrees to minimize aerodynamic drag, selected full afterburner, and pulled hard to accelerate to the deck to hide in the ground clutter and avoid any return fire from the Daring. I remember being intently focused on my instruments. As I approached maximum velocity, the wing sweep indicator and engine instruments started to oscillate. I held my breath hoping that the oscillations would only be transitory. The radar warning receiver was still lit up and alarming as the aircraft began to buffet. Then, the aircraft began to pitch up violently as warning lights illuminated in the cockpit. I fought to regain control.

My co-pilot might have said something about “smoke” or a “missile,” but I don’t remember. The last thing I remember was pulling the ejection handle. I couldn’t tell whether Russian aerospace engineering or a missile from the Defender caused my aircraft to disintegrate. But that didn’t matter.

As I fell to the sea below, dangling from my parachute, I silently thanked the Russian rocket scientists who designed my ejection seat for saving my life, even if some of my body parts were numb and in pain. I tried to move my left hand to unclip my oxygen mask but couldn’t. My arm hung lifeless. After going through a rolodex of all the cliché things in my life, my mind wandered back to the events that unfolded earlier that day in the ready room that caused this chaos. I thought back to the chess game Gregori and I had played earlier—the game of perfect information. The opening moves are always so predictable. White pawn to D-4, black pawn to D-5. The British sailed through our territorial seas and we, in turn, launched to intercept them. But now, entropic chaos. Missiles had been exchanged, my aircraft destroyed, and my copilot was nowhere to be seen. Just before I impacted the Black Sea below, I couldn’t help but wonder, “what’s the next move?”

Lieutenant Commander Dylan “Joose” Phillips-Levine is a naval aviator and serves with a tactical air control squadron. You can find him on Twitter at @JooseBoludo.

Lieutenant Commander Trevor Phillips-Levine is a naval aviator and serves as a department head in a strike fighter squadron. You can find him on Twitter @TPLevine85.

Featured Image: “HMS DARING – Royal Navy Type 45 Air Defence Destroyer,” by MagicCGIStudies via ArtStation.