Fiction Contest Week

By Lieutenant Commander Ross Baxter, RD RNR (ret.)

Lieutenant Commander Steve Collins walked up the wide oak-panelled staircase of Admiralty House, thinking it could be his last time. After 30 years in the Royal Navy, forced retirement was a distinct possibility having been passed over for promotion three times already. The thought that his next draft could be his last filled him with a creeping melancholia he found difficult to dismiss.

At the top of the stair he moved slowly to the third door, pausing to check his watch. Seeing he was on time, he opened the heavy wooden door and walked through.

“Morning, sir,” came the cheery voice of the rating manning the front desk.

“Morning,” Collins replied, thinking how young the rating looked, despite being a Leading Seaman. “Lieutenant Commander Collins, here to see Captain Peterson.”

“Go straight in, sir,” smiled the Leading Seaman.

Collins nodded and opened the door from the anteroom into the main office. Captain Peterson sat behind a large desk in front of the window, reading a newspaper.

“Ah, come in, Steve,” smiled Peterson, standing and extending his hand.

Collins shook the hand, which felt cold, and took the proffered seat. “Thank you, sir.”

“How’s your time at the School of Leadership going?” Peterson asked.

He wanted to say how dull he was finding being an instructor for junior navigators, but decided against it. “Fine thanks, although I’m hoping my next role will be more operational. Now that I’ve been passed over again, I’m very conscious my next draft may be my last. So, I’ve a lot hanging on this meeting, and I’m hopeful you’ve got something good for me.”

“Straight to the point, I see,” Peter’s smiled wryly. “Well, as you know, to make Commander at your fourth and final shot before going out of zone is usually a big challenge. You really need to shine on your next draft, to make sure that it’s not your final one before retirement. But I may be able to help you with that. There is a role with Fishery Protection which, if you play your cards right, could finally land you your brass hat, and a significant extension to your career.”

“Fishery Protection?” asked Collins, despondently. With just five small vessels in the whole fleet, all based in home waters, he felt the Fishery Protection Squadron offered few opportunities for progression, or for enjoyment.

“Don’t be too quick to dismiss it. Post-Brexit, and with diminishing fish stocks and the increasing challenges of global food security, Fishery Protection is becoming increasingly more important,” said Peterson.

“But I thought next year’s defence budget is cutting the fleet from five to four?” countered Collins.

“It is, which is where this new role, your role, comes in,” answered Peterson.

“But I don’t want to be stuck in an office or another classroom,” explained Collins. “I’m after an operational role.”

“I can promise you that you can’t get a more operational role than this,” said Peterson, suddenly stern. “We have a problem, a very delicate problem, which we want you to help the Fishery Protection Squadron with.”

“A problem?”

“The announcement to reduce the Fishery Protection Squadron from five to four vessels was based on offering the appearance of a back-down to Europe in the post-Brexit negotiations. But actually it was because of a scientific advance which would mean that Britain can police its fishing waters without the need for ships at all, at a fraction of the cost.”

“When it comes to the navy and costs, ideas like that usually turn out to be too good to be true,” offered Collins, trying not to sound too cynical.

Captain Peterson frowned. “Well, the initial results are causing some concern, and we want you to help investigate what is happening.”

“What is the scientific advance?” Collins asked.

“Positional locators placed in a number of cod. When a fish with one of these locators is caught, we can track it to the port of landing, and therefore easily check if it was caught in our territorial fishing waters, and by who.”

Collins regarded Peterson quizzically. “Surely that’s not new technology; people have been trying that for years? It doesn’t work as the fish returned to the seas have no shoal to return to, and spent the rest of their lives swimming aimlessly around on their own. Fishing fleets aim to catch shoals, not lonesome individuals, so few ever get caught.”

“Correct, that was the case. The advance which we’ve made is twofold. The GPS transmitter has been miniaturised so it’s now a tiny silicon chip, impossible to detect and easy to place in the fish with no detriment to it. We have the Chinese to thank for that. But the key advance was developed by neuroscientists here in the UK, who managed to create a mix of endorphins in the brain chemistry of the fish to actually change its basic behaviour. They fitted a tiny reservoir to the transmitter containing a concoction of numerous endorphins and norepinephrine. The device is implemented, and the chemicals make re-joining a shoal a prime objective for the fish. The fish joins the largest shoal it can find, the fishing vessels chase the largest shoal they can find, the nano-transmitter tells us who caught the fish, and we prosecute the foreign vessel if it caught the fish in British waters.”

“Effectively making the Fishery Protection Squadron redundant,” cut in Collins.

“Allowing the Royal Navy to spend its budget in other areas, rather than global food security,” Peterson corrected him.

“Well, it sounds simple enough,” conceded Collins. “So, what’s the concern you want me to investigate?”

Commander Peterson paused, and took a long breath. “Three months ago, the test batch of 100 cod, enhanced and fitted with the nano-transmitters, were released by HMS Trent in the North Sea, at the edge of UK’s territorial limit. So far, ten have been caught, 12 died, and 78 remain at large in the North Sea. The ten were all caught together, by a Norwegian-registered vessel, just over four weeks ago. They were caught in Norwegian waters, approximately 40 nautical miles south-west of Bergen, where they were later landed.”

“So, they were caught legally?”

“Indeed,” replied Peterson, his face starting to redden slightly. “Our concern relates to what happened after they were landed. The tracking devises show that nine were sold at market to a local fish restaurant, and one was sold to a private buyer. The nine devices all went dead over the following two days, as the fish were cooked in the restaurant. However, the tenth device is still visible, and for the last three weeks we’ve been watching it move erratically around the streets of Bergen.”

Collins looked blankly at the Commander.

“We believe the private buyer somehow ingested the tiny transmitter and reservoir of chemicals, and the chemicals may be having an effect on the person’s behaviour,” said Peterson.

Collins scratched his head, becoming increasingly puzzled. “And you want me to check out this person? Why not just talk with the Norwegians?”

“Because 78 fish remain to be caught. They could be caught by any nation. The EU nations would have a field day if it affected any of their nationals, and what if the fish were caught by American boats? It would do untold damage to our post-Brexit negotiations, upset our NATO friends, and drag the reputation of Britain through the mud. Norway is just the start; depending on what you find there we may need you to lead a number of damage limitation exercises, lasting many months.”

“But why me, and not MI5, MI6, or the Foreign Office?” asked Collins.

The redness in Peterson’s face increased. “Because it’s a RN-only initiative. It was developed at Porton Down, the Ministry of Defence’s Defence Science and Technology Laboratory, as a strictly single service project. No one else knows about it, and if they did, imagine the embarrassment for the Navy!”

Collins nodded. “When do you want me to start?”

“Right now,” said Peters, clearly relieved that Collins was on board. “You’ll get a full briefing this afternoon, and your flight leaves from Heathrow at 1830 tonight.”

_______________________________________

After a breakfast which turned out to be a little more healthy than he hoped, Collins walked out of the hotel into bright morning sunshine, the light playing off the clear water of Bergen’s picturesque harbour. He switched on his navy-issue cellphone, selecting the tracker app installed the previous evening. The tracker quickly located its target, zooming in on the map to show a blue dot located half mile east of his current position.

Given the weather he decided to walk rather than take a taxi, and set off at a brisk pace across the busy harbour, thronged with tourists and locals going about their business. The direction took him through wide streets in the direction of the university. After checking the app again, he saw the blue dot marking his quarry appeared to be in a crowded café on the street opposite the main university library. Adjusting the resolution to see how easy it would be pinpoint a person within the café, he raised his eyebrows in surprise at the high level of accuracy given by the app. He paused to double-check the position of the person, then walked inside to order a coffee at the counter.

Waiting for the barista to prepare his drink gave him time to look around and locate the source of the signal. Despite the café being very busy, pinpointing the table was relatively easy, the signal clearly indicating a table towards the far wall. Three people sat at opposite sides of the table, a young student couple heavily engaged in a conversation, and a middle-aged woman sat on the other end cradling a large mug.

His coffee finally came, and Collins looked for a space as near to the target as possible. With most seats occupied his choice was limited, but four students stood to leave at a table close by and he quickly moved to take a seat. With a clear view of the table by the wall, he watched the three occupants surreptitiously whilst pretending to look at his phone.

The student couple left after around ten minutes, but the blue dot remained steadfastly fixed in position. He gave up on the coffee, it being far too strong and bitter for his taste, although took pretend sips whilst glancing at the woman sat on the nearby table. Guessing her to be in her late thirties, he noted how she looked dishevelled, despite her clothing being up-market. She seemed agitated, possibly waiting for someone, her eyes constantly darting around the busy café. A waitress collected her cup and asked if she wanted another, but the woman shook her head.

Time passed slowly, and he watched a succession of customers join both his and her tables, drink their coffee, and leave. The waitress collected his half empty cup, and he ordered a tea. Still the woman sat without a drink, her eyes continuing to flit nervously around the crowded room. She spoke to no one, just sat, surrounded by people.

As Collins drained his second tea, the café started to noticeably get quieter. He guessed that mid-morning lectures were starting at the university, and the clientele were leaving to join. Suddenly, the woman stood, and strode quickly out of the café into the street. Collins followed at a jog, seeing the woman turn right out of the door toward the harbour. He followed at a discrete distance, watching her walk quickly, steering in toward larger groups of people as she went. A few minutes later and she passed through the large revolving doors of the main shopping mall. Following her inside, Collins trailed as she seemed to move aimlessly round the three floors of shops.

After almost an hour Collins began to tire, both physically and mentally. He started to think how he could engage her in conversation, and as to what exactly he would say. As she made her tenth circuit of the third floor he moved closer, but she cut to the left and down two flights of stairs to the side exit. Following her out, he was pleased to see her enter a bar, just outside the fish market. Inside, her saw her sidle over to a raised table and sit, leaving an empty chair between herself and a group of three women in business suits who were deep in conversation. They ignored her, and she sat as she had before, her eyes darting around the clustered group of customers.

Collins moved to the counter and ordered himself a small beer, inwardly wincing at the price. Clutching the beer, he moved over to the table to stand opposite his quarry.

“Excuse me, is this seat taken?” he asked innocently, pointing to the empty seat opposite the woman.

The woman looked up at him in puzzlement, and Collins wondered if she was one of the few Norwegians who could not speak English.

She paused a moment, as if trying to process what he was asking. Then she nodded. “Please, help yourself.”

“Thanks,” nodded Collins, placing his small beer on the table and taking a seat. “I’ve been on my feet all morning; it’s nice to sit down.”

She nodded, looking like she wanted to say something but remaining quiet.

“Bergen is such a beautiful city,” said Collins, to fill the silence. “I’m here as I’m a chef; I’m hoping to get some inspiration regarding local Norwegian recipes with fish.”

Again she nodded, and again did not speak. Collins noticed how emaciated she looked, her hollow eyes still darting around the crowded bar.

“Do you like fish?” he asked.

Her eyes stopped moving, instead fixing him with a puzzled stare.

“I was wondering if you know of any local or family recipes I could use back in my London restaurant regarding cod?” Collins pushed, struggling with her unresponsiveness.

“I usually make sushi,” she replied, her words slow and drawn-out.

Her account was slight, and her English obviously good, but the drawl as she spoke indicted something seriously amiss.

“Are you…okay?” he asked.

“No,” she answered.

Collins paused to let her continue, be she remained silent, her eyes continuing to flick around the bar.

“What’s the matter?” asked Collins.

She looked at him for a few moments. “I don’t like to be alone anymore. I need to be where people are. All the time.”

“Have you seen a doctor?”

“Yes. But she hasn’t helped; she said I had anxiety and prescribed me some drugs.”

“Have the drugs helped?” he questioned, already knowing the answer.

“No.”

“Have you seen the doctor since?”

“I haven’t got time. I need to be surrounded by people.”

Collins rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He knew there was little else he needed to know, but felt guilty about leaving her. He fumbled for his wallet and took out a plain business card, on which was written only his name and cell number. “If you don’t get better, I know a doctor who will be able to help. It’ll be free of charge. Phone call me if you need help.”

She took the proffered card and stared at him blankly as he rose from his chair and left the bar.

Once outside, Collins walked over to an empty bench overlooking Bergen’s pretty harbour. He sat and punched a number into his phone.

“Collins?” came Captain Peter’s voice.

“Yes, sir,” Collins answered. “I found the contact in Norway, and there is no doubt that she has ingested the tracker, and that the cocktail of endorphins and norepinephrine is affecting her.”

“No doubt?”

“No doubt at all, and affecting her severely,” replied Collins. “Given her state, it’s likely she may end up in a mortuary soon. Are there still 78 fish remaining to be caught?”

“Yes.”

“The only safe way forward is for the Royal Navy to catch those fish. We need to charter a number of fishing vessels and chase those shoals. If a few of the transmitters and hormone reservoirs turn up at autopsies, it won’t be long before all this gets out.”

“Chartering a fleet of fishing vessels will cost us a bloody fortune!” Peter’s voice sounded angrily in Collin’s ear. “The whole point of this was to decrease defence spending on food security, not to spend more!”

“Well, you did say reducing the number of Fishery Protection vessels was all about allowing the Royal Navy to spend its budget in other areas. But it looks like the price of fish in the catering budget has just gone up.”

Ross Baxter joined the British Royal Naval Reserve as a Junior Radio Operator in 1981. Commissioned in 1986, he specialized in naval control and guidance of shipping. His career saw many exercises and a number of periods of full time reserve service, with travel to places like Chile, the U.S., and the Gulf. He retired as Executive Officer of HMS Sherwood in 2011. He now heads up logistics projects for a major UK pharmaceutical distributor. Married to a Norwegian and with two Anglo-Viking kids, he now lives in Derby, England.

Featured Image: “Fishing Boat” by Yoann Fontaine (via Artstation)

Fiction Contest Week

1st Place Finisher

By Sergeant Major Mike Burke, U.S. Marine Corps (ret.), and Major Nicholas Nethery, U.S. Army

Oran, 2038

Lieutenant Holly Forrestal’s exoarmor gouged the doorframe as she ducked back into the utility room. A burst of RPK fire barked, peppering the window she’d just been peeking from. The ClapBack sensor array displayed the azimuth and elevation of the incoming fire on her HUD. Caliphate regulars were on the top floors across the street, opposite her platoon. The upper floor was mostly rubble, and they were dug in like ticks and taking advantage of the elevation. The number of IEDs and booby traps the Caliphate Regular Army had emplaced slowed second platoon’s advance to a crawl.

“SITREP, Hadley!” she said into the platoon command freq. Her radioman was just down the hall, typing furiously into his TuffBook. ROs had become more than mere radio operators—they were IT techs, comms experts, and internet hackers. Forrestal supposed sooner or later some colonel would give ROs a new acronym of some kind and earn himself a Meritorious Service Medal for his efforts.

“Second platoon is spread out down the block, ma’am, shooting it out with another CRA unit,” Hadley said, sending their positions to her HUD. “Third platoon is still supposed to be on our left.” He DM’d their last known position, but they hadn’t seen the slackers from Third Herd since the enemy made contact.

She had shanghaied Lance Corporal Javon Hadley to be her RO after he was caught selling pirated combat footage inside the battalion. Civilians the world over could livestream combat operations in real time, thanks to the efforts of war pornographers, who worked throughout combat zones under the pretext of “journalism.” Hadley had hacked some popular streams and offered them to his buddies at an extremely reduced rate. Naturally, the first sergeant wanted the young lance corporal to be set on fire, hacked to pieces, and his remains processed into rubber dog crap. Recognizing talent when she saw it, Forrestal had gone to bat for him, earning herself an ass chewing from both the first sergeant and her captain—but also a new RO. She didn’t win any points with the company commander, but she had with the grunts.

“The lieutenant owns your ass now,” her platoon sergeant had growled in Hadley’s ear as she nodded sagely. Staff Sergeant Wallace Mills was a thick-necked brute with GRENDEL tattooed down one beefy forearm. He never disagreed with her in front of the Marines, and he only gave her grief when she screwed something up. She was still a boot lieutenant, so that was pretty much most of the time. But she appreciated it, nonetheless.

“Staff sergeant,” she said into the platoon freq. “You have eyes on Gator?” Soon the battalion would demand to know what the holdup was, and the skipper would begin coordinating an assault. Before she sent her Marines into the meat grinder, though, she wanted to check up on the adjacent platoon.

“Negative, ma’am,” Mills responded. He was on the ground below, personally directing fire teams in an attempt to intercept any squirters trying to get past them through the ratlines. “I’m seeing their last known location on the HUD, but I don’t have line of sight on any of them.”

Forrestal tapped another quick inquiry to the third platoon’s commander, asking him to confirm his status and location, and hit send on the TuffPad strapped under her forearm. Judging by the amount of fire, she assumed the Gator team was a little busy at the moment.

She moved to check her own line again. They would get the call to begin the advance at any moment, but something didn’t feel right. She pinged Mills, who was on her left, and moved right to start with her flanking security teams then work her way back to center. Forrestal messaged the squad leaders for a status report as well. She could have monitored all of this from her TuffPad, but there was nothing like having eyes on your Marines.

Hustling through the building, she crouched and moved to avoid windows and headed toward the steps leading down. The CRA on the building across from them would be eager to claim Marine scalps and would fill a window full of lead if given a shot. Forrestal made short sprints through gaps between cover. Occasionally, the articulated third arm of her exoarmor would bump off a wall. She was still getting used to the stupid thing, but she had lance corporals who moved like simian gymnasts in their rigs. She paused at each fire team for a quick word, an ammo check, or a slap on the back.

She linked up with her platoon HQ. Liam Shannon, the surly, bearded corpsman, was back in an interior room. He fixed a straw to the nozzle of a can of spray-clot and went to work on Lance Corporal Camilla Jimenez, who had caught some shrapnel. Judging by her elaborate Spanglish expletives, she’d be fine.

“Doc, you cleaning that wound with sandpaper or just trying to piss me off?” Jimenez grunted.

“How you gonna go home and tell your family you gave up that booty to the CRA and a sailor all in one day?” Shannon snorted at his own joke. Shannon was perpetually in a bad mood and loved to share the misery. Jimenez responded with a burst of Spanish hinting at the promiscuity of Shannon’s mother.

Yeah, she was going to be ok.

Hadley was there, refreshing his special RO TuffBook as he monitored comms chatter and internet traffic. Sometimes, the CRA would livestream its own ops or make boasts on social media platforms, so it could be an occasional source of good real-time intel. The RO’s rig was the only one in any platoon with wifi capability—the Marine Corps long ago realized if every jarhead in the field had wifi, bandwidth would quickly be consumed by porn. Then drones would be falling from the sky. Hadley had even jerry-rigged his own wifi antenna to his shoulder. The company first sergeant would no doubt disapprove of this bit of “illegal maintenance,” but this sort of thing was precisely why Forrestal had kept Hadley around. He flashed her a lip-packed grin before spitting a stream of dip onto the dusty floor beside him.

Forrestal made her way back up the stairs, frog-walking and moving carefully. Marine exoarmor was pretty hardy, but it was no reason to create bad habits. As she came up behind Mills, she heard a series of loud explosions, crumping and banging off to their right. It sounded to her like small, precision-guided impacts, but in the odd acoustic labyrinth of Oran’s downtown, it was hard to be certain.

“What was that?” she yelled, pounding Mills’ shoulder. They shared an anxious glance as the internal platoon net started crackling. The roar of gunfire was quickly dampened by the ear-pro in her helmet. Someone called for a corpsman over the net.

“Ma’am,” said Mills. “I’ll grab Shannon and see what’s up. Don’t let any of them get past us.” He leapt down the stairs a flight at a time, his armor absorbing the shock of each landing.

Judging by the comms chatter, a large CRA force just materialized to their front and laid down a large amount of fire. The Marines responded with overwhelming violence, as was their tradition.

How had they gotten so close undetected? Forrestal wondered. Her squad and fire team leaders were responding satisfactorily. She couldn’t detect any panic, so she decided to monitor comms and stay off the net and out of their way.

“Ma’am,” Mills said over the command net. “These clowns aren’t waiting around. They’re assaulting us!” He paused. “I got three confirmed enemy dead and probably more underneath. Looks like they came in through tunnels.” The CRA had popped up through hatches in an attempt to ambush her far left squad. Apparently, Sergeant Stephanie Kim’s squad noticed them before the attackers could coordinate. Too bad for the CRA, engaging up-armored Marines at close quarters was a great way to get your arms and legs yanked clean out.

Doc Shannon reported the wounded Marine, Lance Corporal Kanji Palmer, was a bit scuffed up, but his exoarmor had prevented any serious injury. Both Marine and equipment were functional. Palmer’s suit had absorbed the blast of a grenade. He’d gotten his bell rung—again—but he’d be okay.

“Kim’s squad assaulted through to the tunnel mouth, and she filled it with about a metric crap ton of riot foam,” Mills reported. “I’m en route to your 20.”

Riot foam was a nonlethal adhesive sticky foam deployed in canisters roughly the size of a coffee can. A single canister could produce several cubic meters of quick-hardening goop, which was often used to temporarily deny roads and alleys, and was handy in stopping vehicle-borne IEDs. Law enforcement had been using it in the antigovernment race riots in the States for years. Asphyxiating enemy combatants in underground tunnel networks might not have been its intended purpose. She had Hadley send an updated sitrep to company HQ—not mentioning the riot foam. Forrestal didn’t need to start fielding a bunch of questions she didn’t have answers to while rounds were snapping around her. At the moment, their CRA ambushers had no rat holes to flee into.

Enemy troops on the rooftops began increasing their fire, pouring rounds and grenades onto the advancing Marines. The Marines stalled, as Forrestal’s troops slugged it out with the CRA on the ground while ducking overhead fire from above. They could rush the building, but Forrestal was loathe to engage in a frontal assault. Nightmare visions of a documentary she had watched about the 1968 Battle of Huế flashed through her mind.

“We’re going to have to make a move, ma’am,” prompted Mills. Then he dropped his voice, “Listen, ma’am.”

Mills’ tone made Forrestal pause, there was something else.

“I got a good look at one of the CRA downstairs,” he said. “The ones in the tunnel that Kim’s guys foamed. . . . Ma’am, he’s a Gennie.”

Forrestal frowned in disbelief. G2 had reported there were rumblings of genetically enhanced enemy troops being processed in Iranian and Syrian labs run by scientists with funding from a particular peer competitor. But intel had insisted that any gen-modified soldiers—Gennies—were in other sectors, if they even existed at all.

“You sure?” she asked.

In reply, Mills tapped his TuffPad and sent her Palmer’s chest cam footage. She watched for a full 20 seconds as unarmored “slick” CRA emerged from the tunnel and fought her Marines in close quarters. It was like a bad kung fu movie. They moved like parkour Olympians, with unnatural timing and speed. In the video, a grenade detonated nearby, probably saving Palmer’s life and allowing the Marines to finish the fight. Forrestal closed the video with a gesture. She could suddenly taste her breakfast MRE.

“Have Hadley package it and send the video to Battalion,” she said.

“Ma’am, is that smart?” asked Mills.

“If the 2 wants to argue in their air-conditioned Manticore, they can argue with the video,” she said. “Send it.”

“Roger, ma’am!” said Hadley. “Sending now.”

He was moving and typing away on his TuffPad as the articulated third arm of his exoarmor aimed his weapon around a gap and fired. He crouch-walked to a new position.

“What now, ma’am?” Hadley asked. Boot or not, Forrestal knew sitting around on your brains was a death sentence. Almost any decision was better than none at all.

Forrestal looked at Hadley as if he were the dumbest Marine alive.

“We attack, numbnuts!”

Mills nodded with approval as he inserted a fresh magazine and ordered the platoon head shed to rally upstairs.

“Corporal Cholico, get your squad up here to my pos,” Forrestal said on the comms as she and the HQ element began to head toward the uncovered roof of the second floor. When Cholico joined her, she indicated the enemy-held building a couple dozen feet away.

“Think we can make the jump?” she asked.

“Hell yes, ma’am!” Cholico seemed to like where this was headed.

“Hadley, suppress the roof with drones. We’re going over.” She nodded to Mills. He would bring over the rest of the platoon in trace of her assault.

Loitering munition drones began detonating overhead as Forrestal and two of Cholico’s fire teams sprinted across the roof. In addition, her platoon had expedient suicide drones made from fast-pressed components from the 3D printers constantly humming in the back of the S4’s ACMV. Assembled in moments as needed by the HQ section, the drones were tiny quadcopters with wifi cameras and the brain of a cell phone. Normally they were just for observation and target acquisition. But add in a tiny bit of C4 from the Army EOD team attached to her company, and they made deadly little suicide bots. For some reason, expedient drone weaponization was streng verboten by the brass at Echelons Above Reality. Only Air Force drones were supposed to be weaponized like that, but needs must. If she got hauled into a Senate select committee over it, at least she’d get hauled in alive. Hell, she was already going to have to answer for the riot foam as it was. In for a penny. . . she thought.

Boosted by the augmented strength of the exoarmor, they leapt from the second-story roof, across the street, to the third-floor windows . . .

Forrestal barely heard the muffled sounds all around her as she hurtled across the empty space, three stories above the killing spree below. Just like training. Breathe. The window she had targeted drifted closer in agonizingly slow motion.

She had misjudged her jump. She was going to miss. Reality suddenly sped up.

She crunched into the wall beside the window, grabbing blindly at an ornate crenellation and ignoring the blood suddenly running from her nose. Her exoarmor’s third arm snapped impotently, not sure what it wanted her to do. Forrestal just managed to heave herself sideways and hook a boot over the lip of the window. A CRA fighter, moving impossibly fast, darted into the room and cranked a few angry rounds in her direction. Her armor painfully absorbed the kinetic impact of two hits, and she nearly lost her grip on the windowsill. As the fighter continued to close, she thrust her third arm into the room and clamped down on his lead hand. He yelped as she yanked him violently out of the window and into the street below.

Using her suit, Forrestal awkwardly hauled herself into the building. She gasped as her suit autoinjected a cocktail of stimulants and pain meds into her system. Mills was going to rake her over the coals later. Cholico and Hadley entered the room.

“Chico, you’re leading the way from here!”

Cholico grinned—she’d used his nickname. He turned and began barking orders to his Marines. As they cleared their way to the roof, a series of detonations like exploding popcorn erupted into a crescendo outside. Forrestal realized that the streams of snaps and bangs, a few every second, were CRA and Marine drones dueling it out above.

Hadley reported that he and other cyber geeks were attempting to hack enemy drone feeds. Exactly what the enemy is doing back to us, Forrestal thought.

“Hopefully we can disrupt their feed or get them to suicide back on their controllers,” said Hadley.

“Well, I hear you talking. Shut up and make it happen!” said Forrestal.

“The drones think faster than I do, Ma’am.”

She stifled a reply and moved into the corridor in the wake of Cholico’s squad. Her earpiece buzzed, and she glanced down at her TuffPad.

“Ma’am,” Hadley said. “COC says Battalion is asking how do you know those CRA are Gennies?”

“Oh, come on!” she exclaimed, keying Mills on the platoon command net.

“You called it, Ma’am,” he said.

“Hadley, tell them because an entire platoon of Olympians just ran through our battle space like villains out of  Assassins Creed!” She suddenly hated the entire Intel community. At least the CRA had the balls to come out and fight. “If we’d reported an enemy soft serve ice cream machine, those POGs would’ve been out here so­—”

“Ma’am, I don’t give a rat’s ass what kind of denial is going on back there, but Gennies or not, we need to stay on mission,” Mills broke in. “Clear that building and the rest of us can advance.”

Forrestal shook herself and lurched forward, heading to catch up with Chico. Her platoon sergeant was right. They could argue with higher later about how she wasn’t “qualified” to determine if enemy troops were gen-mods or not.

“Rooftop clear!” Cholico reported. They began to work their way down, forcing CRA holdouts to retreat to the ground floor and out the other side of the building. Once outside, Marine drones continued to harass them as they retreated across an open square. Forrestal watched on her video screen as Mills brought the rest of the platoon forward. They smoothly took positions up and down the block adjacent to them. Third squad maintained rear security.

Forrestal looked out of window to watch Kim’s squad begin to bound across the square in pursuit of the fleeing CRA. A deafening roar erupted across the battlefield. She watched in horror as two of her Marines suddenly flew backward as if yanked by a tether.

“Contact left!”

A third Marine was hit. His armor ruptured, and his left arm tumbled away in the air. The rest of the squad was hugging the ground, struggling to crawl to their wounded comrades. In the darkness of a parking structure Forrestal could see the massive muzzle flash of the monster that was going to chop her platoon to pieces.

“It’s a ZU-23 or something, mounted on a flatbed!” reported Kim. The four barrels of the 23-mm antiaircraft gun were punching holes through Marines as if they were made of paper.

“Contact rear!” Her third squad leader, Corporal Walter O’Keefe, reported.

“Ma’am, we’ve got Gennies at our rear!” said Mills. “They used the tunnels just like before.”

Forrestal monitored the cam footage and saw how the Gennies moved and shot. These guys were trained. They didn’t just sit and die in place like good CRA soldiers usually did. A thunderclap was followed by a large explosion.

“Recoilless rifles!” said O’Keefe. After a pause, he added, “We’re okay right now.”

“Damn you, Carl Gustav,” said Mills.

“We’re getting the worst of it in the sky,” said Hadley referring to the dueling drones overhead. “There seems to be a mobile drone unit operating out of the back of three pickup trucks behind the parking structure.”

 “We need to bring that building down,” Forrestal replied. She designated the building on her TuffPad. “Call for fire.”

“Got it, Ma’am,” Mills said, and dropped off the net. She stayed with Chico’s squad and attempted to provide some cover fire for Sergeant Kim’s pinned down Marines. Within a minute, Mills was back on the net, furious.

“Battalion said no-go on the strike,” he said, adding some colorful phrases about the ancestry of battalion staff and the fidelity of their mothers. “This area is some kind of cultural site. A Roman fort or something. There’s even a museum and a gift shop.”

“Roman?!” Forrestal asked, bewildered. “There’s no way. Did they bother to tell anyone before they sent a platoon of grunts to shoot up the place?”

“I don’t know, Ma’am. What I know about history could fill a thimble. But we aren’t getting the airstrike.”

“This is—” Forrestal stopped, as the ZU raked the front her building. Cholico’s squad chatter filled the net, but she muted them. She could still hear them yelling as she tried to think. The CRA was trying to assassinate her platoon and quite possibly roll up the entire company’s left flank. In the meantime, those cowards in the rear were dismissing her reports and denying her request for fire support.

“Son of a bitch!” she said.

“I have a really terrible idea,” said Hadley into the command net. “Why don’t we hire it done?”

“Hadley, are you on your . . . one of your websites?” Mills asked.

“My websites?” Hadley said with cultivated innocence.

“You know what he means,” Forrestal said. “Can you get us some ordnance?”

“Ma’am,” Mills broke in, immediately seeing where this was headed. “We can’t do that.”

“Here’s an outfit that’ll support us,” Hadley said as he sent her a link.

A webpage popped up on her TuffPad with an imposing-looking Black Sea Solutions logo. All she had to do was provide coordinates, sat image, and wire the money.

“This is a PMC,” Forrestal said.

“Yes Ma’am, a PMC with a drone available for the next 30 minutes. They’re out of Belarus and provide maritime security to various shipping companies, primarily in the form of UAV support platforms.”

There was silence on the line. “Hadley. How much to buy a JDAM?”

“Thousands,” said Mills. “Tens of thousands. This isn’t like buying a crate of black-market grenades. Are we seriously having this conversation?”

“You’re not gonna like it, Ma’am,” Hadley said.

“We can’t—absolutely cannot do this,” Mills interjected.

“Hadley, how much?” Forrestal asked again.

“Uh. . . . It says 93 grand. I can message their FSR and ask about a negotiation.”

“And how are we supposed to pay for this fine mercenary support?”

“I’ve already set up an account on a crowdfunding site and posted about in on some mil-vet boards,” said Hadley.

“You what?!”

“I mean, everything’s ready to set up. I can do a quick crowdsource hit on Warjumper. That might get us the cash.” Hadley was lying his ass off, and she knew it. The sneaky little genius was way ahead of her.

Another concussive boom sounded from their rear, and then O’Keefe was on the net, calling for the corpsman.

“Do it,” she said.

“Ma’am, you realize we’re all going to Leavenworth over this, right?” said Mills.

“Dead Marines is worse than prison,” said Forrestal. “Go see how O’Keefe is doing.”

“On it,” said Mills. “But I get the bottom bunk if we end up sharing a cell.”

“Are we going to offer any stretch goals?” said Hadley.

“What?”

“Incentives for them to donate more money. Like we offer them 30 or more extra seconds of footage of the mission.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Offer them platoon t-shirts, for all I care.”

“Ma’am, you could send them an autographed picture!”

“Hadley, I will kick you dead in the—”

“The sergeant major is going to tear my colon clean out of me,” said Mills to no one in particular.

“In the meantime, Hadley,” said Forrestal. “I want you to pull some of the drones into reserve.”

“We’re already in a hurt locker, Ma’am.”

“I have a plan, make it happen.”

Mills sent out an all-hands on the company net as he leapt down the stairs half a flight at a time, using his third arm to slow his descent by grabbing the railings and walls.

“Someone nail down that squad of Gennies!” he snarled. “We’re going to give them the good news while the Ma’am flattens that ZU.” They at least needed to buy her time while she wrestled with her conscience about it.

O’Keefe reported two fire teams spread throughout the first deck and a team in the basement below. He didn’t want any surprises like Kim’s squad had gotten.

Two recoilless rifles boomed from the platoon’s rear, the rounds pulverizing the surrounding building as the Marines tried to take cover. This time the enemy fire was accompanied by a crumpling explosion they felt beneath them.

“Gennies in the basement! Contact northwest corner!” Lance Corporal Xander Vandever said over the comms. Shouts and small arms fire accented his words as his squad slugged it out in the background.

“Keep ’em there, Van. I’m en route,” Mills sent.

“Roger th—” Vandever sent, and then his voice was drowned out by another series of dread-inducing booms from below their feet and dead ahead. Mills’ heart jumped up into his throat. He bolted down the hall past two Marines.

“You two, on me!”

“Report, Van!” he sent between breaths. He could see down the stairway to the lowest level. Vandever’s team might be dead or dying down there. The two Marines he’d collected—Szumigala and Bartos?—were right on his six. Snatches of shouts came over the net but kept snapping off again. It sounded like the fighting was close quarters, knife close. No report was coming.

Mills chanced a quick peek over the edge of the stairwell. With Van’s fireteam down there, grenades were out of the question. It was only 20 or so feet down. Mills dropped over the side like a scuba diver.

He landed awkwardly but the servo joints absorbed most of the impact as he went right into a rolling break-fall. He was immediately tackled by what felt like a professional linebacker. The brute’s attack pinned Mill’s rifle to his chest. The Gennie reached for Mills’ throat with one hand, hammering fist blows down on Mills’ face with the other. Mills drew his combat knife in a reverse grip, as he palmed the top of the Gennie’s skull with his third arm. He managed to pull the freak off his chest far enough to plunge the blade into an eye. Mills wrenched the knife free and tossed the body aside, struggling to rise. Another enhanced CRA fighter filled his vision and the muzzle of his weapon looked as wide black as a mineshaft.

The Gennie disappeared under the weight of Bartos’ exoarmor as the Marine landed directly on him. The lance corporal aimed his rifle at the Gennie’s temple but checked his fire. This one wasn’t getting up again.

“Szumi, I’m in. You’re clear,” Mills heard Bartos over the comms.

Szumigala landed in a wet crunch. That Gennie definitely wasn’t getting up again.

“You could’a warned me, jackass,” Szumi said as he shook the gen-mod blood off his boots. He took up a position on their left.

Mills stared at the remains, his knife still held out, the third arm pivoting slightly. Bartos stomped up to Mills and yanked him to his feet. Mills nodded at him and Suzumi.

“Staff Sarn’t,” Bartos said. “Look at that big fella, we got him good.” He was chewing an enormous hunk of bubble gum and grinning.

“Van’s team,” Mills replied. He started to jog down the hall back past the basement landing. As they neared the smoky large room at the end of the corridor, it sounded as if a riot had broken out in a biker bar.

Mills glided in weapon up, Suzumi and Bartos beside him. It was a two-to-one brawl, as Vandever’s fireteam slugged it out with a squad of Gennies in the rubble of a tunnel mouth newly formed by CRA sappers. Knives, rebar, and articulated third arms were the weapons of the moment. The gene-enhanced numbers of CRA were getting the better of it. The three arriving Marines cleanly pressed their triggers, delivering two to the torso and one to the head of the nearest gen-mods. The tide quickly turned, and the rest of the Gennies fell to the bone-twisting strength of Marine exoarmor—or a Ka-Bar to the kidney.

Van’s team looked pretty scuffed up. Vandever himself peered from beneath a body and lifted his chin at them. Lying in a corner, he pushed the corpse off, revealing a leg bent at a bad angle. The initial blast had been a doozy.

“Foam the tunnel,” said Mills.

Szumi and Barto grabbed some cans of riot foam off Vandever’s gear and went to work while Mills tried to figure out who was still ambulatory.

Bartos glanced around at the battered Marines and let out a whistle. “You gals look like you been rode hard and put up wet.”

Mills was about to tell him to shut up when two massive explosions punched the air overhead. Everyone dove to the ground and was covered in a fine coating of dust that settled over them.

“What have the CRA thrown at us now?” someone asked.

“Nah,” Vandever said, wincing as he turned to look at them. “That hit across the street.”

“Oh, hell,” said Mills and left O’Keefe and Vandever to organize first aid and get everyone topside. As he nearly flew up flights of stairs, he keyed his mic to let Forrestal know he was moving to her position.

“How did we manage to buy two strikes?” asked Mills over the command freq.

“Black Sea gave us a break on the price and we ended up going with Hellfires,” said Hadley. “The guy on ChatWomb told me they’re looking to expand into the North African theater, and this will be good for the brand. The backers on Veterati responded right away. We might even be able to buy everyone’s ball tickets this year.”

“Kill me,” said Mills as he appeared in the doorway. “And how did we meet our funding goal so quickly?”  

“Oh,” said Forrestal. “I added a stretch goal to encourage our backers to meet the deadline.”

“What?”

“I promised them a date to this year’s ball,” she said, lifting her eyebrow at him. 

Her platoon sergeant looked puzzled. Then launched into a litany of expletives that began to peel what little paint there was off the wall. She noted that Mills may have been one of the most prolifically profane Marines she’d met since Officer Candidates School.

“Seriously Ma’am! We’re already going to catch all kinds of….” He paused then turned to look her directly in the eyes. “Wait, are you taking them to the ball, or am I?”

Sergeant Major Burke retired in 2018 and now enjoys walking on the grass with his hands in his pockets.

Major Nethery is an Army explosive ordnance disposal technician assigned to NATO as a counter-IED officer.

Featured Image: “Urban Combat” by freguslol (via DeviantArt)

Fiction Contest Week

By Admiral James Winnefeld (ret.), U.S. Navy 

On board the USS Ranger, North Arabian Sea, 1925 local time, 10 January 1984

“They aren’t really going to launch us into this crap, are they?”

“I dunno, Boz.”

The aircraft carrier Ranger had just finished her turn to the southwest, preparing to launch the last sorties of the night. In the distance to starboard, flashes of lightning illuminated the leading edge of the winter Shamal storm that had sped down the Persian Gulf and spilled into the Gulf of Oman.

“Everyone on this deck is thinking the same damn thing: the Iranians aren’t coming out in this stuff, so why do we have to go up there tonight?”

“You wanna be the one to pose that question to the Air Boss?”

“Jimi, is anyone looking out the window? It’s gonna be right on top of the boat when we come back.”

“Just remember, Boz: ‘We’re not happy ‘till you’re not happy.’”

A yellow-clad flight deck director appeared beside the jet, barely visible in the dim lighting, and with a brisk motion of his wands ordered removal of the chains locking the Tomcat to the deck.

“Looks like we’re going flying, Boz. Parking brake’s coming off.”

Five minutes later, past the jet blast deflector, checks complete, and the gentle bump of the jet hitting the holdback fitting.

“Yep, I’m definitely not happy, Jimi.”

The catapult director swept a yellow wand forward and held the other overhead, followed shortly by the thump of the tensioned catapult. Full power, controls and instruments checked, the signal for afterburners, lights on when ready. A sharp downward and forward jolt as the Tomcat accelerated down the track and rotated into inky blackness broken only by flashes against the clouds to the northwest.

“DEPARTURE, PACK 102 AIRBORNE.”

“ROGER, 102, RIGHT TURN TO CLEAR THE MARSHAL STACK. SWITCH STRIKE.”

Changing radio frequencies, Scaggs murmured “At least they’re turning us towards the weather. Thanks for that.”

“STRIKE, PACK 102 CHECKING IN, THREE-THREE-ZERO AT TEN MILES.”

“ROGER, 102, PROCEED TO LIMA, BUTTON 12 FOR YOUR CONTROLLER. REMAIN GREATER THAN 15 MILES OFF THE COAST—WE’VE HAD A FEW CLOSE ONES TONIGHT WITH THE SOUTHERLY WINDS.”

Hendricks chuckled, “I guess everybody’s good for something, even if it’s a bad example.”

During the 1970s the now-deposed Shah invested in the port of Chabahar, on the east side of a small bay along the rocky desert coastline of southeastern Iran. To defend it, Konarak airbase was built on the west side of the bay, and hosted F-4D Phantom fighters previously purchased from the U.S. Even in the wake of the Iranian Revolution and tensions between the two countries, the likelihood of an Iranian F-4 challenging a carrier was low. But who knew? With little else for the air wing to do, it seemed prudent for the Ranger to maintain a combat air patrol station during flying hours, just in case.

Joseph “Jimi” Hendricks and Robert “Boz” Scaggs were the first pilot and naval flight officer from their squadron’s rookie, or “nugget,” class to be allowed to fly together. Crewed together since the beginning of the deployment, the only thing they had in common was callsigns derived from musical artists’ names. Hendricks had grown up deep in rural Oklahoma. An amateur bull rider with few prospects for professional rodeo, he seized on a different approach to risk-taking revealed in a magazine article on naval aviation, which drew him to Officer Candidate School in Pensacola, Florida.

Scaggs came from a vagabond salesman’s family that migrated among a host of cities in the northeast. Graduating from the Navy ROTC program at Rutgers, he lacked the vision to be a pilot and became a radar intercept officer, or RIO.

“What the hell!”

Halfway through their climb, bumping in and out of puffy clouds, a bolt of lightning kicked Hendricks’s feet off the rudder pedals and mildly shocked both crew’s lips through the microphones in their oxygen masks.

“You okay Jimi? Did that hit us?”

“Dunno. Lost my night vision but I can still see the instruments. Engines are good and I’ve got no caution lights.”

In a shaken voice Scaggs replied. “Roger. Should we head back?”

“How’s your radar?”

“It dropped offline but it looks like it’s trying to restart.”

“I think we’re okay, Boz. And we’re almost on station in the clear. Let’s stick around.”

With the approaching Shamal barely to the west of their assigned station, the dim lights of Chahbahar began to appear ahead. Hendricks turned the Tomcat to establish a north-south track, maximizing their radar coverage of the airfield. On these sorties he enjoyed turning his cockpit lights as low as possible, maintaining station using the lights of the Makran coast for a position reference and the stars for heading. No stars tonight, though, thanks to the high pre-frontal overcast. Hendricks and Scaggs were enveloped in darkness.

Just before their second turn to the south, the bright yellow master caution light suddenly lit up in both cockpits.

“What’s up, Jimi?”

“Bleed duct light. Air Source coming off.”

“Roger, securing the radar.”

“I’ve got smoke up here. Dumping cabin pressure, watch your ears.”

“Roger.”

“Hate to say it, Boz, but I’ve now got a right engine fire light, and the controls are tightening up.”

“PACK 102, HOTDOG RED, TURN SOUTH IMMEDIATELY.”

“Crap, why didn’t they give us a Hotdog Yellow call? I should have turned right away.”

“ROGER, WE’RE, UH, DEALING WITH AN AIRCRAFT PROBLEM. TURNING NOW, WILL ADVISE.”

“Boz, this is not looking good. Engine fire, cockpit’s filling with smoke, and I’m really wrestling snakes up here. We’re gonna have to eject before I lose control. Do a quick mayday call, but don’t do it on guard cause of where we are. Then let me know when you’re gonna pull.”

“MAYDAY, MAYDAY. PACK 102 HAS ECS, ENGINE AND CONTROL PROBLEMS. EJECTING NOW AT CURRENT POSITION NORTH OF MOTHER AT CAP STATION LIMA.”

The ejection occurred in slow motion for Hendricks. After the canopy blew off, he saw the red lights of the instrument panel recede below as his seat rocketed up its rails, almost immediately followed by the deceleration of his parachute opening. Looking up in the darkness the chute appeared to be in one piece, and he went through his post-ejection procedures.

Wait a sec. Am I missing something, or did my seat just malfunction? It’s supposed to freefall me to 14,000 feet and then open the chute, but it sure felt like it opened right away.

Let’s see, a thousand feet per minute descent from 20,000 feet, that’s around 20 minutes. With more than 30 knots of wind from the south, that’s at least ten miles of drift. We were 15 miles off the coast when the duct light came on and, thanks to me getting preoccupied, we kept going for at least a minute at 240 knots indicated airspeed, which is roughly 360 knots true. That’s six miles or more plus ten. Holy crap, I could easily land inside Iran.

On board the USS Ranger, 1955

The captain’s phone on the bridge made its usual irritating buzz.

“Sir, Air Ops here. We just got a mayday call from Pack 102 on their station frequency. It sounds like they’ve ejected. We’ve got two beacons on guard frequency, which would correspond to their seat radios.”

“Damn. Okay, where are they?”

“That’s the bad news, sir. They’re on Lima station. With the prevailing winds, we think they could land in Iranian territorial seas.”

“Okay, get the flag staff working on permission for a helo to penetrate 12 miles. I’ll call the admiral myself. I assume you’re launching the alert helo. Meanwhile, turn Ranger north and close the coast.”

Five miles southwest of Chabahar, Iran, 2007

After a lengthy freefall, Scaggs’s parachute had automatically opened. He inflated his life jacket, released his oxygen mask, and pulled the handle to release his life raft, which inflated and dangled below, stabilizing his parachute. Descending through the undercast felt surprisingly like stepping into a freezer. Already shivering, he released his parachute risers as his feet hit the water and plunged into the cool choppy water. Bobbing to the surface, he grabbed the raft’s lanyard, pulled himself forward and up, rolled over and landed on his back.

At least I made it this far. Time to break out all the toys. Radio on, pencil flare ready. This is gonna take a while.

Two miles inland, west of Konarak, Iran, 2013

The descent seemed to take forever, with the lights defining the bay growing closer every minute to his right. Hendricks could readily tell the wind would carry him well ashore on the west side of the bay. With a sickening feeling he crossed over a coast road and continued towards a dark spot beyond.

The ground appeared just before he landed, and he braced himself. Turning his parachute perpendicular to the wind combined with the soft soil managed to break his fall, though the impact knocked the wind out of him. The parachute dragged him through the sand for several seconds before he managed to release his shoulder fittings. He stopped abruptly in a cloud of dust, gasping for air.

Regaining his breath, Hendricks rolled over and gingerly stood up. Although everything hurt, it all seemed to be in working order except for a sharp pain in his left shoulder. He retrieved his parachute and seat pan, deflated his raft with his survival knife, and gathered everything into a pile, placing his helmet on top.

With the stars blotted out by the high clouds, his only sense of direction was the southerly wind blowing from the coast, which meant the dim lights he saw were to the east and south.

What the hell do I do now? First, I have to get away from here. Moving towards the coast is tempting, but it’s not like I’m gonna swim out of here, and there are lights and people in that direction. If I head north maybe I can get to where a helo can safely pick me up.

He pulled his survival radio out of his vest, turned it on, and immediately heard the strong, insistent signal of a distress beacon.

Damn!

Frantically digging into his pile of equipment for his seat pan, he pulled out the radio beacon—which activated when he ejected—and turned it off. The loud beacon on his survival radio immediately stopped; yet a weaker beacon remained barely audible.

Must be Boz. If his seat worked, he’s probably in the water. Hope he’s OK.

All this crap is heavy. I’ve got to hide it, but don’t want to dig. Maybe I can lug it to a better spot.

Hendricks removed his torso harness, unzipped his g-suit and added it to the pile, then put his harness back on to retain its attached survival gear: water, radio, flares, knife. He then gathered up the pile of equipment and started walking north.

Five miles southwest of Chabahar, 2115

Helo lights in the distance!

Assuming it was not Iranian, Scaggs fired his first flare. The H-60F helicopter spotted it right away, quickly established a hover, and lowered a swimmer. After a quick check, the swimmer hooked him to the hoist. Soon he was lying, still shivering, on his back on board the helicopter. It was a textbook recovery. The hoist operator yelled over the rotor noise coming in the open door: “Who are you?”

“Scaggs.”

“Have you seen the other pilot?”

“No. Not possible. Too dark.”

USS Ranger, 2120

The bridge phone buzzed. “Captain, the helo’s picked up the RIO, Lieutenant Scaggs. No sign yet of the pilot. We initially heard two beacons, but everything went silent after Scaggs got in the helo. They’re still arcing around up there looking, but no luck so far.”

“What’s the staff saying?”

“They want to look for another 30 minutes inside Iranian waters. They’re working with FIFTH Fleet to decide whether to pass a message to Iran via Oman.”

“Any reaction from Iran?”

“Nothing yet that we know of.”

Northwest of Konarak, Iran, 2120

It was a tough slog across the soft, sandy soil. The events of the night had drained Hendricks’s strength, and his sore left shoulder made carrying the equipment harder with every step. He stopped for a moment, sat down to rest, pulled out his radio, and turned it to guard frequency. There was nothing but static.

The radio had three modes: transmitting a beacon on 243.0 MHz, also known as guard frequency, and two-way voice on either guard or 282.2 MHz.

I wonder if they’re calling me, thinking I’m in the water. Do I leave this thing on, hoping to hear them, but running down my battery? Should I transmit on guard? Or switch frequencies? What if the Iranians hear me? I sure wish we’d briefed this, but I guess nobody expected anyone to end up in Iran.

Hendricks turned the radio off, re-stowed it, and looked at his watch, noting that it was just after 2130. He picked up his gear and continued north.

After 30 more minutes walking through the sandy terrain, he gradually began to see a low silhouette rising before him. When he drew closer it became a dense thicket of scrub vegetation, standing about five feet high, a hundred feet around, inside a dry wash. Relieved, he pushed into the brush, pulled an extra can of water out of his seat pan and stashed his equipment, carefully covering the orange and white parachute.

He backed out of the thicket and circled around it, continuing to the northwest. It soon became clear he would need to walk between a small cluster of buildings to his left and a brighter set of lights to his right.

If I’m going to keep going this way, I need to eventually talk to someone so they can pick me up.

He pulled out the radio once again, listened to the static on guard frequency, and then transmitted.

“THIS IS PACK 102, IS ANYONE UP THIS FREQUENCY?”

He immediately regretted it.

“BALEH.” And in broken English: “WHO IS THIS SPEAKING?”

USS Ranger, 2158

“Captain, we just heard a brief transmission on guard, asking if anyone was up. It was very short, but we heard the words ‘Pack 102” followed by an accented response asking who was calling, then dead silence. We’ve gotten a few inquiries from the Iranians on guard about our helos, which are now back over international waters.”

“I guess that’s good news and bad news. The pilot must be alive, but the Iranians know something is up based on the seat beacons, the helos flying off their coast, and now the radio call. Ask the staff if we can send a helo back in to continue looking. Can we do it covertly?”

Northwest of Konarak, Iran, 2400

After the radio scare, Hendricks continued walking, shifting to the northwest to pass between the two sets of lights. He checked his watch again.

Midnight, five and a half hours until dawn. Tired, but got to keep going.

As he pressed forward, he noticed an intermittent light piercing the dust-laden darkness. As he moved closer, it suddenly dawned on him that he was looking at a rotating aerodrome beacon.

Of course, they use those here, too! Ha—they even have the two white flashes alternating with green for a military airfield! This warrants a closer look—maybe I can learn something useful.

Hendricks shifted course slightly to his right, aiming for the left, or west, end of the right-hand line of brighter lights. He had carefully crossed two roads, passed another copse of low trees and crossed another two hundred yards of open dirt when he ran into the diagonal corner of a fence line. He followed the fence to the left around the corner, then continued on a straight line to the north along the fence.

After a hundred yards, he looked to his right and saw an airplane that looked like a Boeing 727 directly across the large perimeter road that ran inside the fence. The jet was parked inside a hardened structure consisting of two high north-south vertical walls, open on either end, with a concrete hangar and a small parking ramp set between.

Wow, this really is the airfield. I’ll walk a little further along the fence to see what I can see, then I’ve got to get the hell out of here before daylight.

Further along, another shelter—this one empty—rose out of the darkness, away from the fence. A hundred yards north and yet another set of walls closer to the fence, this time with two concrete shelters. Parked outside the southern hangar, backlit against dim lighting, was the silhouette of an F-4 Phantom.

It looks beautiful. I wonder whether ole’ Mehdi ever flew any of these jets.

Hendricks’s thoughts drifted back to his early days in flight school, just before the Iranian revolution in February 1979. The Shah had sent his future F-14 pilots to be trained in Pensacola, Florida alongside the U.S. Navy. Though he never had any direct contact with them, Hendricks was skeptical of the Iranian pilots’ reputation for difficulty with the swim requirements and the hilarious mistakes they sometimes made in the cockpit. He smiled, recalling stealing a blue Iranian uniform hat lying among all the other hats near the entrance of the Pensacola Officers Club. He had given it to a roommate, but still remembered the name stenciled inside: “Mehdi Bayat.”

His guilt about the prank—how would the officer ever get another hat?—was erased by the subsequent Tehran embassy hostage crisis. But he sometimes wondered about the fate of First Lieutenant Bayat. Did he manage to stay in the U.S. or go home? Did he flee later during the revolution? Was he persecuted, or did he end up flying in the Ayatollah’s air force? Is he even alive?

As he walked further, the fence turned slightly to the right then back to the north. Soon Hendricks saw, close to the fence, four empty aircraft ramps with a small building in the center, angled away to the northeast with a direct path to the runway beyond. Just beyond to the east he saw the backs of four arched-roofed aircraft shelters angled in the same direction, with their own ramp to the runway. The ends facing him were closed.

Cool. These must be their alert shelters. Wish I could see inside, but I don’t see any activity.

He moved further north, reaching a patch of scrub brush angling towards the fence that offered better cover. As he moved, he gradually saw the ramp feeding the second set of shelters. Another aircraft appeared, parked in the open.

Holy crap! I can’t believe it.

USS Ranger, 0200

“Sir, the helos are running low on fuel, with no sign of Hendricks and no more radio calls. Since the helos went dark, we’ve heard nothing more out of Iran, but Fleet is getting worried about an Iranian response.”

“OK, bring the helos back and tell the staff what we’re doing. Tell the Air Boss I want them back out at first light.”

Konarak Air Base, 0200

A Tomcat on the ramp? We were never told F-14s are based here—they’re supposed to be fighting the Iraqis. Maybe it’s here on a cross country—I’m sure the night life in Chahbahar is hot! Or maybe they’re getting worried about us and are checking this out as a potential base. Or is it something we’re supposed to see?

Hendricks backed away from the fence and sat. He pulled out his radio, but once again only heard static on both frequencies.

I’m guessing both Ranger and the Iranians think I’m in the water. That’s good. But if I transmit on either frequency before I get to a safe place, the Iranians might be able to tell I’m ashore and start looking for me, and my tracks will make me easier to find than a lost steer. Best to stay quiet for now.

But that damn Tomcat is sitting right there in the open, with a frigging starter cart next to it!

Naaah. Even if I got it started, then what? But . . .

Decision time. Head west, find an empty spot, then come up on the radio hoping for a helo rescue, or take the bull by the horns? The first is the smart play, but what the hell! If I can start the airplane just before daylight, I’ll have a fighting chance. Good thing I kept my torso harness! No time to go back and get my helmet, though, even if I could find it.

Konarak Air Base, 0500

After waiting and resting in the shelter of the underbrush, Hendricks stood up, passed through a derelict portion of the airfield fence, and walked cautiously towards the closest aircraft shelter.

I walked down the dry riverbed at survival school when they told us not to, and it worked, so maybe this will work as well.

Pausing to crouch by the dense brush growing next to the low wall at the edge of the tarmac, he confirmed the absence of any activity near the shelters. He took a few minutes to rehearse in his mind the exact sequence of tasks he would have to perform in order to get the Tomcat started.

OK, first light approaching, time to go. Never did the faint heart win the fair maiden.

He stepped over the wall, walked past the first set of concrete ramps, crossed seventy-five more yards of desert to the first shelter, then angled directly towards the Tomcat on the tarmac. Heart pounding, he pushed the cart’s electrical cable into the receptacle behind the F-14’s nose wheel, then quickly stepped towards the air connection near the left main tire.

Suddenly, out of the darkness: “cheh ghalati daari mikoni!?”¹

Hendricks froze for a moment, then slowly raised his hands and turned around. A single person faced him in the dim light.

“An American name tag on a flight suit? What are you, a spy? Some kind of saboteur? You’re not dressed like either one.”

“Lieutenant Joseph Hendricks, U.S. Navy.”

“Well how about that. Why are you here?”

Hendricks nodded towards the airplane. “I had to jump out of one of these off the coast, and the wind blew me ashore.”

“And now you have a big idea about stealing this jet.”

“Maybe.”

“Bold! And where would you go?”

“Back to the carrier.”

“That’ll be a neat trick. They won’t shoot you down?”

“I’ll have to take that chance. Better than spending time in an Iranian prison. And I can always eject if they won’t let me land.”

“You’re lucky. Ejection seat parts are the one thing we’ve had no trouble getting. The rest, not so easy.”

“What are you gonna do with me?”

“It’s not what I’m going to do with you, it’s what you’re going to do with me. You’re taking me with you.”

Hendricks put his arms down. “You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m very serious. I hate it here. I want to leave. I love my Iran, my Persia, not the Iran of bloodthirsty mullahs and corrupt Revolutionary Guards. I’ll go get my gear.”

“No, you’re not going anywhere. I’ll take you with me, but I don’t completely trust you yet. Besides, we can’t waste any more time, it’s getting lighter.”

“So, what, you want me to fly without being strapped in?”

“Who said anything about you doing the flying? Do you even know what you’re doing?”

“I’ve got two Iraqi kills in this airplane. How many do you have?”

“Sorry. Didn’t mean that. How many carrier landings do you have?”

“Ah, good point. But I still need to be strapped in.”

“Alright. You trust me, so I trust you. You take the harness. Just promise to put the eject lever in “pilot”—if you punch out, you go alone. By the way, what are you doing out here this time of morning?”

“Believe it or not, I left my prayer mat in the cockpit when we arrived last night. The Guards keep a close eye on religious fervor, Hendricks, and I needed it before morning prayers.”

“Call me Jimi. What do I call you?”

“Mehdi.”

“You’re kidding me. Mehdi Bayat by chance?”

“How do you know my last name?”

“I’ll save it, but I do have a story for you, and I can’t wait to hear about those MiG kills. Let’s get moving. Anything I need to know about the jet?”

“It’s a piece of crap.”

Hendricks wriggled out of his harness and handed it to Bayat, put the radio in his flight suit breast pocket, climbed the ladder and settled into the cockpit. The Iranian hit the start buttons on the cart, and the diesel engine and gas turbine air blower roared to life. The F-14’s electrical system clicked on after several tries, and air flowed into the cockpit shortly thereafter. Hendricks hit the left engine start switch and moved the throttle to idle once the RPM rose.

So far so good!

Bayat disconnected the F-14 from the cart and scrambled up the ladder. Hendricks already had the right engine in its start sequence and lowered the canopy.

“Nice work, Mehdi,” Hendricks yelled over the cockpit noise. “We’ll have to go with the ladder down. Right generator won’t come on. Wings coming forward. I’m not even going to try the flaps. Won’t bother arming my seat, either, but you go ahead.”

Glimpsing people running from the shelter towards the aircraft, Hendricks quickly steered the Tomcat down the ramp and onto the runway.

“Afterburners aren’t working!”

“Yeah, sorry about that—you’ll have to go in mil power only.”

At 140 knots Hendricks eased back on the stick and the Tomcat lifted into the now-still air.

I can’t believe we pulled this off. Wake up everybody!

The F-14 entered a right turn past a sliver of rising sun, and almost immediately was over the water, headed south.

USS Ranger, 0605

“Captain, sir, sorry to wake you. We have indications of an aircraft launching out of Chabahar and heading towards us. We believe it’s an F-4.”

“Launch the alert 15 fighters.”

“We’re doing that right now, sir.”

South of Chabahar, 0610

Hendricks leveled the F-14 at 20,000 feet and dialed up the Ranger’s radio beacon. The needle and distance indicator both spun for a few moments then locked on: due south at 80 miles. He pulled out his radio.

I guess it’s OK to talk now! Boy is Ranger going to be surprised.

“GRAY EAGLE THIS IS PACK 102 ON GUARD.”

“CALLING GRAY EAGLE ON GUARD, SAY AGAIN?”

“THIS IS PACK 102. AIRBORNE IN AN IRANIAN TOMCAT OUT OF KONARAK AIRFIELD, HEADED SOUTH TOWARDS MOTHER.”

“IS THIS SOME KIND OF JOKE? IF YOU’RE ON THE FLIGHT DECK MESSING AROUND, KNOCK IT OFF.”

“NO! THIS IS LIEUTENANT JOSEPH HENDRICKS. I NEED TO LAND THIS JET ON MOTHER.”

“Mehdi, any fighters on alert at Konarak that could launch and mess this up?”

“Two F-4s in 30-minute alert, but they’ll never get off that fast.”

USS Ranger, 0615

“Captain, I have an update. We just got a call on guard that appears to be from the Iranian aircraft, claiming to be Lieutenant Hendricks.”

“You’re kidding.”

“And he wants to land here.”

“Ooohhkaaaay. I assume we’re doing a pull-forward for the alert launches, but I don’t want to land an Iranian Tomcat on Ranger.”

“What should we tell him?”

“Clear him to approach the ship at slow speed. Send one of our fighters to a station off Chabahar, and the other to rendezvous with the Iranian. I need to know more.”

“Aye, sir. We’re also hearing noise from Konarak tower that they may be launching an alert.”

“Any other good news? For heaven’s sake, make sure the admiral knows what’s going on.”

North Arabian Sea, 0628

“Mehdi, there’s an F-14 approaching from our left side. It looks like he wants to join. Now you’ll get to see a real Tomcat!”

“GRAY EAGLE, BRAVE 204. WE’RE WITH THE IRANIAN JET. I CLEARLY SEE HENDRICKS IN THE FRONT SEAT BECAUSE HE’S NOT WEARING A HELMET. THERE’S SOMEONE ELSE IN THE BACK SEAT, ALSO WITH NO HELMET, BUT I HAVE NO IDEA WHO IT IS. WE’RE SWITCHING HIM OVER TO 282.2.”

“PACK 102, HOW DO YOU HEAR?”

“VERY SCRATCHY.”

“ROGER. MOTHER’S CLEARED YOU FOR AN OFFSET DESCENT TO 1200 FEET IN THE VICINITY OF THE SHIP. I’LL STAY ON YOUR WING. WHO’S THAT IN YOUR BACK SEAT?”

“LONG STORY.”

After a few minutes: “PACK 102, BRAVE 204. MOTHER’S DIVERTING YOU TO MUSCAT, OMAN.”

“I HAVE A FUEL TRANSFER PROBLEM THAT’S GETTING WORSE. DON’T HAVE ENOUGH TO MAKE IT TO OMAN. NEED TO LAND ON MOTHER NOW.”

“ROGER, I’LL GET BACK TO YOU.”

After a few more minutes: “PACK 102. GRAY EAGLE WANTS YOU TO FLY ALONGSIDE THE SHIP AT A HALF MILE AND A THOUSAND FEET AND EJECT. YOU ARE NOT, REPEAT NOT, TO LAND ON MOTHER.”

“BRAVE 204, ONE SMALL PROBLEM. I GAVE MY TORSO HARNESS TO THE PERSON YOU SEE IN THE BACK SEAT. I CANNOT EJECT. MY ONLY OPTION IS LANDING ON MOTHER. I ONLY HAVE 2000 POUNDS OF USABLE FUEL, SO WE NEED TO GET THIS DONE ASAP.”

Pierside, Naval Air Station North Island, California, 16 April 1984

The crane lifted the freshly painted F-14A off the Ranger’s starboard aft elevator and gently deposited it on the pier, where it was quickly connected a tow tractor. A brake rider climbed into the front seat.

Two figures, one in a flight suit and the other in civilian clothes, stood in the shadow of a small utility building near the pier. As the tractor drove off with the Tomcat, one turned to the other and, in an accented voice, said, “I always meant to ask, was that a real fuel transfer problem?”

A shrug. “Like we say back in Oklahoma, lettin’ the cat outta the bag is a whole lot easier than puttin’ it back.”

Admiral James A. “Sandy” Winnefeld, U.S. Navy (Retired), graduated from the Georgia Institute of Technology with a degree in Aerospace Engineering and received his commission through the NROTC program. He began his naval service as a fighter pilot, flying the F-14 Tomcat during several deployments to the Western Pacific and Arabian Gulf regions, and serving as an instructor at the Navy Fighter Weapons School, also known as TOPGUN. During this period he also was senior aide to General Colin L. Powell. After fighter squadron command, he graduated from the Navy’s nuclear power school and subsequently commanded USS Cleveland (LPD-7) and USS Enterprise(CVN-65). He also led the Theodore Roosevelt Carrier Strike Group while supporting operations in support of our troops in Iraq. Later he commanded NATO Joint Command Lisbon, Striking and Support Forces NATO, and the United States Sixth Fleet. After serving as the Joint Staff Director of Strategic Plans and Policy, he assumed command of United States Northern Command and the North American Aerospace Defense Command. He retired in 2015 after four years serving as the ninth Vice Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the nation’s number two ranking military officer.

Endnotes

1. “What the heck are you doing?”

Featured Image: “Iranian F-14 Tomcat Aircraft” by HDI VFX (via Artstation)