Fiction Contest Week

3rd Place Finisher

By Tyler E. Totten

October 10^th – 1240
M/V Liberty Georgia
Western Pacific, east of Japan

The tone spurred wakefulness, causing him to sit bolt upright and grab for his comm.

He managed to settle his augmented reality headset into place as the bright cabin lights snapped on. He forced himself not to squint long enough for the retinal scanners to verify his identity. While he was well practiced in navigating the interface, the offending message immediately came to the forefront, overriding his typical loading preferences.

“The fuck…” He breathed, staring at the orders for a moment before rising from bed. A glance at the time showed him he was getting shorted an hour of sleep, but nothing to be done about it now. He pulled up their current position and the comm.

“Bridge here Captain.” 3^rd Mate Siemens responded at once.

“Kayla, sending updated nav plan. Please implement immediately.”

“Yes Captain, right away. Did we pick up another job?”

“Sort of, fill you in later.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Captain Collins dressed quickly and stepped into the p-way, confirming the location of Chief Mate Cota on his augmented reality display as he walked, finding him instructing the deck cadet on powered capstan maintenance at aft mooring. Seeing him approach, Cota patted the man on the back and walked over to the shade provided by the step of the aft container deck. They were light on this leg, carrying mostly empty boxes up forward.

“Captain, wasn’t expecting to see you back here,” Carlos said, wiping his hands on a rag before shoving it back into his coveralls. “Did I miss a call?”

“No, figured I’d come back and talk in person.” Collins smiled as his Chief Mate settled his headset back into place. Carlos had the habit of pushing the headset out of place when he was giving out instructions to his people, occasionally missing low priority calls.

“We just got an activation order.” Carlos raised an eyebrow at that as the captain continued. “As soon as we pull into Yokohama, they’re supposedly going to have our Navy augment and load out.”

“You thinking another fuck up?” Carlos asked, referencing the mistaken activation of one of their sister ships, Liberty Ohio, months back. The program officer had been relieved of command, lack of confidence and all that, making Collins glad he was just a reserve commander these days, not chasing his next up-or-out promotion.

“Who knows, if so they’ve decided to double down instead of cancel. I’ve started to see manifests rolling in, looks like a serious loadout.” 

October 11^th – 0900
M/V Liberty Georgia
Yokohama, Japan

Collins drummed the bridge wing as he watched the cranes work, lifting Liberty program modules into his container hold. The Liberty program had been created to serve as a surge naval capacity, producing containerized missile modules, VLS, UNREP and FAS gear, hangars, and other hardware that locked into standard container locks and lashing systems or replaced hatch covers. Stored across US and allied ports around the Indo-Pacific, they could be quickly loaded onto any containership, turning it into a Distributed Maritime Operations asset. Once networked, naval vessels and joint force aircraft could provide targeting and call on their weapons as needed. Liberty Georgia and her sister ships had been constructed in US shipyards, largely as a jobs program, but also to secure US flagged ships under contract for national contingency operations. With sixteen ships built already and two per year floating out of the yards, it was the largest commercial buildup in decades. Collins and his crew were largely specially-designated naval reservists, typically activated twice a year along with their ship. To be activated twice in three months was…unusual.

“Captain?” Kayla poked her head out. “Navy crew augment is here.”

“Thank you, Kayla. It’ll be a shame to lose you, but at least you’ll get some paid leave in Japan.”

“I’ll miss you all of course, but happy enough to not be aboard with those.” Kayla gestured to the 32-cell MK-41 module being lowered into Number Two Hold. She wasn’t a naval reservist, an exception on the crew. Collins just nodded as she ducked back inside and frowned back out as his ship was loaded with a decidedly lethal cargo. 

October 16^th – 0500
M/V Liberty Georgia
Balabac Strait

It wasn’t a training mission, that much was clear.

Collins glanced across the water, his headset adding details to the convoy assembled around him including four Libertys. Just ahead, USS Constellation led the formation, her radar active and on the lookout for any PLAN snoopers. Her Seahawk was further ahead, just on the horizon, dropping a fresh sonobuoy chevron. His own ship had been assigned a pair of Romeos that had just touched back down. They’d driven away a Yuan in the night, lashing her with active pings from their dipping sonars.

Collins was still unsettled. His new XO, LCDR Serena Hill had digitally hand-carried their orders. Constellation, supported by USS Pittsburgh, and the convoy were to move north from the Sulu Sea, after traveling down the eastern coast of the Philippines, and bring additional hardware to Taiping Island. The ROC had given the green light to land. A Marine Littoral Regiment out of Singapore had already jumped across, landing their anti-ship and SHORAD on the island. Political rhetoric was heating up to a boil and the Liaoning battlegroup had pushed into the area. The Chinese carrier-borne aircraft had been making aggressive moves in the convoy’s direction, though without actually shooting. The Washington battlegroup was steaming in the Celebes Sea, but Collins didn’t expect her to stay there long. That pond was too cluttered, though commercial traffic was already rerouting clear of this whole area. Everything seemed to be spiraling and for the life of him, Collins couldn’t figure out what the diplomatic types were doing. He just hoped they’d be able to resolve things before the real shooting started. If the convoy wasn’t turned around soon, it seemed shooting would be inevitable. A hundred or so Marines and their gear were problematic enough. Nearly two dozen ships and hundreds more US personnel on PRC claimed territory, at the request of the Taiwanese government, would be something else.

“All ships, all ships, expect imminent action. Command indicates PLAAF bomber sortie from Hainan on a southeasterly heading.”

“Lieutenant Nixon, let’s lean into it. Get everybody up and prepare to support Constellation. I expect they’ll be needing our missiles if those bombers come this way. And make sure the Safe is good to go.” 

October 16^th – 0648
M/V Liberty Georgia
South China Sea

“Well, they’re coming for us,” Serena remarked.

“Indeed.” Collins glared at the tactical display as twenty supersonic missiles tracked for them, visible thanks to the networked sensor feeds from Constellation and airborne ISR. He was just glad the strike commander had decided their group of merchants and only two ‘real’ warships weren’t worth their full missile load. Precision missiles were a precious commodity. He glanced around the armored CIC where they all stood, one of many things loaded in Yokohama. From here, they could control the entire ship and the heavy armor around them was supposed to protect them from anything save a direct hit. Given the commercial nature of the rest of the ship, anywhere else would not be particularly safe under fire. There was a second module in the bow, containing the rest of the crew and providing some redundancy for the weapons control. Liberty Georgia didn’t have any ability to self-target, beyond her SeaRAM, but there was still a human aboard in-the-loop for every launch.

“Commander Hill, please unlock the safeties on our weapons. Let’s make sure we’re ready to answer mission tasking.”

“Yes sir, unlocking weapon safeties.”

Aft of the house, SeaRAM came to life, manually tracking to the north, though still safed. Floating IR decoys were dumped overboard to float in the waters, obscuring the tactical picture. Around her, the other ships prepared themselves as well. Liberty California, another of their sister containerships, lofted her decoy blimps. The blimps RF units and radar reflectors were going to work to become appealing targets. Pittsburgh, meanwhile, launched her AEW Osprey, quickly transitioning and clawing hard for altitude. The operators fired up her miniature but powerful radar, feeding the data into the net. The Osprey needed to get astern of the group to ensure she wouldn’t get caught in the crossfire.

“Captain, Constellation requesting direct fire control.”

“Give it to them. Fire Control, you are seconded to Constellation.” They didn’t have all that many missiles but most of what they did were Standards. Almost immediately after the encrypted command link was confirmed, orders came across. Six SM-2s roared away from the ship, speeding downrange in loose formation. They were joined by missiles from two other Libertys in the group. Collins could see they were all SM-2s. Constellation held fire herself, retaining her full missile load. Minutes passed and both clusters of missiles ate the distance rapidly, the Chinese group unaware of the approaching danger. While the SM-2s had only half the numbers and a small cross section to target, they were still able to down eight inbounds. The survivors were undeterred, pressing on and beginning to spread as they approached the convoy.

“Point defense free,” Collins ordered, freeing SeaRAM to engage any missiles coming for Georgia. As he did, Pittsburgh’s launcher opened up, sending a salvo of two RAMs. Constellation fired in her own defense as two missiles homed on her radar. Liberty California’s decoys attracted four more.

The sigh of relief was audible, though Collins couldn’t tell from who, as the missile tracking Georgia was downed. Liberty Nevada was less lucky, her SeaRAM having managed only to engage the third successfully. RAM winged the second but not in time, the missile still detonating in her superstructure.

“Fuck.”

The untouched missile struck amidships, tipping down into the deck and burying deep into the hull before detonating next to the MK 41. Secondary explosions ripped through the ship and Collins grimaced imagining the shearing metal. On the port bridge camera, he saw the ship falter, engine dying as systems failed under the shock. The entire ship shuddered to a halt and a torrent of seawater rushed into the cargo holds perforated by secondary explosions.

Collins saw the reports on the net, extensive fire and flooding. No deaths reported but numerous injuries. Everyone had been inside a Safe. The hits on Nevada were unfortunate, but all told they had come through mostly intact. If that was all they had to deal with, they might complete their mission and get out alive.

“Submerged contact, bearing one-eight-five. Range, ten miles. Constellation says Yuan-class making turns for six knots.” Collins silently cursed his premature celebration as the warning came over the net, Constellation’s tail making the detection.

Constellation’s captain wasted no time ordering California, the closest ASROC-armed ship, to launch on the submerged contact. A moment later, orders came for a Seahawk to get airborne. Two ASROC erupted from California, speeding downrange and undergoing rapid disassembly upon reaching the target, their torpedoes bracketing the submerged contact. Simultaneously, shapes burst from the water.

“She launched, inbound missiles.”

The Yuan launched a triplet of anti-ship missiles as she detected the torpedoes bracketing her, aborting further launches. The submarine went to emergency but it was far too late. The MK 54 torpedo to port found her before completing the first search circle, tracking into the submarine’s stern near the prop. Its partner followed a moment later to finish off the wounded boat even as her crew tried in vain to emergency blow.

In the meantime, on the surface, four ships scrambled to react to the threat in their midst. Two of the missiles found the already-damaged Nevada, tearing into her stern section and crumpling shell plating. The third found itself coming in nearly broadside on Georgia.

“Hard to port, bring up the thruster,” Collins ordered, trying to unmask SeaRAM but knowing it was too late, even though it was barely masked. The warning gong sounded, the XO hitting the bell on instinct as she realized they couldn’t avoid the hit. Before the first tone even finished, it struck. Everyone grabbed their console to ensure they kept their footing. Collins noted the shock wasn’t as large as he’d expected. Liberty Georgia displaced nearly 50,000 tons, even as lightly loaded as she was compared with a normal container load. The warhead just didn’t have enough to seriously rock them.

“Report.”

“Fire in Number One Hold. Sprinkler systems unresponsive. Bow fire monitor is working, the bow Safe has it working on the fire. Main power still online. Looks like we also lost a 25 millimeter gun, Captain.”

“Very well. Keep an eye on the flooding. We’ll reballast if we take on too much.”

He noticed his XO frown but she didn’t say anything. He knew she was familiar with the Liberty ships but it was still difficult, in his experience, for the career Navy types to not send a DC party when the ship was damaged, on fire, and being flooded from the efforts to extinguish. On these ships, not only were the crew supposed to stay in their armored Safes, but a ship of this size could take on hundreds of tons of seawater without issue. The containerized mission set they’d been loaded with was not even a quarter load for the ship. A bit of seawater in their forward hold wasn’t something they needed to deal with until after the fight.

Far above the captain and his musings, the AEW Osprey continued tracking the PLAAF strike force as they tracked back north, feeding the tracks into the net.

October 16^th – 0731
Amphibious Strike One
Somewhere in the South China Sea

“Hello beauties, we’ve been waiting for you.” Commander Valerie Cunningham smiled as she viewed the tracks still being fed to them over the net of the PLAAF bombers returning from their strike. Her command had been sitting on the surface for more than a day, waiting for the balloon to go up. It had been a nervous day, waiting to see if they had managed to sneak into the area successfully. They’d come in on the deck, half the squadron acting as buddy tankers for the others. When they hadn’t been attacked by marauding fighters, everybody had relaxed a notch. The thousands of square miles of ocean they had to hide in had paid off.

“Fire up the engines.” Now, it was time for action.

Cunningham’s SeaMaster II roared to life first, twin engines thrumming with power. She maneuvered her aircraft about on the surface, the other two of the strike element following suit. The buddy tankers would wait for them. Her radar operator was glued to his scope, keeping an eye out for any sign of hostile fighters or indications that their prey had been alerted. Cunningham quickly got her bird airborne, still not over how beautifully her bird handled. And as the first squadron commander of the Navy’s seaplane revival, she was even giddier still. Many people had reservations or objections to the return of the seaplane and this mission was their chance to really prove their value. The program had been spun up quickly and she remembered being surprised how well the first aircraft had handled. As an updated version of the P-6M, the major changes had been kept to the minimum required to bring them into the 21^st century. Started in the late 2020s, it had taken just three years to have a flying example. The aircraft she skimmed the waves in now was less than a year out of the factory. Two of her buddy tankers weren’t even certified to carry weapons yet.

The formation accelerated smoothly up to 500 knots but stayed on the deck. The low altitude sucked down fuel but kept them below land-based radars and the AEW orbiting above the Liaoning group to the south. Besides, the waiting buddy tankers would be there for them after the strike, remaining hidden on the waves. Glancing across her HUD, she confirmed all six of her AMRAAM-ERs were green. She couldn’t help but grin again. Despite carrying a light missile load to support the long-range assignment, it would be enough.

Even as the bombers came into range, the squadron waited. Cunningham had instructed them to wait, as white knuckled as they were, until there was no escape possible. The H-6 could accelerate pretty quick if given the chance and against long-range shots, if they firewalled and scattered behind jamming and decoys, some might get away. Cunningham wanted them all.

With neither group of aircraft radiating, they both were relying on external queueing and warning. As they closed within 70 nautical miles of one another and their IRST systems had a firm lock, it was finally time. She advanced the throttles, coming up to 100 percent thrust and pitching up into an aggressive but still less than maximum climb.

“Take your shots,” she instructed her copilot and weapons officer. Cunningham enjoyed the shudder as each of the missiles left her aircraft and raced south until there were none left. If they ran into any enemy fighters on the way home, they’d be relying on their two Sidewinders.

“Missiles away.”

“Round up the gang, lets head for home,” she instructed, pulsing the order to the strike element and up back to the buddy tankers via the LPI flank array. As the SeaMasters came around to their exit heading, the H-6s were scrambling to escape. They’d had only seconds of warning when their own receivers detected the inbounds. Two aircraft were gone even before they started to maneuver. Others survived moments longer, but only moments. In under a minute, the entire PLAAF squadron was burning and plummeting to the sea below. Now the whole amphibious squadron shared its CO’s grin.

“Splash twelve.”

Tyler Totten is a naval engineer supporting Navy ship programs including EPF, LCS, and DDG(X), with a deep interest in international and specifically maritime security. He is also an amatuer science fiction writer published on Kindle. He holds a B.S from Webb Institute in Naval Architecture and Marine Engineering. He can be found on Twitter at @AzureSentry.

Featured Image: Art created with Midjourney AI.

Fiction Contest Week

By Lieutenant Commander Jon Paris 

Present Day

“Right full rudder. All engines ahead, Flank Three!”

              Jet engines spooled.

Hands shot to the steel cable running overhead, taking a death-grip.

              The lieutenant junior grade looked over her shoulder. With a wry smile, she quipped to her Sailors, “Hold on to your butts.”

              The ship heeled to port. They shifted their weight, eyes focused on the thermal camera.

An arm reached out to the bitch-box.

              “Combat, Captain. Warship, ten to port, 3000 yards. Ten rounds SWARM, batteries released!”

              Four seconds. Then, a BOOM.

The five-inch Surface Warfare Advanced Robotics Munition zoomed down-range towards its target. The Navy designed the rounds for up-close use in a communications-denied environment. They housed four small artificial intelligence-powered charges – flying baked potatoes, as the Sailors called them.

Each sub-munition contained a shot-gun blast of 88 micro-bots. Like a swarm of locusts, they feasted on radars, antennae, and fragile topside weapons. They homed-in on radiated energy, heat, and communications frequencies. Sharp claws latched onto their prey before the bots blossomed into a combined high-explosive and electromagnetic blast, snuffing out the ability to see, speak, and fight.

Not bad for a potato.

Flashes in the distance lit up the night. The camera showed a smoking frigate.

Hit.

A Sailor growled, “Fear the Kraken!”

The young lieutenant slowed the ship and turned east. Shaking off exhaustion, she offered a sing-song, “Next, please.”

400 miles astern, an island suffocated in ash.

Three Days Ago

            Grace awoke with a start. Curtains drawn, her room was pitch black. Four fifty-eight in the morning. Two minutes before her alarm.

Naturally.

She glanced at her phone and saw an alert:

“State of Hawaii: Ballistic Missile Threats Inbound! Take Deep Shelter Immediately! Civil Collapse Imminent! This Is Not A Drill!”

              Grace’s high-rise condo shuddered and swayed. What the hell?

A hymn filtered from her TV.

She sat transfixed by the grainy image of an old-fashioned military band playing a mournful tune. When the music stopped, the screen turned to color bars.

Grace rushed onto her balcony. Fireballs crossed the horizon, shrieking like banshees. They raced over the nearby beach and slammed into the sleeping city.

A massive blast echoed through her neighborhood. The shockwave knocked Grace off balance, and she tumbled towards the edge – saved by a wobbly railing. Steadying herself, she watched in horror as the upper floors of a skyscraper avalanched onto the quiet streets below. Fire flickered off the low overcast.

Amidst the madness, an unexpected period of hyper-clarity. Sounds of destruction muffled. A naval professional, she worked the problem in a moment of Zen.

DF-30s, Grace observed. The only conventional missiles able to reach the Islands. We dodged a bullet, she thought sardonically. At least they’re not DF-41s…

A tremendous flash.

Blindness, fading quickly.

A mushroom cloud emerged from the mountains. Another one rose from the sea.

Never mind.

Damn it.

***

              Tsunami sirens wailed and sputtered.

Well, air raid sirens, really.

Grace’s soot-covered Fiat weaved through apocalyptic destruction. Buildings lay flattened into rubble. Deep craters marred every street. She absorbed nightmares in slow-motion. Burning vehicles with drivers visible through flames. Live power lines slithering and hissing like angry cobras. A bus stop awash in a soupy heap of pulverized bodies and fluids.

Darkness.

Where am I going?

On autopilot, the junior officer drove in a zombified state. Her subconscious clocked the emergency broadcast system screeching from the car’s speakers. After thirty minutes weaving through gore, Grace rolled past an abandoned gate and into a noxious haze. Pearl Harbor was on fire.

She crept down the waterfront. A submarine’s propeller jutted out of the harbor and another boat wallowed on its side. A cruiser’s main mast pierced the roof of a nearby McDonald’s. Camouflaged corpses littered a crosswalk. Six ships stood damaged and sinking on the sea wall. Another drifted in the harbor. Total devastation.

Her ship – somehow – remained intact.

Grace rushed onto the quay and up the brow.

Survivors from the duty section stood topside in knots. They coalesced and stared.

Grace noted their expectant faces. “Where is the CO? The XO? The CDO?”

A Senior Chief swept her arm at the surrounding hellscape. “Dead, like everyone else. You’re the first person we’ve seen come onto the base.”

Grace was a woman of action. The crew – her crew – needed orders.

She locked onto an engineer. “Chief, place all Mains online and roll shafts. On the double!”

“Aye, aye, ma’am!”

To another – “Boats, grab some axes. Cut these lines.”

To the group – “We’re the last of the Pineapple Fleet. Station the sea and anchor detail. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

***

The destroyer slid down the channel. The ship’s senior surviving officer supervised two Sailors pilot the ship into the Pacific. Pillars of smoke marked Honolulu. The mushroom clouds loomed menacingly.

 What do I do now?

Only one answer: fight.

Present Day

Scuffed black boots rested on a teak rail. Grace’s bloodshot eyes took in the sea as she leaned back in the Captain’s chair.

“…that’s the thing, there is no COP! No imagery, no communications. No intelligence or reachback support. It’s all dark. Nothing left. We are the Navy. The crew is exhausted. No rest. No relief. No mission. No hope! They want to go home. What are we doing out here?”

Grace stared straight ahead and snarled back, “What are we doing out here, Captain.”

She shifted in her chair and scowled. “Senior Chief, there is no home. They nuked us.”

She shook her head, frustrated.

“What are we doing out here?” Grace gestured to the sea.

“Gee, Senior, what do you think? Dammit – we are independent steaming with a crew of 35 facing an enemy who wiped out our country. We’re going to die out here. I’d like to get in a few punches before we’re through.”

The Captain leaned forward and pressed fingers into her temples.

“I’m 25 years old, I am tired, and I don’t want to die. But we witnessed The End! It’s over. Let’s go down fighting, eh?” She sat up with palms on her knees. “We need answers. We’re going to find the enemy and shoot until we’re Winchester – or dead.”

Senior Chief stood with her arms crossed and raised an eyebrow at the young officer. “Well… Captain. You won’t get much from this crew if you tell them the world is over.” She pointed into the bridge at the 1MC general announcing system. “After you, ma’am.”

Grace took a beat and then brushed past her senior enlisted leader.

“Team Kraken, Captain here. I wish I had better news. None of us ever imagined we would see Doomsday, but here we are. They attacked our country. Unprovoked and overwhelming. Death on an unprecedented scale. The End of all we know and love.”

She paused, then gulped.

“You 35 survived – to fight! The enemy is out here – I know it! I offer one thing: revenge! Our country won’t burn in vain. It is a terrible thing, but our families are gone. Today, we fight for their memory. And for each other! We will do our part – kill the enemy. Our final act. Harness your courage. Stoke the fires of hate in your hearts. Sail with me into the last pages of human history. Fear the Kraken!”

Grace un-clicked the 1MC mic and stared at her Senior Chief. “Time for work.”

***

              The blue lights cast an other-worldly glow over the group huddled around a glass-top table in the Combat Information Center.

              “Ma’am, last night we were dark and silent. We got lucky by stumbling into their blind spot. Today we stalk them… then kill them.”

              The speaker was two years younger than Grace, but the Captain had aged decades since leaving port. She side-eyed the Electronic Warfare Officer, “SLQopters?”

The ensign tapped his knuckles twice on the table. An impish grin, “SLQopters, ma’am.”

The SLQopter brought a revolution in the supremacy of electronic warfare at sea. Built off the frame of a commercial quadcopter, it was solar and wind powered. Along with an AI mission computer, it carried the newest SLQ-32(V)8 sensor – the size of a hard-cover novel. The SQL-32(V)8 EW Suite detected and categorized electronic emissions. Radars. Each ship carried three SLQopters, facilitating long-range electronic surveillance and, when integrated with the destroyer’s onboard suite, precision location and targeting.

Game. Changer.

“Ok, Team. Flight quarters in one hour. We’re going to unleash our tentacles and see what we wrap up.”

The assembled crew milled about. No enthusiasm. Grace pursed her lips and continued, “…it won’t be a surprise this time. They’ll see the attack coming… and where it came from. I expect a response.”

To her Senior Chief, “If we live to see sunrise, I’ll take your recommendation and sail to Alaska –  somewhere like that. If not – at least we’ll have gone down like Kraken.”

***

              Her fingers tapped a code on the cypher-lock. A loud click. She pushed through the heavy door into a dark alcove. The crew’s only rated-communicator sat slumped over his keyboard. A desk lamp cast his shadow along the bulkhead.

The Captain shook his shoulder.

              The young petty officer startled. He could not meet Grace’s eyes.

“Ma’am, I’ve been trying. Twice an hour, every hour. Over SATCOM and secure email. Nothing. No answer. I… I think we’re it, Captain.”

He choked back sobs.

              Grace glanced at the green logbook on the desk and at the computer screen. Both showed the same repeated entry:

“Third Fleet, this is Kraken. Island of Oahu attacked in massive conventional/nuclear strike. Pearl Harbor destroyed. 36 Kraken crew only survivors. Underway Middle Pacific hunting prc warships. No communication with friendly forces. USS Kraken assumed last remaining. Request assistance, orders, and nearest safe harbor. Standing by this net, out.”

              Disappointment, but not surprise.

If they nuked Hawaii, they nuked San Diego, Norfolk, and Washington – probably Annapolis. Her home in New York City. Probably a dozen Chinese cities. Europe, too? She supposed it didn’t matter much with fallout.

Of course there was no response.

Knees weak – Grace felt alone.

Wiping her face with the sleeves of her coveralls, she offered the Communicator a chuck on the shoulder. She walked out and heard his next futile transmission:

“Third Fleet, this is Kraken…”

***

              Grace hunched over the tabletop in on the port side of the Combat Information Center. A hologram of the EW battlespace projected over the station. She watched the SLQopters flit about like dragonflies over the horizon. The system was passive. The SLQcopters executed their own program and reported back when they sniffed out prey.

              The EW Officer sat at a nearby console. With eyes closed, he listened intently to his headset. His fist popped up as a straight blue line materialized out of the southern-most SLQcopter’s symbol. “Dash One, contact. Dragon Eye, bearing 320 True.”

The news electrified the watch team in CIC. A Dragon Eye radar belonged to a Chinese destroyer.

A junior Sailor yelled, “Mother, contact. Dragon Eye, bearing 290 True.” The ship held the electronic emission. A green line streaked out of the own-ship symbol on the 3-D display. Yellow and white lines materialized from the remaining SLQcopters. All lines intersected in a tight pinwheel.

“Captain, EW, we have a precision track, classified as PRC destroyer, unknown type. Bearing 290 True, 72 nautical miles.”

A red diamond showed on every screen in Combat. Track 8762.

There would be no second salvo. When Kraken powered its sensors and loosed its weapons, the sky would fill with gigawatts of radiated energy and dozens of enemy missiles.

They still had an out.

Kraken was invisible – outside the enemy’s radar range. Not emitting a peep. They could remain silent, maneuver, and sneak away unscathed. Sail north to the Aleutians and find a patch of unpoisoned land. Catch fish until the radiation got them. Or bears.

The destroyer was buttoned up. Sailors dogged watertight doors from stem to stern. Every member of Grace’s crew was at a battle station – driving the ship, overseeing its engines, here with her in Combat. One below in Radio Central.

This Chinese ship represented those who wiped out America and ruined the world for all mankind. This enemy killed everyone her crew ever loved. It was time to make them pay.

“TAO, set Robo Ship.”

The Chief standing TAO responded, “Aye, aye, ma’am,” and mashed a series of glowing variable action buttons.

“Ma’am, the ship is ready in all respects.”

Grace thought of her 13-year-old dog, Max. Of her boyfriend, her parents, and friends from Annapolis. She recalled wild port calls throughout Asia. Fun parties in Waikiki. Tailgating at the North Shore polo fields. Road trips across the mainland.

“TAO, Naval Strike Missile mission – salvo size, 10. Simultaneous Time on Top, Track 8762.”

The TAO conferred with the Strike team.

“Mission set, ma’am.”

Grace’s focus narrowed.

“TAO, Captain, kill Track 8762, Naval Strike Missile.”

***

 THH-WACK!

The Communicator jumped.

The sound of launch cells slamming open would wake the dead. He felt the vibrations and heard the SWOOSH of each missile leaping into the air.

Top of the hour. Would this be his final transmission?

***

A nearby Sailor called out, reporting new enemy emissions.

Well, we’re in it now. They’ve returned fire down our bearing.

Time to defend.

Kraken’s monstrous SPY-8 3-D radar came alive, tingling with energy. One-by-one, five new radar tracks popped up, their vectors boring in on the ship. Along with reporting the missiles’ seekers, the SLQcopters picked up three new Dragon Eye radars.

Grace winced.

Not unexpected, but a major bummer, nonetheless.

She shouted an order, “Set SLQopters to JAM!”

***

Kraken heeled hard to port, unmasking its sensors.

Meanwhile, the Communicator pecked at his keyboard. Finishing the last sentence, his eyes registered a blink on the screen. His outbox, which once held dozens of attempts to reach higher headquarters, now read zero.

Shock.

All my work!

“Dammit,” he shouted. He slammed his fists down and wailed, delaying his voice transmission.

SWOOSH. SWOOSH. SWOOSH. The cacophony from the fusillade above drowned out the newfound buzzing and squelches in his headset.

***

Grace sat in Combat and watched the red and blue vectors merge on the large screen displays. Sweat glistened. Her salvos of surface-to-air missiles knocked down all but one inbound threat. Her chain gun nabbed the leaker. The Naval Strike Missiles made it through and slammed into the hull of the original Chinese destroyer.

The watch team in Combat erupted in cheers.

***

Static. A quelch.

“…Kraken…comms check…”

High-pitched screeches. “…report… position. Mainland…proceed direct…Diego.”

The Communicator bolted upright.

***

The ruckus died down on Kraken. The Captain leveraged the chaos and ordered the bridge to turn north at max speed. She took a calculated risk and silenced her radar. It was time to affect their escape, leaving SLQopters as their only defense. The bow dug into the waves and the ship sped through 30 knots.

A deck below Combat, the Communicator strained his ears.

“Kraken…San Diego…over.”

A distinct voice!

The petty officer did not trust himself. The radio whined in his ears as he spun a tuning dial.

With concerted effort, the static disappeared. The circuit was crystal clear.

“Kraken, this is Third Fleet. Proceed direct to San Diego at best speed. Acknowledge, over.”

The young man’s mouth went dry.

On the bitch box, “Captain, report to Radio! Captain, report to Radio!”

Grace acknowledged the call and stood.

Before she could hustle out, the EW Officer let loose a string of expletives. The Captain saw a tangled web of colored lines from the SLQopters.

The angles marched towards her ship.

More enemy threats inbound.

She lit off Kraken’s radar. Her remaining missiles belched into the sky.

***

The Communicator tried the radio again.

“Third Fleet, this is Kraken. Engaged with Chinese warships, over.”

More static washed out the response.

After the final cell emptied above, quiet blanketed the ship.

A DING from his computer broke it.

The inbox showed a new message:

“Kraken, copy destruction of Pearl Harbor. fleet commander offers bz for taking your ship to sea! PRC missile attack limited to Hawaiian islands – CONUS threats neutralized. Surgical counter-strikes executed. Mainland recovering from cyber-attack; Fleet and civilian infrastructure intact. Regret communications blackout.

Orders: take all measures to avoid enemy. preserve asset for future employment. Proceed San Diego at best speed for refit and debriefing. Acknowledge receipt. Third Fleet sends.”

***

The EW battlespace hologram showed 36 YJ-18 anti-ship cruise missiles converging on the American destroyer.

Time slowed.

Grace and her crew had displayed unmatched courage. Each crew member saw their lives flash in front of them, proud of their roles as the final surviving Americans.

They were ready.

The ship’s guns fired their last rounds from glowing barrels, then fell silent. In the background, the Communicator screamed for the Captain’s attention.

With fire in her stare, Grace keyed the ship-to-ship radio:

“FEAR THE KRAKEN!”

Time froze. The world flashed white.

Static.

“Kraken, this is Third Fleet, over…”

“Kraken, this is Third Fleet, over…”

LCDR Jon Paris is a passionate Surface Warfare Officer and writer. His service spans six ships, including a minesweeper, destroyers, cruisers, and an aircraft carrier. The above story is a work of fiction and the author’s imagination. It is meant purely for fun and does not reflect the official positions of the U.S. Navy or Department of Defense. 

Featured Image: Art created with Midjourney AI.

Fiction Contest Week

By Midshipman Second Class Jack Montgomery

It was freezing cold. Torpedoman’s Mate Chief Cottrell couldn’t stop tapping his foot and rubbing his legs. He had never been in a Navy office building in San Diego whose air conditioning actually worked until then and he felt strangely upset about it. He wasn’t sure if he was upset that they had it and his own workplace on Naval Submarine Base San Diego didn’t, or if he was just unhappy that he was so cold after working in the heat all day. Cottrell glanced at the other chiefs sitting beside him in the 30-year old thin cushion chairs and became self-aware about his foot tapping and stopped. Then he started rubbing his thumb against his pointer finger. He couldn’t help but fidget, he wanted to smoke and he was tired of waiting in the cold.

“Enter” said a disembodied voice. The group of chiefs stood up and filed into the office one by one, their expressions neutral.

Cottrell walked into and stood at attention to the officer who occupied the office.

“At ease,” she said and the chiefs relaxed from their loose interpretation of standing at attention.

“I’d offer y’all chairs but I only have the one,” the officer said. She had a commander’s silver oak leaf on her khaki uniform collar. Her name tag said, ‘Sykes’ but Cottrell didn’t recognize her; she was part of a different command.

“Alright guys, I need to make this quick and these binders have your orders and anything else you might need to know. I’m sorry we couldn’t give you any info ahead of time, but we don’t have a lot of time.”

The group of chiefs stood silently as the commander paused. Cottrell’s gaze wandered over to the seal behind her which said, ‘Naval Munitions Command.’

“We requisitioned all of you from your support commands because we’re forward deploying you to accelerate development of the expeditionary munitions replenishments campaign framework in WESTPAC. We wanted to give you and your teams’ time to train in the kind of conditions we need you in, but with increasing Chinese deployments, we only have days, not months, like we thought.”

Cottrell was stunned. Some of the other chiefs, however, began asking questions. To each of them, Commander Sykes deferred to the binder, until they realized she was not here to answer questions.

“Good luck shipmates, and enjoy Guam, hopefully you’ll all be back soon.”

***

Several days later, TMC Cottrell and his team were nowhere near Guam.

They had waited around Naval Base Guam, watching as the base transformed itself for conflict when Cottrell and his team were activated and moved out to the Philippines as quickly as they could be.

He felt jet-lagged and blinded by the bright sunshine on the small Filipino airstrip that he stepped out onto, carrying his sea bag on his shoulder. He turned and glanced at the C-17 Globemaster which he had flown on and how its large size seemed far too large to fit on the runway it had landed on.

Cottrell’s arm was grabbed by a nearby marine to keep him moving. He was brought to a bright-faced Marine Corps second lieutenant and saluted lazily. The marine returned a very crisp salute and said, “Welcome to the Philippines, chief. Sorry to rush you off, but we’ve got to move you, your people, and your equipment to the site ASAP before the next C-17 can land and deliver the munitions.”

Cottrell frowned and blinked, trying to get a grip on reality. “Are you attached with us, ma’am?”

The officer chucked, “No, chief. We’re an element of the Marine Littoral Regiment that’s been tasked out here to give you guys some force protection. Headquarters wants you guys unmolested by any onlookers.” 

Cottrell nodded and let himself be guided by the group of marines around them.

Within a few hours they were setting up the Third Expeditionary Submarine Logistics Unit on a quiet little pier. People were tired, and things moved slowly in the heat, but he made sure they progressed. 

Making the rounds, he grumbled as he noticed TM2 Harris had left the Revised Standard Setup Procedure Checklist on his impromptu crate of a desk filled out and signed, when he could clearly see Harris still setting up the mobile crane that had been requisitioned from one of the construction units. Harris was smart, but rash. He earned second class quickly, but Cottrell would have preferred to get someone a little more experienced in an environment like this. 

“You’re not supposed to initial that you’ve done the check until you’ve completed the setup. You know this shit,” Cottrell said, folding his arms. 

Harris grunted and turned around. “I didn’t want to be filling out that checklist once I finished this. It’s easier this way. You know I can handle this equipment, Chief.” 

“Stop cutting corners, Harris. You’re not as familiar with this equipment as you think you are and we can’t be fucking around right now,” said Cottrell. Then, he handed Harris a new form.

Harris grumbled, but didn’t respond. He knew better than to start something with his chief. Cottrell shook his head and left; he had things to do.

***

Leaning against the crane, Cottrell’s eyes were fluttering open and close. Even as he sweated in the heat, he felt too warm to stay awake. He still wasn’t sure they’d ever get a submarine coming in. It seemed so silly, sending out a whole magazine of torpedoes out to some backwater pier that seemed far too shallow for any modern attack submarine. Even if a war had started, Cottrell couldn’t imagine Navy brass wanting such an important task being done without the usual support offered in Guam. 

“Hey Chief, we’ve got a boat coming in,” one of the TM3s shouted.

Cottrell grumbled. Without any comment, all the sailors in his team slowly congregated to the pier side, and Cottrell felt their eyes upon him. He had not spoken to them since they had arrived. 

“Lets get to it.” There was a little unease amongst the group. Until then they had had no knowledge if a conflict had begun or not. The arrival of the boat had put such doubts to rest. They knew their jobs. They knew what they needed to do. No need to waste time messing around talking. Cottrell didn’t like to talk, not like that. It was time to work. 

Slowly, the boat came into view and lazily floated into the pier as it was pushed in by a local tug. For a brief moment, Cottrell wondered who manned the tug or how its crew was made to keep secret the nature of their job, but he brushed it off as he needed to focus. 

With a little unease, having never done this before without the proper support, and with some assistance from the boat’s crew, the 3rd ELSU and the USS Tang successfully brought her to pier. 

No pleasantries were exchanged, and few among the ELSU wanted to ask the crew about their experiences, and none did. Immediately, they set to work with the crew. Cottrell worked with the Tang’s COB as they moved torpedoes off the pier onto the boat faster than he had ever done so before. They used the mobile crane to carry torpedoes off the staging area on the pier onto the deck skid on the boat’s deck. Then, the crane lifted that same deck skid to a high angle, so that the torpedo could slide down into the shipping tray, from there the crew of the Tang took over.

Cottrell wondered how long thought-out this idea of expeditionary logistics really was, because he could recall as a junior sailor aboard the USS Minnesota that the deck above the tray had to be removed in a long and arduous process. Now, that was no longer the case, a design change that would have needed to be made long in advance, and yet Cottrell and his team had been given no notice before being shipped out. 

The Navy worked in vague and mysterious ways. 

After several hours, Cottrell and his team had done it. The Tang’s CO walked off the top deck of the boat, shook Cottrell’s hand and said, “You are doing God’s work, thank you.” Cottrell smiled, trying to refrain from cringing. He had never felt like being a Torpedoman was much of a holy task, especially not now, but he didn’t let his thoughts ruin the moment.

Within an hour, the boat was gone, and all that was left was the packaging and equipment of the 3rd ELSU strewn across the otherwise deserted pier. Cottrell looked at his team. They were tired. He was tired. 

But they had more work to do. 

When the first classes came up to ask for time off, Cottrell refused. Who knows when they would be asked to set up for another boat. Cottrell didn’t know enough about anything. They had to clear the pier, before another magazine of torpedoes showed up. 

If another magazine of torpedoes showed up.

He looked at them. Maybe they should get some rest. He felt clouded, unsure of what to do. He wanted to smoke, even vape if one of the sailors had one. Cottrell looked at his gaggle of sailors. They were exhausted. Moving munitions was tiring, and they didn’t even get to go home. Cottrell grumbled. He wanted to go home too. He wondered if the nature of the Tang’s need for torpedoes weighed on their minds. He tried not to let it weigh on him. He noticed TM3 Nguyen standing alone to the side of the group which had slowly congregated a few dozen feet away from their chief, waiting on word from the TM1s. He couldn’t recall her interacting with any of the other sailors since leaving for Guam, she had always been quiet and efficient in San Diego, but this seemed different. He took note of that for later. Cottrell had a higher priority.

“Hussy, Guerra, get back here,” Cottrell called his first classes. Slowly, they turned around and heard what Cottrell had to say. 

“Tell the sailors to get some rest. Obviously, no liberty, I’m not even sure where anyone could go if we had some, but the marine platoon apparently set up a temporary barracks in one of the small warehouses, ask one of the sergeants and they’ll help us out getting set up. Hussy, set up a duty section to stand watch on the equipment. I’ll take the first watch and set up a watch bill. Once you’re done with that, both of you get some rest. I have no idea when we might be getting another shipment, so be alert,” Cottrell said. Both Hussy and Guerra nodded, and without sounding off, they returned to their sailors to spread the news. 

***

Just like that, they were gone. Within twelve hours of reloading the Tang, Cottrell received communication from a chain of command he was sorely unfamiliar with that after a job well-done, they wanted to move the 3rd ELSU to Australia. Where, Cottrell did not know. He did not even think to ask. After a hurried pack-up, another eight hours later the C-17s had returned to the small airstrip as had the sailors of the 3rd ELSU. There, Cottrell thanked the platoon commander of the escorting marines, which had rotated since his arrival earlier, and stepped aboard. 

He wasn’t enthusiastic about boarding the C-17 again, but the cool nature of the cabin was a welcome change to the unconditioned building which was erroneously called a warehouse that had accompanied the pier. But before he could let himself be embraced by the cool air and the steady rhythm of bumps and turbulence; he felt a need to look over his sailors. 

Once the aircraft had taken off, he stood up, balancing himself with his hand whenever the plane shook with turbulence, and walked the cabin. It wasn’t difficult, most of the sailors were near the forward part of the cabin, on the jump seats that lined the sides. Already, most had closed their eyes and fallen asleep. Everyone was tired, and their limited time off had done little to change that. Then he noticed Nguyen, wearing wireless headphones, sitting at the end of the right-side line of seats repeatedly tapping her knee. Slowly he made his way over, wondering if she was out of her mind. 

“Nguyen,” Cottrell said, low but strongly. 

Nguyen snapped her head to look at him and stopped tapping, “Yes chief?” 

Cottrell opened his mouth, but held his original statement. Nguyen knew better than to have hidden a phone or use Bluetooth headphones. She had never been a problem for him before. He must have been tired, too tired to remember that.

“What are you doing with the headphones?” 

“Oh,” she said, taking them out. “They’re off chief, I just like to wear them. I miss my stuff. My music. Helps me…stay calm.” 

Cottrell grunted and sat down next to Nguyen. She looked nervous. Cottrell did his best to soften his features. 

“Everything, uh, alright?” 

“Just nervous, chief,” she said quietly. 

“Yeah, me too,” Cottrell responded. He had never flown during a war. He wondered if they were flying through a combat zone as they spoke. Cottrell shook his head. He didn’t want to think about that. 

Nguyen pressed her lips together. There wasn’t a simple answer to this.

Cottrell rubbed his knees. Wishing he had a cigarette. That always calmed him. 

“Hey, anything you want you think I could get in Australia? I’m certain we could find some, some sort of convenience store somewhere,” Cottrell asked. He couldn’t offer much, but he wanted to do something.

Nguyen’s face brightened. Cottrell broke out a notepad and took her request, then he started taking other sailor’s requests too. He wondered how he was going to get all this, but he liked the little positive impact he could see on every person as he wrote down on his little list something that they would like. After taking each request, he would say, “Thank Nguyen,” and move on. 

When they arrived, everyone was patting Nguyen on the shoulder and chatting with her. His influence might have been too strong, she wasn’t extroverted much, but he was certain at least she wouldn’t be left out and taken care of by her fellow sailors, and that was good enough. 

***

This time Australian Defense Force soldiers provided the force protection. It made Cottrell wonder about the involvement of Australia in the conflict, but he didn’t worry about it too much. As they were setting up, he enlisted the help of the officer liaison and gave him the list and explained the situation. He worried that the Australian wouldn’t be interested in an extra task, but the major smiled and responded, “No problem, anything for our American cousins.” 

Immediately, they set to work laying out the mobile crane and equipment needed to transfer torpedoes from their containers to whatever submarine that needed to rearm. It took hours, but things seemed to be going well. He could see the exhaustion still on everyone’s faces, but they were going effectively, they were becoming used to this new OPTEMPO, and Cottrell was proud. 

A large crash disrupted Cottrell’s thoughts. He ran out to the end of the pier from the impromptu office trailer the Australians had provided him, where a crate had clipped the edge of one of the containers, and one of the sailors sat dazed nearby. A first class had been operating the crane but he could see it wasn’t his fault. He didn’t need anyone to tell him what happened. 

While the crane was moving one of the torpedo crates from outside the container to the staging area, the harness slipped and the crate careened back into the container. He wondered if the sailor had just been jumping out of the way of the wood shatter or if she had been nearly hit by the crate. Cottrell checked on the sailor and was relieved to see she was fine. 

It also wasn’t hard to figure out the culprit. 

TM2 Harris stood sputtering where the torpedo crates were set in the harness. Cottrell didn’t need to ask him what he did wrong. He rushed it. Like always, and this time, his usually expert self fucked up. 

Cottrell walked over and Harris quieted. The TM2 recoiled, waiting to be chewed out. Instead, Cottrell patted him on the back. Maybe he would have before, back in San Diego, but not now. Now they just needed to learn. 

“Take a break Harris. Don’t cut corners next time. No one got hurt, don’t let it keep you down.” Cottrell said. Harris mumbled something along the lines of, “Aye, chief,” and walked away.

***

A few days passed but no sub came yet. The Australian major hooked up the 3rd ELSU and delivered on just about everything Cottrell asked for. He was happy. Not only that, but he had a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, an item Cottrell had not expected to get in the commonwealth’s fairly restrictive tobacco market. 

Cottrell felt proud of his people. In just a few days, they had managed to do everything asked of them, and still somehow stayed pieced together. He wondered how long this would last, and how long before they could be rotated out. He took note to ask that later. 

He sat on a rock a few hundred feet away, on a rocky coastline near the small Australian pier where his people were set up and lit a cigarette, enjoying the little headrush after taking his first drag. Maybe-

An explosion rocked Cottrell and deafened him. He felt pushed onto the ground and stayed there for a moment before struggling to sit up. The pier was covered in smoke, but he couldn’t make anything out in his blurred vision. He was stunned and felt the smushed cigarette slowly drop from his lip despite its stick. 

His team was gone.

Jack Montgomery is a Brown University student majoring in history, specializing in naval history. He is a Midshipman Second Class in the Holy Cross NROTC Battalion and wants to commission as Surface Warfare Officer. 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 the Department of Defense.

Featured Image: Art created with Midjourney AI.