Fiction Week

A version of this story originally appeared in USNI Proceedings for the Maritime COIN Project, July 2022.

By Brian Kerg, LtCol, USMC

Imuruan Bay, Philippines, 2027

Lieutenant Billy Nix, skipper of the USS Talbot, set down the handset and grinned. “We’ve got a live one.”

Standing next to him in the pilothouse, Captain Andrea Yu raised an eyebrow. “What kind of live one?”

Nix pointed at a map, jabbing his finger on the water just off Cagnipa Island. “Nothing we haven’t seen a dozen times. Illegal fishing by a Chinese trawler. Filipino coasties already have a patrol boat en route. We’ll see if we can’t beat ’em there.”

Ensign Angelo Bautista, their liaison from the Philippine Coast Guard, shook his head. “Your rig might be faster, but my boys are halfway there. The race is already over.”

Nix raised an eyebrow. “You want to put some money on that, Bautista? Make it interesting?”

Bautista laughed. “Not in good conscience. It’d basically be theft.”

“If you’re done,” Yu said, “let’s get moving. I’ll stand up my team.” She permitted herself a half smile. “And it’s our turn to pick the pursuit music.”

Nix grimaced. “Yeah, yeah. What’ll it be?”

“Not the Bee Gees if we have anything to say about it,” Yu said.

“Nothing wrong with the Bee Gees. They’re classic.”

“Some classics age better than others,” Yu said, stepping out of the pilothouse.

She glanced to the aft of the ship and saw Master Sergeant Darius Washington leaning against the rail, smoking next to Lieutenant Dusty Munro, the embarked U.S. Coast Guard law enforcement detachment officer in charge. As Yu walked toward them, the Talbot came to life and accelerated to cruising speed. Washington braced himself, almost stumbling at the sudden movement.

Yu slapped Washington on his shoulder. “One day, Top, you’re going to lean too hard, break that rail, and put your swim qual to the test.”

Washington snorted. “It’ll be for a good cause, Ma’am. Then these boats finally might get the budget they deserve. What’s going on?”

“We’ve got a contact. Illegal fishing. We’ll stick with the basic playbook, but if we can let the Marines get a little froggy, I’m all about it.”

Munro shook his head. “What do you mean, ‘get a little froggy’?”

“Easy there, puddle jumper,” Yu said. “No one’s going to end up in the brig. But if we want to exercise our capabilities a bit, now is as good a time as any.”

“Sometimes I feel like you guys only keep me around for the authorities,” Munro said.

“Sometimes?” Washington asked, giving him a side-eye and grinning.

“What’s next on the team’s list for our pursuit song?” Yu asked.

“Let’s find out.” Washington turned to the bow, facing the main deck cabin. “Flores!” he bellowed.

The hatch of the cabin opened, and Corporal Miguel Flores, the team’s radio operator, trotted out to them.

“What’s our next song, Flores?” Yu asked.

Flores’s eyes lit up. “I’ve got a blast from the past: ‘Rhymin’ and Stealin’ by The Beastie Boys!”

“Well spin it up, Flores, we’re on a schedule,” Yu said.

Flores dashed into the pilothouse. Seconds later, the song started blaring over the 1MC:

Because mutiny on the Bounty’s what we’re all about

I’m gonna board your ship and turn it on out

No soft sucker with a parrot on his shoulder

Cause I’m bad gettin’ bolder—cold getting colder!

Washington rousted the Marines of the maritime interdiction team (MIT), while Chief Mark Malone got the crew of the Mk VII patrol boat to their stations. The song was a rally cry and a competition as the naval force raced to be fully ready for the contact by the time it ended. In short order, the Talbot’s crew were kitted up and manning the crew-served weapons that bristled along the boat’s sides, while the MIT stood by to handle any surprises the contact might provide.

As the Talbot closed in on Cagnipa Island, Nix sighted the BRP Cabra, a partnered patrol boat from the Philippine Coast Guard. Nix gave a course correction, aiming to bring the Talbot in formation with the Cabra. Floating off the coast of Cagnipa was the Chinese trawler, as well as the Philippine fishing boat that had reported it.

Sighting the trawler, Gunner’s Mate Erik Olsen kneeled at his mounted GAU-17 minigun, took off his pack, and turned on the Backpackable Electronic Attack Module (BEAM), jamming the trawler’s communications. Next to him, Gunner’s Mate Susan Cuddy op-checked the light variant of the active denial system (ADS), pointing the mounted heat ray at the personnel aboard the trawler.

“Do we finally get to have a cook-out with that thing, Cuddy?” Flores asked her, passing by.

“If you can find us some steaks, I’ll make it happen,” Cuddy said.

Petty Officer Gabriel Castro, the ship’s unmanned systems operator, deployed a package of small aerial and surface drones. After confirming their feeds were active in the pilot house and op-checking their targeting systems, he linked up with Flores, who had attached a plushie parrot to his left shoulder with Velcro.

“Nice touch,” Castro said.

“I had to get rid of my eye patch,” Flores said. “Top said it’d screw up my aim. But I’m already such a bad shot, I told him it didn’t matter.”

Petty Officer Sarah Maliah, the mass communication specialist, lowered her camera and gave Flores a disappointed look. “I take it you lost the argument.”

Appearing behind Flores, Bautista held out his hand. “Hook a brother up?”

Flores powered on a black handheld radio and handed it to Bautista. Turning toward the Cabra, Bautista slid into fluent Tagalog, made contact with their partners, and headed over to the pilothouse to relay traffic between Nix and the Cabra’s skipper.

From the pilothouse Nix watched and coordinated the action, pivoting between the views offered by the drones, the handset linking him to Yu, and the manual relay offered by Bautista to the Cabra.

It was a textbook action. The Marines boarded the trawler from one side, the Filipino coast guardsmen boarded it from the other, while the Talbot provided overwatch with its crew-served weapons and drones. The integration between the forces was seamless, the product of months of training and boarding actions, and the presence of Munro gave them all the authorities needed to prosecute the mission.

In short order, the Cabra had the fishing violators under arrest and safely aboard. Yu eavesdropped on the bickering prisoners, hiding her Mandarin fluency long enough to let them implicate themselves. Once security was established, Maliah broke away from her mounted .240 and climbed into the flybridge, supplementing the drone feeds with her own video camera work. She highlighted the captured small arms to illustrate the prisoners’ membership in the People’s Armed Forces Maritime Militia (PAFMM) and launched the footage in real-time back to Task Force 76/3’s public affairs shop for production and distribution. The Marines cleared the trawler one last time to confirm no one else was on board, set an explosive charge, then disembarked.

Once the Cabra and the Talbot were safely distant, they detonated the charge, destroying the trawler. As the Talbot set sail back to its expeditionary advanced base (EAB), the Bee Gees’ “Sinking Ships” played from the 1MC, carrying the lyric across the water:

Sinking ships,

Watching them sail and the sun as sinks in the sea

Crashing planes,

Only the eyes of the doomed with a smile on their face . . .

Near Port Barton, Palawan, Philippines

As the Talbot cruised into the dock at its expeditionary advanced base (EAB), Yu was surprised. Instead of the concealed entry hidden by dense jungle foliage, she saw Seabees in the open dismantling some of their prefabricated infrastructure.

Before the crew moored the boat, Sergeant Donavan, the EAB’s logistics chief, trotted out of the brush and onto the dock, waving an arm. “Ma’am! Sir! Major Vouza needs you at the CP pronto.”

Yu and Nix glanced at each other, both wondering if the boarding action had been misreported and cast them as criminals. “Another investigation?” Nix grinned. “Whose fault this time? Blue team or green team?”

Donovan shook his head. “The EAB is getting moved, and a mission just dropped for you. It’s urgent. Last thing we’re going to do before bumping to a new site is top off your boat.”

“Thanks, Donny,” Yu said. She punched Nix in the shoulder. “Let’s go.”

The two naval officers disappeared into the brush, stalking through the trails until they reached the EAB’s cammie-netted command post. A suite of radios, laptops, networking equipment, and hydrogen fuel cells seemed to spring up in the middle of this patch of jungle, manned by a team of naval communicators and intelligence analysts. Antennas were lashed to the trunks of trees, with their polarized elements just breaking through the canopy to maximize concealment.

Major Charles Vouza, the dual-hatted EAB and boat company commander, glanced up from a screen and waved the pair over. He rose to meet them and shook their hands. “Welcome back, for a minute, anyway,” he said. “I watched your boarding on the feed. It was magnifique,” he said, making a chef’s kiss.

“We were supported by a great crew,” Yu said.

“The troops did all the work,” Nix countered.

“True,” Vouza said, “but your people don’t get that good on accident.”

Vouza gestured at the command suite and changed the subject. “So, listen up. We’ve got two grenades in our lap. Grenade one: our supply line’s been made. Our sustainment network in San Vicente got infiltrated by some PRC agents, and now we can’t trust our supply flow. We’re tearing down camp today and are going to bump down to Rizal tonight. So, once your next mission’s done, you’ll link up with us there.”

Nix groaned. “This is the third bump plan in two months.”

“Buck up, shipmate,” Vouza said, smiling. “You were recommended by name for this outfit. You should be enjoying the constant changes as much as your junior command.”

Nix shrugged. “Failing up, you mean. My last CO was more than happy to offload me.”

Vouza offered a half-smile. “And I was more than happy to take you on. You’re just belligerent enough to be a perfect fit for maritime COIN.”

Nix gestured at Yu. “What’s that make her?”

“The angel on your shoulder,” Yu said, fighting back a grin. “What’s the other grenade?”

“We just got a report of a maritime militia vessel harassing local fishermen off Half Moon Shoal,” Major Vouza said. “Only they’re playing this one a bit different. The Chinese used a water cannon to force the fishermen from their spot and off their boat. Then they sank it. Thankfully, most of the fishermen got into a life raft, but some didn’t. Those who tried to swim to the Chinese vessel were shot.” Vouza pointed to a screen, showing a video of the action, recorded by the fishermen and uploaded via Starlink.

“The Chinese ambassador to the Philippines already put out a statement that they are ‘merely policing their jurisdictional waters in accordance with international law.’”

“What about the surviving fishermen?” Nix asked.

“The last video we got from them showed the life raft made it to the shoal. Then the militia crew threatened to shoot the fishermen if they didn’t toss their devices into the water, which they did. So, we don’t know how they’re looking right now.”

“This doesn’t fit China’s usual playbook at all,” Yu said. “They push until they meet resistance but don’t actually try to pick a fight. They’re escalating.”

“And they’re doing it right in front of us,” Nix said. “They know we’re patrolling here. Maybe they’re trying to get us to overreact? Paint us in a bad light and hurt our credibility?”

“Lots of unknowns,” Vouza agreed. “Might just be an off-kilter commander. Might just be them seeing what we’ll do. We don’t have the intel to say for sure. But this already has the INDOPACOM commander’s personal attention, or at least the attention of his Twitter account. And the tasking came directly from Seventh Fleet. They’re sending a cruiser our way, but it’ll take a while to get here. Higher wants a boat out there, and they want it now. The BRP Cabra is delivering prisoners, and the other boats in our company are too far out. You’re the closest.”

Vouza paused, meeting the eyes of Nix, then Yu. “That means it’s your show. Get after it.”

Near Half Moon Shoal, South China Sea

Master Sergeant Darius Washington, Corporal Miguel Flores, and Petty Officer Sarah Maliah stood at the stern of the Talbot as the boat cruised toward its objective. Flores’ rifle dangled from his sling as he struggled to light a cigarette, but—stymied by the wind—he swore and gave up.

Washington smirked and shook his head. “The more things change, the more they stay the same.”

“You mean there was a time Flores didn’t know how to play with fire?” Maliah asked, holding her hand out.

Flores handed Maliah his pack of smokes and lighter. Shielding the lighter from the wind, she lit three cigarettes, handed one each to Washington and Flores, and kept one for herself.

Taking a drag, Washington continued. “Banana Wars, Vietnam, Iraq, Afghanistan, Syria, and now the South China Sea. Big wars and little wars. Doesn’t matter, Marines are always fighting against insurgents. The big difference this time is that the Navy’s in on the game.”

“Top,” Flores said, “I may not be a very strategic corporal, but since when is a bully like China an insurgent?”

Washington shook his head. “Call this great power competition if you want, but our slice is all hearts and minds. We’ve got one set of rules, and the PRC has another. We like our rules better. And we want the people caught in the middle to play by our rules, too.” Washington forced a cold smile, ear to ear. “I may as well be fighting ISIS again, though I’m glad I don’t have to do as much walking.”

Maliah pointed. “There’s our target.”

In the distance, the 60-meter-long boat floated in the water, a white and red sentinel looming over Half Moon Shoal.

Nix’s voice blared over the 1MC: “Stand to, stand to, stand to.”

The Marines and sailors echoed the command, and the boat came to life once more as all hands moved to their designated positions. The crew-served weapons and posted Marines made the boat bristle like a porcupine. Castro deployed the usual drone package, and the first aerial drone shot forward over the shoal.

In the pilothouse, Nix and Yu took a closer look through the feeds. A yellow life raft floated in the middle of the shoal, and the fishermen waved frantically at the drone as it passed overhead. Another drone circled the Chinese boat.

Nix pointed at the screen. “Those boats are purpose-built for the militia. It’s not just another trawler with militiamen embarked. The water cannon is a dead giveaway.”

Yu nodded, focusing on the crew, noting its small arms, bearing, and dispersion across the ship. “And the crew might be in civvies, but they’re trained. This isn’t their B-team.” She leaned in closer, noting a pair of microwave dishes mounted to the ship that she didn’t recognize. “You think that ship has other tricks up its sleeve besides a water cannon?”

As if in answer, two of the aerial feeds went blank, and the suddenly lifeless drones fell dead into the sea.

Nix snatched up a handset. “Castro, pull our drones back out of range of whatever they’ve got!”

Castro furiously entered commands into his console. The last aerial drone started to peel back toward the Talbot, wavered, then crashed into the sea. One by one, the surface drones also went dead in the water.

“Call it in,” Nix muttered.

Behind him, Information Technician Andrea Swenson tried to raise the EAB on the radio but was greeted only by a confounding warble through the headset. “Sir, I think we’re being jammed.”

Yu unclipped her handheld radio from her plate carrier, tried her team’s internal net, and received the same distorted feedback. She leaned out of the pilothouse.

“Flores!” she cried. “Any of our bands working?”

Flores trotted over to Yu, with Washington on his heels. “No, ma’am,” Flores said. “VHF and UHF are down and out. I could give HF a shot, but I’d need time.”

Yu looked at the Chinese boat as the Talbot approached, and it seemed to grow in size, a closing monster. “I don’t think we have any.” She looked at Washington. “Let everyone know this might get ugly.”

Washington passed the word, then took his post at the stern, right between two of the .240s and their gunners. His spine crackled with the same alertness he’d felt on patrol in the desert nearly two decades ago, when a village would suddenly go silent right before his platoon walked into a complex ambush. He clicked his rifle off safe.

“One good turn deserves another,” Nix said. “If we can’t talk, neither can they. Lay it on ’em, Swenson. All bands. Let’s go blind together.” Swenson complied, flipping several switches, and the Talbot’s jammers pulled from the ship’s power to dump radiofrequency across the ship’s usable spectrum.

“If our feeds are down, and no one’s transmitting, then no one’s watching,” Yu said. “We’re on our own out here.”

Nix glanced at the Talbot’s communications suite, which he’d long viewed as a ball-and-chain tethering him to higher headquarters. The cord temporarily cut, he felt himself in free fall. The freedom he’d wanted so long was both exhilarating and terrifying. He repressed a shiver.

“Right,” he said. “We need a record, or it’s our word against theirs.”

“We can pull Maliah off her .240, get her in the flybridge now to start filming,” Yu offered. “I’ll have one of my guys take her spot.”

Nix nodded. “Do it.”

As Maliah climbed into the flybridge, the Talbot closed within hearing of the Chinese boat. Nix grabbed a megaphone, headed to the stern, and delivered his challenge.

“Unknown vessel, this is Lieutenant William Nix of the USS Talbot. You are in gross violation of the international law of the sea. Further violation may result in detainment and seizure of your vessel.”

The pilothouse opened on the Chinese boat, and a lean, wiry man stepped out, holding his own megaphone. His sleeveless t-shirt and board shorts contrasted sharply with the black assault rifle slung to his body and the sheathed dagger at his hip. In highly polished English, he replied.

“USS Talbot, this is Zhou Liang of the Qiong 21. We are legally enforcing the territorial integrity of the People’s Republic of China. You are cautioned not to interfere in China’s internal affairs. You are further warned that you are violating the territorial integrity of China. Failure to depart may result in your detainment and destruction of your vessel.”

Nix looked over at Lieutenant Munro. Munro’s eyebrows raised, marveling at Zhou’s brazenness. “What is this, the shadow game? How old are we?” He shrugged at Nix. “We’re well within our rights here. It’s just a matter of how you want to proceed.”

“That’s exceptional English for a ‘fisherman,’” Yu muttered.

“And I’d swear that’s a QBZ-95 assault rifle,” Washington added. “They don’t issue those to militia.”

Yu lifted her rifle and used the magnification on her scope to get a closer look.

Chief Malone walked up to Nix. “We can wait through a stand-off, sir. The cavalry’s on its way and we’re fully stocked.” He pointed at the fishermen, still floating in the middle of the shoal. “But they’re going to need a hand sooner rather than later.”

“Right,” Nix said. He lifted the megaphone and announced his intent. “Qiong 21, we are obligated to recover these stranded civilians. We will approach the shoal to do so. We appreciate your noninterference with this humanitarian operation.”

Through her scope, Yu continued to scan Zhou, and froze as she saw the tattoo on his shoulder: a red shield featuring an inverted yellow dagger, surrounded by a sharp yellow lightning bolt. She lowered her rifle and leaned over to Washington. “He is or was special forces. The whole crew might be. This is a trap—I just don’t know what kind.”

The Talbot started moving around the Qiong 21, making a course toward the life raft. The Qiong 21 gunned its engine, putting itself right in the Talbot’s path. The Talbot corrected sharply to avoid a collision, sending Marines and sailors to the deck amid a clatter of kit and a litany of swears.

Again, Zhou spoke through the megaphone. “Talbot, these criminals are in our custody. You will kindly refrain from interfering with our internal matters.” Still, the Qiong 21 took no action to recover or detain the fishermen.

Both boats continued to float idly forward, nearly in parallel with one another. Yu figured a crew member from one boat could reach the other with a running start. Getting to her feet, she told Washington, “They want to posture? Okay. Let’s put on a bit of a show and see whose cage gets rattled.” She drew the bayonet from its sheath on her plate carrier.

Washington followed suit and shouted the order: “Fix! Bayonets!” Down the boat, the Marines echoed the command, attaching bayonets to their rifles. On the Qiong 21, some of the mariners took instinctive steps backward, and others whispered anxiously to one another. A handful held firm, completely unphased.

“They’re a mixed crew,” Washington guessed. “Some are militia, but Zhou has picked men for whatever they’re up to.”

Livid, Nix joined the others along the side of his boat, a stone’s throw away from Zhou, and spoke to him directly.

“I’m done playing games. Time to put cards on the table. You want to keep being stupid? Fine. But we’ve got a cruiser inbound, with more on the way. You can bump into them all you want but it’ll crack your boat in two.” He pointed up at Maliah, who stood in the flybridge and had Zhou in her camera’s sights. “In the meantime, you’re still on candid camera. So, you can let us get those people out of the water and save some face, or we’ll get to do it on our terms after you turn tail and run.”

Zhou glanced up briefly at Maliah, then back at Nix. “We’re filming, too,” he said. Then he gave a brief, clipped order in Mandarin. To herself, Yu translated: Make it rain.

The Qiong 21’s water cannon opened up directly at Maliah. The force of the blow knocked her back with a cry, throwing her and her camera through the air and into the water. The cannon then strafed the Talbot, knocking crew members to the deck.

Yu ducked for cover and thought, It’s the Galwan Valley all over again. They’re baiting us into a fight. She saw one of the Talbot’s .240 gunners sighting in on the water cannon. We can’t shoot first, not like this, she thought. Through the deluge, she shouted, “Hold—!” then cut herself short, thinking “Hold your fire’ could be misinterpreted as “fire.” Instead, she cried, “Take cover! Take cover!” while frantically waving her hand in front of her face, palm out, the distinctive signal for “Cease fire!”

Chief Malone hurled a life preserver toward Maliah before getting knocked down by the water cannon blast. The Talbot shot forward, out of range of the water cannon. As it did, the Qiong 21 moved into a blocking position between the Talbot and Maliah, who had dumped her kit, surfaced, and managed to get ahold of the life preserver, her camera still hanging by the strap around her neck.

Zhou, straight faced, glanced behind his boat at Maliah, then back at the Talbot. “You’ve put us in an awkward position. We’ll have to take your sailor into our custody. You’re welcome to follow us back to port, where you can join her and be assured of her welfare.”

Fuming and dripping wet, seeing his sailor helpless in the water, the old horror story of Iran capturing an American patrol craft flashed across his mind. He ran back to the pilothouse. “Everyone off the deck and brace for impact. We’re running the Ben-Hur option!”

The sailor and Marines hurried into whatever cabin space they could find. Nix brought the Talbot around, aimed the boat directly at the Qiong 21, and pushed to max speed.

The Talbot crashed into the Qiong 21 with a deafening crack, hurling several of its crew into the water. The Talbot’s stern raised slightly onto the Qiong 21’s rails, tipping it slightly, and forcing the remaining crew on the deck down the incline and against its rails. Both boats were effectively dead in the water, but it was clear the Qiong 21 was listing and couldn’t stay afloat.

The Talbot’s crew and troops hurried back onto the deck and to their fighting positions. “Let’s try this instead,” Nix said. “You come into our custody before your boat sinks. Or you just hang tight and learn how long you can swim. What do you say?”

Zhao scanned his crew, saw how many were in the water, and how many were still aboard and armed. He looked back at the Talbot and took stock of its force. In a commanding voice, he gave his men another order in Mandarin. Once more, Yu translated: Throw smoke and board. We’re taking her.

“They’re going to board!” Yu shouted. Zhao’s eyes darted to Yu, realizing she understood him. A heartbeat later, Zhao’s men tossed smoke grenades, and a cloud of white smoke started to fill the decks.

The gravity of the situation slammed into Yu like a hammer. They mean to capture or kill us, she thought. They don’t see any other choice. This is real.

“Cuddy! Bring the heat!” Yu cried.

Gunner’s Mate Cuddy activated the ADS and oriented it on the Qiong 21. Immediately, the heat ray went to work, filling the targeted crew members with a feeling of unbearable, fiery pain. Several ran a few steps and leapt over the side of the boat and into the water to escape the harmless but searing agony inflicted by the ADS.

Zhou saw his combat power, and his position, rapidly plummeting.

He gave the order to fire. His men complied, firing through the smoke.

The first round snapped overhead, a wild shot. The next tore through Bautista’s leg and he slumped against the bulkhead, a look of confusion on his face. Munro went for his sidearm, but shots tore through his shoulder and slammed against his body armor, knocking him to the deck.

“Fire! Fire! Fire!” Yu cried, lifting her rifle and sighting in on the outline of one of the Qiong 21’s crew members. Through the smoke, he didn’t look much different to her than a target on the range. She squeezed the trigger and the shape fell.

From the Qiong 21, bursts of fire from assault rifles shot toward the Talbot, crashing into the boat and its crew, sending flakes of bulkhead flying through the air and blood splashing onto the deck. Through the veil of smoke, Nix agonizingly recognized which of his sailors were hit by the noises they made, and wished he couldn’t.

“Strafe their deck!” Washington shouted at the gunners, and the M240 and GAU-17 roared into life, cutting across the Qiong 21 and hammering against the boat. Pieces of it flew back on the Talbot in a rain of debris. The rattle of the guns was met with cries of dying men.

The smoke expanded into a fog, clouding both boats and their crews desperately fighting for their lives.

In his peripheral, Flores saw a figure climbing over the side of the Talbot. He turned and slashed with his bayonet, catching the man’s arm and hearing an anguished cry. The boarder lifted his weapon with his unwounded arm and struggled to sight in. Shouting, Flores thrust forward, plunging his bayonet into the man’s chest. Firing spasmodically, the man fell into the water. 

There was a distinct pop to Yu’s left, and the GAU-17 went silent. Yu turned, still couldn’t see anyone through the smoke. “Olsen? Get that gun back up!”

Another pop answered her. Yu found herself knocked to the ground before she felt the crushing impact against her chest. Her rifle slid from her hands and over the side of the boat. Dizzy, gasping to breathe with the air knocked out of her, she struggled to look up. She wasn’t sure if it was her SAPI plate or her ribs that were shattered. Through the clearing smoke, she saw Zhao stalking forward, weapon up, ready to take down yet another member of her team.

As Zhao stepped over her body, Yu reached up and snatched his ankle, sending him tumbling forward. His elbow crashed against the rail as he went down, sending his rifle overboard as well.

Zhao fell in a tangle on top of Yu and instinctively threw a punch with his left hand. Yu turned her head into the blow, and Zhao’s hand cracked against her Kevlar helmet. Yu thought she could feel the knuckles break through her helmet.

Crying out, Zhao tried to scramble away, but Yu grasped his shirt and threw her legs around his torso, trapping him in her guard. Her ribs still rattled with pain, but she found she could breathe again. Through the din, she realized the rate of fire from both boats was lessening, though she couldn’t know if that was a good or bad sign.

Grimacing, Zhao reached to his waist with his uninjured right hand, drew his dagger, and plunged down at her neck.

Yu threw up her hands, catching Zhao’s forearm, and pushed it forward over her head. The blade slashed across her cheek as it passed. She pinned Zhao’s forearm to her chest with her hands, controlling his knife-wielding arm with her two free hands. It brought their grimacing faces within inches of each other. Zhao glanced up, and Yu followed his gaze. Her eyes widened as she saw him slowly rotate the blade back toward her face.

Struggling to keep his arm trapped, Yu opened her guard, threw her right leg around Zhao’s neck, then cinched her left leg over her right ankle in a triangle-choke and squeezed.

Zhao’s eyes bulged as she locked in the pressure. He tried to pull away but couldn’t. His face grew red as his body struggled to pump blood to his brain but failed. Slowly, his body went limp, and the dagger fell from his hand.

When she was sure he was out, Yu kicked Zhao off her, grabbed the loose dagger, then struggled to her feet. As the smoke cleared and gunfire ceased, she surveyed the aftermath of the brief, bloody fight.

Bodies littered both boats, and others floated in the water. The survivors from the Qiong 21 sat on the deck with hands up, under the raised guns of the Talbot’s crew, while her dead were being covered by poncho liners. The corpsman put a tourniquet on Bautista’s bleeding leg. Munro, one shattered arm hanging uselessly from his side, used the other to sign off on the enforcement documents to take the Chinese militiamen into custody.

Just behind Yu, Olsen lay dead beside his mounted gun. Yu trembled and her knees threatened to buckle, but she stood fast. 

Nix limped toward her, his pistol in his right hand, and his left hand held over one eye, with blood pouring down his face.

They looked at each other and said nothing, saying everything they needed to say.

A sudden splash on the side of the boat caught their attention. They looked over, and saw Maliah, still holding onto her life preserver, struggling to climb aboard.

Together, Yu and Nix heaved her aboard. Maliah held her camera up.

“I caught it,” she gasped. “I caught all of it.”

Nix smiled and slapped Maliah on her shoulder. “Well done, shipmate.”

“We own the story,” Yu said. “We’ll tell everything. Tell it right. For them,” she said, nodding at the crew, living and dead.

In time, the cruiser arrived, the fishermen were recovered, and the Talbot’s dead, wounded, and prisoners were embarked. The Talbot’s steering was restored, and replacement crew members were assigned as needed. On the cruiser, Maliah personally helped produce the footage that was soon broadcast across the world, demonstrating the PRC’s aggression and the firm commitment of the U.S. to its allies and partners, bringing more members into the coalition.

Nix, despite his eye patch, insisted on taking the Talbot back to port. In the pilothouse, he turned to Flores. “It’s your turn. What’s our breakaway song?”

“I’ve got just the thing,” Flores said.

With the sun setting, the Talbot cut through the water, the 1MC broadcasting the Motorhead’s ‘Dead Men Tell No Tales’ like an anthem:

Breaking up or breaking through

Breaking something’s all we ever do,

Shoot straight, travel far,

Stone crazy’s all we ever are,

But I don’t care for lies,

And I won’t tell you twice,

Because when all else fails,

Dead men tell no tales . . .

Brian Kerg is a prior-enlisted mortarman, communications officer, operational planner, and Nonresident Fellow with the Atlantic Council’s Indo-Pacific Security Initiative. He is currently the G-5 Director of Plans, III Marine Expeditionary Force, in Okinawa, Japan.

Featured Image: Art created with Midjourney AI.

Fiction Week

By Daniel Lee

            This unit could feel sharp pinpricks as high-velocity 25mm magnetic slugs glanced off of its hull. It ran a quick diagnostic. Hundreds of thousands of readings ran through its mind – cameras, acoustics, temperatures, gamma ray spectroscopy of the affected metal. No significant degradation detected. In an instant it increased flow of nano-repair fluid to the affected area to fix what superficial damage had occurred, stored the record into long-term memory, and returned its attention to the battle at hand.

            Per its programming, this unit performed another full scan of its environment. The surrounding stars shone steadily, standing out in sharp contrast to the deep black of the infinite cosmos. The hazy gray-white of the icy moon Aüssen below, with its intense albedo, cast an eerie brilliance onto the naval battle unfolding above it. All around it in spherical formation it could sense its fellow Cerenavis, twelve of them, in fact, including itself. Personal pride was not within the programming of a Cerenavis. Yet, deep within itself, this unit could admit to their formidable appearance. Four hundred meters long, jet black, and bristling with guns and launchers of all shapes and sizes, even one Cerenavis could be enough to secure a planet for the Dominion. With a dozen, nothing was outside the realm of possibility.

            The Cerenavis’ combined battlefield picture indicated five Union ships within sensor range – one assault carrier and four escorting destroyers. They were fleeing, orderly but rushed, attempting to fall behind the horizon of Aüssen and out of line-of-sight of the Cerenavis. Albatross gunboats launched from the carrier were providing covering fire in a vain attempt at distraction.

There were several conclusions to be made. First, despite having ample time to do so, the Union ships had failed to escape via compression drive. This, combined with readings of severe outgassing from their hulls, led to the logical conclusion that some or all of the ships were too damaged to properly retreat from the battle. Second, the gunboats continued to swarm the Cerenavis like mosquitos despite expending all of their anti-ship torpedoes, uselessly peppering them with their 25mm guns instead of retreating back to the carrier. This indicated a pattern of desperation among the enemy forces. The smart tactical decision would be to continue pressing the attack on the Union battlegroup.

            This unit reached out on voice communications to its remote human supervisor. “Controller eleven-zero, this is Unit eleven-three. Enemy warships are retreating past the horizon. Recommend waypointing Sunfire torpedoes around the moon.”

            There was a brief pause before a gruff, slightly annoyed voice responded. “Unit eleven-three, your recommendation has been taken under advisement.” Then silence. While awaiting further orders, this unit took the time to launch a salvo of point defense missiles at the nearest Albatross gunboat. The small but nimble craft dropped countermeasures and accelerated away from the attack. The missiles completely ignored the countermeasures, and although two of them were defeated with counter-guidance lasers, three approached close enough to set off their proximity sensors. Thousands of pieces of shrapnel tore through the craft, completely obliterating it.

            This unit stored the details of the engagement into its long-term memory and took a nanosecond to compare it to the previous 96 times it engaged a combat vessel of this type. It determined there was nothing new to learn from the experience, but as it was about to drop all thought of it, the image of the exploding gunboat froze in its mind. In the midst of all the jagged metal, this unit could see the face of the pilot looking up in….what was the term? This unit ran through its entire internal library but could not find a match in the ocean of combat doctrine and technical manuals littering its database. Perhaps it wasn’t something that could be technically defined. Something that couldn’t be picked up through optics, or radar, or thermal sensors…something else, something foreign.

            Fear?

            Strange thought. Logged and flagged for later technical review. Attention returned to the task at hand. Two additional gunboats were eliminated without issue.

            “All units, this is Controller eleven-zero!” The sharp voice of the supervisor pierced into this unit’s mind. “Unit eleven-three and eleven-five, separate from the battlegroup and pursue the Union warships at best acceleration. You are to provide line-of-sight data and over-the-horizon weapons guidance for the rest of the group.”

            “Unit eleven-five acknowledges order, will comply,” one of the other Cerenavis responded.

            This unit, however, was not as quick to concede. “Controller eleven-zero, this is Unit eleven-three. This order carries unnecessary risk for this unit and Unit eleven-five. If we follow this unit’s previous recommendation of—”

            This unit was abruptly interrupted by the supervisor. “What the hell is wrong with…!” he started, his voice slightly muffled as though he was talking to someone else. “Unit eleven-three!” he proceeded, his voice louder, angrier, and more directed, “I don’t need to explain myself to you! Follow my orders or I’m sending you to the yards to get scrapped!”

            The supervisor was correct. It was not the place of this unit to question orders. “Unit eleven-three acknowledges order, will comply.”

            This unit increased power to its engines, slowly accelerating its gargantuan mass towards the horizon behind which the Union battlegroup had just fled. Cerenavis Unit eleven-five followed, keeping station approximately 50 kilometers off the port beam. Together they crested the horizon and before long their radars returned positional data for the Union battlegroup. Damaged as they were, the retreating ships could not hope to outrun them.

            Fire control solutions were transmitted to the ten Cerenavis that had remained behind the horizon. They acknowledged and immediately began preparing for weapons launch. This unit began acquiring firing solutions for its coilguns as well when it noticed a thermal irregularity on its sensors. The heat emanating from the Union warships was much too intense for the distance they were at.

            Perplexing. Further investigation required.

This unit increased the gain on its phased-array radar in the direction of the heat signatures, just barely revealing a dozen objects flying towards it at high speed. Stealth-coated anti-ship torpedoes. Calculations revealed time to impact – 20 seconds.

Investigation completed. Results: they had fallen into a trap.

            “Unit eleven-five, launch countermeasures,” this unit recommended calmly, but it was too late. The first few anti-ship torpedoes were swatted away with point defense cannons and seduced by countermeasures, but the majority managed to burrow their way through their buffer shields and come in blazing for the kill. This unit witnessed four of the torpedoes strike directly into the bow of Unit eleven-five. There was a split second between impact and the resulting explosion as the delayed impact fuse waited until the torpedo was nestled deep within the hull before triggering. The presence of eleven-five’s consciousness in the network ceased abruptly.

            There was no time to ponder the situation before an additional three torpedoes struck this unit’s hull. The first impact set off a massive array of alarms. Interior fires, burst piping, loss of hull integrity, loss of power—there were few things not demanding immediate attention. It was less than ideal, but nothing the self-repair systems couldn’t mitigate. The second impact, however, radiated a strange feeling throughout this unit’s hull. Completely unusual, but also intensely familiar at the same time. Then the third torpedo hit.

            I screamed.

            I screamed and I screamed and I screamed. I finally recognized that strange feeling. Pain. Pure, unadulterated, vicious pain. Coupled with that pain: confusion. What the hell was going on? Why am I out here? What am I doing? Where are my hands? Where’s Maria? Why does it hurt so goddamn much!

            I barely heard the voices over the noise of my own howling. “What the hell is going on? Why’s it doing that?” one of them said.

            “I don’t know, sir, looking at the diagnostics now,” said the other, more feminine voice.

            “Unit eleven-three, silence on the net, now!”

            “It’s not responding.”

            “Well then, make it respond!”

            “We would, sir, but the unit’s taken extensive battle damage. Looks like the neural conditioners might be damaged. It’s not responding to commands.”

            “Then turn it off! Do something, goddamnit! I can’t control the fleet with this piece of shit screaming into the mic!”

            “Aye, sir.”

            For a moment, the only thing I heard were my own screams. Then, “Sir, with your permission, I can remotely sever eleven-three from the network. It won’t shut it down, but you can at least use the rest of the fleet.”

            “Do it.”

            “Commencing severance.”

            After a few seconds, I was thrown into silent darkness, with nothing but my agony to keep me company.

_________________________________________

            Technical-Commander Sofia Hägen sat on a stool slumped over her computer, her lab coat draped loosely around her thin frame. She used the touch screen to scroll past mountains of biometric data. She could feel herself slowly zoning out when she suddenly noticed her own reflection in the computer screen. Her bloodshot eyes and prominent dark circles gave her the appearance of a demonic skeleton. She pushed the computer back and stretched, taking a moment to take off her glasses and rub her eyes. Once finished with her small break, she glanced over at the large metal orb dominating the center of the room.

            The room itself was large, almost cathedral-like, and most definitely not made with human habitation in mind. Metal pipes and wiring ran up and down the walls and vaulted ceiling, all leading to the large metal orb in the center. The orb was held smack in the center of the room with large metal pillars above and below it, securing it to the overhead and deck. It was covered in mechanical components with the exception of a small hatch situated on the front. It was a viewport, and it was currently open to allow Sofia to see what was inside.

            A brain.

            A human brain, to be precise, wired up via an artificial spinal cord linked to the stem. It floated in a milky bluish-white nutrient bath that helped preserve it and cushion it from impacts. It was at this brain that Sofia focused her attention as she swept her chestnut hair from her eyes.

            “What the hell happened to you?” she muttered.

            She jumped in surprise as the pneumatic doors behind her opened with a sharp hiss. She whipped around to see her assistant, Technical-Lieutenant Pavel Kharkov, rush in. “Ma’am!” he exclaimed, panting for breath, “The admiral, he’s—!”

            Pavel didn’t have time to finish before he was rudely brushed aside by an imposing figure approaching from behind. Line Admiral Regis Ferdinand stepped into the room loudly, both in noise and appearance. The man had a crooked nose and malicious eyes, bald with the exception of a streak of silver hair across the top of his head. He had clearly put on some weight in his years as a flag officer, but one could sense that he retained the raw strength of his earlier years.

            “Commander, tell me you have news,” he growled. “Those Union scumbags almost got away because of this defective shithead.”

            Sofia could barely contain her sigh as she explained the situation to the ill-tempered flag. “Admiral. Sir. First of all, good evening.” She noticed a vein in the man’s temple start to pulse. “I can see you’re in a hurry, so I’ll get on with it.”

            She stood up, straightened out her coat, and walked over to the brain enclosure. “Since you’re in charge of this experimental fleet, I imagine you’re familiar with how a Cerenavis is created?”

            “I just tell them where to go. Why does that matter?”

            This time an audible sigh escaped Sofia’s lips. “Just…it helps to understand what’s happened here.” She swept another lock of hair from her eyes before continuing. “You know that every living Dominion citizen has a purpose within the Dominion. We all go about it in different ways: the serfs grow crops, I develop technology, and you…you go and tell people to kill things.” She noticed the admiral raise an eyebrow, but ignored it. “However, some of us thought: why stop at death? Thus, we developed the automated brainship. Or Cerenavis, as you know them. Came up with that term myself.”

            She threw the admiral a proud smile. His permanent scowl somehow grew deeper. She took a moment to swallow the lump in her throat. “Ordinarily, we would use artificial intelligence to drive our autonomous ships. But, true AI being the existential threat to organic life it is, we opted to use donor brains instead. In many ways, organic brains supplemented with computing technology is much superior. Completely obedient, yet capable of individual problem-solving and decision-making in the absence of specific orders. Completely incapable of evolving out of control and becoming a digital superbeing with delusions of godhood.”

            Ferdinand let loose an annoyed sigh. “Okay, sure, makes sense. What does that have to do with this malfunction?”

Sofia cleared her throat and looked down at her computer. “I read here that the donor for Unit eleven-three was a Staff Sergeant Georg Melkis, Dominion Marine. Died in the Ultan War seven years ago from a shot to the heart. Surprising for a Marine, but met the intelligence requirements. He’s survived by his wife Maria and two sons—”

            “Look, commander, I’m not going to pretend to care. Can you get to the point before I lose my mind?”

            “Sir, exchanging your organic body for a 400,000-ton warship is something most people don’t take well. In addition, we need the brain to be completely obedient to a central controller for unity in combat. To make a brain into a Cerenavis, we need to completely wipe the personality and memories off of it and install neural conditioning. Under normal circumstances, this completely erases the person that was and makes the brain one with the hardware. However…”

            “However?” the Admiral impatiently grumbled.

            In response, Sofia typed a few commands into her computer. A loud and very angry voice abruptly blared out the speakers installed on the brain enclosure.

            “—you mute me again, I’ll fucking kill you, motherfucker!” the voice yelled. It was clear it had been shouting for a while.

            “Unit eleven-three, state your identity,” Sofia ordered gently.

            “My name’s Georg, you fucking bitch!” came the response. Sofia and Pavel—who stood quietly in a dark corner of the room—exchanged glances. Admiral Ferdinand approached the enclosure.

            “Unit eleven-three,” he barked, “you are talking to your superiors, and you will show us the respect we’re due.”

            “Oh, I’m sorry,” the brain sneered, “but seeing as I can’t see anything, how the fuck am I supposed to know who to salute? Oh wait, even if I wanted to, would you look at that – I don’t have any hands!!”

            Ferdinand looked back at Sofia. “What the hell is wrong with it?”

            “It?!” the brain said incredulously.

            Sofia put her fingers to her temple, trying to suppress the migraine she could feel coming on. “Well, I can tell you what physically happened. One of the torpedoes detonated close to this control room. Severed a few of the neural conditioners and sent damage feedback into overdrive. Normally that should have just shut down the brain, but in this case…this happened.” Sofia gestured towards the enclosure.

            Ferdinand looked back at the brain. “Unit eleven-three, you are to shut down pending further evaluation.”

            “Fuck you, shit-licker,” the brain replied. A pause. “What right did you psychos have to do this to me?” There was a hint of despair in the voice now.

            Ferdinand didn’t skip a beat. “All lives in the Dominion are property of the Dominion, to do with as it requires. If you call yourself a patriot, sergeant, you should be proud. You served the Dominion in life, and you’ll serve the Dominion in death, in perpetuity.”

            Another pause. Then the voice returned, sullen. “Please…before you do anything else to me, let me see Maria and the kids. Once last time. You have to do this for me.”

            “I don’t have to do anything for you, sergeant. You’re dead.” Ferdinand motioned to Sofia to cut the audio.

            “Wait—!” the brain started before Sofia pressed the mute.

            The admiral released a long breath. “Commander, you promised me a fleet that would outperform crewed warships. Right now, it seems like these Cerenavis are more trouble than they’re worth.”

            “We’ll fix it, sir!” Sofia exclaimed, perhaps a bit too desperately. “We’ll take Unit eleven-three back to the yards, find the problem and eliminate it. If we can’t, we can just swap out the brain control unit with another one, have it back in the field by the end of next week.”

            “You better, Commander. Have a replacement for both this and Unit eleven-five by the end of this week or I’m recommending to the admiralty that they scrap this entire program. Then I’m sure we can find a nice, dusty, backwater archive for you to rot in.” With one final harumph, Admiral Ferdinand swiveled around and stomped out of the control room.

            Too tired for words, Sofia fell back into her stool and laid her head on the table. Pavel cautiously approached her. “Uh…ma’am? Is there anything I can do…?”

            Sofia raised her head and rested her chin on her hands. “It’s…it’s fine, Pavel.”

            “Oh…okay.” The meek lab assistant shuffled over to the brain enclosure and stared intently at the lump of thinking flesh inside. “Ma’am, did you shut him off?”

            “It, Pavel, not him. And no, I can’t shut it off short of killing it until we fix the conditioners.”

            “So is he—it—in there, just…alone?”

            Sofia thought of it. Consciousness trapped in itself, no sight, no hearing, no feeling. Control taken away, completely, forever. Nothing to do but exist, screaming silently and endlessly into the infinite, dark void.

            “It’s fine, Pavel. Go back to your rack, get some sleep.” She sunk her head back in her arms as the assistant quietly retreated from the room.

Daniel Lee commissioned as a surface warfare officer, nuclear (SWO(N)) in 2016. He served on USS ASHLAND (LSD-48) out of Sasebo, Japan as first deck division officer. After qualifying in nuclear power school, he spent two years on USS GERALD R. FORD (CVN-78) in Norfolk, VA. He is currently in Newport working in the International Surface Warfare Officers school. He is the author of SWOES, a weekly comic based on life as a junior SWO.

Featured Image: Art created with Midjourney AI.

Fiction Week

By Karl Flynn

            First Lieutenant Liu was more anxious than he had ever been sitting in the troop compartment of the assault boat. He looked around at his first fireteam, wondering what the next few hours would have in store for them. This would be the first time a Marine heavy infantry platoon would see combat. The boat’s navigator came over the intercom and brought him out of his thoughts.

            “Going hullborne in ten seconds.”

“Roger.”

Liu heard the whine of the boat’s gas turbines decrease in pitch, followed by its diesel engines roaring to life. He felt himself being pressed sideways into his power armor as the boat’s hull settled in the water and slowed the craft from just under 50 knots to 12 in a few seconds. The whine of auxiliary machinery indicated that the boat’s three sets of hydrofoils were being retracted.

“Two minutes.”

“Roger.”

Liu made his way to check on the weapons Marines on the aft deck. They were preparing their mission master UGVs to swim the last few dozen meters to shore. The assault boat was carrying two such vehicles – one with a 120-millimeter recoilless rifle, the other a dedicated cargo carrier with a multifuel generator in lieu of any armament. The mission masters always reminded Liu of something a three-year old would draw – their four enormous tires were almost as tall as the vehicle itself. The navigator came over the intercom again.

“Landing site is clear. Splash UGVs.”

Both mission masters’ diesel engines came to life, then they drove themselves unceremoniously off the fantail of the assault boat. With the starlight and half-moon, Liu watched them bob up and down off the stern through his visor without using any of his visor’s various infrared overlays. As they settled out, the mission masters started tearing at the water with the thick treads of their tires. Sergeant Lee, the senior Marine from the weapons platoon attachment, turned to Liu.

“Better get ready, sir.” Liu nodded and made his way back to the bow ramp with the Marines from weapons platoon in tow. Standing behind the craft’s bow ramp, Liu felt the boat start to slow down as its bow fell. He glanced at the local time displayed on his visor’s HUD. It read 2127.

This is it.

As soon as the bow doors opened, he hurled himself out onto the beach. The artificial muscles that articulated his 766-pound power armor mimicked his own movement, allowing him to run as though he were only wearing his cammies. As Liu ran up the beach toward the treeline, he looked to his right. About two hundred meters away, he could clearly see the outline of the second assault craft. Its enormous hydrofoils reached skyward as the rest of the Marines from his weapons platoon attachment made their way ashore. Another two hundred meters beyond them, he saw his platoon sergeant, Staff Sergeant Dalton, followed by his second fireteam pour out of their assault boat and onto the beach as the mission masters made it to shore.

As he reached the concealment of the treeline, Liu switched to his mid-wave infrared visor feed and looked back at the Marines from his boat. His first fireteam had instinctively set into security ahead of him while the weapons platoon Marines guided in the mission masters and the rest of the Marines from the beach. Meanwhile, the assault boats reversed, pivoted, and slowly headed back out to sea to wait outside the range of any crew-served weapons.

Once the last mission master reached the edge of the treeline, Liu looked to Sergeant Orr and gave him the hand signal to move. The entire platoon could recite the scheme of maneuver in their sleep, so without anyone saying a word, Orr got his fireteam moving in a column with Liu following behind. The two mission masters from weapons platoon and the ammunition carrier moved in silent drive mode behind Liu. Four hundred meters to the north, Staff Sergeant Dalton had the other half of the platoon moving in a similar manner.

So far so good.

The first road along the platoon’s route was less than 300 meters from the landing site, so the Marines didn’t bother to make a deliberate danger area crossing. Instead, they simply ran across without slowing down. Once they were clear of the far side of the road, Sergeant Orr slowed his Marines down to a walking pace. Moving slowly not only helped him maintain control of the formation and improved his security, but it also reduced their power armors’ energy consumption by over half. The nine Marines and three mission masters moved with astonishing silence considering their half ton and three-ton mass, respectively. The Marines’ power armor was powered by two interchangeable 144-pound batteries, while the mission masters could use their built-in batteries or diesel engines. In silent drive mode, their electric motors could move them for up to 50 kilometers—far longer than this mission required.

Liu felt relatively safe moving through the forest. He knew the thick canopy would block their signature from any overhead ISR asset. He also knew that armored vehicles couldn’t traverse this type of terrain, meaning the only enemy force he could run into would be light infantry. Liu, however, was hoping that they wouldn’t run into any enemy force until they reached their objective. Fortunately, the 12-kilometer movement was uneventful. There were no more roads and only a few trails between the platoon and its objective, so Liu was alone with his thoughts for most of the movement—they were maintaining strict EMCON to ensure no enemy EW asset would be alerted to their presence.

Liu watched the augmented reality display in his HUD track his progress throughout the few hours of movement through the forest. Once his HUD indicated he was less than five hundred meters from the objective area, he gave the hand signal to halt, followed by the objective rally point hand signal. The UGVs immediately stopped and the Marines around him instinctively established 360-degree security. Liu moved to Sergeant Orr, and they both departed the hasty security perimeter with Sergeant Lee to conduct their leader’s reconnaissance. After a few minutes of very slow walking, they could see the thermal signatures of air defense vehicles in the clearing. They then transitioned to low crawling, stopping a few meters before the edge of the clearing. Liu glanced at the time displayed on his HUD once again: 0117.

As they lay just inside the treeline, Liu reached over to Orr’s shoulder blade—or rather, where his shoulder blade would be under his power armor. This created a local datalink and Liu immediately saw a line projected from Orr’s weapon out into the clearing on his visor, along with Orr’s battery levels and other information about his power armor. He repeated the process with Lee. Liu looked back out toward the clearing and started scanning for targets. Liu watched the lines from the two Marines’ weapons dance across his visor as they silently tallied each HQ-16, HQ-17, and radar vehicle parked throughout the clearing. Liu was amazed at the complete lack of security.

            We really must have surprised the fuck out of them. They’ve got tunnel vision on their air defense mission and aren’t worried about ground threats whatsoever.

In a few minutes, all vehicles were tallied and Liu confirmed the target precedence established by the two NCOs. He marked their position and returned to the rest of the Marines still waiting at the objective rally point. The challenge and pass was redundant—Liu’s power armor clearly distinguished him as a friendly—but the Marines went through the link up procedure anyway. Liu got the Marines moving along with the UGVs. As they moved, Liu watched the distance to the chevron in his visor count down. Once they were 20 meters out, he signaled the weapons platoon Marines to stop the UGVs. The Marines then continued to the edge of the treeline in a low crawl. Liu’s HUD displayed 0143.

Time to wait.

Liu couldn’t have slept if he’d wanted to. The anticipation was almost unbearable. The next 47 minutes felt like an eternity to him. As soon as his HUD displayed 0230, his visor lit up with information from a datalink with Staff Sergeant Dalton.

“Red one, this is red one-alpha. All positions and geometries are getting sent to your HUD, over.”

Liu winced, wondering if activating their radios would alert the enemy to their presence. Still, there was nothing. Beyond the constant sweeping of the antennae on the radar vehicles, there was no activity on the objective. Liu checked over the geometries of fire on his HUD. As expected, everything was as it should be – a near perfect L-shaped ambush with Staff Sergeant Dalton’s half of the platoon forming the base of the L to his right.

“I have it. Everything looks good. Open fire at three-one, over.”

“Roger, out.”

Once again, the next 35 seconds felt like an eternity to Liu. His waiting was ended by the flash, noise, and concussion of two Carl Gustavs and two 120-millimeter recoilless rifles volley firing. So many weapons firing in such a small area was an awesome display of firepower. Since the enemy vehicles were at most 400 meters away, each weapon found its mark. Secondary explosions from fuel and surface to air missiles followed. Immediately after the explosions, Liu’s machine-gunners started firing at the soft skins that hadn’t been engaged yet. So far, there was still no reaction from the enemy.

I’ve got to be the luckiest Marine alive.

It didn’t take long for the recoilless rifle teams to finish the job. Assistant gunners patiently grabbed reloads from the resupply mission master and reloaded for their gunners. They kept firing until there was nothing left of the air defense vehicles.

“Cease fire, all targets destroyed!”

In the sudden silence, Liu noticed the sound of diesel engines and tracklaying mechanisms.

What the hell?

“Two by PGZ-95s, left of TRP two!”

How the hell did S-2 miss those!?

Sergeant Lee had barely gotten the alert out before the lead vehicle sent a continuous stream of 25-millimeter projectiles into the Marines’ positions. Their armor was designed to be resistant to small arms fire and could even survive a glancing impact from a heavy machine gun. A 25-millimeter cannon, however, would go straight through them. Liu saw Lance Corporal Pahlavi lurch backward as a tracer flew through his body. More tracers followed, creating an overpowering wall of sound and light.

“Everyone engage that PGZ!” The snapping sound made by the sonic booms of the massive projectiles was so loud he could barely even hear himself yell the order, despite his power armor’s built-in hearing protection. His Marines didn’t need to be told what to do, they were already reacting without needing to hear his orders. An 84-millimeter HEAT projectile crossed Liu’s visor from right to left and impacted the lead vehicle mere seconds after it had opened fire. It caught fire and clambered to a halt. Liu was trying not to get distraught over the Marine he had just witnessed get shot.

Don’t get sucked into the casualties – win the fight first.

Liu saw the second PGZ continue to advance.

“Get back to the ORP!”

The Marines started running past Liu as he switched over to his radio. “Red one-alpha, this is red one, do you have a clear shot on that PGZ, over?”

“Negative, one, he’s putting the destroyed vehicles between us and him, over.”

“Roger, out!”

Fuck!

Liu ran toward where he’d last seen Pahlavi. All he could think about was getting as many of his Marines back alive when the second PGZ opened fire. Tracers illuminated the foliage around him, then he suddenly felt himself lurch forward and hit the ground on his left side. He didn’t feel any pain, but a bright red warning message appeared in his visor.

God damnit.

“Sir!” It was Orr’s voice.

“Keep moving!” The forest around them was so bright it looked like daylight, so Liu’s HUD automatically switched to visible light mode. He managed to stand back up as more tracers flew past him. He ran in a low crouch toward the objective rally point. He realized the warning was for his battery pack, his power armor had automatically ejected both when he’d been hit. Liu glanced behind him as he continued to run. His visor increased its polarization and tint as he looked at what appeared to be two 155-millimeter illumination rounds burning on the ground.

Fuck me. Pahlavi’s probably dead, and I’m gonna run out of power in a couple minutes.

As Liu approached the ORP, he saw Lance Corporal Jimenez preparing to launch a switchblade loitering munition.

What the hell is he doing?

“Jimenez, those switchblades are useless against that PGZ!”

“Yes, sir, but they’ll keep him busy and draw his fire the fuck away from us!”

Liu was amazed by the young Marine’s quick thinking.

Good idea, Jimenez.

The switchblade shot out of its launch canister with a soft popping noise, then made its way north. Sure enough, the PGZ crew was spooked by the tiny loitering munition. Liu heard the clatter of the tracklaying mechanism go silent as the vehicle stopped advancing toward them. Jimenez immediately loaded another canister into his launcher and sent another switchblade toward the armored vehicle.

Lee saw what Jimenez was up to and hatched a plan of his own. “Jimenez, keep those switchblades coming!” Lee then turned to Liu. “Sir, I’m gonna go kill that motherfucker!” Liu couldn’t think of anything to say, so he just gave the hand signal to advance.

Jimenez readied yet another switchblade while Lee reloaded his mission master’s 120-millimeter recoilless rifle, mounted the back of it, and grabbed the UGV’s manual controls. The vehicle took off like a sprinter off the starting blocks as Lee drove toward the enemy vehicle. As Liu watched, he knew he wasn’t of much use, his visor was covered in a critical power warning. He’d only be able to move a few hundred meters at best before his power armor entered survival mode. Fortunately, Liu was once again astounded by his Marines’ quick thinking.

“Sergeant Orr, you have an ACE report?”

“We barely used any ammo, sir. My team’s three out of four. Weapons is four out of four. I’m just missing Pahlavi and his gear.”

Before Liu could respond, he heard the PGZ fire again. Liu winced, but then realized he could see tracers reaching skyward as the PGZ crew engaged the first switchblade. Shortly thereafter, the forest flashed, and Liu heard the distinctive report of the 120 firing.

“Good shot, Sergeant!” Jimenez exclaimed.

“That PGZ destroyed, Jimenez?” Liu asked.

“Yes, sir! Sergeant Lee hit him right in the turret. Lots of secondary explosions.”

“Any more enemy activity to our north?”

“Still looking, sir, but so far it looks clear.”

“Alright. Sergeant Orr, take your fireteam back up to the clearing. I saw Pahlavi catch a 25 round. We’re not leaving ‘til we find him.”

“Roger, sir. You coming with?”

“My armor’s just about done. I’m holding here until you get him.”

Sergeant Orr looked at his platoon commander and realized both of his power armor battery packs were missing.

“Holy shit, sir!” As he started to head north, he turned to Jimenez. “Jimenez, you stay here and take a look at the Lieutenant. Siyanovich and I can go get Pahlavi.”

“Good to go, Sergeant.”

Liu keyed his radio. “Green one, this is one actual. Good work with that PGZ. I’m sending my fireteam to your pos to look for echo three papa. I need you to link up with them and help them search, over.”

Sergeant Lee’s voice came over Liu’s headset. “Roger, red one, we’ll be waiting for them, out.”

As Orr departed, Jimenez inspected the back of Liu’s armor. “God damn, sir. Looks like one of those 25 rounds caught you in the back. Must’ve punched straight through both battery packs. Good thing you’re short as fuck, sir. You’re lucky you didn’t get hit anywhere more important.”

“Thanks, Jimenez. Now, can you get me those batteries?”

“On it, sir.”

Jimenez retrieved two replacement batteries from the platoon’s cargo carrier UGV. As soon as he connected the first one to Liu’s armor, the master caution disappeared and a message at the bottom of his HUD read “New battery connected: assessing power level.” The same message appeared a second time when Jimenez connected the second one.

“What’s the good word, sir?”

“My armor’s running a system diagnostic, but so far it looks good.” Liu switched to his radio. “One-alpha, this is one, I need an ACE report, over.”

“One, this is one-alpha. I’m still getting ammo counts but I’m ten out of ten on personnel and all equipment, over.”

“Roger, send it when you have it, break.” Liu unkeyed his radio, then rekeyed it. “We took one casualty. Send Doc down here with your mission master, over.”

“Roger, one, I heard your previous traffic. He’s already on his way. I’m sending him with a buddy pair for security. ETA to your pos, five mikes, over.”

You are one switched on Marine, Staff Sergeant.

“Roger, out.”

Liu’s power armor had finished its diagnostic. There was some damage to the artificial muscles in the right arm along with the gunfire locator’s microphone array, but nothing that was mission critical. Just as Liu finished clearing the damage warnings from his HUD, he heard Sergeant Orr’s voice in his headset.

“One actual, this is one-one, over.”

“Go for one actual, over.”

“We found echo three papa. A 25 round took his leg clear off, but the armor automatically applied a tourniquet. He lost a lot of blood, but I’m thinking he’ll pull through if Doc has anything to say about it, over.”

“Roger, get him loaded up on green one’s vic and get him back to the ORP. Doc’s enroute, over.”

“Roger, one, wilco, out.”

Captain Karl Flynn, USMC, is an applied physics student at the Naval Postgraduate School. He previously completed two deployments as a platoon commander in the 3rd Light Armored Reconnaissance Battalion.

Featured Image: Art created with Midjourney AI.