Fiction Week

By Tyler Totten

February 5^th – 0340
Amphibious Strike One
Palanan Bay, Philippines

“Handshake confirmed,” Lieutenant Parodi reported from the copilot seat, his voice low.

“Relax Juan, the drones won’t hear us. Let’s get on the deck.” Commander Valerie Cunningham smirked. Still her own nervousness caused her to glance at the weapon status, seeing green across the board on the defensive systems. While appreciated, she missed the offensive role.

When this was an offensive platform…

“Yes ma’am,” his seriousness remained but his tone level. “Petrel Six, One. Follow us down.”

Cunningham kept further comments to herself. Looking to port, she could see their destination. The base looked half abandoned but she knew better.

“They’ve taken some hits since while we’ve been gone.”

“Docks are holed, yeah.” Cunningham saw impact points in the floating concrete piers, blackened gouges. One broken cargo ship sat on the gravelly bottom. She highlighted it in their joint augmented reality environment. “That wasn’t there before.”

“Most of the spare sections have been slotted in.” Parodi likewise highlighted only two of the floating concrete pre-built sections remained moored off to the side.

They touched down gently and taxied to their mooring point, keeping at least 200 meters of separation from each other and the base itself, dispersing to remain as unattractive a target as they could. An automated small boat was there to collect both aircraft’s crew before their engines even wound down. The tender with fuel and provisions was moving up to Petrel Six as the boat whisked them across to the entrance.

“Welcome, ma’am, sirs.” The ensign saluted them as they stepped inside, their identification read by base security system as they crossed the threshold. “Admiral Stevens is waiting for you.”

“Lead on Ensign.” They all followed him in and below the waterline, feeling the air change as they moved deep underwater. The base’s protection came from its section replaceability and from using tens of meters of water as armor. Stepping quickly into the briefing room and exchanging another round of salutes, Admiral Stevens waved them to their seats.

“Let’s get started.” Stevens was direct and liked to get down to business. Cunningham couldn’t blame him, most of the stiff, stand-on-ceremony flags had either been removed from command or killed. There wasn’t time to be inefficient, the war moved too fast. They had barely sat before Stevens began speaking, gesturing to his aide to bring up the AR briefing.

“As you are aware, losses among manned surface combatants have been heavy. Even with the dispersed approach and pairing each with three or four autonomous surface vessels, the PLA has proven adept at targeting the manned assets specifically. The stealthy command frigates have had better success, but are in short supply. Until that is rectified, we must improvise.” The aide zoomed in, the theater ship loss map fading, replaced by the waters of northeast Luzon and three groups of ten small ships.

“These autonomous squadrons are inbound for strike operations. The PLA has been picking at them for the last four days but they are still 60 percent combat effective and carrying 80 percent of their strike package. You will be providing human-in-the-loop command and control in lieu of manned ships.” An overlay appeared, showing two plane flight with infiltration and exfiltration routes and alternates. Mission time stamps showed their tanking points and flight profiles. “Low and on the deck all the way in, land and establish control of your squadron, wait for the targeting data. Approve the shots, get out. Questions?”

“Are we expecting to pull out our squadron?” Cunningham asked, considering the timings and geometry against known PLAN coverage.

“Negative, these are one-way assets. They have tasking if they survive to launch but it will not be your concern.”

“No on-call support from loitering assets?” Lieutenant Commander Bulan, Petrel Six inquired.

“Not this run. The PLAN has finally pushed substantial numbers of UUVs and that little underwater dogfight has become vicious.” Stevens frowned at that, not mentioning the SSN losses that had come with that surge.

A few additional questions around the room before the admiral dismissed them. Less than 2 hours after landing, both powered up and headed east for the first leg of their route. Behind them, the base’s air raid siren sounded and the base braced for another round.

February 5^th – 0720
Dawn Seas Field Team
Houma, Louisiana, USA

Tim Masson stepped across the gangway, the first morning rays cutting through the light fog and creating glistening outlines across the handful of supply vessels tied up along the piers. This was his first vessel of the day, the hour drive from New Orleans having delayed his normally early start.

“Susan, pilothouse. Mark, topside. I’ll take engineering.” His two engineers nodded, having already known this would be the plan.

“Bet you’ll still be done first,” Susan joked.

“Only if you keep sandbagging,” Tim quipped back.

They parted ways and Tim noted how rough of shape this vessel was in. Not that any of the ones tied up to this set of piers were beauty queens, rusting and covered in flaking paint. It was clear they had not received much maintenance in the two years they had sat idle. Tim was honestly surprised they hadn’t been scrapped altogether, but that had a cost as well.

“Better just get on with it…” He grumbled to himself. Setting his small pelican case down he opened it and extracted his augmented reality glasses. Settling them into place but not energizing the system yet, he opened the hatch and made his way down into the main engineering space. Once firmly on the deck plates he turned the AR glasses on and allowed them to go through their few seconds of boot cycle.

It had taken him some time to get used to them, still feeling he was entirely too old for learning new tricks, much to the bemusement of Susan and Mark, both twenty years his junior. Tim grumbled and complained about the systems yet he wasn’t too much of an old man yet to deny their utility. Even just a quick glance around the space and the computer-vision system was measuring the space and identifying key systems. Much of the basics, like the main engines, were more confirmatory of what limited data they already had. For others, like vales, pumps, and electrical panels, the algorithms got to work matching them and identifying compatibility. Where the system struggled, he helped find the right component. Sometimes he needed to wipe off a greasy label plate or fill in the blanks on a name when it ran up against the CV algorithms’ limits. He still prided himself on knowing most of the systems almost as fast as the system could match them.

As with the dozens of vessels they had already worked on, these old rust buckets were destined to be turned into rapidly automated platforms. His team, and others like them, catalogued their status and systems. The AR glasses of each team member rapidly formed work orders, 3D models, and queued purchases or pulls from existing supply to outfit the vessels. This vessel would take more than most, many of its systems manual or had broken equipment so old that they were obsolete and could not be replaced with a form-fit-function replacement. Even still, he was confident they could meet the deadline. Twenty minutes later he had finished in the engineering spaces and climbed back to the working deck. Susan was already there, confirming the alterations for the bridge systems on her tablet.

“Better,” Tim remarked in jest. “Mark?”

“Here.” Mark said coming down the ladder behind him. “She’s in rough shape, don’t you think?”

“These will be one-way drone ships for sure but that’s still something, if they can launch their missiles before they break.” He considered his data for a moment, AR glasses letting him look back down into the engineering spaces and the work out diesels contained there. He shook his head slightly. “My bet is four days, assuming all the parts can get here on time. Last shipment was delayed by reported drones over Highway 51. Nothing came of it but still snarled traffic.”

“Do you blame them after Long Beach?” Susan shuddered, mentally replaying the footage of an entire bridge span full of cars and trucks collapsing into the water under the surprise drone swarm.

“Fair enough, still destroys our schedule.” Tim shook his head again, trying not to dwell on things beyond control. “Let’s get over to the next vessel.”

Almost 98 hours later, Tim watched six boxes land on the freshly automated OSV. Each housed a variety of missiles, though he didn’t know which types. He suspected these were strike weapons, given the one-way nature of the old rusty wrecks. One express routing through the Panama Canal and they’d be in the war.

Everything west of Panama is “in the war.” He snorted to himself. Shaking his head he turned and walked to his truck. There were still a few more vessels to salvage. He could only hope all that reported new construction was about to start launching. They were running out of wrecks.

February 5^th – 1450
Amphibious Strike One
20 nm north of Farallon de Pajaros

The engines thrummed with power, the comforting sound louder and more in Cunningham’s chest than usual. Her two-plane flight was on the deck and the engines were working hard, having left their buddy tankers behind three hours ago. The run was at a bare 300 meters, staying well below the anticipated radar horizon. It was expected they would even avoid detection by the over-the-horizon systems thanks to their small form factor. The only real risk was getting spotted by a visual or infrared satellite pass. For that, they had to make use of a regular window in which PLA overhead birds would be blinded. The Navy had been keeping a regular-as-clockwork blinding campaign since the war’s start, typically doing nothing in the window. The hope by this point was that the PLA largely ignored the window other than to recheck the locations of the three prowling CSGs that threatened but did not move west from their racetracks around Midway. Further west of that had…unfortunate outcomes.

Cunningham shivered at the thought, remembering their search-and-rescue sortie to recover who they could from the burning ocean around the remains of the Big E. Her stern hadn’t quite slipped below when secondary explosions erupted from her hull as they struggled to pull a few dozen from the dark waters. The surviving escorts had already fled, protecting the wounded Ford running for Midway’s air cover.

“Coming up on initiation point,” Parodi noted. “Confirming Petrel Six in green.”

The laser pulse hit Six precisely on its flank array, the beam tight even at one kilometer. The return pulse was instantaneous.

“Six confirms.” Parodi checked the automated navigator system for their position. “Still good positional fix, within acceptable GPS-denied bounds.”

With that final perfunctory check, the computer would have flagged any issues, Cunningham gripped the controls again and toggled off the autopilot. The computer could fly this alone but she wanted to at least start the run herself.

“Powering up, Six to follow.” Cunningham advanced the throttles, bringing her aircraft up to full power. Like its predecessor, they were capable of a Mach 0.9 sprint. On this lightly loaded run, with only a few defensive weapons, her Seamaster II easily advanced across Mach 0.9 to Mach 0.94. The only change was a small shudder in the stick.

February 5^th – 1635
Task Force Romeo Bravo 15 (TF-RB15)
15 nm south of Taiwan

Self-elected commander of TF-RB15 noted the new command node come online, linking up with one of the task force’s UAVs maintaining a line-of-sight (LOS) laser communication net over the entire group. Having departed Hawaii with 16 ships, the surviving nine pressed on with the same undaunted progress that came with being automated. The command unit had been lucky, positioned mid-group and carrying a majority offensive payload. It had directed the defense against a half dozen raids on the group. Several, mostly outer pickets, had fallen to enemy fire.

As valid command codes filtered in from the new arrival, the command unit transmitted a task force status update. It also added a positional fix, pulling from the collective task force’s GPS-denied positional assessment. A combination of inertial, star fixes, and tracking known satellites in orbit all coordinated with triple-redundant atomic clocks. The result was remarkably accurate, at least for open-ocean navigating.

Receiving a simple acknowledgement of the update but no orders, it continued as before. Launched UAVs passively searched for threats with cameras and radio-direction-finding sniffed for radars. And onward they sailed.

Amphibious Strike One

“Command Unit confirms no contacts,” Parodi reported for the third time in the hour since arrival. Out there somewhere, their brethren should have linked up with the other two Romeo Bravo task forces, more SeaMasters bobbing on the wavetops near the ships plowing west.

“Wow, these things are struggling. Rust Bucket task force indeed.” Parodi looked over the updates, driven by boredom rather than need. The system would flag anything they needed to review. “Half these ships are down an engine. Two only have half power and are running flat out. Lucky if they survive past launch, enemy or not.”

“They just need to launch.” Cunningham checked the time. “Any minute now.”

As if having willed it into existing, a soft trill announced the satellite orders. They saw it simultaneously as it was decrypted.

“Full salvo,” Parodi noted.

“As expected, probably going to get jumped as soon as we light off anyway,” Cunningham said casually as she confirmed the proper codes had been transmitted. She waited, though only a few seconds, for the command unit to provide proposed strike package edits.

“Light edits,” Parodi highlighted, the command unit providing modifications to reflect the latest inventory and positions of the task force.

“I see no issues, let’s get Six’s concurrence,” Cunningham ordered.

“Six confirms.”

“Lock them in, clear task force to fire by the numbers.”

Task Force Romeo Bravo 15 (TF-RB15)

The command unit received the confirmation of its recommended plan and disseminated launch authorization and final timing, syncing the group. Within seconds, each ship was executing at pre-launch. Across the waves in the fading dusk light, containers opened to reveal racks of cruise missiles. A few red and yellow lights came back, weapons not waking or showing partial faults. While there was nothing to be done about unresponsive weapons, the command unit authorized the launch of any partially responsive weapons. Its mission parameters allowed for maximum risk to launch platforms, no self-preservation was required. They sequenced flagged weapons to fire last to mitigate possible damage.

With a minute left to launch, a UAV picket flashed an alert, processed in a microsecond. Inbound missiles, skimming the surface at subsonic speeds but closing fast.

With only seconds to respond, the command unit ordered an interceptor salvo. Though low on interceptor inventory, the outer picket also had few offensive weapons to preserve. The command unit ordered it to maximize its electronic emissions and deploy radar reflectors, making itself a large target. The inbounds may not care but any advantage was worthwhile.

Calculating the closure rates, the command unit ordered an early and immediate launch from all ships. It provided the update to the human-in-the-loop with two seconds to countermand. The weapons could still make their trip, the change in launch distance trivial, but a deviation was a deviation. Command must be allowed a countermand opportunity. The time passed, slowly, and confirmation to deviate was received.

All across the task force, rusty ships were momentarily lit up and then disappeared under billowing clouds of rocket exhaust as each disgorged its deadly cargo into the night.

Amphibious Strike One

“Inbounds!” Parodi didn’t yell but he was still loud. Cunningham set that aside and examined the threats on screen. “Command unit is moving to immediate launch, providing for override.”

“Allowing,” Cunningham confirmed.

She noted the likely enemy launch positions were flagged, well beyond their own engagement range. She queued a prosecution request and set to transmit from one of their task force’s SATCOMs. Those ships were already exposed, she wasn’t risking her position.

“Sub-launched, old YJ-82s.” Cunningham noted. “Must be a UUV, no way they’re loading that trash on a manned sub.”

“We’re clear of all twelve inbounds, definitely targeting the task force.” Parodi’s calm had returned.

Better, she thought.

They watched the task force’s defensive fire, downing five of the approaching weapons. Four more, lacking any in-flight collaboration, slammed into the decoying ship nearly in unison and massive overkill. A final missile was intercepted in terminal by a last-ditch launch, the interceptor not even getting up to speed. Even still, shrapnel ripped into the converted commercial ship and she lost all power.

The last two missiles spread to either side of the stricken ships and found their own targets, slamming into one each as they launched the last of their own missiles. On one, it found a container with two missiles that had failed to launch and added their fuel and warhead to the conflagration that quickly consumed the ship. On the other, the midship strike was mortal but less spectacular. Still under power but with flooding it could not contain, the ship continued forward and prepared to scuttle itself.

“Well, that’s it.” Cunningham turned away from the screen, glancing only momentarily at the horizon where she could just make out two of the burning ships of her temporary task force. “We’re out of here.”

“Yes ma’am. Powering up.” Parodi worked the abbreviated pre-flight and within 90 seconds they were pointed into the wind and starting their take-off run.

“Another successful hurry up and wait for the fearless Amphibious Strike One,” Cunningham remarked, eliciting a snort from Parodi.

“You just want another splash twelve moment. War’s moved on with that sort of opportunity. It’s all drones, drones, drones nonsense now.”

“I can dream, can’t I?”

Tyler Totten is a naval engineer working on autonomous systems, including autonomous surface vessels, in the maritime domain. Previous roles have included supporting several Navy and Coast Guard programs including LCS, DDG(X), and PEO Ships Futures Directorate. He has a strong interest in international and maritime security. He is also an amateur science fiction writer published on Kindle. He holds a B.S from Webb Institute in Naval Architecture and Marine Engineering and can be found on Bluesky at @azuresentry.bsky.social and X/Twitter at @AzureSentry.

Featured Image: Art created with Midjourney AI.