GOLAN: This is the Future of War (Future War)

by FX Holden

His nostrils flared as he moved into guns range and flipped the cover of his guns trigger up. The optical infrared gunsight for his Gryazev-Shipunov 30mm cannon had already locked the drone up and was just waiting for him to close the gap before it would automatically fire. He felt a swell of pride. By Christ, the designers at the Sukhoi Design Bureau had done their pilots proud.

  As his hand tightened on the stick, everything started happening at once. The Fantom in his sights nosed down into a positive-g loop that would have burst a blood vessel in the brain of a human pilot, and it was suddenly booming back through the air underneath him. His shock was doubled as a missile alert sounded in his ears, his combat AI wrenched control of the aircraft out of his hands and threw his Felon into a desperately flat, skidding turn…

  Bunny’s missile slammed into the Russian aircraft’s forward section, spearing straight through the cockpit wall, tearing off Rap Tchakov’s legs and eviscerating the plane’s ejector mechanism under his flight seat before its penetrating nose cone burst out the other side of the cockpit in a shower of metal and sparks. The death of Rap Tchakov came mercifully quickly. Before he even registered that he was no longer a whole man, the fuel load in the Peregrine missile exploded, incinerating Rap and sending his Felon tumbling to the earth below.

  If he’d known who’d just killed him, he would have been very, very annoyed indeed.

  All Domain Attack: Fog

  US blockade line, Mediterranean Sea, May 19–20

  Every face in the USS Canberra’s CIC was turned upward toward the speakers in the ceiling, consciously or unconsciously, as they listened in to the commander of the Canberra and Destroyer Squadron 60, Captain Andrews, hail the approaching Iranian ships on the international VHF safety frequency.

  They’d already been passed by at least one Russian Kilo submarine and the two Russian Karakurt-class corvettes, which had turned north and south as soon as they had passed into the Mediterranean and appeared to be conducting anti-submarine operations. Despite the risk to HMS Agincourt, the US destroyers did not interfere.

  The bulk of the fleet, however, including the two Iranian missile destroyers, were still barreling toward them at a steady 23 knots and were now less than two hours away. The Canberra knew exactly where the Russian and Iranian ships were, because it was pulling data from a satellite overhead and an MQ-25 Stingray with sensor pod that was paralleling the fleet at 50,000 feet. Any of the Russian frigates or the Slava-class cruiser could have knocked the drone down with a Buk-M1-2A missile, but for now they were tolerating its presence.

  “Islamic Republic of Iran Destroyers, IRIN Amol and IRIN Sinjan, this is Commander Carson Andrews of the United States Navy. As empowered by United Nations Security Council Resolution 2977, we request you to safely reduce speed and allow a party to board and inspect your vessels for illicit North Korean cargo…”

  “Illicit North Korean cargo?” Ears Bell asked CPO Goldmann, who was leaning against the walls of his station.

  “Nukes. Iran couldn’t make ’em because of the sanctions and Israeli interference, so they bought ’em from Korea.”

  “… failure to submit to this lawful request will result in your vessel being forcibly stopped and inspected. I repeat, failure to submit to this lawful request will result in your vessels being forcibly stopped and inspected.”

  There was no immediate answer, and Bell began to wonder if there would be one. But when it came, it was not the answer, or the answerer, he expected.

  “United States Navy vessels, this is Admiral Andrei Gromyko, Commander of the Russian Federation Black Sea Fleet aboard Russian Navy cruiser Moskva. The ships of Iran sailing with this fleet have already been inspected by the Russian Navy and found not to be in contravention of UN Security Council Resolution 2977, or other instruments. They are sailing under our protection. You will not interfere in their lawful passage through international waters, and if you attempt to do so, it will be considered a hostile act and my ships will respond … appropriately.” There was a slight pause, and Bell could imagine the Russian Admiral smiling broadly to the other officers on the bridge of the Moskva before he cleared his throat and continued. “Is that clear, United States Navy?”

  “Well that was a big Eff You,” Goldmann remarked. “I wonder what the CO…”

  “Admiral Gromyko, your assertion you have searched the Iranian ships notwithstanding, my orders are to stop and search the Iranian frigates Amol and Sinjan and I intend to follow my orders,” Andrews responded. He repeated the call for the Iranian ships to slow and allow themselves to be boarded.

  There was no further response, either Russian or Iranian.

  Goldmann drummed his fingers on Bell’s station. “Ears, there are at least two Russian Kilos, possibly an Iranian Fateh and definitely a rogue Israeli Dolphin circling us at the moment. It would ruin my day if one of them put a fish in our hull.”

  “Won’t happen, Chief,” Ears said, pulling his headset on again with a confidence he didn’t quite feel. It wasn’t that he doubted the Canberra was up to the task. He had the tools. And normally, he’d be up to the task too, but something was troubling him. His kid brother hadn’t called to say he’d arrived in Kuwait. Their mom and pop were worried. They’d been worried for six months, reading every day about the Siege of Kobani and their boy Calvin right there in the thick of it as the Marine casualties mounted. They were all relieved when it was finally decided to pull them out, annoyed Calvin was going to be one of the last men out, and then delighted again to hear from him just as he was getting on a chopper for Kuwait. “Don’t worry! Call you when we land,” had been his last words.

  But he hadn’t.

  Ears had a call in to one of Calvin’s buddies in the Lava Dogs, asking if he had heard anything, if there had been a report of a transport going down or having mechanical trouble, but the guy hadn’t called back yet. Calvin didn’t always call Ears, but he never missed calling their folks.

  Ears caught his mind wandering again and pinched his thigh. Hard. Head in the game, Bell!

  Waypoint reached, Karpathou Strait, heading 47 degrees, depth 180, engines ahead slow, entering stealth holding pattern, the Gal’s AI reported.

  “Game on, as they say, Ehud,” Captain Binyamin Ben-Zvi said, as much to himself as to his 2IC. “What depth is the thermocline?”

  “One fifty here, ranges between that and one ninety, the track we’ve plotted,” Ehud said, checking the ambient water conditions. “Light surface chop, probably strong winds, not good for putting up a buoy. And we only have one left. If we lose it now, we won’t have a radar option for an interception.”

  “We can’t surface here. But we need to confirm our orders, so the buoy is our only choice.” Binyamin was chewing his lip. “You want to go to radio mast depth in one of the busiest shipping lanes in the Med, at least three attack subs and a couple of corvettes out there hunting us? Because I don’t.”

  They had been required to pass a battery of psych tests before they were assigned to the Gal, precisely because it had a two-man crew that would be spending the majority of their patrols – between six weeks and three months – submerged, living in a space smaller than a single shipping container. They needed compatible personalities, but they also needed an ability to deal with pressures above and beyond what normal sailors would ever experience. When Ehud was explaining this to his wife, he told her, “We’re more like astronauts than sailors. Sailors can get outside, feel the air, taste the salt sea, swim, fish. On a normal patrol there will be two or maybe three chances for us to do that. Rest of the time we might as well be out in space, because we’re stuck in our little tin capsule, breathing each other’s farts, drinking desalinated water that tastes like piss, going for days without knowing if the world above us even still exists…”

  That’s how he felt now, and he knew Binyamin would be feeling it even more, with the success of their mission squarely on his shoulders. And all the worries, repercussions and personal regrets that might come along with it.


  Ehud kept his eyes on his instruments but reached out and put a hand on Binyamin’s shoulder. “I’m not saying that. You are right, we need to use the buoy. And if we lose it, it probably won’t matter because if we get the order to execute, we’ll be headed for Gibraltar and we can surface again when we hit the Atlantic.” He swiped through his screen to the buoy controls. “Gal: engines ahead slow, prepare to deploy sensor buoy.”

  Engines ahead slow. In the expected surface conditions I recommend a full stop.

  “No, we need to be able to respond quickly to what we see without having to spool up. Gal: I confirm, ahead slow,” Binyamin said.

  Understood, continuing ahead slow for buoy deployment, Captain.

  Binyamin pulled up their deep-water comms checklist. “Alright, passive sonar check, Ehud.”

  Ehud ran a check of their passive sensors. He threw up the holograph showing clear water for 360 degrees around them, out to five miles. “Sonar clear. Check.”

  “Status report.”

  “Compiled. Correct and ready to send. Check.” The data on the Gal’s systems state, nav history and its black box logs would all be squirted to Eilat in an encrypted burst as the first order of business once the buoy reached satellite transmission depth.

  “Transmission set to Eilat base.”

  “Check.”

  “Speed through the water below five knots.”

  “Speed is … two knots. Check.”

  “Buoy systems check.”

  “Cable release green, booting buoy … buoy reports systems green. Check.”

  “Ready for launch.”

  Ehud pulled up the buoy launch control menu and ran his eyes across the readouts one last time. “On your command.”

  “Gal: you have the helm. Buoy release pattern. Maintain stealth protocol priority, report any contact, autonomy level two. Weapons safed.”

  Aye, Captain. I have the helm, circling the buoy, stealth protocols are prioritized, defensive maneuvers and countermeasures on my initiative, weapons safed.

  “Send it, Ehud.”

  Ehud tapped an icon on his screen and they heard a small clunk as the spring release on the football-sized buoy kicked it into their wake and it started rising to the surface while the gossamer optical fiber cable spooled out behind it. The feeder mechanism would pay out more line than was strictly needed for the buoy to reach the surface because Gal would keep the submarine gently circling underneath it to ensure the cable was not stretched so tight it broke accidentally.

  It took about three minutes for the buoy to hit the surface and when it did, its first job was to locate the Israeli Defense Forces comms satellite used for secure comms with Eilat.

  “Waiting for satellite handshake…” Ehud reported.

  Binyamin started whistling. It was a Bob Dylan song, and that had also been part of their psych compatibility test. Did Ehud mind the fact Binyamin whistled when he was tense? Ehud’s answer had been, ‘not if he’s a good whistler’. He was. It was also a good way for him to signal his mood to Ehud, in case Ehud hadn’t picked up on it. He whistled rock ballads when he was tense, classical or jazz when he was relaxed.

  “What’s going on, Ehud?”

  “No handshake,” Ehud said, frowning. “Gal: can you run a systems diagnostic on comms systems?”

  Aye, XO. Running. All systems nominal.

  “So what is the problem?”

  “I don’t know, it’s … it’s like the satellite isn’t there. If there was a glitch we’d usually get some error message from the satellite, but there’s nothing. Zero.”

  “Try again.”

  “It does that automatically. I’m telling you, there’s just no connection. It’s like a cell phone telling you it has no signal.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  Ehud shook his head thoughtfully. “Sure, unless … I’ll scan for commercial radio frequencies. See if we can get IPBC on long wave.” The Israel Public Broadcasting Service still had a longwave service for overseas Israelis who couldn’t pick up its internet channel. It also had a dedicated frequency that sent Defense Department messages to encrypted IDF radios. “Got it. Putting on speaker.”

  “… Alert. The Government of Israel has declared a national emergency. A night-time curfew is in place for all civilians. All IDF reservists and active personnel are to report to their bases in person immediately. All IDF unit commanders are to report to their headquarters in person immediately…”

  “Oh, shit,” Ehud said.

  “Quiet.”

  “… here is the IDF update for 0200 hours 16 May 2030. Cyber domain: A large-scale cyber attack on Israel’s command, control, intelligence and economic infrastructure is still underway. Expect communication disruptions to internet, landline telephone exchange and cell phone communication. UHF and VHF radio communications should be used for short-range communication. A network of motorcycle couriers is being established. Space domain: Russian anti-satellite missiles have destroyed several communication satellites. Expect communication disruptions. Use UHF and VHF radio for short-range communication. Do not use unencrypted radio communication except in emergencies. Ground domain: all active and reserve personnel should report to their unit commander immediately, in person. We have received reports of hostile ground forces conducting reconnaissance activities across our borders in the Golan Heights and western Lebanon. Russian- and Iranian-backed Syrian forces are massed on the Golan Heights ceasefire line. All ground units in the Golan sector have been ordered to stay in place and prepare to defend against a possible invasion. There have been terrorist attacks in the Golan Heights, West Bank, Gaza Strip and Lebanon border areas…”

  “Well, that’s why we can’t get through,” Ehud said. “It’s Yom Kippur all over again, starting in cyberspace…”

  “Ground war can’t be far off, the cyber stuff is just to soften us up, create confusion,” Binyamin agreed. “What about our Navy?”

  “… Air domain: Offensive operations by our Air Force are underway targeting hostile ground forces in western Syria, Lebanon and Iran. Heavy damage has been inflicted on enemy ground and air defense forces, but there have been Israeli Air Force losses. Naval domain: US forces have intercepted and boarded an Iranian submarine in the Red Sea due to suspicion it carried illicit cargo. The submarine is being towed to Sudan. Israeli Navy units are conducting defensive patrols in the Gulf of Aqaba, the Red Sea and Mediterranean Sea. Hezbollah mobile anti-ship missile batteries in Lebanon have been activated and should be considered a high-risk threat. That concludes this IDF update. Next update at 0230 hours.”

  The message concluded with a long alphanumeric sequence – which contained both updated mission orders and, where relevant, nuclear authorization codes for Israeli weapons commanders.

  “Gal: parse the alphanumeric code and decrypt.”

  Parsing … complete.

  “Any change to our orders?”

  No, Captain. Existing orders for the GAL were confirmed, special weapon authorization code included. Shall I update with the new authorization code?

  “Yes. Then conduct a radar sweep, identify contacts, classify and report.”

  Executing radar sweep.

  Ehud looked grim. “It’s not code red, Ehud, not yet,” Binyamin said.

  “But how do we know … I mean, that message might be running on repeat and everyone at the station sending it could be dead!” A slight note of hysteria entered his voice. “Eilat could be sending us new tasking right now, and we wouldn’t receive it!”

  “Protocol 142, Ehud.”

  Gal was one of several nuclear-armed weapons platforms in the Israeli armory. If the army or air force was overwhelmed and the viability of the state threatened, or if another nation attacked it with nuclear weapons, Gal could be tasked to use its missiles to attack enemy harbors, or even coastal cities. But to do that required a completely different set of orders and authentication codes than they had received in their last communication window. Protocol 142 removed a ship comma
nder’s authority to use special weapons if their authorization code was more than four hours old. Theirs had just been revalidated.

  “Even if we lose special weapons authority, we still have conventional weapons,” Binyamin said. “And we still have a mission; those orders were unchanged. We were ordered to get ourselves in position to attack those Iranian frigates if needed. That we have done. In fact, from what we heard, our orders make more sense than ever.”

  Surface contacts identified, no hostile vessels or aircraft within detection range. Contacts on radar display.

  The flat panel screen in front of both of them popped up a window showing a radar picture with known vessels labeled and unknown vessels classified by type. The buoy radar had a surface range of only ten miles, because it was down at sea level, but it showed no sign of the Russian corvettes that had been hunting them, and no sign of drones or helos above them.

  “Look, we can scan some commercial radio frequencies, see what the news services are reporting. Maybe we …” Before Binyamin could complete the thought, their tactical situation was turned on its head.

  Alert. Subsurface contact detected. Classifying as Iranian Fateh-class submarine bearing two seven eight, depth 210, range three miles, relative speed six knots. Recommend port full rudder, increase speed to one third ahead, set depth above thermocline at 100 feet.

  The situational awareness holograph blinked to life, showing the Iranian sub in red, slightly below them and on an intercept heading.

  “Damn. Gal: execute. Arm Seahake torpedoes. Reel in the buoy.”

  “They’ll hear that.”

  “They already have,” Binyamin decided. “They’re …”

  Alert. Torpedo incoming. Type Hoot. Initiating jamming. Deploying decoys. Engine ahead flank. Rudder port full. Time to impact, forty-seven seconds.

  As the engines wound up and they began accelerating into a hard turn to port, Binyamin paled. Based on a Russian design, the Hoot was a rocket-propelled supercavitating torpedo that had a short range but flew through the water at 220 miles an hour. Their own German-made conventional torpedoes reached only 57 miles an hour.