Modern Warfare Series

Thank you so much to everyone who has helped make The Kidd Incident such a huge success. We have had over 100,000 page views on this page alone and thousands and thousands of readers for the complete series. Now that the original story is complete, it is available as a novel on Amazon. You can find The Kidd Incident here. You can also read Episode 1 for free. Note that the novel is essentially a cleaned up version of the story that was posted here, not a new story.

This project began in September of 2018 as a way to explore a topic that has floated around Quora for many years: what would happen in a modern conflict between China and the USA. To make the story work, some scenarios like full-on nuclear war have been sidelined. The goal is to tell a story from the US Military perspective which means that other perspectives are muted intentionally. This doesn’t mean those perspectives are unimportant, they are just not the focus of this work.

This site is now dedicated to the sequel to The Kidd Incident. Modern Warfare Book 2: The Sonoran Incursion. Just like the original Kidd Incident, the Sonoran Incursion will be shared here in episode format, one episode at a time. Over the past four years, we have received thousands of comments, suggestions, and messages of support. Please know that we read EVERY ONE and we appreciate your input and support.

For information about the series including notifications of new episodes, join our mailing list using the link on the left.

You can start Book 2 here.

Book 2: Episode 1

Salton City, California

Lance Peters sighed as he opened a beer on the back porch of his trailer. Sitting down on the lawn chair, he gazed over the salt flats of the former Salton Sea.  For some reason, he felt like he belonged here.  Semi-abandoned, only crazy people lived here these days.  Decent folks, they kept to themselves which suited Peters just fine.

After the South China Sea war, Peters had bounced around the Army in a couple of roles.  Too old for a field command, his final posting to the Pentagon convinced him to leave the Army for good.  However, once he left, he realized he really didn’t have any marketable skills or interest in working for a company that made widgets or whatever it was they did.  After trying to run an executive consulting company focused on motivation and strategic goal setting, he finally decided to simplify his life.  Living in a trailer on his Army pension in a mostly abandoned town was about as simple as it got.  He didn’t even have a phone or electrical service, just solar and water he had delivered once a month.  Or at least he had water delivered when he remembered to pay the bill, which he hadn’t lately.

Living in the desert meant that you didn’t have to weed the yard, just an occasional raking was fine.  No trees or grass to maintain.  Just sand and rocks.

As he finished the beer, he was faintly surprised to hear a car drive up his driveway.  In the year he had lived in the trailer, he had had exactly one visitor, someone from the local veterans hall worried he was a suicide risk.  Since then, nobody had come down his street, let alone come up the driveway.

A patient man, Peters waited.  If it was someone who wanted to talk to him, they would figure it out.  If not, he’d rather not talk to anyone anyway.

A few seconds later, the car stopped, the engine was turned off and he heard a door slam.

“Captain Peters!!  Are you home?”

Well, shit.

Peters didn’t move.  Perhaps the person would just go away.

But they didn’t go away.  “Peters!   Godammit!  Are you here or not?”  He heard knocking on the door of the trailer.

Peters briefly entertained answering the door.  But then he remembered he had another beer in the cooler by his foot.  Opening the beer, he decided that the door would take care of itself.

A minute later, a tall Asian man walked around the side of the trailer.  “Captain Peters!  Is that you?  Jesus Christ!  You look like shit, man.”

“Retired.”  Peters sighed.  “I don’t know you, man; this is private property.  Go the fuck away or I get my gun and shoot your ass.”

The man shook his head and walked over to where Peters was sitting.  “Don’t you recognize me?”

Peters took a good look.  The man looked Korean.  Fuck.  “No, did I shoot your mommy during the war or something?”

“I heard you had some sort of breakdown, but I didn’t think it would be this bad.”  The man looked around for another chair but didn’t find one.  He walked over and leaned against the post holding up the awning.  “Peters, it’s me, Dae-Won Park.”

Peters looked at him again.  “All the Koreans I know are dead.”

“Well, you missed one.”

This dude wasn’t going to go away, was he?  “OK, I give up, who the fuck are you?”

The man shook his head.  “You really don’t recognize me?”

Peters took a big slug of the beer.  Maybe the alcohol would make him go away.  “No, go the fuck away.”

“Dark barn, greedy general, sea route home?”

Peters dropped the beer and leaped to his feet.  “Park!  Holy Fuck!”  Park flinched as Peters gave him a huge bear hug.  “I thought you were dead, man!”  For a moment, Peters was back in North Korea, behind enemy lines just days before the invasion from the south.  While he had been too focused at the time to be afraid, he looked back on that time now with a shudder.  So many things could have gone horribly wrong.

Park laughed.  “No, just stuck behind the line.  I got trapped halfway to the ocean and missed my ride.  Got a bit hairy there for a while.  By the time I got clear, the war was over.”

“I would offer you a chair, but I’ve only got one.”

“You OK, man?”

“Yeah, just needed to simplify things.”

Park looked around.  The ancient aluminum trailer had been painted once but was mostly just bare metal now.  Inside it looked like someone had put curtains in the windows sometime in the 1950’s.  It was hard to tell because the windows clearly hadn’t been cleaned since then.  If his source hadn’t insisted that Peters was here, he would have assumed the trailer was abandoned.

“How about I buy you dinner?”

Peters shook his head.  “I don’t get out much.  I’m fine here.”

Park poked his head inside the trailer for a second.  “They have a bar there.”

“Well, that sounds more interesting.”  Peters sighed.  “I don’t do well around crowds.”

“It’s 2pm on a Thursday.  There won’t be anyone there.”  Peters still looked doubtful.  “We can eat on the patio.  You don’t need to go inside.”

Peters laughed.  “OK, you got it.”  He looked down at his ragged T-shirt and dusty jeans.  “Uh, let me put on some fresh clothes.”

“A shower wouldn’t hurt.”

“No water.”

“Of course.”

By the time they made it to the Jackalope Ranch restaurant in Indio, Peters was getting curious about why Park had gone to so much trouble to find him.

Settled at a table on the edge of the lush grass and listening to the artificial waterfall just on the other side of the artificial pond, his brain started to engage again.  “OK, Park.  What the fuck is up?”

Park laughed and sipped at his mai tai.   “You’re an asset, my friend.”

“An asset?”

“Yeah.  You are well trained, an expert in austere operations and, judging from our time together today, nobody will miss you if you suddenly disappear for weeks or months at a time.  You would be surprised at how many people can’t just drop everything and leave the country.”

“I would?”

“You just going to ask two-word questions all day?”

“I might.”

“Fuck man, cut it out.”

Luckily the slab of ribs they had each ordered arrived just then.  Peters tore into his with ravenous hunger.  He realized it was the first decent meal he had eaten in months.  He’d been living off of canned food and Top Ramen packets.  It tasted pretty fucking good.

“OK, Park, tell me what the fuck is up.  I don’t know you well, but our brief time together didn’t lead me to think you are sentimental.  We are not going back to Korea, that shit is all wrapped up.  There is no way the Army wants me, or you would be wearing a uniform and pretty ribbons.  This isn’t a social call because I don’t actually know you.  Don’t give me that spook central shit.  You have a job for me.  What is it and will I survive the experience?”

Park paused over his second to last rib.  “That’s more than you’ve said to me all day.”  He finished the rack, opened a wet wipe and carefully cleaned his hands and face.  “Let me tell you about a lovely estate the CIA owns in Nogales, Mexico.  You will love Sonora, I guarantee it.”

Peters started to laugh.  In seconds he was laughing so hard his eyes watered and he struggled for breath.  Finally, he stopped, panting.  “OK, you got me.”

Continue with Episode 2 NOW!

Book 2: Episode 60

Naval Surface Force US Western Command (SURFWEST), embarked USS Zumwalt (DDG 1000)

250 Miles Southwest, Cabo San Lucas, Mexico

“COMSURFWEST to all Rapier Units.  Execute OPORD Rapier, H-Hour 0600 ZULU.  Maintain EMCON, ROE Alpha in effect.”  Admiral Harris put the secure handset down.  Operation Rapier was about to commence.  The largest US Navy Surface action since Operation Praying Mantis in 1988.

Newly armed with the Army developed Conventional Prompt Strike hypersonic missile, the Zumwalt was the only ship in the entire US Navy currently so equipped.  Despite the fact that the system was not officially operational yet, the decision had been taken to have the Zumwalt lead the attack on Manzanillo.  Intelligence was much sparser than Harris would like but several days of submarine based surveillance had confirmed dozens of Chinese flagged cargo ships heading towards the port there.  This made sense since Manzanillo was the largest port on Mexico’s west coast and it was supported by rail lines north towards the United States.  The intelligence estimate was that 80-90% of the equipment and supplies needed by the Chinese to support the invasion were coming right through this port.

Harris turned back to the plotting table, examining the positions of his ships carefully.  They had managed to recall the USS Michigan (SSGN-727) which would increase their striking power immensely.  However, they didn’t have the air support that they would normally use as a follow on.  This explained why the USS Santa Barbara (LCS-32) was sailing all by herself just one hundred miles off the Mexican coast.

Harris was concerned. He remembered the fate of the Shiloh during the SCS War.  That Ticonderoga class cruiser had been sunk and only 40 of her sailors had survived.  Now he was asking the much smaller LCS class Santa Barbara to essentially play a similar forward role.  The situation here was very different, but that didn’t stop images of wounded sailors being pulled out of the sea from going through his head.

“Admiral, we have a problem, PLAN submarine, bearing One Oh Eight.  Range ten miles.”

Strangely, the Zumwalt, a ship designed for shore bombardment, had one of the best anti-submarine capabilities of the entire USN surface fleet.  With a bow mounted sonar, towed array and a nixie, she was every bit as capable as any other surface combatant and had a much larger flight deck to carry the critical anti-submarine helicopters needed to defend a surface fleet.  Unless, of course they had friends.  “Fire up deep siren, give the Seawolf the go.”

Unlike the last war, the US Navy had finally cracked the technical challenge of sending real time communications to submarines while underway.  Since WWII, submarines had relied on regular radio to communicate.  That meant either coming to periscope depth to communicate with VHF and satellites or using Extremely Long Frequency (ELF) radios that were very bandwidth limited.  So much so, that only a few characters could be sent every minute.  The new Deep Siren system used a buoy to receive radio messages and then re-transmitted the encoded message via audio signals which the submarine could pick up on their sonar system.  This would be the very first operational use of the system.

USS Seawolf (SSN-21)

Middle America Trench, Depth 1,000 Feet, 50 miles southwest Manzanillo Mexico

Commander Higgensbush frowned over the message that the Deep Siren Tactical Paging (DSTP) operator handed him.  The Seawolf was an odd boat, only one of two boats in her class constructed (not including the Carter which was significantly different than her other two sisters of the class).  Designed to take down anything the Soviets could build during the cold war, the end of the Soviet Union had meant she had no mission.  Like the B-2 bomber, the program was abruptly cancelled as part of the larger “peace dividend.”  This made her a VERY expensive carrier escort with essentially no mission to perform during the entire Global War on Terror (GWOT).  While the replacement boat, the Virginia class was a good boat, they were generalists.  Designed for a variety of missions including global strike.  Not the Seawolf.  The Seawolf was a hunter.  No purpose other than killing other ships and specifically designed to kill submarines.

During the SCS war, Seawolf and her sister ship the Connecticut had been stationed in New Groton Connecticut, a holdover from the cold war when she was expected to fight the Soviets in the North Atlantic.  The SCS war had made that plan obviously out of date and both the Seawolf and the Connecticut had been homeported in Kitsap along with the bulk of the Pacific Submarine Force.  Unfortunately for the USN, Connecticut had impacted a seamount (basically an underwater mountain) and was currently in dry dock in Bremerton. 

Since receiving her orders as part of the larger operation Rapier, Seawolf had been skulking along the Middle America Trench which ran along the coast of Mexico down to Central America, reporting on the large amount of Chinese shipping traffic in and out of Manzanillo.  Although the Seawolf had a much deeper test depth than other American attack submarines, she could not get anywhere close to the bottom of the trench which reached over 20,000 feet deep in places.  It was the perfect operating area for Seawolf.  The deeper she went, the denser the water.  This density made her quieter and allowed her sonar performance to improve.  Although all USN submarines were quiet, the Seawolf was the pinnacle of US submarine technology.  The Seawolf was quieter at 10 knots than a Los Angeles class was sitting at the dock.  The difference in sound was astounding.

All of this meant that the Seawolf was as silent as on open grave as she stalked her prey, five miles away.

“Sonar, Con.  Report all contacts.”

“Conn, sonar.  I have Sierra 1, bearing three five zero, speed five knots.  Confirmed submerged, likely Yuan class, definitely AIP.  Master contact two evaluated to be US LCS Class, confirmed jet pump propulsion.  Bearing three five five, surface contact, speed thirty five knots.  Master two is turning.  New course two seven zero.”  Air Independent Propulsion (AIP) had been a revolution in non-nuclear submarine design.  They were able to move very quietly, in some cases even more quietly than a nuclear boat. 

“Weapons, evaluation?”

“Sir, confirming the intel from ComSurfWest.  We have a PLAN Yuan class going after that LCS.  According to the intel report, she is the Santa Barbara.”

Higgensbush tapped the chart.  “Those LCS tin cans can move when they want to.”

“Yes, sir, but not enough to escape, the submarine will have her in less than thirty minutes.  Those AIP boats aren’t fast but they’re quiet as hell.  No idea how the Zumwalt heard her.”

“We did a fleet ex against her last year, good sonar crew there.”

“Apparently.”

“Fire control, set up a solution for Seirra 1.  I want one fish on her and another ready to go.  Low speed at first, then increase to maximum if the shot is detected.”

“Aye, aye.  Targeting primary shot with tube one, backup shot with tube two.  Solution locked.”

“Captain has the conn.”

“Aye, captain has the conn.”

“Take her up two hundred.”

“Diving control, make your depth eight zero zero, up ten on the fairwater planes.”

“Making my depth eight zero zero, up ten.”

The Seawolf groaned slightly as the pressure on the hull reduced.  It was a risk changing depth, but taking torpedo shots at extreme depths used up too much of the boat’s reserve air supply.  Even two hundred feet higher reduced the amount of air required by a significant degree.

“Sir, my depth is eight zero zero.”

“Weapons free.”

“Sir, my weapon is hot, ready to shoot.”

“Shoot.”

“One away.  Good track.”  The MK48 ADCAP Mod 7 torpedo moved at a relatively sedated twenty knots away from the American attack submarine, attempting to reduce its noise signature and get closer before detection.

“Conn, sonar, cavitation from Sierra 1, he heard that.”  The weapons technician issued an order over the command wire linking the torpedo to the submarine and it exploded into motion.  Officially listed as “greater than 28 knots” the actual top speed of the MK48 was over 55 knots due to its advanced axial-flow pump-jet, essentially a jet engine under water.  While the AIP system in the PLAN submarine was quiet, it wasn’t as fast as a nuclear boat.  Even the Seawolf, one of the fastest boats in the US inventory, would have trouble outrunning a MK48.  The PLAN boat had no chance.

“Hit!  That’s a hit!  Air escaping, screws are going to maximum, they’re trying to surface the boat.  Hull breach.  We are getting breakup noises.  Boat is going down.  Target is down hard.  Passing crush depth.”

The USS Seawolf had just achieved the second fully submerged victory over another submarine and the first by a nuclear submarine ever.

USS Santa Barbara (LCS 32)

40 miles northwest, Manzanillo, Mexico

“Launch!”

With that command, the sailors on the Santa Barbara’s flight deck fired the solid rocket boosters attached to the six LUCAS drones arrayed there.  The rockets fired for a few seconds to get the small triangle shaped LUCAS drones airborne, then the small engines on the drones took over and propelled the drones up to their maximum cruising speed of about one hundred miles per hour.  Fast for a car or a boat, but slow as hell for an aircraft.  The only good thing about LUCAS was that it was cheap.  You could loft them from almost anywhere (even the deck of a small ship like the Santa Barbara) and they were cheap enough that you didn’t worry about getting them back.

Captain Guererro trotted back to the CIC.  “Flank Speed!  Get us the hell out of here.  Set course two seven zero.”  Guererro knew that the Santa Barbara had no business being this close to a major enemy base like Manzanillo.  However, their air assets were so limited that he had volunteered to scoot in and fire off his drones.  He hoped that the speed of his “little crappy ship” would get them out of trouble.  “Captain, radar contact.  Designate target Romeo six.  Heading one seven five at two hundred knots, altitude five hundred feet.”  A Chinese aircraft flying that low and slow meant it was probably a maritime patrol aircraft.  Perhaps a specialized sub hunter.

“BLOODHOUND!  BLOODHOUND!  BLOODHOUND!  Torpedo bearing one seven five.  Speed fifty five knots!”  There was a pause as the sonar operator examined her scope.  “It’s a Mark 48, ADCAP.  Confirmed, submarined launched torpedo.  Cavitation!!  There is a PLAN submarine down there.  It’s attempting to get away.  Not going to make it!  HIT!  That’s a hit!”

Guerrerro turned to his Tactical Action Officer (TAO).  “That Chinese bird surely heard that.  Are we close enough to take a shot at her?”

“Not unless we turn.”

“Helm, new course, zero nine zero.   Maintain flank speed.”

“TAO, set it up, let’s make sure our friend down there is safe.”

“Aye, sir.  Weapons free, anti-air.  Set condition zulu throughout the ship.  All hands, man battle stations, air defense.  I say again, set condition zulu.”

The Santa Barbara was ridiculously underprepared to fight an air action.  Designed for lower intensity warfare, she wasn’t equipped with Aegis or a proper Vertical Launch System (VLS) like her larger sisters.  She did carry Hellfire missiles which were originally designed to attack tanks from the air.  The latest Longbow version of the Hellfire was radar guided and had a limited surface to air capability, mostly meant to attack drones.  However, the Chinese aircraft was slow enough that they might be able to hit it.

Flying low over the ocean, the Chinese Shaanxi KQ-200 was too intently focused on the American submarine that had attacked their comrades on the PLAN submarine to pay enough attention to the Santa Barbara.  They had detected the LCS over thirty minutes ago, but had largely ignored the small ship, focusing instead on the threat of submarines.  They had reported the contact and had been told that the PLAN submarine five miles away would take care of the US ship.  Besides, the small torpedoes mounted in the belly of the aircraft were not designed to attack surface ships, only submarines.

Guererro didn’t know or care why the Chinese aircraft wasn’t making avoiding maneuvers.  He just knew that the aircraft was coming into his very limited range.  Suddenly the small ship shuddered with the launch of a Hellfire, then another.  The ship’s radar queued the missiles onto the aircraft but then the small radar seekers on the missiles took over.  A far cry from the speedy missiles carried by a Burke class destroyer, they were more than enough for the lumbering low level turbo prop.

“Hit!  That’s a hit!  Splash one!”

“Helm, new course two seven zero.”

“Two seven zero, aye.”

Now they had to pray.  They were very exposed, almost one hundred miles from the main body.  An easy shot for any Chinese anti-ship missile crew.

Book 2: Episode 59

Task Force Anvil

Strategic Expeditionary Landing Field (SELF), Twentynine Palms, CA

Only about forty miles by air from the fighting on I-10, the Marines at Twentynine Palms had been supporting the other troops defending Southern California, but with limited armor and air support, their ability to support those troops had been constrained.  That situation was rapidly changing, however.  Fawkes watched silently as yet another C-17 came in for a landing at SELF.  An expeditionary landing field meant that SELF was completely composed of AM-2 aluminum panels.  It had originally been constructed as a training site to teach Marine Corps and allied pilots how to land on a temporary airstrip.  It was exactly the kind of airstrip that the Marines would construct in the field as needed on an island or other location that didn’t have the logistics to support aircraft or a traditional airport.

Today, it was the closest active runway to the fighting in southern California and was getting over twenty flights a day in support of that operation.  The commandant of the Marine Corps had stripped units on the East Coast to the bone and had been sending everything he could think of west.  Fawkes was there to meet his new Air Defense Commander (ADC).  Fawkes had never worked with an ADC before.  Always in prior fights, the USA had unquestioned air superiority.  While the Marines had been planning for this day for almost four years, it was very intimidating to think that they would be going into battle shortly without friendly air cover overhead—something that the USMC had not done since WWII, and even then, they normally had good air support from the Navy.

As troops started filing off the huge C-17, Fawkes saw the Marine officer he was looking for.  “Major Konicky, over here!”  Returning the major’s salute, he walked him back to the JLTV.  “Welcome to California, Konicky.  We’re glad you’re here.”

“About damn time the Pentagon got their thumb out of their ass.  Half of my battalion is still in Okinawa, or was until they got orders to deploy.  The rest are coming in today.”

The JLTV was speeding along a dusty road, headed for a remote building where the mission briefing was going to take place.  It had been decided to stay away from the main installation at Twentynine Palms since it had already been attacked several times.  Luckily, it was a sprawling facility with plenty of random buildings spread out over one thousand square miles.  Plenty of room to spread out and make the enemy’s job harder.  There was some friendly air cover overhead which meant a full-on bomber attack wasn’t likely but that didn’t rule out drones or missiles, both of which had been used against the base already.

As they pulled up to the building, an MV-22 Osprey came in for a landing and a US Army lieutenant colonel stepped out, flanked by two armed Army enlisted soldiers.  They were all wearing helmets and body armor.  They were also filthy, they had obviously been in the thick of things.  Fawkes walked over and returned the Army officer’s brief salute.  You normally didn’t salute in a combat situation, but apparently the Army officer felt it was safe enough here away from the front lines.  Fawkes extended a hand.  “Fawkes, glad you could join us, Colonel.”

“Aliston.  I’m just glad you are here.  We are about at the end of our string.  We are past due for relief.”

Fawkes looked down.  “I’m afraid that my orders are not to relieve you.  I have a different mission.”

“What?!”  Aliston stopped dead in his tracks.  “What the fuck did you say?”

Fawkes could see that this man had been under fire for some time.  His unit had taken the brunt of the Chinese thrust up I-10.  He could sympathize but the larger picture was that the only way to really stop this thing was to close off the supply line.  “Colonel, please come into the briefing.  I will explain.”

Forty minutes later, Aliston was still angry.  “There is no fucking way my men can hold for five more days.  Hell, I’d be surprised if we can hold for five more hours.  The airborne insertion on the fifteen and the Navy support on the five means that the Chinese have shifted the bulk of their attack right fucking here.”  For emphasis he pounded the map, vaguely in the area of Cabazon where his men had spent three days in a desperate action to hold the line.  “If you go into Mexico now, you’ll have to fight your way back to Los Angeles because the ChiComs will be behind you!”

None of the officers at the map table noticed when the door opened.  Suddenly, a gunnery sergeant standing on the other side of the table stiffened, bracing to attention.  “Room ATTENTION!”

Everyone in the room stopped what they were doing and braced to attention, facing the door.  Three men entered, one a US Navy admiral wearing the NWU III green camouflage used by the Navy.  The name tape on his camouflage uniform said “Lensten.”  “As you were.”  Lensten walked over to Lt. Colonel Aliston.  “You Aliston?”

“Sir, yes sir!”

He handed a box to Aliston.  “Congratulations and thank you.”

Opening the box, Aliston could see a silver star, one of the highest awards for bravery in the US military.  “Sir, my men deserve this, not me.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll take care of them.  We heard about your stunt on the top of the casino.”  Lensten turned to Colonel Fawkes.  “His command post was on top of this big ass building right in the middle of Cabazon.  They took two missiles right up the gut, blew the hell out of everything.  Aliston called in a fire mission to stop the enemy advance despite being wounded and then carried two wounded soldiers down six flights of stairs.  We only found out because the wounded got evac’d to one of the LPDs offshore.”

Aliston was obviously embarrassed.  “Sir, I…”

Lensten turned back.  “You’re not going to call a brother officer a liar, are you Colonel?”

“No, sir.”

“Good.  Let’s get on with it.”  He gestured to Peters.  “This is Captain Peters, he is on my direct staff and is driving mission planning and running Red Team for me.  He will be your direct liaison to West.”  He pointed to Bustamante.  “Commander Bustamante, Mexican Marine Corps.  He will be your liaison in Mexico.”

“Sir, aren’t we fighting the Mexicans?”

“No, we’re not and Bustamante is here to make sure that doesn’t happen.”   He pointed to Peters.  “Captain Peters, you may begin your briefing on Operation Doolittle.”  With a final nod, Lensten headed to the door, security detail in tow.

Two hours later, Aliston was shaking his head.  “Even if you have air cover, you are going to get murdered by drones.  We have seen waves of over one hundred.  You can try going after them with squad weapons, but it’s a crap shoot.  We’ve started just taking cover when they show up.”

Konicky raised his hand.  “Yo!  That’s my department.  I can’t handle fast movers, but down low and slow we got you.”

Aliston just looked at the Marine major for a moment.  “I’ve got over a hundred dead soldiers from drones alone, Major.”

“Yes, sir.  My brother Marines are getting hit hard too.  We’re here now, sir.  We got this.”

Aliston looked at Peters.  The captain wasn’t wearing his “rack” of medals on his combat fatigues of course, but he was wearing three “flashes” on his shoulder.  Not many captains had the triple threat of Special Forces, Ranger and Airborne on their shoulders.   “Where were you during the last one, Peters?”  If he was going to risk his life and the lives of all his soldiers, he wanted to know what moron thought up this plan.

“Twenty-five miles north of the DMZ when the balloon went up.  Then we hooked up with the 3-67 for the trip north.”

Aliston just looked at Peters for a moment, trying to decide if Peters was telling the truth.  “You’re Ghostwalker Six.”

“For my sins, yes.”

The entire Army knew about the insane Green Beret operation that had saved the entire mission to invade North Korea during the South China Sea war (which had started with what was commonly referred to as “The Kidd Incident”).  The Green Beret team had been inserted behind enemy lines and then directed the 3rd Battalion, 67th armor safely through the DMZ.  By doing so they had saved thousands of soldiers through sheer balls and determination.  It was easily the most famous Army operation since WWII.  But nobody knew the name of the Special Forces captain who led the team.  He was simply known as “Ghostwalker Six” which was his code name during the operation.  Aliston looked at the other officers in the room.  They nodded in turn.  “OK, I’m in.”