He recalled Saronic’s CEO explaining, “We’re not building yachts.” They walked past workstations, where students fresh from MIT were installing targeting software originally developed for virtual reality video games. “Think of these things like iPhones that float and kill. When one breaks, you don’t fix it — you build five more.”
That philosophy had shattered forty years of Navy doctrine. Where a Burke-class destroyer was costing the Navy two and a half billion a ship and taking five to six years to build, a Corsair cost five to six hundred thousand dollars per ship and just seven to twenty-one days to build. Of course, the old guard of the five big Defense Prime companies that had controlled the US defense industry since 1993’s “Last Supper” threw a big stink. But Batista knew they were only howling because the Corsairs threatened their bottom lines.
Admiral Blackwood, the then-Chief of Naval Operations, had practically vomited his coffee during a Joint Chiefs briefing when Saronic pitched the idea to start building newer classes of large, unmanned autonomous vessels. Batista still remembered a captain on the admiral’s staff joking, “You can’t be serious — disposable warships? What’s next, cardboard carriers? Tupperware cruisers?”
Batista had wanted to choke the man. Instead, they listened as the Tech CEO explained the design for their 140-meter-long Doomhammer-class arsenal UAV. It would augment manned ships like the Burkes or a carrier strike group with a capable, long-range hypersonic strike and defense platform, capable of carrying 96 VLS cells and two 150kW directed energy weapons.
“With a large, modular, mission-capable UAV platform like the Doomhammer, the Navy will have a new way of projecting power into the Pacific… or wherever these UAVs are directed,” the CEO of Saronic had concluded.
Regardless of what the admiral and the Defense Primes thought, the math of the problem facing them was unescapable. The Jiangnan and Dalian shipyards in China had launched sixteen Type 055 destroyers between 2014 and 2032, while American shipyards had completed eighteen Arleigh Burkes in the same amount of time. The problem was that the PLA was also producing other highly capable destroyers, frigates, and submarines at a rate US shipbuilders had no means of keeping up with. In thirty years, the PLA Navy had achieved something unthinkable — numerical and tonnage superiority over the US Navy by the year 2032. No matter how anyone had rationalized it, the traditional shipbuilding the Navy had relied on for decades could no longer compete with the manufacturing powerhouse China had become. America had needed a new playbook — one written in code rather than steel if it had any hope of winning the wars of the future.
The DARPA Replicator program had provided the blueprint — not massive shipyards requiring thousands of skilled welders, but distributed production using civilian manufacturing. Anduril was mass-producing missiles and their Fury drones at production rates not seen since the end of World War II. Shield AI was now assembling underwater systems in plants that previously manufactured jet skis. Even traditional defense giants, while slow to adapt, had finally caught on. Huntington Ingalls was now operating “ghost yards” at the Toledo Shipyard in Ohio, at the General Dynamics NASSCO facility in San Diego, California, and at the Fincantieri shipyards of northern Wisconsin. They were dispersed far from vulnerable coastal yards the Navy had relied on the past couple of decades. With the introduction of modular construction techniques borrowed from prefab housing, the rate of construction of these unmanned combat vessels was beginning to outpace the rate of Chinese manned ship production.
The key to success with the ACVs was the constant reminder to the Navy brass that they weren’t meant to replace their treasured carriers or submarines. They were meant to augment them and overwhelm America’s enemies. Using swarm tactics backed by AI-battle managers, decisions could be made in nanoseconds. Lose ten unmanned surface vessels in a battle? Build twenty more before the end of the month. It was a change in how the Navy viewed its warships. No longer was it a race to match manned ship for manned ship with China. It was now a race to field more missile and drone platforms than China could hope to defend against. At least, that was the theory.
Now DARPA was several years into the Pentagon’s Replicator program as it scrambled to find ways to counter the Chinese Navy’s shipbuilding juggernaut. While Batista was generally optimistic about the changing trajectory, his jaw tightened as he reviewed current readiness levels. Theory required execution, and execution required hulls in the water. Every delay meant the equation shifted further in Beijing’s favor.
“Captain, that was an impressive video of each of these ACVs, but let’s dispense with the fancy projections of what these autonomous weapons are supposed to do and talk about why I’m looking at a task group that’s supposed to be fully operational but is currently at sixty-six percent strength,” grilled Batista, his voice cutting through the noise of the AC running in the background.
Hammond acknowledged the question as he tapped something on his tablet. The monitor displayed another slide, one highlighting operational vessels in blue. “Sir, two-thirds of our autonomous combat vessels are deployed with the USS Intrepid, currently homeported at Pearl. In a couple of days they will be conducting a simulated naval engagement and live-fire exercises near Adak, and the Bering Sea.”
Batista raised an eyebrow, leaning forward to ask. “Live fire, eh? OK, that doesn’t answer my question about the other third. Where are they?”
Hammond shifted uncomfortably. “Production delays—”
Batista’s hand slammed the table in frustration. “Unacceptable, Captain. I’m looking at a roster that shows your Pacific Task Group Jericho-1 at sixty-six percent. Atlantic Fleet’s Hazar-1 is at fifty percent. Your second Pacific group, Jericho-2?” He scrolled through his own read-ahead on his tablet. “Forty percent. These were supposed to be at full strength three weeks ago.”
Admiral Vos intervened. “Jim, I understand the frustration. No one is more irritated by these production delays than I am. We’ve been encountering some serious supply chain issues that we’re still trying to—”
“Sorry to cut you off, Admiral, but I’ve got to call BS on part of this. Six months behind schedule. That’s what this read-ahead says.” Batista’s voice dropped to a dangerous quiet as he briefly held his tablet up, then placed it back on the table. “I know the Navy’s already submitted requirements for triple the current production. How exactly do these companies plan to meet that when they can’t fulfill this first order?”
A woman in a tailored suit whose badge said Huntington Ingalls cleared her throat before interjecting. “Mr. Batista, we have been very open about the challenges our Newport News production facility has faced. From a critical shortage of skilled labor to materials needed for the construction of the Doomhammer arsenal. We’re back on track—”
“On track for what? The current order? Or the tripling the Navy needs? And who the hell is coming up with the names for these ACVs — Doomhammer? What is this, a play off of Warhammer 40K or something?” Batista retorted hotly.
A representative from Anduril Industries corrected him. “It’s World of Warcraft, not Warhammer.”
All eyes turned to the young-looking representative from Anduril, waiting to see how Batista would respond. “Huh, World of Warcraft… Aiden, is it?” Batista shook his head. “I think it’s been fifteen years since I played WoW with my kids. Let me guess, this is your CEO’s idea?”