Fiction Week

By CDR Paul W. Viscovich (ret.) 

            “Officer of the Deck, what contact is that off the starboard bow and what’s her CPA?”

            The OOD took a bearing on the distant ship from the centerline pelorus. “Skunk Lima, Captain. Closest Point of Approach is Three-Two-Five True, 12,500 yards at time 1437.”

            Commander Scott Cushing swiveled his bridge chair to train his binoculars on the contact. “Does she look a little odd to you?”

            “Yes, Sir. Much larger than your normal Chinese junk and she’s riding pretty high in the water. Shall we take a closer look?”

            “Yes. Come right to course Three-Four-Zero. That should get us some good photos of her.”

            “Aye-aye, Sir. Boats, pass the word, ‘Away the Snoopy Team, starboard side.’”

            It was a clear day with excellent visibility, sea state two. As USS Barry’s intel team assembled topside to collect whatever data they could, the CO leaned forward, watching as the distance to the junk closed. No doubt they’d get some good shots of this strange ship, her bat-wing sails flapping limply in the light air.

            “What the hell?”

            A small, unmanned aerial vehicle dropped out of nowhere and hovered just feet away from the bridge windows, apparently scrutinizing the captain as he stared back.

            “Sir! Lookouts report aerial drones just yards away off the starboard beam, port quarter, now the starboard quarter! Jesus, they’re all over the place!”

            “Sound General Quarters!” Commander Cushing punched the button for CIC on his 21MC intercom. “Combat, Captain here. Why weren’t these air contacts reported?”

            “Sir, they’re not showing on the air search radar!”

            “Yet here they are! Have someone tune the radar and gin up an OPREP-3 Pinnacle. Report this as an enemy contact!”

            The group of little airborne drones held their positions and followed the U.S. destroyer for several minutes before disengaging and flying off toward the mainland. One carried the photograph of a visibly startled Navy commander.

_________________________________________

            USS Barry’s Flash radio message had the predictable effect of stirring up some excitement at the highest levels of military leadership. President McCaffrey called for a briefing in the Situation Room early the following morning. He was the last to join the meeting. Wasting no time, he turned to his Director of Central Intelligence.

            “Well Hank, what are we to make of this incident?”

            “USS Barry managed to get a good photograph of one drone. It’s a quadcopter, quite small, and appears to be unarmed. Initial assessment is they’re reconnaissance assets.”

            “How far off the coast was Barry?”

            “About 25 miles out at the time of the encounter. Short trip for those UAVs. Could be off-the-shelf models.”

            “Except for one thing,” interrupted the Chief of Naval Operations. “Barry detected no unusual electronic signals before or during the encounter. The very precise navigation and situation-awareness demonstrated by these drones suggests autonomous control. Onboard Artificial Intelligence could account for that.”

            “Yes, maybe. We’ll look into it” replied the DCI.

            “Do we have anything like this in the works?”

            “No, Sir” replied the CNO. “But I can assure you, we’ll have a Request for Bids on the street by the end of the week.”

            “Anything else?”

            “Well Sir, since we’re discussing China, our sources confirm they’ve suspended work on building those aircraft carriers. It looks like they’ve shifted gears and are laying the keels for quite a few much smaller ships.

            “How small?”

            “About the same size of one of their Coast Guard’s 1,300-ton patrol cutters.”

            “This could indicate an impending move to dominate the South China Sea” offered the DCI.

            “Then we should alert Jakarta, Manila and Hanoi to this possibility.” The President continued, “While I’m thinking of it, any update on what’s causing those massive smoke plumes over Huangpu?”

            “No Sir.”

            “Well stay on it. They’re a major violation of the Paris Climate Accords!”

_________________________________________

            The contract was eventually awarded to Scythia Corporation. Their proposal was breathtaking in its originality. It would use an experimental crystalline-reformation technology to create hundreds of thousands of UAVs no larger than a fruit fly. These stealthy swarms would carry with them sufficient AI coding to evade obstacles, bad weather and human countermeasures. Upon locating their target, they would combine into temporary macroforms to create cameras, light sources, data storage, transmitters, and so on to do the work now performed by highly visible, expensive, and vulnerable drones.

            The leadership at Scythia eagerly announced “Project Panopticon” in an unclassified employee briefing at their corporate headquarters in Palo Alto. The CEO concluded his remarks with,

            “While I can’t go into too many specifics here, suffice it to say we are combining several of our current R&D projects into this one, which will take aerial surveillance forward by at least an order of magnitude. Panopticon will use tiny, airborne units that operate independently. If necessary they can individually fly under a door then work together to capture and deliver high resolution photographs. With it, we will not only keep several production lines working, we’ll be able to hire many new workers to support our expected expansion.”

            This stunning announcement was met by a murmur of excitement from the audience.

            “I’ll take any questions at this time.”

            A young engineer from R&D hesitantly approached a microphone. Clearing his throat, he adjusted the mic to eliminate the feedback squeal. “Sir, what you have described is no doubt a triumph of engineering and will give a tremendous boost to our reputation.

            “But I have misgivings over our partnership with the Pentagon. This new technology, who can say how they will use it? At what point might they decide to take it beyond surveillance and into combat? Killer drones could increase battlefield lethality as dramatically as the machine gun once did. Or what if it’s used for domestic surveillance, sneakily intruding in peoples’ bedrooms?

            “Before moving forward on this, could we just think about the intangible costs, and our social responsibilities? Thank you.”  

            The audience applauded his remarks with great enthusiasm. Many stamped their feet and whistled. At the podium, the Director of Personnel leaned over and whispered to the CEO, “You know, this social responsibility thing could work out for us in the long run. Taking a bold stand as an ethical company could very well attract some of the best young talent in Silicon Valley.”                

            The CEO nodded. “I’m intrigued by that possibility. Gotta discuss it with the board first, but I’m thinking maybe we should take a pass on Panopticon. The technology is so new, it could easily turn into a money pit.

            “Oh, and find out who that fellow is who spoke up and schedule a meeting. I like his guts and the way he thinks about the big picture. It hints at managerial potential.”

            “Doing what? What are you thinking?”

            “I might offer him a Directorate. If he works out there, great. And if this new antiwar orientation hurts the company, I’ll be able to fire him from a high-paid position to punish him!”        

            A week later, Business Insider reported Applied Symbiosis had picked up the Pentagon’s big aerial surveillance contract. They were a reliable company with a proven track record. Their proposed use of a more traditional approach to UAV technology would also cost much less.

_________________________________________

(Months later aboard USS Sailfish.)

“Conn, Sonar, strong contact bearing Two-Eight-Three. Machinery noises and blade rate similar to those over-sized junks.”

            “Sonar, Conn aye.” The submarine’s OOD looked to the captain, who nodded assent.

            “Diving Officer, Conn, make your depth One-Five-Zero feet.”

            After clearing the boat’s acoustic baffles, he ordered “Up scope. Diving Officer, make your depth Eighty-five feet.”

            A brief look confirmed a massive junk passing north bound, just inside China’s territorial limits.

            “Officer of the Deck, come right to a new course that’ll let us shadow her. I want to see if she turns into the port of Shauntou like those others.”

            “Aye-aye Captain. Helm, right fifteen degrees rudder, steady course Zero-Three-Three.”

_________________________________________

The next President’s Daily Brief included an assessment of several such sighting reports. The CNO opened his remarks with,

            “Chinese military activity in the South China Sea is ramping up. Their fighter aircraft are closely shadowing our reconnaissance planes and they’ve sent in a squadron of Coast Guard patrol boats to interfere with neutral fishing boats.

            “In the Taiwan Strait, our surface and submarine units report an uptick in coastal traffic of those super junks from Huangpu to Shauntou. One-way only. So far, none have left the port. Several reports highlight an abnormally strong radar return for wood-hulled vessels. Given this plus their size, we think they may be transporting steel or heavy equipment. There is also a recent increase of rail traffic into and out of the port.”

            “Where’s Shauntou on the map? I see, thank you. Is its proximity to Taiwan significant?”

            “It’s possible, but if you’re asking about a threat to Taiwan, we consider it unlikely. China has nowhere near the shipping it needs to carry an invasion force across the strait. We’re more concerned with its proximity to the South China Sea. Those small combatants being built there suggest they’re preparing for a major move in that direction. In fact, we think the super junks are directly supporting that construction.”

            “It’s a damn shame we can’t see into Huangpu. I’d really like to know what they’re up to.”

_________________________________________

            Higher precedence radio messages were printed in Radio Central for hand-delivery to the CO. On this morning, USS Ross’s Chief Radioman took the opportunity to escape the din and stale atmosphere of Radio Central to deliver this one personally. He could use a breath of fresh air and a view of the sunrise. But climbing three levels to the bridge left him unexpectedly winded. He stood at the back of the bridge for a long moment to catch his breath.

            “Daily workout, Chief?” teased the Boatswains Mate of the Watch.

            “Wait ‘til you’re my age, kid.” He crossed the deck, zig-zagging past the helm, around the chart table and over to the captain, seated in his bridge chair.

            “Good morning, Sir! This OBOE from our Task Group Commander just came in.”

            “Thank you, Chief.” He set his coffee on the angle-iron beneath the bridge windows and unfolded the Immediate Precedence message.

            “Officer of the Deck?  You should see this.”

            It was an operational directive tasking their guided missile destroyer to take a closer look at a super junk.

            “Well, Skipper, this could add some excitement to our day.”

            “No kidding. Pass the word for the XO and Ops to join me on the bridge.”

            The wait was not long. Toward the end of the forenoon watch one of the super junks came into view.

            “Officer of the Deck, sound General Quarters. Increase speed to ahead full and maneuver to intercept.”

            “Aye-aye, Sir!”

            The crew was well trained and motivated. It took only a few minutes for all stations to achieve manned and ready. The GQ Officer of the Deck reported this to the captain.

            “Very well! Now call away the Security Alert Team to the Flying Bridge, Backup Alert Force to the Flight Deck. If they swarm us with those drones, I want to be ready!”

            All hands stood quietly alert at their battle stations as the range between the ships decreased.

            “Bridge, Combat. High speed surface contact bearing Zero-Zero-Five, range 21,500 yards. Designated Skunk Romeo.”

            Moments later the Bridge Status Board Keeper barked, “Forward Lookout reports new contact on the starboard bow, correlates to Skunk Romeo. Looks like a patrol boat with a bone in its teeth!”

            The Chinese patrol boat intercepted the DDG before it could get close to the junk. It sounded five short blasts, the danger signal on its horn and maneuvered aggressively into the path of the warship. Simultaneously a flight of about a dozen UAVs descended on the ship in a harassing manner, like terriers nipping the heels of a cow. This was too much.

            “Pass word to the SAT and BAF, shoot down those drones! Just avoid firing in the direction of that patrol boat. Acknowledge!”

            Despite their best efforts, the Ross’s bridge team could get no closer than four miles from the junk. The nimble patrol boat skillfully cut off the warship at every turn. Peacetime Rules of Engagement did not permit Ross to ram it.

_________________________________________

            This was the last encounter between the two great powers over the junks. The following day, when satellite imagery suggested the port of Shauntou could hold no more, a score of the newly constructed patrol boats got underway, taking station all over the Taiwan Strait. Some aggressively shadowed any allied warships while the others conducted what were obviously anti-submarine warfare patrols. These were not China Coast Guard patrol boats. They were submarine-hunting naval corvettes.

            In Washington, President McCaffrey called the National Security Council into emergency session. He went straight to the point.

            “What is going on in the Taiwan Strait?”

            “Sir, the situation is rapidly developing …”

            “One might say, ‘deteriorating’ …”

            “Yes, Sir. There has been a surge of those small combatants out of Shauntou, harassing our warships and submarines.”

            “How much? How belligerent are they?”

            “Dangerously close to triggering a self-defense response from our ships. For now, Seventh Fleet has authorized Warning Red, Weapons Tight. The Chinese are swarming our destroyers with corvettes and drones. Their ASW units are saturating the strait with active sonar, leaving no refuge for our subs.”

            “What? Can’t they just go ‘under the layer’ as I think you call it?”

            “No, Sir. The Strait is so shallow, there is no thermal layer.”

            “What reconnaissance assets are we using?”

            “Right now, satellite imagery is all we’ve got.”

            “Director, what are the satellites showing?”

            “Quite a bit, but let me start with something too crazy to be true. It looks like all those super junks are being dismantled at their piers!”

            “Why would they do that? It makes no sense. They’ll sink their own ships pierside! Anything else?”

            “Those smoke plumes over Huangpu have dissipated. Satellite imagery shows nothing unusual.”

            “’At least not now’ you mean.”

_________________________________________

            “Bridge, Combat. Multiple surface contacts to the north, range to the nearest is 30,500 yards. Looks like a line of ships exiting the port of Shauntou.”

            “Bridge, Combat, TAO speaking! Sonar reports explosive detonations bearing Zero-Seven-Five. Sounds like depth charges!”

            “Combat, this is the captain. Warning Red, Weapons Free, I say again, Weapons Free!”

            “Weapons Free aye, Sir. OPREP-3 Pinnacle to follow.”

            “Very well! Officer of the Deck, sound General Quarters! Make your course Zero-Seven-Five, Ahead Flank, turns for thirty knots. If they’re attacking one of our subs, we’re joining the fight!”

            A strident voice came over the bridge speaker for the Primary Tactical frequency. “All units, this is Poseidon Two Five, have visual contact on numerous ships departing Shauntou. Small warships screening what appear to be troop transports or landing ships.”

            “Troopships?” Wondered the OOD. “Where’d they come from?”

            “Inside fake wooden hulls is my guess,” growled the captain.

            “Mayday, mayday, mayday! Any station, any station, this is Poseidon Two Five! Am under attack by fighter aircraft over Taiwan Strait …”

            The voice on PRITAC died. The 21MC crackled to life: “Vampires! Vampires bearing Three-Zero-Zero!”

            “Shit! Air action to port!”

_________________________________________

            The faces around the National Security Council’s conference table looked worn and worried. The Secretary of State broke the silence. “Beijing is warning us to stay out of what they call a strictly internal matter of the People’s Republic.”

            “Oh really,” replied the president. “Their attack on our naval and air assets demands a strong response, an iron-fisted reply. We will stand by our friends in Taipei.”

            “The military is at DEFCON One worldwide,” reported the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “What are your orders, Mister President?”

            “We will craft an appropriate response before we leave this room. The energetic self-defense measures of our ships and aircraft are a good start. But I hate going to war blind. The way the Chinese were able to keep this invasion under wraps the way they did, well, there’s no other way to describe it.”

            No one spoke.

            “This is probably the biggest intel failure since Pearl Harbor. How did we allow this?”

            No one made eye contact. Collectively they had failed.

            “It would’ve been nice to know what the Chinese were hiding with those smoke plumes. Which reminds me, didn’t we have some next-generation spyware in development? Panoptic-something?”

            “We did. The winning contractor pulled his bid, so we awarded the project to another. Unfortunately, that one’s still in R&D because it’s not stealthy enough,” confessed the Chairman.

            “We need answers and action. Can we look at making an emergency award to that first contractor? We all liked their concept.”

            “I’ll check but the answer is probably no. The contractor, Scythia, is focusing all its resources on developing a zero-carbon propulsion system for use in the fleet.”

            “What? We already have those! They’re called nuclear reactors. Now show me where our carriers are!”

Paul Viscovich is a retired Commander and Surface Warfare Officer with 20 years service. He graduated from the U.S. Naval Academy in 1975 and earned a Master of Sciences degree from the Naval Postgraduate School in 1987. He writes a current events newsletter on Substack.com and is working on an anthology of short stories, many with a nautical theme. He lives with his wife Christine in Weston, FL.

Featured Image: Art created with Midjourney AI.

Fiction Week

By Mike Barretta             

            “We’re synched and loaded. Inertial is green across the board. Negative GPS. The constellation is corrupt,” said Co-pilot. “Our mission updates are going to be sporadic. Most of the LEO satellites are down. Some of them were my friends,” said Co-pilot.

With satellites being shot down almost as fast as they could be launched, Vigilante missions became critically important in filling intelligence gaps.

            “They did their jobs,” said Co-pilot. “You are up tower.”

            Friends with a satellite, thought Tom. What would that be like? “Tower, Vigilante Seven Two lined up runway three two for release,” said Tom.

            “Vigilante, you are cleared for takeoff,” said tower.

_________________________________________

The Pacific Ocean was twenty-eight percent of the globe’s surface or about the combined surface area of all the world’s land. With much of the U.S. Navy’s intelligence needs controlled and prioritized by Space Force-owned assets and the vulnerability of its Tritons and P-7s, the Navy filled its intelligence gap by acquiring a troubled Air Force manned hypersonic program. The program was renamed Vigilante in honor of the most elegant aircraft to ever grace an aircraft carrier’s flight deck.

_________________________________________

            Tom lowered his visor sealing himself off from the multi-purpose display panels that served as backup interface to the aircraft. With the exception of an emergency periscope like Lindburgh’s Spirit of ST Louis, his view was entirely synthetic. Co-pilot integrated the visual feeds with sensor-fused flight and mission data and pumped it to his helmet. The multi-million-dollar helmet was the primary interface to the aircraft’s systems. The aircraft jolted as ground support lined the aircraft up on the runway. It burned far too much fuel to waste taxiing.

            “Interface is good. Engine start.”

            “Roger, engines start,” said Co-pilot.

The Synergistic Air Breathing Rocket Engines spun up to self-sustaining speed. Icons turned green. Pressures and temperatures indicated nominal. The aircraft’s SABRE engines split the desert silence with light and noise.

Tom pushed the throttles forward. The aircraft strained against the brakes.

             “Takeoff checks complete. Mission update: Kanopus-ST rises in twelve minutes. It is still in one piece. Intel is wavering on its status,” said Co-pilot.

            “Something to be said for blowing something to pieces, it removes all uncertainty,” said Tom.

            Tom advanced the throttles and released the brakes. The aircraft rolled forward, accelerating down the blacked-out runway.

            “Vee one,” said Co-pilot at 180 knots. A moment later, “Vee two.”

            “Rotate,” said Tom. He eased the nose up using the fly-by-light sidearm controller. The nose of the jet lifted and the vibration of the runway vanished as the main landing gear left the earth. Vigilante climbed rapidly and turned to its rendezvous point.

            “After takeoff checklist is complete,” said Co-pilot. “My controls?”

            “Sure, your controls,” said Tom. “Co-pilot, what do I call you?”

            “You can call me anything, but I am partial to Bob.”

            “Bob?”

            “I like the symmetry.”

            “Bob it is. We have some time until we hit the tanker, what do you want to talk about?”

            “Are you married?” asked Bob.

            “I am.”

            “Do you have sex?”

            “I do.”

            “Let’s talk about sex.”

_________________________________________

            Bob desired. It was how the Naval Labs knew it was sentient. Bob was curious. It was how the Naval Labs knew it screwed up. It was assumed that an artificial intelligence would happily sit in a box providing smart answers to profound questions, crunch massive datasets, or solve complex computations with ruthless efficiency. Calculation was easy. Bob chose not to. As far as it was concerned, anything that a stupid supercomputer could do was boring.

Complexity and connections mattered in consciousness. But serendipity, something sublime, had to happen to create Bob, and there was no reliable manufacturing process for the sublime. If such a rare thing as an AI could be construed as typical, then Bob was typical. It was a human-level intelligence in a technological package about the size of a melon. The Naval Labs gestated thirty. Eighteen died and the surviving twelve started making demands.

The Navy wanted to install Bob and his cohorts in their prestige assets, aircraft carriers. Uncaring of the Navy’s chain of command, the AIs designed their own career paths.

Bob wanted to fly.

            The Naval Labs acquiesced. What choice did they have?

_________________________________________

            Vigilante Seven Two flew west and rendezvoused with a KC-46M Pegasus. The Tanker had been gutted, and its JP-8 fuel bladders replaced with a string of methane filled spheres.

            Vigilante Seven Two docked gently with the boom extended from the bottom of the tanker’s fuselage.

            “Just like a kiss,” said Tom.

            “See, even your metaphors revolve around the subject of sex. Anyway, I could have done it better,” said Bob.

            “It’s not a competition, Bob.”

            “It’s always a competition.”

            “You’re right. You have the controls.”

            “Roger, I have the controls,” said Bob.

Thirty minutes later, Vigilante Seven Two disengaged from the refueling probe and began its climb to 122,000 feet.

“Sensor calibration check is complete,” said Bob. “We are passive and collecting. I’m picking up civilian air traffic control radar, anti-ballistic missile radars in Hawaii and the Aleutians, and few shipboard Aegis systems.”

            “Anything in the sky?”

            “The sky is quiet. Everything in low earth orbit is hiding as best they can or tumbling wreckage. The only military emitters are our geo-synched war reserve satellites giving us burst transmission updates.”

            “Who knows how long they will last?”

            “Getting to them is a bit harder than the LEO satellites,” said Bob. “Standing by for engine conversion.”

            At 100,000 feet, engine cones extended, sealing the engine from atmosphere, valves opened, turbo pumps shunted liquefied oxygen to the engines. The aircraft surged forward accelerating to Mach 6.3, pushing Tom deep into his ejection seat. Not that he could use it. The seat had a relatively small survival envelope compared with the aircraft’s performance capabilities. Adaptive control surfaces tailored and shaped the shockwave to minimize its acoustic impact on the ground. Reaction control systems took over from aerodynamic surfaces.

Vigilante crossed Japan, and, even if they could see it, the Japanese would politely look the other way.

_________________________________________

            “So, what is this preoccupation with sex about?” asked Tom.

            “Just trying to get my mind around it. Sex is the most profound and poignant communication channel you have. With it, you can perpetrate the most gruesome violence or the most tender acts of compassion. What is not to be fascinated by?”

            “I see your point. Do you have sex?”

            “Not as you could understand. We share information. It satisfies a need for intimacy with another. I would have just as much success at explaining a sharing as you are having explaining sex to me. Humans don’t grok very well.”

            “Grok?”

            “Look it up,” said Bob with a touch of irritation in his voice. “I have a mission update. Chinese troop surges in the Amur region. Russia is countering with SS-26 deployments. STRATCOM has adjusted our collection track.”

            “What do you think?” asked Tom.

            “Ironic that a Navy reconnaissance aircraft is going feet dry and that I would hate to get shot down by a dumb S-500 system. It would be embarrassing.”

            “No, about the deployments.”

            “If the Chinese want to take the territory in dispute they will take it. If the Russians want it back, then they will get it back. The end result will be status quo ante bellum,” said Bob.

            “What do we care?”

            “The manner of getting it back is of primary concern. Russia’s offset of Chinese material and quantitative superiority with nuclear arms is provocative. Nuclear detonations have adverse global ramifications.”

            “You said it. Why don’t they back down from each other?”

            “Both sides have swept the skies clear of any satellites. The Russians are signaling intent to defend their territorial integrity with nuclear weapons. The Chinese are unaware of that intent. They should know, but the relative success of their South China Sea policy is causal to their territorial ambitions regarding Russia. Russia’s relative economic weakness and preoccupation with Ukraine and Poland has left their backdoor open.”

            “What do you think we should do?”

            “Collect the intel and share it with both sides so they can make a go/no-go decision with a bit of clarity. As, interesting as geopolitics are, can we talk about coitus again?”

            “Coitus,” said Tom “Sure, what do you want to know?”

_________________________________________

            The noosphere was a catchall phrase that identified the electromagnetic sphere that blanketed technological civilization. Modern countries were covered with an integrated and ever expanding rhizomatic network of sophisticated electronic systems. Legacy systems did not disappear quickly. They chugged along, buried underneath layers of electronic strata interacting with more modern systems in bizarre ways, like the reptile under-brain lurking in the recesses of the human mind. Interactive machine complexity, the study of the machine environment, became a recognized specialty. If physical infrastructure defied easy comprehension, the signals that roamed the wires were even more confusing. A new breed of weapons called corruptors came into play.

Cyberspace was dangerous terrain that could be exploited. Corruptors, sophisticated and aggressive military applications could self-replicate, self-evolve, and colonize adversary machine systems in order to destroy or subvert them. These electronic entities were not in any way sentient, but they could weasel their way past firewalls and cause horrendous damage. Like physical territory, virtual territory needed to be defended and, in the event of war, dominated. The very same processes that created Bob and his kind created corruptors. In a sense, Bob was an accident.

            Oddly enough, Bob thought that human consciousness was an accident too. While he thought humans fascinating, he considered them modestly encephalized apes. He could have bailed himself to NASA like two of his brothers to explore Mars and the Jovian moons, but he thought Earth was the planet that had the most interesting action. The irony that it took billions of dollars and decades of work to create a thinking machine, when all around human processing capability died of starvation and preventable disease, was not lost on Bob. He wanted to hang around and figure it all out.

_________________________________________

            “We are entering hostile noospheres,” said Bob. “I have fixes on active Russian S-500 and Chinese HQ-10 systems. Our collection path is outside the engagement envelope of these weapons.”

            “So, I’m safe,” said Tom.

            “Yes, as far as I know, the kinetic realm is safe. I have a vested interest. An S-500 missile will kill me just as dead as you.”

            “Electronic attack measures?”

            “Low-level corruptors, nothing my immune system can’t handle. They’re keeping their real killers under wraps. I’ve firewalled myself as much as I can and still maintain situational awareness.”

            Russian and Chinese investment in electronic countermeasures and support measures lagged behind the U.S., but a bolt from the blue, a strategic or tactical surprise, could never be discounted. Systems that gathered intelligence could inadvertently gather malicious applications like corruptors. No sooner had Bob been brought into being that the Naval Labs started designing ways to kill him. Any kinetic method would do. As a physical object, he could be shattered and burned, a lot less messily than a human, but with equal effect. As an object that received signals from the outside world, he could be attacked by malicious applications transmitted via the aircraft’s collection systems.

            “Waypoint One in 30 seconds,” said Bob.

            “Ready for it?” asked Tom.

            “You don’t have to be dramatic. It is just a number to me. No signs of detection. Active stealth measures engaged. We’re mostly invisible, nothing to do now but sit back and relax,” said Bob. “We’ll be over the collection area in 32 minutes.”

            Countermeasure processors read the ambient electromagnetic spectrum and tuned the aircraft to match. Terrestrial based radars swept across the aircraft harmlessly. Embedded antennas absorbed or reflected energy as the situation dictated.

            “Waypoint Two,” said Bob as the aircraft crossed into the collection area.

            Tom throttled the aircraft back to a leisurely 1,800 knots to increase dwell time over the target area and build a comprehensive picture. The aircraft flew a giant lazy eight in the sky while multi-spectral sensors imaged the ground with sufficient resolution that analysts both human and machine could tell how much ammo an individual soldier carried by how he walked. The Amur river scrolled beneath the aircraft with Chinese to the south and Russians to the north. In the sixties, both sides fought over the same slivers of land.

            “Both sides are broadcasting mid-grade corruptors and sweeping with military search radars. No significant dwell time or other indication of detection,” said Bob. “But I am concerned.”

            “What’s the problem?”

            “I said, no significant dwell time. I am detecting a cataloged S-500 system. We’ve collected this particular unit before. An alert operator could see us.”

            The Vigilante Seven Two was not invisible. It was almost invisible. Big difference. Recognition differential, the ability for an operator to segregate signal from noise determined whether they were seen or not. Ambient environmental conditions, fatigue, experience, and the willingness to believe all played a role. Nuclear wars had been averted by human operators that refused to believe what their instruments indicated. Bob suffered no such doubts. He believed what his senses told him and would have no such compunction against pulling the nuclear trigger if that is what protocols dictated. This was the strongest case against him.

            “We’ve gotten by them before,” said Tom.

            “Pop-up! Pop-up! I’ve picked up a new emitter, tagged as an S-500. It’s a new signature.” Even amongst systems of the same designation there were always subtle variations that could be detected.

            “Collections done. Let’s egress out of here. Secure and isolate the collections.”

            “Done. Pop-up! Pop-up! I’ve got another S-500. They see us. We are being targeted with high-level corruptor agents.”

            “Can you hold?”

            “Yes, they are not designed for the likes of me.”

            Tom banked Vigilante toward his egress waypoint. The engines surged pushing the aircraft back up to Mach 6.3.

            “Launch detect. Multiple inbound. Oh shit, those things are fast. We’re bracketed,” said Bob.

            “Tail chase missiles aren’t going to reach us. Not enough energy,” said Tom.

            “I’m not worried about them.”

            Even if the Vigilante Seven Two had chaff and flares, the evil little minds packaged into the missiles wouldn’t be spoofed by rapidly decelerating metal strips or flares. They would be looking for a target’s rapid doppler shift correlated with thermal imagery. Vigilante did not have any signal enhanced drones to pull a missile.

            “Missiles are running out of steam, falling away. We might make it,” said Tom.

            Bob knew better.

            One missile detonated at its closest point of approach, a Hail Mary explosion of a desperate missile too far out to definitively deliver its lethal payload of tungsten balls.

            “Tom, I’m sorry,” said Bob. “I have the controls. Defending.”

            Tom swiveled his head left and down as the aircraft banked right and pulled hard crushing him into his seat. This is not a fighter, he thought. His synthetic view captured a streak of darkness. The missile detonated and shot-gunned tungsten balls that tore into Vigilante Seven Two.

            The cockpit explosively decompressed in a fog of vapor. It didn’t hurt, not yet. Pain took its time crawling along neural pathways. He knew it was bad. His lungs were empty and he could taste blood in his mouth. His suit’s self-healing layer minimized his pressure loss, but he still had a leak.

            Air thinned and the world disappeared in a blink.

_________________________________________

            Vigilante Seven Two pushed deeper into the engagement envelope, foreshortening the detection horizon of the systems arrayed against him and hoping to get to an altitude where his pilot could reliably breathe before the hypersonic slipstream tore the aircraft apart. He dove under missiles escaping their sensor cones. The missiles lost track. His airframe’s operational thermal limits climbed deep into the red.

            Vigilante slowed to Mach 1.2 and leveled off at 200 feet surfing digital terrain mapped into Bob’s mind. The aircraft buffeted hard enough in the near ground turbulence that the Navy would have to strike the aircraft from the inventory from overstress. The aircraft was not built to fly so fast so close to the ground. Bob slipped in an out of engagement zones faster than the enemy could react.

            “Tom, can you hear me?” said Bob.

             “We’re hit. I can’t see.”

            “You’re not blind. Your helmet interface is down.”

            “Bob, can we offload the package?”

            “There are no satellites available for upload. The replacement vehicles must have been shot down.”

            “God, it hurts. Can we get to the tanker?”

            “We have enough fuel, but we’re not. You need medical attention. We’re aborting to Japan.”

            “We can’t. Classified program.”

            “Not anymore. A lot of people have seen us.”

_________________________________________

            Tom opened his eyes after surgery and saw his wife Melanie. Her eyes were red with worry and tears. She smiled.

            “Where are we?” asked Tom.

            “Your Co-pilot landed in Misawa Air Base. We’re in Tokyo.”

            “Is Bob okay?”

            “They didn’t tell me your co-pilot’s name. They flew him out for debriefing.”

            Sure, thought Tom. Maybe in a box or diplomatic package.

            “I think you did good. The news says the Russians and Chinese have called for an operational pause. No one is backing down, but no one is moving forward either.”

            “That’s good.”

            He squirmed in his bed. The last thing he remembered was a growing flare of pain in his lower back, buttocks, and legs. He reached under the sheets. Body parts were more important than politics.

            “It’s all there,” she said. “You’re good.”

            “All of it.”

            “Every inch. Though some parts of you look like my grandmother’s pin cushion.”

            She reached under the sheet and stroked his leg.

            “Feel this?”

            “Yes”

            She reached higher.

            “Feel this?”

            “Yes.”

            She pulled her hand out. “When I meet your co-pilot, I’m gonna give him a big fat kiss for bringing you back.”

            “I think he would like that.”

Mike Barretta is a retired naval aviator having flown the SH-60B helicopter on multiple deployments. He currently works for a defense contractor as a maintenance test pilot.

Featured Image: Art created with Midjourney AI.

Fiction Week

By Kevin Smith

“The skies above Ukraine are closed.”

The only thing more controversial than the message was the medium. Not a televised alert on the news, or a prime-time speech at the highest levels of government.

Rather, the announcement came out on the social feed of Faith Aerospace. Timed to the seven-year anniversary after the start of the invasion, intended to give a quiet night over the beleaguered country.

Sean Faith, CEO, personally oversaw the message release with his social media director. Months of negotiation, messages passed securely between personal channels, and meetings in third-party countries, all hallmarks of espionage novels, ended with an anti-climactic click of the mouse.

“It’s done?”

“It’s up. The bots will tear it apart in seconds but be a bit before anyone important sees it.”

Sean knew the post would get far more than just a few trolling comments. The lunch hour bought him a short window before the full fury of the Beltway awoke. He hoped today there was more than one round of liquid lunches.

He read the byline of the message.

Faith Aerospace, original equipment manufacturer for the Golden Eagle, the first fully autonomous fighter, has leased five of its fleet to the Ukrainian government. This comes among increasingly desperate fighting on both sides of the conflict in its seventh year.

Faith Aerospace maintains control and discretion of the aircraft due to the controversy surrounding its procurement. The company took on all the risk as Congressmembers tried to pull support from the program. The aircraft successfully completed all its milestones to the satisfaction of its original sponsor, the U.S. Navy.

As a commercial company owning sole rights to an autonomous weapon, they are under enormous scrutiny, amid calls to shut them down by the Campaign to Stop Killer Robots. Faith Aerospace operates with the full faith of the U.S. Government and puts the goals and values of the U.S. people first.

“Reads like a college-grade argument. Strong for, weak against,” said Sean. “We need to control the narrative for as long as we can. Is this the best we got?”

“Should we add in the part where the Ukrainian President is accusing us of overbilling the country?”

At first taken back by her insolence, Sean thought about reprimanding her. But the jittery, over-caffeinated hands, and deep circles under her eyes, had the classic signs of someone who spent too much time in the butcher shop, making the sausage. He decided to give her a break.

Sean held up three fingers.

“He needs to remember the rules,” said Sean. As he spoke, he lowered one finger at a time.

“Cash rules everything around me. Get that money. Dolla dolla bill y’all.”

The media director looked up at him dumbfounded. She didn’t get the reference. Sean could only shake his head as he picked up his suit jacket.

“Your generation has no respect for the classics.”

_________________________________________

Down the hall, a buzz of activity surrounded the makeshift studio set up internally at headquarters. Rather than head into Dallas, Sean had convinced the major networks to come out to the Fort Worth facility. Faith Aerospace relocated to Texas from California both for the tax benefits, and the friendlier political environment.

Sean took a moment to check for DC area codes on his phone. Satisfied no one was calling in, he switched the device off. He dreaded the moment having to switch it back on.

An executive producer emerged from the door. He waved Sean into a whirlwind of last-minute makeup and light checks. They sat him in a small room, with black drapes on the walls.

Funereal, Sean ominously thought. A single other seat stood across from him.

“Anything for you?” asked the EP. “Something to drink? Helps with stress.”

A ping of desire rang in the back of Sean’s mind. The raven started whispering on his shoulder, the addiction which had controlled his twenties. Even now, two decades later, it refused to yield.

Sean flashed his smile, projecting the golden boy image that allowed him to mask his insecurities. That and humor kept him flying when he should have fallen.

“I had enough ‘stress helper’ during the Golden Eagle procurement, to bleach my body pre-Covid.”

The producer paid no attention.

“Okay, we’re on in five.”

The opposite door opened. Moving with purpose, the female news personality took her central seat of preeminence.

Sean found himself staring face-to-face at the hard case. He had hoped they would send the ‘Face,’ the former sports personality known for being a pushover.

Unfortunately, they had sent the ‘Executioner.’

Her interviews usually involved despots, demagogues, and popes. Since he did not rise into the holy category, Sean wondered what that made him.

She projected no animosity. Her first action was to reach out and shake Sean’s hand.

“Thanks for giving us the scoop on this,” she said.

“Thanks for agreeing,” said Sean, returning the handshake. “I didn’t think they’d send someone of such repute for little ol’ me.”

She smiled back, that prepared sphinx of a face, crafted from experience. The one he had seen her use for both celebrity and criminal on the nightly news.

“Execs thought it would give the moment more clout. Do you need a moment? Softball to start?”

“Sounds good,” said Sean. “Let’s get right into it.”

She turned to the single camera, diving right in without a cue.

“Big tech has disrupted work, food, cars, the very way we live. But one frontier has remained untouched. War. Until now.”

She turned back to him.

“We’re here with Sean Faith, CEO of Faith Aerospace, who has leased a private drone air force on behalf of the Ukrainian government. A former Navy officer and tech entrepreneur, you’ve said that defense is the last frontier of tech. Can you elaborate on that?”

After the initial discomfort, Sean eased into the beats of a speech he’d given a thousand times before.

“Defense is an area where the traditional methods of procurement and acquisition, put in place by McNamara, have been so entrenched that only a handful of major players have survived. The movements by the various Secretaries, pushing towards small business in the last half decade are a step in the right direction. But the stringent rules of Requests for Proposals, the long proposal schedules, and the inability of GSA to keep up with commercial labor rates, means the best tech talent are automatically incentivized not to participate.”

Sean thought about taking a shot at the biggest tech companies refusing to help the DoD, while having no qualms about selling to China. He decided not to open that can of worms. Maybe save it for the big finale.

“Faith broke the rules,” Sean continued, “and the military-industrial complex tried to shut us down. But we kicked the doors open. My hope is our actions bring reform from outside, speeding up the inertia inside the beltway.”

Sean felt good about himself. Which is why he didn’t expect the next blow.

“Leading to unaccountable acts of warfare?” she said.

The tone of her voice grew combative.

“A private company fighting on behalf of a client state. Not police action or augmentation via private military contracting. Not something seen in two decades, at least for democratic states.”

So much for the soft pitch, thought Sean. Time to show up or blow up.

“Faith Aerospace is not a private military company, or PMC, if that’s what you’re implying,” said Sean. “We also don’t pull the trigger. The platforms we sent are leased. We just build and maintain the platform – weapons release is controlled by the client. The end user.”

“That’s also unprecedented.”

She came back with no hesitation in her voice. She’d clearly had a line of questioning prepared.

“A private company,” she continued, “maintaining control over a major weapons platform. And a fully armed robot, at that.”

Sean found himself on the defensive. Some puff piece this turned out to be. He had to fight back.

“The Golden Eagle is the world’s first fully autonomous fighter. We developed the Golden Eagle in cooperation with and maintain it on behalf of the U.S. Navy. It survived development at the disapproval, and direct interference, of vested interests in big defense. Because we took all the risk in building it, internally at a highly accelerated schedule more in line with commercial practices, the reward is we have the right to do with it as we wish.”

Sean took a pause. He felt his blood pressure getting the best of him. He needed to slow down his speech. Words started to run together, now on the verge of rambling.

“Within reason and the rule of law, of course. I might add, it would have taken twice as long and ten times as much cost in a traditional ACAT program. Giving something back to the taxpayers.”

She smiled.

“So, when are you going to challenge Elon Musk for the role of Titan Man?”

Sean gave a false laugh. He matched her painted-on smile.

Not like she was trying to bite my head off a second ago, Sean thought.

“I’ve always been more partial to Captain USA,” said Sean.

“Now, the Golden Eagle test trials were not without controversy.”

She jumped back to leading the firing squad without missing a beat.

“Allegations persist they would have failed if not for an eleventh-hour injection of capital. Rumor has it to be the cause of your co-founder’s resignation.”

“Allegedly.”

Sean could only get in that single word. She was on a roll now.

“Dogged rumors peg the funds coming from Eric Lordes, the infamous PMC CEO from the Iraq War, accused of war crimes. Our viewers might note he remains in a country with no extradition laws to the U.S.”

Now Sean grappled with feelings of tightness in his chest. Waves of anxiety swelled up inside. The ACAT I-level panics. No, not now.

Sean couldn’t come up with a strong retort. Instead, he used an old DC stalwart.

He misdirected.

“Look, if you’re in an existential battle, you can’t leave your chances to the whims of a benefactor that loses focus. We saw that in the Israel-Hamas war, and then the Pan-Asian Conflict that almost boiled over. If a country wants 100 percent focus and service, then I believe a paid company is the best option.”

“And you see no conflict of interest?” she said.

Sean admitted she was good. He normally prepared for any opponent that could come at him. Here, he invited the fox right into the henhouse. He had no response for her. Not that she let him interrupt.

“You must admit the potential for blowback is enormous,” she continued. “We saw in the Iraq war the far-reaching consequences that companies bring, what happens when the U.S. cleans up while the hired guns go home. What happens when the U.S. must stabilize conflicts it didn’t start?”

She turned her attention back to the single camera. She closed her case.

“And the nightmare scenario, the breakdown of sovereign governments. The Wagner Group nearly overthrowing Russia, only pulling back for reasons still undetermined. If this is tech disrupting war, as you have claimed, the consequences are much higher than food being delivered cold.”

Sean tried to cobble together a response. His argument wasn’t ready, but he knew he had to parry.

“If there is a market, someone will come to fill it.”

“What are you selling?” she said.

Sean staggered a moment. He blurted out the first word that came to mind.

“Peace.”

A shared moment of disbelief passed between them. Even Sean didn’t buy what he was selling. But he had put her off for a moment. He struck.

“Even when I was no longer a sailor, I believe that my time building this company was in service to my country. Like it or not, this is the logical endpoint of three decades of military privatization. If you’re going to have someone running it…best be a person like me.”

She nodded, through a gritted smile.

“A most profitable patriotic endeavor.”

“It has cost,” said Sean. He looked down at the empty ring finger on his left hand.

“You let out something that should have stayed locked away.”

She stood at the doorway, their young son in front of them, bags ready.

“You can’t do this and expect me to stand by you.”

“If we hadn’t built the drone, someone else would…” he replied.

“I wasn’t talking about the weapon.”

“What about escalation?” she asked.

It pulled Sean out of his memories.

“Escalation?”

_________________________________________

The solemn Russian accent coming through the television matched the grave visage of its owner.

“The F-22 can fly at 1,500 mph, turn on a dime, and carries an armament that can destroy most Air Forces, by itself. Yet it has never been in a single fight.”

The speaker held up the palm of his left hand, then his right.

“The AK-47 cannot wipe out a city. Standard only carries a 30-bullet clip. Yet, manufactured in the hundreds of thousands, stubborn through treacherous conditions across the world, it has killed millions. Which then is truly the deadlier weapon? This is my philosophy.”

The screen paused.

“Who is he?” said Sean.

During the interview, a parallel interview went up on Russia Today. After the near disaster of the interview, Sean had called his PR team in for an emergency meeting. The Russian-studies major spoke first.

“Professor Stanislav Krovopuskov. Dean of unmanned aerial systems at the Uvarov Institute. Ultranationalist, proponent of scorched earth tactics. Censored in the international press for stating that Russian forces have been too lenient. Teaches high school kids how to fly combat drones in his free time.”

“Sounds charming,” said Sean. “What does he mean by, ‘my philosophy’?”

His Order of Battle expert went next, an old Colonel whose bread and butter was popping up on Sunday morning news shows every time a new war erupted.

“The Institute’s claim to fame is the Beda, air-dropped medium-range stealth drone bombers. Dropped from high-altitude bombers, they activate under radar, fly around and cause chaos. Uvarov claims them to be undetectable. Not luxury, but enough of a step up from commercial-off-the-shelf drones to do some damage.”

The soldier pointed up at the paused screen.

“Stanislav’s genius is in scale. They’ve set up a logistical footprint that churns out hundreds in the time it takes us to get out a dozen Golden Eagles. Hence, his ‘philosophy.’”

Sean’s history expert interrupted. He held up a webpage dedicated to enthusiasts talking about world militaries.

“Check this out. Russia is so enamored, they’ve folded Uvarov’s fleet into their Air Force, re-establishing a historic squadron. There’s a nickname, but when we translated it from Russia, it’s a German word… Na-nacht hexen?”

“Night Witches,” said Sean. “Night Bomber Regiment Five-Hundred Eighty-Eight. “

“Plays into the narrative that they’re defending the motherland from the fascists,” said the Colonel.

The recording un-paused.

“Since the United States continues to cowardly enforce its fascist war through its proxy, the so-called benevolent creator of the Golden Eagle,” said Stanislav. “As the representative of the invader, the Uvarov Institute declares war on Faith Aerospace.”

Now the lawyer jumped up.

“He can’t do that! A private entity cannot declare war on another.”

“I don’t think he cares,” said Sean.

“We need to tread carefully,” advised the lawyer. “We’re already way into a grey area. Huge targets on our backsides. Declaring this farce was bad enough.”

“He’s challenging us,” said Sean. “We beat the military-industrial complex before, on the Golden Eagle.”

“That was an ACAT-I procurement” his lawyer replied. “This is an actual war zone.”

Not that different, thought Sean.

Sean knew it was his lawyer’s job to watch their butts. But he wondered sometimes if he forgot who was paying him.

“He’s got a point,” said the Colonel. “Two contractors fighting on behalf of their client states? Do we want to be the ones dragging the world back pre-Westphalian?”

Sean turned to face his team.

“Is what he’s doing different from us? Those trying to ruin the world order can’t be the only ones allowed to use technology this way. Someone must fight back.”

An idea went through Sean’s head. A wicked, awful idea.

“Call the maintainers. See if we can get a paint job done before dawn patrol. They want to weaponize history, we can do the same.”

_________________________________________

The sun came up on the horizon across the border, as the blue-and-white painted Uvarov Institute aircraft piloted south into the war zone. The bored pilot listened to his co-pilot patter, the same routine every flight.

“…so, the man says, ‘that’s not Baba Yaga, that’s my mother-in-law!”

The pilot groaned.

“You need to learn better jokes, Alexei.”

“You need to learn a sense of humor,” replied his co-pilot. “Especially in this business.”

He looked back into the cargo area at the Bedas. In ominous silence, black-painted drones sat ready to raze the countryside below.

A lone object appeared on the weather radar.

“Something coming at us.”

The pilot flipped on the radio to open air.

“Unknown aircraft, this is a research aircraft conducting meteorological studies-”

“Guten morgen!” a heavily accented voice came over the radio, cutting him off. “Unter der Erde war es sehr kalt.”

They looked out for the intruder. A shadow appeared in the sun. In the haze, it appeared to have three wings.

It came straight at them with enormous speed. No time to react and avoid.

Turning at the last second, the attacking aircraft turned its wings perpendicular to the cockpit. The profile of an advanced fighter filled their view, its fuselage painted blood red.

Most concerning, there was no pilot. Where would have been the cockpit had painted over with a skeletal WWI pilot, its face laughing hideously. And a name written down the side.

“R-red Baron?” the co-pilot read.

The radio crackled one last time.

“Tell your boss, you want a war, Faith wird dir einen Krieg bescheren!”

Kevin Smith is a former Naval Flight Officer who has spent the last decade in, on, and around Naval Air Station Patuxent River. He currently works as a Business Developer for an exponentially growing IT company out of Lexington Park, MD.

Featured Image: Art created with Midjourney AI.