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.