Surrender Aurora

by W. Strawn Douglas

  At first the warlords had asked him if he could do a suicide mission to strike at Tel Aviv, Israel, and crash the jet into a large crowd of people.

  He had respectfully declined but had put out a competing idea. There was the possibility he could shoot down a commercial airliner. Three hundred international travelers dead in an instant would be of greater impact than a mere 60 dead Israelis.

  Plus, if the MiG could survive the attack, it could be used over and over again at the same mission. Sergeiovich put the case forward that if the MiG was repaired to combat readiness, ISIS could kill off 2,000 aviation consumers and air crew rather than just 60 Israelis.

  After a while the more suicidal factions in the ISIS voter group turned their sights to more conventional suicide plots. Sergeiovich had no qualms about losing his life but he felt he could kill more infidels if he had an airplane to hunt with than some silly one-time, one-shot suicide vest of explosives and shrapnel. Plus the retirement plan was better for a pilot with missiles to negotiate with.

  * * *

  “The reason, Mr. McGregor, that you have been brought in to this meeting may now be obvious to you. There are certain defense applications to the project we are working on.” Dr. Witherspoon and Colonel Devers sat on the other side of the table in the Malcolm Moos Medical Center conference room, opposite James. Witherspoon continued, “Testing will continue on the other twenty-four participants in the trial but you have been moved through at flank speed for a reason. The project is designed to create an interface between a tactical military computer and a direct connection to the human brain. This technical advancement will make our aviation strike capability the envy of the world’s military community. You have been selected to be a part of this.”

  “What do you want me to do? I was a typist in a communications center. Assuredly you have more qualified personnel than me,” said James. He looked at his watch. It was just after 10 in the morning. He was going to meet Cathleen at noon. National Defense could get top priority but he wanted to at least phone her and tell her he would be late.

  “The Syntheris trial is designed to see if we can create an anti-rejection drug for the neuroelectrical implants. We are at a crucial time in our trial and certain needs have materialized that make our mission all too timely.” Dr. Witherspoon’s jowls quivered as he spoke. “We need to move up our timetable. Can you join us for a few weeks in Grand Forks? There are some people we would like you to meet. Also of note, our analysis of your blood chemistry has turned up certain questions.”

  “Like what?” James replied.

  “You are a cannabis consumer. Ordinarily this would be a red flag, but certain developments have arisen in the Air Force Academy’s home base in Colorado that point to this as being a small issue. With the legalization of cannabis there, we have had to create special laws on its prohibition on military bases and the war college itself. You, on the other hand, are a liberty we can allow,” he said to James. “And we know of your anarchist contacts. You have been under surveillance and investigation for the last two months. We know all about your dealer friend DJ. We know you are a petty trafficker too.”

  “So what are you going to do about it?” said James with a noticeable degree of defiance.

  “We’re going to offer you a job,” said Witherspoon.

  “Doing what?” said James in dumbfounded amazement.

  “Last year the Islamic State got several aircraft operational and we can only assume they are going to use them offensively in acts of terrorism. We want you to help us to eventually help shoot them down. When they become a threat, we want you on the team. There are tests you can perform that our other program participants cannot be part of. There are risks we would choose to not have them take. You would be a test subject but a valued and appreciated one. We could reward you well. We will train you as a pilot.”

  “I am not a pilot. You assuredly have pilots who want that job more than I do.”

  “Yes, but they are human. With the computer link in our helmet that you have been testing, you no doubt have seen the effect of linking the mind up directly to a targeting computer and reviewing flight plans at a rate greatly advanced in comparison to fighter pilots going after targets one at a time. You will be able to launch eighteen missiles at one time.”

  “What do you really want from me? I don’t have a brain implant to connect me to your computer. And I am not a pilot. I am a pothead, not a soldier.”

  “We would be moving your pay grade to that of an active-duty lieutenant and granting you pay at that grade for the duration of your participation in the program,” said Witherspoon.

  “I don’t want to do that and have an implant put into my brain. I am not going for it. Furthermore, I don’t think I am the best man for the job.”

  “There is a clause in your inactive reserve status that allows us to call you up for duty in times of war. Think of it as being drafted. But it is different than usual conscription. You will have to leave behind your marijuana but it will be a ‘kid gloves’ draft. We know you have only a small amount of contacts in your community. You will not be missed and this will only take a short while.”

  “And after I am on your payroll, I will be obligated for life to be a guinea pig for your experiments.” He thought about it for a moment. “I have paperwork in for veterans disability. I will work for my disability. But I am not going to be a guinea pig for life. I am going to go to nursing school when this is over. You can make me an officer, pay grade oh-two, and I don’t have to wear a uniform or salute anyone. And when I am done, I get to smoke pot.”

  “But not today. We need you somewhat sober. Take a vacation from your drugs and alcohol for a while and we can pay for your nursing school and support you in comfort for the rest of your life. You will start your tour of duty in Grand Forks Air Force Base. We have a car waiting for you. There is only one hour left, Mr. McGregor. Your country has a great need for your help.”

  “Then the nation can drive me to the West Bank and watch me pack a bag. I am going to have to call my friend Cathleen. I am going to need to keep my cell phone.”

  “It’s been tapped for the last two months. Your patriotism is noted with a few blemishes but a notable and tangible point of reference. You may be an oh-two on pay grade and your check will come from Treasury, but your taskmasters will be CIA and/or NSA. This is a black operation. Your participation will be entirely done on American soil so you will never be sent under deep cover to someplace like Egypt with the job title of tenth assistant to the cultural attaché of an embassy. You will be a human computer for now and for the rest of your life.”

  “So why me?” James asked.

  “You play video games very well and you have a security clearance. We like your brain. In spite of what you put in it, we like your brain.”

  “Okay, okay, I’ll do it. Just let me call my girlfriend and tell her I’ll be out of town for a while.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Two hours later James was climbing the stairway into a C-26 VIP turboprop airplane headed for Grand Forks Air Force Base. GFAFB was the former home of Strategic Air Command and now hosted America’s last big contingent of B-52 bomber aircraft. The fighters were based at Minot, North Dakota. That was only a short hop away from Grand Forks by plane. That meant that most of the fighters were based and supported by trainer aircraft and flight simulators at Minot.

  James was briefed on the operational history of the F-111. It had been hoped the F-111 could be used as a fighter and a bomber. As things turned out it was neither, but it filled some strange niches well.

  The F-111 was a variable sweep jet. That meant the wings could be folded back for supersonic flight and moved forward for slower operational requirements. Used from before Vietnam until the present day, the Raven model was a full-power electronic warfare platform. Equipped with two pilots and a pod of electronic warfare devices mounted in a bulge at the top of the tail, the EF-111A Raven was used in the first Gulf War of 1991 with a strike package of fi
ghters as an escort and bomb carriers.

  Other F-111s scored hits in the Kuwait/Iraq War, launching laser-guided bombs and even deep penetrating “bunker buster” bombs designed for cutting deep into concrete fortifications.

  James noted the AN/AVQ-26 Pave Tack system which used a cylindrical carriage that rotated inside the weapons bay. This was essentially the same device Devers was talking about. James pored over the books he was given in an attempt to get “up to speed.”

  He was going to be testing the ability of the neuro-interface between the F-111 and up to 11 targets, all to be attacked with missiles launched from weapons hidden inside the bomb bay of the Raven.

  The C-26 looked like any other business turboprop. Two engines and the look of a Beechcraft King Air.

  They got into Grand Forks AFB at 3:45 in the afternoon. James looked out of the plane’s oval window at the huge base they were flying into. Bombers with towering tails were lined up at the sides of the tarmac. He counted 25 just among those at a clear state of readiness.

  Buildings and hangars stretched for a mile in all directions. The landing runway was clearly made for the monstrously sized bombers. The C-26 looked like a small bug landing onto a huge concrete lake bed in spite of its artificial nature.

  After landing, the C-26 taxied into a hangar. James climbed down the stairs of the small plane into the open maw of the hangar. He looked and saw a sign that said Remain mindful of FOD.

  “What’s FOD?” James asked of his pilot.

  “FOD is ‘foreign object damage.’ An object the size of a quarter can do a million dollars’ worth of damage in the right place on a jet engine.”

  “Okay. I guess I had to ask.” He looked out at the people meeting him in the hangar. There was a crisp-looking Air Force lieutenant in a flight suit and boots. He was flanked by two professional, clean-cut, well-groomed airmen in olive-drab uniforms.

  “Mr. McGregor,” said the lieutenant, “we are here to get you acquainted with the project. Follow me, sir.”

  James was dumbfounded. They were calling him “sir” as if he was a VIP. Then it dawned on him that he was a VIP. He was the guinea pig. He felt honored. He followed them to a new gray four-door pickup with Air Force stencils on the doors. He got into the front seat passenger side and the others followed suit. James clutched the backpack that contained his computer while one of the airmen grabbed his bag.

  “There is somebody you have to meet, sir. I think you’ll like him. He’s also a Marine,” said the lieutenant. The lieutenant put the truck into drive and they sped off onto the roads and byways of the huge, expansive air base.

  They finally came to a building with a sign in front that read Air Combat Command. “This is our first stop, sir. I believe you have an appointment with Gunnery Sergeant Tanner. He is acting project briefer. He will tell you anything you need to know.”

  A muscular man in Marine Corps woodland digital camouflage came out of the front door of the modern office-looking building. He saluted the lieutenant and was saluted in return.

  “You’re McGregor. Glad to meet you. My name’s Tanner. Come on in and meet the crew.” He wore gunnery sergeant stripes on his coat.

  James noticed the color of his right hand was off somehow. Then he noticed Tanner reached out with his left hand to shake.

  “Sorry, McGregor, but the right one’s a fake. Lost it in Afghanistan. I use the Syntheris. I have the prosthetic implant. You won’t be needing that. Relax, son, they aren’t going to cut off your hand to get you into the program. That’s what makes me the ‘A-Team.’ You are still valuable as a consistent member of the second string. Welcome to the team.”

  James was amazed. “Corporal McGregor at your service, Gunny. I guess this means Semper Fidelis.”

  “You could say that, Corporal,” said Tanner with a chuckle.

  * * *

  “With the F-111A we had a payload maximum of thirty-five thousand, five hundred pounds. You’re going to need all of that to get you to operational altitude with full weapons complement,” said Colonel Nagle. His crew cut with white hair and gruff demeanor communicated that he was a career flyer with experience at pushing people into just the right slots to get maximum efficiency from a strike package. He was the boss and the project hovered around him like a halo of flies surrounding a horse in high summer. He knew when to let them land and when to flick them out of his way.

  The operations center had a huge, wall-sized, flat-screen monitor 12 feet wide and 6 feet high. On it was a map of the Middle East centering on Syria and Iraq.

  “So Tanner, you think we pulled out of Iraq too soon?” inquired James.

  “That’s an understatement. We created a power vacuum that is now taking the form of ISIS.”

  James puzzled for a moment. “Why aren’t you going after them with laser-guided bombs?”

  “We want to do something special. We want to let them know they are under the watchful eye of Big Brother and the Holding Company,” said Tanner.

  “So the gloves are off. We just accept the dystopia of 1984, do we?” replied James.

  “If that’s what it takes. Nobody has gone after aircraft in flight as a mass attack before. We are hoping we can get a platform positioned at just the time they get operational. Then we take them down as a group. It’s a gamble but we think it will give them pause in ways they never dreamed in their worst nightmares.”

  “A friend of mine said there was ‘no head to cut off,’ ” said James.

  “I am the blade and you are something similar. See this?” he said as he held out his right hand. It was a plastic, rubber, prosthetic hand. “I went for the deluxe package,” said Tanner.

  * * *

  Sergeiovich was talking through a translator to the two Syrian Air Force pilot defectors. “We will carry two long-distance, thousand-liter fuel tanks and two heat-seeker missiles. From there we link up with tower radar and go hunting.”

  “How will we know when the targets are within range?” asked Lieutenant Hafez.

  “The tower radar will take care of everything. We have enough missiles to destroy six airliners. God is great. We will be the hand of the Prophet’s revenge,” said Sergeiovich.

  “I am so excited. We will be the wolves among the sheep. Allah will be with us,” said Lieutenant Hafez.

  Lieutenant Faissal quipped in Arabic to the translator, “We can kill eighteen hundred infidels in one day. More if we can take down six 747s. We can be operational in just a few months. Now we test and practice. Their satellites and drones will be watching so we will employ stealth. We fly one plane at a time and we will not wake the beast. Then when the time is right, we strike.”

  * * *

  James donned the helmet and was connected to an F-111 flying over the deserts of Nevada. Targets appeared and he launched missiles. Then the screens went back to normal and it started over again. This must have happened 20 times before he was told his next target selection would be for real. Then he saw the target. It was a QF-4C, a remotely piloted jet fighter from the Vietnam era of warfare. Orange wingtips and nose made it easier to see.

  He launched one Sidewinder missile at it and waited. The rocket first slid from side to side, hence the name Sidewinder. Then its infrared sensor locked onto the Phantom F-4’s hot exhaust and homed in on the old beast. The rocket climbed into the fire of the jet engines and detonated mere feet from the tail. The Phantom began to pitch and rock. It was no longer stable.

  Tanner said, “Try a Sparrow. They are military surplus from the arsenal so don’t be afraid to spend some money. They cost the taxpayers a half a million apiece but they are obsolete now, so go invest some money.”

  James worked the controller in his hands and popped up a screen with a list of weapons on it. He selected the Sparrow missile and tapped a button to return to the virtual reality screen. He fired the Sparrow at the crippled F-4. He watched as the rocket blazed to the Phantom in less than ten seconds, covering a mile in a few heartbeats of time. The rocket hit the F-4 a
nd blasted a hole in its side just above the left wing. This time the crippled bird gave up the struggle and began cartwheeling down to the ground. This was its last mission.

  James was entranced and curious. Perhaps there is a career here after all, he thought.

  Blog Post Fourteen

  Benevolent Dictator/ Enlightened Despot.

  Methinks Lord Trump is going to win the Presidency and all will radically change. Obama just doesn’t see the fun and glee of hunting ISIS for sport. That is what America wants at this juncture in history. America doesn’t care about Geneva conventions or the harm found in offending Islamic nations. America just wants to have fun and go off on a shooting party. I fear that is the real dynamic of statesmanship for Trump and Obama. Obama takes it too seriously. He refuses to please the crowd with a few Muslims thrown to the lions. He is too diplomatic. The job will be taken from him and given to a used car salesman with a degree in savvy and all the class of a crass comedian. But the crowd will cheer and Gingrich will be back in business and the Pentagon will be a venue to billions of fundraising for corporations that make useless garbage. And ultimately the troops collected to enforce fun like this will march off to war and come back in pieces but smiling in that they got their 15 minutes of fame and had some genuine fun.

  Trump is going to take ten minutes to clear the desk of useless treaties and agreements. He will place all these useless items into the circular file of a waste basket and get on to the real job of running the country and then our liberal elite will get a real shellacking. Unless Hilary can appeal to the moonshiners of Georgia and their friends in the NRA and the Republican party, then we are clearly going to war to stop ISIS for no greater reason than it’s fun to do that. The little-known “Civilian Marksmanship Program” is going to be a cultural icon. Sad to see Exxon get all the spoils of political war. Hopefully our friend in Georgia may have a connection for some good smoking herb and a yen for legalizing the stuff. All I can say is that the whole Democratic front is going to fail and Trump will win because the Emperor provides the Romans with better gladiators to watch. We will be asking Exxon for mercy and the Pentagon will not be creating good or useful supplies. So much for precision, accuracy, maneuverability, and guerilla warfare. We are going to just be swept aside by a mass of superior firepower that has the subtlety of a tsunami.