Birds of War

Doug Donnan

Executive Editor OMNI-GENRE+MAGAZINE!                                                                                                                                                     

donnan.doug@yahoo.com

                  

                     

“The Birds Of War”

(No Heroes)

by

Doug Donnan

 [2017 / Eglin Air Force Base / Valparaiso Florida]

    

     “Yep, the damn thing augured in someplace over in Syria for Christ's sake,”

Bolthouse declared with a blowing sigh. “It’s one of those new Jaeger UAVs. You

know, one of those crazy robotic drones that have taken top-billing away from the

Air Force’s ol’ ‘go-to bird’ the MQ-1B Predator. The word is that the damn

UAV-Operator can both fly it and fire it just by thinkin’. How crazy is that huh?

A damn thought drone! You musta’ heard how those freakin’ flyin’ fiascos can

be sometimes. Hell one minute they’re soarin’ all around and about up there in

a blue clear sky, pretty as you please snappin’ recon photos and whatnot, and the

next thing you know they’re off chasin’ a freakin’ flock of piss-ant-seagulls miles

out of their designated auto-matrix patrol pattern. Be advised amigo, they also say

that if one of these new Cerebro-Jaeger jobs gets a bad Intel bee-byte inside its bionic

bonnet it can, and will, turn its blazin' six-barrel Vulcan mini-gun or a damn SW

rocket on anything... or anybody!”

 “I hear ya,” Feldsparr called back over his shoulder as he continued checking 

on his iPad the various points and parts of their state-of-the-art mini-man-mech-chopper.

“I had one of those same damn things on a repo-op up into some crazy mountain range

over in Afghanistan. That damn birdbrain had somehow managed to find and fly itself 

into a freakin’ family nest of eagles! I had to blow the sorry ass thing in place with one

of my shit-kickin’ Hellfire missiles. Drone, birds, feathers, eggs and all … KABLAMO!

into smithereens. Can you believe that crazy shit?”

*     *     *

Both of the Aerial Robot Recovery Pilots were now seasoned veterans in what had

come to be known in the pilot locker rooms as ‘drone-rehab’ or DRAB. It was an

extremely dangerous (not to mention thankless) job for the handful of ace-daredevil

pilot-mechs who made up the covert and courageous Drone Recovery Team (DRT).

However, if the truth be known, they wouldn’t have given up the job for the entire

world. The scant few who queued up for the daring-do drone recovery team found

themselves completely ‘hooked’, in most cases, right after their very first air-op recovery

mission. They had even managed to pick themselves up a nickname…The War Birds.

*     *     *

“Tell me something Feldsparr,” Bolthouse tried as he powered down his iPad screen

after double checking the overall pre-flight rescue and recovery particulars for the mission.

“How come all of a sudden all the top brass air-dogs have decided to put a tandem team

together? Hell, we’re all used to flyin’ these damn drone re-po missions solo. Besides

in these super-duper souped up little egg beaters there’s barely enough room for—

“Ours is not the reason why Thunderbolt yadda, yadda, yadda…comprende-vu?”

“Yeh, yeh I know, but what if—

“What if, what if this whole damn world were to blow up? Who in the hell cares huh?

Nobody that’s who! Be advised my treetop flyin’ friend, nobody gives a crawlin' rat’s

ass about anything anymore, except themselves! It’s every man for himself these

days. No hope, no heroes, no nuthin’,” Feldsparr decreed as he stepped around an

empty Hellfire missile loading cart and peered into Bolthouse with hooded, icy

blue eyes. “Let’s just stay together on this one mi amigo,” he almost hissed through

a full display of ivory-like piano key teeth. “It’ll be like any other damn re-po mission

we’ve ever gone on, except there’ll be two of us…a duet, a duo, a freakin' flyin' fandango

for two okay? We’ll find this damn broken brain-bird and haul it right on back here...

wherever it is. Do you got my six on this whole damn thing Thunderbolt?”

“Yeh, sure, I copy... I guess. But where in the hell are we going in Syria that makes

it so all freakin’ important to have this unprecedented team effort?”

“The jury is still out on that, apparently, but I‘ll betcha’ we’ll be brought up to

speed here shortly,” Feldsparr replied as he looked off in the distance and

pointed at an ominous 'Air Force Blue' figure coming down the tarmac towards them.

They both snapped to attention long before the swaggering, lantern-jawed Colonel

Rybald got within spitting distance of them. He took a perfunctory look from just

beneath his saucer cap's spit-shined black leather brim at the two chopper pilots

as they stood there at an awkward rigid-back attention.

“Oh never mind all that you two,” he sighed with a halfhearted whiff of a Hitler-like

hand salute. “There’s work to be done. Do you guys have this damn whirling dervish

heli-chopper of yours squared away for the new mission?”

“Uh, yes sir,” from the now ‘at ease’ positioned Feldsparr. “We just have to go over 

some of the communication details and then we’ll be good to—

“They’ll be fine son. Of that I am positive. We’ve got the best GCS radio folks on the

planet workin’ for our side,” he snapped in. “You two whirly-war-birds have gotten all

your Top Secret  instructions and the coordinates of the downed drone…correct?”

“Well, we haven’t cracked into our manila envelopes just yet, ” Feldspar replied.

“Goddammit, open ‘em up and get this half-ass egg beater up to speed… comprende?”

Both of the pilots tore open their hermetically sealed letters and scanned down them

through four nervous, owl-like eyes. Bolthouse spoke out first with a convincing confidence.

“We’re gonna’ go over to Syria, find that broken down brainbird and bring her back alive!”

“Very good gentlemen,” Rybald replied as he readied to turn an about-face. "You guys are

workin' as a team this time out. Our civi-contracted think tank folks decided that these drone

re-po missions will have a higher percentage success ratio if we, you war birds, work in pairs...  

teamwork and all that football kinda' crap. You know how it goes. So don't drop the ball.

We're all countin' on you fellas'... Godspeed.”

*     *     * 

“…people been askin’ me where’d ya’ learn to fly that way? I says over in Vietnam

chasin’  NVA…the government taught me and they taught me—

“Do you have to continue singin’ that damn song over and over again…’Jesus’?”

Bolthouse did a kind of mocking pull back of his shoulders. “Well, excuuse me Mr.

all high and mighty, but it just so happens that I recite that song whenever I go out

on one of these crazy drone recovery missions. And, for your information, that little

Stephen Stills ditty is just about the— Hello, what’s that up ahead there, over by

those crumbled down stone buildings?”

“That’s it! The downed drone! The ‘Lazer-Locater’ is beepin’ like crazy. Go ahead

and take a sweep and spin around that area Thunderbolt. Maybe we can pull ‘er up

and outa’ there before any damn body notices that we’re out here fuc—

“Jeezus!” Bolthouse yelped as something zipped past their bottle-green filtered pilot’s

bubble-housing. “What-in-the-sam-hell was that?”

Feldspar frantically checked the circuitry indicator panel down by his left knee.

“I’m not exactly sure, but I think we’ve just been shot at with some kinda’ freakin’

missile. It was really movin’ that’s for sure. If I had to guess, and it looks like I do,

I’d say it musta’ been one of those damned anti-tank Iranian RAADs’. Somebody

or somethin’ down there is on to us. And they’re aimin’ to stop us… pun intended!" 

“Shit!” from Bolthouse as he banked the shaking chopper off to the right. “We had

better get that freakin’ broken bird outa’ there pronto amigo or we’re gonna’ have

some kinda’ holy hell to deal with around here. If we’re gonna’ do this, we had—

Exactly then there was a horrific explosion and the whirling-turning mini-chopper

exploded into a million plexi-glass shards and titanium slivers. The now wobbling,

flopping, gyrating reciprocal overhead blades and rotor apparatus spun off in wildly

concentric directions as the mutilated craft and crew were scattered mercilessly in a

ghastly fireball of smoldering shards and parts. Subsequently, in only a matter of seconds,

a thick, black, roiling mushroom cloud rose and drifted off into the raw crystal sky.      

The drone rescue/recovery mission had been…terminated.

*     *     *

                         

                     [ A highly classified ‘Ears Only’ conference call from:

       Ground Control Station (GCS) #9 / Nellis Air Force Base, Southern Nevada ]

     “Now you just listen to me Captain Rybaldi,” the voice blasted into his ear as he

yanked the phone receiver away in surprise. Rybald dropped his feet down from

atop the green felt blotter that covered his tidy oaken desk.

“That’s Rybald sir,” he tried awkwardly. “Colonel Rybald.

“Whatsaat? Oh, well whatever…sorry,” came back brusquely. “Okay then Colonel,

please be advised. I’m up to my ass in alligators out here at Nellie in Nevada. So here's

the deal. One of my crack high flyin’ Poseidon P-8A’s surveillance pilots saw the entire

‘incident’ down there in that Syrian rock n’ rubble town that your repo whirly-bird-dogs

were sniffin’ around over. He does concur, in fact he has all of the damn aerial photos

and raw film footage to prove it, with your suspicions. That damn derelict drone that

they were so desperate to get to, did in fact, fire off a direct hit on them with one of its

Goddam air-to-ground heat-seakers. It blew them right outa’ the damn sky…just like that."

“That’s it then?” from a now wide-eyed Ribald. “Just like that?” he challenged. 

“If you want to cry about it mister,” the now cold and ominous voice shot back. “You

just go right ahead and have at it. Cry your sad sack eyes out. Have a damn vigil out on 

the tarmac there at Eglin AFB in beautiful, sunny Florida. I and the other top brass boys

way out here couldn’t care less. Just don’t do it ‘on the record’. Do you copy that?

No reporters, no cameras, not a word or a whisper to any of the media about this

little ‘accident’. Do I make myself clear corporal… please forgive me, I mean colonel?”

“I uh, well…yes sir,” Rybald answered in total bewilderment. “But, surely General, at the

very risk of being disrespectful and recalcitrant, you can’t be serious about trying to cover

this kind of thing up. I mean it’s just against everything that we are trying to dispel about--

“Now you just listen up. We’ve handled these situations before, a number of times in the past.

Trust me. We can, and will, sweep this thing right under the damn rug. By the time Superbowl

Sunday rolls around, even if there is sone kinda' leak, it'll all be forgotten by all the millions

of indifferent, beer-guzzlin, food stampin', American Joe Blows out there." 

“Can't we at least contact the two pilots next of k--

"Okay mister, I'll spell it out for you. Get two black body bags. Stuff 'em with sumthin' and

roll 'em off the ass end of one of our big-ass C-5 cargo planes. No-God-dam-heroes...captain! 

Do you read me loud and clear?"

"Yes sir. But--

The connection went dead. Only a tuning fork-like electric humming lingered on the line.

_____ The End _____