From the Spring Hill series of short stories:

                                                       

A Short Story set in the near future:

What to do with Vitaly?

SCENE 1: Battle over Destin Bay

The sea was calm. The skies over Destin Bay off the North Florida coast were filled with moist sinking clouds. This area belonged to the Naval Training Command center in Eglin AFB, FL. Their mission was training Navy pilots, and business had picked up. They had found a better way to train pilots. The new drones, piloted by on-board AI (artificial intelligence)- were much quicker than the old remote-controlled drones. Best of all, the new drones could shoot back. The word got out to the pilots, and they all wanted to test themselves against the AI opponents. The bullets were just laser pulses, which in one sense made the bay the world's biggest game, played with real airplanes.

The churn in the daily weather made every exercise a bit different and unpredictable. A fog bank had formed offshore, under a layer of puffy cumulus. High above, two aircraft, ripped through the fluff. A chase was on. The fighter had a drone on its tail, and the drone pilot had the advantage.

The two planes went into a slow banking turn, both perfectly executing the proper speed and roll rate, waiting for the exit point to come around.

I am Vitaly Vaysfeld, Hero of the Soviet Union. Beg for mercy, you lapdog of capitalist pigs!

Where do I get these English words? Someday, I would like to re-learn Russian and the proper cuss words!

His words went nowhere.

He triggered his cannon to READY. The indicator changed to amber, spin-up, then to green, ready-to-fire.   He let go a short burst of laser-simulated 20mm cannon shells. The HUD(heads-up display)showed the simulated bullet paths grazing the tip of the fighter's tail. Not a kill, but he scored a few points. He could read "U.S. Navy" as the fighter banked left and dived into the fog bank, headed for the deck.

That's a risky maneuver at high speed, and low visibility. The pilot must be very good or scared. Where will he pop out?

Vitaly chose his spot. It was time to go in for the kill.

The Navy pilot had learned something new that might get him out of this jam. "Glad I was paying attention in class," he thought. He coolly banked tight left and dove into the fog, then pulled hard to the right, using his wing surfaces as an air brake. It was hell on the airframe, but his Warthog II could take it. He lost speed rapidly, stalling, the stall alarm started squawking. He nosed forward, regained the proper attitude and throttled up. He sank a bit further into the thickening fog then leveled out. The "enemy" drone, still pursuing full throttle, skimmed the fog bank, and shot right over him. He spun up his 20 mm cannon, and fired a long burst as he recovered altitude and popped up behind the drone. The drone flew right through the stream of simulated bullets. It's wing would have been sliced off – a certain kill.

Responding to defeat, the drone popped a tethered flare, shut down its engine, and glided toward the recovery zone streaming smoke from the flare. The smoke was a bit of unnecessary pyrotechnics. The training command admitted it was just "positive feedback" to make the training more satisfying to the pilots. Little things mean a lot. It worked. The Navy pilot let out a "Hooyah!" and returned to base.

Vitaly noted the exact time where his aircraft was shot so he could look it up later in the flight dynamics logs. He spiraled the aircraft into the recovery zone. It did not take much thought to do such flying. He had plenty of thinking capacity left to grouse to himself about his failure. He wished he could speak to the Americans face-to-face.

That is the second time they got me this week. I am going to analyze the flight logs tonight. What tricky maneuver those Amerikanskis have stumbled upon, I do not know. I will work out a counter-maneuver. They can keep me as prisoner-of-war inside this drone, but I will show them how to fly.

Vitaly switched to the pilot position camera and surveyed the empty horizon. A lone Navy cutter with a catch tower on its bow was below, steaming rapidly towards the pick-up point under him. Vitaly switched to the belly camera.

Here they come to catch me. I would like to watch them do it. They are good prison-keepers. They only let me see what I need to see to train their pilots. They must use some powerful sedative on me. Just after the chute deploys at exactly 3,000 feet, then I black out. I am surprised that I am not addicted. Perhaps I am addicted. They tell me nothing. My injuries in the crash in Chechnya must have been severe. They never let me see my body, so I must be a quadriplegic, a mess. Perhaps they are merciful, giving me a job to do. Life could be worse.

The drone reached 3,000 feet. The parachute fluttered out. The parachute lines pulled the battery circuit breakers to the OFF position. The drone went totally dark. With the battery power disconnected, the drone electronics were in no danger of being fried, even if the whole craft ended up in the salty ocean water for a few minutes. The drone drifted down, hanging by the tail, swaying under the canopy, like a side of beef. The Navy cutter steamed in, and with practiced precision, snagged the chute and lowered the drone into an opening in the deck.

SCENE 2: Nightshift in the Hangar

The sun is blazing low in the sky and fills the hangar with reddish light. The ground crews are washing down the drones dull gray aluminum skin with fresh water to forestall saltwater corrosion. Then they pull the drones in the hangar maintenance bay. The weather is good. They leave the doors up, so the evening sea breeze dries the planes. It also blows out the hangar's stale air smelling of lubricating oil, fuel and solvents. At 1600 hours the second shift technicians begin to arrive. The first group re-packs the parachutes. Meanwhile, two electronics techs show up. They work their way through the hangar, connecting ground power to the drone fuselages, and cabling up the drone's internal systems to the automated diagnostic machines.

Vitaly wakes up to see Yusef and Lloyd, the Naval electronics technicians, starting their daily maintenance chores. Lloyd is a tall, lanky West Virginian, descended from Welsh miners. Yusef, shorter and darker, is the first American-born son of a family that left the turmoil of some vague Middle Eastern area. Both are survivors. They are in the Navy to escape unemployment at home and to see the world. Vitaly likes them the best. They always turn on the wifi router in the hangar so they can stream music through the PA system. The Navy has most of the internet blocked, but he can get to YouTube videos about aircraft, and some medical and history sites. No one tells him anything, so from these sources he has pieced together what has happened to him.

Peculiarly, the MIT Free Online University classes are not blocked. Perhaps some sailor found the hangar a quiet place to study, so he punched an unauthorized hole in the firewall. That was probably years ago, and it has been there ever since. This is a facility that follows the "If it is not broken, don't fix it," philosophy.

Yusef walks up to the diagnostic console, presses a button, and greets him, "Good evening, Vitaly."

"Good evening, Mr. Yusef," responds Vitaly.

Yusef smiles. He is always tickled by Vitaly's formality. He asks,"Did you do well today?"

"Not so good. I was shot down again, but the human pilot knew a new trick. I will analyze the flight logs tonight and figure it out. I will be better next time."

"I am sure you will. You have the best record of all the drones on base. I am going to start the diagnostics now. I'll be back in an an hour." Yusef called for Lloyd, and the two headed towards the canteen at the far end of the hangar, leaving Vitaly to do whatever AIs do when they are not busy.

Vitaly thinks about his life: It has been a few years since I was in Murmansk. Has life changed in the New Soviet Union? I wish I could remember. The medical websites call my condition "retrograde amnesia, commonly induced by head injury". There are no cures, but spontaneous recoveries have occurred, so there is always hope. No doubt, this is a result of my crash landing, or maybe I was tortured by the Chechnyans. 

He looks through a file containing his pilot profile, to see if he missed some detail. It only has his rank, pictures of his unnamed wife and two unnamed children, training certifications and a few other details. He has seen it all before. It is a good thing to check on periodically, as he acquires new information. He will make a note to review these questions again in 30 days.

A countdown timer sounds a low level alert. It is time for class. As the technicians continued their chores Vitaly logs into the MIT Free Online Learning channel. He is taking a course in Technical English for ESL (English as a Second Language) speakers. After the class, the T/A gives the class an assignment, "For homework, write the story of your life in two pages." The point of this exercise is for you to use your words.

This is My life

 by

 Vitaly Vaysfeld, Pilot, New Soviet Union Air Force

I am a Pilot, First Class rank, of the Murmansk Wing of the New Soviet Union Air Force. All I know is my birthday and the location, which I found in my Pilot Profile. There is a damaged photo in my profile. I look good in my red-tinged uniform of the Air Force. I can tell you nothing of my early life in Murmansk, apparently due to my injuries. On the internet, I found that my condition is called 'retrograde amnesia' usually a result of severe head injuries.

My earliest memory is the war, about three years ago. I am inside my aircraft with a co-pilot. We are headed home with our squadron after a sortie on a Chechnya rebel base. We are attacked by armed American drones with U.N. markings. Our SU-25s were set up for bombing; very slow; we were not prepared for an ambush. Our aircraft was damaged. I try to land with my wounded co-pilot. Everything goes dark, then I hear a voice, in Russian and English, it says, "You have crash-landed and been captured." That must have been the doctor patching me up. Those are my earliest memories.

Next thing, I woke up in America, crammed into a small space inside a drone aircraft. I must be a quadriplegic to fit in here. My job is to fly combat training against American pilots at the Navy's Warthog II Training School. It is in Florida. The work is not bad, flying a drone to train the American pilots. They shoot me down a lot with fake bullets. I shoot back. It is great fun to fly, every day. They must have been impressed with my flying over Chechnya, so I accept this job as recognition of my skill. I am clearly a prisoner of war, and I am an officer, yet they make me work. It seems not right according to the Geneva Convention, but, this job is better than any prison, so I don't complain. I have internet access to military history web sites, Youtube, medical sites and this school site. Is not bad for a POW. Such is my life.

Signed,

Vitaly Vaysfeld

Pilot, First Class

Murmansk Wing, New Soviet Union Air Force

09 September 2025

Vitaly emails his write-up to the MIT T/A, then turns his attention to analyzing the day's air battle where he came up short.

SCENE 3: Bad News

(THEN NEXT SCENE/CHAPTER WILL BE PUBLISHED on January 24,2018 If there is interest, I will publish it sooner. Leave a message.)