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Part 1 IRANIANS CAPTURE AMERICAN UNMANNED VEHICLE
AMERICAN DRONE INTERCEPTED, LANDS IN IRAN
CAN IRAN HACK U.S. DRONES?
Charlie Simmons´ blood pressure spiked every time he read the headlines. He had kept the clippings for the last three years, giving them a place of honour on the wall of his library. When he entered the tiny room, he looked to the right, between the book shelves. There they were, black on white, extracted from paper and Internet news sites. Pretentious and sensationalistic in equal measures. A sobering reminder that technology could not replace things such as loyalty.
Before that day, the room had been quiet a long time. Charlie had left his job and the library was not needed anymore. A sixty-something pensioner like him had spent enough time buried in files and cabinets. When he retired, he bought a few parcels of terrain, a Ford 4x4, a hunting rifle, a fishing set and a comfortable little house close to the Arkansas river, and settled down to enjoy a little bit of that country he had helped to defend. Above anything else, he relished visiting his family. He took his grandsons out for ice-cream and smoked cigars with his two sons while they talked to him about how life was treating them. If any of them had trouble, Charlie did not hesitate to help them out. He had always been a family man. That was how he was raised, and that was how he tried to raise his own children. He hoped they had raised their own children the same way, and had no reason to think the opposite. Therefore, he had a rather pleasant existence, besides the small pains of entering his sunset years.
And then, those Arab bastards had stolen that little toy from Obama. What bothered him the most was not the theft itself, but how it had happened. ¿Navigation error? ¿Flight systems failure? ¿Russian intervention to support the Iranians?
Normally, Charlie would have lost no sleep over any of these possibilities, since he had a rather good idea of how the game went. No one would tell the truth publicly because that would only make it easier for someone to repeat the result... or prevent it. Even a child understood that logic, same way he would understand the American intelligence servies and the engineers that built the drone, the best in the world, would work without respite until they had solved the problem. It would not happen twice. Charlie had faith in that.
However... some ideas that sneaked into her mind made him restless. Like what would happen if one day, an insurgent with a Russian backpack took control of a Predator armed with Hellfire missiles while it flew over American troops. His mind replayed that scene and Charlie could not stop it. American soldiers requesting air support, bullets flying everywhere, and suddenly... a missile kills a dozen boys. And then another. And another. And another...
Charlie had faith, but any believer could have a moment of weakness. What counted then was what you did about it, and Charlie Simmons thought of himself as the kind of believer that helped himself. That was the reason he bought a cow, had it carved up, loaded it in his 4x4, drove to the foot of Mount Yale and laid the raw meat on the ground in a discrete place, and waited as it bled out. Charlie did not move when they came down, flapping their wings with breath-taking power. They saw him, watched him and waited to see what he intended to do. One of them, more impatient than the others, hopped on toward the meat, tore a piece off with her teeth and began chewing. Charlie almost crapped in his pants, having never seen them so close. And watching one of them eat like that, spilling all that blood on herself while the others watched him closely...well, Charlie was a smart man, but he realized he had never described himself as brave. Also, he had left his gun at home, so perhaps he was not that smart, either.
Fortunately for him, that was it.
Once the imaptient one finished her piece, she hopped up, landed on another piece, sank her claws into it and took off. With hardly any difficulty, too. Charlie had the cow carved up so each piece was not too heavy, but still...
When the flapping vanished in the distance and his guests became nothing more than dots in the sky, Charlie breathed deeply and wiped the sweat off his brow with his jacket´s sleeve. If his wife were still alive, he would have had to lie to her. He began to imagine her giving him a well deserved scolding. The loneliness and sadness still hurt him when he remembered her, and they were what pushed him to visit his family. That time, however, he felt joy instead. Leaving the remaining meat on the ground, guessing they would come for more if they wanted it, he cleaned his hands with a cloth and drove back home listening to some of his favourite 80s classics. He began humming and moving his head along with the music. He ended up singing Livin´ on a Prayer at the top of his voice.
Three years later, closer now to being seventy years old, he realized he was humming it again when he entered his library that morning.
“I love that one.” A half-asleep voice pointed out from the floor.
“Yeah, it´s one of my favourites.” Charlie answered with a smile as he left a tray with pan-fried chicken stripes on the the computer desk. They disappered one by one between two rows of very sharp canine teeth. The pensioner slumped on a soft armchair at the same time he picked up a phone and began dialling. He pushed the buttons while two large, black eyes watched him, although the sound of a chin tilting a dish, rising, and pushing down and tilting it again did not stop until the phone signal started chirping.
“Who are you calling?”
“An old friend of mine.” Charlie answered. “I think it´s time we tested our three years of efforts, don´t you think?”
While the Navy of the United States of America comprised twelve fleets, a carrier in the center of each one, only a number of them were active at a time. Warships required maintenance and repairs just like any other machine. Besides, they also had to discharge the sailors who had fulfilled their contracts, pick up their replacements and train them, which meant several months spent in maneuvers and exercises of different kinds. Simmons held his ear close to the ground, waiting for one of these. The Navy had no bases in Colorado, so he needed to wait for the right moment. That moment was Commander Jeremy Estebes: an officer in command of an air wing aboard the USS George Washington.
Estebes´ father was like a brother to Simmons, and this made Jeremy his nephew, practically. That was the one and only reason Jeremy dared to sneak out of Peterson Air Force Base to go pay him a visit. He drove all the way in uniform. Simmons liked to see him in one, and the visit to Peterson was not meant to last so long that he would need civilian clothes. Simmons´ invitation came at a time when Jeremy expected to be working on some paperwork and talking to other officers. However, when his father´s old friend told him over the phone that he needed to see him urgently about something that `the next generations of Navy pilots will be thankful for´, Jeremy was impressed enough. He stopped the car, put on his officer´s cap, and left the vehicle. When he was not in his little house by the Arkansas river, Simmons lived in a stereotypically peaceful suburb. Well-kept gardens, clean sidewalks and lovely wooden houses. Children could play in the street without fear though, this being a monday morning, the only people he could see were housewives and pensioners coming out to pick up the newspapers and water their flowers. It was not a port city from the East Coast, certainly, but Jeremy did not quite like it. He had watched too many movies and the neighbourhood felt fake, somehow. As if he could walk to any of the houses, kick it, and watch it fall flat, revealing a filming studio for an old Hollywood movie behind.
Walking up the gravel path flanked by green grass, the officer could see Simmons come out of the house. He must have heard or seen his car arrive from the kitchen. He wore wide, grey pants, white shirt and jacket, and his reading glasses. The smile on his face was wide, yet strangely forced.
“Jerry, my boy! I´ve been waiting for you. They wouldn´t let you out?”
“Charlie, it´s more than a 100km drive here, you know?”
Jerry walked closer, stretched his arms out, and let himself be hugged. Charlie´s usual effusiveness was somewhat embarrassing, but Jerry never complained. The pensioner´s sons were... what... a lawyer and a stockbroker? Ambitious and tough-headed like their father, but they had not taken up the arms or served the government in any way. One of Charlie´s sons told Jerry once that he envied him because the officer shared something with his father that neither he nor his brother understood. That made him an honorary Simmons family member. And just like he would have done with any Simmons, Charlie invited him in. The house was big, built in wood and in perfect condition. This was not the first time Jerry came over, but he felt something strange this time. He wondered why as he took his cap off and hung it on a perch in the hallway. Charlie gestured for him to follow.
“Come to the kitchen. I was making breakfast, and that includes coffee.”
“I´ve already had breakfast, but I´ll have that coffee.”
“Nonsense.” Charlie made a disbelieving hand-wave as he prepared a tablecloth for his visitor. Charlie noted there were two others already set. “You must have eaten some of that new stuff... organic food and some kind of disgusting porridge. You should eat some true food. Bacon, toasts, that kind of thing. None of that biological crap and hippie shit.”
Jerry made a face. The kitchen stank of pan-fried meat and toasted bread. In fact, there was bacon crackling on the fire, and a couple bread slices peeking out of a toaster´s slots. Jerry liked all that just as much as any red-blooded American, but Charlie´s attitude was overbearing sometimes. He was the kind of American who could not settle for red blood when he could have it blue and white too. Jerry was a patriot too, or considered himself one, but he did not think he combined that with the ridiculous stubbornness Charlie exhibited, worthy of a joke at the expense of Southern hicks. He was not a bad person and he did not blame the black guy in the White House for all the troubles in the world (not in public, at least), but it was difficult talking to him sometimes. Then again, he was not much different to many people who took for granted their authority as they got on in years.
Charlie cracked an egg and poured it on the pan. Jerry hurried over to a window and opened it to let some fresh air in. When he turned around, he suddenly processed that there were three tablecloths already set up in the kitchen. Dishes too, but there was no cutlery on one of the cloths. Wanting to help a bit, Jerry opened the cutlery drawer, the location of which he knew by heart, and took a fork and a knife. He also picked up a glass from the sink by kitchen fires, and moved on to the table. Charlie saw him.
“Oh, that... won´t be necessary, Jerry.”
“Really? ´cause I can see three tablecloths.”
“Yeah... we´ll be three for breakfast today. It´s just... she´s still sleeping.”
Jerry did not understand. Who was `she´? Charlie´s wife passed away a long time ago, so he lived alone. The only regular company he got was the cleaning lady that came by now and then. He wanted to ask, but it was an uncomfortable question and he began losing his will to utter it.
“Who is she...?”
“Oh, you´ll see!” The old man became frantic as he killed the fires, dropped the oil-soaked bacon on a deep dish and served an egg on a flat one. He wiped his hands on a cloth as he left the kitchen. “I´ll go wake her up. Could you finish setting up the table for me?”
As usual, Charlie´s tone of voice suggested that there was no chance he could say no. Jerry wondered who could be the old man´s other guest. His steps could be heard easily as he climbed upstairs, as if he had boots on. Until Charlie came back, Jerry decided he might as well get busy. He looked for a box of cereals and when he opened the right cupboard, found many more than seemed normal to him. And they were the sugary kind, too. Was Charlie really taking care of himself? He picked up a dish with some toast on it, left both things on the table, then went to the fridge for milk. Inside, besides the milk, there were some chocolate milkshake cartons. The kind that came in small size, with straws. Jerry did not remember Charlie liking sweets much. In fact, he could not remember him liking anything he could not fry, yet he was one of those old men that courted cholesterol on a daily basis yet seemed as healthy as they could be. Just like the people that smoked five packs a week but did not develop lung cancer. Jerry did not want anything bad to happen to Charlie, but he was a bit angry at how everybody else had to watch carefully what they ate, drank or even did in their daily lives while bearing the boasting of those who didn´t.
Jerry looked with displeasure at the oil dripping off the bacon, pooling on the bottom of the dish. It was so goddamn unfair. Whenever Jerry told his wife he had eaten with Charlie, he had to take a scolding easily two hours long, mostly whining about what that kind of diet would do to Charlie´s heart. He was a combat pilot, for God´s sake! If landing on a carrier, at night and on rough seas had not killed him, a fried egg and four pork pork stripes were not going to, whatever grease they had in them.
Charlie´s steps thundered down the stairs again. It seemed he had company, though it was sensed more than heard. Jerry´s mind wandered back to the fridge and the milkshakes. A child, perhaps? But... surely Charlie had not adopted one, right? Not at his age...
The pensioner stepped into the kitchen, with a guest behind him. Jerry felt his brain bounce in his head.
“Jesus fuck...”
Jerry had heard about `sentients´, but this was the first time he saw one up-close, and he did not enjoy the experience. This one had the height of a teenaged kid, a girl, but that was where similarities ended, as they often did with sentients
“Language, Jerry.” Charlie moved to the fridge. The creature followed him.
It looked roughly like a half-human, half-bird monster. Its face was human in the sense that it was made of soft flesh. Facial features too sharp, dark eyes too big and round, and the ears... well, it had none. Rather, they seemed replaced by twin protuberances out of which a number of grey-white feathers extended backwards, taking the shape of some kind of fae-like ears. Its hair, cut short like a child´s, was grey-white like the feathers that grew on the sides of its head, behind the neck, and beyond. Jerry could not see where they stopped because the thing wore a brown sweater around its torso (and that was, he realized, the reason he thought it had a human torso in the first place).
The sentient had no arms. Instead, two large, brown-feathered wings grew from its shoulders. Their size was impressive, and never before had Jerry noticed just how solid a bird´s wings could be until he saw these ones. Even folded against its sides, to keep them out of the way, one could feel the power in them. For Jerry, who had never seen something like them that close, wings on a bird had always been something flat. Almost two-dimensional, like a piece of paper. These were not like that. They looked strong like a boxer´s muscles.
Finally, from the waist down, the creature was a bird. It had a sort of tail, just an open fan of feathers mixing brown and white. It stood on two powerful legs, brown-feathered as well, ending on two large yellow claws with black tips that looked downright dangerous. Three digits pointed forward, one back.
Jerry realized something when he examined the creature as a whole, rather than bit by bit. Its plumage, at first glance, reminded him of the bald eagle. The symbol of the American nation.
He had a very bad feeling.
His eyes went from the creature, to Charlie, and back. His mind raced, trying to find something appropriate to say. The old pensioner brought one of the chocolate milkshake cartons out of the fridge, speared the straw into it, and put it on the table, in the spot closest to the sentient. He pulled the chair back, then sat on his own. The creature walked to the chair, bowed... and gathering impulse, jumped off the floor and onto the chair, that resented its new occupant´s table manners. The sudden motion of such a massive animal-like creature made Jerry jump back and lose his nerve.
“Jesus, Charlie! What the hell is this?”
“This, Jerry, is a harpy. She goes by the name Everest, by the way. You may call her Eve, with her permission.”
The `harpy´ watched Jerry with a neutral, almost bored stare as she leaned forward to take the milkshake´s straw between her lips and began drinking at a leisurely pace as the conversation continued. The only thing Jerry had that seemed remotely interesting to her were the insignia on his uniform. Her eyes fixed on them.
“A harpy? That´s... those are Greek, right?”
“Originally, yes.” Charlie served himself some bacon to go with his fried egg, as if having a mythological monster over for breakfast was not strange at all. “But they´ve been in the United States almost since its foundation.”
“So she´s Greek?”
“No, she is American. As American as you and me.” Charlie served some bacon to the thing. It let go of the straw and leaned forward. It caught a piece of meat between its teeth and began tearing it apart. The dog-like bobbing of its head as it did that was disconcerting on something that had a human-like head.
“You just said...”
“She was born at Mount Yale, Jerry. In a nest near the summit. Her family´s heritage probably goes back all the way to someone watching Ben Franklin doing experiments with a kite. She´s as American as any of us can ever be.” Charlie´s tone of voice was that of a man displeased with having to explain something extremely obvious to someone who seemed in denial. “Of course, being a sentient, I expect some people will have a problem with employing her, but...”
“But the United States does not recognize civil rights or duties for sentients. We cannot... employ her?” Something came together in Jerry´s mind. He sat down and began serving himself as he observed the harpy. She reciprocated.
“The Marines have four-legged enlisted and NCOs. I don´t see why the Navy couldn´t have a flight officer with actual goddamn wings.”
“Look, Ok, let´s assume we can employ her. Why would we? What would we do with her?”
Charlie grinned as he cut a piece of egg and toast, and shoved it all into his mouth. His grin was still there as he munched, his eyes fixed on Jerry. He seemed extremely satisfied, as if he had taken Jerry right where he wanted. And the Commander realized that was just what he had done. Charlie swallowed, and put both hands on the table, leaning forward with the weight of victory on his shoulders.
“Tell me, Jerry... just how much do you like drones?”
Part 2 Jeremy Estebes was more than busy for the next weeks, preparing his wing for the exercise. It took a lot of hard work. It was not just filling in and pushing paperwork in every direction. He had to talk to people, figure out how they worked, what they could and could not do, and how to get them to cooperate. This meant long working days, short sleeping periods, and even shorter resting hours. But there was the occasional moment when he would have some relatively free time between e-mails, phone calls and power-point presentations. Jerry was the kind of guy whose idea of free time was reading something different to what he read while working, and since he had made sure to leave no loose ends at home when coming to the exercise, he was desperately bored.
Bored enough to seriously consider Charlie´s idea of using harpies to replace drones.
To be fair, Charlie had made fairly good points. The captured drone scandal had made people quite nervous. Drones were supposed to be the weapon of the future, but if a backwards theocracy could nullify them... well, that was just no good, was it? Of course, Jerry was sure the research boys would fix that little problem, but the Russians and the Chinese had their own research boys too. UAVs were turning out to be a far more complex thing than people thought. Meanwhile... you had simple solutions.
“Now, I´m not saying they can replace all drones.” Charlie had explained in the hallway while the harpy, Everest, watched TV in the large living room. “But they can be an alternative to putting all our eggs in one basket. They cannot hack harpies. They have a brain. And even if the enemy knows we have them in a given warzone, what are they going to do? Launch SAMs at every large bird they see on radar?”
“They could...”
“Yeah, and once they´ve spent their missiles on shooting down dozens of bids, our SEAD jets can kill them. No, I don´t think they will be shooting missiles to kill birds. And even if they were stupid enough to do that... truth is I have no idea how good a flyer Everest is. I have not tested her capabilities.”
“You have not?”
“I have not. I don´t have the equipment or the knowledge to do that, but you get a team of your boys, and a couple ornithologists... run a few tests... put some measuring equipment on her... and who knows? Mount Yale is 14,000 feet high and Eve can get up there without trouble. For all we know, she could go higher. What is her maximum speed in level flight, or in a dive? How long can she stay in the air in different flying conditions?”
“But what about her eyes?” Jerry crossed his arms, his eyes wandering in the harpy´s direction. She was watching CNN. “How good are her eyes? You say we can replace drones with harpies, but they would have to have very good eyes... because I assume they cannot fly with missiles strapped to them?”
“Of course not.” Charlie dismissed the idea with his hand. “But her sight is unquestionably good. That much I know. I had her fly up high, identify a parked car, read the plates, and land so she could not see the plates up-close. She was completely right. She´s done the test several times in day-light and not failed once. It´s harder for her at night, but give her some night vision goggles and...”
“Right.” Jerry began considering the idea seriously. A bird that could spy on the enemy without getting shot at or being hacked, that would be working for the US? Sounded suspiciously good. Maybe not something you could use against the Russians and the Chinese, but something in a mountainous area like the Hindu Kush, where the worst danger was an insurgent with an AK... it was not impossible to do. Perhaps a bit picky on the conditions, but definitely doable. “Look, I´ll have to think about this... I have a lot of work coming up, too, so I cannot give you a fast answer. If you got any friends working with birds, or can find someone...”
“I´m already on it. I´ve got a list of names. Enthusiasts and professionals.” Jerry smiled, hands in his jacket. “I´m sure we´ll have results in a few months. After that, it´s all you.”
“But still... why replace drones? Look, there are a lot of economic interests on that. I don´t see anyone going face to face with General Atomics, Lockheed Martin, Boeing or Northrop. That´s a lot of jobs. And drones are expendable, remember? There are no human lives lost when one gets shot down.”
“I´m surprised, Jerry. I didn´t think you liked drones that much.” Charlie rubbed his chin, feigning a pensive disposition. “I mean, pilots hate drones, don´t they? Stealing jobs from good, honest airmen... replacing you with pimply nerds sitting in front of a screen...”
“Well, yeah...” Jerry had to admit, he hated drones. Even if he admitted they were good for some stuff, he could see where it was all going. They wanted to make the A-10C Thunderbolt II into drones for air-to-ground attacks. It was only a matter of time until they did that with the whole air fleet of the US. He had watched those stupid ads with swarms of drones attacking simultaneously and he had not liked it one bit. The most rational part of him did not like it because things were rarely that easy. A very deep part of him, though, hated it because he was a pilot, and the idea of being replaced by a machine did not sit well with him.
“If we used harpies to replace drones, even just in part...” Jerry mused. “... we could forestall the sacking of all the pilots in the USAF and USN. This could mean a few more decades of human pilots up there. You know the scandals going on about our shoving missiles down into Pakistan, too. About the whole `killer machines with no conscience´ thing and the morals related to it. Put a human face up there, and we can get a stalemate with all those big, bad companies.”
“Maybe.” The Commander stared at the harpy´s back. During his conversation with Charlie, she had not moved one millimeter. No scratching herself, no stretching, no yawning, no nothing. She remained perfectly still, just watching the TV, as if transfixed by it. He turned his attention back to Charlie, worried. “But... just how human is she?”
Charlie told him he had spent the last three years educating Everest. He had taught her to read, a little to write (which she hated, given her lack of appropriate appendages to handle a pen or a keyboard), and had subjected her to heavy doses of America´s favourite educational tool: television. She loved documentaries, did not understand politics any better than the average army recruit, and asked tons of questions about food. For the time being, her main interests seemed to revolve around understanding Charlie´s world... and how it could provide her with all sorts of new types of food she had never tasted before. Worried that over-feeding might impair her flying capabilities, Charlie sent her off to fly at night or in the early hours of the morning every day, just as a sort of exercise.
The neighbours knew what Charlie was doing, though he thankfully had taken the precaution of camping out by Mount Yale during the first few months of her education: the last thing he wanted was complaints about her catching and eating the neighbours´ pets. Still, he received the occasional visit by the police when someone´s cat disappeared, even if only for half an hour. Tension was, apparently, mounting, and Charlie doubted that a party and presentation to the locals would endear them to Eve. She was not human, and lacked many mannerisms. She had an unnerving way of moving, talking or looking at people sometimes, and that would be blown out of proportion sooner or later. The way Charlie saw it, it was only a matter of time before the authorities stepped in, or some maniac shot her, so he had to accelerate the process to send Everest to a place where civilians could not get at her.
The old man´s worries were understandable. Jerry was not comfortable around the creature, but it seemed inoffensive enough. She certainly did not deserve to get shot, and Jerry suspected this fear was not quite unjustified. While Charlie worked something out on that front, Jerry used his free time to dig up everything he could to help his friend´s cause. Naturally, the first thing he used was Wikipedia, and then he began working from there.
As it turned out, if Charlie thought using harpies as scouts was a novel idea, he was very wrong. According to Wikipedia´s sources, which seemed reliable enough, Alexander the Great had used them as scouts and to intercept messengers riding horses. Jerry could not imagine an armour-laden harpy swinging a sword, but a couple of them scaring a horse until it dropped its rider... well, he had seen a harpy up-close and she was scary enough without actually trying to kill him. She also seemed smart enough to understand human language, and Alexander using her kind like that obviously meant they were intelligent. And he had not been the first, or the last, to employ them. Throughout history, European armies and leaders had procured harpies and used them in pretty much the same fashion as Alexander. And the last organization to use them was the United States Aviation Section, Signal Corps.
Jerry had to go deeper. He called some contacts and asked for files from some of the main historical archives, both civilian and military. As they came in, Jerry got a complete picture of how and why harpies were pretty much invisible to the public eye.
First, one had to consider `sentients´.
`Sentients´ was the internationally recognized name for all living beings with a human-like capacity for reasoning. Generally, this meant that they could learn at least one human language and use it to a level approaching that of a human ten-year-old child. Harpies were capable of learning Greek, French and English to communicate with human beings, therefore they were sentients, much like the trolls that coexisted with mankind in Great Britain or the goblins that inhabited much of Asia. However, the international recognition of sentients was something relatively modern, dating from the 50s, and not all countries had bother with that, including the United States.
Before that, the vast majority of sentients were considered little more than monsters, and treated as such. Trolls had survived up to current days because they were fairly peaceful and extremely difficult to kill both individually and as a species, goblins had been a part of human societies in Asia since before the invention of writing, and harpies lived in difficult-to-reach nests near the peaks of mountains. Many of the other sentient species did not have such advantages and had been annihilated for all sorts of reasons. The North-American wendigo had been exterminated some time before the American Civil War when the government sent troops to investigate cases of farmers´ children being abducted and eaten. In Europe, centaur-like species had begun to disappear in the times of Ancient Greece, and their last few descendants were considered servants of Satan by the Catholic Church and killed in the age of Spanish Imperialism.
Generally speaking, sentients were annihilated if they were not obviously useful, or if they looked a bit too human. Harpies belonged to the former category, particularly in the military. The Greeks, the Romans and the French had all used them to spy on the movements of enemy armies, and in noticeable quantities too.
However, aviation had killed the harpy as an instrument of war.
Someone had figured out that harpies were not strong enough to carry weapons, but a machine built for that particular purpose could complement them nicely. So when the First World War started, there were British, French and German harpies sharing the sky with the first fighter planes in history. The results were not pretty. Primitive as they were compared to modern jets, these fighter planes could match the harpies in speed and shoot them down with their machineguns. The casualty reports were appalling on all sides. If a harpy could not dive fast enough to hide in the terrain, she was as good as dead.
By 1916, the United States Aviation Section stopped employing them. The other belligerents had stopped months before. It was impossible to sustain the losses, and the fact that the harpies had a passing resemblance to women began to make people very uncomfortable about using them in pitched conflicts.
Since then, harpies pretty much stopped existing for most of mankind. They were spotted on rare occasions since then, mostly by ornithologists doing field work or soldiers fighting in unimportant wars. They were still a subject of study and discussion, but generally nothing more than a passing reference in a newspaper. Modern aviation had made them useless, and their isolation from human society meant few people even knew they existed. However, Jerry began seeing some potential in them. If Alexander the Great, Napoleon and others had used them successfully, then they clearly had some use. Perhaps not in open warfare where a SAM or a SPAAG could shoot them down, but the United States had been involved, and would be involved, in low-intensity conflicts were the airspace was completely uncontested. No planes to chase them away, no large quantities of missiles and munitions that could be wasted on killing over-sized birds. And depending on their physical capabilities, perhaps one or two harpies could cover the same ground as a drone while costing much less money to the taxpayer.
There was a lot of research to do, but... yeah... with the proper pitch, this idea was a seller. It had worked in the past so it could work now, depending on battlefield conditions. And it was worth a shot if it kept UAVs from replacing pilots. Not everyone was sold on that idea in the USN, USAF or USMC. But the pitch had to be done properly, with lots of work, dedication and experimentation. Something like using harpies in the modern age had to be presented like something that would take only a little effort. An almost foregone conclusion, too. And it would require the full support of the military aviation community to fight back against the interests of the large enterprises and the officers in their pockets.
Everest sat on Charlie´s sofa. He had put an old cushion there that he did not mind Everest´s claws tearing up when she got on or off. That had been one expensive lesson, and it had not ended. Eve could not keep her balance wearing anything on her claws, so the floors were scratched to hell and back, as well as her chair in the kitchen. She was sorry about that, but it just could not be helped.
The TV´s remote was scratched as well.
Her unnervingly intense stare was focused on the images on the screen that showed a fifty-something spokesman for the London Metropolitan Police addressing journalists in a press conference. The emblem hanging on the wall behind him stood out quite nicely.
“Once again, grave charges have been levelled against some of our troll officers.” The man began with a bored expression on his face. It was not so much impregnable, as thick. Like the difference between a fortress one could bring down, and a large swamp one had to go move through with great difficulty. “We receive dozens of complaints every year related to our officers´ supposed police brutality. We are told the trolls working with us abuse their obvious physical superiourity, cuasing undue property damage and even physical injury to the public. Let me state this quite clearly, right here and right now: every case is studied thoroughly by teams of carefully appointed investigators. It is a fact that these teams have, so far, not found one credible case of excess of force from any of our troll officers.”
Everest was bothered a little by the flashing lights of the photographic cameras.
“Trolls, as a species, are peaceful and non-violent. They do not tolerate the idea of using violence in social interactions between them or with other species. We are talking here about something taught to them and ingrained in their minds by tradition, family and biology. When one of our trolls has been ordered to apprehend a delinquent, they have never, ever used any means other than basic submission movements, which as you can imagine are quite inescapable given their strength. A troll does not need to punch, kick or employ weapons to do his job, and it is useless to oppose them through the same means. It does not even anger them. This has made trolls extremely valuable for the safe-keeping of justice and public order, because they are just as difficult to hurt as it is difficult for them to hurt someone.”
The man made a slow cutting motion with his hand through the air, a physical equivalent of what he was doing with his words.
“Therefore, the assertions that the trolls employed by the Metropolitan Police are using excessive force, while taken seriously and investigated through proper procedures, have yet to be proven true. The suspects apprehended receive no more injuries than if arrested by human officers. As for property damage, this is an unfortunate by-product of our troll officers´ large size and weight, but has yet to justify expelling them from public service. The other advantages this species has offered throughout the years to the law enforcement community have far outweighed the inconvenients. And that is why they are still employed, of course...”
Everest murmured something that sounded quite like `boring´ and changed the channel. There were some cartoons she had already watched, the news, some celebrity show, and then a documentary about the peregrine falcon. It brought to her mind how a cousin of hers told her she was the daughter of one. Seeing it on TV, she very much doubted that was true. Listening intently, Everest began analyzing the information from the documentary following the same process every harpy always went through when thinking about other birds of prey.
She considered the falcon´s weight, speed, size, beak and claws... and began figuring out how she would fight one off if they were to meet in the air. But it was much like with other opponents. Harpies were large and heavy compared to most birds, but they also had more powerful wings and a mouth full of sharp teeth. Usually, it came down to a contest of speed versus agility. The harpy would try to attack from above, building up speed and pouncing on her enemy, then using her falling weight, claws and teeth to hurt it, in that order. The smaller bird would lure the harpy into executing a bad attack, making her waste altitude, then try to get onto the harpy´s back or face to wound her. Such a fight normally depended more on the harpy´s experience than anything else. If she was careless, the harpy wasted her advantages and was left at the mercy of the more agile birds, who could overwhelm her and get a lucky shot at bringing her down. If she exercised patience and made sure to stay together with her companions, there was no bird that could match her.
Everest turned her head to look past the couch, and toward the entrance. Charlie and the officer were talking again. She put her eyes back on the TV.
“You just couldn´t find a best test pilot.” Charlie said, tilting his head in her direction for a moment. “She´s even a combat veteran.”
“... a combat veteran?” Jerry asked, unsure.
“Five kills. She´s not just a veteran, she´s an ace.”
“Killing what, exactly?” Jerry crossed his arms, not too pleased.
“Other birds, of course! And before you say anything, no, not pidgeons. I´m not even counting those. She´s killed eagles, Jerry. Golden eagles. Not birds of peace, those. They fight over territory, you see? Any new couple of birds flies into their turf, the harpies will scare them off or kill them.”
“Look, Charlie, that´s just not... I mean, it´s the opposite of impressive. Killing birds is no big deal.”
“Would you look at her, Jerry?” Charlie was clearly exasperated. “Does it seem to you like she can hold a goddamn gun? No, harpies don´t kill other birds by shooting them. They fight in the air. They tear them up with their claws, bite their heads off with their teeth or whatever they can do. And they get wounded. Eve´s shown me her scars. They are not pretty. So again, you will not find a better test pilot for this!”
Jerry still had his doubts, judging by his face. Starting with the terminology, because calling Eve a test pilot instead of a test subject... and yet, it made sense, in a way. The man stood there, watching the harpy watch TV, before finally deciding it was time to conquer a fear he had been harboring for some time now. Every time he came to visit, he talked about Eve with Charlie. What he had yet to do was talk to her directly. He walked over to the side of the couch and stood there, noticing the documentary she so intently watched.
“Charlie´s told me you can fight...”
“I can fight.” Eve´s voice was somewhat shrill, and there was a strange tone to it. He could tell she strained to talk like a human. It was not too pleasant to listen to, and he wondered just what kind of language a harpy spoke... or even if it was anything like a human language. Maybe they chirped and squawked?
“How many birds have you killed?”
“... many. I mostly ate birds before coming here to live with Charlie. All harpies eat birds.”
A question came to Jerry´s mind. It was not the kind of question he wanted to ask, but when he thought about how serious this whole thing was, he knew he could not avoid it for much longer. And yet, Everest was a harpy, not a human being, so who knew how she tought about such a delicate topic?
“So...” Jerry began, hesitating. “... have you ever lost a fight? I mean... any of your harp... any of you ever...?”
The way Everest´s head turned so she could address Jerry directly reminded him of the little girl from the Exorcist. He swallowed as the creature´s eyes stared into his own. The absolute lack of passion or emotions in them struck his mind like a punch. Eve seemed to be intense even when she had nothing to be intense about. It was like one of those stupid images of a bald eagle glaring at the viewer. They were meant to seem menacing, but they were just images on a monitor. Here, Jerry found himself staring at a creature that could glare like that all the damn time at anything and everyone around her.
“I had six sisters. Two of them died. Fighting.”
The idea is basically having an RP in that world...
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