Another Man's Freedom Fighter

by Joseph Carter

  “Polish leader, copy,” he answered to the Danish air control operator.

  “Drone swarm locked on, you have controls,” the voice of the operator said with a dry Scandinavian accent.

  “Copy, Skrydstrup base, we have controls. Thank you,” Polish leader said with a bit of excitement in his voice.

  The Polish pilot was right to be excited. Not only would he be the leader of the first air strike against the Russians, but he would also be the first to use a semi-autonomous drone swarm in a combat situation.

  Airbus Industries had first presented the system in a live environment one year earlier. They called the concept MUT, Manned-Unmanned-Teaming. It was far from perfect, and nobody would want to guarantee anything, but the Polish Air Force were happy for even the slightest advantage.

  The drones followed their lead crafts in a pre-programmed formation without any intervention from a human. An artificial intelligence independently steered every drone and the AIs communicated with each other and the lead craft’s onboard computer. As soon as the lead craft made a maneuver, the drones would follow and stay in formation.

  The AI had been trained on the flight data of tens of thousands of simulated and real combat situations in NATO flights between 1990 and 2018. The system had hundreds of thousands of hours of flight time experience. More than any human fighter pilot could ever gain in a lifetime.

  Using voice commands, the pilots could also make the drones perform tasks, like changing formation, returning to base independently, gathering environmental data or taking areal photographs. The UAVs had not been equipped with weapons, yet.

  The biggest advantage of the Do-DT25 was its low cost of production which made it expendable. In combination with the so-called ‘hot nose’ technology patented by Airbus it became the perfect bodyguard for a fighter plane and its pilot. The UAV could direct heat from its three engines to its fuselage which increased its infrared and heat signature and could distract fire-and-forget type missiles from its lead craft. The software was the most expensive part of the system, the hardware was quite standard even though the latest update of the UAV could travel at supersonic speed for about 10 minutes.

  “Polish leader to Skrydstrup base, copy,” the major said as he reached the shoreline of the Little Belt.

  “Copy, Polish leader,” the dry voice responded.

  “Changing call sign to White Eagle, copy,” said the major.

  ✽✽✽

  The presidential press conference was announced to take place in Radom’s town hall, a rare honor for a city that otherwise got little international attention. Due to the war and the short notice, just a few hours, there were no foreign journalists present. The South-Polish local stations and newspapers with their staff did everything in their power to provide first-class reporting to syndicate to the major media outlets the world over.

  Officers from the Agencja Bezpieczeństwa Wewnętrznego, Poland’s internal security agency, and military intelligence had made preparations to cut the power and block cell signals if anything should go wrong. They would then debrief the journalists very carefully what to report and what not to publish.

  “Bonifacy, it’s so good to see you, so good,” Sebastian Berka said with tear-filled eyes. He had jumped out of his bed, nearly ripping the IV out of his arm. He tried to hug the general. Pułaski made a quick step forward and dropped his hat in the process. He returned the hug and pushed the president back into bed.

  “Sebastian, good to see you, too,” he said. “You were missed.” Although they never had been on a first name basis, Pułaski found it appropriate to return the courtesy the president, in his right mind or not, had extended to him. He also felt a connection with his supreme commander, that had not been there two weeks earlier.

  The general remembered some of the stories his father and grandfather had told him about their internment in the Soviet Union after 1945. They had said that they had spontaneously hugged people from their town in the Soviet camps of whom they previously had not even known the names. “When you are torn from your life by force,” he heard his grandfather say, “any familiar face, no matter how remotely familiar, feels like the first ray of sunlight touching your skin after a long, cold winter. You feel at home for just a second.” This was the most poetic thing he remembered his grandfather, a strict math teacher and a hard-boiled man, ever saying. The general suppressed a few tears and made an effort to regain control of his drifting mind. He was not prepared for the emotion of this moment.

  “Bonifacy, you’re here. Now I know, it’ll all be well. You’ll make the Russians go away, won’t you?”

  The general looked at the wreck of a man in a hospital bed and took a deep breath. He started to doubt the viability of his plan.

  “Promise, you will, Bonifacy,” the man in pajamas shouted.

  Kamila and Agnieszka Berka stood behind the general.

  The first daughter closed the door before a nurse, who apparently wanted to look after her agitated patient could come into the room. She leaned against the door, while the nurse tried to enter the room. The door opened slightly, she pushed it closed immediately. After a few raps on the door, the nurse gave up and left.

  “Sebastian, all will be well, but I need your help,” the general tried to make sensible conversation.

  “I did not give in, Bonifacy,” the president said with tears streaming down his cheeks. “I gave them nothing, nothing at all.”

  The general looked at his supreme commander. The almost fifty-year-old man talked like a child that had successfully defended its bicycle against a band of bullies. He turned to Kamila. She shrugged and then walked past the soldier.

  She addressed her husband. “Kochanie, darling, the general needs your help. You can help him, can’t you,” she said with a soft voice.

  “What do you want me to do, Bonifacy? I will do whatever you want,” the president said.

  ✽✽✽

  The Polish F-16 squadron had completed a few test maneuvers with their artificial intelligent bodyguards over the Baltic Sea, then turned south toward Szczecin.

  Their low-altitude approach was detected early by Russian frigates en route to Wolin island. Three missiles heading their way fired by a Russian ship made that unmistakably clear.

  “Skrydstrup base to White Eagle squadron, vampires approaching from your nine o’clock, twenty miles out, surface-to-air missiles,” the Scandinavian voice of the operator echoed from the headset.

  “Eagle leader to Eagle four, copy,” the major said while he strapped on his oxygen mask.

  “Eagle four, copy leader,” was the reply.

  “Eagle four, engage vampires,” Eagle leader said.

  The portside MUT formation broke away from the squadron. With a voice command, Eagle four engaged the ‘hot nose’ technology of his UAV escort. With another voice command, the drones sped up and formed a V-formation in front of their lead aircraft. They slightly dispersed.

  “Eagle four, vampires two miles out,” the Scandinavian voice shouted excitedly.

  Eagle four made a hard portside turn, the UAVs kept course with their noses ‘hot’. Eagle four heard and felt two explosions in his six o’ clock. He pulled the stick upward and ejected flares, his conventional defensive measures. A third explosion and an excited ‘woohoo’ from Skydstrup base confirmed the first success for the European MUT program. Normally, such a SAM strike would have put three fighters and more importantly three pilots at risk. Like this, one pilot and his plane were at risk and emerged unscathed. Two relatively cheap unmanned aircraft were downed, and a third dropped into the sea.

  Eagle four dropped again and made a run to catch up with his squadron. Two drones, one each from Eagle three and Eagle five, fell back from the squadron and formed a V-formation together with their new lead aircraft.

  “Well done, Eagle four,” the Scandinavian voice said cheerfully.

  Eagle squadron continued to engage their primary targets, air defense positions around Szczecin. They would cele
brate later, once their actual job was done.

  ✽✽✽

  “I need someone to shine my shoes,” Sebastian Berka shouted from the bathroom. A private came jogging into the hospital room and Agnieszka handed him a pair of handmade black derby shoes.

  Kamila Berka shaved her husband who sat on the toilet. “Be still, kochanie, I don’t want to cut you,” she said. “We have another few minutes to make you look good, you know.”

  “Yes, kochanie, thank you,” the president said sitting still as his wife rinsed the razor under hot water.

  Agnieszka stood in the room and chose a tie for her father. The choice was easy, there were only three to choose from.

  The suit was chosen for her, it was the only one Radom’s largest menswear shop could deliver in her father’s size. Once the man was showered, shaved, his hair tamed by product, they put him in the off-brand woolen suit. It fit perfectly, which Kamila called a miracle. With a white shirt, a tie, and the winter suit, he looked presidential enough for the ten minutes he needed to.

  While the president still sat on the toilet tying his spit-shined shoes, Kamila and Agnieszka shared a long mother-daughter hug in the hospital room.

  “I’m not sure about this, mom,” Agnieszka whispered. “It’s not exactly model democracy to present a puppet president. A man who is clearly unfit for office.”

  “Well, maybe, but you heard the general. All the other options are even worse. Besides, Kennedy wore a girdle and was high on painkillers most of his presidency, and Reagan showed signs of Alzheimer’s during his last year in office. Let’s not speak of the lunatic the Americans just got rid of. It’s a gamble and possibly not model-democracy at work, but it’s the best we can do right now. You and I will help him out, say, just like Eleanor Roosevelt helped her husband out.”

  ✽✽✽

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the press,” Pułaski started the press conference from a lectern decorated with Radom’s coat of arms. “I know it is quite an unusual place for a presidential press conference and I am not the president. Please allow me to make a few remarks to explain the unusual circumstances.”

  The general matter-of-factly explained the previous day’s events. The Territorial Defense Forces in cooperation with GROM and other special forces units successfully operated behind enemy lines to rescue hostages from the Russian embassy. President Berka and his daughter Agnieszka had been held by the Russian SVR for almost two weeks. Both could be freed in relatively good health and without losses of Polish lives.

  The crowd of journalists and town hall employees cheered and applauded at the news. The general waited patiently for the applause to cede without much show of emotion. He glanced sideways. From behind a black curtain, his assistant gave him an okay sign.

  “Now, please rise for the President of the Republic Sebastian Berka,” Pułaski said, his heart raced, he hoped for the best. He made a sideways step and applauded.

  With Kamila holding his right hand and Agnieszka holding his left, Sebastian Berka slowly walked up to the lectern. The applause was thunderous and very long. Agnieszka and Kamila waved every now and then. One of them always kept an eye on the man in the middle. Berka was breathing heavily and irregularly, but he held up admirably considering what he was like just a few hours earlier.

  Kamila took a step back while Agnieszka stayed with her father. The president made a step forward to the lectern, his daughter matched the move. She pressed his hand slightly with her right and put her left hand on his arm.

  “Thank you,” the president said with a quiet, hesitating voice. “I am glad to be here with you today.”

  The room was silent but for a few clicks and flashes of cameras. The hesitation in the president’s voice and his slight twitching of the eyes irritated the audience, yet, so far, everyone was quiet and waited for the president to say something significant.

  “I would like to thank Bonifacy Pułaski for saving my daughter’s and my life, and also the men and women in the service who contributed to,” he paused searching for words. “To this. Thank you all.”

  Pułaski walked up to the lectern.

  Berka turned toward him and embraced him. “Help me, Bonifacy, please,” he whispered into the general’s ear.

  Cameras flashed wildly.

  Then Berka went back to the lectern where Agnieszka immediately retook her position and grabbed his hand. She looked at him very carefully now.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you,” Berka said. “Marszałek Polski Bonifacy Pułaski will now tell you more about today’s successful military operations.”

  Kamila now shuffled past Pułaski and retook her husband’s hand.

  The crowd applauded hesitatingly and with clearly puzzled looks on their faces.

  The Berka women made victory signs with their free hands, waved, and then led the disoriented president behind the black curtain.

  The Chief of General Staff continued with a short report on the previous night’s events. Or was his correct title Marshal of Poland, the audience wondered.

  Pułaski dryly reported the successful operation to regain control of Świnoujście, Wolin island, and the Świna river. In the morning, a squadron of Polish F-16 had destroyed Russian air defense positions around Szczecin. GROM and other special forces units had cut supply routes through Belarus. Just an hour earlier, Polish paratroopers had successfully descended on Szczecin harbor. A second wave of attack, a landing operation with ships on loan from the British and the Danish Royal Navies was scheduled for just about this moment.

  “Please understand, that for reasons of national security, we cannot allow any questions. Thank you,” Pułaski ended his report and left.

  Thirty-Two

  “Kuvayev, what is happening outside the Kremlin walls,” the Russian president asked quietly sitting behind his immense desk under the double-headed eagle.

  “Gospodin Prezident, we have tried to establish the backgrounds of the people,” the Director of SVR, formerly of GRU, stammered.

  The president slapped his hand down hard on the desktop. “Fuck background, what is that outside my window?” the president of the Russian Federation asked.

  “Well, it’s a protest by the so-called Mothers’ Solidarity Committee, a group of mothers of soldiers who were killed in action. It was founded,” Kuvayev stammered, and again the president cut him off.

  “I know, when it was founded, and I also know when we put it out of business,” the powerful man said referring to an FSB raid on the leaders of the NGO over three years earlier.

  “Well, the group has formed up again after the deaths of the soldiers in Syria and as far as I know FSB were looking into them and potential ties to the United States without result.” Kuvayev was clearly trying to wing his meeting with the man he feared. If Gleb Yevgenievich were still alive, he might have helped, but now he was completely on his own.

  ✽✽✽

  “Well done, Sebastian,” General Pułaski said with a big smile. I just read the first articles, they are full of praise for you going right back to work after the ordeal you went through.

  Berka sat on a couch in the mayor’s office. His wife sat next to him and held his hand. He looked up and smiled hesitatingly. His hands were shaking, and he was slightly pale, but he seemed happy to see Pułaski. “Thank you,” he stammered and looked back down on the floor.

  “Mrs. Berka, may I speak with you for a moment,” the general said. “Sebastian, please excuse us.”

  The president said nothing.

  Kamila Berka and the general went over to a window. The sun shone outside. The general opened the window. They heard distant rumbles and explosions.

  “This is artillery fire. Mostly ours,” he said. “We need to get your family to Kraków, better yet, out of the country.”

  Kamila Berka opened her eyes in shock. “You didn’t say anything about us having to run away.” She looked over to the couch where Agnieszka now held her father’s hand. “To Kraków, yes, that was clear from the beginnin
g. But we are not running away!”

  “Good. I will not question your decision for the time being. You should think about the other option a little, though. I cannot guarantee that our plan will work,” the general said, and with a tip to his forehead, he turned and left the room.

  ✽✽✽

  “Looks like something’s happening on the Death Star,” Mark said and turned his laptop around so Svetlana could read the headline.

  “Wow, ten thousand on Red Square and no FSB or riot police beating them up,” she said in surprise with her eyebrows raised. “That’s amazing.”

  The two sat at Mark’s dinner table and estimated the workload for the project with the Hamburg shipping company. Mark was positively surprised that he had been invited to submit an offer.

  “Mothers’ Solidarity Committee, I thought they had shut them down,” Svetlana continued reading the short article.

  “It’s really awful PR to get their ass whipped by guerrillas, I bet it reminds some people of the Russian Afghanistan debacle,” Mark smirked.

  “Well, the older ones maybe,” the hacker concurred.

  ✽✽✽

  “This way, Comrade, what was your rank again,” Colonel Popov asked the short man with the greasy hair and the big glasses. His uniform was at least one size too large, and he was not wearing any rank insignia or name patch. Judging by his slightly hunched posture, he was more used to sitting in a chair than standing in the field.

  “Captain, Comrade Colonel, Captain Anatoli Yevgenievich Smagin, Signals Intelligence, the 6th Directorate,” the man said. “You may also address me by my codename Bravlin.”

  “This way, Comrade Captain,” the colonel said with a slight shake of his head. “We have repurposed the abandoned railway works on short notice. You will get the requested infrastructure by tomorrow morning. Until then, I suggest, you get to know your team and get acquainted with their work.”