By Joshua Vise – April 25, 2024

Published in Masks of Sanity: Hidden in Plain Sight by Wicked Shadow Press. Lulu: Paperback or EPUB

“Ready for school today, Lily?” asked Samantha Young. She ducked into the back seat of the minivan as she helped her daughter out of her carseat.

“Yeah!” shouted Lily, pumping her arm in the air wildly in excitement. Samantha moved her head just in time to avoid being punched in the face.

“I bet you missed your friends.”

“Uh-huh,” Lily answered confidently.

Sam set Lily on the ground, and helped her adjust her backpack.

“Here, let me feel your forehead.”

Lily dutifully held still as Samantha pressed her hand on Lily’s forehead.

“Seems like the fever’s all gone. Are you feeling okay?”

“Yep!” came the energetic reply.

“Don’t forget that dad’s picking you up today. You’ll meet him right here, okay?”

“I love you mommy!” said Lily as she darted to the school entrance, not bothering to answer her question.

As she watched her daughter race to meet her friends, Samantha couldn’t help but think about how children run in the funniest way. They bounce from side to side with a stiff-legged gait, almost as if they haven’t learned to bend their knees yet.

“Have fun today,” Samantha called after her. “Be good!”

*****

Second Lieutenant Samantha Young’s average day was spent on the grounds of Creech Air Force Base in Clark County, Nevada. Situated in the Mojave desert, surroundings that could easily be described as moonlike were it not for the intensely blue sky and scattering of creosote bushes, Creech was 400 kilometers from the Pacific Ocean, and much closer to the anarchy of the Las Vegas Strip than to the chaos of a warzone. As a drone operator stationed with the 16th Attack Squadron, Samantha’s primary duty was to pilot the MQ-9 Reaper attack aircraft in support of operations around the globe. While some would argue that this technically counts as being a “pilot”, she rejected the term. Hollywood had sold people the image of Maverick from Top Gun being flung from the platform of an aircraft carrier and into battle with a skilled and worthy opponent. Her reality couldn’t be further from this impression, which was one of the reasons, though hardly the most important reason, why she never discussed the nature of her work with anyone outside of the military.

Further distancing herself from a pilot’s glamor was her shipping container “cockpit”. The MQ-9 Reaper drone was controlled by a two-person crew, one who piloted the craft, and a second sensor operator that monitored the vast, complex bank of radar and communications systems onboard. The designers of the drone took full advantage of the fact that the MQ-9’s control station was not subject to any size or aerodynamic constraints; her and her sensor operator would spend their 12-hour shift in front of a panel of fifteen screens, each displaying flight and mission-critical data as well as images from the various arrays of cameras. The simple keyboard and joystick combination she used to fly the Reaper came straight from a computer gaming setup, as did the overstuffed office chair she sat in, but Young didn’t let these apparent creature comforts lull her into a sense of nonchalance. The Reaper was an amazing weapons platform, capable of 27 hours of continuous flight. It carried eight Hellfire air-to-ground missiles, the preferred ordinance for precision strikes against high-value targets, and whenever Young took the controls, she could feel the full weight of power and responsibility in her grip.

“Avalanche” said Young as she entered the control station, a cup of coffee in each hand. She nodded to Peter “Avalanche” Weissman, her sensor operator on duty. “What is our status?”

“Loitering, thank you,” answered Weissman, taking a cup from her. “Autopilot’s set. We’re at 35,000 feet, circling the target area.”

“Roger that.”

Lieutenant Young sat heavily in her chair and scanned the screens to get her bearings.

“Any reason to disengage autopilot?” asked Young, her eyes still moving from screen to screen as she pulled the headset over her ears.

“Negative, Stingray,” said Weissman matter-of-factly, using her callsign instead of her name. “Not until the primary target arrives.”

“Is there an ETA?”

“Forward positions place their arrival within the hour.”

Young leaned back in her chair. With the drone circling by itself, and awaiting the arrival of their target, there was little for her to do but review the details of that morning’s briefing in her head.

Their mission was straightforward. Reconnaissance had identified this location as the most likely site of the Khulkak militant organization’s primary headquarters. Led by western-educated Ghulam Al Hakimi, the Khulkaks claimed responsibility for a number of terrorist actions within the region, with the aim of destabilizing the government and installing their own rulers. Their insurgent tactics allowed them to survive and carry out operations even while sustaining immense casualties, but recent engagements had left the Khulkaks depleted in hardware and manpower. It was believed that if Hakimi could be killed and the headquarters destroyed, the power vacuum would lead to the disintegration of the remaining Khulkak forces.

The prospect of being the one to pull the trigger on Hakimi excited Young. If successful, their actions would change the face of the region, with the implications felt worldwide. She turned to the forward looking infrared display and studied the image as the Reaper slowly circled above the craggy, mountainous terrain. A narrow dirt road, barely wide enough for two vehicles to pass each other, cut across the midway point of the range, a single stripe of flat, navigable land pressed tightly against the rock. Upon reaching a particular mountainside, the road opened up into a flat plateau, with a small square building nestled closely into its steep surroundings. The building itself would have been nondescript in any other location, only standing out because of the lack of any other manmade structures in the area.

“Targets inbound, vector 237. Two vehicles approaching. Just past the switchback.”

Weissman’s announcement shook Young from her thoughts. She leaned over her armrest, peering at his night vision display as Weissman zoomed in on the objective.  

Two vehicles navigated their way slowly along the narrow road. The first, a modified truck fitted with some type of improvised mortar or artillery in the bed, bounced along, the passengers in the back rocking from side to side roughly as they moved ahead. A panel van followed behind them, the driver clearly visible in both the night vision and infrared images.

“Roger that. I’ll wait until they stop and then switch to manual.”

As the two vehicles continued along the road, four figures emerged from the building. The lead figure gestured to the van, and the others lined up next to the door, their guns slung across their chest.

“Creech, we have multiple individuals exiting the building, each with a weapons system,” Weissman reported into his headset. “We will be setting up for an engagement when the vehicles arrive. Over.”

“Roger that, Avalanche. Stingray, you are cleared to engage when target is confirmed,” Creech’s reply hissed mechanically into her ears.

“Alright, switching to manual.”

Young typed a few commands into her keyboard, and then gripped the joystick firmly. She wiggled it back and forth slightly, and the image on the screen jiggled, indicating that she was now piloting the Reaper.

“We’ll lose visual as we go around the mountain, and reacquire them from the north.”

“Creech, vehicles are stopped. Multiple people exiting,” Weissman remarked.

On the infrared camera display, the inverse silhouettes of living individuals emerged from the van. Each one stood out white-hot against the wraithlike shapes of the cooler surroundings.

“Children,” stated Weissman, his voice rising enough that Young cast a glance in his direction before checking her own display. Even from over five miles in the air, the Reaper’s optics systems could clearly pick out the size differences of the people on the ground. Seven kids had exited the van, the smallest figure roughly half as tall as the van’s driver. One of the silhouettes that had emerged from the building gestured roughly to the assembled shapes. The last image Young had of the group, just before rounding the side of the mountain, was of them forming a line against the side of the vehicle.

“Visuals lost. Reengaging in thirty seconds,” Young spoke. Her voice was calm, a veneer of professionalism that shielded her from the emotional implications of what she knew she would do when they rounded the peak.

The academic deliberation about what constitutes an enemy combatant and the ability of a child to meet that definition is hotly contested, with the debate carrying on in lofty forums like the United Nations and the International Criminal Court. However, academics can sometimes be divorced from reality, and the sad truth is that a child soldier can still be an effective soldier. Children have historically served a role in conflict, whether through force, coercion, or their own free will, whether operating indirectly in support of regular forces, or directly in combat with an enemy, whether as human shields, or for political purposes. On the ground, where a second or two can be enough to gain an advantage, that momentary pause a soldier takes to consider their own personal morality could result in their death. This gives an advantage to any army desperate or unscrupulous enough to put children in harm’s way.

“Reengaged,” Weissman said. “I’ve got eyes on the target.”

The row of children reappeared as the Reaper cleared the obstruction. The line of men stood facing the children, with one man matching Hakimi’s description pacing and gesturing as if lecturing to the assembled group. In between them was a large box, either retrieved from the base or removed from the truck while out of the Reaper’s penetrating view. One by one, each child approached, reached in, and removed an object. In infrared, the cool metal of a rifle stood out in negative against the bright heat of each body.

“They’ve got hardware,” Weissman reported.

“Copy that, Avalanche. Stingray, you are cleared to engage all armed individuals,” came the reply from Creech.

“Roger, Creech,” Young said. “Maneuvering.”

“Wait until they give the last kid a gun,” said Weissman, covering his microphone.

Lieutenant Young nodded to him, then lowered the throttle and pushed the nose of the Reaper forward, twisting it into a shallow dive that ran parallel to the road. She flipped a switch on the joystick, and the centermost display came alive with targeting data. A white square stuttered its way across the image as the missile searched for a lock. She carefully adjusted the aircraft’s pitch, allowing the laser targeting system to settle as closely as it could to the silhouette of Hakimi.

“Fire one.”

She depressed the trigger. The infrared camera view washed out instantly as the Hellfire’s solid fuel propellant ignited.

“Missile’s away.”

The image reestablished itself, and Young stared at the screen, anticipating the impact.

The Hellfire dropped in like a meteor, crashing to the ground just behind the line of men, its hundred-pound warhead detonating on impact. The shockwave collapsed the front of the building, and sent the panel van tumbling over the edge of the road and down the slope of the mountain. The space in between, partially obscured by the thick clouds of dust and smoke, eventually cleared, revealing an indistinguishable mess of glowing infrared.

“Good effect,” said Young monotonously.

“Roger that,” answered Creech.

 “Zooming in thermal. I’m going to try for a tally,” added Weissmann.

Weismann tapped a few keys on the console. The stark white image on the monitor flickered as the Reaper refocused on the target area using its thermal camera. He twisted the joystick, zooming in closely on the impact site. Despite the violence of the explosion, the men lay where they had stood, their twisted, mangled bodies still distinguishable from each other.

“There’s one, two…” Weissman began the tally out loud. “Uh, Creech, I count eight personnel including Hakimi. It’s a confirmed kill.”

Young turned away from her monitor and towards Weissman, covering her headset microphone with her hand.

“Only eight?”

Weissman turned to her, covering his microphone in the same way.

“Eight adults. I don’t think we can count the kids. See?”

He panned the thermal camera over. What moments earlier had been a line of individual figures had been replaced with a single, ragged streak of phosphorescence.

“Acknowledged, Avalanche,” Creech hissed over the radio. “Circle and observe.”

“Roger, Creech. Over,” said Young as she banked the Reaper into a slow turn. Weissman switched back to infrared just before the site disappeared again behind the peak of the mountain.

“Thirty seconds before reacquisition,” said Young.

The Reaper continued its bank around the peak, the ghostly lines of rock formations and low bushes passing silently across the monitor, its features nearly identical to the mountainous Nevada desert. Had she not known better, Young could have been persuaded that the conflict was happening just outside of their container cockpit door, rather than halfway around the world. It was nighttime there, but she could easily superimpose the bright blue Arizona sky and brown scrub brush of her commute to work onto the wispy contours of the battlefield on her screen. As they cleared the peak, the remnants of the Khulkak headquarters and the enemy combatants came back into view. They had dimmed significantly, already beginning to cool in the thin mountain atmosphere.

“Creech, we have movers to the south,” Weissman stated firmly into his headset. “Two individuals heading southbound along the road.”

Young found the target almost immediately, their bright shapes a beacon against the dark background.

Creech answered, the voice squawking into the headset.

“Roger that. Stingray you are cleared to engage.”

“Copy that. Over.”

Young pulled the Reaper out of its lazy turn and reoriented it parallel to the road. As they approached, she squinted at her screen.

“Avalanche, zoom in so I can get a bearing on them.”

“Roger.”

Weissman’s fingers flew on the keyboard. One of the displays sputtered as the optics adjusted magnification. The two figures grew larger, their outline taking on more detail. She could see these two bodies, bright with life, the guns slung across their backs bouncing as they ran stiff-legged down the narrow road. They held hands as they ran, the taller of the two occasionally pulling the shorter one along as they navigated their way through what must have been utter blackness.

Her targeting display indicated a good lock. Young depressed the trigger.

“Fire two. Missile away.”

In the eight seconds it took the Hellfire to reach its target, Young wondered why kids always ran that way.