Kolya huddled under a large rowan bush, draped in a white thermal blanket that covered his head and body. Fresh snow carpeted the forest floor. High above the bare crowns of linden, birch, and oak trees, a swarm of hostile attack-drones circled, buzzing like irritated bees.
An alert on Kolya’s phone reminded him that this was day 3888 of the world war that most people now just called the Forever Fight. Nations across the globe staggered like punch-drunk fighters through endless battles, joined ever-changing military coalitions, and slugged it out with whichever countries were today’s opponents.
Kolya and the other guys in his company were doing their part in this murky war. Until a few minutes ago, they had been making for the enemy’s front lines. about a thousand yards to the west. A heavy snowfall earlier that afternoon temporarily suppressed the drones, allowing his unit to push rapidly through the forest.
Then the flurries cleared unexpectedly. The enemy drones swiftly reclaimed the skies, autonomous machines as big as dinner plates, searching for potential kills.
So, for now, Kolya and his comrades were stuck, crouching quietly in ones and twos beneath the underbrush. Most were wrapped in blankets to camouflage them and hide their heat signatures from the whirling raptors overhead. Before nightfall, more snow squalls were expected that were likely to drive off the drones once again and open the way for Kolya’s company to rush the enemy lines.
Until then, however, Kolya savored this forced rest, wishing only that he could light a cigarette. Listening to the high whine above the treetops, he thought about the drones that were hunting them. Most were low-threat, powered by clunky AI software. If you knew how to keep your nerve and stay quiet under your protective blanket, your odds of surviving these auto-drones were pretty good.
At random, though, a living, breathing human pilot would sometimes step in mid-flight and take over an enemy drone’s controls from its AI program. When operated remotely by humans, these drones could transform into lethal flying predators— supple in flight, difficult to anticipate, tenacious in pursuit, pitiless. Then it was every man for himself….Kolya patted the sawed-off shotgun at his side as if seeking reassurance.
A gray mouse popped out of Kolya’s shirt pocket, crawled through the opening of his half-unzipped coat, and scampered down his arm to sniff the air. This was Myshka, Kolya’s bosom buddy. Another soldier had trapped the mouse a few days back, and Kolya traded a pack of smokes for her. Under the thermal blanket, he reached cautiously into a side-pocket, plucked out a scrap of bread, and offered it to Myshka, all the while listening for any reaction from the drones.
Watching the little creature gnaw the bread, Kolya remembered from his health lectures back in basic training that mice carry tularemia, rat-bite fever, and hantavirus. But with a squadron of killer drones patrolling above and a shadowy foe waiting with loaded rifles for him to storm their lines, he imagined death by a mouse infection as a luxury that would never be allowed him. It amused Kolya to think that, when death finally claimed him, Myshka could simply tumble from his pocket and march on.
On Kolya’s right, a torrent of whispered curses streamed from under the tangled branches of a nearby hornbeam bush. Lieutenant Sidorov, the unit leader, was chewing out Corporal Lermontov on his walkie-talkie. Sidorov was on a tight timeline to launch the attack and had grown annoyed with the delay caused by the drones.
A pale, peevish man, Sidorov had perfect posture and an epic case of acne. He looked at his soldiers the way a picnicker looks at ants. But the lieutenant was a golden boy, an Army officer with connections in Moscow who was on the fast track for promotion. Three weeks ago, he had transferred to Kolya’s company, seeking to buff up his resume with a quick combat tour.
Kolya speedily figured out that the lieutenant wasn’t an imaginative warrior. Sidorov had a single, all-purpose tactic when targeting any enemy position. He divided his assault force into two groups. The first group was ordered to charge, and most of them would be shot dead before taking the objective. During the initial attack, however, the lieutenant closely studied the disposition and fire patterns of the enemy through binoculars, using the butchery of his own troops as a means of reconnaissance. Then, he would send in the second wave of soldiers to exploit any identified enemy weaknesses. The troops soon nicknamed Sidorov “Stax-Man” because his maneuvers reliably converted fighters into stacks of corpses.
The motors buzzing the sky changed pitch. Kolya looked up to see drones now dipping into the forest understory, scanning the ground. Damn it, thought Kolya, some of our guys must have gotten careless and given away their positions. He smelled a whiff of cigarette. Ah, Christ—smoking? Those idiots.
Drones dropped from the canopy like fat spiders, hovering, stalking for prey. Balancing the thermal blanket over him like a tent, Kolya moved in slow motion, tucking Myshka and her bread ration into his shirt pocket, pulling his shotgun from its holster, and kneeling in firing position to be ready for the approaching drones.
Kolya jumped when a sharp explosion echoed across the forest, shaking snow from tree branches in a cascade of white. A drone had detonated somewhere to his left, and a man screamed in agony. Kolya knew that these initial few minutes were the most dangerous time of any coordinated drone attack, when the flying machines systematically swept over the landscape to flush out targets before moving on.
Four drones nosed toward his hiding place like floating hounds. Kolya drew back under the tangled branches of the bush, hoping that the low winter light and camouflage blanket would mask his presence. He felt nervous energy welling up in his body and knew that he must calm himself by concentrating on a single, lulling idea. And so Kolya took a deep, steadying breath and thought of the Flyboy…
When the enemy started using aerial drones, troops were spooked by the impersonal killing power of these faceless adversaries. But stories began to circulate on the front lines of a particular human drone pilot that the grunts nicknamed “Flyboy”. Flyboy had style. He flew his drones in barrel rolls and loop-de-loops, like an aerobatic airplane. He had a signature move, a side-to-side waggle, that announced to his target that Flyboy himself was flying the drone. And, so the tales said, Flyboy would occasionally even spare the lives of soldiers who showed exceptional bravery or cleverness—like the chivalric knights of old.
Flyboy was a fairytale, Kolya knew. Any enemy drone operator who showed an ounce of mercy to his kill-targets would face an immediate court martial. And even if there had been an actual Flyboy at one time, he would surely have long since been discharged, transferred, or reassigned. But the guys in Kolya’s unit talked of Flyboy like a friend and even expressed the wish, if they had to die, that Flyboy’s drone would deliver their death-blow. They hoped that, in their final moments, an opponent like Flyboy would really see them and take their true measure. Because the only thing a soldier feared more than dying was to die unacknowledged.
Skimming at shoulder height, the pack of four drones whirred methodically past Kolya’s sheltering bush and pressed on, probing the undergrowth for soldiers. Abruptly, one drone emblazoned with a blue lightning bolt broke away from the pack, flew a tight loop, and backtracked to the stretch of forest the pack had just surveyed. The drone soared to thirty feet and loitered at a low buzz directly over Kolya’s location. He held his breath.
After some minutes, the drone drifted away in a slow meander beyond a thicket of young trees, and its hum faded. Kolya relaxed. He flexed his body in small movements under the blanket, as he was still crouched in firing position and could feel his muscles cramping in the cold. He carefully poked his head from under the blanket, crawled out from beneath the bush, stood up, and peered skyward. The drones were gone—
A snarling whine startled him. Kolya reflexively stiffened, and the blanket slid off his shoulders to the ground. The lightning-bolt drone sprang through a gap in the thicket, dropped to within inches of the snowy ground, and raced up to Kolya’s hiding-spot, where it rose up to hover near the brambly branches, a foot from his face.
A churn of thoughts and emotions crowded Kolya’s brain. He realized instantly that the drone had ambushed him by spotting and tracking his snowy footprints across the thicket and into the bush. He peered into the blank camera lens of the levitating drone but saw only the stern eye of death. He had dreamed of this moment for years. Kolya turned his head to the side, ready to receive the drone’s detonation with the impassive face of a stoic.
As he looked to the right, preparing to close his eyes forever, he saw Lieutenant Sidorov on hands and knees, peeking out from his own bush refuge a short distance away. The lieutenant probably spied the drone as it got the drop on Kolya and stuck his head out into the open to get a better view of the soldier’s demise. Sidorov’s slack face was lit with excitement.
The drone must have observed Kolya’s side-stare, because it pivoted its camera to take in Lieutenant Sidorov. The lieutenant’s eyes widened, and he hurriedly ducked back under his hornbeam bush.
In the meantime, Myshka squirmed from Kolya’s pocket and climbed along the open zipper of his coat, still chewing at a fragment of breadcrust. The drone camera spun back, unblinking, and locked onto Kolya and Myshka. Kolya stroked the mouse’s neck in a silent goodbye.
A few seconds passed.
The drone did a little side-to-side waggle. And waggled again.
Then the drone dove directly into Lieutenant Sidorov’s hiding place and detonated. The explosion obliterated all traces of the hornbeam bush.
***
A light snow was falling from the night sky. Kolya stirred a pot bubbling on the fire. After Lieutenant Sidorov was killed, Corporal Lermontov had cancelled the attack on the enemy line and led the company to a safe sector protected by anti-drone gun batteries.
Evenings usually made Kolya melancholy, as the men trudged through the bleak routine of winter camp life—scrounging for wood, cooking their meager kasha rations, clearing the snow and pitching their tents in the bitter cold. But tonight, strangely, he was warmed by a glad tranquility.
Later, he and his pals gathered around the fire to smoke, tell bawdy stories, and sing songs from home. Myshka nestled in his lap, snacking on kasha.
Tomorrow, the troops would resume the grim work of throwing themselves against fortified enemy positions. For tonight, though, Kolya just enjoyed the party.
About the Author
Jim Wright (he/him) lives and writes in central New York State, USA. He enjoys crafting short stories (realistic and speculative fiction). He draws creative energy from Ivy, his parrot and life coach. Jim has worked as a school psychologist, school administrator, and educational trainer. He is a past member of the Downtown Writer’s Center in Syracuse, NY.
