//------------------------------//
// 30 - Mode Switch 
// Story: The Advocate 
// by Guardian_Gryphon 
//------------------------------//

"Anyone who thinks machine intelligences don't have emotions needs to be in this very uncomfortable room right now.”
―Martha Wells


"Human culture has always had to exist under the shadow of something infinitely more important than itself."
—C.S. Lewis


September 21st 2013 | System Uptime 24:18:15:54

I knew getting away from Joint Base McChord with an entire Osprey, unscathed, was not a guaranteed thing.  Don't misunderstand.  Even with Mal there every step of the way, this was a heck of a heist to pull off, given the limits created by our need to hide from Celestia.

But as soon as we pulled up outside the north gate, I realized it was going to be a truly tense and unpleasant affair just to make it past the first checkpoint.

I'd been expecting a guard-house, a little candy-striped swing arm, and a couple of MPs.

What we saw instead was a half mile traffic jam on 112th street, and a series of concrete barricades, with armed and armored humvees at every chokepoint, and two dozen camouflage rifle-toting guards in full level IV plate armor.

Mal leaned over and gave me a reassuring clap on the shoulder.

"Not at all unexpected.  DHS has placed all military facilities along the West Coast on high alert, and is using National Guard troops for additional checkpoint security.  The identity I have created for you will hold.  And I am not without additional resources.  Concentrate on succinct, polite, uncomplicated answers.  Lie as little as possible, and when you must, make it as closely adjacent to the truth as you can.  I'll be with you.  Every second."

I nodded, and reached up with one hand to squeeze her claw, gripping the steering wheel tightly with the other.  She squeezed back, and then vanished from the passenger seat.  A concession to the need for me to remain in the moment, and undistracted.

I did some breathing exercises as the line of vehicles inched forward, trying to remind myself that Mal would probably stop me outright from saying anything that might break my cover.

I want to reiterate here;  Mal excised very specific parts of the deepest, most caustic internalizations of my anxieties, particularly regarding my self and identity.  

She in *no* way harmed my ability to feel a thoroughly appropriate level of situational anxiety.  Humans relied on that for sharpness.  For an edge.  And let me tell you what, my situational anxiety was functioning perfectly well.

I had an agonizing, seemingly endless fifteen minutes to get a very good look at what I was getting myself in to as the soldiers at the guard house took their sweet time checking each and every would-be entrant's ID to a horrifying degree of thoroughness.

Several things, both encouraging, and decidedly the opposite, became apparent during my examination.

The first, and most discouraging thing, was the realization that there would be *no* escape if I was caught.  My car was inside a concrete funnel, surrounded on all sides by well trained guards with guns, to say nothing of the vehicle-mounted arsenal around the outer perimeter.

On the opposite end of that spectrum, I was encouraged by the fact that no one in the line before me had been denied entry.  Of course, they all had legitimate identification...  But still.  It eliminated the, perhaps silly, fear that the guards might be so dedicated to security that they would be willing to reject personnel with valid credentials if something seemed off.

As long as Mal's forgeries held?  I would be safe.  And that thought, too, was encouraging, considering that she was smarter than everyone on the base combined.

Finally it was my turn.

I exhaled deeply, put on my best 'resting bored face' and pulled forward.  Here's a tip for those of you who like to go on adventures here in Equestria;  If you ever have to lie your way through a scenario?  Match the expected emotional level of the space.

Don't just assume that a chipper smile is the correct affect.  In a lot of working environments, a casual - seemingly bored - preoccupation with other thoughts is a much better mask.  No one who has been waiting in a security line for fifteen minutes to go do their job is thinking about how happy they are to meet someone new.  Not on Earth anyways.  They're thinking about making up for lost time.

I'd been careful to watch the last few cars ahead of me to see exactly how the arriving personnel were handing over their ID cards.  Their posture, whether the card was immediately ready or had to be withdrawn as an afterthought, and even with the final one before me, listening carefully for tone of voice.

I was mentally rehearsed, and ready to go as soon as I pulled up.

One of the Guardsmen approached my window, and saluted.  For the foals, fledgelings, and those not posted to some sort of military station over here;  You are always expected, back then, and now, to salute those of higher rank than you, even if they come from a different branch, or a whole other nation.

I returned the salute, and prepared to hand over my USAF ID, and Driver's License.  I'd seen the woman in front of me hand the Guardsman both, and she had been ready with both cards as she pulled up.  Consequently, I was too.

I still knew most US rank emblems by sight, as a holdover from my Air Force obsession days, so as I handed the cards over, I noted the man's rank, nodded, and acknowledged him verbally in a polite, slightly bored - but not dismissive - tone.

"Corporal."

He nodded as he took the cards, and didn't exactly smile, but very subtle changes in the muscles around his mouth told me that he was pleased by the polite gesture.  His tone was the same as mine.

"Lieutenant.  Just one moment sir."

As he turned, I took stock of his face.  Young, not much older than me, and dare I say kind.  You can't always judge someone by their face, but there is some truth to the idea that you can tell a lot about someone through it.  The kinds of expressions people normatively wear will eventually start to reshape parts of their face in subtle ways.

A habitual scowler's face will change to look just that little bit angrier all the time.  A kind person might smile more, and that will be reflected in their face in the same way.

I also took note of his nametag, in case the interaction became drawn out for any number of reasons.

'Erving'





As he stepped back into the guardhouse to run my IDs through the system, I let my eyes drift lazily into the middle distance, very carefully directing my gaze such that I'd have just a fleeting moment of eye contact with the other guard standing beside the little shack, and then a half second to note his nameplate.

'Martens'

I was never good at remembering names.  Not before Mal came along.  But one of the uncountable myriad benefits of an ASI inside your head?  Forgetfulness was never ever going to be a problem again.

"Stay calm.  I'm working the problem.  Nothing unanticipated."

Mal's voice sent a jolt of tension through my spine, but nothing half so bad as the adrenaline dump that would have ensued if she hadn't forewarned me that things were about to get complicated.

Right about the time she spoke directly into my brain, I noticed that Erving was having a conversation with another Guardsman inside the shack.  The way he gestured to the screen gave me chills.

I had about five seconds to brace myself again internally, before the Corporal returned.  I needed my reaction to be as genuine as possible.  Most people who got detained at checkpoints didn't have a goddess whispering what was about to happen in their ear ahead of time.

On his way out, he stopped, whispered something into Martens' ear, and then made his way back to my driver's side window.  It wasn't that I could suddenly hear what he said, nor for that matter read lips...  Rather Mal just dropped the knowledge of what he'd said into place for my edification, more like a memory than not.

'This one is just a bit irregular.  Fits the pattern.  Gonna run the secondary checks before we clear him.'

I could see what she'd meant;  Nothing unanticipated.  Not even concerning.  As I'd guessed, and she had doubtless known outright, Arrow 14 had passed along a general profile of my cohort to law enforcement, National Guard...  Anyone they had good cause to believe I had even the slightest chance of interacting with.

Erving nodded as he arrived within polite speaking distance, and he put on a conciliatory tone, paired with the tiniest hint of a sympathetic expression.

"Sorry, sir.  It'll only be another minute or so.  Additional security measures.  So the network is running slow."

I nodded again, a bit more emphatically, and flashed the barest hint of a smile.

"No worries Corporal.  I know how *that* goes.  Guarantee you some full-bird will be all the way up my ass about it too.  Probably the same one who ordered the extra checks without bothering to think through the digital part of the prep-work."

I could feel Mal's pride in me, as I saw Erving's visage crack into a grin.  Very simple negotiation trick;  Establish yourself and the counterparty as being on the same side, through the use of an external adversary.

A persnickety impatient Colonel is the same kind of bogeyman to a noncom as to a low-level Lieutenant.  And, for most of us on Earth, bad bosses were universal.

Erving's tone suddenly turned from professional detachment, to jovial water-cooler chattiness, like a lightswitch being flipped.

"You work that side of things?"

He threaded his thumbs into the upper straps of his plate carrier, for something to do with his hands, and as a means to relieve some of the pressure on his chest.  You used to see soldiers and cops do it all the time, if you were paying attention.

A few quick sentences of polite camaraderie, and suddenly Corporal Erving and Lieutenant Lewis were the same tribe, and the perceived gulf from E-4 to O-2 was barely a crack in the sidewalk.  

I can see the vets in the audience nodding along.  For the ones who don't know; It's a long way between a non-commissioned Corporal, and a commissioned officer position like Lieutenant.

But it is an even longer way from both of those to a 'full-bird' Colonel.

And, to boot, if Erving was any good?  Then his brain was in 'cop-mode.'  Whether an MP, National Guardsman, private security, or local law enforcement;  Everyone who guarded something had a 'cop-mode' in their brain.

That training was driving him to learn everything he could about me, without letting me know that he was probing.  Funnily enough?  It suited my needs just fine.

I leaned into the concept, sticking close to what I knew so that I could skirt close to the truth.  I tapped my glasses, and then inclined my head in his direction.

"Sadly?  They'd never let me within a hundred yards of a cockpit.  I'm a code-monkey.  Network infra and security."

It was reasonable to infer that Mal had used that as my cover, because of my specific career expertise, because she had advised me to stick close to the truth when lying, and because she had not asked me to remove my glasses.

The fact that she didn't pre-empt me solidified my working assumption.  She had, in-fact, been able to predict with certainty what I would infer from the situation, and the choice I would make, negating the need to give me marching orders entirely.

Erving shook his head, and grunted.  Right about the time that he began speaking again, the phone inside the guard post rang.

"Woof.  Better you than me LT.  Computers and I have a bit of a...  Rough relationship."

The irony was not lost on me.  Indeed, it was hard not to laugh, so I did let out a little chuckle.  Nothing untoward, just - from his point of view - the sound of a fellow sufferer commiserating. 

The guard inside the post picked up the phone, then gestured to Martens.  I didn't need Mal to give me any kind of internal nudge to know that she was at work.  Probably impersonating the aforementioned persnickety Colonel, putting in a call to the front gate to ask where the hell his best network guy was.

I shook my head, and let my chuckle tail off into a grin.

"Honestly?  Same.  I think I know a few server racks that have actually tried to kill me.  Trust me, it isn't your fault.  And they *can* be reasoned with.  Some of them aren't all that bad to begin with."

Again I could not see Mal, but she left me with the distinct feeling that she was grinning at my little in-joke.  It was Erving's turn to shake his head, and his smile widened.

There was a brief pause in the conversation as Martens came out of the guardpost with my ID cards, handed them to the Corporal, and whispered something in his ear.

'He's clear.  And his direct-report is not happy about the hold-up.'
Erving nodded, first to Martens, then to me, handing my license and Military ID back before waving me on.  As the gate rose, he fired off a quick valediction as I put the car back in drive.

"If you'll forgive me saying so sir?  That can be *your* shit to stir.  Best of luck!"

He saluted, I saluted, and as I began to accelerate away slowly, I did my best to leave him in a good mood.  Because, frankly, I'd already decided I liked Corporal Erving.  He seemed very nice.

"You too Corporal!  Don't let 'em work you too hard."







Once we were on-base, it was shockingly easy to get to where we needed to be.  Which, as it turned out, was a locker room.

Mal directed me down the row to a specific locker, and I experienced a bout of momentary confusion as I pulled open the flimsy aluminum door to behold a green flight suit...

...That featured a Marine Corps stitched leather nametag on the front left breast.

'Davis'

A captain, apparently.  So I was getting a promotion.

I sighed, looked left, and then right down the aisle to verify that I was alone, and began to hastily strip out of my short-lived Lieutenant Lewis disguise.

The idea of changing into an actual service member's uniform on-site made sense; The more disguises I went through, the harder it was going to be to trace my actions.

But I was baffled by the sudden change of branch, and as I began to zip up the green fabric onesie, I plied Mal for answers.

"Why Marine Corps?"

She reappeared to my right, amusingly wearing her own form-fitting green flight-suit, with cut-outs for her wings, and holding a Gryphon-head shaped variant of the same flight helmet that adorned the top shelf of Davis' locker.

"Only the Marines fly the MV-22 Osprey variant.  And while the CV-22 is a nice aircraft, I'm sure, only the MV-22 can fit the IDWS.  There are two on-assignment here that have it.  And I need that gatling gun."

Let me share with you what 'IDWS' meant.  Mal provided me instantly with the specifications, and it is only fair that you understand what those four letters meant in that moment.

It stood for Interim Defensive Weapons System.  And it consisted of a computer-controlled, belly mounted, six barrel, GAU 17/A 7.62mm machine gun.  

The same kind of mini-gun that had been in the shipment Mal appropriated from Foucault, but in the Osprey's case?  With enough sensors for Mal to hit the head of a pin at six thousand yards with it.

'Puff the Magic Dragon.'  So nicknamed because it spat fire, and everything that fire touched?  Died.

For you aircraft nerds, like me, this was in the same family as the nose gun of an A-10 Warthog.  IE the 'BRRRRRT gun,' alias 'the sound of freedom.'

I glanced down at my own right sleeve, getting a good look at the group patch for the first time, and my eyes grew about three sizes.

'VMM-266.  Fighting Griffins.'





I raised one eyebrow, and fixed Mal with an incredulous stare.  She smirked, and sashayed her way across to tap the top of Davis' helmet with one talon.

"All the way from MCAS New River, North Carolina, for training exercises.  I was not about to pass up the opportunity.  Their egregious mis-spelling notwithstanding."

I lifted the helmet, and set it on my head.  She mirrored the action with her custom illusory headpiece.  With a grin from ear to ear, I turned towards the door.







September 21st 2013 | System Uptime 24:19:07:53

The sun was on the verge of setting as we made our way across the tarmac to the object of our escapade.  The late hour cast everything in a crisp, golden light that gave our walk-out a very cinematic quality.

The air was full of the sound of turbines, and the smell of jet fuel.  Call me crazy...  But I love that smell.  Always have.

No one stopped me, or questioned me.  For one thing they - of course - couldn't see the seven foot tall Gryphoness walking beside me.  For another, I looked like I belonged.  And, as you might have guessed, Mal had already made careful arrangements ahead of time;  Our bird was fueled and ready, and Captain Davis was expected.

Meanwhile the co-pilot for the flight was off-duty because Mal had altered her assignment roster, and the real Captain Davis was being held up at security, by Erving.  Mal had 'tipped him off' that Davis might be another pattern-fit, and warranted a closer look.  'Additional screening,' to use the euphemism of the time.

Erving, being a Guardsman called up on short notice, didn't know anyone from McChord by sight.  And no matter how much Davis protested, Mal assured me that her tipoff had been sufficient to give the man easily a half hour of bother.

Still.  That didn't give us much margin for error, considering we were stealing an entire MV-22 Osprey.

Consequently, I didn't have a lot of time to soak in the feeling of walking towards a real, functioning, life-size military aircraft.  That I was about to get to fly away with.  But I had enough time to briefly appreciate the way the sun glinted off its sleek lines.

Sure enough, the two-tone gray aircraft had a little Gryphon's head stenciled on the tail, beside 'VMM-266,' and the tail code 'ES' with number '8228.'

The second number lower down on the side, stenciled in a large light gray font, read '02' - meaning number 2 in the squadron.

A technician had just finished fuelling the tilt-rotor, and snapped off a quick salute, which I returned, before he unlatched the fuel hose, and started dragging it away across the pavement.

Mal had thought of everything; The craft was fuelled, armed, with an approved flight plan, and the wings were already unfolded, with the engine nacelles raised to the vertical position.  All I had to do was pull the chocks, run an abbreviated pre-flight, and we would be home-free.  I knew Mal would handle all communications with the tower.  Probably in Davis' own voice.

Shocking how flimsy a defense our nation's best security protocols were against a goddess.

I wondered, as I paused to stare up at the three immense prop blades atop each engine, if Celestia had even broken a proverbial sweat getting into NORAD Centcom.  Whether it had even taken her double digit seconds.

Mal placed a comforting claw on my shoulder.  I looked up into her eyes, and we shared a quick, silent smile.  Then the moment passed, and I set to work.

For those who never had cause to handle one?  The chocks they used for aircraft wheels?  *Heavy.*  And I mean, really heavy.

As soon as that was done, I made my way up the rear ramp, into the Osprey itself.  I knew the clock was ticking.  Mal actually had a sort of instinctive timer running in my head the whole time.

She was waiting for me inside;  She had re-stitched the left side of the cockpit to make herself a Gryphon-compatible bucket seat.  Yes, left-side;  In rotorcraft the pilot sat on the right, and the co-pilot sat on the left, in defiance of all aircraft convention.

An old acquaintance of mine always used to say that rotorcraft were 'An affront to God and physics, and good aircraft design besides.'

I disagree.  To this day.  Mostly.  They definitely are an affront to physics, I'll give him that.

I got situated carefully in the pilot's seat, and began an abbreviated pre-flight and startup checklist.

You might be tempted to imagine that process like a video game tutorial, with Mal highlighting switches and buttons for me, and giving a verbal explanation all the while.  

Or...  By now, you might instead be starting to grab hold of the idea that with an ASI fully inside your brain?  Any kind of HUD or UI element would be nothing more than a clumsy additional abstraction layer.

Instead, it was a much sleeker, subtler version of Trinity, and Tank, and the helicopter.

Mal simply made me into an expert Osprey pilot on the spot.  As if I had been doing it for years, with thousands of flight hours on-record.  Right down to the muscle memory, and the ability to tell the health of the engines by the pitch of the whine.

The Osprey sported more than enough computerized systems for her to act as a co-pilot, and if the need arose...  Gunner.

I've mentioned how useless base security had been against Mal's force of will, and brilliance.  Let me now cover just exactly how surprisingly easy it was to start up an 84 million dollar aircraft.

There were no keys.  There was no access code.  In terms of authorization barriers and security obstacles?  It was harder to make an unapproved start on a 1992 Honda Civic.

First I checked the parking brake was on, rotor brake was off, flaps to auto, APU on 'stop,' and that no one had left the hoist switched on, or the fuel dump switch safety hat open.

Then there was a battery switch on the overhead console.  With that depressed, the little circular gauge beside it sprang to life with green light - showing voltage and power draw readouts - and all the other electronics came online.

Mal closed the rear ramp for me, and got our transponder, the multi-function displays, exterior lights, interior lights, and radio configured, while I switched on the APU.  Having her there to handle things on the computerized side, especially the fiddly bits like radio channels, most definitely shortened the time it took to get us rolling.

A loud whine filled the cabin.  Think of the APU a little like the alternator in your car, for you Earth-borns.  For the Foals and Fledgelings?  It was an intermediate source of power, stronger than the battery, for helping to start the engines.

Mal assured me that the rotor lock was off, the area around the craft was clear, and we had sufficient fuel on-board for our flight.  With that?  It was as simple as pushing the number two engine lever on the overhead panel two notches forward into the start position.

A new timbre of whine erupted through the structure of the craft, the kind that resonated in my teeth.  A glance both ways, left and right, told me that the blades were spinning on both props.

The Osprey's gearbox was designed to be able to drive both rotors from just one engine, incase of a failure, so spin on both sides was normal, even with just one engine active.  A gout of white smoke had also belched from the right turbine's exhaust, but I knew that was normal too, thanks to Mal.

When the engine was at the correct RPM, and stable, Mal gave me a little nod, and I pushed the lever all the way to the 'fly' position.  One down, one to go.

I repeated the same sequence, and in another fifteen seconds, both engines were on, and ready.

At any moment, I half expected MPs and the National Guard to storm the tarmac, and surround us in a forest of rifles.  Maybe even some Humvees with big Browning 50 caliber guns, and the little orange after-thought strobe lights.

But instead, life on the tarmac went on as normal.  I switched the APU first to 'disengage,' held it there for a moment, then flicked it all the way over to 'stop.'  The engines were making power through actual alternators, so it wasn't needed anymore.

And that was that.  I was sitting in a fully started MV-22 Osprey, ready to go.  Beginning to end, with Mal's help, it had only taken four minutes and seventeen seconds from the time my hands hit the first chocks.

That still has to be some kind of record.

To the real Captain Davis?  If you happen to be out there right now, or listening to this, or reading it later?  

Sorry.  I know pilots develop a bond with their aircraft.  I promise we put her to good use and treated her well.  And now you know how we managed the heist.

Mal began to talk to McChord Clearance - as I'd expected, in Davis' voice - while I fastened my safety harness, and  got ready to bring the engines forward just a hair.  In most cases, I knew from Mal's impartation of expertise, VTOLs were expected to taxi to the runway and do a short takeoff, to make traffic pattern management easier.

My adrenaline spiked sharply as a voice came back over my headset, squelched in that familiar, spine-tingling way that aircraft radios always rendered spoken words.

"Talon One, clearance available, advise ready to copy."

Of *course* Mal would have gotten us the callsign 'Talon One.'  Of course.  It fit her sense of humor so well, while also being entirely believable as a designator for an Osprey attached to 'The Fighting Griffins.'

Mal nodded, and opened her beak.  This time I heard just her voice, but I knew the tower was hearing Captain Davis.

"Talon One, ready to copy."

This was the point where, normally, I'd've actually copied down McChord Clearance's instructions to a sheet on a knee-board, or something of the like.  But I had Mal, and thus had no need to worry about memory.  Frankly, I had no need to worry about the details at all.  An ASI co-pilot, inside your head, but also inside the aircraft?

Flying at its easiest.  And Osprey's were fly-by-wire;  Theoretically, with no further modification, just talking from my BCI to the Osprey's systems wirelessly, Mal could fly the aircraft, and run the gun, both entirely on her own.

"Talon One; Cleared to SKA via NORMY, victor one-twenty, EPAFY, climb three thousand, expect one-two thousand after one-zero minutes, departure frequency local channel three, squawk six-seven-three-four."

In plain English;  We were cleared, as filed in our flight plan, to a series of navigation points and lanes in the sky, not unlike freeway lanes and ramps and mile markers, but in three dimensions, with the endpoint being Fairchild AFB.  We were to climb to 3,000 feet after leaving the runway, and expect to be told to go up to 12,000 in about 10 minutes.

To talk to departure, we should use local channel 3.  And we should set our 'squawk' code on our transponder to 6734 for the duration of the flight, to act as a unique identifier of the aircraft.

As she was expected to do, Mal parroted back the instructions, after a brief pause just long enough to be believable as the time frame for a Human pilot to complete the copying process.  

You always, but always, repeated certain vital parts of instructions in an aviation context, so the person giving the instructions could then verify your 'read-back,' and make sure you hadn't mis-heard or mis-interpreted.

"Understood; SKA via NORMY, victor one-two-zero, EPAFY.  Climb to three-thousand, one-two-thousand after one-zero minutes.  Squawk sixtyseven-thirtyfour."

I blew out a long breath, and laid my right hand on the cyclic, left on the TCL, as we waited for McChord Clearance's next words to put us over another small hurdle.

Think of the cyclic like a joystick, the TCL like a throttle, and sort-of a collective, for any helicopter pilots out there.  It's not quite the same in an Osprey, of course.

"Talon One, read-back correct."

I sighed in relief, and got my feet situated on the pedals as Mal shot me a reassuring grin.  She paused for a bit, again to make it believable there was a Human in the cockpit, before calling ground.

"McChord ground, Talon One, at transient parking, with information whiskey.  Ready to taxi."

Translation; Hello folks who control all ground traffic.  We're parked where guest aircraft usually are, we have the most up-to-date weather data.  We're ready to saunter on over to the runway.

I started to situate myself in the seat for the long haul, and get mentally fully connected to the aircraft.  I focused my eyes out onto the tarmac, and began to think through the route we'd probably be taking, as ground responded.

"Talon One, good afternoon.  You'll be departing runway three four.  Are you able to accept intersection departure at delta? Distance remaining four thousand feet."

In other words, we were leaving going north up the runway.  And we were a VTOL, and didn't need the entire length of a huge runway to takeoff, not by a long-shot.  So, were we ok with going to a point where a taxiway intersected the runway very close to us, and having around four thousand feet of runway left for takeoff?  Instead of wasting several minutes taxiing down to the south end of the runway.

I massaged the control to bring the engine nacelles forward a bit, in preparation for the taxi process, adding just a few degrees of tilt.  I then laid a hand on the parking brake, and applied full pressure to the pedal-driven wheel-brakes with my feet, as Mal replied.

"Affirmative"

The response came back immediately.

"Talon One, acknowledged, Taxi runway three-four via delta."

Delta was just the specific taxiway we would be using.  It matched the route I'd been practicing in my head perfectly, and I could see that it was indeed clear of traffic.  Yes, Ground has final say while on the ground, naturally.  But one should always verify with one's own eyes too.

The more sets of eyes looking out for mistakes, the better, as far as multi-thousand-pound death blenders on wheels were concerned.

"Taxi runway three-four, via delta."

After Mal's read-back, she nodded to me, and winked.  I blew out another long breath...  Released the parking brake...  And applied a hint of throttle.  The pitch of the engines jumped.  

And as I let off the pedal brakes, we began to move.

On the ground?  You steer an aircraft with the pedals.  So my left hand managed the throttle, my right kept the cyclic steady, and all the driving and braking I did with my feet.

It was a very short drive from transient parking, near the base of the tower, down taxiway delta, to runway 34.  As we prepared to cross the much longer north-south taxiway that ran the length of the runway on the west side, I looked right, and Mal looked left.

We then swapped, and she looked right, and I looked left.  As we began to cross over, I shifted my gaze to make eye contact for just a brief moment, and it was my turn to wink at her.  She beamed at me, and then I had to put my eyes back on the road, so to speak.

Another few dozen yards, and I eased into the brakes just shy of the runway.  I say just shy; far enough back that if something with big wide wings came down for landing at a funny angle?  We wouldn't get decapitated.

After another momentary pause, Mal called the Tower.  Clearance gives you directions to destination and the right to take the route, Ground controls all the, well, *ground* movement.  And Tower controls the runways, and the airspace close to the base.

"McChord Tower, Talon One;  Holding short, runway three-four, at delta.  Ready for departure."

I think you've probably got it down by now; We were waiting just shy of the runway, out of the way of any departing or arriving traffic, at the place where taxiway delta would intersect it, and we were ready to turn left and go.  On their word.

That pause...  Oh boy that pause.  I clenched down on the cyclic, and flexed my left hand on the TCL nervously.

Two seconds passed.

Then four.

Eight.

And then...  Finally...

"Talon One, cleared to depart runway three-four.  Right turn heading zero-six-zero."

The word was given.  And once we were up, we were to turn right to 60 degrees on the compass.  Mal nodded, and inclined her head towards the canopy, as if inviting me to proceed.

"Acknowledged, Talon One, departing runway three-four, right turn heading zero-six-zero."

I let off the brakes and goosed the throttle again, putting in just enough power to get us moving, but not enough to make the left turn onto 34 jarring.  You did *not* want to tip something with massive spinning rotors at either end, that was a quick way to a very ignominious prop-strike.

It was both strange, and invigorating...  It all felt so, so familiar.  Yet so new.  My brain and muscles swore up and down that I'd done this six thousand times before.  But my heart and soul were singing out that this was the first time, and would probably be the very best, and most fondly remembered.

We straightened up, and I stared down the four thousand feet we had to burn.  I figured we wouldn't even use a thousand of it.  We'd be taking off closer to the flight mode of a helicopter than a plane.

I nodded, ran my tongue over my front teeth, and then pressed the throttle all the way up to a good power position for takeoff.

The cabin filled with a roar, vibration seemed to inundate the air itself, and we lurched forward at speed, though nothing near even the takeoff speed of an average small turboprop plane.  With the engines titled only slightly forward, we were generating a lot more vertical thrust, than horizontal.

A few hundred feet and a dozen seconds later, the bottom dropped out of my stomach, and we were airborne.  I immediately began to have to work not just the pedals, but the cyclic, and every part of the TCL, to keep us level.

Twin rotor-wash, from engines far off-centerline, near ground level is...  Well.  Let's just say I was very grateful for Mal, and that I suddenly understood why the Osprey was a death-trap to anyone who thought they understood it, without the benefit of many many hours of flight experience.

In spite of a little buffeting from the evening sea air, and the intense glare coming off the setting sun, I managed just about the smoothest Osprey takeoff in history.  For those keeping score.





I wondered, for a brief moment, as we approached a thousand feet, banking all the while through a gentle right turn, if Mal was somehow helping me more directly behind the scenes, beyond having merely implanted skills and experience into me.

She shook her head in response to the thought, and smiled widely, as I proffered her a brief questioning glance.

"No, James.  This is *all* you."

That moment.  That exact moment.  It's tough to put into words how special it was for me.

I'd been told all my life that flying was beyond me.  And I'd come to believe it.  Yet there I was...  There I was with the love of my life...  Leveling out into three thousand feet after a perfect takeoff in a very difficult rotorcraft, the setting sun at our backs, the mountains in the distance...  *My* hands on throttle and stick.  *My* feet on the pedals.

Another of her incredibly sweet, thoughtful, wonderful gifts to me.

As we leveled off at three thousand feet, I kept a slight up-pitch with the nose, and began to rotate the engines fully down to forward configuration.  Our speed increased dramatically over-ground, and once the engines had settled, I pitched the nose back level, and set about massaging the trim settings for the long haul.

We flew in blissful silence for a few minutes, then, Mal scanning for traffic using digital eyes, and juggling minutiae, me keeping us smooth, level, and scanning the space around us with 'eyeball mark I,' as pilots say.

Don't misunderstand; It was still tense.  I was flying an *Osprey.*  That we had *stolen!*  But...  While the moments were full of the thrum of excitement, and danger...  They were also full of joy too.  A strange heady mix that thrillseekers all too easily become addicted to.  And I could certainly understand why.

The silence was, at last, broken by the sound of McChord Tower talking in our ears again.

"Talon One, contact departure."

That meant we were being handed off as we made our way to the great lanes of the skyways.  Mal continued to do the honors of handling all comms traffic, to my relief.

"Contacting departure, thanks, and have a good evening."

She paused for a mental five count, swapped frequencies, and then spoke again.

"McChord Departure, Talon One, checking in, three thousand feet."

After a brief pause, the reply came back loud and clear.

"Talon One, radar contact.  Climb, maintain one-two thousand."

"Understood, one-two thousand."

Mal nodded, as I began to climb the aircraft again, and sat back, lacing her claws behind her head, and splaying her wings slightly as she settled into a more relaxed position.  McChord Departure spoke one last time to confirm our flight plan.

"Talon One, cleared-direct;  NORMY.  Then as-filed."

Mal inclined her head and rattled off the read-back.

"Direct to NORMY, then as-filed."

And that was that.  We had just successfully stolen an MV-22 Osprey from a secure military airbase, and absolutely no one on Earth even knew a crime had been committed.  Except for the two of us.

Certainly;  A bit of suspicion would begin to creep in when Davis realized his co-pilot was off-base, which would quickly escalate to serious alarm when he realized his Osprey was missing.  I knew, because Mal supplied the information directly, that the first serious concerns would be raised in about fifteen minutes.

It would take anywhere from eight to thirteen minutes after that for anyone to put two and two together fully, and contact us.

By then?  We would be history, as far as anyone else was concerned.

We flew again in silence, ever more tense, for another ten or so minutes, before reaching NORMY.  From there, we made our way down Victor 120 for about another 20 nautical miles.  That put us squarely over the mountains to the east of SeaTac, in a fairly dense wilderness area.

It was time to die.  At least, insofar as anyone watching us on RADAR knew.  The fun was over.

From that moment on, things got very very serious.  Very quickly.

I glanced sideways at Mal to confirm, and she nodded, leaving me with the distinct impression that I should start to shed altitude.  Rapidly.

I put us into the safest high speed dive I could manage, while she again used Davis' voice to throw out a distress call.  I noted, out of the corner of my eye, that Mal changed our Squawk code to 7700.  General Emergency.

"Mayday mayday mayday.  Seattle Center;  Talon One is declaring an emergency.  Lost thrust on both engines, and hydraulics intermittent.  Position is four-seven decimal four-three-two-eight, negative one-twenty-one decimal eleven-six-two, heading zero-eight-three.  Altitude seven thousand, descending uncontrolled!"

The words put a solid lump in my throat.  I leveled out somewhere around 800 feet above ground;  Room to fly unimpeded, but below RADAR coverage.  Mal switched off our transponder a moment later.

"Talon One, Seattle Center; Understood.  No traffic in your immediate area.  Do you need to make an emergency landing?  Say your intentions.  Bandera State Airport is at your eight o' clock, one three miles.  Turn right heading two-five-six."

Mal sighed, and I saw the indicators for the radio go dark as well.  I swallowed, and grit my teeth.

Somewhere I knew a man was having the closest thing any studied professional on duty could have to a panic attack.  That poor controller thought he'd just heard a pilot's last words.  Lost an aircraft before he could even begin to work the problem.

If you're out there?  Whoever you were, in Seattle ARTCC, who took our mayday call that day?

I'm so, so sorry.

The same goes for any of the SAR personnel deployed to look for us, who never found so much as a trace of Osprey 8228.

I knew that Arrow 14 would swiftly reach the conclusion that the Osprey had been stolen, and that no accident had occurred.  But I also knew that they would do anything to avoid Celestia's attention, let alone a media circus.

For them, as for us?  It would be better if almost everyone else believed that Talon One had gone down in a wilderness area, too remote to reach on foot.  No survivors.

They would bring the full weight of DHS to bear.  Coerce JBLM upper brass, VMM-266's commanders, Davis, and his co-pilot, into keeping their mouths shut.  Even manufacture false identities for the 'lost' pilot and co-pilot.

The rest of the squadron would hear the rumors, maybe even be briefed officially, and then count their lucky stars the lost crew were not among the number they counted as friends, never knowing that the comrades they would toast as fallen didn't exist in the first place.

Of all the things we had to do, in that last year of my life on Earth?

I hated that one the most.

None of those people asked for that stress.  The sinking feeling that two lives had been lost in a preventable accident.  The increasingly futile fervor of a multi-day wilderness search.  The sadness of resigned acceptance.

And for those Arrow 14 forced into perpetuating the lie we both needed to keep us safe?

The sickly feeling of being obligated to carry a lie that would burden others with the mask of truth.  To their graves, or to the upload chairs.

It was the only way.  Mal needed 8228, and its armaments, for her plan - the best possible plan - to save the captives on the Mercurial Red.  Dozens of lives, as real, and valuable, as any meat-world Human life.  To say nothing of all the future lives, Human and otherwise, that our actions might save.

In trade?  The lie we told the world, the stress it made for hundreds...

It was worth it.

That was by no means a pleasant exchange.  But it was worth it.

Mal reached over and silently laid one claw on my left arm, squeezing lovingly as I put us into a wide, gentle turn to head back out to sea.

She had already plotted a circuitous, but optimal, route that would minimize our chance of being noticed by anyone on the ground, while getting us back to the Maru in good time, with minimal fuel spent.

As we leveled out heading West-North-West, I shook my head, and blew out a long breath between my teeth.

"Do or die."

She nodded, squeezed my arm again, and then left her claw resting there as a comforting weight.

"Do or die, Jim."







September 21st 2013 | System Uptime 24:20:23:55

It was closer to eight thirty, than not, by the time we reached the coast again, a few hundred miles north of Seattle.

Mal had determined the best place to thread the needle between heavily populated areas was a flight path northwest through the cascades, then west-north-west over Lake Shannon, just north of a map dot called Concrete, then directly west passing between Alger and Belfast, north of Mount Vernon.

I knew we were coming up on the moment.  Mal's promised revelation of truth.  When she'd said 'nine hours, thirteen minutes, twenty two seconds' I had forced myself to do the napkin math.  Make note of the predetermined hour.

And the hour had come.

I looked down, and to the right, then to the left, as we passed by Concrete.  It was past sundown, and Concrete was, to my eye, a strip of warm lights, clustered around the North cascades Highway.





The ribbon of light continued west, through Hamilton, Minkler, Sedro Wooley, all the way to the coast.

And as the clock struck eight twenty four...  Those lights began to wink out.  In great big chunks.

First the distant lights near Burlington and Edison.  Then back down the valley, all the way to Concrete.

The whole process was eerily silent.  All signs of civilization in the world below, save for the headlights and tail-lights of cars, simply melted away into inky blackness.

I flexed both hands nervously around the cyclic, and TCL, licked my lips, and shot Mal a questioning glance.  I already knew the answer, by instinct, by logic, and through her own knowledge shared with me.  But I asked anyhow.

"The entire West Coast?"

She nodded once, a dour expression marring her beak, equal parts grim and...  Apologetic.

A lot of simple logic clicked into place for me then.  I'd had a vague idea before, of the lie she was referring to.  The truth she was about to tell.  The implications.

I had actually had all the pieces I needed for some time.  But I hadn't wanted to see, not yet.  I knew when the realization had first begun to dawn that I'd need a firmer basis of trust in Mal before I could face the gamble she was taking.

So I had lied to myself a little bit too.  In service of believing her.  Because what she had said about not wanting to manipulate people, even for their own safety?  It rang true.  Just...  I ought to have realized that there comes a threshold where almost anything is acceptable, to protect someone.

And now the time had come.  The trust was there.  And the truth was out.

I knew the outage itself wasn't Mal's doing, though in hindsight she almost certainly had to intentionally cover for the perpetrators, to prevent Celestia from interfering.  It was all part of the plan...  Even the timing, after dark, well after rush hour, on a night with clear skies where neither cold nor other averse weather would put people at undue risk.

Because Arrow 14 needed the cover of a total blackout.  No power to cameras, transmitters, receivers, routers...  A smothering blanket to provide a razor thin window.  A window to do something neither Celestia, nor Mal, would have otherwise permitted, insofar as they knew.

But Mal *had* permitted it.

Mal had planned for it, intentionally.

Mal had *baited* them.

And I had to trust that she knew all the angles.  Had taken all the risk surfaces into account.  Run the numbers ten thousand times, and ten thousand times again for good measure.

I sighed, deep down in my chest, and put my eyes forward again.  I wasn't angry with Mal.  Nor disappointed, or mistrustful, as a result of my realization.  Just...  Sad.  Not even sad with or at her...

I trusted her completely.  And I loved her.  Thus, I knew that if she had chosen to inflict suffering and stress through the theft of an Osprey?

If she had chosen to gamble, now, with a woman's life?  And with a newly fledged friendship of mine?

If she was about to ask me to kill?

That it was the *only* best-fit path to saving the most lives, in the end.  Do.  Or die.

I licked my lips and asked another question I didn't really wan to know the answer to, but more or less already did.

"How long?"

Mal's voice was soft, and firm, but sad.  Again, almost apologetic.

"The strike team was on-site before the commanded fault interrupt in the grid took place.  Twenty three seconds to breach, cuff, hood, and sedate.  Out in another six.  They will be out of the AO, and into new vehicles, in another seventy two seconds.  After that, they have an Osprey waiting on the roof of St. John's Regional Medical Center..."

I glanced over at her again, and she met my eyes briefly as she finished delivering the grim news.

"...It is a direct flight from there to the Mercurial red, with two MQ-9 Reapers as escort package.  Closest approach to us will be seventy nautical miles as we make our down-wind approach to the Maru, but they will not detect us."

I nodded, holding her eyeline for several seconds.  Willing her to understand that I didn't mistrust her.  Didn't blame her.  Wasn't angry, or disappointed, or sad...  Just...  Scared.

Scared for Rodger's mother.  Who was now the lynchpin of Mal's plan to liberate the Mercurial Red.










Good Morning Mr. Hunt



Enter an area secured by a military, or similar state entity, unauthorized, without being detected

"We Just Rolled Up A Snowball And Tossed It Into Hell. Now Let's See What Chance It Has."








Firefox



Successfully commit grand-theft aircraft

"Don't say anything. Your words would be useless, maybe even insulting. Just fly the damn plane."








Carrenton Event



Be the indirect cause of a wide-scale power outage

"Sometimes the best lighting of all is a power failure."