February 2025 Story

The Forward Observer

Glossary of substitute words:

Fug:  used by Mailer in “The Naked And The Dead” to get around censorship in 1948.

Bustard:  a large Asian bird

Sheet:  a bed covering

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He had been very lucky so far.  To escape before he was murdered by his captors, in the confusion of the explosions from the swarm of low flying kamikaze attack drones he had called in from his forward observation post just before he was captured.  He had volunteered to be a forward observer after the enemy had learned how to nullify the high flying scout drones that done the job previously.  And he had done such an infuriatingly effective job that, after his capture, the angry officer in command ordered his execution, contrary to the formal rules of combat.  But in this war, rules were often ignored by both sides.

Now the man was huddled in a bomb crater in no-man’s-land, faced with a major problem.  How to get back to friendly lines without getting killed since his FIDS dog tag had been ripped off his neck by his captors.  (FIDS or Friend Identification System is an electronic signal that identifies the bearer to all drones as a friend, not to be targeted.)  His captors were probably planning to use his in an infiltration.  At least it was night, and until the engineers figured out a way to restore vision to the scout drones, attack drones would be directed to their targets by human forward observers like him.  It was autumn so the nights were not freezing cold and yet cold enough so that the corpse he shared the crater with was not sickeningly-foul smelling, just rotten.  Rain water pooled in the bottom of the crater.   Not potable since the corpse lay part way in it.  One of them, not us, he noted with satisfaction.  

The whir of a drone over the background clatter of artillery and distant explosions.  He kept very still as it passed to the left.  Ours or theirs?  Didn’t really matter since without his FIDS he would be a target.  And he would be called a friendly fire statistic if anyone ever knew.  I’d better try to move.  Crater to crater.  Earthy wet dirt smell, whiff of rot, mingled with that of TNT and burn. Stop listen for a whir, try to spot drones against clouds and patchy starry background.  Nothing.  Then move quickly.  Gotta get beyond the sight of the enemy by morning.  He hoped that the squad that captured him had been so decimated in the attack that their replacements would not know of his escape and would not specifically send out a drone to look for him. 

The sky was turning grey to the east.  Sun up soon.  Time to find a deep crater and spend the day hiding.  Think I’m about midway across no-man’s-land.  Attack drones will likely not pay as close attention here than closer to the battle lines.  Luck!  A crater without a body or puddle.  Getting thirsty and hungry.  Just got to suck it up.  And wait.  Don’t even raise my head to look around.  Just gotta hope they don’t send out a squad on foot to probe our defenses.  Whir of a drone quadricopter.  Sheet—damn fly walking across my face and I can’t move!  Flying low towards the enemy line judging by the sound.  Must be one of ours.  Just one, so it must not have a specific target—just out to seek and kill some bustards.  Damn—missed the fly!  Aren’t they supposed to be gone now that it’s cold?  Guess there’s a lot of corpses around for them.  I’m not one—go find a real dead body.  Like the one in here.  But I could become fly bait if my luck runs out.   

At last, sunset then twilight, and night with just a thin, waning moon in a partly cloudy sky.  Dark enough.  Time to move.  He dared to lift his head at last and look around.  Crater to crater again.  And luck—a recently killed body to judge by just the faint odor of decay.  One of theirs.  Check the backpack.  Yes!  Full canteen and an unopened meal ration.  Take a drink.  No time to eat.  Get closer to our lines, then I’ll stop and eat.  

The man froze whenever he heard a drone, worried that if there were nearby explosions he would be unable to hear the soft whir.  He was within a mile of friendly lines by first light.  He found a shell hole.  Now I can eat and have another drink.  And plan.  If I try to get closer by sneaking from hole to hole and get spotted, they’ll take me for an infiltrator and drone or shot me without a hesitation since those bustards took my FIDS.  Or if I wait for one of our patrols to stumble on me, again someone will shoot before I can identify myself.  Fat chance to have one of our patrols just happen to come my way anyway.    I’m stuck.  Sheet.

Night came at last.  A waning crescent moon.  He began to edge forward, praying that he wouldn’t be spotted through night vision glasses.  He was in luck and by dawn he had found a shell hole within a half mile of friendly trenches.  Now what?  A plan, I need a plan.  How can I let them know I’m one of us without my FIDS?  If I move by day, they’ll just shoot first without questioning.  But they’ll be especially trigger happy if I try to move closer by night.  He was tired, hungry, filthy, and out of options.  I’m fugged.  And now the sun was up and head down, he hugged the earth.  It’ll be noon, soon enough.  So close.  What to do?

In the forward trench the two drone controllers, Max and Jakob, had their virtual reality goggles on, as well as monitoring a large screen displaying the sector in front of them.  The drones they oversaw were autonomous killing machines, programmed to attack any moving object without FIDS.  The controllers’ function was to provide oversight and override through their goggles, seeing what the drones’ cameras viewed, so that the drones did not waste their weapons or themselves (if they were the kamikaze type) on a mistaken target or a dummy.  It was noon.

“Look at that crazy bustard crawling out of that hole,“ said Max.  “He’s buck naked and waving his hands in the air.” 

“Civilian?” asked Jakob. “What’s he doing in no-man’s-land?  Look he’s dancing!  Fugger must be nuts!”

“No weapons, no clothes.  Not a suicide bomber.” 

“Drone’s zeroing in on him,” said Max.  “Won’t matter anyway.”

“Wait,” said Jakob, pausing the drone.  “Suppose that fugger is one of ours?  Got  lost out there.”

“No FIDS, can’t be,” said Max.

“Leon’s position was over-run four days ago and we don’t know what happened to him,” said Jakob.

“That crazy bustard.  Did he get lucky?” asked Max.  “I’m going to fly the drone up close so I can see his face.”

“The fugger isn’t running from the drone.  In fact he’s standing there and waving his arms like he wants the drone to get closer,” Jakob said. 

“Damn!  Dirty as hell, but it sure as hell is Leon!” Max exclaimed.  “Holy sheet!”

“Pause the drones and bring him in,” Jakob said.  “I’ll tell the boys in the trenches to hold their fire.  Leon’s coming home.”

May 2024 story and song

The Sand Miner

Lee ended his presentation by saying, “You would be known as the one person who saved the planet.  To go down in history, forever honored.  Think about that, Mr. Crassi.  Rather than continue to pursue your dream of settling another planet, which many experts say would be either near-impossible or would take many lifetimes to achieve, you could, in your lifetime, reverse global warming.”

“You sell a tempting story,” replied Midas Crassi.  “But how certain are you that what you propose would actually work?”

“The year after the eruption of Krakatoa in 1883 was known as the year when summer did not arrive.  The volcanic dust that was injected into the stratosphere and carried by wind currents around the world cooled the planet and created lurid sunsets for two years.  What I’m proposing is a controlled version of that eruption.”

“I’ve heard the suggestions to release various sulfur compounds into the atmosphere to do what you are suggesting.  That would certainly be simpler and cheaper.”

“The objection to that approach is that sulfur compounds are not innocuous.  Think of the problems with acid rain during the last century.  Mr. Crassi, you are one of the few people who has the wealth, the resources, and the national and international prestige to make this a reality.”

“You are appealing to my ego, but I won’t hold that against you.  Still, my engineers and scientists have been very honest with me about my hope of settling Mars, telling me that it would be at best a very long shot, even under the threat of being fired for telling truth to power.  It is hard though to give up on a dream I’ve had since childhood.  But I’ve always been a pragmatist.  Tell me, does your plan have better odds than that?”

“There are no guarantees of course, but yes, I believe so,” replied Lee.

“Other than legal, what could or would be the downsides and risks?”

“There is the possibility of unwittingly altering rainfall patterns that could cause droughts in some parts of the world and floods in others.  It could alter ocean warming or cooling that could contribute to, or diminish, the formation of storm systems.  And there are always the unthought ofs and the unknowns.  That is why I’m proposing a gradual phase in rather than a sudden large atmospheric injection.”

“To go down in history as the man who saved the planet.  That’s a very tempting pitch, Mr. Lee.  Give me full details of your plan.  What are all the risks, what resources are needed, what your estimated costs would be, the time frame, and who else you’ve contacted—Aldron Betts say?”

“You are the first person I thought of, Mr. Crassi.  The details will be on your desk next week,” Lee said.

“And you may call me Midas.  What’s your first name, Lee?”

“Apollo.”

“Apollo.  Interesting.  The sun god who lights and warms the earth that you are hoping to cool.”

Sand from the Sahara Desert, swept up by the winds, blows all the way to South America, up into northern Europe, and even to the Far East.  Such windblown sand can be carried as high as 25,000 feet but is too heavy to linger long in the atmosphere.

Sand mining, legal and illegal, has been a lucrative enterprise for many years, providing material to manufacture concrete.  But it has also contributed to beach, coastline, and river delta erosion.

Lee’s plan was to take sand from the interior Sahara desert and mechanically micronize it into tiny particles that would float in the upper atmosphere for a longer period of time, mimicking what occurred after the volcanic eruption.  And unlike sulfur, micronized sand would not interact unfavorably with rain or surface water and vegetation.  

Five weeks later, Lee was nervously waiting at the office of Crassi Enterprises having been summoned to learn the fate of his proposal..   

“You may go in now, Mr. Lee,” said Loren, Crassi’s administrative assistant.  “Mr. Crassi is off his call and he is expecting you.”

“Apollo,” Crassi said without a preamble as soon as Lee came through the door.  “I’ve gone over your idea with my lawyers and engineers.  And with independent climate scientists.  They think it stands a chance of working.  Our government wants nothing to do with it officially since it does not want to be blamed in case things go wrong.  But they would not stand in my way since I’m doing as a private individual and it will largely be done in Algeria and Libya.  I’ve begun to explore contracts and fees with those countries.  If they come on board, then I don’t think any other country or the UN could stop us.”

“That’s wonderful news, Mr. Crassi.  Frankly I’m stunned.  I had no idea you had already come to a decision and proceeded this far.”

“Once I decide to become involved in something, I don’t like to waste time.  The world continues to warm and I am not getting younger.  If, as you said, climate change can be reversed in my lifetime, then we’d better get moving.  As for Mars, I’ll let Aldron Betts pursue that dream uncontested by me.”

  “You already have much of the heavy equipment that would be needed,” said Lee.  “They would just need to be transported to the mining sites on your ships,” 

“You’ve been doing some research about me on your own too,” Crassi said.  “I like that.  Now you told me that the micronized sand could be delivered into the upper atmosphere by a number of methods.  Planes, rockets, and large balloons that you were leaning towards.  You mean like blimps?” 

“More like a large version of weather balloons which can reach heights of 100,000 feet above sea level.  This would be the cheapest and least polluting way to deliver the sand.”

“Cheapest and least polluting.  That’s good.”

“I’ve had initial conversations with an American company that manufactures very large weather balloons as well as the Chinese company that produced their spy balloons,” Lee said.  “They can both produce balloons large enough to carry 2000 to 6000 pound payloads to altitude and the balloons would be recoverable.  The Chinese company’s balloons are maneuverable to some degree which is an advantage, but the American company assured me they could add that capability without much difficulty.”

“Did you tell them what they would be used for and who you were representing?”

“No, I was careful to not say.”

“Good.  I don’t want this to get out and go viral among the conspiracy nuts on the internet until we have already begun.  Since one of my companies is in construction, mining sand in the Sahara would not seem unusual.  Which balloon source is more reliable and cheaper?”

“The Chinese company has the experience and would be cheaper.  However there is that stigma of their spy balloons that overflew us and other countries.  There likely would be a political and public backlash if we used them.”

“So you recommend American.”

“Yes even if the cost would be slightly higher.  But nothing like the cost of using rockets or planes for the job.”

“I agree.  Work with them regarding order size, delivery schedule and final price and let me know.    I will set up a company for the sand mining and make the payments from that account.”

Six months later, Lee and Crassi stood atop a dune in the Algerian Sahara in the relative cool at sunset, watching the largely automated sand mining operation below, the engine and machinery sounds softened as they were absorbed into the vast, cloudless sky above.  Most of the heavy work, the digging and the grinding, was done at night when the winds were quieter, less prone to whip up the sand and was supervised by local engineers, as stipulated in the contract with the Algerian government..  

“Looks like it’s going pretty much as planned,” said Lee.

“We probably don’t need this number of engineers on the job since the operation is largely automated, but it’s in the contract with the government,” said Crassi.  “Helps provide jobs for their university graduates.  The cost of doing business.”

“Our first launch with six balloons is tomorrow morning,”  Lee said.  “After all the planning and preparation we’re actually about to do it!  If all goes well, they’ll be returning in about two weeks after circling the globe.”

“Notices have been sent to all countries in their path so there shouldn’t be any military action taken against them,” Crassi said.  “Don’t want them to be mistaken for spy balloons or UFOs.”

Below, the delivery pods were being filled with the micronized sand from the grinding unit.  They would be attached to the balloons during the night.  The balloons would fill with helium as dawn neared and, after the sun had warmed the air, the balloons would launch.  

Crassi and Lee descended from the dune to where a small support city had been built.  They checked once more with the weather scientists in their prefab lab about the jet streams in which the balloons would fly, and then with the flight controllers who would supervise and maneuver the flights to follow the most favorable load release paths as mapped out by computer simulation.  And then they tried to sleep.

In the morning, Crassi and Lee joined the crowd of workers and scientists watching the launch, cheering as the first balloon lifted away.  Then one by one, five other huge white balloons rose carrying their sand-filled pods, ascending till they became high, distant white globes drifting to the west.

It didn’t take long for news about the launch to trigger a public reaction  The response of the major news networks was largely neutral, with a wait and see attitude.  The scientists interviewed expressed views from cautiously hopeful to negative.  Posts on the internet fractured in all directions as could have been predicted, from dire and paranoid to praiseful.  And then reports of “UFO” sightings came in.  Later there would be claims of eye irritation attributed to the micronized sand.  A splinter group of Green Movement activists organized boycotts of Crassi Enterprises but these did not go far as the effects of heat were felt and seen worldwide and most people were glad that someone was trying to do something about it since government efforts to decrease carbon emissions were too little and too late.  Among some religious sects this was denounced as subverting God’s plan to punish humanity for all its sins by fire this time rather than flood.  There were threats of violence that Crassi had anticipated and so the desert operation was guarded by units of the Algerian army with constant drone surveillance.  And the desert itself was a huge protective barrier.

Lee became a frequent guest on media to explain and answer questions and address doubts.  He preached patience and cautioned against expecting immediate results.  The worldwide temperature continued to rise during the first year of flights.  And nay sayers were quick to point that out.  At the end of the second year global temperatures leveled off.  The oceans were a huge reservoir of heat and it would take time for them to cool.  Public attitudes became more hopeful.  The news cycle moved on to other things, and people scarcely looked up anymore when one of the balloons passed high overhead.  

It would take many more years of carefully titrating and adjusting balloon releases to reverse sea level rise and see the slow revival of polar ice caps and alpine glaciers as global mean temperatures moderated.

Lee and Crassi were old men when the Nobel committee awarded them the Peace Prize.

“Was it worth it, Midas?” asked Lee in Oslo.  “Is this better than going to Mars?”

“You were the visionary, Apollo, I just had to provide the wherewithal,”  Crassi replied.  “We will go down in history as the ones who reversed global warming.  And yes, that is far better than going to Mars.  Which, by the way, Aldron Betts has still not achieved.”

May song

Memorial Day 2024.  I just received my 70th Anniversary College report.  Of the 1222 entering freshmen, 31% of us are still alive.  For the good friends, more casual acquaintances, and classmates who left too soon or more recently, I’ll republish this from last year.

Where Have All The Flowers Gone

(adapted from Pete Seeger)

Where have all the flowers gone?

Long time passing.

Bright in the morning sun,

Long time ago.

Where have all the flowers gone?

Faded, scattered every one.

When will they ever learn, when will they ever learn?

————-

Where have all the young maids gone?

Long time passing.

Strong and graceful, without fear,

Long time ago.

Where have all the young maids gone?

Grown grey and tired, long in years.

When will they ever learn, when will we ever learn?

————-

Where have all the young men gone?

Long time passing.

Swift and certain of their dreams.

Long time ago.

Some are gone and some remain,

Moving slow with aches and canes.

When will they ever learn, when will we ever learn?

————-

And where have all the children gone?

Long time passing.

Full of wonder, spirits free.

Long time ago.

Where have all the children gone?

They’ve grown to be like you and me.

When will we ever learn, when will we ever learn?

————-

Where have all the flowers gone?

Long time passing.

Bright—in the morning sun,

So long ago.

Where have all the flowers gone?

Faded, scattered every one.

What did we ever learn, what did we ever know?

What did we ever know?