“It’s been a busy day—as you predicted,” he replied. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he pulled out a thumb drive and tossed it to the beautiful woman.
With an easy motion in slender hands, she caught the device. Looking up, she asked, “So they did it? Executed Manuel and attacked Mesquite?”
Secretary James nodded and pointed at the drive in her hand. “All the latest is on there.”
SALI stood. “Excuse me. I’ll be right back,” and she left the room using a far exit.
Baffled, the general watched her leave. He’d heard about SALI a decade earlier. Everyone had and knew it was a groundbreaking system developed in Silicon Valley. SALI was touted as the single greatest autonomous computing platform in the history of the world. A single system so powerful, the pundits claimed, it achieved consciousness with a processing capacity greater than a million human minds combined. But advanced AI was an inherent evil, the great destructor, and at a snap of a finger could be used to develop weapons of mass destruction beyond comprehension.
Intuition told him that even after the Great Powers had ordered SALI’s destruction, putting the AI genie back in the bottle would have proved difficult. Common sense dictated the Great Powers and other nations would develop advanced AI initiatives in secret.
So earlier in the evening when the general had heard the president mention SALI, learning the ROAS wasn’t complying with the AI Protocols, the news wasn’t too shocking. Still, he understood using her capabilities, if discovered, would be considered an international war crime. Yes, he was willing to listen, but he needed to consider the risk. After meeting this woman, or robot, android, or whatever she was, he sat confused. He recalled the original advanced AI announcements from years before, but there wasn’t any mention of a beautiful woman, just a super-advanced computing platform. Unsure, he needed to figure out the connection and decide if SALI could be trusted. Maybe, he should have a glass of wine.
Chapter Seventeen
GOING IN
May 9, 01:00 (PDT)
Hearing a thump, Sergeant Flood wheeled around. There, standing next to him, after jumping into the shell hole to scare everybody, Specialist Ian Kinney stood smiling. Wearing full battle rattle with an assault rifle slung across his chest, it was just like Kinney to make his presence known. A short wiry man, ready to fight at a drop of a hat, the young man admitted to having small-guy syndrome. But Flood knew he could back it up, won most of his fights, and even enjoyed those he lost.
“What’s up?” asked Kinney.
Flood pointed at the Glock holstered on the specialist’s hip. “Did you bring a suppressor for that?”
“Yep, got it right here,” said Kinney, patting a pouch on his combat belt.
Flood nodded and waved towards the man standing next to him. “This is Captain Longfellow. He’s in charge of the dead.”
Longfellow frowned, and Kinney smiled at the insult. Flood ignored the looks and got right to business. “Okay. Listen up. We got a blood trail in the pipe behind us. Not a clue who left it inside, but it’s possible we have enemy combatants or even civilian infiltrators. Not sure what we’re facing, but we reckon whoever climbed in an out of the pipe whacked those two poor bastards.” Flood pointed at the bodies of Pugh and Hough. The two stiffs still lay face to face, with the guy on the bottom wearing underwear around his ankles.
“That’s fucked up,” said Kinney. He walked over to the bodies and bent over to get a closer look. Through his helmet headlamp, he examined the scene. He shook his head and let out a low whistle. “Looks like they might be buddy butt fuckers. Lover’s quarrel?”
The captain stepped forward and, voice full of authority, said, “Homosexuality is against regulations. But even if these men were sodomites, which is not out of the question considering their backgrounds, I don’t believe they killed each other. Instead, it’s my professional opinion you’re looking at a staged death scene.”
Kinney stared at the captain in apparent disbelief. Flood knew the wiry man had little respect for most officers, and zero for rear-echelon types.
Kinney turned back to Sergeant Flood and asked, “You believe what he’s saying, and if so, how many guys you think did this?”
“No idea for sure,” answered Flood. “The captain and I could be wrong, but based on the evidence, it appears the attackers might have come through that pipe. How many? I’d guess one or two.” Flood waved at the pipe, then pointed at the two stiffs and continued, “But whoever killed those sorry bastards knows how to use a knife.”
Kinney glanced at the bodies again. “Well, if the two butt fuckers didn’t kill each other, you’re right, whoever did are some bad motherfuckers. Knife sticking ain’t easy; takes balls.”
“That’s why I called you,” said Flood, flattering the man. He wanted Kinney to volunteer without asking.
“Shit! Fuck, Sarge! You want me to go after the motherfuckers, don’t you?”
“You’re the best man for the job. I need you to get into the pipe and track down whoever did this. If you find ’em, well, there’s no good reason for someone to be in there. Shoot first and ask questions later.” Flood turned to the captain for confirmation on the rules of engagement. “Correct, sir?”
“Ah, sure. You’re authorized to use, um, whatever force is necessary,” said the captain. Flood watched as the overweight officer put his hands on his hips as if he made combat decisions all the time.
Kinney eyed the pipe again. “Just me going in, Sergeant?”
“Yep. Wouldn’t count on anyone else. Besides, in that pipe it’s gonna be a single file. You’ll be facing whoever is last in line. Only one guy at a time. Use discretion. If you find yourself outnumbered, then get the hell out and report back.”
“Where does the pipe end?” asked Kinney.
“Fucks sake, I don’t know. This here…” and Flood twirled a finger, “…was a golf course years ago. Monsoon flash floods hit this area too. Looks like a big drainage pipe. So who the fuck knows. Follow the blood trail. If it peters out or you reach the end or you’re unsure, just come on back. No big deal.”
Flood understood the mission was risky. On all fours, in a tight, dark pipe, sneaking up to kill an unknown number of badasses wasn’t easy. Still, Kinney was tough and always ready to prove himself. Taking the mission would add to his reputation and, knowing the young man, Flood guessed once inside the pipe, Kinney might find it fun.
“All right, I got it,” Kinney said. Coughing up a gob of phlegm, he spit it across the shell hole and wiped his mouth. “If I get these fuckers, extra beer ration. What you say?”
“Fuck yes. Triple ration,” answered Flood, knowing the motivation would seal the deal.
“Okay, I’ll be your fucking killer mole. Let me take off my goddamn boots and unhook anything that might make noise. Plus, I need to get the suppressor on my Glock.” Kinney unslung his rifle and sat down to work his laces.
Flood watched Kinney as the man took off his boots. He was proud of the specialist, of his men, but he’d much rather be with all of them in bivouac buried in warm sleeping bags. But hey, he thought to himself, that’s why I get paid the big bucks. Bullshit.
Master Sergeant Upton lay stretched out on his stomach. There wasn’t enough room to sit without hunching; lying flat was easier. Behind him on a blanket, on her back, head nearest Upton’s feet, he registered the regular breathing of Staff Sergeant Lisa McMichael. Ahead of him, seventy meters from where he first entered, a small trickle of evening light filtered through the pipe. They’d been in this position for more than an hour, ever since he’d given her water and a pain pill.