“They ‘want’?”
“Sergeant York has artificial intelligence. The operator can position the units, monitor their performance, override automatic features, approve target selection and the like, but these things can be turned loose on full automatic mode — then they fight like an army. They are an army. We developed them to fight and win on the conventional battlefield, the tactical nuke battlefield, and urban battlefields like Mogadishu. The Somali experience was the catalyst for their development.”
Jake whistled, and two of the York units turned their heads to look at him.
“I guess I forgot to mention audio. They have excellent hearing in a much wider frequency spectrum than the human ear can handle.”
“How much battle damage can they sustain?”
“A lot. They are constructed of titanium, the internal works are shielded with Kevlar, and Kevlar forms the outer skin. Still, mobility is their main defense.”
“Two legs and a tail… how mobile are they?” the admiral asked.
Cole pointed to the Kevlar-coated areas on the nearest York’s leg, the shapes of which were just visible under the skin. “The major muscles are hydraulic pistons; the minor ones are electromechanical servos — which means gears, motors, and magnets. A couple of ring-laser gyros provide the balance information for the computer, which knows the machine’s position in relation to the earth and where the extremities are; it uses the pistons and servos to keep the thing balanced. York is extremely agile, amazingly so considering it weighs four hundred and nine pounds without ammunition.”
“Power?”
“Alas, batteries. But these are top-of-the-line batteries and can be recharged quickly or just replaced in the field, a slip-out/slip-in deal. In addition, since the outer layer of each unit’s Kevlar skin is photoelectric, outdoors on a sunny day the batteries will stay pretty much charged up as long as excessive exertion is not required of the unit.”
Jake Grafton shook his head, slightly awed. “How much does one of these damned things cost?”
“Twice the price of a main battle tank, and worth every penny. They can use every portable weapon in the NATO inventory. Hell, they can even drive a hummer or a tank if you take out the seat and make room for the tail.”
“Uh-huh.”
All six were out of the semitrailer now. They arranged themselves in a circle, each facing outward. They made a small whining sound when they moved, a sound that would probably be inaudible with a typical urban ambient noise level.
“Preproduction prototypes,” Cole said when Jake mentioned the noise. “The production units won’t make those noises.”
Kerry Kent came over, her wireless computer in her hand. “Let me introduce you to Alvin, Bob, Charlie, Dog, Easy, and Fred.”
She was referring to the small letter on the back of each unit’s head and on both shoulders. The nicknames were slight twists on the military phonetic alphabet system.
“The New York Net,” Jake Grafton said. He wasn’t trying to be funny because he wasn’t in the mood: The thought merely whizzed through his cranium and popped out about as fast. Kent and Cole looked at him oddly without smiling.
She showed Jake the computer presentation. “Each unit can be controlled by its own computer, or one computer can control as many as ten units. When I’m in network mode, I can see what each unit is seeing or look at the composite picture.” She moved an icon with a finger and tapped it. Jake leaned forward. The picture did have a remarkable depth of field, although it was presented on a flat screen.
She tapped the screen again. “As you can see, I can designate targets, tell specific units to engage it, or let the computer pick a unit. I can assign each unit a task, tell it to go to a certain position, assign targets, basically run the fight with this computer. Or I can go to an automatic mode and let the system identify targets in a predetermined order of priority and engage them.”
“What if your computer fails or someone shoots you?”
“The system defaults to full automatic mode, which happens to be the preferred mode of operations anyway.”
Jake shook his head. “The bad guys are going to figure out what they are up against pretty quickly. Maybe rifle bullets will bounce off these guys, but grenades, rockets, mortars, artillery?”
“Mobility is the key to the York’s survival,” Kerry rejoined. She tapped the screen.
Charlie York stirred. It tilted its head back to give itself a better view of the overhead, which was about twelve feet up. It crouched, swung its arms, and leaped with arms extended.
It caught the edge of an exposed steel beam and hung there, its tail moving to counteract the swaying of its body. Everyone in the room exhaled at once.
Jake stood there for several seconds with his mouth agape before he remembered to close it. The dozen Chinese men in the room were equally mesmerized. After a moment they cheered.
“The units can leap about six feet high from a standing position,” Kerry Kent explained. “On the run they can clear a ten-foot fence. They normally stand six feet six inches high; at full leg extension they are eight feet tall.”
“Very athletic,” Cole said, nodding his head. He didn’t grin at Jake, but almost.
“How long are you going to let Charlie hang from the overhead?” the admiral asked Kent.
Her finger moved, and Charlie dropped to the floor. The unit seemed to catch itself perfectly, balancing with its hands, arms, and tail. Now Charlie looked at Jake, tilted its head a few inches.
In spite of himself, Jake Grafton smiled. “Wow,” he said.
A half dozen men began checking the Yorks, inspecting every visible inch. They had been trained at Cole’s company in California as part of a highly classified program. One man began plugging extension cords into the back of each unit to recharge the batteries. The other men busied themselves carrying crates of ammunition out of the back of the semitrailer and stacking them against a wall.
“So tomorrow is the day?” Jake muttered to his former bombardier-navigator.
“Yep,” said Tiger Cole.
“Another big demonstration in the Central District?”
“Yep. The army will be there. We’ll strap them on with the Yorks.”
“Jesus Christ! A lot of civilians are going to get caught in the cross fire.”
Cole nodded once, curtly.
“Do it at night, Tiger. Maximize the advantage that high tech gives you. These Yorks probably see in the dark as well as they do in the daytime.”
“This isn’t my show.” Tiger’s voice was bitter. “I argued all that and lost. Revolution is a political act, I was told, the first objective of which is to radicalize the population and turn them against the government. Daytime was the choice.”
“Explain to me the difference between your set of high-minded bloodletters and the high-minded bloodletters you are trying to overthrow.”
“That’s unfair and you know it. You know who and what the Communists are.”
Grafton let it drop. This wasn’t the time or place to argue politics, he decided. After a bit he asked, “Why only six of these things? Why not a dozen?”
“It will be a couple years before the first production models come off the assembly line,” Cole told him. “We got all there are.”
“I hope they’re enough.”
“By God, so do I,” Tiger Cole said fervently.
“Here’s a sandwich and some water, Don Quixote,” Babs Steinbaugh said. She scrutinized the computer monitor. The E-mail program was still there, waiting.
Eaton Steinbaugh sipped on the water. The sandwich looked like tuna salad. Babs read his mind: “You have to eat.”