Lincoln assures the team, “We’re on it.”
The command post’s wall monitor displays a continuously updated three-dimensional map of the desert outside Tadmur. It lets Lincoln track the shifting positions of ReqOps’ equipment: the squadron of three Hai-Lin fighters, Blackbird, and the DF-21 racing up the highway. Also, a civilian convoy moving south. And of course the enemy, currently represented by two technicals speeding past Tadmur’s outlying neighborhood.
“Targets acquired,” Renata announces in a stern voice, operating from behind VR goggles. “Authorization?”
“Stand by,” Lincoln tells her. “Let’s give them a few more seconds to clear the town.”
Hayden, at his desk in front of the monitor, drags RQ-3’s feed from the screen’s periphery, depositing it beside the map. It shows only desert and mountains as the UAV circles, getting in position for a strike. Onboard AIs pilot the Hai-Lins, but it’s Renata who commands the squadron through the twitching, tapping motion of her fingers inside their black-lace gloves. She provides instruction, oversight, and authorization for the use of weapons.
“Okay,” Lincoln tells her. “You’re authorized. Take the shot at your discretion.”
“Acknowledging authorization.”
Hayden looks back, wide-eyed in excitement. He’s never seen the Hai-Lins used in combat before. None of them have. This is the first time the UAVs will fire weapons in a live operation.
Lincoln feels a touch against his arm and glances down to find Tamara beside him, come to watch.
RQ-3 completes its turn. The technicals are dead ahead.
Renata says, “Missiles away.”
Even as she speaks, their leased surveillance drone, cruising high above the action, issues a red alert.
On the dash screen, True glimpses a missile streaking in from the southern sky, almost too fast to see, and then sequential explosions erupt: billowing fireballs that swallow the two technicals, spitting out hard pieces, gun turrets and engine blocks that tumble into the night. She feels the concussion in her ears, in her bones.
The DF-21 jumps as Khalid leans harder on the accelerator.
“Take it easy,” Chris snaps. “We’re clear. No one left back there.”
Lincoln says, “Premature assessment, Chris. We are not clear. Three bogies inbound from the southeast. Silhouetting as Arkinson XOs. No transponders.”
“Fuck,” Chris whispers in high-definition audio.
True’s grip tightens on the armrest, tightens around the stock of her KO as she pushes back against lurching fear. None of their pre-mission intelligence indicated Al-Furat possessed Arkinsons—cheap and disposable jet-powered UAVs with a per-unit cost of just over five million American. They’re designed to carry a payload of four slim Tau Hammer missiles—self-guided hunters that can obliterate a lightly armed ground vehicle like the DF-21 as easily as RQ-3 took out the technicals and the soldiers who rode in them. The absence of transponders means there’s no telling who the Arkinsons belong to, though it’s a damn good indication they’re not friendlies.
The worst part: there’s nothing anyone in the DF-21 can do to defend themselves. No need to look farther than the scattered debris of the technicals behind them or the looming silhouettes of the burned-out tanks ahead for evidence of that. It’s on Renata to serve as their champion, wielding her squadron of Hai-Lins. True is grateful the Hai-Lins are out there, but it’s a hard truth that her life and the lives of everyone in the DF-21 rely on the battle skills of machines, of competing AIs, to determine if they ever get home.
Lincoln’s first move is to simplify the battle space.
He opens a voice link to the Kobrin 900-s carrying Hussam. “Blackbird,” he orders, “move out. West along the highway, maximum speed while maintaining current elevation.”
“You want an escort with that?” Renata asks from behind her VR goggles.
“Negative.” Blackbird is slow compared to the oncoming Arkinsons and it’s only lightly armed, making it as vulnerable as the DF-21, but it’s not carrying ReqOps personnel, so it’s not a priority. Hussam El-Hashem is its only cargo, and while Lincoln would like to deliver him alive, it isn’t necessary. The bounty will still pay and it’ll cover the loss of the helicopter. He tells Renata, “Focus defensive operations on our people. Set up for autonomous defense, standard protocol, and hold.”
“Roger that, boss,” she responds. “Three on three.”
Lincoln’s gaze fixes on the three-dimensional map. “Tamara, check known armaments for the Iraqi government.”
“Already on it, Lincoln,” she answers. “And… negative. Arkinsons are not part of the Iraqi arsenal. Probably a private registration. Checking area PMCs.”
Lincoln’s jaw sets. He got into the business of soldiering when he was eighteen, in part because it was what he knew, what he’d grown up with. But he also wanted to serve. Serve his country, serve the greater good, using the skills he was blessed with to do it. The QRF is a new phase in that tradition of service. His people are out there at the risk of their lives. It is his duty to support them to the extent of his abilities and the limit of his credit line. If it comes to a dogfight, ReqOps could lose a Hai-Lin, maybe more than one, escalating the cost of the operation. But if so, he’ll make it up in other business. He’ll take the chance, because he is all in.
That’s the promise he makes to his people. No halfway measures.
Without waiting for Tamara’s search results, he issues his next order. “Renata, initiate defensive response.”
The rules of private combat are mostly unwritten but well understood among companies that regularly operate in the TEZ. A neutral PMC would not send equipment into the field to interfere with a third-party action. So the Arkinsons’ presence in their area of operation marks them as enemy combatants, freeing Lincoln to take defensive actions, confident that he will not incur sanctions from the US government or ReqOps’ allied contractors.
In all circumstances, right action demands that the welfare of civilian bystanders be taken into account, and as a practical matter, any PMC concerned with maintaining a viable reputation, one that allows it to operate openly, would strive to avoid collateral damage and loss of life. But in the real world, war is a messy business—which is why there is a thriving regional company specializing in the negotiation of financial compensation for incidental deaths, injuries, and the destruction of property.
But on the desert highway there are no innocent civilians to be caught in the line of fire and the only property involved is the already war-torn road.
“I don’t care who the Arkinsons belong to,” Lincoln says. “Neutralize them. Do not let them get off a shot.”
“Roger that. Initiating autonomous defense, standard protocol, targeting Bogie-1, Bogie-2, Bogie-3. Weapons are active.”
With the standard protocol in effect, the squadron AIs will operate on an instruction set written to minimize collateral property damage and avoid all civilian casualties. Excessive safeguards, tonight. “Correction,” Lincoln intones. “Friend or foe.”
“Confirming friend-or-foe protocol,” Renata echoes in a crisp, emotionless voice. The squadron AIs will no longer have to calculate the probability of collateral damage, a change that will speed up their response time. As Renata cedes control, her hands go still.
The map shows the trio of Hai-Lins peeling apart. Lincoln doesn’t know what their next move will be. Neither does Renata. Unless the Arkinsons withdraw, they are about to witness a dogfight between AIs. The Hai-Lins are technically superior, but they’re not fully loaded. RQ-3 has already spent missiles against the technicals. And the AIs that fly the squadron have never before engaged in actual aerial combat. Up until now, all their battle experience has been in simulations. Their training will meet reality tonight.