Kill Decision

by Daniel Suarez

  Still, it was an impressive technical achievement. Odin remained emotionless. “How far back in time can you go?”

  “As far back as we want to allocate storage space. We can even flag certain regions for long-term storage. Trouble spots.”

  The image was already zooming out to the large city view. Live again.

  “We use algorithms to parse human activity—tracking the pulse and character of a place. Automating what we call ‘pattern of life’ analysis. Compiling a fingerprint, a signature of a city’s normal routine. Airborne persistent video pattern-recognition systems will be big in this surveillance effort—Bayesian algorithmic models . . .”

  The general was still talking as Odin watched a constellation of red glowing dots and squares superimposed on the vast city, like ants.

  “This layer represents observable human activity. The dots are people, the squares vehicles. Over time the subsystem differentiates which part of the imagery is static city and which is dynamic human activity. But it goes further. Within that human activity layer, EITS begins to accumulate experience of the patterns of human living that represent a city’s background noise—its norm. What travel patterns are followed each day from location to location—with each dot being tracked representing a trip marker that’s added to the database. The totality of trips weaving a pattern of behavior. How consistent is this pattern? What portion of residents follow a routine, leaving and returning to the same places on a general schedule? Which portion of the population has no regular schedule? That lets us focus on areas of suspicious activity—a common point somewhere in the city where individuals who’d been present at earlier ‘trouble spots’ might later congregate, a place that might be the lair of an insurgent group—the sort of intel that your group would previously have had to obtain through HUMINT—can now be gleaned from observing the totality of human activity. Remembering it over time. Seeing everything. Forgetting nothing.”

  Odin watched the companion imagery as Lieutenant Gartner played impressive visual accompaniment to the general’s pitch. Odin appeared deep in thought. “Our PIR usually involves locating a specific individual, and for that cell phone SIGINT suffices. Our knob turners can isolate known voice patterns, trace the—”

  “You mean as long as you can run manned listening flights over the target area, and we already do that with unmanned airships that can stay aloft for weeks.” The general nudged Lieutenant Gartner aside and clicked through a few menus to bring up another information layer.

  The screen suddenly flipped to an entirely new field of hundreds of thousands of clustered dots, moving through the city.

  “Every cell phone’s IMEI and the base transceiver stations that serve them. This system simplifies eavesdropping. Just identify the phone you want”—he zoomed in and clicked on an ID number moving through central Brazzaville—“and you can record the subject’s communications.” The sound of foreign chatter came in over the speakers.

  The general relinquished control to Gartner again and turned to face Odin. “Think about the combination of persistent telecom and video surveillance—being able to go back in time to see what happened on a street corner two months ago, before you even realized that someone was a person of interest.” The general gestured to an image of the huge city, clustered with dots. “This system displays the social map of an entire city from the communications and geolocation data of its citizens. . . .”

  Lieutenant Gartner heard his cue and started making link-analysis webs visible on screen—dense strands that depicted the social network of the city’s populace.

  The general was pacing, gesturing to the screen as he engaged in a rehearsed soliloquy. “A detailed social encyclopedia. Autodetection of suspicious activity . . .”

  Gartner made certain the big screen did exactly that—showing a knot of young Congolese men pouring gasoline onto tires stuffed around another man’s torso, then setting it alight to horrific effect.

  “Now we know not only the cell phones of this group but also their faces”—the image zoomed in to a leader in sunglasses and a beret—“their leaders. Their vehicles, their confederates—in short, everything.”

  While the general talked, Odin wondered how much money they’d spent on this. In Vietnam it had taken an average of fifty thousand bullets to eliminate one Vietcong soldier. Had we upped the ante here? And what was the false positive rate? How many noninsurgents—people who simply matched a misguided pattern—were flagged by the system and handed over to security services or contractor hit squads for imagined or predicted crimes? Certainly, it was not in the interests of the folks running the system to admit it made mistakes.

  Of course, Odin knew a system like EITS was not intended to resolve conflicts. It was intended merely to manage them. To keep violence disorganized, channeled, and isolated long enough to permit uninterrupted resource extraction. Once that was finished, the locals would be left to their own devices again. Rinse and repeat, and you pretty much understood the conflict map of the globe. This system let them know more about the locals than the locals knew about themselves. And it was just the beginning. There was no reason this couldn’t be done everywhere—including America, as Odin well knew. The only question was whether it had already been implemented there, in full or in part.

  Odin interrupted the general, midpitch. “I was told there’s an autonomous strike capability to this system, General. Is that not the case?”

  The general halted, took another sip of coffee, and nodded. “We both know lethal autonomy is inevitable, Sergeant. However, at the moment, we’re not using armed systems over this AO. This is a surveillance platform only.”

  “Autonomous drones are part of the design specification, correct?”

  “For surveillance, yes. Unmanned systems are how we coordinate complete coverage of the target area.”

  “But weapons could be integrated.”

  The general put his coffee mug down and studied Odin. “Kill-decision drones are a thorny issue, Master Sergeant. For the foreseeable future we’re keeping a human in the loop.”

  “Is this the only implementation of the EITS system currently in use, General?”

  “What are you looking for, Sergeant?”

  Odin drummed his fingers on the railing while staring up at the screens. Then he focused his gaze on the general. “We both know the days of manned combat aircraft are numbered. Autonomous drones will be cheaper, more maneuverable, and expendable. And remotely piloted drones will be useless against a sophisticated adversary like China, Russia, Iran, or North Korea—they’ll just jam our link signal. That means we need to integrate autonomous drones into our military units. For patrolling and reacting to incursions.”

  The general nodded and grabbed his coffee mug again. “We’re in agreement, then. It’s just a question of how long it will take Washington to realize it.”

  They studied each other for a few moments in silence as the clattering of computer keyboards and soft radio chatter sounded around the control room.

  The general gestured to the screens. “Impressive, isn’t it?”

  Odin pondered the imagery. “I just have one concern, General.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “America pays for the difficult R and D to design these systems, and once they’re designed, they might get away from us. And then there’s the second- and third-order effects of technology like this. Surveillance drift nets create opposition—opposition from a public that doesn’t want technological domination. They’ll innovate ways to evade it, and it’s quite possible we could wind up causing more conflict than if we’d never built it.”

  The general just stared at him.

  “Just a thought. . . .”

  CHAPTER 12

  Underground Drive

  Linda McKinney disembarked from a white, unmarked private jet, descending the steps into a cold winter night. Though idling, the plane’s engines were still deafening, its navigation and strobe lights flashing.

  A freezing wind g
usted across the desolate tarmac of a municipal airport. A private terminal building stood off to the left, beyond which she could see a drab concrete elevated highway. Closer was a parking lot beyond a length of chain-link fence and a sealed white metal hangar. Other than that all she could see was a series of yellow-tinged parking lot lights extending into the distance.

  McKinney zipped up a red Gore-Tex coat and matching knit cap emblazoned with a white company logo in bold letters: Ancile Services. She had no idea what it was or why everyone else was now wearing similar coats—though theirs were in black.

  Other team members shuffled past her carrying duffels and backpacks. The woman, Ripper, nodded as she passed by. Her long black hair flowed freely now, with multiple ear piercings visible. Very much American. That had been a swift transformation.

  Hoov and Mooch ducked by, opening the jet’s cargo hatch. Tin Man and Ripper seemed to be heading toward the nearby hangar.

  Foxy patted McKinney on the shoulder and shouted over the jet roar as he passed by. “Coming?”

  “Where to?”

  He motioned with two gloved fingers toward the hangar, and McKinney fell in line behind him. It was shocking how completely American he looked now in a company coat and hipster eyeglasses. He had the African kora slung over his back, but it looked more like a goofy souvenir in this context. As they got farther from the plane’s engine noise, she asked, “Where are we?”

  He cast a glance back at her. “Kansas City.”

  “My passport. All my identification was destroyed in—”

  “That’s not a problem, Professor.”

  “What is this, a military base?”

  “Private jetport.”

  Ahead, Tin Man was turning a key in a lock near the main hangar door. The large doors opened a few feet, and the team moved quickly inside. Fluorescent lights were already flickering on, revealing two white panel vans in a cavernous empty space.

  Foxy ushered McKinney inside the hangar and gave several quick hand signals to Hoov and Mooch. They were rolling equipment cases in from the jet, which was already taxiing away down the tarmac.

  What followed was a frenzy of wordless activity as the team pulled the cases inside and started popping latches. Hoov put batteries in a disposable cell phone. After a moment he tapped in a number and spoke quickly as he peered through the narrow opening in the hangar doors. “We just got in. What’s overhead?”

  McKinney watched the others pulling electronic gear out of the cases. One of the devices looked like a standard metal detection wand—like something you’d search for land mines with. Other gear included what looked like an oscilloscope. They were installing batteries and powering up without saying a word to each other. Moments later Ripper had donned a headset and was waving the boom of the device along the sides of the nearest van.

  McKinney met Foxy’s gaze.

  He nodded toward Ripper and Tin Man—who were doing a similar sweep on the second van. “Nonlinear junction detector. Finds uninvited guests.”

  “You really think they could have tracked us all this way?”

  “Standard procedure, Professor. We always watch our backs.” Foxy pointed straight up. “We need to sanitize the airspace before we move to base.”

  Hoov walked up, still clutching the phone. “There’s a Predator orbiting forty-three clicks southeast of here. NORAD says it’s U.S. Customs and Border Protection, but Troll’s not sure. There’s also a DEA flight out of Wichita fifty clicks to the east, but it could be scanning frequencies.”

  “Spy sats?”

  “Nothing overhead for another nineteen minutes.”

  Ripper pulled off her headset and moved away from the vans. “Vans are clean.”

  Foxy nodded and tapped McKinney on the shoulder. “You’re with me, Professor.”

  She followed Foxy toward the first van as Tin Man tossed him the keys. “Meet you back at the office. Take the long way home.”

  “Wilco. Keep your eyes peeled.”

  Foxy got in the van and McKinney uncertainly climbed in on the passenger side. The vehicle smelled brand-new. Foxy stowed the kora and his canvas satchel behind his seat and started the van. “Buckle up, Professor, this isn’t Africa.”

  “Oh.” She buckled her seat belt.

  Nearby, Tin Man opened the rear hangar doors on the far side of the space. He ducked his head out the opening, then gave a thumbs-up sign.

  Foxy drove through the doors out into the deserted parking lot and toward the front entrance to the small airport.

  McKinney had been under the impression that American airports had more security than this, but apparently private jet terminals did things differently. There was only an unmanned parking gate between them and the tarmac. It made her wonder about the security she endured in major airports.

  Foxy drove them past an obvious highway entrance ramp marked Rt. 169/Downtown Kansas City, and instead drove through a narrow tunnel beneath the highway, to emerge on the other side amid gritty, deserted industrial streets.

  McKinney had never been to Kansas City before. She scanned the dark horizon, searching for the inevitable downtown of lofty bank towers, but all she could see were security lights on warehouses and factories along with the occasional billboard—the generic Americanness she remembered. The van’s dashboard clock read 1:23 A.M. There was almost no traffic on the surface roads. The light industrial businesses, retail outlets, warehouses, and junkyards to either side were fenced and graffiti tagged, but it looked more orderly than any East African city.

  Foxy repeatedly checked the rear- and side-view mirrors and glanced down every side road and alley they passed. His oddly calm paranoia was freaking her out. McKinney hadn’t slept a wink on either the flight from Africa or the flight from Germany. She felt half-crazed from exhaustion and stress, and Foxy’s behavior wasn’t helping. All she could think about was how her father would deal with the news of her disappearance. Let’s face it—her death. That’s what any sane person would think if someone disappeared in an explosion. And what about Adwele? How would he cope with the death of yet another significant adult in his life? First his father, and now McKinney . . .

  She suddenly noticed Foxy staring at her. “You okay, Professor?”

  “Somebody blew up my world.” She shrugged. “I’m doing great, Foxy. Just super.”

  He nodded. “You want my advice?”

  “No offense, but I really don’t.”

  “Well, I’ll give it to you anyway. You just won the world’s worst lottery, that’s all. It’s nothing you did—so don’t focus on things beyond your control. Focus only on what you can control. That’s served me well over the years.”

  McKinney considered his words. Actually it was pretty decent advice. She studied Foxy. “Thanks for saving my life. Back in Africa, I mean.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “You actually know how to play that kora?”

  Foxy gave her a disbelieving look and laughed. “Of course I play it. I can play most instruments I put my mind to. I will say, though, these twenty-one-string instruments are tricky. You ever hear of Foday Musa Suso?”

  “Maybe. African?”

  “Originally Gambian; moved to Chicago decades ago. I’ve been trying some of his songs. I haven’t had much practice lately because my last kora got blown up. Along with some people I knew.”

  McKinney felt the normalcy drain out of the conversation. She could suddenly see in his face the hardened mien of an elite soldier. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  In a few moments his seriousness passed, and he cast a grin her way. “This trip gave me the chance to grab a new one.”

  “I wouldn’t have guessed a person in your line of work would be a musician.”

  “With music you can speak to anyone.”

  She leaned back in her seat. “Then music is a tool.”

  He frowned briefly at her. “That’s not the right word. Look, what we do isn’t what you think. Human intelligence, what we call HUMINT, mostly inv
olves making connections with people—not hurting them. You never know what opportunities come from making friends. And music is a great way to make friends in strange places. Take the Arab heavy metal scene, for example. . . .”

  “There’s an Arab heavy metal scene?”

  He nodded and smiled wistfully. “Oh, hell, yes. That’s my music. The soul of disaffection. You won’t find any more sincerity than in heavy metal music in a repressive society. When we get a chance, I’ll play some for you.” He patted the T-shirt he was wearing. “This is a Saudi Arabian band named Eltoba, but I’m a big fan of Arsames—Iranian death metal—and, uh, Mordab is good too. Oh, there’s a kick-ass Bahraini Arabic death black metal band named Narjahanam. I saw them in an underground rave in Manama last year. Damned near got arrested. Their name means ‘the fire of hell,’ and, man, you can feel the youthful rage from these guys—not the sanitized, feigned shit coming from suburban kids trying to cash in. I mean fuck-it-all rage with a purpose.”

  McKinney found herself grinning uneasily. “You should be the Middle East correspondent for Rolling Stone.”

  “That would be problematic, but . . . oh, there’s Acrassicauda, Iraq’s sole heavy metal band—which is a start. But, hey, my personal favorite at the moment is an Afghan folk metal band—”

  “Afghanistan has folk metal? You’re pulling my leg now.”

  “Seriously, you can bridge any gap with music. It’s an Afghan folk metal band named Al Qaynah; a mind-blowing combination of traditional central Asian instruments—like the rubab, the tanbur—with a driving heavy metal foundation. Like all good art it challenges people. Takes them outside their comfort zone.”

  “Should I even ask what brought you to these places?”

  He shrugged. “I’ll tell you this much: I saw the Arab Spring coming. You could hear it in the younger generation’s music. You could see it in their eyes; in how they used technology to express themselves artistically, creatively. State Department? The CIA? NSA? For all their satellites and garden party spies, they somehow missed a huge wave of popular outrage with the status quo. No, to understand a people, you need to wade into their culture. It’s culture that tells their tale. And music is culture.”