Kill Decision

by Daniel Suarez

  He motioned for them to keep moving, and in a moment they were bounding down a rocky slope.

  McKinney was still troubled by his premise. “I’m not convinced that violence is the glue that binds us, Sergeant.”

  “I didn’t say violence—I said the implicit threat of force. Think about it: Democracy only arose when the ability to employ force was decentralized. If you go back to the Middle Ages, the state-of-the-art weapon system was the armored knight. He cost a fortune to train, feed, and equip. But a mounted armored knight could overpower almost any number of peasants on a battlefield. And the distribution of political power in medieval society reflected that; authority was vested in a tiny minority, and the people had no choice but to obey.

  “Then, with the advent of gunpowder, that all changed. Suddenly you didn’t need a highly trained specialist warrior to win on the battlefield. All you needed was a warm body who could fire a gun. Anything they could aim at, they could kill. And at that point the edge in warfare went not to highly trained warriors, but to the side that could field the most people. At which point we saw the rise of nation-states—and nationalism as a concept—as the logistical requirement for fielding an ever-larger conscripted army. But this changed the political dynamic. The nobles could no longer ignore the demands of their subjects. Those subjects now had the power to kill them or refuse to fight in their wars, and so kings began to cede more political authority to representative bodies of the people—parliaments, and so on.”

  McKinney shook her head. “It’s so like a soldier to come to the conclusion that the gun created democracy. You do remember how many African nations are awash with guns without even a hint at democracy, right?”

  “My point is that with autonomous drones, you don’t need the consent of citizens to use force—you just need money. And there might be no knowing who’s behind that money either. Drones tell no tales.”

  McKinney examined the sky. “Ritter said, ‘Everyone wants this.’ Who’s everyone?”

  Odin grimaced. “There are dozens of nations joining in the drone arms race—and companies too. There are just too many advantages over manned systems. Armed conflict is about to change.”

  “We have to stop it.”

  “I don’t think we can stop it, Professor.”

  McKinney was surprised by his admission. “Then you agree with Ritter.”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t say that. We might not be able to stop it, but we can sure as hell alter its trajectory.” He motioned for them to keep moving.

  * * *

  Odin stared downslope through binoculars in the predawn light, watching a bustling truck stop that served the nearby Interstate. He and McKinney were concealed in a drainage ditch. They had peeled off their free-fall and flight suits and stashed them under rocks near an old barbed wire fence post. The Ancile Services shirts and jeans they wore underneath were wet with sweat from their nightlong trek, making the cold wind that much colder. McKinney was now shivering, exhausted, hungry, and terribly thirsty. It had indeed been a tough hump.

  Odin lowered the binoculars. “Interesting. Over by the gas pumps.” He passed them to McKinney. She raised them to her eyes and noticed they had a built-in laser range finder. It showed their distance to the truck stop gas pumps as five hundred eighty-three meters. But what she saw at the pumps was unusual—several media satellite trucks idling or refueling, with camera crews and reporters sipping coffee and chatting. One was speaking into a camera under lights.

  “Probably covering the plane crash.”

  One of the satellite trucks rolled out of the parking lot, headed back toward the Interstate.

  “Hungry?”

  “And thirsty.”

  “C’mon. . . .” He collected the binoculars from her and stowed them as they headed to the truck stop at the edge of a small Utah town.

  McKinney scanned the horizon. “What about Huginn and Muninn?”

  “They’ll keep an eye out for trouble.”

  “Don’t you need to feed them anything?”

  “Not in the field. They’re masters of survival. C’mon.”

  Odin knelt and produced an inch-thick wad of cash from a slot in the upper portion of his boot. He peeled off a few twenties and stowed the rest. “There are usually shower facilities in these truck stops—but also criminals. Don’t talk to anyone you don’t have to.”

  “I’ve dodged rebel checkpoints in Uganda. I think I can manage a Utah truck stop.”

  “We’re coworkers traveling together, but you barely know me.”

  “If we get separated, where’s this rally point you mentioned?”

  “Don’t get separated.”

  She gave him an irritated look. “How far?”

  “A few hours, but I’ve cached equipment here. We always plan for the worst, and we’re seldom disappointed.” They walked past the long rows of diesel fuel pumps and trucks idling with their running lights lit here and there in the gravel parking lot. Women were standing on the steps of a semi cab talking to a trucker. The reporters and crews at the satellite trucks seemed to be winding down and getting ready to go.

  McKinney and Odin entered the main truck stop concourse, ringed by a minimart, a Jack in the Box, Internet kiosks, a coffee shop, and shower/restrooms. It was early yet—about five-thirty in the morning—but the morning papers had arrived and were on display at the front of the minimart. The screaming headlines were unavoidable:

  AMERICA UNDER DRONE ATTACK.

  Odin and McKinney exchanged looks. He grabbed a couple of different papers and headed toward the cashier.

  “Water too.” McKinney raided the nearby glass case for several plastic bottles and followed.

  He gestured to packaged sandwiches. “Grab some food.”

  She gathered a few processed-looking sandwiches that she wouldn’t normally have touched. In her current state, though, they looked delicious.

  They brought everything to the front. The cashier was an overweight fiftyish Caucasian woman with too much eye shadow. She shook her head sadly at the headlines as she rang them up. “Can you believe it? Drones’ve been attackin’ us all this whole time? I’ll tell you what, you just wait till they find out who’s sendin’ ’em. Somebody’s gonna pay, is all I know.”

  Another customer, a sixtysomething trucker who sported a frazzled long beard, much like Odin’s, and a feed company baseball cap, nodded. “Probably China. Hey, you got any a those American flags with the suction cups that go on the car?”

  “No, we ain’t got no flags, but I should have Sam buy some ’cause we’d sell out, right?”

  “Damn straight.”

  She turned back to Odin. “That’ll be twenty-three seventy-five, hon.”

  He paid and joined McKinney over by the shower entrance, as she opened the water and started taking measured sips. She handed one to him, but he was too busy reading the paper.

  She looked around at the truck stop. “We’ve been gone a day . . . look at this place. . . .” She gestured at the people reading papers and glued to the flat-panel televisions above the coffee shop counter. Odin folded his paper back and pointed to a diagram captioned “Air Force Sets Trap for Enemy Drone.” McKinney leaned in with widening eyes to examine it alongside him.

  The diagram depicted the series of events above Utah with childlike simplicity. It showed a cartoonish cargo plane being shot down by the mystery drone over Utah’s desert, with the enemy drone subsequently intercepted by twin jet-powered American drones. It was a cover story, one that introduced to the public a previously top-secret autonomous drone, known as the “Manta Ray,” which was apparently the hero of the moment. It was everywhere in the news. A media blitz.

  McKinney pointed at the stock photo of the jet-powered drone. “Look familiar?”

  Odin nodded to himself. “Someone had this all ready to go.”

  “Probably the Pentagon.”

  “Don’t be too hasty. War isn’t a purely military endeavor—especially nowadays.”

&
nbsp; He walked toward the coffee shop and the televisions up near the ceiling above the counter. McKinney went with him, and they stood near several truckers, male and female alike, watching cable news. There was a live spot of a reporter standing in the Utah desert.

  One of the truckers pointed. “That’s down by Hanksville Junction, off the Twenty-four, twenty miles from here.”

  A murmur went through the crowd.

  On-screen there was an inset of green, night-vision video showing tracer bullets flying in the night sky, missiles streaking overhead, and the C-130 exploding in midair, spiraling downward. It looped endlessly as the reporter spoke live in the other half of the screen.

  “. . . awoke to a dramatic scene in the night sky. Pentagon officials have refused to provide details of the operation, but the shoot-down of an enemy drone marks the first successful interception of what—instead of terror bombings—now appears to have been a wave of drone attacks on America’s heartland. Attacks that have so far claimed one hundred and four lives and cost tens of millions of dollars in property damage. Attacks that likewise shed new light on the drone missile attack in Karbala, Iraq.”

  The lip-glossed news model back in the studio took her cue. “What’s surprising, Matt, is how easily these mystery drones penetrated American airspace. How long has the Pentagon known that these were drone strikes, as opposed to planted bombs?”

  “That’s not clear, Jenna, but word came this morning of a classified multibillion-dollar emergency defense appropriation that would clear the way for mass-production of the type of Manta Ray autonomous drone that proved so successful over Utah last night. That legislation will no doubt be fast-tracked in light of recent events.”

  McKinney nodded. “That’s what this is about.”

  He watched, saying nothing.

  The anchor then did her best impression of disarming feminine ignorance. “What do you mean when you say these Manta Ray drones are autonomous, Matt?”

  “That means they aren’t remotely piloted. They’re programmed to hunt on their own.”

  “Why wouldn’t the Pentagon use the remotely controlled Predator or Reaper drones that have been so effective over Pakistan and Afghanistan?”

  The pretty female being lectured to by the man. McKinney felt like punching the screen in. “God, she’s nauseating. . . .”

  “Jenna, the Pentagon points to the scalability of these drones. They can be deployed in large numbers without the need of a human operator and ground control station.”

  “Automating combat aircraft sounds like a troubling shift.”

  “Actually, Pentagon officials stress that there’s always a human in the loop to make what they call the ‘kill decision’—whether to shoot or not. But the benefit of these autonomous drones is that, unlike human operators, they’re ever-vigilant—and this is key: They aren’t susceptible to radio jamming like the current Predator or Reaper drones.”

  “Radio jamming—what is that, Matt?”

  McKinney balled her fists. “Is she supposed to be retarded?”

  The man-in-the-field provided the answer. “It’s a key weakness of remotely piloted drones. Any technologically advanced opponent can simply jam the radio signals that permit you to communicate with your drone, rendering it useless. With this new generation of Manta Ray drones, they’re fully autonomous, and so can continue a mission even if their radio communications are jammed.”

  “So this provides us with greater security, while still keeping a human in the loop?”

  “That’s right, Jenna.”

  Odin walked away, shaking his head.

  McKinney came up alongside him, pondering the situation. “They’re screening ‘Autonomous Drones for Dummies’ on every channel.”

  “Molding public perceptions is what they’re doing. Creating a new reality. This is the real campaign. The actual bombings were just prep.”

  McKinney looked across the faces watching the news—Caucasian, Latino, Black, and Asian faces. All of them were watching attentively, followed by mutterings of “We’ll get those sons-a-bitches” and “Don’t fuck with the U-S-A.”

  “Apparently it’s working.”

  “They’re good at what they do. War is just one of their products.” He headed for the rear exit doors. “C’mon, we’ve got to get to the rally point.”

  “Can we rest a bit and eat before we start walking again?”

  “We’re not walking, and time is a factor.” He pushed through the truck stop concourse’s rear doors and headed out through the parking spaces behind the building. He was searching for something, and moments later he focused on a late-model Ford Expedition with U.S. Forest Service markings and rack lights on top. He glanced around, then reached under the chassis to produce a magnetic key case. He removed a key fob and used it to pop the SUV’s rear cargo door.

  McKinney studied the vehicle. “You plan ahead.”

  “Multiple exfil routes and cover for action is standard operating procedure.”

  Just then both the ravens fluttered down and landed atop the SUV, pacing around.

  McKinney was happy to see them. “Hi, guys. Is the coast clear?”

  They cawed at her in response.

  Odin came up with two small suitcases. One he handed to her.

  She took the bag. “What’s this?”

  “Forest service uniform and identification. It might not fit well, but it will fit. Head into the showers, get cleaned up, and change. We meet back here.” He nodded to the ravens. “Back soon.”

  He locked the SUV with a flash of lights, and McKinney fell alongside as they walked back toward the truck stop.

  CHAPTER 20

  Oscar Mike

  They drove for a couple of hours on Interstate 70, heading east toward Colorado. McKinney and Odin now wore U.S. Forest Service ranger uniforms replete with badges. The ravens paced about in a large wire cage that Odin had stored folded up in the cargo area. He had also stored food and water for them.

  What little traffic there was on the highway consisted of isolated tractor-trailers. The landscape was as barren as anything McKinney had seen anywhere in her travels, a frozen and forlorn rock-scape with ice-capped mountains to the north.

  Odin kept the police radio on, listening to the occasional Utah state trooper reporting status during traffic stops. They were seventy or more miles from the drone crash site now and had apparently escaped unnoticed.

  Neither of them spoke. McKinney was too weary, and Odin seemed to be cogitating something. At some point she succumbed to exhaustion and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  When she awoke they were still on the highway, which now wound along a river in brown hills patched with snow. She looked around in the afternoon light.

  “Where are we?”

  “Outside Grand Junction, Colorado. Eat something. No telling when you’ll get the next chance.”

  She inspected one of the shrink-wrapped sandwiches and started tearing it open with her teeth. “Anything on the scanner?”

  He shook his head. “Not about us.”

  Before long they came down from the hills into the city of Grand Junction—a prosperous-looking oil town of mirrored glass buildings with a companion older downtown. But Odin blew through on the Interstate and headed out the far side. After a few minutes he took an exit onto a county road and headed into hills covered in snowy pines. The blue-white shadows of the Rockies were visible in the distance.

  They passed only two other vehicles while traveling fifteen miles or so into steep forested hills. Odin slowed the SUV at the entrance to a rutted dirt road. There was a metal swing gate blocking it. He turned in and parked in front of it.

  “We’re here?” McKinney looked around.

  “Hop behind the wheel. I’ll open the gate.” Odin got out and put his Forest Service hat on with military precision.

  McKinney did likewise with somewhat less precision. It felt odd playing the role of park ranger. She had never worn a uniform in her life, and she now realized how
they caused you to adopt a persona. You could almost “feel” the role you were supposed to play. She imagined that was something authority had always known.

  Instead of unlocking the gate, Odin was counting off paces to the right of it. About twenty feet down the road he stopped and flipped over a flat rock in the woods with his boot. With a cautious glance to make sure no cars were coming, he knelt and rooted in a hidden cache to come up with what looked to be a walkie-talkie and an automatic pistol in a sealed Ziploc bag. He returned to the SUV and emptied the bag’s contents onto the hood. He quickly slid the pistol into his Forest Service jacket.

  McKinney noticed a packet of twenty-dollar bills, a U.S. passport, and several other items in the pile.

  “You have stuff scattered all over the place.”

  “When things go wrong, you’ll be shit out of luck if you haven’t prepared.” Odin then started keying numbers into the front of the radio. “Crypto codes—hang on.” Finished, he keyed the mic and looked up the road. “Safari-One-Six, Safari-One-Six. This is Odin. Do you copy?”

  They stared at each other across the hood of the idling SUV, listening to radio static.

  Then a squawking voice. “Odin, this is Safari-One-Six. I read you five-by-five. Sky is clear. Welcome home.”

  Odin looked visibly relieved. “We’re coming in. Odin out.” He pocketed the radio. “Let’s get off the road.” He pulled a key out of the Ziploc bag as he approached the gate.

  McKinney walked around and got behind the wheel of the SUV. Odin unlocked a thick padlock and pushed the gate in, motioning for her to drive through. He then relocked the gate behind them and got in on the passenger side, pushing the seat farther back with a thump. “We’ve a couple miles yet.”

  McKinney brought them down a road winding along the bottom of a ravine, which then opened into a canyon that followed a frozen creek. There was patchy snow in the pine forest around them, but only occasional ice on the dirt road. They bumped along at twenty miles an hour for a while until McKinney came around a curve and suddenly saw a man materialize out of thin air alongside the road. It took her a moment to realize that it was a soldier in a camouflage suit, lowering what appeared to be a mirrored shield. The combination of the two had given him something approaching invisibility. The soldier carried a large white sniper rifle in the crook of his arm, and signaled her to halt with the other as they approached.