by Marc Cameron
He held up the phone as he dragged a chair back from the table with his free hand. “Instagram photo looks great,” he said, not exactly smiling, but looking pleased.
“I see you slept in your clothes again,” Ryan said.
Arnie van Damm waved off the comment. “Yeah, yeah, a guy keeps the wheels oiled, he’s bound to get into a little grease.”
Ryan motioned to his uneaten Benedict. “I can have Josey bring in another set of silverware.”
“I’ve already eaten,” van Damm said. “Did I hear you talking about Russia when I came in? Because that’s what I came to see you about, among other things.”
Van Damm had been chief of staff to three presidents—the man behind the curtain, the chamberlain who whispered in the shogun’s ear. He’d been there from the beginning of the Ryan presidency, when Jack was literally picking himself up from the rubble. Politics, not blood, flowed in his veins. It was no easy task playing ringmaster to the White House circus, and harder still to cajole whoever was sitting behind the Resolute desk into playing politics. He had a knack for knowing when a whispered suggestion would do—or when he needed a chair and a whip. Arnie saw sides of things that Ryan did not, and vice versa. He was a good guy to have in the room, even if he did look like he’d just crawled out of a laundry hamper.
Van Damm absentmindedly dragged Ryan’s plate in front of him as he sat down. Ryan called Josey to bring in silverware and more coffee, which she did immediately. She looked horrified to see the chief of staff preparing to chow down on the rest of the President’s breakfast.
“I’d be happy to make you a fresh plate, Mr. van Damm,” she said.
“That’s okay,” Arnie said, popping the yolk of the second egg. “I’m not really hungry.” Ryan smiled inwardly as his friend began to eat, one arm on the table, wrapped around the plate like that of a prisoner afraid another inmate might try and steal his tater tots. Admittedly rough around the edges, Arnie van Damm was one of the most viscerally intelligent men Ryan had ever come across.
The chief of staff looked up at Ryan. “Senator Chadwick is killing us on our position in the Baltics.”
“Not news,” Ryan said. “At least not new news.”
Michelle Chadwick, the senior senator from Arizona and chairman of the influential Ways and Means Committee, rarely wasted a chance to bash Ryan and his administration for any manner of what she considered to be misadventures. Lately, it was Ryan’s push to increase security in the Baltic nations. She’d swallowed the Russian line that any security buildup would precipitate aggression from the Kremlin instead of preventing it. But she didn’t know Yermilov like Ryan did.
Van Damm gestured with the tines of his fork. “She’s killing us everywhere that matters—the Middle East, China, trade, economy, intelligence oversight. You name it. If we’re for it, she’s against it. That woman has not met a Ryan policy that she does not despise like Brussels sprouts.”
“Not everyone despises Brussels sprouts,” Foley noted.
Van Damm harrumphed. “Well, I do. Just last night Chadwick was on the news calling our Freedom of Navigation operations in the South China Sea ‘saber-rattling.’”
“That’s exactly what they are,” Ryan said. “And I’m good with that.”
“Well,” van Damm said, digging into the egg again. “Be that as it may, I don’t like hearing it out loud, and neither do the American people.”
“I’m not too worried about Senator Chadwick,” Ryan said.
“That’s your problem, Jack,” van Damm scoffed. “You need to worry more. I think she’s banking on the fact that a lot of Americans don’t even know that the Baltics aren’t part of former Yugoslavia.”
Now Josey looked even more horrified.
“You don’t agree?” van Damm asked.
Josey moved the butter, salt, and pepper alongside what was left of the President’s eggs, arranging them in a line, one at a time, illustrating her words. “Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania—your plate being the Baltic Sea. All are members of NATO, Mr. van Damm. Estonia is one of the most digitally advanced nations on the planet. It was the first to hold elections on the Internet. Over a quarter of the people living in Latvia are Russian—which is kind of a problem, since President Yermilov can fall back on the excuse that he’s taking care of his people’s interests if he decides he wants to roll across the border. Most of the people in Lithuania belong to the Church of Rome, which might interest you, Mr. President. GDP—”
Van Damm held up an open hand. “You win, Josey.”
Mary Pat nodded at the pepper. “Didn’t expect the sous-chef to have a political science degree from Maryland, did you? Now, if you’ll please pass me the Lithuania . . .”
“Anyway . . .” van Damm said, after Josey excused herself with an extremely satisfied grin on her face. “Chadwick and the Baltics are only one problem.” He shook his head. “I swear this job is trying to play baseball with ten or twelve different pitchers, all throwing knuckles, curves, and fastballs from different places on the field . . . It looks like Zhao has decided to build another island off the Spratlys. One of their 054A frigates came within shooting range of an MEU we had in the area.”
An MEU was a Marine Expeditionary Unit, a quick reaction force generally consisting of support ships and an amphibious LHD that looked like a small carrier, capable of launching rotary-wing aircraft as well as Harriers or F-35s. These MEUs were often used to project American might in far corners of the world while they stood ready to react.
Ryan gave a somber nod. “We were just discussing that before you came in.”
“More feints and jabs,” Foley said. “He’s baiting you, Jack. Pressing buttons to see what you’ll do.”
“Interesting to note,” van Damm said, “that this latest attack comes on the heels of Zhao’s last speech, where he all but assured the world the DF-ZF hypersonic missiles are ready to launch if China feels the least bit threatened. Tacked on to the end of his statement was a throwaway line about historic territorial claims.”
Foley gave a contemplative nod. “Conveniently leaving out that China and Russia are both using hypersonic missile plans stolen from the U.S. He’s pressing you to see what you might do if he takes more aggressive action against, say, a Japanese ship. It’s a dangerous game of chicken.”
Ryan grew distant, thinking, pondering. He didn’t see the proverbial falling dominoes when he pictured a world map, but it was impossible not to see a chessboard, with Zhao gobbling up land and resources around the world—Africa, South America, and all over the Pacific. As it stood, most war-gaming models predicted that the United States would win a prolonged conflict. But what did that even mean? Generals on both sides—PLA and U.S.—stood steadfastly behind their ability to crush the enemy in any conflict. A good general had to be possessed of a certain swagger, a deep and abiding confidence, no matter their shortcomings. Great men were often . . . almost always . . . incredibly flawed men. Lincoln, when confronted about Grant’s drunken behavior, had said simply, “I can’t spare this man; he fights.”
The giant brains in the think tanks and working groups around Washington had a more sobering view of possible conflict with a near peer state. The U.S. would likely “win” a prolonged conflict—but any openly declared war with a state like China or Russia would come to American soil. Maybe not in boots-on-the-ground foreign troops, but certainly in a rain of missiles and bombs and devastating cyberattacks once the gloves were off. Gone would be the proxy wars fought by guerilla armies and despot dictators propped up with foreign money. Everyone would suffer greatly. Even the nation that came out on top would be belly-down, gasping for breath, and drained of blood and treasure. The American people would feel the next war.
Ryan had to force himself to stop clenching his teeth.
Van Damm waved a hand back and forth in the air. “You still with us, Mr. President?”
“Your an
alogy made me think,” Ryan said. “I’d like to hear more about these illegals and what they’re up to.”
“Of course, Jack,” Foley said. “I’ll get you something by lunch.”
“Thanks,” Ryan said. “You know, we’re playing a game of chicken with China. You know what game theory says about the surest way to win a game of chicken?”
Foley shrugged. Van Damm wrinkled his bald head.
Ryan jammed an index finger on the table to make his point. “What you have to do is let your opponent see you rip out your own steering wheel right before the game begins.”
“That would work if the other guy happens to be sane.”
“Yeah.” Ryan nodded slowly. “There is that . . .”
6
Major Chang Xiubo of the People’s Liberation Army stared at the twin monitors of the desktop computer, mouth half open, lines of code reflecting off the lenses of his thick glasses. He studied the program carefully, imagining the beauty of her avatar. She’d been designed as an NPC for video gaming, but, oh, she had potential for so much more.
From the time he was a small boy, Chang had always imagined that computers and all their glorious parts were female. This software was certainly mysterious enough to be a woman. Completely engrossed in her ability to solve problems on her own with no prompting or additional coding from him, Chang watched the mission unfold on his screen and passed a long, rattling fart into the mesh of his office chair. The two other engineers in the lab, both women, glanced up and shook their heads in unconcealed disgust. They were accustomed to, if not at ease with, the major’s eccentricities.
He clicked the mouse beside his keyboard, scrolling, studying.
This software—called Calliope by the Americans—had already caused the deaths of two people, with another soon to follow.
Chang Xiubo’s grandfather once owned a horse that was so clever it could escape from any gate, no matter how complicated the latch. Unable to be contained, the horse eventually had to be killed. It was a near indisputable fact, the old man said, that the smarter something was, the more mischief it created, putting everyone and everything around it in danger.
The risks of being a smart horse became a popular warning from young Chang’s parents and a way to say no when he asked for more math books or a new computer. He got these things anyway—because he was smart, which made them worry all the more.
Chang’s father was by no means rich, but he was a loyal party member and a good provider for his family. He said what people above him wanted to hear and farted silently. Xiubo could never bring himself to do either. The elder Chang was charged with supply of military garrisons in and around Jiuquan, a relatively small city of a million people, west of Beijing, and south of the border with Mongolia.
A homely child with no friends his age, young Chang Xiubo had accompanied his father on a delivery to the Inner Mongolia Autonomous Region and the Jiuquan Satellite Launch Center when he was fifteen. This short journey of about a hundred kilometers got the boy out of the house and away from the old computer that he had cobbled together. The site was famous for the launch of Shenzhou 5, the first manned Chinese space flight. History had been made here, heroes made. But Chang Xiubo was not nearly so impressed with astronauts as he was with the computers that sent them on their journeys. His father had been delivering spools of computer cable, so Chang had gotten to see the computer rooms, a fascinating treat for the boy, better than going to the zoo. The physicists and engineers smoked constantly, typing away, never looking up from their workstations. At that moment, Chang Xiubo decided he wanted to emulate these stolid men. They ignored him completely until he began to ask questions about discrete math and linear algebra.
One of them called the site supervisor, another humorless engineer who wanted nothing to do with the boy until he found they spoke the same mathematical language. The supervisor telephoned a government minister he knew and eventually arranged for Chang to attend Harbin Institute of Technology as soon he could take the exams.
Chang’s mother had been horrified, not because her son was going away to a school almost as far east of Beijing as Jiuquan was to the west, but because he had displayed his staggering intellect to the world.
She wept when he left home, tissue to her nose, pleading, “Please do not be a smart horse.”
Military service was still compulsory for young men in China, if the government ever got around to noticing you forced their hand. Nowadays, that did not usually happen unless you made someone angry. The PLA had an overabundance of qualified volunteers, so those who were not willing were rarely called on to serve. That was not the case when Chang was a boy. The military officers at the Harbin Institute of Technology had encouraged him to finish his studies, but they were waiting for him when he was done.
He’d called to tell his parents, and again, his mother had reminded him to keep his intellect in check.
But smart was the only kind of horse he knew how to be. He certainly wasn’t handsome or athletic. Fortunately for Chang, his talents were highly valued by his superiors. Otherwise, someone would have long since put a bullet in his head. Past commanders had called him a “stain” on his performance reports, “a disgrace to the uniform,” but had gone on to note that he was one of the most gifted scientists they had ever seen. A secret addendum to his personnel file from a particularly hateful colonel noted that if he were to ever be separated from the military, he should be institutionalized or killed to keep him from putting his skills toward activities not sanctioned by the party. Chang knew of the file, and considered it a badge of honor. He’d found his spot as special assistant to Lieutenant General Bai.
A software engineer by training, Chang was, by disposition, a toad. He was so maddeningly aloof that both superiors and subordinates alike were forced to raise their voices to get his attention. Short and squarely built, with thick black-rimmed glasses and coarse hair that was forever in need of a trim, he could most often be found snowing flakes of dandruff on his desk, staring into space, apparently forgetting to blink. Those new to his lab might think he’d fallen into a catatonic trance, but these were no states of stupefaction. Chang’s face might be flaccid, but behind the blank stare, his mind clicked through problem after problem at an incredible rate. He’d talked to himself since he was a small child, though now he’d learned to do it silently, asking questions and then working through solutions while the world stumbled on blindly around him.
And now he had Calliope.
This magnificent thing was going to either see his star rise to astronomical heights or extinguish it entirely. He had suspected this gaming software to be advanced, but not nearly this fantastic. The Americans overused the word awesome, but this . . . this entity did nothing if it did not inspire true awe. Artificial intelligence was just that—artificial. But Calliope was as much art as she was science.
Like most any other scientist in his field, Major Chang realized that the future of technology was intertwined with AI. Saudi Arabia had already granted citizenship to a computer named Sophia. It was a stunt, of course, but the reality was not that far off. The presidents of Russia and China, even Iran, all saw AI as a key to power. Tech developers, billionaire businessmen—who did not get to be billionaires by accident—folded AI into their business models or changed those models altogether.
Personal assistants, self-driving vehicles, and even medical diagnoses were now driven by neural networks.
China in general, and specifically Major Chang, concentrated on arguably more nefarious applications for this technology than those working in the West.
The average smartphone had tens of thousands of times more computing power than the MIT Apollo Guidance Computer used to get the Americans to the moon. These ubiquitous devices had the power to dumb down civilizations or provide an exponential increase in human productivity. They were also a perfect platform with which to track the movement, communication, and social in
teractions of the user. Personal assistants like Siri refrained from spying only because they were not programmed to do so. The same artificial intelligence software that predicted and suggested words when a user was typing text could easily predict subversive antigovernment behavior. Facebook had some of the most advanced facial-recognition software in the world. The uses there were many and obvious. AI programs run by Amazon and Google could accurately target ads to just the right user by scanning their search history and myriad personal data that had become the coin of the online realm. This same technology could easily be used to gauge and score a citizen’s commitment to the social fabric of the country.
There was no doubt that Major Chang was a highly intelligent scientist, but much of his genius lay in knowing how to best utilize the advances of others. Artificial intelligence and deep learning were the future of the military as well as the civilian world. Surveillance, command control, targeting—the list was limited only by the imagination, and most of the consumer technology was ripe for the taking if one knew where to look.
And Major Chang had feelers everywhere.
He’d first heard whisperings of the AI program called Calliope from a contact at MIT. There were, it seemed, a couple of engineers who had developed a supercomputer with such an advanced neural network that she had become a partner of sorts in the development of artificial intelligence and deep learning. She—and everyone who had been in contact with the new computer referred to her as a she—was widely considered to be the next leap in deep learning. Like something from a science-fiction movie, she appeared to have a personality.
Called LongGame, she wanted to learn. And learn she did. So much so that she was able to assist the engineers who made her in creating a new software that was a smaller, more portable version of herself. Moore’s law essentially said that computing power doubled every eighteen months to two years—while devices got smaller and cheaper. The observation had held true for half a century. Many thought it had run its course—and without AI it might have.
