Battle of Mesquite

by David Pope

  Basu shifted his gaze back to Ortega. “Today wasn’t a complete surprise. SALI gave us plenty of warnings. It now appears we know what they’re after, and we must decide upon a course of action. But first, where does General Story stand? Is he willing to weigh in on how effective or not he considers SALI’s plan?”

  “He’s being briefed as we speak. I expect to hear from him within a few hours. Afterward, I can provide you with a full update,” answered Ortega.

  “I’m tired, and you look exhausted. A terrible and difficult day. It’s one in the morning. Let’s get some rest and steel our resolve. Later today we can discuss further. Does noon work for you?”

  Ortega, with fresh makeup and a quick comb, knew what she’d just seen in the mirror. Even with the cover-up, she was shot and her spirits flagging, but with SALI there was hope. She nodded in agreement.

  Chapter Sixteen

  SALI

  May 9, 00:56 (PDT)

  Ms. Grant led the way down a long, well-lit corridor, followed by Secretary James and General Story. As they walked, the general admired the many paintings, land and seascapes, adorning the white walls. There were no windows or rooms leading off the hallway, just a single simple door at the far end. Upon reaching it, Ms. Grant paused, waited for her guests, then turned and knocked.

  “It’s open,” came a soft female response from the opposite side.

  Ms. Grant turned a simple black doorknob and pushed open and held the door ajar. With a wave of a hand, she beckoned Secretary James and General Story to enter.

  Secretary James led the way. The general followed and found himself on a platform with stairs leading down to a large well-lit room. Scattered about were sculptures made of various metals depicting different animals. Throughout, the furniture was plush, and the white walls were dotted with more land and seascapes. Floors of polished dark wood covered the expanse, and against a far wall stood a massive case filled with books. The entire room lacked windows, although the general noticed several exits leading to other areas.

  Most interesting, the general’s eyes settled on the most dramatic feature of the room. A woman sat on a long, dark couch against the opposite wall. Seated behind a glass coffee table, her slender legs were barefoot, and she wore a revealing nightie. In her hand, she held a glass of red wine between elegant fingers. She was beautiful: black, shoulder-length hair; skin alabaster white; full red lips. From his vantage point, the general couldn’t help but admire her low-cut garment and the exceptional cleavage it exposed. A little embarrassed, the general averted his gaze and tried to make sense of the scene.

  Secretary James bounded down the stairs and went straight to the beautiful woman. As he approached, she put out her hand and James took it, bent, and planted a kiss. Just as quick, James nodded at the glass in her other hand. “Do you mind if we join you? It’s been a long day.”

  The woman pulled back her hand, long fingernails painted red, and let out a light feminine laugh. “I’d love the company. But we need more glasses. Please, Jim, be a help and fetch two more.”

  “On it,” replied James, and he hurried off, leaving the room using a nearby exit.

  Standing next to the general, Ms. Grant watched the interaction then strode down the stairs. Not knowing what else to do, the general followed.

  Upon reaching the living room, Ms. Grant swept her arm towards the beautiful woman and turned to the general. “Let me introduce SALI.”

  SALI raised her glass in salute and replied, “Welcome, General Story. I’ve been expecting you.”

  Perplexed, the general said, “I was expecting to meet a computer.”

  SALI let out a full-fledged laugh and then put a graceful hand to her mouth where she giggled for a few seconds longer. After recovering, she took another sip of a wine and, with deep-blue eyes, peered over the tip of her glass. “And I didn’t realize you were so handsome.”

  In a sudden rush, Ms. Grant turned towards the general and, wearing a frown, said, “I’ll be right back. Please wait.” Without another word, the woman in white strode away through a nearby corridor.

  Just as Ms. Grant left the room, a cheery voice boomed, and Secretary James re-emerged. “Look what I have,” said James, holding a pair of wine glasses. After placing them on the coffee table, he lifted the bottle of open wine next to SALI and inspected it. Eyes raised, he glanced at the general and asked. “Looks like an excellent Napa Merlot. A small glass?”

  Unsure of the dynamics, working against tiredness and the stress from an awful day, the general declined. “No, thank you.”

  James shrugged, filled a full glass and, after returning the bottle, he plopped on the far end of the couch next to SALI. Glass in hand, James pointed to a large leather chair across the table. “General Story, please have a seat.”

  “Yes, please do,” added SALI.

  Before the general could move, SALI re-crossed her legs, nightie rising high, exposing an expansive length of smooth white skin. Once again, he shifted his gaze and felt himself turning a shade of red. A little angry at the distraction, he walked over and sat down in the proffered chair. To his relief, he spotted Ms. Grant returning with a robe.

  “Here, put this on,” said Ms. Grant tossing the garment at SALI.

  Adroit, the robe landing in her lap, SALI lifted her wine glass to keep it from spilling and shot a withering glance at the woman in white. In obvious defiance, she lifted her glass, took a long pull, and sat the glass back on the table. After a moment, blithe as a cat, she stood. Robe in hand, she stared at the general, her figure plain to see through the sheer nightie.

  The general tried to avoid the show, but when SALI stood, he noticed her height and guessed she stood five feet ten with a perfect figure. After a few seconds, she slipped on the garment.

  “Is that better?” asked SALI, cinching the pink fluffy robe around a slender waist.

  “Much,” replied Ms. Grant.

  “You’re late. I thought you weren’t coming,” said SALI, sitting down and looking at the secretary.

  “It’s been a busy day—as you predicted,” he replied. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he pulled out a thumb drive and tossed it to the beautiful woman.

  With an easy motion in slender hands, she caught the device. Looking up, she asked, “So they did it? Executed Manuel and attacked Mesquite?”

  Secretary James nodded and pointed at the drive in her hand. “All the latest is on there.”

  SALI stood. “Excuse me. I’ll be right back,” and she left the room using a far exit.

  Baffled, the general watched her leave. He’d heard about SALI a decade earlier. Everyone had and knew it was a groundbreaking system developed in Silicon Valley. SALI was touted as the single greatest autonomous computing platform in the history of the world. A single system so powerful, the pundits claimed, it achieved consciousness with a processing capacity greater than a million human minds combined. But advanced AI was an inherent evil, the great destructor, and at a snap of a finger could be used to develop weapons of mass destruction beyond comprehension.

  Intuition told him that even after the Great Powers had ordered SALI’s destruction, putting the AI genie back in the bottle would have proved difficult. Common sense dictated the Great Powers and other nations would develop advanced AI initiatives in secret.

  So earlier in the evening when the general had heard the president mention SALI, learning the ROAS wasn’t complying with the AI Protocols, the news wasn’t too shocking. Still, he understood using her capabilities, if discovered, would be considered an international war crime. Yes, he was willing to listen, but he needed to consider the risk. After meeting this woman, or robot, android, or whatever she was, he sat confused. He recalled the original advanced AI announcements from years before, but there wasn’t any mention of a beautiful woman, just a super-advanced computing platform. Unsure, he needed to figure out the connection and decide if SALI could be trusted. Maybe, he should have a glass of wine.

  Chapter Seventeen

&nbs
p; GOING IN

  May 9, 01:00 (PDT)

  Hearing a thump, Sergeant Flood wheeled around. There, standing next to him, after jumping into the shell hole to scare everybody, Specialist Ian Kinney stood smiling. Wearing full battle rattle with an assault rifle slung across his chest, it was just like Kinney to make his presence known. A short wiry man, ready to fight at a drop of a hat, the young man admitted to having small-guy syndrome. But Flood knew he could back it up, won most of his fights, and even enjoyed those he lost.

  “What’s up?” asked Kinney.

  Flood pointed at the Glock holstered on the specialist’s hip. “Did you bring a suppressor for that?”

  “Yep, got it right here,” said Kinney, patting a pouch on his combat belt.

  Flood nodded and waved towards the man standing next to him. “This is Captain Longfellow. He’s in charge of the dead.”

  Longfellow frowned, and Kinney smiled at the insult. Flood ignored the looks and got right to business. “Okay. Listen up. We got a blood trail in the pipe behind us. Not a clue who left it inside, but it’s possible we have enemy combatants or even civilian infiltrators. Not sure what we’re facing, but we reckon whoever climbed in an out of the pipe whacked those two poor bastards.” Flood pointed at the bodies of Pugh and Hough. The two stiffs still lay face to face, with the guy on the bottom wearing underwear around his ankles.

  “That’s fucked up,” said Kinney. He walked over to the bodies and bent over to get a closer look. Through his helmet headlamp, he examined the scene. He shook his head and let out a low whistle. “Looks like they might be buddy butt fuckers. Lover’s quarrel?”

  The captain stepped forward and, voice full of authority, said, “Homosexuality is against regulations. But even if these men were sodomites, which is not out of the question considering their backgrounds, I don’t believe they killed each other. Instead, it’s my professional opinion you’re looking at a staged death scene.”

  Kinney stared at the captain in apparent disbelief. Flood knew the wiry man had little respect for most officers, and zero for rear-echelon types.

  Kinney turned back to Sergeant Flood and asked, “You believe what he’s saying, and if so, how many guys you think did this?”

  “No idea for sure,” answered Flood. “The captain and I could be wrong, but based on the evidence, it appears the attackers might have come through that pipe. How many? I’d guess one or two.” Flood waved at the pipe, then pointed at the two stiffs and continued, “But whoever killed those sorry bastards knows how to use a knife.”

  Kinney glanced at the bodies again. “Well, if the two butt fuckers didn’t kill each other, you’re right, whoever did are some bad motherfuckers. Knife sticking ain’t easy; takes balls.”

  “That’s why I called you,” said Flood, flattering the man. He wanted Kinney to volunteer without asking.

  “Shit! Fuck, Sarge! You want me to go after the motherfuckers, don’t you?”

  “You’re the best man for the job. I need you to get into the pipe and track down whoever did this. If you find ’em, well, there’s no good reason for someone to be in there. Shoot first and ask questions later.” Flood turned to the captain for confirmation on the rules of engagement. “Correct, sir?”

  “Ah, sure. You’re authorized to use, um, whatever force is necessary,” said the captain. Flood watched as the overweight officer put his hands on his hips as if he made combat decisions all the time.

  Kinney eyed the pipe again. “Just me going in, Sergeant?”

  “Yep. Wouldn’t count on anyone else. Besides, in that pipe it’s gonna be a single file. You’ll be facing whoever is last in line. Only one guy at a time. Use discretion. If you find yourself outnumbered, then get the hell out and report back.”

  “Where does the pipe end?” asked Kinney.

  “Fucks sake, I don’t know. This here …” and Flood twirled a finger, “… was a golf course years ago. Monsoon flash floods hit this area too. Looks like a big drainage pipe. So who the fuck knows. Follow the blood trail. If it peters out or you reach the end or you’re unsure, just come on back. No big deal.”

  Flood understood the mission was risky. On all fours, in a tight, dark pipe, sneaking up to kill an unknown number of badasses wasn’t easy. Still, Kinney was tough and always ready to prove himself. Taking the mission would add to his reputation and, knowing the young man, Flood guessed once inside the pipe, Kinney might find it fun.

  “All right, I got it,” Kinney said. Coughing up a gob of phlegm, he spit it across the shell hole and wiped his mouth. “If I get these fuckers, extra beer ration. What you say?”

  “Fuck yes. Triple ration,” answered Flood, knowing the motivation would seal the deal.

  “Okay, I’ll be your fucking killer mole. Let me take off my goddamn boots and unhook anything that might make noise. Plus, I need to get the suppressor on my Glock.” Kinney unslung his rifle and sat down to work his laces.

  Flood watched Kinney as the man took off his boots. He was proud of the specialist, of his men, but he’d much rather be with all of them in bivouac buried in warm sleeping bags. But hey, he thought to himself, that’s why I get paid the big bucks. Bullshit.

  * * *

  Master Sergeant Upton lay stretched out on his stomach. There wasn’t enough room to sit without hunching; lying flat was easier. Behind him on a blanket, on her back, head nearest Upton’s feet, he registered the regular breathing of Staff Sergeant Lisa McMichael. Ahead of him, seventy meters from where he first entered, a small trickle of evening light filtered through the pipe. They’d been in this position for more than an hour, ever since he’d given her water and a pain pill.

  After rescuing her at the other end of the pipe four hundred meters distant, he’d put McMichael on a blanket and used it to pull her all the way back here. Just behind them, twenty meters away, was the only bend he encountered in the entire length.

  What to do next?

  Based on the time displayed via his head protection visor, they had about five hours until daylight. He hoped to be moving, with McMichael in tow, before sunrise. Once out, he figured they’d make their way through the desert into the outskirts of Mesquite and hide until the next evening.

  Over the last hour, he’d taken a mental inventory of their supplies and weapons.

  First, he considered what McMichael had, which wasn’t shit: no helmet, pants, pack, assault rifle, combat belt, boots, or socks, just a combat shirt—complete liability. So that meant he was it.

  Water was most important, good news there. He carried his own camelback and another he’d stolen from the enemy. Although he’d gone through a lot of water while in the pipe, and shared it with McMichael, he figured they still had enough to last a full day.

  As for food, he still had two unopened MREs in his vest pouch, not much, but water would be the bigger issue.

  From a weapons standpoint, his KA-BAR combat knife was ankle sheathed, and he carried a hip-holstered SIG Sauer M18 handgun with a fully loaded seventeen-round magazine. In his combat vest, he carried another full mag. Clipped to his combat belt, two multi-purpose grenades dangled. Most distressing, he’d lost his assault rifle at the start of the fight when a HEAT round had hit his pillbox and hurled him through the air into a nearby drainage ditch. Somehow, during that tumultuous event, landing hard, he hadn’t died but lost his rifle.

  Stunned, he’d been lying in a ditch when a massive artillery barrage hit with a ferocity he never dreamed possible. To survive, he scrambled for his life. No time to search for his rifle, he came across a large, exposed drainage pipe. Grateful for the protection, upon entering, he crawled deeper inside as the ground shook around him. After a while the shelling stopped, and things grew quiet.

  Back then, as the shock of the attack wore off, he began to feel a sense of dread and guilt. He considered rushing out the way he’d come, to rejoin the fight. Little did he know that at the opposite end of the pipe, Sergeant Lisa McMichael was fighting for her own life.

  Pu
shing away the thoughts, depressed, Upton turned onto his side, and through his night vison, observed McMichael stretched out behind him. She slept on the blanket he’d used as a makeshift sled. To provide her with a modicum of decency, across her groin he’d draped her discarded combat pants.

  Before she’d regained consciousness the first time, he had checked for and tended her wounds. She had some deep scratches, but other than an obvious concussion, to his relief her injuries appeared minor. It’d taken a lot of work checking and treating her wounds. Squirming around in the tight pipe, his six-foot frame was challenged by the small dimensions. But with his first aid, kit he’d done it, and the work had kept his mind occupied.

  Now, watching her, with time creeping by, he once again grew anxious. Although tired, the anxiety kept him awake, and he was thankful for that. Still, they needed to get going.

  But he wanted to give her a little more recovery time. When he rescued her, she’d been unconscious, and he hoped she carried no memory of the attempted rape. If so, he intended to keep it that way.

  With time to kill, his mind wandered.

  He agonized over the course of events. Earlier, with all communications down, he hadn’t been sure of the outcome. But now, based on what he’d heard moving along the highway, the soldiers assaulting McMichael, the horrific pounding from earlier in the day, he was confident in the outcome, and it wasn’t good. He deduced the enemy had won the fight and now occupied the area. For how long? Maybe forever.

  Still gazing at the sleeping form, he tried to remember more about Sergeant Lisa McMichael. He recalled she was from Las Vegas. When their battalion had moved into position two months earlier, McMichael was one of the Junior NCOs designated as a pillbox squad leader.