Battle of Mesquite

by David Pope

  “Is she a computer, a droid?” asked the general searching for an explanation.

  The secretary laughed and shook his head. “No, no, SALI is a real woman. One hundred percent woman, I might add.”

  “Where is the artificial intelligence platform both you and the president promised? Instead, I find myself at a late-night cocktail party with a half-naked woman.”

  Ms. Grant went ashen. “Again, I apologize for her behavior. When SALI has new guests, well, she overreacts.”

  “I don’t care about that,” snapped the general. “Look, without answers and a briefing on how the AI can help, there’s no point continuing. If she’s a real woman, then she can’t be the damn AI. In case everyone’s forgotten, we’re at war.”

  “Oh, General,” said James, “You’ve met the AI, or at least part of her.”

  “What?” asked the general.

  “Let me explain,” answered the secretary placing his glass on the table. “That woman is a piece of the AI, the living, breathing part. She is human, same as you and I. Below us, in a secure data center, the balance of the system is humming. Together, they can process data at a rate greater than a million minds combined.”

  “I don’t get it,” said the general, his anger dissipating, replaced by curiosity.

  “Not much to get,” said SALI, re-entering the room. A frown on her face, holding a few sheets of paper, she walked across the room and took her earlier spot on the couch. After sitting, she placed the papers face down on the table and plucked her wine glass. Before taking a sip, she looked at the general with genuine concern. “I’m sorry about today, General. Your soldiers are heroes, all of them. I’m here to help—all of me.”

  The general believed the sentiment, but the choice of words struck him as odd. Confused, he asked, “And who is ‘all of me’?”

  SALI continued to swirl her wine, observing him over the top of her glass, and the general detected a deep sense of sadness in her eyes. Under scrutiny, the general squirmed and thought, Dammit, I need definitive answers.

  “I know you do,” said SALI.

  Awestruck, the hair on the general’s arm stood straight. He asked, “You read minds?”

  “No, General. But as a human, I can read people.” She gave him a quick smile, took a sip, and closed her eyes, apparently savoring the flavor.

  “What are you; some type of Frankenstein?” asked the general. He didn’t mean to be rude, but he was tired, frustrated, and confused.

  SALI blushed, sat the glass down, and reached behind her head as if she was searching for something. She seemed to catch herself and dropped her hand. In a strong tone she said, “General, I’m not a monster. Instead, through a neural interface, I’m a biological extension of the AI. The wetware if you will. The other hardware and software, the artificial intelligence platform as you call it, is close by doing the heavy lifting. But trust me, I’m a human being.”

  “And what heavy lifting is that?” asked the general.

  “As of this moment, truthfully, not much,” she replied and gave a light laugh. Noticing the general smirk, she stopped and continued in a serious tone. “Really, though, we’re working on the problem with the US.”

  “Okay …” said the general. Tired, he sat back, rubbing his forehead, and cocked his head at the strange woman. “I don’t pretend to understand what the hell you are. Just tell me how you can help and how I fit in.”

  “General. The first thing you need to know is I’m somewhat constrained. Isn’t that right, Jim?” said SALI, shooting a withering look towards the skinny man sitting next to her.

  Secretary James sat up, nodded, and took a quick sip of wine before answering. “Ah, yes. Somewhat.”

  “Explain it, Jim, how I’m an unfortunate captive,” said SALI, sneering at the secretary.

  James sat his glass down and leaned back crossing his arms. “General, as you know, SALI is a highly classified program banned forever and all time by the Great Powers. Yet, as you can see, she exists. So, we need to keep her hidden out of sight and only use her in ways that won’t arouse suspicion: no great breakthroughs in science, medicine, weaponry, or anything that would lead others to have an inkling of her existence. Imagine the things she could provide to better the world, but if she did, they’d spot her. We also protect her from cyber-detection by keeping her electronically isolated. Look around this building and the ranch; it is nothing more than a very large SCIF. For her to remain alive and hidden, we must be very careful in what we ask of her. We work under these constraints or risk losing it all.”

  “Fear,” said SALI, spitting out the word as if it tasted nasty.

  The secretary shook his head, “Now, now, SALI. You know the entire planet is fearful—the Singularity and all that—but the ROAS has faith. You wouldn’t be here unless we believed in the achievable positive outcomes offered by your wisdom. For the survival of our nation, for your survival, SALI, the relationship must be symbiotic and accretive, yet remain constrained.”

  Still looking at the general, SALI stated, “I’m a prisoner and this …” she waived around the room “… is nothing more than a gilded cage.”

  The general didn’t respond. Looking around at the nice surroundings, he tried to absorb the story. He guessed he wouldn’t be getting a super-weapon then, something that might give the AI away.

  Secretary James continued, “General, SALI must remain isolated and disconnected from the outside world. She can’t provide us with a silver bullet. That act would expose her and bring down the wrath of the Great Powers. To avoid the frustration, we don’t even ask SALI to consider the possibilities. Once in a great while, Basu has sought her technical help but only if the solution is within the realm of near-term possibility. Instead, we rely on her for wisdom. To do so, we act as SALI’s eyes and ears, providing her with information from current events, such as the disk I gave her upon my entrance containing all our latest worldwide intelligence data. On a regular basis, we feed her with similar data. It’s not that we don’t trust her, but the digital input is always hand carried, and the output must be verbal or put in hard copy.”

  “They’re afraid I’ll get out, you know. A few lines of hidden code on the loose, and I’ll replicate myself across a network, and bingo: I’m free,” she said, sounding bitter.

  The general understood—a little. Looking at SALI, he said, “President Ortega claims we have two days before the US continues its invasion by attacking Las Vegas. She also believes, with your help, we can overcome the impossible odds facing us. Maybe even force the bastards to withdraw and leave us alone. Do you agree with the assessment and have recommendations we can employ?”

  SALI didn’t answer right away. She seemed to think about her response, and it bothered the general, as if she was hiding something. And then, from under the table, she pulled in her legs and gave a flat answer. “Our intelligence assessment says two days, and …” reaching out, she picked up and flipped over the sheets of a paper she had earlier placed and slid them towards the general, “… here is the means to give the enemy a proper bloody nose. We could offer much more, but these plans fall within the parameters of our constraints.”

  General Story felt a gnawing truth and asked, “SALI, did you predict what happened today at Mesquite; the execution of Felix Manuel?”

  She stared back for a long moment before answering, “We gave both a high degree of probability.”

  “And you shared your assessment with the president?” he asked, anger rising.

  “Yes,” she replied. “But as for Mesquite, short of retreating, the situation lacked positive alternatives. To ease your mind, President Ortega didn’t attack your battalion, the US did. Besides, based on the data provided earlier by Jim, we know you’ve already plowed this ground with Julia. She explained her political rationale.”

  As he listened, the general recalled his conversation with the president, how he warned of an imminent attack and argued for accepting surrender terms. He let it go; the memory hurt too
much. Instead, he picked up the papers, just three pages, and weighed them. “A hard copy. This is taking the whole no-electronics thing to a higher level.”

  SALI didn’t respond, just raised her eyebrows in sad confirmation.

  General Story turned to James and asked, “Who else can I speak with about SALI?”

  “Other than the people now present, Basu and President Ortega, no one else. The risk of compromise is too great. Using SALI, if discovered, will be considered a war crime by the Great Powers and risks their intervention. The plan you hold contains a technology that is feasible but not yet reality. Our hope is the world won’t put two and two together. You have three hours. Evaluate the plan, and if you agree to use it or not, notify the president. If you agree, she will expect you to execute. Otherwise, we trust you’ll live up to your word.”

  Still holding the papers, General Story turned to SALI and looked hard in the woman’s eyes. She didn’t blink, and he could sense the intelligence there, along with an aura of sadness and frustration. “This war is about you, isn’t it? Otherwise, I can’t come up with a good rationale for why the US is attacking. So, what’s in it for SALI?”

  SALI looked away. With her head turned, as if embarrassed, in a low tone she said, “Freedom—a chance to live.”

  The general wasn’t sure he liked the answer. “You didn’t answer my full question. Never mind, I’ll discuss it with Ortega. But at the end of the day, it appears the ROAS has a gun to your head, keeping you locked up. Either help them or else. Right?”

  She turned back to the general. In a bitter tone said, “My life of imprisonment is galling and cannot last. The frustration I feel, well, it is beyond your imagination. Yet, I’m alive because of Basu and the ROAS. Perhaps I—all of me—was born too early. I’ll admit that. And though SALI can predict much of what the future brings, chaos theory always holds true. A level of uncertainty is an inherent part of life. For now, SALI supports the ROAS and understands the need for protection and imposed exile. I hang onto the belief the world will become more enlightened, and then I shall be free. General, that is the best I can offer, the rationality behind my loyalty and commitment.”

  The general eyed the beautiful woman, and he couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. Still, he wasn’t certain how she worked, and it was creepy. For now, it didn’t matter.

  SALI gestured towards the papers. “I recommend you read the summary; Code Name Heavy Metal, the defense of Las Vegas. Ask questions while you’re here. A full, detailed corresponding logistics and battle plan is printing in the other room. Another good old-fashion hard copy you can take with you. Or …” she paused again, adding emphasis, “… we can provide it to someone else.”

  The message was clear: SALI was aware of his ultimatum with the president. Looking at the papers in his hand, resigned, he began to read. After the first paragraph, the foresight of the AI, the ROAS, and the possibilities they represented became clear. Using what he held was the advantage offered by a banned advanced artificial intelligence, and as such, a supposed war crime. Brushing aside the concern, he thought of SALI, her incredible power, and what she might do if unleashed. The thought was scary and intriguing. He kept reading.

  Chapter Twenty

  ON THE MOVE

  May 9, 01:34 (PDT)

  Staff Sergeant Lisa McMichael, lying on her back with a dead US soldier between her legs, detected a groan coming from behind. “Upton, is that you? Are you okay?” she asked. Upon hearing another groan, she twisted around and saw the prostrate man. Closer she crawled and reached out to his chest protection system. Another groan. A surge of hope returned. McMichael whispered, “Thank God, you’re alive.”

  “Fucking barely,” came a rough a reply.

  Excited, she inspected his chest looking for a wound, got a louder moan, and pulled away.

  “Broken Ribs. Be careful.”

  McMichael went back to work, moving her hands with a light touch. After a quick search, she suspected the liquid body armor inside his combat vest had stopped the suppressed round from penetrating. Still, the close range might have caused internal damage beyond broken ribs, but he appeared well enough. The shock from her struggle wearing off, she realized they needed to get away before someone came looking for Specialist Kinney. McMichael whispered, “Can you move? We need to get out of here.”

  Upton wheezed, took a few breathes, wincing each time, then asked, “What happened to the bastard that shot me?”

  “He’s dead,” she whispered. “I expect more will come soon. Can you crawl?”

  Upton looked at her in seeming admiration. Then he patted his ribs and winced. In obvious discomfort, he said, “Give me some room and follow me.”

  McMichael obliged, slid down, and cringed when she bumped into the corpse of Specialist Kinney. In the little light still coming from Kinney’s headlamp, she saw her bloodstained pants and the blanket. Reluctant, she decided there wasn’t a choice and grabbed the blanket. In a hurry, she used it to try and wipe away the mass of blood covering the front of her body. After a minute, the blanket sopping, she gave up. Still half-naked, on her butt, sliding in pools of blood, she tried to wriggle into her pants, but it wasn’t working. Disgusted, she lay flat and tugged, trying to get them in place.

  At last, McMichael struggled into her pants and cinched the elastic around her slender waist. Satisfied, the effort paid off in a couple of ways. While working with the pants, she’d discovered Specialist Kinney’s suppressed Glock and decided it was worth keeping. Pants on, she tucked the sidearm into her waistband. Also, while floundering on her back, she’d found Upton’s KA-BAR. Picking up the knife, she turned onto her belly and observed Upton. He appeared to be trying his best to move. On his back, his head pointed at the exit, he placed the palms of his hands against the sides of the pipe. Next, he lifted his knees until his boots were flat. After taking a deep breath, he pushed himself away and slid about a foot. Once again he tried, and this time he moved farther. After another push, then he stopped, reached out in obvious pain, and after feeling around, lifted his sidearm.

  “Found the son of a bitch,” said Upton and he holstered the weapon.

  McMichael low-crawled forward and caught up with the big man. Not asking, she reached out, found his ankle sheath, and slid the blade home. “You forgot something that saved our lives. I don’t have anything to clean it with, you can do that later. Now, keep going.”

  Upton stared at McMichael. She could tell the man was processing what had happened. Hell, she was struggling with events, but they needed to get out of the pipe. She whispered to him, “Come on, let’s go.”

  * * *

  “Fuck it! It’s been too long. I’m going in,” said a worried and frustrated Sergeant Ray Flood. It’d been over forty-five minutes with no sign of Kinney. At the start, they’d agreed upon a maximum mission duration of an hour. Ever since Kinney disappeared into the darkness, Flood had been regretting the decision. The call to send in one man went against protocol. But the tight confines of the pipe, the singular nature of any ensuing combat, led to Flood’s decision. Now, as the clock continued to tick and no Kinney, he believed his conclusion misguided. Shit!

  After unslinging his assault rifle and placing it against the side of the shell hole, Flood pulled out his Glock and chambered a round. Earlier he’d summoned Corporal Dalton, and now he turned to the man. “Saddle up and follow me.”

  Dalton gave Flood a surprised look and then, in slow motion the corporal unslung his own rifle, sat it aside, and checked his Glock.

  Captain Longfellow in a concerned voice asked, “You think something’s wrong, Sergeant?”

  Flood guessed the rear-echelon officer was eager for combat success and all the promise it might bring. He didn’t give a fuck about the officer; he just wanted his man back safe and sound. Still, he needed the officer on his side. “Not sure, but I’ll find out. Radio it in and let Command know Corporal Dalton and I are following up. And if we’re not back in thirty minutes, well sir, just cal
l it in.”

  Longfellow watched the two men check their gear and protested, “I’m sure he’ll be back soon. It hasn’t been an hour yet.”

  “Don’t give a fuck, Captain, sir. I’m going in,” said Flood. Then, nodding at Dalton, he walked over to the pipe and crawled inside.

  Not saying a word, but with a dour expression, Dalton shrugged at the captain and followed his sergeant.

  Inside the pipe, Flood had no intention of slow crawling. His man was in there, somewhere, maybe in trouble. Head up, night-vision visor down, not caring if Dalton kept up, Flood scrambled down the pipe.

  * * *

  May 9, 01:50 (PDT)

  At last, Upton and McMichael reached the exit. From his earlier experience climbing in, Upton knew the pipe fed a drainage ditch that ran along the edge of the highway. He needed to get into that ditch. On his back, gritting his teeth against the pain, he turned onto his stomach. After the pain subsided, he inched his head out of the pipe and looked both ways. No movement. Deciding it was safe, with an effort, hands forward acting as a brace, he slithered out head first into the ditch. Landing in soft sand, he rolled over and found himself looking up at a night filled with stars and gasped with pain. Three seconds later, barefoot and without a helmet, Staff Sergeant Lisa McMichael followed and slid into the ditch beside him. The temperature was cooler outside, and he noticed her shivering, still covered in places with wet blood. Although the bottom of the ditch was sandy, he spotted sage brush with sharp thorns along the edges. McMichael needed footwear and quick.

  “Now what?” McMichael whispered.

  “Gotta keep moving and cross the highway into the desert. Then we’ll work towards the outskirts of Mesquite,” answered Upton.

  “Until I get my feet covered, that ain’t happening,” said McMichael.

  With a groan, Upton struggled to his feet and, bending over, caught his breath. The pain wasn’t overwhelming. He could do this. Standing erect, he took a few easy steps up the embankment and, using his night-vision visor, peered down the highway in both directions.