Kill Decision (31 page)

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.

*   *   *

O
din 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.”

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
caw
ed 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

T
hey 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.