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 call 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.