Line ’em up and shoot ’em down.
Turk didn’t say that, but he certainly thought it. The squadron leaders asked about his aircraft and the weapon. The questions were mostly technicaclass="underline" how much was automated, how far away was he when the engagement began and ended. But one, from a German oberst, or colonel, completely surprised him.
“What did you feel when you shot the planes down?” asked the Luftwaffe commander.
“I don’t know that I felt anything,” said Turk truthfully. “I just, you know, went with my training.”
“Ah.” The officer was a member of Jagdgeshwader 73, the 73rd fighter wing, and headed a four-ship group of Eurofighters. The fighters had not yet been in combat. “So you feel nothing?”
“I just, uh, just didn’t think about it really.”
Even as the words came out of his mouth, Turk thought that it was the wrong thing to say. Everyone seemed to stare at him.
He felt… good about getting the kills. He felt triumphant. Wasn’t that what he was supposed to feel? It was a win — a big one, four of them in fact. And each one of those bastards was trying to kill him.
Damn, of course he felt good. What else was he supposed to feel?
Bad because he’d won? That made no sense.
And then the Sabre had gone off course. How did he feel about that?
That was the real question, and the truth was, he couldn’t really answer.
It was terrible that the plane had gone off course and struck the wrong target. He felt bad that people had died. But there wasn’t anything he could do about that.
And there was a limit to how much he could feel. He didn’t cry or get sick or anything like that. Was that what was supposed to happen?
He certainly didn’t feel guilty — he hadn’t been responsible. Truly, it wasn’t his fault.
So he felt bad, but clearly not bad enough, as far as anyone seemed to think he should.
The briefing continued. Turk felt out of place, but it seemed too awkward to leave. The commanders recounted some of the basic protocols, some of the SAR arrangements in case things went wrong, and reiterated the need to call in for permission to blow your nose…
That got a laugh, at least.
As the briefing broke up, Turk slipped out of the room. He was halfway down the corridor when Ginella called after him.
“Hey, Turk, why are you running away?”
“Running?” Turk stopped and waited for her. “I was just walking.”
“That was a weird question.” Ginella started walking with him toward the door at the end of the hallway.
“What?”
“How did you feel about gunning down four fighters trying to kill you?” said Ginella, paraphrasing the German’s remark. “That was a weird question to ask.”
“Yeah. I guess.”
“I would have said ‘kick-ass.’ ”
“Well, uh—”
“Isn’t that how you felt?”
“Kinda,” he admitted.
“You feel bad because of the accident,” said Ginella. “We all get that. But that has nothing to do with the dogfight. You nailed those bastards. You oughta be proud of that.”
“Thanks,” said Turk.
“So you really want to drive Hogs, huh?”
“Well, I like them—”
“They’re a lot different than that pretty li’l thing you’ve been tooling around in,” she told him. “Stick and rudder. Meat and potatoes.”
“I remember,” said Turk.
They reached the door. Turk reached to open it, but Ginella got there first, slapping her hand on the crash bar and holding it for him in a reversal of etiquette, chivalry, and rank.
“I need another check pilot for a flight this afternoon,” she told him. “You’re welcome to apply. We’ll see how good you are.”
“You’ll let me fly?”
“If you won’t break it.”
“Well, I—”
“It’s already cleared.”
“Really? But I’d be bumping somebody—”
“I told you, three-quarters of my people are down with the flu,” said Ginella. “You saw who I have left at lunch. If I use their hours for the check flights, we won’t be able to take a mission. At least not if I obey the alliance flight rules.”
“Hell, I’d love to do it,” said Turk.
“Report to Hangar B–7 at 1600 hours,” she said, her voice suddenly all business.
“I will,” said Turk.
She smacked his back. “See you then, Captain.”
9
When she was running for President, Christine Mary Todd was asked how she would respond if woken up at 6:00 A.M. for a national emergency. She had responded that anyone looking for her at 6:00 A.M. would find her at her desk.
Or in this case, in the secure conference room in the White House basement, where she’d arrived to review the situation in Libya with her national security team.
“Good morning, Mr. Blitz,” she said to the National Security Advisor. She nodded to the secretary of state, Alistair Newhaven. “Mr. Newhaven.”
The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, along with several Air Force officers, were at the Pentagon, displayed on the large video screen at the front of the room. Breanna Stockard, who headed the Defense Department’s Office of Special Projects, was also participating via a link to her office on the CIA campus. NATO liaison General Daniel Yourish and Air Force Special Warfare Command Chief of Staff James Branson were in Belgium and Florida, respectively.
“I assume that you have all read the latest bulletins,” said the President. “The preliminary reports that I’ve seen indicate that the aircraft made the attack on its own.”
“It’s pretty clear that the pilot did not initiate it,” said Breanna. She had been working much of the night, and didn’t seem to have bothered much with makeup beyond a small dab of lipstick. Yet she looked as well put together as ever.
The President admired that. Smart, good-looking, virtually unflappable — Breanna would do well in politics. Except of course that her husband had that covered.
Todd would have preferred Breanna to Zen, actually. He was a crucial ally, but often a difficult one.
“There are two problems here,” continued Todd. “One obviously is the media fallout. But just as important, in my mind, is the implication of the technology failure. What went wrong?”
“We have to find that out,” said Breanna. “That obviously is our focus here. Ray Rubeo has already volunteered to go personally and assist in the examination.”
“How close is this to Raven?” asked the National Security Director. The loss of the Raven drone two months before had caused considerable consternation — and an attempt on the President’s life.
“We don’t believe it’s related at all,” said Breanna. “The UAVs use a different protocol, different systems entirely. They are unrelated.”
“The Sabres are autonomous as well, though,” said Branson. “They make their own decisions.”
“I think we want to keep that under wraps as much as possible,” said Blitz. “As a matter of national security.”
And as an important public relations measure, the President thought. It wouldn’t do to have stories to the effect that U.S. robots were killing people on their own.
Yet, that was what they were doing. The technology employed in the UAVs, now used for the first time in combat, allowed the machines to decide who their enemies were. There were a large number of parameters, but in the end the decision was the computer’s.
Was it a remarkable and necessary extension of a weapon? Or was it the beginning of the end for the human race?
It was a question straight out of a 1950s sci-fi flick, and yet one Todd had wrestled with carefully before authorizing the deployment of the Sabres to Libya.