“That’s… impressive.” Schoeffel didn’t know what else to say.
“We’re in full production with them now,” said Schellinger.
“We are? I thought they were still being tested. I thought that was the whole point of this camp.”
The major smiled. “Oh, we’re a lot further along than you think.”
“Then what’s the purpose of the camp?”
“Fun and games, Deputy Director,” said Schellinger. “Fun and games.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Instead of answering, Major Schellinger gestured toward the DARPA scientist overseeing the testing range, who came over at once. He was a bookish man who looked somewhat out of place in a military uniform. The major made brief introductions and asked for a demonstration.
“Let’s have long and short range. Speed and accuracy,” she said. “Impress Deputy Director Schoeffel.”
The scientist looked pleased and set it up.
“Patton,” he said sharply. “On the line.”
The WarDog with the machine gun turned and walked quickly over to the top of the range. His padded feet made no sound at all. A sergeant ordered everyone else off the range and announced a live-fire exercise.
“Six targets, three rounds each,” ordered the scientist. “Engage.”
Without hesitation, the WarDog named Patton shifted its body to aim at the closest target and fired a three-shot burst. The bullets punched into the kill zone of the target that was fifty feet away. The dog instantly shifted and fired at the hundred-and-fifty-foot target, then the thousand-yard target, and on and on, until it had fired bursts at all six targets.
With a thin smile, Schellinger offered a small pair of binoculars to Schoeffel, who raised them to her eyes, adjusted the focus, and stared in amazement.
“WarDogs use sensors and real-time intel from satellites and telemetry-gathering drones to calculate angle, adjust for windage and terrain. The targeting software removes all ‘judgment’ from the shot, which is what makes human shooters score below a constant maximum potential. WarDogs go on pure math. Machine thinking, machine logic, no guesswork.”
“That sounds a little creepy,” said Schoeffel.
“Wars are won by the side with the best technology.”
“Are they?”
“Yes. Technology, the nerve to use it.”
While Schoeffel digested that, the major continued with her praise of the big WarDog. “Patton can be fitted for mortars and grenades, too, or we can pull the machine gun and replace the whole combat package with anything from a flame thrower to a series of antipersonal or anti-tank mines that can be dropped at precise points.”
“That’s… that’s…” Schoeffel stopped herself before she finished the sentence.
“Impressive as hell?” suggested the major.
“Yes,” lied Schoeffel. The word she had been about to use was terrifying.
The scientist said, “We’re field-testing ten prototypes this week. Our goal is to improve the bullet-to-body ratio.”
“Which is what?” asked Schoeffel.
“With human combat troops, there is actually a very high ratio of number of rounds fired compared to the number of enemy killed, particularly in the recent wars in the Middle East. We’re talking about a quarter million bullets per kill. Our goal with the WarDog is to reduce that number to something closer to two hundred bullets per kill.”
“Which,” said the major, picking up the story, “will allow us to send in armored dogs with sophisticated software for target selection and thereby reduce the number of human soldiers we put in harm’s way. Let the robots do the fighting.”
“Wait, you mean these machines will be picking their own targets?”
“Of course,” said the scientist.
“How will they be able to tell the difference between enemy combatants and our own troops?”
“All soldiers will have an RFID chip implanted,” explained the major. “No WarDog will fire on someone who has a chip.”
“That’s all well and good,” said Schoeffel, “but ISIL and the Taliban tend to hide in urban areas and among civilian populations. How do we keep civilians safe?”
The scientist didn’t meet her eyes.
Major Schellinger said, “We’re still working on that.”
Schoeffel watched the second dog trot into position. This one carried a lighter weapon, a modified Remington Mk 21 Precision Sniper Rifle, with a lever system operating the bolt and a new generation of laser sighting. The twenty-seven-inch barrel extended out over the dog’s head, and it could be replaced to fire .338 Lapua Magnum, 338 Norma Magnum, 300 Winchester Magnum, or the standard 7.62 × 51-mm. NATO rounds. Schoeffel watched it select targets using each of the four possible calibers and shoot with deadly accuracy up to three hundred yards. Then targets were attached to eight separate remote-controlled carts and went rolling off through the forest in different directions. Bird drones followed each and sent video feeds back to the chief scientist’s laptop, where everyone crowded around to watch. The dog leaped forward to pursue, and within eleven minutes had caught up to each of the targets and scored multiple shots in the kill zone. Then it loped back to the top of the range and stood there, quiet, brutal, deadly, and alien.
Major Schellinger actually patted its head as if it were a real dog. “Isn’t he wonderful?”
The dog had two red lights for eyes, and although Sarah Schoeffel knew they were nothing but colored lenses over laser targeting systems, she swore that those eyes glared at her. With menace, with what she felt was a kind of bloody, wicked pride. It was stupid to read emotion into a machine.
Stupid, sure.
Schoeffel forced a smile onto her face. “Wonderful,” she echoed. “Yes.”
PART TWO
JOHN THE REVELATOR
It is the business of the future to be dangerous; and it is among the merits of science that it equips the future for its duties.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The phone rang, and it shook me out of a bad dream about attending my own funeral. The ringing of my cell phone wove itself so seamlessly into the fabric of the dream that I thought they’d buried me with it. I tried to move inside the narrow coffin, but my elbows kept hitting the silk-lined sides and I couldn’t get my hand into the right pocket. I knew that it was Junie calling me from the graveside, trying to tell me that it was okay, that she would be fine, that she was moving on now that I was dead. And then the thread of the dream unraveled and I came awake crying out her name. All at once I was back on the deck of the Pier, the DMS Special Projects office in San Diego. The deck was empty except for my dog, Ghost, and me. He raised his head, saw that there was no danger, heard the phone continue to ring, and gave me a withering look and flopped back down.
The phone was on a side table amid a forest of empty beer bottles. San Diego is the Mecca of craft breweries, and I am a devout worshipper. Maybe a little too devout these past few months.
“Junie,” I said again as I fished for the phone, but as I blinked my eyes clear it was obvious from the display that it wasn’t Junie. Instead, I saw SEAN on the screen. My brother, which is weird enough in its own way. He never calls me. Sean is a homicide detective back in Baltimore, where we grew up. What the folks back home call a murder cop. Sean’s a good guy, but in the past couple of years we’ve kind of drifted. It happens. Back when we were both detectives in different squads in the same town, we were tight. We had so much in common. We could sit up all night drinking beer and telling stories about the job. But that was then. Now he catches killers and I try to keep the world from falling off its hinges. He can still talk about his job, but we can’t ever talk about mine. Makes for long, weird silences at Thanksgiving and Christmas. All he knows is that I work for a covert intelligence department. He doesn’t even know its name. Our common ground is all past-tense stuff, and sometimes it leaves us with only sports and the weather to chat about.