Daniel Suarez - Kill Decision

One of the soldiers shouted, “Paatsezhey!” and shoved the prisoner along.

The group moved swiftly past concentric rings of HESCO bastions toward the heart of the camp, where a forest of antenna masts stood next to prefab structures. As they passed, indigenous workers in green smocks looked up from their duties building new fortifications, leaning on their shovels to steal a glance at the knot of soldiers.

The soldiers pushed their prisoner silently past armed sentries into an inner ring of defenses, toward an unmarked building secured with razor wire fencing. A sentry opened the doors to admit them into a vestibule, where still more sentries opened an interior door. No one spoke or saluted as the group moved swiftly through.

In a moment the door shut behind them, and they stood in a Spartan room lined with equipment shelving, rows of radios in charging stations, and weapons in wall racks. One of the soldiers drew a knife and cut the PlastiCuffs from their prisoner’s wrists, while another soldier pulled the black hood from the man’s head.

The prisoner calmly oriented himself as he rubbed his wrists. His long black beard and mustache with close-cropped hair lent him a distinctly Talibanesque air, which his lean frame and weathered skin only accentuated. He stared straight ahead with steel blue eyes.

The lead soldier nodded to him. “Welcome back, Odin.”

The bearded man answered in perfect Midwestern English, “Good to be back, Staff Sergeant.”

“Follow me. Can we get you anything?”

Odin shook his head as they walked down a hall lined by doorways. Several officers nodded with respect as he passed by. Before long they came to a wooden door. The staff sergeant knocked twice, and then entered a briefing room containing a single folding table. Plywood wall sections displayed sector maps and LCD panels displayed live satellite and surveillance images. Soft radio chatter kept up a steady background noise.

“I have Odin for you, Colonel.”

“It’s about goddamned time.”

Looking up from the table was a man in his sixties wearing a blue Oxford cloth shirt and a dark blue blazer with khaki slacks, a laptop open next to him. His eyes were hard and his manner imposing. His powerful-looking hands hinted at the old commando he no doubt was.

The staff sergeant left without a word, closing the door behind him. Odin stood to attention and saluted. “You wanted to see me, Colonel.”

“Have you forgotten whose side you’re on, Master Sergeant?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, it sure as hell looks that way. I’m in a class-five political shit storm because of you.”

“In the proper context my methods-”

“Your methods have caused lasting damage to this mission. Here’s a clue, son: You’re supposed to disrupt enemy operations-not our operations.”

“What I did made strategic sense.”

“No, you thought it made sense-and it’s not your job to think. It’s your job to kill the enemy.”

“I was taught that a special operator needs to think for himself-both strategically and tactically. To adapt to the situation on the ground or be overcome by events. Sir.”

The colonel studied Odin. “How does warning an insurgent leader about an impending CIA missile strike make good strategic sense? My S-2 reports that the man’s current whereabouts are unknown. This individual will now live to fight another day-thanks to you.”

Odin was silent.

“How do you justify your actions, Master Sergeant?”

Odin considered the question. “Sooner or later we will leave this place. And we need to leave behind more than just radicalized young men who’ve known only war. The tribal elder I saved is widely respected in those capillary valleys, and he’s a moderate compared to the people who would succeed him-although I don’t imagine that was obvious in the aerial imagery.”

“Task Force Steel says he’s the hub of an insurgent network.”

“Yes, in reaction to our military occupation of his land. But when we’re not around he kills foreign fighters and narco-traffickers. If we get the hell out of this guy’s way, he’ll do our work for us.”

“Nonetheless-”

“We don’t need conventional forces here, Colonel. Men like me can work the ground unseen, play political factions against each other, use proxies. As it stands, our patrols and bases are just targets, and the more firepower we use, the more enemies we create.”

“That’s enough.” The colonel’s stare bored into Odin for several moments. “How did your team conceal its movements from our drones?”

“We created decoy targets in their flight path-remotely fired mortars. Insurgents do it all the time to frame rivals. We made the snatch while our drones were distracted.”

The colonel continued silently observing Odin. “You’ve made your distaste for drones widely known at battalion.”

“Drones are useful for recon, but they can’t replace a human being on the ground. And if you ask me, these missile strikes do more harm than good. Take that disaster in Karbala-suicide bombings and IED attacks have already increased in every theater of operations. It’s been a recruiting bonanza for our enemies.”

“Pentagon says it wasn’t our drone.”

“We both know that hardly matters. So you tell me: Are drones helping us or hurting us, Colonel?”

The colonel seemed familiar with this sort of intense debate with his subordinates. He remained calm. “Like it or not, Sergeant, fifty other nations are developing their own drones as fast as they can.” He paused. “Which is, in fact, why I’ve called you here.”

Odin frowned in confusion.

“Are you familiar with the term lethal autonomy?”

Odin nodded. “Autonomous combat drones.”

“Yes. Drones that fly themselves and make a kill decision without direct human involvement.”

Odin considered this with some dismay. “That’s a major RMA, sir.”

“Tell me why it’s a revolution in military affairs.”

“Because it would combine all the worst aspects of cyber war-anonymity and scalability-with the physical violence of kinetic war. A successful design could be stolen and cheaply punched out by the tens of thousands in offshore factories, then sent anonymously against anyone without fear of retribution.”

The colonel regarded Odin then nodded to himself, apparently having made a decision. “I have a mission for your team, Master Sergeant. A mission that requires someone who, as you so aptly put it, can think for himself, both strategically and tactically. I’m adding you to the BIGOT list for a highly compartmentalized SAP, code-named Project Ancile. You’ll be one of only three people who know it exists, and you are to report to me and only me.”

“What’s my objective?”

The colonel closed his laptop and focused his gaze on Odin. “You are to discover the source of the drone attacks on the continental United States.”

“You’re referring to the terror bombings, sir?”

“That’s a cover story. The truth is more worrisome. We think whoever was behind the Karbala attack is also behind the CONUS attacks.”

Odin considered the implications.

“One more thing.” The colonel paused for emphasis. “You are to pursue your mission no matter where it leads you-even if you are commanded to stop. You must continue, and you must succeed. Do you understand me, Master Sergeant?”

Odin nodded. “Yes, I believe I do, sir.”

“G od afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Joshua Strickland, team lead for visual intelligence development here at the Stanford Vision Lab. I’d like to thank you all for coming today.”

Strickland stood at the head of a darkened, windowless lecture hall in the basement of the Gates Computer Science Building. Beside him the camera-eye logo of the Vision Lab filled a large projection screen. In the PowerPoint afterglow he saw familiar and unfamiliar faces among a small audience seated primarily in the front two rows. He focused on the serious faces seated just before him.