Warbot 1.0- AI Goes to War Page 4

  With all her ground elements either in position or on their way to them, Stacy turned her attention to fire support. In her AR helmet she looked toward the “Fire Support” interface icon and clicked it with her left hologlove.

  After requesting three Sky Lance strikes, she softly asked, “What do you think, Saga?”

  Saga quickly suggested three target locations that would statistically be the most useful locations. Saga wasn’t always perfect, but she generally offered useful suggestions. After adjusting one slightly, Stacy tapped “approved.”

  Following the rise of Point and Area Defense Systems in the early 2020s, the U.S. military realized it had a fire-support problem and, in a moment of foresight, invested heavily in small ground-hugging missiles. The M47 Sky Lance was a small truck-launched cruise missile that could skim the treetops and deliver a substantial thermobaric, EMP, or point-detonating warhead to a target. An EMP warhead might temporarily blind the T100s while a point-detonating might get two or three, but Stacy knew she had to kill a lot of them and quickly. In this case, Stacy wanted a high-temperature, massive blast wave and cued up “thermobaric.”

  She got a quick response from the battalion: only one missile had been allocated to her company.

  “Well that sucks,” she said to herself but apparently loud enough to be heard.

  “Probably due to drone ship losses, ma’am. But maybe we’ll get more soon.”

  Stacy sighed internally, Specialist Six Kowalski, her operations support specialist, was so eternally and giddily optimistic that it was annoying.

  “Thanks, Kowalski.”

  The words had just left her lips when Alpha 1, one of first platoon’s Razorbacks, and the Sentinel drone it had lofted stopped transmitting. Then Bravo 2 and Bravo 3, two of second platoon’s Razorbacks, also quit. The icons for all three of the heavily modified, eight-wheeled Strykers were now indicating a high probability of destruction.

  Trying to suppress the fear that this might not be quite under control, Stacy grabbed the stimtab she had forgotten to take and placed it under her tongue. The use of stimtabs, an issue item, was required during specified periods as directed in the pre-mission order. She painfully remembered case study after case study that proved that commanders’ ability to hyper-manage the chaos around them was often the limiting factor in unit effectiveness. The stimtab’s effects hit quickly, and Stacy felt both her pulse quicken and her mental focus tighten.

  Looking at the icons representing what were her three likely destroyed vehicles, she wondered out loud, “How could the enemy know where they were with such fidelity and get the first shot off in all three cases?”

  “Targeting drones? The little crappy ones? Maybe they got in during the blink,” stated Kowalski.

  “Roger, probably,” she responded.

  Stacy realized that she had a real problem. Not being sure where the hypothesized drones were, her whole position was likely compromised. Casualties were mounting quickly, and that was one of the imperatives she had been told to avoid. She suppressed her growing fear and palpable sense of guilt as she realized half of second platoon was dead.

  Gotta pull back, out of their sensor range. If they try to act “sticky” and try to follow, our PDSs will put them down, she thought. Need to pull back about ten klicks to ensure we’re clear. A good Sky Lance hit will help slow them down.

  It seemed like a good plan, and in a few seconds, she had not only worked out the major movements, but with a few deft hand gestures, had disseminated the rough plan to her platoon leaders. The gloves were simply magic for that.

  “Negative” came the quick reply from Lieutenant Colonel Gammon, “That will put your fighting positions within line of sight of the main road and the battalion flank and everything that goes with it. You can pull back five klicks, but that’s it. You’ve got to hold them there.”

  “Roger, sir. Wilco.”

  As she responded, she realized what this might mean: the possibility of more casualties, which had been only an academic possibility a few hours ago. Stacy adjusted her orders and hit “execute” just as Alpha 4, another first platoon vehicle, stopped transmitting.

  No, no, no! This is going wrong! she thought as she received an audio alert from her recon platoon.

  With a quick flip of her hologlove, she pulled a tiled pattern of direct video feeds from the three remaining recon vehicles. There it was, in Ranger 2’s video feed: a line of T100s, and a lot of them.

  “Shit,” she said, barely masking the growing stress within her.

  Okay, time for plan number two, she thought. Ambush what we can, buy some time, let battalion know what’s going on, and get some help. Then it dawned on her, and her whole body tensed. We’re outnumbered. Way outnumbered.

  What was left of her two mech platoons were already firing as they moved rearward. The remnants of the scout platoon—only Ranger 2 and Ranger 3 at this point—were also moving quickly in a bid to remain among the living. The patchy fog and long stripes of smoke created by the vehicles’ smoke generators seemed totally out of place in the Philippine countryside. The particulate matter in the smoke wasn’t perfect, but along with the “stay-behinds,” it could often buy a brief head start in a game in which seconds mattered. The stay-behinds were rapidly inflating decoys that gave the thermal and visual signature of a full-sized vehicle and could fire a single kinetic shot. They didn’t always fool the enemy, but enough of hers did to help with her fallback plan.

  Stacy saw the remnants of first platoon withdrawing at an angle that, with a bit of luck, might even encourage the T100s to drive past Homer’s platoon and their railguns. If she could orchestrate a hasty ambush, the shock of Homer’s platoon torching a half-dozen T100s in the first couple seconds might stall the attack.

  Worth the risk, she thought to herself.

  While she had thought about releasing the fire command of the Sky Lance to the Scout Platoon Leader, he was dead, the rest of the platoon was hauling ass to the rear, and she really had no choice but to maintain control of the weapon at her level.

  She hit the fire icon on her holoscreen, and a few seconds later a far-off Sky Lance came to life. Thirty seconds later, the Sky Lance gave off a terrific shriek as it flew over her command post at treetop height. Even Kowalski seemed unnerved. The acoustic sensors of the command post enabled them to hear the now-distant missile boost to Mach 1.4 as it cleared the last terrain feature, and then the spectacular detonation.

  “Right in the kisser, that should get their attention,” she said with a slight smile of satisfaction.

  “Hell yeah!” added Kowalski.

  A low-flying Sentinel drone was lingering in the area and registered a near-perfect hit at the lead of the column. Three vehicles were confirmed destroyed, with two more possible.

  That … felt … good. She found herself surprised at the emotion.

  After a few agonizingly long minutes, her holoscreen finally showed that the remnants of her two mech platoons and the scouts were in their new positions, deploying their remaining defensive measures, and preparing for what was next. After the initial casualties, they had gotten away almost cleanly.

  But why? she thought. The stay-behinds are good, but not that good.

  Her command post was buzzing with activity, data transfers, and a gentle rocking as her vehicle moved to its new position. Stacy’s screen still indicated that the enemy was advancing, albeit a bit more slowly than she expected. The S2’s mini-screen popped up in the corner of her field of view, and Saga provided a brief analysis: the enemy was roughly battalion-sized and consisted mostly of T100 combat vehicles; and while the attack was reasonably well ordered, the enemy seemed to have a statistically higher than average rate of minor frictional issues, to include numbers of vehicles taking wrong turns, getting stuck (four were), or instances of inefficient firing at the same vehicle.

  Captain Olive’s only text comment was “Concur.”

  Good, maybe this means we’re fighting the B team, she thought. He sure doesn’t waste words.

  Reports came streaming in from both the shattered mech platoons and the scouts in the form of texts along the bottom of her screen, augmented video, and even Saga-assisted graphics on the terrain. Several of the enemy targeting drones were destroyed by the PDSs when they attempted to follow her forces. Saga was taking note.

  Time to move Homer and the heavies back to the ambush position, she decided.

  Lightly touching the platoon icon, she swept it to the new battle position, hit the “execute” icon, and went back to monitoring the situation in her AR helmet. Homer and his platoon would need to start moving almost immediately.

  For several minutes, Stacy busied herself with coordinating the fight and skipped through the video feeds from individual vehicles to gain a better sense of a battlefield she could not physically see. During a discussion with Lieutenant Dellert, her executive officer and second-in-command, her focus was disrupted by the unmistakable crack of a railgun in the distance.

  The heavies were engaging, but it was at the wrong place. She checked her screen as her mind screamed, Did I give the wrong command? Did I not hit “execute” with my hologlove? Did he not get the command?

  She then had a sickening realization: Homer hadn’t acknowledged the command to move, and she hadn’t noticed. Now there were no comms with him. He and his platoon were on their own.

  I hope I was clear, she thought as the knot in her stomach grew ever tighter.

  161045HSEP2033 (10:45 a.m. local time, September 16, 2033)

  Chinese National Assistance Task Force Headquarters, Manila

  Colonel Deng took a long drag on the unfiltered Chinese cigarette, held it in, and slowly and slyly exhaled it in the direction of Major General Yu, who hated smoke and who was animatedly moving from console to console in the command post. Comically, he had his right thumb wrapped in a napkin as once his cuticle began to bleed, it tended to take a while to stop.

  “Why are they acting so stupidly? Don’t they know better?” he nearly shouted.

  He should have waited, Deng thought to himself before he spoke. “Sir, they are doing the best they can. Our communications are mostly out, and they are operating on the last instructions they had. Your instructions were precise in every detail. Perhaps they are struggling to adapt based on changing circumstances.”

  It was a deliberate but subtle dig at Yu, delivered well enough not to arouse attention or appear insubordinate. Yu ignored it and continued whirling like a top as Deng slowly smoked his cigarette.

  1.6

  Lieutenant Colonel Gammon’s command post was a flurry of activity. This was shaping up to be a real fight on his battalion’s left flank with Captain Doss, his youngest and least experienced commander, at ground zero. Captain McGinnis was on the right, with the rest of the battalion spread out on a relatively narrow road back to Lingayen. This was a tough place to have to fight, and with this much on the table, he couldn’t afford a major mistake.

  All right Yu, good one, this is the area where I would have done it too. You get points for pragmatism, but not creativity, he thought to himself, noting that his right flank was more vulnerable than his left, which was why he put McGinnis there.

  He briefly contemplated his situation. With one of his Griffons now a smoking hole and several other of the smaller Shrike recon drones also getting picked off, Gammon’s access to a bird’s-eye view was mostly gone. He was slightly frustrated that his situational awareness was limited to what he was getting from Captain Doss’s feed, info from his other commanders, and the Brigade feed, which was essentially Saga’s output.

  “Apache 6, we can see that your heavy platoon is stationary and out of comms. What else do you need to keep the main body off them?”

  “I have this … for now, sir,” she said.

  Gammon heard some hesitation mixed with the determination in her voice.

  “Major Bennett, tee up one of the remaining Lances. Make it available to Apache 6.” Gammon then switched to a private channel with Bennett. “And be prepared to virtually assist her. Don’t let this get off the rails.”

  “Roger, sir, but I think she’s got it.”

  Gammon nodded and ended the conversation. Bennett had spent more time with the young Captain than he had. His instincts told him he could back off at least slightly, which freed him up for other tasks.

  Gammon was himself an excellent judge of people once he got to know them. The first troops he had commanded in combat nicknamed him “Da Man” due to his leadership, human insight, and tenacity, and the nickname stuck. It became a permanent fixture after he was court-martialed early in his career and survived.

  The board members at his proceedings chalked up his pointing a Shit Storm Generator at Brigadier General Nightingale’s headquarters during a staff meeting as a youthful indiscretion. While they did punish Gammon, they did not end his fledgling career for two reasons, according to legend anyway: they believed that anyone that could pull off such a stunt was both creative and fearless, and therefore a military asset to the nation; and secondly, most of the board members had been recipients of General Nightingale’s toxic leadership in the past and figured that the event was a form of cosmic justice. They had often believed General Nightingale was full of shit, and with the help of the young lieutenant, it was proven for all to see, and smell.

  1.7

  161120HSEP2033 (11:20 a.m. local time, September 16, 2033)

  Forward Edge of the Battle Area, Apache Company Sector

  Homer wasn’t alarmed, and with comms out, he knew he would have to make it up as he went. Captain Doss had given him clear orders: prevent an enemy penetration of the flank. And do it at all costs.

  Homer saw his wingman, Charlie 2, fifty meters to his right. They had carefully positioned themselves on the left of their platoon battle position while Charlie 3 and Charlie 4 had covered the right. The plan was to engage with two to three rounds each, move to alternate firing positions while their railguns cooled down and their capacitors recharged, and then repeat the process. The T100 armor would be no match for their brutally effective M20 railguns. Using only electrical energy, the M20s fired a five-kilogram depleted uranium penetrator at 3.7 kilometers per second out to ranges of up to nine kilometers. The energy discharge, however, heated them up in a hurry. Fire too quickly in succession and the system would simply melt.

  The moment was right. Homer fired and felt the recoil rock the whole vehicle. His first round was dead-on. At 3,642.7 meters, the round ripped through the lead T100’s armor and blew its innards out the back of the vehicle. The hapless T100 rolled to a stop, lifeless and gutted.

  “First kill.” Homer attempted to transmit the news to Captain Doss in vain.

  With their lead vehicle dead, the rest of the Chinese column had something else to contend with, and Charlie 2 began firing at the rearmost vehicle of the nine-vehicle line. Homer noted that Charlie 2’s round was low, and it took her a second round to score a hit. The remaining seven T100s now struggled to get around not only the wrecks to their front and rear but the ubiquitous irrigation ditches to their sides as well.

  Homer noted that he and Charlie 2 had boxed them in, and he quickly issued a supplementary firing command to the platoon.

  As the distinct crack of railguns drifted through the other noises of battle, Homer knew that Charlie 3 and Charlie 4 were also firing now. However, they had been unable to lay as good of a trap and had only three T100s in the kill zone when they took their first shots at them.

  Homer heard a deep thud to his left and then heard a rain of dirt and debris hitting his hull. The first thud was followed quickly by an enemy round passing less than three meters above him. As expected, the T100s were not sitting passively in the kill box; they were now actively trying to kill him and his platoon. After less than two minutes of firing at maximum rate, the platoon’s M20 railguns were roasting and it was time to move with two vehicles providing cover while the other two moved. Six more T100s were wrecks, and one more was stuck. As Homer prepared to issue the order, Charlie 3 reported that she had taken a glancing hit in the track while Charlie 4 took one that penetrated one of his main capacitors. Homer assessed that for the moment; the platoon was still at least partially combat-effective, and he attempted to relay the information to Captain Doss, again to no avail.

  Homer changed the plan, gave the signal using backup line-of-sight laser-based comm links, and all four vehicles activated their countermeasures. The stay-behind decoys rapidly inflated in a choreographed movement as the smoke generators began spewing a cloud of acrid smoke. The platoon was on the move back to their alternate firing positions, or so Homer thought.

  “Immobile” was the immediate message from Charlie 3. Unfortunately for her, the glancing hit to the track was worse than expected. A damaged—and now thrown—left track was likely a death sentence for her if they left her.

  Homer again quickly recalculated his plan. Charlie 3’s armament was still fully functional, and while Charlie 4 was mobile, his railgun was less effective due to the damaged capacitor. Homer decided to send Charlie 4 back into position while he and Charlie 2 moved positions they had to pick on the fly. In the short run, this wasn’t too bad, but Homer knew his next move was going to be more problematic.

  Charlie 3 and Charlie 4 continued to engage the enemy, and Homer told Charlie 4 to keep firing to distract the enemy lest they concentrate all their fire on Charlie 3. Homer calculated that the Chinese would figure out quickly that Charlie 4’s railgun rounds weren’t penetrating anymore, but at least it would buy Charlie 3 a few more seconds.

  With no cool-down time, the next message from Charlie 3 was predictable: “M20 overheating. Request override.”

  “Approved” was Homer’s quick response. It wouldn’t matter much if she kept the weapon from melting if she ended up dead.