Right. It seemed like every tactical disadvantage was thrown at the Rangers, and even the elements that appeared to favor them became liabilities when factoring in the superhuman powers of the D-17s.
Taylor was scanning the surrounding land. “What about drones? No one’s mentioned those at a place that’s supposedly developing the future of warfare. I bet they’d be an asset to you.”
“I’m sure they would,” said Miller. “I’d love to have a whole goddamn fleet of them to kamikaze the line of D-17s. But it’s a hard thing to simulate in training. And once you bring in a weapon like that, you need to match it with a countermeasure for the other side and then shit gets complicated. This training is not about force integration. It’s a street brawl.”
Brodie said, “Tell us about the siege.”
Miller looked at him. “Who told you about that? Greer?”
Brodie nodded. “He also told us that was the day he started abusing substances.”
“I know. I was there.”
“Did you intervene?”
“No. I was dead. Once you’re out, you’re not supposed to interact with anyone.” He added, “And even if I hadn’t been… my men were at the breaking point. I let them do what they needed to do in that moment.”
Taylor asked, “Why did the bots change tactics that one time? We’ve been led to understand they can’t learn, can’t draw on prior experience to alter their behavior.”
“That’s correct,” said Miller. “They were simply reacting to somethingwechanged.” The sergeant squinted against the harsh sun as he looked out at the sand berm where the enemy had emerged sixty-seven different times to stalk and kill his men. “We’ve got a gearhead in our platoon, Corporal Chris Reyes. No formal education, but his dadwas an electrical engineer, and they used to disassemble machines—computers, kitchen appliances, whatever they got their hands on—and build new things out of them. So this guy, he decides he wants to make an EMP bomb. Takes our EMP barrel attachments, mods them, hooks them to a small genny and a detonator. The idea is, when the bastards are in range, we hit the switch, and they all drop like puppets without strings.” He laughed bitterly. “And we bag our first win.”
“I can’t imagine that was within training regs,” said Brodie.
“Not even close. But the men were tired and pissed off. And I thought it would be a good morale booster. Plus, a fun surprise. No one knew about the bomb other than me and Reyes and his roommate. The three of us staged it here in secret well before the exercise. I knew I’d get my ass chewed by command, but I didn’t care.”
Then it dawned on Brodie what the siege was about. Taylor, thinking along the same lines, said, “The D-17s knew the bomb was there, and they stayed beyond its range.”
Miller nodded. “We underestimated them. Again. Turns out these things have the capacity to pick up a wide spectrum of electromagnetic energy on their visual sensors. They saw the EMP bomb even though it was behind a concrete wall. Not only that, but they somehow used this capability to calculate the projected range of the bomb and then parked their flat metal asses just outside of it. No one ever taught the tin men what a ‘siege’ was. But they understood we needed food, water, and sleep to keep going, and that they could outlast us.”
Jesus. This kept getting worse. All the robots needed now were rocket boosters out their asses for flight, and maybe a mind-control ray. Brodie asked, “And did you get disciplined?”
Miller shook his head. “Captain Pickman was angry. At first. Then he realized General Morgan loved the ingenuity and brashness of it, and he changed his tune. The captain leans whichever way the strongest wind is blowing.” He added, “The truth is I didn’t invite Captain Pickman this morning. I’m sorry I misled you. But I wanted to speak freely.”
Taylor said, “We value your honesty, Sergeant. And it sounds like you don’t trust your commanding officer.”
“I’m not sure about trust, Ms. Taylor. I haven’t really had to test that. But I sure as hell don’t like him. And here’s something else you need to understand. Outside of DEVCOM, you’ve only got a four-person officer corps at Camp Hayden. General Morgan, Colonel Howe, Major Klasky, and Captain Pickman. But that doesn’t stop them from forming factions. Pickman is General Morgan’s guy. Morgan likes that the captain is in direct communication with me and my platoon, and the general oftentimes goes around Howe and Klasky, which of course pisses them off.”
This place had more drama and infighting than junior high. Brodie said, “General Morgan thinks you can beat the tin men. He told us he pushes you, and that he is not very popular.”
Miller nodded. “He pushes us, and he uses Captain Pickman’s hands. They’re a real dynamic duo. Morgan’s the type of general you dread serving under. He’s arrogant, he’s disconnected from what’s happening on the ground, and he uses his men to try to prove something about himself. And Pickman is the worst kind of junior officer. Ass-kissing those above him and condescending to those below him, including the NCOs who know a hell of a lot more than he does.”
Sergeant First Class Miller wasn’t kidding about being honest. The man was understandably bitter, and had seen firsthand how the punishing training regimen was wreaking both physical and psychological damage on his men.
Taylor asked, “And what about Colonel Howe and Major Klasky?”
Miller replied, “They’re more by the book. They believe the directive coming down from on high, or at least pretend they do for the sake of their careers. Personally, I think Pickman’s thrown his lot in with the wrong faction. Then again, one benefit of being enlisted is you can sit out a lot of this political bullshit.”
Brodie informed Miller that he and Taylor had both been enlistedsoldiers—E3s—and seen combat, she in Afghanistan, he in Iraq. Miller was particularly interested in Brodie’s Iraq service. “Where and when did you serve?”
“End of oh-three and most of oh-four. Third Stryker Brigade. Mainly Baghdad area, but the most action I saw was in the Second Battle of Fallujah.”
Miller looked him in the eyes. “Life’s strange, Mr. Brodie.”
“How’s that?”
“I was in Fallujah a few years back for the sequel.”
The Third Battle of Fallujah had taken place in 2016, when the Iraqi Army successfully wrested control of the city from ISIS. Brodie remembered the news coverage, and how it had been retraumatizing for some of his old battle buddies—seeing the same city and the same streets that their friends had died to liberate, now a dozen years later back in the hands of a new jihadi army even crazier than the last. History wasn’t supposed to repeat itself that quickly. He said to Miller, “I thought we just provided air support for that operation.”
