Onslaught

by Chris James

  Napier looked at Sir Terry Tidbury and said: “Sir Terry, you wished to discuss another potential threat, yes?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Terry replied. He stabbed at a pad embedded in the table in front of him and Webb wondered if the General knew he was a relic. To Webb, it was a mystery how anyone could function without a lens in their eye. The General and Head of the British Armed Forces made his case by describing his concerns. The contents of Zayan’s data-pod replaced the graphics of compromised coastal defences. Crispin Webb sensed the other attendees give due consideration out of politeness more than actual interest—Sir Terry was after all an experienced soldier whose key role in the twilight of his career was the defence of the British Isles. The British Armed Forces remained the last reminder of times past: decades after the union had been dissolved, the Home Nations of England, Scotland and Wales still maintained joint armed forces, with a fudge whereby the English king remained nominal head of the British Armed Forces, but the Scottish and Welsh presidents enjoyed ‘privileged commander’ status.

  Sir Terry concluded his presentation: “I would like to make an official request to increase autonomous combat aircraft production in the event this threat materialises.”

  His remark elicited scoffs and headshakes around the table. Pamela Sutherland muttered, “Not going to happen.”

  Napier spoke: “Sir Terry, while I appreciate your concern and accept your arguments, numerous independent super AIs have confirmed that our current ACA coverage is suffici—”

  Sir Terry broke in: “We ran a war game on this and—”

  And was interrupted by the head of MI5, David Perkins: “But that’s never going to come about. All forecasts insist the Caliphate doesn’t have any designs on Europe.”

  Sir Terry dropped his voice: “Perhaps we shouldn’t rely so much on this technology, which does no more than tell us what we want to hear. If this data is accurate, it places a vast and powerful army at the disposal of a dictator—”

  “That’s a massive ‘if’, Sir Terry,” Perkins shot back, throwing his hands out on the table. “All super-AI units in Europe and America are more than capable of extrapolating the probabilities of millions of scenarios, and any risk of a military confrontation with the Persian Caliphate is pretty far down the list.”

  “The key word here is ‘artificial’, Mr Perkins. I don’t trust these things to take account of human unpredictability.”

  “Really?” Perkins replied. “Those ‘things’ as you call them know us better than we know ourselves. They can predict what choices we will make. Do you know that the super AI in the Health and Safety department last year had an accident-prediction accuracy rate of one hundred percent? It forecast how many people would die in domestic accidents—everything from falling down the stairs, falling off ladders, to kitchen fires—and got the number exactly right for a country of forty million people. With respect, General, if the super AI says the risk of a military confrontation with the Persian Caliphate is less than eight percent, that’s because it simply isn’t going to happen. Unless you think you know better than the most sophisticated artificial intelligence yet created?”

  Sir Terry didn’t respond.

  Perkins turned to Napier and said: “I believe we should accept the super-AI position: that there is actually a far greater probability that this data-pod is in fact planted information designed to raise tensions with either India or Russia, or to scare Europe, and the data it contains is simply false.”

  Crispin Webb hadn’t enjoyed a COBRA meeting this much in a long time. He sat next to Perkins and could feel the heat coming from him. Sir Terry sat at the opposite corner and stared at his antagonist with unblinking eyes.

  Napier spoke in a level voice: “Thank you, David. Sir Terry, for the time being we have little choice regarding our military defences against a supposed Caliphate threat, given the funds we need to support our civil defences against nature. Perhaps you could approach the Americans and enquire about the possibility of extending our current autonomous combat aircraft leasing arrangements with them?”

  Sir Terry glanced at the Prime Minister and nodded.

  Napier said: “Okay, then. Thanks everyone for coming along. Hopefully there’ll be no more high tides for a while and we’ll meet next in a week’s time, as usual.”

  Chairs slid back on the wooden floor as the attendees stood. Wright and Sutherland left first, and then Napier looked at Webb and said: “Wait outside would you, Crispin? I’d like to have a word with the General.”

  Webb replied, “Of course,” and caught a frown fade on Perkins’ face as the men left the room. Webb saw Perkins glance back and throw Sir Terry a half-smile of nonchalance before he pulled the door closed.

  Chapter 6

  10.08 Tuesday 17 January 2062

  ONCE WEBB AND the others had left the room, Napier turned to Sir Terry and asked: “Why are you really so worried, General?”

  Sir Terry sat back in his chair and replied: “I’m not sure I can explain, PM. A hunch? A feeling?”

  “But a hunch or a feeling is hardly evidence, is it?” Napier respected her most senior general, but military issues were almost inconsequential compared to the very real damage rising sea levels were doing to the English coastline. The thirty thousand British Army soldiers whom the country could afford were mostly employed in coastal defence.

  “Maybe I’m getting too long in the tooth for this job?” he replied. “Perhaps you should replace me? I can recommend a few lieutenant-generals who would likely find it a lot easier to get along with Squonk and the other super AIs than I do.” He paused and fixed Napier with a hard stare. “You can have my paper resignation within an hour.”

  Napier smiled back at him and decided to be honest: “I’ve always wondered about you Forces people. You join the Army or the Navy or the RAF knowing that there hasn’t been war in Europe in over a century, and I often speculate what you expect to get out of it. How many of you truly have some ancient, martial desire to fight, when you know you’ll probably spend your careers training for an eventuality which will not come to pass, and helping out with natural disasters and such-like?

  “But that data-pod has piqued my interest, General, although even if true I don’t expect for a moment Europe could be a target. And you are correct: we rely too much on artificial intelligence, to a degree. So, for the foreseeable future I have absolutely no intention of accepting your resignation. If there’s one thing I have come to rely on, Sir Terry, it is your reliability, which I need especially in peacetime. I haven’t forgotten that AI malfunction three years ago and how you managed the Army’s emergency response so well. How many lives did you save that day? Five thousand?”

  Sir Terry’s left eyebrow dipped. “I didn’t save any lives; the men under my command did the work, PM.”

  Napier smiled and said: “The King decided to bestow his gratitude on you, Sir Terry.” Then, her smile faded and her tone hardened. “But today, I have enough problems in my inbox, and I value you far too much to let you go. Keep being suspicious, General. Keep distrusting our artificial intelligence. I’ll be honest with you: as I said, I don’t see any real risk and agree with Perkins that the data-pod is most probably planted to scare us or someone else. Can you believe, with their centuries of mutual hatred, that Sunnis and Shias could ever work together to construct what the data-pod claims?”

  “We don’t have enough data on what life is actually like inside the Caliphate. And we shouldn’t believe a word that does come out through official channels.”

  “Agreed, although I don’t think it will matter. These islands face far greater challenges, which are very real.” Napier paused, wondering if Sir Terry’s concerns really had any basis in reality. Her thin eyebrows rose and she said: “I think I’ll have Crispin leak this data-pod business to the media. In addition to the coastal defence problems, unemployment is up again, and the legislation to restrict those bloody gaming companies is, I strongly suspect, going to get beaten to within an in
ch of its life in the debate this evening. The government’s also under huge media pressure to increase the Universal Basic Income, for which there is also no money. This little potential threat might give the media something else to talk about.”

  “Very well, PM.”

  “If they approach you for a quote, stick to what you told us today and feel free to be as controversial as you like. That might get them all riled up.”

  Sir Terry smiled and said: “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Chapter 7

  15.58 Saturday 4 February 2062

  SIR TERRY TIDBURY stood and watched Lieutenant General Studs Stevens of the USAF picking at the buffet food on the table in front of them. He recalled their first meeting eighteen years previously, on a NATO training exercise during a bitterly cold February in Germany. They had been captains then: Stevens had commanded the last exercise ever to involve piloted combat aircraft, supporting Captain Tidbury’s ground assault to take a hill occupied by the forces of a fictitious enemy which employed tactics strikingly similar to the Russian military. They’d stayed in touch as their careers advanced and as their families grew, and now they both shared the same concerns.

  Stevens glanced up and responded to Terry’s stare. “Not eating, Earl?”

  Sir Terry shook his head, “Not hungry, Suds,” and smiled despite the joke being so old. Their friendship formed during the debrief after that first exercise, when Captain Tidbury looked askance at Captain Stevens and told him that no one in the world with the forename of ‘Studs’ could possibly be taken seriously, and declared that in future he would call him ‘Suds’ as it was a less-embarrassing word for him to enunciate. At once, Studs fired back that someone with such a high forehead and even teeth had no business being a soldier in the British Army, and should in fact be playing fusion jazz in New Orleans, so Studs would call him Earl, after his favourite jazz player, Earl Klugh.

  The two men moved closer among the other attendees that milled around the buffet tables. Sir Terry held a paper plate with two sausage rolls and a small collection of various cheeses, meats and fruits speared by cocktail sticks, while Stevens sipped from a coffee cup.

  “C’mon,” Stevens said, indicating a free cocktail table next to one of the large conference room walls.

  The two men made their way through the politicians and military personnel, nodding acknowledgments and swapping hellos.

  Studs looked down at Sir Terry and said: “Hell of a decision for the Council to take.”

  Sir Terry grunted his agreement. “Not really a surprise though, is it? They follow what the artificial intelligence tells them, because it tells them what they want to hear.”

  Studs eyed Sir Terry. “Earl, do you think it’s actually possible that you and I are so outdated that we’ve become relics? That artificial intelligence is the smartest thing ever created. It’s got access to every goddamn bit of information ever, and here we are treating it like some dumbass piece of junk.”

  “Yes, it is probably right, Suds. And that’s what I detest about it: its bloody probabilities. Eight percent? One in fourteen? Seriously? And these people think that makes them safe?”

  “There are too many ‘ifs’. The Caliph keeps on insisting that he only wants peace, but—guess what?—on the other hand, he may or may not have this vast armada of ACAs and warriors—”

  “Listen to the pair of you,” said a new voice.

  Stevens turned around, shook the outstretched hand, and gave its owner a warm smile. “Hey, Bill.”

  Admiral William Rutherford of the Royal Navy, tall, upright and severe, gave a short nod back and his defined cheek bones rose in a restricted smile.

  Next to him, as though the other half of a comedy double act, stood the squat form of Air Chief Marshal Raymond Thomas. “Hello, Lieutenant General,” the airman growled, shaking Stevens’ hand.

  Sir Terry also shook Admiral Rutherford’s hand and then Air Marshal Thomas’s. Sir Terry said: “Oh, look. A sailor, soldier and an airman walk into a bar, and the barman says—”

  But the Admiral interrupted him, his expression stiffening: “You two still think that planted evidence could actually be real? You heard what Hassleman said, and all the chiefs agree, the ‘what-ifs’ are far too improbable. What are you going to get—”

  “Bill,” Sir Terry said, “it’s not about ‘getting’ anything. Do you seriously believe I can’t see how everyone thinks I must be mad? You can be certain I hope I’m wrong, but—”

  “The vast majority say that you are wrong, TT,” the Admiral broke in again, and Sir Terry saw Suds catch the underlying tension.

  “We should be producing more arms, Bill,” Sir Terry said flatly. “A lot more.”

  “Yes, indeed we should, especially ACAs,” the Air Chief Marshal said in support.

  “You know how that would play politically,” Rutherford replied. “Floods everywhere as sea levels rise; unemployment going through the roof thanks to the vulture gaming companies and those godforsaken replicators, and the government starts throwing what little spare money it has into weapons’ production? Besides, if—and it is a very vast and implacable ‘if’—the Caliphate has managed to produce a force of that size, our role would be purely as spectators to a potentially entertaining set-to between the Caliphate and India, or the Caliphate and Russia.”

  Stevens said: “Ample Annie regards Russia as a greater threat to NATO than any other potential belligerent.”

  The Admiral replied: “And she’s right.”

  Sir Terry sighed, sensing how strongly the American and the Admiral thought him mistaken. “I disagree. I think we could find ourselves in a tricky situation. It’s a feeling I can’t shake, and I’m not overly concerned what others think of me for voicing my concerns.”

  Air Chief Marshal Thomas said: “I agree with TT. We should be increasing ACA production as much as possible, in the event he is right.”

  Terry looked at the airman with irritated sympathy. Like most air forces in the world, the RAF had been reduced to little more than an appendage to the British Army. It no longer employed any pilots as all air transport, from combat ACAs to troop transportation to medical evacuation, was managed entirely by super artificial intelligence. Thomas enjoyed the rank of Air Chief Marshal only as a sop to tradition. If the RAF were completely subsumed into the British Army again, the size of the force would entitle Thomas to the rank of Lieutenant Colonel at the most.

  Admiral Rutherford nodded to Terry and said: “It’s only intel, TT. Information in a data-pod which might very well be false, designed to panic either us or, more likely, those countries closer to Caliphate territory. According to our best research, taking together everything we’ve been able to find out, we already have an idea of the Caliphate’s likely armaments. And we have two naval battle groups—the Ronald Reagan carrier group in the Mediterranean and the Roosevelt carrier group in the Arabian—ready to respond at once if the Third Caliph gets any silly ideas.”

  Stevens looked at Sir Terry and said: “You know what, Earl? I think the Admiral’s got a point. With all those SkyWatchers and PeaceMakers backing the navy up, Europe ain’t in any real danger.”

  “Exactly,” the Admiral concurred.

  “I disagree,” Thomas said, the flesh around his face wobbling like jelly.

  Sir Terry looked at each of his antagonists in turn and said: “You are right, probably… I don’t know. Let’s wait until next week’s North Atlantic Council meeting. Perhaps we’ll know more then. I’d be delighted to have confirmation that the data-pod was planted. Honestly, nothing would make me happier than to have everyone here laughing at me for overreacting.”

  The Admiral said: “You’re going to look absolutely ridiculous, Sir Terry, as the NAC meets week after week, and nothing whatsoever transpires from that damnable data-pod.”

  Chapter 8

  21.47 Sunday 5 February 2062

  MARIA PHILLIPS FORCED the anger down as her father repeated: “I’ve told you, they’re just stupid
rumours. Ain’t nothing going to happen. The whole country’s skint, NATO’s skint, and this is the only way the military can bleed a bit more cash out of the government. Gets right on my bloody nerves, the constant whinging—”

  Martin, her older brother, broke in: “But it says here the navies report more ACA activity than usual off the North Afri—”

  “Don’t mean nothing,” their father insisted, continuing to shuffle the deck of cards. “What’s the Caliphate got to do with us, eh? It hasn’t bothered anyone else in years, and what it does in its own backyard ain’t no-one else’s business. You shouldn’t listen to those right-wing hawks, young fella. The Caliph is the best thing that ever happened in that part of the world, and if you want to know what it used to be like, just ask your Gran.”

  Martin shrugged his shoulders in indifference and picked up another jelly baby from the bowl on the table. The jelly baby lost its head first. “The report just says—”

  “Isolationism works very well for all concerned, lad,” his father interrupted again, stopping shuffling and wagging a knowledgeable finger. “But you see how the hawks operate? First, one of the generals is all over the place saying we need to find the money to manufacture more weapons. Then, when that falls on deaf ears because we’ve heard it all before, suddenly up pops reports of our supposed ‘enemies’ showing ‘potentially aggressive’ behaviour.” Anthony Phillips started throwing cards down in front of them, one at a time, face up. “That’s the way it’s always been, lad. First jack deals.”

  “Don’t you think you’re being just a bit cynical, Dad?” Maria asked as she finished drawing the scoring grid on the paper in front of her.

  “What cynicism?” Anthony replied.

  A jack landed in front of Maria. She collected the face-up cards and took the pack from her father. She shuffled, began dealing, and said: “Some people are worried there might actually be a war.”