Scarcity

by Robert Calbeck

  Newer, completely automated surface to air missiles batteries, which the men affectionately called “Uncle SAM,” were positioned periodically along the massive pipeline to prevent China from interrupting its production with a bombing raid. A single hole could take days to fix even during wartime, meaning thousands of barrels of oil lost—depending on the location of the hole. Oil meant human lives saved or taken, the more oil they had, the more lives they took from China, and the more lives they saved from their own ranks. Their practice assault targeted a much older, manned-SAM site that was being decommissioned.

  A light snow fell. Luthor could barely see the men in his own unit. They wore shock white flight suits that blended in seamlessly with the rest of the landscape. Originally designed for the Green Berets and the Seals, the 501st had appropriated the specialized cold gear when they began intensive training. The suit itself was lined with heating coils, allowing it to be thinner and more mobile than standard Arctic clothing. The added mobility allowed them to carry more material and food and move quicker in the difficult terrain. The solid-state battery packs that heated them were designed to be recharged almost instantly at any command cube that dropped in with them.

  They stayed well away from the pipe, even in the dead of winter above the arctic circle, stealth was pivotal. Standard procedure was to turn off the heating coils two hours prior to the assault to minimize the heat signature. An active heating coil was a death sentence with the accurate Chinese infrared targeting systems. More than a few were not following protocol since this was only an exercise. Luthor himself feared punishment more than the cold and had turned his off an hour ago.

  Chaz joined Luthor and Doyle and dropped his comm. He yelled through his mask into the wind, “so what’s your take on all this bullshit?” He was referring to their training. It had been the main topic of conversation. Talking helped keep them awake and so long as they weren’t using electronic transmissions the wind kept their stealth.

  “I don’t know, man. I just want hot shower and a cup of coffee,” said Doyle.

  “That’s what I’m talking about. Ten, wanna rig one of these batteries to make us a few cups?” Chaz patted the batteries that flanked the large Rocket Launcher on his back.

  Luthor shook his head. “It would take too much energy. I would rather be heated for a day than boil water.”

  “You’re a smart son of a bitch, you know that?”

  “That’s what they tell me.”

  “With all those brains, have you figured out where we’re going yet? We hitting the North Sea? Siberian oil fields?”

  “My guess is Antarctica.”

  “Anti’s a bitch. I don’t want to die there,” Doyle said bitterly.

  “Me neither,” Chaz replied, “but I don’t see why they would be training this many of us if we weren’t hitting Anti.”

  “I think you’re right. From the look of it, it’s going to be a big fucking operation.”

  “What have you heard?”

  “Even Sarge doesn’t know much, but I have been hearing talk of a lot of shit getting shipped south. They are massing troops near Cape Horn.”

  “Are you thinking we’re going to be a part of a D-Day style invasion?” asked Doyle.

  Chaz slapped the insignia on his shoulder. “Just look at the name of our unit. The 501st is hardly a random designation. I bet we’re gonna be dropped in to hit priority targets ahead of some big ol’ main invasion.”

  “And you call me the smart one, Chaz. That’s the best theory I’ve heard yet.”

  “I ain’t as smart as you, but I also ain’t afraid to kiss some old-fashioned ass.”

  Luthor laughed, but it was swallowed by the wind. Rapid beeping chirped in his comm.

  “Damn I hate these fucking emergency drills. Why don’t they just grenade us again to wake us up?” Chaz said. “I gotta get back in formation.” He jogged away.

  A voice popped into Luthor’s ear. It was startlingly clear, despite the wind. “This is General Stutsman. Enemy fighters inbound. This is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill. Do not let them hit the pipeline. Beware pilot ejections and possible ground troops.”

  Pilots, that meant they were sending MiGs. Slower and dumber than long-range drones, but packing a lot more firepower. The Chinese had refitted the venerable fighters with a short-range drone package. Luthor had read that each fighter could mount up to six drones depending on their loadout and range. The drone swarm turned the old rigs into a formidable enemy. Still, the MiGs handled like a model T compared to the Ferrari of modern drone fighters; they had the severe limitation of keeping G forces low enough for their pilots to remain conscious in flight. The Chinese only sent them on the lower priority targets; soft targets where they could lose men and equipment but still inflict damage. They had sent MiGs to raid the Texas oil reserves early in the war. If the Chinese had anything to waste, it was pilots and rusty Russian fighters. Losses were irrelevant if they could destroy oil production and hamper the Western war machine.

  The comm crackled again. “Defensive positions!” Garcia shouted. “Focus those drones, let Uncle SAM handle the fighters.”

  Sean Marrison dropped to the ground and began prepping their drone, Claptrap to meet the intruders. Luthor started running with the rest of his unit toward the pipeline. It would be the target of the MiGs. Luthor was glad he hadn’t cheated with his heat pack, the drones wouldn’t see him.

  Luthor seized his GI ice pick and started banging at the frozen ground, tearing a deep, narrow hole. He pulled the pin on a grenade and shoved it deep inside. The permafrost made it almost impossible to dig a fox hole in any other way. He flattened himself on the ice as the grenade exploded, leaving a crater with a half meter radius. It wasn’t optimal, but it served as a passable cover in short notice.

  Fireballs lanced up in the distance as missiles automatically targeted the enemy planes and drones that had failed to transmit any proper digital clearance code. Most of the pipeline’s defenses had already been refitted with the Coalition’s most agile missiles, improving their odds of eliminating even the nimblest drones; the ancient cold war fighters would be easy targets.

  Missiles fired from more distant stations as the enemy approached; Uncle SAM released his hot fury. Luthor quickly checked his magazine, wondering what good it and his compliment of C-4 would do against Asian air power.

  As soon as the last of the missiles departed into the grey sky, others started coming back. The closest SAM site exploded in a spectacular fireball that billowed up above the ice. The heat from the fireball momentarily warmed Luthor’s face. More missiles impacted around the charred remains, accurate only in their redundancy.

  In front of him, a jet of smoke shot up from another impromptu fox-hole as Chaz fired a micro-missile. Its compact propellant rapidly accelerated it toward a nearby MiG. The howling fighter swerved and spewed its countermeasures to no avail. The American-made missile ignored the tempting bait and soared straight into the rear stabilizer. A spectacular ball of light splashed the overcast sky, the ruined fuselage expelled from the inferno. Doyle whooped from a nearby crater at the destroyed aircraft. They were flying lower than Luthor expected, evidently within range of Chaz’s rockets. They’d sacrificed the safety of height to stay under coalition radar.

  More MiGs began exploding as Uncle SAM defended his homeland. Fighters thumped in the sky like fireworks. Smaller sparks appeared around them as their drone escorts failed to escape.

  One drone came in low and hot. Luther leaned against the lip of his crater and depressed the trigger. He knew it was improbable that any rounds would hit the computerized bastard, but he shot at it anyway. Tiny rockets sprayed out from its wings in retaliation. Luthor ducked as explosive death raced his way, trying to maximize his limited cover. Doyle valiantly kept firing as the drone approached. The unmanned craft burst into flame and crashed only meters from Luthor, crushing his ears with the thunderous noise. Dust, dirt, and melting ice were ejected into the sky. Still ducki
ng in his meager fox hole, debris rained down on him. The melted ice felt thick and sticky as it splattered his back, instantly refreezing.

  Luthor’s ears rang horribly. Fires raged all around him. It looked like the airstrike was over. The fires gave his cover a red glow. Except it wasn’t a glow. Somebody’s blood had splattered everywhere. Luthor wiped the disgusting gore coating his hands on the ground and reloaded.

  Luthor gingerly scanned the air again. The only fires were coming from the ground. He crawled out onto the snow-covered tundra, following the trail of blood splatter to a nearby crater. A burned body lay contorted just outside. One of the rockets had found it’s mark. Nothing was left except for the charred boots. The crusted remains resembled the leftovers of a campfire. A glint of steel drew his eye. Dog-tags. They belonged to Doyle. Doyle had been one of his best friends.

  Luthor stood up and screamed at the sky in anger.

  As if in answer, another strike fighter’s twin jet engines drowned out his cry. Luthor stood his ground as it came into view. Tearing his trachea with his screams he poured bullets towards the horrible machine. Luthor wanted the pilot and the plane to both spontaneously combust with the force of his fury. The MiG opened up its 30 mm cannon, and Luthor realized how stupid it was to take on a fighter with an assault rifle. The impacts of bullets raced inexorably toward Luthor in a line from the MiG’s machine gun. A pair of hands grabbed him and pulled him out of the path of the strafing aircraft. Luthor fell on his back into another foxhole.

  “Shit Ten, you got a death wish? Get down!” said the occupant of the foxhole. It was Martinez.

  “Doyle’s dead!” Luthor shouted.

  The fighter shot two more missiles and pulled up hard, going vertical just beyond their fox hole.

  “Don’t get stupid and follow him, loco. Let Tio SAM do the work.”

  The missiles engulfed the SAM in fire, but not before it had retaliated with a missile of its own. A contrail followed the deadly warhead as it hunted the fleeing MiG. After two tense seconds, the aircraft exploded with the thunder of a thousand fireworks.

  Martinez exulted over the pyrotechnics, clapping Luthor hard on the back. “I told you SAM would take care of him. Too bad he had to take one for the team.” The twisted wreckage of the surface to air missile site smoldered in the cold.

  Chunks of busted MiG rained down around them. Blackened metal shards impaled the ground like confetti. Luthor no longer heard the roar of jets, just the howl of the wind. It seemed the battle was over.

  This was supposed to be a training exercise. Luthor left the hole, an emptiness in the pit of his stomach. It felt like the world was going to end and there was absolutely nothing he could do to change it.

  His comm buzzed with an incoming message. “This is General Stutzman. Excellent work men! I am receiving data from the pipeline that it was not damaged, while Uncle SAM is reporting twelve downed fighters and their compliment of drones. Helluva job. You should be proud of yourselves in your resounding victory. Scout for any ejections and report to the rendezvous for immediate pick up. Consider your training exercise complete.”

  Resounding victory? Luthor thought. We did nothing except try not to die—and not very successfully. The auto SAMs did all the work.

  The comm crackled again but this time with Garcia’s voice. “Report in. Casualty report.” It was obvious, even through the mic, that he was furious. They each sounded off in turn, Luthor reporting that Doyle had died. In total they had 8 dead and 6 others wounded in the skirmish. They clustered back together, the wounded being treated by Martinez, the unit’s medic.

  “This is bullshit,” Garcia said, “we lose eight men, for what? So our Auto-targeting missiles can shoot those fuckers? We didn’t need to be here at all, but he calls it a victory.”

  Chaz, normally genial, fumed. “This ‘victory’ isn’t about the lives of men, Sarge. It never was.” It was rarely spoken, but everyone knew what the war was really about; it was about trying to secure more oil than the Chinese and spend less. Simple as that.

  “They don’t give a shit about our lives.” Marri threw two dog tags on the ice in front of him. “You know what these men’s lives are worth? About half a fucking barrel of oil.”

  Luthor dropped his head. The stark truth was that the army measured lives in terms of oil. A single barrel of it held the equivalent energy of the combined labor of 8 men working for an entire year. That meant if hundreds of men died but they managed to blow up a couple planes, then it was an even trade. Oil flew planes, drove supply lines, and powered tanks; men ate food, required shelter, and protected the oil. Men were replaceable, oil increasingly, was not. Doyle and the others in all their humor, friendship, and life had been distilled to about twenty pathetic gallons of crude each.

  “I bet the General’s poopin’ his pants over this one.” Jake said bitterly. “They lose twelve planes and an assload of drones, and we lose a few expendable paratroopers? It’s a great trade for him.”

  “It’s a pretty shitty trade for Doyle.” Luthor said, charred boots filling his mind’s eye. His very thoughts seemed to be soaked in Doyle’s blood. Nobody responded.

  #

  Aurora, Illinois, United States of the West

  Qwiz cracked another two-liter of Dew from the refrigerator. It was an expensive way to keep hydrated, but Mountain Dew was an absolute necessity for good coding and, Qwiz hoped, good research. He rebelled against his mother’s Asian sensibilities and drank it straight from the bottle. The Vanguard would not be shackled by convention in pursuit of justice, and neither would Qwiz.

  The mysterious email had been the key to entering Europe’s network. Whoever pjrangpart was had a high level of access, giving him a good chance to find something important. Over the last week he had begun following up on some excellent leads. There were isolated cases of disappearances over the last few years, all attributed to kidnappings. These particular cases had popped up on Qwiz’s depth search because they had been high profile individuals whose cases still had not been solved. Perhaps this same person had attempted to make Luthor disappear, but failed. Qwiz had named this mysterious person or group, the Stalker. It seemed a fitting name for an invisible European villain who made people disappear. But there was no way to get much further than that. The government of the European Union was just so frustratingly enormous. There were bureaucrats just to keep track of the number of bureaucrats. There were the executives in the military, officials to oversee the carbon police, the Carbon Enforcement Agency itself, and European Intelligence; not to mention the thousands of delegates, congressmen, officials, and employees of more sub-agencies than Norquist could have counted in a year. All of them probably had the clout to arrange a hit on Luthor and each of them could have different motives for trying to steal his research.

  Qwiz struggled to narrow down the vast possibilities for the identity of the Stalker. He found very quickly that posting anything required a CPI scan, so did editing anything. All Qwiz could do was read what had already been posted. Qwiz was not all-powerful with code, he still couldn’t fake or hack a CPI chip. Chip scans added security without destroying the functionality of the network for traveling officials. So Qwiz began reading all the emails he could find and with enough computer wizardry to make Bill proud, even gained access to live conversations.

  Qwiz clacked out some code to flag the most highly encrypted messages. It seemed logical that whoever was chasing Luthor couldn’t be working alone and would try to avoid attention. Selfishly stealing a world-saving invention didn’t make many friends. That meant a high level of security. The one benefit to living in a society more concerned with energy efficiency than performance was the level of encryption used. Encryption powerful enough to deter his efforts would have completely bogged down most modern computers focused on unadulterated efficiency. That encryption would make it impossible to communicate in real time, so it was almost never used. But Qwiz’s laptop, while not as powerful as his desktop, was old, fast, and therefore an
energy-hog. It boasted enough power to decrypt most systems in real time. As such, with a few skillfully applied algorithms he would be able to tap into any conversations that people didn’t want to be overheard.

  Thankfully, there were fewer high priority messages than he might have imagined with all the traffic the network received. There just weren’t many powerful computers left in the world that could decrypt them; they were too expensive to run. Now everyone had the hyper-efficient sub-1watt processors that couldn’t decode a word search. The limited number of truly secret messages allowed him to follow up on the ones that were the most promising.

  While he waited for flagged correspondence, Qwiz turned to one of his external monitors and read another account of the apartment explosion.

  …identifying the likely culprit as one Luthor Tenrel, a tenant of the building. Recently indicted on charges of terrorism in Europe after trying to bomb the IEC, Tenrel escaped capture in Geneva. His current whereabouts are unknown, though it is believed he is attempting to return to the USW. The explosion originated in his apartment, leading investigators to conclude that some of Tenrel’s bomb making materials destabilized, igniting the inferno that rocked Aurora last week.

  Qwiz quit reading. He couldn’t believe the house of cards that was being constructed. Luthor was no terrorist. The man hated war with a passion. He even refused to play video games with Qwiz, saying too many of them reminded him of the worst times of his life. Such a man was no bomb maker.

  The laptop screen beeped. A new conversation had popped up. It was international and terminated in the States. Qwiz flipped on his speakers, it was an audio message. His fingers whizzed over the keyboard, tapping his way in like a digital locksmith. After a few tense minutes—with the help of some software of questionable legality— he successfully cracked in.