Air Force One, Part Three (5) “Jack,” Anne asks, “is everything all right?” He sits down at the empty table he has led her to, and she does likewise. Her discussion has already broken up, some men going out to try and sleep in the tents that the soldiers have set up for them, others separating off into small groups to “bullshit some more”. Those are the ones who felt perhaps a little unsettled when the lady of the Wolverine spoke to them. They mostly don’t know why, but they know that they want to keep thinking in the directions she has shown them. From that bullshit, much will grow. Jack doesn’t quite look at her as she sits down in front of him, instead busying himself rolling a smoke. She has seen so many truckers do that for so long, and it looks so perfectly natural when young Jack does it, that it takes Anne several seconds to realize that she has never actually seen him with a cigarette before. He lights up and exhales before looking at her. “No,” he says quietly. “I don’t think so.” “What’s wrong?” she asks just as quietly. Since he seemed not particularly disturbed when the Inn was invaded by two separate groups of armed men, she finds herself peculiarly interested in whatever it is that has managed to upset him. He frowns at her, but not in anger. Instead it seems to Anne as though he is afraid. And, strangely, not of the soldiers. With a slight shock, she realizes that Jack is afraid of her. “The stuff you were saying over there,” he indicates her usual table. “You were telling them that they ought to come north with you?” “We need them, Jack,” she says. “As many as we can get. And we need you, too,” she adds instinctively. He looks back at her with an expression she has never seen on his face before. He looks like a man who already knows himself to be condemned. “How many of them do you think you can count on?” he asks curtly, through the smoke. “I —,” she looks back at him blankly. “Count on them to come? Well, a few, I hope. But Jack, I’m not worried about how many decide right away—” “Then get worried about it,” he whispers. “I don’t know how long you have. Our friendly guards here,” he motions microscopically with his head, “I think they’re still waiting for something. But once they get ready — I don’t think they’re going to let us go.” Anne stares back at him as though he has suddenly gone mad. “Jack—” she shakes her head. “I know it’s a shock to see government troops. It is to me, too. You’ve probably never seen them before. But I’m sure that, once they do whatever it is they have to, they’ll leave us alone again. They certainly don’t need any more bad PR than they already have,” she smiles. “The thing is, Annie,” he says softly, “these guys aren’t government troops. They’re FC.” “They’re—” she stops herself, seeing his warning frown. “Foreign Command?” she whispers. “Jack, that’s impossible. Here? They were all killed. The government even executed the ones who were captured. And anyway, how could you possibly—” “Annie,” he interrupts, “I know what I’m talking about. I have seen these men before. Not these exact ones, I mean, but one hell of a lot like them. These men are not American by birth. American English is not their first language. Have you noticed — don’t look at them — but have you noticed how tanned they are? That makes it harder to tell, but underneath that — I make them Mediterranean maybe. Or maybe — more like Middle Eastern.” Staring at him, she suddenly remembers what he has told her about his past. “Oh, Jack,” she says softly, “of course. When Wisconsin was occupied and your family was hiding you. But Jack, you must have seen them from such a distance most of the time. And you must have been terrified. What were you, sixteen or seventeen, and hearing soldiers march past your house all day? But you’re just associating these men with your memories. That’s perfectly understandable.” He looks at her, then down at the table’s carved surface again. Coming to a decision, he takes a long draw on his cigarette, then stubs it out in the ashtray that other men have already filled. “My family did hide me, like I said, because all the young men were getting ‘drafted’.” He looks directly at her. “That part was true. But — I didn’t stay hidden for the whole occupation like I told you.” “Oh my God, Jack,” she whispers, “they found you? Did they draft you?” It takes him a long time to answer. “I signed up,” he says at last, almost inaudibly. “Annie, I was FC for two years. And it was because I wanted to be. “Or I wanted to be at first, anyway. I thought they were right! They were the ones with the big plan, for the whole planet. I thought they should be in charge here in the states the same as they were everywhere else. I bought the whole line, I guess. “Later on, when it was starting to come apart — they sort of reminded us that they knew where all our families were. You know? Just in case we were getting second thoughts? So I stayed for a while. Until — you know. Until most of the Feds I saw were kneeling —“ It costs him an effort, but he controls himself and continues. “We would dig these big long trenches —” but then he has to stop and hide his eyes from her. “Jack ,” she begins, but he stops her and looks up, wiping his face. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t imagine that you really want your daughter hanging around a war criminal. “But do you believe me now? I know what I’m talking about, OK? We have to get out of here, Annie, because these guys really are going to kill us all.” “Please do not be surprised, Lieutenant,” the Colonel says. “Of course I am also well aware of the work you were doing before your — departure. You were a senior researcher and designer in the Bolo project, working in cognition.” “Visual cognition,” the innkeeper automatically corrects. But he is vaguely aware that something odd is happening. Long years ago, when he worked on the cognitive design of the AI tanks called Bolos, he felt that his most important talent was an ability to observe his own mental processes at work. Now that old ability allows him to feel that, in his own mind, walls are being built. And on the far side of those walls is the knowledge that, a hundred leagues from this quiet room, one of the few Bolos that were built still survives. In his work, he became accustomed to thinking of a mind as a great collection of processing power in which a vast number of quite separate processes might simultaneously coexist. Even what he thinks of as his self, his consciousness, is nothing but an unusually large and powerful process among that crowd. And maybe not even the largest or the most powerful. But he has never actually felt this fact so clearly before. Something that is at least as familiar with the workings of his mind as he is, has after a single absolutely intent moment decided that, however great Tennen’s knowledge might be, it does not yet include any inkling of the continued existence of Bolo JNY-013, “Johnny”. And it has decided that Tennen must be given no indication of this fact whatsoever. The process that calls itself “Mick” feels a little twinge of protest at this high-handed treatment, like a child playing ball too close to a window might complain that he really was going to be very careful. But then, after a moment’s distraction from his big brother, he forgets the whole matter altogether. “Furthermore,” the Colonel continues, “the strategies and structures that you and your colleagues developed to support visual processing finally found use as major components at the foundation of all higher-level thought processing — exactly as you predicted in a memo published soon after joining the project. “I must say, Lieutenant,” the Colonel tells him, “that when I discovered you were here, I could only believe that I had been led to you by an act of — divine Providence, if you like. To the best of my knowledge, you alone of all your colleagues have survived. And the cognitive systems aboard the aircraft—” Seeing the look on the innkeeper’s face, the Colonel breaks off. “I am very sorry,” he says. “Of course you could not have known. Security at the site was apparently tightened substantially after your departure, as one might expect. If anyone else might have been inclined to follow the example of your departure, it had became much more difficult. And, of course, the missile attack came not long afterwards.” “But,” Mick says, “I was never able to tell where—” “The weapon detonated less than one mile from the facility where you were employed,” the Colonel says brusquely. “Considering the miserable accuracy of the delivery systems that the People’s Republic used at that time, the Research Center may very well have been the weapon’s target. Of course they compensated for their sloppiness with generous yields. At least your friends there did not suffer. “Much was lost in that War, Lieutenant, and much more in the one that eventually followed it. More still has vanished in the decay since the Wars ended. In less than twenty years, the achievements of millennia have been nearly erased. But not completely. More remains than you know, and the aircraft that you saw last night is the key to it all.” “You said,” Mick frowns uncertainly, “that there’s no chance of survivors after so long. So—” “I am surprised at you, Lieutenant,” the Colonel says. “The computers have obviously survived.” “Forgive me,” he continues, seeing the innkeeper’s lack of comprehension. “I forget that even a researcher on the famous Bolo project does not necessarily have the instincts of an old soldier.” “In war,” the ancient Colonel’s eyes reflect the electric light, “especially in war as violent and sudden as the two we survived recently, much, obviously, is destroyed. But much more is, exactly as I said, simply — lost. Misplaced. Especially in a so-called ‘civil’ war, in which the adversaries were formerly factions of the same government, there is an absolute mania for secrecy on both sides. “Weapon systems are hidden in camouflaged underground bunkers in remote places, or anchored to the bottoms of deep lakes or the continental shelf. Their locations and capabilities are made known only to a very few officials or high-ranking officers. The enemy, after all, may very well capture the territory in which these systems are concealed, and the fewer men who know about these systems — the less likely they are to be turned against their makers. “But, in a war of such violence, the leaders all too often die in the same instant as their soldiers. And when enough of them have perished — the secrets of their weaponry die with them. “Historically, this phenomenon has had only a slight effect, since one side eventually conquers the other, possibly occupying its territory and acquiring many of its secrets. But ‘the Wars’, as people call them, and particularly the Last War, was very little like conflicts of the past. “The leadership of both sides was effectively destroyed. The United States was the clear victor, but it was nevertheless so damaged by the conflict and so discredited within its own population that it rapidly disintegrated once Foreign Command was destroyed. “Further, in spite of how evenly matched the two sides seemed to be at the beginning of the conflict, the United States’ regular military forces were by far the better equipped. “The net result,” the Colonel leans forward slightly in his chair and touches the desktop with wrinkled fingers as though to lightly hold it down, “is that, according to our best estimates, at least a fifth and very possibly as much as a third of all armaments that the United States possessed were lost within days or even hours of the beginning of hostilities. “And the most potent and modern systems, being the most shrouded in secrecy, would have been among the first to be lost.” It is quite late now. The sounds of soldiers moving around upstairs or escorting truckers outside to the tents that have been prepared for them have long since subsided. The Wolverine is quiet now, except for the sound of the night wind. There will be another storm tonight, as there is almost every night at this time of year. The wind’s pressure moves the Inn’s timbers, creaking, in their joints. “I imagine,” Mick says, “that anyone who could recover that quantity of armaments would be — pretty powerful, now.” Slowly, the Colonel nods. “The weapons systems that were lost,” he says, “represent several times the total military force remaining in the world today.” “And, Air Force One—?” “Air Force One was the War Room, Lieutenant Goulish,” the Colonel says. “The computers aboard it remember the location of every hidden cache, every buried missile, and every dormant submarine. They know every password, every command sequence, and every launch code. “If we can reacquire control of that aircraft,” he leans back again, “we will once again be the undisputed masters of this planet.” Mick looks back at the Colonel silently. The harsh light of the eternal desk lamp highlights the man’s angular features. “I would have thought,” Mick says, “that we’ve all had pretty much enough of the world domination thing by now.” “On the contrary,” the Colonel replies, “Unless I badly miss my guess, you and I are interested in precisely the same sort of world conquest.” He leans forward in his seat by a sixteenth of an inch. “Do you imagine,” he continues, “that I or the government I represent are interested in reestablishing the Foreign Command’s hegemony over Europe and Asia? For what? To rule over the nuclear wastelands of China? To keep an eye on the shopkeepers of the British Isles, or shoot cannibals in the streets of Kiev? “Lieutenant,” he says, “for the last two hundred and fifty years, there has been one nation on this Earth at the fulcrum of history. One nation where the future of this world begins and ends. “You are quite right,” he continues, “that the weaponry that Air Force One commands could subdue the world. We could re-conquer the inhabitable parts of the planet with hardly a shot fired. “Who would think to resist? Indeed, who would want to? A renewed American hegemony, now, with the way the world has gone, would be a blessing to everyone it touched! “Do you know that, by our best estimates, the population of the planet is now under two billion? And that we are losing two percent of the remaining population per year to simple starvation? “They would beg for us to return now,” he states, leaning fully forward again. “They would scatter flowers in our path. But this—” he strikes the desktop with his fist, “this is the country I want. “And this is the country you want, Lieutenant.” The old man’s eyes glitter bronze in the light. He waves his hand casually. “Both you and I know, much better than most, what is happening in the remains of this once great land. “Do I need to tell you,” he asks, “what it would mean to your truck stop if the roads of this nation were safe to travel again? If the power of the gangs were broken, beginning here? If farmers could grow their crops again without fear of being virtually enslaved by whatever random gang of bandits defeats the others in their area?” “No,” Mick whispers, almost unconsciously. And indeed, he does not need to be told. Instead of seeing the light shining in the Colonel’s eyes, he is seeing the fire that erupted from the recoil ports of Johnny’s main gun on the night when one man and one tank smashed the power of Detroit’s greatest gangs. The hundred and fifty ton tank had lunged through the darkened streets so fast that the warlords believed they were being attacked from three sides at once. A brush with his flintsteel skirt was enough to shatter decaying buildings. In a frontal charge he thrust through fortified walls like a man might kick down the door of a child’s playhouse. In that night, one man and one tank felt as though they had set the world, at least in a little place and for a little while, to rights. It’s true that not even Johnny could long resist the power of the gangs now. Even on that magnificent night his strength lay half in surprise. But if the power of a vast arsenal could be unleashed at once, all across the country? If a resurrected federal government could once again establish the rule of law in the land? Then — “We are builders, Lieutenant,” the Colonel says, “men like you and me. It was men like us who, over thousands of years, built a great civilization. We grew food from the soil. We drove back the night and tamed the winter with our minds and our hands. We did it so that the ones we love, the ones who depended on us, could live good lives in a hard world. “But then we stumbled,” he says. “We made terrible mistakes, and the world that we built and the ones whom we loved have paid a terrible price for our mistakes. They suffered so greatly that they have lost their faith in the very idea of building a better world. “They no longer trust us, and they have begun to turn their backs on us. If we let them go now, they will retreat irretrievably into the darkness.
Copyright © 2000 Michael Goulish |