the gunnies took the gray one—"
Higgins interrupted him. "Colleen."
"Colleen," Cohen continued, "on a tour of the armory, and would you believe that she not only knew about each gun we showed her, but the manufacturer, ammo type and bullet rpm, range, and accuracy ... I was like 'WOW'!"
Wright was swirling his beer around. "Yeah, well DATs are just computers on legs. Cool computers on legs to be sure. And impressive. I was expecting some of the kind of corny animatronics you used to see at Disneyland, but these are light years beyond that. If you don't look too closely, they look just like ... DATs!"
The men made agreeable sounds.
Colonel Higgins watched the bubbles in his glass move about. "This goes no farther than this room, but I believe that these things are abominations. I always have; I always will."
Wright's now slightly drunken head swiveled around to his superior officer. "You can't be serious."
"I am. The creation of life is for better minds than ours. In my opinion, man is just too plum crazy for such an awesome responsibility. And I'm no Bible thumper either."
"Sir, these are machines. Not the next master race."
"I'm just stating my personal view," the colonel grumbled.
Cohen grew serious as he slowly drained his glass, thinking. "They go into this kind of null state. One of the engineers calls it 'processing,' but it looks like they're just zoning out. That may not work out too well for us out on a hot field."
"I know," Higgins responded. "It's always been a problem. Trust me, they're working on it. But I don't believe that they can fix 'em before Crucible is underway."
Operation Crucible. That was why they and the DATs were locked away inside of Fort Grand Island. Since the destruction of Los Angeles, several major cities had become embroiled in feeding frenzies of crime. Most of their police forces had been either killed or run off months ago. In New York State, hostile civilians, or HCs, were driving up from Buffalo and even as far away as New York City in staggering numbers and rampaging through the Island. Niagara Falls and Toronto were also becoming favorite targets. The Canadians were understandably upset and had called upon Washington to act swiftly. Unfortunately, the government had little combat forces in that area of the nation, certainly not enough to arrest and prosecute a large and heavily armed segment of the population hell bent on destruction. They would need more troops. Better weapons. More hard line tactics. Operation Crucible was the game plan put together by John Voode, the director of DARPA, in conjunction with the Department of Defense. The city of Buffalo was to be neutralized, not with political grandstanding, but with a direct show of force. The DATs were just a tiny part of that plan. Another piece of Crucible was the combat arm of the Patriot Program, which encouraged any able-bodied citizen to become a temporary soldier. They received an abbreviated boot camp, shelter with the regular troops, meals, and extensive weapons training. It was proving to be enormously successful, especially among older Americans. Half of the Patriots were over the age of fifty. Their mettle was to be tested in Crucible, and based on the results there, they would either be moved forward with the DAT program or sent back to Fort Hood, Texas, for additional training.
The bulk of Crucible rested on a simple idea: Identify any individuals deemed suitable for evacuation, proceed with that evacuation, and then wipe the city.
Higgins filled all of their glasses again. "Broussard, the other guy, told me that they could possibly cut their processing time in half by doing a hard power down. You know, turn them off and on real fast."
Cohen grunted. "Without memory loss?"
"With minimal memory loss. But he's a little queasy about it. Says the machines don't like it."
"I don't like it either," Cohen replied.
"In any case, let's see what they come up with," Higgins told him. "We've got another week before we go back in for one last sound check."
On July 22, the last fully open window of opportunity for the Green Berets to drive down to Buffalo and complete that last 'sound check' had arrived. The last Crucible components were to be completed within forty-eight hours. Cohen and Wright were thankfully on the benevolent end of Crucible. As the search-and-rescue arm of Crucible, their assignments were relatively easy. Their first sweep of the city had begun some time ago. The Berets had been living in Buffalo and posing as regular citizens for the past six months, trying to feel out those individuals who would make the best candidates for temporary relocation to Fort Hood. They had been surreptitiously attending town hall meetings, church gatherings, weddings, even Avon parties. Over five hundred civilians had been identified as suitable for relocation. They had been secretly contacted last month and bussed out along with the fire department and the police department. Hospital workers were the last to be removed. They then created a latticework of secondary explosives on the perimeter of the city that was designed to be triggered by the heat and pressure generated by the 40 mm canons on board the ten AC-130 gunships that would strafe the city. The destruction at the city's perimeter would effectively halt any illegal egress from the city and allow the Army to erect guarded entry/exit points. It was a short and sweet plan for total lockdown.
An armada of dusty, nondescript sedans encircled Buffalo two hours before dawn. Cohen had explained that ninety percent of the target areas had been swept by advance teams two months prior. On orders by the governor of New York, businesses had been closed and residents temporarily relocated to Rochester, some one hundred and seventeen kilometers away. The neighborhoods that they would conduct inspections in would be veritable ghost towns.
The Berets, dressed in black fatigues and face paint now, poured out from the cars and fanned out across the still sleeping city that they had once inhabited. They would have two hours to make it to all of the checkpoints and get back to their vehicles.
Broussard and Colleen rode with Lieutenant Cohen. Their unit consisted of several Berets and a sizable contingent of Patriot soldiers. Everyone was dressed as civilians. Before they left the base, Cohen had performed a routine inspection of the troops and declared, "You're all pretty green around the gills. Good! Over-confidence is the best way to get killed."
The DATs' first official role as a junior soldier was to serve as Higgins's smart pack mule. Cohen had ordered Colleen fitted with a ninety-two kilogram gear pack. She bore it like it weighed a fraction of that. Inside the pack were extra pistols, ammunition and grenades, medical supplies and handfuls of candy. Cohen explained, "Not all of the HCs are bad. And the kids love this stuff."
A wiry female Patriot leaned into his conversation. "Hookers like 'em, too."
"Soldier, are you speaking from personal experience?"
"Absolutely, sir."
"Ma'am, in the future, please keep that kind of information to yourself."
Now Cohen's unit slunk down a street lined with shuttered small shops and restaurants. As promised, nothing stirred.
Cohen led his team down to a postage-stamp-sized city park. The soldier tiptoed over to a metal trash can, rattled it a bit, and then stood stock still with his ear cocked. After about fifteen seconds he seemed satisfied. "Good. It's still ticking."
Broussard and the most senior Patriot subconsciously moved closer together.
Cohen waved them forward. "Come on. We've got work to do."
Soon they were skulking their way through sewage tunnels and storm drains. Every few minutes or so the officer would stop beside a bundle of rags and wires and put his flashlight on it.
The work was becoming monotonous, and Broussard noticed that Colleen was going into a trance. He got hold of her KILL switch and deftly did a fast power-off/power-on before she realized what was happening.
He patted her head affectionately. "Don't worry. Everything's fine."
Cohen was moving swiftly beside them. He held up a fist-sized package to the street light for quick inspection. "We laid these boom-booms down two weeks ago. During that time, a rat or a squirrel coulda come along and chewed through the wires. You'd be
surprised how many missions get derailed by rodents."
After forty-five minutes of this, the team moved topside.
Cohen temporarily handed over command of the unit to Corporal Will Butler, a Patriot from Wyoming. "I want to run by my apartment real quick," he told Broussard.
They took one of the cars and drove across town to a low-rent neighborhood. Cohen lived in what could best be described as a shack that leaned against the neighborhood liquor store.
Cohen pulled into the shack's narrow driveway. "Home sweet home. It don't look like much from the outside. Actually, it don't look like much from the inside neither."
"How long have you lived here?" Broussard asked.
"About three months before Crucible was lit. I actually lived in Buffalo until I left for college. It's my hometown, I guess."
Two small children darted from behind the gate of the next house down and ran up to the car.
The officer's face broke out into a smile. "Hey, hey! What are you two doing up so early?"
"We don't know," the little girl said shyly, smiling from ear to ear.
Broussard threw one of Cohen's car towels over Colleen's head.
"Where's your mom?" Cohen asked.
"In the house," the little boy replied. "Mr. Cohen, are you home yet?"
Cohen chuckled. "Well, I'm here aren't I?"
"We don't know," the little girl said, chewing on a strand of her long blonde hair.
Cohen