Fiction Week

By LCDR Joe Huskey

He leaned against the table, bent over at the waist. His breathing ragged, his heart raced, beads of sweat ran down his face, dripping from his chin and nose. Small pools began to form on the various charts and notes spread out before him. This was the production table, filled with battle schemes, strategy diagrams, and binders filled with standard responses to a variety of warfare scenarios. They were all a blur to A.J. now as he blinked in arrhythmic successions.

The battle simulation was like a marathon. There were rows and columns of television screens that spread around him in a semi-circle displaying visual battle cues and problem-sector scenarios. Bright light glowed from the screens, the only source for that dark space with the exception of the low-level blue work lights overhead. The screens all faded in unison into a common message. Now on screen were bright white text set on a black screen. “Blue Victory,” it said.

“Fourteen hours and thirty-five minutes,” the proctor said in a plain voice as he entered the tactical operations center. This is where A.J. had just finished his commanding a simulated joint force against a computer-generated adversary. “Very good, Colonel Roark,” he continued while scribbling notes onto a digital work-pad with a little plastic pen tipped with a rubber nub, a stylus of sorts.

A.J. stood up from his leaning rest and looked around the room. It was all black, ceiling to floor, the lights from the semi-circled monitors cast a dull glow on everything around them. There was the large production table in the middle and two rows of long tables in front which had numerous computers on them. Seven operators in unmarked uniforms sat at those consoles. During the simulation, they would swap out regularly, ensuring they did not fatigue while taking orders in rapid succession from A.J. Now, they were all turned in their chairs, focusing their collective attention on the colonel, anticipating the debrief.

The proctor was an Army Major General named Womack. He had two stars on his collar and a ruddy, stoic grimace on his face. He flipped a switch which shifted the blue-lights overhead into bright, white lights, washing the room in brilliant fluorescence. The new illumination made his demeanor appear even more grim. In fact, he had shown little-to-no emotion whatsoever over the past three days of in-briefing.

He tapped a sequence on his tablet with his stylus. The screens around the room changed their text from the victory message to a Battle Damage Assessment. “Please refer to the forward screen for your results,” Womack said.

New words flashed onto the screen in the same white text, black background format. A.J. read them faster than the Womack could announce them, but he paid close attention to the debrief all the same.

The general began, “Blue Force Casualty rate: 47%. Adversary Casualty Rate 51%. 12 billion dollars in Blue Force equipment damage. Loss of 62% Blue Force logistical capability. 92% loss of adversary logistical capability.” He droned on, reading out selective figures from listed results from the scenario.

“That’s very good?” A.J. asked with a respectful tone.

“We would like to see less Blue Force casualties and a better protection of friendly equipment,” Womack replied, “but the adversary casualty rate is the highest we’ve recorded yet.” He broke eye contact with A.J. and jotted another note down on his tablet.

Sweat continued to roll down A.J.’s face. Despite being winter in Virginia, the simulation required things to be as close to a battlefield environment as practical. This meant that the temperature was cranked up above 100 degrees to force the subject to manage not only a battlefield, but also endure dry, hot, and loud stimuli. Although A.J. barely moved from the perimeter of the production table, he had likely paced miles moving back and forth throughout the long day, all in an artificially stressful environment.

Using his sleeve, A.J. wiped his forehead. “So, the real question is, did I pass?” He asked. There was no smile on his face or in his eyes. He was physically and mentally exhausted. The scenario required his complete attention for its duration. With every problem he solved, every complication he overcame, and all creative counter-tactics that he employed, a fresh wave of increasingly difficult opposition followed.

“It doesn’t work like that,” Womack answered. “There is no rubric here: only win or lose. In this scenario, you won. Your victory didn’t come without sacrifice, but you decidedly chose the right losses to take in order to overcome the adversary.”

“Forgive me, sir,” A.J. started, “but it is hard to quantify a level of success without understanding the rubric. The in-brief provided very little in the way of battle metrics.” He took a deep breath and tried to slow his heart rate before his next statement. There was a second of pause for him, unsure if he should push the envelope. However, nearly fifteen hours of uninterrupted decision making and constant stressors had worn away most of his decorum. “I think I’m owed a little more of an explanation for what I was just tested on.”

The request was intended to hold the timbre of discipline and respect, but it nonetheless came out with an obvious note of venom. There was another beat of silence, and then he remembered something important that he forgot to say: “Sir.”

“Colonel, your understanding is not important to the outcome of the simulation,” Womack said. He had raised his voice a little, the first real sign of emotion. “If you knew everything then it wouldn’t be a real test.”

“Again, forgive me,” A.J. said, wiping sweat from under his nose and chin, “but that sounds like bullshit.”

The general let out a refrained sigh. “Gentlemen,” he said in a plain tone, holding unwavering eye contact with A.J., but speaking to the other men in the room, “give me and the Colonel the room.”

The seven console operators all stood up and shuffled out of the one door of the simulation room. No one spoke, they barely breathed. They did not want to draw any undue attention from the two men who were attempting to stare each other down.

The door to the room had closed behind the operators, leaving the colonel and general alone with oppressive tension. Their staring match continued for a moment more, neither blinking.

The General huffed, tapped his pad with his stylus while still staring directly into A.J. The screens changed again. Each displayed a different image: Some outlining lines of information, others displaying pictures of A.J. at various stages in his career.

A.J. was the first to break his glare, distracted by so many monitors detailing a very specific storyline of his life. “What the fuck is this?” he asked with zero bearing, turning his gaze from the monitors back to Womack.

“Andrew John Roark, Colonel, United States Marine Corps,” he began. “Enlisted in 2003 as an Infantryman but picked up Infantry Unit Leader M.O.S. 0369 very quickly. Recognized for your capabilities, you were recommended and then accepted into a commissioning program, excelling at strategy and assigned as a Marine Air-Ground Task Force Intelligence Officer. Serving in collection and planning roles in Iraq and Afghanistan, and then assigned in special, clandestine combat roles in Eastern Europe.”

“Wait,” A.J. broke in, “the Europe Op was sealed. How did you…”

Unmoved, the General continued. “Volunteering for combat whenever able, however being assigned duties as staff planner and strategist despite your eagerness for continued groundwork.”

“What’s your point?” A.J. asked again but was ignored.

“Post graduate education at Princeton and the Naval War College, both focusing on Strategy, Technology, and Advanced Warfare. Fellowships in both the Naval Institute and Marine Corps University, as well as working with Joint Tactical Allied Forces designing various wargames.”

A corresponding picture and file appeared on the center screen with each point of information the general was making. A.J. watched it all occur seamlessly, as if on verbal cue. The general continued to list his various jobs and accomplishments including his time at NATO, the Pentagon, and MARFORPAC.

There was a pause. A.J. scanned the screens, studying a story that seemed foreign but was so unmistakably his own. “What does any of this have to do with…” he began to ask. Again, he was cut off.

“The short of it is that you’re qualified to be here,” the general stated, ignoring A.J.’s attempts at questions.

“Point taken, sir,” A.J. replied. “But, if I may ask,” and in this he slowed his breath and focused on the most respectful tone he could muster, “what the hell is going on here?” He gestured his hands around the room. “I received temporary duty orders with an indefinite date. I get pulled out of Japan and flown here to Quantico with no explanation. I was given three days to ‘study’ as much documentation and procedure as I could, thrown into this room with no context and told to ‘fight the problem.’ Why am I here and what was I fighting?”

“I’m not going to read your record again. I’ve proven that I know who you are,” the general said, “but you’ve obviously been recognized throughout your career for dynamic responses to exponentially complex problems. That’s why I have chosen you. What we are facing now should be common knowledge to you regarding our adversaries.”

The general raised his stylus again and changed the screens in the room. They displayed various photos and videos. They displayed a menagerie of uniformed violence, technologically advanced demonstrations of warfare, and matrixes of coding expressed in alpha-numeric symbols.

“The world is getting smarter, and worst of all, our adversaries are getting smarter faster than we are,” the general said in a grim voice. “They have always been one step behind us regarding warfare and technology. We’ve held the top of this hill since World War One. Very seldom have we even felt the competition getting close. Even when the Soviets appeared to be keeping up, they were just bluffing.

“Today, this very moment, our enemies are surpassing us. They have embraced technology in ways we have eschewed for decades. We were caught behind in the unmanned vehicle race, we’ve focused on outdated platforming at least two decades too long, and now artificial intelligence is increasing our adversaries’ performance in exponential ways – ways in which we are woefully outmatched.

“Those who would see us toppled from the top have spent innumerable hours painstakingly devising ways to steal our technology and root out our vulnerabilities. The U.S. military has been mired in less-than efficient platforms and weapons systems that are still failing to meet their designated potential. Our enemies are stealing and buying the specs on those systems and instead of building their own, they are designing ways to neutralize them, all while moving forward with more future-minded technologies.”

A.J. was processing the general’s statements while attempting to reconcile how they corresponded to the screens in the room. He didn’t have to say anything because his blank face broadcast his continued confusion.

“A.I., as they say, is king,” the general continued his explanation. “What you have been fighting for the last fourteen plus hours is an A.I.-generated battlespace. Our team here has tirelessly worked to program it with the best parameters we can discern to match axis oppositional forces made up of the most likely strategies and tactics an A.I.-led assault from our adversaries would entail.

“Their technology has far outpaced ours. We are behind the curve. Our systems do not yet match that of the adversary’s. We have developed a plan for this, however. And you, Colonel, are the subject of that plan. We call it the Henry Protocol.”

The Henry Protocol? A.J. thought. “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m still a little unsure how I fit into this.”

Womack looked visibly annoyed. He let out a breath and started explaining, but with an exaggerated slowness, “With your pedigree in combat, strategy, and planning coupled with your experience across our most challenging theaters, you have been selected to test the machine.”

It made sense now. Test the Machine. Henry Protocol. John Henry and his Challenge. But didn’t Henry die? He thought about the connections and staggered for a moment. “So, I was just fighting A.I?” he asked.

The general thought for a second. “In a way, yes,” he replied. “But it is more of an A.I. model based on our best estimates of our opposition’s capabilities. We know that our enemies have already procured incredibly advanced A.I.-generated warfare designs. It infiltrates all forms of warfare, sees the entire battlefield in real time, and seamlessly integrates the sensor and visual cues with real-world applications perfecting the overall battlespace concept. It’s nearly unstoppable.”

Womack’s words wafted into A.J.’s ears, barely overcoming the throbbing he felt in his head. His heart was still beating fast and heavy. He felt that he was oxygen starved despite all the deep breaths he was taking due to artificially heated air of the room. Sweat continued to roll down his face.

“Nearly is the key word, though, Colonel,” the General said. He tapped his stylus on his handheld screen and the monitors changed again. The debriefing results were redisplayed. “You beat it. It took you almost fifteen hours and it damn-near killed you, but you beat it.”

“Almost killed me?” A.J. asked. He still felt unusually short of breath but was doing his best to stand firm as if unbothered by the chaos in his chest.

There was another momentary pause as the general looked down at his screen and tapped in a sequence. The monitors shifted to display diagnostics. They showed different readings to include heart and respiratory rates, blood pressure, body temperature, etc.

“This is you,” the general said. “You were, and continue to be, extremely close to myocardial infarction, Colonel Roark. The simulation tested you right back, and it almost killed you.”

This affected A.J. more than he wanted it to. He clutched his chest and focused even harder on slowing his breathing. In his moment of doubt, he felt vulnerable and weak. “But what is all this for? Why have me fight a fake battle? I’m just playing a video game? Shouldn’t we be doing more?”

“You are well aware of how late to this dance we are,” the general said. He didn’t seem to care that A.J. was showing signs of physical distress. “We put our best military and civilian minds to this problem, and the Henry Protocol is their answer, its test. We’ve recorded all the battle data. Our plan is to continually put the Adversary Model up against our best available strategists and develop a hybrid man-in-the-loop program that interfaces A.I. solutions but keeps our military leaders at the helm.

“We’re behind the curve on the technology alone, but our greatest strength has always been dynamic leaders. We’ve combined our most advanced battle problems with self-learning A.I. systems and then stimulated exponential battlespace evolution. Through you as a human interface challenger, we aim to catch up.”

Pain radiated through A.J.’s jaw. He stretched it out as he attempted to push through it. His left arm alternated between sore and cold as he listened to the general’s speech. He leaned against the table again and surveyed its contents. The last fifteen hours seemed to be years ago now. He was already struggling to remember every decision he made.

Now tacitly aware of his circumstances, he pondered the severity of where he was. Their adversaries had snuck up on them while their attentions were elsewhere. A.J. had spent no small part of his career studying these competitors and determining the best ways to avoid conflict while at the same time making his best efforts to assess and prepare to overcome them. He knew better than most the difficulties that the U.S. would have in direct conflict with its newly minted peers.

These deep thoughts coupled with this obvious leap forward in efforts to catch up to their competitors inspired a new fear in A.J. “Things are bad, aren’t they?” he asked.

“Colonel,” the general replied, “you haven’t even scratched that surface yet. This is us doing our best to stay ahead. The best time to start this process was ten years ago. The next best time is right now. We have a lot of ground to make up.”

“So, you’re using my battle data to train an A.I. to get smarter about fighting our enemies?” A.J. said, more as a recap than a question. “But I beat it. So, what’s next? That can’t be the endgame.”

“Well, that’s how the whole thing works, Colonel,” the general said, “you beat it, it learns, it evolves, then you have to test it again.”

“Test it again?” A.J. asked. He was feeling better a little bit at a time. “How many more times?”

“Until it learns everything from you,” the general stated. “As you’ve seen, we not only record your battle data, decisions, etc., but we are also monitoring your vitals, your stress levels, endocrine and hormone spikes. We are recording your physiological responses as you face increasingly capable threats. We have to learn more than just how you fight. If the interface is to be successful, we must also learn your physical limits. This is to ensure we re-overtake our peers.” The word peers was stressed in a way that showed the general’s discomfort with its proximity.

“Colonel, you are part of the Henry Protocol now. You’re not going home, not until this is done. We have a duty, you and I. We must do whatever we can to make up the lost time on this. You battle the machine again tomorrow. I hope you’re ready.”

Joe Huskey is a Surface Warfare Officer who has served in various capacities onboard USS Iwo Jima (LHD 7), USS Indianapolis (LCS 17), and with Coastal Riverine Squadron 3 (CRS 3). He served as a Naval Science Instructor at Texas A&M University’s NROTC unit and is currently assigned as a Permanent Military Instructor of English at the U.S. Naval Academy. He holds a MPA in Homeland Security from Texas A&M and a MA in Language and Literature from the University of Maryland. He is an amateur Speculative Fiction writer published on Kindle.

Featured Image: Art created with Midjourney AI.