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Price of Duty

Page 10

by Dale Brown


  “Those men were wired with explosives,” Martindale said sharply. “They were ready and willing to kill themselves to avoid being taken prisoner.”

  Brad shook his head. “No dice, sir. You can’t detonate a suicide vest if you’re unconscious.” He looked hard at Macomber. “Hell, all it takes is one powered-up tap from a CID’s finger to drop someone. My dad knows that. You know that.”

  The other man nodded slowly and turned to Martindale. “The kid’s right.”

  “Exactly,” Brad said. “But instead he just waded into those guys and butchered them in the blink of an eye.” He sighed. “Plus, you all saw him at the conference before they hit us. He was already keyed up beyond reason and primed to kill.”

  Slowly, reluctantly, Nadia and the others nodded.

  “So let me get this straight,” Macomber demanded. “You think the general is on the edge of going batshit kill crazy in that metal suit?”

  “Yes, I am,” Brad said quietly. “You know what piloting a CID in combat is like, right? About getting that weird surge of power and speed and awareness? The sudden feeling that you can do anything . . . and that nothing on earth can stop you?”

  “Yeah,” Macomber said. “But those are sensations you can learn to control. You just have to stay focused.”

  “For an hour, sure. Even for a day, maybe,” Brad said. “But my dad has been stuck inside one of those machines for three full years now. Twenty-four hours a day. Seven days a week. He doesn’t sleep. He’s never off-line. Who knows what that’s doing to him?” He swung toward Martindale. “Do you?”

  The head of Scion shook his head. “No, I don’t,” he admitted carefully. “Your father’s experience is . . . well, unprecedented is really too weak a word. But it’s the only one that fits.” He cleared his throat. “In the circumstances, I agree that your fears may be valid. The general has seemed somewhat distant over the past few months.”

  “And today?” Brad challenged. “What happened here wasn’t exactly distant, was it?”

  “No,” Martindale said somberly, gazing at the row of body bags. “Far from it.”

  “But if this is so, what can we do?” Nadia asked. She tightened her grip on Brad’s arm. “Outside a CID, General McLanahan will die. But the threat of a man possessed of such power and then driven mad by isolation . . . well, that is truly terrifying.”

  Now it was Martindale’s turn to sigh. “That is very true, Major Rozek.” He stood silently for a few moments, clearly weighing his options. Then he looked up at the others. “I need to make a trip to Nevada soon, for a couple of reasons—this new situation with our friend being one of them. Since I’m currently on Homeland Security’s Most Wanted and Least Liked list, arranging that will take a bit of doing.”

  He turned his gaze on Brad and Nadia. “But once I’ve got everything set, you two will be coming with me.”

  “Us?” Brad asked, confused. “Why?”

  “Among other things, you are a pilot, aren’t you, Captain McLanahan?” Martindale asked bluntly.

  “Sure.”

  “Then let’s just say that you’re due for some flight time in a new aircraft,” the head of Scion said coolly and cryptically. “As is Major Rozek.”

  NEAR THE PERUN’S AERIE CYBERWAR COMPLEX, DEEP IN THE URAL MOUNTAINS, RUSSIA

  THE NEXT DAY

  Even though he had watched the footage all the way through several times before, President Gennadiy Gryzlov still found the images of the Iron Wolf combat robot in action deeply disturbing. So much power, he thought darkly. But even with the knowledge that this power was in the hands of his enemies, the sight of such grace blended with such incredible ferocity was also strangely exhilarating.

  When the video flickered to its gruesome end, he turned to Colonel Vladimir Balakin. The trim, dapper chief of security for Q Directorate’s secret complex sat silent for a long while, plainly unable to hide his consternation.

  “Well?” Gryzlov demanded at last. “Now that you’ve seen this imagery and read the general staff’s analysis of these machines and their capabilities, what do you think?”

  Pulling his wits together, Balakin replied slowly. “That . . . device . . . it is beyond anything I imagined possible.” He looked sick. “I would estimate that it represents military technology of perhaps an order of magnitude beyond ours.”

  “So the generals tell me,” Gryzlov said coolly. “Which is why you must be ready, Colonel.”

  Balakin visibly paled. “You anticipate an attack by machines like that? Here?”

  “Anticipate? No, Colonel,” Gryzlov said, shrugging. “Nevertheless I think it would be wise to be prepared for any eventuality.”

  “But our cover measures . . . the maskirova we’ve used to conceal even the basic fact of this complex’s existence, let alone its location . . .” Balakin stammered.

  “Yes, with luck, the Poles and their American mercenaries will never learn about Perun’s Aerie,” Gryzlov agreed patiently. “But I would encourage you not to trust solely to luck.” His mouth tightened. “These mountains are littered with the bones of those foolish enough to believe fortune would smile on them forever. Do I make myself clear?”

  Balakin licked lips that were suddenly as dry as dust. “Yes, Mr. President. You are perfectly clear.”

  “As for these Iron Wolf high-tech marvels,” Gryzlov said soothingly. “Remember that the old ways have power of their own. So look to your defenses—all of your defenses.”

  The secure phone on Balakin’s desk buzzed sharply. Hurriedly, the colonel grabbed it. “Yes?”

  He listened for a moment and then handed it to Gryzlov. “It’s Major General Koshkin, Mr. President.”

  “What is it, Arkady?” Gryzlov snapped.

  “The first sets of our cyberweapons have been securely delivered and are in place,” the head of Q Directorate reported.

  “And?”

  “There are no signs that any have been detected,” Koshkin said. “Operatsiya Mor is ready to launch, on your order.”

  “Very good,” Gryzlov said, relaxing. “You have again done well, Arkady.” He checked his watch. “You will have my signed authorization to proceed as soon as I return to Moscow.”

  He handed the phone back to Colonel Balakin and sat back, happily imagining the unholy chaos his orders would soon create.

  NIZHNY NOVGOROD, RUSSIA

  THAT SAME TIME

  Nizhny Novgorod, the fifth largest city in Russia, sprawled along the western bank of the Volga River about four hundred kilometers east of Moscow. Founded in the Middle Ages, it served as a strategic border fortress against the Tatars of Kazan—successors to the Mongols of Ghengis Khan. Over the centuries, it grew into the trade capital of czarist Russia.

  Renamed Gorky by Stalin to honor the author Maxim Gorky, the city took on a new role, as a center for Soviet military research and production. Foreigners were banned for security reasons. As a “closed city,” it remained largely off-limits to non-Soviets until the communist regime collapsed.

  Open again to international trade and commerce, Nizhny Novgorod was still home to some of Russia’s largest and most important scientific and military research labs and factories. Chief among them was the Nizhny Novgorod Research Institute of Radio Engineering (NNIIRT). Operating out of a collection of unremarkable brownish-gray concrete buildings, this firm, part of the huge GKSB Almaz-Antey defense conglomerate, was responsible for the design and manufacture of highly advanced radar systems—including the target acquisition radars and software used by Russia’s S-300 and S-400 surface-to-air missile units.

  Not far from the institute, a pale blue UAZ delivery van sat parked along a quiet, tree-lined side street. Its driver, a morose-looking middle-aged man with a drooping mustache, sat placidly behind the wheel. From time to time, he took a drag on his cigarette while idly flipping through the pages of a local tabloid. Sandwich wrappers and a thermos on the seat beside him suggested that he was on a meal break.

  The cargo space behind h
im appeared packed from floor to ceiling with shipping crates, boxes, and other packages. Those appearances were deceiving. All of the jumbled boxes and crates hid the entrance to a small concealed compartment.

  Inside this tiny space, two people sat hunched over an array of computers and other electronic gear. Small fans hummed quietly, providing ventilation and cooling. Crumpled disposable coffee cups filled a wastebasket to the brim.

  At last, one of them, a bleary-eyed young man, took his hands off a computer keyboard. He turned to his companion, a good-looking redhead, and shrugged his narrow shoulders apologetically. “Sorry, Sam. But it’s no go.”

  Samantha Kerr frowned. “You’re sure?”

  He nodded. “Oh yeah. I can get into the business side of NNIIRT’s computer systems without any problem, but the firewall for the software lab is just too darned good. I could probably break through by brute force hacking . . . but doing that would leave traces their IT guys would zero in on in a heartbeat.” He spread his hands. “And I assume that would be bad?”

  “Incredibly bad,” she agreed wryly. “As in career-ending, up-against-wall ‘you’re going to be shot, treacherous Amerikanskaya Scion spies’ bad.”

  “Yeah, so I’d kind of like to avoid the whole getting-executed-for-espionage thing,” the younger man said. “It would upset my mom and dad and look bad on my résumé.”

  “Can the Russians pick up what you’ve done so far?” she asked.

  “No way,” he replied. “It’s like I tried to pick the lock on that lab firewall, but only using nanoscale tools. Sure I left some traces, like scratches on a physical lock, but they’re so small you’d have to know exactly where to look to spot them. A routine security scan won’t pick anything up.”

  “Good,” she said, leaning forward to peer over his shoulder. “So we’ll do this another way.”

  “Meaning?”

  “If we can’t hack into the software lab from the outside, then we’ll have to come in at the other end.” She narrowed her eyes in thought. “You said you can hack into the institute’s business systems, right?”

  He nodded.

  “So you can get inside their conference-scheduling software?”

  “No problem,” the younger man said. “What do you want to look at?”

  “Every meeting set over the next week or two.”

  “I’m on it.” His fingers flew over the keyboard. Dates and times and names scrolled rapidly across the computer’s large LED display.

  “There!” she said, pointing to a conference scheduled a few days out. “That’s the one.”

  The younger man raised an eyebrow. “You’re kidding me?” He looked closer. “‘Systems Demonstration for FAVORITE/TRIUMF Target Acquisition and Identification Software Upgrade 19.17c’? Really?”

  She grinned. “Sounds fascinating, doesn’t it?” Her grin widened as she took in his mystified look. “Check out the official guest list.”

  His eyes widened as he scanned through the list. “Whoa! Lots and lots of heavy hitters there. Geez, including some of the top brass for Russia’s aerospace forces.”

  “Exactly,” Samantha Kerr said with satisfaction. “So now I need you to add just one more name to that list.” She opened a drawer and took out a set of identity cards, rapidly flipping through them until she found what she wanted. She handed it to him. “This one.”

  NINE

  NEAR THE CITY CENTER, WARSAW, POLAND

  THE NEXT DAY

  Warsaw’s rush-hour commute was in full swing, with cars, buses, and trams choking the major streets. Sidewalks teemed with people streaming to work in office buildings, corporate headquarters, banks, and other businesses. Though temperatures hovered just above freezing, several days of intermittent rain had at last given way to a bright, sunny morning.

  Strolling arm in arm, Brad McLanahan and Nadia Rozek joined the hurrying crowds, moving just fast enough to avoid being jostled. They were out of uniform, dressed in civilian clothing—warm winter coats, sweaters, and jeans. Martindale’s message summoning them from Powidz the night before had stressed that they should be ready to travel “inconspicuously” and at short notice.

  This morning, faced with an overseas trip of indeterminate length, Nadia had decided to clear away some of the chores that had been piling up in her absence. Her service as one of President Wilk’s military aides and as his personal go-between with the Iron Wolf Squadron left almost no time for everyday routines like paying bills, laundry, and shopping.

  Brad’s smartphone buzzed. He took it out and looked at the text message displayed on its screen: Helo@Belweder. 1030. Flt out MinMaz 1100. No bags. M.

  “Ah, hell,” he muttered, quickly entering an acknowledgment.

  “Martindale?” Nadia asked quietly.

  He nodded. “We’ve got a chopper flight out from the Belweder Palace in ninety minutes.” The palace was the site of Piotr Wilk’s working office. Given the Polish president’s preference for fast travel, helicopter landings and takeoffs from its forecourt were fairly routine—not something that should draw a lot of attention.

  “A helicopter flight to where?” Nadia asked.

  “The air base at Minsk Mazowiecki, where we catch a plane to . . . well, who knows? But our final destination should be Battle Mountain in Nevada,” Brad told her. He grinned uncertainly. “That’s my old hometown, you know.”

  “So there go most of my errands,” Nadia said, frowning in mild irritation. “Straight into the dumpster.”

  “I’m afraid so,” Brad said. He showed her the text. “But, hey, at least we don’t have to waste time packing. No luggage allowed, see?”

  Nadia raised an eyebrow. “I’m being asked to fly to a foreign country without fresh clothes or even toiletries, and this is supposed to console me?” Her eyes flashed. “You have much to learn about women, Brad McLanahan!”

  He winced. “Oh yeah . . . I guess that’s true.”

  Laughing, she took pity on him. “Never mind. I am glad to be your instructor.” She checked her watch. “If we hurry, perhaps I can unscramble the mess my bank has made of my direct deposits. There’s an ATM just off Aleje Jerozomliskie.”

  Brad nodded. Jerusalem Avenue was one of the main east-west streets in Warsaw and they’d have to cross it on their way to the palace anyway. He shoved the smartphone back into his coat pocket and contritely offered her his arm again. “I’m entirely at your service, Major Rozek.”

  “Apology accepted, Captain McLanahan,” she said with a warm smile.

  Nadia’s good humor lasted up to the moment they dashed between a stream of slow-moving yellow-and-red buses and saw the line of five people already waiting to use the automated teller machine. She slowed up. “No, to pięknie. Just great,” she murmured. “If this day gets any worse, I may have to kill Martindale myself. Just to even the score.”

  Brad decided the better part of valor was keeping his mouth shut.

  The elderly man at the front of the line shuffled forward, fumbling in his pocket for a wallet. Peering through thick reading glasses, he fumbled out his bank card and then gingerly inserted it into the ATM, almost as though he expected the machine to bite off his fingers. With that much accomplished, he slowly and with painstaking care punched in his four-digit PIN.

  Impatiently tapping her foot at the back of the line, Nadia briefly closed her eyes in exasperation. “Boże, daj mi cierpliwość.” She sighed. “God give me patience.”

  But before the old man could even select an option from the ATM’s menu, brightly colored zlotys, Polish bank notes, started popping out of its cash dispenser. They dropped out in ones and twos at first, and then faster and faster, and in larger denominations.

  For a moment, he stared in disbelief. “What the devil? What is this?” Then, frantically, he started grabbing at the bills as they emerged. “This machine has gone mad! It’s throwing away my money! All of my money!”

  More zlotys spewed out. Caught up in the brisk cold breeze, bank notes whirled away down the si
dewalk. At first, only a few startled passersby snatched at them. Then as the haywire ATM kept disgorging cash, others joined in, scooping up bills as they slid along the paving and snagging them out of the air. More and more people turned to watch in astonishment.

  “Is this some kind of crazy promotional stunt?” someone asked.

  “Who gives a shit?” A younger man with a shaved head and multiple piercings laughed, holding up a fistful of zlotys. “It’s real cash, see!”

  Red-faced and shaking with rage, the old man tried to tear the notes out of his hand. “That’s mine,” he yelled. “Give it back, you thieving skinhead!”

  “Fuck off, Grandpa,” the younger man said coldly, holding the zlotys high out of his reach with one hand and roughly shoving him away with the other. “I don’t see your name anywhere on these bills.”

  “But they’re coming from my account,” the old man shrieked.

  “Then go complain to your goddamned Jew bank.” The skinhead laughed again. “Those Żyd moneylenders are your real problem, not me.”

  Several others in the gathering crowd nodded, though most looked disgusted.

  That’s enough, Brad thought grimly. He stepped forward. “I suggest you give this man his money back,” he said, in halting Polish.

  The skinhead laughed contemptuously. “Or what, dickhead?”

  “Or I’ll have to kick your ass,” Brad said softly.

  “Screw you, foreigner,” the other man retorted. He tugged a switchblade out of his pocket and flicked it open. The long, thin blade glinted in the sun. “Maybe I should carve you up a little, to teach you some manners, eh?”

  The crowd went very quiet.

  Okay, Brad thought, this just got real. He rolled his shoulders and neck unobtrusively, loosening up. When the guy made his move, he’d have to slide to the right fast, deflect the knife with a rising left-hand block, and then . . .

  “Please move aside, Brad,” he heard Nadia say calmly. He glanced backward, not wanting to take his eyes off the skinhead, now fearful about the sudden distraction . . . but moments later he obeyed. Nadia had drawn her concealed 9mm Walther P99 pistol. Smiling coldly, she stepped gracefully into a two-handed shooter’s stance—aiming right at the skinhead’s center of mass. “Drop the knife, dupek.”

 

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