by Dale Brown
Ashen-faced with fear, Ivan Ulanov, his private secretary, picked it up. “Yes?” The younger man listened intently for a moment. If anything, his face turned even whiter. He gulped and turned toward Gryzlov. “Sir?” he said hesitantly. “It’s the American White House. Their president wishes to speak to you on a secure video link.”
“Put her through,” Gryzlov heard himself say, almost without thinking. Was that slut, Stacy Anne Barbeau, calling to gloat? Were the Americans somehow responsible for this disaster? His teeth ground together. If so, she would bitterly regret her insolence—and soon.
He saw Foreign Minister Daria Titeneva stir as if to protest and silenced her with a quick, ferocious glare.
The large monitor blanked and then came back up. But instead of President Barbeau, it showed a man with gray hair and a neatly trimmed gray beard perched nonchalantly on the corner of a desk. He was smiling, but the smile did not extend to his eyes, which were as cold and distant and bleak as the icy plains of Pluto.
Gryzlov sat bolt upright. The guy looked damned familiar. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded.
If anything, the mocking smile on the other man’s face grew colder. “My name is Martindale,” he said flatly. “Kevin Martindale.”
“Martindale. Kevin Martindale.” Gryzlov’s eyes exploded in shock as he recognized the former American president.
Martindale gestured toward the unseen camera broadcasting his image. “I could apologize for this small deception, but I won’t. Because it’s extremely important that you realize that two can play this computer hacking game.” His gaze hardened. “And that we play it better.”
“What the fuck do you mean by that?” Gryzlov snarled.
“Come now, don’t be coy, Gennadiy,” the American said coolly. “We’ve all seen the handiwork of Major General Koshkin’s hackers. And now you’ve just had one small taste of what my own specialists can accomplish. I really hope you enjoyed watching so many of your jet fighters go down in flames.”
There were muted gasps around the room.
For a long moment, Gryzlov saw only red. Fury possessed him, raging through his otherwise rational mind in an uncontrollable flood. He bolted upright. “You fucking bastard,” he growled. “If you want all-out war—a war red in tooth and claw—you can have it! My troops and tanks will—”
Martindale cut him off with a single, imperious gesture. “Oh, I wouldn’t advise that, Gennadiy,” he said disdainfully. He bared his teeth in a wolfish smile. “You’ve already lost control over your surface-to-air regiments and watched them shoot down more than a dozen of your best combat aircraft. How much more damage would you like to take today? And tomorrow? And the day after that?”
For another instant, Gryzlov teetered on the very edge of pure madness. But then, slowly, very slowly, the deeper implications of what the American had been saying sank in. He turned away from the screen and the watchful eyes of his advisers, suddenly thoughtful. It was clear that the Poles and their technologically advanced mercenaries had somehow suborned his air-defense systems. How many other elements of his armed forces had they hacked? Were they inside his command links to the navy and the aerospace and ground forces?
And then another, even more terrifying thought occurred to him. Was what remained of his nation’s strategic nuclear arsenal still under his control? He shivered suddenly, imagining nuclear-tipped missiles blasting out of their silos and off their mobile launchers . . . but aimed at Russia’s own cities instead of its enemies.
Trying to hide his fear, Gryzlov turned back to Martindale. “What are you proposing?”
“Nothing too complicated,” the other man told him bluntly. “You call off Koshkin’s hackers—and disarm every cyberweapon still planted in the infrastructure of the Alliance of Free Nations. And in return, we agree not to blow the Kremlin, and the rest of Moscow, down around your goddamned ears.”
Reluctantly, Gryzlov nodded. Perhaps it would be wiser to pull back now, and give his cyberwar experts time to strengthen their own defenses. Besides, he thought, more confidently, this was only a preliminary skirmish. He could sit back and count his gains, which were more substantial than this American knew. His eyes narrowed as he studied the other man. “Very well, I agree.” He showed his own teeth. “But you should know that this isn’t over, Martindale.”
“Oh, I never thought it was, Gennadiy,” the other man agreed. He shrugged. “After all, you’re still breathing.”
The monitor went black.
INTENSIVE CARE UNIT, MILITARY INSTITUTE OF MEDICINE, WARSAW
SEVERAL HOURS LATER
With Nadia Rozek at his side, Brad McLanahan stepped out of the elevator and onto the dimly lit hospital floor. Together they hurried down the corridors, heading for the small darkened room where his father lay dying. Escorted by Colonel Kasperek’s fighters, they’d flown the XCV-62 direct to Warsaw’s Minsk Mazowiecki military airfield—and then boarded a helicopter with the gravely wounded Sergeant Davis for the short hop to this trauma center.
Davis was in the operating room now, being worked on by some of Poland’s best surgeons. While they cautioned that the road to full recovery would be long and difficult, they were confident that the Iron Wolf sergeant would survive his injuries.
So now, with his last duty to those in his command discharged, Brad felt able at last to focus on his own private sorrows. They turned a corner and entered the quiet, deserted hallway at the very back of the ICU.
But when they arrived at the bank of windows looking into what had been Patrick McLanahan’s room, they saw only an empty bed. The tangle of complicated medical machinery was gone. The room had been stripped bare, right down to its plain linoleum floor.
They were too late.
Brad stared blindly at the vacant bed, trying . . . and failing . . . to come to grips with a future empty of his father’s powerful presence. Slowly, unwillingly, he turned away. His eyes filled with tears. Nadia fell into his arms, quietly weeping herself.
“Hello, son,” he heard a familiar voice say. “I’m sorry about giving you a shock like that. I planned to meet you before you got this far, but I move a little slower these days.”
Startled, Brad looked up. He saw a human-size figure walking somewhat awkwardly down the hall toward them. It was a man. His torso, arms, and legs were supported by an exoskeleton coupled to a large backpack. A helmet enclosed his head, but through a clear visor, he saw his father’s face—older and more lined—smiling back at him.
Scarcely able to speak, Brad stammered. “Dad! I thought . . . well . . . I thought you were dying.”
“Me too, son,” Patrick McLanahan said with a wry, lopsided smile. “Luckily, Jason Richter had one more little high-tech wonder up his sleeve, with some forceful encouragement from Kevin Martindale.” He tapped the exoskeleton with one finger. “This thing. It’s called a LEAF, a Life Enhancing Assistive Facility.” He saw the pained expression on Brad and Nadia’s faces and laughed. “Yeah, that’s another of Jason’s less artistic acronyms.”
“Is this a new variant of the Cybernetic Infantry Device?” Nadia asked carefully. From the tone of her voice, Brad knew exactly what she was thinking. Was this machine some new monstrosity that would drive his father insane over time?
Patrick shook his head. “Not really. Oh, the exoskeleton provides me with a little armor and I can access a few sensor capabilities, but that’s about it. Most of this hardware is dedicated solely to keeping me alive and functioning.” He offered her a rueful nod. “So my days as a combat pilot—either in the air or inside a robot—are over.”
Then he flashed a warm, appealing grin, the kind of smile that Brad had missed seeing for a long, long time. “But I can get around pretty well now in the LEAF.” His grin widened. “Hey, who knows? Maybe I’ll even be able to dance at your wedding.”
EPILOGUE
STATE CYBERNETICS FACTORY, AKADEMGORODOK, IN THE CENTER OF SIBERIA, RUSSIA
SUMMER 2019
Trailed by his secur
ity detachment, Gennadiy Gryzlov strode onto a huge factory floor. An assembly line surrounded by computer-driven industrial robots ran down the middle of the enormous space. Dwarfed by their surroundings, a tiny group of scientists and engineers waited nervously near a pair of large doors at the end of the production line.
He joined them. “Well, what have you got?” he demanded.
One of the engineers keyed in a code, unlocking the doors. They slid smoothly aside. One by one, arc lights flared on—revealing a series of tall, motionless, human-shaped figures.
Gryzlov stood transfixed, hungrily staring up at the massive machines. They were more than ten feet high, with spindly arms and legs and elongated torsos. Smooth ovoids bristling with antennas and other sensor arrays took the place of heads.
Smiling now, he turned toward the senior scientist. “You have done very well, Dr. Aronov,” he said. “I congratulate you.”
The portly professor of cybernetics dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Thank you, Mr. President. My team and I have worked hard.” He hesitated briefly. “But I confess that we would not have been able to achieve so much without being able to reverse-engineer so many systems.” He shook his head in amazement. “I would never have believed the Americans were so far ahead of us in so many fields. It would have required many years of painstaking research and development to achieve similar advances in actuator, sensor, and battery technology.”
Gryzlov nodded in satisfaction. While he would have preferred a live prisoner to interrogate, components salvaged from the Iron Wolf combat robots wrecked outside Perun’s Aerie had proved their worth a thousand times over. “And the neural interface technologies required to make these war machines fully operational?” he asked. “Have you been able to re-create them?”
Aronov looked apologetic. “I am afraid the haptic control interfaces suffered too much battle damage for us to replicate them,” he admitted. “My people have been working very hard on various alternatives, Mr. President . . . but without success so far.”
Gryzlov waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t be too concerned, Aronov.” He smiled coldly. “After all, we now know where to go to acquire the necessary information. When the time comes, you’ll have what you need to bring these machines to life.”
He nodded toward his guards, who ushered the scientists and engineers away—leaving him alone to revel in the knowledge that Russia would soon have its own lethal war robots. He smiled nastily, remembering Martindale’s arrogant boasts. The man had sneered when Gennadiy Gryzlov had promised that this war was not over. Well, the days were fast approaching when he would redeem that pledge—and this time it would be a war fought entirely on American soil.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to Patrick Larkin for all his hard work.
About the Author
DALE BROWN is the New York Times bestselling author of numerous books, from Flight of the Old Dog (1987) to, most recently, Iron Wolf (2015). A former U.S. Air Force captain, he can often be found flying his own plane in the skies of the United States.
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Also by Dale Brown
Iron Wolf
Starfire
Tiger’s Claw
A Time for Patriots
Executive Intent
Rogue Forces
Shadow Command
Strike Force
Edge of Battle
Act of War
Plan of Attack
Air Battle Force
Wings of Fire
Warrior Class
Battle Born
The Tin Man
Fatal Terrain
Shadow of Steel
Storming Heaven
Chains of Command
Night of the Hawk
Sky Masters
Hammerheads
Day of the Cheetah
Silver Tower
Flight of the Old Dog
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
price of duty. Copyright © 2017 by Creative Arts and Sciences LLC. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins Publishers.
first edition
Cover design by Richard L. Aquan
Cover photographs: © Yevgen Timashov / OffSet / Shutterstock (Red Square); © Michael Warwick / Shutterstock (flag); © Shutterstock (computer code)
Digital Edition MAY 2017 ISBN: 978-0-06-244198-0
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-244197-3
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