Combat Machines

by Don Pendleton

  “I would like nothing more,” he replied as he rose to his feet.

  Andreja walked with him out of her office and across the foyer to the double doors. She gently pushed them open and peeked inside.

  Luka and Nenad were busy among the more than three dozen cribs, efficiently changing diapers. The rustling of their clothes and of the cloth diapers was the only sound in the room. None of the infants made a sound.

  Dr. Utkin nodded pleasantly to her assistants, then focused on the four rows of children, ranging in age from six to eighteen months. He began walking up and down the rows, leaning over to examine this child or that.

  A shell arced overhead with a scream, then detonated close enough to rattle the windows. Even then, not a single baby uttered a sound.

  “I have heard of this, da?” Utkin asked. “Since the children do not get comforted when they cry, they learn to not cry, as it does them no good.”

  “I’m afraid so,” Andreja replied.

  “It sounds cruel, but this actually works better for our program,” Utkin said, clasping his hands behind his back as he walked. “We will be examining their ability to form relationships later on in life, after having those needs withheld as infants. It is said that the brain develops differently under such adverse conditions, and we will find out if that is so, and how it manifests later on...”

  He turned to see the grim expression on Andreja’s face and reached out to touch her shoulder. “Of course, I did not mean that you and these young ladies are responsible for their development. You are doing all that you can, of course.”

  “Yes...it is not easy,” she replied. “We should continue your tour.”

  “Yes, of course.” Utkin walked up and down every aisle, looking at each child. At length, he came to the end of his inspection. “Are there any more?”

  “No, thank heaven.”

  “Very well. I have made my selections.” Utkin began walking up and down the aisles again, stopping briefly at a dozen cribs, each one just long enough for Andreja to note which one it was before he moved on to the next. In just a few minutes, the tall, lean scientist had chosen more than a quarter of her current children.

  “Very well. They can be ready for travel by this afternoon.” Andreja cleared her throat. “I assume that you have brought the necessary supplies? We cannot spare anything to send with you.”

  Utkin nodded. “I understand. We brought all that is necessary for their safe and healthy journey back to Russia. After all, they represent a substantial investment on the part of the motherland. It would be terrible if something happened to them before they arrived in their new home.”

  “Well, while Luka and Nenad are preparing the children, you and I can head back to my office and begin the paperwork for all this. Twelve sets. I’m afraid you’re going to be here awhile.”

  “That’s quite all right,” Utkin said with a smile. “I want to make sure everything goes smoothly for them from this point forward.”

  * * *

  FOUR HOURS LATER, with the paperwork completed and the dozen babies safely loaded into infant seats secured inside the truck, Utkin extended his hand to Andreja, which she took.

  “Thank you for your assistance. Given the circumstances, I’m so very pleased that it went as easily as it did.”

  “And thank you, Doctor. I certainly hope that you will be able to give them a better life. Although I would like to know how your experiment turns out, I will be content just knowing that they escaped this place.”

  The doctor nodded. “Yes, together we have saved twelve lives today. They and I owe you our thanks.”

  “No, it is you who has our thanks. They are the recipients of your generous offer, and I know they will do well by it.”

  Utkin nodded even as he checked his watch. “I’m afraid, however, that we must be going. It will be difficult enough moving through the checkpoints, and exiting the country with twelve infant children that I didn’t have upon my arrival, we probably won’t get out of the country for a week with all the paperwork that will have to be examined.”

  Andreja smiled and nodded. “Of course. Go with God, and safe travels.”

  “Thank you.”

  With that, the doctor climbed into the passenger seat of the truck as the driver started it up.

  “Get what you came for?” the driver, Utkin’s assistant and bodyguard, asked around a cigarette he lit.

  Utkin glanced back over his cargo, the twelve children sitting silently in their car seats. Any trace of the kindly social scientist had disappeared the moment he’d gotten into the vehicle. Now he regarded the children coldly, dispassionately, as if they were rats in a cage.

  “Oh, yes, Dimitri,” he murmured. “They will do perfectly.” He turned to face the front of the vehicle again. “You radioed in the coordinates, yes?”

  The driver nodded. “As requested. In fact, they should be reducing that building to rubble right...about...now.”

  “Yes, with all records lost as a result of an unfortunate accident.” Utkin grinned, a wolfish smile with no humor in it whatsoever. “You are very fortunate, Dimitri. Not many people get to witness history being made firsthand.”

  The other man grunted, jetting smoke out of his nose.

  “Yes, for you see, the new vanguard of Russia’s soldiers is beginning today.” Utkin swept an arm back to encompass the dozen children. “And these will be the first of many.”

  Chapter One

  Ground Forces of the Russian

  Federation Headquarters

  Moscow, Russia

  The present

  Dr. Rostislav Utkin walked into the main building of the Russian army headquarters, presented his identification to the guards inside, submitted to the metal detector and physical search and checked in at the desk behind the checkpoint.

  He hadn’t changed much in the past twenty-plus years. He was still tall, but now slightly stooped. His white-blond hair had receded from his forehead and had thinned all over, to the point where he now wore it cropped so close he might as well have been nearly bald.

  He was also leaner than he had been two decades earlier. The stress of keeping the funding, equipment and staff together for his project through the intervening years had taken its toll, but it had all been worth it. Now, he was at last going to present the results of his program to Oleg Istrakov, the new colonel general. He was confident that when his superior saw the results of his program, he would renew his funding. Utkin hoped he might even authorize its expansion so they could begin locating and training the next generation of soldiers.

  A lifetime of theories, of work and planning, favors bought and sold to keep his program running, all of it was about to pay off in the next few minutes.

  Utkin took a seat outside the colonel general’s office and sat patiently, not distracting himself with a smartphone or newspaper, instead running over talking points, attempting to anticipate questions and objections, and rehearsing the best ways to either answer or counter them.

  Istrakov’s schedule had to have been running smoothly, for the door opened after less than ten minutes and a black-haired, suited man stalked out, his expression glowering.

  Utkin recognized Professor Sergei Mentov, a mechanical engineer who had been tasked with developing the motherland’s next generation of mechanized armor. The doctor didn’t envy his job. Between the government graft and constant cycles of budget cuts, it would be a wonder if the good professor could field an armored tricycle within the next decade. Given his demeanor as he strode past Utkin without acknowledging his presence, even that seemed unlikely.

  “Dr. Utkin, the colonel general will see you now,” the secretary said from the doorway.

  Utkin stood, checked himself over one last time to ensure he was presentable and walked into the small room adjacent to the man’s office. With a po
lite nod to the secretary as she returned to her desk, he continued into the colonel general’s domain.

  The office was a reasonable size for the man’s position, neither too big nor two small. Istrakov’s desk was at the far side of the room, with two chairs facing it. A threadbare rug muffled Utkin’s footfalls as he crossed to the desk and stood waiting to be recognized.

  With a soft grunt, Istrakov finally looked up. He was a pale, bloodless man, his eyes slightly magnified behind rimless glasses. Utkin felt unease start to stir in his gut—the man looked like an accountant, not a former battlefield soldier.

  Istrakov blinked owlishly, and his first words did not generate any more confidence. “You are my 2:15, yes?”

  Utkin blinked. He knew the man was new to his position, but such an impersonal address threw him a bit. “Yes, Colonel General, Dr. Rostislav Utkin, at your service.”

  “Right. Please, sit.” Istrakov waved at the chairs in front of the desk. Utkin did as instructed, sitting on the edge of his seat as the man tapped keys on his computer.

  “Utkin, Utkin, Utkin...ah, here it is.” Istrakov read something on the monitor, nodding as he did so. After a few moments, he looked at the doctor. “We are terminating your program. All funding will cease immediately, and you are to discontinue all current research, development and experiments.”

  Utkin just sat there and blinked for a moment, scarcely believing what he had just heard. “Sir, I was given to understand that this was a progress review, not a funding meeting—”

  Istrakov shook his head. “I am sorry you feel that you were misinformed about the purpose of this meeting. The latest directives from the Kremlin are to review and evaluate all programs deemed unnecessary to the current goals of the Russian Federation. After careful consideration, your program has been determined to be costing an exponentially large amount in comparison to its overall utility.”

  Having gotten over the shock of the other man’s announcement, Utkin quickly rallied. After all, this wasn’t the first time his program had come within a hairbreadth of cancellation. “Sir, if I may, the units have only recently been brought on line in their full capacity. The field tests have been incredible, far exceeding even my wildest hopes. You cannot pull our funding now, not when we are ready to actually make the units available for real-world operations—”

  “I can and will, Doctor. Such small-scale programs like yours, with such long gestational periods, are not what the Federation is looking to develop today.” He glanced back at the screen and his light brown eyebrows rose. “Frankly, I’m amazed that you’ve managed to keep the lights on all these years—an impressive accomplishment in itself.”

  “Pardon my bluntness, but that is primarily because I kept your predecessors up to date about our progress, and to a person, they all agreed that my program was effective, worthwhile and, above all, necessary.”

  Of course, it was a lot easier to push through the bureaucracy when the oil money was flowing, Utkin thought.

  “If you would just take a closer look at what we’ve been doing, or perhaps a demonstration of some of the units’ various capabilities might convince you otherwise—”

  “I admire your single-minded persistence, Doctor, but I have made up my mind.” Utkin opened his mouth to continue his attempt, but Istrakov shook his head. “Are you aware of just how many programs I have to evaluate in the next two weeks? I have reviewed your summaries, and in many areas, I must admit that the results you have achieved are impressive. But the training and preoperational period is completely unacceptable for the results you are claiming.”

  “But we are now ready for true fieldwork, sir,” Utkin persisted. “Just find my units a mission and let them execute it. Then you will see what all that money and time has purchased.”

  “At the moment, there is nothing that requires their specialized abilities. Your creations are not useful on the general battlefield, or training soldiers in Syria. They are highly specialized weapons, suitable only for things that we are not doing now.”

  During Istrakov’s last comments, Utkin had run through several possible gambits in his head and evaluated the hazards of each. Like most good Russians working in the military and the government, he had a wide range of knowledge about things he probably shouldn’t have known about. Bringing any of them up, even in a roundabout way, might simply get him a quick trip to the gulag.

  But after another second’s consideration, he decided to gamble on exposing a bit of what he knew—if he could just keep his program going another six months, it would be worth the risk. “Begging your pardon, I am aware of several initiatives that have been discussed at certain levels of our military that my units would seem tailor-made for. Particularly ones in the Far East, and in North America, as well.”

  Istrakov’s brows narrowed. “Perhaps they would, but those various operations are all theoretical at best, and many are years from actual implementation. You are asking us to allocate millions of rubles a year to keep these units ready on the off chance that one of these programs might be enacted in the future. I’m afraid not, Doctor.”

  Istrakov stared dispassionately at him. “I have my orders to cut the budget wherever I can, and your program is on the chopping block. It is that simple. You have two weeks to make whatever preparations are necessary for reassigning your personnel—”

  “And exactly how do you suggest that I do that?” Utkin asked, letting his overall anger finally seep into his tone. “As you said yourself, these are not merely frontline soldiers, or even special forces personnel. They cannot simply be ‘reassigned.’”

  “I understand. Your notes state that many of their internal systems can either be deactivated or removed. I suggest that you begin scheduling the necessary surgeries to make sure these units of yours will be able to function appropriately in their new assignments. Please be sure to follow proper procedures in doing so, including any letters of commendation or recommendation that would be required.” Istrakov leaned back in his chair and folded his hands. “Do you have any other questions, Doctor?”

  Utkin just sat there for a moment, blinking. Istrakov stared back at him until the silence grew oppressive. “Doctor, are you all right?”

  With a start, Utkin shook himself and nodded. “Yes, sir, my apologies. This is all rather sudden. You had said I have two weeks to wind the program down, correct?”

  “That is correct.” Istrakov was already focusing on his monitor again. “Any further issues or questions that arise during that time can be sent directly to my office.”

  It was clear that the meeting was at an end. Utkin slowly rose and walked out of the office like a man in a trance. With a polite nod at the secretary, he left, walked down the hall past the entry checkpoint and out the door.

  Blinking in the sudden weak sunshine, Utkin stood to the side of the headquarters entrance for a few moments, gathering his thoughts. Although a part of him had always known this day might eventually come, to be denied when they were so close to success was the bitterest pill to swallow.

  Two weeks...two weeks to shut everything down, he thought while he walked down the broad avenue, oblivious to the other passersby.

  He had gone a couple blocks when it struck him that perhaps he had been given two weeks to prove the efficacy of his program.

  So, what if he were to show them what his program can do? The thought was so antithetical to his normal scientific mode of operation that it stopped him in his tracks. Several reasons came to mind—with his potential death factoring heavily in more than one—but he brushed them aside impatiently.

  And once he removed any thought of personal survival versus what he hoped to gain—the continuance of his program—the reality of his situation was stark. Why not? He had nothing to lose anymore.

  Overcome with the ramifications of the decision looming before him, Utkin looked around for somewhere to sit for
a minute. He had wandered farther than expected while pondering his future, and now stood in an unfamiliar neighborhood of dingy shops interspersed with what looked like bars. Utkin frowned—he’d had no idea these places were so close to the military headquarters.

  Selecting the nearest one, he stepped inside, wrinkling his nose at the overwhelming smell of stale cigarette smoke. He wasn’t a puritan, just not fond of the odor.

  Sitting at the bar, he ordered vodka, and when it came, he reached for the shot glass and was about to knock it back when he stopped and stared at the drink in his hand, then set it back down.

  No, he thought, if I am to do this, let it be my decision alone, unmodified by drink or anything else but my own conviction. He would use the remaining program funds for a series of missions.

  Tossing some rubles on the bar, he left the full shot glass and walked back outside, now a man on a mission. Within another block, he found what he was looking for—one of the new payphones that allowed a user to access the internet, pay their utility bills, or even use Skype to call people.

  With a surreptitious scan of the area, he picked up the receiver and dialed a number.

  It rang twice before being picked up. “Da?”

  “This is Father Time,” he said. “The alarm clock has gone off, repeat, the alarm clock has gone off. Please make sure that all students report to their assigned schools in time for the next semester. Confirm.”

  “Understood, Father,” the voice replied. “All students are to report to their schools immediately and deliver their assignments.”

  “That is correct,” Utkin replied. “I look forward to seeing their grades.”

  “As do we,” the voice on the other end said before hanging up.

  Utkin replaced the receiver, wiping it off with his sleeve. Now that the operation had been set in motion, he had a lot to do—starting with getting out of the city within the next twelve hours.

  Chapter Two

  Geneva, Switzerland