He’d come to the UK two years before on a mission of industrial espionage. The British company BDS was the renowned leader in robotics and associated technologies. The Russians were playing catch-up. Unknown to MI5, Lukin had already passed classified technologies and trade secrets on to the Russians. Now he was about to do it again.
The British planned not only to furnish their own military with a vastly expanded robot army, but also those of other countries. Export models would fall into two categories: those for friendly nations and a general international version. Arms exports controls would prevent Russia being able to order even the lowest spec, general models. Not that it would stop them from acquiring a Centurion-Mk2 or Sentinel-B1 eventually to reverse engineer. But Russia wanted its own military robotics industry to be cutting edge—strategically important and a good source of hard currency. Having to reverse engineer a post-production model would put them many years behind by the time they’d got commercial production up and running. By that point BDS would have another new model ready to go. They needed to get ahead of the learning curve and stealing tech was the fastest way to do it. They’d tried hacking into the BDS network to steal technology but failed. If they could have done it that way, they would have, but the company had protected its network well.
He had every right to be there as Dr Jansons, and tonight he would fulfil his last job before exfiltrating back to Moscow.
“He’s coming your way, Soph, over,” reported Ashley, as he opened the internal double-sliders for the SVR spy. “Like a rat in a trap,” he muttered to himself.
“Okay, copy that,” she replied, taking a deep breath. Soon it would be show time; passing her office was the only route to the material lab near the rear of the building. Even with her 9mm strapped to her ankle, she still felt exposed. Ash would take sixty seconds to reach her if Lukin decided to try something. She didn’t think he would, but it was just the knowledge that she could end up one-on-one with one of Russia’s best that concerned her. The file MI6—the Secret Security Service—had passed to them was sketchy but telling nonetheless. The former SPETSNAZ soldier had assisted Islamic Caliphate forces for years in operations against British troops in the Middle East. There was evidence he’d even interrogated captured British servicemen and women, including the alleged rape and torture of a female intelligence officer. Nasty piece of work, aren’t you, Mr Lukin? thought Sophie, as she gathered up her bag ready to leave. She also recalled the intel from another operation aimed at disrupting Russian military supplies to IC. The fanatical enemy didn’t have military robots yet, but if the Russians had their way, they would do in future.
It was a sample of Westminster armour Lukin was there for. They’d been conducting destructive testing in the materials lab, confirming the breakthrough composite’s superiority to all existing armours. The multi-layered sheets of nano-fibre and metal alloy had three times more stopping power and were twenty percent lighter than the best of the rest. What was more, with the right coatings, they were better at reflecting and dissipating directed energy weapons strikes. She switched off the light to her office and closed the door behind her. She turned right along the corridor between glass cubes either side on her way to the lobby. Lukin entered from the opposite direction and saw her. He raised an immediate smile for his colleague. She beamed back her appealing smile. He waited until within five yards before he spoke, slowing to engage his departing co-worker.
“Working late tonight, Charlotte?” he asked innocently, with the merest hint of what she supposed was a Latvian accent. Could have been Russian as far as she could tell.
“Yeah,” she sighed, “had to finish a report Zane wanted before the weekend. Everyone else went hours ago!”
Lukin observed that all of the cubicles on either side of the corridor were dark.
“I suppose it’s before the weekend ... maybe.” He grinned affably enough. She didn’t want to question him, so made out she was in a hurry.
“Well, got to rush. Have a good one...”
She walked off towards the lobby and out into the night.
Lukin went down the corridor toward the labs at the rear. No one around, now Charlotte has left—good. They’ll have a record of me being here, but by time they realise the material is gone I’ll be back in Russia, he told himself, for the third time that hour. Just a nerdy scientist coming back for something he’s forgotten. He completed protocol at the lab security doors and turned left towards the darkness of Materials Lab #1. He reached the old-style door complete with traditional Yale lock. He opened it with his key, went in and switched on the overhead lights. The LED bulbs lit the large space filled with testing machines, materials shelves and semi-built robots. This was one of the few places he knew the security guard wouldn’t be able to see him. Material Lab #1’s two security cameras were, as of five minutes ago, showing looping footage of the dark lab. Only the corridor lights shining through the high windows provided illumination in the pre-recorded version. With only a single guard on duty, he couldn’t afford to make too many patrols and if he did see him there so what? He was Dr Jansons, after all. He had a time window of fifteen minutes before Cyberwarfare would withdraw their act of magic. He would report in sick on Monday, and then hand in his resignation later in the week stating ‘family problems’ back home in Riga. They’d find out the armour sample was missing eventually, but it didn’t cost him much to string them along for a few more weeks. The more time and distance he could put between himself and the British spooks, the better. He walked over to the sample shelf, just beyond the universal testing machine, and selected one of the smallest samples—one that could fit into his backpack. He placed the ten-by-ten-centimetre piece of centimetre thick Westminster armour in his backpack and turned to leave.
Ashley and Sophie watched Lukin leave Materials Lab #1 on the additional cameras they’d installed there.
“Victor-bravo-nine, this is Delta-one. Target is leaving Materials Lab Number One, over,” reported Ashley.
“Copy that, Delta-one,” replied Rawlins.
After MI5 had uncovered the precise details of the SVR operation three days prior, they’d gone to work, surreptitiously placing their own hidden cameras. They’d let the SVR believe they’d fooled the poor BDS security guard as well as gotten around the company’s network security. It was down to the firearms unit to make the arrest now, before Lukin could flee with the sample. It was the perfect takedown zone—no civilians, large enough to contain the police cordons and deserted enough to prevent evasion. Although their world was heavily compartmentalised, both Ashley and Sophie knew the UK was crawling with Russian spies. About half of all of the ops they’d been on involved the SVR. The rest of their counter-intelligence team’s work was taken up with IC wannabe-spies and pros from myriad other countries. The IC’s so-called spies were a joke compared to the Russians. IC was, at heart, a ragtag horde of fanatics with neither the institutions nor the training to carry out penetrative spying operations.
Lukin walked blithely out to the lobby.
“Victor-bravo-nine, this is Delta-one. Be ready to move. Target has reached the lobby, over,” reported Ashley.
“Copy that. Locked and loaded. Ready to move in on the suspect,” replied a tense-sounding Sergeant Rawlins.
“This is Control. All units standby. Victor-bravo-nine TFU is about to arrest the target.”
“This is Delta-one. Target has stopped and is checking his backpack, over,” said Ash. He checked the display of the front car park. The white panel van was dark and still. Inside, he knew were the men of the Tactical Firearms Unit. Lukin was undoubtedly armed, but not as well as the officers in the van.
Rawlins was growing impatient—he was fired up and just wanted to get it done. The adrenaline was coursing through his veins and he was sure his seven colleagues were feeling the same. Waiting and more waiting then minutes of actions and it was all over again until the next op. What the thirty-four-year-old father of three didn’t yet realise was that he had seconds le
ft to live.
Sophie grasped it first. “Victor-bravo-nine, he’s—”
The two kilos of C4 hidden in the van detonated with a blinding flash, which transformed into a furious fireball, incinerating what remained. In an instant, it snuffed out eight men’s lives forever.
“Damn it!” screamed Sophie.
“What the hell happened?” cried Ashley.
The radio channels were alive with frantic voices.
“Control, this is Delta-one, officers down, we just lost Victor-bravo-nine … all of them!” he reported.
“We know, Delta-one. Report target’s status. You are authorised to neutralise the target. Repeat: all units neutralise the target. Go get him!”
“Where is he?” asked Ashley.
“It’s okay, I’m tracking the bastard … just doubled back into the lab corridor. Shouldn’t we pursue, Ash?” asked Sophie uncertainly.
“No. We need to keep eyes on him for the ARVs that’ll be zeroing in on this place,” he said, referring to the police Armed Response vehicles.
“Control, do we still have Oscar-nine-niner in position above us?” asked Ashley.
“Affirmative, Delta-one, eye in the sky has eyes peeled for target. Three hours ten minutes of flying time left, over.”
“Okay, copy that, Control.”
Lukin tucked the GSh-50 handgun back into his shoulder holster and unlocked the door to the Sentinel lab. The largest of the facility’s labs had the surface area of a tennis court, and for good reason—this was where they researched the fearsome Heavy Warfighting Units. And one fully operational specimen stood before Lukin in the bright light of the lab. The Sentinel-Mk1 was a tracked killer, standing at four-metres high, with Gatling guns underslung below both arms. The arms could only move up or down for inclinational aiming. The upper body pivoted on the chassis base, allowing azimuthal positioning. The machine’s ‘head’ reminded him of a grotesque parody of a face—its many circular sensor inputs covering the stubby alloy head with no apparent logic. This Sentinel was the one he had been upgrading with Westminster armour over the past month. It was a fully functional unit brought in from the field. The hardest part for Lukin was smuggling in the .50 calibre rounds its Gatling guns needed for their deadly work. In a week’s time, the army was supposed to transport it to Salisbury Plain where they would carry out live-fire testing on the new armour. How about we do some testing right now? thought Lukin, smiling malevolently. At the rear of the lab were the wide sectional doors, which could open to the twelve-metre high ceiling. He rushed to the rear of the bot’s chassis and opened the unlocked cover to the touch screen control panel. The display lit up and he typed in his access code while holding his left hand RFID close enough to be read. He called up the AI routine he’d uploaded to the Sentinel earlier that week. The use of such AI in military robots was illegal, but to Lukin the laws of this little island were completely irrelevant. Next, he confirmed the two inputs: coordinates for it to move to and the timer delay before its AI routine became active.
He knew they’d be closing in fast, so he dashed to the control button and opened the access door. He switched off the lights, providing additional cover. As the rear doors lifted slowly towards the ceiling, they revealed the service road outside, which ran left to right. Opposite was a grassy bank, the perimeter fence, and a line of trees beyond. He left the lab and took a sharp right outside, tracking ten metres along the concrete perimeter path to the ladder. As he grabbed on to the ladder and started climbing, he could hear the onrushing police closing in on the lab; there were also the occasional shouted commands and the sound of sirens further away on the A14. Halfway up the ladder, he heard the high-pitched whine of the Sentinel coming to life. It advanced towards the place he’d told it to—just outside of the large lab door. The Sentinel was not designed for AI operation, but it would be good enough for his needs. All he needed now was covering fire for a few minutes—enough to suppress the police while he escaped. He reached the top of the ladder just as the first ARV arrived with its two firearms officers inside. It skidded to a halt ten metres from the poorly illuminated Sentinel. As the officers flung open the doors two more ARVs arrived—one next to the first, the other arriving from the opposite end of the service road.
Lukin sprinted across the flat lab roof towards the small HVAC shack when he heard the deafening sound.
The AI routine recognised two things: motor vehicles and humans. It was simple and hardly even worthy of the AI tag. It did not distinguish between friend or foe, merely the visual and heat signatures of its two target types. The Sentinel turned its upper body left, enlightening the approaching policemen to what it was. Milliseconds later, it lit up the night with three bursts of .50 calibre lead, shredding the four officers and their vehicles to pieces. The killer had already seen the other ARV to its right and turned its upper body to engage. The remaining ARV wheel-spun in reverse, desperately trying to get back around the corner of the lab and cover. The driver’s eyes were wide with fear as he saw the Sentinel turn. The last thing he saw was the flash of its left Gatling gun. Fifty milliseconds later, fifty grams of lead tore into his chest at one kilometre per second.
“All units pull back to the cordon. Repeat: pull back to the cordon,” exclaimed Control. “There’s a Sentinel HWU that’s just taken out three armed response vehicles! It’s outside the service entrance to the Sentinel lab. We have a clear view of it on Oscar-nine-niner. Sentinel is currently stationary. Continuing to track Lukin with secondary camera. He’s now on the lab roof, about to enter the HVAC shack. Can you get up there Delta-one?”
“Negative, Control: only the access ladder at the back… We can’t get to it until we shut down that bot!” called Ashley.
Lukin closed the door and switched on the light. He went to the corner and lifted the black nylon tarp, throwing it to the side. He removed his small backpack containing the sample and secured the pack on his chest. He then squatted down and put his arms and body into the five-point harness of the machine. He adjusted the straps until it was snug then pushed on his knees to stand upright. He booted up the flight computer and drew down the HUD visor over his eyes. Using the control pad on the right control stalk, he tested the ducted fan, filling the small space with turbulent air and noise. Satisfied the lightweight jetpack was working, he kicked open the shack door and started running. As he ran, he throttled the motor up to full power and rose into the night air. He altered the thrust vector and started accelerating towards a cruising speed of one hundred and ten kilometres per hour.
“Control, are you getting all this?” exclaimed Ashley, watching Oscar-nine-niner’s video feed. Sophie was wide-eyed and speechless. How could the surveillance team have missed this? she thought.
“Yes, Delta-one,” said control calmly. “Tracking the target with Oscar-nine-niner. Currently heading due south. Papa-whiskey-one, this is Control. Report status, over.”
“Control, this is Papa-whiskey-one. Launching the ASU in one minute, over,” said the female voice of the specialist support unit.
The ASU—Aerial Sniper Unit—had been on standby in a secluded corner of the science park. Now they were ready to launch the one-metre square quadcopter to take down the fleeing spy. The ASU, otherwise known as a precision weapons platform, carried a powerful sniper rifle. The rifle was underslung on a gyroscopically stable mount and came with powerful optics complete with nightvision and infrared. Flight and navigation were by autopilot obeying commands given by the sniper sitting in the back of the police unit’s van. She’d just received her weapons-free authorisation on the target. She would manually aim and send the shoot command with the help of a computer-suggested aim point. If AI weapons release was prohibited in warzones, then it was unthinkable for the police.
The ASU quadcopter accelerated into the night sky, progressively angling itself towards the south to match Lukin’s heading and altitude. She didn’t know if the ASU could catch him but she was pretty sure it could stay aloft far longer than a jetpack co
uld.
Lukin had travelled four kilometres by the time the ASU had started its pursuit. Another ten klicks and he’d be where he needed to be. He stayed low, dropping to fifty metres as he became more confident at flying the machine. No point standing out against the night sky. The airflow was pushing back his face and drying his eyes, making him wish he hadn’t forgotten the goggles he’d left at home. Dr Jansons’s home, to which he’d never be returning. Five kilometres… not far now.
“All units, this is Oscar-nine-niner, I’ve lost the target—he’s fast, couldn’t keep up. Last seen travelling due south over Trumpington.”
“This is Control. Copy that, Oscar-nine-niner. Continue south; see if you can pick him up again. What’s your status, Papa-whiskey-one?”
“We’ve got him,” said Lucy Fletcher, the police sniper. “Three kilometres ahead of us, but we’ve got a lock and we’re gaining on him, over,” she continued.
Sophie had run over to the support unit while Ashley had gone to help in the aftermath of the bombed police van. She sat on the spare seat next to Lucy and watched as Lukin fled from the pursuing sniper drone. Sophie had seen two other officers leave the unit and dash towards the same burning wreck that Ashley had. She knew there was unlikely to be any survivors and she needed to follow up on Lukin. She exchanged a brief nod with the task-loaded young policewoman and kept her eyes on the display and controls. Sophie had trained on similar equipment herself not so long ago for a mission that never eventuated.
“Are you ready to take the shot, Papa-whiskey-one?” said the voice over both the headset and small speaker next to the display.
“Soon, Control. Target’s almost … in … range,” she replied, her pre-fontal cortex preoccupied with the hunt.
“Good luck, Papa-whiskey-one.”
She turned to Sophie and said, “It’s my first real op you know...”
Sophie thought she looked nervous. “You wouldn’t be here if they didn’t believe in you,” said Sophie, trying to instil some confidence in the young constable.
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