The Moscow Offensive

by Dale Brown

  And then, several months ago, with a single urgent summons, the Kremlin had upended the smooth progression of his planned career and sent it careening off in a direction he could never have imagined. He shook his head, still feeling slightly dazed. The state, under Gennadiy Gryzlov’s rule, moved fast. You either kept pace, or you were swept away.

  Still smiling dryly, Kurakin took back his identity card from the worried-looking captain. He nodded toward the factory door. “Am I cleared to go inside?”

  “Oh, yes, sir,” the other man assured him quickly. He swallowed hard. “Sir, I apologize for the confusion. I expected—”

  “You expected to see someone in uniform,” Kurakin said quietly. He leaned closer to the captain, keeping his reproof between them. “And so your assumptions clouded your vision. Do not make this mistake again.”

  Leaving the shaken captain and his soldiers behind, Kurakin entered the huge cybernetics factory alone. He stood still for a moment, taking it all in. Industrial robots crowded around a single assembly line that ran straight down the middle of the vast open space. Each robot sprouted multiple, flexible limbs, which ended in a variety of tools and other devices. Eerily, they seemed more like giant metal spiders lying in wait for prey than manufactured machines. Windowed bays high above the tiled floor showed where human technicians monitored computers that must control the entire facility.

  His breath steamed in the air. It was almost as cold inside as outside. He shook his head in sudden understanding. Of course! Why waste precious heat on soulless machines? Especially since their electronic components were undoubtedly more efficient at lower temperatures.

  “Impressive, isn’t it?”

  Kurakin turned to face the ruggedly good-looking man who’d been waiting off to the side. “Extremely impressive, Mr. President,” he said. He waved at the array of silent, waiting industrial machines. “It looks like something out of a science-fiction film, in a scene set in the distant future.”

  Openly amused, Gennadiy Gryzlov came forward to join him. He nodded at Kurakin’s dark gray civilian suit. “So how does it feel, Vladimir? Running your own private company?”

  “Strange, Mr. President,” Kurakin admitted. He shrugged. “I’ve been a soldier all my life. It feels odd not to operate within a clearly defined command structure.”

  “Ah, there you are mistaken,” Gryzlov said, turning on him with a fast, slashing grin. “Like any good businessman you must, ultimately, obey your shareholders. Or, in this case, your only shareholder. Me.” His gaze hardened. “What I direct, you will do. I set the strategic objectives. And then you will employ whatever means are necessary to achieve my objectives. Is that clear?”

  “Very clear, Mr. President,” Kurakin agreed quickly. In public, Gryzlov was always charming, self-assured, and calm. But those who served Russia’s president closely learned very early on to be wary of his hair-trigger temper. Few walked away unscathed from one of their leader’s towering, manic rages.

  Recovering his good humor, Gryzlov clapped him on the shoulder. “Cheer up, Vladimir. Forget the fancy civilian suits and your impressive-sounding title. They’re just window dressing. Where it counts, you’re still a soldier under my orders.”

  Kurakin nodded again. Nominally, he was the chief executive officer of a brand-new private military corporation, Razresheniye Konfliktov Uslugi (Conflict Resolution Services). Long thwarted by the actions of the American-owned Scion, Gryzlov had decided to create his own deniable mercenary force. On paper, if not in practice, RKU was an independent commercial enterprise. Like Martindale’s Scion, it should be able to conduct clandestine military operations without the political constraints and risks that inevitably accompanied any open Russian military action.

  That was the president’s theory anyway, Kurakin knew. Whether other governments, especially that of the United States, would react as he predicted was an open question.

  “And why should they not?” Gryzlov had assured him at their first meeting to discuss his plans. He’d shown his teeth. “After all, I took that fat cow Stacy Anne Barbeau at her word when she swore that her country wasn’t responsible for the actions of Martindale and his mercenaries.”

  “You think she lied?” Kurakin had asked.

  Gryzlov had only shrugged. “What does it really matter? Her countrymen, whether paid solely by the Poles or not, have served America’s interests. Besides, even if she spoke the truth, Barbeau will not govern the United States forever. Some future American president will undoubtedly make use of Scion and its hired Iron Wolf killers.” His eyes had gleamed with a predator’s hunger. “Are we not entitled to use the same methods in our own national interest?”

  Kurakin shivered, remembering the president’s expression. For years, Gryzlov’s longtime chief of staff, Sergei Tarzarov, had acted as a brake on his wilder impulses. The wily Kremlin insider had been the only one ever able to dissuade the younger man from reckless action. But now Tarzarov was dead, killed by those same American mercenaries during their escape from the ambush at Perun’s Aerie. Which meant that Russia’s undisputed leader was free to follow his aggressive instincts . . . without restraint.

  “What is the status of your forces?” Gryzlov asked abruptly, dragging him back to the present. “Are you getting the quality of recruits you need?”

  With an effort, Kurakin pushed away both his memories and his lingering worries about the future. Whatever his “official” position, he still had a duty to his country.

  “Yes, Mr. President,” he assured Gryzlov. “Between the promises of high base pay and bonuses and pressure from their superior officers, we’ve been able to hire some of our toughest and most experienced Spetsnaz troops and GRU covert operatives. They are all proven veterans, many with superb language skills. A number of them can pass as natives of the United States, Poland, the Baltic States, Germany, or other NATO countries.”

  “And your weapons?”

  “A mix of Russian and Western small arms, heavy weapons, explosives, sensors, aircraft, and missiles,” Kurakin said.

  “Your men will use some American-made equipment?” Gryzlov mused.

  Kurakin nodded. “Also weapons manufactured by the Poles and other nations—chiefly the UK, Germany, and France.”

  “That should certainly add to the confusion after any operation,” Gryzlov said dryly.

  “Yes, sir.” Kurakin forced a smile. “We have obtained most of the equipment we need from existing Spetsnaz stockpiles, but we’ll have to buy the rest on the international arms black market. That will be expensive, especially since we need to cover our tracks very carefully.”

  “I don’t give a damn about the money, Vladimir,” Grzlov said emphatically. “What matters to me is whether or not your RKU action groups can handle the missions I assign them.”

  “My men are already among the most lethal special forces troops in the world. By the time I’m finished with them, they will have no equal,” Kurakin promised. He hesitated. “But I can’t guarantee success against every potential opponent. Especially not—”

  “The Iron Wolf Squadron and its combat robots?” Gryzlov finished for him.

  “Da, Mr. President,” Kurakin admitted. He’d studied the available records of every known clash between Russian forces and the enemy’s Cybernetic Infantry Devices. At best, they were sketchy, since very few friendly troops survived long enough to report many details. Despite that, it was blindingly obvious that no conventionally equipped special forces unit could hope to go up against those human-piloted war machines and win.

  “Then come with me,” Gryzlov said simply. “And I will show you the future.” He led Kurakin down the long factory floor toward a distant pair of massive doors.

  Once there, he keyed in a code on a security panel. Smoothly, the doors slid open. Powerful overhead lights blinked on one by one—revealing a row of immobile, human-shaped machines.

  “My God,” Kurakin murmured, staring up at the robots. Each stood more than three meters tall, with thi
n, agile arms and legs and long torsos. Eyeless spheres bristling with antennas and other sensor arrays took the place of heads.

  He swung toward Gryzlov in amazement. “We have our own combat robots?”

  “Yes, we do,” Gryzlov said with a smug, satisfied smile. He waved a hand at the row of silent man-shaped automatons. “Our Kiberneticheskiye Voyennyye Mashiny, our Cybernetic War Machines, will be ready for operational use in weeks. We lacked only the special devices needed to meld human pilots with their controls and computer systems. Now we have the technology required to build haptic interfaces of our own. The first production models are already emerging from our labs.”

  “And the men to control these . . . KVMs?” Kurakin asked. He stared back at the menacing shapes. “Where will we find them?”

  “I’ve already found them,” Gryzlov said flatly. “At my orders, several of the best fighter pilots from our Aerospace Defense Force will shortly be resigning their commissions to accept employment with your company. Once the new haptic interfaces are installed, they can begin their combat training.”

  It made sense to use fighter pilots, Kurakin realized. Men trained on advanced combat aircraft like the Su-35 and Su-50 already knew how to fly and fight without being overwhelmed by the flood of information from multiple sensors and computers. Strapping into a war robot would be far less alien to them than it would be for any of his old-school, rifle-toting Spetsnaz soldiers.

  “Then, while your new KVM units are working up, your conventional strike groups will take on their first assignments—safely infiltrating deep into the nation I’ve selected as your first target,” Gryzlov said bluntly.

  Startled, Kurakin blinked. “What? You’re sending my men into action? So soon?”

  “Calm yourself, Vladimir,” Gryzlov snapped. He shook his head. “I’m not asking your mercenaries to fix bayonets and assault an enemy fortress. Not yet at least. Only to carry out certain necessary preliminaries to a much larger and more intricate campaign.”

  “What sort of preliminary missions?” Kurakin asked carefully, still stunned by how swiftly the other man was moving.

  “Mostly close reconnaissance of selected sites,” Gryzlov told him. “Although they will also need to set up a number of clandestine bases to house larger strike forces.”

  Slowly, Kurakin recovered his balance. What the president was asking of him was not impossible. The Spetsnaz and GRU veterans he’d recruited for RKU were old hands at covert reconnaissance inside enemy territory.

  “Well?” Gryzlov demanded. “Will your men be ready to move on my orders?”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” he said confidently. His mind was already busy working out different schemes for smuggling the necessary men, weapons, and gear into Poland. Or the Baltic states. Or Romania. It should not be too difficult. Drawing up such plans was a routine part of any experienced Spetsnaz commander’s preparation for wartime operations. “I can have teams in place around the Iron Wolf base at Powidz or near important political and military targets in Warsaw, Bucharest, and other cities in a matter of days.”

  “Poland? Romania? No, you misunderstand me, Kurakin,” Gryzlov said with a dismissive laugh. “I haven’t created your force to fight another meaningless border skirmish with the Poles and their allies. Those preliminary actions are over. They’ve served their purpose in finding and fixing the primary enemy threat to us, Martindale’s Iron Wolf mercenaries. Now, with them tied down in the wrong place, we move on to the main event.”

  “The main event?” Kurakin asked cautiously.

  “Operatisya Shakh i Mat, Operation Checkmate,” Gryzlov told him. His eyes were ice-cold, full of cruel anticipation. “Those who’ve plagued Russia for so long—destroying our air and missile bases, suborning our allies, killing our brave airmen and soldiers—they are about to learn what suffering truly means.”

  Six

  REGAN AIR FREIGHT AIRFIELD EXPANSION PROJECT, NEAR MOAB, UTAH

  SEVERAL DAYS LATER

  Pale red dust swirled high in the air, drifting away from where bulldozers, front loaders, graders, dump trucks, and road rollers rumbled back and forth along a strip of high desert south of Moab. Cranes swayed elsewhere, carefully hoisting sections of prefabricated steel buildings into place. Tall sandstone cliffs rose scarcely more than a mile away to the east and west.

  Frank Jameson pushed back his hard hat and rubbed distractedly at his sweaty forehead. His construction company had bid for this rush job and stood to profit handsomely when it was finished. But he still couldn’t figure out what on earth Regan Air Freight, a privately owned air cargo company, really had to gain here.

  Moab’s old Grand County Airport had been abandoned since 1965, the victim of a failed bid to entice the U.S. Air Force into building a base at a newer location, Canyonlands Field. In all the long years since, its sole paved runway had sat idle, slowly deteriorating in southeastern Utah’s arid climate. Mule deer, coyotes, and jackrabbits roamed unchecked, joined only occasionally by drag racers who used the mile-long strip for their meets.

  Now all that had changed. Regan Air had swooped in out of the blue and bought the land for a pittance. They were paying Jameson and his workers a princely sum to repair and extend the old runway and erect new buildings on the site.

  Although Frank Jameson wasn’t one to kick about a contract that would put his company in the black for the next year, he still couldn’t help being curious about what Regan Air had in mind. With the uranium mines closed, the Moab-area economy relied heavily on tourism. And mountain bikers, base jumpers, and hikers didn’t exactly need much in the way of air freight services.

  He said as much to the shorter, well-dressed man standing at his shoulder.

  “Access to the next energy boom, Mr. Jameson,” Willem Daeniker replied with a slight smile. As a representative of Regan Air’s new owners, the Swiss banker had flown in earlier that day to inspect their progress. “Our company believes there will be substantial profits to be made flying in equipment and supplies for new power projects in this region.”

  Jameson raised an eyebrow. “Energy boom?” He shook his head. “Well, I sure hope your folks know what they’re doing, because the geology’s all wrong. At least right around here. The nearest oil and gas deposits are a hundred miles north . . . and Salt Lake City’s got better road connections to ’em.”

  “Oh, I am not speaking primarily of oil and natural gas,” Daeniker said, still smiling. “The boom I refer to is mostly in renewable energy, in wind and solar power. With the tax incentives and other subsidies offered by your federal government, we believe many companies will be interested in building such plants in the surrounding area—especially with a new air freight hub able to handle their cargos.”

  “That sort of depends on who wins the election, doesn’t it?” Jameson carefully pointed out. “Last time I checked, J. D. Farrell wasn’t a big fan of all this ‘green energy’ stuff.”

  Daeniker shrugged. “There are always risks in any significant investment, Mr. Jameson. Evidently my employers believe your President Barbeau will be reelected.” He glanced up at the taller man with narrowed eyes. “But that is of no real importance to you as far as this construction project is concerned, is it?”

  “No, sir,” Jameson said quickly. Arguing politics with clients was never good business. Regan Air’s new owners might be wasting its money here, but that was their lookout. Besides, if they were right about new wind and solar plants going up around Moab and the rest of southeastern Utah, his company had a good shot at landing a lot of that work. “My guys will have that runway extension finished and those buildings up within ten days.”

  “Excellent,” Daeniker said. “My employers will be pleased.”

  DRAWSKO POMORSKIE MILITARY TRAINING AREA, NORTHWEST POLAND

  A FEW WEEKS LATER

  The muffled crump of artillery and heavy mortar fire echoed across a wide, shallow valley flanked by beech woods on all sides. Its grassy slopes were torn by crisscrossing tank tracks a
nd smoldering shell craters. Gray and black smoke stained the near horizon.

  Secure in a bunker built into the hillside, Polish president Piotr Wilk focused his binoculars through an observation port. Senior military officers and government officials from half a dozen different Eastern and central European countries did the same at other firing slits and ports.

  Suddenly two light gray shapes screamed down the valley at low altitude. Small bombs tumbled from under their delta wings, slamming into the ground and exploding in brief, blinding flashes. Dozens of decoy flares streamed behind the Hungarian JAS 39 Gripens as they rolled away and climbed, turning with incredible agility.

  Enviously, Wilk followed them though his binoculars. Good planes. Good pilots, he thought. Like the American-built F-16s he’d loved flying during his days as a veteran pilot and charismatic air-force commander, those Swedish-designed single-engine fighters were superb air superiority and ground-attack aircraft. Wiry, middling tall, and not quite fifty, Poland’s president still occasionally found himself longing for the days when he could strap into a cockpit and go head-to-head against his nation’s enemies. Unfortunately, he reminded himself, service to Poland and the cause of freedom now demanded that he engage in the subtler and sometimes darker arts of politics, strategy, and diplomacy.

  Like now, Piotr, he reminded himself with a wry grin.

  Wilk lowered his binoculars and turned to his Hungarian counterpart, Prime Minister Tibor Lukács. The other man, notoriously touchy and xenophobic, had been one of the leaders most reluctant to join the fledgling Alliance of Free Nations. Only the overwhelming evidence of Gennadiy Gryzlov’s aggressive plans had persuaded him to sign on. All of which made buttering him up whenever possible a priority. “Please pass my compliments to your pilots and their commanders, Tibor. That was an excellent attack run.”

  A thin smile creased Lukács’s broad face. “Coming from an old aviator like you, my friend, that is high praise indeed.” The Hungarian prime minister waved a hand toward the nearest firing slit. “My generals assure me our troops and pilots are gaining much-needed experience in this war maneuver wonderland of yours.”