by Dale Brown
“Your company’s new owners are interested in ferrying equipment, parts, and supplies to oil and gas fracking operations and wind-turbine and solar-power installations in remote parts of the United States, Canada, and Mexico,” Daeniker said. “They believe there is money to be made out of these new green-energy industries. Significant amounts of money. In fact, I believe they have already recruited a small group of experts who will soon arrive to staff a new division within your company.”
Stutz looked even more worried. “With respect, Mr. Daeniker, where on earth do you think the money’s going to come from to pay for this new venture of theirs? We’re in a very competitive industry here and practically every dollar we make is already fully committed. There is absolutely no way we can expand into a risky new field right now. Not if we want to stay profitable.”
“Relax, gentlemen,” Daeniker said, still smiling calmly. “You need not worry about the costs. The owners fully understand Regan Air’s current financial constraints. They assure me they will fund this experimental endeavor out of their own resources, rather than using profits from your current operations.”
For the first time since the Swiss banker appeared in his office, Martin Crown allowed himself to relax a bit. He could tell the others had the same reaction. If the people who’d bought out old Francis Xavier Regan wanted to risk even more of their own money, more power to them. If nothing else, playing around with this wacky idea of supplying the air freight needs of green-energy projects might keep them busy and out of his hair. And if they actually managed to turn a profit at it, well, so much the better. Facing competition from bigger rivals like FedEx, UPS, and DHL, Regan Air could use every extra dollar it could rustle up.
Standing in the open forward cargo door of the 737-200F, Willem Daeniker watched the American business executives drive away. Gennadiy Gryzlov had chosen wisely in buying this company, he realized. Its executives and employees were used to accommodating Regan’s sudden whims and top-down style of leadership. That rendered them easier to manipulate and less curious about matters they saw as outside their immediate responsibilities.
“Do you have new instructions for us, Herr Daeniker?” a lightly accented voice said behind him.
He turned around. The 737’s pilot, a stocky, fit-looking man in his forties, stood in the door leading to the cockpit. “No, Colonel Annenkov, I do not. Moscow’s original orders stand. Once you’re refueled, you will proceed to the Grand County Airport outside Moab in the American state of Utah and await further orders.”
Colonel Yuri Annenkov nodded. “Ya ponimayu. I understand.”
The former Russian Air Force officer now worked for Major General Kurakin’s “private” military company, RKU. His passport and other documents, like those of the other flight crew aboard, identified him as a German national employed by Regan Air Freight. Under close scrutiny by American law enforcement or intelligence agencies, it was unlikely their cover stories would hold up. Fortunately, Daeniker knew, no such scrutiny was likely as long as they stayed safely aboard their aircraft or inside the newly fenced-in perimeter at the Moab base.
JOHN D. FARRELL PRESIDENTIAL CAMPAIGN RALLY, ERIE INSURANCE ARENA, ERIE, PENNSYLVANIA
A SHORT TIME LATER
Tall, with the broad shoulders and powerful arms he’d first developed working on oil rigs and now kept through rigorous exercise, John Dalton Farrell strode right out in front of the podium as he came to the finish of his stump speech. “And so, friends, I say: May God bless the United States of America! Now . . . let’s get to work! Let’s get this great nation of ours moving again!”
With a deafening roar of enthusiasm, the eight thousand people crowding the arena were on their feet—chanting in unison and waving campaign signs and flags. Smiling broadly, Farrell took the brown Stetson cowboy hat handed him by an aide and swung it in lazy circles in the air above his head. The clamor rose even higher.
His big, openhearted smile turned into a wide, toothy grin. Early on in his presidential bid, some high-priced political consultant had tried to dissuade him from wearing that hat in public, arguing that it was too stereotypically Texan. “Hell, son,” Farrell had retorted. “I am from Texas. You hear that drawl? There’s no hiding where I’m from. So I might as well make it work for me.”
Like most of the gambles he’d taken throughout his life, this one had paid off. After nearly four years of increasingly bureaucratic rule by buttoned-down Washington insiders, people were hungry for a candidate who seemed fresh, alive, and genuine—a candidate who wasn’t afraid to break stale, old political rules.
With a final wave to the shouting, cheering, foot-stomping crowd, Farrell clapped his cowboy hat firmly back onto his head. Making sure to shake every hand he could reach, he left the stage and passed through doors into a hallway that led out back, where his motorcade was waiting. His security detail closed in on all sides.
As soon as they stepped outside into the warm, humid evening, a throng of reporters mobbed them, yelling questions in his direction. Bright klieg lights lit the scene. Cameras clicked and whirred.
Farrell held up a hand. “I’m real sorry, ladies and gentlemen.” He grinned at them. “Ordinarily I love talking with y’all, but right now my security folks tell me we’ve got to get a move on.”
A young blond-haired woman wearing a CNN press badge elbowed her way out of the crowd. “That’s my question, Governor. Who are these all-powerful security people of yours exactly? They’re not members of the Secret Service. Why not? Surely, as the nominee of your party, you’re entitled to Secret Service protection.”
Farrell shook his head. “I hate to correct you, ma’am, but I am not yet the nominee. That won’t come until we hold our convention in a few weeks.”
“Isn’t that just a formality?” another journalist asked. “You’ve got the delegates you need to win sewed up.”
“Maybe so. But I learned a hard lesson after drilling my first dry hole,” Farrell said. “There’s no such thing as sewed-up in life.” He grinned again. “Except if you wave a bunch of taxpayer dollars in front of corporate big fish, they’re guaranteed to cut you a nice, fat campaign check.” That drew laughter. “And President Barbeau’s sure got that routine down cold,” he added.
This time, his quip drew a mix of pained laughter and sour looks. No surprise there, Farrell thought in amusement. Most of the press corps were not so subtly rooting for Stacy Anne Barbeau. Their slant was something he had to factor into every political calculation he made. At least in this day and age, between the Internet and other new media, he had more ways to get his message to the voters without running headlong into their ideological buzz saw.
“Anyway,” he said, “I don’t plan on using the Secret Service for protection even if I win the nomination.”
“And why is that?” the CNN reporter pounced. “Don’t you trust them?”
“I’ve no doubts at all about the professionalism of the Secret Service,” Farrell said patiently. “But I’m not in this race to cost the taxpayers even more of their hard-earned dollars. So I’m sticking with the folks I’ve brought to this dance—a collection of fine men and women from the Texas Capitol Police and the Texas Rangers, together with several decorated veterans of our nation’s armed forces.” He nodded at the grizzled, tough-looking man standing next to him. “Men like Sergeant Davis here.”
Former U.S. Special Forces sergeant Andrew Davis looked pained. Years of covert fieldwork for the Army and later for Scion and the Iron Wolf Squadron had taught him to avoid the limelight, not to relish it.
“But those Rangers and Capitol police officers are paid by your state’s taxpayers, aren’t they?” the woman CNN reporter said with an audible sneer. “So isn’t this just a PR stunt?”
“No, ma’am,” Farrell said politely, with just the barest hint of an edge to his voice. “As it happens, I’m reimbursing the good people of Texas out of my own pocket. When I’m not conducting official business in my own state, nothing I do costs any Texan
one red cent. Unlike some candidates, I pay my own freight.” He donned another wide grin and doffed his hat to her. “You know, the country might be better off if more politicians did the same.”
With that parting shot, he climbed into the big black SUV idling at the curb and waited while Andrew Davis took the jump seat across from him. The doors slammed shut and they pulled away—followed by several more SUVs carrying his staff and the rest of his security detail.
Farrell sighed and closed his eyes briefly. “Good God,” he muttered. “What a snarling, snapping pack of hyenas.”
“Comes with the turf, Governor,” Davis said unsympathetically. “Nobody forced you into politics, did they?”
“Nope,” Farrell admitted with a self-deprecating smile. “That was all my own big damned ego at work.” He looked at the other man. “Sorry about turning the spotlight on you back there, Sergeant. I know that’s not real comfortable for you.”
Davis shrugged. “Like I said, it comes with this turf.” With a grimace, he shifted in his seat. “I figure not many people would think having their picture taken was rougher than getting shot at by the Russians or some other goons.”
Farrell nodded. Davis had been invalided out of the Iron Wolf Squadron after being badly wounded in a raid on Russia’s cyberwar complex. After months of intensive physical therapy, the veteran special forces noncom had recovered enough to find himself bored as hell in civilian life. He and Farrell were from the same part of rural Texas, and when mutual acquaintances suggested Davis would be a good fit for his campaign security team, Farrell had jumped at the chance to bring him on board.
“Do you miss it?” he asked seriously. “Fighting for the Poles and Scion?”
“Do you miss wildcatting?” Davis asked him in return.
Farrell thought about that, remembering the sheer thrill involved in staking every penny he had on the chance of striking oil in desolate places conventional geologists had already ruled out. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “But then I figure that shooting for the presidency’s a pretty big gamble all on its own. And God knows, this country needs someone better than Stacy Anne Barbeau and her crowd running things.”
Davis raised an eyebrow. “And you figure you’re that someone better?”
Farrell shrugged with a wry half smile. “I do.”
“There haven’t been many really good presidents,” the other man said meditatively. “Washington, Lincoln, Reagan . . . maybe a few more.”
“You seriously think I’m on that level?” Farrell asked, still smiling ironically.
Davis shook his head. “With all due respect, Governor . . . hell no.”
“Then why exactly are you working for me?” Farrell wondered. “Since I’m a miserly son of a bitch, I sure as hell know it’s not the pay.”
“Not hardly,” Davis agreed with a snort. He grinned. “Mostly, I guess, it’s because you’re smart enough to hire guys like me who’ll tell you straight out when you start sounding like you’re full of shit.”
Laughing now, Farrell tipped his hat in salute and then sat back to enjoy the rest of the ride to the airport.
Eight
RKU SPECIAL WEAPONS EXERCISE AREA, IN THE KUZNETSKIY ALATAU MOUNTAIN RANGE, SIBERIA, RUSSIA
THE NEXT DAY
More than two hundred kilometers east of Novosibirsk, rugged, stream-cut foothills rose higher and higher—climbing steadily toward the iron-, manganese-, and gold-rich slopes of the Kuznetskiy Alatau Mountains. Dense fir and pine forests covered most of the region. Digital and paper maps showed only a handful of dirt roads, mostly used by logging companies cutting local timber.
Those maps were out-of-date.
For several months, troops from the Russian Army’s 60th Engineer Regiment had labored under enormously long stretches of carefully erected camouflage netting to cut and pave a new road through the woods. Wide enough for heavy trucks, this concealed thoroughfare tied into the P-255 Novosibirsk-Irkutsk highway. It ended at a new top-secret military training area set aside for use by RKU’s Kiberneticheskiye Voyennyye Mashiny, its Cybernetic War Machines.
Flanked by his bodyguards, Gennadiy Gryzlov left the half-buried concrete bunker that had kept him safe during a recently completed live-fire exercise. His eyes gleamed with excitement and pleasure. Years of carefully laid plans were coming to fruition. Russia’s first operational KVMs had all the mobility and firepower their designer, Dr. Mikhail Aronov, had promised and more.
Quickly, Gryzlov strode off along a winding footpath, savoring the sight of burned-out armored vehicles and explosion-shattered mock buildings scattered through the nearby woods and clearings. Soldiers scurried in all directions putting out fires. Others scrambled to drag new camouflage panels over wrecked vehicles and ruined structures, hopefully hiding them from satellite view.
Abruptly, a voice blared out from concealed loudspeakers. “Preduprezhdeniye! Preduprezhdeniye! Warning! Warning! The next hostile satellite pass will occur in thirty minutes. Repeat, the next satellite pass will occur in thirty minutes. Expedite all preplanned concealment operations.”
His pleasure momentarily derailed, Gryzlov scowled. This continuing need to hide their activities from America’s spy satellites was an unwelcome reminder that he did not yet fully control all of Russia’s frontiers. The day must come, he thought coldly, when his country dominated both the world and the cold dark vacuum of space around it. Nothing less would do.
The sight of one of the KVMs stationed beside the path restored his good humor. Lean and lethal-looking, the war robot towered over Vladimir Kurakin and Dr. Aronov. Bulky weapons packs were attached at various points around its long torso. From his emphatic gestures, the portly professor of cybernetics was explaining something to Kurakin.
Both men stiffened to attention when Gryzlov joined them. “My congratulations on a successful training exercise, gentlemen,” he said easily. “But carry on. Don’t let me interrupt you.”
“Yes, Mr. President,” Aronov stammered. “I was just discussing proposed weapons load-outs with General . . . I mean, with Mr. Kurakin.”
“And what have you decided?” Gryzlov asked.
“That the guns and missiles carried by our KVMs must be tailored precisely to each planned mission,” Kurakin said. He tapped the dull gray metal and ceramic leg of the robot beside him. “As powerful as these machines are, they have limitations.”
“It’s mostly a question of battery power and volume, sir,” Aronov explained apologetically. “The more weapons and ammunition a KVM carries, the more power it consumes when moving. Excessive weight will greatly reduce their effective combat range. And autocannons, antitank missiles, and the like are all quite bulky. We only have room to carry so many of them at one time.”
Gryzlov nodded his understanding. He’d been fully briefed on the weapons systems Kurakin had selected to equip RKU’s combat robot force. While Russia’s scientists and engineers had not yet been able to re-create the remarkable electromagnetic rail guns used by Martindale’s CIDs, their own fighting machines would still be able to bring a deadly assortment of armament to bear in any battle.
For heavy firepower, each fighting machine would employ a massive Russian-made GSh-30-1 30mm autocannon. Used by fighter and ground-attack aircraft, it was an extremely powerful and accurate weapon. As a plus, the GSH-30-1 was in service with more than twenty countries around the world, many of them third-world nations with notoriously lax control over their armaments stockpiles. Directly tying the use of these autocannons to Russia itself would be a difficult task for any investigator.
The same thing applied to the other weapons Kurakin had chosen. For example, on missions that might involve contact with enemy armored forces, each KVM could carry up to three Israeli-made Spike fire-and-forget antitank missiles. More than two dozen nations had those missiles in their inventory. Best of all, they were also used by Poland’s mercenary Iron Wolf Squadron. Gryzlov allowed himself a quick, predatory smile at that thought, imagining Martindale and that Pol
ish piece of shit Wilk desperately claiming their robots weren’t responsible for the havoc Kurakin’s KVMs were about to wreak.
“Very well, Dr. Aronov,” he said. “Make sure all the pilots, unit commanders, and technicians understand exactly what these machines can and cannot do.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
Gryzlov turned to Kurakin. “Are your plans to infiltrate the combat robot force complete?”
Kurakin nodded confidently. “They are, sir.” Again, he patted the robot looming above him. “Thanks to Dr. Aronov’s cleverness, each KVM is completely modular. They can be broken down into their separate components, all of which are easily concealed inside shipments of heavy machinery—especially the kind of machinery used in power plants and other energy industry facilities. Once at their final destination, the robots can be reassembled in a matter of hours.”
Gryzlov smiled. “It’s fortunate that a Russian-owned firm routinely exports such equipment to Mexico, is it not?”
Kurakin shot him an answering smile. “Fortunate indeed, Mr. President.”
“Otlichnaya rabota! Excellent work!” Gryzlov said. “You are authorized to begin shipping your KVMs immediately. I want them ready for action as soon as possible.”
While Kurakin hurried away to issue the necessary orders to his pilots and technicians, Gryzlov turned back toward a camouflaged landing pad built behind the observation bunker. Once the American spy satellite completed its pass over this area, his light Ansat-U helicopter could safely depart. A nondescript private jet stood by at Novosibirsk for the longer flight back to Moscow. With luck, no one outside his inner circle would ever realize he’d been gone.
To his surprise and irritation, Aronov tagged along with him. “You have something else to report, Doctor?” he asked. “I’ve already read all of your technical assessments of these robots. Is there some new development I should know about?”
