by Dale Brown
Admiral Firestone stirred in his seat. “That applies to the Russians, too,” he pointed out. “They’d have just as much interest in sanitizing any Kh-35s transferred from their own arsenals.”
“Yes, sir,” Rauch agreed. “Which is why I want our interagency scientific groups to examine different methods we might use to narrow down the provenance of these weapons—perhaps by analyzing the kerosene fuel blend we found in that wrecked missile’s engine or by studying the precise chemical composition of its warhead.”
“That’s a hell of a tall order, Ed,” one of the CIA officers objected. “Without other intact Kh-35s from known sources to use as controls, how can we possibly draw any reliable conclusions from—”
Barbeau felt her eyes glazing over as the discussion spiraled off into a long and highly technical debate. Instead, while her advisers wrangled, she sat wrapped in her own thoughts, wrestling with an array of contradictory evidence and wild speculation. It would be a typical Martindale move to use Russian-designed missiles to muddy the waters, she fumed. Was the raid on Barksdale his doing after all—part of some insane scheme to lure the U.S. into an open confrontation with Gennadiy Gryzlov? If so, it might explain why he’d opted for an all-out deadly attack instead of simply trying to embarrass her politically by sabotaging the B-21 Raider prototype.
But if Martindale was trying to spark a war between the U.S. and Russia, why use a weapons system, the CIDs, that pointed the finger right back at himself?
Unless, Barbeau thought, the Poles were right after all. If the Russians had their own combat robots—
Impatiently, she dismissed that thought as even crazier than all the others. Top U.S. government weapons labs had repeatedly failed to replicate the cybernetics and engineering breakthroughs needed to build new CIDs. How could the Russians, who were so far behind the U.S. in those same technologies, have suddenly leapfrogged past them? The idea that Moscow could achieve so many separate technological breakthroughs by simply scooping up a few broken and burned-out pieces off a battlefield was ludicrous.
If that weren’t enough, the idea that this was a Russian operation didn’t square with any diplomatic or political reality Barbeau could see. Why would Gennadiy Gryzlov order an attack that could easily have killed her? She certainly wasn’t his ally, but she also worked hard to avoid any unnecessary confrontation with Russia . . . and she’d paid a significant political price for her restraint. Why on earth would the Russian leader risk handing the presidency to John Dalton Farrell? The Texan was another unreconstructed cold warrior, a would-be Ronald Reagan. For crying out loud, he was already colluding with two of Moscow’s most determined enemies, Piotr Wilk and Kevin Martindale. How could Gryzlov possibly see clearing Farrell’s path to the Oval Office as being in his country’s best interest?
No, she thought coldly, when faced with two or three improbable scenarios, it didn’t make any sense to choose the one that was the nuttiest of them all. Which left Martindale . . . or Patrick McLanahan, if he was still alive somehow. They were the only two men in the world who controlled a force of stealth aircraft and combat robots. She made a mental note to push Rauch to crack the whip on the intelligence experts tasked with reexamining the evidence of McLanahan’s death over Poland three years before.
“Oh, that’s just great,” Barbeau heard Luke Cohen mutter from beside her. Her chief of staff was staring down at an e-mail he’d just received on his smartphone.
“More trouble, Luke?” she asked pointedly.
He nodded. “Farrell has just requested a detailed intelligence briefing on this situation.”
Barbeau frowned. By custom, presidential candidates didn’t receive access to classified intelligence information until after their party formally nominated them at its national convention. In Farrell’s case, that wouldn’t be for some weeks yet. “On what grounds?”
“His argument is that the severity of the crisis confronting the nation warrants moving the regular timetable up.”
“Not a chance,” Barbeau said icily, not even bothering to waste time thinking it through. Her suspicions were now fully aroused. If the Texas governor was a political stalking-horse for Martindale and his hard-line allies, every scrap of secret intelligence they gave him would end up in enemy hands. And even if she were wrong about his role in this mess, there was no doubt that Farrell or his operatives would find ways to leak any damaging or embarrassing information they learned. After all, she knew that was exactly what she would do if she were in his place.
“But, he’ll go running to the press—”
“Let him whine,” Barbeau snapped. “You tell J. D. Farrell for me that the United States has just one president at a time. And right now, that’s me.” She folded her arms across her chest. “This is my watch, not his. For now, he can go peddle his Texas he-man political bullshit to the rubes while I’m doing the hard work to keep this country safe.”
IRON WOLF FORCE, IN THE SHEEP CREEK RANGE, NORTH OF BATTLE MOUNTAIN, NEVADA
THE NEXT DAY
Brad McLanahan squatted down next to Captain Ian Schofield. The Canadian lay prone at the very edge of the camouflage netting that sheltered their encampment and protected the XCV-62 Ranger from prying eyes. Even under its welcome shade, the very air was so hot and so bone-dry that it seemed determined to suck every drop of moisture from their mouths and eyes.
Schofield lowered the binoculars he’d been using to survey their surroundings. Under the scorching rays of the sun, the high desert plateau seemed utterly lifeless. Nothing seemed to move except for the heat waves dancing above a barren landscape of sagebrush, wind-eroded rock, and bare, sunbaked dirt. “You know,” he said reflectively, “I really should stop volunteering for missions in the less salubrious parts of the globe.”
Brad moistened his cracked lips and managed a painful grin. “Hey, show a little respect, Ian. Battle Mountain is my home turf. Summers here aren’t usually so bad.” Then he shrugged. “Well, as long as you’ve got air conditioning, anyway. Or at least an ice chest full of cold drinks.”
“All of which are in extremely short supply just now,” Schofield pointed out.
“Yeah, there is that.” Brad sighed. “Water is the big problem, isn’t it?”
The Canadian nodded. “It is. We have plenty of food.” He smiled wryly. “None of it especially gourmet, to be sure. But water is bulky, and in this heat, we all need to drink a fair amount.” He sat up. “With reasonable rationing, we can maintain our position here for another four or five days. After that, we’ll need a resupply mission. Or we’ll have to leave.”
Brad nodded. There was no way Scion could fly in more supplies to them—not covertly, anyway. The Ranger was their only stealth STOL aircraft. The stealth-modified PZL SW-4 helicopter they’d used to fly Sam Kerr and her fellow agents out of Russia was thousands of miles away. Knowing Martindale, he was sure there were other Scion-operated aircraft and helicopters based in the U.S., but nothing that could land here without setting off a lot of alarms.
“Any news from the OP?” Schofield asked.
Using their CIDs, Brad, Nadia, and Macomber were taking it in turns to man an observation post they’d established high up on the slopes overlooking Battle Mountain. The position they’d selected gave their passive sensors a clear field of view over every likely avenue of approach to the Sky Masters complex around the airport.
“Well, Colonel Macomber says he’s pretty sure he’s tagged every FBI surveillance team based in or around Battle Mountain. My friend Boomer was right. There are a lot of them . . . and they’re not being real subtle. The feds have two-man teams parked right outside every gate and at key vantage points that give them a good view of the airport.”
Schofield frowned. “What about others?”
“Like the Russians?” Brad shook his head with a frown. “Nothing so far. Which means either they’re not here at all, or—”
“They’re very, very good,” the other man finished for him. He shrugged. “I’ve studied the pe
rsonnel records those Scion agents you rescued snatched from Bataysk. The Spetsnaz troops who hired on with Gryzlov’s mercenary force are top class.”
“As good as your guys?” Brad asked seriously.
Schofield smiled. “Perish the thought.” Then he shrugged his shoulders again. “But good enough to give us some trouble in a fair fight? Probably so.”
“Great.”
“If it’s any consolation, I don’t think I could work any of my men into position outside Sky Masters without your CIDs spotting us,” Schofield said firmly. “The terrain is too open. Between your thermal and audio sensors, and those advanced motion-detection algorithms programmed into your computers, I doubt a field mouse could sneak up to the perimeter fence without being spotted, let alone a man.”
Brad sighed. “Let’s hope you’re right.” He rose to his feet. “Speaking of which, it’s my turn on sentry duty.” He chuckled. “The last time I checked, Whack was so bored that he was starting to place bets with himself on how many big rigs he’d count per hour driving along Interstate 80.”
Twenty-Four
NEAR U.S. AIR FORCE PLANT 4, FORT WORTH, TEXAS
LATER THAT NIGHT
Kirill Aristov cranked the wheel of his big rig, turning off the West I-820 frontage road and into the empty lot of a large discount furniture warehouse. He pulled around the back of the store and parked alongside two other FXR Trucking–registered tractor-trailers already there.
When he clambered down out of the cab, the first thing that struck him was the silence. Apart from insects chittering in the nearby woods and the occasional soft whoosh of a truck or car speeding past on the highway, everything was quiet.
Pavel Larionov stepped out of the shadows to greet him. “We’re secure here, Captain. I’ve got Yumashev and Popov posted to keep an eye on the road.”
“Good work.” Aristov heard footsteps crunch across gravel and turned to see Dobrynin and Mitkin, the other members of his six-man security team, emerging from the woods. Both men were armed with Heckler & Koch MP7 submachine guns. Just over sixteen inches long with the stock collapsed, the compact weapons fired 4.6mm copper-plated solid steel rounds that could penetrate body armor at up to two hundred meters. MP7s equipped the special forces of more than twenty countries, including the Vatican’s Swiss Guard.
Dobrynin gave him a thumbs-up sign. “We scouted all the way to the edge of the woods. No problems. If they stay away from the shoreline, the colonel’s KVMs should have a clear shot straight to their objective.”
Aristov nodded. They were not far from a winding cove that led out onto Lake Worth, which was a man-made reservoir and recreational waterway on the northwestern edge of Fort Worth. Although a number of private homes and boat docks lined this cove, a thick belt of scrub oaks and underbrush farther inland offered a concealed way past them. Decisively, he jerked a thumb toward the three trucks. “Okay, then let’s get Baryshev and his robots outside and send them on their way.”
Moving with practiced efficiency, the four former Spetsnaz soldiers unlatched the doors on the back of each of the three semitrailers and hauled them open. More quick work propped open the package- and box-studded false fronts that concealed the compartments hidden inside.
One after another, Colonel Baryshev’s six combat robots spooled up with a low, ominous whir. They came smoothly to their feet, bending at the torso to clear the trailer ceilings. The Kiberneticheskiye Voyennyye Mashiny straightened up once they were outside—towering over Aristov and his men. Each carried an arsenal of heavy weapons, mostly 30mm autocannons and antitank guided missiles, in their hands and stowed in packs slung across their torsos.
Unable to shake off a feeling of primitive dread, the former Spetsnaz captain stared up at them. Everything about these machines exuded inhuman precision and lethality. Nervously, he made his report.
An antenna-studded head swiveled noiselessly in his direction. “Understood, Captain,” an emotionless, electronically synthesized voice said. “Guard this position until we return.”
Without waiting for an acknowledgment, the six Russian war machines swung away and stalked off into the woods—heading southeast toward a bright orange glow visible above the treetops. Those lights marked the location of U.S. Air Force Plant 4, a sprawling aircraft assembly facility. Almost ten thousand people were employed there, working in shifts around the clock, to build America’s top-of-the-line F-35 Lightning II stealth fighters. Sixteen aircraft assembly stations and a wing manufacturing plant were all housed inside one enormous, nearly mile-long building at the heart of the giant complex.
Minutes later, Colonel Ruslan Baryshev hunched low near the edge of a tangle of scrub oaks and brush. He was only a few hundred meters west of the F-35 assembly building. Five green blips on his tactical display showed the other KVMs. They were concealed close by in the same scraggly patch of woods, awaiting his final attack orders.
He concentrated, using his neural interface with the robot’s computer to see more of the composite imagery obtained by its passive sensors. Two red dots, evaluated as hostile, blinked into existence on his display. They were positioned just off the two-lane road leading to the American aircraft plant.
Baryshev zoomed in on them, using a night-vision camera. He saw a white Tarrant County sheriff’s patrol cruiser parked next to a desert-camouflaged U.S. Army National Guard Humvee. The Humvee carried a 40mm grenade launcher in a 360-degree traversable mount. Several soldiers had dismounted from their armored vehicle to man an improvised roadblock. A couple of them were smoking cigarettes. One was chugging a bottle of water. All of them looked bored and tired.
He smiled thinly. Originally, he’d questioned Moscow’s orders to delay this next attack—arguing that only an unrelenting clandestine offensive would knock the Americans off balance and keep them there. Now he could see that prolonging the interval between their terror operations was yielding dividends. Every experienced commander knew how difficult it was to keep troops fully alert as hours and then days passed without action.
Situation update, his computer reported coolly. Communications intercepts have pinpointed additional enemy patrols and defensive positions.
Baryshev widened his sensor fields again, seeing more red icons appear at various points around the aircraft plant’s seven-kilometer-long perimeter. Radio chatter between the different American posts and mobile units had enabled his robot’s systems to identify more of the police cars and army vehicles deployed to defend this facility. He sneered. The defenders were too few in number, too poorly equipped, and too widely dispersed to offer any significant opposition to his attack force.
Instead, he turned his attention to the local National Guard armory, not far south of his current position. It was a cluster of one- and two-story buildings—offices, maintenance and equipment sheds, and living quarters—and two vehicle parks crammed with dozens of trucks, Humvees, mine-clearing vehicles, and MRAP troop carriers. “Evaluate this facility,” he ordered the computer.
Thermal signatures indicate up to one hundred personnel currently deployed at the enemy base, it reported. Motion-capture analysis confirms that most are asleep or resting. Three armed vehicles and two infantry squads are on alert status.
Those National Guard troops were not much of a threat, Baryshev knew. Only the heavy machine guns and grenade launchers mounted on their Humvees presented any real danger to his KVMs. On the other hand, there was no point in running any unnecessary risks. Besides, he thought, yielding to a sudden predatory impulse, why not try to kill as many Americans as possible? If nothing else, running up the casualty totals would spread even more terror and anguish among Russia’s enemies.
He opened a secure channel to one of his robot pilots, Major Viktor Zelin. “Specter Lead to Specter Three.”
“Three,” the former Su-34 fighter-bomber pilot’s laconic voice replied.
“On my order, you will destroy the American National Guard base on our flank.” With a quick flick of a finger, Baryshev opened a dat
a link to Zelin’s robot and uploaded his computer’s intelligence evaluation and target analysis. “Leave no survivors.”
“Data received,” the major said a second later. He sounded happier now. “I will comply. Three, standing by.”
Satisfied that his subordinate knew what to do, Baryshev turned his attention back to the improvised roadblock up ahead. He opened another channel. “Lead to Two. You take that police car. I will destroy the enemy armored vehicle.”
“Affirmative, Lead!” KVM senior pilot Oleg Imrekov radioed back. His former wingman sounded keyed up and impatient, eager for action.
Baryshev felt his own pulse accelerating. A targeting icon blinked into existence, highlighting the Humvee parked four hundred meters away. He raised his 30mm autocannon, selecting armor-piercing ammunition. He took a deep breath, savoring the fierce sense of anticipation rising in his mind—sweeping away any lingering doubts or hesitation. It was the same feeling of exultation, of near omniscience, he experienced when hurling his Su-50 fighter into a whirling, close-range dogfight, only now multiplied tenfold. “Specter Lead to all Specter units,” he snapped. “Execute attack as ordered!”
Immediately he opened fire.
Tungsten-steel alloy slugs tore through the Humvee’s side armor and blew out the other side in a spray of molten metal. Its bullet-resistant windows shattered. The gunner manning the grenade launcher was killed instantly by a 30mm round that cut him in half. The soldiers who’d been manning the roadblock crumpled, either hit by cannon fire or shredded by jagged shards of armor spalling off the wrecked Humvee.
Baryshev ordered his robot to its feet and dashed out of the woods—sprinting fast straight up the road. Smoke from the Tarrant County sheriff’s car that had been ripped apart by Imrekov’s shells curled across the scene, momentarily blotting out the carnage on his visual sensors.
