by Dale Brown
10th SPECIAL FORCES GROUP A-TEAM, IN THE SHEEP CREEK RANGE, NORTH OF BATTLE MOUNTAIN
THE NEXT DAY
Team Sergeant Casimir “Kaz” Ostrowski stopped for a short breather. He squatted down on his haunches and took a quick sip from his Camelbak hydration pack. Out of long habit, he glanced left and right, checking the alignment of the other Green Berets in this extended skirmish line. They were all separated by at least fifteen meters.
He frowned. Dispersed this way as they scouted across the high desert plateau, their twelve-man A-team was screwed if it made contact with an enemy force—but it was also the only formation that would let them cover their assigned patrol territory in any vaguely reasonable amount of time.
When he’d asked what they were looking for, their CO, Captain Michaelson, had at first only said, “Robots, Kaz. Big nasty killer robots.”
Pressed for more details, the captain had finally relented far enough to tell him that some of the 4th Infantry Division’s brass had already had the jitters—imagining the hell that would break loose if the same kind of war machines that blew the shit out of Barksdale and that Fort Worth aircraft factory came charging down off the high ground above Battle Mountain to attack them. Then, earlier today, when a helicopter pilot ferrying supplies into the occupied Sky Masters complex reported that she’d thought she’d seen “something weird” up in the Sheep Creek Range . . . well, that was enough to set off alarms all the way back to Fort Carson.
And so here Ostrowski and his teammates were, humping across a desiccated landscape apparently empty of everything but sand, sagebrush, rocks, and more rocks. They had been sweeping north, following the line of a little-used trail, for hours. It hadn’t taken them very long to figure out that the Army helicopter pilot’s “something weird” was nothing more than a heap of boulders that maybe looked a little like a giant man lying prone—if, that is, you squinted at it with one eye closed and had a really overactive imagination.
Unfortunately, Captain Michaelson had decided that today he was a firm believer in turning a dumb-ass, rookie pilot’s mistake into a useful training and endurance exercise. Which was why they were doggedly plodding deeper into this sunbaked wasteland instead of turning back to hitch a nice, relaxing helo ride out.
“Getting old, Kaz?” the captain’s voice crackled through his tactical headset. “No offense, Team Sergeant, but you seem a little slow today.”
“Just conserving my energy, Captain,” Ostrowski retorted. “Because I figure I could be stuck carrying your exhausted, eager-beaver ass back down this mother of a big, damn hill come sundown.”
Michaelson laughed. “I appreciate you keeping my welfare in mind, Sergeant.”
Yeah, I bet you do, Ostrowski thought sardonically. In most respects, the captain was a top-notch officer, but he had his weaknesses. Showing off for the battalion commander was one of them. Hence his decision to volunteer them for this grueling recon so that he could demonstrate his team’s physical fitness and devotion to duty.
Scowling, the Green Beret noncom got back to his feet and started on again, pushing his pace a little to catch up with the others. He was working his way through a withered clump of sagebrush about fifty meters east of the trail they were following when he spotted his very own “something weird.”
Ostrowski swung out of line to check it out. He frowned. What he saw looked a little like someone had taken a huge divot out of the hard-packed sand with a golf club . . . only it would have to be a golf club that was maybe twice the height of a man. Almost immediately he spotted another, almost identical, big divot in the ground, offset from the other, and nearly two meters farther on. More of them were visible in a line heading away to the north. Turning around, he could see the same strange marks vanishing off into the distance.
Jesus, the sergeant thought, feeling suddenly cold despite the scorching heat. Those were tracks. But they weren’t tracks made by any kind of animal he’d ever encountered. Whatever had made them moved on two legs . . . and based on the stride length, the fucking thing had to be at least twelve feet tall.
“Captain!” Ostrowski said urgently into his throat mike. “Remember those big nasty killer robots you were talking about? Well, sir . . . I think we’ve found them!”
Twenty-Nine
STRATEGIC COMMAND BUNKER, WRIGHT-PATTERSON AIR FORCE BASE
A SHORT TIME LATER
Stacy Anne Barbeau finished skimming the hurriedly transmitted report and tossed it across the conference table to Rauch. “So I was right all along,” she snapped. “Take a look at that! A special forces patrol found tracks made by those goddamned CIDs a few miles north of Battle Mountain. And not only that, they just spotted the marks left by the landing gear of some type of unknown aircraft along a dirt road in the same general area. Their best guess is that it took off sometime in the last twenty-four hours.” She raised a triumphant eyebrow. “And yet, not a single civilian or military radar anywhere around picked up so much as a blip from this mystery plane. Which makes it what, Dr. Rauch?”
He sighed. “A stealth aircraft, Madam President.”
“A stealth aircraft,” she confirmed coldly. She saw his reluctance to draw the obvious conclusion from the facts and shook her head in frustration. What more did her national security adviser need to convince him that her instincts were on target? A signed confession from Kevin Martindale and Piotr Wilk, for Christ’s sake? “Open your eyes, Ed. Those Scion and Iron Wolf mercenaries are the ones who’ve been kicking the crap out of us. Why else would they have a stealth plane and their killing machines secretly based near Sky Masters?”
“I’ve read Captain Michaelson’s report myself,” Rauch said with a frown. “And so far, what he and his men have found doesn’t seem like much. Just a spot where one relatively small aircraft might have been concealed under camouflage netting—plus what appear to be tracks made by one or more Cybernetic Infantry Devices coming and going from an outcrop overlooking the Battle Mountain area.” He shook his head. “But without finding evidence of stockpiles of ammunition, missiles, food, water, and fuel, I don’t see how this site could possibly have served as a genuine base of operations for the attacks we’ve experienced.”
Barbeau took a deep breath, willing herself not to lose control over her temper. In the current political climate, with rumors circulating that her administration was in complete disarray, she could not afford to unceremoniously dump Rauch, no matter how tempting it was. “Then our scouts will just have to keep on looking, won’t they?” she said scathingly.
“There’s another consideration,” he said. “If Scion is behind these raids against us, why didn’t those CIDs attack our soldiers when they overran the Sky Masters complex?”
For an otherwise intelligent man, Ed Rauch could be astonishingly stupid, she decided. “Because they were overmatched and they knew it,” she said flatly. “Those robots may be tough, but they’re not invincible. Put enough firepower against them and they’ll go down.” Inwardly, she felt vindicated. Except for poor, panicky Luke Cohen, her other advisers had thought she was overreacting when she’d ordered the use of overwhelming military force at Battle Mountain. Well, if she’d listened to the naysayers and relied on sending in a few FBI agents and the local sheriffs to serve a federal warrant, yesterday’s operation against Sky Masters would have had a very different ending.
One of her aides rapped gingerly on the conference room door. “Excuse me, Madam President, but Admiral Caldwell has arrived. Security has cleared him through and he’s on his way down from the surface now.”
Caldwell? The head of the National Security Agency was coming here in person? What was so important that he couldn’t report by secure link? Barbeau turned a questioning look toward Rauch.
“The admiral’s people have finished the investigation you ordered into the circumstances surrounding Lieutenant General McLanahan’s death over Poland three years ago,” he said.
“So what did they learn?” she demanded. “Did we kill him? Is
that lunatic son of a bitch finally dead?”
Rauch looked back at her without any discernible expression. “I don’t know,” he said coolly. “Given the strict need-to-know classification level on that entire . . . episode . . . the admiral thought it wiser to brief you first in person rather than risk disseminating the information through regular channels.”
Barbeau didn’t much like his tone. Learning that she’d ordered American F-35 pilots flying covertly over Poland to shoot down the last survivors of a desperate Iron Wolf bombing mission hadn’t gone over very well with her military and national security team. Imposing a total security blackout on the incident was the only way she’d kept word of what she’d done from leaking to the press and the broader American public. She bristled at the memory of their unspoken but evident disgust and disapproval. Presidents were paid to make the hard decisions, not to pussyfoot around. What was she supposed to have done with Gryzlov screaming his head off for vengeance? Allowed Patrick McLanahan and Kevin Martindale to drag her into an unwinnable war against the Russians? No, she thought resolutely. It had been far better to order the deaths of a handful of hired Iron Wolf mercenaries than to risk countless innocent American military and civilian lives.
Fortunately for Rauch, Admiral Caldwell arrived before she had quite decided whether or not to ream him out for his implied criticism. He hurried in, accompanied only by a single aide carrying a laptop case.
As was his custom, the NSA chief wore a nondescript civilian suit. Anyone seeing him out of context would have taken him for a typical dull, middle-grade government bureaucrat. But Caldwell’s almost painfully ordinary features hid a brain of remarkable power. Since being detailed to the National Security Agency as a young naval officer, he’d risen steadily through its ranks on pure merit and technical brilliance. He was also completely apolitical, seemingly intent only on the business of providing the best possible intelligence to whichever administration was in power.
Barbeau nodded toward an empty chair. “Take a seat, Admiral,” she snapped, unable to conceal the strain she felt. With an effort, she regained enough composure to offer him the semblance of a smile. “I gather you have some news for me?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Caldwell opened the laptop computer his aide handed him. “To answer the question you posed, my analysts dug through every piece of information we had concerning the two XF-111 SuperVarks our F-35 pilots shot down—everything from satellite photos of the crash sites to recordings of radar imagery and radio intercepts.”
“And?”
The head of the NSA pulled up an audio file on the laptop. “The key piece of intelligence proved to be this last-second radio call from the last Iron Wolf aircraft just before we fired on it.” He tapped a key, opening the file.
“Unknown aircraft, this is McLanahan!” a horrified voice yelled, through a rush of static. “Break off your attack! We’re friendlies! Repeat, friendlies!” The recording broke off abruptly.
Perplexed, Barbeau looked at the admiral. “I don’t get it,” she said. “How is that supposed to be important? We already knew McLanahan was aboard that plane when it went down. The real question is whether or not he survived the crash, isn’t it?”
Caldwell shook his head. “Your premise is incorrect, Madam President,” he said quietly.
“Don’t screw around with me, Admiral,” she warned.
“Comparing voiceprints of this radio intercept with previous recordings proves that retired lieutenant general McLanahan was not the pilot of that XF-111,” he explained. “It was his son, Bradley James McLanahan.”
“Oh shit,” Rauch muttered.
Barbeau felt the blood drain from her face. Patrick McLanahan was alive after all. “Oh, my God,” she stammered. “We killed his son. And now that psychotic bastard is coming for me. Just like he promised he would.” She swung toward her stunned national security adviser. “That’s what this is all about, Dr. Rauch! Revenge. Pure and simple. McLanahan wants me dead. And after his goons missed me at Barksdale, he’s going for the next best thing—wrecking my reelection campaign.”
She felt cold dread ripple down her spine. “Christ, once I’m out of office, I’ll be a sitting duck. No matter how many Secret Service agents I have protecting me, those goddamned CIDs of his will cut right through them to rip my heart out!”
“But General McLanahan’s son is not dead,” Caldwell interjected. “Intelligence reports from a number of sources confirm that he’s on active service with the Iron Wolf Squadron.”
Angrily, Barbeau waved the reminder aside. “It doesn’t matter. The McLanahan kid is a total nonentity,” she said forcefully. “His father’s the real threat. He’s always been able to round up rabid followers to execute his insane plans.” She shuddered. “Now we know what’s going on. Martindale and the Poles must have lost their control over him. He’s gone completely rogue.”
Rauch swallowed hard. “That is possible,” he admitted. “In fact, there is one more piece of data that may lend credibility to your hypothesis.”
“Go on,” she rapped out through gritted teeth.
“The two F-35 pilots who carried out your orders over Poland were present at Barksdale Air Force Base when it was attacked,” he said slowly.
“So?”
“They were both killed,” Rauch said.
She stared back at him, feeling suddenly nauseous. “Get out,” she snarled. She jerked her head toward the door, including Admiral Caldwell and his aide in the gesture. “All of you! Get out now!”
For a long, terrible moment after they left, Stacy Anne Barbeau sat in silence, staring into nothingness with a worn and haggard face.
OUTSIDE AT&T COWBOYS STADIUM, ARLINGTON, TEXAS
THAT SAME TIME
With the monumental glass, steel, concrete, and fabric structure of Cowboys Stadium rising nearly three hundred feet in the air behind him, John Dalton Farrell strode confidently down the walk toward the spot where his campaign staff had set up microphones and a podium. Reporters jostled each other in front of the podium—angling for the best shot at gaining his recognition during what was described as a brief “press availability.”
Through the massive stadium’s open retractable roof, he could hear the muffled rattle of drums and the keening sound of bagpipes as the last honor guards and bands marched slowly away. Apart from the normal sounds of traffic, an almost unearthly hush had fallen across the area. It was almost as if every one of the hundred thousand people who had attended this public memorial service were holding their breath in a spontaneous moment of silence for the National Guard troops, law enforcement officers, and F-35 assembly-plant workers who’d been killed at Fort Worth.
Farrell stepped up to the microphones and nodded gravely to the assembled members of the media. “I won’t be making a prepared statement this afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” he told them quietly. He nodded back toward the stadium. “The memory of the brave men and women we’ve honored here today deserves more than canned political double-talk.” The crow’s-feet around his eyes deepened as he shot them a quick, self-mocking smile. “Which means I’ll do my level best to just give you straight answers to your questions.”
That opened the floodgates.
Over the braying din of dozens of journalists all trying to talk over each other, he picked out one, Lyndy Vance. His staff had privately dubbed the blond-haired CNN reporter “the Inquisitor.” They called her that because she always seemed more interested in accusing Farrell of some heinous personal fault or failing than in seeking genuine insight into what he proposed to do as president.
“Go ahead, Lyndy,” he said into the mike, pointing at her.
Behind the crowd of reporters, Farrell saw Sara Patel and Mike Dowell cringe. He hid a grin. They could never understand why he so often gave this particular reporter the first crack at him. He’d tried explaining that it was precisely because her questions were so obviously biased that it worked in his favor—especially with undecided voters—but they couldn’t seem t
o wrap their heads around the concept. In his view, most people had enough common sense to pick up on someone playing “gotcha” games instead of asking fair questions.
True to form, Lyndy Vance didn’t disappoint him. “What was the real point of this big public show of yours, Governor?” she said, with cool cynicism dripping from every syllable. “Was it part of a deliberate political strategy to make President Barbeau look bad?”
“Not at all, Ms. Vance,” Farrell replied calmly. “Yes, the president was invited to be here today. But I think every decent American understands that she has more than enough on her plate in dealing with this crisis. She is our commander in chief. And given the security risks, it would have been foolish for her to further expose herself to a possible terrorist attack.”
While every word of what he said was literally true, he could almost hear his long-departed mother’s voice telling him, “You are so going to hell for that fib, John D.” No matter how you sliced it, and intentionally or not, his public appearances contrasted sharply with Stacy Anne Barbeau’s continuing refusal to leave the heavily guarded confines of Wright-Patterson. Her terse, tough-sounding televised speeches full of vague promises to “destroy those attacking our beloved country” were no substitute for a demonstrated willingness to share some of the risks run by others.
“You’re seriously claiming you won’t criticize President Barbeau for not showing up at this memorial service?” another journalist chimed in with open disbelief.
