The Moscow Offensive

by Dale Brown

  With the assurance of long practice, Patrick began sorting through thousands of filed flight plans and air-traffic-control radio contacts—ruthlessly discarding anything but that pertaining to commercial aircraft transiting the critical zone centered on Barksdale Air Force Base within thirty minutes of the time the first Kh-35 missile exploded. Given the enormous volume of airspace it contained, he still wound up with a list of dozens of different planes that could have been in the right place at the right time to carry out a missile launch.

  While that was a measurable advance over their prior state of complete ignorance—usually abbreviated as NFC, for “no fucking clue,” on internal Scion reports—it was still insufficient. But now, solely because the Russians had carried out a second cruise-missile strike, he should be able to winnow that list down even further.

  Unfortunately, when he ran the same kind of search focused on the possible launch zones for the Kh-35s that had hammered the Pacific Fleet, he drew a blank. Oh, there were plenty of cargo aircraft flying through U.S. airspace or bound for Mexico during the half hour or so before the cruise missiles were detected . . . but none of them matched those on his list from the attack against Barksdale.

  Patrick frowned, deep in thought. Had he gotten this wrong? Was he missing something obvious?

  Of course he was, he realized suddenly. He’d committed a classic error of intelligence analysis—relying on assumptions that were too narrowly focused. Expand my time parameter, he ordered. Retrieve all available information for flights through the highlighted regions for up to six hours before the attack.

  Within milliseconds, the computer did as he asked. His list of suspect aircraft expanded almost exponentially. Take one step forward and end up two steps back, Patrick thought dryly. So now it was time to take a running jump.

  Now, he thought, cross-check this list of planes against those observed flying through the Barksdale missile launch zone.

  Only one plane appeared on both lists.

  “Gotcha,” Patrick growled, looking at the tail number assigned to a 737-200F cargo jet owned by a company called Regan Air Freight. To make sure, he activated another of Scion’s concealed software back doors to enter the databases of SENEAM, Servicios a la Navegación en el Espacio Aéreo Mexicano—the Mexican government’s equivalent of the U.S. Federal Aviation Administration.

  After clearing American airspace, the Regan Air plane had landed at San Felipe. In and of itself, that wasn’t too big a black mark—big planes usually landed in Tijuana, and light planes landed in San Felipe, but either was legal. But then, barely an hour later, it had taken off again, this time heading deeper into the mountains running down the spine of the Baja peninsula. And there, right around the time those missiles could have been launched toward San Diego, radar data from the Mexican station at Puerto Peñasco Sonora showed the 737-200 orbiting over the Baja hinterlands . . . just close enough to the U.S. naval base to carry out a maximum-range strike. And it had the payload capacity to carry the number of Russian cruise missiles used in each attack.

  Bingo, Patrick thought. The crew of that aircraft had the means and the opportunity to hit both Barksdale and San Diego. Their motivation, whether Russian patriotism or mercenary greed, was unimportant. Still using his LEAF’s interface, he opened a secure channel to Martindale in Warsaw.

  The older man answered right away. “What is it, General?” Quickly, Patrick filled him in on what he’d discovered. “Regan Air Freight? Yes, I see the significance,” Martindale said grimly. “I’ll see what my people can learn about this corporation. And as fast as possible.”

  Patrick heard the strain in his voice. “What’s happened?” he asked.

  “Gryzlov’s combat robots just destroyed a number of research labs at Sandia’s Livermore campus,” Martindale said. “Including one the administration funded to try to replicate Jason Richter’s work on Cybernetic Infantry Devices.”

  “Oh shit,” Patrick growled. “I can’t think of anything more likely to convince Stacy Anne Barbeau that we’re gunning for her.”

  “Nor can I,” Martindale agreed. “Which is undoubtedly Gryzlov’s plan.” He sighed. “We never had much time to stop him before this spirals out of control, General. Now we have even less.”

  Thirty-Two

  IRON WOLF FORCE, IN THE BIGHORN NATIONAL FOREST, WYOMING

  SEVERAL HOURS LATER

  Brad McLanahan listened closely to his father’s explanation of how the Russians were concealing their cruise-missile attacks. “So they’re flying this converted 737 out of a private field in Utah?” he asked. “Is that the base for their air-launched strikes?”

  The retired general nodded. Because they had a good, secure satellite link, his image was only slightly distorted on their cockpit displays. “The pattern is pretty clear . . . at least now that we know what we’re looking for. My guess, based on the flight plans and filed manifests I’ve examined, is that they’ve been ferrying in missiles, or, more likely, missile components, from overseas for weeks.”

  Nadia leaned forward. She appeared wholly focused, like a bird of prey circling on the hunt. “Is it possible that this Moab facility is also the command and control center for Gryzlov’s robot forces?”

  “I doubt it,” the older McLanahan replied. He shrugged. “Though it might serve as a logistical hub for their robots, since they can fly in equipment, spare parts, and ammunition through the field. But even that isn’t certain.”

  “Yeah, Gryzlov may be crazy, but he’s not stupid,” Whack Macomber said roughly. “Running both elements of his clandestine operation out of the same location would be way too risky.”

  Nadia scowled. “So we could destroy the air base in Utah and still end up no closer to being able to eliminate the primary threat, these Russian fighting machines?”

  Brad looked at her. “At least now we know how they’re avoiding detection,” he pointed out. He turned to the image of Kevin Martindale on the screen. “Right, Mr. Martindale?”

  The gray-haired man nodded. “Quite so, Captain McLanahan.” He shrugged. “Your father’s discovery that an aircraft owned by Regan Air Freight had been converted into a cruise-missile carrier was the break we needed. There is no way an otherwise legitimate corporation like this air cargo company would lend itself to a Russian covert operation—”

  “Unless Moscow controls it from the inside,” Brad finished.

  Somewhat nettled by the interruption, Martindale nodded tersely. “Exactly. My operatives have only begun digging, but it seems likely that Russia—or possibly Gryzlov himself in his private capacity—now owns a controlling interest in both Regan Air and a ground-based freight hauler, FXR Trucking. Their original owner, a Canadian billionaire named Francis Xavier Regan, sold his personal stake in both companies to an international consortium of banks and investment firms several months ago.” He smiled thinly, without humor. “My guess would be this purported consortium is nothing more than a group of straw buyers, a front for Gennadiy Gryzlov.”

  “Has anyone contacted this man Regan to learn more about what he knows?” Nadia asked.

  “The thought had occurred to me, Major Rozek,” Martindale said quietly. “Unfortunately, Regan vanished somewhere in the North Atlantic—along with his seventy-five-meter-long sailing yacht and its entire crew—a few days after finalizing the sale.”

  Macomber snorted. “Gee, isn’t that just fricking convenient?”

  “Yeah, there’s the Gennadiy Gryzlov we all know and hate,” Brad agreed. “Leaving a trail of death and disappearances wherever he goes.”

  Polish president Piotr Wilk frowned. “The only reason the Russians would want to own a trucking company would be to transport men and supplies . . . and their war robots . . . inconspicuously.”

  Patrick McLanahan nodded. “Using big rigs as a means of covert movement was one of the possibilities my analysts zeroed in on a while back, Mr. President.”

  “And yet you say this gets us no closer to finding Gryzlov’s action teams?�
� Wilk asked. “Even though we now know how to identify the vehicles his men are using?”

  Martindale shrugged his shoulders. “It’s a variation of the needle-in-a-haystack problem, Piotr. There are more than two million tractor-trailers operating on U.S. roads and highways. Of those, FXR Trucking owns hundreds in its own right and leases or rents thousands more. And that’s not counting the tens of thousands of independent drivers it hires for single deliveries or short-term contracts. Virtually any of those big rigs might be the ones the Russians are using to transport their war robots and support units.”

  “Then why not narrow down that field by using the same method General McLanahan employed to identify their cruise-missile aircraft?” Wilk argued.

  “By correlating the movements of FXR-owned or -leased trucks near the areas the Russians have already attacked?” Wilk nodded. “Because no one really tracks trucks or cars in the United States,” Patrick explained. “Short of a driver getting a speeding ticket or being involved in an accident, there’s no real reason for any government—state, local, or federal—to pay much attention . . . or keep any records.”

  Brad frowned. “What about toll roads and bridges, Dad? Most of them are automated now, right? They use license-plate readers or electronic passes to keep tabs on who owes what. Can’t you hack into their databases?”

  His father smiled. “Not a bad idea. Unfortunately, there aren’t that many toll roads or bridges in any of the areas the Russians have hit so far.”

  “But there are a lot of interstate highways, all of them toll-free,” Brad realized disgustedly.

  “And the same goes for state roads and county roads and surface streets,” the older McLanahan finished with a wry smile. He shrugged. “The same problem applies to the idea of cracking into Gryzlov’s movements by checking which trucks supposedly delivered loads to cities or towns near Barksdale AFB, Fort Worth, or the Livermore labs . . . or even to destinations that would take them past those places. No one gives a damn what particular routes a truck driver uses. All they care about is whether the goods get to where they’re supposed to go on time.”

  The predatory gleam in Nadia’s eyes sharpened. “If it is truly impossible to track these vehicles, then we should come at this problem from the other direction.”

  Martindale looked puzzled. “And what direction is that, Major?”

  “Despite their robots, Gryzlov’s men themselves are not machines,” she explained. “And like all men, they must eat and sleep and bathe and sh—”

  “Yeah, we get the picture,” Brad said hastily.

  She grinned at him. “So then, we know the Russians must have places to rest and recuperate between operations, yes?”

  Brad nodded and saw his father, Wilk, and Martindale doing the same. “And to hide out in while the heat dies down,” he agreed. “Which would explain why none of the police roadblocks and checkpoints thrown up around the sites they’ve attacked have ever turned up anything suspicious.”

  Macomber stirred. “Well, they’re sure as hell not hiding out in a Motel 6 or a Travelodge. Truckers on a job don’t hang out parked in one motel lot for days on end. That’d draw way too much unwelcome attention—especially around places that just got blown to hell and gone.”

  “But I bet this FXR outfit owns a bunch of buildings,” Brad said slowly.

  Martindale nodded. “Public records show that the company has a very large number of warehouses and operating and maintenance centers. They’re spread throughout the U.S., Canada, and Mexico.”

  “Just frigging wonderful.” Macomber grimaced. “Gryzlov’s bought himself a whole transportation and logistics network for his goddamned private war.”

  “So it would seem, Colonel,” Martindale said, sounding pained. “And that doesn’t count any additional facilities his agents or front companies might have bought or leased before his forces went into action.” He sighed. “If this were a Scion operation, that’s certainly what I would have done.”

  “He sure seems to be using your playbook,” Brad agreed somberly. He glanced at Nadia and then at the others. “Which doesn’t really get us much further. I guess we could narrow down where the Russians probably were by checking into what FXR owns around Dallas/Fort Worth or Shreveport, but that wouldn’t get us any closer to figuring out where they are now . . . or where they’re going to strike next.”

  Nadia swung toward him in sudden excitement. “That is not quite so!” she said quickly. “Since Gryzlov’s robots smashed your national laboratory in California only a few hours ago, it is likely they are still concealed somewhere not far away. Gryzlov has made a mistake. He has extended himself out too far.”

  On the screen, Brad saw his father’s eyes take on a distant look and suddenly realized the older man must be using his LEAF’s built-in links to access various databases. He hoped Nadia wouldn’t notice. His father’s earlier brush with madness while forced to exist inside a Cybernetic Infantry Device still frightened her. She would not welcome any sign that he might be slipping back into that twilight digital world.

  In a matter of seconds, Patrick’s eyes snapped back into focus. “FXR Trucking owns three separate warehouse and maintenance facilities within a fifty-mile radius of Livermore, California,” he said flatly. “There are two more within a hundred miles.”

  “You see!” Nadia said elatedly. “Now we know where to hunt!”

  Martindale stared at her. “You’re not seriously proposing to fly the Ranger straight into a region that is currently crawling with U.S. military units and federal law enforcement agents, are you? Because I don’t give a rat’s ass how good a pilot Brad is, there’s no way you could pull off a stunt like that.”

  Sadly, Wilk shook his head. “Kevin is right, Major. The risk is far too great. Even if you could somehow arrive without being detected, Captain Schofield’s scouts would have to investigate at least five separate sites . . . and all without being noticed themselves. By either the Russians or the Americans.” He turned his gaze to Brad. “What would happen if your countrymen saw your aircraft? Or spotted Schofield’s men conducting a covert reconnaissance?”

  Brad thought about that. He winced. “We’d trigger an immediate and very violent reaction,” he admitted. “And it would be aimed at us, not at Gryzlov’s men.”

  “There is another problem,” his father said gravely. “From what I can tell, almost all of FXR’s facilities are located in or very near cities and sizable towns. Even if you got lucky and zeroed in on the Russian’s current operating base, any fight against them would turn ugly very quickly.”

  Macomber swore suddenly under his breath. “Ah, damn, the general’s right.” Tight-lipped now, he glared at them. “If we tangle with Gryzlov’s robots anywhere around civilians, there’s going to be a hell of a lot of collateral damage.” He shook his head. “You ever figure out just how many cars, school buses, houses, and apartment buildings even a single rail-gun round moving at Mach 5 could blow through?” he asked. “A shitload . . . that’s how many!”

  Brad stared back him, seeing what could happen in his mind’s eye. A battle between rival combat robots in an urban setting would inevitably result in horrific destruction. Innocent men, women, and children would be slaughtered by the scores and hundreds. “Oh, my God,” he murmured.

  “God’s got nothing to do with it,” Macomber growled. He shook his head. “Look, I want to smash those fucking Russian robots to bits as much as anyone else here, but I did not sign on with this outfit to participate in any massacres.”

  Nadia’s shoulders slumped, all the fire seemingly gone out of her. “Then what do you propose, Whack?” she asked softly. “Do we just sit here in safety while the Russians destroy your country from within—and blame it all on us?”

  There was silence for a long moment.

  “We could pass what we know and suspect to the American government,” Wilk suggested at last.

  Martindale shook his head. “I’m afraid Barbeau is too hostile to me, the Iron Wolf Squad
ron, and Poland in general to pay much attention to anything we tell her.” He frowned. “Even if we could somehow get through to her, word of what we’d learned would probably leak . . . either to the press or directly to Russian agents. And Gryzlov would just pull the plug on his operations before the FBI or the U.S. military got close. He’d call his forces home and clear away any evidence that might pin these attacks on him, instead of on us.”

  “And then we’d end up looking like the Iron Wolves who cried ‘wolf,’” Brad said bitterly.

  “Something like that.” Martindale looked beaten down. “So we’re still stuck at square one. Unless we can catch Gryzlov’s robots out of hiding and in the open where you can safely engage them, we have no good options.”

  Brad gritted his teeth. Like Nadia, he was tired of sitting idle while the enemy acted with impunity. How could they continue doing nothing, especially now that they had ripped at least a small hole in the maskirova, the cloak of deception, Russia was using to conceal its clandestine operations? What they needed was some way to tear that hole open wider.

  He stirred suddenly, feeling the first faint glimmering of a plan starting to take shape in his mind. Admittedly, it bore no real resemblance to the kinds of “perfect war plans” so popular with armchair generals . . . but then again, real war was always messy and chaotic. Waiting for the chance to employ some tactic or strategy that looked perfect on paper only conceded the initiative to your enemy. That was what they’d been doing since Gryzlov’s first attack . . . and it was obviously a dead end.

  When he said as much out loud, Martindale shrugged. “Maybe so, Brad. But what’s your alternative?”