by Dale Brown
“We stop pussyfooting around. We hit the concealed Russian air base at Moab,” Brad said flatly. “The way I see it, Gryzlov has been controlling the tempo of this secret war from the get-go. Everything that’s happening is following his script. We need to change that. We have to rattle his teeth so hard that we knock him off his preset plan. Because once he’s forced to start improvising, he’s more likely to start making mistakes—mistakes we can exploit.”
“Yes!” he heard Nadia crow. Macomber and his father both nodded their agreement.
Martindale frowned. “I understand the impulse to do something,” he said slowly. “But an attack on his base in Utah could easily backfire. What if it only convinces Gryzlov to withdraw the rest of his men and machines—leaving us worse off than we are now?”
Wilk nodded reluctantly.
“He won’t back off,” Brad said confidently. “Not if he’s sure that we were the ones who took a whack at him . . . instead of the U.S. government. It’ll be like waving a red cape in front of a bull. Gennadiy Gryzlov’s not going to turn tail and run from a small Iron Wolf unit. Not when he has a stronger force of his own combat robots.”
“Sure,” Macomber agreed. “Just how do you plan to let that Russian SOB know we were the ones who kicked him in the ’nads? Put out a press release? Or are you thinking about inviting a fucking CNN camera crew on a ride-along?”
“Not exactly,” Brad said. “But we will need to shake up our standard Iron Wolf operating procedure a little.”
“You mean the one where we storm in, blow the shit out of everything and everyone, and then book like bats out of hell?” the bigger man asked.
“Yep,” Brad agreed, with a boyish grin. “That would be the one.”
THE KREMLIN, MOSCOW
THAT SAME TIME
Gryzlov glowered at Vladimir Kurakin. “You can’t be serious! You actually believe this superstitious nonsense? That long-duration service in our Kiberneticheskiye Voyennyye Mashiny is inflicting psychological damage on their pilots?”
“Captain Aristov’s most recent reports do concern me,” Kurakin admitted. “The way he describes Colonel Baryshev and the others behaving is not . . . normal.”
“Normal?” Gryzlov scoffed. “Compared to what? How many other men have ever been given the chance to operate machines of such power?” He eyed the other man with open amusement. “Because the colonel and his men are extremely aggressive and eager to kill using their KVMs, you think that is somehow evidence of madness?” He smiled. “Have you ever really studied the way successful fighter pilots think, Vladimir? Because I can assure you that what Aristov describes is really nothing out of the ordinary. Good combat pilots are hunters whose prey is other men. Without the killer instinct, they are nothing.”
Kurakin looked unconvinced.
Gryzlov’s smile thinned. “Tell me . . . has this so-called psychological impairment you discern threatened the success of any mission?”
“No, sir,” the other man admitted.
“Then stop worrying,” Gryzlov ordered. “And tell Aristov to quit pissing himself just because better men are proving they have more guts than he does.”
For a moment, he thought Kurakin would argue with him. But the RKU chief only subsided with a tired nod. Too bad, Gryzlov thought coldly. He would have relished a confrontation, if only as a change of pace. But like so many others in his inner circle, the former special forces general was showing himself when pushed to be more lapdog than mastiff. Idly, he wondered what it said about the quality of his subordinates that Daria Titeneva was more of a man where it counted than any of the rest of them.
Thirty-Three
REGAN AIR FREIGHT SPECIAL CARGO HUB, GRAND COUNTY AIRPORT, NEAR MOAB, UTAH
LATER THAT NIGHT
Wolf One, the Cybernetic Infantry Device piloted by Brad McLanahan, stood motionless two hundred meters east of the chain-link, razor-wire-topped fence that surrounded this private airport. The CID’s chameleon camouflage mirrored the soaring, faintly moonlit sandstone cliffs at its back, rendering it virtually invisible to the naked eye. The twelve-foot-tall machine was equally undetectable by IR sensors, since the thermal adaptive tiles coating its skin currently matched the precise heat signatures of the surrounding scrub, rock, and sand.
Two slowly pulsing green dots on Brad’s tactical display showed the positions of the other Iron Wolf robots in his combat team. Nadia and Whack Macomber were stationed about two kilometers east of the airport. Like his, their machines were using an array of passive sensors to probe the Regan Air facility—sharing every scrap of information the three of them amassed over secure data links.
He felt uneasy, all too aware that they were pressed for time . . . which denied the chance to make a really thorough reconnaissance. He and Nadia hadn’t been able to fly the Ranger into yet another improvised landing strip on a high mesa south of the Arches National Park until well after nightfall. Covering the intervening miles had required slow and painstaking movement across the rocky Moab highlands and then down onto the valley floor. And whatever happened here, they had to return to the XCV-62 and get her back in the air well before sunrise. All of which meant they had only a limited window of opportunity in which to strike.
Seen from the outside, this Russian-controlled airfield wasn’t much to look at, Brad decided. Just a couple of prefabricated metal buildings, a portable trailer, a handful of fuel trucks and cargo loaders, and the twin-engine Regan Air Freight 737-200F itself. Arc lights rigged to allow crews to work at night illuminated the cargo jet and the concrete apron around it.
His computer highlighted the trailer. Active satellite communications link detected, it reported. Additional electronic emissions indicate this building is the current flight operations control center.
He scanned along the perimeter fence. Apart from a linked network of IR-capable cameras, there were no other obvious defenses or sensors—no minefields, motion detectors, or even trip-wire-triggered flares. Nor could he spot any signs of bunkers or dug-in heavy weapons. Overall, it looked as though the Russians had opted for discretion over airtight security.
Across the runway to the west, a locked gate and guard shack blocked road access to the airport. Two men, wearing tan-and-blue uniforms that identified them as Regan Air security personnel, were posted at the gate. One had a pistol holstered at his waist. The other carried a shotgun.
Brad tagged the two guards on his display for the others. “Not exactly heavy-duty firepower,” he radioed. “Those guys at the gate look pretty much like standard-issue rent-a-cops to me.”
“That’s just a little show for the locals,” Whack replied. “But take a gander at the fellas prowling out there away from those lights. If you were wondering what happened to those Spetsnaz veterans Gryzlov hired away from his own army, I’d say we just found at least four of them.”
Brad zoomed in on the four men walking obvious sentry beats in the darkness well beyond the parked cargo jet. He was close enough for his night-vision cameras to pick up enormous amounts of detail. All four of them wore body armor, tactical radios, and night-vision gear. Two carried unfamiliar-looking assault rifles. Israeli-made Galil ACE 53 7.62mm weapons, his computer reported. The other two cradled standard-issue, military-grade M4 carbines. But each of them also had a disposable AT-4 84mm antitank rocket launcher slung over his shoulder. Bits of encrypted transmissions intercepted by his CID showed the four heavily armed guards were in frequent communication with each other, the gate shack, and the flight operations trailer. “You’ve got a point there, Whack,” he said over their secure circuit. “They’re loaded for bear.” He grinned. “Or maybe wolves like us. And they’re definitely pros.”
Nadia cut in. “What is the point of those guards?” she wondered. “Even assuming there are more Spetsnaz personnel currently off duty, they are still far too few in number to repel a determined military assault.”
“They’re not posted to fight off the U.S. Army,” Brad said. “My bet is their primary m
ission is providing security against possible intruders or spies. Plus, even a small Spetsnaz force like that could sure put a world of hurt on the cops and county sheriffs if local law enforcement got too curious and came calling.”
“Maybe so,” Nadia said, sounding both unconvinced and uncharacteristically worried. “But the possibility also exists that they are support troops for one or more of the Russian combat robots. I do not believe that Grzylov would leave this base so exposed.”
“From his perspective, this facility’s security rests on its secrecy,” Brad pointed out. “Aside from the cruise-missile-carrying 737 parked out on that apron, his war robots are his primary offensive striking power. Committing any of them to a static defensive role here would be a waste of resources.”
Macomber intervened. “He’s right, Major Rozek. Anyway, if there were robots deployed here, we’d have picked up their thermal signatures by now.”
“They could be powered down,” she argued. “Or our intelligence might be wrong. And if the Russians do have their own camouflage systems . . .” Her voice trailed off for a moment. “Wolf One,” she said formally. “I recommend we alter the plan. We should all assault simultaneously in order to overwhelm any such hidden forces.”
Inside his CID’s darkened cockpit, Brad nodded to himself, suddenly understanding why Nadia seemed so nervous. She hated watching him take risks while she waited in relative safety. “Negative, Wolf Two. You and Whack will cover me while I make the hit.” He cleared his throat. “Now, if you spot anything big and metal with arms and legs coming my way, you have my permission to shoot the hell out of it without hesitation. Otherwise, though, this is strictly a one-man show.” He felt a wry smile cross his face. “With the emphasis on show.”
“Copy that,” Macomber said.
Nadia sighed. “Very well. But I do not like this.”
Movement alert, Brad’s computer reported suddenly. Increased activity at target facility. Across the runway, he saw men in grease-stained coveralls opening big doors on one of the prefab buildings. His sensors showed rows of tarp-shrouded shapes inside a brightly lit interior. Chemical sniffers detect traces of kerosene fuels and high-explosive compounds, the computer told him. Analysis suggests those are Kh-35 cruise missiles.
While he watched, one of the cargo loaders roared to life and trundled toward the weapons storage building. Lights blinked on inside the Boeing 737’s cockpit. Its big forward door whirred open—spilling more light out onto the airport apron. Inside the cargo compartment, he could see more ground crewmen working on some kind of machine. Abruptly, he recognized what it was: a rotary missile launcher, very similar to those used on the XB-1F Excalibur bombers he’d flown with his father. And those technicians were prepping the launcher to receive new missiles.
His eyes narrowed. They’d arrived just in time. The Russians were getting ready to launch another strike.
RKU FLIGHT OPERATIONS CONTROL CENTER
THAT SAME TIME
Colonel Yuri Annenkov typed in a quick acknowledgment of Moscow’s most recent attack order, watched while the computer encrypted it, and then hit the send key. The machine beeped once shrilly as it transmitted his reply through their satellite link. He donned his radio headset and keyed the mike to speak to his copilot. Uspensky was already in the cockpit of their aircraft, running through preflight checks.
“Did those new missile target coordinates come through the link clean, Konstantin?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” Uspensky replied. “The attack computer confirms all target sets received.” He sounded puzzled. “What I don’t understand is why we’re hitting a school in New Orleans. What is so militarily significant about Tulane University and its law school?”
“This a political target, not a military one,” Annenkov explained, hiding his own feelings. After all, orders were orders. “Tulane is where the American president Barbeau received her education. Moscow believes damaging the campus will throw her further off balance and negatively affect her mental state.”
Uspensky snorted. “General Kurakin is getting a bit too fancy for my tastes, Colonel.”
Privately, Annenkov agreed, though he was equally sure Kurakin was not the one who’d made the ultimate decision to hit a civilian university for purely political and psychological reasons. That was more President Gryzlov’s style. “It’s a mission, Konstantin,” he said finally. “Where the missiles fly isn’t really our concern, is it?”
“I suppose not,” the other man agreed, though without much conviction. “See you in a few minutes?”
Annenkov nodded. “Yes. Get the bird warmed up for me. I’ll be there as soon as Filippov and his men start loading the Kh-35s. Pilot out.”
He pulled off the headset and glanced across the crowded trailer. A bank of five monitors displayed live feeds from the cameras set up around the airport. One showed ground crewmen carefully hoisting a cruise missile into position on the cargo loader. In another, angled to cover the 737 and its surroundings, he could see Filippov and two of his technicians fussing with one of their rotary launchers. He smiled. Like all good specialists, the former Russian Air Force ordnance officer was a stickler—striving to make sure the weapons and machines under his care performed perfectly when put to the test.
The remaining three TV monitors were the province of his security team. They were set to show images from the IR-capable cameras covering the airport perimeter fence. “How does it look out there tonight?” he asked. “Anything stirring?”
The officer on duty shook his head without taking his eyes off the screens. “Not a peep, Colonel.” He sounded vaguely disappointed. “Not even a few nosy teenagers to scare off. I guess the word got around.”
Annenkov chuckled. So far, the biggest challenge his security personnel had faced was breaking up illegal, underage drinking parties—gatherings the Americans called keggers—outside the airport grounds. He supposed that was quite a comedown for a group of battle-hardened Spetsnaz and GRU veterans.
He turned away.
“Kakogo cherta? What the hell? Where did that come from?” the other man said in sudden surprise. “Is that machine one of ours?”
Annenkov spun back to stare at the monitor he was pointing at. It showed a huge, manlike shape bristling with weapons charging out of the darkness beyond the perimeter fence. For a fraction of a second, he froze, caught completely off guard. Then trained instincts kicked in and he recovered. “No!” he snapped. “Sound the alarm! And transmit those images to Moscow! Tell them we’re under attack by the Iron Wolves!”
THE PERIMETER FENCE
THAT SAME TIME
Brad McLanahan ran straight toward the airport, speeding up fast. Through his CID’s audio pickups, he could hear klaxons blaring across the lit compound. More indicators blinked across his tactical display as his computer intercepted frantic radio calls from the Spetsnaz guards on duty. A pulsing dot appeared on the portable trailer the Russians were using for flight ops. Secure satellite transmission detected, the CID reported.
Someone in there has good reflexes, he noted approvingly. Without slowing down, he smashed straight through the chain-link fence. Pieces of torn and twisted metal flew away across the concrete apron.
Threat icons flashed into Brad’s consciousness. Two flared bright red, signaling an immediate high-priority danger. There, off in the darkness, the two Spetsnaz guards armed with antitank rockets were desperately trying to draw a bead on his quick-moving robot. A solid hit from one of those high-explosive warheads would tear right through his composite armor. Not tonight, guys, he thought coolly. He swiveled on the run and opened fire on them first with his 40mm grenade launcher.
Two dazzling flashes lit the night. He caught a brief glimpse of shrapnel-torn bodies tumbling to the ground.
Several pistol and 7.62mm rifle rounds slammed into his side and ricocheted off. Minor damage to torso camouflage plates and thermal tiles, the CID told him. He whirled toward the Russian soldiers who were shooting at him. Three, includi
ng the two uniformed gate guards, were out in the open. A fourth had taken cover behind a cargo loader.
Brad triggered a short burst from his autocannon. The guards charging toward him simply blew apart, hit in the center of mass by 25mm high-explosive rounds. His next burst tore across the cargo loader—ripping through thin-skinned cruise missiles. Burning kerosene fuel sprayed across the Spetsnaz trooper hiding behind them and set him alight.
He moved on, heading across the apron toward the two metal buildings. The biggest was the brightly lit weapons storage shed. Men wearing T-shirts and shorts scrambled out of the other prefab structure, which seemed to be the living quarters for the Russians based here. Several of them were armed. They saw him coming and started shooting.
Bad decision, Brad thought. And quick as his thought, he fired back. Amid screams, dead and dying Russians toppled in all directions.
Now it was time to wreck those buildings. He switched back to using his grenade launcher. But against targets of that size, he needed something with a much bigger bang than his regular 40mm HE rounds. Load thermobaric grenades, he ordered his CID. They should do the trick. Each contained two small explosive charges and a container of flammable, highly toxic fuel. When the first charge detonated, it punctured the container, spraying a mist of dispersed fuel. And then, when the second charge exploded a fraction of second later, it ignited the drifting fuel cloud.
Icons flashed across Brad’s display as the computer selected aim points calculated to do the maximum possible damage. One after another, he pumped three grenades into each building.
Huge explosions lit them up from the inside. The temperature at each detonation point soared instantly to more than four thousand degrees Fahrenheit—briefly igniting the surrounding air. Hit by powerful shock waves, metal walls buckled. Both buildings collapsed inward in a smoldering tangle of broken steel frames and joists and warped and burning aluminum siding and roof panels. Even at a safe distance, his sensors recorded a stunning wave of heat wash across the CID’s armor. Anyone still inside the buildings would have either been incinerated by the blast, suffocated by the follow-on shock waves, or crushed by falling debris.
