by Dale Brown
Listening to the other man outline Scion’s plan, Farrell glanced around the room, seeing the much-loved and unpretentious comfortable furniture, favorite books, and mementos he’d spent half a lifetime acquiring. When Martindale finished, he sighed. “Okay, I’m in.” He snorted. “But if I end up dead, I want it on record that this was a really stupid idea.”
“If you get killed, Governor,” Martindale said simply, “you’ll have plenty of company.”
Thirty-Eight
SAN ANTONIO
LATE THAT NIGHT
Standing at a scarred, oil-stained workbench inside the warehouse, Dobrynin scrutinized the grainy, green-tinged night-vision pictures relayed by Aristov’s reconnaissance team. So far, what his commander was seeing closely matched the intelligence reports they’d studied. There were only a handful of uniformed police officers stationed around Farrell’s rambling, stone-walled ranch house and its outbuildings. Their pistols and shotguns wouldn’t be much use against Russia’s war robots.
He frowned down at his laptop.
Still, it had proved surprisingly difficult for Aristov to reach a concealed position on one of the wooded hills overlooking the American politician’s compound. Several of the most promising infiltration routes had been blocked by watchful guards or electronic surveillance gear. During the weeks their RKU unit had spent traveling the U.S. to scout possible targets, they’d never had so much trouble getting a man in close. Dobrynin was bothered by the disconnect between such tight outer security on the one hand and this apparent sloppiness so close to Farrell’s country house on the other. But what could explain the seeming inconsistency?
“Enough time has been lost,” a cold machine voice said over his shoulder. “Get your vehicles ready. We must be on the move to the Farrell ranch in the next ten minutes.”
Taken by surprise, Dobrynin jerked upright. He’d been so preoccupied that he hadn’t even heard the huge KVM come up right behind him. With his heart pounding so loudly that he was sure the machine’s sensitive audio sensors could hear it, he turned around. “Excuse me, Colonel?”
“Don’t play games with me,” Baryshev said bluntly. “I’ve given you an order. Now obey it.”
Dobrynin stared up at the robot. “But we haven’t finished our reconnaissance yet.”
“Further spying is unnecessary.” The machine stepped closer, crowding him back against the workbench. “Already, Aristov has thrown away precious hours . . . only to confirm what we already knew. Nothing can be gained by waiting another full day. If anything, all that will do is give the Americans more time to strengthen their defenses—or to find this warehouse. By now, the Poles must know the methods we are using to avoid detection. The American government will not be far behind.”
Shakily, Dobrynin nodded. That part of what Baryshev said was true. The destruction of their Moab air base meant their enemies must be aware they’d been using Regan Air Freight as cover for their operation. And it was only a small step from knowing that fact to zeroing in on FXR Trucking vehicles and facilities as the next logical piece of the puzzle. “Have you cleared this with Moscow?” he asked, still stalling for time.
“Kurakin has my recommendation,” the robot said flatly. “No doubt he will dither for a time before deciding one way or the other. But in the meantime, I am the senior officer here. Yes?” The threat in its normally emotionless voice was unmistakable.
“Yes, you are, Colonel,” Dobrynin agreed hastily. He had nothing to gain by opposing Baryshev’s orders. And everything, including, quite probably, his life, to lose. The only sane action was to play along and load the war machines aboard their three big rigs. By the time they arrived within striking range of Farrell’s ranch, Moscow should have made its call. If General Kurakin vetoed an immediate attack, they could always turn around and drive back to San Antonio, with no harm done. And if the RKU chief actually approved Baryshev’s request? Well, then, the more darkness they had to operate in, the better. He raised his voice. “Yumashev! Popov! Prep your trucks! We’re heading north.”
ON THE FARRELL RANCH
A SHORT TIME LATER
Aristov wished he could swear out loud without giving away his hiding place. He should have known Dobynin would buckle if pushed. The KVMs and their increasingly inhuman pilots were too frightening. Now the trucks carrying the robots were inbound—only thirty minutes away at most. If Moscow approved Baryshev’s demand for an immediate attack, what was he supposed to do? Stay here and watch from this hillside and hope that no stray rounds came his way?
There sure as hell wasn’t time for him to pull back before they arrived . . . not without being spotted by Farrell’s security guards. It had taken him half the night to worm his way this close to the governor’s ranch house. And once the KVMs did their dirty work and withdrew, what then? Would he be expected to somehow skate away in all the confusion? To where? Did anyone really think Larionov and Mitkin would be foolish enough to hang around and wait for him while every American police and military unit within two hundred kilometers came screaming in with their sirens on and weapons hot?
Pizda rulyu, Aristov thought bleakly, I am so screwed.
The noise of a fast-approaching helicopter broke into his despair. Instinctively, he flattened himself, hoping the multispectral camouflage elements in his ghillie suit would prove effective if the Americans already had aircraft up hunting for him. That might only be paranoid thinking, he realized. But with the universe suddenly seemingly stuck in a “let’s fuck Kirill over” setting, a touch of paranoia felt apt.
A black helicopter clattered low over his position. Rotors whirling, it swung back toward the ranch house and settled in to land not far from the building. Dust and tufts of grass swirled into the air. Lights abruptly flicked on around the compound. Another couple of Texas Rangers appeared from behind a stable and an equipment shed with their rifles at the ready. Several horses whinnied quietly from a corral outside his view, somewhere behind the ranch house itself. A dog barked off in the distance.
A man Aristov recognized from the pictures and video clips he’d studied as John D. Farrell came out of the house. He was accompanied by a single bodyguard. The Russian stared through the viewfinder of his compact Gen IV night-vision camera, torn between conflicting emotions. Was Farrell unexpectedly leaving his secluded ranch ahead of schedule? If so, Moscow would be furious at the missed opportunity to assassinate him. On the other hand, the Texan’s sudden departure would guarantee Aristov’s own survival—
Two men climbed down out the helicopter. One of them, bulkier than his gray-haired companion, seemed to move very awkwardly . . . almost mechanically. Farrell strolled over to greet them.
Without waiting any longer, the helicopter lifted off and flew away to the west at very low altitude, practically hugging the earth as it disappeared into the night.
Aristov triggered the zoom on his camera to get a closer look at these new arrivals. His eyes widened in astonishment as their faces filled his viewfinder. Without thinking, he snapped a string of pictures. The gray-haired stranger was former U.S. president Kevin Martindale, now the head of Scion. The other was a man who had long been Russia’s most determined and effective enemy . . . a man his leaders, especially President Gryzlov, believed was safely dead—reduced to nothing more than ashes scattered in the wind.
THE KREMLIN, MOSCOW
A SHORT TIME LATER
For a long moment, Russian president Gennadiy Gryzlov stared at the grainy, green images showing Kevin Martindale and Patrick McLanahan shaking hands with Farrell. This cannot be true, he thought. This must not be true. He exhaled sharply, struggling against a swelling wave of red, all-consuming rage. Closing his eyes, he gripped the edge of his desk, squeezing so hard that his knuckles turned white.
“Mr. President?” Vladimir Kurakin said nervously, backing away a few steps. “Are you all right? Should I call someone? Your secretary Ulanov? Or perhaps your personal physician?”
“That fat American whore Barbeau lied t
o me,” Gryzlov snarled, turning toward him. “She told me her fighter pilots killed McLanahan! She promised me he was dead!”
Kurakin looked down, unwilling to meet his leader’s furious gaze. Sweat beaded his forehead. “It is possible President Barbeau sincerely believed that to be the case,” he pointed out warily. “The strange exoskeleton the American wears proves that he was badly wounded, perhaps even crippled, when his aircraft went down.”
“I don’t want that murdering piece of shit crippled!” Gryzlov said through clenched teeth. “I want him torn to fucking pieces!” Gripped by fury, he came around his desk and strode over to the other man. “Very well! Since the Americans have failed so miserably, we’ll do the job ourselves.”
Kurakin moistened suddenly dry lips. “Mr. President?”
“Are Baryshev’s war machines in position?”
Warily, Kurakin nodded. “Almost, sir. His KVM force is assembling on a country road close to Farrell’s ranch.” He looked even more nervous. “But I strongly urge caution. Without further reconnaissance, we can’t be sure how strong the governor’s security forces really are. Captain Aristov is the only scout we were able to get into position. Who knows how many troops the Americans may have concealed outside his field of view?”
“You can’t seriously be frightened of a handful of cowboys and yokels with small arms?” Gryzlov scoffed.
Kurakin shook his head. “It’s not just them. This sudden visit by Martindale and McLanahan could indicate that Farrell’s bodyguards have been reinforced by the Iron Wolf machine that destroyed our base in Utah.”
“Enough!” Gryzlov snapped scornfully. “You’re sniveling like an old woman afraid of ghosts!” He turned away in contempt. “No more delays, Kurakin. We’ve just been handed the perfect opportunity to kill three birds of ill omen—McLanahan, Martindale, and Farrell—with a single stone. We’re not going to waste it. Order Baryshev and his pilots to attack immediately!”
Thirty-Nine
NEAR THE FARRELL RANCH
A SHORT TIME LATER
Colonel Ruslan Baryshev brought his KVM’s systems to full readiness, transitioning from the power-saving mode used while they were being hauled around by truck. Limbs that had been locked in position whirred into motion. Data from newly energized sensors flooded through the neural link into his mind. It was as though he had been nearly blind and deaf, peering out at a silent world through a tiny pinhole . . . and then, in the blink of an eye, he found himself gifted with senses far beyond those of any mortal man. He felt a surge of exhilaration as the machine he inhabited came fully online.
Bent low to clear the trailer’s ceiling, he dropped down onto the ground and then straightened up to his robot’s full height. Immediately Dobrynin and the four other ex-Spetsnaz soldiers who served as the unit’s drivers and scouts backed away in fear. Baryshev accepted that as his due. They were right to be afraid. From the dawn of time, myths and legends had spoken of gods and demigods who walked the earth among mere humans—handing down judgment and dispensing vengeance as they saw fit. Now those myths had become reality.
He stepped aside, making room for Oleg Imrekov to bring his own machine out of the semitrailer they shared. Around him, the other four KVMs disembarked from their own transports. All three of the big trucks were parked along a dirt road that wound north from here, paralleling the flank of a lightly wooded rise. His night-vision sensors revealed a jumble of limestone and granite hills and ridges rising in all directions.
“Distance to primary target?” Baryshev queried the robot’s computer.
Straight-line distance is thirty-one hundred meters, it replied. Instantly, the computer updated his tactical display with a detailed topographic map. It incorporated the most recent satellite-derived data with new information obtained by Aristov and Larionov during their attempts to infiltrate through the enemy’s security perimeter. Icons representing known and suspected sentry posts and electronic surveillance gear speckled the map.
Whoever commanded Farrell’s guard force was clever, Baryshev admitted to himself. The American had deployed his limited resources to maximum effect—placing almost every possible avenue of approach to the governor’s vacation home under some form of observation. Aristov had been lucky indeed to find the solitary weak point in those defenses . . . and even then the gap was one only a highly trained operative like the former Spetsnaz officer could possibly exploit.
He frowned. Those sentries and sensors could not do anything to stop his planned assault, but they would make it impossible to achieve complete surprise. No doubt his KVMs could silence one or two of the guards posted in those hills without raising an alarm. But the security net was too tight. Sooner rather than later, the enemy would know his robots were on their way. And even a few minutes of warning would make the job of tracking down their intended victims—Farrell, Martindale, and McLanahan—that much more difficult and time-consuming. This would be especially true if Kurakin’s warning of a possible Iron Wolf CID operating in the area proved accurate. A single enemy combat robot would be no match for his machines, but destroying it would take time.
In the end, Baryshev thought, none of that should matter very much. The nearest American heavy reaction force was stationed at Fort Hood, more than 160 kilometers away. Even if they took off immediately, the AH-64D Apache Longbow gunships based there would take at least thirty minutes to arrive within striking range. Any tanks and infantry fighting vehicles ordered out would be hours behind the gunships. Still, why take unnecessary chances?
With that in mind, he discarded his preliminary plan, which had called for a simple head-on rush by all six KVMs. Quickly, he sketched out an alternate maneuver—one that proposed a converging assault on Farrell’s ranch house by three two-robot teams. Attacking nearly simultaneously from three separate directions should split the American defenses and render any escape attempt futile.
Baryshev’s computer highlighted one of the assault routes he’d selected in red. It was the one that envisioned two war machines swinging to the right around the southern edge of the ranch. Once in position, they would attack from the east while two more pairs of KVMs came storming in from the south and west. Early detection on this route is possible, it declared. Multiple communications satellite connections identified here. An icon appeared on his map, on the main north-south road through this area and just outside the ranch’s main gate.
“Identify those signals,” Baryshev ordered. “Correlate them with the most recent satellite photos.”
CNN, FOX, MSNBC, ABC, CBS, BBC . . . the computer reported, listing a slew of different media outlets from the United States and around the world. It pulled up a satellite photo showing a group of vans with antenna dishes in a tight-packed cluster on the shoulder of a narrow, two-lane road. A police car was parked just inside the gate, apparently keeping an eye on the press flock.
The media were camped out as close as they could get to the American presidential candidate’s doorstep, Baryshev realized—which in this case was nearly two kilometers away. After so many days stuck deep in this rural backwater, this band of reporters must be growing desperate for some dramatic bit of news to fill airtime.
He opened a secure channel to the other robots in his force. “Specter Lead to all Specter units. Attention to orders.” With a flick of one finger, he transmitted his revised attack plan to their computers. Imrekov, Zelin, and the rest radioed their acknowledgment. Their voices sounded avid, as though they were wolfhounds straining at the leash.
The Russian KVM commander bared his teeth in a malevolent grin. Just as in all the old stories of men and women who made deals with the devil, those journalists were about to have their deepest desires fulfilled . . . though not at all in the way they expected and only at a terrible price.
From his concealed position on the hillside above the road, Ian Schofield watched the Russian war machines split up and stride away into the darkness. The men who’d accompanied them were spreading out along the dirt road. His gue
ss was that they were setting up a security perimeter around the three tractor-trailer trucks and a dark-colored sport utility vehicle. He zeroed in on one through the night scope attached to his M24A2 Remington sniper rifle. The Russian was armed with a submachine gun. He also wore body armor and a radio headset.
Seeing that, the Iron Wolf recon unit leader chewed at his lip, wishing he dared to transmit a quick warning to Andrew Davis and the rest of his team. But it was impossible. They had to assume the Russian combat robots had sensor capabilities that matched those of their own CIDs. If so, the enemy would pick up any transmission, no matter how short. Radioing in right now would be like sending up a flare. Not only would doing so give away his position, with fatal consequences for him personally, it would also blow this entire operation.
So instead, Schofield continued to lie low. He hoped like hell this scheme the McLanahans and Nadia Rozek had cooked up on the fly actually worked the way they hoped . . . because if it didn’t, an awful lot of good people were going to get killed. Of course, given the odds stacked up against them, that was a likely outcome no matter how things played out.
OUTSIDE THE MAIN GATE
A SHORT TIME LATER
Karl Ericson tossed his cigarette butt down and ground it out under his heel. Then he refolded his arms and leaned back against the production truck. He narrowed his eyes against the glare of klieg lights, surveying the gaggle of reporters and cameramen milling around outside the big ornamental wrought-iron gate with undisguised boredom. National Cable News paid his salary as a broadcast engineer. That meant he was expected to be able to install, operate, and maintain all the video, sound, and satellite communications equipment needed by this particular television news crew. It didn’t mean he had to pretend that everything they did was important.
