by Dale Brown
With a deafening roar, his Cybernetic Infantry Device exploded. A massive ball of fire ballooned skyward, turning night into day for a split second. A powerful shock wave rippled outward from the center of the blast—toppling saplings and ripping branches off larger trees. The blast wave curled around the boulder, scooped Macomber off the ground, and tossed him against the trunk of a nearby oak tree with enough force to knock him unconscious.
When the terrible noise and light faded, all that was left of the two entangled war machines were burning fragments of metal and half-melted wiring scattered far and wide across the ravaged hillside.
Forty-One
SOUTH OF THE RANCH HOUSE
THAT SAME TIME
Specter Three’s pilot, Major Viktor Zelin, saw the green blip representing Dmitry Veselovsky’s KVM wink out. He scowled. First, Bragin had bought it—blown to hell by one of those damned American rail guns. And now they’d lost a second combat robot, Veselovsky’s Specter Five. How was that possible? The other man had just reported that he was closing in to kill the crippled Iron Wolf machine . . . when suddenly the whole sky over there lit up like the grand finale of a Moscow Victory Day fireworks display. Did the Americans have concealed heavy-weapons units—antitank missile teams, armored vehicles, and artillery—deployed around the ranch after all? Despite what all the satellite photos showed and what that little weasel Aristov had reported seeing with his own eyes?
“Three, this is Four,” he heard Captain Sergei Novikov say over their dedicated secure circuit. “You know, this suddenly looks a lot like a trap.”
Zelin nodded. “So it does, Sergei.” He slowed his pace, seeing Novikov’s robot do the same on his display. Up to now, their two KVMs had been advancing at their best possible speed given the rugged terrain, making their way through patches of trees and brush, across open pastureland, and up and over rocky, forested heights. Currently, they were moving north along a wooded valley that ran straight toward the center of the ranch, approximately two kilometers away. Visibility along the valley floor, even with their thermal sensors, wasn’t good—limited in most places to much less than a hundred meters. If the Americans really did have antiarmor weapons in place, hidden under anti-IR camouflage netting, say, rushing along practically blind was just asking to be ambushed.
“Maybe we should swing left, up onto those hills,” Novikov suggested. The new axis of advance he proposed appeared on Zelin’s display. It would take them out onto the slopes of a pair of low, rocky elevations that rose fifty meters or so above the valley. Someone had logged those hills in the past, clearing away everything but a few scraggly oaks and scattered tufts of thick brush and brambles. “At least that would get us out of these trees. We’d be able to see. And we’d have much better fields of fire.”
“True, Specter Four,” Zelin said tersely. “But the same would apply to any concealed American units with a line of sight on those slopes. We’d be missile or tank cannon fodder out there. So we’ll stick to cover for now.”
“Affirmative, Three.”
Colonel Baryshev’s irritated voice broke into their conversation. “Specter Lead to Specter Three. What’s the hold-up? Why are you and Four dicking around all of sudden?”
Zelin checked the two blips representing Baryshev and Imrekov on his map. They were still making their way uphill through the dense growth on a ridge east of the ranch house. Sourly, he noticed they weren’t advancing much faster than he and Novikov were . . . and that they were even farther from the planned objective. He thought about pointing that fact out to his superior and then decided it was pointless. The colonel had been growing more domineering and less willing to listen to alternate views over the past several days. “You may have missed it, Colonel . . . but we’ve just taken thirty-three percent casualties, thanks to stronger-than-expected enemy resistance,” he said coolly. “And since Specter Four and I would rather kill the enemy than die stupidly for the Motherland, we’re playing this our way from here on. Specter Three, out.”
“That’s insubordination, Zelin!” Baryshev spluttered, sounding furious—even in a compressed and encrypted transmission. “Get your damned KVMs moving faster, or—”
“Block further signals from Specter Lead,” Zelin ordered his computer. “Unless they carry a tactical emergency tag verified by his own robot’s software.”
Instructions understood, his KVM replied.
Zelin nodded, satisfied. That should prevent Baryshev from bitching at him for no good reason while still allowing two-way communication in a genuine crisis. He supposed the colonel would scream about it to Kurakin later, but at the moment, they were a long way from Moscow. He smiled wryly. Besides, they were nominally “mercenaries” now, right? They weren’t supposed to be soldiers locked into a regular chain of command, were they? And anyway, if he and Novikov actually succeeded in killing Farrell, one of America’s two major presidential candidates, and then escaping to Mexico without getting caught, no one back home would care much about any minor breaches of discipline.
Staying within sight of each other, the two Russian war machines stalked slowly north through the woods—accompanied by the loud, crackling sound of snapping branches and trampled brush as they bulled their way through places where tangles of interlaced trees, stunted saplings, vines, creepers, and bushes formed an otherwise impenetrable barrier. They stayed off the occasional, meandering horse and cattle trails they crossed. If the Americans did have prepared defenses on this ranch, those narrow paths would be deathtraps. Despite the noise they were making, Zelin figured it was safer to stay deep in cover rather than give any defenders lurking up ahead a chance to use high-caliber, long-range weapons against them. In this thick forest, any encounters would take place at almost point-blank range, where their KVMs’ agility, armor, and speed should prove decisive.
Brad McLanahan swallowed hard, feeling a painful lump in his throat. That huge blast off to the west could mean only one thing: Macomber’s CID had blown itself up. There was no way to tell whether the colonel had been able to get out of his machine and into good cover before it detonated. So all he could do was hope and pray that Whack’s name wasn’t going to end up on his list of dead friends and comrades, a list that was already far too long. His eyes stung. Impatiently, he shook his head to clear them, but his CID’s neural interface material around his head was too tight. Screw it. If he lived through this fight, there’d be time enough to mourn later.
Just now that looked like a mighty big “if.”
At least the pair of Russian war robots Macomber had tangled with weren’t transmitting anymore. It was likely they were both wrecked, too . . . or at least so seriously damaged that they no longer posed a real threat. Which left four of the powerful enemy machines prowling out there in the darkness. And that meant he and Nadia still faced odds of two-to-one against them.
A map section on Brad’s tactical display turned red. Signal intercepts plus audio sensors indicate two hostiles advancing in this sector, his computer reported. Exact range indeterminate, but certainly less than six hundred meters.
He frowned. Those Russian pilots were coming right at him through the thickest parts of the stands of scraggly, second-growth timber that covered this narrow valley from rim to rim. It was obvious that they were staying well away from any clearings and trails. Probable engagement range? he queried the computer.
Less than one hundred meters, it replied.
“Great.” He sighed. Their rail guns were the one weapons advantage they had over the Russians. Unfortunately, being forced to fight in the middle of a woodland robbed him of that advantage. Firing through those scrub oaks and cedars wasn’t the problem. At Mach 5, a rail-gun projectile could punch a hole in the tallest redwood and keep on going. No, what sucked was the fact that he wouldn’t be able to get a lock on those enemy machines until they were practically right on top of him. Powering up the rail gun would give his position away, but he should still be able to get the first shot off . . . which meant he could nail one Russian robot
for sure. And then its companion would undoubtedly kill him, before his rail gun could cycle for a second shot.
Falling back to engage in more open ground wasn’t an option either. The only open country behind him would give those Russians clear fields of fire at Governor Farrell’s ranch house.
Ditch the “woe is poor, little me” crap, Brad, he told himself sternly. This was one of those “best-laid plans” deals, where everything went to hell, despite your best efforts. So he was going to have to fight and win right here, in the middle of these woods—or die trying. And since he’d really rather not get killed, he’d better come up with some better options . . . and fast.
Enemy advance continuing, the CID’s computer reminded him. Range to hostiles firming up based on additional audio and signals data. Now four hundred meters, plus or minus one hundred meters.
The area highlighted on Brad’s display shrank, reflecting this new assessment. But he still didn’t have enough information to engage at a decent range. Even now, his computer’s best estimate of the enemy location only put the two oncoming Russian war machines somewhere inside a moving box two hundred meters wide and three hundred meters deep. Firing blind with his rail gun and trusting to sheer luck to score a hit would be stupid. Nor could he effectively sweep a zone that large with his 25mm autocannon. The odds against destroying or disabling both enemy robots before he ran out of ammunition—or, more likely, they returned fire and blew the crap out of him—were astronomical.
Suddenly he remembered one of Whack’s favorite battlefield maxims: When in doubt, smoke them out. He grinned tightly. He had area-effect weapons. It was time to use them . . . even if only to rattle those Russian pilots a little and maybe throw them off their own game plan. Load thermobaric grenades, he instructed his computer.
Quickly, Brad selected a series of desired impact points on his tactical display. The “ready” icon flashed. He stood up, unlimbered his grenade launcher, and aimed the weapon downrange, following the cues shown by the CID’s computer as it calculated a precise trajectory automatically adjusted for wind velocity and temperature.
He squeezed the trigger. The launcher coughed quietly. He absorbed the minor amount of recoil, swung toward the next aiming cue, and fired again. And then a third time.
Time to go, Brad thought. His first grenade would impact in about three seconds. And when it did, all hell was going to break loose. For once, that phrase would be almost literally true. He started moving to his right, striding through the woods at an easy pace to keep his camouflage systems effective and to stay as quiet as possible.
Through the tree canopy, the sky to the south lit up with a bright orange flash. The sound reached him a second later.
WHUMMP.
“What the devil!” Major Viktor Zelin snarled, caught off guard by the powerful explosion a hundred meters behind him. The blast wave tore past, ripping leaves off trees and sending them swirling into the air. Heat swept across his KVM’s armor. He crouched lower, reacting instinctively.
A second explosion shredded the darkness, this time even closer and off to the right. His night-vision sensors stepped down the flash so that it didn’t blind him. His machine rocked, hit by another shock wave. The temperature readings outside his cockpit spiked upward again. Burning debris rained down across the nearby woods.
WHUMMP.
A third blast slashed at the forest a couple of hundred meters to his left—sending another ball of fire boiling into the sky. “We’re being mortared!” Novikov yelled.
Negative. Weapons are 40mm thermobaric grenades, Zelin’s KVM countered. A threat icon appeared on his map, highlighting a clearing about 350 meters ahead of them. Sound analysis indicates this area as probable firing point. He grimaced. The Americans must have a bunker or trench complex out there, camouflaged against satellite detection.
He wished again that their robots were equipped with radar. Not only would a counterbattery radar have warned them about the incoming grenades before they detonated, it would also have provided a far more precise fix on that suspected enemy position. Unfortunately, Russia’s scientists hadn’t been able to reverse-engineer the power-efficient, compact Sky Masters radars built into the Iron Wolf CIDs. And their own active radar systems were too cumbersome and needed too much energy. The passive radar warning receivers fitted into their KVM sensor arrays were a distinctly second-best solution.
“Specter Four to Three,” Zelin radioed. “We will advance on the enemy. Lay down suppressive fire on that position!” Acting on his own orders, he rose and stalked forward—firing short bursts from his autocannon into the woods ahead of them. Novikov did the same, going forward on his left while shooting on the move.
Tree trunks started exploding, blasted to splinters by HE and armor-piercing rounds. Tracer rounds slashed through the darkness, corkscrewing wildly into the air as they ricocheted off boulders. Zelin wasn’t anticipating they’d actually hit anyone. Right now, he only wanted to lay down enough fire to make the still-unseen Americans keep their heads down.
Brad pressed his CID flat against the ground, hearing 30mm rounds whipcrack past low overhead. Staccato flashes from their weapons showed the enemy fighting machines prowling closer, advancing through the splintered, burning forest. He smiled tightly. Most of their fire seemed to be directed about thirty meters to his left, toward his old position at the edge of a little clearing in the woods. But there were enough shells peppering the general area to make the idea of standing up for no good reason seem distinctly unwise.
Through narrowed eyes, he watched the Russians come on. They were definitely converging on the clearing. More high-explosive rounds slammed into the ground on the far side. Fountains of pulverized dirt and rock erupted.
The nearest enemy robot darted forward into the opening and loosed a long, withering burst aimed low—shredding trees and bushes and blasting more craters in the hard-packed soil. Its autocannon fell silent, with smoke coiling away from its muzzle. Slowly, the robot lowered its weapon. Its antenna-studded head whirred from side to side and then stopped—looking in his general direction.
Abruptly, Brad realized the Russian pilot must have spotted the trail of broken branches and crushed bracken he’d made when leaving the clearing. A trail that would lead the enemy straight to his current position, no matter how effective his camouflage systems were. “Damn,” he muttered.
He leaped to his feet, unslinging his own 25mm autocannon at the same time. With a wild, piercing yell, he opened fire at point-blank range. More than a dozen rounds smashed into the enemy war machine—punching through its composite armor in a dazzling shower of sparks and shards of metal and plastic.
The Russian robot froze in midmotion. Tendrils of oily, black smoke poured out through the rents torn in its torso. Flames glowed red through the smoke.
Warning. Hostile to the right, his CID’s computer snapped.
Brad glimpsed the second Russian war machine as it crashed through a thicket no more than fifty meters away. It was already shooting at him. Something clipped him in the side, spinning him partway around. Another round slammed into his CID’s right arm with bone-rattling force. The hand gripping his autocannon went dead. Red lights flared on his display. Lower arm actuators destroyed, the computer said calmly. Autocannon ammunition feed off-line.
He whirled aside and ran, racing through the woods at high speed—zigzagging in an effort to throw off the enemy’s aim. Shattered branches and torn leaves fluttered in his wake. More 30mm rounds struck his rear armor, cracking thermal tiles and knocking him off stride, but not quite penetrating.
The enemy machine was in close pursuit, firing at him on the move.
Time to go vertical, Brad realized. Running all out, he bounded into the air at nearly forty miles an hour—tearing through the woodland canopy on the way up and crashing back down among the trees. He hit the ground still running, and leaped again . . . soaring even higher and farther this time.
Again, he fell back to earth, thudding down
in a huge cloud of dirt and dust. With his CID’s left hand, he pried the damaged, still-warm autocannon loose and tossed it far away into the woods. Then he bulled his way on, shoving through saplings, brambles, and past vine-draped oaks without any attempt to hide the signs of his passage. Seconds later, he came out into another small clearing, a roughly circular patch of open ground no more than fifteen meters in diameter. His eyes narrowed. This would have to do, he thought. One way or another, he was done running.
Quickly, Brad plunged in among the trees and brush on the opposite side. As soon as he was out of sight of the glade, he cut right and circled back halfway around. He stopped a short distance from the opening and knelt down. Reengage camouflage systems, he commanded. Carefully, he took out his rail gun and set it behind the trunk of the nearest cedar tree . . . within easy reach.
Rear torso and right arm thermal and chameleon camouflage partially compromised, the CID warned him. Several areas on a systems schematic glowed yellow. He edged over a little so that the robot’s lifeless right arm was at least partly screened by the same tree. Then, satisfied, he settled in to wait.
Furious, Major Viktor Zelin ran through the forest, heading for the spot where his computer calculated the Iron Wolf robot must have landed after its second bound. He was on his own now. Novikov was dead, cut to pieces inside his cockpit by that sudden, shattering burst of point-blank cannon fire. So much for Moscow’s fucking intelligence reports, he thought viciously. All those cheerful rear-echelon assurances that they wouldn’t have to face more than a single one of the enemy’s combat machines had just gone up in smoke and flames . . . exactly like Novikov’s wrecked KVM.
At least he’d scored a number of solid hits on the other robot as it turned and ran. That should make the job of finishing it off easier.
Nearing the site, Zelin slowed down. He had no intention of stumbling into another ambush. Damaged or not, that Iron Wolf machine could still have teeth. Cautiously, he approached the place where the other pilot had crashed back to earth. Broken tree limbs and plowed dirt showed the exact spot. He paused, scanning the area with his night-vision sensors and listening for even the slightest sounds.
