by Dale Brown
Both CID computers began issuing immediate threat warnings. Their sensors were picking up a large enemy force on the move. At least twenty Russian T-90 main battle tanks were visible roughly a thousand meters away, maneuvering into firing positions on a low, boulder-strewn rise. Intermingled with the tanks were several 9K22 Tunguska armored antiaircraft vehicles—each bristling with 30mm cannons and surface-to-air missiles.
“Geez, Whack, these guys aren’t exactly being subtle, are they?” Charlie said with forced good humor. Inside the CID cockpit, her eyes were troubled. “I think they’re really pissed off at us for blowing up their nice new supercomputer.”
“Could be,” Macomber agreed. “Damn it, Charlie. I’m really sorry I got you into this.”
“Nobody got me into this, Whack,” she said with a low laugh. “Obviously I forgot Army Rule Number One—”
“Never volunteer for anything,” he finished for her. He sounded pained, almost embarrassed. “Yeah, me too.”
Brad McLanahan’s worried voice broke in on their circuit. “Wolf Six-Two to Wolf One and Wolf Two. We lost your signal for several minutes. What’s your situation?” Macomber filled him in quickly, not bothering to sugarcoat anything. Brad fell silent for several moments. Then he came back on the radio. “Hang tight where you are. I can try to bring the Ranger in for an emergency recovery. That slope beyond your position isn’t a great landing site, but it might be doable.”
“No way, Wolf Six-Two,” Macomber said. “They’d knock you out of the sky in seconds.”
Given the number of antiaircraft units already visible on that low rise, Charlie thought that “seconds” was being wildly optimistic. Her CID was also picking up radar emissions from behind the hill, signaling the presence of additional Russian mobile antiaircraft artillery and SAM vehicles. They’d blow the hell out of the XCV-62 before it got anywhere close to this side of the mountain.
“Could you pull back into the complex?” Brad asked. “And make them come to you?”
“Negative,” Macomber said. “These guys show no signs of being that stupid. If Charlie and I try to fort up here, all they have to do is wait us out. Eventually, we’ll run out of battery power—and then we’re just sitting ducks. Besides, there’s no way you can stay parked on the ground. If there aren’t already Russian fighters on the way here now, there will be muy pronto.”
“Understood,” Brad replied.
“So we’re going to have to break out to you,” Macomber continued. “And listen, Brad, if we don’t make it, get out fast. Don’t screw around trying to play hero. This was a sucker play, so let’s not give that bastard Gryzlov any more prizes than we have to, okay?”
Twelve miles to their northwest, Brad sat staring blindly out through the Ranger’s cockpit windows. Slowly and very reluctantly, he nodded. “Got it, Whack. We’ll let you come to us.” He swallowed hard against a huge lump in his throat. “Good luck. Wolf Six-Two out.”
Macomber’s CID turned toward Charlie. “Listen close. When we go, shoot straight and fast. And keep moving. Don’t stop for anything. Understand? If I go down, you keep running. Our only chance here is to smash a hole in their deployment and get clear before they’re set.”
She nodded. Then she stuck out her CID’s hand. “Whatever happens, Whack, it’s been a hell of an honor to serve with you.”
He took it. “Amen to that, Charlie.” Then he let go and deployed his rail gun on one shoulder and his 25mm autocannon on the other.
She followed suit, frowning at the ammo readouts her computer fed her. Well, what did it really matter? she thought with icy determination. This was a come-as-you-are war, after all. It wasn’t like she was going to have time to stop to reload.
“You ready?” Macomber asked softly.
“I’m set,” Charlie replied.
“Then go!” he ordered.
Together, the two CIDs burst out of the tunnel mouth, already veering apart to make it harder for the Russians to concentrate their fire. Accelerating fast, they charged downhill toward the still-deploying enemy tank companies.
Charlie’s battle computer silhouetted one of the T-90s in red, identifying it as a priority target. The low-slung tank’s main gun was swinging toward her. Almost quicker than conscious thought, she aimed her rail gun and squeezed off a shot.
CCRRACK!
Her round slammed into the T-90’s turret, tore through, and punched out the other side—moving so fast that it vaporized the tank’s reactive armor in a blinding white flash. Flames erupted from its mangled turret and hull as the air inside caught fire.
Off to the side, another Russian armored vehicle blew apart, hit by one of Whack’s projectiles.
Charlie ran like the wind, shooting on the move. Her shoulder-mounted weapons were slewing back and forth like crazy—she followed maneuver cues so that the weapons could stay on target as she ran. Two more Russian T-90s slewed sideways, wreathed in fire and smoke. Another exploded downrange. Its mangled turret flew skyward, tumbling lazily end over end.
Recovering from the shock caused by their all-out attack, the surviving Russian tanks and other vehicles opened fire. Salvos of 125mm armor-piercing shells and 30mm cannon rounds streaked across the snow toward the speeding Iron Wolf combat robots. Their first shots missed, slashing past overhead or narrowly to either side before slamming into the mountain behind them. Pulverized rock splashed across the slope. Explosions, the tearing, ripping sound of small-caliber automatic weapons, and the sharp crack of smoothbore cannons echoed off the surrounding peaks.
Numbers flashed across Charlie’s display. 500 meters to enemy battle position. 450 meters. Microwaves suddenly lashed at her CID. The robot’s neural link translated the sensation into something like hot needles stabbing her left side. I’m being painted by a phased-array S-band radar, she realized. There was no time to try spoofing it with her netrusion systems. Reacting instantly, she rolled away from the radar beam. Her 25mm stuttered, shredding one of a pair of tracked Tunguska antiaircraft vehicles just cresting a low rise off to the left. It shuddered and squealed to a halt with thick black smoke curling out from open hatches.
Its surviving companion fired back. Radar-guided 30mm rounds whipcracked through the air.
Charlie’s CID stumbled, hit several times across her torso and legs. Her composite armor held, but warnings flashed through her consciousness. Hydraulic-systems damage. Fuel Cells Four through Seven down. Active radar off-line. She swiveled fast, hearing servos and actuators grinding and whining in protest. Another burst from her autocannon destroyed the second Tunguska before it could hit her again.
Teeth set in a determined grin, she turned and ran on. But her CID was moving slower, laboring as the computer tried to compensate for her damaged hydraulics and reduced power supplies.
WHAAMM!
A 125mm tungsten alloy sabot round slammed into Charlie’s CID with bone-shaking force—ripping off the arm carrying her autocannon. The impact sent her flying. She landed in a crumpled heap.
For a moment, she lay still inside the cockpit, groggily trying to comprehend what had just happened. Her display was a sea of red-and-orange failure and damage indicators. “Ah, crap,” she muttered. “This is not good.”
With an effort, Charlie wobbled back to her feet, trailing bits of wiring and shattered armor. Spatters of red hydraulic fluid stained the snow. Through the cascading failure warnings scrolling across her screens, she saw the Russian T-90 that had hit her rumbling closer. Its turret swiveled, bringing that big main gun to bear again.
She fired her rail gun. The T-90 exploded, torn open from end to end.
Rail-gun ammunition expended, her computer warned. Hydraulics crippled. All sensors off-line. Power at fifteen percent.
“I’m not going to make it, Whack,” Charlie radioed. “This tin can is dying on its feet.”
“Then set the self-destruct and bail out,” Macomber urged.
“Already on it,” she said crisply. Initiate self-destruct sequence, she ordere
d the CID’s computer through her neural link. Authorization Turlock One-Alpha.
Self-destruct authorization confirmed, the machine replied. Thirty. Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight . . .
Time to get while the getting was good, Charlie thought. She squirmed out of the haptic interface, feeling fully human again as her awareness of the CID dropped away. Eighteen. Seventeen. Sixteen. Wriggling around, she punched the emergency hatch release. Nothing happened. She punched it again.
“Damn it,” she murmured. She keyed her radio. “The hatch is jammed, Whack.”
Four hundred meters away, Macomber turned toward her, taking out another Tunguska antiaircraft vehicle with a quick burst of 25mm armor-piercing ammunition. He was near the top of the low rise. Burning Russian armored vehicles dotted the hill. “Abort the self-destruct, Charlie,” he said. “I’ll come get you.”
“It’s too late, Whack, but thanks,” she said, still determinedly working on the hatch mechanism. There was no way she could reengage with the haptic interface in time. Four. Three . . . “See you on the other side—”
Her CID exploded in a huge ball of fire that lit the night sky for miles around.
With his face set like flint, Macomber swung away and accelerated to his CID’s best remaining speed—determined to break clear of this murderous ambush or die trying. He darted past another smashed Russian T-90, veering sharply to put its flaming hulk between him and the enemy’s surviving tanks. Moving at more than seventy kilometers an hour, he skidded down the rear slope in a spray of snow and fractured ice.
Just ahead he saw a meandering, ice-choked stream and then open ground. A stand of pine trees rose several hundred meters away, offering the promise of cover and limited concealment.
Macomber leaped across the stream, landed heavily on the ground beyond, and took off running. The woods were only three hundred meters away now. Flashes rippled like lightning across the distant horizon. Artillery alert, his CID reported. Multiple 122mm howitzer rounds inbound. Impact zone is—
The world around him erupted in fire and smoke. Huge fountains of dirt and rock soared high into the air, hurled skyward by exploding shells. Knocked off its feet by a near miss, his CID tumbled across the quaking ground. His rail gun, riddled by shrapnel, went flying, along with shards of broken composite armor. Swearing under his breath, he scrambled upright.
And went down again under the hammerblow of another massive impact as a 122mm HE round detonated only meters away. More shrapnel punched into the robot’s torso, arms, legs, and head. Damage readouts flickered across his static-laced displays in a blur of red.
Once more, Macomber pushed his damaged machine up and into an awkward, shambling gait. Most of his sensors were dead, along with all of his weapons. He staggered onward. That patch of pine forest was close . . . so damned close.
Movement at the edge of his failing vision display caught his attention. He turned . . . and saw another T-90 main battle tank grinding out of defilade to intercept him. Its turret whined round, slewing its 125mm smoothbore gun on target. Two wheeled BTR-82 troop carriers fanned out to either side of the Russian tank.
“Well, just fuck me,” Macomber said tiredly. He focused on his link with the computer. Initiate self-destruction sequence. Authorization—
The T-90 fired its main gun.
Macomber felt himself slammed backward with colossal force. Everything around him flared bright red and orange and then faded to black.
When he came to moments later, he found himself curled inside the CID’s shattered cockpit, staring up at the night sky. Hit by an armor-piercing round at point-blank range, his Iron Wolf robot had been blown in half. He fumbled with the straps holding him in place. There was no way he was just going to lie here and die. Not in this fucking machine anyway, he thought angrily.
Gritting his teeth against a sudden wave of pain, Macomber twisted out of the wrecked CID’s torso and dropped into the snow, landing on his knees. Still dazed, he painfully lifted his head to look around. The two BTRs had halted not far away. Rifle-armed Russian troops were pouring out of their open hatches. Urged on by a shouting officer, they trotted in his direction. Wearily, Macomber staggered to his feet and assumed a fighting stance. Win or lose, these sons of bitches would know they’d been in a fight.
Some of the soldiers raised their weapons, but they did not fire. They moved in quickly, obviously more fascinated by the abandoned machine and not worried one bit about their quarry. Whack had enough strength to crush one trachea and break one arm. He heard a rifle drop to the ground and he scrambled to find it. But now, enraged, the rest of the soldiers swarmed over him like a pack of dogs bringing down a wild boar.
Macomber went down hard, hammered into oblivion by rifle butts and fists.
THIRTY-SIX
IRON WOLF STRIKE-FORCE LANDING ZONE
THAT SAME TIME
Brad McLanahan had watched Charlie Turlock’s CID beacon disappear from his tactical display in stunned disbelief. God only knew, he was no stranger to the violent deaths of people close to him. In the past couple of years alone, he’d lost plenty of friends and teammates. But it was still a shock to see someone like Charlie—so full of life and energy and joy—wiped out in the blink of an eye. He’d felt her death like the sharp, piercing blow of an ice pick driven straight into his heart. What made it even worse was realizing that it could easily have been Nadia piloting that robot, and feeling grateful that she was safe.
And now Whack Macomber’s CID was down too, destroyed by the same brutally effective Russian ambush. The lump in his throat grew larger, threatening to choke him. Not for the first time lately, he wished he weren’t too old to cry.
He stared out the cockpit windows. Outside, across the clearing, Ian Schofield and his commandos humped their gear and weapons back toward the XCV-62. Once they were aboard in a couple of minutes, he could take off—beginning the long, risky flight out of Russia with the news of their failure.
“Brad,” Nadia said suddenly, sitting bolt upright. She’d been scanning through radio frequencies, using the Ranger’s sophisticated computers, in an effort to figure out more of what the Russians were up to. “Listen!”
She switched the channel she’d been monitoring to his headset. Someone gabbling frantically in Russian sounded in his ears. He frowned. It sounded like a very excited junior officer making a report, but otherwise it was gibberish to him. He shrugged helplessly. “Sorry, I can’t make it out.”
“Major Macomber is alive!” Nadia said. Her eyes were almost completely closed while she translated on the fly. “This lieutenant is telling his colonel that they’ve taken a prisoner from the second mercenary robot they destroyed.”
For a split second, Brad experienced a surge of hope. But then it faded, replaced by a horrible feeling of dread and helplessness. Alive as a prisoner of the Russians, Whack was probably worse off than if he’d been killed outright. Gryzlov had tagged the Iron Wolf Squadron as terrorists, even though they fought in uniform and for a recognized nation-state. The cold-blooded Russian leader would have no qualms about ordering Whack tortured for information about CID and other advanced Scion weapons technology and tactics. And after they’d squeezed him dry, they’d put a bullet in the back of his skull and dump his body in an unmarked grave.
SOUTHWEST OF PERUN’S AERIE
THAT SAME TIME
Flying at three thousand meters above the forests of northern Russia, two Russian Air Force Su-50 stealth fighters in dark and light blue camouflage raced northeast. Seen from a distance in daylight, their deceptive “Shark” paint scheme made them appear much smaller than they actually were. At night, they were almost invisible to the naked eye.
Colonel Ruslan Baryshev spoke into his mic. “Perun Security Command, this is Prividenye Lead. I am five minutes out from your position. Request situation update.”
“Specter Lead, this is Security Command,” an agitated voice acknowledged. “We have defeated the enemy ground assault, destroying two of their combat mac
hines. But our casualties are extremely heavy—as is the damage to our special complex.”
Baryshev grimaced. The quick briefing he’d received from Colonel General Maksimov before his fighters took off had indicated the extraordinarily high value President Gryzlov placed on this top-secret facility. Heads were likely to roll in the aftermath of this Iron Wolf attack—he only hoped his would not be one of them. He keyed his mic again. “What about the enemy transport aircraft? Have your radars or scouts pinpointed its location?”
“Negative, Specter,” the other man reported. “Our radars were destroyed in the initial assault, along with our fixed air defenses. And unfortunately, we have no ground- or helicopter-based reconnaissance units currently available to search the surrounding area.”
Better and better, Baryshev thought acidly. The situation on the ground sounded like a total clusterfuck—which meant it was up to him to find the surviving American mercenaries before they escaped.
So far, his Su-50’s radar showed no unidentified contacts in the skies ahead. That wasn’t surprising. To have penetrated this far inside Russia without being detected, any enemy aircraft would have to be fairly stealthy and able to fly safely at extremely low altitude. If so, he couldn’t expect to pick up anything until they were much closer.
The other possibility, of course, was that the Iron Wolf aircraft was still parked somewhere on the ground, somewhere relatively close to the Perun’s Aerie complex. He radioed his wingman. “We’re going hunting, Oleg. Let’s maximize our coverage. Deploy in line abreast. Five-kilometer spacing. I’m switching my radar to air-to-ground mode. You keep an eye on the sky, understand?”
“Two,” the other pilot, Captain Oleg Imrekov, replied. Even over the radio, he sounded dubious. “It’s going to be a bitch spotting anything in all that clutter up ahead.”
Baryshev understood his wingman’s skepticism. They were approaching the Urals at high speed. The brand-new N036 AESA radars equipping their Su-50s were marvels of Russian technology, but no fighter-size airborne radar in the world could hope to see through mountains. “Don’t worry, Captain,” he said. “Wherever these mercenaries are hiding, they’ll have to come up into the open air sooner or later. And if they don’t, we’ll fly search patterns until we nail them on the ground.”