by Dale Brown
Nothing. Nobody over there even twitched.
What the hell? Ikeda swallowed hard. This op was going south really damned fast. He glanced at Mulvaney. The Ranger private looked as nervous as he felt. “Wait here and cover me,” he growled. The other man nodded jerkily.
With a HEMI grenade loaded and ready to fire from his M320 launcher, Ikeda ghosted through the tall grass over to where Rojas and the others were huddled. He dropped to one knee and shook the captain by the shoulder. And then the others. No reaction. They were all out cold.
Thump.
Ikeda’s head snapped back toward the aircraft shelter. What was that soft sound, something like a beanbag hitting a wall? His eyes opened wider. Mulvaney was gone. Just gone.
“There’s a moment in any poker game where folding is the only good move, Sergeant Ikeda,” a weird electronic voice said suddenly from somewhere close behind him. “This is one of those moments.”
The Ranger noncom swiveled around again, weapon at the ready. There, only a few meters away, stood a tall, spindly-armed shape. Oh, fuck, he realized. That was one of those Cybernetic Infantry Devices they’d been briefed on—the creepy-ass war robots the mission planners had assured them would be hundreds of miles away, deep behind Russian lines. I was so right, he thought bitterly. This whole operation was totally FUBAR’d from the get-go.
He moistened dry lips. “What the hell did you use on the captain and the others?” he demanded. “Some kind of knockout gas?” Slowly, very slowly, he let his hand drift down toward the pouch where he’d stored one of the anti-CID weapons they’d been issued, a microwave pulse generator grenade. In theory, hitting a robot with one of those would be like nailing it with a lightning bolt—frying every one of its systems, including its life support, instantaneously.
“Nothing permanent, Sergeant,” the machine assured him. “My CID carries a microwave emitter weapon. Basically, it heats up the fluids in the skin of any living target. The longer the beam is focused on you, the more heat, pain, and disorientation you feel, until finally you lose consciousness.”
“Sounds like that would take some time,” Ikeda forced himself to say calmly. His fingers closed around the microwave pulse grenade.
The strange machine nodded its six-sided head. “Several seconds at least, Sergeant,” it said. “Maybe even long enough for you to load and fire that pulse grenade you just grabbed.” Its head lifted slightly. “Now would be good, Whack.”
ZAAAPP.
Ikeda felt himself knocked to his knees and then onto his back. Every muscle in his body locked up tight. He started twitching uncontrollably, utterly incapacitated and out of control.
Footsteps came closer and a big, powerfully built man loomed over him. “Sorry about that, sport,” he said with a tight grin. “I guess those Tasers your other Rangers were carrying do pack a wallop.”
REMOTE OPERATIONS CONTROL CENTER
A SHORT TIME LATER
“Have you been able to reestablish communication with Captain Rojas yet, Lieutenant?” said a voice made familiar from a hundred political speeches and press conferences in First Lieutenant William Weber’s headset.
Unconsciously, he stood up straighter. Having the undivided attention of the president of the United States during a vital commando mission should do wonders for his career—unless he screwed up. “Not as yet, Madam President,” he said quickly. “But we think the mess of electronics and shielding in this building may explain the loss of contact. As a precaution, though, I have dispatched a runner to locate Captain Rojas, and I expect to hear from him very shortly.”
“Unfortunately, there may be other . . . snags . . . developing in the mission,” Stacy Anne Barbeau said slowly, speaking from the White House Situation Room more than four thousand miles away. “We’ve lost contact with the rest of the assault force, too.”
Weber felt cold. “Lost contact, ma’am?” he stammered. “When did—”
Just then the wall at the far end of the ready room burst inward in a spray of broken concrete and splintered wood. A huge, man-shaped machine stalked through the jagged hole it had opened and swiveled toward Weber, his stunned men, and their prisoners. The 25mm autocannon it carried on its right shoulder swung to cover them.
Reacting instinctively, Weber grabbed Brad McLanahan and swung the younger man in front of him for cover. He snatched the M9 Beretta holstered at his side and pressed it hard against Brad’s head.
“Back away from my son,” the CID said quietly. Its electronic voice was familiar, somehow.
Through his headset, Weber heard a startled gasp from President Barbeau. He ignored it. “What the fuck did you just say?” he snarled.
“I said, back away from my son, Lieutenant,” the robot said again, louder this time.
For a moment, Weber froze. “General McLanahan?” he mumbled. His mouth was suddenly dry. “But . . . but you’re dead!”
“Evidently not, Lieutenant,” the CID said coldly. Its voice hardened. “Now follow my orders. Release my son, set your weapon down, and then put your hands on top of your head.” Its six-sided head swung slightly from side to side, taking in the other American soldiers who were standing absolutely still, being very careful to make no sudden moves; the autocannon on the robot’s shoulder swung around and pointed at the others like a serpent on Medusa’s head. “That goes for the rest of you, too.”
Recovering fast, Weber shook his head. “No way in hell!” He ground his pistol muzzle even harder into Brad’s temple. This was his chance to show the president and her entire national security team how you dealt with a whack-job lunatic like Patrick God Almighty McLanahan. He smirked openly. “What are you going to do, shoot me right through your own boy? I know you’re a coldhearted son of a bitch, but is that really how you want to play this?”
“I have no intention of shooting you, Lieutenant,” the machine said calmly.
“I didn’t think so,” Weber sneered. This was how you played an ace, he thought gleefully. With Brad as his hostage and human shield, there was nothing that metal monster could do to him, or to his troops. And then he froze in horror as something cold and hard and round pressed against the back of his own skull.
“He won’t shoot you, dupek,” a low, husky woman’s voice said sweetly in his ear. “But I will.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Weber stuttered, feeling his knees starting to buckle.
“Would I not?” the woman behind him asked, drily amused. “My country is under attack by Russia. My president has authorized me to free these men and women who are our defenders, using any means necessary. And you, dupek, asshole, are threatening the man I love. So just what do you think I will do?”
Numbly, aware suddenly of a sense of utter, irretrievable, and humiliating failure, Weber carefully moved the pistol away from Brad’s head and thumbed the safety back on.
The woman behind him took the pistol out of his unresisting hand. “Thank you, Lieutenant,” she said. “I guess you will get to live. This time.”
She shoved him forward with the muzzle of her assault rifle as another group of armed men, most of them in Polish Special Forces battle dress, poured into the ready room. Within seconds, First Lieutenant William Weber and the rest of his dumbfounded AFSOC commandos found themselves being hustled outside under close guard.
As Weber was being hauled away, Patrick stopped him by snapping an armored hand on the Air Force lieutenant’s chest—it felt like running headlong into a lamppost. Patrick put the fingers of his other hand under Weber’s chin and raised his head so that the sports camera on his helmet was aimed right at the CID’s head.
“You are a traitor to your country and to your allies, Barbeau,” Patrick said into the camera, his electronically synthesized voice low and menacing. “If we get out of this alive, I’ll make you pay. I promise.”
Back at the White House Situation Room, President Stacy Anne Barbeau had risen to her feet in absolute shock, watching through the secure satellite video as her assault team moved wi
th precision and sheer power . . . and then just as quickly and just as precisely got shut down. Now she and her national security staff were staring right into the blank, light gray sensor face of a Cybernetic Infantry Device robot, piloted by . . .
“McLanahan,” whispered the president. “No. It can’t be.”
The robot’s armored hand reached up, blocking the camera’s view. They heard a very brief crackling and snapping sound as the robot’s fingers closed over the camera, and then the view died away.
For several excruciatingly awkward minutes after the video feed from Lieutenant Weber’s helmet cam went dead, none of the military officers or civilian officials in the Situation Room said a word. They sat in frozen silence, deliberately avoiding eye contact with President Barbeau. She stared at the now-black display in open disbelief.
At last, she looked away from the screen, turning a hard-eyed stare on her stunned advisers. “Did anyone in this room know that Patrick McLanahan was alive—instead of blessedly dead?” Her gaze focused on Thomas Torrey, the head of the CIA. “Well?”
“No, Madam President,” he said, shaking his head. “None of my people had any idea that General McLanahan survived the grave injuries he suffered two years ago.”
“Twenty billion dollars in funding a goddamned year and your spooks at Langley can’t keep track of one shot-up, troublemaking flyboy?” Barbeau commented tartly. “I don’t find that terribly comforting.”
General Spelling sat forward abruptly, looking down the long table at her. The chairman of the Joint Chiefs was visibly angry. Finding out that the president had gone behind his back to order a covert commando raid against a NATO ally was reason enough. Being forced to watch in tight-lipped silence while that same ill-conceived raid failed so abjectly only made it worse. “McLanahan’s death or survival is a minor issue in this mess,” he said firmly. “Nearly one hundred American soldiers just went into the bag in what was once one of our closest European allies. Getting them home safely must be our first priority.” His jaw was set. “Once that’s done, we can start sorting out the leadership foul-ups and screwed-up decision making that led to this fiasco in the first place.”
Barbeau glared back at him. The Air Force general wasn’t even trying to be subtle. He was openly threatening to lay this disaster at her feet—rather than where it rightly belonged, with SOCOM’s evidently piss-poor planning and mission execution. If push came to shove, party loyalty would probably keep any congressional investigations from getting out of hand, at least as long as Luke Cohen kept his mouth shut about her prior consultation with Moscow. But the process would still be politically damaging and embarrassing.
Besides, she realized, Spelling was wrong about what really mattered. The capture of a relative handful of men, even elite Rangers and Air Force commandos, was nothing—not when the Russians were threatening to escalate their war with Poland into a war against the United States itself. “On the contrary, General,” she snapped. “McLanahan’s unexpected reappearance among the living lies right at the heart of this crisis.”
Spelling opened his mouth to argue, but a tiny headshake from the CIA director dissuaded him. “In what way, Madam President?” Torrey asked quietly.
“I’ve read the psychological profile your analysts put together on Gennadiy Gryzlov,” Barbeau said. “Did you?” Torrey nodded slowly. “Then you tell me, Tom,” she continued matter-of-factly. “What happens when Gryzlov finds out the man who killed his father is actually still alive—and worse, running the mercenary outfit that’s been kicking the shit out of Russia’s armed forces?”
“Oh, hell,” Edward Rauch muttered. Her national security adviser turned sheet-white. “He’ll go totally fucking nuts.”
“Which is exactly why we have to contain this situation now,” Barbeau said. “Before the Russians put all the pieces together.” She sighed. “At least, we’ve spiked McLanahan’s guns for the moment by wrecking Scion’s operations base. Whatever wild-assed stunt he was planning with those souped-up robotic F-111s will have to go on hold.”
“I’m afraid not, ma’am,” Spelling said flatly. “I know Patrick McLanahan. Sure, his original plan might have called for some kind of remotely piloted strike, but he’s not going to let what our guys did to his ops center stop him. Not while he still has flyable aircraft and trained crews.”
Stacy Anne Barbeau’s eyes widened as she realized that the general was right. And there was no doubt that McLanahan would be right there with them, flying the lead F-111. That was his style. “What’s his target, then? Moscow? Gryzlov himself?”
“No, Madam President,” Torrey said. “Moscow is too heavily defended. And the odds against actually finding and killing Gennadiy Gryzlov with a small strike force would be astronomical.” The CIA director looked thoughtful. “My bet would be the tactical missile brigades the Russians have deployed in Kaliningrad.”
“Those Iskander units are the last real weapon left in Gryzlov’s hands,” Spelling agreed. “Between them, the Poles and those Scion aircraft and CIDs have already defeated Russia’s readily available ground and air forces.”
“Oh, Christ,” Barbeau muttered to herself, imagining her Russian counterpart’s likely reaction to another attack by Scion’s mercenary pilots. She looked down that table at Spelling. “Could those Scion F-111s actually pull off a successful strike?”
The chairman of the Joint Chiefs shook his head. “Against the kind of defenses the Russians have deployed to cover their Iskanders? I seriously doubt it. I’d be surprised if any of those aircraft could even make it all the way to the target area, let alone inflict significant damage.” Then he shrugged. “But I’ve been surprised by Patrick McLanahan before.”
For a moment, Barbeau was strongly tempted to break away from the Situation Room and call Luke Cohen in Moscow. If the Russians knew for sure an F-111 attack was coming, their own fighters and SAMs could bushwhack McLanahan’s air strike and stop it cold. But then she reconsidered. She’d already jeopardized her political future by letting Gryzlov know about her plans to hit Scion’s operating base. Openly colluding with the Russians would be a step too far—even as a desperate attempt to preserve the broader peace.
No, Barbeau thought coldly, for now she would just have to hope that Gryzlov’s fighters and air defenses could blast McLanahan and his F-111s out of the sky themselves. And if the Russians failed? Well, then all bets were off.
Brad stood rock-still while Nadia carefully sliced through the plastic ties cuffing his hands, completely unable to wipe what he was sure was a remarkably stupid, shit-eating grin off his face. When she finished, he gathered her in his arms for a heartfelt, passionate kiss. Grinning up at him, she kissed him back.
“Thank you,” he whispered in her ear. “I owe you.”
“Yes, you do,” Nadia agreed, still grinning wickedly. “And I plan to collect my debt as soon as possible . . . and as often as I can!”
“Before you two get completely carried away,” Patrick said, gently interrupting, “we have a serious problem.”
Brad looked up at his father’s CID. “Yes, sir. I’m afraid that we do.” He glanced over at Mark Darrow. At his request, the ex-RAF pilot had gone to inspect their remote-piloting stations as soon as he was freed.
Darrow’s face was grim. “The control cabs are totally buggered, Brad.” He shook his head. “Those wankers ripped out every bit of circuitry and wiring, and, from the look of things, they smashed every monitor and display.”
“Time to repair, Mark?” Brad asked.
The Englishman shrugged helplessly. “God only knows. Weeks, at least, perhaps months. I suspect it would be faster to fly in replacement equipment from the Scrapheap and rebuild from scratch, but if more of those Rangers are moving against us, that may not be an option.”
“Which means the ROCC is down when it matters most, no matter what we do,” Brad said, raising his voice so that everyone could hear. “So there’s no way we can pilot our planned XF-111 strike remotely.”
&
nbsp; Nadia looked stricken. “Then we have no way to eliminate Gryzlov’s missile force in time.”
“Actually, we still do,” Brad said quietly. Slowly, he looked around the room—meeting the eyes of every other Iron Wolf pilot and weapons officer. Several of them turned pale, realizing immediately what he proposed. But one by one, they nodded their agreement, however reluctantly.
“Hell, yes,” Bill Sievert growled. “Why should Macomber and his guys have all the fun?”
Mark Darrow shrugged. “In for a penny, in for a pound, Brad.”
Nadia just kissed him again.
At last, Brad turned back to his father. “Well, Dad, I guess the Iron Wolves will still fly the mission. But we’re going to have to do it for real—inside the planes and not from behind a computer console.”
FOURTEEN
The true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him.
—G. K. CHESTERTON
SIXTY KILOMETERS SOUTHEAST OF THE CITY
OF KALININGRAD, KALININGRAD OBLAST
TWO HOURS LATER
“Sir, early warning radar reports a formation of high-speed aircraft bearing one-nine-five, direction of flight seven-nine-zero, range three hundred kilometers, speed eight hundred, altitude unknown!” the communications officer shouted.
“From the east, exactly as I guessed,” Colonel Konrad Saratov, commander of the 72nd Tactical Missile Brigade, said aloud so all in the mobile command center could hear. He was standing behind a row of radar and radio operators inside a mobile command post trailer in the center of the Iskander missile force deployed to Kakiningrad Oblast. He stopped his pacing and stood behind the radar operator manning the feed from the 36D6 long-range radar site. “They obviously can see that we are prepared for an attack from all sides, but the west and south are too heavily defended. Lieutenant, sound air-raid alert throughout the force.”