The Moscow Offensive

by Dale Brown

  “Great,” Barbeau muttered, chewing that over in her mind. What if that nutcase Gennadiy Gryzlov actually had his own private army and somehow managed to kick the crap out of the Poles and their piddling allies? Russian success in Eastern and central Europe now could make her look weak in the unsophisticated eyes of too many swing-state voters. The enduring political problem she faced had once been defined by General George S. Patton. Americans loved a winner. And they would not tolerate a loser.

  But Luke Cohen only shrugged when she expressed her fears.

  “So the Russians hit the Poles again? So what?” the New Yorker said with a callous grin. “It doesn’t matter how many badass Spetsnaz commandos Gryzlov’s got on his personal payroll. If the shit hits the fan, they’re still completely outmatched by Martindale’s Iron Wolf robots.” He shrugged. “We’ve all seen the intel on those machines. They’re basically death on steroids.”

  With a quick grimace, Barbeau nodded. Just thinking about those unearthly war robots made her skin crawl. In the past, she’d had her own terrifying encounters with Cybernetic Infantry Devices. Those experiences were not something she ever wanted to repeat.

  “Even if they got lucky, the best the Russians could hope for would be just another blood-soaked stalemate,” Cohen continued. “And no one who matters is going to blame you for refusing to shove American fighting men and women into that kind of a no-win meat grinder.”

  He offered her a cynical grin. “Besides, looked at the right way, every dead Spetsnaz goon and every shot-up Iron Wolf combat robot is just one less threat to our national security. In the bigger scheme of things, another round of fighting between Russia and Poland would be a win for us.”

  Slowly, Stacy Anne Barbeau nodded. Years ago, Martindale and that warmongering slimeball Patrick McLanahan had effectively stolen the technology for those Cybernetic Infantry Devices from its rightful owner, the U.S. government. So why not let the Russians pay the blood price necessary to pare down Scion’s inventory of the deadly machines?

  OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT, BELWEDER PALACE, WARSAW, POLAND

  THAT SAME TIME

  With a bleak look on his face, Polish president Piotr Wilk leaned over the desk and snapped off the power to his computer monitor. The field of gray static left when Barbeau cut the secure teleconference link to Warsaw vanished. Then he sat down across from Martindale. “You made a valiant effort,” he told the American. “At first, I really hoped she might listen.”

  “Unfortunately, listening to others has never been Stacy Anne’s strong suit,” Martindale said. “Especially when they’re asking her to admit she might have made a mistake. Like too many politicians, she confuses rigid thinking with strength of purpose.”

  “She is certainly astonishingly petty and willfully blind.” Wilk shook his head in disappointment. “Your country deserves better.”

  “Maybe so, Piotr. We’ll see what the voters say in November.” Wry amusement flickered in Martindale’s eyes. “Otto von Bismarck once said that God looked after fools, drunkards, and the United States. There are many times when I wish my fellow Americans weren’t so willing to test that proposition to its limit.”

  “In the meantime, it appears we must look to our own defenses.”

  “That’s about the size of it,” Martindale agreed. He sighed. “I just wish I could shake the nagging worry that we’re missing something. Something important.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as the fact that, try as I might, I can’t figure out what Gryzlov hopes to gain by forming his own mercenary force,” Martindale said, with a frustrated look. “He’s got to know that conventionally equipped Spetsnaz commandos are no match for the Iron Wolf Squadron and our CIDs. So what’s his real plan?”

  Wilk nodded. Even at Perun’s Aerie, where everything went wrong, it had taken an ambush by a battalion of Russian tanks and other armored fighting vehicles, together with massed artillery fire, to destroy the two Iron Wolf combat robots piloted by Charlie Turlock and Whack Macomber. And so far, they had no reports that would indicate Moscow was supplying Gryzlov’s RKU mercenaries with tanks, self-propelled guns, or other heavy weapons.

  “The Russians could still hurt us badly in a sudden surprise attack,” he pointed out. “After all, there are only six CIDs in our order of battle. We cannot defend every vulnerable point in the Alliance of Free Nations.”

  “Sure, Gryzlov’s mercs could inflict some pain,” Martindale said evenly. “But not nearly enough to swing the outcome in a new war.” He looked at Wilk. “We’d just roll with the first punch and then tear them to shreds.”

  “Perhaps friend Gennadiy is more optimistic about his chances against us than you are,” the Polish president countered in a dry voice.

  “Oh, I’m sure he is,” Martindale agreed. “But he’s still not crazy enough to see using hired Spetsnaz veterans as a winning play. Gaining a measure of plausible deniability for violent covert action may be useful from a diplomatic and political point of view, but it doesn’t change the fundamental military equation.”

  “He may not define winning in quite the same way we do,” Wilk warned. “Russia’s armed forces still outnumber ours. Moscow can trade pawn for pawn and still come out ahead. Maybe Gryzlov has decided to erode our strength with a series of pinprick raids using his ‘mercenaries’—confident that we will be unwilling to escalate in retaliation.”

  Martindale frowned. That was a nasty thought. A prolonged covert war of attrition would not succeed in destroying Poland and its allies outright, but the military and economic strain involved in fending off a seemingly unending series of commando attacks and sabotage would be enormous. It was no secret that a number of governments in the Alliance of Free Nations were fragile, dependent on small parliamentary majorities and narrow margins of public support. If those governments fell, either by losing elections or because of massive public discontent, their successors might be more willing to cozy up to Moscow in return for peace. Having failed in his earlier all-out military and cyberwar campaigns, was Gryzlov now willing to play a longer game?

  He shook his head. The willingness to fight a slow war of attrition seemed out of character for Russia’s aggressive leader. On the other hand, it was a classic mistake to assume that an opponent could not learn from his earlier mistakes.

  Which led directly to another piece of the puzzle that he could not make fit. Crazy or not, there was no way that Gryzlov could hope to skate away from responsibility for any attacks launched by Russian-made aircraft and missiles operating out of Russian-controlled air bases. So why was this RKU outfit recruiting veteran fighter and bomber pilots?

  Fourteen

  RKU FLIGHT OPERATIONS CENTER, NEAR MOAB, UTAH

  THE NEXT DAY

  Yuri Annenkov stood up to greet the two men who entered his sparsely furnished office at one end of the trailer. Despite their business suits, neither of them could really be mistaken for a midlevel corporate executive, no matter what it said on their false passports. While only of average height, both were remarkably fit and moved with the easy assurance of men used to handling advanced aircraft under high-Gs in combat conditions.

  “How was your flight?” he asked.

  “Uneventful from a security standpoint, but damned noisy,” Colonel Ruslan Baryshev, the older of the two, answered. His thin-lipped smile stopped well short of his pale blue eyes. “Some fat American woman’s brat screamed all the way from Toronto to Salt Lake City.”

  Annenkov winced in sympathy. No real pilot, especially not a former Su-50 stealth-fighter squadron commander like Baryshev, could enjoy being forced to travel as a mere passenger at the mercy of some other flier. Doing so in the sort of dingy, jam-packed horror shows that passed for commercial airliners these days must have seemed like a foretaste of hell itself.

  Baryshev nodded toward his companion. “This is my wingman, Captain Oleg Imrekov.”

  “Technically, I’m your former wingman, sir. And no longer exactly a captain,” the younger m
an said with a more genuine smile. He sketched a salute to Annenkov. “KVM Senior Pilot Imrekov reporting for duty.”

  Baryshev shook his head in mock despair. “And thus you see how discipline dies in the glorious private sector, Yuri. Once I could have had this young whelp shot for disrespect. Now the best I can do is contemplate giving him a bad performance review.”

  Annenkov laughed. He waved them into the two chairs in front of his desk and sat down himself. “The rest of your lads arrived yesterday, Ruslan. For now, they’re bunking with my air and ground crews.”

  “Any complaints?”

  “Major Zelin did bitch a little about the selection of drinks at the O Club,” Annenkov allowed.

  Baryshev raised an eyebrow. “You have an officers’ club here?”

  “Only if you count a folding table with a bottle of vodka and a supply of disposable plastic cups as a club.”

  “Ah, luxury,” Imrekov said. “Back at our old fighter base at Syktyvkar, we had to share our cups. And they were made out of paper. Cheap paper.”

  “You were lucky to have that much, Oleg,” Baryshev said with a grin. “In my days as a lowly junior pilot, we were only issued one drinking straw per regiment.” Dumping the grin, he turned back to Annenkov. “How about our gear? Is everything in order?”

  “No problems,” Annenkov assured him. “My ordnance man, Filippov, reports he’ll have your Kiberneticheskiye Voyennyye Mashiny fully reassembled and battle-ready by tomorrow morning.”

  “That’s excellent news.” Satisfied, Baryshev sat back. “Have we received the ‘go’ orders and mission assignments from Moscow?”

  Annenkov shook his head. “Not yet. But it can’t be long now. Major General Kurakin is pulling in all of our covert reconnaissance outfits. Once they get here, Captain Aristov’s team will switch over to act as your local security element and ground transportation unit.” Baryshev nodded his understanding.

  “I do have one question, Ruslan,” Annenkov said carefully. “Why only employ six of these combat robots in your unit? If Shakh i Mat is so important to the higher-ups in Moscow, why not send a larger assault force?”

  “Do you have any idea of how much it costs to manufacture a KVM?” Baryshev asked quietly.

  “Quite a bit, I would imagine. Perhaps the cost of a T-90 main battle tank? Or a little more?” Annenkov guessed.

  “Try nearly six billion rubles, Yuri,” Baryshev said flatly. “Each.”

  Annenkov felt his eyes pop open wide in amazement. Six billion rubles? For a single robotic war machine? My God, he thought. That was around one hundred million American dollars, which meant a KVM cost more than one of those fifth-generation Su-50 stealth fighters Baryshev and his wingman used to fly. Or two hundred of the Kh-35 cruise missiles arming his converted 737-200F cargo jet. “And they’re worth that much?”

  “Without question,” the other man said. His pale eyes were infinitely colder now. “Only wait until my fighting machines go into action against the Americans. For years, their puppets and mercenaries have swaggered around the world, believing that no one else could ever develop this technology. Soon they will realize just how big a lie that was.”

  THE KREMLIN, MOSCOW

  A SHORT TIME LATER

  For a long, uncomfortable moment, Gennadiy Gryzlov sat in silence, coolly observing the two men who’d just been ushered into his private office. As usual, Viktor Kazyanov, his long-suffering minister of state security, looked apprehensive. He was more a rabbit than a man, Gryzlov thought in contempt. Droplets of sweat already beaded the intelligence director’s high forehead.

  Vladimir Kurakin, the head of RKU, was evidently made of stronger stuff. As befitted a decorated special forces commander with years of combat experience, he met the president’s hard-eyed gaze without flinching.

  Gryzlov nodded politely to him and then turned his attention back to Kazyanov. “So, Viktor, from that uncontrollable quiver in those fat white hands of yours, I assume your efforts to find and capture the foreign spies who infiltrated the Twenty-Second Spetsnaz Brigade HQ have failed,” he said. “As usual.”

  The minister of state security swallowed convulsively. “I am afraid so, Mr. President,” he admitted, with clear reluctance. He moistened dry lips. “Without photographs or even decent descriptions of those who masqueraded as Colonel Zakharova and the accountant Solomin, our army and police units manning checkpoints on the highways and at airports and rail stations had too little to go on.”

  “So the criminals who murdered two of our soldiers and stole vital secrets have successfully escaped?” Gryzlov asked. He forced himself to speak calmly, almost as though he were asking the spy chief about the weather outside. Miserably, Kazyanov nodded. “And which of the various foreign intelligence services do your analysts believe committed this outrage?”

  “Without more evidence, that is a difficult question to answer,” Kazyanov said carefully. “Ballistics analysis indicates that the weapon used to kill Captain Leonov and Sergeant Isayev was originally issued to an FSB assassination squad that disappeared without a trace in Thailand more than ten years ago. And unfortunately, nothing else we’ve found so far concretely ties this operation to any particular enemy country.”

  “And yet your analysts are paid to answer difficult questions, are they not?” Gryzlov asked with deceptive mildness.

  “Yes, Mr. President,” Kazyanov agreed hurriedly. He hesitated for a second or two and then went on. “Well . . . the consensus seems to be that it might have been the CIA—”

  “Bullshit,” Gryzlov snapped. “Are you really that stupid, Viktor? Do you genuinely believe the CIA would try something so audacious? Or authorize its agents to kill so mercilessly?” He shook his head in disgust. “Haven’t you been paying attention to your own damned reports? The dickless cretins Barbeau put in charge of the CIA are far more interested in handing out rainbow-colored condoms at Langley gay-rights celebrations than in conducting high-risk operations like this one.”

  He stared coldly at Kazyanov, savoring the sudden rush of power as the bigger man physically wilted into his chair. “No, this was Martindale’s doing. He’s the only one out there ruthless enough to order this kind of ‘wet work’ on our soil.”

  Kurakin spoke up. “That would certainly explain those brief radar contacts made by the S-400 battalion at Feodosia.”

  “Precisely,” Gryzlov said. “It was one of Martindale’s damned stealth aircraft, probably the same STOL transport he used at Perun’s Aerie. And it slipped through our whole air defense network without anyone laying a finger on it.” His eyes were hooded. “I am getting very tired of watching our vaunted ‘defenders of the Motherland’ screw up time and time again.” The corners of his mouth turned down. “Perhaps our radar crews, SAM units, and fighter pilots need another taste of the lash.”

  Neither Kazyanov nor Kurakin said anything to dispute him.

  And they are wise not to, Gryzlov thought icily. Thanks to hacked acquisition and targeting software installed in Russia’s most advanced SAM regiments, some of Martindale’s Iron Wolf mercenaries had escaped his carefully laid trap at the Perun’s Aerie cyberwar complex. And unable to trust his own weapons, he’d been forced to concede a draw to the American and his Polish paymaster, Piotr Wilk. Furious, he’d made sure that heads rolled.

  The first of those to fall had been Colonel General Maksimov, once his own mentor at the Yuri Gagarin Military Air Academy. Maksimov had been forced to resign as head of the Aerospace Defense Force for “medical” reasons. When the general suffered a fatal stroke a few months later, Moscow gossips had darkly whispered the old man’s death wasn’t natural. Gryzlov considered it revealing that so many of his countrymen were willing to blame poison for a seizure actually triggered by deep personal shame and public humiliation. On the other hand, there’d been nothing natural about the sudden deaths of more than a dozen top software engineers in Nizhny Novgorod—unless, of course, you understood that taking a bullet in the back of the head was the nat
ural and inevitable consequence of treason and incompetence.

  For a few seconds, he pondered ordering another round of courts-martial and executions, starting with those lazy buffoons at the 22nd Guards Spetsnaz Brigade and eventually moving on to the blind, deaf, and dumb Su-27 fighter pilots who’d failed to intercept Martindale’s stealth aircraft. Not yet, he decided. None of those he might punish were going anywhere. Let them sweat.

  His decision made, Gryzlov looked up from his brief reverie with a scowl.

  Kazyanov, who’d been caught mopping at his own brow with a handkerchief, froze. His face turned gray with fear.

  “Get out, Viktor,” Gryzlov said with a heavy sigh. Verbally abusing the other man was still mildly amusing, but the experience was beginning to pall. Sooner or later he was going to have to get rid of Kazyanov. And the minister of state security knew only too well that men in his position—with access to so many secrets—rarely lived long enough to enjoy retirement. Gryzlov made a mental note to have Kazyanov put under even closer surveillance. It would never do for poor, old Viktor to imagine he could successfully defect.

  When the door closed behind Kazyanov, Gryzlov turned back to Kurakin.

  “How badly has our security been compromised?” he asked bluntly.

  “I’ve reviewed the files those two spies accessed,” Kurakin said. “Whoever did this must now be aware of RKU’s existence . . . and at least some of our capabilities.” He shrugged. “If there were any doubt, cyber specialists from the FSB’s Q Directorate detected in-depth probes of different commercial and governmental databases within twenty-four hours after the incident at Bataysk. But they were unable to trace those probes back to any identifiable source.”

  “Which really tells us all we need to know about who was responsible,” Gryzlov said dryly. “Martindale’s Scion operatives were poking around for more information about RKU.”