by Dale Brown
Brad sat back, thinking through the tactical implications of what he’d just read. Like the rest, this most recent assessment was long on guesswork and short on confirmed facts, but it was all they were going to get . . . at least until he and the others met Gryzlov’s machines in combat. Figuring out tactics that would give them a shot at winning that first fight was a daunting task. Sure, the battle simulations they’d run through back in the spring gave him a rough framework to work with. But those sims had been purely hypothetical. And tactics and maneuvers that worked well in the computer could fail miserably against actual machines whose speed, agility, armament, armor, and sensors varied significantly from their imaginary digital counterparts.
Ideally, they’d have been able to run through a new series of mock battles—this time against computer-generated enemies whose capabilities more closely matched those of the real-world Russian robots. He snorted. Yeah, Brad, he told himself, and in an ideal world you also wouldn’t be sitting sweating your ass off in this cockpit under the high desert sun. In the here and now, they were just going to have to suck it up and do their best.
“Wolf Two to Base Camp.” Major Nadia Rozek’s voice sounded in his headset. “I am just outside the perimeter. Request clearance to enter.”
“Copy that, Wolf Two,” Ian Schofield replied. “You’re clear to come on in.”
Smiling, Brad yanked off his headset and climbed down through the open hatch. This was what he’d been waiting for. Since relieving him shortly before dawn, Nadia had been on watch at their observation post overlooking Battle Mountain. Now it was Whack’s turn to keep an eye on things . . . which meant this was another of those all-too-brief periods when he and Nadia were both in the same place at the same time.
Outside the Ranger, the air was even hotter.
Schofield and Mike Knapp, a former sergeant in the U.S. Special Forces, had already rolled back a section of the camouflage net. Sunlight, impossibly bright after the dim cockpit, streamed through the opening.
Brad squinted against the brightness. A patch of the clear blue sky and sagebrush-strewn high desert plateau outside shimmered strangely, almost as though it were some kind of weird, moving mirage.
And then, accompanied by a faint whir from its actuators and hydraulics, Nadia’s Cybernetic Infantry Device was inside the shelter—apparently appearing out of thin air when she shut down the robot’s chameleon camouflage system. The two Iron Wolf recon troopers dragged the net back into place behind her.
The CID came to a halt and crouched down. A hatch on its back cycled open. Nadia swung herself out and dropped easily to the ground. After a quick, friendly nod to the other two men, she walked over to Brad with a big, heartfelt smile. She was already unzipping her black flight suit, revealing a skintight gray tank top and khaki shorts. Brad’s pulse quickened a bit. For the moment, she looked completely cool and comfortable. And, as always, incredibly alluring . . . at least to anyone who wasn’t scared of her physical prowess and intellect.
Climate control was one of the few good things about pulling a duty stint inside one of the robots here, he decided. If you had to isolate yourself from the human race inside a machine for an eight-hour stretch, at least you got air conditioning.
“Nice to see you, Major Rozek,” he said gravely. “Anything new down in the world?”
With equal gravity, she shook her head. “Nothing, Captain McLanahan. Even the FBI agents sound bored to death when they report to each other over the radio.”
Brad couldn’t help wincing. “Yeah, well, after learning what happened in Fort Worth last night, I’m starting to think the Russians aren’t coming after all.” Though he tried hard to keep his tone level, he knew she would be able to sense both his frustration and the nagging fear that he’d taken them on a wild-goose chase. Certainly, every day that passed without any sign of hostile activity made that seem more and more likely. “This stakeout operation could be a total waste of our time and resources.”
“I do not agree.” Nadia looked thoughtful. “Your reasoning was sound. And while our enemies clearly are not operating on the precise timetable you predicted, they still have every incentive to destroy Sky Masters. Unless they wreck the Battle Mountain labs and production facilities, all the Russians will have done is make the high-tech weapons Dr. Noble and his colleagues are developing even more valuable to your country—and to mine.”
“Maybe so.” He frowned. “But I can’t help worrying about the fact that Gryzlov really seems to enjoy putting together complicated plans—the kind where he sets up a series of moves he can use to achieve very different objectives . . . depending on how we react.”
“Like the fork tactic in chess,” Nadia said slowly. “Where a single piece threatens two or more defending chessmen simultaneously. So that no matter how the defender reacts, he will lose something of value.”
Brad nodded.
“You may be right,” she agreed. “But even then, the defender still has a choice of which piece to sacrifice. And since Sky Masters and the weapons and equipment it provides are beyond price, we must protect it. Gryzlov is not a fool. He knows this as well as we do. Which is why you should consider the possibility that last night’s attack may have been at least partly intended to draw our force away from this place.”
“You’re assuming that the Russians know we’re here,” Brad objected.
Nadia shrugged. “As I said, Gryzlov is not a fool. He, more than anyone in the world, understands and fears what the Iron Wolf Squadron can do. You must look at this from his perspective: If we are deployed to protect Battle Mountain, he loses nothing by trying to lure us out of position. And if our CIDs are not here after all, he loses nothing by attacking other, equally vulnerable targets first.”
“Frankly, trying to think like that son of a bitch makes my head spin.”
She smiled wryly. “Well, you Americans do talk a lot about ‘wheels within wheels.’”
Almost against his will, Brad laughed. “Okay, I give. We won’t slink away with our tail between our legs just yet. We’ll hold here awhile longer . . . at least until our water runs out.”
Nadia raised an eyebrow suggestively. “And in the meantime?” Silent laughter danced in her big blue-gray eyes. “How do you suggest that we occupy our time, Captain McLanahan?”
“Well, I—” Brad felt a lot hotter all of sudden. To his chagrin, he noticed Schofield and Knapp studiously pretending to look in every other direction but at them. Oh, just great, he thought. Nadia had decided to push all his buttons right when they were about as likely to get some much-desired privacy as a guy who never bought a ticket was to win the lottery.
Then, suddenly, an idea percolated into his overheated mind. He almost gave it away by grinning back at her, but instead he forced himself to look virtuous—donning the air of eager, dedicated determination used by junior officers everywhere to bullshit their superiors. He carefully avoided Mike Knapp’s eyes. Sergeants always seemed immune to the “look.”
Brad nodded toward the Ranger. “Well, Major, I suggest we work some more on tactics we might use against the enemy’s robots.”
For just a moment, Nadia seemed surprised. “Really?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said forthrightly. “Scion intelligence just sent us another classified assessment on those Russian machines. And I really think you should read it for yourself.”
“I see,” she said carefully. “Yes, perhaps I should.”
Brad saw one corner of her mouth twitch upward. He maintained his own devoutly serious expression with the greatest difficulty.
Once they were alone in the Ranger’s cramped and darkened cockpit, Nadia squirmed across and took the copilot’s seat. She offered him a challenging stare. “Do you actually believe that incredibly transparent ploy of yours fooled any of our comrades?”
“What ploy?” Brad asked innocently. Two can play the “wheels within wheels” game, he thought. He reached over and brought one of her multifunction displays to life. The intell
igence summary his father had sent flashed on-screen. “I was being perfectly serious. The Scion team really did send a new report. And you do really need to see it.”
“Oh,” she said, sounding surprised. With a tiny frown, she leaned forward and started reading. Her eyes narrowed in concentration. “So your father’s analysts are now confident that these Russian robots are smaller than our own CIDs?”
He nodded. “Yeah. But not by much.” Careful scrutiny of every piece of footage shot during the Barksdale attack had finally given Scion’s photo interpreters enough separate data points to peg the height of Gryzlov’s machines at a little over ten feet. “What that size differential means in terms of relative combat endurance, speed, and agility is anyone’s guess, though.”
“They seemed fast enough in those videos,” Nadia pointed out.
“That they did,” Brad agreed. “Our guys clocked at least one moving at more than seventy klicks per hour. But what’s not clear is how long the Russians can operate at speeds that high without draining their batteries and fuel cells.”
“It would be safest to assume their endurance is comparable to ours,” she said seriously. “Since they are using technology they stole from us, that is probable.” Her mouth turned down. “Which means we must count on these enemy robots being our equal in every important respect.”
Brad shook his head. “Not quite, fortunately.” He pointed to the conclusions listed at the bottom of the report. “For example, the Russians don’t seem to have our rail-gun technology. At least not yet.”
“For that I am grateful,” Nadia said somberly.
Brad nodded. No armor in the world could stand up to a rail-gun slug if it scored a solid hit. On the other hand, he wasn’t sure how effective their own CID rail guns would be in a dogfight with other combat robots. The weapons were deadly against tracked and wheeled armored vehicles, aircraft, and fixed fortifications . . . but their relatively slow rate of fire might be a handicap against smaller, far more agile machines. “The better news is that the Russians don’t have anything comparable to our thermal and chameleon camouflage systems. Which gives us a decent shot at pulling off an ambush under the right circumstances.”
“Gryzlov’s pilots could have stripped their camouflage equipment off before launching that attack,” Nadia said stubbornly. “As we did before the raid on Perun’s Aerie.”
“My dad’s team has pretty much ruled out that possibility,” Brad said. “Our people studied highly magnified imagery of the different sections of those robots. And they couldn’t find any attachment points for additional gear or systems.”
“So then, how best do we fight them?” she asked. Her eyes were half closed in thought.
“Well, see, that’s where I think the two of us should thoroughly explore different tactical concepts,” Brad said, unable to stop himself from grinning. “While we have some private time together, I mean.”
Nadia must have heard the eager note in his voice, because she looked up quickly with a lopsided smile of her own. “And just which tactic do you propose we explore first?” she challenged.
“Close-quarters action,” he said cheerfully. “Really close.” And with that, he leaned over, picked her up, and put her down on his lap. Her lips parted and he kissed her deeply.
Coming up for air, he asked, “So what’s your view on my plan, Major Rozek?”
She smiled back at him. “Well,” she said reflectively, “I don’t know how well it would work against the Russians, but I like the way this is shaping up so far.”
Twenty-Six
IRON WOLF OBSERVATION POST, NORTH OF BATTLE MOUNTAIN, NEVADA
THE NEXT MORNING
Cushioned by his CID’s haptic interface and feeling blessedly cool, Brad McLanahan let his mind roam free. He grinned to himself, remembering the expression of surprise and eagerness on Nadia’s face when he’d pulled her onto his lap yesterday afternoon. Idly, he wondered if they would ever be able to look at the Ranger’s cockpit in quite the same way again. In the background of his pleasant daydream, routine reports from the robot’s array of passive sensors scrolled through his drifting consciousness—but there was nothing among them that he needed to handle.
And then, suddenly, there was.
Sky Masters ARGUS-Five signal characteristics have changed, the CID’s computer told him. The radar has switched to tracking mode.
He jolted back to full awareness. Switching from general air-search mode to tracking mode meant the advanced radar sited at McLanahan Industrial Airport had detected one or more airborne contacts that its human operators wanted more data on and fast. Whatever had spooked them must still be too far away to register on his thermal or visual sensors.
Without waiting any longer, Brad readied his rail gun. It whined shrilly, powering up. If there were Russian cruise missiles heading this way, he would do his best to engage and destroy as many of them as he could. He opened a secure channel to their base camp. “Wolf One to Two and Three. Believe unidentified airborne contacts inbound. I am preparing to engage if necessary.”
It sure would be nice to be able to open a data link to that Sky Masters radar, he thought pensively. Seeing what the ARGUS-Five was “seeing” would probably answer a lot of his questions. But doing that risked giving away his position to the FBI or the Russians if either of them had hacked their way inside the Battle Mountain facility’s electronic systems. As it was, he was operating half blind—forced to rely entirely on whatever he could pick up with his passive sensors.
With the CID’s camouflage systems running, Brad was effectively invisible to visual or IR detection. And his current position hidden in among a jumble of solid boulders and brush offered good protection against radar. Unfortunately, activating his own radar would light him up just as surely as if he sent his robot dancing downslope and into town.
“Wolf One, this is Two. Whack and I are suiting up,” Nadia radioed back. “We should be operational in less than two minutes. We will move toward your position at top speed.”
“Copy that, Wolf Two,” he replied.
Dozens of icons suddenly blinked into existence across his tactical display. Forty-plus IR contacts inbound from the east at low altitude, the computer reported. Range twenty-plus miles, but closing. Four contacts at six-hundred-plus knots. Remainder at one hundred fifty knots. Negative identification at this range.
Brad frowned. What the hell was this? One thing was sure. Whatever was happening wasn’t a Kh-35 cruise-missile attack. Those four fast movers out there were flying faster than the Russian-designed missile’s maximum speed. And no missile ever made stayed in the air at just a hundred and fifty knots. Were Gryzlov’s mercenaries using a mix of high-speed and slower drones?
Through his neural link, he ordered the CID computer to lock on to the four fast targets. He swung the rail gun up, following the aiming cues on his display. There, off to the east, low above a wide stretch of flat, almost featureless valley, red boxes silhouetted four green, brightly glowing shapes streaking toward Battle Mountain at more than six hundred knots. At that altitude, with all the heat haze, his thermal sensors still couldn’t get a firm fix on their identity and type. His finger settled gently on the trigger.
And then two separate wavelengths of microwaves washed across his robot. The neural link translated the sensations into something like the gentle flick of a dog’s tail across his face coupled with fingernails scratching across his head. Warning, warning, his computer reported. New active airborne radars detected. One evaluated as AN/APY-2 Pulse Doppler E-3 Sentry AWACS. The other is a Ku-band agile active frequency signal. Probable identification is an E-8 JSTARS AN/APY-7. No detection threat from the AWACS. JSTARS detection probability currently very low. New icons appeared on his display, showing the two radar planes orbiting sixty miles east—behind the wave of oncoming bogeys.
Swallowing hard, Brad took his finger off the rail-gun trigger. There was no way the Russians had a Sentry-type airborne warning and control aircraft aloft over the
United States. Nor could they have a JSTARS, a Joint Surveillance and Attack Radar System plane of their own. The powerful phased-array radar aboard a JSTARS aircraft, a modified 707-300 designated as an E-8C by the Air Force, could scan up to nineteen thousand square miles of terrain—hunting for hostile ground vehicles and low-flying helicopters.
He keyed his com link to the other CIDs. “Wolf Two and Three. Hold your position! Repeat, hold your position! Do not move out from under the camouflage. These aren’t Gryzlov’s guys. They’re ours.”
Christ, Brad thought, I almost fired on friendly aircraft. The realization of how close he’d come to killing fellow Americans was chilling. He fought to control a sudden tremor in his hands.
Quickly, he ducked lower, further reducing his CID’s radar signature. That JSTARS plane high overhead was designed to pinpoint enemy tanks, artillery pieces, and armored personnel carriers. It should have a hard time spotting something as relatively small as his robot, especially if he stayed still. But there was no percentage in taking any unnecessary risks. After the massacre at Barksdale Air Force Base and then the attack on that F-35 assembly plant at Fort Worth, his fellow countrymen were probably just about as trigger-happy as he obviously was.
The four fast movers he’d locked on to earlier, now clearly identifiable as F-16C Falcon fighters, screamed low past his mountaintop position, spreading out across the airport and the neighboring Sky Masters complex. A cloud of white-hot magnesium flares trailed behind them, mixed with thousands of tiny Mylar strips of antiradar chaff. He frowned. Why in God’s name were those pilots taking precautions against a missile launch? Did they think the Russian combat robots were already here?