The Moscow Offensive

by Dale Brown

  “In this case, her motivations don’t matter,” Martindale said. “Nor does the worm on the hook have any say over which particular fish tries to swallow it. What matters is that Gryzlov has so far passed up what would be a golden opportunity to slaughter some of America’s topflight aircraft and weapons designers . . . because it’s so plainly a trap.”

  “I do not believe that you and General McLanahan came all this way to recite yet another litany of what we cannot or must not do,” Nadia said evenly. Her eyes flashed a warning. “Or am I wrong about that?”

  Patrick smiled. “You’re not wrong.” The exoskeleton supporting him whirred as he shrugged his shoulders. “Whack’s idea of setting a trap isn’t that far off base. It’s picking the spot that will be difficult. The only sure way to ambush Gryzlov’s robots is to figure out their next target in advance . . . in time to position your CIDs to nail them.”

  Macomber snorted. “Hell, General, thanks for sharing that brilliant tactical insight. Got any others for us? Like ‘friendly fire, isn’t’? or ‘the easy way is always mined’?” He grunted when Nadia drove a sharp elbow into his side.

  Brad hid a grin. Nadia’s tolerance for sarcasm, except for her own, was sometimes severely limited. He stepped between the two of them. “I think there’s a little more to my dad’s thinking than that, Whack.”

  “There is.” Patrick nodded. “Or at least I hope so, anyway.” He looked at them all. “What we need to do is get inside Gryzlov’s mind. He may be orchestrating this war through that private mercenary outfit he’s created, but it’s still a one-man show. When it comes down to it, he has the final say on where those robots will strike next.”

  “Maybe so. But I’ve been batting about point-zero-zero-zero when it comes to figuring out what that asshole plans,” Brad said unhappily. “I was the one who was sure he’d hit Sky Masters next, remember?” He knew his voice showed his frustration.

  “And we all agreed with you,” Nadia reminded him. She took his hand in hers, offering what solace she could in front of the others. “It was a reasonable deduction.”

  His father nodded sympathetically. “What Winston Churchill once said about Russia goes double for Gennadiy Gryzlov. ‘I cannot forecast to you the action of Russia. It is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.’”

  Nadia swung back to the older McLanahan. “But that is not the end of what Churchill said, is it?” she said suddenly.

  “No, Major Rozek,” he agreed. “Though it is the part of the quote that most people remember, even if it was just the setup for the punch line. The rest goes like this: ‘But perhaps there is a key. That key is Russian national interest.’”

  Brad shrugged. “Sure, Dad. But Gryzlov sees anything that weakens the U.S. as being in Russia’s national interest. So that doesn’t narrow things down much.”

  “Actually, it does,” Martindale said. “But only if you look beyond the purely military aspect of his operations.”

  “Just fricking great. Here comes the lecture on politics,” Macomber said, rolling his eyes.

  “I’ll try to make it painless, Colonel,” Martindale assured him dryly. “Even if doing so means using small words. The concept is fairly simple as it is. Gryzlov’s secret war has definitely damaged our country’s armed forces. But it also threatens Stacy Anne Barbeau’s reelection campaign by making her look weak and ineffectual. And that is very definitely not in Russia’s best interest.”

  “Because if she loses, Gryzlov will face a much tougher American president,” Brad realized.

  Martindale nodded. “I’ve talked to Governor Farrell several times now. His reputation as a militaristic hard-liner has been greatly exaggerated by the press. But there is no doubt that he holds a much more realistic view of Russia and its leaders than President Barbeau.”

  Nadia looked at him. “But will she lose the election?”

  “Nothing is certain in politics, Major. But I’ve watched a lot of campaigns in my life . . . and I know when the people on the inside are getting desperate. And that’s what I see happening to Stacy Anne’s outfit.” Martindale shook his head. “Take, for example, this phony story she’s peddling about a secret U.S. Special Operations Force that supposedly blasted the airport at Moab. Even if she gets a short-term boost in her poll numbers, it won’t last long. You can’t keep secrets like that, not in this day and age. Too many people know the truth. Before too long, someone inside the Pentagon or SOCOM itself is almost sure to leak that the story is false. And then, as soon as Grzylov’s robots launch another attack, she’ll end up worse off politically than she was before.”

  “There’s also the factor that the Russians are running out of military and economic targets they can hit safely,” Patrick said. “Our base defenses have been hardened. Our warships are mostly at sea, out of reach now that you’ve blown their cruise-missile aircraft to bits. Plus, the Air Force has finally gotten smart. They’re flying surveillance drones over our defense plants and weapons labs.”

  Nadia frowned. “Their war robots could still go after other civilian targets. Anything from shopping malls to major sporting events . . . and everything in between.”

  “To create more terror?” Martindale asked. She nodded. “That is certainly possible. But again, attacks aimed at striking terror into the American people will only make Barbeau’s defeat in November more likely.”

  “But do the Russians understand this?”

  “In my experience,” Martindale replied, “the Russians have a very firm grasp of American politics, especially where it touches on their interests.” With a rueful look, he continued. “Certainly, Moscow’s higher echelons understand us a lot better than a great many people in Washington understand the Russians.”

  Brad considered that. “So you think Gryzlov will go after a political target next.”

  His father nodded firmly. “It’s his next logical move.” His voice was level. “And given the situation right now, there is effectively only one vital American political target left for him to strike.”

  Brad began to see where Martindale and his father were going. So far, Gryzlov’s covert operations had achieved significant tactical victories. But those same victories were damaging his own strategic goals by boosting the odds that Stacy Anne Barbeau would lose to Farrell—the last man the Russian leader could expect to dance to his tune. And while Gryzlov wasn’t a moron . . . he was ruthless, violent, and willing to run enormous risks to achieve his desired ends. Which meant—

  “Oh shit,” he muttered. “You think the Russians are going to kill Governor Farrell.”

  Martindale nodded grimly. “His murder would set off a political firestorm.”

  “But won’t his party simply nominate another candidate?” Nadia asked.

  “There would be nothing simple about it,” Martindale said tersely. “Farrell was the only one genuinely positioned to give Barbeau a run for her money in November. With him gone, his party will divide into a dozen warring factions. I don’t see any of the other possible contenders beating her.”

  “Especially not if she can blame his death on us,” Brad said slowly.

  His father nodded. “Which is why we need to find your team a new operating base considerably farther south. And why Mr. Martindale and I need to borrow Captain Schofield and his scouts right away.”

  Thirty-Seven

  BEXAR FREIGHT DISTRIBUTION CENTER, SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS

  THAT SAME TIME

  Inside the old warehouse, Kirill Aristov fought to control the dread he felt when he stared up at the metal war machine looming over him. When his security team first joined up with Colonel Baryshev and his lethal KVMs, his fears had been largely irrational—the natural unease of a human suddenly confronted by faceless machines that moved like men, but that were exponentially more powerful. Now, though, he had all too many real reasons to be afraid of them. With every passing day, the pilots inside those combat robots seemed to merge more and more with their automatons. It was as though they were purg
ing themselves of almost every ordinary human emotion, retaining only those that would serve in battle . . . fury, bloodlust, and the will to dominate.

  “You have your new vehicle,” Baryshev’s cold, electronically synthesized voice said. “So take your reconnaissance team and do your job, Captain.”

  “My men and I have just finished a twenty-four-hour drive across half of America,” Aristov said, trying to stay calm. “We need to rest first. As soon as it gets dark tomorrow, we’ll move out.”

  “You waste valuable time. I find that . . . unacceptable.” Servos whined as the machine flexed its metal hands.

  Aristov resisted the urge to turn and run. If Baryshev decided to kill him, he was already as good as dead. He forced himself not to show any emotion. “General Kurakin’s orders are very clear. This is an extremely sensitive target—one with enormous political significance. We cannot risk making any mistakes.”

  “I have read Moscow’s intelligence files myself,” the robot retorted. “I see nothing to fear.”

  “Moscow’s intelligence may already be out-of-date, Colonel,” Aristov said. Looking for other reasons to justify obeying their superior’s demands for caution, he seized on the first one that came to mind . . . as unlikely as it seemed. “Remember, an Iron Wolf war machine destroyed Annenkov and the others without any warning.”

  The KVM’s antenna-studded head inclined toward him. “Do you believe the Poles have deployed some of their Cybernetic Infantry Devices to protect this target?” In the cool, outwardly detached tones of its artificial voice there was suddenly a definite undercurrent of . . . eagerness. “Confronting such an enemy would be the ultimate test of our strength and power.”

  “I don’t know,” Aristov said slowly, choosing his words with care. The last thing he could afford to do was trigger this eerie meld of man and machine’s increasingly aggressive instincts. If they snapped, he suspected Baryshev and the others were quite likely to charge out of the warehouse, rushing north to conduct an immediate attack on their own—despite the fact that covering the ninety-odd kilometers would only drain their batteries and fuel cells . . . and trigger an immediate counterattack by the alerted American Army and Air Force. “That’s why my team and I need to get in as close as possible and conduct a detailed reconnaissance. If the Poles and their mercenaries are there, we’ll find them for you. And then you can destroy them.”

  The KVM seemed to ponder that for a moment. “Very well,” it said at last. “We will wait here.” It straightened up to its full height. “But do not dawdle, little man. Complete your task quickly and efficiently and report your findings immediately. My patience is not unlimited.”

  OUTSIDE J. D. FARRELL’S RANCH, IN THE HILL COUNTRY, NEAR SISTERDALE, TEXAS

  THE NEXT DAY

  Former U.S. Special Forces and Iron Wolf Squadron sergeant Andrew Davis kept his chestnut mare to a slow walk as he rode through a rolling landscape of scrub oaks and cedar trees, brush, low-growing prickly-pear cacti, and limestone rocks and boulders. He was following a trail that meandered along a streambed, which was mostly dry at this time of the year. Rounded and flat-topped hills rose on all sides, sometimes with slopes that were open grassland, but that were more often thickly wooded.

  In his cowboy hat, jeans, and boots, with a scabbarded Ruger Mini-14 Ranch Rifle strapped to his saddle, Davis looked more like a ranch hand out for a Sunday horseback ride than the chief of Governor John Dalton Farrell’s security detail. And that, of course, was exactly the impression he wanted to convey. While he lazed along, apparently half dozing in the high, dry heat of a Texas Hill Country summer day, his eyes were busy probing the apparently uninhabited countryside—checking for anything out of place.

  At a spot where two narrow, chalk-white trails crossed, he guided his horse to the right and climbed up out of the low ground paralleling the streambed. A gentle breeze riffled through the long brown grass on the slope ahead. Near the top of a shallow, boulder-studded rise, he noticed an empty beer bottle perched upright on a flat rock off to the side of the trail. Squinting against the sunlight, he made out the label . . . Moosehead Lager from Canada.

  Davis hid a smile. Subtlety was apparently not in season. He reined in and dismounted. His mare whinnied softly, apparently made uneasy by something unseen. “Easy, girl,” he murmured. “Nothing to be worried about.”

  After glancing around the seemingly empty countryside around him, he perched on the sun-warmed rock, right beside the beer bottle. “It sure is nice not seeing you, Captain,” he said aloud, with a chuckle. “I always do appreciate the invisibility of a genuine special ops professional at work.”

  From the middle of a clump of tall grass next to the boulder, Ian Schofield laughed softly. “I appreciate the compliment, Sergeant. I hope you’ll forgive my not getting up to shake your hand . . . but I spent quite a lot of time arranging this ghillie suit just so.”

  Davis refrained from looking in the direction of his former commander’s voice. In all honesty, he was impressed. He’d thought Schofield was concealed in the bushes on the other side of the trail. Ghillie suits, first invented by Scottish gamekeepers to avoid scaring off game by allowing hunters to fade into their surroundings, had been in military use for more than a century. Usually handcrafted by the snipers and scouts who relied on them, the suits were covered in bits of fabric, twine, burlap, and local foliage. When worn by an expert, a good suit could render a man lying motionless effectively invisible at a distance . . . and nearly so at close range, if he was in decent cover.

  “Then I figure this isn’t a social call,” he said.

  “Shouldn’t you have said, ‘I reckon’?” Schofield asked curiously. “As a Texan deep in the heart of his home country, I mean?”

  Davis grinned. “That’s only in the movies, Captain.” His smile faded. “Anyhow, I’m guessing you’re paying us a visit because there’s trouble on the way.”

  “Quite probably,” Schofield said. “In fact, I rather suspect you’ll soon have a few unwelcome guests prowling around your perimeter, looking for weak spots where they can infiltrate. In fact, they could easily be here already, which is why I decided not to come trotting up to the main gate.”

  Davis pulled at his jaw. “Wouldn’t surprise me much,” he agreed. He shrugged. “See, the governor’s ranch is a mighty big piece of rugged, empty country—close to four thousand acres, with around eight miles of fence line. That gives anyone interested in poking his nose where it ain’t welcome a hell of a lot of possible approaches.”

  “You can’t possibly guard that much territory,” Schofield said. “Not with the size of Governor Farrell’s current security detail.”

  “Nope,” Davis said. “I’d need a full infantry battalion to lock the ranch down completely.”

  “And yet you don’t seem all that worried, Sergeant,” Schofield said with a trace of humor in his voice. “Which either means you have a plan or you’re a fool. And I know you’re not a fool.”

  “Maybe not,” Davis allowed. “Truth is . . . I don’t have to secure the whole ranch. There’s only so many vantage points that would be useful to a spy or an assassin. As you can imagine, we keep a real close eye on those spots . . . both in person and with the help of some handy Sky Masters–designed surveillance gizmos.” Doggedly, he tugged the brim of his cowboy hat a little lower and folded his arms. “Trust me, Captain. No one’s getting close enough to the big house to put the governor on camera or in the sights of a rifle. Not on my watch.”

  “I don’t doubt that for a minute, Sergeant,” Schofield assured him.

  Mollified, Davis nodded. “Now, with that taken as gospel, and since I’m not dumb, I’d be more than happy to accept any assistance you’d care to offer.”

  Schofield cleared his throat. “Ah, well, there’s the rub, I fear,” he said apologetically. “You see, I’m not here to help you plug any gaps in your security. I’m here to persuade you to leave one open.”

  THE RANCH HOUSE

  THAT SAME T
IME

  While listening to Kevin Martindale over his smartphone, John Dalton Farrell slowly got up. When this call came in, he’d been sprawled back in a big easy chair with his feet up on a coffee table—trying to make up his mind about which of several, inch-thick briefing books he wanted to tackle next. Frowning, he moved over to one of the big picture windows looking out across the ranch. Ordinarily, he found the view of green, wooded hills and the wide-open sky restful. Now, though, it felt more like he was surveying an alien country, one that might be full of lurking dangers and hidden menace.

  “How sure of this are you?” he asked, when the other man finished explaining why he’d called.

  “I’m not sure of anything, Governor,” Martindale answered. “But I learned a long time ago to follow where the evidence leads—no matter how improbable the ultimate destination seems at first. In this case, everything I know about Gennadiy Gryzlov’s worldview, ambitions, and behavioral patterns, along with the capabilities demonstrated by his combat robots, leads to one conclusion: He plans to kill you.”

  Farrell’s jaw tightened. “A foreign government assassinating an American presidential candidate? There’s no way Stacy Anne Barbeau could overlook something like that.”

  “No, she couldn’t,” Martindale agreed. “But given her present state of mind, she’s far more likely to blame your murder on this supposed ‘civil war’ between General McLanahan and myself.”

  “Leaving the Russians in the clear,” Farrell said bluntly. “And this country in political chaos. And Poland and its allies basically up shit creek.” He turned away from the window. “Even setting aside my natural care and concern for my own damn skin, that’s a seriously crappy outcome.”

  “I agree,” Martindale told him. “Which is why we need to act to avoid that outcome.”