The Moscow Offensive

by Dale Brown

  His eyes widened in surprise as he recognized the Iron Wolf machine he thought he’d killed with his antitank missile. The enemy war robot was a battered wreck, with both arms gone and most of the sensor panels mounted on its weird, hexagonal head reduced to slag and broken bits of circuitry. But the damned thing was still moving somehow . . . deliberately putting itself between him and McLanahan.

  Not for long, Baryshev thought viciously. He fired his autocannon—perforating the Iron Wolf CID as it stumbled toward him again. Sparks and smoke danced around the punctures his rounds tore through its already weakened armor. With a harsh laugh, he stepped aside from the other machine’s lunge and watched it crumple to the ground.

  Triumphantly, he looked back to find McLanahan. The American had stopped running away. Instead, he was rushing toward the downed robot with a look of horror on his lined face.

  Grinning, Baryshev raised his autocannon again, taking careful aim.

  Patrick McLanahan dropped to his knees beside Nadia’s CID. Through his partial neural link, he made contact with the machine’s computer. It was failing fast, shutting down more and more core memory and command functions in a futile effort to stay online for its pilot. He had only had time to order it to open the emergency hatch before it went dead.

  The hatch cycled. Smoke and the harsh, coppery smell of blood eddied out through the opening.

  “Trying to hide, little man?” he heard a cold, synthesized voice say in accented English. “Gennadiy Gryzlov sends his regards.”

  With a wry smile, Patrick looked up, right into the muzzle of the Russian war robot’s 30mm cannon. “Does he? Well, you tell that asshole I’ll see him in hell,” he said coolly. At a faint glimpse of movement far off in the darkness, well beyond Farrell’s blazing ranch house, he smiled more genuinely. “But you know, I have a feeling you’ll get there first.”

  “Brave words for a—”

  CCRRACK!

  The Russian combat robot blew apart in a ball of fire—hit squarely in the back by a rail-gun shot that went through and through at Mach 5. Its head and broken limbs spiraled away into the air . . . and came crashing down in different places scattered across the dusty corral.

  Painfully, Patrick pushed himself back up onto his hands and knees from where he’d been thrown by the blast. He crawled back over to Nadia Rozek’s dead Cybernetic Infantry Device as fast as he could. His lips moved silently. Prayer wasn’t usually his thing, but right now he’d take any help on offer. Especially when the alternative was watching his son’s heart shatter into a thousand pieces.

  Forty-Three

  AT THE FARRELL RANCH

  THAT SAME TIME

  Brad McLanahan skidded to a stop. He stared down at Nadia’s mangled CID, feeling a sudden sense of dread so intense that it drowned every other emotion, even his relief at seeing his father alive and the last Russian war robot scattered in pieces.

  Unable to open data link to Wolf Two, his CID computer said unhelpfully. Damage analysis indicates complete processing unit failure, along with—

  Skip it, Brad ordered harshly, not wanting to hear any more.

  Command not understood, the computer replied.

  I mean, cancel Wolf Two damage analysis report, Brad said tiredly, kicking himself for forgetting that English-language idioms were not the system’s strong suit. He noticed Martindale and Farrell hurrying up to them across the corral.

  Slowly, his father backed out of the downed CID’s emergency hatch, carefully dragging a blood-soaked Nadia Rozek with him. Despite the open gash on her forehead, her face was still beautiful, but it was ashen, almost chalk white. Her long, slender legs were—

  Hurriedly, Brad averted his gaze from the mess he’d just seen. Oh, Christ, he thought, in mingled horror and supplication. Those had been shards of bone glistening white in the middle of all that gore. His stomach heaved abruptly, and he fought against the urge to vomit—swallowing hard against the sour taste of bile. He turned to his father. “Is she—?” he choked up, unable to go on.

  “Nadia’s still alive, son,” his father said quietly, “But she’s badly wounded. I can’t promise you she’ll make it.” He looked up and saw the two other men. “Governor,” he told Farrell, “we need a life flight here, ASAP.”

  Farrell nodded sharply. He pulled out his smartphone. “I’m on it, General.” He tapped in the emergency number and started talking to the dispatcher—rapping out terse instructions with calm assurance. When he was finished, he glanced back at them. “Fort Sam Houston down in San Antonio’s got the nearest decent trauma center. Their ambulance helicopter will be here in about twenty minutes.”

  Brad saw his father frown. “We need to stabilize Major Rozek before then. And I can’t do that with my bare hands.”

  Farrell nodded again. He swung around to the security guards who were rushing toward them from the other hurriedly camouflaged shelters they’d scattered across the ranch compound. “Jimmy!” he shouted, pointing at one. “Grab that emergency medical kit from the stable! And then get your ass back here, muy pronto!”

  “Yes, sir!” the guard yelled back over his shoulder, already sprinting off.

  Farrell shoved his hands in his pockets and kicked absently at the dry soil of the corral. “I did have another medical kit,” he said reflectively. “But that was in the master bathroom over there.” He jerked a thumb at the brightly burning remains of his ranch house. “Somehow, I don’t figure it’s still in one piece.”

  Martindale cleared his throat uncertainly. “I regret the property damage, Governor.”

  Farrell shrugged. “Never mind about the house.” He knelt down beside Nadia and gently took her hand in his. “People are what count in the end, folks. Ultimately, things don’t matter a damn.”

  “Indeed,” Martindale said coolly. “I’m sure you’re right.” He looked at the older McLanahan and at Brad. “In the meantime, the three of us need to be moving. If word of this . . . incident . . . isn’t already flashing across the Internet and up the chain of command to President Barbeau, it will be soon enough. Before the military and the FBI descend en masse here, it would be best if we were long gone.”

  “What about Whack?” Brad heard himself snap. “And Nadia?”

  “I’m sure the governor’s security detail will search for Colonel Macomber. If he’s still alive, they will take good care of him,” Martindale said soothingly. “As for Major Rozek, if she lives, she should be safe enough in a hospital . . . under the governor’s protection.”

  Farrell nodded. “You can rest easy on that score, Captain McLanahan,” he assured Brad. “No one, especially not some fed, is going to mess with her on Texas soil. I promise you that.”

  “I’m not leaving,” a firm, matter-of-fact voice said. It was Patrick McLanahan. He stared hard at Martindale. “We’ve been running from Stacy Anne Barbeau for far too long. It’s high time we stopped hiding out and took a stand. The American people need to know what she’s done . . . and what she’s failed to do.”

  Martindale snorted. “And just what overoptimistic impulse leads you to conclude that Barbeau will ever give us that chance, General? Before we can say boo, she’ll have her goons drag us off to some black site—about as far away from the media as the back side of the moon.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” Farrell said with a sudden flash of teeth in the darkness. “Y’all may have forgotten . . . but those Russians were trying to kill me. Which makes this a matter for the State of Texas, not the federal government.”

  Martindale stirred. “I suspect the president will strongly dispute your jurisdiction, Governor.”

  Farrell shrugged again. “Sure she will,” he agreed. “But it’ll make a real dandy court case, won’t it? And it would be one hell of a media draw . . . especially coming smack-dab in the middle of a hotly contested presidential campaign.”

  Despite his sadness and anxiety for Nadia, Brad felt a sudden urge to laugh at the bemused expression on Martindale’s face. It appeared that
the master manipulator might finally have met his match—

  The staccato chatter of submachine guns rang out, echoing off the high ground to the south.

  Brad spun toward the sound of the firing and darted off at full speed, slowing down only long enough to scoop an object off the ground with his CID’s still-working left hand.

  NEAR THE FARRELL RANCH

  THAT SAME TIME

  Nikolai Dobrynin frowned toward the Farrell ranch. The sound of firing from over those hills had ended several minutes ago. So where were Baryshev and his damned KVMs? The longer they delayed here, the more likely they would be to run into American law enforcement or military roadblocks on the roads back to San Antonio and then farther south toward the U.S.-Mexican border. “Specter Lead, this is Checkmate Two,” he said into his throat mike. “Do you read me? Over.”

  There was no reply. Only the hiss of static over an empty frequency.

  “What kind of game are those bloodthirsty maniacs playing now?” he groused to Pavel Larionov.

  The bigger man shrugged. “It’s probably better if we don’t know,” he advised. “If we want to be able to sleep tonight, that is.”

  Dobrynin winced. That much was probably true, he decided. He’d already had nightmares about the blood and scraps of human flesh coating Baryshev’s war robot after that attack out in California. He tapped Larionov on the shoulder. “Let’s pull the rest of our guys in, Pavel. I want to get on the road as soon as the colonel and the others return.”

  The other man nodded. He turned his head toward where the other three former Spetsnaz soldiers were posted, and spoke briefly into his own mike—using their team’s own secure channel. One after another, Yumashev, Popov, and Mitkin rose from their concealed firing positions along the dirt road and trotted back toward the three parked big rigs. Finished, Larionov asked, “What about the captain?”

  Dobrynin sighed. “If Kirill’s smart, he’ll hold tight. He’s got a good position. Once the Americans make their initial sweep, he might be able to get clear and make it out on his own.”

  The big man snorted. “You really believe that bullshit, sir?”

  “Not really,” Dobrynin admitted. “But let’s face it. The captain was fucked as soon as Moscow sent that premature attack order.” He shook his head. “We just have to hope that he keeps his mouth shut long enough for the rest of us to escape—”

  Larionov’s head, hit by a 7.62mm bullet, exploded in Dobrynin’s face—spraying him with lacerating fragments of bone and teeth. The big man went down in a boneless heap, like a puppet with all its strings cut.

  For a split second, Dobrynin stared down at the dead man in openmouthed astonishment. Then he recovered. “Sniper!” he yelled, diving for the ground.

  Along the road, Mitkin and Yumashev reacted fast, hitting the dirt and rolling into a shallow ditch beside the road. Popov was slower. Fatally so. A second silenced rifle shot dropped him in his tracks.

  “Suppressive fire!” Dobrynin shouted. “At the hillside across the road!”

  They opened up with their HK7s, firing short bursts toward the opposite slope—carefully directing their shots at the most likely spots where the unseen sniper could be hiding. Dust, bits of torn brush, and sparks from ricochets drifted downwind.

  “Cease fire!” Dobrynin called. “Cease fire!”

  Silence descended across the darkened stretch of Texas country road.

  “Did we get him?” he heard Mitkin ask.

  Another rifle bullet tore up off the dirt beside Dobrynin’s face. Frantically, he rolled away and scrambled into cover behind a big-rig truck tire. “Unfortunately, not,” he said dryly. He grimaced. They were pinned down. Advancing into the open against that concealed rifleman would be suicide. The same thing applied to trying to drive away down the road in their trucks. No, he thought angrily, they were stuck here until Baryshev’s KVMs returned, pinpointed the solitary sniper who’d ambushed them, and blew him away. “Where the hell are those robots?” he wondered aloud.

  “Right here,” he heard an ice-cold electronic voice reply.

  Dobrynin whipped around in time to see a massive shape emerge out of the darkness. Relieved, he stood up, careful to keep the tractor-trailer between him and the rifleman who’d killed Larionov and Povov. “It’s about fucking time,” he growled . . . and then felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up when the robot moved closer. It was taller than the KVMs, with a six-sided head. “Oh, Christ,” he muttered. “You’re not one of ours, are you?”

  The Iron Wolf war machine shook its head. “No, I’m not.” It tossed an object onto the ground. Dobrynin stared down in horror at the smooth, featureless ovoid that rolled up against his boots. “That’s what’s left of your robots,” the CID said harshly. “Now it’s your turn. Surrender. Or die. It’s your call.”

  Numbly, Dobrynin tossed his submachine gun aside and raised his hands. He heard the clatter of weapons hitting the ground as Yumashev and Mitkin followed his example.

  ON THE FARRELL RANCH

  A SHORT TIME LATER

  Kirill Aristov decided it was time to go. So far, only a single medevac helicopter had landed and taken off. But he could hear more aircraft in the distance, along with the sound of police and fire-engine sirens coming closer. If he waited much longer, the ranch would be swarming with American police and soldiers. And there was no way he could evade a serious sweep by dismounted troops and sheriffs with dogs.

  From his vantage point on this low, wooded knoll, it was difficult to know exactly what had happened, but one thing was very clear: Baryshev’s attack had run into ferocious and wholly unexpected opposition. He’d seen at least one of the KVMs destroyed—blown to pieces near the top of the hill across from him. And he’d watched another vanish into the darkness beyond the burning ruins of Farrell’s ranch house . . . followed soon after by a powerful explosion. That, coupled with the sight of one of those Iron Wolf war machines moving out in the open without being fired on, strongly suggested the colonel and his men had been defeated. But whether they’d won or lost no longer mattered much to Aristov. His only goal now was to get off this ranch and out of the country as fast as possible.

  With that in mind, he carefully stowed his night-vision camera and scope back inside his camouflage suit. Then, slowly and cautiously, he wriggled backward, out from between the two gnarled trees he’d been using for cover. As soon as he reached a place where brush and high grass cut off his view of the burning house, he started to get up.

  And froze suddenly, feeling the cold muzzle of a gun at the base of his skull.

  “I’d sure appreciate it if you’d keep your hands where I can see them,” an amused-sounding voice drawled conversationally. “See, I’m a little high-strung just now . . . and my trigger finger gets kind of twitchy when that happens.”

  Aristov swallowed hard. He lowered himself back down and carefully spread his hands out, palms flat against the ground. He lay still while the gunman patted him down roughly, but efficiently—swiftly finding and removing his camera and his fighting knife, which was the only weapon he carried.

  The gunman stepped back. “You can roll over now, friend.”

  Aristov did as he was told . . . and saw a grizzled, tough-looking man pointing a Ruger Mini-14 Ranch Rifle at him. The American wore a camouflage suit much like his own. “You have the advantage of me, Mr.—?”

  The other man nodded politely. “The name’s Davis. Andrew Davis.”

  Aristov sighed. “And how long have you been watching me, Mr. Davis?”

  “Pretty much from the time you crossed Governor Farrell’s property line,” the American said casually.

  “So what happens now?”

  Davis grinned back at him. “We mosey on down to what’s left of the governor’s house.” His eyes hardened. “I sure hope you didn’t have any real urgent business, friend, like say down in Mexico, or maybe back home in Russia . . . because I’m thinking there are an awful lot of folks who are real eager to have a word or
two with you.”

  Forty-Four

  THE KREMLIN, MOSCOW

  A SHORT TIME LATER

  Vladimir Kurakin sat in painful silence, watching the evidence of an unmitigated disaster unfold in real time. The big-screen monitor in Gryzlov’s private office currently showed a hurriedly called press conference taking place at Governor John D. Farrell’s Texas ranch.

  The American presidential candidate stood confidently before an array of microphones—looking tired, but otherwise none the worse for wear. “These terrorist attacks against our military and our vital defense industries and scientists . . . and now against me . . . were carried out by Russian mercenaries—mercenaries I’m convinced were acting on the orders of the Russian government itself. Fortunately, thanks to the heroism and incredible self-sacrifice of a handful of brave American patriots and their Polish comrades-in-arms, this threat to our country and to our political stability was stopped cold tonight.”

  Farrell’s mouth tightened. “Despite President Barbeau’s earlier repeated assertions otherwise, the evidence of Moscow’s involvement in these atrocities is now overwhelming. The pieces of six wrecked Russian war machines, which they call Kiberneticheskiye Voyennyye Mashiny, are scattered across my ranch. I have no doubt that careful forensic analysis of these materials and components will prove conclusively where they were manufactured . . . in Russia . . . and nowhere else.” For a moment, a bit of mischievous humor peeked out through his serious expression. “And if that’s not enough to convince the president and her people of the boneheaded mistakes they’ve made all the way through this crisis, well, then, maybe interrogating the prisoners we captured here tonight will do the trick.”

  He looked straight into the cameras. “But whatever President Barbeau does or doesn’t do, the evil men responsible for orchestrating these brutal and unprovoked attacks on our country had better get one thing straight: If I win the election in November and become president of the United States, there will be a day of reckoning. And that’s not a threat. It’s a solemn promise—”