Price of Duty

SEVEN

The four-engine Russian turboprop touched down hard on Konotop’s landing strip amid greasy puffs of black smoke from its landing gear. The aircraft rolled down the long concrete runway, decelerating fast as its pilot applied reverse thrust and braked. Similar to the American C-130, the An-12 was still the aging workhorse for Russia’s tactical air-transport command.

Propellers spinning slowly, the aircraft taxied off the runway and over to a brand-new hangar erected after last year’s surprise Polish attack had wrecked the base. It slowed to a stop and the rear clamshell door whined open.

Prodded out by a squad of armed Russian soldiers, several men emerged and gathered silently on the tarmac, blinking in the bright sunlight. Most were very young, though one gray-bearded fellow looked to be in his midforties. All of them still wore the sheepskin coats and high boots common in the Caucasus Mountains.

Spetsnaz Major Pavel Berezin strolled out from the hangar and stood with his hands on his hips for a moment, looking them over. His eyes narrowed in disgust. He turned toward his second in command, Captain Andrei Chirkash. “Well? What do you think?”

Chirkash shrugged. “They’ll do.”

“You think so?” Berezin asked skeptically.

“Any man can stop a bullet,” Chirkash pointed out.

The major laughed. “That is so, Andrei.” He shook his head. “All right, then, let’s get these bandits and sheepherders sorted out and on their way. The sooner they’re off my hands, the better I’ll feel.”

Chirkash sketched a salute and moved off to shoo the Chechens into the hangar.

Once the bearded men were inside, the guards marched them over to long, folding tables piled high with weapons, ammunition, explosive vests, other equipment, and clean, Western-style cold-weather clothing.

Berezin stepped forward. “Listen up! You were briefed on your assignment in Moscow last night. But here’s where it gets real.” He eyed the assembled Chechens. “Which of you is in charge?”

The oldest man stepped forward with a proud glint in his pale blue eyes. “I, Timur Saitiev, command this force.”

Berezin nodded. “Very well, Saitiev. Get your men changed and distribute those weapons and gear as you see fit.” He checked his watch. “Your truck will be here at any moment.”

“Yes, Major,” the gray-bearded Chechen said.

“One more thing,” Berezin told him. “Be sure to leave your personal effects here. Wallets. ID cards. Cell phones. Prayer beads. The lot.” He smiled pleasantly, lying through his teeth. “We’ll keep them safe for your return.”

Stoically, Saitiev shrugged. “As you wish.”

The Spetsnaz major had a sudden uncomfortable feeling the Chechen could read his mind and didn’t give a damn. Then again, why should he? If Saitiev and his followers were already willing to strap on suicide vests to avoid capture, they must have few illusions about the mission they were being asked to undertake.

He turned away, hiding a grimace. Aspiring martyrs always gave him the creeps. Killing for a cause was one thing. That was man’s work. But seeking out death deliberately? Berezin shook his head in disbelief. That was sheer madness.

“Odarennyye komp’yuternyye khakery pol’zuyutsa sprosom,” a deep, resonant masculine voice said.

“Gifted computer hackers are in high demand,” a higher-voiced translator repeated, in English.

In silence, Brad McLanahan, his father, and the rest of the Iron Wolf command team listened carefully to the remainder of the recorded conversation sent by emergency courier from Moscow. Major Nadia Rozek, serving as President Wilk’s personal representative, sat next to Brad. He found himself aware of her every movement, her every gesture, no matter how slight or fleeting. It was both exhilarating and completely disconcerting. Never before had he felt so completely connected to another person.

Nadia’s mouth tightened as the digital recording came to an end. She turned to Kevin Martindale. “This second man? The one speaking to Truznyev? Do you know who he is?”

“My people couldn’t get close enough to take a picture of him,” the head of Scion said slowly. “But from the context and from Truznyev’s general demeanor, we’re pretty sure it was Sergei Tarzarov, Gryzlov’s right-hand man.”

“Well, it’s nice to know that we’re not totally paranoid,” Whack Macomber muttered.

Martindale glanced at him. “Major?”

“The Russians really are trying to kill us,” Macomber explained.

“Thank you for that incredibly deep strategic insight,” Martindale said wryly. He looked around the table at the others. “I admit nothing we heard was especially earthshaking or surprising, but at least this offers us a glimpse of what’s going on. And perhaps just as importantly, a sense of just who is making it happen.”

That was true, Brad thought. Still, something else in what was said had caught his attention. “This so-called treasure cave or whatever… the place Truznyev seems to think is the center for Gryzlov’s cyberwar program?” he asked. “Do we have any leads on what he’s talking about or where it could be?”

“None,” Martindale admitted. He shook his head gloomily. “Since this hit my desk last night, I’ve had Scion analysts digging around in every Kremlin database we can access.” The corners of his mouth turned down slightly. “Which isn’t nearly as many as I would like. The Russians have markedly tightened their computer security protocols over the past twelve months.”

“Yeah, and now we know why,” Brad said. He frowned. Learning that the bad guys weren’t complete idiots wasn’t especially surprising, but it still sucked.

Martindale nodded. “Indeed.” His fingers drummed softly on the tabletop. “Still, we’ve picked up a few pieces of the puzzle. Just not enough to paint any kind of accurate or even coherent picture.”

“Pieces like what, exactly?” Macomber asked.

“Orders to various military engineering battalions, putting them on standby for what are labeled ‘strenuous construction projects of the highest priority,’” the other man answered. “Along with similar orders to railroad construction units… and requisitions for huge amounts of reinforced concrete and other building materials.”

“And where was all that stuff supposed to go?”

Martindale grimaced. “We don’t know.” He looked frustrated. “Every message we’ve found so far ends with the same instruction: ‘Additional directives will be transmitted solely in writing or by word of mouth from the senior command authority. No further records connected to this assignment will be maintained electronically. Violation of this order in the slightest degree will be punishable by death.’”

“Gryzlov knew we’d come poking around,” Brad said grimly.

“So it seems,” Martindale agreed. He shook his head. “In a contest like this, familiarity doesn’t necessarily breed contempt. Instead, as you learn more about how your opponent thinks, you develop the ability to anticipate some of his moves. We’ve used that against Gryzlov in the past. Unluckily, though, it appears the learning curve works in both directions.”

“This is not a game,” a cold electronic voice said abruptly. “This is a war. A real war. And it is high time we started fighting in earnest, not just pussyfooting around.”

Startled, Brad and the others turned toward the huge machine positioned at the far end of the table.

“Excuse me, General,” Martindale said carefully. “I’m not quite sure I follow you. What, exactly, are you proposing that we do?”

“Kill Igor Truznyev,” Patrick McLanahan said bluntly. “We should have done it sooner. He got a lot of good people killed last year for his own petty political ends. And right now he’s funneling computer hackers to Gryzlov to organize more cyberwar attacks against us. We should wipe him off the map. Now. Before it’s too late.”

Martindale’s face was impassive. Then, slowly, he shook his head. “I strongly disagree, General McLanahan,” he said quietly. “On tactical, strategic, and political grounds.”

“How so?”

“Tactically, it would be extremely difficult to eliminate Truznyev. Strategically, our surveillance operation against him is just now beginning to yield actionable intelligence,” Martindale explained. He leaned forward in his chair, tapping the table with one forefinger for emphasis. “And politically, the assassination of a former Russian president by Scion, Iron Wolf, or Polish forces would be an unmitigated disaster. It would hand Gennadiy Gryzlov and Stacy Anne Barbeau precisely the evidence they need to smear us as warmongering lunatics.”

“He’s right, General,” Whack Macomber said somberly. “Could we get some guys into Moscow to drop Truznyev? Sure. But making that kind of hit would be messy as hell. And the odds of getting our people out safely afterward?” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “As close to none as makes no damned difference.”

“I concur,” Nadia said firmly. She looked squarely at the CID. “I have studied the intelligence on this man with great care. Except in rare and completely unpredictable circumstances, like this clandestine meeting with Sergei Tarzarov, he surrounds himself with armed bodyguards, most of them FSB or Spetsnaz veterans. When he travels, he uses a wide variety of alternate routes, often employing decoy vehicles. To have any hope of success, an assassination attempt would require a sizable team equipped with heavy weapons. And any force large enough to complete the mission could never infiltrate undetected or escape successfully after the deed was done.”

“Then I will kill him myself,” the CID said tonelessly. “No weapon that Truznyev’s goons carry can stop me.”

Whoa there, big guy, Brad thought. What the hell had gotten into his father? “Dad, with all due respect, that’s nuts,” he said stubbornly. “Even if we could somehow slip a CID into Moscow on the sly, nailing Truznyev with one would be the same thing as taking out a full-page ad in the New York Times telling the whole world that we did it.”

“Who cares?” his father said flatly, still not bothering to use the voice synthesizer program that most closely matched his natural human tones. “It’s time to stop tap-dancing around Gennadiy Gryzlov and his thugs. Waiting like penned sheep while he makes his next move is an act of criminal stupidity.”

Abruptly, the CID containing Patrick McLanahan swung into motion, prowling around the conference table. Around and around, the huge fighting machine stalked, the very image of armored, eerily quiet lethality.

“Killing Truznyev, right under his nose, practically within spitting distance of the Kremlin, will send Gryzlov the only kind of message he understands,” the machine said forcefully.

“But, Dad, I—” Brad began, trying hard to think of some argument, any argument, that could break through whatever strange and murderous impulse held his father in an icy, implacable grip. He saw the anxious look in Nadia’s eyes and knew the same fears were mirrored in his own gaze.

Martindale held up a hand to stop him.

“Well, your suggestion is certainly worth considering more carefully, General,” the gray-haired head of Scion said hesitantly. “I suggest you work up a detailed plan for the operation. Once that’s done, we can bring President Wilk into the discussion and—”

Sirens went off suddenly outside the hangar, rising and falling in unearthly, earsplitting wails.

For a split second, Brad sat frozen, taken completely by surprise. Time itself seemed to slow down, with separate milliseconds ticking by one after the other. Whose bright idea was it to schedule a defense exercise now, smack-dab in the middle of a crucial strategy conference?

Then a loudspeaker blared, “Incoming! Incoming! Take cover!”

WHAAMM!

An explosion somewhere outside rocked the hangar, rattling light fixtures and knocking over water glasses on the table. Dust hung in the air, eddying oddly as concussion from the blast rippled through the room.

Oh, shit, Brad realized. This was no drill.

His father’s CID blurred into high speed, smashing right through the conference room’s locked exit. Shattered pieces of door went flying.

Reacting almost as fast, Martindale dove under the table for cover.

Brad, Macomber, and Nadia kicked away their chairs and ran for the opening. Nadia already had her pistol, a 9mm Walther P99, out and ready. They darted through the hangar and out onto the airfield.

WHAAMM! WHAAMM! WHAAMM!

They hit the dirt as another wave of huge explosions slammed down across the base — blowing craters in the runway in blinding orange bursts. Debris fountained high into the air. Plumes of oily black smoke from burning buildings and wrecked vehicles curled across the Iron Wolf base.

“Goddamn it,” Whack snarled, scrambling back to his feet. “We’re being mortared! Some bastard out there has us zeroed in.”

Patrick McLanahan sprinted southeast through the woods beyond the base. Coldly furious, he tore through obstacles in his path instead of detouring around them, leaving a trail of jagged pieces of perimeter fence and toppled, splintered trees.

L-band radar countermortar scan complete. Firing battery located, his computer reported. Imagery flashed into his consciousness. The CID’s sensors had traced the mortar rounds hammering the Iron Wolf compound back to their origin point — a large clearing near a farm road about three kilometers outside the airfield perimeter.

Warning. Adrenaline and noradrenaline levels spiking. Acetylcholine levels dangerously low. Serotonin falling. Immediate biochemical and neurotransmitter rebalance required. Initiating emergency medical protocols now.

With a low growl, Patrick overrode the CID’s health-monitoring systems, shutting down its unwanted attempts to tamper with his brain and body chemistry. Increasingly, there were moments when stray elements in the machine’s programming unnecessarily interfered with his fighting efficiency. Like now.

It was insane. Why should he slow his reaction time in combat? Unlike ordinary humans, he knew how to surf the rolling wave of his fury, using the emotion as a means of speeding up reflexes that were already lightning fast. It was another way to gain an edge over those too weak-willed and weak-minded to push these incredible war machines to their design limits.

Glowing trails slashed across on his vision display, highlighting new mortar rounds headed for the Iron Wolf base. For a split second, Patrick was tempted to drop into air-defense mode. His autocannon could sweep those rounds out of the sky before they did more damage.

Screw that, he thought savagely. Defense was a sucker’s game. When someone hit you, you killed them. It was that simple. And that effective.

Brighter patches of sunlight shone at the edge of his vision. He was closing fast on the enemy firing position.

Red lines suddenly zigzagged across the display. His sensors had spotted lengths of carefully camouflaged trip wire laced between trees along the edge of the woods. And each trip wire was tied into a powerful demolition charge.

That was clever, he decided. Those booby traps could have inflicted serious casualties on any conventional reaction force. His mouth twisted into a cruel smile. It was just too damned bad for the enemy that they were up against a killing machine, not a platoon of vulnerable human infantry.

Still sprinting at top speed, Patrick leaped high, clearing the tangle of trip wires in one long bound. He thudded down heavily in a field beyond the tree line.

Five hundred meters downrange, he spotted several men wearing civilian clothing gathered around a large tube with a baseplate and bipod assembly. Weapon identified, the CID’s computer announced, transferring the data through his neural links faster than conscious thought.

He scowled. That was a Polish-made 98mm heavy mortar. Probably one of a pair that had gone missing last year, sold on the black market by a crooked Polish supply sergeant. Nice, he thought coldly. Nothing said the universe really was not a warm and cuddly place quite like getting the crap blown out of you with a weapon made by your own allies.

Crack!

A .50-caliber round slammed into the CID’s torso at 860 meters per second. Its enormous impact knocked him backward a step and shattered several of the robot’s camouflage tiles. The bullet itself tumbled away, deflected by his composite armor. His jaw tightened. Damn it, that was enough.

It was time to do some killing, Patrick thought wrathfully.

A targeting cursor appeared on his display, highlighting a spot deep in a clump of trees off to the flank of the enemy mortar crew. Two-man sniper team. Range five hundred and twenty meters, the computer warned.

Reacting instantly, Patrick unlimbered his 25mm autocannon. He charged straight ahead, swiveling to fire on the move. A quick burst ripped the sniper and his spotter to pieces.

One of the bearded men serving the mortar looked up and saw him coming. His eyes widened in dismay. Yelling a warning, he fumbled for the assault rifle slung across his back. His startled comrades did the same, scrabbling frantically for the small arms they’d laid aside while feeding HE rounds into the mortar tube.

They were too late.

Patrick tore into them like a tiger pouncing on a flock of panicked goats. In a blur of purposeful, brutal motion, his robotic hands smashed skulls, shattered rib cages, and ripped screaming men limb from limb. Blood and broken bits of bone sprayed across the clearing and spattered across his armor.

At the end, one man tried to run.

“Not so fast,” Patrick said coolly. He caught the fleeing man in a remorseless, implacable grip and casually spun him around. “You win the toss. You get to live.”

His gray-bearded prisoner stared up at him in terror. “‘Adhhab ‘iilaa aljahim, shaytan! Go to hell, demon!” One hand scrabbled for a pull-cord detonator dangling from his coat pocket.

“You first,” Patrick retorted. Without hesitating, he hurled the other man high into the air and crouched down, covering the sensor arrays on the CID’s six-sided head with his arms.

WHUUMP.

The suicide vest exploded.

As the pall of smoke and grisly debris drifted away downwind, Patrick stood back up. A few more camouflage plates had taken a beating from the shrapnel packed into the vest, but his CID was otherwise virtually unscathed.

From start to finish, less than three minutes had passed from the moment the first mortar round hit the air base.

Inside a nondescript panel van parked along a dirt road several kilometers away, three men sat transfixed with horror, watching the gruesome images streaming in from long-range video cameras they’d sited to cover the Chechen attack.

“Presvataya Bogoroditsa. Holy Mother of God,” Captain Artem Mikheyev said shakily. “Unbelievable.”

“Those poor fucking sods never had a chance,” Usenko agreed. The major shook his head in dismay. “Not against that creature. Not against so much speed, firepower, and armor.”

Konstantin Rusanov swallowed hard. “That machine’s sensors must be incredible,” he said. “Did you see how easily it avoided the trip wires the Chechens set? My God, the robot spotted them as easily as if they’d been wrapped in neon-red tape!”

Usenko pulled his gaze away from the monitors. “Pack your gear,” he ordered. “The sooner we’re well away from this place, the safer I will feel.”

“Yes, sir,” both of his subordinates said in unison.

“I hope our masters in Moscow find the information gained from this massacre of use,” the major said sourly. He grimaced. “God knows I have no love for mindless brutes like those Chechen thugs, but even they deserved a better end.”