Price of Duty

THIRTY-THREE

“We are two minutes out from the LZ,” Nadia Rozek reported. On the surface, she sounded cool, totally unruffled. But Brad could pick up the tension hidden beneath her outwardly calm, thoroughly professional manner.

“I confirm that,” he said. “I have the LZ in sight.” Through his HUD, the clearing they’d picked out from satellite photos as a landing zone was a brighter green against the darker green of the surrounding forest. They were arrowing toward it at three hundred knots, flying low down a narrow gap cut through the tall, razor-backed ridge that formed an outer barrier to the Nether-Polar Urals mountain chain.

The irregular, roughly oval-shaped clearing was a little under two thousand feet long and only about five hundred feet across at its widest point. Close study of the photos taken before snow covered the area had shown no signs of tree stumps or boulders that could tear off the Ranger’s landing gear or rip open its fuselage. But Brad knew satellite photos were one thing. Reality might be quite another.

“Ninety seconds out,” Nadia said. She tapped one of her MFDs, zooming in on the view through one of their forward-looking passive sensors. “No unidentified thermal contacts around the LZ.”

Brad nodded tightly. So far, so good, he thought. While it was still possible that antithermal camouflage might mask Russian troops deployed around the clearing, it wasn’t likely — not unless they’d been stationed there before this mission was even planned. And if that was the case, they were screwed any way you looked at it. “Give me a quick air-to-ground radar sweep of the immediate area, please,” he told Nadia.

Using radar of any kind, even for a single pulse, this close to the Russian cyberwar complex was risky, but he needed to confirm they had a clear field ahead of them. The radar sweep should reveal any obstructions hidden beneath the snow… and any enemy troops, weapons, or vehicles hidden under camouflage.

“Sweeping now,” Nadia acknowledged. She tapped a menu on her right-hand display once.

One quick tone sounded in Brad’s headset as the XCV-62’s radar pulsed once in air-to-ground mode. In milliseconds, the aircraft’s computer analyzed the information received from the sweep and showed the resulting image as an overlay across his HUD. “Looks clear,” he said. “We are go for landing.”

“Go for landing,” Nadia agreed. She tapped a key on one of her MFDs, alerting Macomber and the others in the troop compartment that they were on final approach.

Using a control on his stick, Brad scrolled a blinking cursor across the HUD and selected his preferred touchdown point. The navigation system updated his steering cues.

“Forty-five seconds,” Nadia announced.

“I am configuring for landing,” Brad said quietly. He entered a command on one of his MFDs and throttled back. The muted roar from the Ranger’s four turbofan engines decreased fast.

Their airspeed dropped. Hydraulics whined out along the trailing edge of the XCV-62’s wing. Control surfaces were opening to give them more lift as they slowed. There were more bumps and thumps below the cockpit as the Ranger’s landing gear came down.

When he got the green light confirming that their nose gear and bogies were locked in position, Brad disengaged the terrain-following system and throttled back even farther. “Hang tight!” he warned over the intercom.

The Iron Wolf aircraft slid down out of the sky and touched down. Thick curtains of snow fountained to either side, hurled high into the air as the Ranger raced down the clearing. It bucked and bounced across the uneven ground hidden beneath the snowpack. Carefully, Brad reversed thrust — trying to shed speed as rapidly as possible without risking a skid on this slick surface.

They slid to a shuddering stop with only a couple of hundred feet to spare. “Everyone all right back there?” Brad asked over the intercom.

“Jostled around and bruised a bit, but otherwise fine,” Ian Schofield said cheerfully. “Standing by to deploy once you drop the bloody ramp.”

Smiling with relief, Brad fed just a little power to the engines and steered the Ranger through a tight 180-degree turn so that they were facing back the way they’d come, ready for an immediate takeoff. Then he throttled all the way down and hit the ramp release.

Schofield and his four commandos were out in seconds, fanning across the snow-covered expanse to take up covering positions around the stationary XCV-62. One of them lugged three Israeli-made Spike-SR man-portable antitank missiles. The others were equipped with a mix of sniper rifles and automatic weapons.

The two Iron Wolf CIDs exited right behind them — slowly unfolding out of the cramped troop compartment. They glided down the ramp and out into the snow with long, menacing strides. Packs stuffed full of extra ammunition, explosives, and other gear were slung across their backs. The lead robot swiveled its six-sided head toward the cockpit. “Wolf One to Wolf Six-Two,” Macomber said. “Thanks for the ride. We’re moving out now.”

“Copy that, One,” Brad replied. His chest felt tight. “But be careful, Whack. If the defenses look too tough, don’t try to bull on through.”

“Don’t sweat it, Six-Two,” the other man said gruffly. “Charlie and I know what we’re doing. We’ll go in, shoot the crap out of a bunch of Russians, and boogie on back here before the survivors figure out what the hell just happened to them. Wolf One out.”

With that, the two Iron Wolf robots turned and loped southeast at high speed.

Gryzlov listened intently while Colonel Balakin made his report. “Our radar station at Kipiyevo picked up one brief contact about thirty minutes ago,” the colonel said. “But they say it vanished almost immediately. Within just a few seconds.”

“Was their system knocked out or spoofed by the enemy’s netrusion technology?” Gryzlov demanded.

“I don’t think so, Mr. President,” Balakin said. “The Vostok E crew reports no apparent interruption of their radar’s normal operation.” He hesitated. “However, Captain Golovkin has often warned of potential equipment problems caused by prolonged exposure to the winter elements. This fleeting contact may only be a false reading caused by a minor hardware malfunction or some software bug. Since we’ve seen no further signs of any enemy activity, that seems increasingly likely. In which case, I may have alerted my garrison unnecessarily.”

Gryzlov’s hand tightened around the phone. “Don’t be an idiot, Balakin,” he snapped. “You and your troops will stay on full alert until I decide otherwise. Is that perfectly clear?”

“Da, Mr. President,” the other man agreed hurriedly.

“Keep your eyes and ears open wide, Balakin, if you want to live through the night,” Gryzlov told him brutally. He disconnected and then punched the button for Ivan Ulanov. “Get me Colonel General Maksimov!”

Maksimov, his former instructor at the Yuri Gagarin Military Air Academy, sounded drowsy, almost half asleep, when he answered the phone. Impatiently, Gryzlov checked the time. His lip curled in disgust. It wasn’t even that close to midnight yet. Maybe the old man really was past his prime and ready for the boneyard, along with the rest of the old Soviet-era relics.

“It looks as though Poland’s Iron Wolf mercenaries have slipped right through your vaunted air-defense network, Valentin,” Gryzlov said, not bothering to hide his scorn. “I want two of the alert Su-50 stealth fighters stationed at Syktyvkar heading for the Pechora area at once! Tell the pilots to go in hard and fast, with their radars active. They are to shoot down any unidentified aircraft they detect. Failure will not be tolerated. Is that understood?”

“I understand, Mr. President,” the older man said. His voice was stiff. “But I must point out that sortieing our Su-50s with their radars powered up negates every advantage otherwise conferred by their stealth configuration and materials.”

“I don’t give a crap about stealth right now, Colonel General,” Gryzlov said icily. “You’ve boasted that the Su-50 is the best combat aircraft in the world — faster, longer-ranged, and more maneuverable than the American F-35. You also told me its phased-array radar and other sensors could detect and track any enemy aircraft, no matter how stealthy. Were those lies?”

“No, sir,” Maksimov growled, plainly stung.

“Then prove it,” Gryzlov told him. “Get those precious fighters of yours off the ground and tell the pilots to go kill whatever they find.”