The Moscow Offensive

Fourteen

Yuri Annenkov stood up to greet the two men who entered his sparsely furnished office at one end of the trailer. Despite their business suits, neither of them could really be mistaken for a midlevel corporate executive, no matter what it said on their false passports. While only of average height, both were remarkably fit and moved with the easy assurance of men used to handling advanced aircraft under high-Gs in combat conditions.

“How was your flight?” he asked.

“Uneventful from a security standpoint, but damned noisy,” Colonel Ruslan Baryshev, the older of the two, answered. His thin-lipped smile stopped well short of his pale blue eyes. “Some fat American woman’s brat screamed all the way from Toronto to Salt Lake City.”

Annenkov winced in sympathy. No real pilot, especially not a former Su-50 stealth-fighter squadron commander like Baryshev, could enjoy being forced to travel as a mere passenger at the mercy of some other flier. Doing so in the sort of dingy, jam-packed horror shows that passed for commercial airliners these days must have seemed like a foretaste of hell itself.

Baryshev nodded toward his companion. “This is my wingman, Captain Oleg Imrekov.”

“Technically, I’m your former wingman, sir. And no longer exactly a captain,” the younger man said with a more genuine smile. He sketched a salute to Annenkov. “KVM Senior Pilot Imrekov reporting for duty.”

Baryshev shook his head in mock despair. “And thus you see how discipline dies in the glorious private sector, Yuri. Once I could have had this young whelp shot for disrespect. Now the best I can do is contemplate giving him a bad performance review.”

Annenkov laughed. He waved them into the two chairs in front of his desk and sat down himself. “The rest of your lads arrived yesterday, Ruslan. For now, they’re bunking with my air and ground crews.”

“Any complaints?”

“Major Zelin did bitch a little about the selection of drinks at the O Club,” Annenkov allowed.

Baryshev raised an eyebrow. “You have an officers’ club here?”

“Only if you count a folding table with a bottle of vodka and a supply of disposable plastic cups as a club.”

“Ah, luxury,” Imrekov said. “Back at our old fighter base at Syktyvkar, we had to share our cups. And they were made out of paper. Cheap paper.”

“You were lucky to have that much, Oleg,” Baryshev said with a grin. “In my days as a lowly junior pilot, we were only issued one drinking straw per regiment.” Dumping the grin, he turned back to Annenkov. “How about our gear? Is everything in order?”

“No problems,” Annenkov assured him. “My ordnance man, Filippov, reports he’ll have your Kiberneticheskiye Voyennyye Mashiny fully reassembled and battle-ready by tomorrow morning.”

“That’s excellent news.” Satisfied, Baryshev sat back. “Have we received the ‘go’ orders and mission assignments from Moscow?”

Annenkov shook his head. “Not yet. But it can’t be long now. Major General Kurakin is pulling in all of our covert reconnaissance outfits. Once they get here, Captain Aristov’s team will switch over to act as your local security element and ground transportation unit.” Baryshev nodded his understanding.

“I do have one question, Ruslan,” Annenkov said carefully. “Why only employ six of these combat robots in your unit? If Shakh i Mat is so important to the higher-ups in Moscow, why not send a larger assault force?”

“Do you have any idea of how much it costs to manufacture a KVM?” Baryshev asked quietly.

“Quite a bit, I would imagine. Perhaps the cost of a T-90 main battle tank? Or a little more?” Annenkov guessed.

“Try nearly six billion rubles, Yuri,” Baryshev said flatly. “Each.”

Annenkov felt his eyes pop open wide in amazement. Six billion rubles? For a single robotic war machine? My God, he thought. That was around one hundred million American dollars, which meant a KVM cost more than one of those fifth-generation Su-50 stealth fighters Baryshev and his wingman used to fly. Or two hundred of the Kh-35 cruise missiles arming his converted 737-200F cargo jet. “And they’re worth that much?”

“Without question,” the other man said. His pale eyes were infinitely colder now. “Only wait until my fighting machines go into action against the Americans. For years, their puppets and mercenaries have swaggered around the world, believing that no one else could ever develop this technology. Soon they will realize just how big a lie that was.”

For a long, uncomfortable moment, Gennadiy Gryzlov sat in silence, coolly observing the two men who’d just been ushered into his private office. As usual, Viktor Kazyanov, his long-suffering minister of state security, looked apprehensive. He was more a rabbit than a man, Gryzlov thought in contempt. Droplets of sweat already beaded the intelligence director’s high forehead.

Vladimir Kurakin, the head of RKU, was evidently made of stronger stuff. As befitted a decorated special forces commander with years of combat experience, he met the president’s hard-eyed gaze without flinching.

Gryzlov nodded politely to him and then turned his attention back to Kazyanov. “So, Viktor, from that uncontrollable quiver in those fat white hands of yours, I assume your efforts to find and capture the foreign spies who infiltrated the Twenty-Second Spetsnaz Brigade HQ have failed,” he said. “As usual.”

The minister of state security swallowed convulsively. “I am afraid so, Mr. President,” he admitted, with clear reluctance. He moistened dry lips. “Without photographs or even decent descriptions of those who masqueraded as Colonel Zakharova and the accountant Solomin, our army and police units manning checkpoints on the highways and at airports and rail stations had too little to go on.”

“So the criminals who murdered two of our soldiers and stole vital secrets have successfully escaped?” Gryzlov asked. He forced himself to speak calmly, almost as though he were asking the spy chief about the weather outside. Miserably, Kazyanov nodded. “And which of the various foreign intelligence services do your analysts believe committed this outrage?”

“Without more evidence, that is a difficult question to answer,” Kazyanov said carefully. “Ballistics analysis indicates that the weapon used to kill Captain Leonov and Sergeant Isayev was originally issued to an FSB assassination squad that disappeared without a trace in Thailand more than ten years ago. And unfortunately, nothing else we’ve found so far concretely ties this operation to any particular enemy country.”

“And yet your analysts are paid to answer difficult questions, are they not?” Gryzlov asked with deceptive mildness.

“Yes, Mr. President,” Kazyanov agreed hurriedly. He hesitated for a second or two and then went on. “Well… the consensus seems to be that it might have been the CIA—”

“Bullshit,” Gryzlov snapped. “Are you really that stupid, Viktor? Do you genuinely believe the CIA would try something so audacious? Or authorize its agents to kill so mercilessly?” He shook his head in disgust. “Haven’t you been paying attention to your own damned reports? The dickless cretins Barbeau put in charge of the CIA are far more interested in handing out rainbow-colored condoms at Langley gay-rights celebrations than in conducting high-risk operations like this one.”

He stared coldly at Kazyanov, savoring the sudden rush of power as the bigger man physically wilted into his chair. “No, this was Martindale’s doing. He’s the only one out there ruthless enough to order this kind of ‘wet work’ on our soil.”

Kurakin spoke up. “That would certainly explain those brief radar contacts made by the S-400 battalion at Feodosia.”

“Precisely,” Gryzlov said. “It was one of Martindale’s damned stealth aircraft, probably the same STOL transport he used at Perun’s Aerie. And it slipped through our whole air defense network without anyone laying a finger on it.” His eyes were hooded. “I am getting very tired of watching our vaunted ‘defenders of the Motherland’ screw up time and time again.” The corners of his mouth turned down. “Perhaps our radar crews, SAM units, and fighter pilots need another taste of the lash.”

Neither Kazyanov nor Kurakin said anything to dispute him.

And they are wise not to, Gryzlov thought icily. Thanks to hacked acquisition and targeting software installed in Russia’s most advanced SAM regiments, some of Martindale’s Iron Wolf mercenaries had escaped his carefully laid trap at the Perun’s Aerie cyberwar complex. And unable to trust his own weapons, he’d been forced to concede a draw to the American and his Polish paymaster, Piotr Wilk. Furious, he’d made sure that heads rolled.

The first of those to fall had been Colonel General Maksimov, once his own mentor at the Yuri Gagarin Military Air Academy. Maksimov had been forced to resign as head of the Aerospace Defense Force for “medical” reasons. When the general suffered a fatal stroke a few months later, Moscow gossips had darkly whispered the old man’s death wasn’t natural. Gryzlov considered it revealing that so many of his countrymen were willing to blame poison for a seizure actually triggered by deep personal shame and public humiliation. On the other hand, there’d been nothing natural about the sudden deaths of more than a dozen top software engineers in Nizhny Novgorod — unless, of course, you understood that taking a bullet in the back of the head was the natural and inevitable consequence of treason and incompetence.

For a few seconds, he pondered ordering another round of courts-martial and executions, starting with those lazy buffoons at the 22nd Guards Spetsnaz Brigade and eventually moving on to the blind, deaf, and dumb Su-27 fighter pilots who’d failed to intercept Martindale’s stealth aircraft. Not yet, he decided. None of those he might punish were going anywhere. Let them sweat.

His decision made, Gryzlov looked up from his brief reverie with a scowl.

Kazyanov, who’d been caught mopping at his own brow with a handkerchief, froze. His face turned gray with fear.

“Get out, Viktor,” Gryzlov said with a heavy sigh. Verbally abusing the other man was still mildly amusing, but the experience was beginning to pall. Sooner or later he was going to have to get rid of Kazyanov. And the minister of state security knew only too well that men in his position — with access to so many secrets — rarely lived long enough to enjoy retirement. Gryzlov made a mental note to have Kazyanov put under even closer surveillance. It would never do for poor, old Viktor to imagine he could successfully defect.

When the door closed behind Kazyanov, Gryzlov turned back to Kurakin.

“How badly has our security been compromised?” he asked bluntly.

“I’ve reviewed the files those two spies accessed,” Kurakin said. “Whoever did this must now be aware of RKU’s existence… and at least some of our capabilities.” He shrugged. “If there were any doubt, cyber specialists from the FSB’s Q Directorate detected in-depth probes of different commercial and governmental databases within twenty-four hours after the incident at Bataysk. But they were unable to trace those probes back to any identifiable source.”

“Which really tells us all we need to know about who was responsible,” Gryzlov said dryly. “Martindale’s Scion operatives were poking around for more information about RKU.”

“Yes, Mr. President.” Kurakin nodded. He hesitated, knowing how little Russia’s leader liked hearing unwelcome suggestions. “It might be best to delay implementing Shakh i Mat until we can build in more layers of operational secrecy. If Martindale or the Poles pass their information on to the Americans—”

“Checkmate will proceed on schedule,” Gryzlov said, cutting him off with a sharp, decisive rap on his desk. “Whatever personnel files and equipment records were stolen from Bataysk could not have compromised our operational plans. Meanwhile, your forces are already in position. Delay now would only increase the risk of the Americans stumbling across some of our people by accident.”

Again, Kurakin nodded. There was truth in the president’s blunt assertion. While internal security in the United States was so lax as to be almost nonexistent, there was always the chance of one of his teams being caught in a routine traffic stop gone wrong or in some other slipup.

“Besides, Vladimir,” Gryzlov continued with a smile. “The fact that Martindale knows he has a new Russian ‘competitor’ is essentially meaningless. Even if he somehow persuades Barbeau and others that he’s telling the truth, what can they do?” He leaned back in his chair. “That is the beauty of our plan, is it not? We are co-opting the same tactic of plausible deniability so often used by the Americans to evade responsibility for Scion’s own actions.”

Privately, Kurakin suspected almost no one would swallow Gryzlov’s claims of innocence once the Americans figured out what was really going on. Oh, he supposed that a few neutrals and a handful of the weaker Western-allied powers might be willing to choose a convenient lie over the inconvenient truth. But no major world player would buy the idea of a freelance, rogue Russian military corporation operating outside Moscow’s command and control.

Still, he concluded, handling the inevitable diplomatic and military fallout from this operation would be a problem for the president to solve later. His particular and immediate task was simpler. His job was to make sure that RKU’s attacks were structured to cause maximum confusion and to inflict as much damage as possible in a short period of time. The more confusion, the longer it would take the U.S. to pin this operation on Moscow. And the more damage his forces caused, the more difficult it would be for the Americans to retaliate effectively against the Motherland.

Kurakin came back to the present moment. Wisely or unwisely, President Gryzlov had made his decision: Operatsiya Shakh i Mat would proceed. Julius Caesar’s comment on crossing the Rubicon, declaring war against Pompey and the Roman senate came to mind. Alea iacta est. The die is cast. So now, as a loyal soldier, he must do his best to make sure that die landed with the winning number faceup.

“Yes, Mr. President,” he said simply.

“Good. I’m glad that’s settled,” Gryzlov said, sounding satisfied. “So now we can move on to the details. First, have your staff planners finally settled on a first target? Or are they still pissing around with their maps and briefing books?”

With an effort, Kurakin suppressed a quick flash of irritation. Selecting the most vulnerable and valuable targets from the wealth of information gathered by his covert recon groups was no easy matter in the first place. But it was child’s play compared with the work required to develop coordinated movement and assault plans that made the most effective use of RKU’s war robots — enabling them to arrive in striking distance in secret and then to escape undetected.

“We do have a recommendation, Mr. President,” he said finally. “We propose launching Checkmate’s first blow to cause maximum damage to our country’s most dangerous enemy.”

“Show me.”

Kurakin pulled out his laptop and connected it to Gryzlov’s ultrasecure private network. Completely independent of any Kremlin servers connected to the outside world, this network was designed to be almost impossible for hackers to penetrate. Only the president’s most trusted subordinates were granted access or allowed to connect their own devices. Periodic sweeps by Q Directorate specialists checked for any signs of infiltration or hidden malware.

A map of the western United States appeared on the large LED screen set into Gryzlov’s desk.

Kurakin tapped a key on his laptop. The map zoomed in, revealing a stretch of high desert in northern Nevada nestled in among several mountain ranges. A target icon blinked into existence on top of what looked like an airfield. “As you can see, there are only a few highways we can use to move our KVMs into range of this objective. But that same relative isolation ensures a significant delay before regular American military forces can react to our assault. By conducting simultaneous cruise-missile strikes at key choke points, we can further—”

“Permission denied,” Gryzlov said quietly.

Startled, Kurakin looked away from the projected map. “Excuse me, Mr. President?”

“I know you’re not deaf, Major General,” the president said. “You heard me perfectly. This proposed target is off the table, at least for now.”

“But why?”

“Because,” Gryzlov said patiently, “if we play our cards right, the Americans themselves will take care of those troublemakers. We won’t even have to lift a finger. Or fire a single missile.”

For a moment, just a moment, Kurakin saw red. What the hell kind of manipulative game was the president playing with him? Only years of ingrained discipline prevented him from throwing a punch right into the younger man’s smug face. That and the certainty that doing so would mean a painful and lingering death. Gennadiy Gryzlov was not a forgiving man.

With difficulty, he regained a small measure of control over his emotions. “I see,” he said through gritted teeth. “Does this mean you’ve already chosen another target of your own, sir?”

“That’s correct,” Gryzlov agreed. He held up a hand in apology. “I’m sorry to have sprung this on you so suddenly, Vladimir. But we’re being handed a golden opportunity… one we would be fools to ignore.”

He tapped the slick surface of the computer built into his desk. Instantly, Kurakin’s operational map disappeared. In its place, short clips from several recent American television news programs scrolled across the screen, accompanied by subtitles in Russian. When they ended, another map appeared — this one centered on the southeastern United States. A single red targeting icon blossomed on the map.

“There’s your new first objective,” Gryzlov said. He smiled, seeing Kurakin’s face suddenly pale. Devilish amusement danced in his eyes. “The Americans are busy making themselves look like idiots with this interminable political season of theirs. So why shouldn’t we help make sure their presidential election campaign starts off with a bang, eh?”