The Moscow Offensive

Nineteen

Brad McLanahan finished entering his flight plan into the XCV-62 Ranger’s main navigation computer. Then, methodically, he started clicking through a series of digital maps, checking and rechecking his work. Sometimes prepping for a mission took more time and effort than the flight itself. In this case, that wasn’t true. He was facing a grueling, eleven-thousand-nautical-mile, one-way trip. Even with all the automation built into the Ranger’s flight controls and several planned refueling and crew rest stops, he knew he was going to be pushing his endurance to its limits. When you threw in their need to avoid detection by radars and air patrols over several different countries — Algeria, Morocco, Colombia, Mexico, and, finally, the United States itself — the full magnitude of the challenge came into focus.

At last, satisfied that he’d caught and corrected all the obvious and not-so-obvious flaws, he pushed a virtual “key” on his MFD. “Mission plan accepted,” the computer acknowledged. “Minimum flight safety and fuel parameters met.”

Brad glanced across the cockpit at Nadia Rozek. The beautiful, dark-haired Polish special forces officer had her head down, studying her own displays. One of them showed a map of the North Atlantic. Colored icons indicated their best estimates of the positions of a number of Western and Russian naval task forces, including a U.S. Navy carrier group operating off America’s Eastern Seaboard. Circles of varying diameters showed radar ranges and the airspace within reach of routine combat air patrols for each group of warships. The circles moved and changed size and shape often, reflecting the flight path of E-2C Hawkeye radar planes on patrol.

As Brad’s copilot and systems operator, she was steadily working her way through Scion’s most recent intelligence on any air surveillance radars or other threats they might encounter along their planned route. At first he thought she was completely focused, so intent on her task that she was entirely unaware of his admiring gaze. Then he noticed the faint smile hovering at the corner of her lips.

Nope, he thought with inward amusement. The day he caught her off guard would be a first. She had more natural situational awareness than anyone he’d ever met, including Whack Macomber and his dad.

“I’m going to check on the rest of our gear,” Brad said. “Need anything?”

Nadia shook her head. “Not just yet, thank you.” Her faint smile deepened. “But I may want a foot rub or a massage later.”

“I’ll pass the word to our flight attendant,” he promised.

“My God, that’s not Colonel Macomber, is it?” she said, pretending to sound worried.

Brad chuckled. “Nah, he’s just a passenger.” He jerked a thumb at himself. “I guess I’m it, ma’am. Since I’m already the designated pilot, cook, bottle washer, and all-around, general-purpose gofer on this aircraft, what’s one more tough job?”

With a theatrical sigh of relief, Nadia got back to work.

Still smiling, Brad opened the hatch and slid down the Ranger’s crew ladder. He dropped lightly onto the hangar floor. Crews were working in every corner of the large bomb-resistant shelter the Iron Wolf Squadron used to prep its aircraft and CIDs for missions.

Technicians and mechanics swarmed over the XCV-62, making sure its avionics, engines, and other systems were in tip-top condition. They were devoting special care to the four Rolls-Royce Tay 620-15 turbofan engines buried in the wing’s upper surface. This was likely to be a long-duration mission and Brad and his team would be operating out of rough, improvised landing strips the whole time. Losing an engine to avoidable mechanical failure was not an acceptable risk.

He walked around the Ranger, making his own visual inspection. The STOL transport was around the size of a Gulfstream 450 business jet. It was big enough to carry two-plus tons of cargo or around twelve to sixteen passengers. Between its batwing configuration and the special radar-absorbent material coating its surfaces, the aircraft had a remarkably low radar cross section. While the Ranger wasn’t in the same stealth league as an F-22 Raptor, which had the radar signature of a marble when viewed head-on, it was close to that of the B-2A Spirit bomber.

The aircraft’s rear ramp was down. Brad squatted down beside the ramp, taking a good look inside the troop compartment. It was overcrowded, packed from floor to ceiling with equipment, weapons, ammunition, CID batteries and fuel cells, and other spare parts. The three combat robots he, Nadia, and Macomber would pilot were secured to bulkheads. They were powered down, seemingly lifeless. Six uncomfortable-looking web seats in two rows of three each filled the remaining space — providing cramped accommodations for Macomber and a five-man Iron Wolf recon team commanded by Captain Ian Schofield.

“Not a lot of legroom, is there?” a cheerful voice said.

Unhurriedly, Brad rose, dusted off his flight suit, and turned toward Schofield. The Canadian had served in his country’s special operations regiment before joining Scion and the Iron Wolf Squadron. His teeth gleamed white in a face weathered by years spent outdoors in all climates and seasons.

“Afraid not,” Brad agreed, with a note of apology. “If I said you guys were going to be packed in like sardines, you could sue me for overly optimistic false advertising.” Then he matched the other man’s wry smile. “But think of it like this, if we hit turbulence, you’ll never know it… because you’ll be jammed in too tight to move so much as an inch.”

Schofield laughed ruefully. “There is that.”

“We will be landing to refuel and grab some quick shut-eye at a few places along the way, so you and your men can at least get out and stretch your legs,” Brad promised.

“Ah, and these landing sites of yours would be an easy stroll away from various tourist hot spots, no doubt,” Schofield said dryly.

“Well, not exactly,” Brad admitted. “Martindale has Scion teams out setting up improvised airstrips and refueling points in the western Sahara, somewhere in the middle of the Colombian jungle, and the Chihuahuan desert in northern Mexico.”

Schofield’s easy grin flashed again. “You see? I knew there’d be lots of nightlife for my lads to enjoy on this little jaunt.”

“Pardon me?”

“Nightlife as in bugs, spiders, snakes, and other slithering creatures, Captain McLanahan,” the Canadian explained patiently. “The stuff of jungles and deserts, though not perhaps of pleasant dreams.”

Brad shook his head in mock pain. “Ouch. You were this close to making me feel sorry for you, Ian.” He checked his watch. “You’d best go round up your troops. We take off in thirty minutes.”

Polish president Piotr Wilk fought to control his temper as he listened to Stacy Ann Barbeau’s wild, almost unhinged accusations. The American president’s normally honey-sweet voice was full of dark rage. Although her image was grainy, distorted by the need to bounce encrypted signals from her orbiting E-4B command and control aircraft through multiple communications satellites, he could tell that same anger contorted her usually smooth features.

“What in God’s name were you thinking, you stupid son of a bitch?” she snarled at him. “Are you looking for a war with the United States? Because I can assure you that is what’s headed your way if you turned a blind eye to this massacre committed by Martindale and his mercenary soldiers!”

“And I can assure you, Madam President, that no one from Scion or from the Iron Wolf Squadron played any part in that monstrous attack on your country,” Wilk said, choosing his English language words with care and precision. “I know those men and women. Whatever their political or policy disagreements with your administration, they are all patriots. Every one of them. None would harm their homeland or its armed forces. If you doubt that—”

“Oh, spare me the sentimental bullshit,” Barbeau ground out through gritted teeth. “Patriots don’t fight for profit. And they certainly don’t do so at the orders of a foreign government like yours, Wilk.” She leaned closer to the camera, an action that only magnified the ugly look of fury plastered on her face. “You Poles hired a bunch of stone-cold killers because you were scared of the Russians. I warned you that was a dangerous move at the time. Well, fine. What’s done is done. But what made you think you could control thugs like that forever? Because now it looks to me as though Martindale’s dropped you right in the shit.”

Wilk shook his head. “You are overlooking the obvious, Madam President.”

“Like what?” she snapped.

“At my urging, former president Martindale contacted you some days ago to go over intelligence reports indicating that Gennadiy Gryzlov was organizing a deniable, covert mercenary force of his own.” Wilk set his jaw. “Unfortunately, now we see what he had planned. That is why I worry that this Russian attack on your air base is only the beginning of a much bigger and even more deadly clandestine war.”

Barbeau snorted. “Nice try. But no sale.”

“What do you—”

“Martindale’s robots,” she said flatly. “His precious CIDs. They were there. I saw them. Hell, we’ve got pictures of them, shooting up our planes and our people. Too bad your so-called warning didn’t include any mention of the Russians building their own war robots. Since we all know that kind of technology is way beyond Moscow’s reach, I guess you both figured that would be one lie I wouldn’t swallow.”

Wilk winced. “At the time, we had no hard evidence that the Russians were building their own cybernetic war machines. Their appearance at Barksdale Air Force Base was as much a surprise to us as it was to you. We now suspect that Gryzlov was able to reverse-engineer CID technology from components captured when two of our machines were destroyed in action more than a year ago.”

“How wonderfully convenient,” Barbeau said with a cold edge to her voice. “So, then, Mr. President, can you prove any of that? Or am I just supposed to bob my head and grin while Martindale screws me over for his own political ends and financial gain and then walks away clean?”

For a moment, he could only stare back at her in dismay. Was the American president really so blind? So caught up in dark paranoid dreams that she believed political rivals would be willing to commit treason to throw her out of office?

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” she said dismissively. After a moment’s thought, she shrugged her shoulders. “Okay, so here’s how we’re going to play this, Piotr: You say the Russians did this? With some mysterious new force of war robots? Fine. Then you give me your solemn assurance as Poland’s commander in chief, right now, with no ‘ifs, ands, or buts,’ that all of Martindale’s robots are still stationed in Polish territory or elsewhere in your piss-ass alliance.”

Frowning, Wilk glanced at the clock on his office wall. Brad and his team should still be on the ground, though only for another few minutes. He hesitated slightly, reluctant to sacrifice his personal honor in this way. Then he steeled himself. He’d sworn to defend his country and its freedom. If doing so required him to mince words to avoid confirming this woman’s obsessive fears, so be it. “You have my assurance, Madam President. All of the Iron Wolf Squadron’s CIDs are currently deployed in Poland.”

“Good.” Barbeau smiled unpleasantly. “Now that we’re on the same page, you’d better goddamned well make sure your hired killers stay put.” Her voice took on an even harder tone. “Because, if it turns out that you’ve lied to me… and those damned machines are operating inside this country, I promise you that my government will hold Poland and its allies directly responsible for an act of war committed against us… an act of war committed on our own soil.”

With that, she broke their connection.

Wilk looked away from the screen. His eyes met those of Kevin Martindale, who’d been sitting quietly in a chair listening to Barbeau’s tirade. “This is very, very bad. If any of our people are caught or killed now…” He let the thought trail off.

Somberly, Martindale nodded. “We’re damned if they are, and probably damned in any case. If we abort the mission, we give Gryzlov free rein to wreak havoc inside the United States.” His expression was bleak. “And if we don’t, and Brad and his team are spotted and identified, there’s a serious risk Barbeau might go off half-cocked. Which would pretty much guarantee that Poland gets crushed between the world’s two most powerful nations.”