The Moscow Offensive

Thirty-Four

Russia’s most advanced spy satellite orbited several hundred kilometers above the cloud-flecked globe — circling the world once every hundred minutes at nearly twenty-seven thousand kilometers per hour. As it crossed the terminator into darkness over the central Pacific, new commands reached its onboard computer. In response, its telescope rotated slightly, focusing on a different sliver of the earth spinning past far below.

Fourteen minutes later, the Razdan-1 satellite came into visual range of the new target its masters wanted investigated. Over the next few seconds, high-resolution digital cameras took several extremely detailed infrared pictures of a very small area of the United States. A high-speed radio antenna instantly relayed the images to Moscow through Russia’s Meridian satellite military communications network.

Russian president Gennadiy Gryzlov’s face contorted in anger as he studied the satellite pictures on his monitor. Even without the benefit of detailed analysis by the military’s photo interpretation experts, it was clear that RKU’s Utah base had been completely destroyed — along with its converted 737-200F cruise-missile carrier. He looked up at Vladimir Kurakin. “Were there any survivors for the Americans to interrogate?” he demanded.

“None,” the other man said. His face was pale and set. “As a security precaution when we established the Moab facility, the FSB’s Q Directorate hacked into the communications networks of all the local law enforcement and emergency services agencies. Our intercepts of police and ambulance service calls make it clear the Americans found no one left alive at the scene. Only mangled and burned corpses.”

Gryzlov nodded, feeling his anger subside. “So at least the Poles and their mercenaries did us one small favor.” One side of his mouth twitched upward in a wry, half smile. “That was kind of them.”

Kurakin stared back at him in disbelief. “I just lost nearly fifty of my best airmen, special forces operatives, and ordnance technicians, Mr. President,” he said stiffly. “I find it very difficult to see anything positive in this catastrophe.”

“Casualties are an inescapable consequence of war,” Gryzlov retorted. He shrugged his shoulders. “A few men killed and a single aircraft destroyed? Weighed against the damage your operations have already inflicted on the Americans, that’s nothing… a mere fleabite.”

Kurakin’s jaw tightened. But he stayed silent.

“From the beginning, we both knew basing an aircraft inside the United States was a high-risk venture,” the Russian president continued coolly. “Losing it is an unfortunate occurrence, but nothing more than that.”

Kurakin’s nostrils flared. “Unfortunate?” he growled. “That is not the word I would choose… sir.”

Gryzlov eyed him closely. The man he’d selected to command his mercenaries had served him loyally thus far. Was that time coming to an end? He hoped not. Replacing the former Spetsnaz general now — so close to the culmination of this secret war — would be difficult. No, he decided, it would be better to ride this faltering horse awhile longer, to death if need be, rather than waste valuable time looking for a new mount.

With a swift flick of his finger, he dismissed the satellite photos from his monitor. “Never mind, Vladimir. We don’t have time to waste on minor setbacks. Now that we’ve lost the ability to launch more cruise-missile strikes, we need to recalibrate your operations.”

“Recalibrate my operations?” Kurakin said, clearly taken by surprise. “You intend to continue this war? Even now?”

“Of course.” Gryzlov raised an eyebrow. “What else do you propose?”

“That we withdraw Baryshev’s KVM unit and their security team!” the other man replied forcefully. “And as soon as possible. The Iron Wolf attack that destroyed Colonel Annenkov and his entire unit proves that the Poles and Scion have penetrated our operational security. Baryshev’s robots are vulnerable.”

“Your fears are irrational,” Gryzlov said coldly. “You saw the pictures from the security cameras at Moab. Your base was destroyed by a single Iron Wolf machine. Correct?”

Kurakin grimaced. “Yes.”

“You see what that implies, of course?”

“That just one of the enemy robots was available,” Kurakin guessed.

Gryzlov nodded approvingly. “Exactly. The Poles must be too afraid to risk more of their foreign soldiers and machines in operations inside the United States.” He shrugged again. “I don’t see one lone Iron Wolf robot as a serious threat to our remaining forces… or to our plans. It would only be easy prey for our own KVMs.”

“But the Poles could pass on what they’ve learned to President Barbeau,” Kurakin warned.

“And what is that?” Gryzlov said. “Nothing beyond supposition and guesswork. Nothing in the wreckage of your Utah base ties directly back to us.”

“The Americans are sure to dig deeper into the new owners of Regan Air Freight and FXR Trucking,” Kurakin argued.

Gryzlov laughed, remembering the contingency arrangements he’d made with Willem Daeniker, the utterly mercenary and thoroughly amoral Swiss banker who’d been his go-between with Francis Xavier Regan and then with the managers of both companies. Gryzlov had sent a text message activating those emergency measures as soon as he’d received the first word of the Iron Wolf raid on RKU’s airbase. “Oh, I earnestly hope the Americans do conduct a thorough investigation, Vladimir,” he said cheerfully. “What they would learn would be most… instructive.

“Let me make this plain to you,” Gryzlov continued bluntly. “So long as it is likely that Barbeau and her advisers are still in the dark about our involvement, Operation Checkmate will proceed.”

Reluctantly, Kurakin nodded. “Very well, Mr. President. But I must tell you that our options going forward are increasingly narrow — especially now that we’ve lost our cruise-missile aircraft.”

“Why is that?”

“Because the Americans are learning from their earlier mistakes,” the RKU chief explained. “Their warships and submarines are putting to sea, where Colonel Baryshev’s robots cannot touch them. And their air and ground forces are mostly dispersed to heavily defended bases. Our KVMs could probably overrun one of those military installations… but not without being detected, tracked, and, ultimately, run to ground and destroyed.”

Gryzlov frowned. “Then we go after more of their armaments factories and weapons labs. Like that F-35 assembly plant and the cybernetics lab we just hit. The Americans don’t have enough troops or planes to defend every possible target against our robots.”

“They don’t,” Kurakin agreed heavily. “But they do have enough drones.”

“What?”

“The Americans are bringing more and more of their long- and medium-duration drones home from overseas,” the RKU chief explained. “Counting their operational MQ-1 Predators, MQ-1C Gray Eagles, MQ-9 Reapers, RQ-7 Shadows, and RQ-4 Global Hawks, that’s a fleet of a thousand unmanned aircraft. Most of them were once committed to hunting for terrorists, but it’s clear that homeland defense now takes a much higher priority.”

“Drones!” Gryzlov jeered. “Why should our KVMs fear them? Most of them don’t even carry weapons.”

“The Americans don’t need weapons,” Kurakin said. “They need information.” He shrugged his shoulders. “A single real-time image showing Colonel Baryshev’s machines loading or unloading from Aristov’s trucks would blow our whole operation sky-high.”

“Then we will turn our forces in another direction,” Gryzlov said coolly. “We will strike something the Americans do not expect. Something political.”

What Kurakin and the others had never understood was that his overall concept for Shakh i Mat, for Operation Checkmate, had always entailed a three-pronged assault on the United States — striking first at its military power and defense industries… and then, later, nearer to its presidential election, taking aim directly at its political stability. But now that America’s armed forces and factories were too well protected, it was obvious that the time had come to go straight for the throat.

Still smiling, Gryzlov gave Kurakin his new target.

The other man turned even paler. “But, Mr. President, that would be—”

“An act of war?” Gryzlov said mildly. His eyes were ice-cold. “What did you think we were doing here, Vladimir? Playing a game? What is one more dead American, among so many others?”

Kurakin’s face froze for a long moment. At last, he dipped his head, acknowledging the instructions he’d been given. “Your orders will be obeyed,” he said carefully. “But I strongly recommend that Aristov and his team be allowed to conduct a thorough reconnaissance before Baryshev’s war machines attack. Given the consequences of any failure, we cannot risk encountering anything unexpected.”

Blithely, Gryzlov agreed. “If you strike the king, you must kill the king.” His expression grew even more callous. “And of course, the same rule applies even when you strike at the king-in-waiting.”