The Moscow Offensive

Thirty-Eight

Standing at a scarred, oil-stained workbench inside the warehouse, Dobrynin scrutinized the grainy, green-tinged night-vision pictures relayed by Aristov’s reconnaissance team. So far, what his commander was seeing closely matched the intelligence reports they’d studied. There were only a handful of uniformed police officers stationed around Farrell’s rambling, stone-walled ranch house and its outbuildings. Their pistols and shotguns wouldn’t be much use against Russia’s war robots.

He frowned down at his laptop.

Still, it had proved surprisingly difficult for Aristov to reach a concealed position on one of the wooded hills overlooking the American politician’s compound. Several of the most promising infiltration routes had been blocked by watchful guards or electronic surveillance gear. During the weeks their RKU unit had spent traveling the U.S. to scout possible targets, they’d never had so much trouble getting a man in close. Dobrynin was bothered by the disconnect between such tight outer security on the one hand and this apparent sloppiness so close to Farrell’s country house on the other. But what could explain the seeming inconsistency?

“Enough time has been lost,” a cold machine voice said over his shoulder. “Get your vehicles ready. We must be on the move to the Farrell ranch in the next ten minutes.”

Taken by surprise, Dobrynin jerked upright. He’d been so preoccupied that he hadn’t even heard the huge KVM come up right behind him. With his heart pounding so loudly that he was sure the machine’s sensitive audio sensors could hear it, he turned around. “Excuse me, Colonel?”

“Don’t play games with me,” Baryshev said bluntly. “I’ve given you an order. Now obey it.”

Dobrynin stared up at the robot. “But we haven’t finished our reconnaissance yet.”

“Further spying is unnecessary.” The machine stepped closer, crowding him back against the workbench. “Already, Aristov has thrown away precious hours… only to confirm what we already knew. Nothing can be gained by waiting another full day. If anything, all that will do is give the Americans more time to strengthen their defenses — or to find this warehouse. By now, the Poles must know the methods we are using to avoid detection. The American government will not be far behind.”

Shakily, Dobrynin nodded. That part of what Baryshev said was true. The destruction of their Moab air base meant their enemies must be aware they’d been using Regan Air Freight as cover for their operation. And it was only a small step from knowing that fact to zeroing in on FXR Trucking vehicles and facilities as the next logical piece of the puzzle. “Have you cleared this with Moscow?” he asked, still stalling for time.

“Kurakin has my recommendation,” the robot said flatly. “No doubt he will dither for a time before deciding one way or the other. But in the meantime, I am the senior officer here. Yes?” The threat in its normally emotionless voice was unmistakable.

“Yes, you are, Colonel,” Dobrynin agreed hastily. He had nothing to gain by opposing Baryshev’s orders. And everything, including, quite probably, his life, to lose. The only sane action was to play along and load the war machines aboard their three big rigs. By the time they arrived within striking range of Farrell’s ranch, Moscow should have made its call. If General Kurakin vetoed an immediate attack, they could always turn around and drive back to San Antonio, with no harm done. And if the RKU chief actually approved Baryshev’s request? Well, then, the more darkness they had to operate in, the better. He raised his voice. “Yumashev! Popov! Prep your trucks! We’re heading north.”

Aristov wished he could swear out loud without giving away his hiding place. He should have known Dobynin would buckle if pushed. The KVMs and their increasingly inhuman pilots were too frightening. Now the trucks carrying the robots were inbound — only thirty minutes away at most. If Moscow approved Baryshev’s demand for an immediate attack, what was he supposed to do? Stay here and watch from this hillside and hope that no stray rounds came his way?

There sure as hell wasn’t time for him to pull back before they arrived… not without being spotted by Farrell’s security guards. It had taken him half the night to worm his way this close to the governor’s ranch house. And once the KVMs did their dirty work and withdrew, what then? Would he be expected to somehow skate away in all the confusion? To where? Did anyone really think Larionov and Mitkin would be foolish enough to hang around and wait for him while every American police and military unit within two hundred kilometers came screaming in with their sirens on and weapons hot?

Pizda rulyu, Aristov thought bleakly, I am so screwed.

The noise of a fast-approaching helicopter broke into his despair. Instinctively, he flattened himself, hoping the multispectral camouflage elements in his ghillie suit would prove effective if the Americans already had aircraft up hunting for him. That might only be paranoid thinking, he realized. But with the universe suddenly seemingly stuck in a “let’s fuck Kirill over” setting, a touch of paranoia felt apt.

A black helicopter clattered low over his position. Rotors whirling, it swung back toward the ranch house and settled in to land not far from the building. Dust and tufts of grass swirled into the air. Lights abruptly flicked on around the compound. Another couple of Texas Rangers appeared from behind a stable and an equipment shed with their rifles at the ready. Several horses whinnied quietly from a corral outside his view, somewhere behind the ranch house itself. A dog barked off in the distance.

A man Aristov recognized from the pictures and video clips he’d studied as John D. Farrell came out of the house. He was accompanied by a single bodyguard. The Russian stared through the viewfinder of his compact Gen IV night-vision camera, torn between conflicting emotions. Was Farrell unexpectedly leaving his secluded ranch ahead of schedule? If so, Moscow would be furious at the missed opportunity to assassinate him. On the other hand, the Texan’s sudden departure would guarantee Aristov’s own survival—

Two men climbed down out the helicopter. One of them, bulkier than his gray-haired companion, seemed to move very awkwardly… almost mechanically. Farrell strolled over to greet them.

Without waiting any longer, the helicopter lifted off and flew away to the west at very low altitude, practically hugging the earth as it disappeared into the night.

Aristov triggered the zoom on his camera to get a closer look at these new arrivals. His eyes widened in astonishment as their faces filled his viewfinder. Without thinking, he snapped a string of pictures. The gray-haired stranger was former U.S. president Kevin Martindale, now the head of Scion. The other was a man who had long been Russia’s most determined and effective enemy… a man his leaders, especially President Gryzlov, believed was safely dead — reduced to nothing more than ashes scattered in the wind.

For a long moment, Russian president Gennadiy Gryzlov stared at the grainy, green images showing Kevin Martindale and Patrick McLanahan shaking hands with Farrell. This cannot be true, he thought. This must not be true. He exhaled sharply, struggling against a swelling wave of red, all-consuming rage. Closing his eyes, he gripped the edge of his desk, squeezing so hard that his knuckles turned white.

“Mr. President?” Vladimir Kurakin said nervously, backing away a few steps. “Are you all right? Should I call someone? Your secretary Ulanov? Or perhaps your personal physician?”

“That fat American whore Barbeau lied to me,” Gryzlov snarled, turning toward him. “She told me her fighter pilots killed McLanahan! She promised me he was dead!”

Kurakin looked down, unwilling to meet his leader’s furious gaze. Sweat beaded his forehead. “It is possible President Barbeau sincerely believed that to be the case,” he pointed out warily. “The strange exoskeleton the American wears proves that he was badly wounded, perhaps even crippled, when his aircraft went down.”

“I don’t want that murdering piece of shit crippled!” Gryzlov said through clenched teeth. “I want him torn to fucking pieces!” Gripped by fury, he came around his desk and strode over to the other man. “Very well! Since the Americans have failed so miserably, we’ll do the job ourselves.”

Kurakin moistened suddenly dry lips. “Mr. President?”

“Are Baryshev’s war machines in position?”

Warily, Kurakin nodded. “Almost, sir. His KVM force is assembling on a country road close to Farrell’s ranch.” He looked even more nervous. “But I strongly urge caution. Without further reconnaissance, we can’t be sure how strong the governor’s security forces really are. Captain Aristov is the only scout we were able to get into position. Who knows how many troops the Americans may have concealed outside his field of view?”

“You can’t seriously be frightened of a handful of cowboys and yokels with small arms?” Gryzlov scoffed.

Kurakin shook his head. “It’s not just them. This sudden visit by Martindale and McLanahan could indicate that Farrell’s bodyguards have been reinforced by the Iron Wolf machine that destroyed our base in Utah.”

“Enough!” Gryzlov snapped scornfully. “You’re sniveling like an old woman afraid of ghosts!” He turned away in contempt. “No more delays, Kurakin. We’ve just been handed the perfect opportunity to kill three birds of ill omen — McLanahan, Martindale, and Farrell — with a single stone. We’re not going to waste it. Order Baryshev and his pilots to attack immediately!”