The Moscow Offensive

Thirty-Nine

Colonel Ruslan Baryshev brought his KVM’s systems to full readiness, transitioning from the power-saving mode used while they were being hauled around by truck. Limbs that had been locked in position whirred into motion. Data from newly energized sensors flooded through the neural link into his mind. It was as though he had been nearly blind and deaf, peering out at a silent world through a tiny pinhole… and then, in the blink of an eye, he found himself gifted with senses far beyond those of any mortal man. He felt a surge of exhilaration as the machine he inhabited came fully online.

Bent low to clear the trailer’s ceiling, he dropped down onto the ground and then straightened up to his robot’s full height. Immediately Dobrynin and the four other ex-Spetsnaz soldiers who served as the unit’s drivers and scouts backed away in fear. Baryshev accepted that as his due. They were right to be afraid. From the dawn of time, myths and legends had spoken of gods and demigods who walked the earth among mere humans — handing down judgment and dispensing vengeance as they saw fit. Now those myths had become reality.

He stepped aside, making room for Oleg Imrekov to bring his own machine out of the semitrailer they shared. Around him, the other four KVMs disembarked from their own transports. All three of the big trucks were parked along a dirt road that wound north from here, paralleling the flank of a lightly wooded rise. His night-vision sensors revealed a jumble of limestone and granite hills and ridges rising in all directions.

“Distance to primary target?” Baryshev queried the robot’s computer.

Straight-line distance is thirty-one hundred meters, it replied. Instantly, the computer updated his tactical display with a detailed topographic map. It incorporated the most recent satellite-derived data with new information obtained by Aristov and Larionov during their attempts to infiltrate through the enemy’s security perimeter. Icons representing known and suspected sentry posts and electronic surveillance gear speckled the map.

Whoever commanded Farrell’s guard force was clever, Baryshev admitted to himself. The American had deployed his limited resources to maximum effect — placing almost every possible avenue of approach to the governor’s vacation home under some form of observation. Aristov had been lucky indeed to find the solitary weak point in those defenses… and even then the gap was one only a highly trained operative like the former Spetsnaz officer could possibly exploit.

He frowned. Those sentries and sensors could not do anything to stop his planned assault, but they would make it impossible to achieve complete surprise. No doubt his KVMs could silence one or two of the guards posted in those hills without raising an alarm. But the security net was too tight. Sooner rather than later, the enemy would know his robots were on their way. And even a few minutes of warning would make the job of tracking down their intended victims — Farrell, Martindale, and McLanahan — that much more difficult and time-consuming. This would be especially true if Kurakin’s warning of a possible Iron Wolf CID operating in the area proved accurate. A single enemy combat robot would be no match for his machines, but destroying it would take time.

In the end, Baryshev thought, none of that should matter very much. The nearest American heavy reaction force was stationed at Fort Hood, more than 160 kilometers away. Even if they took off immediately, the AH-64D Apache Longbow gunships based there would take at least thirty minutes to arrive within striking range. Any tanks and infantry fighting vehicles ordered out would be hours behind the gunships. Still, why take unnecessary chances?

With that in mind, he discarded his preliminary plan, which had called for a simple head-on rush by all six KVMs. Quickly, he sketched out an alternate maneuver — one that proposed a converging assault on Farrell’s ranch house by three two-robot teams. Attacking nearly simultaneously from three separate directions should split the American defenses and render any escape attempt futile.

Baryshev’s computer highlighted one of the assault routes he’d selected in red. It was the one that envisioned two war machines swinging to the right around the southern edge of the ranch. Once in position, they would attack from the east while two more pairs of KVMs came storming in from the south and west. Early detection on this route is possible, it declared. Multiple communications satellite connections identified here. An icon appeared on his map, on the main north-south road through this area and just outside the ranch’s main gate.

“Identify those signals,” Baryshev ordered. “Correlate them with the most recent satellite photos.”

CNN, FOX, MSNBC, ABC, CBS, BBC… the computer reported, listing a slew of different media outlets from the United States and around the world. It pulled up a satellite photo showing a group of vans with antenna dishes in a tight-packed cluster on the shoulder of a narrow, two-lane road. A police car was parked just inside the gate, apparently keeping an eye on the press flock.

The media were camped out as close as they could get to the American presidential candidate’s doorstep, Baryshev realized — which in this case was nearly two kilometers away. After so many days stuck deep in this rural backwater, this band of reporters must be growing desperate for some dramatic bit of news to fill airtime.

He opened a secure channel to the other robots in his force. “Specter Lead to all Specter units. Attention to orders.” With a flick of one finger, he transmitted his revised attack plan to their computers. Imrekov, Zelin, and the rest radioed their acknowledgment. Their voices sounded avid, as though they were wolfhounds straining at the leash.

The Russian KVM commander bared his teeth in a malevolent grin. Just as in all the old stories of men and women who made deals with the devil, those journalists were about to have their deepest desires fulfilled… though not at all in the way they expected and only at a terrible price.

From his concealed position on the hillside above the road, Ian Schofield watched the Russian war machines split up and stride away into the darkness. The men who’d accompanied them were spreading out along the dirt road. His guess was that they were setting up a security perimeter around the three tractor-trailer trucks and a dark-colored sport utility vehicle. He zeroed in on one through the night scope attached to his M24A2 Remington sniper rifle. The Russian was armed with a submachine gun. He also wore body armor and a radio headset.

Seeing that, the Iron Wolf recon unit leader chewed at his lip, wishing he dared to transmit a quick warning to Andrew Davis and the rest of his team. But it was impossible. They had to assume the Russian combat robots had sensor capabilities that matched those of their own CIDs. If so, the enemy would pick up any transmission, no matter how short. Radioing in right now would be like sending up a flare. Not only would doing so give away his position, with fatal consequences for him personally, it would also blow this entire operation.

So instead, Schofield continued to lie low. He hoped like hell this scheme the McLanahans and Nadia Rozek had cooked up on the fly actually worked the way they hoped… because if it didn’t, an awful lot of good people were going to get killed. Of course, given the odds stacked up against them, that was a likely outcome no matter how things played out.

Karl Ericson tossed his cigarette butt down and ground it out under his heel. Then he refolded his arms and leaned back against the production truck. He narrowed his eyes against the glare of klieg lights, surveying the gaggle of reporters and cameramen milling around outside the big ornamental wrought-iron gate with undisguised boredom. National Cable News paid his salary as a broadcast engineer. That meant he was expected to be able to install, operate, and maintain all the video, sound, and satellite communications equipment needed by this particular television news crew. It didn’t mean he had to pretend that everything they did was important.

“Let’s go live to Governor John D. Farrell’s country estate, where our crackerjack reporter I. M. Sofullofshit will once again prattle on for thirty seconds about nothing at all,” he grumbled to Amy Maguire, his petite, red-haired sidekick. She was the production crew’s audio assistant.

She laughed. “I think he told New York we had some really hot breaking news this time.”

“Like what, for Christ’s sake?”

Maguire shrugged. “Well, that sheriff’s car that’s been guarding the gate did pull out of here about half an hour ago.”

Ericson rolled his eyes. “Seriously? That’s his big scoop? A couple of Cowtown cops go off on a kolache and doughnut run?”

“‘I’m not saying it’s evidence of a black-ops conspiracy, Tom,’” Maguire said portentously, mimicking the earnest, soulful tones favored by their not-so-favorite piece of on-air talent. “But it could be a conspiracy—”

And then the darkness beyond the circle of TV lights erupted in fire and shattering noise. A fusillade of high-explosive bullets ripped into the crowd of reporters and cameramen — mowing them down in a flurry of blinding flashes. Parked production trucks started coming apart under the shattering impact of more 30mm cannon rounds.

Wide-eyed with horror, Ericson turned to grab Amy Maguire and drag her away… and abruptly found himself sprawled on his back several yards away from where he’d been standing. Flames boiled off the wreckage of their vehicle. More explosions rocked the ground, but he couldn’t hear anything. Everything seemed to be happening in an eerie, unearthly silence. He couldn’t feel his legs.

Through glazed eyes, he saw a tall, terrifying shape emerge from the drifting smoke. Its head, a smooth ovoid bristling with antennas, spun in his direction. He opened his mouth to scream as it raised a metal arm, aiming a massive weapon at him.

There was a final blinding flash. And the whole world went black.

Baryshev turned away from the American he’d just killed. It was time to move on. His audio and visual sensors weren’t picking up any more signs of life in the immediate area. He strode back through the tangle of burning vehicles, untouched by the searing heat that swept across his KVM’s outer armor.

Another robot waited for him across the road. “I don’t want to worry you, Lead, but it’s possible the enemy now knows we’re here,” he heard Imrekov say with dry amusement.

Baryshev laughed, gripped by the sense of fierce joy he increasingly experienced whenever given the chance to demonstrate his power. “Much good may it do them, Two.” He switched his attention to his computer. “Replay radio transmissions intercepted from the enemy compound since we opened fire here.”

No transmissions recorded, the computer reported.

He arched an eyebrow in surprise. None? Shouldn’t this sudden slaughter have sparked a flurry of radio chatter among the different elements of Farrell’s security detail? In fact, triggering such a burst of signals was one of the reasons he’d carried out this massacre in the first place. He’d anticipated learning more about the Americans’ plans and current deployment by analyzing their frantic emergency transmissions.

Imrekov confirmed that his computer hadn’t picked anything up either. “Are the Americans so deeply asleep? Or only deaf?”

Baryshev shook his head. “Neither, I suspect, Two. They are only exercising remarkable communication discipline.” Mentally, he shrugged. Let the Americans cower in silence. It wouldn’t save them in the end. He opened a channel to the rest of his assault force. “Specter Lead to all Specter units. Commence main attack. Repeat, commence attack.”

Joy-filled, guttural voices poured through his headset, acknowledging his order with animal-like glee.

Imrekov’s KVM sprinted toward the wrought-iron gate closing off a winding, paved drive that led deeper into Farrell’s ranch. Its hands gripped the bars, yanked hard, and with an earsplitting shriek of rending metal tore the whole gate loose from its hinges. Then, like an athlete throwing a discus, the robot spun through a half circle and hurled the crumpled shape away into the darkness. Its head swiveled toward Baryshev. “What do you think, Lead? Shall we just go strolling on up that road and say hello?”

The colonel shook his head with a slight smile. “Let’s not be quite that obvious, Two. Follow me!”

Together, they raced through the opening and ran across a large grazing pasture, angling northwest toward a tree-lined 140-meter-high hill that overlooked Governor Farrell’s ranch house from the east.