The Moscow Offensive

Three

Dr. Richard Witt stood uncertainly outside the door to an office suite in downtown Reno. A silver-colored nameplate showed that the space was leased to Peregrine Datalytics, ostensibly a small software research firm.

He wasn’t used to feeling this nervous. Witt’s colleagues at Sky Masters Aerospace often joked that he showed less emotion than the automatons he helped create. He suspected many of them were just jealous of his ability to swiftly analyze complex robotics challenges and software problems, using impeccably rigorous logic. His fellow engineers were slower and less efficient than he was because they allowed trifles — personal relationships, rivalries, and ambitions — to clutter up their working lives.

Sweat beaded his high bald forehead. Logic suggested nobody else at Sky Masters could possibly know or care why he had driven to Reno today. But this was one of those situations where pure reason provided less comfort than he would have wished.

Before he could knock, the door opened inward.

“Come on in, Dr. Witt,” FBI special agent Carl Sundstrom said genially. “You’re exactly on time.”

Witt awkwardly shook hands, aware of how rumpled he must look compared to the FBI agent. The other man was shorter by a head, but trim and fit in a perfectly tailored navy-blue suit and crisply knotted red silk tie. “I don’t think anyone followed me,” he blurted.

“Relax, Doctor,” Sundstrom said, offering him a quick, reassuring smile. He closed the door. “You’re not here to do anything illegal after all. Or even immoral.”

“Certainly not,” Witt agreed stiffly. “I am a patriot and a concerned citizen.”

Still smiling, the FBI agent nodded. “And believe me, Doctor, the powers that be in Washington greatly appreciate what you’re offering us.” He shrugged his narrow shoulders. “I only wish others at Sky Masters shared your sense of patriotism and loyalty.”

Witt knew what he meant. It wasn’t exactly a secret that Sky Masters covertly supplied high-tech military hardware, including Cybernetic Infantry Devices, to Scion’s mercenary forces. Those sales violated a whole slew of executive orders issued by President Stacy Anne Barbeau — orders designed to prevent the United States from being dragged into Poland’s bloody no-win conflict with the Russians. True, a number of federal courts had recently stayed her regulations as unconstitutional, but that was mere legalistic nitpicking. Presidents should make foreign policy, not corporations. Especially not a corporation so morally corrupt that it would arm and equip Scion’s brutal hired killers, he thought bitterly. Only greed could explain a willingness to support a warmongering madman like former president Martindale.

He followed Sundstrom into a large conference room. Huge windows looked north across the brightly lit Reno skyline. Another man, gray-haired and heavyset, turned away from the spectacular view when they came in. Dark brown eyes looked back at them through a pair of thick, horn-rimmed glasses.

“Dr. Witt, this is… Mr. Smith,” the FBI agent said. “Let’s just say that he works for another department, shall we? One with a much better scientific and technological grounding than my bureau.” He smiled again. “We’re pretty good at catching crooks and spies. Not so much at understanding gizmos like cybernetic control circuitry and neural interfaces.”

Witt nodded, pleased at this confirmation that Sundstrom had taken him seriously during their earlier conversations. This “Mr. Smith” undoubtedly worked for the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, or maybe for one of its lesser-known government counterparts. DARPA, part of the Defense Department, was responsible for developing emerging technologies for military use. In fact, Jason Richter, Sky Masters’ current chief executive officer, had been working for a DARPA-affiliated Army research lab when he built the first Cybernetic Infantry Device.

He came to a final decision. For weeks after the FBI first contacted him, he’d agonized over the seeming conflict between the demands of his conscience and his sense of professional ethics and company loyalty. Slowly, Witt reached into his coat pocket and took out a small USB flash drive. He handed it to Sundstrom. “In that case, I believe the information I’ve downloaded onto that device properly belongs to Mr. Smith and his agency.”

The FBI agent looked down at the tiny drive he held with undisguised wonder. “This little thing contains all the schematics and other data necessary to replicate CID haptic interfaces?”

“As I promised,” Witt told him. He looked at Smith. “The password protecting those files is Prometheus.” Seeing their blank stares, he shrugged in embarrassment. “As in the Titan who stole fire from the gods for humanity? It seemed… well… appropriate.”

Carefully, Sundstrom passed the flash drive to his colleague. “Would you evaluate this material for me, Mr. Smith? But quickly, please.” He nodded toward the Sky Masters cyberneticist. “While I’m sure we can trust the good doctor here, our political masters will want confirmation.”

Silently, Smith nodded and left the room with the drive.

Politely, the FBI agent waved Witt into one of the chairs around the big table and took another. He leaned forward. “Forgive me for asking again, but you’re still convinced that no one at Sky Masters will ever realize you’ve copied this data for us?”

“I wrote the security software for our cybernetics lab,” Witt said flatly. “So I know for a fact there are no traces of what I’ve done in the system.”

Sundstrom visibly relaxed. He shook his head. “I really don’t understand why you haven’t been promoted higher up the Sky Masters corporate ladder, Dr. Witt. Your abilities are quite extraordinary.”

Witt frowned. That was a sore subject. By rights, he should long since have been named head of the Sky Masters Cybernetics Division. No one else in the lab had anything approaching his technical knowledge or analytical skill. But every time he applied for the job, Richter fobbed him off with some lame excuse or another about the difference between scientific and technical expertise and people skills.

“I think I’ve also been remiss in not extending my condolences for the death of Ms. Turlock,” Sundstrom said suddenly. “I understand she was a valued colleague of yours?”

Charlie Turlock? Just hearing her name spoken aloud and thinking about what might have been… no, damn it, what should have been, made Witt feel as though he’d been stabbed in the stomach. He felt the blood drain from his face.

“Dr. Witt?” the FBI agent said, sounding concerned. “Are you all right?”

Fighting to regain control, Witt forced himself to nod. “I’m fine,” he rasped. He took a shaky breath. “Yes, Ms. Turlock and I worked very closely together. She was a superb engineer. Her death was a real blow. To our team, I mean.”

Liar, he thought bitterly. He’d wasted so many months and years. Always admiring Charlie Turlock, hell, loving her, and always being too afraid to say anything about it. Then one day, before he could work up the nerve to tell her how he really felt, off she’d flown to take part in one of Martindale’s insane mercenary operations. Somewhere deep inside Russia, he’d heard. And it killed her. She was gone. Gone forever.

With one part of his mind, Witt heard Sundstrom still talking, trying to engage him in the kind of nonsensical chitchat that other people seemed to need to fill uncomfortable silences. He did his best to respond. But most of his being was lost in grief for what might have been — if only he’d been bolder sooner.

He only fully reentered the present when the mysterious “Mr. Smith” rejoined them.

“It is as Dr. Witt has said,” Smith told Sundstrom, flourishing the USB drive. “Everything we need is there.”

Later, after the Sky Masters cybernetics engineer was gone, ushered out with profuse thanks on behalf of the U.S. government and President Barbeau, the heavyset man who’d called himself Smith turned to his younger and better-dressed colleague. “Kakoy debil! What a moron!”

“Come now, Eduard,” Major Vasily Dragomirov said in mock reproof. “Be kind. Why should the good Dr. Witt look further than the carefully forged FBI identity card I showed him?” He shrugged. “Like so many others in life, he sees what he wants to see. Now he has what he wanted, revenge against Sky Masters and Scion. If he thinks he has achieved that by helping his own government, instead of ours, well, so much the better for us, eh?”

“But how the hell did you get onto him?” Captain Eduard Naumov asked. Unlike Dragomirov, he wasn’t a field operative for Russia’s military intelligence service, the GRU. He was a technical officer in its Ninth Directorate, a group charged with acquiring and analyzing foreign military technology. He’d only flown in to Reno a few days before, standing by solely to verify the data they hoped to obtain in this covert operation.

“From our friends in Beijing,” the major said. Seeing the confusion on the older man’s face, he explained. “A few years ago, the Chinese hacked into the computer archives of the American OPM, their Office of Personnel Management. They stole millions of individual security clearance files.” He smiled cruelly. “And those files include enormous amounts of information on candidates for sensitive positions — embarrassing information on everything from shaky personal finances to substance-abuse problems to potential psychological weaknesses.”

“Like those of Dr. Witt,” Naumov realized.

Dragomirov nodded. “Our masters in the Kremlin paid Beijing huge sums for access to certain files, chief among them those of any scientists and engineers connected in any way to Sky Masters or Scion.”

“Well, it was money well spent,” the older man assured him. He shook his head in wonder. “With the data I have already transmitted to Moscow, our robotics experts should not have any trouble reproducing these advanced haptic interfaces.”

“Which means Mother Russia will soon have combat robots of its own,” Dragomirov said in quiet satisfaction. While preparing for this mission, he had studied every GRU file on the Iron Wolf Squadron’s fighting machines. He had been awed by their lethality and power. His eyes were cold. “And then the world will change forever.”