Warrior Class

The White House, Washington, D.C.

“The Russian and German governments vehemently demand an answer, sir,” Secretary of State Edward Kercheval said. “They keep on insisting we have information on this so-called Black Sea Alliance, and they claim we are secretly supporting them.”

President Thomas Thorn sat with his fingers folded on his chest, staring as usual into space, leaning back in his seat behind his desk in the Oval Office. “They have any proof of this?” the President asked absently.

“Several radio transmissions between Turkish and Ukrainian aircraft and an unidentified aircraft flying over the Black Sea in Turkish airspace, protected by aircraft that are part of this Black Sea Alliance,” Secretary Goff replied. “The transmissions were picked up by a Russian intelligence-gathering ship operating in the free navigation lane created by this Black Sea Alliance for international ships. The Russians claim the broadcasts were directing Alliance aircraft to an intercept with another unidentified aircraft.”

This second unidentified aircraft being the Russian stealth liter that was about to attack the tanker in the Turkish port,” President Thorn added.

“Yes, sir,” Goff said. “Of course, the Russians and the Germans claim they know nothing of this stealth fighter.”

“So no one is offering any ideas as to the identity of any of these unidentified aircraft,” Thorn went on, “except we had something to do with them?” Kercheval nodded. “Tell the German and Russian governments that we will cooperate in any way possible to help identify these aircraft and to find out exactly what happened last night near Eregli, but we maintain we have nothing to do with this incident or with the Black Sea Alliance.

“Furthermore, the United States does not recognize or oppose this Black Sea Alliance,” the President went on. “The United States remains an interested but completely neutral third-party observer in all foreign military alliances and treaties. We urge all governments and all alliances to come to peaceful settlements of arguments and conflicts, but the United States will not interfere with any nation’s foreign or domestic activities unless, in my opinion, it directly affects the peace and security of the United States of America. Deliver that message right away to the Russian and German governments and to the world media. I’ll make myself available for a press conference to discuss the statement later today. Have the Vice President’s office set it up for me.”

Kercheval departed, leaving the President alone with Robert Goff. The Secretary of Defense had a big, childlike grin on his face. Thorn pretended not to notice and went back to making notes and sending e-mail messages from his computer; but finally he said without looking up, “What are you grinning at, Robert?”

“Okay, spill it, Thomas,” Goff said. “What did you do?”

“Do?”

“That incident over the Black Sea? It’s got HAWC written all over it. That Turkish frigate said they detected a bomb dropped from what was apparently a stealth bomber — but it was shot out of the sky by a missile fired from another aircraft that never appeared on radar. Did you authorize HAWC to send in one of their Megafortress ABM bombers to patrol that area?”

“Directing military aircraft on combat operations, secret or otherwise, is your job, Robert. If you didn’t direct such a mission, it never happened.”

“Spoken like a real twenty-first-century president, Mr. President,” Goff said, beaming. “I’m proud of you.”

“I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“So you actually assisted Martindale’s Night Stalkers?”

“Martindale’s who?”

“Stalkers — the call sign he used during that mission, the call sign the Black Sea Alliance aircraft used, and the call sign he once mentioned to me that he was going to use,” Goff said. “Was it just a coincidence that there happened to be a bunch of folks using ‘Stalkers’ call signs flying around last night?”

“Robert, I’m not in the mood for word games and puzzles right now,” the President said. “I’ve never heard the name ‘Night Stalkers’ before, and if there is such an organization, it was probably just a coincidence. But that’s not what’s important here.

“In case you haven’t noticed, nothing has really changed in that region, even after all this fuss about phantom bombs and missiles and strange call signs and radio messages. Russia and Germany still occupy most of the Balkan states, and they’re sending in a thousand troops a day as reinforcements against any more so-called terrorist actions against their peacekeeping forces. The rest of NATO has all but left the Balkans. This Black Sea Alliance is threatening to start a naval war in the Black Sea. World oil prices are skyrocketing in response to what’s happened with that tanker — the media thinks this Black Sea Alliance is really out to torpedo all Russian oil shipments. Russia may start escorting tankers across the Black Sea with warships, and then what’s this Black Sea Alliance going to do? And do we want American warships in the area?”

Goff looked on the young president as a proud father looks on his son who has just won a science fair ribbon. “Press conferences? Statements to the world media? Concern over what the media thinks? Analysis of world military events? Even considering sending American warships into harm’s way?” Goff asked with feigned surprise, beaming happily. “Why, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were giving a damn about foreign affairs, President Thomas Nathaniel Thorn.”

Thorn glanced at Goff, then gave him a barely perceptible smile. “Have you been keeping up with your meditation exercises, Robert?” he asked seriously.

“No — but I think I will,” Goff said as he headed for the door to the Oval Office. He stopped before he opened the door, turned to the President, and asked, “I wonder if that wristband you’re wearing right now would help my meditation exercises?”

The President smiled contentedly as he absently fingered the strange new electronic wristband on his right wrist, and suddenly he became acutely aware of the spot on his right shoulder recently irritated by the subcutaneous miniature transceiver and what it meant to him now. But he just replied, “Talk to you later, Mr. Secretary,” he said.

“Yes, Mr. President,” Robert Goff replied. I’m sure I won’t be the only one you’ll be talking with, my friend, Goff said to himself as he departed the Oval Office.

Codlea, Romania

When the Metyor-179 aircraft did not report in before its scheduled landing time, Pavel Kazakov’s security forces were put on immediate alert and reviewed their preplanned escape procedures. When the aircraft became overdue, one hour past its maximum possible fuel endurance time, Pavel Kazakov’s security forces went immediately to work. They worked quickly and with grim efficiency. Explosives were set in a pile in the main hangar, classified records and documents having anything to do with the Metyor-179 were set atop them …

… and then the bodies of the Metyor Aerospace engineers, technicians, and workers at Codlea were stacked atop those.

Pavel Kazakov was notified a few hours later when the grim work was done, and he went out to inspect their work. The whole gory pile had been covered with tarps and then weighed down with tires to contain the blast. More explosives had been set up on the hangar’s roof, designed to blow downward to simulate a gravity bomb dropped through the roof. “Good work,” Kazakov said. “We wait until we are clear of the area, and then—”

“Aircraft inbound!” one of the security men shouted. “Unidentified aircraft inbound!” Security men with machine guns and assault rifles ready rushed outside. Other security men pushed Kazakov’s helicopter back inside the main hangar to keep it out of sight.

“It’s a tilt-rotor aircraft!” someone shouted. “Still in full airplane mode! I do not see any markings or insignia. Probably American or NATO Marines or special forces commandos. We’ve been discovered.”

Kazakov looked through a set of binoculars and saw the big aircraft bearing down on them. “Don’t worry,” Kazakov said. “It will still need to slow down to drop off its soldiers. When it does, blast it with everything you have.” But the aircraft did not slow down. It was traveling well over three hundred nautical miles per hour when it passed directly overhead. “It may try to drop paratroopers, or land and off-load its commandos away from the compound,” Kazakov said. “That’ll give us time to escape and time for you to hunt them down. Pull my helicopter out and get it—”

“Look!” someone shouted. Kazakov looked. They saw three soldiers leap off the tilt-rotor’s open rear cargo ramp. Each soldier was carrying a very large rifle and appeared to be jumping directly into the center of the compound between the hangar door parking apron and the runway … but none of the three was wearing a parachute! “What in hell are they doing? Are they insane?” As a stunned Pavel Kazakov and his security men watched, the three crazy soldiers hurtled earthward, still in a standing position, still with the rifles at port arms. They were sure they were going to see three broken bodies bounce off the concrete aircraft parking apron in just half a second.

But at the very last moment, a loud WHOOOSH! of high-pressure air erupted from each of the strangers’ boots — and all three soldiers touched down gently on the concrete apron with about as much force as if they had jumped off a chair after changing a lightbulb, still standing upright, still with their large rifles at port arms, as if they had just materialized there. Each soldier was wearing a dark gray combat bodysuit, a thick utility belt, thick boots, some sort of harness or device on his shoulders, a full-face helmet, and a thin backpack. The rifles were of completely unknown origin, resembling fifty-caliber sniper rifles but with a complex firing mechanism unlike any other firearm they’d ever seen.

“I don’t know who they are,” Kazakov said, “but if they are not all dead in the next sixty seconds, we will be.” Kazakov bolted and ran for cover around the back of the main hangar, followed by three of his bodyguards, while the other security officers spread out and opened fire on the strangers. Kazakov saw at least three lines of bullets fired on full automatic walk across the ramp and intersect right on the strangers — but they did not go down.

He then remembered the stories from frantic crewmen aboard his oil tanker Ustinov about invincible commandos who shot lightning from their eyes, and he ran faster than he ever ran in his life. They were real, and they were here.

The security officers got only one burst off at the strangers before all three of them disappeared — only to reappear moments later several dozen yards away, leaping into the air by using jets of compressed air from their boot s. One by one, the commandos shot a round from their weird rifles into any available target — the helicopters, vehicles, communications rooms, power-generating facilities, any valuable target. They appeared only slightly staggered if hit by a bullet, then resumed their methodical attack on the compound. If they got close enough to a security officer, he was immediately put down either by a short blast of electrical energy, like a massive Taser blast from as far as twenty feet away, or by a fist or knife-edge hand that landed as hard as a chunk of steel.

In moments all of the security officers had been dispatched, and the entire area was a smoking ruin. “All clear,” Hal Briggs reported, after carefully scanning the area with his helmet’s sensors for any signs of survivors or escapees.

“Clear,” Chris Wohl responded.

“Clear,” the electronically synthesized voice of Paul McLanahan replied. Paul, Patrick’s younger brother, was a California attorney and former police officer, who’d been horribly wounded on his first night on duty. He’d survived the attack but remained dead inside — until an incredible new technology had given him a renewed will to live. The electronic battle armor had enabled Paul to play an active role in defending peace even with his debilitating injuries; and as one of the first to wear the armor and its associated weapon systems, Paul had become an instructor in how to use the system, as well as a fighter himself. “Patrick? How copy?”

“Loud and clear.”

Hal Briggs took another fix on Kazakov and his bodyguards, then on Patrick, using his electronic locating device. “He’s headed your way, Muck.”

“I’m ready for him.”

“Security Three? Security Four?” Kazakov shouted into his walkie-talkie. “Answer, dammit! Someone answer!”

“No response from any of the security or transportation units,” one of the bodyguards confirmed. “They knocked out our entire force.”

“They’ll be looking for us next,” Kazakov said. “We split up. You two, separate directions. You, with me. Their armor may make them bulletproof, but try anything you can think of to slow them down — trip them, dunk them in water, decoy them, make them fall off a cliff, anything. Now move!” As his men bolted in opposite directions, Kazakov and his one remaining bodyguard turned …

… right into the path of another armored commando.

Gunfire erupted on both sides. Kazakov hit the ground, closed his eyes, and covered his ears as heavy-caliber bullets and even a forty-millimeter grenade shell burst around him. He lay as flat on the ground as he could, screaming and crying as the bullets and bombs flew and wave after wave of gunshots, explosion concussions, and earsplitting noise roiled over him. But it did not last long. When he opened his eyes and ears again, everything was still. When he got to his feet …

… only the commando stood before him. His men were all lying on the ground, jerking and flinching as the last watts of electrical energy dissipated through their unconscious bodies.

Pavel Kazakov smiled, then raised his hands in surrender. “Well, well, so you really do exist,” the gangster said in English. “And there is a little army of you people, I see. Very impressive, although you appear to be the shortest in stature of the group. Americans, I assume. Special operations? Delta Force? Navy SEALs?” No response. “How did you find me?”

“Fursenko,” the commando said.

“Indeed? The good doctor is still alive? Good for him. I’ll take great pleasure in plucking off his gonads myself and stuffing them into his empty eye sockets. So. Are you going to shock me into oblivion, too?” No response. “Well, it was certainly nice chatting with you.” But as he turned to leave, Kazakov felt sharp snaps and pings of electricity all around him, like an invisible electrical fence, hemming him in.

“Damn you, what do you want?” Kazakov screamed. “Take off that armor and tell me to my face, you cowardly bastard!” No response. “What is it? Money? Do you want money?”

“Yes,” the figure said.

“Aha. Now we are getting somewhere,” Kazakov said, an evil smile creeping across his face. “Money in exchange for my freedom.”

“Money … in exchange for your life,” the commando said.

“That is hardly fair. I’m sure we can … ouch!” Another crackle of electricity jolted his head and made it feel as if a million ants were crawling all over his body. “You son of a diseased whore! You are robbing me? Is this a stickup? You are actually robbing me? My money or my life? How dare you?” He was answered by another crack of electricity that this time sent him to his knees. “All right, all right, you win!” He got to his feet, then made a pantomime of searching his pockets. “Oh, sorry, I seem to have forgotten my wallet. Maybe you’ll take my, how do you say, IOU?”

The commando reached into his utility belt, withdrew a handheld satellite telephone, and tossed it to the Russian gangster. When Kazakov opened it, he found a card with account numbers and Interbank address codes on it. As he dialed a number, he said, “I suppose we should agree on an amount, no?’

“One-half billion dollars,” the commando said.

Kazakov laughed. “Whatever you have heard about me, my friend, it is obviously wrong. I do not have—” He was cut off by another bolt of energy that knocked him backward onto his ass. “Hey! I am telling you the truth, bastard boy! I do not have a half a billion dollars!”

“Then you will die,” the electronic voice said.

“I mean to say, I have it, but I cannot get it with just a phone call—” He was silenced by another bolt of energy, this one deep enough to cause substantially more pain, but not enough to render him unconscious. “You scum-sucking bastard! I will kill you for this, I promise! You and your friends are dead! You understand me? Dead!”

“One-half billion dollars, confirmed in five minutes, or you die,” the futuristic commando said.

Kazakov redialed the telephone. To come up with the money, his comptroller at Metyorgaz had to liquidate all of his boss’s personal holdings in the company, along with several other asset accounts under his direct control — including the loans from his international “investors,” the crime bosses and drug lords trying to launder money through Metyorgaz from all over the world — but in just a few minutes, the money was transferred. The commando pocketed the phone. Kazakov could hear him talking inside his helmet, apparently on a helmet-mounted communications network.

“Now you let me go, eh?” Kazakov asked.

“Now you come with me,” the commando said.

“A deal is a deal! You said you would let me go!”

“I said I would let you live,” the figure said. Three more armored commandos appeared, along with a man in a green battle-dress uniform and helmet — wearing the insignia of the Turkish Jandarma, the Turkish National Police. “But there are warrants for your arrest issued by nine different nations, and as a member of Interpol, this man is authorized by the Romanian government to make an arrest here.” The Jandarma agent snapped handcuffs on Kazakov, then searched him carefully, blindfolded him, and led him away to a nearby waiting helicopter. Kazakov was screaming his innocence, screaming about the money he just paid, screaming about revenge, all the way until the door was closed on the helicopter that had come to take him away.

After the police helicopter was gone, Patrick McLanahan collapsed to one knee on the ground and removed his helmet. His head was sweaty and his hair matted, despite the suit’s excellent air-conditioning system. The other armored commandos surrounded him, wordlessly waiting to lend any support they could. After several long moments, Patrick’s brother Paul finally asked, “You okay, Patrick?”

“Sure.”

“Good work, Patrick,” they all heard former President Kevin Martindale say via their subcutaneous satellite transceivers. “The funds are already being redistributed out of the phantom holding account. International and private relief agencies based in Albania, Macedonia, Bulgaria, and Turkey will get most of it to pay reparations for what Kazakov has done to their people. Some of the rest will go to pay for a private security force to make sure Kazakov stands trial — I hate to say it, but even Turkey’s government police agencies probably have some of Kazakov’s men working deep in them.”

“But we keep the rest of the money, right, Mr. President?” Patrick asked angrily.

“What we do, what we’re going to do, isn’t cheap,” Martindale said.

“Then what makes us so different from bastards like Kazakov?” Patrick asked bitterly. “We steal, we attack, we raid for money.”

“The difference? The difference is you, Patrick, you and everyone who wears that Tin Man battle armor, flies the robot planes, launches the missiles, and everyone who decides to join us,” Martindale replied. “Yes, we are going to help ourselves to blood money. We are going to distribute it to those we feel will benefit from it the most, especially the victims of the criminals we hunt down, but we are going to help ourselves to it as well.”

“We’re criminals!” Patrick shouted. “Stealing money, even from human crap like Kazakov, is still a crime!”

“No, it isn’t, sir,” Wohl said. “It’s justice.”

“Whose justice?” Patrick grabbed Wohl’s gauntlets. “The justice of the most powerful? Whoever has the strongest armor or the biggest gun?”

“It’s not how justice is dispensed, Patrick, but how justice benefits society,” Paul said. “The money you got from Kazakov will help a lot of lives. That’s justice.”

“Then let’s take off this armor and stand up in front of the same judges that Kazakov will face and tell them that,” Patrick retorted. “Will they tell us it’s all right to invent our own definition of justice? Will they allow us to do whatever we like, attack whoever we wish, in the name of our own brand of so-called justice? Let’s see what their answer will be!”

“We are not lawmen, Patrick,” Kevin Martindale said, through their ethereal electronic bond. “I didn’t make you swear an oath to uphold or defend anything when you agreed to join me. We don’t serve any government, any court, or any set of laws. We are not soldiers, lawyers, or politicians. We are warriors.”

“What in hell does that mean, sir?”

“It means we fight not for country, not for law, not for money, but for right,” Martindale replied. “I believe we know what is right, what is just. Your brother Paul knows the law. You, Hal, and Chris are soldiers. We all came from different backgrounds, different perspectives, and different experiences. But we’re all standing here, together, right now. There’s a reason for that. Whatever shaped us, whatever we were, and whatever we are, I believe we are warriors. Members of the warrior class. No rank, no flag, no master. We fight for what is right.”

“And sometimes you have to fight on their level, Muck,” Paul McLanahan added. “You taught me that when you first put on this armor back in Sacramento. It wasn’t pretty, it wasn’t nice, but it worked. You taught me we can do some good with it.”

“And you know something else? I didn’t force you to make Kazakov pay you,” Martindale added. “I suggested you squeeze him so we could help some of his victims, but I didn’t come up with this numbered bank account or satellite phone idea—you did. You could have turned him over to the Jandarma without making him do anything. But you did it because you don’t think Kazakov will ever stand trial, and even if he does go to prison, he won’t suffer and he won’t be in long. You believe the only way to hurt him is to take what he loves, and that’s money. I agree.”

“We all agree, Muck,” Hal Briggs said.

“Affirmative,” Chris Wohl agreed.

“So stand tall and be proud of what you did, and don’t concern yourself about squeezing a bug like Pavel Kazakov,” Martindale said. “But if it bothers you so much, if you think what you did and what I suggest we all do together is wrong or illegal or immoral, you can take off that armor and go home and live peacefully in retirement. You’ve earned it. Those of us who want to stay will continue the fight, however we decide to do it, for as long as we want to do it. Either way, you have the thanks and best wishes of us all, General McLanahan.”

Patrick said nothing. He stood, handed his helmet to his brother with his head bowed, and walked slowly toward the tilt-rotor aircraft that would take him home.