Gennadiy Gryzlov swiveled his seat to face Sergei Tarzarov, his chief of staff. “So, what did you think of Koshkin’s new Q Directorate playground?”
Tarzarov, a thin, plain-looking man, was cautious. “The facility is impressive enough,” he allowed. His mouth turned down. “As it should be at the cost of several hundred billion rubles.”
Gryzlov grinned to himself. Tarzarov was renowned for his shrewdness and cunning. For decades, the ruthless old man had survived and prospered as the ultimate Kremlin insider — as the man who made and unmade heads of state, cabinet ministers, generals, and intelligence chiefs. One by one, his rivals vanished. If they were lucky, they were merely driven into political oblivion. Those who were not so fortunate, or who were perhaps more dangerous, ended their days in a gulag or an unmarked grave.
But for all his cleverness, Tarzarov was a dinosaur. Like so many steeped in the old ways, he measured a state’s power chiefly by its military strength — by the numbers of bombers, tanks, artillery pieces, and nuclear-tipped missiles it could field. He was blind to the overwhelming strategic advantages waiting for those who first mastered the new digital battlefield.
“You believe we are wasting Russia’s resources?” Gryzlov pressed.
“I do not doubt that Koshkin’s promised new weapons will be useful in their own limited way and at the right time,” Tarzarov said slowly. He shrugged. “But I am not sure we need them now, Gennadiy. And at such expense. Our position in the world is strong and it grows stronger with every passing day.”
“Oh?” Gryzlov raised an eyebrow. His voice grew cooler, laced with biting sarcasm. “Have you forgotten how the Poles and their high-tech American mercenaries handed us our asses last year?”
“There were certain tactical setbacks,” the older man admitted. “But we achieved a strategic victory. We now hold all of eastern Ukraine, and the NATO alliance lies in ruins.”
“Save the bullshit for the gullible masses,” Gryzlov retorted, his patience fraying. “McLanahan and his Iron Wolf Squadron bombers and fighting machines kicked the snot out of two of our tank armies, destroyed dozens of our most advanced combat aircraft, and then wiped out the best part of a tactical missile brigade.”
“But now Patrick McLanahan is dead,” Tarzarov reminded him quietly. “Shot down by one of his own countrymen — as you demanded. And this act of cowardice by the American president, Barbeau, has spelled the effective end of NATO. No one trusts the Americans anymore.”
“McLanahan may be nothing more than burned ashes scattered across Poland,” Gryzlov growled. “But his Iron Wolf mercenaries and their Polish paymasters are still very much alive. And their continued existence threatens our power in Europe and around the world. You’ve seen the intelligence reports. Poland’s so-called Alliance of Free Nations is fast becoming a rallying point for all those who should fear and obey us.”
Tarzarov fell silent. Much as he hated to admit the younger man’s point, he could not deny that the Poles with their freelance American military and technical experts remained a thorn in Moscow’s side. Despite a yearlong campaign of black propaganda, secret bribes, and thinly disguised saber rattling, Russia had failed to win back the allegiance of any of the former Soviet puppet states in Eastern and central Europe. The members of Warsaw’s new defense pact were showing far more resilience and cohesion than he had expected.
Gryzlov read his thoughts. He nodded. “Now you see it, Sergei. Too often we have seen victories snatched away by weapons and technology beyond our capabilities. That must stop. It is high time we made our enemies dance to a tune of our choosing, not theirs.”
Reluctantly, Tarzarov nodded. “Perhaps you are right, Gennadiy.” He sighed. “But I fear the consequences if word of your plan leaks out. The damage to our international position could be severe.”
“True enough,” Gryzlov agreed, with a quick, predatory grin. “But one must be willing to take risks in any high-stakes game. Empires are not won by fearful men.”
He glanced away, staring out across the vast and empty sky. “Still, I agree that secrecy is vital. For now, at least.” He turned back to Tarzarov. “Tell me, Sergei. Can the FSB successfully conceal the existence of Perun’s Aerie from foreign spies?”
The older man frowned. “Koshkin’s security and his maskirovka, his deception plans, are good. Very good. But good enough to hide so large a facility from the West?” He shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Babushka gadala da nadvoye skazala, ‘to li dozhdik, to li sneg.’ My grandmother told fortunes and said, ‘It will either rain or snow.’”
It was an old Russian proverb meaning basically, “Who can say? Maybe yes and maybe no.”
“Then let us hope it will snow,” Gryzlov said enigmatically.
With that, Russia’s president fell silent, staring out across the heavens as the Superjet 100 sped west.
ONE
Clouds covered the night sky, obscuring the stars and the new moon’s pale sliver. Deep in a patch of woodland east of an old Romanian military airfield, a twelve-foot-tall, humanlike machine stalked through the darkness — moving with catlike grace and quiet despite its size. Suddenly it stopped, crouching low beneath the spreading branches of a massive oak tree.
The machine’s six-sided head swiveled from side to side atop its broad shoulders, carefully probing the surrounding forest. At rest, it faded from view, becoming almost invisible both to the naked eye and to thermal imagers.
Inside the cockpit of the Cybernetic Infantry Device — a human-piloted combat robot — Brad McLanahan opened a secure channel. “Wolf One to Wolf Two. I’m in position and standing by.”
“Two copies,” a cheerful female voice replied. “I’m roughly three hundred meters to your right. So what is your evaluation of the tactical situation, young Jedi?”
Brad grinned. Five years ago, Charlie Turlock had taught him how to pilot these incredible fighting machines. Gutsy and combat-experienced, the former U.S. Amy National Guard captain and current Sky Masters CID specialist was still a teacher and robotics enthusiast at heart. She loved everything about the combat robots she had helped design, build, and steadily improve. That was why she was here now, serving as a covert adviser to the Iron Wolf and other Scion forces helping Poland and its allies.
It was easy to understand Charlie’s enthusiasm, he thought. Every time he strapped himself into a CID, he experienced a sudden rush of power, perception, and sheer freaking speed so unbelievably intense that it was almost sexual.
And why not? he thought. Covered in highly resistant composite armor, the robot’s microhydraulically-powered exoskeleton was stronger, quicker, and more agile than any ten men put together. Feedback from a special haptic interface translated its pilot’s gestures into exoskeleton motion, enabling the machine to move with uncanny nimbleness and precision. Sensors of all kinds, coupled with a highly advanced computer interface, gave a CID’s pilot astonishing situational awareness and the ability to aim and fire a remarkable array of weapons with speed and pinpoint accuracy. In basic terms, a single Cybernetic Infantry Device was more mobile, carried heavier firepower, and possessed significantly greater recon capability than an entire conventionally equipped infantry platoon.
Focus, Brad told himself sternly. Piloting one of these babies made it way too easy to get caught up in the thrill ride, losing track of the mission at hand. He concentrated more fully, allowing his CID’s neural interface to show him the composite imagery crafted from its wide range of passive sensors. Several slowly pulsing yellow dots blinked into existence on his display.