Dobrynin gave him a thumbs-up sign. “We scouted all the way to the edge of the woods. No problems. If they stay away from the shoreline, the colonel’s KVMs should have a clear shot straight to their objective.”
Aristov nodded. They were not far from a winding cove that led out onto Lake Worth, which was a man-made reservoir and recreational waterway on the northwestern edge of Fort Worth. Although a number of private homes and boat docks lined this cove, a thick belt of scrub oaks and underbrush farther inland offered a concealed way past them. Decisively, he jerked a thumb toward the three trucks. “Okay, then let’s get Baryshev and his robots outside and send them on their way.”
Moving with practiced efficiency, the four former Spetsnaz soldiers unlatched the doors on the back of each of the three semitrailers and hauled them open. More quick work propped open the package- and box-studded false fronts that concealed the compartments hidden inside.
One after another, Colonel Baryshev’s six combat robots spooled up with a low, ominous whir. They came smoothly to their feet, bending at the torso to clear the trailer ceilings. The Kiberneticheskiye Voyennyye Mashiny straightened up once they were outside — towering over Aristov and his men. Each carried an arsenal of heavy weapons, mostly 30mm autocannons and antitank guided missiles, in their hands and stowed in packs slung across their torsos.
Unable to shake off a feeling of primitive dread, the former Spetsnaz captain stared up at them. Everything about these machines exuded inhuman precision and lethality. Nervously, he made his report.
An antenna-studded head swiveled noiselessly in his direction. “Understood, Captain,” an emotionless, electronically synthesized voice said. “Guard this position until we return.”
Without waiting for an acknowledgment, the six Russian war machines swung away and stalked off into the woods — heading southeast toward a bright orange glow visible above the treetops. Those lights marked the location of U.S. Air Force Plant 4, a sprawling aircraft assembly facility. Almost ten thousand people were employed there, working in shifts around the clock, to build America’s top-of-the-line F-35 Lightning II stealth fighters. Sixteen aircraft assembly stations and a wing manufacturing plant were all housed inside one enormous, nearly mile-long building at the heart of the giant complex.
Minutes later, Colonel Ruslan Baryshev hunched low near the edge of a tangle of scrub oaks and brush. He was only a few hundred meters west of the F-35 assembly building. Five green blips on his tactical display showed the other KVMs. They were concealed close by in the same scraggly patch of woods, awaiting his final attack orders.
He concentrated, using his neural interface with the robot’s computer to see more of the composite imagery obtained by its passive sensors. Two red dots, evaluated as hostile, blinked into existence on his display. They were positioned just off the two-lane road leading to the American aircraft plant.
Baryshev zoomed in on them, using a night-vision camera. He saw a white Tarrant County sheriff’s patrol cruiser parked next to a desert-camouflaged U.S. Army National Guard Humvee. The Humvee carried a 40mm grenade launcher in a 360-degree traversable mount. Several soldiers had dismounted from their armored vehicle to man an improvised roadblock. A couple of them were smoking cigarettes. One was chugging a bottle of water. All of them looked bored and tired.
He smiled thinly. Originally, he’d questioned Moscow’s orders to delay this next attack — arguing that only an unrelenting clandestine offensive would knock the Americans off balance and keep them there. Now he could see that prolonging the interval between their terror operations was yielding dividends. Every experienced commander knew how difficult it was to keep troops fully alert as hours and then days passed without action.
Situation update, his computer reported coolly. Communications intercepts have pinpointed additional enemy patrols and defensive positions.
Baryshev widened his sensor fields again, seeing more red icons appear at various points around the aircraft plant’s seven-kilometer-long perimeter. Radio chatter between the different American posts and mobile units had enabled his robot’s systems to identify more of the police cars and army vehicles deployed to defend this facility. He sneered. The defenders were too few in number, too poorly equipped, and too widely dispersed to offer any significant opposition to his attack force.
Instead, he turned his attention to the local National Guard armory, not far south of his current position. It was a cluster of one- and two-story buildings — offices, maintenance and equipment sheds, and living quarters — and two vehicle parks crammed with dozens of trucks, Humvees, mine-clearing vehicles, and MRAP troop carriers. “Evaluate this facility,” he ordered the computer.
Thermal signatures indicate up to one hundred personnel currently deployed at the enemy base, it reported. Motion-capture analysis confirms that most are asleep or resting. Three armed vehicles and two infantry squads are on alert status.
Those National Guard troops were not much of a threat, Baryshev knew. Only the heavy machine guns and grenade launchers mounted on their Humvees presented any real danger to his KVMs. On the other hand, there was no point in running any unnecessary risks. Besides, he thought, yielding to a sudden predatory impulse, why not try to kill as many Americans as possible? If nothing else, running up the casualty totals would spread even more terror and anguish among Russia’s enemies.
He opened a secure channel to one of his robot pilots, Major Viktor Zelin. “Specter Lead to Specter Three.”
“Three,” the former Su-34 fighter-bomber pilot’s laconic voice replied.
“On my order, you will destroy the American National Guard base on our flank.” With a quick flick of a finger, Baryshev opened a data link to Zelin’s robot and uploaded his computer’s intelligence evaluation and target analysis. “Leave no survivors.”
“Data received,” the major said a second later. He sounded happier now. “I will comply. Three, standing by.”
Satisfied that his subordinate knew what to do, Baryshev turned his attention back to the improvised roadblock up ahead. He opened another channel. “Lead to Two. You take that police car. I will destroy the enemy armored vehicle.”
“Affirmative, Lead!” KVM senior pilot Oleg Imrekov radioed back. His former wingman sounded keyed up and impatient, eager for action.
Baryshev felt his own pulse accelerating. A targeting icon blinked into existence, highlighting the Humvee parked four hundred meters away. He raised his 30mm autocannon, selecting armor-piercing ammunition. He took a deep breath, savoring the fierce sense of anticipation rising in his mind — sweeping away any lingering doubts or hesitation. It was the same feeling of exultation, of near omniscience, he experienced when hurling his Su-50 fighter into a whirling, close-range dogfight, only now multiplied tenfold. “Specter Lead to all Specter units,” he snapped. “Execute attack as ordered!”
Immediately he opened fire.
Tungsten-steel alloy slugs tore through the Humvee’s side armor and blew out the other side in a spray of molten metal. Its bullet-resistant windows shattered. The gunner manning the grenade launcher was killed instantly by a 30mm round that cut him in half. The soldiers who’d been manning the roadblock crumpled, either hit by cannon fire or shredded by jagged shards of armor spalling off the wrecked Humvee.