Relieved, Brad fed a little power to the engines and swung the Iron Wolf aircraft through a tight, 180-degree. The Scion fuel tanker disguised as a Forest Service vehicle was already rolling toward them. He and Nadia got busy, working with practiced teamwork to shut down their avionics and engines.
Whack Macomber’s deep voice rumbled through his headset. “Where the hell did those guys come from?” Like the others strapped in the crowded troop compartment, he was watching a video feed from the Ranger’s cameras.
“Apparently, there’s a Scion sleeper cell operating out of a hangar at the Casper-Natrona County International Airport,” Brad told him. “Since we would have been a mite conspicuous landing there, this was the next best alternative.”
“Martindale’s got a fricking sleeper cell in Wyoming?” Macomber snorted. “Guarding against what? Another Indian uprising?”
“I don’t know, Whack,” Brad said. He winked at Nadia. “I didn’t ask—”
“And he didn’t tell,” the big man said in disgust. “Yeah, I get it. Seriously, though, kid, sometimes that guy creeps me out.”
Silently, Brad agreed. Part of him understood the former president’s habit of secrecy and his dogged determination to compartmentalize key information — keeping as much as possible about his various covert activities on a strictly need-to-know basis. Throughout recent history, loose lips had sunk far too many important American covert operations. But there were also moments — far too many for Brad’s comfort — when it seemed that Martindale kept most of his secrets simply because he craved the feeling of being the smartest man in any room.
On the other hand, Brad reminded himself, the Scion chief had again come through in the clutch. This new improvised airstrip might be a long way from anywhere that mattered, but at least they were still in the U.S. — ready to act if only they could figure where Gryzlov’s forces were hiding… or where they planned to strike next.
Colonel Yuri Annenkov and his copilot, Major Konstantin Uspensky, entered the missile assembly area at the back of the crowded warehouse. Technicians were busy at several of the workbenches, systematically disassembling a new shipment of desktop computers.
Annenkov found Andrej Filippov, his ordnance specialist, hunched over an open Kh-35 fuselage. The short, balding man didn’t look up at their approach. He was completely focused on carefully plugging a new component into place in the section of the missile dedicated to its navigation systems. The two pilots waited quietly until he finished, stripped off his latex gloves, and turned to face them.
“We’re just configuring the weapons for your next attack,” Filippov said. Gently, he patted the cruise missile. “Moscow approved my request for the use of our new jam-resistant GLONASS receivers on this mission.”
Annenkov snorted. “I imagine General Kurakin was not particularly happy about that.” Upgrading their Kh-35s to receive in-flight course corrections from the GLONASS constellation of space-based navigation satellites measurably increased the odds of someone figuring out that Russia itself was hip-deep in this clandestine war.
“Not especially,” Filippov agreed. He shrugged. “But it was either that or find a different set of targets. There was simply no other way to resolve the technical and tactical problems involved.”
Annenkov and Uspenksy both nodded. To avoid detection on launch for this mission, their missiles would have to fly a long, complicated, and extremely precise path through very rough terrain. Relying on inertial navigation was a nonstarter. Too many seemingly small errors would inevitably accumulate throughout the flight — resulting not only in a large number of catastrophic crashes en route, but also in the likelihood of any surviving missiles missing their targets by dozens of meters.
“Even with satellite navigation, how many hits can we really count on scoring?” Uspensky asked bluntly. “By now the Americans must have GPS and GLONASS jammers deployed around all of their key military installations. Once they realize there are missiles inbound, they’ll bring those jammers online fast.”
“We will probably lose a few weapons to jamming-induced guidance errors,” Filippov said, with equal frankness. “Our upgraded GLONASS receivers are untested under combat conditions. On the other hand, the American jamming systems are almost equally untested. Without more data, the range of likely outcomes is difficult to accurately calculate.” For a few seconds, his narrow face took on a detached expression, almost as though he were running through a number of different scenarios in his mind. Then he shrugged his shoulders again. “Reaction time is the key, Major. Deny the enemy time to act and you greatly reduce the effectiveness of his defenses. So long as you achieve tactical surprise, your missiles will kill many Americans.”
Team Sergeant Casimir “Kaz” Ostrowski stopped for a short breather. He squatted down on his haunches and took a quick sip from his Camelbak hydration pack. Out of long habit, he glanced left and right, checking the alignment of the other Green Berets in this extended skirmish line. They were all separated by at least fifteen meters.
He frowned. Dispersed this way as they scouted across the high desert plateau, their twelve-man A-team was screwed if it made contact with an enemy force — but it was also the only formation that would let them cover their assigned patrol territory in any vaguely reasonable amount of time.
When he’d asked what they were looking for, their CO, Captain Michaelson, had at first only said, “Robots, Kaz. Big nasty killer robots.”
Pressed for more details, the captain had finally relented far enough to tell him that some of the 4th Infantry Division’s brass had already had the jitters — imagining the hell that would break loose if the same kind of war machines that blew the shit out of Barksdale and that Fort Worth aircraft factory came charging down off the high ground above Battle Mountain to attack them. Then, earlier today, when a helicopter pilot ferrying supplies into the occupied Sky Masters complex reported that she’d thought she’d seen “something weird” up in the Sheep Creek Range… well, that was enough to set off alarms all the way back to Fort Carson.
And so here Ostrowski and his teammates were, humping across a desiccated landscape apparently empty of everything but sand, sagebrush, rocks, and more rocks. They had been sweeping north, following the line of a little-used trail, for hours. It hadn’t taken them very long to figure out that the Army helicopter pilot’s “something weird” was nothing more than a heap of boulders that maybe looked a little like a giant man lying prone — if, that is, you squinted at it with one eye closed and had a really overactive imagination.
Unfortunately, Captain Michaelson had decided that today he was a firm believer in turning a dumb-ass, rookie pilot’s mistake into a useful training and endurance exercise. Which was why they were doggedly plodding deeper into this sunbaked wasteland instead of turning back to hitch a nice, relaxing helo ride out.
“Getting old, Kaz?” the captain’s voice crackled through his tactical headset. “No offense, Team Sergeant, but you seem a little slow today.”
“Just conserving my energy, Captain,” Ostrowski retorted. “Because I figure I could be stuck carrying your exhausted, eager-beaver ass back down this mother of a big, damn hill come sundown.”
Michaelson laughed. “I appreciate you keeping my welfare in mind, Sergeant.”
Yeah, I bet you do, Ostrowski thought sardonically. In most respects, the captain was a top-notch officer, but he had his weaknesses. Showing off for the battalion commander was one of them. Hence his decision to volunteer them for this grueling recon so that he could demonstrate his team’s physical fitness and devotion to duty.