Within milliseconds, the computer did as he asked. His list of suspect aircraft expanded almost exponentially. Take one step forward and end up two steps back, Patrick thought dryly. So now it was time to take a running jump.
Now, he thought, cross-check this list of planes against those observed flying through the Barksdale missile launch zone.
Only one plane appeared on both lists.
“Gotcha,” Patrick growled, looking at the tail number assigned to a 737-200F cargo jet owned by a company called Regan Air Freight. To make sure, he activated another of Scion’s concealed software back doors to enter the databases of SENEAM, Servicios a la Navegación en el Espacio Aéreo Mexicano—the Mexican government’s equivalent of the U.S. Federal Aviation Administration.
After clearing American airspace, the Regan Air plane had landed at San Felipe. In and of itself, that wasn’t too big a black mark — big planes usually landed in Tijuana, and light planes landed in San Felipe, but either was legal. But then, barely an hour later, it had taken off again, this time heading deeper into the mountains running down the spine of the Baja peninsula. And there, right around the time those missiles could have been launched toward San Diego, radar data from the Mexican station at Puerto Peñasco Sonora showed the 737–200 orbiting over the Baja hinterlands… just close enough to the U.S. naval base to carry out a maximum-range strike. And it had the payload capacity to carry the number of Russian cruise missiles used in each attack.
Bingo, Patrick thought. The crew of that aircraft had the means and the opportunity to hit both Barksdale and San Diego. Their motivation, whether Russian patriotism or mercenary greed, was unimportant. Still using his LEAF’s interface, he opened a secure channel to Martindale in Warsaw.
The older man answered right away. “What is it, General?” Quickly, Patrick filled him in on what he’d discovered. “Regan Air Freight? Yes, I see the significance,” Martindale said grimly. “I’ll see what my people can learn about this corporation. And as fast as possible.”
Patrick heard the strain in his voice. “What’s happened?” he asked.
“Gryzlov’s combat robots just destroyed a number of research labs at Sandia’s Livermore campus,” Martindale said. “Including one the administration funded to try to replicate Jason Richter’s work on Cybernetic Infantry Devices.”
“Oh shit,” Patrick growled. “I can’t think of anything more likely to convince Stacy Anne Barbeau that we’re gunning for her.”
“Nor can I,” Martindale agreed. “Which is undoubtedly Gryzlov’s plan.” He sighed. “We never had much time to stop him before this spirals out of control, General. Now we have even less.”
Thirty-Two
Brad McLanahan listened closely to his father’s explanation of how the Russians were concealing their cruise-missile attacks. “So they’re flying this converted 737 out of a private field in Utah?” he asked. “Is that the base for their air-launched strikes?”
The retired general nodded. Because they had a good, secure satellite link, his image was only slightly distorted on their cockpit displays. “The pattern is pretty clear… at least now that we know what we’re looking for. My guess, based on the flight plans and filed manifests I’ve examined, is that they’ve been ferrying in missiles, or, more likely, missile components, from overseas for weeks.”
Nadia leaned forward. She appeared wholly focused, like a bird of prey circling on the hunt. “Is it possible that this Moab facility is also the command and control center for Gryzlov’s robot forces?”
“I doubt it,” the older McLanahan replied. He shrugged. “Though it might serve as a logistical hub for their robots, since they can fly in equipment, spare parts, and ammunition through the field. But even that isn’t certain.”
“Yeah, Gryzlov may be crazy, but he’s not stupid,” Whack Macomber said roughly. “Running both elements of his clandestine operation out of the same location would be way too risky.”
Nadia scowled. “So we could destroy the air base in Utah and still end up no closer to being able to eliminate the primary threat, these Russian fighting machines?”
Brad looked at her. “At least now we know how they’re avoiding detection,” he pointed out. He turned to the image of Kevin Martindale on the screen. “Right, Mr. Martindale?”
The gray-haired man nodded. “Quite so, Captain McLanahan.” He shrugged. “Your father’s discovery that an aircraft owned by Regan Air Freight had been converted into a cruise-missile carrier was the break we needed. There is no way an otherwise legitimate corporation like this air cargo company would lend itself to a Russian covert operation—”
“Unless Moscow controls it from the inside,” Brad finished.
Somewhat nettled by the interruption, Martindale nodded tersely. “Exactly. My operatives have only begun digging, but it seems likely that Russia — or possibly Gryzlov himself in his private capacity — now owns a controlling interest in both Regan Air and a ground-based freight hauler, FXR Trucking. Their original owner, a Canadian billionaire named Francis Xavier Regan, sold his personal stake in both companies to an international consortium of banks and investment firms several months ago.” He smiled thinly, without humor. “My guess would be this purported consortium is nothing more than a group of straw buyers, a front for Gennadiy Gryzlov.”
“Has anyone contacted this man Regan to learn more about what he knows?” Nadia asked.
“The thought had occurred to me, Major Rozek,” Martindale said quietly. “Unfortunately, Regan vanished somewhere in the North Atlantic — along with his seventy-five-meter-long sailing yacht and its entire crew — a few days after finalizing the sale.”
Macomber snorted. “Gee, isn’t that just fricking convenient?”
“Yeah, there’s the Gennadiy Gryzlov we all know and hate,” Brad agreed. “Leaving a trail of death and disappearances wherever he goes.”
Polish president Piotr Wilk frowned. “The only reason the Russians would want to own a trucking company would be to transport men and supplies… and their war robots… inconspicuously.”
Patrick McLanahan nodded. “Using big rigs as a means of covert movement was one of the possibilities my analysts zeroed in on a while back, Mr. President.”
“And yet you say this gets us no closer to finding Gryzlov’s action teams?” Wilk asked. “Even though we now know how to identify the vehicles his men are using?”
Martindale shrugged his shoulders. “It’s a variation of the needle-in-a-haystack problem, Piotr. There are more than two million tractor-trailers operating on U.S. roads and highways. Of those, FXR Trucking owns hundreds in its own right and leases or rents thousands more. And that’s not counting the tens of thousands of independent drivers it hires for single deliveries or short-term contracts. Virtually any of those big rigs might be the ones the Russians are using to transport their war robots and support units.”
“Then why not narrow down that field by using the same method General McLanahan employed to identify their cruise-missile aircraft?” Wilk argued.
“By correlating the movements of FXR-owned or — leased trucks near the areas the Russians have already attacked?” Wilk nodded. “Because no one really tracks trucks or cars in the United States,” Patrick explained. “Short of a driver getting a speeding ticket or being involved in an accident, there’s no real reason for any government — state, local, or federal — to pay much attention… or keep any records.”