“That’s just a little show for the locals,” Whack replied. “But take a gander at the fellas prowling out there away from those lights. If you were wondering what happened to those Spetsnaz veterans Gryzlov hired away from his own army, I’d say we just found at least four of them.”
Brad zoomed in on the four men walking obvious sentry beats in the darkness well beyond the parked cargo jet. He was close enough for his night-vision cameras to pick up enormous amounts of detail. All four of them wore body armor, tactical radios, and night-vision gear. Two carried unfamiliar-looking assault rifles. Israeli-made Galil ACE 53 7.62mm weapons, his computer reported. The other two cradled standard-issue, military-grade M4 carbines. But each of them also had a disposable AT-4 84mm antitank rocket launcher slung over his shoulder. Bits of encrypted transmissions intercepted by his CID showed the four heavily armed guards were in frequent communication with each other, the gate shack, and the flight operations trailer. “You’ve got a point there, Whack,” he said over their secure circuit. “They’re loaded for bear.” He grinned. “Or maybe wolves like us. And they’re definitely pros.”
Nadia cut in. “What is the point of those guards?” she wondered. “Even assuming there are more Spetsnaz personnel currently off duty, they are still far too few in number to repel a determined military assault.”
“They’re not posted to fight off the U.S. Army,” Brad said. “My bet is their primary mission is providing security against possible intruders or spies. Plus, even a small Spetsnaz force like that could sure put a world of hurt on the cops and county sheriffs if local law enforcement got too curious and came calling.”
“Maybe so,” Nadia said, sounding both unconvinced and uncharacteristically worried. “But the possibility also exists that they are support troops for one or more of the Russian combat robots. I do not believe that Grzylov would leave this base so exposed.”
“From his perspective, this facility’s security rests on its secrecy,” Brad pointed out. “Aside from the cruise-missile-carrying 737 parked out on that apron, his war robots are his primary offensive striking power. Committing any of them to a static defensive role here would be a waste of resources.”
Macomber intervened. “He’s right, Major Rozek. Anyway, if there were robots deployed here, we’d have picked up their thermal signatures by now.”
“They could be powered down,” she argued. “Or our intelligence might be wrong. And if the Russians do have their own camouflage systems…” Her voice trailed off for a moment. “Wolf One,” she said formally. “I recommend we alter the plan. We should all assault simultaneously in order to overwhelm any such hidden forces.”
Inside his CID’s darkened cockpit, Brad nodded to himself, suddenly understanding why Nadia seemed so nervous. She hated watching him take risks while she waited in relative safety. “Negative, Wolf Two. You and Whack will cover me while I make the hit.” He cleared his throat. “Now, if you spot anything big and metal with arms and legs coming my way, you have my permission to shoot the hell out of it without hesitation. Otherwise, though, this is strictly a one-man show.” He felt a wry smile cross his face. “With the emphasis on show.”
“Copy that,” Macomber said.
Nadia sighed. “Very well. But I do not like this.”
Movement alert, Brad’s computer reported suddenly. Increased activity at target facility. Across the runway, he saw men in grease-stained coveralls opening big doors on one of the prefab buildings. His sensors showed rows of tarp-shrouded shapes inside a brightly lit interior. Chemical sniffers detect traces of kerosene fuels and high-explosive compounds, the computer told him. Analysis suggests those are Kh-35 cruise missiles.
While he watched, one of the cargo loaders roared to life and trundled toward the weapons storage building. Lights blinked on inside the Boeing 737’s cockpit. Its big forward door whirred open — spilling more light out onto the airport apron. Inside the cargo compartment, he could see more ground crewmen working on some kind of machine. Abruptly, he recognized what it was: a rotary missile launcher, very similar to those used on the XB-1F Excalibur bombers he’d flown with his father. And those technicians were prepping the launcher to receive new missiles.
His eyes narrowed. They’d arrived just in time. The Russians were getting ready to launch another strike.
Colonel Yuri Annenkov typed in a quick acknowledgment of Moscow’s most recent attack order, watched while the computer encrypted it, and then hit the send key. The machine beeped once shrilly as it transmitted his reply through their satellite link. He donned his radio headset and keyed the mike to speak to his copilot. Uspensky was already in the cockpit of their aircraft, running through preflight checks.
“Did those new missile target coordinates come through the link clean, Konstantin?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” Uspensky replied. “The attack computer confirms all target sets received.” He sounded puzzled. “What I don’t understand is why we’re hitting a school in New Orleans. What is so militarily significant about Tulane University and its law school?”
“This a political target, not a military one,” Annenkov explained, hiding his own feelings. After all, orders were orders. “Tulane is where the American president Barbeau received her education. Moscow believes damaging the campus will throw her further off balance and negatively affect her mental state.”
Uspensky snorted. “General Kurakin is getting a bit too fancy for my tastes, Colonel.”
Privately, Annenkov agreed, though he was equally sure Kurakin was not the one who’d made the ultimate decision to hit a civilian university for purely political and psychological reasons. That was more President Gryzlov’s style. “It’s a mission, Konstantin,” he said finally. “Where the missiles fly isn’t really our concern, is it?”
“I suppose not,” the other man agreed, though without much conviction. “See you in a few minutes?”
Annenkov nodded. “Yes. Get the bird warmed up for me. I’ll be there as soon as Filippov and his men start loading the Kh-35s. Pilot out.”
He pulled off the headset and glanced across the crowded trailer. A bank of five monitors displayed live feeds from the cameras set up around the airport. One showed ground crewmen carefully hoisting a cruise missile into position on the cargo loader. In another, angled to cover the 737 and its surroundings, he could see Filippov and two of his technicians fussing with one of their rotary launchers. He smiled. Like all good specialists, the former Russian Air Force ordnance officer was a stickler — striving to make sure the weapons and machines under his care performed perfectly when put to the test.
The remaining three TV monitors were the province of his security team. They were set to show images from the IR-capable cameras covering the airport perimeter fence. “How does it look out there tonight?” he asked. “Anything stirring?”
The officer on duty shook his head without taking his eyes off the screens. “Not a peep, Colonel.” He sounded vaguely disappointed. “Not even a few nosy teenagers to scare off. I guess the word got around.”
Annenkov chuckled. So far, the biggest challenge his security personnel had faced was breaking up illegal, underage drinking parties — gatherings the Americans called keggers — outside the airport grounds. He supposed that was quite a comedown for a group of battle-hardened Spetsnaz and GRU veterans.
He turned away.
“Kakogo cherta? What the hell? Where did that come from?” the other man said in sudden surprise. “Is that machine one of ours?”