Feeling sick at heart, Brad turned away. He didn’t mind killing men who could fight back. But this felt more like murder, even though he’d given the crew inside that plane at least a brief chance to surrender.
“I have broken into their satellite connection,” Nadia said suddenly. “They are in contact with RKU headquarters in Moscow. And they have reported they are under attack by an Iron Wolf combat robot.”
“Did they send any images from their security cameras?” Brad asked. He reloaded his autocannon.
“Beautiful pictures,” she confirmed, sounding gleeful. “You look quite terrifying!”
Macomber broke in. “Let’s finish this, Wolf One. If we don’t book out of here in the next few minutes, we’re gonna have a very up-close and personal encounter with the sheriff’s department.”
Without hesitating any longer, he opened fire on the flight operations trailer. Armor-piercing rounds ripped through its thin walls and exploded out the other side — destroying everything and everyone in their path. Fires fed by smashed furniture and short-circuiting electronics glowed orange in the wreckage. On his CID’s display, the pulsing dot showing a live transmission to Russia vanished as the signal cut off.
Brad whirled away from the airport and loped east out into the desert, heading to join the other two Iron Wolf combat robots. Behind him, flames crackled noisily — spreading fast through the ruins of Gennadiy Gryzlov’s covert air base.
Thirty-Four
Russia’s most advanced spy satellite orbited several hundred kilometers above the cloud-flecked globe — circling the world once every hundred minutes at nearly twenty-seven thousand kilometers per hour. As it crossed the terminator into darkness over the central Pacific, new commands reached its onboard computer. In response, its telescope rotated slightly, focusing on a different sliver of the earth spinning past far below.
Fourteen minutes later, the Razdan-1 satellite came into visual range of the new target its masters wanted investigated. Over the next few seconds, high-resolution digital cameras took several extremely detailed infrared pictures of a very small area of the United States. A high-speed radio antenna instantly relayed the images to Moscow through Russia’s Meridian satellite military communications network.
Russian president Gennadiy Gryzlov’s face contorted in anger as he studied the satellite pictures on his monitor. Even without the benefit of detailed analysis by the military’s photo interpretation experts, it was clear that RKU’s Utah base had been completely destroyed — along with its converted 737-200F cruise-missile carrier. He looked up at Vladimir Kurakin. “Were there any survivors for the Americans to interrogate?” he demanded.
“None,” the other man said. His face was pale and set. “As a security precaution when we established the Moab facility, the FSB’s Q Directorate hacked into the communications networks of all the local law enforcement and emergency services agencies. Our intercepts of police and ambulance service calls make it clear the Americans found no one left alive at the scene. Only mangled and burned corpses.”
Gryzlov nodded, feeling his anger subside. “So at least the Poles and their mercenaries did us one small favor.” One side of his mouth twitched upward in a wry, half smile. “That was kind of them.”
Kurakin stared back at him in disbelief. “I just lost nearly fifty of my best airmen, special forces operatives, and ordnance technicians, Mr. President,” he said stiffly. “I find it very difficult to see anything positive in this catastrophe.”
“Casualties are an inescapable consequence of war,” Gryzlov retorted. He shrugged his shoulders. “A few men killed and a single aircraft destroyed? Weighed against the damage your operations have already inflicted on the Americans, that’s nothing… a mere fleabite.”
Kurakin’s jaw tightened. But he stayed silent.
“From the beginning, we both knew basing an aircraft inside the United States was a high-risk venture,” the Russian president continued coolly. “Losing it is an unfortunate occurrence, but nothing more than that.”
Kurakin’s nostrils flared. “Unfortunate?” he growled. “That is not the word I would choose… sir.”
Gryzlov eyed him closely. The man he’d selected to command his mercenaries had served him loyally thus far. Was that time coming to an end? He hoped not. Replacing the former Spetsnaz general now — so close to the culmination of this secret war — would be difficult. No, he decided, it would be better to ride this faltering horse awhile longer, to death if need be, rather than waste valuable time looking for a new mount.
With a swift flick of his finger, he dismissed the satellite photos from his monitor. “Never mind, Vladimir. We don’t have time to waste on minor setbacks. Now that we’ve lost the ability to launch more cruise-missile strikes, we need to recalibrate your operations.”
“Recalibrate my operations?” Kurakin said, clearly taken by surprise. “You intend to continue this war? Even now?”
“Of course.” Gryzlov raised an eyebrow. “What else do you propose?”
“That we withdraw Baryshev’s KVM unit and their security team!” the other man replied forcefully. “And as soon as possible. The Iron Wolf attack that destroyed Colonel Annenkov and his entire unit proves that the Poles and Scion have penetrated our operational security. Baryshev’s robots are vulnerable.”
“Your fears are irrational,” Gryzlov said coldly. “You saw the pictures from the security cameras at Moab. Your base was destroyed by a single Iron Wolf machine. Correct?”
Kurakin grimaced. “Yes.”
“You see what that implies, of course?”
“That just one of the enemy robots was available,” Kurakin guessed.
Gryzlov nodded approvingly. “Exactly. The Poles must be too afraid to risk more of their foreign soldiers and machines in operations inside the United States.” He shrugged again. “I don’t see one lone Iron Wolf robot as a serious threat to our remaining forces… or to our plans. It would only be easy prey for our own KVMs.”
“But the Poles could pass on what they’ve learned to President Barbeau,” Kurakin warned.
“And what is that?” Gryzlov said. “Nothing beyond supposition and guesswork. Nothing in the wreckage of your Utah base ties directly back to us.”
“The Americans are sure to dig deeper into the new owners of Regan Air Freight and FXR Trucking,” Kurakin argued.
Gryzlov laughed, remembering the contingency arrangements he’d made with Willem Daeniker, the utterly mercenary and thoroughly amoral Swiss banker who’d been his go-between with Francis Xavier Regan and then with the managers of both companies. Gryzlov had sent a text message activating those emergency measures as soon as he’d received the first word of the Iron Wolf raid on RKU’s airbase. “Oh, I earnestly hope the Americans do conduct a thorough investigation, Vladimir,” he said cheerfully. “What they would learn would be most… instructive.
“Let me make this plain to you,” Gryzlov continued bluntly. “So long as it is likely that Barbeau and her advisers are still in the dark about our involvement, Operation Checkmate will proceed.”
Reluctantly, Kurakin nodded. “Very well, Mr. President. But I must tell you that our options going forward are increasingly narrow — especially now that we’ve lost our cruise-missile aircraft.”
“Why is that?”