His father nodded firmly. “It’s his next logical move.” His voice was level. “And given the situation right now, there is effectively only one vital American political target left for him to strike.”
Brad began to see where Martindale and his father were going. So far, Gryzlov’s covert operations had achieved significant tactical victories. But those same victories were damaging his own strategic goals by boosting the odds that Stacy Anne Barbeau would lose to Farrell — the last man the Russian leader could expect to dance to his tune. And while Gryzlov wasn’t a moron… he was ruthless, violent, and willing to run enormous risks to achieve his desired ends. Which meant—
“Oh shit,” he muttered. “You think the Russians are going to kill Governor Farrell.”
Martindale nodded grimly. “His murder would set off a political firestorm.”
“But won’t his party simply nominate another candidate?” Nadia asked.
“There would be nothing simple about it,” Martindale said tersely. “Farrell was the only one genuinely positioned to give Barbeau a run for her money in November. With him gone, his party will divide into a dozen warring factions. I don’t see any of the other possible contenders beating her.”
“Especially not if she can blame his death on us,” Brad said slowly.
His father nodded. “Which is why we need to find your team a new operating base considerably farther south. And why Mr. Martindale and I need to borrow Captain Schofield and his scouts right away.”
Thirty-Seven
Inside the old warehouse, Kirill Aristov fought to control the dread he felt when he stared up at the metal war machine looming over him. When his security team first joined up with Colonel Baryshev and his lethal KVMs, his fears had been largely irrational — the natural unease of a human suddenly confronted by faceless machines that moved like men, but that were exponentially more powerful. Now, though, he had all too many real reasons to be afraid of them. With every passing day, the pilots inside those combat robots seemed to merge more and more with their automatons. It was as though they were purging themselves of almost every ordinary human emotion, retaining only those that would serve in battle… fury, bloodlust, and the will to dominate.
“You have your new vehicle,” Baryshev’s cold, electronically synthesized voice said. “So take your reconnaissance team and do your job, Captain.”
“My men and I have just finished a twenty-four-hour drive across half of America,” Aristov said, trying to stay calm. “We need to rest first. As soon as it gets dark tomorrow, we’ll move out.”
“You waste valuable time. I find that… unacceptable.” Servos whined as the machine flexed its metal hands.
Aristov resisted the urge to turn and run. If Baryshev decided to kill him, he was already as good as dead. He forced himself not to show any emotion. “General Kurakin’s orders are very clear. This is an extremely sensitive target — one with enormous political significance. We cannot risk making any mistakes.”
“I have read Moscow’s intelligence files myself,” the robot retorted. “I see nothing to fear.”
“Moscow’s intelligence may already be out-of-date, Colonel,” Aristov said. Looking for other reasons to justify obeying their superior’s demands for caution, he seized on the first one that came to mind… as unlikely as it seemed. “Remember, an Iron Wolf war machine destroyed Annenkov and the others without any warning.”
The KVM’s antenna-studded head inclined toward him. “Do you believe the Poles have deployed some of their Cybernetic Infantry Devices to protect this target?” In the cool, outwardly detached tones of its artificial voice there was suddenly a definite undercurrent of… eagerness. “Confronting such an enemy would be the ultimate test of our strength and power.”
“I don’t know,” Aristov said slowly, choosing his words with care. The last thing he could afford to do was trigger this eerie meld of man and machine’s increasingly aggressive instincts. If they snapped, he suspected Baryshev and the others were quite likely to charge out of the warehouse, rushing north to conduct an immediate attack on their own — despite the fact that covering the ninety-odd kilometers would only drain their batteries and fuel cells… and trigger an immediate counterattack by the alerted American Army and Air Force. “That’s why my team and I need to get in as close as possible and conduct a detailed reconnaissance. If the Poles and their mercenaries are there, we’ll find them for you. And then you can destroy them.”
The KVM seemed to ponder that for a moment. “Very well,” it said at last. “We will wait here.” It straightened up to its full height. “But do not dawdle, little man. Complete your task quickly and efficiently and report your findings immediately. My patience is not unlimited.”
Former U.S. Special Forces and Iron Wolf Squadron sergeant Andrew Davis kept his chestnut mare to a slow walk as he rode through a rolling landscape of scrub oaks and cedar trees, brush, low-growing prickly-pear cacti, and limestone rocks and boulders. He was following a trail that meandered along a streambed, which was mostly dry at this time of the year. Rounded and flat-topped hills rose on all sides, sometimes with slopes that were open grassland, but that were more often thickly wooded.
In his cowboy hat, jeans, and boots, with a scabbarded Ruger Mini-14 Ranch Rifle strapped to his saddle, Davis looked more like a ranch hand out for a Sunday horseback ride than the chief of Governor John Dalton Farrell’s security detail. And that, of course, was exactly the impression he wanted to convey. While he lazed along, apparently half dozing in the high, dry heat of a Texas Hill Country summer day, his eyes were busy probing the apparently uninhabited countryside — checking for anything out of place.
At a spot where two narrow, chalk-white trails crossed, he guided his horse to the right and climbed up out of the low ground paralleling the streambed. A gentle breeze riffled through the long brown grass on the slope ahead. Near the top of a shallow, boulder-studded rise, he noticed an empty beer bottle perched upright on a flat rock off to the side of the trail. Squinting against the sunlight, he made out the label… Moosehead Lager from Canada.
Davis hid a smile. Subtlety was apparently not in season. He reined in and dismounted. His mare whinnied softly, apparently made uneasy by something unseen. “Easy, girl,” he murmured. “Nothing to be worried about.”
After glancing around the seemingly empty countryside around him, he perched on the sun-warmed rock, right beside the beer bottle. “It sure is nice not seeing you, Captain,” he said aloud, with a chuckle. “I always do appreciate the invisibility of a genuine special ops professional at work.”
From the middle of a clump of tall grass next to the boulder, Ian Schofield laughed softly. “I appreciate the compliment, Sergeant. I hope you’ll forgive my not getting up to shake your hand… but I spent quite a lot of time arranging this ghillie suit just so.”
Davis refrained from looking in the direction of his former commander’s voice. In all honesty, he was impressed. He’d thought Schofield was concealed in the bushes on the other side of the trail. Ghillie suits, first invented by Scottish gamekeepers to avoid scaring off game by allowing hunters to fade into their surroundings, had been in military use for more than a century. Usually handcrafted by the snipers and scouts who relied on them, the suits were covered in bits of fabric, twine, burlap, and local foliage. When worn by an expert, a good suit could render a man lying motionless effectively invisible at a distance… and nearly so at close range, if he was in decent cover.