“Then I figure this isn’t a social call,” he said.
“Shouldn’t you have said, ‘I reckon’?” Schofield asked curiously. “As a Texan deep in the heart of his home country, I mean?”
Davis grinned. “That’s only in the movies, Captain.” His smile faded. “Anyhow, I’m guessing you’re paying us a visit because there’s trouble on the way.”
“Quite probably,” Schofield said. “In fact, I rather suspect you’ll soon have a few unwelcome guests prowling around your perimeter, looking for weak spots where they can infiltrate. In fact, they could easily be here already, which is why I decided not to come trotting up to the main gate.”
Davis pulled at his jaw. “Wouldn’t surprise me much,” he agreed. He shrugged. “See, the governor’s ranch is a mighty big piece of rugged, empty country — close to four thousand acres, with around eight miles of fence line. That gives anyone interested in poking his nose where it ain’t welcome a hell of a lot of possible approaches.”
“You can’t possibly guard that much territory,” Schofield said. “Not with the size of Governor Farrell’s current security detail.”
“Nope,” Davis said. “I’d need a full infantry battalion to lock the ranch down completely.”
“And yet you don’t seem all that worried, Sergeant,” Schofield said with a trace of humor in his voice. “Which either means you have a plan or you’re a fool. And I know you’re not a fool.”
“Maybe not,” Davis allowed. “Truth is… I don’t have to secure the whole ranch. There’s only so many vantage points that would be useful to a spy or an assassin. As you can imagine, we keep a real close eye on those spots… both in person and with the help of some handy Sky Masters — designed surveillance gizmos.” Doggedly, he tugged the brim of his cowboy hat a little lower and folded his arms. “Trust me, Captain. No one’s getting close enough to the big house to put the governor on camera or in the sights of a rifle. Not on my watch.”
“I don’t doubt that for a minute, Sergeant,” Schofield assured him.
Mollified, Davis nodded. “Now, with that taken as gospel, and since I’m not dumb, I’d be more than happy to accept any assistance you’d care to offer.”
Schofield cleared his throat. “Ah, well, there’s the rub, I fear,” he said apologetically. “You see, I’m not here to help you plug any gaps in your security. I’m here to persuade you to leave one open.”
While listening to Kevin Martindale over his smartphone, John Dalton Farrell slowly got up. When this call came in, he’d been sprawled back in a big easy chair with his feet up on a coffee table — trying to make up his mind about which of several, inch-thick briefing books he wanted to tackle next. Frowning, he moved over to one of the big picture windows looking out across the ranch. Ordinarily, he found the view of green, wooded hills and the wide-open sky restful. Now, though, it felt more like he was surveying an alien country, one that might be full of lurking dangers and hidden menace.
“How sure of this are you?” he asked, when the other man finished explaining why he’d called.
“I’m not sure of anything, Governor,” Martindale answered. “But I learned a long time ago to follow where the evidence leads — no matter how improbable the ultimate destination seems at first. In this case, everything I know about Gennadiy Gryzlov’s worldview, ambitions, and behavioral patterns, along with the capabilities demonstrated by his combat robots, leads to one conclusion: He plans to kill you.”
Farrell’s jaw tightened. “A foreign government assassinating an American presidential candidate? There’s no way Stacy Anne Barbeau could overlook something like that.”
“No, she couldn’t,” Martindale agreed. “But given her present state of mind, she’s far more likely to blame your murder on this supposed ‘civil war’ between General McLanahan and myself.”
“Leaving the Russians in the clear,” Farrell said bluntly. “And this country in political chaos. And Poland and its allies basically up shit creek.” He turned away from the window. “Even setting aside my natural care and concern for my own damn skin, that’s a seriously crappy outcome.”
“I agree,” Martindale told him. “Which is why we need to act to avoid that outcome.”
Listening to the other man outline Scion’s plan, Farrell glanced around the room, seeing the much-loved and unpretentious comfortable furniture, favorite books, and mementos he’d spent half a lifetime acquiring. When Martindale finished, he sighed. “Okay, I’m in.” He snorted. “But if I end up dead, I want it on record that this was a really stupid idea.”
“If you get killed, Governor,” Martindale said simply, “you’ll have plenty of company.”
Thirty-Eight
Standing at a scarred, oil-stained workbench inside the warehouse, Dobrynin scrutinized the grainy, green-tinged night-vision pictures relayed by Aristov’s reconnaissance team. So far, what his commander was seeing closely matched the intelligence reports they’d studied. There were only a handful of uniformed police officers stationed around Farrell’s rambling, stone-walled ranch house and its outbuildings. Their pistols and shotguns wouldn’t be much use against Russia’s war robots.
He frowned down at his laptop.
Still, it had proved surprisingly difficult for Aristov to reach a concealed position on one of the wooded hills overlooking the American politician’s compound. Several of the most promising infiltration routes had been blocked by watchful guards or electronic surveillance gear. During the weeks their RKU unit had spent traveling the U.S. to scout possible targets, they’d never had so much trouble getting a man in close. Dobrynin was bothered by the disconnect between such tight outer security on the one hand and this apparent sloppiness so close to Farrell’s country house on the other. But what could explain the seeming inconsistency?
“Enough time has been lost,” a cold machine voice said over his shoulder. “Get your vehicles ready. We must be on the move to the Farrell ranch in the next ten minutes.”
Taken by surprise, Dobrynin jerked upright. He’d been so preoccupied that he hadn’t even heard the huge KVM come up right behind him. With his heart pounding so loudly that he was sure the machine’s sensitive audio sensors could hear it, he turned around. “Excuse me, Colonel?”
“Don’t play games with me,” Baryshev said bluntly. “I’ve given you an order. Now obey it.”
Dobrynin stared up at the robot. “But we haven’t finished our reconnaissance yet.”
“Further spying is unnecessary.” The machine stepped closer, crowding him back against the workbench. “Already, Aristov has thrown away precious hours… only to confirm what we already knew. Nothing can be gained by waiting another full day. If anything, all that will do is give the Americans more time to strengthen their defenses — or to find this warehouse. By now, the Poles must know the methods we are using to avoid detection. The American government will not be far behind.”
Shakily, Dobrynin nodded. That part of what Baryshev said was true. The destruction of their Moab air base meant their enemies must be aware they’d been using Regan Air Freight as cover for their operation. And it was only a small step from knowing that fact to zeroing in on FXR Trucking vehicles and facilities as the next logical piece of the puzzle. “Have you cleared this with Moscow?” he asked, still stalling for time.