He wished again that their robots were equipped with radar. Not only would a counterbattery radar have warned them about the incoming grenades before they detonated, it would also have provided a far more precise fix on that suspected enemy position. Unfortunately, Russia’s scientists hadn’t been able to reverse-engineer the power-efficient, compact Sky Masters radars built into the Iron Wolf CIDs. And their own active radar systems were too cumbersome and needed too much energy. The passive radar warning receivers fitted into their KVM sensor arrays were a distinctly second-best solution.
“Specter Four to Three,” Zelin radioed. “We will advance on the enemy. Lay down suppressive fire on that position!” Acting on his own orders, he rose and stalked forward — firing short bursts from his autocannon into the woods ahead of them. Novikov did the same, going forward on his left while shooting on the move.
Tree trunks started exploding, blasted to splinters by HE and armor-piercing rounds. Tracer rounds slashed through the darkness, corkscrewing wildly into the air as they ricocheted off boulders. Zelin wasn’t anticipating they’d actually hit anyone. Right now, he only wanted to lay down enough fire to make the still-unseen Americans keep their heads down.
Brad pressed his CID flat against the ground, hearing 30mm rounds whipcrack past low overhead. Staccato flashes from their weapons showed the enemy fighting machines prowling closer, advancing through the splintered, burning forest. He smiled tightly. Most of their fire seemed to be directed about thirty meters to his left, toward his old position at the edge of a little clearing in the woods. But there were enough shells peppering the general area to make the idea of standing up for no good reason seem distinctly unwise.
Through narrowed eyes, he watched the Russians come on. They were definitely converging on the clearing. More high-explosive rounds slammed into the ground on the far side. Fountains of pulverized dirt and rock erupted.
The nearest enemy robot darted forward into the opening and loosed a long, withering burst aimed low — shredding trees and bushes and blasting more craters in the hard-packed soil. Its autocannon fell silent, with smoke coiling away from its muzzle. Slowly, the robot lowered its weapon. Its antenna-studded head whirred from side to side and then stopped — looking in his general direction.
Abruptly, Brad realized the Russian pilot must have spotted the trail of broken branches and crushed bracken he’d made when leaving the clearing. A trail that would lead the enemy straight to his current position, no matter how effective his camouflage systems were. “Damn,” he muttered.
He leaped to his feet, unslinging his own 25mm autocannon at the same time. With a wild, piercing yell, he opened fire at point-blank range. More than a dozen rounds smashed into the enemy war machine — punching through its composite armor in a dazzling shower of sparks and shards of metal and plastic.
The Russian robot froze in midmotion. Tendrils of oily, black smoke poured out through the rents torn in its torso. Flames glowed red through the smoke.
Warning. Hostile to the right, his CID’s computer snapped.
Brad glimpsed the second Russian war machine as it crashed through a thicket no more than fifty meters away. It was already shooting at him. Something clipped him in the side, spinning him partway around. Another round slammed into his CID’s right arm with bone-rattling force. The hand gripping his autocannon went dead. Red lights flared on his display. Lower arm actuators destroyed, the computer said calmly. Autocannon ammunition feed off-line.
He whirled aside and ran, racing through the woods at high speed — zigzagging in an effort to throw off the enemy’s aim. Shattered branches and torn leaves fluttered in his wake. More 30mm rounds struck his rear armor, cracking thermal tiles and knocking him off stride, but not quite penetrating.
The enemy machine was in close pursuit, firing at him on the move.
Time to go vertical, Brad realized. Running all out, he bounded into the air at nearly forty miles an hour — tearing through the woodland canopy on the way up and crashing back down among the trees. He hit the ground still running, and leaped again… soaring even higher and farther this time.
Again, he fell back to earth, thudding down in a huge cloud of dirt and dust. With his CID’s left hand, he pried the damaged, still-warm autocannon loose and tossed it far away into the woods. Then he bulled his way on, shoving through saplings, brambles, and past vine-draped oaks without any attempt to hide the signs of his passage. Seconds later, he came out into another small clearing, a roughly circular patch of open ground no more than fifteen meters in diameter. His eyes narrowed. This would have to do, he thought. One way or another, he was done running.
Quickly, Brad plunged in among the trees and brush on the opposite side. As soon as he was out of sight of the glade, he cut right and circled back halfway around. He stopped a short distance from the opening and knelt down. Reengage camouflage systems, he commanded. Carefully, he took out his rail gun and set it behind the trunk of the nearest cedar tree… within easy reach.
Rear torso and right arm thermal and chameleon camouflage partially compromised, the CID warned him. Several areas on a systems schematic glowed yellow. He edged over a little so that the robot’s lifeless right arm was at least partly screened by the same tree. Then, satisfied, he settled in to wait.
Furious, Major Viktor Zelin ran through the forest, heading for the spot where his computer calculated the Iron Wolf robot must have landed after its second bound. He was on his own now. Novikov was dead, cut to pieces inside his cockpit by that sudden, shattering burst of point-blank cannon fire. So much for Moscow’s fucking intelligence reports, he thought viciously. All those cheerful rear-echelon assurances that they wouldn’t have to face more than a single one of the enemy’s combat machines had just gone up in smoke and flames… exactly like Novikov’s wrecked KVM.
At least he’d scored a number of solid hits on the other robot as it turned and ran. That should make the job of finishing it off easier.
Nearing the site, Zelin slowed down. He had no intention of stumbling into another ambush. Damaged or not, that Iron Wolf machine could still have teeth. Cautiously, he approached the place where the other pilot had crashed back to earth. Broken tree limbs and plowed dirt showed the exact spot. He paused, scanning the area with his night-vision sensors and listening for even the slightest sounds.
A long, thin shape glowed green off the woods on his left. He swung in that direction, ready to fire. Discarded 25mm enemy weapon, his KVM’s computer reported. Zelin showed his teeth. Nobody dropped their armament without good reason. He must have inflicted more damage on the Iron Wolf robot than he’d first thought.
The major turned back and moved on, following the trail of disturbed vegetation left by the other machine as it fled. He stayed on high alert. The KVM’s sensitive microphones weren’t picking up any new sounds… which meant the enemy had gone to ground somewhere up ahead.
Hostile approaching at nine o’clock, Brad’s CID reported.
He held his breath, watching as the Russian war robot stepped warily into the clearing. Its smooth, featureless head swiveled from side to side, almost as though it were a hungry tiger sniffing for the scent of prey. His mouth felt dry as dust.
Come on, he urged it silently. Just come a little farther. See, there’s no one here. Just you.
Apparently satisfied, the other machine started across the open ground — heading toward the false trail Brad had laid deeper into the woods.