Kirill Aristov decided it was time to go. So far, only a single medevac helicopter had landed and taken off. But he could hear more aircraft in the distance, along with the sound of police and fire-engine sirens coming closer. If he waited much longer, the ranch would be swarming with American police and soldiers. And there was no way he could evade a serious sweep by dismounted troops and sheriffs with dogs.
From his vantage point on this low, wooded knoll, it was difficult to know exactly what had happened, but one thing was very clear: Baryshev’s attack had run into ferocious and wholly unexpected opposition. He’d seen at least one of the KVMs destroyed — blown to pieces near the top of the hill across from him. And he’d watched another vanish into the darkness beyond the burning ruins of Farrell’s ranch house… followed soon after by a powerful explosion. That, coupled with the sight of one of those Iron Wolf war machines moving out in the open without being fired on, strongly suggested the colonel and his men had been defeated. But whether they’d won or lost no longer mattered much to Aristov. His only goal now was to get off this ranch and out of the country as fast as possible.
With that in mind, he carefully stowed his night-vision camera and scope back inside his camouflage suit. Then, slowly and cautiously, he wriggled backward, out from between the two gnarled trees he’d been using for cover. As soon as he reached a place where brush and high grass cut off his view of the burning house, he started to get up.
And froze suddenly, feeling the cold muzzle of a gun at the base of his skull.
“I’d sure appreciate it if you’d keep your hands where I can see them,” an amused-sounding voice drawled conversationally. “See, I’m a little high-strung just now… and my trigger finger gets kind of twitchy when that happens.”
Aristov swallowed hard. He lowered himself back down and carefully spread his hands out, palms flat against the ground. He lay still while the gunman patted him down roughly, but efficiently — swiftly finding and removing his camera and his fighting knife, which was the only weapon he carried.
The gunman stepped back. “You can roll over now, friend.”
Aristov did as he was told… and saw a grizzled, tough-looking man pointing a Ruger Mini-14 Ranch Rifle at him. The American wore a camouflage suit much like his own. “You have the advantage of me, Mr. — ?”
The other man nodded politely. “The name’s Davis. Andrew Davis.”
Aristov sighed. “And how long have you been watching me, Mr. Davis?”
“Pretty much from the time you crossed Governor Farrell’s property line,” the American said casually.
“So what happens now?”
Davis grinned back at him. “We mosey on down to what’s left of the governor’s house.” His eyes hardened. “I sure hope you didn’t have any real urgent business, friend, like say down in Mexico, or maybe back home in Russia… because I’m thinking there are an awful lot of folks who are real eager to have a word or two with you.”
Forty-Four
Vladimir Kurakin sat in painful silence, watching the evidence of an unmitigated disaster unfold in real time. The big-screen monitor in Gryzlov’s private office currently showed a hurriedly called press conference taking place at Governor John D. Farrell’s Texas ranch.
The American presidential candidate stood confidently before an array of microphones — looking tired, but otherwise none the worse for wear. “These terrorist attacks against our military and our vital defense industries and scientists… and now against me… were carried out by Russian mercenaries — mercenaries I’m convinced were acting on the orders of the Russian government itself. Fortunately, thanks to the heroism and incredible self-sacrifice of a handful of brave American patriots and their Polish comrades-in-arms, this threat to our country and to our political stability was stopped cold tonight.”
Farrell’s mouth tightened. “Despite President Barbeau’s earlier repeated assertions otherwise, the evidence of Moscow’s involvement in these atrocities is now overwhelming. The pieces of six wrecked Russian war machines, which they call Kiberneticheskiye Voyennyye Mashiny, are scattered across my ranch. I have no doubt that careful forensic analysis of these materials and components will prove conclusively where they were manufactured… in Russia… and nowhere else.” For a moment, a bit of mischievous humor peeked out through his serious expression. “And if that’s not enough to convince the president and her people of the boneheaded mistakes they’ve made all the way through this crisis, well, then, maybe interrogating the prisoners we captured here tonight will do the trick.”
He looked straight into the cameras. “But whatever President Barbeau does or doesn’t do, the evil men responsible for orchestrating these brutal and unprovoked attacks on our country had better get one thing straight: If I win the election in November and become president of the United States, there will be a day of reckoning. And that’s not a threat. It’s a solemn promise—”
Gennadiy Gryzlov snapped off the broadcast with a decisive gesture. Slowly, he swiveled to face Kurakin. “I am shocked, General,” he said coldly. “Shocked to the depths of my soul by these terrible events.”
Kurakin stared at him. “Mr. President, let me remind you that the attempt to kill Governor Farrell was ordered against my best advice. From the beginning, I was the one who warned you that doing so was both hasty and reckless.”
Gryzlov raised an eyebrow. “You misunderstand me, Vladimir,” he said with a sly smile. Seeing the other man’s incomprehension, he sighed. “I’m simply expressing my dismay at learning about the crimes you and these other disgraced ex — Russian soldiers have been committing on foreign soil. I can’t imagine how you were able to steal so much valuable state property — like those experimental industrial robots — let alone use it to carry out wholly unauthorized terrorist actions against the United States.” He shook his head gravely. “I suspect I’m going to have to clean house at the Ministry of Defense, purging it from top to bottom.”
Kurakin turned pale. “But I—”
“You thought I would sanction what you’ve done, especially after this fiasco? You forget: The core of ‘plausible deniability’ is the willingness to deny.” He tapped a button on his desk phone.
The door to his office swung open. Several hard-faced men in police uniforms filed in. One of them, with the two stars of a lieutenant colonel on his shoulder boards, moved directly to Kurakin and laid a firm hand on his shoulder. “Former major general Vladimir Kurakin, by order of the president, I’m placing you under arrest for crimes against the state.”
Kurakin sat rooted in genuine shock. His mouth opened and closed uselessly, like a fish gasping for breath after it had been hooked and reeled in.
The officer who’d arrested him nodded to his subordinates. Silently, they closed in, dragged Kurakin to his feet, and then led him, unresisting, out of the office.
Gryzlov stopped their leader with a glance. “A moment, Colonel.”
“Sir?”
“Major General Kurakin is a very dangerous man,” Gryzlov said mildly.
The lieutenant colonel nodded. “Yes, Mr. President.”
“So he may try to escape,” Gryzlov went on.
“That is possible,” the hard-faced man agreed.
Gryzlov’s eyes were icy. “Be sure that he makes the attempt.” His smile looked as though it had been pasted on. “Do we fully understand each other?”
“Completely, Mr. President,” the officer assured him. He saluted and left.