“Maybe,” Brad said skeptically. “But I wouldn’t count on it. Besides, while Siliştea Gumeşti’s a good spot for ferrying in new aircraft and equipment and doing some training, it’s badly sited for anything else.”
The others nodded. Any units stationed in southern Romania would be too far away to effectively help defend Warsaw or the Baltic states — the most likely targets for any conventional Russian air or ground assault.
“Maybe we could find something closer to the border,” Martindale said. He pursed his lips. “There are a number of decommissioned Polish military airfields out there. If we ran the same kind of cover op we used at the Scrapheap, we might be able to—”
“Excuse me,” Brad said, interrupting. He took a deep breath. Putting off what he had to say wasn’t going to make it any more palatable. “But I’m afraid we may have another problem, a bigger and more immediate problem.”
They all turned toward him, looking puzzled.
“My dad,” he said. Swallowing hard, he waved a hand at the row of body bags. “He could have captured some of those guys. Or at least tried to.”
“Those men were wired with explosives,” Martindale said sharply. “They were ready and willing to kill themselves to avoid being taken prisoner.”
Brad shook his head. “No dice, sir. You can’t detonate a suicide vest if you’re unconscious.” He looked hard at Macomber. “Hell, all it takes is one powered-up tap from a CID’s finger to drop someone. My dad knows that. You know that.”
The other man nodded slowly and turned to Martindale. “The kid’s right.”
“Exactly,” Brad said. “But instead he just waded into those guys and butchered them in the blink of an eye.” He sighed. “Plus, you all saw him at the conference before they hit us. He was already keyed up beyond reason and primed to kill.”
Slowly, reluctantly, Nadia and the others nodded.
“So let me get this straight,” Macomber demanded. “You think the general is on the edge of going batshit kill crazy in that metal suit?”
“Yes, I am,” Brad said quietly. “You know what piloting a CID in combat is like, right? About getting that weird surge of power and speed and awareness? The sudden feeling that you can do anything… and that nothing on earth can stop you?”
“Yeah,” Macomber said. “But those are sensations you can learn to control. You just have to stay focused.”
“For an hour, sure. Even for a day, maybe,” Brad said. “But my dad has been stuck inside one of those machines for three full years now. Twenty-four hours a day. Seven days a week. He doesn’t sleep. He’s never off-line. Who knows what that’s doing to him?” He swung toward Martindale. “Do you?”
The head of Scion shook his head. “No, I don’t,” he admitted carefully. “Your father’s experience is… well, unprecedented is really too weak a word. But it’s the only one that fits.” He cleared his throat. “In the circumstances, I agree that your fears may be valid. The general has seemed somewhat distant over the past few months.”
“And today?” Brad challenged. “What happened here wasn’t exactly distant, was it?”
“No,” Martindale said somberly, gazing at the row of body bags. “Far from it.”
“But if this is so, what can we do?” Nadia asked. She tightened her grip on Brad’s arm. “Outside a CID, General McLanahan will die. But the threat of a man possessed of such power and then driven mad by isolation… well, that is truly terrifying.”
Now it was Martindale’s turn to sigh. “That is very true, Major Rozek.” He stood silently for a few moments, clearly weighing his options. Then he looked up at the others. “I need to make a trip to Nevada soon, for a couple of reasons — this new situation with our friend being one of them. Since I’m currently on Homeland Security’s Most Wanted and Least Liked list, arranging that will take a bit of doing.”
He turned his gaze on Brad and Nadia. “But once I’ve got everything set, you two will be coming with me.”
“Us?” Brad asked, confused. “Why?”
“Among other things, you are a pilot, aren’t you, Captain McLanahan?” Martindale asked bluntly.
“Sure.”
“Then let’s just say that you’re due for some flight time in a new aircraft,” the head of Scion said coolly and cryptically. “As is Major Rozek.”
Even though he had watched the footage all the way through several times before, President Gennadiy Gryzlov still found the images of the Iron Wolf combat robot in action deeply disturbing. So much power, he thought darkly. But even with the knowledge that this power was in the hands of his enemies, the sight of such grace blended with such incredible ferocity was also strangely exhilarating.
When the video flickered to its gruesome end, he turned to Colonel Vladimir Balakin. The trim, dapper chief of security for Q Directorate’s secret complex sat silent for a long while, plainly unable to hide his consternation.
“Well?” Gryzlov demanded at last. “Now that you’ve seen this imagery and read the general staff’s analysis of these machines and their capabilities, what do you think?”
Pulling his wits together, Balakin replied slowly. “That… device… it is beyond anything I imagined possible.” He looked sick. “I would estimate that it represents military technology of perhaps an order of magnitude beyond ours.”
“So the generals tell me,” Gryzlov said coolly. “Which is why you must be ready, Colonel.”
Balakin visibly paled. “You anticipate an attack by machines like that? Here?”
“Anticipate? No, Colonel,” Gryzlov said, shrugging. “Nevertheless I think it would be wise to be prepared for any eventuality.”
“But our cover measures… the maskirova we’ve used to conceal even the basic fact of this complex’s existence, let alone its location…” Balakin stammered.
“Yes, with luck, the Poles and their American mercenaries will never learn about Perun’s Aerie,” Gryzlov agreed patiently. “But I would encourage you not to trust solely to luck.” His mouth tightened. “These mountains are littered with the bones of those foolish enough to believe fortune would smile on them forever. Do I make myself clear?”
Balakin licked lips that were suddenly as dry as dust. “Yes, Mr. President. You are perfectly clear.”
“As for these Iron Wolf high-tech marvels,” Gryzlov said soothingly. “Remember that the old ways have power of their own. So look to your defenses—all of your defenses.”
The secure phone on Balakin’s desk buzzed sharply. Hurriedly, the colonel grabbed it. “Yes?”
He listened for a moment and then handed it to Gryzlov. “It’s Major General Koshkin, Mr. President.”
“What is it, Arkady?” Gryzlov snapped.
“The first sets of our cyberweapons have been securely delivered and are in place,” the head of Q Directorate reported.
“And?”
“There are no signs that any have been detected,” Koshkin said. “Operatsiya Mor is ready to launch, on your order.”
“Very good,” Gryzlov said, relaxing. “You have again done well, Arkady.” He checked his watch. “You will have my signed authorization to proceed as soon as I return to Moscow.”
He handed the phone back to Colonel Balakin and sat back, happily imagining the unholy chaos his orders would soon create.
Nizhny Novgorod, the fifth largest city in Russia, sprawled along the western bank of the Volga River about four hundred kilometers east of Moscow. Founded in the Middle Ages, it served as a strategic border fortress against the Tatars of Kazan — successors to the Mongols of Ghengis Khan. Over the centuries, it grew into the trade capital of czarist Russia.