“I count at least ten fighting positions occupied by enemy infantry deployed across our line of approach, about two hundred meters out,” he told Charlie. “They’re dug in really well, completely covered by antithermal IR camouflage suits or netting. But I’m getting multiple heartbeats through my audio pickups and seeing several thermal traces of respiratory CO2.” He smiled. “I could light ’em up with my radar to see what kind of heavy weapons they’re manning, but that would probably give us away.”
“Indeed it would, Wolf One,” Charlie replied. Her tone was amused. “But I suggest you refine your scans a bit. I think you’re seeing the worm, not the hook.”
Slightly nettled, Brad did as she suggested, mentally commanding the CID’s systems to tighten up its sensor readings, briefly concentrating on one sector. His image of the larger environment grew slightly fuzzier as the computer honed its focus. More data flowed through his conscious mind at the speed of thought.
“Skurwysyn. Son of a bitch,” he muttered in Polish, seeing what she was getting at. After living for more than a year in Poland, he was commenting and even beginning to think in Polish. Those heartbeats he was picking up were way too regular, as were the CO2 traces. “They’re decoys.”
“Yep,” Charlie agreed. “Probably some kind of dummies wired up to simulate human cardiac and respiratory systems.” Now she sounded admiring, but just the tiniest bit smug at the same time. “Our friends out there are getting clever. Just not quite clever enough to beat the software and hardware tweaks my guys and I built into that Mod IV CID you’re riding.”
“It is a sweet machine,” Brad agreed absently, widening his sensor fields again. If the enemy had its decoys positioned out front, then logically its real strike force should be stationed on a flank, ready to hammer anyone pouncing on the bait.
“Gotcha,” he murmured. Several of the huge oak trees off to his left were very subtly wrong, just slightly too symmetrical to be natural. They were hollowed-out fakes large enough to conceal a heavy-machine-gun nest or an antitank missile team, he realized. Seen by a human eye, that camouflage was near perfect, but not when pitted against a CID battle computer with its lightning-fast ability to discern and analyze patterns. There were also several patches of ground near the trees that didn’t quite match the predicted natural rise and fall of the landscape. Those were probably foxholes covered with camouflage cloth, he decided.
Quickly, Brad highlighted the enemy positions he’d detected and sent the imagery to Charlie’s CID. Their computer systems simultaneously compressed and encrypted signals before transmitting them in short, millisecond-long bursts. Together, this combination of compression, frequency hopping, and encryption allowed CIDs operating together to communicate freely, without the risk of enemy interception.
“Wolf Two copies,” she replied. “What’s your plan, Wolf One? Flank the flankers? If you go about half a klick due west, you could—”
“Negative,” he said, edging backward, moving unhurriedly enough to stay hidden from view. Like the Mod III before it, his CID’s armored “skin” carried an overlay of hundreds of small, hexagonal thermal adaptive tiles. Made of a special material, these tiles could change temperature with amazing rapidity. Using data collected by its sensors, the CID’s computers adjusted the temperature of each tile to mimic its surroundings — displaying the heat signatures of trees, bushes, buildings, and even other vehicles. When moving slowly or at rest, the robot was practically impossible to detect using infrared or other thermal imagers. At high speeds, the camouflage system broke down as the CID moved through too many different heat textures too quickly and drained its power supplies.
“C’mon, Brad,” Charlie said persuasively. “Between the thermal system and the new chameleon camouflage plates we’ve added, you can sneak right in on top of those guys and shoot the crap out of them. It’ll be a great test of the system. All you’ve got to do is take it nice and easy. No fuss. No muss. No burned-out batteries. Right?”
She was right about that, Brad knew. This new CID also wore thousands of paper-thin electrochromatic plates layered over its thermal adaptive tiles. Derived from a highly advanced technology the Poles were experimenting with for a main battle tank they were designing, they represented the most significant upgrade Charlie and her Sky Masters team had crafted onto the new Mod IV CID. Put simply, they gave the robot a chameleon-like ability to blend with its environment. Its onboard computers continuously monitored the terrain through which it moved, using tiny voltage changes to change the mix of colors displayed by each electrochromatic plate.
But there was another way to deal with this planned ambush, one that might be a heck of a lot more fun. So he kept retreating, moving back about five hundred meters in silence, blending with the shadows. At last, satisfied with his position, he slid a 25mm autocannon out of one of his weapons packs and checked the ammunition load. “Okay, Wolf One is weapons live,” he radioed Charlie. “Stand by.”
“What the heck are you playing at, Brad?” she said, exasperated. “You can’t lay down effective fire from your current position — not unless you’re planning to waste enough ammo to chop down half this forest first!”
“You know what your trouble is, Charlie?” Brad asked.
She sighed. “I’m afraid to ask. But go ahead. Tell me.”
“Despite all those years you spent under my dad’s command, you still think like a ground pounder,” he said. “But I’m a McLanahan to the bone, so I know you should fight using all three dimensions whenever you can.”
“Oh no,” Brad heard Charlie groan.
“Oh yeah!” he said, grinning like a madman. Then he took a deep breath, getting set and making sure those hidden enemy fighting positions were locking in tight on his battle computer. Three. Two. One. Now! Autocannon at the ready, he sprinted forward — accelerating with every stride, racing through the woods at ever-increasing speed. Shattered branches, leaves, and clumps of torn brush whirled away in his wake.
Guided by his commands, his CID’s computer threw a series of markers across his display, continuously adjusting them as his speed picked up. Two hundred meters. One hundred and fifty meters. Seventy-five. Ten. The last marker flashed green.
And Brad jumped, bounding high into the air at nearly seventy miles an hour. The huge fighting machine came crashing down through the trees, hit the ground still running, and leaped again.
This time Brad landed right in the middle of the enemy position. He dug in his heels, braking to a stop in a huge cloud of dirt and dust, and then spun rapidly through a complete circle — firing precisely aimed bursts into every foxhole and hollowed-out tree concealing hostile troops and weapons. Flashes lit the woods in all directions, strobing eerily in the darkness.
At last, his autocannon whirred and fell silent. Blank ammunition expended, the CID’s battle computer reported.
Still smiling, Brad opened a channel, careful to set his electronically synthesized voice to normal human volume. “So, what about it, Captain Schofield? Have you and your merry gang of backwoods bandits had enough for tonight? Or shall we make it the best two out of three?”
Cautiously, a soldier, clad from head to foot in a leaf-and-branch-studded sniper’s ghillie suit, stood up in one of the foxholes. Before joining the Iron Wolf Squadron to fight the Russians last year, Ian Schofield had been an officer in Canada’s Special Operations Regiment. Now his own teeth flashed white in a rueful, answering grin. “I think you’ve made your point, Brad. As has Ms. Turlock.” He shook his head in wonder. “That new Mod IV CID of yours is a damned good piece of gear. I’m just glad my lads and I won’t be the ones facing it in real action.”