“Was their system knocked out or spoofed by the enemy’s netrusion technology?” Gryzlov demanded.
“I don’t think so, Mr. President,” Balakin said. “The Vostok E crew reports no apparent interruption of their radar’s normal operation.” He hesitated. “However, Captain Golovkin has often warned of potential equipment problems caused by prolonged exposure to the winter elements. This fleeting contact may only be a false reading caused by a minor hardware malfunction or some software bug. Since we’ve seen no further signs of any enemy activity, that seems increasingly likely. In which case, I may have alerted my garrison unnecessarily.”
Gryzlov’s hand tightened around the phone. “Don’t be an idiot, Balakin,” he snapped. “You and your troops will stay on full alert until I decide otherwise. Is that perfectly clear?”
“Da, Mr. President,” the other man agreed hurriedly.
“Keep your eyes and ears open wide, Balakin, if you want to live through the night,” Gryzlov told him brutally. He disconnected and then punched the button for Ivan Ulanov. “Get me Colonel General Maksimov!”
Maksimov, his former instructor at the Yuri Gagarin Military Air Academy, sounded drowsy, almost half asleep, when he answered the phone. Impatiently, Gryzlov checked the time. His lip curled in disgust. It wasn’t even that close to midnight yet. Maybe the old man really was past his prime and ready for the boneyard, along with the rest of the old Soviet-era relics.
“It looks as though Poland’s Iron Wolf mercenaries have slipped right through your vaunted air-defense network, Valentin,” Gryzlov said, not bothering to hide his scorn. “I want two of the alert Su-50 stealth fighters stationed at Syktyvkar heading for the Pechora area at once! Tell the pilots to go in hard and fast, with their radars active. They are to shoot down any unidentified aircraft they detect. Failure will not be tolerated. Is that understood?”
“I understand, Mr. President,” the older man said. His voice was stiff. “But I must point out that sortieing our Su-50s with their radars powered up negates every advantage otherwise conferred by their stealth configuration and materials.”
“I don’t give a crap about stealth right now, Colonel General,” Gryzlov said icily. “You’ve boasted that the Su-50 is the best combat aircraft in the world — faster, longer-ranged, and more maneuverable than the American F-35. You also told me its phased-array radar and other sensors could detect and track any enemy aircraft, no matter how stealthy. Were those lies?”
“No, sir,” Maksimov growled, plainly stung.
“Then prove it,” Gryzlov told him. “Get those precious fighters of yours off the ground and tell the pilots to go kill whatever they find.”
THIRTY-FOUR
Major Wayne “Whack” Macomber’s Cybernetic Infantry Device crouched low among snow-covered trees and boulders. Mount Manaraga’s slopes climbed above him, rising to a jagged peak more than a mile high. A pulsing green dot on his tactical display marked the position of the Iron Wolf robot piloted by Charlie Turlock. She was about four hundred meters north of him, also concealed well in among the trees.
The pine forest they were using to cover their approach came to an end about five hundred meters dead ahead, right at the edge of a mile-wide bowl formed by two steep spurs extending out from Manaraga’s main summit. There were no trees on those white slopes, just occasional patches of bare black rock and loose scree.
Looking uphill, Macomber could see a massive tunnel set into the flank of the northernmost spur. According to their intelligence, that was the principal way into the Russian cyberwar complex. Scion and Polish analysts suspected there were probably a number of smaller, secondary entrances and exits, but he and Charlie didn’t have the time to scout for them. An overhanging ledge shielded this particular entrance from satellite or aerial observation. The tunnel was about two thousand meters from his current hiding place. Even scrambling upslope through deep snow, he could cover that distance in his CID in well under four minutes. He grinned sourly to himself. Or at least he could if it weren’t for all the enemy weapons so carefully sited to lay down a deadly hail of fire on anyone moving up that bowl.
Data from his sensors poured into his mind. The robot’s computers provided instant analysis of everything he “saw” and “heard”—whether in the form of thermal imagery, narrow-beam radar pulses, intercepted radio and cell-phone transmissions, and even sounds picked up by its incredibly sensitive microphones. A sea of targeting indicators flashed onto his display, each marking the position of a concealed Russian bunker or remote sensor.
The woods ahead of them were laced with IR-capable cameras, motion detectors, and trip-wire-triggered flares. He shook his head. A mouse might make it through there without triggering an alarm, but nothing bigger would. At least not while those sensors were operational. And beyond the woods, those seemingly empty slopes were studded with camouflaged bunkers and buried minefields. They were also covered by emplaced ground-surveillance radars to pick up the slightest movement.
Macomber whistled softly, studying the results. He radioed Charlie Turlock. “Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”
“As in ‘antitank guns, missile launchers, machine guns, and minefields under the snow, oh my!’?” Charlie said. “Yep, I sure am. Geez, you’d almost think these guys don’t want any uninvited visitors.”
“You would, wouldn’t you?” Macomber said. He paused, listening to the simultaneous translation of a conversation between the Russian soldiers manning one of the nearby fighting positions. They were wondering if this sudden alert was just another drill or something more serious. “And it just gets better. Because it sure as shit looks as though these bastards are wide-awake and waiting for us.”
There was a moment of silence while Charlie digested the information from her own sensors and obviously came to the same, sobering conclusion. “Well, that makes it more of a fair fight, right?” she said at last. The biometric data piggybacked onto her transmission showed that her heart rate had climbed slightly, but there was no real trace of fear in her voice.
Macomber forced a laugh. “Hell, I hate fair fights.” He sighed. “But I guess this is where we earn the big bucks they’re paying us.”
“Hold on a minute,” Charlie said, sounding surprised. “You’re getting paid big bucks? Why wasn’t I informed? Maybe I need to renegotiate my contract.”
“Maybe so,” Macomber agreed absently. His mind was busy refining the preliminary attack plan he and Charlie had developed before taking off from Poland — adapting it to the reality revealed by their sensor scans. All Martindale’s satellite intelligence analysts could give them was an estimate of probable Russian defensive positions. But now they had it all — the precise location of every gun and missile bunker, all the minefields, and every remote camera and motion detector.
While Whack really hated squeezing himself into one of these CID steel cans for any length of time, he had to admit that the neural interface between the machine and his brain made tactical planning a snap. In just seconds, he could do work that would have taken a human staff officer an hour to finish. Focusing mentally, he ordered the robot’s attack software to create a new set of target priorities. Then he divvied them up between their two Iron Wolf fighting machines. He flicked a finger, sending the revised battle plan to Charlie.
“Got it,” she confirmed. Seconds later, she said, “Looks good to me, Whack.”
“Okay, stand by,” he ordered. “On my mark, we’ll light ’em up and take ’em down.”