This isn’t good. The city of Saratov is burning.
We’re descending toward a Russian military airfield on the eastern side of the Volga River. The C-17 doesn’t have any windows in its cargo hold, so I’m using my antenna to intercept the video from the plane’s cameras, which give me a panoramic view of the landscape below. The fires are everywhere, lighting up the night sky on both sides of the Volga, but the biggest blaze is on the western edge of Saratov, the part of the city closest to Tatishchevo Missile Base.
It looks like Sigma started the war without us.
I take a closer look at the video. The Russian troops have pulled back from their positions next to Tatishchevo, abandoning the camps they set up around the missile base after Sigma took it over. The deserted camps are at the center of the biggest fire. The roads are dotted with hundreds of burning cars and trucks and tanks.
While I’m examining the destruction, Marshall Baxley strides toward me, his footpads clanging on the floor of the plane’s cargo hold. He points a steel finger at my antenna. “Are you being a bad girl? Listening in on the Russian military communications?”
He’s lowered the volume of his synthesized voice to a whisper, even though no one can overhear us. General Hawke and his deputies are in the C-17’s cockpit, and the other soldiers are at the far end of the fuselage.
“No,” I answer. “I’m watching video of the ground. It’s a disaster down there. Half the city’s in flames.”
“Well, I’ve been eavesdropping on the Russians for the past two hours. It’s a good thing I downloaded a translation program before we left Pioneer Base.”
“What are they saying?”
“I’ll tell you one thing, Russians love to curse. And they’re very creative with their obscenities. You wouldn’t believe all the names they’ve invented for—”
“Come on, Marshall. Spit it out.”
“They’re frantic because their weapons have stopped working. Their planes won’t fly, their missiles won’t launch, their tanks won’t move. Needless to say, it’s an upsetting situation.”
I hear more clanging footsteps. DeShawn joins our little huddle. Jenny stays in the corner of the cargo hold, her turret turned toward the wall.
“What’s going on?” DeShawn asks.
“The Russian army is paralyzed,” Marshall reports. “When their mechanics opened up the stalled planes and tanks, they discovered that all the microchips in the vehicles had been shut down.”
“Whoa, that’s bad news.” DeShawn’s voice rises. “Must be Sigma, right?”
“You have amazing powers of deduction, DeShawn. Move to the head of the class.”
“Man, I’m starting to hate that AI.” He lets out a synthesized whistle. “It must’ve used its satellites to broadcast some nasty piece of software. Maybe a computer virus.”
Marshall rocks his torso back and forth. It looks like he’s nodding. “Yes, that would explain it. The satellites could’ve transmitted the signal to the antennas on all the Russian planes and tanks. Then the virus went straight to their microchips.”
A disturbing thought occurs to me. “Wait a second. How come Sigma isn’t doing the same thing to us? It could shut down this C-17 the same way, right?”
DeShawn shrugs, lifting his steel shoulders. “Maybe, maybe not. According to Hawke’s databases, American military hardware is more advanced than the Russian gear. It’s harder to infect our chips with computer viruses. But I bet Sigma’s working on it.”
“Well, let’s just hope this plane gets to the airfield before Sigma figures it out.”
Five anxious minutes later the C-17 touches down on the runway and coasts to a stop. The soldiers line up at the rear of the cargo hold, cradling their assault rifles. As soon as the cargo door opens, they bolt out of the plane and spread across the tarmac. I follow right behind, leading the Pioneers out of the aircraft. As their new commander, I guess I’m supposed to take the lead. Other than that, I have no idea what I’m doing.
The airfield is dark. The hangars beside the runway are silhouetted against the glow from the distant fires. I see signs of activity just beyond the hangars, and when I switch my camera to infrared, I glimpse a crowd of soldiers gathered around a pair of fifty-foot-high missiles. I scroll through my databases, trying to identify the tall rockets. They’re not Russian, I discover to my surprise. They’re U.S. Air Force interceptors, rockets designed to chase a ballistic nuclear missile after it’s been launched. If the interceptors are fast enough, they can catch up to the nuke and destroy it in midflight.
DeShawn is beside me. His camera is also pointed at the American rockets, which stand on mobile launchers. “That must be the backup plan,” he says. “If the Pioneers can’t stop Sigma from launching the nukes, the Air Force will shoot ’em down.”
“It’s not much of a backup. Sigma has more than fifty nuclear missiles, and we have only two interceptors. And even those two won’t fly if the AI infects them.”
“Then I guess it’s up to us, right? We’ll just go to that computer lab and kick Sigma’s butt.”
DeShawn’s voice is confident, almost cheerful. I’m jealous. “How can you be so calm?” I ask. “I’m a nervous wreck.”
He lets out a synthesized chuckle. “Hey, I’m just happy to be alive, you know?”
Before I can respond, my acoustic sensor picks up the sound of squealing tires. I turn my turret toward the noise and see two big trucks skid to a stop on the runway. They’re Russian army trucks, but they’re rusted and ancient, at least thirty years old. Their extreme age explains why they’re still running. Those trucks were built in the days before microchips became a standard feature in diesel engines. Because the old vehicles have no chips to infect, Sigma can’t shut them down.
A dozen Russian soldiers jump out of the trucks and join the American soldiers on the tarmac. After a few seconds both groups head for the C-17 and start unloading the crates of equipment we brought from Pioneer Base. At the same time, General Hawke comes out of the plane and marches toward me.
“Gibbs!” he shouts. “Get your team together. We’re going for a ride in those trucks.”
“Are we driving to Tatishchevo, sir?”
Hawke nods. “After we cross the Volga we’ll head for the woods outside Saratov. That’s where we’ll launch the Ravens. I want to start the assault by zero four hundred hours.”
“Sir, can I ask a question? What are we going to do about Sigma’s computer virus?”
Hawke hesitates before answering. “Where did you hear about that?”
“From monitoring the Russian communications. The virus is a problem, isn’t it?”
He takes a deep breath, then points to the west, gesturing at the fires on the horizon. “Yeah, it’s a problem. The computer virus crippled the whole Russian army. Then Sigma used its T-90s to blast the troops near Tatishchevo.”
“But what about us? Could the virus shut down the Pioneers too?”
“Your control units have software firewalls. They’ll stop any viruses from infecting your electronics. Unfortunately, I don’t have as much confidence in our other military equipment, so we’re upgrading the systems that are most vulnerable to tampering.”
As Hawke says this, he glances at the interceptors on the other side of the airfield. I notice that some of his men are heading in that direction, carrying equipment from the C-17’s cargo hold. I point at the soldiers. “You’re upgrading the interceptors? They’re vulnerable?”
Hawke hesitates again, clearly uneasy. “All I can say is that the Air Force had a problem with another missile. Let’s leave it at that.”
I don’t like the sound of this. Hawke’s hiding something from me, something big. “What kind of problem? Did Sigma tamper with the missile?”