“Very clear, Mr. President,” Kurakin agreed quickly. In public, Gryzlov was always charming, self-assured, and calm. But those who served Russia’s president closely learned very early on to be wary of his hair-trigger temper. Few walked away unscathed from one of their leader’s towering, manic rages.
Recovering his good humor, Gryzlov clapped him on the shoulder. “Cheer up, Vladimir. Forget the fancy civilian suits and your impressive-sounding title. They’re just window dressing. Where it counts, you’re still a soldier under my orders.”
Kurakin nodded again. Nominally, he was the chief executive officer of a brand-new private military corporation, Razresheniye Konfliktov Uslugi (Conflict Resolution Services). Long thwarted by the actions of the American-owned Scion, Gryzlov had decided to create his own deniable mercenary force. On paper, if not in practice, RKU was an independent commercial enterprise. Like Martindale’s Scion, it should be able to conduct clandestine military operations without the political constraints and risks that inevitably accompanied any open Russian military action.
That was the president’s theory anyway, Kurakin knew. Whether other governments, especially that of the United States, would react as he predicted was an open question.
“And why should they not?” Gryzlov had assured him at their first meeting to discuss his plans. He’d shown his teeth. “After all, I took that fat cow Stacy Anne Barbeau at her word when she swore that her country wasn’t responsible for the actions of Martindale and his mercenaries.”
“You think she lied?” Kurakin had asked.
Gryzlov had only shrugged. “What does it really matter? Her countrymen, whether paid solely by the Poles or not, have served America’s interests. Besides, even if she spoke the truth, Barbeau will not govern the United States forever. Some future American president will undoubtedly make use of Scion and its hired Iron Wolf killers.” His eyes had gleamed with a predator’s hunger. “Are we not entitled to use the same methods in our own national interest?”
Kurakin shivered, remembering the president’s expression. For years, Gryzlov’s longtime chief of staff, Sergei Tarzarov, had acted as a brake on his wilder impulses. The wily Kremlin insider had been the only one ever able to dissuade the younger man from reckless action. But now Tarzarov was dead, killed by those same American mercenaries during their escape from the ambush at Perun’s Aerie. Which meant that Russia’s undisputed leader was free to follow his aggressive instincts… without restraint.
“What is the status of your forces?” Gryzlov asked abruptly, dragging him back to the present. “Are you getting the quality of recruits you need?”
With an effort, Kurakin pushed away both his memories and his lingering worries about the future. Whatever his “official” position, he still had a duty to his country.
“Yes, Mr. President,” he assured Gryzlov. “Between the promises of high base pay and bonuses and pressure from their superior officers, we’ve been able to hire some of our toughest and most experienced Spetsnaz troops and GRU covert operatives. They are all proven veterans, many with superb language skills. A number of them can pass as natives of the United States, Poland, the Baltic States, Germany, or other NATO countries.”
“And your weapons?”
“A mix of Russian and Western small arms, heavy weapons, explosives, sensors, aircraft, and missiles,” Kurakin said.
“Your men will use some American-made equipment?” Gryzlov mused.
Kurakin nodded. “Also weapons manufactured by the Poles and other nations — chiefly the UK, Germany, and France.”
“That should certainly add to the confusion after any operation,” Gryzlov said dryly.
“Yes, sir.” Kurakin forced a smile. “We have obtained most of the equipment we need from existing Spetsnaz stockpiles, but we’ll have to buy the rest on the international arms black market. That will be expensive, especially since we need to cover our tracks very carefully.”
“I don’t give a damn about the money, Vladimir,” Grzlov said emphatically. “What matters to me is whether or not your RKU action groups can handle the missions I assign them.”
“My men are already among the most lethal special forces troops in the world. By the time I’m finished with them, they will have no equal,” Kurakin promised. He hesitated. “But I can’t guarantee success against every potential opponent. Especially not—”
“The Iron Wolf Squadron and its combat robots?” Gryzlov finished for him.
“Da, Mr. President,” Kurakin admitted. He’d studied the available records of every known clash between Russian forces and the enemy’s Cybernetic Infantry Devices. At best, they were sketchy, since very few friendly troops survived long enough to report many details. Despite that, it was blindingly obvious that no conventionally equipped special forces unit could hope to go up against those human-piloted war machines and win.
“Then come with me,” Gryzlov said simply. “And I will show you the future.” He led Kurakin down the long factory floor toward a distant pair of massive doors.
Once there, he keyed in a code on a security panel. Smoothly, the doors slid open. Powerful overhead lights blinked on one by one — revealing a row of immobile, human-shaped machines.
“My God,” Kurakin murmured, staring up at the robots. Each stood more than three meters tall, with thin, agile arms and legs and long torsos. Eyeless spheres bristling with antennas and other sensor arrays took the place of heads.
He swung toward Gryzlov in amazement. “We have our own combat robots?”
“Yes, we do,” Gryzlov said with a smug, satisfied smile. He waved a hand at the row of silent man-shaped automatons. “Our Kiberneticheskiye Voyennyye Mashiny, our Cybernetic War Machines, will be ready for operational use in weeks. We lacked only the special devices needed to meld human pilots with their controls and computer systems. Now we have the technology required to build haptic interfaces of our own. The first production models are already emerging from our labs.”
“And the men to control these… KVMs?” Kurakin asked. He stared back at the menacing shapes. “Where will we find them?”
“I’ve already found them,” Gryzlov said flatly. “At my orders, several of the best fighter pilots from our Aerospace Defense Force will shortly be resigning their commissions to accept employment with your company. Once the new haptic interfaces are installed, they can begin their combat training.”
It made sense to use fighter pilots, Kurakin realized. Men trained on advanced combat aircraft like the Su-35 and Su-50 already knew how to fly and fight without being overwhelmed by the flood of information from multiple sensors and computers. Strapping into a war robot would be far less alien to them than it would be for any of his old-school, rifle-toting Spetsnaz soldiers.
“Then, while your new KVM units are working up, your conventional strike groups will take on their first assignments — safely infiltrating deep into the nation I’ve selected as your first target,” Gryzlov said bluntly.
Startled, Kurakin blinked. “What? You’re sending my men into action? So soon?”
“Calm yourself, Vladimir,” Gryzlov snapped. He shook his head. “I’m not asking your mercenaries to fix bayonets and assault an enemy fortress. Not yet at least. Only to carry out certain necessary preliminaries to a much larger and more intricate campaign.”