She hid a frown. Those two Excaliburs, and the others deployed elsewhere, were old B-1B Lancers originally upgraded by Sky Masters as part of one of Patrick McLanahan’s nutty private military schemes. Sure, she’d had the Air Force seize the XB-1F bombers for its own use as soon as she took office. Nevertheless, seeing them here was an unwelcome reminder that the U.S. armed forces were still too dependent on weapons and aircraft authorized by her old political rivals.
For nearly four years, Barbeau’s administration had blocked Sky Masters from landing new Pentagon contracts, but the company limped along anyway — surviving on sales to the domestic market, foreign countries, and Martindale’s Scion mercenaries. She gritted her teeth. It was high time that she shoved Sky Masters and its backers into the dustbin of aviation history. And with luck, today’s big show would help make that happen by unveiling America’s newest and most advanced long-range stealth bomber.
“Where’s our B-21 Raider prototype?” she asked, still watching out the window. There, at the far end of the apron, she saw a light gray C-17 Globemaster III transport waiting off to the side. That plane had flown in ahead of Air Force One, ferrying the black SUVs and limousines that made up her presidential motorcade. There were no plans for her to drive anywhere on this trip, but the Secret Service always insisted on covering all possible bases.
“Orbiting a few miles away, out of sight,” Cohen told her. “I confirmed that with our liaison to the contractor a couple of minutes ago.”
“And the flight crew knows what to do?”
The New Yorker nodded. “As soon as we’re parked and the Secret Service has cleared you to deplane, they’ll start their approach. Everything’s timed so that shiny new B-21 Raider will touch down just as you’re being greeted by the base commander and his staff.” He winked at her. “Those pictures are going to lead every newscast tonight, Madam President. They’ll be on the front page of every newspaper tomorrow morning. Hell, they’ll go viral on the Internet as soon as we upload them to the White House website and reporters post their own pics on social media.”
Stacy Anne Barbeau smiled broadly. This taxpayer-funded kickoff for her presidential reelection campaign would be a day to remember.
Accompanied by the soft whine of servos and actuators, a sleek, deadly-looking gray machine stalked through the woods and bayous east of Barksdale’s runway. Shadows cast by magnolias, oak trees, and tall slash pines flowed across its elongated torso, eyeless spherical head, and thin, agile arms and legs. Despite the bulky weapons packs strapped to it, the robot moved with remarkable speed and stealth.
Quietly, it came to a place where the trees grew closer together. Ahead, the ground sloped down very slightly into a tangle of ferns and thickets of switch cane. Knobby, thick-trunked bald cypresses rose out of a ribbon of stagnant, tea-colored water.
Suddenly the robot stopped moving. It crouched lower, nestling down among the undergrowth. Its antenna-studded head swiveled rapidly from side to side.
Inside the cockpit, KVM senior pilot Oleg Imrekov studied his displays. He was picking up a bright green thermal signature, man-sized and — shaped, a little over one hundred meters ahead — on the other side of this narrow stretch of bayou. Using a low-light visual sensor slaved to his robot’s thermal imager, he zoomed in on the same spot.
He saw a young American soldier in camouflage fatigues standing next to a small, four-wheel all-terrain vehicle. Through a pair of binoculars, the soldier was peering up at a bird’s nest in the branches of a tall pine tree farther down the bayou. By the twin stripes on his sleeve, he was an airman first class, and a unit patch identified him as a member of the 2nd Security Forces Squadron. Apart from a holstered 9mm pistol, the American was unarmed.
Imrekov opened a secure radio link. “Prividenye Lead, this is Two.”
Colonel Baryshev replied immediately. His own combat robot was moving through the woods about five hundred meters north of this position. “Specter Lead to Specter Two. Go ahead.”
“I’ve encountered an American airman to my front. He hasn’t seen me yet, but there is no way I can go around him without being spotted.”
“Is this man a sentry or a scout?” Baryshev asked, sounding concerned, and rightly so. Nothing in Kirill Aristov’s reconnaissance reports had suggested they might run into enemy resistance along this concealed line of approach. If the Americans had scouts or observation posts deployed this far out from the runway, their assault could be easily compromised. It was essential that all six Russian KVMs reach the target without being detected.
“Neither,” Imrekov said. “The American seems to be bird-watching. He may be one of their game wardens.”
He heard the colonel bite down on a curse. Barksdale Air Force Base sprawled over more than twenty-two thousand acres. Some of that land was set aside as protected nature preserves. Monitoring the endangered plant and animal species on this huge base was the job of a very small force of airmen assigned as game wardens. And that made this sudden, unexpected meeting sheer bad luck.
“Can you silence the American before he raises an alarm?”
“I think so,” Imrekov replied calmly.
“Then do it.”
Obeying the commands he relayed through his neural link, Imrekov’s KVM leaped to its feet and charged forward into the bayou, accelerating up with every long-legged stride. Stagnant, foul-smelling water splashed high across the robot’s spindly legs.
Startled by the sudden explosion of noise, the young American airman spun toward the bayou. He dropped his binoculars, fumbling for the pistol holstered at his side. His eyes widened. “What the hell—”
Imrekov’s machine burst out of the swamp in a spray of mud and torn vegetation. Before the airman could get a firm grip on his Beretta M9 pistol, the Russian KVM pilot leaned forward and batted him aside with one of the robot’s large metal hands. With a muffled cry, the American went tumbling head over heels in a spray of blood and broken bone. He landed facedown in a clump of ferns and collapsed in an unmoving heap, clearly dead.
“Situation resolved satisfactorily,” Imrekov radioed. “Specter Two is proceeding to target at best possible speed.”
Regan Air Freight Flight 175 flew southeast at twenty-five thousand feet through blue skies marked by wisps of high, thin white cloud. According to its flight manifest, the 737-200F cargo jet was ferrying wind turbine components from Indianapolis to Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport. But instead of turbine blades and nacelles, sixteen Kh-35UE cruise missiles filled its cargo compartment, waiting silently on four track-mounted rotary launchers.
“Regan One-Seven-Five, Memphis Center,” an air traffic controller said in Colonel Yuri Annenkov’s headset, “contact Fort Worth Center on one-three-four-point-four-seven-five. Have a good day.” They were leaving the airspace supervised by the FAA’s Memphis Air Traffic Control Center and entering that monitored by its Fort Worth counterpart.
Annenkov clicked his mike. “One-three-four-point-four-seven-five for Regan One-Seven-Five. Thank you, Memphis.” He waited while his copilot, Major Konstantin Uspensky, changed radio frequencies as directed. Then he keyed his mike again. “Fort Worth Center, Regan One-Seven-Five, level two-five-zero.”
The voice of a new controller responded immediately, acknowledging that they were in his area of responsibility and that he had them on his radar screen. “Regan One-Seven-Five, roger.”