Oh, man, Brad thought, gritting his teeth, Martindale is so lucky that he isn’t sitting across the table from me right now. You couldn’t actually punch someone through a high-definition video link, which was too darned bad. And from the tight-lipped expression on Nadia’s face, he’d bet she was thinking along the same lines.
“The Russians are bound to hit Battle Mountain,” he said quietly. “And if they’re smart, they’ll do it soon.”
On the screen, he saw Piotr Wilk sit up straighter. “You believe Gryzlov will try to destroy the Sky Masters facilities there?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” Brad said. “Right now, we’re almost totally dependent on the flow of CID upgrades, aircraft, drones, weapons, and sensors from Sky Masters. They’re the core of our current technological superiority over Russia.”
“A superiority that is already in serious jeopardy now that Gryzlov has his own combat robots,” his father said somberly.
Brad nodded. “Yep.” He looked pointedly at both Wilk and Martindale. “If we sit back and let the Russians destroy the labs, production facilities, and aircraft storage hangars at Battle Mountain, it’s not going to matter how many CIDs we have holding down the fort here in Poland or the rest of Eastern and central Europe — not in the long run, anyway.”
“Ah, jeez,” Macomber said grimly. “The kid’s right. Without the shiny Buck Rogers — style gizmos Sky Masters supplies, we’d be in a world of hurt.” He turned to Wilk. “You said it yourself. We’re already heavily outnumbered. If we lose our qualitative edge over the Russians, it’s all over.” Slowly, the Polish president nodded in agreement.
Frowning in concentration, Martindale stroked his chin. “And if you’re wrong and Gryzlov has other plans?” he asked after a moment.
“Then we recalibrate,” Brad said. “At a minimum, if we have a team already on the ground in the States, we cut our reaction time significantly.”
There was a long pause while the two older men in Warsaw silently considered what he’d said. Then Wilk nodded again, coming to a decision. “What do you propose, Captain McLanahan?”
“That we fly three Iron Wolf Squadron CIDs and a recon team to Nevada,” Brad told him.
“Openly?”
“No, sir. We’ll use the XCV-62 Ranger stealth transport to insert our force covertly.”
“You don’t trust the goodwill of Stacy Anne Barbeau?” Martindale asked dryly.
Brad shook his head. “Not so much as an inch.”
Everyone else nodded their understanding and agreement. For three long years Barbeau had stabbed them in the back every chance she got — even going so far as to send in a U.S. Special Forces team on a failed raid to sabotage the Iron Wolf Squadron’s base and then ordering American F-35s to shoot down the survivors of a desperate raid on Russian missile bases. There was no percentage in giving her another opportunity to take a shot at them, especially since they knew she desperately wanted to get her own hands on CID technology.
“Who will you assign to pilot the combat robots in this force?” Wilk asked.
“I’ll fly the XCV-62 in myself,” Brad said. “And then once we’re on the ground, I’ll take one of the CIDs.” He turned to Macomber. “I figure you’ll want to run one of the others, Whack.”
“Damn straight,” the bigger man agreed.
“And I will pilot the third Iron Wolf machine,” Nadia Rozek said in a firm voice that clearly indicated she would brook no argument.
“This isn’t exactly your fight, Major,” Martindale pointed out. “If things go wrong and this force gets nailed by the U.S. authorities, it’s going to be tough enough for any American-born member of Iron Wolf. It would be a lot worse for a Polish national—”
“Major Rozek is right, Mr. Martindale,” Piotr Wilk interrupted. “Your people have sacrificed much to help defend my country’s freedoms. Now it is our turn. Poland will stay true to its friends.” His eyes crinkled in a sudden smile. “Also, I suspect the good major would probably mutiny if I commanded her to remain behind.”
“‘Mutiny’ is a harsh word, Mr. President,” Nadia said demurely. She smiled back at him. “I think I would prefer to characterize my probable response to such an ill-advised order as an ‘unauthorized exercise of personal initiative.’”
“You see?” Wilk said to Martindale with an amused look. “The matter is completely out of my hands.”
Eighteen
While two Texas Air National Guard F-16C Falcon fighters that had been hurriedly scrambled from Joint Base San Antonio — Lackland orbited overhead, Marine One came in low over the suburbs north and west of Dallas. Rotors beating, the twin-engine Sikorsky VH-92A helicopter flared in fast and landed just outside a huge 270,000-square-foot American Airlines maintenance hangar at the Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport. The hangar doors were open, revealing a four-engine E-4B National Airborne Operations Center jet aircraft waiting inside.
Inside Marine One, President Stacy Anne Barbeau stared out through the square window next to her seat. She could see a composite force made up of Air Force personnel, National Guard troops, Regular Army soldiers airlifted in from Fort Hood, and airport police officers streaming out of the hangar. They spread out across the tarmac to form a perimeter around her helicopter.
The head of her Secret Service detail, Rafael Díaz, came back from talking to the Marine Corps pilots up front. They’d flown her here after an emergency pickup from one of the greens on the Fox Run Golf Course just outside Barksdale. “We’ll open the forward door just as soon as you’re ready to move, Madam President,” he said.
Barbeau nodded shakily. Every bone in her body felt bruised and sore. And every time she closed her eyes, even for a few seconds, she saw images of those robots… those brutal killing machines… come striding out of the woods and then turn toward her. She gulped, swallowing down another wave of fear and nausea that seemed to come crawling up her throat.
Beside her, Luke Cohen unbuckled his seat belt and then reached over to do the same thing for her. “We need to go, boss,” he murmured. In his ripped suit jacket and torn pants, the White House chief of staff looked as battered as she felt. Like most of her senior staff, he’d been hustled away from the attack in another of the armored SUVs belonging to her presidential motorcade. A few of her aides were still missing — probably left among the dead and wounded heaped across the burning air base.
Supported by Cohen’s arm, Barbeau staggered upright. More Secret Service agents formed up around them. “Tempest is in motion,” Díaz said into his radio, using her assigned Secret Service code name. “Let’s make this transfer fast and clean, people.”
Marine One’s forward door opened. Hot air swirled inside, mixed with the tang of jet fuel.
Surrounded by Díaz and the other agents, Barbeau and Cohen hurried down the steps and out across the tarmac toward the waiting E-4B. The big jet was one of several Boeing 747-200s converted into strategic command and control aircraft. Designed to remain aloft for at least a week with constant air-to-air refueling, they were intended to serve as mobile, survivable command posts for ranking U.S. military and government officials, especially the president, in the event of a serious national emergency.
One of the E-4B’s crewmen motioned them toward the forward crew entrance, up a ladder near the aircraft’s nose. He saluted Barbeau. “What are your orders, Madam President?”
“Get this goddamned plane in the air ASAP,” she snapped. She didn’t want to spend another minute longer than she had to on the ground. If there was another attack by those murderous combat robots, this hangar was a deathtrap… no matter how many soldiers, airmen, and airport cops were posted on guard.