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Inside the cockpit, Nadia opened a com window on her display and typed in a short message reporting their safe arrival. Their computer automatically encrypted, compressed, and transmitted her message via satellite.

An icon flashed within seconds, signaling an acknowledgment and urgent message. “It’s from Martindale,” she said to Brad and Whack Macomber. Her brow furrowed as she read through the decoded message. “He urges us to exercise extreme caution. We are to avoid detection by U.S. authorities at all costs.” With an exasperated sigh, she glanced up at the two Americans. “Apparently your President Barbeau is more than half convinced that we are the ones responsible for destroying your country’s bomber base.”

“This just gets better and better,” Macomber growled. “How the fuck are we supposed to smack down a raid on Sky Masters without being spotted? I don’t care how nifty-keen these Mod IV CIDs are. All the fricking camo systems in the world won’t hide a rail-gun shot or autocannon fire.”

“Oh, once that happens, we won’t have to hide any longer, Colonel,” Nadia said with forced good cheer. “It’s simple. When the Russians do attack, we kill them. Then we show their wrecked machines and mangled corpses to your government.” She shrugged. “That should be proof enough, even for a shortsighted cretin like your president. And then we can all go home without all this sneaking around.” That drew a reluctant, rare laugh from Macomber.

Brad joined in, glad that Nadia could still shake Whack out of his occasional fits of gloom. Inwardly, though, he couldn’t shake a nagging worry of his own. What had appeared an obvious course of action back in Poland seemed a lot less obvious now that they were here on the ground deep inside the States.

Sure, realistically, he and the others had no way to hunt down the covert forces Gennadiy Gryzlov was using to attack the U.S. There were too many possible hiding places and America was just too big a country. All of which made stationing their CIDs on overwatch near Battle Mountain the only rational play. Viewed logically, Sky Masters had to be a high-priority target for the Russians. Now that Moscow had its own combat robots, the high-tech weapons and other equipment developed by Sky Masters were sure to be the key to survival for Poland, its allies, and the United States itself.

They were essentially employing the same tactics used by big-game hunters when setting out to bag a tiger in the trackless jungle. Instead of beating around futilely in the bush, the idea was to stake out a live goat as bait… and then lie in wait until the hungry big cat came prowling into your rifle sights. Well, Sky Masters was their bait.

But what if the tiger had other prey in mind?

That was the worry Brad couldn’t shake. What if he’d misread Gryzlov’s plans? Then what?

Twenty-Two

RKU SECURE SITE, DALLAS, TEXAS
THAT SAME TIME

Unhurriedly, Kirill Aristov sauntered along the withered grass strip lining the north side of Irving Avenue. His hands were buried in his pockets. He came to the corner of a small side street and paused, looking around in all directions as if making sure it was safe to cross. Under the crumpled brim of an oil-stained baseball cap, his eyes were watchful. A few cars and trucks drove past in both directions along the wide, six-lane avenue, but no one seemed to be paying any real attention to him.

His lips thinned. After all, why should they? This late at night, the only people wandering out on the streets were either drunk or crazy or homeless, or most likely all three in combination.

Satisfied that he was clear, Aristov strolled on up the narrower side street. Halfway down the block, he came to a padlocked chain-link gate. A rusting sign wired to the gate warned passersby that this was an FXR Trucking facility and that trespassers would be prosecuted. “Or right now, quite probably shot and killed,” he murmured to himself.

He dug a key out of his jeans pocket, unlocked the gate, pulled it open just far enough to squeeze through, and then relocked the gate behind him. With only three tractor-trailers backed up against a single, slab-sided steel warehouse, the lot looked almost empty — especially when compared to those of the dozen other much-busier trucking companies and freight lines operating out of this run-down industrial neighborhood.

Over time, Aristov supposed this lack of activity might strike FXR’s rivals as odd. Fortunately, he and his men, along with Baryshev’s war robots, would be gone long before anyone got too curious. After one last slow look around to make sure no one was watching, he crossed the parking lot to the warehouse, rapped twice on a door, and then went straight in.

With a curt nod, Pavel Larionov slid his pistol back out of sight. The former Spetsnaz sergeant sat back down behind a solid metal desk that faced the door. A bank of TV monitors showed grainy images captured by low-light security cameras set up at various points outside the warehouse. “Any trouble?” he asked.

“None,” Aristov said. He’d gone out earlier to walk around the neighboring area, looking for any signs that they were drawing unwelcome attention — either from the Dallas police or from America’s domestic spy agency, the FBI. He’d figured that it would be a lot harder to hide a law enforcement surveillance operation now that things were quieting down outside. And he’d been right. The panel vans and unmarked cars favored by the police and the FBI would have stood out like lions among alley cats on those nearly empty streets. They were still safely hidden here.

Nikolai Dobrynin met him just inside the main warehouse area. “We’ve received a new warning order from Moscow. General Kurakin wants us to hit our next scheduled target in forty-eight hours.”

Aristov looked past him to where several men stood grouped around a folding card table. The KVM pilots were studying maps while their leader, Colonel Baryshev, ran through yet another proposed attack plan. “Do they know about this additional delay?”

Dobrynin nodded.

Aristov frowned. Baryshev and his pilots should be grabbing some sack time right now. What were they doing awake this late — especially after learning they wouldn’t be going into action for two more nights? If any of them had slept for more than a couple of hours after reaching this secure site, he’d missed it. Quietly, he said as much to Dobrynin.

“I’ve asked about that. Baryshev and his men claim they don’t need much sleep,” the other man said carefully. “Apparently, they’re taking it in turns to spend some time plugged into those war robots of theirs.”

“For what purpose?”

Dobrynin lowered his voice. “Those machines include advanced medical diagnostics and health maintenance systems. While they’re hooked up, these guys filter out the fatigue toxins from their bloodstreams. Plus, they can juice up on different hormones and neurotransmitters.”

“So Baryshev and the rest of his KVM pilots are screwing around with their brain and body chemistry in order to go without sleep?” Aristov frowned. “Does that sound like a good idea to you?”

The other man shrugged. “In combat, maybe. But outside of an emergency situation? Hell no.” He looked at his team leader with a worried expression. “Should we report this to Moscow?”

“Without more evidence this behavior is causing a problem?” Aristov said slowly. Reluctantly, he shook his head. “No. The colonel and his men have been trained on these war robots. We haven’t. They must know what they’re doing.”

“I hope so.” Dobrynin sounded unconvinced.

Aristov clapped him gently on the shoulder. “That makes two of us, Nikolai.” His eyes hardened. “Which is why we’re going to keep a very close eye on them from now on. Just to make sure.”