No, she thought coldly, when faced with two or three improbable scenarios, it didn’t make any sense to choose the one that was the nuttiest of them all. Which left Martindale… or Patrick McLanahan, if he was still alive somehow. They were the only two men in the world who controlled a force of stealth aircraft and combat robots. She made a mental note to push Rauch to crack the whip on the intelligence experts tasked with reexamining the evidence of McLanahan’s death over Poland three years before.
“Oh, that’s just great,” Barbeau heard Luke Cohen mutter from beside her. Her chief of staff was staring down at an e-mail he’d just received on his smartphone.
“More trouble, Luke?” she asked pointedly.
He nodded. “Farrell has just requested a detailed intelligence briefing on this situation.”
Barbeau frowned. By custom, presidential candidates didn’t receive access to classified intelligence information until after their party formally nominated them at its national convention. In Farrell’s case, that wouldn’t be for some weeks yet. “On what grounds?”
“His argument is that the severity of the crisis confronting the nation warrants moving the regular timetable up.”
“Not a chance,” Barbeau said icily, not even bothering to waste time thinking it through. Her suspicions were now fully aroused. If the Texas governor was a political stalking-horse for Martindale and his hard-line allies, every scrap of secret intelligence they gave him would end up in enemy hands. And even if she were wrong about his role in this mess, there was no doubt that Farrell or his operatives would find ways to leak any damaging or embarrassing information they learned. After all, she knew that was exactly what she would do if she were in his place.
“But, he’ll go running to the press—”
“Let him whine,” Barbeau snapped. “You tell J. D. Farrell for me that the United States has just one president at a time. And right now, that’s me.” She folded her arms across her chest. “This is my watch, not his. For now, he can go peddle his Texas he-man political bullshit to the rubes while I’m doing the hard work to keep this country safe.”
Brad McLanahan squatted down next to Captain Ian Schofield. The Canadian lay prone at the very edge of the camouflage netting that sheltered their encampment and protected the XCV-62 Ranger from prying eyes. Even under its welcome shade, the very air was so hot and so bone-dry that it seemed determined to suck every drop of moisture from their mouths and eyes.
Schofield lowered the binoculars he’d been using to survey their surroundings. Under the scorching rays of the sun, the high desert plateau seemed utterly lifeless. Nothing seemed to move except for the heat waves dancing above a barren landscape of sagebrush, wind-eroded rock, and bare, sunbaked dirt. “You know,” he said reflectively, “I really should stop volunteering for missions in the less salubrious parts of the globe.”
Brad moistened his cracked lips and managed a painful grin. “Hey, show a little respect, Ian. Battle Mountain is my home turf. Summers here aren’t usually so bad.” Then he shrugged. “Well, as long as you’ve got air conditioning, anyway. Or at least an ice chest full of cold drinks.”
“All of which are in extremely short supply just now,” Schofield pointed out.
“Yeah, there is that.” Brad sighed. “Water is the big problem, isn’t it?”
The Canadian nodded. “It is. We have plenty of food.” He smiled wryly. “None of it especially gourmet, to be sure. But water is bulky, and in this heat, we all need to drink a fair amount.” He sat up. “With reasonable rationing, we can maintain our position here for another four or five days. After that, we’ll need a resupply mission. Or we’ll have to leave.”
Brad nodded. There was no way Scion could fly in more supplies to them — not covertly, anyway. The Ranger was their only stealth STOL aircraft. The stealth-modified PZL SW-4 helicopter they’d used to fly Sam Kerr and her fellow agents out of Russia was thousands of miles away. Knowing Martindale, he was sure there were other Scion-operated aircraft and helicopters based in the U.S., but nothing that could land here without setting off a lot of alarms.
“Any news from the OP?” Schofield asked.
Using their CIDs, Brad, Nadia, and Macomber were taking it in turns to man an observation post they’d established high up on the slopes overlooking Battle Mountain. The position they’d selected gave their passive sensors a clear field of view over every likely avenue of approach to the Sky Masters complex around the airport.
“Well, Colonel Macomber says he’s pretty sure he’s tagged every FBI surveillance team based in or around Battle Mountain. My friend Boomer was right. There are a lot of them… and they’re not being real subtle. The feds have two-man teams parked right outside every gate and at key vantage points that give them a good view of the airport.”
Schofield frowned. “What about others?”
“Like the Russians?” Brad shook his head with a frown. “Nothing so far. Which means either they’re not here at all, or—”
“They’re very, very good,” the other man finished for him. He shrugged. “I’ve studied the personnel records those Scion agents you rescued snatched from Bataysk. The Spetsnaz troops who hired on with Gryzlov’s mercenary force are top class.”
“As good as your guys?” Brad asked seriously.
Schofield smiled. “Perish the thought.” Then he shrugged his shoulders again. “But good enough to give us some trouble in a fair fight? Probably so.”
“Great.”
“If it’s any consolation, I don’t think I could work any of my men into position outside Sky Masters without your CIDs spotting us,” Schofield said firmly. “The terrain is too open. Between your thermal and audio sensors, and those advanced motion-detection algorithms programmed into your computers, I doubt a field mouse could sneak up to the perimeter fence without being spotted, let alone a man.”
Brad sighed. “Let’s hope you’re right.” He rose to his feet. “Speaking of which, it’s my turn on sentry duty.” He chuckled. “The last time I checked, Whack was so bored that he was starting to place bets with himself on how many big rigs he’d count per hour driving along Interstate 80.”
Twenty-Four
Kirill Aristov cranked the wheel of his big rig, turning off the West I-820 frontage road and into the empty lot of a large discount furniture warehouse. He pulled around the back of the store and parked alongside two other FXR Trucking — registered tractor-trailers already there.
When he clambered down out of the cab, the first thing that struck him was the silence. Apart from insects chittering in the nearby woods and the occasional soft whoosh of a truck or car speeding past on the highway, everything was quiet.
Pavel Larionov stepped out of the shadows to greet him. “We’re secure here, Captain. I’ve got Yumashev and Popov posted to keep an eye on the road.”
“Good work.” Aristov heard footsteps crunch across gravel and turned to see Dobrynin and Mitkin, the other members of his six-man security team, emerging from the woods. Both men were armed with Heckler & Koch MP7 submachine guns. Just over sixteen inches long with the stock collapsed, the compact weapons fired 4.6mm copper-plated solid steel rounds that could penetrate body armor at up to two hundred meters. MP7s equipped the special forces of more than twenty countries, including the Vatican’s Swiss Guard.