21

As the British were trying to recover their fallen king, Yuri Leonov hopped down from a T-90 tank parked on the shoulder of the M6 highway leading into the Russian city of Volgograd. His boots sank into the mud. Most everything around here was mud, but that was the least of his concerns. Same for his men. The flurry of activity made him proud. These were his countrymen, his comrades, his brothers, both by blood and by allegiance, and they were fueled by purpose.

A young captain with an AK-47 slung over his shoulder hurried up, snapping a salute that Leonov returned. The junior officer was thin and his dirty, battered fatigues hung off his frame, but he was alert and energetic.

“Colonel Leonov, our forces are in position around the city. Shall we advance?”

Leonov could sense the captain’s enthusiasm, his revolutionary spirit. It came off him in waves, like a fever. Leonov’s own enthusiasm was tempered by his battlefield experience, but he shared the urge to move forward. He wondered if this was what it felt like in 1917. Nevertheless, he knew the General was counting on him to lead these men with wisdom and passion.

“Well done, Captain Ilyushin.” Leonov could see the man’s slender chest swell a bit with pride. “But we’ll wait until dawn. It’s getting dark and the men are tired from their march today. The southern approach is secured. Besides, our camps and fires will serve as a beacon for other men who wish to join our cause. Tomorrow we’ll take the city. We’ll enter under the light, on parade. Not thieves sneaking in the night.”

“Yes, colonel.”

A column of BTR-80 armored personnel carriers roared by on the M6, setting up a defensive perimeter to the north. The soldiers in the machine-gun turrets saluted as they passed.

His army was getting bigger. Every day, a hundred or so soldiers arrived, abandoning their old units, looking to join this burgeoning movement. Not all of the new arrivals were fit to serve. Not yet. They bore the hallmarks of the old Russia. Many were overweight, poorly equipped, lacking necessities like clean, dry socks—trench foot was endemic—and ammunition. When they arrived, they had their names, ranks, and skills recorded, were issued equipment by the quartermaster and his squad, and reassigned in the 2nd Red Army.

The 2nd Red Army now numbered some 15,000 men, fully equipped with tanks, helicopters, food, and fuel. They still lacked jets and other major weapons systems, a deficiency which Leonov had been sure would doom his force to a quick and violent death at the hands of the Russian army. The General had assured him he had other methods for dealing with those threats. Whatever those methods were, they were working. Other than the occasional reconnaissance flight, Leonov’s force had not seen a single Russian aircraft overhead. Still, he would be nervous until he had his own air support. His men saw Volgograd—once, Stalingrad—as a key objective. Leonov was eager to push on to capture the air base at Lebyazhye, about 170 kilometers to the north, where the General had assured him a sizable force of jets and bombers was waiting to be commandeered. First there was work to be done in Volgograd.

“Captain, deploy your scout teams to the surface-to-space site and report back by 1930 hours. Reconnaissance only. Do not engage any sentries or enter the facility, or even approach closer than 100 meters. If the government forces have left any defense or booby-trapped the facility, we must know. That is our priority.”

The young officer snapped another salute and departed.

Leonov looked toward the city. Although every Russian knew Volgograd’s history as the turning point in the Great Patriotic War against Germany, Leonov had little use for the city’s heritage. Stalin had been a fool and a tyrant, and the blood of more than a million Russian heroes had soaked this land because the paranoid schemer had been too busy consolidating power internally to notice the Nazi threat creeping toward his doorstep. Indeed, blind greed had too often cost Russia the greatness that was its due. No more.

Leonov walked toward the command tent that had been hastily erected in the grass near the highway, next to an overpass that rose over a train track. “Highway” was too generous a term for this two-lane strip of asphalt with dirt shoulders, but then most Russian highways were similarly glorified country roads. Leonov felt both contempt and shame at the degraded condition of his country.

For all its boasting and wealth, Russia in many ways was a third-world nation. And this business about “alien invasion” had only siphoned off more of its treasures, while the treacherous destruction of Saint Petersburg had annihilated much of the nation’s spirit. That decline must be reversed. There was a sleeping giant in this land waiting to be awakened. He felt it in his soul, if there was such a thing.

The sun was sinking as Leonov reached the tent. To the east, the massive Volga River reflected the last glittering embers of the fading sun. While he felt no emotional connection to this place, its military history certainly fascinated him. More than a million Russians had been killed or injured defending this city, and the brutality of the war and the incompetence of Stalin had ensured that many of the dead, both German and Russian, had never been recovered from the battlefield. Ancient, decayed bodies and military equipment were still being found to this day in the countryside surrounding the city. Leonov thought there was a good chance that, even now, he was standing over the shallow grave of some German private still clutching a rifle. No matter. Eventually, everyone died. You could only hope to die fighting for something great.

Aides were plugging in computers and communications equipment as Leonov stepped into the command center.

Lieutenant Colonel Ivan Rodchenko stepped forward with two steaming mugs of tea, handing one to Leonov. Leonov knew without asking—and was thankful without saying—that each contained a splash of vodka.

The two men silently tipped their cups toward each other and drank.

“Good progress today, Vanya,” he said to his old friend with a smile. “The city shall be ours tomorrow, and then on to the airfield at Lebyazhye.”

“Indeed,” said Rodchenko, sipping his tea.

“Spit it out. I’m too tired to guess at your troubles.”

“My trouble is the lack of trouble. No one’s fired a shot at us in nearly a week. What’s going on? The Federation troops have all but disappeared. And our air defenses are almost depleted, as they must know.”

Leonov shrugged.

“The General assured me he would take care of the jets and bombers, and he’s been true to his word.”

“But how, Yuri?” Rodchenko said softly, so no one else would overhear his question. “We’ve made our intentions clear. We’re marching on Moscow. Why would the government not defend itself?”

“They are cowards. They think the Americans can save them.” Leonov couldn’t have kept the sneer from his voice if he’d wanted to. “Cowards and weaklings. The Americans ordered them to burn Saint Petersburg and they obeyed like that.” He snapped his fingers. “This will be easy. Moscow is nothing but old women. Hell, worse than old women. My grandmother could overthrow this government.”

Rodchenko nodded absently.

“These so-called ‘surface-to-space’ defensive installations are interesting, yes? Have you seen one up close yet?”

Leonov waved his hand dismissively.

“Vanya, these are crude distractions. Don’t you see? There is no . . . alien invasion.” He spat the words, angry that he even had to say such childish things. “What evidence have we seen? Fuzzy telescope images of explosions in space and vague reports of some attack in Shanghai?”

“The Chinese certainly seem to be taking it seriously.”

“The Chinese can do as they please,” Leonov said, taking another sip. He wished his friend could see what they were building; how the American lies were just an attempt to thwart Russia’s deserved greatness. “Perhaps we will turn our attention to them later, in a year or two, once we’ve finished with our efforts here. Tomorrow we’ll take this installation outside Volgograd and you’ll see it’s just some American technological toy designed to slow us down. It will be a minor delay, and then we’ll press onward and finish the job.”

Rodchenko finished his tea.

“I’m sure you are right, comrade. Soon we will have set things right.”

Rodchenko seemed satisfied. Leonov nodded.

“That’s more like it. Now, let’s review tomorrow’s movements. We should be ready just in case there are a few stubborn malcontents remaining in the Federation army.”

Outside, the sun had gone down and the crescent moon was rising over the river, casting a silver reflection over the water like a blade.

An hour later, tactical briefings over the next day’s plans were finalized and Leonov headed off to his tent. He hadn’t been lying to his friend. He was tired. He couldn’t show it while still out in public, in front of his men. Although it was late and most of the soldiers were exhausted, many were still awake, huddled around fires, talking and laughing, playing cards or clutching their own mugs. Leonov stopped at each group on his way back to his tent, offering a few words of encouragement, deferring the offered vodka from his officers. He would not have minded a sip or two, but if he took a drink at every opportunity, he would be drunk before he made it halfway to his quarters. He had work still to do.

He was also still unsettled by his friend’s doubts. Rodchenko’s loyalty was beyond question. At the same time, he clearly was not completely satisfied with Leonov’s answers to his questions. In truth, Leonov himself wasn’t sure what was happening. Things were moving so fast. Lies or not, this business about aliens had been a spark in a pool of gasoline. Flames were everywhere. Had the Americans outsmarted themselves? Started a wildfire they thought they could control, only to see it leap over their firewalls? Perhaps, but why?

A pair of guards stood watch at his drab green tent, men who had served under him in Chechnya. Men he trusted with his life.

That had been the beginning of his military career. Horrible place. You had to watch your back everywhere you went, no matter how many houses you burned or terrorists you killed. Leonov had wanted to be a soldier ever since he was a boy. Chechnya had made him reconsider. Then he’d met The General, who had counseled patience.

He didn’t fear for his life here. The guards at his tent were watching over the contents inside, the laptop and its secure satellite connection. Leonov dismissed the men and ordered them to get some rest, and then went inside.

The machine sat on a plain folding table, in front of an equally plain folding chair. A cot and small footlocker were set up to the side of the room, by a small mirror hanging on pegs over a minuscule sink. An electric lamp hanging from the center of the canvas ceiling was the only illumination. The tent and its modest contents had been set up in minutes and would be torn down just as quickly in the morning when the army broke camp.

Leonov looked at the mirror, noting that stubble with flecks of gray were coming in, even though he’d shaved that morning. He shaved every morning. No gray in his close-cropped hair. Not yet. His nose was as long and slender as it had been since he’d hit puberty. Dark circles under his eyes, the shadows appearing even deeper in this paltry light. His nose was strong and his cheekbones sharp. A bit of a status symbol in this rotten age, when the faces of many men his age had already started to turn pink and mushy from too much vodka. His body was fit, too. He was a field commander, not a desk rider. He still ran five kilometers every morning.

He splashed some water on his face from a canteen dangling next to the mirror and wiped it with a rough towel.

The screen on the laptop was dark, but the blue and orange lights along the edge indicated it was powered up. Leonov stared at it a moment, then pulled a bottle of vodka and a single shot glass from his personal trunk. He poured himself a drink, but only one. He needed to be able to focus for these conversations, no matter how tired he was. Leonov took a sip, sat down, and moved the glass out of visible range of the camera embedded in the laptop. He rubbed his finger over the touchpad to wake the machine, and the screen came to life. Leonov activated the secure link, the satellite dish on the roof reaching out for a signal.

ESTABLISHING CONNECTION>>>

>>>

>>>

CONNECTION ESTABLISHED>>>

CREDENTIALS REQUIRED>>>

Leonov pressed his thumb against the scanner connected to the laptop through a USB connection and leaned closer so the camera could scan his retina.

CREDENTIALS CONFIRMED>>>

The screen was dark for a moment, and Leonov squinted, looking for movement in the inky blackness. Then The General’s face appeared. It was lined, but not old. The beard was still mostly dark brown. The scar on his forehead stood out even on the grainy computer image. Leonov had been there when he got that scar. Leonov knew his name, of course, but still thought of him mostly as The General.

“Good evening, Colonel Leonov,” The General said.

“General.”

“So, are you in position?”

“Yes, General, we will move into Volgograd tomorrow and secure the facility. I shall leave a company behind to guard it, and then take the rest of the regiment on to Lebyazhye. We’ll then begin preparations to move on to Moscow.”

“Excellent. Contact me once you’ve taken the facility.”

“Will you be joining us at the air base?”

“Perhaps. I am still working to convince some of my colleagues to join our campaign. Our victory is inevitable, and I would prefer to ride into Moscow with fresh troops, but it is possible there will be holdouts. You may be forced to suppress some of the more reluctant elements of the Federation Army—in particular, the 20th Guards Army out of Voronezh seems to be mobilizing to confront your force.”

Leonov quickly did the math in his head. A couple tank divisions and missile brigades, along with some other auxiliary forces.

“We should be able to handle that.”

“True, Colonel, but they may have supplemented their original forces. There are still many who fear a renewed Russia.”

Leonov shrugged.

“We are supplementing our forces, too. By the time we reach Moscow, we’ll be 50,000 strong, at the minimum. When we complete our political takeover, the rest of the military will fall in line. I am concerned, though, with the Americans. Have you received any indication of a possible response from them?”

“Bah. They are all engaged with this foolish alien invasion business. They have withdrawn most of their forces from Europe and the Pacific in a vain attempt to subdue their own population. And the Europeans are in disarray. We have a free hand.”

Leonov was silent.

“Yes, comrade?”

“General, I don’t understand. What is America’s endgame? What do they gain by spreading this fiction?”

“Confusion and deception, Yuri. Their economy is weak and they are losing their standing in the modern world. This is nothing more than a desperate attempt to reclaim power and destabilize the rest of the world. Who knows who they are conspiring with? I’m sure the lie will be exposed soon enough, and they will admit their cover-up. In the meantime, we must not relent. We must not forget Saint Petersburg. Our dead demand justice.”

Leonov nodded.

“Indeed, General. You are surely correct. I will be in contact tomorrow as soon as the facility is secured.”

“Excellent, Colonel Leonov. Sleep well.”

The screen went dark. Leonov stared silently into the darkness for some time. Eventually, he drained his vodka and rose to find his bed.

The battle the next morning turned out to be far fiercer than Leonov expected. Indeed, he hadn’t expected any battle at all. Volgograd had been completely abandoned by the Russian army, and he had no reason to expect the defensive facility to be any different. Captain Ilyushin had taken a company of 160 men in armored personnel carriers and a couple of T-90 tanks on the A-260 highway heading west out of Volgograd to the facility while Leonov was establishing a headquarters at the oblast Duma, the regional legislative building in the center of the city. Another company under Rodchenko’s command was establishing a post at the Volgograd International Airport. There were only useless civilian aircraft, but the airstrip might be helpful later when they did have military planes under their control.

Leonov had observed Ilyushin’s movements through a live video feed from a camera mounted on the exterior of the captain’s lead vehicle. Many civilians used them to guard against insurance fraud by other drivers. Most importantly, the technology behind them was cheap, effective, and reliable. A thousand times better than anything the military had ever produced.

So, while Leonov busied himself with setting up his temporary headquarters, he also kept an eye on the video feed on his laptop. He expected no resistance, but he was restless. For the first 15 minutes, it was uneventful, as the vehicles trundled along the two-lane road through flat countryside, mingled with the occasional spruce tree. Leonov could barely contain himself, though, popping out of his seat, barking at his lieutenants, tapping his fingers on the side of the laptop. Finally, he stood up, scooped up the laptop, and had a sergeant drive him out to the airport. The two men hopped in a light truck, a freshly washed UAZ Hunter, and sped off. Leonov focused on his laptop while the vehicle bounced through the streets of Volgograd. Most of the residents seemed to be indoors, watching through curtains at the military vehicles crisscrossing the city. A few people were out and about, but most of the stores were shuttered, with nothing left to sell. There were a lot of beggars. They were impossible to miss, even as he focused on the screen in front of him.

He watched as Ilyushin’s column rolled through the village of Gorkovskiy and turned right on a rural road just west of the town. There were no markings or signs on this road, much less any kind of indication that it led to a high-tech military installation. The trees were thicker, thanks to a nearby river. But The General had given Leonov precise directions, and he had no doubt they were accurate.

Sure enough, two minutes later, a series of increasingly dire warning signs appeared along the side of the road, first instructing drivers to turn back and then indicating that they were in imminent danger of being shot. The company pressed on. A massive concrete wall soon loomed out of the scraggly trees and brush. The barrier was at least 15 feet high and stretched off in both directions, gradually curving away into a circle. The road ended before an equally high iron gate embedded in the wall. There was no guard shack or secondary entrance. A pair of security cameras on either side of the gate pointed down at the road. Ilyushin brought his column to a halt about 100 feet away from the gate. Leonov leaned in even closer to the laptop screen. He keyed open his radio and confirmed that Captain Ilyushin could hear him.

“Yes, Colonel, I read you.”

“Good. It appears our scouting report was correct. Place the charges.”

“Yes, Colonel.”

Leonov had considered dispatching his pair of Mi-24 helicopter gunships to support the ground assault, and in any normal military campaign would have done so without a moment’s hesitation. He’d hesitated because of his meager supply of jet fuel. The installation was supposedly undefended, so he’d opted not to send the massive gunships as backup. They were prepped and fueled on the runway of the Volgograd airport, with the crews on standby, just in case. He was headed to the airport now to accompany the helicopters should they be needed. From the time he gave the order, the helicopters could be at Ilyushin’s location in less than five minutes.

Leonov struggled to suppress his concerns. He felt unusually indecisive. From a military standpoint, the airfield at Lebyazhye was the far more critical target, and Leonov wanted the air support from the Mi-24s when he arrived there. And for that, he needed them to have full gas tanks. He knew he’d made the correct tactical move, but was still bothered. Should he have sent them with Ilyushin? Something didn’t feel right. He hunched even closer to the video screen.

Leonov watched as a handful of Ilyushin’s men planted explosive charges around the gate. The tanks could have just used their cannons to blast through, but the shaped charges were far more precise and would throw less shrapnel and leave a cleaner opening. The soldiers hustled back to the cover of their armored personnel carriers and Ilyushin radioed Leonov that they were in position and ready to detonate.

“Go,” Leonov said.

Four coordinated explosions blew the gate inward, the heavy metal no match for the expertly placed munitions. Leonov could briefly see the gate shoved forward into the compound, and then a cloud of smoke and dust obscured his view.

“Captain, wait for the smoke to clear, and then proceed inside.”

“Yes, Colonel.”

Leonov nearly warned him to be careful, then caught himself. Ilyushin was a professional soldier in a war zone. Additional caution would sound like a mother telling her children to bundle up in the snow.

The cloud had finally started to settle and Ilyushin ordered his men into the compound. Unfortunately, Leonov did not have a map of the interior of the facility, and the compound was too new to show up in commercial satellite imagery. The General, however, had assured him there would be a main central building, a tower, surrounded by smaller support buildings and barracks. They would be abandoned. The plan was to send the tanks in first, followed by the armored vehicles. They would park in a semicircle, and the ground troops would fan out from there, sweeping the buildings and converging on the central building to plant additional charges. Leonov drummed his fingers nervously on his laptop. The airport was just ahead.

The moment the first tank passed through the demolished gate, a loud snap filled the air and a red filament lanced into the 50-ton vehicle from somewhere within the compound. The massive tank glowed like a light bulb and then flew apart in a cloud of metallic vapor. The shockwave tossed men to the ground, and even the other tanks and APCs rocked slightly.

“Shit,” Leonov muttered.

Ilyushin and his men were well-trained and barely hesitated. The tanks and APCs opened fire into the haze. The second tank began blasting the concrete walls to form additional entry points, while ground troops poured out of the carriers to present a larger number of dispersed targets. Additional bolts sizzled out of the compound, annihilating the vehicles and slicing apart any of Ilyushin’s men who happened to be in the way. The beams snapped and whined. It sounded like no weapon Leonov had ever heard.

Leonov thumbed his radio and ordered the helicopter pilots to prepare for immediate liftoff. Leonov’s truck was pulling into the airfield now, and he could see the pilots and gunners scrambling to the hulking predators. He could hear Ilyushin ordering all his men into the compound.

Leonov considered ordering Ilyushin to fall back and wait for the air support, but half of the strike force was already through the gates. He watched on the screen as the red beam continued to obliterate men and machines with a single touch. The ground force was pressing forward regardless, laying down heavy fire. Now explosions were coming from the compound, as the bullets and rockets slammed into the buildings and vehicles inside. The red beam continued to rake the attackers, firing in five-second intervals. Leonov couldn’t see any enemy troops, just the beam, and he guessed it was some sort of automated defensive system. It seemed to be coming from the middle of the compound.

“Captain, concentrate your fire on the central building,” Leonov yelled into his radio, hopping from his truck and running for the lead helicopter, whose rotor blades were starting to spin. Ilyushin didn’t waste time responding but directed all his men to concentrate their fire on the main building now visible through the haze.

Leonov scrambled into the side troop compartment of the lead helicopter as both machines came to full power, the massive titanium blades convulsing the air. He pulled the heavy armored door shut as the pilot was already lifting off. Leonov leaned in the cockpit door so he could see through the bubble canopy. “How long?” he said as he pulled his bulky headset on.

“Two minutes, Colonel,” the pilot responded without looking back.

Leonov tightened his grip on the bulkhead as the gunship roared through the sky. The pilot was at full throttle, guzzling precious fuel. Still, Leonov willed the gunship to go faster. The compound came into view through the curve of the glass. The red blasts were indeed emanating from a cluster of odd-looking equipment poking out of the roof of the central building. Fireballs were erupting around the machinery as Ilyushin’s men fired on it, but so far none of them seemed to do any damage.

Leonov pressed the microphone closer and ordered both helicopters to fire on the central building.

“Sir, do we not want to take the building intact?” the gunner in the other helicopter asked over the radio.

“Fire,” Leonov demanded.

Without another word, both attack helicopters swooped in.

The Mi-24 was a masterpiece of ground-support airborne weaponry. It bristled with rockets, missiles, and a 30 mm cannon in the nose. A terror during the Soviet campaign in Afghanistan and the later Russian offensive in Chechnya, the helicopter was essentially a flying tank. The heavy armor, hulking profile, and stubby wings gave it the appearance of being slow and clumsy, but the machine was surprisingly agile and fast, thanks to its powerful turbine engine and deceptive aerodynamics. These two helicopters were, at the moment, the jewel of Leonov’s burgeoning army. He did wonder briefly at the wisdom of personally accompanying the machines into battle, then tossed the thought aside. Those were his men dying down there. He was a soldier, first and foremost.

The pilots of the two helicopters instinctively separated, approaching the compound at a 90-degree angle to make themselves a harder target for whatever was shooting from inside the compound.

Leonov could see a weapon on the main building swiveling to follow the two helicopters. The gunners, seated in front of and below the pilots, saw it too and squeezed their triggers. Both machines unleashed a barrage of 57 mm rockets from the pods under their wings, raking vertically up the sides of the buildings. The cannon in the tower intercepted several of them, and they burst with a pop-pop-pop. Some made it through, slamming into the structure and blowing it open. It wasn’t enough damage to destroy the tower, though, and the machine kept up its barrage.

The gunners in the helicopters pressed their attack, opening up with their 30 mm cannons. With the defensive cannon now occupied with the helicopters, the ground forces were also finding their target. Tank shells blasted the building, as did shoulder-mounted missiles used by the infantry. The building was slowly coming apart.

Leonov watched as the other helicopter juked sideways just as one last blast from the tower sizzled through the air, clipping its tail rotor. The tail disintegrated instantly, and the smoking gunship shuddered as the pilot tried to wrestle it to the ground without crashing. It was now vulnerable to a final kill shot.

Leonov fired at the tower using the heavy machine gun mounted to the side of his helicopter, tracer rounds pinging at the odd machinery, ripping out fistfuls of metal. At the same time, the gunner in the cockpit unleashed a final salvo of anti-tank missiles. The support beams inside the tower were obliterated, and the whole structure began to keel over. As it tumbled to the ground, the odd weapon itself began to glow red, crimson filaments crawling across the structure like the tentacles of an ancient sea monster swallowing a sailing ship. It exploded in a shriek of shrapnel. The shockwave brushed Leonov’s helicopter sideways toward a clump of trees. As the pilot struggled to recover and avoid the looming branches, Leonov saw the other helicopter crunch into the ground. The aircraft seemed to be intact and did not catch fire. Leonov couldn’t see much more as his own pilot fought to stabilize his aircraft and swung it around to avoid slamming into the compound’s wall. At last he had it under control and asked Leonov if he wanted to land or return to base.

“Drop me off, pick up any wounded, and then return to the airfield. Begin any repairs immediately.”

Leonov popped open the passenger compartment door as soon as they touched down and ran to the tank and remaining APCs winding their way into the compound. Ilyushin waved him over. He tried not to think about the fact that his chopper would be running on fumes by the time it got back, and the other would likely never get off the ground again.

Ilyushin snapped off a harried salute, which Leonov crisply returned. He had noticed long ago that the more bloody and frantic the situation, the more the ancient ritual helped men calm themselves and think a bit more clearly. The young captain looked shaken, but was holding together.

“Well done, Captain,” Leonov said. “We have taken the compound and destroyed the enemy defense system. What are your casualties?”

“I, I’m not sure, Colonel,” Ilyushin stuttered back. He spun around and did a quick survey of his force, now fully inside the compound. Leonov could see him doing a mental tally of the missing.

“It looks like one tank and four APCs. Perhaps thirty or forty men injured or dead. I did not expect this . . . sir, what was that?”

“I’m not sure, Captain. Most likely some American gadget. Regardless, it has been neutralized and we have won the day. Our fallen will be memorialized as heroes of the new revolution. Do a full tally and send me the names. Have your men search the compound, seize any computers or files, and return to base. Load the wounded onto my helicopter and I’ll return with you in the convoy.”

“Yes, sir,” Ilyushin said, offering a sturdier salute. His composure was coming back. Good man. Ilyushin marched off to organize his men.

Leonov walked over to the smoking ruins of the central building, curious to investigate. He kept his eyes fixed on the wreckage, wondering if some final booby trap remained. Despite what he’d said to Ilyushin about the Americans being behind the cannon, he wasn’t sure. Energy weapons weren’t unheard of, and he knew the Russians, Americans, and others had all been investigating such capabilities for years. But this device had been accurate and lethal and fast beyond anything that seemed possible. It was . . . alien.

Leonov drew his pistol as he approached the tower.

The entrance, once secured with an impressive metal door, had been torn open in the battle. Leonov climbed through the mangled gate and squeezed into the damaged entryway beyond. Security cameras hung limp and inert from the walls, and a guard station was empty and dark. Debris crunched under Leonov’s boots as he stepped into a hallway and holstered his weapon. This place was dead.

On the right side, shattered glass panels gave a view to the interior of the building: an open concrete space with a thick metal scaffolding reaching up to where the top of the tower had once been, with the gun mounted to the top of the steel structure. He could see bits of the clear blue sky through the twisted wreckage. The nature of the explosion had been such that it had extinguished or prevented any fires. While there were charred streaks running down from the top of the tower, everything inside was essentially intact. Computer panels were set up at the base of the scaffold, and several massive cables ran up from the metal grate of the floor to the roof. Some of the cables, severed during the attack, now hung back down the scaffold, spitting occasional sparks. The red emergency lights were still working, splattering a crimson kaleidoscope across the walls. Holes punched in the tower by tank shells and rockets let in shafts of more serene sunlight.

Leonov pulled open a heavy door leading down into that main room. The facility seemed completely abandoned. The technicians and military personnel had apparently fled either out of fear of Leonov’s advancing force or as part of the broader panic that seemed to be engulfing Russia. He didn’t care either way. The whole world seemed to be falling apart, the basic fabric of civilization stretching and tearing. It wasn’t a new order coming, but an older one. A world of strength and will, rather than law and bureaucracy. Weak and decadent economies, military shocks, the destruction of Saint Petersburg, this alien invasion hoax, it was all too much. Chaos threatened to engulf everything, and only force could push it back. No room for the weakness that had led to this fantastic weapon being abandoned like a flat tire by the side of the road.

Leonov walked down a short flight of metal steps to the control room floor, his feet clanging on the grating. A body, the only he had seen so far in the building, was crumpled on the ground. He turned it over with his boot. Bullet holes riddled the suit-and-tie-clad corpse. The man’s face also appeared to have been bludgeoned.

“Yegorov,” he read out softly from the name badge.

Yegorov had obviously been killed some time before Leonov and his men had arrived. The body was already a bit stiff. Other soldiers were now making their way into the building, cataloging their findings and retrieving anything of value. Leonov nodded at them and left the dead man, walking over to the laptops plugged into the base of the metal scaffold. Diagnostic and targeting systems, presumably. Perhaps the technicians would be able to make something of it.

He saw another laptop on a table near the wall, unconnected to the weapon and obviously more of a standard workstation. Leonov righted a chair that had been knocked over and sat down. The activity lights were illuminated along the front edge, so he scribbled on the touchpad with his finger to wake up the machine, expecting to see a password screen. Instead, the laptop opened to the home screen.

Leonov shook his head at the lax security, even as he was thankful for it. He opened the email account and began to scroll through. Standard stuff, mostly. Communications between the troops, workplace directives, purchase orders. On a hunch, Leonov scrolled all the way to the bottom, to the very first email received.

FROM: Aerospace Defence Forces Command

TO: XB-7 installations

RE: operational status

Comrades,

We have very little time, and I trust the urgency of our mission was duly impressed upon you by Captain Obukhov during your orientation. Our directive is clear, and the enemy is coming. All you require to construct the machine has been provided. You MUST have the facility operational within two weeks. You are also expected to hold fast against the traitorous elements advancing from the south. Rest assured, reinforcements are en route, and will arrive within the week. In the meantime, make all possible haste. The attack on Saint Petersburg was but a prelude, and your family, friends, and countrymen depend on your speed and courage. Lt. Yegorov has been assigned to facilitate and monitor your progress and provide daily reports back to me. I trust you will extend him all due courtesy and grant him full access to your operations so that we might gather a full briefing for the General of the Army Stepanov.

Make haste.

General Arkady Pishchalnikov

“Well, comrade Yegorov, it seems you were indeed extended all due courtesy,” Leonov said to the corpse with a chuckle.

Political officers had always been seen as loathsome carbuncles attached to the military body. At best, they were annoying, useless blemishes—dead weight in actual combat. At worst, they were curdled, poisonous men constantly threatening to scurry to their masters with the least bit of incriminating gossip on the field officers to whom they were attached. Why even send your warriors into battle if you had so little trust in their judgement and abilities? Still, Leonov had never seen a political officer murdered. Presumably the silly bastard had threatened to squeal on the soldiers deserting their posts, and the men had turned on him.

Leonov stood up and wiped his hands on his pants. Rats killing rats. Good riddance.

Still, the tone of the email nagged at him. The machine these men had been assigned to build remained a mystery; a technology he had never seen. And the email itself seemed straightforward and earnest. Pishchalnikov, at least, had believed in the alien invasion story. Captain Ilyushin stepped into the room as his soldiers headed out carrying papers and laptops. Leonov stood up from the laptop as Ilyushin approached.

“Take everything, Captain,” Leonov said, gesturing around the room. “This technology is indeed unusual, but perhaps we can replicate some of it. This weapon would be a worthwhile addition to our arsenal.”

“It does not appear to have been powerful enough to prevent desertion, though,” Ilyushin said, looking around at the abandoned space.

“True. But apparently these workers had been promised reinforcements that never arrived. This was most likely a scientific and technical detachment, with no real combat capability. It was a deployment done exceedingly poorly, although the botan seem to have done their jobs before fleeing.”

The botan, or nerds, had been cowards, yes, and their weapon had killed many of his men. Leonov was tempted to let his mind chase this riddle a bit longer, but Ilyushin shuffled a bit, waiting for further orders. Leonov refocused.

“Captain, continue the recovery efforts. Salvage everything you can. I want a full report tomorrow morning from the engineers. I’m returning to base to oversee our efforts there. We will hold a ceremony for our fallen comrades this evening.”

Ilyushin saluted. Leonov returned it and walked out of the room, deep in thought.

Leonov sat in a conference room in the oblast Duma, his muddy boots propped on the polished oak table as he turned over a chunk of the destroyed weapon from the base in his hands. Rodchenko sat nearby, but otherwise the room was empty. Leonov tossed the twisted wreckage onto the table, dislodging flakes of scorched carbon, and rubbed the back of his neck. God, he wanted a cigarette and a drink.

“Vanya, what is this?”

Rodchenko frowned and picked up the damaged section.

“The reports so far are inconclusive, Yuri. The materials are all familiar. Steel and plastic and other elements. But the construction is . . . sophisticated. Incomprehensible, really.”

“You watched the video of the attack?”

“Yes. And I’m as perplexed as you. What I saw on that video is not something we could’ve made, or the Chinese or, I think, even the Americans. Or perhaps they have some, how do they call it, ‘skunk works’ project for this.”

“Come on, Vanya, you don’t believe that. Speak freely. We’re alone in here.”

Rodchenko shifted in his chair. Leonov could tell his friend was just as eager as he was for nicotine or alcohol.

“Colonel, I know of only one explanation for the source of this technology, but that explanation contains . . . complications . . . for us.”

“Indeed it does, friend,” Leonov said. “The alien invasion. This is alien technology. There is nowhere else this could have come from. I believe The General has been misinformed.”

Rodchenko went even paler than he already was.

“What does this mean for us?”

Leonov looked at Rodchenko, dropped his feet, and leaned forward.

“What does this mean? What do you think it means?! It means there is another player at the poker table, Vanya. Another hand has been dealt. But we’re still in the game. These facilities seem to be entirely automated. So, we bypass them. Leave them to their work. We continue on to Moscow. The Russian government is still weak. Even with this fancy tech, they still fled before us. They’re not worthy of this country. This new enemy, though, that’s something else. The Americans, if their story is true, will be occupied for a while. We have some time to gather our forces and finish our mission.”

“But Yuri, if this . . . this alien threat is real, it’s as much a threat to us as to them, no?”

Leonov picked up the shredded alien technology again and ran his fingers across the jagged edges, as if looking for a button or latch that might unlock its secrets.

“Perhaps. Or perhaps they might look for an ally down here. It’s a big world, Vanya. Perhaps we will share it. For a while, anyway.”

Rodchenko was silent for a moment.

“What does The General say?”

Leonov paused, seeming not to have heard his friend. He could tell Rodchenko was uneasy. They’d all known this rebellion was dangerous. Death in battle was always a possibility. At least they’d been going in with a clear sense of their adversary . . . or so they’d thought. Rodchenko shuffled his feet, the boots scraping on the rough wood floor.

“He concurs with me,” Leonov said at last, appearing to have settled some question in his mind. “As we speak, he is working to establish communication with the alien invaders. Our job, for now, is to continue as planned. Moscow still beckons, Vanya. Come, let us speak for our dead, and then find a drink.”

Rodchenko couldn’t help himself.

“Yuri, I don’t like this. We’re not prepared for this. Our men are not trained for this. The General was . . . mistaken? Misled? Should we reconsider?”

Leonov knew that Rodchenko would have spoken like this with no other officer, and even now would be nervous at saying those words. They were close to treasonous. Treason on top of the treason we’ve already committed. No going back now.

“Vanya, I do not . . . I think our course must hold,” Leonov said, still looking into the distance. “Was The General wrong? Perhaps. Or perhaps he kept secrets we don’t yet know, or do not need to know. Perhaps he knew more than he was willing to reveal. Our course is set. If we turn away, what is left? Not for us, but for Russia? For our men? No,” Leonov said, shaking his head, purpose returning to his eyes. “The only way is forward. Everything else is death.”

Rodchenko watched as Leonov continued to idly turn the blackened chunk of metal in his hands.

“Everything else is death.”