NEAR POWIDZ, POLAND
SOME HOURS LATER
Powerful floodlights run off portable generators turned night into day for the teams of Polish military police investigators still combing the clearing. They were looking for clues that would help identify those involved in the mortar attack. Numbered yellow markers scattered across the field tagged pieces of evidence left in situ. More floodlights glowed in the distance, showing where another team was hard at work inside a large semitrailer truck they’d found abandoned along a nearby farm road.
Brad McLanahan stood in the darkness just outside the lit area, watching the investigators do their work. He avoided looking too closely at the row of black plastic body bags lined up for transport to the nearest morgue. He’d seen the battered and broken remains of the men his father had killed before they’d been discreetly tagged, photographed, and bundled away. He’d also seen the dried bloodstains spattered across the CID’s torso and limbs.
Despite his warm uniform jacket, he shivered.
Nadia Rozek took his arm in hers. She nestled her head gently against his shoulder. Brad sighed. Her touch helped ease a little of the tension and fear he felt building up inside.
Martindale and Macomber finished talking to the grim-faced Polish officer heading up the investigation and came over.
“Captain Sojka says his best guess is that these men were from Chechnya or somewhere else in the Caucasus,” Martindale told them. “Probably Islamist radicals. Apparently, they were all wired with explosive vests, but only one had time to set his off.”
“Islamic radicals?” Nadia said. Her eyes flashed angrily. “Perhaps so. But I am sure they were doing Moscow’s bidding this time, not that of Allah. The Russians have often used some of the Chechen factions for their dirty work.”
“That seems probable,” Martindale agreed. His face was troubled. “But I am still somewhat surprised that Gryzlov would authorize direct action against us like this.”
Macomber snorted. “Why?”
“After their success in wrecking that Romanian reactor, I would have expected the next Russian move to be something subtler and more potent.” Martindale shook his head. “A short mortar barrage on one Iron Wolf base? What could Gryzlov really hope to achieve with this kind of pinprick attack?”
“Yeah, well, I’ve got three dead troopers and a bunch more wounded who might see things a little differently,” Macomber muttered.
Brad nodded. “Whack’s right, sir. Short or not, that attack still did a heck of a lot of damage.”
One of the mortar rounds had exploded right in the middle of a joint Polish–Iron Wolf recon team heading out on an exercise. Other hits had destroyed several aircraft on the flight line. Between President Barbeau’s moves to restrict arms sales to Poland and the difficulty involved in evading her sanctions, finding replacements for those men and machines would be costly and time-consuming.
“Gryzlov is the kind of thug who never saw a weapon he wouldn’t use,” Macomber went on. “Sure, he may be planning to launch more of that cyberwar shit, but that’s not going to stop him from hitting us anywhere and in any way he can.” He frowned. “Plus, we made it fricking easy for him. Once the bad guys ‘made’ Powidz as our base last year, we should have upped stakes and deployed somewhere else.”
That was true, Brad realized. They’d gotten lazy, too attached to the facilities and central strategic position the Polish air base offered. By continuing to operate out of a fixed and identified location, they’d made it possible for the Russians to plan and execute this terrorist strike.
“I take your point, Major,” Martindale said quietly. “Perhaps you’d better start scouting out a new base for the squadron.”
“It’s not going to be easy to find something now,” Macomber warned. “Gryzlov’s already got his reconnaissance satellites making routine passes over every military facility in the AFN.”
Nadia spoke up. “I suspect the Russians also have eyes on us here.” She shrugged. “Our Military Counterintelligence Service does superb work, but it is a difficult task to root out any deep-cover agents.”
“What about shifting all of our operations to the Scrapheap?” Martindale suggested. “We’re still flying under the radar there, aren’t we?”
“Maybe,” Brad said skeptically. “But I wouldn’t count on it. Besides, while Siliştea Gumeşti’s a good spot for ferrying in new aircraft and equipment and doing some training, it’s badly sited for anything else.”
The others nodded. Any units stationed in southern Romania would be too far away to effectively help defend Warsaw or the Baltic states—the most likely targets for any conventional Russian air or ground assault.
“Maybe we could find something closer to the border,” Martindale said. He pursed his lips. “There are a number of decommissioned Polish military airfields out there. If we ran the same kind of cover op we used at the Scrapheap, we might be able to—”
“Excuse me,” Brad said, interrupting. He took a deep breath. Putting off what he had to say wasn’t going to make it any more palatable. “But I’m afraid we may have another problem, a bigger and more immediate problem.”
They all turned toward him, looking puzzled.
“My dad,” he said. Swallowing hard, he waved a hand at the row of body bags. “He could have captured some of those guys. Or at least tried to.”
“Those men were wired with explosives,” Martindale said sharply. “They were ready and willing to kill themselves to avoid being taken prisoner.”
Brad shook his head. “No dice, sir. You can’t detonate a suicide vest if you’re unconscious.” He looked hard at Macomber. “Hell, all it takes is one powered-up tap from a CID’s finger to drop someone. My dad knows that. You know that.”
The other man nodded slowly and turned to Martindale. “The kid’s right.”
“Exactly,” Brad said. “But instead he just waded into those guys and butchered them in the blink of an eye.” He sighed. “Plus, you all saw him at the conference before they hit us. He was already keyed up beyond reason and primed to kill.”
Slowly, reluctantly, Nadia and the others nodded.
“So let me get this straight,” Macomber demanded. “You think the general is on the edge of going batshit kill crazy in that metal suit?”
“Yes, I am,” Brad said quietly. “You know what piloting a CID in combat is like, right? About getting that weird surge of power and speed and awareness? The sudden feeling that you can do anything . . . and that nothing on earth can stop you?”
“Yeah,” Macomber said. “But those are sensations you can learn to control. You just have to stay focused.”
“For an hour, sure. Even for a day, maybe,” Brad said. “But my dad has been stuck inside one of those machines for three full years now. Twenty-four hours a day. Seven days a week. He doesn’t sleep. He’s never off-line. Who knows what that’s doing to him?” He swung toward Martindale. “Do you?”
The head of Scion shook his head. “No, I don’t,” he admitted carefully. “Your father’s experience is . . . well, unprecedented is really too weak a word. But it’s the only one that fits.” He cleared his throat. “In the circumstances, I agree that your fears may be valid. The general has seemed somewhat distant over the past few months.”
“And today?” Brad challenged. “What happened here wasn’t exactly distant, was it?”
“No,” Martindale said somberly, gazing at the row of body bags. “Far from it.”
“But if this is so, what can we do?” Nadia asked. She tightened her grip on Brad’s arm. “Outside a CID, General McLanahan will die. But the threat of a man possessed of such power and then driven mad by isolation . . . well, that is truly terrifying.”
Now it was Martindale’s turn to sigh. “That is very true, Major Rozek.” He stood silently for a few moments, clearly weighing his options. Then he looked up at the others. “I need to make a trip to Nevada soon, for a couple of reasons—this new situation with our friend being one of them. Since I’m currently on Homeland Security’s Most Wanted and Least Liked list, arranging that will take a bit of doing.”
He turned his gaze on Brad and Nadia. “But once I’ve got everything set, you two will be coming with me.”
“Us?” Brad asked, confused. “Why?”
“Among other things, you are a pilot, aren’t you, Captain McLanahan?” Martindale asked bluntly.
“Sure.”
“Then let’s just say that you’re due for some flight time in a new aircraft,” the head of Scion said coolly and cryptically. “As is Major Rozek.”
NEAR THE PERUN’S AERIE CYBERWAR COMPLEX, DEEP IN THE URAL MOUNTAINS, RUSSIA
THE NEXT DAY
Even though he had watched the footage all the way through several times before, President Gennadiy Gryzlov still found the images of the Iron Wolf combat robot in action deeply disturbing. So much power, he thought darkly. But even with the knowledge that this power was in the hands of his enemies, the sight of such grace blended with such incredible ferocity was also strangely exhilarating.
When the video flickered to its gruesome end, he turned to Colonel Vladimir Balakin. The trim, dapper chief of security for Q Directorate’s secret complex sat silent for a long while, plainly unable to hide his consternation.
“Well?” Gryzlov demanded at last. “Now that you’ve seen this imagery and read the general staff’s analysis of these machines and their capabilities, what do you think?”
Pulling his wits together, Balakin replied slowly. “That . . . device . . . it is beyond anything I imagined possible.” He looked sick. “I would estimate that it represents military technology of perhaps an order of magnitude beyond ours.”
“So the generals tell me,” Gryzlov said coolly. “Which is why you must be ready, Colonel.”
Balakin visibly paled. “You anticipate an attack by machines like that? Here?”
“Anticipate? No, Colonel,” Gryzlov said, shrugging. “Nevertheless I think it would be wise to be prepared for any eventuality.”
“But our cover measures . . . the maskirova we’ve used to conceal even the basic fact of this complex’s existence, let alone its location . . .” Balakin stammered.
“Yes, with luck, the Poles and their American mercenaries will never learn about Perun’s Aerie,” Gryzlov agreed patiently. “But I would encourage you not to trust solely to luck.” His mouth tightened. “These mountains are littered with the bones of those foolish enough to believe fortune would smile on them forever. Do I make myself clear?”
Balakin licked lips that were suddenly as dry as dust. “Yes, Mr. President. You are perfectly clear.”
“As for these Iron Wolf high-tech marvels,” Gryzlov said soothingly. “Remember that the old ways have power of their own. So look to your defenses—all of your defenses.”
The secure phone on Balakin’s desk buzzed sharply. Hurriedly, the colonel grabbed it. “Yes?”
He listened for a moment and then handed it to Gryzlov. “It’s Major General Koshkin, Mr. President.”
“What is it, Arkady?” Gryzlov snapped.
“The first sets of our cyberweapons have been securely delivered and are in place,” the head of Q Directorate reported.
“And?”
“There are no signs that any have been detected,” Koshkin said. “Operatsiya Mor is ready to launch, on your order.”
“Very good,” Gryzlov said, relaxing. “You have again done well, Arkady.” He checked his watch. “You will have my signed authorization to proceed as soon as I return to Moscow.”
He handed the phone back to Colonel Balakin and sat back, happily imagining the unholy chaos his orders would soon create.
NIZHNY NOVGOROD, RUSSIA
THAT SAME TIME
Nizhny Novgorod, the fifth largest city in Russia, sprawled along the western bank of the Volga River about four hundred kilometers east of Moscow. Founded in the Middle Ages, it served as a strategic border fortress against the Tatars of Kazan—successors to the Mongols of Ghengis Khan. Over the centuries, it grew into the trade capital of czarist Russia.
Renamed Gorky by Stalin to honor the author Maxim Gorky, the city took on a new role, as a center for Soviet military research and production. Foreigners were banned for security reasons. As a “closed city,” it remained largely off-limits to non-Soviets until the communist regime collapsed.
Open again to international trade and commerce, Nizhny Novgorod was still home to some of Russia’s largest and most important scientific and military research labs and factories. Chief among them was the Nizhny Novgorod Research Institute of Radio Engineering (NNIIRT). Operating out of a collection of unremarkable brownish-gray concrete buildings, this firm, part of the huge GKSB Almaz-Antey defense conglomerate, was responsible for the design and manufacture of highly advanced radar systems—including the target acquisition radars and software used by Russia’s S-300 and S-400 surface-to-air missile units.
Not far from the institute, a pale blue UAZ delivery van sat parked along a quiet, tree-lined side street. Its driver, a morose-looking middle-aged man with a drooping mustache, sat placidly behind the wheel. From time to time, he took a drag on his cigarette while idly flipping through the pages of a local tabloid. Sandwich wrappers and a thermos on the seat beside him suggested that he was on a meal break.
The cargo space behind him appeared packed from floor to ceiling with shipping crates, boxes, and other packages. Those appearances were deceiving. All of the jumbled boxes and crates hid the entrance to a small concealed compartment.
Inside this tiny space, two people sat hunched over an array of computers and other electronic gear. Small fans hummed quietly, providing ventilation and cooling. Crumpled disposable coffee cups filled a wastebasket to the brim.
At last, one of them, a bleary-eyed young man, took his hands off a computer keyboard. He turned to his companion, a good-looking redhead, and shrugged his narrow shoulders apologetically. “Sorry, Sam. But it’s no go.”
Samantha Kerr frowned. “You’re sure?”
He nodded. “Oh yeah. I can get into the business side of NNIIRT’s computer systems without any problem, but the firewall for the software lab is just too darned good. I could probably break through by brute force hacking . . . but doing that would leave traces their IT guys would zero in on in a heartbeat.” He spread his hands. “And I assume that would be bad?”
“Incredibly bad,” she agreed wryly. “As in career-ending, up-against-wall ‘you’re going to be shot, treacherous Amerikanskaya Scion spies’ bad.”
“Yeah, so I’d kind of like to avoid the whole getting-executed-for-espionage thing,” the younger man said. “It would upset my mom and dad and look bad on my résumé.”
“Can the Russians pick up what you’ve done so far?” she asked.
“No way,” he replied. “It’s like I tried to pick the lock on that lab firewall, but only using nanoscale tools. Sure I left some traces, like scratches on a physical lock, but they’re so small you’d have to know exactly where to look to spot them. A routine security scan won’t pick anything up.”
“Good,” she said, leaning forward to peer over his shoulder. “So we’ll do this another way.”
“Meaning?”
“If we can’t hack into the software lab from the outside, then we’ll have to come in at the other end.” She narrowed her eyes in thought. “You said you can hack into the institute’s business systems, right?”
He nodded.
“So you can get inside their conference-scheduling software?”
“No problem,” the younger man said. “What do you want to look at?”
“Every meeting set over the next week or two.”
“I’m on it.” His fingers flew over the keyboard. Dates and times and names scrolled rapidly across the computer’s large LED display.
“There!” she said, pointing to a conference scheduled a few days out. “That’s the one.”
The younger man raised an eyebrow. “You’re kidding me?” He looked closer. “‘Systems Demonstration for FAVORITE/TRIUMF Target Acquisition and Identification Software Upgrade 19.17c’? Really?”
She grinned. “Sounds fascinating, doesn’t it?” Her grin widened as she took in his mystified look. “Check out the official guest list.”
His eyes widened as he scanned through the list. “Whoa! Lots and lots of heavy hitters there. Geez, including some of the top brass for Russia’s aerospace forces.”
“Exactly,” Samantha Kerr said with satisfaction. “So now I need you to add just one more name to that list.” She opened a drawer and took out a set of identity cards, rapidly flipping through them until she found what she wanted. She handed it to him. “This one.”