Order of battle command.., p.29
Order of Battle (Command and Control Book 3), page 29
In the plush leather seat across from her, Dylan Mattias held a mobile phone to his ear. He closed his eyes as he listened, nodding.
“Yes, sir…I understand, sir…We’ll be available, of course.”
Dylan hung up, dropped the phone into his lap.
“The Director’s headed to the White House,” he said. “He said we can expect a call about next steps.”
Next steps, thought Abby. What a perfectly quaint way to say murder. Her eyes dropped to the tablet in her lap, then lifted back up to Dylan with a questioning look.
He shook his head. “I didn’t tell them everything. I figured you’d want to understand the extent of the damage before I offered any details.”
Abby let the silence grow. On the table between them, two mugs of coffee sat untouched, growing cold.
“We should turn around,” Dylan said. “I think our time is better spent in DC right now. There’s going to be a lot of damage control.”
Damage control, Abby thought. Another nice euphemism.
She clicked open the tablet again and queued up the video. The point-of-view cameras on the K-10 units were excellent. War crimes in high-def, perfect for the congressional hearing.
The technologists at Sentinel had started calling the units K-10s as a joke. If actual war dogs were called K-9s, then their creation must be the next generation of K-9…ergo, the K-10.
Like wolves, the K-10s operated in a pack formation. Through distributed computing and cooperative threat engagement, the autonomous platforms executed the mission as a team. If contact was lost with the CP, the alpha was authorized to make battlefield decisions.
This was her third viewing of Alpha’s video feed, but even now she was picking up new details. Horrible details. She used her ragged fingertip to advance the video to the last few minutes.
Alpha advanced down a narrow corridor toward a door. The audio on the K-10 automatically blanked out when the unit fired its Barrett rifle. Two holes the size of quarters appeared in the door lock, and Alpha ran full-tilt into the closed door like a battering ram. It crashed into a computer rack on the opposite side of the door. Alpha shuddered as shots impacted the unit. It seemed to have trouble navigating its long body in the confined space. As it backed out of the shattered door and reentered at an angle, an alert flashed on the data stream alongside the video.
TARGETING SENSOR OUT OF ALIGNMENT.
The Russian command post radio room was long and narrow, crammed with equipment. At the end of the aisle, two people faced Alpha. The man was a Russian captain, mid-twenties, holding an empty handgun. Behind him, her face peeking around the man’s shoulder, were the features of a young woman, her eyes wide with terror.
If it wasn’t so horrifying, it would be hilarious. Their expressions were exaggerated, like something from a silent movie. The whites of their eyes, the gaping mouths, the way they tried to press back against the racks of computer equipment.
Except it wasn’t a silent movie. The man shouted at Alpha and threw the empty handgun. Dylan had translated the final radio transmission that Alpha had detected from the man and translated his cursing at Alpha.
The perspective changed as Alpha went to a down position.
“Why did it do that?” Dylan asked, taking the empty seat beside her.
“It’s recalibrating the targeting optics. The process takes a few seconds, and it’s best to do it from a stable position, so the unit drops to the floor.”
On the screen, the man and woman look at each other in surprise. The woman pushes him, and the man takes a tentative step forward.
Recalibration complete.
Alpha rose, the camera perspective shifted. The man backpedaled, slipped, the woman tried to catch him and failed. A hole appeared in the woman’s chest. Her body stiffened, she fell sideways. The man died a split second later.
“Jesus,” Dylan whispered. He’d also seen it multiple times, but the images had staying power.
Abby shifted tabs to the BBC website. Russian attack on British medical camp kills 53.
She scanned the article for updates.
…An unprovoked Russian artillery attack on a British-led Doctors Without Borders post outside of Kyiv has killed an estimated 53 medical personnel and support staff. The Prime Minister is expected to call for NATO to open a second front against the Russian Federation forces in eastern Ukraine…
“Are the Russians saying anything yet?” Dylan asked.
Abby shook her head and clicked the tablet closed.
What were they waiting for? she wondered. Or was the attack by the K-10s so complete that they really didn’t know what had happened? Between the ruthless killing efficiency of the K-10 pack and the explosions in the fuel depot and ammo dump, was it possible there were no survivors?
No, she decided, there were always survivors. They would find a few and maybe some video from a mobile phone. It would take time, but the truth would come out.
And when it did, she’d be ruined.
“What the hell was he thinking?” Abby said.
Dylan reached for her hand. “What’s done is done,” he said. “You ordered him to stand down, and he did it anyway. This is not your fault, but that’s not how this will play out. You’re the face of Sentinel. That’s why I think we should go back to DC, right now. If we act quickly, you can get ahead of the story. Skelly’s made his own bed, let him lie in it. You need to protect yourself.” He squeezed her hand.
Abby shook her head. “I can’t. Not now. I’ll shut down the operation. Then I’ll go back.”
She eyed him. How much of this was because he cared for her, and how much was Dylan trying to protect himself? She chewed her thumbnail, hating herself for thinking it and yet unable to stop the thoughts.
Abby looked out the window. It looked like it was going to be a nice day. The green fields adjacent to the runway flashed by. In the distance, she saw grazing cows. It all looked so normal and peaceful, yet no more than sixty miles away some three hundred Russian soldiers had been slaughtered by robot assassin dogs.
Sentinel had always been more than a business to her. It was a dream, a dream shared by three friends. They said they would be a force for good in the world…
You’re a fool, Aberdeen Cromwell, she thought. A goddamned fool.
She cursed under her breath in a steady beat, feeling the rage at Manson Skelly soak into her tired body like water into dry sand.
The plane touched the runway, bounced, then rolled toward the terminal.
By the time the taxi dropped them outside the warehouse that housed Sentinel’s Ukraine operations, Abby’s rage had reached supernova levels.
There had been no Sentinel car waiting for them at the airport, so Dylan found them local transportation, a battered Lada taxi. While Dylan made small talk in Russian with the cab driver, Abby stared at the horizon and tried to remember to breathe.
She was out of the car almost before it stopped, leaving Dylan to deal with the taxi driver. Abby strode to the steel door and seized the handle.
It was locked. She glared at the camera.
“Open. The fucking. Door,” she ordered. She felt the handle shift as the magnetic lock clunked open.
The operations center was manned with a full complement of six techs behind computer workstations. Landersmann, serving as watch officer, was speaking when she entered. He paused, and everyone turned around to look at her. She heard Dylan come in behind her.
Landersmann wore a stupid smile on his face, half leer, half feigned innocence. “Welcome, Abby,” he said.
Abby unlocked her jaw long enough to say: “Where is he?”
“In his office. I think he’s expecting you—”
Abby walked away while he was still talking.
The lock on Skelly’s door that she had broken last time she was here had been patched with duct tape. She pushed the door open so hard it bounced off the wall and sprang back.
Manson Skelly sat behind his desk. He shut the lid of his laptop and looked up at her. “I expected you an hour ago, Abby. I was just cleaning out my desk. I’m ready for our turnover.” He smiled at her and laced his fingers behind his head.
Abby’s arms twitched. She tried to speak, but no words came out.
Dylan closed the door behind him and advanced to stand beside her. Skelly’s eyes alighted on Dylan.
“You brought your CIA boyfriend,” he said with mock seriousness. “That’ll make this go quicker.”
Abby’s brain unfroze. “Do you realize what you’ve done?”
It must have been the tone of her voice, but she got a reaction from Skelly. The muscles corded in his forearms as he leaned onto the desk.
“My job.”
Abby moved to the desk, leaned forward until they were face to face. “You’re a killer, Manson.”
“You don’t get it, do you?” Skelly said. “You never made the mental leap.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He gets it.” Skelly aimed a finger at Dylan. “If you kill a guy as a civilian, you’re a murderer. If you kill a guy as a soldier, you’re a hero. If you kill a guy as a contractor, it never happened.”
“You crossed a line, Manson.”
“There is no line, Abby!” Skelly threw his hands in the air. “This is the part that you don’t understand. You want to change the world. I’ve decided to accept the world as it is. I get an order, I follow the order.” He made an imaginary gun out of his thumb and forefinger. “Simple, point and shoot. Not point and consider the geopolitical ramifications of my actions.”
He blew on the forefinger muzzle of the imaginary weapon. “I get things done.”
“The Russian counterattack killed doctors,” Abby said. “Nurses, wounded soldiers. Your attack caused that—that’s on you. I’m not going down for this.”
“Going down for what?” Skelly looked at Dylan. “The Russians killed those doctors, not us. Besides, we work for the CIA. The Company, you know? This is all covert. What you say happened never happened.”
Abby started to respond, but the buzzing of her mobile phone stopped her. The caller ID said: The White House. She cursed to herself.
Still holding the phone, she leveled a finger at Skelly. “I suggest you find a good lawyer, Manson. You’re going to need it. Now, get out. I’ve got work to do.”
Skelly’s face was a mix of emotions. She tried to work it out, but the phone buzzed again.
“I’m gone, Abby,” he said. “Good luck to you.”
Good luck, she thought. Was he fucking serious? He was going to jail! She started to answer him, but the phone buzzed again, distracting her.
Skelly disappeared out the door. Dylan followed him out, and she was alone.
Abby took a deep breath and answered the phone.
45
The Kremlin
Moscow, Russia
The fluttering in his vision was back. Luchnik squinted at the report in front of him, trying to block out the annoying tremor that jiggled in the far right of his field of view. He suddenly wondered if his eyelid was moving, too. That would mean others could see what was happening—
“Shall I continue, Mr. President?”
Nikolay’s voice intruded on his runaway thoughts, soft but firm. He was glad that he had promoted his nephew to the role of Defense Minister. Federov’s advice had proven useful yet again.
Luchnik looked up, met his nephew’s gaze. The tremor wavered like a flag fluttering in his peripheral vision. He bent his lips into a smile.
“Continue, Defense Minister.”
Without consulting his notes, Nikolay turned to the row of ministers.
“Elements of the United States’ 82nd and 101st Airborne Divisions are arriving in Estonia and Latvia. We expect them to set up defensive positions along our border. In addition, the Swedes and the Finns are on high alert. Their naval forces are repositioning to escort the US Navy amphibious force into the Baltic.”
“How long do we have?” asked Irimov.
“The United States Second Marine Expeditionary Force will enter the Baltic Sea within the next forty-eight hours, Foreign Minister,” Nikolay replied crisply.
Luchnik looked down at the papers in front of him.
Two days, he thought. If he allowed the United States to enter the Baltic Sea, then his plan was over. His plan had always depended on speed. A blitz across the Suwalki Gap to capture the tiny land bridge before anyone could react.
But that traitor Yakov had fucked that up for him. Now he had to rely on backup plans. Plans that exposed him to much more risk.
But it was worth it, he reminded himself. And he was so close. Just one more push—
“What is the status in the Ukraine?” a new voice broke in. Prime Minister Mishinov did not often speak up in Luchnik’s cabinet meetings. He cleared his throat, cast a side glance at Luchnik. “What can you tell us about the attack on the command post at Lubny?”
He knows, thought Luchnik. That bastard knows the truth.
Luchnik paused, but Nikolay had the matter well in hand.
“British commandos raided at dawn,” the Defense Minister lied. “Our forces were caught by surprise, and they paid the price.” Nikolay grimaced as if the thought caused him real pain. “I am finding many instances of poor leadership and sloppy security practices in my review of the force readiness. I am pleased to say that our retaliation against the British was both swift and decisive.”
“Mr. President, the counterattack destroyed a Doctors Without Borders medical camp,” Mishinov challenged. “Our reprisal has drawn NATO forces into the conflict on yet another front.”
“Enough,” Luchnik said. He needed to keep these men away from the topic of the Ukraine and the attack on the Russian command post. They were nervous enough about the invasion into Lithuania. How would they react if they knew that an entire Russian command post had been wiped out by killer robots?
“The incident is under investigation, Prime Minister,” Nikolay said. “I promise you, I will get to the bottom of this matter and take appropriate corrective actions.”
Little Mishi offered a humorless smile in return.
“The situation right now demands that we focus our attention on Kaliningrad,” Luchnik said.
Blank faces stared back at him. He saw the doubt in their eyes, the fear. He wanted to scream at them.
How could these idiots not understand? he thought. A land bridge to Kaliningrad meant everything to Mother Russia: a seaport on the Baltic, an unbroken border that stretched from the Arctic Ocean to the Black Sea. Most importantly, they would split off the Balkans from NATO.
These morons at the table would laugh at that idea, saying that a narrow strip of land between Poland and Lithuania was not worth the effort. But the NATO leaders saw the significance of his move, and they were running scared. That was all the reassurance Luchnik needed.
He was doing the right thing.
“Mr. President?” Mishinov interrupted for the second time in one cabinet meeting. Luchnik could not remember when that had last happened. Little Mishi wore his normal supercilious look, but he waited for an acknowledgment before proceeding.
Luchnik sensed the tremor in his vision returning. He nodded.
“I think we should discuss the situation in Minsk, sir,” Mishinov said.
Luchnik stared at him until Little Mishi shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
What is your angle? Luchnik thought. Out loud, he said, “What is there to discuss, Prime Minister?”
“Sir, despite our media blackout, videos are showing up all over the internet. This blunts our influence campaign. We’re now seeing increased support for NATO in areas where we had gained—”
“What do you suggest, Prime Minister?” Luchnik interrupted.
“Well, sir, we could acknowledge the situation, but say the officer in charge panicked. Bring him back to Moscow and put him on trial—”
“Put him on trial?” Luchnik leaned forward out of his chair and planted both fists on the dark wood. He felt his right eye spasm. His rational brain knew that he was overreacting, but he could not seem to stop himself.
“In Lubny, hundreds of Russian soldiers were slaughtered in cold blood. Where is NATO’s accountability for that? Do you see them putting anyone on trial? Yet, when a fine young Russian officer puts down an insurrection that was incited by the West, you think he should be put on trial?”
Luchnik glared at Mishinov, his look daring the other man to challenge the President’s version of the truth.
I own you, Little Mishi, Luchnik thought. I can end you just as quickly.
“We are not aggressors, Prime Minister,” Luchnik concluded. “We were protecting our government.”
Mishinov dropped his eyes, nodded. “Yes, Mr. President,” he said. “It was merely a suggestion.”
Luchnik took his seat in the awkward silence that followed the confrontation. He had two days to solve this problem before the Americans arrived. NATO would not launch a full-scale attack without the American Marines, but they had ample forces to continue their holding action. The only option left was to break the status quo.
“I believe the right course of action is to attack from Kaliningrad into Lithuania,” Luchnik said.
It was as if he’d set loose an army of fire ants in the room. Everyone shifted in their seats. They shuffled papers and drank water, anything to pretend they had not heard what their leader had just said.
“Mr. President,” Irimov intoned. “I believe that would be a very risky maneuver.”
Luchnik leveled his gaze at Federov. “Have communications been restored with Kaliningrad military command?”
The head of internal security nodded. “Restored and tested. There will be no more issues.”
“And have you found General Vasilenko yet?” Luchnik asked.
Federov looked back at him with his unblinking eyes, displaying neither fear nor emotion. “Kaliningrad is a small place. It’s only a matter of time.”
Time, thought Luchnik. The one commodity I am lacking.
