Eagle Station

“Very nice, indeed,” Schofield said with real feeling. In previous missions, he’d intensely disliked the sensation of being a helpless passenger strapped into the Ranger’s troop compartment. Knowing that the Ranger itself was equally unable to fight back under enemy attack had made that feeling even worse. “So, when all’s said and done, this XCV-70 Rustler of yours is faster, longer-ranged, and has teeth of its own.” Brad nodded with a grin. “And the trade-off for all of that is?” Schofield asked.

“Significant reductions in the aircraft’s cargo and passenger capacity,” Nadia informed him. “Where the XCV-62 could carry twelve of your troops or three of Iron Wolf’s combat robots, the Rustler has room for only a small fire team, no more than four soldiers… or just a single Cybernetic Infantry Device.”

Schofield raised an eyebrow. “Four passengers total?”

“Yep,” Brad said.

“And we’re flying in to extract a three-person Scion intelligence unit?”

Brad nodded again. “Uh-huh.”

Elaborately, Schofield looked around the otherwise empty hangar as if noticing for the first time that he was alone. He turned back to the other man. “So if things go sour while the aircraft’s on the ground inside Russia—?”

“You’d be our private, one-man field army,” Brad acknowledged solemnly.

“You know, Brad,” Schofield said carefully, “much as I relish a reputation for working miracles, there are limits.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” the younger man promised. “Look, I won’t lie. The margin’s pretty thin on every part of this mission. We’ll be riding a razor’s edge practically from the moment we take off. Given that, this is strictly a volunteer gig. If you want out, no harm, no foul.”

“But the two of you are going anyway? With me, or without me?” Schofield asked, eyeing Nadia. “Despite the risks?”

She nodded. “Brad and I have worked through the mission plan to the best of our ability, Ian.” She shrugged her shoulders slightly. “It will be dangerous. And very difficult. But I do not believe that it is necessarily impossible.”

Schofield sighed. “Put like that, how can I refuse? Count me in.”

Seventeen

National Defense Control Center, Moscow

A Short Time Later, Morning (Local Time)

In the last years of his rule, Gennadiy Gryzlov had ordered the construction of a massive new military command center on the northern bank of the Moskva River, within a few kilometers of the Kremlin. Completed at enormous cost, the huge complex was supposed to demonstrate the growing power and sophistication of Russia’s armed forces — both to bolster domestic public opinion and to frighten potential enemies. Nightly news programs had featured reports showing off vast, futuristic-looking control rooms, complete with IMAX-sized situation display screens and dozens of computer stations, all manned by dedicated young officers.

Now those rooms were empty, gathering dust.

For all their high-tech glamour, those overcrowded auditoriums had proved to be worse than useless during any real military crisis. Between the dizzying array of maps, status reports, and combat footage flashing across huge theater screens, and the hubbub created by a large audience of thoroughly useless subordinates, they were only breeding grounds for chaos and confusion.

Instead, Marshal Mikhail Leonov had established his own Defense Ministry command post far belowground. Surrounded by both human guards and automated defenses, it was much smaller — with just four workstations, one for him and three more for his chief deputies. Secure video links connected him to key military and intelligence service commands, including the FSB’s headquarters and Q Directorate.

He glowered at the screens. The Scion spies they were hunting seemed to have disappeared into thin air. FSB officers had found the enemy agents’ abandoned rental car behind a derelict garage on the road between Kansk and Krasnoyarsk. In all probability, that meant there was a third Scion operative in the region, a backup man or woman with another vehicle. He’d issued new orders to all the police checkpoints taking that into account. Beyond that, there was nothing more he could do but wait.

A secure phone beeped. One of Leonov’s aides answered it and then swung toward him. “It’s Minister of State Security Kazyanov, sir. He’s requesting an immediate video connection.”

“Put him through.”

Kazyanov’s broad face blinked into existence on one of his screens. He looked excited. “We’ve found something, Mikhail Ivanovich! Last night, the police stopped a van at a checkpoint outside Lesosibirsk. The driver claimed he was making deliveries to a number of businesses in the area. Since he appeared to be alone, they let him proceed after routine questioning. Fortunately, one of the local officers decided to check up on his story this morning—”

“Let me guess,” Leonov interjected. “None of the customers the driver named received any packages.”

“Correct.”