Combat Machines

Dr. Utkin nodded pleasantly to her assistants, then focused on the four rows of children, ranging in age from six to eighteen months. He began walking up and down the rows, leaning over to examine this child or that.

A shell arced overhead with a scream, then detonated close enough to rattle the windows. Even then, not a single baby uttered a sound.

“I have heard of this, da?” Utkin asked. “Since the children do not get comforted when they cry, they learn to not cry, as it does them no good.”

“I’m afraid so,” Andreja replied.

“It sounds cruel, but this actually works better for our program,” Utkin said, clasping his hands behind his back as he walked. “We will be examining their ability to form relationships later on in life, after having those needs withheld as infants. It is said that the brain develops differently under such adverse conditions, and we will find out if that is so, and how it manifests later on...”

He turned to see the grim expression on Andreja’s face and reached out to touch her shoulder. “Of course, I did not mean that you and these young ladies are responsible for their development. You are doing all that you can, of course.”

“Yes...it is not easy,” she replied. “We should continue your tour.”

“Yes, of course.” Utkin walked up and down every aisle, looking at each child. At length, he came to the end of his inspection. “Are there any more?”

“No, thank heaven.”

“Very well. I have made my selections.” Utkin began walking up and down the aisles again, stopping briefly at a dozen cribs, each one just long enough for Andreja to note which one it was before he moved on to the next. In just a few minutes, the tall, lean scientist had chosen more than a quarter of her current children.

“Very well. They can be ready for travel by this afternoon.” Andreja cleared her throat. “I assume that you have brought the necessary supplies? We cannot spare anything to send with you.”

Utkin nodded. “I understand. We brought all that is necessary for their safe and healthy journey back to Russia. After all, they represent a substantial investment on the part of the motherland. It would be terrible if something happened to them before they arrived in their new home.”

“Well, while Luka and Nenad are preparing the children, you and I can head back to my office and begin the paperwork for all this. Twelve sets. I’m afraid you’re going to be here awhile.”

“That’s quite all right,” Utkin said with a smile. “I want to make sure everything goes smoothly for them from this point forward.”

* * *

FOUR HOURS LATER, with the paperwork completed and the dozen babies safely loaded into infant seats secured inside the truck, Utkin extended his hand to Andreja, which she took.

“Thank you for your assistance. Given the circumstances, I’m so very pleased that it went as easily as it did.”

“And thank you, Doctor. I certainly hope that you will be able to give them a better life. Although I would like to know how your experiment turns out, I will be content just knowing that they escaped this place.”

The doctor nodded. “Yes, together we have saved twelve lives today. They and I owe you our thanks.”

“No, it is you who has our thanks. They are the recipients of your generous offer, and I know they will do well by it.”

Utkin nodded even as he checked his watch. “I’m afraid, however, that we must be going. It will be difficult enough moving through the checkpoints, and exiting the country with twelve infant children that I didn’t have upon my arrival, we probably won’t get out of the country for a week with all the paperwork that will have to be examined.”

Andreja smiled and nodded. “Of course. Go with God, and safe travels.”

“Thank you.”

With that, the doctor climbed into the passenger seat of the truck as the driver started it up.

“Get what you came for?” the driver, Utkin’s assistant and bodyguard, asked around a cigarette he lit.

Utkin glanced back over his cargo, the twelve children sitting silently in their car seats. Any trace of the kindly social scientist had disappeared the moment he’d gotten into the vehicle. Now he regarded the children coldly, dispassionately, as if they were rats in a cage.

“Oh, yes, Dimitri,” he murmured. “They will do perfectly.” He turned to face the front of the vehicle again. “You radioed in the coordinates, yes?”

The driver nodded. “As requested. In fact, they should be reducing that building to rubble right...about...now.”

“Yes, with all records lost as a result of an unfortunate accident.” Utkin grinned, a wolfish smile with no humor in it whatsoever. “You are very fortunate, Dimitri. Not many people get to witness history being made firsthand.”

The other man grunted, jetting smoke out of his nose.

“Yes, for you see, the new vanguard of Russia’s soldiers is beginning today.” Utkin swept an arm back to encompass the dozen children. “And these will be the first of many.”

Chapter One (#ulink_78690016-7eba-58ff-af51-b81561f2c61a)

Ground Forces of the Russian

Federation Headquarters

Moscow, Russia

The present

Dr. Rostislav Utkin walked into the main building of the Russian army headquarters, presented his identification to the guards inside, submitted to the metal detector and physical search and checked in at the desk behind the checkpoint.

He hadn’t changed much in the past twenty-plus years. He was still tall, but now slightly stooped. His white-blond hair had receded from his forehead and had thinned all over, to the point where he now wore it cropped so close he might as well have been nearly bald.

He was also leaner than he had been two decades earlier. The stress of keeping the funding, equipment and staff together for his project through the intervening years had taken its toll, but it had all been worth it. Now, he was at last going to present the results of his program to Oleg Istrakov, the new colonel general. He was confident that when his superior saw the results of his program, he would renew his funding. Utkin hoped he might even authorize its expansion so they could begin locating and training the next generation of soldiers.

A lifetime of theories, of work and planning, favors bought and sold to keep his program running, all of it was about to pay off in the next few minutes.

Utkin took a seat outside the colonel general’s office and sat patiently, not distracting himself with a smartphone or newspaper, instead running over talking points, attempting to anticipate questions and objections, and rehearsing the best ways to either answer or counter them.

Istrakov’s schedule had to have been running smoothly, for the door opened after less than ten minutes and a black-haired, suited man stalked out, his expression glowering.

Utkin recognized Professor Sergei Mentov, a mechanical engineer who had been tasked with developing the motherland’s next generation of mechanized armor. The doctor didn’t envy his job. Between the government graft and constant cycles of budget cuts, it would be a wonder if the good professor could field an armored tricycle within the next decade. Given his demeanor as he strode past Utkin without acknowledging his presence, even that seemed unlikely.

“Dr. Utkin, the colonel general will see you now,” the secretary said from the doorway.

Utkin stood, checked himself over one last time to ensure he was presentable and walked into the small room adjacent to the man’s office. With a polite nod to the secretary as she returned to her desk, he continued into the colonel general’s domain.

The office was a reasonable size for the man’s position, neither too big nor two small. Istrakov’s desk was at the far side of the room, with two chairs facing it. A threadbare rug muffled Utkin’s footfalls as he crossed to the desk and stood waiting to be recognized.

With a soft grunt, Istrakov finally looked up. He was a pale, bloodless man, his eyes slightly magnified behind rimless glasses. Utkin felt unease start to stir in his gut—the man looked like an accountant, not a former battlefield soldier.

Istrakov blinked owlishly, and his first words did not generate any more confidence. “You are my 2:15, yes?”

Utkin blinked. He knew the man was new to his position, but such an impersonal address threw him a bit. “Yes, Colonel General, Dr. Rostislav Utkin, at your service.”

“Right. Please, sit.” Istrakov waved at the chairs in front of the desk. Utkin did as instructed, sitting on the edge of his seat as the man tapped keys on his computer.