Combat Machines

“Utkin, Utkin, Utkin...ah, here it is.” Istrakov read something on the monitor, nodding as he did so. After a few moments, he looked at the doctor. “We are terminating your program. All funding will cease immediately, and you are to discontinue all current research, development and experiments.”

Utkin just sat there and blinked for a moment, scarcely believing what he had just heard. “Sir, I was given to understand that this was a progress review, not a funding meeting—”

Istrakov shook his head. “I am sorry you feel that you were misinformed about the purpose of this meeting. The latest directives from the Kremlin are to review and evaluate all programs deemed unnecessary to the current goals of the Russian Federation. After careful consideration, your program has been determined to be costing an exponentially large amount in comparison to its overall utility.”

Having gotten over the shock of the other man’s announcement, Utkin quickly rallied. After all, this wasn’t the first time his program had come within a hairbreadth of cancellation. “Sir, if I may, the units have only recently been brought on line in their full capacity. The field tests have been incredible, far exceeding even my wildest hopes. You cannot pull our funding now, not when we are ready to actually make the units available for real-world operations—”

“I can and will, Doctor. Such small-scale programs like yours, with such long gestational periods, are not what the Federation is looking to develop today.” He glanced back at the screen and his light brown eyebrows rose. “Frankly, I’m amazed that you’ve managed to keep the lights on all these years—an impressive accomplishment in itself.”

“Pardon my bluntness, but that is primarily because I kept your predecessors up to date about our progress, and to a person, they all agreed that my program was effective, worthwhile and, above all, necessary.”

Of course, it was a lot easier to push through the bureaucracy when the oil money was flowing, Utkin thought.

“If you would just take a closer look at what we’ve been doing, or perhaps a demonstration of some of the units’ various capabilities might convince you otherwise—”

“I admire your single-minded persistence, Doctor, but I have made up my mind.” Utkin opened his mouth to continue his attempt, but Istrakov shook his head. “Are you aware of just how many programs I have to evaluate in the next two weeks? I have reviewed your summaries, and in many areas, I must admit that the results you have achieved are impressive. But the training and preoperational period is completely unacceptable for the results you are claiming.”

“But we are now ready for true fieldwork, sir,” Utkin persisted. “Just find my units a mission and let them execute it. Then you will see what all that money and time has purchased.”

“At the moment, there is nothing that requires their specialized abilities. Your creations are not useful on the general battlefield, or training soldiers in Syria. They are highly specialized weapons, suitable only for things that we are not doing now.”

During Istrakov’s last comments, Utkin had run through several possible gambits in his head and evaluated the hazards of each. Like most good Russians working in the military and the government, he had a wide range of knowledge about things he probably shouldn’t have known about. Bringing any of them up, even in a roundabout way, might simply get him a quick trip to the gulag.

But after another second’s consideration, he decided to gamble on exposing a bit of what he knew—if he could just keep his program going another six months, it would be worth the risk. “Begging your pardon, I am aware of several initiatives that have been discussed at certain levels of our military that my units would seem tailor-made for. Particularly ones in the Far East, and in North America, as well.”

Istrakov’s brows narrowed. “Perhaps they would, but those various operations are all theoretical at best, and many are years from actual implementation. You are asking us to allocate millions of rubles a year to keep these units ready on the off chance that one of these programs might be enacted in the future. I’m afraid not, Doctor.”

Istrakov stared dispassionately at him. “I have my orders to cut the budget wherever I can, and your program is on the chopping block. It is that simple. You have two weeks to make whatever preparations are necessary for reassigning your personnel—”

“And exactly how do you suggest that I do that?” Utkin asked, letting his overall anger finally seep into his tone. “As you said yourself, these are not merely frontline soldiers, or even special forces personnel. They cannot simply be ‘reassigned.’”

“I understand. Your notes state that many of their internal systems can either be deactivated or removed. I suggest that you begin scheduling the necessary surgeries to make sure these units of yours will be able to function appropriately in their new assignments. Please be sure to follow proper procedures in doing so, including any letters of commendation or recommendation that would be required.” Istrakov leaned back in his chair and folded his hands. “Do you have any other questions, Doctor?”

Utkin just sat there for a moment, blinking. Istrakov stared back at him until the silence grew oppressive. “Doctor, are you all right?”

With a start, Utkin shook himself and nodded. “Yes, sir, my apologies. This is all rather sudden. You had said I have two weeks to wind the program down, correct?”

“That is correct.” Istrakov was already focusing on his monitor again. “Any further issues or questions that arise during that time can be sent directly to my office.”

It was clear that the meeting was at an end. Utkin slowly rose and walked out of the office like a man in a trance. With a polite nod at the secretary, he left, walked down the hall past the entry checkpoint and out the door.

Blinking in the sudden weak sunshine, Utkin stood to the side of the headquarters entrance for a few moments, gathering his thoughts. Although a part of him had always known this day might eventually come, to be denied when they were so close to success was the bitterest pill to swallow.

Two weeks...two weeks to shut everything down, he thought while he walked down the broad avenue, oblivious to the other passersby.

He had gone a couple blocks when it struck him that perhaps he had been given two weeks to prove the efficacy of his program.

So, what if he were to show them what his program can do? The thought was so antithetical to his normal scientific mode of operation that it stopped him in his tracks. Several reasons came to mind—with his potential death factoring heavily in more than one—but he brushed them aside impatiently.

And once he removed any thought of personal survival versus what he hoped to gain—the continuance of his program—the reality of his situation was stark. Why not? He had nothing to lose anymore.

Overcome with the ramifications of the decision looming before him, Utkin looked around for somewhere to sit for a minute. He had wandered farther than expected while pondering his future, and now stood in an unfamiliar neighborhood of dingy shops interspersed with what looked like bars. Utkin frowned—he’d had no idea these places were so close to the military headquarters.

Selecting the nearest one, he stepped inside, wrinkling his nose at the overwhelming smell of stale cigarette smoke. He wasn’t a puritan, just not fond of the odor.

Sitting at the bar, he ordered vodka, and when it came, he reached for the shot glass and was about to knock it back when he stopped and stared at the drink in his hand, then set it back down.

No, he thought, if I am to do this, let it be my decision alone, unmodified by drink or anything else but my own conviction. He would use the remaining program funds for a series of missions.

Tossing some rubles on the bar, he left the full shot glass and walked back outside, now a man on a mission. Within another block, he found what he was looking for—one of the new payphones that allowed a user to access the internet, pay their utility bills, or even use Skype to call people.

With a surreptitious scan of the area, he picked up the receiver and dialed a number.

It rang twice before being picked up. “Da?”

“This is Father Time,” he said. “The alarm clock has gone off, repeat, the alarm clock has gone off. Please make sure that all students report to their assigned schools in time for the next semester. Confirm.”

“Understood, Father,” the voice replied. “All students are to report to their schools immediately and deliver their assignments.”

“That is correct,” Utkin replied. “I look forward to seeing their grades.”

“As do we,” the voice on the other end said before hanging up.

Utkin replaced the receiver, wiping it off with his sleeve. Now that the operation had been set in motion, he had a lot to do—starting with getting out of the city within the next twelve hours.

Chapter Two (#ulink_ec8344d4-678d-56cb-965c-808f1d570256)

Geneva, Switzerland

Two days later

Mustering every bit of her willpower, Kathri Brauer extricated herself from her lover’s embrace and rolled out of bed. “What is the rush, my beauty? You still have plenty of time to make it to work.” Alexei Panshin snaked a muscular, toned arm toward her leg. “Come back to bed for just a few minutes...”

Brauer looked down at him, nearly succumbing to her desire to just jump back into his arms. God, I could just stare at him all day, she thought, taking in his chiseled torso, strong legs and arms, and a face that could have graced the cover of a men’s fashion magazine. Just the thought of how they’d been spending every night since they’d met five days ago almost made her knees buckle.

“That’s tempting, but I won’t be going anywhere if you keep that up.”

Before her resolve could weaken any further, she hurried around the corner to the marble bathroom. Forgoing the whirlpool tub, she headed for the glassed-in waterfall shower and turned it on, luxuriating in the hot needlelike jets of water pouring over her. As she washed up, she thought of her new lover.

Alexei Panshin was a midlevel representative of a large import-export firm out of Saint Petersburg, looking to expand its reach around the world. He’d come to Geneva on a fact-finding mission to investigate various banking methods that might better serve his superiors back in Russia. Brauer had met him at a networking gala held in the Four Seasons Hotel des Bergues. As good as he looked naked, he almost looked even better in a tuxedo.

From the moment their gazes had met, it was as if fireworks had gone off. Brauer was more than experienced, having had a marriage, a divorce and several lovers under her belt, not to mention rising in the cutthroat world of international trade.

With her penetrating intelligence, five-eleven height, Nordic good looks and white-blond hair, Brauer knew she often came across as intimidating on a first meeting. But Alexei Panshin hadn’t been intimidated in the least. When he first walked up to her bearing two glasses of champagne, the moment he opened his mouth, she was lost. The rest of the party fell away, and it was just the two of them, alone.

Several glasses of champagne later, they were making out in the back of the Mercedes-Benz S-Class sedan Panshin’s company had provided to chauffeur him around the city. They’d ended up at his hotel, the luxurious Mandarin Oriental Geneva, and the rest of their time together had passed in a blur of incredible conversation, gourmet meals and mind-melting sex.

She got out of the shower and wrapped herself in a huge, fluffy towel. Checking the time, she figured she would just make it if she didn’t mind putting up with slightly damp hair on the way over.