Combat Machines. Don Pendleton

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

      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.

      “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.