Dale Brown - Puppet Master

Their confused looks made it clear they didn’t understand, but Chelsea didn’t have time to try and explain. She went back to the control screens as a fresh volley of gunfire raged nearby.

Beefy!

“Chelsea, we’re hearing a lot of gunfire from your area,” said White over the radio. “What’s going on down there?”

“There’s kids, shit,” she said.

“What? What are you saying?”

She looked at the screen. Two Russians were running up the side of the road toward the house.

“There are two guys coming up the road, off on the shoulder,” she told him.

“OK, OK. Are you all right?”

“There was another truck — Beefy’s dealing with it. Beef?”

There was gunfire outside, then silence. Chelsea felt her chest untighten.

There was a knock on the passenger side door.

“Open the door, OK?” Chelsea said to the kids.

They don’t speak English!

Chelsea looked at the video screen. Nighthawk 1 was on 10 percent battery. It had to land. She decided instead she would use it as a missile — she zoomed out until she found the truck that had stopped near them, then overrode the safety controls to send it into a crash.

The pounding at the door continued, more desperate, she thought.

“I’m coming, Beef,” she said. She left the control unit and scrambled forward. There was no one there.

“Damn,” she said. She pushed open the locks, then glanced at the children cowering in the front. “Come in the back with me,” she told them. “Come on.”

She grabbed hold of both of them, urging and pulling. They had just reached the back of the van when the rear door opened.

“Beefy, I was so wor—”

She stopped midword. A Russian commando was pointing a rifle at her.

“They’ve already started,” said Johansen as Massina entered the box.

“You should have called me.” Massina stared at the sitrep screen, trying to make out what was going on.

We’re going to make some huge improvements, he thought to himself. I want to see things in real time, up close, and without relying on their satellites and feeds. It’s going to be easy to ID our people. We’re going to have more bots and devices on the ground. UAVs. It’s going to be our operation.

“Where are they?” he asked Johansen.

“They’re at the house.” Johansen’s tone was even sharper than usual. “Still two or three guerillas to take care of. Then they have to get out.”

“Where are Chelsea and Bozzone?”

“They’re in their command truck, in the south. It’s out of the frame.”

“Why?”

“I guess they’re concentrating the feed on the house. The vans are too far from the action. Don’t worry. Just a few more minutes, and everyone will be fine.”

The UAV struck the Spetsnaz truck with a loud crash. The commando at the door of Chelsea’s van jerked back, looking to see what had happened. Chelsea reached for Peter’s control, hoping to tell the robot to grab the Russian.

The commando got to her first, pulling her out of the vehicle and throwing her on the ground. He yelled at the children, who lay frozen in fear on the floor of the van. Then he pointed his gun at them.

Chelsea jumped up.

“No! No!” she screamed.

He tossed her down again. Then he reached in and dragged out the first child. The other followed meekly. The commando shouted something at them, waving with his hand. He wanted them to move.

Chelsea’s body trembled. Her brain froze.

And then her father spoke to her, as he had so often before, voice calm but firm.

Protect the children. Keep your head.

“ Grazhdanskiy, ” she said, trying to tell the soldier they were civilians. But either her pronunciation was so bad he couldn’t understand her, or else he was too concerned with getting away from the now smoldering Gaz that he didn’t pay any attention. Chelsea grabbed the children to her, shepherding them up the road.

One of the kids smelled; he’d wet himself from fear.

The soldier yelled, then pointed off the road. Chelsea thought of bolting for a moment, then saw that there was another commando sitting on the ground a few yards away. He had a gun cradled in his lap; his pants were red. Obviously he’d been wounded.

Where was Bozzone? Watching, she hoped. Ready to come to their rescue.

Or dead.

There was a building beyond, an outbuilding that belonged to the neighboring farm. The soldier who’d captured them pointed to the building and reeled off a command that could only mean, Inside!

Chelsea stooped toward the wounded man, intending to try and help — and maybe get his gun. But the other soldier ran up and pushed her away, shoving her toward the children.

With no other option open, she put a hand on the back of each child and helped them inside the building.

Tolevi grabbed the butcher by the arm and tugged him to the back of the house. The kitchen window had been shattered. Outside, two Russians crouched by the van he’d been in the first night. One was firing into the woodline — aimed shots, so obviously he had at least a vague idea where his target was.

The other was looking back at the house.

“You know how to work this?” Tolevi asked the butcher. “I don’t know how many bullets are in the magazine.”

“Give me.”

“Here. I’m going to see if they have other weapons.” Tolevi handed the gun over, then started to leave.

“American!” yelled the butcher.

Tolevi looked back. The bastard was holding the gun on him.

“What?”

“Hands up or I fire,” said the butcher.

Tolevi started to raise his hands. The butcher pressed the trigger anyway.

Borya, thought Tolevi. Borya!

Nothing happened. Either Tolevi had picked up the wrong gun in the confusion, or both magazines had been emptied.

I’m nothing if not lucky, thought Tolevi, rushing the butcher.

The Nighthawk was flying in a circular programmed pattern. The robots were all on standby.

What was going on?

Massina tried to make sense of the confusion on the ground. Where was Chelsea? Why wasn’t she moving the mechs toward the knot of enemies on the road? The Grouchos could have taken them out easily.

Chelsea, aren’t you seeing this?

Something was very wrong. Massina backed out the image. The control van was empty.

Damn it.

He pulled over the keyboard and began typing the override sequences he’d need to take control of Groucho 1 and 2.

By now, Tolevi was so bashed and bruised that he didn’t feel any pain at all as he slammed into the butcher.

“I’m here to rescue you, asshole. God,” he said over and over as they rolled on the floor, punching and kicking.

A good three-quarters of the blows by each man missed, but that still meant plenty of punishment for both. They finally fell apart, exhausted. Tolevi jumped to his feet; the butcher slid away, then spun around, revealing a handgun.

“Listen, you idiot,” said Tolevi. “I’m here to get you out. I’m taking you to the West.”

“I’m not going west,” snapped the butcher. “Put your hands up and shut your mouth.”

Chelsea jumped as the door slammed behind her.