van, although it was too dark to tell for sure. He was seated on the bench seat behind the driver, with several other persons seated very close to him.
Zakharov motioned to one of the men, retrieved a plastic bottle of water, and tossed some water into Jason’s face; he lapped the welcome moisture up as fast as he could. The Russian terrorist was kneeling between the driver and front passenger seat, his sunglasses off, streaks of reddish-brown fluid dripping out of the empty eye socket and down his cheek. “Do not be cross with me, Jason. You are still alive, thanks to me.”
“What did you do to me, Zakharov?”
“Tiny amounts of thiopental sodium administered over the past several hours,” Zakharov said, smiling. “We have had several interesting and entertaining conversations about your Cybernetic Infantry Device. I have also learned much more than I ever wanted to know about your childhood, National Security Adviser Jefferson, your Oedipal conflict with one of your aunts, and your rather perverted sexual fantasies about Ariadna Vega.”
“Fuck you.”
“Let us get down to business, Major,” Zakharov said, his smile gone. “We know all of the commands to use with the device except the most important one: the activation command. Apparently this is the only command that only the authorized pilot can give—according to you, anyone can pilot the robot once it is activated. That is why you are still alive. You will give the activation code once we are in position.”
“I’m not giving you shit, Zakharov.”
“You may want to reconsider, Major.” Zakharov reached over and grasped the face of the person sitting next to him, pulling her into Jason’s view. “Major, meet Marta. We found Marta playing in her front yard a few towns away, and we decided to bring her with us. She is ten or eleven years old, I do not really know. We also found a few others like Marta, another girl and a boy, who we also decided to bring along with us.”
“You sick fucking bastard. Go to hell.”
“Cooperate with me, Major, and you and the children will live,” Zakharov said. “Refuse me, and you will all die. It is as simple as that.”
“There is no way I’m going to help you do anything.”
“Then you will be responsible for their deaths,” Zakharov said matter-of-factly. “Do not try to be a hero now, Richter. You have no weapons, no robots, and no support. I have your robot and the hostages. You have lost this round, plain and simple—admit it and live. I am not a child killer, but I will slaughter them if you do not cooperate with me.” Jason did not reply. “Have a little faith in the system, Richter. You are only one man. You can save the lives of these children by giving me access to the robot. My men and I will be gone, and you can return these children to their homes and families—but more important, you will live to fight another day.”
“How do I know you won’t kill us all after I give you control of the CID unit?”
“My fight is against you and your government, Richter, not these children,” Zakharov said. “As I told you, I am not a child killer, but I am a soldier, and I will do whatever it takes to complete the mission. All I offer is my word, soldier to soldier. Give me access to the robot, and I will let you take these children home. Once they are safe, our battle resumes; but I promise you your life, and theirs, until then.” He exchanged words with the driver. “You have thirty seconds to decide, Richter, and then I will order the driver to pull over into a field, and I will start killing these children in front of you.”
Jason’s mind spun. He looked at the children around him; all were on the verge of fearful crying as they heard Zakharov’s voice—they easily sensed the danger they were all in. Richter was no better. He was edgy and disconnected from the drugs still coursing through his body, but the sickness was quickly being replaced by pure mind-numbing fear. He wasn’t afraid to die, but he was afraid of others coming across his body and those of the children and blaming him for not protecting them.
There was an entire superpower’s military and law enforcement standing ready to protect whatever Zakharov’s newest target was—but right now, there was only one man ready to protect these children. His choice was clear.
The van slowed, and Jason heard the crunch of gravel and felt the bumps of a tractor-worn dirt road. “Well, Major?” Zakharov asked casually. “What is your answer?”
He took a deep breath, then said, “I’ll do it, you sick bastard.”
“Excellent choice, Richter.” The van stopped, and the side and rear panel doors opened. “I never doubted you for a second. You may be a genius, but you are not a heartless berserker.”
They were in a dark field about a hundred yards off the paved road. Jason could see the glow of a town off on the horizon, perhaps three or four miles away, but he couldn’t tell in which direction. In the opposite direction was another, larger town, about equal distance away. A second van full of Zakharov’s commandos had pulled up behind them. Two men with assault rifles took up security positions, while the others assembled in the rear of the van, pulling the folded CID unit out of the back and setting it down on the ground.
“Work your magic, Major,” Zakharov said.
Jason gathered the children around him, gave Zakharov a glare, then spoke. “CID One, activate.” The children gave out a quiet combination of fear and delight as they watched the dark shape seemingly grow out of the field and appear before them.
“Truly amazing technology, Major,” Zakharov said. “I commend you. Allow me.” He cleared his throat and dramatically said, “CID One, pilot
Zakharov barked an order, and one of his men jumped up and slid inside the robot, with the Russian terrorist issuing instructions as he did so. A few moments later, the hatch closed, and the Cybernetic Infantry Device came to life. They watched in fascination as the commando experimentally made the robot jump, dodge, and dart around the field, finishing off with triumphantly upraised arms, like a superheavyweight boxer who had just won a world title.
“It works! Excellent.” They tried their handheld radios—the man inside the robot had no trouble adjusting the radio scanner to pick up the handhelds’ frequency and making the connection. “It appears my missile attack had no ill effects. I am satisfied.” He pulled a pistol out of its holster. Jason felt a roaring in his ears as he realized that Zakharov had everything he wanted, and that sealed his fate. “And now, Major, as for you and the children…you are free to go.”
“Wh…what…?”
Zakharov grasped Richter by the shoulders, and, with Jason still protectively clutching the children, turned him around. “Walk in this direction, Major. Do not turn around, and do not try to head for the road—if my men or I see you on the road, we will gun you down. Stay together and do not allow the children to leave your side—if you do, our deal is off. Keep walking toward those lights. In about an hour, you should reach a farmhouse; if you miss it, in another hour or less you should reach the town. By then, my men and I should be long gone.” He issued more orders in Russian, and in an instant the CID unit ran off into the night and the commandos boarded the vans and drove away. Within moments, Richter and the children were alone.
Jason recognized the words “where” and “sir”—he guessed the rest. “Don’t worry, kids,” he said. “
He led the children toward the lights of the town, carefully leading them across the furrows and ditches crisscrossing the fields. Soon his eyes had fully adjusted to the darkness, and he could make out stars. He found Polaris, the North Star, and realized he was walking east. He began to feel better—he didn’t know where he was at all, but at least he knew which way he was going.
Although he remembered Zakharov’s warning, he needed to find help as quickly as possible, so as soon as he saw a truck on the highway, he decided to risk it and started angling toward it. About fifteen minutes later, he reached the edge of the field adjacent to the paved road. He instructed the children as best he could to stay in hiding, then crawled through the dirt until he reached the road. He couldn’t see anything nearby, but several yards away he spotted a road sign, and he decided to risk trying to pinpoint his location. Half-crawling, half-crouched, he dashed through the edge of the fields until he reached the sign. It was very dark, and the sign was weathered and hard to read; it was riddled with bullet holes, commonly found in rural signage, but soon he read…
…and instantly, he knew what Zakharov’s
He had no choice: when he saw the next vehicle, a pickup truck, coming down the road, he flagged it down,
