Iron Wolf (29 page)

S
ECURE
H
ANGAR,
I
RON
W
OLF
S
QUADRON

C
OMPOUND,

P
OWIDZ,
P
OLAND

A
SHORT TIME LATER

The big hangar doors were already sliding closed behind the two-seater F-16D Falcon as it taxied to a stop and shut down its Pratt & Whitney turbofan engine. Even before the fighter's clear canopy whined open, ground crew hurried toward the plane with ladders for the Polish Air Force pilot and his VIP passenger.

President Piotr Wilk climbed out of the rear seat and dropped lightly onto the hangar's concrete floor. He stripped off the flight helmet he'd been loaned and handed it back to the F-16's pilot, a lieutenant colonel. “Wait for me here, Waldemar. And thank you for the ride.” He forced a smile. “Maybe you will let me fly your bird on the way back to Warsaw, eh? I promise not to try too many crazy stunts on the way.”

“Sir!” The lieutenant colonel snapped to attention.

A tall, powerfully built man stepped forward. Wilk recognized him from earlier visits as Wayne Macomber, commander of the Iron Wolf Squadron's ground troops. “We're all set, Mr. President,” Macomber said. “If you'll follow me?”

The big American led him through a pair of large doors at the rear of the hangar and into an adjoining room with a remarkably high ceiling. The reason for the tall ceiling was apparent when Wilk saw the twelve-foot-tall Cybernetic Infantry Device standing absolutely still, facing the doors. It was plugged into an array of cables.

Two men stood next to the huge robot. One was Kevin Martindale. The other was much younger, with bright blue eyes and short-cropped blond hair. Dressed in the dark green uniform adopted by the Iron Wolf Squadron's air crews, he was almost as tall and broad-shouldered as Macomber.

He recognized Brad McLanahan from Captain Rozek's confidential reports. In them, she credited the only son of the legendary General McLahanan with remarkable leadership and tactical skills. Apparently, he had won the loyalty of a hard-nosed group of elite pilots with astonishing swiftness. Then again, Wilk thought with hidden amusement, judging from some of the other rumors he'd heard, that was not all Brad had won recently.

Privately, he hoped the young American knew what he was getting into. Nadia Rozek was a highly capable, highly trained Special Forces officer. If Brad McLanahan broke her heart, she was perfectly capable of breaking his neck—or any other part of his body that caught her fancy.

Quickly, Wilk shook hands with everyone except the CID, which seemed frozen, utterly inanimate. Was there a pilot in there? he wondered. Or was it only an empty shell right now, brought out of storage for use as a visual aid at this urgent meeting?

Kevin Martindale motioned him toward a conference table surrounded by chairs. “I hope you don't mind if we skip all the usual pleasantries, Mr. President. But time is damned short all of sudden.”

“Not at all,” Wilk said, sitting down. The others did the same. “I am well aware that we are, as you Americans would say, neck-deep in the shit.” His foray into American slang drew quick, slashing grins from both Macomber and Brad, and a pained nod of grudging agreement from Martindale.

“Can you tell us anything more about how those rifles and other gear—not to mention Captain Janik's corpse—wound up in Russian hands?” the head of Scion asked.

Regretfully, Wilk shook his head. “Not yet.” He frowned. “But the serial numbers provided by Moscow do match equipment we purchased from the United States. We have traced these weapons as far as we can, but all of them are listed in our records as either scrapped or discarded.”

“Who maintains those records?” Brad asked. “Somebody must have fiddled with them.”

“In this case, the ‘fiddling' seems to have been done by a staff
sergeant in one of our supply units,” Wilk said. “Unfortunately, we cannot confirm that through direct interrogation. Sergeant Górski died more than a week ago—burned alive in what the police thought was an accidental fire.”

“How very fucking . . .
convenient,
” Macomber growled.

Wilk nodded grimly. “True. Though not for us, it seems.”

“What about Kazimierz?” Brad looked even more troubled. “Nadia . . . I mean, Captain Rozek and I, must have been just about the last people to set eyes on him. He was drunk as a skunk, so he sure as hell wasn't getting ready to fly off on some solo covert mission to the Ukraine!”

“We believe Captain Janik must have been kidnapped that same night,” Wilk told them, not bothering to hide his own anger. “But we have no proof of this beyond the fact that he did not visit his girlfriend. There is no evidence that he ever crossed our borders. It is as if he simply vanished off the streets in Warsaw and then reappeared—quite dead—at that Russian-occupied air base.”

“Your whole country's been well and truly set up,” Macomber said through gritted teeth. “And then staked out like a kid goat for Gryzlov and company to gnaw on.”

“So I believe,” Wilk agreed bitterly. “My investigators will keep digging, but I have little hope they will uncover the truth. At least not in time to matter.”

“I wish I could argue against that,” Martindale said, looking down at his hands. “But you're right. The damage has already been done. My sources tell me that President Barbeau has ruled out any American help against the Russians.”

“So I have been informed.” Wilk's shoulders slumped slightly. “The American ambassador telephoned this news to me—on his way to the airport. Washington, it seems, has recalled him for ‘urgent consultations.' ”

“Jesus,” Macomber swore. His face was dark. “Why didn't that bitch Barbeau just hand him a nice sharp dagger to plant in your back while she was at it?”

“Now, now, Major,” Martindale said reprovingly, though his
expression was equally angry. “Stacy Anne Barbeau would never do anything as aboveboard and honest as that. She prefers making her kills with words, not actions.”

“If the U.S. is cutting and running, I suppose the other NATO powers will do the same thing,” Brad said.

“Yes,” Wilk agreed heavily. “The Germans, the French, and the British will not offer us military or even diplomatic support without American backing. Even the leaders of the Baltic states—who know they will be next in Gryzlov's cross hairs—are frozen in fear and uncertainty. They offer me moral support, but little more.”

“So we're on our own,” Brad said grimly.

Surprised at his choice of words, Wilk shook his head. “No, Mr. McLanahan. We
Poles
are on our own. With the whole world believing these lies about us, I cannot ask you and the rest of your squadron to share our fate.”

“You don't
have
to ask us, Piotr. We already have a contract,” Kevin Martindale interjected. The gray-haired former American president looked around the table with a wry smile. “No one had to twist our arms to get us to sign it either. I told you earlier that Scion honors its agreements. Well, now we're going to prove it.”

Brad and Macomber nodded solemnly, although Macomber spoiled the moment a bit by muttering, “Hell, yes. There's nothing I like better than a death-defying battle against hopeless odds. Just so long as it's not too early in the goddamned morning.”

“You see?” Martindale told Wilk, with just the slightest hint of a thin smile on his own face. “The Iron Wolf Squadron is at your command, Mr. President.” He looked squarely at the Polish president. “Which raises the rather pertinent question of exactly how you plan to respond to this Russian ultimatum.”

“Poland will not comply with the ultimatum,” Wilk said bluntly. “To do so would be national suicide.”

“So we fight,” Brad said, glancing over at the Cybernetic Infantry Device standing motionless near the conference table.

“Yes, we will fight,” Wilk said. “And if Poland must die again, she will die with honor.”

Suddenly the CID swiveled its head toward him. “My suggestion, Mr. President, would be to win the war that's coming instead,” the machine said in a deep but electronically synthesized voice. “Let the Russians do the dying.”

Startled, Wilk stared up at the huge manned war robot. Despite its strange electronic overtones, that voice was . . . familiar, somehow. “Just who the devil are you?” he demanded. “And why are you hiding in that . . .
device
. . . rather than having the courage to confer with us face-to-face?”

“We've met before,” the CID told him. “Though only briefly and a long time ago.” It dipped its head slightly. “My name is Patrick McLanahan.”

Wilk listened in fascinated, and then somewhat horrified, silence while Martindale and the others told the story behind the former Air Force general's apparently fatal wounds, unexpected resuscitation, and now seemingly perpetual imprisonment inside these human-piloted robots. When they were finished, he shook his head in amazement. “And no one else knows about this?”

“Only a handful of others,” Patrick said. “And most of them are back in the United States.” His voice was hushed. “It seemed better to live on quietly in the shadows, rather than becoming another short-lived, freak-show media sensation. Or worse yet, becoming some sort of circus exhibit for conspiracy theorists.”

“And a target,” his son reminded him sharply. “If that whacked-out son of a bitch Gryzlov knew you were still alive, you'd have GRU assassins dogging your metal heels no matter how many security guards Scion assigned to your detail.”

“Probably so. As you should know better than anyone, Brad,” Patrick agreed. And this time Wilk could swear he heard just the hint of amused exasperation in that synthetic voice.

With an effort, the Polish president shook himself out of his bewilderment. Like many other air force officers around the world, he had respected the American general's accomplishments, so it was heartening to learn that the man was still alive, in whatever strange and eerie way, and willing to fight for Poland. But the odds against
them still seemed insurmountable. “What did you mean when you suggested we win this war?” he asked.

“If war is inevitable,” the older McLanahan argued. “Let's fight it on our terms. On our schedule. And on the enemy's turf—not on Polish soil.” The CID leaned down, looming over the table. “Commit the Iron Wolf Squadron to an unconventional campaign against the Russian invasion forces as soon as they start moving toward your frontier.”

“Before the ultimatum expires?” Wilk asked skeptically, pondering the possible international repercussions if Poland struck first.

The large war robot shrugged its armored shoulders. “Gryzlov isn't going to stop, no matter what you do. And now we all know the U.S. cavalry isn't going to come riding to the rescue. Nor is anyone else. So if we're going to be hanged by international public opinion anyway, it might as well be for a sheep as a lamb.”

Slowly, almost against his will, Wilk nodded. What the American said made sense. Waiting until the last possible moment to reject Moscow's ultimatum would not gain them any more allies; nor would the extra time be of much real help in shoring up Poland's defenses. No, he thought grimly, if the Russians really planned to invade his country, they were the ones who had the most to gain from the five-day ultimatum period.

Then a thought struck him. He turned to Brad McLanahan. “But the Iron Wolf Squadron is not yet completely ready, is it? You still have only four of your XF-111s based here at Powidz. The others are still held back in the United States, are they not?”

Brad nodded. “That's true, Mr. President.” He smiled slightly, plainly glad to have some good news to report. “But I've already sent crews back home to fly in the rest ASAP. They left very early this morning on several of Mr. Martindale's private jets. And Sky Masters is already making the fuel system modifications necessary to get the XF-111s here without intermediate stops.”

Martindale nodded. “Which means there will be some nasty legal and bureaucratic red tape to unravel—or mostly likely rip to shreds—but we'll get those SuperVarks here. You can count on that.”

These Americans, Wilk thought wryly. They seemed almost frighteningly eager to throw themselves into a battle that still seemed impossible to win. Well, Piotr, he told himself, then perhaps it is best that they are on your side. “So be it,” he said quietly. “As soon as the Russians begin moving west against us, I will unleash the Iron Wolf Squadron.”

S
OKOLNIKI
P
ARK,
M
OSCOW

S
EVERAL HOURS LATER

Igor Truznyev, former president of the Russian Federation, sat on a park bench sheltered from the rain by a black umbrella. He enjoyed the sight of younger couples scurrying past along the path, hurrying to seek shelter somewhere else until this brief storm passed. They paid no attention to the older man sitting so placidly and so alone. The park, once a falconry preserve for the Czar Alexei Mikhailovich, Peter the Great's father, was emptying out fast. Without any crowds to use as cover, watchers would stand out against the backdrop of birches, pines, oaks, and maples.

He also enjoyed the sound of the raindrops pitter-pattering through the leaves of the trees, dripping onto the grass and flower beds, and splashing into nearby ponds. All this ambient noise would make it very difficult for anyone but the most dedicated eavesdropper, using the most sophisticated surveillance gear.

Truznyev restrained the urge to check his watch again. The man who had requested this covert rendezvous would either keep it, or not. Amid all the militaristic furor spreading through the Kremlin and the Defense and Intelligence Ministries, it might be difficult for the other to slip away unnoticed.

Another middle-aged man in a fashionable raincoat and carrying a smaller umbrella came up the rain-soaked path, walking fast. He looked like a businessman, perhaps a banker, out for a bit of doctor-ordered afternoon exercise before going back to the humdrum routine of his daily work.

“May I join you?” Truznyev heard the other man ask politely.

He looked up, unsurprised to see Sergei Tarzarov's brown eyes staring back at him out of a face that looked, for now at least, a couple of decades younger. “
Da, konechno
. Yes, of course,” he said, sliding down the park bench a bit to make room. “I was a bit surprised to get your message. Usually, I contact you, not the other way around.”

“That is because this time, I need
your
assistance, Igor,” Tarzarov said.

“Oh?”

Tarzarov nodded. “I worry that we are being manipulated—lured into a clash with the Poles we might have avoided. I need your help to evaluate this possibility.” He frowned. “The evidence our Spetsnaz troops found at Konotop troubles me. It is too . . . perfect. Too closely tailored to fit Gennadiy's beliefs and prejudices.”

The former president raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure that you aren't more bothered by the possibility that this hard evidence of Polish involvement proves your earlier skepticism was wrong?”

A thin, wintry smile crossed Tarzarov's face, subtly aging him despite his disguise. “I do not claim to be an entirely disinterested saint,” he said drily. “But I am far too old to believe in my own infallibility.” He shrugged. “Nevertheless, I think it is important to uncover the truth. If we are being led by the nose to war, I want to know who holds the string.”

“That makes good sense,” Truznyev agreed. He glanced more closely at the other man. “But isn't it already too late? From what I've heard, the line's been crossed. President Gryzlov is hell-bent on toppling the Polish government—and he has the generals and the people in his pocket. Besides, even if he wanted to withdraw this ultimatum, there is no way he can reverse course now. It would make Russia, and him, a laughingstock around the whole world!”

“True,” Tarzarov said. He frowned. “But there will be other crises, other decisions of equal or greater importance down the road. If some unknown party planted that evidence for its own purposes, we must find out who they are and stop them before that next crisis arises. Otherwise we risk ceding control over our policy, over our country, to others—to those who might lead us into disaster for their own mysterious ends.”

Slowly, Truznyev nodded his understanding. He looked grim. “I take your point, Sergei. You are right, as always.” He sighed. “Though it might help if we had a leader who was less . . .
volatile
. And more level-headed.”

The older man snorted politely. “And did you have someone else in mind for the job, Igor? Someone we both know well?”

Truznyev smiled. “Not me, my friend. My time in the Kremlin is long gone—as is my hunger for the trappings of power.” He spread his hands. “Now I wish only to serve the interests of the state in my own private and discreet way.”

“And to make money while doing so,” Tarzarov said pointedly.

The other man smiled. “That, too.” He shrugged his expensively clad shoulders. “You know as well as I do, Sergei, that money is a valuable tool. And a useful weapon. Without it, of what use could I be to you now, eh?”

Tarzarov laughed softly, conceding the point.

“Still, why ask me to investigate this for you?” Truznyev asked. “Why not drop the matter in Viktor Kazyanov's lap? He runs the intelligence services now. Have him set his GRU and SVR hounds to work. If someone's been playing games with us, have them sniff out the scent.”

“Because Kazyanov is a moral coward,” Tarzarov said, his lip curling in disgust. “He pisses himself in fear if Gennadiy so much as raises his voice. Does he seem like the sort of man who would be interested in discovering that his master has been so easily misled?”

Now it was Truznyev's turn to snort. “No,” he agreed. “I remember him well from my days in intelligence, as head of the FSB. Viktor would be the last person to tell Gryzlov he's been gulled. And if he did, I doubt the president would believe him.”

“So, then, Igor, will you help me?” the older man asked. “If it is a question of money, well, I can tap the secret funds without great difficulty.”

After only a brief pause, Truznyev nodded. “Of course I'll help you. But it may be difficult. And it will be expensive.” He pulled at his chin, thinking aloud. “As you know, I still have . . .
contacts,
shall we say . . . in some of the most promising possibilities.”

“Which are? In your view, I mean?”

Truznyev shrugged. “Beijing ranks high, I think. The Chinese are subtle and, despite the interest we share in seeing the Americans
humbled, they still see us as potential rivals for world power. And certainly, their president, Zhou, must resent how ruthlessly Gryzlov bullied him during the Starfire affair.”

“Gennadiy was, perhaps, too . . . forceful,” Tarzarov admitted sourly.

“That's certainly one word to describe demanding complete control over China's entire antisatellite weapons arsenal in order to destroy the American's space battle station,” the other man said, smiling.

“Gennadiy's plan worked, though.”

“It did,” Truznyev agreed easily. “But now the Chinese may be interested in regaining some of their pride by turning the tables on him—setting Gennadiy dancing to a tune of their choice.”

“Perhaps, though I cannot see what strategic or geopolitical interest Beijing would have in seeing us crush Poland,” Tarzarov said doubtfully.

“This war will inevitably draw our eyes westward, away from what the Chinese consider their own sphere of influence,” Truznyev pointed out.

“True.”

“But there are
other
places to look,” Truznyev continued. “Kiev is obviously one of them, though I cannot see how even the fascists there could believe they would benefit from tricking us into conquering half their own country, and then marching armies through the rest!” He shrugged. “We should also consider digging beneath the surface in Warsaw itself.”

Tarzarov shook his head in disbelief. “Of all your hypotheses, that seems least likely, Igor. Why would any sane Pole drag us into war against his own country?”

“Piotr Wilk has political opponents,” the other man said. “Some of them remember the days of the Warsaw Pact more fondly than most Poles. Perhaps they believe a lost war could be the quickest route to ousting Wilk's government and achieving real political power?” He laughed, though without any humor. “Certainly, I know how
that
equation works, if only from the wrong end of the stick!”

Reluctantly, Tarzarov nodded. “It is possible.” He sighed. “Very well, Igor. See what you can learn. But discreetly, yes?”

“As always,” the other man assured him.

After the older man left, Truznyev sat quietly, waiting for a few minutes before making his own way out of the park. No matter how well disguised Gryzlov's chief of staff might be, it was safest to keep some distance between them.

The rain had stopped, and streaks of sunlight were beginning to break through the clouds. Truznyev furled his umbrella and walked on, smiling to himself—already contemplating the complicated web he would have to weave to carry out Tarzarov's request. It was annoying that the older man's instincts had led him so close to the truth, just as it was annoying that Gryzlov's luck still seemed to be holding.

He shrugged. If this plan to humiliate Russia's new president failed, there would be other opportunities later—especially since Tarzarov still trusted him. As a child, he had always enjoyed playing
priatki,
hide-and-seek, and this covert venture was only another version of that old favorite. In this case, of course, there was one crucial difference. After all, though he did not know it, Tarzarov was asking him to find himself. He began to laugh.