Iron Wolf (34 page)

O
VER
B
ELARUS

S
EVERAL HOURS LATER

Secure inside CID Two's pilot compartment, Wayne Macomber had the large Iron Wolf robot lie prone on the deck of the big MH-47 Chinook. It was the only way a manned Cybernetic Infantry Device would fit inside the helicopter's cargo area. He tapped his fingers twice, tying his machine into the other visual, radar, and electronic sensors aboard the Chinook.

They were flying west at low altitude to evade radar detection, practically hugging the dirt. Behind them, the night sky was growing paler, the first sign of the approaching dawn. Far off in the distance, pillars of black smoke and flickering fires marked the site of Baranovichi's 61st Assault Air Base—the Iron Wolf Squadron's second target.

Macomber smiled grimly. With the Russians rattled by the earlier attack on Konotop, the Iron Wolf raiding force hadn't achieved complete surprise. Some elements of the garrison had been on alert, prowling around their outer perimeter on the lookout for trouble. But it really hadn't mattered in the end. Lightly armored scout cars and fixed defenses were no match for the faster, more agile, and better-equipped CIDs. A defense built around main battle tanks like the T-90 or the T-72 might have offered stiffer resistance—but the bulk of the Russian heavy armor was grinding toward Poland as part of their two invasion armies. The Russians had never imagined anyone could hit their forward operating air bases so hard and so soon.

Well, he thought, now they knew differently.

He switched his attention to the cramped interior of the MH-47. Captain Nadia Rozek sat slumped in one of the fold-down seats. She looked deeply asleep, crowded in beside the rest of Ian Schofield's exhausted recon troopers and the second three-man CID resupply team. He frowned, seeing them. It was time for a little after-action chat with the commander of CID One.

Macomber lifted another finger, bringing up a secure radio link to the other Iron Wolf robot. CID One was flying far ahead of him, crammed into the fuselage of the Sparrowhawk tilt-rotor, along with the other half of the ground strike force.

“Go ahead, Major,” Patrick McLanahan said.

“Want to tell me why you almost fucked up so badly at Konotop, General?” Macomber asked. He kept his tone conversational.

“Captain Rozek and I blew Konotop to pieces, Whack,” Patrick said coolly. “I don't see that as a problem.”

Macomber set his jaw. “Cut the crap, General. You helped write the battle drill for these gadgets, remember? Including all the warnings about the need to maintain minimum ammunition and power levels, right? All that shit about CID pilots remembering the importance of firepower and speed in successfully breaking off an action?”

The other man was silent.

“Which makes me wonder how you let yourself and Rozek expend practically every frickin' round of ammo before bailing out of that base,” Macomber went on. “You put this whole operation and this whole outfit at risk. If your kid hadn't had the brains and balls to kamikaze that Su-35, we wouldn't even be having this conversation. We'd probably both be dead.”

“We still had targets to hit, Whack,” Patrick said stubbornly.

“Hell, General,” Macomber said in disgust, “there will
always
be more targets to hit. We're going up against half of the goddamned Russian Army and Air Force, for Christ's sake! Which means we have to fight smart, not brave and stupid. Save the Charge of the Light Brigade shit for some day when nobody else is relying on you, okay?”

There was another long silence.

“Do you hear me, General?” Macomber growled.

Patrick sighed. “I hear you, Major.” He forced a laugh. “I guess I got a little too fixated in that first raid.”

“Yeah, you did,” Macomber agreed. He hesitated slightly and then went on. “Look, I need you to know where I'm coming from, boss. If I think that metal suit you're strapped into is starting to drive
you kill-crazy, I'll yank you out of it before you can say Jack Robinson. You hear me?”

“You know that would kill me, Wayne,” Patrick said quietly.

“Yeah, I know,” Macomber said. His voice rasped. “And I would hate like hell to have to do it. But I can't allow any one man—not even you—to jeopardize this whole squadron and its mission. Too much is riding on this, General. Too many other lives. Too many other people's freedoms. Do you read me?”

“Loud and clear, Major,” Patrick said. “You're absolutely right. About the stakes and about the dangers. I'll keep a tight grip on this Iron Wolf I'm riding. I promise. And, Whack?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you,” Patrick said simply.

Whack smiled despite himself. That was Patrick fucking McLanahan, he thought. The guy was a retired three-star general and ex-president of one of the most successful high-tech firms in the world . . . but you could always talk to him like any other grunt. If you had something to say to him you could always do so. Rank or status didn't matter. They rarely saw eye to eye on stuff, especially ground or special ops tactics and procedures, but he had his respect. He was a good guy . . .

. . . living one hell of a nightmarish existence. He, Whack thought, wouldn't trade lives with him for all the silver stars in the Pentagon—or all the sausage in Poland.

T
HE
K
REMLIN,
M
OSCOW

L
ATER THAT DAY

During his years as an instructor at the Yuri Gagarin Military Air Academy, Colonel General Valentin Maksimov had earned a nickname from the cadets. They had called him “the Old Roman” because nothing—neither personal triumph nor tragedy—seemed able to shake his stoic, taciturn demeanor.

Well, thought Gennadiy Gryzlov disdainfully, his fellow cadets should see their revered former instructor now. Overnight, the so-called Old Roman, currently the commander of Russia's air force, seemed to have collapsed in on himself, becoming almost visibly smaller and older. He sat hunched over in his seat at the conference table. Beneath his short-cropped mane of white hair, Maksimov's once-ruddy, square-jawed face was now gray and lined.

“Well, Colonel General?” Gryzlov snapped. “Are your losses as serious as first reported?”

“Mr. President, I am afraid they are . . . worse . . . than we initially believed,” the old man admitted.

Murmurs of shock and dismay raced around the table. For many of Russia's top-ranking political and military leaders, this emergency session was their first real news of the twin disasters at Konotop and Baranovichi. Officially, according to the state-controlled media, Poland's treacherous decision to strike first, before Moscow's ultimatum expired, had inflicted only minor losses in futile, small-scale attacks. Confirmation that both Russian forward air bases had actually been completely destroyed was an ugly surprise for men and women who been assured that any real war against the Poles would inevitably result in a swift and easy victory.

Gryzlov quelled the murmuring with an icy look. He turned back to Maksimov. “Worse? How much worse?”

Dry-mouthed, the air-force commander took a deep gulp from a water glass handed him by a worried-looking aide and then,
reluctantly, made his report. “Our losses at both air bases total fifty-three aircraft completely destroyed. Plus another handful that we deem damaged but repairable. Of those planes wrecked beyond repair, roughly half were fighters, mostly Su-27s and MiG-29s, while the rest were Su-24 and Su-25 strike aircraft.”

Gryzlov stared at him. “You've lost more than fifty planes? And you let most of them get blown to hell on the damned ground?”

“Several of our pilots based at Baranovichi made attempts to sortie,” Maksimov said, in feeble protest. “As did both the alert fighters at Konotop.”

“And succeeded only in getting themselves shot down while they were taking off!” Gryzlov snarled. “Wonderful, Maksimov. Just grand. Perhaps we should name them posthumous Heroes of the Russian Federation, eh?”

Greatly daring, Foreign Minister Daria Titeneva intervened. “Excuse me, Mr. President, but this news seems absolutely incredible. I thought Poland had fewer than fifty modern combat aircraft? And that most of those planes were air superiority fighters, not bombers?” She shook her head in disbelief. “How was it possible for the Polish Air Force to destroy our bases without even being detected? Or without suffering any losses of their own?”

“These were not primarily air attacks, Daria,” Gryzlov said flatly. “They were commando operations of some kind, using advanced weapons of types we did not know the Poles possessed.”

“Advanced weapons?” Titeneva asked. “Of what kind, precisely?”

“That is unclear, Madam Foreign Minister,” Maksimov said heavily. “Many of our aircraft, armored vehicles, and missile batteries were clearly destroyed by conventional rapid-fire cannons, grenades, and explosives. But many others show massive impact damage, damage that could only be achieved by nonexplosive rounds traveling at enormous speeds.”

“What about the data collected by our sensors?”

“In both attacks, all of our radars, communications, and cameras were knocked off-line first,” Masksimov told her.

“But surely the survivors can tell you what happened? What they saw?” Titeneva pressed.

“Those who survived saw nothing,” the aged colonel general admitted. His face sagged. “Our personnel casualties were severe, with more than a thousand dead or seriously wounded. Only those who sought shelter immediately survived unscathed.” He shook his head. “All we do know is that both raids were carried out with ferocity and astounding precision and speed.”

Gennadiy scowled, looking at Viktor Kazyanov, the minister of state security. “So now we know what Warsaw was hiding from us at Drawsko Pomorskie.”

Kazyanov nodded gravely. “
Da,
Mr. President. My people are still studying the reports, but there seems to be a clear correlation between what we saw on the satellite photos from that Polish training ground and the new weapons and tactics employed against us last night at Konotop and Baranovichi.”

“But do we really know who used these mysterious weapons?” Tarzarov asked quietly.

Gryzlov eyed his chief of staff. “What are you suggesting, Sergei?”

The older man shrugged. “I am not suggesting anything. I simply wonder
whom
we are really fighting now. Poland? Employing strange new devices and weapons that do not appear in any intelligence assessment I have ever seen? Or the United States—either indirectly, using the Poles as surrogates . . . or directly, with its own Special Forces?”

“The American President Barbeau has assured me repeatedly that her country is neutral in our dispute with Poland,” Gryzlov said slowly. His jaw tightened. “And she has promised that she is abandoning the aggressive policies of her predecessors, especially those two madmen, Martindale and Phoenix.”

“Do you think President Barbeau is lying to us?” Daria Titeneva asked Tarzarov, watching him closely.

Again, the older man shrugged. “Deliberately lying? Perhaps not. But can we be sure that she herself is not being misled or lied to
by her own military? Or even by some small secret faction inside the Pentagon?” He turned back to Gryzlov. “Such lies have been told to American presidents in the past—as
we
all know only too well. And to our sorrow.”

The Russian president flushed, easily catching Tarzarov's oblique reference to the repeated and unauthorized American air raids that had finally pushed his father over the edge. The massive revenge attack ordered by the older Gryzlov had led directly to his own death in yet another bombing raid led by the same renegade American who had hit Russia earlier. He grimaced. “Patrick McLanahan is
dead,
Sergei! Dead, with even his stinking ashes pissed away into a sewer somewhere!”

“Yes, he is,” Tarzarov agreed calmly. “But then we must hope that no other American military commander is ruthless enough and criminal enough to adopt McLanahan's illegal, but highly effective methods.” He spread his hands. “Until we know more about what really happened last night, however, it might be wise to slow the advance of our armies toward the Polish frontier. At least temporarily.”

“You want me to respond to this sneak attack against our air bases by showing fear? By cowering in a corner?” Gryzlov demanded. He glared at his chief of staff. “Let me be very clear, Sergei.
Extremely
clear.
I
will not show such weakness!
Russia
will not show such weakness! Not while I am the president, you understand?”

Calmly, Tarzarov nodded. “I understand, sir.”

Plainly fighting to regain control over his temper, Gryzlov looked around the table, meeting the troubled eyes of his senior advisers with a challenging stare. “Whether we are fighting the Poles alone or the Poles in combination with some secret ally is immaterial. If anything, now we
know
Poland is too dangerous to be left alone—at least not under its current leaders. Between Warsaw's earlier terrorist attacks and now these sneak raids, no one can doubt they are the real aggressors in this conflict, not us!”

Slowly, tentatively, the others around the conference table nodded.

“Then we go forward, as planned,” Gryzlov said. New thoughts were beginning to percolate in his mind.

“But these new enemy commando forces do pose a serious threat to our armies—a threat we must address, Mr. President,” General Mikhail Khristenko pointed out.

“You think so?” Gryzlov asked, smiling thinly now. Now that he'd had a little more time to think through the implications of last night's disasters, he was beginning to see a range of alternative plans to retrieve the situation. He regretted more than ever having shown any uncertainty or concern in front of these sycophants.

Surprised, Khristenko stared back at him. “You don't? Even after what happened to our air bases last night?”

“We made a mistake—a mistake the Poles took full advantage of,” Gryzlov told him drily. “Basing so many of our aircraft so far forward only allowed our enemies the luxury of planning and carrying out a meticulous and coordinated surprise attack on fixed positions. But they will find trying the same sort of raid against our field armies a much more difficult proposition. No matter how well equipped and trained they may be, no small band of commandos can hope to go head-to-head and win against tens of thousands of alert and mobile troops with heavy armor and artillery.”

Khristenko nodded. “True, Mr. President. But they may continue attacking our forward air bases, instead.”

Gryzlov shook his head. “The Poles will find no such easy targets for their secret forces.”

Colonel General Maksimov raised his haggard face from the tabletop. “What?”

“Effective immediately, I order you to withdraw all our aviation regiments and their ground components to secure bases deep inside Russian territory,” Gryzlov said. “The only other way to secure our forward bases would require ringing them with the tanks and troops and artillery we need for our field armies.”

Defense Minister Sokolov cleared his throat nervously. “Pulling our air units back to Russia itself will significantly reduce their effectiveness, sir. Many of our aircraft will be operating near the
edge of their combat radius. Either they'll need to carry external fuel tanks, greatly reducing their weapons loads, or we'll have to accept the serious risks involved in air-to-air refueling in a battle zone.”

“That is so,” Gryzlov agreed. “But it doesn't really matter.”

“It doesn't, Mr. President?” Sokolov asked uncertainly.

“How far will the effectiveness of our aircraft be reduced by basing them farther back?” Gryzlov asked Maksimov, in turn. “By as much as fifty percent?”

The elderly air-force commander frowned. “Possibly. But I would think less—with good planning and sound tactics.”

Russia's young president smiled, more genially this time. “And how many capable aircraft can you commit to this war, even after last night's losses?”

“Perhaps as many as five hundred fighter and strike planes,” Maksimov said.

Gryzlov smiled even more broadly. “So . . . the Poles have, at best, fifty modern combat aircraft and we can still oppose them with the equivalent of two hundred and fifty. Tell me, Colonel General, all other factors being equal, who wins an air battle where the odds are five to one?”

For the first time in hours, Maksimov looked a little more alive. He sat up a bit straighter in his chair. “We do, Mr. President.”

“Exactly,” Gryzlov said. He snorted. “Let the Poles and their hidden allies, if they truly exist, savor this first, fleeting success. If we all do our jobs right, it will be their last.”

Maksimov sat up even straighter. His face seemed to be recovering some of its normal tone. “Well said, Gennadiy!”

Gryzlov let that bit of unwanted informality pass. After all, the old man had once been his teacher.

“And in that vein, let me strike back at the Poles,” Maksimov went on, even more enthusiastically. “Even harder than they hit us!”

Gryzlov raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Our Su-34 fighter-bomber squadrons can launch a deep-
penetration raid on Warsaw itself,” Maksimov told him. “We can hit this Polish bastard Wilk and his fellow fascists right where they live and work.”

“The Polish Air Force will fight to defend its capital, Valentin,” Gryzlov pointed out. “Your bomber force will bring every flyable Polish F-16 and MiG-29 down on its head.”

The older man nodded vigorously. “Of course, Gennadiy! And that's when our own Su-35s and Su-27s will pounce! If the Poles really do rise to the bait, we'll wipe their whole effective air force out of the sky in one battle!”

Gryzlov smiled again, as much in admiration of Maksimov's astonishing powers of recuperation—or self-deception—as in approval of his plan. “Put your staff to work on the operational orders for such a strike, Colonel General. Then, once they're ready, bring them to me for my consideration.”

Later, after the rest of the generals and cabinet ministers had filed out, Sergei Tarzarov looked across the table. The older man had a skeptical look in his eyes. “Do you really believe that a single bombing raid on Warsaw can accomplish what Maksimov claims it will? Destroy Poland's airpower in one fell swoop?”

Gryzlov shrugged. “It might.” He smiled crookedly. “But even if it does not, a serious air strike aimed at the heart of Poland's military and political leadership should be . . .
clarifying
.”

His chief of staff looked puzzled. “I do not pretend to be a trained military strategist, Mr. President, so the illustrative effects of a failure, or even a partial success, escape me.”

“This is not a purely military matter,” Gryzlov told the other man, savoring the pleasure of being able to lecture Tarzarov—of all people!—on international politics. “A serious air strike on Warsaw may not achieve all of the good colonel general's admittedly grandiose objectives. But one thing is certain, Sergei,” he said, with a smug smile. “It will force the Americans to tip their hand. If they
are
secretly backing the Poles with advanced weaponry or commandos, the Americans will have to come out into the open to protect their ally's capital from a devastating attack, and then we can destroy them. But if the Americans do nothing, we destroy Poland while NATO and the Americans watch. That will be the end of their alliance.”