Iron Wolf (48 page)

T
HE
K
REMLIN,
M
OSCOW

A
SHORT TIME LATER

“You lied to me, Barbeau!” Gennadiy Gryzlov ground out through gritted teeth. “You promised to eliminate Poland's American mercenaries for me. And yet these same mercenaries have just killed hundreds of brave Russian soldiers and destroyed precious equipment!” He slammed a clenched fist down on his desk, rattling the video monitor carrying their secure link. “So why should I not order an immediate nuclear strike against your European bases—as revenge for this treacherous sneak attack?”

“My special operations troops
were
able to wreck Scion's remote piloting center,” Barbeau snapped back. “The rest of their mission only failed because they ran into a complication nobody anticipated!”

“What complication?” Gryzlov demanded.

“Patrick McLanahan,” the American president said bitterly. “We all
thought
he was dead. Hell, we all
hoped
he was dead. But we were wrong. Somehow, that bastard is still alive. For Christ's sake, who do you think just led that F-111 strike on your missiles?”

For a long, blinding, dizzying moment, Gryzlov saw nothing but red. A wave of pure rage roared through his mind, threatening to drown all rational thought and any semblance of physical control. Shaking wildly, he gripped the sides of the monitor, tempted to hurl it through the nearest window.

“Mr. President? Gennadiy?” a voice said urgently in his ear. “Gennadiy!”

Slowly, with enormous effort, Gryzlov regained some measure of command over himself. Blearily, he looked up into the worried face of Sergei Tarzarov. “Did you hear that?” he growled to his chief of staff. “McLanahan is alive. That murdering piece of
shit
is still alive!”

“Yes, Mr. President,” Tarzarov said. The older man leaned for
ward over Gryzlov's shoulder. “A moment, please, President Barbeau. I must confer privately with my president. But I assure you that he will return shortly, to continue discussing this difficult and unfortunate matter.” Before the clearly shaken American political leader could interrupt, he pressed a control—putting the secure link to Washington on hold.

“Why should I say anything more to her?” Gryzlov snapped, gesturing at the static-laden screen. “We have been lied to and stabbed in the back at every turn. By the Poles. By that fat American whore Barbeau. But at least now we know the true author of this evil plot: McLanahan! We must destroy him and all those around him, no matter how much it costs!”

“Our defenses inflicted very heavy losses on those bombers,” Tarzarov reminded him. “The American may already be dead—and this time at our hands.”

Gryzlov scowled. “I doubt it. That would be too convenient. Too easy.” He shook his head. “No, Sergei! I feel it in my bones. McLanahan is still alive and flying back to Warsaw to boast to his new masters. So this war must go on until we've ground the Poles and McLanahan and his mercenaries into dust.”

“Go on? How can we continue this war, Gennadiy?” Tarzarov asked. “Our armies are stalemated, short on fuel and ammunition. Our air force has suffered serious losses. And now the Iskander missile units that were our last resort have been annihilated. This is the moment to salvage what gains we can before—”

“We have other armies, Sergei. And additional aircraft. And more missile brigades,” Gryzlov snapped. He shoved his chair back and stood up. “Get Khristenko, Sokolov, and the others in here! We can strip troops and tanks and bombers from the Far East to assemble an invasion force so powerful that not even McLanahan's secret weapons can stop us!”

“You would weaken our defenses in the east, those facing the People's Republic of China, to continue this war? That would be a catastrophic error, Mr. President,” Tarzarov said flatly. His eyes were cold. “And it would be a mistake you might not survive.”

Gryzlov froze. He glanced narrowly at the older man. “Are you threatening me, Sergei?”

“No, Gennadiy,” Tarzarov said in exasperation. “I'm trying to save you.” He sighed. “The Poles and their mercenaries are not the true authors of this war. They were tricked into it. Just as we were. We have all been manipulated—tugged about like puppets on a string.”

“What the devil are you talking about?” the Russian president demanded. “Manipulated? By who?”

“By the Chinese,” Tarzarov told him.

Gryzlov listened in silence and growing consternation while the older man quickly ran through the new intelligence he'd gained from secret sources of his own—intelligence that strongly implied that agents of China's intelligence services were the ones who had been arming and equipping the terrorists, not the Poles. When Tarzarov was finished, he dropped back into his seat. “My God . . . that treacherous snake Zhou. I would not have thought him so . . . clever.”

“Zhou or some of those around him,” Tarzarov said evenly. “Which is why we must stop playing this destructive game Beijing set in motion—and instead turn it into one played for our own advantage.”

“Advantage? How?”

“Think of what you have already won, Gennadiy,” Tarzarov urged. “The eastern Ukraine is ours. Who will take it back from us? Kiev? Warsaw? The Americans?” He shook his head. “If we offer them peace now, on the basis of the status quo, they will trip over their own feet and tongues to agree.”

“True,” Gryzlov said slowly. Regaining permanent control over all of the Russian-speaking, heavily industrialized regions east of the Dnieper could certainly be presented as a great victory to the Russian public.

“But even that pales beside your greater victory,” Tarzarov told him. “A victory of more lasting significance.”

Gryzlov stared up at him, unable to hide his lack of understanding. “What greater victory?”

“You have broken NATO beyond repair,” the older man said simply. “After seeing Washington abandon Poland—not just abandon them, but attack them—in its hour of need, who will trust the Americans now? And as the alliance splinters, we need only sit back and gather up the pieces as they fall into our lap—into our sphere of influence. Think of it, Gennadiy,
you
have accomplished what generations of your predecessors have failed to achieve!”

For the first time, Gryzlov began to smile. What Tarzarov said was true. Stripped of any belief that the Americans would protect them, Europe's smaller nations would gravitate—of necessity—into the orbit of the strongest remaining power, Russia.

But then his grin faded. “All of this is true, Sergei. But declaring an end to this war now would leave McLanahan alive. And that I will
not
accept!” He looked at Tarzarov. “This American is dangerous beyond belief. How many times has he robbed us of victories we believed were already ours? How many times has he bombed and killed and maimed our countrymen, with impunity?” He shook his head forcefully. “McLanahan
must
die.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” Tarzarov agreed coolly. “The American must be killed.” He smiled. “But not by us.”

Briefly perplexed, Gryzlov stared back at him. Then, as he understood what the older man intended, his cold blue eyes began to gleam. He swung back to the video monitor and reopened the connection. “President Barbeau, are you still there?”

Stacy Anne Barbeau's drawn and nervous face looked back at him. “Yes, I am!” she said. “Mr. President, it's crucial that we—”

“Be silent,” Grzylov snapped, hiding his own inner amusement. “You have claimed that your government only seeks peace. Very well, I believe you. But I tell you this plainly: if you would have peace, then you must buy it . . .”

O
VER
C
ENTRAL
P
OLAND

A
SHORT TIME LATER

Gritting his teeth, Brad held their badly wounded XF-111 SuperVark on course. The big fighter-bomber had so many holes in its wings and fuselage—and so much damage to its avionics and control surfaces—that his hands were kept busy on the stick and throttles. The XF-111 juddered and shook and rattled, constantly threatening to fall right out of the air. Jesus, he thought, the SuperVark's flight controls were triple-redundant digital fly-by-wire. From the feel of things, this bird was down to about half redundancy and the “wires” must be frayed really thin . . .

With one engine dead and half their electronics out, it was a miracle they were still flying, he knew. It was way past time to set this sucker down. Sweat stung his eyes. Impatiently, he blinked it away. He looked over at Nadia. She still hadn't moved.

“Claw Two to Fang One,” Mark Darrow radioed. He and Jack Hollenbeck were flying several kilometers ahead, nursing their own badly damaged XF-111 northward. “We're coming up to rendezvous with you and lead you to base. How is she handling?”

“Getting worse,” Brad said. “I'll be landing with wings swept to fifty-four, no flaps, no slats, no spoilers.”

“You'll need a very long runway, no doubt.”

“I don't think so: I'll probably be landing with no landing gear.”

“Marvelous,” Darrow said in a reassuringly jovial voice. “How is Nadia?”

“Can't tell,” Brad said. “She hasn't moved.”

“She'll be all right. She's one tough lady.” There was a moment's pause; then: “I'm picking up another plane north of you. It's a friendly, not Russian. It might be Claw Four, or the Lithuanians. No radio or transponder, but he's got his radar on. Got him?”

“My SPEAR gave up the ghost twenty minutes ago,” Brad replied. “I'm on essential bus only, and I might be on battery bus only in a few minutes.”

“We'll have you on the ground in no time, One. Break. Southbound aircraft northeast of Barcin, this is Claw Two, come on up on tactical freq or on GUARD. Over.” No response. Darrow tried again—still no . . .

Just then Brad saw a streak of white light slash across the sky from the northeast. Oh God, that was a
missile
. . .

A huge flash lit the darkness ahead of them. Darrow's XF-111 blew up in an enormous cloud of fire. There was a tremendous fireball and shock wave that seemed to engulf Brad's SuperVark, but it lasted only a second, and then the darkness closed in again.

Brad swore under his breath, desperately wrestling his damaged XF-111 into a tight, rolling evasive right turn. “Unknown aircraft, this is McLanahan!” he yelled into his mike. “Break off your attack! We're friendlies! Repeat, friendlies!” But just then, another bright burst of light and streak of white fire arrowed straight toward them, growing bigger with every second.

Game over, Brad thought. He calmly took his hand off the throttles and control stick, straightened his back, pressed his head back against the headrest, grabbed the yellow-and-black-striped handle by his right knee, squeezed, and pulled.

WHAAAM!

An explosive cutting cord around the XF-111's cockpit ejection capsule detonated, separating it from the rest of the aircraft, and then a powerful rocket motor at the capsule's base ignited, hurling it skyward. At that same instant, a missile slammed into the SuperVark and went off, sending the bomber spiraling out of control. Fragments smacked into the capsule with tremendous force, tearing holes into the partially deployed capsule parachute.

Brad was stunned, but awake enough to realize that the capsule seemed to be falling at a very high rate of speed. He couldn't see the
parachute. The cockpit was filled with smoke, his back and neck were aching from the ejection, and he couldn't feel his legs. But he had enough consciousness to reach over and take Nadia's gloved hand . . .

. . . just before the capsule slammed into the earth at high speed and began to tumble, and then everything went black . . .

S
ECURE
R
ECOVERY
W
ARD,
M
ILITARY

I
NSTITUTE OF
M
EDICINE,
W
ARSAW

T
WO DAYS LATER

Wearily, Brad drifted along a darkened coast, letting the current take him where it would. Swimming seemed like too much work, especially with his arms and legs tangled so tightly in floating coils of seaweed. Better to lie back in the water's warm embrace and rest, he thought. Struggling against his bonds would be too much work.

A light blinked suddenly on the horizon. And again.

Almost against his will, Brad turned his head toward the flashing light. Must be a lighthouse, he decided drowsily—a beacon perched high on the cliffs to warn off passing ships.

But, damn, that light was bright. So bright that it was almost blinding.

Brad blinked away tears against the dazzling, painful glare. And then he realized that he was looking up into the beam of a small penlight. It clicked off, revealing a stranger's face peering down at him. A doctor, by his white coat.

“He is conscious, Mr. President,” the doctor said in accented English. “And there are no immediate signs of neurological trauma.”

Slowly, Brad became aware that he was sitting propped up in a hospital bed. Bandages swathed his head and chest and his left arm and both legs seemed to be stuck in casts. The memory of those terrifying last seconds before their XF-111 ejection capsule slammed into the ground rushed back at him. “I'm alive?” he croaked.

The doctor raised a bushy eyebrow in wry amusement. “Yes, Mr. McLanahan, you are. And lucky to be so.” He shook his head. “Remarkably, however, your injuries, though serious enough, are not life-threatening.”

Alive, Brad thought; now, there was a surprise. Then panic seized him. “Nadia? What about Nadia?” he demanded. “Is she . . .” he swallowed painfully, unable to go on.

“I am right over here, Brad,” he heard her say.

Wincing against the pain involved in moving, he turned his head. Nadia Rozek smiled back at him from a chair by his bedside. A pair of crutches were propped up beside her, gauze bandages covered the right side of her cheek and head, and she had a massive black eye. But she appeared otherwise unhurt. He sighed in relief. “Did you know that you look beautiful even all banged up?”

She laughed. “Flattery will get you everywhere.” Then she inclined her head toward the door. “But at the moment, we have distinguished visitors.”

Reluctantly, Brad looked away from her lovely face. Both Piotr Wilk and Kevin Martindale stood there, watching him with thoughtful expressions. “I'm sorry about the rest of the squadron,” he said slowly. “We knew it would be bad . . . but I really didn't think we'd lose every plane.”

“That will be all for now, Doctor,” Wilk told the Polish physician quietly. The white-coated doctor nodded and left the room, closing the door behind him.

“Did anyone else make it out alive?” Brad asked, feeling a tightness in his chest.

“We don't know yet,” Martindale admitted. “Macomber, Schofield, and their teams are out in the field now, looking for other survivors.” His shoulders slumped a bit. “Without any luck, so far.”

Brad closed his eyes briefly, fighting off a wave of sorrow and regret and guilt. Memories of smiling faces flashed though his mind—Mark Darrow, Jack Hollenbeck, Bill Sievert, Smooth Herres, Karen Tanabe, and all the others. How could he have lost them all? “Christ, I got everyone killed,” he muttered.

“On the contrary, Brad,” Piotr Wilk said gravely, coming forward to stand by Nadia's chair. “If there are other survivors, we will find them—no matter where they are. But the courage and self-sacrifice of all of those who died will be honored forever.” His expression was serious. “Your mission was successful. Your Iron Wolves destroyed the Russian missile force before it could launch.”

“Then we have won,” Nadia said softly.

Martindale nodded. “To a degree. The Russians have offered a cease-fire and we've accepted it. Their armies are pulling back.” He smiled thinly. “Leaving an embarrassing trail of broken-down and out-of-gas tanks and other vehicles in their wake, I might add.”

“Gryzlov is backing down?” Brad asked, surprised. Based on painful personal experience, he wouldn't have expected Russian's egomaniacal leader to accept defeat so easily.

“Not quite. Friend Gennadiy is proclaiming victory,” Martindale said drily. “Moscow has started signaling that its so-called Zone of Protection over eastern Ukraine is likely to become permanent.”

Wilk nodded. “Eastern Ukraine is the bone Grzylov will throw his people, hoping to distract them from their other military defeats.”

“Unfortunately, that's not the only success he can claim,” Martindale went on relentlessly. “There's also the win that Stacy Anne Barbeau just handed him on a silver platter.” He shook his head in disbelief. “In just a few weeks, she's managed to do what the Russians have been trying and failing to do for more than sixty years: she's destroyed the NATO alliance.”

“Oh, crap,” Brad murmured. “She has, hasn't she?”

“I am afraid so,” Piotr Wilk said. “President Barbeau's cowardly refusal to help us in the face of Russian aggression was damning enough. Deciding to actually side with Moscow—by attacking our base at Powidz and then ordering her F-35s to shoot down your surviving aircraft?” he frowned. “That is treachery beyond my ability to forgive.”

“No other nation in Central or Eastern Europe will be able to trust the United States now,” Martindale agreed. “Not with Barbeau in the White House. And without the United States as its linchpin, NATO is effectively dead.”

“Then how will we defend ourselves in the future?” Nadia asked. Her voice was troubled. “We stopped the Russians this time. But like all barbarians, they will be back.”

Wilk nodded. “It may be time to try reviving the old dream of
Mi
ę
dzymorze,
the Intermarium.” He saw the puzzled looks on their
faces and explained. “From the end of World War One to his death, Józef Pi
ł
sudski, the founder of modern Poland, tried to form an alliance of all the newly free nations from the Baltic Sea to the Black Sea. He failed then. But perhaps the time is riper now. Together with forces like your Iron Wolves and Scion's technological wizardry, such a coalition might give us all a fighting chance to survive Russia's continued menace—at least until the United States awakens from its torpor and folly.”

Martindale, Brad, and Nadia all nodded.

“It's worth trying,” Martindale said. A wry grin crossed his face. “If nothing else, it'll give Brad and me and the others meaningful work during our exile.”

“Our what, sir?” Brad asked carefully.

“We seem to have seriously pissed off Madam President Barbeau,” Martindale said cheerfully. “She's labeled you and me . . . and everyone who works for Scion or who joined the Iron Wolf Squadron . . . as fugitives from justice. Last I heard, she was on the warpath up on Capitol Hill pushing legislation to strip us of our American citizenship. And failing that, she's demanding that President Wilk extradite us immediately for criminal trial back in the States.”

Brad took that in silence. Then he asked. “What about my father?”

“Barbeau thinks Patrick McLanahan is dead, for real this time,” Martindale said. “She's sure he was flying one of the XF-111s she ordered shot down.” He shrugged. “For obvious reasons, we're allowing her, and Gennadiy Gryzlov, of course, to go on believing that.”

Brad nodded. In a sad way, his father was safer and freer “dead” than he was alive.

“Naturally, I have refused President Barbeau's ridiculous demands,” Wilk assured him. “In fact, I am offering all of those who fought so valiantly Polish citizenship. If they wish it.”

Feeling suddenly dazed by all of this, Brad leaned back in bed. Barbeau wanted to put them all in prison? And strip them of their citizenship? He shook his head in dismay. He'd been proud to be an
American all of his life. If he lost the right to call himself that, what would he do then? Could he really become a citizen of Poland and be happy?

Nadia must have seen his confusion and concern because she leaned forward and took his hand. “Don't worry, Brad,” she told him gravely, but with the hint of a smile in her eyes. “A mere scrap of paper does not determine who is a
real
American. That is a question of courage and determination and optimism. Those are what truly matter. And those qualities you have in abundance. You will always be a
true
American.” She kissed his hand gently and then looked deep into his wondering eyes. “
My
American.”