Iron Wolf (15 page)

T
HE
W
HITE
H
OUSE,

W
ASHINGTON,
D
.
C
.

A
FEW HOURS LATER

President Stacy Barbeau listened to General Spelling's report on the Russian advance into eastern Ukraine with unconcealed irritation. Less than two weeks ago, she had persuaded Gennadiy Gryzlov to agree to high-level negotiations aimed at defusing tensions in Eastern Europe—and now he pulled this stunt? Was Russia's president as crazy as Ken Phoenix and his crowd had claimed? Sure somebody, probably fanatical Ukrainian nationalists, had wiped out a Russian-backed separatist base and knocked down one of Gryzlov's planes, but how could anyone sane think that justified moving thousands of troops and tanks into a sovereign country? Damn it, didn't the Russians realize the risks they were running? If she couldn't find a way to smooth this over and fast, hard-liners here at home would use it to justify their demands that she take a stronger line overseas—at the expense of all her domestic programs.

“All of our sources confirm that the spearheads of Russia's invasion force have already pushed more than eighty miles into Ukrainian territory,” the chairman of the Joint Chiefs said. “We believe—”

Barbeau's temper snapped. “This is decidedly
not
an invasion, General Spelling! And we will not label it as such. President Gryzlov may want to provoke a full-fledged confrontation with this stunt, perhaps as way to deflect some of the political heat he must be taking for not stopping the terrorist attacks on Russian forces. Well, we are
not
going to play that game with him,” she said. “I want everyone in this room to be very clear on that.” She looked around at the others crowded into the White House Situation Room. “Is that understood?”

Some of the military and intelligence officers around the table seemed surprised at her vehemence. Her political people, led by her chief of staff, Luke Cohen, were not. The lanky New Yorker nodded slightly and flashed her a discreet thumbs-up.

She turned back to the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “Is there any evidence that the Ukrainians are shooting at these columns of Russian forces in their territory, General?”

Frowning now, Spelling shook his head. “No, Madam President. All the data we have—including signals intercepts and video feeds from OSCE drones monitoring the Russian forces—indicate that the Ukrainian Army and volunteer battalions are withdrawing ahead of them without engaging in combat. Those are the orders their government gave them, and they seem to be obeying.”

“That settles it, then,” Barbeau said. “You can't have an invasion without combat. If the Ukrainians aren't inclined to fight, we certainly aren't going to embarrass them by using loaded terms that make it look as though they're cowards.”

CIA director Thomas Torrey stirred himself. “If moving at least six brigades of combat troops into a neighboring country doesn't count as an invasion, what do we call this Russian action?”

Barbeau made another mental note to find a replacement for Torrey. Along with General Spelling, she'd kept the CIA chief on after her inauguration to reassure foreign allies made nervous by some of the political rhetoric she'd used in the campaign, but the intelligence chief had made it increasingly clear that he wasn't a team player.

“The director has a point,” Karen Grayson said reluctantly. The secretary of state shrugged her narrow shoulders. “My public affairs people tell me the press is pushing hard for an official State Department reaction. I imagine it's the same here at the White House and over at Defense. If this isn't an invasion, what is it?”

“An incursion?” someone suggested.

Barbeau frowned.
Incursion
still had a hard edge to it. To many Americans it would seem awfully close to calling what the Russians were doing an invasion. That would scare some people, already made nervous by repeated brinksmanship with Moscow over the past decade. It would anger others, who might start demanding an American response she was unwilling to make.

Luke Cohen leaned forward. “The folks in my speechwriting shop favor ‘unfortunate infringement of Ukrainian sovereignty,' ” he
said. “We think that demonstrates our real lack of support for what Moscow is up to, without getting too inflammatory. It also suggests that we're not going to accept any effort by Gryzlov to grab eastern Ukraine permanently.”

Barbeau nodded slowly, mulling over the phrase Cohen had suggested. It sounded a bit wonkish, but maybe that was exactly the right tone to take in this case. Using it could reinforce the message that her administration was not going to allow itself to be sidetracked by unforeseen circumstances—and that she was strong enough to resist the temptation to score cheap political points by engaging in a senseless war of Cold War–like rhetoric with the Russians.

“Have your people focus-grouped it?” she asked.

Cohen nodded. “Yep.” He grinned. “It scores pretty well with all the key demographics.”

Barbeau caught the chairman of the Joint Chiefs exchanging a disgusted glance with Torrey. She hid a frown. Maybe she would have to find an excuse to get rid of both of them. It was hard enough handling an international crisis without having to deal with two men who were too set in their ways to understand the vital role politics always played in policy. Without political backing from the American people, the best policies in the world were useless. She'd watched too many of her predecessors in the Oval Office fail because they had not grasped that central truth.

Well, she was not going to be one of them.

She rapped sharply on the table. “Okay, ladies and gentlemen. Here's the line we're going to take. We make it clear that we fundamentally disapprove of what the Russians are doing. Say that, while we agree that Ukraine's government must stop these extremist groups attacking Russians, we still find Moscow's eagerness to take inappropriate military measures disturbing. You can also indicate that we intend to raise this issue with President Gryzlov's government during the high-level talks we're planning. But at the same time, I want everyone in this administration to emphasize that Russia's actions do
not
directly threaten American or NATO interests. Got it?”

Heads nodded eagerly.

“Then we're done here,” Stacy Anne Barbeau said. “You all have your marching orders. When you talk to the media, remember to stress that America will not be stampeded into hasty and ill-considered reactions to events outside our national borders. As the world's strongest power, we don't need to prove anything to anybody.”

O
FFICE OF THE
P
RESIDENT,

B
ELWEDER
P
ALACE,
W
ARSAW,
P
OLAND

T
WO HOURS LATER

“Gentlemen, I have just ordered the mobilization of my country's reservists,” President Piotr Wilk told his counterparts from the Baltic states via a secure video teleconference link. “I would strongly urge you to do the same.”

He looked closely at the video monitor set on his desk, watching their reactions. Although Poland's electronic counterintelligence specialists assured him this remote conference link was secure, he wished it had been possible to meet in person. Even the best high-definition video “flattened” images, making it far more difficult to read the subtle facial and body language cues that formed so much of diplomacy. Unfortunately, with masses of Russian troops invading Ukraine, none of the others—the prime ministers of Lithuania, Latvia, and Estonia—thought it wise to be away from their own small countries, even for a few hours.

Wilk could not blame them. With Moscow's armored legions on the move against Kiev, no one could really be sure that Gryzlov's ambitions ended at the Dnieper. The leaders of the three Baltic states knew only too well that the Russians regarded the current existence of their independent democracies as an error of history—one that should be “corrected” at the first possible moment.

“Are you sure mobilization is wise, Piotr?” Lukas Tenys, Lithuania's prime minister asked. “Russia may point to your order as evidence of hostile intent. As a provocation.”

“Gennadiy Gryzlov is a man willing to seize on anything we do as justification for his own actions,” Wilk said bluntly. “But I suspect he finds weakness in others more tempting than strength. If NATO had supplied the Ukrainians with the weapons they begged for years ago, I do not believe we would face this crisis now.”

“True,” Sven Kalda agreed. Then the solemn-faced prime minister
of Estonia shrugged. “However, that is an error of the past. We must focus on the dangers we face now.”

Wilk nodded. “I agree. And that is why I have ordered Poland's reservists to join their active-duty units immediately. Even if Russia stops at the Dnieper for now, its forces will have moved several hundred kilometers closer to my country's eastern border. By seizing so much of Ukraine, Gryzlov cuts our strategic and operational warning time to the bone. This means if Moscow decides to up the ante by attacking us again, our armed forces
must
already be on a war footing to have any hope at all.”

The other leaders nodded. Pressed up against Russia as they were, their own countries did not have the same luxury of space, but they understood its importance to Poland. Wilk's nation had fewer than fifty thousand active-duty soldiers in its ground forces. Bringing its three divisions and six independent brigades to full combat strength required calling up tens of thousands of reservists and assigning them to their wartime posts. But doing so took time, time measured in days and weeks. Time the Russians had just stolen by advancing their own tank and motor-rifle units so much farther west.

“What do the Americans say?” Kunnar Dukurs, Latvia's leader, asked. “My ambassador in Washington has not yet been able to talk to their secretary of state.”

“The Americans do not plan to do anything of significance,” Wilk said. “Their president believes this Russian invasion of Ukraine is a matter for diplomacy, not saber-rattling.”

“You know this for a fact?”

Wilk nodded grimly. “I still have a few friends in the Pentagon. They passed me this news a few minutes ago. Their political leaders will protest what Moscow has done, but they will not do more than talk.”

“Will the Americans at least think again about deploying troops and aircraft to our countries? For training purposes, if for nothing else?” Kalda asked. “Even a token presence would make the Kremlin more cautious.”

“They will not,” Wilk replied. He shook his head in disbelief. “Apparently President Barbeau doesn't want to give Moscow any excuses to turn this incident into a Cold War–style showdown.”

None of the other three leaders bothered to hide their dismay. They knew all too well that without American urging, the rest of the major NATO countries would not act either. Berlin and Paris and London had their own economic woes and skeletal, downsized militaries. Without pressure from the White House, none of them would risk sending even a single platoon or plane as a pro forma demonstration of allied resolve.

Poland and the three small Baltic states were on their own.

When the secure videoconference ended in disarray a few minutes later, Wilk sighed deeply. He snapped off the power to his desktop monitor. The rippling background image of Poland's red-and-white-striped flag vanished, replaced by a dead black screen that seemed depressingly symbolic of his country's near-term prospects.

He swiveled his chair around to look at Captain Nadia Rozek, who stood waiting patiently near the outer door to his office. He signaled her to come closer. “You see the problem, Captain?”

She nodded. “No one will stop the Russians. Ukraine's government has just surrendered half its national territory without firing a shot. The Baltic states fear them. The rest of the NATO countries are too weak, both economically and militarily. And the Americans are interested only in their own domestic politics.”

“Succinctly put,” Wilk said with a wry smile. “Which leaves us in the same poor strategic position we were in when I asked you to investigate the private military company called Scion. And to make discreet contact with its owners.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So, do you have anything to report in this regard?” Wilk asked.

She nodded crisply. “Sir, I do.” Unconsciously, she dropped into the parade-rest position, with her hands locked behind her back.

“You may stand at ease, Captain,” Wilk told her drily. The hint
of a smile flickered across his otherwise troubled face. “As your commander in chief, I promise not to have you charged with insubordination.”

Nadia bit down on a grin of her own and relaxed slightly. “Yes, Mr. President,” she said. “My research so far proves that Scion demonstrated remarkable military capabilities during its operations in Iraq seven years ago—capabilities far in advance of those possessed by its competitors and even by governments, including that of the United States.”

Wilk raised an eyebrow at that. Her assessment matched the rumors he'd heard, but he'd thought they must be exaggerations. For all of his adult life, America's weapons and military technologies had been regarded as the best in the world. How was it possible for a mere corporation, even a contractor specializing in defense and security technologies, to rank higher? “Go on, Captain. Consider me intrigued.”

“These capabilities included mobile combat machines of a new type, equipped with weapons ranging from conventional grenade launchers and automatic cannon to electromagnetic rail guns. I also found verifiable reports that Scion pilots flew a number of manned and unmanned aircraft armed in a variety of ways, including at least one which mounted a high-powered airborne laser.”

Wilk sat up straighter. Weapons-grade lasers and rail guns? In the hands of a private corporation? “Who are these people?” he asked.

“Scion appears to be privately and closely held,” Nadia told him. “It was first registered as a corporation in Las Vegas, in the American state of Nevada. But almost none of its other records are publicly accessible. So I ran background checks on the shareholders listed in its registration papers.”

“Not officially, I hope,” Wilk said. “The last thing we want right now are stories in the American financial press about Polish government interest in this corporation. Or, for that matter, angry accusations of invasion of privacy from some of those shareholders.”

This time Nadia didn't bother to hide the amusement in her
blue-gray eyes. “My father is a software engineer who specializes in Internet security. When I was a teenager, I wanted to guard my online privacy from prying parental eyes, so I spent a lot of time studying his work. Believe me, I know how to be very careful.” Then she shrugged. “Besides, I can guarantee that not a single one of Scion's shareholders will protest.”

“Explain that,” Wilk demanded.

“None of them are real,” Nadia said. “They are all what the Americans call ‘false fronts.' ”

Wilk stared at her. “All of them?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Then who really owns Scion?” Wilk asked.

Nadia hesitated. Even as a child she had hated having to admit failure. Despite all her military training in the importance of prompt and accurate reports, it was a trait she still had to resist. “I do not yet know. Scion's operations are structured in layers of subsidiary companies, private trusts, and holding corporations. Every time I crack one layer of security, I find another beneath it.”

Wilk frowned. “Could it be a front for the American government, perhaps for the CIA or one of their other intelligence agencies?”

She shook her head. “I do not think so. There are signs that Scion may have occasionally contracted its services to the CIA, but there is no evidence of any real command-and-control relationship. I believe it to be a genuine private operator.”

“Whose owner or owners are completely mysterious,” Wilk said flatly.

“Yes, sir,” Nadia admitted.

“Then how do we contact them without effectively announcing our interest to the whole wide world?” Wilk asked.

“I sent the company an e-mail inquiring about its services and availability,” Nadia told him. Before he could explode, she explained. “I created a false front of my own—a fictitious Swiss-based company interested in hiring Scion to provide security for proposed mining operations in Africa. Any reply to my e-mail will go there
first. Then we can establish a more secure channel of direct communication.”

“But you haven't received any reply so far, Captain?”

Nadia shook her head. “Not yet.”

With an audible hum, the monitor on Wilk's desk powered up. Astonished, the Polish president turned to look at it. He scowled. His computer was operating on its own, without any input from him. How was that possible? It was equipped with top-of-the-line security systems—both software and hardware that should have blocked any intrusion or at least set off alarms in every nook and cranny of Poland's intelligence service.

As he sat watching, three short lines of text flashed onto the screen and sat there, waiting for his response.

Still stunned, Wilk leaned forward, fumbled for his keyboard, and typed in a one-word reply.
Tak
. Yes.

The message vanished instantly, leaving only a blank screen behind. He turned back to Nadia, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Mr. President?” she asked. “Is something wrong?”

“Wrong? No,” Wilk said. “Or so I hope.” He looked up at her. “But it seems that Scion also includes high-level computer hacking and network intrusion among its capabilities, Captain Rozek. That was the company owner's response to your inquiry about its services.”

Watching her eyes widen in surprise, he nodded. “So now the question is, have we made contact with a magician? Or with the Devil himself?”