Iron Wolf (17 page)

Furrowing his brow, Gierek looked closer at the hexagons coating the humanlike machine. His eyes widened momentarily in astonishment. “You have added thermal adaptive camouflage!” He turned to Martindale. “No wonder we did not detect this machine moving into position!”

“Bingo,” Martindale said smugly. “Those tiles are a special material that can change temperature extremely quickly. Our CIDs are already equipped with a large number of sensors, so the Mod III takes thermal imaging data collected from the local environment and then adjusts the temperature of each tile to mimic its surroundings—displaying the heat signatures of trees or bushes or buildings and the like. Essentially, when moving slowly or at rest, a CID equipped with this system is effectively invisible to thermal sensors.”

“Why only then?” Wilk asked.

“For two reasons,” Martindale explained. “First, while the thermal adaptive tiles can change temperatures very quickly, there are
still limitations. Once the CID is moving fast, it's moving through so many different heat textures that the system can't really keep up. But the chief reason is power consumption. At rest or at low speeds, the amount of power required to adjust the tile temps is relatively low. Trying to do the same thing at higher speeds is just too big a drain on the CID's power supplies.”

Gierek had been circling around the manned robot. Now he pointed to several of the camouflage tiles on its torso. They were cracked or showed signs of high-velocity impacts. “Your machine has sustained some damage.”

Martindale nodded. “The material in those tiles is tough, but it's not impenetrable. Direct fire from machine guns or other heavy weapons will damage them.” He smiled. “Fortunately, the thermal adaptive system is modular and any wrecked hexagons are easy to swap out between missions, or even in the field. Besides, you'll find that the composite armor underneath those damaged pieces is completely intact.”

He raised his voice. “CID One, why don't you show these folks your weapons packs? Let's give them a better sense of the kinds of firepower you can bring to any battle.”

Safely hidden away inside the pilot's compartment of CID One, Patrick McLanahan followed Martindale's suggestion, smoothly uncoupling the various packs attached to his robot. One by one, he laid out the weapons they contained—the electromagnetic rail gun; a pair of 40mm automatic grenade launchers able to fire a variety of fragmentation, thermobaric, tear-gas, high-explosive, and antiarmor rounds; a 25mm autocannon with a mix of armor-piercing discarding sabot and high-explosive incendiary rounds; and three more Stinger surface-to-air missiles.

“This is the normal weapons load for an ordinary attack mission,” Patrick heard Martindale explaining. “Naturally, we can configure each CID with a different package for more specialized assignments—up to and including antitank guided missiles, rocket
launchers, 84mm recoilless rifles like the Carl Gustav, and some more specialized nonlethal weapons.”

“We have seen this machine destroy older American armored vehicles,” a Polish colonel wearing the unit patch of the 10th Armored Brigade said. “But can it defeat more modern Russian tanks like the T-80 and T-90?”

“With some of its weapons, especially the rail guns, absolutely yes,” Martindale said. “But the CID's armor is designed primarily to stop small-arms, machine-gun, and heavy autocannon fire. Any hit by an armor-piercing 125mm tank shell will penetrate. So the trick is to avoid stand-up fights against Russian armored units—”

Another red dot pulsed angrily in Patrick's vision, this time centered on another wooded hill about half a mile away down the valley.
Satellite phone link being established,
the computer alerted him.
Link chosen is the Thuraya satellite constellation, but encryption methods are Russian
.

Crap, he thought. They had uninvited guests. Another finger twitch activated the CID's jamming package. The red dot pulsed to yellow. The targeted electronic noise his system was emitting had temporarily blocked the phone out there from connecting to a communications satellite in geosynchronous orbit.
Estimated jamming burn-through in forty-five seconds,
the computer reported.

Caught with his weapons packs off, Patrick knew he didn't have the ability to grab anything and hit a target that far away in time, not without risking harm to Martindale and the fascinated Poles who were busy poking through his gear. Besides, he'd burned through most of his ready-use ammo during the demonstration. And with so many people crowding around him, he couldn't even safely break away to chase down these intruders. There was too high a chance that he might accidentally injure or even kill one of the high-ranking spectators. Not even Martindale's high-powered salesmanship could paper over a screw-up like that.

Good thing we had a fallback plan, he thought. With another flick of his fingers, he activated his radio and relayed the alert to the second CID still concealed among the trees he'd left a few minutes ago.

“Data received,” a voice replied.

“Go get 'em, son,” Patrick snapped. “Take 'em alive if you can. Dead if you must.”

Piloting the second Cybernetic Infantry Device, Brad McLanahan lunged out of the woods. He had to take a deep breath to try to flush away the intense thrill of excitement he felt as he put the CID into motion. Piloting this incredible machine was an experience like nothing else. He remembered the first time he had done so, while still a senior in high school, and it was pretty intense to be able to do the things the CID could do. But in this new version, somehow the rush of power and awareness was even more pronounced, more visceral—almost orgasmic. He felt it as soon as it was activated after climbing aboard; but now, in motion and on the hunt, the feeling shot from his brain throughout his entire body like a bolt of lightning.

Concentrating on his sensors and the task at hand helped suppress the almost overwhelming electric sense of power he felt . . . but, he thought ruefully, a guy could really get freakin' hooked on this.

Brad leaped straight over a still-burning M-60 tank and ran across the wreck-strewn exercise area in seconds. Suddenly he was in the trees on the other side of the shallow valley—smashing through undergrowth and low-hanging branches with hurricane-like force.

Two green, roughly man-shaped blotches appeared in the center of his vision. His thermal imaging sensors had picked up two intruders, but their images weren't as bright as he would have expected. They were probably wearing ghillie suits coated with antithermal IR materials, Brad realized.

One of the shapes swung toward his CID as he charged uphill through the forest, rapidly bringing up a rifle. Several shots cracked out. Three rounds smacked into the robot's armor and bounced off.

“Hi there, guys,” Brad said, tweaking his electronic voice to full, earsplitting volume. “Is this a private party?”

The gunman, now visible in his twig-, leaf-, and branch-studded sniper's camouflage, tried backing up farther, still shooting.

Casually, Brad leaned down, snatched the rifle away with the CID's powerful hands, and snapped it in half.

“
Presvataya Bogoroditsa!
Holy Mother of God!” the man screamed in panic. He was still screaming when Brad picked him up and tossed him high into the branches of the nearest tree. The screams cut off.

Horrified, the second intruder turned and tried to make a run for it.

Shaking the CID's head in disgust, Brad jumped again—bounding high overhead. He came down ahead of the fleeing man and spun round to meet him head-on. “Going somewhere?”

The second intruder fumbled for something at his waist. A pistol? Or maybe a grenade? Or the detonator for a suicide vest? Not cool either way, Brad decided. He reached out and tapped the man with one of the CID's fingers—sending him tumbling head over heels for several yards, right into the trunk of a gnarled oak tree.

“Ouch,” Brad said sympathetically, turning down the volume this time. Sighing, he grabbed the fallen man and then turned to retrieve the intruder he'd tossed into a tree.

Watching the second CID trotting toward them with two bruised and bloodied prisoners held tightly in its arms, Patrick felt a surge of paternal pride. His son had handled what could have been a serious security breach with speed and efficiency. Somewhere out there was a Polish army officer who could not say the same thing. The Drawsko Pomorksie Training Area was supposed to be locked down tight for the duration of this demonstration. No one should have been able to get close enough to see what Scion was doing here.

“Good work, Brad,” Patrick radioed, choosing a frequency he knew the Poles were not currently monitoring.

“Thanks, CID One,” his son replied, plainly unwilling to risk revealing his father's identity, even inadvertently.

Patrick turned toward Martindale and the waiting Poles, tuning his own electronic voice to conceal its characteristics. “I suspect
you'll find these clowns are GRU agents or possibly members of a covert Spetsnaz reconnaissance unit.”

Piotr Wilk showed his teeth in a tight, fierce smile. “I suspect you are right,” he said, coldly eyeing the unconscious men gripped by the second Scion robot. “In any case, we will make sure our unwanted visitors experience Polish hospitality for a very, very long time.”

O
FFICE OF THE
P
RESIDENT,

B
ELWEDER
P
ALACE,
W
ARSAW

A
FEW HOURS LATER

“So now we come to what you Americans call the nitty-gritty details,” Wilk said. “What we saw this morning proved the potential value of your weapons and other defense technologies. The question remains, what exactly can you provide to our country and how much will it cost us?”

Poland's president had invited the two most important members of his government—Prime Minister Klaudia Rybak and Defense Minister Gierek—to this evening meeting with Martindale. The American had come alone, trusting subordinates back at Drawsko Pomorskie to handle the necessary work of clearing away any evidence of Scion's presence at the Polish military training area. The three men and one woman were alone in Wilk's private office, seated around a small conference table equipped with a computer and flat-screen display.

“My company can provide you with a highly capable special missions force,” Martindale told them. Images and graphics flashed onto the display as he spoke, echoing and amplifying his words. “The core of our ground element will be the two Cybernetic Infantry Devices, CIDs, you saw in action earlier today—along with their weapons packs and other equipment—”

“Why do you call those astounding war machines by such a drab, prosaic term?” the prime minister interrupted. “Surely they deserve a more fitting name, one that better captures their tremendous power? They moved with such grace and ferocity, more like wolves,
iron
wolves,
than mere ‘devices.' ”

Martindale smiled politely at her. “CIDs were called that by the folks who first invented and developed the hardware and software. They were part of an Army R-and-D outfit, which means they were engineers, not poets.” He shrugged his perfectly tailored shoulders.
“I guess the designation they picked just stuck.” He turned back to the others. “If I may?”

“Please proceed,” Wilk said. A quick smile flashed across his own face. “Though I agree with Klaudia. Perhaps a true warrior should also have the soul of a poet.”

Martindale chuckled. “You may be right. Unfortunately, my own inclinations lead me more to questions of business and strategy.”

“Perhaps we can discuss literature and philosophy a bit later and stick to cold, hard facts for now,” Janusz Gierek said gruffly. The former professor of mathematics looked closely at Martindale. “What else do you offer us?”

“The rest of our Scion ground component would include an expert group of specialists, vehicles, and transport aircraft to support CID operations—with maintenance, field repair, and resupply. It will also include teams trained in deep-penetration covert reconnaissance,” Martindale went on. He nodded to Wilk. “I know your country has highly effective Special Forces of its own, Mr. President. But our recon operators are trained to work closely with the CID pilots. They know exactly what these machines can and cannot accomplish. Special Forces units used to fighting with conventional weapons will need extensive training to accustom them to working with our manned robots.”

“That makes sense,” Wilk agreed. “I would not expect a helicopter pilot, no matter how talented, to fly an F-16 without a lot of study and practice.”

“As a gesture of good faith, however,” Martindale told them, “we would be willing to train one of your own officers as a CID pilot. That would give you more insight into any missions we propose. It would also ensure closer liaison with your troops.”

“That is a generous offer,” Wilk said. “And one I would gladly accept. Perhaps I might suggest one of my military aides, Captain Nadia Rozek, as a suitable candidate?”

Martindale nodded. “She would be an excellent choice. In our experience, the best CID pilots are physically tough, mentally agile, and already comfortable with a range of advanced technology. From
what I've seen of her thus far, your Captain Rozek possesses all those qualities.”

He keyed in another command, bringing up a new series of images on the display. “But the ground component is just one piece of our proposed special missions force. We would also deploy a range of manned and unmanned aircraft—aircraft able to conduct stealthy reconnaissance, electronic warfare, and strike and interdiction operations. The aircraft operators and the specialized equipment on board are designed to fully integrate with the CIDs.”

“Drones?”

“Full-scale combat aircraft, refurbished with modern materials and systems and made fully operational,” Martindale said. “They compare to drones like a wolf compares to a puppy.” Wilk and the other Poles sat rapt, listening while the American laid out the full range of advanced military capabilities Scion could offer their country. When he finished, they sat in silence for a few moments more, each wrapped up in his or her own thoughts.

At last, Wilk ran his gaze around the table, noting the slight nods from his two colleagues. He cleared his throat. “Your offer is impressive, Mr. Martindale. But let me be blunt. One question remains: Can Poland afford to hire Scion's services?”

“That will be your decision,” Martindale said quietly. “I can only quote our price, and I will be blunt, too. This is not a price subject to negotiation or haggling. It's the bare minimum my company can charge and remain viable. We're determined to help you stop Gennadiy Gryzlov's aggression, but Scion is fundamentally a business—not a nation-state. We can't simply print money, and we won't beggar ourselves in the process of helping you defend your country.”

“So how much will it cost us?” Gierek asked brusquely.

“We'll supply you with all the forces I proposed for the base price of five hundred million dollars a year,” Martindale told him. “In addition, you would pay additional compensation for any Scion personnel killed or injured in Polish service, along with extra charges as necessary to replace any of our equipment destroyed in combat.”

“Five hundred million dollars? Almost
two billion
zlotys? That is out of the question,” Gierek growled. “Such a figure represents more than five percent of our entire national defense budget!”

Martindale nodded. “I realize the price seems high.” He brought up the image of a Cybernetic Infantry Device on the screen again. “But you should also consider that these war machines and the other weapons systems we possess will significantly increase Poland's land
and
air combat power—and by far more than five percent. Duplicating this range of capabilities would be impossible for your country, at least not without the expenditure of many tens of billions of zlotys in R and D and procurement. And that would take years.”

“Years we do
not
have,” Wilk pointed out, frowning.

Martindale nodded. “Exactly.”

“Nevertheless, the difficulty remains,” Prime Minister Rybak said. She looked at Wilk and Gierek. “No such sum of money exists in the defense budget already passed by Parliament. Obtaining it would require a new appropriation, which would require a full debate. As would any move to cancel existing defense programs and reallocate their funds.”

“A debate the opposition would drag out for weeks,” Wilk agreed, not bothering to hide the sour look on his face. Some of Poland's opposition parties still contained men and women who were all too willing and even eager to build closer economic and political ties with Russia. He shook his head. “And even if we could debate the question in closed session, the news of what we were doing would be bound to leak to the press.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that!”

“Which would give Moscow every incentive to attack us now,
before
we can bolster our defenses,” Gierek muttered. Gloomily, he shrugged his shoulders. “As I said, this is impossible.”

“There may be an alternative,” Martindale said carefully.

Gierek narrowed his eyes. “I thought you said you would not bargain on price, Mr. Martindale? Was that not so?”

“What I said earlier was accurate: I won't bargain on price, Defense Minister,” the American answered. “But I anticipated that securing a direct appropriation might be too difficult, and perhaps
even impossible. No, what I'm referring to is an alternate method of payment—one which would also bind us even more closely to your nation's defense and prosperity.”

“Unlike the prime minister, I am not an economic genius,” Wilk said, speaking slowly and cautiously. “So I can safely admit confusion about your precise meaning. If you did not expect we could transfer the necessary money from our defense budget, how precisely do you expect to be paid?” He smiled thinly. “Unless you are willing to take an IOU or my personal check.”

Martindale grinned suddenly. “Close, but not quite on target, Mr. President. What I propose is a trade, a straight swap,” he continued. He tapped another key, bringing up a table of figures showing the government money allocated to Poland's Special Economic Investment Incentive Funds. These funds were used both to lure foreign companies to build manufacturing plants in Poland and to boost innovative private Polish firms by providing them with seed money for expansion and new equipment. “Scion trades you our services for a year. In return, you buy shares in various Polish corporations, using these special incentive funds—shares you then transfer to my company.”

He brought up another list on the screen, a list of small but growing businesses and industries that would all profit from an infusion of cash. “Shares in these companies, I think.”

Visibly stunned by his suggestion, none of the Poles said anything for several moments.

“
Jeste
ś
szalony?
Are you insane?” Gierek asked finally. “You ask us to use our government's investment money to buy shares in Polish industries to pay for your mercenaries? That is pure madness.”

“On the contrary,” Martindale said coldly. “It's pure common sense. The money exists in your budget to make investments for Poland's future. Very well, you use it for the purpose intended. The only added step is that you transfer your government's stake in these private firms to Scion. Doing that without making a fuss should be fairly simple.”

Wilk nodded slowly, thinking it through. “Our American friend
is right, Janusz.” He held up a hand to quiet the defense minister's continuing protest. “What he proposes is doable.”

“Nevertheless, Piotr,” Klaudia Rybak said. “This proposition is completely irregular. Using our economic incentive funds to purchase military services from a foreign defense contractor? Can you see how that would look?”

“Don't you trust President Wilk?” Martindale asked, with a wry glint in his eyes. “Are you afraid he'll succumb to the temptation to play tin-pot dictator, using our equipment and specialists?”

“Of course not!” the prime minister snapped. Her fierce tone left no doubt that she knew she was being goaded, but it also left no doubt that she was determined to make her point. “But you ask the president to risk handing the opposition a weapon they would gladly use to destroy him!”

“Which is all the more reason to make sure this all stays secret for as long as possible. Both our acquisition of Scion's military services and the means we use to pay for them,” Wilk said suddenly. He turned a hard-eyed gaze on Martindale. “You realize that any shares we choose to transfer to you could not be sold to anyone else for several years?”

“Naturally.”

“Nor would your ownership of these shares convey
any
rights in the management of those Polish industries and companies.”

“I would not expect them to,” the gray-haired head of Scion said firmly. “Every company on that list is brilliantly run, held back only by a lack of investment. I learned a long time ago to pick the best people for a given task and then stay the hell out of their way.”

The Polish president nodded again. That sounded like the truth, though he was quite sure Martindale had also long ago mastered the difficult political art of sounding sincere at all times and in all places. He eyed the other man. “Earlier, you suggested this
swap,
as you call it, would tie Scion more tightly to Poland's success and survival. What did you mean by that?”

“What value would the shares you give to us have if your country were conquered by the Russians?” Martindale asked in turn. He
shrugged. “By giving us a serious financial stake in Poland's future, you give us even more incentive to fight hard for you if war breaks out and to win as quickly, cleanly, and cheaply as possible.”

He looked across the table at Gierek. “Your defense minister called us mercenaries. That's become an ugly word. But there is a certain cold-edged accuracy to it. Ultimately, we at Scion
are
selling our services as soldiers to you. I would argue that we're a lot more than that, because we
won't
fight for the highest bidder—but only for those whose cause we consider just.” He shrugged his shoulders again. “Still, call us what you will. As our paymasters, that's your privilege. But keep in mind that the arrangement I propose offers you insurance against the real dangers involved in relying on mercenaries—dangers so ably described by Niccolò Machiavelli more than five hundred years ago.”

He paused briefly, plainly waiting for an invitation to continue.

“I read
The Prince
in my leadership classes at the Air Force Academy, Mr. Martindale,” Wilk said wryly. “But from the puzzled looks on their faces, I suspect the book may not have been in the university curriculum for my colleagues.”

“Basically, Machiavelli wrote that anyone who holds his country with hired troops will ‘stand neither firm nor safe; for mercenaries are disunited, ambitious and without discipline, unfaithful, valiant before friends, cowardly before enemies,' ” Martindale quoted, with a distant look in his eyes, reaching back into his memory. “ ‘They are ready enough to be your soldiers whilst you do not make war, but if war comes, they take themselves off or run from the foe.' ” He looked around the table. “But you can see that giving us a stake in your future changes that equation. If the Russians attack you again and we run away or lose, we gain nothing.”