Iron Wolf (28 page)

T
HE
W
HITE
H
OUSE,

W
ASHINGTON,
D
.
C
.

A
SHORT TIME LATER

“You cannot be serious in making these demands,” President Stacy Anne Barbeau said in exasperation to the image of her Russian counterpart via a secure video link. “You're asking the Poles to drop all their weapons and then trust you not to take advantage of their weakness. No sovereign government in the world could accept those conditions.” She leaned forward in her chair. “Look, Mr. President, I completely understand your anger at what seems to have been going on in the Ukraine, but I'm sure we can figure out a more realistic set of preconditions for negotiations to resolve this mess. All I ask is that your people and mine sit down together with the Poles to sort this out without further violence.”

“You misunderstand the purpose of my call,” Gennadiy Gryzlov retorted. “I am informing you, purely as gesture of diplomatic courtesy, of my government's intentions. Nothing more.” His expression was icy. “For the moment, I am willing to entertain the possibility that you Americans were truly unaware of this Polish conspiracy against us—that you were simply unwitting dupes in a diabolical scheme run entirely by the fascist clique in Warsaw. But if you wish me to continue accepting this theory, whether it is fact or merely a polite fiction, you
will
stand aside.”

Barbeau blinked, but finally her eyes narrowed in perplexed anger. “President Gryzlov, I'm telling you—”

“There is nothing to discuss,” Gryzlov said flatly. “Poland will be punished for its aggression against my country. If you choose to side with Poland, you admit your own guilt in supporting terrorism—guilt that all the world will see and understand. Think about
that,
Madam President. Think very hard.” He flicked a single finger to someone off-camera. The Situation Room display went dark as the Russians cut the videoconference link.

“Well,
that
went well,” Edward Rauch, her national security adviser, muttered.

“Fuck,”
Barbeau snarled. “What the hell did that son of a bitch Wilk think he was doing? Orchestrating a terror campaign against the Russians? And using his own soldiers to conduct it? Jesus Christ! Did he really think he could swipe at someone as batshit crazy as Gryzlov and get away with it?”

“President Wilk has assured us that his government is not doing anything of the kind,” Thomas Torrey pointed out. The CIA director looked troubled. “The Poles are still investigating exactly how those weapons and this Captain Janik ended up in the Ukraine, but they're pretty sure the weapons were planted—probably by the Russians themselves. And that Janik was kidnapped off the street in Warsaw and then murdered.”

“Oh, for God's sake! What a bunch of crap!” Stacy Anne Barbeau looked ready to explode. “
Of
course
that's the story Wilk and his morons are peddling . . . as if anyone but the dumbest bunch of troglodyte right-wingers would buy it.” She swung around in her chair to face General Spelling. “So how do they explain those satellite pictures the Russians shared with us? The ones showing some kind of hush-hush military exercise at this Pomo-place?”

The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff frowned. “I talked to Defense Minister Gierek about that, Madam President. He insists that the maneuvers at Drawsko Pomorskie were purely local and defensive in nature.”

“Involving which units of the Polish armed forces?” Rauch asked. He shook his head. “I've studied those images and I wouldn't have said the Poles had anything in their arsenal that could inflict that much damage with such precision.”

“Gierek claimed the exercise involved elements of the Polish Special Forces,” Spelling admitted, though with some hesitation.

“Which elements? Does that include the units based at Powidz?” Rauch wondered. His eyes narrowed. “Is that why they've locked that base down so tight?”

“What?” Barbeau sat up straighter. “What are you talking about?”

“We've had a few reports of much higher security restrictions at a Polish Air Force base outside Powidz, which is in central Poland,” Torrey told her.

“Which is the duty station for Poland's Seventh Special Operations Squadron,” Rauch pointed out.

“So?”

Rauch's mouth turned down. “Well, that's the helicopter outfit trained to infiltrate Polish Special Forces teams behind enemy lines . . .”

Barbeau shook her head in disgust. “Jesus. Gryzlov was right. Those bastards in Warsaw have been lying to us, right from the get-go. There's no other way to figure it. Between those secret commando exercises and buying up those long-range XF-111 bombers on the sly, the Poles have been preparing for a war with Russia. But maybe it was a war they planned to start themselves!”

“I don't think we should jump to conclusions yet, Madam President,” Spelling urged. “I've known Piotr Wilk for a long time. He's not crazy. And he's not suicidal.” He looked around the table. “The most important thing right now is to find some way to slow Gryzlov down—to stop this situation from blowing up into a full-scale conflict and buy time for more investigation and diplomacy.”

“Just what are you proposing, General?” Barbeau asked.

“That we send troops and aircraft to Poland,” the chairman of the Joint Chiefs said. “Even a token force might persuade the Russians to back off their ultimatum, at least temporarily.”

“We could couple that with the promise of a serious international investigation into these terrorist attacks,” Thomas Torrey agreed. “Agreeing to a joint CIA-SVR probe would throw Gryzlov a bone he might need to save face at home while still making sure we got to the bottom of what's been happening in Ukraine.”

“Absolutely not!” Barbeau snapped. “You heard President Gryzlov. He is not bluffing and I will
not
try to rescue the Poles from a mess of their own making at the cost of American lives. NATO ally or not, this is not a case where the Article Five mutual defense clause applies.” She scowled. “And even if I were inclined to believe Po
land's story, which I'm
not,
there's no realistic chance we could send enough help to win any conventional war. Right?”

Slowly, reluctantly, her top military and intelligence advisers nodded. Earlier drawdowns had removed almost all U.S. ground troops from Europe. At the height of the Cold War, almost four hundred thousand American soldiers had been stationed in Germany to deter Soviet aggression. Now there were just two light brigades there, neither of them equipped with heavy armor. The U.S. Air Force was in even worse shape. It still had not come close to recovering from the losses sustained in earlier conflicts or from recession-induced budget cuts. Neither service was currently prepared to go head-to-head with the Russians in their own backyard.

“Which means the only way we could stop the Russians—if they really hit Poland—would be to threaten an escalation to nuclear war. And mean it,” Stacy Anne Barbeau said coldly. She shook her head decisively. “Well, screw that, ladies and gentlemen. I will not drag the United States to the brink of thermonuclear destruction. Not for the Poles. Not for anyone. And certainly not for such a bad cause.”

T
HE
K
REMLIN,
M
OSCOW

T
HAT SAME TIME

Defense Minister Gregor Sokolov entered the conference room, trailed by a small cadre of senior officers and junior aides. He stopped just beyond the door, surprised to find only three men waiting for him—Gennadiy Gryzlov, Sergei Tarzarov, the president's chief of staff, and the president's private secretary, Ulanov. Given the importance of this meeting, he had expected to find the other members of the security council there, except, of course, for the foreign minister who was scheduled to fly home to Moscow from Geneva later that night.

Russia's president swung away from the large display, now showing a detailed map of Ukraine, Belarus, and Poland. “Ah, there you are, Gregor,” he said, smiling broadly. “It is good to see you.” He nodded to the group of military officers, including them in his greeting. “Please, gentlemen, be seated.”

Sokolov and the others obeyed, arranging themselves around the long conference table.

“You are here to receive my orders for the coming war,” Gryzlov told them, ignoring the startled looks on the faces of several junior aides who had evidently missed recent developments. “You will then translate these orders into the operational plans necessary to achieve victory—as swiftly, decisively, and cost-effectively as possible. Is this understood?”

“Yes, Mr. President,” Sokolov said, not daring to give any other answer. “So the Poles have rejected our ultimatum?”

“Not yet,” Gryzlov said with a shrug. “But they will. Even the American president, not one of nature's brighter intellects, understands as much. Our demands have backed Wilk and his gang into a corner. Oh, they will squirm and wriggle for as long as possible, desperately seeking some safe escape from the snare, some means of survival.” His smile turned more wolflike. “In fact, I am counting on Warsaw to use every hour we have given them before finally rejecting our ultimatum.”

“The Poles may use those five days to strengthen their defenses, sir,” General Mikhail Khristenko warned. Khristenko was the chief of the General Staff. “Their reserves are only partially mobilized at this moment, but every hour we wait gives the enemy more time to integrate these men into active-duty brigades and battalions.”

“That is true, General,” Gryzlov agreed. He swung back toward the map and used a control to highlight the current concentration areas of Russia's own ground and air forces in the Ukraine, along Russia's border with Belarus, and within Russia itself. In every case, they were at least several hundred kilometers from the Polish border. “But who really benefits
more
from five uninterrupted days of preparation—and maneuver?”

“You mean for us to conduct our prewar marches while the Poles dither,” Sokolov realized suddenly.

“Exactly!” the president said, nodding. He grinned at them. “While Wilk and his government ministers scuttle about, looking for any possible alternative to war, our tank, artillery, and motor-rifle formations will mass on the Polish frontier. And when all of Poland's futile efforts fail, as they must, our soldiers will be ready to strike with overwhelming force—backed by our most advanced combat aircraft and missile units.”

“What if the Poles attack us on the march, before the ultimatum expires?” Khristenko asked quietly. “In war, the enemy always has a vote.”

Gryzlov shrugged again. “With what? A few companies of commandos flown on aging Mi-17 helicopters? A handful of near-obsolete F-16s and MiG-29s? Our Su-27, Su-30, and Su-35 interceptors and our mobile SAM battalions would swat them all out of the sky!”

There were murmurs of agreement from the officers gathered around the table. Up to now, the Polish-backed terrorists—attacking covertly and at times and places of their own choosing—had been able to evade the overwhelming numerical and qualitative superiority of Russia's armed forces. In any open engagement, however, they were doomed to defeat.

“Besides,” Gryzlov went on, with even colder smile on his face, “if the Poles attack
us
before our ultimatum expires, they will be marked even more plainly as aggressors in the eyes of the world.”

Sokolov noticed even cynical Sergei Tarzarov's head nodding at that. The minister of defense suspected there was little else about this situation that made the president's chief of staff happy. The older man had long been a proponent of watchful caution in international affairs, and nothing about what was happening now smacked of either watchfulness or caution.

“My orders are simple and straightforward,” Gryzlov told them. “I want two full armies—the Twentieth Guards Army and the Sixth Army—in position on the Polish border within five days. The Sixth Army will advance through Belarus. Its government, so closely linked with ours, has already given its consent. The Twentieth will move through the northern sectors of the western Ukraine. Foreign Minister Titeneva has already received my instructions to secure Kiev's full cooperation for the peaceful transit of our troops.” He showed his teeth. “Since the Ukrainians face certain destruction if they thwart us, I think we can count on their acquiescence.”

“Let us hope so, sir,” Tarzarov said drily. “Two foreign wars at one time might be considered overly ambitious by some.”

Rather than turning red with fury as Sokolov half expected, the president only gently waved a finger at his chief of staff. “Now, now, Sergei. There'll be time enough for your perpetual naysaying later, if things go wrong, eh?”

“As you wish, Mr. President,” Tarzarov murmured.

Sokolov and Khristenko exchanged discreet, worried glances. Stripped down to the essentials, their president's plan required moving more than one hundred thousand soldiers and several thousand artillery pieces, rocket launchers, tanks, and infantry fighting vehicles over huge distances within a very short period of time. It was doable, but it would be difficult—even without possible opposition from the Poles or the Ukrainians. Between the limited number of trucks available and the relatively low capacity of the road and rail net in those regions, their first-echelon troops would probably only
be able to bring stocks of fuel and ammunition augmented slightly above peacetime levels. While those supplies might suffice for a short, sharp campaign, heavier fighting would require huge resupply convoys moving regularly between depots in Russia and the battlefront. Without protection against air or missile attack, those columns of supply trucks and fuel tankers would be incredibly vulnerable.

Satisfied, Gryzlov went back to issuing orders. “Both field armies will be supported by strong detachments of our most advanced combat aircraft—including fighters and Su-24 and Su-34 fighter-bombers. These air-force units should be based as far forward as possible. I want guaranteed full air superiority over the Poles as soon as the war begins!”

Sokolov breathed a little easier. Maintaining air superiority was vital to moving and supplying such large ground forces so far from Russia's current borders. He should have realized that Gryzlov, well schooled in air tactics and strategy by virtue of his earlier military training, would understand that.

“Finally, as an operational attack force of last resort, I want a brigade of Iskander R-500 cruise missiles and Iskander-M tactical ballistic missiles deployed within range of Warsaw, other industrial centers, and key Polish air bases.” Gryzlov tapped one of the computer-driven display controls, bringing up a new graphic overlay on the map. It showed several positions east of the city of Kaliningrad, a small enclave situated on the Baltic Sea between Poland and Lithuania. “I suggest this site. These woods offer good camouflage against satellite detection and we can ring the Iskander launchers with mobile SAM battalions.”

Khristenko studied that for a moment and then nodded. “An excellent choice, Mr. President. New solid-rocket propellants give our Iskander-M rockets much greater range, but the Western powers do not yet fully realize this. Even if they detect the movement of our missile brigades, they will not see a deployment there as an effective offensive threat.”

“Indeed,” Gryzlov said smugly. “And yet, from this area, our
missiles can strike most of northern and central Poland with little more than six minutes of warning time—hitting any targets we select with incredible accuracy and force. So, if Poland's defenses prove stronger than we expect, we will pound them into burning heaps of rubble!”

The assembled generals and staff officers nodded again. Iskander-M missiles carried warheads with almost a ton of conventional high explosives; plus, their inertial and optical homing guidance systems gave them high precision, a circular error probability rating of just five to seven meters. The newer R-500 cruise missiles, fired from the same launchers, had even longer range and better accuracy. Left unspoken, but front and center in all of their minds, was the fact that both versions of the Iskander could also be fitted with nuclear warheads—should their president opt in the end to annihilate the Poles rather than simply conquer them.

“Excuse me, sir,” Tarzarov said, “but may I remind you that we have agreed not to station Iskander units in Kaliningrad Oblast? Moving these missiles into Kaliningrad, no matter our level of secrecy, will surely be detected.”

“I'm not concerned with that, Sergei,” Gryzlov said with a dismissive wave of a hand. “We have been forced to mobilize for war, and I intend to use every weapon at my disposal. The Iskander missiles are our most accurate and survivable battlefield weapon, and I will not keep them out of the fight because of a political concession made years ago. If NATO doesn't like it, they can tell the Poles to back off, or they can declare war on Russia.” He smiled and nodded. “I would welcome either.”