Iron Wolf (43 page)

O
VER
P
OLAND

A
SHORT TIME LATER

The Polish Air Force W-3
Sokól
VIP helicopter carrying Wilk and Martindale back to Warsaw flew low over the blacked-out countryside. Two F-16C fighters patrolled ahead.

Though he usually preferred flying in the copilot's seat, Wilk had decided to make this hop in the helicopter's passenger compartment. He and the American head of Scion needed to confer on alternative war plans in the event that the Iron Wolf strike failed or was only partially successful.

“Besides evacuating your cabinet officials and armed forces staff out of Warsaw, you'll need to disperse as many combat aircraft as you can as soon as possible,” Martindale said. “It's a safe bet that your air bases are high up on Gryzlov's target list.”

Wilk nodded, pulling up data on his personal tablet. “Not counting active military fields, there are another eighty or so civilian airfields with paved runways.” He frowned. “Not all of them are suitable, and some, like our major airports, will also be hit in a first wave.” He looked across the narrow space at Martindale. “Moving the fighters is relatively easy. I doubt we'll have time to shift much of our ordnance, fuel, and maintenance stocks.”

“True,” the American agreed. “But keeping something up your sleeve—even just enough F-16s and MiG-29s to make one or two combat sorties—is always better than nothing.”

“Mr. President,” the helicopter pilot's voice cut in through their headsets. “I am receiving an urgent encrypted radio transmission relayed through Warsaw. The American president is asking to speak with you immediately!”

Wilk exchanged a surprised look with Martindale. What more could Barbeau possibly have to say to him? Another patronizing suggestion that Poland yield to Moscow? More demands that he get rid of his so-called mercenaries? Well, he
thought wearily, there was only one way to find out. “Patch her through, Jerzy.”

Almost immediately, Stacy Anne Barbeau's honey-sweet voice came through his earphones. “Mr. President? Piotr? Are you there?”

Wilk raised an eyebrow.
Now
she wanted to be on a first-name basis with him? “Yes, Madam President?” he said.

“Thank God, I was able to reach you, Piotr!” she exclaimed. “First, because I really need to apologize for believing that Russian bullshit about those terrorist attacks!”

“Excuse me?”

“My intelligence people just showed me new evidence that proves your country was framed,” Barbeau said, speaking quickly. “Which means you were right all along. And it means I got terrible advice from the military and foreign policy folks I trusted when this crisis broke!”

“I am very glad to hear this admission of error, Madam President,” Wilk said, more slowly. He raised an eyebrow at Martindale. New evidence? The American shook his head in puzzlement, indicating that his own intelligence analysts hadn't found anything resembling that kind of proof when prowling through CIA and NSA databases. Wilk frowned. “But while this news is welcome, it does nothing to offset the great peril my nation faces now.”

“That's the second reason for this call,” Barbeau told him. Her voice grew even more fervent. “My administration has to make this right! We have to stand with you against this unprovoked Russian aggression! And that's why I've authorized the dispatch of immediate American military aid to Poland. My hope is that our show of support will convince Moscow to back down before this war escalates out of control.”

“What kind of military aid?” Wilk asked carefully.

“Not as much as I would like at first,” Barbeau admitted. “It'll take time to ramp up the flow of supplies and weapons. But I've ordered my Pentagon people to do what they can as fast as possible. That's why we have a flight of C-17 transports in the air right now. They're loaded with supplies—mostly our best antitank guided
missiles—and with some military liaison teams to help your troops use them effectively. Those C-17s are only minutes outside your airspace, on the way to that military base outside Warsaw.”

“Mi
ń
sk Mazowiecki?”

“That's the one!” Barbeau said warmly. “Can you give our planes clearance through your air defense network?”

Inwardly, Wilk seethed. She thought the belated gift of a few antitank missiles and some Special Forces advisers would make up for betraying their alliance earlier—when it most mattered? Did she believe him to be that desperate? Or that naive? Or had Russia's recent battlefield defeats convinced Barbeau that it was time to jump on the victory bandwagon?

Then again, he reminded himself, Poland was still threatened by Gryzlov's missiles. His country still needed all the military help it could get—no matter how small or seemingly insignificant. “Very well, Madam President,” he said. “I will clear your C-17s through to land at Warsaw.”

T
HE
W
HITE
H
OUSE,

W
ASHINGTON,
D
.
C
.

T
HAT SAME TIME

Quickly, President Barbeau cut the connection to her Polish counterpart. Then she glanced at her personal computer. Moscow time was eight hours ahead of D.C. It was already very late there.

For a moment more, she hesitated. What she was doing was risky, insanely risky. But what choice did she really have? Could she allow the Poles and Martindale to drag America and the rest of Europe into a wider war? A nuclear war? Pull yourself together, Stacy Anne, she told herself sternly. Of course not! Besides, it was too late to back out now. Events were already in motion.

She pulled open a desk drawer and took out a brand-new smartphone. It wasn't registered to her or to anyone in the White House. Years of political wheeling and dealing, often at or beyond the edge of strict legality, had taught her the vital importance of being able to communicate without being traced. One firm touch on the small screen dialed the number of another, equally anonymous phone. “Luke, honey,” she said to the groggy-sounding man on the other end. “You tell our mutual friend that it's on. The Poles have just opened their back door.”

Another firm finger press ended the call.

Then, unhurriedly, Stacy Anne Barbeau got up from her desk and headed for the White House Situation Room.

Courage is the capacity to confront what can be imagined.

—
L
EO
R
OSTEN,
R
USSIAN
A
MERICAN TEACHER AND WRITER

O
VER
P
OLAND

A
SHORT TIME LATER

U.S. Army Ranger First Sergeant Mike Ikeda leaned close to his commanding officer, Captain Daniel Rojas, speaking just loud enough to be heard over the droning roar of the C-17's four big engines. “You know this operation is totally FUBAR'd, sir, right?”

Rojas shot him a tight, irritated grin. “As per usual, Sergeant? Or in its own very special way?”

“All on its own,” Ikeda said. He shook his head in disgust. “First, because we're hitting the wrong side in this war. Second, because two platoons in one C-17 isn't enough troops to safely accomplish the mission. And three, because the ROEs are screwy beyond belief.” He tapped the M320 single-shot grenade launcher attached to his
M4 carbine. “What is this ‘nonlethal' bullshit? I'm really supposed to use this thing like it's a fricking giant Taser?”

Rojas frowned. “You've been trained in the use of the 40mm Human Electro-Muscular Incapacitation Projectile, haven't you, First Sergeant?”

“Sure thing, Captain,” Ikeda said. “The damn HEMI thing works great for crowd control. I can reach out and zap some son of a bitch troublemaker with fifty thousand volts up to a couple hundred feet away.” He glowered. “But I think it royally sucks as the weapon of choice when you're going up against fully armed troops.”

Now Rojas sighed. “The rules of engagement specify nonlethal weapons use precisely
because
we don't want to kill anyone we don't have to. This is supposed to be a quick, tight, surgical operation with a very specific and very limited objective.”

“Yes, sir,” Ikeda agreed. He shrugged. “I just hope like hell the guys on the other side understand that.”

“Amen, First Sergeant,” Rojas said. “Any other complaints?” he asked drily.

“Just one for now, sir,” the Ranger noncom said. He jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. “That AFSOC Zoomie gives me the creeps. The guy's so fucking gung ho that he's gotta be bucking for a goddamn medal. And that's the kind of shit that could get other people killed.”

Rojas glanced back into the crowded troop compartment. Even among the tightly packed Army Rangers and Air Force Special Operations commandos, he had no trouble spotting First Lieutenant William Weber. The tall, wiry young Air Force officer wore thick horn-rimmed sports glasses and his eyes gleamed with excitement. He was talking animatedly to the members of his own team, jabbing a stiff finger into the palm of his hand to emphasize his points.

“Yeah, you may be right, Mike,” the Ranger captain said slowly. “So we follow our part of the plan and secure the perimeter. Let Weber and his guys handle the technical stuff like they're supposed to.”

“Yes, sir.”

A red light flashed inside the darkened compartment. The C-17's jumpmaster yelled, “Five minutes! Outboard personnel stand up!” Struggling against the weight of their parachutes and other gear, the Rangers and Air Force commandos seated along the fuselage levered themselves upright and turned to face the rear ramp.

“Inboard personnel! On your feet!” The troops seated in two rows facing outward got up. Slowly, the noise of the C-17's engines began diminishing. The big plane was slowing toward jump speed . . .

R
EMOTE
O
PERATIONS
C
ONTROL
C
ENTER,

P
OWIDZ,
P
OLAND

A
SHORT TIME LATER

The eighteen men and women making up nine of the Iron Wolf Squadron's ten XF-111 remote-piloting crews crowded inside the ready room, listening intently while Brad McLanahan briefed them on the most recent intelligence affecting their mission.

“From the radar emissions our RQ-20 Vedette chain is picking up, we're pretty sure the Russians have a Beriev-100 up over Krylovo in south-central Kaliningrad, near the Polish border, covering the approaches to the Iskander missile field,” Brad said, keying in the Russian AWACS plane's estimated position on the big wall display. He then keyed in another position on the map, not far outside the predicted maximum detection range for the Beriev-100's radar. “As per the mission plan, two Coyotes took off twenty minutes ago, heading for this point. We're positioning the third Coyote to the east in case it's needed against the Russian Army moving in from the east. They're armed with—”

A small cylinder hit the floor in front of him, bounced once, and then went off with a blinding, earsplitting
BANG
.

The explosion threw Brad back against the display. In that same moment, another flashbang grenade detonated at the back of the ready room. Smoke and bits of torn ceiling insulation swirled through the air. Before the stunned and disoriented Iron Wolf pilots and weapons officers could recover their wits, a sea of heavily armed men stormed through the gray haze—knocking them to the floor at gunpoint.

What the hell? Brad thought woozily. He tried to straighten up, and then went down hard when one of the invaders kicked his feet out from under him. With brutal efficiency, the other man yanked his wrists behind his back and secured them with plastic flexicuffs.

One by one, the Iron Wolf crews were hauled to their feet, cuffed, and prodded back against a wall by soldiers in battle dress and body armor. American soldiers, Brad realized groggily as the smoke cleared. He gritted his teeth. They were being held at gunpoint by U.S. Special Forces troops? This was just
wrong
—on so many more levels than his aching brain could count right now.

Slowly, his battered ears stopped ringing. Now he could hear more noises coming from the rest of the Remote Operations Control Center—the sounds of shattering glass and plastic. Overhead, the lights flickered and an acrid smell of frying circuit boards and other electronics rolled in through the open ready-room door. Oh, shit, he realized, these bastards are wrecking our remote-control stations.

A tall, lean U.S. Air Force officer with first lieutenant's bars on his collar strutted down the line of prisoners. Pale blue eyes gleamed evilly behind thick glasses. He stopped in front of Brad and looked him up and down. A sneer formed on his pale, thin face. “Well, well, well, what do we have here?” he said in a thick Alabama drawl. “I do believe this is that well-known, thoroughly useless piece of dog crap named Bradley J. McLanahan.”

Oh, hell, Brad thought, suddenly recognizing him. Three years ago, then second-class cadet William Weber had goaded him into losing his temper during “Second Beast”—the three-week field training camp that every would-be cadet had to pass before starting the first academic year at the U.S. Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs. Decking that smug son of a bitch had felt really good at the time, but it had also cost him his appointment to the Academy and any hope of a career in the U.S. military.

“Man, that's sure a slick getup,” Weber taunted, tapping Brad's dark, rifle-green Iron Wolf Squadron jacket with a long index finger. “Does it help you sell many Girl Scout cookies?” He snorted. “You and your fancy-pants mercenaries aren't so tough without your big metal friends around to bail you out, are you?”

With an effort, Brad kept his mouth shut. Did Weber and his
goons believe the Iron Wolf special ops teams were still out in the field? Oh, man, he thought, were they riding for a very unpleasant fall . . .

Weber adjusted the video cam on his helmet, grinning nastily. “Say hello to the good folks back in the States, McLanahan. Because here the party's over. Your next stop is a cell in a federal maximum-security prison.”