Iron Wolf

FIVE

Brad McLanahan looked up at the Cybernetic Infantry Device piloted by his father, Patrick. No matter how hard you tried, he thought, there were some things you never got used to. This was one of them.

Nearly two years ago, he was sure that he’d seen his father killed — mangled when a 30mm cannon burst from a Chinese J-15 fighter had ripped into the left side of the XB-1 Excalibur bomber they had been flying together. There had even been a funeral service for him, attended by both the sitting president and the vice president of the United States.

Then, last year, during his work on the Starfire Project, he had come face-to-face with this CID, or one just like it, and learned that his father had not died of his terrible wounds after all. Or at least not permanently.

Kevin Martindale had dispatched a Scion team to Guam to collect intelligence data on the Chinese sneak attack that had smashed Andersen Air Force Base. There, in a little clinic outside the base, they found Patrick McLanahan resuscitated from clinical death and still clinging feebly to life. But he was in critical condition and it seemed highly unlikely that he would survive long enough to be evacuated back to the United States. As a desperate emergency measure, the Scion team had placed him inside a CID, hoping the robot’s automated life-support systems could help keep him alive long enough to die in a hospital. To their amazement, the CID had not only stabilized Patrick’s condition, it had brought him back to full consciousness.

But there was a catch.

Patrick McLanahan could fully function inside the manned robot, piloting it and employing its weapons and sensors effectively. The CID’s systems monitored his body and brain and supplied the oxygen, water, and nutrients needed to sustain his life. And its sensor arrays and computers allowed him to see and interact electronically with the world. But the CID could not heal him. Outside its confines, his damaged body, unable to breathe on its own, would gradually slip into a coma.

Faced with a choice between life trapped in a machine and the endless twilight of a permanent vegetative state, he had opted for life… at least, life of a sort.

Since then, Brad knew his father had become part of Scion — training with Martindale’s direct-action teams and using the CID’s computers and sensors to assist in the company’s intelligence-gathering, planning, and counterterrorist surveillance operations. From some of the things Patrick had said in their relatively few private conversations, he suspected there was a lot more to it than that.

And it was probably high time that he found out exactly what that was.

“It’s really great to see you, Dad,” Brad said, working hard to keep his voice from shaking. “But I guess you didn’t bring me all the way out here just for a father-son chat.”

“No, Brad, I didn’t,” his father said somberly.

“Have you picked up intel on some new murder plot by the Russians?” Brad asked. Last year, Scion security teams had stopped several attempts by Russian agents to kill him — attempts directly ordered by Russia’s president. That was what had first prompted his father to reveal his own unexpected survival to Brad. Another effort by Gennadiy Gryzlov to try wiping out anyone carrying the McLanahan name could explain why he’d been yanked out of Sky Masters and the U.S. so covertly.

“Not precisely,” Patrick said.

“Then why am I here?” Brad wondered. He shrugged. “I mean, seeing all this supersecret spy stuff is really cool, but it’s not really my forte. Besides, my junior year at Cal Poly starts in mid-September. And I don’t think my professors will buy the ‘please excuse my absence, because I was visiting a covert private military base’ line — even if you or President Martindale would let me use it.”

The CID was silent for several moments. Brad wished again that he could see his father’s face or hear his real laugh. It was unnerving to look up and see only the robot’s smooth, expressionless armor, even knowing that the older McLanahan was cocooned inside.

“To some extent, you’re here partly because we don’t have a good fix on Gryzlov’s plans or intentions,” Patrick said finally.

Brad frowned. “Look, Dad, no offense, but I can take care of myself. Sergeant Major Wohl and his countersurveillance guys taught me pretty well.”

“Chris Wohl was a good man,” his father agreed. “But that’s not the point, son.”

Brad took another deep breath. “Okay… what is the point?”

“You saw the news about that Russian general who was assassinated and Moscow’s revenge attack on that Polish village near the Ukrainian border?”

Brad nodded. “Yeah. It sounded pretty bad, like that crazy son of a bitch Gryzlov’s gone off his meds again. But what’s that got to do with me?”

“Maybe nothing,” his father admitted. “But maybe everything. Intelligence gathering, even with my ability to poke around inside secure computer systems, is an inexact science. We only ever see fragments of the real picture, so we have to do a lot of interpolation and extrapolation from the scraps of hard data we do pick up.”

“Like figuring out a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle when you’ve only got handful of the pieces,” Brad realized.

“And when you’re not even sure that all the pieces you found belong to the same puzzle,” Patrick agreed. “It’s a question of learning to recognize certain patterns — patterns of encrypted communications, troop and aircraft movements, leadership rhetoric, weapons procurement decisions, and a lot of other factors.”

“And now you’re picking warning signs of something bad happening?” Brad asked carefully.

“It’s more like seeing the intelligence picture we thought we had a grip on suddenly shift into something we don’t yet recognize,” his father said. “Which means we’re in the dark right now, as far as figuring out what the Russians are up to goes. And being in the dark about what a tyrant like Gennadiy Gryzlov intends is a very dangerous place to be.”

“Yeah, I understand that,” Brad said. Then he looked up at the CID. “I’m sorry, Dad, but none of what you’ve just described sounds like a serious reason to blow the kind of money or pull the kind of covert stunts your people just used to fly me here.”

“We’re convinced the Russians may be planning something big,” Patrick said stubbornly. “Something that may be very dangerous. The murder of that general of theirs, Voronov, was a catalyst of some kind. We’re picking up signs of heightened readiness in every branch of the Russian armed forces. They’re flying more aircraft near Poland and the Baltic states. More tank and motor-rifle brigades are moving from cantonments deep inside Russia to new bases closer to the Ukrainian border. And their tactical missile forces appear to be running repeated firing drills.”

Brad whistled softly. “Okay, that doesn’t sound good.” Then he shook his head. “But that’s not evidence of any threat to me personally.”

“Except for the fact that the last time Gryzlov decided to take a shot at you, he also started firing missiles at our spaceplanes and Armstrong Space Station,” his father reminded him. “He has a track record of trying to settle personal grudges at the same time that he’s pursuing strategic military options.”

“That’s pretty thin, Dad,” Brad said slowly.

“Yes, it is,” his father agreed. “But you’re my son. And I’ve learned the hard way to trust my instincts. I’m not prepared to risk your life in the hope that Gennadiy Gryzlov or the killers he gives orders to have learned to leave the McLanahans alone. If I’m wrong and there aren’t assassins hunting you again, we’ll know soon enough, and you can go back to Cal Poly. In the meantime, we really do need you here.”

“You need me?” Brad didn’t bother hiding his surprise. “Why?”

“You’ve met Mark Darrow,” his father said.

Brad nodded, keeping his expression carefully blank. He still wasn’t sure what he thought of the ex-RAF flier.

“Well, we’re assembling a cadre of pilots like him, all with similar skills and experience,” Patrick said. “So far, they’re mostly from the U.S., the UK, and Canada. They’re all ex-military, trained to fly some of the most advanced aircraft in the world.”

“Which is interesting, but still it doesn’t explain why you’ve brought me here,” Brad said.

“These men and women are great aviators,” his father said. “But they’re still just a collection of individual pilots. They don’t yet form a cohesive unit. What we need them to become is a tough, top-notch flying and fighting squadron. And that’s what I want you to build them into.”

“Me?” Brad exclaimed. “Look, Dad, I’m just a college kid. My total real military leadership experience is just about zero, even if you count my time in the Civil Air Patrol.”

“I watched you build your Starfire team, son,” Patrick said. “You took a bunch of eccentric, brilliant individualists and turned them into an incredible scientific and engineering group — a group that was able to meet and overcome obstacles that were far bigger than anyone could have predicted. You then built a design and consultation portfolio with the names of hundreds of scientists and engineers all over the world, all of whom volunteered to assist.”

“I had Jerry Kim and Jodie Cavendish,” Brad said. “They were the marquee names. That’s what attracted the technical and money contributions.”

“They were superstars, no doubt, but there’s also no doubt that the team never would have happened without your leadership,” Patrick said. “Jodie had been working on her own for years; Jung-bae Kim was so high in the theoretical-science stratosphere that no one ever thought about recruiting him… except you. Then, you made them all work together. That kind of leadership is hard to find.”

“Maybe that’s true,” Brad said. His eyes darkened at the thought of his friend and fourth teammate Casey Huggins, the youngest female and the first paraplegic ever to travel to Earth orbit. She had been killed in the Russian attack on Starfire, awarding her yet another historic first: the youngest woman to die in Earth orbit. “Casey died in the process.”

“That wasn’t your doing,” Patrick said. “Blame Gryzlov and his thugs.”

“Even so, Starfire was different,” Brad insisted. “Corralling students, scientists, and engineers to design and build and test that microwave laser was one thing. It was an incredibly cool project we all loved. But asking me to do the same thing with a bunch of zipper-suited sun-god fighter pilots and bomber jocks…” He shook his head. “That’s totally different.”

“Maybe not as different as you imagine,” Patrick said.

“I don’t get that.”

“I’d guess Darrow did some showing off on your flight in,” his father said carefully.

“Oh, yeah,” Brad said sourly. “He’s absolutely a shit-hot pilot. And I got the definite impression he wanted me to know it.”

Patrick said nothing for a few moments. Then he asked, “Didn’t it ever occur to you to wonder why he bothered to do that? I mean, if you’re just a college student like you said, right? Why should a top-of-the-line veteran RAF aviator give a damn about what you think of his flying skills?”

“Maybe he was trying to impress you through me,” Brad said. “You know, get the word to the boss, former Lieutenant General Patrick S. McLanahan, through his kid.”

“He doesn’t know who I am, son,” his father said. “None of them do. We’re still keeping the fact that I’m alive a closely held secret. To Darrow and the other pilots here, I’m just a faceless man in the machine or a call sign on the radio or an identifier tag on a Scion e-mail.”

“Oh,” Brad said, trying to hide the sorrow he suddenly felt. His father had always insisted that he didn’t want anyone’s pity — and that he didn’t regret the choice he had made.

“You, on the other hand, are not exactly anonymous,” Patrick went on doggedly, not giving him the chance to dodge. “You’ve flown in real combat — both against the Chinese and in space, against the Russians. Maybe that’s old news to a lot of people on the outside, but it’s not in the military aviation community. And especially not among the kind of people we recruit into Scion. Whether you believe it or not, Brad, the other pilots assembling here at the Scrapheap already know that you are their equal. Of course, they would all rather screw the pooch in front of the rest of the others than admit that.”

Not sure of what to say to that, Brad colored in embarrassment. He looked down at his shoes, waiting for the telltale warmth to fade. Then he glanced up at the huge CID standing motionless in front of him. “But what do I do, Dad? I mean, I can’t just strut into the ready room, strike a heroic pose, and say, ‘Hey, boys and girls, I’ve got an idea, let’s get together and build ourselves an elite combat air squadron!’ ”

“Just be yourself,” his father said. “Trust your instincts about people and about how to motivate them. Get to meet the other pilots first and—”

He broke off suddenly. The CID’s six-sided head swiveled away smoothly, as though it were listening to something in the distance.

“Dad?”

“It looks as though you got here just in time, Brad,” his father said. “I’m picking up a whole series of emergency signals on frequencies used by the Russian Air Force. One of their Su-24s just went down over eastern Ukraine.”

“Was it an accident?” Brad asked grimly.

“Only if someone accidentally fired off a number of shoulder-launched SAMs at the same moment that Russian pilot flew overhead.”

“Oh, crap.”

The CID nodded. “I am glad you’re here now, son. Because I suspect we are about to get very, very busy.”

“So, once again, it seems that my vaunted military is left with egg all over its foolish face,” President Gennadiy Gryzlov said acidly, staring down the length of the conference table at Gregor Sokolov, the minister of defense.

Sokolov turned pale. “With respect, Mr. President,” he said. “The General Staff and the Defense Ministry are not responsible for the tactical errors of the United Armed Forces of Novorossiya! These Ukrainian separatists are an independent militia, one which is not under our direct command and control.”

“Bullshit!” Gryzlov growled. “Peddle that lie to someone else, perhaps to some of those idiots in the UN or the EU.” He slammed a clenched fist on the table, rattling the teacups and ashtrays placed before the increasingly worried-looking members of his national security team. “We all know who calls the shots in the eastern Ukraine.” He swung around on his chief of staff, seated next to him. “Correct, Sergei?”

“Yes, sir,” Tarzarov said. “We do.”

“Goddamned right.” Gryzlov turned back to Sokolov. “So cut the crap, Gregor. Tell me, how many ‘volunteers’ from our armed forces were inside that compound last night? Before the terrorists blew it all to hell, I mean.”

The defense minister looked down at his tablet computer, checking through the notes prepared by his staff. He looked up, even paler now. “Seven officers, Mr. President. A colonel, two majors, and four captains. They were assigned to the separatists to handle training and weapons familiarization.”

“And how many of them survived this little debacle?” Gryzlov asked.

“None,” Sokolov admitted.

“Perhaps that is just as well,” the president said coldly. “Otherwise, I would have been forced to sign orders for their immediate execution for incompetence and cowardice in the face of the enemy — after the obligatory field courts-martial, naturally.”

Still scowling, he looked at the powerfully built, white-haired man sitting impassively next to the minister of defense. Colonel General Valentin Maksimov, commander of the Russian Air Force, had taught at the Yuri Gagarin Military Air Academy during Gryzlov’s days as a cadet there. Despite the respect he still felt for his old commanding officer, Gryzlov had no intention of allowing any of his subordinates to wriggle off the hook. Coming so soon after the murder of Lieutenant General Voronov, these multiple military fiascos in the eastern Ukraine were inexcusable.

“And you, Maksimov,” Gryzlov asked. “How do you explain what happened to your Su-24?”

“The evidence is fairly clear,” the older man said calmly. “Captain Davydov’s plane was hit by at least one surface-to-air missile. I’ve dispatched an incident team to the crash site. Once they send me a more detailed report, I’ll know more. In the meantime, preliminary data suggests the weapon used had a small warhead, probably something on the order of one of our own 9K38 Iglas or the American-made Stinger missiles.”

“I’m not talking about Davydov’s aircraft!” Gryzlov snapped.

“Sir?” Maksimov looked puzzled.

“I want to know about the other Su-24!” Gryzlov said. “The one that turned tail and ran before Davydov’s bomber was shot down.”

“I am afraid you are misinformed, Mr. President,” Maksimov said, frowning. “Captain Nikolayev and his weapons officer returned to base because their aircraft showed clear signs of a potentially hazardous engine failure.”

“And you believe their story?” Gryzlov asked skeptically.

“I believe the maintenance report submitted by the Seven Thousandth Aviation Base at Voronezh Malshevo,” the other man said stiffly. “Engine failures are always a risk, especially in aircraft with so many years of service.”

“I see.” Gryzlov smiled. “That is very… illuminating.” He turned his dark gaze on Viktor Kazyanov.

The minister of state security appeared even more nervous than the others, Gryzlov noted. That was as it should be. Not only had the intelligence agencies nominally under Kazyanov’s control completely failed to identify the terrorists responsible for Voronov’s assassination, they had also failed to pick up any warning signs of this new terrorist attack in the Ukraine. No doubt Kazyanov expected to be immediately dismissed from his post and perhaps imprisoned or worse. That was tempting, he thought. But poor Viktor made a useful whipping boy. For now.

“Kazyanov!” Gryzlov said sharply, watching with inner glee as the other man swallowed convulsively.

“Yes, Mr. President!”

“I want an immediate investigation of the maintenance staff at the Seven Thousandth Aviation Base,” Gryzlov ordered. “Find out if any of its officers or men are saboteurs in league with these terrorists.”

“Sir!” Maksimov cut in. “I must protest. There is no evidence of any sabotage against our aircraft!”

“Of course there isn’t, General,” Gryzlov said coolly. “Then again, we haven’t started looking for it yet, have we? Who can say what dirty little secrets Kazyanov’s ferrets may uncover?”

He turned back to the rest of his national security advisers, most of whom sat transfixed in their seats, watching him as closely and as fearfully as a flock of sheep might eye a wolf circling ever nearer. “So much for the humiliating failures of the past twenty-four hours,” he said. “Now we face a bigger challenge.”

His chief of staff was one of the few apparently unfazed by their leader’s display of temper. Tarzarov raised an eyebrow. “In what way?”

“It is time to face unpleasant facts,” Gryzlov said. “It is time to realize that we face an enemy who is waging a war against us, a secret war. And that this is a war we are losing.”

“I am not sure that two separate terrorist attacks — however destructive — can or should be construed as acts of war,” Foreign Minister Daria Titeneva said, choosing her words with evident care. “If we do so, we might be tempted to overreact.”

Her colleagues, still watching Gryzlov’s grim, tight-lipped face, edged perceptibly away from the foreign minister — as if they were subtly and not so subtly disassociating themselves from her cautiously expressed dissent.

“Overreact, Daria?” the Russian president said with deceptive mildness. “You truly believe the risk of overreacting is the real danger we face here?”

Titeneva sat rigid, clearly aware that she was treading on dangerous ground. But she forced herself to go on. “It is one of them, Mr. President,” she said. “We were very fortunate that our last retaliatory strike into Poland did not provoke a larger international crisis.”

“I think you are mistaken,” Gryzlov told her flatly. “In fact, it is precisely our own demonstrated weakness which now tempts our enemies into carrying out ever-more-deadly attacks against us.”

“I do not understand what you mean, Mr. President,” Titeneva said, plainly troubled.

“Think about it!” he snapped. “The first terrorist attack cost us twelve dead, including a senior officer. And what was our reaction? A pinprick, nothing more. One tiny village destroyed, along with an old missile radar and a pair of near-obsolete fighter planes. Nothing of significance!”

Gryzlov looked around the conference table. “And what have we done since then? Tell me, what?”

There was silence.

“Exactly,” he snarled. “We have been passive. Idle. Locked in a defensive crouch. Certainly, we’ve had more fighters and bombers circling endlessly on patrol. But to what end?” Angrily, Gryzlov stabbed a finger at the conference room’s large flat-screen monitor, which showed gruesome images taken by the first Russian troops rushed in to reinforce the burned-out separatist base. “To that end! More than two hundred dead. A battery of heavy rocket artillery annihilated. And one of our fighter-bombers blown out of the sky.”

He turned to the minister of defense. “Tell me, Gregor. How many of the terrorists who attacked that camp have your soldiers killed or captured so far?”

“None,” Sokolov said reluctantly. “It appears that the enemy force dispersed well before our reaction force arrived.”

“Leaving us looking like fools,” Gryzlov said bluntly. “Weak, incompetent, cowardly fools.” He shook his head. “That must stop. We must act boldly and decisively against this terrorist threat. And we must do so before it metastasizes into something infinitely more dangerous.”

Titeneva stirred herself. “We cannot attack Poland a second time, Mr. President! Not in retaliation for this act of terrorism, which occurred hundreds of kilometers outside its territory. Weak though she may be, you heard the American president’s warning. If we strike the Poles again without clear evidence that Warsaw is somehow involved in this atrocity, the United States might be forced to honor its alliance.”

“True, Daria,” Gryzlov said regretfully. “But I do not intend to punish the Poles again. At least not yet.”

“Then what other options do we have, Gennadiy?” Tarzarov asked, keeping his voice low.

In answer, Gryzlov put his own tablet computer on the table and lightly tapped its slick surface. The pictures of dead men and ruined buildings vanished, replaced by a map of Ukraine. Pockets of red centered on eastern industrial cities like Donetsk and Luhansk showed the extent of the territory controlled by separatists acting on Russian orders.

The Russian president let them all stare at the map for a few moments and then, smiling coldly, he touched the tablet’s screen again. “You ask what we can do?” he said. “This is what we will do.”

Abruptly, the area shown in red expanded, growing rapidly to cover the entire eastern half of Ukraine — all the way up to the line of the Dnieper River. Only a small sliver of territory, containing the eastern half of Kiev, Ukraine’s capital city, remained untouched. There were muffled gasps around the table.

“Annex virtually all of eastern Ukraine?” Tarzarov said, staring at the sea of red. He shook his head. “No one will stand for that, Gennadiy. It’s too much.”

“But we are not annexing this territory,” Gryzlov told him with a wolfish smile. “We are simply establishing a temporary ‘zone of protection’ for the innocent ethnic Russians whose lives and property are in danger from these continuing terrorist attacks. After what happened last night, who can blame us for taking such reasonable and measured precautions?”

He stood up and went up to the display, tracing the long line of the Dnieper River with his finger. “This river is the key,” he told them. “Once our troops control the bridges and ferries across the Dnieper, we can soon get a grip on these terrorists and then tear them to pieces.”

“By cutting their lines of supply and retreat,” Sokolov realized. For the first time that morning, the defense minister looked less hunted.

Gryzlov nodded. “If their hiding places and arms caches are on the east side of the Dnieper, our Spetsnaz forces will eventually find and destroy them. They will have nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.”

“And if the terrorists are receiving Polish support as you suspect?” Titeneva asked quietly.

“If Warsaw is involved, we will soon find out,” he told her. “And it will be much easier to intercept new shipments of Polish-supplied weapons and explosives if they have to cross the Dnieper first.”

“The Ukrainian government will resist our invasion,” the dark-haired foreign minister warned him. “They cannot stand idly by and watch while we seize most of the rest of their heavy industry and move tanks and soldiers right up to the suburbs of their capital.”

“You think not?” Gryzlov wondered. He turned to Sokolov. “How many troops can we move into eastern Ukraine within forty-eight hours?”

“More than forty thousand, Mr. President,” the defense minister said, glancing down at his computer. “Including two tank and four motor-rifle brigades. We can also use elements of the Seventh-Sixth Air Assault Division and the Forty-Fifth Special Reconnaissance Regiment to seize the Dnieper crossings by surprise.”

“And what is your evaluation of the fascist Ukrainian regime’s ability to resist our operation?” Gryzlov asked.

“Negligible,” Sokolov replied. “We shattered their regular army and their so-called volunteer battalions with ease three years ago. Since the Western powers have refused to supply them with arms or ammunition, the Ukrainians are even less able to fight us now. We could destroy their ability to resist in a matter of days at most. Conquering their whole country would be a mere matter of marching!”

“You see?” Gryzlov said to Titeneva. “Kiev’s rulers are not idiots. Given a choice to keep half their country or lose it all forever, they will be sensible.” He shrugged. “Besides, I will promise them that this is only a short-term move to suppress terrorism. If the Ukrainians peacefully withdraw the remnants of their army to the west side of the Dnieper, our troops will stop at the river line. And once we are satisfied that we have destroyed the terrorists who have been attacking us, our tanks and soldiers will return to Russia.”

“Will they?” Tarzarov asked. The older man had a cynical look in his eyes.

“Of course,” Gryzlov said, grinning openly. “After all, Sergei, I am a man of my word, am I not?”

Surrounded by his staff and headquarters security troops, Major General Konstantin Zarubin stood on a low hill, watching his brigade’s T-90 tanks and BMP-3 infantry fighting vehicles rumble west along the highway. Thick clouds of diesel exhaust hung low above the long column of armored vehicles.

Off to the west, the distant clatter of rotors marked the darting flight of Ka-60 reconnaissance and Mi-28 attack helicopters belonging to the 15th Army Aviation Brigade. The helicopters were probing ahead of his advancing battalions, ready to smash the least sign of Ukrainian resistance with rockets, antitank missiles, and 30mm cannon fire.

Zarubin frowned. So far, of course, there had been no resistance. Confronted with President Gryzlov’s ultimatum and sworn pledge that this military venture was purely a defensive and temporary measure, Kiev’s government had ordered its forces to withdraw west of the Dnieper without engaging the advancing Russians.

Well and good, Zarubin thought. It was always better to take territory without a fight. But he wasn’t sure this relative peace and quiet would last much longer. Already there were reports of mass protests and rioting in Kiev and other western Ukrainian cities. If the current government fell, its successor might feel compelled to wage a hopeless war for honor.

The general contemplated that with some unease. Oh, he knew a conventional war against the Ukraine’s outgunned and outnumbered regulars would not last long. One or two sharp battles should finish them off as a coherent force. No, what he worried about was the possibility that open fighting might trigger a bitter guerrilla war here in the east.

Despite what Moscow might say about the ultimate loyalties of the Russian-speaking population of eastern Ukraine, Zarubin had seen few signs of enthusiasm from the locals as his tanks and troops rolled toward the Dnieper. A few Russian flags had fluttered from various public buildings as they drove through towns and cities, but he privately suspected most of those had been planted by Spetsnaz and GRU recon teams sent in ahead of his motor-rifle brigade.

The prospect of facing stony indifference or even cold disapproval from the Ukrainians did not bother him. Unlike the foolish countries of the West, Russia did not train its soldiers to worry excessively about winning the “hearts and minds” of those it conquered. But the general knew that open hostility from even a small fraction of the population in Moscow’s newly proclaimed “Zone of Protection” could present a serious challenge.

Once Zarubin’s tank and motor-rifle battalions reached the Dnieper line, his brigade’s supply lines back to Russia would stretch for more than three hundred and fifty kilometers. That was a lot of territory to guard if partisans began sniping at convoys or planting mines and other improvised explosives. And though Moscow already planned to send additional troops to protect those roads and railroads — both its own border-guard units and groups of Russian-allied separatists brought in from Donetsk and Luhansk — they would still be stretched pretty thinly.

Any protracted guerrilla war would be a big military and diplomatic headache, especially since the whole purposes of this invasion was to isolate and destroy the terrorist bands that had already attacked Russian interests in this region. That was why Zarubin and the other commanders advancing toward the Dnieper were under direct orders to make the painful consequences of any armed resistance or sabotage explicit now, while the local reaction was still in flux.

He turned away from the highway and marched back down the hill toward the gaggle of wheeled and tracked command vehicles that marked his brigade headquarters. A herd of worried-looking civilians waited there, hemmed in by grim-faced Spetsnaz troops in body armor. Most of them were local government officials from the neighboring towns and villages. Others were business owners, Catholic and Orthodox priests, and schoolteachers. They had been rounded up in the early-morning hours and held for his arrival here.

Zarubin clambered up onto the hood of his GAZ Tigr-M 4x4 command car and stood there, looking down at the crowd with his hands on his hips. “Citizens! Since I know that you all want to return to your homes, offices, and places of business, I will make this very short,” he said, raising his voice just enough to be heard. He smiled thinly. “If not so sweet.”

There were no answering smiles.

Undeterred, he carried on. “This region is now part of the Zone of Protection. During this short campaign against terrorist forces, your own local police and officials will remain charged with maintaining law and order on a day-to-day basis. My soldiers and I are here only to protect you from terrorists, not to subject you to our rule.” Zarubin paused for a moment, graciously allowing anyone who felt like it to applaud.

There was only silence.

He shrugged. That was not surprising. Now he hardened his voice. “But make no mistake! The armed forces of the Russian Federation will exercise ultimate authority for as long as is necessary. And interference with our operations will not be tolerated!”

Zarubin eyed the crowd. He had their full attention. Good. Now to ram home today’s civics lesson. “The rules are very simple,” he said sternly. “Obey the orders we give without question and there will be no trouble. But—”

Moving slowly and deliberately, he unsnapped the flap of the holster at his side and drew his 9mm pistol. The faces of the civilians at the front of the crowd turned pale. The Russian general smiled. He raised his pistol so that everyone could see it. “Attacks of any kind on my soldiers or my vehicles or on those we place in authority will be met with deadly force. I warn you now that our reprisals will not be proportionate or measured. On the contrary, they will be designed to inflict enormous pain on the terrorists who attack us — and on anyone who aids these terrorists or even simply turns a blind eye to their criminal actions. For every Russian who is murdered, ten Ukrainians will die! For every piece of Russian equipment destroyed or damaged, ten homes or shops will be burned to the ground!”

That created a stir in the crowd, a palpable ripple of fear.

Seeing it, Zarubin nodded to himself in satisfaction. The threat of Russian reprisals should turn the populace against itself — significantly increasing the numbers of those who could be tempted to report their neighbors for suspicious activities. The lessons of antipartisan warfare were clear. Networks of local collaborators and informants were the key to crushing any attempted campaign of ambush and sabotage.

He jumped down from the Tigr and then beckoned the Spetsnaz captain who commanded this detachment of commandos. “Good work, Pelevin,” he said. “Now get rid of this bunch. Let them walk home. Then send your men out ahead of the column and round up the next batch of local leaders. God help us, but we’ll need to do this all over again another thirty kilometers down the road.”

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.”

“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?”

“This is not wise, sir,” Major Dariusz Stepniak said quietly.

Like the rest of Piotr Wilk’s security detail, Stepniak wore running shoes, sweatpants, a T-shirt, and a lightweight windbreaker concealing a shoulder holster. Agents of Poland’s BOR, the Bureau of Government Protection, its equivalent of the U.S. Secret Service, always accompanied their nation’s chief executive in public. That included going with him on his regular evening run — part of a rigorous daily exercise regimen Wilk had maintained since his days as a cadet at the Air Force Academy in Deblin.

Ordinarily, the Polish president took great pleasure in pushing his bodyguards to their physical limits, sometimes running them into the ground. But this evening was different. He had just ordered Stepniak and his three agents to let him run alone.

“The international situation is too unsettled,” the major insisted. “You should not take unnecessary risks.”

Wilk shook his head. “I don’t need you dogging my heels tonight, Major.” He waved at their surroundings, the edge of a small forest adjacent to the military airfield’s runways and revetments. “We’re inside the perimeter fence here. No one who isn’t authorized can get in or out past the sensors and security guards.” He smiled. “I promise I’ll stick to the trails and I’ll have my phone ready, just in case. Okay? Look, what I really need right now is some uninterrupted thinking time — some peace and quiet.”

The roar of a MiG-29 taking off from a nearby runway punctuated his words.

Major Stepniak raised his voice to be heard. “You call this peace and quiet, sir?”

Wilk grinned. “Dariusz, for an old fighter pilot like me, the sound of a jet engine is like a childhood lullaby.” He patted the taller man on the shoulder. “Now don’t worry. I’ll be careful. Just wait here for me and only come running if I call, right?”

Ten minutes later, Wilk loped along a dirt trail that wound back and forth among tall oaks, ash, and birch trees. Patches of shadow alternated with slashes of red-tinged light cast by the setting sun. He ran easily, not even breaking a sweat yet. But he kept one hand close to the phone clipped to his windbreaker. Despite the confidence he had shown Stepniak, he couldn’t deny that this might turn out to be an incredibly stupid move.

He came around a bend and saw a man waiting for him, standing motionless in the shadows.

Wilk stopped.

Smiling politely, the man came forward onto the trail, out into the sunlight. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me like this, Mr. President,” he said. “I appreciate your trust.”

An American from that accent, Wilk judged. And an educated and sophisticated one, it seemed, wearing a perfectly tailored suit. They were about the same height and build, but the other man was older, with longish gray hair and a carefully trimmed gray beard. Which raised the question of just how someone of that age and dressed so neatly had managed to pass, undetected, through the airfield’s security perimeter.

For a moment, the Polish president’s hand moved toward his phone. Maybe he should call for backup after all. Then he saw the flash of amusement in the other man’s eyes. “My phone has no signal, does it?” he asked carefully in fair English.

“Probably not,” the gray-haired man admitted. He stepped closer. “Captain Rozek’s message to my company stressed your desire for absolute discretion. In the circumstances, I consider that very wise. My people tell me the Russians have really ramped up their intelligence operations in your country over the past couple of weeks.”

Wilk shook hands with him and then looked more closely… and slowly his eyes widened in undisguised surprise. “Martindale,” he realized. “You are Kevin Martindale, once the president of the United States.”

“I was,” the other man said calmly. “But now I run Scion.”

“As a private citizen?” Wilk asked.

Martindale nodded. “That’s right. Scion takes U.S. government contracts from time to time, but I don’t take orders from politicians.” He showed his teeth in a quick grin. “Unless I agree with them, of course.”

“Then you are a…”—Wilk searched for the right words—“a najemnik? A mercenary? A hired gun?”

Martindale shook his head. “Not exactly.” He looked closely at Wilk. “As president of the United States, I focused most of my energy and attention on its defenses and on the defense of the whole free world.”

Wilk nodded. “Of course.”

“Well, that’s still my focus,” Martindale said. “In some ways, I find it a lot easier now. Operating out of the limelight and without all the fretting about short-term politics means that Scion can be far more effective than any government outfit — even those supposed to act covertly like the CIA.”

Wilk frowned. “But acting without government sanction seems—”

“Dangerous?”

Wilk nodded again. “I was going to say ‘irresponsible,’ Mr. President.”

“Irresponsible, no,” Martindale said. “Dangerous… of course. The world is still a dangerous place, perhaps even more dangerous than it was during the first Cold War,” he continued softly. “Men like Gennadiy Gryzlov and other rogue state leaders don’t feel constrained by ideology or even caution and common sense the way the old Communist Party hacks often were. They’re increasingly aggressive and increasingly willing to use force to achieve their objectives.” The American studied Wilk for a few moments. “Then again, you know that better than anyone, don’t you?”

The Polish president nodded stiffly. “Tak, panie prezydencie,” he said. “Yes, Mr. President.”

“Well, that’s where Scion comes in,” Martindale said. “You’ve been looking for a means to offset Russia’s superior numbers and more advanced weapons. My company has what you need. We can provide Poland with a small but extremely powerful and incredibly effective combined ground and air strike force — one that will be able to conduct deep-penetration raids against the Russians if they attack you again.”

“Under whose command?” Wilk demanded. “After all, you’ve just told me that you don’t take orders from politicians. And I, for my sins, am the political leader of my country.” He stared hard at the gray-haired American executive. “But first and foremost, I am the commander in chief of Poland’s armed forces, Mr. Martindale. I have no interest in employing other military forces beyond my control. Which means I will not hire soldiers or pilots or weapons technicians whom I cannot trust to obey my orders.”

“That’s a fair point,” the other man acknowledged. “What I would propose is this: as Poland’s president and commander in chief, you would retain absolute strategic control over any Scion strike forces we provide. That means you pick the targets and you decide whether or not to execute any operations using our people. But you leave the operational and tactical decision making to us. You tell Scion what to hit and when to strike, but you leave the details of how we employ our weapons and systems to accomplish those missions to us.”

“In other words, I should not act like another Lyndon Baines Johnson during the Vietnam War, sitting in my office and picking out bomb loads and aircraft routes?” Wilk suggested with a thin smile.

“Precisely,” Martindale said with an answering smile. “If you hire us, you’re hiring experts who understand all the ins and outs of the advanced weapons we can bring to bear. You fight the war. Let us fight the battles.”

“Your offer is tempting,” Wilk said slowly. “And I know how effectively your Scion teams fought against the Turks invading Iraq.”

“But?”

“But Russia’s ground and air forces are more powerful than the Turkish divisions and fighter squadrons your company faced, perhaps by an order of magnitude.” Wilk sighed. “As impressive as your capabilities are said to be, I do not see how they can provide a significant edge against Moscow. No matter how powerful your weapons are individually, the sheer numbers of tanks, artillery, and aircraft Russia can bring to any battle will inevitably overwhelm any small force. No matter how much I fear and despise Gryzlov and his kind, I would be irresponsible to stake my country’s fate on a confrontation we cannot win.”

“John F. Kennedy once quoted the Irish statesman Edmund Burke as saying that ‘all that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing,’ ” Martindale said. “Burke also wrote that ‘when bad men combine, the good must associate; else they will fall one by one, an unpitied sacrifice in a contemptible struggle.’ ”

He looked closely at Wilk. “Give me access to a secure military area, Mr. President,” Scion’s chief executive suggested quietly. “And I will show you some of what we can do together against our common enemies.”