Iron Wolf

SIX

Set in western Pomerania’s patchwork of woods, rolling hills, swamps, broad clearings, and villages, the military training area was the largest of its kind in Europe, with more than one hundred and thirty square miles of territory available for maneuvers and live fire exercises. Littered with the burned-out hulks of old Soviet tanks and self-propelled guns, it had been used by the Polish Army since 1945 and by NATO forces since 1996.

Now Drawsko Pomorskie had been turned over to Scion. For more than seventy-two hours, Sky Masters cargo aircraft had been busy flying in more old military equipment — U.S. Army surplus Humvees, M-60 tanks, M-113 armored personnel carriers, Huey helicopters, and aircraft salvaged from the U.S. Air Force’s Boneyard, including F-4 Phantoms and T-38 Talon trainers. Polish Army combat engineers and other technical specialists had dispersed this array of vehicles and aircraft across a sector of the exercise area. At Kevin Martindale’s suggestion, they had also liberally seeded the range with barbed-wire entanglements, antitank obstacles, concealed minefields, and hidden machine-gun emplacements set to fire by remote control. None of the minefields or machine-gun nests were marked on the maps given to Scion’s demonstration team.

President Piotr Wilk, Defense Minister Gierek, Martindale, and a handful of trusted aides and senior Polish officers crowded inside a secure bunker built into a hillside. Firing slits and observation ports overlooked a valley now filled with dozens of pieces of camouflaged military hardware.

“All monitoring and defense systems ready,” Captain Nadia Rozek told them, repeating the radioed message passed along by the training area’s exercise control team. She listened to the next transmission as it came through her headset and looked up. “All perimeter security units on full alert. Standing by.”

Wilk lowered his binoculars and glanced at Martindale. “I hope that you are sure about this. Between the minefields we have emplaced and the heavy weapons zeroed in on this sector, it is a potential deathtrap for the personnel in your demonstration unit.”

Scion’s chief executive smiled. “I think our guy will be okay.”

“One man?” Wilk asked in surprise. He nodded toward the exercise area. “Against a simulated force larger than a battalion?”

“That’s right,” Martindale said. He shrugged. “I told you that Scion could give you an edge against the Russians if the balloon goes up. Well, it’s time to show you exactly what I meant.”

“I suggest we give Mr. Martindale his chance to dazzle us, Piotr,” Janusz Gierek said drily. Since being briefed on Scion’s offer, the defense minister had made no secret of his doubts about the company’s claims. “Then, after all of his special effects fade away, we can make a sensible and pragmatic decision.”

“I hope you will forgive Janusz,” Wilk said to the American with a smile. “He is our resident skeptic. If I tell him it is a dark night out, he usually insists on personally verifying that with a light meter.”

“No offense taken, Mr. President,” Martindale said. He chuckled. “Every good government needs a take-no-prisoners bullshit detector. My own country could probably have saved a few trillion dollars over the past couple of decades if we’d listened more carefully to our own folks like Defense Minister Gierek.”

“Very well,” Wilk said. “Then you may tell your Scion unit to move into position.”

“He’s already there,” Martindale said, grinning openly now. He glanced at his watch. “By my estimate, he’s been in position at the edge of those woods about two kilometers west of here for at least the last half hour.”

“That is impossible!” Gierek snapped. “That area has been under constant observation — both visually and with thermal imaging systems — since the sun rose. No one has reported any movement there.”

“You asked Mr. Martindale to dazzle us, Janusz,” Wilk said carefully, hiding his own amusement. “Perhaps he has already begun.” He turned back to the gray-haired American. “You can signal your man to begin the demonstration.”

Martindale turned to Nadia Rozek. “Would you do that for me, please, Captain?” he asked, with another broad smile. “Just broadcast, ‘You’re good to go, CID One,’ over that radio of yours.”

Nadia arched a finely sculpted eyebrow. “Over which frequency, Mr. Martindale?”

“Oh, you can pick one at random,” he told her confidently. “That should do the trick.”

Carefully controlling her expression, Nadia turned back to her American-made SINCGARs combat radio set and punched in a new frequency — deliberately choosing one far away from that which she had been using all morning. Then she picked up the handset and said, “This is Drawsko Pomorskie Exercise Control. You are good to go, CID One.”

Crouched down in a clump of bushes at the edge of the forest, Patrick McLanahan waited patiently. It had taken some careful maneuvering to get his twelve-foot-plus-tall Cybernetic Infantry Device so close to the exercise area without being spotted. Those who had never seen one of these humanlike machines in action would not have believed it possible for something so big to move so quietly and agilely, taking advantage of every available piece of cover and fold in the ground. Sometimes he thought Kevin Martindale enjoyed these moments of showmanship a bit too much, but there was no denying that the former president knew how to wow an audience.

A red dot pulsed at the edge of his vision. The CID’s sensors, which automatically scanned all radio frequencies, had picked up an incoming transmission at the very edge of the VHF spectrum. He flicked a finger and heard Captain Rozek’s voice giving him the “go” signal.

Without waiting any longer, Patrick surged into motion. His CID burst out of the woods, already accelerating toward the exercise area at a speed of more than sixty miles an hour. A shape, an old M-60 main battle tank draped in camouflage netting, was suddenly silhouetted off to his left, more than a thousand yards away. The CID’s battle computer evaluated it as a priority target.

“Gotcha,” Patrick said under his breath. He detached the electromagnetic rail gun from one of the weapons packs his CID carried and powered it up. Still running, he swung the gun toward the tank and fired once. In a burst of plasma and with a deafening, tree-shaking CCRRACK! a small superdense metal projectile hurtled downrange at more than Mach 5. Slamming into the M-60, it ripped straight through the tank’s heavy armor and punched out through the other side. The enormous impact vaporized metal in a dazzling white flash and set the air inside the turret and hull on fire.

More targets appeared, each marked in a different color corresponding to its perceived threat level and the weapon the CID’s computer judged most appropriate. In quick succession and while moving at high speed, Patrick switched between firing the rail gun, a 40mm grenade launcher, and a 25mm autocannon — often firing two weapons almost simultaneously at different targets.

Humvees, armored personnel carriers, and parked aircraft were torn apart by explosions or shredded from end to end. A dense cloud of smoke by the burning vehicles drifted across the exercise area.

Patrick plunged ahead, charging directly into one of the fake villages built by the Polish Army for urban combat training. He skidded around the edge of a building and ran down the main street. Suddenly a remotely controlled machine gun opened up on him from a second-floor window; 7.62mm rounds hammered his torso, ricocheting off its composite armor in a shower of sparks.

He swiveled and fired, sending a 40mm high-explosive grenade straight through the window. It went off. The machine gun, wrecked by the blast and fragments, fell silent.

Patrick veered right. His CID smashed through the walls of one of the buildings without slowing and erupted out into open ground again in a cloud of dust, broken concrete, and splintered wood. He angled back to the left, circling around the village while systematically knocking out defensive positions highlighted by his sensors.

Still on the move, he fired the electromagnetic rail gun again, smashing a tank parked hull down near a mocked-up church, complete with a tall steeple. Explosives rigged to simulate stored ammunition inside the M-60 cooked off. A huge explosion sent its massive turret tumbling skyward and turned the church into smoldering pile of shattered rubble.

A tangle of barbed wire loomed up out of the smoke. The computer highlighted a swath of ground twenty meters wide beyond the wire. Its thermal imagers and radar had detected a belt of antipersonnel and antiarmor mines sown to catch anyone breaking through the barbed-wire obstacle. More remotely controlled machine guns were sited to kill anyone trying to clear the mines.

“Nice try, fellas,” Patrick murmured, grinning now. “But not today.”

Without hesitating, he raced right up to the barbed wire and then jumped — bounding high into the air, soaring across the minefield and well beyond it. While still in the air, he fired again and again, smashing machine-gun nests with grenades and 25mm cannon shells. His CID came down on the run and put on more speed.

Another alert pinged his senses. Audio pickups, filtering out all the battle noise, were picking up the sound of rotors drawing closer. Patrick twisted, seeking the source of the noise. There!

A Scion drone, configured to emulate the noise and heat signature of a Russian Mi-28 helicopter gunship, popped up over a distant hill and sped toward him. Without pausing, he slid the 40mm grenade launcher back onto its weapons pack mount and detached a Stinger surface-to-air missile. While running across the track of the oncoming drone, he swiveled his CID’s torso, letting the handheld missile’s infrared seeker scan. A harsh buzz sounded. The Stinger had locked on.

He fired.

The missile tore away in a plume of fire and white exhaust, visibly guiding on its target. Hit just below its rotors, the drone blew up in a cloud of fire, black smoke, and spinning fragments.

“Exercise complete. Repeat, exercise complete!” Patrick heard Captain Rozek radio. Her voice, up to now so calm and businesslike, contained an undercurrent of shock and awe. “Weapons safe, CID One. Halt in place for further instructions.”

“My God,” Wilk said, peering through his binoculars. The valley below their bunker was a sea of wrecked and burning vehicles and buildings. “It is incredible. Absolutely incredible.” He glanced over his shoulder at Martindale. “The reports I read do not come anywhere close to capturing what your weapons systems can do. They certainly do not do justice to the astonishing power of these manned war machines.”

“True,” the American said. He shrugged. “And we’ve worked very hard to make sure that they don’t. Fortunately, very few political or military decision makers are willing to believe the stories told by those who’ve survived close contact with the CIDs. So far, we don’t think the Russians or the Chinese have the ability to reverse engineer this technology, but we’d rather not give them any more incentives to try than they already have.”

Martindale looked toward Janusz Gierek. “Well, Defense Minister? Can I consider you dazzled?”

Slowly, Gierek turned away from the firing slit. His face was pale. He looked down at his watch and then back up at Wilk and the others in amazement. “Twenty minutes!” he said hoarsely. “A whole battalion destroyed in twenty minutes. By one piloted robot.”

“In fairness, a battle fought against maneuvering armored vehicles and aircraft manned by living, thinking opponents would have been more difficult,” Martindale said. “But in the essentials, the outcome would have been the same.”

“You say this machine, this Cybernetic Infantry Device, is invincible?” Wilk asked, still studying the large, humanlike machine standing motionless amid the drifting smoke.

“Invincible?” Martindale shook his head. “No. Not invincible. But in the hands of a skilled pilot employing the right tactics, the CID can fight and expect to defeat larger enemy forces with substantially more firepower.” He gestured toward the distant war machine. “Together with the other weapons and technologies Scion can put in the mix, the CID’s combination of speed, agility, precision targeting, and protection acts as a remarkable force multiplier.” Then he chuckled. “That may sound like a hack-written defense-contractor marketing brochure, Mr. President, but now you know it’s the God’s honest truth.”

Wilk nodded slowly. “No one can dispute that.” He studied Martindale’s face. “I would like to take a closer look at this astonishing machine of yours, if that is allowed.”

“Certainly,” Martindale agreed. “But let’s have him come here. Your combat engineers planted a few too many land mines out there for my taste.” He held out his hand to Nadia Rozek. “May I, Captain?”

Still shaking her head in disbelief at what she had just witnessed, she handed him the radio mike.

“CID One, this is Scion Prime,” Martindale said, keying the mike. “Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag and report to the observation bunker. It’s show-and-tell time.”

Five minutes later, the small group of Polish officers and government officials stood blinking in the sunlight outside the bunker, staring up at the Cybernetic Infantry Device towering over them. When it was seen up close, hundreds of small hexagonal tiles covered a significant portion of the robot’s “skin.”

“This is a Mod III CID,” Martindale told them. “We’ve upgraded some of the sensors and squeezed out better battery and fuel-cell life. But those tiles represent the major improvement we’ve made to this version.”

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.”

“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.

“Jesteś 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.”

“You make a good case,” Wilk admitted. Then he smiled, but it was a smile that did not reach his eyes. “But perhaps I should also remember Machiavelli’s warning against mercenary captains. ‘They are either capable men or they are not; if they are, you cannot trust them, because they always aspire to their own greatness… but if the captain is not skillful, you are ruined in the usual way.’ ”

Martindale matched his tight grin. “As to our skillfulness, you’ll have to trust the reputation we’ve earned the hard way — and at a high cost. As to the dangers of relying on me…” He smiled more genuinely. “There you’ll have to trust in the good sense of your fellow countrymen. As much as I value my own political skills, I can’t quite see myself successfully taking over as president of Poland.”

Now Wilk laughed. “A fair point.” Then he looked across the table at the American. “Nor do I really believe that a man with your abilities and history would be content to rule my small country.”

Martindale’s grin turned rueful. “You think I’d always long for a bigger stage?”

Wilk nodded. “I think perhaps that you are a man who would always find it ‘better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven,’ Mr. Martindale.” He held out a hand. “But that is a matter between you and your own conscience. For my part, we are agreed. I will hire Scion to help defend Poland.”

Wayne “Whack” Macomber stalked through the living quarters assigned to Scion’s CID Operations Team, banging on doors. “Okay, boys and girls! We’re a go. So grab your packs and get out of your racks! Next stop Poland. We’re wheels up in two hours!”

Macomber, big and powerfully built, was a veteran of the U.S. Air Force’s Special Operations Command. After commanding the elite ground troops attached to the 1st Air Battle Force, he had joined Scion — spearheading its efforts to recruit and train CID pilots and commandos equipped with the Tin Man battle armor system. And whenever possible, he personally piloted one of the CIDs in combat. He didn’t really prefer the robots so much — he always felt like little more than a slave to the damned gadget — but getting checked out in the unholy thing gave him plenty of the chances he craved to kill bad guys and break things in new and interesting ways.

He grinned broadly at the colorful array of muttered curses and loud grumbling that greeted his door banging. Scion recruited the best special operators in the world — men and women with the right mix of combat, sapper, language, and technical skills needed to pull off incredibly dangerous and demanding missions. Social graces were always welcome, but they weren’t on the required skills list.

“Hey, Uncle Wayne! It’s good to see you again,” a familiar-sounding voice said from behind him.

Whack Macomber spun around. The young man standing in the corridor was an even taller and bigger version of the blond-haired high school kid he last remembered seeing. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Brad McLanahan. Nice to see you, too, kid.” He looked the younger McLanahan up and down with a critical eye. “Geez, you look mean as hell and ready to kick some ass. I guess all the fancy martial-arts training Wohl put you through paid off.”

Brad nodded. “The training saved my life. Several times. So did the sergeant major.” For a moment, his eyes went dark with remembered pain. Former Marine Corps Sergeant Major Chris Wohl had been killed saving him from one of Gryzlov’s top assassins.

“Yeah, I heard about that,” Macomber said abruptly. He shook his head. “For an old, crabby-ass, Marine son of a bitch, he did good.” Then he clapped Brad on the shoulder. “Speaking of good work, I heard about those two Russian goons you nailed for CID One. Nice job. But I sure as hell hope you didn’t scratch my ride doing it.”

“If I did, I’ll wash and wax it for you, Major.” Brad forced himself to smile, pushing aside the regret he still felt about Wohl’s death.

“You thinking about joining Scion as a rock-’em, sock-’em He-Man robot driver?” Macomber asked. “From what I saw a few years back in Nevada, you’ve got the chops. And I damned well know you wouldn’t mind working with at least one of my other pilots.” Whack was one of the few people who knew Patrick McLanahan was still alive.

“I’ll take a rain check on that,” Brad said, grinning more easily now. He shrugged. “I’m still planning to go back to Cal Poly and get my degree — once this all blows over. In the meantime, I’ve been asked to work with your aviation team, to bring them up to speed on some of the aircraft they’ll be using during this assignment. I put in a lot of time in the simulators and on the flight line at Sky Masters this summer learning the ins and outs of a lot of the birds Scion flies.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “And, well, I’m also supposed to form them into a more cohesive unit.”

Macomber nodded. “Yeah, I heard about that, too.” He shook his head. “Frankly, better you than me. If they’d put me in charge of pulling those sterling young aviators into shape, I’d probably just have wound up beating the shit out of a couple of them instead.”

“Oh?”

“I’m not saying they’re not good pilots. Hell, they’re some of the best I’ve ever seen,” Macomber allowed grudgingly. “But that’s part of the problem. Every damned one of them thinks he or she is the ace of aces. Or should be, anyway.”

Brad nodded, thinking about what he’d seen of the other pilots before being sent to Poland with his father for Martindale’s demonstration. Like Mark Darrow, they’d all been friendly enough. But also like the ex-RAF Tornado driver, each of them had gone out of their way, politely to be sure, to let him know that they personally were the hottest pilot flying out of the Scrapheap. “They’re all wannabe chiefs and no Indians,” he realized.

“Yeah, that’s it exactly. So forming them into a solid team is going to be like herding cats.” Whack eyed Brad with a sardonic look that was probably as close to showing pity as the big man ever came. “I sure hope you brought your circus whip and ringmaster’s top hat, because you’re going to need them.”

“Swell,” Brad said drily. “I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

“Oh, I’m confident all right,” Macomber said with a quick laugh. “I’m confident you’ve got a damned hard job ahead of you.” Then he lowered his voice. “But if your old man thinks you’re up to it, that’s good enough for me. He may be a lot of things, not all of them nice or real pretty, but he’s not stupid.”

Brad nodded, hoping that both the other man and his father were right. They were putting a lot of trust in him and he would hate to let them down.

“Speaking of circuses,” Whack asked. “What’s the deal with this new name they’re supposed to be slapping on our outfit?”

“It’s partly for security,” Brad explained. “The Poles don’t want the Russians or anyone else to know they’ve hired Scion. If the situation heats up, they want to retain the element of surprise. And Martindale agrees with them.”

“Okay, that makes sense,” Macomber said. He narrowed his eyes. “You said ‘partly.’ What’s the other reason?”

Now it was Brad’s turn to grin. “Poetry.”

“Poetry? You’re shitting me,” the other man growled.

“As God is my witness,” Brad deadpanned, crossing his heart. “I’m telling the truth. Plus there’s a pun involved.”

“Poetry and a fricking pun, too? Jesus, do I really want to know all this?” Macomber asked sourly.

“Oh, yeah, Whack, you do. You really do,” Brad told him cheerfully. “The pun comes from the fact that the Polish president’s last name means ‘wolf’ in English.”

“Swell,” Macomber said, frowning. “So fucking what?”

“So we’re no longer working for Scion,” Brad told him. “Now we’re part of the Eskadra Żelazny Wilk.”

“Which means what when it’s at home?” Macomber asked.

“The Iron Wolf Squadron,” Brad said.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, a crooked smile spread across Whack’s hard-edged face. “Iron Wolf Squadron, huh? Hell, I kind of like it.”

U.S. Customs and Border Protection officer Frank Talbot stood on the bridge of the SS Baltic Venture, watching a huge crane gently lower a big aircraft, completely shrink-wrapped in white plastic, into the fast freighter’s forward cargo hold. A second identical aircraft sat on the front apron near the ship, waiting its turn.

He frowned. That plastic wrap would protect the planes from salt air and sea water during the coming voyage. It was standard overseas shipping practice for all flyable military aircraft.

Which was part of the reason for Talbot’s concern.

He glanced at the big, beefy man standing placidly beside him. That was the other thing that worried him. Marcus Cartwright was supposed to be the broker handling this transaction. But the customs officer had the uneasy feeling that Cartwright was a lot more. Something about the guy smelled of “spook.” And if there was one thing he had learned in fifteen years of federal service, it was that you wanted to stay far, far away from anyone who used the word covert during their normal daily work. Plus, there were a few peccadilloes in his past — usually involving minor amounts of illicit substances coming into the United States — that made the prospect of dealing with anyone connected with intelligence even more disconcerting. Still, this wasn’t exactly something he could safely ignore. Not with all the trouble going on overseas.

“Let me get this straight,” Talbot said slowly. “You say these old F-111 fighter-bombers are going to Warsaw as ‘static display aircraft’?”

“I not only say that, Agent Talbot,” Cartwright said, still standing patiently watching the crane lower its cargo. “I’ve already shown you the papers to prove it.” He nodded toward the two shrink-wrapped aircraft. “Two decommissioned F-111s are being shipped to the Museum of the Polish Army in Warsaw. They are going to form part of a special Cold War exhibit. My firm is handling this transaction. I fail to see the difficulty.”

“That’s the point,” Talbot said, nerving himself up. “Nobody puts planes on museum display with working engines. And all four engines on those F-111s are intact. Also, I poked around those aircraft a little while your crews were wrapping them up, and they were in really good shape. A lot better shape than they should be if they’d just spent twenty years sitting outside in the Arizona desert.”

“My word, you have been observant,” Cartwright said mildly. “That’s an excellent point about the engines. Somebody should have noticed that earlier.” He shrugged sadly. “Now it’s too late. It’s not as though we have time to send these particular planes back to the Boneyard. The exhibit opens in just a few weeks. And as it is, these F-111s will already take more than fifteen days just to reach Gdansk.”

“That’s not my problem,” the customs officer said stiffly. “My problem is your plan to export fully operational military aircraft without the required end-user certificates and licenses.”

“Licenses and end-user certificates?” Cartwright asked. “Is that all?” He reached inside his suit coat and pulled out a thick envelope. “If only you’d spoken up sooner. Here you are, Talbot. I think you’ll find all the necessary documents in perfect order.”

Frowning, Talbot took the envelope. It wasn’t sealed. He slid it open and froze — not for long, just long enough to estimate that the envelope contained at least $20,000 in cash. He swallowed hard. If this was a sting and he took the money, he was screwed. But maybe it wasn’t a sting, he thought hopefully. Maybe this was part of a CIA black-ops program to ship weapons across the Atlantic without getting the U.S. officially involved. Scuttlebutt around the customs service said that kind of stuff happened, and a lot more often than anyone outside the government imagined.

He looked up to see Cartwright watching him calmly. He breathed out. Maybe it was worth taking a chance. He slipped the envelope into the inner pocket of his blue uniform jacket. “I see what you mean.”

“I thought you would,” the other man said, smiling. “We did rather a lot of careful research on you, you see.”

Talbot felt a shiver run up his spine. The less time he spent with this spook the better. “Well, I guess we’re done here, then,” he muttered.

“Yes, I believe so. Thank you for your cooperation,” Cartwright told him politely, already tuning the customs officer out and turning away to watch the big harbor crane swinging back toward the fighter-bomber still waiting on the front apron.

The Iron Wolf Squadron’s first two XF-111 SuperVarks would soon be safely on their way to Poland.

Wearing a drab overcoat and cap and using a cane, Sergei Tarzarov hobbled slowly up the broad steps to the mustard-colored Church of St. Louis of France. No one seeing him would have recognized the quiet, soft-spoken chief of staff to Russia’s flamboyant president. He looked much older and poorer now, like one of the many elderly pensioners who eked out a paltry living doing odd jobs for Moscow’s wealthier elites.

This late at night, the normally busy streets of the surrounding shopping district were quiet. A few lights glowed in the windows of the taller neighboring brick buildings. For nearly a century, the buildings had housed the parish rectory, a French school, a small hospital, and a Dominican monastery, but they had been seized by the old Soviet regime and converted into government offices.

The church itself, built by the French in 1830, served as a place of worship for many in Moscow’s diplomatic community. That had kept it safe even during the darkest days of Stalinist repression.

Tarzarov slipped into the shadows cast by six massive Doric columns across the front of the church and drew out a key to unlock the main door. The civic ordinances that required that the keys and alarm codes of certain public buildings be deposited with local fire, police, and medical authorities were always useful, he mused. Especially to someone like him who occasionally needed discreet private access to certain places when they were supposed to be closed.

He cracked open the door and went inside.

The interior of the church was mostly dark, lit only by a few flickering candles and dimmed electric lights on a few of the small brass chandeliers between marble columns lining the central aisle. Streetlights gleaming through stained glass windows cast faint patterns of blue, gold, white, and red across the altar.

Tapping along the marble floor with his cane, Tarzarov hobbled toward a plain wood confessional set against the right wall. He entered one of the booths, closed the door, and knelt down. A red light flicked on, illuminating his face.

The grille separating him from the priest’s tiny, unlit chamber slid open. A shadowy figure was barely visible through the wood lattice.

“Otets, prosti menya, ibo ya sogreshil,” Tarzarov murmured. “Father, forgive me, for I have sinned.”

“I am deeply shocked to hear that, Sergei,” the man on the other side said drily. “I hope you aren’t confessing that you were followed here?”

Tarzarov smiled thinly. “A crow might have followed me. But not a man. I know my business, Igor.” He rapped gently on the lattice. “And the Catholic priest whose place you have usurped? What of him?”

“Called away to a hospital on the outskirts of Moscow to administer the last rites to a dying parishioner,” the other man said. “We have plenty of time alone here.”

“A convenient accident?” Tarzarov asked.

“Nothing so melodramatic,” the other man said, chuckling. “Merely a matter of fortunate timing, for us at least. Much better that way, eh?”

Tarzarov nodded. He had no moral objection to arranging the death or injury of anyone, not even an innocent bystander, if that proved necessary to his plans. But there were always risks to direct action. Even the best-trained hit team could make mistakes, leaving traces for some honest policeman or clever foreign spy to follow.

“So then, to business,” the other man said. “Tell me, what is your assessment of your protégé now? Is he still so consumed by rage and driven by desire for revenge? I know there were moments last year, during the Starfire crisis, when you feared that he might drag us all into absolute disaster.”

“Gennadiy is… calmer,” Tarzarov said slowly. He shrugged. “At least on the surface. No doubt his anger still burns white-hot inside, but he seems better able to control it. Now he uses his fury as a directed weapon against those who fail, rather than unleashing it in some uncontrollable explosion that consumes everything around him.”

“Interesting,” the other man said. Tarzarov thought he sounded disappointed. “And unexpected.”

“Victory may soften many rough edges,” Gryzlov’s chief of staff pointed out. “Though the price was high, Gennadiy achieved what many of us have sought for so long — the complete destruction of the American military space station. This has given him great confidence in his abilities and in his decisions.”

“Do you share this confidence?”

Tarzarov shrugged again. “For the moment.” He looked steadily through the lattice. “Certainly, I cannot fault the way he has exploited this most recent terrorist attack against us. Using it to justify occupying the eastern Ukraine was bold, but his maneuver has succeeded beyond my earlier expectations. So far, the Americans have done nothing serious to oppose us, and because of that, NATO stands exposed as a paper tiger.”

“True,” the other man agreed, again reluctantly.

“As a result, Gennadiy is more popular among the people than ever,” Tarzarov continued.

“Popularity!” the other man muttered bitterly. “Now, there’s a two-edged sword, as I know only too well. The people back you only as long as you seem to be winning. But they turn on you when things grow difficult. They are untrustworthy.”

“All men are untrustworthy,” Tarzarov said calmly. “But for now the president’s support among the people gives him more power among the bureaucrats and the military. He has achieved almost total control over the Kremlin and the armed forces.”

“I see,” the other man said. “So you believe Gryzlov has become a man without weaknesses.”

“A man of steel?” said Tarzarov, playing off the often-cited meaning of Joseph Stalin’s chosen name. He shook his head. “No. Not that. Not yet.” He knelt silently for a few moments before going on. “There are still potential weaknesses in his policies and in his passions — weaknesses that greatly trouble me.”

“Such as?”

“I worry that his hatred for the Poles may lead us into direct confrontation with them — and through them, with the Americans and the rest of NATO,” Tarzarov admitted. “We have been lucky so far. But Gennadiy may push our luck too far.”

“I thought Warsaw was at least partly responsible for these terrorist attacks?” the other man said. “If so, our actions are more than justified.”

“I very much doubt the Poles have anything to do with these terrorists,” Tarzarov replied. “The evidence for their involvement in the murder of General Voronov was never more than circumstantial. And there is no evidence whatsoever that they were responsible for the most recent atrocity. I do not trust or like the Warsaw government, but I do not truly think Piotr Wilk and his gang are that insane.”

“And yet…” the other man prompted gently.

“The president believes otherwise,” Tarzarov said. “He is absolutely convinced that Poland has attacked us, using these terrorist groups in the Ukraine as its proxies. He craves an excuse to punish them for this, to take revenge for the deaths they have caused and the damage they have inflicted. For now, the ease of our occupation of the eastern Ukraine satisfies him, but I worry that an obsessive need to hit back at Warsaw may lead him to take bigger risks.”

“This begins to sound alarmingly familiar,” the other man observed acidly. “Is it possible that Gryzlov’s near mania for revenge on that dead American general, Patrick McLanahan, and his family has transferred itself to the Poles? To a whole country?”

Tarzarov was silent for a time. At last, he said, “I sincerely hope not. After all, there are valid strategic reasons for wanting to see Poland diminished.”

“Yes,” the other man agreed. “Of all our former possessions, the Poles are the richest, the strongest, and the most stubbornly independent. If it were possible to break Poland without risking all-out war, many of the smaller, weaker nations in Eastern and Central Europe would begin falling back into our orbit.”

“That is likely,” Tarzarov agreed, though reluctantly. “But others understand that, too. And if we push too hard too soon, we may yet trigger a reaction from those, like the new American president, who might otherwise be willing to turn a blind eye to our growing strength.”

“An excellent point,” the other man said. “I greatly value your insights on these matters. They are extremely useful. And I appreciate your willingness to convey them to me — despite your obvious loyalty to President Gryzlov.”

“I am a loyal servant of the state, Igor,” Tarzarov said quietly. “Not of any one man.”

“So I have long observed, Sergei,” said the man sitting in darkness on the other side of the lattice. “I look forward to our next… discussion.”

Long after Gennadiy Gryzlov’s chief of staff left to make his circuitous way back to the Kremlin, Igor Truznyev, former president of Russia, stayed behind, contemplating the information he had been given — and considering the various uses to which he could put it. Earlier, he had hoped that the Ukrainian maniac Kravchenko’s terrorist attacks would show Russia’s military and political elites their error in replacing him, Truznyev, with the younger man, by goading Gryzlov into a disastrous overreaction. Well, if Gryzlov was becoming better at controlling his rages, Truznyev would just have to find a way for his unwitting Ukrainian puppets to up the ante.