Iron Wolf

EIGHT

The Polish countryside due east of Bialystok was mostly woodland, with farms and small villages nestled among the patches of forest. About sixteen kilometers from the city, a narrow two-lane road ran north and south through stands of tall trees and small clearings. A few hundred meters from the State Forest Service’s local headquarters, an even narrower dirt track intersected the paved road, heading east, deeper into the woods.

Two men lolled near a dark blue panel van parked at this junction. They were smoking cigarettes, apparently enjoying the afternoon sunshine. Both were dressed like ordinary rural laborers, in dirty jeans, drab work shirts, and dark, often-patched coats. Something about their watchful eyes and tight-lipped mouths, though, suggested they would be more at home in the tougher, grittier neighborhoods of a big city.

One of them straightened up slowly, watching a battered Fiat Panda heading toward them. He flicked his cigarette away. “There’s Górski,” he muttered.

“About fucking time,” his comrade growled. Both men were speaking in Ukrainian.

The Fiat pulled up just behind the panel van. The driver, a plump, middle-aged man, squeezed awkwardly out from behind the wheel and walked over to them.

“Sorry I’m late,” the newcomer said nervously, in Polish. “Our goddamned officers wanted to run another combat resupply readiness drill. Right before the weekend, for Christ’s sake!”

“All officers are bastards,” one of the two Ukrainians agreed in perfectly colloquial Polish, rolling his eyes at his companion. “It’s almost like there’s a war on.” He hardened his voice. “Look, did you bring the stuff we asked for, or not?”

“Oh, yes. Definitely. No problem,” Staff Sergeant Teodor Górski stammered. “It’s all in the back.”

“Show us,” the second man snapped.

Sweating now, the Polish noncom popped open the rear hatch on his Fiat. Blankets covered an assortment of lumpy shapes piled in the cargo area. He flipped them away — revealing a collection of weapons, ammunition, and communications gear.

The first Ukrainian leaned in past him and picked up one of the weapons, an American-made Colt M4A1 carbine. It was the assault rifle of choice for Poland’s GROM “Thunder” Special Forces unit. Quickly, with practiced hands, he checked it over, nodding in satisfaction. He put the rifle back and hauled out an even bigger piece of hardware, a Swedish-made Carl Gustav 84mm recoilless rifle. Like the M4, this antitank weapon was used exclusively by Poland’s Special Forces, not by its regular troops. It was in perfect condition. Pleased, he turned back to Górski. “Is any of this going to be missed?”

The Pole shook his head, visibly gaining confidence as he explained. “Not a chance. All of this gear and ammo is marked as ‘unrepairable and junked’ or ‘expended’ in our logbooks and computer files. I’ve had it all stashed away in my apartment for months. Nobody’s going to come looking for this stuff, no matter how many times they check the supply depot’s inventory.”

“What about the serial numbers on the weapons?” the second Ukrainian asked.

“They’re still there,” Górski told him. He shrugged. “You’ll file ’em off, right?” He smiled weakly. “I mean, you wouldn’t want anyone tracing them back to your best supplier, would you?”

“No,” the first man agreed flatly. “We certainly would not want that. Your services have been extremely useful to us.”

“So we have a deal?” the Pole asked.

“We have a deal,” the second Ukrainian confirmed. He tossed the Pole a packet containing more than thirty thousand zlotys, the equivalent of $10,000, in a mix of currencies — euros, zlotys, American dollars, and British pounds. “Unfortunately, once again I seem to have mislaid the tax forms for this transaction. I assume you will handle the necessary paperwork yourself?”

“Naturally.” Górski smirked. He went back to avidly counting his money.

“And take this as a bonus,” the first man said, handing over a business card. The card bore the picture of a very attractive nude redhead and a Warsaw telephone number. “Her name is Franciszka. She’s expecting your call this evening, around midnight. It’s our treat.”

The plump, middle-aged Pole stared down at the business card. He swallowed hard, staring down at the young woman’s incredible body, her moist lips, and her bright, open, inviting eyes. He usually made do with the services of aging prostitutes working out of the sleazier brothels on the left bank of the river. This Franciszka must be one of the high-end escorts who were the favorites of rich businessmen and tourists. “That is… very gracious of you,” Górski murmured, eyes greedily drinking in every line and curve. “Most appreciated.”

“You deserve it,” the second Ukrainian told him. He smiled. “Nothing but the best for one of our friends, eh? She’ll take very good care of you. She knows lots of”—he winked—“special tricks.”

Once they transferred the weapons and other military hardware to the blue panel van, the Polish supply sergeant was almost pathetically eager to get on his way. With a jaunty wave, he pulled back out onto the little country road and drove off at high speed.

“There goes one fat little jumped-up puddle of piss we won’t have to see again,” one of the Ukrainians muttered. “Thank God.”

“God will have nothing to do with it,” his comrade said with a cruel, ice-cold grin. “We’ll owe Franciszka for that one.”

“Na zdrowie! Cheers!” Teodor Górski slurred, knocking back another shot of the faintly yellow-tinged Żubrówka vodka. He smacked his lips, savoring the faint overtones of almond and vanilla. And then smacked them again. “ ’S damn good,” he forced out. “And strong. Feels way more than eighty proof. Can’t hardly feel my mouth…”

The beautiful redhead sitting across from him on the bed smiled slyly. “Careful there, tiger. You don’t want to wind up with a limp noodle, do you?”

Grinning foolishly, Górski fell back on the pillows. God, Franciszka was an eye-opener. Not only was she stunning and going to be his for the whole night, but she’d even come with a gift — a wonderful, delicious, expensive bottle of vodka. Imagine that, he thought. A whore bringing him a present! The other sergeants and corporals at the base who were always teasing him because he’d put on a few extra kilos over the past few years should see him now! None of them could say they were about to enjoy the favors of such a gorgeous piece of ass.

For free, too.

That was the best part of this deal. He’d just made almost thirty-four thousand zlotys and he wasn’t even going to have part with one thin groszy for hours and hours of screwing. All she’d asked for was one of his cigarettes. The opened pack lay on the nightstand table.

He frowned, or rather tried to, since his face felt so numb now that he wasn’t sure his mouth was moving the way he wanted it to. Why had Franciszka asked him for a cigarette? She wasn’t smoking it. The cigarette was just lying there on the nightstand by her purse, along with a book of matches.

She sat quietly, watching him through amused eyes. “You seem to be having some trouble, Teodor. Too much to drink?” She shook her head. Her smile changed somehow — transforming into an odd, warped, mean little expression that sent shivers down his spine. “That would be foolish, wouldn’t it? How can we have our fun if you’re too soused to see straight or even paw at me? For shame.”

Górski tried to lift his head. Then his arms. Then his fingers. Nothing worked. He couldn’t move! His eyes widened. My God. Oh my God, he thought, starting to panic.

Franciszka nodded calmly, leaning forward to study his pupils. “The drug usually takes full effect in about ten minutes, Sergeant.” She checked the watch on her thin, elegant wrist. “In your case, it took almost fifteen. I guess that’s because you have so much fat piled up around your ugly belly.”

Casually, she leaned across him to reach into the nightstand drawer. Her full breasts brushed across his sweating, immobile face. “Nothing? No twitch in your little chuj, your dick? How sad.”

She showed him the packetful of cash she’d pulled out of the drawer, the packet the two Ukrainians had given to him. “Did you think this was for you?” Still smiling nastily, she shook her head, slipping the packet into her gold lamé purse. “Well, you were wrong. The money was always going to be mine, Sergeant. As a fee for my special talents. But don’t worry, you can have all of the vodka. Every last drop.”

Turning back to Górski, she picked up the half-full bottle and upended it above him. Vodka splashed over his frozen, horrified face, unshaven chin, and chest, soaking his unbuttoned shirt and the grubby T-shirt he wore underneath. Rivulets of the high-proof alcohol dripped off onto the bedclothes.

“There now, see the mess you’ve made?” she said in disgust. “You have so many bad habits, Sergeant,” she told him, picking up the cigarette and lighting it. “Including smoking.”

Holding the lit cigarette between her fingers, she stood up off the bed, turned gracefully, and placed it between his frozen lips. “In fact, I think smoking is what’s going to kill you.”

The cigarette fell out of his mouth and onto his chest. With a soft, devilish whoosh, Teodor Górski’s alcohol-soaked clothing went up in flames. In seconds, the whole bed was engulfed in a rippling, dancing sea of fire.

The woman who called herself Franciszka left his apartment without looking back, pausing only to wipe her fingerprints off the door handle. By the time she reached the sidewalk outside the building, the curtains pulled across his windows were already smoldering.

Wayne Macomber waited impatiently for the solid black executive jet to finish taxiing off the rain-drenched main runway and into the camouflaged aircraft shelter. As soon as the jet’s twin engines spooled down, he was in motion — striding toward the forward cabin door, which was already opening.

Kevin Martindale trotted down the air stairs, preceded, as usual, by his two stern-faced bodyguards. “Good morning, Major Macomber,” the former president said cheerily. “I hope you don’t mind my dropping in unannounced on you like this.”

“It’s your dime, sir,” Whack said, grinning back. “But if you expected to catch us with our drawers down, you missed a bet. CID One had your supersecret itinerary pegged as soon as you hit the send key on that fancy, high-security laptop of yours.”

“He did, did he?” Martindale replied. He shook his head ruefully. “I really must talk seriously to our mutual friend about that obsessive computer-hacking habit of his. Breaking into classified Russian systems is one thing. Breaking into sensitive Scion databases so easily is another.”

“Oh, you can talk to him,” Whack agreed. “For all the good it’ll do you. When have you ever known that guy to let the rules get in the way of accomplishing his mission?”

Martindale chuckled, acknowledging the hit. In all the years he’d known Patrick McLanahan, he’d never seen the other man buffaloed by formal protocol or conventional wisdom. If the former Air Force officer had wanted to get something he thought was important done, he’d always bulldozed right through any opposition — no matter what it cost him personally or how it affected his military career. Which, of course, was what had made him perfect for Martindale’s various secret weapons projects when he was in government and now for Scion’s private ventures.

“Now that you’re here, what can I do for you?” Macomber asked. “Or are you bringing us some news? Like about when all this training stops and all the fun stuff starts.”

“As in an action alert?” Martindale shook his head. “Sorry, Major. We’re still in a holding pattern — which suits our Polish employers just fine. And frankly, I don’t blame them one bit. Besides, we’re still short of most of the aircraft we need. Let’s not rush into a war we’re not ready for, and let’s hope Gennadiy Gryzlov gives us the time we need to get ready.”

“You think he will?”

Martindale shrugged. “Possibly. The Russians are pretty quiet right now. They’ve killed a number of armed insurgents trying to cross the Dnieper and no one has laid a real glove on their occupation forces yet. It could be that Gryzlov and his commanders are satisfied with the half of Ukraine they’ve got and they’re not hungry for anything more.”

“Yeah, right,” Whack said, with a skeptical look in his eyes. “That’d be a first.”

“It would,” Martindale agreed, with equal skepticism. “My personal belief is that it’s only a matter of time before the Russians see what else they can grab while the grabbing’s good.”

“Well, if things go south, I can tell you that the Iron Wolf ground component is up and running pretty damned well,” Macomber said.

“I’d like to see that for myself if you don’t mind, Major,” the former president said, softening his insistence with a practiced, self-deprecating smile. “Those of us who sit and serve behind desks sometimes need reassuring that the men at the tip of the spear aren’t as soft as we are.”

“No problem,” Macomber said, leading the way to the Polish-manufactured Tarpan Honker 4x4 he’d commandeered to drive around the sprawling Powidz compound. As soon as Martindale had settled himself in the passenger seat, Whack Macomber took off at high speed, careening out of the shelter and onto a muddy side road heading deeper into the woods around the airfield proper.

It had been raining all night, but the big masses of dark clouds scudding overhead looked as though they were finally starting to break up.

“You won’t see General McLanahan on this visit,” he said, peering through the mud-splashed windshield. “I’ve got CID One out on a field recon prowl about thirty klicks north of here. I wanna see just how effective that fancy-ass thermal camouflage is in real life.”

Martindale looked worried by that news. “You sent a Cybernetic Infantry Device roaming around outside the security perimeter?”

“Yeah.”

“Isn’t that unnecessarily risky?” Martindale asked, frowning. “What if the CID is spotted by people who aren’t cleared to know about them? Like Polish civilians, for example?”

Macomber glanced at him. “Well, that would suck, wouldn’t it?” He shrugged. “But it would suck a lot less than finding out that thermal adaptive shit doesn’t work the way it’s supposed to when it’s too late — like say when we’re ass-deep in Russian troops and tanks.”

“I certainly hope you have a cover story ready if anything goes wrong,” Martindale said stiffly. “I assured President Wilk and his cabinet that the Iron Wolf Squadron would operate covertly as long as possible.”

“Relax,” Whack said, grinning again. “If some Polish farmer starts screaming about a giant robot running loose in his crops, we’ll just say it’s a special-effects prop from a science-fiction movie we’re filming.”

“That might work,” Martindale allowed, though with evident reluctance. He grimaced. “You certainly like to push your luck, though, Major.”

“Yep, I sure as hell do,” Whack admitted placidly. He showed his teeth. “Then again, Mr. President, that’s exactly why you pay me the big bucks, right?”

“There you have me,” the older man agreed slowly, again with a rueful shake of his head.

The dirt road curved around a bend and entered a thicker belt of woods. The trees grew so close on both sides of the track that it was as if they were driving into a leafy green tunnel.

Suddenly Macomber slammed on the brakes. They jerked to a stop just short of a fallen tree blocking most of the narrow road. It looked as though it had blown down during last night’s storm.

Growling under his breath, Whack started to back up. And stopped just as quickly. They were surrounded by grim-faced soldiers who seemed to have risen up right out of the ground in the blink of an eye. Masked in mud and camouflage, they were all aiming M4 carbines at the two men in the 4x4.

Before Martindale or Macomber could say or do anything, one of the camouflaged soldiers stepped closer. “Bang,” he said simply, sighting down his rifle at them. “You’re both dead.”

“That we are, Ian,” Whack said, grinning now. “Dead as a doornail or any other part of the goddamned door you care to name. Nice doing business with you and your boys.”

“A pleasure, sir,” the other man told him, matching his grin — with white teeth that gleamed oddly bright against the drab veil of brown mud and green and black camouflage stripes covering his face. He sketched a quick salute and nodded to his team.

Moving rapidly, they hauled the fallen tree out of the road, clearing the way for Macomber’s Tarpan to drive on.

“Who the devil was that?” Martindale demanded when they were out of sight.

“Captain Ian Schofield,” Whack told him. “I snagged him out of the Canadian Special Operations Regiment last year. He was busy going crazy doing nothing interesting — in the usual peacetime army kind of way.”

“And what does he do now?”

“I made Schofield the commander of my deep-penetration recon and ambush teams,” Macomber said. He grinned. “And as you can see, he’s very, very good at it.”

“Did you know he was going to pull that ambush on us?” Martindale demanded.

“Nope,” Whack said fervently. He shook his head in wonderment. “Last I heard, Ian and his guys were way north of here, running cover for CID One.” He glanced at the gray-haired chief executive of Scion. “When I said my Iron Wolf troops were good, I meant it.”

“They’re certainly… surprising,” Martindale agreed sourly. Then he forced a thin smile. “I’m just glad their little stunt didn’t give me a heart attack.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Macomber said slowly.

“You guess so?” Martindale asked, raising an eyebrow.

Whack nodded, holding in another grin. “Well, sure. With General McLanahan riding CID One practically full-time, I’ve only got one spare robot. If I had to sling you in CID Two to keep you alive, my combat power would be cut in half. And that would be bad.”

“You know something, Major?” Martindale said, plainly exasperated. “You are one amazingly insubordinate son of a bitch.”

“Yes, sir,” Macomber agreed happily. “That’s why—”

“I pay you the big bucks,” the former president finished for him. Slowly, almost against his will, he snorted a short laugh. “All right, I give up, Major. Just try to get me through the rest of this show-and-tell you’ve obviously got planned in one piece, okay?”

“I’ll do my damnedest,” Macomber assured him cheerfully. He spun the wheel to the left, turning onto another dirt track that ran west. “Next stop, the Rock.”

“The Rock?”

“The Remote Operations Control Center,” Macomber explained. “The high-tech playground for Brad McLanahan and his Flying Circus of Merry Young Aviators. They’ve been real busy lately figuring out how to get shot down in computer-simulated XF-111s and other aircraft in a number of different, interesting, and expensive ways. Along with some other things that might surprise you, especially once the tailoring receipts come through from corporate accounting.”

“Am I going to like this, Whack?” Martindale said, obviously trying to figure out if he should sound angry, irritated, or just plain confused. Macomber only smiled.

When they arrived outside the large, antenna-studded control center, he led the way inside and went straight toward the ready room. He stopped short of the open door and silently motioned Martindale forward to get a good look at what was going on.

None of the pilots or weapons officers crowding the room noticed them. They were too busy taking down mission briefing notes using tablet computers. All of them wore dark, rifle-green uniform jackets, collared shirts, and black ties of a design that looked something like World War II — era RAF battle dress. Their squadron patch showed a metal gray robotic wolf’s head with glowing red eyes on a bright green background.

Martindale shook his head in disbelief.

Brad McLanahan was up at the front, running through the details of their next exercise. “We’re going to be practicing a pretty tricky air defense plan this morning. It’s something Captain Rozek and I have worked out in consultation with Colonel Paweł Kasperek, the commanding officer of Third Tactical Squadron. Colonel Kasperek and his guys fly F-16 Falcons. Our plan is designed to coordinate their fighters with a mix of our unmanned and remote-piloted aircraft. We’ll be testing it against a simulated heavy, full-spectrum Russian air attack — an attack that will include Su-34 fighter-bombers armed with top-of-the-line air-to-ground and antiradiation missiles, backed by Su-35 fighters flying cover. And there may be a few other unpleasant surprises, depending on which variant the computer picks to throw at us.”

“You trying to get us all virtually killed again, Brad?” one of the pilots asked plaintively.

The younger McLanahan grinned. “Not everyone, Bill. Just you. See, you’re not being paranoid, because I really am out to get you.” The Iron Wolf pilots, including the one who’d spoken up, laughed easily at that.

“Nominal mission time will be 0200 hours,” Brad went on. “Once the program starts running, we’ll get a better fix on the weather, but it’ll probably be crappy.”

“So, basically, a dark and stormy night,” another of the Iron Wolf weapons officers chimed in.

“Right on the nose, Jack,” Brad agreed. He turned more serious. “You can expect that we’ll be operating in a high electronic-noise environment, one where the Russians are trying to jam the hell out of Polish air defense radars—”

Figuring this was a good time to break away before they inadvertently interrupted the briefing, Macomber jerked his head back down the hall. Martindale nodded, without any readable expression on his face.

Outside the Remote Operations Control Center, Martindale let his breath out in a rush. “Uniforms?” he said slowly, shaking his head again. “Brad McLanahan has my Scion air crews wearing military uniforms?”

“Yep.” Whack shrugged his massive shoulders. “He claims the uniforms are helping him build unit cohesion — along with kicking their sorry asses in computer-simulated air battles. Besides, they’re not just Scion employees anymore. They’re part of the Iron Wolf Squadron now.”

“Would your other special operators wear uniforms like that?” Martindale asked dubiously.

“Outside of a combat environment where camouflage and coordination make sense, you mean?” Macomber said. “Hell, no. But then again, my people are used to wearing anything they need to blend in with the locals. Up to and including turbans, full beards, and tennis shoes… you name it. Dressing up all nice and pretty like the kid’s elite aviators back there wouldn’t be their first choice.”

“But is it working the way Brad claims?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it is.” Macomber nodded. “I thought it was a lot of crap at first, that the kid had gone loco. Or maybe just power-crazed. But I’ve gotta admit that bunch of prima donnas you saddled him with are starting to shape up into the kind of fighting squadron you and General McLanahan wanted. Those guys and gals were getting their heads handed to them by the computer a few days ago. Now they’re actually starting to win some of the crazy-ass battle scenarios the kid tosses at them.”

Martindale took that in silently, chewing what he seen and heard over mentally for several moments. At last, he looked up at the bigger man with a very serious expression on his face. “Something occurs to me, Major.”

“Sir?”

“If what you’ve told me about Brad McLanahan’s accomplishments with the Iron Wolf Squadron’s air crews is true, maybe it’s about time you stopped calling him just a kid.”

Now it was Whack Macomber’s turn to think. Finally, he nodded solemnly. “You know, Mr. President, I think you’re absolutely right.”

Discreet waiters circulated behind the elegantly uniformed officers seated at the long, white-tablecloth-covered table dominating the private dining room. Deftly, they removed plates with the scattered leftovers from a traditional feast — potato pancakes slathered in red caviar, boiled eggs, and onions; prawns swimming in olive oil, garlic, and sweet peppers; salmon steamed with spices and vegetables; veal cutlets served with quail eggs and cucumber salad; and beef tenderloin in a wine-and-wild-mushroom sauce atop potato noodles. Behind them came beaming waitresses carrying trays piled high with desserts, including parfaits with pistachio meringues and orange sauce, mouth-watering cheese cakes, and piping-hot slices of fresh-baked apple pie topped with ice cream and cinnamon. And finally, still more servers trooped in, bringing in armloads of bottles of fine wine, craft beer, and vodka.

Seated at the head of the table, with Brad McLanahan on her right, Captain Nadia Rozek waited until the restaurant staff finished their work and withdrew, closing the door behind them. Then, smiling, she pushed back her chair and rose, only slightly unsteadily, to her feet. She raised her wineglass. “Comrades, fellow soldiers, and friends! A toast! Do Eskadry Żelazny Wilk! To the Iron Wolf Squadron!”

With dazzling grins, the assembled officers — men and women of the Polish Special Forces assigned to liaison duty and members of the Iron Wolf Squadron itself — jumped to their own feet. The Poles wore their regulation dress uniforms, while the Iron Wolf pilots were clad in their rifle-green jackets, shirts, and ties, though without the give-away robotic wolf’s-head squadron patch.

“The Iron Wolf Squadron!” they murmured, echoing her toast. They drained their glasses and refilled them. This celebratory dinner and its associated weekend leave in Warsaw was the payoff for the past weeks of hard work, long hours of study, and rigorous training and practice. It marked their transition to operational status.

Through the warm haze created by great food, plentiful liquor, and budding camaraderie, Brad McLanahan turned to Nadia, raising his own glass. “To Poland!” He searched back through his memory of the various articles he’d been reading about this country. The Poles were a proud people and it was essential that he get this right. And then, almost without effort, the phrase he needed leaped into his mind. “Za wolność naszą i waszą!” he said, making sure he pronounced the words properly. “For our freedom and yours!”

It was the traditional slogan of Polish exiles, driven from their homeland, when they fought as soldiers to help liberate others around the world.

With an approving roar, the Poles and their new Iron Wolf allies repeated the toast and drank deep.

Nadia glowed with delight. “That was perfect,” she murmured, leaning over to kiss him on both cheeks. And then, to Brad’s surprise and pleasure, she kissed him again, this time full on the lips. Her blue-gray eyes sparkled impishly.

His breath caught in his throat.

More toasts followed, one after another in a freely flowing river of wine, beer, vodka, and sentiment. The Poles, it seemed, were determined to send their new Iron Wolf Squadron comrades back to the base at Powidz with memories — and hangovers — they would long remember.

Brad, after studying the playful expression on Nadia’s lovely face, fought hard to stay in control. He confined himself to sips, rather than knocking back a fresh glass with each new tribute to the squadron and its Polish comrades. If her innermost thoughts and feelings were really moving in the direction he hoped they were, he decided that he definitely did not want the phrase “drunk and incapable” attached to his name tonight.

The party went on until well after midnight, ending only when the exhausted restaurant staff finally coaxed their mostly inebriated and entirely cheerful guests out into the cool night air. Even then the songs and boisterous laughter continued for a while longer, echoing off the cobblestones and Baroque-style buildings of the marketplace square. Then, almost reluctantly, the group of officers broke up with loud good-byes, handshakes, and embraces — with groups and pairs and individuals drifting slowly apart as they made their separate ways through the darkened streets of Warsaw’s historic Old Town.

To his great delight, Brad found himself walking with his arm snugly around Nadia Rozek’s trim waist as they parted from the others. Smiling to herself, she leaned in against his shoulder.

“Dobranoc! Good night, Nadia! And you, too, Mr. American!” they heard a slightly slurred voice say happily. Still clinging to each other, they turned around to see one of the other Polish Special Forces officers, Captain Kazimierz Janik, beaming at them.

“Where you off to, Kazimierz?” Nadia asked.

“My girlfriend’s place,” Janik murmured happily. “Her roommate is a flight attendant and away in New York or London or somewhere. For hours and hours. Or maybe days! Which is good luck for me, eh?”

“Indeed,” Nadia agreed, suppressing her own grin. “Well, good hunting, Kazimierz.”

“Thanks!” The young Polish officer eyed them owlishly. “And yourselves on this fine night? Where are you headed?”

“I thought I would take Mr. McLanahan on a walking tour of the Old Town,” Nadia said blandly. “To show him the sights.”

“That is a great idea!” Janik agreed equably. “Good night, again!” With a final wave, he turned and walked off across the square, humming to himself.

“So, where exactly are you really leading me?” Brad asked quietly, feeling greatly daring.

“Well, I do have a flat here in the Old Town,” Nadia said, with an enchanting smile that set his pulse racing. “So we will have to walk there.”

“And what about your roommate?” Brad asked, through lips that were suddenly dry. “Is she still in town or away, too?”

Nadia laughed softly. “Fortunately for you,” she said with another impish look in her bright eyes, “I do not have a roommate.”

Neither of them noticed the dark blue panel van idling across the square. Or the two men sitting inside its darkened interior.

“There,” one of them said, nudging his companion and pointing through the dirty windshield. “That’s the one we want.”

The other man leaned forward to get a better look, squinting slightly. He flashed a penlight down at the sheaf of black-and-white surveillance photos in his lap and then nodded. “You’re right. That’s our target for sure.” He grinned nastily, slipping a syringe out of his coat pocket. “Talk about easy. I almost feel guilty getting paid for this job.”

The first man snorted. “Sure you do.” Then, reaching down, he put the van in gear. “Just make sure there’s no fuss or bother. The boss wants this one delivered specially gift-wrapped to the customer.”

Captain Kazimierz Janik swam slowly up out of what seemed to be a very dark, bottomless pit. Unseen waves sloshed against him, bouncing him against its stony sides in an odd, jerky rhythm. A low, dull roar filled his ears, growing louder every second. His head ached abominably.

With an effort, he pried his eyes open. He was not swimming in a dark, lightless pit, he realized groggily. Instead, he was sitting on a rough bench in the back of a canvas-roofed truck, crowded in among a number of other men. It was pitch-dark outside and pouring rain, but he could see just enough out the open back to guess the truck was bumping and swaying along a rough, rutted country road. There were no signs of streetlights or houses.

What the hell was going on? he wondered. His last conscious memory was saying good night to Nadia Rozek and that tall, broad-shouldered American. Had he been so drunk that he’d climbed up into the back of this truck and then passed out? Or had someone scooped him off the pavement after he lost consciousness? Was this all part of a practical joke being played on him by the other guys in his unit?

Janik looked down at the clothes he was wearing. Irregular blotches of darker and lighter shapes swam and rippled in his fogged eyesight. Camouflage battle dress, he realized stupidly — finding it difficult to focus. What had happened to his other clothes, to the dress uniform he’d been wearing at the restaurant? Just how long had he been wandering around in a drunken stupor?

Fighting against the mind-numbing drowsiness that still clouded his thoughts, the young Polish Special Forces captain looked up at the six other men crammed in the back of the truck with him. Most of them were wearing camouflage uniforms, too. But unlike him, they were all armed, cradling M4 carbines and other weapons. Their watchful eyes met his puzzled gaze without any discernible expression. Worse yet, he didn’t recognize any of them.

Christ, Janik thought wildly, what was this? Who were these men? He opened his mouth to ask.

And then closed it abruptly when the grim-faced man sitting across from him swung the muzzle of his rifle around to aim straight at his chest. The other man nodded coldly. No talking, he mouthed silently.

With a jolt, the truck veered off the rutted country road and turned onto a city street. They were passing between blacked-out buildings now, lit only sporadically by flickering streetlamps.

Brakes squealed softly as the truck slowed and then stopped.

“Out,” the man pointing the rifle at him growled.

Awkwardly, Janik obeyed, clambering out over the tailgate of the truck. The others did the same, forming up in a loose huddle. Driving rain slanted down out of the sky, pelting the cracked and broken pavement. A door creaked open on one of the neighboring buildings and several more men poured out onto the street.

These new arrivals wore dark-hued civilian clothing, and they were also armed to the teeth — most with Russian-made small arms. Their leader, a lean, wiry man with a gruesomely scarred face, carried an AK-74M assault rifle gripped in his capable-looking hands. Still struggling against the gray haze clouding his mind, Janik stared at the scarred man. There was nothing in the man’s eyes, he thought, beginning to be even more afraid. No emotion, no fear, no anger… nothing human at all. Just a look of cold, ruthless calculation.

Death, Kazimierez Janik realized with horror. I am looking on Death.

Through the darkness and pouring rain, Fedir Kravchenko saw the young Polish Special Forces officer turn white. He nodded once to the men grouped behind their captive. Silently, they spread a tarp across the wet pavement and backed away.

Kravchenko lifted his AK-74. He saw their prisoner’s eyes widen and nodded again. “You have my apologies, Captain,” he said quietly, in Polish. “But your unfortunate fate will serve a greater purpose, both for your country and for mine.”

“No, wait—” Janik stammered, raising his hands.

Kravchenko shot him twice, once in the stomach and a second time in the chest.

The young Pole went down in a heap. He was dead in seconds.

“Wrap him up in the tarp,” the Ukrainian told his men calmly. “And bring him with us.” He checked his watch. They had half an hour to drive the ten kilometers to the rendezvous point where Lytvyn and the rest of his command waited. Plenty of time, he decided, especially since this miserable weather seemed to be persuading the Russians to stick close to their existing checkpoints and fortified compounds.

Pavlo Lyvtyn crouched next to the rusting chain-link fence. Topped by newer rolls of razor wire, the barrier stretched away into the rain-drenched countryside on either side, finally disappearing into the darkness. When the Russians had seized this old Ukrainian airfield as a base for their own planes, they must have strengthened its defenses. But if so, the additions weren’t immediately obvious. The big man frowned.

“Trouble?” Kravchenko murmured.

Lytvyn shrugged. “Those Russian bastards aren’t stupid. They’ve probably wired this fence into a sensor net. Which means they’ll know we’re coming as soon as we make our first cut.”

“Yes, they will,” Kravchenko agreed. He eyed the bigger man. “You know the plan.”

“I know the plan,” the big man growled. He shook his head. “It just seems like a hell of a lot of trouble to go through in order to fail in the end.”

A thin, humorless smile flashed across Kravchenko’s maimed face. “Ah, but Pavlo, in this case, failure is the plan.” He tapped Lytvyn on the shoulder. “So cut the damned fence and let’s get on with it!”

Grumbling under his breath, the big man set to work with a pair of bolt cutters, quickly slicing a wide opening in the rusting airfield perimeter fence. There were no audible alarms, but lights began flicking on across the distant compound, illuminating hangars, aircraft shelters, and sandbagged guard posts.

Kravchenko whirled to the partisans kneeling behind him. “Go! Go!”

Silently, they scrambled to their feet and poured through the opening. The Ukrainian major and his bigger subordinate came right behind them, followed by another four-man party hauling the tarp-wrapped corpse of the Polish Special Forces captain.

Beyond the fence, hand signals sent the attackers fanning out through the tall, rain-soaked grass. Pavlo Lytvyn led one group off to the right. The men carrying Janik’s body went with him.

Kravchenko led the rest to the left. Besides riflemen, his group included a two-man team equipped with an 84mm Carl Gustav recoilless rifle. One partisan carried the launcher. The other lugged a haversack filled with two high-explosive and two antitank rounds.

The staccato rattle of automatic weapons fire echoed across the airfield. Lytvyn’s men were engaging Russian sentries outside the control tower and hangars at long range — firing short bursts and then dashing to new positions before the outgunned and outnumbered sentries could zero in on them.

Kravchenko’s group dropped prone in the wet grass beside a long concrete runway. They were about three hundred meters away from two newly constructed aircraft shelters. He wriggled forward to get a better look through his night-vision binoculars. These temporary Russian shelters weren’t hardened against air attack. Built out of lightweight metal and Kevlar fabric, they offered some protection against fragments and small-caliber rounds. Really, though, they were mostly designed to let mechanics and technicians to perform maintenance work on aircraft in all weather conditions.

Like this hard, drenching rain, the Ukrainian thought, baring his teeth in a fierce predatory grin. From the amount of light leaking out of both shelters, the Russian ground crews were busy tonight — readying two Su-25SM ground-attack aircraft for tomorrow’s scheduled patrols over the so-called Zone of Protection.

He glanced over at the Carl Gustav team. “Load with high explosive, antitank. Your target is the shelter on the right.”

The loader nodded, tugging one of the two HEAT rounds out of his haversack. He slid the round into the recoilless rifle’s breech and dogged it shut. The gunner went prone, aiming across the tarmac. “Ready!”

“Shoot!” Kravchenko hissed.

KA-WHUUMMP!

The Carl Gustav fired with a blinding flash and backblast — hurling the antitank round downrange at nearly three hundred meters per second. It hit the Russian aircraft shelter squarely, tore through the Kevlar fabric like a white-hot knife through butter, and exploded inside. Bits and pieces of the Su-25’s shattered fuselage pinwheeled out of the burning, collapsing structure. Moments later, stored fuel, 30mm cannon rounds, and ground-to-air rockets went up, cooking off in a rippling series of explosions that strobed across the surrounding tarmac.

“Let’s go!” Kravchenko yelled to the men closest to him. They jumped up and followed him toward the hole in the perimeter fence. He dragged his whistle out and blew a series of short, sharp blasts, relaying the same withdrawal order to Lytvyn’s group.

Abruptly, clumps of dirt and torn grass sprayed up across the ground behind the running partisans, traversing from right to left as the guards near the control tower brought a light machine gun into action. The Russians were finally waking up, Kravchenko thought. And about time, too. But given the range and the driving rain, it would be almost impossible for them to hit anything.

Still, those machine-gun rounds were coming close enough to make the next part of his plan plausible. “Drop the Carl Gustav launcher,” he snapped to the recoilless rifle crew. “Keep the rounds.”

The gunner nodded reluctantly, tossing the heavy tube aside into the long grass for the Russians to find later.

When they regrouped outside the fence, Kravchenko looked for Lytvyn. As usual, the big man was the last man out. “Anybody hit, Pavlo?” he demanded.

“No one,” Lyvtyn replied.

“Except for poor Captain Janik, you mean,” Kravchenko corrected him with a crooked smile.

“Except for him,” the big man acknowledged drily. “We dumped his body back near where we opened fire on the sentries.”

Kravchenko’s smile turned more genuine. “Very good. I’m sure the Russians will find what their prize has in his pockets very… clarifying.”

Using his rain poncho as an improvised tent to hide the beam of his flashlight, Spetsnaz Captain Timur Pelevin peered down at the bloodstained scrap of paper found on the terrorist killed at Konotop Airfield a few hours ago. Besides an abandoned Swedish-made recoilless rifle, it was the one piece of evidence the rattled garrison had recovered from the battlefield. The dead man’s comrades had apparently stripped him of everything else before escaping. His lips moved as he haltingly converted the Roman characters of the street address to more familiar Cyrillic letters. “Zelena Street, number seven,” he murmured.

He switched off the flashlight, waited several seconds for his eyes to readjust to darkness, and flipped the poncho back up. His two senior lieutenants were crouched nearby, waiting for his orders. “Looks like those air-force intelligence pricks got it right, for once,” he told them, pointing up the darkened street. “Our target is that fourth house on the right.”

They turned to follow his gesture. Even through the rain, they could make out the shape of a small, low-roofed detached building. Like the rest of the houses on this little street, it had a tiny garden plot out back and a separate, bedraggled-looking tool and storage shed.

“We need to hit that terrorist safe house hard and fast,” Pelevin stressed. “If they don’t realize what their dead guy had on him, we could still take them by surprise.”

One of the lieutenants raised an eyebrow. “And if the terrorists have booby-trapped the place?”

“Then it will be a very bad day for Mama Pelevin,” the Spetsnaz captain grunted. “But just for that, you go first, Yury.”

The lieutenant grinned tightly. “In that case, I withdraw my suggestion.”

“Too late,” Pelevin told him. “But don’t worry, I’ll be right behind you.” He studied the faint, glowing numbers on his watch. “Get your men in position, gentlemen. You have five minutes.”

Silently, carefully, the highly trained Russian commandos fanned out around the darkened house — ghosting across little fields and backyards and wriggling through gaps in run-down fences. They advanced in pairs, with one soldier always providing cover while his partner moved.

Before Pelevin’s stipulated five minutes were up, he and his men were ready, with assault teams positioned at the front and rear doors and snipers covering the windows.

The captain took a deep breath and let it out softly, slowing his racing pulse. He keyed his radio. “One. Two. Three. Vkhodi! Go in!” he ordered.

Troopers wielding sledgehammers smashed in the doors and then spun away, allowing others to toss in flashbang grenades. Even before the ear-shattering noise and dizzying, kaleidoscopic bursts of light faded away, more Russian commandos poured in, with their weapons ready.

The house was empty.

Scowling, Pelevin waited while his soldiers rummaged through drawers and cupboards and closets. Everywhere they looked, they saw signs that whoever had been living here had left in a tearing hurry. There were plates tossed in the sink with food still on them. Suitcases that had been left half packed. Unmade beds, with dirty sheets trailing on the floor. But there were no weapons. And worse yet, no papers or documents that might identify the terrorists.

“Captain!” one of his men suddenly shouted from outside. “Come and take a look at this!”

Within minutes, Pelevin found himself poking around inside a dimly lit chamber dug right under the house. Cinder blocks lined the walls, but the floor was dirt. When it was first built, it must have been meant to serve as a root cellar, he decided. But now it was something else entirely.

It was an armory.

Several assault rifles leaned against the far wall. He pulled one out and looked it over. It was an American-made M4A1 carbine. So were the others. An open crate held boxes of 5.56mm ammunition and magazines. Others were full of grenades of various types, including Polish-manufactured RGZ-89 antipersonnel grenades. Stashed in the corner and loosely concealed by camouflage netting, he found a U.S.-built SINCGARS combat radio.

Frowning deeply, Pelevin turned back toward the ladder. This was above his level of expertise. It was time to call in a GRU investigative unit. Maybe they could figure out where the terrorists had acquired all this advanced military hardware.

Something gleaming on the dirt floor caught his eye. He knelt down. Someone’s muddy boot had tromped down on a plastic card, half burying it in the dirt.

Gingerly, the Spetsnaz officer pried the card out of the loose-packed earth. He studied it carefully in his flashlight beam. It was a photo identity card of some kind. And the face was familiar somehow. He took a short, sharp breath, surprised despite himself as he remembered where he had last seen this man’s image.

Sweating now, Pelevin haltingly read off the name and rank embossed on the ID.

Mother of God, he thought, turning pale. The terrorist who had been killed in tonight’s raid on a Russian-occupied airfield was a captain in Poland’s most elite Special Forces unit.

Still in shock, Pelevin scrambled up the ladder and grabbed his radioman. “Patch me through to General Zarubin! Now! Tell him this is urgent!”