Iron Wolf

NINE

Sergei Tarzarov walked toward President Gennadiy Gryzlov’s private office with the same unhurried stride that had served him well through decades of service at the highest levels of the Russian government. Long experience had taught him the value of a reputation for remaining eerily composed in the face of any crisis. His steady, almost unnaturally calm demeanor was famous for boosting the morale of trusted subordinates, soothing rattled political masters, and unnerving would-be internal enemies.

Inside his weary mind, though, where no one else could pry, Tarzarov felt as anxious as a plump, well-fed rabbit unexpectedly invited to a meal by a hungry tiger. News of the terrorist attack on the air base at Konotop seemed all too likely to send Gennadiy Gryzlov into yet another of those towering, destructive rages that Tarzarov found alternately terrifying and tiresome. For all the younger man’s admitted brilliance and charisma, his occasional temper tantrums that were worthy of a spoiled two-year-old brat were maddening. Certainly, they tested his chief of staff’s prized patience to the breaking point.

He paused outside the door. Ivan Ulanov, the president’s private secretary, looked haggard and bleary-eyed, but otherwise unmarked. That was one small positive sign, Tarzarov thought. In the not-so-distant past, Gryzlov had been known to physically take out his fury on defenseless underlings — sometimes to the point of sending them to discreet private medical clinics for emergency treatment.

“You are to go in at once, sir,” Ulanov told him tiredly. “The president has just been briefed by General Zarubin over a secure line.”

Tarzarov nodded. He had already seen a summary of the evidence unearthed by the Spetsnaz troops attached to Zarubin’s motor-rifle brigade. He still found it astounding that the Poles had been stupid enough to attack Russia directly, let alone stupid enough to get caught red-handed doing so. And yet the incriminating facts on the ground seemed to admit no other realistic possibility. Perhaps Piotr Wilk was not as smart as he had seemed — or more panicked by Russia’s occupation of eastern Ukraine than anyone had guessed. He raised an eyebrow. “And what is the state of the president’s office furniture this morning?”

“As yet intact,” Ulanov said, with a wan smile.

Tarzarov clamped down on a sudden, wholly out-of-character urge to whistle in surprise. For a moment, he didn’t know whether to be more worried by Gennadiy Gryzlov’s atypical demonstration of self-control or by the possibility that the younger man was just waiting for a bigger audience before he exploded.

Still puzzled, he went in.

Gryzlov looked up from his desk and nodded curtly. “Good morning, Sergei. You may sit.”

Tarzarov did as he was ordered, lowering himself cautiously into the chair directly opposite the president. “Mr. President?”

“You will arrange a meeting of the full security council,” Gryzlov told him. “We will convene at noon.”

“To discuss the significance of the discoveries made by our forces at Konotop?” Tarzarov asked.

“Don’t you ever get tired of resorting to such bloodless bureaucratic euphemisms, Sergei?” Russia’s president asked, with a thin, humorless smile. “Let us speak bluntly and to the point. Our national security council will be meeting to approve my planned response to the clear, direct, and irrefutable evidence of Poland’s treacherous aggression against our motherland and its citizens. No other discussion will be necessary. Or welcome.”

Tarzarov nodded, acknowledging the other man’s point. “Yes, Mr. President.” He glanced at the digital clock on Gryzlov’s desk. “That will give me time to have these captured weapons and that Polish Special Forces ID card flown here for closer forensic examination.”

Gryzlov shook his head. “That also will not be necessary.” He shrugged. “Or possible, for that matter. I have already disposed of this evidence.”

Caught completely by surprise, Tarzarov sat bolt upright. “What?”

Gryzlov grinned. “Ah, the iceman cracks at last.” He chuckled. “Do not worry, Sergei. I haven’t flushed those rifles down the toilet or burned the ID card. What I mean is that I have sent the evidence where it can do the most harm to our enemies.”

Tarzarov breathed out slowly. Was it possible that Russia’s president had discovered that he could terrorize his staff as effectively with ham-fisted attempts at crude humor as with near-demented fits of wrath? Perhaps so, he thought wearily. He sat back, forcing himself to appear more relaxed. “May I ask where exactly that would be, Mr. President?”

“Geneva,” Gryzlov said simply.

The UN office in Geneva, the Palace of Nations, was supposed to be famous for its views of Lake Geneva and the snowcapped peaks of the French Alps, Foreign Minister Daria Titeneva thought caustically. Unfortunately, it seemed those breathtaking vistas were only for tourists. Working diplomats found themselves confined to a succession of stuffy meeting rooms.

This morning’s session, with the diminutive American secretary of state, Karen Grayson, was no different. Together with their respective staffs, and with observers from Poland and the other NATO countries, they were gathered in the palace’s council chamber. Gold-colored drapes blocked the floor-to-ceiling windows, enclosing them in a room whose green carpet, green leather seats, and white marble walls struck her as more appropriate for an oversized funeral director’s office than for genuine international negotiations. The gold and sepia murals supposedly showing human progress through technology, health, freedom, and peace did nothing to change her unfavorable opinion. It was yet another wonderful irony of history that the murals — painted by the Catalan artist José María Sert — had been given by the Spanish government to the UN’s predecessor, the ill-fated League of Nations, in May 1936, only weeks before the Spanish Civil War ripped Spain apart.

Perhaps, she thought icily, there was truth in the old saying that diplomatic meetings were where genuine peace and justice went to die.

For the moment, at least, Titeneva and her American counterpart were busy murdering them in relative private. The semicircular visitors’ gallery overlooking the council chamber had been sealed off. None of the parties involved in these talks were ready for the details to become public knowledge.

Up until now, that is, she thought after reading the brief cryptic text that popped up on her tablet. Turning to her closest aide, she murmured, “It’s time, Misha.”

He nodded, rose discreetly, and quietly left the chamber.

Titeneva sat back, pretending to listen carefully to the American secretary of state as the petite woman launched into yet another fusillade of pathetic disclaimers of any involvement by her country or NATO in the terrorist attacks aimed at Russia and its interests. From the pained expression on the face of Poland’s top diplomat, Foreign Minister Andrzej Waniek, he found Grayson’s speech equally embarrassing in its naïveté.

As well he should, Titeneva thought icily.

“As you know, I have been instructed by President Barbeau to convey her deepest personal regret over any loss of Russian life or property,” the American secretary of state said. “Such acts of terrorism are, and must always be, wholeheartedly condemned by any civilized nation.”

My God, Titeneva realized. This so-called American diplomat was actually trying to convey her sincerity by stressing every separate word slowly and distinctly, as if her audience were all either deaf or simpleminded children. Was she really that stupid? Or that inexperienced?

“For this reason, my government again offers its absolute assurance that neither we nor any allied government would ever support those who have attacked your armed forces,” Grayson went on. “We offer this firm commitment despite our equally firm and consistent disapproval of Russia’s unlawful occupation of eastern Ukraine—”

A sudden flurry of motion and babble of noise from the visitors’ gallery above them brought Karen Grayson to an abrupt and embarrassed halt in full rhetorical tide. She turned around, clearly stunned to see a flood of print journalists and TV news crews pouring into the chamber. “What on earth?” she began, then hurriedly turned off her microphone, and leaned over to whisper frantically to one of her aides.

With a supreme effort, Daria Titeneva kept herself from smiling in open triumph. She rose to her feet and turned on her own microphone.

“I am very sorry, Madam Secretary of State,” she said smoothly. “I very much regret this necessary disruption of ordinary protocol, but I have just received news from Moscow that cannot and must not be kept secret from those truly interested in peace!” She gestured toward the gallery. “It is for this reason and this reason alone that Russia has invited members of the international media to witness these proceedings.”

As TV camera lights clicked on, bathing the chamber in their glare, Titeneva waved a hand toward the large bronze doors, which were already opening. She raised her voice, riding over the American woman’s attempt to object. “For days now, our American friends and their Polish… puppets… have denied playing a part in these evil attacks on my country and its people. For days, they have pleaded their innocence and assured us all of their goodwill toward Russia.” Her expression hardened. “For days, they have been lying to us all.”

Shocked, Karen Grayson jumped to her feet, startled out of the meek obsequiousness she obviously thought appropriate to her new role as a diplomat. “That is not accurate, Madam Foreign Secretary,” she snapped. “My government has told the truth. And nothing but the truth!”

Titeneva smiled thinly. She shrugged her shoulders, as if generously willing to be persuaded. “Perhaps that is so.” Then she drove the dagger home. “But then you Americans have also been deceived. And deceived by those who proclaimed themselves to be your friends and your dear allies. By Poland and its foolish and aggressive government!”

Several staff members from the Russian embassy entered the chamber, carrying open-lidded crates full of rifles and other military equipment. The buzz from the gallery grew exponentially as reporters and camera crews leaned over the railings to get a better look, all the while earnestly babbling to audiences around the world about what they were seeing.

“Last night, terrorists attacked Russian soldiers and air crews at a base in the Ukraine,” Titeneva went on. “These criminals hoped to disrupt routine flight operations which have proved essential to providing peace and security for those in our Zone of Protection. But their vicious attack was defeated! And in the aftermath of this defeat, the men and women of our brave armed forces were able, for the first time, to obtain evidence linking these murderers, these terrorists, to a foreign power.”

Again, the American secretary of state attempted to interject, and again Daria Titeneva cut her off. “There can be no doubt of this! No denials that anyone will believe! The crates you see before you contain American-manufactured weapons and military hardware. Weapons and equipment which we can prove were sold to Poland’s army — supposedly for use by its so-called Special Forces. Instead, these weapons were handed over to terrorists, who used them to kill innocents, both Russians and Ukrainians of Russian heritage.”

The clamor from the excited reporters crowding the visitors’ gallery soared to an even higher level, drowning out all ordinary speech.

Titeneva waited patiently for the noise to subside a bit before continuing. “If that were all Warsaw’s insane leaders had done, it would be bad enough,” she said harshly. “Supplying terrorists with arms and equipment is an act of war.” She shook her head. “But that is not the end of the evils worked against Russia by these foolish and deluded men.”

Silence spread gradually through the large room as her words struck home.

“Last night, our heroic soldiers were also able to kill one of the men leading these brutal and evil terrorists,” she said coldly and calmly. “He was not a Ukrainian. He was not a Chechen.” Deliberately and slowly, she half turned, directly facing the sea of TV cameras now trained on her. They were hanging on her every word. It was… perfect. “The man they killed was Captain Kazimierz Janik, an officer in Poland’s most elite commando unit — a unit which boasts of its ability to conduct deadly raids far beyond Poland’s own borders. This fact can have only one meaning. It is undeniable. The Polish government is conducting a secret war, a covert war, against my country — a war of aggression in violation of all international law and all accepted norms.”

This brutally frank assertion drove the crowd of reporters beyond any bounds of decorum. They began yelling out questions at the top of their lungs, making it impossible for anyone to hear them, let alone attempt to answer them.

Daria Titeneva only smiled, waiting patiently for the appalling din to diminish so that she could continue.

To her surprise, the Polish foreign minister looked genuinely shocked by her revelations. She had not thought Andrzej Waniek was that skilled an actor. Perhaps, Titeneva thought, his own government had kept him in the dark about what it was doing in Ukraine. Certainly, she was quite sure that Gennadiy Gryzlov would hide many of Moscow’s own darker covert actions from her, if he judged it prudent.

Which raised questions that were perhaps better left unasked, she realized suddenly. Wondering just how so much conclusive evidence had suddenly dropped into the laps of the Russian intelligence services was probably not the safest or most sensible line of inquiry.

Again, the Russian foreign minister stood straight and tall, waiting for her moment. When she judged that she could be heard plainly without straining her voice, she went on. “By any standard of international law, my country would be fully justified in issuing an immediate declaration of war against Poland.” She smiled into the abruptly stunned and fearful hush that followed her pronouncement. “But we shall not do so. Russia is interested only in peace. Unlike those who have so ruthlessly and viciously attacked us, we do not embrace violence for the sake of violence. Nevertheless, we are not weaklings or simpletons. Crimes have been committed against us — crimes which cry out for justice and for retribution.”

She turned to face the Polish foreign minister directly, acting as though the Americans and the diplomats from the other NATO countries were of no importance. “Accordingly, my government instructs me to issue the following ultimatum to Poland’s president, Piotr Wilk, and the members of his cabinet. First, Poland must immediately cease all its covert attacks on Russian troops and Russian interests — whether in the Zone of Protection or in Russia itself. Second, Poland must hand over all of the terrorists and their Polish advisers and commanders for trial in my country, under Russian law. Third, all combat aircraft belonging to the Polish Air Force must immediately stand down, and remain grounded until this crisis is resolved to my government’s satisfaction. To ensure this, we shall require that vital engine and weapons systems components be removed from each warplane and stored under strict international supervision. Fourth, we make the same demand for all elements of Poland’s air defense systems — including its radars and surface-to-air missile batteries. Fifth, all units of Poland’s land forces must be restricted to their existing bases, again under international supervision. All mobilization measures, including President Wilk’s ill-considered call-up of reserves, must also be completely reversed. And sixth, Poland must pay substantial reparations for every Russian soldier and civilian killed by its terrorist attacks. It must also compensate my country fully for all military equipment damaged or destroyed in these attacks.”

For long moments after she finished speaking, a painful, almost breathless silence hung over the council chamber.

At last, Andrzej Waniek, his long, lean lawyer’s face gone bone-white, rose to his feet. “I will not dignify these vile fabrications and outright slanders by even attempting to refute them at this moment,” he said hoarsely. “Nevertheless, in duty to my government and to the people of my beloved and honorable country, I am bound ask: How long are we being given to consider the outrageous demands contained in this absurd ultimatum?”

“You have five days,” Titeneva told him. “Five days to fully comply with every demand.”

“And if we refuse?” Waniek asked grimly.

“Then Russia will be forced to use harsher measures,” she said, with equal grimness. “Measures that will impose a lasting peace on the entire region — a peace which will fully secure Russia’s safety and security for decades to come.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The big hangar doors were already sliding closed behind the two-seater F-16D Falcon as it taxied to a stop and shut down its Pratt & Whitney turbofan engine. Even before the fighter’s clear canopy whined open, ground crew hurried toward the plane with ladders for the Polish Air Force pilot and his VIP passenger.

President Piotr Wilk climbed out of the rear seat and dropped lightly onto the hangar’s concrete floor. He stripped off the flight helmet he’d been loaned and handed it back to the F-16’s pilot, a lieutenant colonel. “Wait for me here, Waldemar. And thank you for the ride.” He forced a smile. “Maybe you will let me fly your bird on the way back to Warsaw, eh? I promise not to try too many crazy stunts on the way.”

“Sir!” The lieutenant colonel snapped to attention.

A tall, powerfully built man stepped forward. Wilk recognized him from earlier visits as Wayne Macomber, commander of the Iron Wolf Squadron’s ground troops. “We’re all set, Mr. President,” Macomber said. “If you’ll follow me?”

The big American led him through a pair of large doors at the rear of the hangar and into an adjoining room with a remarkably high ceiling. The reason for the tall ceiling was apparent when Wilk saw the twelve-foot-tall Cybernetic Infantry Device standing absolutely still, facing the doors. It was plugged into an array of cables.

Two men stood next to the huge robot. One was Kevin Martindale. The other was much younger, with bright blue eyes and short-cropped blond hair. Dressed in the dark green uniform adopted by the Iron Wolf Squadron’s air crews, he was almost as tall and broad-shouldered as Macomber.

He recognized Brad McLanahan from Captain Rozek’s confidential reports. In them, she credited the only son of the legendary General McLahanan with remarkable leadership and tactical skills. Apparently, he had won the loyalty of a hard-nosed group of elite pilots with astonishing swiftness. Then again, Wilk thought with hidden amusement, judging from some of the other rumors he’d heard, that was not all Brad had won recently.

Privately, he hoped the young American knew what he was getting into. Nadia Rozek was a highly capable, highly trained Special Forces officer. If Brad McLanahan broke her heart, she was perfectly capable of breaking his neck — or any other part of his body that caught her fancy.

Quickly, Wilk shook hands with everyone except the CID, which seemed frozen, utterly inanimate. Was there a pilot in there? he wondered. Or was it only an empty shell right now, brought out of storage for use as a visual aid at this urgent meeting?

Kevin Martindale motioned him toward a conference table surrounded by chairs. “I hope you don’t mind if we skip all the usual pleasantries, Mr. President. But time is damned short all of sudden.”

“Not at all,” Wilk said, sitting down. The others did the same. “I am well aware that we are, as you Americans would say, neck-deep in the shit.” His foray into American slang drew quick, slashing grins from both Macomber and Brad, and a pained nod of grudging agreement from Martindale.

“Can you tell us anything more about how those rifles and other gear — not to mention Captain Janik’s corpse — wound up in Russian hands?” the head of Scion asked.

Regretfully, Wilk shook his head. “Not yet.” He frowned. “But the serial numbers provided by Moscow do match equipment we purchased from the United States. We have traced these weapons as far as we can, but all of them are listed in our records as either scrapped or discarded.”

“Who maintains those records?” Brad asked. “Somebody must have fiddled with them.”

“In this case, the ‘fiddling’ seems to have been done by a staff sergeant in one of our supply units,” Wilk said. “Unfortunately, we cannot confirm that through direct interrogation. Sergeant Górski died more than a week ago — burned alive in what the police thought was an accidental fire.”

“How very fucking… convenient,” Macomber growled.

Wilk nodded grimly. “True. Though not for us, it seems.”

“What about Kazimierz?” Brad looked even more troubled. “Nadia… I mean, Captain Rozek and I, must have been just about the last people to set eyes on him. He was drunk as a skunk, so he sure as hell wasn’t getting ready to fly off on some solo covert mission to the Ukraine!”

“We believe Captain Janik must have been kidnapped that same night,” Wilk told them, not bothering to hide his own anger. “But we have no proof of this beyond the fact that he did not visit his girlfriend. There is no evidence that he ever crossed our borders. It is as if he simply vanished off the streets in Warsaw and then reappeared — quite dead — at that Russian-occupied air base.”

“Your whole country’s been well and truly set up,” Macomber said through gritted teeth. “And then staked out like a kid goat for Gryzlov and company to gnaw on.”

“So I believe,” Wilk agreed bitterly. “My investigators will keep digging, but I have little hope they will uncover the truth. At least not in time to matter.”

“I wish I could argue against that,” Martindale said, looking down at his hands. “But you’re right. The damage has already been done. My sources tell me that President Barbeau has ruled out any American help against the Russians.”

“So I have been informed.” Wilk’s shoulders slumped slightly. “The American ambassador telephoned this news to me — on his way to the airport. Washington, it seems, has recalled him for ‘urgent consultations.’ ”

“Jesus,” Macomber swore. His face was dark. “Why didn’t that bitch Barbeau just hand him a nice sharp dagger to plant in your back while she was at it?”

“Now, now, Major,” Martindale said reprovingly, though his expression was equally angry. “Stacy Anne Barbeau would never do anything as aboveboard and honest as that. She prefers making her kills with words, not actions.”

“If the U.S. is cutting and running, I suppose the other NATO powers will do the same thing,” Brad said.

“Yes,” Wilk agreed heavily. “The Germans, the French, and the British will not offer us military or even diplomatic support without American backing. Even the leaders of the Baltic states — who know they will be next in Gryzlov’s cross hairs — are frozen in fear and uncertainty. They offer me moral support, but little more.”

“So we’re on our own,” Brad said grimly.

Surprised at his choice of words, Wilk shook his head. “No, Mr. McLanahan. We Poles are on our own. With the whole world believing these lies about us, I cannot ask you and the rest of your squadron to share our fate.”

“You don’t have to ask us, Piotr. We already have a contract,” Kevin Martindale interjected. The gray-haired former American president looked around the table with a wry smile. “No one had to twist our arms to get us to sign it either. I told you earlier that Scion honors its agreements. Well, now we’re going to prove it.”

Brad and Macomber nodded solemnly, although Macomber spoiled the moment a bit by muttering, “Hell, yes. There’s nothing I like better than a death-defying battle against hopeless odds. Just so long as it’s not too early in the goddamned morning.”

“You see?” Martindale told Wilk, with just the slightest hint of a thin smile on his own face. “The Iron Wolf Squadron is at your command, Mr. President.” He looked squarely at the Polish president. “Which raises the rather pertinent question of exactly how you plan to respond to this Russian ultimatum.”

“Poland will not comply with the ultimatum,” Wilk said bluntly. “To do so would be national suicide.”

“So we fight,” Brad said, glancing over at the Cybernetic Infantry Device standing motionless near the conference table.

“Yes, we will fight,” Wilk said. “And if Poland must die again, she will die with honor.”

Suddenly the CID swiveled its head toward him. “My suggestion, Mr. President, would be to win the war that’s coming instead,” the machine said in a deep but electronically synthesized voice. “Let the Russians do the dying.”

Startled, Wilk stared up at the huge manned war robot. Despite its strange electronic overtones, that voice was… familiar, somehow. “Just who the devil are you?” he demanded. “And why are you hiding in that… device… rather than having the courage to confer with us face-to-face?”

“We’ve met before,” the CID told him. “Though only briefly and a long time ago.” It dipped its head slightly. “My name is Patrick McLanahan.”

Wilk listened in fascinated, and then somewhat horrified, silence while Martindale and the others told the story behind the former Air Force general’s apparently fatal wounds, unexpected resuscitation, and now seemingly perpetual imprisonment inside these human-piloted robots. When they were finished, he shook his head in amazement. “And no one else knows about this?”

“Only a handful of others,” Patrick said. “And most of them are back in the United States.” His voice was hushed. “It seemed better to live on quietly in the shadows, rather than becoming another short-lived, freak-show media sensation. Or worse yet, becoming some sort of circus exhibit for conspiracy theorists.”

“And a target,” his son reminded him sharply. “If that whacked-out son of a bitch Gryzlov knew you were still alive, you’d have GRU assassins dogging your metal heels no matter how many security guards Scion assigned to your detail.”

“Probably so. As you should know better than anyone, Brad,” Patrick agreed. And this time Wilk could swear he heard just the hint of amused exasperation in that synthetic voice.

With an effort, the Polish president shook himself out of his bewilderment. Like many other air force officers around the world, he had respected the American general’s accomplishments, so it was heartening to learn that the man was still alive, in whatever strange and eerie way, and willing to fight for Poland. But the odds against them still seemed insurmountable. “What did you mean when you suggested we win this war?” he asked.

“If war is inevitable,” the older McLanahan argued. “Let’s fight it on our terms. On our schedule. And on the enemy’s turf — not on Polish soil.” The CID leaned down, looming over the table. “Commit the Iron Wolf Squadron to an unconventional campaign against the Russian invasion forces as soon as they start moving toward your frontier.”

“Before the ultimatum expires?” Wilk asked skeptically, pondering the possible international repercussions if Poland struck first.

The large war robot shrugged its armored shoulders. “Gryzlov isn’t going to stop, no matter what you do. And now we all know the U.S. cavalry isn’t going to come riding to the rescue. Nor is anyone else. So if we’re going to be hanged by international public opinion anyway, it might as well be for a sheep as a lamb.”

Slowly, almost against his will, Wilk nodded. What the American said made sense. Waiting until the last possible moment to reject Moscow’s ultimatum would not gain them any more allies; nor would the extra time be of much real help in shoring up Poland’s defenses. No, he thought grimly, if the Russians really planned to invade his country, they were the ones who had the most to gain from the five-day ultimatum period.

Then a thought struck him. He turned to Brad McLanahan. “But the Iron Wolf Squadron is not yet completely ready, is it? You still have only four of your XF-111s based here at Powidz. The others are still held back in the United States, are they not?”

Brad nodded. “That’s true, Mr. President.” He smiled slightly, plainly glad to have some good news to report. “But I’ve already sent crews back home to fly in the rest ASAP. They left very early this morning on several of Mr. Martindale’s private jets. And Sky Masters is already making the fuel system modifications necessary to get the XF-111s here without intermediate stops.”

Martindale nodded. “Which means there will be some nasty legal and bureaucratic red tape to unravel — or mostly likely rip to shreds — but we’ll get those SuperVarks here. You can count on that.”

These Americans, Wilk thought wryly. They seemed almost frighteningly eager to throw themselves into a battle that still seemed impossible to win. Well, Piotr, he told himself, then perhaps it is best that they are on your side. “So be it,” he said quietly. “As soon as the Russians begin moving west against us, I will unleash the Iron Wolf Squadron.”

Igor Truznyev, former president of the Russian Federation, sat on a park bench sheltered from the rain by a black umbrella. He enjoyed the sight of younger couples scurrying past along the path, hurrying to seek shelter somewhere else until this brief storm passed. They paid no attention to the older man sitting so placidly and so alone. The park, once a falconry preserve for the Czar Alexei Mikhailovich, Peter the Great’s father, was emptying out fast. Without any crowds to use as cover, watchers would stand out against the backdrop of birches, pines, oaks, and maples.

He also enjoyed the sound of the raindrops pitter-pattering through the leaves of the trees, dripping onto the grass and flower beds, and splashing into nearby ponds. All this ambient noise would make it very difficult for anyone but the most dedicated eavesdropper, using the most sophisticated surveillance gear.

Truznyev restrained the urge to check his watch again. The man who had requested this covert rendezvous would either keep it, or not. Amid all the militaristic furor spreading through the Kremlin and the Defense and Intelligence Ministries, it might be difficult for the other to slip away unnoticed.

Another middle-aged man in a fashionable raincoat and carrying a smaller umbrella came up the rain-soaked path, walking fast. He looked like a businessman, perhaps a banker, out for a bit of doctor-ordered afternoon exercise before going back to the humdrum routine of his daily work.

“May I join you?” Truznyev heard the other man ask politely.

He looked up, unsurprised to see Sergei Tarzarov’s brown eyes staring back at him out of a face that looked, for now at least, a couple of decades younger. “Da, konechno. Yes, of course,” he said, sliding down the park bench a bit to make room. “I was a bit surprised to get your message. Usually, I contact you, not the other way around.”

“That is because this time, I need your assistance, Igor,” Tarzarov said.

“Oh?”

Tarzarov nodded. “I worry that we are being manipulated — lured into a clash with the Poles we might have avoided. I need your help to evaluate this possibility.” He frowned. “The evidence our Spetsnaz troops found at Konotop troubles me. It is too… perfect. Too closely tailored to fit Gennadiy’s beliefs and prejudices.”

The former president raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure that you aren’t more bothered by the possibility that this hard evidence of Polish involvement proves your earlier skepticism was wrong?”

A thin, wintry smile crossed Tarzarov’s face, subtly aging him despite his disguise. “I do not claim to be an entirely disinterested saint,” he said drily. “But I am far too old to believe in my own infallibility.” He shrugged. “Nevertheless, I think it is important to uncover the truth. If we are being led by the nose to war, I want to know who holds the string.”

“That makes good sense,” Truznyev agreed. He glanced more closely at the other man. “But isn’t it already too late? From what I’ve heard, the line’s been crossed. President Gryzlov is hell-bent on toppling the Polish government — and he has the generals and the people in his pocket. Besides, even if he wanted to withdraw this ultimatum, there is no way he can reverse course now. It would make Russia, and him, a laughingstock around the whole world!”

“True,” Tarzarov said. He frowned. “But there will be other crises, other decisions of equal or greater importance down the road. If some unknown party planted that evidence for its own purposes, we must find out who they are and stop them before that next crisis arises. Otherwise we risk ceding control over our policy, over our country, to others — to those who might lead us into disaster for their own mysterious ends.”

Slowly, Truznyev nodded his understanding. He looked grim. “I take your point, Sergei. You are right, as always.” He sighed. “Though it might help if we had a leader who was less… volatile. And more level-headed.”

The older man snorted politely. “And did you have someone else in mind for the job, Igor? Someone we both know well?”

Truznyev smiled. “Not me, my friend. My time in the Kremlin is long gone — as is my hunger for the trappings of power.” He spread his hands. “Now I wish only to serve the interests of the state in my own private and discreet way.”

“And to make money while doing so,” Tarzarov said pointedly.

The other man smiled. “That, too.” He shrugged his expensively clad shoulders. “You know as well as I do, Sergei, that money is a valuable tool. And a useful weapon. Without it, of what use could I be to you now, eh?”

Tarzarov laughed softly, conceding the point.

“Still, why ask me to investigate this for you?” Truznyev asked. “Why not drop the matter in Viktor Kazyanov’s lap? He runs the intelligence services now. Have him set his GRU and SVR hounds to work. If someone’s been playing games with us, have them sniff out the scent.”

“Because Kazyanov is a moral coward,” Tarzarov said, his lip curling in disgust. “He pisses himself in fear if Gennadiy so much as raises his voice. Does he seem like the sort of man who would be interested in discovering that his master has been so easily misled?”

Now it was Truznyev’s turn to snort. “No,” he agreed. “I remember him well from my days in intelligence, as head of the FSB. Viktor would be the last person to tell Gryzlov he’s been gulled. And if he did, I doubt the president would believe him.”

“So, then, Igor, will you help me?” the older man asked. “If it is a question of money, well, I can tap the secret funds without great difficulty.”

After only a brief pause, Truznyev nodded. “Of course I’ll help you. But it may be difficult. And it will be expensive.” He pulled at his chin, thinking aloud. “As you know, I still have… contacts, shall we say… in some of the most promising possibilities.”

“Which are? In your view, I mean?”

Truznyev shrugged. “Beijing ranks high, I think. The Chinese are subtle and, despite the interest we share in seeing the Americans humbled, they still see us as potential rivals for world power. And certainly, their president, Zhou, must resent how ruthlessly Gryzlov bullied him during the Starfire affair.”

“Gennadiy was, perhaps, too… forceful,” Tarzarov admitted sourly.

“That’s certainly one word to describe demanding complete control over China’s entire antisatellite weapons arsenal in order to destroy the American’s space battle station,” the other man said, smiling.

“Gennadiy’s plan worked, though.”

“It did,” Truznyev agreed easily. “But now the Chinese may be interested in regaining some of their pride by turning the tables on him — setting Gennadiy dancing to a tune of their choice.”

“Perhaps, though I cannot see what strategic or geopolitical interest Beijing would have in seeing us crush Poland,” Tarzarov said doubtfully.

“This war will inevitably draw our eyes westward, away from what the Chinese consider their own sphere of influence,” Truznyev pointed out.

“True.”

“But there are other places to look,” Truznyev continued. “Kiev is obviously one of them, though I cannot see how even the fascists there could believe they would benefit from tricking us into conquering half their own country, and then marching armies through the rest!” He shrugged. “We should also consider digging beneath the surface in Warsaw itself.”

Tarzarov shook his head in disbelief. “Of all your hypotheses, that seems least likely, Igor. Why would any sane Pole drag us into war against his own country?”

“Piotr Wilk has political opponents,” the other man said. “Some of them remember the days of the Warsaw Pact more fondly than most Poles. Perhaps they believe a lost war could be the quickest route to ousting Wilk’s government and achieving real political power?” He laughed, though without any humor. “Certainly, I know how that equation works, if only from the wrong end of the stick!”

Reluctantly, Tarzarov nodded. “It is possible.” He sighed. “Very well, Igor. See what you can learn. But discreetly, yes?”

“As always,” the other man assured him.

After the older man left, Truznyev sat quietly, waiting for a few minutes before making his own way out of the park. No matter how well disguised Gryzlov’s chief of staff might be, it was safest to keep some distance between them.

The rain had stopped, and streaks of sunlight were beginning to break through the clouds. Truznyev furled his umbrella and walked on, smiling to himself — already contemplating the complicated web he would have to weave to carry out Tarzarov’s request. It was annoying that the older man’s instincts had led him so close to the truth, just as it was annoying that Gryzlov’s luck still seemed to be holding.

He shrugged. If this plan to humiliate Russia’s new president failed, there would be other opportunities later — especially since Tarzarov still trusted him. As a child, he had always enjoyed playing priatki, hide-and-seek, and this covert venture was only another version of that old favorite. In this case, of course, there was one crucial difference. After all, though he did not know it, Tarzarov was asking him to find himself. He began to laugh.

Twenty thousand feet over the ocean, four XF-111s flew eastward in close formation. Two more SuperVarks were about a mile ahead and a few thousand feet higher, performing the intricate maneuvers required to take on fuel from a Sky Masters KC-10 Extender aerial tanker.

“Wolf Three-One, this is Masters One-Four, pressure disconnect,” the boom operator aboard the tanker radioed. “You’re topped off and good to go.”

“Thanks, One-Four. Clearing away now,” the pilot of the XF-111 that had just finished refueling replied, sliding down and away from the KC-10.

“Wolf Three-Two, you’re up next,” the tanker said. “Cleared to precontact position.”

“Roger that, One-Four. Three-Two moving to precontact.”

From the cockpit of the lead XF-111, Wolf One-One, one mile back, Mark Darrow could see all the director lights on the KC-10’s belly flash twice, followed by a pair of blinking green lights. He could see the last of the six aircraft in his formation slowly moving up into position, getting set to guide in on the KC-10’s boom nozzle. Once Karen Tanabe’s Wolf Three-Two topped up with fuel, they could break away from the Sky Masters tanker and fly on to Poland.

“You know, Jack,” he said to his copilot and weapons systems operator. “This daft little scheme of Mr. Martindale’s might actually work.”

Over on the right side of the crowded cockpit, Jack Hollenbeck grinned back under his oxygen mask. “My mama always thought I’d end up on the wrong side of the law. But I figure she was thinking more about little old-fashioned crimes like bank robbery or car theft. Airplane smuggling seems like a mighty big step up. More high-class, somehow.”

Darrow laughed. The Texan’s description of what they were doing was apt. Caught without enough time to move the remaining XF-111s legally — or at least discreetly — to Poland, Scion and its partners at Sky Masters had been forced to improvise. First, technicians had hurriedly installed temporary auxiliary fuel tanks in each refurbished aircraft’s bomb bay, significantly increasing the amount of fuel they could carry. Next, Sky Masters reactivated their air refueling systems — technically illegal according to U.S. export laws. Once that was done, contract pilots had flown the planes to different civilian airports along the eastern seaboard, ready for the Iron Wolf crews coming in from Poland take over.

Roughly four hours ago, every one of those six Iron Wolf Squadron XF-111s had taken off — flying east using commercial air and civilian transponder codes that identified them as chartered cargo flights bound for different destinations in Africa and Europe and filing all the necessary Customs and Border Protection electronic forms for crossing the U.S. border. Nearly three thousand separate flights crossed the Atlantic in both directions every day — six more planes added to that traffic flow should rate less than a blip on anybody’s radar, or so Martindale had hoped. Once they left radar air traffic coverage, the XF-111s had switched off their transponders, increased speed, and converged at this planned midocean air refueling rendezvous.

So far, so good, Darrow thought. And one thing was already clear. The other Iron Wolf crews were bloody good at their jobs. Every plane had made it to this difficult rendezvous on time and without trouble.

“Warning, warning, unidentified X-band target search radar detected,” the SPEARS threat-warning system announced. “Four o’clock. Range undetermined.”

“Ruh-roh,” Hollenbeck muttered, glancing down at his threat-warning display. “Identify.”

“Negative identification,” the computer. “Agile active frequency signal. Stand by.”

“Hell.” Hollenbeck stared down at his display. “The frequencies that goddamned radar is using are jumping around like a jackrabbit being chased by a coyote. My best guess is that it’s an AN/APG-79.”

“Blast,” Darrow said. That was almost as good as the AN/APG-81 active electronically scanned array radar carried by their SuperVarks. Besides the refurbished XB-1 Excalibur bombers produced by Sky Masters, the only other aircraft fitted with the AN/APG-79s were the U.S. Navy’s F/A-18F Super Hornets… which meant they were in big trouble. Quickly, he switched their primary radio to GUARD, the international emergency frequency.

A tense voice crackled through their headsets. “Unknown aircraft heading one-zero-five degrees at angels twenty and angels twenty-three, this is Navy flight Lion Four. Identify yourselves immediately!”

Darrow glanced down at the information fed to one of his multifunction displays by Hollenbeck. Lion Four was a U.S. Navy F/A-18 all right, part of Strike Fighter Squadron 213, the “Blacklions.” VFA-213 was currently shown as flying off the Nimitz-class carrier George H. W. Bush. The Super Hornet’s crew must have been on a routine training flight when it picked them up, probably using ATFLIR, its Advanced Targeting Forward-Looking Infrared system. If the Navy fighter had been on station as part of the carrier group’s CAP, its combat air patrol, the XF-111 group’s warning receivers would have picked up emissions from a wide range of naval radars at long range. And that would have given them plenty of time to hightail it out of this area before being spotted.

So this was just bad luck.

Really bad luck.

If a report of “unidentified F-111s” making a mid-Atlantic refueling maneuver flashed up the Navy chain of command to the Pentagon or, worse yet, President Barbeau’s White House, all hell would undoubtedly break loose. At best, the six Iron Wolf Squadron planes and their crews would be ordered back to the States for further investigation — an investigation that was bound to go on for a very long time and lead to a lot of awkward, unanswerable questions. As unpleasant as that would be for him, Jack Hollenbeck, Karen Tanabe, and the others, Darrow realized, it would be a lot worse for the rest of the squadron back at Powidz. Without these reinforcements, they would be forced to go in against the Russians desperately short of aircraft and trained crews.

Well, then, Darrow thought, his six XF-111s were going to have to bluff their way past this Super Hornet pilot and his backseater, at least long enough to break contact and zoom out of detection range. “You’d better do the talking, Jack,” the ex-RAF pilot said, frowning. “My accent might prove a bit… disconcerting… to our friend out there.”

Hollenbeck nodded. “Time to find out if our ‘get out of jail free’ card really works, I guess.” He keyed his mike. “Lion Four, this is Blackbird One. My code phrase is EIGHTBALL HIGH. Repeat, EIGHTBALL HIGH. Suggest you run that through your computer, pronto.”

“Say again, Lion Four,” Commander Russ Gerhardt, air operations officer for the Bush, said into his mike. In the dim, blue-tinted light of the CDC, he leaned forward, studying the radar and infrared images sent via data link from the F/A-18F Super Hornet. They showed a formation of seven separate aircraft, one large plane evaluated as a KC-10 refueling tanker and six smaller, sweptwing F-111-type aircraft. Every single F-111 had long since been retired to the Boneyard, so that was weird. None of them were squawking on any transponders, and that was even weirder.

“These bozos gave us a code phrase to check,” the backseater aboard Lion Four radioed. “EIGHTBALL HIGH, whatever that is.”

Gerhardt frowned. Code phrases? Crap. Who the hell were these guys? He turned to the specialist manning the nearest computer station. “Run that through the system, Cappellini.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” she said, her fingers already dancing over the keyboard. And then stopped as a warning flashed on her screen. “Commander?” the young Navy technician said, in a worried tone. “I can’t access that information. I’m not cleared for it.”

Bush’s air operations officer moved over to get a better look. Her display showed lines of text in bright red: TOP SECRET//OS-SPECIAL ACCESS REQUIRED-EIGHTBALL HIGH. DO NOT REPORT. DO NOT RECORD.

His frown grew deeper. The OS tag on this EIGHTBALL HIGH crap meant this was a Defense Department — approved military operation of some kind. But the Special Access bit meant it was so highly classified that all information about it was restricted to those few with a “need to know.” And apparently nobody on CVN-77 or in her assigned air wing met that criterion.

Well, Gerhardt thought, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out this was somehow connected to all the shit going down between Russia and Poland. The Pentagon brass and the White House must be running a “black ops” mission to help the Poles. Which explained the DO NOTs attached to the code phrase. After President Barbeau had made such a big deal out of staying neutral, anything the United States did to aid Warsaw would have to be totally deniable.

“Wipe that entry, Specialist Cappellini,” he ordered. “It never happened. Understand?”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Gerhardt keyed his mike again. “Lion Four, this is Avenger. Break away from those unknowns and deactivate your radar. Head back home. That’s an order.”

“Avenger, this is Lion Four. Falcon one-zero-one?!”

Gerhardt grinned, hearing the Navy pilot code for “You’ve got to be shitting me.” “No fecal matter is involved, Lion Four. Back off those guys and shut it down.”

“I’ll be damned,” Hollenbeck said slowly, staring at his MFDs. “It actually worked. That Hornet’s radar just went off-line. He’s turning away.”

Mark Darrow breathed out in relief. Scion’s computer wizards had claimed they’d done a bit of tweaking inside the U.S. Defense Department’s databases to cover this little jaunt. It looked as though they’d done their hacking job properly. He switched back to the frequency they’d been using earlier. “Masters One-Four, many thanks for your assistance.”

“Wolf One-One, you’re more than welcome. Fly safe,” the tanker radioed. “We’re heading for home.”

Darrow watched the big KC-10 bank away, turning back to the west. Its director lights winked out. Within minutes, even the navigation lights on the aerial tanker’s wing tips and tail vanished in the darkness. He keyed his mike again. “All Wolf flights, this is Wolf One-One. Now that we’re finally all alone out here, let’s pick up the pace, shall we? We’ll go to full cruise and take it down to ten thousand feet. Follow my lead, understood?” A succession of clicks and acknowledgments came through his headset as the five other Iron Wolf crews signaled they understood his orders.

“Right, then, Wolf flights. Here we go,” Darrow said, sweeping the XF-111’s wings back to fifty-six degrees while simultaneously pushing the throttles forward. The big fighter-bomber accelerated smoothly toward its full cruise speed of nearly six hundred knots. He pitched the SuperVark’s nose down, watching the altitude indicator on his HUD slide down toward ten thousand feet. One after another, the five other planes followed him down — staying on the course that would bring them to the Strait of Gibraltar, the entrance to the Mediterranean, in a little over two hours.

Rear Admiral Anatoly Varennikov studied the short transcript of the GUARD channel radio transmission picked up by his aircraft carrier’s signals intelligence detachment. He arched an eyebrow, silently translating the English-language phrases into their Russian equivalents. He made it a point to always see the raw data first, but he never pretended to be a first-rate linguist. At last he looked up, meeting the interested gaze of his chief intelligence officer, Captain Yakunin. “EIGHTBALL HIGH? I’ve never seen that before. What does it mean, Leonid?”

“Based on what they said, it’s an operational code of some kind, sir,” Yakunin said. He shrugged. “But it’s not one we have listed in our files.”

“And there was nothing more?” Varennikov asked. “Just a request from the American Navy F/A-18 for identification from these unidentified aircraft? And then this strange code in response?”

“There were no more messages between the mysterious aircraft and the Hornet,” Yakunin said. “But when the pilot passed this code back to his carrier, the Bush, his commanders told him to abort the intercept. In fact, they told him to turn off his radar immediately and return to the ship. Interesting, eh?”

“Extremely interesting,” Varennikov agreed. “It suggests the movement of American military or intelligence aircraft, but a movement so secret that not even its own naval commanders were briefed about it in advance.”

He turned to the map plot showing the present position of Admiral Kuznetsov and its escorting destroyers and frigates. They were about one hundred and sixty kilometers east-northeast of Gibraltar, steaming almost due east under Moscow’s most recent orders to return to the Black Sea. If the Ukrainians chose to impede the Russian troops scheduled to advance toward Poland, President Gryzlov wanted the carrier group in position to help punish them. Then he studied the estimated position, course, and speed of the unidentified group of aircraft out over the Atlantic. They might be heading his way.

Varennikov chewed his lower lip, deep in thought. Was it worth delaying his task force’s transit to the Black Sea to investigate further? Yes, he decided. If the Americans really were up to something sneaky, it was important to try to find out exactly what that was. He moved to the command phone connecting him to the bridge. “Captain Bogdanov, signal the task force to reverse course. And ready two Su-33 fighters for launch. I want them to go hunting.”

“Warning, warning, X-band target search radar, Su-33, eleven o’clock high, one hundred miles, seven hundred knots,” the computer said suddenly.

“Signal strength?” Hollenbeck asked.

“Weak, but increasing,” the SPEAR system told him. “Detection probability minimal, but increasing.”

Darrow frowned. “It’s getting awfully crowded in my sky, these days.” He clicked his mike. “Wolf flights, this is One-One. Stand by to go to DTF on my mark. Set for two hundred, hard ride. Let’s get down in the waves and blow past these Russian buggers before they know we’re here.”

More clicks acknowledged his order.

“Those Su-33 radars have a decent look-down capability,” Hollenbeck warned. “If they get close enough, they’ll still detect us.”

Darrow nodded. “We’ll jink to stay out of their way, if we have to, and hope SPEAR can take care of the rest. Engage DTF, clearance plane two hundred hard ride.”

“Digital terrain following engaged, clearance plane two hundred hard ride,” the computer responded.

The XF-111 plunged down through night sky, diving toward the ocean at six hundred knots. The digital terrain-following system included occasional bursts of its radar altimeter, which measured the exact distance from its belly to the ocean. The SuperVarks leveled out at two hundred feet above the surface and streaked onward.

Darrow tweaked his stick slightly right, following the navigation cues on his HUD. Soon some distinctive rock formations began to become visible on the digital artificial terrain display. Minutes later, they zipped past a massive wall of rock on the left side of the canopy, glowing faintly white in the moonlight. Lights twinkled at its base.

“Cool,” Hollenbeck muttered, craning his head to look aft at the huge headland rising more than a thousand feet above their XF-111. “Was that—?”

“The Rock of Gibraltar,” the Englishman replied tersely. “We’re over the Med now.”

Hollenbeck looked back at his displays. “Those Su-33 radars are at our ten o’clock and moving toward our nine o’clock. Signal strength is still weak and now diminishing.” He nodded in satisfaction. “I think we dodged them.”

“Let’s hope so,” Darrow said, tweaking the stick back to the left. “But there still has to be a Russian carrier task force out there somewhere, so stay sharp.” He breathed out. “Give me a read on the distance to the Scrapheap on our preset course.”

“Eighteen hundred nautical miles, give or take a few,” Hollenbeck reported.

Darrow glanced at their fuel state. Between those Su-33s prowling around off to their north and the chance of bumping into the Russian carrier the fighters belonged to, his XF-111s were going to have to stay low all the way to southern Romania. And terrain-following flight burned a lot more fuel than flying higher. His mouth tightened as he ran through the calculations. Thanks to the auxiliary fuel tanks fitted by Sky Masters, it was doable — but just barely. They wouldn’t exactly be arriving at the Scrapheap flying on fumes, but it would be a lot more nip and tuck than he had originally planned. Still, after a refueling stop in Romania, the final leg to Poland should be relatively easy.

“Caution, new Echo-band search radar at eleven o’clock, one hundred ten miles,” the computer said, breaking into his thoughts.

“Identify radar,” Hollenbeck ordered.

“Fregat MAE-5 ship-based system,” the computer replied. “Signal characteristics match radar for Russian aircraft carrier Admiral Kuznetsov.”

“Can it spot us?” Darrow asked, feeling his pulse speeding up again.

“Negative,” Hollenbeck said, studying his displays. “Max range for that system against a target our size at altitude is about one hundred forty miles, but we’re so far down in the waves they won’t even see a flicker on their scopes.”

They flew on in silence for another fifteen minutes or so. The radar emissions from Admiral Kuznetsov faded in the distance. Occasional chirps in their headsets marked civilian air traffic control and maritime surface-scanning radars sweeping all around them. Hollenbeck strained to look at something ahead. “I think we have surface traffic ahead,” he said. “Big sucker.”

“I’ll go around it to the north,” Darrow said. “Five miles should be enough to avoid them getting an eyeball on us.”

But as they deviated, it was obvious that the surface traffic was getting busier. “More ship traffic,” Hollenbeck said. “I’m going to have to use the radar to snake around them.”

“Do it,” Darrow said. “If we need to fly nearer somebody, pick the smallest ones.”

“Rog.” Hollenbeck activated the AN/APG-81 digital radar and set it for surface-scanning mode…

… and the display came alive with targets, easily two dozen ships of varying size within three minutes’ flight time! “Crap,” Hollenbeck exclaimed. “This is one busy pond!”

“The Med has some of the busiest shipping routes on the planet, old boy,” Darrow said, with a wry grin.

“Some of those bastards are huge,” Hollenbeck said. “Come twenty degrees right, large surface traffic at twelve o’clock, ten miles. Looks bigger than an aircraft carrier!”

“Aircraft carriers are some of the smallest large surface vessels on these waters,” Darrow said as he made the heading correction. “Even a typical cruise ship is bigger than a carrier.”

“Ten more right, and we should be clear,” Hollenbeck said. Darrow made the correction. “There must be some common traffic route along here running from Algeria to Spain or southern France.”

“Ah, I love traveling to Majorca on vacation,” Darrow said. “Ever been there?”

“Is that anywhere near Disney World?” Hollenbeck asked. “Because that’s where I usually take the kids for… holy shit! Climb!” Darrow didn’t hesitate, but hit the DTF disconnect paddle switch and pulled the bomber skyward. A huge white shape, studded with bright lights, appeared just ahead and barely below them out of the darkness, growing even bigger as they hurtled toward it. It was an enormous ship, at least ten stories high and more than a thousand feet long.

“What the hell—” Darrow growled. They streaked just over the ship’s massive superstructure at high speed. After a second or two he released the paddle switch and allowed the flight control computer to put them back on course and altitude.

“Right at the edge of the radar scan, close in, we turned right into it… I never saw it on radar,” Hollenbeck said, his voice still a little shaky even minutes later. “I think we just scared the crap out of a bunch of tourists on a cruise ship.”

“Not to mention ourselves,” Darrow said, taking a few deep breaths to get his racing pulse back under control. “Time to get our heads back in the game. Plenty of time to talk about vacations later.”

Inside the dimly lit CIC, a phone beeped. Captain Leonid Yakunin snatched it. “Yes?” He listened intently for a few moments, frowning. “I see. And the location of this ship? Very well. Keep me informed.” He hung up.

Rear Admiral Varennikov raised an eyebrow. “Well, Leonid?”

“We picked up another signal reporting unidentified aircraft,” the naval intelligence officer told him. “The Norwegian captain of the Royal Caribbean cruise liner Independence of the Seas is screaming his head off at the Spanish Navy about being overflown at masthead height. He claims several large, twin-engine military aircraft just buzzed his ship at high speed. They came from the west and vanished to the east.”

“Where?” Varennikov demanded. Yakunin pointed to a point on the map plot, about three hundred kilometers due east of Gibraltar.

“Our Su-33s missed them,” Varennikov muttered.

“I’m afraid so,” Yakunin agreed. “And so did our own radar.”

The Russian carrier group commander scowled, staring down at the map. “Even if we turn our fighters around now, we can’t catch them. Whoever and whatever they are.”

“We could launch more Su-33s,” Yakunin pointed out.

“No, Leonid,” Varennikov said heavily. “The geometry’s not right for a successful intercept. To have any chance at overtaking those mystery American planes, our fighters would have to fly all out, at full power. And even then they would run out of fuel before they caught up.”

“Then what do we do, sir?” Yakunin asked.

“We make a full and immediate report to Moscow,” the admiral said. He shook his head. “Perhaps they have other intelligence that will let them figure out what the Americans are up to. Or maybe our diplomats can somehow pry the information loose from Washington.”

The small suburb of Vyshhorod occupied the western bank of the Dnieper River just seven kilometers north of Kiev. The river here was blocked by the Kiev Hydroelectric Station, a nearly three-hundred-meter-long dam. Atop the dam, a two-lane road, Naberezhna Street, crossed the river. Ordinarily, this bridge was used only by locals or by a few tourists heading north to see the pinewoods and swamps of the Mizhrichynski Regional Park.

Now the bridge was full of Russian military traffic — all of it heading west at a slow but steady speed. Dozens of eight-wheeled BTR-80 armored personnel carriers were interspersed with BMP-3 infantry fighting vehicles, 2S19 Msta-S 152mm self-propelled howitzers, and huge KamAZ transporters loaded with T-90 and T-72 tanks.

Next to the narrow, vehicle-packed bridge, Russian combat engineers were already hard at work, widening the crossing by building two new pontoon bridges and bulldozing new roads down to the water’s edge. Two batteries of 9K22 Tunguska armored antiaircraft vehicles lined the riverbanks — offering short-range protection against enemy air or cruise missile attack with their two 30mm cannons and eight 9M311-M1 surface-to-air missiles. Longer-ranged S-300 SAM battalions were deployed farther back in eastern Ukraine, awaiting orders to leap forward to extend the advancing army’s air defenses.

Specks orbited high overhead in the bright blue, almost cloudless sky. The Russian Air Force’s MiG-29, Su-27, and Su-35 fighters were keeping their own watch over the kilometers-long military columns snaking slowly westward.

There were bigger bridges and wider roads to the south, but they all fed into the crowded city streets of Kiev itself. Thousands of troops would have been needed to secure those urban routes against the possibility of ambush by Ukrainian terrorists or Polish commandos. Instead, Lieutenant General Mikhail Polivanov, the new commander of the 20th Guards Army, had opted to bypass the Ukrainian capital. Threading his army through the narrow Vyshhorod gap would take more time, but it also allowed him to conserve more of his combat power for the coming war with Poland.

Three miles northeast of the hydroelectric dam and Vyshhorod Bridge, a small wooded headland jutted out into the Kiev Reservoir. Two men wearing camouflage ghillie suits lay prone among the ferns and fallen trees lining the water’s edge.

“By my count, that’s at least four motor-rifle and tank brigades on the move,” Captain Ian Schofield murmured to the noncom next to him. The commander of the Iron Wolf Squadron’s deep-penetration recon teams focused his binoculars on the bridge approaches to the east. Rows of armored vehicles and guns were lined up there, barely visible through the haze and diesel exhaust. “With a hell of a lot more on the way.”

“So we report in?” Sergeant Davis asked, checking the display on a handheld satellite phone. “We’ve got a good low-Earth-orbit satellite window for the next five minutes. And another one ten minutes after that.”

The Canadian nodded. Mentally, he ran through the prearranged code words he’d set up with Wayne Macomber before infiltrating into the Russian-occupied zone. He and the Iron Wolf Squadron ground component leader had created a whole list of easily memorized words they could use to exchange vital information disguised as otherwise innocuous-seeming messages. VANYA, for example, stood for Vyshhorod. “Text DYADYA VANYA POSYLAYE LYUBOV ANASTASIYI. UNCLE VANYA SENDS LOVE TO ANASTASIA.”

“Yes, sir,” Davis said, quickly punching keys on the phone. “Text sent,” he reported. “And received.” Letters streamed across the phone’s small display. “Reply coming in: BABUSYA KATERNYA KHOTIV NOVYY SYNYE PAL’TO.”

“Grandma Katherine would like a new blue coat,” Schofield translated. He whistled softly. “Well, Sergeant, that’s it. You may consider yourself at war. Try not to let it unnerve you, eh?”

Davis, a grizzled veteran of at least a dozen covert operations, both while serving the U.S. Special Forces and working for Scion, snorted. “Hell, Captain. I’m always at war. It’s peacetime I find scary.”

Schofield grinned. “Good point.” He jerked his head away from the shoreline. “We need to round up the rest of the team. Major Macomber wants us well east of here by nightfall.”

“To do what, exactly?” Davis asked, turning off the satellite phone. He slid it into one of the concealed pockets of his camouflage suit.

“Our orders are to secure a landing zone,” Schofield said calmly. “The Iron Wolves are going to come calling on a few of our Russian friends tonight.”