Iron Wolf

TWELVE

The muffled thump of distant mortars and the faint rattle of machine-gun fire echoed across open fields, clearings, and small thickets of trees. Columns of oily black smoke curled above the wreckage of armored cars and downed Kamov-60 scout helicopters. Gray and white trails crisscrossing the clear blue afternoon sky marked the firing of surface-to-air missiles at fleeting targets of opportunity — reconnaissance drones and other low-flying aircraft.

Not far off the main highway, a clump of wheeled and tracked vehicles sheltered beneath camouflage netting. Slender whip antennas poked discreetly through the camouflage. Heavy T-90 tanks, mobile SAM launchers, and other armored vehicles ringed the forward command post.

A BMP-3 turned off the road and clanked into cover. Its twin rear hatches popped open. Two Spetsnaz bodyguards jumped out, weapons ready. Behind them, Lieutenant General Mikhail Polivanov, commander of the 20th Guards Army, emerged. Seeing him, the little cluster of high-ranking Russian officers standing around a map table stiffened to attention and saluted.

Polivanov, tall and barrel-chested, strode cheerfully toward his waiting field commanders and staff. “So, gentlemen, is it true? The Poles have stopped running?” he asked, rubbing his hands together.

His operations chief, a major general, nodded. “It seems so, sir.” He led the way to the map table. “Our reconnaissance units report contact with elements of Polish armor and infantry forces several kilometers west of here.” He pointed at the map.

Frowning in concentration, Polivanov bent forward, studying the terrain it showed. Even after almost three days of rapid and unopposed movement, the bulk of his tanks and troops were still two hundred kilometers east of the Polish frontier. His army’s scouts had first bumped into Polish recon units earlier that morning — lured into an ambush that had cost him a handful of wheeled BTRs and Tigr 4x4s. But since then the Poles had been steadily falling back, not bothering to make a fight of it even when the ground favored a defense.

“What is their estimated strength?” he asked.

His operations chief spread his hands. “That is difficult to say, sir. The Poles appear to be well dug in and camouflaged. Getting close enough to their positions to make an accurate count is difficult. Casualties among our scouts have been heavy. But our best estimate is that we face at least two battalions of tanks — including some of their German-manufactured Leopard 2s — and perhaps another battalion or so of mechanized infantry.”

Polivanov grinned at him. “That is good news, Eduard! Very good news!”

The other man stared back. “Sir?”

Polivanov clapped him on the shoulder. “Cheer up, man. Don’t you see? If the Poles are digging in that solidly, and if they’re present in those numbers, then they’ve decided to make a first stand here. I was half afraid they’d keep dancing about in front of us, wheeling in and out to skirmish with our columns like Cossacks.” He shook his head. “But that’s at least a full brigade out there, according to your scouts. And no one plays hit-and-run games with that many troops.”

“The Poles could still be trying to delay us,” his operations chief warned. “If we deploy for a deliberate attack, we give them time to assemble more troops against us. But if we try to rush them now, without adequate preparation, this blocking force is strong enough to give us a real bloody nose.”

“Indeed it is,” Polivanov agreed, still smiling. “Which means my Polish counterpart has just made his first serious mistake.” Seeing the bewildered looks on their faces, he explained. “Our primary objective is the destruction of Poland’s armed forces, gentlemen. It is not the occupation of Polish territory for territory’s sake. Once we eliminate their soldiers, everything else is ours.”

He laid his hand on the map. “If they fight us here with only a brigade, we will destroy that brigade. And then we’ll advance west against an enemy made that much weaker — an enemy already demoralized by defeat. If, instead, the Poles send more troops to oppose us, they make our task later that much easier.” He shook his head. “No, gentlemen, we will do this properly. Our foes may think they have experience of war. But who have they fought lately? Only a handful of half-naked savages in Iraq or Afghanistan!”

Heads nodded at that. The Poles made much of their combat record against Islamist extremists in those two desolate, faraway countries. But those had been police actions fought alongside the Americans and other NATO allies — low-level counterinsurgency campaigns waged against ill-equipped guerrillas and terrorists. The lessons learned from those little wars would be of no use in understanding what it took to stand up against masses of Russian main battle tanks, infantry fighting vehicles, and artillery.

Polivanov’s smile grew broader. “We will teach these amateurs what modern war is really like. No matter how deep they dig in, we will first pulverize them with fire and then obliterate them with shock action.”

“We could hit the Poles with air strikes first,” his operations chief suggested. “If the air force cut the roads behind them with bombs, they would be trapped and unable to reinforce or to flee. And then another wave of our fighter-bombers could smash their defenses from the air as we advance.”

For the first time, Polivanov’s smile faded slightly. “Moscow does not want to commit the air force to further offensive action — not while our flying comrades are still trying to figure out what went wrong last night.” He shrugged. “They’ve sworn they’ll keep Polish combat aircraft off our backs, but, for now, this war is all ours.”

“So we bring up the guns,” another of his officers realized.

“That’s right, Iosif,” Polivanov agreed. “And our rocket batteries.” He looked around the circle of his subordinates. “Shake out your leading tank and motor-rifle brigades into combat formations on either side of the highway, gentlemen. And bring up the artillery. I want the guns up far enough to pound every square meter the Poles hold.” He traced deployment zones on the map. “Once everything is set, we’ll blow the hell out of them with a massive barrage and then send the tanks and infantry forward to finish the job.”

His operations chief checked his watch. “That will take some hours, sir. Siting the artillery could take until dark. Perhaps even longer.”

“It can’t be helped,” Polivanov said. He shrugged again. “If I have to trade time for more dead Poles, I’ll do it gladly.”

Several hundred meters in front of their prepared defenses, a small band of Polish soldiers crouched beside the burned-out wreck of a Russian BTR-80. They were here to guard their commander, who had insisted on coming forward himself to see what the Russians were doing.

Major General Milosz Domanski lay propped up on his elbows among the rows of tread- and tire-flattened stalks of corn, studying his enemy’s movements through binoculars. Thick clouds of dust hung over the distant woods, fields, and little villages, gradually spreading north and south as columns of Russian tanks and BMP infantry fighting vehicles deployed off the highway. He narrowed his eyes. From the amount of dust they were churning up, he would guess the Russians were swinging at least three full brigades into attack formations.

Another officer wriggled forward to join him. “We have new reports from those Iron Wolf scouts, sir.”

“And?”

“Captain Schofield says the enemy is deploying large groups of self-propelled guns, towed howitzers, and Grad rocket launchers close behind their motor-rifle troops. He counts more than two hundred artillery pieces, so far — with more coming up the highway all the time.”

Domanski grinned. “The Russians are buying it. Polivanov is setting up for a deliberate attack.”

“And wasting all that precious fuel?” his subordinate mused. Main battle tanks like the T-72s and T-90s burned through more than two liters of diesel fuel for every kilometer they drove — and a lot more when moving off-road. The T-80s still in the Russian inventory were even bigger fuel hogs.

“It’s not just the fuel, or even the added wear and tear on their tank treads and engines,” Domanski said. He lowered his binoculars. “Polivanov is following doctrine to the letter. Which means he’s going to hammer us with his guns first.”

“Two-hundred-plus artillery pieces firing six to eight high-explosive rounds a minute is going to make this a very uncomfortable place, General,” the younger officer murmured.

Domanski nodded. “So it will, Krystian.” He clapped the younger man on the shoulder. “All the more reason to follow our plan, eh? Let the Russians blow the hell out of a few square kilometers of empty Ukrainian soil while we watch the fireworks from a good safe distance back down the road.”

“Not entirely empty soil,” the other man reminded him. “Once the shelling starts, our screening forces are going to take casualties.”

The Polish general sighed. That was true enough. Although his Russian opposite number might be acting as though he were a prisoner of his nation’s military doctrine right now, he wasn’t an idiot. The Russians would keep probing his defenses right up to the last possible moment. And if their recon troops penetrated far enough to see that the Poles had pulled back, Polivanov would call off his planned barrage — saving all those thousands of precious shells for another battle.

To keep the enemy in the dark, a few of his troops — elements of the 1st “Varsovian” Armored Brigade and the 21st Podhale Rifles Brigade — would have to hold their ground, continuing to destroy or drive off Russian scouting parties with tank and guided-missile fire. But no matter how well dispersed they were or how fast they retreated when the time came, some of those Leopard 2 tanks and KTO Wolverine armored personnel carriers were going to take hits. Which meant a number of young Poles under his command were going to die tonight.

Domanski’s mouth tightened. So be it. But that was all the more reason to make sure the Russians paid even more dearly for their “victory.”

Lieutenant General Polivanov and his logistics officers had taken great pains when positioning their supply units. It was vital that their reserve stocks of fuel, ammunition, and spare parts be positioned close enough to the fighting troops to allow rapid replenishment. But it was equally imperative to make sure their vulnerable supply convoys were parked far enough back to be safe from enemy artillery or rocket fire. In this case, the 20th Guards Army had decided to set up its forward supply echelon just off the main highway — about thirty kilometers east of the planned battlefield.

Dozens of tanker trucks and lumbering ammunition carriers sprawled across a wide expanse of open cropland. Several small rivers cut through this part of western Ukraine, flowing north into the boggy tangle of the Pripyat Marshes. To make the naturally soggy ground cultivable, drainage ditches ran through the fields, disappearing into concrete-lined culverts wherever farm roads crossed them. A platoon of three T-72 tanks, a detachment of mobile 9K35 Strela-10 SAM launchers, and two companies of motor-rifle troops mounted in BTR-80s provided protection for the widely scattered trucks and fuel tankers. It would have been easier to guard them if they were packed in hub to hub — but that would have been an open invitation to disaster if Polish planes broke through and bombed the truck park. Like so much else in war, finding the right balance between concentration to guard against one threat and dispersal against another was never easy.

In the growing darkness near the edge of the truck park, little groups of drivers gathered. Some of them shared cigarettes and swigs from carefully hoarded bottles. Everyone watched their army’s massed artillery batter the Poles. Hundreds of flashes lit the western horizon, stabbing skyward in a continuous ripple of lightning and thunder. Smoke from the dozens of 122mm Grad rockets screaming westward blotted out the first stars. The ground shook and danced and trembled — quivering under the distant impact as powerful high-explosive rounds ripped and tore at the earth.

One of the drivers shook his head in wonder. “Poor dumb bastard Poles,” he commented. “They won’t last long.”

“True,” another agreed. Gloomily, he cadged a light and took a meditative puff on a foul-smelling cigarette before going on. “But then it’s no more rest for you and me, tonight, eh? Every stinking tank commander and gun captain in the whole fucking army will be screaming his head off: ‘Where is my fuel, Ivan?’ and ‘Bring me more shells, Dmitri!’ And then once the trucks are empty, it’ll be ‘Off you go to the depots in Mother Russia, boys. But hurry back to the front with another load! Don’t dillydally. Just eat and piss in your cabs while you’re driving, can’t you?’ ”

There were murmurs of disgruntled agreement and muttered laughs at this cynical depiction of their usual routine.

Curled up under the water flowing through a culvert on the northern edge of the truck park, Wayne Macomber listened with half an ear to his CID’s running translation of the Russian driver’s sardonic monologue and snorted in derision. REMFs were pretty much alike the world over, he decided. No one said driving a fuel tanker or ammo truck was an easy job, but at least they weren’t shot at or shelled on a daily basis. A sudden, lopsided grin flashed across his face. Well, not usually, anyway.

The rest of his attention was fully absorbed in making sense out of the data flooding in from the robot’s multiple sensors. One after the other, he pinpointed the prowling T-72s and other vehicles guarding the laager — feeding them into a program that would prioritize targets. As much as he disliked squeezing himself into this damned steel can, he had to admit that direct mental access to its computers made battle prep a hell of a lot faster and more efficient.

Maybe too easy, Whack thought somberly, and not for the first time. Christ, he mused, imagine pulling off this stunt like a regular grunt, lying half drowned in the stinking, muddy water swirling through this pitch-dark, cramped culvert. God knows he’d done crazy shit like that before during his time in the U.S. Air Force’s Special Operations Command. Riding inside this CID cockpit was a piece of cake compared to that. But he couldn’t shake the nagging worry that every time he sealed himself inside one of these war robots, he risked losing something — a connection to the sweat and blood and agony of real combat. When the CID’s computer systems finished meshing with his nervous system, who was really in charge, the man or the machine?

A new set of sensor readings impinged on his consciousness, breaking him out his nanosecond funk. Bright green thermal images showed a group of twenty to thirty men moving up under the cover of the woods about a kilometer away. They appeared to be armed with a mix of rifles, machine guns, mortars, and RPGs. Save the philosophy-seminar bullshit for your next bar crawl, he told himself. Stick to the business at hand, even if it means using an armor-encased hand.

“CID Two to CID One and support team,” Macomber radioed, simultaneously relaying the sensor data to the other Iron Wolf units. “Looks like we’ve got some uninvited guests at this little party.”

“I see them, Whack,” Patrick McLanahan said. His robot was concealed on the other side of the highway.

“Copy that,” Ian Schofield echoed. The Canadian and several of his recon troopers were in position in the same woods these new guys were prowling through. “They’re moving up to the tree line about two hundred meters to my left.”

“Are you at risk, Captain?” Macomber asked.

“Not unless they step on some of my lads,” Schofield said. “We’re rather well hidden among the undergrowth and fallen timber here.”

“Can you get anyone closer to them without being spotted?”

“No problem,” Schofield said, without hesitation. “Do you want them eliminated?”

“Negative,” Patrick radioed back. “If they’re hostiles, they can’t stop us. And if they’re friendlies, we don’t need their help. But we do need a read on exactly who they are and what the hell they’re doing here.”

Fedir Kravchenko dropped prone at the edge of the woods. Faint lights glowed out in the fields ahead, dimly illuminating the shapes of large Russian trucks and fuel tankers. The ground under his belly rippled and quivered, transmitting the repeated seismic shocks inflicted by hundreds of artillery shells and rockets still tearing the earth far away to the west.

He grimaced, reminded too vividly of the suffering inflicted on his old battalion three years ago by those same Russian guns. But any trace of lingering guilt at luring those weapons into action against the Poles was drowned by a sense of deep satisfaction. Once the so-called Free World had stood idly by and watched Moscow slaughter his countrymen. Now, though, the United States and the others would have to act against Russia’s invasion forces. Continued indifference and cowardice could not be an option — not when tanks and artillery barrages were crushing the soldiers of a NATO ally.

More partisans crawled into position on either side. Pavlo Lytvyn lay next to him, studying the Russian supply laager through the scope of his SVD Dragunov sniper rifle. Several of Kravchenko’s men readied RPG-18 and RPG-22 launchers. On either flank, teams worked fast to set up a pair of RPK-74 light machine guns. A few meters back behind the main body, a four-man weapons team strained and sweated, connecting the separate components of their 82mm mortar — its heavy barrel, base plate, and bipod. The rest of his platoon-sized force carried AK-74 assault rifles, though two men had 40mm grenade launchers fitted to their weapons.

A massive squat shape clanked slowly down a farm lane several hundred meters away. Its long-gunned turret whined ceaselessly back and forth, in a strange parody of an elephant suspiciously sniffing the night air.

“T-72,” Lytvyn hissed. “The gunner must be using his thermal sight to look for hidden enemies.”

“Like us,” Kravchenko murmured.

The big man nodded grimly. “The longer we wait, the more likely that one of those other Russian bastards will run a scan along this stretch of woods. And then we’re screwed.”

“Which is why we’re not waiting,” Kravchenko told him. He glanced back at the rest of his men. “Listen up,” he growled. “Remember your orders. Don’t waste time firing at those Russian tanks or their APCs. Hit the soft-sided vehicles, the fuel tankers and ammunition trucks. Follow the plan. This is a hit-and-run attack. We fire for thirty seconds, do as much damage as we can, and then we run! Head for the rally point as fast as you can once I blow the whistle! Don’t keep shooting too long! Our country needs live fighters, not dead heroes.”

Pale faces nodded in the darkness.

Lytvyn gave him a skeptical look. Kravchenko shrugged. More than half of these raw, inexperienced partisan recruits were likely to die tonight. But he had nothing to gain from pointing out the obvious. Their sole duty to Ukraine was to kill as many Russians as possible, at any cost. Losing a handful of supply trucks would not seriously hurt the 20th Guards Army, but it would remind Polivanov and his thugs that they were deep in hostile territory. And every soldier, every tank, they deployed to guard their rear areas against future attacks was one less soldier, one less tank, available for battle at the front. Besides, any partisan who survived this raid would be a veteran — hardened to danger and ready for even more daring and complicated missions.

CCRRAACK!

Kravchenko swung back, startled by the unearthly, earsplitting sound. His eyes widened in surprise. There, on the far side of the Russian truck park, a T-72 tank sat motionless, engulfed in crackling flames. Closer in, the coughing roar of a heavy-caliber autocannon firing short, aimed bursts echoed over the pulsing, continuous rumble of the distant Russian artillery barrage. A BTR-80 ground to a halt. Smoke and fire boiled out through huge holes torn in its thin steel armor.

For more than a minute, Kravchenko lay frozen, watching in growing astonishment as more and more Russian vehicles blew up or were ripped to pieces. Antitank missiles, rocket-propelled grenades, and glowing incendiary rounds streaked across the laager, wreaking death and destruction. Slowly, a twisted grin writhed across his maimed face. Somebody had beaten him to the punch.

Eyes alight with maniacal delight, he saw metal-hulled fuel tankers and canvas-sided trucks set ablaze. Explosions rippled across the fields, sending shards of jagged metal screaming in all directions. Clumps of panic-stricken Russian soldiers turned to flee — and were ripped apart by rapid bursts of machine-gun fire.

“Matir Bozha… Mother of God,” Lytvyn muttered, pointing toward a lithe gray and black shape stalking through the growing tangle of wrecked and burning vehicles and mangled dead men. It moved with eerie, murderous, machinelike precision — firing different weapons in every direction. “What is that devil?”

Kravchenko studied the creature hungrily. “That, Pavlo,” he murmured with deep satisfaction, “is what all our attacks on the Russians were designed to conjure.” He grinned. “And now it is time for us to vanish. Our work tonight is being done for us — and done well.” Rising to one knee, he blew a series of soft, piercing notes on his command whistle.

Quickly, in ones and twos and teams, the Ukrainian partisans gathered their weapons and gear and melted away into the darkness under the trees. They drifted past the motionless, ghillie-suited figures of Captain Schofield and Sergeant Davis without spotting the two Iron Wolf scouts. Nor did Kravchenko or any of his men notice the tiny low-light cameras and directional microphones rigged to capture their faces and speech.

Early-morning sunlight cast long shadows across a landscape left churned, blasted, and burning by last night’s unrelenting artillery barrage. Craters stained with acrid explosive residues carpeted once-fertile fields. Long stretches of the M07 highway had been smashed into slabs of broken concrete and asphalt. Patches of woodland were now jumbled heaps of shattered stumps and shrapnel-splintered branches. Fires smoldered everywhere.

Lieutenant General Mikhail Polivanov cautiously clambered out of the BMP-3 he used as a mobile command vehicle. His bodyguards, weapons ready, stayed close to him, tensely observing the ruined countryside. Both of them looked grim and nervous. There were too many potential hiding places for stay-behind Polish snipers in this shell-torn setting.

Ignoring them, Polivanov made his way gingerly across the debris-strewn ground to where a group of his army’s officers and combat engineers stood studying two burned-out hulks — one a Leopard 2 tank, the other an eight-wheeled Polish APC, of the type they called a Wolverine. Heavy chains linked the two wrecks. Off to one side, blood-soaked blankets covered a row of mangled corpses.

An engineer officer saluted at his approach. “Sir!”

Polivanov gestured toward the pair of wrecked Polish vehicles. “What’s the story here?”

The engineer nodded toward the Leopard 2. “One of our shells must have knocked a tread off that tank. The Polish infantry squad from that APC was trying to rig up a tow. From the look of things, they were all caught outside when our next salvo of 122mm rockets struck this area.”

Polivanov winced, imagining the carnage. He sighed and turned away. “What a waste,” he muttered.

One of his junior staff officers nodded sagely. “Those Polish soldiers were brave, but foolish.”

“Idiot!” Polivanov snapped, scowling deeply. “I’m not referring to the enemy, Iosif. I’m talking about last night’s little show by us.”

“Sir?”

“We fired off more than ten thousand shells and rockets — a whole unit of fire for every gun and rocket launcher we deployed,” the Russian general said heavily. “And for what?” He waved a hand around the artillery-blasted countryside. “To blow holes in empty Ukrainian farmland?”

“We did inflict casualties on the Poles, sir,” the young staff officer insisted.

“A mere handful,” Polivanov snorted. “Ten thousand shells to destroy three tanks and four armored personnel carriers? To kill or wound fewer than fifty of the enemy’s troops?” He shook his head in disgust. “We wasted our barrage on a small screening force, Iosif. We were tricked. Made to look like giggling, trigger-happy fools!”

He pointed back the way they had come. A huge pall of oily black smoke hung low over the eastern horizon. “And while we pounded trees and cornfields, the Poles swung their commandos in behind us and kicked the snot out of our supply units. Every gallon of reserve fuel, every truckload of artillery ammunition… all blown to hell!”

“We still have enough fuel to continue our advance, sir,” the younger officer said stubbornly. “Our artillery may be low on shells, but our tank and motor-rifle brigades still have enough ammunition for another battle.”

“Certainly, we could chase after those bastard Poles,” Polivanov growled. “But to what end? To walk into another ambush, and without artillery support this time? To bare our necks for these weird secret weapons the enemy is using against us so effectively?” He shook his head. “No, Iosif! A thousand times, no!”

His aide looked stricken. “But then what will we do?”

Polivanov sighed again. “We wait.” He shrugged his shoulders. “We wait for Moscow to send us more fuel and ammunition. Once we’re resupplied, we can push on toward Poland. But until then, we dig in deep here and protect ourselves.”

Looking for all the world like a well-dressed European corporate executive, former Russian President Igor Truznyev strolled out of the elegant five-star Ararat Park Hyatt hotel. He paused on the pavement, checking the most recent text message on his smartphone: KB 401 77.

Smiling, Truznyev looked up. There, coming toward him, was a yellow Mercedes taxicab, a cab with the license-plate number KB 401 77. He held up a hand, flagging it down.

The cab pulled up smoothly beside him. “Where to?” the white-haired driver asked.

“The Ministry of Industry and Trade,” he murmured, sliding into the cab’s rear passenger seat. Sergei Tarzarov was already there, waiting for him. They pulled away, back out into the busy Moscow midafternoon traffic.

“The driver?” Truznyev asked.

“Thoroughly reliable,” Tarzarov said flatly. “One of the old breed.”

The former president nodded his understanding. The taxi driver was ex-KGB, probably one of the agents the intelligence service used to plant in the ranks of Moscow cab companies. The KGB has used its “cabdrivers” to keep tabs on suspicious foreigners — and to serve as mobile contacts and drop points for Russian moles operating inside Western embassies during the old Cold War days.

“This will have to be quick, Igor,” Tarzarov said, glancing at his watch. “Gennadiy has called another meeting of the security council for later today.”

“The president’s war is not going so well, then?” Truznyev asked brightly.

“There have been… complications,” the older man allowed. He looked curiously at his companion. “How much do you know?”

“Enough,” Truznyev said with a quick lift of his expensively tailored shoulders. “Enough to know that the Poles, with the aid of their American mercenaries, have not been cooperating with Gennadiy’s precisely crafted military timetables quite as fully as he had hoped.”

Sergei Tarzarov offered him both a thin-lipped frown and a reluctant nod, evidently not completely pleased with his somewhat facetious tone. “Our ground and air forces are meeting stiffer resistance than we had expected,” he admitted. “But the correlation of forces still remains greatly in our favor.”

“I’m very glad to hear that,” Truznyev said. He smiled thinly. “Losing a war would be bad enough. Losing a war begun under false pretenses would be much worse.”

Tarzarov’s slight frown turned into a full-fledged grimace. “What do you mean, Igor?” he asked.

“It seems that some of my analysis was correct,” Truznyev said, sounding pleased. “As were your earlier fears.”

Tarzarov studied him. The other man did, in fact, look satisfied and smug, rather like a sleek wolfhound trotting back to its master with pieces of its prey dangling from its fangs. “In what way, Igor?” he asked drily.

“Gennadiy Gryzlov was manipulated into this war,” Truznyev said. “Or so the evidence I’ve obtained strongly suggests.”

Tarzarov sat up straighter. “Manipulated? By whom?”

“Beijing,” the other man said calmly. “Though I cannot yet tell if the plot originated at the highest levels of the People’s Republic. It may only have been primarily a local initiative by Ukrainian-based agents of the Chinese Ministry of State Security.”

For a moment, Tarzarov sat transfixed. If what Truznyev claimed was true, a whole host of unpleasant possibilities presented themselves. “You had better explain that more fully,” he said finally.

In answer, the former president opened his briefcase and took out a somewhat battered-looking laptop. “I come as a Russian patriot bearing gifts,” he said blandly.

Tarzarov looked down at the computer. He raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Some… people, shall we say… in my employ acquired this machine from a Chinese covert agent operating out of Kiev,” Truzynev said.

“Voluntarily?”

“There were… complications,” Truznyev replied, deliberately mimicking the older man’s own earlier choice of words. “An intended discreet removal went slightly awry.”

“Awry as in sudden death?” Tarzarov guessed, with a sardonic smile.

The former president had the grace to look abashed. “Unfortunately, yes. But the Ukrainian police have some reason to believe the Chinese agent — masquerading as an investment banker, by the way — may have committed suicide to atone for financial losses.”

“His superiors know otherwise, I presume?”

Truznyev nodded. “Probably. I suspect the Chinese will begin silencing their intermediaries soon, if they have not already finished doing so.”

“And this computer,” Tarzarov asked, tapping it. “It contains evidence of a plot to lure us into conflict with the Poles?”

“I believe so,” the other man replied. He spread his hands. “The technical people I hired were able to break into a few of the files — which discussed payments to Ukrainian insurgent groups.”

“Ah.”

“Indeed,” Truznyev agreed. “But there is more. We found references to a plan to kidnap one or two Polish officers off the streets in Warsaw. And a few more bits and pieces which suggest a very covert arms-buying operation aimed at obtaining Polish and American military equipment.”

“That is… suggestive,” Tarzarov said grimly.

“There are more files on the machine,” Truznyev told him. “But my experts were unable to decrypt them, at least not without risking triggering some kind of self-destruct program.”

“So you brought this computer to me,” the older man said flatly.

Truznyev nodded. “Of course, Sergei. You are the one who asked me to look into this possibility, after all.” He smiled. “It also seemed best to let our government’s own intelligence specialists try to crack the remaining files. Who better, eh?”

“Perhaps,” Tarzarov said slowly. The somewhat pained expression on his face made it clear, though, that he suspected the best computer hackers no longer worked for the Kremlin. Why work for wages when you could, instead, sell your services on the slightly murkier, but considerably better paid, black market.

Privately, Truznyev was quite sure that was the case. He broke the uncomfortable silence by asking, “So, then, Sergei. What will you do now?”

The older man’s expression was hooded, impenetrable. “I will consider that, Igor,” he said. “In this case, thought before action seems indicated.”

Truznyev pretended surprise. “You won’t bring this to Gennadiy?”

“Immediately? No,” Tarzarov said flatly. He picked up the laptop. “It would serve no real purpose now — not when victory is still likely.”

“And if victory somehow eludes our young and oh-so-confident president?” Truznyev pressed. “By some unexpected and sadly unfortunate chain of events?”

“That would be a different question entirely,” Tarzarov said. He sighed. “You have done well, Igor.”

Truznyev nodded, pleased. “That is high praise indeed — coming as it does from a master, Sergei.”

“You will gain nothing by flattery,” Tarzarov said wryly. “Submit your list of expenses, and I will make sure that you’re compensated. Discreetly, of course.” He showed his teeth. “Neither of us would profit by revealing how this information came into my hands.”

“No, indeed,” Truznyev agreed fervently. “Let me stay in the shadows, my friend.” He chuckled. “I find them far more comfortable than the limelight.”

Gennadiy Gryzlov listened in stony silence while General Mikhail Khristenko recited his litany of woes. To his credit, the chief of Russia’s General Staff made no effort to cast recent events in a falsely positive light.

“Polivanov is being very cautious, but I cannot fault him for that,” Khristenko said. “Until its tanks, other vehicles, and artillery are refueled and resupplied, the Twentieth Guards Army cannot continue its offensive. Not without courting serious danger.”

Gryzlov nodded. He had been reluctant to believe Polivanov’s claims, but the most recent figures transmitted by the general’s supply officers painted a bleak picture. In effect, the 20th Guards Army had just enough fuel left to reach the Polish frontier — but not enough to advance any deeper into enemy territory. And while it had enough bullets and shells left for one big battle, last night’s sneak attack by the Poles and their high-tech American mercenaries had destroyed all of the army’s reserve ammunition. Under those circumstances, pushing ahead was not a sensible option. Fighting vehicles caught without fuel were reduced to immobile pillboxes — unable to maneuver or evade attack. And tanks, armored personnel carriers, and guns left without ammunition were nothing but targets.

“What about the Sixth Army?” he snapped. “Its commander has no such excuse!”

“General Nikitin and his troops continue their advance through Belarus,” Khristenko said evenly. “Units of his advance guard have already made contact with Polish troops at several points along the border.”

“Then tell Nikitin to press ahead faster and attack as soon as his forces are in position!” Gryzlov demanded.

“Such haste would be… unwise,” Khristenko said. Aware suddenly of the long-suppressed rage beginning to distort his president’s handsome face, he hurried to explain. “Intelligence and long-range reconnaissance reports indicate that Warsaw has deployed a large number of its available troops to confront our Sixth Army. Their positions are carefully fortified. Attacking them without careful preparation would be a prescription for probable failure… and heavy losses.”

Curtly, Gryzlov nodded again, restraining his temper with difficulty. However unwelcome the older man’s assessment might be, it was also undeniably logical.

“In fact,” Khristenko said carefully. “I have cautioned Nikitin to slow his own advance — at least until the Twentieth Guards Army can resume its offensive.”

“Why?”

“With Polivanov’s forces temporarily halted, pushing farther west would only leave Sixth Army’s left flank hanging in the air,” the general said. “The Polish armor and infantry units that were facing Polivanov could swing north and surprise Nikitin’s columns on the march.”

Gryzlov frowned. “In other words, neither of our invasion armies can go forward without the other.”

“That is correct, Mr. President,” Khristenko agreed.

“Then you get those supplies forward to Polivanov without delay!” Gryzlov snarled. “I will not accept further excuses for inaction and failure! If your tank and motor-rifle troops cannot defeat the Poles, I will be compelled to use other means to destroy our enemies — means that would be far more lethal and far less precise. Do you understand me, General?”

“I understand you, sir,” the chief of the General Staff said tightly. His president had just signaled his willingness to contemplate crossing the nuclear threshold. If Russia’s conventional armies failed, Gryzlov would use his missile forces against Poland.

Major Yevgeny Kurochkin banked his twin-tailed MiG-29M into a gentle left-hand turn. He glanced out through the clear canopy at the ground five thousand meters below. From this high up, the flat Ukrainian landscape was mostly a hazy blur — an alternating patchwork of light green, dark green, and earth-brown fields and woods. Thin gray lines, paved roads, sliced through the countryside in all directions.

One of those roads, the M07 highway heading west to Poland, was jammed with traffic. A kilometers-long column of cylindrical fuel tankers and canvas-sided trucks loaded with other vital supplies was slowly wending its way to the 20th Guards Army’s stalled brigades. The supply vehicles could have gotten there faster on their own, but they were being shepherded by a battalion-sized task force of tracked T-72 tanks, BMP-2 infantry fighting vehicles, and self-propelled antiaircraft guns.

Kurochkin and his wingman, Senior Lieutenant Avilov, were assigned to fly top cover for the convoy, orbiting in a lazy, fuel-conserving racetrack pattern at medium altitude. If called on, their MiG-29s carried bombs and rocket pods for use against ground targets.

At least now he would be able to see well enough to hit something, the Russian pilot thought. The long supply column had spent most of the past hour driving through a wide belt of thick forest, closed up tight against the possibility of sudden ambush by Ukrainian terrorists or Polish Special Forces troops. Through his radio earphones, Kurochkin could hear the previously tense voices of the escort commander and his subordinates beginning to relax. As they moved out into more open country, their chances of fending off an enemy attack increased exponentially.

Not far off the highway, right in the middle of a field, there were two tiny, dazzling flashes.

Kurochkin frowned, keying his mike. “Avilov, did you see—”

Three seconds after they were fired, tungsten-steel alloy slugs sleeting at nearly six thousand kilometers per hour smashed through the two Russian MiG-29s. Both pilots were killed instantly, shredded by white-hot, razor-edged splinters torn from their own aircraft.

Riding with his head poking out through the turret hatch of the lead T-72 main battle tank, Captain Ivan Teplov adjusted his headset, trying to make out what his driver, seated below in the chassis, had just said over the intercom. Out in the open like this, the roar of the T-72’s 780-horsepower diesel engine was almost deafening. Despite the distraction, he kept an eye on their surroundings. They were rumbling through farmland now, grinding slowly westward through fields planted in corn and sugar beets.

“Say again, driver,” he growled.

“I said, we’ll need to top up again sometime in the next hour, sir,” the sergeant told him patiently. “We just hit the three-quarter mark—”

A sudden stuttering, clanging rasp of gunfire drowned out the intercom. In that same split second, a blast of heat washed across the back of Teplov’s neck — scorching enough to make him yelp in surprise. He swiveled to look behind them. His mouth fell open in disbelief. They were under attack!

Fuel tankers and trucks were slewing across the highway in all directions, already hit and burning. Soldiers fell away from the wrecked vehicles. Many of them were on fire themselves, turned into screaming, writhing human torches. More explosions tore at the long column — hurling smoking pieces of trucks and crates of supplies high into the air.

In all the chaos, a flash of blinding-fast movement caught Teplov’s eye. There, racing along the trapped convoy, came a tall, mottled gray figure out of a nightmare. The weapons carried in its spindly arms fired again and again, destroying trucks and other vehicles with terrifying speed.

The Russian tank commander swallowed hard. “Gunner! Target right rear! Range three hundred meters!” he yelled.

The T-72’s massive turret spun fast, slewing toward the strange creature or machine. “Sir! The computer won’t lock on!” the gunner stammered.

“Idiot!” Teplov snarled. “Fire anyway!”

KA-BLAAMM!

The tank rocked backward as its 125mm smoothbore gun fired, propelling a round downrange in a plume of brown smoke and orange flame. Teplov leaned forward, clutching the rim of the turret against the recoil.

The T-72’s high-explosive round hit the ground right beside the fast-moving enemy war machine and exploded. A huge fountain of dirt and dust erupted. Caught in the blast, the gray and black figure was tossed backward, coming down in an awkward heap beside a burning Russian truck.

“Reload with armor piercing!” Teplov snapped into his mike, already swinging away to look for other targets.

Hydraulic system function severely degraded. Thermal camouflage off-line. Thermal sensors damaged. Weapons Pack One nonoperational, the CID’s computer reported. Fuel-cell power production down to forty-three percent.

Patrick McLanahan ignored the cascade of damage and failure warnings flooding through his mind. Considering the sheer explosive impact and spray of fragments it had just taken at point-blank range, his Iron Wolf machine was lucky to still be in one piece. Without trying to get up, he turned his head to find the Russian T-72 that had just nailed him. Servos and actuators whined in protest. “Stop being such a big baby,” he muttered. “You’ve been hit worse.”

The enemy tank was about three hundred yards away, swinging around toward the rear of the supply column — where CID Two, piloted by Wayne Macomber — was still wreaking havoc. The imagery he was receiving was blurred and it flickered oddly. No surprise there, he thought. Half his visual sensors were just gone, ripped away in the blast. And with the robot’s batteries and fuel cells damaged so badly, its computer was being forced to cycle its limited remaining power between arrays of critical systems.

“Dad? Dad? Are you all right?” Brad’s worried voice flooded through his headset. His son was monitoring this attack from the Remote Operations Control Center back at Powidz.

“I’m fine, son,” Patrick said. “Knocked around a little maybe, but otherwise intact.”

Captain Nadia Rozek’s voice cut in on the circuit. “Dad? Your father is alive? CID One is General McLanahan?”

Patrick switched frequencies with a pained smile. Let Brad handle the awkward revelation, he thought. He just hoped his son hadn’t played the “my father is dead” sympathy card too hard while wooing that beautiful female Polish Special Forces officer. Right now, though, he had far more immediate problems.

Like that T-72. Its commander had damned fast reflexes and CIDs were not designed to stand up to 125mm armor-piercing ammunition. And from the limited information flowing through his data link, Whack already had a hell of a fight on his hands.

Slowly at first, and then faster as he overrode more and more of the computer’s damage alerts and fail-safes, he climbed back to his feet. One rail-gun round should do it for that enemy tank. He started to uncouple the gun. Electromagnetic weapon nonoperational, the CID indicated.

“Shit,” Patrick growled. He was going to have to do this the hard and ugly way, up close and personal. He detached his 40mm grenade launcher instead. One thermobaric grenade remaining, the computer reported.

He lurched into motion, unsteadily running toward the distant T-72 on wobbly legs. More actuators protested. Whole sections of his system schematics winked yellow and red — indicating a series of cascading failures. As his computer rerouted more and more power to movement, information from a variety of sensors vanished from his conscious mind.

Patrick’s CID had covered two-thirds of the distance between them when the Russian tank commander saw it coming. Reacting fast, the other man yelled an order into his headset and fumbled for the grips of the 12.7mm machine gun mounted beside him. The T-72’s turret whined frantically around, trying to bring its main gun to bear.

Too late, Patrick thought grimly. He bounded up onto the chassis, broke the tank commander’s neck with one quick blow, and yanked the corpse out of the turret. In the darkened compartment below, he saw the gunner’s face turn toward him, mouth opening in a panicked scream.

Without hesitating, he fired his grenade launcher directly through the open hatch and whirled away.

WHANG. WHOOMPH.

The thermobaric grenade’s twin charges went off. A pillar of fire shot out of the tank turret’s hatch, blindingly bright even against the afternoon sun. Already burning, the T-72 slewed sideways and clanked to a stop.

Patrick leaped off the smoldering tank, stumbling a bit as his leg hydraulics flirted with failure. He slid the empty grenade launcher back into his remaining weapons pack and took out his last functioning weapon, his 25mm autocannon. Time to get back into the hunt, he decided.

“Break it off, CID One!” he heard Macomber radio. “Repeat, break it off! Rally and recover.”

Stubbornly, Patrick shook his head. “It’s too soon, Whack,” he said. “We’re still meeting resistance.”

“Bullshit,” Macomber told him. “I know your sensors are fucked, but take a look around! We’ve already toasted ninety percent of their supply trucks and fuel tankers. So that Russian army up the road ain’t going anywhere soon. Right here, the only Russians left alive are the ones who can fight back. And going head-to-head against alerted enemy armor when we can still back off is not in the damned plan!”

“Major—”

“I can see your robot’s fricking damage reports, General,” Macomber said tightly. “The way I read them, you’ve got a few hours max before the whole damned thing shuts down completely. Which means we are going to hightail it back to Powidz and swap you into my cozy little ride before that happens.” Macomber paused. “Unless, of course, you’re ready to just pull the plug and die. Right here and now. Because that’s what staying amounts to.”

Patrick laughed. “Point taken, Whack.” He turned and limped away from the wrecked and burning Russian supply convoy. “CID One is heading for the recovery point. As ordered.”

Sergei Tarzarov sat bolt upright in one of the plush chairs lining the walls of President Gryzlov’s outer office. He was not alone. Defense Minister Sokolov, Chief of the General Staff General Khristenko, and Colonel General Maksimov, head of the air force, sat around him. All four of them wore the same uneasy, nervous expression, as though they were small, errant schoolboys summoned for a beating by an angry headmaster.

But now, after having been ordered here on the double, they were being kept waiting.

“The president is in another meeting,” his private secretary had told them apologetically. “He will be with you shortly.”

Noting the absence of the foreign minister from this edgy gathering, Tarzarov frowned. Was Gennadiy foolish enough and reckless enough to waste time screwing Daria Titeneva while the rest of his national security advisers cooled their heels outside his door? At a moment when so much of Russia’s war strategy appeared to be collapsing in ruin? It scarcely seemed credible, but then again, many of the younger man’s actions often seemed rooted in instinct and impulse — rather than in cold calculation.

The phone on Ivan Ulanov’s desk buzzed. Gryzlov’s secretary snatched it up. “Yes, Mr. President?” He listened in silence for a moment and then nodded sharply. “At once, Mr. President!”

Ulanov rose from his desk and hurried over to open the door to Gryzlov’s inner office.

“Very good. Then we have an understanding,” Tarzarov heard the president saying. “Do not make me regret giving you my trust. You will ensure that your mistress understands this, too.”

A second voice echoed his words, translating them into a different language. Into English, Tarzarov realized abruptly. He stared hard at the two men who left Gryzlov’s office. One he recognized, a translator attached to the Foreign Ministry. The second man, tall and thin and tired-looking, was a stranger. Something about him seemed familiar, however — as though Tarzarov had seen him before, perhaps on television or in the background at some international conference. Maybe in the entourage of a political leader? His travel-rumpled clothes marked him as an American, but not one of the sophisticated executives Gryzlov occasionally invited in to discuss old times in the international oil industry. What the devil was Gennadiy up to?

“Gentlemen,” Ulanov said, breaking into his thoughts. “The president will see you now.”

After being ushered into Gryzlov’s unsmiling presence, the four older men were not asked to sit. Instead, they found themselves facing his desk, lined up like children — or like prisoners facing an execution squad, Tarzarov realized with a sudden shiver.

“This war has entered a new phase,” the president said coldly. “Today’s utter failure to resupply the Twentieth Guards Army leaves me no choice.” He turned his pale blue hooded eyes on Khristenko. “You will transmit the necessary warning and preparatory orders to our Iskander missile brigade based in Kaliningrad.”

“Sir!” Khristenko snapped to attention. “And the target sets?”

“I want every Polish air base, especially the nest of American mercenaries at Powidz, slated for destruction,” Grzylov said. “You will also target the centers of governmental power and administration in Warsaw. Finally, additional missiles must be aimed at the most significant concentrations of enemy troops opposing General Nikitin’s Sixth Army.” He favored them all with an icy, predatory smile. “When our Iskanders have finished blowing a hole in the Polish defenses, I want Nikitin’s tanks on the march toward Warsaw.”

Khristenko looked worried. “The missile brigade we have assembled can fire a devastating barrage, sir,” he said hesitantly. “But even nearly one hundred highly accurate conventional warheads may not be able to accomplish the objectives you have set forth.”

“No?” Gryzlov said, with deceptive mildness. His eyes hardened. “Then you have my permission to include the use of tactical nuclear weapons in your attack.”

Tarzarov decided it was time to intervene, to buy time to dissuade Gennadiy from this madness. “Mr. President, this may be most—”

“Enough, Sergei!” Gryzlov snapped. “The Poles and their hireling techno-soldiers have forced my hand. If their new weapons and tactics are beyond our ability to defeat with conventional methods, I am fully prepared to employ the only effective weapons remaining in our arsenal.” With a dismissive wave, he turned back to Khristenko. “How soon can our Iskander brigade be ready to fire, General?”

“Within two to three hours after getting their target sets, Mr. President,” the chief of the General Staff said quickly. “My staff has already prepared detailed plans which include most of the targets you have just assigned. The missile units move from their garrison locations to presurveyed launch positions for maximum accuracy. Once we have the most recent reports from Sixth Army’s reconnaissance units, keying in the remaining target coordinates will not take long.”

“Two hours, eh?” Gryzlov pondered that for a moment. “Very good, Mikhail,” he said, smiling more genuinely now. Then his mouth thinned again. “But you will not fire those missiles without my direct order. And that order may not come until much later tonight. If ever. If we employ tactical nuclear weapons, we will follow all established execution protocols. I’m not afraid to use nukes, but I want to know precisely when and where all the detonations will be. Precisely.”

For the first time since entering the president’s office, Tarzarov felt a glimmer of hope.

Gryzlov must have seen it on his face, because the younger man nodded to him. “Yes, Sergei. I do have one more card to play.” He showed his teeth. “Or, perhaps more accurately, I have one more card to watch someone else play for me.”

Piotr Wilk looked up at the Cybernetic Infantry Device. “I am very glad to see that you are unhurt, General McLanahan.”

At his side, Nadia Rozek stiffened slightly. She glanced coolly at her president. “You knew that he was alive, too?”

“It was not my secret to share, Captain,” Wilk said in apology.

To his surprise, the tall Iron Wolf robot inclined its head toward the Special Forces captain. “But it was mine to give, Nadia. And I made a mistake in not permitting Brad to tell you earlier — especially after we fought together at Konotop. I hope you will forgive me?”

Nadia’s stony expression softened and slowly a smile crept across her face. “It would be wrong, I suppose, to hold a grudge against you for not really being dead.” She tossed a mischievous look at Brad McLanahan. “So long as there are no more secrets being kept from me, that is.”

“No, ma’am,” the young American assured her hastily, grinning in relief. “One deep, dark McLanahan family mystery is the limit.”

From his side of the conference table, Kevin Martindale cleared his throat. “Much as I hate to interrupt this touching scene of reconciliation and forgiveness, there is still a war on.” He motioned toward the tall Iron Wolf war robot. “And while General McLanahan is very much alive in his new abode, the temporary loss of CID One’s combat power is something we have to factor into our plans.”

“How long will it take to repair the machine?” Wilk asked.

“At least forty-eight hours,” Martindale said. “The robot took serious damage from that HE hit. And if that wasn’t enough, the emergency overrides ordered by our friend here so he could keep fighting created a whole series of system failures and meltdowns. Some of my best Scion techs are going to have to strip CID One way down past the exoskeleton just to get at some of its injuries.”

“I see.” Wilk nodded. He looked around the table at the Americans. “But perhaps this reduction in your Iron Wolf fighting force will not matter too much. So far, your campaign has been successful beyond my most fervent hopes and prayers.”

“That is so,” Nadia agreed with deep satisfaction. “The Twentieth Guards Army is stalled far from our border — unable to advance against us and unable even to retreat without risking further ambush.” She grinned. “Our metal wolves have taught them to fear the dark… and now even the day.”

“Unfortunately, we haven’t been able to delay Gryzlov’s other invasion army,” Martindale reminded the two Poles. “Its troops and tanks are still on the move.”

“True.” Wilk nodded again. “However, I believe my country’s conventional forces can stop them cold, especially now that your earlier victories have made Moscow reluctant to use its airpower against us.”

The Americans, including the CID, exchanged worried looks. The robot leaned down again. “With respect, sir, it’s far too soon to pop the cork on any victory champagne. Gennadiy Gryzlov has other weapons at his disposal.” His voice was somber. “And he is not a quitter.” Martindale and Brad nodded their agreement.

“You refer to the Russian missile forces?” Wilk asked quietly.

“That’s right,” Martindale said. He reached into the briefcase at his feet and brought out a sheaf of printouts. With a flourish, he handed them to the Polish president. Other copies went to Brad and Nadia. “This stuff is hot, Piotr. As in practically ‘burn before reading’ hot.”

Wilk glanced at the top page. It was marked Top Secret CLARION — NOFORN in bold red letters. He raised an eyebrow. “NOFORN?”

“No foreign national access allowed,” Martindale explained. “Which definitely means you, and every other NATO ally, for that matter.” He nodded toward the documents. “What you’re looking at is an emergency alert sent yesterday to all major American military commands in Europe and the Middle East. The Russians have moved a substantial tactical missile force — possibly as many as three brigades of their Iskander-M and R-500 cruise missile launchers — into a position in Kaliningrad from which they can hit most of Poland’s military and political infrastructure.” He grimaced. “And if that wasn’t bad enough, there are clear signs that Moscow has deployed tactical nuclear warheads to the same location.”

“My God,” Wilk muttered, staring down at the papers in his hands as if they had suddenly transformed into a nest of scorpions. “Are they insane?”

“The Russians don’t think about nuclear weapons, at least tactical nukes, the same way we do,” Patrick McLanahan said grimly. “They see them as potentially useful battlefield tools.”

“That goes double for Gennadiy Gryzlov,” Martindale agreed. His eyes narrowed. “His father taught him that much when he hit us thirteen years ago.”

Heads around the table nodded. Nobody needed to dwell on the murderous attack Anatoliy Gryzlov had ordered against America’s ICBM and long-range bomber forces. While the Russians had refrained from using high-yield strategic nuclear warheads, their smaller weapons had killed tens of thousands. With that history in mind, no one could doubt that Russia’s current president might use the same kinds of weapons against a much smaller, much weaker country — especially one without a nuclear deterrent of its own.

“Then we must destroy these missiles before they can be launched,” Wilk said.

“Yes, sir,” Brad agreed absently, leafing through the pages of the Pentagon’s warning. He stopped at a map showing the deployment zone for the Russian missile units. “Oh, shit…” He looked sick suddenly. “I have this really bad feeling that we don’t have a lot of time left to take those launchers out.”

“What do you mean, son?” Patrick asked sharply.

“Some weird new intel came through from Scion right before President Wilk arrived,” Brad explained. “I was going to run it by you guys later, but now I’m afraid I know what it means.” Seeing his father’s CID give him a minute, encouraging nod, he went on. “Besides rifling through Pentagon databases, Mr. Martindale’s computer specialists have been poking around inside Russia’s Internet and telecommunications networks.”

This time, they all nodded in understanding. Hacking Russia’s communications had provided much of the intelligence they’d used to plan the Iron Wolf Squadron’s raids on Konotop, Baranovichi, and other targets.

He showed them the map of the Kaliningrad area he’d been looking at. “Well, they just spotted a weird pattern in the cell- and satellite-phone and Internet activity in this sector.”

“What kind of pattern, Brad?” Nadia asked.

“About an hour ago, that whole region just went totally dark. There’s zero communications activity. As in no wireless or satellite calls in or out at all. Every Internet connection is also down.”

“Which means the Russian units stationed there have gone on total EMCON,” Martindale realized abruptly. “Shutting down all outside communications is pretty standard security practice before any big operation. So it’s a safe bet that Gryzlov is readying his tactical missiles for a massive strike.”

“Can our Iron Wolf ground forces destroy them?” Wilk asked.

“Not with just one CID operational, sir,” Patrick said. Then, looking through the Pentagon’s assessment of the missile deployment area’s defenses, he shook his head. “Not even with two robots, really. Gryzlov has this zone ringed with troops and SAMs. If we were willing to take a one-way trip, we might be able to punch a hole — but not in time to stop him from launching. Before we broke through, his warheads would be raining down across Poland.”

“Then we hit them with our remote-piloted XF-111 SuperVarks,” Brad said. “They’re the only weapons we’ve got that can get in fast and still have a shot at blowing those launchers to hell and gone.”

“You believe your bombers can penetrate all those layers of antiaircraft defenses?” Wilk asked, unable to hide his disbelief. “How is that possible?”

“It’ll be really tough to pull off,” Brad admitted. “And we’ll lose a lot of aircraft, maybe even most of them. But I’ve run our Iron Wolf crews through simulated attacks on complexes almost as heavily defended as this one. With the right mix of tactics and weapons, I think we can take those missile brigades out.” He looked around the table at the others. “Anyway, what choice do we really have? We either go all the way in now with the XF-111s and Coyotes, or we might as well call Gryzlov and ask for surrender terms.”

Wilk sat silently, deep in thought for what seemed an eternity. No one else spoke. Martindale, the two McLanahans, and even Captain Rozek could offer him advice. But this had to be his decision and his alone. Knowing now that the Russians might be planning the use of nuclear weapons — even so-called tactical weapons — against his nation and its armed forces, could he justify the risks involved in further resistance?

Nearly eighty years before, Poland had been crushed, partitioned, and enslaved by Nazi Germany and Stalinist Russia. Millions of her people had been murdered or starved to death. Even the end of the Second World War had brought only more decades of Communist oppression. But through all her suffering, Poland’s spirit had endured — kept alive because so many of her ragged, brutalized people refused to kneel before tyrants. Could he do less?

For a moment longer, Piotr Wilk searched through his mind, trying to find the right words, words that would resonate with these brave American allies of his beleaguered nation. At last they came to him, in the ringing call to arms uttered by the American patriot Patrick Henry. He looked up, meeting their worried gaze with a defiant smile. “ ‘Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery?’ ” he quoted. “ ‘Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty or give me death!’ ”

Teary-eyed with pride, Nadia Rozek brought her fist down on the table. “Yes! We strike!”

“To win or lose it all?” Martindale asked softly.

Somberly, Wilk nodded. He turned to Brad. “Mr. McLanahan,” he said solemnly. “You will carry out an attack on the Russian missile forces as soon as your aircraft can be prepared for flight and armed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Excuse me?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Mińsk Mazowiecki?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another firm finger press ended the call.

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