Iron Wolf

FOURTEEN

“Sir, early warning radar reports a formation of high-speed aircraft bearing one-nine-five, direction of flight seven-nine-zero, range three hundred kilometers, speed eight hundred, altitude unknown!” the communications officer shouted.

“From the east, exactly as I guessed,” Colonel Konrad Saratov, commander of the 72nd Tactical Missile Brigade, said aloud so all in the mobile command center could hear. He was standing behind a row of radar and radio operators inside a mobile command post trailer in the center of the Iskander missile force deployed to Kakiningrad Oblast. He stopped his pacing and stood behind the radar operator manning the feed from the 36D6 long-range radar site. “They obviously can see that we are prepared for an attack from all sides, but the west and south are too heavily defended. Lieutenant, sound air-raid alert throughout the force.”

“Sound air… air-raid alert, y… yes, sir,” Lieutenant Kararina Kirov, the deputy action officer, stammered. She tentatively pressed a red button on her panel, which sounded Klaxons outside. The warning would be relayed throughout all of the Iskander missile launch sites and S-300 and S-400 air defense emplacements throughout central Kaliningrad oblast. “Alert s… sounded, sir,” Kirov said nervously.

“I can hear that myself, Lieutenant,” Saratov said flatly. Good thing she was cute, he thought, because she was certainly skittish — that might be fun in the sack, but not in his command post. “Relax yourself. Our defenses are impenetrable. The Americans and Poles are flying right into my trap. Do we have an altitude on that formation?”

“Within range of 76N6 in one minute, sir.” The 76N6 was an excellent radar for detecting low-flying, high-speed aircraft, but its range was limited. But once the altitude was determined, the handoff to the 30N6E target-tracking and missile-guidance radar was fast.

“Any IKS signals?” Saratov ordered. IKS, or identifikatsionnyy kod samolet, was a transponder and radio code used by all aircraft for identification by radar sites and interceptor aircraft. A missing or incorrect IKS code usually meant a hostile aircraft… or a friendly who deserved to die because he was not following the proper identification procedures in a combat zone.

“Negative IKS,” came the reply.

“Number of inbounds?”

“Two separate groups, sir. I cannot break out the numbers in each group. Close formation, perhaps a kilometer or two apart.”

That was not a very close formation, Saratov thought — these must be the Polish Air Force, because he knew the Americans had better flying skills and better combat tactics. “Very well. Break them out as fast as you can. Where is my fighter protection?”

“Voron flight is at seventy-five hundred meters, fifty kilometers from inbounds, closing at Mach one.”

“Weapons tight — I don’t want to shoot down our own aircraft,” Saratov said. “Looks like the fighter boys will get the first shot. All units, acknowledge my order.”

“All units acknowledge weapons tight, sir,” Kirov said a few moments later. She was sounding better, Saratov thought. “Voron reports he is tied on to our target-tracking data uplink and will remain radar-silent until after missile launch.”

“Very good,” Saratov commented. All frontline Russian fighters could approach and attack a target by many means other than using its own radar, which was always a dead giveaway: they could use an infrared tracker, or they could use the tracking and targeting data uplinked from ground radars as if it was their own onboard radar. The enemy could see the ground radar but wouldn’t know that Russian fighters were in the air unless they used their own radars, which would expose themselves. “Time to attack?”

“Ten seconds, sir.” He would have liked to listen to his beloved S-300s shoot down the Poles, Saratov thought, but this time the fighter boys could have their fun.

“Sir, Voron reports X-band radar detected! Suspect F-16 fighters inbound!” That confirmed Saratov’s guess that it was Polish Air Force invaders — the Americans were flying AN/APG-81 radars in their refurbished F-111 bombers, which were very difficult to detect and track.

“Handoff to 76N6 complete!” a fire control officer shouted excitedly. “Hostile altitude is one hundred and fifty meters! Two groups, two aircraft in each group, now passing through nine hundred kilometers per hour! Solid lock, ready to attack!”

“Weapons tight, I said!” Saratov yelled. “Acknowledge!”

“All weapons tight, sir.”

“Voron flight is missiles away, sir,” the lieutenant reported. “Fighters engaging.” In a head-to-head engagement the missile flight time was very short, and the fighters would probably turn on their radars in just a few seconds for more precise missile steering until the missile’s own radar would activate for terminal guidance to the kill. Seconds passed… then more seconds… then fifteen seconds…

“What the hell is going on?” Saratov shouted. “What happened?”

“Sir, Voron flight reports their scopes are clear,” Kirov said. “No contacts. All aircraft shot down!”

Saratov knew he should feel relieved and elated, but for some strange reason he didn’t — not in the least. “Dispatch search teams to the site of that encounter — I want debris located and identified immediately,” he told Kirov. “Then I want—”

“Radar contact aircraft! Bearing zero-nine-zero, range two hundred, low altitude, two aircraft, very large!”

They missed! Saratov thought to himself. The fighter pilots missed an easy engagement! Eyes bulging out of his head, he stared dumbfounded at the radar scope. Sure enough, there were two very large aircraft heading west at very low altitude. Were they heavy bombers? Few countries other than the United States, Russia, and perhaps China flew heavy bombers anymore. The planes were moving fast, as fast as a fighter. Did the Americans send a B-1 bomber in to attack? “Tell those fighters to clear out of the area until we attack, then return to base!” he shouted. “Double-check you have a solid IKS on our own aircraft! Release batteries! Release all batteries!” Kirov repeated the rapid-fire orders as fast as she could. “Sound the air-raid alert and—”

“Sir, 30N6 radar from Third Battery is off the air!” Kirov reported. Third Battery, with four S-300 launchers and four reload trailers each with four missile canisters, was the southern fire control radar controlling the four southernmost S-300 launchers.

“What do you mean, off the air?” Saratov shouted. “Is it being jammed? Has it malfunctioned? What in hell…?”

“Sir, Third Battery reports it has been hit by a missile!” Kirov said. “Third Battery is under attack!

“Fourth Battery engaging inbound hostiles!” Kirov reported. “Solid lock on two inbound hostiles!”

Bombers! High-subsonic bombers! This was a major escalation! He went back to his own console and hit a button marked OMУ, which was the direct secure line to his superior officers of the Western Military District.

“Major Kemerov, senior controller, go ahead, Seventy-Second Brigade.”

“We are under attack, Major,” Saratov said. “One air defense radar has been hit by a missile, and we have engaged two heavy bombers inbound from the east. I need permission to launch my air-to-ground missiles immediately!”

“Stand by, sir,” Kemerov said, and the line went silent. Crap, Saratov thought, he’d better damned hurry!

“Inbound bombers down!” he heard over his headset. “Definite kill! Both targets down!”

Saratov wasn’t going to buy that one for a second. “All batteries, weapons tight!” he shouted. “Get those fighters back out there to do a radar search! What about our ground spotters? They should have seen an explosion! Are there any visual—”

“Sir, unidentified aircraft inbound, bearing zero-nine-zero, two hundred kilometers, low altitude, speed eight hundred, heading two-nine-five, two groups!” came another excited report.

No! Saratov screamed at himself. Three separate contacts, all on virtually the same heading and altitude and almost the same range and speed? “It has to be radar spoofing!” he shouted. “We are being spoofed! Tell Fourth Battery to stay weapons tight! Tell Voron flight to search, but do not fire unless you have positive visual or infrared contact!

“Sir, Third Battery reports they can use their 3R41 radar to fill in for their damaged 30N6,” Kirov reported. “Their tracking and fire control range will be reduced, but they will be back online in about ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes, like hell,” Saratov shouted. “If we are under attack, this will be over in two minutes!”

“Seventy-Second, this is OMU Alpha.” Saratov recognized the voice of Major General Alexander Kornukov, commander of the Western Military District of the Russian armed forces, even over the pops, whistles, and wavering of the constantly encrypted-decrypted line. “What do you have, Konrad?”

“I’ve got a hatful of shit, sir, that’s what I’ve got!” Saratov exclaimed. “One of my fire control radars was hit by a missile, but I’ve fired on two sets of radar targets to the east that turned out not to be there! Now I’ve got a third set of hostiles, but they’re at almost the exact same position and track as the others. They’re making us expend ordnance on shadows while they pick off our air defense systems, and I’m afraid we’re going to lose all the S-300 fire control systems and eventually the Iskanders pretty damned soon. If you don’t want to lose them, I suggest you get the order to launch them, sir, and I mean now.”

“Relax, Konrad,” Kornukov said. “As soon as I got your initial report from the command post I requested an immediate conference with the chief of staff, and I’ll speak with him shortly. For now, use your best judgment on your air threats. If you think you have legitimate targets, engage them. Order up reloads; I’ll send them out right away. But shoot any bastard that looks like a legitimate hostile. Don’t let a real hostile sneak past a spoof. That will land you in the shit with the Kremlin for sure. Copy, Colonel?”

“Yes, sir, I copy all,” Saratov said.

“Anything else for me, Konrad?”

“Negative, sir,” Saratov responded.

“Good, Konrad,” Kornukov said. Saratov recognized a little bit of the helpful, sensitive, and friendly upperclassman comrade he knew during their years at the Yarolslavl Military Academy in the voice of his superior officer. In a much stronger commanding voice, Kornukov added: “Be aggressive and defend those Iskanders to the last missile. Venture on. I’ll advise you immediately when you are authorized to engage your assigned ground targets with the Iskanders, but until then keep those slugs safe, secure, ready, and tight. Understood, old friend?”

“Understood, sir,” Saratov responded, but the connection was broken before the words passed his lips. He punched the button on his comm panel from the command channel back to his brigade network with an exasperated stab. “Give me a status report, now,” he ordered. “Surveillance?”

“Radar is tracking two hostle targets at bearing zero-nine-eight, range one-sixty, low altitude, speed eight hundred,” the surveillance officer reported. “Voron flight of two is searching for the targets with airborne radar. All other sectors report clear.”

“Air defense missiles?”

“Air defense is standing by and ready,” the air defense brigade officer reported. “Battery Three is currently off-line but will be online with limited fifty-kilometer engagement range in ten minutes. Time to full combat readiness is approximately two days.”

“Unacceptable,” Saratov said. “Fly replacement 30N6 radar units in immediately. It has been authorized by the chief of staff. I want them up and ready in eight hours. Get them moving.”

“Yes, sir. All other air defense batteries are fully operational, and we have reported negative enemy traffic.”

“Get on it,” Saratov said. “Ground attack, report.”

“All batteries report fully operational and ready,” the Iskander brigade commander reported. “Twelve Iskander-M and twelve Iskander-K extended-range launchers with two missiles each are ready for launch, plus another thirty-six missiles ready for immediate reload. Reloads can be ready to fire in less than an hour. All launchers have been deployed to presurveyed launch locations for maximum accuracy. Targets include Polish command and control sites, airfields, air defense sites, and headquarters locations. Our first strike will destroy Poland’s ability to communicate with its remote units, and those remote units, in turn, will be unable to communicate with their subordinate units. Once we control Poland’s airspace and destroy its air defenses, we can end its ability to conduct these ridiculous harassment attacks against our forces.”

“Is it possible to disperse your forces in case your current locations have been targeted?” Saratov asked. “Can you move them to nearby locations and put decoys in their original locations?”

“Absolutely, sir,” the ground-attack brigade officer responded. “We can accomplish this in a staggered schedule so we do not degrade more than two batteries at a time. Our decoys are inflatable, easily set up, and cost virtually nothing in manpower and equipment. Best of all, the decoys almost perfectly match the size, infrared, radio, and radar profiles of the real launchers — if they are detected, the enemy will undoubtedly be convinced they are genuine.”

“Have them ready to deploy,” Saratov said. “I want the Iskanders ready to fire as soon as we get the order.”

“It’s obvious: the air defense radar site is processing bad dope, Vikki,” Captain Pavel Ignatyev, the pilot in the lead of the formation of two Sukhoi-30 air superiority fighters said on intercom. “It’s about time they let us do our jobs until they get their heads straight and get their gear fixed.”

“They could be getting meaconed too,” the front seat weapons officer, Senior Lieutenant Viktoria Gref responded. “I’m not picking up anything now, but I thought I saw an indication of something out there at twelve o’clock, sixty kilometers.”

“We’re not radiating now, are we?”

“No, but I’m ready to take a look,” Gref said. “If it’s a real target I’ll see it at eleven o’clock, forty kilometers.”

“Clear to radiate,” Ignatyev said. On the air-to-air channel he said, “Voron Flight, Lead is radiating.”

“Two,” came the simple reply from the pilot of the second Su-30. As the old joke said, wingmen only had to say three things to their flight leader: “Two,” “You’re on fire, Lead,” and “I’ll take the ugly one.”

“Contact!” Gref said. “Two targets, eleven o’clock low, range one hundred, speed seven hundred!”

“Finally we got the real bastards!” Ignatyev said. On the command channel: “Take spacing, we have contact.”

“Two,” his wingman said. The second Su-30 climbed a hundred meters and dropped back about half a kilometer, allowing the leader more room to maneuver while hunting down their prey.

“Radar in standby,” Gref said. On her display, however, the fire control computer plotted the targets it had picked up based on their last speed and heading and displayed them as if the radar was still locked on. “Eleven o’clock moving to ten, ninety klicks.”

Ignatyev thumped the channel selector on his control stick to the command channel and spoke. “Base, Voron Flight, we have an airborne contact, low-flying, heading westbound at seven hundred. Do you still want a visual?”

“Affirmative, Voron,” came the reply.

“Acknowledged,” Ignatyev replied. On intercom: “Shit, they want a visual. At night, low altitude, fast mover — the worst setup.”

“The infrared seeker will give us an image at fifteen klicks,” Gref said.

“Yeah, but that’s well within Sidewinder missile range and almost in gun range.”

“That’s why you wear the big-boy four stars, Pavel,” Gref said. “If they fire at us, we nail them.”

Ignatyev straightened his back in his ejection seat and tightened his shoulder straps. “Fuck yeah,” he said. “Arm up the 77s.”

Gref flipped a switch and checked her multifunction display. “Four R-77s prearmed, button set for single salvo. Your triggers are hot.”

“Odobryat,” Ignatyev said. “Acknowledged. Light ’em up.”

“Radiating… now.” A second later: “Contact, ten o’clock low, sixty klicks, heading west… maneuvering, moving southwest, accelerating to nine-sixty… shit, he’s right on the deck!”

“He’s got to be a bad guy!” Ignatyev said. He flicked his channel selector again: “Base, Voron Flight, unidentified aircraft is at extreme low altitude and is almost supersonic. Do I have permission to—”

But his question was interrupted when Gref shouted, “Picking up multiple targets now, I’ve got four aircraft now. Two moving northwest, still at low altitude. The other two are heading south and accelerating… northerly targets turning northeast.”

“Looks like they’re bugging out to Lithuania and Poland, the cowards,” Ignatyev said.

“Some may be decoys,” Gref reminded her pilot. “Could be MALDs.”

Ignatyev switched back to his air-to-air radio. “Two, we have contacts at three and eleven o’clock, about fifty klicks. Turn northeast and pick up those two. I’ll go after the southerly ones.”

“Two,” Vonorov replied.

Ignatyev threw his Su-30 into a tight right turn, imagining exactly where the southbound intruders should be. He was rewarded with: “Targets twelve o’clock very low, fifty klicks, speed one thousand.”

“That’s no decoy,” Ignatyev said. “How far away is the border?”

“About two minutes at this speed.”

“He’s not getting away,” Ignatyev said. “Lock them up.”

Gref finished programming the fire control computer, and a moment later: “Targets locked.” But a half second after that: “Heavy jamming… shit, broke lock. Can’t reacquire. Target is maneuvering… target now heading west-northwest.”

“Turning back toward his original target… probably the Iskanders,” Ignatyev said. “I’ll close on him and nail him with the 73s if you can’t break the jamming.”

A tone sounded in their helmets. “Target-tracking radar, X-band,” Gref announced. “He’s got air-to-air.”

“I think it’s one of those F-111s with the F-35 radar,” Ignatyev said. “But he’s just giving away his own position. If he thinks he’s going to fire a missile at us from two hundred feet above the ground, he’s an amateur.” The captain sneered. “Idiot. What’s his range?”

“Range twenty,” Gref said. “I’ve got an infrared lock-on. Selecting the 73s… infrared missiles armed, your triggers are—”

At that instant, a tremendous flash of yellow fire burst less than a hundred meters to their right, followed by a huge explosion and burst of turbulence that threatened to twist the Russian fighter inside out. “Presvataya Bogoroditsa! Holy Mother of God!” Ignatyev shouted. “Where the hell did that come from?”

“My scope is clear!” Gref shouted, trying to blink away the stars from her eyes. “All I have is our target at twelve o’clock low, fifteen klicks! Check your readouts — I feel a vibration on the right.”

“Do I still have a hot trigger?” Ignatyev asked.

“Stand by!” She had to strain to read the multifunction display. “Yes! R-73s are still armed, single shot. Your trigger is hot! Still locked on infrared, fifteen kilometers.”

Ignatyev’s thumb slid over to the missile launch button on his control stick. “Do svidaniya, Mother—”

The second flash of light was just as bright as the first, but instead of a hundred meters off to the right it erupted just centimeters in front of the Su-30’s left wing. Both crewmembers saw the light… but saw, heard, or felt nothing else. Their fighter was blown to pieces in a millisecond.

“I’d like to bring a dozen of those Coyotes with me on every mission,” Brad McLanahan said, bringing the throttles back and pushing the wing sweep handle forward to fifty-four degrees, the high-speed cruise setting. Seated beside him in the cockpit of their XF-111A SuperVark was Nadia Rozek, unrecognizable in her helmet and flight gear except for her voice, which was steady and sure even though they were flying at nine miles a minute just one hundred feet above the Russian countryside at night, with radars all around them and Russian fighters and missiles ready to blow them out of the sky. Brad glanced over at Nadia’s multifunction display and punched up a different screen.

“I am so sorry I am not more familiar with these controls,” Nadia said. “There was just no time to learn.”

“That’s okay, Nadia,” Brad said. “Your original job wasn’t to fly this mission. But I can use all the help you can give me. Besides, I’m pretty good at flying solo — I’ve got lots of simulator time pushing weapon buttons from the left seat.” He read the new information on the screen. “Six minutes to the first launch point. We’re prearmed and ready.” Their SuperVark was loaded with two AGM-154 Joint Standoff Weapons on external hardpoints on the wings, two AGM-88 High-Speed Anti-Radiation Missiles also on wing hardpoints, and four CBU-105 Sensor Fuzed Weapon munitions in the bomb bay.

A warning tone sounded. “Here we go,” Brad said. “S-300 site. Swap screens for me please.” Nadia hit a soft key, which transferred the weapon page from the right MFD to the left so Brad could see it. “Hit the top right button on your right screen to bring up the ECM status page… that’s it, and it shows SPEAR is active. But I have a HARM selected on the left screen, so SPEAR won’t try to take down that radar. Consent switches up… that’s it, you got it. Mine’s up, and I hit the release button. That starts the launch countdown… we’re climbing a bit to give the missile more room… five, four, three, two, one, watch for the flare… there she goes.” A streak of fire and a loud RROAR! erupted from the left wing, and an AGM-88 antiradiation missile shot off into the darkness. “Descending back to one hundred feet.”

“It is like a video game, is it not, Brad?” Nadia breathed.

“Except for the results,” Brad said. Moments later they saw a bright flash of light on the horizon, and a cloud of fire rolled into the sky. “Splash one CLAM SHELL. SPEAR is active again.” On the weapons page, he selected a Joint Standoff Weapon. “Now let’s see if we can take out the launchers. Coming up on the first location. On your right screen, hit the button for the radar… that’s it. Switch it over to the left.” Nadia did so. “The computer has selected the last known location of an S-300 site, but the things are mobile, so we won’t know if they’re really there unless we spot it on radar. Hit the top left…”

But Nadia had already selected the proper button. The snapshot image showed a finely detailed, almost photograph-quality image of the target area… and, almost right in the center of the screen, was a large eight-wheeled vehicle with two large vertical missile tubes on the back. Another unit could be seen just a few hundred feet away. “There they are!” Nadia exclaimed.

“But notice that the computer didn’t select either of them,” Brad said. “That means the radar is not picking up some characteristic it expects… which means it might be a decoy. Let’s search around a bit. Use your trackball on your right console and scroll around a little.” Even though it was not a live radar image, Nadia was able to move the image from side to side to search the area…

… and sure enough, they saw another pair of S-300 launchers about a mile farther to the north. “Are those real?”

“Hit the radar button again and let’s find out.” Nadia hit the button to take another radar snapshot, and this time the computer had put a yellow box around each launcher. “The computer thinks they’re good. Select that button there on your right screen to select a JSW… good, consent switches are up, just waiting for the in-range indicator… there it is, bye-bye.” Brad pressed the button on his panel, and an AGM-154 Joint Standoff Weapon dropped free from the right wing. Brad banked slightly left to stay away from the glide weapon.

“Did it hit it?” Nadia asked a few moments later. “I did not see an explosion.”

“The JSW carries bomblets, and they detonate close to the ground, so we probably won’t see a—”

Suddenly off to the left the ground erupted with bright flashes of light, and tracers arced all around them. “Shit! We flew right into triple-A!” Brad shouted. He threw the SuperVark into a hard right turn, but they heard and felt several hard impacts on the left wing and fuselage. They had been in the gun’s cross hairs for just a blink of an eye, but they had not come through unscathed. “Damn, that was close! Are you okay, Nadia?”

“Yes.” She hadn’t screamed or panicked, but there was definitely fear in her voice now.

Brad’s fingers flashed over the multifunction display’s soft keys, calling up status and warning pages. “Left engine looks okay… no, wait, hydraulic system is losing pressure, and we may have lost wing sweep and partially lost left flight controls. Can you call up the weapons page and check for warning messages?”

“Yes.” She called up the correct page with a shaky gloved finger.

Brad scanned the page while testing the flight controls and autopilot. “Looks like we lost an SFW,” he said. “We’d better jettison it.” He selected the damaged weapon and had Nadia hit the “JETT” soft key. They heard and felt the bomb-bay doors open and felt a slight shudder as the bomb left the bay… but the noise from the open bomb bay did not vanish as expected. “Crap, the bomb-bay doors won’t close,” Brad said after scanning his status and warning page. “Not enough hydraulic power.”

“What does that mean, Brad?”

“We’ll be even bigger on radar and it’ll be noisy,” Brad said. “It probably means we won’t get the landing gear fully down or be able to use flaps or slats, but that’s a problem we’ll deal with when we get home.” Unspoken was the thought: You mean if we get home.

Minutes later they were over the first Iskander missile launcher location. As before, they took radar snapshots of each launcher, verified that it was real and not a fake. Nadia selected a weapon. Using cues provided by the attack computer, Brad executed a “toss” maneuver, pulling the nose up and banking hard left at weapon release so the bomb was flung through the air in a high, arcing path.

This time, Nadia could see the results, and they were spectacular. The CBU-105 Sensor Fuzed Weapon released ten submunitions over the target area. Each submunition had infrared and radar seekers and four explosive disks. When the sensors detected a vehicle within range, it set off the disks, sending a shower of molten copper slugs down on the targets it found. The slugs could penetrate armor up to two inches thick — the Iskander missile launchers and their missiles were no match for them. Two Iskander launchers, their missiles, support vehicles, and their nearby reloads were hit and destroyed in a blinding red carpet of fiery chaos.

“Good show, old boy,” came a voice on the secure air-to-air channel.

“Where are you, Claw Two?” Brad responded.

“Just took out emplacement six,” Mark Darrow reported. He had come into Kaliningrad from the north through Lithuania. “One more to go. I see you just attacked number five. Are you that far behind?”

“I had to drive a little south so a Coyote could take out a fighter for me,” Brad said. “You’re the first Wolf I’ve heard from tonight.”

“I’m seeing a lot of targets taken out, so I think we’ve made quite a mess of Mr. Gryzlov’s party down there, but I’m afraid I haven’t heard from anyone else in several minutes on the channel,” Mark said. “I’m afraid the butcher’s bill is going to be rather high. Back to work. Good luck to you. See you back at the base.”

“Luck to you, Claw Two. Fang One out.”

The most difficult of Brad’s targets lay ahead. Intel had reported that this was a field of three Iskander launchers plus the central command and control trailer, guarded by layers of S-300 missiles, antiaircraft guns, and short-range antiaircraft missiles. Between flying around towns and vehicles and responding to system warning messages, Brad had a few minutes to tell Nadia how he expected the run to go and what she had to do. While he spoke, he noticed she didn’t move, just stared straight ahead, motionless. “Nadia?” he asked finally. “Are you okay?”

She was silent for a few moments; then she whispered, “I am so scared, Brad. I am afraid that I will do something wrong that will get us both killed. My own death I can face, but I do not want to be the one whose error kills you.”

“Nadia, you are the bravest woman I know,” Brad said. “We’ll get through this. I’ll talk you through it. You’ll do fine.” He took his right hand off the control stick and put it on her left hand. “You’ll do fine. We’ll—”

Suddenly the threat-warning system sounded: “Warning, India-band search radar, S-300, twelve o’clock, forty miles… warning, Echo-Foxtrot band acquisition radar, one o’cl… warning, India-Juliett band target-tracking radar, S-300, SPEAR active…”

“Here we go,” Brad said. He pushed up the throttles until they were at six hundred knots, flying one hundred feet above ground using the digital terrain-following system. He tried to pull the wings back to seventy-two degrees, but they wouldn’t move. No time to worry about that now. “Bring up the HARM first… next page… one button down… there you go, Nadia, don’t worry. Good. It’s selected. You got it. A couple more miles…”

Seconds later, through another series of threat warnings, a HARM antiradiation missile leaped off the right wing, and seconds later they saw another brilliant explosion, along with a marked reduction in the number of threat warnings. Just a few moments later, they launched the last remaining external Joint Standoff Weapon at the surface-to-air missile emplacements in their path to the last of the Iskander missiles they had been assigned.

Brad made sure the navigation computer had cycled first to the decoy ground track and then the last target area. “Last run and we head home,” he said. “We’ll attack three Iskander emplacements in a row with the SFWs. We have no more antiradar weapons, so we’ll have to rely on SPEAR, speed, and DTF to avoid any shots at us. After that, we make like a bat out of hell for the—”

“Warning, X-band radar, Su-30, three o’clock, range forty,” SPEAR announced. “Warning, target tracking detected, SPEAR engaged…”

Brad made a hard left turn and headed for the last target complex. “Call up the last bomb run, Nadia,” Brad said. “Next page… you got it.” He reached over and called up a page on Nadia’s left multifunction display. “Good, all remaining weapons are automatically selected for each target. All we have to do is—”

“Warning, missile launch detection!” SPEAR warned. “Maneuver right.” Brad waited a few heartbeats for SPEAR to eject chaff and flares from the left ejectors, then did a hard high-G right turn at ninety degrees of bank. They saw a tremendous explosion behind them through their cockpit canopy mirrors.

“Countermeasures right!” Brad ordered. SPEAR ejected chaff and flares from the right ejectors, and Brad did another break to the left to line up on the attack run. “Sixty seconds to first release,” he said. “Strap in tight, Nadia. Watch the left screen for any—”

At that instant a massive fireball exploded off the right wing — Brad didn’t know how close it came, but the SuperVark felt as if it had been shoved sideways and was ready to depart controlled flight and do a flat spin — not that he had any idea what a flat spin was — before he regained control. Warning lights illuminated throughout the cockpit. “Shit! Engine fire!” he shouted. The computers had already initiated engine shutdown, fuel shutoff, and activation of fire extinguishers, but Brad could still see the bright flicker of a fire out the right canopy when he looked past Nadia’s slumped head and…

“Nadia!” Brad shouted. She was unconscious. The canopy was cracked where her head hit. “Nadia! Can you hear me?” No answer.

Through all the warning lights and tones, SPEAR announced, “Warning, warning, X-band target-tracking radar, Su-30, locked on, six o’clock, ten miles and closing… warning, warning, X-band search radar, unidentified… warning, warning, X-band missile guidance, warning, warning…!”

Brad saw another huge flash of light in the cockpit mirrors, and he thought, Shit, here it comes. His right hand moved to the ejection handle while his eyes scanned for another fire warning… Should I pull it now or wait? If I wait, will the capsule survive…?

But no other warnings came, and the SuperVark flew on at low altitude, and the attack computers were counting down to the first release.

“American bomber, this is Vanagas Five-One, Lietuvos karinės oro pajėgos, air force of the Republic of Lithuania,” a voice on the air-to-air channel announced. “May I recommend that you climb to at least ten thousand feet to avoid the electro-optical guided antiaircraft artillery? You and your comrades seem to have all but eliminated all other radar-guided weapons in this area, so it is safe to climb. Your six is clear. I am at your eight o’clock position, moving forward.”

As he began a shallow climb, Brad looked to his left and saw a dark shape against the background of fires and lights below. Just then a tail recognition light snapped on, showing a blue shield and a white hawk emblazoned with a castle crest… on the tail of a Lithuanian Air Force F-16 Fighting Falcon! He was never so happy to see another aircraft than right now, and it wasn’t even American! “Thanks for the help, Five-One.”

“You are most welcome, sir,” the Lithuanian pilot said. “We could not allow you Americans to have all the fun. I can escort you to the Polish border, and then I must return to base.”

“Roger,” Brad said. “I’ll be releasing on my last series of targets in a few seconds.”

“Then I will hang back a bit and watch the fireworks,” the pilot said. “Sėkmės, geras medžioklė. Good luck, good hunting.”

“All communications to district command headquarters have been cut, sir,” Lieutenant Kararina Kirov reported. “We have also lost contact with all air defense batteries!”

Colonel Konrad Saratov could not believe what he was watching… or, rather, not watching. One minute he was preparing to wreak havoc on the Polish Army and Air Force, and the next he had… nothing. “What do I have contact with, Lieutenant?” he shouted.

“Iskander Flight Fox,” Kirov reported a few moments later. “Flight Jupiter reports that two of his launchers are out of commission and he has no contact with the others. No reports from any other flights.”

“None?” Saratov groaned. “Out of two dozen launchers, I have only three remaining?” Kirov wouldn’t dare answer — she had never seen that wild-eyed look in her commander’s face before. He pounded the console so hard that coffee cups overturned and pencils jumped. He was silent, leaning against the console, his head bowed…

… but he said in a low, almost inaudible voice, “Order Fox Flight to launch immediately.”

“Sir?”

“I said, launch immediately!” Saratov screamed. “Release all batteries and attack immediately! Then put out a call to the entire brigade in the clear to launch all active missiles!”

“But we do not have launch authorization from district headquarters, sir!”

“If we don’t get our missiles downrange immediately, we won’t have any missiles to get authorizations for!” Saratov exclaimed. “Order all available units to launch immediately!”

Brad’s attack from ten thousand feet was almost like being in the simulator again: quiet, no bouncing-around terrain following, smooth, almost relaxing. The first Sensor Fuzed Weapons left the SuperVark’s bomb bay as commanded; Brad could no longer feel the detonations at his altitude.

“Good impacts, good detonations, good secondaries,” he heard on the air-to-air channel.

It was not the Lithuanian pilot — he recognized the electronically synthesized voice right away. “Thanks, Dad,” Brad said.

“I’m picking up telemetry from your aircraft,” Patrick said. “I think you’ll make it back just fine. I see no other fire indications. I also see no other antiair threats. Congratulations. How’s Nadia?”

“Unconscious,” Brad said. “I can’t see how bad.”

“Bringing back a loved one from a bombing mission seems to be becoming a habit for you, son.”

“That’s one habit I’d rather not have,” Brad admitted.

“I’m thankful for it, son. Nadia will be, too.”

“How bad were our losses?”

“Pretty bad, but we did a hell of a job on the Russian rockets and air defenses,” Patrick said. “I’ll brief you back on the ground. You should be coming up on your second target now. I’m about ten miles south of—”

And at that instant, off on the dark horizon, Brad saw a large rocket streak away in a bright trail of fire. “Missile launch!” he shouted.

Patrick’s CID sensors detected the missile launch a millisecond before he heard Brad’s warning. “Missile attack!” he radioed back to the Iron Wolf command post. “Take cover now!” He raised his electromagnetic rail gun, followed the cueing signals, and waited for the gun to charge. The missile disappeared from sight, but not from his sensors. As soon as the gun was ready, he fired. The projectile sped off into the night sky, spltting the air with a loud supersonic CCRACKK…!

… but the Iskander had accelerated to well over five times the speed of sound, easily outrunning the electromagnetic projectile. It had taken too long to charge the weapon, and he had been taken completely by—

This time Patrick’s sensors detected a second missile launch, and he whirled north, acquired the rapidly accelerating missile immediately, and fired. The projectile penetrated the missile, ignited the solid fuel propellant, and exploded the Iskander missile in a massive orange and red fireball, growing to at least a half mile in diameter before disappearing into the night.

“Good shot, Dad,” Brad radioed. “I got the second launcher. Man, that was one hell of a fireball.”

“Thank you, son,” Patrick said. “I wasn’t able to track the first missile, but it’s initial flight path indicates it was headed for Powidz, not Warsaw. I hope the guys took shelter in…”

… and then he stopped, because his sensors had picked up another terrifying reading… “Base, Wolf One, I’m picking up low levels of strontinum and zirconium from that Iskander missile explosion. I think that missile had a nuclear warhead on it!”

“Shit!” Wayne Macomber swore. He was piloting the damaged Cybernetic Infantry Device, limping on patrol around the base until the entire area could be cleared by Polish Special Forces of any remnants of American troops. He instantly raised his already-charged electromagnetic rail gun and scanned the skies for the incoming missile. Behind him on the base, men and women were scrambling into basements and bomb shelters, wanting desperately to be anywhere but aboveground.

They were not going to make it in time.

“Whack…?” Patrick radioed.

“I’m on it, General,” Macomber said. “I’ve got nothing so far.”

“You’ll have less than a second when it appears.”

“I don’t need the coaching, General,” Macomber said. “What I need is a fistful of—”

The missile appeared on his sensors almost directly overhead at an altitude of thirty thousand feet, heading straight down at four thousand miles an hour. Macomber centered the missile in his sights and fired. The Russian missile exploded at twenty thousand feet in a spectacular globe of fire.

“Luck,” Macomber said, finishing his prayer.

“You lied to me, Barbeau!” Gennadiy Gryzlov ground out through gritted teeth. “You promised to eliminate Poland’s American mercenaries for me. And yet these same mercenaries have just killed hundreds of brave Russian soldiers and destroyed precious equipment!” He slammed a clenched fist down on his desk, rattling the video monitor carrying their secure link. “So why should I not order an immediate nuclear strike against your European bases — as revenge for this treacherous sneak attack?”

“My special operations troops were able to wreck Scion’s remote piloting center,” Barbeau snapped back. “The rest of their mission only failed because they ran into a complication nobody anticipated!”

“What complication?” Gryzlov demanded.

“Patrick McLanahan,” the American president said bitterly. “We all thought he was dead. Hell, we all hoped he was dead. But we were wrong. Somehow, that bastard is still alive. For Christ’s sake, who do you think just led that F-111 strike on your missiles?”

For a long, blinding, dizzying moment, Gryzlov saw nothing but red. A wave of pure rage roared through his mind, threatening to drown all rational thought and any semblance of physical control. Shaking wildly, he gripped the sides of the monitor, tempted to hurl it through the nearest window.

“Mr. President? Gennadiy?” a voice said urgently in his ear. “Gennadiy!”

Slowly, with enormous effort, Gryzlov regained some measure of command over himself. Blearily, he looked up into the worried face of Sergei Tarzarov. “Did you hear that?” he growled to his chief of staff. “McLanahan is alive. That murdering piece of shit is still alive!”

“Yes, Mr. President,” Tarzarov said. The older man leaned forward over Gryzlov’s shoulder. “A moment, please, President Barbeau. I must confer privately with my president. But I assure you that he will return shortly, to continue discussing this difficult and unfortunate matter.” Before the clearly shaken American political leader could interrupt, he pressed a control — putting the secure link to Washington on hold.

“Why should I say anything more to her?” Gryzlov snapped, gesturing at the static-laden screen. “We have been lied to and stabbed in the back at every turn. By the Poles. By that fat American whore Barbeau. But at least now we know the true author of this evil plot: McLanahan! We must destroy him and all those around him, no matter how much it costs!”

“Our defenses inflicted very heavy losses on those bombers,” Tarzarov reminded him. “The American may already be dead — and this time at our hands.”

Gryzlov scowled. “I doubt it. That would be too convenient. Too easy.” He shook his head. “No, Sergei! I feel it in my bones. McLanahan is still alive and flying back to Warsaw to boast to his new masters. So this war must go on until we’ve ground the Poles and McLanahan and his mercenaries into dust.”

“Go on? How can we continue this war, Gennadiy?” Tarzarov asked. “Our armies are stalemated, short on fuel and ammunition. Our air force has suffered serious losses. And now the Iskander missile units that were our last resort have been annihilated. This is the moment to salvage what gains we can before—”

“We have other armies, Sergei. And additional aircraft. And more missile brigades,” Gryzlov snapped. He shoved his chair back and stood up. “Get Khristenko, Sokolov, and the others in here! We can strip troops and tanks and bombers from the Far East to assemble an invasion force so powerful that not even McLanahan’s secret weapons can stop us!”

“You would weaken our defenses in the east, those facing the People’s Republic of China, to continue this war? That would be a catastrophic error, Mr. President,” Tarzarov said flatly. His eyes were cold. “And it would be a mistake you might not survive.”

Gryzlov froze. He glanced narrowly at the older man. “Are you threatening me, Sergei?”

“No, Gennadiy,” Tarzarov said in exasperation. “I’m trying to save you.” He sighed. “The Poles and their mercenaries are not the true authors of this war. They were tricked into it. Just as we were. We have all been manipulated — tugged about like puppets on a string.”

“What the devil are you talking about?” the Russian president demanded. “Manipulated? By who?”

“By the Chinese,” Tarzarov told him.

Gryzlov listened in silence and growing consternation while the older man quickly ran through the new intelligence he’d gained from secret sources of his own — intelligence that strongly implied that agents of China’s intelligence services were the ones who had been arming and equipping the terrorists, not the Poles. When Tarzarov was finished, he dropped back into his seat. “My God… that treacherous snake Zhou. I would not have thought him so… clever.”

“Zhou or some of those around him,” Tarzarov said evenly. “Which is why we must stop playing this destructive game Beijing set in motion — and instead turn it into one played for our own advantage.”

“Advantage? How?”

“Think of what you have already won, Gennadiy,” Tarzarov urged. “The eastern Ukraine is ours. Who will take it back from us? Kiev? Warsaw? The Americans?” He shook his head. “If we offer them peace now, on the basis of the status quo, they will trip over their own feet and tongues to agree.”

“True,” Gryzlov said slowly. Regaining permanent control over all of the Russian-speaking, heavily industrialized regions east of the Dnieper could certainly be presented as a great victory to the Russian public.

“But even that pales beside your greater victory,” Tarzarov told him. “A victory of more lasting significance.”

Gryzlov stared up at him, unable to hide his lack of understanding. “What greater victory?”

“You have broken NATO beyond repair,” the older man said simply. “After seeing Washington abandon Poland — not just abandon them, but attack them — in its hour of need, who will trust the Americans now? And as the alliance splinters, we need only sit back and gather up the pieces as they fall into our lap — into our sphere of influence. Think of it, Gennadiy, you have accomplished what generations of your predecessors have failed to achieve!”

For the first time, Gryzlov began to smile. What Tarzarov said was true. Stripped of any belief that the Americans would protect them, Europe’s smaller nations would gravitate — of necessity — into the orbit of the strongest remaining power, Russia.

But then his grin faded. “All of this is true, Sergei. But declaring an end to this war now would leave McLanahan alive. And that I will not accept!” He looked at Tarzarov. “This American is dangerous beyond belief. How many times has he robbed us of victories we believed were already ours? How many times has he bombed and killed and maimed our countrymen, with impunity?” He shook his head forcefully. “McLanahan must die.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” Tarzarov agreed coolly. “The American must be killed.” He smiled. “But not by us.”

Briefly perplexed, Gryzlov stared back at him. Then, as he understood what the older man intended, his cold blue eyes began to gleam. He swung back to the video monitor and reopened the connection. “President Barbeau, are you still there?”

Stacy Anne Barbeau’s drawn and nervous face looked back at him. “Yes, I am!” she said. “Mr. President, it’s crucial that we—”

“Be silent,” Grzylov snapped, hiding his own inner amusement. “You have claimed that your government only seeks peace. Very well, I believe you. But I tell you this plainly: if you would have peace, then you must buy it…”

Gritting his teeth, Brad held their badly wounded XF-111 SuperVark on course. The big fighter-bomber had so many holes in its wings and fuselage — and so much damage to its avionics and control surfaces — that his hands were kept busy on the stick and throttles. The XF-111 juddered and shook and rattled, constantly threatening to fall right out of the air. Jesus, he thought, the SuperVark’s flight controls were triple-redundant digital fly-by-wire. From the feel of things, this bird was down to about half redundancy and the “wires” must be frayed really thin…

With one engine dead and half their electronics out, it was a miracle they were still flying, he knew. It was way past time to set this sucker down. Sweat stung his eyes. Impatiently, he blinked it away. He looked over at Nadia. She still hadn’t moved.

“Claw Two to Fang One,” Mark Darrow radioed. He and Jack Hollenbeck were flying several kilometers ahead, nursing their own badly damaged XF-111 northward. “We’re coming up to rendezvous with you and lead you to base. How is she handling?”

“Getting worse,” Brad said. “I’ll be landing with wings swept to fifty-four, no flaps, no slats, no spoilers.”

“You’ll need a very long runway, no doubt.”

“I don’t think so: I’ll probably be landing with no landing gear.”

“Marvelous,” Darrow said in a reassuringly jovial voice. “How is Nadia?”

“Can’t tell,” Brad said. “She hasn’t moved.”

“She’ll be all right. She’s one tough lady.” There was a moment’s pause; then: “I’m picking up another plane north of you. It’s a friendly, not Russian. It might be Claw Four, or the Lithuanians. No radio or transponder, but he’s got his radar on. Got him?”

“My SPEAR gave up the ghost twenty minutes ago,” Brad replied. “I’m on essential bus only, and I might be on battery bus only in a few minutes.”

“We’ll have you on the ground in no time, One. Break. Southbound aircraft northeast of Barcin, this is Claw Two, come on up on tactical freq or on GUARD. Over.” No response. Darrow tried again — still no…

Just then Brad saw a streak of white light slash across the sky from the northeast. Oh God, that was a missile…

A huge flash lit the darkness ahead of them. Darrow’s XF-111 blew up in an enormous cloud of fire. There was a tremendous fireball and shock wave that seemed to engulf Brad’s SuperVark, but it lasted only a second, and then the darkness closed in again.

Brad swore under his breath, desperately wrestling his damaged XF-111 into a tight, rolling evasive right turn. “Unknown aircraft, this is McLanahan!” he yelled into his mike. “Break off your attack! We’re friendlies! Repeat, friendlies!” But just then, another bright burst of light and streak of white fire arrowed straight toward them, growing bigger with every second.

Game over, Brad thought. He calmly took his hand off the throttles and control stick, straightened his back, pressed his head back against the headrest, grabbed the yellow-and-black-striped handle by his right knee, squeezed, and pulled.

WHAAAM!

An explosive cutting cord around the XF-111’s cockpit ejection capsule detonated, separating it from the rest of the aircraft, and then a powerful rocket motor at the capsule’s base ignited, hurling it skyward. At that same instant, a missile slammed into the SuperVark and went off, sending the bomber spiraling out of control. Fragments smacked into the capsule with tremendous force, tearing holes into the partially deployed capsule parachute.

Brad was stunned, but awake enough to realize that the capsule seemed to be falling at a very high rate of speed. He couldn’t see the parachute. The cockpit was filled with smoke, his back and neck were aching from the ejection, and he couldn’t feel his legs. But he had enough consciousness to reach over and take Nadia’s gloved hand…

… just before the capsule slammed into the earth at high speed and began to tumble, and then everything went black…

Wearily, Brad drifted along a darkened coast, letting the current take him where it would. Swimming seemed like too much work, especially with his arms and legs tangled so tightly in floating coils of seaweed. Better to lie back in the water’s warm embrace and rest, he thought. Struggling against his bonds would be too much work.

A light blinked suddenly on the horizon. And again.

Almost against his will, Brad turned his head toward the flashing light. Must be a lighthouse, he decided drowsily — a beacon perched high on the cliffs to warn off passing ships.

But, damn, that light was bright. So bright that it was almost blinding.

Brad blinked away tears against the dazzling, painful glare. And then he realized that he was looking up into the beam of a small penlight. It clicked off, revealing a stranger’s face peering down at him. A doctor, by his white coat.

“He is conscious, Mr. President,” the doctor said in accented English. “And there are no immediate signs of neurological trauma.”

Slowly, Brad became aware that he was sitting propped up in a hospital bed. Bandages swathed his head and chest and his left arm and both legs seemed to be stuck in casts. The memory of those terrifying last seconds before their XF-111 ejection capsule slammed into the ground rushed back at him. “I’m alive?” he croaked.

The doctor raised a bushy eyebrow in wry amusement. “Yes, Mr. McLanahan, you are. And lucky to be so.” He shook his head. “Remarkably, however, your injuries, though serious enough, are not life-threatening.”

Alive, Brad thought; now, there was a surprise. Then panic seized him. “Nadia? What about Nadia?” he demanded. “Is she…” he swallowed painfully, unable to go on.

“I am right over here, Brad,” he heard her say.

Wincing against the pain involved in moving, he turned his head. Nadia Rozek smiled back at him from a chair by his bedside. A pair of crutches were propped up beside her, gauze bandages covered the right side of her cheek and head, and she had a massive black eye. But she appeared otherwise unhurt. He sighed in relief. “Did you know that you look beautiful even all banged up?”

She laughed. “Flattery will get you everywhere.” Then she inclined her head toward the door. “But at the moment, we have distinguished visitors.”

Reluctantly, Brad looked away from her lovely face. Both Piotr Wilk and Kevin Martindale stood there, watching him with thoughtful expressions. “I’m sorry about the rest of the squadron,” he said slowly. “We knew it would be bad… but I really didn’t think we’d lose every plane.”

“That will be all for now, Doctor,” Wilk told the Polish physician quietly. The white-coated doctor nodded and left the room, closing the door behind him.

“Did anyone else make it out alive?” Brad asked, feeling a tightness in his chest.

“We don’t know yet,” Martindale admitted. “Macomber, Schofield, and their teams are out in the field now, looking for other survivors.” His shoulders slumped a bit. “Without any luck, so far.”

Brad closed his eyes briefly, fighting off a wave of sorrow and regret and guilt. Memories of smiling faces flashed though his mind — Mark Darrow, Jack Hollenbeck, Bill Sievert, Smooth Herres, Karen Tanabe, and all the others. How could he have lost them all? “Christ, I got everyone killed,” he muttered.

“On the contrary, Brad,” Piotr Wilk said gravely, coming forward to stand by Nadia’s chair. “If there are other survivors, we will find them — no matter where they are. But the courage and self-sacrifice of all of those who died will be honored forever.” His expression was serious. “Your mission was successful. Your Iron Wolves destroyed the Russian missile force before it could launch.”

“Then we have won,” Nadia said softly.

Martindale nodded. “To a degree. The Russians have offered a cease-fire and we’ve accepted it. Their armies are pulling back.” He smiled thinly. “Leaving an embarrassing trail of broken-down and out-of-gas tanks and other vehicles in their wake, I might add.”

“Gryzlov is backing down?” Brad asked, surprised. Based on painful personal experience, he wouldn’t have expected Russian’s egomaniacal leader to accept defeat so easily.

“Not quite. Friend Gennadiy is proclaiming victory,” Martindale said drily. “Moscow has started signaling that its so-called Zone of Protection over eastern Ukraine is likely to become permanent.”

Wilk nodded. “Eastern Ukraine is the bone Grzylov will throw his people, hoping to distract them from their other military defeats.”

“Unfortunately, that’s not the only success he can claim,” Martindale went on relentlessly. “There’s also the win that Stacy Anne Barbeau just handed him on a silver platter.” He shook his head in disbelief. “In just a few weeks, she’s managed to do what the Russians have been trying and failing to do for more than sixty years: she’s destroyed the NATO alliance.”

“Oh, crap,” Brad murmured. “She has, hasn’t she?”

“I am afraid so,” Piotr Wilk said. “President Barbeau’s cowardly refusal to help us in the face of Russian aggression was damning enough. Deciding to actually side with Moscow — by attacking our base at Powidz and then ordering her F-35s to shoot down your surviving aircraft?” he frowned. “That is treachery beyond my ability to forgive.”

“No other nation in Central or Eastern Europe will be able to trust the United States now,” Martindale agreed. “Not with Barbeau in the White House. And without the United States as its linchpin, NATO is effectively dead.”

“Then how will we defend ourselves in the future?” Nadia asked. Her voice was troubled. “We stopped the Russians this time. But like all barbarians, they will be back.”

Wilk nodded. “It may be time to try reviving the old dream of Międzymorze, the Intermarium.” He saw the puzzled looks on their faces and explained. “From the end of World War One to his death, Józef Piłsudski, the founder of modern Poland, tried to form an alliance of all the newly free nations from the Baltic Sea to the Black Sea. He failed then. But perhaps the time is riper now. Together with forces like your Iron Wolves and Scion’s technological wizardry, such a coalition might give us all a fighting chance to survive Russia’s continued menace — at least until the United States awakens from its torpor and folly.”

Martindale, Brad, and Nadia all nodded.

“It’s worth trying,” Martindale said. A wry grin crossed his face. “If nothing else, it’ll give Brad and me and the others meaningful work during our exile.”

“Our what, sir?” Brad asked carefully.

“We seem to have seriously pissed off Madam President Barbeau,” Martindale said cheerfully. “She’s labeled you and me… and everyone who works for Scion or who joined the Iron Wolf Squadron… as fugitives from justice. Last I heard, she was on the warpath up on Capitol Hill pushing legislation to strip us of our American citizenship. And failing that, she’s demanding that President Wilk extradite us immediately for criminal trial back in the States.”

Brad took that in silence. Then he asked. “What about my father?”

“Barbeau thinks Patrick McLanahan is dead, for real this time,” Martindale said. “She’s sure he was flying one of the XF-111s she ordered shot down.” He shrugged. “For obvious reasons, we’re allowing her, and Gennadiy Gryzlov, of course, to go on believing that.”

Brad nodded. In a sad way, his father was safer and freer “dead” than he was alive.

“Naturally, I have refused President Barbeau’s ridiculous demands,” Wilk assured him. “In fact, I am offering all of those who fought so valiantly Polish citizenship. If they wish it.”

Feeling suddenly dazed by all of this, Brad leaned back in bed. Barbeau wanted to put them all in prison? And strip them of their citizenship? He shook his head in dismay. He’d been proud to be an American all of his life. If he lost the right to call himself that, what would he do then? Could he really become a citizen of Poland and be happy?

Nadia must have seen his confusion and concern because she leaned forward and took his hand. “Don’t worry, Brad,” she told him gravely, but with the hint of a smile in her eyes. “A mere scrap of paper does not determine who is a real American. That is a question of courage and determination and optimism. Those are what truly matter. And those qualities you have in abundance. You will always be a true American.” She kissed his hand gently and then looked deep into his wondering eyes. “My American.”