Price of Duty

TWENTY-FIVE

Supported by Nadia Rozek’s strong right arm, Brad McLanahan limped out of the large passenger elevator. The doors slid shut behind them. His nose wrinkled at the faint antiseptic smells wafting out of the ventilation system and from behind closed doors. Hospitals made him twitchy. He always associated them with bad news, especially news involving the deaths of friends and loved ones.

A squad of Polish Special Forces soldiers in body armor guarded the corridor leading to President Wilk’s private room. A stern-faced captain stepped in front of them. “Your identification cards, please,” he demanded.

Silently, Nadia and Brad handed their IDs to him. The captain scrutinized them carefully, painstakingly double-checking their faces against their official pictures. Then he handed the cards back and examined a typed list given to him by an equally grim-looking noncom. “Headquarters has approved your visit, Major Rozek and Captain McLanahan,” he said, sounding somewhat disappointed.

“I am glad to hear it, Captain,” Nadia said coldly. “Since I happen to know the president himself asked us here this morning. And the last time I looked, he outranked even Brigadier General Pawlik.”

Brad winced. Baiting pissed-off guys armed to the teeth with American-made M4A1 assault rifles and German-manufactured MP5 submachine guns might not be the best option right now. The near success of Gryzlov’s assassination attempt had humiliated the men and women of Poland’s elite armed forces units and law enforcement agencies. And like most security professionals caught with egg dripping off their faces, they were reacting both with hyperaggressiveness and a strict attention to protocol.

Fortunately, the other man ignored her sarcasm. Instead he handed them each a large yellow badge marked visitor. “Wear these at all times while you are in this wing of the hospital,” he warned. “My troops are under strict orders in this regard.”

“They’ll arrest anyone without a badge?” Brad guessed.

“Arrest? No,” the Special Forces officer said. His eyes were cold. “Anyone found without the proper clearance will be shot without further warning.”

Brad whistled silently. The Poles were taking the definition of tight security to a whole new level. He carefully clipped the visitor badge to his Iron Wolf uniform jacket.

When they pushed open the door into Wilk’s room, they found the Polish president propped up comfortably in a hospital bed, reading through memos and e-mails on his laptop. Kevin Martindale stood nearby, doing the same on his smartphone.

Wilk looked up with a tired smile. “There you two are!” He waved a hand around the hospital room. “Welcome to my prison cell.”

“It is for your own good, sir,” Nadia said severely. “Your injuries may not be life-threatening. But that does not mean it is wise to bound around as though nothing had happened.”

The Polish president started to shrug and then stopped with a stifled gasp. His smile turned crooked. “So it seems, Major Rozek,” he admitted. “But it could have been much worse. If poor Dariusz hadn’t stepped in front of the bullet meant for me, the doctors tell me I would probably be dead.”

Brad and the others nodded. Penetrating Major Stepniak’s armor and body had slowed the sniper round just enough for Wilk’s own vest to absorb the impact — though at the cost of several broken ribs.

“Which is why we need to talk,” Martindale said. He slid his phone away. “Gryzlov just upped the ante big-time. If it hadn’t been for Whack Macomber and Major Rozek and Brad over there, we’d all be dead, not just you, Piotr.”

Wilk nodded. “Undoubtedly. Which is why I plan to award our three friends the Order of the Military Cross.”

Brad was startled. The Military Cross was one of Poland’s highest military decorations, usually conferred only for distinguished service, courage, and sacrifice in actions against terrorism. Earning that kind of medal had been the subject of a lot of his childhood daydreams. Having a father who had been one of the U.S. Air Force’s most highly decorated officers could do that to you, he thought wryly. For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine what it would be like wearing that crown-surmounted cross with its blue-and-red ribbon. And how proud it would have made his dad. But then he shook his head, dismissing the fantasy.

“Whack and Nadia definitely deserve any medal you choose to award, Mr. President,” he said quietly. “But I think you should leave me out of it.”

Surprised, Nadia turned toward him. “What? How can you say that, Brad? Your courage is beyond question!”

“It’s not that,” Brad told her. “Well, not entirely, anyway.” He shrugged his shoulders. And then, like Wilk earlier, he grimaced as the pain from his injuries flared up.

The other man noticed. “You too?” he asked.

Brad offered him a forced grin. “I’m only bruised as hell, sir. Nothing’s broken. I’m popping painkillers every few hours, but otherwise I’m fine.” He knew the dark patches under his eyes and the sadness he couldn’t entirely conceal said otherwise, but Wilk seemed willing to let it go at that.

Instead, the Polish president contented himself with nodding toward a chair. “Nevertheless, I suggest you take a seat, Captain McLanahan. Before you collapse, I mean,” he said. “And then you can explain why I should not reward your gallant service to my country.”

Nadia pulled the chair over closer and helped Brad sit down. He flushed slightly, embarrassed at showing so much weakness. “It’s not that I don’t care about the medal, Mr. President,” he said. “I do. In fact, I’m deeply honored by the offer.”

“But?” Wilk prompted gently.

“Publicly awarding the Military Cross to a McLanahan would cause a firestorm in Russia,” he explained. “We already know Gryzlov’s got a bug up his ass about my dad… well, about my whole family, really. I think things are bad enough right now without setting off his crazy revenge complex all over again.”

Martindale sighed. “God knows, that’s true enough.”

Wilk shook his head. “Nevertheless, I am disinclined to offer a heckler’s veto to the bloodthirsty butcher who has murdered so many innocents and caused my country so much grief.” He held up a hand, forestalling further argument. “We can discuss that later. For now, we need to decide how we will respond to this most recent Russian atrocity.”

“We must strike back, sir,” Nadia said sharply. Her tone was fierce. “And the sooner the better.”

Brad nodded his agreement. “Turtling up isn’t working. Not when Gryzlov keeps escalating. If we sit around waiting for his next move, we’re only going to wind up hurting worse than we are now.” He tried to sit up straighter, working hard to ignore the stab of pain triggered by the sudden movement. “Stuff my dad proposed — like hitting the Kremlin with a CID-led strike force — is way too risky and extreme, but he was right that we’ve got to bloody Gryzlov’s nose. It’s the only way we’re going to make that Russian bastard think twice about pushing this war to the next level.”

“I concur,” Martindale chimed in. “Which leaves the problem of picking the right target. Blowing the snot out of some random Russian military base with a CID raid might be satisfying, but it won’t move the needle much.”

“Or at all,” Brad said quietly. “I bet Gryzlov sees even his own troops and weapons as just pieces on a chessboard. To his way of thinking, he can trade pawn for pawn all day long without breaking a sweat. Or better yet sacrifice a pawn or two for a shot at our king,” he said, looking at Wilk. “Like he did a couple of days ago. Those Spetsnaz guys had an escape plan, but I doubt Gryzlov shed any real tears after we killed them.”

Wilk nodded, looking troubled.

“Plus, a limited attack on an easy target might only give the Russians the excuse they want to escalate beyond cyber attacks and terrorism into all-out war,” Martindale said grimly. “A war we are not ready for and cannot win.”

“Pinprick raids won’t do the job,” Brad added. “If we go into Russia, we have to hit something that’s key to Gryzlov’s plans or power base. The only way we might be able to make him back off is to smash an installation or a military capability that’s seriously important to him. And to the Kremlin insiders who keep him in power.”

Wilk nodded again. “Very true.” He rubbed at his jaw in thought. “I know you have all heard the recording of the most recent meeting between those two snakes in human form, Igor Truznyev and Sergei Tarzarov. Unwittingly, their argument provides us with the information we need to select a target.” He looked around the room. “I propose we strike at this mysterious cyberwar installation the Russians call Perun’s Aerie. As the place where Gryzlov has concealed his computer hackers and their equipment, it is our logical point of attack.”

The Polish president went on, ticking off his points one by one. “Wrecking this Russian cyberwar facility will accomplish three objectives. First, it will diminish Gryzlov’s ability to wage his war of machines and malicious code. Second, it will show him that we can find anything he hides. And third, it will prove there is nothing he defends that we cannot destroy.”

“Well, yeah, that’s all true,” Brad said. He frowned. “But there’s one big problem left: actually zeroing in on the damned place. With all due respect to Mr. Martindale’s agents in Moscow, nothing they overheard was very specific. Learning that this Perun’s Aerie complex is buried inside a mountain is just fine and dandy. Trouble is, there are one hell of a lot of mountains in Russia.”

“So we go to Truznyev,” Martindale interjected quietly. “It’s obvious that he’s got a pretty good line on the location of that base.”

Caught off guard, Brad, Nadia, and Wilk stared at him in surprise.

Nadia broke the silence first. “Go to Truznyev? How exactly? Do you propose that we simply ask him politely?” she snapped. “Or try to bribe him?”

“Not quite, Major Rozek,” Martindale said with an impish smile. “Actually, I have something a little more devious in mind.”

“Devious how?” Brad wondered.

“Getting Truznyev to spill what he knows won’t be especially easy. Or very safe,” Martindale admitted. “But while there are risks, I think it’s our best shot at obtaining the information we need to formulate a solid attack plan. Here’s what I propose…”

When Scion’s gray-haired chief finished sketching out his concept, the rest of them sat speechless for what seemed an eternity. Then, very slowly, Nadia smiled. Uh-oh, Brad thought. He knew that pleased and predatory look. In training, it usually meant someone else was about to get the crap beaten out of them — either physically or mentally. In combat, it meant a bad guy was going down hard and usually fatally.

“Your scheme is całkowicie niepoczytalny,” she told Martindale. “It’s totally insane.”

“Which means you approve,” Martindale guessed.

“Oh yes,” Nadia confirmed. “I love it.”

He grinned and turned to Brad and Wilk. “What about you two?”

“If Major Rozek is in favor, how can I be opposed?” Wilk replied with a wry smile. “After all, her tactical sense and daring just saved my life. If she sees promise in this crazy plan of yours, I’m willing to accept her judgment.”

Brad nodded. “Count me in.”

“Good,” Martindale said in satisfaction. He turned back to Nadia. “Can your Special Forces units provide the more, ah, ‘volatile’ gear my people will need?”

“We should be able to,” Nadia said, pondering the question. Then she shrugged. “But if not, I’m quite sure Major Macomber and Captain Schofield can pull a few pieces of Iron Wolf equipment out of their sleeves that should do the trick.”

Once their meeting with Wilk and Martindale broke up, Brad and Nadia rode the elevator back downstairs. Neither felt much like speaking. The planning session had been a welcome distraction. But now it was time to face a much sadder duty.

Still wrapped in silence, they got off on the floor occupied by the hospital’s intensive care unit. There were no guards on this dimly lit floor, only somber doctors and nurses who moved quietly about their rounds — working diligently to save those who might be healed and providing palliative care to those who were dying.

They joined Whack Macomber in an almost deserted hallway near the rear of the ICU. The big man stood at a bank of windows, looking in on a small private room.

Patrick McLanahan lay motionless in a hospital bed, hooked up to a bewildering number of IV drips, monitors, and other machines. His eyes were closed. A ventilator whirred rhythmically, steadily pumping air into lungs that no longer functioned on their own.

Brad swallowed hard. The lump in his throat felt baseball size. He hadn’t seen his father in the flesh for more than two years. That was something he’d yearned for, even dreamed about. But not like this. Not seeing the man who had always been so alive, always so physically and mentally intense, reduced to this skeletal, silent, unmoving husk.

“It’s a hell of thing,” Macomber said. His voice rasped. “Your dad was always such a tough, contrary son of a bitch, I thought for sure he’d go out riding some crippled bomber down in flames, fighting to regain control right up to the last damned second.”

“Me too,” Brad agreed sadly. He felt tears welling up and tried not to let them come. He felt Nadia’s arm slide around his waist. “How long has he got?”

Macomber shook his head. “The doctors won’t make any predictions. Not explicitly, anyway.” He leaned forward, pressing his big hands up against the windows. “But your dad’s in a coma now. They say his body is just slowly shutting down — one system at a time. Without support from the fricking robot, nothing works on its own.”

“God,” Brad whispered.

“Yeah,” Macomber said grimly. “So who knows? Two days? Three? No more than four at the outside.”