Price of Duty

FOUR

Flanked by two AH-1Z Viper gunships, a Polish-made W-3 Sokół VIP helicopter came in low over the snow-dusted woods surrounding the base at Powidz. Rotors beating, it flared in for a landing right outside a large hangar. Even before its engines finished spooling down, the left-hand copilot’s door slid back and Polish president Piotr Wilk dropped lightly onto the tarmac.

Moving fast, he crossed to the Iron Wolf hangar and headed straight for the conference room at its far end. Middling tall, trim, and not yet fifty, Wilk still carried himself like the veteran fighter pilot and charismatic air-force commander he had been before entering politics. There were many moments when he regretted leaving the military life he’d loved — of no longer being allowed to scramble into a MiG-29 Fulcrum or an F-16 Fighting Falcon and go head-to-head against his country’s enemies. But those were also the moments when he reminded himself that true service to Poland and the cause of freedom required sacrifice.

In his case, that meant choosing the darker fields of statecraft, strategy, and diplomacy over the swift, exhilarating dance of air-to-air combat. And like so many Polish leaders before him, he faced the unenviable challenge of confronting Russia and its seemingly limitless imperial ambitions. Of defying an ancient enemy whose military and economic strength dwarfed that of his beleaguered nation.

But this time, Wilk reminded himself, Poland had allies. Not many, perhaps. Certainly not as the world conventionally reckoned numbers. But these were friends beyond price — friends who had already shown themselves willing to fight and die for a cause they considered just.

And these new allies had powers of their own, technologies, tactics, and weapons far beyond those used by other armed forces.

Kevin Martindale stepped forward, greeting him with a firm handshake. Once president of the United States, the gray-haired, gray-bearded American now ran Scion, a private military corporation. Last year, Scion’s specialist commandos, pilots, and intelligence operatives served as the cadre for a new unit, the Iron Wolf Squadron. Using every advantage conferred by their high-tech aircraft, drones, and CID fighting machines, the squadron had helped Poland’s outmatched soldiers fight Russia to a draw — though only by the narrowest of margins and at a high cost in dead and wounded.

Wilk also knew that many of those who survived were paying yet another price for aiding Poland. Caught backstabbing her own NATO ally because she was afraid of the Russians, America’s president, Stacy Anne Barbeau, had retaliated by seeking federal indictments against anyone who worked for Scion or who had fought in the Iron Wolf Squadron. She accused them of undermining U.S. national security interests and violating laws that prohibited enlisting in a foreign army. Legally, her claims were on shaky ground. In practical terms, however, Martindale and many of his fellow countrymen were effectively exiled from their own native land.

He could only imagine the pain that must bring.

“It’s good to see you again, Piotr,” Martindale said quietly. “I wish it were in better circumstances.”

Wilk nodded. “As do I.”

With the NATO alliance fractured beyond repair, thanks to Barbeau’s malice and folly, he and Martindale had been working for months to build a coalition of the smaller countries from the Baltic to the Black Sea. So far, their efforts had met with more success than they had first dared to hope.

Their new Alliance of Free Nations, the AFN, now included Poland, all three of the small Baltic states, Slovakia, Hungary, Romania, and even tiny Moldova. And the Czech Republic, though still formally outside the treaty, had expressed serious interest in joining its Eastern and central European neighbors. Even the Finns, although reluctant to openly risk angering the Russian bear prowling around their doorstep, were secretly willing to coordinate defense planning and other operations.

Backed by the hard-earned reputation of its Iron Wolf “auxiliaries,” Poland was still the chief military power in this fledging defense pact. Nevertheless, the Scion weapons and advisers doled out to other frontline states had measurably improved their fighting forces. Compared to the Russians, the AFN nations were still horribly outgunned — in population, economic clout, raw troop strength, and access to high-tech military hardware. But now at least they had enough power and political coherence to deter anything but an all-out Russian offensive.

Or so Wilk and his fellow national leaders had hoped. “Nie chwal przed zachodem,” he muttered. “Don’t praise the day until sunset.”

Martindale grimaced. “Too true.”

Over the older American’s shoulder, Wilk saw a lean young woman in the dress uniform of a major in the Polish Special Forces coming in on the arm of a tall, broad-shouldered blond-haired man wearing the Iron Wolf Squadron’s dark, rifle-green jacket. They looked intensely happy, though somewhat tired.

A fleeting smile crossed the Polish president’s face. “Major Rozek and Captain McLanahan!” he said, moving toward them. “I am very sorry I had to cut your leave short.” His eyes twinkled. “But brief though it was, I hope you found your time together… restful?”

To his inner delight, both Nadia Rozek and Brad McLanahan actually blushed. After the brash young American nearly got himself killed at Cernavodă, Nadia had practically threatened mutiny unless Wilk allowed her to rush to his side. Supposedly, they’d gone skiing at one of the resorts in the High Tatras. Privately, he had his doubts they had ever made it farther than a hotel room bed, let alone strapped on any skis.

They saluted.

“Uh, yes, sir,” Brad stammered out. “We had a great trip. It was… er… very relaxing.”

Hiding a grin, Wilk returned their salutes. The younger McLanahan really was a terrible liar. Major Rozek was wiser. She said nothing, though a scarcely veiled warning in her blue-gray eyes suggested to Wilk that he might be skating on very thin ice, president of the Third Polish Republic or not.

He found Martindale at his elbow. “We’re all here, Piotr,” the other man said, guiding him toward a chair at a large oval table.

Wilk turned and saw that Wayne Macomber had come in behind him, accompanied by the huge Cybernetic Infantry Device piloted by Patrick McLanahan. Never one for formalities, Macomber sketched a salute and moved to his own chair. Without speaking, the robot simply stalked over to the other side of the room and silently swiveled to face the table.

That bothered him. The older McLanahan had withdrawn more and more from routine human contact over the last few months, seemingly content to communicate more by e-mail or text — and then only about questions of military strategy or weapons technology. He hoped that was simply an effect of the enormous pressure they were all under in trying to get the Alliance of Free Nations up and running before it was too late. If the other man’s increasingly distant behavior was a symptom of something more serious—

With an effort, Wilk pushed his worries about Patrick McLanahan to the side. While the English poet John Donne had rightly proclaimed that no man was an island, the former U.S. Air Force general was still just one man among millions. And at this moment, they faced bigger and more immediate problems.

He nodded almost imperceptibly to Martindale, signaling him to begin.

“Before we move to a detailed discussion of the current crisis, I think it’s best to lay out the bigger picture,” the head of Scion said smoothly. “While President Barbeau remains unalterably opposed to our new alliance, there have been signs that other—”

“With all due respect, sir,” Whack Macomber said, leaning forward with a shit-eating grin. “Maybe you should save the canned spiel for the politicians back in Warsaw and just tell us flat out how badly we’re screwed.”

Martindale closed his eyes in exasperation. “Are you trying to piss me off, Major?”

“Trying?” Macomber said innocently. “No, sir.” He winked at Brad, who was clearly fighting a losing battle with a grin of his own. “I just thought we could save some time is all. Since we’re all clearly doomed, that is.”

Wilk couldn’t help it. He laughed out loud. Even now, even after more than a year in their company, it still astonished him to realize how impudent some of these Americans could be in the face of power. It was both alarming and refreshing, the characteristic of a people who could just be foolish enough to tease God, but who might also be bold enough to kick the Devil in the balls.

“Fine,” Martindale said wryly. “I’ll be brief.” He thought for a moment and then went on. “Okay, we all know that Stacy Anne Barbeau hates our guts.”

“Especially yours,” Macomber pointed out.

“Especially mine,” Martindale agreed. “Even when I was president of the United States, we never saw eye to eye on the big national-security-policy debates. Or even on the little ones, for that matter. But right now she thinks I’m out here raising hell with the Russians for two reasons. First, so I can line my own pockets with profits from Scion military contracts. And second, to screw her politically by causing trouble overseas, when she wants to focus on her own domestic agenda.”

“Which says much more about her own sordid inclinations than it does about you,” Wilk said.

“Sure.” Martindale shrugged. “But in this case, what matters are her actions, not her motivations.” He frowned. “Basically, as far as Barbeau is concerned, the Alliance of Free Nations is, and I quote, ‘a reckless bunch of third-rate countries with delusions of grandeur.’”

“Remind me to not to send flowers for her birthday this year,” Wilk murmured dryly to Nadia Rozek.

“The good news is that Congress is still bucking her demands for broader economic and trade sanctions on the AFN and Poland,” Martindale said. “A few congressmen think she was right to let NATO break up rather than get dragged into a war with Russia. Most believe that was an act of diplomatic cowardice and strategic idiocy. But all of them are furious that she crossed the line and actually helped the Russians against us at the end — especially without even consulting the congressional leadership.”

“And the bad news?” Wilk prompted.

“She’s tightening her executive orders to restrict trade with Poland and the other AFN countries. We’ll challenge those in federal court, but it’ll take months even to get a case heard… and presidents have a lot of wiggle room when it comes to restricting the sale of arms on national security grounds. For all practical purposes, it’s now impossible for us to buy U.S.-manufactured military-grade equipment or technology, especially from Scion-affiliated companies like Sky Masters. At least directly and legally.”

“What about indirectly?” Wilk asked.

“We have a few routes still open to us,” Martindale said. “Some of the countries still in NATO aren’t tagging along with Barbeau’s trade restrictions. My sources in Paris, Rome, and London all tell me their arms industries will keep selling weapons and ammunition to the AFN — so long as our purchases are ‘reasonably discreet.’”

“The Brits, French, and Italians make some decent gear,” Macomber said. Then he shook his head. “But even their top-of-the-line equipment isn’t up to par with what we were getting from Sky Masters. That ain’t going to cut it.”

Wilk knew the American Iron Wolf ground commander was right. Confronted by superior Russian numbers, Poland and its allies needed every technological edge they could muster if they were to survive another conflict.

Martindale nodded. “Indeed.” He shot them a look. “On the other hand, we can use those friendly states as conduits to smuggle in material from Sky Masters and other suppliers in the States.”

“At a higher price,” Wilk said sourly. “Both in money and time.”

“Necessity is a harsh and expensive mistress,” Martindale agreed.

“Well, we shall do what we must,” Wilk said. He shook his head. “My cabinet ministers and parliament will not be happy to see even more money funneled into defense at the expense of other priorities, but they know the stakes.”

Brad sat forward. “What about the other allies? Can any of them chip in more money or credits?”

“I doubt it,” Martindale said. “Hungary, the Baltics, and the rest are pretty strapped for cash. As it is, the rearmament programs they’ve agreed to at our urging are already straining their economies. If we’re very lucky, they may be able to honor their existing commitments. Asking them to pony up more resources isn’t in the cards.”

“Unfortunately, I am afraid that we are already unlucky,” Wilk said flatly. “I spoke to Romania’s president Dumitru this morning. He informed me, with deep regret, that his country can no longer afford to meet even its current alliance defense obligations.”

“Because of what happened at Cernavodă?” Brad asked, frowning.

Wilk nodded gloomily. “The Unit Two reactor there cannot be salvaged. It will take months of emergency cooling and containment before the Romanians can even begin to dismantle it — all at an enormous cost. Dumitru tells me the first estimates are in the billions of dollars.” He spread his hands. “His government also feels compelled by pressure from its own people and from the rest of Europe to shut down the other Cernavodă reactor.”

“How the hell are the Romanians going to replace twenty percent of their electrical generating capacity?” Macomber asked.

“They can’t,” Martindale cut in coolly. “Not on their own. They don’t have enough spare oil- or coal-fired plants or hydroelectric dams to make up the loss. Which means the Romanian economy is going to take a huge hit — with factories shuttered due to loss of power, and rolling blackouts in the towns and cities.”

“Just as we head into winter,” Macomber growled. “That’s not going to be fucking pretty.”

“No, it will not,” Wilk said quietly. “With the cold and darkness of winter looming, President Dumitru is gravely concerned that his government could be toppled by a wave of massive public unrest.”

“With the Russians waiting hungrily in the wings,” Brad said.

“True,” Wilk said. “And naturally our friends in Moscow are doing their best to make things even more difficult for Dumitru. This morning they presented him with a virtual ultimatum. The Russians are threatening to cut off all natural-gas exports to Romania unless he accepts price increases far beyond Bucharest’s ability to pay.”

Martindale’s expression darkened. “So there’s the iron fist without the velvet glove,” he said caustically. “I assume there’s more.”

Wilk nodded. “Dumitru was also handed a personal communication from Gennadiy Gryzlov promising to provide the energy supplies Romania needs, but only if he abandons the Alliance of Free Nations and signs a defense pact with Moscow.”

“That’s classic,” a cold, electronically synthesized voice said.

Surprised by the sudden interjection, Wilk and the others swung toward the huge CID standing motionless by the far wall. “General?”

“Gryzlov never misses a chance to kick people when they’re down,” Patrick McLanahan continued. “That accident at Cernavodă was the perfect opening for him to make trouble. The Romanians can either kowtow to Moscow now, or do it later — after a new pro-Russian government takes power. My bet is that Gryzlov is already in touch with leaders of the opposition parties in Bucharest.”

Wilk nodded slowly. “A correct assessment, General.” He shrugged. “Many of Dumitru’s political opponents already favor the Russians, either out of conviction or sheer expedience.”

“That son of a bitch in Moscow is pretty goddamned fast on his feet,” Whack Macomber said. His gaze darkened. “Too fast, if you ask me. Which is why I’ve got a nagging itch that says the Russians engineered this whole thing.”

“Your instincts are accurate, as usual, Major,” Martindale said softly. “My Scion IT experts finished their preliminary analysis an hour ago. The computers at Cernavodă were hacked. That reactor was deliberately configured to melt down.”

There was a moment of stunned silence.

“Which is why the plant’s automated systems seemed to be fighting me every step of the way,” Brad realized. “Like every time I turned a valve or tried to get through a door.”

“Your report gave us the first clues,” Martindale agreed. “Apparently, there were traces of malware in every significant operating system.”

“But how?” Wilk asked. “Surely Cernavodă’s designers were not foolish enough to connect their control computers to the Internet?”

“Not officially, no.”

“Then—”

“Regrettably, there are many ways to infect a computer with malware, Mr. President,” Nadia Rozek told him grimly. Wilk suddenly remembered that her father was a software engineer who specialized in Internet security.

“Major Rozek is quite right,” Martindale said. “Anyone with access to the plant’s automated control systems could have implanted those sabotage programs using something as simple as an easily concealed USB flash drive or a microSD card half the size of a thumbnail. Only the most sophisticated body scanners can detect them, and Cernavodă did not have them.”

“How many people had such access?” Wilk wondered.

“Too many,” Martindale said. “My guys think that malware might have been put in place weeks or even months ago. So the hackers could have bribed a plant operator, either somebody still on staff or planning to quit or even retire. Or maybe they suborned someone else, someone who visited Cernavodă in an official capacity. Like a contractor or an IAEA inspector, for example.”

“Whoever did it is long gone,” Patrick McLanahan said tonelessly. “Either conveniently dead… or hidden away in Russia, far beyond our reach.”

“Probably so,” Martindale conceded. “I’ve ordered a Scion security team to work with the Romanian police to narrow down the list of possible suspects. But it’s not real likely that we’ll ever get our hands on whoever planted that malware.”

Wilk scowled. “Then how do we prove the Russians were responsible for this catastrophe?”

“We can’t,” Martindale said bluntly. “At least not clearly enough to sway international opinion if it comes down to a United Nations pissing match between us and Moscow.” He shook his head in regret. “The code my experts have analyzed has similarities to malware they’ve seen before — to viruses created by a Russian hacker group called Advanced Persistent Threat 28, or ATP 28. But—”

“But these computer criminals often share their techniques and secrets with others around the world,” Nadia Rozek said. “So such a similarity would not be sufficient evidence.” Her eyes were ice-cold. “Not for President Barbeau and the other weaklings afraid to stand up to the Russians.”

Martindale nodded. His own expression was equally bleak. He turned to the others. “Whether or not we can prove it is pretty much beside the point. What’s more important is that this cyberwar attack on Cernavodă was perfectly planned and executed. And if Brad hadn’t been close enough to intervene with a working CID, we’d be overwhelmed right now trying to deal with the physical and political fallout from a radioactive plume spreading across Europe on the wind. You can bet that millions of people would have been hightailing it away from Romania as refugees.”

“The danger would not have justified so much panic,” Nadia said stubbornly. “The accidents at Chernobyl and Fukushima showed that any significant damage would have been limited to those areas within thirty or forty kilometers of the plant.”

“Maybe so,” Martindale agreed. “But most folks aren’t logical. Scientific studies don’t carry much weight when they run up against generations of ‘nuclear bogeyman’ scare tactics.” He shrugged. “As it is, we were fortunate Brad was in the right place at the right time.”

“Sure,” Macomber said. “Trouble is, now we’re down one of the new CIDs we needed to bolster our forces. That robot is basically fried. Hell, just about every system is shot. To get the thing back up and running, we’re practically going to have to rebuild every piece, from the actuators on up.” He shot Brad a wry look. “No offense, kid, but you’re hard as hell on expensive gear.”

Brad did his best to look sorry. “Yeah, Whack, that is a bad habit. And it’s one I’m trying real hard to break.”

“No sweat, Brad,” Macomber said more seriously. “Pain in the ass though you often are, I’m glad you came through in one piece. CIDs I can replace. Good pilots are a heck of a lot tougher to find.”

Half listening to the two Iron Wolf officers banter, Wilk stared down at the table, gathering his thoughts. At last, he looked up at Martindale. “If we cannot prove that what happened at Cernavodă was a Russian attack, is there any point to announcing that the reactor was deliberately sabotaged?”

“Officially? Probably not, Piotr,” the American said slowly. “That would only raise questions we can’t answer right now.” He allowed himself a quick, sly grin. “But we could leak the suggestion to some friendly journalists, off the record. God knows the broader public loves conspiracy theories. And even the hint that what happened was Moscow’s fault might buy Dumitru and his government a little breathing room.”

Wilk nodded. For months, Russian propaganda outlets — both official and unofficial — had been flooding the airwaves and the Internet with all kinds of wild stories about “warmongering Poland” and its “bloodthirsty, piratical mercenaries.” Giving Gryzlov and his minions a taste of their own medicine couldn’t hurt.

“But what if this was not just a single act of sabotage?” Nadia asked. Her mouth tightened into a thin line. “What if Cernavodă was merely the first salvo in a new Russian war against us? A war waged with computers rather than tanks and aircraft?”

“That, Major Rozek, is the billion-dollar question,” Martindale said. He looked somberly around the table. “My guess is that we’re not going to have to wait long to find out.”