The Moscow Offensive

Six

Pale red dust swirled high in the air, drifting away from where bulldozers, front loaders, graders, dump trucks, and road rollers rumbled back and forth along a strip of high desert south of Moab. Cranes swayed elsewhere, carefully hoisting sections of prefabricated steel buildings into place. Tall sandstone cliffs rose scarcely more than a mile away to the east and west.

Frank Jameson pushed back his hard hat and rubbed distractedly at his sweaty forehead. His construction company had bid for this rush job and stood to profit handsomely when it was finished. But he still couldn’t figure out what on earth Regan Air Freight, a privately owned air cargo company, really had to gain here.

Moab’s old Grand County Airport had been abandoned since 1965, the victim of a failed bid to entice the U.S. Air Force into building a base at a newer location, Canyonlands Field. In all the long years since, its sole paved runway had sat idle, slowly deteriorating in southeastern Utah’s arid climate. Mule deer, coyotes, and jackrabbits roamed unchecked, joined only occasionally by drag racers who used the mile-long strip for their meets.

Now all that had changed. Regan Air had swooped in out of the blue and bought the land for a pittance. They were paying Jameson and his workers a princely sum to repair and extend the old runway and erect new buildings on the site.

Although Frank Jameson wasn’t one to kick about a contract that would put his company in the black for the next year, he still couldn’t help being curious about what Regan Air had in mind. With the uranium mines closed, the Moab-area economy relied heavily on tourism. And mountain bikers, base jumpers, and hikers didn’t exactly need much in the way of air freight services.

He said as much to the shorter, well-dressed man standing at his shoulder.

“Access to the next energy boom, Mr. Jameson,” Willem Daeniker replied with a slight smile. As a representative of Regan Air’s new owners, the Swiss banker had flown in earlier that day to inspect their progress. “Our company believes there will be substantial profits to be made flying in equipment and supplies for new power projects in this region.”

Jameson raised an eyebrow. “Energy boom?” He shook his head. “Well, I sure hope your folks know what they’re doing, because the geology’s all wrong. At least right around here. The nearest oil and gas deposits are a hundred miles north… and Salt Lake City’s got better road connections to ’em.”

“Oh, I am not speaking primarily of oil and natural gas,” Daeniker said, still smiling. “The boom I refer to is mostly in renewable energy, in wind and solar power. With the tax incentives and other subsidies offered by your federal government, we believe many companies will be interested in building such plants in the surrounding area — especially with a new air freight hub able to handle their cargos.”

“That sort of depends on who wins the election, doesn’t it?” Jameson carefully pointed out. “Last time I checked, J. D. Farrell wasn’t a big fan of all this ‘green energy’ stuff.”

Daeniker shrugged. “There are always risks in any significant investment, Mr. Jameson. Evidently my employers believe your President Barbeau will be reelected.” He glanced up at the taller man with narrowed eyes. “But that is of no real importance to you as far as this construction project is concerned, is it?”

“No, sir,” Jameson said quickly. Arguing politics with clients was never good business. Regan Air’s new owners might be wasting its money here, but that was their lookout. Besides, if they were right about new wind and solar plants going up around Moab and the rest of southeastern Utah, his company had a good shot at landing a lot of that work. “My guys will have that runway extension finished and those buildings up within ten days.”

“Excellent,” Daeniker said. “My employers will be pleased.”

The muffled crump of artillery and heavy mortar fire echoed across a wide, shallow valley flanked by beech woods on all sides. Its grassy slopes were torn by crisscrossing tank tracks and smoldering shell craters. Gray and black smoke stained the near horizon.

Secure in a bunker built into the hillside, Polish president Piotr Wilk focused his binoculars through an observation port. Senior military officers and government officials from half a dozen different Eastern and central European countries did the same at other firing slits and ports.

Suddenly two light gray shapes screamed down the valley at low altitude. Small bombs tumbled from under their delta wings, slamming into the ground and exploding in brief, blinding flashes. Dozens of decoy flares streamed behind the Hungarian JAS 39 Gripens as they rolled away and climbed, turning with incredible agility.

Enviously, Wilk followed them though his binoculars. Good planes. Good pilots, he thought. Like the American-built F-16s he’d loved flying during his days as a veteran pilot and charismatic air-force commander, those Swedish-designed single-engine fighters were superb air superiority and ground-attack aircraft. Wiry, middling tall, and not quite fifty, Poland’s president still occasionally found himself longing for the days when he could strap into a cockpit and go head-to-head against his nation’s enemies. Unfortunately, he reminded himself, service to Poland and the cause of freedom now demanded that he engage in the subtler and sometimes darker arts of politics, strategy, and diplomacy.

Like now, Piotr, he reminded himself with a wry grin.

Wilk lowered his binoculars and turned to his Hungarian counterpart, Prime Minister Tibor Lukács. The other man, notoriously touchy and xenophobic, had been one of the leaders most reluctant to join the fledgling Alliance of Free Nations. Only the overwhelming evidence of Gennadiy Gryzlov’s aggressive plans had persuaded him to sign on. All of which made buttering him up whenever possible a priority. “Please pass my compliments to your pilots and their commanders, Tibor. That was an excellent attack run.”

A thin smile creased Lukács’s broad face. “Coming from an old aviator like you, my friend, that is high praise indeed.” The Hungarian prime minister waved a hand toward the nearest firing slit. “My generals assure me our troops and pilots are gaining much-needed experience in this war maneuver wonderland of yours.”

Wilk nodded. That was true. Drawsko Pomorskie was Europe’s largest military training area, with more than a hundred and thirty square miles set aside for live fire exercises and battlefield maneuvers. No other country on the continent except Russia could boast of anything comparable. The Polish Army had used the area since 1945. Now the combined forces of the new AFN held their spring and summer maneuvers among its forests, fields, low rolling hills, abandoned villages, and swamps. Decades of combat training had left the exercise area littered with burned-out hulks used for target practice — among them, old Soviet tanks and self-propelled guns, surplus U.S. Army M-60 tanks, Huey helicopters, and stripped-down F-4 Phantom fighter jets.

“Local enemy air defenses are judged as suppressed,” one of the exercise control-team officers reported over the intercom. “Iron Wolf Squadron strike team inbound. Follow-on conventional armored and infantry forces in movement from Phase Line Alpha.”

Wilk raised his binoculars in time to see a large, twin-engine aircraft in mottled dark green, light green, and gray camouflage roar in just above the treetops. It banked left over the valley in a steep, tight turn, slowing fast. Its huge propellers were already swiveling upward, turning into rotors. The Sky Masters XV-40 Sparrowhawk tilt rotor had the same basic lines as the V-22 Ospreys flown by the U.S. Air Force and U.S. Marine Corps, but it was smaller and more agile.

Rotors spinning, the Sparrowhawk touched down in the middle of the valley. Immediately, its rear ramp whirred open. Two tall, menacing shapes unfolded out of the troop compartment and glided down the ramp. Without any pause, the two Iron Wolf combat robots darted away at high speed, heading down the valley toward a distant ruined village defended by a simulated Russian motorized rifle battalion. As soon as they were off the ramp, the XV-40 leaped into the air and veered away, accelerating fast as its rotors transitioned to level flight.

Explosions erupted among the buildings as the CIDs opened fire, using their autocannons, rail guns, and grenade launchers. One after another, old BMP-1 infantry fighting vehicles went up in flames. Puffs of smoke and debris flew away from foxholes dug amid the rubble. Within minutes, the two Iron Wolf machines had fought their way through the village and disappeared into the surrounding woods, leaving only smoldering wreckage in their wake.

“Bámulatos! Amazing!” Lukács murmured from beside Wilk. “So much power. So much speed.” He leaned closer. “Now I understand better how your country has dared to defy Moscow for so long.”

The Polish president concealed a smile. That was exactly the kind of reaction he’d hoped for. Although Kevin Martindale had been understandably worried about the security risks entailed in showing off the CIDs in these open-field maneuvers, he’d insisted they were necessary — both on political and military grounds.

Battle drills blending the capabilities of the AFN’s conventional air, armor, and mechanized units with the Iron Wolf Squadron’s robots, drones, and deep-strike recon and commando forces built much-needed teamwork. Equally important, they helped strengthen the alliance by reassuring its political leaders that their combined armed forces could hold their own against Russia if another open war broke out.

“But can your squadron field enough of those robots to defend us all?” Lukács asked pointedly, after a moment’s reflection. “I understand the Americans have made it difficult to obtain replacements and new machines.”

“President Barbeau’s sanctions and legal threats have made the buildup of our CID force slower and more expensive than I would have liked,” Wilk agreed. “Despite that, we now have six operational fighting machines and twelve trained pilots.”

“Only six?”

“Three years ago, fighting in coordination with my country’s ground and air forces, just two CIDs were able to first delay and then defeat two full-strength Russian armies,” Wilk reminded the Hungarian prime minister dryly.

“But then you had the element of surprise,” Lukács commented. “Gryzlov and his commanders will not make the same mistakes again.”

“No, they won’t,” Wilk said. He nodded toward the valley below their bunker. An assortment of Polish, Romanian, and Hungarian armored vehicles were coming into view, deploying from march columns into battle formation as they advanced. “Which is why exercises such as this are so important. As are all the modernization programs our armed forces are undertaking.”

Every member of the Alliance of Free Nations, even the tiny Baltic states, had agreed to strengthen and modernize its air and ground forces — replacing antiquated and worn-out Soviet-era tanks, APCs, artillery, and aircraft with newer, more capable weapons. At the same time, they’d toughened their training and increased combat readiness. Timeservers and careerists had been weeded out in favor of younger, more energetic officers.

It was a difficult and expensive process, but Wilk was convinced that it was working. Together with their CIDs, the alliance’s conventional ground forces were now strong enough to stop an offensive by Russia’s tank and motorized rifle divisions. In the air, the combination of upgraded Polish and Romanian F-16s and Hungary’s JAS 39 Gripens, working in tandem with Iron Wolf’s stealthy MQ-55 Coyote drone missile launchers and Scion’s other high-tech weapons, stood an excellent chance of blunting raids by Russia’s fighters and bombers. The same held true for any new cyberwar campaign orchestrated by Moscow. Since the last onslaught, the alliance had steadily strengthened its defenses against computer hacking and destructive malware.

The Hungarian sighed. “I only wish the costs were not so high, Piotr,” he said. He looked pained. “Every new defense bill draws more and more opposition in my country’s National Assembly.”

Wilk nodded somberly. He faced the same political difficulties. Even after two Russian attacks on Poland, there were still some members of the opposition parties who fought him tooth and nail over every zloty for national defense. “Well, I think it’s better to spend money now than to spend lives and risk our freedoms later,” he said quietly.

Grudgingly, Lukács acknowledged the power of his argument.

At least I’ve convinced you that we can hold our own against Moscow, Wilk thought, looking at the Hungarian. Then why am I still so worried?

Much later that evening, after a dinner and reception in honor of the ranking political and military leaders attending the exercises, Wilk finally got the chance to pose that same question to some of his closest advisers. They were gathered in his hotel suite in Szczecin, eighty kilometers west of Drawsko Pomorskie.

He looked carefully around the sitting room, taking each of the attendees in.

First, Kevin Martindale, looking smooth and well polished as always in an elegant black dinner jacket and bow tie. Next, Major Nadia Rozek, his former military aide, in her dress uniform as an officer in Poland’s special forces. And finally, Captain Brad McLanahan, tall, broad-shouldered, and blond-haired. The young American wore the dark, rifle-green uniform jacket, collared shirt, and black tie of the Iron Wolf Squadron. A patch on his shoulder showed a metal-gray robotic wolf’s head with glowing red eyes on a bright green background.

“You’re right, Piotr,” Martindale said, after listening to Wilk’s concerns. “We are missing something. My Scion intelligence analysts have been picking up signs of unusual activity involving Russia’s most elite Spetsnaz and combat aviation units. But I’ll be damned if I can make the pieces fit together into anything that makes sense.”

Suddenly intent and focused, Brad leaned forward. “What kind of activity? Like they’re moving to higher readiness? Getting ready to take another crack at us?”

“That’s what’s strange,” Martindale said, shaking his head. “As far as my people can tell from very limited data, these units are not training for a renewed war. If anything, it looks as if their preparedness is actually slipping.”

Nadia frowned. “Slipping? In what way?”

“For one thing, a significant number of previously scheduled maneuvers have been abruptly canceled,” Martindale told her. “Regular tank and motorized rifle brigades don’t seem to be affected, but it doesn’t appear as though any Spetsnaz unit has conducted serious combat training for several months. And now, over the past few weeks, we’ve seen the same pattern with those fighter units equipped with top-of-the-line interceptors like the Su-35 and Su-50. Suddenly they’re not engaging in any air-to-air combat exercises or even flying routine patrols.”

Perplexed, Wilk shook his head. The former American president was right. This was very odd. Maintaining air-to-air combat skills required constant effort. Fighter pilots left sitting on the ground, even with access to advanced flight simulators, soon lost their edge. The same thing went for the specialized skills needed by Spetsnaz teams. But why would Gennadiy Gryzlov suddenly pull the plug on training for his best troops and pilots?

“We’ve also lost track of some key personnel in those units,” Martindale went on. “Either because they’ve been reassigned somewhere we don’t know about… or because they’re being demobilized.”

Brad snorted. “Demobilized? I wouldn’t bet on that. Gryzlov’s not the kind of guy who’d let his best people just walk away. No, that Russian son of a bitch is up to something all right.” He grimaced. “But like Mr. Martindale over there, I’m damned if I can put my finger on what it might be.”

Nadia’s blue-gray eyes darkened. “I really do not care for the idea of just sitting around waiting to find out the hard way what Moscow has up its sleeve.”

“Nor do I, Major,” Wilk assured her. He turned to Martindale. “I assume you have a plan to remedy our ignorance? And probably one that is both highly dangerous and of questionable legality?”

A wry grin flashed across the former American president’s face. “I see that my reputation precedes me.” He leaned back in his chair. “But yes, I do, Piotr. In fact, I’ve already set a covert op in motion.”

“Without my authorization,” Wilk said flatly. There were moments when it became clear that even though his private military company was employed by Poland, Martindale viewed himself as an independent actor on the world stage.

“Correct.” The other man shrugged. “This is a strictly Scion-initiated intelligence-gathering operation, not an AFN- or Polish-ordered action. If it goes badly, that might give your government a modest amount of diplomatic cover.”

“And why, precisely, would we need such protection?” Wilk asked coolly.

“Because I’m sending a team of my best operatives deep inside Russia to get some answers,” Martindale replied. “And try as they might, I suspect they’re not likely to end up being very subtle about it.”

“Which means the odds are this team of yours is going to need a fast ride out,” Brad guessed.

“So that is why you are telling us about this mission now, rather than simply reporting its results later,” Nadia said. Her tone was cold.

Martindale nodded. “Quite true, Major Rozek. I may need help from the Iron Wolf Squadron to extract my agents.”

Brad sighed. “I suppose you want us to warm up the XCV-62 Ranger?”

He didn’t sound especially eager and Wilk could not blame him. The younger McLanahan and Nadia had flown the Ranger, a stealthy, short-takeoff-and-landing tactical airlifter, on the raid against Russia’s Perun’s Aerie cyberwar complex. Two members of their nine-person assault team had been killed and another seriously wounded. While the survivors had escaped through a tightly drawn net of Russian interceptors and SAMs, it was only by the narrowest of margins.

“Not this time,” Martindale said, shaking his head. “The Ranger’s a highly capable machine, but the area my people are going to be operating in probably won’t offer any decent landing zones big enough to accommodate an aircraft of its size.” He turned to Nadia, eyeing the silver eagle pilot’s badge on her uniform. “No, for this mission, I have something a bit more mundane in mind.”