Iron Wolf (18 page)

“You make a good case,” Wilk admitted. Then he smiled, but it was a smile that did not reach his eyes. “But perhaps I should also remember Machiavelli's warning against mercenary captains. ‘They are either capable men or they are not; if they are, you cannot trust them, because they always aspire to their own greatness . . . but if the captain is not skillful, you are ruined in the usual way.' ”

Martindale matched his tight grin. “As to our skillfulness, you'll have to trust the reputation we've earned the hard way—and at a high cost. As to the dangers of relying on me . . .” He smiled more genuinely. “There you'll have to trust in the good sense of your fellow countrymen. As much as I value my own political skills, I can't quite see myself successfully taking over as president of Poland.”

Now Wilk laughed. “A fair point.” Then he looked across the table at the American. “Nor do I really believe that a man with your abilities and history would be content to rule my small country.”

Martindale's grin turned rueful. “You think I'd always long for a bigger stage?”

Wilk nodded. “I think perhaps that you are a man who would always find it ‘better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven,' Mr. Martindale.” He held out a hand. “But that is a matter between you and your own conscience. For my part, we are agreed. I will hire Scion to help defend Poland.”

T
HE
S
CRAPHEAP,

NEAR
S
ILIŞTEA
G
UMEŞTI,
R
OMANIA

T
HE NEXT DAY

Wayne “Whack” Macomber stalked through the living quarters assigned to Scion's CID Operations Team, banging on doors. “Okay, boys and girls! We're a go. So grab your packs and get out of your racks! Next stop Poland. We're wheels up in two hours!”

Macomber, big and powerfully built, was a veteran of the U.S. Air Force's Special Operations Command. After commanding the elite ground troops attached to the 1st Air Battle Force, he had joined Scion—spearheading its efforts to recruit and train CID pilots and commandos equipped with the Tin Man battle armor system. And whenever possible, he personally piloted one of the CIDs in combat. He didn't really prefer the robots so much—he always felt like little more than a slave to the damned gadget—but getting checked out in the unholy thing gave him plenty of the chances he craved to kill bad guys and break things in new and interesting ways.

He grinned broadly at the colorful array of muttered curses and loud grumbling that greeted his door banging. Scion recruited the best special operators in the world—men and women with the right mix of combat, sapper, language, and technical skills needed to pull off incredibly dangerous and demanding missions. Social graces were always welcome, but they weren't on the required skills list.

“Hey, Uncle Wayne! It's good to see you again,” a familiar-sounding voice said from behind him.

Whack Macomber spun around. The young man standing in the corridor was an even taller and bigger version of the blond-haired high school kid he last remembered seeing. “Well, well, well, if it isn't Brad McLanahan. Nice to see you, too, kid.” He looked the younger McLanahan up and down with a critical eye. “Geez, you look mean as hell and ready to kick some ass. I guess all the fancy martial-arts training Wohl put you through paid off.”

Brad nodded. “The training saved my life. Several times. So did the sergeant major.” For a moment, his eyes went dark with remembered pain. Former Marine Corps Sergeant Major Chris Wohl had been killed saving him from one of Gryzlov's top assassins.

“Yeah, I heard about that,” Macomber said abruptly. He shook his head. “For an old, crabby-ass, Marine son of a bitch, he did good.” Then he clapped Brad on the shoulder. “Speaking of good work, I heard about those two Russian goons you nailed for CID One. Nice job. But I sure as hell hope you didn't scratch my ride doing it.”

“If I did, I'll wash and wax it for you, Major.” Brad forced himself to smile, pushing aside the regret he still felt about Wohl's death.

“You thinking about joining Scion as a rock-'em, sock-'em He-Man robot driver?” Macomber asked. “From what I saw a few years back in Nevada, you've got the chops. And I damned well
know
you wouldn't mind working with at least one of my other pilots.” Whack was one of the few people who knew Patrick McLanahan was still alive.

“I'll take a rain check on that,” Brad said, grinning more easily now. He shrugged. “I'm still planning to go back to Cal Poly and get my degree—once this all blows over. In the meantime, I've been asked to work with your aviation team, to bring them up to speed on some of the aircraft they'll be using during this assignment. I put in a lot of time in the simulators and on the flight line at Sky Masters this summer learning the ins and outs of a lot of the birds Scion flies.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “And, well, I'm also supposed to form them into a more cohesive unit.”

Macomber nodded. “Yeah, I heard about that, too.” He shook his head. “Frankly, better you than me. If they'd put
me
in charge of pulling those sterling young
aviators
into shape, I'd probably just have wound up beating the shit out of a couple of them instead.”

“Oh?”

“I'm not saying they're not good pilots. Hell, they're some of the best I've ever seen,” Macomber allowed grudgingly. “But that's part of the problem. Every damned one of them thinks he or she is the ace of aces. Or should be, anyway.”

Brad nodded, thinking about what he'd seen of the other pilots before being sent to Poland with his father for Martindale's demonstration. Like Mark Darrow, they'd all been friendly enough. But also like the ex-RAF Tornado driver, each of them had gone out of their way, politely to be sure, to let him know that they personally were the hottest pilot flying out of the Scrapheap. “They're all wannabe chiefs and no Indians,” he realized.

“Yeah, that's it exactly. So forming them into a solid team is going to be like herding cats.” Whack eyed Brad with a sardonic look that was probably as close to showing pity as the big man ever came. “I sure hope you brought your circus whip and ringmaster's top hat, because you're going to need them.”

“Swell,” Brad said drily. “I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

“Oh, I'm confident all right,” Macomber said with a quick laugh. “I'm confident you've got a damned hard job ahead of you.” Then he lowered his voice. “But if your old man thinks you're up to it, that's good enough for me. He may be a lot of things, not all of them nice or real pretty, but he's not stupid.”

Brad nodded, hoping that both the other man and his father were right. They were putting a lot of trust in him and he would hate to let them down.

“Speaking of circuses,” Whack asked. “What's the deal with this new name they're supposed to be slapping on our outfit?”

“It's partly for security,” Brad explained. “The Poles don't want the Russians or anyone else to know they've hired Scion. If the situation heats up, they want to retain the element of surprise. And Martindale agrees with them.”

“Okay, that makes sense,” Macomber said. He narrowed his eyes. “You said ‘partly.' What's the other reason?”

Now it was Brad's turn to grin. “Poetry.”

“Poetry? You're shitting me,” the other man growled.

“As God is my witness,” Brad deadpanned, crossing his heart. “I'm telling the truth. Plus there's a pun involved.”

“Poetry and a fricking pun, too? Jesus, do I really want to know all this?” Macomber asked sourly.

“Oh, yeah, Whack, you do. You really do,” Brad told him cheerfully. “The pun comes from the fact that the Polish president's last name means ‘wolf' in English.”

“Swell,” Macomber said, frowning. “So fucking what?”

“So we're no longer working for Scion,” Brad told him. “Now we're part of the
Eskadra
Å»
elazny Wilk
.”

“Which means what when it's at home?” Macomber asked.

“The Iron Wolf Squadron,” Brad said.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, a crooked smile spread across Whack's hard-edged face. “Iron Wolf Squadron, huh? Hell, I kind of like it.”

SS
B
ALTIC
V
ENTURE,

P
ORT OF
H
OUSTON,
T
EXAS,
U
NITED
S
TATES

T
HAT SAME TIME

U.S. Customs and Border Protection officer Frank Talbot stood on the bridge of the SS
Baltic Venture,
watching a huge crane gently lower a big aircraft, completely shrink-wrapped in white plastic, into the fast freighter's forward cargo hold. A second identical aircraft sat on the front apron near the ship, waiting its turn.

He frowned. That plastic wrap would protect the planes from salt air and sea water during the coming voyage. It was standard overseas shipping practice for all flyable military aircraft.

Which was part of the reason for Talbot's concern.

He glanced at the big, beefy man standing placidly beside him. That was the other thing that worried him. Marcus Cartwright was supposed to be the broker handling this transaction. But the customs officer had the uneasy feeling that Cartwright was a lot more. Something about the guy smelled of “spook.” And if there was one thing he had learned in fifteen years of federal service, it was that you wanted to stay far, far away from anyone who used the word
covert
during their normal daily work. Plus, there were a few peccadilloes in his past—usually involving minor amounts of illicit substances coming into the United States—that made the prospect of dealing with anyone connected with intelligence even more disconcerting. Still, this wasn't exactly something he could safely ignore. Not with all the trouble going on overseas.

“Let me get this straight,” Talbot said slowly. “You say these old F-111 fighter-bombers are going to Warsaw as ‘static display aircraft'?”

“I not only say that, Agent Talbot,” Cartwright said, still standing patiently watching the crane lower its cargo. “I've already shown you the papers to prove it.” He nodded toward the two shrink-wrapped aircraft. “Two decommissioned F-111s are being shipped
to the Museum of the Polish Army in Warsaw. They are going to form part of a special Cold War exhibit. My firm is handling this transaction. I fail to see the difficulty.”

“That's the point,” Talbot said, nerving himself up. “Nobody puts planes on museum display with working engines. And all four engines on those F-111s are intact. Also, I poked around those aircraft a little while your crews were wrapping them up, and they were in really good shape. A lot better shape than they should be if they'd just spent twenty years sitting outside in the Arizona desert.”

“My word, you have been observant,” Cartwright said mildly. “That's an excellent point about the engines. Somebody should have noticed that earlier.” He shrugged sadly. “Now it's too late. It's not as though we have time to send these particular planes back to the Boneyard. The exhibit opens in just a few weeks. And as it is, these F-111s will already take more than fifteen days just to reach Gdansk.”

“That's not my problem,” the customs officer said stiffly. “My problem is your plan to export fully operational military aircraft without the required end-user certificates and licenses.”

“Licenses and end-user certificates?” Cartwright asked. “Is that all?” He reached inside his suit coat and pulled out a thick envelope. “If only you'd spoken up sooner. Here you are, Talbot. I think you'll find all the necessary documents in perfect order.”

Frowning, Talbot took the envelope. It wasn't sealed. He slid it open and froze—not for long, just long enough to estimate that the envelope contained at least $20,000 in cash. He swallowed hard. If this was a sting and he took the money, he was screwed. But maybe it wasn't a sting, he thought hopefully. Maybe this was part of a CIA black-ops program to ship weapons across the Atlantic without getting the U.S. officially involved. Scuttlebutt around the customs service said that kind of stuff happened, and a lot more often than anyone outside the government imagined.

He looked up to see Cartwright watching him calmly. He breathed out. Maybe it was worth taking a chance. He slipped the envelope into the inner pocket of his blue uniform jacket. “I see what you mean.”

“I thought you would,” the other man said, smiling. “We did rather a lot of careful research on you, you see.”

Talbot felt a shiver run up his spine. The less time he spent with this spook the better. “Well, I guess we're done here, then,” he muttered.

“Yes, I believe so. Thank you for your cooperation,” Cartwright told him politely, already tuning the customs officer out and turning away to watch the big harbor crane swinging back toward the fighter-bomber still waiting on the front apron.

The Iron Wolf Squadron's first two XF-111 SuperVarks would soon be safely on their way to Poland.

T
HE
C
HURCH OF
S
T.
L
OUIS OF
F
RANCE,

M
OSCOW,
R
USSIA

T
HAT SAME TIME

Wearing a drab overcoat and cap and using a cane, Sergei Tarzarov hobbled slowly up the broad steps to the mustard-colored Church of St. Louis of France. No one seeing him would have recognized the quiet, soft-spoken chief of staff to Russia's flamboyant president. He looked much older and poorer now, like one of the many elderly pensioners who eked out a paltry living doing odd jobs for Moscow's wealthier elites.

This late at night, the normally busy streets of the surrounding shopping district were quiet. A few lights glowed in the windows of the taller neighboring brick buildings. For nearly a century, the buildings had housed the parish rectory, a French school, a small hospital, and a Dominican monastery, but they had been seized by the old Soviet regime and converted into government offices.

The church itself, built by the French in 1830, served as a place of worship for many in Moscow's diplomatic community. That had kept it safe even during the darkest days of Stalinist repression.

Tarzarov slipped into the shadows cast by six massive Doric columns across the front of the church and drew out a key to unlock the main door. The civic ordinances that required that the keys and alarm codes of certain public buildings be deposited with local fire, police, and medical authorities were always useful, he mused. Especially to someone like him who occasionally needed discreet private access to certain places when they were supposed to be closed.

He cracked open the door and went inside.

The interior of the church was mostly dark, lit only by a few flickering candles and dimmed electric lights on a few of the small brass chandeliers between marble columns lining the central aisle. Streetlights gleaming through stained glass windows cast faint patterns of blue, gold, white, and red across the altar.

Tapping along the marble floor with his cane, Tarzarov hobbled toward a plain wood confessional set against the right wall. He entered one of the booths, closed the door, and knelt down. A red light flicked on, illuminating his face.

The grille separating him from the priest's tiny, unlit chamber slid open. A shadowy figure was barely visible through the wood lattice.

“Otets, prosti menya, ibo ya sogreshil,”
Tarzarov murmured. “Father, forgive me, for I have sinned.”

“I am deeply shocked to hear that, Sergei,” the man on the other side said drily. “I hope you aren't confessing that you were followed here?”

Tarzarov smiled thinly. “A crow might have followed me. But not a man. I know my business, Igor.” He rapped gently on the lattice. “And the Catholic priest whose place you have usurped? What of him?”

“Called away to a hospital on the outskirts of Moscow to administer the last rites to a dying parishioner,” the other man said. “We have plenty of time alone here.”

“A convenient
accident
?” Tarzarov asked.

“Nothing so melodramatic,” the other man said, chuckling. “Merely a matter of fortunate timing, for us at least. Much better that way, eh?”

Tarzarov nodded. He had no moral objection to arranging the death or injury of anyone, not even an innocent bystander, if that proved necessary to his plans. But there were always risks to direct action. Even the best-trained hit team could make mistakes, leaving traces for some honest policeman or clever foreign spy to follow.

“So then, to business,” the other man said. “Tell me, what is your assessment of your protégé now? Is he still so consumed by rage and driven by desire for revenge? I know there were moments last year, during the Starfire crisis, when you feared that he might drag us all into absolute disaster.”

“Gennadiy is . . . calmer,” Tarzarov said slowly. He shrugged. “At least on the surface. No doubt his anger still burns white-hot
inside, but he seems better able to control it. Now he uses his fury as a directed weapon against those who fail, rather than unleashing it in some uncontrollable explosion that consumes everything around him.”

“Interesting,” the other man said. Tarzarov thought he sounded disappointed. “And unexpected.”

“Victory may soften many rough edges,” Gryzlov's chief of staff pointed out. “Though the price was high, Gennadiy achieved what many of us have sought for so long—the complete destruction of the American military space station. This has given him great confidence in his abilities and in his decisions.”

“Do you share this confidence?”

Tarzarov shrugged again. “For the moment.” He looked steadily through the lattice. “Certainly, I cannot fault the way he has exploited this most recent terrorist attack against us. Using it to justify occupying the eastern Ukraine was bold, but his maneuver has succeeded beyond my earlier expectations. So far, the Americans have done nothing serious to oppose us, and because of that, NATO stands exposed as a paper tiger.”

“True,” the other man agreed, again reluctantly.

“As a result, Gennadiy is more popular among the people than ever,” Tarzarov continued.

“Popularity!”
the other man muttered bitterly. “Now, there's a two-edged sword, as I know only too well. The people back you only as long as you seem to be winning. But they turn on you when things grow difficult. They are untrustworthy.”

“All men are untrustworthy,” Tarzarov said calmly. “But for now the president's support among the people gives him more power among the bureaucrats and the military. He has achieved almost total control over the Kremlin and the armed forces.”

“I see,” the other man said. “So you believe Gryzlov has become a man without weaknesses.”

“A man of steel?” said Tarzarov, playing off the often-cited meaning of Joseph Stalin's chosen name. He shook his head. “No.
Not that. Not yet.” He knelt silently for a few moments before going on. “There are still potential weaknesses in his policies and in his passions—weaknesses that greatly trouble me.”

“Such as?”

“I worry that his hatred for the Poles may lead us into direct confrontation with them—and through them, with the Americans and the rest of NATO,” Tarzarov admitted. “We have been lucky so far. But Gennadiy may push our luck too far.”

“I thought Warsaw was at least partly responsible for these terrorist attacks?” the other man said. “If so, our actions are more than justified.”

“I very much doubt the Poles have anything to do with these terrorists,” Tarzarov replied. “The evidence for their involvement in the murder of General Voronov was never more than circumstantial. And there is no evidence whatsoever that they were responsible for the most recent atrocity. I do not trust or like the Warsaw government, but I do not truly think Piotr Wilk and his gang are that insane.”

“And yet . . .” the other man prompted gently.

“The president believes otherwise,” Tarzarov said. “He is absolutely convinced that Poland has attacked us, using these terrorist groups in the Ukraine as its proxies. He craves an excuse to punish them for this, to take revenge for the deaths they have caused and the damage they have inflicted. For now, the ease of our occupation of the eastern Ukraine satisfies him, but I worry that an obsessive need to hit back at Warsaw may lead him to take bigger risks.”

“This begins to sound alarmingly familiar,” the other man observed acidly. “Is it possible that Gryzlov's near mania for revenge on that dead American general, Patrick McLanahan, and his family has transferred itself to the Poles? To a whole country?”

Tarzarov was silent for a time. At last, he said, “I sincerely hope not. After all, there are valid strategic reasons for wanting to see Poland diminished.”

“Yes,” the other man agreed. “Of all our former possessions, the
Poles are the richest, the strongest, and the most stubbornly independent. If it were possible to break Poland without risking all-out war, many of the smaller, weaker nations in Eastern and Central Europe would begin falling back into our orbit.”

“That is likely,” Tarzarov agreed, though reluctantly. “But others understand that, too. And if we push too hard too soon, we may yet trigger a reaction from those, like the new American president, who might otherwise be willing to turn a blind eye to our growing strength.”

“An excellent point,” the other man said. “I greatly value your insights on these matters. They are extremely useful. And I appreciate your willingness to convey them to me—despite your obvious loyalty to President Gryzlov.”

“I am a loyal servant of the state, Igor,” Tarzarov said quietly. “Not of any one man.”

“So I have long observed, Sergei,” said the man sitting in darkness on the other side of the lattice. “I look forward to our next . . . discussion.”

Long after Gennadiy Gryzlov's chief of staff left to make his circuitous way back to the Kremlin, Igor Truznyev, former president of Russia, stayed behind, contemplating the information he had been given—and considering the various uses to which he could put it. Earlier, he had hoped that the Ukrainian maniac Kravchenko's terrorist attacks would show Russia's military and political elites their error in replacing him, Truznyev, with the younger man, by goading Gryzlov into a disastrous overreaction. Well, if Gryzlov was becoming better at controlling his rages, Truznyev would just have to find a way for his unwitting Ukrainian puppets to up the ante.