Iron Wolf (4 page)

That would have been way more than enough danger and excitement for anyone. Unfortunately, Brad had also found himself hunted by Russian assassins, narrowly escaping being murdered more times than he liked to think about. It seemed that Russia's president, Gennadiy Gryzlov, had embarked on a personal vendetta against anyone bearing the McLanahan name. It was a vendetta that went back more than a decade, all the way back to the day when Gryzlov's own father had been killed by American bombs—bombs dropped in a raid commanded by Patrick McLanahan.

Things had been quieter in the months since the tangled wreckage of Armstrong Station fell burning through the atmosphere. The press, quickly bored by old news, had stopped hounding him for interviews. The survivors of his Starfire team had drifted apart—drawn back to their own academic challenges and lives. Even Jodie Cavendish, the Australian exchange student with whom he'd fallen in love, or maybe just lust, and shared the secret that his father was alive, had gone back to Brisbane. Then, after the school year ended, the higher-ups at Sky Masters, impressed by his work and leadership skills, had offered him this summer internship. And even the Russians seemed to have stopped trying to kill him. Brad had been hoping that destroying the Starfire Project had satiated that nut case Gryzlov's rage.

His father and Martindale weren't so sure. Both men suspected Brad was still under close surveillance—certainly by the U.S. government and probably by Russia's SVR, its Foreign Intelligence Ser
vice, and the PRC's Ministry of State Security. If so, none of his phone calls or e-mails were secure. That was why they'd ginned up a number of code words and phrases for different situations and made him memorize them.

So now his father and Martindale were privately signaling him to bail out of his Sky Masters internship and head for the hills. Fair enough, Brad thought. The trick was going to be how to do that without tipping off the FBI and various Russian and Chinese intelligence agents that something weird was up. If he just waltzed into the personnel office and said he was quitting, he might as well send up a flare. Nobody who knew anything about him would believe he'd walk away from this gig with Sky Masters without a darned good reason.

Still thinking about that, he slid the last few feet down the ladder from the XF-111 simulator and dropped lightly onto the hangar floor. The massive Hexapod system's huge hydraulic jacks towered above his head.

“Well, shit, look who's been hogging the sim again, guys,” a voice jeered from behind him. “It's Boy Bomber Jock McLanahan and his trusty sidekick, Ego Fricking Mania.”

Brad spun around.

Deke Carson and two other Sky Masters test pilots were about twenty feet away, loitering near the control consoles that ran the simulators. Carson, the biggest of the trio, leaned back against one of the consoles with his arms folded and an unpleasant sneer plastered across his face. His two friends, slightly smaller and lighter but wearing obnoxious smirks of their own, hovered at his elbows.

Brad's eyes narrowed. Mostly he got along pretty well with the fliers who worked for Sky Masters and with the other professional pilots who flocked here for advanced training. Carson and his cronies were the exception. They'd been riding him all summer.

Carson was the worst. Like many Air Force pilots, he'd been “involuntarily separated” from the service in the last round of budget cuts. Sky Masters was retraining him to fly big commercial jetliners, but he was still pissed off about losing his military career. And even
the sight of Brad McLanahan was like waving a matador's red cape in front of a bull. Knowing that a kid, and a civilian kid at that, had more flight time, even time in space, and real-world combat experience than he did struck the former Air Force captain as proof that politics and family clout counted for more than talent and training.

“Did you cut the power to my sim, Deke?” Brad snapped, moving toward the other men.

Carson raised an eyebrow. “
Your
sim, McLanahan?” He snorted. “Last time I looked, you were just a jumped-up broom jockey with a big mouth. Or did somebody in corporate promote you to CEO because you did such a good job cleaning toilets?”

His two friends snickered.

Encouraged, Carson unfolded his arms and stepped right up to Brad, crowding inside his comfort zone. “Look, Bradley McDumbshit. These guys and me . . .” He nodded at his cronies, “We're paying the freight here, to the tune of ten thousand bucks apiece per goddamned month. And we're getting sick of seeing you waltz around like you're God's Own Aviator. Hell, you're not even a nugget. You're just a little piece of crap with delusions of grandeur.”

“I've paid my dues,” Brad said tightly. “I've flown enough to—”

“Bull,” Carson interrupted. “The only reason anyone's ever let you sit in a cockpit is because your dad, the late and totally unlamented General McLanahan, knew how to kiss political ass in Washington, D.C., and corporate ass here at Sky Masters.”

For a moment, Brad saw red. Then he breathed out slowly, forcing himself to regain self-control. He had nothing to gain from getting into a fight with a dick like Carson. Three years ago, losing his temper with an instructor had gotten him bounced out of the U.S. Air Force Academy in the middle of cadet basic training. Though he'd never said so, Brad knew that was the one time he'd genuinely disappointed his father.

“Nothing to say, McLanahan?” Carson asked loudly. His sneer grew deeper. “I guess that's because you know it's the truth.” He glanced at his friends, saw them grinning in encouragement, and swung back to Brad. “Hell, the only other thing you've got in com
mon with your dad is the nasty habit of getting other people killed for your own goddamned glory! How many people were left sucking vacuum when you ditched from Armstrong Space Station and hightailed it for home? Four? Five? More?”

On the other hand, Brad thought coldly, he
did
need a good reason for leaving Sky Masters before his internship was up. Maybe this was his chance to create one. He looked hard at Carson. “I strongly suggest you shut up, Deke,” he said.

“Or what?” Carson asked, still sneering.

“Or I will kick your sorry Hangar Queen ass,” Brad told him. “And right in front of your little friends, too.”

For a second, he thought the other man would play it smart and back down. That would be . . . disappointing. But then he saw Carson's nostrils flare and knew he'd jabbed the right nerve with that Hangar Queen crack. Maybe it wasn't fair to rub Deke's face in the fact that his beloved Air Force had treated him like a broken-down bird useful only for spare parts, but this wasn't exactly a time to be fair.

Carson shoved his shoulder hard. “Screw you,” he snarled.

One,
Brad thought. He just smiled.

Furious now, Carson started to shove him again.

Now
.

Brad slid to the left, deflecting the other man's arm up and away with a right fan block.

Off balance, Carson stumbled forward.

Moving swiftly and fluidly, Brad swung in behind him, sliding his left hand under and around the other man's jaw to bring Carson's throat into the crook of his elbow. At the same time, he brought his right hand over to grip the back of the former Air Force pilot's head and pushed forward, exponentially increasing the force on his carotid arteries.

Within seconds, deprived of any blood flow to his brain, Carson sagged, unconscious. Brad dropped him to the hangar floor. The self-defense training he had received from Chris Wohl and his countersurveillance operatives of Scion, even though long discontinued, still stuck with him.

“Who's next?” he asked, stepping over the other man's limp body. He grinned. “I'll be nice. You can both come at me at the same time.”

But Carson's two cronies were already backing away. One of them had his cell phone out. “Sky Masters Security?” he stammered. “We've got a big problem in the Simulator Building. We need help, right now!”

The other looked at Brad with an odd mix of fear and curiosity in his eyes. “You know you're totally fucked, McLanahan, don't you?”

Brad shrugged. “Well, yeah, I guess I probably am.”

OSCE A
RMS
C
ONTROL
S
TATION,

NEAR
S
TAROVOITOVE,

U
RKAINIAN-
P
OLISH
B
ORDER

T
HAT SAME TIME

Lieutenant General Mikhail Voronov, commander of Russia's 20th Guards Army, leaned forward in the Kazan Ansat-U helicopter's left-hand seat, studying the ground flashing below at 250 kilometers per hour. This part of western Ukraine was covered in tiny lakes, narrow rivers, and marshland. Patches of pine and oak forest alternated with small fields sown in rye, potatoes, and oats. There were relatively few roads, most of them running east toward Kiev and west toward the Polish frontier.

A poor countryside, Voronov thought. But a useful place to keep a choke hold on the Ukrainians.

“We are five minutes out, sir,” the pilot told him. “Captains Covaci and Yurevich report they are ready for your inspection.”

“Very good,” Voronov said.

Stefan Covaci, a Romanian military police officer, and Vitalyi Yurevich, a member of Belarus's border guards, jointly commanded one of the OSCE arms control posts sited at every border crossing into Ukraine. Since Romania was friendly to Ukraine and Belarus favored Russia, the dual command arrangement kept each national contingent reasonably honest and efficient.

In theory, under the cease-fire agreement between Ukraine's government and the separatists allied with Moscow, these stations were supposed to stem the flow of weapons and military technology that might trigger a new conflict. In practice, their work helped keep the Ukrainians militarily weak and under Moscow's thumb. Weapons sought by Kiev were deemed contraband, while Russian arms shipments to Donetsk, Luhansk, and other rebel-held cities easily evaded the OSCE's inspectors.

The Russian general smiled, remembering the carefully crafted English-language quip his president had used at a recent meeting: “So the West thinks OSCE stands for the ‘Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe,' eh?” Russian Federation President Gennadiy Gryzlov had said with a wolfish grin. “How very high-minded of them. Fortunately for us, we know that it really stands for the ‘Organization to Secure Our Conquests and Empire.' ”

It was the kind of darkly ironic gibe Voronov greatly enjoyed.

Since the tank, motor-rifle, and artillery brigades of his 20th Guards Army were based closest to Ukraine's eastern border, Voronov acted as Moscow's de facto satrap for the rebel-controlled regions. He made sure that the Kremlin's carefully expressed “wishes” were obeyed to the letter. If necessary, separatists who balked were discreetly eliminated by special hit teams under his orders—as were other Ukrainians still living in those areas who were too stupid to understand who now ruled them.

As the senior Russian commander in this region, he also made a habit of periodically inspecting the OSCE's arms control posts. These inspection tours added up to long, dreary hours spent flying from place to place, refueling when necessary, but his visits kept the monitors on their toes. And that was useful. Arms and ammunition they confiscated were arms and ammunition his own troops would not have to face when the day finally came to finish the job and reconquer all of Ukraine.

For now, President Gryzlov seemed content with the status quo, but the general suspected that would soon change. The NATO powers, led by the United States, were increasingly weak. Just last year the Americans had effectively stood aside while Russia first destroyed an S-19 spaceplane with their vice president aboard, and then blew their prized Armstrong orbital military station into a million pieces. And if anything, their new president, a woman of all things, seemed even less likely to get in Moscow's way.

Voronov's sly grin slipped.

Poland was the one real remaining obstacle. It, too, had a new president, Piotr Wilk. But this Pole, a former air force commander,
seemed made of sterner stuff than the American, Stacy Anne Barbeau. His sympathies plainly lay with Ukraine's democratic regime. And he was already proposing a program of significantly increased defense spending to boost Poland's military capabilities. If left too long to his own devices, Wilk seemed likely to make trouble for Moscow.

Which gave Voronov all the more reason to keep a close eye on this particular arms control post. Sited at the busiest border crossing between Poland and Ukraine, it was just the place the Poles might use for clandestine shipments to Kiev.

“The Starovoitove arms control station is in sight,” the helicopter pilot reported. He reduced collective and pulled back on his cyclic joystick to begin slowing the Ansat. He keyed his mike. “
Opekun
flight, clear us into the landing zone. Acknowledge.”

Another voice crackled through their headphones. “Understood, Lead. Guardian flight complying. Out.”

Two narrow-bodied Ansat-2RC light helicopter gunships flashed past and descended, spiraling into orbit ahead at low altitude. The pilot and gunner aboard each helicopter were using their nose-mounted infrared sensors to scan for potential threats. If anyone was concealed in the surrounding forests, their heat signature would stand out against the cooler vegetation.

Voronov looked through the windscreen. They were coming up on the Bug River, a shallow, meandering waterway that marked the border between Poland and Ukraine. Two bridges spanned the river, one for the Lublin-Kiev railroad and the other for the E373 highway. Sunlight glinted off slanted glass and metal roofs, pinpointing the twin checkpoints where the Poles and Ukrainians conducted their own hunt for illegal immigrants, cigarettes, drugs, and other contraband.

Long lines of semitrailer trucks and cars were backed up on the highway in both directions, waiting for clearance across the frontier. More vehicles filled the large lots adjacent to each customs and border inspection plaza or were parked nose to tail along the various connector roads.

The OSCE had erected three plain, prefabricated buildings just beyond the Ukrainian border crossing. One was a headquarters and
communications center. Another provided living quarters for the twenty Romanian and Belarusian arms inspectors. The third building, larger than the others and the only one surrounded by a barbed-wire-topped fence, served both as a storage area for any confiscated weapons and an armory. There were no other defenses.

Voronov's thick lips pursed in disgust. This was his second inspection of the Starovoitove Station in the past twelve months and nothing had changed. The Romanian military police captain and his Belarusian counterpart refused to consider fortifying their post, insisting that maintaining good relations with the locals required a more open approach. Good relations with the Poles and the Ukrainians?
Kakaya yerunda,
the general thought. What bullshit!

Then he shrugged. Their carelessness about their own safety wasn't his problem.

“Lead, this is
Opekun One,
” the senior gunship pilot radioed. “You are clear to land.”

The driver of a huge MZKT Volant truck parked along the road watched the Russian utility helicopter fly low overhead and flare in for a landing next to the OSCE headquarters. His refrigerated semitrailer carried the logo of a Donetsk-based frozen foods company.

He leaned forward and spoke softly into an intercom rigged between the cab and its trailer. “Our fat friend is arriving.”

“And the two whores keeping him company?”

“Still circling, but I think they'll follow him in soon,” the driver said, peering through his windshield to watch the two shark-nosed Ansat gunships orbiting over the border checkpoint.

“Very good,” the voice from the trailer said. “Keep me informed.”

Less than two hundred meters away, the helicopter carrying Voronov settled smoothly onto the landing pad. Its twin turboshaft engines spun down and stopped. Four soldiers in light blue berets, bulky body armor, and pixelated camouflage uniforms jumped out, bending low to clear the slowing rotors. Each carried a compact 9mm Bizon submachine gun. They fanned out across the pad, stay
ing between the helicopter and the group of unarmed Romanian and Belarusian arms control monitors already lined up to greet their distinguished visitor.

Those were Voronov's Spetsnaz bodyguards, the truck driver realized. The Russian lieutenant general was a cautious man. Then he snorted softly. But perhaps not cautious enough.

Two Russian junior officers, clearly military aides, followed the bodyguards. They snapped to attention as Voronov himself clambered out of the helicopter cockpit and dropped heavily onto the tarmac. Straightening up, the general marched forward to exchange salutes with the two young officers assigned to command the OSCE station. Decked out in his full dress uniform, complete with peaked cap, jangling medals, and highly polished black boots, the burly, thickset Russian looked more like an overstuffed toy soldier than a cold-blooded killer.

If so, his looks were deceiving, the truck driver decided grimly. Both directly and indirectly, the commander of the 20th Guards Army was responsible for thousands of deaths.

One after another, the two Russian helicopter gunships settled onto the far end of the pad and cut their engines.

Trailed by his Spetsnaz bodyguards, Voronov and his hosts moved off toward the headquarters building. Behind them, the other Romanian and Belarusian arms control monitors dispersed, with some heading for their posts at the Ukrainian customs plaza and others to their off-duty living quarters. Voronov's pilot climbed out of the Ansat-U's cockpit and stretched, easing shoulders cramped during the long flight.

The truck driver clicked the intercom again. “The whores are in bed. It's time.” Then Pavlo Lytvyn popped open the cab door and dropped lightly onto the grass verge running along the road. He carried an AKS-74U carbine wrapped in a lightweight windbreaker.

Inside the semitrailer, Fedir Kravchenko stood up. He turned to the others crowding its otherwise empty interior. A quick, warped grin
flitted across his scarred face. “Right. Keep it nice and easy, boys. You're just getting some fresh air, remember? Stretching your legs during a short break from a long drive, eh?”

His men nodded. Most wore the set, grim expressions of those who had already killed enemies in battle and seen friends and comrades die. A few of the youngest, those without combat experience, looked pale but determined.

He unlatched one of the heavy back doors and stood aside. “Then off you go. Remember the plan. Follow your orders. And good luck!”

They filed out past him, ambling along the road toward OSCE post in scattered ones and twos. A few had leather jackets thrown over their shoulders to hide slung submachine guns—a mix of Israeli-designed UZIs, older Czech-made Skorpions, and newer Polish
PM
-84s. Others carried duffel bags carefully unzipped to allow quick access to the assault rifles and other weapons stashed inside.

Kravchenko was the last one out. Appreciatively, he slapped the thick insulation that had hidden them from the thermal sensors carried by the Russian helicopters. Voronov's flying guard dogs had gotten lazy, he thought. They'd switched on their high-tech IR gear and switched off their brains.

Pavlo Lytvyn joined him and together they strolled along the edge of the highway, bitching amicably and loudly about the lousy roads and the extortionate price of petrol.

Fifty meters from the front entrance to the OSCE headquarters building, Kravchenko knelt down, pretending to tie a shoelace. He risked a glance ahead. The Russian general's bodyguards were bunched around the door, joking and smoking cigarettes.

Sloppy, the Ukrainian thought coldly. With their boss safely tucked away inside that building, those supposedly elite commandos were acting as though they were off duty until it was time to escort the general back to his helicopter. He looked up at Lytvyn. “Everything set?”

The bigger man nodded, his eyes roving along the highway and around the OSCE compound. Their strike force was in position—carefully dispersed around the perimeter of their target. Some were
prone in a drainage ditch that paralleled the road. Others crouched behind trees or had concealed themselves among the vehicles parked next to the compound's buildings, white official SUVs assigned to the joint Romanian and Belarusian arms control team.

“Rozkryty peklo,”
Kravchenko said stonily. “Unleash hell.”

Still down on one knee, Kravchenko reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a metal egg shape. It was a Russian-made RGN offensive fragmentation grenade. Without hesitating, he pulled the pin, making sure to keep a tight grip on the arming lever. Then he stood up and started walking steadily toward Voronov's bodyguards, holding the grenade low at his side.

Lyvtyn walked beside him, now grousing loudly about the crummy food at their last rest stop. “So I told that stupid cow of a waitress if I wanted to die of food poisoning, I'd eat my wife's cooking. I wouldn't pay fifty
hryvnias
for your slop!”

Kravchenko forced a laugh.

Forty-five meters.

His right hand ached from the strain of holding the grenade lever closed. A droplet of sweat stung his one good eye. Impatiently, he blinked it away.

They were forty meters away.

One of the Spetsnaz soldiers, turning away from his friends to light another cigarette, finally noticed them. Startled, he stared at the two Ukrainians for a long moment and then hurriedly nudged his closest comrade.

“
Stoi!
Hold it!” this one shouted, unslinging his submachine gun.

Thirty-five meters. Close enough.

Still moving, Kravchenko hurled the grenade toward the bunched-up Russian bodyguards. As it flew through the air, the arming lever popped off in a hissing shower of sparks and smoke.

Kravchenko and Lytvyn threw themselves flat.

The grenade hit the pavement right in the middle of the Russians and went off in a blinding flash. Ninety-seven grams of RDX explosive hurled jagged shards of aluminum outward at more than two thousand meters per second. All four soldiers were knocked down.
Fragments that hit their body armor failed to penetrate the titanium and hard carbide boron ceramic chest- and backplates. Fragments that hit arms, legs, faces, or skulls punched through in a gruesome spray of blood and bits of shattered bone.