Iron Wolf (42 page)

T
HE
K
REMLIN,
M
OSCOW

T
HAT EVENING

Sergei Tarzarov sat bolt upright in one of the plush chairs lining the walls of President Gryzlov's outer office. He was not alone. Defense Minister Sokolov, Chief of the General Staff General Khristenko, and Colonel General Maksimov, head of the air force, sat around him. All four of them wore the same uneasy, nervous expression, as though they were small, errant schoolboys summoned for a beating by an angry headmaster.

But now, after having been ordered here on the double, they were being kept waiting.

“The president is in another meeting,” his private secretary had told them apologetically. “He will be with you shortly.”

Noting the absence of the foreign minister from this edgy gathering, Tarzarov frowned. Was Gennadiy foolish enough and reckless enough to waste time screwing Daria Titeneva while the rest of his national security advisers cooled their heels outside his door? At a moment when so much of Russia's war strategy appeared to be collapsing in ruin? It scarcely seemed credible, but then again, many of the younger man's actions often seemed rooted in instinct and impulse—rather than in cold calculation.

The phone on Ivan Ulanov's desk buzzed. Gryzlov's secretary snatched it up. “Yes, Mr. President?” He listened in silence for a moment and then nodded sharply. “At once, Mr. President!”

Ulanov rose from his desk and hurried over to open the door to Gryzlov's inner office.

“Very good. Then we have an understanding,” Tarzarov heard the president saying. “Do not make me regret giving you my trust. You will ensure that your mistress understands this, too.”

A second voice echoed his words, translating them into a different language. Into
English,
Tarzarov realized abruptly. He stared hard at the two men who left Gryzlov's office. One he recognized, a translator
attached to the Foreign Ministry. The second man, tall and thin and tired-looking, was a stranger. Something about him seemed familiar, however—as though Tarzarov had seen him before, perhaps on television or in the background at some international conference. Maybe in the entourage of a political leader? His travel-rumpled clothes marked him as an American, but not one of the sophisticated executives Gryzlov occasionally invited in to discuss old times in the international oil industry. What the devil was Gennadiy up to?

“Gentlemen,” Ulanov said, breaking into his thoughts. “The president will see you now.”

After being ushered into Gryzlov's unsmiling presence, the four older men were not asked to sit. Instead, they found themselves facing his desk, lined up like children—or like prisoners facing an execution squad, Tarzarov realized with a sudden shiver.

“This war has entered a new phase,” the president said coldly. “Today's utter failure to resupply the Twentieth Guards Army leaves me no choice.” He turned his pale blue hooded eyes on Khristenko. “You will transmit the necessary warning and preparatory orders to our Iskander missile brigade based in Kaliningrad.”

“Sir!” Khristenko snapped to attention. “And the target sets?”

“I want every Polish air base, especially the nest of American mercenaries at Powidz, slated for destruction,” Grzylov said. “You will also target the centers of governmental power and administration in Warsaw. Finally, additional missiles must be aimed at the most significant concentrations of enemy troops opposing General Nikitin's Sixth Army.” He favored them all with an icy, predatory smile. “When our Iskanders have finished blowing a hole in the Polish defenses, I want Nikitin's tanks on the march toward Warsaw.”

Khristenko looked worried. “The missile brigade we have assembled can fire a devastating barrage, sir,” he said hesitantly. “But even nearly one hundred highly accurate conventional warheads may not be able to accomplish the objectives you have set forth.”

“No?” Gryzlov said, with deceptive mildness. His eyes hardened. “Then you have my permission to include the use of tactical nuclear weapons in your attack.”

Tarzarov decided it was time to intervene, to buy time to dissuade Gennadiy from this madness. “Mr. President, this may be most—”

“Enough, Sergei!” Gryzlov snapped. “The Poles and their hireling techno-soldiers have forced my hand. If their new weapons and tactics are beyond our ability to defeat with conventional methods, I am fully prepared to employ the only effective weapons remaining in our arsenal.” With a dismissive wave, he turned back to Khristenko. “How soon can our Iskander brigade be ready to fire, General?”

“Within two to three hours after getting their target sets, Mr. President,” the chief of the General Staff said quickly. “My staff has already prepared detailed plans which include most of the targets you have just assigned. The missile units move from their garrison locations to presurveyed launch positions for maximum accuracy. Once we have the most recent reports from Sixth Army's reconnaissance units, keying in the remaining target coordinates will not take long.”

“Two hours, eh?” Gryzlov pondered that for a moment. “Very good, Mikhail,” he said, smiling more genuinely now. Then his mouth thinned again. “But you will
not
fire those missiles without my direct order. And that order may not come until much later tonight. If
ever
. If we employ tactical nuclear weapons, we will follow all established execution protocols. I'm not afraid to use nukes, but I want to know precisely when and where all the detonations will be.
Precisely
.”

For the first time since entering the president's office, Tarzarov felt a glimmer of hope.

Gryzlov must have seen it on his face, because the younger man nodded to him. “Yes, Sergei. I do have one more card to play.” He showed his teeth. “Or, perhaps more accurately, I have one more card to watch someone else play
for
me.”

S
ECURE
H
ANGAR,
I
RON
W
OLF
S
QUADRON,

P
OWIDZ,
P
OLAND

A
SHORT TIME LATER

Piotr Wilk looked up at the Cybernetic Infantry Device. “I am very glad to see that you are unhurt, General McLanahan.”

At his side, Nadia Rozek stiffened slightly. She glanced coolly at her president. “You knew that he was alive, too?”

“It was not my secret to share, Captain,” Wilk said in apology.

To his surprise, the tall Iron Wolf robot inclined its head toward the Special Forces captain. “But it was mine to give, Nadia. And I made a mistake in not permitting Brad to tell you earlier—especially after we fought together at Konotop. I hope you will forgive me?”

Nadia's stony expression softened and slowly a smile crept across her face. “It would be wrong, I suppose, to hold a grudge against you for not really being dead.” She tossed a mischievous look at Brad McLanahan. “So long as there are no
more
secrets being kept from me, that is.”

“No, ma'am,” the young American assured her hastily, grinning in relief. “One deep, dark McLanahan family mystery is the limit.”

From his side of the conference table, Kevin Martindale cleared his throat. “Much as I hate to interrupt this touching scene of reconciliation and forgiveness, there is still a war on.” He motioned toward the tall Iron Wolf war robot. “And while General McLanahan is very much alive in his new abode, the temporary loss of CID One's combat power is something we have to factor into our plans.”

“How long will it take to repair the machine?” Wilk asked.

“At least forty-eight hours,” Martindale said. “The robot took serious damage from that HE hit. And if that wasn't enough, the emergency overrides ordered by our friend here so he could keep fighting created a whole series of system failures and meltdowns. Some of my best Scion techs are going to have to strip CID One way down past the exoskeleton just to get at some of its injuries.”

“I see.” Wilk nodded. He looked around the table at the Americans. “But perhaps this reduction in your Iron Wolf fighting force will not matter too much. So far, your campaign has been successful beyond my most fervent hopes and prayers.”

“That is so,” Nadia agreed with deep satisfaction. “The Twentieth Guards Army is stalled far from our border—unable to advance against us and unable even to retreat without risking further ambush.” She grinned. “Our metal wolves have taught them to fear the dark . . . and now even the day.”

“Unfortunately, we haven't been able to delay Gryzlov's other invasion army,” Martindale reminded the two Poles. “Its troops and tanks are still on the move.”

“True.” Wilk nodded again. “However, I believe my country's conventional forces can stop them cold, especially now that your earlier victories have made Moscow reluctant to use its airpower against us.”

The Americans, including the CID, exchanged worried looks. The robot leaned down again. “With respect, sir, it's far too soon to pop the cork on any victory champagne. Gennadiy Gryzlov has other weapons at his disposal.” His voice was somber. “And he is not a quitter.” Martindale and Brad nodded their agreement.

“You refer to the Russian missile forces?” Wilk asked quietly.

“That's right,” Martindale said. He reached into the briefcase at his feet and brought out a sheaf of printouts. With a flourish, he handed them to the Polish president. Other copies went to Brad and Nadia. “This stuff is hot, Piotr. As in practically ‘burn
before
reading' hot.”

Wilk glanced at the top page. It was marked
Top Secret CLARION—NOFORN
in bold red letters. He raised an eyebrow. “NOFORN?”

“No foreign national access allowed,” Martindale explained. “Which definitely means you, and every other NATO ally, for that matter.” He nodded toward the documents. “What you're looking at is an emergency alert sent yesterday to all major American military commands in Europe and the Middle East. The Russians have moved a substantial tactical missile force—possibly as many as three
brigades of their Iskander-M and R-500 cruise missile launchers—into a position in Kaliningrad from which they can hit most of Poland's military and political infrastructure.” He grimaced. “And if that wasn't bad enough, there are clear signs that Moscow has deployed tactical nuclear warheads to the same location.”

“My God,” Wilk muttered, staring down at the papers in his hands as if they had suddenly transformed into a nest of scorpions. “Are they insane?”

“The Russians don't think about nuclear weapons, at least tactical nukes, the same way we do,” Patrick McLanahan said grimly. “They see them as potentially useful battlefield tools.”

“That goes double for Gennadiy Gryzlov,” Martindale agreed. His eyes narrowed. “His father taught him that much when he hit us thirteen years ago.”

Heads around the table nodded. Nobody needed to dwell on the murderous attack Anatoliy Gryzlov had ordered against America's ICBM and long-range bomber forces. While the Russians had refrained from using high-yield strategic nuclear warheads, their smaller weapons had killed tens of thousands. With that history in mind, no one could doubt that Russia's current president might use the same kinds of weapons against a much smaller, much weaker country—especially one without a nuclear deterrent of its own.

“Then we must destroy these missiles before they can be launched,” Wilk said.

“Yes, sir,” Brad agreed absently, leafing through the pages of the Pentagon's warning. He stopped at a map showing the deployment zone for the Russian missile units. “Oh, shit . . .” He looked sick suddenly. “I have this really bad feeling that we don't have a lot of time left to take those launchers out.”

“What do you mean, son?” Patrick asked sharply.

“Some weird new intel came through from Scion right before President Wilk arrived,” Brad explained. “I was going to run it by you guys later, but now I'm afraid I know what it means.” Seeing his father's CID give him a minute, encouraging nod, he went on. “Besides rifling through Pentagon databases, Mr. Martindale's com
puter specialists have been poking around inside Russia's Internet and telecommunications networks.”

This time, they all nodded in understanding. Hacking Russia's communications had provided much of the intelligence they'd used to plan the Iron Wolf Squadron's raids on Konotop, Baranovichi, and other targets.

He showed them the map of the Kaliningrad area he'd been looking at. “Well, they just spotted a weird pattern in the cell- and satellite-phone and Internet activity in this sector.”

“What kind of pattern, Brad?” Nadia asked.

“About an hour ago, that whole region just went totally dark. There's zero communications activity. As in no wireless or satellite calls in or out at all. Every Internet connection is also down.”

“Which means the Russian units stationed there have gone on total EMCON,” Martindale realized abruptly. “Shutting down all outside communications is pretty standard security practice before any big operation. So it's a safe bet that Gryzlov is readying his tactical missiles for a massive strike.”

“Can our Iron Wolf ground forces destroy them?” Wilk asked.

“Not with just one CID operational, sir,” Patrick said. Then, looking through the Pentagon's assessment of the missile deployment area's defenses, he shook his head. “Not even with two robots, really. Gryzlov has this zone ringed with troops and SAMs. If we were willing to take a one-way trip, we might be able to punch a hole—but not in time to stop him from launching. Before we broke through, his warheads would be raining down across Poland.”

“Then we hit them with our remote-piloted XF-111 SuperVarks,” Brad said. “They're the only weapons we've got that can get in fast and still have a shot at blowing those launchers to hell and gone.”

“You believe your bombers can penetrate all those layers of antiaircraft defenses?” Wilk asked, unable to hide his disbelief. “How is that possible?”

“It'll be really tough to pull off,” Brad admitted. “And we'll lose a lot of aircraft, maybe even most of them. But I've run our Iron Wolf crews through simulated attacks on complexes almost as heavily
defended as this one. With the right mix of tactics and weapons, I think we can take those missile brigades out.” He looked around the table at the others. “Anyway, what choice do we really have? We either go all the way in now with the XF-111s and Coyotes, or we might as well call Gryzlov and ask for surrender terms.”

Wilk sat silently, deep in thought for what seemed an eternity. No one else spoke. Martindale, the two McLanahans, and even Captain Rozek could offer him advice. But this had to be his decision and his alone. Knowing now that the Russians might be planning the use of nuclear weapons—even so-called tactical weapons—against his nation and its armed forces, could he justify the risks involved in further resistance?

Nearly eighty years before, Poland had been crushed, partitioned, and enslaved by Nazi Germany and Stalinist Russia. Millions of her people had been murdered or starved to death. Even the end of the Second World War had brought only more decades of Communist oppression. But through all her suffering, Poland's spirit had endured—kept alive because so many of her ragged, brutalized people refused to kneel before tyrants. Could he do less?

For a moment longer, Piotr Wilk searched through his mind, trying to find the right words, words that would resonate with these brave American allies of his beleaguered nation. At last they came to him, in the ringing call to arms uttered by the American patriot Patrick Henry. He looked up, meeting their worried gaze with a defiant smile. “ ‘Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery?' ” he quoted. “ ‘Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty or give me death!' ”

Teary-eyed with pride, Nadia Rozek brought her fist down on the table. “Yes! We strike!”

“To win or lose it all?” Martindale asked softly.

Somberly, Wilk nodded. He turned to Brad. “Mr. McLanahan,” he said solemnly. “You will carry out an attack on the Russian missile forces as soon as your aircraft can be prepared for flight and armed.”