by Dale Brown
“I also want additional Spetsnaz teams and GRU agents deployed into Ukraine and along the Polish-Belarusian frontier,” Gryzlov said. “If necessary, you are authorized to conduct covert reconnaissance missions into Poland.”
“Sir?” Sokolov asked.
“You will find these terrorists, Gregor,” Gryzlov said flatly. “You will find their hiding places and weapons caches. You will identify those in Warsaw who support our enemies. And when you do, we will destroy them. All of them.”
THE WHITE HOUSE,
WASHINGTON, D.C.
THAT SAME TIME
“You all heard Gryzlov,” President Barbeau said, looking around the table at her national security team. The chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Air Force General Timothy Spelling, and the CIA director, Thomas Torrey were the only holdovers from the Phoenix administration. Everyone else owed their appointment and their loyalty to her. “Besides the negotiations I’ve proposed, what are our other options?”
“They’re pretty limited,” her national security adviser, Edward Rauch, admitted. Gray-haired, pale, and ascetically thin, Rauch had spent half a lifetime writing about U.S. defense policy for a number of different Beltway think tanks. “For one thing, it’s clear that NATO has no realistic military means of deterring the Russians from hitting Poland again.”
“What?” Secretary of State Karen Grayson didn’t even try to hide her astonishment. The petite former senator from Montana had spent most of her congressional career focused on agriculture issues and international trade. “You’re telling me that the alliance we’ve spent sixty-plus years supporting as a counter to the Russians is a total bust? How is that possible?”
“Most of our NATO allies have been cutting their armed forces since the Berlin Wall came down, and their cuts have gone well beyond the fat and deep into muscle and bone,” Rauch explained. “Heck, Germany is supposed to be the linchpin of the alliance. But their air force is so short of spare parts that they’re cannibalizing frontline fighter aircraft just to keep the rest flying. Most of their cargo planes and helicopters are fit only for the scrap heap. Their navy has ships that can’t steam, and Berlin would have to deactivate half of its armored brigades just to bring the others up to wartime strength.”
Rauch looked around the table. “The plain fact is that Moscow has more available combat power—aircraft, tanks, artillery, infantry, and tactical missiles—than all of the European NATO countries combined. Right now the alliance is a busted flush.”
“The Poles have been increasing their defense spending for several years,” General Spelling objected. “Ever since the Russians annexed the Crimea and started screwing around in Ukraine.”
“Which may be part of the problem,” Rauch said. “Warsaw hasn’t been shy about telling the world that its defense buildup is aimed at the Russians. That’s not the kind of challenge a guy like Gryzlov can ignore.”
“Are you saying this so-called terrorist attack was a fake, Ed?” Barbeau asked carefully. “That the Russians staged it so they could have an excuse to go after the Poles?”
Her national security adviser shrugged his narrow shoulders. “I don’t know. It seems a little farfetched, I guess. And those reports from the OSCE team sure made it sound real enough. But the fact is that we’re awfully short on good firsthand intelligence sources inside the Kremlin.”
Barbeau looked across the table at Thomas Torrey. “Tom?”
The CIA director nodded slowly, plainly uncomfortable at talking so openly about something so highly classified in front of so many others. Top-level clearances or not, whatever more than two or three people knew in D.C. was likely to leak to the press. “Ed is right, Madam President. The signals our satellites picked up strongly suggest the Russians were reacting to an attack, not following some scripted plan. On the other hand, our HUMINT in Moscow is thinner than I would like right now.”
“HUMINT?” the secretary of state asked, evidently confused.
“Spies, Karen,” Barbeau said patiently. “HUMINT is short for ‘human intelligence.’ We’ve got to get you up to speed on the jargon.” She turned back to the CIA director and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “Look here, I’m tired of stumbling around in the dark. Right now we don’t know anything concrete about the people who killed that Russian general and triggered all this mayhem. We don’t know if they were Poles. Or Russians. Or Ukrainians. Or men from Mars, for that matter. True?” They nodded. “So get your intelligence assets in gear over there,” Barbeau ordered. “Put some people on the ground in Warsaw and see what you can dig up in Moscow. Get me some hard data, understand?” They nodded again.
“There are some precautionary measures we could take in the interim,” General Spelling said.
“Such as?”
“We could rotate a squadron of F-22 Raptors to Poland for NATO air defense exercises,” the chairman of the Joint Chiefs told her. “At the same time, we could temporarily assign a battalion from the 173rd Airborne Brigade in Vicenza, Italy, to duty in the region. Once you give the order, our paratroops can be on the ground in seventy-two hours. Plus, we have enough sealift in position to ship a battalion from the First Cavalry Division to Gdansk, complete with M1A2 Abrams tanks and Bradley Fighting Vehicles.”
There was a very uncomfortable silence around the table. “To what end, General?” Barbeau asked finally.
“Sending American troops and aircraft to Poland might make the Russians think a lot harder about pushing this situation over the edge,” the chairman of the Joint Chiefs said. “Plus, it’ll give the Poles some confidence that we’re sticking by our alliance. I imagine Warsaw is pretty rattled right now.”
“No,” Barbeau said decisively. She shook her head. “President Gryzlov and his government are on a hair trigger already. I’m not going to give them the slightest excuse to escalate this mess.”
“But, Madam President—”
“But nothing, General,” she snapped, cutting Spelling off in midsentence. She smiled sweetly. “I’m enough of an Air Force brat to know that a dozen fighter planes and a thousand paratroopers, tank crewmen, and infantry grunts are not going to change the strategic equation in Eastern Europe. That’s a trip wire, not a fighting force. And I am definitely not going to put American soldiers and airmen in unnecessary harm’s way just to make the Poles feel safer!”
Sighing, Stacy Barbeau pushed her chair back from the table and stood up. “That’s all for now, ladies and gentlemen. We’ll reconvene when we know more.” She shook hands with them as they filed out of the Situation Room. But she stopped Luke Cohen on his way out the door. “Hang on for a second, Luke.”
Cohen, a tall, thin New Yorker who had managed her campaign for president and who was now her White House chief of staff, nodded. He dropped into the closest seat and sat crouched over, rapidly scanning through e-mails while she finished saying her good-byes.
She turned away from the door. “You were awfully quiet, Luke.”
Cohen looked up with a lopsided grin. “It didn’t seem like you needed any help.” He shrugged. “Besides, you know my forte is politics, not bombs and missiles. That’s why you have pointy-headed armchair strategists like Rauch.”
“Well, what about the politics of this mess?” Barbeau asked pointedly. “From a domestic point of view, do you think we ought to move more forcefully to help the Poles?”
“No way,” Cohen said. He put his tablet to sleep and set it down on the table. “Politically speaking, we do not need a confrontation with the Russians right now. Sure your poll numbers are down a bit now that the inaugural honeymoon is over, but not enough to lose any sleep over. We still have enough clout to move your legislative program through the House and Senate.”
He spread his hands. “Besides, you were elected to accomplish three things: to restore federal social spending after all this ‘fiscal austerity’ BS; to strengthen the Army, Navy, and Air Force by building real ships, tanks, and planes—not all that pie-in-the-sky high-tech space garbage; and to mend all
the diplomatic fences Ken Phoenix and his gung ho space cowboys knocked down with their stupid Starfire Project. Going toe-to-toe with the Russkies isn’t part of the plan.”
“Nice speech, Luke, but Gryzlov may have plans of his own,” Barbeau said with a slight smile.
Cohen shrugged again. “So what?” He looked up at her. “Do you really want to risk a shooting war for a bunch of Poles? Especially if it turns out they’ve been dumb enough to turn a blind eye to terrorists gunning for the Russians?”
“You think Gryzlov is telling the truth?” Barbeau asked.
“Does it really matter?” her chief of staff countered.
“No,” Barbeau admitted slowly. “It doesn’t.”
PRESIDENTIAL PALACE,
WARSAW, POLAND
THAT SAME TIME
Moving at his usual rapid pace, Polish President Piotr Wilk strode into the Blue Room and took his seat in the middle of the long conference table. In ordinary times, Poland’s president served as the head of state and commander of the armed forces—leaving routine government business to his appointed prime minister and council of ministers.
But these were not ordinary times.
Today Wilk had convened an emergency Cabinet Council meeting, calling together the ministers most directly charged with Poland’s defense, economy, and foreign affairs. Their task was to craft an official response to Russia’s brutal surprise attack on the little village of Berdyszcze.
Grim, serious faces met his gaze. The usual hubbub of friendly greetings among colleagues was gone, replaced by a dead, unnerving silence.
For just a millisecond, the Polish president was tempted to break the almost unbearable tension by repeating Ronald Reagan’s famous wisecrack about “bombing Russia in five minutes.” But he resisted the temptation. Given the deep and abiding anger felt by the Polish people and armed forces over Moscow’s latest act of aggression, too many of the men and women gathered here might be willing to turn his “joke” into reality. For that matter, Wilk bitterly admitted to himself, he was one of them.
Wiry, middling tall, and barely into his midforties, Poland’s president still looked very much like the fighter pilot he had once been. Before being lured into politics, Wilk had flown Russian-made MiG-29 Fulcrum and American-made F-16 Fighting Falcon fighters. Marked as one of the new Third Republic’s most promising officers, he had risen first to the rank of general and then the position of commander of the First Air Defense Wing, responsible for the defense of the capital itself. Taking on Russians was a task he had practiced almost his whole professional life.
Unfortunately, briefly satisfying though it would be, going to war with Moscow would be an act of irrational and suicidal defiance. Once the Cabinet Council began its work, the cold hard figures provided by the minister of national defense, Deputy Prime Minister Janusz Gierek, made that all too clear:
“Our rearmament program has made good progress,” Gierek said. His dry, precise presentation and shock of unruly white hair were constant reminders that he had been a highly regarded professor of mathematics before entering government. “But the Russians still significantly outnumber us in every category—by better than six to one in raw troop strength, three to one in tanks and armored fighting vehicles, and six to one in heavy artillery.” He paused briefly to let that sink in, then pushed his reading glasses back up his nose and went on. “In a defensive war, fighting on our home ground and in our cities, our forces might be able to slow any Russian invasion, perhaps even prolonging the fight for some weeks, until NATO reinforcements arrive.”
“Delay is not a path to victory,” Wilk said flatly.
“No, Piotr, it is not,” Gierek agreed sadly. “And even achieving that much is unlikely, given Moscow’s overwhelming superiority in modern aircraft and tactical missiles. Russia’s recent de facto alliance with the People’s Republic of China would give it the freedom to mass large numbers of its most advanced fighters and fighter-bombers against us. My analysts estimate their likely strength at several hundred frontline aircraft.”
“While we have fewer than seventy,” Wilk said.
“A third of which are MiG-29 Fulcrums,” the defense minister reminded him. “And we saw how well they performed against Russian Sukhoi-35s yesterday.”
Wilk frowned. Captain Kaczor and Lieutenant Czarny had both been brave, competent pilots. They had been killed from ambush, caught by surprise in peacetime. Still, Gierek’s point was valid. Poland’s upgraded MiG-29s were no real match for Russia’s Su-27s, Su-30s, and Su-35s, with their superior radars and longer-range missiles.
“Then what can we do?” the prime minister, Klaudia Rybak, asked quietly. She was one of the brilliant economists whose work had helped transform Poland from a drab Marxist failure to a booming free-market nation.
“We must protest this murderous attack to the United Nations Security Council,” Foreign Minister Andrzej Waniek replied.
“Which will accomplish what?” the prime minister wondered.
“Precisely nothing,” Wilk said heavily. He shook his head. “Let’s not fool ourselves. The UN is a laughingstock. And even if it were not, the Russians would veto any serious move to punish them.”
“Then we must take our case to the NATO Council and the European Union,” Waniek argued.
“Yes, we must, Andrzej,” Wilk agreed. “For the sake of public and international opinion, if nothing else.” He shrugged. “But I do not believe either NATO or the EU will come riding to our rescue. Nor will the Americans on their own, for that matter.”
“Why not?” the foreign minister asked.
“Because those bastards in Moscow have effectively poisoned the well by claiming we are giving sanctuary to terrorists,” Wilk said. “We all know this is false, but—”
“Do we?” Gierek said suddenly. “Can we be sure?” Surprised heads turned toward him. “I don’t mean Moscow’s assertion that our government supports those who killed their general,” the defense minister added quickly. “That is quite obviously absurd.” He looked troubled. “But can we be completely certain these gunmen were not operating from our territory?”
Wilk thought about that. Statements made by the OSCE commanders, the Romanian Covaci and his Bulgarian counterpart, had indicated the attackers were Ukrainians—probably war veterans embittered by Ukraine’s defeat at the hands of the Russians back in 2014. But the Polish-Ukrainian border was porous and thinly policed. There were not many Ukrainians living in Poland, but those who did tended to live close to the Bug River. Could some of them have provided shelter for their fellow countrymen, perhaps even unwittingly?
He turned to the minister of the interior. “You’d better check that possibility out, Irena.”
“I already have investigative teams on the ground,” Irena Malinowski said crisply. Prim, good-looking, and always efficient, she ran her department, which included Poland’s national police and border-guard forces, with an iron hand. “If evidence of any such involvement still exists in the ruins left by those Russian savages, we will find it.”
The cabinet meeting dragged on for another hour, but it limped to an end without being able to do much more than vote against “precipitous” military retaliation for Russia’s raid into Polish territory. The consensus was that President Wilk should stay in close communication with NATO and with the White House—passing along intelligence about Russian military activities while seeking whatever military and diplomatic aid he could obtain. Finally, they all agreed that more troops and police should be deployed to seal the border. No one wanted to give Moscow any more easy excuses for further aggression.
“Half measures!” Piotr Wilk muttered later to the tough-looking, slender young woman in uniform keeping pace at his side. They were heading for the armored limousine that would take him back to his working office in the Belweder Palace, a few kilometers south. Four plainclothes bodyguards kept station to their front and rear. “Nothing but half measures!”
“What else can we do, sir?” Nadia Roze
k asked quietly. Newly assigned as one of the president’s personal military aides, she wore the four stars of a captain on her shoulder boards—along with the insignia of Poland’s Special Forces and her pilot’s badge, the gapa, a silver eagle with a golden laurel wreath clutched in its bill.
“That’s the devil of it, Captain,” Wilk admitted. “We have no good options. Only a choice between those which are bad and those which are even worse! Which is precisely where Moscow wants us.”
“You think the Russians will hit us again, sir?” Nadia said.
Wilk nodded. “I do.” He grimaced. “For all his so-called sophistication, Gennadiy Gryzlov is a predator and a thug, just like all his predecessors. Having once tasted Polish blood without punishment, I believe he will look for other opportunities to test our resolve. To weaken and damage us.”
Nadia said nothing for a moment. But her blue-gray eyes darkened at the thought of more civilians lying dead or maimed in the ruins of their cities and towns. Her mouth tightened into a thin line. Her parents had wanted their only child to pursue a career as a scientist or a doctor or an engineer. Instead, she had joined the armed forces to help defend her beloved country. She would not sit by and see Poland left helpless at the feet of another enemy—especially not the barbarous Russians.
She glanced at the president. “What about our allies, sir? The other NATO powers?”
“NATO will be useless, I suspect,” Wilk said bitterly. “The Germans and the others are too weak—and too dependent on Russian energy—to risk coming to our aid with anything more than words. Or perhaps weak sanctions at best. As though Gryzlov and his backers in the Kremlin will be swayed by threats to their petty cash reserves!”
“And the Americans?”
Wilk shrugged. “I do not trust the new American president, Stacy Barbeau. Or rather I trust her all too well. President Phoenix may not have been the wisest of men, but he was a man of honor. His successor seems more likely to care about her popularity at home than doing what is right abroad. I do not believe she will rush to our aid if she believes her voters will not support her.”