Iron Wolf

by Dale Brown

  “Years we do not have,” Wilk pointed out, frowning.

  Martindale nodded. “Exactly.”

  “Nevertheless, the difficulty remains,” Prime Minister Rybak said. She looked at Wilk and Gierek. “No such sum of money exists in the defense budget already passed by Parliament. Obtaining it would require a new appropriation, which would require a full debate. As would any move to cancel existing defense programs and reallocate their funds.”

  “A debate the opposition would drag out for weeks,” Wilk agreed, not bothering to hide the sour look on his face. Some of Poland’s opposition parties still contained men and women who were all too willing and even eager to build closer economic and political ties with Russia. He shook his head. “And even if we could debate the question in closed session, the news of what we were doing would be bound to leak to the press.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that!”

  “Which would give Moscow every incentive to attack us now, before we can bolster our defenses,” Gierek muttered. Gloomily, he shrugged his shoulders. “As I said, this is impossible.”

  “There may be an alternative,” Martindale said carefully.

  Gierek narrowed his eyes. “I thought you said you would not bargain on price, Mr. Martindale? Was that not so?”

  “What I said earlier was accurate: I won’t bargain on price, Defense Minister,” the American answered. “But I anticipated that securing a direct appropriation might be too difficult, and perhaps even impossible. No, what I’m referring to is an alternate method of payment—one which would also bind us even more closely to your nation’s defense and prosperity.”

  “Unlike the prime minister, I am not an economic genius,” Wilk said, speaking slowly and cautiously. “So I can safely admit confusion about your precise meaning. If you did not expect we could transfer the necessary money from our defense budget, how precisely do you expect to be paid?” He smiled thinly. “Unless you are willing to take an IOU or my personal check.”

  Martindale grinned suddenly. “Close, but not quite on target, Mr. President. What I propose is a trade, a straight swap,” he continued. He tapped another key, bringing up a table of figures showing the government money allocated to Poland’s Special Economic Investment Incentive Funds. These funds were used both to lure foreign companies to build manufacturing plants in Poland and to boost innovative private Polish firms by providing them with seed money for expansion and new equipment. “Scion trades you our services for a year. In return, you buy shares in various Polish corporations, using these special incentive funds—shares you then transfer to my company.”

  He brought up another list on the screen, a list of small but growing businesses and industries that would all profit from an infusion of cash. “Shares in these companies, I think.”

  Visibly stunned by his suggestion, none of the Poles said anything for several moments.

  “Jesteś szalony? Are you insane?” Gierek asked finally. “You ask us to use our government’s investment money to buy shares in Polish industries to pay for your mercenaries? That is pure madness.”

  “On the contrary,” Martindale said coldly. “It’s pure common sense. The money exists in your budget to make investments for Poland’s future. Very well, you use it for the purpose intended. The only added step is that you transfer your government’s stake in these private firms to Scion. Doing that without making a fuss should be fairly simple.”

  Wilk nodded slowly, thinking it through. “Our American friend is right, Janusz.” He held up a hand to quiet the defense minister’s continuing protest. “What he proposes is doable.”

  “Nevertheless, Piotr,” Klaudia Rybak said. “This proposition is completely irregular. Using our economic incentive funds to purchase military services from a foreign defense contractor? Can you see how that would look?”

  “Don’t you trust President Wilk?” Martindale asked, with a wry glint in his eyes. “Are you afraid he’ll succumb to the temptation to play tin-pot dictator, using our equipment and specialists?”

  “Of course not!” the prime minister snapped. Her fierce tone left no doubt that she knew she was being goaded, but it also left no doubt that she was determined to make her point. “But you ask the president to risk handing the opposition a weapon they would gladly use to destroy him!”

  “Which is all the more reason to make sure this all stays secret for as long as possible. Both our acquisition of Scion’s military services and the means we use to pay for them,” Wilk said suddenly. He turned a hard-eyed gaze on Martindale. “You realize that any shares we choose to transfer to you could not be sold to anyone else for several years?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Nor would your ownership of these shares convey any rights in the management of those Polish industries and companies.”

  “I would not expect them to,” the gray-haired head of Scion said firmly. “Every company on that list is brilliantly run, held back only by a lack of investment. I learned a long time ago to pick the best people for a given task and then stay the hell out of their way.”

  The Polish president nodded again. That sounded like the truth, though he was quite sure Martindale had also long ago mastered the difficult political art of sounding sincere at all times and in all places. He eyed the other man. “Earlier, you suggested this swap, as you call it, would tie Scion more tightly to Poland’s success and survival. What did you mean by that?”

  “What value would the shares you give to us have if your country were conquered by the Russians?” Martindale asked in turn. He shrugged. “By giving us a serious financial stake in Poland’s future, you give us even more incentive to fight hard for you if war breaks out and to win as quickly, cleanly, and cheaply as possible.”

  He looked across the table at Gierek. “Your defense minister called us mercenaries. That’s become an ugly word. But there is a certain cold-edged accuracy to it. Ultimately, we at Scion are selling our services as soldiers to you. I would argue that we’re a lot more than that, because we won’t fight for the highest bidder—but only for those whose cause we consider just.” He shrugged his shoulders again. “Still, call us what you will. As our paymasters, that’s your privilege. But keep in mind that the arrangement I propose offers you insurance against the real dangers involved in relying on mercenaries—dangers so ably described by Niccolò Machiavelli more than five hundred years ago.”

  He paused briefly, plainly waiting for an invitation to continue.

  “I read The Prince in my leadership classes at the Air Force Academy, Mr. Martindale,” Wilk said wryly. “But from the puzzled looks on their faces, I suspect the book may not have been in the university curriculum for my colleagues.”

  “Basically, Machiavelli wrote that anyone who holds his country with hired troops will ‘stand neither firm nor safe; for mercenaries are disunited, ambitious and without discipline, unfaithful, valiant before friends, cowardly before enemies,’ ” Martindale quoted, with a distant look in his eyes, reaching back into his memory. “ ‘They are ready enough to be your soldiers whilst you do not make war, but if war comes, they take themselves off or run from the foe.’ ” He looked around the table. “But you can see that giving us a stake in your future changes that equation. If the Russians attack you again and we run away or lose, we gain nothing.”

  “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 s
kills, 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.”

  THE SCRAPHEAP,

  NEAR SILIŞTEA GUMEŞTI, ROMANIA

  THE 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 Żelazny 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 BALTIC VENTURE,

  PORT OF HOUSTON, TEXAS, UNITED STATES

  THAT 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.

&n
bsp; 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.”