Iron Wolf

by Dale Brown

  “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.

  THE CHURCH OF ST. LOUIS OF FRANCE,

  MOSCOW, RUSSIA

  THAT 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 par
tly 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.

  SEVEN

  Knowing your own darkness is the best method for dealing with the darknesses of other people.

  —CARL JUNG, SWISS PSYCHIATRIST

  TRAKHTEMYRIV NATURE AND

  ARCHAEOLOGICAL RESERVE,

  WESTERN UKRAINE

  THE NEXT NIGHT

  Fedir Kravchenko crouched down in cover, watching the opposite bank of the Dnieper through night-vision binoculars. A few kilometers to the south, the natural flow of the river was obstructed by the Kaniv Hydroelectric Power Plant’s massive dam—forming a huge reservoir that was almost two kilometers wide at this point.

  To some extent, that made this stretch of the Dnieper more dangerous as a potential crossing point, since any boats would be out on the open water for that much longer. On the other hand, the Trakhtemyriv Reserve’s dense belt of woodland ran all the way to the water’s edge. The forest canopy made it easier for his partisans to conceal their motorized inflatable rafts and gear from Russian reconnaissance drones and aircraft while they were moving up to the shoreline. As an added plus, the eastern shore was also thickly wooded, offering shelter and ready camouflage for infiltrators right after they landed. The woods there were also cut by a number of small tracks and farm roads—offering his partisans the opportunity to move quickly inland to safe houses and hidden camps farther east.

  Kravchenko knew that all military decisions involved calculated risk. You weighed the different options and took the ones that seemed to offer the greatest gain for the least chance of disaster. Making the right call was always a gamble.

  Unfortunately, anytime you gambled, you could lose.

  And this time, he had lost.

  Pop-pop-pop.

  Seen through the night-imaging binoculars, three green sparks soared skyward on the other side of the water. They flew high directly over the two motorized rafts speeding eastward across the reservoir. Even this far away, he could see the four men on each inflatable suddenly look up in horror.

  “Hell.”

  Kravchenko lowered the binoculars right before the flares burst into full light over the Dnieper. Sputtering evilly, they drifted slowly downwind—illuminating everything for hundreds of meters.

  More flashes stuttered among the trees on the far bank of the Dnieper, casting eerie, dancing shadows that lit up a tangled mosaic of leaves and branches. Fountains of white spray erupted all around the fast-moving inflatables. The Ukrainian partisan leader bit down on another oath as the chatter of Russian heavy machine guns echoed across the water.

  He had just sent eight men straight into an ambush.

  Through the radio clipped to his body armor, Kravchenko could hear them screaming and pleading for help. “Covering fire! We need covering fire now!” one of them yelled. “We’re getting murdered out here!”

  Slowly, clenching his teeth so hard that his jaw ached, the Ukrainian looked away. Those enemy machine guns were too far away, out of effective range of the assault rifles carried by the men deployed on this side of the river. Trying to hit the Russians would only give away his own positions, and offer the enemy a juicy target for their artillery and mortars.

  No, he decided grimly, the partisans trapped on those rafts were as good as dead. Either the Russians would keep shooting until nothing moved, or they would send out boats of their own to take prisoners for interrogation. Then, once torture and truth drugs had squeezed every morsel of information out of their captives, the Russians would simply murder them.

  There was only one thing he could do for his men now.

  Kravchenko turned to Pavlo Lytvyn. “Execute code OMEGA.”

  “Very well, Major,” the bigger man agreed, not trying to hide his own regret and anger. He carefully set a frequency on his own radio transmitter and clicked the send button. Then he switched to another frequency and hit the button a second time.

  Charges rigged to the inflatables detonated. Two huge explosions rocked the surface of the Dnieper. When the smoke and spray drifted away, there was nothing identifiable left—only bits and pieces of debris left floating in the foaming water.

  For a few moments more, Kravchenko stared blindly out across the wide river, aware only of the bitter taste of failure and defeat. Until he could figure out how to move more men and weapons to the east without suffering unacceptable losses, the Russians were out of his reach.

  IRON WOLF SQUADRON SECURE

  COMPOUND, 33RD AIR BASE,

  NEAR POWIDZ, CENTRAL POLAND

  THE NEXT MORNING

  “CID Two, stand by for field resupply maneuver. Iron Wolf One-Five coming in hot. Two minutes out.”

  “Two copies, Wolf One-Five. Ready to rock and rearm.”

  Captain Nadia Rozek stood near the flight line at the 33rd Air Base, listening closely to the crisp, confident messages crackling through her radio earpiece. She was one of several Polish Special Forces officers newly assigned to the Iron Wolf Squadron. Most of her comrades
would serve as translators where needed and as liaisons between the Scion-organized unit and Poland’s more conventional air and ground units.

  She had other orders. First, she was slated to receive training on one of the squadron’s two Cybernetic Infantry Devices—the “Iron Wolves” that gave the unit its new name. Perhaps even more importantly, she was here to act as President Piotr Wilk’s personal “eyes and ears,” keeping him closely posted on the squadron’s plans and operations.

  “You will not be a spy, Captain,” Wilk had told her with a smile. “But I want you there to help me cut through the regular chain of command if necessary. From what we have seen, if it goes into action, this Iron Wolf force will use tactics far outside the realm of conventional military experience and training. It’s vital that I receive firsthand reports from an officer who understands and can thoroughly evaluate how Martindale’s people do their fighting.”

  Which meant she was something of a spy, after all, Nadia decided—though not a hostile or especially covert one. No one in the Iron Wolf Squadron would be surprised to find out that their new employer planned to keep a careful watch on his $500 million investment.

  At least this new assignment had brought her back to her old stomping grounds. This air base, halfway between Poznan and Warsaw, was home to Poland’s 7th Special Operations Squadron. She’d spent a year here flying Mi-17 helicopters, practicing nap-of-the-earth flying and all the other dangerous maneuvers needed to insert Polish commandos behind enemy lines and retrieve them under fire. Its existing ties to Poland’s Special Forces made Powidz the logical place to base this new unit. The 33rd Air Base had a tight security perimeter and the local civilians were already used to hearing unusual aircraft coming and going at odd intervals.