Iron Wolf

by Dale Brown

  Through her earpiece, Nadia heard another signal from the Iron Wolf Squadron aircraft that was supposed to be approaching the 33rd Air Base. “CID Two, this is Wolf One-Five. Field in sight. Thirty seconds. Out.”

  “Standing by,” the CID pilot said laconically.

  Puzzled, she turned around, scanning the horizon in all directions. Nothing was in sight. No airplane. No helicopter. And certainly no huge manned war robot. Were these Americans pulling a practical joke on her?

  Abruptly, a large, twin-engine aircraft in mottled dark green, light green, and gray camouflage streaked into view, booming in from the south just over the treetops. As it crossed over the field, it banked into a steep, tight turn, decelerating dramatically, almost impossibly, fast.

  Nadia’s eyes widened. The huge propellers on each wing were swiveling upward, turning into rotors. Of course, she thought, figuring it out. This mysterious aircraft was a tilt-rotor, designed to take off and land like a helicopter while cruising long distances at high speeds like a conventional turboprop. It looked very much like the V-22 Ospreys flown by the U.S. Marine Corps and U.S. Air Force, but it was somewhat smaller and seemed more agile than the Ospreys she had seen before.

  She realized this must be another of the experimental planes built by Sky Masters. The aerospace engineers working for that American firm seemed to have an almost limitless ability to push the boundaries of aircraft design.

  Rotors spinning fast, the twin-engine aircraft descended toward the wide grass verge beside the runway and touched down. As soon as it settled, a rear ramp whined open and a small, four-wheel vehicle roared out and onto the grass. Swinging wide around the still-spinning rotors, it drove toward her at high speed. There were three crew—two in front and a top gunner manning a .50-caliber M2 machine gun in the back.

  Nadia forced herself to stand absolutely still as the 4x4 sped right past her, racing by at more than sixty kilometers an hour. The gunner, wearing a helmet, body armor, and goggles, gave her a cheerful wave.

  Suddenly the driver slammed on his brakes and spun the little vehicle into a tight, hard turn, coming to a dead stop in a spray of gravel and grass just a few meters away. The driver and the other man seated in front were already unbuckling their safety harnesses while the gunner stayed put—swinging his heavy machine gun around to cover the nearby woods.

  Nadia caught a flicker of motion out the corner of her eye and then gasped as one of the tall Cybernetic Infantry Devices bounded past her and slid to a halt right beside the 4x4. Its arms were already in motion, shrugging off heavy weapons packs and sliding them onto the small vehicle’s cargo deck. As soon as the old packs were stowed, the CID retrieved new weapons and ammunition carriers. At the same time, the two crewmen who’d dismounted were busy popping open panels on the huge robot’s legs and torso, disconnecting depleted lithium-ion batteries and hydrogen fuel cells and then replacing them with fully charged batteries and fuel cells. Their coordinated speed and precision was astounding, reminding her of a top-notch Formula One pit crew.

  In less than two minutes, they were finished.

  “Rearm and recharge complete!” Nadia heard the CID pilot report.

  Both vehicle crewmen slapped the torso panels closed and then hopped back aboard their 4x4. As soon as they’d buckled in, the driver sped off back down the runway toward the waiting tilt-rotor. Slowing, he drove straight up the aircraft’s rear ramp.

  In seconds, the ramp closed and the aircraft lifted off, climbing just high enough to transition its rotors for level flight. Moments later, it streaked away just over the treetops and was gone.

  “Iron Wolf One-Five outbound,” Nadia heard the tilt-rotor’s pilot report. “Field resupply complete. Mission time on ground: approximately five minutes.”

  Beside her, the CID crouched down, extending one leg and both arms backward. A hatch popped open on its back and a broad-shouldered, blond-haired man wearing a black flight suit climbed out. The name tag over his left breast pocket read BRAD MCLANAHAN. He dropped lightly to the ground and walked over.

  “So what did you think, Captain Rozek?” he asked, with a mischievous grin. “Impressive enough for you?”

  Nadia eyed him carefully. This American had a nice smile and some of the cocky swagger that marked many young pilots . . . including, she admitted to herself, a certain Nadia Rozek when she was fresh out of flight school. Well, there were ways to deal with that.

  “Your resupply maneuver?” she asked. “Is that something your crews practice routinely?”

  Brad nodded. “Yep. We can use that Sky Masters XV-40 Sparrowhawk tilt-rotor you saw or a specially modified Chinook helicopter, something along the lines of the MH-47G models used by the U.S. Army’s One Hundred and Sixtieth Special Aviation Regiment. Both of them can lift that fast little four-by-four resupply vehicle we use to haul ammo, weapons, batteries, and fuel cells. And by the way, that four-by-four is a version of the Interim Fast Attack Vehicle our Marine Force Recon guys use—a souped-up Mercedes-Benz Wolf 290GDT.”

  “A Wolf four-by-four?” Nadia said, raising an eyebrow. “Really?”

  His grin grew wider. “Yeah, really. I guess this new Iron Wolf name suits us for a lot of reasons.”

  “So I gather,” she said coolly, really hoping this brash McLanahan character could restrain himself before he started pretending to howl at the moon or do something equally childish. “And you are one of those who will pilot these Iron Wolves in combat?” she asked, nodding toward the CID.

  To her relief, he looked slightly abashed. “Me? No, probably not.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve driven CIDs a few times. But my real passion is flying, which is why I’m assigned to the squadron’s aviation team. We’ll be handling the unit’s drone aircraft and the remote-piloted XF-111 SuperVarks once they get here.”

  “McLanahan! You are related to General McLanahan?” Nadia said, suddenly realizing why this young man’s name had seemed so familiar. Among her peers in Poland’s air force, the missions flown by Patrick McLanahan and the men and women under his command were legendary.

  “He’s . . . I mean, he was . . . my father,” Brad said quietly.

  “I am very sorry,” Nadia told him, fumbling slightly for the proper English phrases. “He was a great man. Please accept my condolences on your loss.”

  She looked even more closely at the younger McLanahan. Now that her memory was working at full speed, it reminded her that this boyish-looking American had flown on the daredevil bombing mission in which his father was killed. And that, later, he had also gone on to fly in outer space as part of the ill-fated Starfire Project. She colored slightly, abruptly aware that she might have come across as just a bit patronizing to someone whose real-world experience easily exceeded hers by a factor of ten.

  Fortunately, Nadia decided, seeing the equally embarrassed look on his face, he seemed unaware of that.

  “Thanks, Captain Rozek,” Brad said, clearing his throat uncomfortably. “I really appreciate it.” He looked down at his shoes and then resolutely back up at her. “I hope you don’t think I was just showing off or anything earlier. President Martindale and Whack Macomber suggested I take this practice run to keep my CID piloting skills sharp. Just in case.”

  On impulse, she smiled at him. “If we are going to be flying and fighting together, Mr. Brad McLanahan, I think you can call me Nadia.”

  “Really? That’s great, Captain . . . I mean, Nadia,” Brad said, looking more cheerful again. He straightened up, squaring his shoulders. “Then how about I get started familiarizing you with old Robo Lobo there?”

  “Robo Lobo?” Nadia asked, confused again. Then she got it. “Oh, no! Not more of your American ‘wolf’ humor?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Brad said jauntily. Then he relented, looking slightly contrite. “Sorry, Nadia. But it was just hanging out there, waiting to be said, and I couldn’t stop myself.”

  Almost against her will, she laughed. “Never mind. I will forgive you.” She held up a single finger
. “Once. But you will resist the temptation from now on, is that understood?”

  “Or else?” he asked, intrigued.

  “Exactly,” Nadia said, with great satisfaction. “Or else.”

  THE KREMLIN, MOSCOW

  A FEW HOURS LATER

  The phone on President Gennadiy Gryzlov’s desk beeped suddenly, interrupting him at the worst possible moment. “Sukin syn! Son of a bitch,” he muttered, trying to ignore the sound. But it was no use. His concentration was broken. Still swearing under his breath, he fumbled for the phone. “Yes! What the hell is it? I said, no calls!”

  “It’s Minister of State Security Kazyanov, Mr. President,” his private secretary said apologetically. “He is here in the outer office, asking to see you immediately. He says it is urgent.”

  “It had damned well better be, Ulanov!” Gryzlov snapped. “I’m right in the middle of a serious foreign policy discussion, you know.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  Gryzlov sighed. “Very well. Give me a couple of minutes.” He slammed the phone down and turned to the attractive, full-figured woman who was still bent across his desk. “Get your clothes back on, Daria. It seems I have other work to do.”

  Foreign Minister Daria Titeneva looked back over her naked shoulder with a slightly provocative smile. “That is unfortunate, Mr. President.”

  “Yes, it is,” he agreed glumly. He zipped his fly and then moved around to sit behind his desk. When she had finished slipping back into her businesslike jacket, blouse, and skirt, he picked up the phone. “I’ll see Minister Kazyanov now.” He looked up at Titeneva. “There’s no point in your waiting for me. If poor little Viktor’s actually managed to nerve himself up to come over here in person, he must really believe he’s got something important.”

  She simply nodded and went out by the side door.

  Kazyanov hurried in moments later, a file folder clutched in his hands. As usual, the intelligence director looked nervous, with sweat already beading his high forehead.

  “Well?” Gryzlov barked. “What’s so damned urgent?”

  “Two of our top GRU agents have gone missing,” Kazyanov said quickly. “They failed to make a scheduled contact yesterday and we have been completely unable to get in touch with them since then.”

  “So?” Gryzlov said dismissively. “Agents go quiet all the time—for any number of reasons, some good and some bad. For all you know, these spies of yours might just be lazing around a swimming pool somewhere, taking an unauthorized vacation. Or maybe they got spooked by something and are simply lying low for a bit.”

  Kazyanov shook his head. “With respect, Mr. President, not these two men. Colonel Lermontov and Major Rodchenko are both extraordinarily reliable, competent, and experienced field operatives. They would not abandon an important mission so easily.”

  “All right,” Gryzlov said, shrugging. “I’ll bite. Where were these missing paragons of espionage stationed?”

  “Poland.”

  The Russian president started paying attention. “Go on.”

  “Their last message indicated that they were planning to penetrate a Polish military training area, at Drawsko Pomorskie in western Poland,” Kazyanov reported, sliding a map out of the folder and showing it to Gryzlov. “They’d picked up rumors of an important military exercise planned there—an unscheduled exercise.”

  “Oh, really,” the president said, frowning. That was highly unusual. To avoid accidents and the risk of unintended escalation, it was common practice for both the NATO powers and for Russia to announce their important military drills, exercises, and war games in advance. “Was this a NATO maneuver of some sort?”

  “No, sir,” Kazyanov said. “Before they disappeared, Lermontov and Rodchenko said the rumors they picked up indicated this secret exercise was supposed to be a strictly Polish affair.”

  “But you don’t believe the rumors?” Gryzlov asked, hearing the uncertainty in other man’s voice.

  “There are . . . incongruities,” Kazyanov admitted. “When we could not regain contact with our operatives, I asked my best analysts to examine our most recent Persona reconnaissance satellite images of the Drawsko Pomorskie region.” He handed the president a series of photos from his folder. “These enlarged images were taken during a pass over the area three days ago. As you can see, they show a significant number of pieces of military hardware scattered around the training area—vehicles, tanks, guns, and even fighter aircraft.”

  Gryzlov flipped through the photos. His mouth tightened. “These are all old American tanks and planes. Look at this one, an F-4 Phantom! They’re not even in the Polish inventory! Hell, almost no one flies them anymore!”

  “Yes, sir,” Kazyanov confirmed. “My analysts say that all of this equipment appears to be surplus. Which begins to explain what we picked up during a satellite pass twenty-four hours ago.” He slid another set of images across the desk.

  The Russian president stared down them in silence. Each showed a collection of burned-out armored vehicles and wrecked aircraft. He looked up at his minister of state security. “Astounding.”

  Kazyanov nodded. “It appears that every single piece of surplus military equipment was destroyed during this war game. Without exception.”

  “Which Polish units did all this?” Gryzlov asked, still looking at the photos. “We may have to reassess their combat effectiveness.”

  “That is one of the incongruities,” Kazyanov told him carefully. “We believe a Polish mechanized infantry battalion was assigned to secure the training area, but it does not seem to have been involved in the maneuvers themselves. In fact, we cannot find evidence that any unit of the Polish armed forces participated in this exercise.”

  Gryzlov stared at him. “What?”

  “Every piece of intelligence we can assemble—signals intercepts, agent reports, satellite photos, and the like—shows the rest of the Polish Army, including its Special Forces, posted at their ordinary duty stations,” Kazyanov said.

  “My God, Viktor,” Gryzlov said, piecing it together as he stared at the pictures. “Do you realize what this means?”

  “Sir?”

  “You may just have uncovered the evidence we’ve been looking for!” Gryzlov said sharply, irritated by the other man’s inability to see what should be obvious to anyone with even a fraction of average intelligence. “Are you blind?”

  “Mr. President, I’m afraid that I’m not following—”

  “The terrorists, you idiot!” Gryzlov snapped excitedly. “The terrorists who’ve been attacking us! Who else could the Poles be training in such secrecy?”

  KIEV, UKRAINE

  THE NEXT DAY

  Fedir Kravchenko studied the faded signs on the buildings they were driving past. This section of western Kiev was a mix of drab Soviet-era apartment blocks, run-down shops, and old warehouses. Cars parked along the streets were mostly older models, some so covered in rust and graffiti that it was clear that they’d been abandoned for years. At least there were enough trees along the sidewalks and streets to soften the harsher edges of this impoverished neighborhood.

  He spotted the bleached-out red, white, and blue tobacco kiosk he’d been told to look for and tapped Pavlo Lytvyn on the shoulder. “There, pull in and park. Then wait for me.”

  Nodding unhappily, the big man obeyed. He found an empty spot just large enough for the ZAZ Forza subcompact he was driving.

  “I don’t like this, Major,” Lytvyn growled, hunched over the steering wheel. “I don’t trust this prykhyl’nyk, this backer, of ours. If he’s really an ally, why hide himself from us—working only through faceless intermediaries?”

  Kravchenko shrugged. “We’re operating outside the law, my friend. It’s no great surprise that our anonymous patron wants to keep us at arm’s length.” He sighed. “But we have no choice. We need this man’s cash and connections to buy weapons and equipment.”

  He popped open the car door and climbed out onto the sidewalk.

&nbs
p; “I still don’t like it,” Lytvyn said stubbornly, leaning over to talk through the little car’s rolled-down passenger window. “For all we know, this guy could be a boss in the Mafiya, nothing but a criminal. We might be waging our war with dirty money—drug money, even.”

  “All money is dirty, Pavlo,” Kravchenko said. “As is war, if it comes to that. Besides, what choice do we have?” He hawked and spat. “Go hat in hand to the government again, begging for their help? The cowards in Kiev turned us down years ago and now they crawl before the Russians, pleading only to be left alone.”

  He shook his head. “You might be right about our patron. He could be a criminal. But I think it’s more likely that he is one of the big oligarchs, the billionaires, who raised and equipped our volunteer battalions during the 2014 war. Why else would anyone but a patriot back our cause now?”

  Lytvyn scowled. “Oligarch. Crime boss. What’s the real difference?”

  Kravchenko grinned crookedly. “Weapons and explosives for us, instead of cocaine and heroin shipments for him.”

  The big man looked unconvinced. “I say this meeting is too risky. Why do they forbid you to bring your own people? That’s new and it stinks. This could be a trap.”

  Kravchenko looked into Lytvyn’s eyes. “Yes, that is possible. But if this is a trap, what can they really do to me?”

  “They can kill you,” the other man snapped.

  “Kill me?” Kravchenko repeated mildly. Then his maimed face contorted into a terrible, twisted smile that sent a cold shiver of fear down Lytvyn’s spine. “No, they can’t. Not really. After all, Pavlo, we both know that I truly died with the rest of our battalion three years ago, back on that cursed road between the trees.” He turned away. “Wait for me.”

  “And if I’m right and this is a trap?” Lytvyn called after him.

  “Then avenge me,” Kravchenko said over his shoulder, already heading toward the warehouse chosen for this clandestine rendezvous. It was set back from the street, down an alley littered with uncollected garbage and old crates. Boarded-up or broken windows looked down on the alley from both sides.