Iron Wolf

by Dale Brown

  He sighed. “Look, I will try to get this across one more time slowly. The XF-111 SuperVark is not a stealth bomber. All the improvements Sky Masters worked in do reduce its radar cross section significantly, and the ALQ-293 SPEAR gives it a remarkable ability to jam and spoof a wide range of enemy radars. But the hard reality is that single XF-111s cannot successfully carry out long-range penetration missions—not against a swarm of advanced Russian radars, S-300 and S-400 SAMs, and advanced fighter interceptors. If you guys try to fly a mission all on your own, like the Lone Ranger, you’re just going to wind up as dead as George Armstrong Custer at the Little Bighorn. Which is exactly what happened today.”

  This time Brad noticed others besides Mark Darrow looking thoughtful. Maybe he was getting through to them—though it still felt a little weird lecturing the rest of the Iron Wolf crews. Then again, it was pretty clear that all the flight-line and simulator hours he’d put in at Sky Masters, along the special tactics classes he’d taken, did give him an edge over them . . . at least as far as knowing how XF-111 missions should be put together and flown.

  “We have got to learn to fight and fly as a coordinated strike force,” he said. “No more of this stupid ‘I’m Batman!’ crap.”

  “But I am Batman,” Jack Hollenbeck whispered sotto voce to Darrow, pretending to be offended. That broke everybody up, including Brad.

  When the laughter died down, he went on in a slightly more relaxed tone. “Look, this squadron needs to develop tactics and mission plans that will let us tear right through Russian air defenses and then rip out the throat of any target we’re assigned. The only way we’re going to do that is if we fly as a team, not a bunch of lone wolves.” Again, for several long moments, there was only silence.

  At last, Bill Sievert, of all the Iron Wolf pilots the one Brad would least have expected to side with him, said, “Okay, McLanahan. I get it. We screwed the pooch big-time. But do you really think your mission plan, the one we bailed out on this morning, was a step in the right direction?”

  “There’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?” Brad said levelly. “We can run the mission again, this time according to my plan. And if I’ve screwed up somehow, there’s more than enough brainpower and flying experience in this room to take the scenario apart and figure out a new approach.”

  Sievert climbed to his feet and looked around at his fellow pilots. “The kid’s right. We need to try that frigging Lipetsk raid again.”

  “I can set up the sim for another run-through tomorrow,” Brad told them. “But don’t expect all the defenses to play out the same way. The computer throws in different random elements every time. We get ‘intel’ from the computer as if we’re getting it from real recon sources, but like the real world it may be up-to-date and accurate, or it may be bogus.”

  Now it was Darrow’s turn to speak. “We should get started on this today, Brad. Not tomorrow,” the Englishman said seriously, looking around the room. “Those bloody fools in Moscow could push this situation over the edge at any moment. Tomorrow may be too late.” There were more murmurs of agreement from the assembled Iron Wolf crews.

  Brad nodded slowly, taking it all in. “Okay. Go grab something to eat. While you’re doing that I’ll reconfigure the sim. And this time I’ll fly it with you. Captain Rozek can act as my copilot and weapons officer. That’ll give her a better look at what these planes can do, and it’ll give us ten aircraft on the raid. We’ll meet back here at 1530 for a full briefing.”

  One by one, the pilots and weapons officers levered themselves out of their seats, heading for the canteen next door. And once again, Brad noticed their eyes resting enviously, almost longingly, on Captain Nadia Rozek’s neat, trim uniform. Ah, he thought, piecing it together at last. Morale and unit cohesion were made up of more than just common purpose and professional respect. What was it that Napoleon had said when handing out medals? Something like, “It is with such baubles that men are led.” Napoleon might have been a cynical son of a bitch, but there was an elemental truth there. One worth considering.

  He’d learned a lot about these men and women over the past couple of weeks—listening to their stories over meals or while working together to get the ROCC stations up and running. None of these Americans, Canadians, or Brits had quit their respective militaries because they were misfits. If anything, they’d left because their air forces were changing for the worse—cutting flying hours that would keep pilots alive in combat, skimping on maintenance, and scrapping good planes without acquiring better ones. These pilots weren’t careerists. They were dedicated professionals who couldn’t stand watching the squadrons they loved fade away into pale shadows of what they had once been. Maybe the Iron Wolf pilots were hungrier for a renewed sense of shared purpose than he had first thought.

  After the room emptied out and they were alone, Nadia rushed over to him and kissed him soundly on both cheeks. “That was fantastyczny, Brad! Fantastic!”

  He blushed. “Really?” He hemmed and hawed a little and then rushed on. “I was kind of afraid that I was coming across like a know-it-all prick.”

  “Oh, you were,” she said, laughing softly. “But I think you were just the kind of ‘know-it-all prick’ they needed to hear.”

  “Gee, thanks,” Brad said wryly.

  “It was nothing,” Nadia told him, still laughing.

  “Now that you’ve popped my little bubble of pride,” he said, “I sure could use some more help.”

  “You may ask anything of me,” Nadia said, quickly sobering up. “I am at your service.”

  With a tremendous effort, Brad forced down the immediate impulse to ask her out to dinner, focusing instead on what he needed—instead of what he wanted. “I need the telephone number of a good, superfast military tailor.”

  EIGHT

  Discussion is an exchange of knowledge; argument an exchange of ignorance.

  —ROBERT QUILLEN, AMERICAN JOURNALIST

  ZEDNIA FOREST SUPERINTENDENCY, POLAND,

  NEAR THE POLISH-LITHUANIAN BORDER

  THE NEXT DAY

  The Polish countryside due east of Bialystok was mostly woodland, with farms and small villages nestled among the patches of forest. About sixteen kilometers from the city, a narrow two-lane road ran north and south through stands of tall trees and small clearings. A few hundred meters from the State Forest Service’s local headquarters, an even narrower dirt track intersected the paved road, heading east, deeper into the woods.

  Two men lolled near a dark blue panel van parked at this junction. They were smoking cigarettes, apparently enjoying the afternoon sunshine. Both were dressed like ordinary rural laborers, in dirty jeans, drab work shirts, and dark, often-patched coats. Something about their watchful eyes and tight-lipped mouths, though, suggested they would be more at home in the tougher, grittier neighborhoods of a big city.

  One of them straightened up slowly, watching a battered Fiat Panda heading toward them. He flicked his cigarette away. “There’s Górski,” he muttered.

  “About fucking time,” his comrade growled. Both men were speaking in Ukrainian.

  The Fiat pulled up just behind the panel van. The driver, a plump, middle-aged man, squeezed awkwardly out from behind the wheel and walked over to them.

  “Sorry I’m late,” the newcomer said nervously, in Polish. “Our goddamned officers wanted to run another combat resupply readiness drill. Right before the weekend, for Christ’s sake!”

  “All officers are bastards,” one of the two Ukrainians agreed in perfectly colloquial Polish, rolling his eyes at his companion. “It’s almost like there’s a war on.” He hardened his voice. “Look, did you bring the stuff we asked for, or not?”

  “Oh, yes. Definitely. No problem,” Staff Sergeant Teodor Górski stammered. “It’s all in the back.”

  “Show us,” the second man snapped.

  Sweating now, the Polish noncom popped open the rear hatch on his Fiat. Blankets covered an assortment of lumpy shapes piled in the carg
o area. He flipped them away—revealing a collection of weapons, ammunition, and communications gear.

  The first Ukrainian leaned in past him and picked up one of the weapons, an American-made Colt M4A1 carbine. It was the assault rifle of choice for Poland’s GROM “Thunder” Special Forces unit. Quickly, with practiced hands, he checked it over, nodding in satisfaction. He put the rifle back and hauled out an even bigger piece of hardware, a Swedish-made Carl Gustav 84mm recoilless rifle. Like the M4, this antitank weapon was used exclusively by Poland’s Special Forces, not by its regular troops. It was in perfect condition. Pleased, he turned back to Górski. “Is any of this going to be missed?”

  The Pole shook his head, visibly gaining confidence as he explained. “Not a chance. All of this gear and ammo is marked as ‘unrepairable and junked’ or ‘expended’ in our logbooks and computer files. I’ve had it all stashed away in my apartment for months. Nobody’s going to come looking for this stuff, no matter how many times they check the supply depot’s inventory.”

  “What about the serial numbers on the weapons?” the second Ukrainian asked.

  “They’re still there,” Górski told him. He shrugged. “You’ll file ’em off, right?” He smiled weakly. “I mean, you wouldn’t want anyone tracing them back to your best supplier, would you?”

  “No,” the first man agreed flatly. “We certainly would not want that. Your services have been extremely useful to us.”

  “So we have a deal?” the Pole asked.

  “We have a deal,” the second Ukrainian confirmed. He tossed the Pole a packet containing more than thirty thousand zlotys, the equivalent of $10,000, in a mix of currencies—euros, zlotys, American dollars, and British pounds. “Unfortunately, once again I seem to have mislaid the tax forms for this transaction. I assume you will handle the necessary paperwork yourself?”

  “Naturally.” Górski smirked. He went back to avidly counting his money.

  “And take this as a bonus,” the first man said, handing over a business card. The card bore the picture of a very attractive nude redhead and a Warsaw telephone number. “Her name is Franciszka. She’s expecting your call this evening, around midnight. It’s our treat.”

  The plump, middle-aged Pole stared down at the business card. He swallowed hard, staring down at the young woman’s incredible body, her moist lips, and her bright, open, inviting eyes. He usually made do with the services of aging prostitutes working out of the sleazier brothels on the left bank of the river. This Franciszka must be one of the high-end escorts who were the favorites of rich businessmen and tourists. “That is . . . very gracious of you,” Górski murmured, eyes greedily drinking in every line and curve. “Most appreciated.”

  “You deserve it,” the second Ukrainian told him. He smiled. “Nothing but the best for one of our friends, eh? She’ll take very good care of you. She knows lots of”—he winked—“special tricks.”

  Once they transferred the weapons and other military hardware to the blue panel van, the Polish supply sergeant was almost pathetically eager to get on his way. With a jaunty wave, he pulled back out onto the little country road and drove off at high speed.

  “There goes one fat little jumped-up puddle of piss we won’t have to see again,” one of the Ukrainians muttered. “Thank God.”

  “God will have nothing to do with it,” his comrade said with a cruel, ice-cold grin. “We’ll owe Franciszka for that one.”

  WARSAW, POLAND

  THAT NIGHT

  “Na zdrowie! Cheers!” Teodor Górski slurred, knocking back another shot of the faintly yellow-tinged Żubrówka vodka. He smacked his lips, savoring the faint overtones of almond and vanilla. And then smacked them again. “ ’S damn good,” he forced out. “And strong. Feels way more than eighty proof. Can’t hardly feel my mouth . . .”

  The beautiful redhead sitting across from him on the bed smiled slyly. “Careful there, tiger. You don’t want to wind up with a limp noodle, do you?”

  Grinning foolishly, Górski fell back on the pillows. God, Franciszka was an eye-opener. Not only was she stunning and going to be his for the whole night, but she’d even come with a gift—a wonderful, delicious, expensive bottle of vodka. Imagine that, he thought. A whore bringing him a present! The other sergeants and corporals at the base who were always teasing him because he’d put on a few extra kilos over the past few years should see him now! None of them could say they were about to enjoy the favors of such a gorgeous piece of ass.

  For free, too.

  That was the best part of this deal. He’d just made almost thirty-four thousand zlotys and he wasn’t even going to have part with one thin groszy for hours and hours of screwing. All she’d asked for was one of his cigarettes. The opened pack lay on the nightstand table.

  He frowned, or rather tried to, since his face felt so numb now that he wasn’t sure his mouth was moving the way he wanted it to. Why had Franciszka asked him for a cigarette? She wasn’t smoking it. The cigarette was just lying there on the nightstand by her purse, along with a book of matches.

  She sat quietly, watching him through amused eyes. “You seem to be having some trouble, Teodor. Too much to drink?” She shook her head. Her smile changed somehow—transforming into an odd, warped, mean little expression that sent shivers down his spine. “That would be foolish, wouldn’t it? How can we have our fun if you’re too soused to see straight or even paw at me? For shame.”

  Górski tried to lift his head. Then his arms. Then his fingers. Nothing worked. He couldn’t move! His eyes widened. My God. Oh my God, he thought, starting to panic.

  Franciszka nodded calmly, leaning forward to study his pupils. “The drug usually takes full effect in about ten minutes, Sergeant.” She checked the watch on her thin, elegant wrist. “In your case, it took almost fifteen. I guess that’s because you have so much fat piled up around your ugly belly.”

  Casually, she leaned across him to reach into the nightstand drawer. Her full breasts brushed across his sweating, immobile face. “Nothing? No twitch in your little chuj, your dick? How sad.”

  She showed him the packetful of cash she’d pulled out of the drawer, the packet the two Ukrainians had given to him. “Did you think this was for you?” Still smiling nastily, she shook her head, slipping the packet into her gold lamé purse. “Well, you were wrong. The money was always going to be mine, Sergeant. As a fee for my special talents. But don’t worry, you can have all of the vodka. Every last drop.”

  Turning back to Górski, she picked up the half-full bottle and upended it above him. Vodka splashed over his frozen, horrified face, unshaven chin, and chest, soaking his unbuttoned shirt and the grubby T-shirt he wore underneath. Rivulets of the high-proof alcohol dripped off onto the bedclothes.

  “There now, see the mess you’ve made?” she said in disgust. “You have so many bad habits, Sergeant,” she told him, picking up the cigarette and lighting it. “Including smoking.”

  Holding the lit cigarette between her fingers, she stood up off the bed, turned gracefully, and placed it between his frozen lips. “In fact, I think smoking is what’s going to kill you.”

  The cigarette fell out of his mouth and onto his chest. With a soft, devilish whoosh, Teodor Górski’s alcohol-soaked clothing went up in flames. In seconds, the whole bed was engulfed in a rippling, dancing sea of fire.

  The woman who called herself Franciszka left his apartment without looking back, pausing only to wipe her fingerprints off the door handle. By the time she reached the sidewalk outside the building, the curtains pulled across his windows were already smoldering.

  IRON WOLF SQUADRON,

  POWIDZ, POLAND

  SEVERAL DAYS LATER

  Wayne Macomber waited impatiently for the solid black executive jet to finish taxiing off the rain-drenched main runway and into the camouflaged aircraft shelter. As soon as the jet’s twin engines spooled down, he was in motion—striding toward the forward cabin door, which was already opening.

  Kevin Martind
ale trotted down the air stairs, preceded, as usual, by his two stern-faced bodyguards. “Good morning, Major Macomber,” the former president said cheerily. “I hope you don’t mind my dropping in unannounced on you like this.”

  “It’s your dime, sir,” Whack said, grinning back. “But if you expected to catch us with our drawers down, you missed a bet. CID One had your supersecret itinerary pegged as soon as you hit the send key on that fancy, high-security laptop of yours.”

  “He did, did he?” Martindale replied. He shook his head ruefully. “I really must talk seriously to our mutual friend about that obsessive computer-hacking habit of his. Breaking into classified Russian systems is one thing. Breaking into sensitive Scion databases so easily is another.”

  “Oh, you can talk to him,” Whack agreed. “For all the good it’ll do you. When have you ever known that guy to let the rules get in the way of accomplishing his mission?”

  Martindale chuckled, acknowledging the hit. In all the years he’d known Patrick McLanahan, he’d never seen the other man buffaloed by formal protocol or conventional wisdom. If the former Air Force officer had wanted to get something he thought was important done, he’d always bulldozed right through any opposition—no matter what it cost him personally or how it affected his military career. Which, of course, was what had made him perfect for Martindale’s various secret weapons projects when he was in government and now for Scion’s private ventures.

  “Now that you’re here, what can I do for you?” Macomber asked. “Or are you bringing us some news? Like about when all this training stops and all the fun stuff starts.”

  “As in an action alert?” Martindale shook his head. “Sorry, Major. We’re still in a holding pattern—which suits our Polish employers just fine. And frankly, I don’t blame them one bit. Besides, we’re still short of most of the aircraft we need. Let’s not rush into a war we’re not ready for, and let’s hope Gennadiy Gryzlov gives us the time we need to get ready.”