Iron Wolf

by Dale Brown

  “You think he will?”

  Martindale shrugged. “Possibly. The Russians are pretty quiet right now. They’ve killed a number of armed insurgents trying to cross the Dnieper and no one has laid a real glove on their occupation forces yet. It could be that Gryzlov and his commanders are satisfied with the half of Ukraine they’ve got and they’re not hungry for anything more.”

  “Yeah, right,” Whack said, with a skeptical look in his eyes. “That’d be a first.”

  “It would,” Martindale agreed, with equal skepticism. “My personal belief is that it’s only a matter of time before the Russians see what else they can grab while the grabbing’s good.”

  “Well, if things go south, I can tell you that the Iron Wolf ground component is up and running pretty damned well,” Macomber said.

  “I’d like to see that for myself if you don’t mind, Major,” the former president said, softening his insistence with a practiced, self-deprecating smile. “Those of us who sit and serve behind desks sometimes need reassuring that the men at the tip of the spear aren’t as soft as we are.”

  “No problem,” Macomber said, leading the way to the Polish-manufactured Tarpan Honker 4x4 he’d commandeered to drive around the sprawling Powidz compound. As soon as Martindale had settled himself in the passenger seat, Whack Macomber took off at high speed, careening out of the shelter and onto a muddy side road heading deeper into the woods around the airfield proper.

  It had been raining all night, but the big masses of dark clouds scudding overhead looked as though they were finally starting to break up.

  “You won’t see General McLanahan on this visit,” he said, peering through the mud-splashed windshield. “I’ve got CID One out on a field recon prowl about thirty klicks north of here. I wanna see just how effective that fancy-ass thermal camouflage is in real life.”

  Martindale looked worried by that news. “You sent a Cybernetic Infantry Device roaming around outside the security perimeter?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Isn’t that unnecessarily risky?” Martindale asked, frowning. “What if the CID is spotted by people who aren’t cleared to know about them? Like Polish civilians, for example?”

  Macomber glanced at him. “Well, that would suck, wouldn’t it?” He shrugged. “But it would suck a lot less than finding out that thermal adaptive shit doesn’t work the way it’s supposed to when it’s too late—like say when we’re ass-deep in Russian troops and tanks.”

  “I certainly hope you have a cover story ready if anything goes wrong,” Martindale said stiffly. “I assured President Wilk and his cabinet that the Iron Wolf Squadron would operate covertly as long as possible.”

  “Relax,” Whack said, grinning again. “If some Polish farmer starts screaming about a giant robot running loose in his crops, we’ll just say it’s a special-effects prop from a science-fiction movie we’re filming.”

  “That might work,” Martindale allowed, though with evident reluctance. He grimaced. “You certainly like to push your luck, though, Major.”

  “Yep, I sure as hell do,” Whack admitted placidly. He showed his teeth. “Then again, Mr. President, that’s exactly why you pay me the big bucks, right?”

  “There you have me,” the older man agreed slowly, again with a rueful shake of his head.

  The dirt road curved around a bend and entered a thicker belt of woods. The trees grew so close on both sides of the track that it was as if they were driving into a leafy green tunnel.

  Suddenly Macomber slammed on the brakes. They jerked to a stop just short of a fallen tree blocking most of the narrow road. It looked as though it had blown down during last night’s storm.

  Growling under his breath, Whack started to back up. And stopped just as quickly. They were surrounded by grim-faced soldiers who seemed to have risen up right out of the ground in the blink of an eye. Masked in mud and camouflage, they were all aiming M4 carbines at the two men in the 4x4.

  Before Martindale or Macomber could say or do anything, one of the camouflaged soldiers stepped closer. “Bang,” he said simply, sighting down his rifle at them. “You’re both dead.”

  “That we are, Ian,” Whack said, grinning now. “Dead as a doornail or any other part of the goddamned door you care to name. Nice doing business with you and your boys.”

  “A pleasure, sir,” the other man told him, matching his grin—with white teeth that gleamed oddly bright against the drab veil of brown mud and green and black camouflage stripes covering his face. He sketched a quick salute and nodded to his team.

  Moving rapidly, they hauled the fallen tree out of the road, clearing the way for Macomber’s Tarpan to drive on.

  “Who the devil was that?” Martindale demanded when they were out of sight.

  “Captain Ian Schofield,” Whack told him. “I snagged him out of the Canadian Special Operations Regiment last year. He was busy going crazy doing nothing interesting—in the usual peacetime army kind of way.”

  “And what does he do now?”

  “I made Schofield the commander of my deep-penetration recon and ambush teams,” Macomber said. He grinned. “And as you can see, he’s very, very good at it.”

  “Did you know he was going to pull that ambush on us?” Martindale demanded.

  “Nope,” Whack said fervently. He shook his head in wonderment. “Last I heard, Ian and his guys were way north of here, running cover for CID One.” He glanced at the gray-haired chief executive of Scion. “When I said my Iron Wolf troops were good, I meant it.”

  “They’re certainly . . . surprising,” Martindale agreed sourly. Then he forced a thin smile. “I’m just glad their little stunt didn’t give me a heart attack.”

  “Yeah, I guess so,” Macomber said slowly.

  “You guess so?” Martindale asked, raising an eyebrow.

  Whack nodded, holding in another grin. “Well, sure. With General McLanahan riding CID One practically full-time, I’ve only got one spare robot. If I had to sling you in CID Two to keep you alive, my combat power would be cut in half. And that would be bad.”

  “You know something, Major?” Martindale said, plainly exasperated. “You are one amazingly insubordinate son of a bitch.”

  “Yes, sir,” Macomber agreed happily. “That’s why—”

  “I pay you the big bucks,” the former president finished for him. Slowly, almost against his will, he snorted a short laugh. “All right, I give up, Major. Just try to get me through the rest of this show-and-tell you’ve obviously got planned in one piece, okay?”

  “I’ll do my damnedest,” Macomber assured him cheerfully. He spun the wheel to the left, turning onto another dirt track that ran west. “Next stop, the Rock.”

  “The Rock?”

  “The Remote Operations Control Center,” Macomber explained. “The high-tech playground for Brad McLanahan and his Flying Circus of Merry Young Aviators. They’ve been real busy lately figuring out how to get shot down in computer-simulated XF-111s and other aircraft in a number of different, interesting, and expensive ways. Along with some other things that might surprise you, especially once the tailoring receipts come through from corporate accounting.”

  “Am I going to like this, Whack?” Martindale said, obviously trying to figure out if he should sound angry, irritated, or just plain confused. Macomber only smiled.

  When they arrived outside the large, antenna-studded control center, he led the way inside and went straight toward the ready room. He stopped short of the open door and silently motioned Martindale forward to get a good look at what was going on.

  None of the pilots or weapons officers crowding the room noticed them. They were too busy taking down mission briefing notes using tablet computers. All of them wore dark, rifle-green uniform jackets, collared shirts, and black ties of a design that looked something like World War II–era RAF battle dress. Their squadron patch showed a metal gray robotic wolf’s head with glowing red eyes on a bright green background.

  Martindale shook
his head in disbelief.

  Brad McLanahan was up at the front, running through the details of their next exercise. “We’re going to be practicing a pretty tricky air defense plan this morning. It’s something Captain Rozek and I have worked out in consultation with Colonel Paweł Kasperek, the commanding officer of Third Tactical Squadron. Colonel Kasperek and his guys fly F-16 Falcons. Our plan is designed to coordinate their fighters with a mix of our unmanned and remote-piloted aircraft. We’ll be testing it against a simulated heavy, full-spectrum Russian air attack—an attack that will include Su-34 fighter-bombers armed with top-of-the-line air-to-ground and antiradiation missiles, backed by Su-35 fighters flying cover. And there may be a few other unpleasant surprises, depending on which variant the computer picks to throw at us.”

  “You trying to get us all virtually killed again, Brad?” one of the pilots asked plaintively.

  The younger McLanahan grinned. “Not everyone, Bill. Just you. See, you’re not being paranoid, because I really am out to get you.” The Iron Wolf pilots, including the one who’d spoken up, laughed easily at that.

  “Nominal mission time will be 0200 hours,” Brad went on. “Once the program starts running, we’ll get a better fix on the weather, but it’ll probably be crappy.”

  “So, basically, a dark and stormy night,” another of the Iron Wolf weapons officers chimed in.

  “Right on the nose, Jack,” Brad agreed. He turned more serious. “You can expect that we’ll be operating in a high electronic-noise environment, one where the Russians are trying to jam the hell out of Polish air defense radars—”

  Figuring this was a good time to break away before they inadvertently interrupted the briefing, Macomber jerked his head back down the hall. Martindale nodded, without any readable expression on his face.

  Outside the Remote Operations Control Center, Martindale let his breath out in a rush. “Uniforms?” he said slowly, shaking his head again. “Brad McLanahan has my Scion air crews wearing military uniforms?”

  “Yep.” Whack shrugged his massive shoulders. “He claims the uniforms are helping him build unit cohesion—along with kicking their sorry asses in computer-simulated air battles. Besides, they’re not just Scion employees anymore. They’re part of the Iron Wolf Squadron now.”

  “Would your other special operators wear uniforms like that?” Martindale asked dubiously.

  “Outside of a combat environment where camouflage and coordination make sense, you mean?” Macomber said. “Hell, no. But then again, my people are used to wearing anything they need to blend in with the locals. Up to and including turbans, full beards, and tennis shoes . . . you name it. Dressing up all nice and pretty like the kid’s elite aviators back there wouldn’t be their first choice.”

  “But is it working the way Brad claims?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, it is.” Macomber nodded. “I thought it was a lot of crap at first, that the kid had gone loco. Or maybe just power-crazed. But I’ve gotta admit that bunch of prima donnas you saddled him with are starting to shape up into the kind of fighting squadron you and General McLanahan wanted. Those guys and gals were getting their heads handed to them by the computer a few days ago. Now they’re actually starting to win some of the crazy-ass battle scenarios the kid tosses at them.”

  Martindale took that in silently, chewing what he seen and heard over mentally for several moments. At last, he looked up at the bigger man with a very serious expression on his face. “Something occurs to me, Major.”

  “Sir?”

  “If what you’ve told me about Brad McLanahan’s accomplishments with the Iron Wolf Squadron’s air crews is true, maybe it’s about time you stopped calling him just a kid.”

  Now it was Whack Macomber’s turn to think. Finally, he nodded solemnly. “You know, Mr. President, I think you’re absolutely right.”

  U FUKIERA RESTAURANT, OLD TOWN

  MARKETPLACE,

  WARSAW, POLAND

  SEVERAL DAYS LATER

  Discreet waiters circulated behind the elegantly uniformed officers seated at the long, white-tablecloth-covered table dominating the private dining room. Deftly, they removed plates with the scattered leftovers from a traditional feast—potato pancakes slathered in red caviar, boiled eggs, and onions; prawns swimming in olive oil, garlic, and sweet peppers; salmon steamed with spices and vegetables; veal cutlets served with quail eggs and cucumber salad; and beef tenderloin in a wine-and-wild-mushroom sauce atop potato noodles. Behind them came beaming waitresses carrying trays piled high with desserts, including parfaits with pistachio meringues and orange sauce, mouth-watering cheese cakes, and piping-hot slices of fresh-baked apple pie topped with ice cream and cinnamon. And finally, still more servers trooped in, bringing in armloads of bottles of fine wine, craft beer, and vodka.

  Seated at the head of the table, with Brad McLanahan on her right, Captain Nadia Rozek waited until the restaurant staff finished their work and withdrew, closing the door behind them. Then, smiling, she pushed back her chair and rose, only slightly unsteadily, to her feet. She raised her wineglass. “Comrades, fellow soldiers, and friends! A toast! Do Eskadry Żelazny Wilk! To the Iron Wolf Squadron!”

  With dazzling grins, the assembled officers—men and women of the Polish Special Forces assigned to liaison duty and members of the Iron Wolf Squadron itself—jumped to their own feet. The Poles wore their regulation dress uniforms, while the Iron Wolf pilots were clad in their rifle-green jackets, shirts, and ties, though without the give-away robotic wolf’s-head squadron patch.

  “The Iron Wolf Squadron!” they murmured, echoing her toast. They drained their glasses and refilled them. This celebratory dinner and its associated weekend leave in Warsaw was the payoff for the past weeks of hard work, long hours of study, and rigorous training and practice. It marked their transition to operational status.

  Through the warm haze created by great food, plentiful liquor, and budding camaraderie, Brad McLanahan turned to Nadia, raising his own glass. “To Poland!” He searched back through his memory of the various articles he’d been reading about this country. The Poles were a proud people and it was essential that he get this right. And then, almost without effort, the phrase he needed leaped into his mind. “Za wolność naszą i waszą!” he said, making sure he pronounced the words properly. “For our freedom and yours!”

  It was the traditional slogan of Polish exiles, driven from their homeland, when they fought as soldiers to help liberate others around the world.

  With an approving roar, the Poles and their new Iron Wolf allies repeated the toast and drank deep.

  Nadia glowed with delight. “That was perfect,” she murmured, leaning over to kiss him on both cheeks. And then, to Brad’s surprise and pleasure, she kissed him again, this time full on the lips. Her blue-gray eyes sparkled impishly.

  His breath caught in his throat.

  More toasts followed, one after another in a freely flowing river of wine, beer, vodka, and sentiment. The Poles, it seemed, were determined to send their new Iron Wolf Squadron comrades back to the base at Powidz with memories—and hangovers—they would long remember.

  Brad, after studying the playful expression on Nadia’s lovely face, fought hard to stay in control. He confined himself to sips, rather than knocking back a fresh glass with each new tribute to the squadron and its Polish comrades. If her innermost thoughts and feelings were really moving in the direction he hoped they were, he decided that he definitely did not want the phrase “drunk and incapable” attached to his name tonight.

  The party went on until well after midnight, ending only when the exhausted restaurant staff finally coaxed their mostly inebriated and entirely cheerful guests out into the cool night air. Even then the songs and boisterous laughter continued for a while longer, echoing off the cobblestones and Baroque-style buildings of the marketplace square. Then, almost reluctantly, the group of officers broke up with loud good-byes, handshakes, and embraces—with groups and pairs and individuals drifting slowly
apart as they made their separate ways through the darkened streets of Warsaw’s historic Old Town.

  To his great delight, Brad found himself walking with his arm snugly around Nadia Rozek’s trim waist as they parted from the others. Smiling to herself, she leaned in against his shoulder.

  “Dobranoc! Good night, Nadia! And you, too, Mr. American!” they heard a slightly slurred voice say happily. Still clinging to each other, they turned around to see one of the other Polish Special Forces officers, Captain Kazimierz Janik, beaming at them.

  “Where you off to, Kazimierz?” Nadia asked.

  “My girlfriend’s place,” Janik murmured happily. “Her roommate is a flight attendant and away in New York or London or somewhere. For hours and hours. Or maybe days! Which is good luck for me, eh?”

  “Indeed,” Nadia agreed, suppressing her own grin. “Well, good hunting, Kazimierz.”

  “Thanks!” The young Polish officer eyed them owlishly. “And yourselves on this fine night? Where are you headed?”

  “I thought I would take Mr. McLanahan on a walking tour of the Old Town,” Nadia said blandly. “To show him the sights.”

  “That is a great idea!” Janik agreed equably. “Good night, again!” With a final wave, he turned and walked off across the square, humming to himself.

  “So, where exactly are you really leading me?” Brad asked quietly, feeling greatly daring.

  “Well, I do have a flat here in the Old Town,” Nadia said, with an enchanting smile that set his pulse racing. “So we will have to walk there.”

  “And what about your roommate?” Brad asked, through lips that were suddenly dry. “Is she still in town or away, too?”

  Nadia laughed softly. “Fortunately for you,” she said with another impish look in her bright eyes, “I do not have a roommate.”