Iron Wolf

by Dale Brown

  The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff frowned. “I talked to Defense Minister Gierek about that, Madam President. He insists that the maneuvers at Drawsko Pomorskie were purely local and defensive in nature.”

  “Involving which units of the Polish armed forces?” Rauch asked. He shook his head. “I’ve studied those images and I wouldn’t have said the Poles had anything in their arsenal that could inflict that much damage with such precision.”

  “Gierek claimed the exercise involved elements of the Polish Special Forces,” Spelling admitted, though with some hesitation.

  “Which elements? Does that include the units based at Powidz?” Rauch wondered. His eyes narrowed. “Is that why they’ve locked that base down so tight?”

  “What?” Barbeau sat up straighter. “What are you talking about?”

  “We’ve had a few reports of much higher security restrictions at a Polish Air Force base outside Powidz, which is in central Poland,” Torrey told her.

  “Which is the duty station for Poland’s Seventh Special Operations Squadron,” Rauch pointed out.

  “So?”

  Rauch’s mouth turned down. “Well, that’s the helicopter outfit trained to infiltrate Polish Special Forces teams behind enemy lines . . .”

  Barbeau shook her head in disgust. “Jesus. Gryzlov was right. Those bastards in Warsaw have been lying to us, right from the get-go. There’s no other way to figure it. Between those secret commando exercises and buying up those long-range XF-111 bombers on the sly, the Poles have been preparing for a war with Russia. But maybe it was a war they planned to start themselves!”

  “I don’t think we should jump to conclusions yet, Madam President,” Spelling urged. “I’ve known Piotr Wilk for a long time. He’s not crazy. And he’s not suicidal.” He looked around the table. “The most important thing right now is to find some way to slow Gryzlov down—to stop this situation from blowing up into a full-scale conflict and buy time for more investigation and diplomacy.”

  “Just what are you proposing, General?” Barbeau asked.

  “That we send troops and aircraft to Poland,” the chairman of the Joint Chiefs said. “Even a token force might persuade the Russians to back off their ultimatum, at least temporarily.”

  “We could couple that with the promise of a serious international investigation into these terrorist attacks,” Thomas Torrey agreed. “Agreeing to a joint CIA-SVR probe would throw Gryzlov a bone he might need to save face at home while still making sure we got to the bottom of what’s been happening in Ukraine.”

  “Absolutely not!” Barbeau snapped. “You heard President Gryzlov. He is not bluffing and I will not try to rescue the Poles from a mess of their own making at the cost of American lives. NATO ally or not, this is not a case where the Article Five mutual defense clause applies.” She scowled. “And even if I were inclined to believe Poland’s story, which I’m not, there’s no realistic chance we could send enough help to win any conventional war. Right?”

  Slowly, reluctantly, her top military and intelligence advisers nodded. Earlier drawdowns had removed almost all U.S. ground troops from Europe. At the height of the Cold War, almost four hundred thousand American soldiers had been stationed in Germany to deter Soviet aggression. Now there were just two light brigades there, neither of them equipped with heavy armor. The U.S. Air Force was in even worse shape. It still had not come close to recovering from the losses sustained in earlier conflicts or from recession-induced budget cuts. Neither service was currently prepared to go head-to-head with the Russians in their own backyard.

  “Which means the only way we could stop the Russians—if they really hit Poland—would be to threaten an escalation to nuclear war. And mean it,” Stacy Anne Barbeau said coldly. She shook her head decisively. “Well, screw that, ladies and gentlemen. I will not drag the United States to the brink of thermonuclear destruction. Not for the Poles. Not for anyone. And certainly not for such a bad cause.”

  THE KREMLIN, MOSCOW

  THAT SAME TIME

  Defense Minister Gregor Sokolov entered the conference room, trailed by a small cadre of senior officers and junior aides. He stopped just beyond the door, surprised to find only three men waiting for him—Gennadiy Gryzlov, Sergei Tarzarov, the president’s chief of staff, and the president’s private secretary, Ulanov. Given the importance of this meeting, he had expected to find the other members of the security council there, except, of course, for the foreign minister who was scheduled to fly home to Moscow from Geneva later that night.

  Russia’s president swung away from the large display, now showing a detailed map of Ukraine, Belarus, and Poland. “Ah, there you are, Gregor,” he said, smiling broadly. “It is good to see you.” He nodded to the group of military officers, including them in his greeting. “Please, gentlemen, be seated.”

  Sokolov and the others obeyed, arranging themselves around the long conference table.

  “You are here to receive my orders for the coming war,” Gryzlov told them, ignoring the startled looks on the faces of several junior aides who had evidently missed recent developments. “You will then translate these orders into the operational plans necessary to achieve victory—as swiftly, decisively, and cost-effectively as possible. Is this understood?”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” Sokolov said, not daring to give any other answer. “So the Poles have rejected our ultimatum?”

  “Not yet,” Gryzlov said with a shrug. “But they will. Even the American president, not one of nature’s brighter intellects, understands as much. Our demands have backed Wilk and his gang into a corner. Oh, they will squirm and wriggle for as long as possible, desperately seeking some safe escape from the snare, some means of survival.” His smile turned more wolflike. “In fact, I am counting on Warsaw to use every hour we have given them before finally rejecting our ultimatum.”

  “The Poles may use those five days to strengthen their defenses, sir,” General Mikhail Khristenko warned. Khristenko was the chief of the General Staff. “Their reserves are only partially mobilized at this moment, but every hour we wait gives the enemy more time to integrate these men into active-duty brigades and battalions.”

  “That is true, General,” Gryzlov agreed. He swung back toward the map and used a control to highlight the current concentration areas of Russia’s own ground and air forces in the Ukraine, along Russia’s border with Belarus, and within Russia itself. In every case, they were at least several hundred kilometers from the Polish border. “But who really benefits more from five uninterrupted days of preparation—and maneuver?”

  “You mean for us to conduct our prewar marches while the Poles dither,” Sokolov realized suddenly.

  “Exactly!” the president said, nodding. He grinned at them. “While Wilk and his government ministers scuttle about, looking for any possible alternative to war, our tank, artillery, and motor-rifle formations will mass on the Polish frontier. And when all of Poland’s futile efforts fail, as they must, our soldiers will be ready to strike with overwhelming force—backed by our most advanced combat aircraft and missile units.”

  “What if the Poles attack us on the march, before the ultimatum expires?” Khristenko asked quietly. “In war, the enemy always has a vote.”

  Gryzlov shrugged again. “With what? A few companies of commandos flown on aging Mi-17 helicopters? A handful of near-obsolete F-16s and MiG-29s? Our Su-27, Su-30, and Su-35 interceptors and our mobile SAM battalions would swat them all out of the sky!”

  There were murmurs of agreement from the officers gathered around the table. Up to now, the Polish-backed terrorists—attacking covertly and at times and places of their own choosing—had been able to evade the overwhelming numerical and qualitative superiority of Russia’s armed forces. In any open engagement, however, they were doomed to defeat.

  “Besides,” Gryzlov went on, with even colder smile on his face, “if the Poles attack us before our ultimatum expires, they will be marked even more plainly as aggressors in the
eyes of the world.”

  Sokolov noticed even cynical Sergei Tarzarov’s head nodding at that. The minister of defense suspected there was little else about this situation that made the president’s chief of staff happy. The older man had long been a proponent of watchful caution in international affairs, and nothing about what was happening now smacked of either watchfulness or caution.

  “My orders are simple and straightforward,” Gryzlov told them. “I want two full armies—the Twentieth Guards Army and the Sixth Army—in position on the Polish border within five days. The Sixth Army will advance through Belarus. Its government, so closely linked with ours, has already given its consent. The Twentieth will move through the northern sectors of the western Ukraine. Foreign Minister Titeneva has already received my instructions to secure Kiev’s full cooperation for the peaceful transit of our troops.” He showed his teeth. “Since the Ukrainians face certain destruction if they thwart us, I think we can count on their acquiescence.”

  “Let us hope so, sir,” Tarzarov said drily. “Two foreign wars at one time might be considered overly ambitious by some.”

  Rather than turning red with fury as Sokolov half expected, the president only gently waved a finger at his chief of staff. “Now, now, Sergei. There’ll be time enough for your perpetual naysaying later, if things go wrong, eh?”

  “As you wish, Mr. President,” Tarzarov murmured.

  Sokolov and Khristenko exchanged discreet, worried glances. Stripped down to the essentials, their president’s plan required moving more than one hundred thousand soldiers and several thousand artillery pieces, rocket launchers, tanks, and infantry fighting vehicles over huge distances within a very short period of time. It was doable, but it would be difficult—even without possible opposition from the Poles or the Ukrainians. Between the limited number of trucks available and the relatively low capacity of the road and rail net in those regions, their first-echelon troops would probably only be able to bring stocks of fuel and ammunition augmented slightly above peacetime levels. While those supplies might suffice for a short, sharp campaign, heavier fighting would require huge resupply convoys moving regularly between depots in Russia and the battlefront. Without protection against air or missile attack, those columns of supply trucks and fuel tankers would be incredibly vulnerable.

  Satisfied, Gryzlov went back to issuing orders. “Both field armies will be supported by strong detachments of our most advanced combat aircraft—including fighters and Su-24 and Su-34 fighter-bombers. These air-force units should be based as far forward as possible. I want guaranteed full air superiority over the Poles as soon as the war begins!”

  Sokolov breathed a little easier. Maintaining air superiority was vital to moving and supplying such large ground forces so far from Russia’s current borders. He should have realized that Gryzlov, well schooled in air tactics and strategy by virtue of his earlier military training, would understand that.

  “Finally, as an operational attack force of last resort, I want a brigade of Iskander R-500 cruise missiles and Iskander-M tactical ballistic missiles deployed within range of Warsaw, other industrial centers, and key Polish air bases.” Gryzlov tapped one of the computer-driven display controls, bringing up a new graphic overlay on the map. It showed several positions east of the city of Kaliningrad, a small enclave situated on the Baltic Sea between Poland and Lithuania. “I suggest this site. These woods offer good camouflage against satellite detection and we can ring the Iskander launchers with mobile SAM battalions.”

  Khristenko studied that for a moment and then nodded. “An excellent choice, Mr. President. New solid-rocket propellants give our Iskander-M rockets much greater range, but the Western powers do not yet fully realize this. Even if they detect the movement of our missile brigades, they will not see a deployment there as an effective offensive threat.”

  “Indeed,” Gryzlov said smugly. “And yet, from this area, our missiles can strike most of northern and central Poland with little more than six minutes of warning time—hitting any targets we select with incredible accuracy and force. So, if Poland’s defenses prove stronger than we expect, we will pound them into burning heaps of rubble!”

  The assembled generals and staff officers nodded again. Iskander-M missiles carried warheads with almost a ton of conventional high explosives; plus, their inertial and optical homing guidance systems gave them high precision, a circular error probability rating of just five to seven meters. The newer R-500 cruise missiles, fired from the same launchers, had even longer range and better accuracy. Left unspoken, but front and center in all of their minds, was the fact that both versions of the Iskander could also be fitted with nuclear warheads—should their president opt in the end to annihilate the Poles rather than simply conquer them.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Tarzarov said, “but may I remind you that we have agreed not to station Iskander units in Kaliningrad Oblast? Moving these missiles into Kaliningrad, no matter our level of secrecy, will surely be detected.”

  “I’m not concerned with that, Sergei,” Gryzlov said with a dismissive wave of a hand. “We have been forced to mobilize for war, and I intend to use every weapon at my disposal. The Iskander missiles are our most accurate and survivable battlefield weapon, and I will not keep them out of the fight because of a political concession made years ago. If NATO doesn’t like it, they can tell the Poles to back off, or they can declare war on Russia.” He smiled and nodded. “I would welcome either.”

  SECURE HANGAR, IRON WOLF SQUADRON

  COMPOUND,

  POWIDZ, POLAND

  A SHORT TIME LATER

  The big hangar doors were already sliding closed behind the two-seater F-16D Falcon as it taxied to a stop and shut down its Pratt & Whitney turbofan engine. Even before the fighter’s clear canopy whined open, ground crew hurried toward the plane with ladders for the Polish Air Force pilot and his VIP passenger.

  President Piotr Wilk climbed out of the rear seat and dropped lightly onto the hangar’s concrete floor. He stripped off the flight helmet he’d been loaned and handed it back to the F-16’s pilot, a lieutenant colonel. “Wait for me here, Waldemar. And thank you for the ride.” He forced a smile. “Maybe you will let me fly your bird on the way back to Warsaw, eh? I promise not to try too many crazy stunts on the way.”

  “Sir!” The lieutenant colonel snapped to attention.

  A tall, powerfully built man stepped forward. Wilk recognized him from earlier visits as Wayne Macomber, commander of the Iron Wolf Squadron’s ground troops. “We’re all set, Mr. President,” Macomber said. “If you’ll follow me?”

  The big American led him through a pair of large doors at the rear of the hangar and into an adjoining room with a remarkably high ceiling. The reason for the tall ceiling was apparent when Wilk saw the twelve-foot-tall Cybernetic Infantry Device standing absolutely still, facing the doors. It was plugged into an array of cables.

  Two men stood next to the huge robot. One was Kevin Martindale. The other was much younger, with bright blue eyes and short-cropped blond hair. Dressed in the dark green uniform adopted by the Iron Wolf Squadron’s air crews, he was almost as tall and broad-shouldered as Macomber.

  He recognized Brad McLanahan from Captain Rozek’s confidential reports. In them, she credited the only son of the legendary General McLahanan with remarkable leadership and tactical skills. Apparently, he had won the loyalty of a hard-nosed group of elite pilots with astonishing swiftness. Then again, Wilk thought with hidden amusement, judging from some of the other rumors he’d heard, that was not all Brad had won recently.

  Privately, he hoped the young American knew what he was getting into. Nadia Rozek was a highly capable, highly trained Special Forces officer. If Brad McLanahan broke her heart, she was perfectly capable of breaking his neck—or any other part of his body that caught her fancy.

  Quickly, Wilk shook hands with everyone except the CID, which seemed frozen, utterly inanimate. Was there a pilot in there? he wondered. Or was it only an empt
y shell right now, brought out of storage for use as a visual aid at this urgent meeting?

  Kevin Martindale motioned him toward a conference table surrounded by chairs. “I hope you don’t mind if we skip all the usual pleasantries, Mr. President. But time is damned short all of sudden.”

  “Not at all,” Wilk said, sitting down. The others did the same. “I am well aware that we are, as you Americans would say, neck-deep in the shit.” His foray into American slang drew quick, slashing grins from both Macomber and Brad, and a pained nod of grudging agreement from Martindale.

  “Can you tell us anything more about how those rifles and other gear—not to mention Captain Janik’s corpse—wound up in Russian hands?” the head of Scion asked.

  Regretfully, Wilk shook his head. “Not yet.” He frowned. “But the serial numbers provided by Moscow do match equipment we purchased from the United States. We have traced these weapons as far as we can, but all of them are listed in our records as either scrapped or discarded.”

  “Who maintains those records?” Brad asked. “Somebody must have fiddled with them.”

  “In this case, the ‘fiddling’ seems to have been done by a staff sergeant in one of our supply units,” Wilk said. “Unfortunately, we cannot confirm that through direct interrogation. Sergeant Górski died more than a week ago—burned alive in what the police thought was an accidental fire.”

  “How very fucking . . . convenient,” Macomber growled.

  Wilk nodded grimly. “True. Though not for us, it seems.”

  “What about Kazimierz?” Brad looked even more troubled. “Nadia . . . I mean, Captain Rozek and I, must have been just about the last people to set eyes on him. He was drunk as a skunk, so he sure as hell wasn’t getting ready to fly off on some solo covert mission to the Ukraine!”

  “We believe Captain Janik must have been kidnapped that same night,” Wilk told them, not bothering to hide his own anger. “But we have no proof of this beyond the fact that he did not visit his girlfriend. There is no evidence that he ever crossed our borders. It is as if he simply vanished off the streets in Warsaw and then reappeared—quite dead—at that Russian-occupied air base.”