by Dale Brown
“Yes, he is,” Tarzarov agreed calmly. “But then we must hope that no other American military commander is ruthless enough and criminal enough to adopt McLanahan’s illegal, but highly effective methods.” He spread his hands. “Until we know more about what really happened last night, however, it might be wise to slow the advance of our armies toward the Polish frontier. At least temporarily.”
“You want me to respond to this sneak attack against our air bases by showing fear? By cowering in a corner?” Gryzlov demanded. He glared at his chief of staff. “Let me be very clear, Sergei. Extremely clear. I will not show such weakness! Russia will not show such weakness! Not while I am the president, you understand?”
Calmly, Tarzarov nodded. “I understand, sir.”
Plainly fighting to regain control over his temper, Gryzlov looked around the table, meeting the troubled eyes of his senior advisers with a challenging stare. “Whether we are fighting the Poles alone or the Poles in combination with some secret ally is immaterial. If anything, now we know Poland is too dangerous to be left alone—at least not under its current leaders. Between Warsaw’s earlier terrorist attacks and now these sneak raids, no one can doubt they are the real aggressors in this conflict, not us!”
Slowly, tentatively, the others around the conference table nodded.
“Then we go forward, as planned,” Gryzlov said. New thoughts were beginning to percolate in his mind.
“But these new enemy commando forces do pose a serious threat to our armies—a threat we must address, Mr. President,” General Mikhail Khristenko pointed out.
“You think so?” Gryzlov asked, smiling thinly now. Now that he’d had a little more time to think through the implications of last night’s disasters, he was beginning to see a range of alternative plans to retrieve the situation. He regretted more than ever having shown any uncertainty or concern in front of these sycophants.
Surprised, Khristenko stared back at him. “You don’t? Even after what happened to our air bases last night?”
“We made a mistake—a mistake the Poles took full advantage of,” Gryzlov told him drily. “Basing so many of our aircraft so far forward only allowed our enemies the luxury of planning and carrying out a meticulous and coordinated surprise attack on fixed positions. But they will find trying the same sort of raid against our field armies a much more difficult proposition. No matter how well equipped and trained they may be, no small band of commandos can hope to go head-to-head and win against tens of thousands of alert and mobile troops with heavy armor and artillery.”
Khristenko nodded. “True, Mr. President. But they may continue attacking our forward air bases, instead.”
Gryzlov shook his head. “The Poles will find no such easy targets for their secret forces.”
Colonel General Maksimov raised his haggard face from the tabletop. “What?”
“Effective immediately, I order you to withdraw all our aviation regiments and their ground components to secure bases deep inside Russian territory,” Gryzlov said. “The only other way to secure our forward bases would require ringing them with the tanks and troops and artillery we need for our field armies.”
Defense Minister Sokolov cleared his throat nervously. “Pulling our air units back to Russia itself will significantly reduce their effectiveness, sir. Many of our aircraft will be operating near the edge of their combat radius. Either they’ll need to carry external fuel tanks, greatly reducing their weapons loads, or we’ll have to accept the serious risks involved in air-to-air refueling in a battle zone.”
“That is so,” Gryzlov agreed. “But it doesn’t really matter.”
“It doesn’t, Mr. President?” Sokolov asked uncertainly.
“How far will the effectiveness of our aircraft be reduced by basing them farther back?” Gryzlov asked Maksimov, in turn. “By as much as fifty percent?”
The elderly air-force commander frowned. “Possibly. But I would think less—with good planning and sound tactics.”
Russia’s young president smiled, more genially this time. “And how many capable aircraft can you commit to this war, even after last night’s losses?”
“Perhaps as many as five hundred fighter and strike planes,” Maksimov said.
Gryzlov smiled even more broadly. “So . . . the Poles have, at best, fifty modern combat aircraft and we can still oppose them with the equivalent of two hundred and fifty. Tell me, Colonel General, all other factors being equal, who wins an air battle where the odds are five to one?”
For the first time in hours, Maksimov looked a little more alive. He sat up a bit straighter in his chair. “We do, Mr. President.”
“Exactly,” Gryzlov said. He snorted. “Let the Poles and their hidden allies, if they truly exist, savor this first, fleeting success. If we all do our jobs right, it will be their last.”
Maksimov sat up even straighter. His face seemed to be recovering some of its normal tone. “Well said, Gennadiy!”
Gryzlov let that bit of unwanted informality pass. After all, the old man had once been his teacher.
“And in that vein, let me strike back at the Poles,” Maksimov went on, even more enthusiastically. “Even harder than they hit us!”
Gryzlov raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Our Su-34 fighter-bomber squadrons can launch a deep-penetration raid on Warsaw itself,” Maksimov told him. “We can hit this Polish bastard Wilk and his fellow fascists right where they live and work.”
“The Polish Air Force will fight to defend its capital, Valentin,” Gryzlov pointed out. “Your bomber force will bring every flyable Polish F-16 and MiG-29 down on its head.”
The older man nodded vigorously. “Of course, Gennadiy! And that’s when our own Su-35s and Su-27s will pounce! If the Poles really do rise to the bait, we’ll wipe their whole effective air force out of the sky in one battle!”
Gryzlov smiled again, as much in admiration of Maksimov’s astonishing powers of recuperation—or self-deception—as in approval of his plan. “Put your staff to work on the operational orders for such a strike, Colonel General. Then, once they’re ready, bring them to me for my consideration.”
Later, after the rest of the generals and cabinet ministers had filed out, Sergei Tarzarov looked across the table. The older man had a skeptical look in his eyes. “Do you really believe that a single bombing raid on Warsaw can accomplish what Maksimov claims it will? Destroy Poland’s airpower in one fell swoop?”
Gryzlov shrugged. “It might.” He smiled crookedly. “But even if it does not, a serious air strike aimed at the heart of Poland’s military and political leadership should be . . . clarifying.”
His chief of staff looked puzzled. “I do not pretend to be a trained military strategist, Mr. President, so the illustrative effects of a failure, or even a partial success, escape me.”
“This is not a purely military matter,” Gryzlov told the other man, savoring the pleasure of being able to lecture Tarzarov—of all people!—on international politics. “A serious air strike on Warsaw may not achieve all of the good colonel general’s admittedly grandiose objectives. But one thing is certain, Sergei,” he said, with a smug smile. “It will force the Americans to tip their hand. If they are secretly backing the Poles with advanced weaponry or commandos, the Americans will have to come out into the open to protect their ally’s capital from a devastating attack, and then we can destroy them. But if the Americans do nothing, we destroy Poland while NATO and the Americans watch. That will be the end of their alliance.”
OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT,
BELWEDER PALACE, WARSAW
THAT SAME TIME
Polish President Piotr Wilk sat alone in his private office. Conferring with the representatives of the Iron Wolf Squadron and some of his senior military commanders via video links imposed some additional security risk in these days of widespread hacking, but it was still safer than gathering in person. Now that the battle had been joined, a roomful of high-ranking military and political leaders w
as nothing more than a juicy target for Russian bombs or cruise missiles.
He looked across the array of five serious faces displayed on his monitor—the two Americans, Brad McLanahan and President Kevin Martindale, and three Poles, two of them major generals, Tadeusz Stasiak and Milosz Domanski, and the last a colonel in the air force, Paweł Kasperek. Stasiak and Domanski commanded the two Polish task forces assembling to meet the oncoming Russian 6th and 20th Guards Armies. Kasperek, the commander of Poland’s 3rd Tactical Squadron, was the young officer he’d tasked with coordinating the country’s F-16s with the Iron Wolf Squadron’s XF-111s and drones.
“I congratulate you on the success of your first raids, gentlemen,” Wilk said to Brad and Martindale. “The results achieved by your forces surpassed anything I imagined possible.”
“Thank you, Mr. President,” Martindale replied. “I think we batted the Russian bear across the back of the head rather nicely.” He smiled wryly. “Of course, now we’ve really pissed him off.”
Wilk matched the gray-haired American’s crooked grin with one of his own. “That much was inevitable. What matters more is how this first defeat affects Moscow’s strategy. I assume it is unlikely to make our friend Gryzlov more cautious.”
“Probably not on the ground,” Martindale agreed. “As far as he’s concerned, his armies outnumber yours so heavily that the sooner they move into contact, the sooner he wins.”
“And in the air?”
“If Gryzlov is dumb enough to keep basing aircraft within our striking range, we’ll keep clobbering them on the ground,” Brad McLanahan said confidently. “But I don’t think he’s that dumb. Now that we’ve given him a bloody nose, he’s likely to pull his aviation regiments back out of our reach.”
“Which would still leave us heavily outnumbered in the sky,” Wilk commented.
Brad nodded. “Yes, sir.” Then he shrugged. “But we’ll still have significantly degraded Russia’s air capability—especially its air-to-ground strike capability, which was our primary objective. For example, pushing those Su-25 Frogfoots back to Russian bases makes them a lot less effective. Their unrefueled combat radius is only three hundred and seventy-five kilometers. If Grzylov pulls them back to safety, they’ll have to fly three times that far just to reach the battlefield.” He inclined his head toward the two Polish Army officers. “Which will make life a heck of a lot easier for your armor formations.”
Wilk nodded. Russia’s Su-25 Frogfoots were aging, but still effective, close air support planes. Roughly equivalent to the American A-10 Thunderbolt, they were designed to smash tank forces using 30mm cannons, rockets, missiles, and laser-guided bombs. Reducing the threat of attack from the Su-25s would allow his field commanders to use their Leopard 2, T-72, and Polish-manufactured PT-91 main battle tanks more aggressively.
“Anyway, if the Russians do abandon their forward air bases, the Iron Wolf Squadron is ready to move to Phases Two and Three of our plan,” Brad continued. “But obviously we won’t initiate any serious action until everybody else is set.”
“Excellent,” Wilk said.
“There is one further consideration, sir,” Colonel Kasperek said, speaking up plainly. “Neither Brad nor I believe Gryzlov or his air commanders will stay passive—even if they do pull their air units back to better-defended bases.”
“You think they will launch a retaliatory strike?” Wilk asked. He’d known Paweł Kasperek since the other man had flown MiG-29s under his command as a young lieutenant. Kasperek was a very good pilot, and an even better tactician.
“We do,” the colonel said bluntly. “And soon. Perhaps within the next several hours.”
“And are your F-16s ready to meet such an attack?”
“Yes, sir,” Kasperek said. “We have prepared a number of different plans, depending on what the Russians throw at us.” He hesitated, looking somber. “But our losses may be high. Very high, if we are unlucky, or if we have miscalculated.”
“That is likely,” Wilk agreed quietly. “Look, Paweł, chance and error are always a part of war. You can try to minimize their effects, but you cannot erase them. Not entirely.”
“Yes, Mr. President,” the younger man said. His expression was still very grave.
Wilk studied him for one more moment. “Listen carefully, Colonel. If you are forced to choose between losing your entire squadron and allowing the Russians through to bomb some of our cities, even Warsaw itself, you must preserve as many of your planes and pilots as possible. We have been bombed before. Many times. If necessary, we can rebuild. But we need an intact air force to have any chance of surviving this war. So, no death and glory flights, eh? You understand?”
Briefly, the younger air-force officer looked stubborn, prepared to argue against this order. After all, no one joined Poland’s military to allow an enemy to kill their fellow Poles without a fight. But faced by his commander in chief’s steady gaze, he grudgingly nodded.
“Very good,” Wilk said. He switched his gaze to the two Polish Army officers. “Well, gentlemen? General Stasiak? Are your troops ready?”
Major General Tadeusz Stasiak, older and heavier-set than his counterpart, Milosz Domanski, nodded confidently. “My units are moving into position on schedule, Mr. President.” Stasiak commanded the vast majority of Poland’s hastily mobilized ground forces—the 11th Armored Cavalry Division, the 12th Mechanized Division, and two-thirds of the 16th Mechanized Division. These troops were rapidly deploying along the Polish border with Belarus and digging in. Their job was to stop the Russian 6th Army cold, blocking one prong of Gryzlov’s two-pronged invasion force. Given their numbers, which were close to those of the Russians advancing on them, and the advantages of fighting defensively on their own home ground, Stasiak’s men had a good chance of success.
“And you, Milosz?” Wilk asked. “Are your officers and men prepared? Do they understand their mission?”
Domanski, as tall and wiry as Stasiak was short and stout, didn’t hesitate. “Yes, sir.” He grinned at the two Americans. “Though after seeing what these Iron Wolves can do, my boys are a lot less likely to see our role as a form of noble and patriotic suicide.”
Wilk snorted. “Let us hope so!”
By training and temperament, Milosz Domanski was a cavalryman—though one thoroughly schooled in the tactics of modern armored warfare. He had a well-earned reputation as a bold, intelligent, and innovative military thinker and leader. That was good, because the mission assigned to him by Poland’s war plan would demand every ounce of skill, dash, and daring.
To confront Russia’s 20th Guards Army—a formation with more than fifty thousand troops and hundreds of heavy tanks and artillery pieces—Domanski had been given one armored brigade and one independent rifle brigade. Which meant he and his soldiers faced odds of more than ten to one. According to conventional military thinking, that kind of disparity was a recipe for inevitable defeat and destruction. But Domanski’s mission was not conventional.
Stasiak’s much larger force had no choice but to accept a head-on defensive battle with the invading Russians. Advancing against them into Belarus was politically impossible, since Poland wanted to avoid giving Moscow’s puppet government in Minsk any more reasons to join the war openly.
Domanski’s soldiers, though, had the freedom to maneuver beyond the frontier. Military weakness forced Ukraine’s pro-Western government to allow the Russians free passage through its remaining territory, but that same weakness gave them every excuse to let the Poles do the same. And that, in turn, meant the general’s troops and tanks could wage a fast-moving war of hit and run against the advancing 20th Guards Army—working in tandem with the Iron Wolf Squadron’s cybernetic war machines and aircraft.
With luck and skill, they could buy Poland time she would not otherwise have. Though, Wilk admitted grimly to himself, he still wasn’t able to see a good outcome, no matter how much delay they were able to impose on the Russians. If he could have counted on NATO and American reinforcemen
ts, prolonging the war would make good sense. But could he justify the likely cost in blood and treasure only to delay the inevitable?
“Cheer up, Mr. President,” Martindale said, obviously reading his dour mood. “We’re in the position of that thief condemned to death by the king. The one who begged for a year of life so that he could teach the king’s horse to sing.”
Wilk raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
Martindale smiled. “When someone told him he was crazy, the thief laughed and said: Who knows what will happen in a year? Perhaps I will die. Or maybe the king will die—”
“Or perhaps the horse will learn to sing,” Brad finished for him. The tall, young American showed his teeth in a defiant grin. “Well, that’s our job, Mr. President. That’s why you hired the Iron Wolf Squadron. We’re here to teach that stubborn, damned nag to sit up and sing.”
ELEVEN
Great things are not done by impulse, but by a series of small things brought together.
—VINCENT VAN GOGH, DUTCH ARTIST
EAST OF KALININGRAD, RUSSIA
LATER THAT DAY
Dozens of huge, mobile Iskander-M and R-500 missile launchers, transporters, command vehicles, and maintenance trucks rumbled slowly along the rutted logging trails and narrow backcountry roads ninety kilometers east of the city of Kaliningrad, moving bumper-to-bumper under the direction of heavily armed Russian military policemen. As the convoys rolled through the dense pine forest, staff officers waved individual groups of vehicles off into clearings already covered by layers of camouflage netting. The Iskander brigade contained twelve forty-ton missile vehicles, each able to fire two missiles in rapid succession. One by one, the launcher units, each accompanied by other trucks carrying extra missiles and support and command vehicles, rolled into precisely calculated positions and halted.