Iron Wolf

by Dale Brown

  Russia’s president turned his furious gaze toward Ivan Ulanov, his private secretary. The younger man swallowed convulsively. “Get that bitch Barbeau on the hot line,” Gryzlov demanded. “She owes me the truth now! I will not tolerate any more lies!”

  THE WHITE HOUSE,

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  LATER THAT NIGHT

  “No more bullshit, people,” Stacy Anne Barbeau said icily. “No more ‘we don’t have a goddamned clue’ disguised as ‘our analysis is not yet complete, Madam President’ crap. You hear me?”

  Slowly, heads nodded around the crowded Situation Room. Although it was well past midnight, she had summoned the entire National Security Council and members of their staffs to this emergency meeting. Like her vice president and secretaries of defense and energy, most of them were loyal nonentities, political hacks selected to make her look good and to stay out of the way while she and her White House staff ran the government. Now, though, she wanted them present as a buffer against those—like the chairman of the Joint Chiefs and the CIA director—whose independent thinking she found galling and potentially dangerous.

  “By now you’ve seen the transcript of my hotline conversation with President Gryzlov,” Barbeau went on. She frowned. “A crisis we hoped would stay confined to Poland has now escalated into something one hell of a lot worse. The Russians are accusing us of providing covert military support to Warsaw. They’re demanding our immediate withdrawal. And if we don’t, that lunatic Gryzlov is perfectly capable of declaring war on us.”

  “But we’re not helping the Poles,” Secretary of State Grayson protested. “How can we withdraw support we’re not giving?”

  “Thank you so much for identifying the nature of the problem, Karen,” Barbeau said acidly. “That’s really a great help.” There were moments when she wondered how the other woman had ever graduated from her Montana cow college, let alone won a senatorial election. This was one of those moments. She turned her irritated gaze away from the embarrassed secretary of state to Thomas Torrey and the other assembled intelligence chiefs. “Which brings me to you, gentlemen. I need solid information about what’s really going on in Poland. And I need it now!”

  “Fortunately, the intelligence picture we’ve been compiling is starting to come into clearer focus, Madam President,” Admiral Caldwell said. The director of the National Security Agency brought up a set of charts on the Situation Room’s large monitor. “This is where the trail begins.”

  Barbeau stared at what looked like a sea of numbers, large numbers, and three- and four-letter abbreviations. Colored arrows linked circled sets of numbers and letters. In a weird way, she thought, those charts resembled some crazed artist’s rendition of the financial pages of the Wall Street Journal or the New York Times. Puzzled, she raised an eyebrow. “Go on, Admiral.”

  “Once we realized the Poles were buying refurbished F-111s from Sky Masters, my analysts started digging through the data we routinely and covertly collect from European and American financial computer networks,” the NSA director told her.

  “You were tracking the money,” Barbeau realized. “The funds the Poles used to buy those planes and any other military hardware they’ve suddenly acquired.”

  “Yes, Madam President,” Caldwell agreed. He shrugged. “But we found something more . . . interesting.” He highlighted certain sections of the charts. “These show substantial investments made using Polish-government Special Economic Incentive Funds—investments in a wide range of smaller Polish industries and corporations.”

  “So?”

  “What’s interesting is that the shares purchased by the Polish government were then immediately transferred,” Caldwell said.

  “To Sky Masters?”

  “No, ma’am,” the admiral said. “These transfers were made to a variety of different companies and corporations, most of them headquartered in Europe, South America, and Asia.”

  “So it’s a dead end,” Barbeau said, not bothering to hide her disappointment.

  “No, Madam President,” Thomas Torrey said quietly. The director of the CIA looked her squarely in the eye. “When the NSA shared its findings, my analysts saw another pattern. We’re fairly sure that at least several of those corporations serve as fronts, as shell companies, for a private American defense contractor called Scion.”

  “Kevin Martindale!” Barbeau spat out. “That sneaky rat bastard owns Scion.”

  “Our information does suggest that former President Martindale is significantly involved in the company,” Torrey agreed, somewhat cautiously. “Which brings me to the next piece of the picture. And, in this case, it really is a picture, or rather, a series of them.”

  Impatiently, Barbeau waved him on. Inside, she was thinking fast. Martindale was a slick financial operator—and a dangerous political opponent. What exactly was his game in Poland? Why was he buying up shares in their industries? Especially now, with the Russians raising all hell in Eastern Europe?

  “We didn’t have any satellites in position to see that first Polish attack, the one on the Russian air base at Konotop,” the CIA director said. “But we were able to capture a set of thermal images from the raid on Baranovichi.” He brought up a short video clip on the big monitor, showing close-ups of the action as Russian aircraft, armored vehicles, and hangars went up in flames.

  Barbeau stared at the screen. Some . . . blurry thing . . . moved with astonishing speed across that Russian base—firing weapons with incredible precision. But her eyes couldn’t focus on it. It was just an eerie jumble of random shapes.

  “At first, our National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency specialists out at Fort Belvoir couldn’t make heads or tails out of these images,” Torrey said. “All we could pick up were occasional ‘hot’ and ‘cold’ thermal traces without any coherent shape. But then one of them had the idea of trying to connect up all the separate traces from different images—to see what they might look like if they were all somehow attached to each other. And this is what she came up with—”

  The satellite pictures vanished, replaced by a drawing of a large, man-shaped machine, a robot equipped with a bewildering variety of weaponry.

  Stacy Anne Barbeau stared at the screen in horror. Her skin crawled. “My God,” she muttered. “It’s one of those goddamned CIDs, one of those killing machines McLanahan used to—” With an effort, she stopped herself from saying anything more. Her past encounters with the Cybernetic Infantry Devices and Patrick McLanahan were decidedly not something she wanted in the public record.

  “Yes, Madam President,” Torrey agreed. “That’s our assessment, too. The Poles are using combat robots originally developed for the U.S. Army.”

  “It’s not just the Poles,” Barbeau realized suddenly. “That son of a bitch Martindale is fighting a private war with the Russians.” Her jaw tightened. “And now he’s going to suck us in with him . . .” She whirled toward Luke Cohen. “I need to talk to Piotr Wilk, now, before it’s too late!”

  OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT,

  BELWEDER PALACE, WARSAW

  THAT SAME TIME

  Piotr Wilk listened to the American president’s tirade in mounting disbelief. How could the American people have elected someone so self-absorbed and seemingly unconcerned with their nation’s historic role as leader of the free world? Gripping the phone tighter, he tried to keep an equally tight rein on his own rising fury.

  “This war you’ve started has got to stop, Wilk!” Stacy Anne Barbeau said in exasperation. “I don’t care what line of bullshit Martindale and his paid killers sold you. Thanks to the element of surprise, they may have won a couple of meaningless skirmishes, but that’s over now. The Russians aren’t screwing around anymore. The more you hurt them now, the worse this is going to get. And not just for Poland. For Europe and the whole world!”

  “So you propose that I simply surrender my country to Moscow now, instead of making more trouble for you by defending our freedoms?” Wilk asked sarcastically.

  �
�Christ, no!” Barbeau snapped. “This isn’t a goddamned game. What I’m asking you to do is to stand your military forces down. Stop taking offensive action against the Russians while I see if we can negotiate a way out of this mess. But one thing’s for sure, you’ve got to get rid of Martindale’s hired Scion thugs and their killing machines. Gryzlov will never make peace with you until they’re gone.”

  Enough, Wilk thought. He shook his head. “I will try to be very clear, Madam President, so that there is no room for any further misunderstanding. Even if your speculations about this company’s involvement in this war were accurate, I absolutely refuse to surrender Poland’s sovereign right of national defense. Not to the Russians. And not to any other foreign power, including the United States. When you wish to speak to me as an ally, as the leader of a nation ready to honor the solemn commitments it has made in the past, I will be here. For now, good-bye.”

  Then, without waiting for her reply, he cut the connection. He looked across his desk at Kevin Martindale. “It seems that Scion’s service to my country is no longer a secret.”

  The American nodded. “It was only a matter of time before the folks in our intelligence community figured it out. At least we bought enough time to catch Gryzlov and his commanders with their pants down. And that’s what really counts.”

  Wilk looked at the other man quizzically. “Do you not fear your president’s anger?”

  “I may not think much of Stacy Anne Barbeau as a national security strategist,” Martindale said with a wry smile. “But I would never bet against her skills as a political survivor. If we win, she won’t waste any time before figuring out some way to take credit for the victory. We’ll both be her dearest friends and allies—at least while the TV cameras are on.”

  “And if we lose?”

  Martindale shrugged. “Then what President Barbeau says or does will be the least of our worries.”

  THE WHITE HOUSE,

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  A SHORT TIME LATER

  For the second time that night, Stacy Anne Barbeau found herself staring at the stern, handsome features of her Russian counterpart on a secure hotline video call. This time, though, she shared his unmistakable anger. How dare that idiot Piotr Wilk dismiss her so cavalierly? Did he really believe that his pissant country could stand up to Moscow’s armed might? Or had Martindale actually conned the Polish leader into believing that hiring his mercenary soldiers and pilots could drag the United States in on Poland’s side—against her expressed will and America’s own best interests?

  Martindale, she thought viciously, had all the worst attributes of a megalomaniac and no saving virtues at all. At least Patrick McLanahan, his partner in so many dumb-ass geopolitical and military stunts, had finally had the grace to get himself killed taking one risk too many. Kevin Martindale, on the other hand, seemed to specialize more in leading others to death and then waltzing off unscathed himself. Well, not this time, she decided. One way or another, she would make sure that aging prick got what he so amply deserved.

  With an effort she composed herself. “Thank you for agreeing to speak to me, Mr. President,” she said, with just the faintest hint of sweetness in her voice. Before making this connection to Moscow, she’d discreetly undone the top couple of buttons of her otherwise businesslike blouse. There were rumors that Gennadiy Gryzlov had a thing for buxom older women—his own foreign minister, for one. Well, maybe she could play on that fixation just a little. It wouldn’t be the first time that she’d used her attributes to gain an advantage, however fleeting, after all.

  Gryzlov smiled thinly. His ice-cold, pale blue eyes never left hers. “Your message promised me answers, Madam President. Answers as to why the United States has secretly allied itself with Wilk’s terrorist regime. Since I am a peace-loving man, I have agreed to do you the courtesy of trying to explain this act of insanity. And, perhaps, you can explain to me how you propose to atone for so large a mistake in judgment.”

  “That’s just it, Mr. President,” Barbeau said quickly. “You’re misinformed. My government is not, absolutely not, supporting the Poles. Those advanced aircraft and the other high-tech military hardware your forces have encountered are definitely not part of our arsenal. They belong to a private mercenary gang, one masquerading as a defense contractor!”

  The Russian arched a skeptical eyebrow. “Mercenaries? With so much power in their hands? In this day and age? Do you take me for a complete fool?”

  “Not at all,” she assured him. Hurriedly, she laid out the evidence the CIA and the NSA had compiled linking Scion and Martindale to the Poles and to Piotr Wilk’s personal fortune.

  When she finished, Gryzlov only snorted. “You seriously wish me to believe that a so-called private military corporation—a corporation registered in America and owned by a former American president—is acting without your knowledge or consent?”

  “That’s what I’m telling you, Mr. President,” Barbeau said. “It’s the truth.”

  “The truth is of no consequence whatsoever. Not now. Not after so many brave Russians have been murdered!” Gryzlov snapped. He shrugged, not even bothering to conceal his contempt. “Whether or not your absurd claim is accurate, Madam President, does not matter. I tell you this plainly: I hold you and your country directly responsible for this crisis. So you will begin cooperating with me to end these attacks on my nation’s armed forces, or I will be forced to assume that a state of war exists between the United States and Russia.”

  By the time she finished talking to Gennadiy Gryzlov, Barbeau was pale and shaking. Damn the man, she thought furiously. How dare he threaten her like that? Unfortunately, that coldhearted Russian son of a bitch was right about the likely reactions of other world leaders. No other country would believe that a private American defense contractor could start a shooting war without at least a nod and wink from her administration. Years ago, the last time Scion’s military contractors had screwed up—during that mess between Turkey and Iraq—it had taken months of careful diplomacy, and a lot of discreet payoffs, to sweep the real facts under the carpet.

  But this was an even bigger mess.

  The NATO alliance was hanging together by a thin thread as it was. Only the belief that Poland had miscalculated and deserved some punishment by the Russians was keeping Berlin, London, Paris, Rome, and others in line. If the Germans or the Brits and the rest started thinking she’d been secretly backing Wilk with equipment and military expertise all along, America’s influence in Europe would melt away like a snowman dropped in the Sahara.

  Well, not on her watch, she thought grimly.

  Reaching into her desk, Stacy Anne Barbeau pulled out a piece of stationery, embossed with her official seal. She uncapped a fountain pen, rapidly scrawled a brief note, and signed it with a flourish. Then she picked up her phone. “Luke? Get in here. Now.”

  Luke Cohen appeared in her doorway within moments. The tall lanky New Yorker was hurriedly straightening his tie. “Madam President?”

  “Listen up, Luke. When I’m finished briefing you here, you’re going straight out to Andrews. An Air Force executive jet will be waiting for you. You’re flying down to Tampa, to McDill Air Force Base. Understand?”

  “Not exactly,” he admitted.

  “Then shut up and pay attention,” Barbeau snapped. She took a breath, closed her eyes to regain control, reopened them, and then favored him with a sly, apologetic smile. “Sorry, Luke, honey. I didn’t mean to jump down your throat like that. Things are just a bit fraught at the moment.”

  She handed him the note she’d just written. “First, you’re going to take that written directive, in person, to General Stevens, the head of the Special Operations Command.”

  Cohen looked down at it. His eyes widened a bit as he read it out loud: “By my order and for the good of the United States, the forces under your command will undertake a vital mission. The parameters of this operation will be orally relayed to you by the bearer, my White House chief of staff. To as
sure absolute security, you will discuss this mission only with the commanders directly involved. You will ensure that no relevant documents or orders are entrusted to any computer system in your command. And at no time will you discuss any of the proposed details of this mission with anyone other than myself, or with my personally designated representatives.” He looked up. “Good God, this is—”

  “Your job, Luke,” Barbeau told him bluntly. She put a warm hand on his narrow shoulder. “You wanted to play in the big leagues, tiger. Well, here you are.”

  Swallowing hard, he nodded. “Yeah. I see that.” He looked closely at her. “So what exactly am I ordering SOCOM to do—in your name, I mean?”

  Without mincing words, she told him. When she finished, her chief of staff was the one who was pale and shaking.

  KIEV, UKRAINE

  THAT SAME TIME

  The newest and tallest office tower to grace Kiev’s urban skyline soared thirty-five stories into the air—a shimmering monument in shining steel and blue-tinted glass to optimism, or folly, depending on one’s view of Ukraine’s long-term prospects. Thanks to recent events, most of the office suites were still vacant. But a few near the top of the building, those offering the best views of the city and its surroundings, were occupied.

  The engraved sign outside Qin Heng’s private thirty-fourth-floor office identified him as regional managing director for the Kiev branch of China’s Shenzen Merchants Bank. That made him responsible for overseeing the equivalent of hundreds of millions of dollars of Chinese investments in Ukrainian corporations and government securities. Russia’s effective annexation of eastern Ukraine had thrown Kiev’s markets into a panic—a financial crisis made worse by the march of Moscow’s armies toward Poland. If any excuse were really needed, this ongoing monetary meltdown explained Qin’s well-known proclivity for working well past midnight.

  In truth, most of his late-night work focused on the needs of his chief career—as a senior intelligence agent for China’s Ministry of State Security. While Russia’s military operations were costing the Merchants Bank and its shareholders millions in lost profits and declining values, they were providing Qin’s primary employer with a wealth of information on Russian military technology and tactics. And, given the surprising events of the past two days, its unexpected weaknesses. Who could have imagined Poland’s commando and air forces would prove so daring and so capable?