Iron Wolf

by Dale Brown

  “I am very glad to hear this admission of error, Madam President,” Wilk said, more slowly. He raised an eyebrow at Martindale. New evidence? The American shook his head in puzzlement, indicating that his own intelligence analysts hadn’t found anything resembling that kind of proof when prowling through CIA and NSA databases. Wilk frowned. “But while this news is welcome, it does nothing to offset the great peril my nation faces now.”

  “That’s the second reason for this call,” Barbeau told him. Her voice grew even more fervent. “My administration has to make this right! We have to stand with you against this unprovoked Russian aggression! And that’s why I’ve authorized the dispatch of immediate American military aid to Poland. My hope is that our show of support will convince Moscow to back down before this war escalates out of control.”

  “What kind of military aid?” Wilk asked carefully.

  “Not as much as I would like at first,” Barbeau admitted. “It’ll take time to ramp up the flow of supplies and weapons. But I’ve ordered my Pentagon people to do what they can as fast as possible. That’s why we have a flight of C-17 transports in the air right now. They’re loaded with supplies—mostly our best antitank guided missiles—and with some military liaison teams to help your troops use them effectively. Those C-17s are only minutes outside your airspace, on the way to that military base outside Warsaw.”

  “Mińsk Mazowiecki?”

  “That’s the one!” Barbeau said warmly. “Can you give our planes clearance through your air defense network?”

  Inwardly, Wilk seethed. She thought the belated gift of a few antitank missiles and some Special Forces advisers would make up for betraying their alliance earlier—when it most mattered? Did she believe him to be that desperate? Or that naive? Or had Russia’s recent battlefield defeats convinced Barbeau that it was time to jump on the victory bandwagon?

  Then again, he reminded himself, Poland was still threatened by Gryzlov’s missiles. His country still needed all the military help it could get—no matter how small or seemingly insignificant. “Very well, Madam President,” he said. “I will clear your C-17s through to land at Warsaw.”

  THE WHITE HOUSE,

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  THAT SAME TIME

  Quickly, President Barbeau cut the connection to her Polish counterpart. Then she glanced at her personal computer. Moscow time was eight hours ahead of D.C. It was already very late there.

  For a moment more, she hesitated. What she was doing was risky, insanely risky. But what choice did she really have? Could she allow the Poles and Martindale to drag America and the rest of Europe into a wider war? A nuclear war? Pull yourself together, Stacy Anne, she told herself sternly. Of course not! Besides, it was too late to back out now. Events were already in motion.

  She pulled open a desk drawer and took out a brand-new smartphone. It wasn’t registered to her or to anyone in the White House. Years of political wheeling and dealing, often at or beyond the edge of strict legality, had taught her the vital importance of being able to communicate without being traced. One firm touch on the small screen dialed the number of another, equally anonymous phone. “Luke, honey,” she said to the groggy-sounding man on the other end. “You tell our mutual friend that it’s on. The Poles have just opened their back door.”

  Another firm finger press ended the call.

  Then, unhurriedly, Stacy Anne Barbeau got up from her desk and headed for the White House Situation Room.

  THIRTEEN

  Courage is the capacity to confront what can be imagined.

  —LEO ROSTEN, RUSSIAN AMERICAN TEACHER AND WRITER

  OVER POLAND

  A SHORT TIME LATER

  U.S. Army Ranger First Sergeant Mike Ikeda leaned close to his commanding officer, Captain Daniel Rojas, speaking just loud enough to be heard over the droning roar of the C-17’s four big engines. “You know this operation is totally FUBAR’d, sir, right?”

  Rojas shot him a tight, irritated grin. “As per usual, Sergeant? Or in its own very special way?”

  “All on its own,” Ikeda said. He shook his head in disgust. “First, because we’re hitting the wrong side in this war. Second, because two platoons in one C-17 isn’t enough troops to safely accomplish the mission. And three, because the ROEs are screwy beyond belief.” He tapped the M320 single-shot grenade launcher attached to his M4 carbine. “What is this ‘nonlethal’ bullshit? I’m really supposed to use this thing like it’s a fricking giant Taser?”

  Rojas frowned. “You’ve been trained in the use of the 40mm Human Electro-Muscular Incapacitation Projectile, haven’t you, First Sergeant?”

  “Sure thing, Captain,” Ikeda said. “The damn HEMI thing works great for crowd control. I can reach out and zap some son of a bitch troublemaker with fifty thousand volts up to a couple hundred feet away.” He glowered. “But I think it royally sucks as the weapon of choice when you’re going up against fully armed troops.”

  Now Rojas sighed. “The rules of engagement specify nonlethal weapons use precisely because we don’t want to kill anyone we don’t have to. This is supposed to be a quick, tight, surgical operation with a very specific and very limited objective.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ikeda agreed. He shrugged. “I just hope like hell the guys on the other side understand that.”

  “Amen, First Sergeant,” Rojas said. “Any other complaints?” he asked drily.

  “Just one for now, sir,” the Ranger noncom said. He jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. “That AFSOC Zoomie gives me the creeps. The guy’s so fucking gung ho that he’s gotta be bucking for a goddamn medal. And that’s the kind of shit that could get other people killed.”

  Rojas glanced back into the crowded troop compartment. Even among the tightly packed Army Rangers and Air Force Special Operations commandos, he had no trouble spotting First Lieutenant William Weber. The tall, wiry young Air Force officer wore thick horn-rimmed sports glasses and his eyes gleamed with excitement. He was talking animatedly to the members of his own team, jabbing a stiff finger into the palm of his hand to emphasize his points.

  “Yeah, you may be right, Mike,” the Ranger captain said slowly. “So we follow our part of the plan and secure the perimeter. Let Weber and his guys handle the technical stuff like they’re supposed to.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A red light flashed inside the darkened compartment. The C-17’s jumpmaster yelled, “Five minutes! Outboard personnel stand up!” Struggling against the weight of their parachutes and other gear, the Rangers and Air Force commandos seated along the fuselage levered themselves upright and turned to face the rear ramp.

  “Inboard personnel! On your feet!” The troops seated in two rows facing outward got up. Slowly, the noise of the C-17’s engines began diminishing. The big plane was slowing toward jump speed . . .

  REMOTE OPERATIONS CONTROL CENTER,

  POWIDZ, POLAND

  A SHORT TIME LATER

  The eighteen men and women making up nine of the Iron Wolf Squadron’s ten XF-111 remote-piloting crews crowded inside the ready room, listening intently while Brad McLanahan briefed them on the most recent intelligence affecting their mission.

  “From the radar emissions our RQ-20 Vedette chain is picking up, we’re pretty sure the Russians have a Beriev-100 up over Krylovo in south-central Kaliningrad, near the Polish border, covering the approaches to the Iskander missile field,” Brad said, keying in the Russian AWACS plane’s estimated position on the big wall display. He then keyed in another position on the map, not far outside the predicted maximum detection range for the Beriev-100’s radar. “As per the mission plan, two Coyotes took off twenty minutes ago, heading for this point. We’re positioning the third Coyote to the east in case it’s needed against the Russian Army moving in from the east. They’re armed with—”

  A small cylinder hit the floor in front of him, bounced once, and then went off with a blinding, earsplitting BANG.

  The explosion threw Brad back against the display. I
n that same moment, another flashbang grenade detonated at the back of the ready room. Smoke and bits of torn ceiling insulation swirled through the air. Before the stunned and disoriented Iron Wolf pilots and weapons officers could recover their wits, a sea of heavily armed men stormed through the gray haze—knocking them to the floor at gunpoint.

  What the hell? Brad thought woozily. He tried to straighten up, and then went down hard when one of the invaders kicked his feet out from under him. With brutal efficiency, the other man yanked his wrists behind his back and secured them with plastic flexicuffs.

  One by one, the Iron Wolf crews were hauled to their feet, cuffed, and prodded back against a wall by soldiers in battle dress and body armor. American soldiers, Brad realized groggily as the smoke cleared. He gritted his teeth. They were being held at gunpoint by U.S. Special Forces troops? This was just wrong—on so many more levels than his aching brain could count right now.

  Slowly, his battered ears stopped ringing. Now he could hear more noises coming from the rest of the Remote Operations Control Center—the sounds of shattering glass and plastic. Overhead, the lights flickered and an acrid smell of frying circuit boards and other electronics rolled in through the open ready-room door. Oh, shit, he realized, these bastards are wrecking our remote-control stations.

  A tall, lean U.S. Air Force officer with first lieutenant’s bars on his collar strutted down the line of prisoners. Pale blue eyes gleamed evilly behind thick glasses. He stopped in front of Brad and looked him up and down. A sneer formed on his pale, thin face. “Well, well, well, what do we have here?” he said in a thick Alabama drawl. “I do believe this is that well-known, thoroughly useless piece of dog crap named Bradley J. McLanahan.”

  Oh, hell, Brad thought, suddenly recognizing him. Three years ago, then second-class cadet William Weber had goaded him into losing his temper during “Second Beast”—the three-week field training camp that every would-be cadet had to pass before starting the first academic year at the U.S. Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs. Decking that smug son of a bitch had felt really good at the time, but it had also cost him his appointment to the Academy and any hope of a career in the U.S. military.

  “Man, that’s sure a slick getup,” Weber taunted, tapping Brad’s dark, rifle-green Iron Wolf Squadron jacket with a long index finger. “Does it help you sell many Girl Scout cookies?” He snorted. “You and your fancy-pants mercenaries aren’t so tough without your big metal friends around to bail you out, are you?”

  With an effort, Brad kept his mouth shut. Did Weber and his goons believe the Iron Wolf special ops teams were still out in the field? Oh, man, he thought, were they riding for a very unpleasant fall . . .

  Weber adjusted the video cam on his helmet, grinning nastily. “Say hello to the good folks back in the States, McLanahan. Because here the party’s over. Your next stop is a cell in a federal maximum-security prison.”

  POWIDZ FLIGHT LINE

  THAT SAME TIME

  Inside one of the camouflaged, bomb-resistant shelters built to hide and protect the Iron Wolf Squadron’s aircraft, Captain Nadia Rozek kept tabs on the fueling and arming operation for the XF-111 SuperVark Brad and she would fly remotely during the attack. Moving smoothly, the Cybernetic Infantry Device piloted by Patrick McLanahan picked up one of the AGM-154A Joint Standoff Weapons, or JSOWs, and neatly slotted the thousand-pound weapon into place on one of the big plane’s inboard pylons. Not nearly as long-ranged or sophisticated as the newer AGM-158 JASSMs, the stealthy glide weapon carried a warhead better suited to the task of nailing a large number of Russian missile launchers and support vehicles—a warhead packed full of 145 BLU-97B Combined Effects Bomb submunitions, complete with shaped charges to puncture enemy armor, a fragmenting case to spread deadly splinters, and a zirconium ring to set intense fires. All up and down the airfield’s flight line, other Iron Wolf ground crews were equally hard at work in similar shelters, readying the rest of the strike force for its mission.

  Suddenly the tall, man-shaped robot stiffened. Its head spun toward Nadia. “We may have trouble,” its electronically synthesized voice said. “All my data feeds from the remote-control center just went down.”

  “Some kind of power failure?” Nadia asked.

  The CID shook its head. “Not possible. The ROCC auxiliary generators are still running. But the problem may be inside the building, possibly just a wiring fault.”

  “Perhaps that is so,” Nadia said, already moving toward the tall doors at the back of the aircraft shelter. She snatched up her MSBS 5.56mm Radon carbine on the way. “But I think I would like to make sure of that for myself. I don’t trust so-called accidents so close to our takeoff.”

  “Neither do I,” Patrick said, maneuvering his CID in the same direction. “Because the base control tower just went off the air.”

  Nadia flipped the shelter lights off and slid out into the black and silent woods behind the camouflaged hangar. The Iron Wolf robot, moving with astonishing grace and stealth, came with her. Together, they glided right to the edge of the forest, and went low—carefully scanning the runway and surrounding buildings.

  “Those are not our people,” Nadia murmured grimly, watching as a number of four-man teams of soldiers fanned out across the airfield. Despite being burdened by body armor, they moved quickly. They were clearly establishing a defensive perimeter.

  “No,” Patrick said tersely. “But they’re mine.” He paused. “Or, they used to be.” The CID inclined its head toward hers again. “Those are U.S. Army Rangers. And from what I can pick up with my audio sensors and from their radio transmissions, their orders are to arrest Scion’s mercenaries without seriously harming any Poles. If possible.”

  “How . . . polite . . . of them,” Nadia said. Her bared teeth gleamed white in the darkness.

  “Well,” Patrick said, and she could swear she heard a grin in his electronic voice, “that bit of White House–imposed restraint does make our job a bit easier.” He paused for a moment, mentally radioing messages to the rest of the Iron Wolf field teams as if playing a song in his mind. “I’ve alerted Whack Macomber and Ian Schofield and their special operations team, plus your own Polish Special Forces units that were working with them. None of our guys are happy about this interruption.”

  That, Nadia suspected, was a massive understatement. Major Macomber, Captain Schofield, and the others had gotten back to Powidz only a few hours ago—after spending days behind enemy lines. Having their small sliver of much-needed rest and recreation interrupted by a treacherous American Special Forces raid—against one of their own ally’s air bases—was definitely going to make them very angry. How would Brad put it? Oh, yes, she thought, it would “piss them off royally.”

  A worrying thought struck her. She looked up at the CID. “What about Brad and our other pilots and crewmen? They were in the ROCC when this attack started.”

  “They’re being held as prisoners,” Patrick said flatly.

  “Then we must rescue them!” Nadia exclaimed.

  “Indeed we must,” the CID agreed. “But first we have to take care of the Rangers guarding the perimeter. Quietly. And without seriously hurting any of them. If possible.”

  SQUEEEEEEEEEEE.

  Painfully shrill electronic noise spiked through First Sergeant Mike Ikeda’s ears. He shifted frequencies. And again. No good. The mind-tearing noise was still there, on every channel. Someone was jamming their tactical radio net. Wincing, the Ranger noncom yanked his headset off. Blessed silence followed.

  Swell, he thought. So much for stealth and surprise. Somebody on this Polish air base sure as hell knew the Americans were here. And without the ability to communicate by radio, the Ranger force was going to have to fall back on old-fashioned methods. As in the Mark I pair of legs issued to every soldier the day he was born.

  Ikeda glanced at the Ranger private at his side. “We need to report in to Captain Rojas, Mulvaney. So follow me. Keep your eyes peeled and that dumb-ass Taser ready.” />
  The other Ranger looked worried. “If the Poles are jamming us, Sarge, shouldn’t we dump the nonlethal jazz?” He patted the butt of the M4 carbine slung across his chest. “This little beauty can reach out and touch hostiles a hell of a lot farther away.”

  Reluctantly, Ikeda shook his head. “You wanna start a firefight with a NATO ally on its own turf, Private? Because I sure don’t.” He scowled. “Not unless the captain says otherwise, anyway. So let’s go find him, shall we?”

  Together the two Rangers scuttled through the tall grass and brush lining the main runway. At last report, Captain Rojas and his command group were set up alongside one of those shelters the Poles had built for their F-111 fighter-bombers. That was a good central location for controlling their defensive perimeter and keeping watch over the runway. The C-17 that had dropped them over Powidz was already circling back to pick them up—using the excuse of mechanical trouble to explain its inability to fly on to Warsaw. And once they had those Scion mercenaries on board as prisoners, the plan was to skedaddle out of Polish airspace at high speed. There were U.S. Air Force F-22 Raptors and even a pair of brand-new F-35 Lightning IIs waiting over Germany to escort them to safety.

  Feeling more and more exposed as they moved from shadow to shadow through the eerily quiet base, Ikeda led the way up to the front of the large camouflaged building. The big pair of double doors facing the runway were closed tight, concealing the aircraft parked inside.

  Cautiously, the Ranger sergeant poked his head around the corner of the shelter. Through his night-vision goggles, he could see a small group of helmeted figures clustered together around a satellite phone dish. Whatever Rojas and his team were doing, they looked pretty focused. No point in startling the crap out of them by just dropping into their midst, he thought. And then probably getting Tasered by accident. Most Rangers had itchy trigger fingers and scarily fast reflexes. “Captain?” he hissed. “It’s Ikeda. I’m coming in.”