by Dale Brown
Patrick’s CID sensors detected the missile launch a millisecond before he heard Brad’s warning. “Missile attack!” he radioed back to the Iron Wolf command post. “Take cover now!” He raised his electromagnetic rail gun, followed the cueing signals, and waited for the gun to charge. The missile disappeared from sight, but not from his sensors. As soon as the gun was ready, he fired. The projectile sped off into the night sky, spltting the air with a loud supersonic CCRACKK . . . !
. . . but the Iskander had accelerated to well over five times the speed of sound, easily outrunning the electromagnetic projectile. It had taken too long to charge the weapon, and he had been taken completely by—
This time Patrick’s sensors detected a second missile launch, and he whirled north, acquired the rapidly accelerating missile immediately, and fired. The projectile penetrated the missile, ignited the solid fuel propellant, and exploded the Iskander missile in a massive orange and red fireball, growing to at least a half mile in diameter before disappearing into the night.
“Good shot, Dad,” Brad radioed. “I got the second launcher. Man, that was one hell of a fireball.”
“Thank you, son,” Patrick said. “I wasn’t able to track the first missile, but it’s initial flight path indicates it was headed for Powidz, not Warsaw. I hope the guys took shelter in . . .”
. . . and then he stopped, because his sensors had picked up another terrifying reading . . . “Base, Wolf One, I’m picking up low levels of strontinum and zirconium from that Iskander missile explosion. I think that missile had a nuclear warhead on it!”
IRON WOLF SQUADRON SECURE COMPOUND,
33RD AIR BASE,
NEAR POWIDZ, CENTRAL POLAND
THAT SAME TIME
“Shit!” Wayne Macomber swore. He was piloting the damaged Cybernetic Infantry Device, limping on patrol around the base until the entire area could be cleared by Polish Special Forces of any remnants of American troops. He instantly raised his already-charged electromagnetic rail gun and scanned the skies for the incoming missile. Behind him on the base, men and women were scrambling into basements and bomb shelters, wanting desperately to be anywhere but aboveground.
They were not going to make it in time.
“Whack . . . ?” Patrick radioed.
“I’m on it, General,” Macomber said. “I’ve got nothing so far.”
“You’ll have less than a second when it appears.”
“I don’t need the coaching, General,” Macomber said. “What I need is a fistful of—”
The missile appeared on his sensors almost directly overhead at an altitude of thirty thousand feet, heading straight down at four thousand miles an hour. Macomber centered the missile in his sights and fired. The Russian missile exploded at twenty thousand feet in a spectacular globe of fire.
“Luck,” Macomber said, finishing his prayer.
THE KREMLIN, MOSCOW
A SHORT TIME LATER
“You lied to me, Barbeau!” Gennadiy Gryzlov ground out through gritted teeth. “You promised to eliminate Poland’s American mercenaries for me. And yet these same mercenaries have just killed hundreds of brave Russian soldiers and destroyed precious equipment!” He slammed a clenched fist down on his desk, rattling the video monitor carrying their secure link. “So why should I not order an immediate nuclear strike against your European bases—as revenge for this treacherous sneak attack?”
“My special operations troops were able to wreck Scion’s remote piloting center,” Barbeau snapped back. “The rest of their mission only failed because they ran into a complication nobody anticipated!”
“What complication?” Gryzlov demanded.
“Patrick McLanahan,” the American president said bitterly. “We all thought he was dead. Hell, we all hoped he was dead. But we were wrong. Somehow, that bastard is still alive. For Christ’s sake, who do you think just led that F-111 strike on your missiles?”
For a long, blinding, dizzying moment, Gryzlov saw nothing but red. A wave of pure rage roared through his mind, threatening to drown all rational thought and any semblance of physical control. Shaking wildly, he gripped the sides of the monitor, tempted to hurl it through the nearest window.
“Mr. President? Gennadiy?” a voice said urgently in his ear. “Gennadiy!”
Slowly, with enormous effort, Gryzlov regained some measure of command over himself. Blearily, he looked up into the worried face of Sergei Tarzarov. “Did you hear that?” he growled to his chief of staff. “McLanahan is alive. That murdering piece of shit is still alive!”
“Yes, Mr. President,” Tarzarov said. The older man leaned forward over Gryzlov’s shoulder. “A moment, please, President Barbeau. I must confer privately with my president. But I assure you that he will return shortly, to continue discussing this difficult and unfortunate matter.” Before the clearly shaken American political leader could interrupt, he pressed a control—putting the secure link to Washington on hold.
“Why should I say anything more to her?” Gryzlov snapped, gesturing at the static-laden screen. “We have been lied to and stabbed in the back at every turn. By the Poles. By that fat American whore Barbeau. But at least now we know the true author of this evil plot: McLanahan! We must destroy him and all those around him, no matter how much it costs!”
“Our defenses inflicted very heavy losses on those bombers,” Tarzarov reminded him. “The American may already be dead—and this time at our hands.”
Gryzlov scowled. “I doubt it. That would be too convenient. Too easy.” He shook his head. “No, Sergei! I feel it in my bones. McLanahan is still alive and flying back to Warsaw to boast to his new masters. So this war must go on until we’ve ground the Poles and McLanahan and his mercenaries into dust.”
“Go on? How can we continue this war, Gennadiy?” Tarzarov asked. “Our armies are stalemated, short on fuel and ammunition. Our air force has suffered serious losses. And now the Iskander missile units that were our last resort have been annihilated. This is the moment to salvage what gains we can before—”
“We have other armies, Sergei. And additional aircraft. And more missile brigades,” Gryzlov snapped. He shoved his chair back and stood up. “Get Khristenko, Sokolov, and the others in here! We can strip troops and tanks and bombers from the Far East to assemble an invasion force so powerful that not even McLanahan’s secret weapons can stop us!”
“You would weaken our defenses in the east, those facing the People’s Republic of China, to continue this war? That would be a catastrophic error, Mr. President,” Tarzarov said flatly. His eyes were cold. “And it would be a mistake you might not survive.”
Gryzlov froze. He glanced narrowly at the older man. “Are you threatening me, Sergei?”
“No, Gennadiy,” Tarzarov said in exasperation. “I’m trying to save you.” He sighed. “The Poles and their mercenaries are not the true authors of this war. They were tricked into it. Just as we were. We have all been manipulated—tugged about like puppets on a string.”
“What the devil are you talking about?” the Russian president demanded. “Manipulated? By who?”
“By the Chinese,” Tarzarov told him.
Gryzlov listened in silence and growing consternation while the older man quickly ran through the new intelligence he’d gained from secret sources of his own—intelligence that strongly implied that agents of China’s intelligence services were the ones who had been arming and equipping the terrorists, not the Poles. When Tarzarov was finished, he dropped back into his seat. “My God . . . that treacherous snake Zhou. I would not have thought him so . . . clever.”
“Zhou or some of those around him,” Tarzarov said evenly. “Which is why we must stop playing this destructive game Beijing set in motion—and instead turn it into one played for our own advantage.”
“Advantage? How?”
“Think of what you have already won, Gennadiy,” Tarzarov urged. “The eastern Ukraine is ours. Who will take it back from us? Kiev? Warsaw? The Americans?” He shoo
k his head. “If we offer them peace now, on the basis of the status quo, they will trip over their own feet and tongues to agree.”
“True,” Gryzlov said slowly. Regaining permanent control over all of the Russian-speaking, heavily industrialized regions east of the Dnieper could certainly be presented as a great victory to the Russian public.
“But even that pales beside your greater victory,” Tarzarov told him. “A victory of more lasting significance.”
Gryzlov stared up at him, unable to hide his lack of understanding. “What greater victory?”
“You have broken NATO beyond repair,” the older man said simply. “After seeing Washington abandon Poland—not just abandon them, but attack them—in its hour of need, who will trust the Americans now? And as the alliance splinters, we need only sit back and gather up the pieces as they fall into our lap—into our sphere of influence. Think of it, Gennadiy, you have accomplished what generations of your predecessors have failed to achieve!”
For the first time, Gryzlov began to smile. What Tarzarov said was true. Stripped of any belief that the Americans would protect them, Europe’s smaller nations would gravitate—of necessity—into the orbit of the strongest remaining power, Russia.
But then his grin faded. “All of this is true, Sergei. But declaring an end to this war now would leave McLanahan alive. And that I will not accept!” He looked at Tarzarov. “This American is dangerous beyond belief. How many times has he robbed us of victories we believed were already ours? How many times has he bombed and killed and maimed our countrymen, with impunity?” He shook his head forcefully. “McLanahan must die.”
“Yes, Mr. President,” Tarzarov agreed coolly. “The American must be killed.” He smiled. “But not by us.”
Briefly perplexed, Gryzlov stared back at him. Then, as he understood what the older man intended, his cold blue eyes began to gleam. He swung back to the video monitor and reopened the connection. “President Barbeau, are you still there?”
Stacy Anne Barbeau’s drawn and nervous face looked back at him. “Yes, I am!” she said. “Mr. President, it’s crucial that we—”
“Be silent,” Grzylov snapped, hiding his own inner amusement. “You have claimed that your government only seeks peace. Very well, I believe you. But I tell you this plainly: if you would have peace, then you must buy it . . .”
OVER CENTRAL POLAND
A SHORT TIME LATER
Gritting his teeth, Brad held their badly wounded XF-111 SuperVark on course. The big fighter-bomber had so many holes in its wings and fuselage—and so much damage to its avionics and control surfaces—that his hands were kept busy on the stick and throttles. The XF-111 juddered and shook and rattled, constantly threatening to fall right out of the air. Jesus, he thought, the SuperVark’s flight controls were triple-redundant digital fly-by-wire. From the feel of things, this bird was down to about half redundancy and the “wires” must be frayed really thin . . .
With one engine dead and half their electronics out, it was a miracle they were still flying, he knew. It was way past time to set this sucker down. Sweat stung his eyes. Impatiently, he blinked it away. He looked over at Nadia. She still hadn’t moved.
“Claw Two to Fang One,” Mark Darrow radioed. He and Jack Hollenbeck were flying several kilometers ahead, nursing their own badly damaged XF-111 northward. “We’re coming up to rendezvous with you and lead you to base. How is she handling?”
“Getting worse,” Brad said. “I’ll be landing with wings swept to fifty-four, no flaps, no slats, no spoilers.”
“You’ll need a very long runway, no doubt.”
“I don’t think so: I’ll probably be landing with no landing gear.”
“Marvelous,” Darrow said in a reassuringly jovial voice. “How is Nadia?”
“Can’t tell,” Brad said. “She hasn’t moved.”
“She’ll be all right. She’s one tough lady.” There was a moment’s pause; then: “I’m picking up another plane north of you. It’s a friendly, not Russian. It might be Claw Four, or the Lithuanians. No radio or transponder, but he’s got his radar on. Got him?”
“My SPEAR gave up the ghost twenty minutes ago,” Brad replied. “I’m on essential bus only, and I might be on battery bus only in a few minutes.”
“We’ll have you on the ground in no time, One. Break. Southbound aircraft northeast of Barcin, this is Claw Two, come on up on tactical freq or on GUARD. Over.” No response. Darrow tried again—still no . . .
Just then Brad saw a streak of white light slash across the sky from the northeast. Oh God, that was a missile . . .
A huge flash lit the darkness ahead of them. Darrow’s XF-111 blew up in an enormous cloud of fire. There was a tremendous fireball and shock wave that seemed to engulf Brad’s SuperVark, but it lasted only a second, and then the darkness closed in again.
Brad swore under his breath, desperately wrestling his damaged XF-111 into a tight, rolling evasive right turn. “Unknown aircraft, this is McLanahan!” he yelled into his mike. “Break off your attack! We’re friendlies! Repeat, friendlies!” But just then, another bright burst of light and streak of white fire arrowed straight toward them, growing bigger with every second.
Game over, Brad thought. He calmly took his hand off the throttles and control stick, straightened his back, pressed his head back against the headrest, grabbed the yellow-and-black-striped handle by his right knee, squeezed, and pulled.
WHAAAM!
An explosive cutting cord around the XF-111’s cockpit ejection capsule detonated, separating it from the rest of the aircraft, and then a powerful rocket motor at the capsule’s base ignited, hurling it skyward. At that same instant, a missile slammed into the SuperVark and went off, sending the bomber spiraling out of control. Fragments smacked into the capsule with tremendous force, tearing holes into the partially deployed capsule parachute.
Brad was stunned, but awake enough to realize that the capsule seemed to be falling at a very high rate of speed. He couldn’t see the parachute. The cockpit was filled with smoke, his back and neck were aching from the ejection, and he couldn’t feel his legs. But he had enough consciousness to reach over and take Nadia’s gloved hand . . .
. . . just before the capsule slammed into the earth at high speed and began to tumble, and then everything went black . . .
SECURE RECOVERY WARD, MILITARY
INSTITUTE OF MEDICINE, WARSAW
TWO DAYS LATER
Wearily, Brad drifted along a darkened coast, letting the current take him where it would. Swimming seemed like too much work, especially with his arms and legs tangled so tightly in floating coils of seaweed. Better to lie back in the water’s warm embrace and rest, he thought. Struggling against his bonds would be too much work.
A light blinked suddenly on the horizon. And again.
Almost against his will, Brad turned his head toward the flashing light. Must be a lighthouse, he decided drowsily—a beacon perched high on the cliffs to warn off passing ships.
But, damn, that light was bright. So bright that it was almost blinding.
Brad blinked away tears against the dazzling, painful glare. And then he realized that he was looking up into the beam of a small penlight. It clicked off, revealing a stranger’s face peering down at him. A doctor, by his white coat.
“He is conscious, Mr. President,” the doctor said in accented English. “And there are no immediate signs of neurological trauma.”
Slowly, Brad became aware that he was sitting propped up in a hospital bed. Bandages swathed his head and chest and his left arm and both legs seemed to be stuck in casts. The memory of those terrifying last seconds before their XF-111 ejection capsule slammed into the ground rushed back at him. “I’m alive?” he croaked.
The doctor raised a bushy eyebrow in wry amusement. “Yes, Mr. McLanahan, you are. And lucky to be so.” He shook his head. “Remarkably, however, your injuries, though serious enough, are not life-threatening.”
Alive, Brad thoug
ht; now, there was a surprise. Then panic seized him. “Nadia? What about Nadia?” he demanded. “Is she . . .” he swallowed painfully, unable to go on.
“I am right over here, Brad,” he heard her say.
Wincing against the pain involved in moving, he turned his head. Nadia Rozek smiled back at him from a chair by his bedside. A pair of crutches were propped up beside her, gauze bandages covered the right side of her cheek and head, and she had a massive black eye. But she appeared otherwise unhurt. He sighed in relief. “Did you know that you look beautiful even all banged up?”
She laughed. “Flattery will get you everywhere.” Then she inclined her head toward the door. “But at the moment, we have distinguished visitors.”
Reluctantly, Brad looked away from her lovely face. Both Piotr Wilk and Kevin Martindale stood there, watching him with thoughtful expressions. “I’m sorry about the rest of the squadron,” he said slowly. “We knew it would be bad . . . but I really didn’t think we’d lose every plane.”
“That will be all for now, Doctor,” Wilk told the Polish physician quietly. The white-coated doctor nodded and left the room, closing the door behind him.
“Did anyone else make it out alive?” Brad asked, feeling a tightness in his chest.
“We don’t know yet,” Martindale admitted. “Macomber, Schofield, and their teams are out in the field now, looking for other survivors.” His shoulders slumped a bit. “Without any luck, so far.”
Brad closed his eyes briefly, fighting off a wave of sorrow and regret and guilt. Memories of smiling faces flashed though his mind—Mark Darrow, Jack Hollenbeck, Bill Sievert, Smooth Herres, Karen Tanabe, and all the others. How could he have lost them all? “Christ, I got everyone killed,” he muttered.
“On the contrary, Brad,” Piotr Wilk said gravely, coming forward to stand by Nadia’s chair. “If there are other survivors, we will find them—no matter where they are. But the courage and self-sacrifice of all of those who died will be honored forever.” His expression was serious. “Your mission was successful. Your Iron Wolves destroyed the Russian missile force before it could launch.”