by Dale Brown
Wilk nodded. That was true. Drawsko Pomorskie was Europe’s largest military training area, with more than a hundred and thirty square miles set aside for live fire exercises and battlefield maneuvers. No other country on the continent except Russia could boast of anything comparable. The Polish Army had used the area since 1945. Now the combined forces of the new AFN held their spring and summer maneuvers among its forests, fields, low rolling hills, abandoned villages, and swamps. Decades of combat training had left the exercise area littered with burned-out hulks used for target practice—among them, old Soviet tanks and self-propelled guns, surplus U.S. Army M-60 tanks, Huey helicopters, and stripped-down F-4 Phantom fighter jets.
“Local enemy air defenses are judged as suppressed,” one of the exercise control-team officers reported over the intercom. “Iron Wolf Squadron strike team inbound. Follow-on conventional armored and infantry forces in movement from Phase Line Alpha.”
Wilk raised his binoculars in time to see a large, twin-engine aircraft in mottled dark green, light green, and gray camouflage roar in just above the treetops. It banked left over the valley in a steep, tight turn, slowing fast. Its huge propellers were already swiveling upward, turning into rotors. The Sky Masters XV-40 Sparrowhawk tilt rotor had the same basic lines as the V-22 Ospreys flown by the U.S. Air Force and U.S. Marine Corps, but it was smaller and more agile.
Rotors spinning, the Sparrowhawk touched down in the middle of the valley. Immediately, its rear ramp whirred open. Two tall, menacing shapes unfolded out of the troop compartment and glided down the ramp. Without any pause, the two Iron Wolf combat robots darted away at high speed, heading down the valley toward a distant ruined village defended by a simulated Russian motorized rifle battalion. As soon as they were off the ramp, the XV-40 leaped into the air and veered away, accelerating fast as its rotors transitioned to level flight.
Explosions erupted among the buildings as the CIDs opened fire, using their autocannons, rail guns, and grenade launchers. One after another, old BMP-1 infantry fighting vehicles went up in flames. Puffs of smoke and debris flew away from foxholes dug amid the rubble. Within minutes, the two Iron Wolf machines had fought their way through the village and disappeared into the surrounding woods, leaving only smoldering wreckage in their wake.
“Bámulatos! Amazing!” Lukács murmured from beside Wilk. “So much power. So much speed.” He leaned closer. “Now I understand better how your country has dared to defy Moscow for so long.”
The Polish president concealed a smile. That was exactly the kind of reaction he’d hoped for. Although Kevin Martindale had been understandably worried about the security risks entailed in showing off the CIDs in these open-field maneuvers, he’d insisted they were necessary—both on political and military grounds.
Battle drills blending the capabilities of the AFN’s conventional air, armor, and mechanized units with the Iron Wolf Squadron’s robots, drones, and deep-strike recon and commando forces built much-needed teamwork. Equally important, they helped strengthen the alliance by reassuring its political leaders that their combined armed forces could hold their own against Russia if another open war broke out.
“But can your squadron field enough of those robots to defend us all?” Lukács asked pointedly, after a moment’s reflection. “I understand the Americans have made it difficult to obtain replacements and new machines.”
“President Barbeau’s sanctions and legal threats have made the buildup of our CID force slower and more expensive than I would have liked,” Wilk agreed. “Despite that, we now have six operational fighting machines and twelve trained pilots.”
“Only six?”
“Three years ago, fighting in coordination with my country’s ground and air forces, just two CIDs were able to first delay and then defeat two full-strength Russian armies,” Wilk reminded the Hungarian prime minister dryly.
“But then you had the element of surprise,” Lukács commented. “Gryzlov and his commanders will not make the same mistakes again.”
“No, they won’t,” Wilk said. He nodded toward the valley below their bunker. An assortment of Polish, Romanian, and Hungarian armored vehicles were coming into view, deploying from march columns into battle formation as they advanced. “Which is why exercises such as this are so important. As are all the modernization programs our armed forces are undertaking.”
Every member of the Alliance of Free Nations, even the tiny Baltic states, had agreed to strengthen and modernize its air and ground forces—replacing antiquated and worn-out Soviet-era tanks, APCs, artillery, and aircraft with newer, more capable weapons. At the same time, they’d toughened their training and increased combat readiness. Timeservers and careerists had been weeded out in favor of younger, more energetic officers.
It was a difficult and expensive process, but Wilk was convinced that it was working. Together with their CIDs, the alliance’s conventional ground forces were now strong enough to stop an offensive by Russia’s tank and motorized rifle divisions. In the air, the combination of upgraded Polish and Romanian F-16s and Hungary’s JAS 39 Gripens, working in tandem with Iron Wolf’s stealthy MQ-55 Coyote drone missile launchers and Scion’s other high-tech weapons, stood an excellent chance of blunting raids by Russia’s fighters and bombers. The same held true for any new cyberwar campaign orchestrated by Moscow. Since the last onslaught, the alliance had steadily strengthened its defenses against computer hacking and destructive malware.
The Hungarian sighed. “I only wish the costs were not so high, Piotr,” he said. He looked pained. “Every new defense bill draws more and more opposition in my country’s National Assembly.”
Wilk nodded somberly. He faced the same political difficulties. Even after two Russian attacks on Poland, there were still some members of the opposition parties who fought him tooth and nail over every zloty for national defense. “Well, I think it’s better to spend money now than to spend lives and risk our freedoms later,” he said quietly.
Grudgingly, Lukács acknowledged the power of his argument.
At least I’ve convinced you that we can hold our own against Moscow, Wilk thought, looking at the Hungarian. Then why am I still so worried?
Much later that evening, after a dinner and reception in honor of the ranking political and military leaders attending the exercises, Wilk finally got the chance to pose that same question to some of his closest advisers. They were gathered in his hotel suite in Szczecin, eighty kilometers west of Drawsko Pomorskie.
He looked carefully around the sitting room, taking each of the attendees in.
First, Kevin Martindale, looking smooth and well polished as always in an elegant black dinner jacket and bow tie. Next, Major Nadia Rozek, his former military aide, in her dress uniform as an officer in Poland’s special forces. And finally, Captain Brad McLanahan, tall, broad-shouldered, and blond-haired. The young American wore the dark, rifle-green uniform jacket, collared shirt, and black tie of the Iron Wolf Squadron. A patch on his shoulder showed a metal-gray robotic wolf’s head with glowing red eyes on a bright green background.
“You’re right, Piotr,” Martindale said, after listening to Wilk’s concerns. “We are missing something. My Scion intelligence analysts have been picking up signs of unusual activity involving Russia’s most elite Spetsnaz and combat aviation units. But I’ll be damned if I can make the pieces fit together into anything that makes sense.”
Suddenly intent and focused, Brad leaned forward. “What kind of activity? Like they’re moving to higher readiness? Getting ready to take another crack at us?”
“That’s what’s strange,” Martindale said, shaking his head. “As far as my people can tell from very limited data, these units are not training for a renewed war. If anything, it looks as if their preparedness is actually slipping.”
Nadia frowned. “Slipping? In what way?”
“For one thing, a significant number of previously scheduled maneuvers have been abruptly canceled,” Martindale told her. “Regular t
ank and motorized rifle brigades don’t seem to be affected, but it doesn’t appear as though any Spetsnaz unit has conducted serious combat training for several months. And now, over the past few weeks, we’ve seen the same pattern with those fighter units equipped with top-of-the-line interceptors like the Su-35 and Su-50. Suddenly they’re not engaging in any air-to-air combat exercises or even flying routine patrols.”
Perplexed, Wilk shook his head. The former American president was right. This was very odd. Maintaining air-to-air combat skills required constant effort. Fighter pilots left sitting on the ground, even with access to advanced flight simulators, soon lost their edge. The same thing went for the specialized skills needed by Spetsnaz teams. But why would Gennadiy Gryzlov suddenly pull the plug on training for his best troops and pilots?
“We’ve also lost track of some key personnel in those units,” Martindale went on. “Either because they’ve been reassigned somewhere we don’t know about . . . or because they’re being demobilized.”
Brad snorted. “Demobilized? I wouldn’t bet on that. Gryzlov’s not the kind of guy who’d let his best people just walk away. No, that Russian son of a bitch is up to something all right.” He grimaced. “But like Mr. Martindale over there, I’m damned if I can put my finger on what it might be.”
Nadia’s blue-gray eyes darkened. “I really do not care for the idea of just sitting around waiting to find out the hard way what Moscow has up its sleeve.”
“Nor do I, Major,” Wilk assured her. He turned to Martindale. “I assume you have a plan to remedy our ignorance? And probably one that is both highly dangerous and of questionable legality?”
A wry grin flashed across the former American president’s face. “I see that my reputation precedes me.” He leaned back in his chair. “But yes, I do, Piotr. In fact, I’ve already set a covert op in motion.”
“Without my authorization,” Wilk said flatly. There were moments when it became clear that even though his private military company was employed by Poland, Martindale viewed himself as an independent actor on the world stage.
“Correct.” The other man shrugged. “This is a strictly Scion-initiated intelligence-gathering operation, not an AFN- or Polish-ordered action. If it goes badly, that might give your government a modest amount of diplomatic cover.”
“And why, precisely, would we need such protection?” Wilk asked coolly.
“Because I’m sending a team of my best operatives deep inside Russia to get some answers,” Martindale replied. “And try as they might, I suspect they’re not likely to end up being very subtle about it.”
“Which means the odds are this team of yours is going to need a fast ride out,” Brad guessed.
“So that is why you are telling us about this mission now, rather than simply reporting its results later,” Nadia said. Her tone was cold.
Martindale nodded. “Quite true, Major Rozek. I may need help from the Iron Wolf Squadron to extract my agents.”
Brad sighed. “I suppose you want us to warm up the XCV-62 Ranger?”
He didn’t sound especially eager and Wilk could not blame him. The younger McLanahan and Nadia had flown the Ranger, a stealthy, short-takeoff-and-landing tactical airlifter, on the raid against Russia’s Perun’s Aerie cyberwar complex. Two members of their nine-person assault team had been killed and another seriously wounded. While the survivors had escaped through a tightly drawn net of Russian interceptors and SAMs, it was only by the narrowest of margins.
“Not this time,” Martindale said, shaking his head. “The Ranger’s a highly capable machine, but the area my people are going to be operating in probably won’t offer any decent landing zones big enough to accommodate an aircraft of its size.” He turned to Nadia, eyeing the silver eagle pilot’s badge on her uniform. “No, for this mission, I have something a bit more mundane in mind.”
Seven
REGAN AIR FREIGHT FACILITY, INDIANAPOLIS INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, INDIANAPOLIS, INDIANA
THAT SAME TIME
Sited just seven miles from the state capital and near the junction of several major interstate highways, Indianapolis International Airport was the eighth busiest air freight hub in the United States. More than a million metric tons of cargo flowed through its distribution centers and adjoining warehouses every year. So when Francis Xavier Regan expanded his namesake Regan Air Freight’s operations into the American market, it had made perfect sense to choose Indianapolis as its new corporate headquarters.
In the months since the reclusive billionaire sold his interest and then vanished at sea, Regan Air’s top executives had carried on managing the company’s day-to-day operations without much interference or even guidance from the new owners. At first, they’d all agreed that it felt peculiar to be out from under the old man’s cold and ever-calculating eye. Gradually, though, CEO Martin Crown and his closest subordinates had begun enjoying their unanticipated freedom of action. For the first time in their tenure with the company, they felt fully in charge.
Now, Crown thought dourly, it looked very much like those short-lived glory days of power and total control were coming to an end. Together with his chief financial officer, Halsey Stutz, and their director of flight operations, Ted Locke, he’d been “invited” out to the airport to watch Regan Air’s newest acquisition, a Boeing 737-200F freighter, arrive.
Sweating profusely in the heat rolling off the tarmac, the big, paunchy American unbuttoned his suit jacket. He glanced at the shorter, slimmer man who’d summoned them here out of their comfortable air-conditioned offices. This guy Daeniker was their liaison with the new owners, all of whom were based overseas. He also had the lean and hungry look Crown associated with men who didn’t mind being the bearers of bad tidings—like mass layoffs or poorly conceived corporate restructurings that usually ended in bankruptcy.
“There it comes,” Daeniker said suddenly, pointing to the twin-engine narrow-body jet flaring in to land on Runway 5L about a mile and a half from their position in front of Regan Air’s shipment center. The air freighter was already painted in Regan’s trademarked kelly-green and gold stripes, with a large, stylized R on its tailfin. The Swiss checked his watch. “Precisely on schedule,” he said with satisfaction.
Crown exchanged a pained look with Stutz and Locke. Given the current state of the economy, none of them would have approved buying another aircraft—let alone a model so old and outdated. After all, the last 737-200 had rolled off Boeing’s production line more than thirty years ago. And out of more than a thousand built, fewer than a hundred were still flying.
Daeniker smiled politely, seeing their expressions. “Do not worry, gentlemen. We negotiated a very good price when purchasing this aircraft from its former owners. And though it may be old, it is still in good flying condition.”
Crown merely nodded, this time working harder to hide his dismay. Like most people without aviation industry experience, Daeniker obviously believed the up-front purchase price for an aircraft was what mattered most. But that was peanuts in the bigger scheme of things. What really counted was how much the plane cost to maintain and operate over time. And on that score, he was pretty sure this 737-200F was going to prove a massive headache. Compared to newer jets, it was a fuel hog. Besides that, keeping the damned antiquated thing flying was going to soak up precious maintenance hours that would have been far better spent on more efficient aircraft. Hell, he was willing to bet that the guys at the regional Chinese airline that used to fly this hunk of junk couldn’t believe their luck when they were offered more than the scrap-metal price.
Engines whining shrilly, the cargo jet taxied off the runway and over toward them.
As the jet rolled to a stop, Ted Locke leaned in closer to Crown. “Jesus Christ, Martin,” he muttered. “They’ve put a fricking gravel kit on this bird.”
Crown nodded, seeing the telltale gravel deflector, shaped like a wide ski, attached to the 737’s nosewheel, and the long, thin vortex dissipators mounted in front of both engines. By pr
otecting the engines from debris kicked up on takeoffs and landings, gravel kits allowed aircraft to use shorter, unpaved runways. In its early days, Regan Air Freight had equipped some of its planes with the same kind of kits so they could fly into rough rural airfields in Alaska and the wilds of northern Canada. But over time, those routes proved totally uneconomical and were dropped. He scowled. Just what were the new owners planning?
Invited by Daeniker to inspect the aircraft more closely, Crown and his team soon realized the gravel kit was the least of its modifications. The 737’s forward main cargo door was now much larger than that of any standard model. Not only that, but the door had been completely reconfigured so that it would slide smoothly back along the fuselage, rather than pop open. In addition, the freighter’s main deck now featured a high-speed overhead cargo handling mechanism and guide rails slotted into the floor.
“What’s the game here, Mr. Daeniker?” Crown demanded when they finished walking through the heavily modified cargo jet. “None of these fancy new gizmos is of any real use in our current lines of business.”
“That is quite true,” the other man said blandly. “But since the company’s owners plan to use this aircraft to explore a new business opportunity, it is also immaterial.”
“What new opportunity?” Halsey Stutz asked, with a sharp edge in his voice. As Regan Air Freight’s chief financial officer, he spent a lot of time hunting for ways to improve the company’s efficiency and market share. Clearly, he found the idea that he’d missed something obvious insulting.
Daeniker offered him a conciliatory smile. “One quite far afield from your current operations, Mr. Stutz. And somewhat untested.”
“Untested, how?”