The Moscow Offensive

by Dale Brown

  The president’s jaw tightened. “How so?”

  “Most of the men and women working for Scion and Iron Wolf are prior-service U.S. military and intelligence agency personnel,” he explained. “Which means their biometric data is on file with the Department of Defense and other federal agencies. So we should have been able to put names to some of those corpses. But whoever these men were, their records aren’t in any of our databases.”

  Barbeau nodded grimly. “Well, that makes it obvious. McLanahan must have recruited his own hired guns for this operation. Probably a bunch of right-wing Ukrainian neo-Nazis. And maybe a few Polish ex-special-forces troops and pilots he managed to brainwash.”

  Rauch stared at her. “McLanahan?”

  “Who else?” she demanded. “Don’t you get it, Ed? That was Patrick McLanahan’s air base.”

  Carefully, he asked, “If that was the general’s base, then who destroyed it?”

  Barbeau laughed harshly. “That playboy prick Martindale and his Polish piggybank, Piotr Wilk. They know McLanahan and his fanatics are out of control,” she went on. Her voice shook slightly. “By now, Wilk and Martindale must be going frantic trying to stop that lunatic’s crusade for revenge against me before it’s too late.” Beneath her makeup, her face turned pale. “Christ, don’t you get it? These assholes are fighting a civil war against each other . . . and they’re doing it on our soil, with no concern about who gets killed in the cross fire!”

  Rauch forced himself to consider her theory—as wild as it sounded. It did match up with some of the few facts they possessed. Special forces teams dispatched to Moab had found tracks of one of the lethal combat robots in and around the wrecked airport. That strongly suggested the attack had been an Iron Wolf and Scion operation. Unless, of course, the Russians really did have their own war robots after all, as Poland claimed? But he’d tried approaching the Poles through various diplomatic and military back channels . . . hoping to see their evidence—only to learn that they didn’t have anything solid yet. “Proving any of this may come down to figuring out who really owns Regan Air Freight, Madam President,” he said cautiously.

  “What does Murchison say?” Barbeau snapped. Sara Murchison was the former federal prosecutor who headed the FBI. Like Rauch, she was one of those the president viewed as reasonably competent.

  “Director Murchison has had agents all over the company’s Indianapolis headquarters ever since we identified that burned-out cargo jet,” Rauch told her. “From their first reports, Regan Air’s management appears as much in the dark about this as we are. Apparently, that converted 737 belonged to the company’s new owners.”

  Barbeau pounced. “New owners?”

  He nodded. “The founder sold out to some kind of international consortium a few months ago . . . right before he disappeared. The CIA and the NSA are digging into this syndicate now—trying to sniff out who’s behind the money. Plus, the CIA and the FBI have agents on the way to Zurich to investigate a Swiss investment banker, a man named Willem Daeniker, who seems to have pulled the whole deal together.”

  “It’s Martindale,” Barbeau said decisively. “He’s behind this guy Daeniker, mark my words. This is his MO, for God’s sake. He runs his illegal ops through a network of shell companies and dummy corporations. Well, now that penchant for secrecy and double-dealing has come around to bite him in the ass. McLanahan got his fingers into the Regan Air pie and he’s been using the company and its resources for his own whacked-out ends.”

  Luke Cohen stirred in his chair. “How much of this can I tell the press, on background?” he asked.

  “Not a damn thing!” Barbeau snapped at her chief of staff. “Do you think I want Joe Q. Public to know that all of this death and destruction is part of a madman’s revenge plot aimed at me personally? How the hell is that supposed to help my reelection campaign?”

  Sheepishly, Cohen shrugged in a wordless apology. “There’s already all kinds of wild speculation about what happened in Utah,” he pointed out. “If we don’t get out in front of the story somehow, we’re going to look really bad.”

  Rauch gazed at him, scarcely able to conceal the contempt he felt. The United States was under continuing attack . . . and the White House chief of staff’s first concern was how events might affect his boss’s poll numbers? Then again, he decided, seeing the anxiety on Barbeau’s face, Cohen was only reflecting her own deepest priorities—which were her personal safety and her continued hold on political power . . . and in that very definite order.

  “Okay, Luke,” she said finally, “On the record, you deny all the rumors. If any question cuts a little close to the truth, you fall back on the old ‘I cannot comment on ongoing intelligence or military operations’ drill, right?”

  Cohen nodded sagely. “And off the record?”

  “Off the record, you find some of our go-to people, say from the Times or the Post or the cable news networks,” Barbeau continued. “And then you do a little tap dance for them. Talk about how there’s no possible way you could ever confirm the rumors that a top-secret U.S. Special Operations Force attacked and destroyed some of the ‘terrorists’ at this Moab facility. Get it?”

  Cohen nodded. “Nice.”

  Barbeau allowed a small smile to cross her lips. “Push any line that feeds the narrative showing me as a tough, active commander in chief tracking down America’s enemies.” Her smile turned feral. “Especially while that macho jackass, J. D. Farrell, is off playing cowboy at his luxury Texas ranch.”

  Rauch felt anger bubbling up inside. He understood the ways in which raw power politics drove the president a lot better now than he had when he first joined her administration. But it was an ugly process. And it was getting uglier by the hour. “Maybe we ought to focus more on our real plans to handle this crisis,” he suggested quietly. “As opposed to Mr. Cohen’s schemes to send the media haring off in the wrong direction.”

  Barbeau eyed him curiously. “What new plans do you suppose we need, Dr. Rauch? Now that we know what this is really all about—my death or defeat in November—my course of action is obvious. I’m going to stay here and wait for Martindale to finish off his lunatic protégé.” She shrugged. “After all, he has the inside knowledge and the high-tech war machines needed to do the job. Whereas we quite clearly do not.”

  “Assuming former president Martindale succeeds, what then?” Rauch asked, hardly able to believe the depth of cynicism and pure self-interest he was hearing. Even if the president’s theory was correct, thousands of American soldiers, sailors, airmen, and civilians were dying . . . killed in what she perceived as a fratricidal struggle between rival groups of Scion and Iron Wolf mercenaries. A commander in chief should have the best interests of the country in mind. Hiding underground and doing nothing while good people were killed should be unthinkable. But it seemed the president could think only of herself.

  Barbeau smiled more genuinely this time. “As soon as Patrick McLanahan is dead, really dead this time, we’ll go to the Poles with what we know and give them a choice: Cough up Martindale and his Iron Wolf thugs . . . or face the full force of an enraged American people demanding revenge. Piotr Wilk may be stubborn, but he’s not suicidal. If it comes down to a choice between his country’s continued survival and the lives and freedom of a few hired killers, he’ll make the smart call.”

  An hour later, Rauch passed through a pair of guarded doors at the Strategic Command Bunker’s surface level. Acting far more casual than he felt inside, he strolled across a parking lot toward the neighboring golf course. He blinked back tears against the harsh glare of the sun. The air smelled fresh, free of the faint, acrid traces of chemicals that always seemed to linger in the bunker’s recirculated atmosphere. He was nerving himself up to act on the resolution he’d made earlier.

  Morally, there was no real choice at all, Rauch knew. From a career perspective, what he contemplated was suicide. But doing nothing would make him no better than Cohen or the president herself. Sighing, he took
out his personal smartphone and entered a number. Obtaining it had required pulling strings with a lot of old think-tank colleagues and former friends.

  His finger hovered indecisively over the icon that would initiate a call. Once he pushed that icon, there really was no going back. He’d been forced to leave a trail a mile wide to get to this point. There would be no way to dodge Barbeau’s fury if this leaked out.

  Closing his eyes, Rauch tapped the call icon and brought the phone to his ear. It rang twice and then a deep, resonant voice, familiar from a hundred press conferences and speeches answered. “Yes? Who is this?”

  “Governor Farrell, my name is Edward Rauch and I’m President Barbeau’s national security adviser,” he said simply. “The reason I’m calling is that we’ve learned certain things that I believe you need to know about—”

  Thirty-Six

  IRON WOLF FORCE, IN THE BIGHORN NATIONAL FOREST, WYOMING

  THAT NIGHT

  Brad McLanahan stepped out from under the camouflage netting hiding their aircraft, joining Nadia Rozek and Whack Macomber on the shallow grassy slope. Ian Schofield and his four recon troopers were nowhere in sight—which undoubtedly meant they were lurking somewhere close by in cover, ready to respond to any attack.

  Nadia and Macomber stood looking up into the starlit sky, listening to the faint clatter of a helicopter growing louder as it drew closer. Both had their personal weapons out and ready. “You can all stand easy,” he said, raising his voice to be sure Schofield heard him, too. “That’s one of ours. Or one of Martindale’s, anyway. The recognition code they radioed checks out.”

  With a shrug, Nadia slid her 9mm Walther P99 pistol back into her shoulder holster. Whack did the same with his M1911A1 .45 Colt. “Any word on what this is about?” he asked.

  “No idea,” Brad said shortly. “We’re not due for a resupply mission.”

  “Additional supplies would arrive by road anyway,” Nadia pointed out. Her lips thinned. “Sending in a helicopter like this is very conspicuous. It risks giving away our position.”

  Shrugging, Brad pointed out, “Campers that hear the noise will probably write it off as a Forest Service aircraft up looking for poachers. Or flying on fire watch.” Privately, he crossed his fingers. With half the U.S. Air Force probably tasked with hunting for them, they couldn’t count on staying concealed here for much longer. But it would be nice to fly out because they had somewhere else to go . . . and not because their cover was blown.

  The sound of the helicopter’s twin engines ramped up suddenly as a black shape without any visible navigation lights swept low overhead. It slowed down and spun through a half circle, flaring in to land not far away. Its rotor wash sent dead grass and dust flying.

  Through eyes narrowed against the rotor-blown debris, Brad identified the helicopter’s type. It was a Bell 429 Global Ranger. Blessed with a fairly long range and able to carry up to six passengers plus a pilot, the helicopter was a favorite with police forces and emergency medical evacuation services. This one, painted entirely in black, belonged to Scion.

  His eyes opened wider as he recognized the two men who climbed down out of the helicopter’s passenger compartment. One, with longish gray hair and neatly trimmed gray beard, was Kevin Martindale. The other, moving a touch awkwardly in his cumbersome exoskeleton and life-support backpack, was his father, retired lieutenant general Patrick McLanahan.

  Brad and the others moved to meet them.

  Smiling broadly through his helmet’s clear visor, his father gave him a quick hug, did the same for Nadia, and then vigorously shook Macomber’s hand. In contrast, Martindale greeted them with a rueful nod.

  “Jesus, Dad,” Brad said, “I’m really glad to see you. But how the heck did you get here?”

  The older McLanahan shrugged. “By one of Mr. Martindale’s private jets to a little, out-of-the-way airport in Saskatchewan first. That helicopter brought us the rest of the way.” His teeth flashed white in the darkness. “Breaking quite a few FAA and Customs regulations in the process, of course.”

  “No shit,” Macomber interjected. He looked the two new arrivals up and down with a critical eye. “Which makes me wonder why on God’s green earth you two decided to risk this little jaunt? Hell, Mr. Martindale, you have a huge bull’s-eye painted on your back by that bitch Stacy Anne Barbeau. I haven’t checked the FBI list lately, but my guess is that you’re Public Enemy Number One.”

  “Not quite,” Martindale said with a forced grin. “Since the president now knows that the general here is most definitely alive and not dead, I’ve apparently been demoted to Public Enemy Number Two.”

  Brad stared at them.

  His father nodded. “It seems I’ve been resurrected, son.”

  “Does Gryzlov know this?” Nadia demanded. She looked deeply worried. And with reason, since the Russian president hated the older McLanahan for killing his own father in a retaliatory bombing raid years ago—a hatred that sometimes carried him far beyond the point of sanity. In the not-so-distant past, Gennadiy Gryzlov had even been willing to threaten all-out nuclear war with both the United States and Poland to avenge himself on the general.

  “Not yet,” Martindale assured her. “From what we know, the news is still closely confined to Barbeau’s innermost circle.”

  The implications of that flashed through Brad’s mind. If Martindale had learned something only a few people close to the president knew, that must mean he now had a source on the inside—a very highly placed source.

  His father saw the look of realization on his face and nodded slightly. “Loose lips, son,” he cautioned.

  Sink ships, Brad remembered. He closed his mouth.

  “Which makes this stunt even dumber,” Macomber argued. “If you’ve got something to discuss with us, why not stick to secure video links?”

  “Ordinarily, I’d agree with you,” Martindale said with a wry glance at Patrick McLanahan. “But the general here thinks otherwise. And, as you undoubtedly know, he can be a very persuasive man.”

  Macomber looked interested. “Really?” He turned to Brad’s father. “So, what did you do? Pull a gun on him?”

  “No guns were involved,” Martindale said primly. “He simply pointed out—correctly, I fear—that the situation is now so critical that the two of us can no longer afford to stay safely removed from the action.”

  Brad felt cold. “What’s changed?” he asked. “By wiping out that air base, we reduced Gryzlov’s striking power and drastically narrowed his options, right? How is that a bad thing?”

  “It’s not,” his father said quickly. “What has changed is our appreciation of how far out in left field President Barbeau’s preconceptions and prejudices have led her.” Quickly, he outlined her belief that everything happening was part of a covert war between himself and Martindale . . . a war supposedly aimed on his part at either killing her or driving her from office. And her consequent determination to sit back and do nothing while they fought it out.

  “Christ, she’s just as nuts as Gryzlov,” Brad said in disgust.

  “Barbeau may be strategically blind, cowardly, and wholly self-absorbed, but she is not clinically insane,” Martindale disagreed. Then he shrugged. “Though in this particular case, I suppose that may well be a difference without much real-world significance.”

  Nadia frowned. “But when your FBI learns that the Russians now own Regan Air Freight, won’t that open her eyes to the truth?”

  “Unfortunately, that’s not likely to happen anytime soon. And certainly not in time for it to matter,” Patrick McLanahan said.

  “Why not?”

  Martindale smiled wryly. “Because Gennadiy Gryzlov turns out not to be a complete fool, Major Rozek. At least not in this case. You see, we’ve managed to identify his go-between, a Swiss investment banker named Willem Daeniker. By now, I’ve no doubt the FBI has the same information.”

  “So?” Nadia asked. “How is this a problem?”

  “It’s a problem because
this man Daeniker very conspicuously flew to Warsaw yesterday evening,” Martindale explained. “And now he’s vanished without a trace. None of my operatives or those of your country’s internal security agency have been able to pick up his trail.”

  Brad swore softly. “So when the FBI starts checking up on him . . .”

  “It’ll look very likely that Daeniker was working for Mr. Martindale. Or the Polish government. Or both of them,” his father finished for him.

  “Sucks when your enemy has a plan,” Macomber commented sourly. He shook his head. “Okay, then it’s basically down to just us and the Russians—and whoever’s unlucky enough to get caught between us.”

  “Looks that way,” Patrick agreed.

  “Sitting around here on our asses isn’t going to pull those enemy war robots off their next planned target,” Macomber said. “We’ve got Gryzlov’s attention now. So I figure we should get out there and wriggle around. Let’s make them come to us for a change.”

  “Use your team as bait, you mean?” Martindale asked.

  Macomber shrugged. “Well, yeah.”

  “If we show ourselves openly, all we do is confirm all of Barbeau’s insinuations,” Brad pointed out, though he did so unwillingly. Everything told him they were running out of time and options. “We’d play right into her hands.”

  His father nodded. “That might still be worth it, if it lured the Russians out into the open. But it won’t. For all his many sordid sins and faults, Gennadiy Gryzlov isn’t stupid. He won’t send his robots into an obvious trap . . . not unless the potential payoff is a lot higher than anything we can believably offer.”

  “And maybe not even then,” Martindale commented. “Barbeau’s clearly had the same idea. She didn’t dump all of Sky Masters’ top engineers and scientists into that detention camp up in Idaho just for show. She’s using them as bait of her own.”

  “For us, though,” Brad said. “Not for Gryzlov.” He shrugged. “She must have thought we’d try to rescue Boomer and the others on our own.”