Iron Wolf (41 page)

“We did inflict casualties on the Poles, sir,” the young staff officer insisted.

“A mere handful,” Polivanov snorted. “Ten thousand shells to destroy three tanks and four armored personnel carriers? To kill or wound fewer than fifty of the enemy's troops?” He shook his head in disgust. “We wasted our barrage on a small screening force, Iosif. We were tricked. Made to look like giggling, trigger-happy fools!”

He pointed back the way they had come. A huge pall of oily black smoke hung low over the eastern horizon. “And while we pounded trees and cornfields, the Poles swung their commandos in behind us and kicked the snot out of our supply units. Every gallon of reserve fuel, every truckload of artillery ammunition . . . all blown to hell!”

“We still have enough fuel to continue our advance, sir,” the younger officer said stubbornly. “Our artillery may be low on shells, but our tank and motor-rifle brigades still have enough ammunition for another battle.”

“Certainly, we could chase after those bastard Poles,” Polivanov growled. “But to what end? To walk into another ambush, and without artillery support this time? To bare our necks for these weird secret weapons the enemy is using against us so effectively?” He shook his head. “No, Iosif! A thousand times, no!”

His aide looked stricken. “But then what will we do?”

Polivanov sighed again. “We wait.” He shrugged his shoulders. “We wait for Moscow to send us more fuel and ammunition. Once we're resupplied, we can push on toward Poland. But until then, we dig in deep here and protect ourselves.”

M
OSCOW

S
EVERAL HOURS LATER

Looking for all the world like a well-dressed European corporate executive, former Russian President Igor Truznyev strolled out of the elegant five-star Ararat Park Hyatt hotel. He paused on the pavement, checking the most recent text message on his smartphone:
KB 401 77
.

Smiling, Truznyev looked up. There, coming toward him, was a yellow Mercedes taxicab, a cab with the license-plate number KB 401 77. He held up a hand, flagging it down.

The cab pulled up smoothly beside him. “Where to?” the white-haired driver asked.

“The Ministry of Industry and Trade,” he murmured, sliding into the cab's rear passenger seat. Sergei Tarzarov was already there, waiting for him. They pulled away, back out into the busy Moscow midafternoon traffic.

“The driver?” Truznyev asked.

“Thoroughly reliable,” Tarzarov said flatly. “One of the old breed.”

The former president nodded his understanding. The taxi driver was ex-KGB, probably one of the agents the intelligence service used to plant in the ranks of Moscow cab companies. The KGB has used its “cabdrivers” to keep tabs on suspicious foreigners—and to serve as mobile contacts and drop points for Russian moles operating inside Western embassies during the old Cold War days.

“This will have to be quick, Igor,” Tarzarov said, glancing at his watch. “Gennadiy has called another meeting of the security council for later today.”

“The president's war is not going so well, then?” Truznyev asked brightly.

“There have been . . .
complications,
” the older man allowed. He looked curiously at his companion. “How much do you know?”

“Enough,” Truznyev said with a quick lift of his expensively tailored shoulders. “Enough to know that the Poles, with the aid of their American mercenaries, have not been cooperating with Gennadiy's precisely crafted military timetables quite as fully as he had hoped.”

Sergei Tarzarov offered him both a thin-lipped frown and a reluctant nod, evidently not completely pleased with his somewhat facetious tone. “Our ground and air forces are meeting stiffer resistance than we had expected,” he admitted. “But the correlation of forces still remains greatly in our favor.”

“I'm very glad to hear that,” Truznyev said. He smiled thinly. “Losing a war would be bad enough. Losing a war begun under false pretenses would be much worse.”

Tarzarov's slight frown turned into a full-fledged grimace. “What do you mean, Igor?” he asked.

“It seems that some of my analysis was correct,” Truznyev said, sounding pleased. “As were your earlier fears.”

Tarzarov studied him. The other man did, in fact, look satisfied and smug, rather like a sleek wolfhound trotting back to its master with pieces of its prey dangling from its fangs. “In what way, Igor?” he asked drily.

“Gennadiy Gryzlov
was
manipulated into this war,” Truznyev said. “Or so the evidence I've obtained strongly suggests.”

Tarzarov sat up straighter. “Manipulated? By whom?”

“Beijing,” the other man said calmly. “Though I cannot yet tell if the plot originated at the highest levels of the People's Republic. It may only have been primarily a local initiative by Ukrainian-based agents of the Chinese Ministry of State Security.”

For a moment, Tarzarov sat transfixed. If what Truznyev claimed was true, a whole host of unpleasant possibilities presented themselves. “You had better explain that more fully,” he said finally.

In answer, the former president opened his briefcase and took out a somewhat battered-looking laptop. “I come as a Russian patriot bearing gifts,” he said blandly.

Tarzarov looked down at the computer. He raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Some . . . people, shall we say . . . in my employ acquired this machine from a Chinese covert agent operating out of Kiev,” Truzynev said.

“Voluntarily?”

“There were . . .
complications,
” Truznyev replied, deliberately mimicking the older man's own earlier choice of words. “An intended discreet removal went slightly awry.”

“Awry as in sudden death?” Tarzarov guessed, with a sardonic smile.

The former president had the grace to look abashed. “Unfortunately, yes. But the Ukrainian police have some reason to believe the Chinese agent—masquerading as an investment banker, by the way—may have committed suicide to atone for financial losses.”

“His superiors know otherwise, I presume?”

Truznyev nodded. “Probably. I suspect the Chinese will begin silencing their intermediaries soon, if they have not already finished doing so.”

“And this computer,” Tarzarov asked, tapping it. “It contains evidence of a plot to lure us into conflict with the Poles?”

“I believe so,” the other man replied. He spread his hands. “The technical people I hired were able to break into a few of the files—which discussed payments to Ukrainian insurgent groups.”

“Ah.”

“Indeed,” Truznyev agreed. “But there is more. We found references to a plan to kidnap one or two Polish officers off the streets in Warsaw. And a few more bits and pieces which suggest a very covert arms-buying operation aimed at obtaining Polish and American military equipment.”

“That is . . . suggestive,” Tarzarov said grimly.

“There are more files on the machine,” Truznyev told him. “But my experts were unable to decrypt them, at least not without risking triggering some kind of self-destruct program.”

“So you brought this computer to me,” the older man said flatly.

Truznyev nodded. “Of course, Sergei. You are the one who asked me to look into this possibility, after all.” He smiled. “It also seemed
best to let our government's own intelligence specialists try to crack the remaining files. Who better, eh?”

“Perhaps,” Tarzarov said slowly. The somewhat pained expression on his face made it clear, though, that he suspected the best computer hackers no longer worked for the Kremlin. Why work for wages when you could, instead, sell your services on the slightly murkier, but considerably better paid, black market.

Privately, Truznyev was quite sure that was the case. He broke the uncomfortable silence by asking, “So, then, Sergei. What will you do now?”

The older man's expression was hooded, impenetrable. “I will consider that, Igor,” he said. “In this case, thought before action seems indicated.”

Truznyev pretended surprise. “You won't bring this to Gennadiy?”

“Immediately? No,” Tarzarov said flatly. He picked up the laptop. “It would serve no real purpose now—not when victory is still likely.”

“And if victory somehow eludes our young and oh-so-confident president?” Truznyev pressed. “By some unexpected and sadly unfortunate chain of events?”

“That would be a different question entirely,” Tarzarov said. He sighed. “You have done well, Igor.”

Truznyev nodded, pleased. “That is high praise indeed—coming as it does from a master, Sergei.”

“You will gain nothing by flattery,” Tarzarov said wryly. “Submit your list of expenses, and I will make sure that you're compensated. Discreetly, of course.” He showed his teeth. “Neither of us would profit by revealing how this information came into my hands.”

“No, indeed,” Truznyev agreed fervently. “Let me stay in the shadows, my friend.” He chuckled. “I find them far more comfortable than the limelight.”

T
HE
K
REMLIN,
M
OSCOW

A
SHORT TIME LATER

Gennadiy Gryzlov listened in stony silence while General Mikhail Khristenko recited his litany of woes. To his credit, the chief of Russia's General Staff made no effort to cast recent events in a falsely positive light.

“Polivanov is being very cautious, but I cannot fault him for that,” Khristenko said. “Until its tanks, other vehicles, and artillery are refueled and resupplied, the Twentieth Guards Army cannot continue its offensive. Not without courting serious danger.”

Gryzlov nodded. He had been reluctant to believe Polivanov's claims, but the most recent figures transmitted by the general's supply officers painted a bleak picture. In effect, the 20th Guards Army had just enough fuel left to reach the Polish frontier—but not enough to advance any deeper into enemy territory. And while it had enough bullets and shells left for one big battle, last night's sneak attack by the Poles and their high-tech American mercenaries had destroyed all of the army's reserve ammunition. Under those circumstances, pushing ahead was not a sensible option. Fighting vehicles caught without fuel were reduced to immobile pillboxes—unable to maneuver or evade attack. And tanks, armored personnel carriers, and guns left without ammunition were nothing but targets.

“What about the Sixth Army?” he snapped. “Its commander has no such excuse!”

“General Nikitin and his troops continue their advance through Belarus,” Khristenko said evenly. “Units of his advance guard have already made contact with Polish troops at several points along the border.”

“Then tell Nikitin to press ahead faster and attack as soon as his forces are in position!” Gryzlov demanded.

“Such haste would be . . . unwise,” Khristenko said. Aware suddenly of the long-suppressed rage beginning to distort his president's
handsome face, he hurried to explain. “Intelligence and long-range reconnaissance reports indicate that Warsaw has deployed a large number of its available troops to confront our Sixth Army. Their positions are carefully fortified. Attacking them without careful preparation would be a prescription for probable failure . . . and heavy losses.”

Curtly, Gryzlov nodded again, restraining his temper with difficulty. However unwelcome the older man's assessment might be, it was also undeniably logical.

“In fact,” Khristenko said carefully. “I have cautioned Nikitin to slow his own advance—at least until the Twentieth Guards Army can resume its offensive.”

“Why?”

“With Polivanov's forces temporarily halted, pushing farther west would only leave Sixth Army's left flank hanging in the air,” the general said. “The Polish armor and infantry units that were facing Polivanov could swing north and surprise Nikitin's columns on the march.”

Gryzlov frowned. “In other words, neither of our invasion armies can go forward without the other.”

“That is correct, Mr. President,” Khristenko agreed.

“Then you get those supplies forward to Polivanov without delay!” Gryzlov snarled. “I will not accept further excuses for inaction and failure! If your tank and motor-rifle troops cannot defeat the Poles, I will be compelled to use other means to destroy our enemies—means that would be far more lethal and far less precise. Do you understand me, General?”

“I understand you, sir,” the chief of the General Staff said tightly. His president had just signaled his willingness to contemplate crossing the nuclear threshold. If Russia's conventional armies failed, Gryzlov would use his missile forces against Poland.

N
EAR
P
YRIZHKY,
U
KRAINE

L
ATER THAT DAY

Major Yevgeny Kurochkin banked his twin-tailed MiG-29M into a gentle left-hand turn. He glanced out through the clear canopy at the ground five thousand meters below. From this high up, the flat Ukrainian landscape was mostly a hazy blur—an alternating patchwork of light green, dark green, and earth-brown fields and woods. Thin gray lines, paved roads, sliced through the countryside in all directions.

One of those roads, the M07 highway heading west to Poland, was jammed with traffic. A kilometers-long column of cylindrical fuel tankers and canvas-sided trucks loaded with other vital supplies was slowly wending its way to the 20th Guards Army's stalled brigades. The supply vehicles could have gotten there faster on their own, but they were being shepherded by a battalion-sized task force of tracked T-72 tanks, BMP-2 infantry fighting vehicles, and self-propelled antiaircraft guns.

Kurochkin and his wingman, Senior Lieutenant Avilov, were assigned to fly top cover for the convoy, orbiting in a lazy, fuel-conserving racetrack pattern at medium altitude. If called on, their MiG-29s carried bombs and rocket pods for use against ground targets.

At least now he would be able to see well enough to hit something, the Russian pilot thought. The long supply column had spent most of the past hour driving through a wide belt of thick forest, closed up tight against the possibility of sudden ambush by Ukrainian terrorists or Polish Special Forces troops. Through his radio earphones, Kurochkin could hear the previously tense voices of the escort commander and his subordinates beginning to relax. As they moved out into more open country, their chances of fending off an enemy attack increased exponentially.

Not far off the highway, right in the middle of a field, there were two tiny, dazzling flashes.

Kurochkin frowned, keying his mike. “Avilov, did you see—”

Three seconds after they were fired, tungsten-steel alloy slugs sleeting at nearly six thousand kilometers per hour smashed through the two Russian MiG-29s. Both pilots were killed instantly, shredded by white-hot, razor-edged splinters torn from their own aircraft.

Riding with his head poking out through the turret hatch of the lead T-72 main battle tank, Captain Ivan Teplov adjusted his headset, trying to make out what his driver, seated below in the chassis, had just said over the intercom. Out in the open like this, the roar of the T-72's 780-horsepower diesel engine was almost deafening. Despite the distraction, he kept an eye on their surroundings. They were rumbling through farmland now, grinding slowly westward through fields planted in corn and sugar beets.

“Say again, driver,” he growled.

“I said, we'll need to top up again sometime in the next hour, sir,” the sergeant told him patiently. “We just hit the three-quarter mark—”

A sudden stuttering, clanging rasp of gunfire drowned out the intercom. In that same split second, a blast of heat washed across the back of Teplov's neck—scorching enough to make him yelp in surprise. He swiveled to look behind them. His mouth fell open in disbelief. They were under attack!

Fuel tankers and trucks were slewing across the highway in all directions, already hit and burning. Soldiers fell away from the wrecked vehicles. Many of them were on fire themselves, turned into screaming, writhing human torches. More explosions tore at the long column—hurling smoking pieces of trucks and crates of supplies high into the air.

In all the chaos, a flash of blinding-fast movement caught Teplov's eye. There, racing along the trapped convoy, came a tall, mottled gray figure out of a nightmare. The weapons carried in its spindly arms fired again and again, destroying trucks and other vehicles with terrifying speed.

The Russian tank commander swallowed hard. “Gunner! Target right rear! Range three hundred meters!” he yelled.

The T-72's massive turret spun fast, slewing toward the strange creature or machine. “Sir! The computer won't lock on!” the gunner stammered.

“Idiot!” Teplov snarled. “Fire anyway!”

KA-BLAAMM!

The tank rocked backward as its 125mm smoothbore gun fired, propelling a round downrange in a plume of brown smoke and orange flame. Teplov leaned forward, clutching the rim of the turret against the recoil.

The T-72's high-explosive round hit the ground right beside the fast-moving enemy war machine and exploded. A huge fountain of dirt and dust erupted. Caught in the blast, the gray and black figure was tossed backward, coming down in an awkward heap beside a burning Russian truck.

“Reload with armor piercing!” Teplov snapped into his mike, already swinging away to look for other targets.

Hydraulic system function severely degraded. Thermal camouflage off-line. Thermal sensors damaged. Weapons Pack One nonoperational,
the CID's computer reported.
Fuel-cell power production down to forty-three percent
.

Patrick McLanahan ignored the cascade of damage and failure warnings flooding through his mind. Considering the sheer explosive impact and spray of fragments it had just taken at point-blank range, his Iron Wolf machine was lucky to still be in one piece. Without trying to get up, he turned his head to find the Russian T-72 that had just nailed him. Servos and actuators whined in protest. “Stop being such a big baby,” he muttered. “You've been hit worse.”

The enemy tank was about three hundred yards away, swinging around toward the rear of the supply column—where CID Two, piloted by Wayne Macomber—was still wreaking havoc. The imagery he was receiving was blurred and it flickered oddly. No surprise
there, he thought. Half his visual sensors were just gone, ripped away in the blast. And with the robot's batteries and fuel cells damaged so badly, its computer was being forced to cycle its limited remaining power between arrays of critical systems.

“Dad? Dad? Are you all right?” Brad's worried voice flooded through his headset. His son was monitoring this attack from the Remote Operations Control Center back at Powidz.

“I'm fine, son,” Patrick said. “Knocked around a little maybe, but otherwise intact.”

Captain Nadia Rozek's voice cut in on the circuit. “
Dad?
Your father is
alive
? CID One is General McLanahan?”

Patrick switched frequencies with a pained smile. Let Brad handle the awkward revelation, he thought. He just hoped his son hadn't played the “my father is dead” sympathy card too hard while wooing that beautiful female Polish Special Forces officer. Right now, though, he had far more immediate problems.

Like that T-72. Its commander had damned fast reflexes and CIDs were not designed to stand up to 125mm armor-piercing ammunition. And from the limited information flowing through his data link, Whack already had a hell of a fight on his hands.

Slowly at first, and then faster as he overrode more and more of the computer's damage alerts and fail-safes, he climbed back to his feet. One rail-gun round should do it for that enemy tank. He started to uncouple the gun.
Electromagnetic weapon nonoperational,
the CID indicated.

“Shit,” Patrick growled. He was going to have to do this the hard and ugly way, up close and personal. He detached his 40mm grenade launcher instead.
One thermobaric grenade remaining,
the computer reported.

He lurched into motion, unsteadily running toward the distant T-72 on wobbly legs. More actuators protested. Whole sections of his system schematics winked yellow and red—indicating a series of cascading failures. As his computer rerouted more and more power to movement, information from a variety of sensors vanished from his conscious mind.

Patrick's CID had covered two-thirds of the distance between them when the Russian tank commander saw it coming. Reacting fast, the other man yelled an order into his headset and fumbled for the grips of the 12.7mm machine gun mounted beside him. The T-72's turret whined frantically around, trying to bring its main gun to bear.

Too late, Patrick thought grimly. He bounded up onto the chassis, broke the tank commander's neck with one quick blow, and yanked the corpse out of the turret. In the darkened compartment below, he saw the gunner's face turn toward him, mouth opening in a panicked scream.

Without hesitating, he fired his grenade launcher directly through the open hatch and whirled away.

WHANG. WHOOMPH.

The thermobaric grenade's twin charges went off. A pillar of fire shot out of the tank turret's hatch, blindingly bright even against the afternoon sun. Already burning, the T-72 slewed sideways and clanked to a stop.

Patrick leaped off the smoldering tank, stumbling a bit as his leg hydraulics flirted with failure. He slid the empty grenade launcher back into his remaining weapons pack and took out his last functioning weapon, his 25mm autocannon. Time to get back into the hunt, he decided.

“Break it off, CID One!” he heard Macomber radio. “Repeat, break it off! Rally and recover.”

Stubbornly, Patrick shook his head. “It's too soon, Whack,” he said. “We're still meeting resistance.”

“Bullshit,” Macomber told him. “I know your sensors are fucked, but take a look around! We've already toasted ninety percent of their supply trucks and fuel tankers. So that Russian army up the road ain't going anywhere soon. Right here, the only Russians left alive are the ones who can fight back. And going head-to-head against alerted enemy armor when we can still back off is
not
in the damned plan!”

“Major—”

“I can see your robot's fricking damage reports, General,” Macomber said tightly. “The way I read them, you've got a few hours max before the whole damned thing shuts down completely. Which means we are going to hightail it back to Powidz and swap you into my cozy little ride before that happens.” Macomber paused. “Unless, of course, you're ready to just pull the plug and die. Right here and now. Because that's what staying amounts to.”

Patrick laughed. “Point taken, Whack.” He turned and limped away from the wrecked and burning Russian supply convoy. “CID One is heading for the recovery point. As ordered.”