The Kremlin Strike

by Dale Brown

  Clearing the rest of the shooting house reconfigured as a “community center” took several more minutes of close, effective teamwork—carefully working through a labyrinth of rooms filled with a mix of targets dressed as both Spetsnaz soldiers and innocent Polish civilians. When they were finished, she ordered everyone back outside.

  Once there, they regrouped with the rest of the assault force.

  “Training Command, this is Lynx One,” Nadia radioed, scowling down at her watch. They were running very short on time. “We’ve cleared the village. All hostiles eliminated. No friendly casualties.”

  “Acknowledged, Major Rozek,” a laconic voice replied. “We show Phase One complete. Proceed immediately to Exercise Area Bravo.”

  She sighed inside. Area Bravo was more than a kilometer away. Good Christ, she thought. This was going to be tight. Very tight.

  Concealing her worries, Nadia issued out a set of rapid-fire orders that deployed her troops into a column of fours and put them in motion. With her in the lead, they set off at a fast trot—hurrying back into the forest and down a winding dirt road in a rattle and clatter of weapons and equipment.

  Ten minutes later, they broke out into the open again. A three-meter-high log wall stretched across their path. After they’d spent hours tramping through the woods in full battle gear and then fighting their way through a mocked-up village, the obstacle looked as tall and imposing as the Great Wall of China.

  Nadia took a deep breath. This was it. She turned her head. “All right, guys. Let’s go! Up and over and through!”

  She set off at a dead run. Just short of the wall, she leaped upward, grabbing a handhold between two logs near the top and planting one of her blades on the narrow edge of another log, lower down. Then, pushing off with the flexible prosthetic limb, she jumped again and got both gloved hands on top of the obstacle. Breathing hard, she swung herself up and onto the top of the wall—using her arms and upper-body strength to compensate for her missing legs.

  Without pausing, Nadia lowered herself down the other side and dropped the last few feet. She rolled over and came up facing a wide field crisscrossed by barbed-wire entanglements and shallow, muddy ditches. Instructors manned machine guns set on fixed mounts along one edge of the field.

  Gritting her teeth, she scrambled upright, ran forward, and then dove headlong into one of the ditches. Cradling her carbine in both hands, she wriggled forward using her elbows and knees for leverage. Her blades, perfect for running on firm ground, were virtually useless now . . . deadweight. Their slick, carbon-fiber surfaces couldn’t get enough traction in the soft, sticky mud.

  The machine guns began firing. Live tracer rounds whipcracked low overhead—drawing lines of glowing fire across the field just a few centimeters above the razor-sharp coils of barbed wire. Soldiers started to pass her on both sides. She was falling behind the pace. Nadia swore silently and pushed on, straining to crawl faster.

  WHUMMP.

  A fountain of mud erupted a few meters away. Seconds later, more small explosions rippled across the obstacle course. Wonderful, she thought grimly. The trainers were setting off buried pyrotechnics to simulate mortar rounds, grenades, and mines. That was all she needed now.

  Tucking her head low to snake under a wire entanglement, she squirmed onward. Barbs snagged at her tactical vest and then tore loose. She raised up slightly, spat out a mouthful of mud, and risked a quick look ahead.

  The edge of the field was just twenty meters away.

  WHUMMP.

  Another pyrotechnic went off close by, spattering enormous clumps of mud and dirt into the air. The blast knocked her sideways . . . right into another coil of barbed wire.

  Caught in the entanglement, Nadia strained to move. Barbs jabbed and tore at her sleeves, ripping through the tough camouflage cloth and drawing blood. A loose strand had even wrapped itself tightly around her prosthetic blades. Ignoring the pain, she yanked a pair of wire cutters out of one of her equipment pouches, curled up, and went to work—grimly slicing through the metal strands pinning her in place. She needed to free herself as fast as possible and keep going.

  But it was too late. Whistles blew shrilly, signaling the end of the exercise.

  “Shit,” Nadia muttered. Suddenly exhausted, and fighting down tears of frustration, she sat up and finished cutting herself free. Despite her best efforts, she’d failed to complete the course in the required time.

  Two

  Jednostka Wojskowa Kommandosów Headquarters Building

  The Next Day

  Perched on a chair, Brad McLanahan saw the door to Colonel Henryk Pietrzak’s office swing open. He stood up, straightening to his full, broad-shouldered height.

  Neat and trim in her Special Forces dress uniform, Nadia Rozek stepped out into the hallway and quietly closed the door behind her. As always, he felt a warm glow inside at the sight of the beautiful, dark-haired young woman—coupled with a lingering sense of awe that he’d been lucky enough to win her affection. When he’d joined the fledgling Iron Wolf Squadron four years ago, he’d thought their relationship would just be a short, fun romp for both of them. A sort of “pretty local girl has a wild fling with a lonely expatriate American” deal. But now he knew differently. Nothing about Nadia was frivolous. She was tough-minded, intensely passionate, and totally fearless . . . and he couldn’t imagine life without her.

  “How did it go?” Brad asked gently, already suspecting the worst from the distant look in her blue-gray eyes.

  “Not well,” Nadia admitted. “Though he wishes otherwise, Colonel Pietrzak will not return me to active-duty status, at least not as a combat arms officer.” Her mouth turned downward. “In light of my injuries, he believes the risk to me and to those under my command would be too great.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Apparently, the best I can hope for is a rear-area headquarters staff post . . . or perhaps an assignment as a tactics instructor at either the Kościuszko Land Forces Military Academy or the National Defense University.”

  Internally, Brad winced, imagining her reaction to the suggestion that she spend her days pushing paper from one side of a desk to the other or delivering lectures to bored junior officer cadets. “Ouch. So . . . did you leave the guy in one piece . . . or should I call for medics and an ambulance?”

  For a moment, the shadow of a smile ghosted across her face. “Despite my fearsome reputation, I do have some sense of military decorum, Brad. The colonel is alive and quite well. For the moment.”

  “Then what did you tell him?”

  Nadia sighed. “I asked for more time to consider my other options.” Her expression darkened. “I only wish I knew what they were.”

  Get your game face on, McLanahan, Brad thought. This was his big chance. He cleared his throat nervously. “Yeah, well, see, as it happens, that’s kind of something I’ve been talking over with a few folks.”

  “Oh?” Her mouth tightened slightly and she folded her arms. “And which folks are those, exactly?”

  “Me, for one,” someone said from over her shoulder.

  Caught by surprise, Nadia spun around. And then she stiffened to attention. The newcomer raised a hand with a nod and an easy grin, silently ordering her to stand at ease. “Mr. President?” she stammered. “What are you doing here?”

  Piotr Wilk shot her an easy grin. “At ease, Major Rozek.” Wiry, fit, and not quite fifty, Poland’s president still looked more like the veteran fighter pilot and charismatic air-force commander he’d once been than the political leader he’d become. His eyes twinkled with amusement. “I flew here from Warsaw this morning at Captain McLanahan’s suggestion.”

  Recovering quickly, Nadia looked skeptically from one man to the other. She raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And should I understand then that the two of you have been settling my future for me? Behind my back?”

  Still smiling, Wilk shook his head. “Not at all, Major,” he replied. “Consider this more of a brainstorming session.” His expression turned more serious. “Co
lonel Pietrzak is a good man and a fine soldier. His determination to maintain the highest physical standards for the officers and soldiers under his command is commendable.”

  Reluctantly, Nadia nodded.

  “But Pietrzak is not Poland’s commander in chief. That is my role,” Wilk continued. “What is more important is that I know you better than he does. I have seen your abilities with my own eyes. So in this narrow case, I believe it might be reasonable, even just, to waive certain standards—”

  “No,” Nadia interrupted fiercely. “With respect, Mr. President, you must not pull strings on my behalf in this matter. Not for any reason. You would harm the good order and discipline of our armed forces.”

  Wilk shook his head. “I doubt any damage would be lasting, Major. Remember, you are one of our nation’s most decorated and accomplished soldiers. No one of consequence would resent a small accommodation on your behalf.”

  Nadia was silent for a long moment.

  Brad held his breath.

  “But I would,” Nadia said finally. She swallowed hard. “I do not want special treatment . . . or pity.” She straightened her shoulders. “Colonel Pietrzak’s tests were fair. In certain ground combat conditions, my prosthetic legs clearly put me at a severe disadvantage.” She blinked hard, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “And though I wish with all my heart that were not so, it is obvious that the real world will not yield to my wishes.”

  “Very well.” Wilk smiled. “Your courage and honesty do you great credit, Major.” He glanced at Brad and nodded slightly, acknowledging that the younger man had been right about how she would react. He turned back to Nadia. “Which means we must find another way to use your skills in Poland’s service.”

  “That might be difficult,” she said, not bothering to conceal a touch of bitterness. “I can run, but I can’t crawl. I can shoot, but I can’t overcome obstacles that keep me from closing with the enemy. Of what use is a soldier unfit for combat? How can I serve my country now?”

  “You can fly,” Brad said simply. He brushed his fingers across her helicopter pilot’s badge, the gapa, a silver eagle with a golden laurel wreath clutched in its bill. “Remember?”

  Bewildered, Nadia stared back at him. While she could certainly fly helicopters, even with her prosthetic legs, the same limitations that kept her off active-duty status would still apply. No one would risk sending her behind enemy lines where she might be shot down—and forced to evade capture on foot. “Poland has plenty of civilian transport pilots,” she said, choosing her words with care. “I do not think she needs another.”

  “I agree,” Wilk said. “But that is not what Captain McLanahan and I are proposing, Major Rozek.”

  “Sir?”

  “Our strategic situation has changed,” he reminded her. “And for the better. Which is something I would have believed impossible all but a short time ago.”

  Now there was an understatement, Brad decided.

  Four years before, America’s then-president, Stacy Anne Barbeau, had refused Poland’s call for help when Russia’s ruthless leader, Gennadiy Gryzlov, launched a war of aggression. Even Article Five of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization would not dissuade Barbeau—and if the U.S. wouldn’t respond, neither did any other member nation. Only the advanced combat robots and other high-tech weapons, innovative tactics, and intelligence expertise provided by the Iron Wolf Squadron and its corporate parent Scion, a private military company, had allowed Poland to survive. But the cost in lives and equipment had been painfully high.

  Barbeau’s callous and cowardly inaction had shattered NATO. Abandoned by the larger Western powers, the Poles and their Eastern European neighbors had formed a new defense pact, the Alliance of Free Nations. Still aided by the Iron Wolf Squadron and Scion, the AFN had staved off Gryzlov’s repeated attacks—in the air, on the ground, and even in cyberspace—though always by the narrowest of margins.

  Then, last year, the biggest bill for Barbeau’s strategic blindness and short-term political expedience had finally come due. The Russian president attacked the United States itself with his own mercenaries—using war robots reverse-engineered from captured Iron Wolf equipment. For weeks, Gryzlov’s hired killers had spread death and destruction everywhere they went. They’d even tried to kill Barbeau’s November election opponent, Texas governor John D. Farrell, plotting to sow political chaos that would cripple America for years to come. Only a risky covert intervention by Nadia, Brad, and Whack Macomber, piloting their own Iron Wolf combat machines, had saved Farrell’s life. In a brutal battle across the Texan’s sprawling ranch, they’d destroyed Gryzlov’s robots . . . but at a horrific price . . . a price that included her own amputated legs.

  Watching Nadia closely, Brad saw the memory of that blood-soaked night rise in her mind. Probably for the millionth time, he thought sadly. The pain she still felt and might always feel was reflected in her taut, motionless face.

  Despite that, he knew that Poland’s leader was right. Good had come out of all that carnage and suffering. The American people, finally fed up with Barbeau’s blunders, had tossed her out of office in the 2020 presidential election—replacing her with John D. Farrell.

  And now Farrell, a man who viscerally understood the threat posed by Russia to the whole free world, was working hard to repair the damage inflicted by Barbeau’s shortsighted administration. Already, the United States had renewed its military, economic, and political ties with Poland and the other members of the Alliance of Free Nations. Despite protests from Moscow, American troops and aircraft were flowing into AFN bases. From now on, any further aggression by Gryzlov against the smaller Eastern European states would run the risk of sparking a war between two of the world’s great powers.

  “This arrival of U.S. forces on Polish soil opens many doors,” Wilk explained. “Among them, it allows us to make significant changes to the composition of the Iron Wolf Squadron.”

  Hearing that, Nadia looked surprised and slightly guilty. For months, she’d been focused almost entirely on her own efforts to regain her strength and endurance. Understandably, she just hadn’t had the time or energy to keep track of events in the larger world, even when they concerned old friends and comrades-in-arms. “What kind of changes?” she asked quietly.

  “The squadron is transitioning from being a mixed unit of Polish and foreign volunteers to becoming a predominantly Polish force,” Brad told her. “Sure, a few Scion advisers and technical experts will stay to help out with some of the high-tech weapons and sensors you’ve bought. But the rest of us expats aren’t really needed here any longer. Your own guys are more than ready to take over.”

  She looked stricken. “You’re leaving?”

  “I’ve been offered a slot with a new Sky Masters–Scion private space enterprise,” he said evenly. “Before Stacy Anne Barbeau, in her infinite lack of wisdom, mothballed the whole program, we were flying S-19 and S-29 single-stage-to-orbit spaceplanes—which are incredibly advanced spacecraft that revolutionized manned space operations. Well, President Farrell wants those birds back in operation and flying. And pronto.”

  Nadia swallowed hard. “Sky Masters has asked you to be among those who will fly these spaceplanes?”

  Brad nodded. “Yep.”

  “Gratulacje,” she said softly. “Congratulations. That is a wonderful opportunity. A . . . a once-in-a-lifetime chance. Of course, you must go. I . . . I . . . understand.” Tears glistened in her eyes. “But I will miss you.”

  “Not so fast, Nadia Rozek,” Brad said flatly. “I haven’t said I’d take the job yet.”

  Taken off guard, she stared back at him. “Why not?”

  He grinned down at her. “Because Sky Masters doesn’t want just me. They want you, too.”

  Her eyes widened. “They want me? To fly in space? To become an astronaut?”

  Brad nodded again. “If you take the gig, you’re slated for training as a spaceplane copilot and EVA specialist.”

  “EVA?”

&n
bsp; “Extravehicular activity,” he clarified. “A spacewalker.”

  “Walking in space?” Awkwardly, Nadia glanced down at her artificial legs. “Even with these?”

  “Your prosthetics won’t be a hindrance. Not in zero-G,” Brad assured her. “They might even be an advantage. I’ve read a bunch of reports by astronauts with a lot of EVA time. They say most of the work is done with hands and forearms, and that legs often just get in the way. One NASA astronaut, a guy named Doug Wheelock, actually described a spacewalk as less a ‘walk’ and more like a space ballet danced on your fingertips.”

  Nodding thoughtfully, she turned to Piotr Wilk. “What do you think, Mr. President?”

  “I hope you will consider this offer of an assignment with Sky Masters and Scion very seriously,” he replied. “For Poland and for the whole free world, space represents the future.” He studied her face. “Ultimately, though, considering the dangers involved, this must be your own decision, Major.”

  Nadia glanced back at Brad. “Dangers?”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said, with a lopsided grin. “I guess I should warn you that training for space operations will be tough . . . and dangerous as hell. Just for example, when you light the candle on an S-19 Midnight or an S-29 Shadow spaceplane, you’re riding on top of thousands of pounds of highly explosive fuel. If there’s even a tiny glitch, just one small malfunction . . .”

  “Bad things happen?” she guessed, with the faintest hint of a wry smile of her own.

  “Let’s just say you could easily end up right in the middle of the biggest fireworks show anyone on the ground is ever likely to see,” Brad agreed. “The man who developed the engines for the spaceplane, Hunter Noble, is nicknamed ‘Boomer’ for a reason.”

  “Good Lord,” Nadia breathed.

  “Then we can move on to explosive decompression, radiation hazards, micrometeorites, and a bunch of other perils. It’s sort of a long list.”