by Dale Brown
There was another long silence.
Twenty-five seconds. Twenty-four seconds. Twenty-three seconds.
“Our calculations show that any hydrogen flare or explosion now should inflict only minimal damage,” Enescu said at last.
Seventeen seconds. Sixteen seconds.
“How sure of that are you?”
Fourteen seconds. Thirteen seconds.
“Only somewhat sure,” the other man admitted.
Eleven seconds. Ten.
“Works for me,” Brad said simply. He aimed upward, zeroing in on a bare patch of concrete on the containment roof. Then he squeezed the trigger. The autocannon bucked.
WHUUUMMMMP!
A bright orange flash overloaded his vision screens. They went black. In that same instant, a shock wave slammed into the CID. Servos howling, Brad stumbled backward into the air lock.
His displays flickered back online and he breathed out in relief. Both the roof and the intricate, interwoven assembly of pipes and machinery around the reactor appeared intact.
Seven seconds to suit failure. Six seconds.
Reacting fast, Brad dropped the autocannon, grabbed the heavy air-lock door, and hauled it shut. Then he frantically spun the handwheel clockwise. One after another, the door’s locking mechanisms clicked into place—sealing out the lethal radiation and heat still emanating from the crippled reactor core.
Catastrophic suit failure averted, the robot’s computer said coolly.
Wearily, Brad closed his eyes, ignoring the ever-lengthening recitation of the computer’s list of damaged or destroyed components. Slowly and very deliberately, he slid down the side of the air lock. “Never again,” he murmured. “I am never doing anything that crazy again.”
“How much do you want to bet on that?” he heard Charlie Turlock say cheerfully over his headset. “Because you’re a McLanahan, remember, and I’ve got my eye on a brand-new sports car that’s way above my current pay grade.”
OUTSIDE CERNAVODĂ NUCLEAR POWER STATION
THAT SAME TIME
Several hundred people milled around the edges of a kilometer-deep “emergency exclusion zone” hastily proclaimed around the damaged reactor. Policemen and some soldiers in riot gear were stationed to keep the onlookers—a mix of news crews and the morbidly curious—from getting any closer. Bright lights and logo-emblazoned vehicles marked the presence of television reporters jabbering away excitedly in half a dozen different languages, urgently relaying a mix of pure speculation, ill-informed guesswork, and wildly inaccurate information to audiences around the globe.
No one paid much attention to the small, three-man team working inside the back of a panel van parked near the outer fringes of the growing crowd. According to their licenses and ID cards, they were employees of EuroSlav News, a tiny, independent news agency whose business was selling content over the Internet and to small local papers across Eastern and central Europe. Behind the façade, however, EuroSlav News was a GRU front used both as a cover for intelligence gathering and as a means of disseminating covert pro-Russian propaganda to unsuspecting audiences.
One of the GRU agents, Captain Konstantin Rusanov, sat hunched over a bank of electronics equipment. Tasked with monitoring radio and computer signals from the plant, the short, dark-haired man was intensely focused. His mouth turned down suddenly as a new flood of signals reached his earphones and displays. He turned toward their team leader. “The Romanians and the Iron Wolf team have successfully prevented a containment breach,” he said glumly, unable to hide his disappointment.
Major Leonid Usenko shrugged and stubbed out his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray. “That is unfortunate,” he agreed. “But that reactor is still badly damaged, isn’t it?”
Rusanov nodded. “Beyond repair, in all likelihood.” He glanced at the third man, rail thin and balding, sitting next to him, busy watching over his own array of equipment. “Do you concur, Mikheyev?”
“I do,” Captain Artem Mikheyev confirmed. He was a “special technical officer” assigned specifically for this mission. He smiled happily. “Best of all, the voice and video transmissions I’ve recorded should provide Moscow with much useful new data. Now that we’ve seen one in action, further technical analysis should teach us much about the strengths and weaknesses of these supposedly invincible Iron Wolf fighting machines.”
FOUR
IRON WOLF SQUADRON HEADQUARTERS, 33RD AIR BASE, NEAR POWIDZ, POLAND
A FEW DAYS LATER
Flanked by two AH-1Z Viper gunships, a Polish-made W-3 Sokół VIP helicopter came in low over the snow-dusted woods surrounding the base at Powidz. Rotors beating, it flared in for a landing right outside a large hangar. Even before its engines finished spooling down, the left-hand copilot’s door slid back and Polish president Piotr Wilk dropped lightly onto the tarmac.
Moving fast, he crossed to the Iron Wolf hangar and headed straight for the conference room at its far end. Middling tall, trim, and not yet fifty, Wilk still carried himself like the veteran fighter pilot and charismatic air-force commander he had been before entering politics. There were many moments when he regretted leaving the military life he’d loved—of no longer being allowed to scramble into a MiG-29 Fulcrum or an F-16 Fighting Falcon and go head-to-head against his country’s enemies. But those were also the moments when he reminded himself that true service to Poland and the cause of freedom required sacrifice.
In his case, that meant choosing the darker fields of statecraft, strategy, and diplomacy over the swift, exhilarating dance of air-to-air combat. And like so many Polish leaders before him, he faced the unenviable challenge of confronting Russia and its seemingly limitless imperial ambitions. Of defying an ancient enemy whose military and economic strength dwarfed that of his beleaguered nation.
But this time, Wilk reminded himself, Poland had allies. Not many, perhaps. Certainly not as the world conventionally reckoned numbers. But these were friends beyond price—friends who had already shown themselves willing to fight and die for a cause they considered just.
And these new allies had powers of their own, technologies, tactics, and weapons far beyond those used by other armed forces.
Kevin Martindale stepped forward, greeting him with a firm handshake. Once president of the United States, the gray-haired, gray-bearded American now ran Scion, a private military corporation. Last year, Scion’s specialist commandos, pilots, and intelligence operatives served as the cadre for a new unit, the Iron Wolf Squadron. Using every advantage conferred by their high-tech aircraft, drones, and CID fighting machines, the squadron had helped Poland’s outmatched soldiers fight Russia to a draw—though only by the narrowest of margins and at a high cost in dead and wounded.
Wilk also knew that many of those who survived were paying yet another price for aiding Poland. Caught backstabbing her own NATO ally because she was afraid of the Russians, America’s president, Stacy Anne Barbeau, had retaliated by seeking federal indictments against anyone who worked for Scion or who had fought in the Iron Wolf Squadron. She accused them of undermining U.S. national security interests and violating laws that prohibited enlisting in a foreign army. Legally, her claims were on shaky ground. In practical terms, however, Martindale and many of his fellow countrymen were effectively exiled from their own native land.
He could only imagine the pain that must bring.
“It’s good to see you again, Piotr,” Martindale said quietly. “I wish it were in better circumstances.”
Wilk nodded. “As do I.”
With the NATO alliance fractured beyond repair, thanks to Barbeau’s malice and folly, he and Martindale had been working for months to build a coalition of the smaller countries from the Baltic to the Black Sea. So far, their efforts had met with more success than they had first dared to hope.
Their new Alliance of Free Nations, the AFN, now included Poland, all three of the small Baltic states, Slovakia, Hungary, Romania, and even tiny Moldova. And the Czech Republic, though still formally outsi
de the treaty, had expressed serious interest in joining its Eastern and central European neighbors. Even the Finns, although reluctant to openly risk angering the Russian bear prowling around their doorstep, were secretly willing to coordinate defense planning and other operations.
Backed by the hard-earned reputation of its Iron Wolf “auxiliaries,” Poland was still the chief military power in this fledging defense pact. Nevertheless, the Scion weapons and advisers doled out to other frontline states had measurably improved their fighting forces. Compared to the Russians, the AFN nations were still horribly outgunned—in population, economic clout, raw troop strength, and access to high-tech military hardware. But now at least they had enough power and political coherence to deter anything but an all-out Russian offensive.
Or so Wilk and his fellow national leaders had hoped. “Nie chwal przed zachodem,” he muttered. “Don’t praise the day until sunset.”
Martindale grimaced. “Too true.”
Over the older American’s shoulder, Wilk saw a lean young woman in the dress uniform of a major in the Polish Special Forces coming in on the arm of a tall, broad-shouldered blond-haired man wearing the Iron Wolf Squadron’s dark, rifle-green jacket. They looked intensely happy, though somewhat tired.
A fleeting smile crossed the Polish president’s face. “Major Rozek and Captain McLanahan!” he said, moving toward them. “I am very sorry I had to cut your leave short.” His eyes twinkled. “But brief though it was, I hope you found your time together . . . restful?”
To his inner delight, both Nadia Rozek and Brad McLanahan actually blushed. After the brash young American nearly got himself killed at Cernavodă, Nadia had practically threatened mutiny unless Wilk allowed her to rush to his side. Supposedly, they’d gone skiing at one of the resorts in the High Tatras. Privately, he had his doubts they had ever made it farther than a hotel room bed, let alone strapped on any skis.
They saluted.
“Uh, yes, sir,” Brad stammered out. “We had a great trip. It was . . . er . . . very relaxing.”
Hiding a grin, Wilk returned their salutes. The younger McLanahan really was a terrible liar. Major Rozek was wiser. She said nothing, though a scarcely veiled warning in her blue-gray eyes suggested to Wilk that he might be skating on very thin ice, president of the Third Polish Republic or not.
He found Martindale at his elbow. “We’re all here, Piotr,” the other man said, guiding him toward a chair at a large oval table.
Wilk turned and saw that Wayne Macomber had come in behind him, accompanied by the huge Cybernetic Infantry Device piloted by Patrick McLanahan. Never one for formalities, Macomber sketched a salute and moved to his own chair. Without speaking, the robot simply stalked over to the other side of the room and silently swiveled to face the table.
That bothered him. The older McLanahan had withdrawn more and more from routine human contact over the last few months, seemingly content to communicate more by e-mail or text—and then only about questions of military strategy or weapons technology. He hoped that was simply an effect of the enormous pressure they were all under in trying to get the Alliance of Free Nations up and running before it was too late. If the other man’s increasingly distant behavior was a symptom of something more serious—
With an effort, Wilk pushed his worries about Patrick McLanahan to the side. While the English poet John Donne had rightly proclaimed that no man was an island, the former U.S. Air Force general was still just one man among millions. And at this moment, they faced bigger and more immediate problems.
He nodded almost imperceptibly to Martindale, signaling him to begin.
“Before we move to a detailed discussion of the current crisis, I think it’s best to lay out the bigger picture,” the head of Scion said smoothly. “While President Barbeau remains unalterably opposed to our new alliance, there have been signs that other—”
“With all due respect, sir,” Whack Macomber said, leaning forward with a shit-eating grin. “Maybe you should save the canned spiel for the politicians back in Warsaw and just tell us flat out how badly we’re screwed.”
Martindale closed his eyes in exasperation. “Are you trying to piss me off, Major?”
“Trying?” Macomber said innocently. “No, sir.” He winked at Brad, who was clearly fighting a losing battle with a grin of his own. “I just thought we could save some time is all. Since we’re all clearly doomed, that is.”
Wilk couldn’t help it. He laughed out loud. Even now, even after more than a year in their company, it still astonished him to realize how impudent some of these Americans could be in the face of power. It was both alarming and refreshing, the characteristic of a people who could just be foolish enough to tease God, but who might also be bold enough to kick the Devil in the balls.
“Fine,” Martindale said wryly. “I’ll be brief.” He thought for a moment and then went on. “Okay, we all know that Stacy Anne Barbeau hates our guts.”
“Especially yours,” Macomber pointed out.
“Especially mine,” Martindale agreed. “Even when I was president of the United States, we never saw eye to eye on the big national-security-policy debates. Or even on the little ones, for that matter. But right now she thinks I’m out here raising hell with the Russians for two reasons. First, so I can line my own pockets with profits from Scion military contracts. And second, to screw her politically by causing trouble overseas, when she wants to focus on her own domestic agenda.”
“Which says much more about her own sordid inclinations than it does about you,” Wilk said.
“Sure.” Martindale shrugged. “But in this case, what matters are her actions, not her motivations.” He frowned. “Basically, as far as Barbeau is concerned, the Alliance of Free Nations is, and I quote, ‘a reckless bunch of third-rate countries with delusions of grandeur.’”
“Remind me to not to send flowers for her birthday this year,” Wilk murmured dryly to Nadia Rozek.
“The good news is that Congress is still bucking her demands for broader economic and trade sanctions on the AFN and Poland,” Martindale said. “A few congressmen think she was right to let NATO break up rather than get dragged into a war with Russia. Most believe that was an act of diplomatic cowardice and strategic idiocy. But all of them are furious that she crossed the line and actually helped the Russians against us at the end—especially without even consulting the congressional leadership.”
“And the bad news?” Wilk prompted.
“She’s tightening her executive orders to restrict trade with Poland and the other AFN countries. We’ll challenge those in federal court, but it’ll take months even to get a case heard . . . and presidents have a lot of wiggle room when it comes to restricting the sale of arms on national security grounds. For all practical purposes, it’s now impossible for us to buy U.S.-manufactured military-grade equipment or technology, especially from Scion-affiliated companies like Sky Masters. At least directly and legally.”
“What about indirectly?” Wilk asked.
“We have a few routes still open to us,” Martindale said. “Some of the countries still in NATO aren’t tagging along with Barbeau’s trade restrictions. My sources in Paris, Rome, and London all tell me their arms industries will keep selling weapons and ammunition to the AFN—so long as our purchases are ‘reasonably discreet.’”
“The Brits, French, and Italians make some decent gear,” Macomber said. Then he shook his head. “But even their top-of-the-line equipment isn’t up to par with what we were getting from Sky Masters. That ain’t going to cut it.”
Wilk knew the American Iron Wolf ground commander was right. Confronted by superior Russian numbers, Poland and its allies needed every technological edge they could muster if they were to survive another conflict.
Martindale nodded. “Indeed.” He shot them a look. “On the other hand, we can use those friendly states as conduits to smuggle in material from Sky Masters and other suppliers in the States.”
“At a higher price,”
Wilk said sourly. “Both in money and time.”
“Necessity is a harsh and expensive mistress,” Martindale agreed.
“Well, we shall do what we must,” Wilk said. He shook his head. “My cabinet ministers and parliament will not be happy to see even more money funneled into defense at the expense of other priorities, but they know the stakes.”
Brad sat forward. “What about the other allies? Can any of them chip in more money or credits?”
“I doubt it,” Martindale said. “Hungary, the Baltics, and the rest are pretty strapped for cash. As it is, the rearmament programs they’ve agreed to at our urging are already straining their economies. If we’re very lucky, they may be able to honor their existing commitments. Asking them to pony up more resources isn’t in the cards.”
“Unfortunately, I am afraid that we are already unlucky,” Wilk said flatly. “I spoke to Romania’s president Dumitru this morning. He informed me, with deep regret, that his country can no longer afford to meet even its current alliance defense obligations.”
“Because of what happened at Cernavodă?” Brad asked, frowning.
Wilk nodded gloomily. “The Unit Two reactor there cannot be salvaged. It will take months of emergency cooling and containment before the Romanians can even begin to dismantle it—all at an enormous cost. Dumitru tells me the first estimates are in the billions of dollars.” He spread his hands. “His government also feels compelled by pressure from its own people and from the rest of Europe to shut down the other Cernavodă reactor.”
“How the hell are the Romanians going to replace twenty percent of their electrical generating capacity?” Macomber asked.
“They can’t,” Martindale cut in coolly. “Not on their own. They don’t have enough spare oil- or coal-fired plants or hydroelectric dams to make up the loss. Which means the Romanian economy is going to take a huge hit—with factories shuttered due to loss of power, and rolling blackouts in the towns and cities.”
