Price of Duty

by Dale Brown

  One hundred meters. Kasperek was coming level with the airliner’s cockpit. He shed a little more speed, trying to match that of the 777. Sweating now under his oxygen mask and helmet, he tweaked the stick a tiny bit to the right. Eighty meters. Sixty meters. He leveled out again, now just fifty meters off the bigger jet’s nose. The cockpit windows were dark. Darker, he thought, than they should be. Up this close, he should be able to see the glow from instrument panels and displays. But there was nothing.

  He tried repeatedly flashing his navigation lights, hoping to draw some response. This close, his F-16 must be visible to anyone in the cockpit or anywhere on the huge aircraft’s port side. He craned his head around, watching closely for any sign of movement in the windows.

  Nothing.

  The 777 flew straight on, deeper into Polish territory, and gradually losing altitude.

  “Center, this is Tiger Lead,” Kasperek said into his mic. “No joy on contact. I see no signs of life aboard Flight Eight-Five-One.” He thought for a moment. What else could he try? “Recommend I make a close pass across the aircraft’s nose to try to shake them awake—assuming anyone aboard is still alive.”

  For several more seconds, there was silence. Then Madejski said, “Very well, Tiger Lead. Your recommendation is approved.”

  Kasperek broke away from the larger jet, separating to a safe distance. Then he pulled back on the stick, throttling up at the same time. His F-16 climbed fast, soaring well above the 777. He craned his head around to the right, keeping his eyes on the big jetliner. With one gloved hand, he set his countermeasures system so that it would dispense flares only.

  His eyes narrowed as he focused all of his mental energy on lightning-fast estimates of angles and relative velocities.

  Now.

  Pawel Kasperek yanked the F-16 to the right and dove—slashing down out of the night sky just ahead of the big passenger jet. White-hot magnesium flares spun away behind his fighter, briefly turning the night as bright as day. Tumbling through the air in his wake, they formed a rippling curtain of fire directly across the path of the oncoming airliner.

  The 777 lumbered on as though nothing had happened.

  Kalmar Airlines Flight 851 was now just 120 kilometers from Warsaw.

  NORTHERN AIR OPERATIONS CENTER

  THAT SAME TIME

  Captain Jerzy Konarski manned one of the consoles in the crowded Combat Operations Center. The radio transmissions from the two F-16s crackled through his headset, but more as background noise than anything else. Colonel Kasperek and his wingman were engaged in a local intercept. His own responsibilities tonight were broader, more operational than tactical.

  Konarski’s job was monitoring the readiness status of the MiG-29 and F-16 fighter squadrons deployed to three of Poland’s most important air bases—Malbork, Minsk Mazowiecki, and Łask. To aid him in this task, he had secure computer and phone links to each squadron and base.

  His console LCD showed a map of Poland. Graphic tags attached to each base showed the number of aircraft on alert, a number that had doubled in the past several minutes due to the orders he’d relayed. Counting the fighters already on combat air patrol over Warsaw, nearly a quarter of Poland’s most modern interceptors were now manned and ready to take off at five minutes’ notice. He tapped a key, sending this information to the main map display.

  Konarski sat back in his seat, free for a bit to pay more attention to the aerial drama taking place about one hundred kilometers north-northeast of the underground operations center.

  “The 777 has altered course very slightly,” he heard one of the F-16 pilots say. “Its new heading is two-zero-four degrees. The aircraft is still descending at four hundred meters per minute. We’ll be in the cloud layer very soon.”

  That was odd, Konarski thought. Since departing from its filed flight plan, Flight 851 had only changed its heading once. Why would it do so again now? Curious, he leaned forward again. His fingers danced across his keyboard, opening a program that would project the jetliner’s currently plotted track out into the future. A red line appeared on his map display. It slanted south-southwest straight through the heart of Warsaw.

  Suddenly dry-mouthed, he entered the 777’s observed rate of descent. The red line abruptly shortened. It ended in a blinking red cross tagged Altitude 0. Hastily, the young Polish Air Force officer toggled the controls of his display, zooming in on the projected impact site.

  Konarski felt the blood drain from his face.

  Flight 851 was currently on course to crash into Warsaw’s Presidential Palace. If nothing changed, the huge wide-body jet was going to slam with enormous explosive force directly into the building where President Wilk and the other top leaders of the Alliance of Free Nations were gathered. His computer displayed one more horrifying result of its calculations: Estimated Time to Impact—7 minutes, 25 seconds.

  With shaking hands, Konarski scooped up the red emergency alert phone. “I need to speak to Major General Madejski. Now!”

  PRESIDENTIAL PALACE, WARSAW

  THAT SAME TIME

  President Piotr Wilk fought hard to maintain his composure. The trouble with most politicians, he thought, was that they instinctively loved the sound of their own voices. No matter how urgent the crisis, or how serious the situation, too many of his peers seemed to believe the same rhetorical skills that had carried them to political victory could be applied to questions of military strategy and tactics. It was as though they believed Winston Churchill’s magnificent speeches played a bigger role in the defeat of Nazi Germany than did the RAF, the 8th Air Force, and George S. Patton’s 3rd Army.

  So far they’d spent hours wrangling over how to respond to Russia’s escalating cyberwar offensive. While most members of the alliance agreed they needed to do something, there was no consensus on what that something might be. No one, not even Wilk, believed Gryzlov’s armed forces could be defeated in any open conventional war. Even with support from Scion and the Iron Wolf Squadron, the best they could hope to achieve was a costly stalemate. Nor did pursuing a diplomatic path, whether through the United Nations or some other international forum, look any more promising. Without more evidence of direct Russian responsibility, no other major power wanted to risk getting pulled into a clash between Moscow and its smaller neighbors to the west.

  In fact, Wilk thought bitterly, if Martindale’s sources inside the U.S. intelligence community were right, President Barbeau had already decided to stand aside—no matter what happened in Europe. Her only interest now seemed to lie in strengthening America’s own cyberwar capabilities. He was sure Barbeau would come to regret this shortsighted, isolationist policy, but by then it might be too late for Poland and her beleaguered allies.

  Grimacing inwardly, he forced himself to set aside his impatience and pessimism. If nothing else, no one had yet proposed yielding to Moscow’s thinly disguised ultimatums. Already the member states of Alliance of Free Nations had shown more resolve than Gennadiy Gryzlov could have anticipated when he launched his secret war. Refusing to surrender might not amount to much, but every passing day bought more time to strengthen their cyberwar defenses.

  So far, they’d stopped one intended Russian attack. Polish and Scion CERT teams had found several pieces of suspicious malware in water treatment plants around the AFN—neutralizing them before they could dump dangerous levels of chemicals into the water supply. But while that was a victory, it was a victory they had to keep secret. No one wanted to encourage any more panic by revealing how close Moscow had come to contaminating the drinking-water supplies for millions.

  Kevin Martindale, of course ever suspicious, had another theory. “I think we were meant to discover those cyberweapons,” the American had said quietly. “It’s another means of upping the pressure on us without causing so many civilian casualties that the U.S. or other NATO powers feel compelled to intervene. Gryzlov wants us to know that he could make things worse if we don’t fold soon—much worse.”

  That was poss
ible, Wilk thought, though it seemed excessively Machiavellian even by Gennadiy Gryzlov’s standards. What was certain was that standing entirely on the defensive was a recipe for eventual defeat. No matter how many cyber attacks their improved defenses parried, the Russians were bound to find weaknesses they could exploit. In a one-sided war of this kind, the attacker held all the cards.

  Some of the other AFN leaders knew this too.

  “There must be a way we can hit back at the Russians,” Sven Kalda, the prime minister of Estonia, said heatedly. “If not openly, then covertly—using cyberweapons of our own.” He stared pointedly at Martindale. “I have heard your arguments urging caution in the past. And I understand them. But there comes a time when inaction is more dangerous than action. We have all contributed significant resources to hire Scion’s military and technical experts. Well, I think it is high time Mr. Martindale and his people began earning their keep.”

  Martindale stirred in his seat. He frowned. “With respect, Mr. Prime Minister,” he began. “I want to fight back just as much as anyone else in this room, but—”

  Suddenly the huge doors at the far end of the Blue Hall burst open—smashed inward by a large, human-shaped robot. Striding on deceptively spindly-looking legs, the gray-and-black Cybernetic Infantry Device strode fast toward the conference table. A second Iron Wolf fighting machine followed the first.

  For a moment, there was only stunned, absolute silence.

  Wilk jumped to his feet. Down the corridor behind the two CIDs, he could see two of Major Stepniak’s BOR agents staggering groggily back to their feet. They must have tried to stop the Iron Wolf robots from breaking in. His jaw tightened. This interruption was a direct violation of his orders.

  “You must evacuate this building, Mr. President!” the eerie, synthesized voice of the first war robot said. “Now!”

  “CID One is right, sir,” the second machine, the one piloted by Charlie Turlock, said quickly. “We’ve been monitoring a fast-developing situation. It’s urgent that we get you all out ASAP.”

  Around the Blue Hall, a clamor of voices rose, as prime ministers, defense chiefs, and other leaders protested this sudden, unauthorized, and seemingly senseless intrusion into their summit. They got to their feet, each talking louder and louder in a futile bid to be heard amid the turmoil.

  Wilk’s phone buzzed sharply, signaling an incoming Priority One call from Major General Madejski at the Air Operations Center. He answered it curtly. “Yes? What’s the situation, Czesław?”

  His face lengthened as Madejski rapidly summarized the emergency. “How long do we have?” Wilk demanded.

  “The hijacked plane is now only four minutes out,” the deputy air defense commander told him.

  “Very well. Patch me through to Colonel Kasperek,” Wilk ordered. He lowered the phone for a moment, filled his lungs, and then roared. “Quiet! Everyone shut up!” Into the sudden shocked silence, he said, “Our metal friends are right. We must evacuate. Immediately.” Turning to Major Stepniak, he snapped, “Contact the troops outside. I want armored personnel carriers at all the palace exits at once. Cram as many people inside them as you can!”

  Slowly at first and then faster, the worried-looking AFN leaders began filing out through the shattered doors, shepherded by the two enormous CIDs. Wilk moved with them, surrounded by Stepniak and his other BOR bodyguards. The younger McLanahan, Nadia Rozek, Martindale, and Whack Macomber were right behind him.

  His phone buzzed again. “Colonel Kasperek here,” Wilk heard the young air-force officer say, through a buzz of static and the roar from his F-16’s engine.

  “Listen to me carefully, Pawel,” Wilk said, making an effort to speak with precision and care while he hurried toward the nearest exit, moving in a sea of increasingly frightened politicians and senior aides. The word that they were in imminent peril was spreading fast through the crowd. “I order you to shoot that aircraft down. Immediately.” For a second there was nothing but static-filled silence. “Do you understand your orders, Colonel?” Wilk asked sharply.

  “Sir, if that 777 has been hijacked, there may be more than a hundred innocent people aboard, all of them citizens of other nations,” Kasperek protested. “And even if they are already dead, we’re over Warsaw’s outer suburbs. Shooting it down now may cost dozens of lives on the ground.”

  “I’m well aware of the risks, Pawel,” Wilk said grimly, cutting the F-16 pilot short. “I take full responsibility for this decision. Now carry out your orders. Destroy Flight 851 now! Before it is too late!”

  OVER THE OUTSKIRTS OF WARSAW

  THAT SAME TIME

  Sick at heart, Colonel Pawel Kasperek rolled his F-16 Viper in behind the Kalmar Airlines 777, at least according to the radar steering cues fed to his HUD. They were descending through a thick layer of cloud, so right now the sky outside his cockpit was nothing but a dark, roiling blur.

  He held the toggle switch on the right side of his stick, selecting his AIM-9X Sidewinder heat-seeking missiles. That wide-body jet two kilometers ahead in this swirling, blinding sea of water vapor was so big that one missile hit might not be enough to bring it down in time. In his headphones, he heard the warbling tone that indicated the first missile he’d selected was locked on target.

  His F-16 broke out of the clouds and into clear air. The red beacon on top of the 777 was still rotating, flashing rhythmically in the darkness. Beyond the big passenger jet, Kasperek could see the glowing lights of Warsaw looming ahead.

  He swallowed hard, knowing he might be about to kill more than a hundred innocents. What if they were all wrong about what was happening aboard that airliner? What if the pilots or others aboard were just trying desperately to land safely somewhere? Reluctantly, his gloved finger hovered over the weapons release button. “Zdrowas Mario, laskis pelna Pan z Toba . . .” he murmured, repeating the words he’d learned by heart as a child. “Hail Mary, full of Grace, the Lord is with thee . . .”

  But then, before Kasperek could fire, the huge jetliner suddenly dove—plunging toward the darkened ground now less than two thousand meters below. “Co u diabła . . . what in hell . . . ?” He mashed the mic button: “Control . . . Mr. President, that airliner appears to be in a steep dive!”

  “Good work, Pawel,” Wilk radioed. “It was for the best, believe me. We had no other choice.”

  “But, sir, I did not fire on it!” Kasperek shouted into his oxygen mask, his eyes bulging in horror. “I did not launch! The airliner suddenly started a dive!”

  “Is there any sign that it is trying to recover?” Wilk radioed breathlessly after a short pause. “Is it out of control? Is it damaged?”

  “I see no smoke or fire!” Kasperek responded. “I see no—”

  Still moving at high speed, the 777 plowed nose first into a patch of farmland and smashed on through a thin belt of woodland—shedding engines, wings, and torn pieces of fuselage as it cartwheeled across the earth in a searing cloud of flame.

  “Oh my God,” Kasperek said softly, appalled by what he’d just witnessed. He banked into a hard, rolling turn, fighting against the high g-forces he was pulling in order to get a clearer view of the crash site.

  The mangled wreckage of Kalmar Airlines Flight 851 had come to rest in what looked like a shallow, industrial pond not far from several large commercial buildings. Fires fed by burning jet fuel danced across the impact-torn ground and among the torn and splintered trees. More flames, smoke, and steam boiled away from the crumpled fuselage lying half buried in water and mud.

  Colonel Pawel Kasperek was sure of one thing. No one could possibly have survived that crash.

  TWENTY-TWO

  KALMAR AIRLINES FLIGHT 851 CRASH SITE, NEAR RADZYMIN, POLAND

  A SHORT TIME LATER

  Brad McLanahan sat tight while Piotr Wilk’s W-3 Sokól VIP helicopter orbited low over the crash site and then leveled out, coming in to land not far from the tangled, still-burning wreckage of the doomed airliner. Flashing red, blue, and white lights l
it the darkness in all directions. Fire trucks, police cars, and other emergency vehicles were parked almost at random across the surrounding fields. More were arriving along every road. Crews in protective suits were spraying fire-retardant foam across the wreckage. Searing heat waves rippled across the scarred fields. Jet fuel burned at nearly eighteen hundred degrees Fahrenheit.

  Where the fires were out, dozens of other first responders moved cautiously across fields strewn with gruesome debris—looking for any signs of life or clues that could shed light on this disaster. Bright camera lights showed that television news crews were busy broadcasting breathless reports to a horrified world.

  For a split second, looking down from the air, Brad was reminded of the time he and a childhood friend had lobbed a firecracker onto a large anthill. When the wisp of smoke drifted away, they’d watched hundreds of ants silently milling about in apparent confusion. In an eerie way, this bustling, frenetic scene looked much the same.

  Their helicopter touched down.

  Led by Major Dariusz Stepniak, four BOR agents slid the side doors back and jumped down. Cradling Radon MSBS-5.56B short-barreled assault carbines, they fanned out to cover Piotr Wilk as he climbed out of the helicopter. Instantly, all the chaos and noise from outside rushed in—the sounds of roaring flames, static-laden radio transmissions, shouted orders and questions, and wailing sirens. And just as suddenly the whole scene came back into focus for Brad. This was all real.

  Nothing in his days as a Civil Air Patrol cadet had prepared him for the scope of this disaster. As gruesome as it had been, finding the wreckage of a small private plane could not compare to seeing the slaughterhouse left by the crash of a huge commercial jet carrying nearly two hundred passengers.

  Brad, Nadia, Macomber, and Martindale followed the Polish president as he and his bodyguards hurried across to a temporary command center set up near one of the fire trucks. Several men and women were gathered around a pair of folding tables and chairs, manning laptop computers or issuing orders via cell phone and walkie-talkie. One of them, a burly man in a heavy winter coat, greeted Wilk with a nod. “Mr. President, my name is Mariusz Brodski. I’m the senior investigator on scene for PKBWL.”