by Dale Brown
PKBWL was the Polish acronym for its government aircraft-accident investigative agency—the equivalent of America’s National Transportation Safety Board.
“I assume the news is bad,” Wilk said grimly.
“Yes, it is,” Brodski agreed. “We have not found any survivors from Flight Eight-Five-One.” He indicated the burning wreckage scattered over several hundred meters. “Nor will we, I fear. The impact was too violent. It would require a miracle for any passenger or member of the crew to live through such an accident.”
Wilk nodded. “From Colonel Kasperek’s reports, I expected as much.” He braced himself, obviously expecting more bad tidings. “How many casualties were there on the ground?”
“None, by great good fortune,” Brodski reported, almost in disbelief. He pointed north, where twinkling lights marked a small town. “If that 777 had crashed even a few seconds earlier, it would have torn right through the center of Radzymin, killing and injuring hundreds of our people.”
Brad whistled under his breath. “So there’s the miracle for tonight.” He saw Nadia and the others nodding in agreement.
“It appears so, Captain McLanahan,” Wilk said. He turned back to Brodski. “Have your teams found the jet’s black boxes yet?”
The larger man shook his head. “Not as yet. Once all the fires are out, my investigators will begin probing what remains of its fuselage. We will also drag the pond.” He grimaced. “I have reviewed the radar data. It tells us very little. We will need whatever information remains intact on the flight recorders to have any serious hope of learning how this accident occurred.”
Brad and the others nodded their understanding. The 777’s black boxes, if they were still intact, could provide them with everything from cockpit voice recordings to instrument readings. Without that kind of data, it was highly unlikely they would ever definitively zero in on what went wrong aboard the Kalmar Airlines flight. Given how long it had flown without apparent difficulty, engine problems could be largely ruled out—as could avionics trouble. Unfortunately, that left a wide range of other possibilities, many of which would be virtually undetectable in the midst of so much impact and fire damage.
“I will make sure you have every resource you need,” Wilk told Brodski. His expression was bitter. “One thing is clear to me. This terrible incident was no accident. It was very carefully arranged.”
“By the Russians,” Martindale said flatly.
“Yes,” Wilk agreed. He shrugged. “Only a fool would assume random chance, considering how precisely this airliner was targeted on our summit.”
Brad thought about that. The Polish leader’s suspicions made sense. No decent human being would turn a passenger jet into a weapon. Unfortunately, Gennadiy Gryzlov had never shown the slightest ounce of human decency. But then why had the hijacked airliner crashed short of its intended target? For that matter, where would Russia’s leader find men or women willing to kill themselves on his behalf? More Chechens? Maybe a thorough probe of Flight 851’s passenger and crew manifest would turn something up.
Major Stepniak moved closer to Wilk. The BOR commander looked worried. “I understand your need to see this crash site for yourself, sir,” he said. “But we should go. And go now.”
Wilk raised an eyebrow. “Why is that, Dariusz?” He gestured to the burning wreckage. “Whatever further evil Gryzlov intended is moot at this point.” He patted the bulky body armor the major had insisted he don in the helicopter on the way out. “Besides, I’m wearing this contraption, aren’t I?”
“The situation here is too uncontrolled,” Stepniak said stubbornly. “Which makes it too dangerous. Anyone could be here in the middle of so much chaos. And with just four men, I cannot possibly establish an effective security perimeter.”
To his surprise, Brad found himself silently agreeing with the major. There was something weird about this, he thought. If the Russians had somehow electronically hijacked the Kalmar Airlines flight, there was no good reason for it to have crashed so suddenly—still more than twelve miles from its intended target. What was it that his father had said once, during some long-ago hike or camping trip? Oh yeah. “Sure, the enemy may screw up from time to time, but that’s never the safe way to bet,” he muttered. “The thoughts of Chairman McLanahan.”
Nadia was the only one who heard him. She nodded tightly, appearing as worried as Stepniak. Then she looked around, focusing her attention first on the crash site itself and then on the surrounding fields, woods, and buildings. From the cold, determined expression on her face, Brad guessed she was suddenly evaluating the scene as a potential battlefield.
“I think Major Stepniak’s caution is justified,” she told Wilk, still scanning their surroundings. “You should return to Warsaw, Mr. President.”
The major nodded gratefully to her. He moved even closer to Wilk. “Please, sir, come back to the heli—”
Abruptly, Stepniak was thrown forward in a spray of blood and shattered bone—hurled against Piotr Wilk by the impact of a high-caliber bullet directly between his shoulder blades. Both men went down in a heap.
Crack!
In rapid succession, more shots rang out. Hit squarely by sniper rounds, two more BOR agents toppled, already dead or dying.
For a split second, Brad stood frozen, shocked into immobility. Then Nadia knocked him off his feet. She dropped flat beside him, hugging the frozen ground. “Shit,” she snarled, in English. “This is an ambush, not an accident.”
Macomber and Martindale were prone not far away. Caught completely by surprise, Brodski and the other accident investigators stood rooted in horror. The last surviving BOR agents scrambled toward Wilk and Stepniak. They knelt beside the downed men. One of them swung round. “The president is still alive!” he snapped. “We need to pull him out of here.”
A blinding flash outlined one of the ground-floor windows in a solidly built brick-and-cement building about two hundred meters away.
“Down!” Nadia yelled. She buried her face in the earth. So did Brad.
A rocket-propelled grenade streaked out of the darkness and slammed into Wilk’s Sokoł helicopter. It exploded, torn apart in a huge ball of orange-and-red flame. Twisted pieces of rotor and torn fuselage flew outward from the center of the blast. One large, razor-sharp chunk of shrapnel decapitated a kneeling BOR agent. Smaller fragments ripped right through the other bodyguard’s chest and torso. He flopped backward, bleeding out in seconds from several horrific wounds.
“Jesus,” Brad muttered, taking it all in. Stepniak and his men were dead. Most of the Polish accident investigators were down too—either killed or wounded when the helicopter blew up. All across the crash site, policemen and emergency crews scattered, bolting for cover as high-caliber rifle rounds smashed windshields and thwacked into bodies. Terrified screams rose above the crackle of flames and wail of sirens.
“We can’t stay here!” Nadia said through gritted teeth. “This is a kill zone! We have to find cover.”
Macomber nodded. “I’m on it!” The big American leaped to his feet and raced toward the nearest vehicle, a midsize red Volvo fire engine. Despite his size, he moved like the wind, dodging from side to side to throw off the aim of any sniper trying to nail him. Without slowing down, he threw himself up and into the driver’s seat.
Another bullet blew out the Volvo’s rear cab windows, spraying pieces of safety glass in all directions. Macomber threw the fire engine into gear. The red truck lurched forward, rolling between them and the enemy-occupied buildings.
More bullets smashed into the moving vehicle. Some hit the water tank. Other rounds ricocheted off the engine block, tumbling away trailing sparks.
Satisfied that he’d blocked the line of fire, Whack dropped out of the Volvo’s bullet-riddled cab and sped back toward Brad and the others. He threw himself flat as a second RPG round blew the front of the fire engine into a blazing wreck. Smoke billowed skyward, thickening as the flames fed on diesel fuel and lubricating oil.
&nbs
p; “That is their first mistake,” Nadia said. She bared her teeth in a cold, deadly smile. “May it not be their last.”
Brad nodded. Between the flames and the smoke pouring off the wrecked vehicle, the shooters out there were going to find it difficult to spot them using either night-vision gear or thermal sights.
Staying low, he and Nadia quickly worked their way over to Martindale and Macomber. The two older men were kneeling beside Piotr Wilk. Whack glanced at them. “He’s unconscious, but breathing. There’s no blood. His armor must have deflected the bullet after it punched through Stepniak.”
Brad breathed out, hugely relieved. Everyone knew that the gutsy Polish president was the linchpin of the whole Alliance of Free Nations. If he were killed, the coalition would likely fragment under continued Russian pressure. And without its allies, there was no way Poland or the Iron Wolf Squadron could hold off an all-out ground or air offensive launched by Moscow. Bowing to Russia’s demands would have been the only realistic option. Which was undoubtedly that bastard Gryzlov’s plan, he realized. He felt sick. Somehow Gryzlov had orchestrated the cold-blooded murder of well over a hundred people aboard that doomed 777—all as part of a complex scheme to lure Wilk out into the open where assassins could nail him.
“Drag the president into better cover,” Nadia ordered. She nodded toward the cluster of police cars and other emergency vehicles scattered across the farm fields behind them. Bodies littered the frozen soil around them, but the vehicles provided more places to go to ground while waiting for rescue. “Then contact Major General Domanski. Make sure he understands the situation and has his reaction force on the move.”
Macomber nodded. Domanski was the Polish Land Forces commander responsible for security around the Presidential Palace. He’d organized a battalion-size task force of tanks, mechanized infantry in armored personnel carriers, and helicopters as a backup for the other troops deployed on guard duty. It would take time to get Domanski’s troops out here, but the sooner they were alerted, the better. “Okay, that makes sense,” he said. “But what are you planning to do in the meantime?”
She reached across one of the dead BOR agents and picked up his Polish-made assault carbine. “I am going hunting, Major Macomber.”
Brad grabbed a second weapon. “Me too,” he said firmly.
Whack frowned. “Well, hell,” he muttered. “I can’t let you have all the fun, Major Rozek.” His eyes narrowed. “Brad, you’d best go with Mr. Martindale instead. Help him get Wilk to safety.”
Nadia shook her head. “Saving the president is our top priority. His life is not expendable. Until Domanski’s troops arrive, he needs the best protection available. And that means you,” she told Macomber.
Whack scowled. “Are you saying that you two are expendable?”
“Not if I can help it, Major,” Nadia said with a wry smile. “But while I am willing to risk my life to capture or kill these assassins, I am not willing to risk that of my nation’s leader.” She reached out and put a hand on Brad’s shoulder. “We will do what must be done.”
More shots rang out above the wail of sirens and the moans of the wounded. Using vehicles as cover, some of the police were firing back at the nearby buildings. Unfortunately, their service-issue pistols and shotguns were no match in range, accuracy, or firepower for the weapons being used by the enemy. Snipers were picking off the outgunned police one by one.
“Much as I admire all this ‘after you, Alphonse. No, after you, Gaston’ one-upmanship, we’d better start moving,” Martindale said shakily. For once, the former president looked his age and more. He wasn’t used to finding himself on the sharp end of combat situations.
Reluctantly, Macomber nodded. He looked at Brad. “If you get yourself killed, just make sure it wasn’t because you did something stupid, okay? Because God only knows how I’d explain that to your dad.”
Brad lowered his head, trying to hide the sorrow he felt. In his heart, he suspected his father now saw him—and all the other humans around him—more as tools or weapons to be employed in a struggle against Gennadiy Gryzlov and his regime. Did the man trapped inside the machine even remember that he had a son?
NEAR THE PRESIDENTIAL PALACE, WARSAW
THAT SAME TIME
Riding inside the cockpit of Wolf Two, Charlie Turlock frowned, listening to the confused radio chatter streaming across local police and fire frequencies. While her CID’s computer provided a running, simultaneous translation to English, it couldn’t untangle fragmentary and often contradictory reports. Every circuit was jammed with voices yelling about exploding helicopters, frantic calls for medical help, and reports that shots were being fired.
She scanned her displays. Nothing bad was happening in her immediate area. Before he left for the Flight 851 crash site, Whack Macomber had ordered her to escort one of the convoys of armored personnel carriers evacuating AFN leaders from the palace. Right now those Polish troop carriers were unloading their high-ranking passengers outside the postmodern University of Warsaw Library building, about five hundred meters east of the palace. Heavily armed soldiers and police were on hand to guide the assorted prime ministers, cabinet officials, and aides inside.
With a twitch of a finger, Charlie ordered her CID to switch to the channel she used to communicate with Brad McLanahan. “Wolf Two to Wolf External, report your status.”
There was no reply. Nothing but the hiss and crackle of static.
That wasn’t really surprising, she told herself. The Kalmar Airlines plane had gone down almost twenty kilometers from her current location. Half of Warsaw lay between them, so Brad’s small tactical radio probably couldn’t pick up her signal through all the interference.
Nevertheless, she was getting really worried. Confusing as they were, the emergency transmissions she was hearing suggested something really bad was going down at that crash site. She opened another channel, this one a direct link to Major General Milosz Domanski. “Wolf Two to Watchman Six Actual.”
Domanski replied at once. “Watchman Six Actual. Go ahead, Wolf Two.”
“Submit I redeploy immediately to the Eight-Five-One crash site,” Charlie suggested.
“Negative,” Domanski said flatly. “Without weapons, your intervention might be futile. Besides, my troops are already assembling. I will have transport helicopters en route to the scene in fifteen minutes.”
Charlie thought about protesting his order. Domanski was one of the best young commanders in Poland’s ground forces—bold, highly intelligent, and a daring leader. But no one except those trained to fight them could really appreciate what a Cybernetic Infantry Device could do, even without normal weapons. She resisted the temptation. The Polish military officer had a lot on his plate right now. The last thing he needed was a protracted debate with a foreign subordinate.
“Very well, Watchman,” she said. “CID One and I will continue our current escort assignments.”
Patrick McLanahan’s CID was guard-dogging another convoy—this one heading farther south to the solidly built Fryderyk Chopin University of Music. Since she was supposed to be keeping an eye on Brad’s increasingly erratic father, Charlie hadn’t been too happy about that. In the situation, though, the separation had made tactical sense. Their CIDs’ sophisticated sensor arrays could give the Polish soldiers guarding each column of evacuees extra warning of any attack—just in case Gryzlov had anything else up his sleeve besides trying to slam a passenger jet into the Presidential Palace.
She frowned. It looked increasingly like they were right to worry about what more the ruthless Russian leader was up to. Unfortunately, it also seemed that they’d seriously misjudged his real plan.
Domanski’s irritated voice broke into her thoughts. “I concur, Two. But perhaps you should pass my order to your comrade! He has abandoned his post!”
“Excuse me?” Charlie said in surprise.
“Police units guarding the Śląsko-Dąbrowski Bridge are reporting that a ‘devil machine’ just broke through th
eir cordon. It is racing west across the bridge at high speed,” the Polish general snapped. “Where exactly is that robot of yours going, Wolf Two?”
Swearing under her breath, Charlie zoomed in on her tactical display. The blip representing Patrick McLanahan’s CID was right where it should be, guarding a major road junction near the music school—more than a kilometer south of the bridge Domanski was talking about. For a split second, she relaxed. But then her eyes narrowed. Why wasn’t that blip moving? The general’s robot should be prowling the whole area around the evacuation center, sweeping every possible avenue of attack with its sensors.
Even as Charlie watched, the blip faded and disappeared. “Oh, you clever boy,” she murmured unwillingly. Somehow, Patrick must have managed to hack into her system, substituting a sensor “ghost” in place of the genuine position data his computer was supposed to be feeding to her through their secure link. And now the link was down, cut off on his end.
“CID One, this is Wolf Two,” she radioed. “What the hell are you up to?”
Nothing.
Oh, shit, Charlie thought. The general must have been monitoring the same frantic radio signals from the crash site. And he’d decided to intervene—orders or no orders. She switched back to Domanski’s frequency. “Watchman, this is Wolf Two. CID One is acting on his own initiative. His actions are totally unauthorized.”
While speaking, she turned and started running toward the bridge—dodging oncoming trams, buses, and cars with unnatural grace. Soldiers, policemen, and civilian gawkers lining the street stared in openmouthed amazement as her Iron Wolf robot sprinted past them at high speed.
