by Dale Brown
The little dog at Tarzarov’s feet chose that moment to begin whimpering and whining, either bored from doing nothing while the humans talked and talked . . . or frightened by something in the tone of their voices. Or perhaps spooked by some movement neither of the two men noticed.
“Tikho! Quiet!” the older man snapped at the dog. Then he looked up at Truznyev. “But I could say the same to you, Igor,” he said coldly. “This private espionage of yours comes dangerously close to treason. I warned you earlier about prying into state secrets that were no longer your province. It appears you did not take me seriously enough. I will not warn you again.”
The old man is bluffing, Truznyev thought. He must be. “I am no traitor,” he retorted. “If I were, I’d have sold what I know to the Americans. Or to the Chinese, for that matter.” He shook his head in disgust. “Nor am I the madman whose vendetta against the Poles now threatens our vital national interests.”
Angrily, Tarzarov glared back at him. “So now I suppose you expect me to pay you—either for your silence, or for the details of how you learned so much that was top secret?”
Absorbed in their fierce argument, both men again failed to spot the small birdlike shape circling overhead, picking up and retransmitting their conversation.
THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.
SEVERAL HOURS LATER
National Security Adviser Edward Rauch sat slumped in his chair while the president skimmed through his preliminary report on the Kalmar Airlines crash and the apparent attempt to kill Piotr Wilk. He felt drained. The first news from Poland hit the Internet around the dinner hour, East Coast time. And those early, confused reports had triggered a frantic scramble by the interagency working group he’d taken over from Luke Cohen. Analysts from the CIA, NSA, the Pentagon, the State Department, and Cyber Command had worked through the night, assembling and evaluating every scrap of reliable information.
President Stacy Anne Barbeau closed the folder with a decisive gesture. She looked across her desk at Rauch. “How sure of this are you?”
For a second, he thought about running through the usual litany of caveats and cautions appropriate to any intelligence assessment, but then he saw the look in the president’s eyes. She was definitely operating in “no bureaucratic BS” mode. He sat up straighter. “As close to certain as I can get, Madam President.”
“Hell,” Barbeau muttered. She tapped the folder with one finger. “You really believe the Russians somehow hacked the airliner, killed everyone aboard, and then deliberately crashed it outside Warsaw—just so they could take a shot at Wilk?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Rauch said. He shook his head. “I know it sounds crazy, but it’s the only scenario that comes close to fitting the known facts.”
“Yeah, well, crazy seems to be what Gennadiy Gryzlov does best.” Barbeau pursed her lips. “Do the folks at Cyber Command have any idea of how the Russians could have pulled this off?”
“Not yet,” he admitted. “They’re subjecting the computer and flight-control systems Kalmar Airlines uses to intensive analysis, checking for vulnerabilities and possible back doors—but that’s going to take more time.”
“So we can’t prove any of this?” Barbeau asked.
“Probably not to the standards of any criminal court of law,” Rauch said carefully. “But the circumstantial evidence is so strong that we could certainly make a solid case for diplomatic purposes. If we took this to the UN or to the NATO Council, we’d pick up a lot of support.”
For a moment, he thought the president would go for it. She leaned back in her chair with her eyes closed. She was obviously deep in thought—probably running through possible scenarios of how going to the UN or NATO might play out, both domestically and overseas. But then she shook her head. “And what would that get us, Ed? All we’d end up doing is pissing off the Russians for no real purpose. That game’s not worth the candle.”
“But, Madam President—”
“No buts, Ed,” Barbeau said flatly. “There’s no goddamned point in openly accusing Moscow of mass murder and attempted assassination. It would just make us look weak. You don’t make those kinds of claims unless you’re ready to go to the mat over them. And since we are most definitely not going to support the Poles or go to war for them, it would be really stupid to ratchet up tensions with Russia, wouldn’t it?”
Rauch nodded, though unwillingly. Privately, he suspected she was more concerned about appearing foolish in front of American voters than she was about seeming weak abroad. From the moment she’d been sworn into office, Stacy Anne Barbeau had argued that the United States should focus more attention and resources on its own interests here at home. Her political rhetoric and most of her defense and foreign policy revolved around a determination to avoid being dragged into conflicts overseas. Standing up now to accuse Gennadiy Gryzlov of being responsible for crashing the Kalmar Airlines flight and trying to kill another national leader would require conceding that her long-held beliefs and policies were either inadequate or mistaken. Admitting error was not a course she could easily embrace.
“So we do nothing?” he asked, trying hard not to reveal his dismay. If the Russians committed an atrocity like this and got away scot-free, where would it end? Looking the other way might work in the short term, but it could lead to a catastrophe if Moscow kept pushing the envelope—taking bigger and bigger risks in the belief the United States would stay passive in the face of any provocation.
“That is not what I said,” Barbeau told him. “I said we weren’t going to commit ourselves openly, that’s all.”
Seeing the confusion on his face, she sighed. “Look, Ed, it’s pretty clear that Gryzlov is nuts, right?”
He cleared his throat. “His behavior is certainly erratic, amazingly arrogant, and belligerent, Madam President. Whether it rises to the level of actual madness is beyond my ability to judge.”
Barbeau raised an eyebrow.
“Okay, yes. He’s nuts,” Rauch agreed. “Or as close to it as makes no real difference.”
“Exactly,” the president said in satisfaction. “Which is why we’re not going to do anything overt—at least not right now. Opposing a lunatic like Gryzlov without the means of finishing him off would be like poking a tiger in the eye with a padded stick. All you do is make the tiger mad. Understand?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Rauch agreed quickly, still not entirely sure what she was driving at.
“So when we’re done here, I’m going to put in a call to Sara Murchison over at the Hoover Building,” Barbeau said, with a thin smile. “You with me so far?”
Rauch nodded. Murchison was a former federal prosecutor and the current director of the FBI.
“And I’m going to tell her to call off all the agents she’s got riding herd on Sky Masters and the other companies affiliated with that asshole Martindale,” Barbeau finished.
“You’re lifting the restrictions on arms sales to Poland?” Rauch asked, not quite sure what she meant.
The president looked disgusted. “Oh, hell, no, Ed. The restrictions stay. At least on paper. That way the Russians can’t bitch about us supporting Poland or any of the other AFN countries.” She looked smug. “From our perspective, it’ll be the best of both worlds.”
Now he saw what she intended. While it would still be technically illegal for anyone to sell weapons or arms technology to the Poles and their allies, without active enforcement those restrictions were a dead letter. If Sky Masters or some other corporation wanted to deal with Wilk, they could . . . though at the risk of exposing themselves to serious legal jeopardy if the Barbeau administration reversed course again later. In effect, Piotr Wilk and his American mercenaries could buy the arms they needed, but only if they were willing to pay wildly inflated prices.
Rauch kept a tight rein on his own expression. He understood why this convoluted course of Machiavellian inaction appealed to Barbeau. It let her poke a finger in Gryzlov’s eye, though in a totally deniable way. And, at the same t
ime, it still inflicted significant financial pain on the Poles, Martindale, and the others she despised and distrusted.
But from a real-world perspective, the president’s proposal was too cute by half. Whatever Gennadiy Gryzlov planned to get out of this cyberwar of his, the Russian leader sure as hell wasn’t playing for small stakes. He certainly wasn’t going to be deterred by subtle hints and unserious threats left hanging unsaid. Every day the United States sat on the sidelines was another day this crisis would only intensify.
For the first time since being named as Stacy Anne Barbeau’s national security adviser, Ed Rauch began seriously considering the need to update his résumé.
TWENTY-FIVE
SECURE RECOVERY WARD, MILITARY INSTITUTE OF MEDICINE, WARSAW
THE NEXT DAY
Supported by Nadia Rozek’s strong right arm, Brad McLanahan limped out of the large passenger elevator. The doors slid shut behind them. His nose wrinkled at the faint antiseptic smells wafting out of the ventilation system and from behind closed doors. Hospitals made him twitchy. He always associated them with bad news, especially news involving the deaths of friends and loved ones.
A squad of Polish Special Forces soldiers in body armor guarded the corridor leading to President Wilk’s private room. A stern-faced captain stepped in front of them. “Your identification cards, please,” he demanded.
Silently, Nadia and Brad handed their IDs to him. The captain scrutinized them carefully, painstakingly double-checking their faces against their official pictures. Then he handed the cards back and examined a typed list given to him by an equally grim-looking noncom. “Headquarters has approved your visit, Major Rozek and Captain McLanahan,” he said, sounding somewhat disappointed.
“I am glad to hear it, Captain,” Nadia said coldly. “Since I happen to know the president himself asked us here this morning. And the last time I looked, he outranked even Brigadier General Pawlik.”
Brad winced. Baiting pissed-off guys armed to the teeth with American-made M4A1 assault rifles and German-manufactured MP5 submachine guns might not be the best option right now. The near success of Gryzlov’s assassination attempt had humiliated the men and women of Poland’s elite armed forces units and law enforcement agencies. And like most security professionals caught with egg dripping off their faces, they were reacting both with hyperaggressiveness and a strict attention to protocol.
Fortunately, the other man ignored her sarcasm. Instead he handed them each a large yellow badge marked visitor. “Wear these at all times while you are in this wing of the hospital,” he warned. “My troops are under strict orders in this regard.”
“They’ll arrest anyone without a badge?” Brad guessed.
“Arrest? No,” the Special Forces officer said. His eyes were cold. “Anyone found without the proper clearance will be shot without further warning.”
Brad whistled silently. The Poles were taking the definition of tight security to a whole new level. He carefully clipped the visitor badge to his Iron Wolf uniform jacket.
When they pushed open the door into Wilk’s room, they found the Polish president propped up comfortably in a hospital bed, reading through memos and e-mails on his laptop. Kevin Martindale stood nearby, doing the same on his smartphone.
Wilk looked up with a tired smile. “There you two are!” He waved a hand around the hospital room. “Welcome to my prison cell.”
“It is for your own good, sir,” Nadia said severely. “Your injuries may not be life-threatening. But that does not mean it is wise to bound around as though nothing had happened.”
The Polish president started to shrug and then stopped with a stifled gasp. His smile turned crooked. “So it seems, Major Rozek,” he admitted. “But it could have been much worse. If poor Dariusz hadn’t stepped in front of the bullet meant for me, the doctors tell me I would probably be dead.”
Brad and the others nodded. Penetrating Major Stepniak’s armor and body had slowed the sniper round just enough for Wilk’s own vest to absorb the impact—though at the cost of several broken ribs.
“Which is why we need to talk,” Martindale said. He slid his phone away. “Gryzlov just upped the ante big-time. If it hadn’t been for Whack Macomber and Major Rozek and Brad over there, we’d all be dead, not just you, Piotr.”
Wilk nodded. “Undoubtedly. Which is why I plan to award our three friends the Order of the Military Cross.”
Brad was startled. The Military Cross was one of Poland’s highest military decorations, usually conferred only for distinguished service, courage, and sacrifice in actions against terrorism. Earning that kind of medal had been the subject of a lot of his childhood daydreams. Having a father who had been one of the U.S. Air Force’s most highly decorated officers could do that to you, he thought wryly. For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine what it would be like wearing that crown-surmounted cross with its blue-and-red ribbon. And how proud it would have made his dad. But then he shook his head, dismissing the fantasy.
“Whack and Nadia definitely deserve any medal you choose to award, Mr. President,” he said quietly. “But I think you should leave me out of it.”
Surprised, Nadia turned toward him. “What? How can you say that, Brad? Your courage is beyond question!”
“It’s not that,” Brad told her. “Well, not entirely, anyway.” He shrugged his shoulders. And then, like Wilk earlier, he grimaced as the pain from his injuries flared up.
The other man noticed. “You too?” he asked.
Brad offered him a forced grin. “I’m only bruised as hell, sir. Nothing’s broken. I’m popping painkillers every few hours, but otherwise I’m fine.” He knew the dark patches under his eyes and the sadness he couldn’t entirely conceal said otherwise, but Wilk seemed willing to let it go at that.
Instead, the Polish president contented himself with nodding toward a chair. “Nevertheless, I suggest you take a seat, Captain McLanahan. Before you collapse, I mean,” he said. “And then you can explain why I should not reward your gallant service to my country.”
Nadia pulled the chair over closer and helped Brad sit down. He flushed slightly, embarrassed at showing so much weakness. “It’s not that I don’t care about the medal, Mr. President,” he said. “I do. In fact, I’m deeply honored by the offer.”
“But?” Wilk prompted gently.
“Publicly awarding the Military Cross to a McLanahan would cause a firestorm in Russia,” he explained. “We already know Gryzlov’s got a bug up his ass about my dad . . . well, about my whole family, really. I think things are bad enough right now without setting off his crazy revenge complex all over again.”
Martindale sighed. “God knows, that’s true enough.”
Wilk shook his head. “Nevertheless, I am disinclined to offer a heckler’s veto to the bloodthirsty butcher who has murdered so many innocents and caused my country so much grief.” He held up a hand, forestalling further argument. “We can discuss that later. For now, we need to decide how we will respond to this most recent Russian atrocity.”
“We must strike back, sir,” Nadia said sharply. Her tone was fierce. “And the sooner the better.”
Brad nodded his agreement. “Turtling up isn’t working. Not when Gryzlov keeps escalating. If we sit around waiting for his next move, we’re only going to wind up hurting worse than we are now.” He tried to sit up straighter, working hard to ignore the stab of pain triggered by the sudden movement. “Stuff my dad proposed—like hitting the Kremlin with a CID-led strike force—is way too risky and extreme, but he was right that we’ve got to bloody Gryzlov’s nose. It’s the only way we’re going to make that Russian bastard think twice about pushing this war to the next level.”
“I concur,” Martindale chimed in. “Which leaves the problem of picking the right target. Blowing the snot out of some random Russian military base with a CID raid might be satisfying, but it won’t move the needle much.”
“Or at all,” Brad said quietly. “I bet Gryzlov sees even his own tr
oops and weapons as just pieces on a chessboard. To his way of thinking, he can trade pawn for pawn all day long without breaking a sweat. Or better yet sacrifice a pawn or two for a shot at our king,” he said, looking at Wilk. “Like he did a couple of days ago. Those Spetsnaz guys had an escape plan, but I doubt Gryzlov shed any real tears after we killed them.”
Wilk nodded, looking troubled.
“Plus, a limited attack on an easy target might only give the Russians the excuse they want to escalate beyond cyber attacks and terrorism into all-out war,” Martindale said grimly. “A war we are not ready for and cannot win.”
“Pinprick raids won’t do the job,” Brad added. “If we go into Russia, we have to hit something that’s key to Gryzlov’s plans or power base. The only way we might be able to make him back off is to smash an installation or a military capability that’s seriously important to him. And to the Kremlin insiders who keep him in power.”
Wilk nodded again. “Very true.” He rubbed at his jaw in thought. “I know you have all heard the recording of the most recent meeting between those two snakes in human form, Igor Truznyev and Sergei Tarzarov. Unwittingly, their argument provides us with the information we need to select a target.” He looked around the room. “I propose we strike at this mysterious cyberwar installation the Russians call Perun’s Aerie. As the place where Gryzlov has concealed his computer hackers and their equipment, it is our logical point of attack.”
The Polish president went on, ticking off his points one by one. “Wrecking this Russian cyberwar facility will accomplish three objectives. First, it will diminish Gryzlov’s ability to wage his war of machines and malicious code. Second, it will show him that we can find anything he hides. And third, it will prove there is nothing he defends that we cannot destroy.”
