by Dale Brown
“Rossiya One-Zero-Zero, Pechora Approach,” another voice replied. “Turn right, heading one-two-five. Descend and maintain one thousand.”
She checked the flight indicator on her computer display and swung toward Brad. “There’s a Russian passenger jet, a Sukhoi Superjet, coming in. They’re going to land to the south. Which will take them right over our current position.”
He nodded. “That’s our guy.” He started the XCV-62’s engines and throttled up to full military power. “Let’s get this crate off the ground, pronto.”
The Ranger rolled out fast, bumping and rocking back across the clearing as it gained speed. Brad pulled off the ground at the first possible moment. Holding at less than two hundred feet, he throttled back again and banked into a long, slow turn, curving west over the Pechora River. In the sky off to the north, he could see the Russian airliner’s bright white anticollision strobes as it came around toward the airport.
“Pechora Tower, Rossiya One-Zero-Zero, eight kilometers out, requesting visual approach to runway one-six,” he heard the Russian pilot radio.
“Rossiya One-Zero-Zero, Pechora Tower, you are cleared to land,” the controller replied.
Nadia keyed her mic, speaking to Schofield. “Wolf Three, this is Wolf Six-Two. Action imminent. Stand by.” She leaned forward, bringing up a menu on one of her big multifunction displays. “Checking MALD Two. Programmed navigation course is set. All systems are green.”
“Copy that,” Brad said. He blinked away a droplet of sweat and throttled up just a tad, maintaining their airspeed as he tightened the turn. They were coming all the way back around to the east. The big Russian passenger jet appeared again, this time ahead of them, crossing from left to right as it descended toward the runway—flying low and slow with its landing gear down and locked.
Throttling back again, Brad swung onto a course that would intercept the Sukhoi Superjet. Their airspeed dropped to just a little over two hundred knots. “Range to target is three miles.” He steadied up, keeping the much bigger airliner centered in their cockpit windscreen. This was going to take some really careful timing . . . and a hell of a lot of luck. His eyes narrowed, judging Sukhoi’s rate of descent, and adjusting his own flight path to match. Down a little . . . up a little. He tweaked the Ranger’s stick a bit to the right and then back again. There. “Launch MALD!”
“Launching!” Nadia said. Her finger tapped a display.
Their last ADM-160B decoy dropped out of the Ranger’s internal bay. Its turbojet ignited. The MALD streaked straight toward the Russian passenger jet, arrowing ahead as its speed climbed toward six hundred knots.
Aboard the Sukhoi Superjet 100, Sergei Tarzarov tightened his seat belt, getting ready for what he knew from experience would be an unpleasantly rough landing. To avoid tipping anyone off about the secret work at Perun’s Aerie, Gryzlov had decided against reactivating the much bigger military airfield at Pechora Kamenka. That meant all air traffic had to funnel into this small civilian airport. Its runway was long enough to accommodate this jetliner, but only by the narrowest of margins. Which meant the pilot had to bring them down right at the threshold and then brake hard and fast.
He frowned, again pondering Gennadiy’s possible motives for sending him on the long flight to this dark and frozen wasteland. Retrieving a prisoner, even one so important, was a task better suited to a lower-ranking officer in the military or the security services. Was this some strange sign of the younger man’s trust in his chief of staff’s abilities? Or, perhaps more likely, was this a kind of rebuke for having doubted that the president’s convoluted plan to ambush an Iron Wolf attack force could ever work? As a means of putting Tarzarov on notice that Gryzlov now viewed him as only one more underling to dominate—rather than as someone whose advice he would occasionally heed?
Excited voices broke into Tarzarov’s increasingly gloomy thoughts. Several of the soldiers sent along to guard their Iron Wolf prisoner on the return trip to Moscow were eagerly peering out the windows, straining to see something in the surrounding darkness. His scowl deepened. Sending troops from the Kremlin Regiment was another misstep on the president’s part. They were parade-ground soldiers, not trained jailers. A handful of experienced FSB agents could have handled the task more efficiently . . . and certainly more discreetly.
Oh my God, he realized suddenly, Gryzlov must be planning a spectacle for public consumption. He would have television cameras waiting at Vnukovo when they returned—ready to broadcast images of crack uniformed Russian troops marching a bedraggled Iron Wolf “terrorist” off his own personal jetliner.
“Hey, what’s that?” he heard one of the young soldiers call out. “Some other plane?”
“If it is, it’s coming right at us!” another said nervously.
Startled, Tarzarov swung toward the nearest window . . . just as the decoy drone slammed into the side of the Sukhoi Superjet and ripped through the fuselage in an expanding ball of fire. Carbon-fiber composites shattered under the enormous impact—sending lethal fragments sleeting through the passenger cabin. Soldiers were torn out of their seats and sent flailing through the air. Sergei Tarzarov opened his mouth to scream, and then died . . . engulfed by a tidal wave of flame and shrapnel.
Streaming fire and smoke from the huge gash torn through its midsection, the Sukhoi Superjet rolled over and fell out of the sky. It smashed into the ground just short of the runway and blew up.
The Russian soldiers guarding Macomber had all turned to watch the big, twin-engine jetliner coming in for a landing. When it hit the ground and exploded, they stood frozen—staggered by the catastrophe. For a split second, the flash cast gigantic shadows of men and machines slanting down the runway. Ian Schofield felt the ground shake and rumble.
“Wolf team, this is Wolf Three. Execute. Repeat, execute,” he said quietly into his mic.
Sergeant Davis’s sniper rifle coughed quietly, echoed moments later by shots from Sikora and Knapp. Two of the Russians dropped like puppets with their strings cut. In a spray of blood, a third spun through a half circle and then folded over.
From farther down the tree line, Chris Walker fired one of his Spike-SR antitank missiles. The tiny missile streaked low across the runway and hit one of the BTR-82s right below its 30mm gun turret. The enemy troop carrier rocked back as the tandem-charge HEAT warhead ripped through its thin Kevlar-laminated armor and exploded inside. Flame ballooned out of every opening.
“Nailed him!” Walker whooped jubilantly over the circuit. He dumped the expended missile case and reached for another of the nine-kilogram, man-portable weapons.
Unfortunately, a gunner on one of the surviving BTRs was more alert than his comrades and had lightning-fast reflexes. The Russian spotted the small puff of smoke rising from Walker’s position, spun his turret around, and fired a quick burst that cut the Iron Wolf commando in half.
“Damn it,” Schofield muttered. Without those Israeli-made antitank missiles, they had nothing that could even scratch those two remaining Russian armored vehicles. Their gunners could stand off at leisure and pound this patch of woods into kindling.
“I’m on it,” he heard Karol Sikora yell. With more guts than sense, the Polish Special Forces soldier broke cover, sprinting toward Walker’s mangled body. One of the BTR turrets whined around, traversing fast toward him.
Suddenly the XCV-62 Ranger streaked low overhead, roaring down the length of the runway. Flares rippled into the air in its wake, streaming in all directions. Still burning, they bounced off the concrete and pattered down around the Russian vehicles.
Apparently believing that they were being strafed, the BTR gunners spun their turrets away—frantically tracking what they perceived as the more immediate threat. Tracer rounds streamered toward the black, batwinged aircraft as it rolled back to make another pass.
Beside Schofield, Sergeant Davis fired again, killing a fourth enemy foot soldier who had been pounding on the outside of one of the BTRs, trying to attract the attentio
n of its crew. And then the armored car exploded. Hit broadside by another Spike missile, the gutted wreck sat motionless, wrapped in oily black smoke and sputtering flames.
Panicked, the driver of the last surviving Russian troop carrier popped his six 81mm smoke-grenade launchers. Gray clouds blossomed in the air, hiding the BTR from view as it reversed away at high speed—hightailing it for cover behind one of the distant airport buildings.
“That’s our cue, Sergeant,” Schofield snapped, leaping to his feet. He headed straight into the smoke with his Polish-made Radon assault rifle up and ready to fire. Davis scooped up his own carbine and plunged after him.
Moving fast across the runway, the two Iron Wolf commandos raced toward the spot where they’d last seen Macomber and his captors. They entered an eerie, half-lit world. The fires consuming the two destroyed Russian BTRs flickered redly amid a thickening haze of black-and-gray smoke.
Schofield saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He spun to the side and threw himself prone. An assault rifle stuttered; 5.45mm rounds whipcracked over his head. He shot back at the flashes and heard a Russian screaming in agony. Davis fired a second three-round burst and the screaming stopped.
Breathing hard, the Canadian captain scrambled back to his feet. They moved on, deeper into the drifting smoke. Contorted corpses littered the concrete, sprawled in pools of blood.
“I found the major!” Davis shouted, dropping to one knee beside a man lying curled up on the ground. It was Macomber. The Iron Wolf sergeant laid his carbine down and pulled out a combat knife to cut the flexicuffs binding the big American’s wrists.
Just then, more flashes sparkled in the smoke, accompanied by the crackling sound of rifle fire. Hit twice, once in the shoulder and once in the chest, Davis groaned loudly and collapsed next to Macomber.
Furious, Schofield returned fire, killing the Russian soldier who’d played dead long enough to bushwhack his sergeant. Then he turned and hurried over to Davis and Macomber. Both men were alive, though it was clear that Davis was badly wounded.
He took the sergeant’s knife and slashed through Macomber’s bindings. Then he rolled the big man over. “Can you move, Whack?” he asked urgently. “Because I need your help with the sergeant here.”
“Hell, yeah,” the American muttered groggily. “I can’t see for shit. But I can move okay.” He forced open a blood-caked eyelid and offered Schofield a painful grin. “Guess I can’t court-martial you guys for coming back for me, can I?”
“It might be considered bad form,” the Canadian agreed. Taking hold of Macomber’s hand, he hauled the bigger man upright.
Then, dragging Davis between them, they staggered back through the smoke and out onto the runway—in time to see the Ranger touch down. The Iron Wolf transport rolled toward them, braking hard. Mike Knapp and Karol Sikora burst out of the forest on the other side, already loping toward the batwinged aircraft as its rear ramp whined down.
THIRTY-NINE
THE KREMLIN, MOSCOW
A SHORT TIME LATER
Slowly, Gryzlov put the secure phone down. He sat in uncharacteristic silence for several moments, digesting the incredible news Colonel Balakin had just relayed. Around the conference room table, the most senior members of his national security team sat frozen, plainly afraid of how he would react to this catastrophe. He had summoned them to this late-night meeting to share his triumph, the culmination of months of careful planning and intense effort. Now, instead, they were here at the very moment when the taste of victory turned to ashes in his mouth.
In the bad old days, those who served a Russian strongman like Ivan the Terrible or Stalin knew they could be exiled, imprisoned, or executed on a whim—savaged by a tyrant lashing out in the face of humiliation and failure. Not much was different under the rule of Gennadiy Gryzlov. Punishments meted out to those who fell out of favor might carry a veneer of legality, but they were no less arbitrary.
For now, Gryzlov ignored their fear. There would be time enough later to savor his power over Sokolov, Kazyanov, Titeneva, and the others—power that had, if anything, just become even more absolute. While he regretted Sergei Tarzarov’s death, there was no denying that the older man’s connections and carefully cultivated ties to Russia’s business, military, and intelligence elites had checked Gryzlov’s authority and ambitions. Tarzarov’s gray, shadowy presence inside the Kremlin had acted as a constant reminder of older days and other leaders. Wittingly or unwittingly, he had sometimes served as a rallying point for those who feared their president’s aggressive behavior.
But now the old man was gone. And most conveniently for Gryzlov, he’d been killed by Russia’s foreign enemies, rather than simply losing an internal Kremlin power struggle. For good or ill, Gennadiy Gryzlov alone held the stage.
Which left the question of what to do about this most recent foul-up by Russia’s military, he thought coldly. Losing the Iron Wolf prisoner taken at so high a cost in men, matériel, and machines was bad. Watching the survivors of this mercenary assault force escape to safety would be infinitely worse.
Moodily, Gryzlov tapped the surface of his tablet computer, transferring its detailed map of Russia and its surroundings to the conference room’s huge flat-screen monitor. Green symbols dotted the digital map, indicating the reported positions of friendly radar units, SAM regiments, fighter patrols, and AWACS aircraft. A slowly expanding red circle centered on Pechora showed the area within which the fleeing Iron Wolf stealth aircraft might be found. It was an extrapolation only, based on very limited observations of its maximum speed made by the two Su-50 pilots before they’d muffed their intercept.
He swung to face Colonel General Valentin Maksimov. The old man’s square-jawed face was almost as pale as his short-cropped shock of white hair. The commander of Russia’s Aerospace Forces looked every year of his nearly seven decades . . . and more. With Tarzarov gone, Maksimov probably sensed that his neck was on the chopping block. Angrily, Gryzlov stabbed a finger at the monitor. “Is that an accurate depiction of our current air-defense deployments and posture, General?”
Maksimov nodded heavily. “Yes, Mr. President.” He lifted his massive shoulders and then let them fall in resignation. “By your orders, my headquarters situation plots are being fed to your personal computer in real time.”
“That is unfortunate,” Gryzlov said with undisguised contempt. “I had hoped you and your staff had simply screwed up on a minor technical question—rather than making so many obvious tactical and operational blunders.”
Maksimov looked stunned. “I . . . I don’t understand what you mean, Mr. President. Our forces are correctly positioned to—”
Gryzlov cut him off with a single, angry gesture. “Spare me your pathetic excuses, Maksimov!” he snapped. “You persist in making the same mistakes over and over again. Perhaps that is why your forces have had their asses handed to them so many times by the Americans! And now by these Iron Wolf mercenaries!” He waved a dismissive hand at the situation plot. “Look at it!” he demanded, glaring coldly around the table. “Do any of you see the error Maksimov and his clowns are making?”
Carefully blank faces met his gaze. No one spoke. When their president was in this kind of mood, there were no right answers.
Gryzlov smiled inwardly. Now more than ever, he suspected that his cabinet ministers regretted Sergei Tarzarov’s death. Secure in his own position, the Kremlin chief of staff had never hesitated to intercede for his colleagues in the face of the president’s rage. Now these sheep had no protector to shield them from the darker impulses of their demanding master.
“No one?” he asked, with deceptive mildness. His eyes glittered. “Perhaps I should not be surprised. You are all disposed to inaction and idleness—even when the situation demands boldness and daring.”
Unable to sit still any longer, Gryzlov rocketed up out of his chair and stormed closer to the large display. Dismissively, he swiped his hand across the radar, fighter, and SAM regiment icons shown cluster
ed along Russia’s borders. “Passive, wasteful, and, ultimately, futile barrier defenses!” he said scathingly. He sneered in Maksimov’s direction. “You deploy your forces with all the skill of a child, General . . . and with a child’s dependence on luck and wishful thinking. ‘Perhaps our enemies will stumble into the kill radius of a SAM battery?’ you imagine. Or, ‘maybe one of my fighter patrols will somehow spot them before they sneak past?’ you hope.”
For a moment, watching Maksimov’s face stiffen, he thought the old man would either fall dead of a stroke or finally fight back. But instead, the Aerospace Forces commander regained control over himself and simply asked, “Then what are your orders, Mr. President?”
So his old academy instructor was only another coward like all the rest, Gryzlov thought with some disappointment. There seemed to be no limit to how far he could push these gutless place-seekers. Mentally, he shrugged. If so, putting the next phase of his long-dreamed-of-plans into action would be that much easier.
Confidently, he began rattling off new movement and engagement orders for Russia’s air and missile forces. This time, there would be no easy escape for that fleeing Iron Wolf stealth aircraft.
WOLF SIX-TWO, OVER RUSSIA
SOMETIME LATER
Practically hugging the treetops, the XCV-62 banked right, turning to head northwest over a barren, almost completely uninhabited countryside of forests and frozen swamps—one virtually untouched by recorded human history. Occasional lights in the distance signaled the presence of small villages or logging camps, but otherwise everything was dark. Pechora and its burning, wreck-strewn airport lay far to the east.
“How are things in back?” Brad McLanahan asked Nadia, forcing the words out through clenched teeth. Every muscle ached. His flight suit was drenched in sweat. His vision seemed to have collapsed inward until all he could focus on was the green, softly glowing landscape visible through his HUD. The strain of flying this low and this fast for so long was draining his mental and physical reserves.
