by Dale Brown
Milosz Czarny’s MiG-29 died the same way seconds later.
Against an ordinary opponent in a stand-up fight, the evasive tactics adopted by Kaczor and his wingman might have worked—or at least bought him enough time to retaliate. Unfortunately for the Poles, this was not a stand-up fight. This was a brutal and thoroughly effective ambush.
Alerted by Zelin’s Su-34s, the Russian Su-35s had swung wide to the north and then turned back southwest, darting just above trees, buildings, and power lines to come up undetected behind the Polish fighters. Once in position, they climbed fast, acquired the Poles on their radar, and fired six Mach 4+ R-77E radar-guided missiles, known to NATO as AA-12 Adders, at each Fulcrum.
The two Polish pilots never had a chance.
THE KREMLIN, MOSCOW
A SHORT TIME LATER
President Gennadiy Gryzlov paid close attention to the young Spetsnaz captain’s radioed report. The large-scale map displayed on the conference room monitor made it easy to follow the quick reaction force’s movements. After laser-guided bombs wiped out the gunmen who had ambushed them, Aristov and his troops had advanced southwest, pushing across open cropland toward a small village close to the Polish customs inspection plaza. All local farm tracks led in that direction, which strongly suggested it was the path taken by the surviving terrorists.
Scratch that suggested, Gryzlov told himself, listening to the crackle of small-arms and automatic weapons fire in the background. The Spetsnaz troops must have run straight into a terrorist hideout. After all, who else could be stupid enough to be shooting at his troops from those farmhouses and cottages?
“We’re meeting stiff resistance, Mr. President,” Aristov said, raising his voice to be heard over the sound of battle. “I have three men seriously wounded and one more dead. I’ve deployed a team to flank the village, but the ground is very difficult—”
“Mr. President?” a hesitant voice interrupted.
“Hold a moment, Captain,” Gryzlov said. Impatiently, he turned away from the map. Viktor Kazyanov, the minister of state security, stood there looking worried. “Yes? What is it?” he snapped.
“I am not sure that our troops are fighting terrorists,” his intelligence chief said reluctantly. “Our signals intelligence units have intercepted cell-phone calls which strongly suggest that village is being defended by elements of the local Polish Border Guard detachment.”
“Bullshit!” Gryzlov growled. “Since when do customs inspectors carry assault rifles and machine guns?”
“Many of the border-guard units have paramilitary training and equipment,” Kazyanov told him.
“And if these bastards killing our men are wearing nice, neat, official-looking uniforms?” Gryzlov asked coldly. “What difference does that make?”
The minister of security stared at him. “But then we are attacking forces of the Polish government, not just some ragtag band of terrorists,” he stammered.
The Russian president felt his temper rising. He stepped closer to Kazyanov, feeling some satisfaction as the taller, heavier-set man flinched and backed away. “What the hell do you think is happening out there, Viktor?” he asked.
Without waiting for an answer, he swung around and jabbed a finger at the map display. “We chase a bunch of murdering bastards back across the Polish border and they ambush our men. So what do the goddamned Poles do? They fire missiles at our planes when we strike the terrorists! Then they send MiG-29 fighters to hunt down our bombers! And now, just when we’re tracking these terrorists to their lair, they deploy so-called border guards armed with heavy weapons to stop us?” Gryzlov scowled. “How much more evidence do you need? It’s obvious that someone high up in Warsaw is in bed with these terrorists. For all I know, it could be their whole damned, stinking government!”
An uncomfortable silence fell across the crowded conference room.
The minister of defense, Gregor Sokolov, cleared his throat. “That is certainly a strong possibility, Mr. President. But if so, Captain Aristov and his men face grave danger.”
“How so?”
“Clearing defended buildings is a difficult and lengthy military task,” Sokolov said. “Regrettably, I do not believe our commandos will be given the necessary time.”
Gryzlov raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Why?”
“Even our closest bases are several hundred kilometers from this battle,” Sokolov explained. “We cannot possibly reinforce our quick reaction force before they face overwhelming odds. If elements of the Polish government are in fact siding with the terrorists who murdered Lieutenant General Voronov, they can bring heavy armor and artillery into the battle within a matter of hours. Aristov and his commandos are highly trained light infantry, but they aren’t equipped to fight tanks.”
“What about our fighters and bombers?” Gryzlov asked. “We can destroy their armored vehicles and artillery from the air.”
Sokolov shook his head. “I am afraid not, Mr. President. Major Zelin’s Su-34s will have to break off to refuel within a matter of minutes. Our Su-35s have already expended most of their long-range missiles and much of their fuel is also gone, expended in low-altitude flight. We can sortie more planes from Voronezh, but they may not arrive before it is too late.”
“I see,” Gryzlov said flatly. His cold-eyed stare let Sokolov know this most recent evidence of poor military planning and preparation would be “discussed” later.
Seething inside, but unable to deny the seeming logic of his defense minister’s argument, the Russian president spun back to the map display. Red arrows showed the positions held by Spetsnaz teams. Other symbols depicted their helicopters, three troop-carrying Mi-8s and two Mi-24 attack helicopters, currently parked in open fields across the Bug River.
He nodded to himself. So be it. If Aristov’s men did not have time to flush the terrorists out of their defenses, there was another alternative. “Sokolov!” he snapped.
“Yes, Mr. President?”
“What armament is carried by those Mi-24s?”
The defense minister quickly consulted a tablet computer handed to him by a senior staff officer. “Gun pods with twin-barrel 23mm autocannons, 80mm rocket pods, and 9K114 Storm antitank missile systems.”
Gryzlov smiled thinly. “Good. That should be sufficient.”
He turned to face Sokolov and the others. “Tell Captain Aristov to pull back. You will then order our attack helicopters to wipe that village off the map. I do not want a single building left standing! Tell them to make the rubble bounce!”
The Russian leader hardened his expression. “We will teach these terrorist-loving Poles a lesson they will not easily forget.”
SPETSNAZ QUICK REACTION FORCE,
OVER UKRAINE
AN HOUR LATER
One by one, the heavily loaded Mi-8 transport helicopters staggered off the ground and into the darkening sky.
Aboard the lead helicopter, Captain Kirill Aristov sat slumped near the open side door, weary beyond imagining. Behind him, blank-eyed Spetsnaz soldiers filled the tip-up seats lining the cabin walls. Blankets shrouded two dead comrades lying motionless on the metal floor at their feet. Farther aft, their medics were hard at work, trying to stabilize some of the more seriously wounded for the long flight back to Russian territory.
Rotors beating, the Mi-8s climbed slowly, spiraling up as they gained altitude.
One of their escorting Mi-24 gunships loomed up out of the gathering darkness, bristling with rocket, cannon, and missile pods. The attack helicopter veered away, taking up its assigned post on their flank.
At least the sight of the gunship gave Aristov a feeling of grim satisfaction. He leaned carefully out through the open door—peering back along their flight path.
Beneath clouds of billowing black smoke, rippling sheets of orange-red flame danced and crackled among the shattered ruins of what had once been a Polish village called Berdyszcze. The fires were bright enough to outshine even the setting sun.
No, the Spetsnaz officer deci
ded. The Poles will not soon forget us. He sat silently in the helicopter’s door, watching the fires burn until they vanished beneath the curve of the earth.
THREE
THE WHITE HOUSE SITUATION
ROOM, WASHINGTON, D.C.
THE NEXT DAY
U.S. President Stacy Anne Barbeau frowned at the image of her younger Russian counterpart, Gennadiy Gryzlov. In other circumstances, she might have enjoyed the view. The Russian leader’s rugged good looks came across clearly through the secure video link with Moscow. Unfortunately, this was not an appropriate time for the more informal personal diplomacy her own lingering beauty and carefully cultivated charm sometimes made possible.
“Mr. President, I share your concerns about this attack on the OSCE post, and I deeply regret the deaths of Lieutenant General Voronov and his men,” she said. Then she hardened her voice. “But I must strongly protest the subsequent incursion of your troops and aircraft into Poland. No amount of provocation can justify the damage your forces inflicted on the Polish armed forces and on innocent civilians.”
Gryzlov snorted. “Innocent, Madam President? I think not. Innocents do not willingly harbor murderers and terrorists.”
“I have been assured by the Polish government that none of its citizens were involved in this incident,” Barbeau said.
The Russian president snorted. “Of course that is what Warsaw says. But only a fool would believe such a preposterous claim.” His gaze turned cold. “The reports and recordings made by my commanders and pilots leave no doubt that the terrorists who committed this atrocity fled into Polish territory. They also prove that armed Poles attacked my troops while they were in hot pursuit of these terrorists. Given these facts, our retaliatory actions were not only justified—they were entirely proportionate!”
“Proportionate?” Barbeau shot back. “Your armed forces destroyed an entire Polish village, killing dozens of men, women, and children!”
Gryzlov shrugged. “Your outrage is misplaced. By giving the terrorists sanctuary, the Poles were playing with fire. And those who play with fire get burned.”
“You can’t just—”
“Do not presume to tell me what I cannot do, Madam President,” Gryzlov interrupted. He scowled. “I had hoped your new administration would avoid the mistakes made by your predecessor. President Phoenix did not understand something very simple: I will do whatever is necessary to safeguard Russian lives and Russian national interests.”
He brought his fist down hard on the table in front of him. “Listen closely! I will not tolerate the deliberate murder of Russian soldiers. And I will not allow Poland or any other Western-allied nation to provide safe haven for terrorists. My armed forces will seek out and destroy anyone who attacks us wherever they hide. Is that clear?”
“Your anger is clear enough,” Barbeau said tartly. “What isn’t so clear is whether you understand that your actions could force the Polish government to invoke the mutual defense clause in the NATO charter. And that would put us all in a very awkward situation.”
“Naturally, your NATO alliance must do what it thinks best,” the Russian president said. He smiled icily. “But I would strongly advise against a foolish overreaction. It may be summer now, but winter is coming. And your European allies will find it very cold and very dark indeed without our natural gas and oil.”
Barbeau kept her face carefully blank. Russian oil and natural gas exports provided more than a third of Europe’s energy. If Moscow shut down its pipelines to the West, it could wreak havoc on economies that were already teetering right on the brink of a new recession. Doing that would also cost the Russian badly needed income, but she didn’t doubt that Gryzlov’s authoritarian regime could stand the pain a lot longer than could the European democracies.
She supposed that things might have been different if the “green” interests in her own political party hadn’t blocked U.S. energy exports to Europe, but that was not important right now. Unlike Kenneth Phoenix, she was a realist. You had to play the cards you were dealt instead of pretending that you could change the rules whenever you wanted. Phoenix had never figured that out, which was why she’d kicked his ass in the last election.
Right now it was quite clear that Gryzlov was not bluffing. If she backed him into a corner over this incident, the Russian would do exactly what he threatened to do. And nobody in Berlin or Paris or Rome would thank her for imperiling their economies and political stability—especially not when the situation was so unclear. Warsaw swore that it wasn’t involved in this attack on that Russian general, but everybody knew Poland hated and feared the Russians. How sure could she be that the Poles were telling the truth?
Barbeau made a decision. The American people had not elected her to start a new round of tit-for-tat pissing matches with Moscow, which is what Phoenix did repeatedly and which cost the life of his vice president, Ann Page. It was up to her to find a diplomatic solution that would stop this mess from spiraling further out of control.
“I have a suggestion, Mr. President,” she said carefully. “One I think is in all of our best interests.”
“Go on,” Gryzlov said. He allowed a bit more warmth to seep into his smile, though it never reached his eyes. “No one can say that I am unwilling to be reasonable.”
The sheer audacity of that statement almost made Stacy Anne Barbeau choke. But she mastered herself quickly. Russia’s leader might be a son of a bitch, but he was also the son of a bitch she still had to cut a deal with.
“I propose that we convene immediate high-level talks to de-escalate this unfortunate situation,” she told Gryzlov.
“To what end?” the Russian asked skeptically.
“We must find ways to rebuild trust between us,” Barbeau said quickly. “Solid, practical measures to persuade our NATO allies that your punitive raid on Poland will not be repeated. And equally important, steps that will assure your government that no such attacks will be necessary in the future.”
“I am intrigued, Madam President,” Gryzlov said. His smile broadened. “I had not thought it possible that an American government would show itself to be so reasonable and responsible. Very well, I agree to your proposal. My foreign minister and your secretary of state can arrange the details of any negotiations.”
“This will only work if you restrain your forces,” Barbeau warned. “No serious negotiations will be possible if your planes are busy dropping bombs on NATO territory—no matter what your excuse is.”
“Naturally,” the Russian agreed. His expression turned colder again. “But such forbearance comes at a price, Madam President.”
“Oh?”
“You must assure me that the NATO countries will do everything possible to police their own borders,” Gryzlov said. “Your allies, especially the Poles, must begin rooting out the terrorists who are targeting my country and its vital interests. And we must see this being done. Trust but also verify, is that not what one of your most famous presidents once said?”
“Yes, it is,” Barbeau admitted, trying to hide the distaste in her voice. Ronald Reagan had never been a political leader she particularly admired. She looked at the Russian. “Do we have an agreement to begin these talks?”
He nodded. “We do, Madam President.” He smiled more genuinely this time. “Let us hope these negotiations will signal the beginning of a new era of détente between our two proud nations, one which recognizes the true limits of our respective spheres of influence.”
For a moment, but only for a moment, Barbeau was tempted to ask just which countries Gryzlov considered within the Russian sphere of influence. Then she decided it didn’t matter. As always, the facts on the ground would matter more than rhetoric. And if she could pull off an agreement that would keep the peace in Europe and elsewhere, nobody she cared about would sweat the minor details.
THE KREMLIN, MOSCOW
A SHORT TIME LATER
Gennadiy Gryzlov made sure the secure video link to Washington, D.C., was broken before turni
ng to his closest advisers. “Incredible, eh? To think that the Americans have entrusted the fate of their nation to someone so shortsighted?”
“Her offer of negotiations seemed sincere,” Foreign Minister Daria Titeneva pointed out.
Gryzlov waved that away with one hand. “I’m sure it was.” He shook his head. “This President Barbeau has all the tactical skills of a successful politician, but she lacks the strategic vision of a true statesman.”
“So you don’t think these talks she wants to hold will be useful?” Chief of Staff Sergei Tarzarov asked.
“On the contrary,” Gryzlov told his chief of staff. “I think they will be very useful to us—if only as an opportunity to drive a wedge between the Americans and their remaining European allies. But I do not believe diplomacy will solve our Polish problem.”
“Oh?” Tarzarov raised an eyebrow.
“Come now, Sergei,” the president said. “You know the Poles better than I do. We’ve just slapped them across the face as a warning to stop supporting our enemies. Do you really think that will make them more reasonable?”
Tarzarov frowned. “Probably not,” he admitted. “They have always been a hotheaded, combative people. Their leaders may see our action as a challenge to a duel, as an affront to their honor.”
“Exactly,” Gryzlov said. “But I have no intention of sitting around waiting for their seconds to politely inform us of their choice of weapons. Only a fool fights fairly.” He turned to the minister of defense. “I want additional fighter and bomber patrols over Belarus and the territory we control in Ukraine. The next time these terrorists attack us, I want aircraft ready to hit them immediately—not loitering uselessly out of reach.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
