REMOTE OPERATIONS CONTROL CENTER,

POWIDZ, POLAND

A SHORT TIME LATER

The eighteen men and women making up nine of the Iron Wolf Squadron’s ten XF-111 remote-piloting crews crowded inside the ready room, listening intently while Brad McLanahan briefed them on the most recent intelligence affecting their mission.

“From the radar emissions our RQ-20 Vedette chain is picking up, we’re pretty sure the Russians have a Beriev-100 up over Krylovo in south-central Kaliningrad, near the Polish border, covering the approaches to the Iskander missile field,” Brad said, keying in the Russian AWACS plane’s estimated position on the big wall display. He then keyed in another position on the map, not far outside the predicted maximum detection range for the Beriev-100’s radar. “As per the mission plan, two Coyotes took off twenty minutes ago, heading for this point. We’re positioning the third Coyote to the east in case it’s needed against the Russian Army moving in from the east. They’re armed with—”

A small cylinder hit the floor in front of him, bounced once, and then went off with a blinding, earsplitting BANG.

The explosion threw Brad back against the display. In that same moment, another flashbang grenade detonated at the back of the ready room. Smoke and bits of torn ceiling insulation swirled through the air. Before the stunned and disoriented Iron Wolf pilots and weapons officers could recover their wits, a sea of heavily armed men stormed through the gray haze—knocking them to the floor at gunpoint.

What the hell? Brad thought woozily. He tried to straighten up, and then went down hard when one of the invaders kicked his feet out from under him. With brutal efficiency, the other man yanked his wrists behind his back and secured them with plastic flexicuffs.

One by one, the Iron Wolf crews were hauled to their feet, cuffed, and prodded back against a wall by soldiers in battle dress and body armor. American soldiers, Brad realized groggily as the smoke cleared. He gritted his teeth. They were being held at gunpoint by U.S. Special Forces troops? This was just wrong—on so many more levels than his aching brain could count right now.

Slowly, his battered ears stopped ringing. Now he could hear more noises coming from the rest of the Remote Operations Control Center—the sounds of shattering glass and plastic. Overhead, the lights flickered and an acrid smell of frying circuit boards and other electronics rolled in through the open ready-room door. Oh, shit, he realized, these bastards are wrecking our remote-control stations.

A tall, lean U.S. Air Force officer with first lieutenant’s bars on his collar strutted down the line of prisoners. Pale blue eyes gleamed evilly behind thick glasses. He stopped in front of Brad and looked him up and down. A sneer formed on his pale, thin face. “Well, well, well, what do we have here?” he said in a thick Alabama drawl. “I do believe this is that well-known, thoroughly useless piece of dog crap named Bradley J. McLanahan.”

Oh, hell, Brad thought, suddenly recognizing him. Three years ago, then second-class cadet William Weber had goaded him into losing his temper during “Second Beast”—the three-week field training camp that every would-be cadet had to pass before starting the first academic year at the U.S. Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs. Decking that smug son of a bitch had felt really good at the time, but it had also cost him his appointment to the Academy and any hope of a career in the U.S. military.

“Man, that’s sure a slick getup,” Weber taunted, tapping Brad’s dark, rifle-green Iron Wolf Squadron jacket with a long index finger. “Does it help you sell many Girl Scout cookies?” He snorted. “You and your fancy-pants mercenaries aren’t so tough without your big metal friends around to bail you out, are you?”

With an effort, Brad kept his mouth shut. Did Weber and his goons believe the Iron Wolf special ops teams were still out in the field? Oh, man, he thought, were they riding for a very unpleasant fall . . .

Weber adjusted the video cam on his helmet, grinning nastily. “Say hello to the good folks back in the States, McLanahan. Because here the party’s over. Your next stop is a cell in a federal maximum-security prison.”