THE WHITE HOUSE SITUATION ROOM, WASHINGTON, D.C.
THAT SAME TIME
President Stacy Anne Barbeau had spent decades mastering the art of charming powerful men she otherwise loathed. For all their supposed intelligence and sophistication, a great many members of Washington, D.C.’s self-proclaimed elite were surprisingly easy to manipulate—at least by an attractive woman willing to use every weapon at her disposal, including her sexual favors, if that became necessary. Flattering useful idiots who weren’t fit to kiss her dirty high heels had required an enormous amount of self-control. Screwing them while smiling took even more.
Unfortunately, former U.S. president Kevin Martindale was one of the very few men who’d seen through her right from the start. He’d immediately perceived her ruthless willingness to do whatever was necessary to achieve her desires. Well, of course, he pegged me early on, she thought viciously. For all his bullshit about protecting the free world, Martindale was just as much a Machiavellian manipulator as she was. That was one of the reasons she’d always hated, and secretly feared, the devious son of a bitch. So it was a relief now to be able to drop the mask and confront him openly.
Even if it was only via a secure video link to Warsaw.
She’d condescended to listen to Martindale’s pitch only after several urgent requests by the Polish government made through diplomatic back channels. She’d hoped it would give her a chance to learn more about his latest schemes—with a special emphasis on figuring out just how far he was prepared to go to help John D. Farrell beat her in November. But within the first couple of minutes, she’d realized this call was a waste of time.
“The intelligence my people have gathered is clear and undeniable, Madam President,” Martindale said quietly. “It’s highly probable that Gennadiy Gryzlov is organizing his own mercenary force on the sly. Coupled with his reckless personal nature and worldwide geopolitical ambitions, that’s an extremely unsettling and dangerous development. I’ve no doubt that Gryzlov will use these mercenaries against his enemies—against us—while claiming his own hands are clean.”
Oh, Christ, I should have known better, Barbeau thought with unconcealed disdain. For all his celebrated cleverness, ultimately, Kevin Martindale was just a one-trick pony. The Russians, the Russians, the Russians. It was always the goddamned Russians.
“Spare me the histrionics, Mr. Martindale,” she retorted. “What’s your proposition?”
“It’s high time we set our personal and political differences aside,” Martindale replied without any evident hesitation, somehow managing to sound surprisingly sincere. “Wherever he intends to strike first, Gryzlov poses a serious and growing threat to all of us—to NATO, to the Alliance of Free Nations, and to the United States itself. But if we openly pool our military and diplomatic resources and fully share our respective intelligence assets and information, we might be able to deter the Russians from acting rashly. At a minimum, our combined forces would be strong enough to—”
That was enough, she decided.
“Cut the Cold War crap, Martindale,” Barbeau snapped, interrupting him in midsentence. “Do not expect me to fall for your old and very tired line of bullshit. And don’t come crying to me because you and your hired killers—and the morons in Warsaw who pay you—are suddenly running scared. Did you really think you could end-run international law with your own goddamned private army and air force without anybody else deciding to follow your lead?”
Angrily, she shook her head. “My number one priority is to protect the citizens and national security interests of the United States. It sure as hell isn’t to save your sorry old playboy ass when the bear you’ve been batting around suddenly bites back.”
Visibly annoyed, Martindale leaned forward. “Madam President, I can assure you that saving my sorry old ass, as you so eloquently put it, is not what this is about—”
“Bull! You and that lunatic Patrick McLanahan set an incredibly dangerous precedent when you decided you could play toy soldiers with real people and real countries,” Barbeau continued, overriding him. “Well, that was a fucking stupid game to play and it ended up killing McLanahan. Now it may be your turn. Tough shit. I guess you and the Poles are just going to have to learn to live with the consequences of your own illegal actions. In any case, you can sure as hell forget about hiding under my skirts! If Gryzlov really does send his own mercenaries after you and Piotr Wilk and the rest of your gang, you’re on your own.”
Contemptuously, she tapped a control on the keyboard at her elbow, cutting the secure link to Warsaw.
The wall-sized screen went black.
Barbeau swiveled her chair to look at Luke Cohen and Ed Rauch. Her chief of staff and national security adviser were the only two people she’d trusted to hear what passed between her and Martindale. Bringing more staffers into the loop only multiplied the odds of a leak to the press and that was something she simply could not risk. Rumors from Warsaw wouldn’t gain any traction. Nobody important would believe them.
But at this stage of the campaign, having anonymous, high-level White House sources confirm that she’d been in secret contact with Martindale and the Polish government could be disastrous. Public and congressional support for her foreign policy in Europe hinged on a belief that cutting ties with Poland and its half-baked Alliance of Free Nations was a rational move—one in America’s best interests. Anything that suggested she might be rethinking that could seriously damage her credibility . . . and lay her wide open to Farrell’s political attacks.
Barbeau snorted in disgust. Did Martindale really think she was that dumb? Reversing course now to forge new defense and intelligence links with Poland and its allies would be political malpractice of the highest order. It would split her own party right down the middle—dividing it between those who would loyally toe whatever line she took and those who genuinely wanted a new détente with the Russians. That kind of division could easily cost her a closely contested election. If she’d ever doubted the former president was in bed with her opponent, there was her answer.
She could rely on Cohen keeping his mouth shut about this aborted conversation because the lanky New Yorker’s political future was entirely tied to hers. Without her, he would be nothing . . . just another washed-up White House toady who’d be lucky to land a paying gig at some rinky-dink cable news network.
And Rauch was trustworthy because he was smart enough to know that he could never spill anything like this to reporters and get away with it. Leaking confidential and classified information was a federal crime. The general rule in D.C. was that leakers never paid a price. But Barbeau was willing to bet that her skinny, gray-haired national security adviser knew damned well she was vengeful enough to make him the exception.
“Comments?” she snapped.
“Assuming the intelligence information he shared is accurate, former president Martindale could be right,” Rauch said reluctantly. “At least about the potential danger a deniable Russian mercenary force represents.”
Barbeau’s lip curled. “You’re not really going to tell me that a couple of hundred ex-Spetsnaz troops could threaten this country’s survival, Ed?”
“Our survival? No, Madam President,” Rauch said quickly. He looked worried, though. “But a clandestine force of that size could inflict some serious damage on a U.S. military installation, either here, or more likely, in Europe.”
“Get real, Dr. Rauch,” she retorted. “There’s no way the Russians could hope to sneak that many men into this country or one of our NATO allies . . . not without getting caught. They’d be lucky to infiltrate ten men successfully. Trying the same thing with even twenty would be one hell of a risk.” She shrugged. “What could Gryzlov really hope to accomplish with a handful of former Spetsnaz thugs with small arms and maybe some RPGs and explosives? That’s not a strategic game changer. Not even close.” Reluctantly, Rauch dipped his head, acknowledging her point.
Barbeau turned her cold-eyed gaze on Luke Cohen. “Anything to add, Luke?”
Her chief of staff nodded. “Sure, Gryzlov’s ballsy. But he’s not stupid enough to come after us. Not without good cause,” he said confidently. “He’s got to know that we’ll retaliate for any attack on us or our real allies . . . no matter how hard he tries to spin it as some phony-baloney mercenary operation.”
“Okay, that’s a solid point,” she agreed. She looked back at Rauch. “Well, Ed?”
“I can’t argue with Mr. Cohen’s analysis, Madam President,” he said. The pale little former academic looked thoughtful. “But fear of us won’t stop Gryzlov from attacking the Poles again, using his ‘private’ covert-action units to sow terror and confusion ahead of a more conventional offensive.”
“Is the CIA or anyone else in the intelligence community picking up any hints that Moscow’s planning a new war against Warsaw and the AFN?” Barbeau asked sharply.
“Not really,” Rauch admitted. He spread his hands. “But our intelligence assets—our satellites, intercept stations, and HUMINT sources—are all almost exclusively oriented against Russia’s official military and political establishment. If Gryzlov really has created an off-the-books mercenary force, our people might not even be looking in the right direction.”
“Great,” Barbeau muttered, chewing that over in her mind. What if that nutcase Gennadiy Gryzlov actually had his own private army and somehow managed to kick the crap out of the Poles and their piddling allies? Russian success in Eastern and central Europe now could make her look weak in the unsophisticated eyes of too many swing-state voters. The enduring political problem she faced had once been defined by General George S. Patton. Americans loved a winner. And they would not tolerate a loser.
But Luke Cohen only shrugged when she expressed her fears.
“So the Russians hit the Poles again? So what?” the New Yorker said with a callous grin. “It doesn’t matter how many badass Spetsnaz commandos Gryzlov’s got on his personal payroll. If the shit hits the fan, they’re still completely outmatched by Martindale’s Iron Wolf robots.” He shrugged. “We’ve all seen the intel on those machines. They’re basically death on steroids.”
With a quick grimace, Barbeau nodded. Just thinking about those unearthly war robots made her skin crawl. In the past, she’d had her own terrifying encounters with Cybernetic Infantry Devices. Those experiences were not something she ever wanted to repeat.
“Even if they got lucky, the best the Russians could hope for would be just another blood-soaked stalemate,” Cohen continued. “And no one who matters is going to blame you for refusing to shove American fighting men and women into that kind of a no-win meat grinder.”
He offered her a cynical grin. “Besides, looked at the right way, every dead Spetsnaz goon and every shot-up Iron Wolf combat robot is just one less threat to our national security. In the bigger scheme of things, another round of fighting between Russia and Poland would be a win for us.”
Slowly, Stacy Anne Barbeau nodded. Years ago, Martindale and that warmongering slimeball Patrick McLanahan had effectively stolen the technology for those Cybernetic Infantry Devices from its rightful owner, the U.S. government. So why not let the Russians pay the blood price necessary to pare down Scion’s inventory of the deadly machines?
OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT, BELWEDER PALACE, WARSAW, POLAND
THAT SAME TIME
With a bleak look on his face, Polish president Piotr Wilk leaned over the desk and snapped off the power to his computer monitor. The field of gray static left when Barbeau cut the secure teleconference link to Warsaw vanished. Then he sat down across from Martindale. “You made a valiant effort,” he told the American. “At first, I really hoped she might listen.”
“Unfortunately, listening to others has never been Stacy Anne’s strong suit,” Martindale said. “Especially when they’re asking her to admit she might have made a mistake. Like too many politicians, she confuses rigid thinking with strength of purpose.”
“She is certainly astonishingly petty and willfully blind.” Wilk shook his head in disappointment. “Your country deserves better.”
“Maybe so, Piotr. We’ll see what the voters say in November.” Wry amusement flickered in Martindale’s eyes. “Otto von Bismarck once said that God looked after fools, drunkards, and the United States. There are many times when I wish my fellow Americans weren’t so willing to test that proposition to its limit.”
“In the meantime, it appears we must look to our own defenses.”
“That’s about the size of it,” Martindale agreed. He sighed. “I just wish I could shake the nagging worry that we’re missing something. Something important.”
“Such as?”
“Such as the fact that, try as I might, I can’t figure out what Gryzlov hopes to gain by forming his own mercenary force,” Martindale said, with a frustrated look. “He’s got to know that conventionally equipped Spetsnaz commandos are no match for the Iron Wolf Squadron and our CIDs. So what’s his real plan?”
Wilk nodded. Even at Perun’s Aerie, where everything went wrong, it had taken an ambush by a battalion of Russian tanks and other armored fighting vehicles, together with massed artillery fire, to destroy the two Iron Wolf combat robots piloted by Charlie Turlock and Whack Macomber. And so far, they had no reports that would indicate Moscow was supplying Gryzlov’s RKU mercenaries with tanks, self-propelled guns, or other heavy weapons.
“The Russians could still hurt us badly in a sudden surprise attack,” he pointed out. “After all, there are only six CIDs in our order of battle. We cannot defend every vulnerable point in the Alliance of Free Nations.”
“Sure, Gryzlov’s mercs could inflict some pain,” Martindale said evenly. “But not nearly enough to swing the outcome in a new war.” He looked at Wilk. “We’d just roll with the first punch and then tear them to shreds.”
“Perhaps friend Gennadiy is more optimistic about his chances against us than you are,” the Polish president countered in a dry voice.
“Oh, I’m sure he is,” Martindale agreed. “But he’s still not crazy enough to see using hired Spetsnaz veterans as a winning play. Gaining a measure of plausible deniability for violent covert action may be useful from a diplomatic and political point of view, but it doesn’t change the fundamental military equation.”
“He may not define winning in quite the same way we do,” Wilk warned. “Russia’s armed forces still outnumber ours. Moscow can trade pawn for pawn and still come out ahead. Maybe Gryzlov has decided to erode our strength with a series of pinprick raids using his ‘mercenaries’—confident that we will be unwilling to escalate in retaliation.”
Martindale frowned. That was a nasty thought. A prolonged covert war of attrition would not succeed in destroying Poland and its allies outright, but the military and economic strain involved in fending off a seemingly unending series of commando attacks and sabotage would be enormous. It was no secret that a number of governments in the Alliance of Free Nations were fragile, dependent on small parliamentary majorities and narrow margins of public support. If those governments fell, either by losing elections or because of massive public discontent, their successors might be more willing to cozy up to Moscow in return for peace. Having failed in his earlier all-out military and cyberwar campaigns, was Gryzlov now willing to play a longer game?
He shook his head. The willingness to fight a slow war of attrition seemed out of character for Russia’s aggressive leader. On the other hand, it was a classic mistake to assume that an opponent could not learn from his earlier mistakes.
Which led directly to another piece of the puzzle that he could not make fit. Crazy or not, there was no way that Gryzlov could hope to skate away from responsibility for any attacks launched by Russian-made aircraft and missiles operating out of Russian-controlled air bases. So why was this RKU outfit recruiting veteran fighter and bomber pilots?