IRON WOLF SQUADRON HEADQUARTERS, 33rd AIR BASE, NEAR POWIDZ, POLAND
THE NEXT DAY
Brad McLanahan looked around the oval conference table. Counting Piotr Wilk, who was joining them by secure video link from his hospital room, the key members of the joint Polish–Iron Wolf command team were here. All but one.
For a moment, his vision clouded. The medical team monitoring his father’s deteriorating condition sent him reports every few hours or so. All of them said pretty much the same thing: “The general’s life is moving peacefully to its close.”
Earlier, one of the doctors had tactfully suggested removing Patrick McLanahan from life support—a suggestion Brad had heatedly declined. “I may not be able to save my dad’s life,” he’d snapped. “But I am damned well not going to kill him. As long as he isn’t in unbearable pain, you’re going to give him every chance to fight this last battle in his own way and go in his own time. Is that clear?”
Nadia had intervened at that point, dragging the ICU physician off for an intense, private conversation in fast-paced Polish. From the apprehensive look on the man’s face when they’d parted company, he guessed she’d put the fear of God, or at least Major Nadia Rozek, into him.
Martindale’s voice drew him back to the present.
“We have a confirmed target,” the gray-haired chief of Scion said quietly. “Thanks to the clues provided by our ‘guest,’ the regrettably still-breathing Igor Truznyev.”
“And what did you promise him in return for this information?” Wilk asked. His eyes were steely, unforgiving.
“His life, nothing else,” Martindale said bluntly. He offered them a thin, humorless smile. “Truznyev was in no condition to ask for anything more.” He shrugged. “Of course, now that he’s betrayed Gryzlov’s secrets, he has no leverage at all. And over time, I’m sure we’ll think of a great many more interesting questions to ask him—questions he will be in no position to dodge.”
Brad nodded to himself. Truznyev was doubly screwed. Even if the Russian ever figured out that he’d been tricked, it was too late now. The first time he balked, all the Poles had to do was threaten to hand him back to Gryzlov’s people, along with a brief précis of the classified information he’d already spilled.
“Good,” Wilk replied. He sounded pleased. “I’m sure we can find suitably uncomfortable quarters to keep him on ice for as long as we see fit.”
Impatiently, Whack Macomber broke into the conversation. “Glad as I am to hear that piece of shit Truznyev is slated for more bad tidings of discomfort and woe, I’d kind of like to know more about this target Mr. Martindale mentioned.” His expression was grim. “Because I have this bad feeling that it’s not going to be real easy to hit.”
Martindale nodded. “Ten out of ten, Major.” He looked around the table. “I’ve had teams of Scion and Polish intelligence analysts working around the clock to confirm Truznyev’s claims about the location of this ‘Perun’s Aerie’ cyberwar complex. While he could not give us its precise coordinates, his information let our people zero in on the most probable site.”
“Which is where . . . exactly?” Macomber pressed.
In answer, the Scion chief brought up a topographical map on one of the wall displays. It showed a rugged landscape of jagged, sawtooth ridges and mountains and glaciers, cut by narrow, winding river valleys. A red circle surrounded one of the peaks. “Here. Buried inside Mount Manaraga in the Nether-Polar Urals, about sixty-five nautical miles due east of the city of Pechora.”
“Meaning?” prompted Brad.
Martindale zoomed the map out, showing the cyberwar complex’s location in a broader geographic context. Mount Manaraga lay deep inside northern Russia, more than 1,400 nautical miles east of Poland, and only 250 nautical miles south of the frozen Barents Sea.
“Oh, fuck,” Macomber muttered, with an unhappy look on his hard-edged face.
Silently, Brad echoed the sentiment. That mountain was one hell of a long way inside enemy territory.
“How sure are your analysts of this?” Wilk asked, studying the same image repeated on a display in his hospital room.
“Just about one hundred percent,” Martindale said. “Like I said, once Truznyev pointed us in the right direction, our people were able to do some discreet and focused poking around inside various National Security Agency and National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency databases. They hit pay dirt fairly quickly.” He tapped another control, bringing up a succession of satellite images and short transcripts of intercepted Russian radio and phone conversations.
Several months-old satellite photos showed freight cars loaded with the spoil from underground excavations sitting on sidings around Pechora. Other images taken around the same time showed what might be traces of new roads built through the pine forests surrounding Mount Manaraga. Later photos showed no signs of those same roads. Either they had been destroyed, or more likely, better camouflaged.
Among the intercepts was a signal from Atomflot headquarters to the Ministry of State Security protesting an explained directive that Atomflot sell a naval nuclear reactor intended for one of its new Arktika-class icebreakers to “an entity under your ministry’s control” at cost. A terse reply informed the state-controlled company that its protest had been rejected “at the highest authority” and that any further discussion of the issue was “forever foreclosed by Presidential National Security Decree 117.”
Heads nodded slowly around the table, seeing the picture this was all painting.
“And then when our people went digging inside the corporate records of a Russian computer manufacturer named T-Platforms, we turned up a purchase order for an extremely powerful supercomputer,” Martindale continued.
“A purchase order from who?” Brad asked.
“A company we’ve long suspected of being a front for the FSB,” Martindale said.
“And where was this supercomputer delivered?” Nadia wondered.
Martindale smiled. “That’s the curious fact of the dog that didn’t bark in the night, Major Rozek. As far as T-Platforms’ records are concerned, the computer was never delivered. But neither is it still in their inventory.”
Nadia wrinkled her nose. “That was sloppy.”
“It was,” Martindale agreed. Then he shrugged. “On the other hand, without the added clues Truznyev gave us, we’d just be looking at another tantalizing dead end.”
“How could American intelligence miss this secret project?” Wilk wanted to know. “With all these images showing new excavations and construction work around this mountain, I mean.”
“Because it’s like looking at one particular grain of sand on a whole beach,” Martindale explained. “The major industry in this part of the Urals is mining. New tunnels and roads are a dime a dozen. The only reason my folks are pretty sure this isn’t just some new commercial mine is the effort the Russians made to hide their tracks—along with the fact that there are no records of any mining claims registered for Mount Manaraga.”
“And that was even sloppier,” Nadia said.
“Maybe,” Martindale replied. “But remember, our spy satellites take enormous numbers of images every day—more images than we have the ability to thoroughly analyze in anything approaching real time. More and more of the work is automated, but—”
“Computers only see what they’ve been programmed to look for,” Nadia finished, sounding disgusted.
“Exactly,” Martindale said. “In the old days, satellite intelligence analysts had to make bricks without straw, stretching tiny fragments of information to the breaking point to make a case. Now they’re flooded with more and more imagery captured from wider and wider swathes of the earth. More images than they can possibly examine closely in any normal human lifetime.”
“Which means analysts only focus on issues they’ve been tasked to address,” Brad realized. “And nobody in the States had any idea Gryzlov was building this cyberwar complex in the first place.”
Martindale nodded.
“All this is just peachy-keen,” Whack Macomber said gruffly. “But assuming this fucking mountain really is what we’ve been looking for, do we have the slightest damn idea of what kind of defenses the Russians have deployed to protect it?”
“That’s a good question, Major,” Martindale said coolly. He tapped another control, bringing up two side-by-side images of the mountain. One was dated from more than two years ago, presumably before any serious construction began. The other was only several weeks old.
To Brad’s untrained eye, they looked absolutely identical.
When he said as much, Martindale looked pleased. “Yes, they do, Captain McLanahan. That’s why I had our best analysts dive in deep, scouring these images right down to the individual pixel. They wrote special programs to speed up the work. And this is what they turned up . . .”
With a muted flourish, Scion’s chief clicked to another version of the second satellite photo. This one showed dozens of red circles scattered across the mountain’s rugged slopes and the narrow valleys around it. “By very, very carefully comparing every square meter of terrain captured in these two separate images, our people were able to spot places where some kind of change—man-made change—had taken place. In some cases, the indications are as small as a boulder shifted a meter or so out of place, or a section of rock or soil raised slightly above where it was in the original images.”
“Those are camouflaged weapons bunkers,” Macomber said grimly.
“Most are. The others are probably sensor posts and concealed surface-to-air missile positions,” Martindale agreed. He looked around the table again. “Which raises the very real question of whether we stand any chance of successfully attacking Perun’s Aerie at all.”
Brad frowned. “There’s no way we can hit it successfully from the air,” he said. “No combat aircraft or drone in our inventory has the range and penetration ability, let alone the ordnance load needed to do the job.”
“Hell, even a big-ass tactical nuke would probably just scratch the surface,” Macomber muttered.
Brad nodded. “Well, yeah, Whack, and as it happens, we’re fresh out of nuclear weapons anyway.” He saw Piotr Wilk and Nadia exchange glances. “Aren’t we?”
Wilk shrugged. “Sadly, that is true, Captain. After winning our freedom from the communists, we relied entirely on the nuclear umbrella provided by the United States.” He smiled lopsidedly. “It’s only now beginning to occur to some of us that we may need to fill that rather large gap in our defenses. But acquiring such weapons is a much longer-term project.”
“In which case, we really only have one option,” Brad said quietly. “And that’s a bolt-out-of-the-blue attack by Iron Wolf CIDs flown in on the XCV-62 Ranger.”
“Oh, man,” Macomber growled. “I knew I should have upped my fucking life insurance when I had the chance.”
IRON WOLF FLIGHT LINE
SEVERAL HOURS LATER
Brad escorted Martindale into the large bomb-resistant hangar used to prep Iron Wolf aircraft and CIDs for combat missions. The massive concrete-and-reinforced-steel building was a sea of purposeful activity and noise.
In one section of the hangar, an Iron Wolf ground crew swarmed over the black, batwinged XCV-62 Ranger, checking the stealth STOL transport’s engines, avionics, and other systems. Off to the side, Whack Macomber and Captain Ian Schofield were putting together an assortment of small arms and other weapons. Schofield and four of his most experienced recon troopers were going along to act as a close-in protection force for the Ranger while it was on the ground inside Russia. And over in the far corner, Charlie Turlock was supervising a team of technicians who were hard at work readying two of the squadron’s remaining CID combat robots.
Brad spotted Nadia Rozek standing at the foot of the ladder Charlie was using. The dark-haired Polish Special Forces officer had her hands planted firmly on her hips. She also had an obstinate, thoroughly exasperated expression on her face.
“Uh-oh,” he murmured.
Martindale saw where he was looking and winced. “Let me guess,” he said. “You didn’t tell her?”
“I was going to,” Brad said, trying very hard not to sound like a kid explaining that his dog really had wolfed down his homework. “But other high-priority stuff kept coming up.”
Nadia swung toward him as he came up. “Charlie says that she is piloting one of the CIDs, instead of me.” Her eyes flashed angrily. “This mission is important to my homeland and to the entire alliance. It is my duty as a Polish officer to participate in this attack! Besides, you know very well that I have significant battle experience in these machines!”
Gracefully, Charlie slid down the ladder and dropped lightly onto the hangar floor. “Hi, Brad. Mr. Martindale,” she said coolly. “I’ve tried telling Major Rozek the assignments are set, but she insists on bucking the question up to higher authority—which I guess in this case would be you, right? Since this is your plan and all?”
Brad nodded. Don’t turn and run, he told himself. That would be cowardly. Besides, the way his ribs still ached, Nadia would just catch him in the first few meters. “Ms. Turlock is right, Nadia. I need you as my copilot and systems operator for the Ranger. No one else can do the job. No one else in the world has the flight time or experience with the bird that you do.”
“I can do both,” Nadia insisted stubbornly. “The CIDs will only go into action once we’ve landed. And I can have the machine up and running in minutes.”
“And what happens if you get killed or wounded in the fight?” Charlie said, not sugarcoating it. “CIDs aren’t invincible, after all. Then Brad’s stuck on his own trying to fly that aircraft out through an alerted Russian air-defense network. Hey, believe me, I get why you want to be in at the sharp end. Kicking Gryzlov’s computer goons in the gonads should be sweet. But this is about sound tactics and focus. Putting our copilot into ground combat only adds another risk factor to the chances of mission failure.”
Smart woman, Brad thought. Focusing on what was best for the mission was the surest bet to disarm Nadia’s fierce combativeness and otherwise almost unyielding sense of patriotism and national honor.
Sure enough, though she still appeared irritated, Nadia also looked a bit more thoughtful.
It was time for him to chime in, Brad decided. “This is going to be a tough flight,” he said. “Basically, our only chance to penetrate Russian airspace undetected is to go in really low and stay low most of the way—and do the same on our way out. That’s nearly seventeen hundred nautical miles round trip. And low-altitude flying eats fuel fast, so we’re gonna be operating right at the outside edge of our endurance. Which means I need to put everything I’ve got into keeping the Ranger flying right down the zone.” He shook his head. “If we get jumped, I need you there beside me, running our defenses. Otherwise, we’re toast.”
Nadia grimaced, knowing he was right. As a stealth transport aircraft, the XCV-62 carried no offensive weapons—no air-to-air missiles, bombs, or even guns. Its defenses consisted entirely of the SPEAR system, chaff and flare dispensers, and two ADM-160B miniature air-launched decoys fitted in a small internal bay.
“Besides, Whack and I have fought as a team before, in Iran and Iraq and a bunch of other godforsaken places,” Charlie went on. “So we know each other’s moves inside out and that boosts our combat efficiency.”
This time, Nadia bobbed her head slightly, though it was a grudging, very reluctant nod. “Perhaps, you are right,” she said stiffly, through gritted teeth. “Though I wish—”
“Ms. Turlock, what on earth are you doing to these Cybernetic Infantry Devices?” Martindale interrupted, sounding appalled. He was staring up at the two twelve-foot-tall CIDs, which looked even more spindly and skeletal than usual. The Iron Wolf techs were busy removing whole sections of hexagonal-shaped thermal tiles and the wafer-thin electrochromatic plates layered over them.
Charlie shrugged. “We’re stripping their thermal-adaptive camouflage and chameleon camouflage systems.”
“And why in God’s good name would you do that?” Martindale demanded. “Right before an attack on a heavily defended Russian base?”
“For three reasons,” Charlie said patiently. She held up one finger. “Number one, because of snow. Have you seen the most recent satellite photos of that area, Mr. Martindale?” He nodded. “Then you know, sir, that the whole area is practically hip-deep in snow right now,” she said. “And the one thing those really nifty chameleon systems cannot do is hide footprints.”
“Oh,” the gray-haired man said, sounding flummoxed.
Charlie nodded. “Yeah. Oh. See, I don’t care how dumb your average Russian sentry is, I kind of figure the sight of a bunch of big footprints appearing in the snow will clue him into the fact that something bad is going down. Which brings me to reason number two.” She held up a second finger. “It’s cold there. Really, really cold.”
“As in too cold for the CID’s thermal-adaptive tiles to function efficiently,” Martindale guessed, frowning now.
“Yep,” she said. “There’s no way we can cool the tiles down to match those external temps. Not without draining the CID’s power supply in minutes.”
“And your third reason?” Martindale asked.
“Weight,” Charlie said simply. She shrugged her slender shoulders. “See there’s no way we can expect a field resupply mission on this gig. Even if the terrain and tactical situation allowed it, there’s no room for one of those handy little Wolf ATV cargo carriers in the Ranger. So Whack and I are going to have to hump in every bit of ammo, spare batteries, and all the other gear we’ll need right from the get-go. Dumping the camouflage systems nets us the extra load-carrying capacity we require.”
“Captain McLanahan?” a voice called across the hangar.
Brad turned and saw an Iron Wolf communications specialist trotting toward him. “What’s up, Yeats?” he asked.
“This signal came in by radio,” the specialist answered, handing him a message flimsy. “We just finished decrypting it.”
Puzzled, Brad took the sheet. They were at a base with multiple secure telephone and data links. Why would anyone fall back on radio to send a message here? His eyes widened slightly as he read the signal.
He looked back up at the communications tech. “You’ve authenticated this?”
Yeats nodded. “Yes, sir. It checks out.”
Nadia moved closer to him. “What’s going on, Brad?”
“This is an urgent signal from President Wilk,” he said, raising his voice slightly so the others could hear. “There’s a new Russian cyberattack in progress. Cell-phone, Internet, and landline communications networks all across Poland and the rest of the AFN are crashing.”
“Ah, crap,” he heard Charlie Turlock mutter.
“You’ve got that right. Apparently, we’re back to satellite phones and radio, until CERT teams can find and neutralize the viruses that are locking things up,” Brad told them grimly.
Gryzlov had just landed another solid punch. Without reliable communications, everything from regular day-to-day business to public safety was in jeopardy. Robbed of the ability to call for help, innocent people were going to die—from heart attacks and strokes left untreated until it was too late, from house fires that spread unchecked, or from any one of a dozen other kinds of accidents where minutes could make the difference between life and death.
“What are the president’s orders?” Nadia asked.
“We’re authorized to strike the Russian cyberwar complex at the earliest possible moment,” Brad replied. Fighting the weight of the responsibility he’d just been handed, he straightened up to his full height. “Which means we go tonight.”