In his case, that meant choosing the darker fields of statecraft, strategy, and diplomacy over the swift, exhilarating dance of air-to-air combat. And like so many Polish leaders before him, he faced the unenviable challenge of confronting Russia and its seemingly limitless imperial ambitions. Of defying an ancient enemy whose military and economic strength dwarfed that of his beleaguered nation.
But this time, Wilk reminded himself, Poland had allies. Not many, perhaps. Certainly not as the world conventionally reckoned numbers. But these were friends beyond price — friends who had already shown themselves willing to fight and die for a cause they considered just.
And these new allies had powers of their own, technologies, tactics, and weapons far beyond those used by other armed forces.
Kevin Martindale stepped forward, greeting him with a firm handshake. Once president of the United States, the gray-haired, gray-bearded American now ran Scion, a private military corporation. Last year, Scion’s specialist commandos, pilots, and intelligence operatives served as the cadre for a new unit, the Iron Wolf Squadron. Using every advantage conferred by their high-tech aircraft, drones, and CID fighting machines, the squadron had helped Poland’s outmatched soldiers fight Russia to a draw — though only by the narrowest of margins and at a high cost in dead and wounded.
Wilk also knew that many of those who survived were paying yet another price for aiding Poland. Caught backstabbing her own NATO ally because she was afraid of the Russians, America’s president, Stacy Anne Barbeau, had retaliated by seeking federal indictments against anyone who worked for Scion or who had fought in the Iron Wolf Squadron. She accused them of undermining U.S. national security interests and violating laws that prohibited enlisting in a foreign army. Legally, her claims were on shaky ground. In practical terms, however, Martindale and many of his fellow countrymen were effectively exiled from their own native land.
He could only imagine the pain that must bring.
“It’s good to see you again, Piotr,” Martindale said quietly. “I wish it were in better circumstances.”
Wilk nodded. “As do I.”
With the NATO alliance fractured beyond repair, thanks to Barbeau’s malice and folly, he and Martindale had been working for months to build a coalition of the smaller countries from the Baltic to the Black Sea. So far, their efforts had met with more success than they had first dared to hope.
Their new Alliance of Free Nations, the AFN, now included Poland, all three of the small Baltic states, Slovakia, Hungary, Romania, and even tiny Moldova. And the Czech Republic, though still formally outside the treaty, had expressed serious interest in joining its Eastern and central European neighbors. Even the Finns, although reluctant to openly risk angering the Russian bear prowling around their doorstep, were secretly willing to coordinate defense planning and other operations.
Backed by the hard-earned reputation of its Iron Wolf “auxiliaries,” Poland was still the chief military power in this fledging defense pact. Nevertheless, the Scion weapons and advisers doled out to other frontline states had measurably improved their fighting forces. Compared to the Russians, the AFN nations were still horribly outgunned — in population, economic clout, raw troop strength, and access to high-tech military hardware. But now at least they had enough power and political coherence to deter anything but an all-out Russian offensive.
Or so Wilk and his fellow national leaders had hoped. “Nie chwal przed zachodem,” he muttered. “Don’t praise the day until sunset.”
Martindale grimaced. “Too true.”
Over the older American’s shoulder, Wilk saw a lean young woman in the dress uniform of a major in the Polish Special Forces coming in on the arm of a tall, broad-shouldered blond-haired man wearing the Iron Wolf Squadron’s dark, rifle-green jacket. They looked intensely happy, though somewhat tired.
A fleeting smile crossed the Polish president’s face. “Major Rozek and Captain McLanahan!” he said, moving toward them. “I am very sorry I had to cut your leave short.” His eyes twinkled. “But brief though it was, I hope you found your time together… restful?”
To his inner delight, both Nadia Rozek and Brad McLanahan actually blushed. After the brash young American nearly got himself killed at Cernavodă, Nadia had practically threatened mutiny unless Wilk allowed her to rush to his side. Supposedly, they’d gone skiing at one of the resorts in the High Tatras. Privately, he had his doubts they had ever made it farther than a hotel room bed, let alone strapped on any skis.
They saluted.
“Uh, yes, sir,” Brad stammered out. “We had a great trip. It was… er… very relaxing.”
Hiding a grin, Wilk returned their salutes. The younger McLanahan really was a terrible liar. Major Rozek was wiser. She said nothing, though a scarcely veiled warning in her blue-gray eyes suggested to Wilk that he might be skating on very thin ice, president of the Third Polish Republic or not.
He found Martindale at his elbow. “We’re all here, Piotr,” the other man said, guiding him toward a chair at a large oval table.
Wilk turned and saw that Wayne Macomber had come in behind him, accompanied by the huge Cybernetic Infantry Device piloted by Patrick McLanahan. Never one for formalities, Macomber sketched a salute and moved to his own chair. Without speaking, the robot simply stalked over to the other side of the room and silently swiveled to face the table.
That bothered him. The older McLanahan had withdrawn more and more from routine human contact over the last few months, seemingly content to communicate more by e-mail or text — and then only about questions of military strategy or weapons technology. He hoped that was simply an effect of the enormous pressure they were all under in trying to get the Alliance of Free Nations up and running before it was too late. If the other man’s increasingly distant behavior was a symptom of something more serious—
With an effort, Wilk pushed his worries about Patrick McLanahan to the side. While the English poet John Donne had rightly proclaimed that no man was an island, the former U.S. Air Force general was still just one man among millions. And at this moment, they faced bigger and more immediate problems.
He nodded almost imperceptibly to Martindale, signaling him to begin.
“Before we move to a detailed discussion of the current crisis, I think it’s best to lay out the bigger picture,” the head of Scion said smoothly. “While President Barbeau remains unalterably opposed to our new alliance, there have been signs that other—”
“With all due respect, sir,” Whack Macomber said, leaning forward with a shit-eating grin. “Maybe you should save the canned spiel for the politicians back in Warsaw and just tell us flat out how badly we’re screwed.”
Martindale closed his eyes in exasperation. “Are you trying to piss me off, Major?”
“Trying?” Macomber said innocently. “No, sir.” He winked at Brad, who was clearly fighting a losing battle with a grin of his own. “I just thought we could save some time is all. Since we’re all clearly doomed, that is.”
Wilk couldn’t help it. He laughed out loud. Even now, even after more than a year in their company, it still astonished him to realize how impudent some of these Americans could be in the face of power. It was both alarming and refreshing, the characteristic of a people who could just be foolish enough to tease God, but who might also be bold enough to kick the Devil in the balls.