“Fine,” Martindale said wryly. “I’ll be brief.” He thought for a moment and then went on. “Okay, we all know that Stacy Anne Barbeau hates our guts.”
“Especially yours,” Macomber pointed out.
“Especially mine,” Martindale agreed. “Even when I was president of the United States, we never saw eye to eye on the big national-security-policy debates. Or even on the little ones, for that matter. But right now she thinks I’m out here raising hell with the Russians for two reasons. First, so I can line my own pockets with profits from Scion military contracts. And second, to screw her politically by causing trouble overseas, when she wants to focus on her own domestic agenda.”
“Which says much more about her own sordid inclinations than it does about you,” Wilk said.
“Sure.” Martindale shrugged. “But in this case, what matters are her actions, not her motivations.” He frowned. “Basically, as far as Barbeau is concerned, the Alliance of Free Nations is, and I quote, ‘a reckless bunch of third-rate countries with delusions of grandeur.’”
“Remind me to not to send flowers for her birthday this year,” Wilk murmured dryly to Nadia Rozek.
“The good news is that Congress is still bucking her demands for broader economic and trade sanctions on the AFN and Poland,” Martindale said. “A few congressmen think she was right to let NATO break up rather than get dragged into a war with Russia. Most believe that was an act of diplomatic cowardice and strategic idiocy. But all of them are furious that she crossed the line and actually helped the Russians against us at the end — especially without even consulting the congressional leadership.”
“And the bad news?” Wilk prompted.
“She’s tightening her executive orders to restrict trade with Poland and the other AFN countries. We’ll challenge those in federal court, but it’ll take months even to get a case heard… and presidents have a lot of wiggle room when it comes to restricting the sale of arms on national security grounds. For all practical purposes, it’s now impossible for us to buy U.S.-manufactured military-grade equipment or technology, especially from Scion-affiliated companies like Sky Masters. At least directly and legally.”
“What about indirectly?” Wilk asked.
“We have a few routes still open to us,” Martindale said. “Some of the countries still in NATO aren’t tagging along with Barbeau’s trade restrictions. My sources in Paris, Rome, and London all tell me their arms industries will keep selling weapons and ammunition to the AFN — so long as our purchases are ‘reasonably discreet.’”
“The Brits, French, and Italians make some decent gear,” Macomber said. Then he shook his head. “But even their top-of-the-line equipment isn’t up to par with what we were getting from Sky Masters. That ain’t going to cut it.”
Wilk knew the American Iron Wolf ground commander was right. Confronted by superior Russian numbers, Poland and its allies needed every technological edge they could muster if they were to survive another conflict.
Martindale nodded. “Indeed.” He shot them a look. “On the other hand, we can use those friendly states as conduits to smuggle in material from Sky Masters and other suppliers in the States.”
“At a higher price,” Wilk said sourly. “Both in money and time.”
“Necessity is a harsh and expensive mistress,” Martindale agreed.
“Well, we shall do what we must,” Wilk said. He shook his head. “My cabinet ministers and parliament will not be happy to see even more money funneled into defense at the expense of other priorities, but they know the stakes.”
Brad sat forward. “What about the other allies? Can any of them chip in more money or credits?”
“I doubt it,” Martindale said. “Hungary, the Baltics, and the rest are pretty strapped for cash. As it is, the rearmament programs they’ve agreed to at our urging are already straining their economies. If we’re very lucky, they may be able to honor their existing commitments. Asking them to pony up more resources isn’t in the cards.”
“Unfortunately, I am afraid that we are already unlucky,” Wilk said flatly. “I spoke to Romania’s president Dumitru this morning. He informed me, with deep regret, that his country can no longer afford to meet even its current alliance defense obligations.”
“Because of what happened at Cernavodă?” Brad asked, frowning.
Wilk nodded gloomily. “The Unit Two reactor there cannot be salvaged. It will take months of emergency cooling and containment before the Romanians can even begin to dismantle it — all at an enormous cost. Dumitru tells me the first estimates are in the billions of dollars.” He spread his hands. “His government also feels compelled by pressure from its own people and from the rest of Europe to shut down the other Cernavodă reactor.”
“How the hell are the Romanians going to replace twenty percent of their electrical generating capacity?” Macomber asked.
“They can’t,” Martindale cut in coolly. “Not on their own. They don’t have enough spare oil- or coal-fired plants or hydroelectric dams to make up the loss. Which means the Romanian economy is going to take a huge hit — with factories shuttered due to loss of power, and rolling blackouts in the towns and cities.”
“Just as we head into winter,” Macomber growled. “That’s not going to be fucking pretty.”
“No, it will not,” Wilk said quietly. “With the cold and darkness of winter looming, President Dumitru is gravely concerned that his government could be toppled by a wave of massive public unrest.”
“With the Russians waiting hungrily in the wings,” Brad said.
“True,” Wilk said. “And naturally our friends in Moscow are doing their best to make things even more difficult for Dumitru. This morning they presented him with a virtual ultimatum. The Russians are threatening to cut off all natural-gas exports to Romania unless he accepts price increases far beyond Bucharest’s ability to pay.”
Martindale’s expression darkened. “So there’s the iron fist without the velvet glove,” he said caustically. “I assume there’s more.”
Wilk nodded. “Dumitru was also handed a personal communication from Gennadiy Gryzlov promising to provide the energy supplies Romania needs, but only if he abandons the Alliance of Free Nations and signs a defense pact with Moscow.”
“That’s classic,” a cold, electronically synthesized voice said.
Surprised by the sudden interjection, Wilk and the others swung toward the huge CID standing motionless by the far wall. “General?”
“Gryzlov never misses a chance to kick people when they’re down,” Patrick McLanahan continued. “That accident at Cernavodă was the perfect opening for him to make trouble. The Romanians can either kowtow to Moscow now, or do it later — after a new pro-Russian government takes power. My bet is that Gryzlov is already in touch with leaders of the opposition parties in Bucharest.”
Wilk nodded slowly. “A correct assessment, General.” He shrugged. “Many of Dumitru’s political opponents already favor the Russians, either out of conviction or sheer expedience.”
“That son of a bitch in Moscow is pretty goddamned fast on his feet,” Whack Macomber said. His gaze darkened. “Too fast, if you ask me. Which is why I’ve got a nagging itch that says the Russians engineered this whole thing.”
“Your instincts are accurate, as usual, Major,” Martindale said softly. “My Scion IT experts finished their preliminary analysis an hour ago. The computers at Cernavodă were hacked. That reactor was deliberately configured to melt down.”