FORTY
The silence in the crowded conference room was absolute, as though no one dared even breathe.
Gennadiy Gryzlov sat staring at the large display in wordless rage, watching helplessly as the icons representing his most advanced SAM regiments and jet fighters winked out. His hands shook, eager to choke the life out of someone — anyone. How could this be happening? Whose vile, unforgivable treason had turned Russia’s own missiles against itself?
A phone buzzed sharply, breaking the appalled silence.
Ashen-faced with fear, Ivan Ulanov, his private secretary, picked it up. “Yes?” The younger man listened intently for a moment. If anything, his face turned even whiter. He gulped and turned toward Gryzlov. “Sir?” he said hesitantly. “It’s the American White House. Their president wishes to speak to you on a secure video link.”
“Put her through,” Gryzlov heard himself say, almost without thinking. Was that slut, Stacy Anne Barbeau, calling to gloat? Were the Americans somehow responsible for this disaster? His teeth ground together. If so, she would bitterly regret her insolence — and soon.
He saw Foreign Minister Daria Titeneva stir as if to protest and silenced her with a quick, ferocious glare.
The large monitor blanked and then came back up. But instead of President Barbeau, it showed a man with gray hair and a neatly trimmed gray beard perched nonchalantly on the corner of a desk. He was smiling, but the smile did not extend to his eyes, which were as cold and distant and bleak as the icy plains of Pluto.
Gryzlov sat bolt upright. The guy looked damned familiar. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded.
If anything, the mocking smile on the other man’s face grew colder. “My name is Martindale,” he said flatly. “Kevin Martindale.”
“Martindale. Kevin Martindale.” Gryzlov’s eyes exploded in shock as he recognized the former American president.
Martindale gestured toward the unseen camera broadcasting his image. “I could apologize for this small deception, but I won’t. Because it’s extremely important that you realize that two can play this computer hacking game.” His gaze hardened. “And that we play it better.”
“What the fuck do you mean by that?” Gryzlov snarled.
“Come now, don’t be coy, Gennadiy,” the American said coolly. “We’ve all seen the handiwork of Major General Koshkin’s hackers. And now you’ve just had one small taste of what my own specialists can accomplish. I really hope you enjoyed watching so many of your jet fighters go down in flames.”
There were muted gasps around the room.
For a long moment, Gryzlov saw only red. Fury possessed him, raging through his otherwise rational mind in an uncontrollable flood. He bolted upright. “You fucking bastard,” he growled. “If you want all-out war — a war red in tooth and claw — you can have it! My troops and tanks will—”
Martindale cut him off with a single, imperious gesture. “Oh, I wouldn’t advise that, Gennadiy,” he said disdainfully. He bared his teeth in a wolfish smile. “You’ve already lost control over your surface-to-air regiments and watched them shoot down more than a dozen of your best combat aircraft. How much more damage would you like to take today? And tomorrow? And the day after that?”
For another instant, Gryzlov teetered on the very edge of pure madness. But then, slowly, very slowly, the deeper implications of what the American had been saying sank in. He turned away from the screen and the watchful eyes of his advisers, suddenly thoughtful. It was clear that the Poles and their technologically advanced mercenaries had somehow suborned his air-defense systems. How many other elements of his armed forces had they hacked? Were they inside his command links to the navy and the aerospace and ground forces?
And then another, even more terrifying thought occurred to him. Was what remained of his nation’s strategic nuclear arsenal still under his control? He shivered suddenly, imagining nuclear-tipped missiles blasting out of their silos and off their mobile launchers… but aimed at Russia’s own cities instead of its enemies.
Trying to hide his fear, Gryzlov turned back to Martindale. “What are you proposing?”
“Nothing too complicated,” the other man told him bluntly. “You call off Koshkin’s hackers — and disarm every cyberweapon still planted in the infrastructure of the Alliance of Free Nations. And in return, we agree not to blow the Kremlin, and the rest of Moscow, down around your goddamned ears.”
Reluctantly, Gryzlov nodded. Perhaps it would be wiser to pull back now, and give his cyberwar experts time to strengthen their own defenses. Besides, he thought, more confidently, this was only a preliminary skirmish. He could sit back and count his gains, which were more substantial than this American knew. His eyes narrowed as he studied the other man. “Very well, I agree.” He showed his own teeth. “But you should know that this isn’t over, Martindale.”
“Oh, I never thought it was, Gennadiy,” the other man agreed. He shrugged. “After all, you’re still breathing.”
The monitor went black.
With Nadia Rozek at his side, Brad McLanahan stepped out of the elevator and onto the dimly lit hospital floor. Together they hurried down the corridors, heading for the small darkened room where his father lay dying. Escorted by Colonel Kasperek’s fighters, they’d flown the XCV-62 direct to Warsaw’s Minsk Mazowiecki military airfield — and then boarded a helicopter with the gravely wounded Sergeant Davis for the short hop to this trauma center.
Davis was in the operating room now, being worked on by some of Poland’s best surgeons. While they cautioned that the road to full recovery would be long and difficult, they were confident that the Iron Wolf sergeant would survive his injuries.
So now, with his last duty to those in his command discharged, Brad felt able at last to focus on his own private sorrows. They turned a corner and entered the quiet, deserted hallway at the very back of the ICU.
But when they arrived at the bank of windows looking into what had been Patrick McLanahan’s room, they saw only an empty bed. The tangle of complicated medical machinery was gone. The room had been stripped bare, right down to its plain linoleum floor.
They were too late.
Brad stared blindly at the vacant bed, trying… and failing… to come to grips with a future empty of his father’s powerful presence. Slowly, unwillingly, he turned away. His eyes filled with tears. Nadia fell into his arms, quietly weeping herself.
“Hello, son,” he heard a familiar voice say. “I’m sorry about giving you a shock like that. I planned to meet you before you got this far, but I move a little slower these days.”
Startled, Brad looked up. He saw a human-size figure walking somewhat awkwardly down the hall toward them. It was a man. His torso, arms, and legs were supported by an exoskeleton coupled to a large backpack. A helmet enclosed his head, but through a clear visor, he saw his father’s face — older and more lined — smiling back at him.
Scarcely able to speak, Brad stammered. “Dad! I thought… well… I thought you were dying.”
“Me too, son,” Patrick McLanahan said with a wry, lopsided smile. “Luckily, Jason Richter had one more little high-tech wonder up his sleeve, with some forceful encouragement from Kevin Martindale.” He tapped the exoskeleton with one finger. “This thing. It’s called a LEAF, a Life Enhancing Assistive Facility.” He saw the pained expression on Brad and Nadia’s faces and laughed. “Yeah, that’s another of Jason’s less artistic acronyms.”