“You’re right, Piotr,” Martindale said, after listening to Wilk’s concerns. “We are missing something. My Scion intelligence analysts have been picking up signs of unusual activity involving Russia’s most elite Spetsnaz and combat aviation units. But I’ll be damned if I can make the pieces fit together into anything that makes sense.”
Suddenly intent and focused, Brad leaned forward. “What kind of activity? Like they’re moving to higher readiness? Getting ready to take another crack at us?”
“That’s what’s strange,” Martindale said, shaking his head. “As far as my people can tell from very limited data, these units are not training for a renewed war. If anything, it looks as if their preparedness is actually slipping.”
Nadia frowned. “Slipping? In what way?”
“For one thing, a significant number of previously scheduled maneuvers have been abruptly canceled,” Martindale told her. “Regular tank and motorized rifle brigades don’t seem to be affected, but it doesn’t appear as though any Spetsnaz unit has conducted serious combat training for several months. And now, over the past few weeks, we’ve seen the same pattern with those fighter units equipped with top-of-the-line interceptors like the Su-35 and Su-50. Suddenly they’re not engaging in any air-to-air combat exercises or even flying routine patrols.”
Perplexed, Wilk shook his head. The former American president was right. This was very odd. Maintaining air-to-air combat skills required constant effort. Fighter pilots left sitting on the ground, even with access to advanced flight simulators, soon lost their edge. The same thing went for the specialized skills needed by Spetsnaz teams. But why would Gennadiy Gryzlov suddenly pull the plug on training for his best troops and pilots?
“We’ve also lost track of some key personnel in those units,” Martindale went on. “Either because they’ve been reassigned somewhere we don’t know about… or because they’re being demobilized.”
Brad snorted. “Demobilized? I wouldn’t bet on that. Gryzlov’s not the kind of guy who’d let his best people just walk away. No, that Russian son of a bitch is up to something all right.” He grimaced. “But like Mr. Martindale over there, I’m damned if I can put my finger on what it might be.”
Nadia’s blue-gray eyes darkened. “I really do not care for the idea of just sitting around waiting to find out the hard way what Moscow has up its sleeve.”
“Nor do I, Major,” Wilk assured her. He turned to Martindale. “I assume you have a plan to remedy our ignorance? And probably one that is both highly dangerous and of questionable legality?”
A wry grin flashed across the former American president’s face. “I see that my reputation precedes me.” He leaned back in his chair. “But yes, I do, Piotr. In fact, I’ve already set a covert op in motion.”
“Without my authorization,” Wilk said flatly. There were moments when it became clear that even though his private military company was employed by Poland, Martindale viewed himself as an independent actor on the world stage.
“Correct.” The other man shrugged. “This is a strictly Scion-initiated intelligence-gathering operation, not an AFN- or Polish-ordered action. If it goes badly, that might give your government a modest amount of diplomatic cover.”
“And why, precisely, would we need such protection?” Wilk asked coolly.
“Because I’m sending a team of my best operatives deep inside Russia to get some answers,” Martindale replied. “And try as they might, I suspect they’re not likely to end up being very subtle about it.”
“Which means the odds are this team of yours is going to need a fast ride out,” Brad guessed.
“So that is why you are telling us about this mission now, rather than simply reporting its results later,” Nadia said. Her tone was cold.
Martindale nodded. “Quite true, Major Rozek. I may need help from the Iron Wolf Squadron to extract my agents.”
Brad sighed. “I suppose you want us to warm up the XCV-62 Ranger?”
He didn’t sound especially eager and Wilk could not blame him. The younger McLanahan and Nadia had flown the Ranger, a stealthy, short-takeoff-and-landing tactical airlifter, on the raid against Russia’s Perun’s Aerie cyberwar complex. Two members of their nine-person assault team had been killed and another seriously wounded. While the survivors had escaped through a tightly drawn net of Russian interceptors and SAMs, it was only by the narrowest of margins.
“Not this time,” Martindale said, shaking his head. “The Ranger’s a highly capable machine, but the area my people are going to be operating in probably won’t offer any decent landing zones big enough to accommodate an aircraft of its size.” He turned to Nadia, eyeing the silver eagle pilot’s badge on her uniform. “No, for this mission, I have something a bit more mundane in mind.”
Seven
Sited just seven miles from the state capital and near the junction of several major interstate highways, Indianapolis International Airport was the eighth busiest air freight hub in the United States. More than a million metric tons of cargo flowed through its distribution centers and adjoining warehouses every year. So when Francis Xavier Regan expanded his namesake Regan Air Freight’s operations into the American market, it had made perfect sense to choose Indianapolis as its new corporate headquarters.
In the months since the reclusive billionaire sold his interest and then vanished at sea, Regan Air’s top executives had carried on managing the company’s day-to-day operations without much interference or even guidance from the new owners. At first, they’d all agreed that it felt peculiar to be out from under the old man’s cold and ever-calculating eye. Gradually, though, CEO Martin Crown and his closest subordinates had begun enjoying their unanticipated freedom of action. For the first time in their tenure with the company, they felt fully in charge.
Now, Crown thought dourly, it looked very much like those short-lived glory days of power and total control were coming to an end. Together with his chief financial officer, Halsey Stutz, and their director of flight operations, Ted Locke, he’d been “invited” out to the airport to watch Regan Air’s newest acquisition, a Boeing 737-200F freighter, arrive.
Sweating profusely in the heat rolling off the tarmac, the big, paunchy American unbuttoned his suit jacket. He glanced at the shorter, slimmer man who’d summoned them here out of their comfortable air-conditioned offices. This guy Daeniker was their liaison with the new owners, all of whom were based overseas. He also had the lean and hungry look Crown associated with men who didn’t mind being the bearers of bad tidings — like mass layoffs or poorly conceived corporate restructurings that usually ended in bankruptcy.
“There it comes,” Daeniker said suddenly, pointing to the twin-engine narrow-body jet flaring in to land on Runway 5L about a mile and a half from their position in front of Regan Air’s shipment center. The air freighter was already painted in Regan’s trademarked kelly-green and gold stripes, with a large, stylized R on its tailfin. The Swiss checked his watch. “Precisely on schedule,” he said with satisfaction.
Crown exchanged a pained look with Stutz and Locke. Given the current state of the economy, none of them would have approved buying another aircraft — let alone a model so old and outdated. After all, the last 737–200 had rolled off Boeing’s production line more than thirty years ago. And out of more than a thousand built, fewer than a hundred were still flying.