Arctic Storm Rising

Twelve

Russia’s primary military command center occupied a massive white concrete compound of Stalinist-era buildings on the north bank of the Moskva River, roughly three kilometers from the Kremlin. Two six-story-high arches joined two wings to a central structure topped by the hammer-and-sickle coat of arms of the old Soviet Union and bas-reliefs of soldiers and flags. The imposing arches were closed off with triumphalist stained-glass windows. One bore the image of a sword-armed knight. The other depicted a modern female soldier carrying both a Kalashnikov assault rifle and a young child.

A new addition to the complex had been built in one of the older courtyards. It contained three large auditoriums equipped with wall-sized, wraparound screens and tiers of computer control stations with hardwired connections to an ultrafast supercomputer. Those were mostly for use as propaganda showcases and backdrops for political figures who wanted to impress their own people and those of other nations with images conveying high-tech Russian military prowess.

Smaller command centers and other facilities buried underground handled the real work of coordinating military action across Russia and around the globe. Now, inside a highly secure subterranean conference room, Colonel Alexei Petrov strode confidently to the podium set directly in front of a semicircular table. He looked out across his audience, comprised of the nation’s most senior military leaders and government officials, including its president, Piotr Zhdanov. They were all men. Like the old Soviet Union, the Russian Federation paid a great deal of lip service to equality of the sexes, but its higher-echelon positions were always reserved for men with the right connections.

Zhdanov himself, usually depicted by a compliant government-controlled media as physically powerful and a paragon of perfect health, had aged rapidly over the past several months. His round face was pale and pudgy, and he looked thicker around the waist. There were visible shadows under his hard, brown eyes, and even his hair had thinned and turned gray. Well, Petrov thought dispassionately, death and illness come to us all sooner or later. If Russia’s autocratic president had expected his run of good fortune to continue forever, recent events must have shown him how wrong he had been.

Now Zhdanov eagerly leaned forward in his chair. “I understand you have a special proposal to present to us this afternoon, Colonel?”

“Da, Mr. President,” Petrov said. Outwardly calm, inside he battled a storm of swirling emotions. In a very real sense, his fate now rested entirely on his ability to persuade these men, especially Zhdanov, to approve the plan he was about to present. He tapped a virtual control on the podium’s computer display. Right away, the wall screen behind him lit up to show a detailed topographic map of the Russian Federation — all the way from its disputed land border with the Ukraine to the Pacific coast around Vladivostok.

He nodded to the junior officers waiting at the back of the room. They fanned out to present Zhdanov and the others with pairs of sleek, futuristic-looking eyewear. “Gentlemen, please put on the AR smart glasses you’ve been given.”

They obeyed, and Petrov heard a series of stifled gasps as they saw the world around them instantly transform. The augmented-reality technology embedded in each pair of smart glasses had just studded the huge map with three-dimensional representations of the military hardware deployed across Russia — everything from fighter aircraft to main battle tanks, warships, submarines, surface-to-air missiles, strategic bombers, and nuclear-tipped ballistic missiles.

He smiled a bit, observing their awed reaction. Pavel Voronin was the one who had pressed him to make full use of this new technology in his briefing. “Salesmanship is showmanship,” Grishin’s urbane henchman had pointed out. “Dazzle those old farts and they’ll be eating out of your hand by the time you’re finished.” It appeared that Voronin’s cynical assessment might be correct.

Petrov tapped another control on the podium. In response, the map zoomed in to show the region of southern Russia around Akhtubinsk and the Chkalov State Flight Test Center. New three-dimensional pictures appeared. These showed the PAK-DA stealth bomber prototype effortlessly performing a series of complicated aerial maneuvers. They finished with image-enhanced video shot from one of the Su-34 chase planes when the bomber launched its Kh-102 practice cruise missile. That drew more excited murmurs, especially when the augmented-reality program depicted a realistic-looking nuclear fireball rising from the intended target.

“As you can see, Mr. President,” Petrov said smoothly, “our flight tests of the new stealth bomber prototype are progressing rapidly and with complete success so far.”

Zhdanov nodded gravely. “That is a testament to your own skills and courage, Colonel.”

Petrov bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment of the president’s fulsome praise. “But despite those successes, we still face a long road ahead to certify the design ready for operational deployment and full-scale production,” he warned.

“How long a road?” Zhdanov asked.

“At least twelve more months,” Petrov told him truthfully. “And perhaps as long as two full years, if we adhere slavishly to conventional flight-test procedures.”

The president frowned. “Two years?” he muttered. “That’s too long. Far too long.” Based on current trends, he could easily be out of power, dead, in prison, or in exile by then. He needed a visible military success, and soon — an obvious triumph that would persuade Russia’s fickle masses that his much-touted plans to rebuild their nation’s greatness and its status as a world superpower were paying real dividends… despite these temporary economic hardships.

“I agree completely, Mr. President,” Petrov told him. “But this is what we have left ahead of us if we follow ordinary, peacetime evaluation protocols.” He activated another control. The sleek, manta-shaped PAK-DA bomber vanished from his audience’s sight, replaced by a long, dreary-looking, official Air Force timetable that listed, in mind-numbing detail, the remaining technical milestones required to qualify Tupolev’s prototype aircraft for production. He watched the president’s frown deepen to an exasperated scowl and exulted inside. “That’s why I would like your permission to try something very different: a rigorous, complex, and realistic exercise designed to assess the full range of our new strategic bomber’s strike capabilities. A single difficult flight test that would cut through much of the typical bureaucratic bullshit if it succeeds — and shave months off the timetable even if it fails.”

With the ostentatious wave of a single hand, he erased the image of the official schedule from their smart glasses. In its place, a glowing phrase appeared, big enough to cover the digital map of Russia from west to east: Operatsiya Prizrachnyy Udar.

“Operation Ghost Strike?” Zhdanov said slowly.

Petrov nodded. He touched another control. It triggered a series of exciting, computer-generated visuals that matched his verbal presentation perfectly — thanks to advanced voice-recognition software that sent specific graphics to their high-tech eyewear whenever he used the appropriate keywords. “Under Ghost Strike, the PAK-DA prototype will be tasked with conducting a simulated cruise missile strike against the Pacific Fleet’s anchorage and its Naval Aviation air bases around Vladivostok, in the Far East. To enhance the realism of this exercise, the aircraft will carry its full wartime payload of Kh-102 cruise missiles, K-74M2 heat-seeking missiles for self-defense, and fuel. Thus loaded, it will depart from base at 1700 hours and proceed toward its assigned targets in darkness, on a moonless night—”

As he laid out the plan, an image of the bomber prototype took off from Russia’s primary strategic bomber base, Engels-2, seven hundred kilometers southeast of Moscow. It turned east, flying low across the Central Asian steppes and onward toward the towering Ural Mountains. “Naturally, the fleet itself and all of our other Eastern Military District air defense forces will be on full alert, ready for just such an attack.”

More images appeared before the audience’s eyes, depicting a web of intricate, layered defenses around Petrov’s intended targets. These included sophisticated radars, surface-to-air missile regiments, and roving fighter patrols. “No easy task,” the Russian Navy’s senior admiral commented dryly. “One bomber against dozens of SAM launchers and some of our best interceptors? No matter how impressive the technology built into this new prototype of yours truly is, Colonel, you’ll still be massively outnumbered. And after all, quantity has a quality all its own,” he finished, quoting Stalin.

Petrov nodded. “That’s precisely the point, Admiral.” He turned to Zhdanov. “Win or lose, this exercise will yield a huge amount of invaluable real-world data on the PAK-DA — including its long-range endurance, air-to-air refueling capability, low-level penetrating stealth characteristics, and electronic warfare systems. We would be compressing months of more conventional testing and validation into a single demonstration flight.”

“Allowing us to field a force of combat-ready stealth bombers that much more quickly?” the president asked.

“Yes, sir,” Petrov said firmly.

Zhdanov was visibly impressed. Besides speeding up the progress of the PAK-DA program, the colonel’s proposal offered the possibility of scoring a propaganda coup of the first magnitude — one that should rouse patriotic spirits here at home and unnerve potential enemies abroad. Best of all, it wouldn’t matter whether or not the bomber prototype actually succeeded in scoring simulated hits on its targets this time. If Petrov and his copilot actually managed to penetrate the powerful defenses arrayed against them, it would show the world that Russia now had its own highly capable strategic stealth bomber. And even a failure could be spun to “prove” that America’s own vaunted B-2 Spirit and B-21 Raider stealth aircraft were no match for Russia’s combination of powerful radars, deadly surface-to-air missiles, and fast, agile interceptors.

The president glanced at those around him. “Comments, gentlemen?”

“The colonel’s proposed Ghost Strike is certainly audacious, Mr. President. Who knows? It might even work out the way he hopes,” a stocky, bull-necked man seated three chairs down from the president said bluntly. Major General Vasily Mavrichev was the chief of Russia’s Long-Range Aviation Force. He had a vested interest in the PAK-DA program. Once the first stealth bombers reached operational status, they would fall under his direct command. But he was also known as an advocate for tried-and-true tactics and procedures, with an abiding distrust of anything new, let alone anything that might be considered revolutionary. “However, I don’t like the idea of the PAK-DA carrying armed cruise missiles on what’s really just a glorified training exercise. In my judgment, that’s an unnecessary risk factor.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “I recommend that we load practice missiles with dummy warheads instead.”

Petrov hid his irritation. Mavrichev’s opposition to that part of his Ghost Strike plan was no surprise. But he could not afford to concede the point. Without real Kh-102s aboard the bomber when it took off, this whole operation was pointless. “Since we’ve already proved that the PAK-DA prototype is perfectly airworthy, the risk is minimal,” he argued, aiming his words at Zhdanov rather than the general. “Besides, we don’t have enough practice missiles in our arsenal to make up a complete weapons load. We’d be taking off light, which would not come close to replicating a real-life combat sortie.”

“So we build more of the dummy weapons,” Mavrichev countered stubbornly.

“Adding more delay and more expense,” Petrov retorted. “And for no good reason. Sooner or later, we’ll have to certify the PAK-DA’s readiness to carry a full payload of live missiles. It’s one of our key program milestones. Why not achieve it now if we can, considerably ahead of schedule?”

Zhdanov saw his point. “The colonel makes sense, Vasily Ivanovich,” he said to Mavrichev. “As the Americans say, ‘He’s got the ball, let him run with it.’” Smiling broadly, he turned back to Petrov. “You won’t let us down, will you, Colonel?”

“Absolutely not, Mr. President,” Petrov promised. He matched Zhdanov’s smile. “In fact, I can guarantee that you will be absolutely amazed by the results of Ghost Strike.”

And that, he thought with carefully concealed pleasure, might have been the most truthful thing he’d said during this entire briefing.

Petrov stared moodily at the bronze bust of his father, Major General Vladimir Alexeyevich Petrov. Set atop a red granite tombstone, the sculpture’s suitably heroic visage stared out at an open vista of empty grass squares, paths, and access roads. The national cemetery, a replacement for the Kremlin Wall Necropolis, was intended to serve as a burial place for Russian dignitaries and military heroes for the next two hundred years. So far, only a small fraction of its forty thousand plots had been filled.

He snorted. If the stubborn old bastard weren’t dead, he’d probably be complaining about the lack of company. As befitted a true Hero of the Soviet Union, the general had always “modestly” believed he should be the center of everyone’s attention.

Irreverently, Petrov lifted his father’s old stainless-steel hip flask in a mock toast. “Here’s to you, old man. I’m sure I’ll see you in hell.” He tossed back a quick swig and then retightened the cap.

“Was that a belated funeral libation?” a dryly amused voice said from behind him. “Or simple thirst?”

Petrov turned around. Pavel Voronin stood a few paces away, dapper as always in a dark double-breasted wool coat.

“A bit of both.” He offered the flask. “Care for one yourself?”

Voronin shook his head politely. “Thanks, but not right now. Perhaps another time. Somewhere more… cheerful.” He glanced around the empty cemetery. There was no one else in sight. “Should I assume your presentation to the president went well?”

“Very well,” Petrov confirmed. Quickly, he ran through the details of the Ghost Strike exercise Zhdanov had approved.

Voronin whistled under his breath when he heard that the PAK-DA would now be carrying nuclear-armed cruise missiles. “Wasn’t that pressing your luck a little far?”

“Aren’t you the one who’s always emphasized the commercial aspects of this joint venture?” Petrov asked slyly.

“Your point?”

Petrov forced a laugh. “Having those weapons under our control only strengthens our bargaining position,” he explained. “The fancier the goods in the shop window, the more a merchant can charge, right?”

The other man nodded slowly, acknowledging Petrov’s point. Nevertheless, it was clear that he didn’t particularly like the idea of a last-minute change in their plans. “Will loading those missiles affect the timetable?”

“Not in the slightest,” Petrov assured him. “You can give your boss the green light.” He checked his watch. “Tell him the show kicks off just a little over forty-eight hours from now.”