Arctic Storm Rising

Fifteen

Five thousand meters above a pitch-black landscape of primeval forests and a wide river that wound north toward the distant Arctic Ocean, four aircraft flew onward beneath the vast dome of a star-speckled sky. Green, red, and white navigation lights marked the relative positions of the PAK-DA bomber prototype, a four-engine Ilyushin IL-78M-90A refueling tanker, and the two Su-57 stealth fighters assigned to escort the tanker to this midair rendezvous.

Unhurriedly, with painstaking effort, Colonel Alexei Petrov maneuvered into position behind the humpbacked tanker aircraft. Small bright lights outlined the drogue basket streaming behind the IL-78. He’d locked the basket into the bomber’s sophisticated IR targeting system. Steering, speed, and range indicators glowed across his HUD. They changed constantly as he closed in, making infinitesimally small adjustments to his stick and throttles.

Minutes earlier, he had extended their refueling probe from its normal, stowed position inside a compartment along the right side of the PAK-DA’s nose. Now, it was just a question of mating the probe with the drogue basket as it wobbled and danced in the big Ilyushin’s wake. Using a steerable boom system like that pioneered by the U.S. Air Force would be faster and more efficient, Petrov knew. Unfortunately, for some reason known only to its aircraft designers, Russia had never bothered to adopt the more advanced technique.

The lighted drogue basket grew steadily larger through the canopy as he drew nearer. And now, Petrov had become one with his aircraft. The PAK-DA’s stick and throttles were simply extensions of his own body. Like a skilled dancer reacting instinctively to the improvised moves of his partner, he followed the movements of the drogue as it juddered and bounced through turbulent air.

Easy, easy, he thought, almost there. Capture! For a fraction of a second, the probe scraped along the inside of the basket and then, with a soft ca-clunk, it slid into the drogue’s center receptacle and locked in place.

“Contact,” Bunin confirmed from his seat. Numbers started to change on one of his displays. “Taking on fuel.”

More time passed while Petrov concentrated on keeping station on the IL-78 tanker ahead. That required continuous tiny adjustments to his flight controls. Any sudden, unexpected movement could rip their refueling probe out of the drogue and damage both. Despite the cool air flowing from the PAK-DA’s climate control system, droplets of sweat were beading up under his flight helmet and oxygen mask.

“We’re topped off,” Bunin reported. “All fuel tanks are full.”

“Mat’ Kuritsa, Mother Hen, this is Shadow One,” Petrov radioed. “We’re gassed up and ready to break away.”

“Copy that, Shadow,” the tanker pilot replied. “Clearing away on your signal.”

“Mother Hen, execute breakaway… now!” Petrov ordered. At the same time, he pulled his engine throttles back a notch and pushed his stick forward slightly. The bomber’s nose dipped a few degrees. The noise of their NK-65 turbofans diminished as they descended a couple hundred meters. In the same moment, the big Ilyushin up ahead of them increased its own speed and climbed away. The tanker was already banking into an easy left turn that would take it back west toward its home base southeast of Moscow. The big IL-78’s two Su-57 fighter escorts rolled in behind it.

Instantly, the drogue and refueling probe separated in a quick plume of aerosolized fuel. Bunin tapped an icon on his display. The probe retracted back into the PAK-DA’s nose. Numbers flickered across Petrov’s HUD as their computer recalculated the aircraft’s estimated RCS, its radar cross-section. Without the awkward, angular shape of the fuel probe sticking out in front, they should now appear to be only about the size of a large bird to any radar hunting them.

He glanced across the cockpit toward Bunin. “Now we get serious, Oleg.”

His copilot nodded. Although they were still roughly four thousand kilometers from their planned targets — the Russian Pacific Fleet’s warships at anchor in Vladivostok’s harbor and the network of air bases around the same city — this air refueling point was the last certain safe haven along their flight route. From now on, every kilometer they flew took them closer to the vast region of Russia’s Far East in which all “enemy” aircraft, radars, and SAM regiments assigned to defend against Ghost Strike were free to maneuver and deploy. Theoretically, their Kh-102 stealth cruise missiles could hit targets up to twenty-eight hundred kilometers away, but Petrov’s mission plan anticipated a simulated launch at close range, no more than a few hundred kilometers from Vladivostok. A shorter flight time reduced the defenders’ chances of detecting and destroying the incoming missiles. Besides, this exercise was supposed to simulate an over-the-pole attack on strategic targets deep inside the continental United States — where the PAK-DA would have to fly at least eight thousand kilometers just to reach a maximum range launch point. Pushing the bomber prototype to the very limits of its endurance was a key part of the proposal Petrov had sold to the president and his advisers.

“Okay, let’s configure the aircraft for prolonged low-altitude flight,” Petrov said matter-of-factly. “We’re going to come in right on the deck, moving like a bat out of hell.”

Bunin nodded. His fingers danced across displays as he brought up the bomber’s digital terrain-following system and started entering waypoints.

From the seat behind the copilot, Major General Mavrichev leaned forward, unable to hide his surprise. “You plan to make your penetration run at low altitude? Why? The American B-2s fly and attack at high altitudes, don’t they?”

“That’s correct, General,” Petrov said patiently. “But that’s because the Americans have carried out most of their B-2 raids against terrorists — or against weaker nations without modern radars and high-altitude-capable SAMs. That’s not who we’re up against tonight. We’re facing the first team. And every radar station, air defense regiment, and fighter interceptor between here and Vladivostok already knows we’re coming. We might be stealthy enough to slip past them up high, but why press our luck when we don’t have to? True, a low-level penetration flight will burn more fuel, but we’ve got plenty of gas right now, thanks to Mother Hen. And I’ll trade fuel for surprise any day.”

As if to confirm his words, a string of new alerts blinked into existence on one of his full-color displays. The same alerts also appeared on Bunin’s screens.

“Multiple X-band and L-band airborne radars detected at high altitude ahead of us,” his copilot reported. “The computer evaluates them as a mix of Su-27s, Su-30s, and Su-35s, all backed by at least one Beriev A-100 AWACS plane.”

“Signal strength?” Petrov demanded sharply.

“Very weak,” Bunin assured him. “They seem to be flying patrol patterns several hundred kilometers due east of us.”

Petrov smiled narrowly. The air defense commanders assigned to find and “kill” them in tonight’s exercise weren’t taking any chances, either. They’d deployed a strong intercept force right on the edge of the allowed perimeter. Inside, he felt a moment’s regret that Ghost Strike was nothing but a sham. Actually making an attempt to penetrate those tight defenses would have been a remarkable challenge, one requiring every ounce of his tactical and flying skills.

Then he stiffened as two high-pitched tones warbled in his headset. The PAK-DA’s IR sensors had picked up two new contacts, this time moving in from behind them. He toggled a switch on his stick, switching to the view from one of the bomber’s rear-facing thermal cameras. Two ghostly green-tinted images appeared on his helmet visor. They were closing fast.

“What the hell are those clowns doing?” Petrov growled. The two Su-57 stealth fighters that had been escorting the IL-78 air tanker had abandoned their charge and were now chasing after the PAK-DA.

Mavrichev leaned forward again, this time with a satisfied smile on his face. “I made a small alteration to your original operations plan, Colonel. Those fighters will accompany us as our escorts, at least until their fuel runs low. If any of those patrolling interceptors you’ve already detected ahead spot us in turn, the Su-57s will engage and destroy them — opening a clear path to your targets.” He sat back in his seat, looking even more pleased with himself. “And as an added bonus, having friendly fighters along will let you test this aircraft’s secure communications systems under realistic conditions.”

Petrov’s jaw tightened. Beside him, he noticed Bunin surreptitiously roll his eyes in disgust. The whole point of a stealth bomber was that it didn’t need a fighter escort. If anything, adding more aircraft to the mission package only increased the odds they would be detected. But Mavrichev was a dinosaur who’d cut his teeth as a younger officer flying lumbering Tu-95 turboprops and supersonic Tu-160 swing-wing bombers — both aircraft types with enormous radar cross-sections. The general’s understanding of strike tactics must have ossified years ago, Petrov concluded with justified contempt.

Outside, the two sleek-looking Su-57s separated and slid into positions four kilometers off the larger bomber’s wingtips. More uninvited guests at my private party, he thought coldly. This situation was getting worse and worse. His brain went into overdrive as he frantically evaluated a new series of alternatives. He had the means to handle Bunin and Mavrichev. But those Su-57 pilots were beyond easy reach. At last, he shrugged and accepted reality. Things were going to get a lot messier than he would have preferred, but the stakes were far too high for him to back out now.

Petrov pulled down his oxygen mask and ostentatiously took out his father’s old stainless-steel hip flask. With a quick jerk of his head, he mimed tossing back a shot, but he kept his teeth and tongue clenched tight to avoid swallowing any of the liquid inside. He lowered the flask with a strange sense of regret. He missed the sensation of high-proof vodka flowing down his throat like cold fire. Then, with his thumb held firmly over the top, he gave the flask a fast, hard shake to thoroughly mix all of its contents together.

Forcing a more genuine smile, he swung around in his seat and handed it back to Mavrichev. “One for the road, General?” he asked. “Before we get too busy to have any fun?”

The older man laughed and took a huge gulp before passing the flask up to Bunin, who did the same. “You surprise me, Petrov,” he joked. “I had you pegged as a bloodless technocrat. But now I see that you’re just as big a hell-raiser as your old man!”

Still smiling, Petrov retrieved his flask from Bunin and stowed it away again. Mavrichev had come very close to the truth there. Hell was precisely what he planned to raise. He toggled their secure tactical communications system. Like its strategic counterpart, it encrypted and compressed signals into millisecond-long blips before transmitting them. “Prizrachnyy Polet, Specter Flight, this is Shadow One,” he radioed. “We are descending to five hundred meters. Suggest you take station ten kilometers out in front of me for now. Stay a little higher, though, say one thousand meters.”

“Affirmative, Shadow One,” the lead Su-57 pilot replied. Even with the inherent distortion imposed by signals compression, he sounded confident, almost cocky. “We’ll swat any hostiles out of your way as needed.”

Petrov pushed his stick forward, beginning his descent. Through the canopy, he watched the two fighters pull out ahead. Seen from behind and below through the bomber’s sensitive IR sensors, the Su-57s were marginally brighter against the cold, starlit sky. Despite design features that significantly reduced their engine heat signatures, they were still more detectable from the aft quarter.

He shot a quick glance at Bunin. His copilot’s head slumped forward. The fast-acting drug he’d used to spike the vodka had taken effect. It was a fentanyl derivative, originally concocted by chemists for Russia’s Spetsnaz hostage rescue units. Another swift look over his shoulder showed that Mavrichev was also unconscious. Or perhaps dead. Mixing any fentanyl variant with alcohol was incredibly dangerous, often leading to total respiratory failure. As Bunin’s superior, he’d had access to the younger man’s medical records. When he concocted this plan months ago, he’d run those records past shady medical experts provided by Grishin’s go-between, Pavel Voronin. They’d assured him that his copilot’s risk of a fatal overdose was reasonably low. Mavrichev had no such guarantee.

Petrov shrugged. One more death would make no great difference to his conscience.

He leaned forward and checked the readouts from his navigation and sensor systems again. They matched. Except for the distant interceptors and AWACS planes patrolling far off to the east, there were no other air contacts for hundreds of kilometers in any direction. To clear the skies for this top secret Ghost Strike exercise, Russia’s air traffic controllers had temporarily diverted all routine civilian flights away from this isolated, almost uninhabited wilderness region. Effectively, his stealth bomber and its unwanted fighter escorts were all alone in the middle of nowhere.

Petrov grimaced. He was out of options. And almost out of time. Mavrichev’s surprise move to assign those fighters to this mission had boxed him in. At last, with a frustrated sigh, he entered a new series of commands on one of his displays. Four warbling tones echoed through his headset. Data from the PAK-DA’s thermal sensors had been successfully downloaded to four of the self-defense K-74M2 heat-seeking missiles carried in the bomber’s internal weapons bays. They were locked on target.

Gently, he squeezed the trigger on his stick.

With a high-pitched whine, two bays under the wings cycled open. And one by one, four missiles were dropped into the air and ignited. Trailing smoke and fire, they slashed across the night sky — streaking toward their assigned targets at more than two and a half times the speed of sound.

All four missiles covered the distance in less than six seconds.

Taken completely by surprise by this treacherous attack, neither Su-57 pilot had time to realize what was happening — let alone take evasive or defensive action. Four blinding flashes lit the darkness. Ripped apart by proximity-fused warheads, both Su-57s tumbled out of the sky, strewing burning debris across the snow-covered forest below.

Horrified by what he had just done and yet strangely exultant, Petrov banked his stealth bomber to the left, rolling to the northeast toward the frozen Arctic coast now eighteen hundred kilometers ahead. He deleted Bunin’s half-completed flight plan from the computer and substituted his own — one he had prepared over the course of the past several weeks. Whatever else happened, he was fully committed now. There was no going back.