Arctic Storm Rising

Sixteen

President Piotr Zhdanov lit another cigarette, drew on it for a moment, and then, irritably, stubbed it out in an already-overflowing ashtray. The soft, background hum of the secure conference room’s ventilation system rose slightly in pitch as overhead fans strained smoke out of the air. Sophisticated electronics and tobacco contaminants were not a good mix.

Zhdanov looked up at the wall-sized map display again. Glowing concentric rings showed the estimated detection ranges for active radar stations across Russia’s Far East region. Other rings depicted the engagement zones for S-300 and S-400 surface-to-air missile units. Fighter icons showed the current reported locations for patrols scouring the skies for any sign of the PAK-DA stealth bomber prototype. He scowled. Nothing seemed to have changed.

At first, the apparent inability of Russia’s alerted air defense networks to catch even a fleeting glimpse of Petrov’s stealth aircraft had seemed like good news to Zhdanov and his military commanders. It was seen as a sign that Tupolev’s vaunted bomber prototype was living up to its promise. But as the hours ticked past in silence, this early optimism had given way to a growing sense of unease.

Impatiently, Zhdanov swung around on Lieutenant General Yvgeny Rogozin. “Well? Where are they? What the devil is going on?”

“I’m not sure,” Rogozin admitted hesitantly. The chief of Russia’s Air Force used a control to sketch a glowing line across the digital wall map — one that crossed the coast considerably north of Vladivostok and then curved back over the Pacific Ocean toward Ghost Strike’s assigned targets. “It’s possible that Petrov has chosen a longer, more elaborate flight path to evade our defenses. Fully fueled, the aircraft has more than enough endurance to fly a route something along these lines. But there is a problem with this theory—”

“Which is the simple fact that those Su-57 fighters Mavrichev added to the strike package don’t have anywhere near that kind of range,” Zhdanov interrupted acidly.

Rogozin nodded. The corners of his mouth turned down. “Correct, Mr. President.”

“And yet, we’ve heard nothing from them.”

“No, sir.” Rogozin tapped another control to highlight every military and civilian airfield between Moscow and Vladivostok. In response, pinpoints of light scattered across the wall map. “Nor are there reports that the Su-57s made emergency landings at any of our bases or airports.”

“What about air-to-air refueling?” Zhdanov demanded.

Rogozin shook his head. “I contacted the commander of the Fourth Aviation Group at Ryazan personally. The Il-78 tanker that refueled Petrov’s plane returned safely to base twenty minutes ago. And there are no other tankers currently in the air.”

“Then we have a serious problem, Yvgeny,” Zhdanov said darkly. “Contact Colonel Petrov immediately. I want to know exactly where he is right now… and just what in the hell has happened to those stealth fighters.”

The sleek manta ray — shaped PAK-DA bomber raced over a vista of near-absolute desolation. Jagged, hummocky ridges of thick, compacted sea ice flashed below its wings and either vanished astern in the darkness or were swallowed by blinding curtains of gale-driven ice crystals that shrieked across the frozen wilderness.

Inside the cockpit, Petrov grimly held his course as the aircraft bounced and shuddered through increasingly turbulent air. The weather was growing steadily worse, just as the meteorological reports he’d studied had promised. Massive storms were brewing across the polar ice cap, with the promise of thickening clouds and high winds ahead.

Those developing storms were his allies, he knew. They would help hide his passage across this empty ocean of ice from prying eyes and satellites. And few of those who would soon be hunting him would believe he was crazy enough to risk flying through swirling maelstroms of wind and snow powerful enough to snatch his aircraft out of the sky and dash it into the sea in the blink of an eye.

Another gust slammed into the speeding bomber. Swearing under his breath, Petrov trimmed it back to level flight. In the seat on his right, Bunin’s drooping head flopped toward him and then rolled back the other way. His copilot and Mavrichev were both still unconscious, but he’d taken the precaution of binding their hands and feet in case they recovered sooner than he expected. He’d also stowed their personal sidearms well out of reach. He had no intention of giving either of his prisoners the chance to do anything stupidly heroic and futile.

Red-flagged alert messages suddenly rippled across the large display he’d configured to manage the PAK-DA’s sensors and defense systems. The bomber’s radar warning receivers had just picked up new signals. These were from distant S-band phased array radars. Judging by their strength and bearing, they belonged to Sopka-2 air surveillance radars positioned on several of the rugged Arctic islands lining Russia’s long north coast.

Petrov grunted. Somebody out there was waking up at last. It was far too late, of course. It was just possible that one of those radar stations might have detected his stealth aircraft, he supposed — but only if he’d been foolish enough to fly right past it at point-blank range. As it was, the PAK-DA was already well outside Russia’s defense perimeter.

A sharp ping sounded in his headset. His secure satellite communications system had just received an urgent message. Moscow was demanding a situation update. A twisted smile tugged sharply at one side of Petrov’s lean face. For a brief moment, he was actually tempted to reply, if only to see how much further he could exploit Zhdanov’s misplaced trust in him. But then he shrugged. Why bother? The president and his advisers would learn the horrifying truth soon enough.

Or at least part of it, he thought with eerily detached amusement. Like the malignant tumor inexorably gnawing away at his brain, the full truth of what he planned was something he intended to reserve for himself. For the time being, anyway.

Ignoring Moscow’s increasingly frantic and repeated signals, Petrov flew on — racing north across the polar ice cap toward a darkening mass of storm clouds.

A pair of multirole, two-seater Su-30 fighters sped across the forest canopy at high speed. Their NO11M Bars pulse Doppler phased array radars were radiating in both air-to-air and air-to-ground modes. They had been urgently vectored to this area — the site of the missing PAK-DA’s midair refueling rendezvous. It was the last place anyone could confirm seeing the stealth bomber prototype and its Su-57 fighter escorts.

Aboard the lead fighter, Major Valentin Yakunin scanned the night sky ahead of them and periodically checked his radar displays. He was searching for any sign of an air contact, no matter how faint or fleeting. So far, he had seen absolutely nothing. Which made sense, he thought disgustedly, because there was nothing to see. Considering how many hours had passed since the PAK-DA refueled over this uninhabited wilderness, this was the very definition of a wild goose chase. By now, the prototype stealth bomber could be thousands of kilometers away in any one of a dozen different directions. Moscow was clutching at straws.

“Are you getting anything significant back there, Ivan?” he asked his weapons officer.

In the Su-30’s rear seat, Captain Ivan Saltikov had his head down to monitor his own instruments and displays. He was focused on returns from their ground-to-air radar and on the green-tinged thermal images captured by their forward-looking infrared sensor pod. “Not yet,” he admitted. “So far, I’ve detected trees and more trees. Plus, a lot of trees. Oh, and some more trees.”

“Well, make sure you don’t miss the forest,” Yakunin said dryly. “I understand there’s supposed to be a very large one somewhere around here.” A quick check of their navigation system showed that they were now more than fifty kilometers east of the stealth bomber’s last reported position.

Suddenly, Saltikov snapped, “Hold on! I’ve got something, Major! I’m picking up a signal over the emergency channel.” Quickly, he pushed a toggle on one of his panels to feed the incoming transmission to their shared intercom channel.

Through his headset, Yakunin heard a shrill, staccato series of beeps. The sequence faded briefly and then started up again, repeating the same tone pattern. “Christ, that’s an emergency locator beacon!” he realized. Like their Western counterparts and most civilian airplanes, all Russian military aircraft carried a transmitter designed to activate automatically in the event of a crash.

“And I see where it’s broadcasting from,” Saltikov said, sounding sick to his stomach. Both the fighter’s ground-to-air radar and its forward-looking infrared pod were showing the same thing — a wide scar torn through the forest. In and among the splintered and broken trees was a mass of wreckage, the mangled remains of an Su-57 fighter.

“Hunter One, this is Two,” Yakunin heard his wingman in the second Su-30 reply after he frantically relayed the news of what they’d seen on the ground. “We just spotted more debris ourselves, several kilometers to the south of that first plane.”

“Is it the stealth bomber?” he asked. My God, he wondered, could there have been some sort of disastrous midair collision between the PAK-DA and its escorts? One that destroyed all three aircraft before any of them could radio for help?

“Negative, Hunter One. This second downed aircraft is definitely the other Su-57. There’s no sign at all of the PAK-DA prototype.”

Yakunin’s eyes widened. Whatever had destroyed those two stealth fighters, it couldn’t be an accident. He switched radio frequencies again to contact their home air base, near the border with Mongolia. “Domna Control, this is Hunter One. Patch me through to the NDMC in Moscow. And make it quick!”

When he understood what the Su-30 crews had discovered, Zhdanov slumped back in his chair. He felt the blood drain from his face. His pulse hammered wildly in his ears, louder even than the other equally shocked voices ringing out across the crowded conference room. Fighting for a small measure of self-control, he swung toward Lieutenant General Rogozin. “Yvgeny, are those pilots really claiming that our Su-57s were shot down?”

Looking pale himself, the Air Force commander nodded. “It appears so, Mr. President.” He swallowed hard. “To confirm their assessment fully, we’ll need to dispatch investigative teams by helicopter from Kansk Air Base. But the indications seem clear and unmistakable. Both fighters appear to have crashed almost simultaneously — as though they were struck by air-to-air missiles at virtually the same instant.”

“Missiles fired from our own stealth bomber?” Zhdanov asked, unable to suppress the absurd hope that there was some other explanation for this catastrophe.

“Yes, Mr. President.” Rogozin grimaced. “I’m afraid that is the only logical possibility.”

Zhdanov stared at him. “Which means that the PAK-DA’s crew has gone rogue.”

Very reluctantly, Rogozin nodded again. “And they’ve taken our most advanced aircraft and a full load of nuclear-armed, long-range cruise missiles with them,” he added quietly.

“And General Mavrichev? What about him?”

Rogozin frowned. “I suspect he’s either a prisoner… or dead. Neither Petrov nor Bunin knew he would be aboard until the very last minute before they took off, so it’s unlikely he was a member of their conspiracy.”

“But why?” Zhdanov demanded. “What can these traitors possibly hope to gain?”

Rogozin sat silent.

“I asked you a question, General,” Zhdanov snapped. Deep inside, he felt the faint stirring of white-hot rage. He welcomed it in place of the unreasoning fear that had gripped him only moments before. Fury was a leader’s prerogative. Fear was only a mark of weakness.

The other man shook himself. He sighed. “Three horrifying possibilities suggest themselves, Mr. President,” he said slowly.

“Go on,” Zhdanov growled.

“First, Petrov and Bunin have decided to carry out a surprise attack against a foreign adversary, either the Americans or the Chinese… for some insane, unfathomable reason of their own.”

Zhdanov stared at Rogozin in consternation. In total, the twelve cruise missiles aboard the experimental stealth bomber represented three megatons of explosive force — enough to destroy whole command centers, strategic bomber bases, and naval squadrons in port. Or kill hundreds of thousands, or even millions, of men, women, and children if they were launched against cities. And the deliberate detonation of even a single one of their 250-kiloton warheads could easily trigger an all-out nuclear confrontation. But of themselves, those twelve stolen missiles did not even come close to representing enough military power to actually win a war against either the United States or the People’s Republic of China. Petrov and his copilot must know that, which would make any decision to fire the weapons an act of utter nihilism.

“The second possibility is that the bomber’s crew has rebelled against Moscow and intends to decapitate the current government, again for some motive we do not yet understand,” Rogozin continued grimly.

Zhdanov flinched. His eyes darted to the map. “If that’s so, we could be under attack—”

“Now,” Rogozin confirmed. “Given their low-altitude cruise speed, any missiles fired in our direction from maximum range may strike this complex and the Kremlin at any moment.”

Zhdanov gritted his teeth. “You seem very calm about this situation, Yvgeny,” he snarled.

Rogozin shook his head gravely. “No, just realistic, Mr. President. The Kh-102s have a circular error probability of less than ten meters. If Petrov has already fired missiles in our direction and they detonate on target, we’ll be dead before we even know what’s happening.”

“How… comforting,” Zhdanov ground out. “And your third nightmare scenario?”

“That the crew is defecting, with their aircraft, to either the United States or the People’s Republic of China,” Rogozin said flatly. “Of their three possible options, I consider this the most probable, since it does not require them to contemplate the murder of millions, including their own countrymen and families. One man’s developing madness might have slipped past our psychological screening, but not two.”

Unable to control his temper any further, Zhdanov slammed his fist down on the table, sending his ashtray skittering away in a cloud of cigarette butts and ash. “Fuck your bullshit probabilities, General! Whether Petrov and his copilot are lunatics or mere traitors and criminals doesn’t matter! I want that prototype found and destroyed! Before this disaster completely blows up in our faces!” He stabbed his finger at the wall map. “Put every SAM regiment, radar station, and fighter unit across the whole country on the highest possible state of alert! That goes double for all our air defenses around Moscow itself!”

“There are a large number of foreign civilian airliners and cargo planes crossing through our airspace right now,” Rogozin reminded him.

“Shut the transpolar air routes down. All of them!” Zhdanov ordered. “And closely monitor any aircraft still in our skies. If any of them deviates from its filed flight plan to the slightest degree, I want that plane intercepted immediately and forced to land for closer inspection. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Rogozin agreed. He hesitated again. “But if the crew is defecting or if they’re crazy enough to launch a sneak attack on the Americans or the Chinese, the PAK-DA stealth bomber could already be well beyond our borders.”

“If they’re defecting, our forces will hunt Petrov and Bunin down later and kill them — no matter where they’ve fled,” Zhdanov said coldly. “I will not show mercy to traitors.” He stood up. “But in case they have lost their minds and are trying to start a war or launch some sort of half-assed coup, we’ll evacuate our key people. Starting now.”

His movement sparked a general push toward the doors. Elevators ran deep underground from the National Defense Management Center. They connected with a secret labyrinth of subway tunnels built during the long Cold War. In the event of any attack on Moscow, trams were always on standby to hurry Russia’s top civilian and military leaders to safety in one of two heavily protected command bunkers kilometers outside the city.

“It might be wise to contact Washington and Beijing by hotline to brief them on this situation,” Rogozin pointed out carefully. “To avoid any unfortunate misunderstandings.”

“Absolutely not!” Zhdanov snapped. “I will not humiliate myself in front of the Americans or the Chinese. Not until I have no other choice.”