Arctic Storm Rising

Eighteen

Buffeted by the storm howling down from the Arctic Ocean, the PAK-DA stealth bomber streaked onward through a swirling torrent of wind-driven snow and ice. Colonel Alexei Petrov fought to keep his heavy aircraft under control, reacting almost instinctively to powerful gusts and unexpected pockets of severe turbulence that tugged and tore at the edges of its wing. Through his canopy, he caught only fleeting glimpses of the rugged, mountainous maze he was navigating. Sheer limestone cliffs and steep, boulder-strewn slopes towered above him on all sides, rising higher and higher until they vanished in a thick, gray layer of low-hanging cloud.

The steering cue on his HUD slid sharply to the right. Immediately, he yanked his stick in that direction. The bomber banked sharply, narrowly avoiding a cliff face that appeared suddenly out of the darkness and then just as abruptly disappeared astern, cloaked by falling snow.

Petrov felt his left eye twitch. Beneath his oxygen mask, his facial muscles were locked in a manic grin. He’d plotted this low-altitude flight path weeks ago, using a combination of satellite photos and detailed topographic maps. But what had looked practical in the quiet, well-lit confines of his quarters was proving infinitely more difficult at night, in the middle of a raging storm. The course he’d chosen followed a series of narrow river valleys that writhed and twisted and wound their way deeper into this vast labyrinth of barren, snow-covered mountains and ridges. If he misjudged a single turn or lost control for even a fraction of a second, his stealth bomber would slam head-on into a mountainside or clip the edge of a precipice — disappearing forever in an enormous fireball that would briefly light up a few desolate peaks and gorges… and leave nothing but fragments of scorched wreckage as a monument. A quick death to be sure, he thought bleakly, but a singularly meaningless one.

Faintly, over the wailing sound of the wind and the roar of the PAK-DA’s jet engines, he heard a groan from the seat next to him. It was echoed from farther back in the cockpit. Bunin and Mavrichev were starting to stir, slowly and painfully clawing their way back toward consciousness. After several hours, the fentanyl derivative he’d used to drug them was finally wearing off.

Petrov rolled the bomber back to the left, following the trace of an ice-covered river below as it curved back toward the southeast. Distances counted down on his HUD. He was very close to the Brooks Range divide, a geological boundary separating the rivers and streams that ran north out of the mountains toward the Arctic Ocean from those that meandered south, deeper into Alaska and Canada’s Yukon Territory.

Now! His navigation cue spiked upward and he yanked back on the stick — pulling into a near-vertical climb. His left hand shoved the throttles forward, going to full military power. The PAK-DA skimmed just above the slope of an east — west razor-backed ridge that cut straight across his flight path. He cleared the top with only meters to spare and plunged into a wall of cloud. Ice pellets rattled off the cockpit canopy like machine-gun fire. Seconds later, his brightly lit steering indicator dipped toward the bottom of the HUD. He pushed forward, diving back out of the cloud and down into another gorge.

A new window opened on the multifunction display he’d set to manage the bomber’s navigation system. target range: 90.5 kilometers.

Petrov throttled back to significantly reduce his airspeed. He banked right and then left and back right again, following the narrow gorge as it snaked south through higher peaks and ridges. Little patches of stunted trees lined the banks of a frozen watercourse at its bottom. The howling winds and turbulence clawing at his aircraft diminished a little. He’d flown out ahead of the oncoming storm.

Gradually, the chasm widened. The mountains and rounded hills fell away on either side, revealing a broader valley ahead. Stretches of snow-covered tundra and clumps of woods appeared eerily green in the PAK-DA’s infrared sensors.

Petrov glanced down at his MFD. target range: 15 kilometers. He blinked, still scarcely able to believe that this nightmare run through the mountains was nearly over. He was just two minutes out. It was time to find out if Voronin’s mercenaries were awake and attentive to their duties. His lips thinned. He disliked being forced to trust the competence of men he’d never met.

He reached forward and tapped a preset icon on the display. Obeying his command, the bomber’s tactical communications system transmitted a short, encrypted radio signal at very low power. Without waiting for a response, he toggled on his landing lights. Powerful spotlights speared through the darkness. Control surfaces along the trailing edge of the PAK-DA’s wing whined open, providing additional lift as his airspeed decreased. More hydraulics whirred as the landing gear came down and locked in position.

In the distance, glowing dots blinked into existence. Days before, Voronin’s team had set up pairs of shielded infrared markers to outline the improvised runway they had built out of compacted snow. A parachute flare, blinding bright through falling snow, arced high into the air from the forward edge of the runway — giving him a visual indication of the wind direction and strength.

Gently, with tiny movements of the stick and his other controls, Petrov brought the big stealth bomber in to land. Ahead through his canopy, the twin rows of infrared markers grew steadily larger, taking on shape and definition as he skimmed low over the valley floor on final approach.

The first pair of markers slid past under his wing. He was just above the compacted snow field. It was time to set the bird down. Petrov throttled all the way back in one smooth motion. Robbed of the last lift keeping it in the air, the bomber dropped onto the runway. Curtains of snow sprayed outward as it thundered down the valley, shedding speed as he reversed thrust and carefully applied his brakes. Gradually, as the aircraft slowed, the trees and rock-littered hillsides blurring past his canopy sharpened into focus.

Petrov grinned more genuinely under his oxygen mask. He’d been confident this would work. His countrymen had successfully operated heavy four-engine IL-76 transport aircraft on similarly improvised snow and ice fields in the past. Their loaded weight was comparable to that of the PAK-DA prototype… and to the American B-2, for that matter. But the Americans were far too conventional to imagine anyone would risk pulling the same stunt with an armed stealth bomber — let alone using a makeshift runway secretly carved out inside their own national territory.

As he taxied toward the end of the field, a large white structure slowly emerged from the darkness and blowing snow. Shrouded in netting to break up its visual signature, it was a temporary aircraft shelter created with ultralight thermal and radar-reflective camouflage fabric. Two men were stationed near the entrance to guide him inside.

Slowly, directed by their glowing orange batons, Petrov carefully maneuvered the PAK-DA into position, set the brakes, and switched off both engines. The huge turbofans keened down to a stop, descending steadily in pitch until they fell silent. After so many hours spent in the air surrounded by their roar, this sudden quiet seemed unnatural.

He sat back with a relieved sigh, stripped off his headset, and unbuckled his straps. When he stood up, he noticed that both Bunin and Mavrichev were wide awake now. They glared at him. “Welcome to America,” he said cheerfully.

“You fucking traitor,” Mavrichev spat out in response.

Petrov shook his head. “I sincerely hope not, General.” He shrugged his shoulders. “This is a purely private-enterprise operation. And if Moscow is wise, it will meet our price. Then you and Oleg there can fly the prototype home. You may not return as heroes, but at least you’ll be the men returning a precious aircraft to its rightful owners.”

Without waiting for a reply, he brushed past them and unlatched the hatch. When it swung open in a blast of bitterly cold air, he slid down the ladder and dropped lightly onto the aircraft shelter’s hard-packed snow floor.

Shielded lanterns illuminated its cavernous interior. In their glow, Petrov saw a group of three hard-faced men waiting for him. They were bundled up against the subzero weather in parkas and fur-lined hoods. One stepped forward with a thin smile. “Congratulations on your success, Colonel. My name is Bondarovich. I’m in charge here.”

Petrov nodded briefly. As a matter of operational security, he hadn’t been briefed on any of their names. But he recognized their type — ex-soldiers who’d found a way to use the lethal skills they’d been taught by the state for their own personal profit. It amused him to realize they undoubtedly believed he was just the same.

Movement outside the tent caught his eye. A snowmobile was headed toward them from the far end of the runway.

“Another of my men,” Bondarovich explained. “He fired that flare for you, and made sure none of our IR markers were blocked by drifting snow.” He glanced up at the PAK-DA bomber looming over them. “I understand you have a prisoner you need us to handle?”

“Two of them, actually,” Petrov said. He filled the other man in on Mavrichev’s sudden decision to invite himself along on what was supposed to be a triumphant test of the prototype’s capabilities.

Bondarovich whistled in amazement. “The commander of Long-Range Aviation himself? That’s a devil of a big fish you landed, Colonel.”

“More like a big pain in the ass,” Petrov said with a sour grin. “I’ll be glad to see the back of him once this is over.”

The other man nodded in amusement and ordered his men into the plane to bring Bunin and Mavrichev out. While the two prisoners were hustled down the ladder, he asked quietly, “Have you contacted Moscow yet? To make our little proposition?”

Petrov shook his head. “Not yet. We’ll let Zhdanov sweat awhile longer,” he said. Suddenly aware of the piercing cold, he started to shiver. He zipped up his flight suit. “First, I need more suitable clothes, hot food, and some sleep. In that order.”

“That we can arrange,” Bondarovich assured him.

With the ex-Spetsnaz officer in the lead and Petrov right behind, the whole group headed outside toward a little cluster of tents hidden among some nearby trees. Bunin and Mavrichev, untied now, stumbled along at the rear, sandwiched between two watchful guards. Their flashlight beams danced across the ground, piercing the darkness and blowing snow.

Petrov noted that the wind was picking up fast. The storm he’d outrun in the mountains was almost on top of them. In thirty minutes or less, the landing he’d just made would have been completely impossible. He allowed himself to feel a moment of complete triumph. Despite all the unexpected obstacles thrown in his path, he’d succeeded in pulling off a masterpiece of operational planning and piloting skill. And as a result, Russia’s most advanced combat aircraft was now effectively in his sole possession, along with twelve nuclear-armed cruise missiles. For one exultant instant, he understood what it must be like to be a demigod — a being far beyond the reach of other mortals.

And then everything went wrong.

As the snowmobile curved around to join the little group trudging toward camp, the shrill, high-pitched whine of its motor stabbed into Petrov’s brain. Together with the stress accumulated during his long and dangerous flight and the tumor growing unchecked inside his skull, that was more than enough to trigger a cascade of unbearable pain. Gripped by a sudden, blinding headache, he doubled over and vomited into the snow. Unable to stop himself, he moaned aloud in agony.

Taken aback by his abrupt collapse, everyone else turned to stare at him in surprise.

Everyone except Mavrichev. Seizing his opportunity, the stocky, bullnecked general stiff-armed the nearest guard, knocking the man sprawling backward into the snow. Free suddenly, he sprinted toward the idling snowmobile. And with a guttural shout, he hurled its surprised rider out of the saddle. Then, before anyone could move to stop him, he threw his leg over the machine, opened its throttle wide, and skidded away across the tundra, bent low over the handlebars as he accelerated.

“God damn it!” Petrov snarled. Furious at the guards for their carelessness and at his own weakness for distracting them, he pushed Bondarovich away, lurched upright, and fumbled for his sidearm, a 9mm pistol. Fighting past the waves of pain still spiking through his brain, he leveled the weapon, aimed, and fired several times at the speeding snowmobile.

Most of his shots went wide. But at least one 9mm round slammed into Mavrichev’s back, high up in the middle of his right shoulder blade. Bright red blood spurted into the air. A moment later, the fleeing general disappeared into a swirling curtain of wind-blown snow.

Still shaking, Petrov wiped distractedly at the vomit smearing his chin and then whirled toward Bondarovich. “Go on! Get after him!” he snapped.

“There’s no need,” the other man said callously. “That stupid son of a bitch won’t get far. You pegged him. And in this storm, he’ll either bleed to death or freeze soon enough.” He looked up at the sky and then shook his head. “No, Colonel. Don’t worry about it. We’ll retrieve the body once the weather clears.”