Arctic Storm Rising

Twenty-Three

Piotr Zhdanov watched in frustration as search area after search area shown on a large digital map of Russia turned green — indicating that concentrated sweeps by Tu-214R, Tu-142, and IL-38 reconnaissance planes had come up empty. “You’re quite sure about these results?” he demanded. “After all, Petrov and his coconspirators have almost certainly camouflaged the PAK-DA prototype by now, and swept away any traces left by his landing on a snow or ice field. Couldn’t your pilots and aircrews simply have missed them?”

“That is highly unlikely, Mr. President,” Lieutenant General Rogozin said patiently. “We’ve subjected the most probable landing fields to repeated overflights. We’ve even done the same with many of those places that our planners consider far less suitable. In addition, we’ve deployed Spetsnaz units and other Army formations to multiple possible sites to confirm those negative results. So far, we haven’t found a single trace of the stealth bomber inside our own national territory.”

Zhdanov sighed. “So, then, where is he? And where is our missing stealth bomber?”

“Hidden somewhere on the North American continent,” Rogozin said bluntly. “It’s the safest place for Petrov, because it’s the most difficult for us to search… or to attack.”

“And how much progress have you made in carrying out reconnaissance flights over this region?” Zhdanov asked coldly.

“Not much,” Rogozin admitted.

“Show me.”

Wordlessly, the general brought up a new map on the command center’s wall screen. It depicted the northern third of the North American continent — from Alaska in the west to the vast ice shelf of Greenland in the east. Comparatively tiny half circles colored green showed the areas probed by Russia’s long-range reconnaissance aircraft so far. Fewer than half a dozen of them dotted North America’s long coastline fronting the Arctic Ocean. In no case had a Tu-142 or an IL-38 succeeded in penetrating more than a few miles inside American or Canadian airspace before being intercepted and turned back by F-22 Raptors and CF-18 Hornets.

“Mater’ Bozh’ya!” Zhdanov scoffed. “Mother of God! All you’ve done is nibble around the edges!” He glared at Rogozin. “Were your pilots and crews waiting for engraved invitations from Washington and Ottawa before doing their fucking jobs?”

“No, sir,” Rogozin said quietly, not rising to the bait. “But it’s taking time to move the air tankers and other assets needed by our fighter escorts into position — especially with the bad weather affecting the region. So up to now, all of our flights have been unescorted and vulnerable.”

Zhdanov frowned. “How much longer will it take to assemble the necessary fighters and other planes?”

“One more day.”

“Which will put us well beyond Petrov’s first seventy-two hour deadline,” Zhdanov pointed out bitterly.

“Yes, sir,” Rogozin said. “And his price to return the PAK-DA and its weapons payload to us will go up.”

“Screw his price,” Zhdanov growled. “The only thing that traitor’s going to get from me is a missile down his throat or a bullet in the back of his skull. What worries me more is the possibility that he’ll decide to sell out to the Americans first.” His frown deepened. “We’re not going to get too many more bites at the apple before that happens. So it’s imperative that you concentrate these first fighter-escorted air searches on the most likely hiding places.”

Rogozin stared back at him. “I’m not sure we can hope to do that,” he said carefully. “Colonel Petrov had enough fuel on board to reach any possible landing site in several million square kilometers of North American wilderness. We simply don’t have any evidence yet that would help us narrow that down significantly.”

“That may not be quite true,” another voice interrupted.

Startled, both Zhdanov and Rogozin swung around toward another of the several men seated around the table. On the principle that the less said the better when their leader was getting bad news, Kokorin, Yumashev, and the rest of the Russian president’s senior military and civilian advisers had kept their mouths shut over the past several minutes. But now, Aleksandr Ivashin, the head of the GRU, had evidently decided it was worth the risk to join the discussion.

Zhdanov’s eyes narrowed. That meant Ivashin had something up his sleeve, something he was confident would make him look good. Cautious by nature and training, the spymaster was not a fool. “You’ve picked up Petrov’s trail?” he guessed.

“Part of it, perhaps,” Ivashin said calmly. “Maybe enough to help General Rogozin’s pilots refine their search parameters.”

“Go on.”

Ivashin indicated the computer console at his place. Through it he had secure communications links to the GRU’s Moscow headquarters. “One of our deep-cover illegals in northern Alaska has reported in,” he said. “According to this agent, one of the American air surveillance radars briefly picked up a faint, unidentified contact very close to the Alaska coast on the night Petrov disappeared. It was still flying south when it disappeared a short time later.”

“Where would that take him?” Zhdanov demanded.

Responding to Ivashin’s commands, the map display zoomed in to show the area between Prudhoe Bay and the western edge of Canada’s Yukon Territory in the north and a little American town called Beaver and Ni’iinlii Njik, a Canadian national park, in the south. The enclosed region was still enormous, encompassing more than two hundred thousand square kilometers — mostly comprised of rugged mountains and uninhabited wilderness, including the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge. The head of the GRU pointed at the map. “Somewhere in there, possibly. Obviously, we can’t be sure of that, but, assuming what the Americans picked up on their radar was, in fact, our stolen stealth bomber, this area seems the logical place to start looking.”

Zhdanov sucked in his cheeks. “Is your agent reliable?”

“Completely reliable,” Ivashin assured him. “We successfully infiltrated this particular illegal into Alaska years ago. And over that time, our agent has built up a very substantial network of useful information sources, including some inside the American military, local civilian government, and important regional private industries. The intelligence we’ve obtained has always proved to be accurate and extremely valuable.”

Zhdanov nodded. He turned back to Rogozin. “Your opinion, Yvgeny?”

The Air Force commander studied the display very closely for a few moments more. He looked at Ivashin. “What is the Americans’ own evaluation of this short radar trace? Do you know?”

“At the time, they seem to have assessed it as more likely to be a minor equipment malfunction or a natural phenomenon than a genuine air contact,” Ivashin told him. “But my agent believes their views may have changed recently.”

“Why?”

“Because the Americans have just flown a special team into their joint Army and Air Force base near Anchorage — a team that apparently includes intelligence specialists… and scientists and engineers trained in exploiting and analyzing foreign aircraft and aviation technology.”

Rogozin took a short, sharp breath. “Well, that tears it,” he said quietly. He turned to Zhdanov with a worried look. “I’ll organize an armed reconnaissance mission over that area as rapidly as possible, Mr. President. We could be in a race now, a race where we’re already starting out behind.”