Arctic Storm Rising

Twenty-Four

The cavernous Emergency Conference Room seemed oddly vacant now to Jonas Murphy. Only the most senior members of the U.S. national security establishment — basically just the defense secretary, the members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and the director of national intelligence — had been allowed inside for this secure videoconference with NORAD’s top commanders. The rows of chairs ordinarily set aside for aides and other officials sat empty. Instead, relayed by satellite from their command post inside Cheyenne Mountain, the televised images of General Keith Makowski and his Canadian deputy, Lieutenant General Peter Gowan, looked out from the ECR’s large central screen.

“Your most recent reports don’t exactly make reassuring reading, gentlemen,” Defense Secretary Bill Taylor observed, holding up a sheaf of documents marked top secret.

On-screen, Makowski nodded. “That’s true, Mr. Secretary.” He looked dead serious. “Then again, Pete and I didn’t write them to be reassuring. Just accurate.”

Beside him, Gowan leaned forward, bringing his lean features a little closer to the camera. “Unfortunately, happy talk from us won’t change the situation we face,” he said. “The harsh reality is that these repeated Russian probes of our airspace are imposing very serious strains on NORAD’s forces and readiness levels. Remember, intercepting incoming Russian reconnaissance aircraft, especially those trying to penetrate the Arctic coastlines of our two countries, requires very long flights and multiple air refueling operations — all in potentially hazardous weather conditions. Put in the simplest terms, the current need to fly these missions virtually around the clock is rapidly exhausting the endurance of both our pilots and our ground crews.”

“They’re also wearing the shit out of our aircraft,” Makowski added. “Look, it’s hard enough to keep the Alaska-based F-22 Raptors flight-ready during normal winter conditions. They’re beautiful machines, but they’re doggone temperamental — especially with their stealth features, like those special radar-absorbent skin coatings.”

Murphy knew that was true. As DNI, he had access to every piece of classified information produced by the U.S. military. Even at the best of times, some F-22 squadrons had only around half of their fighters ready to fly, with the rest down for needed maintenance.

“As of right now, this increased ops tempo is sidelining more and more of our Raptors, both with regular mechanical issues and weather-related skin damage,” Makowski continued. “If Moscow keeps pushing this hard, in a week, or maybe less, I’ll be damned lucky to be able to put a third of my aircraft out on the flight line.”

“The same goes double for the RCAF,” Gowan agreed. “Our CF-18 Hornets are more than forty years old now. Just to keep enough aircraft flight-ready at our four remote operating locations, we’re constantly having to rotate fighters and pilots forward from our main bases at Cold Lake in Alberta and Bagotville in Quebec.” His eyes darkened. “The situation simply isn’t sustainable, at least not if the Russians continue probing our perimeter this way for much longer.”

Taylor nodded somberly. “I get that, General Gowan.” He looked up at the two faces on-screen. “What I need now from both of you is an assessment of Moscow’s possible reasons for this sudden surge of air reconnaissance activity along our borders.”

“Look, I don’t have a crystal ball to read that asshole Zhdanov’s mind,” Makowski replied. “But I can tell you what Pete and I are most worried about.”

Taylor nodded. “Go on, General.”

“We’re worried that Russians could be wearing our defenses down deliberately,” Makowski said. “That they’re using provocative measures just short of open hostilities to test our air defense system — and find its breaking point.” He looked grim. “When you put that possibility together with the fact that the whole fricking Russian strategic bomber and fighter force has gone on high alert, well, it paints a real ugly picture.”

Murphy lowered his own gaze to hide his expression. The CIA-provided intelligence which suggested that the Russian patrol aircraft were only searching for their own stolen stealth bomber prototype was tightly restricted, as was the video of Petrov supposedly offering to sell the PAK-DA to the United States. And as it was, neither Makowski nor Gowan were in that loop. He wondered how a fuller understanding of the possible situation might change their views. Then again, he thought with an inner shrug, maybe it wouldn’t matter to them. Several of those who were already cleared to know about Petrov’s claimed defection, including General Neary, the Air Force chief of staff, were inclined to think the whole story was nothing more than classic Russian disinformation, part of a typical maskirovka operation to mislead Moscow’s adversaries about its true plans and intentions.

“We’re drawing up plans now to reinforce you with fighter squadrons and more tankers from other bases in the continental United States,” Taylor assured the two NORAD commanders.

Makowski nodded. “We appreciate that, Mr. Secretary. And we can sure use every new plane you send our way.” He spread his hands. “But no matter how much you expedite those reinforcements, it’s still going to take several days to move the aircraft, the equipment, spare parts, and munitions required to support them, and their personnel to where we need them. And even then, we’ll have to run the arriving pilots and ground crews through some intensive refresher training before they can be assigned to intercept missions. Flying safely in the kind of severe weather conditions our guys are facing right now isn’t easy.”

“I imagine not,” Taylor said quietly. He sighed. “All right, gentlemen, all we can ask is that your pilots continue to hold the line for now — at least until the additional squadrons we’re deploying are ready to relieve them.”

“We’ll do our best,” Makowski promised. “Our people are dead tired, for sure. But morale is still high. We’re not going to let any Russian son of a bitch slip through unchallenged. Not while we have the watch.”

Seated inside the PAK-DA’s cockpit, Colonel Alexei Petrov plugged his portable computer into the stealth bomber’s secure communications system and powered it up. Then he entered a code sequence provided by Pavel Voronin weeks ago. The screen flickered oddly for several seconds and then stabilized to show Voronin’s face. Although the background was blurred out, Dmitri Grishin’s top troubleshooter appeared relaxed and confident, as always.

“It’s good to see you, Alexei,” Voronin said with a faint smile. “Even if you do look like shit.”

Petrov laughed bitterly. “If I do, at least I have a good excuse. You try getting any sleep in the middle of the worst fucking blizzard anyone’s ever seen! Between the wind, the goddamned dark, and the balls-freezing cold, this place isn’t exactly a rest camp, you know. I spend half my waking hours out there with Bondarovich and the rest of your security team, fixing wind and ice damage to our tents and the aircraft shelter. And the other half checking over this bomber’s electronics and other systems to make sure everything’s still working right.”

“You have my sympathies,” Voronin said insincerely. He shrugged. “On the other hand, all this terrible weather is perfect for our purposes, true?”

“True,” Petrov allowed. Then he frowned. “But the same conditions that make us hard to find also make it impossible for me to take off again. These strong northerly crosswinds from out of the mountains basically pin my aircraft in place.”

Voronin waved that away. “This storm will pass soon enough. Maybe even sometime in the next twenty-four hours. Or so the meteorologists promise.” He shrugged his shoulders again. “Besides, where would you go right now?”

Petrov dodged answering what the other man only meant as a rhetorical question. What he ultimately planned and what he wanted Voronin and his oligarch employer to know were two very different things. He scowled. “That’s another thing, Pavel. Why haven’t we heard anything from Zhdanov or the Americans yet? What the devil are they waiting for? By now, they have to understand that we’re not bullshitting here. And don’t make the mistake of thinking that it’s just my nerves that are starting to fray. Your ex-Spetsnaz commandos are getting pretty edgy, too.”

“Patience, Alexei,” the other man said coolly. “You can’t expect politicians to part with such large sums of money so easily. Both sides just need a little more time to come to terms with the unpleasant reality they face. Once they understand that paying us is the only way to get control of the stealth bomber you’ve stolen, they’ll cough up fast enough.”

Petrov eyed him narrowly. “Do you have any proof of that?”

Voronin nodded. “My sources indicate that pressure is mounting on both Moscow and Washington. Soon enough, one side or the other will realize the silly-ass military games they’re playing are counterproductive and very, very dangerous… and that meeting your stated price is the much-safer and much-easier option.”

“I hope you’re right,” Petrov said tightly.

Voronin laughed. “Don’t worry, Alexei. All you and the others need to do right now is keep your heads down for a little while longer. Except for those couple of minor glitches in the beginning, everything’s gone according to plan.” His expression turned slightly more serious. “Along those lines, though, has your unwanted passenger General Mavrichev’s body turned up yet?”

Petrov shook his head. “Not yet. We took advantage of a short break in the storm yesterday to mount a quick search. Unfortunately, Bondarovich’s men couldn’t find any sign of him or the snowmobile before the weather closed in again.”

“But you’re sure he’s dead?”

“Completely sure,” Petrov said flatly. “Between the bullet I put in his back and the subzero temperatures, Mavrichev was effectively a corpse the moment he disappeared into the night. Even if it took him a while to die, there’s nowhere he could have gone to find help. Not with the nearest village more than a hundred kilometers away.”

Voronin nodded. “Good,” he said with a pleased smile. “Then that’s one less complication for us to worry about.” He looked more closely at Petrov. “In the meantime, do your best to relax, Colonel — despite the hellish conditions. Think about the rather large fortune you’re about to make, instead.”

“Yes, because that will keep me warm when I’m outside freezing my ass off in the wind and trying to tie down another fucking camouflage panel that’s ripped loose for the hundredth time,” Petrov snapped sourly.

“It can’t hurt, though, can it?” the other man said, not hiding his amusement. “Anyway, I’ll contact you as soon as I have any news. For now, Voronin out.” The screen went blank.

Impatiently, Petrov disconnected his computer from the PAK-DA’s instrument panel and closed it down. Grishin and his suave assistant must think he was a complete fool, he thought in irritation, or else made blind by the prospect of riches and the power that wealth conveyed. Well, maybe that wasn’t so surprising. Both the oligarch and Voronin were driven themselves by the desire for ever-greater wealth and power… and like many civilians they mistakenly believed the two things were one and the same.

But real power came in many different forms, Petrov knew. Soon enough, he would prove that — not just to Grishin and Voronin, but to the whole world.

Somewhere inside the back of his skull, he felt another wave of pressure building up. With a grimace, he shook out another couple of pain pills and forced himself to choke them down.

Then, oppressed by the sudden feeling that his time might be even shorter than he’d supposed, Petrov leaned forward and activated the PAK-DA’s navigation system. One of the bomber’s large multifunction displays lit up. Several more quick taps on the glowing touch screen retrieved an intricate mission plan that he’d been devising ever since he’d learned about the tumor growing inside his brain. Fittingly, he’d named this plan Vikhr, Whirlwind — after a malignant wind spirit in Russian folklore. And the day was fast approaching, he knew, when he would sow the wind, and leave millions of others to suffer the whirlwind that must follow in his wake. Almost obsessively, he started working through the plan again, checking and rechecking his calculations for flight times and fuel consumption.