Arctic Storm Rising

Prologue

Rays of summer sunlight streamed through rows of windows set high up along one drab concrete wall of the huge assembly hall. They lit sections of a large, futuristic-looking blended-wing aircraft: the first flyable prototype of Tupolev’s top secret PAK-DA stealth bomber. A protruding nose and the large, rounded cockpit canopy surrounded by narrow engine intakes along the wing’s leading edge explained the nickname it had acquired in construction, Skat, or Devilfish. So did the multiple elevons and other control surfaces lining the wing’s trailing edge. Seen from above, the aircraft’s unusual configuration gave it the look of a manta ray gliding silently across the ocean floor.

Intended to match and even surpass America’s operational B-2 Spirit and next-generation B-21 Raider stealth bombers, the PAK-DA was a subsonic aircraft with a planned range of more than twelve thousand kilometers. Two powerful NK-65 turbofan engines, each producing more than sixty thousand pounds of thrust, would enable it to carry thirty metric tons of payload — both long-range stealth cruise missiles and shorter-ranged air-to-air missiles for self-defense — in internal weapons bays. The bomber’s own stealth characteristics, new sensor systems, electronics, and flight controls were designed to allow its wartime crew of four to penetrate advanced enemy air defenses without being detected. All told, this prototype was the culmination of a top secret research-and-development program that had already consumed many years and hundreds of billions of rubles.

Russian Air Force Colonel Alexei Petrov slid out through an opening on the aircraft’s belly and dropped nimbly onto the assembly hall floor, ignoring the ladder fitted to the hatch. In his midforties, the veteran test pilot was still trim and fit, though flecks of gray dusted his dark brown hair. Smiling broadly, he nodded to the knot of Tupolev design engineers, senior executives, and company test pilots waiting for him. “My congratulations, gentlemen. You’ve built a beautiful machine. I’m looking forward to putting it through its paces in the weeks and months ahead.”

His praise for their work drew answering smiles from the engineers and executives. In contrast, the rugged faces of Tupolev’s own experienced civilian pilots stiffened slightly at the unwelcome reminder that they were being bypassed. Desperate to show the world that Russia could still compete militarily with the United States and China, the Kremlin had ordered this new strategic bomber program accelerated by every means necessary. Delivering the PAK-DA prototype directly to Petrov and his team without the usual sequence of carefully monitored corporate test flights would shave months off the process of certifying the design for full-scale production and deployment to operational regiments.

“When would you like us to arrange the formal handover?” Mikhail Ivanin, Tupolev’s burly CEO, asked carefully.

“As soon as possible,” Petrov replied. “But not here in Kazan. Let’s take care of that business down at Chkalov instead.”

The other man pursed his lips. The Air Force’s Valery Chkalov flight test center was nearly nine hundred kilometers south of Kazan. Named after one of the old Soviet Union’s most famous and daring test pilots, the range was now specially equipped to handle experimental advanced stealth aircraft. Transferring the bomber prototype there right away would definitely speed up the process of validating its flight characteristics and systems. Unfortunately, it also meant assigning Tupolev’s own specialist mechanics to the distant base for a prolonged period. They would be needed to train Air Force ground crews to maintain the PAK-DA’s complex avionics and advanced radar-absorbent coatings. The hassle factor for the company and its employees would be high. So would the added expense. Then again, Moscow’s orders were clear: whatever Petrov and his team wanted, they would get.

Glancing at the unhappy faces of Tupolev’s own pilots, Petrov threw them a bone. “Your guys can bring the bomber down. After all, it’s only fair that they have the honor of taking the Devilfish up for its first flight.”

With a curt nod, Ivanin crooked a finger, signaling the senior company flier over to join them. Georgy Remizov was a short, stocky, round-faced man a few years older than Petrov himself. He’d flown high-performance combat aircraft for the Air Force before resigning to join Tupolev when Russia’s post-Soviet military went through one of its periodic belt-tightenings. Perfunctory introductions completed, the CEO excused himself. “For now, I’ll leave you to work out the details with Georgy, Colonel. But feel free to contact me if you need anything else.”

Then he hurried away, almost as though he feared Petrov would make some new outrageously expensive demand if he lingered any longer. The two pilots watched him go with some amusement. “Chief Executive Ivanin has a superb head for numbers and budgets,” Remizov murmured.

“But he’s no aviator?”

“I think he sometimes wishes we built locomotives or automobiles instead of aircraft,” Remizov confided. “I hear he gets airsick above the fourth floor of any building.”

With the Tupolev test pilot pacing him, Petrov strolled toward the nearest exit from the huge aircraft assembly hall. The armed guards posted there stiffened to attention. He threw them a casual salute and then glanced down at the shorter man. “Well? Any questions?”

Remizov shook his head. “None.” A lopsided smile flashed across his face and then vanished. “I anticipated your… request. I’ve already worked out a flight plan with contingencies for any possible teething troubles. We’ll never be more than a few minutes’ flying time from potential abort fields during the whole trip south to Chkalov.”

“Very good,” Petrov said in approval, and he meant it. The first few flight hours were always the most dangerous in any new aircraft. No matter how thoroughly you scrubbed a revolutionary design in wind tunnels and computer simulations, things could still go badly wrong under real-world conditions. “I appreciate your attention to detail.”

Remizov shrugged. “I had a good teacher.” This time his smile was more genuine. “I served under your father as a junior pilot, Colonel.” He shook his head admiringly. “The general was one tough son of a bitch, that’s for sure. Without mercy for fuckups. But we were sharp as razors by the time he finished with us.” His eyes narrowed as he quoted from memory, “‘Train hard. Plan thoroughly. Act fast. Those are the keys to victory.’”

Petrov hid a grimace. Would he never escape his father’s shadow? Even now, years after the old man’s final heart attack finished him, devoted acolytes of Hero of the Soviet Union, Major General Vladimir Petrov, seemed to turn up wherever he went. It was maddening, even if understandable. As a young lieutenant, the older Petrov had won his spurs and his medals as a “volunteer” flying secret combat missions against the Americans over North Vietnam and then again against the Israelis during the October War in 1973. Credited with several kills, he was renowned as the top-scoring Russian fighter pilot since the Korean War. In later years, he’d risen rapidly in rank, leading ever-larger frontline Air Force units equipped with the best aircraft. If his heart hadn’t given out, the famous Major General Petrov could easily have someday commanded all of Russia’s aerospace forces.

In sharp contrast, Alexei Petrov knew with some bitterness that his own career, though marked by praise, promotion, and medals for peacetime flying exploits, would never match that of his father. At his age, this assignment to lead the PAK-DA stealth bomber flight test program represented his last real chance to shine. But once he finished vetting the new aircraft and its systems, he would undoubtedly be shunted off to a desk and relative obscurity somewhere inside the Ministry of Defense bureaucracy. After that, he could look forward to wasting years dealing with dull reports before finally being put out to pasture on a wholly inadequate state pension.

Oblivion and poverty — not exactly attractive prospects, he thought coldly as he made his farewell to Remizov and left the vast Tupolev factory. Which made it much easier to contemplate taking a very different path in life. And imagining how the course of action he was now considering would have horrified his father — always so rigidly attentive to his duty — made it even more appealing.

A couple of hours outside Kazan, Petrov swung his IRBIS touring motorbike off the crowded highway and onto a narrow, tree-lined road. He opened the throttle, smoothly accelerating as the track curved back to the west. The sensation of speed as trees flashed past, more blurs than distinct shapes, was exhilarating. Through openings in the woods on his right, he caught glimpses of an enormous stretch of dark blue water, the vast Cheboksary Reservoir created by damming the Volga River. Off on the left, wheat and barley fields surrounded small farming villages. Apart from a couple of old tractors trundling across the fields and faded clothes drying outside rundown cottages, there were few signs of people.

A few kilometers farther on, he slowed and pulled in behind a silver-gray late model Mercedes sedan parked just off the road. Dismounting, he stripped off his helmet and unzipped his jacket. Even in the shade provided by the trees, the summer heat was oppressive.

At his approach, the driver of the Mercedes slid out from behind the wheel. With a silent nod, he opened the sedan’s rear door. A slight bulge in the man’s dark business jacket revealed the presence of a shoulder holster.

Petrov raised an eyebrow. So even here in this rural backwater, his host felt the need for a bodyguard. Perhaps such vigilance was an inevitable by-product of the acquisition of great wealth. If so, he thought with satisfaction, he might someday soon learn the value of caution himself.

He slid into the back of the air-conditioned Mercedes and nodded politely to the older, heavier-set man waiting there. “Everything is on track,” he said confidently.

“There were no problems at the factory?”

Petrov shrugged. “The Tupolev guys are pissed, but no one’s willing to stick his neck out to protest openly.”

“They are wise,” the older man said, with the hint of an icy smile of his own. Dmitri Grishin was one of Russia’s most powerful oligarchs, a man who had made his fortune through close ties to Moscow’s political, industrial, and defense elites. Either on his own or through intermediaries, he owned significant stakes in many of the nation’s most successful and profitable enterprises. “Our president does not appreciate having his decisions questioned.”

“Fortunately for us,” Petrov agreed, matching the oligarch’s wry expression. His eyes narrowed. “What about the other elements of our special project? Are they moving ahead?”

Grishin nodded smoothly. “My people have everything well in hand. They’ve found a valley deep in the wilderness in Alaska that’s perfect for our purposes. All will be ready when you are.”

“What about the Americans?” Petrov asked. “Is there a chance they could stumble across your team at work?”

The oligarch shook his head. “Relax, Colonel. The Alaskan wilderness is enormous and almost entirely uninhabited. I doubt anyone’s even visited the site we’ve found since the end of the last Ice Age, more than twelve thousand years ago. The Americans won’t see a thing.”

Reassured, Petrov slid back out of the Mercedes and then leaned back in. “Until the snows fall, then.”

“And the icy winds blow,” Grishin agreed. He glanced up at the younger man. “Fly safe, Colonel. We both have a lot at stake here.”

Petrov shot him a grin. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of the PAK-DA prototype like it was my very own.”

Moments later, as he stood watching the limousine pull away, Petrov felt a sudden stab of pain lance through his left temple. “Fuck,” he muttered. He’d been resolutely ignoring a mild headache since leaving the Tupolev plant. But now it was getting worse. Frowning, he fumbled out a couple of aspirin tablets from a packet in one of his pockets and then pulled out a stainless steel hip flask. Embossed with the badge of the Soviet Union’s Red Air Force, it was the one item he’d inherited from his father that he genuinely valued.

Impatiently, he downed the aspirin with a swig of vodka and then recapped the flask. This was no time for illness. Not when he was so close to making sure that he would be the one everyone remembered in the future.