Arctic Storm Rising

Thirty-Eight

Ferociously, Piotr Zhdanov ground out another cigarette. He fumbled the pack out of his jacket pocket. It was empty. Angrily, he balled it up and tossed it aside. From behind, one of his aides diffidently offered him a fresh pack. He waved it away. As it was, the inside of his mouth tasted like dust and ashes.

He glared across the table at Lieutenant General Rogozin and the head of the GRU, Aleksandr Ivashin. “Well?” he demanded. “Still nothing?”

Helplessly, both men shrugged. As yet, there were no new reports — either from the Spetsnaz raiding party they’d sent into Alaska, or from the stolen stealth bomber to confirm that it was headed back to Russia, now that they’d paid the ransom demanded for its release. Their last news from Major Korenev indicated that his troops had landed deep in enemy territory and were ready to pursue, intercept, and destroy the ragtag American security unit ahead of them. Nothing at all had been heard from Petrov or his mysterious backers.

A soft chime came from the computer at Rogozin’s place. The general leaned forward, reading the alert he’d just been forwarded. “Our satellites have received a new secure message from the PAK-DA stealth bomber,” he reported.

Zhdanov breathed out. “Finally.” He thrust a finger at the Air Force commander. “Put it up on-screen, Yvgeny.”

With a nod, Rogozin signaled the colonel in charge of the underground command center’s audiovisuals. The large wall screen flickered to life.

“Damn it,” Zhdanov growled, seeing the face of Alexei Petrov materialize. He was again sitting in the futuristic-looking cockpit of the PAK-DA prototype. There was no conceivable circumstance in which the traitor could imagine he would return to Russia and survive the experience. Which meant that plane was still sitting on the ground inside the United States when this message had been recorded. And from the time stamp shown in the lower left-hand corner of the screen, that was less than five minutes ago.

“By now, you must have realized that I have no intention of returning this aircraft,” the image of Petrov said coldly, confirming the Russian president’s worst fears. “Sadly, our beloved Motherland — under your slovenly governance — is unworthy of such a gift.” His expression darkened. “For decades now, our nation has been in decline — with its demoralized population aging and increasingly infirm; its economic strength decaying; and its military power nothing more than a facade, a thin shield for the dying body behind it. What have you achieved since the Soviet Union, once the world’s mightiest superpower, crumbled to ruin?

“Nothing!” Petrov sneered. “You constantly boast about the ‘New Russia,’ but what do you have to back up such crowing? A population now only a third the size of the United States? And less than a tenth that of the People’s Republic of China? An economy in ruins, more dependent on oil than even the Arab kleptocracies?” He leaned closer to the camera so that almost all they could see was his contempt-filled face. “It is time, Zhdanov, that you and your bootlickers faced facts. You and all of your policies and plans are nothing but miserable, criminal failures.”

Zhdanov stared at the screen, scarcely able to believe what he was hearing. No one in the past two decades had dared to insult him so openly — at least, no one who expected to live outside the gray walls of a prison, if allowed to live at all. From the rigid, horrified silence around him, he knew others were thinking the same thing.

“But because I am a true Russian patriot,” Petrov continued, “I am offering you — unworthy though you are — a chance offered to no other Russian government since the fall of the Soviet Union: the opportunity to strip our most dangerous enemy, the United States, of most of its nuclear arsenal. The opportunity, moreover, to do so with minimal damage to our Motherland’s own military and industrial might.”

Zhdanov grimaced. What the hell was this madman talking about?

As if in answer, Petrov sat back again, allowing them to see the detailed map filling one of the stealth bomber’s large, sophisticated digital displays. It showed the interior of the United States. “This plan is code-named Vikhr, Whirlwind,” the traitor colonel said conversationally.

Whirlwind? Zhdanov darted a questioning glance at Rogozin. The general shrugged helplessly, as if to confirm this was nothing he’d ever heard of before, either.

On-screen, the recorded image of Alexei Petrov kept talking. “Very shortly, I will take off from this hidden airfield,” he told them. “Once safely airborne, I will fly a stealthy course deep into American airspace.” He smiled grimly. “There, approximately five hours from now, I will launch the twelve long-range, nuclear-armed stealth cruise missiles that you, perhaps foolishly, have entrusted to my care.”

That drew startled gasps from around the room. All along, the prospect of a rogue commander in control of live nuclear weapons had been their worst nightmare — a fear that had faded only when it seemed Petrov was more interested in money than in sparking a nuclear holocaust.

“These missiles will be targeted on American military command and control centers in and around the Washington, D.C., area, their B-2 bomber base in Missouri, their B-52 bomber bases in Louisiana and North Dakota, and the U.S. Navy’s ballistic missile submarine bases at Kitsap, Washington, and Kings Bay, Georgia,” Petrov said calmly, apparently wholly unconcerned that he was announcing the probable deaths of hundreds of thousands and perhaps millions of people, soldiers, airmen, sailors, and civilians alike. “They will be carefully timed to arrive and detonate simultaneously.”

Zhdanov saw Rogozin’s head nod slowly. What the colonel proposed was technically possible. It was simply a matter of setting the necessary navigation points so that missiles aimed at closer targets would fly somewhat longer, more circuitous paths to arrive at their chosen destinations. While that increased the chances that the Americans might detect some of the incoming attacks, the risk was minimal. Their ability to spot stealth weapons fired from so deep inside their national territory was negligible.

Petrov reached out and tapped the display. The digital map of the United States blanked and then disappeared. “My attacks will decapitate America’s political and military leadership,” he said bluntly. “They will also wipe out its strategic bomber force and sink much of its ballistic missile submarine fleet in port.”

“My God,” Zhdanov muttered, seeing in his mind’s eye fire-laced mushroom clouds towering above American ports, airfields, and its national capital. It was the old dream so often pictured by Soviet strategists during the long Cold War. And, at the same time, the old nightmare of those who understood the risks involved.

Petrov’s mouth thinned. “Even men of limited imagination, like yourselves, should be able to see the opportunity offered by the chaos and confusion this bolt-from-the-blue strike will create,” he went on. “Perhaps even to realize that an immediate follow-on attack by Russia’s strategic rocket forces could destroy the remaining American ICBMs in their silos… before any of the dazed survivors can order a retaliatory launch.”

Again, Zhdanov saw Rogozin nod his head in agreement, though almost unwillingly now. With Washington, D.C., in radioactive ruins and the American president and his top military leaders dead, the Americans simply would not be able to react in the thirty short minutes between the time Russia’s own ICBMs rippled out of their silos and off their mobile launchers and the lethal moment their hundreds of multiple nuclear warheads detonated over U.S. missile fields.

“At that point, the United States will be left with only a handful of missile-armed submarines at sea,” Petrov said coldly. “If you threaten to destroy America’s cities in case those submarines launch their own weapons, the surviving elements of its weak-kneed governing elites will stand down in fear… leaving Russia the nuclear master of the world.” He shrugged. “The choice,” he added icily, “is yours. Either cast the die with me and win. Or die as ineffectual cowards when American ICBMs rain down on you in retaliation for my actions.”

The screen went dark as his message ended.

For a long, seemingly endless moment, there was only stunned silence in the crowded command center. Then, finally, Zhdanov slammed his fist down on the table, rattling cups and saucers and startling his advisers and military commanders, who appeared sunk in gloom and uncertainty. “Well, what do we do now?” he snapped.

“There is still a chance that our Spetsnaz troops will find Petrov and the stealth bomber,” Rogozin tentatively suggested.

Like a striking snake, Zhdanov whipped around on Ivashin. “Is there?”

The head of the GRU swallowed hard. During Petrov’s recorded tirade, he’d been frantically texting his headquarters for a mission update. His face was pale. “Unfortunately, we’ve lost contact with the raiding party… and with the crew of their helicopter, Mr. President.”

Zhdanov glared at him. “Which means your Major Korenev — and your brilliant deep-cover agent Orphan — have both failed.”

“Yes,” Ivashin admitted miserably.

Zhdanov turned back to Rogozin. “Can the Americans intercept the stealth bomber and shoot it down? Before Petrov can launch those cruise missiles?”

The Air Force commander shook his head. “It’s highly unlikely, Mr. President. NORAD’s radars and air defenses are concentrated along the perimeter of American and Canadian airspace. Petrov and his aircraft have already penetrated those defenses.”

“What if we warned the Americans ourselves?” one of the other generals asked.

Rogozin shook his head. “Petrov’s missiles have a range of more than twenty-eight hundred kilometers. He can strike his chosen targets from anyplace in a huge volume of space, across tens of millions of square kilometers. In effect, his planned launch point could be literally anywhere over the continental United States… or even over southern Canada. It would take a miracle for any American interceptor to find his stealth bomber in time.”

“And miracles have been in short supply lately,” Zhdanov said acidly. He scowled. “More to the point, what do we gain by warning the Americans?” He glared around the room, seeing their sudden, alarmed comprehension. He nodded. “Exactly. We gain nothing. The Americans can’t stop Petrov. But by warning them of what’s coming, we would just give them time to evacuate their military and political leaders, disperse their bombers and submarines, and put their ICBMs on full alert.” His fist crashed down again, making them all jump. “So, in the end, we would only find ourselves confronted by a fully armed and ready enemy — an enemy bound to seek vengeance for Petrov’s sneak attack.”

Rogozin and the others were visibly shaken. In many ways, that would be the worst of all possible outcomes. Even a failed cruise missile attack on the target cities and bases Petrov had listed would still kill hundreds of thousands of American civilians. War would be inevitable. “What, then, are our options, Mr. President?” the Air Force general asked finally.

Zhdanov’s eyes were hooded. “Options?” He shook his head in disgust, staring down at the surface of the table. “There are none.”

“Sir?”

Slowly, the Russian president looked up. “We have no choice but to ride this nuclear whirlwind Petrov plans to unleash. Every other path leads inevitably to disaster.”

“If you’re wrong, millions of our countrymen may die,” Rogozin warned.

Zhdanov nodded heavily. “True enough.” Then he shrugged. “But if we sit here and do nothing, those same millions may die — and all for nothing.” He turned to the commander of Russia’s Strategic Rocket Forces, Colonel General Anatoly Gruzdev. “Bring your missiles to their highest state of launch readiness, General. But discreetly. The Americans must not find out what we’re up to.”

Somberly, Gruzdev nodded his understanding.

“The moment our early-warning satellites confirm nuclear detonations on targets inside the United States, you will launch an all-out attack on America’s ICBM fields,” Zhdanov continued. “Destroy every single one of those enemy missiles in their silos, Anatoly. Make the rubble bounce. We’ll only get one chance at this.”