by Dale Brown
“Same here,” Takirak allowed, starting to unzip his parka.
A few minutes later, decked out in protective sparring gear, they circled each other on the mat. They were each in a fighting stance, with chins tucked in and hands up, ready to strike or parry. Flynn eyed the other man cautiously. He had the longer reach, but the noncom was solid muscle and his reflexes seemed lightning-fast. “All set?” he murmured.
“Any time you are,” Takirak assured him.
“Then . . . fight’s on,” Flynn called out, using the Air Force term to signal the beginning of a training engagement. He moved in fast, closing the range. The other man did the same.
The next moments flew by as they both delivered a flurry of blows and kicks with incredible speed and precision. Twice, Takirak got in past his attacks and defenses and slammed him down onto the mat. Once, Flynn broke free and reversed the advantage—setting up a choke hold that the older man had to acknowledge. The second time, the noncom swept his legs out from under him and then batted away all his attempts to get loose. This time, it was Flynn who had to slap the mat in surrender.
Shaking off pain and fatigue, they scrambled back to their feet and started circling again, each looking for an edge and not finding it. Another series of rapid-fire arm and elbow strikes and kicks left them both gasping.
BEEP-BEEP-BEEP.
The timer Flynn had set on his phone went off. He held out his hand and spat out his mouth guard. “Call it a draw, Sergeant?”
Panting slightly, Takirak nodded. “Sounds fair to me, sir.” He shook his head with a quick smile. “Looks like I wasn’t the only one who did well in the instructor course.”
“I survived it,” Flynn agreed. He eyed the other man. “I did get the feeling a couple of times that you were holding back a little, Andy. What was that, respect for my rank?”
Takirak shook his head. “No, sir. If I did, it was only natural caution. I always heard it was good tactics to keep a reserve—just in case the enemy’s got something up his sleeve.”
Flynn nodded. The other man was right. Which was why he’d done the same thing himself. He grinned, mentally calculating how the next couple of days of combatives training were likely to go. The rest of his team—younger, stronger, and bigger though some of them were—were about to learn the hard way that they were no match for the combination of greater experience and guile.
Fourteen
Secure Hangar, Engels-2 Strategic Bomber Base, near Saratov, Russia
A Short Time Later
An olive-drab UAZ Hunter light utility vehicle sped past a row of gleaming white Tu-160M2 swing-wing supersonic bombers parked on the base’s long apron. It turned right onto a taxiway that crossed both main runways and drove on toward a group of three large camouflaged hangars. In a squeal of brakes, it pulled up in front of the first hangar, whose armored rolling doors stood partly open. Through the gap, Tupolev’s revolutionary PAK-DA stealth bomber was visible inside. Mechanics and weapons handlers in khaki fatigues bustled around the aircraft, completing their final checks.
Squads of stern-faced guards armed with 5.45mm AK-12 assault rifles were posted at the doors. Now that live nuclear weapons were loaded aboard the bomber, the base commander had instituted even stricter-than-usual security measures.
Colonel Alexei Petrov and Major Oleg Bunin hopped down out of the jeep-sized Hunter. Each wore a flight suit and carried his visored helmet under one arm. Casually, they acknowledged the driver’s salute and then showed their IDs to the sentries. After being cleared through security, they strolled toward their waiting aircraft.
Suddenly, both of them faltered and came to a stop. They had unexpected company, another Air Force officer who was already there ahead of them. He wore a flight suit and helmet of his own and stood completely at ease, looking up at the PAK-DA with what could only be described as proprietorial pride. The stocky, barrel-chested figure of Major General Vasily Mavrichev was unmistakable.
“Vot der’mo. Oh, shit,” Petrov muttered in a furious aside to his younger copilot. “Just shoot me now.” Bunin nodded in dismay.
The commander of Russia’s strategic bomber forces swung around toward them. His broad face wore an insincere smile that utterly failed to reach his eyes. They remained as sharp and wary as those of any peasant watching a tax collector counting sacks of grain in his barn. “Ah, Colonel Petrov and Major Bunin, there you are. And right on time!” he said cheerfully. “I appreciate junior officers with a sense of punctuality.” He tapped his flight helmet. “As you can see, I’ve decided to ride along with you on this next mission. On your much-touted Ghost Strike combat exercise, eh? After all, I can’t just sit back and let you young fellows have all the fun, now can I?”
“Technically, we’re still in the test portion of this evaluation program, General,” Petrov pointed out carefully. “Which means that it’s well outside our safety protocols to carry anyone except trained flight crew who are completely familiar with all of the aircraft’s systems.”
If anything, Mavrichev’s smile became even more disingenuous. “Technically, that is true,” he allowed. Then he shrugged his burly shoulders. “But on the other hand, you personally assured the president that this prototype was completely airworthy, correct?”
Almost unwillingly, Petrov nodded. Damn the old bastard, he thought icily, suddenly he was arguing more like a lawyer than a high-ranking Air Force commander.
“So, by your own assessment, there is no great danger involved,” Mavrichev concluded. “Besides, I’m coming along as a simple observer, not a crew member. And since the PAK-DA’s cockpit is designed for four men, my presence won’t exactly crowd you.”
Like hell it wouldn’t. Petrov’s mind was running very fast now, first raising and then just as rapidly discarding options to handle this new problem. Having the general along on this flight added one more serious wrinkle to an already complicated plan. What was Mavrichev up to? he wondered. Did he somehow suspect what Petrov really intended?
Unlikely, the colonel decided. If that were the case, Mavrichev would have had him arrested the moment he set foot in the hangar. Most probably, the general, aware of President Zhdanov’s enthusiasm for Ghost Strike, now wanted to horn in on the action—in the hope of reaping some of the resulting political benefits and glory for himself. It was an old maxim in Russia’s armed forces: “Junior officers plan so that senior officers may profit.”
“Have you cleared this with Lieutenant General Rogozin?” Petrov asked, still desperately casting around for some other reason to deny Mavrichev a seat on this flight. Yvgeny Rogozin, who commanded the whole Air Force, was Mavrichev’s direct superior. And there were rumors the two men were bitter rivals. If so, it was just possible that he wouldn’t be happy to see the head of Long-Range Aviation currying favor with the Kremlin this way. Maybe a quick call to Moscow would pay dividends—
“Of course I’ve cleared it with Rogozin,” Mavrichev confirmed, crushing Petrov’s faint hopes. “In fact, President Zhdanov himself has also approved my presence aboard the bomber for the duration of this exercise,” he added with a thin smile.
Petrov kept his face immobile. “May I ask why?”
“Come now, Colonel,” Mavrichev chided him. “Surely you can guess?”
And then Petrov understood. “It’s our weapons payload,” he said flatly.
“Precisely,” the general said. “Just because the president approved your harebrained plan to carry nuclear warheads on this training exercise doesn’t mean he’s taken leave of all his senses. He understands the importance of tight control over such devices.”
Glumly, Petrov nodded. Unlike all American nuclear weapons and some of Russia’s own advanced ICBM warheads, Russian cruise missiles and tactical nuclear bombs were not equipped with permissive action links—electronic safeguards that required codes from two different sources before a weapon could be armed or detonated. Instead, as in the old Soviet Union, security over these nuclear warheads was maintained by “a man wat
ching another man watching another man.” Which meant Mavrichev had successfully persuaded Rogozin and Zhdanov that he needed to be aboard the bomber to provide a third layer of human command and control—a final safeguard over the twelve 250-kiloton missile warheads currently nestled inside the PAK-DA’s weapons bays.
“Any other objections, Colonel?” the general asked pointedly.
Conceding defeat for the moment, Petrov shook his head. “No, sir.” He forced a smile. “In that case, Major Bunin and I will be glad to have you on board. I think you’ll find the experience . . . enlightening.”
“I’m sure of that,” Mavrichev agreed.
Studying the other man’s bland expression, Petrov sourly wondered how many other unwelcome surprises the general had up his sleeve. With an almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders aimed at Bunin, he led the way under the stealth bomber’s broad, blended wing to its open belly hatch.
One after another, the three Russian officers climbed up the short ladder and made their way into the cockpit. While Petrov and Bunin strapped into their regular places, Mavrichev took the right-hand rear seat. If there had been a full operational crew of four aboard, that spot would have been filled by the bomber’s weapons officer.
The older man shook his head in bemusement. Instead of the crowded banks of conventional switches, toggles, and dials he was familiar with from his days as a Tu-95 and Tu-160 bomber pilot, the console in front of him had only two large multifunction displays, which were currently blank, with a few gray buttons aligned below each screen. “Mater’ Bozh’ya!” he muttered to himself. “Mother of God! This thing looks more like a flying video game machine than a serious combat aircraft.”
Petrov noticed Bunin shoot him an amused, sidelong glance and shook his head slightly in warning. Mavrichev’s apparent unfamiliarity with modern flight instrumentation wasn’t all that surprising. He had been flying a desk for years now. And even Russia’s upgraded Tu-160M2 bombers were mostly built around technology that was sometimes more than three decades old, a far cry from the high-tech systems built into their PAK-DA prototype.
Ignoring their unwanted guest for the moment, they quickly powered up their own displays and initiated a series of automated preflight and mission readiness checklists. The next few minutes passed in a blur of activity as they double-checked the aircraft’s computers at every step.
“Our fuel tank readouts show seventy-five thousand kilograms loaded,” Bunin reported, scanning his MFDs. “And we’ve got solid data links to all weapons in the bays. Everything’s in the green.”
Petrov nodded. “Very good.” They were fully fueled, and all of their cruise missiles and air-to-air weapons were properly stowed and ready to receive targeting information from their attack computers. He checked his own display. “Our Ku-band targeting radar is on standby. All electronic countermeasures and other defensive systems are ready. Our secure satellite communications system is operational. I show available connections to Rodnik and Meridian-M satellites.”
“Both engines look solid,” Bunin told him. “There are no compressor, fan, or turbine problems.”
“Copy that,” Petrov acknowledged. He looked left outside the cockpit window and saw their crew chief give him the high sign. “All ground personnel are at a safe distance.” He glanced back at Bunin. “We are go for engine start.”
“I confirm, go for engine start,” his copilot echoed.
Petrov pulled up a new menu on his display and tapped an icon. Two indicators flashed red and then turned green. “Ignition on both engines.” He adjusted his throttles forward a notch, bringing the two big turbofans to idle. Slowly at first and then faster, the two jet engines spooled up, their noise deepening from a shrill whine to a low, rumbling roar. Through the canopy, they could see the armored hangar doors rolling all the way open. Directly off to the west, the sun hung low on the horizon.
“Good power readings,” Bunin said, closely monitoring the readouts from both engines. “We’re set.”
“Let’s get this bird airborne,” Petrov agreed. He took a deep breath and keyed his mike. “Engels Tower, this is Ten’ Odin, Shadow One. We’re ready to roll.”
“Shadow One, Engels Tower, understood. You are cleared to taxi into position on runway two-two left,” the controller replied.
Petrov released the brakes and throttled up a little more. Slowly, the big blended-wing bomber moved out of the hangar and swung right onto the taxiway. Nearly four hundred meters farther on, it turned back to the left—perfectly positioned along the center line of the leftmost of the base’s two long runways. “Engels Tower, this is Shadow One,” he radioed. “In position, runway two-two left, ready for takeoff.”
“Shadow One, Tower,” he heard through his headset. “Winds light at two-one-six, cleared for takeoff on runway two-two left. Good hunting!”
“Shadow One cleared for takeoff,” Petrov acknowledged. He set the brakes again and throttled up, running the bomber’s twin engines all the way up to full military power. The rumbling roar outside the cockpit built in intensity.
“Compressors look good. Temperatures are good,” Bunin reported from beside him.
Petrov nodded. “Copy that.” He released the brakes. “Rolling.”
Unshackled from artificial constraints, the PAK-DA almost leaped ahead, accelerating fast down the runway. Off to their right side, the long line of stationary Tu-160s blurred together into a continuous stream of bright white aircraft sliding past their speeding plane.
Less than halfway down the runway, Petrov saw the Vr symbol blink onto his heads-up display. They were now moving fast enough to take off safely. Gently, he pulled back on the stick. “Rotating.”
Instantly, the bomber’s nose came up. It soared off the tarmac and climbed rapidly into the air. Hydraulics whined below their feet as the landing gear whirred up and locked into position.
Petrov risked a quick glance over his shoulder at Mavrichev. The general sat transfixed in amazement, with his mouth slightly agape. And no wonder, the colonel thought with an inward laugh. Thanks to its advanced control surfaces and design, the PAK-DA prototype required considerably less runway than Russia’s older Tu-160 bombers. Its takeoff performance was closer to that of a high-powered fighter than to a heavily loaded bomber.
Still climbing, the stealth bomber crossed the Volga and then banked hard right to turn back to the east as it flew over the city of Saratov. For a few moments, its oddly shaped wing was lit from behind by the last rays of the setting sun and then it vanished—swallowed up by the swiftly gathering dusk.
Fifteen
Over the Yenisei River, Central Russia
Three Hours Later
Five thousand meters above a pitch-black landscape of primeval forests and a wide river that wound north toward the distant Arctic Ocean, four aircraft flew onward beneath the vast dome of a star-speckled sky. Green, red, and white navigation lights marked the relative positions of the PAK-DA bomber prototype, a four-engine Ilyushin IL-78M-90A refueling tanker, and the two Su-57 stealth fighters assigned to escort the tanker to this midair rendezvous.
Unhurriedly, with painstaking effort, Colonel Alexei Petrov maneuvered into position behind the humpbacked tanker aircraft. Small bright lights outlined the drogue basket streaming behind the IL-78. He’d locked the basket into the bomber’s sophisticated IR targeting system. Steering, speed, and range indicators glowed across his HUD. They changed constantly as he closed in, making infinitesimally small adjustments to his stick and throttles.
Minutes earlier, he had extended their refueling probe from its normal, stowed position inside a compartment along the right side of the PAK-DA’s nose. Now, it was just a question of mating the probe with the drogue basket as it wobbled and danced in the big Ilyushin’s wake. Using a steerable boom system like that pioneered by the U.S. Air Force would be faster and more efficient, Petrov knew. Unfortunately, for some reason known only to its aircraft designers, Russia had never bothered to adopt the more advanced technique.
The lighted drogue basket grew steadily larger through the canopy as he drew nearer. And now, Petrov had become one with his aircraft. The PAK-DA’s stick and throttles were simply extensions of his own body. Like a skilled dancer reacting instinctively to the improvised moves of his partner, he followed the movements of the drogue as it juddered and bounced through turbulent air.
Easy, easy, he thought, almost there. Capture! For a fraction of a second, the probe scraped along the inside of the basket and then, with a soft ca-clunk, it slid into the drogue’s center receptacle and locked in place.
“Contact,” Bunin confirmed from his seat. Numbers started to change on one of his displays. “Taking on fuel.”
More time passed while Petrov concentrated on keeping station on the IL-78 tanker ahead. That required continuous tiny adjustments to his flight controls. Any sudden, unexpected movement could rip their refueling probe out of the drogue and damage both. Despite the cool air flowing from the PAK-DA’s climate control system, droplets of sweat were beading up under his flight helmet and oxygen mask.
“We’re topped off,” Bunin reported. “All fuel tanks are full.”
“Mat’ Kuritsa, Mother Hen, this is Shadow One,” Petrov radioed. “We’re gassed up and ready to break away.”
“Copy that, Shadow,” the tanker pilot replied. “Clearing away on your signal.”
“Mother Hen, execute breakaway . . . now!” Petrov ordered. At the same time, he pulled his engine throttles back a notch and pushed his stick forward slightly. The bomber’s nose dipped a few degrees. The noise of their NK-65 turbofans diminished as they descended a couple hundred meters. In the same moment, the big Ilyushin up ahead of them increased its own speed and climbed away. The tanker was already banking into an easy left turn that would take it back west toward its home base southeast of Moscow. The big IL-78’s two Su-57 fighter escorts rolled in behind it.
