by Dale Brown
“Are you getting anything significant back there, Ivan?” he asked his weapons officer.
In the Su-30’s rear seat, Captain Ivan Saltikov had his head down to monitor his own instruments and displays. He was focused on returns from their ground-to-air radar and on the green-tinged thermal images captured by their forward-looking infrared sensor pod. “Not yet,” he admitted. “So far, I’ve detected trees and more trees. Plus, a lot of trees. Oh, and some more trees.”
“Well, make sure you don’t miss the forest,” Yakunin said dryly. “I understand there’s supposed to be a very large one somewhere around here.” A quick check of their navigation system showed that they were now more than fifty kilometers east of the stealth bomber’s last reported position.
Suddenly, Saltikov snapped, “Hold on! I’ve got something, Major! I’m picking up a signal over the emergency channel.” Quickly, he pushed a toggle on one of his panels to feed the incoming transmission to their shared intercom channel.
Through his headset, Yakunin heard a shrill, staccato series of beeps. The sequence faded briefly and then started up again, repeating the same tone pattern. “Christ, that’s an emergency locator beacon!” he realized. Like their Western counterparts and most civilian airplanes, all Russian military aircraft carried a transmitter designed to activate automatically in the event of a crash.
“And I see where it’s broadcasting from,” Saltikov said, sounding sick to his stomach. Both the fighter’s ground-to-air radar and its forward-looking infrared pod were showing the same thing—a wide scar torn through the forest. In and among the splintered and broken trees was a mass of wreckage, the mangled remains of an Su-57 fighter.
“Hunter One, this is Two,” Yakunin heard his wingman in the second Su-30 reply after he frantically relayed the news of what they’d seen on the ground. “We just spotted more debris ourselves, several kilometers to the south of that first plane.”
“Is it the stealth bomber?” he asked. My God, he wondered, could there have been some sort of disastrous midair collision between the PAK-DA and its escorts? One that destroyed all three aircraft before any of them could radio for help?
“Negative, Hunter One. This second downed aircraft is definitely the other Su-57. There’s no sign at all of the PAK-DA prototype.”
Yakunin’s eyes widened. Whatever had destroyed those two stealth fighters, it couldn’t be an accident. He switched radio frequencies again to contact their home air base, near the border with Mongolia. “Domna Control, this is Hunter One. Patch me through to the NDMC in Moscow. And make it quick!”
National Defense Management Center, Moscow
Moments Later
When he understood what the Su-30 crews had discovered, Zhdanov slumped back in his chair. He felt the blood drain from his face. His pulse hammered wildly in his ears, louder even than the other equally shocked voices ringing out across the crowded conference room. Fighting for a small measure of self-control, he swung toward Lieutenant General Rogozin. “Yvgeny, are those pilots really claiming that our Su-57s were shot down?”
Looking pale himself, the Air Force commander nodded. “It appears so, Mr. President.” He swallowed hard. “To confirm their assessment fully, we’ll need to dispatch investigative teams by helicopter from Kansk Air Base. But the indications seem clear and unmistakable. Both fighters appear to have crashed almost simultaneously—as though they were struck by air-to-air missiles at virtually the same instant.”
“Missiles fired from our own stealth bomber?” Zhdanov asked, unable to suppress the absurd hope that there was some other explanation for this catastrophe.
“Yes, Mr. President.” Rogozin grimaced. “I’m afraid that is the only logical possibility.”
Zhdanov stared at him. “Which means that the PAK-DA’s crew has gone rogue.”
Very reluctantly, Rogozin nodded again. “And they’ve taken our most advanced aircraft and a full load of nuclear-armed, long-range cruise missiles with them,” he added quietly.
“And General Mavrichev? What about him?”
Rogozin frowned. “I suspect he’s either a prisoner . . . or dead. Neither Petrov nor Bunin knew he would be aboard until the very last minute before they took off, so it’s unlikely he was a member of their conspiracy.”
“But why?” Zhdanov demanded. “What can these traitors possibly hope to gain?”
Rogozin sat silent.
“I asked you a question, General,” Zhdanov snapped. Deep inside, he felt the faint stirring of white-hot rage. He welcomed it in place of the unreasoning fear that had gripped him only moments before. Fury was a leader’s prerogative. Fear was only a mark of weakness.
The other man shook himself. He sighed. “Three horrifying possibilities suggest themselves, Mr. President,” he said slowly.
“Go on,” Zhdanov growled.
“First, Petrov and Bunin have decided to carry out a surprise attack against a foreign adversary, either the Americans or the Chinese . . . for some insane, unfathomable reason of their own.”
Zhdanov stared at Rogozin in consternation. In total, the twelve cruise missiles aboard the experimental stealth bomber represented three megatons of explosive force—enough to destroy whole command centers, strategic bomber bases, and naval squadrons in port. Or kill hundreds of thousands, or even millions, of men, women, and children if they were launched against cities. And the deliberate detonation of even a single one of their 250-kiloton warheads could easily trigger an all-out nuclear confrontation. But of themselves, those twelve stolen missiles did not even come close to representing enough military power to actually win a war against either the United States or the People’s Republic of China. Petrov and his copilot must know that, which would make any decision to fire the weapons an act of utter nihilism.
“The second possibility is that the bomber’s crew has rebelled against Moscow and intends to decapitate the current government, again for some motive we do not yet understand,” Rogozin continued grimly.
Zhdanov flinched. His eyes darted to the map. “If that’s so, we could be under attack—”
“Now,” Rogozin confirmed. “Given their low-altitude cruise speed, any missiles fired in our direction from maximum range may strike this complex and the Kremlin at any moment.”
Zhdanov gritted his teeth. “You seem very calm about this situation, Yvgeny,” he snarled.
Rogozin shook his head gravely. “No, just realistic, Mr. President. The Kh-102s have a circular error probability of less than ten meters. If Petrov has already fired missiles in our direction and they detonate on target, we’ll be dead before we even know what’s happening.”
“How . . . comforting,” Zhdanov ground out. “And your third nightmare scenario?”
“That the crew is defecting, with their aircraft, to either the United States or the People’s Republic of China,” Rogozin said flatly. “Of their three possible options, I consider this the most probable, since it does not require them to contemplate the murder of millions, including their own countrymen and families. One man’s developing madness might have slipped past our psychological screening, but not two.”
Unable to control his temper any further, Zhdanov slammed his fist down on the table, sending his ashtray skittering away in a cloud of cigarette butts and ash. “Fuck your bullshit probabilities, General! Whether Petrov and his copilot are lunatics or mere traitors and criminals doesn’t matter! I want that prototype found and destroyed! Before this disaster completely blows up in our faces!” He stabbed his finger at the wall map. “Put every SAM regiment, radar station, and fighter unit across the whole country on the highest possible state of alert! That goes double for all our air defenses around Moscow itself!”
“There are a large number of foreign civilian airliners and cargo planes crossing through our airspace right now,” Rogozin reminded him.
“Shut the transpolar air routes down. All of them!” Zhdanov ordered. “And closely monitor any aircraft still in our skies. If any of them deviates
from its filed flight plan to the slightest degree, I want that plane intercepted immediately and forced to land for closer inspection. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Rogozin agreed. He hesitated again. “But if the crew is defecting or if they’re crazy enough to launch a sneak attack on the Americans or the Chinese, the PAK-DA stealth bomber could already be well beyond our borders.”
“If they’re defecting, our forces will hunt Petrov and Bunin down later and kill them—no matter where they’ve fled,” Zhdanov said coldly. “I will not show mercy to traitors.” He stood up. “But in case they have lost their minds and are trying to start a war or launch some sort of half-assed coup, we’ll evacuate our key people. Starting now.”
His movement sparked a general push toward the doors. Elevators ran deep underground from the National Defense Management Center. They connected with a secret labyrinth of subway tunnels built during the long Cold War. In the event of any attack on Moscow, trams were always on standby to hurry Russia’s top civilian and military leaders to safety in one of two heavily protected command bunkers kilometers outside the city.
“It might be wise to contact Washington and Beijing by hotline to brief them on this situation,” Rogozin pointed out carefully. “To avoid any unfortunate misunderstandings.”
“Absolutely not!” Zhdanov snapped. “I will not humiliate myself in front of the Americans or the Chinese. Not until I have no other choice.”
Seventeen
Emergency Conference Room, National Military Command Center, under the Pentagon, Washington, D.C.
A Short Time Later
The Emergency Conference Room lay buried several levels beneath the Pentagon. Roughly the size of a small theater or a school auditorium, it was dominated by a long, rectangular table. Every position at this central conference table had its own secure communications links to different military and intelligence commands around the globe. Large digital screens mounted on the far wall could be configured to show everything from orbital satellite views to live video streams from combat units, ships, and aircraft anywhere in the world. During any major crisis, the ECR served the secretary of defense, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and other defense and intelligence officials as a war room, allowing them to make high-level command and control decisions on the basis of the best available information.
Late in the evening, Eastern Standard Time, Director of National Intelligence Jonas Murphy entered the ECR at a rapid walk. The room was filling up fast as Pentagon officials and senior officers representing all six uniformed military branches arrived for this hastily convened meeting. Murphy waved the two aides who’d accompanied him over to a row of chairs reserved for staff and took his own seat among the decisionmakers at the central table.
He nodded politely to Bill Taylor, the secretary of defense, who would chair this meeting. The other man’s thick, black-framed glasses and unkempt white hair made him look a bit like an absent-minded professor, but anyone who judged him on his appearance was in for a shock. A highly successful tech entrepreneur before coming to D.C., Taylor possessed a razor-sharp mind, one capable of juggling enormous amounts of detail without losing sight of the bigger picture. Murphy privately saw him as a huge improvement over the last incumbent at the Defense Department, a slick corporate type who’d seemed far more interested in self-promotion and favorable media reviews than in military readiness and the national interest.
Taylor pushed his glasses back up his nose and nodded in return. “You know anything about all this Russian shit that’s just hit the fan, Jonas?” he asked conversationally.
“I may have a few ideas,” Murphy allowed. How many of his cards he played during this meeting would depend entirely on the situation. The ECR was one of the most secure places in the Pentagon, perhaps in the whole world. But one of the most basic rules of intelligence was that secrets distributed too widely were very soon no longer secrets at all. There were an awful lot of people in this room right now, and leaking classified information to favorite journalists was an old, old game in Washington, D.C.
“Well, I just hope you brought enough intel to share with everybody,” Taylor retorted with a lopsided grin, obviously aware of the DNI’s inner misgivings. Briskly, he activated the microphone in front of him and tapped at it. “Okay, folks, let’s get started. The clock is running, and the president wants our recommendations on his desk, ASAP.” As the room quieted down, he nodded to the briefer, a Navy two-star, up at the podium. “Go ahead and fill us in on what’s been happening over the past several hours, Admiral.”
Short, trim, and fearlessly direct, Rear Admiral Kristin Chao was the current head of the Pentagon’s operations directorate. She pushed a control on her podium, dimming the lights. Simultaneously, screens lit up on the wall behind her. One showed a large-scale digital map of the entire Russian Federation. The rest showed smaller-scale maps of Moscow and its environs, the main bases of Russia’s Aerospace Forces, and the primary ports of Russia’s Northern, Baltic, Black Sea, and Pacific Fleets. A slew of icons representing surface-to-air missile units, fighter regiments, and air surveillance radars appeared across Russia’s vast Far East region. “Beginning approximately eight hours ago, our reconnaissance satellites and other assets detected a much-higher operational tempo across this area,” the admiral said tersely. “Combined with the temporary closure of Polar Route One across central Russia by Moscow, we assessed this activity as signaling the start of a large-scale air defense exercise of some kind.”
“An exercise that we were not informed about in advance, despite the Kremlin’s clear treaty obligations,” Taylor commented dryly.
“No, sir,” Chao agreed. Her expression was unreadable. “But as you know, Moscow honors its diplomatic obligations sparingly, if at all.”
“And even then often only by accident,” Taylor said with a cynical snort.
Chao smiled thinly. “So it seems, Mr. Secretary.”
“So what’s changed?”
“A great deal,” the admiral said simply. She touched another control. Dozens of new icons flashed into existence across the map of Russia and the smaller screens which showed close-up views of its most important political, military, and industrial centers. “Approximately sixty-five minutes ago, SIGINT—signals intelligence—intercepts and new satellite imagery confirmed that Moscow has ordered all of its air defense regiments, radars, and combat air units to their highest alert status. At the same time, the Russians have also closed all transpolar air routes across their territory. No new international flights are being allowed into their airspace.”
“What’s the Kremlin’s explanation for this sudden flurry of activity, Kristin?” the Air Force chief of staff, General Frank Neary, asked.
She shrugged. “There isn’t one, sir.” Her gaze was unwavering. “We’ve reached out on the hotline. But we’re not getting responses from any senior Russian officials, either military or civilian.”
“They’re not taking our calls?” Neary asked in disbelief.
“Either that, or President Zhdanov and his top people are all still in transit to safe locations,” Chao said bluntly. “Like the nuclear command and control bunkers outside Moscow. Or their new Mount Kosvinsky Kamen special facility deep in the northern Urals.”
Neary stared at her, as did almost everyone else in the Emergency Conference Room. “Are you seriously suggesting that the Russians are preparing for war?”
“We can’t ignore the possibility.” She brought up a series of satellite images. They showed dozens of advanced fighter aircraft and Tu-160M2, Tu-22M, and Tu-95 heavy bombers being fueled and armed at bases across the Russian Federation. “There is a serious concern that all of this unprecedented activity could be the prelude to a surprise military move against the United States or some of our allies.” That created a tremendous stir across the crowded room.
Taylor leaned forward. Behind his thick lenses, the secretary of defense’s eyes were watchful. “Do we have any intelligence that might argue against that rat
her unnerving possibility, Admiral?”
“Yes, sir,” Chao admitted. She tapped another button. New images appeared, these showing the docks and submarine pens around Murmansk and Vladivostok. “So far, we see no indications that Russia’s ballistic missile submarines or surface combatants are changing their peacetime operational patterns.” More detailed satellite pictures appeared, this time of major Russian army bases. Row after row of parked main battle tanks, infantry fighting vehicles, self-propelled artillery pieces, mobile antiaircraft weapons, and other vehicles were visible. Plainly labeled “before” and “after” images showed no significant changes over the past several days. “Nor do we detect any evidence that its ground combat forces are moving to a higher state of readiness.”
“What about their ICBM force?” Neary asked.
The admiral spread her hands. “It’s difficult to say, General. We haven’t yet picked up any firm evidence that their mobile and silo-based strategic nuclear missiles are moving to a higher state of readiness . . . but I’m not sure we would in any case.”
Neary nodded grimly. Keeping track of Russia’s road-mobile long-range missiles was a difficult task at any time, and Moscow had secure landline connections to its hardened ICBM silos. If the Kremlin actually issued strike orders to its land-based strategic nuclear forces, the U.S. probably wouldn’t know anything until its satellites spotted the heat plumes from hundreds of separate missile launches. And at that point, Washington would have less than thirty minutes’ warning before a devastating hail of nuclear warheads detonated across the United States. It was the nightmare scenario that had haunted American presidents and military leaders for decades.
