by Dale Brown
Dazed, Flynn slowly raised his head and looked behind him. The HC-130J was slowing fast as it neared the end of the runway. Painfully, he levered himself back up to his knees.
“Ow,” Hynes said, sounding aggrieved. “Geez, that fucking hurt.” His eyes focused on the man who’d just knocked him on his ass. “Uh, I mean, that fucking hurt, sir.”
“Yeah, I bet it did,” Flynn agreed with a wide grin. He climbed back to his feet and then helped the enlisted man up. He nodded toward where the big four-engine turboprop had finally come to a stop with its propellers still turning, just before it ran out of runway and risked skidding off across the icy tundra. “But maybe not as much as getting sliced into a bazillion pieces by one of those propeller blades, right?”
“No, sir,” Hynes agreed fervently. “And thanks for not letting me get killed, sir.”
“Too much paperwork involved, PFC,” Flynn said, still smiling. “Fortunately for you, I’m lazy that way.”
About an hour later, once they’d finished helping the HC-130J’s aircrew tie their big plane down and cover its engine cowlings and sensor pods against possible flying ice and hail damage, Flynn had time to welcome the two Air National Guard pilots and their staff sergeant loadmaster a little more formally. Which, since they were all exhausted and freezing, pretty much consisted of a quick handshake and nod across the aisle of the bus as it drove away from the airport.
“Skater and I sure appreciate your guys’ hard work out there, Nick,” Ingalls told him tiredly. “If we’d had to try setting down with all that FOD still littering the runway, we’d have been in a world of hurt.”
“Heck, I’ve been wanting to add my own aviation component to this half-assed command,” Flynn said. “Now it looks like I’m finally getting my wish.”
The copilot, a pretty brunette named Van Horn, choked back a laugh. “Just until the weather clears enough for JBER to fly in mechanics and spare parts to fix that dud engine of ours,” she warned.
Flynn peered out through the windshield. Even with the headlights, it was now basically impossible to see more than a couple of dozen yards, if that. The brief lull in the storm was over and they were trapped again in the heart of a blizzard howling across the treeless, little island at full force. “That could be a while,” he commented mildly.
The others nodded. “Welcome to winter in Alaska,” Ingalls agreed with resignation. “Starts in the fall and doesn’t end until sometime around summer. I figure we’re probably stuck here for at least a couple of days, maybe more.”
“Well, it’s not all that bad around here,” Flynn told them.
Van Horn looked surprised. “It’s not?”
Flynn leaned back out of the way of the punch he thought might be coming his way in a second. “Nope,” he said wryly. “It’s much worse.”
“I would kill you for that,” Laura Van Horn said with an answering smile. “But I’m too darned tired. So maybe I’ll take my revenge later, Captain Flynn.”
Twenty-Three
Sharapovo Nuclear Command Bunker, outside Moscow
The Next Day
Piotr Zhdanov watched in frustration as search area after search area shown on a large digital map of Russia turned green—indicating that concentrated sweeps by Tu-214R, Tu-142, and IL-38 reconnaissance planes had come up empty. “You’re quite sure about these results?” he demanded. “After all, Petrov and his coconspirators have almost certainly camouflaged the PAK-DA prototype by now, and swept away any traces left by his landing on a snow or ice field. Couldn’t your pilots and aircrews simply have missed them?”
“That is highly unlikely, Mr. President,” Lieutenant General Rogozin said patiently. “We’ve subjected the most probable landing fields to repeated overflights. We’ve even done the same with many of those places that our planners consider far less suitable. In addition, we’ve deployed Spetsnaz units and other Army formations to multiple possible sites to confirm those negative results. So far, we haven’t found a single trace of the stealth bomber inside our own national territory.”
Zhdanov sighed. “So, then, where is he? And where is our missing stealth bomber?”
“Hidden somewhere on the North American continent,” Rogozin said bluntly. “It’s the safest place for Petrov, because it’s the most difficult for us to search . . . or to attack.”
“And how much progress have you made in carrying out reconnaissance flights over this region?” Zhdanov asked coldly.
“Not much,” Rogozin admitted.
“Show me.”
Wordlessly, the general brought up a new map on the command center’s wall screen. It depicted the northern third of the North American continent—from Alaska in the west to the vast ice shelf of Greenland in the east. Comparatively tiny half circles colored green showed the areas probed by Russia’s long-range reconnaissance aircraft so far. Fewer than half a dozen of them dotted North America’s long coastline fronting the Arctic Ocean. In no case had a Tu-142 or an IL-38 succeeded in penetrating more than a few miles inside American or Canadian airspace before being intercepted and turned back by F-22 Raptors and CF-18 Hornets.
“Mater’ Bozh’ya!” Zhdanov scoffed. “Mother of God! All you’ve done is nibble around the edges!” He glared at Rogozin. “Were your pilots and crews waiting for engraved invitations from Washington and Ottawa before doing their fucking jobs?”
“No, sir,” Rogozin said quietly, not rising to the bait. “But it’s taking time to move the air tankers and other assets needed by our fighter escorts into position—especially with the bad weather affecting the region. So up to now, all of our flights have been unescorted and vulnerable.”
Zhdanov frowned. “How much longer will it take to assemble the necessary fighters and other planes?”
“One more day.”
“Which will put us well beyond Petrov’s first seventy-two hour deadline,” Zhdanov pointed out bitterly.
“Yes, sir,” Rogozin said. “And his price to return the PAK-DA and its weapons payload to us will go up.”
“Screw his price,” Zhdanov growled. “The only thing that traitor’s going to get from me is a missile down his throat or a bullet in the back of his skull. What worries me more is the possibility that he’ll decide to sell out to the Americans first.” His frown deepened. “We’re not going to get too many more bites at the apple before that happens. So it’s imperative that you concentrate these first fighter-escorted air searches on the most likely hiding places.”
Rogozin stared back at him. “I’m not sure we can hope to do that,” he said carefully. “Colonel Petrov had enough fuel on board to reach any possible landing site in several million square kilometers of North American wilderness. We simply don’t have any evidence yet that would help us narrow that down significantly.”
“That may not be quite true,” another voice interrupted.
Startled, both Zhdanov and Rogozin swung around toward another of the several men seated around the table. On the principle that the less said the better when their leader was getting bad news, Kokorin, Yumashev, and the rest of the Russian president’s senior military and civilian advisers had kept their mouths shut over the past several minutes. But now, Aleksandr Ivashin, the head of the GRU, had evidently decided it was worth the risk to join the discussion.
Zhdanov’s eyes narrowed. That meant Ivashin had something up his sleeve, something he was confident would make him look good. Cautious by nature and training, the spymaster was not a fool. “You’ve picked up Petrov’s trail?” he guessed.
“Part of it, perhaps,” Ivashin said calmly. “Maybe enough to help General Rogozin’s pilots refine their search parameters.”
“Go on.”
Ivashin indicated the computer console at his place. Through it he had secure communications links to the GRU’s Moscow headquarters. “One of our deep-cover illegals in northern Alaska has reported in,” he said. “According to this agent, one of the American air surveillance radars briefly picked up a faint, unidentified c
ontact very close to the Alaska coast on the night Petrov disappeared. It was still flying south when it disappeared a short time later.”
“Where would that take him?” Zhdanov demanded.
Responding to Ivashin’s commands, the map display zoomed in to show the area between Prudhoe Bay and the western edge of Canada’s Yukon Territory in the north and a little American town called Beaver and Ni’iinlii Njik, a Canadian national park, in the south. The enclosed region was still enormous, encompassing more than two hundred thousand square kilometers—mostly comprised of rugged mountains and uninhabited wilderness, including the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge. The head of the GRU pointed at the map. “Somewhere in there, possibly. Obviously, we can’t be sure of that, but, assuming what the Americans picked up on their radar was, in fact, our stolen stealth bomber, this area seems the logical place to start looking.”
Zhdanov sucked in his cheeks. “Is your agent reliable?”
“Completely reliable,” Ivashin assured him. “We successfully infiltrated this particular illegal into Alaska years ago. And over that time, our agent has built up a very substantial network of useful information sources, including some inside the American military, local civilian government, and important regional private industries. The intelligence we’ve obtained has always proved to be accurate and extremely valuable.”
Zhdanov nodded. He turned back to Rogozin. “Your opinion, Yvgeny?”
The Air Force commander studied the display very closely for a few moments more. He looked at Ivashin. “What is the Americans’ own evaluation of this short radar trace? Do you know?”
“At the time, they seem to have assessed it as more likely to be a minor equipment malfunction or a natural phenomenon than a genuine air contact,” Ivashin told him. “But my agent believes their views may have changed recently.”
“Why?”
“Because the Americans have just flown a special team into their joint Army and Air Force base near Anchorage—a team that apparently includes intelligence specialists . . . and scientists and engineers trained in exploiting and analyzing foreign aircraft and aviation technology.”
Rogozin took a short, sharp breath. “Well, that tears it,” he said quietly. He turned to Zhdanov with a worried look. “I’ll organize an armed reconnaissance mission over that area as rapidly as possible, Mr. President. We could be in a race now, a race where we’re already starting out behind.”
Twenty-Four
The Pentagon, Washington, D.C.
That Same Time
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.”
Deep in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge
A Short Time Later
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.”
