by Dale Brown
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.”
Thirty-Nine
Crow Field
That Same Time
Inside the cockpit of the PAK-DA stealth bomber, Alexei Petrov leaned forward and finished keying in the last elements of his flight plan. Lights along the top of the central multifunction display flashed from amber to green as the aircraft’s computers checked his orders and signaled their acceptance. He watched them closely, aware of more pressure building up in the back of his brain. The headaches triggered by his malignant brain tumor were coming ever more rapidly now, held at bay only by increasing doses of medication.
Fortunately, Petrov thought with cool irony, very soon now, he would no longer need to worry about his disease. Death, after all, was the final solution for all human illness. But in the meantime, the need to numb himself against crippling pain required him to rely on the bomber’s autonomous systems to manage this final mission. Through the haze induced by medicines, his own reflexes were no longer up to the task.
He checked his flight instruments and panels one last time, just to be sure. Without a copilot to help him run through his checklists, precision was even more essential. Satisfied, he tapped a code sequence on the screen’s virtual keyboard to set his VIKHR program in motion.
Immediately, a new window opened on the MFD. An icon blinked. go for engine start, the bomber’s computer reported. Two indicators flashed red and then green. ignition on both engines. Petrov glanced at his throttles. Eerily, both moved on their own accord, going to idle without any command input from him. Through the aircraft’s open belly hatch, he heard the two big turbofans powering up. Their noise deepened from a high-pitched whine to a growling rumble.
Oppressed suddenly by a sense of urgency, Petrov got up and moved back through the short interior tunnel to the open hatch. He climbed down the ladder there, dropped awkwardly onto the hard-packed snow floor, and then hurried over to the controls for the camouflaged aircraft shelter’s large central doo
r. It was a simple, small box dangling from a power cord connected to electric motors mounted near the roof. He flipped the single switch and heard the motors hum. For a few moments, he stood watching just to make sure nothing went wrong as they slowly winched the hangar’s fabric covering upward.
In the moonlight, far across the gleaming white surface of his improvised runway, flames still danced amid the burning wreckage of the tent camp he’d set ablaze. A thick column of oily black smoke, lit from the inside by flickering sparks crackling off the gasoline-fed fire, curled away on the wind.
And then Petrov’s eyes widened in shock. A camouflaged military helicopter had just clattered straight through the smoke. Sleek-nosed, with a four-bladed main rotor, it was already flaring out to land close to the hangar. Someone had found him! He whirled around and scrambled under the PAK-DA bomber’s broad, blended wing to get back to the hatch.
Aboard the Ka-60 Kosatka helicopter, Flynn snapped an order to Hynes. He and the square-shouldered enlisted man were the only Americans aboard. He’d been forced to leave the other three able-bodied troops under his command, Vucovich, Kim, and Santarelli, behind at the spur to do their best to keep the wounded and injured alive until he could get back to them. “Keep the crew covered, Cole. Once we’re down, this bird doesn’t go anywhere without my say-so!”
The Army PFC nodded. “You got it, sir. One twitch I don’t like and both of these guys will end up splattered across that windshield.” He had the Russian-made AKM he’d picked up back on the battlefield angled to sweep the entire cockpit at the slightest sign of trouble from either of the helicopter’s two pilots. Fortunately, the Russian aviators still seemed to be in a state of shock at how easily the tables had been turned on them. When Flynn and Hynes came hurrying out of the darkness, they’d seen what they’d expected to see—two Spetsnaz commandos coming to report the destruction of the American force. Instead, they’d suddenly had assault rifles shoved in their faces and found out the hard way that they were now prisoners.
Once Flynn checked out this burning wilderness camp where no camp should be, he planned to use the captured helicopter to fly his men and the wounded Russian survivors south to Fairbanks, the nearest place with an emergency trauma center. With a little luck, he hoped, the blizzard would have eased up enough by then to make the flight possible. If not, some of the more severely injured would be dead before too long.
So time was short, he reminded himself sharply. But he still needed to find out what the hell was going on here. Too many men had died for him to walk away from here without answers. Not waiting any longer, he slammed the Ka-60’s side door wide open and dropped out onto the ground—ducking his head against a howling torrent of rotor-blown snow and ice.
Cradling his own captured AKM rifle, Flynn moved out from under the spinning blades . . . and then stopped dead, taken completely by surprise at what he saw ahead of him. They’d landed about fifty yards from the only intact structure left, a very large fabric tent of some kind. It was a faded white that matched the snow-covered terrain, and draped in camouflage netting to break up its silhouette. But the whole front of the tent had just rolled upward, allowing him to see the huge blended-wing aircraft hidden inside.
“Jesus Christ,” Flynn muttered to himself, staggered by the sheer size of this plane. It was as big as a B-2 Spirit stealth bomber and shaped pretty much the same way. But it was just as obviously not an American aircraft design. Which meant it belonged to the Russians. His eyes narrowed in speculation. What kind of war game was Moscow playing here? Why secretly station a brand-new strategic bomber of some kind—for this could be nothing else—so deep inside American territory?
He felt a shiver down his spine. Whatever the reason, he was pretty sure it was nothing good, at least not from an American perspective. For a split second, Flynn stood frozen in place, remembering the earlier, explicit orders relayed to him from the Pentagon: Observe and report any unidentified aircraft on the ground, but under no circumstances take any other action without further instructions. Then he shook his head decisively. Yeah, screw that, he thought with a mental shrug. There was no way he was just going to sit back and watch the Russians finish whatever they were up to here, because he could hear that stealth bomber’s engines spooling up right now.
Besides, Flynn asked himself with a sudden grin, what more could the spooks and the Joint Chiefs do to him for disobeying orders? Exile him to the back end of Alaska again?
He started to trot across the snow toward the hangar. But then he spotted movement under the aircraft’s fuselage. A man in one of those pale blue Russian flight suits—the same kind worn by Mavrichev, the dead general they’d found—was already climbing up a short crew ladder into the bomber.
Without hesitating, Flynn raised the AKM rifle to his shoulder and pulled the trigger. A clump of snow kicked up under the fuselage. Too low. He raised his aim slightly and squeezed off several more shots. This time he saw sparks cascading off the metal ladder. But the crewman he’d been shooting at had already disappeared through the open hatch.
Flynn lowered his weapon and sprinted toward the hangar, acting almost entirely on instinct. He couldn’t tell if he’d scored any hits on that guy, but whether he had or not didn’t seem to matter. Somebody was still inside that Russian stealth aircraft, and unless he wanted to just stand here and watch it fly away, he needed to get a lot closer.
Gritting his teeth in pain, Petrov dragged himself up the ladder and flopped over onto the deck. His right arm, torn open by a rifle round, now hung useless at his side. Straining, he struggled back to his feet. But when he tried to turn the manual hatch control, he almost blacked out.
Giving up with a muttered curse, he reeled into the cockpit and dropped into his pilot’s seat. Sickeningly aware of the hot blood soaking the sleeve of his flight suit, Petrov reached out with his left hand and quickly brought up a menu on one of the MFDs. Blurry shapes appeared, and he tapped an icon that would retract the ladder and close and seal the belly hatch. With a sigh, he released the brakes and sat back in a daze—feeling the PAK-DA bomber start its programmed takeoff roll.
Flynn saw the big aircraft lurch into motion, lumbering forward out of the tentlike hangar, accompanied by a steadily increasing roar from its jet engines. The crew ladder extending from its hatch had started to slide upward and out of sight. “No fucking way,” he snarled. He threw the rifle aside, lowered his head, and ran even faster, plunging across the snow with rapidly lengthening strides.
Moving all out now, he raced under the bomber’s fuselage—heading for the open hatch he’d seen. It was already swinging shut. Frantically, he jumped high, caught hold of the coaming, and hauled himself up through a rapidly narrowing gap. He wriggled away onto a metal deck just as the hatch slammed shut and latched tight behind him. From the vibration and noise all around him, it was clear that the Russian aircraft was still moving . . . bouncing up and down as it trundled onto a rough runway created out of compacted snow and ice.
Oh, smooth move, Flynn thought wryly. He’d just managed to scramble aboard an enemy aircraft that was obviously getting ready to take off. That was all well and good, except that his personal piloting skills had topped somewhere around the model airplane stage. Maybe he should have stopped to think about this whole idea first. Now what was he supposed to do?
Well, when in doubt, improvise like hell, he decided. And, like Teddy Roosevelt said, carry a big stick. Or, in this case, a 9mm Glock 19. He got to his feet and drew his pistol before moving forward into the cockpit.
To Flynn’s surprise, although there were seats for four crewmen, only one, the pilot’s position, was occupied. A Russian Air Force officer, a colonel named Petrov according to the name tag on his flight suit, sat strapped in, bleeding profusely, ashen-faced, and clearly in terrible pain. Through the clear canopy, Flynn could see the snow-covered landscape sliding past at increasing speed as the stealth bomber rolled down the runway. He leveled his pistol at the pilot’s head. “Ostanovi etot sa
molet seychas zhe!” he snapped. “Stop this aircraft, now!”
To his surprise, Petrov forced an agonized smile. “Or what?” he retorted in lightly accented English. “You will shoot me? And then we crash?”
“Yeah, if that’s what it takes,” Flynn growled.
Still smiling crookedly, the Russian held up his empty left hand. His shattered right arm was immobile. “Shooting me will not change anything, Captain . . . Flynn,” he said tiredly, reading the name off Flynn’s own uniform. “I am no longer in control. The computers are.”
At that moment, the bomber lifted off, shuddering and shaking as it plowed through wind gusts and low-altitude turbulence. Flynn hurriedly grabbed hold of the back of the copilot’s seat while still keeping his pistol aimed at Petrov’s head. Hydraulic thumps and whines from behind the cockpit signaled that the landing gear had retracted and locked inside.
Slowly, the aircraft banked, turning toward the south as it sped low over snow-capped ridges and hills. With difficulty, Flynn tore his eyes away from the bleak and empty landscape. He set the Glock’s muzzle directly against the Russian colonel’s temple. “Then turn those computers off and land this big son of a bitch.”
Petrov laughed harshly. “I will not.” He shrugged. “I am already dying anyway.” Sardonic amusement flickered in his icy blue eyes. “What you do not understand is that you are dying with me. Though you may live long enough to see the missiles fly.”
“Missiles? What missiles?” Flynn demanded sharply. Oh, shit, he thought, feeling cold.
“This bomber prototype carries twelve nuclear-tipped cruise missiles,” Petrov told him calmly. “Missiles that I have already armed. In a few short hours, once this undetectable stealth aircraft reaches its preprogrammed coordinates, those missiles will launch against strategic targets in your country—”
