by Dale Brown
Instantly, the drogue and refueling probe separated in a quick plume of aerosolized fuel. Bunin tapped an icon on his display. The probe retracted back into the PAK-DA’s nose. Numbers flickered across Petrov’s HUD as their computer recalculated the aircraft’s estimated RCS, its radar cross-section. Without the awkward, angular shape of the fuel probe sticking out in front, they should now appear to be only about the size of a large bird to any radar hunting them.
He glanced across the cockpit toward Bunin. “Now we get serious, Oleg.”
His copilot nodded. Although they were still roughly four thousand kilometers from their planned targets—the Russian Pacific Fleet’s warships at anchor in Vladivostok’s harbor and the network of air bases around the same city—this air refueling point was the last certain safe haven along their flight route. From now on, every kilometer they flew took them closer to the vast region of Russia’s Far East in which all “enemy” aircraft, radars, and SAM regiments assigned to defend against Ghost Strike were free to maneuver and deploy. Theoretically, their Kh-102 stealth cruise missiles could hit targets up to twenty-eight hundred kilometers away, but Petrov’s mission plan anticipated a simulated launch at close range, no more than a few hundred kilometers from Vladivostok. A shorter flight time reduced the defenders’ chances of detecting and destroying the incoming missiles. Besides, this exercise was supposed to simulate an over-the-pole attack on strategic targets deep inside the continental United States—where the PAK-DA would have to fly at least eight thousand kilometers just to reach a maximum range launch point. Pushing the bomber prototype to the very limits of its endurance was a key part of the proposal Petrov had sold to the president and his advisers.
“Okay, let’s configure the aircraft for prolonged low-altitude flight,” Petrov said matter-of-factly. “We’re going to come in right on the deck, moving like a bat out of hell.”
Bunin nodded. His fingers danced across displays as he brought up the bomber’s digital terrain-following system and started entering waypoints.
From the seat behind the copilot, Major General Mavrichev leaned forward, unable to hide his surprise. “You plan to make your penetration run at low altitude? Why? The American B-2s fly and attack at high altitudes, don’t they?”
“That’s correct, General,” Petrov said patiently. “But that’s because the Americans have carried out most of their B-2 raids against terrorists—or against weaker nations without modern radars and high-altitude-capable SAMs. That’s not who we’re up against tonight. We’re facing the first team. And every radar station, air defense regiment, and fighter interceptor between here and Vladivostok already knows we’re coming. We might be stealthy enough to slip past them up high, but why press our luck when we don’t have to? True, a low-level penetration flight will burn more fuel, but we’ve got plenty of gas right now, thanks to Mother Hen. And I’ll trade fuel for surprise any day.”
As if to confirm his words, a string of new alerts blinked into existence on one of his full-color displays. The same alerts also appeared on Bunin’s screens.
“Multiple X-band and L-band airborne radars detected at high altitude ahead of us,” his copilot reported. “The computer evaluates them as a mix of Su-27s, Su-30s, and Su-35s, all backed by at least one Beriev A-100 AWACS plane.”
“Signal strength?” Petrov demanded sharply.
“Very weak,” Bunin assured him. “They seem to be flying patrol patterns several hundred kilometers due east of us.”
Petrov smiled narrowly. The air defense commanders assigned to find and “kill” them in tonight’s exercise weren’t taking any chances, either. They’d deployed a strong intercept force right on the edge of the allowed perimeter. Inside, he felt a moment’s regret that Ghost Strike was nothing but a sham. Actually making an attempt to penetrate those tight defenses would have been a remarkable challenge, one requiring every ounce of his tactical and flying skills.
Then he stiffened as two high-pitched tones warbled in his headset. The PAK-DA’s IR sensors had picked up two new contacts, this time moving in from behind them. He toggled a switch on his stick, switching to the view from one of the bomber’s rear-facing thermal cameras. Two ghostly green-tinted images appeared on his helmet visor. They were closing fast.
“What the hell are those clowns doing?” Petrov growled. The two Su-57 stealth fighters that had been escorting the IL-78 air tanker had abandoned their charge and were now chasing after the PAK-DA.
Mavrichev leaned forward again, this time with a satisfied smile on his face. “I made a small alteration to your original operations plan, Colonel. Those fighters will accompany us as our escorts, at least until their fuel runs low. If any of those patrolling interceptors you’ve already detected ahead spot us in turn, the Su-57s will engage and destroy them—opening a clear path to your targets.” He sat back in his seat, looking even more pleased with himself. “And as an added bonus, having friendly fighters along will let you test this aircraft’s secure communications systems under realistic conditions.”
Petrov’s jaw tightened. Beside him, he noticed Bunin surreptitiously roll his eyes in disgust. The whole point of a stealth bomber was that it didn’t need a fighter escort. If anything, adding more aircraft to the mission package only increased the odds they would be detected. But Mavrichev was a dinosaur who’d cut his teeth as a younger officer flying lumbering Tu-95 turboprops and supersonic Tu-160 swing-wing bombers—both aircraft types with enormous radar cross-sections. The general’s understanding of strike tactics must have ossified years ago, Petrov concluded with justified contempt.
Outside, the two sleek-looking Su-57s separated and slid into positions four kilometers off the larger bomber’s wingtips. More uninvited guests at my private party, he thought coldly. This situation was getting worse and worse. His brain went into overdrive as he frantically evaluated a new series of alternatives. He had the means to handle Bunin and Mavrichev. But those Su-57 pilots were beyond easy reach. At last, he shrugged and accepted reality. Things were going to get a lot messier than he would have preferred, but the stakes were far too high for him to back out now.
Petrov pulled down his oxygen mask and ostentatiously took out his father’s old stainless-steel hip flask. With a quick jerk of his head, he mimed tossing back a shot, but he kept his teeth and tongue clenched tight to avoid swallowing any of the liquid inside. He lowered the flask with a strange sense of regret. He missed the sensation of high-proof vodka flowing down his throat like cold fire. Then, with his thumb held firmly over the top, he gave the flask a fast, hard shake to thoroughly mix all of its contents together.
Forcing a more genuine smile, he swung around in his seat and handed it back to Mavrichev. “One for the road, General?” he asked. “Before we get too busy to have any fun?”
The older man laughed and took a huge gulp before passing the flask up to Bunin, who did the same. “You surprise me, Petrov,” he joked. “I had you pegged as a bloodless technocrat. But now I see that you’re just as big a hell-raiser as your old man!”
Still smiling, Petrov retrieved his flask from Bunin and stowed it away again. Mavrichev had come very close to the truth there. Hell was precisely what he planned to raise. He toggled their secure tactical communications system. Like its strategic counterpart, it encrypted and compressed signals into millisecond-long blips before transmitting them. “Prizrachnyy Polet, Specter Flight, this is Shadow One,” he radioed. “We are descending to five hundred meters. Suggest you take station ten kilometers out in front of me for now. Stay a little higher, though, say one thousand meters.”
“Affirmative, Shadow One,” the lead Su-57 pilot replied. Even with the inherent distortion imposed by signals compression, he sounded confident, almost cocky. “We’ll swat any hostiles out of your way as needed.”
Petrov pushed his stick forward, beginning his descent. Through the canopy, he watched the two fighters pull out ahead. Seen from behind and below through the bomber’s sensitive IR sensors, the Su-57s were mar
ginally brighter against the cold, starlit sky. Despite design features that significantly reduced their engine heat signatures, they were still more detectable from the aft quarter.
He shot a quick glance at Bunin. His copilot’s head slumped forward. The fast-acting drug he’d used to spike the vodka had taken effect. It was a fentanyl derivative, originally concocted by chemists for Russia’s Spetsnaz hostage rescue units. Another swift look over his shoulder showed that Mavrichev was also unconscious. Or perhaps dead. Mixing any fentanyl variant with alcohol was incredibly dangerous, often leading to total respiratory failure. As Bunin’s superior, he’d had access to the younger man’s medical records. When he concocted this plan months ago, he’d run those records past shady medical experts provided by Grishin’s go-between, Pavel Voronin. They’d assured him that his copilot’s risk of a fatal overdose was reasonably low. Mavrichev had no such guarantee.
Petrov shrugged. One more death would make no great difference to his conscience.
He leaned forward and checked the readouts from his navigation and sensor systems again. They matched. Except for the distant interceptors and AWACS planes patrolling far off to the east, there were no other air contacts for hundreds of kilometers in any direction. To clear the skies for this top secret Ghost Strike exercise, Russia’s air traffic controllers had temporarily diverted all routine civilian flights away from this isolated, almost uninhabited wilderness region. Effectively, his stealth bomber and its unwanted fighter escorts were all alone in the middle of nowhere.
Petrov grimaced. He was out of options. And almost out of time. Mavrichev’s surprise move to assign those fighters to this mission had boxed him in. At last, with a frustrated sigh, he entered a new series of commands on one of his displays. Four warbling tones echoed through his headset. Data from the PAK-DA’s thermal sensors had been successfully downloaded to four of the self-defense K-74M2 heat-seeking missiles carried in the bomber’s internal weapons bays. They were locked on target.
Gently, he squeezed the trigger on his stick.
With a high-pitched whine, two bays under the wings cycled open. And one by one, four missiles were dropped into the air and ignited. Trailing smoke and fire, they slashed across the night sky—streaking toward their assigned targets at more than two and a half times the speed of sound.
All four missiles covered the distance in less than six seconds.
Taken completely by surprise by this treacherous attack, neither Su-57 pilot had time to realize what was happening—let alone take evasive or defensive action. Four blinding flashes lit the darkness. Ripped apart by proximity-fused warheads, both Su-57s tumbled out of the sky, strewing burning debris across the snow-covered forest below.
Horrified by what he had just done and yet strangely exultant, Petrov banked his stealth bomber to the left, rolling to the northeast toward the frozen Arctic coast now eighteen hundred kilometers ahead. He deleted Bunin’s half-completed flight plan from the computer and substituted his own—one he had prepared over the course of the past several weeks. Whatever else happened, he was fully committed now. There was no going back.
Sixteen
National Defense Management Center, Moscow
Several Hours Later
President Piotr Zhdanov lit another cigarette, drew on it for a moment, and then, irritably, stubbed it out in an already-overflowing ashtray. The soft, background hum of the secure conference room’s ventilation system rose slightly in pitch as overhead fans strained smoke out of the air. Sophisticated electronics and tobacco contaminants were not a good mix.
Zhdanov looked up at the wall-sized map display again. Glowing concentric rings showed the estimated detection ranges for active radar stations across Russia’s Far East region. Other rings depicted the engagement zones for S-300 and S-400 surface-to-air missile units. Fighter icons showed the current reported locations for patrols scouring the skies for any sign of the PAK-DA stealth bomber prototype. He scowled. Nothing seemed to have changed.
At first, the apparent inability of Russia’s alerted air defense networks to catch even a fleeting glimpse of Petrov’s stealth aircraft had seemed like good news to Zhdanov and his military commanders. It was seen as a sign that Tupolev’s vaunted bomber prototype was living up to its promise. But as the hours ticked past in silence, this early optimism had given way to a growing sense of unease.
Impatiently, Zhdanov swung around on Lieutenant General Yvgeny Rogozin. “Well? Where are they? What the devil is going on?”
“I’m not sure,” Rogozin admitted hesitantly. The chief of Russia’s Air Force used a control to sketch a glowing line across the digital wall map—one that crossed the coast considerably north of Vladivostok and then curved back over the Pacific Ocean toward Ghost Strike’s assigned targets. “It’s possible that Petrov has chosen a longer, more elaborate flight path to evade our defenses. Fully fueled, the aircraft has more than enough endurance to fly a route something along these lines. But there is a problem with this theory—”
“Which is the simple fact that those Su-57 fighters Mavrichev added to the strike package don’t have anywhere near that kind of range,” Zhdanov interrupted acidly.
Rogozin nodded. The corners of his mouth turned down. “Correct, Mr. President.”
“And yet, we’ve heard nothing from them.”
“No, sir.” Rogozin tapped another control to highlight every military and civilian airfield between Moscow and Vladivostok. In response, pinpoints of light scattered across the wall map. “Nor are there reports that the Su-57s made emergency landings at any of our bases or airports.”
“What about air-to-air refueling?” Zhdanov demanded.
Rogozin shook his head. “I contacted the commander of the Fourth Aviation Group at Ryazan personally. The Il-78 tanker that refueled Petrov’s plane returned safely to base twenty minutes ago. And there are no other tankers currently in the air.”
“Then we have a serious problem, Yvgeny,” Zhdanov said darkly. “Contact Colonel Petrov immediately. I want to know exactly where he is right now . . . and just what in the hell has happened to those stealth fighters.”
Over the Arctic Ocean
That Same Time
The sleek manta ray–shaped PAK-DA bomber raced over a vista of near-absolute desolation. Jagged, hummocky ridges of thick, compacted sea ice flashed below its wings and either vanished astern in the darkness or were swallowed by blinding curtains of gale-driven ice crystals that shrieked across the frozen wilderness.
Inside the cockpit, Petrov grimly held his course as the aircraft bounced and shuddered through increasingly turbulent air. The weather was growing steadily worse, just as the meteorological reports he’d studied had promised. Massive storms were brewing across the polar ice cap, with the promise of thickening clouds and high winds ahead.
Those developing storms were his allies, he knew. They would help hide his passage across this empty ocean of ice from prying eyes and satellites. And few of those who would soon be hunting him would believe he was crazy enough to risk flying through swirling maelstroms of wind and snow powerful enough to snatch his aircraft out of the sky and dash it into the sea in the blink of an eye.
Another gust slammed into the speeding bomber. Swearing under his breath, Petrov trimmed it back to level flight. In the seat on his right, Bunin’s drooping head flopped toward him and then rolled back the other way. His copilot and Mavrichev were both still unconscious, but he’d taken the precaution of binding their hands and feet in case they recovered sooner than he expected. He’d also stowed their personal sidearms well out of reach. He had no intention of giving either of his prisoners the chance to do anything stupidly heroic and futile.
Red-flagged alert messages suddenly rippled across the large display he’d configured to manage the PAK-DA’s sensors and defense systems. The bomber’s radar warning receivers had just picked up new signals. These were from distant S-band phased array radars. Judging by their strength and bearing, they belonged to Sopka-2 air
surveillance radars positioned on several of the rugged Arctic islands lining Russia’s long north coast.
Petrov grunted. Somebody out there was waking up at last. It was far too late, of course. It was just possible that one of those radar stations might have detected his stealth aircraft, he supposed—but only if he’d been foolish enough to fly right past it at point-blank range. As it was, the PAK-DA was already well outside Russia’s defense perimeter.
A sharp ping sounded in his headset. His secure satellite communications system had just received an urgent message. Moscow was demanding a situation update. A twisted smile tugged sharply at one side of Petrov’s lean face. For a brief moment, he was actually tempted to reply, if only to see how much further he could exploit Zhdanov’s misplaced trust in him. But then he shrugged. Why bother? The president and his advisers would learn the horrifying truth soon enough.
Or at least part of it, he thought with eerily detached amusement. Like the malignant tumor inexorably gnawing away at his brain, the full truth of what he planned was something he intended to reserve for himself. For the time being, anyway.
Ignoring Moscow’s increasingly frantic and repeated signals, Petrov flew on—racing north across the polar ice cap toward a darkening mass of storm clouds.
Over Central Russia
A Short Time Later
A pair of multirole, two-seater Su-30 fighters sped across the forest canopy at high speed. Their NO11M Bars pulse Doppler phased array radars were radiating in both air-to-air and air-to-ground modes. They had been urgently vectored to this area—the site of the missing PAK-DA’s midair refueling rendezvous. It was the last place anyone could confirm seeing the stealth bomber prototype and its Su-57 fighter escorts.
Aboard the lead fighter, Major Valentin Yakunin scanned the night sky ahead of them and periodically checked his radar displays. He was searching for any sign of an air contact, no matter how faint or fleeting. So far, he had seen absolutely nothing. Which made sense, he thought disgustedly, because there was nothing to see. Considering how many hours had passed since the PAK-DA refueled over this uninhabited wilderness, this was the very definition of a wild goose chase. By now, the prototype stealth bomber could be thousands of kilometers away in any one of a dozen different directions. Moscow was clutching at straws.