Arctic Storm Rising by Dale Brown (readera ebook reader .TXT) 📗

Canadian Air Force, deputy commander, North American Aerospace Defense Command (NORAD)

Prologue

Kazan Aircraft Production Plant, Kazan, Russia

Late July

Rays of summer sunlight streamed through rows of windows set high up along one drab concrete wall of the huge assembly hall.They lit sections of a large, futuristic-looking blended-wing aircraft: the first flyable prototype of Tupolev’s top secretPAK-DA stealth bomber. A protruding nose and the large, rounded cockpit canopy surrounded by narrow engine intakes along thewing’s leading edge explained the nickname it had acquired in construction, Skat, or Devilfish. So did the multiple elevons and other control surfaces lining the wing’s trailing edge. Seen from above, theaircraft’s unusual configuration gave it the look of a manta ray gliding silently across the ocean floor.

Intended to match and even surpass America’s operational B-2 Spirit and next-generation B-21 Raider stealth bombers, the PAK-DA was a subsonic aircraft with a planned range of more than twelve thousand kilometers. Two powerful NK-65 turbofan engines, each producing more than sixty thousand pounds of thrust, would enable it to carry thirty metric tons of payload—both long-range stealth cruise missiles and shorter-ranged air-to-air missiles for self-defense—in internal weapons bays. The bomber’s own stealth characteristics, new sensor systems, electronics, and flight controls were designed to allow its wartime crew of four to penetrate advanced enemy air defenses without being detected. All told, this prototype was the culmination of a top secret research-and-development program that had already consumed many years and hundreds of billions of rubles.

Russian Air Force Colonel Alexei Petrov slid out through an opening on the aircraft’s belly and dropped nimbly onto the assemblyhall floor, ignoring the ladder fitted to the hatch. In his midforties, the veteran test pilot was still trim and fit, thoughflecks of gray dusted his dark brown hair. Smiling broadly, he nodded to the knot of Tupolev design engineers, senior executives,and company test pilots waiting for him. “My congratulations, gentlemen. You’ve built a beautiful machine. I’m looking forwardto putting it through its paces in the weeks and months ahead.”

His praise for their work drew answering smiles from the engineers and executives. In contrast, the rugged faces of Tupolev’sown experienced civilian pilots stiffened slightly at the unwelcome reminder that they were being bypassed. Desperate to showthe world that Russia could still compete militarily with the United States and China, the Kremlin had ordered this new strategicbomber program accelerated by every means necessary. Delivering the PAK-DA prototype directly to Petrov and his team withoutthe usual sequence of carefully monitored corporate test flights would shave months off the process of certifying the designfor full-scale production and deployment to operational regiments.

“When would you like us to arrange the formal handover?” Mikhail Ivanin, Tupolev’s burly CEO, asked carefully.

“As soon as possible,” Petrov replied. “But not here in Kazan. Let’s take care of that business down at Chkalov instead.”

The other man pursed his lips. The Air Force’s Valery Chkalov flight test center was nearly nine hundred kilometers south of Kazan. Named after one of the old Soviet Union’s most famous and daring test pilots, the range was now specially equipped to handle experimental advanced stealth aircraft. Transferring the bomber prototype there right away would definitely speed up the process of validating its flight characteristics and systems. Unfortunately, it also meant assigning Tupolev’s own specialist mechanics to the distant base for a prolonged period. They would be needed to train Air Force ground crews to maintain the PAK-DA’s complex avionics and advanced radar-absorbent coatings. The hassle factor for the company and its employees would be high. So would the added expense. Then again, Moscow’s orders were clear: whatever Petrov and his team wanted, they would get.

Glancing at the unhappy faces of Tupolev’s own pilots, Petrov threw them a bone. “Your guys can bring the bomber down. Afterall, it’s only fair that they have the honor of taking the Devilfish up for its first flight.”

With a curt nod, Ivanin crooked a finger, signaling the senior company flier over to join them. Georgy Remizov was a short,stocky, round-faced man a few years older than Petrov himself. He’d flown high-performance combat aircraft for the Air Forcebefore resigning to join Tupolev when Russia’s post-Soviet military went through one of its periodic belt-tightenings. Perfunctoryintroductions completed, the CEO excused himself. “For now, I’ll leave you to work out the details with Georgy, Colonel. Butfeel free to contact me if you need anything else.”

Then he hurried away, almost as though he feared Petrov would make some new outrageously expensive demand if he lingered anylonger. The two pilots watched him go with some amusement. “Chief Executive Ivanin has a superb head for numbers and budgets,”Remizov murmured.

“But he’s no aviator?”

“I think he sometimes wishes we built locomotives or automobiles instead of aircraft,” Remizov confided. “I hear he gets airsickabove the fourth floor of any building.”

With the Tupolev test pilot pacing him, Petrov strolled toward the nearest exit from the huge aircraft assembly hall. The armed guards posted there stiffened to attention. He threw them a casual salute and then glanced down at the shorter man. “Well? Any questions?”

Remizov shook his head. “None.” A lopsided smile flashed across his face and then vanished. “I anticipated your . . . request.I’ve already worked out a flight plan with contingencies for any possible teething troubles. We’ll never be more than a fewminutes’ flying time from potential abort fields during the whole trip south to Chkalov.”

“Very good,” Petrov said in approval, and he meant it. The first few flight hours were always the most dangerous in any newaircraft. No matter how thoroughly you scrubbed a revolutionary design in wind tunnels and computer simulations, things couldstill go badly wrong under real-world conditions. “I appreciate your attention to detail.”

Remizov shrugged. “I had a good teacher.” This time his smile was more genuine. “I served under your father as a junior pilot,Colonel.” He shook his head admiringly. “The general was one tough son of a bitch, that’s for sure. Without mercy for fuckups.But we were sharp as razors by the time he finished with us.” His eyes narrowed