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

assigned targets at more than twoand 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 alonetake evasive or defensive action. Four blinding flashes lit the darkness. Ripped apart by proximity-fused warheads, both Su-57stumbled 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 thenortheast toward the frozen Arctic coast now eighteen hundred kilometers ahead. He deleted Bunin’s half-completed flight planfrom 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-overflowingashtray. The soft, background hum of the secure conference room’s ventilation system rose slightly in pitch as overhead fansstrained 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 foractive radar stations across Russia’s Far East region. Other rings depicted the engagement zones for S-300 and S-400 surface-to-airmissile units. Fighter icons showed the current reported locations for patrols scouring the skies for any sign of the PAK-DAstealth 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 stealthaircraft had seemed like good news to Zhdanov and his military commanders. It was seen as a sign that Tupolev’s vaunted bomberprototype was living up to its promise. But as the hours ticked past in silence, this early optimism had given way to a growingsense 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 acrossthe digital wall map—one that crossed the coast considerably north of Vladivostok and then curved back over the Pacific Oceantoward Ghost Strike’s assigned targets. “It’s possible that Petrov has chosen a longer, more elaborate flight path to evadeour defenses. Fully fueled, the aircraft has more than enough endurance to fly a route something along these lines. But thereis 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 kindof 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 landingsat 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 thatrefueled 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 curtainsof 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 werebrewing 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 pryingeyes and satellites. And few of those who would soon be hunting him would believe he was crazy enough to risk flying throughswirling maelstroms of wind and snow powerful enough to snatch his aircraft out of the sky and dash it into the sea in theblink 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 defensesystems. The bomber’s radar warning receivers had just picked up new signals. These were from distant S-band phased arrayradars. Judging by their strength and bearing, they belonged to Sopka-2 air surveillance radars positioned on several of therugged 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 ofthose radar stations might have detected his stealth aircraft, he supposed—but only if he’d been foolish enough to fly rightpast 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. Moscowwas demanding a situation update. A twisted smile tugged sharply at one side of