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

Petrov’s lean face. For a brief moment, hewas actually tempted to reply, if only to see how much further he could exploit Zhdanov’s misplaced trust in him. But thenhe 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 hisbrain, 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 adarkening 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 Dopplerphased array radars were radiating in both air-to-air and air-to-ground modes. They had been urgently vectored to this area—thesite of the missing PAK-DA’s midair refueling rendezvous. It was the last place anyone could confirm seeing the stealth bomberprototype 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 thePAK-DA refueled over this uninhabited wilderness, this was the very definition of a wild goose chase. By now, the prototypestealth bomber could be thousands of kilometers away in any one of a dozen different directions. Moscow was clutching at straws.

“Are you getting anything significant back there, Ivan?” he asked his weapons officer.

In the Su-30’s rear seat, Captain Ivan Saltikov had his head down to monitor his own instruments and displays. He was focused on returns from their ground-to-air radar and on the green-tinged thermal images captured by their forward-looking infrared sensor pod. “Not yet,” he admitted. “So far, I’ve detected trees and more trees. Plus, a lot of trees. Oh, and some more trees.”

“Well, make sure you don’t miss the forest,” Yakunin said dryly. “I understand there’s supposed to be a very large one somewherearound here.” A quick check of their navigation system showed that they were now more than fifty kilometers east of the stealthbomber’s last reported position.

Suddenly, Saltikov snapped, “Hold on! I’ve got something, Major! I’m picking up a signal over the emergency channel.” Quickly,he pushed a toggle on one of his panels to feed the incoming transmission to their shared intercom channel.

Through his headset, Yakunin heard a shrill, staccato series of beeps. The sequence faded briefly and then started up again,repeating the same tone pattern. “Christ, that’s an emergency locator beacon!” he realized. Like their Western counterpartsand most civilian airplanes, all Russian military aircraft carried a transmitter designed to activate automatically in theevent of a crash.

“And I see where it’s broadcasting from,” Saltikov said, sounding sick to his stomach. Both the fighter’s ground-to-air radarand its forward-looking infrared pod were showing the same thing—a wide scar torn through the forest. In and among the splinteredand broken trees was a mass of wreckage, the mangled remains of an Su-57 fighter.

“Hunter One, this is Two,” Yakunin heard his wingman in the second Su-30 reply after he frantically relayed the news of what they’d seen on the ground.“We just spotted more debris ourselves, several kilometers to the south of that first plane.”

“Is it the stealth bomber?” he asked. My God, he wondered, could there have been some sort of disastrous midair collisionbetween the PAK-DA and its escorts? One that destroyed all three aircraft before any of them could radio for help?

“Negative, Hunter One. This second downed aircraft is definitely the other Su-57. There’s no sign at all of the PAK-DA prototype.”

Yakunin’s eyes widened. Whatever had destroyed those two stealth fighters, it couldn’t be an accident. He switched radio frequencies again to contact their home air base, near the border with Mongolia. “Domna Control, this is Hunter One. Patch me through to the NDMC in Moscow. And make it quick!”

National Defense Management Center, Moscow

Moments Later

When he understood what the Su-30 crews had discovered, Zhdanov slumped back in his chair. He felt the blood drain from hisface. His pulse hammered wildly in his ears, louder even than the other equally shocked voices ringing out across the crowdedconference room. Fighting for a small measure of self-control, he swung toward Lieutenant General Rogozin. “Yvgeny, are thosepilots really claiming that our Su-57s were shot down?”

Looking pale himself, the Air Force commander nodded. “It appears so, Mr. President.” He swallowed hard. “To confirm theirassessment fully, we’ll need to dispatch investigative teams by helicopter from Kansk Air Base. But the indications seem clearand unmistakable. Both fighters appear to have crashed almost simultaneously—as though they were struck by air-to-air missilesat virtually the same instant.”

“Missiles fired from our own stealth bomber?” Zhdanov asked, unable to suppress the absurd hope that there was some otherexplanation for this catastrophe.

“Yes, Mr. President.” Rogozin grimaced. “I’m afraid that is the only logical possibility.”

Zhdanov stared at him. “Which means that the PAK-DA’s crew has gone rogue.”

Very reluctantly, Rogozin nodded again. “And they’ve taken our most advanced aircraft and a full load of nuclear-armed, long-range cruise missiles with them,” he added quietly.

“And General Mavrichev? What about him?”

Rogozin frowned. “I suspect he’s either a prisoner . . . or dead. Neither Petrov nor Bunin knew he would be aboard until thevery last minute before they took off, so it’s unlikely he was a member of their conspiracy.”

“But why?” Zhdanov demanded. “What can these traitors possibly hope to gain?”

Rogozin sat silent.

“I asked you a question, General,” Zhdanov snapped. Deep inside, he felt the faint stirring of white-hot rage. He welcomedit in place of the unreasoning fear that had gripped him only moments before. Fury was a leader’s prerogative. Fear was onlya mark of weakness.

The other man shook himself. He sighed. “Three horrifying possibilities suggest themselves, Mr. President,” he said slowly.

“Go on,” Zhdanov growled.

“First, Petrov and Bunin have