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

A new window opened on the multifunction display he’d set to manage the bomber’s navigation system. target range: 90.5 kilometers.

Petrov throttled back to significantly reduce his airspeed. He banked right and then left and back right again, followingthe narrow gorge as it snaked south through higher peaks and ridges. Little patches of stunted trees lined the banks of afrozen watercourse at its bottom. The howling winds and turbulence clawing at his aircraft diminished a little. He’d flownout ahead of the oncoming storm.

Gradually, the chasm widened. The mountains and rounded hills fell away on either side, revealing a broader valley ahead.Stretches of snow-covered tundra and clumps of woods appeared eerily green in the PAK-DA’s infrared sensors.

Petrov glanced down at his MFD. target range: 15 kilometers. He blinked, still scarcely able to believe that this nightmare run through the mountains was nearly over. He was just twominutes out. It was time to find out if Voronin’s mercenaries were awake and attentive to their duties. His lips thinned.He disliked being forced to trust the competence of men he’d never met.

He reached forward and tapped a preset icon on the display. Obeying his command, the bomber’s tactical communications systemtransmitted a short, encrypted radio signal at very low power. Without waiting for a response, he toggled on his landing lights.Powerful spotlights speared through the darkness. Control surfaces along the trailing edge of the PAK-DA’s wing whined open,providing additional lift as his airspeed decreased. More hydraulics whirred as the landing gear came down and locked in position.

In the distance, glowing dots blinked into existence. Days before, Voronin’s team had set up pairs of shielded infrared markersto outline the improvised runway they had built out of compacted snow. A parachute flare, blinding bright through fallingsnow, arced high into the air from the forward edge of the runway—giving him a visual indication of the wind direction andstrength.

Gently, with tiny movements of the stick and his other controls, Petrov brought the big stealth bomber in to land. Ahead through his canopy, the twin rows of infrared markers grew steadily larger, taking on shape and definition as he skimmed low over the valley floor on final approach.

The first pair of markers slid past under his wing. He was just above the compacted snow field. It was time to set the birddown. Petrov throttled all the way back in one smooth motion. Robbed of the last lift keeping it in the air, the bomber droppedonto the runway. Curtains of snow sprayed outward as it thundered down the valley, shedding speed as he reversed thrust andcarefully applied his brakes. Gradually, as the aircraft slowed, the trees and rock-littered hillsides blurring past his canopysharpened into focus.

Petrov grinned more genuinely under his oxygen mask. He’d been confident this would work. His countrymen had successfullyoperated heavy four-engine IL-76 transport aircraft on similarly improvised snow and ice fields in the past. Their loadedweight was comparable to that of the PAK-DA prototype . . . and to the American B-2, for that matter. But the Americans werefar too conventional to imagine anyone would risk pulling the same stunt with an armed stealth bomber—let alone using a makeshiftrunway secretly carved out inside their own national territory.

As he taxied toward the end of the field, a large white structure slowly emerged from the darkness and blowing snow. Shroudedin netting to break up its visual signature, it was a temporary aircraft shelter created with ultralight thermal and radar-reflectivecamouflage fabric. Two men were stationed near the entrance to guide him inside.

Slowly, directed by their glowing orange batons, Petrov carefully maneuvered the PAK-DA into position, set the brakes, andswitched off both engines. The huge turbofans keened down to a stop, descending steadily in pitch until they fell silent.After so many hours spent in the air surrounded by their roar, this sudden quiet seemed unnatural.

He sat back with a relieved sigh, stripped off his headset, and unbuckled his straps. When he stood up, he noticed that both Bunin and Mavrichev were wide awake now. They glared at him. “Welcome to America,” he said cheerfully.

“You fucking traitor,” Mavrichev spat out in response.

Petrov shook his head. “I sincerely hope not, General.” He shrugged his shoulders. “This is a purely private-enterprise operation.And if Moscow is wise, it will meet our price. Then you and Oleg there can fly the prototype home. You may not return as heroes,but at least you’ll be the men returning a precious aircraft to its rightful owners.”

Without waiting for a reply, he brushed past them and unlatched the hatch. When it swung open in a blast of bitterly coldair, he slid down the ladder and dropped lightly onto the aircraft shelter’s hard-packed snow floor.

Shielded lanterns illuminated its cavernous interior. In their glow, Petrov saw a group of three hard-faced men waiting forhim. They were bundled up against the subzero weather in parkas and fur-lined hoods. One stepped forward with a thin smile.“Congratulations on your success, Colonel. My name is Bondarovich. I’m in charge here.”

Petrov nodded briefly. As a matter of operational security, he hadn’t been briefed on any of their names. But he recognizedtheir type—ex-soldiers who’d found a way to use the lethal skills they’d been taught by the state for their own personal profit.It amused him to realize they undoubtedly believed he was just the same.

Movement outside the tent caught his eye. A snowmobile was headed toward them from the far end of the runway.

“Another of my men,” Bondarovich explained. “He fired that flare for you, and made sure none of our IR markers were blockedby drifting snow.” He glanced up at the PAK-DA bomber looming over them. “I understand you have a prisoner you need us tohandle?”

“Two of them, actually,” Petrov said. He filled the other man in on Mavrichev’s sudden decision to invite himself along onwhat was supposed to be a triumphant test of the prototype’s capabilities.

Bondarovich whistled in amazement. “The commander of Long-Range Aviation himself? That’s a devil of a big fish you landed,Colonel.”

“More like a big pain in the ass,” Petrov said with