Arctic Storm Rising

“Understood, Shadow One,” the control tower replied right away. “We lost your data link at the same time. We’re clearing the field now. Emergency vehicles are on standby.”

Quickly, Petrov shifted his attention to the two Su-34 chase planes. “Opekun Odin i Dva eto Ten’ Odin. Guardian One and Two, this is Shadow One. Close on me. I’ve lost all instrumentation and I’m returning to Akhtubinsk immediately. But I’m going to need your eyes.”

Unable to hide their concern, both chase plane pilots acknowledged. The twin-tailed aircraft rolled in to within fifty meters, one on the bomber’s left side and one on its right. Their red, green, and white position lights glowed brightly in the darkness.

“Give me a reading on my airspeed, altitude, and heading,” Petrov said calmly.

“Shadow One, your airspeed is five hundred kph. Altitude thirty-eight hundred meters. Your heading is now three-two-one degrees,” one of the Su-34 pilots reported.

“Understood,” Petrov replied. “What’s my most direct heading back to the airfield?” That earlier, inadvertent roll to the right had thrown them a little off course. And with the computers down, so was their digitized navigation system.

“Come left to three-one-four degrees.”

Sweating under his helmet, Petrov muscled the stick and rudder pedals to raise control surfaces on the trailing edge of the bomber’s right wing, while simultaneously lowering rudders and elevons along its left wing. Slowly, the big plane banked left a few degrees. Straining, he reversed the process to level off again on the correct heading.

Carefully, the Su-34 pilots and weapons officers coaxed the stricken PAK-DA prototype back toward the test center’s Akhtubinsk field. Their constant commentary on altitude, attitude, airspeed, and the observed positions of the bomber’s wing rudders and elevons blurred through Petrov’s mind as he fought to keep the inherently unstable aircraft in control. Without the fly-by-wire system, even small adjustments required enormous effort.

Under the strain, time seemed to stretch out almost unbearably for most of the return flight. Seconds felt like minutes. Minutes dragged like hours. But then, as they came in on final approach, with the airfield’s bright lights blazing ahead of them through the cockpit canopy, everything sped up. And Petrov’s whole world narrowed down to a tight cone directly ahead of the aircraft.

“I confirm that your landing gear is down, Shadow One,” one of the Su-34 pilots radioed.

“Copy that,” Petrov replied tightly.

“Two hundred meters, descending at ten meters per second. You’re coming in a little hot. Airspeed is three hundred ten kph.” The Su-34s were sticking to the bomber’s flanks as if they were glued there, gliding down out of the sky beside it as though they planned to land, too.

Petrov blinked away a droplet of sweat. The double strand of runway lights seemed to be rushing at him like a runaway freight train. Reacting instantly, he reduced his throttles and heaved back on the stick to raise the bomber’s nose a degree or two. His rigid neck and shoulder muscles felt as though they were on fire.

“One hundred meters, down at eight meters per second. Angle of attack looks good, Shadow One. Split drag rudders full open. Airspeed two-ninety kph,” he heard a chase plane report through his headset.

And then they were over the runway itself. Parallel white bars painted along the concrete strip loomed up and then vanished beneath the cockpit, growing ever bigger as the PAK-DA lost altitude. Abruptly, the heavy bomber dropped the last couple of meters and touched down with a sharp jolt. Instantly, the Su-34 chase planes on either side hit their afterburners and climbed away at high speed.

Petrov chopped back on his throttles to reverse thrust and then braked hard to shed their remaining speed. With its turbofan engines howling, the big aircraft rolled down the runway. Slowing fast, the PAK-DA prototype came to a complete stop about fifteen hundred meters from its touchdown point. Through the cockpit canopy, he could see flashing red and white lights as several emergency vehicles converged on their stationary bomber.

With a sigh, he shut down their engines and sat back.

Beside him, Bunin stripped off his flight helmet. The younger man’s thick mop of hair was soaked with sweat. His teeth gleamed briefly in the darkness. “That was some seriously shit-hot flying, Colonel,” he said in unfeigned admiration. “I think you just saved the whole stealth bomber program — not to mention a twenty-billion-ruble experimental aircraft. Oh, and our lives, too, for whatever they’re worth. I suspect our masters in Moscow are going to be very, very happy with you.”

Wordlessly, Petrov nodded. Inside, he smiled. Without realizing it, his copilot had just managed to put his finger on the whole point of tonight’s little exercise.