Arctic Storm Rising

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 curtains of 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 were brewing 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 prying eyes and satellites. And few of those who would soon be hunting him would believe he was crazy enough to risk flying through swirling maelstroms of wind and snow powerful enough to snatch his aircraft out of the sky and dash it into the sea in the blink 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 defense systems. The bomber’s radar warning receivers had just picked up new signals. These were from distant S-band phased array radars. Judging by their strength and bearing, they belonged to Sopka-2 air surveillance radars positioned on several of the rugged 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 of those radar stations might have detected his stealth aircraft, he supposed — but only if he’d been foolish enough to fly right past 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. Moscow was demanding a situation update. A twisted smile tugged sharply at one side of Petrov’s lean face. For a brief moment, he was actually tempted to reply, if only to see how much further he could exploit Zhdanov’s misplaced trust in him. But then he 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 his brain, 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 a darkening mass of storm clouds.