Arctic Storm Rising

When he understood what the Su-30 crews had discovered, Zhdanov slumped back in his chair. He felt the blood drain from his face. His pulse hammered wildly in his ears, louder even than the other equally shocked voices ringing out across the crowded conference room. Fighting for a small measure of self-control, he swung toward Lieutenant General Rogozin. “Yvgeny, are those pilots 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 their assessment fully, we’ll need to dispatch investigative teams by helicopter from Kansk Air Base. But the indications seem clear and unmistakable. Both fighters appear to have crashed almost simultaneously — as though they were struck by air-to-air missiles at virtually the same instant.”

“Missiles fired from our own stealth bomber?” Zhdanov asked, unable to suppress the absurd hope that there was some other explanation 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 the very 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 welcomed it in place of the unreasoning fear that had gripped him only moments before. Fury was a leader’s prerogative. Fear was only a 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 decided to carry out a surprise attack against a foreign adversary, either the Americans or the Chinese… for some insane, unfathomable reason of their own.”

Zhdanov stared at Rogozin in consternation. In total, the twelve cruise missiles aboard the experimental stealth bomber represented three megatons of explosive force — enough to destroy whole command centers, strategic bomber bases, and naval squadrons in port. Or kill hundreds of thousands, or even millions, of men, women, and children if they were launched against cities. And the deliberate detonation of even a single one of their 250-kiloton warheads could easily trigger an all-out nuclear confrontation. But of themselves, those twelve stolen missiles did not even come close to representing enough military power to actually win a war against either the United States or the People’s Republic of China. Petrov and his copilot must know that, which would make any decision to fire the weapons an act of utter nihilism.

“The second possibility is that the bomber’s crew has rebelled against Moscow and intends to decapitate the current government, again for some motive we do not yet understand,” Rogozin continued grimly.

Zhdanov flinched. His eyes darted to the map. “If that’s so, we could be under attack—”

“Now,” Rogozin confirmed. “Given their low-altitude cruise speed, any missiles fired in our direction from maximum range may strike this complex and the Kremlin at any moment.”

Zhdanov gritted his teeth. “You seem very calm about this situation, Yvgeny,” he snarled.

Rogozin shook his head gravely. “No, just realistic, Mr. President. The Kh-102s have a circular error probability of less than ten meters. If Petrov has already fired missiles in our direction and they detonate on target, we’ll be dead before we even know what’s happening.”

“How… comforting,” Zhdanov ground out. “And your third nightmare scenario?”

“That the crew is defecting, with their aircraft, to either the United States or the People’s Republic of China,” Rogozin said flatly. “Of their three possible options, I consider this the most probable, since it does not require them to contemplate the murder of millions, including their own countrymen and families. One man’s developing madness might have slipped past our psychological screening, but not two.”

Unable to control his temper any further, Zhdanov slammed his fist down on the table, sending his ashtray skittering away in a cloud of cigarette butts and ash. “Fuck your bullshit probabilities, General! Whether Petrov and his copilot are lunatics or mere traitors and criminals doesn’t matter! I want that prototype found and destroyed! Before this disaster completely blows up in our faces!” He stabbed his finger at the wall map. “Put every SAM regiment, radar station, and fighter unit across the whole country on the highest possible state of alert! That goes double for all our air defenses around Moscow itself!”