Arctic Storm Rising

Petrov grinned more genuinely under his oxygen mask. He’d been confident this would work. His countrymen had successfully operated heavy four-engine IL-76 transport aircraft on similarly improvised snow and ice fields in the past. Their loaded weight was comparable to that of the PAK-DA prototype… and to the American B-2, for that matter. But the Americans were far too conventional to imagine anyone would risk pulling the same stunt with an armed stealth bomber — let alone using a makeshift runway 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. Shrouded in netting to break up its visual signature, it was a temporary aircraft shelter created with ultralight thermal and radar-reflective camouflage 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, and switched 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 cold air, 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 for him. 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 recognized their 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 blocked by drifting snow.” He glanced up at the PAK-DA bomber looming over them. “I understand you have a prisoner you need us to handle?”

“Two of them, actually,” Petrov said. He filled the other man in on Mavrichev’s sudden decision to invite himself along on what 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 a sour grin. “I’ll be glad to see the back of him once this is over.”

The other man nodded in amusement and ordered his men into the plane to bring Bunin and Mavrichev out. While the two prisoners were hustled down the ladder, he asked quietly, “Have you contacted Moscow yet? To make our little proposition?”

Petrov shook his head. “Not yet. We’ll let Zhdanov sweat awhile longer,” he said. Suddenly aware of the piercing cold, he started to shiver. He zipped up his flight suit. “First, I need more suitable clothes, hot food, and some sleep. In that order.”

“That we can arrange,” Bondarovich assured him.

With the ex-Spetsnaz officer in the lead and Petrov right behind, the whole group headed outside toward a little cluster of tents hidden among some nearby trees. Bunin and Mavrichev, untied now, stumbled along at the rear, sandwiched between two watchful guards. Their flashlight beams danced across the ground, piercing the darkness and blowing snow.

Petrov noted that the wind was picking up fast. The storm he’d outrun in the mountains was almost on top of them. In thirty minutes or less, the landing he’d just made would have been completely impossible. He allowed himself to feel a moment of complete triumph. Despite all the unexpected obstacles thrown in his path, he’d succeeded in pulling off a masterpiece of operational planning and piloting skill. And as a result, Russia’s most advanced combat aircraft was now effectively in his sole possession, along with twelve nuclear-armed cruise missiles. For one exultant instant, he understood what it must be like to be a demigod — a being far beyond the reach of other mortals.