Arctic Storm Rising
- Автор: Браун Дейл
- Серия: Nick Flynn #1
- Год: 2021
- Язык: английский
- Год: William Morrow
- ISBN: 9780063015050
- Жанр: Триллеры
Электронная книга - «Arctic Storm Rising». Краткое содержание книги:
Rogozin shook his head. “It’s highly unlikely. Reaching either place would have required the PAK-DA to penetrate some of the most heavily defended airspace in the world — by flying across the People’s Republic of China, the Korean Peninsula, or Japan.”
“So you believe Petrov flew our stolen bomber north,” Zhdanov realized.
“Yes, Mr. President.” The general touched more keys, highlighting all of northern Russia, the unclaimed Arctic, Alaska, and much of northern Canada. “Most of these regions are almost completely unsettled. And while the idea that anyone could have constructed a hidden airfield somewhere in these tens of millions of square kilometers of wilderness might seem far-fetched at first—”
“Some bastards have done it, nonetheless,” Zhdanov said tersely.
Rogozin nodded. “So it appears.”
Zhdanov stared at the highlighted zones of the map, almost mesmerized by its enormous extent. This was not a comparatively simple case of finding a needle in a farmer’s haystack, he realized grimly. This was more like hunting for a single grain of sand in the wastes of the Gobi Desert. For a moment, he felt sure the task was impossible. But then he dismissed this feeling as unnecessarily pessimistic, the product of too little sleep and too much stress. He reminded himself that what one man could hide, other men, especially those equipped with sophisticated satellites, air-to-ground radars, and high-resolution cameras, could find.
He spun back to Rogozin and Kokorin. “All right! I want a full mobilization of every reconnaissance asset in our arsenal. All our satellites, all our aircraft, all our drones! Everything! Scour this entire area, starting with our own territory.”
The Air Force general frowned, deep in thought. “We only have four of our frontline Tu-214R recon planes in service,” he admitted. “But I can convert some of our Tu-95 strategic bombers for reconnaissance, perhaps as many as ten in the next twenty-four hours.”
“That’s not enough!” Zhdanov said curtly. “Only fourteen aircraft? You’d still be looking for Petrov when the Last Judgment arrives!” He swiveled toward a short, compact officer seated directly across the table. Admiral Nikolai Golitsyn commanded the Russian Navy. Throughout the entire discussion, he’d been very quiet — undoubtedly grateful that this was an Air Force mess and not one that involved his own officers and men. “How many Tu-142 and IL-38 maritime patrol planes can you provide, Golitsyn?”
Both the larger Tu-142 and smaller IL-38 multi-engine turboprops were equipped with powerful surface search radars and infrared sensors. While they were ordinarily tasked with hunting enemy warships and submarines at sea, it wouldn’t be difficult for their crews to learn to use the same equipment to look for the PAK-DA bomber hidden somewhere in forests, mountains, or trackless tundra and ice fields.
The admiral looked blank for a moment. Then a junior aide seated behind him leaned forward and hurriedly whispered the answer in his ear. “Approximately twenty of each type, Mr. President,” he said confidently.
“Good!” Zhdanov said. “Transfer them all to Rogozin immediately. I don’t want any confusion caused by mixed chains of command.”
For an instant, Golitsyn opened his mouth to protest, but then he closed it just as quickly. This was not a sensible time to insist on the Russian Navy’s prerogatives, not with the president so obviously eager to find scapegoats to blame for this unfolding disaster.
Zhdanov’s fingers drummed incessantly on the table while he considered other measures that would be necessary. The most obvious was to make sure they were ready to seize or destroy the stolen stealth bomber almost as soon as it was found. “I want every group of reconnaissance aircraft backed up by fighters, strike aircraft, and Spetsnaz commando teams,” he ordered. Heads around the table nodded.
“What are your instructions if we fail to find the PAK-DA inside our own territory?” Rogozin asked carefully.
“You will press the search into American and Canadian airspace,” Zhdanov replied.
“How far?”
Zhdanov barked, “As far as necessary, Yvgeny! We can’t afford to pussyfoot around anymore.”
“The Americans and the Canadians will protest any intrusion into their territory,” Rogozin pointed out.
Zhdanov shrugged his shoulders. “Let them bitch. I don’t give a rat’s ass.”
“They will also intercept our reconnaissance flights with fighter aircraft,” Rogozin warned. “And our scout planes would be helpless in such a situation. A rear turret with a pair of 23mm cannons is no match for Sidewinder heat-seeking and AMRAAM radar-guided missiles.”
The president bit at his lip in frustration. Much as he wanted to, he couldn’t argue with Rogozin’s chief point. Russian pilots were courageous enough, but he could not expect them to commit suicide, particularly for no possible gain. Moodily, Zhdanov stared up at the map, hunting for some possible solution. And then the answer came to him in a quick flash of inspiration. He slapped his hand down hard on the table. “All right! If your reconnaissance pilots are afraid to tangle with the enemy’s interceptors, we’ll escort them with fighters of our own!”
Rogozin stared at him. “That would be… difficult.” He zoomed the display out so that it showed a view of northern Russia and North America, centered on the North Pole. A series of green lines appeared, originating at points just off Russia’s northern coast and stretching deep into Canada, Alaska, and Greenland. “Even if we stage out of our Arctic island bases, escorting Tu-142 and IL-38 reconnaissance aircraft deep enough into North American airspace would require round-trip flights of more than six thousand kilometers. Our Su-27s, Su-35s, MiG-31s, and MiG-35s don’t have anywhere near that kind of range.”
“The Americans could do it easily,” Zhdanov countered angrily.
“The American Air Force has almost five hundred air refueling tankers in its inventory,” Rogozin replied. “Ours has fewer than twenty operational IL-78 aircraft.”
Zhdanov’s eyes glittered dangerously. “Then I suggest you make full use of every last one of those operational tankers, General. And if you can’t or won’t do so, I’ll find some other officer who will.” He leaned forward. “Do you understand me?”
Slowly, Rogozin nodded.
“Good then,” Zhdanov said, pleased by the other man’s acquiescence. “That’s settled.”
“The fighter pilots assigned to escort our patrol flights will need firm rules of engagement,” Rogozin said carefully. “We don’t want any unfortunate accidents.”
“Certainly not,” Zhdanov agreed. He shrugged. “Let’s keep it simple: Your pilots are ordered to keep any NORAD combat aircraft a safe distance from our reconnaissance planes, so that the Tu-142s and IL-38s can complete their missions as directed. To do that, they’re authorized to use every peaceful means necessary, including aggressive maneuvering of their own. Maybe these American and Canadian hotshots won’t like a taste of their own medicine, eh? But your fighters are not to fire first under any circumstances, is that clear?” A thin, humorless smile crossed his face and then vanished. “After all, these shows of force are meant to let us to hunt down that bastard Petrov and our missing stealth bomber — not to set off some goddamned stupid air war over the polar ice cap!”
“Yes, sir,” Rogozin agreed wholeheartedly. “But that still leaves the problem of what to do if Petrov is hiding somewhere in American or Canadian territory.”
Zhdanov frowned. “How so?”
“Carrying out a Spetsnaz raid to recapture the bomber would be impossible,” Rogozin warned. “Our helicopters don’t have the necessary range.”
“So refuel them in the air,” Zhdanov snapped. “Just like your fighters.”