Arctic Storm Rising

Zhdanov breathed out. “Finally.” He thrust a finger at the Air Force commander. “Put it up on-screen, Yvgeny.”

With a nod, Rogozin signaled the colonel in charge of the underground command center’s audiovisuals. The large wall screen flickered to life.

“Damn it,” Zhdanov growled, seeing the face of Alexei Petrov materialize. He was again sitting in the futuristic-looking cockpit of the PAK-DA prototype. There was no conceivable circumstance in which the traitor could imagine he would return to Russia and survive the experience. Which meant that plane was still sitting on the ground inside the United States when this message had been recorded. And from the time stamp shown in the lower left-hand corner of the screen, that was less than five minutes ago.

“By now, you must have realized that I have no intention of returning this aircraft,” the image of Petrov said coldly, confirming the Russian president’s worst fears. “Sadly, our beloved Motherland — under your slovenly governance — is unworthy of such a gift.” His expression darkened. “For decades now, our nation has been in decline — with its demoralized population aging and increasingly infirm; its economic strength decaying; and its military power nothing more than a facade, a thin shield for the dying body behind it. What have you achieved since the Soviet Union, once the world’s mightiest superpower, crumbled to ruin?

“Nothing!” Petrov sneered. “You constantly boast about the ‘New Russia,’ but what do you have to back up such crowing? A population now only a third the size of the United States? And less than a tenth that of the People’s Republic of China? An economy in ruins, more dependent on oil than even the Arab kleptocracies?” He leaned closer to the camera so that almost all they could see was his contempt-filled face. “It is time, Zhdanov, that you and your bootlickers faced facts. You and all of your policies and plans are nothing but miserable, criminal failures.”

Zhdanov stared at the screen, scarcely able to believe what he was hearing. No one in the past two decades had dared to insult him so openly — at least, no one who expected to live outside the gray walls of a prison, if allowed to live at all. From the rigid, horrified silence around him, he knew others were thinking the same thing.

“But because I am a true Russian patriot,” Petrov continued, “I am offering you — unworthy though you are — a chance offered to no other Russian government since the fall of the Soviet Union: the opportunity to strip our most dangerous enemy, the United States, of most of its nuclear arsenal. The opportunity, moreover, to do so with minimal damage to our Motherland’s own military and industrial might.”

Zhdanov grimaced. What the hell was this madman talking about?

As if in answer, Petrov sat back again, allowing them to see the detailed map filling one of the stealth bomber’s large, sophisticated digital displays. It showed the interior of the United States. “This plan is code-named Vikhr, Whirlwind,” the traitor colonel said conversationally.

Whirlwind? Zhdanov darted a questioning glance at Rogozin. The general shrugged helplessly, as if to confirm this was nothing he’d ever heard of before, either.

On-screen, the recorded image of Alexei Petrov kept talking. “Very shortly, I will take off from this hidden airfield,” he told them. “Once safely airborne, I will fly a stealthy course deep into American airspace.” He smiled grimly. “There, approximately five hours from now, I will launch the twelve long-range, nuclear-armed stealth cruise missiles that you, perhaps foolishly, have entrusted to my care.”

That drew startled gasps from around the room. All along, the prospect of a rogue commander in control of live nuclear weapons had been their worst nightmare — a fear that had faded only when it seemed Petrov was more interested in money than in sparking a nuclear holocaust.

“These missiles will be targeted on American military command and control centers in and around the Washington, D.C., area, their B-2 bomber base in Missouri, their B-52 bomber bases in Louisiana and North Dakota, and the U.S. Navy’s ballistic missile submarine bases at Kitsap, Washington, and Kings Bay, Georgia,” Petrov said calmly, apparently wholly unconcerned that he was announcing the probable deaths of hundreds of thousands and perhaps millions of people, soldiers, airmen, sailors, and civilians alike. “They will be carefully timed to arrive and detonate simultaneously.”

Zhdanov saw Rogozin’s head nod slowly. What the colonel proposed was technically possible. It was simply a matter of setting the necessary navigation points so that missiles aimed at closer targets would fly somewhat longer, more circuitous paths to arrive at their chosen destinations. While that increased the chances that the Americans might detect some of the incoming attacks, the risk was minimal. Their ability to spot stealth weapons fired from so deep inside their national territory was negligible.

Petrov reached out and tapped the display. The digital map of the United States blanked and then disappeared. “My attacks will decapitate America’s political and military leadership,” he said bluntly. “They will also wipe out its strategic bomber force and sink much of its ballistic missile submarine fleet in port.”