Russia was an enormous country with around thirty-six thousand miles of land borders and coastline to guard. Even with a vast network of powerful air-surveillance radars, there was no practical way for Moscow to continuously monitor so large a perimeter. Instead, the Russians deployed their radars, SAM regiments, and fighter patrols to protect key sites like major cities, important military installations, and vital industries. In theory, that made it possible for a small, highly stealthy aircraft to duck and dodge and bob and weave its way through the porous web of radars.
Plotting that kind of course was relatively easy against fixed radar sites. Unfortunately, the Russians also had a substantial force of highly mobile detection units, many of which could be up and running within minutes if ordered to activate. Sure, Scion and Polish intelligence analysts had done their best to plot a relatively safe route to Russia’s Perun’s Aerie cyberwar complex, but penetrating deep into Russian airspace without being detected was still a crapshoot.
THIRTY-TWO
Russian president Gennadiy Gryzlov read through the most recent reports from Koshkin’s Q Directorate with a deep sense of pleasure. After several recent failures, his computer hackers were back on track. At last count, more than two-thirds of all the private telecommunications networks in Eastern and central Europe were down — causing havoc and hardship for tens of millions. He smiled to himself. For some reason, kicking enemies around always aroused him. Maybe he should summon Daria Titeneva for a celebratory romp around his office. His lush, full-bodied foreign minister might have deep misgivings about this cyberwar campaign, but he knew she also enjoyed being dominated. Yes, he thought lazily, bending Daria over his desk and having his way with her would end this day on a delightfully obscene note.
His phone buzzed. Irritated at being interrupted, he snatched it up. “What is it, Ulanov?”
“It’s Minister of State Security Kazyanov, Mr. President,” his secretary said. “He says it’s urgent.”
Gryzlov rolled his eyes. Dull, boring, timid Viktor Kazyanov was just about the last person he wanted to talk to right now. Then again, the intelligence chief was usually so nervous about pissing him off that whatever news he wanted to pass on might actually be important. “Very well,” he snapped. “Put him through.”
“Mr. President! Something is happening in Poland! We’ve just received a radio signal from—” Kazyanov started out, speaking so rapidly and so excitedly that he was almost tripping over his own words as they came spilling across the phone line.
“For God’s sake, slow down, Viktor,” Gryzlov said. “You sound like a demented clown!”
The other man stammered to a stop, took a deep breath, and then went on in a somewhat calmer tone. “Approximately four hours ago, our deep-cover GRU agents stationed near Powidz spotted intense activity at the Iron Wolf base. They report seeing an unidentified aircraft flying north at high speed. It has not yet returned.”
“And this happened four hours ago?” Gryzlov said through gritted teeth. “So what the hell were your precious agents doing in the meantime? Washing their damned hair?”
“They were unable to report sooner,” Kazyanov said simply. “Because our cyberwar operations have knocked out all the phone lines and Internet connections in their area.”
“Oh,” Gryzlov said blankly. That was a complication he had not foreseen. He gripped the phone tighter. “This aircraft? What can you tell me about it?”
Kazyanov gulped. “Not as much as I would like, sir,” he admitted. “The signal from our team describes it as all black, with a batwing configuration.”
“So, some kind of stealth aircraft,” Gryzlov guessed.
“Yes, Mr. President,” the other man agreed. “But from the rough estimate of its size, my analysts say it does not match anything in the known Polish or American inventory. It could be anything from a small strike bomber to a long-range covert reconnaissance drone.”
“Very well, Viktor,” Gryzlov said. “Inform me at once if you learn anything more.” He hung up.
For a moment, he sat with his fingers pressed hard against his temples, deep in thought. What were the Poles and their American mercenaries up to? If they were executing some kind of attack or prestrike reconnaissance with this mysterious new aircraft, why fly north, instead of heading east toward Russia? Then he shook his head in disgust at his own foolishness, remembering what he’d told Koshkin and the others just a couple of days ago. “Wilk and Martindale are not simpletons,” he muttered. Why should he expect them to do the obvious?
Gryzlov swung toward his computer and pulled up a map of Poland, western Russia, and the neighboring countries. Assuming this new stealth aircraft had a cruising speed of somewhere between 700 and 950 kilometers per hour, where could it be now, four hours or so after taking off? Quickly, he began laying out possible flight paths on the digital map. After all, he thought, he’d originally trained as a bomber pilot. If he were tasked with planning a deep-penetration mission into Russia, what were the best options to evade radar detection? Then he reconsidered… Why cast his net so widely? While there were thousands of potential targets for an Iron Wolf retaliatory strike, only one was truly important in the present circumstances.
Confidently, he erased all but one of the hypothetical flight plans he’d drawn and then ran through his calculations again — estimating where the enemy aircraft could be… right now.
“Sukin syn! Son of a bitch,” Gryzlov snarled, staring at the map. He grabbed his phone again. “Ulanov! Connect me with Colonel Balakin at Perun’s Aerie!”
When the cyberwar complex’s security chief came on the line, Gryzlov didn’t waste time with small talk. “Listen carefully, Balakin. You may have visitors inbound.”
“Is this a bombing raid, sir? Or…” The colonel hesitated. “An attack by those machines? By those combat robots?”
Gryzlov smiled unpleasantly. “I haven’t the faintest idea, Colonel.” He glanced back at the map on his computer screen. “But if I’m right, I have a hunch you’ll find out soon enough.”
“I understand, Mr. President,” Balakin said, still obviously rattled. Then he rallied. “I will order the garrison to go on full alert and bring my outer warning station online.”
Bundled up in his heavy winter parka, Captain Fyodor Golovkin sat drowsing by the heater in his operations van. Snores from the back told him that most of his troops were doing the same thing. No surprise there, he thought dully. This far north in winter, the nights lasted twenty hours. Between the near-perpetual darkness, the bitter cold, and the boredom of manning a radar unit continuously on standby, it was no wonder that he and his men spent most of their time practically hibernating.
An alarm buzzer jolted him more fully awake. “Sir! It’s Colonel Balakin,” said his senior sergeant, hurriedly scanning the message scrolling across his computer screen. They were linked to the Perun’s Aerie complex by a direct fiber-optic cable. “We’re ordered to activate the radar and begin scanning!”
For a moment, Golovkin couldn’t take it in. “What? Now?”
“Yes, sir,” his sergeant said, with far more patience than he would have shown to anyone of lower rank. “The colonel has set Warning Condition Red.”
Golovkin’s mouth fell open in surprise. If this was a drill, it must have been ordered by the highest command authority. And if it wasn’t a drill…