He banked into a left turn, coming back around to the south. “Plot a course that takes us far enough east of Moscow to stay out of its air-defense zone. And then another leg southwest, staying north of those Russian air bases at Lipetsk and Voronezh,” he told Nadia. “We’ll cross into Belarus and go direct to Warsaw.”
She pulled up their navigation system and began keying in commands. A new steering cue appeared on Brad’s HUD, a little more to the southeast. He turned to follow it.
“We have enough fuel remaining to reach Warsaw on this new course, though only by a very narrow margin,” Nadia said. Her voice was troubled. “But it adds two hours to our flight time, and—”
“Davis may not last those extra two hours,” Brad finished for her. His jaw was set. “Look, it’s my call, Nadia. My job is to get this crate home in one piece. And right now I don’t see any other way to do that.”
“I know,” she said softly. “Making decisions that may cost lives is the price of command.”
Brad said nothing. He only nodded. Now that it was too late, he was beginning to understand some of the stresses that had made his father seem so distant at times. If only they’d had more time to talk about important things, instead of school or sports or girls or even flying. Breathing hard, he fought back the tide of sorrow threatening to wash over him. Hold it together, he told himself. Keep flying and don’t look back. Not yet.
They flew on in silence for several more minutes. More lights appeared on the horizon ahead of them. This part of Russia was still thinly populated, but they were heading toward its more settled regions.
“Caution, unidentified L-band search radar detected. Radar is phased array, probable Beriev-100 AWACS aircraft,” the computer told them abruptly.
“Son of a bitch,” Brad said under his breath. He changed course slightly, veering a little more to the west to try to get some kind of rough bearing on the enemy radar aircraft.
Nadia’s fingers danced across her displays. Her eyes narrowed in total concentration. “I estimate the Beriev is approximately one hundred miles due south of us,” she said after several seconds. “At the moment, its apparent course is easterly.”
“Yeah, that makes sense,” Brad said. He frowned. “The Russians probably have that AWACS plane flying a racetrack oval. It’s perfectly positioned to detect anyone trying to break south past Moscow. And I bet there are more fighters — probably a mix of MiG-29s and Su-27s — hanging with it with their radars off… ready to charge in for the kill.”
He risked a quick glance at Nadia. “Somebody out there is reading my mind.”
She nodded, looking worried.
“Lima-band search radar, Beriev-100, eleven o’clock, ninety-five miles. Signal strength increasing,” the SPEAR system told them.
“Shit,” Brad muttered. He altered course again, turning southwest.
Just then their computer issued a new alert. “Warning, warning, new airborne X-band search radars detected. Multiple sources from eight o’clock to four o’clock. Range one hundred and twenty miles.”
“I identify those as Su-30 and Su-35 fighters,” Nadia said. “They are coming west at more than four hundred knots.”
The Russians had another line of combat aircraft booming in on them from the east, Brad realized. His mouth tightened as the fuzzy tactical picture suddenly clarified. “Crap,” he said. “We can’t go north or south… and we can’t reduce our speed, not with those fighters coming up behind us. These guys are driving us, just like beaters in a big-game hunt. We’re being herded straight into the St. Petersburg SAM belt.”
“I concur,” Nadia said tightly.
Several minutes later, multiple radars began lighting up across the horizon about two hundred nautical miles ahead of them, confirming his instincts. Their signature characteristics indicated they were the search and target acquisition radars for at least two regiments of S-300 SAMs and one of S-400 SAM launchers.
“Time until we hit the outer edge of their effective missile-engagement envelope?” Brad asked.
“Approximately ten minutes,” Nadia told him.
Grim-faced, he nodded. “That’s it, then, I guess. We’d better call home and report before it’s too late.” He glanced at Nadia and saw her biting her lip. He forced a grin for her sake. “Look, I’m not giving up just yet. I’ll cut south or north before we hit that SAM barrier and try to blitz through whatever fighters the Russians have in our way. But we need to let Martindale and President Wilk know the score… just in case we don’t get lucky.”
“I understand, Brad,” she said softly. She bent her head over her display again, opening a com window to enter a short situation report. Once she was finished, their computer took over. Quickly it encrypted and compressed her message to a single millisecond-long burst via satellite uplink. The system beeped. “Message sent,” she said, sitting back with a resolute expression on her face.
Polish president Piotr Wilk finished reading the signal shown on his monitor. His eyes were dark with shame and anger when he looked up at Kevin Martindale. “I sent them into a trap.”
Martindale shook his head. “We sent them into a trap,” he corrected. “I was right there with you every step of the way. Gryzlov set us up perfectly. And we all fell for it. He rigged this game from the get-go. Either we did nothing and let his cyberweapons continue hammering us. Or he figured we’d react and send a strike force to hit what appeared to be his base of operations — which turned out to be one damned big kill zone. Destroying that Russian supercomputer and the programs they were creating on it will slow his hackers down some, maybe even a lot. But Gryzlov can buy another computer and programs can be re-created.”
Frustrated, Wilk started to climb to his feet and then sat back down sharply, gritting his teeth against a wave of pain. His injuries were not fully healed yet. Only his own direct order as commander in chief had freed him from the hospital. “At least we have a fighting chance to get the survivors out,” he said. “Signal Captain McLanahan and Major Rozek to use the Passkey cyberweapon your Scion experts have devised. I’ll order Colonel Kasperek to send his F-16s in at the same time.”
“I didn’t brief the assault team on Passkey,” Martindale said flatly. His face was completely expressionless. “The codes are in their computer as a subroutine in the SPEAR system, but set to self-destruct in the event the XCV-62 is shot down or captured. They don’t know it exists.”
“In God’s name, why not?” Wilk asked, scarcely able to believe what he’d just been told.
“The risk that the team might be captured was too high,” the American said stubbornly. He spread his hands. “And as things stand now, Passkey is our ace in the hole against the Russians if this war escalates further.” His face darkened. “Hell, after this failed raid, it’s practically the only card we have left.”
“Meaning what, exactly?” Wilk demanded.
“Meaning, Passkey is essentially a onetime-use weapon,” Martindale said. “It doesn’t make sense to waste it saving one aircraft and its crew — no matter who they are and how much they mean to us personally.”
“I will be the judge of that, Mr. Martindale,” Wilk told him sharply. “Not you.” Icily, he stared at the other man. “Unless, of course, you have decided that Scion will unilaterally break its contract with my country.”
There was silence for several agonizing moments.
“No, Mr. President,” Martindale said at last. “We honor our contracts. All the way.”