But now the old man was gone. And most conveniently for Gryzlov, he’d been killed by Russia’s foreign enemies, rather than simply losing an internal Kremlin power struggle. For good or ill, Gennadiy Gryzlov alone held the stage.
Which left the question of what to do about this most recent foul-up by Russia’s military, he thought coldly. Losing the Iron Wolf prisoner taken at so high a cost in men, matériel, and machines was bad. Watching the survivors of this mercenary assault force escape to safety would be infinitely worse.
Moodily, Gryzlov tapped the surface of his tablet computer, transferring its detailed map of Russia and its surroundings to the conference room’s huge flat-screen monitor. Green symbols dotted the digital map, indicating the reported positions of friendly radar units, SAM regiments, fighter patrols, and AWACS aircraft. A slowly expanding red circle centered on Pechora showed the area within which the fleeing Iron Wolf stealth aircraft might be found. It was an extrapolation only, based on very limited observations of its maximum speed made by the two Su-50 pilots before they’d muffed their intercept.
He swung to face Colonel General Valentin Maksimov. The old man’s square-jawed face was almost as pale as his short-cropped shock of white hair. The commander of Russia’s Aerospace Forces looked every year of his nearly seven decades… and more. With Tarzarov gone, Maksimov probably sensed that his neck was on the chopping block. Angrily, Gryzlov stabbed a finger at the monitor. “Is that an accurate depiction of our current air-defense deployments and posture, General?”
Maksimov nodded heavily. “Yes, Mr. President.” He lifted his massive shoulders and then let them fall in resignation. “By your orders, my headquarters situation plots are being fed to your personal computer in real time.”
“That is unfortunate,” Gryzlov said with undisguised contempt. “I had hoped you and your staff had simply screwed up on a minor technical question — rather than making so many obvious tactical and operational blunders.”
Maksimov looked stunned. “I… I don’t understand what you mean, Mr. President. Our forces are correctly positioned to—”
Gryzlov cut him off with a single, angry gesture. “Spare me your pathetic excuses, Maksimov!” he snapped. “You persist in making the same mistakes over and over again. Perhaps that is why your forces have had their asses handed to them so many times by the Americans! And now by these Iron Wolf mercenaries!” He waved a dismissive hand at the situation plot. “Look at it!” he demanded, glaring coldly around the table. “Do any of you see the error Maksimov and his clowns are making?”
Carefully blank faces met his gaze. No one spoke. When their president was in this kind of mood, there were no right answers.
Gryzlov smiled inwardly. Now more than ever, he suspected that his cabinet ministers regretted Sergei Tarzarov’s death. Secure in his own position, the Kremlin chief of staff had never hesitated to intercede for his colleagues in the face of the president’s rage. Now these sheep had no protector to shield them from the darker impulses of their demanding master.
“No one?” he asked, with deceptive mildness. His eyes glittered. “Perhaps I should not be surprised. You are all disposed to inaction and idleness — even when the situation demands boldness and daring.”
Unable to sit still any longer, Gryzlov rocketed up out of his chair and stormed closer to the large display. Dismissively, he swiped his hand across the radar, fighter, and SAM regiment icons shown clustered along Russia’s borders. “Passive, wasteful, and, ultimately, futile barrier defenses!” he said scathingly. He sneered in Maksimov’s direction. “You deploy your forces with all the skill of a child, General… and with a child’s dependence on luck and wishful thinking. ‘Perhaps our enemies will stumble into the kill radius of a SAM battery?’ you imagine. Or, ‘maybe one of my fighter patrols will somehow spot them before they sneak past?’ you hope.”
For a moment, watching Maksimov’s face stiffen, he thought the old man would either fall dead of a stroke or finally fight back. But instead, the Aerospace Forces commander regained control over himself and simply asked, “Then what are your orders, Mr. President?”
So his old academy instructor was only another coward like all the rest, Gryzlov thought with some disappointment. There seemed to be no limit to how far he could push these gutless place-seekers. Mentally, he shrugged. If so, putting the next phase of his long-dreamed-of-plans into action would be that much easier.
Confidently, he began rattling off new movement and engagement orders for Russia’s air and missile forces. This time, there would be no easy escape for that fleeing Iron Wolf stealth aircraft.
Practically hugging the treetops, the XCV-62 banked right, turning to head northwest over a barren, almost completely uninhabited countryside of forests and frozen swamps — one virtually untouched by recorded human history. Occasional lights in the distance signaled the presence of small villages or logging camps, but otherwise everything was dark. Pechora and its burning, wreck-strewn airport lay far to the east.
“How are things in back?” Brad McLanahan asked Nadia, forcing the words out through clenched teeth. Every muscle ached. His flight suit was drenched in sweat. His vision seemed to have collapsed inward until all he could focus on was the green, softly glowing landscape visible through his HUD. The strain of flying this low and this fast for so long was draining his mental and physical reserves.
“Major Macomber is definitely concussed and has several minor wounds, but he is not in any immediate danger,” Nadia answered quietly. “However, Captain Schofield says that it is urgent that Sergeant Davis receive advanced medical care and trauma surgery as soon as possible. He and the others have done all they can for now — but it will not be enough.”
Brad nodded tightly. While the kit aboard the Ranger included medical equipment to stabilize most casualties, treating the serious wounds sustained by the Iron Wolf sergeant was beyond their ability. The best they could hope for was to keep him alive long enough to reach a skilled surgical team. “With some luck, we’ll be on the ground in Kemijärvi in roughly sixty minutes.”
“Warning, warning, multiple airborne X-band search radars detected from ten o’clock to two o’clock,” their SPEAR system reported abruptly. “Evaluated as Su-27s and Su-30s. Range one hundred miles and closing. Probability of detection very low but rising.”
A row of red boxes flashed onto Brad’s HUD, matching the computer’s estimated bearings to those Russian fighters. They stretched across the horizon ahead of the Ranger — coming southeast at nearly four hundred knots like a moving wall.
“I count at least six Su-27s and another six Su-30s flying in line abreast,” Nadia said. She peered down at her defensive displays. “I see no way to evade them on our present course.”
Brad nodded grimly. Stealth or no stealth, those Russian fighter radars would pick them up if they got close enough. Turning north to try to go around them was a nonstarter. They’d run head-on into the network of radars and SAM defenses guarding Russia’s Arctic naval and submarine bases. The big enemy air base at Petrozavodsk was almost due west. Heading southwest would take them into the middle of the layered defenses surrounding St. Petersburg. That left only one real option. And it sucked.