Nadia inclined her head, offering him her silent thanks. Then she turned to Schofield. “How likely is it that Brad can evade capture until we come up with a plan to extract him?”
Schofield frowned, thinking it over. “A lot would depend on how actively he’s being hunted,” he said carefully. “If the Russians are mounting a full-blown search operation — using helicopters in the air and troops and police on the ground — he’s in serious trouble. Even worse if he’s injured.”
“So far, it does not seem that the Russians know any of the S-19’s crew escaped,” Nadia said. “Japan’s signals intelligence ground stations and aircraft have not yet intercepted any military or police radio transmissions which indicate they are hunting for a downed American astronaut.”
“Well, there’s a bit of luck,” Vasey said appreciatively. “Either no one spotted the fireball when Brad’s ERO sled tore through the upper atmosphere. Or…”
“The authorities simply dismissed it as debris torn loose from the wrecked spaceplane burning up on reentry,” Nadia said.
Schofield nodded. “In that case, the SERE training Brad received as an Iron Wolf pilot will give him a fighting chance — as long as he wasn’t seriously injured on landing. He’ll be moving through unpopulated wilderness areas which should offer good cover and plenty of drinking water.” He looked serious. “Dehydration is the always the first and greatest enemy in a survival situation. Humans can go without food for a lot longer than they can go without water.”
“And if he is badly hurt?” Vasey pressed. “Parachuting into a forest is always risky.”
“In that case, Brad would have no chance at all,” Schofield replied gravely. “If the Russians don’t stumble across him and take him prisoner, he would die of exposure or thirst.”
Nadia winced, suddenly picturing Brad trapped and helpless in the scorched wreckage of his ERO shell with broken bones or head injuries. Frowning, she shook the horrifying image away and rapped the table sharply. “There is no point in dwelling on worst-case scenarios,” she said crisply, forcing herself to sound far more confident than she felt. “Our task is to plan a rescue operation — not a funeral.” Suitably chastened, Vasey and Schofield both nodded. “Fortunately, we have the right aircraft available to extract Brad once he makes contact,” Nadia continued.
She sent another picture to the conference room’s big LED screen. It showed a batwing-configuration aircraft roughly the size of a Gulfstream G450 business jet, with four engines buried in the wing’s upper surface. Built by Sky Masters as a prototype, the stealthy, short-takeoff-and-landing XCV-62 Ranger had proved its worth during the raid on Russia’s Perun’s Aerie cyberwar complex… and then again last year, when it allowed them to fly secretly into the United States. In the confused aftermath of the deadly battle against Gryzlov’s war robots, the Ranger had been flown back to a hangar at Battle Mountain rather than returning to the Iron Wolf Squadron base in Poland.
She looked at Vasey. “With some simulator practice, you should not have much trouble flying the Ranger. I will be your copilot and systems officer.”
The Englishman offered her a crooked grin. “You know, Major Rozek, I’m seriously beginning to regret telling you earlier about how good I am at raising hell. Because I had no idea you would take me so literally.”
Seeing the puzzled look on Schofield’s face, Vasey explained. “Using the XCV-62 to get Brad out means flying straight into a hornet’s nest. Russia’s air defenses in the far east are extremely powerful and they’re backed by advanced radar systems.”
“How powerful?”
In answer to Schofield’s question, Nadia pulled up a map of the region between the Vostochny Cosmodrome in the west and Russia’s Pacific coast in the east. Overlapping circles and icons revealed a layered web of S-400 long-range SAMs and medium-range SA-17 SAM, along with a network of airfields where Su-35, MiG-29, and MiG-31 fighter regiments were stationed.
Schofield stared at the map. “Good God.”
“It is a difficult tactical problem,” Nadia said evenly. “Compounded by the certainty that the Russians will be on the highest possible alert — ready to meet any American retaliatory air or missile attack on the Vostochny launch complex.”
“‘Difficult’ isn’t exactly the word I would choose,” Schofield said. “Stealthy or not, there is absolutely no way a lone aircraft can make it through that kind of defensive net without being detected and engaged.”
“Very true,” Nadia agreed. A fierce, predatory look settled on her beautiful face. “That is precisely why we will not be going in alone.” Speaking forcefully, she ran through the basics of what she contemplated. While it would take a lot more work to refine her rough sketch into a workable plan, the broad outlines were clear enough.
When she finished, Vasey shook his head in mingled disbelief and admiration. “By God, Major Rozek, I’ll say one thing for you: when you decide to go for something, you certainly don’t hold anything back.”
Brad McLanahan sat slumped with his back against the trunk of a large oak tree. The adrenaline rush sparked by surviving his fiery plunge through the earth’s atmosphere, and then discovering that he’d landed in enemy territory, had kept him going during the first hours of his long afternoon trek. Eventually, though, it had faded, replaced by the throbbing pain in his shoulder and the increasing level of pain in his right leg. After that, his hike through the rugged landscape of low, forested hills and swampy lowlands had settled into a painful, exhausting slog. By the time the last light faded, making it too difficult and dangerous to keep going, he figured he’d walked about eight miles east from where he’d landed… though probably no more than four or five as the crow flew.
He stifled a ferocious yawn. Sound would carry farther at night than during the day. Not that there was much real risk that anyone would hear him, he thought. Since he’d crossed that dirt logging road with its telltale nature reserve sign, he hadn’t seen any signs of human activity. No houses or buildings. No other roads. Not even any identifiable walking trails. He looked up through the canopy of oak leaves over his head. An infinity of stars, undimmed by any man-made light pollution, speckled the night sky. Apart from the soft rustle of leaves and small branches stirred by a gentle breeze, there wasn’t a sound for miles around.
All things considered, Brad decided, this was about as good a time and place to try making contact with the outside world as he was likely to get. He unzipped the pouch holding his emergency supplies, took out the compact satellite phone, and switched it on. After a second or two, its small screen lit up with a soft hum. The GPS coordinates it displayed confirmed his position. Hip-deep in shit, he thought wryly.
A couple of quick icon presses configured the phone to hunt for the next available satellite that could route his signal. Almost immediately a quiet tone chimed. Relieved, he exhaled. One more hurdle down.
To tighten its control over mobile communications, Russia’s government required the registration of all satellite phone SIM cards. Theoretically, this made it impossible for anyone to place a call inside Russian territory without positive identification. Fortunately, thanks to Scion’s tech wizards, this phone had a special SIM card that could mimic those officially registered phones.
Mentally, Brad crossed his fingers and dialed a special number — one he’d had drummed into him during the intense SERE training Ian Schofield had run for all Iron Wolf combat pilots. After a series of soft clicks, the phone connected.
Someone on the other end picked up on the second ring. “Smallville Pizza Parlor,” he heard a young man’s voice say calmly. “This call may be monitored for quality-control purposes. Now, how can I help you, sir?”