Arctic Storm Rising by Dale Brown (android based ebook reader .TXT) 📕

real test of the prototype’s autonomous systems. It would allow him to push his proposal for a full-scale combat exercise. But he still found the experience of being reduced to a mere spectator aboard the bomber unpleasant, even a bit unnerving. After all, by training and inclination, he was first and foremost a pilot, not a nursemaid for some incomprehensible blur of digital ones and zeroes inside the circuits of a highly advanced thinking machine.

Suddenly, a sharp pain stabbed through his left temple. It felt as though someone had punctured his skull with an ice pick.The glowing numbers and icons on his HUD blurred in his vision, becoming unreadable. Damn it, he thought desperately. Not now. His teeth ground together as a second wave of agony flared through his head. Trying hardnot to groan out loud, he unzipped a pocket on his flight suit and grabbed a couple of the powerful pain pills he’d stashedthere before takeoff. Aware that he was sweating, he popped them into his mouth and swallowed them whole. He coughed drylyas they scraped down his throat.

“Are you all right, Colonel?” Bunin asked. The bomber copilot looked concerned.

Petrov forced himself to grin. “No problem, Oleg,” he lied. “Just a slight headache.” He shrugged. “I had a little troublesleeping last night, that’s all.”

“So what was her name?” Bunin asked, grinning back. The worry faded from his friendly, open face.

“A gentleman never tells,” Petrov retorted. His headache dialed back a bit as the fast-acting drugs took effect. Now it wasmore a sensation of steady, unrelenting pressure than of pulsing, stabbing torture. The indicators on his HUD swam back intofocus.

“Just so long as it wasn’t that hot blonde,” Bunin laughed. “You know, the curvy captain in Operations?” His hands sketchedout what he considered the officer in question’s most obvious assets. “Because I’ve already got my eyes on her.”

Half closing his eyes against the dull pain still squeezing his head in a vise grip, Petrov settled back against his seat. Beside him, his copilot droned on and on, outlining an elaborate scheme to woo and seduce the young woman. Although he nodded encouragement from time to time, inside he was far, far removed from any real interest in Bunin’s sex life. Unfortunately, he thought coldly, the late and unlamented Dr. Viktor Obolensky had been right. His headaches were definitely increasing in both their frequency and severity. With that in mind, perhaps he should be more grateful that the PAK-DA bomber’s autonomous systems had just demonstrated their operational readiness. The time could be coming, and much sooner than he hoped, when he might be forced to rely very heavily on the prototype’s soulless computer programs to carry out his secret plans.

Ten

Prague Castle Riding School, the Czech Republic

A Few Days Later

Set high on a hilltop just west of the Vltava River, Prague Castle was a sizable complex of several Renaissance and Baroque-erapalaces and towers, a Gothic cathedral, and other churches and convents that could be seen looming on the horizon from almosteverywhere in the Czech capital. Long a seat of government, culture, and religion, tourists thronged to its picturesque groundsand world-famous museums throughout the year.

One of those art museums, the Riding School, stood not far outside the north gate, bounded by scenic gardens on either side.Centuries before, the large, red-roofed Baroque hall had been built so that the Holy Roman Emperor Leopold I and his courtierscould exercise their horses indoors in bad weather. Stucco reliefs of leaping steeds, lances, and other weapons still decoratedthe front above its main doors. Inside, under high ceilings and wooden rafters, the works of various modern painters and sculptorswere periodically exhibited.

Miranda Reynolds paused just inside the entry to assess her surroundings. Dozens of life-sized, though oddly distorted, human sculptures filled the gallery. Some were painted entirely red or green or blue. Others were a pallid white or gray. Still others wore long strands of fake hair that morphed strangely into clothing. A handful of visitors drifted through the large space, admiring the bizarre atmosphere created by the ultramodern art installation.

To anyone who didn’t know her well, Reynolds appeared to be a successful, middle-aged Western corporate executive on a businesstrip to Prague. Her perfectly coifed dark hair matched her understated, but obviously expensive, blazer, slacks, and shoes.A simple gold necklace and the barest hint of lipstick completed her carefully curated look. Certainly no one outside thearcane confines of the world’s intelligence agencies would have guessed that she was the current head of the CIA’s highlysecret Directorate of Operations.

A bearded man in jeans and a windbreaker brushed past her on his way out of the museum. “You’re clear,” he muttered softly,carefully not looking in her direction.

Without acknowledging the report, Reynolds strolled nonchalantly toward one of the sculptures near the far end of the hall.It portrayed an elderly woman with upraised hands and an eerie, expressionless gaze. A tall, well-dressed younger man wasthere ahead of her. He had been moving slowly around the carved figure, apparently intent on examining it from every angle.

Politely, he stepped back to make room. They stood together in silence for several moments, each looking at the sculpture.Then he shot a sidelong glance in her direction. “I understand the experts claim this is one of Zoubek’s finest works,” hesaid with a slight smile. “Having seen it now up close, I think I agree.”

Reynolds shrugged. “Personally, my tastes run more to Calder.”

His smile widened a little at the agreed-upon recognition phrase. He lowered his voice. “I assume your coming here means thatmy patron’s proposal intrigues your agency, Ms. Reynolds.”

“Perhaps,” she said with a terse nod. In ordinary circumstances, no high-ranking CIA official would ever agree to a clandestine rendezvous like this on foreign soil. The risks were simply far too high. Intelligence agency executives at her exalted level were accustomed to dispatching worker bees—case officers and their agents—to do the hard and dangerous work, while they stayed safely sheltered at headquarters. But the tidbits of secrets about Russian stealth aircraft and weapons