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

wake. Using a steerable boom system like that pioneered by the U.S. Air Force would be faster and more efficient, Petrov knew. Unfortunately, for some reason known only to its aircraft designers, Russia had never bothered to adopt the more advanced technique.

The lighted drogue basket grew steadily larger through the canopy as he drew nearer. And now, Petrov had become one with hisaircraft. The PAK-DA’s stick and throttles were simply extensions of his own body. Like a skilled dancer reacting instinctivelyto the improvised moves of his partner, he followed the movements of the drogue as it juddered and bounced through turbulentair.

Easy, easy, he thought, almost there. Capture! For a fraction of a second, the probe scraped along the inside of the basketand then, with a soft ca-clunk, it slid into the drogue’s center receptacle and locked in place.

“Contact,” Bunin confirmed from his seat. Numbers started to change on one of his displays. “Taking on fuel.”

More time passed while Petrov concentrated on keeping station on the IL-78 tanker ahead. That required continuous tiny adjustmentsto his flight controls. Any sudden, unexpected movement could rip their refueling probe out of the drogue and damage both.Despite the cool air flowing from the PAK-DA’s climate control system, droplets of sweat were beading up under his flighthelmet and oxygen mask.

“We’re topped off,” Bunin reported. “All fuel tanks are full.”

“Mat’ Kuritsa, Mother Hen, this is Shadow One,” Petrov radioed. “We’re gassed up and ready to break away.”

“Copy that, Shadow,” the tanker pilot replied. “Clearing away on your signal.”

“Mother Hen, execute breakaway . . . now!” Petrov ordered. At the same time, he pulled his engine throttles back a notch and pushed his stick forward slightly. The bomber’s nose dipped a few degrees. The noise of their NK-65 turbofans diminished as they descended a couple hundred meters. In the same moment, the big Ilyushin up ahead of them increased its own speed and climbed away. The tanker was already banking into an easy left turn that would take it back west toward its home base southeast of Moscow. The big IL-78’s two Su-57 fighter escorts rolled in behind it.

Instantly, the drogue and refueling probe separated in a quick plume of aerosolized fuel. Bunin tapped an icon on his display.The probe retracted back into the PAK-DA’s nose. Numbers flickered across Petrov’s HUD as their computer recalculated theaircraft’s estimated RCS, its radar cross-section. Without the awkward, angular shape of the fuel probe sticking out in front,they should now appear to be only about the size of a large bird to any radar hunting them.

He glanced across the cockpit toward Bunin. “Now we get serious, Oleg.”

His copilot nodded. Although they were still roughly four thousand kilometers from their planned targets—the Russian PacificFleet’s warships at anchor in Vladivostok’s harbor and the network of air bases around the same city—this air refueling pointwas the last certain safe haven along their flight route. From now on, every kilometer they flew took them closer to the vastregion of Russia’s Far East in which all “enemy” aircraft, radars, and SAM regiments assigned to defend against Ghost Strikewere free to maneuver and deploy. Theoretically, their Kh-102 stealth cruise missiles could hit targets up to twenty-eighthundred kilometers away, but Petrov’s mission plan anticipated a simulated launch at close range, no more than a few hundredkilometers from Vladivostok. A shorter flight time reduced the defenders’ chances of detecting and destroying the incomingmissiles. Besides, this exercise was supposed to simulate an over-the-pole attack on strategic targets deep inside the continentalUnited States—where the PAK-DA would have to fly at least eight thousand kilometers just to reach a maximum range launch point.Pushing the bomber prototype to the very limits of its endurance was a key part of the proposal Petrov had sold to the presidentand his advisers.

“Okay, let’s configure the aircraft for prolonged low-altitude flight,” Petrov said matter-of-factly. “We’re going to come in right on the deck, moving like a bat out of hell.”

Bunin nodded. His fingers danced across displays as he brought up the bomber’s digital terrain-following system and startedentering waypoints.

From the seat behind the copilot, Major General Mavrichev leaned forward, unable to hide his surprise. “You plan to make yourpenetration run at low altitude? Why? The American B-2s fly and attack at high altitudes, don’t they?”

“That’s correct, General,” Petrov said patiently. “But that’s because the Americans have carried out most of their B-2 raidsagainst terrorists—or against weaker nations without modern radars and high-altitude-capable SAMs. That’s not who we’re upagainst tonight. We’re facing the first team. And every radar station, air defense regiment, and fighter interceptor betweenhere and Vladivostok already knows we’re coming. We might be stealthy enough to slip past them up high, but why press our luck when we don’t have to? True, a low-level penetrationflight will burn more fuel, but we’ve got plenty of gas right now, thanks to Mother Hen. And I’ll trade fuel for surpriseany day.”

As if to confirm his words, a string of new alerts blinked into existence on one of his full-color displays. The same alertsalso appeared on Bunin’s screens.

“Multiple X-band and L-band airborne radars detected at high altitude ahead of us,” his copilot reported. “The computer evaluatesthem as a mix of Su-27s, Su-30s, and Su-35s, all backed by at least one Beriev A-100 AWACS plane.”

“Signal strength?” Petrov demanded sharply.

“Very weak,” Bunin assured him. “They seem to be flying patrol patterns several hundred kilometers due east of us.”

Petrov smiled narrowly. The air defense commanders assigned to find and “kill” them in tonight’s exercise weren’t taking any chances, either. They’d deployed a strong intercept force right on the edge of the allowed perimeter. Inside, he felt a moment’s regret that Ghost Strike was nothing but a sham. Actually making an attempt to penetrate those tight defenses would have been a remarkable challenge, one requiring every ounce of his tactical and flying skills.

Then he stiffened as two high-pitched tones warbled in his headset. The PAK-DA’s IR sensors had picked up two new contacts,this time moving in from behind them. He toggled a switch on his stick,