Eagle Station

Leonov nodded. That was a sensible move. Without support from the two downed helicopter gunships, the Spetsnaz force’s surviving troop carriers were easy prey for the Americans’ missile-armed stealth aircraft. He looked at the blurry picture hastily snapped by a combat cameraman aboard one of the retreating Mi-8s. It showed a distinctive black flying-wing-shaped airplane, one that bore a striking resemblance to the much-larger U.S. Air Force B-2 Spirit stealth bomber. When the photograph was taken, it was flying at very low altitude with its landing gear deployed.

He looked back at Varshavsky. “And you’re sure the Scion aircraft made a rough field landing after your helicopters retreated?”

“Yes, sir,” the general said. “But it took off again within minutes.”

“Then at least one of the enemy agents is still alive,” Leonov commented. “And on board that aircraft.”

Varshavsky nodded. No other conclusion made sense. He looked stricken, like a man told he had an incurable disease. “My resignation will be on your desk this evening, Marshal,” he said wearily. “I take full responsibility for this fiasco.”

“Resignation?” Leonov snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous, Nikolai. This wasn’t your fault. We sent your troops out on a rabbit hunt… only to learn that we were chasing a bear instead.” He shrugged. “What is it the Americans themselves say? Sometimes you get the bear—”

“And sometimes the bear gets you,” Varshavsky finished grimly.

“Then let’s have no more of this defeatist talk about resigning,” Leonvov told him. “Send your Spetsnaz detachments back in, on the ground this time. I want that cabin and its surroundings searched from top to bottom for any equipment or documents those Scion spies may have been forced to leave behind. But make sure your troops are careful. We’ve just paid a high price to learn our enemies have a nasty habit of planting booby traps.”

Vashavsky nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Leonov swiped an icon on the screen, closing his secure video connection with Yekaterinburg. He swiveled toward another LED display, this one currently linked to the headquarters of Russia’s Aerospace Forces. Colonel General Semyon Tikhomirov’s worried face looked back at him. “Comments, Semyon?”

Tikhomirov frowned. “How could this enemy aircraft have penetrated so far into the Motherland?”

“We underestimated Sky Masters technology,” Leonov said bluntly. “And not for the first time.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps the Americans have successfully developed a stealth air refueling tanker after all.”

“That would be… unfortunate,” Tikhomirov agreed slowly. Several years before there had been reports indicating the U.S. Air Force was interested in applying stealth technology to a new class of tanker aircraft — with the idea of greatly extending the effective combat range of its F-35 Lightning II and F-22 Raptor stealth fighters.

“So it would,” Leonov agreed. “But what matters most right now is that we intercept that Scion plane before it escapes.”

Tikhomirov nodded. “Per your earlier orders, the 712th Guards Regiment has four MiG-31 fighters at Kansk-Dalniy armed, fueled, and ready for takeoff.”

“Then get them in the air,” Leonov told him. Those long-range supersonic interceptors should be over Lesosibirsk in less than fourteen minutes. Based on radar data and visual observations made during earlier encounters, the Scion stealth aircraft was subsonic only, with a top speed around 900 kph. Even with its current head start, the enemy plane shouldn’t be able to escape its MiG-31 pursuers.

“What instructions should I give my pilots?” Tikhomirov asked. “Do you want them to try to force the Americans down?”

Regretfully, Leonov shook his head. Much as he’d hoped to take at least one of the enemy intelligence operatives alive, the risks were now too great. Learning that the stealth aircraft had air-to-air missiles of its own had changed the whole calculus. “Tell them to shoot that plane out of the sky, Semyon,” he ordered. “The time for clever spy games is over.”

Over Central Siberia

A Few Minutes Later

Eighty nautical miles and ten minutes after taking off again, the XCV-70 Rustler zoomed north over the rugged chain of thickly wooded hills paralleling the Yenisei River valley’s eastern rim. Flying at 450 knots, with its terrain-following system active, the Scion stealth aircraft automatically pitched up to clear the ridges and hills in its path. And then it just as quickly dove back down into the sheltering embrace of the valleys beyond.

Brad clenched his teeth in concentration and banked right — steering into a tree-lined notch between two steeper hills that were each more than a thousand feet high. Even with the Rustler’s DTF system holding them only two hundred feet above the ground, he wanted to take advantage of every piece of radar-masking cover he could find.