“That’s not enough!” Zhdanov said curtly. “Only fourteen aircraft? You’d still be looking for Petrov when the Last Judgment arrives!” He swiveled toward a short, compact officer seated directly across the table. Admiral Nikolai Golitsyn commanded the Russian Navy. Throughout the entire discussion, he’d been very quiet—undoubtedly grateful that this was an Air Force mess and not one that involved his own officers and men. “How many Tu-142 and IL-38 maritime patrol planes can you provide, Golitsyn?”

Both the larger Tu-142 and smaller IL-38 multi-engine turboprops were equipped with powerful surface search radars and infrared sensors. While they were ordinarily tasked with hunting enemy warships and submarines at sea, it wouldn’t be difficult for their crews to learn to use the same equipment to look for the PAK-DA bomber hidden somewhere in forests, mountains, or trackless tundra and ice fields.

The admiral looked blank for a moment. Then a junior aide seated behind him leaned forward and hurriedly whispered the answer in his ear. “Approximately twenty of each type, Mr. President,” he said confidently.

“Good!” Zhdanov said. “Transfer them all to Rogozin immediately. I don’t want any confusion caused by mixed chains of command.”

For an instant, Golitsyn opened his mouth to protest, but then he closed it just as quickly. This was not a sensible time to insist on the Russian Navy’s prerogatives, not with the president so obviously eager to find scapegoats to blame for this unfolding disaster.

Zhdanov’s fingers drummed incessantly on the table while he considered other measures that would be necessary. The most obvious was to make sure they were ready to seize or destroy the stolen stealth bomber almost as soon as it was found. “I want every group of reconnaissance aircraft backed up by fighters, strike aircraft, and Spetsnaz commando teams,” he ordered. Heads around the table nodded.

“What are your instructions if we fail to find the PAK-DA inside our own territory?” Rogozin asked carefully.

“You will press the search into American and Canadian airspace,” Zhdanov replied.

“How far?”

Zhdanov barked, “As far as necessary, Yvgeny! We can’t afford to pussyfoot around anymore.”

“The Americans and the Canadians will protest any intrusion into their territory,” Rogozin pointed out.

Zhdanov shrugged his shoulders. “Let them bitch. I don’t give a rat’s ass.”

“They will also intercept our reconnaissance flights with fighter aircraft,” Rogozin warned. “And our scout planes would be helpless in such a situation. A rear turret with a pair of 23mm cannons is no match for Sidewinder heat-seeking and AMRAAM radar-guided missiles.”

The president bit at his lip in frustration. Much as he wanted to, he couldn’t argue with Rogozin’s chief point. Russian pilots were courageous enough, but he could not expect them to commit suicide, particularly for no possible gain. Moodily, Zhdanov stared up at the map, hunting for some possible solution. And then the answer came to him in a quick flash of inspiration. He slapped his hand down hard on the table. “All right! If your reconnaissance pilots are afraid to tangle with the enemy’s interceptors, we’ll escort them with fighters of our own!”