“I do have one request, Mr. Secretary,” Miranda Reynolds said. “I’d like your permission to deploy the specialist go team I’ve organized to Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson in Alaska.”

“The one with experts from the Air Force’s Foreign Material squadron?” Taylor asked.

She nodded. “Plus CIA and Air Force security personnel.” She looked down the table toward Chao. “If the rear admiral is correct, and Petrov has landed somewhere in northern Alaska or northern Canada, staging out of Elmendorf would put our team in position to move fast if we spot the PAK-DA bomber on the ground. Or in case we do strike a deal.”

“Good thinking,” Taylor said simply. “You’ve got my blessing. Get your team on its way to Anchorage as soon as possible.”

Twenty-Two

Totem One, over Northern Alaska

The Next Day

Totem One, a four-engine HC-130J Super Hercules combat search-and-rescue aircraft assigned to the Alaska Air National Guard’s 211th Rescue Squadron, rocked and jolted and bounced through the sky. It was flying through the upper fringes of a fierce winter storm blanketing the whole state. Patches of night sky sprinkled with stars appeared and disappeared whenever the plane crossed into towering cloud banks that cut visibility to nil and then came back out into clear air.

“Cripes,” Major Jack “Ripper” Ingalls muttered, gripping the steering yoke tight. “I think General Arcaro hates me.”

His copilot, Captain Laura “Skater” Van Horn, shook her head. “No, he doesn’t hate you, Rip.”

“He doesn’t?”

She smiled. “Nope. His feelings toward you go way beyond simple hatred. In fact, I’d say he despises you with all the passion of a thousand hot, flaming suns.” She nodded out the cockpit windows at the boiling sea of clouds. “I mean, why else assign us a ‘routine’ night training flight—right in the middle of the first really big storm of this season?”

Ingalls laughed. “Well, the general said he thought it’d be a good way to keep our flying skills honed.”

Van Horn snorted. “Uh-huh. And King David told Bathsheba’s husband, Uriah the Hittite, he wanted him to lead in battle because it was an honor.”

“You know, your analysis of this situation isn’t exactly making me feel better about myself, Skater,” Ingalls said. He kept his eyes moving over the cockpit’s multifunction displays and gauges. “Remind me to have you read that Air Force pamphlet on the importance of maintaining high crew morale once we get back to base.”

She pretended to sigh loudly. “What, again?”

“Yes, again,” the HC-130 pilot said firmly, with a quick, sidelong smile.

“You know, touchy-feely stuff like that is probably why Arcaro hates you so much,” Van Horn said with a grin of her own.

Ingalls shrugged. “A man’s gotta do what a—” A sudden alarm and a red caution and warning light cut him off short.

“Number Two engine shutdown,” Van Horn said sharply. She toggled a switch. “Fire handle pulled.” And then another. “Engine Start switch to stop. Fuel pump secured.” Swiftly, she scanned their ACAWS—Advisory, Caution, and Warning System—message text. “Gearbox Two, no oil pressure.”