“We’ll do our best,” Makowski promised. “Our people are dead tired, for sure. But morale is still high. We’re not going to let any Russian son of a bitch slip through unchallenged. Not while we have the watch.”

Deep in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge

A Short Time Later

Seated inside the PAK-DA’s cockpit, Colonel Alexei Petrov plugged his portable computer into the stealth bomber’s secure communications system and powered it up. Then he entered a code sequence provided by Pavel Voronin weeks ago. The screen flickered oddly for several seconds and then stabilized to show Voronin’s face. Although the background was blurred out, Dmitri Grishin’s top troubleshooter appeared relaxed and confident, as always.

“It’s good to see you, Alexei,” Voronin said with a faint smile. “Even if you do look like shit.”

Petrov laughed bitterly. “If I do, at least I have a good excuse. You try getting any sleep in the middle of the worst fucking blizzard anyone’s ever seen! Between the wind, the goddamned dark, and the balls-freezing cold, this place isn’t exactly a rest camp, you know. I spend half my waking hours out there with Bondarovich and the rest of your security team, fixing wind and ice damage to our tents and the aircraft shelter. And the other half checking over this bomber’s electronics and other systems to make sure everything’s still working right.”

“You have my sympathies,” Voronin said insincerely. He shrugged. “On the other hand, all this terrible weather is perfect for our purposes, true?”

“True,” Petrov allowed. Then he frowned. “But the same conditions that make us hard to find also make it impossible for me to take off again. These strong northerly crosswinds from out of the mountains basically pin my aircraft in place.”

Voronin waved that away. “This storm will pass soon enough. Maybe even sometime in the next twenty-four hours. Or so the meteorologists promise.” He shrugged his shoulders again. “Besides, where would you go right now?”

Petrov dodged answering what the other man only meant as a rhetorical question. What he ultimately planned and what he wanted Voronin and his oligarch employer to know were two very different things. He scowled. “That’s another thing, Pavel. Why haven’t we heard anything from Zhdanov or the Americans yet? What the devil are they waiting for? By now, they have to understand that we’re not bullshitting here. And don’t make the mistake of thinking that it’s just my nerves that are starting to fray. Your ex-Spetsnaz commandos are getting pretty edgy, too.”

“Patience, Alexei,” the other man said coolly. “You can’t expect politicians to part with such large sums of money so easily. Both sides just need a little more time to come to terms with the unpleasant reality they face. Once they understand that paying us is the only way to get control of the stealth bomber you’ve stolen, they’ll cough up fast enough.”

Petrov eyed him narrowly. “Do you have any proof of that?”

Voronin nodded. “My sources indicate that pressure is mounting on both Moscow and Washington. Soon enough, one side or the other will realize the silly-ass military games they’re playing are counterproductive and very, very dangerous . . . and that meeting your stated price is the much-safer and much-easier option.”