There was a short delay while his signal was relayed to Lieutenant General Rogozin, still deep underground in the Sharapovo command bunker. Then the general’s voice came back through Kuryokhin’s headset. He sounded strained. “Bodyguard, this is Moscow Ops Control. Prospector and Mother Hen are in position at the rendezvous point. Good luck. Remember your mission. And remember your rules of engagement. Under no circumstances, repeat, under no circumstances are you to fire first at any American aircraft. Is that understood?”

“Message clearly understood, Ops Control,” the Russian fighter commander said distinctly. “Bodyguard out.” He glanced out of his cockpit at the other Su-35, flying about a kilometer off his right wing. “Lead to Bodyguard Two,” he radioed, making sure he was using a lower-powered tactical channel. “You heard the man, right?” he said wryly. “So keep your itchy finger off that trigger, Ilya. Or else Daddy Rogozin might give us both a spanking.”

“Two,” his wingman, Captain Ilya Troitsky, acknowledged. “What the hell does the general think we’re going to do? Take on the whole damned American Air Force with a total of four missiles between the two of us?”

“Apparently your aggressive reputation precedes you,” Kuryokhin said with a grin.

Even over the static-laden tactical circuit, he could hear Troitsky’s loud, exasperated sigh. “For God’s sake, Lead, it was one lousy bar fight. Just one. And no one even got killed.”

Kuryokhin shrugged. “I think it was the fact that you were willing to take on four biker gang members by yourself that got some attention.”

“I thought there were only two of them,” his wingman said sulkily. “Okay, Lead, I’ll be on my best behavior. But are we still supposed to keep those F-22s off our guys? Or just wave politely at them as they zoom on by?”

“We keep the Americos away,” Kuryokhin confirmed. “We just can’t shoot them in the process.”

Over the circuit, Troitsky sighed again. “Look, Major, you know these rules of engagement are stupid, right? Whoever came up with them must think you can screw a woman through your clothes and still get her pregnant.”

“Stupid they may be, but they’re still the orders we’ve been given,” Kuryokhin said firmly. “Orders that we will both obey to the letter. Copy that?”

“Two copies,” his wingman replied.

The two Su-35s accelerated and raced on to the northeast across the frozen sea—staying at very low altitude to avoid any possibility of detection by American radar. Flying so low burned fuel fast, cutting their maximum range by more than half. Which was why the rendezvous they were headed toward was so critical to the success of this mission. Ahead of the two Russian fighters, a band of dark clouds stretched across the sky. They were at the western edge of what seemed to be a never-ending sequence of snow and ice storms surging down out of the polar region to pummel Alaska and northern Canada.

Rendezvous Point Alpha, High Over the Arctic Ocean

Fifty Minutes Later