Neary stared coldly at her. “Maybe so, Ms. Reynolds. Assuming, of course, that we don’t find ourselves in a shooting war with the Russians over what just happened out there. In which case, there won’t be much of a prize left for your experts to pick over.”

Sharapovo Command Bunker, outside Moscow

Thirty Minutes Later

Piotr Zhdanov listened to Lieutenant General Rogozin’s grim report in stony silence. Although controllers at air bases along the Arctic coast and eastern Siberia were still trying to raise Colonel Zinchuk’s Tu-142 and its two Su-35 fighter escorts by radio, there seemed little doubt that all three aircraft had crashed—and within just a few minutes of the colonel transmitting a coded phrase suggesting his crew might have found the PAK-DA stealth bomber’s hiding place.

“This tells all we need to know,” the Russian president said when Rogozin finished. “That sighting report was genuine. And now the Americans have the same information.”

Rogozin looked puzzled. “Sir?”

Zhdanov stubbed his cigarette out in irritation. “Come now, Yvgeny. It’s obvious, isn’t it? Why else would the Americans order their fighters to shoot down our planes?”

“Except that we are not yet certain of exactly what happened to our aircraft,” the general reminded him carefully.

Zhdanov raised an eyebrow. “The pilots you assigned to this mission had strict orders not to fire first, correct?”

“Of course, Mr. President,” Rogozin said.

“And were they reliable, disciplined officers?” the president asked pointedly.

Too late, Rogozin saw the trap into which he’d just walked. “Yes, sir,” he agreed reluctantly, obviously knowing there was only one acceptable answer. “Aggressive, of course, as the best fighter pilots must be. But Major Kuryokhin and Captain Troitsky were both loyal, trustworthy men.”

Zhdanov nodded in vindication. “There you are, then. The Americans had to have started this mess by firing on our planes. It’s the only logical conclusion. Washington wants to make sure it seizes Petrov and the PAK-DA bomber first.”

On his side of the conference table, Aleksandr Ivashin nodded vigorously. Ordinarily dour and undemonstrative, the head of the GRU suddenly appeared unusually animated. “I may be able to confirm your hypothesis, Mr. President.”

“How?”

“We’ve just received an emergency signal from one of our two-man, deep-cover Spetsnaz teams,” the spymaster said. Given enough time during any major crisis, it was Russian practice to deploy small covert commando units into rival nations—tiny groups of highly trained operatives who were expected to provide intelligence in the runup to open hostilities, and to conduct sabotage missions and targeted assassinations once war broke out. “These agents are stationed outside the large American military base near Anchorage, the one they call Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson. They’ve reported signs that the Americans are readying helicopters for immediate deployment to northern Alaska. And they believe this force includes elements of the CIA black ops team recently flown to the base.”

Zhdanov stared at him. “They’re sure of this?”

Ivashin nodded. “Their report indicates a high level of confidence in this assessment.”

“Can you contact this Spetsnaz team directly?” the president demanded. “Without wasting time going through cutouts or your other usual security procedures?”