“At that point, the United States will be left with only a handful of missile-armed submarines at sea,” Petrov said coldly. “If you threaten to destroy America’s cities in case those submarines launch their own weapons, the surviving elements of its weak-kneed governing elites will stand down in fear . . . leaving Russia the nuclear master of the world.” He shrugged. “The choice,” he added icily, “is yours. Either cast the die with me and win. Or die as ineffectual cowards when American ICBMs rain down on you in retaliation for my actions.”

The screen went dark as his message ended.

For a long, seemingly endless moment, there was only stunned silence in the crowded command center. Then, finally, Zhdanov slammed his fist down on the table, rattling cups and saucers and startling his advisers and military commanders, who appeared sunk in gloom and uncertainty. “Well, what do we do now?” he snapped.

“There is still a chance that our Spetsnaz troops will find Petrov and the stealth bomber,” Rogozin tentatively suggested.

Like a striking snake, Zhdanov whipped around on Ivashin. “Is there?”

The head of the GRU swallowed hard. During Petrov’s recorded tirade, he’d been frantically texting his headquarters for a mission update. His face was pale. “Unfortunately, we’ve lost contact with the raiding party . . . and with the crew of their helicopter, Mr. President.”

Zhdanov glared at him. “Which means your Major Korenev—and your brilliant deep-cover agent Orphan—have both failed.”

“Yes,” Ivashin admitted miserably.

Zhdanov turned back to Rogozin. “Can the Americans intercept the stealth bomber and shoot it down? Before Petrov can launch those cruise missiles?”

The Air Force commander shook his head. “It’s highly unlikely, Mr. President. NORAD’s radars and air defenses are concentrated along the perimeter of American and Canadian airspace. Petrov and his aircraft have already penetrated those defenses.”

“What if we warned the Americans ourselves?” one of the other generals asked.

Rogozin shook his head. “Petrov’s missiles have a range of more than twenty-eight hundred kilometers. He can strike his chosen targets from anyplace in a huge volume of space, across tens of millions of square kilometers. In effect, his planned launch point could be literally anywhere over the continental United States . . . or even over southern Canada. It would take a miracle for any American interceptor to find his stealth bomber in time.”

“And miracles have been in short supply lately,” Zhdanov said acidly. He scowled. “More to the point, what do we gain by warning the Americans?” He glared around the room, seeing their sudden, alarmed comprehension. He nodded. “Exactly. We gain nothing. The Americans can’t stop Petrov. But by warning them of what’s coming, we would just give them time to evacuate their military and political leaders, disperse their bombers and submarines, and put their ICBMs on full alert.” His fist crashed down again, making them all jump. “So, in the end, we would only find ourselves confronted by a fully armed and ready enemy—an enemy bound to seek vengeance for Petrov’s sneak attack.”