“As soon as possible,” Petrov replied. “But not here in Kazan. Let’s take care of that business down at Chkalov instead.”

The other man pursed his lips. The Air Force’s Valery Chkalov flight test center was nearly nine hundred kilometers south of Kazan. Named after one of the old Soviet Union’s most famous and daring test pilots, the range was now specially equipped to handle experimental advanced stealth aircraft. Transferring the bomber prototype there right away would definitely speed up the process of validating its flight characteristics and systems. Unfortunately, it also meant assigning Tupolev’s own specialist mechanics to the distant base for a prolonged period. They would be needed to train Air Force ground crews to maintain the PAK-DA’s complex avionics and advanced radar-absorbent coatings. The hassle factor for the company and its employees would be high. So would the added expense. Then again, Moscow’s orders were clear: whatever Petrov and his team wanted, they would get.

Glancing at the unhappy faces of Tupolev’s own pilots, Petrov threw them a bone. “Your guys can bring the bomber down. After all, it’s only fair that they have the honor of taking the Devilfish up for its first flight.”

With a curt nod, Ivanin crooked a finger, signaling the senior company flier over to join them. Georgy Remizov was a short, stocky, round-faced man a few years older than Petrov himself. He’d flown high-performance combat aircraft for the Air Force before resigning to join Tupolev when Russia’s post-Soviet military went through one of its periodic belt-tightenings. Perfunctory introductions completed, the CEO excused himself. “For now, I’ll leave you to work out the details with Georgy, Colonel. But feel free to contact me if you need anything else.”

Then he hurried away, almost as though he feared Petrov would make some new outrageously expensive demand if he lingered any longer. The two pilots watched him go with some amusement. “Chief Executive Ivanin has a superb head for numbers and budgets,” Remizov murmured.

“But he’s no aviator?”

“I think he sometimes wishes we built locomotives or automobiles instead of aircraft,” Remizov confided. “I hear he gets airsick above the fourth floor of any building.”

With the Tupolev test pilot pacing him, Petrov strolled toward the nearest exit from the huge aircraft assembly hall. The armed guards posted there stiffened to attention. He threw them a casual salute and then glanced down at the shorter man. “Well? Any questions?”

Remizov shook his head. “None.” A lopsided smile flashed across his face and then vanished. “I anticipated your . . . request. I’ve already worked out a flight plan with contingencies for any possible teething troubles. We’ll never be more than a few minutes’ flying time from potential abort fields during the whole trip south to Chkalov.”

“Very good,” Petrov said in approval, and he meant it. The first few flight hours were always the most dangerous in any new aircraft. No matter how thoroughly you scrubbed a revolutionary design in wind tunnels and computer simulations, things could still go badly wrong under real-world conditions. “I appreciate your attention to detail.”