A blinking green icon flashed into existence in Petrov’s vision. It turned solid a second later. “The target’s coordinates are downloaded to our practice missile.”

With a high-pitched whine, the doors of a weapons bay in the fuselage behind them slid open. And then the stealth bomber shuddered slightly as a single Kh-102 cruise missile weighing 2,400 kilograms released and fell away into the air. Seconds later, a seven-and-a-half-meter-long finned shape zoomed away to the north-northwest.

“Good engine start on the missile,” Petrov confirmed. Right on schedule, the Kh-102’s turbofan engine had ignited as it dropped toward the ground. He breathed out in relief, as did Bunin. A failure would have created an embarrassing impact crater somewhere on the grassy steppe below them, but nothing worse, since the practice cruise missile was armed only with a mock payload. In wartime, that Kh-102 would have been armed with a 250-kiloton thermonuclear warhead—twelve and a half times more powerful than the Fat Man atomic bomb dropped on Nagasaki.

New menus flickered onto Bunin’s multifunction displays. “Attack judged complete,” he murmured. “We are returning to base.”

In confirmation, the PAK-DA banked hard again, turning back toward the airfield at Akhtubinsk. From the start of this mission, the aircraft had been operating entirely under computer control, relying on its autonomous systems to handle every detail from takeoff to its precise flight path to target designation and weapons launch. Essentially, its human pilot and copilot were along on this particular test flight only in case something went wrong with the computers or their operating systems.

Throughout the flight home, Petrov kept his attention resolutely focused on his HUD indicators, ready to take back over at the slightest sign of trouble. In one sense, he welcomed the success of this first real test of the prototype’s autonomous systems. It would allow him to push his proposal for a full-scale combat exercise. But he still found the experience of being reduced to a mere spectator aboard the bomber unpleasant, even a bit unnerving. After all, by training and inclination, he was first and foremost a pilot, not a nursemaid for some incomprehensible blur of digital ones and zeroes inside the circuits of a highly advanced thinking machine.

Suddenly, a sharp pain stabbed through his left temple. It felt as though someone had punctured his skull with an ice pick. The glowing numbers and icons on his HUD blurred in his vision, becoming unreadable. Damn it, he thought desperately. Not now. His teeth ground together as a second wave of agony flared through his head. Trying hard not to groan out loud, he unzipped a pocket on his flight suit and grabbed a couple of the powerful pain pills he’d stashed there before takeoff. Aware that he was sweating, he popped them into his mouth and swallowed them whole. He coughed dryly as they scraped down his throat.

“Are you all right, Colonel?” Bunin asked. The bomber copilot looked concerned.

Petrov forced himself to grin. “No problem, Oleg,” he lied. “Just a slight headache.” He shrugged. “I had a little trouble sleeping last night, that’s all.”