Petrov bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment of the president’s fulsome praise. “But despite those successes, we still face a long road ahead to certify the design ready for operational deployment and full-scale production,” he warned.

“How long a road?” Zhdanov asked.

“At least twelve more months,” Petrov told him truthfully. “And perhaps as long as two full years, if we adhere slavishly to conventional flight-test procedures.”

The president frowned. “Two years?” he muttered. “That’s too long. Far too long.” Based on current trends, he could easily be out of power, dead, in prison, or in exile by then. He needed a visible military success, and soon—an obvious triumph that would persuade Russia’s fickle masses that his much-touted plans to rebuild their nation’s greatness and its status as a world superpower were paying real dividends . . . despite these temporary economic hardships.

“I agree completely, Mr. President,” Petrov told him. “But this is what we have left ahead of us if we follow ordinary, peacetime evaluation protocols.” He activated another control. The sleek, manta-shaped PAK-DA bomber vanished from his audience’s sight, replaced by a long, dreary-looking, official Air Force timetable that listed, in mind-numbing detail, the remaining technical milestones required to qualify Tupolev’s prototype aircraft for production. He watched the president’s frown deepen to an exasperated scowl and exulted inside. “That’s why I would like your permission to try something very different: a rigorous, complex, and realistic exercise designed to assess the full range of our new strategic bomber’s strike capabilities. A single difficult flight test that would cut through much of the typical bureaucratic bullshit if it succeeds—and shave months off the timetable even if it fails.”

With the ostentatious wave of a single hand, he erased the image of the official schedule from their smart glasses. In its place, a glowing phrase appeared, big enough to cover the digital map of Russia from west to east: Operatsiya Prizrachnyy Udar.

“Operation Ghost Strike?” Zhdanov said slowly.

Petrov nodded. He touched another control. It triggered a series of exciting, computer-generated visuals that matched his verbal presentation perfectly—thanks to advanced voice-recognition software that sent specific graphics to their high-tech eyewear whenever he used the appropriate keywords. “Under Ghost Strike, the PAK-DA prototype will be tasked with conducting a simulated cruise missile strike against the Pacific Fleet’s anchorage and its Naval Aviation air bases around Vladivostok, in the Far East. To enhance the realism of this exercise, the aircraft will carry its full wartime payload of Kh-102 cruise missiles, K-74M2 heat-seeking missiles for self-defense, and fuel. Thus loaded, it will depart from base at 1700 hours and proceed toward its assigned targets in darkness, on a moonless night—”

As he laid out the plan, an image of the bomber prototype took off from Russia’s primary strategic bomber base, Engels-2, seven hundred kilometers southeast of Moscow. It turned east, flying low across the Central Asian steppes and onward toward the towering Ural Mountains. “Naturally, the fleet itself and all of our other Eastern Military District air defense forces will be on full alert, ready for just such an attack.”