He glanced across the cockpit toward Bunin. “Now we get serious, Oleg.”

His copilot nodded. Although they were still roughly four thousand kilometers from their planned targets—the Russian Pacific Fleet’s warships at anchor in Vladivostok’s harbor and the network of air bases around the same city—this air refueling point was the last certain safe haven along their flight route. From now on, every kilometer they flew took them closer to the vast region of Russia’s Far East in which all “enemy” aircraft, radars, and SAM regiments assigned to defend against Ghost Strike were free to maneuver and deploy. Theoretically, their Kh-102 stealth cruise missiles could hit targets up to twenty-eight hundred kilometers away, but Petrov’s mission plan anticipated a simulated launch at close range, no more than a few hundred kilometers from Vladivostok. A shorter flight time reduced the defenders’ chances of detecting and destroying the incoming missiles. Besides, this exercise was supposed to simulate an over-the-pole attack on strategic targets deep inside the continental United States—where the PAK-DA would have to fly at least eight thousand kilometers just to reach a maximum range launch point. Pushing the bomber prototype to the very limits of its endurance was a key part of the proposal Petrov had sold to the president and his advisers.

“Okay, let’s configure the aircraft for prolonged low-altitude flight,” Petrov said matter-of-factly. “We’re going to come in right on the deck, moving like a bat out of hell.”

Bunin nodded. His fingers danced across displays as he brought up the bomber’s digital terrain-following system and started entering waypoints.

From the seat behind the copilot, Major General Mavrichev leaned forward, unable to hide his surprise. “You plan to make your penetration run at low altitude? Why? The American B-2s fly and attack at high altitudes, don’t they?”

“That’s correct, General,” Petrov said patiently. “But that’s because the Americans have carried out most of their B-2 raids against terrorists—or against weaker nations without modern radars and high-altitude-capable SAMs. That’s not who we’re up against tonight. We’re facing the first team. And every radar station, air defense regiment, and fighter interceptor between here and Vladivostok already knows we’re coming. We might be stealthy enough to slip past them up high, but why press our luck when we don’t have to? True, a low-level penetration flight will burn more fuel, but we’ve got plenty of gas right now, thanks to Mother Hen. And I’ll trade fuel for surprise any day.”

As if to confirm his words, a string of new alerts blinked into existence on one of his full-color displays. The same alerts also appeared on Bunin’s screens.

“Multiple X-band and L-band airborne radars detected at high altitude ahead of us,” his copilot reported. “The computer evaluates them as a mix of Su-27s, Su-30s, and Su-35s, all backed by at least one Beriev A-100 AWACS plane.”

“Signal strength?” Petrov demanded sharply.

“Very weak,” Bunin assured him. “They seem to be flying patrol patterns several hundred kilometers due east of us.”

Petrov smiled narrowly. The air defense commanders assigned to find and “kill” them in tonight’s exercise weren’t taking any chances, either. They’d deployed a strong intercept force right on the edge of the allowed perimeter. Inside, he felt a moment’s regret that Ghost Strike was nothing but a sham. Actually making an attempt to penetrate those tight defenses would have been a remarkable challenge, one requiring every ounce of his tactical and flying skills.