Then he stiffened as two high-pitched tones warbled in his headset. The PAK-DA’s IR sensors had picked up two new contacts, this time moving in from behind them. He toggled a switch on his stick, switching to the view from one of the bomber’s rear-facing thermal cameras. Two ghostly green-tinted images appeared on his helmet visor. They were closing fast.

“What the hell are those clowns doing?” Petrov growled. The two Su-57 stealth fighters that had been escorting the IL-78 air tanker had abandoned their charge and were now chasing after the PAK-DA.

Mavrichev leaned forward again, this time with a satisfied smile on his face. “I made a small alteration to your original operations plan, Colonel. Those fighters will accompany us as our escorts, at least until their fuel runs low. If any of those patrolling interceptors you’ve already detected ahead spot us in turn, the Su-57s will engage and destroy them—opening a clear path to your targets.” He sat back in his seat, looking even more pleased with himself. “And as an added bonus, having friendly fighters along will let you test this aircraft’s secure communications systems under realistic conditions.”

Petrov’s jaw tightened. Beside him, he noticed Bunin surreptitiously roll his eyes in disgust. The whole point of a stealth bomber was that it didn’t need a fighter escort. If anything, adding more aircraft to the mission package only increased the odds they would be detected. But Mavrichev was a dinosaur who’d cut his teeth as a younger officer flying lumbering Tu-95 turboprops and supersonic Tu-160 swing-wing bombers—both aircraft types with enormous radar cross-sections. The general’s understanding of strike tactics must have ossified years ago, Petrov concluded with justified contempt.

Outside, the two sleek-looking Su-57s separated and slid into positions four kilometers off the larger bomber’s wingtips. More uninvited guests at my private party, he thought coldly. This situation was getting worse and worse. His brain went into overdrive as he frantically evaluated a new series of alternatives. He had the means to handle Bunin and Mavrichev. But those Su-57 pilots were beyond easy reach. At last, he shrugged and accepted reality. Things were going to get a lot messier than he would have preferred, but the stakes were far too high for him to back out now.

Petrov pulled down his oxygen mask and ostentatiously took out his father’s old stainless-steel hip flask. With a quick jerk of his head, he mimed tossing back a shot, but he kept his teeth and tongue clenched tight to avoid swallowing any of the liquid inside. He lowered the flask with a strange sense of regret. He missed the sensation of high-proof vodka flowing down his throat like cold fire. Then, with his thumb held firmly over the top, he gave the flask a fast, hard shake to thoroughly mix all of its contents together.

Forcing a more genuine smile, he swung around in his seat and handed it back to Mavrichev. “One for the road, General?” he asked. “Before we get too busy to have any fun?”