“And I see where it’s broadcasting from,” Saltikov said, sounding sick to his stomach. Both the fighter’s ground-to-air radar and its forward-looking infrared pod were showing the same thing—a wide scar torn through the forest. In and among the splintered and broken trees was a mass of wreckage, the mangled remains of an Su-57 fighter.

“Hunter One, this is Two,” Yakunin heard his wingman in the second Su-30 reply after he frantically relayed the news of what they’d seen on the ground. “We just spotted more debris ourselves, several kilometers to the south of that first plane.”

“Is it the stealth bomber?” he asked. My God, he wondered, could there have been some sort of disastrous midair collision between the PAK-DA and its escorts? One that destroyed all three aircraft before any of them could radio for help?

“Negative, Hunter One. This second downed aircraft is definitely the other Su-57. There’s no sign at all of the PAK-DA prototype.”

Yakunin’s eyes widened. Whatever had destroyed those two stealth fighters, it couldn’t be an accident. He switched radio frequencies again to contact their home air base, near the border with Mongolia. “Domna Control, this is Hunter One. Patch me through to the NDMC in Moscow. And make it quick!”

National Defense Management Center, Moscow

Moments Later

When he understood what the Su-30 crews had discovered, Zhdanov slumped back in his chair. He felt the blood drain from his face. His pulse hammered wildly in his ears, louder even than the other equally shocked voices ringing out across the crowded conference room. Fighting for a small measure of self-control, he swung toward Lieutenant General Rogozin. “Yvgeny, are those pilots really claiming that our Su-57s were shot down?”

Looking pale himself, the Air Force commander nodded. “It appears so, Mr. President.” He swallowed hard. “To confirm their assessment fully, we’ll need to dispatch investigative teams by helicopter from Kansk Air Base. But the indications seem clear and unmistakable. Both fighters appear to have crashed almost simultaneously—as though they were struck by air-to-air missiles at virtually the same instant.”

“Missiles fired from our own stealth bomber?” Zhdanov asked, unable to suppress the absurd hope that there was some other explanation for this catastrophe.

“Yes, Mr. President.” Rogozin grimaced. “I’m afraid that is the only logical possibility.”

Zhdanov stared at him. “Which means that the PAK-DA’s crew has gone rogue.”

Very reluctantly, Rogozin nodded again. “And they’ve taken our most advanced aircraft and a full load of nuclear-armed, long-range cruise missiles with them,” he added quietly.

“And General Mavrichev? What about him?”

Rogozin frowned. “I suspect he’s either a prisoner . . . or dead. Neither Petrov nor Bunin knew he would be aboard until the very last minute before they took off, so it’s unlikely he was a member of their conspiracy.”

“But why?” Zhdanov demanded. “What can these traitors possibly hope to gain?”

Rogozin sat silent.

“I asked you a question, General,” Zhdanov snapped. Deep inside, he felt the faint stirring of white-hot rage. He welcomed it in place of the unreasoning fear that had gripped him only moments before. Fury was a leader’s prerogative. Fear was only a mark of weakness.