Petrov glanced down at his MFD. target range: 15 kilometers. He blinked, still scarcely able to believe that this nightmare run through the mountains was nearly over. He was just two minutes out. It was time to find out if Voronin’s mercenaries were awake and attentive to their duties. His lips thinned. He disliked being forced to trust the competence of men he’d never met.

He reached forward and tapped a preset icon on the display. Obeying his command, the bomber’s tactical communications system transmitted a short, encrypted radio signal at very low power. Without waiting for a response, he toggled on his landing lights. Powerful spotlights speared through the darkness. Control surfaces along the trailing edge of the PAK-DA’s wing whined open, providing additional lift as his airspeed decreased. More hydraulics whirred as the landing gear came down and locked in position.

In the distance, glowing dots blinked into existence. Days before, Voronin’s team had set up pairs of shielded infrared markers to outline the improvised runway they had built out of compacted snow. A parachute flare, blinding bright through falling snow, arced high into the air from the forward edge of the runway—giving him a visual indication of the wind direction and strength.

Gently, with tiny movements of the stick and his other controls, Petrov brought the big stealth bomber in to land. Ahead through his canopy, the twin rows of infrared markers grew steadily larger, taking on shape and definition as he skimmed low over the valley floor on final approach.

The first pair of markers slid past under his wing. He was just above the compacted snow field. It was time to set the bird down. Petrov throttled all the way back in one smooth motion. Robbed of the last lift keeping it in the air, the bomber dropped onto the runway. Curtains of snow sprayed outward as it thundered down the valley, shedding speed as he reversed thrust and carefully applied his brakes. Gradually, as the aircraft slowed, the trees and rock-littered hillsides blurring past his canopy sharpened into focus.

Petrov grinned more genuinely under his oxygen mask. He’d been confident this would work. His countrymen had successfully operated heavy four-engine IL-76 transport aircraft on similarly improvised snow and ice fields in the past. Their loaded weight was comparable to that of the PAK-DA prototype . . . and to the American B-2, for that matter. But the Americans were far too conventional to imagine anyone would risk pulling the same stunt with an armed stealth bomber—let alone using a makeshift runway secretly carved out inside their own national territory.

As he taxied toward the end of the field, a large white structure slowly emerged from the darkness and blowing snow. Shrouded in netting to break up its visual signature, it was a temporary aircraft shelter created with ultralight thermal and radar-reflective camouflage fabric. Two men were stationed near the entrance to guide him inside.

Slowly, directed by their glowing orange batons, Petrov carefully maneuvered the PAK-DA into position, set the brakes, and switched off both engines. The huge turbofans keened down to a stop, descending steadily in pitch until they fell silent. After so many hours spent in the air surrounded by their roar, this sudden quiet seemed unnatural.