But now all of those comforting theories had just come crashing back to earth. Moscow’s most secure communications channels had received an encrypted signal—a signal that could only have been transmitted from the PAK-DA stealth bomber prototype. Hurriedly summoned from their quarters, barely an hour after their last futile conference broke up, Zhdanov and his most trusted advisers had convened again to hear this message.

“We’re ready, Mr. President,” the officer in charge of the command center’s audiovisual systems said quietly. “My technical people have finished decrypting and decompressing the signal. Naturally, there may be some minimal degradation of video and audio quality.”

“Screw the technobabble,” Zhdanov rasped. With hands that shook slightly, he lit another cigarette. Nicotine and strong tea were taking the place of sleep during this crisis. He nodded angrily. “Go on, Colonel. Just play the damned video.”

Silently, the colonel pushed a control on the console in front of him. A large screen mounted on one wall came to life. Seconds later, the faintly flickering, recorded image of Colonel Alexei Petrov appeared before them. The video had been shot inside the cockpit of the PAK-DA prototype.

“Good morning, Mr. President,” Petrov began without preamble. His expression was serious. “By now, you must realize that I have taken control over this aircraft and its weapons. At this very moment, the bomber is safely on the ground, far outside your reach. You can no more hope to recover it through your own efforts than you can hope to put a man on the moon before the sun sets tonight.”

Zhdanov bit down on a curse. This traitor was mocking him. His inability to promise a manned Russian lunar landing any time sooner than the next twenty years—at a time when both the American and Chinese space programs were racing ahead—was a source of long-standing irritation and shame.

“Which brings me to the crux of this matter,” Petrov continued somberly. “If you want the PAK-DA stealth bomber, its deadly payload, and all of its many secrets back safely, you will have to pay for them all . . . and pay dearly. To the tune of two hundred billion rubles.”

That created a stir of disbelief and dismay among the watching officers and government officials. Two hundred billion rubles was more than 2.6 billion U.S. dollars. Such a figure represented a huge sum for Russia’s increasingly cash-strapped government and military.

“I have attached an additional file to this signal. It contains the detailed instructions required to make this payment,” Petrov went on.

Zhdanov glanced at the colonel. The younger man nodded. “We found such a file, sir. It’s been relayed to Federal Security Service experts for analysis.”

Petrov leaned closer to the camera. “But let me be blunt. There will be no bargaining, no haggling. In fact, for every seventy-two hours that elapses from the transmission of this signal without full payment, the price you must pay will increase. The longer you delay, the more it will cost you to regain the stealth bomber and the twelve nuclear-armed Kh-102 cruise missiles currently in my sole possession.” He shrugged. “Should you be tempted to play foolish games and ignore this warning, consider this: While I remain a Russian patriot, despite the weakened, corrupted state of your government and our society, my patience, and that of those who have backed me, is not limitless. If necessary, we will sell the PAK-DA prototype and its weapons to a foreign power—one that will welcome the opportunity to pry open our nation’s most tightly held technological and military secrets.” On the screen, the camera zoomed in on the renegade colonel’s utterly determined face. “Consider the consequences carefully, Mr. President. Don’t fuck this up. Petrov out.” The screen blanked.