“I’m aware of that,” Tovarich said. “But a preliminary examination of the wreckage reveals that the lockdown bolts have been sheared clean through. The Nighthawk must have broken free as the bomber lost control.”
Davidov sat back in frustration. Things were not going according to plan. When he’d dissolved the partnership with China and left Beijing, he’d done it thinking he had a bird in hand. At that moment, he’d been certain that Russia—and Russia alone—knew the whereabouts of the American craft because only Russia knew where the bomber had gone down.
“I’m afraid there’s something else,” Tovarich added.
Davidov looked up. “More bad news?”
“Of a sort,” Tovarich said. “During the recovery operation, we encountered an American NUMA team in a small submersible. They seem to have arrived and surveyed the site just before we did. Their presence not only compromised the secrecy of this vessel but the airborne mission itself.”
“How so?”
“We have reason to believe they took Blackjack 1’s flight data recorder. We’ve searched the wreckage and the surrounding area. Despite detecting a signal when we first arrived, it’s nowhere to be found. The only logical explanation is that the Americans have it.”
“NUMA,” Davidov grumbled. This wasn’t the first time the American nautical organization had thwarted a Russian effort.
Across from him, Admiral Borozdin grew tense. “If the Americans have the black box, they won’t have any problem piecing together the entire mission. They’ll know we tried to hijack their craft out of midair.”
Davidov waved off the concern. “It’s of little consequence. They can’t reveal or complain about our actions without exposing their own secrets. The bigger issue—the only issue—is what happened to the spacecraft.”
The submarine captain assumed the question was for him. “I have no answers, at this point.”
“Continue the search,” Davidov ordered. “Follow the last-known course. I want updates every hour.”
Tovarich signed off, and Davidov found he’d lost his appetite. His silver fork rattled against the Admiral’s fine china as he put it down. “We had
it,” he said. “We had it in our hands.”
Borozdin put his own knife and fork down and took a drink of water. “Even if the Nighthawk broke free, it should have come down nearby.”
“Not necessarily,” Davidov said. “Considering the speed and altitude at which they were traveling, it could literally be anywhere.”
Borozdin nodded. “What orders did Blackjack 2 have?”
“Its primary job was to override the signal from Vandenberg,” Davidov said.
“And in the event something went wrong?”
“To track the Nighthawk as long as possible and report final course, altitude and speed.”
“Do you have any reason to think they did otherwise?”
Davidov bristled. “I have no reason to think anything, Sergei. We never heard from them again.”
“They were Russian officers,” Borozdin said. “Highly trained. No doubt handpicked for their proficiency, loyalty and bravery. Unless you sent cadets up on your most secret of missions, I think we can assume they followed orders as long as possible. Right to the end.”
Davidov settled back. “Fine. I agree. What good does it do us? We still don’t know where they are.”
“We know where they aren’t,” Borozdin noted. “They’re not in the sea.”
Davidov froze. For the first time, he realized Borozdin was not just toying with him. “How can you be so sure?”
“Because the Americans would be pulling them out of the water already.”
“I think you overestimate—”
This time, Borozdin cut him off. “We are loath to admit it, but their technology is far superior to ours.”
“Sergei, it doesn’t help—”