Then the lead bogie banked hard. Straight toward an American radar station on Little Diomede Island.
He pulled the collective, and his aircraft dropped like a stone toward the ice below. Fifty meters from the frozen sea, he flattened out, skimming the surface. His radar return shrank to less than a seagull’s. The Su-57s screamed overhead, their pilots scanning for a threat that didn't exist. pc mav
He turned the aircraft toward Alaska, the Bering Sea glittering below like cracked glass. Somewhere in the neural link, he felt the phantom weight of the missiles gone, the lightness of a hunter returning to its den. Then the lead bogie banked hard