Modern Warfare

90th Fighter Squadron

Flight level 500, Chandalar Alaska

Lieutenant Colonel Grace was nervous.  Although the USAF had been operating nearly unopposed in Alaska since the unsuccessful Russian raid, they didn’t have their normal level of satellite surveillance.  The Air Force had launched several drones to provide overhead imagery, but both of the MQ-9 Reapers sent north had been shot down.  They knew that the Russians were still operating in Alaska, but they didn’t know exactly where they were or what they were doing.  A very unusual circumstance for the USAF which had operated under pervasive satellite support since the Cold War.

Grace and his wingman were coming up to the Brooks Range, the mountains that separated southern Alaska from the North Slope which contained Prudhoe Bay and a significant portion of Alaska’s oil reserves.  The intel types speculated that the Russians were interested in claiming some or all of those oil fields and the order came down to Grace and his wingman to investigate.  More correctly, the two F-35s below and behind Grace’s F-22 were the primary investigators.  Their sensor suite includes an integrated infrared camera and which is better suited to finding things on the ground.  Grace’s mission was to ensure that those F-35s remained unmolested.

Unfortunately, it was a bright sunny day in northern Alaska.  While the F-22 was hard to spot on radar, it wasn’t invisible.  This made them vulnerable to spotters below them and infrared guided missiles.  This was part of why they were so high.  That should allow them to spot enemy aircraft before they could be sighted visually.  It would have been handy to have AWACS support for this mission, but there was only one of those in Alaska and it couldn’t be risked this far north.

The issue was the craggy mountains Grace was about to fly over.  They gave plenty of places for aircraft or SAMs to hide.  As he started over the mountain range, he paid close attention to the radar.  There was an aircraft down there, ducking in and out of one of the ravines.  “Dice one, Bandit bullseye zero six zero, low and fast.”  The radio call was a risk, but the other pilots needed to know where the enemy fighter was.  Grace turned his F-22 towards the Russian and away from Prudhoe Bay, nearly to the Canadian border.  He pushed his stick down and began descending, quickly passing Mach 1.  The contact was fading in and out as it passed through the tight canyons.  There!  Finally getting a solid radar lock, he fired an AIM-120 which was quickly ejected by the F-22.  As the missile streaked off toward the Russian Flanker, his threat receivers lit up.  Russian SAM.  Descending even faster, he raced for the safety of those same canyons.  If the SAM had him with an IR sensor, only the terrain would mask him from enemy fire.  “SAM!  SAM!  SAM at 9 o’clock low.”  He was still too high.  Punching his afterburners, he pulled the aircraft into a punishing 9G turn to the right, then down again, almost straight down.  He was at almost 20,000 feet above ground level, it was going to take too long.  He rotated the aircraft and pulled back, hard.  He could feel his G-suit compressing his lower body.  Grunting with exertion, he pulled up, severely over-G’ing the aircraft.  Alarms hooted in the cockpit.  His vision began to grey out, the world shrunk to a tight circle at the center of his vision.  He grunted again and focused on his strain maneuver, attempting to keep blood in his brain so he didn’t pass out.  There was a muted “boom” behind him and the pressure ceased.  The engines had gone and he was losing hydraulics.  Fire.  The aircraft was on fire.  “MAYDAY MAYDAY MADAY.  Dice one is hit.  MAYDAY MAYDAY MADAY.”

As the aircraft spun out of control, it became obvious that he was not going to regain control.  Grace had a few seconds, he was still 20,000 feet above the ground.  He took a deep breath, reached between his legs and pulled the handle.  There was a microsecond pause and then with a massive WHOOSH, the canopy exploded and the rocket motor in the seat ejected Grace from the doomed aircraft.

1 Canadian Ranger Patrol Group

50 Miles West, Old Crow, Canada

Sergent Zzoh Njootli was a native to Old Crow, in the Yukon Territory.  A member of the Vuntut Gwitchin First Nation, he knew exactly where the US Canadian border was.  Twenty miles behind him and the rest of the snow machines of his Ranger group.  The Canadian Rangers were a uniquely Canadian military organization.  Technically a reserve unit, the Rangers did all kinds of things in the Arctic, from scouting for “regular” army units to search and rescue, they specialized in getting around in arctic conditions.  Of course, they were all locals so moving around the arctic was as normal to them as going out to Sunday dinner.

Most of the time being a Ranger meant spending a few days out in the boonies and having the government pay for the gas for his snow machine, which was fine with Zzoh.  Until today, the biggest thing that his patrol group had done was rescue a rich American who got lost fishing.  The orders to observe the fighting between Russia and the United States had come as a bit of a surprise but probably shouldn’t have.  Old Crow was remote, but they had access to the internet, they knew what was going on.

“Haii choo!!”  Njootli heard a loud explosion somewhere up ahead and could see smoke and flame in the sky.  It must be an aircraft, but it was so high, he couldn’t really tell what kind.  He waved to the other men of his patrol, pointing.  Only two of them could actually see him, their snow machines were very spread out, but those two relayed his signal.  Traveling in a group like this over open terrain was something they practiced regularly.  Is that a parachute?  As he continued forward, it became clear.  There was a red and white parachute and clearly hanging below was a person.  It must be a pilot.

Njootli carefully negotiated the crenelated ground between himself and the parachute.  It was easy to fall into a crevasse or otherwise injure yourself out here.  Even on a nice spring day like today, it could be dangerous.  Finally topping a small ridge, he could look down and see the pilot lying on the ground.  He wasn’t moving.  Gesturing again to his patrol group, Njootli made his way down the snow-covered slope.  By the time he got close, the pilot was groaning and starting to move.  Coming closer, he could see that the man was a USAF Lt. Colonel.  Not knowing what else to do, he saluted.  “Sergent Njootli, 1^st Canadian Ranger Patrol.  May we be of assistance, sir?”

The pilot just looked at him, then sat up, wincing in pain.  The name tape on his flight suit said “Grace.”  Njootli began to move closer, concerned the man may be concussed.    “Are you all right, sir?”

The pilot laughed, then groaned again.  “I think I broke a rib.”  He took a close look at Njootli who was dressed in his arctic camouflage uniform which was basically a set of white coveralls with a fur lined hood.  “Are you kidding me?  I come down in the middle of nowhere and I’m immediately greeted by a Mounty?”

Njootli laughed.  “Mounties are the police sir, we are Canadian army.  Reserves.”

“Unless I’m way more out of it than I think or this ain’t Canada Sergeant.”

Njootli gestured vaguely behind him.  “Canada’s only about twenty miles thattaway, sir.  Seemed like a good idea to take a look across the border.  You’re lucky I did.  It will get right cold tonight without shelter and you’re not getting far at night without a snow machine.”

“Fair enough.”  Grace grunted again as he stood up with Njootli’s help.  “So, what are your orders, Sergeant?”

“To recon the north slope and report back on Russian movements, if any.”

“Funny story, those are my orders.”

Njootli laughed.  “My guess is more up there.”  He pointed to the sky.  “Than down here.” He gestured to the snow all around them.

“Yeah, that was the idea.”

“Perhaps if you were to invite me, official, we could help you out, sir.”

“On behalf of the US Air Force, would you be kind enough to escort me over that mountain range so we can observe the north slope?”

“It would be my honor, sir, but I have a better idea.”

“ASCOT 7209”, No. 51 Squadron Royal Air Force

Flight Level 340, Gdańsk, Poland

Like everyone aboard the heavily modified RC-135W (Airseeker), Wing Commander Robert Morgan was a volunteer.  Unlike the rest of the crew, he knew exactly why the RAF was about to undertake their most important intelligence operation since WWII.  Even the name of the operation, “Mincemeat” harked back to those heady days.  Someone in MI6 had really burned the midnight oil coming up with that one.

The RC-135W was not a new aircraft.  Built in 1967, it shared lineage with the Boeing 707 and various family members had served the USAF for seventy years.  The only good news about the RC-135W was that it was newer than the Nimrod it had replaced.  This particular aircraft also had relatively new engines and a fully modern set of spy gear onboard.  It was the most sophisticated spy plane currently operated by the RAF.

“Approaching threshold values, sir.”

While it was normal for the Airseeker to fly missions around Europe, there was one place in Western Europe they generally didn’t go: Kaliningrad.  Crammed between Poland and Lithuania (both NATO members), Kaliningrad is part of Russia but separated from the rest of the country.  The official mission orders called for the aircraft to fly a complete circle around the Russian enclave, something that the Russians didn’t care for, but had happened numerous times.  Recent Russian threats of using nuclear weapons against Western Europe had increased scrutiny of this small Russian enclave.  Of course, the Russians would make their displeasure known to the crew.  They had very carefully flown out of Polish airspace and over the Baltic Sea before turning again to approach Russian airspace.  They needed to be close for this to work.

“We are being illuminated.  Two Big Birds.”  The 91N6E Big Bird was the primary long range acquisition radar for the S-400 SAM system.  In essence the Russians were holding a cocked pistol, pointed at the crew of the RAF spy plane, daring them to come closer.

And come closer they would.

“New course one seven zero.”

“One seven zero, roger.”

The trick here was to get as close as possible, but not to get shot down.  Wing Commander Morgan sincerely hoped he had chosen correctly, and he would survive the experience.

“I have airborne radars coming up.  Flankers rotating out of Chkalovsk.”

Now things got interesting.  One of the inspirations for Mincemeat had been the Hainan Island incident where a US Navy EP-3 spy plane was forced to land on Hainan Island, China, due to damage caused by a mid-air collision with a PLAAF J-8 fighter.

“Sir, we are in Russian air space.”

“Very well, carry on.”

The current course of the RAF aircraft was guaranteed to enrage the Russians.  They had repeatedly warned of “dire consequences” for any incursions into their airspace.  Of course, every aviator knew that the Soviets had shot down a Korean 747 years ago for innocently wandering into Soviet airspace.  Mincemeat could end very abruptly with a SAM launch.  This entire operation depended on the Russians being predictable.

“Any indication they are going to launch?”

“No sir, just long range stuff, no targeting yet.”

“We have a guest.”  Thank God for standing orders, the Russians had followed the exact pattern observed in previous flights.

Morgan unbuckled his straps and peered out of one of the few remaining windows.  The Russian Sukhoi Su-27 (Flanker) was a twin engined, twin tailed single seat fighter.  Looking a bit like an American F/A-18, this one was clearly Russian just from it’s blue camouflage paint scheme which was unique to the Russian services.  The fighter was extremely close to the wing of the RAF plane.

The radio came alive with a clearly Russian voice, speaking English.  “RAF flight, Kaliningrad Control.  You are in Russian Federation airspace, change course immediately.”

Wing Commander Morgan was expecting the call.  He went back to his seat to use the radio.  “Kaliningrad, ASCOT 7209.  We are in international airspace.  Immediately cease your unsafe intercept, you are risking collision.   Repeat terminate your unsafe intercept maneuver.”

Morgan waited a second to confirm that the Flanker had no intention of backing off, then carefully strapped himself in, checking his harness to ensure it was tight.  “Mission commander to aircraft.  Secure yourselves and your stations.  Prepare for operation commence.”  He gave it a few more seconds to be sure everyone was ready.  “Mission commander to pilot.  Commence.”

With that command, the RC-135W jerked violently to the left, towards the Russian fighter.  Simultaneously, Morgan got back on the radio.  “Kaliningrad, ASCOT 7209, we are experiencing violent mid-air turbulence.”  There was a sickening THUD as the wing of the Boeing aircraft clipped the canopy of the Sukhoi.  “He’s gone, wing commander.”

Morgan sincerely hoped that the pilot of the Russian fighter was OK, but there was nothing for it.  The fate of his nation and perhaps the western world as they knew it hung on the outcome.  He keyed the microphone again.  “MAYDAY MAYDAY MADAY.  ASCOT 7209 is declaring an emergency.  MAYDAY MAYDAY MAYDAY.”

“Mission commander to pilot, emergency descent, change course to land at KGD.”  While Khrabrovo Airport (KGD) was technically a civilian airport, there were also Russian military units stationed there.  The idea was to make it public that they had landed safely to increase the odds that they survived the experience.  “Mission commander to crew, emergency destruct sequence.  Execute destruct.”

Like every other spy plane in the world, the Airseeker had a series of small pyrotechnic charges that would render useless any sensitive information on the plane.  Of course, the equipment on the aircraft would be of great interest to any potential enemy, including the Russians.  It was vital that none of this equipment got into Russian hands.  The destruct sequence was also designed to destroy any documents carried on the plane.  That sequence had been carefully modified to ensure that it didn’t work correctly.

Morgan picked up the radio again.  “Khrabrovo, ASCOT 7209, declaring an emergency.”

There was a moment’s hesitation before the Russian civilian air traffic controller came on.  “ASCOT, say the nature of your emergency.”  English was the international language for pilots and air traffic control, a convention that the Russians occasionally honored. 

“Khrabrovo, ASCOT has suffered a mid-air collision.  We are losing fuel and cannot return to Poland.  We have also lost major electrical.”

“ASCOT, understood, you are cleared visual approach runway two four, altimeter two niner eight six.”

Airport Khrabrovo

Kaliningrad Oblast, Russia

“Come out with your hands up!”

The Russians had placed an air stair next to the main door but hadn’t attempted to enter the aircraft.   Not yet anyway.  Morgan looked at the other members of the flight crew, nodding to each one in turn.  “Open the door.”

None of them were armed, of course.  There was a survival kit in the back with a rifle, mostly intended to protect the crew from wildlife if they were forced to ditch.  Once the door was open, Morgan was the first out.  “We are unarmed!!”  Holding his arms high, he slowly walked down the air stairs.  He could see a large group of armed FSB agents surrounding the plane which had been parked at a remote ramp, well away from the civilian part of the airport.  The FSB officers all wore camouflage uniforms, helmets and body armor.  They were armed with very serious looking black AK-74Ms.  At the bottom of the stairs was an FSB officer with the three stars of a captain on his shoulders.  “Keep your hands up, walk forward.”

As each member of the crew came off the aircraft, they were very thoroughly searched and handcuffed.  They were then placed into a van with no windows.  After a few minutes of driving, they were removed from the van and separated.  Morgan was placed in an interrogation room where he was shackled to a fixture on the table.  He wasn’t going anywhere.

After about half an hour, the captain came into the room.  “So, what should we do with you, spy?”

Morgan snorted.   “I am a Royal Air Force Officer.  Morgan, Robert.  Wing Commander.   Two four six two eight six two four.”  Morgan spread his hands, indicating his uniform.  “I wish to speak to my embassy or a representative of the Red Cross.”

“You won’t speak to anyone until you tell me why you violated Russian air space.”

“Morgan, Robert.  Wing Commander.   Two four six two eight six two four.”

There was a knock on the door.  The FSB officer left, closing the door behind him.  He was gone for at least half an hour.  They had taken Morgan’s watch and there wasn’t a clock in the bare grey room.

When the FSB agent returned, he was visibly angry, almost shaking.  He shook a binder he brought with him in the air.  “SO!  You will tell me everything about this document!”  He slammed the binder on the table. 

Looking at the cover, Morgan didn’t have to pretend, he groaned in near physical pain.   On the front of the binder, it said, “Top Secret:  Operation Torch.”

“Morgan, Robert.  Wing Commander.   Two four six two eight six two four.”