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, 1st 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.”