US Air Forces in Europe (USAFE)
Ramstein Air Base, Rhineland-Palatinate, Germany
“Stand down from Ardent Resolve immediately.”
General Hinkley stared at the secure phone in his hand, not believing what he had just heard. As Commander of US Air Forces in Europe (COMUSAFE) he was head of a US Air Force major command (MAJCOM). MAJCOM command was the pinnacle of the command track for any US Air Force officer. Essentially, he had complete authority for all US air assets in Europe and Africa. With over 35,000 airmen, officers and contractors, USAFE was larger than most country’s air forces. When the USA had been attacked, USAFE along with every other command in the US military had been ordered to execute Ardent Resolve, a contingency plan to defend the USA against direct attack. It was frankly a plan that nobody had paid serious attention to before this. Who would be dumb enough to attack the USA? The Ardent Resolve order had been immediately followed by an “EMPTY QUIVER” alert, something else that he had always assumed couldn’t happen. USAFE had quickly moved to secure their nuclear weapons and to confirm the Strategic Command (STRATCOM) finding that the entire NC3 system used to deploy nuclear weapons had been compromised. He had a huge team working around the clock to restore their ability to use nuclear weapons if so ordered. Now this?
All of these revelations had come cascading down, one after another. The only thing that had been keeping him sane was the knowledge that USAFE was ready, willing and able to kick the ass of anyone dumb enough to fuck with the United States. USAFE would be the instrument of vengeance. USAFE would be swift, deadly and unmerciful. USAFE would unleash carnage and violence that would make the “highway of death” look like nothing.
USAFE would….. USAFE would do nothing.
The new secretary of the Air Force had just dumped the entire plan to defend the USA into the trash. This can’t be right. “Sir, with due respect, this course of action is contrary to my direct instructions from the president.”
“General, do not test my patience. You have your written orders. I just came from a meeting with the president and the Joint Chiefs. You are to defend Europe against a likely attack from Russia.”
Hinkley was thinking hard. A former fighter pilot, he had seen combat in Desert Storm as a freshly minted lieutenant. Like all pilots, he had faced personal danger and survived. His ability to think under pressure was one of his most prized abilities. All of that combat experience dealing with stress, danger and unknown enemy action came into play now. He was angry. He was confused. His mind raced. Training kicked in. Planning, Preparing, Executing, and Assessing. The doctrinal processes instilled in him since the academy went through his head. He needed a plan. He needed to understand the situation. Step one, get time to plan. He had to keep his options open. The previous secretary of the Air Force had also been a combat veteran. The current one was a hack, with more time lobbying for defense contractors than sitting at the controls of an aircraft. He wasn’t the sort to understand the reality on the ground. “Sir, I will take all actions necessary to defend Europe against any planned attack from Russia.”
“Very well, carry on.”
The line went dead.
He opened the door to his office and called out to the Chief Master Sergeant (E-9) who acted as his enlisted exec. “Chief Barber, I want all senior officers in my conference room in fifteen minutes.”
“Yes, sir.”
He had intentionally given himself only fifteen minutes to think. He needed to move and take action before sanity told him not to do what he knew he needed to do. He had very carefully chosen his language when speaking to the secretary. “All actions necessary” was a phrase used to allow commanders on the scene to do what was needed and push authority down to the officers who were doing the actual work. Any experienced field officer would understand why he had chosen that language. While all the veterans of Vietnam had long since retired, the lessons learned there died hard. Decisions made in the Pentagon didn’t always translate well into the field. For over fifty years, the USAF had trusted field commanders to carry out their orders without the Pentagon jogging their elbows. Hinkley was about to stretch his authority beyond all recognition.
Once in the secure conference room, he looked each of his department heads in the eye. He was going to have to be very careful. He was skirting his orders at best, about to commit mutiny at worst. Each of the officers in this room reported to him and expected him to act within his orders at all times. Deciding, he turned to his A2, intelligence chief. “Mary, based on what we know happened in Alaska, have you updated your current threat report for Russia?”
“Of course, sir. Updated daily.”
“Very well, based on your worst-case estimate, what is our threat level here?”
“Essentially zero sir. Between the losses in Ukraine and the assets currently engaged in Alaska, VKS has been stripped to the bone in the LMD. We estimate currently no more than one active squadron of Flankers.” The Russian Aerospace Forces (VKS) had recently been moved into joint commands, similar to the way the US military worked. The Order of Lenin Leningrad Military District (LMD) was the joint command for most of western Russia and was the command most commonly used as a “red force” against USAFE for planning purposes along with the Order of Lenin Moscow Military District (MMD). “MMD is slightly better off with two squadrons of Flanker-H and one of Fulcrum-F.” She consulted her notes. “If reports are correct, all combat coded Felons are up north in Alaska.”
“Air activity in Europe the past 48 hours?”
“Essentially non-existent except for support flights to the east.”
“Thank you. Recommend defense posture?”
“Sir, we could take them all down with a single Raptor squadron. Hold them at plus fifteen and we are good to go.”
“Thank you.” He turned to his A3, operations lead. “Williamson, make it happen. I want a full squadron of F-22s on fifteen minute alert at Ramstein 24/7. Maintain BARCAP of two F-22s; rotate them every four hours. One squadron of KC-135s to back them up, one F-15 squadron and two F-16 squadrons on plus one hour.”
“Yes, sir.”
He turned to his A6, signal/communications lead. “Where are we with Sentry coverage?”
“Sir, at this point we are still getting NATO support. They have a bird up 24/7.”
Whoever in their infinite wisdom had decided to unilaterally withdraw from NATO had been unaware or uncaring of how USAFE actually worked. The reason why USAFE existed was to defend Europe and thus it was tightly integrated into NATO. The entire E-3 Sentry fleet in Europe was operated by NATO. There had been no reason for USAFE to have their own AWACS function. USAFE only existed to support NATO. However, the administration had unilaterally decided to withdraw from NATO. On the one hand, this meant USAFE had no mission. On the other hand, it meant that Hinkley was free to liaise directly with his counterparts in Germany and the UK, without the complex rules and oversight that went with a NATO operation. He turned back to his enlisted exec. “Chief Barber, reach out to General Holtz and Marshal Knightly, I’ll need a moment with each as soon as they have time.”
“Yes sir.” The short and slightly stout chief master sergeant scurried out of the room. She had been in the Air Force for almost twenty years, joining just after graduating from high school in a town in Iowa so small that the homecoming queen was on the front page of the local paper every year. She had known then that she had no interest in raising babies for some farmer. At age eighteen, the homecoming queen had decided to enlist, much to the shock of her mother and most of the football team who had assumed she would marry the homecoming king, who also happened to be the starting quarterback. Last she heard, Jimmy was farming his dad’s place, growing corn. She had found her home in the Air Force, quickly making her way up through the ranks and re-enlisting twice. After making chief (E-9), she’d been assigned to USAFE for the past two years. She knew the aides to the heads of the Royal Air Force (RAF) and the Luftwaffe (German Air Force) personally. She didn’t know exactly what was going on, but she knew that her boss was doing something clever. Senior enlisted normally knew what was going on, but this time she was just guessing. Not a feeling she was used to.
An hour later, Hinkley was back in his office. Of course, USAFE had secure communications with all their allies, but especially the Germans and the Brits. Both were very close allies. He picked up the handset. “Hanz? It’s Tim.”
The voice on the other end carried the weight and accent of the Prussian military family that General Holtz had come from. A third-generation fighter pilot, he demanded respect from the entire Luftwaffe and was well regarded by his allies. “Tim, I understand all your birds are still here. Gott im Himmel, what is going on there?”
“Hanz, I’ve been ordered to defend Europe.”
“Against whom, exactly?”
“Against the Russians, of course.”
“I see. It is that kind of situation.”
“Yes.”
“Verstanden. I understand. This is not a casual conversation, then?”
“Nein. I need a personal favor.”
“Ja. Speak plainly, my friend. What do you require?”
“I need a written request from you to defend Germany.”
“Ach, so. And what would this request specifically call for?”
“One squadron of F-22s, one of F-15s and two F-16 squadrons.”
“A very imposing force, General.”
“Yes, and we feel a force capable of countering the Russian threat.”
“Ja, exactly so. It will be done.”
“Thank you, Hanz.”
“You know well, we would have come without hesitation, if called.”
“Yes, of course. Thank you, my friend. It may come to that.”
Hinkley hung up the phone, grateful for the questions that Holtz hadn’t asked but surely wanted to know. Why was the USA acting in such a disorganized fashion? Why wasn’t it all hands on-deck to defend the United States? Hinkley didn’t really want to think about that too deeply either, but he had to.
Chief Barber had been listening, of course. She had been in contact with her opposite number at RAF High Wycombe, Headquarters Air Command. “I have Sir William for you, sir.”
“Thank you.”
Changing lines, he connected on yet another secure circuit to talk to the head of the RAF. “Sir William, thank you for taking my call, sir.”
“My dear fellow, think nothing of it. I rather wondered when I might hear from you.”
“Sir, I have been instructed to secure Europe from a possible attack from Russia.”
There was a pause on the line. “Bloody bastards.”
“Sir?”
“Timothy, I’m afraid I find myself in the rather unenviable position of bearing ill tidings.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve had the head of MI6 camped in my office since half seven this morning. Frightfully persistent chap. He’s brought me a report that is, shall we say, deeply troubling.” The marshal paused, not certain how to broach the subject. He knew General Hinkley of course. As head of the largest air force in Europe, Hinkley was his most important ally. However, Americans could be very unsophisticated when it came to political skullduggery. He decided to press on. “There’s no delicate way to put this, I’m afraid. MI6 is rather firmly of the view that your civilian leadership has been compromised.”
Hinkley was astoundingly unsurprised. Subconsciously he had feared just such an event. The completely disorganized and frankly unhinged orders from the Pentagon hadn’t made any sense up until now. “I’m not sure how to process that. I had assumed rank incompetence, but enemy action is somehow less difficult to accept in some ways.”
“Quite so.” Air Marshal Knightly cleared his throat. “Forgive me for pressing, but might I ask what precise orders you’ve been given?”
“Sir William, you and your staff have been nothing but supportive and frank with me and my entire staff for the two years I have known you. Please be assured that I am happy to share anything I can with you. My orders are direct and to the point: continue my primary mission to protect Europe against possible Russian incursions. Take all measures necessary to protect Europe.”
“How wonderfully vague. Rather reassuring, actually.”
“Reassuring?”
“Timothy, a further indulgence, have you been ordered to pack in training exercises?”
“No, certainly not. ‘Continue your primary mission’ is a direct quote. That would include any and all training.”
“Splendid. Absolutely splendid. Which brings me rather neatly to operation Albacore, if you’re amenable.”
Hinkley had to think for a moment. Albacore? Oh, yes. “The joint maritime patrol mission between the F-15Es and your new P-8s?”
“We call them MRA1s over here, old boy, but yes, that’s the one.”
“And the target of the training sortie?”
“Oh, I thought we might stretch our legs between Diego Garcia and Guam. Bit of a trek, but rather good practice, don’t you think?”
“Indeed.” Hinkley liked the idea. With Pacific Command largely out of action, anything he could do to support the Pacific Theater would be welcome, he was sure.
But the air marshal wasn’t finished. “Now then, I rather suspect you’ll appreciate something the chaps down the hall have been cooking up. Thing is, we need to draw out your mole—whoever the blackguard is. Our intelligence boffins have been gnashing their teeth over it, but we can’t quite crack it from our side alone. However, with your help, we might just pull off a little operation we call Mincemeat.”
“My support?
“Yes, you see, we need a stalking horse.”
The air marshal was wrong. Hinkley was not pleased with the idea. Not at all.