War with Russia

The aide turned up the sound in time for the three men to hear the strident tone of the Kremlin’s chief propagandist, the Russia Today presenter Dimitry Kiselev, announcing in Russian, with English subtitles, that three American Special Forces, with a female signaler, had been captured inside Russia, having infiltrated across the Ukrainian border. The picture then cut to the smug, round-faced and smooth-cheeked Kiselev himself, working up an anti-NATO rant.

“We’ve seen enough. Time for the NAC,” said the now grim-faced Secretary General. “Let’s see if we can hold the Alliance together over this one.”

The three men left the conference room. The aides who had been waiting outside fussed around them like mother hens and they walked toward the Council chamber.

0700 hours, Friday, May 12, 2017

Briefing Room, Boryspill Air Force Base, Ukraine

“ANY FURTHER QUESTIONS, Phil?” asked the intelligence officer, as he concluded the briefing.

“No, thanks, I’m happy and good to go,” replied Major Phil Bertinetti, US Air Force. “I guess this should be fairly straightforward. We’ll get up to fifteen thousand feet and provide surveillance and reconnaissance overwatch for the American trainers looking after the Ukrainian weapon-locating battery operating behind the front line near Debaltseva.”

“Situation over the past few days has remained pretty quiet. There’s been the usual sporadic shelling from both sides, each reacting to the other, but the Russians are lying low after kidnapping our guys in Kharkiv. Any problems and you have the Quick Reaction Alert flight on the tarmac at immediate readiness,” the intelligence officer added.

Dark-haired and of medium height, while Bertinetti might look the part of a typical “top gun,” he was also a keen mountaineer who had summited the highest peaks in each continent, the Seven Summits challenge, before graduating from the Air Force Academy. A professional flyer to the core, with nearly 4,000 flying hours as a fighter pilot under his belt, his combat experience included Libya, Afghanistan and Iraq.

However, he reflected, those were conflicts where there’d been no one flying against them. He knew the Russians were good and he knew the Russians might be looking for him and his wingman that day. Here in Ukraine, it was his Exercise Red Flag “Top Gun” training above the Nevada desert—American pilots training against American instructors, simulating Russian tactics—that he might need to rely on now, if the Russians decided to take them on.

“Remember what they told us on Red Flag?” he said to his wingman, Captain Leroy MacDonald, a good-looking Floridian from Tallahassee. “Survive the first eleven missions and you’ll survive the war.”

“I’ll follow your lead, skipper. You’ve been around. I’m the learner here.”

“We’re all learners… All the time. That’s the only way to stay alive as a pilot,” said Bertinetti. “Come on, Leroy. Let’s get airborne.”

Fifty minutes later, the two F-16 Fighting Falcon, single-engine, multi-role fighter aircraft were airborne at 15,000 feet over the flat, black-earthed expanse of eastern Ukraine.

“Zulu One, this is Apollo flight.” Bertinetti called MacDonald. “Are you in contact with friendlies?”

“Affirmative, Apollo, I’ve got them covered with my pod.”

“Copy that, Zulu. Slewing my targeting pod up now. Looks pretty quiet, but we can take nothing for granted.”

The pair of F-16s screamed across the wide blue arc of the Ukrainian sky, describing a wide orbit as they maintained cover over the Americans working with the weapon-locating battery on the ground. If any Ukrainian separatists decided to mess with the American trainers below, they would have one of America’s most potent strike fighters to deal with.

“Apollo, Apollo. This is Giant Killer, are you receiving me?” Bertinetti’s radio crackled in his ear.

Unusual for Ground Control to call without a reason, he thought.

“Affirmative, Giant Killer. I’m reading you five by five.”

“Apollo. Bogey one o’clock, inside five miles. Single contact descending to one four thousand.”

“Copy. Apollo is no joy—I cannot see target—standby.”

Bertinetti put his aircraft into a steep turn to starboard, simultaneously putting his radar and weapons into dogfight mode with a deft flick of his left thumb on the throttle. He vigorously scanned the sky through the bubble canopy and suddenly picked up the contact visually: an Ilyushin Il-76, a multi-purpose, four-engine, strategic airlifter, the Russian air force insignia clear to see. And it was heading west, for central Ukraine.

“Giant Killer, this is Apollo Two. Tally one. Russian Ilyushin Seventy-six, heading west. Do you want me to intercept?”

“Apollo Two, affirmative.”