“Blue Ghost flight come to leg two. On my mark,” said Kornukoff, “leg two go.”
All four aircraft turned to the north.
A flight of F15s had left Keflavik Iceland, refuelled in mid-air and were now running in towards the Russians with their teeth bared. They launched the AIM-120D AMRAAM long-range air to air missiles. The birds raced in at 3,000 mph.
“Sweeping radar,” said Orlova. “Airspace clean, no contact… Sir, we have a fire control warning to the south-southwest.” She adjusted her settings. “Sir, we have incoming. All call signs, repeat incoming. Vampire, vampire. Missiles inbound, computer indicates probability AIM-120 AMRAAM. Multiple inbounds, range 40 miles and closing. Blue flight, inbound enemy birds from south-southwest.”
“Engage clutter, Orlova.” He ordered her to issue jamming systems to confuse the missiles.
“AMRAAM’s active, now 25 miles… Kornukoff, emergency escape now,” shouted Orlova.
The SU-34 pulled hard to the left and dived. The AMRAAM tracked the aircraft and dived after it.
“Jink her, Kornukoff.”
The AMRAAM struck in the rear fuselage, and the aircraft’s empennage tore off.
Major Kornukoff shouted, “Elena, eject, eject.”
She pulled the seat cords and the seat’s rocket motor pushed her up and out. She felt the chute open and the cold air blasted her.
As she drifted down, Elena Orlova knew she was doomed. She’d land safely, she knew, but then she was on the Arctic icecap and her distress beacon would send out the alert. But could they really rescue her?
Elena felt down and fingered the Makarov pistol by her side. It may just come down to that, better than freezing to death. More SU-34s were hit by AMRAAM, but only one escaped.
The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Cotton, brought the meeting of the joint chiefs to order.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the Arctic crisis. How do we resolve this situation in our favor?”
Present was the Chief of Staff of the Army, General Sally Weingarten, USA; Chief of Naval Operations, Admiral Nicolaj Kamov, USN; Commandant of the Marine Corps, Bruce Nanut, USMC; Chief of Staff of the Air Force, General Neil L Cooper, USAF; National Security Advisor, Stockhaisen.
“Right, we’re here to discuss the solutions,” said General Cotton. “Can you share your thoughts? First, let me summarize the situation so far. Its roots go back to the Russians’ wish to dominate the Arctic region. We know it’s getting more important with new trade routes and its oil and gas reserves. But we can’t allow them total control. They’re a major Arctic power and they’re going to have a big say; that can’t be disputed. By the same token, they’re a Baltic power, but they don’t control the Baltic.”
“Sir, we can…” started General Cooper, but Cotton held his hand up and carried on.
“In truth, the current flare up is because of one man: this Danish Scientist seeking refuge in the US, and hunted by the Russians.
“I’ve asked Lawrence Livermore laboratories what’s so important about his discoveries.” He shook his head. “They talked to me about spooky action, about things happening light years away but acting here instantly. That stupid cat in a box that’s dead and alive at the same time. They even admitted Einstein couldn’t figure it. I think they’re all smoking something over there. I gave up with a sore head. All I know is he’s important and we don’t know where he is either. Could be a goddamn polar bear’s dinner by now.
“We currently have five attack submarines up there, and more are being readied. From the Pacific Fleet, the USS Key West and USS Oklahoma City are heading for the area. The USS Pasadena and the USS Hawaii have replaced them on station to bottle up Petropavlovsk. The world is unaware, but boats are being lost in an invisible naval battle under the ice. This hurts both us and the Russians, and may ultimately decide the conflict. But what we need is a visible spectacular. Politically that may bring the conflict to an end. Ideas?”
“How about we occupy the icecap?” said Stockhaisen. “Invade the icecap with 10th Mountain Division. If we’re sat there, they can’t do much, apart from put on forces to match. I doubt they’ll do that.”
General Cotton turned to the Chief of Staff of the Army, General Sally Weingarten.
“Sally?”
“In short, sir, a nightmare. I remember war gaming the same thing as a two star and it was a more massive undertaking than we anticipated. The logistics were staggering; that more than anything killed it. To keep an entire army up there was huge. It was way beyond what we had.” She made a sour face. “It could be done, but we’d need big industrial muscle to build the necessary infrastructure. Raids and brief deployment, yes, but real occupation long term? We’d have to carry the Senate and Congress.”
Chief of Staff of the Air Force, General Neil L Cooper, spoke up. “I understand the submarine battle may decide the military battle, but politically if the Russian surface fleet were destroyed, that can’t be hidden. That can press the political buttons.”
“That’d be some strike, Neil.”
“It would. I’ve had staff looking at the issue and we can do it. To attack the fleet in the North Barents Sea, we’d need all our in-flight refuelling aircraft; if we could borrow British and French aircraft too, that’d help. We’d also need to station large numbers of aircraft in Canada and Norway. Carriers too in the northern Norwegian Sea. Bottom line, it could be done.”
Cotton knew it could carry the political weight they needed; the Russians couldn’t hide that.
“Ok, Neil, get your assets ready and keep planning. I’ll talk to the political types.”
The strike was approved, and it became known as Operation Top Down.
Aircraft moved to northern areas of the USA, along with Canadian and Norwegian airbases. Chief of Staff of the Air Force, General Neil L Cooper, sought permission to go ahead. The green light was given, and a massive airstrike was prepared.
From Norway to Alaska, crews were scrambled, men and women donned helmets and climbed into cockpits. Taxiways were filled with B52s, F15s, F16s, F22s, F35s. On the carriers USS Gerald R Ford and USS John F Kennedy, F18s rolled out from aircraft lifts and were hooked up to the wire. All across the northern hemisphere, aircraft rolled down runways, and were forced into the sky by glowing reheat exhaust plumes. In the cold North Atlantic, carriers’ catapults threw tons of Boeing kick ass into the sky.
Lights burned late in the Pentagon. Coordination of the three wings, North American, Greenland and Norwegian, took great effort; deconfliction and the inevitable aircraft problems took more work.
Planning, planning and yet more planning paid off, and in the cold Arctic north, one of the largest airstrikes ever put aloft was underway. Destination: the Barents Sea.
General Deynekin took a call in his private quarters, and the tracking indicator showed it was from SVR headquarters, Yasenevo, Moscow.
“Yes?” His face became masked in surprise; this turned grave and finally turned to anger. “Is this true?”
A voice down the phone cursed him for doubting it.
“Of course, sir. Yes, we’ll be ready.” He called operations.
“Ops here.”
“This is Deynekin. Put the airwing on full alert status. Do it now.” Deynekin slammed down the phone. “Fucking Americans.”
The SVR, Russia’s secretive foreign spy agency, had done its job. Some officer at the Pentagon had opened his mouth to his girlfriend from Kansas. He didn’t know that a girl from Vladivostok was fucking secrets out of him.