Depending on exactly how/what the operator is required to do, it might be feasible for the onboard AI to hand a lot of the tasking. Current generation games have fairly respectable AI's these days. Path finding, terrain avoidance etc, are certainly well within the current scope of AI operations right now, and another 12 years of self driving cars blazing the way (and killing pedestrians) should see large scale advances. If the pilot is only responsible for basically saying "attack here", "navigate to here and be stealthy" etc they amount of data the drone pings back would be very minimal. Now video that's a slightly different story, but the question occurs, what's the point of video? For recon work the data has to go somewhere, but not necessarily to the pilot/operator in real time. Compress it and kick it out to any capable receiver if you're not trying to be stealthy. WVR dog fighting and potentially CAS/A2G are really where video might be of use. In BVR, 1990's vector graphics would suffice, as it's far more about finding the target and guesstimating if they've found you, versus looking for them. A2G/CAS would be the main one I could see having real time video being particularly important, but with good enough ISR or ground marking this could also be not much of an issue. A non visible, but IR hot flare/strobe for the UCAV to lock onto, and "300 meters at bearing 035 from strobe" would be plenty for the on board AI to make a very precise attack.

Honestly being a hot shot drone operator in 2030 will probably resemble being a code jockey/professional RTS player more then being a pilot. The ability to quickly reconfigure and integrate AI scripting and hierarchic targeting priorities would be huge, and the ability to multitask a bunch of units against a bunch of units in a 3D fight from a non FPS view would be critical.

-Jenrick

Yup, that’s what I was thinking ...

“She had cut her teeth on F-35s before an ‘attitude problem’ got her assigned to a unit flying UCAV modded F-22s in the Turkey-Syrian conflict and suddenly found herself sitting in a trailer ‘flying’ via VR goggles rather than in a cockpit. But she acquitted herself so well as a drone pilot that she came to the attention of recruiters at DARPA and moved to their dedicated J-UCAS program, which had delivered a new weapons platform to specification, but now needed a new breed of pilot to fly it. DARPA was looking for pilots whose flying and social skills were less important than a talent for continuous partial attention and an ability to contribute to AI coding and development. For the first time in her life, Bunny’s attention deficit disorder was actually an asset.”

Let’s keep moving!

TETE A TETE



It was neutral territory. An unprepossessing single story building at 9 Prechistensky Lane in the Khamovniki District, with a peeling yellow painted facade, white trim around the doors and windows, and small Danish flag hanging over the doorway.
“This is the place ma’am,” Ambassador McCarthy’s aide announced, as her security detail stepped out of their cars and took position on the deserted street. It was five in the morning, and they had gone to great pains to be sure there were no media or FSB goons tailing them. Devlin had been ordered by her Secretary of State to deliver a message to the Kremlin, just in case they hadn’t got the message from the President’s phone call to the Russian President, or the multiple other channels through which the US was screaming in outrage at the Russians.
Devlin looked dubiously out the window at the modest building, “Have I been here before?”
“Yes ma’am,” her aide, Brent Harrison said. “Six months ago; dinner with Frederik, King of Denmark and his wife, Princess Mary.” The man had a memory for every engagement, and had memorized just about every street in the city too, so if he said she had been here, she must have.
She gathered up her things, “It seemed bigger at night.”
She was met at the door by her junior aide, Lucy Sellano, who had come out earlier to ensure arrangements were in place. “Foreign Minister Kelnikov is here ma’am. He had a military attaché with him - there was some confusion about who should be present for your discussion.”
“I hope you told them it was a four-eyes meeting,” she said. She wanted to be able to speak frankly to Kelnikov, even though he would assume the conversation was being recorded. They had both agreed on the venue, but that didn’t mean Kelnikov trusted the Danes not to eavesdrop. It was Devlin’s experience that Kelnikov trusted no one.
“Yes ma’am,” Sellano said, a wispy brown strand of hair across her forehead bobbing up and down. As they turned a corner they nearly walked into a large, square shouldered man in his fifties, with thin blonde hair and round rimmed glasses. He held out his hand. “Ah, Ambassador Vestergaard, ma’am,” Sellano said. “I think you know each other?”
“A pleasure to welcome you to our humble abode again Devlin,” the Danish Ambassador said warmly. “But under less convivial circumstances than last.”
“Yes, sorry about the intrusion Jørgen,” she replied. “I hope it wasn’t too inconvenient.”
He smiled, “I have told the staff there is a security sweep being conducted this morning and they are not to arrive until eight. I myself have a breakfast appointment,” he said, and indicated the empty corridor with a sweep of his hand. “Vort hus er dit hus,” he said. “The place is yours. Your guest awaits.” With that, he bowed slightly and left them alone in the corridor.
“So, the military attaché is…”
“Sitting with the Russian security detachment in the kitchen,” Sellano said. “I have a room just here…” she stopped and opened a door, “For our people. I’ll wait here with them, and when you come out, the arrangement is that we will leave first.” She looked at her watch. “We have plenty of time. The Danish embassy staff won’t be here for another two hours at least.”
“Good,” Devlin said, handing the woman her coat. As she did, Harrison handed her a file, and she looked at it. It had, printed across the top of the file in letters big enough to be visible from a satellite if she stepped outside with it, OPERATION LOSOS. She was going to make sure Kelnikov could see it clearly too. It was a message to the Foreign Minister that US Intelligence was not blind to the Russian plan to take over Saint Lawrence as a permanent maritime base. She opened the cover … okay, it was a pretty thin file, but Kelnikov didn’t need to know that.
“You talked to the analyst?” she asked Harrison as they walked. “Williams?”
“Carl Williams, yes,” Harrison said, pointing to the NSA designator on the first page. He smiled, “CIA head of station wasn’t very happy about us going straight to ‘the Ambassador’s new pet’ as they describe him…”
“Then he should try giving me more than open source news reports I could just as easily pull from cable TV,” Devlin said.
“Right … well, most of what Williams pulled together is SigInt, plus some human source stuff from CIA, but not much. He said he figured due to the situation you wouldn’t give him enough time to task any of our assets for primary intel collection, and you’d want something you could hang over Kelnikov’s head, so he directed NSA to focus all their energy on just trying to identify at least the code name for the Russian operation.” Harrison’s finger was resting on a Russian FSB intelligence bureau memo, with the code word LOSOS marked clearly across the top. Devlin’s rudimentary Russian wasn’t good enough for her to be able to read it, and she didn’t even know if it was real. “He figured if we had that, the Russians might assume we had it all.”
“Smart guy,” Devlin said. “I like how he thinks. At worst, they’ll wonder how much we know, at best, they’ll assume we know it all and might have to modify their plans on that assumption.”
“Good luck,” Harrison said, stepping aside so her security detail could get past him into the waiting room.
“It’s the red door at the end of the corridor ma’am,” Sellano said, pointing.
Devlin put the file under her arm and straightened her jacket. Except we know virtually zip about why they’re there. All we know is that the Russians are swarming all over Saint Lawrence, they’ve declared they’re acting under the authority of an Arctic treaty we never signed, and they’re putting enough firepower on that island to create a no-go zone for US aircraft and ships over the whole of the Bering Strait. Devlin sighed, and wiped her teeth with a fingertip in case there was any lipstick there. And they don’t look like they’re planning to leave anytime soon.
*
*
Kelnikov rose and buttoned his jacket over his expansive waistline. He didn’t smile, but gave her a small and almost ironic bow, “Madam Ambassador.”
Without any ceremony, she sat the LOSOS file down on the table between them and sat down opposite, “Minister Kelnikov.”
They looked at each other for a moment or two. There was no protocol to cover this. Devlin saw his eyes flick to the folder, but saw no immediate reaction. Give him time, she thought. He’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer. The challenge now would be for her to reveal a little of what she knew, without giving away just how little.
“I believe you have a message from your government,” Kelnikov said. “Perhaps you have reconsidered your position and are willing to enter into negotiations for a new treaty guaranteeing free passage for all nations through the Bering Strait?”
It was all she could do to contain herself from swearing. The Russians had sunk one of their own ships, either themselves, or through a proxy. They had invaded US territory under the guise of a nuclear reactor emergency aboard one of their subs and had intimated that their submarine may have been the subject of a US cyber-attack, which could have resulted in a meltdown of its reactor. And then they had declared that they were taking control of the sea lanes and airspace over the Bering Strait to ‘guarantee freedom of navigation for all’ in the name of the Barents Euro Arctic Council of Nations. Williams’ report also stated that they had shot down two US reconnaissance drones. They had warned that any US military ship or aircraft breaking the no-go zone would be considered a threat to international shipping and dealt with ‘accordingly’.
“We are under no illusions about your real purpose on Saint Lawrence,” Devlin said. She reached down and took up the file, opening it to the first page as though she was referring to a briefing document. “Your Operation LOSOS? Is that how it is pronounced? It is nothing less than an old fashioned land grab.”
That got a reaction. Kelnikov’s eyes narrowed. “The United States sinks one of our freighters and disables one of our submarines, risking hundreds, perhaps thousands of lives from possible nuclear disaster, and you accuse us of an ‘old fashioned land grab’?”
“It is only us in this room,” Devlin reminded him. “So can we cut the hyperbola and discuss whether there is any way we can resolve this peaceably, because I can tell you Yevgeny, we are at about one minute to midnight on this one,” she said, referring to the infamous Doomsday Clock. Any student of history would know the last time it had been at one minute to midnight had been during the Cuban Missile crisis.
“If the US is willing to negotiate a new Arctic treaty, this can be resolved very quickly,” he said equably. “Why could you possibly imagine we have any interest in taking control of a tiny island full of eskimos and whale bones?” He was fishing now, she could feel it. Trying to see how deep her intel ran.
She pulled aside the first page of her dossier and ran her eyes over the list underneath.
“We don’t need to overfly Saint Lawrence to see what is happening there,” she said. “You have more than 500 ground troops on the island at least, four portable anti-aircraft systems capable of shooting down aircraft over US airspace, one submarine and five littoral naval vessels, armed with ship to ship and ship to air missiles.” She looked up, seeing a slight smile on the man’s face. “You have activated almost every unit in the Eastern District air army, moved a squadron of Hunter drones to
Lavrentiya and are staging continuous patrols up and down the Strait with manned Sukhoi fighters …”
“To secure the waterway for international shipping…” Kelnikov began again, but she held up her hand.
“And,” she said loudly, interrupting him, “And, you have the entire population of the island in the villages of Gambell and Savoonga under house arrest. They are being held hostage.”
“No,” Kelnikov insisted. “Clearly your intelligence is unreliable. The local inhabitants have been moved to a safe location, so that there will not be any civilian casualties if you are foolish enough to respond militarily to our intervention.” He tapped the table, “They are being given food, shelter and even advanced medical care. Which I understand is more than their own government has given them for decades. When the situation is stable enough, we will allow the International Red Cross access to the residents to verify they are safe and well.”
“It is not your place to allow anything!” Devlin protested. “These are US citizens, being held against their will by the armed forces of Russia.”
“Protected,” Kelnikov corrected, leaning forward, “Against a rogue nation which has already demonstrated a reckless and violent disregard for the rules of international relations.”
“You would be wise not to treat us like fools, sir,” Devlin said. “This aggression has one purpose, and that is to secure Russian control over a strategic waterway, and this we will not abide.”
The minute she spoke, Devlin saw her assertion was somehow wide of the mark. Kelnikov smiled and sat back in his chair, relaxing visibly. His eyes, which had been flicking between her file labelled LOSOS, and her face, settled now on the sleeve of his jacket as he picked lint from it, as though he had suddenly lost interest in the meeting. Struggling to maintain her outrage, Devlin continued, “Our demand is simple,” she said. “All Russian military forces and any other Russian nationals will depart Saint Lawrence within 48 hours, that is, by 1800 hours Tuesday, Alaskan Standard Time...”
“Please,” Kelnikov interrupted her. “Don’t tell me. You were about to say … ‘or there will be grave consequences’.”
“No,” Devlin replied. “That is what our President is saying to the world press and to your President.
The message I have for you is a little more direct.” Now she had his attention again. Good.
“Go on.”
“I have been authorized to tell you that if you do not withdraw by this deadline, Russian forces on Saint Lawrence will be wiped from the face of that island with a fire and fury unlike any seen this century.” She drew a breath, “And the United States will hold Russia entirely responsible for any and all civilian casualties that result from your refusal to comply.”
*
*



As she walked to her car, Devlin glowered. She had delivered her message, but there was no victory in that. Kelnikov would pass the message to his government, of that she was sure. But the State Department’s theory that this entire affair was about securing Russian control over the Bering Strait waterway had fallen flat on the floor. Kelnikov had smirked, as though by accusing them of it, she was just showing how ignorant she was. Dammit.
Her aide Harrison knew her well enough not to hit her with a barrage of questions as they climbed into her car. As it pulled away from the curb, he let her gather her thoughts. Finally, she spoke.
“This analyst, Williams.” she asked, patting the file on her knees. “Tell me he’s on station here in Moscow, not in some bunker in Virginia.”
“Yes ma’am,” Harrison said. “NSA secondment. He’s an attaché in the Environment, Science,
Technology and Health Section.”
“But he’s a spook?”
“Yes ma’am, undeclared. Just arrived in country I believe,” Harrison said. In fact, he knew exactly how long Williams had been in Russia. Forty two days.
“Get him on the phone,” she said, holding out her hand. “Encrypt.”
Harrison pulled out his phone, and then tapped on the app that gave him an encrypted connection via a US Embassy VPN to other Embassy staff. He looked up and dialed Williams, then handed it to Devlin. “I asked him to stand by his phone, just in case,” Harrison said.
“That’s why I love you,” Devlin smiled and heard the ring tone stop to be replaced by a deep bass voice.
“Hello? Williams speaking.”
“Mr. Williams, this is Ambassador Devlin, I don’t believe we’ve met,” she said.
“No ma’am,” he replied. No fumbling, fawning chit chat. She liked that.
“When I get back to Spaso House I’d like to see you there, I need your thoughts on something,” she said.
“Yes ma’am,” he replied. “But can you come to me instead?”
She blinked, “I beg your pardon?”
“Ma’am, there’s someone you should meet,” he said. “But I can’t bring him to Spaso House. You have to come to my office in the New Annex. Or, under it, actually.”
She put her hand over the telephone and turned to Harrison, “What do you know about this guy?” Harrison shrugged, “Crack analyst, earned his stripes in China before being sent here, expert in neural networks…”
“Neural what?”
“Artificial Intelligence,” Harrison explained.
She put the phone back to her ear. “OK Mr. Williams, your office it is. We’ll be there in about thirty minutes.”
“You’d better allow a bit more time ma’am,” Williams said.
She smiled, “Are you going to tell me your computer is showing heavy traffic on the ring road Mr. Williams?”
“No ma’am,” he replied. “For the paperwork. I’m pretty sure you don’t have the code word clearances for what I want to share with you.”
*
*
Roman Kelnikov was also finishing a phone call from his car, but it was a much more straightforward one. His call was to the Defense Minister, Andrei Burkhin. They discussed the American threat, and whether it was possible that the words ‘fire and fury’ were meant to convey a willingness to use tactical nuclear weapons.
“I can’t rule that out,” Kelnikov said. “But we knew it was a possibility. She mentioned civilian casualties.”
“It won’t be a disaster if they do use tactical nukes,” Burkhin responded. “They would become international pariahs.”
“We could lose thousands of front line troops, aircraft and ships,” Kelnikov said. “Not to mention the civilian casualties. Surely…”
“The troops on Saint Lawrence are … expendable,” Burkhin said. “And they number in the hundreds, not thousands. The ships are cold war relics. Aircraft losses would be limited to those directly over Saint Lawrence at the time. Civilian losses are a US matter. I’d almost welcome a nuclear strike. We could probably march into Alaska with the whole of the UN at our backs.”
“All we need is a military response of some sort, preferably conventional,” Kelnikov said, a part of him recoiling at the thought of nuclear weapons being used so close to the Russian mainland. “Could we not just have our ships…”
“There will be a military response, that is guaranteed now,” Burkhin said. “And it will be executed with the typical American aversion for risking the lives of its troops - a blizzard of cruise missiles is most likely. All we need is for America’s allies in Europe and Asia to baulk at entering the conflict when we announce we are creating a demilitarized zone in Alaska. Two to four weeks, and we will control the entire Yukon River Basin from Fort Yukon to Holy Cross.”
Kelnikov couldn’t help notice the uncertainty in his colleague’s timeline. “You said two to four weeks? I thought this was supposed to be a lightning attack, over in days.”
“Relax Roman,” Burkhin said. “You get the United Nations behind us, leave the battle plan to me.”
*
*


Williams had been right, Devlin had to admit. Of course there were areas of her own embassy that she was not able to waltz in and out of - high security communications or intelligence collection areas on the ‘Tophat’ restricted access floors for example. But she hadn’t been aware that an obscure office of the ESTH section in the basement of the New Annex was one of them. Mind you, she’d never had occasion to go there. It had taken Harrison a frustrating two hours on the telephone; first to find out from whom he needed to the secure the above Top Secret clearances needed so that Devlin could be briefed directly by Williams, and then to get the clearances sent through from Washington where it was still the middle of the night and no one seemed to want to take responsibility for letting a lowly Ambassador into what was apparently a very closed circle of Need To Know.
As she followed Harrison and a security guard through the maze of corridors in the New Annex it struck Devlin that they should find a new nick-name for it. Built at the turn of the century, it had the working name ‘New Annex’ when people moved in, before later being officially called the ‘Mueller Wing’, after a former head of the CIA, in a move intended to irk their Russian hosts. The new name came too late though. To everyone working at the Embassy, it would always be the New Annex, just as the additional secure floors of the Chancery were called the Tophat.
“In here ma’am,” the security guard said, keying a door. “Mr. Williams is third office on the left.” He held it open to let Harrison and herself through but Harrison stayed in the doorway with a shrug, “I’ll wait here. I could only get clearance for you ma’am.”
She didn’t have to worry about where to go once the door swung shut behind her. A chubby bearded man with disheveled brown hair and a spot on his khaki shirt which looked distinctly like ketchup stepped out into the corridor and gave her a small wave.
She walked down and held out her hand, “You must be Carl Williams?”
“In the flesh, Ambassador,” he said, shaking her hand then turning to open the door behind him.
“Call me Devlin, please,” she said stepping inside and looking around. “OK … disappointed.” It just came out, without her thinking. She had expected to walk into some sort of supercomputer center, huge mainframes in liquid nitrogen cooled towers behind hermetically sealed glass, sucking power from a small nuclear reactor buried under the floor of the New Annex. What else could have required such an effort to get her cleared?
Instead, Williams office was about the size of her walk in wardrobe in Spaso House, with just enough room for desk holding a laptop and a coffee cup, a file safe and a chair for one visitor. Looking at the chair, she could see it hadn’t had much use. Although he had a bit of the mad professor look about him, Carl Williams’ office wasn’t as disheveled as his person. There wasn’t a piece of paper, stray paperclip or even a pen on his desk; just a few rings from coffee cups that hadn’t been cleaned off. The only personal item was a photo of a seascape that looked like it had been taken on a Pacific Coast somewhere.
“I know, right?” he said, clearly not offended. “They asked what kind of office I would need and I said as long as it had an encrypted 1.5 terabit fat pipe up and down, I didn’t care.” He looked up, “At least it has high ceilings. You want a coffee?”
“Thanks, do you even…” she asked, looking dubious.
He held up a finger and then pulled out a drawer. Inside was a kettle, which he switched on, and a container of instant coffee. “You take cream and sugar?” he asked, pulling a paper cup full of small sachets out of the drawer. “I don’t myself, but I still have the stash I stole on the plane flight over.” The water boiling was very loud in the small space.
“Black is fine,” she said. She looked up at the seascape photograph on his wall, “You grew up on the coast?”
“No ma’am … Devlin,” he said. “That’s where I’m going to retire. La Jolla, San Diego, you know it?”
“Can’t say I do.”
“I’ve been putting away every spare dollar I made in China, and now here. Should have enough to buy into a condo by the beach in a couple of years, and then I’m going to learn to surf.”
She looked at him dubiously. With his mop of brown hair he didn’t look old enough to be thinking about retiring, nor fit enough to think about surfing.
He held up a hand, little finger and thumb outstretched, “Sick idea, right?”
“California dreaming,” she said. “There are worse retirement plans. But it takes a lot of money to retire.”
He pulled out the kettle and poured two cups of coffee, “Oh, not completely retire. I’ll still do consulting and stuff to pay the bills. There are only about 20 people in the world who can do what I do.”
“And what is that, exactly?” she asked. “I’m told I’ve been cleared now.”
“Sure. I program natural scenes and natural language on recursive neural networks,” he said.
“Again?”
“I teach machines to speak and understand plain English, and to look at images the way we do,” he said.
“OK, and what do you do for the NSA?” she asked. “Here at my Embassy?”
“Oh, I work with HOLMES, keeping him fed, debugged, and reporting on any intel he finds interesting,” he said.
“HOLMES?”
“I know, you’re wondering is it an acronym or something?” he said. “It’s, well... it’s like, I’m Dr. Watson, and he’s…”
“Sherlock Holmes?”
“Yeah, the someone I wanted you to meet,” he said, opening his laptop and typing in a long password that he supplemented with a thumb swipe. The laptop was hard wired to the wall by something Devlin hadn’t seen in a long time – a long optical fibre Ethernet cable. “I couldn’t just bring him to your office. You don’t have the bandwidth.” He turned his laptop around and Devlin saw a window that looked like a simple video conference window. She saw an image of herself captured by the laptop camera, on one side of the screen, and a Japanese manga style image of Sherlock Holmes on the other.
“Say hello to the Ambassador HOLMES,” Williams said.
“Pleased to meet you Ambassador Devlin,” a British accented voice said from the speakers of the laptop. “That’s a nice necklace you’re wearing. Australian South Sea Pearls from Broome, correct? A present from the Australian Foreign Minister.”
Involuntarily, Devlin’s hand went to the pearls at her neck. She looked at Williams, “That’s creepy. I was given this about six years ago, when I was leaving Canberra.”
“There must be a photo of it on a server somewhere,” Williams said, sounding unimpressed. “Ignore him, he’s just trying to show off. HOLMES, the Ambassador met with the Russian Foreign Minister today. She is going to ask you some questions.”
Devlin stared at the manga detective on the screen, not sure where or how to start.
“Just ask,” Williams prompted. “If I need to rephrase your question, I’ll chime in.”
“Ok… do… what do you know about the current political situation between Russia and America over Saint Lawrence Island?” She leaned forward, but Williams spoke before the A.I. could.
“Parse it HOLMES, brief download, specific answers only from here,” he said, then looked at Devlin, “I’m guessing you don’t want to know everything he knows. That could take hours.”
“Yes Carl,” the British voice said. “At 0400 hours last Monday Russian ground, air and sea forces invaded the US territory of Saint Lawrence Island in the Bering Strait and have occupied the territory claiming they are doing so to protect commercial shipping from quote ‘unprovoked US aggression’. They have demanded that the US enter into negotiations on a new treaty guaranteeing freedom of navigation in Arctic waters. The incursion followed the destruction at sea of a Russian owned merchant vessel and the alleged stranding of a Russian nuclear submarine. Is this summary sufficient?”
“Ah, yes, sure. State department has a theory that this is just a pretext, and the Russian occupation of Saint Lawrence is intended to be permanent, and give them the ability to control all shipping in the Bering Strait. But when I put this to the Russian Foreign Minister this morning, he looked… I don’t know…”
“Confused, relieved, guilty, happy, sad….” Williams offered.
“Smug,” Devlin said after thinking about it. “He looked smug.”
“Thankyou Ambassador, that is very valuable input,” HOLMES said. “I was able to take the audio file of your meeting off the Danish Embassy server but I had no video with which to put your discussion into emotional context.”
Devlin looked at Williams, “The Danes recorded us?”
“Of course,” Williams said. “Wouldn’t we have?”
“I guess,” she said. “But you hacked…”
“Their server, yeah. We already had a backdoor into most of the missions in Moscow. Those we didn’t, we do now. Except for the Chinese. Those Unit 61398 guys are good. What do you want to ask, Ambassador?”
“You worked out it was a Finnish submarine firing one of our own missiles that sank that Russian robot ship,” she said to Williams. “You warned in a briefing note to NSA of a scenario in which Russia would use that attack as a pretext for a political or military action of some sort in the near future and you were right.”
“That was HOLMES,” Williams said. “Scenarios are his thing. He runs them night and day. He has access to every single data point collected by the NSA, CIA, FBI, Homeland Security, Border Force, DIA, Aerospace Command… you name it… going back twenty years. Once he lands on a scenario he tests it against the data, and then refines it as new data comes in.”
“I love new data,” HOLMES said.
Devlin raised her eyebrows.
“I didn’t program that,” Williams said, defensively. “He’s decided that himself. He means ‘like’, he likes new data. I give him broad areas of investigation. Then he builds scenarios and he’s programmed to seek data out, use every new datum point to refine the probabilities in his scenarios. Once they reach a threshold of 30 percent probability, I write them up.”
“I don’t like new data,” the voice from the laptop said, sounding piqued. “I love it.”
“Still working on that,” Williams said to Devlin. “You want him to share the scenarios he’s building on the Russian invasion of Saint Lawrence?”
“Yes,” Devlin said. “That’s exactly…”
“OK, HOLMES? What’s the highest probability scenario you are working on the Russian invasion of Saint Lawrence.”
“I currently have a scenario with 83% probability Carl,” the voice said.
“Describe that scenario, parse, brief summaries until further notice please.”
“Yes Carl. The Russian government plans a nuclear attack on the United States of America which will result in assured mutual destruction, massive radiation fallout, climate change and potential human extinction,” the voice said calmly.
Devlin felt the hairs rise on her neck, but Williams just sighed.
“OK, let’s just assume for now that isn’t their plan - what is the second highest rated probability?”
“The Russian government is trying to create international sympathy for its next move, which is likely to be an invasion of the United States mainland.”
“Supporting evidence?” Williams asked, ignoring the shocked look on Devlin’s face.
“In the two weeks prior to the invasion of Saint Lawrence Island, Russian military command ordered the following elements of the Eastern Military District to high readiness: the 29th Army, the 5th Red Banner Army and the 36th Army, totaling 120,00 troops. Ordered to active combat duty was the 3rd Air and Air Defense Forces Command and the 14th Spetsnaz Brigade which was the unit which conducted the initial ground operation on Saint Lawrence. Further Special Forces ordered to active combat duty but not yet deployed include the 24th Spetsnaz Brigade, the 11th and 83rd Airborne Brigades. Do you want me to continue?”
“Yes.”
“In the Russian Central Command, the following units were also activated. The Yekaternina Communications Brigade, 3rd Guards Spetsnaz Brigade, 31st Guards Airborne Brigade and the 14th Air and Air Defense Forces Army.”
“How do these ‘activations’ support your hypothesis of a ground invasion of mainland America?” Devlin asked.
“In the last two years the 3rd Air and Air Defense Forces Command has been built up significantly and almost exclusively with squadrons and pilots returning from the Middle East and it now comprises the most combat hardened air force unit in Russia. It is a composite force comprising fighters, ground attack, airborne refueling, command and control, electronic warfare, transport and close air support rotary winged aircraft. It would be ideally suited to the task of achieving air supremacy over a battle front, while the air army of Central Command filled in for its continental duties. Continue?”
“Yes.”
“The ground units ordered to active combat duty in the Eastern Military District are almost exclusively rapid deployment units: Spetsnaz and airborne troops. These are the forces that would be used in the initial phase of an invasion to quickly eliminate threats and secure high value targets…”
“Stop,” Williams said. He had a pencil twirling between his fingers and tapped it on his teeth. “HOLMES have you seen any evidence of major ground forces of battalion strength or greater being brought to readiness?”
“No Carl.”
“But that would be necessary if Russia intended a full scale invasion of the US mainland?”
“Yes Carl. In 2019 the US Army War College in Carlisle Pennsylvania wargamed a major conventional war in Europe between Russian and NATO forces. Russia initially made significant gains in Eastern Europe before the intervention of US forces on the Western Front. ‘Russian’ commanders then decided to try to alleviate the US pressure by attacking the USA through Alaska in order to threaten the major population centers of the US northwest. The US invasion required the initial commitment of 80-100,000 Eastern District ground troops and if successful would have required up to 620,000 troops.”
“It wasn’t successful,” Williams guessed.
“No. However Russian airborne forces nullified and captured the key US military bases at Elmendorf-Richardson, Anchorage, and Eielson, Fairbanks, and used them to land ground forces via an air and sea bridge. From there, they attacked through Canada, reaching Vancouver, where they paused to consolidate before attacking Seattle. Two US carrier task forces were deployed and together with attack submarines began interdiction of Russian sea and air supply lines across the Bering Sea and Alaskan airspace. A Russian attempt to land elements of the 35th Army in Anchorage by sea through the Aleutian
Islands was intercepted by the US Pacific Fleet. US ground forces attacked Russian forces in Vancouver from the south and then Canadian and US ground forces attacked their eastern flank through the Canadian Yukon Territory, recapturing Fairbanks and Anchorage and causing the Russian attack to collapse. The total irrecoverable personnel losses of the Russian Armed Forces, frontier, and internal security troops came to 14,453. Russian Army formations, units, and HQ elements lost 13,833, FSB subunits lost 572, MVD formations lost 28, and other ministries and departments lost 20 men. US and Canadian losses were about half of these numbers.”
“An invasion makes no sense,” Devlin said. “They couldn’t even hold Alaska, let alone invade the USA with a few brigades of special forces troops, no matter how powerful their air force.”
“I concur Ambassador. This scenario does not consider that Russia intends a full scale invasion of the USA,” HOLMES said.
“What then?”
“In this scenario, the forces assembled are too numerous for Saint Lawrence Island to be the main objective. However they may be sufficient to take and hold Western Alaska.”
“Western Alaska?” Devlin asked, clearly sceptical.
“Nome and environs,” HOLMES explained. “It is not well known that there are no significant roads or railways between western Alaska and the rest of the State. If an enemy occupied Nome, there woud be no easy way to counter attack over land using heavy armour or ground forces.”
“Thanks HOLMES, let us think about this,” Williams said. “Stand by.”
Devlin reached for her coffee cup, “No wonder that #%&*$# Kelnikov looked so smug when I accused him of designs on the polar sea lanes. If your silicon friend is right, I couldn’t have been further from the mark.” She sipped. “But, Alaska?”
“I know, right? They have a billion acres of unoccupied land in Siberia they could use if they were looking for icy wasteland real estate, so it isn’t living space they’re after. HOLMES, list the main natural resources of Alaska.”
“Alaska has commercially viable deposits of oil, gold, copper, silver, mercury, Gold, tin, coal, iron ore, borax, chromite, antimony, tungsten, nickel, molybdenum, sand, gravel, and limestone,” the British detective voice intoned.
“Does Russia have significant shortages of any of these resources?” Williams asked.
“No Carl. Russia is either an exporter or is self-sufficient in all of these resources.”
Williams dropped his pencil on his desk, “Nah. This scenario doesn’t make sense HOLMES. Russia needs a reason to want to mount a ground invasion of Alaska. You’ve got all the other pieces, but you’re missing motive my man.”
“Thankyou Carl. I will take your input into consideration in my analysis,” HOLMES said. Devlin couldn’t help smile, despite how she felt. The voice of the great detective sounded distinctly miffed.
“Continue speculative analysis with full focus on the implications of the Russian Saint Lawrence operation please, disregard all other tasking,” Williams said. “I want a motive HOLMES.”
“Yes Carl.”
Williams reached out and pulled the lid of his laptop down.
“He’s annoyed,” Carl said. “That’s also programmed. It forces him to revisit all of his analyses and broaden his search for data to support high probability scenarios.”
Devlin stood. She had called in a report of her conversation with Kelnikov but still had to write it up, and include some of what Williams and his silicon sidekick had shared with her. She sat down again.
“How reliable is this AI of yours?” she asked.
“Only as reliable as the intel he can access,” Williams said. “But don’t worry, he’s not the only one working this on our side. NSA has three systems like HOLMES. All of them are learning systems and they share their analyses and test hypotheses with each other. When they agree on something, it’s usually rock solid.”
“They talk to each other?” Devlin asked, sounding dubious.
“In code, yeah. At quantum speeds. They’re like brothers, argue a lot,” Williams said.
“Brothers.”
“Yeah. And HOLMES is the big brother,” Williams said proudly. “He was the first, and he’s learned more. I’ve got him doing stuff the other two systems are years away from being able to mimic.”
Devlin shook her head, “Look, can you send me a report on the top three most likely scenarios you are working on and the intel you have backing them? I am going to send a report to State saying Kelnikov’s reaction makes me think their theory about controlling polar sea lanes is bogus, but I need to be able to put an alternative or two forward.”
“Like invading Alaska for no reason we can see?” Williams asked, and Devlin realized as he spoke that it sounded a long way from plausible.
“Like that,” Devlin said. “Thankyou Carl.” She stood to leave, then hesitated. The man intrigued her, the whole setup with the NSA AI system did too. “Can I ask you something.”
“You’re cleared for it ma’am,” his whiskery Father Christmas face smiled at her.
“Not this. If all you need is broadband and a laptop, you could probably work from anywhere in the world, but your last posting was China and now you’re here in Russia. Why?”
He looked around him at the bare walls and sparse furniture and shrugged, “I like exotic locales?”
*
*

The more you write, the more I feel the need for my next fix, damn you

Thx! Type type type type.... slurp ... type type type.... hic ... type...

+1

SIGHT SEEING



We’re going back in,” Halifax said. “Target identification.” He had called a meeting in the trailer to brief Rodriguez and O’Hare and get their thoughts on how to execute the mission he’d been given.
“What targets?” O’Hare asked.
“Gambell,” Halifax said. “We know the civilian hostages at Savoonga are being held in the radar station cantonment at Savoonga. Don’t ask me how we know, probably SigInt. But we don’t know where they’re being held in Gambell.” He saw the look on Bunny’s face. “I know, it’s where we lost those Fantoms. They got lucky, but this time we know what we’re up against.”
“Don’t we have satellite coverage now?” Rodriguez asked.
“Thick cloud down to 1,000 feet for today and expected into the next week,” Halifax said. “We have synthetic aperture radar coverage but they want to triangulate what they have. Plus Ivan is trying to blind our satellites with ground based lasers.”
“They can do that? I didn’t know they had the capability,” Rodriguez said, surprised.
“Me either. Seems they had a few surprises up their sleeves. Satellites are functioning at 1/3 optimal I’m told, but they can relay the signals from our birds if we can sneak them in there.”
“They’re trying to confuse our infra-red?”
“Yes. As well as the laser interference, Russians have lit fires all over both Savoonga and Gambell, probably just smudge pots, to mask the heat signatures of their emplacements and any buildings they’re using. You’ll go in tonight with recon pods, low-light, infrared and SAR. There are nearly 200 people in Gambell, they must be using some sort of heat to keep them warm. If nothing else you can identify those smudge pots and decoy fires and we’ll locate the captives by process of elimination.”
“We are 24 hours out from the deadline we gave the Russians to withdraw,” O’Hare said. “Is there any sign they are packing up and bugging out? SigInt, air traffic, that kind of thing?”
“I haven’t been advised. But if they are, you get a Fantom over Gambell, we should be able to see it. Primary objective though is to identify the location of the hostages at Gambell.”
“We’re going to send in a Seal Team, try to get the hostages out before we hit the Russian positions?” Rodriguez asked.
Halifax shook his head, “I haven’t been told, and probably wouldn’t be. But I’d doubt it. By the time we get the intel back to ANR, it would probably be too late and in any case, there are hundreds of Russian regular troops on that island with some heavy duty air cover. It’s not like a Seal Team can just buzz in there in their helos, take out a few jihadis and save the day.”
“Speaking of which, I’m going to need someone to pull that air cover away somehow,” Bunny said. “We got in underneath them last time while they were distracted. We try the same this time, and I’m going to get swatted from above again, and that’s assuming I can blow through any Verba or ship based anti-air coverage.”
Halifax smiled a grim smile, “Oh, I can promise you they’ll be distracted.”
*
*



After the tense first 24 hours of the takeover of Saint Lawrence Island, during which Bondarev had flown three sorties with his men, the last few days had been surprisingly quiet. US aircraft had kept to their coastline, respecting the Russian imposed no-go zone, even though it crossed into US airspace. As far as they were aware, there had also been no US recon flights over the island since the first intrusion, in which the Americans had lost two of their UAVs. Bondarev wasn’t naive, he knew the Americans would have satellite coverage and may have managed to sneak one of their smaller recon UAVs in under his nose.
American recon UAVs weren’t his big concern. His real worry was if they managed to get a flight of UCAVs in under his fighter and radar screen. Six of the small Fantom fighters, loaded with the new US
Small Advanced Capabilities Missile, nicknamed CUDA, could bring down an entire squadron of his Su-57s if they were lucky. He had argued with General Lukin about even putting piloted aircraft at risk in the air over the Bering Strait once the initial need was past, but Lukin had turned it around and pointed out to Bondarev that his Okhotnik drones were still missing trained pilots and system operators and it would be at least another two weeks before crews moved from other units could fill the gap.
Modern Russian air war doctrine called for the use of piloted aircraft for critical operations. While Russia had matched the US in the capabilities of its piloted fighters and weapons, it had chosen a different strategy on drones than the USA. The winning designers at Sukhoi had successfully argued that Russia needed a UCAV optimized for air-to-ground operations to match the capabilities of the US Fantom, and given the limitations of the Okhotnik platform that meant two crew sitting in a trailer on the ground – a pilot and a systems officer. The US however was more advanced in terms of combat AI, meaning that a lot of the tasks of the traditional systems officer could be handed off to on-board AI, freeing the US pilot to both direct the drones and target weapons in near real time.
Combat experience in the Middle East had shown that Russian human-crewed fighters had a higher kill to loss ratio than American unmanned fighters. But America had dramatically increased its use of armed drones much earlier than Russia and had run into exactly the same problems as Bondarev was faced with now around crew availability. That had forced a major change in US drone doctrine and the requirements issued for the competition to design the platform that would become the Fantom, had included the capability for ‘autonomous AI’ capability in combat and an ability to ‘slave’ the Fantom to any compatible NATO system so that one pilot could fly up to six UCAVs at a time - their now infamous ‘hex’. Once the bugs had been ironed out of this system, and faced with both a resurgent Russia and assertive China, America had put its energy into optimizing drone pilot training and aircraft production capacity, so that it could field enough pilots and drones to support it’s ‘two-front’ doctrine: the ability to fight a major war in two theatres at the same time, just as it had done in World War II.
Bondarev and his men had only seen American drones in small numbers over Turkey and Syria though, and even then, usually only the unarmed reconnaissance version, the Fury. NATO air forces in the region had not been armed with the latest US frontline UCAVs and the US had not been willing to commit, and risk losing, its much hyped Fantom. The Russian pilots assured themselves it was because the pilotless robot planes were not the threat the US made them out to be, and they were afraid to lose face by committing them against battle-hardened Russian fighter squadrons.
All of this was going through Bondarev’s mind as his squadron wheeled through the sky in the narrow air corridor between Saint Lawrence island and the Alaskan mainland. Yes, he could have stayed warm and safe on the ground in Lavrentiya, but he was the kind of commander who liked to fly the front himself. He wasn’t so vain as to think himself irreplaceable. If he died up here, there were a hundred men able and more than willing to take his place.
His eyes flicked across the threats on his HUD without alarm, as the situation had not changed greatly since day one of the operation. The US was moving a huge number of aircraft into Eielson and Elmendorf-Richardson air bases and had mobilized its national guard to protect those bases and the population centers of Fairbanks, and Anchorage. Centers which Bondarev knew Russia had no designs on. It was the Yukon River basin Russia was interested in, and so they would be drawing a red line across the state of Alaska from Fort Yukon in the North East to Bethel in the South West.
If all out nuclear war did not erupt (and that was a big ‘if’ in Bondarev’s book), the US was expected to focus on fortifying its population centers against an attack that would not come. Nome would be taken - Russia needed some geopolitical leverage after all, and would need an administrative capital in its new Yukon territory. But to the outside world, it should look exactly like Russia had kept its word. Its stated intention in the attack on the US would be that it simply wanted to create a buffer zone, a demilitarized area between Russia and the USA - a response that had been forced on it by rampant US aggression in the Bering Strait.
By the time the US realized that it had been deprived of 14% of its freshwater supply, it would be too late.
To Bondarev, what had seemed like a suicidal gambit a week ago, was suddenly looking like it might, just possibly, pay off. Confusion clearly reigned in Washington about how to respond to the Russian intervention. NATO was crippled by an indecisive EU, not interested in going to war over a ‘minor freedom of navigation dispute’. The US military was being held in check by an administration that was full of bluster, but no bite.
“Gold 1 from Gold Command, vector 045 degrees, altitude 35,000 please, we have business for you,” he heard as the voice of his A-100 air controller broke his reverie. At that moment he cursed his overconfidence, knowing it had almost certainly jinxed him. “Patching through data now,” the AWACS aircraft said. “Vectoring all available support to your sector.”
He looked down at the threat screen in his cockpit and took a deep breath. The AWACs aircraft was sending through data from ground and air based long range radar sources. The screen showed huge formations of aircraft forming up over Eielson and Elmendorf-Richardson. The numbers beside the swirling vortex of icons indicated he was looking at two elements of at least 50 aircraft in strength, each.
“Gold 2 to Gold leader,” his wingman called, a slight note of panic in his voice. “Are you seeing this?”
“Roger Gold 2, stand by.” His first reaction was that it didn’t make sense. This had all the hallmarks of the prelude to a major attack, but there were still nearly 24 hours until the US mandated deadline for Russian troop withdrawal from Saint Lawrence. Were they trying to take Russia by surprise, by moving early? It was hard to see what the tactical advantage would be, and there would certainly be no political advantage. It would only serve to confirm how hawkish and erratic the US leadership was. But if this was the ‘fire and fury’ that the US had promised, surely Bondarev would have already received warning that the US had scrambled elements of its strategic bomber force?
Of course, if the US Stealth Bombers had sortied from Guam several hours ago, they may not yet have been detected.
Perhaps it was just a feint, to test Russian readiness in advance of the real attack. Or a PR stunt, intended to reassure a restive US media and public that its armed forces were ready for action. He checked his watch. It was 0200 at night in Alaska, which made it 0600 in Washington. That made sense - perhaps this was just smoke and mirrors, timed to make the morning TV shows on the US East coast. He watched carefully as the circling icons over Eielson and Elmendorf-Richardson coalesced into a single ‘aluminum cloud’ of at least 100 aircraft that no stealth systems in the world could disguise.
Definitely a PR stunt or feint. Multiple smaller attacks would have been much more effective.
The Russian C3I system throwing data onto Bondarev’s screens sorted the electronic signature and radar returns it was getting from the enemy formation and assigned different icons to each aircraft type to let its pilots know what they were looking at. As his eyes scanned the screen, a chill went over him.
The huge enemy formation comprised almost exclusively aircraft with the designation F-47.
Fantoms. These were not National Guard units. As one, they began moving toward Saint Lawrence Island.
This was no feint.
*
*


If Dave was cold before, he was both cold, and tired now. They’d retired to the tank to warm up, eat and get some rest. Perri had cleaned the barrel of his rifle. He was still annoyed he hadn’t been able to zero the new sight on his Winchester, and he hadn’t been able to find any army surplus armor piercing rounds in the loot they’d taken from the general store. On the other hand, they had hundreds of steel tipped 180 grain magnum rounds with anti-fouling coating, and even at a couple of hundred yards range he was sure they would slice through the aluminum carport roof without trouble. The steel tipped, copper jacketed Winchester rounds were popular for hunting reindeer stags – anything less risked not being able to penetrate the animal’s thick skull, and the less confident hunters could aim at the shoulder or haunches; the steel tip letting the bullet slice through the thick hide while the copper jacket and lead core would spread on impact and shatter a leg or hip joint.
It also left a smaller entry hole in the valuable reindeer hide.
A little metal on metal probably wouldn’t hurt for his upcoming ‘hunt’, as he was trying to trigger an explosion in the ammo inside the carport. He wanted some friction or sparks to set the ammo off. He was pretty sure that even without having zeroed his rifle, he’d be able to hit something as big as a carport roof with his new precision guided scope. Hell just using iron sights, he could plug a seal in the head from a hundred yards as it was coming up for air, and that in a raging blizzard, so he had no excuses for missing a stationary carport.
Dave had tried to argue he wasn’t even needed on the trip. But Perri had insisted he need to come along to keep an eye out for Russian patrols. Perri wanted to be sure there were no foot or vehicle patrols near the dump when he set it off. He was pretty sure any buildings near the ammo dump were empty now, with all the residents being held at the school a few hundred yards away, but he didn’t want to accidentally kill any Russian soldiers and give them an excuse to retaliate against the townsfolk.
Not yet, anyway.
Once again, they’d navigated their way around the nesting Auklets. Finding their previous position in the dark hadn’t proved as easy as he thought, but eventually Dave spotted the two upright stones they had hidden behind while scouting out the town, and using them for reference they scrambled up the side of the bluff to give themselves about another twenty feet in vertical distance, without adding too much to the lateral.
“What about the flash from the barrel?” Dave asked. “Won’t it be like a big old strobe light saying hey, up here, come up here and kill us?!”
Perri looked up at the sky. The cloud had come in thick and low, and Dave was right, it was a dark night, with only a faint diffuse glow from the moon making its way through.
“Maybe,” Perri agreed. “If anyone is looking in exactly this direction at exactly the right time. I’m going to put ten rounds into that building as quickly as I can, then we’ll run for it. Nothing blows up, then they’ll arrive tomorrow morning and wonder who the hell used their ammo dump for target practice and maybe we at least put some holes in some of their missiles.” He smiled, teeth white in the dark night, “But if that shed goes up, I don’t think they’ll be looking up here amongst the rocks and birdsh*t for the reason. They’ll probably think it was a cruise missile or something.”
He sounded completely confident, but Dave wasn’t buying it. “Yeah, right. We are so going to die tonight.”
*
*


During the Cold War, lone sorties by strategic bombers or surveillance aircraft from both sides of the Bering Strait had ‘strayed’ into opposition airspace and provoked a response. Sometimes deliberately, to test enemy capabilities and response times, other times innocently, due to navigation failures. As the newly reinvigorated Russian air force had shown in the Middle East that it was more than a match for its old foe, it had also begun to be more brazen in its provocations in the Pacific Far East, more than once resulting in the US threatening to shoot down wayward Russian aircraft, though they never had, and Russia had not chosen to push them that far.
Never though, had one side put so much air power into the Pacific Far East theatre as the US was doing right now.
Bondarev’s eyes flicked from his tactical display to his instruments to the night sky around him in a constant circle. His HUD was showing that two other squadrons from his 6983rd Air Force Base were forming up as ordered, above and beside him. But this still gave him only 54 aircraft to nearly double that number of US fighters. The A-100 AI was still designating the bulk of the approaching aircraft as American F-47 UCAVs, flying out front like a silicon shield - no doubt armed with the newest CUDA missiles - with piloted F-35s behind them, probably carrying the AIM 140 LREW or long range engagement weapon which was too large to fit into the drones weapons bays.
Against these his 54 Sukhois were each armed with two long range and four short range missiles, but only about a third of them were carrying the new KM-77 phased array missile because Operation LOSOS had come in the middle of an upgrade cycle. The KM-77 had a slightly greater range than the CUDA, otherwise they were an even match. Not for the first time, he regretted Lukin’s direct order not to field his Okhotniks. It would have been advantageous to be able to put his own drones out in front of his piloted aircraft to meet the incoming US armada.
In any case, they might be about to see how the vaunted American Fantom performed in air-to-air combat against a real flesh and blood enemy. And they would know in about 30 seconds as the American force reached AMRAAM range.
*
*


“Gold Control to Gold Leader: enemy aircraft approaching stand-off missile range in five, four…” the A-100 AWACs announced. The first test would be to see whether this was a direct attack. If it was, the
US F-35s could launch long range air-to-ground missiles aimed at targets on Saint Lawrence from within Alaskan airspace, and then turn around and flee under the protection of the cloud of drones surrounding them.
“Silver leader to Gold leader, Silver airborne and en-route,” he heard a voice say over the radio. Having seen the size and apparent intent of the US attacking force, he had scrambled the 36 remaining Sukhois and Mig-41s he had at readiness in Lavrentiya. It had taken them a precious 20 minutes to get airborne and formed up. Too slow. Someone would have to get their butt kicked for that. They wouldn’t be able to climb to altitude in time for the coming engagement.
“Roger Silver leader, vector zero three zero, NOE please. Passive arrays only. Take your targeting from the data net,” Bondarev ordered. He would use his reserves as a surprise attack force, hoping if he kept them down at wave top level the enemy aircraft wouldn’t know they were there until their missiles started tracking. “Gold leader out.”
“…two…one…mark,” the air controller continued to count down the range to possible standoff munitions launch. Bondarev had his eyes fixed to the threat display, listening for the warning tones indicating enemy air-to-ground missiles were on their way. The KM-77 was also an efficient cruise missile killer and he knew the pilots fielding it would be prepared to switch their targeting from the US aircraft to US missiles if they appeared. But the board stayed clear, there were no tones.
“Gold squadrons, hold station,” Bondarev ordered his pilots. On his HUD he saw that while they might not have fired any missiles, the US armada was still boring straight for Saint Lawrence. “Flight control, ROE update please?”
“ROE unchanged Gold leader,” the controller replied. “You are free to fire if US aircraft cross the no-fly perimeter.”
Bondarev cursed under his breath. Their rules of engagement hadn’t changed since day one of Operation LOSOS. They were hemmed in behind an invisible line in the sky, giving the US fighters a clear tactical advantage because they could choose the time and place of their attack.
“Enemy aircraft approaching US LREW range in ten, nine, eight…” the controller stated, unnecessarily. His pilots would soon be within range of the US long range air-to-air missiles. So be it.
They might get the first missiles away, but they would not go unanswered.
“Gold aircraft, lock up targets but hold your fire,” Bondarev told his pilots. “Keep your heads people. Anyone who fires without my express order will be court martialed.”
“Two..one…mark…”
Once again, the missile threat warnings stayed silent, but the US aircraft pushed forward, hitting the Alaskan coast now. They would be on top of Bondarev and his men within minutes. Could it be they were going to try to overfly Saint Lawrence, just to test Russian resolve? To prove they were masters of their own skies still?
“Gold Control, requesting permission to engage with K-77s before enemy aircraft reach CUDA missile range. Please advise.”
Tactically, the US full frontal attack was insane. Dozens of their aircraft would be swatted from the sky within minutes if Bondarev was the first to engage. Could they be that stupid?
Stupid like an Arctic fox perhaps. Politically, it wasn’t so crazy. Let Russia be the aggressor. Force them onto the diplomatic back foot. Create the rationale for a major assault to retake Saint Lawrence on the basis of Russia invading and then shooting down American aircraft over American soil? Maybe that explained why the bulk of the approaching force were politically expendable drones.
“Gold Leader, we have orders from General Lukin directly,” the voice of the A-100 controller said. “Only if US fighters cross the no-fly perimeter, are you free to engage, repeat, you cannot fire until the perimeter is breached.”
“Gold Control, if we wait that long, we will be within CUDA range,” Bondarev said. “We will have no tactical advantage. That may be exactly what they are trying to achieve.”
The voice that came back was stone cold, and Bondarev recognized it immediately. He should have known General Lukin would be monitoring comms and he flinched as the man broke in on the radio traffic, “Are your orders unclear Gold leader?”
“No sir, perfectly clear. Gold leader out.” Bondarev hammered the perspex over his head in frustration. It was a typical political compromise. His life and the life of his men put in the balance so that politicians or diplomats could claim a moral high ground, before abandoning it completely. “Gold and Silver flight leaders, keep your targets locked, await my order.”
Bondarev rolled his shoulders in the tight confines of his cockpit, and flexed his fingers. He had a feeling the dying was about to begin.
*
*
Perri sighted down onto the town below.
It was damn dark. The glowing display in the scope showed very little wind, but a surprising amount of elevation if he was going to put any rounds through the roof of the car park below. He had to check what the scope was telling him against his own instincts. The copper clad bullets were heavier than the polymer tipped varmint rounds he usually used, but would the bullets really drop that much over this distance? He’d had to input the rifle and ammo type into the scope manually - had he screwed it up?
He cleared the target and put the small glowing red pipper over the dark black rectangle that was the carport roof, and pushed the button near his trigger again. It showed the range as 230 yards, wind at about 3 feet a second from the northwest, but the cross hairs telling him where to aim were way over the roof. It felt to him like he would be shooting way over the target.
Damn. He’d rushed it. He should have been patient, should have hiked up into the rocks up on the bluff, out of earshot of the town, fired a bunch of test rounds with the new ammo and the new scope until he was satisfied he had it zeroed.
Damn damn damn.
“What’s the matter?” Dave asked him. “Shoot already! Let’s get out of here.”
Perri bet on his instincts. He was the best damn shot in Gambell, he knew that. He had a sense, a feeling for wind and elevation, for the movement of his target. He had a way of knowing just when a seal or whale was going to breach, when a bird was going to dip right or left. And right now what the scope was telling him - the windage felt right, but the elevation didn’t.
He took a breath and held it.
He steadied the crosshairs just above the outer lip of the roof. If he saw his shots hitting the sandbags, he could correct.
OK Perri. Ten shots, as fast you can pull the trigger, or until the damn carport blows up.
And then run like hell.
*
*

“Every Russian aircraft in the sky over Saint Lawrence just lit their burners and headed east,” Bunny said, visor down, nestled behind her VR screens inside the trailer. “Care to share why Sir?”
“Well, you’re going to see it on the morning news anyway,” Halifax said. “The media name for it is Operation Resolve. The idea is to show the Russians just what will happen tomorrow if they don’t start withdrawing.”
“Whatever it is, it’s giving us clear air over Gambell,” Rodriguez noted. The late night launch of their two recon Fantoms had been a routine affair, and she’d been locked in the command trailer with Halifax and O’Hare for nearly an hour as Bunny got her one of her drones into position to make a run over the target while the other stayed in reserve. Satellite synthetic aperture radar images had shown a lot of hardware lining the side of the landing strip, and intelligence analysis had identified at least four Verba sites, two bracketing Gambell and two bracketing the facility at Savoonga. The way the Verbas had engaged outside optical range showed they were fully networked, pulling targeting data from AWACS, satellite and aircraft overhead, but Rodriguez had a feeling their crews would be looking east right now, because whatever ‘Operation Resolve’ was, something big was brewing there.
The imaging also showed concentrations of vehicle traffic in a couple of places in the township, one that had been identified as the ‘town hall’ and was speculated to be a military command post, and the other identified as the John Ampangalook Memorial High School. If the 200 plus townsfolk were being held anywhere, it was probably there, but the telltale heat bloom that would come from a mass of people packed into the school buildings there was being confused by a number of other heat sources burning in an around the school and the outskirts of town. This was what Bunny had to investigate. It was possible Russian troops were torching houses to drive people out, more likely they had just lit fuel oil ‘smudge pots’ to confuse infra-red imaging.
Bunny’s Fantoms were carrying no weapons except guns this time. In the load bay were dedicated reconnaissance pods that sported a suite of low light, infrared and radar imaging capabilities. If she could just get one good run the length of Gambell, they would get a wealth of data. If she could get two, they might have a real chance of identifying where those hostages were being held so that they had a chance of surviving the coming metal storm. There was another ‘if’. She had to hope that the enemy was still relying on simple portable ground to air missile defenses or radar targeted ship based missiles on Saint Lawrence, not the kind that could pick up her radar or electronic emissions and home on those. It was a big ‘if’.
“Starting ingress,” Bunny said. She had a suite of recon flight routines at her fingertips, leaving the AI to run the surveillance systems using a low-level full spectrum target ID algorithm that directed it to both map the entire target area at wide angle, and zoom in to try to identify military equipment and targets based on their physical or ELINT properties. “No nosy Sukhois around,” she observed, “Thankyou Operation Resolve.”
*
*



“Gold leader to Gold flight commanders, prepare to… hold! Safe your weapons, repeat, safe your weapons!” Bondarev nearly yelled into his mike.
He had just gotten a report from both his AWACS aircraft and the ground based air defense commander that the enemy armada would be crossing the no-fly perimeter any second. He had been straining his eyes, looking for any telltale light or exhaust trail to show on the horizon, while flicking back and forth between his instruments and the threat display showing the mass of icons that was the American aircraft headed straight for him and his fighters. He had six missiles, and a target locked for each of them. He knew his pilots would also have their targets designated, the offensive assault distributed across all of his aircraft so that every US plane had at least two or three missiles allocated to it, arrowing at it from various angles, both high and low.
If that gave him any confidence, then the knowledge that the enemy had nearly a quarter as many missiles again targeting the Russian aircraft took that away. There would be very few aircraft left flying a few minutes from now.
But why hadn’t they engaged at long distance missile range? What were they waiting for?
Bondarev got his answer just before he ordered his fighters to engage. In one smooth movement, as it crossed the Alaskan coast into the waters of the Bering Strait, the US force split into two, half swinging north, and the other half swinging south.
They were no longer approaching Saint Lawrence. And they were still outside the Russian no-fly perimeter.
Bondarev quickly split his own force, suspecting that was exactly what the US planners were trying to force him to do, but he had no other option. Within moments he had 27 aircraft flying parallel to and about twenty miles apart from 50 US fighters headed north, and the other 27 tracking the US southern group, with the 36 aircraft of his Silver battalion staying low in the clutter of the Saint Lawrence landscape.
He told his flight commanders to stay alert. There was still a chance this was just a pincer movement, and the US force would swing toward Saint Lawrence again to slam shut the jaws of the pincer. His eyes flicked frantically from threat to threat on his HUD, his fingers hovering over the missile launch buttons on his stick.
But then the US fighters turned away, back toward Alaska. One group set up a lower racetrack circuit along the coast to the south, the other took a high cover position, but also set up a race track position along the north coast. Bondarev let out a huge breath, and ordered his people to do mirror the American positions to the north and south of Saint Lawrence.
He moved his thumb away from the firing button for his weapons. “Gold leader to Gold and Silver commanders, weapons safe, but stay alert. Gold, do you see any other enemy air activity? Could this be a decoy for an attack from another quarter?”
“Gold Control to Gold leader, the board is clear,” the air commander replied. “The enemy force did not cross the no-fly perimeter. It looks like they are just rattling their sabers.”
“Roger that, Gold leader out,” Bondarev said. Roger that. If this was sabre rattling, he could only imagine what tomorrow would bring, when the US deadline ran out.
*
*

“OK, they’re around the corner at the next block now,” Dave said. He’d been following a jeep that was making a regular circuit of the town, waiting for it to get well clear of the ammo dump. There were no foot soldiers near the dump that he could see, and no lights in any of the nearby houses.
Perri ignored the guidance of the digital scope, settled the crosshairs on furthers edge of the carport roof, took a breath, waited for the small trembling circular motion of his gun barrel to steady itself, and then squeezed the trigger. The report from the Winchester sounded impossibly loud in the still night air, and caromed off the rocks around them. But before it had even registered, Perri worked the bolt and fired again, and again.
Down in the dark, he saw a spark.

*
*



“Holy hell!” Bunny exclaimed as the surveillance feed from the Fantom that had just started its run over Gambell flared bright white. In an instant, it looked like she had lost both low-light and infra-red camera coverage, and was suddenly flying blind. She quickly ordered the drone to level out, and saw with relief it was responding to inputs. She wasn’t showing a missile launch. It hadn’t been hit.
“Laser jamming?” Halifax asked.
“I don’t think…” Bunny muttered. She flicked her fingers across her keyboard. The drone should have passed the airstrip by now and be making its run over Gambell harbor. She reached for a small toggle and taking back control of the drone’s low-light camera she swung it around, seeing the greenwhite flare fade and some solid imagery emerge again. As she pointed the camera toward the drone’s starboard aft quarter it became clear what had happened.
“Explosion, down in the township,” Bunny said pointing at a screen above her head. “Big mother. Look at that cloud. Showing secondaries too.”
Rodriguez and Halifax leaned forward. On the 2D screen they could see a small mushroom shaped cloud rising over a brightly burning building at the edge of the town. Smaller explosions within the building seemed to send phosphorescent arcs of smoke out in all directions, starting other fires.
“Operation Resolve?” Rodriguez asked? “That looks like a cruise missile strike. Is that what we were supposed to record?”
“No, I…”
“With respect Sir, we should have been briefed,” Bunny said, turning her drone out to sea. “Target identification and bomb damage assessment, those are two completely different missions.”
“I wasn’t…” Halifax was stammering.
Rodriguez got the distinct idea that he had no idea what had just happened.
*
*


“Holy hell!” Dave yelled, at almost the same time as Bunny O’Hare, 200 miles away. He hadn’t counted, but it seemed to be on about the sixth or eighth shot from Perri, just as Dave was deciding nothing was going to happen, that the Russian ammo bunker exploded in incandescent white light.
“Run!” Perri yelled, scrambling to his feet. “We have to get down among the rocks before anyone looks up here.”
The light from the burning pyre that had once been the sandbagged carport was as bright as a dozen stadium lights. It threw crazy, dancing shadows over the slope of the bluff and the noise and light sent hundreds of Auklets squawking into the night in fright. Perri found himself running through a cloud of birds in what felt like the strobe from a night club light show.
They came to the edge of a group of rocks, with a large open patch of ground ahead of them. Dave would have kept running, but Perri grabbed his jacket by the shoulder and pulled him down. “Wait, let’s see if it’s safe.” He looked down toward the town.
Soldiers had spilled out of the town hall. He should have realized that’s where the bulk of them would be. Some jeeps were moving cautiously toward the ammo dump. Other soldiers were spilling out of the school, surrounding it, maybe worried about a breakout? Or with something else in mind.
No one seemed to be headed towards them.
“OK, let’s go,” Perri said, getting to his feet again.
“We did it!” Dave was saying. “We actually did it!”
“Celebrate when we’re back in the tank,” Perri grunted.
Right then, he saw a missile lift off from an emplacement beside the airstrip and arc away towards the sea, aimed at some unknown target.
*
*

“Missile launch!” Bunny reported. “Not tracking. They’re firing blind. I won’t jam unless they get a lock.”
“Are we the only aircraft in the target area?” Rodriguez asked Halifax, “Or are there others we aren’t seeing?”
“As far as I know, we are the only unit over Gambell,” he said vehemently. “No one told me anything about a missile strike. We have set up patrols over the Alaskan Coast, that’s Operation Resolve. Not specifically to give us cover, but that’s why our mission was timed now, while the Russian CAP was pulled east in a hurry.”
“Beginning second pass,” Bunny said. “We aren’t going to get a third.”
Halifax reached for a comms handset, “Make the pass and then get to safe distance and hold. I’m going to try to get some clarity on this.”
At that moment, a voice came over the trailer loudspeaker, “NCTAMS this is ANR. We are showing one or more ground to air missile launches or major explosions near Gambell. Can you confirm?” Rodriguez and Bunny stole a no sh*t Sherlock glance at each other, and left Halifax to respond.
*
*

“Gold Control to Gold leader, we have reports of a ground strike on an ammunition dump at Gambell,” the AWACS controller said in Bondarev’s ear. “Air defense command at Gambell has reported returns from at least one aircraft in the area, probably stealth, but they cannot get a lock. We are assessing the situation, you are to prepare to engage the US airborne force over Bering Strait on our order. Standby. Gold Control out.”
“Hold position please Gold and Silver flight leaders,” Bondarev said with calm dread. “Weapons free. Prepare to engage US aircraft on my mark.”
Please, he said to himself. Please let us fire first.
*
*

As they scrambled down the slope at the outskirts of town toward the safety of their underground bunker, Perri saw another missile lift off from one of the small warships in the harbor and speed out to sea. The Russians were shooting at something, but what? Whatever it was, it made it less likely they suspected a kid with a Winchester had blown up their ammo dump, and Perri was glad about that.
“OK, down down down,” Dave said urgently as he hauled open the trapdoor to the tank and waved at Perri to jump in.
Feet on the rungs, Perri took one last ground level look at the boiling white column of smoke rising up over Gambell.
Sh*t just got real, he thought to himself.

(C) 2018 Fred ‘Heinkill’ Williams. To be continued...

Wow!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Keeps getting better and better HeinKill!

Seriously.

With a little help from friends ...

To anyone else reading along, spread the word. I’ll keep tapping away here ... the more people we can get reading now the better chances the project will succeed later!

Cheers!

Can’t wait for tomorrow (story time)

Sorry, fly to Europe now. Typey type, not posty post...

I meant, tomorrow in the story. I expect quite some action by then.

Safe flight fred.

Damn!.....

I was hoping Europe was closed for renovations or something so we could get the next installment.

Let's see ... action. (OK, throws out the chapter about the United Nations mediating a peaceful resolution ...) Let's go with ... this:

AMERICAN CARNAGE



Bondarev knew the crew of the A-100 AWACS aircraft. He had hand-picked them. He had seen them at work over Syria and Turkey, seen them stay calm even in the face of a direct attack intended to bring their aircraft down. He knew the scene inside the aircraft right now would be one of frenzied efficiency, plotting targets, handing them off to the AI to assign to his aircrafts’ targeting systems, confirming and reconfirming that every US aircraft had been triangulated to maximize the chances of a kill while they awaited orders from Lukin’s staff.
Still, he wanted to scream at them to hurry the hell up and decide.
“Gold leader, you are free to engage. Repeat, weapons free, you may engage.”
“Gold and Silver leaders, engage!” he said. Even as he spoke, he swung his own machine east north east, seeing his wingmen follow, and one by one the six missiles in his ordnance bay dropped out and raced away east. Soon the night sky around him was a tracery of white smoke and bright fire, leaping ahead of his fighters like bony white fingers of death. He looked away so that he didn’t completely burn his night vision.
There was no time to even register the kills. On his HUD he saw the icons of US aircraft scattering as their threat warning systems reacted to the missile onslaught. Several winked out, and at the edge of his vision he thought he saw bright flashes in the night sky, far away. Then his own threat warning alarm sounded.
“Evade!” he called, “And re-engage.” If he survived the next two minutes, if any of his men did, the next phase of this battle would be fought with guns.
At night. Against robots, piloted by a generation of video gamers safe in trailers that could be anywhere in the world.

*
*
She heard the feet running down the corridor toward her office before her security detail burst through the door.
“Madam Ambassador? Come with us please,” the senior Secret Service officer said, holding the door open as she jumped to her feet. Somewhere in the building an alarm began to sound and her stomach fell. She felt her feet going from underneath her and had to grab the doorway as she went through to stop herself from falling.
It was the Critical Incident alarm. A terrorist attack. Or worse.
“New Annex safe room ma’am,” the officer said, confirming her worst fears. “Stairs, this way. We can get there inside two minutes, just take it easy.”
“What’s the alert for?”
“Just follow us ma’am, you’ll be briefed when we’re in the secure area.”
Two minutes to safety. It seemed like such a short time. But she knew that ‘safety’ was an illusion. A US sub-launched ICBM starting from the Baltic sea would take less than 20 minutes to reach Moscow, but a hypersonic cruise missile launched from an aircraft over Germany would take only ten. Say she did make it to the bunker under the Embassy. Say she did survive the nuclear strike. Then what?
“No,” she said, stopping in her tracks. She knew the protocol; the bunker was equipped with a pulse shielded land line to the Kremlin. In the case of a nuclear attack, she was supposed to ride it out and then seek to establish contact with Russian authorities and either negotiate their surrender or await further instruction. She also knew how insane that idea was.
“Ma’am,” the Secret Service officer said, grabbing at her elbow. “Please.”
“Let me go. Make sure our people are safe. I’m getting on the line to Washington,” she said, in a voice that made it clear she was not interested in discussion.
“Yes Ma’am,” the officer said, exchanging a look with the others in the detail, before bending his head to the microphone in his collar and running off down the corridor.
*
*


“Not good, not good,” Bunny said, horrified. She had zoomed out the tactical map and patched in a feed from NORAD, and they watched as she saw the map light up with hundreds of missile tracks over the air east of Saint Lawrence, not to mention another lancing out from Gambell but falling away behind her drone as it scooted to safety. The missile ID showed it was an older ship launched Pantsir-SA, but they might as well have fired at a random arc of sky. Without a system that could home on her digital transmission signal or a solid lock from ground radar or another data source, the radar and infrared seekers on the older missile were just sniffing empty air.
“ANR, this is Colonel Halifax of NCTAMS-A4, please confirm upload of data from Gambell recon, and I request update on the full disposition of blue and red forces over Saint Lawrence.”
“Upload confirmed NCTAMS,” a voice replied. “Data request denied. You are directed to return your aircraft to base and await further orders.”
“It’s goddamn world war three up there,” Bunny said, tapping in new waypoints for her birds before pulling off her helmet and pointing at the air-to-air missile tracks the 2D screen. She had punched in a return course for their Fantoms that would skirt around the hell over Saint Lawrence and get them back up north to the rock. It would take at least an hour.
Halifax didn’t respond to her exclamation - he picked up a handset and called up to the commander of the Naval Computer and Telecommunications Area Master Station, inside his radar dome.
“Sound general quarters Captain Aslam,” he said. “When the men are assembled, I want everyone not on active duty inside the station to get down here under the Rock. Meet me topside at the elevator.”
Rodriguez looked at him, and he turned to the threat display. “This little cold war just got real hot Boss,” he said. “Things can either escalate from here, or de-escalate, but I’m not giving peace much of a chance. Russia may not know we’re down here, but they sure as hell have seen our radar dome up there and it wouldn’t take more than an old Mig with a bunch of dumb iron bombs to scrape my nice white radar installation off the top of the rock and into the sea, and everyone up there with it.” He turned and took a step toward the door of the trailer, “I’m going topside to make sure only essential personnel stay behind. You get this place organized and find bunks for everyone.”
*
*

Having been bustled down unfamiliar corridors on the way to the basement bunker under the New Annex, Devlin found herself taking one wrong turn after another as she tried to move against the flow of people running for the illusory safety of the New Annex bunker. It wasn’t entirely irrational, the same alarm was also used for both a terrorist or chemical weapons attack, and the airtight, radiation shielded and self-contained secure rooms below the New Annex were adequate to protect staff against threats that were slightly less dramatic than a direct hit by a thermonuclear weapon. As the panicked traffic thinned out, Devlin found herself standing in a corridor that looked familiar and yet…
“You lost ma’am?”
She turned and saw the analyst, Carl Williams, with his head sticking out of his office.
“You should be in the bunker,” Devlin replied, pointing up at the ceiling where a loudspeaker blared. “Shouldn’t you?” he asked. He clearly wasn’t in a hurry to go anywhere.
She didn’t have time for this. “I need to get a secure line to Washington. What is the quickest way to the Chancery from here?”
“You can do it from my office,” he said.
“But it’s a dedicated…”
“No problem,” he insisted. “Trust me.”
He stood aside so she could get into his little cubicle of an office and he closed the door behind her. The critical incident alarm was still blaring outside and she winced. It would make holding a phone conversation a real pain.
Williams read her mind, “You want me to turn that off?”
She hesitated, “I don’t think you should.”
“There’s no threat to the embassy,” he said calmly. “A little skirmish in the air over Saint Lawrence, but that’s all. Triggering a critical incident alert based on that is a complete over-reaction by someone in
State.”
Devlin was about to ask him how the hell he knew that, but she was learning that with Carl Williams, for deniability purposes it was probably best she didn’t ask.
“Can you shut off the siren without pulling everyone out of the bunkers quite yet?” she asked.
“HOLMES? Can you kill the critical incident siren, but leave the alert in place until it is cancelled by State?” Williams spoke towards his laptop.
“Yes Carl,” the cultured British voice replied.
“Do it please.”
The alarm cut instantly, an eerie silence replacing it. No heels on the floors, no voices in the corridor.
“Just sit there ma’am, tell him who you want to call,” Williams said, pointing to his chair behind the desk and laptop. “Once you connect, I’ll leave you alone.”
Devlin sat, then leaned forward over this laptop, “OK, this is Ambassador Devlin McCarthy…”
“Confirmed ma’am, I have facial recognition,” HOLMES replied.
“Right, well … I want to speak to Secretary of State, Gerard Winburg please, on his direct encrypted line.”
“Yes ma’am. He is airborne in Airforce 1 at the moment. All communications are encrypted. Putting you through,” the AI said.
Williams pointed at the door and moved toward it, but Devlin reconsidered. There was probably no point in secrecy, and she might be able to use Williams’ help. She motioned to him to stay put.
“That line is busy ma’am,” the AI said. “We are on hold. Do you want me to put you through to the
President’s direct line instead? He is on Airforce 1 with the Secretary of State.”
Devlin hesitated, but before she could answer, there was a click on the laptop’s loudspeaker, “Winburg here.”
“Mr. Secretary, this is Ambassador McCarthy in Moscow,” she said. “The critical incident alarm has sounded here.”
“Yes, I authorized it,” the harried voice at the other end said, clearly under pressure. “I don’t know how much you know about current developments over Saint Lawrence.”
Devlin looked at Williams. He came around to her shoulder, tapped a couple of keys on his laptop and Devlin saw he had been preparing an intelligence report when she had interrupted him. She put her finger on the screen and started reading.
“Sir, I know that at 0200 Alaskan time this morning explosions were reported in the township of Gambell, cause unknown. Local Russian anti-aircraft missile batteries however responded to an unknown threat, indicating the source of the explosion was possibly an attack by US aircraft, or they simply panicked. Following this, Russian aircraft stationed in the eastern no-fly zone around Saint Lawrence engaged US aircraft on patrol along the Alaska Coast.” She hesitated, looking at Williams in disbelief, but he nodded. “And as of … five … minutes ago, data from NORAD and AWACS aircraft in the combat area indicates the destruction of 17 Russian aircraft for the loss of 23 US aircraft destroyed, eight damaged.” She had to read the last part again. That was nearly as many aircraft lost in one engagement as had been lost in the entire Middle East conflict, and the battle was still going?
There was a silence at the other end, before Winburg came back on the line, “Dammit how are you getting that intel in Moscow?! You have real time data on kills and losses over the OA? That’s more than I have!”
“I have an NSA analyst on station here Secretary,” she winked at Williams. “He’s very … resourceful.”
“Apparently. Anything else?”
“No Sir, we are working to identify Russia’s strategic aims in this conflict. I hope to get back to you soon on that;” Devlin said. “Sir I am not CIA head of station, I know that, but I wanted to report that we have seen no signs of military preparations on the streets here in Moscow, we have heard of no evacuations or civilian warnings and as far as I am aware key senior politicians and bureaucrats are still in
Moscow and behaving normally. Russian TV and radio is also running normal programming:”
“OK…”
“Sir I have seen nothing today, or in the last week, to indicate the Russian government is about to conduct a nuclear strike on the USA or that they are anticipating one from us.”
“Which could of course, be part of their strategy,” Winburg said. He was the former CEO of a major defense contractor, and Devlin had heard him say his policy was to trust no one, in business or politics, until proved wrong. “Look .... this was a good call Ambassador. Good context. Make sure you share what you have with CIA. And you feel free to call me again when you have anything to add.”
“Will do, goodbye Mr. Secretary.”
She looked at Williams, “How do I hang up?”
The British voice replied, “I have disconnected the call ma’am.”
Looking at the screen again, she whistled. “That’s what you call a ‘little skirmish’?”
Williams shrugged, “In the big picture, yeah. I mean, it’s not thermonuclear war.”
“Yet. You heard the man, can you be sure to copy your report to CIA?” She said to the analyst.
Williams looked a little uncomfortable, “Sorry ma’am, no.”
She looked surprised, “No?”
“No, I mean. Someone will. The data is all there. HOLMES is pulling it from servers inside NORAD, DIA, CIA, PACCOM and so on. I was just putting that report together for NSA to show what he can do in these type of situations. I can’t share data on HOLMES capabilities with anyone outside NSA.” She was clearly not impressed, because he stammered on. “I mean, except you, because, like, you have clearance now.”
“So sanitize it, include the information I gave the Secretary and then send it as soon as the dust settles, can you do that?”
“Sure, I guess, but aren’t there other people who…”
“Carl, right now, the only people above ground here are you and me, and to be honest only one of us seems to know what the hell is going on out there, and that’s you.”
*
*



To Yevgeny Bondarev, it was no little skirmish. It was a tooth and nail fight to the death. The melee over Saint Lawrence had degenerated into a knife fight. Most of the aircraft remaining after the opening volleys of missiles fired at point blank range, about fifteen Russian and twenty US fighters, were engaged in one on one, gun on gun combat.
Bondarev had survived the first blizzard of US missiles, registered one, maybe two kills of his own, but was now twisting and turning above the sea with a very determined F-47 on his tail. He had no more short range missiles left, but apparently, neither did his opponent. As tracer flashed over his canopy for the third time, he put his machine into a fast roll, then flicked into a climbing starboard turn to try to gain a little separation from his attacker. He needed altitude for what he had in mind, but it was a desperate last chance roll of the dice. If he screwed it up, he was dead.
The Su-57 was a magnificent airplane, but it was big and intended to kill airborne enemies at long range. It was not optimal for close range combat. The smaller American F-47 was less deadly at range, but much more maneuverable in a knife fight because there was no pilot to black out. The thrust vectoring nozzles on his Sukhoi however gave him one spectacular trick for an opponent who was close on its six and he was willing to bet that whether he was up against a drone flown by a ground-based pilot, or operating on autonomous control, he’d catch it unprepared. As he levelled out at the top of his turn he could almost feel the gun pipper on the HUD of the machine behind him settle on his tail. He bunted the nose of his Sukhoi down, keeping his speed at 450 knots, trying not to give the other pilot too easy a shot. Tracer blasted over his wing.
He checked his airspeed. Good. Now! He hauled back sharply on his stick, pulling it all the way back until it rammed into the stays and couldn’t go any further. To the American behind him, man or machine, it must have seemed as though the Sukhoi had simply stopped in mid-air and pointed its nose at the sky. The American machine nearly lost control as it tried to avoid colliding with the Sukhoi that was skidding through the air on its tail, like the cobra the maneuver was named after.
“Come on you fat a**ed #%&*$#!” Bondarev yelled at his Sukhoi, pushing the nose down before it pitched over backwards and increasing his engine to full burner, regaining forward momentum. This was the moment Bondarev was most vulnerable, recovering from a virtual stall, hydrogen fire pouring from his afterburner like a small sun, he knew he was a sitting duck if there was more than one F-47 behind him. He hunched his shoulders waiting to die, but grunted as he saw the exhaust flames of the American fighter wallow through the night sky ahead of him, having failed to keep the Sukhoi in its sights, fighting against a stall itself. It pulled an ugly looping turn across Bondarev’s nose and his guns fired automatically as soon as they had a lock on the American. The machine fell apart in a glittering rain of metal shards.
Bondarev had control over his own aircraft again, and scanned his threat display for another target. He tried desperately to get a grip on the situation. Where were his pilots, where was the enemy? He was at ten thousand feet again, swinging wildly around the sky to avoid the trap of being the legendary sitting duck. “Gold squadron, report your…”
At that moment he heard a missile launch warning scream in his ears. The enemy must have been close, because even as his automatic countermeasures of flares and chaff fired into the sky behind him, the Sukhoi’s combat AI took control of the machine from him and flung it into an inverted dive that pulled all the blood from his head. His pressurized combat suit inflated, trying to keep the blood flowing to his brain, but it wasn’t enough. He was pulling too many G’s, and his world went black.
What happened next wouldn’t matter to Yevgeny Bondarev. He was out cold.

*
*


It was designated ‘Hunter’ for a reason. Like the F-47, the unmanned Okhotnik UCAV was a multirole platform, with a range of more than 4,000 miles. It could stay airborne for 20 hours at cruising speed, carry a payload of two tons, and while it was able to pull data from multiple sources to assist its own air-to-air targeting, and engage enemy aircraft with both long and short range missiles, its real talent was stealth delivery of air-to-ground ordnance.
Like the 1,500 kg KAB 1900-SE thermobaric fuel air explosive precision guided bomb. Comprising pressurized ethylene oxide, mixed with an energetic nanoparticle such as aluminum, surrounding a high explosive burster, when detonated it created an explosion equivalent to 49 tons of TNT. It couldn’t be mounted on a missile - an aircraft had to penetrate enemy air defenses to be able to deliver it, which was a drawback. But just one could flatten a small town, render a harbor unusable and sink all the ships in it, or destroy every hangar, aircraft and living person on an airfield inside a radius of about 1,600 feet.
Stealthy delivery of the KAB 1900 was a talent that had been honed in the deserts and mountain ranges of Northern Syria by pilots and system officers of the 575th Army Air Force, and they were exceedingly good at both the stealth, and the delivery. While Bondarev’s 6983rd Air Force Okhotniks had been held back from the battle for Saint Lawrence, no such restriction had been put on the Okhotniks of the 575th.
At the same time as Bondarev received his order to engage, a squadron of 575th Okhotniks in a low level holding pattern in the middle of the Bering Strait split like a starburst, with four three-plane elements departing to attack US ground targets within the no-fly exclusion zone. Three flights headed for Saint Lawrence, to be ready for tasking should close air support be needed against US ground targets on the island.
The fourth flight headed for the only other US installation inside the no-fly zone. It wasn’t a target on which you’d usually use thermobaric bombs - something much less powerful would have been sufficient, but sometimes you just had to use what you had to hand.
And at least there was complete certainty they would no longer have worry about that annoying US long range radar installation on Little Diomede Island.
*
*


Alicia Rodriguez had trained her whole adult life to go to war. But now that she was, she found all that training suddenly failed. The world under the Rock had descended into a noisome chaos, turning her perfectly ordered flight deck into a mass of personnel from the 712th Aircraft Control and Warning Squadron all looking for somewhere to park backpacks, backsides and for someone to answer their big and small questions. That person should have been their CO, Captain Ali Aslam, but Aslam was still topside with Halifax getting his men down from the station above in the goods elevator that held only 15 personnel at a time. Men and women were also pouring out of the emergency stairs beside the elevator shaft.
Bunny wasn’t helping either, trapped in her ‘cockpit’ growling at anyone who came within twenty feet. Her recon drones had been parked in a sea level orbit ten minutes south of Saint Lawrence and hadn’t been re-tasked or recalled. She only had about ten minutes fuel left before she would have to call them home anyway. Rodriguez had just finished ensuring her recovery team was ready to recycle them when it landed, despite all the chaos in the cavern.
Rodriguez pulled open the door to the trailer and stepped inside, closing the door behind her and taking a breath. She pressed her forehead to the door. Come on girl. You can get a hex of drones into the air through a hole in a rock inside twenty minutes, you can land a measly two kites and deal with 100 worried base personnel and their stupid questions. Right?
Right. Question of the moment. The head of base security, Master Sergeant Collaguiri had been ordered down under the Rock by Halifax, but insisted his place was topside with the CO. He had tried appealing the case to Rodriguez, and Rodriguez had promised him she would call up to the CO and see what he wanted to do about it.
She sighed and picked up the comms, punching in the number for the radar installation control room, assuming that was where Halifax would be. It wasn’t a long call.
“Rodriguez, we are currently tracking about a hundred friendly and enemy aircraft in combat over the Bering Sea, tell the Master Sergeant he can…” The line went dead.
Then a second later the entire island shook as though the God of Thunder himself had spoken.



*
*

The effect of a thermobaric blast against living targets is gruesome. First, the pressure wave from the fuel air explosion (FAE) flattens anyone caught unprotected. If you are within the kill zone and unlikely enough survive the pressure wave, the vacuum created collapses your lungs so that you suffocate. Not all of the fuel in the bomb is guaranteed to go off, so if the fuel deflagrates but doesn’t detonate, anyone still left alive will be severely burned and probably also inhale the burning fuel. Since the most common FAE fuels, ethylene oxide and propylene oxide, are highly toxic, undetonated FAE is as lethal to personnel caught within the cloud as most chemical warfare agents.
Luckily for Halifax, he was at ground zero for the first of the three KAB 1900s that hit the Naval Computer and Telecommunications Area Master Station on Little Diomede. As he was talking with Rodriguez he just had time to register the sound of an explosion and a sharp kerosene like odor before he and every man, woman and bird on the surface of the Rock were obliterated.

*
*

It was like two or three earthquakes hit them in quick succession, followed shortly afterward by a thundering series of booms. Spreading outward from the point of impact on top of the rock dome a series of pressure waves pushed the sea surrounding Little Diomede down and outward. The three pressure waves passed quickly, and the first ring of displaced seawater came flooding back.
The gantry over the submarine docking bay rocked and a part of the reinforced roof over the small harbor collapsed. Seconds later a tidal wave flooded in through the entrance of the cave and instantly submerged the entire dock area in waist deep water.
Anyone there fifty feet below the trailer who had kept their feet through the first round of violence was knocked down by the force of the water and as Rodriguez got to her feet she saw the harbor was a maelstrom of churning water and flailing personnel. Her mind raced.
A nuke, we must have been hit by a nuke. But, shouldn’t there have been a flash? Wouldn’t a nuke have evaporated the seawater, turned it to steam? The cave was open to the sea, so if they were at the center of a nuclear explosion, even here under the Rock they should have been toasted to a crisp.
Not a nuke, then.
She saw Bunny struggling to her feet, cursing as usual.
That was as far as thinking got her. Outside the trailer people were drowning. She jumped for the door and ran down to the still rising waterline.

(C) 2018 Fred 'Heinkill' Williams. To be continued---
 

data from NORAD and AWACS aircraft in the combat area indicates the destruction of 17 Russian aircraft for the loss of 23 US aircraft destroyed, eight damaged.

Ouch.

3 FAE's!!!!!! Triple ouch!

knocked out

Yeah but most of thems was bots, whereas Russia lost pilots... it's a completely different situation when a military victory (might ) translate into a political defeat.

H

IN YOUR FACE



Bondarev woke with a headache like he’d dropped an entire bottle of whiskey in a single sitting, then realized he was still strapped into his cockpit. His vision was blurred and greying out, alarms were sounding in his ears and he could smell the distinct ozone tinged smell of fried wiring. An instant of panic rose in him, the most basal fear of all fighter pilots - fire!? With one hand he reached for his ejection handle, with the other he fumbled for the oxygen dial that supplied air to his mask, turning it to full rich, breathing deeply.
Almost immediately his vision cleared, his headache dropped to a dull throb, and he could see he was flying straight and level, about a hundred meters above the sea. His HUD was dead, but his instruments still worked, if they could be trusted. A quick scan told him he had taken a hit from either missile or gunfire. His right wing was perforated and the control surfaces there jammed, but his engine was running within normal operating ranges. No fuel or fluid leaks being reported. His combat AI had saved his life and gotten him out of the fight, put him on autopilot and set a course for Lavrentiya. He was about twenty minutes out.
He knew better than to take manual control. If it’s broken, don’t try to fly it. Cutting out the autopilot now, without knowing the state of his aircraft or how the AI was compensating for flight damage could send him into an irrecoverable spin and he didn’t have the altitude to risk it. Just like when he was in his passenger car at home in Vladivostok he was putting his life in the hands of the AI.
He should never have looked down at the floor of the cockpit. But something felt wrong and he realized his right foot felt wet. That was when he noticed the noise, the high whistling sound of air rushing past and into the cockpit. He looked down. There were holes in the wall of the cockpit where no holes should be. And a pool of blood on the floor by the pedals where no blood should be.
*
*

Between the two of them, Rodriguez and O’Hare had pulled ten people out of the water before anyone else around them had reacted. Being up in the command trailer a good distance from the minitsunami had helped them get their wits together faster than most people, but pretty soon there were twenty or thirty people down at the waterline, hands grasping limbs, heaving bodies out of the water.
Most were alive.
Some weren’t.
It seemed to Rodriguez they were just starting to get on top of things - there were more people up above the waterline than there were still foundering in the water.
Suddenly there was an almighty crash from the direction of the topside elevator as the car and a few hundred feet of cable crashed to the floor of the cave, then as though in sympathy, the loading crane by the submarine dock gave a forlorn groan and with majestic gravity, it fell across the Pond, its heavy crown smashing into the transformer room on the other side of the dock. The last thing Rodriguez saw was Master Sergeant Collaguiri and a group of men disappearing under dust and rubble.
And then the cave fell into total darkness.
*
*

Perri fell to the bottom of the ladder and just managed to get out of the way before the hatch above slammed shut with a clang and Dave and his rifle fell in a heap right where he’d landed.
“Screw this,” Dave grunted.
Perri looked up, “Did you lock it?”
“No I didn’t freaking lock it,” Dave swore, looking at him like it was a totally unreasonable question. “I came in head first. You can lock it.”
Perri didn’t argue. Pulling himself up off the floor he climbed the ladder and pulled the combination padlock through the eyelets that Dave had drilled into the wall, clicking it shut. He slid down the ladder using just his hands to slow himself and landed lightly. He had so much adrenaline in his system he felt he could have flown down.
He looked at Dave and the two of them burst out laughing. It was a hysterical, uncontrollable kind of laughter and they let it roll all the way out and then back again before they both fell onto their backsides.
Perri gasped, “That was insane.”
“Asymmetrical you said?” Dave said, wiping his eyes. “That was totally asymmetrical man.”
“I know.”
“I thought maybe you could hit it, maybe a bullet would get through the roof, but I never thought…”
“I know.”
“Did you see those missiles blasting off? Was that us?”
Perri remembered the missiles arcing in to the sky and heading out to sea, definitely hunting something out there. “Don’t think so.”
Dave wiped his face. His hand was shaking, and he sat on it.
They were both quiet a while.
“That was one mother of an explosion. You don’t think…” Dave asked.
“Think what?”
“You think we killed anyone? I mean, the school…”
“The school was five hundred yards away, no way.”
“No. What about Russians?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t look. I was too busy running and getting crapped on by auklets.” They laughed again. “Yeah, at least someone was more freaked than us,” Dave said.
Perri reached over and checked the rifle he’d thrown down the ladder ahead of him. It had landed on its stock, but he quickly checked the scope, turning it on to see if he’d damaged it. No, it was okay. It was built to take some tough love.
“They’re going to start hunting us now,” Dave said, watching him as he jacked out the remaining ammunition and started pulling the rifle apart to clean it.
“For sure.”
“We should stay down here a while eh? Stupid to go out the next couple of days.”
“Like we agreed.”
“I know. We have to pull that old sheet of tin across the hatch cover though.” They’d found an old sheet of corrugated iron and worked out how to lean it up and over the hatch covering the tank and then pull the hatch down so the tin covered it over. It was light enough they could lift the hatch and the tin at the same time from below, but heavy enough it wouldn’t easily blow away. It wasn’t much, but it hid the hatch from plain view and looked like the hundred other pieces of junk lying around the gas station.
“So do it,” Perri said. “Better to do it now while it’s dark, then we can bunk down.”
“Yeah, right.” Dave disappeared up the ladder again. Perri heard him fooling around outside and pulling the cover shut a couple of times before he was satisfied it was good enough, then he came back down and collapsed on a mattress next to Perri. He grabbed a water bottle off a shelf and took a long pull. “Damn, I should have taken a whizz while I was up there,” Dave said, and Perri laughed again.
After a few minutes Perri laid the parts of his rifle aside. He heard heavy breathing and looked across and saw Dave with his head cradled onto the crook of his arm, asleep.
Perri suddenly realized he was exhausted too. He drank some water too, then reached over Dave to cut the power to the lights. Blackness consumed their small cold cell deep under the dirt and he lay himself down, pulling a sleeping bag over himself.
“Sniper team,” Dave said somewhere to his right. “Deadly, eh?”
“You did great brother,” Perri told him.
“I did, right?” Dave said. “You too.”
“Sleep Dave.”

*
*



Private Zubkov had rolled out of his bed and found himself crouched on the floor beside before he’d even realized he was awake. From somewhere outside, maybe out by the airfield, he heard the unmistakable whoosh of a ground to air missile.
Then as a second explosion rocked the air, he realized what had woken him. A few blocks away, it sounded like a full-on war was raging. As the men around him had tumbled out of their bunks, he’d grabbed up pants and a jacket, found his anti-materiel rifle against the wall and staggered out into the freezing dark night.
A few blocks away, explosions lit the night sky.
“What the hell?” he asked no one in particular
Captain Demchenko took control sending half of the men to the airfield where they’d been digging sandbagged emplacements all afternoon. He pointed at Zubkov, “You, and the rest of you, with me.” And with that he’d started running toward the explosions, which seemed to Zubkov to be the complete opposite of what they should be doing. That opinion was confirmed five minutes later, as their squad rounded a corner to see half of the houses on the next block on fire and at the end of the row, a volcano of white fire spitting shrapnel and 7.62mm rounds at them.
“They hit the ammo dump,” Zubkov said to himself.
“Who did?” Asked the man next to him.
Zubkov looked at the dark sky around him, as another ground to air missile leapt off its rails and sped away into the night.
“Who you think, dumbass?” Zubkov replied.
The other soldier had a quick comeback ready, and he was about to throw it back at Zubkov but never got that far. Something whizzed past their ears.
Zubkov watched in horror as he saw the smile on the man’s face was replaced with a gaping hole through which Zubkov could see his brains. Then he crumpled to the ground.


*
*

The emergency lighting kicked in, bathing the cavern below the Rock in a ghostly red light. People had frozen in place, with the exception of the few still in the water, kicking to keep their heads above the freezing waves.
Bunny pulled another woman out of the Pond and hauled her up onto the dock. The water was flooding out of the cave again now, dragging debris and bodies with it as though it was pouring into a bottomless hole somewhere outside the cave.
Tsunami. Rodriguez was thinking. She’d seen a movie once about a tidal wave hitting Asia. One thing she remembered - the water pulling away leaving fish flapping on an empty beach. Then it came back. She realized people were standing watching in fascination as the Pond emptied.
“Everyone! Up to level two, higher if you can!” she yelled. She bent to help up an aircrewman beside her and pushed him up the dock.
“I have to get to the trailer,” Bunny panted beside her. “I have to bring those Fantoms down somewhere.”
“If we have power.”
“Got its own generator remember?” Bunny replied. “Or we can patch it into the emergency grid.”
“I’ll get everyone up above the old waterline,” Rodriguez said. “I don’t care if you get those Fantoms down in one piece or send them to Nome, but I want you to get vision of whatever the hell happened topside.”
“Yes Boss,” Bunny said before sprinting away.
From the direction of the cave entrance she heard a sound like a steam engine blowing, and felt the air pressure inside the cave start to build. A boiling wall of water appeared in the darkness at the other side of the Pond.
Her stomach fell as she realized it was twice her height and still fifty feet away.
She had just turned to run when it hit her.


*
*
The US Air Force Pacific Command did not hesitate when the shooting started. Their President had promised ‘fire and fury’ and though Operation Resolve was intended to be a simple show of force in advance of the approaching deadline for Russian withdrawal, they were prepared for belligerence.
Analysts had rushed Bunny O’Hare’s recon images into strike planners who added her data to satellite imagery and then quickly identified the likely location of the hostages at the school in Gambell, the Russian HQ and anti-air emplacements there and the presence of Russian troops, air defenses, US personnel and civilians inside the US cantonment at Savoonga.
The 36th Air Wing had already prepositioned six of its B-21 Raider stealth bombers at ElmendorfRichardson and two of them were on patrol east of the US base when the first of Bondarev’s air-air missiles left its weapons bay east of Saint Lawrence. Each of them carried 12 second generation AGM 158 JASSM-ER (Joint Air-to-Surface Standoff Missile-Extended Range) missiles, capable of putting a 450 kg (1000 lb.) WDU-42/B penetrator warhead onto a target the size of a minivan. It had a range of nearly 300 miles and it didn’t matter that Russian laser weapons were effectively jamming satellite coverage over Saint Lawrence, the JASSM had its own inertial and optical based navigation and onboard target identification system.
There had been a lot of talk in the early part of the last century about whether the strategic heavy bomber still had a role in the age of the drone, but no US UCAV or attack fighter could field standoff stealth weapons like the JASSM and it took eight UCAVs to match the payload of a single B-21 Raider. By the time the first US pilot was ejecting from his F-35, 24 of the deadly stealth cruise missiles were on the way to targets at Saint Lawrence.
Gambell could be hit cleanly. The civilians there were judged to be outside the blast radius of the inbound cruise missiles. Six missiles were allocated to Gambell, three to Russian positions and stores identified at the airfield, one to a Verba emplacement near the town hall, one to a Russian transport ship that had recently arrived in the harbor and one to the town hall itself. Savoonga was another matter. Bunny’s initial recon and limited satellite data showed that Russian troops there had quartered themselves in buildings all over the US military cantonment, and distributed their military and civilian hostages like human shields, scattered throughout the complex. At least two potential Verba air defense systems had been identified, but planners had little or no intel on the specific disposition of Russian forces and equipment at the site.
There was no way to avoid friendly casualties at Savoonga, but the order had come from the very top. The 712th Aircraft Control and Warning Squadron Savoonga base and its top secret tech was to be denied to Russian forces. Eighteen JASSM cruise missiles were allocated to targets in and around Savoonga. The facility would be levelled.



*
*
Private Zubkov had dived for the ground and lay there until it seemed the secondary explosions from the ammo dump were done. The fire still burned like a small volcano, lighting up the whole town, and the body of the faceless man beside him.
Udinov, that had been his name. They’d served together nearly a year. He liked country and western music. Had liked.
Zubkov had taken off his jacket and laid it over his head. A few other men had hit the dirt around him, and they were slowly picking themselves up, checking to see if they still had all their arms and legs.
Captain Demchenko had disappeared. Literally. Usually he would have been there shouting at them to pull themselves together and do … something. Zubkov looked around him. He counted seven other soldiers like himself, saw a jeep roaring toward them from the other side of town. But the captain was nowhere.
He found himself looking at the dirt, expecting to see a bloody smudge somewhere, but all he saw was dirt, ground ice and debris.
That was when he’d looked up at the bluff that towered over the town and had seen the black clouds of birds lifting into the night, like a small squawking storm cloud lit by the lightning in the town below.
He watched them swirl into the sky in panic, circle once or twice, and then land again.
And beyond them, barely more than shadows flashing between the rocks, he was sure he saw two men, running.
*
*

The water smashed Rodriguez face first onto the concrete of the dock and then rolled her across it. It seemed to Alicia just a question of how she was going to die, not whether she would. Her head collided with something solid and her arms flailed around her trying to grab a hold of something, anything. A leg appeared out of nowhere and gave her an almighty kick in the chest, forcing what little air she had left out of her lungs and she kicked back reflexively. She sucked in water, then foam, then blessed air, coughing and heaving before her head went under again. But she’d got a glimpse of where she was, and which way was up.
Kicking out, she sought the red light that must be the surface and broke out onto the top of a wave just as it slammed into the sea wall above the submarine dock, and rolled back onto itself. She rolled with it, calmer now, seeing the man who had probably kicked her in the chest floating past, his head and neck bent at an impossible angle.
“Got you Boss,” she heard a voice say, as a hand grabbed her collar and pulled her over to where she could throw one weak arm around the rungs of a ladder and the other around someone’s legs.
It was her arresting gear officer, Lieutenant “Stretch” Alberti. His small frame clung doggedly to the ladder with one hand, while the other held her collar in a titan’s grip and refused to let the sucking water pull her away.
The broken man who had floated away floated back again, dead eyes looking up at her with an accusatory expression as the ebbing tide carried him past.
Could have been me, she thought, then looked across the Pond at the smashed crane, collapsed elevator shaft and blocked stairwell. I wonder who’s luckier.

*
*

A fighter pilot in Bondarev’s 5th Air Regiment had to land one out of three sorties himself, without autopilot, in order to remain qualified for combat operations. Most of Bondarev’s pilots had too much pride to let the AI land their kite even once. Right now, Bondarev had no choice. It wasn’t just that he didn’t dare touch the stick and throttle, it was also because he couldn’t seem to lift his arm to even touch it.
A shell, or parts of a missile warhead, had hammered through the skin of his fighter beside his leg, sliced across his calf, opening up his great saphenous vein, and then spent the last of its energy as it buried itself in the floor beside his foot.
By the time he’d realized what was happening, he’d lost about a half liter of blood. He’d stared at his leg, asking himself why his foot felt wet, why he was having trouble moving it, why he could hear wind blasting around the cockpit. Finally something in his mind clicked, or some of the years of training kicked in, and he pulled a cord from a utility pouch in his flight suit and tied a tourniquet tight around his leg. By then, blood was pooling on the floor.
He spent the next fifteen minutes watching the instruments as the AI steered him down the glide path toward the airfield on the horizon, trying to remember how many liters of blood a human body had in them. Wasn’t it five liters, and you could afford to lose twenty percent, right? So that was what, a liter? Or was it twenty liters, and you could afford to lose five? No matter how he turned it around, the answer wouldn’t come.
The lights of the airport approached.
Definitely five liters. You gave blood, they usually took a third of a liter, maximum, right? So more than that must be dangerous. He looked at the floor. That down there, that is way over the allowed maximum Yevgeny.
He laughed, and then laughed at himself laughing.
Two green lights. Wheels down.
That was good. Assuming there were wheels and tires at the end of the struts and not just broken stumps.
Like his leg down there. Maybe that was just a stump too.
He laughed at that too. Change his call sign to ‘Stumps Bondarev’.
His head jerked as the Sukhoi hit the deck once, bounced and then settled into a hard three point touch down.
Useless AI, bouncing all over the field. He tried to reach for the stick again, saw his arm flop to his side as though it belonged to someone else, and saw flashing red lights speeding across the field.
Damn. Not good. Someone must be in trouble.


*
*
Perri woke to the ground shaking. They were ten feet below ground, but he could feel the mattress beneath him vibrating. Then a sound like muted thunder rolled overhead, penetrating even the hatch cover and the shaft down to their tank. More sonic booms from fighters maybe.
He reached over and turned on the battery powered lamp. Dave had been woken too.
“What was that?”
“I don’t know.”
Another rumble shook the tank and some cans fell off one of the makeshift shelves.
“We have to look,” Dave said.
“Or we could stay here and wait it out,” Perri said. “Which would be smarter.”
“It’s our families out there,” Dave said. “I’m going to look.”
Perri rolled into a crouch and handed Dave the binoculars, taking up his rifle and scope. “You’re right. Here.”
Dave opened the hatch cover slowly and quietly, lifting it just a few inches so that he could look for any sign of Russian troops nearby. When he was sure they were still alone, he eased it a few more inches up and pushed the sheet of rusted tin aside before crawling out onto the cold ground. It was still dark.
They hadn’t slept long.
Crouching, they ran into the gas station office through the back door and peered out through the windows, onto a scene from hell.
*
*

Rodriguez wasn’t sure when she had passed out, but it must have been somewhere between when Stretch Alberti had pulled her up onto the flight deck and when they laid her out on the padded bench inside the command trailer. It wasn’t necessarily because she was the ranking officer under the Rock they thought she should be laid out in the command trailer. It was because there was no other space. Every bit of dry ground up above the high water mark was littered with the drowned and half drowned, bent, broken or shattered bodies of the personnel of NCTAMS.
Levering herself up onto an elbow and looking out the windows of the trailer above her head, she saw in the red lighted cavern maybe half of the complement had been taken by the surging water, caught in the fall of the crane or the explosion of debris triggered by the falling elevator. The other half were tending to them as best they could, with supplies from the flight deck sick bay.
Someone had apparently bandaged her head and decided Rodriguez just needed to sleep it off. She touched her head, feeling the bandage and the swelling on her face.
“It’s still all there ma’am,” Bunny said, leaning into view from the bench beside her. She held Rodriguez’s head gently, put a hand on her shoulder and lowered her back down onto the bench. “Your nose is a bit flatter now, but it’s actually prettier.”
“Screw you O’Hare,” Rodriguez managed, wincing.
“Yes ma’am,” Bunny smiled.
“What’s our status? Collaguiri? I saw him…”
“He took five tons of elevator to the head, sorry. We’ve got about 13 dead, ten with serious injuries, fractures and the like.” She held up a bruised hand, “Dug two out of the stairwell, might be more in there. Another dozen walking wounded but still in the fight, twenty uninjured.”
Rodriguez remembered something, “Topside, did you…”
“Yeah, or no. I couldn’t bring the Fantoms in and I couldn’t land them outside and risk they would be seen if the Russians did a bomb damage assessment overflight. I sent one to Nome. Had enough fuel left in the other for a few passes over the Rock before I ditched it in the Strait though,” she took a breath. “I can replay the night-cam vision for you but it’s like…everything up there was just scraped into the sea. The dome is gone, and everything inside it. The cabins and huts down by the water are just ashes and splinters, floating around in the water with a hundred ton of wrecked boats and jetties.”
“No survivors?”
“None moving, that I could see,” Bunny shook her head. “No IR signatures.”
“Do we have comms?”
“Drone comms, yeah. The cable to the undersea array survived, just like it was designed to do. But we’ll need someone to find a kludge if we want to use it to contact CNAF without putting a drone in the air.”
“What was it? Tactical nuke?”
“I don’t think so,” Bunny said. “I’m no ordnance expert, but the snow is only melted on top of the island and down by the accommodation. The rest of the island still has some snow and ice on it. I’d have thought a nuke would melt it all.”
“I didn’t see a flash,” Rodriguez remembered, “Did you?”
“No lightning, just thunder,” Bunny agreed. “I’m thinking more thermobaric than thermonuclear.”
She looked down on Rodriguez’s frown. “You’re thinking what I’m thinking, right boss?”
“That this attack wasn’t about us?” Rodriguez said.
“Right. If they knew about this place, they’d have used some kind of deep penetrator, a bunker buster. Or flown a cruise missile straight into the mouth of the cavern. But they just wanted to scrape a barnacle off the Rock, so they went with FAE,” Bunny said. She waved a hand at the destruction outside the trailer. “This was all just collateral damage. They got lucky.”
Rodriguez looked at her watch, then closed her eyes. 0330 hours. So tired.
“Get me some drugs will you?” she said. “Pain killers and stimulants. We’ve got to tend to our dead and wounded, send a party out the cave entrance and check for survivors topside, then restore comms with CNAF and see if we can get this base back online.” She looked across the dock to the intact loading bays next to the catapult. “We’ve still got hangars full of hardware capable of kicking some serious Russian a** and I would dearly love to get some orders and get it in the air.”
Bunny looked at her admiringly, “Hoo-yah Boss.’”
*
*

As the boys watched, a huge mushroom cloud was rising over the town where the town hall was. Over by the airfield there were three or four fires burning and what looked like fuel exploding. Several houses in the town seemed to be on fire too. Their eyes went immediately to the two story gym at the school.
It was untouched. There were fires just a block away, a huge crater where the town hall had been, but the school gym and its outbuildings were still standing. If they could feel the bombs down in the bunker, he could only imagine what it had been like for their families, holed up in the steel walled gym just a block or two away.
Perri looked at the town through his scope. He had expected to see Russian troops running around the streets, jeeps, maybe ambulances or something. But apart from a couple of soldiers standing around or picking themselves up off the ground, there was nothing except for flickering flames and rising columns of smoke.
“Our own side bombed us,” Dave said unbelievingly. “They bombed Gambell.”
“They never cared about us before,” Perri said bitterly. “Why should they start now?”
“Yeah, but… this is like US territory. They bombed their own territory!”
He tapped Dave on the shoulder, pointing back to the tank, “Let’s get back down. Any Russian out there left alive is going to be looking for blood after this. Lying low is looking like an even better idea now.”

*
*


Private Zubkov had been caught out in the open when the cruise missiles hit. He knew they were cruise missiles because he saw one of the bastards curl around the bluff at the end of town and head straight for the town hall.
It hadn’t even been an hour since the ammo dump had gone up. They were still looking for the Captain. It was kind of strange. Not like there was some big blast that could have vaporized him. The guy next to Zubkov had been hit with the base plate of a field mortar, that was what took his face off. And another guy, he took a ricochet in the leg. So they’d all ducked behind cover and waited until all of the ammo had cooked off and it was just a red smoldering mess down there, and then they stuck their heads out again.
But the Captain was missing. The Sergeant who had been sent to the airfield had finally come back after about thirty minutes, wondering why he hadn’t received any further orders and the Captain wasn’t on comms. He’d told them to start searching through the town, block by block.
“Could be freaking partisans,” Sergeant Penkov said. “They blew the ammo dump, took the Captain hostage maybe.”
Zubkov thought about the frightened Inuit families he’d helped herd into the school building, and didn’t think so. They were fishermen and women with kids. Grandmothers and grandfathers. He didn’t see an armed resistance in their faces, more like weary resignation. But then he remembered the flickering shadows of men running up on the bluff, and he wasn’t so sure. He was thinking about that as he rounded a corner behind some sort of warehouse and found the Captain.
The man was standing and staring out to sea. Just standing there, staring. He didn’t react when Zubkov called out to him, and didn’t turn when he came up behind him. “Captain Demchenko?”
The man was just standing with a strange smile on his face, watching the sea.
“Comrade Captain?”
Now he turned, eyes semi-glazed, looking at Zubkov, or looking through him. Zubkov couldn’t tell.
“I love mankind,” the officer said. “But I find to my amazement, that the more I love mankind as a whole, the less I love man himself.”
Zubkov stared at him. Demchenko stood there, as though he was waiting for an answer. Zubkov was used to the vagaries of the officer class, and took the observation in his stride.
“Well, yes Sir. There’s not a lot to love.” Zubkov looked around himself. “Especially in a #%&*$#
like this, sir.”
The Captain frowned, like that was not the reply he had expected. “The mystery of human existence lies not in just staying alive, but in finding something to live for,” he said, looking out to sea again.
The voice was so dead and even, it chilled Zubkov. He stepped in front of his CO. “Sir, I think maybe we should just…” Then he stopped talking, because he saw a thin line of blood running down the man’s cheek, from the corner of his eyeball to the corner of his mouth, pulsing with every beat of his heart.
“Sir, why don’t you just come with me,” Zubkov said. He took the man’s arm and started to lead him, unresisting, back to the poorly lit streets.
“You can be sincere, and still be stupid,” the Captain said, conversationally.
Finally Zubkov realized where he had heard the words before. It was Dostoyevsky. The man was standing out in the cold night air quoting Dostoyevsky to himself. He stopped, and took a flashlight off his belt. He shone it in the face of the Captain, and the man flinched, but he didn’t ask Zubkov what the hell he was doing, he just screwed his eyes shut.
Zubkov looked carefully at the line of blood leaking from the man’s eye. It was still pulsing out of the eye in a tiny, red stream. On an instinct, he reached his hand up to the man’s head, and felt the hair at the back of his head. There was blood there too.
“Man is sometimes extraordinarily, passionately in love with suffering,” the Captain pointed out.
“Yes sir,” Zubkov agreed. “He most certainly is. This way if you please.”
And as they’d emerged from between buildings the first cruise missile had hit. It exploded across the other side of town near the town hall, with enormous force; bracketed almost immediately by two more strikes out by the airfield.
Not partisans then.
Zubkov had shoved his damaged Captain back behind a wall and then dived for the dirt. As he watched, he saw a dark deltoid with a tail of fire come screaming around the bluff, over the bay and head straight for him.
*
*


Bondarev seemed to exist in a twilight of blurred grey light for eternity. Was this death? Just as it seemed it must be, features around him started to come into sharper relief. A window showing a bleak snowy landscape outside, a bed with rails on both sides, curtains around him. A hospital then, not quite the Valhalla he had been hoping for.
“Welcome back. It is a miracle you didn’t go into cardiac arrest,” the base physician said as he realized Bondarev was awake and watching him. “You lost more than a liter of blood.”
“Yes. I was trying to do the math on that,” Bondarev admitted. He looked up at the IV bag next to his bed, then down at his bandaged leg.
“Otherwise, it’s not too bad,” the doctor moved down to the end of the bed and pulled the bed cover aside. “Wiggle your toes for me.”
He did so, wincing as something felt like it was tearing in his calf. “OK, that’s enough, stop now,” the man said. “Just rest.” It sounded like a grand idea.
He was wide awake the next time the physician called past.
“Good, you’re looking more alert now. The shrapnel sliced across your gastrocnemius, opened up a vein, but didn’t sever the Achilles. We’ve stitched you up, you just need to rest.”
“How long?”
“Two weeks,” the doctor said. “Maybe one if you can stay off it. Any sooner and you'll open it up again.”
“No, doctor, I need to fly,” Bondarev said.
“Not with that leg. Not happening.”
Bondarev sighed, “In world war two, the British had an ace, Douglas Bader, who had no legs comrade doctor. He flew Hurricane fighters; big, stinking, gasoline powered metal and wooden beasts without fly by wire, without dynamic control surfaces, without the help of a combat AI.” Bondarev lifted his leg off the bed, trying not to wince, “So put a splint and a bandage around it, give me a crutch and sign me out. I need to find out what is left of my 4th and 5th Air Battalions.”
The physician held his foot, and lowered it back to the bed, “There is no rush Comrade Colonel. Your men won the air battle, but American missiles exterminated almost all of our troops along with half of their own citizens on that island. Our governments have agreed a cease fire. The genie has been put back in the bottle. For now.”
Bondarev laid his head back on the pillow, “Tell someone I want to see Lieutenant Colonel Arsharvin please. Now.”
He needed to find out how many men and machines he had lost. This hiatus wouldn’t last long, of that he was sure. The American response had been expected, had in fact been needed. With or without him, Operation LOSOS should have moved immediately into phase 2 by now. Leveraging global outrage over the US attack on Russia, on its own citizens, the invasion of the Yukon River basin should have begun.
A cease fire? Something was wrong.
*
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You're quite nasty to your characters. I like that.