Robert Thomas - The Bear - Red Star Rising

Special thanks to

former Petty Officer James E. Walker United States Navy

USS Sea Devil (submariner) and

Lt. Colonel Rex Schlagenhauf

United States Air Force (ret)

who contributed their technical expertise to the writing of this work

The screen blurred as the white bar continued its unending sweep. Day in, day out. It never changed. He reached up and pinched the corners of his eyes by his nose. Two more hours, that’s all he needed, two more hours on duty. He leaned back, throwing his arms above his head, trying to stretch. He felt the kink between his shoulder blades tighten. Nothing seemed to help. The dingy white ceiling tiles above, stained from the endless leaking above showed their years of use. He adjusted himself in his seat. Why couldn’t they give them some good chairs to sit in? He hated this one; its fake leather surface was peeling like a cheap whore. He smiled at the thought. His mother wouldn’t have liked him to say something like that.

The single tone that slipped through his headset made him blink. He turned his head from side to side, a crack of the neck a welcome relief. He focused his attention on the screen and watched as the single dot began to turn into a line.

“Capt’n? We have a contact.”

“Any F/F?”

“No sir, no friend or foe info.”

“Log it and let me know.”

“Yes sir, but I think it’s a biggie. The return is too strong for a Piper or something.”

“Let me look. They really need to do something about the private aircraft up here, damn it. These locals are all over the place.”

“It’s the only way to deliver supplies to most of Alaska, sir. Can’t do much about the weather up here, and the roads suck in the winter.” The airman manning the screen had been on this tour for a couple of years. His captain was a newbie.

“I hear ya.” The sound of his boots on the hard floor echoed across the room before falling silent. Captain Will Jenner looked down at the screen and was instantly greeted with multiple returns. “Holy shit! I thought you said there was only one dot?”

Their actions were immediate, a well-practiced drill that honed their skills without a scrap of emotion. The receiver for the dedicated land-line made its connection immediately.

“Command Five, this is Diamond Command. We have multiple inbound bogeys. Scramble Charlie Six. Repeat. Scramble Charlie Six.”

“Charlie Six, roger Diamond Command. Scramble Charlie Six, came the hollow reply.”

“They really need to upgrade this equipment some day. I’ll bet this stuff was what my grandfather used back in the eighties,” the operator said with a sly grin.

“It was, airman. And it worked just fine back then too.”

The deep voice that poured into the room brought everyone but the station operators to their feet. As the smoke from his cigar swirled around his weathered face, General Nathan Dulles’ presence in the command center was immediately acknowledged. After surveying the room, he bounded over to the display. He was hands-on, and everyone knew it. He came up through the ranks, earning the respect of the enlisted along the way.

“General,” Jenner said as he nodded toward his CO. Dulles nodded back as he looked to the display.

“Only the screen has been updated since my time in this unit, airman. You might be sitting in the same chair I did”

“Sir?”

“What’cha got?”

“Multiple traces inbound off the coast. Big ones, sir.”

“From Russia?”

“Looks that way, sir.”

“What have we done about it?”

“Six Raptors from Elmendorf, sir.”

“Skip the ‘sir’, airman.”

“Yes, sss…” The operator cleared his throat before continuing his report. The general was one not to stand on ceremony while in the command center, but it was a difficult habit to break. “They seemed to come out of nowhere. First,” he tapped the display, “this showed up followed quickly by all these others.”

“Hmm, likely a jamming bird. Wonder why they showed up all of a sudden?”

“Perhaps their jammer had a problem. Or maybe they just turned it off to get our attention,” Jenner remarked.

“Could be, Captain. The Russians have a funny way of doing things to antagonize us.” Dulles turned away from the display as a new string of traces, these with a set of numbers, showed up on the screens.

“Raptors showing on the screen.”

“How far out?”

“Fifteen minutes.”

“Damn, too slow.”

“They’ll probably just turn back, General. They usually do.”

“But not before we show ’em the business side of our wings, Captain. Nothing like the thought of an AMRAAM up your tail to make someone think twice.”

The clear skies, as blue as any he could remember were painted serenely above his canopy. What few clouds inhabited the heavens were no more than wispy strings of cotton stretched well past their breaking point. It was a sharp contrast to the stark white ground that passed quickly below his fighter, thirty-thousand feet below. Visibility wasn’t an issue; he could see the curvature of the earth in all its glory. Picking out small dots racing at him at over 1200 knots was another matter. Fortunately he was at the stick of the most advanced fighter on earth, and he had five friends beside him.

“Roger that. I have a vector on them.” Captain Daryl Wills, call sign Chipmunk, followed the line on his display. He was the lead Raptor in the Red Diamond sortie. The avionics in his fighter were the coolest he’d ever seen, one of the reasons he wanted a chance to fly them, even if it meant relocating to Alaska. He’d come a long way just to be in this position, in the action. Within five minutes, the challenge was made.

“Unknown rider, unknown rider, you have violated United States airspace. You are ordered to turn away.” The crackle over his headset was the only answer he received.

“Perhaps you should speak Russian to them.”

“Can the chatter, Sweeper,” Wills said, shooting his rebuke toward his team. We’ve got work to do.” He flipped the mike again. “Neizvestnyi vsadnik, neizvestnyi vsadnik, vy narushali vozdushnoe prostranstvo Soedinennykh Shatov. Prikazyvaiu vam povernut'sia” He was left again with nothing but static.

“Holy crap! I didn’t know you spoke Russian.”

“Okay boys. Seems like they want to play hardball today. Just like we practiced, okay?”

The Raptors broke formation just as four of the bogeys split off from their own. The number of blips on Chipmunk’s display increased by a third.

“We’ve got trouble. There’s more than we thought.” Chipmunk looked at his display and quickly evaluated his options. “Execute Tango-Sierra.”

The Raptors widened their formation as the bogeys bore down on their unchanging path. Captain Wills and his wingman flew headlong into the oncoming aircraft, nearly sideswiping four, large Tu-160 Blackjack bombers. The Raptors banked left, pulling up hard and coming in behind the bombers on their six.

“Where are the other planes?”

“Holy shit. They damn near took my tail off.”

“What did?”

“A Mig-29. Damn, the other’s right up behind us.”

“Same over here. How’d they get there?”

“Get ’em off your tale, Sweeper.”

“Roger that.” He pulled hard banking away from the bomber’s flightpath.

Captain Wills closed in above the Blackjacks hoping to draw the Migs off his fighters, staying above the bombers to avoid the turbulent vortex from their wingtips.