One thousand kilometers northeast of Wrangel Island and five hundred kilometers due north of the Alaska coast, two other Russian aircraft flew a fuel-conserving racetrack pattern. One was a very large, swept-wing aircraft with four eight-bladed propellers, a Russian Tu-142 maritime reconnaissance plane. The other, almost as big, was an IL-78M-90A refueling tanker. They were several thousand meters above the solid cloud layer, orbiting high enough to make out a pale orange glow off to the southeast. In these polar latitudes, so close to the beginning of true winter, the sun never actually appeared above the horizon.

Colonel Iosif Zinchuk looked out the left side of the Tu-142’s cockpit as he banked gently into yet another turn. Far below, he saw the two Su-35s break out of the clouds and streak toward them, climbing almost vertically. He keyed his mike. “Bodyguard, this is Prospector,” he said. “I have you in sight.”

“Copy that, Prospector,” the lead fighter pilot, Major Vadim Kuryokhin, acknowledged. “Permission to tank from Mother Hen. We’re not exactly flying on fumes, but we could be a lot more comfortable.”

Zinchuk knew the other man wasn’t exaggerating. Reaching this distant midair rendezvous without being spotted by American radar had required both Su-35s to fly well beyond their normal combat radius. Without additional fuel from the IL-78, they would be doomed to ditch somewhere in the icy wastes below, or, worse yet, make a humiliating emergency landing at the nearest American airport. “Permission granted,” he radioed immediately. He throttled back all four of the Tu-142’s big engines, slowing down to make room for them behind the humpbacked tanker aircraft.

For a time, the four Russian aircraft flew together in formation. Zinchuk watched closely as the two Su-35s carefully edged in behind the much-larger IL-78, each aiming for one of the drogue baskets streaming behind its left and right wing. Through his headset, he could hear a calm, running radio commentary between the three aircraft as they helped guide each other into position. Despite air currents that set the baskets bouncing and swaying in the tanker’s wake, both fighter pilots succeeded in making contact after only a couple of failed attempts. And once they were solidly connected, the task of refueling itself took comparatively little time. The IL-78’s pumps could transfer more than thirty liters of fuel per second, enough to fully replenish both fighters in less than eight minutes.

One after the other, the Su-35s broke contact and peeled away from the tanker. “Prospector, Bodyguard,” Zinchuk heard Kuryokhin say. “We’re ready to proceed when you are.”

“Copy that, Bodyguard,” he replied. “I’m starting our run now. Give me plenty of room until we break out of the clouds.” Slowly, he turned the Tu-142’s steering yoke back to the right and pushed forward. In response, the huge aircraft banked toward the south-southeast and descended. Moments later, they crossed into the cloud layer and the world outside the cockpit vanished—swallowed up in a sea of unrelieved gray. The buffeting increased, accompanied by a staccato fusillade of ice droplets spattering across the wings, canopy, and fuselage.