Zinchuk concentrated on holding the big reconnaissance plane straight and level while the two much-smaller jet fighters carefully maneuvered into position—closing on the Tu-142 until they were flying only a couple of dozen meters away on each side. With luck and skill, their smaller radar signatures would blend with that of the much-larger aircraft, presenting the Americans with what should appear on their screens as only a single bogey.

Several minutes later, Zinchuk heard Lieutenant Gorsheniov, the Tu-142’s navigator, call out over the intercom, “Feet dry!” They had just crossed the Alaska coast and were now back over land.

With a touch of weary cynicism, the colonel considered how little practical difference there was between the sea’s ice-covered expanses and the snow-and-ice-layered frozen tundra stretching ahead of them. Colliding with either surface—solid land or solid water—meant sudden death. Slowly, he pulled back on the yoke, bringing the Tu-142’s nose up a few degrees to begin a steady climb to higher altitude. The northernmost slopes of the rugged mountains making up the Brooks Range were only sixty kilometers away.

Over Central Alaska

That Same Time

Two dark gray F-22 Raptors from the Ninetieth Fighter Squadron flew north-northeast from Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson. Both carried twin six-hundred-gallon external fuel tanks mounted on underwing pylons and a full internal weapons payload of six AIM-120 AMRAAM radar-guided missiles and two AIM-9X Sidewinder heat-seekers. They were headed toward a midair rendezvous with Exult One-Five, the RC-135V Rivet Joint electronic intelligence aircraft currently orbiting west of Fairbanks.

Aboard the lead Raptor, Captain Connor “Doc” McFadden suddenly heard the voice of an air controller from Elmendorf-Richardson come up over his radio. “Casino Lead, this is Air Ops Center,” the controller said. “We’re changing your mission. Both our E-3 Sentry and Barter Island have picked up the same new air contact—probably another Tu-142 patrol plane. It just crossed the coast east of Barter Island, heading south-southeast at around three hundred and eighty knots. Bearing zero-one-five, range three hundred and forty miles, altitude six thousand and climbing. We need you to intercept, positively identify, and warn off that Russian aircraft.”

McFadden clicked his mike. “Copy that, Ops,” he said tersely. “Anything else we should know about?”

“Affirmative, Casino,” the controller told him. “Signals intelligence from Exult One-Five strongly suggests the Russian recon plane could be accompanied by combat aircraft, probably Su-35s. And the E-3 says that bogey may be a little too big to be just one aircraft. So stay sharp.”

McFadden whistled softly off-mike. So the Russians had figured out a way to provide fighter escorts for their patrol planes coming over the Arctic? Well, that was a new twist, and not a good one. “Lead to Casino Two,” he radioed. “Let’s punch it, Cat. The closer we intercept these guys to the coast, the more maneuvering room we’ll have.”

“Copy that, Doc,” his wingman, Lieutenant Allison “Cat” Parilla, acknowledged. “But that blizzard coming across the mountains is really nasty.”

McFadden nodded to himself. The quick meteorology brief they’d been given just before takeoff had shown yet another severe winter storm headed across the state, with fierce winds and bands of thick clouds. “Well, let’s just hope these guys play it smart and come in above the weather,” he said, advancing his throttles. Instantly, he was pressed back deeper into his seat as the F-22’s powerful twin Pratt & Whitney turbofans spooled up.