However, he reflected, those were conflicts where there’d been no one flying against them. He knew the Russians were good and he knew the Russians might be looking for him and his wingman that day. Here in Ukraine, it was his Exercise Red Flag “Top Gun” training above the Nevada desert—American pilots training against American instructors, simulating Russian tactics—that he might need to rely on now, if the Russians decided to take them on.

“Remember what they told us on Red Flag?” he said to his wingman, Captain Leroy MacDonald, a good-looking Floridian from Tallahassee. “Survive the first eleven missions and you’ll survive the war.”

“I’ll follow your lead, skipper. You’ve been around. I’m the learner here.”

“We’re all learners . . . All the time. That’s the only way to stay alive as a pilot,” said Bertinetti. “Come on, Leroy. Let’s get airborne.”

Fifty minutes later, the two F-16 Fighting Falcon, single-engine, multi-role fighter aircraft were airborne at 15,000 feet over the flat, black-earthed expanse of eastern Ukraine.

“Zulu One, this is Apollo flight.” Bertinetti called MacDonald. “Are you in contact with friendlies?”

“Affirmative, Apollo, I’ve got them covered with my pod.”

“Copy that, Zulu. Slewing my targeting pod up now. Looks pretty quiet, but we can take nothing for granted.”

The pair of F-16s screamed across the wide blue arc of the Ukrainian sky, describing a wide orbit as they maintained cover over the Americans working with the weapon-locating battery on the ground. If any Ukrainian separatists decided to mess with the American trainers below, they would have one of America’s most potent strike fighters to deal with.

“Apollo, Apollo. This is Giant Killer, are you receiving me?” Bertinetti’s radio crackled in his ear.

Unusual for Ground Control to call without a reason, he thought.

“Affirmative, Giant Killer. I’m reading you five by five.”

“Apollo. Bogey one o’clock, inside five miles. Single contact descending to one four thousand.”

“Copy. Apollo is no joy—I cannot see target—standby.”

Bertinetti put his aircraft into a steep turn to starboard, simultaneously putting his radar and weapons into dogfight mode with a deft flick of his left thumb on the throttle. He vigorously scanned the sky through the bubble canopy and suddenly picked up the contact visually: an Ilyushin Il-76, a multi-purpose, four-engine, strategic airlifter, the Russian air force insignia clear to see. And it was heading west, for central Ukraine.

“Giant Killer, this is Apollo Two. Tally one. Russian Ilyushin Seventy-six, heading west. Do you want me to intercept?”

“Apollo Two, affirmative.”