“I sweet-talked one of them. I told him of my background in the IDF, he gave me this and a case of mags.” She grinned and ran her hands over the weapon, caressing it. “They had some spare 416s. Does it suit me?”
“You look like Lara Croft.”
She looked at him, chin up, with a cheeky smile.
“I think I’d need better boobs for that role, Nils.”
He turned back to the computer. He knew whatever he said would be picked apart.
Marjan came into the room again later.
“Are you ready to go down to the Svalbar pub?”
“Yeah, ok.” Nils started to get his warm weather gear on along with his coat.
Matjan stood by the door with the H&K 416 slung over her shoulder.
“What’s that for?”
“The Jegerkommando said that it’s mine, and that I should keep it with me at all times. That was true in the IDF too. Come on.”
The two of then donned their skis outside while two Jegerkommando looked on. One raised a hand. They’d follow behind.
Nils and Marjan pushed off towards the town.
Several minutes later, Marjan took her skis off and opened the pub door. They stepped inside followed by the Norwegian troops.
At the bar, the server looked up at them.
“Hi.” She looked at the 416 slung over Marjan’s shoulder and frowned slightly.
“It’s the men,” said Marjan. “They can be pushy you know. A girl needs protection.”
They took two beers and sat at a table striking up a conversation with some Norwegians visiting Svalbard. The night wore on.
Over a thousand miles away, near Zelenoborsk, west of the Urals, several platoons of men dressed in Arctic whites listened to their briefing as they prepared their weapons.
4
“Contact, contact, multiple bogeys, bearing 86 degrees, range 1,150km. Heading 306 degrees, speed 390 knots. Heading is Svalbard, repeat multiple bogeys heading for Svalbard. Return indicates Mil traffic, Russia based.”
The duty Wing Commander looked at the map and estimated their progress. He called his opposite number at Bardufoss.
“Yes, I’ve seen it too. I’ll get the QRA up.”
The RNoAF Bardufoss duty Commander activated the base announcement speakers. Echoing around the base came the alert: “Scramble QRA, repeat scramble QRA. Bogeys inbound heading for Svalbard.”
Heavy concrete doors started to slide back from the two hardened aircraft shelters. Ground crews made a few last checks on the two F16s. Two crew climbed in the aircraft and started; under two minutes later they lifted from the runway, wheels up, and turned north.
Lieutenant Hakon ‘Skull breaker’ Solbakken was lead, and Cristian ‘Fiddler’ Musial was his wingman.
“Hare flight, your intercept course is eight degrees.”
“Copy, Soreissa.”
The transit north over the Barents Sea was a four fifths cloud over the grey waves below.
“Hare one, read my vector, Soreissa. I’m going to come in visual from behind.”
“Copy, Hare one. Your vector is ten degrees, range 12 kilometres.” Two minutes later the controller’s female voice came on again.“Hare flight, come to vector 281 degrees, target is three kilometres to your port.”
“Copy.” Skull breaker pulled the stick left and lined up the HUD on the bearing. His wingman did the same. Looking ahead, he squinted: there. The aircraft gained on them.
“Soreissa control, I have a visual, two SU30 escorting an Il-76. I suspect 76 is carrying troops.”
Two formidable Russian fighters, Sukhoi SU30s, which were among the best in the world, escorted an Ilyushin Il-76 four engine transport aircraft.
They seemed unaware of his presence; he’d let them know they had company by switching on his radar.
“Fiddler, keep to one point five km separation, I’m going to turn the torch on.”
“Copy Skull.”
He turned on his radar, illuminating the three aircraft. It took 20 seconds for the radar to warm up and the two Russian fighters to register it. They both pulled hard to the left, leaving the 76. At that moment, gunfire tracers streaked across the sky in front of him from right to left.
“What the…? Fiddler, break right.”
They’d turn into the oncoming aircraft. Skull knew it would be behind them as they completed the turn. He’d keep hard G on to come back into the opposition. He saw more rounds whizz by his wingman, just a few meters from his aircraft.
“Damn it.” Lieutenant Hakon knew they must have a four-ship escorting the Il-76, that’s what comes from a radar off approach. It’s stealthy, but you’re blind. He pulled up to bleed off some speed and saw that Fiddler now had an SU30 pulling in behind.
“Fiddler, break left, bogey on your six.”
As his wingman turned, Skull saw a missile leave a hardpoint on the SU30. “Vampire on your six, vampire.”
Fiddler pulled to his left and within seconds saw one of the original SU30s in front and to the left. Fiddler pickled the stick and an AIM9X Sidewinder shot off after the Russian fighter.
Skull breaker, now inverted, saw the Russian short range Vymple R-73 missile strike his wingman in the tailpipe. The F16 broke up and tumbled head over heels. As he turned, he saw an SU30 flaming down towards the sea. “Good shot, Fiddler.”
“Shit.” He’d nearly missed it.
Skull rolled right way up and pulled right; an SU30 came into his death cone and he released a Sidewinder 9X. It sped off after its prey. He pulled hard right and out of the corner of his eye saw the SU30 explode.
“Skull breaker fox two.” He felt himself grey out with the G, but fought it with tensing moves by his body.
Soon he saw one of the SU30s that had pounced on them, and as soon as he could he pickled the stick and an AIM 9X rushed off after the Sukhoi. “Skull breaker fox two.”
He rolled inverted and pulled back on the stick. He looked up and saw it. “Yes.” He fired another AIM9X at the SU30. “Skull breaker fox two.” Where the hell was the other one?
He pulled left and looked about: nothing. He felt a rushing but brief hot sensation, and saw flames inside the canopy as the Vymple R-73 smashed into his Pratt and Whitney PW220E engine. His F16 fell burning from the sky.
Neither of the RNoAF pilots had ejected, but then neither had three Russian SU30 pilots.
It was done. A quiet sky and grey sea returned to its cold Arctic peace. Just storm petrels and the odd albatross roamed the unforgiving northern skies.
The Ilyushin transport, now with just one fighter in escort, flew on towards Svalbard.
Men dressed in white cold weather combat gear sat in the cargo hold of the Il-76, cleaned their AK 12s and filled the magazines. They joked about how the only difference between Norwegian women and a walrus was makeup.
The 83rd VDV Air Assault Brigade of the Russian Airborne were no tourists.
The early morning snow was clearing and the half platoon, around ten men of the Jegerkommando, skiied down the hill towards Longyearbyen. Major Tandberg brought up the rear. They were still high but descending towards the town when he looked up and pulled to a stop.
“Troop, pull up.” They turned on their skis and came to a stop. Tandberg looked up and listened. He heard a distant jet aircraft; it grew louder. Odd, he frowned, there was no traffic due, and he could tell it was a large aircraft. Then he saw them. Descending through the still snowy sky were paratroopers, and hanging ten feet or so below them were large Bergens. This was unexpected; he hadn’t been told of any exercise being due. As they came down and approached for landing, he noticed their uniforms weren’t Norwegian.