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July 15, 2035, North Japan Sea, 45°N, Edge of Japanese Airspace
"Crow 00, this is Mare 01. Where's the tanker?"
Lieutenant Colonel Mita, commander of the 312th Air Squadron from the carrier Kii, was growing impatient. Nearly two hours had passed since launching. Initially tasked with fleet air cover, his squadron was now stuck circling at 45°N, the edge of Japan's airspace, east of Wakkanai, with no clear orders.
Per the "Bratstvo" exercise plan, they were to engage a simulated enemy launching supersonic anti-ship missiles. By now, they should've fired all missiles and been returning to Kii. Instead, an abrupt exercise cancellation left them loitering, laden with air-to-air missiles, with no new scenario provided. Circling aimlessly was wearing thin.
The last order: hold at 45°N, the airspace boundary, and "wait for the tanker." No further clarity.
"Mare 01, Aster 02. Sorry for the wait. KC-767 at bearing 12, 200 klicks. Refuel. It's a long haul—fill up or you'll go hungry."
The call came not from Kii but from an Air Force AWACS over Hokkaido.
"Aster 02, Mare 01. Mare and Kormo squads heading to refuel. Long haul? Where are we being sent?"
"Mare 01, you and the Chitose and Misawa units won a deluxe trip north. Join the Air Force squad at the refueling point and standby."
"North?" Mita echoed. At Wakkanai's latitude, north meant Russia or the Arctic. Russia wouldn't allow Japanese jets in their airspace, and the Arctic held no targets.
Fine. Orders were orders. Refuel at the KC-767 over Hokkaido's northern tip.
"Mare and Kormo squads, proceed to refuel. Bearing 12."
"Mare 02, copy."
"Kormo 01, copy."
The twenty F3B fighters ten from Mare, ten from Kormo bank left in sequence.
"Mare 01, this is Coby 01. Ready to refuel. Come in one by one. Join the Air Force squad after and await orders."
"Mare 01, copy."
"Kormo 01, this is Coby 02. Your tanker's here. Let's make it quick."
"Kormo 01, copy."
Mita maneuvers his F3B to approach the KC-767 at 8,000 meters. Opening the refueling port, he aligns with the tanker's flying boom. The boom connects with a jolt, pumping fuel in minutes. Confirming disconnection, Mita dips to clear the way. One by one, his squadron refuels, a process taking nearly an hour for all ten jets.
"Mare 01, refueling complete."
"Thanks, Coby 01. Belly full, ready to roll. Call us if we need another top-up."
"Roger. Good luck, carrier-borne. Come back alive."
Mita leads Mare's ten jets away, Kormo's ten following. Ten kilometers north, the Air Force squadron awaits.
"Squadron Leader, this is Mare 01, 312th Air Squadron, Kii. Mare and Kormo squads, twenty jets, joining up."
"Mare 01, Jake 01, Squadron Leader. Welcome. More friends, the better."
The Air Force's 100-jet formation F3A, F35A, F2, and modernized F15DJ resembles a grand air show defending Japan's skies. Mita slots his squadron at the rear.
"Aster 02, Jake 01. All units assembled. Where's the fight?"
"Aster 02, copy. All units, this is not a drill. Repeat, not a drill. Climb to 10,000 meters, vector 34. Cross ADIZ into Russian airspace. Control transfers to Russian Aerospace Forces AWACS, callsign Berkut, upon entering their ADIZ. Do not engage Russian aircraft. Target details from Berkut. Follow Berkut's orders post-engagement and exit Russia swiftly. This is not a drill. Do not engage Russian aircraft. Repeat, not a drill."
"Aster 02, confirm: we enter Russian airspace under their AWACS guidance?"
"Correct. The enemy is not Russian. Do not engage them. Fuel's covered refuel in Khabarovsk or with our tankers off Russia's coast."
"Jake 01, copy. Japan's first real combat in Russia, with them as allies? Wild. We'll honor our tradition. All units, climb to 10,000, vector 34, into Russia. Control shifts to Russian AWACS. Follow their lead."
"Kaiser 01, copy."
"Glory 01, copy."
"Mare 01, copy."
"Follow on."
The F15DJ, callsign Jake 01, banks sharply north. One by one, the 120-jet formation follows, crossing the ADIZ in 15 minutes, 200 kilometers out.
"Aster 02 to Jake and all units. One minute to Russian ADIZ. Their AWACS is Berkut. Comms are chaotic don't mix it up. Give Berkut my regards. Good luck."
"Aster 02, Jake 01. Copy. Thanks for the escort."
Exactly one minute later:
"Japanese forces, this is Berkut, Russian Aerospace Forces. Confirm 120 jets, 201st Squadron and others?"
"Berkut, Jake 01. Thanks for having us. Ordered to support you. Guide us in."
"Chitose's Jake 01, that you? Our recon teams owe you. First time chatting."
"Guess I'm famous. Tell your recon boys to bring vodka next time, and I might let them in."
"Roger. I'll pass it on strong stuff. Keep course. Hit the coast, turn to bearing 31 over Nerima, fly 1,000 klicks. Further orders then."
"Nerima?"
"Not that Nerima. Small coastal village."
"Roger. Straight on, bearing 31 at coast, 1,000 klicks."
"Jake 01, correct. Don't stray your IFF could trigger our defenses."
The 120 Japanese jets speed northeast over the Sea of Japan, reaching Russia's coast. Over the village "Nerima," they adjust course, diving deeper into Russian territory, trailing contrails over endless forested mountains at just below Mach 1.
"Jake, Berkut. Info clearance granted. Sharing Farazoa data."
"Jake 01. Farazoa? That's the target?"
"So they say. Mother ships at 300 klicks altitude, deploying thousands of small fighters into the atmosphere. You're heading to Norsky Zapovednik, one landing zone. About 15,000 fighters descended."
Mother ships? 15,000 fighters? Mita's mind reels.
"What!?"
"Aliens, for real?"
"Hacked systems or too many movies?"
"Just watched Independence Day last week."
Shock and skeptical chuckles ripple through the disciplined squadron. Mita hears a mix of disbelief and nervous laughter.
"Berkut, hold up. Farazoa came from space? 15,000 of them?"
"Jake 01, exactly. Hard to swallow, but it's real. They're here, fighting our and Chinese forces."
"Berkut, Jake 01. Data error? Not some elaborate prank?"
"Data's triple-checked. Planes burned by their lasers are limping back. No prank. What's a 'dokkiri'?"
"Forget dokkiri. Fine, share the intel. Don't want to blunder into Area 51."
"Your slang's alien to me. Fine, Jake 01. Four enemy types: recon, high-speed, missile carrier, electronic warfare. EW's inferred, not sighted. Of 15,000, 10,000 are high-speed, armed with two large-caliber lasers one hit downs an Su-27. Recon has smaller lasers, less power, but tiny and hard to hit. Missile carriers pack 50-100 Mach 10+ missiles, poor tracking but devastating one can erase a village. They also carry small lasers. EW types, unconfirmed, use intense barrage jamming and can fry electronics remotely. Your jets should hold, but Chinese planes are dropping like flies. Prioritize EW if spotted."
So, recon, fighters, bombers, and EW units, Mita thinks. Not so different from us, just on a massive scale.
"All show insane maneuverability: zero to Mach 3 instantly, near-90-degree turns at supersonic, near-zero stopping from Mach 5. Hard to detect smaller radar signature than Su-65s. Heat-seekers and active homing barely work. Missile hit rate's under 10%. Our kills are mostly gun-based."
"Berkut, you said they're insanely agile. How do guns hit them?"
"Good question, Jake 01. They're sluggish to react. Jink into their blind spot, and they fly straight for a bit. That's your shot. Our pilots swear by it. But don't get cocky their speed and agility outclass us. Get surrounded, you're done. Stay aware, pounce on a target, hit, and break off. Linger, and others swarm you."
"Busy job. Got it: dodge, strike, escape."
"Exactly. At 150 klicks past Khabarovsk, fire all Meteors. At 70 klicks, all Type 21s. Set IFF don't hit friendlies. Engage in gunfights. At 20% ammo, break off, regroup east of Khabarovsk. Further orders based on fuel."
"Berkut, Meteor BJ's range is 100 klicks, Type 21's 40. Too far."
"Jake 01, drop the act. Your Meteors reach 150, Type 21s 70. We know."
"Damn, really?"
"Hey, that's classified!"
"Haha, busted!"
"Russia's got our number."
"Berkut, Jake 01. Cold War vets still outsmart us. Past Khabarovsk, confirm IFF, fire all long-range missiles at 150 klicks, mid-range at 70, then guns. Break at 20% ammo, regroup east of Khabarovsk. Roger."
Ignoring the squad's mix of shock and resignation, Jake 01 repeats the plan. Mita hadn't realized how thoroughly foreign powers knew Japan's gear.
"Jake 01, good. North of here, enemy jamming may disrupt comms. Good luck, samurai."
"Berkut, thanks for the lead. Bol'shoye spasibo."
"All units, you heard. Don't forget IFF settings. Vector 31, past Khabarovsk, Meteors at 150 klicks, Type 21s at 70, then guns. If it's hairy, bug out. Regroup east of Khabarovsk. Set IFF now."
"Kaiser 01, copy."
"Glory 01, copy."
"Mare 01, copy."
The formation presses into Russia, now less than 100 kilometers from Khabarovsk. Combat looms.
Unlike the Army's occasional peacekeeping clashes or the Navy's pirate and terrorist encounters, this is the Air Force's first true combat. No one admits fear, but tense breaths and muttered words betray the squadron's nerves.
"Mare 01, you're our only combat-experienced unit. Say something," Jake 01 prompts.
Caught off guard while checking weapons, Mita pauses. His "combat" was chasing guerrilla helicopters in the Middle East and taunting missile-armed boats in South Asia hardly this. Still, he gets the intent.
"You've heard it: train like it's real, fight like it's training. We've drilled for this. We'll be fine."
A brief silence, then Jake 01's brighter voice: "Mare 01, thanks."
Sunlight, slanting west, glints off marshy pools in the endless forest below. The 120-jet formation—carrier and land-based—charges into its first real battle over foreign skies.