Arctic Nights
The unthinkable has happened. Despite the best of what diplomacy could offer, war has broken out in the high north.
The Russian Armed Forces moved swiftly to take Kirkenes and Varangerfjord. Intense shelling of Lakselv by Russian submarines has Norway on their back foot and without a northern airfield. Ivalo, an important crossroads along the Lahti Highway in Lapland, seems doomed to fall into Russian hands.
All in such short notice. Hidden from view beneath the canopies of snow-dusted birch trees. All under the cover of darkness in this perpetual Arctic night.
Greens and blues faintly faded in and out over their kneeboard, illuminating coordinates, time on targets, fuel planning, and more. The soft glow of an amber light illuminated the warm lip of a coffee canister. A familiar voice calls out over the radio, pinging another pilot about their rations. A sense of comfort washed over them as their focus drifted elsewhere.
They never thought they’d see real combat. Not here, not now. And yet, here they were.
“Some night, eh?”, said the familiar voice over the radio.
“Yeah…”
“Are you always this bothered?”, they ring again.
The pilot doesn’t respond, pulling back their lips in a moment of frustrated thought. Before they could reply, the pilot off their right wing chimes in.
“Life has funny way of keeping us on our toes. It’s never truly safe out there, even where you think they can’t get you.”
The radio falls into an uncomfortable silence.
“Keep your tails high”, the pilot rings again, “Let’s make it out of this alive.”
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