“That aircraft was designed to haul something we don’t even have anymore, but it is still so valid. It is so versatile at all altitudes, with internal and external loads. It’s an outstanding capability.”

—Maj. Gen. William "Tim" Crosby, program executive officer for Aviation

Rumble rolling across Afghan ridges, echoing like distant thunder. Suddenly, its silhouette sweeps into view, twin rotors slicing the thin mountain air, stirring up a storm of dust and debris. From the open hatch, the flight engineer directs the pilots with practiced ease, lowering the bird toward waiting cargo: water, fuel, ammo, the lifeblood for soldiers cut off from civilization.

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CENTCOM launched a round of strikes against Iran at 3 p.m. ET today for the seventh consecutive night. The strikes are designed to continue degrading Iranian military capabilities at the Commander in Chief’s direction.

—U.S. Central Command

Mission Briefing

Iran launches a retaliatory storm, sending ballistic missiles and drones screaming toward Muwaffaq Salti Air Base in Jordan. The world holds its breath as two U.S. service members fall, the echo of loss hanging heavy in the air, while another is still unaccounted for. It’s a chapter written in smoke and steel—where vengeance flies at supersonic speed, and the cost is measured in lives and silence.

Two U.S. Troops Killed, One Missing

The desert sky on 17 July 2026 was anything but ordinary. Picture this: Muwaffaq Salti Air Base, nestled in Jordan’s endless sands, suddenly caught in the crosshairs of international fury. Iran, stung by a relentless U.S. bombing campaign, unleashed a wave of ballistic missiles and drones, turning the quiet base—home to hundreds of U.S. service members—into the heart of a geopolitical storm.

By sunrise, the gravity of the attack came into focus. U.S. Central Command (CENTCOM) stepped up to the mic on July 18, voices heavy with loss: two American service members gone, one still missing, several wounded. Some rushed to Jordanian hospitals, others already back on their feet, refusing to be grounded by the chaos.

It was just the latest chapter in a high-altitude duel stretching across the Middle East. For seven nights straight, U.S. forces had hammered Iranian targets. Surveillance outposts, shadowy weapon caches, logistics arteries, even Iran’s maritime threat along the Strait of Hormuz.

The message was clear: deter, degrade, and deny. But Iran saw red, calling the campaign an act of unjustified aggression, and vowed payback.

The Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC) broadcast warnings: any nation lending its runways and hangars to these American birds of prey could expect fire in return. They insisted their crosshairs were fixed solely on military targets, but the fallout told another story.

Across the Gulf, civilian lifelines—water, power—were hit. In Kuwait, emergency crews and ordinary citizens found themselves in the blast radius. Elsewhere, vigilant air defenses intercepted more incoming danger.

Up here, in the cockpit or the control tower, it’s clear: the skies over the Middle East are as turbulent as ever, and every action draws a shadow on the horizon.

More Updates about the Attack

The Pentagon released the names of three American soldiers lost to Iranian strikes on Jordanian soil, and another who fell in Iraq. Their stories now soar on the wind.

First Lieutenant Tyler James Feehan, just 25, once walked the red clay of Georgia and the sunlit shores of Hawaii. He was a man whose dreams were as high as his rank. A wedding waiting for him back home, a lifetime of “what ifs” now carried by those he loved. His parents, their voices trembling but proud, want the world to know Tyler packed more living into his years than most ever dare.

Private Isabella Gonzales, 19, hailed from Carrollton, Texas, her journey just beginning. She perished alongside Feehan in the Friday attack on Muwaffaq Salti Air Base, a world away from home, yet standing tall with her brothers and sisters in arms.

Sergeant Angel S. Rampersad, 28, was once listed as missing in action. Now, with somber certainty, remembered as a hero lost in the same Jordanian strike. In Iraq, Sergeant Michael Emmanuel Swinton of Fayetteville, North Carolina, met his fate while defusing an Iranian drone, a silent guardian cut down mid-duty.

The Pentagon’s statement rings clear: the enemy struck hard, but these aviators stood their ground. There were others wounded—some airlifted, all now home—but the investigation presses on, seeking answers in the desert wind. Iran’s Revolutionary Guard claimed responsibility, but the legacy of these fallen will outlast any headline; etched in memory, honored by a grateful nation.

No Sanctuary on the Flight Line

In the deep night over Jordan, the Muwaffaq Salti Air Base (long a launchpad and lifeline for Washington and its allies) suddenly finds itself in the crosshairs. Iranian missiles and drones descend, rewriting the playbook in real time.

What was once a symbol of American reach and reassurance is now squarely a target. The attack doesn’t just puncture runways. It blasts apart assumptions. Three American lives lost, one missing then found, all proving that even the best missile shields can’t promise sanctuary when the salvos are persistent and precise.

For U.S. commanders, the pressure is on: strike back, but also rethink everything. Spread out assets, toughen up shelters, stockpile interceptors, sharpen warnings, and weigh the political risks of keeping troops within hostile range.

For Jordan and other hosts, the reality is sobering: opening your gates to American forces brings protection, but also paints a bullseye on your own soil, skies, and people. Suddenly, every local airport and highway is part of the battlespace.

Now, the coalition must pull tighter. Integrate air defenses, share intelligence, toughen bases, prep medevacs, and keep diplomatic lines open, all to avoid a punishing tit-for-tat spiral. Hesitate, and deterrence frays; overreact, and alliances crack.

Even European airlines are steering clear, sensing invisible hazards overhead. Muwaffaq Salti isn’t just a battered airstrip. It’s a flickering warning light on the coalition’s dashboard, charting a new course through uncertain skies.

This Week in Aviation History

It’s the sweltering days of August 1964, and two American destroyers are patrolling the steamy waters of the Gulf of Tonkin when—crack!—they radio in, claiming enemy fire from the North Vietnamese. Quick as a pilot banking into a turn, President Lyndon B. Johnson takes the news straight to Congress, asking for the green light to send more U.S. muscle into the churning skies and jungles of Indochina.

Vietnam Into the Turbulence

It’s 7 August 1964, and the U.S. Congress, in a flurry of tension and uncertainty, hands President Lyndon B. Johnson a blank check called the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution. It’s a document forged in the heat of Cold War paranoia.

It is a passport for Johnson to do whatever it takes to keep the peace and, more importantly, keep communism at bay in Southeast Asia. This single act lays down the legal runway for both Johnson and Nixon to launch and escalate the Vietnam War.

But let’s wind the clock back. The First Indochina War ends with a thunderclap. The Viet Minh, gritty guerrilla fighters under Ho Chi Minh, topple the French at Dien Bien Phu in 1954. At the Geneva Conference, world powers carve Vietnam in two: North and South, two rival pilots steering their own ships.

Elections are promised to reunite the country. The communists, organized and electrifying, seem poised for victory. But the United States, always wary of the Red tide, steps in. With the Southeast Asia Treaty Organization in its back pocket, America throws its weight behind South Vietnam’s leader, Ngo Dinh Diem, who scrubs the elections, fearing a communist landslide.

Diem runs the South, but his grip is slippery. The countryside—dusty, green, and restless—leans toward the Viet Cong, communist insurgents who blend in with the rice farmers and fishermen. By 1959, the jungle whispers turn to gunfire: the Second Indochina War flares up, the Viet Cong and their northern allies launching a full-throttle insurgency.

Diem, for all his American backing, never captures hearts like Ho Chi Minh in the North. His policies miss the mark, especially for the rural poor. By 1963, his regime crumbles. He’s ousted and killed in a coup, a move quietly blessed by the Kennedy White House.

Tragedy doubles down: three weeks later, Kennedy himself is assassinated. As new faces take command in Washington and Saigon, the dream of a stable, unified South Vietnam drifts further away, battered by coups, chaos, and the relentless march of war.

Tonkin Skies: Escalation Cleared for Takeoff

By August 1964, the cockpit lights of American policy in Vietnam were flashing red. President Johnson and his crew believed the only way out of the storm was to throttle up U.S. involvement. South Vietnam, after Diem’s dramatic exit, was still a country in freefall. Its military stumbling, its government in a tailspin.

Out in the humid jungles and along the winding trails, U.S.-backed raids tried to disrupt the enemy’s supply lines, while American bombers pounded the Lao border in hopes of clipping the wings of North Vietnamese support.

But the real drama was playing out at sea: two Navy destroyers, the Maddox and the Turner Joy, cruised the Gulf of Tonkin, backing South Vietnamese raids on the North. On August 2, the Maddox reported a skirmish with North Vietnamese patrol boats. Then, a second attack was reported two nights later; though later, doubts would swirl about whether that second dogfight ever really happened.

Still, the reports were enough. Johnson radioed Congress, asking for the green light to defend U.S. forces in Southeast Asia. The response was swift: the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution sailed through the House without a single dissent and met only two nay votes in the Senate. Lawmakers believed Johnson would loop back to them before hitting the afterburners on deeper involvement.

Those incidents over the waves—and the sweeping powers Congress granted—became the launch pad for a new phase of America’s flight into Vietnam. Banking on the hope that North Vietnam would buckle under relentless bombing, Johnson and his top brass launched Operation Rolling Thunder in February 1965, a pounding air campaign that roared on for two years.

Not stopping there, Johnson sent in the first waves of regular U.S. combat troops, parachuting them straight into the heart of the conflict, ready for a long-haul mission in Southeast Asia.

Radar Ghosts and an Unrecalled War

The Gulf of Tonkin’s legacy lies in how uncertain information became the runway for a wider war. The USS Maddox dances with danger as North Vietnamese patrol boats cut close; sparks in the dark, the opening scene of a story about uncertainty.

Two nights later, in a stew of stormy seas and jittery nerves, Maddox and her companion, Turner Joy, report another attack: flashes in the gloom, confused signals, officers squinting at screens and second-guessing what they see.

Back in Washington, President Johnson doesn’t wait for the fog to clear. He orders the jets to roar and asks Congress for a green light to stop any more trouble. Congress obliges almost unanimously, handing him a blank check—the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution.

With that, America’s role in Vietnam lifts off, gaining altitude fast, far beyond what most lawmakers imagined. Years later, we learn that the second attack was a ghost; it never happened. Signals got lost, doubts were hushed, and the story took on a life of its own.

Tonkin’s true legacy showed a cautionary tale for anyone at the controls, from pilots to presidents: don’t let ghosts on the radar launch you into a war you can’t call back.

The echoes of that lesson still fly today, wherever uncertainty meets high stakes and the urge to act outpaces the urge to know.

In Case You Missed It

Photo Outlet

Every issue of Hangar Flying with Tog gets you a free image that I’ve taken at airshows:

Feel free to use these photos however you like. If you choose to tag me, I am @pilotphotog on all social platforms. Thanks!

Post Flight Debrief

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“The higher and faster we fly, the harder it will be to spot us, much less stop us.”

—Clarence “Kelly” Johnson, American aeronautical and systems engineer of Lockheed Martin

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“We are confident that GlobalEye is the right choice for the Alliance, delivering proven capability, adaptability and long-term operational advantage. Today’s announcement clearly positions GlobalEye as the world-leading solution for advanced airborne early warning and control. We look forward to the next steps in the negotiations.”

—Micael Johansson, President and CEO of Saab

Mission Briefing

Up in the briefing room, NATO’s own Mark Rutte—looking every bit the seasoned flight captain—tipped his hat and announced a bold new heading: several allies are set to bring up to ten Saab GlobalEye aircraft into the fleet, swooping in to relieve those old E-3 AWACS birds that have flown their last great missions. The next chapter of the sky is about to be written, and the story just got a whole lot more fascinating.

NATO’s New Eyes in the Sky

After months of suspense humming through the hangars and briefing rooms, NATO’s next big leap in airborne vigilance has taken flight. In the cinematic glow of the Ankara summit, Secretary General Mark Rutte—part statesman, part air marshal—stepped up to the podium and set the course: the Saab GlobalEye will take the controls as NATO’s newest Airborne Early Warning and Control platform, ushering out the legendary E-3 AWACS in a changing of the guard high above the clouds.

This wasn’t just a solo flight—Rutte revealed that a coalition of allies has charted a joint mission: ten GlobalEyes, sleek and bristling with next-gen tech, will soon patrol NATO’s skies. The numbers don’t match up one-for-one with the old E-3s (fourteen are on the books now, once eighteen) but in this new era, it’s all about quality over quantity and adaptability in the ever-shifting currents of defense.

Down on the tarmac, Saab’s team stood at the ready but kept their checklists open—no contract inked, no orders filled just yet. Negotiations with NATO’s procurement wing are set to begin, but the clock hasn’t started ticking on delivery.

Micael Johansson, Saab’s top aviator, radioed in with pride, calling GlobalEye the right wingman for NATO’s future. Swedish Prime Minister Ulf Kristersson echoed the sentiment, hinting at a future where, by 2027, these new sentinels will launch from Swedish runways—eyes wide open, watching over the alliance.

When the Wedgetail Lost NATO’s Horizon against the SAAB GlobalEye

Last 2023 the NATO alliance, with its eyes ever on the horizon, faces a crossroads in the sky. Their legendary fleet of 14 E-3A AWACS, the airborne sentinels that have watched over Europe’s airspace for generations, are nearing the end of their story. The solution?

Enter the E-7A Wedgetail, a new breed of airborne guardian, handpicked to carry the torch into the future.

The plan was fascinating in its scale and urgency. NATO’s iAFSC initiative mapped out a transition, aiming to field six Wedgetails and keep the alliance’s watchful gaze unbroken. The clock was ticking, and only the E-7A could meet the lofty demands and tight deadlines. Belgium, Germany, Luxembourg, the Netherlands, Norway, Romania, and the United States joined forces, forming a procurement squadron to shepherd the new birds into service.

Turkey had already welcomed the Wedgetail to its hangars. Across the Atlantic, the U.S. and U.K. had both chosen the E-7 as their own AWACS heir, though their rollouts were already running late, a reminder that even the best-laid flight plans can hit turbulence.

Then, in 2025, the story took a twist. The Dutch Ministry of Defense, speaking for the nations backing iAFSC, announced they’d be scouting for fresh alternatives to plug the looming gap by 2035. Whispered in the background was the U.S. Air Force’s own wavering commitment to the E-7, a plotline that may have nudged NATO’s hand, though the shadowy details remain classified.

Cue the Saab GlobalEye, a jet that reads like something straight out of a pilot’s daydream. This isn’t just an aircraft. It’s a multi-domain, airborne command post, built for marathon missions that stretch past 11 hours. Its backbone is the Bombardier Global 6500, a business jet with legs, able to soar high and scout vast territories.

Its primary eye is the Erieye Extended Range radar, perched above the fuselage like a hawk’s crown. This AESA radar, dripping with gallium nitride tech, can spot low flyers at long range and sweep entire sectors with ease.

But the GlobalEye doesn’t stop there. It’s kitted out with a Leonardo Seaspray 7500E for maritime surveillance, a Star SAFIRE 380HD EO/IR sensor for crystal-clear imagery, electronic support gear, IFF systems, and an AIS receiver. Air, sea, or land; if it moves, GlobalEye sees it.

All this data is fused and funneled through Saab’s mission system, connecting dots across every domain, and pushing real-time intelligence to commanders wherever the action is.

In the evolving theater of the skies, NATO’s next move is a high-stakes act of aviation storytelling, with every chapter written above the clouds.

What NATO’s New Watchtower Means for America and Its Allies

NATO, the world’s most storied alliance, is swapping out its legendary E-3 AWACS radar planes for a new generation of sentinels—the Saab GlobalEye. Imagine a skybound storyteller, weaving the threads of air, sea, and land into one epic, panoramic tale.

GlobalEye isn’t just a plane; it’s a flying command post with eyes that never blink, able to spot everything from stealthy drones skimming treetops to ships slicing through the fog. With a fuel tank big enough for eleven hours in the clouds, it keeps watch over NATO’s northern and eastern frontiers, never missing a beat.

For Europe, this is a coming-of-age moment. Eleven countries are pooling their resources, turning what would be a solo act into an ensemble performance. Smaller nations get a seat at the high-tech table, and Sweden—now a full NATO member—brings its radar wizardry into the fold, strengthening ties and tech alike.

Across the Atlantic, the mood is more complex. The U.S. stands to gain from a partner that can help shoulder the surveillance load and feed vital data to allied forces. But there’s a tinge of regret: Boeing’s E-7 didn’t get the spotlight, a reminder that delays and indecision can change the script.

Now the real adventure begins. Can NATO turn this multinational, sensor-fused fleet into a seamless network. One that spots danger first, shares faster, and keeps the alliance a step ahead in tomorrow’s high-stakes drama? Time, and teamwork, will tell.

This Week in Aviation History

On a summer day in 1935 (28 July), the sleek Boeing Model 299—soon to be hailed as the mighty B-17 Flying Fortress—soared into the sky for the very first time, turning heads on the tarmac below. Born from the Army’s dream for a fast, far-flying bomber, this steel bird rewrote the playbook for what a heavy bomber could be. That maiden flight was the opening scene in the legend of the B-17, an icon destined to rule the skies of World War II.

First Flight of the Boeing Model 299 (XB-17)

Ninety-one years ago, on 28 July 1935, the Boeing Model 299—known in-house as the XB-17—lifted off from Boeing Field in Seattle for its very first adventure.

At the helm were Chief Test Pilot Leslie “Les” Tower and Boeing engineer Louis Waite, guiding ship number X13372 for a brisk 90-minute flight. Tower, clearly charmed, quipped that it flew “just like a little ship—a little bigger, of course,” capturing the moment when this machine first hinted at greatness.

The Model 299 was Boeing’s bold answer to the Army Air Corps’ call for a bomber that could haul two thousand pounds of ordnance over two thousand miles at speeds topping 200 miles an hour. It is a tall order in 1934.

With design kicking off that June and final assembly roaring ahead by August, the team moved at breakneck speed. Though the prototype looked a touch different from the B-17 Flying Fortress that would later become a wartime legend, its spirit and silhouette set the stage for history.

That maiden flight marked more than a technical milestone—it was the prologue to a new era in strategic bombing. The Model 299 evolved into the B-17, a fortress of the skies that would help tip the balance in World War II.

Inside the Model 299

Step right up and witness a true marvel of the skies: Boeing has just unveiled the mighty Model 299, a four-engine, all-metal giant born from a year of secret labor in Seattle’s bustling workshops.

Touted as the fastest and longest-ranging bomber ever built, this sky titan is primed to set the standard, soon to take on rivals in the Air Corps’ ultimate showdown at Dayton, Ohio. If first impressions hold, the Model 299 is about to rewrite the rulebook on aerial defense; offering speeds and range that leave every bomber before it eating its contrail.

Shrouded in a cloak of military secrecy, details are scarce, but Boeing assures us their creation matches or exceeds every high bar set by the Air Corps. Imagine slicing through the stratosphere at 200 to 250 miles per hour, cruising above ten thousand feet for up to ten hours, and reaching heights most bombers only dream of, 20,000 to 25,000 feet, to be exact.

Dubbed the “aerial battle cruiser,” this machine stretches nearly 100 feet from wingtip to wingtip, spans 70 feet in length, and tips the scales at fifteen tons. Four roaring Hornet engines (each packing over 700 horsepower) power those new three-bladed Hamilton Standard props.

With its sleek lines, retractable gear, and tail wheel, speed is built into every curve. Should one engine give out mid-mission? No sweat—this bird keeps flying.

Inside, Boeing’s packed the Model 299 with a treasure trove of innovations: cutting-edge armament, the latest flight and engine instruments, an automatic pilot, two-way radios, and even a radio homing beacon.

Air brakes make their American debut, and the wheels and tires are custom-built for this beast. Every inch is crafted in Boeing’s signature semi-monocoque style—longerons, stiffeners, bulkheads, and that gleaming, smooth metal skin—making the Model 299 a true legend in the making.

The Bomber That Redefined Airpower

Strap in and picture the dawn of a new era in American airpower. It is a story that begins in 1935 with the Boeing Model 299, a four-engined, all-metal beast that looked more like a vision from tomorrow than anything the Army Air Corps had ever seen.

This machine didn’t just outfly its peers; it outthought them, packing speed, range, and enough firepower to give any foe pause. Sure, fate threw a wrench in the works with a crash at Wright Field, a tragedy born not of design, but of a simple, fatal oversight.

And from that heartbreak came something revolutionary: the aviation checklist. No more flying by memory alone; now every crew would follow this step-by-step ritual, a quiet revolution in cockpit discipline that made flight safer for all who dared the sky.

Transformed into the legendary B-17 Flying Fortress, the Model 299 became the iron backbone of daylight bombing raids across Europe. Crews rolled out in tight, bristling formations, braving flak and fighters to cripple the enemy’s war machine—factories, railways, oil fields, you name it. The B-17 earned a reputation for limping home full of holes and hope, but its legacy is etched in sacrifice as well as steel.

The Model 299 didn’t just change aircraft. It changed warfare. It proved you could reach across continents with bombs, and that airpower could stand as its own strategic force.

From those four roaring engines and the first paper checklist to today’s stealthy, digital marvels, every aviator flying long and far owes a nod to the pioneers who proved that technology, discipline, and vision could redraw the map of war.

In Case You Missed It

Photo Outlet

Every issue of Hangar Flying with Tog gets you a free image that I’ve taken at airshows:

Feel free to use these photos however you like. If you choose to tag me, I am @pilotphotog on all social platforms. Thanks!

Post Flight Debrief

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This newsletter will always be free for everyone, but if you want to go further, support the mission, and unlock bonus content like the Midweek Sortie, consider becoming a paid subscriber.
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An MQ-28 Ghost Bat and U.S. Air Force F-15EX Eagle II participated in Exercise Valiant Shield 2026 over the Philippine Sea, demonstrating the future of human-machine teaming in the theater. Uncrewed systems act as a force multiplier, extending the reach and effectiveness of human pilots.

—— U.S. Pacific Air Forces

Mission Briefing

The MQ-28 Ghost Bat soared alongside the F-15EX, joining a daring proof-of-concept FARP mission in the thick of Valiant Shield 2026. In a scene straight out of an aviator’s tale, the Experimental Operations Unit pushed the edge of what’s possible high above the Pacific.

Eagle II’s Ghost Wingman

Sunlight glints off the wings as the MQ-28 Ghost Bat and the F-15EX Eagle II carve contrails across the endless blue canvas of the Philippine Sea during Valiant Shield 2026.

The Pacific Air Forces (PACAF) just dropped a fresh batch of photos—no dates, just pure cinematic energy—showing these two birds not just sharing airspace, but making real the bold vision Boeing teased in their concept art: manned and unmanned teaming up, side by side, in a new era of aerial collaboration.

PACAF’s social media post read like an aviator’s campfire tale: “An MQ-28 Ghost Bat and U.S. Air Force F-15EX Eagle II participated in Exercise Valiant Shield 2026 over the Philippine Sea, demonstrating the future of human-machine teaming in the theater.

Uncrewed systems act as a force multiplier, extending the reach and effectiveness of human pilots.” Translation? The Ghost Bat isn’t just tagging along. It’s multiplying what fighter jocks can do, pushing the boundaries of what’s possible when man and machine trust each other at Mach speed.

Now, the official word’s a bit cagey on whether the F-15EX crew, from the 85th Test and Evaluation Squadron, actually took the Ghost Bat’s reins mid-flight. But here’s a little inside baseball: Air Force pilots have already shown they can pilot drones from the cockpit during past trials. So, the idea that the F-15EX might have been calling the shots for its robotic wingman? Don’t rule it out.

Last month’s press release hinted at bigger plans: “The uncrewed MQ-28 will fly in concert with crewed fighter platforms, providing a critical opportunity for the joint force to refine tactics, techniques, and procedures for this next evolution of airpower.”

For this exercise, the Ghost Bat deployed out to Rota in the Northern Mariana Islands, showing up as a production-representative model, complete with an Infra-Red Search and Track system—think of it as a nose for trouble at 40,000 feet.

On June 28, things got even more interesting. The MQ-28 joined a proof-of-concept Forward Arming and Refueling Point (FARP) op for Collaborative Combat Aircraft, bolstered by a HC-130J Combat King II, Airmen from the 79th Rescue Squadron, the Royal Australian Air Force, and the Experimental Operations Unit (EOU).

The EOU, stood up just last year at Nellis, exists to fast-track these kinds of game-changing projects. Crafting the playbook for how manned and unmanned craft will fight and survive together.

With the EOU’s fingerprints all over this, and fresh off testing the YFQ-44A at Edwards, it’s clear Valiant Shield 2026 was more than a demo. It was a proving ground for tomorrow’s air combat. And with the Air Force now greenlighting production contracts for the FQ-42 and FQ-44, the curtain’s just rising on the next act of the man-machine saga.

Ghost Bat & Eagle II: The Next-Gen Wingmen Redefining Airpower

Imagine a wingman that never tires, never hesitates, and always has your six. That’s the Boeing MQ-28 Ghost Bat. Built as an uncrewed collaborative combat aircraft, the MQ-28 is all about smart human-machine partnership, serving as a true force multiplier in the skies. Its mission?

Fly alongside crewed jets, bringing game-changing persistence, operational punch, and survivability to some of the world’s toughest airspaces. Packed with autonomous tech, the Ghost Bat isn’t just fast. It’s affordable and deployable in numbers, taking on risky missions so pilots don’t have to.

What really sets the MQ-28 apart is its flexibility. With a modular design and Open Systems Architecture, it can swap out mission gear on the fly, loading up with third-party payloads or new systems as fast as threats change. The nose is fully missionized. Just pop it off, plug in what you need, and you’re ready for the next challenge. This adaptability means global forces can keep pace with rapid innovation and stay ahead of adversaries.

On the tactical front, the MQ-28 brings affordable combat mass to bolster both crewed and uncrewed missions. It acts as an airborne brain, fusing sensor data and payloads from across the force to boost intelligence, surveillance, reconnaissance, and early warning.

Sized like a trainer but with the wingspan of a stealth fighter, the MQ-28 can cover over 2,000 nautical miles, standing ready to extend the operational reach of any formation.

Economically, the MQ-28 is a game-changer, coming in at about a tenth of the cost of a traditional crewed jet. Digital production and advanced manufacturing keep it efficient, while a digital ecosystem ensures that upgrades and new features can be plugged in on the fly—sometimes independent of Boeing itself.

Now, meet its new partner: the F-15EX Eagle II. This is the most advanced Eagle yet, loaded with digital fly-by-wire controls, a glass cockpit, APG-82 AESA radar, JHMCS helmet, and a next-gen self-defense suite.

Thanks to its Open Mission System, the Eagle II is built for rapid upgrades, packing more speed, range, and a hefty 29,500-pound payload, plus the longest stand-off engagement range in the USAF arsenal.

In short, when the MQ-28 and Eagle II fly together, the sky is set for a whole new era of airpower.

A New Allied Airpower Team

The F-15EX Eagle II and Australia’s MQ-28 Ghost Bat slicing through the Pacific sky during Valiant Shield 2026. It is a scene that’s more than just a show of force over the Philippine Sea.

It’s a preview of how the U.S. and its allies are weaving together crewed jets, autonomous wingmen, and cutting-edge sensors to build a smarter, more connected fighting force.

For the U.S., this dynamic duo hints at a not-so-distant future where Collaborative Combat Aircraft amplify the reach, survivability, and firepower of crewed fighters.

Imagine an F-15EX not flying solo, but orchestrating a team of uncrewed partners; scouting ahead, jamming enemy radar, or adding muscle without putting extra pilots in the danger zone.

This flight was a milestone on the road to true human-machine teaming in the Indo-Pacific.

Allies got a front-row seat as the Australian-born Ghost Bat joined a U.S.-led exercise, working seamlessly with partners from Canada, Japan, and New Zealand. It was a taste of tomorrow’s coalition airpower—built together, not apart.

The Ghost Bat’s role in forward refueling drills also showed that autonomous aircraft can leapfrog close to the action, supporting the nimble, resilient posture needed across the vast Pacific.

Down the line, this flight won’t just be remembered for its striking formation, but as the dawn of a new era, where aviators and autonomous teammates take to the sky as a single, unstoppable force.

This Week in Aviation History

They say the sinking of the Ostfriesland was just a one-off spectacle, but the truth is, it was the grand finale to months of daring bombing experiments by the U.S. Navy and Air Service back in 1921. Picture a handful of sky cowboys, led by Billy Mitchell, determined to prove that air power could change the rules of war forever. The Ostfriesland’s dramatic end became a legend overnight—a banner moment for American aviation. Yet, behind that smoky spectacle, the real story is tangled up in debate and controversy, even now.

Mitchell’s War Against the Battleship

Let me take you back to the summer of 1921, when the skies above the Atlantic were alive with the ambitions of Billy Mitchell, the maverick aviator who believed airplanes could change the nature of war.

Mitchell, a master of both flying and political maneuvering, pulled strings in Congress to get his Air Service boys into the Navy’s highly controlled bombing tests. The Navy, ever wary of these upstart airmen, kept the rules tight and the targets strictly chosen: a captured German sub, the lumbering USS Iowa converted into a radio-controlled ghost ship, a battered destroyer, the cruiser Frankfurt, and the crown jewel—the mighty battleship Ostfriesland, fresh from the spoils of World War I.

The whole affair built up to a cinematic showdown. When Ostfriesland’s turn came, Mitchell wasn’t about to let the Navy’s cautious playbook slow him down. He ordered his flyers to unleash hell, first with one-thousand-pound bombs and then, in a bold final act, with six two-thousand-pound bombs raining down.

It was over in a flash—twenty minutes of thunder, and Ostfriesland slipped beneath the waves. There hadn’t even been a direct hit, but the shockwaves did the job. The Navy cried foul, arguing their engineers hadn’t even had a chance to poke around the battered hulk, but the headlines were already written: Mitchell’s planes had sunk a battleship, just as he’d promised.

Sure, the ship had been anchored, unable to run or shoot back, but that hardly mattered to a public dazzled by the drama.

As historian Alfred Hurley put it, the argument couldn’t drown out the simple, spectacular truth, Mitchell had made good on his boast. The aftermath was classic military politics.

The Joint Army Navy Board, charged with keeping peace between the services since Teddy Roosevelt’s day, issued a report that fell well short of Mitchell’s vision for an independent air force.

Unfazed, Mitchell penned his own defiant report and leaked it to the press, declaring that the age of the battleship was over, and that anywhere a ship could go, an airplane could follow, spellbound by the promise of a new era in warfare

The Aftermath

How much did Mitchell’s bold moves really shape the rise of air power, the dream of strategic bombing, and the quest for an independent air force? Military historians still wrestle with that question.

Some, like Alfred Hurley, see Mitchell not as a master theorist, but as a prophet, a relentless promoter, and, ultimately, a martyr for his cause. Hurley admits Mitchell’s flaws, even some blunders, but can’t help admiring the man.

Others, like James J. Cooke, are less generous. Cooke says that too many have glossed over Mitchell’s faults, painting him as a heroic “knight of the air” when, in truth, he was far more complicated.

Rondall R. Rice goes further, calling Mitchell openly insubordinate and deserving of his court-martial, baffled by the reverence today’s Air Force leaders still show him.

But what about Mitchell’s true influence on America’s approach to strategic bombing? Thomas H. Greer, in his study of air doctrine, points out that the real changes between the late 1920s and mid-1930s came from leaps in airplane technology and crucial inventions like the Norden Mark XV bombsight, which let pilots aim with pinpoint accuracy.

Doctrine mattered too, and that’s where the Air Corps Tactical School (ACTS) enters the scene. Founded in 1920 at Langley Field and later moved to Maxwell Field in Alabama, ACTS started out teaching “limited area” bombing, but soon pivoted to championing high-altitude, daylight precision strikes.

The focus was on hitting “choke points”—the industrial heart of the enemy—rather than carpet bombing cities, in part because the American public recoiled at the thought of mass civilian casualties.

So while Mitchell’s showmanship set the stage, the real groundwork of strategic bombing doctrine was laid by evolving technology, thoughtful debate, and a new generation of airmen determined to prove that the future of warfare belonged to those who mastered the skies.

The Day Airpower Sank an Era

The mighty German battleship Ostfriesland, anchored and unmanned, facing a squadron of Army Air Service bombers led by Billy Mitchell. The ultimate showman of the skies.

With a thunder of heavy bombs and a few well-placed near misses, Mitchell’s flyers sent the battleship rolling over and down to the ocean floor, proving in spectacular style that even these steel giants were not safe from the reach of air power. Sure, it wasn’t a real battle—no crew, no guns firing back—but the image was unforgettable. Suddenly, the battleship, long the pride of naval might, looked vulnerable.

The shockwaves rippled far beyond the sinking itself. Mitchell’s bold strike fueled fierce debates about national defense, the role of aviation, and whether air or sea would rule the future.

It gave his campaign for an independent air force new wings and forced skeptics to reckon with a changing battlefield. The tests spurred fresh thinking about bombing tactics, bombsight technology, and just how exposed warships were from above.

Of course, battleships didn’t vanish overnight; admirals still clung to them, even as aircraft carriers began to steal the spotlight.

The real legacy of Ostfriesland wasn’t an instant revolution, but a powerful warning: when technology evolves, the old rules don’t always hold.

From Mitchell’s daring raid to today’s high-tech aerial teams, one lesson endures; airpower’s future is always a challenge to yesterday’s assumptions.

In Case You Missed It

Photo Outlet

Every issue of Hangar Flying with Tog gets you a free image that I’ve taken at airshows:

Feel free to use these photos however you like. If you choose to tag me, I am @pilotphotog on all social platforms. Thanks!

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The first lesson is that you can’t lose a war if you have command of the air, and you can’t win a war if you haven’t.

—Jimmy Doolittle

A restless Pacific surges beneath the USS Horne…

Read more

To honor the United States’ 250th anniversary, the MQ-25A T1 prototype is aboard the USS Nimitz, offering a glimpse of the Navy’s carrier air wing of the future. The special “Boeing Backs America” mark highlights our support for U.S. aviation.

—Boeing Defense

Mission Briefing

The Boeing MQ-25 Stingray T1, a bold new chapter in unmanned flight, landed right on the deck of the USS Nimitz during FLEETEX 250 out in the Atlantic. The Stingray’s silhouette cuts through the salty air, joining the carrier’s cast for a high-stakes rehearsal on the open sea.

MQ-25 Stingray Embarks Aboard USS Nimitz

Against the steel-blue expanse of the Pacific, the mighty USS Nimitz welcomes an intriguing visitor. It is a slender, futuristic silhouette with a sharp nose and the kind of mystique only a pioneer carries.

This is the MQ-25 Stingray, the Navy’s new drone tanker, and today, under the golden haze of a Fleet Exercise, it’s more than just a machine: it’s a promise.

The Boeing-owned T1 demonstrator, first flown in 2019, has found its place among legends—lined up on deck beside four F/A-18E Super Hornets, engines silent but presence undeniable.

The setting isn’t just for show; FLEETEX 250 is a high-octane, multinational training event, gathering the finest aviators and ships from the U.S. Navy and thirteen allied nations. It’s about trust, tactics, and the kind of camaraderie you only get at sea.

For the MQ-25, this isn’t its maiden voyage aboard a carrier. Back in December 2021, it tangoed with the deck crew, proving it could glide and pivot across the Nimitz’s busy runway just like its piloted relatives.

But today, the Stingray dons a new look; sleek gray, no longer sporting the orange splashes of test flights. Fresh “250” markings gleam on its sides; a bold “Boeing Backs America” statement rides along the fuselage.

Did it refuel jets today? Hard to say. The Stingray’s signature Cobham ARS pod is missing, suggesting it’s here to make a statement, not a delivery. Boeing, ever the showman, shares the moment on social media: this is a tribute to the nation’s 250th anniversary and a preview of tomorrow’s carrier air wing.

Just weeks earlier, the production-model MQ-25 took its first flight. Now, with Low-Rate Initial Production green-lit, the future of naval aviation is taxiing down the runway, ready to write its own legend.

Inside the Stingray

Meet the Boeing MQ-25 Stingray, a sleek, unmanned marvel born from the Navy’s quest to give its carrier strike groups a serious boost. The story begins with the CBARS program, itself an evolution of the ambitious UCLASS initiative.

The Navy needed a drone that could fly off a carrier deck and refuel its airborne warriors in the thick of the action. That’s where the Stingray takes center stage: its prime mission is to deliver fuel in midair, stretching the legs and muscle of every jet in the carrier air wing.

In 2021, the MQ-25 T1 made history. A drone, bristling with promise, slides up behind a manned fighter and—using the same Cobham ARS pod you’d spot on an F/A-18—tops off its tank. It’s the first time a robot’s ever handed gas to a human pilot in the sky. That’s not just progress; that’s rewriting the playbook.

The Navy’s got big plans: 76 Stingrays are on the shopping list, including engineering models and test birds. The goal? To relieve the F/A-18E Super Hornets from their refueling duties so they can focus on what they do best, owning the skies. It’s a move that means more punch, more flexibility, and fewer Hornets flying tanker missions instead of combat sorties.

But the MQ-25 isn’t just about fuel. Once deployed, it’ll be the Navy’s first operational carrier-based drone, paving the way for unmanned-manned teamwork on deck. The Stingray’s secondary gigs include recovery tanking and organic ISR, eyes and ears for the carrier strike group.

The Fleet Replacement Squadron, VUQ-10, stood up in 2022 at NAS Patuxent River, Maryland, with two more squadrons, VUQ-11 and 12, on the horizon. Test flights are ramping up, and soon the Stingray will head to Pax River to prep for carrier qualifications; likely aboard USS Theodore Roosevelt by year’s end.

The future of carrier aviation? It’s already taxiing for takeoff.

Specifications:

Primary function: Aerial refueling

Contractor: Boeing

Propulsion: Rolls-Royce AE3700N

Length: 51.0 ft

Wingspan (wings spread): 75.0 feet

Wingspan (wings folded): 31.3 feet

Height (wings spread): 9.8 feet

Height (wings folded): 15.7 feet

Stingray on Deck: Extending the Reach of U.S. and Allied Carrier Airpower

The mighty USS Nimitz, engines humming beneath a golden Pacific sky, hosts a newcomer on its storied deck, the MQ-25 Stingray T1. This isn’t just another test flight; it’s the opening scene of a new chapter in naval aviation, where pilots and drones share the wind.

The Stingray, sleek as a sea bird, has already danced alongside the F/A-18 Super Hornet, F-35C Lightning II, and the ever-watchful E-2D Advanced Hawkeye. Proving it can refuel the legends of the fleet.

Deck crews, eyes sharp behind mirrored shades, have learned how to guide her among the chaos of jet blasts and whirring propellers, fitting her into the complex ballet that is life on the carrier.

For American commanders, the Stingray is a lifeline; a way to stretch the carrier air wing’s reach without burning out the pilots or their warbirds.

With the Stingray taking over tanker duties, more Super Hornets can stay sharp for the fight ahead, and the F-35Cs can slip farther into the horizon, past the reach of enemy eyes and missiles.

But this isn’t just an American story. Allies training with U.S. carriers now get a front-row seat to the future: manned jets and unmanned tankers flying as one, rehearsing tomorrow’s missions today.

The Stingray’s shadow on the Nimitz deck is only the beginning. The real adventure? Discovering what roles these robotic aviators will claim next, as the world’s flight decks grow ever bolder and a little less lonely.

This Week in Aviation History

On 19 July 1918, the North Sea wind whipping over the deck of HMS Furious. Seven Sopwith Camels rumble down the world’s first carrier flight deck and leap into history, engines roaring—on a mission to bomb Germany’s airship base at Tondern. In a daring strike, they destroy two mighty Zeppelins and a captive balloon, marking the first time wheeled aircraft launched from a ship rewrote the rules of warfare.

The Tondern Raid: The Birth of Carrier Strike Aviation

Imagine the North Sea at first light, July 1918, the deck of HMS Furious alive with anticipation as seven Sopwith Camels prepare to leap into history.

This is the Tondern Raid, naval aviation’s bold coming-of-age story. Before this moment, warships ruled with big guns; aircraft at sea were mostly for scouting and the occasional seaplane stunt.

But the crew of Furious, once a battlecruiser wielding monstrous 18-inch guns, had refitted her for something new: a hangar and flying-off deck, turning steel and ingenuity into the world’s first real aircraft carrier.

Years of Royal Navy tinkering had led here. Pioneers like Squadron Commander Edwin Dunning risked it all—Dunning himself landed a Sopwith Pup on Furious in 1917, the first to ever do so on a moving ship.

He’d lose his life in a later attempt, but not before proving that decks could be runways and ships, floating airfields. Furious became a laboratory for this wild idea: that with the right machine and daring pilots, a navy could strike far beyond the range of its guns.

And so, on that fateful July morning, six Camels (after one had to turn back) roared off the deck, each lugging four 25-pound bombs. They found their target: the German airship base at Tondern. With surprise on their side, the pilots hammered Zeppelins L.54 and L.60 and torched a captive balloon, sending plumes of smoke skyward.

But victory came at a cost. Some aviators ditched in the sea, one drowned, others landed in Denmark and faced internment. Yet not a single Camel fell to enemy fire.

The Tondern Raid wasn’t just a one-off adventure; it was a proof-of-concept that changed the game. HMS Furious would go on shaping carrier tactics, and navies worldwide took note.

The real legacy? This raid proved that a ship could launch planes to strike targets well inland, rewriting the future of naval warfare. From that day on, it was clear. The carrier, not the battleship, would become the king of the seas.

Wings Over Tondern: Aviators’ Tale

Before the famous strike, there were two false starts for the aviators of HMS Furious. The first, Operation F5, was called off in late May. Furious had already slipped from port, but rumors of lurking U-boats sent her back.

The second, F6, launched in June 1918, but after battling fierce North Sea winds for two days, the weather forced the mission to fold.

Then came the third try—Operation F7. On 17 July 1918, Furious steamed out of Rosyth, surrounded by a steel phalanx of battleships and cruisers. The plan called for two flights of four, but crew changes meant one pilot short, leaving no time for last-minute stand-ins.

Bad weather held them back another day, but by the early hours of July 19, the deck was buzzing and, one by one, the Sopwith Camels wheeled into the dawn, the last lifting off by 03:21.

Flight 1, led by the cool-headed Lt. William Douglas Jackson, with Dickson and Williams in tow, reached Tondern at 04:35. Three airship sheds loomed in the morning haze. The biggest, packed with Zeppelins L54 and L60, erupted in fire as the bombs hit home. Dickson ditched his Camel in the sea, waiting for a rescue from HMS Violent. Jackson and Williams, low on luck and fuel, put down in Denmark, setting the stage for escapes and internments that would become legend.

Flight 2 thundered in next: Lt. Bernard Smart leading, with Thyne, Dawson, and Yeulett. Thyne ran into engine trouble and circled back for a safe pickup. The remaining trio pressed on, eyes fixed on the target, and at 04:45, they had the airship sheds in their sights.

Bernard Smart found himself stranded on the tail of his sinking Sopwith Camel, bobbing in fifteen-foot swells for a quarter of an hour before the sea finally claimed the plane and his lifebelt slipped away.

Exhausted and half-drowned from swallowing so much seawater, he could barely keep afloat. When rescue finally arrived, three sturdy sailors dragged him aboard “like a sack of flour,” as he later put it.

Dawson, meanwhile, was forced down in Denmark and, like Jackson and Williams, ended up interned—waiting out the war far from home. Yeulett wasn’t so lucky; he vanished into the North Sea, and only much later did the waves return his body and his battered aircraft to shore.

From Tondern to Tomorrow: The Raid That Taught Carriers to Reach Farther

The Tondern Raid was more than a dramatic blow to the German Zeppelin fleet. It marked a bold leap for naval airpower. On that July morning in 1918, Sopwith Camels thundered off the deck of HMS Furious, making history as the world’s first deck-launched airstrike.

In that moment, the warship evolved from a sea-bound lookout into a roaming airfield, able to strike targets far beyond the range of any gun. The immediate results may have seemed modest, but the implications were enormous: Zeppelins L.54 and L.60 went up in flames, proving that naval aircraft could hit enemy assets at their heart and inspiring new thinking about what ships and planes could do together.

Tondern didn’t instantly crown the aircraft carrier as king of the seas, but it cracked open the future. Suddenly, naval might was measured by how far your aircraft could fly, not just how big your guns were.

Over time, especially through the Second World War and beyond, carriers became the navy’s long arm, projecting power, settling crises, and keeping the peace around the globe. The U.S. Navy now calls the carrier a pillar of global presence and diplomacy.

That legacy isn’t anchored in the past. With the MQ-25 Stingray preparing to extend the reach of today’s carrier air wings, the lesson of Tondern still soars: naval aviation keeps advancing every time a carrier dares to reach farther.

In Case You Missed It

Photo Outlet

Every issue of Hangar Flying with Tog gets you a free image that I’ve taken at airshows:

Feel free to use these photos however you like. If you choose to tag me, I am @pilotphotog on all social platforms. Thanks!

Post Flight Debrief

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– Tog

“The B-2’s impressive performance underscores the US military’s commitment to adaptability and flexibility in the face of emerging security challenges.”

—General Kevin B. Schneider, Commander, Pacific Air Forces.

Mission Briefing

For the first time ever, the U.S. Air Force pulled back the curtain and let the world in on a secret: the B-2A Spirit stealth bomber can now pack the punch of the AGM-158C Long Range Anti-Ship Missile. This reveal came straight out of a recent Sinking Exercise, where the B-2 showed off its new tricks. It’s the kind of headline that feels ripped from an action flick—our silent bomber just got a serious boost in firepower.

Stealth Over the Philippine Sea

High above the rolling blue of the Philippine Sea, the legendary B-2A Spirit ghosted through the clouds, its diamond-shaped silhouette nearly invisible, even as it carried out something truly groundbreaking.

The U.S. Air Force’s Pacific Air Forces just revealed that this stealth bomber didn’t just join another Sinking Exercise. This time, it unleashed the newly integrated AGM-158C Long Range Anti-Ship Missile (LRASM), a move quietly kept under wraps until now.

Now, here’s where it gets cinematic. The B-2 had already been cleared to carry the similar JASSM, making this latest upgrade a fast-track affair. Think of it as swapping out the special effects reel for something with even more punch, all thanks to the shared airframe between these two missiles.

On 27 June 2026, during Exercise Valiant Shield, the B-2 swept out over the Mariana Island Range Complex. Its target? A decommissioned Austin-class amphibious transport, the USS Juneau, floating some 200 nautical miles offshore, a ghost ship about to play its final scene.

But this wasn’t a solo performance. The sky and sea were thick with players: a Japan Maritime Self-Defense Force submarine lurked below, the USS George Washington carrier prowled nearby, and New Zealand’s P-8A Poseidon fired off Harpoon missiles in its first-ever live-fire missile run.

Before a Japanese torpedo even hit the water, the Juneau had already been hammered by at least three strikes; one likely from that B-2’s LRASM.

And the finale? It was a barrage: a JMSDF SH-60 helicopter swooped in to launch a Hellfire missile, a JMSDF destroyer sent off a Type 90 anti-ship missile, and a JASDF F-2 fighter let loose an ASM-2.

The exercise was more than a test; it was a fascinating showdown, a multinational symphony of air, sea, and stealth, all choreographed over a single, ill-fated ship.

The AGM-158C LRASM

The AGM-158C LRASM isn’t just another missile. It’s the next-gen ace up the sleeve for the Air Force and Navy, built to slip through the world’s toughest defenses like a ghost in the night.

Born from the AGM-158B JASSM-ER and crafted by DARPA’s tech wizards, the LRASM is a stealthy, ship-killing cruise missile that’s rewriting the playbook for anti-surface warfare. NAVAIR frames it as the near-term answer to the military’s need for a flexible, long-range punch that can take down high-threat ships in some of the world’s nastiest waters.

Here’s where the plot thickens: in a world where jamming and electronic warfare are the norm, the LRASM isn’t shackled to constant ISR feeds or GPS networks. Once it leaves the rails, it uses GPS to get close. But then flips the switch, onboard sensors and smart algorithms kick in, letting the missile hunt, identify, and lock onto its prey all by itself.

This semi-autonomous brain means even if the targeting data is rough, the missile can still sniff out and smack the intended target, dodging the digital smokescreens of modern battle.

The LRASM family is growing, too. The original LRASM 1.0, which hit the scene in 2019, is already hanging from the wings of the B-1B Lancer and the F/A-18E/F Super Hornet.

The upgraded LRASM 1.1 came online in 2023 and is now going through its paces, with plans to arm the P-8A Poseidon as well. The horizon is getting even wider with the LRASM C-3, promising more range and an updated threat library, though the Navy has decided to double down on its anti-ship focus rather than stretch into land attack, at least for now.

Operational capability for LRASM C-3 is on deck for late 2026, bridging the gap until the next big leap—OASuW Increment 2—hits the fleet in the early 2030s.

Meanwhile, the story keeps building: in 2024 and 2025, F-35C and F-35B test pilots at NAS Patuxent River put both JASSM and LRASM variants through their first integration flights, signaling a future where stealth jets and stealth missiles team up for the ultimate maritime strike package.

What F-35C–LRASM Integration Means for the U.S. and Its Allies

From September 2024 through April 2026, the Navy’s F-35C and LRASM pairing underwent its first big round of flight-science testing—a behind-the-scenes blockbuster setting up a new era for the carrier air wing.

These weren’t just dry runs or box-checking flights; they cracked open the playbook, letting the F-35C flex its sensing muscle and battlefield smarts while hauling the AGM-158C missile on its wings, all in pursuit of full, combat-ready integration.

The implications? They’re as big as the Pacific. By arming the F-35C with LRASM, U.S. carriers suddenly get a major boost in reach and tactical flexibility, letting commanders punch at defended ships from beyond the horizon.

Sure, carrying missiles externally might dent the jet’s stealth edge a bit, but in return, the Navy gets a fifth-gen “quarterback” that can call the plays and fire the long ball. Striking high-threat targets and spreading the strike load across the air wing.

For allies, this is good news too. Coalition navies and air forces can pool their sensors and targeting, while F-35Cs launch in from the mobile deck, weaving together a tougher, more unpredictable maritime defense.

The final act? That’s still to come. But you can feel the momentum: the next-gen carrier air wing is taking shape, seeing farther, sharing quicker, and putting enemy warships on notice long before they get close.

This Week in Aviation History

A quarter-century ago, the first B-2 Spirit soared off the runway and vanished into the blue, marking a milestone that still echoes through Air Force hangars today. As she turns 25, everyone who’s ever kept her flying gets to marvel at how just 20 of these stealthy legends can tip the balance for the whole Department of Defense.

B-2 Spirit’s First Flight

Back in the shadowy days of the 1980s, when radar nets grew sharper and hostile skies bristled with missiles, the U.S. Air Force faced a chilling question: could its bombers still slip past enemy lines and reach the heart of danger? The answer wasn’t just a new bomber. It was a revolution in the sky.

Enter the B-2 Spirit, a ghostly marvel that fused the sleek, otherworldly silhouette of the flying wing with a cloak of invisibility, forged from composite materials, secret coatings, and classified tricks known only to a handful of engineers and pilots.

With stealth woven into its very bones, the B-2 turned the tables on air defenses that once seemed unbeatable, gliding through radar nets like a shadow at midnight.

The world got its first glimpse of this airpower legend on 22 November 1988, as the top-secret B-2 rolled out under the California sun at Air Force Plant 42—mystery and muscle, all wings and whispers.

The Spirit’s maiden flight soared into history on 17 July 1989, and by December 1993, the first operational B-2 took its place on the flight line, ready for anything. Home base? Whiteman Air Force Base, Missouri, a place where aircrews became legends, prepping for missions that would shape the next era of warfare.

It didn’t take long for the B-2 to prove its mettle: from the skies above Serbia in Operation Allied Force, to the mountains of Afghanistan and the sands of Iraq, this bomber showed the world it could strike anywhere, anytime, with a precision only dreamed of before.

Inside the cockpit, it’s just two aviators: pilot on the left, mission commander on the right. Their typical day on the job? A marathon, over 30 hours aloft, fueled mid-air again and again, flying halfway around the globe and back, all in a single mission. With up to 40,000 pounds of precision-guided thunder tucked away, the B-2 could erase targets from maps while most of the world slept.

Building the B-2 wasn’t just about flying. It was about surviving the extremes. Northrop Grumman built two extra airframes, stripped bare of engines and avionics, just to see how much stress the Spirit could take.

Engineers strapped them to hydraulic rigs and pushed them to the edge; the wings withstood 161 percent of their design limit before finally giving in. Early models braved the elements too: the Spirit of Ohio endured punishing heat and biting cold in the McKinley Climatic Lab, then proved itself again in the wilds of Alaska.

Technicians marked that achievement with a signature nose art—”Fire and Ice”—now a museum piece, immortalizing the B-2’s journey from classified dream to steely legend of the sky.

The Anatomy of the Spirit

The B-2 provides the penetrating flexibility and effectiveness inherent in manned bombers. Its low-observable, or “stealth,” characteristics give it the unique ability to penetrate an enemy’s most sophisticated defenses and threaten its most valued, and heavily defended, targets.

Its capability to penetrate air defenses and threaten effective retaliation provides a strong, effective deterrent and combat force well into the 21st century.

The revolutionary blending of low-observable technologies with high aerodynamic efficiency and large payload gives the B-2 important advantages over existing bombers. Its low-observability provides it greater freedom of action at high altitudes, thus increasing its range and a better field of view for the aircraft’s sensors. Its unrefueled range is approximately 6,000 nautical miles (9,600 kilometers).

The B-2’s low observability is derived from a combination of reduced infrared, acoustic, electromagnetic, visual and radar signatures. These signatures make it difficult for the sophisticated defensive systems to detect, track and engage the B-2.

Many aspects of the low-observability process remain classified; however, the B-2’s composite materials, special coatings and flying-wing design all contribute to its “stealthiness.”

The B-2 has a crew of two pilots, a pilot in the left seat and mission commander in the right, compared to the B-1B’s crew of four and the B-52’s crew of five.

Primary function: multi-role heavy bomber
Contractor: Northrop Grumman Corp. and Contractor Team: Boeing Military Airplanes Co., Hughes Radar Systems Group, General Electric Aircraft Engine Group and Vought Aircraft Industries, Inc.
Power plant: four General Electric F118-GE-100 engines
Thrust: 17,300 pounds each engine
Wingspan: 172 feet (52.12 meters)
Length: 69 feet (20.9 meters)
Height: 17 feet (5.1 meters)
Weight: 160,000 pounds (72,575 kilograms)
Maximum takeoff weight: 336,500 pounds (152,634 kilograms)
Fuel capacity: 167,000 pounds (75750 kilograms)
Payload: 60,000 pounds (27,216 kilograms)
Speed: high subsonic
Range: intercontinental
Ceiling: 50,000 feet (15,240 meters)
Armament: conventional or nuclear weapons
Crew: two pilots
Unit cost: Approximately $1.157 billion (fiscal 1998 constant dollars)
Initial operating capability: April 1997

The Stealthy Revolution: The Enduring Legacy of the B-2 Spirit

The B-2 Spirit didn’t just fly missions. It rewrote the entire script for what it means to wield power from the sky. When this bat-winged marvel first slipped into the clouds in 1989, it stitched together global reach, massive firepower, pinpoint accuracy, and an uncanny knack for disappearing acts.

The result? An aircraft that could sneak through the world’s toughest defenses and put any target—nuclear or conventional—squarely in its crosshairs, no matter how far away.

In real-world combat, the Spirit turned stealth into more than just a cool science project. From the Balkans to Afghanistan, Iraq, and Syria, it showed that a handful of bombers, launching from halfway around the globe and topping off on fuel in midair, could shake up entire battlefields. The B-2 didn’t just carry bombs. It carried a message: nowhere is out of reach.

It became an icon of deterrence, too, giving U.S. leaders a flexible ace up their sleeve and showing friends and foes alike that fortresses and distance are no match for a stealthy visitor.

But maybe the B-2’s greatest gift is what it leaves behind: proof that the flying wing works, and a blueprint for the next generation, the B-21 Raider. Even as the B-2 glides toward retirement, its ghostly signature lives on in the future of global airpower.

In Case You Missed It

Photo Outlet

Every issue of Hangar Flying with Tog gets you a free image that I’ve taken at airshows:

Feel free to use these photos however you like. If you choose to tag me, I am @pilotphotog on all social platforms. Thanks!

Post Flight Debrief

Like what you’re reading? Stay in the loop by signing up below—it’s quick, easy, and always free.
This newsletter will always be free for everyone, but if you want to go further, support the mission, and unlock bonus content like the Midweek Sortie, consider becoming a paid subscriber.
Your support keeps this flight crew flying—and I couldn’t do it without you.

– Tog

The Pegasus powers the Harrier aircraft, providing full Short Take Off and Vertical Landing (STOVL) capabilities, which eliminates the need for conventional runway.

—Rolls-Royce

In a misty Cold War airfield, its cracked runways scarred by the threat of bombs and first strikes. Back then, the law was ironclad: no runway, no fighter jet, no hope. Sleek machines, grounded by a single crater. But then, out of the clouds of convention, soared the Rolls-Royce Pegasus.

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An F-35 student’s first SEAD (Suppression of Enemy Air Defenses) sortie pits them against a dense, integrated air defense system to test how they manage a massive digital information flow. This means our wingmen are taught a culture of integrated autonomy, so that mutual support isn’t gone; it’s just evolved.

— Brig. Gen. David Berkland, commander of the 56^th Fighter Wing

Mission Briefing

The 2026 Luke Days airshow was a spectacle worthy of the big screen, with the runway buzzing from a star-studded cast of aircraft and throngs of enthusiastic fans. But the real magic unfolded behind the scenes, where we got to slip behind the curtain and experience life with the legendary 56th Fighter Wing. Roaming the base felt like joining a band of high-flying storytellers, revealing the everyday choreography that keeps these aviators soaring.

Luke Forged The Lightning Pilots

Since 1941, Luke Air Force Base has been writing its legend in the desert sky. A living, breathing chronicle of aviation. Imagine thousands of pilots, over 61,000 and counting, cutting their teeth at Luke, each with their own story, each one carving a contrail into the annals of military flight.

But the saga doesn’t stop there. Luke has grown from its World War II roots into the world’s beating heart for F-35A Lightning II training, a place where nearly three-quarters of all F-35 pilots worldwide earn their wings.

Step onto the tarmac and you’ll see a true global crossroads. Pilots from Belgium, Denmark, Italy, the Netherlands, Norway, and the U.S. all gather under the Arizona sun, swapping stories, sharing cockpit wisdom, and forging bonds that stretch across continents. This isn’t just a school. It’s a crucible where tomorrow’s fighter aces are born.

The 56th Fighter Wing, Luke’s main character, orchestrates this airborne ballet. Reporting up to the Nineteenth Air Force and, soon, Air Combat Command, the 56th runs seven squadrons of F-35A Lightning IIs, plus a squadron of F-16C/Ds dedicated to sharpening Singapore’s finest.

The mission is massive, the stakes are sky-high, and the legacy just keeps growing. At Luke, every sortie is another scene in an epic that started more than eighty years ago—and the credits aren’t rolling any time soon.

Inside The Luke AFB’s Training Mission

Luke Air Force Base didn’t just add more jets and squadrons, the evolution of its F-35 mission was as much about ground-breaking training as it was about hardware.

Picture this: by 2024, Luke’s “Flying Forward” playbook called for the world’s largest fleet of F-35 simulators. 32 high-tech pods, ready to launch pilots into every scenario you can imagine, all without leaving the ground.

Synthetic training isn’t just a buzzword here. It’s mission critical. With these new Modified Mission Rehearsal Trainers, pilots don virtual helmets and dive into missions where four, eight, even a dozen F-35s roll in, joined by digital wingmen from across the globe.

Maj. Shaun Lovett, the maestro of the 56th Training Squadron’s systems, put it best: now, students can tackle complex, integrated missions that would be impossible to stage in the real sky.

The magic and the challenge are weaving it all together. Jets, sims, instructors, partner nations, and logistics: every piece must click. That’s how Luke keeps churning out combat-ready F-35 pilots for America and its allies, one simulated dogfight at a time.

Below is the list of training Squadrons Assigned to the 56th Fighter Wing at Luke AFB:

• 61st FS “Top Dogs” – USAF, Australia (RAAF) – First F-35 squadron at Luke; RAAF training concluded 2020

• 62nd FS “Spikes” – USAF, Norway, Italy – F-35A Integrated training mission with Norway and Italy

• 63rd FS “Panthers” – USAF – Originally associated with Turkish participation

• 308th FS “Emerald Knights” – USAF, Netherlands, Denmark – Integrated training with Dutch and Danish pilots

• 309th FS “Wild Ducks” – USAF – F-35A training mission

• 310th FS “Top Hats” – USAF – F-35A training mission

• 312th FS “Scorpions” – Belgium – F-35A dedicated Belgium conversion unit

• 425th FS “Black Widows” – Republic of Singapore – Training of RSAF F-16C/D Block 52 pilots

Luke’s Lightning School for Allied Skies

Luke Air Force Base isn’t just another patch of tarmac in the Arizona desert. It’s where the future of airpower gets its wings. The 56th Fighter Wing, known across the globe as the world’s largest fighter wing, is the Air Force’s main launchpad for active-duty fighter pilot training.

But at Luke, the story is bigger than just flying: it’s about transforming rookies and veterans alike into masters of the F-35A Lightning II, a machine that’s more digital wolfpack than solo hunter.

Here, U.S. and allied pilots don’t just learn how to fly the Lightning II. They become fluent in a whole new combat language. The base is a buzzing crossroads, where squadrons from America and partner nations train side by side and learn to treat the F-35 as a networked force multiplier, not just a fighter jet.

For the U.S., Luke is a bridge from the F-16 era to the stealthy, sensor-driven age of the F-35, demanding new tech, new programs, and a sharper edge.

And for America’s allies, Luke is where the F-35 stops being a piece of hardware and starts becoming a shared culture, a place where pilots swap tactics, build trust, and lay the foundation for joint missions before the real shooting starts. This is why Luke’s influence stretches far beyond Arizona.

Its true mission? To forge a coalition of pilots ready to fight shoulder-to-shoulder, fully connected, in the skies of tomorrow.

This Week in Aviation History

Originally, liftoff was set for June 22, right after the much-anticipated Shuttle-Mir docking of STS-71. But when the Russian schedule hit a snag, NASA’s mission planners pulled a switcheroo—bumping Discovery’s STS-70 launch up to June 8 and putting Atlantis’s STS-71 in the wings for later that month. It was a fast-paced scramble, with teams hustling to get Discovery and her payloads ready to soar ahead of schedule.

Deployed Tracking and Data Relay Satellite-G (TDRS-G).

Just when the countdown seemed on track, Memorial Day weekend threw mission planners a curveball. Thanks to a feisty flock of Northern Flicker woodpeckers at Pad 39B. These little troublemakers pecked nearly 200 holes into Discovery’s external tank foam, some as big as your fist, others just quick jabs and claw marks.

The repair crews gave it a shot right there at the pad, but the damage ran too deep, forcing the whole shuttle stack back to the Vehicle Assembly Building on June 8. Liftoff was rescheduled for July 13.

From there, the countdown to launch was nearly flawless, save for a 55-second pause at T-31 seconds so engineers could double-check the range safety system’s destruct signal. Meanwhile, the clock was ticking on a new milestone: just six days between Atlantis touching down after STS-71 and Discovery’s next liftoff, the fastest shuttle turnaround ever.

Post-flight checks brought a bit of déjà vu. Inspectors found a gas path in one of Discovery’s solid rocket motor joints, stretching right up to the primary O-ring—eerily similar to what Atlantis had after her last flight. These gas paths, small air pockets from how the nozzles are built, had shown up before, but this time, engineers noticed a faint heat effect on the O-ring, a first for the program.

Despite the woodpecker antics and engineering discoveries, Discovery’s crew stuck the landing on their main mission: deploying TDRS-G, a crucial communications satellite. After a textbook release, its booster fired twice to push TDRS-G into geosynchronous orbit, rounding out NASA’s network of advanced satellites.

With the heavy lifting done, the crew turned the shuttle into a flying science lab. They ran experiments on how microgravity affects plants, insects, and even cancer cells. One highlight: tobacco hornworms and daylilies helped scientists unravel how weightlessness changes growth and cell division.

The real showstopper? Cancer cells grown in the shuttle’s Johnson Space Center bioreactor thrived like never before, opening new frontiers for medical research right there in orbit.

STS 70’s Mission Highlights

STS-70 wasn’t just a trip around the globe. It was a science fair in orbit, packed with experiments that pushed the boundaries of what’s possible in microgravity.

The National Institutes of Health-R-2 suite took a close look at how weightlessness shapes the earliest stages of rodent life, from before birth right through development, offering clues about how gravity (or the lack of it) molds living things.

Meanwhile, the Protein Crystallization Facility hitched a ride for its eighth mission, chasing the holy grail of perfect protein crystals. Five flights had already delivered space-grown crystals good enough for X-ray analysis back on Earth.

Insulin crystals grown on earlier missions gave researchers the most detailed look ever at the life-saving protein, helping industry design new, longer-lasting insulin for diabetes patients. On STS-70, the spotlight shifted to alpha interferon crystals—a key weapon against hepatitis B and C.

The crew juggled other cutting-edge projects, too. Space Tissue Loss-B explored how microgravity impacts embryonic development, while the HERCULES geolocating system let astronauts tag Earth photos with pinpoint accuracy—once they mastered the tricky camera alignment.

The Microencapsulation in Space-B experiment, back for a second flight, aimed to craft purer, more abundant microencapsulated antibiotics, crucial for precise, slow-release treatments of stubborn wound infections.

Behind the scenes, Discovery hummed along with no major hiccups. This flight also debuted the new Block I main engine, sporting a high-pressure turbopump from Pratt & Whitney in the lead slot, a new chapter in shuttle propulsion.

Mission: TDRS-G
Space Shuttle: Discovery
Launch Pad: 39B
Launched: July 13, 1995 at 9:41:55.078 a.m. EDT
Landing Site: Kennedy Space Center, Florida
Landing: July 22, 1995 at 8:02 a.m. EDT
Runway: 33
Rollout Distance: 8,465 feet
Rollout Time: 57 seconds
Revolution: 143
Mission Duration: 8 days, 22 hours, 20 minutes, 5 seconds
Orbit Altitude: 160 nautical miles
Orbit Inclination: 28.45 degrees
Miles Traveled: 3.7 million

Crew

Terence T. Henricks, Commander
Kevin R. Kregel, Pilot
Nancy Jane Currie, Mission Specialist
Donald A. Thomas, Mission Specialist
Mary Ellen Weber, Mission Specialist

Discovery’s Signal Run Into Tomorrow

STS-70’s story isn’t one of headline-grabbing drama, but of quiet, essential connection. On July 13, 1995, Discovery thundered off the pad with a single, crucial job: deliver TDRS-G, the next link in NASA’s space communications chain.

With that satellite in place, future astronauts, scientists, and mission controllers could count on a stronger, steadier flow of information between Earth and orbit, a backbone for everything from Hubble snapshots to space station check-ins.

But the road to orbit had its share of turbulence. Discovery’s launch was famously put on hold when woodpeckers poked hundreds of holes in her tank insulation, a reminder that even in high-tech spaceflight, nature can throw a wrench in the works.

Once airborne, the crew nailed the satellite deployment and dove into a smorgasbord of experiments—medical, biological, tech demonstrations—showcasing the shuttle’s knack for multitasking and advancing science alongside infrastructure.

STS-70 also marked a step forward in shuttle evolution, featuring a newly upgraded main engine and refined orbital systems. The TDRS network itself would become the silent partner to countless missions, quietly relaying commands and discoveries back home.

From Discovery’s 1995 relay to today’s laser-fast, always-on links across the solar system, STS-70 proves that the real magic of spaceflight isn’t always in the spectacle. It’s in the invisible signals keeping every mission alive and connected.

In Case You Missed It

Photo Outlet

Every issue of Hangar Flying with Tog gets you a free image that I’ve taken at airshows:

Feel free to use these photos however you like. If you choose to tag me, I am @pilotphotog on all social platforms. Thanks!

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This newsletter will always be free for everyone, but if you want to go further, support the mission, and unlock bonus content like the Midweek Sortie, consider becoming a paid subscriber.
Your support keeps this flight crew flying—and I couldn’t do it without you.

– Tog

“Golden Dome stands as a layered defense shield, safeguarding the American homeland with unwavering precision, ensuring the security and resilience of our nation.”

—Lockheed Martin

Mission Briefing

The Golden Dome program is where American missile defense takes flight into a new era. Twelve aerospace titans, fueled by a $3.2 billion Space Force contract, racing to build interceptor satellites that can hunt down enemy missiles in the earliest stages of their journey. These orbital guardians will chase down everything from ballistic threats to hypersonic gliders, guided by swarms of sensors, lightning-fast AI, and a constellation-packed sky. But make no mistake, the mission is as daunting as it is daring, with challenges looming as vast as the heavens themselves.

Golden Dome: When Missile Defense Moves to the Stars

The U.S. Space Force’s recent announcement isn’t about funding a ready-made shield in orbit. It’s the opening bell for a high-stakes race.

Through Space Systems Command, Washington has handed out 20 Other Transaction Authority agreements, worth up to $3.2 billion, to a dozen aerospace pioneers, from Lockheed Martin and SpaceX to scrappy upstarts like True Anomaly and Turion Space. This isn’t your usual government contract, either.

An OTA gives the brass the freedom to pit ideas against each other, cut dead weight, and sidestep the classic blunder of picking a “winner” too soon, only to be trapped by ballooning costs and outdated tech a decade down the line. Instead, the government is fueling prototypes, fostering fierce competition, and hunting for the best blend of performance, cost, propulsion, software, and manufacturability.

The mission? By 2028, pull off a mind-bending demonstration. Not just a satellite launch, but a fully choreographed cosmic dogfight: spot the threat, track it, crunch trajectories, make the call, maneuver in orbit, separate the interceptor, guide it to target, and deliver a kinetic knockout, all in the blink of an eye.

In this domain, the smallest slip in speed or angle means the difference between triumph and a miss by hundreds of kilometers. Don’t let the “Golden Dome” name fool you. This isn’t a replica of Israel’s Iron Dome.

The branding is catchy, sure, but the task at hand is far bigger: defending a continent from missiles coming in at blistering speeds from every direction. The name sells the story, but the real plot is far more complex and the stakes are sky-high.

The High Frontier’s Trillion-Dollar Question

Ground-Based Midcourse Defense interceptors stand sentinel in Alaska and California. At the same time, Aegis cruisers, THAAD, Patriot batteries, sprawling radar sites, and space-based sensors form a web of protection, all stitched together by fast command networks.

But these guardians mostly wait until the enemy missile has finished its fiery sprint skyward; engaging only as it arcs through space or dives toward its target. Enter the Space-Based Interceptor, a bold plan to flip the script and strike sooner, in the split seconds after launch.

On paper, the concept is almost elegant: put interceptors in low Earth orbit, ready to pounce on threats in their vulnerable boost phase. But in practice, it’s an aviator’s challenge of the highest order.

Satellites at these altitudes, say 300 to 500 kilometers up, whip around the Earth at over 7.8 kilometers per second, never lingering above one spot, always racing the clock. The real trick?

You need a vast fleet of these orbital hunters, orchestrated so that at any given moment, enough of them are perfectly positioned to catch a missile in that fleeting launch window. Sometimes just a few minutes long.

That means the constellation can’t be a handful of ultra-expensive birds; it has to be a swarming, resilient, ever-replenished force, taking a cue from the rapid-fire, adaptable spirit of the New Space industry.

Of course, missile defense isn’t just about getting a bird in the sky—it’s about the entire “kill chain.” Golden Dome’s vision weaves together infrared eyes, radar sweeps, encrypted comms, real-time data fusion, AI-driven targeting, and the steady hands of command centers.

Artificial intelligence gets a lot of buzz, but it’s not some autopilot with a launch button; its real job is to spot threats faster, match tracks, predict trajectories, and tee up engagement options for human decision-makers.

How well could this work? Against a rogue launch or a small-scale regional attack, the Golden Dome could be a game-changer. But for the nightmare scenario—a massive barrage from a nuclear heavyweight like Russia or China. Even a sky full of interceptors can’t guarantee a perfect shield.

The Congressional Budget Office says it straight: this next-gen system could far outpace today’s defenses, but stopping a full-scale onslaught remains out of reach. Politically tricky, yes, but that’s the technical truth from the cockpit.

New Shield Over the High Frontier

For the United States, the Golden Dome program is more than just a new missile-defense system. It’s a bold declaration that protecting the homeland now means looking beyond land, sea, and sky, straight into orbit.

The White House paints it as a next-gen shield, one that can stand up to ballistic missiles, hypersonic gliders, advanced cruise threats, and more, all thanks to space-based sensors, swarms of interceptors, and tighter teamwork with allies.

If the plan works, it won’t just put a protective dome over America, but could also wrap U.S. forces and infrastructure in a thicker layer of deterrence while drawing allies deeper into the fold; sharing early warnings, tracking, command networks, and cutting-edge tech.

But this promise comes with plenty of turbulence. Space Systems Command aims to show off real capability by 2028, deploying a spread of satellites in low Earth orbit to catch threats at every stage.

Experts point out this move shifts the focus from rogue actors to heavyweight rivals like Russia and China, and the Congressional Budget Office warns the price tag could soar to $1.2 trillion, with space interceptors gobbling up the lion’s share. Critics caution that instead of cooling tensions, such a shield might just heat up an arms race.

In the end, Golden Dome could become America’s new celestial safety net. But only time will tell if this shield can outpace not just the next missile, but the spiraling costs and political storms waiting below.

This Week in Aviation History

Ever since the 1960s, NASA teaming up with private industry has made it possible for the whole world to tune in to moments like Queen Elizabeth II’s Diamond Jubilee or the Olympic Games. These days, global TV broadcasts seem as ordinary as flipping a switch, but that seamless coverage was unimaginable before the launch of Telstar. It was that little satellite, sent skyward fifty summers ago, that first stitched continents together in real time. Looking back, it’s wild to think our modern media universe traces its roots to that single pioneering moment in spaceflight history.

The Dawn of Live Earth

Telstar 1 was the trailblazer, the first satellite that could beam television from Europe to North America, shrinking the Atlantic into a flickering line on a screen.

Weighing in at just 171 pounds and about the size of a beach ball, Telstar was packed with transistors, wrapped in solar panels, and hurled into orbit by a Delta rocket from Cape Canaveral at 2:35 a.m. on 10 July 1962.

John Neilon, NASA’s deputy launch director for the mission, remembered the thrill of that first attempt; unusual for the era, when launches often took several tries. Once the satellite settled into its sweeping elliptical orbit, all systems checked out, and the team’s hopes turned into electric excitement.

Just hours after launch, Telstar made history by relaying the first live television signal to France. A simple shot of an American flag fluttering at the Andover, Maine, ground station.

Soon after, American viewers watched the first live images sent across the ocean. Telstar wasn’t just about TV; it carried phone calls, data, and even picture facsimiles, proving its worth as a technological Swiss Army knife. Neilon recalled the pride and nerves of those days: “Today, you expect things to work. Back then, we ‘hoped’ it would work.”

President Kennedy himself hailed Telstar as a shining symbol of American ingenuity during the white-hot tensions of the Cold War. The world noticed. Polls showed Telstar was more famous in Britain than Sputnik ever was.

What made Telstar even more groundbreaking was its commercial DNA: built by Bell Labs and funded by AT&T, it was the first privately financed satellite, the kickoff for a new era where the stars were open for business.

The Small Satellite Behind the Big Broadcast

At the heart of NASA’s bold venture, the Goddard Space Flight Center steered the Telstar project. Hard as it is to imagine now, live global broadcasts were pure science fiction back in 1953 when Queen Elizabeth’s coronation lit up London.

For Americans to catch a glimpse, TV crews had to film the ceremony, develop and edit the footage on a transatlantic flight, and only then air it stateside, hours after the event. Telstar changed all that, bringing the world one step closer together by making it possible to watch history unfold as it happened, no matter which continent you called home.

By 1966, Leonard Jaffe, NASA’s Satellite Communications Program director, declared, “Telstar is the best known of all communications satellites and is probably considered by most observers to have ushered in the era of satellite communications.”

Thanks to Telstar and the relay satellites that followed, news, elections, wars, and sporting spectacles could be shared live, weaving a thread of real-time connection around the globe.

Of course, early technology had its quirks. Telstar’s orbit only allowed about 18 minutes of broadcast time as it swept over the Atlantic before vanishing out of range.

The game truly changed when Sir Arthur C. Clarke’s vision took flight: satellites parked in a “geosynchronous” orbit 22,300 miles up, always hovering over the same spot, ready to beam TV signals across oceans at any moment.

Telstar itself was no bigger than a beach ball, but the ground stations it communicated with—like Andover, Maine’s horn antenna—were giants, soaring seven stories and tipping the scales at 340 tons.

Neilon, who saw Andover up close, marveled at its enormity compared to the dish antennas the size of umbrellas dotting rooftops today.

So, as millions tune in to the Summer Olympics “live via satellite,” they’re tapping into a legacy that started fifty years ago, with a little sphere called Telstar opening the door to a truly connected world.

Telstar and the First Signal of a Connected Planet

This isn’t just another hunk of space metal. Telstar is about to shrink the globe. In a single leap, it beams the world’s first TV images from Europe to North America, blowing open the doors of possibility. Suddenly, news, sports, and live events can hop the Atlantic not by cable, but by leapfrogging through space.

Crafted by AT&T and Bell Labs (with a little help from NASA’s rockets), Telstar didn’t hang around for long, but boy, did it make an entrance. In its short, bright life, it handled hundreds of phone calls, telegrams, faxes, and (most dazzlingly) those first live TV broadcasts between continents.

For folks watching at home, it was the moment space stopped being science fiction and started feeling like the world’s biggest shortcut.

Telstar’s design was as bold as its mission, setting standards for satellites that followed. NASA and the Smithsonian still tip their hats to it, ranking it alongside Relay and Syncom in the history books as an early architect of global connection.

So, while Telstar’s time in the sky was brief, its echo is everywhere. It turned the dream of a connected planet into reality, paving the way from those first fuzzy broadcasts to today’s nonstop, high-speed, satellite-powered world. A tiny trailblazer, Telstar lit the path and we’re still following its signal.

In Case You Missed It

Photo Outlet

Every issue of Hangar Flying with Tog gets you a free image that I’ve taken at airshows:

Feel free to use these photos however you like. If you choose to tag me, I am @pilotphotog on all social platforms. Thanks!

Post Flight Debrief

Like what you’re reading? Stay in the loop by signing up below—it’s quick, easy, and always free.
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“In the first nine months of being a deployed medevac pilot, my crew had done 189 urgent calls and transferred over 400 patients.”

—Chief Warrant Officer Anthony Potter, UH-60 Black Hawk instructor pilot/medevac pilot

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“This will be a flyover on July 4th I think I can say the likes of which we’ve never seen before.”

—U.S President Donald Trump

Mission Briefing

Fresh off a hush-hush midnight landing at Joint Base Andrews earlier this June, the VC-25B Bridge—an ex-Qatari 747-8 transformed at breakneck speed—finally steps into the spotlight. The U.S. Air Force has pulled back the curtain, revealing the jet in its crisp service colors for the world to see. It’s a moment straight out of a movie: a storied aircraft getting its star turn after a covert arrival.

The Bridge Aircraft Unveiled

After a whirlwind conversion process that left many skeptics shaking their heads, the U.S. Air Force has officially unveiled the VC-25B Bridge. It is a jet that’s as fascinating in its story as it is striking on the tarmac.

Unlike the painstaking, years-long modifications underway for the two standard VC-25Bs at Boeing, the Bridge’s transformation was a fast-tracked operation.

The secret? Its plush Qatari VIP origins. The aircraft’s interior required only minimal tweaks since it was already dripping with luxury, arguably outshining even the current VC-25A, which is more about serious business than lavish comfort.

Speculation is swirling in aviation circles: will the VC-25B Bridge’s first presidential flight be the much-anticipated journey to Mount Rushmore for the nation’s 250th birthday bash?

While nothing is set in stone, President Trump made waves at the unveiling, announcing that the jet will star in the July 4th flyover above Washington D.C., soaring in formation with cutting-edge F-22 Raptors, F-35 Lightning IIs, and a cast of military heavyweights. It’s a blockbuster entrance for an aircraft that’s already earned legendary status before even carrying its first Commander in Chief.

General Ken Wilsbach, Air Force Chief of Staff, delivered a victory speech worthy of a movie script: “Many thought it could not be done, but the United States Air Force was able to execute and provide a secure, reliable airborne command post on an accelerated timeline.”

The Bridge isn’t just a pretty face. Behind those luxury seats, the Air Force has woven in advanced communications and self-defense systems, though whether it’s ready for globe-trotting presidential missions is still under wraps.

Secretary of the Air Force Troy Meink underscored the meticulous balancing act: “We meticulously evaluated every requirement to accelerate delivery while maintaining the high standards expected of the presidential mission. This effort proves that the U.S. Air Force can move fast without sacrificing quality, security, or reliability.”

The dramatic reveal of the newly painted VC-25B Bridge comes hot on the heels of what appears to be the final major Presidential journey for 92-9000, one of the two stalwart VC-25As.

The White House team celebrated the aircraft’s legacy after it ferried President Trump home from the G7 Summit in France, painting a poignant picture on social media.

Though the VC-25A will soldier on in service for now, all signs point to 82-8000 resuming its role as primary after an overhaul, with 92-9000 shifting gracefully into a supporting role, a torch quietly, but unmistakably, being passed.

A Closer Look at the New V-25B Bridge Aircraft

Step inside the legendary “flying Oval Office,” where 4,000 square feet of airborne ingenuity unfolds like a scene from the golden age of flight.

Up here, above the clouds, the president’s world is a seamless blend of top-secret command center and private sanctuary. Whisper-quiet corridors lead to a suite with all the trimmings: a bedroom for a few hours’ shut-eye at 30,000 feet, a bathroom, an office, and a meeting space fit for history in the making.

Mission control? You bet. Senior staff can orchestrate global operations midair, with advanced comms lighting up the cabin so not a single message gets lost in the jet stream. The VC-25B, built on the mighty 747-8 frame, is more than a plane. It’s a fortress with wings, boasting extra room and upgraded tech to keep up with the world’s most demanding schedule.

Medical suite? Absolutely. There’s a mini-hospital tucked away, ready for anything, staffed and stocked with high-grade gear to handle emergencies without missing a beat.

Touching down at any airport, this bird doesn’t need ground support. Its systems are so self-sufficient, it could run a government summit from a tarmac in the middle of nowhere. And navigation? Think sci-fi: pinpoint accuracy, reliable in the stormiest skies or the darkest night.

Boeing’s masterpiece comes loaded with cutting-edge electronics, delivering real-time, ironclad communications so the president is always plugged in. No blackout, no downtime, no matter how high, how far, or how turbulent the world gets.

Air Force One’s Bridge Across Uncertainty

When the VC-25B Bridge rolled onto the tarmac, it wasn’t just about fresh paint or another notch in Air Force One’s storied legacy. This was a signal. A promise that, even as the old fleet ages and the shiny new VC-25Bs linger in development limbo, America’s leader won’t be grounded.

The interim 747-8 steps in as a winged safety net, letting Washington’s top brass travel, command, and connect whether it’s a handshake across the world or a scramble during crisis.

For America’s allies, the message is clear: Air Force One is far more than a ride. It’s a high-flying emblem of U.S. commitment. Each touchdown in Europe, the Indo-Pacific, or the Middle East is a reminder. America’s leadership is mobile, present, and ready to answer the call, modernization hiccups or not.

The Bridge aircraft itself is a lesson in flexibility. Born in Qatar, refitted in record time, it’s sparked debate at home about politics and security. But above all, the Air Force frames it as a stopgap that puts mission first, proof that sometimes you need to improvise while waiting for the future to catch up.

This isn’t the final chapter. It’s a crucial pause, a moment where power adapts midflight. And looming on the horizon is the bigger question: when the president’s jet, national pride, and industry delays all converge, who gets cleared for takeoff?

This Week in Aviation History

On 2 July 1919, the mighty Airship R34 soared out of East Fortune Airfield and, on July 6th, the aircraft touched down on Long Island, New York. This epic crossing marked the first time anyone had flown from Britain to the United States—history written in the clouds.

RAF R34’s First transatlantic flight

On a chilly, fog-laced morning—2 July 1919, 1:42am—the airship R34 rose from East Fortune, its silver hull slicing through the mist. At the helm were eight officers and 22 men, fueled by daring, joined by an unexpected trio: a stowaway, two pigeons, and a mischievous kitten named Wopsie.

Their mission? To etch history as the first to complete a round-trip flight across the Atlantic, bridging Britain and the United States by air.

The world was still reeling from Alcock and Brown’s legendary west-to-east crossing just weeks prior. Now, the R34 was about to attempt what no one had done before: an east-to-west journey across the ocean’s wildest skies.

The airship itself was a marvel. 643 feet long, affectionately dubbed “Tiny” despite its enormous size. Built at Inchinnan near Glasgow, R34 had missed the Great War but had proven herself over the Baltic, flexing Britain’s aerial muscle before peace settled over Europe.

East Fortune, once a Royal Naval Air Station and now the National Museum of Flight, served as R34’s launchpad. No camera caught her departure, but British artist David Weston’s painting immortalizes the moment; capturing the ship’s immense scale as it drifted into adventure.

Their destination: Mineola, Long Island. Its wide meadows and steady winds made it the aviator’s promised land after four and a half days (108 hours and 12 minutes) of battling fierce squalls, rationing dwindling fuel, and patching a leak with nothing but the crew’s chewing gum reserves.

The R34 touched down at 9:54am on 6 July 1919. But not before another first: Major Pritchard parachuted down to greet the awestruck ground crew, marking the inaugural arrival in America by air.

And then, there were the stowaways. William Ballantyne, a Newcastle man and former crew member, snuck aboard, sharing cramped quarters with Wopsie the cat. The first human and feline to sneak across the Atlantic by air.

When her American adventure was done, R34 charted a course back to Britain, landing at Pulham in Norfolk. The journey had been fraught with danger and wonder, but above all, it was a triumph of human spirit and ingenuity, a true cinematic saga of the skies.

Airship’s Design and Construction

The story of the R34’s construction is, in some ways, as mysterious as it is fascinating. Much of the intricate record-keeping vanished forever in the chaos of WWII.

Beardmore Factory and its archives were lost to a ferocious German bombing raid in 1941. What remains are fragments and memories, but even these scattered details reveal a marvel of early aviation engineering.

Like her sister ships of the era, R34’s skeleton was a masterpiece of practicality and ingenuity. The entire framework was varnished, a glossy armor against the ever-present threat of atmospheric corrosion, and the structure was laced with a complex web of bracing wires.

Between each pair of frames, linen fabric was stretched taut and fixed in place with laces, then overlain with glued strips to keep everything sleek and secure. The airship’s hull was painted with a special “dope” mixed with aluminum powder.

Not just for show, but to bounce back the sun’s rays and keep the interior from overheating during long flights under the open sky.

Inside her vast frame, nineteen huge gasbags filled every available chamber formed by the airship’s girders and frames. These gasbags were crafted from a single layer of rubber-proofed cotton, varnished and lined with goldbeaters’ skin; a material so fine and delicate, it was once used in the making of early balloons.

Cord mesh surrounded each gasbag, a protective cradle to keep them from rubbing against the girders during turbulent stretches above the ocean.

Hanging beneath the main body, the R34 sported four small gondolas, each suspended with long wooden struts and braced with rigging wires, a design borrowed from the earlier R33.

The forward gondola looked like one continuous pod, about fifty feet long, but it was actually split into two, separated by a narrow gap. The reason? To keep the vibration of the big engine from interfering with the wireless telegraph equipment; a clever solution for the age.

In the nose, you’d find the control room and a compact wireless cabin, with a long aerial trailing below during flight.

The control cabin was built for both visibility and safety, featuring Triplex glass panels and sturdy handling rails. Here, the pilots managed an array of wheels, toggles, and instruments—steering, elevator controls, gas valves, engine telegraphs, and even emergency ballast toggles.

A ladder, sheltered by a streamlined canvas, connected the cabin to the ship’s central keel, while another covered conduit protected the maze of control wires leading into the hull above.

Powering this floating giant were five Sunbeam ‘Maori’ engines—a design by French engineer Louis Coatalen, built in Wolverhampton especially for airships. They weren’t quite as refined as the Rolls-Royce engines used in earlier airships, but wartime priorities meant all Rolls-Royces were reserved for planes.

Each engine came with a hand starter and a clever Hele-Shaw dog-clutch system, allowing crew to safely start, warm up, or repair engines mid-flight. If an engine stopped, its propeller could freewheel in the wind to cut down drag, or a special brake could hold it still for delicate maneuvers like landing.

Every line, every rivet, every ingenious workaround tells the tale of the R34. It is a marvel of courage, creativity, and technical ambition, built to conquer the skies.

The Airship That Turned the Atlantic Into a Sky Road

The R34 wasn’t just a hulking piece of sky machinery, it was the world’s first real passport across the Atlantic. R34 is a British airship built for war but destined for adventure, slicing through clouds from east to west.

No one thought an ocean could become a sky road, but there she was, a silver giant drifting into legend, not just surviving the trip, but daring to return the way she came.

Inside this behemoth, it was no smooth ride. The crew, a motley band of officers, mechanics, and a surprise stowaway (plus a cat named Wopsie!), faced storms, fuel running low, and endless uncertainty.

Every mile was a gamble, every engine cough a heartbeat skipped. They patched and prayed, charted and cheered, proving that flying over oceans was never meant to be comfortable. Just possible, if you had enough guts and stubbornness.

The R34’s journey wasn’t only about distance; it was about making skyways out of barriers. For a brief, shining moment, Britain stood atop the world, showing flight could connect continents and carry more than just people; ideas, hope, pride.

Sure, airships faded into history, but every jet streaking across the Atlantic today owes a debt to that first wild crossing. The R34 didn’t just cross the ocean. It changed what the sky could mean.

In Case You Missed It

Photo Outlet

Every issue of Hangar Flying with Tog gets you a free image that I’ve taken at airshows:

Feel free to use these photos however you like. If you choose to tag me, I am @pilotphotog on all social platforms. Thanks!

Post Flight Debrief

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– Tog

Introducing Artemis III. Four astronauts. Three launches. Two dockings. One splashdown.

—NASA

Mission Briefing

Luca Parmitano, Italy’s own astronaut, is about to take the pilot’s seat on Artemis III. With a grin and a nod to history, he’s carrying Europe’s dreams back to the Moon, because this time, the story isn’t just American, it’s universal.

The First European on Artemis’ Flight Deck

On 9 June 2026, beneath the big Texas sky at Johnson Space Center, they pulled back the curtain on the Artemis III crew and there he was. Luca Parmitano: Italian Air Force Colonel, test pilot, storyteller of the stratosphere, and now, the first European ever picked to pilot an Artemis mission. Parmitano joins a crew as international as the dreams that fuel this new lunar odyssey: Randy Bresnik at the helm as commander, with NASA’s Andre Douglas and Frank Rubio as mission specialists, and Bob Hines ready as backup.

This isn’t just a personal triumph. It’s a giant leap for Europe and a proud day for Italy, whose fingerprints have been on Artemis since the beginning, powering Orion with the European Service Module.

Parmitano has been stacking up flight hours and stories since his ESA selection in 2009, spending a cool 366 days off-planet, commanding the ISS, and handling six spacewalks, including one hair-raising EVA in 2013 when a water leak turned his helmet into a fishbowl, forcing a daring retreat and driving future safety upgrades.

Stateside, Parmitano’s been the voice in the capsule as CapCom, the calm in the chaos as an EVA instructor, and even splashed down off California during the Underway Recovery Test 12, rehearsing Artemis recovery ops.

Before all that, he flew the A-11 AMX in the Italian Air Force and earned his test pilot stripes at France’s EPNER, racking up 2,000 hours across 40 aircraft because why stick to one sky when you can have them all?

Artemis III isn’t just another mission: it’s the next chapter in a global story, with Parmitano at the stick and all of Europe along for the ride.

Why Parmitano Became Europe’s Artemis Standard-Bearer

Parmitano’s Artemis III assignment isn’t just about one daring aviator. It’s the latest chapter in Europe’s grand adventure in space. This pick spotlights Europe’s deep commitment and investment in NASA’s lunar ambitions, building on decades of collaboration that started with the International Space Station.

The European Space Agency doubled down on Orion, delivering the European Service Module. Think of it as the powerhouse and lifeline for every Artemis journey. Crafted by Airbus Defence and Space, the ESM is more than a technical marvel. It’s one of Europe’s biggest offerings to Artemis and stands as a shining example of transatlantic teamwork in the cosmos.

But there’s more at play than rockets and modules. With lunar exploration now seen through a geopolitical lens, the Artemis program—modeled after the ISS partnership—has rallied a coalition of nations under the Artemis Accords, all signing on for a future of shared exploration beyond Earth.

Europe has stepped up as a top-tier contributor, offering both cutting-edge tech and serious funding muscle. Parmitano is just the first European astronaut to join the Artemis crew, and you can bet more are waiting in the wings for future missions.

Italy’s legacy in human spaceflight runs deep, and Parmitano’s journey is the latest spark in a long-burning fire. Back in 1964, Italy became only the third country to run its own launch site and the fifth to launch a satellite, San Marco 1, trailblazing before most nations had even left the ground.

Fast-forward a few decades, and Italian know-how, led by Thales Alenia Space Italia, helped build the backbone of the ISS: Harmony, Tranquility, the iconic Cupola, and the logistics modules that kept shuttles humming. That same expertise is now fueling the Artemis age.

Thales Alenia Space helped shape the Lunar Gateway’s key modules, like HALO and the I-Hab habitat for ESA. Even after Gateway was shelved, NASA and Italy inked a fresh deal to team up on the Moon base of tomorrow.

What you get is a rare thread of continuity: Italian engineering first kept astronauts thriving in low-Earth orbit, and soon those same hands will help humanity make camp on the lunar surface.

And with Parmitano now flying the flag on Artemis III, the story comes full circle—past, present, and future, all stitched together in one cinematic European odyssey to the Moon.

Artemis and the New Allied Spacefront

For the United States, Luca Parmitano’s assignment as Artemis III pilot is more than just picking a crew. It’s a bold declaration that the Artemis program is built on alliances.

By putting an Italian and European Space Agency ace in the cockpit, NASA is sending a clear message: the next great leap won’t just ride on American rockets, but on a coalition of trusted partners, shared tech, and mutual confidence.

For America’s allies, this is a moment to step out of the wings and onto the main stage. Europe isn’t just supplying modules and expertise anymore. Thanks to Parmitano, an allied astronaut is now part of Artemis’ operational core.

That shift matters, because going to the Moon and beyond will demand more than signatures on paper; it’ll hinge on nations trusting each other with navigation, docking, and the lives of their best aviators.

Italy’s presence is equally striking. Parmitano brings the swagger of a military pilot, the credibility of a veteran astronaut, and all the symbolism of European unity to a mission that dares to go past Earth’s front yard.

His selection tells Rome, Brussels, and Washington that space exploration is now a strategic language, blending science, diplomacy, defense, and national pride.

Artemis III isn’t just a mission to the Moon. It’s a rehearsal for how allied power will work in space for generations to come. The real headline isn’t who steps down the ladder first, but how America and its partners build the trust and infrastructure to stay.

This Week in Aviation History

STS-71 soared into history as America’s 100th human space launch, a rendezvous that brought the space shuttle and Mir together for the first time. When their hatches opened, the two ships fused into the largest spacecraft ever to orbit Earth—a true meeting of giants. For the Mir crew, it was all change: a handoff high above the clouds, and the shuttle as their chariot home.

From Cold War Rivalry to Orbital Formation

STS-71 wasn’t just another ride into space. It was the stuff legends are made of, the kind of mission that echoes through the hangars and across the tarmac.

The 100th launch of an American crew from Cape Canaveral, and for the first time, a U.S. space shuttle set its sights on the Russian Mir station, the two giants of the sky coming together in a cosmic handshake.

It was the biggest spacecraft ever assembled in orbit, a flying fortress nearly half a million pounds strong, circling the planet over 200 miles up.

The docking itself was pure flight-school poetry. Atlantis, piloted by Gibson and his ace crew, approached Mir not from the obvious front, but from below along the R-bar, or Earth radius vector.

It’s a pilot’s approach: let gravity and orbital mechanics do most of the braking, cut down on fuel-thirsty jet firings, and keep everything smooth and steady. At about a half-mile out, Gibson took the stick, guiding Atlantis with the kind of hands you want at the controls when history’s watching.

The shuttle hovered 250 feet out, waiting for the green light from Houston and Moscow, then inched forward until just 30 feet separated American wings from Russian steel. Docking was spot-on.

Less than an inch off target, and not even half a degree out of alignment. The handshake happened 216 nautical miles above Lake Baikal, with the Orbiter Docking System locking Atlantis to Mir’s Krystall module like a glove.

Once the hatches swung open, it was more than just an embrace between ships—it was the meeting of two crews, the passing of the torch as Mir 18 handed over to Mir 19.

For five days, the ship was alive with activity: American and Russian astronauts swapping gear, sharing experiments, and running biomedical tests in Spacelab. They poked and prodded every aspect of the human body—heart, lungs, metabolism, nerves, even the mind itself. Gathering samples from the Mir 18 crew, who were prepping for their return to gravity after over three months in orbit.

Between blood draws, breath samples, and a broken computer from Salyut-5, Atlantis was packed tight with the stuff of science and the makings of stories.

Atlantis didn’t just take; she gave, too. Over 1,000 pounds of water for Mir’s systems, custom tools for a solar array repair, and fresh oxygen and nitrogen to boost the station’s air.

When the time came to part ways, the undocking was a ballet in black sky: Mir 19 zipped away in their Soyuz to capture the moment on film as Atlantis slipped free, pirouetting back toward home.

Eight souls rode Atlantis back to Earth, tying the record for shuttle crew size, and the returning Mir 18 trio were stretched out in custom-made seats, easing their bodies into the pull of Earth’s gravity after a hundred days of floating.

Sure, there was a computer hiccup on the way, but nothing that could ground these sky legends. STS-71 wasn’t just a mission; it was a high-flying dance at the edge of the possible, where nations shook hands and the spirit of adventure soared.

The Flight Log of Shuttle-Mir

The launch was first set for late May, but the timeline drifted into June as the Russians prepped Mir for its big moment. Spacewalks to retool the station and the arrival of the Spektr module with American experiments onboard.

When June 23 finally rolled around, Florida’s stubborn storms and lightning kept the shuttle grounded, scrubbing tank fueling altogether. The next day, hopes were dashed again just nine minutes from liftoff as more foul weather closed the narrow launch window. Undeterred, the crew reset for June 27. This time, the stars—and the skies—aligned, and countdown ticked smoothly to liftoff.

Mission: First Shuttle-Mir Docking
Space Shuttle: Atlantis
Launch Pad: 39A
Launched: June 27, 1995, 3:32:19.044 p.m. EDT
Landing Site: Kennedy Space Center, Florida
Landing: July 7, 1995, 10:54:34 a.m. EDT
Runway: 15
Rollout Distance: 8,364 feet
Rollout Time: 51 seconds
Revolution: 153
Mission Duration: 9 days, 19 hours, 22 minutes, 17 seconds
Orbit Altitude: 170 nautical miles
Orbit Inclination: 51.6 degrees
Miles Traveled: 4.1 million

Crew

Robert L. Gibson, Commander
Charles J. Precourt, Pilot
Vladimir N. Dezhurov, Mission Specialist
Anatoliy Y. Solovyev, Mission Specialist
Norman E. Thagard, Mission Specialist
Gennadiy M. Strekalov, Mission Specialist
Gregory J. Harbaugh, Mission Specialist
Ellen S. Baker, Mission Specialist
Bonnie J. Dunbar, Mission Specialist
Nikolai M. Budarin, Mission Specialist

When Rivalry Learned to Fly in Formation

STS-71’s legacy is more than just the sight of Atlantis and Mir locked together above Earth. It’s a story of how space can transform competition into collaboration. Once, the U.S. and Russia raced to outdo each other in the great expanse; with STS-71, they joined hands in orbit, sharing risk, routines, and the daring spirit of exploration itself.

When Atlantis docked with Mir in 1995, it wasn’t just about the hardware, but about two teams learning to trust and rely on each other.

The mission became a dress rehearsal for the International Space Station era. Every docked maneuver, crew swap, experiment, and joint briefing was a lesson in international teamwork, revealing that conquering long-term spaceflight meant more than having the best rockets.

It meant blending patience, technical compatibility, and faith in your counterpart’s craftsmanship. STS-71 proved that survival and success in space is a team sport played on a global stage.

For NASA and its partners, that changed what it meant to explore. The new frontier would be reached by coalitions, not solo flights—sharing tools, logistics, and responsibility for every heartbeat on board.

Today, you see echoes of STS-71’s lessons in the global crews, international modules, and shared operations of the ISS and Artemis programs.

That’s why STS-71 is a turning point in the story of spaceflight. It is the moment when rivalry gave way to rendezvous, and the future of flying farther became something we do together.

In Case You Missed It

Photo Outlet

Every issue of Hangar Flying with Tog gets you a free image that I’ve taken at airshows:

Feel free to use these photos however you like. If you choose to tag me, I am @pilotphotog on all social platforms. Thanks!

Post Flight Debrief

Like what you’re reading? Stay in the loop by signing up below—it’s quick, easy, and always free.
This newsletter will always be free for everyone, but if you want to go further, support the mission, and unlock bonus content like the Midweek Sortie, consider becoming a paid subscriber.
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– Tog

The aircraft was abnormally “solid” yet agile requiring few pilot stick motions to remain in tight formation with its safety chase aircraft.”

—Paul Metz, Northrop Test Pilot

The Mojave dawn, pale and endless, and slicing through it, not just any fighter, but the YF-23 Black Widow II; a secret with wings. She was…

Read more

“The Raider was not on tracker, however its orbit seemed to intersect with the other three planes perpendicular to theirs. They all broke orbit when the Raider called into the Edwards Tower to land.”

—Fred Taleghani, Aviation Photographer

Mission Briefing

The photos reveal something interesting: the B-21 Raider’s outboard trailing-edge control surfaces are angled in opposite directions. It’s a telltale sign that this bird handles speed brakes and drag in a way that’s a far cry from the B-2’s classic split rudder setup. Looks like the Raider is rewriting the playbook on stealthy aerodynamics.

The B-21 Raider’s New Flight-Test Clues

On 03, June 2026, the desert air in Edwards Air Base vibrates with anticipation. Out on the shimmering tarmac, something extraordinary is about to take flight, a shadowy shape, cloaked in secrecy and promise.

The first prototype of the Northrop Grumman B-21 Raider—call sign RAIDER17—rolls onto the runway, engines humming with the promise of a new era.

Above, two KC-46 tankers, ARRIS in the sky, are carving their steady ovals, the classic tanker racetrack. Not far off, the Scaled Composites Hawker 4000, callsign SCAT21, circles like a curious hawk, all eyes on the main act.

On the internet, enthusiasts track the tankers and SCAT via ADSBExchange, but the Raider remains invisible, a ghost in the sky. Yet from the ground, its silhouette is unmistakable, slicing through the California blue.

Photographer Fred Taleghani is there, lens trained and ready, hunting for a glimpse of “Cerberus”—the B-21’s test article 0001. He watches as RAIDER17 crosses paths with her airborne companions, orbiting perpendicular, choreography unseen by digital trackers.

All eyes are skyward when the Raider checks in with Edwards Tower, breaking formation and gliding home. As she descends, Taleghani captures rare images of her landing gear and, more intriguingly, the secretive control surfaces splaying—acting as elegant speed brakes.

This isn’t the Raider’s first rodeo. Back on March 10, she danced with a tanker over eastern California, a five-and-a-half-hour ballet witnessed by a lucky few and immortalized in breathtaking photographs.

By April, the Air Force officially acknowledged what those in the know had already seen: the B-21 refueled in midair from a KC-135, pushing her test program further into the future.

Unlike her older cousin, the B-2, the B-21 sports a new array of outboard trailing-edge control surfaces. Taleghani’s images reveal the outermost surface tipped up, the next one down. It is a telltale sign of advanced, differential flight controls, more sophisticated than the B-2’s split drag-rudders.

The Raider keeps her secrets close, but these photos dispel the myth that she’s just a B-2 in new paint. She’s something new, a legend in the making, rewriting the script of stealth, high above the Mojave.

Recent Updates about B-21 and Her Specs

Strap in, because the B-21 Raider’s story is picking up speed. The U.S. Air Force and Northrop Grumman are fast-tracking the production lines, aiming to get these next-gen stealth bombers out the door and into the skies sooner rather than later.

The plan? Land the very first operational B-21 at Ellsworth Air Force Base, South Dakota, next year, making Ellsworth the epicenter of this new chapter in aviation.

The Air Force and Northrop Grumman have already inked a deal to ramp up manufacturing and accelerate deliveries. Construction at Ellsworth is in full swing, with new infrastructure rising to meet the Raider’s cutting-edge needs.

The runway even got a makeover, forcing the resident B-1B Lancers to temporarily call Grand Forks AFB home while the dust settled.

Meanwhile, out in Palmdale, California, Northrop Grumman’s legendary facility is buzzing with activity. The same plant that birthed the B-2 Spirit is now assembling an undisclosed number of Raiders.

In September 2025, the second B-21 prototype made its way, right on schedule, to Edwards Air Force Base. This one showed up without the telltale air data probe and trailing cone, signs that the program is quickly moving from testing to the dawn of operational stealth.

Let us check under the hood of this bomber

Primary Function: Nuclear-capable, penetrating strike stealth bomber
Lead Command: Air Force Global Strike Command
Inventory: Minimum of 100 aircraft
Average Unit Procurement Cost (APUC): $550 million (base year 2010 dollars) / $639 million (base year 2019 dollars) / $692 million (base year 2022 dollars)
*APUC is the total costs of all procurement funding to include, aircraft flyaway costs, support equipment, training, spares, and engineering change orders divided by a minimum of 100 aircraft.
*Former Secretary of Defense Robert Gates directed B-21 Average Procurement Unit Cost as a key performance parameter as the best means to control costs.
Munitions: Nuclear and conventional
Operational: Mid-2020s

Shadow Over the Horizon: The B-21’s Role in Allied Defense

The B-21 Raider isn’t just another sleek silhouette slicing through the sky. It’s the next act in America’s airborne saga. This isn’t about simply replacing tired old bombers; the Raider is the future backbone of long-range airpower, designed to do more than drop ordnance. It’s a statement: “We can reach you, wherever you hide, and you’ll never see us coming.”

As adversaries build thicker air defenses and string together high-tech sensor webs, the B-21 gives Washington a way to keep its finger on any pressure point, no matter how contested the airspace.

Credibility is everything. Deterrence only works if the other side believes you can actually show up, survive the gauntlet, and deliver a response that matters. The Raider is built for that very promise, capable of carrying both conventional and nuclear payloads, offering American policymakers a full menu of options when tensions rise.

For allies, this is more than reassurance. It’s a lifeline. A stealthy bomber that can slip past the latest defenses means the U.S. security umbrella stretches further, whether that’s over Europe, the Indo-Pacific, or anywhere friends count on American resolve.

But the Raider is more than an aircraft; it’s a signpost pointing to tomorrow. Its range, its adaptability, its open systems. All say America is investing in the next fight, not the last.

As it moves from testing to the front lines, the B-21 will force everyone to rethink not just what can be hit, but how alliances and deterrence are shaped in the skies above.

#ad Thanks to Incogni for sponsoring this post.

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This Week in Aviation History

On 28 June 1950, 1st Lt. Bryce Poe II climbed into his RF-80A and kicked off the very first reconnaissance mission of the Korean War. By the time the dust settled, pilots like him would log over 60,000 recon sorties—each flight another chapter in a high-stakes, sky-high epic.

Reconnaissance and Resolve Over Korea

It was the summer of 1950, when the Korean peninsula became the proving ground for the newly minted United States Air Force, still shaking off its World War II hangover.

The Korean War feels like a reel from an old war film: hastily reactivated bombers, dusty airstrips, and pilots who’d barely unpacked their flight suits. When North Korea stormed over the 38th parallel on June 25, the USAF was running on peacetime fumes. Its focus scattered, its budget tight, and its mind still on the big shadow cast by the Soviet Union.

South Korea, left with little more than a threadbare army, suddenly needed a shield. President Truman (nudged by the United Nations) called in the Air Force.

By June 27, American F-82s were tangling with North Korean fighters, drawing first blood in the skies. B-26s swooped in, strafing Pyongyang’s airfields, and by the next day, as ground forces reeled back toward Pusan, airpower became the only thing holding the line.

F-80s, F-51s, and those relentless B-29s pounded tanks, bridges, and convoys, turning highways into graveyards of twisted metal. Every sortie bought precious hours as the tide waited for its turn at Inchon.

Then came the plot twist: China’s armies stormed in, flipping the script from near-victory to a desperate retreat. But the Chinese, for all their numbers, lacked the wings to finish the job.

UN planes, roaring in from Japan, shredded their supply lines, covered battered columns, and gave Ridgway’s counterattack teeth. If the Communists had owned the skies, they might have driven the UN right off the map.

Up north, the air war became a duel of technology and nerve. Soviet MiG-15s sliced through the thin blue, forcing the USAF to unleash the F-86 Sabres. MiG Alley was born. It is a stretch of sky where legends like the Sabre pilots racked up kills, while B-29s ducked into the night to dodge the deadly new jets.

Every bombing run, bridge strike, and hydroelectric raid became part of a high-stakes chess match for the peninsula’s fate.

And on 28 June 1950, a young 1st Lt. Bryce Poe II took off in an RF-80A, flying the Korean War’s first reconnaissance mission. His flight marked the beginning of a sprawling effort—over 60,000 sorties—that proved airpower wasn’t just about dogfights and bombs, but about seeing the battlefield first.

When the world ignites, a true Air Force answers the call before the opening credits are even finished.

Under the Hoods of Twin-Mustang and Boxcar

Let’s dive into the skies of the Korean War, where legendary warbirds like the Twin Mustang and the Flying Boxcar rewrote the rules of combat and courage.

Picture the C-119J Flying Boxcar. It is a beast of a cargo plane, nicknamed for its chunky, utilitarian looks; soaring through history. But this wasn’t just a flying truck. In August 1960, the Boxcar pulled off a move straight out of a sci-fi flick: it made the world’s first mid-air snatch of an object tumbling back from space.

With a winch and some seriously gutsy flying, a recovery crew reeled in the Discoverer XIV satellite right through the plane’s open tail, ushering in the era of ‘satellite catching’—a cloak-and-dagger mission that soon became routine for the USAF, bringing home secret recon film from the edge of space.

The Flying Boxcar first took to the air in 1947, designed to haul heavy cargo, paratroopers, or the wounded, thanks to those barn-door-sized rear hatches and a floor that sat level with the ground.

While the J model became famous for its space-age exploits, earlier Boxcars earned their stripes in Korea, running missions that could turn the tide of battle. None more dramatic than the winter of 1950 at Chosin Reservoir: with U.S. troops cut off by enemy forces, C-119Bs dropped massive bridge sections from the sky, helping trapped soldiers and Marines escape through a mountain pass that would’ve otherwise been their end.

The Boxcar’s service didn’t stop there. It even transformed into a gunship in Southeast Asia, laying down fire to protect ground troops.

And then there’s the F-82 Twin Mustang; two fuselages, one wild vision. While it looked like a double Mustang mashup, it was actually a brand-new bird, built to go the distance with a pilot and co-pilot sharing the load for marathon escorts.

Too late for World War II, but just in time for Korea, the F-82s were the first USAF fighters to sweep into combat there. On 27 June 1950, their guns blazed, downing the first three enemy planes of the war, a legendary entrance for a legendary warbird.

Eyes Before Fire: Korea’s Reconnaissance Legacy

The story of the Korean War isn’t just etched into the icy ridges and battered columns retreating through the snow, nor is it solely told in the roaring duels above MiG Alley. Its lesson (etched in vapor trails and shadows on the ground) is that victory goes to those who spot danger first, move with urgency, and command the heavens.

It was June 1950 when the fledgling U.S. Air Force was yanked into the fray, scrambling to halt disaster on the Korean Peninsula after years of peacetime downsizing. Airpower became the lifeline: buying precious hours, shielding embattled troops, bombing bridges and railways, and stripping the enemy of safe passage under wide-open skies.

But the war’s turning point crept in quietly. Enter 1st Lt. Bryce Poe II, who, in an RF-80A, flew the very first jet reconnaissance mission of the conflict.

Before bombs could hit their mark or commanders could map the enemy’s push, someone had to thread the clouds and flirt with danger, camera in hand. Poe’s flight sparked a relentless reconnaissance campaign that proved intelligence wasn’t just backup; it was the nervous system of airpower.

That spirit still soars today. The RF-80’s lens has morphed into satellites, drones, stealth jets, and real-time data webs. The mission endures: find the threat before it finds you.

From Korea’s mountains to modern skies, reconnaissance is still the opening move. Poe’s legacy? Sometimes victory begins with a single, fearless glance beyond enemy lines.

In Case You Missed It

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The X-59 has officially flown at supersonic speeds for the first time, marking a major step forward on the path to quieting the sonic boom. Even faster and quieter flights are coming soon.

—Lockheed Martin

Mission Briefing

NASA’s X-59 QueSST just cracked the sound barrier for the very first time, diving headlong into the world of supersonic flight. Picture it: a sleek machine slicing through the sky, rewriting what we thought was possible.

The Quiet Boom Takes Flight

For this pivotal test flight, NASA’s X-59 QueSST (Quiet SuperSonic Technology) was in the hands of ace test pilot Jim “Clue” Less. He lifted off from the storied runway at Edwards Air Force Base under a late-morning California sky, the clock ticking 11:08 a.m. PDT. Eighty-one minutes later, Less brought the futuristic bird home, armed with a treasure trove of fresh data from both subsonic and supersonic realms.

Tagging along for the ride, a NASA F-15 played the role of the faithful chase plane, keeping a sharp eye on the X-59 as it pushed the boundaries.

But here’s the interesting twist: the F-15’s thunderous sonic booms drowned out whatever sound the X-59 made a deliberate design feature, since the X-59 is built to swap boom for a gentle, barely-there thump when it breaks the sound barrier. Supersonic, but subtle.

NASA’s press release teased even bigger milestones on the horizon, promising that the next crucial flight (labeled a “mission conditions” run) would see the X-59 hit Mach 1.4 (that’s 925 mph) and soar to 55,000 feet.

This is more than just a speed trial; it’s a rehearsal for real-world missions, where the X-59 will streak over actual communities. Why? To let residents experience that signature quiet thump, not a window-rattling boom, and help NASA collect the data regulators need to rethink the rules for supersonic travel over land.

Since its maiden voyage back in October 2025, the X-59 has been methodically stretching its wings, testing different speeds and altitudes in a careful expansion of its flight envelope. This first phase is all about mapping the aircraft’s limits.

Once that’s wrapped, the focus will shift to acoustic validation: making sure that whisper-quiet supersonic flight is more than just a theory, aiming for completion by the end of 2026.

Meanwhile, NASA’s engineers are keeping tabs on everything from how the aircraft handles and absorbs stress to how its innovative systems—like the eXternal Vision System, which replaces a traditional cockpit window with high-tech cameras—perform in the heat of action.

The stakes are sky-high, but so is the promise of a new era in aviation.

NASA’s X-59 QueSST: The Jet Built to Silence the Sonic Boom

Meet the X-59 QueSST, a marvel of modern engineering and a head-turner straight out of NASA’s playbook, crafted at the legendary Skunk Works. This isn’t just another supersonic jet; it’s the flagship for NASA’s Low-Boom Flight Demonstrator project, a bold mission to bring back supersonic commercial travel without the ear-splitting booms that once grounded it.

The X-59 is all about quiet power, designed not just to break the sound barrier, but to do it gently enough to convince regulators it’s time to lift that 1973 ban on overland supersonic flight.

What sets this bird apart? It’s all in the hush. The X-59’s sonic boom promises to be a whisper compared to the thunder of the old Concorde. NASA says less than 75 perceived decibels on the ground, a third quieter than the Concorde’s infamous 100-110 dB rumbles.

The secret weapon? That impossibly long, slender nose; nearly a third of the plane’s total length. It’s meticulously shaped to shatter shockwaves before they can merge and create a boom, turning a sonic wallop into a polite thump.

But the nose isn’t just for show. It pushes the cockpit so far back there’s no room for a classic windshield up front. Instead, NASA’s engineers cooked up the eXternal Vision System, a cutting-edge array of high-res cameras streaming a crystal-clear 4K feed right to a monitor in the cockpit. It’s high-tech, it’s innovative, and it’s the future.

Under the hood, the X-59 packs a punch with its F414-GE-100 engine—22,000 pounds of thrust, borrowed and tuned from the F/A-18 Super Hornet. The engine sits up top, smoothing out the plane’s belly, which helps keep those pesky shockwaves in check and the sound down low.

Safety’s never an afterthought. The X-59 comes loaded with life support systems to keep the pilot sharp and safe (from oxygen delivery to G-suit power) plus an ejection seat and canopy adapted from the trusty T-38 trainer, complete with first aid, radio, and water.

Because in this next chapter of supersonic flight, it’s all about flying fast, flying quiet, and flying smart.

The Quiet Boom That Could Reopen the Supersonic Sky

For the U.S. and its friends in the sky, NASA’s X-59 QueSST breaking the sound barrier isn’t just another notch in aviation history. It’s a message, a ripple through policy, industry, and strategy alike.

The X-59 nudges past Mach 1.1, its first real taste of supersonic flight. NASA’s chase F-15 thundered alongside, its own boom stealing the sonic spotlight for now, but the world was watching.

Why does it matter? Because this bird is out to prove that speed can make a comeback. Sans the uproar that once grounded supersonic dreams over land. QueSST’s mission is all about listening to the ground: gathering real-world reactions to those gentler “thumps” instead of window-rattling booms, then handing over the findings to U.S. and global regulators.

The hope? Rewrite the rulebook on noise, and open the door for new, faster air routes connecting continents (think New York to London, Tokyo to LA) quicker and quieter than ever before.

There’s a lesson for defense, too. The X-59 isn’t a fighter jet, but its sleek shape, sensors, and whisper-smooth design send a clear signal: in aerospace, survival, stealth, and speed still reign.

Right now, supersonic flight over land is off-limits for civil aircraft, unless the FAA says otherwise. That’s why this data could become the key, linking today’s experiments to tomorrow’s regulations.

If the X-59 can turn the dreaded sonic boom into little more than a polite knock, then the next great aviation race won’t just be about velocity. It’ll be about who can win hearts, win over the rule-makers, and bring this breakthrough to allies worldwide.

So keep your eyes on those noise tests, policy shifts, and whether the industry can turn NASA’s hard-won data into jets that let you cross an ocean before your coffee gets cold.

This Week in Aviation History

On 24 June 1948, the Soviets slammed the gates shut, cutting off every rail, road, and waterway into Allied-held Berlin. Refusing to let the city starve, American and British pilots took to the skies, turning their planes into lifelines as they flew in food and fuel from the west. After months of high-stakes flights and tense standoffs, the blockade finally cracked on 24 May 1949, and the roads to Berlin reopened.

When the Sky Became Berlin’s Lifeline

When the dust settled after World War II, Germany was a shattered country, and nowhere felt it more than Berlin.

With about 2.5 million people scraping by among the ruins, the city’s daily life was a struggle. Food was scarce, shelter even scarcer, and the only real economy was whatever you could find in the black market. To chart a path out of the rubble, the Allies carved Germany into zones, dividing Berlin right down the middle: the Soviets taking the east, the Americans, British, and French splitting the west.

For a while, uneasy cooperation kept things moving, but by 1948, the cracks in the alliance had split wide open. The Soviets were meeting with their former partners to hammer out how to run the place, but when they caught wind that the U.S., Britain, and France were planning to fuse their zones into a new West German state, the gloves came off.

Tensions flared even hotter when the Allies rolled out the Deutschmark. It is a brand-new currency for their zones, including West Berlin. It was a bold move meant to reboot the economy, crush the black market, and channel Marshall Plan aid into the city. But the Soviets weren’t invited to the party and saw their grip on Berlin slipping away.

Here’s the kicker: Berlin itself sat deep inside Soviet-controlled East Germany, a Western outpost surrounded by rival forces. Sensing an opportunity, the Soviets made their move.

On 24 June 1948, they slammed shut every road, rail line, and waterway leading into Allied-controlled Berlin, hoping to starve the city into submission. With Allied troop numbers a fraction of the Soviet garrison, there was no chance of breaking the blockade by force.

The Soviets may have controlled the ground, but they couldn’t seal off the sky. So, the Americans and British fired up their engines and launched Operation Vittles, known to history as the Berlin Airlift.

Starting June 26, wave after wave of cargo planes threaded the air corridors, dropping in food, coal, and hope. It was the largest aerial supply mission the world had ever seen. Meanwhile, the Allies hit back with their own economic squeeze, cutting off trade with the East. The Cold War’s first major standoff had begun, and it was playing out above the clouds of Berlin.

Operation Vittles: The Sky’s Greatest Supply Mission

At first, the Berlin Airlift looked like a mission straight out of an aviator’s nightmare—over two million Berliners counting on you for every meal, every drop of fuel, every life-saving dose of medicine. But as weeks turned into months, the operation found its rhythm.

The skies above Tempelhof became a well-oiled ballet of engines and wings, with planes touching down every 45 seconds at the height of the effort. On Easter Sunday, April 1949, the airlift’s pilots pulled off a feat for the history books: 13,000 tons of cargo (enough to fill 600 railcars with coal) delivered in just one day.

For the Soviets, the story was unraveling. Ten months in, the Allies had shown they could keep the lifeline going as long as it took, and the blockade was backfiring, painting the Russians as the heavy-handed villains.

Worse still, the Allied counter-blockade was squeezing supplies in the Soviet sectors, stirring unrest on the other side of the wall. Finally, the Soviets blinked, lifting the blockade on 11 May 1949. Still, the Allies kept the airlift running until September 30, just in case Moscow thought about slamming the door shut again.

By the end, American and British crews had flown over 278,000 missions, delivering a staggering 2.3 million tons of supplies over nearly 92 million miles.

The Berlin Airlift became a living testament to American ingenuity, grit, and the power of allied teamwork; proof that some burdens are too great to shoulder alone. Though the blockade ended without a shot, the Iron Curtain was only beginning to fall.

NATO formed in its wake, and Berlin split in two, each half a symbol: democracy and freedom in the West, communism in the East.

The Berlin Airlift: The Legacy That Kept Freedom Flying

The story of the Berlin Airlift isn’t just measured in cargo manifests or tally sheets of coal and flour. Its true legacy soars somewhere higher, in the moment when airpower stopped being just about force and became a lifeline, a promise stitched across the clouds.

When the Soviets slammed the gates on West Berlin in 1948, the world held its breath. The answer wasn’t gunfire or retreat, but a steady, determined parade of aircraft. C-47s, C-54s, and allied transports threading the needle through narrow corridors, turning the sky into a living bridge. Every landing wasn’t just a delivery; it was hope with wings.

This cinematic chapter rewrote the script for what military aviation could mean. Suddenly, logistics weren’t background details. They were acts of defiance. Aircrews defended a city not with bombs, but with bread, milk, and medicine.

The airlift became a symbol: that unity could fly, and that freedom could be kept alive from above. Berliners looked up and saw more than machines. They saw proof they weren’t alone.

The doctrine born over Berlin was simple and bold: when roads close and diplomacy stalls, air mobility can still break through. The echo of those engines still resonates wherever planes carry relief into places cut off by conflict or disaster.

From the crowded corridors of 1948 to today’s global air missions, the lesson lands the same way, when liberty is on the ropes, sometimes the sky itself becomes the story’s hero.

In Case You Missed It

Photo Outlet

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Afterburners are only used on fighter planes and the supersonic airliner, Concorde. The Concorde turns the afterburners off once it gets into cruise. Otherwise, it would run out of fuel before reaching Europe. Afterburners offer a mechanically simple way to augment thrust and are used on both turbojets and turbofans.

—NASA

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The first phase of flight testing for the KC-46’s Remote Vision System 2.0 upgrade is complete, validating systems and confirming the performance of upgraded camera, control, and processing hardware aboard the KC-46 in real refueling conditions.

—Boeing Defense

Mission Briefing

Boeing just wrapped up the first round of trials on the KC-46’s RVS 2.0, putting those tough, high-def cameras and slick controls through their paces. The real adventure kicks off in 2027, when these upgrades go fleet-wide and the sky gets a little sharper for every pilot.

Boeing Advances KC-46A Remote Vision Upgrade

In the world of high-flying innovation and nail-biting test flights, the KC-46A Pegasus just marked a turning point in its turbulent journey.

On June 3rd, 2026, Boeing announced with a mix of relief and pride that it had wrapped up the first phase of flight tests for the much-debated Remote Vision System 2.0. It is a tech marvel that’s been both a lifeline and a headache for the Pegasus team.

For years, the RVS, essential for guiding the telescopic refueling boom, was plagued by blurry video feeds and light sensitivity that could turn refueling into a white-knuckle gamble.

But with this initial round of tests in the books, the stage is set for a full-force upgrade across the Air Force fleet, penciled in for 2027.

Boeing’s cinematic test footage showed the KC-46A’s refueling boom linking up midair with everything from a fellow Pegasus and a hulking C-17 Globemaster III to the nimble T-38 Talon, all under the watchful eye of the new ruggedized cameras.

Boeing’s press team didn’t hold back, touting the RVS 2.0’s ground-breaking optics: 4K Ultra HD, 3D immersive visuals, and hardware tough enough for whatever the skies throw at it.

The aim: give Airmen a crystal-clear, real-world view while they pull off the delicate ballet of midair refueling. This leap follows months of lab work and hands-on tinkering, not to mention crafting a next-level Aerial Refueling Operator Station.

Testing kicked off at Boeing’s Seattle home base and soon had the 418th Flight Test Squadron at Edwards Air Force Base joining in, especially for those challenging flights over the Mugu Sea Test Range, where sunlight plays tricks on even the best tech. The saga of the Pegasus and its new eyes in the sky is just getting started, and the next chapter promises to be dramatic.

The Tanker Bird’s RVS and Other Issues

The saga of the KC-46A Pegasus continues to unfold as the U.S. Air Force, Boeing, and the Joint Program Office set their sights on a service-wide retrofit for the much-anticipated Remote Vision System 2.0 in 2027, just after it clears certification.

This is no small feat. The KC-46A is slated to take over from the iconic KC-135 Stratotanker, a workhorse of the skies for generations, with about 370 still flying missions. The Pegasus is destined to become the backbone of America’s aerial refueling fleet for decades to come, a futuristic torchbearer on the high-altitude highways.

By mid-May, the mood at Boeing and the Air Force was all hands on deck. The program, which had been fighting an uphill battle, launched a full-scale rescue mission. The goals were clear: get RVS 2.0 certified and retrofitted on schedule, reassign the earliest Pegasus builds to support the fleet right away, and roll out a temporary, performance-based logistics plan laser-focused on the refueling system and anything else that kept these birds grounded.

As of February 2026, Boeing had delivered 103 Pegasus jets to the Air Force, even as it wrestled with a laundry list of technical setbacks. At the very heart of the storm was the Remote Vision System: a technological leap that swapped the classic rear-facing window for a cutting-edge camera suite, letting boom operators refuel planes through video feeds rather than direct line of sight.

But the first versions of this system struggled with visibility and depth perception, especially in tricky lighting—night flights, dazzling sun, you name it. Image washout and visual distortions made refueling a tense, high-stakes affair, as the operators grappled with the risk of accidental strikes.

To bridge the gap, the Air Force fielded interim KC-46As with what’s been dubbed the RVS 1.5: a modest upgrade, but still not the leap forward everyone hoped for. The RVS 2.0, meanwhile, brings in a total of six cameras (two long-wave infrared, four visible spectrum) for an all-weather, all-lighting solution.

But even this upgrade ran the gauntlet of technical reviews and certification headaches, as Boeing tried to adapt commercial off-the-shelf hardware for military missions.

And the Pegasus’s challenges didn’t stop there. The refueling boom itself faced teething troubles, from actuator stiffness that made it tough to plug into certain jets, to nozzle-binding issues that sometimes left the boom stuck fast: costly headaches for crews and taxpayers alike.

Then, in February 2025, a new setback: deliveries halted after structural cracks were found in two KC-46As. Through it all, the vision remains. It is a new chapter for aerial refueling, with the Pegasus leading the charge, one upgrade at a time.

Eyes on the Boom: KC-46’s Quiet Fight for Allied Reach

The milestone reached with the KC-46A Pegasus’s Remote Vision System 2.0 is more than just a technical victory. It’s a pivotal chapter in the story of American and allied airpower.

While fighter jets, bombers, and sleek surveillance birds grab the headlines, it’s the tankers, like silent shepherds in the clouds, that really set the boundaries for how far our aircraft can roam and how fast they can answer the call.

With Boeing wrapping up the first phase of RVS 2.0 flight tests, one of the Pegasus program’s most glaring weak spots is finally getting patched.

Unlike the old-school tanker crews who peered through rear windows, today’s boom operators are glued to screens, guiding the refueling boom with the help of high-tech cameras. If those cameras can’t handle glare or depth, it’s not just a technical snag. It’s a question of safety and mission speed.

This matters now more than ever. As distances in the Pacific and elsewhere become strategic hurdles, a robust, reliable tanker fleet is the quiet force-multiplier. For America’s allies, it means smoother joint missions and the kind of coalition staying power that matters in a crisis. Japan’s already flying the Pegasus, and NATO partners lean on U.S. refueling know-how during tense patrols and exercises.

The real takeaway? Air dominance isn’t just about stealth or firepower. It’s about the unsung machines that keep everyone else in the fight. With RVS 2.0 on the rise, the Pegasus story is pivoting from problem child to unsung hero of the skies.

This Week in Aviation History

The GRAB II satellite tells a chapter from the dawn of space-age espionage, standing as one of America’s earliest forays into signals intelligence from orbit. Its predecessor, the first GRAB, rocketed skyward on 22 June 1960—just weeks after the drama of Gary Powers’ U-2 spy plane being shot down. In those tense days, the race for secrets had shifted from high-altitude wings to silent sentinels circling above the clouds.

GRAB I, First Operational Intelligence Satellite

For nearly four decades, the story of the Galactic Radiation and Background (GRAB) satellite remained locked away in the vaults of military secrecy, only to be revealed by the Navy in 1998.

The program, originally dubbed “Tattletale,” earned its cryptic new name after its existence went public.

It all started when NRL scientist Reid Mayo, fresh off his breakthrough with radar detectors on submarine periscopes, pitched the bold idea that his periscope antenna could be just as effective in orbit.

Mayo took this vision to Howard Lorenzen, the mastermind behind the Navy’s countermeasures, who saw its promise and championed it up the chain in 1958.

The concept sprang to life in the tense days after a U.S. reconnaissance plane was shot down over the Soviet Union in June 1960. GRAB I hitched a ride atop a Navy Transit IIA satellite, slipping quietly into orbit.

From its perch 500 miles above Earth, GRAB I darted through the invisible webs of Soviet radar, picking up pulses and beaming the data down to hidden collection huts scattered across the globe.

Operators would carefully record the satellite’s transmissions onto magnetic tape, then rush the precious reels to the Naval Research Lab for evaluation. There, the data was copied and sent off to the NSA and Strategic Air Command for deep analysis and strategic insight.

GRAB I’s secret haul of Soviet air defense intelligence—impossible to gather by aircraft—became a game changer. By the time GRAB II launched in June 1961, the program was hitting its stride, delivering a torrent of invaluable radar intercepts.

The sheer volume of signals prompted the NSA to roll out new automated systems just to keep pace. Meanwhile, the Navy’s space wizards kept pushing the boundaries, laying the groundwork for tracking satellites and mastering the silent battles above the clouds.

How GRAB Turned Space Into an Intelligence Frontier

The GRAB project was a game-changer, proving satellites could scoop up electronic intelligence on a scale that matched or even outclassed the ships, planes, and ground crews below; without risking a single life and at a fraction of the cost.

As GRAB quietly rewrote the rulebook, the National Reconnaissance Office (NRO) was formed in 1961 to corral all satellite and overflight spy missions, and by 1962, it had absorbed the Naval Research Lab’s pioneering ELINT satellite work.

Never content to rest on their laurels, the team at NRL took the momentum from GRAB and launched POPPY. It is the next-gen ELINT satellites designed to sniff out radar emissions on land and keep a stealthy eye on ocean traffic. POPPY ran as a key player in NRO’s signals intelligence arsenal, operating in the silent heights from 1962 to 1977.

Even today, the GRAB program’s spirit lives on at the U.S. Naval Research Laboratory, fueling fresh innovation and inspiring new generations of space engineers. As Chris Dwyer, head of the NRL Space Systems Division, says, the lab’s legacy in space science is a tapestry of firsts. GRAB is just one iconic thread in the Navy’s storied journey above the clouds.

The Satellite That Taught the Cold War to Listen

GRAB’s legacy kicks off with a quiet but seismic shift. It is a satellite proving, for the first time, that outer space could be a front-row seat for intelligence gathering. Launched in 1960, just as the world reeled from the U-2 incident, the Galactic Radiation and

Background satellite wore a public face of science, but its real mission was shrouded in secrecy. From hundreds of miles above, GRAB tuned in to Soviet radar signals and beamed that vital intel home, giving American analysts a way to study enemy air defenses without risking pilots over hostile skies.

But GRAB’s true breakthrough wasn’t just in hardware. It rewrote the playbook for reconnaissance itself. Until then, intelligence meant sending brave crews into danger zones by plane, ship, or on the ground.

GRAB showed that a compact spacecraft could quietly scan vast territories, lowering the risk for personnel and raising the bar for strategic insight.

This little satellite didn’t just collect secrets. It laid the groundwork for the next wave of U.S. space reconnaissance. Its success spun off into programs like POPPY and helped forge lasting ties among the Navy, NSA, CIA, Strategic Air Command, and the newly minted National Reconnaissance Office.

The information GRAB gathered lifted the veil on Soviet radar, deepened America’s electronic warfare playbook, and shaped preparations for future threats from the sky.

In the end, GRAB was more than just a satellite. It was the moment the Cold War learned to listen from above. Every modern spy satellite and space-based radar system still echoes that first, silent sentinel’s legacy.

In Case You Missed It

The ES-3A Shadow’s career was cut short:

Photo Outlet

Every issue of Hangar Flying with Tog gets you a free image that I’ve taken at airshows:

Feel free to use these photos however you like. If you choose to tag me, I am @pilotphotog on all social platforms. Thanks!

Post Flight Debrief

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– Tog

US officials have signalled openness to talks that would potentially allow more countries to host its dual-capable aircraft, which are able to deliver nuclear strikes.

—Financial Times

Mission Briefing

According to the Financial Times, word is swirling that the U.S. is deep in talks with NATO buddies—especially Poland and those plucky Baltic states—about beefing up the Air Force’s nuclear presence in Europe. Picture tense briefings, maps sprawled across tables, and the hum of strategy in the air. It’s the kind of high-stakes negotiation that would feel right at home in a Cold War thriller, but with a modern, cockpit-casual twist.

Nuclear Wings over Europe

Let me take you up to 30,000 feet and give you a bird’s-eye view of the nuclear chessboard in Europe, a landscape that’s as cinematic as it is high-stakes. Right now, there’s an exclusive club of host nations. Think Belgium, Germany, Italy, the Netherlands, Turkey, and the UK, each playing host to U.S. nuclear bombs.

Under the broader NATO war plan, these weapons can be delivered not only by American pilots but, in some cases, by specially trained local crews. The UK, for its part, made a dramatic return to this club when it welcomed nuclear weapons back to RAF Lakenheath, ending a hiatus that started in 2008. Picture the scene: hardened bunkers, the quiet thrum of security systems, and a sense of history circling overhead.

But the script is changing. With Russia’s war on Ukraine rewriting the security calculus, NATO’s eastern flank. Poland and the Baltic states of Latvia, Lithuania, and Estonia are stepping into the spotlight.

For them, proximity to the Russian border isn’t just a line on a map; it’s a daily reality, with the distant rumble of artillery never far from mind. Now, according to reports, they’re considering joining the nuclear sharing initiative, a move that would see U.S. bombs stationed on territory that, not so long ago, was firmly behind the Iron Curtain.

For Poland, in particular, the prospect is tangible. They fly both F-16s and the cutting-edge F-35, making them prime candidates for joining the elite group of nations cleared to deliver American nukes.

If this expansion were to happen, it’d be historic. A first for U.S. nuclear weapons to take up residence in former Warsaw Pact countries. Imagine: the very same B61 bombs, first fielded in the 1960s, potentially deployed to bases that, decades ago, would have been targets on old Cold War maps.

Of course, don’t expect a Hollywood-style arrival overnight. Even in the UK, where the infrastructure was already in place, years passed between the initial talks and the actual return of the weapons. For Poland or the Baltics, vaults (armored, tech-laden, and bristling with security systems) would have to be built from scratch before a single bomb touched down.

And there’s another wrinkle in the plot. Poland, along with other NATO partners, has signed on to France’s vision of a beefed-up French nuclear force. This could mean Rafale jets, armed with French nukes, rotating through other countries and more invitations to join France’s high-drama nuclear exercises. In the ever-shifting theater of European security, the cast keeps growing, and the stakes are higher than ever.

Major Reason Behind Expansion

Soaring above the shifting landscape of U.S. military strategy, you can see the tension playing out like a scene from a geopolitical thriller. The Trump administration has made it clear: the U.S. wants to pull some of its forces out of Europe, a move that’s got allies glancing nervously at their maps.

But here’s the twist. While boots on the ground may be on the way out, the Pentagon is weighing the cinematic option of deploying more nuclear weapons to keep the strategic balance. Unlike conventional forces, these nukes require fewer personnel, letting Washington trim its military footprint while still reassuring European partners that the cavalry (or at least the bombers) are never too far away.

As NATO allies brace themselves for the official word on troop withdrawals, the numbers are making headlines. Germany alone could lose up to 5,000 U.S. personnel, cutting deep into the American presence there.

Over in Poland, a planned rotation of 4,000 troops was suddenly called off, stirring up political drama from Warsaw to Washington. The decision was eventually reversed, with President Trump personally greenlighting a new deployment, but the whiplash left allies wary of the unpredictable winds blowing from D.C.

The repercussions ripple far beyond Europe. When the U.S. dragged its feet on a visa waiver for Bulgarians, Prime Minister Rumen Radev threatened to send U.S. forces packing, including the aircrews at Sofia International who support Operation Epic Fury. Europe isn’t just a backdrop; it’s a vital launchpad for missions stretching into the Middle East.

If countries start closing their doors, the U.S. Air Force—already hustling to keep its vast airlift fleet moving—could find its options for refueling and stopovers narrowing fast. In this high-altitude chess match, every move counts, and the room for error is getting tighter by the day.

NATO’s Nuclear Shield Takes Flight

What was once a holdover from Cold War days is now morphing into a more active response to Russia’s pressure campaign on Europe. The latest talks are about moving beyond the old nuclear-sharing playbook: Poland and the Baltic states are now in the frame as potential hosts for dual-capable jets that could carry U.S. bombs, not just the usual suspects farther west.

For NATO’s eastern members, the subtext is clear. They want real, visible proof that the American nuclear umbrella covers them too. NATO keeps emphasizing that dual-capable aircraft are the backbone of its nuclear deterrent, with Washington still firmly in charge of the bombs. Poland and Lithuania have admitted they’re in discussions about taking on a bigger role, though Poland says no nukes are coming just yet.

From the U.S. side, it’s about showing extended deterrence: even if conventional forces shift, Moscow needs to know that attacking NATO would mean consequences. The F-35A’s new certification to carry the advanced B61-12 bomb gives NATO a slick, stealthy way to deliver its message, making the deterrent posture more credible than ever.

But there’s turbulence ahead. Any expansion could be seen as provocation by Russia, and allies would need to invest in secure bases and political buy-in. With over 100 B61 bombs already on the continent, this isn’t just symbolism. It’s a real shift in NATO’s nuclear footprint, and a signal that Europe’s next airpower story might be about building a broader, modernized nuclear shield.

This Week in Aviation History

15, June 1944: The first American raid on Yawata kicked off the bold campaign to bomb Japan’s home islands from the skies. Sure, it wasn’t a smashing victory, but it proved those mighty B-29s could cross oceans and strike at the heart of enemy territory. It was the opening scene in a new chapter of aerial warfare—risky, relentless, and just getting started.

Superfortress Bombing of Japan

Back in the wild, uncertain dawn of the Pacific War, the Japanese swept across the map with the force of a tidal wave, seizing islands and outposts at a pace that left Allied commanders scrambling.

Every day, the enemy’s reach grew longer, their strongholds inching closer to the American dream of striking back. The U.S. had bombers, legendary birds like the B-17 Flying Fortress and the B-24 Liberator. But these old workhorses just didn’t have the legs for the job. The Pacific was simply too wide, its blue expanse swallowing any hope of a sustained bombing campaign on Japan’s doorstep.

Then, on the distant horizon, came the promise of something extraordinary: the Boeing B-29 Superfortress. This wasn’t just another bomber. It was an engineering marvel, a beast born from the fevered ambition of Army brass who’d been eyeing high-altitude, long-range bombers since 1938.

Before the prototype even left the ground, the Army ordered 250 of these giants from Boeing, betting the farm on a machine that would outclass anything in the skies.

When the XB-29 finally roared down the runway in September 1942, it was like something out of a pilot’s wildest dreams: nearly 100 feet long, a wingspan stretching further than a city block, and weighing in at over sixty tons when loaded for bear. Four Wright Duplex Cyclone engines, each one a snarling powerhouse, could sling the Superfortress through the clouds at up to 375 miles per hour.

Inside, the crew of eleven cruised at altitudes above 30,000 feet in pressurized comfort, while the defensive turrets bristled with .50-caliber machine guns. Best of all, she could carry a staggering ten tons of bombs, enough to leave a mark on any target below.

At first, the brass thought about sending these beauties to Europe. But by the time the B-29s were ready for action, the skies over Germany were already thick with Allied bombers. It was in the Pacific, against Japan, that the Superfortress would write its legend.

General H. H. Arnold, a man whose mind soared as high as his bombers, knew the challenge: U.S. bases in the Aleutians were too far, and the vital Mariana Islands weren’t yet in American hands. The solution was bold, base the B-29s in India, then leapfrog them over the treacherous Himalayas (the infamous “Hump”) to airfields in China, finally putting Tokyo within reach.

President Roosevelt, playing the long game, quickly approved the plan—Operation Matterhorn—in late 1943, eager to keep China’s leader, Chiang Kai-shek, in the war and give Japan a taste of what was coming. For the aviators at the tip of this spear, the very idea of a globe-spanning bombing force was the stuff of legend. The B-29 was their Excalibur.

By spring 1944, the Twentieth Air Force was formed, with Arnold at the helm and the Superfortress its crown jewel. Command was tight: no ground general, British or American, could touch the B-29s except in a true emergency. Supplies for the Chinese bases had to be flown in, often requiring seven round trips from India just to deliver enough fuel for a single bombing mission.

With the Seventy-third Bombardment Wing reassigned to the Marianas, the remaining Fifty-eighth Wing could only muster full-scale raids a few times a month; hampered by teething troubles, engine failures, and green crews pushing a brand new machine to its limits.

It wasn’t until 15 June 1944, after months of sweat, setbacks, and sky-high hopes, that the first B-29s finally lifted off for their inaugural raid on Japan.

Under the Hood of the Superfortress

The B-29 was dreamed up in 1940 as the next leap beyond the B-17 and B-24. By September 1942, she soared on her maiden flight, a gleaming promise of what was to come. Fast forward to December 1943, and the U.S. Army Air Forces brass decided Asia was where this long-range titan would shine, especially for those marathon flights over the Pacific toward Japan.

By the end of 1944, B-29s thundered off runways on Saipan, Guam, and Tinian, bringing the war right to Japan’s doorstep. When the Korean War erupted in June 1950, the Superfortress was called back into action, ready for another round.

She had her share of close calls, dodging MiG-15 jets, but still packed a punch against a variety of enemy targets. One storied B-29, Bockscar, wrapped up her journey with a final flight to the museum on September 26, 1961. That marked the close of an era, but her legend still echoes across aviation history.

TECHNICAL NOTES:
Armament: Eight .50-cal. machine guns in remote controlled turrets plus two .50-cal. machine guns and one 20mm cannon in tail; 20,000 lbs. of bombs
Engines: Four Wright R-3350s of 2,200 hp each
Maximum speed: 357 mph
Cruising speed: 220 mph
Range: 3,700 miles
Ceiling: 33,600 ft.
Span: 141 ft. 3 in.
Length: 99 ft.
Height: 27 ft. 9 in.
Weight: 133,500 lbs. maximum
Serial number: 44-27297

B-29s Beyond the Horizon

The true legacy of the 15 June 1944 B-29 Superfortress raid on Yawata isn’t found in the battered buildings or twisted metal. It’s in the new era it launched. That night, American bombers clawed their way from India, through makeshift bases in China, to finally touch the Japanese homeland with a weapon the world had never seen: the very-heavy bomber.

Clouds, balky engines, and the vast stretch of ocean and mountains made the raid less deadly than hoped, but that wasn’t the real story. The real shockwave hit when Japan realized that nowhere was out of reach anymore.

Yawata was the first lightning flash before the storm. It showed the awesome potential of strategic bombing in the Pacific. The B-29s could fly high, fly far, and carry mountains of bombs, but they also needed rivers of fuel, expert crews, and bases that were never close enough. Operation Matterhorn laid bare the logistical mountain to climb, with every drop of fuel having to cross the Himalayas before a single bomber could launch.

Still, the raid gave the B-29 force its baptism by fire, teaching hard lessons that would shape the relentless air assaults from the Marianas later on. Yawata’s legacy is one of transformation: from a daring experiment to a full-force campaign, from desperate logistics to airpower dominance, and from Japan’s sense of safety to the undeniable fact that distance was no longer a shield.

It ushered in a new age in which long-range bombers, forward bases, and cutting-edge tech rewrote the rules of war from the sky. Even now, with stealth jets, nuclear bombers, and drones prowling the horizon, the message endures: in airpower, whoever owns the long arm of reach sends the first—and loudest—warning before the fight begins.

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