August 1939 – Nomonhan

"Dammit! Dammit! What the hell is that aircraft? Is that really a Japanese military plane?!"

Soviet Union Lieutenant Petrakhov, gripping the control stick of his I-16, shouted in frustration. Several enemy aircraft had emerged from the clouds high above his squadron, executing sharp turns and diving at incredible speeds to attack from the rear.

His squadron scattered to evade, but Lieutenant Kleinev's plane was hit.

Petrakhov's Soviet Mongolian Brigade had sortied to bomb the Nomonhan positions illegally occupied by the Japanese Army. Air superiority belonged to the Soviets. This mission should have been as easy as going shopping. At least, it should have been...

"Lieutenant Semkov! Kleinev's been hit! Gain altitude and take them down. Follow me!"

The poor-quality radio made it doubtful whether his wingmen heard him, but Petrakhov trusted they had and pulled back on the stick. There was no response from his wingmen.

Chasing the enemy after their dive would be foolish. They had the speed advantage, and losing altitude would only give them the upper hand.

"What about the other squadrons?"

Looking around, it seemed the other squadrons were also under attack. This sortie consisted of six I-16 squadrons (18 planes) and 24 bombers. In Nomonhan, the Soviets had been gradually gaining air superiority. The addition of armor plating behind the pilot's seat meant the Japanese Type 97 fighter's 7.7mm machine guns could no longer deliver fatal blows. Self-sealing fuel tanks also made fires rare, even after direct hits. Against Japanese planes, the I-16 should have been nearly invincible.

Petrakhov saw friendly planes trailing smoke as they descended. It seemed several had been lost in the initial engagement.

"Any orders from the squadron leader yet?"

If the enemy attacked, the squadron leader should have issued some kind of directive. Listening closely, all Petrakhov heard was louder-than-usual static from the radio.

"Damn this piece of junk radio! Of all times to fail!"

He cursed the shoddy quality of Soviet industrial products. As he climbed, Petrakhov kept his eyes on the enemy planes that had attacked earlier. The rising sun insignia confirmed they were Japanese, but these were unfamiliar models. Slightly larger than the Type 97 fighters he'd faced before, they were far faster. And their landing gear was retracted—apparently, Japan had finally mastered retractable gear.

After their dive, the enemy planes twisted sharply and climbed at an astonishing rate. The speed and maneuverability were unreal. If he tried such maneuvers in the I-16, the wings would tear off. And no ordinary pilot could withstand such forces.

The Japanese planes climbed rapidly, reaching 6,000 meters faster than Petrakhov's squadron, which had started climbing earlier. They flipped into inverted flight, positioning themselves above and behind the Soviets.

"No good, we can't escape! Are these Japanese fighters monsters or what?!"

The I-16's top speed was around 460 km/h, but the enemy planes were clearly exceeding 600 km/h. In a dive, they might have hit 800 km/h or more.

"This can't be real! What are these things?!"

Their performance was beyond anything he'd seen from Japanese planes—or any aircraft of this era, for that matter.

"Impressive. The Experimental Type 11 Fighter is something else."

Major Makimura, leading a nine-plane squadron, flew at 8,000 meters. Their mission was to intercept 24 Soviet bombers and 18 fighters. They hid in the clouds to avoid detection.

The newly arrived fighters were the Imperial Japanese Space Force's Experimental Type 11 Fighter, a new air-superiority fighter developed under a project launched in 1936. With a length of 10.80 meters, a wingspan of 10.55 meters, and an engine output of 2,800 horsepower (at 7,000 meters), it boasted a top speed of 800 km/h (at 8,200 meters). Its six-bladed propeller, with a backward sweep, maintained transonic speeds at the tips without generating shockwaves.

"Charlie Brown to Woodstock. Bandits at 11 o'clock, 50 km, altitude 4,800 meters, approaching at 400 km/h."

The patrol plane Charlie Brown's radio transmission came through clearly. The Type 98 radio, standardized in 1938, provided crisp audio, automatically encrypted and decrypted upon reception. Though there was a slight delay compared to older radios, the clarity was unmatched, and interception by the enemy was impossible. "Bandits" referred to the enemy—a term borrowed from English, a quirk of the commander's preferences. While the crew found it academic and endearing, the Army and Navy mocked them as "American wannabes."

"Woodstock here. Roger that. Commencing interception."

With their speed at 700 km/h and the enemy's at 400 km/h, the relative speed was 1,100 km/h. At 50 km, they'd engage in under three minutes.

"Bandits confirmed at lower left. All units, commence attack."

Makimura ordered the attack. The nine-plane squadron split into three-plane elements, each targeting an enemy group as they rolled into dives. The enemy hadn't noticed them yet.

At over 800 km/h, they struck the enemy formation. With a speed difference exceeding 400 km/h, aiming was impossible—machine gun fire would miss. But the Type 99 radar gunsight on the Experimental Type 11 Fighter changed everything.

The Type 99 used built-in G-sensors and gyroscopes to measure the aircraft's turn rate and angle. Radar on the wings tracked the enemy's distance and relative speed, while an analog computer calculated their future position. The gunsight's reticle moved accordingly, and the pilot only needed to center the enemy and press the trigger.

Makimura's three-plane element targeted the rightmost enemy fighter squadron. As the enemy planes grew larger in the reticle, he fired. Six 12.7mm machine guns in the wings spat fire, tearing into the enemy's wings. A slight right turn on the stick took them clear of the enemy as they dove away. Confirming kills would have to wait.

Pulling up into a climb, the pilots endured tremendous G-forces.

"Beep, beep, beep."

A warning sounded as they approached the 9G limit. The G-meter showed over 8G—enough to cause most pilots to black out from lack of blood to the brain. But Makimura's anti-G suit kept blood flowing, barely preventing unconsciousness.

They climbed to 6,000 meters, ready for the next attack.

"Charlie Brown to Woodstock. Confirmed six bandits down."

Six of the 18 enemy fighters had been shot down. With nine friendly planes, it was a decent start.

The next attack began immediately.

Among the nine planes, one stood out for its graceful, dynamic maneuvers—Lieutenant Asano's plane from Makimura's squadron. While hit-and-run tactics were standard, Asano's movements were like an Andalusian dancer's—passionate yet elegant, like a Japanese traditional dance. One by one, the Soviet planes fell, mesmerized and helpless, like boys enchanted by a dangerous, fantastical allure.

After several attacks, all enemy fighters were gone. For the Soviet fighter squadrons, it had been a five-minute nightmare. But the nightmare wasn't over. The bomber force remained. Seeing their escorts wiped out, the bombers abandoned their mission and turned for home. The nine Experimental Type 11 Fighters began their assault.

The enemy was the Tupolev SB-2 bomber. With a rear gunner, it was arguably more dangerous than a fighter. But the single 7.62mm machine gun and limited elevation made it no match for the Experimental Type 11.

"Dammit! Most of our escorts are gone! It's hopeless! All planes, jettison bombs and retreat!"

The Soviet bomber squadron leader ordered a retreat. But only his plane jettisoned its bombs and turned immediately.

"What are you doing?! Is the radio not working?!"

He called repeatedly, but there was no response. The radio seemed dead. Eventually, other planes noticed the leader's retreat and followed, but the formation scattered. Stragglers were quickly picked off by the Japanese fighters.

Some lost wings, others spewed flames from their engines, and one by one, they fell.

"Our escorts wiped out so easily?! What are those Japanese planes?!"

"No good, they're too fast! Our guns can't hit them!"

"Left engine on fire! Engine failure! Can't put it out!"

"Damn it! They're devils! No human could do that!"

Ten minutes after the battle began, only the nine Experimental Type 11 Fighters remained in the sky.

"All bandits confirmed down. Returning to base."

Fifteen minutes after the battle ended, guided by Charlie Brown, they arrived at the Japanese Imperial Army airfield near present-day Khalkhin Gol.

"This is ground control. Cleared to land. Approach from the west."

The "airfield" was little more than a patch of grassland compacted by trucks, with markers laid out. Barracks and workshops dotted the area.

On the ground, Imperial Japanese Army Air Force personnel awaited the return of the Experimental Type 11 Fighters.

"All nine planes back? No losses—that's good."

"But they're back awfully early. Did they even engage?"

"Maybe they got scared and ran back."

The Army Air Force wasn't pleased with the upstart Space Force fighters scoring victories. At the start of the Nomonhan Incident, Japanese air power had been dominant. But after the autumn equinox, improved I-16s and hit-and-run tactics had given the Soviets the upper hand. Now, the Space Force had sent the Experimental Type 11 for combat testing—rookie pilots on their first mission, no less. It felt like a mockery of the battlefield.

"Who's the Space Force even fighting? Aliens?"

"It's the Emperor's hobby. Playing soldier for fun."

"Hey! That's disrespectful!"

The Army Air Force personnel jeered.

The landing Experimental Type 11s taxied to the parking area, lining up neatly. Ground crew rushed to set up ladders by the cockpits as the pilots disembarked.

Under the watchful eyes of the Army personnel, the nine Space Force pilots walked across the grassland, lined up before the airfield commander, and removed their flight helmets and goggles.

Their movements were smooth and cool, yet dignified. As their helmets came off, long, glossy black hair cascaded down in slow motion. To the onlookers, it seemed to shimmer with an otherworldly glow.

"Major Makimura and nine pilots of the 23rd Space Force Air Wing, reporting for duty!"

The airfield commander and others stared, their faces twitching. Who could have imagined? The pilots of the new fighters were all young women.