Mardi 29 septembre, à Bruxelles, les négociateurs des trois institutions se réunissent de manière informelle pour décider si une machine lira vos conversations privées. Neuf gouvernements peuvent encore l'empêcher. Il leur manque 2,1 points de population européenne. La Belgique en pèse 2,63. Elle n'a rien dit.
LE COURRIER DES STRATÈGES
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LA NEWSLETTER · GRATUITE
Le Courrier, chaque matin.
L'essentiel de l'actualité, passé au crible par les cinq plumes du Courrier. Dans votre boîte, chaque jour ouvré.
Gratuit. Vous restez libre de partir quand vous voulez.
Amis libertariens, laissez-moi vous exposer l'arithmétique la plus importante de votre année — celle dont aucun journal télévisé ne vous parlera, parce qu'elle n'a ni visage, ni victime photographiable, ni ministre à interrompre.
Pour bloquer un texte au Conseil de l'Union, il faut quatre États membres représentant plus de 35 % de la population. C'est écrit, c'est mécanique, c'est un tableur. Les neuf gouvernements qui refusent le scan obligatoire des messageries privées (dit chatcontrol) pèsent 32,9 %. Il manque 2,1 points. Trois pays peuvent les fournir : l'Allemagne (18,47 %), le Portugal (2,38 %), la Belgique (2,63 %). Accessoirement, le bloc des neuf ne peut perdre ni l'Italie, ni la Pologne, ni les Pays-Bas, qui pèsent à eux trois 25,5 % : une défection et il n'y a plus d'arithmétique du tout. Les chiffres sont là, et là.
L'Allemagne, elle, a trouvé la formule. En public, elle rejette le scan sans soupçon. Au Conseil, depuis juin, ses négociateurs ne s'y opposent plus. Admirez la manœuvre, elle mérite un cadre : on ne vote pas pour, on ne vote pas contre, on cesse de s'opposer. Voilà le degré zéro du courage politique porté à sa perfection technique — une abstention si bien élevée qu'elle n'a même pas besoin d'être déclarée.
LE COURRIER DES STRATÈGES
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ABONNEMENT
Allez au fond des choses.
Deux grands formats par jour. Les cinq plumes du Courrier. La série Sécession, le dimanche.
Et mon pays ? Mon pays, mes chers lecteurs sans tableur, est indécis. On le dit avec un mot d'agence de notation, comme s'il s'agissait d'un arbitrage délicat entre deux biens supérieurs. Indécis sur quoi ? Sur la lecture des messages de quatre cent cinquante millions d'Européens. Depuis quand ? Depuis que la Commission a déposé son texte, en mai 2022. Cinquante-deux mois. Miljaardedju — cinquante-deux mois, c'est plus long qu'une grossesse d'éléphante, plus long que la construction d'un pont sur la Dyle, plus long que la carrière moyenne d'un secrétaire d'État belge. Un pays qui n'a pas tranché en cinquante-deux mois n'est pas indécis. Il attend de voir qui gagne.
On me dira que le règlement protège les enfants, et il faut le dire sérieusement : son objet est l'abus sexuel des mineurs, qui n'est pas une abstraction de juriste. Seulement voilà — le Parlement européen, de son côté, ne propose pas de ne rien faire. Il propose la détection ciblée sur ordonnance judiciaire. Le choix n'est donc pas entre protéger et laisser faire. Il est entre scanner les suspects et scanner tout le monde. Et sur ce que coûte la seconde méthode, le texte a une élégance qu'il faut saluer : les plateformes ne publieront leurs taux d'erreur et de faux positifs qu'à partir du 1er février 2027. Soit après. On vous demande de signer avant de connaître le prix, et le prix sera facturé en vies privées de gens qui n'avaient rien fait.
LE COURRIER DES STRATÈGES
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TELEGRAM · L'INFO EN CONTINU
Entre deux éditions, le fil.
La newsletter vous donne le matin. Le fil vous donne l'instant.
Notez maintenant l'asymétrie, elle est d'une perfection d'horloger. Pour étendre la surveillance, l'urgence suffit : le 9 juillet, le Parlement a prolongé le scan volontaire jusqu'au 3 avril 2028 parce que les 314 députés qui votaient contre n'atteignaient pas les 361 requis — dans cette maison, la majorité qui dit non ne suffit pas ; il faut une majorité qualifiée pour empêcher. Pour restreindre la surveillance, en revanche, il faut quatre États, 35 % de population, et l'accord de trois capitales qui ne décrochent pas. Le dispositif est monté de telle sorte que l'inertie travaille toujours dans le même sens. Ce n'est pas un hasard de procédure. C'est une architecture.
Mardi, si personne ne bouge, les négociateurs acteront le facile — le Centre européen, l'évaluation des risques, les obligations de transparence — et renverront le reste. Sans accord, le dossier passe à la présidence lituanienne en janvier, puis à la grecque en juillet. Il ne meurt pas. Il patiente. C'est sa nature profonde : un texte de surveillance n'a jamais besoin de gagner, il lui suffit de ne pas perdre, pendant que vous avez une vie, un métier, des enfants à récupérer à l'école et aucune raison de savoir ce qu'est un COREPER.
LE COURRIER DES STRATÈGES
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TIPS · SANS ABONNEMENT
Offrez-nous un café.
Un média libre vit de ses lecteurs. Un pourboire ponctuel, sans compte ni engagement, quand le cœur vous en dit.
Vous donnez ce que vous voulez. Vous restez libre.
Alors une dernière question, compagnons d'Absurdistan, à poser à votre député avant mardi soir. Le jour où une machine lira vos messages, elle le fera parce que quatre cent cinquante millions d'Européens l'auront voulu — ou parce que deux virgule un pour cent d'entre eux n'ont pas rappelé ?
Je connais la réponse. Elle tient dans un tableur, et personne n'aura signé.
On 19 November 2025, Indian police raided the ‘Kashmir Times’ in Jammu. They said they were on an “anti-terror” operation. The offices had been shut since 2022 and were in dilapidated condition, the equipment largely defunct. Yet, the police claimed to have recovered a “pistol and live AK-47 cartridges.”
Since 2018, only five journalists have faced cases under India’s draconian anti-terror Unlawful Activities (Prevention) Act. Trials rarely start, leaving journalists in a state of perpetual purgatory, even if they are out on bail under onerous conditions.
Before the police came charging into these unused offices last year, the ‘Kashmir Times’, founded by my father in 1954, had long suffered sustained persecution – the seizure of records, of equipment, the harassment of staffers, the use of social media to spread slurs, trumped up charges of tax evasion and the embedding of spies.
The first ever copies of Kashmir Times, initially a weekly, were seized by the government. In 1983, my father survived a murderous assault with serious injuries inflicted by a Hindu nationalist mob. I joined the newspaper in 1989, as the armed militancy, the ‘insurgency’ against the Indian state, became widespread, and experienced firsthand the struggle to report the news accurately and truthfully. The government would frequently withdraw its advertising, which was the main source of funding for most news outlets. We were besieged on several fronts, facing down the state, militants and aggressive Hindu nationalists.
Kashmir Times front page, January 1972. Image courtesy of Kashmir Times / Anuradha Bhasin digitized by Stanford Libraries.
In 2019, as Indian prime minister Narendra Modi began his second term in office, his government removed the special autonomous status granted to Jammu and Kashmir and protections that had existed for nearly 70 years. Once a state, Jammu and Kashmir was split into two federally governed territories. The Indian-administered part of Kashmir – the subject of several military conflicts between India and Pakistan, with both countries claiming the entire disputed territory while controlling a portion of it – had effectively become a police state and control of the media was a critical component of this transformation.
As Executive Editor of the ‘Kashmir Times’, one of the oldest newspapers in the region and the largest, with four editions, I petitioned India’s Supreme Court against the six-month-long internet shutdown that the Modi government imposed in 2019. But by 2020, three editions of the ‘Kashmir Times’ had shut down and the fourth only limped along, a once daily newspaper that was now only occasionally published. By February 2022, even this edition was shut down. I left India with my husband Prabodh Jamwal, the editor of the ‘Kashmir Times’, and revived it as a digital newsroom in exile in the United States in November 2023.
Prabodh Jamwal, Editor of The Kashmir Times, at his office in Srinagar in early 2020. Nasir Kachroo/NurPhoto via Getty Images.
But, as the so-called terror investigation and the mysterious discovery of weapons in our long disused office in 2025 showed, the ‘Kashmir Times’ remained a thorn in the side of the Modi government. The Indian prime minister has frequently presented India on the international stage as the “mother of democracy” and the “Vishwaguru”, a moral exemplar and teacher to the world. Just last week, between September 12 and 13, Delhi hosted Vladimir Putin, Xi Jinping and Iranian president Masoud Pezeshkian as part of the annual BRICS meeting, the global group founded initially by Brazil, Russia, India, China and South Africa (hence the acronym) that is increasingly being presented as an alternative power centre to the American-led Western alliance. For an India seeking to portray itself as not just an emerging superpower but as a democratic force, it is vital that Kashmir remain repressed, hidden away from global scrutiny.
It’s why, even as a newsroom in exile, we continue to be pursued by an Indian government seeking to tarnish our credibility, to deny us the right to report on Kashmir. We are being subject to a vendetta and it represents what has happened to journalism in Kashmir. Journalists have been silenced by the Modi government, Kashmiri voices strangled, and the local media industry deliberately destroyed.
What is happening to journalism in Kashmir is a harbinger of what lies ahead for the rest of India.
A model of suppression
Geeta Seshu of Free Speech Collective, which monitors press freedoms in India, argues that Kashmir is a laboratory where every strategy of media suppression is tested and perfected for use elsewhere. India, which once had a noisy, argumentative press, now ranks at a lowly 157 out of 180 countries in the World Press Freedom Index. Reporters Without Borders, which compiles the ranking, says “press freedom is in crisis” in Modi’s India.
The 2023 Digital Personal Data Protection Act provided a “dangerous framework for expansion of surveillance and censorship” across the country. It empowered the government to demand data from any entity, including journalists, effectively requiring them to reveal their sources. The amendments to the 2020 Information Technology Rules already burden intermediaries with harsh obligations and have been used to arrest journalists, block websites and compel social media platforms to restrict content. Recently, Instagram restricted posts about reports of Kashmiris shot by Indian security forces using pellet guns on unarmed protestors.
Seshu’s fear that what happens in Kashmir will be replicated in the Indian mainland has largely been borne out. For example, in 2023, nearly 50 journalists associated with the portal ‘NewsClick’ – some only vaguely – were subject to arrests and interrogations. Many had their devices seized without due process. Their alleged crimes were essentially guilt by association, charges manufactured not from evidence but from a, frankly, lazy piece of journalism published in the ‘New York Times’ about NewsClick’s funding. The charges were eventually quashed by an Indian court.
The "To Defend Journalism" protest at New Delhi's Press Club of India, October 2023. Vipin Kumar/Hindustan Times via Getty Images.
Such court rulings are less likely in Kashmir. As a Kashmiri journalist based in Delhi says, “unlike the rest of India, Kashmir is a police state, and state control requires any independent journalism to be shut down.”
In Kashmir, the Indian state has engineered a sophisticated edifice of control through securitization, surveillance and interrogation. It is invisible, intangible, and all-pervasive, a model that extracts quiet surrender and obedience. Unlike the targeted killings of journalists in Gaza, in Kashmir the control of information is seamlessly embedded in everyday life, requiring no enforcement, no traces of brutality. The journalists are essentially cowed into submission.
It began with the world’s longest internet shutdown – a complete lockdown for six months and a partial one for another year. What the shutdown created, despite a court verdict restoring communications, was fear among journalists compelled to work out of a government-surveilled computer facility, and then a perpetuation of that fear through consistent localized and temporary digital shutdowns. So commonplace are these shutdowns that they no longer warrant reporting or commentary.
In June 2020, the Modi government introduced a 53-page document called ‘J&K's Media Policy’ which gave the authorities sweeping powers to monitor, judge, and punish journalists, branding critical reporting as “fake news”, “unethical”, or “anti-national”. The authorities would also routinely remove government advertising from cash-strapped outlets and provide accreditation only to journalists deemed loyal, thus turning bureaucrats into arbiters of what constitutes news and who gets to report it. The effect is chilling.
And then there’s the monitoring of communications.
An Indian security personnel in Srinagar, Jammu and Kashmir, August 2026. Firdous Nazir/NurPhoto via Getty Images.
“I can’t say if they’re using Pegasus or some other spyware or technology,” a journalist told me about being interrogated over emails sent to an editor, “but they knew everything about our conversations.” In a 2021 leak, it turned out the Indian government was using Pegasus to spy on at least 40 Indian journalists, only one of who was Kashmiri.
But, a Kashmiri journalist says, “officials have told us ‘nothing in Kashmir is end-to-end encrypted’ and digital activity is clearly being constantly monitored.” No Kashmiri journalist I spoke to for this story, including those who contribute to the ‘Kashmir Times’, have the encrypted messaging Signal app, used worldwide by journalists, on their phones. Devices are routinely checked when journalists are summoned to police stations in Kashmir for questioning. Some said their devices were returned after being tampered with. “You face humiliation and beatings for using Signal and VPNs,” many journalists said. “You can only get away with it if you’re not on their radar,” said one.
In November 2025, the Indian government issued a directive insisting on verifying the “bona fides” of journalists working in Jammu and Kashmir, and the police followed up by requiring journalists to part with personal information including biometrics and bank statements. In January this year, senior journalist Basharat Masood of The Indian Express spent seven hours at a Srinagar police station, then was summoned for three more days and told to sign a bond promising not to “repeat his mistake” – for reporting on the surveillance of mosquea surveillance, even as officials had already admitted to large-scale data collection and verification.
Surveillance normalized
Police also surveil Kashmiris through the use of drone cameras, a network of 1,000 electronic cameras installed at major traffic junctions, and through unrestricted access to people’s social media activity across platforms ostensibly to track anti-India activity. During an illegal “Census 2024” drive, the police collected residents' personal data and GPS-tagged coordinates of homes. And the soon-to-be-rolled-out Jammu and Kashmir-specific digital identity cards that collects the data of entire households, purportedly to ensure the smooth rollout of welfare schemes, has also sparked local anxieties.
Still, as pervasive as the surveillance is, it is journalists that find themselves in the firing line. Any critical word warrants a summons to a police station, interrogation, intimidation and even detention. This happens repeatedly, with journalists never aware of what specific “offence” might trigger a police summons. The reflex, after several such visits to police stations, is self-protection and self-censorship.
A Kashmiri journalist told me that the language the police use to summon journalists for questioning is particularly sinister. It is almost as if the police are enjoying instilling fear. “Aaj dastarkhan par aapki dawat hai”, for instance, is a typical summons. You are invited to a feast, the police say cynically, knowing a journalist is likely to be harshly questioned, even beaten.
Indian police confront journalists and civilians during a protest on July 10, 2009 in Srinagar in the Indian Administered Kashmir. Yawar Nazir/Getty Images.
Often, Kashmiri journalists, without notice, are placed on no-fly lists. Sanna Irshad Mattoo, a Pulitzer Prize-winning photojournalist, was twice prevented from travelling abroad for exhibitions and award ceremonies, a pointed message that even international recognition offers no protection. At least twelve journalists have had their passports revoked; two of them were already abroad at the time, rendering them stateless.
The Free Speech Collective filed a Right to Information (RTI) query in March 2024 to ascertain exactly how many Kashmiris had had their passports revoked or cancelled. The plea was rejected by the government on grounds of “national security”.
As India continues to press its case as a formidable, if still rising power, citing its 7.8% growth rate over the past quarter, it continues to be defensive and secretive about Kashmir. Foreign journalists are largely barred, or at least heavily restricted, from reporting from both Indian and Pakistani-administered Kashmir. In May, last year, India and Pakistan exchanged air strikes after a terrorist attack in Indian-administered Kashmir and Modi fell out with Donald Trump over the latter’s claim to have stopped both nuclear powers from accelerating towards a disastrous war.
Despite Kashmir being a long-standing issue that merits global attention, reporting from the region has reduced to a trickle.
Mohammad Amin Lara outside his shop in Sopore, Jammu and Kashmir. The shop, once a fully occupied newspaper store, is now a grocery store due to the decline in newspaper sales. Nasir Kachroo/NurPhoto via Getty Images.
A Google search of Kashmir-related news floods your screen with links, but it is bulk without substance. Articles read like a log of official announcements and statements, punctuated by the occasional piece on a shrinking water body, a development project, a political tussle over a non-issue, or unemployment figures. Each report floats like a loose, individual particle suspended in air, packaged and presented as definitive. No investigation into context. No excavation of the past. No interrogation of contributing factors. A story about an alleged terrorist’s hair transplant and cosmetic dentistry, based entirely on police sources, is passed off as an investigation into Kashmiri insurgency. A superficially detailed piece on anti-encroachment drives or home demolitions will carry little beyond the grief of the displaced, or the remarks of a politician whose interest in the community begins and ends with votes. A terrorist’s hair transplant story, based on the police version, passes off as an investigation into Kashmir’s complex insurgency dynamic.
Kashmir fell off the radar a long time ago, says Free Speech Collective’s Geeta Seshu.
Even mundane stories are difficult to report. No one wants to be quoted. A university professor said he could once “talk to journalists and trust they understood the context. Now, a single sentence can be pulled out, circulated on WhatsApp, and suddenly I’m either an anti-national or a government stooge. Both sides will use the same quote to attack you differently. Why would I take that risk?”
Tarushi Aswani, an Indian journalist, told me that “a curtain has been pulled over Kashmir by silencing journalists who ask questions.” Instead, she added, “press release journalism fills the vacuum, erasing the truth about Kashmir, its history, its politics, its development, environment and aspirations.” Kashmir is no longer looking at a mirror. The lack of truthful reporting means nothing is reflected back. Instead, Kashmiris are looking into the lens of a surveillance camera.
*The eight Kashmiri journalists interviewed for this story spoke on condition of anonymity.
America’s nuclear weapons deterrent and how it is controlled is increasingly critical in the face of the rapidly-expanding arsenals across multiple adversaries. A new fleet of E-4C nuclear-hardened survivable airborne operations center aircraft is now in development, as is the U.S. Navy E-130J, which will provide next-generation communications with nuclear ballistic missile submarines deep beneath the waves. Focus is also turning to a mission that’s dedicated to emergency communications with the U.S. nuclear forces in times of crisis, a role known as Operation Looking Glass, which is also poised for updating under a program dubbed Looking Glass-Next.
The comprehensive modernization of America’s nuclear strike muscle involves three major elements – new B-21 Raider stealth bombers, the LGM-35A Sentinel intercontinental ballistic missile (ICBM) program to replace Minuteman IIIs, and new Columbia-class nuclear ballistic missile submarines. A fourth facet that ties all these new elements, as well as existing ones, together is the next generation nuclear command, control, and communications (NC3) architecture. It securely connects nuclear weapons systems to decision-makers. Without it, America’s nuclear deterrent isn’t a deterrent at all.
A USAF E-4B assigned to the 595th Command & Control Group at Offutt Air Force Base, Nebraska. USAF/TSgt Codie Trimble
America’s nuclear modernization is set against a backdrop of rapidly-developing nuclear strength across adversaries and pacing threats, which could threaten not only U.S. fighting forces, but also the existing aging NC3 infrastructure. This could impede the collective responsiveness and effectiveness of the American nuclear enterprise. For example, a coordinated attack on NC3 could degrade the National Command Authority chain, which could prevent communications that are necessary to conduct a retaliatory strike.
If fixed underground command posts are targeted and rendered inoperable, the current strategy would involve turning to a set of highly-survivable air assets that are designed to be on hand to execute emergency war orders. This includes the U.S. Air Force’s E-4B National Airborne Operations Center (NAOC) “Nightwatch” aircraft, and the E-6B Mercury that is operated by the U.S. Navy.
A major recapitalization effort is already underway for the NAOC E-4Bs, which are being superseded under the E-4C Survivable Airborne Operations Center (SAOC) contract. It is being led by defense contractor SNC. The new SAOC aircraft are based on the far more modern 747-8i, and are planned to have a much broader mission set than the four E-4B Nightwatch types they are set to replace, as you can read more about here.
The Navy’s E-6B Take Charge and Move Out (TACAMO) aircraft have a primary role of strategic connectivity with the ballistic missile submarine fleet. These converted 707s also execute another mission known as the Airborne National Command Post (ABNCP), more recently renamed “Looking Glass.” For this they are manned by U.S. Air Force missileers and U.S. Strategic Command (USSTRATCOM) battle managers who are responsible for running the airborne nuclear NC3 systems.
An E-6B Mercury flies over U.S. and UK submarines during a joint exercise. U.S. Navy
The joint service team on Looking Glass mirrors some operations performed by USSTRATCOM’s underground command posts, and a small portion of what the NAOC executes. The Looking Glass mission is really focused on performing an airborne backup mission solely for USSTRATCOM to ensure another means of communicating with fielded nuclear bombers, their assigned tankers, ICBMs and deployed nuclear submarines. It is best known for its ability to supply airborne communications connectivity to the USAF’s ICBM force on the ground and can command remote launches of those weapons if necessary.
Additional NC3-related modernization is coming on the heels of SAOC, with the new E-130J set to assume the Navy’s TACAMO role from the ageing E-6Bs, assuming strategic connectivity for nuclear ballistic submarines. It means that at some point roughly two-thirds of the E-6 current mission will go to the new E-130J aircraft – raising the question of what will fulfill the critical Looking Glass mission.
Since the E-130J is not planned to take on the Looking Glass role, the USAF is in the early stages of what’s dubbed Looking Glass-Next (LG-N), which presents the future pathway for USSTRATCOM’s mobile contingency operations. This could take on a number of forms, including NC3 communications functions being increasingly moved to space-based assets and more distributed operations across the ground, although an air platform is still likely to form a major part of the overall capability.
The need to modernize America’s NC3
Brian Golden is a retired USAF colonel who intimately understands nuclear command and control (NC2) and the associated NC3 equipment and processes from both a service and industry perspective. As a subject matter expert for SNC, he draws on his extensive experience as a former E-4B NAOC commander and he commanded much of the USAF’s multi-domain NC3 systems, including the Airborne Launch Control System onboard the current E-6B Looking Glass. He is also extremely familiar with all the nation’s continuity of government and continuity of operations missions for both Congressional and executive branches of the U.S. government.
“Everyone referred to the nuclear triad as the platforms that were controlled through the NC3 architecture,” Golden told TWZ during a detailed discussion. “Those platforms received their messages and executed their missions. But this isn’t just about that platform triad. The U.S. nuclear enterprise has four primary pillars, and nuclear command, control, and communications is a critical part of it. Without a robust NC3 system, it’s like having a brand new Bugatti Veyron but without the keys! It looks awesome on the driveway, but you can’t drive it.”
Secretary of War Pete Hegseth working aboard an E-4B Nightwatch. USAF/SrA Madelyn Keech
Golden explains that the current NC3 enterprise consists of a series of exquisite systems that are extremely reliable, but that are in need of modernization to stay ahead of the steepening threat curve, and stay in front of supply chain constraints. “What we have currently is very reliable, robust, and very survivable, but it can be difficult to maintain some of our legacy systems. Additionally, as threats evolve we must ensure our communications pathways also evolve.
“Our nation’s industrial base engineers figured out extremely robust methods of nuclear communications when these systems were fielded. Looking at the overall command and control [NC2], and then the NC3 communications pathways, any new systems that we introduce must be sustainable, scalable and modular.”
The U.S. nuclear enterprise is facing greater threats than ever with adversaries challenging U.S. nuclear infrastructure in multiple domains: space, cyber, ground, air. Because of this, NC3 demands a continuous process of improvement.
Going forward, the NC3 enterprise will likely need to integrate upgraded proven legacy systems with all-new technology. “Sometimes the physics of radio waves may dictate the need for a legacy approach with upgraded systems, such as communicating with a submarine that’s very deep in the ocean.”
Golden’s view is that NC3 requires a layered, open architecture approach as modernization is evaluated. “Applying those same physics and then adding new layers such as artificial intelligence may determine a better way of doing things.”
Upgrading to SAOC
Golden points to the SNC-led E-4C SAOC program as a clear example of critical NC3 modernization, while emphasizing that the NC2 mission is far from being the primary role of the E-4B and its forthcoming successor. “Nuclear command and control is only a fraction of what the current NAOC does and what the future SAOC will do for our nation and our allies and partners.”
An E-4B Nightwatch at Yokota Air Base, Japan. USAF/A1C David S. Calcote
The E-4B initially featured just a handful of communications systems, which have grown over time, leading to what Golden calls the “King Kong” of communication capabilities today. The E-4 is not a battlefield communications platform, its mantra is all about supporting Presidential-level requirements across the board. It does possess an extensive NC3 suite, but it also serves the White House Communications Agency (WHCA) and the Department of Homeland Security, through the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA), in many other crisis roles. Another mission the E-4B fleet performs is to safely transport the Secretary of War on trips within the United States and abroad.
The E-4B NAOC and Looking Glass are two complementary tiers of the same survivable architecture. The NAOC (and future SAOC) is designed to anchor national-level decision-making and government continuity from the very top, while Looking Glass provides USSTRATCOM with the dedicated airborne command and battle-management capacity required to direct forces. Both roles are critical and non-negotiable.
An artist’s rendition of the new E-4C SOAC. SNC
“The new E-4C SAOC, like the E-4B before it, will deliver an expansive communications suite and increased capacity supported by a larger fleet,” Golden explains. “SAOC is built to ensure the President and national leadership can direct the entire country through any crisis. Looking Glass supports an equally vital and highly specialized mission. It is dedicated to USSTRATCOM’s operational needs, connecting directly to bombers, ICBMs and submarines. Attempting to merge these unique missions on a single airframe would compromise the unique, essential role that each was created to perform.”
Looking Glass-Next
The Looking Glass role and the platform that fulfills it is not classified as a national-level mission. As Golden alluded to earlier, it’s not assigned to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs or to the Secretary of War. It’s exclusively assigned to USSTRATCOM; however, without the Looking Glass mission being upgraded soon, America has a gaping hole in its nuclear architecture.
An E-6B Mercury flying over Colorado. USAF/Greg L. Davis
The commander of USSTRATCOM is the customer and ultimately the decision-maker when it comes to Looking Glass-Next, and the USAF has been tasked by the Secretary of War to develop and field it. SNC is looking at several options for the requirement, with some sort of air platform at its core, which Golden refers to as an “E-6C.” He endorses that the current E-6B is one of the “cogs in the wheel that has to be replaced,” but adds that this doesn’t mean the next-generation Looking Glass is just an aircraft.
“At SNC, we have significant expertise and experience with mission system integration,” says Golden, adding that SNC is evaluating what he calls “aggressively creative options,” for the modernization requirement. He further noted that the modern threat is driving a requirement for Looking Glass-Next to be very difficult to target and must be dispersed.
“Having an aircraft as the only option for this USSTRATCOM mission is a legacy mindset,” Golden states. “We have advanced multi-domain capabilities, including numerous space capabilities available through the Sierra Space Corporation. Future mission resilience requires a creative and integrated approach.”
“We believe a creative approach to provide NC3 options will ensure a robust, reliable, survivable and cost-effective solution.”
Golden endorses this approach to creativity and development and indicated that SNC will continue to inform and respond to the ongoing Looking Glass-Next requests for information that may result in a future program.
One of the 747-8is that is being modified by SNC in Dayton, Ohio, to become an E-4C SAOC. SNC
“SNC has leaned heavily into the nuclear command, control, and communications architecture and it’s a natural fit for us, building on our work with the Department of War and our subcontractors on the E-4C SAOC. Our Looking Glass-Next responses and inputs will leverage relevant work and experience gained from SAOC, but we are also focused on being creative. We’re small enough to be agile, but big enough to deliver. That’s why we think we’re very well positioned in the NC3 space.”
The majority of SNC’s work on the E-4C SAOC is being completed at the NC3 Center of Excellence, housed in the Aviation Innovation and Technology Center (AITC) in Dayton, Ohio.
Golden believes the timing couldn’t be better to deliver bold and creative NC3 solutions. “The USAF is already asking the right questions, and industry is really able to innovate, which will result in a transformational era for nuclear command, control and communications.”
Stormy Morse lost two partners to gun suicide. She didn’t know that the second one, Lewis Tabler, had made the National Rifle Association the beneficiary of his retirement savings through its planned-giving program. In this feature, co-published with The New Yorker, Mike Spies describes what happens when the NRA, which has long denied a connection between access to guns and suicide rates, comes to collect:
Fisher, the NRA’s planned-giving director … e-mailed Applied Industrial, pointing out that Tabler had been dead for two months, and that “accounts with properly designated beneficiaries” are “generally available for distribution within 7–10 business days.” He went on, “We want to do whatever is needed to make this a smooth process.”
Meanwhile, multiple debt collectors had filed claims against Tabler’s estate, and the register of wills informed Stormy that she also owed an inheritance tax, since she was now the sole owner of the home.
As a favor, a neighbor of Stormy’s who was a lawyer spoke to the NRA’s assistant general counsel, Sarah Gervase, on her behalf. The neighbor raised the possibility that the organization might give up some of the money, according to Gervase, who recounted the exchange in an e-mail with Applied Industrial in early June. Gervase wrote that she “informed” Stormy’s neighbor that the “NRA is not willing to settle this.” Tabler’s cause of death did not seem to have any bearing on the organization’s position.
For the fourth consecutive day, firefighters continue to battle the major wildfire in western Attica that appears to be out of control on Monday, despite the weakening of the winds. New flare-ups are non-stop and the fire front seems go in one direction, then change its route, return and sets on fire again what it […]
On the night of January 16, 2024, Egana Djabbarova was awoken by her wife and told that she needed to leave the country immediately. Djabbarova, her wife said, had been denounced by pro-war activists and framed as an enemy of the country. She had recently published her novel, “My Dreadful Body,” with a small, indie press that had been praised by mainstream critics, unexpectedly propelling her into the public eye. One of the book's central themes is surveillance: growing up in a community with strict behavioural codes, the protagonist's every move is under scrutiny.
In a dark echo of her work, Djabbarova was now under online surveillance herself. “I was just the perfect enemy,” she tells me, “because I’m queer, I’m not Slavic, I worked on decolonial and feminist projects… So boom, it happened.”
She is speaking to me from Hamburg, where she now lives. Djabbarova is part of the so-called fifth wave of writers exiled from Russia, alongside Maria Stepanova, Lyudmila Ulitskaya, and Maxim Osipov to name a few. Her upbeat tone during our call gives little indication of the arduous journey she has endured since fleeing Russia. Upon receiving a humanitarian visa from Germany, she spent months in a refugee camp. She lived, she says, “in a container house, literally a shipping container. You feel like you're not a subject, not a human being.”
More permanent accommodation has provided a degree of safety and stability, but a sense of precariousness lingers. She describes her position as an exile as “strange” — on the one hand she has been welcomed into Germany’s cultural elite in winning the Hamburger Literaturpreis; on the other, she feels like a “ghost,” unable to express herself in German and often bewildered by the unfamiliarity of everyday tasks in a new country, and in a new city which, she tells me jokingly, is quaint and polite like the well-behaved boy next door.
But there’s a deeper, historical layer to Djabbarova’s story of exile. Her father was a refugee from the region of Nagorno-Karabakh, while her mother was forced out of her family home. “Homelessness and exile — this is my heritage,” she says. Being othered became a common theme of Djabbarova’s childhood, as a child of Azeri parents living in Yekaterinburg. “In Russia you are constantly reminded that you're not Russian,” she says. “Then during the summer you visit your relatives in Azerbaijan and they laugh because you cannot speak Azerbaijani properly.”
This sense of double estrangement is mirrored in “My Dreadful Body”(published in Russian in 2023 and recently translated into English by Lisa Hayden). At only a touch over 100 pages, it is a slim but powerful account of the pressures on one woman growing up among the strict codes of an Azerbaijani family living in Russia. A sense of surveillance and conditional belonging defines the narrator’s upbringing: “In the world where I grew up,” she writes, “gazes penetrated every little corner. The evil eye, the neighbors’ eyes, the relatives’ eyes, the random pedestrian’s eyes, the unscrupulous men’s eyes, the women’s unhappy eyes. Life in the community was reminiscent of a reality show with constant video surveillance: no action, word, or undertaking went unnoticed.”
The story is based on Djabbarova’s own life. “Maybe 70-80% of this story is absolutely true”, she confirms. The narrator is named Egana, she grows up in an Azerbaijani family in Russia, too Russian for the family, not Russian enough for her friends at school. She also, like Djabbarova, suffers from a debilitating autoimmune disorder that is eventually diagnosed as dystonia, a neurological disorder that causes involuntary muscle contractions. During one episode, she describes her body as resembling “willow branches gone mad from a strong wind” — a potent image of struggle against external forces. Djabbarova describes the book as a way to reclaim her body through language. “I was trying to tell this story in a poetic way. I wanted to change my body into poetry.”
Each chapter of “My Dreadful Body”begins with a different body part (“Eyebrows,” “Eyes,” “Hair” and so on), like the poetic blazons spun by Renaissance poets. Where those poems encouraged an idealized, sensationalized reading of each body part, Djabbarova’s chapters are more sober explorations of the physical limits — and personal and cultural stories — these body parts contain.
In one of many poignant scenes, the narrator’s head is shaved in preparation for a procedure. She cries on seeing her “shorn scalp,” but the sadness is not aesthetic, it’s ancestral; the act marks a symbolic rupture with her lineage. “My past,” she writes, “the past of all the women in my family, the memory of my ancestors, the history of a single body — all that now lay on the cold floor.” After this scene, her grandmother’s dictum that only long hair was considered beautiful, rings even more sharply.
Illness then emerges as another form of exile, from one’s sense of self, from what’s perceived as “normal” in society, from the culture and community one belongs to. “They do not see you as a subject, as a human being, and they do not recognize your existence… I realized if I wanted to be seen as a subject, I needed to do it myself.” Djabbarova is talking about the plight to be believed about her symptoms here, but she could easily be talking about the often dehumanizing experience of exile. In both instances there is something fundamental under question, or as Djabbarova puts it, “You’re trying to prove that you have the right of being. You’re trying not to be erased.”
We often talk about exile in the context of loss, but how might exile liberate? Paradoxically, Djabbarova tells me, her diagnosis became a form of liberation. “I always felt I had so many expectations on me as a girl, as a woman, so when I was finally diagnosed it was a liberation because my parents realized I would never be this type of girl.” Exile breeds a particular creative liberation, too, evidenced by the fact Djabbrova wrote the novel from Taiwan where she was briefly teaching Russian. “Here I had enough distance from my own life and my own experience,” she says. “Maybe it’s easier to write about your story being on an island in the Pacific Ocean.”
Writing is arguably the real heroine of Djabbarova's novel. For the narrator Egana, it is a place free from surveillance and a source of protection, “like an invisible amulet.” Poetry, she told me “was the only safe space for me because nobody was asking anything of me. It's the only place where I don't feel judged. I don’t feel ashamed. I don’t feel questioned.”
The chapter “Hands” opens: “The most important parts of a woman’s body were her hands: they prepared food, rocked children, did laundry, ironed men’s shirts, sewed clothes, swept, washed the floor, and dusted.… Any woman in our family knew that her hands were not given to her for writing.” To use her hands, then, to write becomes both a symbolic and quite literal form of resistance against such gendered codes.
Notably, Djabbarova is not alone in invoking the body as a space to explore the upheavals of exile. In Maria Stepanova’s autofictional work “The Disappearing Act” — recently translated into English by Sasha Dugdale — the narrator attempts to purge herself by volunteering to be cut in half as part of a circus trick. Djabbarova’s approach to reclaim identity and agency through the body is less literal, and more personal, but through this specificity she has landed somewhere indisputably universal.
“I realized the only way I can write this novel is through my body,” she says. “Because the only way I can rehabilitate my being, my agency, my subjectivity is through my body. And that's why I wanted every reader to feel my body… It's really important for all of us not to forget that this right of being is basic. It's not given. It's something you have from birth."
At the end of our conversation, Djabbarova (who has been speaking in English) struggles to recall a word and jokes that learning German is slowly pushing her English out. “Certain words I only remember in German!” she laughs. Is this the beginnings of a kind of homemaking for Djabbarova, a sign that the seeds she has scattered in her new country are taking root? Like her protagonist, who finds solace and safety in words, it seems that Djabbarova’s most trusted tool for survival, for managing the condition of exile, is language.
The Age of Exile
This story is part of our Age of Exile series, which explores how displacement has evolved from historical punishment into a defining condition of our time—one that reveals profound transformations in how we construct identity, maintain community, and exercise power across borders. In an era where digital connection enables presence without physical proximity, exile has become more complex, more global, and more central to understanding our world. Explore The Age of Exile series
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