On July 18th, over the vast flat expanse of North Dakota, a Delta Connection jet nearly kissed death in midair. The SkyWest Embraer E-175, operating as Delta Flight 3788 from Minneapolis–St. Paul to Minot was on final approach to the small regional airport when a monstrous B-52H Stratofortress, fresh off a state-fair flyover and circling the pattern, came screaming into its airspace.
There was no warning, no radar vectoring, no shared awareness. The commercial jet pilot looked out the window and saw the unthinkable — a strategic bomber, hundreds of thousands of pounds of steel and firepower, barreling into the same slice of sky. In the next second, the pilot executed a dramatic evasive maneuver, jerking the jet into a steep turn and ascending like a wounded bird. The passengers, many of them seasoned flyers, would later recall feeling the unmistakable lurch of something gone wrong. This wasn’t turbulence. This was a near-death experience at an altitude of 3,000 feet.
Radar Blackout and Human Instinct
The culprit wasn’t malice or malfunction, but a system sleepwalking through danger. The Minot tower — operated not by the FAA but by a private contractor, Midwest ATC — had no on-site radar. Controllers relied on visual traffic awareness and radio calls, a method better suited to hobby Cessnas than long-range nuclear bombers and commercial airliners with 76 souls aboard. Despite being cleared for the flyover, the B-52 crew was never told a commercial flight was inbound. And the Delta pilot, trusting the approach was safe, suddenly found himself face-to-face with a relic of America’s airborne apocalypse machine. In an audio recording that spread across the internet like wildfire, the pilot could be heard telling passengers,
“That was not a fun day at work… nobody told us about the bomber. There’s no radar here.”
What Saved the Day
The reason these two aircraft didn’t collide? A clear summer sky. Keen pilot instincts. Pure luck. Had the weather turned or the angle been steeper, this could’ve been a smoking crater on the prairie. The military crew never saw the jet; the commercial pilot only saw the B-52 at the last second. The system failed in every other regard. No radar handoff. No controller intervention. No collision avoidance alerts. Nothing but adrenaline and training stood between a routine flight and headlines soaked in wreckage.
My hat is off to the commercial pilot who saved the day.
The Fallout Begins
The fallout has been swift. The FAA confirmed an investigation is underway. The Air Force admitted its bomber crew had no knowledge of the incoming flight. Lawmakers are now facing tough questions about how a tower managing both civilian and military traffic was allowed to operate blind in the 21st century. Already short on air traffic controllers, the FAA has leaned heavily on contract towers like Minot’s to cover the gaps. But this incident exposed a fatal flaw: in the age of supersonic jets and drone swarms, relying on eyeballs and radios is suicidal. In response, authorities have promised improved radar feeds for contract towers and stricter coordination protocols for military flyovers. There’s talk of reforming NOTAM (notices to airmen) procedures and integrating real-time radar coverage with even the most remote towers.
A Pattern of Near Misses
Unfortunately, this wasn’t a one-off. America’s skies have seen near misses between military and civilian aircraft more often than most realize. In January of this year, a U.S. Army UH-60 Black Hawk collided midair with an American Eagle CRJ-700 near Reagan National, killing 67. The cause? Miscommunication and overlapping air corridors. Way back in 1968, a Hughes Airwest DC-9 was clipped midair by a Marine F-4B Phantom over California, prompting one of the first major overhauls in military-civil aviation protocols. More recently, the FAA’s own data showed a rise in runway and airspace incursions, many involving military aircraft, often invisible to civilian systems.
Systemic Failures, Avoidable Tragedies
What happened over Minot wasn’t the end of the world — but it got closer than anyone should be comfortable with. It was a shot across the nose, a warning that America’s patchwork air traffic system, especially in the boondocks, is one bad day away from tragedy. A radarless tower, a bomber flying visual patterns, a jet on final approach, all converging with no technological safety net. That’s not oversight — that’s negligence with wings.
Final Descent
The lesson here isn’t subtle. It’s painted in afterburner streaks across the North Dakota sky. Civilian and military airspace must operate on the same page, not by hoping someone’s watching through binoculars. The tools exist. The urgency is now. Because next time, the sky may not be so clear, and the pilots might not see each other until it’s too late.