Earlier this week, Copenhagen Airport was paralysed for hours after two or three unidentified drones hovered nearby, forcing flight diversions and delays.
Authorities described those drones as operated by a “capable actor” — one adept enough to show control, deliberate movement (switching lights on and off), and strategic entry from multiple directions. That incident alarmed policymakers because it struck at the heart of national infrastructure — the busiest gateway in Scandinavia.
Last night drones disrupted activity at a second Danish airport after Aalborg, in the north of the country, was temporarily closed when drones were seen in its airspace. Three other smaller airports in the southern region – Esbjerg, Sønderborg and Skrydstrup also reported drone activity, but were not closed.
When Aalborg airport was forced to shut down temporarily this week after drones strayed into its airspace, it marked the second such incident in Denmark in less than seven days.
The Aalborg episode — although less viscerally symbolic — is troubling precisely because it suggests escalation.
For Denmark’s prime minister Mette Frederiksen, the Copenhagen closure represented “the most severe attack on Danish infrastructure so far.” When even a measured politician chooses such words, it is because the implications stretch well beyond disrupted flights.
Aalborg is not just a civilian airport; it doubles as a military base. Its temporary grounding was not simply an inconvenience for travellers but a potential compromise of defence readiness. That is why this story demands more than a shrug about pranksters with drones.
The most obvious question is who is behind these repeated incursions. Danish police are cautious, insisting they cannot comment on the motive or identify the number of drones involved. They say if the opportunity arises, they will shoot them down. That language alone underlines the seriousness: law enforcement does not talk about “taking down” mischievous hobbyists.
Frederiksen herself has not excluded the possibility of Russian involvement, though she stopped short of direct accusation. Moscow, predictably, dismissed the speculation as “unfounded”. Yet this denial rings hollow against the backdrop of recent weeks. Estonia and Poland have accused Russia of violating their airspace, while Romania has reported Russian drones entering its territory. Each case is brushed away in Moscow with the usual claims of error or misinterpretation. But the pattern is plain.
This is the essence of hybrid warfare: probes and provocations that may not trigger an overt military response but steadily erode public confidence and test an adversary’s patience. For NATO members on Russia’s periphery, it is familiar. For Denmark, whose geography places it at the narrow straits between the Baltic and North Seas, the implications are especially acute.
The Aalborg incident matters precisely because of its dual role. Three commercial flights were diverted, two back to Copenhagen, one to Karup. Passengers were not in immediate danger, but the inconvenience was visible. More troubling was the impact on Danish armed forces. A drone sighted in restricted airspace does not need to carry explosives to cause disruption; its very presence forces a halt in routine activity and requires resources to be diverted into tracking and mitigation.
Skrydstrup is also home to Denmark’s F-16 and F-35 fighter jets. The police in Jutland suggested the incidents might be a prank but admitted they could not comment on motives. To dismiss them outright would be dangerously complacent. Whether a coordinated hostile action or a series of opportunistic stunts, the message is the same: airports, both civilian and military, remain exposed.
The timing of the Danish disruptions coincides with heightened NATO anxiety. Only days ago, Estonia and Poland demanded consultations under Article 4, the alliance’s mechanism for urgent discussions when member states feel threatened. NATO’s response, issued in stern tones, condemned Russia’s “escalatory” actions and warned it would employ “all necessary military and non-military tools” to defend its members.
NATO secretary-general Mark Rutte put it plainly: “We are a defensive alliance, yes, but we are not naive.” Those words could almost have been chosen for Copenhagen. To be naive now would be to treat the drones as trivial. The risk is not that a few flights are diverted, but that creeping violations of sovereignty become the norm.
Into this febrile atmosphere strode Donald Trump, fresh from his address to the UN, suggesting NATO countries should simply shoot down any Russian aircraft trespassing in their skies. His prescription is characteristically blunt, and one suspects European leaders will not relish the idea of trigger-happy encounters over the Baltic. But his point is unmissable: tolerating repeated intrusions without a credible deterrent invites more of the same.
The real scandal is that, more than a decade after drones became commercially ubiquitous, European states remain startlingly ill-equipped to defend against them. Airports are shielded against conventional terrorism; radars scan for aircraft and missiles. Yet a small drone, flown by a skilled operator, can flit below radar horizons and wreak chaos.
The Gatwick debacle in 2018, which grounded flights for 36 hours, should have been a wake-up call. Instead, European governments tinkered at the margins, buying piecemeal counter-drone systems, testing jammers, but never investing seriously. Now the consequences are laid bare: a nation’s principal air gateway shut by devices that cost a fraction of a single fighter jet’s fuel load.
Of course, there remains the possibility that these incidents are not Kremlin-orchestrated. They could be domestic pranksters, thrill-seekers playing chicken with aviation safety. But that scenario is scarcely more comforting. For one thing, it still demonstrates the glaring holes in air defence. For another, it risks precisely the sort of miscalculation NATO leaders fear. A drone mistaken for a hostile weapon could trigger a disproportionate response; conversely, a drone tolerated too long could embolden a genuine aggressor.
This is the grey zone in which Europe now lives: between open war and civilian peace, between deterrence and complacency. Denmark has been thrust unwillingly into the front line.
The question is whether European leaders treat Aalborg and Copenhagen as warnings, or as passing inconveniences. To shrug is to invite repetition; to invest in serious counter-drone capabilities, intelligence cooperation and rapid attribution is to restore deterrence. NATO’s words of resolve will matter only if backed by concrete action.
If history is any guide, Europe tends to move slowly until crisis bites. The hope must be that Denmark’s disrupted airports provide the necessary jolt without the need for a catastrophe. For now, the drones circling Aalborg stand as symbols: cheap, elusive, and destabilising. Europe can no longer afford to treat them lightly.
Main Image: By © 2006 Tomasz Sienicki / Kaugalingong trabaho, CC BY 2.5, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=1230343
