Kevin Miller - Raven One

The two aircraft were headed right for Iran. Over his nose Wilson saw a long, barren island. It formed a natural harbor, but Wilson saw no settlement anywhere on the deserted coastline.

“ Prince! Bring it west!”

The radio crackled with a reminder that the ship, too, was watching their progress. “ Raven four-one-two, Strike. Vector west for airspace.”

Wilson answered, “Roger, Strike , standby.” Wilson got into parade formation right next to Prince, who remained motionless in the cockpit. Was it hypoxia? “Prince, PRINCE!” Wilson shouted into his mask in an effort to wake him up. Prince stirred, but he remained slumped forward in his straps. “PRINCE! WAKE UP!” Wilson roared.

Wilson got as close as he could to see if Prince’s mask was hooked up, but he could not be sure. He chopped power and pushed the stick down and left, then reversed the motions to come up on Prince’s left. He was then able to see that the mask dangled to one side. Prince twitched again.

“Prince, NOSE DOWN, PUSH YOUR NOSE DOWN! GET YER MASK ON!”

Not knowing that one Raven pilot was incapacitated, the strike group air warfare commander saw the Ravens heading into Iran and scolded them for their poor navigation on the GUARD emergency frequency that was broadcast for all aircraft to hear. “ Raven four-one-two, this is Alpha Whiskey on GUARD. You are approaching Waterloo red. Turn left heading two-four-zero immediately.”

“NOW, PRINCE, DO IT NOW!” Wilson shouted. Prince had “altitude hold” set in his automatic pilot which was carrying him, unconscious, into Iranian airspace.

Another strike group ship called to them on GUARD. “ Raven four-one-two, this is Mike One Kilo. You are standing into danger. Turn left immediately and contact Alpha Whiskey on two-eighty-nine-point-five.”

Wilson keyed the mike and said, “ Strike , four-zero-two… Four- one -two appears to be incapacitated. He may be hypoxic. We are steady, heading zero-six-five at angels twenty-eight.”

“Four-zero-two, Strike. Say again?”

Exasperated, Wilson repeated the transmission and ignored another call on GUARD for them to turn. After several seconds, Strike responded, “Roger four-zero-two, standby and turn left to two-four-zero.”

“ Strike , four- zero -two is declaring an emergency. I can’t turn left because my flight lead is incapacitated! I’m next to him on his wing. Get a Raven rep ASAP.”

“Roger, four-zero-two. Emergency declared. Say your state and stand by.”

As they passed over the Iranian coastline, Wilson inserted “7700,” the international distress code, into his transponder. He continued to watch for signs of consciousness from Prince. Wilson maneuvered high on Prince’s left side and pulled forward, flying as close as he dared, his right wing tip over Prince’s fuselage. This time he saw that Prince was holding his green canteen in his right hand, a viable explanation for his mask hanging down: He had been taking a drink. Suddenly, Prince twitched.

“Prince!” Wilson transmitted. “WAKE UP!”

Strike came up on the radio, “ Raven four-zero-two, we copy your emergency squawk. Squawk zero-one-four-two.”

While Strike was talking, Wilson heard Cajun on the squadron tactical frequency. Manning up his jet for the next launch, the CO said, “Flip, Cajun, what’s goin’ on?”

Wilson responded, “Sir, Prince is unconscious — think he’s hypoxic from taking his mask off. We’re at angels twenty-eight with altitude hold on and heading into Iran. Actually we’re in Iran.”

As soon as he finished with the skipper, Wilson called to Strike . “Negative, Strike , I’m keeping 7700 set.”

A new and strange voice with a foreign sound came up on GUARD, a detached voice with perfect English diction. “ Raven four-one-two, this is Bushier Approach Control on GUARD. You have violated Islamic Republic airspace. Please return to international airspace at this time. Thank you.”

Taken aback, Wilson selected GUARD and answered. “Bushier, Raven four-zero-two on GUARD is declaring an emergency. The pilot of Raven four-one-two is incapacitated. He appears to be unconscious.”

Then Cajun broke in on tac. “Flip, shout at him. Thump him if you have to… Are you feet dry now?”

“Yes, sir, I’ve been shouting at him, and we’ve been feet dry for several minutes.”

“What are you carrying?” Cajun asked.

“Nothing but a CATM, sir.” And then it dawned on him. He and Prince were alone over Iran with no weapons, no expendables, no sidearm — and none of the accoutrements one would carry on a combat sortie. They weren’t at war with Iran, but the country was by no means friendly.

“Is he moving at all?”

“He twitched a minute ago. Stand by.”

Wilson slid back and crossed under to Prince’s right wing. He had an idea… If he could place his left wingtip under Prince’s right wingtip, the airflow over his wing could force Prince to roll slightly left. If Wilson could do that in a way that did not cause Prince’s altitude hold to kick off, maybe Prince’s aircraft could at least return to the Gulf. It would be a long shallow turn, but Wilson needed to try something. They were flying into Iran at a rate of over seven miles per minute.

Suddenly, GUARD frequency sprang to life and another strike group ship called out: “ Raven four-zero-two! Waterloo Red! Waterloo Red!”

“ Shut up! ” Wilson snarled into his mask and punched off GUARD, conscious of both his anxiety and his loss of patience over the situation.

Wilson eased up next to Prince’s right side and looked over this left shoulder as he placed his wingtip a few feet under his stricken squadronmate’s wing. Strike asked him again about Prince’s condition, and, as he concentrated on keeping his wings steady, Wilson responded with a terse “No change.”

Holding his wingtip position under and forward of Prince, he clicked nose up trim once, then again. This did nothing but make the stick forces greater. What he was doing — looking over his shoulder as he placed his wingtip dangerously close to another aircraft travelling at 250 knots of indicated air speed — was unnatural. Every impulse ordered him to back off, and he fought these instincts to remain in position.

Wilson’s slipstream caused Prince’s aircraft to develop a slight left-wing-down attitude. Prince’s wingtip suddenly dropped into Wilson, who had to push the stick down and away to avoid collision. He realized he was squeezing it hard, and, as he repositioned himself, he took a deep breath.

Strike inquired about his fuel state, and Wilson answered, “Five-point-one.”

Prince’s shoulder twitched. Wilson immediately reported this to Strike as he prepared for another attempt to nudge Prince to the west. At least Prince still appeared to be alive. “PRINCE! NOSE DOWN!” Wilson commanded him, in vain, on the tac frequency.

Cajun, helpless to do anything but desperate for information on his two pilots, called from his position on the flight deck. “What luck, Flip?”

“He just twitched his shoulder. I got under his wingtip and tried to lift it, but his autopilot fought me and leveled him back. It appears we gained a few degrees. I’m tryin’ to get us back feet wet by nudgin’ him with my slipstream. You monit’rin’ Strike ?”

“ Firm … how far in are you?”

“About 25 miles.”

Wilson looked underneath him at the desert floor, an uninhabited coastal plain that rose into a karst ridgeline to the northeast. A series of ridges and valleys were arrayed in front of him.