Kevin Miller - Raven One

With the bandit no-factor for the moment, he concentrated on putting his wingtip into the narrowest part of the pass, a few dozen feet above the rocks. He chopped power to decelerate and approached the backside of the left mound. Suddenly, he came upon a dirt trail and saw a man in a brown pajama-like outfit with a vest and turban trudging up the hill, leading a pack animal. As the Hornet roared past, the startled man dropped the animal’s reins and jerked his head up, face frozen, wide-eyed, from a combination of awe and fear. For an instant,Wilson’s eyes again met those of an Iranian. As the startled animal skittered away and the man quickly receded from view, Wilson put his plan into action. He was momentarily concealed from the bandit and pulled into the mound as close as he dared. One-potato, two… Now!

Tightening his muscles and throwing the throttles full forward, Wilson, almost in one motion, pushed, rolled, and pulled right and into the bandit. Again he grunted, “Hoookkkk,” as the g enveloped him like a vise. At this dangerous altitude he gave his full attention to staying out of the rocks, betting the Iranian would not see him reverse. A bird appeared out of nowhere, just above his flight path, and instinctively tucked its wings to avoid collision with this strange, speeding object — even before Wilson could think to evade it. “Fuck!” he yelled as the bird passed over his jet above his right wing.

Wilson picked up the Iranian at 5 o’clock, moving counterclockwise with his nose off. Wilson’s trick had worked. The big aircraft was arcing with too much air speed to remain offensive, and Wilson’s bleeding high g turn and lower air speed had put him inside the enemy circle. Wilson saw a high-deflection snapshot opportunity develop and pulled his nose up. He held the GUN trigger down as his green gunsight aiming reticle flew along the bandit’s fuselage from left to right. Despite the fact he had no bullets to use in this vain attempt to shoot down the bandit, Wilson felt a sense of satisfaction.

The Iranian seemed to stop fighting — he was holding too much air speed and appeared to be as low as he was willing to go. Wilson left it in burner and with only 1,000 pounds left resisted the urge to reverse his turn behind the enemy. They passed 500 feet apart with the Iranian holding a shallow left angle of bank. Wilson watched the bandit fade away down his left wing line, without turning to engage. He kept his turn in and pulled the throttles out of burner to military. As he floated up a little to make it easier to keep sight, Wilson picked up the strange aircraft over his right shoulder, heading in the opposite direction and climbing, receding from view.

He’s had enough!

Now Wilson’s biggest problem was fuel. He glanced at his moving map for the nearest heading to the blue safety of the Gulf, over 50 miles to the southwest. The Hornet , now light and slick, accelerated rapidly to 490 knots and began an emergency-fuel “bingo” climb. Getting to the ship was no longer an option. Wilson just wanted to get feet wet, and as far from the Iranian coast as possible, before he ejected.

On the way up, he searched the sky for the Bushier group Knight had been calling, and he took cautious glances over his shoulder to ensure his opponent had not changed his mind. He peered northwest down the valley and saw the black pall of smoke rising up from the desert floor some 10 miles away… Prince .

His eyes alternately scanned the cockpit instruments and outside in the familiar pattern he’d practiced since flight school. His eyes dwelled, however, on the fuel indicator, mentally noting every 10-pound drop. His engines would suck fuel until the tank was completely dry, and, the way he figured it, that was a real possibility in less than 15 minutes. The profile called for a climb to 20,000 feet at.83 mach, then an idle descent holding 250 knots at 32 miles. Eight hundred pounds, seven hundred and ninety pounds, seven eighty, seven seventy…

He had to get a voice report to Knight, and to the ship. “ Knight, Raven four-zero-two.”

“Go ahead, four-zero-two!”

“ Knight , four-zero-two is passing angels twelve on a bingo profile, state seven hundred. The bandit disengaged, and I don’t see any other bogeys. Didn’t see a chute or get a beeper on four-twelve… There’s a column of smoke on the desert floor about 10 miles north of me. Believe that’s him. Get a tanker out here, now.”

“Roger all, four-zero-two… Will pass to Mother,” Knight replied.

Still concerned about the Iranian fighter threat, Wilson called, “Picture.”

“Stand by, four-zero-two… Picture. Single group, BRA zero-two zero at sixty, medium, nose cold.”

“Roger, declare.” Wilson continued with the cadence.

“Hostile… 70 miles now, no factor.”

“Roger.”

Wilson rolled the aircraft left and right and scanned the ground below for threats, but the landscape was barren: no twinkling AAA muzzle flashes or MANPADS missile plumes. He took a last look at Prince’s crash site over his right wing. The smoke appeared less dense, as if the fire were burning itself out.

The Gulf beckoned him. Although it filled his forward view with clear blue water, he was still over 30 miles from feet wet and over 40 from international airspace. He was also fighting a headwind. Leveling at 20,000 feet, Wilson pulled the throttles to idle, which allowed the airplane to decelerate to 265 knots.

Wilson’s fuel reading was just over 500 pounds, which translated into roughly five minutes of flight time. He could squeeze a few more minutes at idle power, but the ship was almost 100 miles away — over 20 minutes of flight time.

Knowing he had a chance if he acted fast, Wilson switched up to departure control frequency to back up his request for a tanker. “ Departure, Raven four-zero-two checkin’ in on Mother’s one-zero-zero for ninety, angels twenty-five, low state five hundred pounds. Texaco , you up?”

“ Redeye seven-zero-four’s up. About 50 miles away, Flip. Comin’ to ya.” Wilson did not recognize the S-3 aircrew’s voice, but he now knew they knew he was in 402 . The use of his personal call sign reassured him that they were apprised of his grim situation. The fact that he did not know the aircrew didn’t matter. He took charge.

“Roger, seven-zero-four. Buster ,” he said, pulling the throttles all the way to idle and bunting the nose down to maintain 250 knots. He bumped them back up a bit to pucker the nozzles, which would squeeze more thrust, and precious range, from his engines.

Then he called Knight to shape his backup plan. He wanted them to send the SAR helo in case tanking was unsuccessful. “ Knight , better get Switchblade out here.”

The E-2 controller replied, “Roger, already enroute.”

Wilson continued his mental calculations. His ground speed was about four miles a minute and he was descending at 1,500 feet per minute. In seven minutes, he would be at the coast passing 10,000 feet, with 300, maybe 400 pounds left. He increased his rate of descent to 2,000 feet per minute, accepting a faster air speed for a lower altitude at the coast. The FUEL LO caution remained illuminated on his left display as a constant reminder.

His radar picked up a contact 30 degrees right at 40 miles. Bumping the castle switch, he locked it, revealing a bogey with hot aspect approaching him at.7 indicated mach, 16,000 feet.

“ Knight , four-zero-two, contact two-nine-zero, thirty-five miles, sixteen thousand, Declare.”

“ Raven , that’s Redeye seven-zero-four to the rescue.”