Kevin Miller - Raven One

In 1979, when the Shah of Iran fell from power, Hariri was weeks away from starting flight school with the American Navy at Pensacola. Twenty years old at the time, he was identified as pilot material, and he was blessed with 20/10 vision and exceptional athletic ability. His physical stamina and hand-eye coordination as a soccer midfielder, coupled with his quick mind, caught the attention of the military representative at the University of Tehran. His father’s position as the head of Tehran’s electrical generating facility also was helpful in obtaining a flight school slot for young Hariri. When the revolutionaries took over, the Hariri family was spared from the purges of those bureaucrats close to the Shah… the lights still needed to work, no matter who was in charge.

Hariri was not devout growing up, but to deflect unwanted attention, he grew a beard and made the daily prayers in the mosque. His newfound religious “zeal,” together with his physical and mental gifts, led to a marriage of convenience between Hariri and the revolutionaries. In order to fight Saddam’s attacking air force, they needed young pilots to replenish those they had purged after the revolution. Hariri turned out to be the natural his superiors had suspected, and he soon was flying the frontline F-14 Tomcat , compiling an enviable combat record and moving up fast. Though he had missed his chance in Pensacola to learn from the best, Hariri was determined to prove he could succeed as a fighter pilot without U.S. training.

After his double-kill flight, Hariri was a hero of the Islamic Republic. Then, when he scored again over Kharg later that year, he thought his childhood dream of becoming a fighter ace would come true. But the Iranians had flown little during the last months of the war, and the times they did encounter Iraqi fighters, Hariri was elsewhere. The horrific ground war had ended with half a million slaughtered, and the air force had not engaged in aerial combat since.

However, Hariri’s single-minded focus was to prepare himself, and then his squadron, to fight and to defeat the Gulf Sheikdoms, the Americans, the Pakistanis…. It did not matter who threw down the gauntlet, Hariri would pick it up. He eschewed women and lived like a warrior-monk until the higher-ups thought it would look better if he married. Therefore, a few years ago he had married Atosa, a beauty sixteen years his junior. She had dark almond eyes and long, flowing hair she covered with stylish Italian scarves, showing as much of it as she could at the bazaar and still keep the religious police away.

In the dawn twilight, he thought about the pilots he had defeated. Arabs! Arabs, who for years had proved themselves inept against the superior equipment and training of the Israelis and the Americans. Arab pilots who seemed incapable of thinking for themselves, tied as they were to strict instructions from the ground. Hariri’s last Iraqi foe had at least held him off for a full-circle before Hariri’s missile found its mark, but the fights were almost not fair.

Like his fourth kill yesterday — a forward quarter missile against a half-dead American in a non-maneuvering aircraft. Nothing more than simulator training, a chalkboard exercise! A video game! What pride can one take in that?

But his wingman…. that was the challenge he’d waited a lifetime for, the fight he’d dreamed of. An American F-18 Hornet , avenging his mate’s death, coming to the merge with a knife in his teeth and turning hard… This was a worthy opponent. Hariri was ready, knowing how he would maneuver his aircraft at the merge and bait the American to give everything away. He would then stand his MiG on its tail and let the American fly out in front. It worked to perfection, the way Hariri had dreamed it would, the way he had planned it. Unlike so many religious pilots who called on God to vanquish the enemy, whether they were prepared or not, Hariri had planned such a moment for years. He had studied his own aircraft, smuggled journals from Western intelligence sources, and searched out every bit of information he could on the Internet — all for that moment…

His nose tracked down.… His finger squeezed the trigger…

Damn! Blast! His weapons system let him down, and the enemy escaped, avoiding more gun shots and never having to face his remaining missile — which was hung on the rail! Dammit! The final insult had been running low on fuel and having to break off the engagement… all because the Iranian air force didn’t trust its pilots to take off with full loads, afraid they would defect. After I’ve given 29 years of faithful service, the monkeys think I, the bloody Wing Commander, will fly across the Gulf to Bahrain, he thundered in his mind, exhaling deeply with disgust.

After landing, Hariri had exploded into a profanity-laced tirade at everyone: his crew chief, the armorers, and the avionics technicians, saving his best salvo for the Russian technical representative. During the flight debriefing, he was asked endless questions about the Hornet : What was it carrying? How did the American fly it? And, the question that caused his blood to boil— Why didn’t he shoot that one down, too? While the mouthpieces in Tehran rejoiced on the BBC and CNN about downing the imperialist American fighter over Islamic Republic soil — proving to the world that the Americans are girding for a fight and that Iran would destroy anyone violating her sovereign airspace— Hariri had to hear over and over from the generals and the bastard religious officer about how he let down the Islamic Republic. Swine! Imbeciles! Despite their ignorance, it was almost too much to bear.

Then, a shock — they told him the pilot was an African! How can an African fight for the Great Satan? Hariri wondered. If this pilot — named Wilson — is Muslim, is he devout? Do the Americans conscript Africans to fly their planes?

When told Wilson was also a graduate of the legendary U.S. Navy Fighter Weapons School, or TOPGUN, Hariri had heard everything. He had fought, and all but defeated, an American TOPGUN, who was also an African — and possibly a brother Muslim. Hariri’s initial confusion soon turned to anger and determination. Muslim or not, he thought, Wilson had aligned himself with the Great Satan. If the Americans gave him a jet to fly, nothing can hold Wilson back from defecting and pledging his allegiance to the Islamic Republic.

No matter… Hariri had proved to himself that, even without Western training, he could engage and defeat an American in a frontline F-18… a TOPGUN no less! He craved a win, he must always win, and prayed that the international situation would escalate so he could have another shot at the Americans. If I am lucky, it will be this TOPGUN-trained African, he thought. He would then become an ace and join the elite list of Persian aces formed during the Iran-Iraq War.

Atosa, still naked, stirred next to him. She had offered herself to him last night, but he had rebuffed her, unable to forgive the Russians, the generals, and even himself for not downing the second American. The thought of this Wilson consumed him. Exasperated, she whispered, “Why can you not sleep, azizam?”

Hariri grunted. “Too much adrenaline.”

She turned to him and pressed her body close, her French perfume filling his nostrils. “You defended us from the Americans. You are a hero, my hero! Why can you not sleep?”

Hariri said nothing. He then took a breath, as if to talk, but only exhaled deeply. She wouldn’t understand , he thought, but he knew she was going to rebuke him for his refusal to make love last night and to talk now.