Kevin Miller - Raven One

So, if the President sends you, don’t worry about us, just concentrate on what you have to do, defeat them, and come back with that big shiny medal!

James, I love you so much and I am so proud of you. It’s times like this — actually for the first time, during this cruise — that I realize just how important your job is, and that it’s really just you guys out there on the frontline. You’ll do great, too. Won’t even be a fair fight!

So you’ve got the green light, Flip Wilson! Roger ball… Kick the fires… Hit the burner… Pull g’s… Do all that pilot stuff and do it well. We’re fine. We miss you tons, but lead those JOs to victory and bring everyone back soon!

Love,

Mary

Wilson smiled, and then read Mary’s note a couple more times. What a woman. Alone with two little kids and bucking him up. He recognized her fear, but she was reassuring him, building his confidence and allowing him to compartmentalize for any eventuality in the coming weeks. He hit “Reply” and began typing:

Hey, Baby… Did you mean “light the tires?” J

Where is he?

Wilson, in growing panic, searched the sky to his left. The Iranian was just there, going up in a left-to-left pass as Wilson unloaded for knots. He had been at the top of his arc and passing through the sun when Wilson had glanced inside and saw 450 knots in the HUD and the valley floor rushing up to meet him. Wilson yanked the throttles to idle and pulled on the stick as he returned his head to the top of the canopy, straining his neck and eyes back to see his foe. The g swallowed him at once, the anaconda-like squeezing of his torso and legs and the vise-grip pressure on his chest forced him to exhale. He gasped for breath as his mask slid down his nose. He heard a cockpit deedle, followed by Tammy’s laconic warning: Flight controls. Flight controls . He figured he had just overstressed the airplane, but his first concern was sight, sight that had narrowed to a cone, a fuzzy gray cone — with nothing inside it! Lose sight, lose fight . He had just committed an error, and time — time now measured in mere seconds — would determine if the error was fatal.

As he leveled, Wilson kept the left turn in, re-engaged burner, and remained outside, looking for any moving object against the eastern horizon. He was in a large valley, karst ridges on either side about five miles away from him. Where is he? Wilson held his left angle of bank and searched for Hariri. He realized he was arcing and didn’t know why. Wilson thought, He’s here, but where? And why am I arcing? I can’t stop arcing! His adrenaline had elevated to the point his mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton.

Wilson’s blood ran cold as he overbanked and picked up his foe. The MiG was below him at his 7 o’clock, a mile and closing — nose on. Breaking out of his funk, Wilson overbanked further and put the top of his aircraft on Hariri. With a good maneuvering air speed, Wilson continued to pull into him to throw off his shot. Hariri appeared motionless against the valley floor, and Wilson saw the speed brake open on the top of his airplane — a huge panel that made the Flatpack appear even bigger. Wilson was fascinated by the scene. He looked down into the gaping intake of the big Russian fighter, those powerful engines delivering 80,000 pounds of thrust. He saw white missiles on the pylons — pointing right at him.

Wilson had a sense of being “frozen,” flying but unable to move through the sky. The Iranian seemed to be holding him in place — holding him by the throat before striking. Even in full afterburner, Wilson couldn’t escape. It was as if he were running on sand in heavy boots, his antagonist drawing closer, showing more of the bottom of his aircraft. He's pulling lead to shoot me, Wilson thought, transfixed.

A bright, flickering light flashed over the right intake. Time compressed. Smaller lights floated off the fighter, then accelerated toward him. Wilson saw several whiz past, sounding a loud pop under his left wing. He wondered what they were… 23 mm? 30 mm? He knew he needed to roll down and into the threat, make his jet skinny, gain more time, throw him off… but he couldn’t. He was cornered, held in place as if the wily Iranian had pasted him against the sky like a cloud, a soft puffy cloud. Wilson was giving up, and he knew it.

Wilson watched the first round strike dead center on the left outer wing with a loud crack . The airplane shuddered as the black composite material splintered. He kept the pull in, into the threat over his left shoulder. For an instant the flashing stopped, but when it resumed, a great tongue of fire leapt from the Iranian’s gun muzzle, and Wilson thought he could see the shell casings ejected into the air stream. The hits were almost instantaneous on his left wing, and he heard and felt another crack on the leading edge flap, followed by two impacts that sounded like a pencil punching through aluminum foil stretched across a tin can. These impacts caused small explosions on the top of the wing and fuselage. The alarms followed. A cacophony of warnings burst into his earphones in rapid succession: Flight controls. Engine fire left. Engine left. Engine fire right. More aluminum punches were accompanied by a chorus of pops as the rounds whizzed past at supersonic speed. The Hornet shook with each hit. More cockpit warning lights illuminated in unison, led by both engine fire lights.

The airplane felt different.

When Wilson snapped his head back over his left shoulder to find Hariri, fuel-fed flames filled his entire field of view. The bright orange fire, fanned by his 200-knot indicated air speed, covered the top of the aircraft and licked at the canopy. A sudden, loud clank threw Wilson hard against the left side of the cockpit, and his helmet slammed into the canopy with such force he thought he cracked the Plexiglas shell. The negative g caused his arms to fly up, and the force pinned him against the canopy. He couldn’t reach the controls! His mask was pushed up against his eyes, and when he managed to open one of them, he saw nothing but orange fire and black smoke… then blue sky… brown earth… orange… black… blue… brown…. He was tumbling, and through the sounds of aluminum and composite tearing into pieces, he noted that the aural warning tones had stopped.

Then a sickening sight flashed in front of him. The flaming fuselage of a Hornet, missing one wing and throwing off burning debris, corkscrewed through the air. When the Raven emblem on the tail emerged from the thick smoke, he realized in horror he was trapped in the tumbling and disintegrating cockpit now separated from the fuselage. His mind called out, Eject! Eject! but his arms would not, could not reach for the handle, pinned as they were against the canopy.

At that moment, the MiG flashed into view. It was Hariri! Then, a crushing explosion of pressure from rapid decompression pushed down on Wilson from all sides as the canopy was wrenched off the cockpit. A simultaneous roar of wind ripped at his helmet and pulled it off his head with the mask still attached. Wilson couldn’t feel his left arm, and his feet and legs took blows from debris as the cockpit disintegrated around him. His mind again said, Eject! but he couldn’t reach the handle. He wasn’t sure if he was strapped in the seat anymore, and sensed a passing burst of heat in front of him. He heard a succession of loud pops with no idea of the source. Reach for the handle! The handle!

But he couldn’t… his arms would not respond. With eyes closed against the cold wind lashing his body and whistling in his ears, he hurtled through space. Falling…. Waiting….