Kevin Miller - Raven One

Saint turned and let loose a salvo at Ted. “Is it too much to ask to have a fully mission capable jet for the biggest strike of the year? I’m the damn strike lead and you put me in that ?”

“Sir, four-zero-four flew last night, no problem. It’s a good flyer. We had no indication the TACAN was bad until now. We’re swapping it out.”

“Too late, Mister Randall. Launch complete! My strike is going up there without me, and I have to explain to CAG why I’m not leading it.” Beads of sweat dotted Saint’s forehead as he placed his sidearm on the counter. He then removed his blood chit and flung it at Psycho.

“XO, we could have made it, but you downed the jet just as they began to taxi you, and the deck wouldn’t let us work on it until you were respotted.” After the hectic maintenance pace of the previous two days, Ted’s own patience was wearing thin.

Saint’s jaw remained set as he continued to remove his gear. “The TACAN is a vital piece of equipment— every component of the jet is vital — and when it’s down, especially in combat, the jet is down! ”

“Yes, sir, no argument. We had a small window to make and we couldn’t. At least you and the jet are safe on deck.”

“ Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! ” Saint muttered audibly to himself. Nicky was sure he was witnessing a breakdown, and everyone in the ready room was embarrassed by the display.

Psycho broke the silence. “Excuse me, sir, but you should have another pistol clip…”

Saint reached into his survival vest pocket and answered, “Yes, another clip for the combat mission I’m not going on because of the unsat jet I was assigned.” He tugged on the clip once, and when it didn’t come free, he yanked on it hard.

With a loud hiss, an orange smoke, tinged in pink, shot from his vest and formed a billowing cloud in the front of the ready room. While others scrambled away, Saint dropped the vest to the floor in disbelief.

“Cut it!” somebody cried.

That call propelled Nicky forward. He took his XO’s shroud cutter from the pile at his feet and cut the lanyard to the still-firing flare. Gunner Humphries appeared beside him and reached over Nicky to grab the flare and get it out of the ready room. “ Make a hole!” Gunner shouted as he opened the door and walked briskly past astonished onlookers in maintenance control. He turned aft and then outboard to toss the flare over the side from a hatch under the LSO platform. The high-visibility smoke, however, lingered in the passageway and compartments as sailors fanned it away from their faces.

The ready room was still in shock, when Psycho yelled, “ Attention on deck!” The room popped to attention, and Saint’s face fell, and then turned white, as he looked through the wafting smoke.

Swoboda stood, stunned and incredulous, at the back of the Raven ready room.

“ CAG … yes… sir.”

This would be no “ordinary” power projection strike.

The strike package stayed low on the water under strict radar emissions control and veered northwest in a running rendezvous with Super Hornet and Viking tankers. Each pilot judged range, bearing, and closure by means of the sight picture provided by a cluster of lights from the tanker and the aircraft that may have already joined on it. The pilots had rarely used this method since flight school. Flying without the aid of their radars, especially when they could not even use the radio for a dark night “comin’ left” sugar call or to check everyone in on the proper frequency, was disconcerting. The key, though, was to remain as covert as possible.

Wilson eased up next to Weed’s darkened jet while Blade was in the basket. The airborne Anvil spare, Dutch, appeared on his bearing line. To the north several miles and 1,000 feet above were the Sledges on their tanker, and he hoped the Tron division was somewhere nearby. The aircrew in these aircraft was the best A-team Air Wing Four could put together on such short notice after the previous night’s schedule.

Once Blade and Weed completed their refueling, Wilson extended his probe and slid behind the basket as the formation motored northwest in silence, still over an hour from the target. While in the basket, he noted a small light on the water, maybe a merchant — or a dhow — just off their nose with no chance to avoid. They would hear the jet engines and maybe even see a position light.

Damn. Who was on that vessel and what would they make of it? Would they radio someone about what they observed? After the recent action, he surmised it was unlikely to be an Iranian vessel way out here, but not knowing gnawed at him as it always did.

Wilson finished refueling and crossed under Blade and Weed as they waited for Dutch. Donning his goggles, he scanned the surface of the water and saw some lights well north — not a factor. He found the Tron division behind them and to the south, but at least they were there. Good, we’re all aboard and on timeline, he thought.

Wilson checked his fuel: two hundred pounds low. Despite needing every drop to hit the target and escape with a reserve, two hundred low was not bad. Now the strike package would accelerate ahead, staying low, while the tankers joined on another tanker to top off and meet the strikers at the get-well point in the Arabian Gulf for post-strike tanking.

Dutch finished refueling and crossed under. A minute later, the Super Hornet retracted the refueling store basket and veered away left in a shallow angle of bank. The Anvils were alone on their track.

In silence, they shuffled the formation, Blade and Dutch flying cruise on Wilson’s left wing, Weed on his right. Wilson completed his combat checklist for the second time since launch and popped out a bundle of chaff. To the others it looked like a flashbulb under Wilson’s jet and served as the signal for them to complete their checklist and check their systems. Wilson noted each pilot expend a bundle in order. Even at 0445, we are on our game tonight , he thought.

In the distance, Wilson saw the mountains of Oman rise out of the northwest horizon, and aided by his NVGs, he could see the glow of cultural lighting from the Iranian coastline. Scanning the sky, he saw no aircraft lights over Iran, but he did see a few over the GOO. He surmised they were American, and those he saw over the Persian Gulf could be American or civilian. On his moving-map, the distance to the coastline was 45 miles, but it looked much closer on goggles as the moon backlit the rising terrain. To his right, he sensed a muted flash and noted Weed’s Hornet was now without its drop tanks. When he looked left, he saw Blade punch off his tanks and watched them tumble away. Wilson noted he had only a few hundred pounds remaining in each of his tanks and prepared to jettison them once they were dry. This would reduce both his weight and drag and would increase maneuverability.

As the little formation continued through the darkness in silence, each pilot busied himself in the cockpit monitoring the navigation and thinking about their individual weapon deliveries and the enemy threats they might face.

As they approached the coast, Wilson hit SELECT JETT, and, as he felt his tanks leave the aircraft, he cracked the throttle back to compensate for the increased airspeed. He veered the formation left to lead them into a fissure in the rising Omani wilderness, which offered a place of concealment from visual or electronic detection. He looked back to see Dutch clean off his tanks, just in time, as the coastline loomed ahead.

Low-altitude on NVGs in mountainous terrain — in the wee hours — was varsity flying, and each of the Ravens worked hard to accomplish three things: to keep position on Wilson, keep themselves out of the rocks, and look for threats. The half-moon bathed the terrain in all the light they needed as they turned their heads right and left to scan through the green-tinted spotlight their goggles provided. Wilson led them up the illuminated side of the ridge face, and the wingmen held tight positions above their leader, which allowed them to maintain formation and monitor ground clearance as well. The nearby Sledge and Tron formations did likewise over a moonscape of rugged, uninhabited land. As they transited over the ridgelines, they maintained radio silence, avoided the shadows and stayed as far away as possible from scattered settlements that would be alarmed at the sudden thunderous rumble from the jet formations breaking the stillness of the desert night.