Kevin Miller - Raven One

If they had not been spotted until now, Wilson liked their chances. That meant they had avoided detection from sailors on “innocent” vessels in the GOO and Gulf and Iran’s own early warning net… a combination of luck and solid planning. He noted 10 miles to the “pop” point. Within minutes, the Iranians would be alerted to their presence, and if Wilson’s plan worked, they would be powerless to counter the Americans with anything like defense in depth.

Because of the rugged terrain, he elevated the division a bit but remained under the radar horizon and out of the shadowy darkness of the desert floor. The desert was now a dim, gray-blue surface, but the growing radiance from the east was beginning to highlight the ridgeline off to his right. This low-light situation at low altitude was dangerous, and once they crossed the coastline, the strikers moved out into combat spread formation. In 15 seconds, they could climb.

Wilson brought the throttles up, eased back on the stick, and commanded his Hornet to enter a shallow energy-sustaining climb; his wingmen followed in mirror image. Off to the east a few miles, he saw the Sledges, four dark Super Hornets , outlined against the pink sky as they, too, started up. The radar cursors in every cockpit swept back and forth in search of any airborne threat on their nose. With their senses sharpened by fear and adrenaline, the pilots scanned the horizon for threats, monitored their navigation, checked their fuel state, and fiddled with their weapons programs. Throughout, they kept their knots up in a steady climb as they pressed further into Iran.

About halfway up, Wilson looked over his right shoulder and saw the orange sun burst above the eastern horizon and spread its warm rays of light from north to south. While observing this tranquil scene, he noted his first RWR hit — an early warning radar at 4 o’clock. Not bad , he thought. They had avoided Iranian radar detection until now, exposing themselves only when they had gotten behind the lines, minutes from the target. The strikers continued their transonic climb, knowing they were now drawing the attention of a hostile and surprised integrated air defense system.

In his semicomatose state, Hariri’s mind attempted to grasp the meaning of the first sounding of the alert Klaxon. With open eyes, he heard it again accompanied by rapid footsteps and excited shouting outside. He bolted out of bed as a junior pilot, running to his own alert fighter, flung the door open and shouted, “ Sarhang Hariri, the Americans are coming!”

Knowing every second counted, Hariri whipped his g-suit on with swift tugs on the zippers, grabbed his helmet and dashed to his jet. His mind raced. Where? What are they doing? How many? He bounded up the ladder and dropped himself into the cockpit in the same manner he had 20 years ago defending his homeland from the Iraqis. Sergeants shouted commands and linemen pushed open the shelter doors as Hariri, with help from his crew chief, hooked himself into his parachute harness. With a loud whoosh, a giant hose connected to the MiG became rigid and forced air through the turbines as Hariri initiated the fuel and spark required to begin the continuous cycle of jet propulsion.

Hariri taxied out from under the fluorescent lights and into the dawn twilight, cleared for immediate takeoff. He was given an initial vector of southeast, following a section of F-4 Phantoms that were already thundering down the runway ahead of him. He looked over his shoulder into the adjacent shelter and saw that the other alert MiG-35 had its canopy up and was surrounded by maintenance technicians. Russian morons! he shouted to himself before ignoring his wingman’s plight.

The alert shelters were located adjacent to the runway, and Hariri didn’t even stop as he taxied onto it. He brought the throttles up to afterburner, and his jet roared over the concrete behind two giant pillars of white-hot fire: a horizontal rocket ship accelerating to flying speed within 2,000 feet. Hariri picked the nose up and rolled right on course, in his single-minded focus to find and kill the enemy.

The strike package leveled off high over a stark desert landscape of erosion-scarred ridges. The predawn light showed deep crags and fissures on every surface. During the planning, Wilson had picked this area for the ingress because it was devoid of surface threats but, as he looked at the dim surface from high above, he thought it the most uninviting terrain he’d ever seen. Harsh. Foreboding. The land below was ugly , and Wilson wanted to minimize his time over it, if for no other reason than to get to the target before the Iranians could mount a threat.

With fewer than 10 minutes to go, the pilots took last-minute glances at their assigned aimpoint imagery and double-checked their weapons switches set. Yaz Kernoum was located in a small valley separated from a village to the west by several miles. Nearby, and typical of this region of the world, were long green agricultural fields that reminded Wilson of Balad Ruz. The topography was also reminiscent of the Fallon training complex in the high desert of Nevada. Wilson’s aimpoint was a rectangular building that looked like an abandoned industrial facility. It was located between two identical buildings on a road that bisected the complex. Weed’s target, a missile final assembly tower, was nearby. Blade and Dutch were to hit fuel storage magazines set apart from the complex to the northwest, and the Sledge’s target was the missile component storage warehouses on the eastern perimeter.

The idea was for all eight strikers to release on their aimpoints, guide the laser weapons from their cockpits while flying formation and scanning for threats, and then egress with mutual support while the Tron division behind them provided defense suppression. All the aircraft, except the EA-6B, were loaded with air-to-air missiles to defend themselves from enemy fighters. Wilson and the others knew the Iranians were now watching them on radar as they raced to the target with their heads on a swivel.

At the initial point, no one was reporting any radar contacts. Wilson selected AIR-TO-GROUND and transmitted, “Tapes on!”

Just then the radio crackled as Thor provided the strikers with their first contact report, a God’s-eye radar view of the situation around Yaz Kernoum. “ Thor picture — single group, bullseye, three-four-zero at sixty, medium, hot.”

“ Anvils, roger, declare ,” Wilson responded, asking the AWACS controller if the airborne contact was hostile, already knowing the answer.

“Hostile,” Thor replied.

“ Anvil one-one.”

Though separated from the enemy by 80 miles, the Americans now faced a problem that called for a decision from Wilson. The two groups of aircraft were approaching one another at well over 1,000 knots of closure and would merge in minutes. Knowing the strike package would be at their release points in about half that time, and the target must be hit— Losses are acceptable— pressing to the target was required. But if they were shot down by fighter-launched, forward-quarter missiles before the bombs impacted, all was for nothing. It was going to be close.

Wilson keyed the mike. “ Sledges , send a section and take the bandit group. Everyone else continue as fragged.”

“ Sledge two-one, wilco… Break: Sledge two-three flight, target bandit group, bullseye three-four-zero at sixty, medium, hot.”

“ Sledge two-three. Thor, Sledge, two-three committing group three-four-zero, sixty, declare.”