Kevin Miller - Raven One

Wilson’s RWR lit off again. A SAM was tracking him from his 8 o’clock, and he picked it up visually. Breaking into it, he bunted the nose — and saw the missile mimic his move. Oh shit!

“ Anvil one-one spiked, defending!”

Straining to keep sight of the missile against the dawn sky, Wilson bunted the nose again to pick up knots, and realized that he was surrounded by AAA puffs. He lit the burner and jinked into the missile, this one tracking his movements, watching it draw near from above the horizon, waiting for the right time… Damn, it’s fast! Now!

Wilson rolled and pulled into it, crushed by instantaneous g that made it difficult to keep sight. Trailing a residual plume, the missile flew underneath him. He flinched when it exploded close to his jet with a sharp BOOM heard through the Plexiglas canopy, the warhead making a blooming circle of flame and frag.

“You okay?” Weed called with concern.

Wilson rolled through the horizon and was relieved that he saw no cautions in the cockpit.

“Yeah, can you bug southwest?”

“Affirm, I’m at your right five, comin’ to four.”

“Visual, six clear. Let’s bug two-three-zero ,” Wilson directed.

The strike package was now sprinting southwest to the coast and safety, leaving the heavily defended caldron of Yaz Kernoum behind, columns of smoke from burning aimpoints rising into the sky. The Tron escort was off a few miles to the northwest, prosecuting the western group of bandits, acting as a blocking force for the rest of the package. After defending from the SAM, the two Raven department heads were now supersonic, several miles behind the others, as they all ran to the safety of the Gulf.

Wilson noticed a contact on his radar inside 10 miles, crossing left to right. Alarmed, he locked it, and soon identified it as the Tron EA-6B, alone, and going in the wrong direction.

“ Tron five-one, Anvil one-one is at your right two o’clock long. Bring it southwest!”

“ Tron five-one, roger,” the Prowler answered, immediately turning southwest. The AWACS controller then called to inform them of a new threat.

“ Thor , new group, bullseye, three-four-zero, fifteen, medium, heading one-eight-zero.”

From this call, Wilson knew the bandits were nearby and probably gaining. “ Thor, Anvils on the egress. BRA from Anvil one-one. Declare!”

“Standby, Anvil … Anvil, Thor , hostile BRA zero-one-zero at twenty-three, medium, hot.”

“ Heading? ”

“Two-zero-zero.”

With his arm locked against the throttle stops and the airframe moaning from the supersonic airspeed, Wilson did some mental calculations. The Iranians were 20 miles aft and on an intercept course, with the Gulf sanctuary over 50 miles away. However, the Tron EA-6B was up ahead with Wilson and his roommate set to pass them soon. A heading change would buy a bit of time.

“ Tron five-one, check left twenty! Gate— everything you’ve got! Unload for knots! ”

“Five-one, roger!” Wilson saw the Prowler bank left a few miles ahead.

“ Thor, picture. Tron five-two, hostile BRA, three-one-zero at twenty-five, medium, hot.”

“ Tron five-two, sorted left.”

“Five-three sorted right!”

By listening to the comms Wilson formed a picture in his mind. The Tron escort fighters were running on the bandit group to the northwest, their right flank. The other bandit group was running them down from behind, and, with its limited top-end speed, the Prowler would be easy prey. Well ahead, the other strikers were egressing hard with the coast in sight.

“ Tron five-two, Fox-three on the western bandit!”

“ Tron five-three, Fox-three on the eastern bandit.” Wilson saw two more AMRAAM plumes appear in the distant sky, about 10 miles away. They headed toward the still unseen bandits to the northwest.

“ Anvil, Thor , threat BRA three-six-zero at seventeen, medium, hot.”

DEEDLE, DEEDLE, DEEDLEDEEDLEDEEDLEDEEDLE!

Wilson was locked up by a fighter radar behind him.

“ Anvil one-one is spiked at six. Spike range?”

“ Thor , fifteen miles.”

“One-two’s spiked, six o’clock!” Weed added.

Although Wilson and Weed were gaining on the Prowler less than two miles ahead of them, the bandits at their six were gaining on all three American aircraft due to the airspeed limitations of the EA-6B. At their current speed, Wilson and Weed would pass the Prowler in a minute and leave it exposed to the gaining threat — an unacceptable condition for their impromptu high-value escort mission. Wilson guessed the Iranians had radar missiles that could catch them from behind, and due to the speed differential, the Iranians could easily run down the Americans and employ short-range weapons in minutes.

Looking over his shoulder to the north, Wilson tried to find the bandits but could not discern them in the dawn light. Then, his heart skipped a beat when he saw an object, a thin shadow, cutting through the eastern horizon. It passed 100 feet behind Weed from high to low as a white mist trailed in its wake. The missile had been fired from the bandit group just outside the range that would have turned Weed into a fireball. Wilson knew what they had to do, fast, to avoid the next enemy missile from finding its quarry.

“Weed, we’ve gotta engage now. Short-range set, I’m high, out of burner. Go. ”

“Two,” his wingman responded as both aircraft reduced power. The pilots were held in place by their straps as the aircraft slowed through the invisible barrier that separated supersonic and transonic flight.

“ Tron, Anvil, lean right, descend for knots,” Wilson directed the Prowler , still running for its life. “We’re going to engage with these guys.”

“Roger, Tron five-one leaning right. You can only push a barn door so fast!”

Wilson got another quick transmission in before they turned. “ Thor , you copy? Anvils one and two engaging to the north.”

“ Thor, roger. Bandits now twelve miles, hot.”

“Roger! One-two, you ready?”

“Affirm!”

In measured cadence, Wilson keyed the mike. “Roger, in-place-left, go !”

“Two!”

In unison, the two Raven pilots slammed their throttles to afterburner and yanked the jets left. Still not sure what type of aircraft they would encounter, they pulled hard in a nose-low, energy-sustaining turn back to their pursuers to the north. With his head all the way back and straining against the pressure, Wilson struggled to look out the top of the canopy and pick up the bandits at the same time his fingers selected the radar mode and a Sidewinder missile. What they were doing was a dangerous last-ditch defense of the Prowler , running as fast as it could to the coast in a desperate attempt to escape the closing Iranian fighters.

Rolling out of his turn, Wilson got a lock at his 11 o’clock, 10 miles slightly high. He noted the distinctive planform of an F-4 Phantom closing the distance. Despite the screaming Sidewinder launch acceptability tone in his headset, but not wanting to take a chance, he selected the more powerful AMRAAM and pulled the trigger hard, holding it down. After what seemed like a long pause, the missile fell from its fuselage station. The rocket motor then ignited and shot the missile forward with a loud WHOOOM, trailing a big white plume as it sped away from under Wilson’s jet.