Kevin Miller - Raven One

Before his radar-guided AMRAAM impacted, Wilson saw it was tracking the “eastern” of two fighters, now crossing over the companion Phantom to engage Wilson. Just then Weed got a call out before he pulled his own trigger. “ Anvil one-two, Fox-2 on the eastern bandit!” Wilson saw Weed’s Sidewinder zoom away and twitch twice before tracking one of the two enemy aircraft. Wilson’s AMRAAM impacted the “eastern” Phantom first and instantly turned the aircraft into a bright torch, tumbling through the sky and shedding flaming pieces as it tore itself apart. “Hey!” Weed cried out after Wilson’s missile hit what Weed thought was his bandit. Weed’s Sidewinder obediently tracked and exploded inside the plummeting inferno with no added effect.

The surviving Phantom was now coming straight for Weed, who quickly recovered. “ Anvil one-two engaged with a Phantom . Chaff! Flares!”

Wilson was three miles away and headed to his roommate’s rescue. He made a hard right turn, watching the two aircraft come to the merge on his nose, the Phantom turning his tail toward Wilson and inviting another shot. As Weed turned hard to go one-circle, Wilson’s sixth sense caused him to do a belly check to the left. A few miles in the distance, Wilson instantly saw the dark planform of a big fighter, nose on, with a huge intake crowned by a high nose fuselage section. Seconds after he spotted it, a bright light erupted from underneath the fighter — and headed straight for him, trailing heavy white smoke.

Sonofabitch!

Wilson snap rolled left and pulled nose-down to sustain energy. He also went to idle and spit out expendables as he watched the missile arc up and then down toward him.

Time slowed. Placing the missile on the top of his canopy generated the maximum angles off for a potential overshoot if Wilson could anticipate the right opportunity to give away everything and break into it. The fiery dot seemed to lunge toward him, and he snatched the stick back in a break turn into it, banking for the second time that morning on a last-ditch maneuver to make a missile go stupid. Though straining hard, he was mesmerized as he watched the missile go horizontal as it tried to turn the corner— right next to him. Instead, it fell off with a twitch and shot past him, the rocket motor still burning brightly, on its way to land on the desert floor. Wilson looked up and saw his assailant high and to the west, ready to pounce. At that angle, he at once recognized the strange planform of a MiG-35. Is that Hariri?

“ Anvil one-one engaged defensive!”

“Roger, I’m engaged offensive,” answered Weed, “Should have a shot in 20 seconds!”

Wilson saw the MiG overbank and pull down toward him. He pushed the nose down to regain valuable knots and, reselecting burner, floated in his seat while he kept sight high behind him and slightly left. With the bandit’s nose buried, Wilson pulled his lift vector up and into the MiG in an effort to force it into an overshoot. Awestruck, he watched the aircraft, cloaked in a white cloud of condensation, rotate from nose-down to nose-on as if it were stationary in the sky. He was certain another missile — or tracking guns shot — was imminent.

Wilson stood his Hornet on its tail to close the distance and, maybe, generate an overshoot. Just hold him off until Weed comes to the rescue . He felt the Hornet shudder and saw the flight control surfaces behind him move in computer-generated spasms in response to his efforts to keep the aircraft on the edge of controlled flight while his airspeed bled to 100 knots. Feeding in rudder, he veered left and watched the MiG slide behind him as both aircraft held their noses high.

The Flatpack, painted in a light blue air-superiority camouflage, with the IRIAF roundels visible on the fuselage and wings, was still behind him. The bandit now pulled his nose even higher to flush Wilson out in front, the canards working hard to keep the big Russian in controlled flight. Wilson craned his neck to the right to keep sight and watched the Iranian slide his nose back left and pull lead for a gun shot. Just before the enemy nose came to bear, Wilson pushed forward on the stick to foil the shot, which missed high. The all too familiar sound of large-caliber bullets snapped the air outside and penetrated his canopy. Once the MiG fell off to reposition, Wilson pulled up again, stood on the cans in full blower and fed in right rudder to force another overshoot. As he threw out chaff and flares, he also squeezed every bit of energy he could from his aircraft to throw off his attacker. The MiG then countered as the Hornet redefined the fight once more.

Wilson heard an exuberant Weed call on the radio. “Splash the Phantom! ”

“Roger, man, get over here! I’m engaged defensive!” Wilson cried.

“Looking!” Weed answered.

“In a flat scissors… I’m high, angels eleven!”

In heavy buffet, Wilson held his nose up as high as he could, ruddering his jet into a weave to hold off the MiG. He was using every pound of thrust his twin engines could deliver in an effort to fly slower than his opponent. The Flatpack recovered and pulled up next to him. Wilson froze as he looked into the cockpit.

Those eyes. Hariri! He was fighting Hariri for a second time!

For a moment, both aircraft were suspended 100 feet from each other, each pilot looking at his opponent from across the void, oxygen masks covering all but their eyes. Hariri with enough excess power to cut his opponent in half with a multi-barrel buzz saw and Wilson on the edge of stall knowing he could be blasted out of the sky in seconds. The dawn sun glinted off Hariri’s canopy; it was definitely him. Cunning, dark eyes, determined to kill.

“Flip, tally, visual. Break left!”

“ I can’t, man! ”

Hariri lifted the MiG up and over on its back, the hooded cobra ready to strike again and deliver the coup de grâce. Wilson knew he could not stay with Hariri and watched in helpless horror as the Flatpack drifted back on his canopy. Unable to run, unable to maneuver away — and with Weed unable to help — Wilson squeezed every knot he could from his jet to hold off the Iranian. He was trapped. With his heart pounding almost in time to the shake of the airframe in the heavy buffet, Wilson knew he was unable to avoid another shot. Breathing heavy with fear, he sensed he was about to die.

“C’mon, man! C’mon!” he shouted into his mask, coaxing his jet to give him more power.

Then, Hariri’s jet began to shake.

With the MiG’s nose parked high, it fell off right from its own heavy weight and began to backslide. Finally, out of power to bring his nose to bear on the American or to outzoom him, the huge fighter fell straight down under Wilson.

“Yes!” shouted Wilson and, with rudder, slid his aircraft right as he watched the light blue aircraft fall away. Turning room! Wilson took just enough separation to gun him and rocked back on the weapon select switch. Hariri sensed he was becoming defensive and pushed his nose down to gain knots and reposition. Wilson had to make his move— now .

Selecting GUN, Wilson slammed the stick forward hard to the stops and pulled the throttles back. The airplane pivoted nose-down in one g flight. When he pulled the stick to neutral, his HUD was filled with MiG-35, the green gun reticle positioned just in front of it.

Hariri saw the shot coming and tried to roll left underneath Wilson, but, at his speed, the Flatpack’s roll rate was too slow. Wilson squeezed the trigger from less than 500 feet above and riddled the right wing of the MiG. The impact explosions were followed by an eruption of fire from the right side of the aircraft, a huge fuel-air explosion that buffeted Wilson’s Hornet and reached right out to him. The wall of bright yellow-orange flame, mixed with black smoke, enveloped him for an instant before he flew through the edge of it. Wilson snapped his head left to watch the MiG roll right, belching huge quantities of flame and smoke. Finished.