Kevin Miller - Raven One

“Shit hot!” Weed crowed from a mile away. “I’m at your right four high!”

“Roger, bug southwest! Check six. Lead’s three point one.”

“Three point five… comin’ out your left seven.”

“Visual, six clear.”

“Visual, six clear.”

The MiG rolled out of control toward the desert floor, flame consuming the right wing root. Wilson continued to watch its descent and soon noted a white parachute bloom next to the smoke trail that marked its path. Hariri got out to fight another day . In the distance, Wilson saw two other chutes, which he figured were the aircrew from Weed’s Phantom kill.

The Raven pilots climbed up in combat spread, searching the sky and surface for additional threats as they brought up the rear on the strike package egress out of Iran. Going feet wet over the Gulf, they descended for their tanker rendezvous, with low fuel states as usual. Above them a CAP of Air Force F-15 Eagles was present to discourage any Iranian fighters from pursuing them into international airspace. Weed, mask dangling down to show his wide smile of joy and exhilaration, joined up in cruise position on Wilson’s left. Wilson flicked off his bayonet fitting and smiled back. Pumping both fists, gulping big lungfuls of air, the two veteran pilots were as excited as little kids at Christmas. Relieved — and alive. Wilson then made a gun-cocking motion with his left hand, followed by a slashing motion across his throat to safe the switches. They had done it.

Hariri grimaced in pain as he looked up at the canopy of white nylon above him. The seat-slap from the ejection had caused something to snap in his lower back, and the shock of the parachute opening seemed to have pulled a muscle in his groin. Floating above the desert wasteland, he saw his burning aircraft pointed straight down in a tight corkscrew just before it slammed into a fissure and exploded into a fireball. The flames soon became a black mushroom cloud rising into the morning sky, the sharp boom of the impact reaching his ears after several seconds. To the southeast, he could see two other palls of smoke rise from the surface. He was then conscious of the low rumble of jet engines to the southwest but unable to see them. Probably the bloody Americans. And then it was quiet, save for the gentle wind whistling through the nylon shrouds above him.

As Hariri descended from 3,000 feet above the desert floor, his mind tried to comprehend what had just happened. The Hornet he had tried to shoot down had a black bird on the tail, like Wilson’s aircraft from last month. He wondered if it was Wilson. Regardless, the American was lucky, defeating his missile by doing a belly check at the last minute — and then engaging him in a slow-speed scissors. Once again, Hariri’s equipment had failed him: the stupid missile didn’t guide, his gun pipper was right on him yet the aircraft missed high.

Damn you! Hariri shouted into the still desert air — at everyone but himself.

When he had flushed the American out in front, his MiG couldn’t stay with it. The tons of fuel in the wings and fuselage had caused it to fall under its own heavy weight. He knew what was happening and cursed his jet as he fell below the Hornet , pushing the throttles forward with all his strength, almost bending them, in a vain effort to get more power out of the burner cans. When the American had pivoted down in midair, Hariri knew he was trapped.

The bullet impacts on the wing sounded like a string of holiday firecrackers, but they were followed by the roar of fuel-fed flames mere feet away. Time slowed as he pulled the handles by instinct, watched the canopy fly off, and winced in pain as the initial impulse of the seat motor slammed into his butt and rocketed him out of the aircraft. Hariri saw the canopy rail fall below him followed by the flames and smoke of his doomed jet.

He immediately regretted ejecting. It would have been better to ride it in. Now he would have to face the scrutiny he would receive from Tehran and his pilots, even from Atosa.

The sun that rested on the eastern ridgeline fell below it as he continued his descent. He knew there was a settlement on the other side of the ridge, but he saw nothing here but a dry stream bed among the shadowy limestone fissures. Maybe he would die out here: of dehydration, of a broken back when he landed, or by wild animals. A just fate , he thought.

He heard shouting and scanned the surface for its source. He determined the language he heard was Farsi, and soon saw a village man with two boys and a pack mule on a dusty trail. “ We are coming to you,” the man bellowed, and the excited boys ran ahead to the spot where he was about to land.

I can’t believe there are people out here! Right under me! Hariri then realized he would probably live, a fact that filled him with a deep sadness.

After Yaz Kernoum, Valley Forge and the other strike group ships stood down from further combat. Remaining vigilant, they flew only routine sea surface search hops in the GOO and made single-ship transits of Hormuz to ensure freedom of navigation, but otherwise kept a low profile. The Iranian maritime forces did as well, not only due to attrition from the American attack but from a practical sense, so as not to invite a further and possibly more damaging response from U.S. forces.

Reaction from world capitols was characterized by predictable expressions of regret at the American action, with little condemnation of the Iranian recklessness that had precipitated the use of force. The statements of American condemnation were accompanied by demonstrations in several European population centers, as well as damaging comments from some American left-wing politicians. However, the Arab world was silent for the most part, save for government expressions of shock at the American action and a few chanting mobs for local media consumption. Privately, the GCC governments thanked Washington for the prompt action at Yaz Kernoum that placed Iranian missile forces in check, if only in the short term. The United States also received quiet congratulations from many of the same governments that publicly expressed regret or worse. Even the Chinese remained officially silent but conveyed their approval behind the scenes.

Tehran loudly claimed victory over the Great Satan, feeling triumphant in the fact they had absorbed the best blow the United States could deliver and still had their blue-water maritime capability intact. They also sent out ominous warnings of devastating retaliation against American and GCC installations at a time and place of their choosing. Surviving Pasdaran assets were back at sea for the benefit of cameras, but they stayed inside the 12-mile territorial limit and went nowhere near the international safe passage lanes of Hormuz. Crude prices began their slow decline from the previous week’s spike, and the Iranians communicated through the Swiss embassy the identity of the pilot the Americans had lost on the first strike over Bandar Abbas: Commander Stephen J. Lassiter.

The great majority of Iranian people, however, were unnerved at the military action their government had initiated with the world’s only superpower. They saw through the pompous indignation of the Revolutionary Guard leaders who were acting independently of the central government that itself raised regional and world tensions on a routine basis. In essence, the Iranian people were in the back of a vehicle careening down a mountain road with a wild man driving, or in this case, two wild men — Guard and Government — fighting for control of the wheel. They were tired of Iran’s international pariah status, and the daily hardships it placed on them, and wished only for what the West had, what the United States had… a representative government and a free-market economy that could unleash the vast untapped potential of the Persian people.