He extended his right leg all the way, and his jet yawed right. Taking the rudder out, he repositioned at Bai’s eight o’clock low, but he was unable to bring his nose up with the required lead for a gunshot. Though he was behind Bai, he was neutral, and held his jet just above stall speed in an effort to further flush the J-11 in front.
Bai saw the Super Hornet move behind him but remain nose-off. The Americans depend on their flight control computers to do the fighting for them! he growled, and continued in his own one-to-one climb for turning room. Even if more barbarians came to the rescue, he wanted this one jet and the barbarian in it.
Wilson slammed his stick to the forward stop as airfoils on his LEX extended to push his nose down.
There he goes! Bai thought, his hand and leg pulling and pushing the controls to slice down on the American for the coup de grâce. Bai’s nose swept along the Southern Sea, his Southern Sea, and at the end of his arcing flight path was the American, a motionless clay pigeon now out of airspeed and coming toward his windscreen.
Once Bai committed his nose down, Wilson picked his back up.
Startled, Bai pulled into buffet as his J-11 strained to obey, to fly slower at full power, but the airframe could not. Wilson looked between his two vertical stabs and saw the Flanker overshoot past his six — unable to stop its downrange travel, unable to shoot.
Wilson reversed right and fed in rudder, and, for a moment, his eyes met those of the J-11 pilot. Both men could see each other from a few hundred feet away, and Wilson noted the blue flight suit and white helmet. Above the oxygen mask the wide eyes of the young Chinese pilot showed fear, knowing what was about to happen.
Wilson held his AOA and kept full rudder in, performing a tight displacement roll that positioned him right of the big Chinese fighter almost motionless in front of him. The red star markings showed clearly on the gray wing. With all the pitch authority available, Wilson pulled the stick into his lap and squeezed the trigger as hard as he ever had.
The string of 20mm rounds fired from less than a football field away raced up across the Flanker’s back and cut off the left wing, causing a fuel-air explosion in front of Wilson that he heard through the canopy and felt in his chest. He didn’t have the knots to avoid it, and flew through a cloud of black before bursting into the clear sun that signified a new day over the South China Sea.
Bai struggled to regain control, and felt he had some ability to roll right. The jet seemed to respond, but it was heading down, and below was nothing but aqua shoal water and wisps of beige sand. Bai’s Southern Sea was beautiful, and he was defending it. As the water grew closer, he realized that his J-11 would not respond to him anymore. He waited for a count—This would mean defeat! — and waited through another second of indecision before the reality of what was happening made him act.
Bai braced himself and pulled the handle. He then closed his eyes and waited.
The canopy exploded off, and his senses were overwhelmed with roaring wind and deafening noise. Then an unbelievable force underneath blew him out of the airplane and into warm air that tore into every square centimeter of his being as he fell out of control. He felt sensations of blue, windblast, pressure, tumbling, pain. Disorientation. He realized he was out and not sure how close the water was. Something pushed at his back, and he saw his seat flying next to him. Above him the nylon fabric flapped hard and risers vibrated as the chute struggled to open. He glanced left.
Bai saw a shadow, his shadow racing to him on the surface of the sea. His last conscious thought, void of emotion, analyzed the fact that he had gotten out a second too late and that he was not going to get a full chute.
Bai Quon impacted the water above a shallow coral shoal that teemed with life mere inches below the surface of the South China Sea.
“Splash one Flanker! Nice shot CAG!” Hutch called from a mile away.
Wilson had watched the burning J-11in its steepening dive. Eject, he thought, and when the pilot did, Wilson was afraid he was out of the envelope. He saw the pilot with his trailing streamer impact almost the same time the Flanker did — no chance.
The first thing Wilson checked when the burning Flanker was no longer a threat was his fuel state. Four-point-four!
“Let’s bug west! Say state.”
“Hutch is six-oh!”
Wilson was in trouble. Little more than 4,000 pounds of fuel would get him back to the Celebes on fumes. However, they still had to escape through the Spratly chain, keeping their knots up to avoid and defend from threats, and that chewed up gas.
All the Americans were low-state, and they would need fuel as soon as they could get it. The six Rhino fuel hoses waiting for them an hour away were not enough. Even if a hose were waiting for Wilson exclusively, it was not enough. With the sun climbing above his canopy bow, he keyed the mike.
“Lookout, this is Wolfpack. We need the tankers to meet us halfway.”
“Roger, Wolfpack. We’re workin’ on it.”
Running to their get-well point, Wilson had to ensure the E-2 crew realized the gravity of the situation.
“Lookout, we’ve gotta make it happen!”
Wilson switched up the tanker common frequency and heard the E-2 call to Outback four-five. The Aussie KC-30 tanker did make it…. Thank you!
“Lookout from Outback four-five, we are on our assigned station, and your ship has directed us to remain. We are in a bit of a bind here…”
With no time to waste, Wilson needed to jump in and direct traffic.
“Outback four-five, this is Wolfpack Lead. How do you read me?”
After a few seconds, Wilson got his answer.
“We have you five-by-five, Wolfpack. How me?”
“Loud and clear. Outback. We’re egressing from a strike and we’re all low state. We need you west, now, as far as you can. Some guy in a comfy chair is telling you one thing. I’m in a cockpit with all weapons gone and on fumes telling you something else. Who are you going to listen to?”
A moment passed, and Wilson keyed the mike again.
“Outback, we’ll buy you a case of Fosters.”
Another moment passed, and Wilson got his answer.
“What? We can get that in Darwin!”
Wilson was on it. “Okay then, Kentucky bourbon, two cases!”
“Now yer talkin’, mate. Ah… delivered by Katy Perry?”
“Yes, dammit, Katy Perry! Deal. Follow Lookout’s vectors to us. Break, break…. Lookout, have them fill up the Rhino tankers en route, but expedite. Outback, need your best speed.”
“No worries, mate!”
Wilson and Hutch were now catching up to Tails and Breeder, who still had both his engines running. Given Wilson’s fuel state and Breeder’s damaged jet, they had little choice but to stay down low and egress as fast as they dared. To the north Wilson saw two palls of smoke, one larger than the other. Down low he felt safer from Heaven’s Shield, and, with each minute east, the threat of interceptors from any of the PLA outposts receded. With the Palawan Passage five minutes away, Wilson led them in a shallow climb to an altitude that allowed better fuel efficiency and groundspeed. Once there they would have Breeder shut down his left engine, as all continued to scan for threats.