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.
“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.