Marauder One and Two, the Alert Five Hornets from VFA-82, were taxiing forward when Cromwell’s Tomcat, howling in afterburner, hurtled down the deck in a billowing cloud of steam. Cromwell and Singleton were crushed against their seats until the airplane flew off the bow. The 159-mph shot was normal and a few seconds later the Tomcat was cleaned up and climbing on the assigned intercept heading. Less than two minutes later the F/A-18s were accelerating toward the intruders.
Trent McCutchin turned on his gun camera video recorder, scanned his instruments, and then cast a sweeping look toward the coast. He saw another crackling flash in the distance, followed by a huge explosion, then secondary explosions. Intermittent streaks of light suddenly flashed across the pitch-black horizon as heavy antiaircraft fire erupted along the shoreline. From his vantage point over the Persian Gulf, the AAA looked like thousands of flashbulbs flickering during halftime at the Orange Bowl.
“Sting. Flight, bandits at your twelve!” the AWACS officer warned. “Heads up — they’re forty-five out and closing fast!”
“Sting One,” McCutchin replied, scanning the enemy planes on his radar.
“We’re getting too close to shore.”
There was a brief, but maddening pause.
“Fangs,” the AWACS operator suddenly blurted, “come left to zero-six-zero — we’re picking up more activity.”
“Fangs coming to zero-six-zero.”
Listening to the F-16 flight leader, McCutchin felt a tingling sensation a few seconds before the radar warning receiver began to bleep.
“Weapons hot!” the AWACS coordinator said in a tight voice. “Weapons hot! Bandits on your nose!”
“They’re tracking us!” Fang One blurted.
“SAMS!” someone else said excitedly. “Multiple SAMS — at least nine! Right up the pike!”
“Take ’em down, Fangs! Now!”
“We’re goin’ down!”
“They’re away,” someone shouted.
“Missiles in the air!”
Multiple SAM sites were painting the Falcons and the Eagles. In a matter of seconds seven of the eight F-16s had range and bearing solutions to many of the shore targets, but not all the sites. Moments later the pilots launched their HARM missiles, then activated their jamming pods and countermeasures dispensers.
“More SAMs!” Fang Three advised, hitting the buttons for the chaff launchers. “Over a dozen up — two more comin!”
“Lock ’em up!”
“Come right, Fangs! Hard right! Keep it coming around.”
“I’m hit! Oh, God…”
“Who’s hit?” Fang One shouted, then cringed when he saw the streaming trail of fire from the remains of an F-16.
“Four. I’ve — I’m punchin’ out.”
“We’ve got one going down!” Fang One transmitted over the Guard frequency. “We need some help! Get CSAR out here.”
“Checkmate’s floggin’ it,” a reverberating voice replied from the Navy helicopter. The combat search-and-rescue team was already en route to the crash site.
“It’s Tommy,” a muffled voice shouted. “I don’t see a chute — too dark to see shit down there!”
“They’re still shooting at us,” another voice cried out. “They’re all over me — gotta get down!”
Prepared for a savage fight, the Iranians were throwing up a wall of SAMs and antiaircraft artillery fire. A series of bright flashes from the shoreline indicated that the HARM missiles were finding their targets. The scene was surreal and reminded McCutchin of his first night over Baghdad, a night of unbelievable surprises and undiluted fear.
“They’re — we’re gettin’ boat-launched SAMs comin’ straight up!” Fang One warned, popping off chaff. “Lock ’em up — knock ’em out!”
A millisecond later Fang One’s Falcon was blown to shreds in a mushrooming fireball. Bleeding from deep facial wounds, the stunned pilot tried time and again to pull one of the two sets of ejection handles, but he couldn’t locate them. God, get me out of this and I’ll never do it again.
In frustration, he willed his hands to cooperate, but something was terribly wrong. No matter how hard he tried, his arms and hands wouldn’t respond. The long fall to the Gulf was filled with pain and agonizing terror.
Worried about the possibility of a midair collision, Trent McCutchin flinched when a brilliant streak of light, too fast to follow, flashed past his canopy. His eyes grew large as the sky suddenly illuminated with more AAA fire. It was like being in the middle of a sizzling lightning storm.
“SAMs!” Tim Cotton radioed. “Sting Two is—” he said before a SAM detonated under his cockpit, killing him instantly.
“Aw, sweet Jesus…”
Glancing at the radar, McCutchin saw an array of six bandits closing almost head-on. The hair stood up on the back of his neck.
“Sting One engaging!” He fired an AIM-120 “Slammer” and quickly targeted another enemy aircraft. McCutchin squeezed off another missile and felt a tremendous jolt under the belly of his plane as he maneuvered for another shot. With stark clarity, McCutchin knew he needed to make some quick kills and get the hell out of Dodge before the odds caught up with him.
With his adrenaline flowing at an alarming rate, Major Ali Akbar Muhammud was on overload; there was simply too much to absorb in his first real fighter engagement. Frightened and feeling nauseous, he fired a missile, then made a frenzied decision when Major Viktor Kasatkin’s plane blew apart in a blinding flash.
“Let’s get out of here!” Muhammud radioed to the other pilot, then frantically fired another missile at the U.S. war-planes. Without hesitation, he firewalled the twin Tumanskiis and yanked the MiG into a nose-low, gut-wrenching turn toward the shoreline. “Break off! Return to base!”
“Breaking off,” a high-pitched voice replied.
While he quietly prayed, Muhammud selected burner and allowed the MiG to accelerate past Mach 1.2 while his remaining wingman scrambled to catch up. Descending through 8,000 feet at Mach 1.3, Muhammud was hit by a “friendly” SAM.
White-knuckled and shaking, the sweat-soaked pilot gripped the controls and froze while the MiG bucked and yawed to the right. Without warning, the right turbofan exploded and blew a wide hole in the fuselage, causing a raging fire. With the annunciator lights flashing warnings, the aircraft was quickly becoming uncontrollable. When the plane started an uncommanded roll, Muhammud panicked and ejected before he had time to think about the consequences. The supersonic ejection killed him.
The remaining MiG jocks stayed in the hunt and pressed their attack on the Americans. The lead Fulcrum driver shot down an F-16, but not before Rock Three blew one of the Iranian wingmen out of the sky. While the flaming fighter tumbled toward the water, a SAM struck the MiG flight leader and he turned toward the coast, ejecting seconds after a tremendous fireball erupted from the MiG. With afterburners blazing, the last MiG jumped out of the melee and headed for Shiraz as fast as Allahu and two turbojets could take him. Although the Iranian captain thought he was home free, Sting One was closing on the MiG from high and to the left.
Concentrating on the orange-white glow from the MiG’s burners, McCutchin switched to his twenty-millimeter Vulcan cannon. The situation had turned into a confusing, warp-speed furball of fighters, missiles, and cannon shells flying in every direction. The commanders of the Iranian SAM sites were launching everything they had in their inventory. Nothing was being spared. The influx of information and warnings was staggering, beyond the ability of humans to process in such a compressed time frame.
“Mayday! Mayday! Sting Four, I’ve been hit! I can’t control it!”