An overnight cold front had left behind a gorgeous winter sky, clear and crisp, and the visibility was unlimited from horizon to horizon, rare anytime in the Gulf. From 18,000 feet, Wilson had a clear view of the Saudi coast, with Dhahran off his nose and Bahrain just to the left. Offshore were numerous oil rigs, and the two dominant colors were the blue of the Gulf and the beige of the Arabian land mass. He could see the frontal clouds far to the east over Iran. Wilson loved moments like this: high over the water in a single-seat jet with a sparring partner to bump heads with and log some great training. He remembered how a friend once described air combat training: the sport of kings.
Even if Prince would not give him a good fight, Wilson was ready… no, eager… to kick his ass if he again ignored his advice. No holds barred, full up air combat maneuvering, he thought. This day is too perfect and the fuel too short to waste. Brimming with anticipation, he looked at Prince over his left shoulder some three miles away.
Thirty seconds later Prince broke the silence. “Turnin’ in, tapes on, fight’s on.”
At the “f” in “fight’s on,” Wilson slammed the throttles to afterburner and snapped the Hornet over on the left wing in one motion, pulling hard across the horizon in a slightly nose-low energy sustaining pull. “Tapes on, fight’s on,” he responded.
Keeping sight of Prince through the top of his canopy, Wilson pulled hard across the horizon and put the “dot” of Prince’s airplane in the middle of the HUD. The radar locked on and formed a box around the jet 2.5 miles away. Wilson pulled tighter and was on the inside position as they accelerated to the merge. The aircraft were now pointed at each other with air speed building to over 900 knots of closure. By the geometry, Wilson could see a right-to-right pass forming as they approached like knights in a jousting match.
“Right-to-right,” Prince radioed.
“Right-to-right,” Wilson responded, as he pulled the throttles out of burner.
A 1v1 fight with a modern forward-quarter missile threat aircraft like the Hornet calls for a one-circle or pressure fight to stay close and deny the opponent the forward quarter missile, often a heat-seeker like the Sidewinder. In like-performing aircraft the initial move inside was vital to gain angles that allowed one to position the opponent out in front of the canopy, or even to take a gun shot if one presented itself. Such fights often degenerated into slow-speed scissors, or “knife fights,” as the aircraft kept close. They also often ended up with both aircraft groveling at slow speed just above the 5,000-foot “hard deck,” which simulated the ground. Wilson knew he had to pressure Prince, and noted the sun up and to the right. If he pulled hard across Prince’s tail and into the oblique, after 180 degrees of turn he could be inside his turning circle and lost in the sun above him, able to pounce once Prince lost sight. Wilson decided on this strategy in an instant. In essence, he would be toying with Prince instead of pulling hard into him and going for the jugular.
As they drew closer, Prince drifted right on Wilson’s windscreen. The norm was to pass close aboard, 500 feet, but Prince did not correct this drift. The added distance meant turning room for the pilot who was willing to “bite” and take advantage of an early turn to get angles, and Wilson wasn’t going to pass up free angles. You give me room, I’m gonna take it, he thought. With Prince’s Hornet growing and lateral separation building greater than 500 feet, Wilson took a sharp breath—Hookkk! — while tightening his muscles, relit the burner cans and pulled hard into Prince.
Wilson snatched the jet up and to the right at the instant a force of 6.5 times his body weight pushed and squeezed every square inch of him. At the same time, a cloud of white condensation formed on top of the aircraft as he flew into and above Prince’s flight path. Straining to keep sight of Prince over his right shoulder, he sensed the horizon elevate and go perpendicular on the canopy.
To Wilson’s surprise, Prince held his lift vector on as he went up with Wilson. Well, well, Wilson thought, as he watched the outline of the Hornet going up a mile away. Prince is showing some aggressiveness.
Wilson sensed his sun strategy was now superseded by Prince’s nose-high move. He kept his left arm locked against throttles, pushing them against the burner stop as he pulled the nose through the vertical and to the horizon. He rolled into Prince with a boot full of rudder to knuckle his own aircraft down and inside the younger pilot. The horizon rolled underneath Wilson as he reached the apex of his modified loop and put the top of his canopy, his lift vector, on Prince. The dark silhouette of Prince’s Hornet zoomed past less than 500 feet away. Wilson dug his nose down to regain needed air speed, ruddered the jet to the left and kept the top of his airplane facing Prince in a nose-low pirouette.
The extensive training the two pilots had been through allowed them to maneuver by instinct, each managing air speed and angles to get behind the other and into a firing position. If one of them allowed too much separation, the other would fire a missile shot. If the other got too close, the “knife fight inside a phone booth” could lead to a position change at best — or a raking guns shot at worst. They rolled and pulled in three dimensions, the background changing from water to sky to water, as they craned their necks to full extension in an effort to keep sight.
With his experience, Wilson got every angle he could with his available air speed, and moved Prince forward on his canopy. After less than a minute, they were passing 10,000 feet in a rolling scissors, with Prince going up and Wilson coming down, building knots. Prince fell off right, and Wilson had the energy to loop — if he remained patient and resisted the desire to keep pushing Prince around the sky. Wilson got off the g and let the aircraft ride the burner cans into a loop, a graceful pull into the vertical that stopped his downrange travel. His purpose was to flush Prince out in front and underneath.
For an instant, the two pilots saw each other in the cockpit as they passed on the horizon, their visor-covered eyes padlocked on their opponent, mouths gasping for air in short, deep breaths against the pressure. Hold it! Hold it! Wilson said to himself as he watched Prince descend and gain air speed. He fought the urge to overbank and allowed the optimum separation to build. Wilson slowed below 100 knots and let his nose track down to the horizon. About a mile below, sharply set against the blue Gulf, he saw condensation stream off the wingtips of Prince’s gray fighter as Prince pulled to meet Wilson once again. As Wilson’s nose fell through the horizon, he mashed down on the weapons select switch. The familiar Sidewinder growl sent a greeting through his headset. One second later, the growl changed to a high-pitched Scrrreeeeeee! as the seeker-head locked on to Prince’s engine heat. Wilson squeezed the trigger.
“Fox-2,” he radioed to Prince.
“Out of burner, chaff, flares,” Prince replied.
“Continue,” Wilson answered.
Sensing Prince had little air speed to counter, Wilson closed the space between them. He pulled up at the bottom of the loop and turned to align his fuselage with Prince, who was only 2,000 feet above the hard deck. Selecting GUN on the control stick with his right thumb, Wilson rendezvoused on the inside of Prince’s turn. Prince appeared to be motionless in the sky, doing little to throw off Wilson’s impending shot.