By listening to the comms Wilson formed a picture in his mind. The Tron escort fighters were running on the bandit group to the northwest, their right flank. The other bandit group was running them down from behind, and, with its limited top-end speed, the Prowler would be easy prey. Well ahead, the other strikers were egressing hard with the coast in sight.
“Tron five-two, Fox-three on the western bandit!”
“Tron five-three, Fox-three on the eastern bandit.” Wilson saw two more AMRAAM plumes appear in the distant sky, about 10 miles away. They headed toward the still unseen bandits to the northwest.
“Anvil, Thor, threat BRA three-six-zero at seventeen, medium, hot.”
DEEDLE, DEEDLE, DEEDLEDEEDLEDEEDLEDEEDLE!
Wilson was locked up by a fighter radar behind him.
“Anvil one-one is spiked at six. Spike range?”
“Thor, fifteen miles.”
“One-two’s spiked, six o’clock!” Weed added.
CHAPTER 67
Although Wilson and Weed were gaining on the Prowler less than two miles ahead of them, the bandits at their six were gaining on all three American aircraft due to the airspeed limitations of the EA-6B. At their current speed, Wilson and Weed would pass the Prowler in a minute and leave it exposed to the gaining threat — an unacceptable condition for their impromptu high-value escort mission. Wilson guessed the Iranians had radar missiles that could catch them from behind, and due to the speed differential, the Iranians could easily run down the Americans and employ short-range weapons in minutes.
Looking over his shoulder to the north, Wilson tried to find the bandits but could not discern them in the dawn light. Then, his heart skipped a beat when he saw an object, a thin shadow, cutting through the eastern horizon. It passed 100 feet behind Weed from high to low as a white mist trailed in its wake. The missile had been fired from the bandit group just outside the range that would have turned Weed into a fireball. Wilson knew what they had to do, fast, to avoid the next enemy missile from finding its quarry.
“Weed, we’ve gotta engage now. Short-range set, I’m high, out of burner. Go.”
“Two,” his wingman responded as both aircraft reduced power. The pilots were held in place by their straps as the aircraft slowed through the invisible barrier that separated supersonic and transonic flight.
“Tron, Anvil, lean right, descend for knots,” Wilson directed the Prowler, still running for its life. “We’re going to engage with these guys.”
“Roger, Tron five-one leaning right. You can only push a barn door so fast!”
Wilson got another quick transmission in before they turned. “Thor, you copy? Anvils one and two engaging to the north.”
“Thor, roger. Bandits now twelve miles, hot.”
“Roger! One-two, you ready?”
“Affirm!”
In measured cadence, Wilson keyed the mike. “Roger, in-place-left, go!”
“Two!”
In unison, the two Raven pilots slammed their throttles to afterburner and yanked the jets left. Still not sure what type of aircraft they would encounter, they pulled hard in a nose-low, energy-sustaining turn back to their pursuers to the north. With his head all the way back and straining against the pressure, Wilson struggled to look out the top of the canopy and pick up the bandits at the same time his fingers selected the radar mode and a Sidewinder missile. What they were doing was a dangerous last-ditch defense of the Prowler, running as fast as it could to the coast in a desperate attempt to escape the closing Iranian fighters.
Rolling out of his turn, Wilson got a lock at his 11 o’clock, 10 miles slightly high. He noted the distinctive planform of an F-4 Phantom closing the distance. Despite the screaming Sidewinder launch acceptability tone in his headset, but not wanting to take a chance, he selected the more powerful AMRAAM and pulled the trigger hard, holding it down. After what seemed like a long pause, the missile fell from its fuselage station. The rocket motor then ignited and shot the missile forward with a loud WHOOOM, trailing a big white plume as it sped away from under Wilson’s jet.
Before his radar-guided AMRAAM impacted, Wilson saw it was tracking the “eastern” of two fighters, now crossing over the companion Phantom to engage Wilson. Just then Weed got a call out before he pulled his own trigger. “Anvil one-two, Fox-2 on the eastern bandit!” Wilson saw Weed’s Sidewinder zoom away and twitch twice before tracking one of the two enemy aircraft. Wilson’s AMRAAM impacted the “eastern” Phantom first and instantly turned the aircraft into a bright torch, tumbling through the sky and shedding flaming pieces as it tore itself apart. “Hey!” Weed cried out after Wilson’s missile hit what Weed thought was his bandit. Weed’s Sidewinder obediently tracked and exploded inside the plummeting inferno with no added effect.
The surviving Phantom was now coming straight for Weed, who quickly recovered. “Anvil one-two engaged with a Phantom. Chaff! Flares!”
Wilson was three miles away and headed to his roommate’s rescue. He made a hard right turn, watching the two aircraft come to the merge on his nose, the Phantom turning his tail toward Wilson and inviting another shot. As Weed turned hard to go one-circle, Wilson’s sixth sense caused him to do a belly check to the left. A few miles in the distance, Wilson instantly saw the dark planform of a big fighter, nose on, with a huge intake crowned by a high nose fuselage section. Seconds after he spotted it, a bright light erupted from underneath the fighter — and headed straight for him, trailing heavy white smoke.
Sonofabitch!
Wilson snap rolled left and pulled nose-down to sustain energy. He also went to idle and spit out expendables as he watched the missile arc up and then down toward him.
Time slowed. Placing the missile on the top of his canopy generated the maximum angles off for a potential overshoot if Wilson could anticipate the right opportunity to give away everything and break into it. The fiery dot seemed to lunge toward him, and he snatched the stick back in a break turn into it, banking for the second time that morning on a last-ditch maneuver to make a missile go stupid. Though straining hard, he was mesmerized as he watched the missile go horizontal as it tried to turn the corner—right next to him. Instead, it fell off with a twitch and shot past him, the rocket motor still burning brightly, on its way to land on the desert floor. Wilson looked up and saw his assailant high and to the west, ready to pounce. At that angle, he at once recognized the strange planform of a MiG-35. Is that Hariri?
“Anvil one-one engaged defensive!”
“Roger, I’m engaged offensive,” answered Weed, “Should have a shot in 20 seconds!”
Wilson saw the MiG overbank and pull down toward him. He pushed the nose down to regain valuable knots and, reselecting burner, floated in his seat while he kept sight high behind him and slightly left. With the bandit’s nose buried, Wilson pulled his lift vector up and into the MiG in an effort to force it into an overshoot. Awestruck, he watched the aircraft, cloaked in a white cloud of condensation, rotate from nose-down to nose-on as if it were stationary in the sky. He was certain another missile — or tracking guns shot — was imminent.