The CV-22 pilot used a small thumbwheel on the cyclic/control stick to swivel the engine nacelles up to a thirty-five-degree setting, to obtain the best combination of forward speed, maneuverability, and vertical flight capability.
“The Mil-8 is definitely not made for high-speed cruising,” Briggs observed as he studied the Mil-8’s image on the copilot’s monitor.
“Its engines will probably have to be shelled after this flight.
See any door guns on that thing?”
“Negative,” the pilot responded. “Nothing stopping them from sticking a rifle out the window and blowing us away, though.”
“We got a few popguns of our own,” Briggs said. “If you see even one pistol aimed at you, blow that bug out of the sky.”
“They’re going to call for help,” the pilot said, “and the Iranian fighters aren’t too far away. We got no comm jammers …”
“We’ll give Tufayli the chance to surrender, or we splash him,” Briggs said angrily. “I’m not letting him get away. Peace Shield Sky-watch better do their job. Let’s take this bad boy down.”
With a touch of the power control lever, the CV-22 slipped within sight of the Mil-8’s copilot, and they hit the exterior lights “What in God’s name …?” The copilot’s scream made the pilot’s head snap over as if he’d been slapped. It was hard to see exactly what was out there, but in the flashing red and white lights, they saw an immense aircraft, as large as a small cargo plane but with propellers canted at an unusual angle. But there was no mistaking the black-and-green star centered between three horizontal bars—the chevrons of an American military aircraft. The copilot could see weapons pylons with some sort of missile on it—it resembled a four-round American Hellfire anti-tank missile pod—plus a large steerable cannon on a chin turret, with the muzzle of the big Gatling gun aimed right at them! Seconds later, the American aircraft’s lights winked out, plunging the horrifying scene back into total darkness. “Admiral!”
“I saw it,” Major Admiral Akbar Tufayli said. “What are you waiting for? Get on the radio and get some fighters from Chah Bahar or Bandar Abbas out here to help us.”
“Shall we try to lose it?”
“Don’t be a fool,” Tufayli said. “It found us easily, at night and at low altitude. They must be in contact with their radar planes and using infrared scanners—running will do us no-“
“Attention on the Iranian Mil-8 helicopter,” came a voice in English on the international GUARD emergency frequency. “You have been intercepted. Turn left heading two-zero-zero immediately or you will be destroyed. Repeat, turn left to a heading of two-zero-zero immediately or you will be destroyed.”
“Ignore them,” Tufayli ordered. “Continue on your present course and speed. Any response from our fighters?”
“A flight of two Sukhoi-27 fighters, Interceptor Eleven flight, will rendezvous with us in five minutes,” the copilot responded.
“Good,” Tufayli said. “Then I want …”
Just then a brilliant flash of light and a line of bright white tracers lanced across the sky—the tracers were so close that everyone in the cockpit could hear the concussion of the shells beat on the canopy. Then they heard a voice in Farsi say, “Admiral Tufayli, you cannot escape.”
“He knows you!” the pilot shouted. “He knows you are on board!”
“Colonel Paul White,” Tufayli said angrily. “It is the American spy we captured. So the rumor is true: President Nateq-Nouri did conspire with the Americans to release White from prison.”
“Admiral Tufayli, you have one last chance,” White radioed. “Turn about now or die.”
“Where are those fighters?” Tufayli shouted.
“Our fighters have the American aircraft locked on radar,” the copilot shouted as he monitored the tactical frequency. “He will be in missile range in less than two minutes.”
“Tell him to fly at full reheat if he has to,” Tufayli shouted, “but get him in firing position now!”
It took a little more than one minute for the Iranian MiG-29 fighter to report that he was in radar-missile firing range …
but: “Be advised, Khomeini Five, that I am painting only one radar return, repeat, one radar return. I do not see the second aircraft on my radar.”
“He’s flying too closely, sir,” the pilot of the Mil-8 helicopter said. “Our radar images are merging.”
“Tell him to close the infrared scanner range,” Tufayli ordered.
He knew that the MiG-29 fighter had a system called IRSTS, or Infrared Search and Track System, which could guide the fighter pilot into an intercept and kill even at night, without the use of airborne or ground-based radar. “Tell him to use his guns. The American tilt-rotor is northwest of us.”
The MiG-29 pilot acknowledged Tufayli’s instructions.
“Admiral Tufayli, I order you to turn around and surrender,” White radioed again in broken Farsi. “Your MiG-29s will not save you.”
The Americans obviously had a radar plane of their own up now, Tufayli thought grimly—but it was no matter. In a matter of seconds, the tilt-rotor would fly through a hail of bullets.
“Range ten kilometers,” the Mil-8 pilot reported. There was no way to stop him—the Americans had no fighters up this far toward Iran close enough to help. “Eight kilometers …”
Suddenly everyone on the Mil-8 helicopter saw several bright flashes of light and a brief but spectacular streak of fire race through the night sky. “Missiles!” the Mil-8 pilot shouted on his interplane radio. “The Americans are launching missiles! Take evasive action!” Although the Hellfire missile was intended as an anti-tank weapon, it was just as capable and deadly against flying targets—and evidence of that came just a few seconds later, as the Mil-8 crew saw a flash of red-and-orange light and a streak of fire arcing down into the sea.
“Khomeini Five, Khomeini Five, this is Interceptor Eleven, I have lost contact with my leader,” a new voice on the interplane frequency said. “What in Allah’s name is that aircraft?”
“It is nothing more than a fancy helicopter, damn you!” Tufayli shouted in response. “Get down here and destroy them!”
The lone MiG-29 wheeled back and set up for a stern gun pass—but his fate was no different than his leader’s. Seconds before flying into cannon range, the CV-22 wheeled around, locked its laser designator onto the approaching fighter, and fired another salvo of Hellfire laser-guided missiles. The MiG-29 exploded into a huge fireball long before the pilot could press his trigger.
The CV-22 wheeled around again and was on the Iranian Mil-8 helicopter in less than a minute. “You’re next, Admiral,” Paul White’s voice echoed on the GUARD frequency. “Surrender now or you’ll die.”
“We have wounded sailors on board this aircraft,” Tufayli said.
“You will not dare to harm them. That is a barbaric act of a coward!”
“Their blood will be on your hands, Admiral, not mine,” White said. “Surrender, and I will see to it that your wounded receive all the medical care they need and are then immediately returned to Iran.”
“Go to hell, filthy American terrorist pig!” Tufayli shouted in response. “We are in Iranian airspace, over Iranian waters. If you shoot us down, it is an act of war! You go to hell!”
“After you, Admiral Tufayli,” White radioed—seconds before the CV-22’s last two Hellfire missiles plowed into the Mil-8 helicopter, blowing it to pieces and sending it crashing into the Gulf of Oman.