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“EMPIRE ONE-ONE IS READY,” Woody replied to the controller as he looked over his left wing at Spectre’s aircraft and saw him struggling to maintain position. He had pulled the power back to help Spectre maintain position in the climb, but the aircraft just didn’t have as much thrust as Woody’s fully-operational jet. It also appeared to be yawing heavily to the right.
“Fly heading two-seven-zero,” Woody heard the controller’s translated voice say. They were speaking in Russian, still under the assumption that Woody and Spectre were Russian demo pilots.
“Two-seven-zero,” Woody replied as the DARPA device translated it.
“Enemy aircraft two-seven zero, one hundred and fifty, ten thousand, hot,” the controller reported. It was a “BRAA” call in which the controller gave their target’s bearing, range, altitude, and aspect. The two MiG-29s were due west of their position at a hundred and fifty kilometers, and ten thousand meters above the ground, pointed right at them.
It was an awkward transition for Woody, having exclusively used imperial measurements his entire career, but after some quick math in his head, he gathered that they were roughly seventy-five nautical miles and thirty thousand feet.
“I’ve got’em, mate,” Cowboy reported from the back seat. “Two contacts on your screen.”
The Flanker’s AESA radar was easily tracking them. Woody was sure the MiG-29s still had no radar contact at that range. They were older Fulcrums with very basic radar and weapons systems. It was unlikely that the pilots had any situational awareness at all. They were being driven around by the controllers using standard third-world tactics.
As they climbed through twenty-thousand feet, Woody looked over at Spectre and called, “Action.”
Spectre’s aircraft suddenly rolled inverted. “Good luck, brah,” Woody added.
“C’ya!” Spectre replied as he pulled away from the formation.
Woody watched Spectre’s aircraft hurtle toward the undercast layer. He watched the jet scream toward the cloud deck with its single afterburner lit until it punched through the clouds and was out of sight.
“MiGs are at fifty miles, mate,” Cowboy announced.
“Empire One-Two has crashed!” Woody yelled over the fight frequency.
“Say again?” the controller replied.
“My wingman has crashed!” Woody replied frantically over the radio.
Woody started a left-hand turn and shallow descent. “I am descending to look for them,” he said over the radio.
“I sure hope they buy this,” Cowboy said.
“They will,” Woody said. “Just be ready to turn the pod on when I tell you.”
“My finger is on the switch. Just say when.”
“Empire One-Two, say position,” the controller said frantically.
“Empire One-Two has ejected,” Woody said. “I am descending to look for them.”
“Negative. Maintain heading and altitude,” the controller replied.
“Is the translator not working or are they just this dense?” Cowboy asked over the intercom.
“It’s probably a North Korean-ism,” Woody replied. “Mission at all costs.”
“I see the parachutes,” Woody said over the radio. “I am going below the clouds to look for the survivors.”
Woody tightened his spiral down toward the cloud layer with his throttles in idle. As he reached ten thousand feet, a new controller seemed to take over. “Empire One-One, you are instructed to turn to heading one-two-zero and standby for escort to Pyongyang.”
“Empire One-One,” Woody replied while ignoring the instruction.
All he needed to do was buy Spectre a little time to get a head start before the North Koreans realized what was going on. With the DARPA jammers working and radio silence, there would be no way of knowing Spectre’s status until they were both safely in South Korea.
Woody punched in the waypoint for Osan Air Base and dove toward the cloud layer. As he punched through, he yelled, “Now!”
“Music on,” Cowboy replied.
Woody lit the afterburners and accelerated to six hundred knots as he punched through the bottom of the cloud layer. He descended down to fifty feet over the water as he put Osan on the nose and started their mad dash to safety.
Their radar warning receiver lit up as they crossed the southern edge of Pyongyang’s airspace. A flight of two MiG-21s had been scrambled to intercept them. The jammer was doing its job and they were unable to lock on to Woody’s Flanker, but they were airborne and likely trying to intercept the spurious primary radar returns Woody’s jet caused as he maneuvered and blanked the jammer’s signal.
Woody cancelled the afterburner as they hit seven hundred knots indicated airspeed. Although it was more than fast enough to outrun the MiG-21s, Woody needed to slow down to maintain maneuverability as they approached the mountainous terrain in front of them.
Cowboy grunted in the back as Woody exploited the limits of the SU-30’s performance. He flew below the ridge lines, popping up just high enough to cross terrain in front of him and then pulling five Gs at 120 degrees of bank to duck back down below and out of radar coverage.
The MiG-21 indications went away as they continued toward Osan. A few random surface to air missile sites had their radars in search, but none found Woody’s aircraft. The jammer was working beautifully.
It was the most taxing and exhausting maneuvering he had ever done, but deep down Woody was loving every minute of it. It was exactly what he had spent his whole life training for. It wasn’t until they reached the southern edge of Kaesong that Woody’s bliss suddenly vanished.
His radar warning receiver was silent, but Woody visually picked up two smoke trails heading toward his aircraft in the distance. He banked hard right toward the border as he realized they were missiles. He hoped they would trail aft of on his canopy – an indication that they weren’t guiding on his aircraft.
Instead, they moved slightly forward and mostly maintained position. They had been launched optically and were being guided by a continuous wave illuminator by the technician in the surface to air missile battery.
“Missiles inbound!” Woody said over the intercom.
He turned to put them on his right wing, hoping the jammer would do its thing and they would lose track. When they continued for his jet, Woody yelled, “Get ready!”
He tried a last ditch roll over the missiles, hoping to out maneuver them in the end game. The first missile lost track and continued flying toward the city, but the second fused as it flew under Woody’s aircraft.
Master Caution and Fire Warning alarms suddenly went off in Woody’s helmet as he recovered from the roll and tried to turn back south toward friendly territory. The aircraft was sluggish. He looked down and saw the left hydraulic gauge drop to zero and the exhaust gas temperatures on both engines spike.
“We’re on fire!” Cowboy said. “We gotta get out, mate!”
“Bailout, bailout, bailout!” Woody said as he steadied his helmet against the headrest, assumed a good body position, and pulled the ejection handle.