I turn on the wiper and watch as it becomes the one place of clear visibility for just a second, as it wipes each way. The wingman falls into an easy trail formation behind me, and we proceed north.
“Do you think we will have this rotten weather the entire time?” Vanya, over the intercom.
“Nyet.” I try to sound confident. “Nevertheless, it is good for us-if the Wahabbists have spies about the weather will cover our approach. Keep the Sukhogruz ready, Vanya. With the rain, our turbines will give a better IR signature for those cursed Stingers than if we were attacking at high noon and 35 degree heat.”
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The Mi-24 is heavy and does not maneuver well. It can, of course, outmaneuver any plane, but it is no light acrobat. The tactics to be favored are more of a slashing run at speed, or a nice, easy hover out of range. We only have four of the 9K114 missiles. Once those are gone, it will be up to the S-8 rockets. I hope they will answer.
The land undulates before us. We cross over a pond, the water rippling below us. And above, the sky begins to clear, as I knew it would. We are getting close. I turn off my wiper, and call Vanya, tell him the plan again. We will hug the ground as we approach the final ridge. Then we will pop over the ridge and I will hover at 5km, the maximum range for the 9K114. We will take the closest group at the first crossroad. Our wing will swing wide and take the farthest group.
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It is time.
“Mauler two, weapons free.” I release my young hounds.
“Careful, Sacha! Missile launch!”
Just then, my SPO-15 Beryoza, its display occupying the center console over my head, lights up! The Sukhogruz, our combination IR jammer and launch detector, has detected an IR missile launch! We can see the Stinger’s trail as it arcs toward our wingman!
“Mauler two, missile launch your right 90!” I switch to intercom. “Vanya, light up that launcher! Now!”
“Da, da, I see him! Missile away!”
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The 9K114 requires command guidance. We must stay locked on the target. I clench my fingers on the controls and will myself to be patient.
“Get the personnel carrier! Look there, in the smoke! See the tracers?”
“How could I miss them?” Vanya sounded irritated-and well he should, what with red tracer spraying all round our cockpit. “I have lock, missile away!”
The missile streaks off the pylon, and I thank God for my dark goggles that protect my vision from the flash. I gently side-slip, hoping to open a better view of the vehicles ahead of us.
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“Get that tank, Vanya, he’s making a run for it!”
“Where? Oh, I see him. Missile away!” Our third missile screams forth. Beyond the developing carnage, plumes of smoke rise on the horizon, by the bridge. Our wingman at work.
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“I cannot see… switching to television…” Vanya scans the wreckage. “Move closer, Sacha. I need a better view to see if we got the last one.”
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I move forward. Suddenly, tracers spray around us!
“Der’mo! Where is he?”
“I got him! But there’s a tank too, Sacha! Which one?”
“The tank, Vanya, hit the tank!”
“But what about-“ I cut him off. “Kill the tank, we’ll get the Bradley with rockets!”
As the last missile blasted out of its tube, I pushed collective down, scrambling to get out of the line of fire. I could hear thuds as bullets whacked into the metal of our fuselage.
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