Ahead of me, a seam opened on the bomber’s belly. The rotary launcher lowered. The first cruise missile dropped, its booster igniting with a blinding yellow flash, banking hard and diving low toward the fleet. He was rotating for the second shot.
I had no missiles. I had a dying jet. And 4,000 people were running out of time.
I switched the weapon selector to gun.
The M61A2 Vulcan is a 20‑millimeter rotary cannon hidden under a small door on the right wing root. It fires 100 rounds per second. It’s a last‑resort weapon, a brutal relic bolted onto the most advanced stealth fighter in the world. I jammed the throttles forward and closed the gap, eating up the distance between us. I didn’t have a radar lock;
the radar was struggling in the precipitation. I would have to do this visually.
I pulled in behind the Tu‑160, directly into its turbulent wake. The violent wash from its four massive engines hit the Raptor like a physical blow. The jet slammed left. I fought the stick, muscles screaming, as the hydraulic pressure gauge dropped in real time. The controls felt sluggish, heavy, like flying through wet concrete.
