his body, tensing his muscles in return to help counter some of the effects. Seconds later, the plane rocked violently as the close-proximity fuse of the missile triggered an explosion, tearing off a section of the wing, ripping open the side of the fuselage, smashing the turbine blades, the engine losing power.
The power loss was almost instant and, as he began to lose height, he spotted a second white exhaust trail leaving the ground. His aircraft was finished, as would he be if he didn’t get out, and quickly. Checking his leg straps, he pulled on the firing handle, and the explosive charge of the canopy-breaker shattered the canopy, splinters flying upwards, wind whistling around his face and helmet. The leg straps and harness automatically tightened and the ejection gun forced the seat up the guide rails, clearing the cockpit, followed by the blast of the rocket pack, speeding the seat clear, flinging him forward violently as the ejector seat forced him skyward. As soon as he was able, he undid his seat belt and kicked himself away from the seat. Within three seconds of pulling the firing handle and leaving the aircraft, the canopy had deployed.
Woompf . Behind and below him, he heard and felt his aircraft tear itself apart as the fuel tanks erupted, blasting the airframe into hundreds of pieces that would be scattered over a wide area of the ground below. He looked down; the ground was rushing towards him and he braced himself for the impact.
Wilf signalled for Badger to come forward, and they both flinched as the Harrier Jump Jet exploded above and to the right of their position.
“Shit. Look, there he is. Thank God he got out of that in time,” exclaimed Badger pointing at the pilot’s chute that was filling out to support the pilot’s body dangling from the harness below it.
“We need to get to him,” responded Wilf.
They both ducked as two SEPECAT Jaguar Jet ground-attack aircraft screamed by at low level, targeting the tank column that was travelling west along the E30. The first one let fly with its SNEB rockets. Each of the eight Matra rocket pods the aircraft had on its under-wing hardpoints carried eighteen of those 68mm rockets. Wilf’s team had reported the convoy, and the RAF had managed to conjure up these two aircraft that had then, amazingly, got through the Soviet air-defence umbrella by flying extremely low. What remained of the Harrier, a plume of smoke trailing behind it, exploded again, struck by a second missile, pieces of the shattered fuselage and engine landing not more than 300 metres away.
Wilf, deliberately avoiding the temptation to switch his attention to the stricken Harrier, kept his eyes on the pilot and watched as the pilot’s parachute canopy dropped lower and lower until it disappeared from sight. He tracked the last visible position as best he could, mentally calculating on his internal map where he was likely to have come down. The two Jaguar attack aircraft were causing mayhem amongst the Soviet convoy, tens of rockets exploding amongst the armour and trucks. Wilf swung the binoculars round, looking to the south-east, picking out the orange and yellow flashes of the strike followed by plumes of smoke, the sound bombarding his ears seconds later.
“That’ll teach the fuckers,” growled Badger.
“Did you get his bearing?”
“Yes, about three-twenty, north-west.”
He turned to Badger. “Come on then. Let’s go.”
Wilf led the way, picking up Hacker and Tag on the way.
“Going for the pilot?” asked Tag.
“Yes, but we need to move sharpish.”
“Yeah, while they’re a little occupied,” added Tag with a laugh.
“Hacker, point,” instructed Wilf.
Hacker readjusted his M-16, the barrel mimicking the direction of his eyes as he scanned their route ahead. He took them back into the trees of the forest that straddled the E30, and headed north-west. They were at the south-eastern end of a smaller forest that jutted out to the east, a limb of the
The power loss was almost instant and, as he began to lose height, he spotted a second white exhaust trail leaving the ground. His aircraft was finished, as would he be if he didn’t get out, and quickly. Checking his leg straps, he pulled on the firing handle, and the explosive charge of the canopy-breaker shattered the canopy, splinters flying upwards, wind whistling around his face and helmet. The leg straps and harness automatically tightened and the ejection gun forced the seat up the guide rails, clearing the cockpit, followed by the blast of the rocket pack, speeding the seat clear, flinging him forward violently as the ejector seat forced him skyward. As soon as he was able, he undid his seat belt and kicked himself away from the seat. Within three seconds of pulling the firing handle and leaving the aircraft, the canopy had deployed.
Woompf . Behind and below him, he heard and felt his aircraft tear itself apart as the fuel tanks erupted, blasting the airframe into hundreds of pieces that would be scattered over a wide area of the ground below. He looked down; the ground was rushing towards him and he braced himself for the impact.
Wilf signalled for Badger to come forward, and they both flinched as the Harrier Jump Jet exploded above and to the right of their position.
“Shit. Look, there he is. Thank God he got out of that in time,” exclaimed Badger pointing at the pilot’s chute that was filling out to support the pilot’s body dangling from the harness below it.
“We need to get to him,” responded Wilf.
They both ducked as two SEPECAT Jaguar Jet ground-attack aircraft screamed by at low level, targeting the tank column that was travelling west along the E30. The first one let fly with its SNEB rockets. Each of the eight Matra rocket pods the aircraft had on its under-wing hardpoints carried eighteen of those 68mm rockets. Wilf’s team had reported the convoy, and the RAF had managed to conjure up these two aircraft that had then, amazingly, got through the Soviet air-defence umbrella by flying extremely low. What remained of the Harrier, a plume of smoke trailing behind it, exploded again, struck by a second missile, pieces of the shattered fuselage and engine landing not more than 300 metres away.
Wilf, deliberately avoiding the temptation to switch his attention to the stricken Harrier, kept his eyes on the pilot and watched as the pilot’s parachute canopy dropped lower and lower until it disappeared from sight. He tracked the last visible position as best he could, mentally calculating on his internal map where he was likely to have come down. The two Jaguar attack aircraft were causing mayhem amongst the Soviet convoy, tens of rockets exploding amongst the armour and trucks. Wilf swung the binoculars round, looking to the south-east, picking out the orange and yellow flashes of the strike followed by plumes of smoke, the sound bombarding his ears seconds later.
“That’ll teach the fuckers,” growled Badger.
“Did you get his bearing?”
“Yes, about three-twenty, north-west.”
He turned to Badger. “Come on then. Let’s go.”
Wilf led the way, picking up Hacker and Tag on the way.
“Going for the pilot?” asked Tag.
“Yes, but we need to move sharpish.”
“Yeah, while they’re a little occupied,” added Tag with a laugh.
“Hacker, point,” instructed Wilf.
Hacker readjusted his M-16, the barrel mimicking the direction of his eyes as he scanned their route ahead. He took them back into the trees of the forest that straddled the E30, and headed north-west. They were at the south-eastern end of a smaller forest that jutted out to the east, a limb of the
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