The Wingmen

December 1990 – Nellis Air Force Base, Nevada

The sun baked the tarmac as four men stood side by side, their flight suits stained with sweat, their eyes fixed on the F-15E Strike Eagles parked before them. They had trained together for months, pushed through G-forces that felt like they would rip their spines apart, and sharpened their instincts to razor edges. Now, they were almost ready for the real thing.

Captain Jake “Viper” Lawson, their de facto leader, was a calm, deadly pilot who had an almost supernatural sense for the sky. To his right stood Lieutenant Mike “Blaze” Roberts, a natural-born dogfighter with nerves of steel. Next was Lieutenant Scott “Rico” Alvarez, the most aggressive of them all, a man who lived for the fight. And finally, Lieutenant Tom “Hawk” Mitchell, the thinker—sharp, precise, and methodical in every maneuver. Together, they were more than pilots. They were brothers.

As the final training exercise began, the four of them pushed their Eagles to the edge, running low-level attack runs, evading SAM sites, and engaging in brutal dogfights against instructors who had seen it all. The roar of their Pratt & Whitney F100 engines shattered the desert silence as they pulled high-G turns, their bodies compressed under the force but their minds locked into the fight.

“Two-bandits, Angels 15, hot on your six!” Blaze called over the radio as he rolled his Eagle into an aggressive split-S, shaking a simulated enemy from his tail.

“Copy that, Blaze. Rico, you’re with me. Let’s turn the tables,” Viper responded.

The four of them moved like a well-oiled machine, clearing each other’s sixes, setting up kills, and executing their maneuvers with deadly efficiency. By the time the training ended, the instructors knew—they were ready.

January 1991 – Al Kharj Air Base, Saudi Arabia

They had arrived in-theater. Operation Desert Storm was imminent, and the air war would start with a brutal opening strike. The four of them, now part of the 335th Tactical Fighter Squadron, were assigned to a deep-strike mission targeting enemy airfields and command centers.

The night of January 17th, 1991, was black as ink when they taxied onto the runway. Their Strike Eagles, fully armed with AIM-9 Sidewinders, AIM-7 Sparrows, and a deadly payload of precision-guided bombs, were ready for war.

“Viper, Blaze, Rico, Hawk—this is it,” their squadron commander called over the radio. “Stay sharp, watch your six, and let’s bring the hurt.”

As they lifted off, the sky filled with the afterburner glow of dozens of coalition aircraft. The opening shots of the war were being fired, and they were in the thick of it.

Over Iraq, 25,000 feet

The mission was going smoothly—too smoothly. Their Strike Eagles had just completed their bomb runs, taking out key enemy infrastructure, when Hawk’s voice crackled over the radio.

“Viper, got multiple bogies inbound—MiG-29s, coming hot at Angels 20!”

Viper’s blood ran cold. This was the moment they had trained for.

“Alright, boys, time to fight. Blaze, take left. Rico, right. Hawk, you’re on me. Let’s clean this up.”

They pushed their throttles forward, closing the distance. The MiGs were fast, but the Eagles had superior avionics and American pilots in their cockpits—pilots who knew exactly how to win.

“Fox Three!” Blaze called, releasing an AIM-7 that streaked ahead, slamming into a MiG and sending it spinning into a fireball.

Viper locked onto another. “Fox Two!” His Sidewinder tracked perfectly, smashing into the MiG’s exhaust and disintegrating it midair.

The remaining enemy pilots weren’t running—they were fighting. One MiG-29 swooped low and snapped up into a high-G climb, trying to force Rico into an overshoot.

“Not today,” Rico growled, pulling an aggressive J-turn and forcing the MiG back into his gunsight. “Guns! Guns!” His M61 Vulcan spat out a deadly burst, shredding the enemy jet apart.

One more to go.

Hawk had a MiG on his six, the enemy pilot matching his every move. Viper saw it and made a snap decision.

“Hawk, break left on my mark!”

“Copy!”

“Mark!”

Hawk slammed his stick left, pulling into a high-G roll just as Viper squeezed his trigger. His Sidewinder locked onto the MiG’s exhaust, and in a flash, the enemy jet was gone.

“Scratch four,” Viper said, breathing heavily.

The sky was theirs.

As they reformed, the radio crackled. “Eagle flight, RTB. You boys just made history.”

They looked at each other, still riding the high of battle. They had come in as rookies, but now they were something else. They were warriors. They were wingmen.

And this was just the beginning.