1
OPERATION DESERT STORM—16 JANUARY 1991
The inky-black skies over southern Iraq suddenly erupted with sound and fury.
It was as if the slumbering Babylonian gods had awoken from beneath the desert sands and begun hurling their javelins up, up, up into the heavens. The Basra skyline was filled with crisscrossing streaks of fire. All across the city, antiaircraft batteries were active. Air-raid sirens blared. A million residents were now awake and scrambling for basements and bomb shelters. They couldn’t see the pair of F-16s scorching over their heads at the speed of sound. But they could hear the sonic booms. They could feel their apartments shaking, see their windows shattering. And in that moment, they knew Saddam Hussein had lied to them.
The Americans had come after all, and the war was on.
With triple-A fire exploding all around him, Captain Lars Ryker streaked toward his target. Upon reaching the Republican Guard base located on the city’s north side, he found the massive weapons depot and fired his missiles. An instant later, Ryker felt his entire jet shudder from the subsequent shock wave. He could sense the magnitude of the destruction he had just wrought. But there was no time to marvel at his handiwork—the night was young, and there were hundreds more targets to take down.
Ryker banked his Fighting Falcon hard to the left, then leveled out, gained altitude, and increased speed. An instant later, his wingman—right behind him—fired his missiles at a series of fuel tanks. He scored direct hits, and the fireworks were spectacular.
For Ryker, it was surreal to think that he was back in combat. In July, he had put in his paperwork to end a twenty-year career in the U.S. Air Force. It was enough already. It was time to retire, to go back to the Front Range of Colorado, back to his wife and three children, back to his golf game. Time to find a job that operated at far lower speeds and with far less danger. But Saddam Hussein had changed everything. The Butcher of Baghdad invaded Kuwait on August 2. A half-million American troops and thousands of American fighter pilots were deployed to the Persian Gulf. And Ryker had been asked to stay a little longer. He had more enemy kills and had logged more hours in battle conditions than anyone else on active duty. How could he abandon his squadron in the biggest military buildup since D-Day?
Amped up on the thrill of the hunt, adrenaline coursing through his system, Ryker turned south, veering away from the city to race back across the desert for their base in Saudi Arabia to rearm. His wingman followed.
“Stroke Five, Stroke Six, this is Manila Hotel—climb to 15,000 and turn right heading zero-three-zero—now.”
The urgency in the voice of the combat air controller—forty miles away on a U.S. Air Force AWACs jet—was unmistakable. Ryker responded instantly, but the controller wasn’t done.
“You’ve got two bandits at your eleven o’clock—five miles out—southwest bound, ascending from 3,500.”
Ryker—call sign “Stroke Five”—pulled the yoke back and punched it.
5,000 feet.
6,000.
7,000.
The threat of antiaircraft fire was soon behind him, but two Soviet-built MiG-29s, the fastest and most maneuverable fighters in the Iraqi arsenal, were coming up fast. A moment later, Ryker could see them on his radar. He could hear his wingman shouting in his headset for him to get out of there as Ryker kept climbing.
8,000 feet.
9,000 feet.
10,000.
But it was becoming clear they weren’t going to be able to outrun these guys.
“Stroke Six, break right, break right,” Ryker suddenly ordered.
Captain Mike Merkle didn’t question the order. He just obeyed it, breaking right the instant he was told. But Ryker was still climbing.
11,000 feet.
12,000.
13,000.
Suddenly new warning sirens sounded in his headset. One of the MiGs had just fired on him. With only a split second to decide, Ryker broke left, forced his yoke down, and began diving for the deck.
12,000 feet.
11,000.
10,000.
9,000.
And now Merkle was in trouble.
“Stroke Five, Stroke Five, this guy is right on my tail.”
But Ryker was in no position to help. A Soviet-made R-73 guided missile had locked onto his jet and was coming in red-hot. Sweat was pouring down the inside of his flight suit. He was sucking in oxygen as fast as it entered his helmet. The g-forces were rising fast. He was in danger of blacking out. Yet Ryker kept diving.
8,000 feet.
7,000.
“Stroke Five, Stroke Five, where are you?” Merkle shouted. “Get back here. I need you now.”
But there was nothing Ryker could do. Not yet. Not unless he found a way to break free of this missile and the MiG-29 getting ready to fire another. What’s more, there was no time to think. No time for calculations. No time to ask the controller for guidance. Ryker was flying purely by instinct now, and he understood the stakes.
Hurtling toward the ground, he knew full well that if he waited too long, he wouldn’t have enough time to pull out of the dive. But if he pulled out too quickly, the missile would catch him and blow him to kingdom come. And he didn’t want to die. Not here. Not yet. Not on the first night of air operations.
“Pull up! Pull up!” he could hear the controller screaming in his headset.
But Ryker still kept diving.
6,000 feet.
5,000.
4,000.
Just then, he broke through the cloud cover. He was no longer over the desert. With all his high-speed zigzagging, he was now back over Basra. That was a critical mistake. One that could cost him. He could see triple-A contrails all around him. Even if he did shake the missile, he could still get shot down by artillery fire. But one battle at a time.
It was now or never. Ryker quickly throttled back his engines, reduced speed, and pulled back on the yoke with every ounce of strength he had. He could see the Shatt al-Arab River rushing up at him. He was certain this was going to be the end. The faces of his wife and three kids flashed before him just as he was about to—
But then the nose of the F-16 began to rise. The trajectory of the world’s most advanced fighter jet finally began to correct. With no time left and no margin for error, Ryker pulled out of the dive, leveled, and found himself skimming over the banks of the river. That’s when he felt the shock wave of the R-73 detonating behind him. Once again the entire cockpit shuddered. So did the wings and fuselage. It had been close—too close—but the F-16 held together. Ryker was alive. And he was itching to get back on offense.
He hit the afterburner and felt his body jolt back in his seat. His Fighting Falcon now had an instant 50 percent boost in speed, though it was also burning eight times as much fuel. But fuel wasn’t his concern. Saving Merkle was.
Ryker radioed the AWACs, received Merkle’s coordinates, and raced to catch up.
Stroke Six was in an epic aerial battle. He now had both of the original MiGs on his tail. But that wasn’t all. The controller said two more MiGs were readying for takeoff from a nearby enemy airfield that was under allied bombardment at that very moment but not yet out of commission.
Seconds later, Ryker spotted the two bandits directly above him, three miles out and closing fast on Merkle.
“Stroke Six, Stroke Six—when I count to three, break right and dive. I’m coming up underneath these guys and I don’t think they see me yet.”
Merkle confirmed, and Ryker began the count.
But just at that moment, Ryker saw the lead MiG fire. Merkle couldn’t wait. For some reason he broke left instead of right, then went into a spiraling nosedive. The Iraqis followed suit. Ryker had no shot to light up the lead bandit, but the second MiG was in perfect position.
“I have tone—I have a lock—Fox Two,” Ryker shouted.
The AIM-9 Sidewinder exploded from under Ryker’s right wing. Banking left and following the three jets into another suicidal dive, Ryker watched the missile home in on the closest Iraqi fighter. An instant later a blinding explosion filled the night sky.
“Splash one, splash one,” Ryker erupted.
But there was no time to celebrate. Merkle radioed that he had just successfully eluded the first missile, which had slammed into an office building. But no matter what he did, he couldn’t shake the remaining MiG. The Iraqi was hot on his tail as Merkle streaked down city streets, under bridges, and dangerously close to power lines. Merkle was doing exactly what the controller was telling him to do—stay low and hug the terrain as best he could until Ryker could take this guy out.
But Ryker now told his wingman to do exactly the opposite.
“Stroke Six, I’m right behind you guys,” he said, his voice calm and steady. “Pull up—shoot for the sky at maximum speed—that’s when I’ll take him out.”
“What? No. Are you crazy, Stroke Five?” the controller shot back. “Negative, Stroke Six, negative. Stay low. I’m scrambling more jets to your position.”
“This guy’s got tone,” Merkle shouted. “He’s locked on. He’s going to fire.”
“Pull up, Stroke Six,” Ryker ordered. “I’ve got him. Trust me, I’ve got him. Pull up.”
The controller was countermanding the order. But just as the MiG fired, Merkle pulled up and hit his afterburner. The instant the Iraqi followed suit, Ryker’s radar locked on. He fired two Sidewinders, just to be sure. The first one went wide, but the second hit its mark. The explosion could be seen and heard by everyone in Basra. Simultaneously, Merkle pulled his F-16 into a death-defying loop, dove back toward the deck, leveled out, and banked hard to the right, skimming just above the rooftops. The missile trailing him plowed into a skyscraper and detonated on impact.
Ryker’s headset erupted with the sounds of whoops and hollers. Everyone on the AWACs was cheering, including Merkle. But not for long.
New warning sirens suddenly began screaming in both their cockpits. Two Soviet-made surface-to-air missiles—and then two more—exploded from batteries no one had told them were there. Merkle immediately took evasive action. So did Ryker, but it was too late. His F-16 was blown out of the sky at twenty-seven minutes after 4 a.m., the first night of air operations in the battle to liberate Kuwait.
2
MONUMENT, COLORADO
Marcus Ryker forced open the window and crawled out onto the ice-crusted roof.
Making his way to the edge, he stared the twenty-odd feet to the ground . . .
And jumped.
Everything that happened next seemed to be in slow motion. All he could hear was the bitter winter wind howling down the Rocky Mountains and surging across the Front Range. All he could see were flakes swirling around his head, the early signs of a January squall. And the ground and the sky. And the ground and the sky. And tree branches and snowdrifts and clouds and boot prints and then—
He hit the ground hard, his legs collapsing beneath him. He crumpled to his back. Then all was quiet. He was not dead. He hadn’t broken a leg or his neck. The wind had been knocked out of him, but he was fine.
And then he heard the back door flying open.
“Marcus Johannes Ryker, I am not going to say this again,” his mother shouted. “Knock it off—no more backflips off the roof or you’re grounded. Do you hear me? Grounded for a month. Are you listening to me?”
Marcus didn’t get up. Didn’t roll over. Didn’t move at all. But as soon as he could catch his breath—still staring up into the gray winter sky—the eleven-year-old promised his mother he wouldn’t jump off the roof again.
“Now get a move on and shovel the driveway like I told you—and put your coat on, for crying out loud.”
Marcus grunted something, but the moment the back door shut, a new plan began to form. Wearing only a ratty U2 concert T-shirt, ripped blue jeans, and an old pair of pac boots, Marcus raced for the garage. His mother had just given him a magnificent loophole. She’d made him promise not to jump off the roof. She’d said nothing about the family’s Dodge Grand Caravan. So scrambling to the top of the rusting green minivan, Marcus once again began doing backflips.
When he noticed two black government-issue sedans turning onto their street, he paid little attention to them at first. It was another blustery gray and far-too-quiet Wednesday morning in the smallest and most boring town on the Front Range. Mickey Reese, his best friend since the age of five, was in bed with chicken pox. His sisters, Marta and Nicole, had already left for school.
Suddenly both cars pulled to a stop in front of their house. Having just climbed again to the roof of the minivan, Marcus stared down as two men in black suits and long black winter coats emerged from the first sedan. An Air Force officer in full uniform got out of the second sedan, along with a pastor or priest or somebody wearing one of those weird white collars. The officer came up the not-yet-shoveled driveway and asked the boy if his mother was home.
Marcus nodded.
“Would you let her know we’re here?”
The man was a stranger, but he was a military man and polite enough, so Marcus nodded again, did another backflip, perfectly stuck the landing, and ran inside. He found his mother in the kitchen making homemade vegetable soup as she watched CNN coverage of the war on a small black-and-white TV that sat on the counter.
“Mom, there’s some men here for you,” he said.
“Marcus, how many times have I told you to take off your boots in the vestibule and not to track snow through the living room and kitchen?”
Marcus shrugged.
“What kind of men?” his mother now asked.
When Marcus shrugged again, she shook her head as she tried to hide a smile, then wiped her hands on her apron, headed to the door, and told him to clean up the snow. Curious, Marcus ignored the order and followed her to the door instead. That’s when he saw her freeze in her tracks.
“Excuse me, ma’am, are you Marjorie Ryker?”
Marcus noticed that his mother didn’t speak, didn’t even nod. Yet the officer kept talking.
“Mrs. Ryker, I’m afraid we have some difficult news. Perhaps it would be best if you sat down.”
Marcus would never remember the words that followed. But he would never forget the image of his mother stumbling back several steps, her trembling hands moving to her mouth.
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