On Ilan's retina, there still lingered three blinding remnants of explosions.
The screams of his comrades in the channel abruptly ceased, replaced by suffocating static noise.
"Hammer 2, 3, 4, respond!"
Ilan's voice trembled, his fingers almost crushing the control stick.
No response.
On the radar screen, three friendly symbols simultaneously turned into flashing "X" symbols.
Three F-15Is.
Six of the best pilots.
All wiped out.
No time for more thoughts.
The red light in the cockpit was still flashing madly.
Ilan suddenly realized—his own crisis had not yet been resolved, grieving for his teammates was purely superfluous...
"Damn it!"
He violently pushed the stick to the right while pressing the flares release button again, the fighter jet making a sharp turn at an angle that nearly tore the wings apart.
The sky was once again lit up by red flares.
At that instant, the fourth missile screeched past the left wing, the scorching exhaust burning the metal skin.
