In front of them, they heard shouts. The Chinese were approaching on the path. Cole fired off a couple of shots to give them something to think about and buy the rest of the squad some time to retreat. When the return fire got too hot, Cole slipped into the thicket with the kid right behind him, and they vanished into the underbrush.

High above the Korean landscape, U.S. Navy pilot Lieutenant Commander Jake Miller had been guiding his Grumman Panther back toward their aircraft carrier in the Sea of Japan when they spotted the enemy bogeys. What had started as a milk run escorting a bomber squadron instantly turned into a deadly fight for survival in the mountain air.

He and his wingman, Lieutenant Jim Walsh, better known as “Guzzle” because of his propensity for sucking down beer bottles when off duty at the officer’s club, had just finished babysitting the bombers on a mission deep into North Korea.

That was as far as they were allowed to strike. The limits imposed upon them were an endless source of frustration. God forbid that they should fly into China and cut off the head of the snake, because that was where all the enemy supplies originated.

Then again, Miller supposed that nobody wanted to start World War III. Hadn’t Albert Einstein, the smartest man alive, said that he didn’t know what weapons World War III would be fought with — but he knew that the next war after that would be fought with sticks and stones. President Harry S. Truman had tried to call the atomic bomb just another artillery weapon, but ol’ “Give ‘Em Hell Harry” couldn’t have been more wrong about that. Even a Navy pilot knew that the stakes had changed.

With their bombing mission completed, the bombers had headed for their base while the fighter escort flown by Miller and Guzzle Walsh trailed behind before returning to their aircraft carrier. Miller glanced over at his wingman and said through the radio, “That was a cakewalk if I’ve ever seen one.”

“Guess I owe you a beer,” Guzzle replied.

Miller laughed. He had bet Guzzle the first round that they wouldn’t so much as see another enemy aircraft on today’s mission. There had been rumors and warnings about the Chinese getting more of their own jets into the fight, but so far, those had been rare as unicorns. “Glad I didn’t have to remind you that you now owed me a beer. You ought to know better than to have taken that bet, anyhow.”

“Yeah, but I thought it would change our luck.”

“All we can do is hope for the best, my friend.”

So far, in all their time in Korea, they had yet to tangle with any enemy fighters. Sure, there had been plenty of missions like this one, or strafing and bombing runs against enemy positions. They had been met with only highly ineffective anti-aircraft fire.

It was true that there were troops on the ground who might not have minded getting through the whole war without a glimpse of the enemy, but he and Guzzle were fighter pilots. They itched to do what they had been trained to do, which was to get into a dogfight with enemy planes. Soon enough, they might be rotating back home without ever mixing it up with the enemy. There would be little chance of air combat once they returned to the United States.

Off his shoulder, Guzzle’s Panther glided along effortlessly as if on a cushion of air. Below, they saw the endless landscape of hills and mountains that comprised much of the Korean peninsula. It almost made him wonder why anyone was fighting over this place.

From the air, Miller had seen the Rocky Mountains and the Appalachians back home. The Taebaek Mountain range was somewhere in between, with peaks not as high and sharp as the Rockies, but not at all like gentle Appalachian peaks and valleys.

The Panther was a carrier-based aircraft that in some ways resembled a design out of a Buck Rogers comic book from the 1930s, about as different from a WWII plane as one could imagine. From its narrow wings with fuel pods on the tips to its sleek jet engine, Miller thought that the plane looked very futuristic. He was proud to fly it. Aircraft had certainly come a long way from the days of fighting the Imperial Japanese Navy Air Service in the Pacific.

Looks, however, could be deceiving. There were rumors that a much uglier plane being flown by the Communists was a match for the Panther, and then some. Miller had yet to see a MiG in person, but he had seen pictures as part of his aircraft identification briefings. The MiG looked less like something flown by Buck Rogers and more like a Buster Brown shoebox with swept wings. He would have been more inclined to bet that first beer on the Panther just based on looks, so go figure. But what did he know about aircraft design? He just flew them.

Guzzle’s excited voice suddenly exploded over the headset. “Bogeys! I got bogeys eleven o’clock high!”

Instantly, Miller swiveled his head up and searched the sky. He was astonished to see a formation of planes at a much higher elevation. Surely, those planes had seen them. Miller felt foolish and a sudden frisson of fear. He felt like he’d been caught napping. If those planes had attacked, he and Guzzle would have been caught unawares.

Which gave him a thought. Why hadn’t those planes pressed the advantage? They didn’t seem to be looking for a fight.

“Who are those guys?” he wondered

“They sure as hell ain’t Panthers or Corsairs,” Guzzle replied in his Texas drawl. “Look at the wings. Those have got to be MiGs. I see one, two, three — holy moly, there’s seven of ‘em up there.”

Intent on the planes now, Miller saw that Guzzle was absolutely right about these being MiGs. Their contrails dragged behind them like long fingers stretched across the sky. One thing for sure was that they had chosen to ignore the two Panthers below without engaging them. These planes were intent on going somewhere in a hurry. But where?

“I don’t see any Chinese insignia,” Guzzle said.

Miller looked more closely. “That’s because those are Soviet planes.”

“What are they doing over North Korea?” Guzzle asked.

It was a good question. He supposed that the planes must have been on their way to Vladivostok, where the Soviets had a base on the North Korean border. They seemed to be taking a shortcut through Korean airspace.

He and Guzzle flew along without changing course or reacting in any way. Miller sympathized with how ol’ Brer Rabbit must feel, hoping that Brer Fox didn’t spot him.

The difference was that this rabbit had teeth.

He heard Guzzle’s voice again, the tone of his wingman’s nervous excitement crackling through the airwaves. It was as if the two of them were deer hunting and had just spotted a big buck. “What do you think?”

“They’re in our airspace. Engage and destroy,” Miller said, all doubt disappearing as he decided to engage these Soviet fighters. He felt the excitement of the moment, tempered by the cold precision of his training.

“Aye, aye, Cap’n,” Guzzle replied. With a decision made, he now sounded more certain of himself.

Miller worked the stick, bringing the Panther in a steep climb, directly toward the planes overhead.

The MiGs responded almost instantly by breaking into two groups, indicating that they had been well aware of the aircraft below and had initially chosen to ignore them. Miller’s response had forced their hand.

Four planes were in the second group. They climbed higher and faster than Miller would have thought possible, directly toward the sun. It seemed apparent that the quartet was intent on continuing the journey to Vladivostok.

However, the trio of remaining MiGs had other plans. The MiGs went into a dive and began to circle around the two Panthers.

“They’re trying to get behind us!” Guzzle shouted.