Warriors

Chapter 1

Most wars begin before dawn. This one was different.

When the Klaxon sounded, a few of the pilots on alert at the Skyhawk base hesitated a single heartbeat before conditioned response hurled them into motion. The scramble was not wholly unexpected; for a recall still was in progress-ever since Israeli intelligence had determined that hostilities were imminent. After all, it was the tenth day of Tishri and most units were on partial stand-down for Yom Kippur, the holiest day on the Jewish calendar.

That combination of facts told thirty-seven-year-old Major Ariel Kadar that this was no drill.

Sprinting through the door of the ready room and into the hall leading to the hangar, Kadar overtook his young wingman. The squadron commander thumped the new lieutenant on the shoulder. "Come on, David. Don't let an old man beat you!"

The two pilots turned hard right into the covered alert pad housing their Skyhawk attack planes. Each was fully armed with 500-pound bombs and 20mm ammunition. With practiced ease Kadar was up the boarding ladder and almost mechanically plugging and strapping himself into the cockpit: torso harness fittings; G-suit lead, helmet with oxygen and radio plugs. In seconds he was starting his Pratt & Whitney JS2-P8A engine, glancing across at the other jet.

Lieutenant David Ran was almost fifteen years younger than his commander and should have been a shade quicker. But he wasn't. Despite the unrelenting pace of training, which continued after he joined his operational squadron, much of the job still was new to him. As he lit off his own engine and saw the RPM and temperature gauges flick to life, he looked up. The boarding ladders had been removed, wheel chocks pulled free, and mechanics were signaling clear to taxi. Ran saw Kadar nod vigorously and the two Skyhawks taxied into the bright sunlight.

From the adjoining pad two more A-4s appeared, swinging behind the lead section.

During the fast taxi to the runway, the canopies came down and locked as each pilot silently ran through his pre-takeoff check list. By the time they turned at the intersection onto the runway they were ready to go, and Major Kadar smoothly advanced his throttle as 9,300 pounds of thrust boosted his aircraft off the ground. All four jets tucked their tricycle landing gear into the wells and climbed for altitude.

It was exactly four and one half minutes after the siren had sounded.

Thus far not a word had been spoken. David Ran was only aware of the measured sound of his own breathing under his oxygen mask and the carrier wave in his earphones. He was the newest pilot in the squadron, but he knew his job and was proud that Kadar had chosen him as wingman. The CO had been flying Sky hawks for six years-ever since the first American-built A-4Hs had been delivered to Israel in 1967.

Ran looked over at his leader. It was typical of the man that his seniority counted for nothing in normal duty rotation. Even though Ariel Kadar was more devout than many Israeli pilots, he had passed up the chance to spend Yom Kippur with his family. The Day of Atonement was turning into something different this year.

In the lead aircraft, Kadar spoke with his ground controller. The airborne planes were given a westerly heading and told to investigate reported activity along the Suez Canal. So, it's Sinai, the squadron leader thought to himself. He knew the area well. It was only twenty minutes flying time from his base, and he had logged repeated missions over the sandy expanse. There had been frequent alarms since the Six-Day War-it was part of everyday life in the Israeli Air Force, or Heyl Ha'Avir-and consequently the nation's air arm was in a constant state of readiness.

Lugging a dozen 500-pound bombs westward at three hundred knots, the four Skyhawk pilots and the few other jets scrambled in the opening moments of the 1973 war unknowingly faced an unpleasant change of routine. Egypt in the west and Syria in the east had launched an unusually well coordinated two-front assault on the Israelis, intending to recapture territory lost in the 1967 war. The Egyptian assault was especially well executed, combining the cherished trinity of massive force, surprise timing, and overwhelming violence.

Reports varied, but on Day One between 500 and 800 Egyptian tanks crossed the Suez Canal at three points. The assault was supported by some 4,000 artillery pieces plus MiGs and Sukhoi fighter-bombers pounding the Bar Lev line of defensive positions which Israel had built parallel to the east bank of the canal.

That wasn't all. Egyptian planners knew the Israelis had placed explosive charges along the canal, ready to detonate in the face of an assault. Scuba divers had stealthily, skillfully removed or disarmed the explosives, and other commandos blew up Israeli radio and radar stations within reach of the waterway.

Almost simultaneously with the overture at 1400, the Arabs began jamming Israeli communications. It was a fully integrated operation, precisely the type of action most Israelis felt that no Arab nation was capable of executing.

Little of this was known to Major Kadar or his pilots on the first mission that afternoon. But as professionals they were prepared for most contingencies. They checked and rechecked their navigation, their aircraft instruments, and their armament switches. They activated their A-4s' radar homing and warning (RHAW) equipment. These "black boxes," as their American suppliers called them, were designed to provide advance warning of hostile radar tracking. The U.S. Air Force and Navy had learned hard lessons in the air war over North Vietnam. American involvement had only ended in January, so current information was available to the Israelis on Soviet-built air defense equipment. But some pilots of the Heyl Ha'Avir were disdainful. The Arab nations simply weren't capable of maintaining sophisticated electronics without extensive Soviet assistance. Everybody knew that.

With the canal in view well ahead from 14,000 feet, Major Kadar led his flight in a lazy turn to the left. He intended to swing down the east bank on a reconnaissance sweep, for he was authorized to attack any Arab unit displaying hostile intentions. Against that possibility, he double-checked his master armament panel.

David Ran looked to his left front, past his leader's Skyhawk.

He noticed dust clouds along the canal and a vague milling activity on both banks. Abruptly he became aware of several things, each competing for his attention. Down to 12,000 feet, only a few miles from the waterway, he could see the aftereffects of an artillery barrage-by far the largest he could imagine. He saw formations of armored vehicles crossing west to east on pontoon bridges, and he heard an increasingly high-pitched scratching in his headset.

Ran's RHAW gear was quiet-no evidence of radar scanning.

That much was encouraging, at least. Lingering dust clouds swirled into the air from shellbursts and tracked vehicles, making detailed observation difficult. But the flight had passed beyond the northern-most area of conflict and Ran noted his leader setting up for a diving attack on something below to the right.

Radio communication was almost impossible but each pilot followed his leader regardless; they knew the procedure by rote.

As Ran allowed the usual interval between his leader's roll-in and his own, he judged the target to be a cluster of portable bridges and waiting vehicles on the west bank. From this point it was a routine attack: one pass-put your bombs where they belong and get the hell out. So far nobody seemed to be shooting at them; perhaps they had caught the Egyptians by surprise.

Major Kadar's Skyhawk disappeared in an orange-black fireball.

Small bits of debris lingered briefly in the sky, then were gone.

Ran absorbed the knowledge that his squadron commander-his friend-had just died. Then, not knowing what else to do, he pressed his dive on the portable bridging equipment and placed his illuminated sight reticle just short of the target. He made sure his wings were level, pressed the button on his stick grip, and felt his low-drag bombs kick off their racks.

After a brief wait to ensure that no bombs were skewed sideways, he began a steady pull.

Blue-green tracers flashed by Ran's canopy; somebody was tracking him with 23mm. The air bladders of his G-suit compressed about his thighs and abdomen. Instinctively, he grunted against the oppression of nearly six times the force of gravity as his nose came level with the horizon. More tracers and two twisting smoke trails drifted behind him. Realizing he was flying northwest-into Egypt-he rolled almost 90 degrees, pulled hard, and stomped opposite rudder to slew his A-4 erratically. Then he bent the throttle, exiting at thirty-five hundred feet.

The young pilot looked around, wanting to rejoin the second section. He spotted one Skyhawk and turned toward it. There was no sign of the number four man, and Ran feared the worst.

Four took off, two are coming back. That's no good. We've got to tell somebody what's happening.…

Back at base nobody knew much more than when the duty flights had launched fifty minutes before. David Ran, now a combat veteran, unsnapped and unplugged himself from his aircraft and noticed the crew chief on the boarding ladder. Knowing the man's tacit questioning about the missing CO, Ran muttered, "He blew up. He just blew up."

The debriefing was a short one, for there were more missions to plan, brief, and fly. The squadron intelligence officer, hastily recalled from his home, was puzzled about lack of radar warning. It was known the Egyptians had SA-2 and SA-3 surface-to-air missiles across the canal, but their guidance frequencies had been determined. The jets onboard RHAW should have detected the threat.

"You're certain there was no electronic warning?" the IO asked. He looked from Ran to the captain who led the second section.

"Absolutely," the senior flier said. "No indication at all. The first I knew was when the missile hit Ari's machine. I saw it too late to warn him. Besides, they were jamming our radios."

Ran leaned forward in his chair. A missile hit Kadar's aircraft?

Ran had seen nothing but the explosion. But neither had he seen the number four Skyhawk go down.

The IO ran a hand through his thick dark hair. He expelled a breath and looked at the two pilots. "Well, we know two things. The enemy has a new guidance system that we evidently weren't aware of, and we know where the next mission is headed. You brief in five minutes."

By sunset David Ran had flown two more missions and his squadron had lost two more planes, though one pilot ejected safely. Meanwhile, Egyptian tanks pushed eastward from their three bridge-heads in increasing numbers.

During the next forty-eight hours the Israeli nation and its armed forces scrambled to compensate for the deficit of 6 October. There were the inevitable cries, recriminations, and how-could-this-happen agonizing. However, at air force headquarters the mood was more detached, if no less concerned. Late on the night of the sixth, a panel of senior officers reviewed the, opening day's events and counted the cost. It was staggering.

The Heyl Ha'Avir had entered the war with some 330 frontline combat aircraft, of which 30 Skyhawks and 10 Phantoms had been shot down over Sinai and the Golan Heights. It amounted to 12 percent losses on Day One. Every man in the room knew what that meant. If the loss rate continued, Israel would be without an effective air force in one week.

Brigadier General Schmuel Baharov, head of air technical intelligence, took the floor. He was a balding, portly man in his late forties whose appearance belied an intellect bordering on genius. He had two passions in life: electronics and gardening. This night his flowers were the farthest thing from his mind.

"Gentlemen. The Egyptians have assembled a well-organized, self-supporting armored force with overlapping air defense. Their tank formations contain organic bridging equipment plus tracked missile launchers and antiaircraft artillery which moves as fast as the tanks themselves. Additionally, the enemy enjoys coverage within the envelope of fixed surface-to-air missile sites on the west side of the canal. This gives him antiaircraft protection from ground level to sixty thousand feet to a distance of some thirty miles."

Lieutenant General Natanial Abrash, director of operations, interjected. "Schmuel, we need to know about the lack of radar detection. My squadrons report almost no indication of electronic scanning, yet we're losing aircraft and crews to missiles and guns that must be radar-directed. What new equipment does the enemy seem to have?"

"I'm just coming to that. We've known that the Soviets provided SA-6 units to Egypt, but we had little indication they were deployed in such strength. Let me show you." Baharov turned on a slide projector and dimmed the lights in the room. Clicking the hand controller, the intelligence chief brought up the first picture. It showed a low-slung tracked vehicle with surface-to-air missiles on launchers.

"This is the SA-6, what NATO calls the Gainful system. It actually consists of two units; this one with the SAMs"-he clicked the selector-"and this one with the radar unit. We've determined that this so-called Straight Flush radar operates, in continuous wave versus pulse mode. Not only that, it is capable of two frequencies. As you know, our radar warning receivers are calibrated to detect pulse radar. They can't pick up continuous wave at this time."

The screen changed to another image, this time a tank chassis fitted with a four-barrel antiaircraft gun.

"The Soviet ZSU-23-4 is similar to the Gainful in that it is mounted on a vehicle capable of operating with the fastest tanks. The weapon can be fired under local control or under its Gun Dish radar. The important thing to know in this case is that the radar is a much higher frequency than we can currently detect-up to twelve thousand megahertz or so. I don't have the actual figure yet, but I believe the Gun Dish frequency may be as high as sixteen thousand megahertz." There was an awkward pause as Baharov cleared.his throat. "I expect to have that information for you shortly." He turned off the projector and brought the lights back up.

General Abrash sat back in his padded chair. "Well, we have discussed tactics since this afternoon, but frankly there's no easy cure. Ordinarily we'd send our airplanes in at low level to get under the missiles, but then we're exposed to antiaircraft artillery and small arms. It's what the Americans encountered over Vietnam."

Rolling his sloped shoulders, Baharov said, "I seem to have nothing but bad news for you tonight, but there's more. The Russians have equipped the Arabs with vast numbers of SA-7s. At least in the Egyptian units, there seem to be Grails down to squad level."

Baharov did not need to elaborate. The SA-7 first appeared in the Middle East in 1969. A hand-carried missile five feet long and weighing only forty pounds, it required no elaborate guidance radar. It homed on the hot exhaust of its target and, being completely passive, gave no warning to its intended victim. Grails could hit a jet from as far as four miles away.

Abrash, the director of operations, spoke again. "We'll concentrate on deception measures using chaff and flares until we can counter the electronic problem. Meanwhile, we're going to continue taking heavy losses." The general, who had flown in two wars, bit the end of his pencil. Almost to himself he said, "You know, I had a call from the army chief of staff today. He said his frontline commanders were reluctant to call for air support because they saw so many of our boys shot down."

No one in the room needed to respond. Such a thing had never happened in Israel's turbulent history.

The Phantoms came in low and fast from the north, parallel to the east bank of the canal. The short overwater leg of their outbound flight had been in two compact four-plane flights, but now, over Sinai, they adopted combat spread. Modi Tal, the twenty-seven-year-old captain in the lead F-4E, waggled his wings and the formation smoothly broke into four two-ship elements.

Another captain leading the second flight had anticipated the move and smoothly slid abeam of his own second section.

It was typical of the Israeli Air Force. The Heyl Ha'Avir lived by the motto "Experience leads" and mere rank would not fill the leader's slot. Far too much was at stake. The young captain had flown more of these missions than anyone in his squadron.

It was Day Three and Israel was fighting on two fronts against the most competent adversaries she had yet faced.

Captain Solomon Yatanahu, one year younger than Modi Tal, had flown combat six years before under very different circumstances. The Six-Day War had gone entirely Israel's way from the opening hour. He had actually regretted the limited opportunity for combat. But this new war was entirely the opposite. Back-to-back sorties, friends dead or missing, aircraft destroyed and damaged at a terrific pace. Even MiGs over his home base-unheard of! And though the Heyl Ha'Avir still was master of its enemies-in one famous case two F-4s took off to engage a skyful of MiGs and shot down seven-the flak and SAMs were deadly. Yatanahu had joked with his radar operator that the desert camouflage paint on their new Phantom was barely dry in time for this first mission. Seventy-two hours previously it had borne the green tones of the U.S. Tactical Air Command at Ramstein, West Germany. But not even U.S. reinforcement could keep pace with the staggering attrition thus far.

Still, morale remained high. The squadron ready room bore the neatly lettered boast CEILING 80 METERS, a mark of professional pride. In order to destroy Egyptian tanks and avoid the heart of the air defense system, the Israeli pilots regularly flew at or below 250 feet, or 80 meters, altitude. It was hard enough in a high-performance jet making 400 knots or more on a training mission. Doing it in combat, retaining awareness of all that happened within shooting distance, called for skill and experience of exceptional order.

In the lead Phantom, Modi Tal shot a glance at his map. He didn't need it, for he'd flown almost a dozen missions over this area in the past two days. But he was too thorough, too professional, to wholly trust memory or habit. A gloved finger tapped the point on the canal indicating his run-in to the target. He — spoke into his oxygen mask. "Estimate six minutes to initial point."

The "hot mike," continually open to his backseater, carried his words with electronic clarity. The response came almost instantly. "Concur." The radar operator, a twenty-two-year-old reservist, was backing up the pilot's navigation.

With a rock of his wings Tal indicated that the formation should split. Yatanahu led his flight to the southwest, pushing his throttles to accelerate ahead of the main formation and arrive from a different quadrant a few seconds before the lead flight, orbiting to intercept any Egyptian fighters.

The target was a ring of mobile antiaircraft batteries protecting a large Egyptian tank unit that threatened Israeli defenses east of the canal. Another formation, composed of six Skyhawks, was bearing down on the same target from the east and south. The F-4s would provide top cover from enemy fighters and attack the defenses while the A-4s went after the tanks. Assuming everyone's timing was perfect, the attack sections would hit from three directions in ninety seconds.

At 400 knots the F-4s were as fast as a.45-caliber pistol bullet at the muzzle. The ground ahead was blurred to a distance of more than 1,500 feet, so the pilots focused and refocused on more distant points. Their 250-foot altitude kept them in "ground clutter," the mixture of radar returns which diminished or ruined the effectiveness of Egyptian Gun Dish tracking units, but conventional flak and hand-held SA-7 missiles still posed a threat.

West of the canal, Solomon Yatanahu saw the sweep hand of his watch tick off the final seconds. He moved his twin throttles through the detent into afterburner and felt the J79-GE17 turbojets each kick in 17,900 pounds of thrust. Pulling the stick into his belly, he led his wingman in a full-power climb toward 15,000 feet, where they would briefly orbit to intercept any Egyptian aircraft attempting to break up the impending strike.

Thirty miles to the northeast, the main Phantom formation entered the target area. A carefully choreographed aerial ballet had just debuted as the mission commander held course and altitude. With precise timing, he swept into the outer fringes of the SAM belt, then popped up to 3,800 feet as he and his wingman released chaff and flares.

On the desert floor, patient Egyptian gunners and missileers watched the curtain rise in the preview of interim Israeli tactics. A similar routine was performed to the south, where the A-4s would appear in several seconds.

Tiny flickers of light reflected the sun as aluminum chaff-lengths of metal cut to match known radar frequencies-erupted by the thousands in the air. White-hot magnesium flares burst into existence, competing with the heat of jet engines and drawing off some of the missiles launched at the brown-and-tan camouflaged fighters. On each side of the target, Phantoms crossed one another's flight paths, adding more "hot spots" in the sky which might lure one or two SAMs from genuine targets.

The Gainful missiles-three to a vehicle-were unable to track fast, low-flying targets under these circumstances, and their threat was negated. But dozens-perhaps scores-of soldiers with shoulder

mounted Grails pointed their launchers skyward, acquired the green light indicating they were tracking a heat source, and fired. The desert blossomed with dust clouds as the SA-7s lifted off, crowding the flak-filled sky with lethal fingers groping for an unwary or unlucky victim.

The Phantom leader, seeing his countermeasures taking effect, noted the first white flashes in his peripheral vision as bombs exploded to the southeast. Good; the Skyhawks arrived on time. He turned back for another pass to assess the damage.

"MIGS FOUR O'CLOCK LEVEL!"

Captain Yatanahu whipped his head over his right shoulder in response to his wingman's call. Almost immediately he saw a camouflaged delta-winged shape bearing down on him. The Phantom pilot estimated its distance as two miles, closing fast. Not much time.

Yatanahu had 550 knots on his airspeed indicator. He pulled the stick into the right rear comer of the cockpit, stood on the right rudder pedal, and loaded almost seven Gs on himself, his radar operator, and his aircraft. With adrenaline surging and full concentration upon his adversary, he was hardly aware of the physiological effects of seven times normal gravity.

The MiG-21 had begun a countermove, curving to its left in an attempt to maintain position on the F-4. Yatanahu's momentum was too great to gain an angle advantage at this speed and distance so he momentarily stopped his turn, maintaining 135 degrees of bank. When he judged the moment was right, he continued his maneuver into an elegant barrel roll above, beyond, and below the MiG's flight path.

Yatanahu heard a garbled transmission from his wingman, who presumably was engaged with a MiG of his own. The captain was aware of his backseater's labored breathing on the hot mike, his favorable position relative to the MiG, and his parameters for weapons employment. He had already discarded the Sparrow option; he was too close for a radar missile and he wasn't convinced the electronic countermeasures the enemy had so unexpectedly developed wouldn't defeat an AIM-7.

Therefore, Yatanahu pulled into three-quarters of a mile of the MiG's tail, slightly offset to the left. His armament switch was selected for HEAT, and he heard the manic chirping in his earphones which told him his Sidewinder missile was tracking the enemy's hot tailpipe. Yatanahu pressed the trigger, and after a pause saw the AIM-9 surge past his left side. It arced toward the MiG and exploded in the engine's plume.

Instantly the Phantom pilot shifted his armament switch to GUN.

He had a 20mm cannon in his nose and fully intended to use it. But the MiG-21 pilot chose that fortuitous moment to eject himself from his doomed fighter.

Yatanahu looked around, and his backseater anticipated his concern. ''Two is rejoining at three o'clock." Two Phantoms had taken on three MiGs, destroying one and damaging another. Thirty-five seconds had passed. Yatanahu glanced at his watch and set a circuitous course for home. Whatever had happened with the anti-tank mission, he had done his job.

Modi Tal was pleased. he had timed his wide turn away from the target to allow much of the dust to settle, and now was screeching toward the southeastern corner of the armored pocket at nearly Mach 1. He wanted another pass to evaluate the results of the raid, which seemed to have been well executed. He counted at least eight vehicles aflame-either T-54 tanks or tracked missile carriers.

Several trip-hammer blows pounded the F -4E, sixteen in all.

The Phantom rolled violently to the right, shedding parts as the aerodynamic forces tore at the ragged gouges left by 23mm explosive shells.

There had been no warning from the Gun Dish continuous wave radar. The Egyptian battery commander had shrewdly placed two vehicles beyond the obvious perimeter, camouflaged with sand-colored nets, and had obtained a firing solution on the speeding jet.

In the rear cockpit, the young reservist initiated command ejection without waiting for word from his pilot. At low level there was no time for corrective action, and as the stricken F-4 began its second roll both canopies came off. The rear seat fired, hurling the radar operator out of the Phantom one and three-quarters seconds before the pilot's seat rocketed away. The sequence prevented the front seat ignition from searing the backseat occupant, but it didn't matter. Both fliers were flung into the violent turbulence of supersonic air, and neither survived.

The battery commander saw the American-built fighter plunge to the ground and explode in a fireball of jet fuel. He was glad of his unit's success, but he was enough of a professional to know that one airplane in exchange for nearly a dozen armored vehicles was no bargain. The Israelis were learning fast.

The four Vought F-8Js cruised effortlessly at 20,000 feet, deployed in combat spread. Each was armed with 20mm ammunition and AIM-9 Sidewinder missiles. Though the world's attention was riveted on events nearly 2,000 miles to the north, the aircraft carrier USS Hancock took nothing for granted. The four Crusaders on combat air patrol were proof of that. As "Hannah" approached the Gulf of Aden she came within range of several nations that wished no U.S. Navy warship smooth sailing.

One war had just ended-or at least American involvement had ended-and the thirty-year-old carrier was a veteran of that war. She had been on her eighth cruise to the Tonkin Gulf when ordered south at high speed with her escorts and fleet oiler. Now Hancock's crew and Air Wing 21 wondered what role they might play in the new conflict in the Middle East.

Aloft in the lead F-8 was Commander John L. Bennett, skipper of Fighter Squadron 24. With three previous combat tours and a MiG-17 to his credit, Bennett was one of the most experienced fighter pilots in the U.S. Navy. At age thirty-eight he recognized that he was near the acme of his professional life. If fortunate, he might obtain one more flying tour as an air wing commander. After that, he did not want to think about it.

Bennett glanced at his fuel gauge, noting he had ample JP5 remaining. Engine rpm, fuel flow, tailpipe temperature all normal. Bennett's practiced scan took in his aircraft's vital signs in seconds and returned where it belonged-outside the cockpit. But he mused upon the events of the past few days.

Only days before Hancock's task force had reached the strait separating Indonesia from Malaysia, Malaysia's strife-ridden government had declared the Strait of Malacca as its own. Foreign vessels transiting the waterway would have to pay a fee or be subject to attack. Reports of pirate activity only enhanced the tense mood, but Bennett smiled to himself. He was known in the fighter community as "Pirate," his tactical callsign.

The rear admiral leading the task force had passed through the strait at high speed without requesting permission or paying tribute. Instead, he kept at least one four-plane division of fighters airborne with armed Skyhawk attack planes ready to launch. The passage had been uneventful.

Now, orbiting 150 miles from the ship, Bennett considered the prospects of a clash with other regimes. From 20,000 feet he could see the Gulf of Aden adjoining.Somalia, Ethiopia, and the People's Democratic Republic of Yemen. Soviet-built MiGs would come out for a look at the "Yankee air pirates"-there was that word again-and VF-24 was ready for them. It had been five years since Bennett had killed a MiG, but constant practice had kept him ready. Besides, it wouldn't be the first time he had tangled with MiGs from a desert airbase.

Bennett rolled his shoulders and strained forward against his Koch fittings, easing the strain. He recalled the secret projects in the Nevada desert, "Have Drill" and "Have Doughnut." The Israelis had captured all manner of Egyptian equipment when they occupied Sinai during the 1967 war. Aircraft, tanks, missiles, artillery, and communications gear had been scooped up and sent to America for evaluation. Nine MiG fighters-a mixture of Type 17, 19, and 21-had been included, with a large supply of spare parts. U.S. Air Force and Navy pilots flew them almost daily for three years, evaluating every nuance of performance. Bennett had participated in that program, and what he did not know about the enemy aircraft was not worth knowing.

The test facility was spartan: a 15,000-foot runway with a prefab hangar and a couple of fuel trucks. All flying was timed to avoid exposure to Soviet satellites that passed over twice a day, and Bennett surmised the runway was bulldozed with sand when not in use. But the flying was terrific. Phantoms, Crusaders, Skyhawks, and other U. S. aircraft tangled in no-holds-barred hassles with the MiGs, pilots often switching cockpits to better appreciate each type's strengths and weaknesses.

Bennett knew that any pilot in VF-24 would give a year's flight pay to tangle with a MiG of any nationality or origin, for the Checkertails-like the rest of Air Wing 21 and the U.S. Navy-now were warriors without a war. Bennett felt that after Vietnam, protracted conflict was to no advantage. Short wars were the best. Just look at the Israelis.

Tel Aviv's airport had never been so busy. By 14 October almost constant traffic flew in and out, resupplying the Israeli armed forces, whose stocks of weapons, ammunition, and fuel had been sorely depleted. This morning, however, General Baharov, the IAF technical intelligence chief, anxiously awaited the unloading of several crates from the belly of a U.S. Air Force C-141. The crates contained neither missiles nor spare parts, though God knew how badly the Heyl Ha'Avir needed both.

The general's aide, Major Ephraim Bachman, was accustomed to the man's eccentricities. After all, geniuses traditionally are accorded some latitude in that direction. But the gardener with the Ph.D. in electrical engineering was not personally supposed to supervise forklift drivers.

"Quickly, quickly. That's it… straight back. Good! Now, take it over to the shed." The teenager driving the forklift glanced at the air force major. They exchanged knowing shrugs and smiled at one another as the intel chief continued badgering the line crew. "No, no, not like that! Where did you learn to drive, anyway? Here, let me show you."

At length Bachman diplomatically pried his superior away from the Starlifter's ramp and thereby restored a modicum of order to the harried logistics personnel. Opening one of the crates, the major removed some of the stuffing to expose the contents.

He stepped back, smiling widely. "There it is, Schmuel." Probably in no other nation on earth did a major address a general by his first name.

The gray-haired officer leaned down, compressing his ample stomach against the green fatigue shirt he wore. He touched the electronic object with almost fatherly affection. "There you are. Just what we need, Ephraim. The ALQ-100. With this on our tactical aircraft we'll finally even the odds against the electronic threat."

The aide agreed. "I just hope there are enough of them." Schmuel Baharov seemed not to hear him. Preoccupied with the self-protection jammer that could mean survival for Israeli pilots, he rattled off a litany of characteristics that his aide already knew by heart. "Not only does this device cover the X and S bands, but the L band as well. And it even has a built-in chaff dispenser."

With capability of detecting and jamming both missile and gunlaying radars, the ALQ-100 offered multipurpose protection for a fighter-bomber operating against sophisticated electronically guided weapons. The chaff dispenser was an added bonus, either replacing or augmenting dispensers already affixed to Israeli combat aircraft. The U.S. Military Airlift Command was providing as many as could be flown from the East Coast to Israel, but the routes and times were lengthy. Not many Mediterranean nations were willing to allow their airspace or bases to be used for the purpose of assisting the Jewish state.

Abruptly the general straightened up. "Yes, we'll get enough. And I'll tell you why. We lost eighty aircraft in the first seven days of this war. We may end up with more jammers than airplanes."

Hancock was ready for a fight, but it had little to do with the ten-day-old Arab-Israeli war. Ordered to enter the Red Sea and steam northward to the near end of the Suez Canal, the U. S. task force anticipated problems with Palestinian forces on Bab el Mandeb, the former British possession at the mouth of the Red Sea. The strait measured only a few miles across, and artillery on the small island could engage any ship transiting the strait.

The United States informed Yemen that Hancock's task force would exercise its right of passage through international waters. Consequently, when the lead destroyer entered the waterway between Yemen and Djibouti, twenty bomb-laden Skyhawks and eight hungry Crusaders were overhead. The message was not lost on local hotheads; the passage was uneventful.

The airborne planes were recovered before Hancock herself entered the Red Sea, for flight operations would be difficult in the confined waters of that body. Instead, an all-pilots meeting was called in the wardroom, where the task force commander's staff was to present a contingency plan drafted in response to orders from Washington. Some eighty aviators squeezed into the wardroom, fidgeting and jockeying for space. Clanlike, they sat by squadrons behind their respective skippers.

Bennett had a seat up front with a good view of the rostrum and regional map.

Stepping to the rostrum, a full commander shuffled his papers and looked around. Robert Tatum was a non-aviator-a "blackshoe" in fliers' parlance-but he was trusted by the admiral to handle an apparently unpleasant task. He let out a long breath and began.

"Gentlemen, the purpose of this briefing is to acquaint you with a contingency plan to deliver this air wing's aircraft to Israel."

Bennett leaned forward in his chair. He was conscious of almost complete silence behind him, contrary to the exclamations he would have expected.

"All forty-two A-4s and twenty-four F-8s are to be launched here," Tatum said, tapping the map, "about one thousand miles south of Tel Aviv. The route has been planned to remain in international airspace most of the way. But at the northern leg it will be necessary to overfly northwestern Saudi Arabia and part of Jordan." A murmur ran through the room, at once questioning and angry.

Tatum explained that the sixty-six carrier planes would land at designated airfields in Israel. Then, having taken a civilian suit and overnight kit, the naval aviators would don their "civvies" and board an airliner for New York.

Bennett glanced across the aisle at his opposite number in VF-211. They exchanged knowing looks. Contradictory thoughts rushed through their minds. How do I down a couple of birds to keep a combat air patrol for the ship? Or How do I make sure I get in on this in case some MiGs come up to play?

The pilots sat in awed silence for a moment. This was a veteran air wing, honed to a fine edge by seven years of combat over Southeast Asia. These men were warriors. They understood war, but they did not understand the rationale behind the plan. An aircraft carrier without aircraft was an overpriced transport vessel. Air Wing 21 had not sailed halfway around the planet merely to deliver its precious planes to another nation. Yet the aviators were to be deprived of their weapons. In a word, emasculated. The resentment was tangible.

But some, like Bennett, sensed an implied message. Hancock's proposed reinforcement would amount to about 20 percent of the prewar Israeli Air Force, and it was axiomatic that no air arm could sustain a 10 percent loss rate for long. Bennett thought back to what had seemed the sweetheart deal with the MiGs in Nevada now maybe it made sense. Perhaps payment had been deferred.

After Tatum finished his briefing the squadron commanders got together. One Skyhawk CO said, "I can understand us giving the Israelis A-4s. They've flown them for years. But F-8s? Come on!"

The fighter skippers agreed. The Heyl Ha'Avir never had owned Crusaders. None of the Israeli pilots had flown the Voughts and there was no maintenance or logistic support in place to keep them operational.

Bennett summed up the situation in a sentence. "If they need F-8s that bad, they're really on the ropes."

At dawn on 15 October, jets bearing the blue Star of David lifted off their runways. With the new electronic countermeasures (ECM) gear, the Mirages, Phantoms, and Skyhawks had gained a large measure of protection from Arab tracking and fire-control radars, and the results showed. Daily aircraft losses had dropped to two or three-well within limits. But not even massive American replenishment could offset the staggering losses of the first week.

Lieutenant David Ran was as well aware of the shortage as anyone. He had seen squadron mates die and he knew how the ground crews slaved to keep remaining aircraft in commission. He' was tired-tired in his bones-but he surprised himself with an unsuspected reservoir of stamina. A brief meeting with his diplomat brother Avrim told the story.

"Papa, you would hardly know David anymore," Avrim had told their father. "He's changed so much since I last saw him. There's still that shyness about him but he's also, well, so confident. I think he's learned a lot about himself these recent days. You know he's now a flight leader? Amazing." Avrim paused, uncertain whether he should tell his father what else had appeared in David's personality. Well, a parent is entitled to know. "Papa, there's something more. The war. I think he likes it."

David had been promoted to section leader, and while he did not like the war he found that he savored combat. It was a distinction that only warriors could understand.

Concentrating on the mission at hand, he frankly relished the prospects. Egyptian armored columns thrusting for Mitla Pass had outrun the coverage of their fixed SA-2 and SA-3 missile batteries. Now the narrow bridgehead afforded Israeli pilots a densely packed hunting ground.

Flying number three in the four-plane flight, Ran kept impeccable formation on his leader. The A-4s approached the target area at 300 knots and Ran checked his armament switches, then adjusted the rheostat of his gunsight. He had developed a passion for tankbusting and had told a former flight school classmate, "It's the most fun you can have in an airplane."

More fun was at hand. The Skyhawks broke up to approach the enemy armored column, two each from different directions. Anti-tank helicopters hovered nearby, awaiting the cover of the jet attack to make their own move against the Soviet-built T-54s and T-62s. With other aircraft dedicated to chaff and flare dispensing, and still more conducting standoff jamming of the higher radar frequencies, the mission was a complex endeavor. But recent experience showed that it worked most of the time.

From 8,000 feet Ran led his wingman down on the low-slung silhouettes of Egyptian tanks. As usual, the sky erupted with flak bursts, missile plumes, chaff, and flares. Ran went for a circle of T-62s, jinking only slightly during his run. He felt bulletproof.

Tanks are built to engage their own kind, and therefore are most heavily armored on the front and sides. They are most vulnerable from above and behind, and Ran took advantage of that fact. He arced around for a favorable angle on several of the forty-ton monsters and initiated a fifteen-degree dive. Waiting until his slant range was less than 2,000 feet, he placed the pipper of his gunsight reticle on the hull of the nearest T-62 and barely stroked the trigger.

Eight 30mm shells left the muzzles of his twin DEF A cannon, and six hit the target. They penetrated the 11/4-inch armor covering the top of the Egyptian tank and destroyed it.

Ran instantly jockeyed stick and rudder to line up another and fired a similarly economical burst. Flames and smoke erupted from its engine compartment but Ran hardly noticed. He had learned what every snapshooter knows: Once you have engaged a target, ignore it. Just shift targets and shoot again-there is no time for sightseeing.

The two A-4s bottomed out of their runs and hugged the deck, scooting for safety behind every sand dune and depression. Ran had a brief image of helicopters launching missiles into the massed enemy armor. It looked like a good job.

Ran was eager for another pass; he felt sure of one kill and probably another. He had the best record in the squadron for rounds fired to tanks killed, as the Heyl Ha'Avir kept meticulous records on combat efficiency. David's armorers proudly boasted that their pilot was destroying one enemy tank with fewer than ten rounds of ammunition. His gun camera films were being shown as examples of how to do the job, and he was only getting better.

The flight leader pulled up at a safe distance and assessed the situation. He judged that the Egyptians were still preoccupied with results of the first attack and decided to risk another. A terse radio command told Ran what to do. The A-4s varied their roll-in headings from the previous pass and once more dropped into the seething caldron of missiles and flak.

A lucrative target offered itself in the form of a Gun Dish antiaircraft unit. Ran destroyed it in one pass while his wingman damaged another T-62. Both A-4s were down to sandblower altitude again when Ran felt a moderate thump. He thought it came from the rear of his aircraft. He scanned his instruments. Fuel state, hydraulic pressure, engine RPM and tailpipe temperature all registered normal.

Climbing back to altitude, Ran asked his wingman to look him over. The brown-and-tan Skyhawk dropped back and smoothly slid under Ran's tail, reappearing on the opposite side.

"You've got some battle damage to your stabilizer, but it looks all right. Any instrument fluctuation?"

"Negative." David thought he'd probably taken a near miss from a hand-held SA-7, but in flight there was no point speculating. After landing, the two fliers examined the torn aluminum of the Skyhawk's tail. Ran's wingman was in a chipper mood.

"You see what happens when you develop a reputation as a sharpshooter? People start shooting back."

David Ran turned on his heel and paced off to debrief.

The 1973 war entered its third and final phase on Day Eleven. Two-thirds of the Egyptian and Syrian missile batteries were knocked out, freeing more Israeli aircraft for direct support of ground forces. Additionally, Iraqi and Jordanian forces were contained along the Golan Heights so the emphasis of Israeli operations shifted westward.

Suppression of Arab air defenses had badly affected IAF efforts.

Though hundreds of sorties were flown daily, the early portion of the war required the large majority to be devoted to auxiliary tasks: flare and chaff drops, ECM and actual attacks on flak and SAM batteries. Now that had changed.

Captain Solomon Yatanahu explained the new situation in a briefing to his flight crews.

"Our tank forces are launching Operation Gazelle, designed to cut off the Egyptians in this area." He tapped a large-scale map with his pointer. "Bridging and bulldozer units are providing crossings over the Suez Canal in order to put our armor in the enemy's rear." Yatanahu smiled broadly. His fliers knew him as a determinedly cheerful leader, despite fatigue and losses.

"Boys, this is an historic moment. It's only the second time in Jewish history that we've crossed the Red Sea without getting our feet wet."

The aircrews shared the mirth. Yatanahu thought it was good to hear laughter again. After what they've been through, he thought, if they can laugh they can win.

Commander John Bennett attended an intelligence briefing with the other squadron COs. The contingency delivery of F-8s and A-4s to Israel had been canceled because the situation was stabilized but the air wing "spy" kept the aviators up to date as a matter of course.

"Since the war started eighteen days ago, things have changed drastically," the intelligence officer began. "It's a weird setup, with Egyptian units on the east bank of the canal and Israeli forces on the west side. This armored column"-he pointed to Suez Town on his map-"has cut off most of the Egyptian Third Army. Everybody seems to be holding in place with the impending cease-fire."

Bennett leaned forward, chin in his hands. "When's the shooting supposed to stop?"

"Sometime tomorrow, evidently. I don't have full info on that, but my guess is that Washington and Moscow have reined in their surrogates and finally made them behave. That's probably what's behind this cease-fire in place, as confirmed by national reconnaissance assets."

Bennett smiled to himself. He liked to read for pleasure, and as a history lover he had acquired a regard for the English language as it was intended to be used. The subspecies called Pentagonese left him cold, even after sixteen years in the Navy. He knew perfectly well that "national reconnaissance assets" meant satellite photography, which, combined with radio monitoring from ships in the Mediterranean, provided a good picture of developing events.

The intel officer continued. "What this means is pretty obvious.

The Israelis pulled things out of the fire by a damn narrow margin. We estimate they lost 50 percent of their frontline tactical aircraft in this war. Remember, it's lasted three times longer than the '67 war, with attendant heavier losses."

Bennett recalled the paper he had written at the Naval War College. Airpower was the key to the Middle East, and Israel could not afford a prolonged war. This current conflict, evidently headed for conclusion, was proof positive if further evidence were necessary. He reached in his shirt pocket, produced a notepad, and scribbled a few lines. John Bennett had certain opinions on the nature of airpower-attitudes not wholly in keeping with American policies. He was not sure what to do with his concepts, but he felt someday they might be put to use.

The shooting on the Egyptian Front ended 24 October. However, clearing up the human and technological debris took longer than it had taken to produce the carnage. A few well-connected military attaches from nonbelligerent countries were able to examine the residue of combat, noting the effects of modem weapons for future reference.

Among those inspecting the battlefield around Suez was a Saudi Arabian Air Force officer, Major Mohammad abd Maila. He saw the charred, gutted hulks of trucks, tanks, and personnel carriers. He tasted as much as smelled the residue of burned rubber, diesel, and gasoline-and roasted flesh. It was not difficult for him to imagine. the Israeli aircraft descending from the sky to destroy what had once been a powerful armored column. The screech of jet engines, the staccato pounding of antiaircraft guns, the high-pitched ring of armor-piercing rounds penetrating tempered steel.

Maila turned away from the wretched sight. He had excellent contacts in Riyadh, including well-placed members of the royal family. Perhaps he could spare his own countrymen some of what he had seen. Walking back to his jeep, the phrase echoed in his consciousness, This must never happen again.