Warriors

Chapter 1

Anger was evident in his long stride and the force of each heel on the sidewalk. But there was something else-embarrassment. He had not seen his friend in a long time, and to learn how a once-valued comrade had turned out was cause for embarrassment and anger. Pausing at the intersection, he unbuttoned his blazer and stepped off the curb. Both hands were thrust into his pockets, and the angry stride slowed to a more casual gait.

Damn, they were right, he thought. All of them. Old John Bennett just can't stop tilting at windmills. You're not in the Navy anymore, Bennett. It's no longer your problem. Why can't you let it go? Dave only had a few hours, and you led him into another argument and started the whole thing over again. Poor bastard only wanted to see some old friends and have a drink, and you start lecturing again on what's wrong with naval aviation.

A brief smile creased Bennett's tan face. God, he thought to himself, it's true. They do breathe helium in Washington.

It was an old joke in the operational forces that when a good guy-somebody who understood what was important-got orders to D. C., his personality changed. Damn, in a few months it was like they gave him a prefrontal lobotomy. When you saw him next he was mouthing inane ideas in Pentagonese.

These converts always seemed full of new buzzwords which, like a bumper sticker, tried to pass for philosophy. John Bennett and Dave Edmonds had been fighter pilots for twenty years; served together in two squadrons. Both men enjoyed reputations as out-standing aviators; they had written the Navy's first tactical manual for supersonic fighters. When pilots talked about the "super sticks," Bennett and Edmonds always were mentioned-like Lewis and Clark or ham and eggs.

Today the questions always were about aircraft design, whether it should be complex and capable of several missions or a single-purpose, specialized plane. Because the political supporters of complexity had prevailed, the results were extremely expensive fighter planes. But Bennett and Edmonds had grown up in the least expensive and oldest fighter in the Navy inventory, and the Vietnam War had proven the validity of their arguments for simplicity. Their Vought F 8Bs had outperformed every other fighter in the U. S. stable in that long war, winning the highest kill-loss ratio.

But that was the shooting war, Bennett reminded himself. He thought of his farewell speech to his squadron when he retired. "The United States Navy, gentlemen, is an eighteenth-century institution reluctantly being dragged into the nineteenth century." That had caught the press's attention. So, with one foot in the grave, he jumped in with both feet. He had told his junior officers that their value as aviators would only become apparent to the U. S. government during the next war.

The reporters had lined up to pursue the retiring aviator's thoughts on the subject. They sensed a controversial quote, or at least a colorful one. "Tell us, Commander Bennett, does that mean you think there will be another war?"

The junior officers had braced themselves, knowing the skipper's reply. "Well, if we don't think there'll be another war, all of us are wasting a hell of a lot of the taxpayers' money." The base's public affairs officer had his hands full explaining that one!

It was a February evening in La Jolla, but the air was balmy with a gentle breeze off the Pacific. Bennett loved this small enclave carved into the California coast. He had raised a son and lost his wife here. The memory pained him again. The drunk driver had served barely a year in prison.

Inside his coat pocket, Bennett felt the engraved invitation to Dave's change of command ceremony. His friend would become captain of the carrier Saratoga on the east coast in a few weeks. Dave had specifically taken time to get together, despite a hectic visit to San Diego. Damn it, he was a good man. Old Dave had chased that MiG-19 right over Hainan into Chinese airspace and ran the bastard out of fuel. No manager or chairbound warrior would have done that, risking his career in the process. But the nagging doubt returned-what had Dave done to ingratiate himself to the power brokers in Washington? Maybe he had changed.

Or maybe, Bennett mused, I've stayed stagnant while everybody else has progressed.

Bennett loved the landscaped entrance to his apartment. It was a jungle of bent pines and well-tended flowers. He took in the simple beauty of the place, paying no notice to the figure closing on him from behind. A cultured Middle Eastern voice broke the silence. "I beg your pardon, Commander Bennett?"

John turned to face a man in gray trousers and expensive light-blue worsted jacket. The stranger carried himself with an air of dignity; of one accustomed to authority. His swarthy complexion was punctuated by a well-trimmed goatee. Bennett thought the Rolex on his left wrist must have cost $5,000. The gray-and-red tie was elegantly knotted and snugged to the perfectly starched collar of his dress shirt. This man had what soldiers called command presence.

The gentleman extended his hand and Bennett appreciated the firm grasp. This was a very self-composed individual, and Bennett's four-inch height advantage seemed to dwindle.

"My name is Safad Fatah. I am a Saudi Arabian diplomat. Could I please speak with you a few minutes?" The accent carried a trace of British influence-probably the result of an expensive education in England.

"What do you want to talk about?"

"Is it perhaps possible we could talk in your apartment?"

Bennett started to hedge but the Arab gentleman interrupted.

"Please, Commander, it will only take a moment. I think you might find it most interesting."

Bennett unlocked his door, stepped back, and swept his hand inward, inviting the guest to enter. Fatah took in the apartment in a single glance.

"Please sit down. By the way, how did you know my name?"

Fatah rested his hands on his plump belly. "I have been in your country for the past five years. I am presently with the Saudi Embassy in Washington, and we obtained your address from some friends in that area."

Bennett's curiosity intensified.

"Can I get you something cool to drink? A beer perhaps?"

Immediately Bennett realized his error. Muslims don't drink alcohol, he thought.

"No thank you, sir." If Fatah took offense he covered it admirably. "If you have a Pepsi that would be nice."

Bennett rummaged through his cluttered refrigerator. One of the women he occasionally dated was fond of Pepsi, and there were two cans left.

As he poured the soda into a glass, Bennett searched his memory. Whom did he know in D.C. who traveled in diplomatic circles? Feeling the warrior's suspicion of diplomats, Bennett kept his distance. He acknowledged the supremacy of civilian leadership over the armed forces, but he drew the line at meddling.

Bennett sat down across from Fatah and both men sized up one another. Bennett had removed his own jacket but the Arab sat impeccably clad with his coat still buttoned.

Barely sipping his drink, the Saudi leaned forward and his dark eyes fixed on Bennett's. "Commander, my government would like to discuss with you ·the possibility of a venture in my nation which would make use of your expertise. If it's agreeable to you, we would be pleased to have you as our guest in Arabia. If your schedule permits, we can set the meeting in Riyadh six days hence. I must leave this evening but I shall meet you upon arrival. We will, of course, pay all your expenses and we think you might enjoy a few days as our guest."

Bennett masked the confusion he felt. His face belied any uncertainty but his mind raced. "And what would you want me-"

Again Fatah smoothly interrupted. "Please, Commander, I cannot say more than I have. Everything would be made clear to you, but for the present would you please consider that I am not at liberty to divulge more information? My sovereign will explain everything to you in due course."

The Saudi's initial contact with Bennett was the result of a two-year effort Riyadh had invested in selecting the retired aviator. There was nothing about John Bennett the Saudis did not know; he even looked the part, as if cast for a motion picture. There were the clear gray eyes which could display disarming charm or icy rage. Women especially would see and be moved by those eyes, and Arabs knew women as perhaps no other men on earth. The Prophet had given that knowledge to his people. Of that, Fatah was certain.

Bennett's cheeks were tanned and there were small lines at the comers of both eyes-testament to 5,000 hours aloft, many of them squinting into the sun in search of adversaries. The carefully groomed hair had a touch of gray now, but the overall impression was one of energy and vigor.

Following orders from his government, Fatah had selected the fifty-four-year-old retired naval officer after extensive screening.

Bennett's combat record, his writings on aerial combat, his reputation among his contemporaries and-most important-among his former students, were well known to Fatah. He knew of the man's marriage, the death of his wife, the fact that Bennett's son was enrolled at Arizona State University.

There had been difficulty obtaining a copy of the thesis Bennett had written at the Naval War College. It had been classified as secret, but the Saudis had obtained Bennett's document, plus several written by other prospective agents. Bennett's opus, Airpower-Key to the Middle East, had confirmed he was the man the Saudis wanted.

John Bennett at first said nothing as he considered the strange proposal.

The silence was broken when Bennett rose and stood with his hands behind his back. "Mr. Fatah, can you tell me if your government wishes to utilize my services in any way that could be detrimental to my country, or jeopardize my position as a U. S. citizen and a retired military officer?"

Fatah rose and looked Bennett square in the face. "Sir, I can assure you that is not the case."

There was a pause and Bennett strode to the window, staring at the blue Pacific. He said, "Mr. Fatah, I would be honored to be a guest of your king. I have made deployments to the Mediterranean and I would enjoy seeing the Middle East again. How long should I plan on staying?"

"Oh, I believe three days would be ample time for us to explain our proposal to you. I will have a car pick you up here at noon Thursday. Incidentally, Commander, is your passport current?" Fatah already knew the answer.

"Yes it is. What will the weather be like this time of year?"

"It is suitable for a lightweight suit and sports clothes." Fatah extended his hand and said, "Then I shall see you in Riyadh next week, Commander."

After the man left, Bennett opened a Coors and sat with his feet propped on the coffee table. His curiosity was aroused, and he felt sympathy for the cultured Saudi. The kingdom's days were numbered, he thought. The whole region was a caldron now, on a scale not seen in the past millenium. Iran's interminable war of attrition with Iraq finally had reached an. uneasy settlement. Extensive blood-letting without significant gain by either side, severe economic disruption in the Persian Gulf with repeated attacks on third-party ships and ports-all these factors had forced a tenuous cease-fire. But the late Ayatollah and his successors had gained a victory of sorts. Despite the bitter religious discord between both nations, the cold-eyed Muslim priests in Tehran had reached an understanding with the Arab Socialist Baath party in Baghdad. Islam was slowly, reluctantly, uniting.

The year before, Lebanon's convulsions ended when the Syrian leadership was replaced by the spreading church-state doctrine of the mullahs. Press reports were ominous, for after the moderate Egyptian president and four ministers died in a mysterious plane crash, another bloody civil war was barely averted. The Libyans gleefully played a central role in fomenting turmoil in Cairo, and were suspected of sabotaging the presidential aircraft. It had taken decades, but the entire Islamic world seemed to be rallying under the green flag with star and crescent.

Nobody was naive enough to believe the Arab states would sublimate their individual differences for long; religious antagonism alone between Sunni and Shiite would guarantee lasting discord. But for the moment, the pressure was on the moderate Muslim nations.

John Bennett was aware of these facts. But he needed more information, a broader perspective. He set down his beer, grabbed the keys to his Mercedes, and headed for the library. In his methodical way he spent the evening building a background file, then he checked out a copy of the Koran.

The more he studied recent Middle East history, the more Bennett understood the rarity and importance of Saudi Arabia's relatively stable government. No other Arab nation of significant size had possessed a lasting hierarchy since World War II. There had been important efforts at pan-Arabism, most notably the short-lived Egyptian-Syrian alliance under Gamal Abdel Nasser. But the United Arab Republic, founded in 1958, fell apart within three years when the Syrian army broke with Cairo in resentment over Egyptian influence in Damascus.

Bennett read about the greater strife that followed. Anwar Sadat, perhaps the only genuine statesman in the region, was assassinated by radical army elements resentful of his accord with Israel. Iraq: plagued by coups and internal rebellion even before the war with Iran. Syria: successive governments toppled, then irretrievably mired in Lebanon. Jordan: perennial difficulty with the Palestinian population, open conflict with the PLO, and the festering matter of Israeli occupation of the West Bank. The list seemed endless.

But in Islam's holy book Bennett saw glimpses of what hardly could be missed by feuding Muslims themselves. The prophet Muhammad laid out a philosophy of life with strong appeal. Generosity and hospitality were extolled, as were attention to family and devotion to God. The Koran idealized strong, quiet men of action and commitment. If those qualities could be harnessed and directed under a unified leadership, the world would resound with their deeds:

Barely twelve hours after takeoff from San Diego, the Saudi Air 747 was lined up with the runway lights at Al-'Aqabah, and the Boeing's tires scarred the runway with black rubber upon landing. Bennett was met by an elegantly robed Safad Fatah with a chauffeured limousine and driven to the palace. There the former naval officer was hospitably but quickly shown his elegant quarters and left to sleep off his jet lag.

Late the next morning Bennett awoke refreshed if not wholly recovered, still in awe of his surroundings. The room was more than sumptuous; it bordered on the decadent, he thought. He considered himself sophisticated and well traveled, but never had he stayed in such a room. Few Muslims would choose such surroundings; the opulence therefore must reflect their view of what infidels desire. The shower and faucet handles must be solid gold. I don't know what these guys want, he mused, but they have the money to buy whatever it is.

Hours before Bennett stirred that morning, King Rahman had met with his principal military and civilian advisers. The meeting was solemn. The king, seated on an elaborately ornamented throne elevated above the floor, was noticeably ashen-faced. His ministers sat in a semicircle before him, and all took note of the monarch's pallor but none spoke of it. They did not need to. For as the 747 carrying the party from San Diego had passed the entrance to the Mediterranean at Gibraltar, a brief, violent assault had once more rent the Middle East.

The Israeli army, in a professionally executed lightning attack, had entered Jordan the night before. The invasion was justified by an announcement insisting the move was aimed it hostile guerrilla forces operating within that nation's borders. Israeli troops had occupied Amman in a matter of hours, supported by overwhelming air and artillery forces that smothered the defenses.

In Tel Aviv the prime minister announced that King Hussein was safe, en route to Cyprus with his family and senior advisers. The immediate fate of occupied Jordan remained uncertain, but it was unlikely the Israelis would withdraw anytime soon.

While few analysts agreed on a likely conclusion, most were quick to point out a long succession of events leading to the Israeli action. For several years Israeli public opinion had railed against the political leadership for its lack of action to increasingly violent resistance to Israeli domination of Gaza and the West Bank. Following the well-publicized riots' of the late 1980s, Palestinians had gained wider global support, plus military aid from government and private organizations within Lebanon and Jordan. It was a descending spiral of violence: repression brought resistance and revenge bred itself in kind. Eventually the Palestinian intefadeh, or uprising, expanded beyond stone-throwing. It grew into selective terrorist raids, evolving as more arms and men became available. All too soon larger operations were conducted with supporting arms-often rockets and artillery from Syria and Iran.

The political chaos in Lebanon, coupled with Jordan's tenuous position between its indigenous Palestinian population and a need to show support for pan-Arabism, bred the cycle of violence. Bennett concluded that Jordan may have ceased to exist as a nation-state in much the way that Lebanon had degenerated.

With each Palestinian raid, with each Israeli death, the radical element of Israeli politicians gained increasing support from a disenchanted electorate. Consequently, the Likud party-spawned by the earlier hard-line Herut and Liberal parties-found itself ironically in danger of being portrayed as too moderate or even as ineffectual. Therefore, Likud could not afford to alienate the ultraorthodox segments like the Kach party, whose influence now exceeded its small numbers.

Eventually the fundamentalist, most nationalist Israeli politicians began insisting that Jordan was not a legitimate country, but a creation of the British. This viewpoint gained a 40 percent plurality among the electorate, and political pressure on the government became intense. Some observers predicted that Israel would propose Jordan as the long-awaited Palestinian homeland, thus skirting the sensitive issue of ceding Israeli-occupied land for that purpose. Bennett knew-in fact, had predicted-that some settlement of the Palestinian issue would be the only means of achieving a balance in the region, especially after the turmoil of the late 1980s. He was enough of a realist to know that peace in the Middle East was a pipe dream. But now it may be too late; the time for concessions to the Palestinians may have passed into history. Now they rode the wave of Islamic fundamentalism which seemed bound to sweep all before it.

Safad Fatah had hinted as much in his San Diego meeting with Bennett. The moderate Arab states, most notably the Saudis, stood to lose everything. All they could hope for was to hold what they already had.

The king had already met with delegations from Iran. Khomeini's successors were no less determined than the departed ayatollayh, but they were more pragmatic and had reestablished relations with Riyadh. The long, bitter war with Iraq had shown the folly of pitting Muslim against Muslim and flesh against steel. Now they called for a unified religious war-a jihad-which would once and for all destroy the Jewish state. The superpowers could do little more than observe the growing storm from the sidelines.

The Saudi monarch now sat on a tenuous throne, knowing that only the power of his oil and money could save him-if coupled with a precisely executed diplomatic scheme by men the quality of Safad Fatah. The Iranians were the key-maintain an accord with them, and the others likely would follow suit. But the king knew that the same men he had hosted over thick coffee and paper-thin wafers were capable of dispatching a team of suicidal assassins the next time.

Now, addressing his own ministers, the ruler of Saudi Arabia outlined the situation. Though his nation had not been directly involved in the many wars against Israel since 1948, the pattern of combat was well known in Riyadh. Every man in the room knew that no Arab army had seriously threatened the existence of the Jewish state since the Israeli Air Force had grown to early maturity in the mid-1950s. In the usually clear weather of the Middle East, and upon its barren deserts, no army could move on the few roads and hide from Israeli aircraft. Those roads had time and again been lined with the gutted, charred, rusting remains of trucks and armored vehicles.

John Bennett knew the facts as well as any Arab leader. It was the opening theme in his War College thesis which had brought him to Fatah's attention. Fatah had committed two paragraphs to memory:

The Middle East arena, from Suez on the canal to Tarabulus in northern Lebanon, is barely 400 miles. A jet aircraft covers this distance in less than one hour at cruising speed. At Mach I the time is barely thirty minutes. Thus, from Tel Aviv the radius of action for a supersonic aircraft puts it within combat in just ten to fifteen minutes.

Operating in clear weather, in terrain devoid of cities, forests, and even natural depressions in many places, a defending air force sits within easy reach of nearly all likely targets. Antiaircraft artillery and surface-to-air missiles may force the aircraft to pay a price for success, but success thus far has been denied the Arabs. Only airpower can defeat airpower, and at present the only thoroughly professional, world-class air force in the region belongs to Israel.

Fatah had underlined the crucial last sentence and quoted it when suggesting to his superiors that Commander Bennett was the man for the job.

John Bennett answered the knock and opened the double doors of his suite. There was Fatah, impeccably draped in a mishlah and the traditional ghotra headdress. "As-salaamu alaykum," he said. "Peace be upon you." Bennett replied in barely recognizable Arabic. "Wa alaykumu as-salaam. And upon you be peace, Mr. Fatah."

"Well done, Commander Bennett," Fatah lied. "I am impressed.

Come, we will go straightaway and 1 shall describe the protocol while we walk."

As Fatah escorted Bennett across the courtyard, Bennett noticed an uneasiness he had seldom known. A deep-seated feeling that this day could be the most important of his life was submerged beneath a seemingly cool exterior as Fatah briefed him.

"Commander, my king has instructed me to tell you that he wishes you to be completely comfortable and there will be none of the usual pomp. He wishes you to be informal, as he will be with you. "

On entering the throne room they walked toward the king, who was flanked by his aides. Bennett was surprised to see the monarch dressed almost plainly in traditional garb, with simple accoutrements that belied his status. He was a man of medium height in his late fifties, with lively eyes and a winning smile. As Bennett approached, King Rahman rose from the throne and stepped forward, hand extended. The grip was firm, contrary to Arabic custom, and the king placed his left hand on Bennett's shoulder. This guy is in the leadership business, all right, the aviator thought. Even looks the part: hair graying at the temples like people used to prefer in doctors, presidents, and airline captains. But Bennett also noted the deep wrinkles above the brow.

Rahman guided Bennett to a semicircle of Western-style chairs around a gold-leaf antique table. A plain silver tray held seven cups and saucers. Seeming to materialize from thin air, two servants appeared and filled the cups with gaoa, a strong green coffee.

The king briefly introduced the other four men in attendance, as Bennett already knew of Safad Fatah's role as ambassador at large and family confidant. The American shook hands-far less firmly than had the king-with Generals Mustafa Halabi and Mohammad abd Maila, finance minister Tewfig al Aziz, and Dr. Fuad Hamoud, whom Bennett took to be another diplomat of some sort. The air force officers, crisp in their uniforms, showed the British influence and Bennett easily related to them. Aziz, short and balding, had a miserly look about him which Bennett thought ill suited the chief financier of Arabia. Hamoud was a cipher, a bearded man who said little but listened closely.

Following preliminary pleasantries about his comfort, the beauty of Bennett's California, and the world in — general, Rahman motioned to the waiters. They replaced the gaoa with a highly sweetened tea, then disappeared. The king of Saudi Arabia set down his cup.

Game time, John, and here comes the serve.

The king leveled his gaze at the American and spoke in a precise Etonian accent. "Commander Bennett, I know you must be curious about our invitation to have you leave your beautiful San Diego and travel these thousands of miles to my kingdom. I have need of the services of a man of your capabilities and experience. Before I answer any questions, I would like to take a moment to tell you how we came to choose you. Please do not be offended if I tell you that we expended nearly two years and a great deal of money and influence to find a man such as yourself. In fact, I can say that we settled on four candidates for the mission I propose-two U. S. Air Force officers, a Royal Air Force man, and yourself. You became our first choice.

"We are completely aware of your exemplary service to your government. Your combat record, we know, made you among the most decorated airmen who flew during that terrible ordeal in Vietnam. We know of your expertise as a tactician, of your scholarly writings on the subject. We know of your reputation as a warrior. And we know of the loss of your wife, for which I extend my sincere condolences. "

Bennett said nothing.

The king continued. "Your son is nearly grown and soon may marry." This caught Bennett by surprise. With a mischievous smile the monarch added, "In fact, dear sir, I understand you might soon be a grandfather." Bennett could not suppress an admiring smile. These people were thorough, and he appreciated that quality.

But inside, Bennett reeled. His first concern was that Paul's carelessness would offend Muslim sensibilities. Paul had told of two Saudis in his dorm at ASU. One of their female cousins had become pregnant out of wedlock, thereby making her guilty of fornication under Muslim law. According to Paul, the girl's parents had turned their home inside out until they found a picture of a young man. The girl would neither confirm nor deny that he was responsible. But the two Saudis said that less than two weeks later the boy in the picture was found on a Riyadh side street with an ornamental dagger in his back.

Bennett knew the story was plausible-the royal house had once shot a princess who married without permission, then beheaded her husband.

The king returned to the matter at hand. "Commander, the situation in this region has forced all the Arab nations to build a competent military to protect their individual borders. Simply put, we need a man to raise, train, and lead an air force for these defensive purpose's. Can you tell me, sir, if you had unlimited resources of money and manpower, could you build a first-rate air force which could defend itself against an adversary skilled in the use of airpower?"

A chill shot through John Bennett. He suspected he might be setting himself up for loss of pension, passport, even U. S. citizenship. This was far beyond the consulting job he had envisioned. He would be an American national in charge of a foreign military force-in short, a mercenary. Jeez, Bennett, you don't even subscribe to Soldier of Fortune, he thought.

The junior Saudi general, Mohammad abd Maila, leaned forward. "Commander, I trained in the United States for part of my career. I am aware of the capabilities and limitations of various American aircraft-I fly the F-5 quite often still. If you agree to our assignment, we would guarantee you a free hand in the selection of pilots and procurement of aircraft. There are many questions we would have regarding this training and the best aircraft for our needs, but at present I believe we should stop and allow you to consider His Majesty's offer."

The king drew a gold cigarette case from his breast pocket and tapped the end of a Benson & Hedges against the case. Lighting the cigarette, he inhaled, blew a perfect smoke ring, and returned his gaze to the American.

"The general is correct." The king omitted the fact that Maila was a second cousin and lifelong friend. Some fifteen years before, then-Major Maila had been deputy air attache to Cairo. "We should not ask you to decide here and now. nor do we intend to. Commander Bennett, I can offer you an almost unlimited expense account to procure in large numbers the aircraft you select, to train the pilots and support crew, to provide you with any staff you choose, and to pay you the sums you decide appropriate for this endeavor. If you are not willing to take this assignment we can only say we have enjoyed your company, and we will make immediate preparations to return you to your home. All we ask is your discretion. "

The king rose, and so did the others. "I believe we can end this discussion for the moment. Your head must be full of ideas and other questions. Commander, I should like you to be my guest for dinner tonight, and perhaps tomorrow you could let us know your decision. We are not asking at this time for any specific plan-only if you would like to train and lead this organization."

Bennett groped for a response, but the king raised his hand holding the cigarette. "I should explain one more thing. You would not be expected to lead this air force into battle. I pray such need will never arise. But I believe you are the man to make such a force ready for combat."

President Walter Arnold left the cabinet meeting shaken by the disarray within his administration. Already there was outspoken division within his two-month-old cabinet. The United Nations had voted without dissent to condemn Israel for the invasion of Jordan and ordered immediate withdrawal of her troops. The United States had abstained, and the cabinet was angrily divided over whether the American delegation should have exercised its veto. Now the president was preparing to meet with a group of influential Jewish leaders who would urge him to treat the invasion as necessary to ensure Israel's security.

Arnold's razor-thin victory over his Republican opponent was attributed to a turndown in the American economy during the previous administration's final year. Huge deficits and balance-of-payments inequities, combined with OPEC's renewed strength, drove oil to nearly $30 per barrel. The result was another serious recession in Western economies.

Walter Arnold had been an outstanding U. S. senator with an inbred affinity for all the media-well-spoken, handsome, outgoing. His strong grass roots support confounded the professional pols, who had been unable to knock him out of the primaries. But even some of his own party leaders-who had been shut out of the White House for nearly two decades-privately acknowledged he was not as strong a leader as the presidency required, and now his young administration faced its first serious foreign policy challenge.

Arnold asked for a background briefing on the Middle East situation before his meeting with the Jewish delegation, which included some major supporters and contributors to his campaign. The Israelis had done nothing to ease Arnold's task, though even he had to admit they were not bound by any such consideration. "Nations don't have friends, they have interests," Henry Kissinger had said. Now Walter Arnold was beginning to understand that ancient truth.

Public sentiment in the United States was running high against Israel. The invasion of Jordan seemed unwarranted to most Americans. With both military and political advisers on hand, the president settled down in the briefing room to prepare for the upcoming meeting.

Major General George Miller, the Army briefing officer, stood before the small audience. His two stars attested to his career success, despite an unimpressive appearance. Short and balding, sightly overweight, he looked more like a college lecturer than a warrior. In fact, he had never held a combat assignment. But his analytical ability, smooth style, and political savvy had won him his present position.

With three sentences of introduction, Miller repeated the litany of all military briefers. He identified himself, though almost everyone in the room was on a first-name basis with him, and stated the purpose of the briefing. The old formula: "Tell 'em what you're gonna tell 'em; then tell them, and finally tell 'em what you just told ‘em.”

This time Miller got straight to work. "Mr. President, as you will recall, previous terrorist attacks against Israel and Israeli targets outside the nation's borders have generated widespread sympathy for Israel and condemnation of the PLO. This has been especially true when third parties were harmed, including Americans. But now the terrorist leadership has shifted tactics. In fact, we have fairly good evidence that the PLO has destroyed at least two ultra-radical splinter groups which were planning bombings or suicide attacks in Europe. This change of emphasis indicates a more unified objective for the entire Palestinian movement. It acknowledges increasing understanding of the counterproductive results of terrorism in third-party nations, and it seems to indicate a better-defined goal."

The general adjusted his glasses, glancing at his notes. "From the Arab and Palestinian 'viewpoint, it makes more sense to concentrate all efforts against Israel rather than diluting their resources in scattered efforts elsewhere. This approach has the additional advantage of removing terrorist outrages from the headlines, thus focusing attention on Israeli colonization of the West Bank and the current operation in Jordan.

"The new effort began four months ago, shortly after the last major terrorist attack in Europe. You may recall that was the coordinated operation which timed the bombing of our embassy in Lisbon with the suicide commando raid on the El Al office in Amsterdam. "

Walter Arnold nodded in recollection. Four Americans and three Portuguese had died in the Lisbon explosion. The Israeli airline office had been a repeat of the Rome tragedy of 1985, this time with nineteen dead, thirty-three wounded, four terrorists killed and two captured. The two actions had rebounded against the PLO faction, as an extended bill of credit for Israel which had been stalled in the senate had gone through two days later.

General Miller continued. "Beginning last October, small-scale military operations were conducted on the borders of Israel from Lebanon by a fanatic Muslim army. The PLO denied affiliation, and while that's probably an exaggeration, it is clear that the aggressive group was acting largely on its own. The Israeli decision to enter Jordan was precipitated by increasing raids from across that border. In one three-day period in November, sixty-two Israeli soldiers were killed and twice that number wounded. The militant Likud party narrowly won a vote of confidence forced by the more radical politicians." Miller looked over his reading spectacles for emphasis. "Prime Minister Aloni and Defense Minister Shelkan share their views.

"Likud promised swift action to end the cross-border assaults, which in fact were no longer mere raids. The operations were supported by artillery and frequently by long-range rocket batteries. The objective of these assaults usually were Israeli military facilities, though on one occasion a kibbutz on the West Bank was overrun and occupied briefly. By the time the raiders were repulsed, some forty civilians had died. That was the first time the Arabs tipped their hand with more sophisticated weapons, since at least one Israeli helicopter was shot down by an SA- 7 man-portable missile. "

Taking in the summary, Arnold was concerned about both international and domestic factors. "General, who supported these radicals? Where did they get all of this hardware?"

"Sir, we have hard intelligence on logistics, advisers, and weapons from Iran, Syria, and Libya. Additionally, North Korean and Cuban assistance has been observed. Soviet participation was reported but hasn't yet been proven."

The president leaned back in his seat. "Thank you, General."

Miller realized he had been dismissed, picked up his papers, and walked out. When the door closed, Arnold looked down the table at his press secretary.

"Jerry, let's face it. The Arab raids leading up to the Israeli invasion don't really matter anymore. We have to deal with the current situation. We have a carrier battle group in the Mediterranean but it can't really do anything, and I damn sure don't want it to!" He paused for emphasis, then looked at his aide. "How do you assess the public mood about what's happened in Jordan?"

Jerry Butler knew what his boss was getting at. "Mr. President, there is no doubt about it. The two recent cases of Israeli espionage in this country have hurt their cause. Things seemed to die down after the influence-peddling episode in the House Armed Services Committee last summer. But then the new antitank round was found crated and ready for shipment to Israel-"

"Yes, yes. I remember." Arnold's voice was harsher than he intended, but the recollection of those events still rankled. With practiced ease the president shifted into his modulated make-thevoters-feel-good baritone. "What I need to know, here, is how you interpret the country's mood right now. Forget the damn polls. What do you think?"

Recognizing the conciliatory tone, Jerry continued. "I was coming to that, sir. My point is, with recent examples of continued Israeli spying over here, not many voters will feel very sympathetic to their invasion of Jordan. Since you're asking me, Joe Average on the street is going to want us to steer well clear of supporting or even condoning what's happening in Jordan. Our national interests don't seem to be threatened, so why get involved?"

Arnold nodded assent. "All right, we'll have to deal with the anti-Israeli lobby as well as with the Jewish lobby. It means steering a neutral course right down the line. You understand?"

The press secretary nodded. "Yes, sir." I sure do, he thought. It means walking the fence again. Remember the first principle of politics: Never upset a voter without a good reason.

Chapter 2

John Bennett leaned back on the oversized pillows on his king-size bed in the luxurious suite. Hands behind his head, he lay with eyes closed, recalling the dinner that had ended only two hours before.

Bennett had dined with King Rahman and one of the children.

Queen Aishah was out of sight with her daughters and youngest son, which Bennett knew to be the custom. The boy at dinner looked about fifteen, spoke very good English, and seemed conversant in aviation matters. Bennett had almost dropped the spoon in his soup when the younger casually mentioned logging 200 hours in his personal Beechcraft Bonanza.

The evening was easygoing and pleasant. The king had pointedly avoided discussing business, preferring to compare notes on places both men had seen and known. Having made three deployments to the Mediterranean, Bennett was familiar with the area, though he allowed himself greater knowledge of Toulon and Naples nightlife than the sovereign. But Rahman had impressed Bennett with mention of a fourth-place finish at the Le Mans twenty-four-hour race "in my impetuous youth."

It had gone like that all evening. But just before adjourning, the monarch had drawn Bennett aside.

Holding Bennett's arm and leaning close, he had said, "One thing for you to consider before our meeting tomorrow. You are aware of the strength of the Israeli Air Force, both in type and number of aircraft and in quality of pilots. Now, assuming you have an unlimited budget to procure any number, any type of fighter, and the time to train young men to your standards, is it possible that this air force might match the Israelis?"

Bennett returned the king's level gaze. This was the tacit question which forced itself to his consideration during the morning session with the ministers.

"I need to know, Your Majesty, if you intend me to commit this force against the Israelis. You understand it could jeopardize my status as a retired American military officer."

The king said, "Yes, I understand that completely. And I want you to know, between the two of us, that I would not expect you to be compromised that way. But I will be honest with you, my friend. As events now stand, with the invasion of Jordan, anything is possible. I must know all the possibilities beforehand. As Safad Fatah has told you, we Saudis are likely to find ourselves in the middle before long. We may well have to fight our Arab neighbors as well as the Israelis. That is why I need a highly professional, thoroughly competent air defense force. "

Bennett's mind raced. Something did not fit here. He respected this man who ruled the desert kingdom, and very much wanted to believe him. "Tell me, Your Majesty. You already have a modern, well-equipped air force. Why not simply expand it along the lines you already have?"

A smile crossed the king's face. "Ah, Commander Bennett, please understand. The Royal Saudi Arabian Air Force bears the markings of my nation, but in a real sense it is not mine. The aircraft, the support, and most of all the maintenance, depends upon foreign sources. Your country's contribution is nearly over, with the military assistance group. Now with the political factors we face, both in Washington and in our own region, we cannot count upon an uninterrupted flow of materiel or advisers. For this reason I want an independent air force, directly under my control with an absolute minimum of dependence upon external factors.

"You will excuse me if I speak bluntly. The Jewish lobby in America is very strong. Every time the United States wishes to sell us equipment or provide advisers, your politicians are deluged with letters and protests. This despite the very well-known fact that my country has not gone to war against Israel since 1948. But if our military supplies are embargoed, I will have my Arab brothers to worry about-perhaps even more than the Israelis."

At length Bennett said, "I see your point, though I wonder if the 'Jewish lobby' is as important to American policymakers as purely strategic considerations."

Gripping Bennett's arm even harder, the king spoke in a soft, almost toneless voice. "I ask you, John Bennett. Can you build me a fighter force the equal of the Israelis'?"

There was a pause of nearly half a minute as Bennett gazed at the elegant candelabra on the table. Then, softly but clearly, he had said, "Given time, yes."

Now, reclining in bed, Bennett's thoughts turned from the evening's conversation to metaphysics. He was not much on classic literature but he was well read enough to draw a comparison. The potentially Faustian nature of his relationship with the Saudi king struck him with chilling intensity. So here you are, Bennett. Satan leans on your shoulder and whispers in your ear, tempting you with the best offer a fighter pilot ever had, or hoped to have. In exchange for... what?

Bennett inhaled and considered the prospects. To build a fighter force from the ground up, with a completely free hand. Select the people, draft the syllabus, choose the airplanes. And best of all, no bullshit, no bean-counters to answer to. Mold a completely professional organization along sound military principles unencumbered by ass-covering politicians and hand-wringing diplomats. It's hog heaven, Bennett, and you'd be belly-deep in slop, he thought.

The irony of the situation occurred to him. Perhaps it would take one of the world's underdeveloped nations to bring the jet fighter force to its highest development. A Muslim kingdom one-third the size of the United States, nine-tenths covered by barren plateau. The place didn't even have any rivers.

Over eleven million inhabitants populated this wide expanse, where still barely 30 percent of the total lived in cities. Though education was free, it was still widely ignored and the literacy rate only matched the ratio of the urban population. Life expectancy was under fifty years, and though Saudi Arabia was the world's second-largest oil producer, only 12 percent of the people worked in industry. Not much had changed since oil was found in the 1930s.

Bennett had researched the nation and the royal family before leaving San Diego. King Khalid ibn 'Abd al-'Aziz al-Sa'ud had succeeded to the throne in 1975 following old King Faisal's assassination by a nephew. The present monarch had inherited the throne in a tempestuous family political squabble. Bennett regarded Rahman as a man on a tightrope with no safety net. He walked a narrow line between the conservatives in his own country and the ambitious radicals outside.

The monarch was right about his military situation. The Saudis still could not maintain a large, sophisticated air force by themselves. There were too many foreign strings attached, there was too much political favoritism ingrained in the existing forces. What the king wanted was a band of professional mercenaries who owed him complete allegiance, free of external pressures.

It kept coming back to the Israelis. Match them, and the Saudis could master any other opponent in the region. Hell, man for man they'd master any other air force in the world.

The Israelis were the global standard. They knew von Clausewitz chapter and verse. They trained hard and they fought to win.

Bennett thought of his cousin Mike, an electronics specialist on the USS Liberty in 1967. The Israelis had torpedoed the intelligence-gathering ship with PT boats and strafed her with jet aircraft. Later they said it was a mistake. They'd thought she was an Egyptian vessel flying the American flag. Mike had lost a leg but thirty-four of his shipmates lost their lives. He was still bitter-as much at the Johnson Administration for accepting the Israeli version as at the Israelis themselves. When Liberty's captain was presented the Medal of Honor for his valor in remaining at the conn despite disabling wounds, the citation never even mentioned the identity of the "hostile torpedo boats and aircraft."

Mike's name for the attackers was specific and unprintable.

It came to Bennett in a sudden rush. He might have within his grasp a means of maintaining or even expanding American influence in the Middle East while perhaps preventing a recurrence of the cycle of disaster his country had experienced in the region. Liberty in 1967, Iran in 1979, Beirut, the Stark and Vincennes episodes during the 1980s. Each military crisis had resulted in unnecessary loss of American lives or a loss of prestige and confidence in American institutions. Now the Saudis, by seeking to strengthen their own hand, were offering him a chance to do more good for the United States than he ever had done while wearing an American uniform.

While on active duty Bennett had attempted to convince people in authority that the most important element in the fighter equation was the pilot; that a superior aviator usually will beat an inferior pilot, regardless of their respective aircraft. Superior equipment-within certain broad limits-only mattered at the top of the league, between evenly matched pilots.

It had been proven time and again, yet the decision makers of years before had opted for high-tech, highly "capable" aircraft that cost $25 to $40 million each. This, combined with an overriding concern with safety, actually led to a denigration of combat skill. Bennett thought of the Air Force colonel who said, "I'd hate to see an epitaph on a fighter pilot's tombstone that says, 'I told you I needed training.' How do you train for the most dangerous game in the world by being as safe as possible?" But the pilot was to become the lesser of the equation. Many budgeteers believed that computers and technology had rendered the human mind and hand obsolete. That was bad enough. But they also discounted the human heart.

Bennett fell asleep, feeling somewhat optimistic about prospects for "his" fighter force serving to enhance U. S. influence in the Middle East while perhaps deterring wider war. He slept fitfully until shortly before dawn, when he drifted into the deepest sleep phase. Usually he dreamed in those hours, though he seldom clearly remembered his dreams. Cynical about such things, he never attached any importance to them. But throughout his adult life one dream had recurred.

It had begun after an exchange program with the Marine Corps between tours in Vietnam. Bennett had ridden in the backseat of a Phantom on a night mission. But in the dream he seldom saw the evolution from the cockpit. It was as if he stood watching from an elevated platform as the attacking jet screamed down at him from the darkness. Sometimes the plane was an F -4, often a Skyhawk-usually delta-winged.

Bennett stood alone, watching the bright jet exhaust as the aircraft arced straight up, tossing its single bomb in a high parabola which was lost to sight in the night sky. He always remembered seeing and hearing the jet top out of its two-mile-high Immelmann turn, rolling right-side up and diving away until even the noise disappeared. The bomb never landed. Bennett wondered what would happen if the dream ever lasted to completion. He thought once or twice that if that happened, he might die….

A high-pitched sound woke Bennett with a start, an eerie wailing piercing his ears. Momentarily distracted, he felt for the familiar nightstand by his bed. It was not there. Then he rolled over a notepad and he remembered. He was a guest of the King of Saudi Arabia and had been sleeping in the palace. The startling sound was an imam's call to first prayer of the day, when a silver thread first becomes visible in the dark.

Bennett checked the luminous dial of his watch: 0530. He tried to sleep again, to no avail. Rolling on his back, he placed an arm over his eyes. Exhaling, he muttered one word. "Damn!"

Safad Fatah escorted Bennett to the ante-chamber before the morning meeting. The American learned that the men who had attended the previous day's conference would be present again. Entering the conference room, he was directed to a chair and the king entered moments later. All stood.

With a wave of his hand, Rahman spoke in English. "Be seated, gentlemen. This should not take long."

The king sat down and leaned forward, hands clasped on the polished table. "Gentlemen, last night at dinner Commander Bennett said that he believes what we propose can be done. Additionally, he received my assurance that we would not call upon him to jeopardize his American citizenship, nor his status as a retired U.S. officer. "

Looking around the table, lingering upon his two air generals, the monarch continued. "The self-defense force which Commander Bennett would establish would be administratively separate from our existing air force. In matters of acquisition, funding, and policy, I shall make the decision as to which organization is to have priority in specific matters. That must be understood by all."

The air force officers nodded solemnly. Bennett hoped the king's words would pave over any rough spots with the Royal Saudi Arabian Air Force-the Al Quwwat el Jawwiya Assa'udiya. To Bennett, one of the attractions of the king's offer was elimination of just such bureaucratic infighting.

The monarch turned to Bennett. "Commander, you have had some measure of time to contemplate the offer. Will you accept?"

Bennett inhaled. Here goes . "Your Majesty, this is the greatest challenge of my life. I believe that I understand what is necessary to build a first-rate fighter force. And I have the aircraft in mind, the Northrop F-20 Tigershark."

The two Saudi generals looked at one another in astonishment.

Bennett knew what was coming and quickly continued. "Sir, gentlemen, I believe I should explain my background and preferences. This may help you better understand how my opinions are formed.

"Most of my professional life, some three thousand hours, was spent in the Vought F-8 Crusader. It was a single-seat, single-engine fighter with mixed gun and heat-seeking missile armament. This configuration gave U.S. Navy pilots the highest kill-loss ratio of any aircraft employed in Vietnam. It is the configuration of most other successful fighters, from the F -86 in Korea up to the General Dynamics F-16 today. Because this type of fighter is relatively simple, it is reliable. You can fly more sorties per aircraft than most larger, more complex types. So it really doesn't matter how many aircraft you own, provided you can keep more than ninety percent of them flying all the time. At least, within rather broad limits. "

The king was intrigued. "I see. You would rather have six aircraft which fly nine-tenths of the time than ten aircraft which fly half the time."

"Exactly. It is better from an operational viewpoint, and from an economic one."

General Mustafa Halabi interjected. "Excuse me, Commander. But we already considered the F-20 and rejected it as little but an improved F-5. It did not meet our needs."

Bennett was ready. "Yes, sir, I'm aware of that fact. And with all respect to the Royal Saudi Air Force, I stand by my choice. The F-20 began life as the F-5G but in fact is a completely new airplane." Bennett was directing his remarks where they counted-to the king and the financiers. "It was not bought by the U.S. armed forces and therefore never had a fair comparison with its competition. But it has many virtues: some similarity with your existing F-5s, easy to fly and easy to maintain, plus it has outstanding sortie generation rates with very fast turnaround times between flights. Considering your criteria, I think it's exactly what you need: competitive but economical."

"Your Majesty." It was the economics minister, Aziz. He had not spoken before. "This makes elegant sense to me. With your permission, I shall investigate this matter." The king nodded.. "Mr. Bennett," Aziz continued, "how much would this F-20 cost us?"

"I believe, sir, the current price is around fifteen million U.S. dollars, about the same as the last production F-5s. But considering the current state of the American economy, well…" Bennett grinned. "Let us say, Mr. Minister, that you should find a buyer's market. "

Aziz returned the smile.

There's a horsetrader if ever I saw one, Bennett thought.

The king was intrigued by this exchange. "Very well. Mr. Aziz will make the necessary contacts immediately. Commander Bennett, you needn't concern yourself with acquisition. We shall bring you into the picture with the manufacturer at the appropriate time."

"Yes, sir. If I may add something. Although the F -20 has not been procured by any of the U. S. armed forces, a foreign manufacturing contract exists. It is my understanding that the parent company is producing subcomponents for a consortium in Europe and Asia. I am acquainted with one or two middle-level managers of this program. Have I your permission to see them on a personal basis to better familiarize myself with the aircraft? Naturally, I would make no mention of our plans."

Looking around the table for comment, the king saw none. "As you wish. Now then, Commander, how much time would be required before an air force such as we want could be made operational? You understand we have saved much time already by beginning construction of facilities in our country as well as Bahrain, and we have identified or recruited young men for pilot training as well as maintenance personnel and a cadre of instructors who would work for you."

"Your Majesty, it would probably be in excess of three years. The U.S. armed forces believe it takes five years to produce a combat-ready fighter pilot. But our syllabus can be streamlined to address only the matters that count. Also, I believe you can support more flying hours per month than most nations.

"However, even after that time it would still require experienced leaders to take the force into combat. Y our pilots would be as good as any in the world, and I believe they would fly perhaps the most formidable air superiority fighter ever produced. But leadership is the key." Bennett paused, knowing he was treading carefully across uncertain ground. "One possibility might be assignment of some experienced Saudi pilots to the F-20 program.”

The king looked at his air marshal. "That is something we can discuss later. Please continue."

Consulting his notes again, Bennett said, "Your Majesty, we would need about a hundred and fifty frontline fighter pilots. That means at the peak of our power approximately a hundred and thirty aircraft. Taking into account that we will have some peace-time attrition, we need to begin training with forty or fifty two-seat versions of the F-20. I think we would be looking at the purchase of some two hundred total aircraft over a five-year period. Existing F-5Fs, the two-seat Tiger II, could provide lead-in training."

General Halabi raised his hand. "Your Majesty, a question please." Turning to Bennett, the officer asked, "By lead-in training do you mean operational training, sir?"

"No, sir. The biggest time saving is a shortened course with elimination of standard training requiring transition to two or three aircraft. I propose weeding out the candidates with a twenty-hour course in light planes-Pipers or Cessnas. Those who pass go directly to the two-seat F-20B."

The air force chief stiffened. "Is that possible?"

Bennett pressed his point vigorously. He spoke louder than he intended. "Definitely, sir. I'll explain more fully when I return with the complete plan. But the advantages are considerable-cost saving, time saving, and greater proficiency in the combat aircraft." It was obvious to all that Bennett felt passionately about his proposal. "You see, the F-20 will not depart controlled flight under any but the most abnormal conditions."

The king interjected. "We can discuss these details later, gentlemen. For now, Commander Bennett, we know you must study this situation more. How long would it be until you can present a detailed analysis?"

"Your Majesty, I think I can wrap this up-complete the work-in under two months."

The king glanced around the room again. "Very well. Commander, what shall we pay you for this five-year service?"

"Sir, I would expect to use American and British instructors, and as we noted perhaps some Saudis as well. The U. S. and British should receive from a hundred thousand to a hundred and twenty thousand dollars per year in order to attract and hold the very best men. There would have to be a schedule allowing them to return home periodically, as I do not envision families at the training bases. Most of the instructors would have three-year contracts. At the end of that time, a smaller number would have the option to renew for one or two more years. With flight instructors and maintenance supervisors, probably fifty-five or so in all.

The king and Aziz glanced at one another. Aziz gave an elegant shrug.

Bennett, you're playing with the all-time high rollers.

"Yes, that is fine," the king said. "But what of yourself?" Bennett had spent part of the night considering that question.

"Your Majesty, I ask nothing for myself." He paused. "However, as you gentlemen know, I have a son in college. I would like a trust opened in his name, to be administered by an attorney of my choosing. As for myself, full compensation for all transportation, accommodations, communications, and any other expenses related to this work."

The king said evenly, "And that is all?"

Bennett returned the level gaze. "Well, not entirely, Sir. You see, I wish one more thing."

"Yes?"

"Your Majesty, I would like my name painted on one of the first F-20s."

The king, a worldly man, interpreted this odd request literally.

"That is all? Just paint your name on the machine?"

Bennett glanced at the Saudi generals. They were both grinning and the younger one-Maila-flashed a thumbs-up. "You see, sir, that means it's my airplane. I'm the one who flies it."

A laugh escaped the monarch's lips. He pounded a hand on the table. "Very good, commander. We shall paint your name on the first F-20 we receive. But you won't mind if we borrow it from time to time."

Bennett's smile was ear to ear. "Not at all, Your Majesty."

The king rose, and with him all the others. He spoke briefly in Arabic to Fatah, who ambled from the room.

Fatah was back in a moment, carrying a small, elegantly wrapped box. He handed it to the king.

"Commander John Bennett, we wish to present you with this gift in appreciation of your visit. We would have given it to you regardless, but now I am even happier that I may send you home with it. Please open it."

Bennett fumbled with the wrapping, feeling embarrassed at the attention focused on him. As he opened the lid he withdrew a small green ivory figurine of a pregnant woman.

"Commander," the king explained, "this is a fertility symbol which was excavated near Jiddah in 1976. Artists tell me its design is dated to thirteen hundred years B.C. This one is not that old, but it is ancient. Legend has it that a man who owns this figure will meet a woman who will give him happiness and children. I pray that it will bring the companionship and warmth of a woman back into your life."

Bennett felt the lump rise in his throat and the moistness well up in his eyes. He glanced down at the green figurine and spoke in low, halting words. "Your Majesty… I don't think… I can't say what this means. Only, thank you."

After Bennett had left for the airport, the king sat smoking and drinking coffee with Fatah and the other civilian representatives who had attended both sessions.

"My compliments, gentlemen. You did your work very well indeed."

Fatah inclined his head. "Thank you, Your Majesty. We were confident he was the best candidate."

The king blew a smoke ring. "Yes, yes it was. Dr. Hamoud, well done. Have you any new insights into our air leader?"

The Lebanese psychiatrist set down his cup. "No, Your Majesty. Only reinforcement. We knew that Bennett's driving ambition is to prove his point about air combat. This is what separated him from the other three choices. They are equally well qualified-in fact, one U.S. Air Force officer is a retired two-star general. But Mr. Fatah and I had considered the possibility that Bennett might work for nothing. A man of conviction. This is his chance to vindicate his theories that have not been accepted by his countrymen. Now we have given him a golden opportunity and I am certain he will make the most of it."

"How does his psychological profile indicate future attitudes?" the king asked.

"Your Majesty, there should be no significant change. Especially once the machines arrive and Bennett becomes involved in training and flying. We have selected him at the most opportune time. He is alone and vulnerable. You saw the reaction when you presented him with the fertility symbol. Such men do not show emotion easily."

Hamoud licked his lips, warming to his subject. "Sire, when he asked for the trust for his son, I felt my analysis had been accurate. When he asked for his personal machine, I knew it absolutely. "

The king turned to Fatah. "You will coordinate with Aziz. You may tell the other parties that our plan has begun, but secrecy is important. Their contributions will be needed in a few months."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Israeli Intelligence occupied a twenty-one-story steel and concrete antenna-crowned complex on the outskirts of the capital. Radio antennae allowed immediate communication with any field unit while pulling in transmissions from many other sources in the region-all part of the endless process of information-gathering and analysis. In a secure space in this complex Lieutenant Levi Bar-El slouched in his chair, reading dispatches from the day before. The young man was a reserve officer from the port city of Ashqelon, serving a full year of active duty based on his skills as a language instructor.

Though Bar-El's khaki uniform was clean, with moderately shined boots, it would not have passed an American drill sergeant's inspection. An almost studied informality had grown up in the Israeli armed forces, and casual dress combined with longish hair presented a disarming picture to most military professionals.

The report which Bar-El carried to his chief's office seemed insignificant. It involved the flight of a Saudi aircraft two days before from San Diego, California, to Riyadh.

Israeli agents in Los Angeles had photographed the passengers with 300-millimeter lenses. One they knew as an agent of the Saudi military establishment who had visited several Southern California defense contractors over the past two years. Two were middle-level diplomats. There was a four-person party comprised of two college-age princes of the royal family and their European girlfriends. And another man was an American perhaps six feet tall, approximately fifty years old, whom the operatives noted had carried himself with military bearing. The field representatives could not identify him yet, but they suggested following him upon his return. The apparent extravagance of flying eight people in a jumbo jet was not commented upon-the Saudis seemed to enjoy such displays from time to time.

Since the American desk of Israeli Intelligence had thought the flight worthy of note, it had passed the data to the Israelis' Saudi desk of army intelligence. The two offices agreed on a coordinated surveillance and now Bar-El had to arrange for technical assistance from his chief.

Israeli early-warning aircraft would attempt to relay information when the 747 was en route to the United States. American satellite tracking equipment would intercept communications between the Boeing and ground controllers as it transited half the world's surface. Bar-El's other responsibility was to notify the operatives in Riyadh that Safad Fatah's guest would be leaving within the next day or so, and the departure time should be relayed immediately.

With his field cap tucked under one epaulet, Bar-El checked his watch in the hallway. His chief was a stickler for punctuality and the morning briefing was thirty seconds away. Bar-El counted down the seconds, then punched the access code on the key pad and waited for the light. When it came on, he turned the knob and walked in with six seconds to spare.

The huge jetliner cruised easily at 37,000 feet, leaving the Middle Eastern landmass twenty-five miles south of Beirut. Its westerly heading took it along Oceanic Route G2 parallel to the Cyprus coast.

The sun shone brightly off the blue water, and Bennett looked out the left side at the green outline of Israel. When you flew in this part of the world Israel looked like a child's geography book. It was green at the edges, but mostly brown in the middle. However, he knew that the coastal area was not the only productive region. The Israelis really had made the desert bloom.

Such an industrious, productive people, the Israelis. Bennett did not know any Israelis well, and nearly all his contacts had been military, He found their aviators of a uniformly high professional standard, though frequently hard-headed, even arrogant. But you had to hand it to them. They started from zero and built not just a world-class air force but that rarest of commodities in the Middle East-a lasting democracy. Bennett knew that no war had ever been fought between democracies. That had to be the way to peace, if ever it came.

Then Bennett's practiced eyes picked up the small dots at the 747's eight o'clock position. He did not know it, but the Boeing had reached the mandatory reporting point called Velox, seventy nautical miles out of Beirut where Route B17 crossed Route G2. Bennett did know that he was in international airspace. As the dots closed the range he recognized them as F-15s, and the blue Star of David on the white disk plainly stood out. He wondered if they were running practice intercepts.

Fascinated, Bennett watched the lead Eagle extend its massive speed brake and ease into position. The wingman remained back about a half-mile in echelon. The Israeli leader stabilized himself low and behind the port wing, settling about a hundred yards out. Bennett had the eerie sensation that the pilot's eyes were fixed on him.

The leader read the Saudi Air's registration letters and relayed the data to his ground controller. This confirmed the identity of the aircraft which intelligence wanted. The helmeted figure in the twin-tailed fighter raised his right hand in salute, made a sharp left turn, and resumed the lead. Simultaneously the two gray fighters lit their afterburners and pulled into a sixty-degree climb, doing a matched set of aileron rolls. They were stylish fliers.

The next morning Levi Bar-El entered the access code into the pad and again waited for the light. The door opened and an enlisted dispatcher handed him a two-inch-thick pile of messages from the previous night. The young officer found the one he was looking for near the bottom. It was from the Israeli Embassy in Washington, providing details of the San Diego arrival of the Saudi airliner.

Field operatives had followed the hired limousine from Lindbergh Field north to the community of La Jolla. In front of a small apartment building on La Jolla Village Drive they noted a name-plate: J. L. BENNETT. Nothing was known about him yet.

Two hours later another dispatch reached the intelligence collection center. It identified John L. Bennett as a retired naval aviator. Less than forty-eight hours after that came a complete background report from Washington. The man had made at least two recent visits to the Northrop Aircraft plant in Los Angeles.

John Bennett was put under discreet surveillance.

Then Levi Bar-El turned to his stack of other unfinished business. Most of it had to do with events in Jordan.

Major David Ran led his four delta-winged Kfirs along the Al Ghadat Highway, keeping three to four miles north of the paved road. Antiaircraft gunners and missileers loved pilots who flew down roads, establishing an easy tracking solution for surface-to-air weapons. As a tactics development officer, Ran was well aware of the danger and thus kept away from the straight-line route.

Not that there was much genuine concern. Ran's flight was out to test a new cluster bomb on reported vehicles nearby, but the targets had fled. The various Arab forces inside Jordan seemed to have drifted away in the past week or so; Ran had only been fired upon twice in that time. He noted with satisfaction that the Israeli occupation of the country was nearly complete, so his recent combat data could be analyzed. Much had changed since David Ran flew Skyhawks in his first war. Now he was in line for a squadron of his own, and that very thought thrilled him more than the barren landscape rushing beneath him at 365 knots.

Chapter 3

John Bennett sat alone at the Tailhook restaurant. Located off Harbor Drive, it provided a view of North Island Naval Air Station, where two aircraft carriers were moored. He knew one was the Constellation, number 64. She would deploy to the Pacific in a few more weeks. The other ship was less distinct. Bennett squinted and thought he made out the white numeral 61 on the massive shape. Ranger, he thought. That's right. Pete Clanton had been busier than a one-armed paper-hanger getting her back in commission. The short, balding engineering officer was an over-worked commander who collected Oldsmobile’s. John recalled that Clanton had about three dozen scattered between Norfolk and San Diego.

Bennett had just set down his vodka and tonic when he was startled by two hands on his shoulders and a high-pitched, loud voice in his ear: "Check six, Pirate!"

Bennett turned to see a set of brilliant white teeth and an unruly thatch of red hair. The face was slightly pockmarked-the kind of skin which does not tan, but easily sunburns. Pirate, he thought. His old callsign, the nom de guerre which all tactical aviators use.

"Ed Lawrence, as I live and breathe. They still let you out without a leash?"

"How you doing, John?" They shook hands, warmly regarding one another. They lived within fifty miles of each other but seldom met more than two or three times a year.

Bennett waited while Lawrence ordered an iced tea with lemon.

Lawrence took a swallow, let it settle, and got right to the point. "Okay, what's the super-duper secret, Skipper?" The redhead had been Bennett's operations officer in VF-24 and consequently Bennett was still the CO.

"Just a couple of preliminaries, Ed. I suppose you're still flying for the airline?"

Lawrence fingered his drink. "Yeah, I'm a copilot with enough seniority to call most of my trips. Straight and level all week, don't upset the passengers, arrive on time. All that good stuff. But on weekends and days off I go bend it with the Reserves. I'm exec of VF-301 now, and I enjoy the F-14 even with another body in the cockpit. I'll tell you, though, I wish to hell you and I could strap on a couple F-8s and go hassle again."

Bennett leaned forward, across the table. "Ed, maybe we can bend it again. Not in Crusaders, but something even better." He checked his watch. "In about forty minutes a man will show up here. His name is Safad Fatah. He's a Saudi minister at large and I've agreed to do a job for — them. I need some help. Your kind of help. I need a good executive officer-somebody I know and trust. And I need an ass-kicking fighter pilot. "

Lawrence's eyes grew wide with curiosity. "Well, don't stop now. Tell me more." He gulped half his drink.

"This job is about four or five years steady work. It'll pay between a hundred and a hundred and fifty grand per year, and it'll be exciting as hell. Other than that, unless you're on board I can't say much else."

Lawrence emitted a low whistle. "Judas Priest. Who do I have to kill?"

Bennett's gray eyes gleamed, his mouth suppressing a grim smile. "Don't ask," he said. "Actually, it's fighter pilot instruction, building an air force from the ground up."

Lawrence cocked his head, his eyes narrowing. He waved a finger at his old skipper. "Wait a minute. You're telling me some raghead sheikh is willing to pay me more than I'm making now, to fly fighters and teach people to do what I used to do for thirty grand?"

"That's about it."

“If that's the deal, I'm in." Lawrence pounded the table. "Miss, another round for me and my friend, please!"

Bennett waved away the waitress. Ed Lawrence was a teetotaler, one of only two Bennett had ever known in naval aviation. The first had been pretty much a washout. The redheaded fighter pilot sitting across from him may have been the best stick-and-rudder man he had ever known.

"Remember, Ed, these people are Muslims. If our guys go boozing on them, it's a quick ticket home. That's rule number one…. “

"Okay. What's rule number two?"

A smile creased Bennett's tanned face. "You remember what Deacon used to say?"

Lawrence thought a moment. "Oh, sure. Topgun instructor. Always came up with pithy sayings." He frowned in concentration. "Which pithy saying?"

''The one that goes, 'Never trust any pilot who would rather use a slide rule than kick your ass.' "

"Hot damn, this sounds too good to be true. Who else is involved? Can't be just the two of us."

"It'll probably involve forty or so flight and tactics instructors and maybe a dozen-plus maintenance, weapons, and avionics folks. That's why I started with you. The Saudis already have a list of prospective pilots. I need not only good sticks, but pilots who can teach. Masher Malloy and Bear Barnes and' probably some Air Force types as well. Even some Brits."

"Sounds good. But where are the Saudis going to find enough pilots like that? There aren't many in my situation-unmarried, free to pick up and move. Not many airline captains or pilots with other careers will go running off to Arabia."

"Fatah people have been very thorough over the past couple years," Bennett replied. ''They've saved us a lot of time with groundwork, not just with instructors but with facilities over there. Most of the work will be done by the time we arrive."

Both men knew that the kind of talent they needed was rare. Instructor pilots with sufficient experience and willingness were few and far between. There were a few score in the Free World: men with combat in their logbooks, still young enough and unencumbered enough to uproot themselves for this type of challenge. Fewer still would be capable of living and working in a strict Muslim nation for years at a time.

Lawrence said, "John, what about your boy Paul? What does he know about all this?"

"I spent most of a weekend with him in Tempe last month. He's gotten a girl pregnant and they say they're going to get married. Well, I guess we all have to learn the hard way. At least he doesn't have AIDS. I told him I wouldn't stand in his way, but he couldn't count on me for help. I told him I'd be doing consulting work out of the country and probably wouldn't be around very regularly."

Lawrence fingered an ice cube. "Geez, that's rough."

Bennett leaned back. "Oh, it's not as bad as it might seem. I'm helping with his tuition and he has a partial scholarship. What I didn't tell him is that the Saudis are establishing a trust for him and the baby instead of paying me. It'll be administered by a family friend here in San Diego." Bennett glanced out the window again, looking at the two carriers. "What about you? When can you break loose from the airline and the Reserves?"

"Far as the line goes, I'll finish this month's schedule. That's less than two weeks. I can resign from the Reserves anytime."

"Is that going to cause problems, create bad feelings? I mean, it's mighty short notice."

The redhead shrugged. "In words of one syllable, who the hell cares? For twelve years I was an underpaid fighter pilot. Now I'm an overpaid airline pilot. I look forward to being an overpaid fighter pilot, the best of all possible worlds."

Bennett raised his glass. "Short war."

Lawrence clicked his glass against Bennett's. "Short war." The traditional warrior's toast.

At that moment a blond man in a business suit walked up to the table. "Excuse me, are you John Bennett?" Neat, professional man. Calm demeanor. Oh, God, Bennett thought. Not FBI.

"Yes, I'm Bennett."

The stranger reached inside his suit coat. He's going to show me his damn badge. We're had. But I haven't done anything.

The stranger produced a color photograph. "Do you recognize this, Commander Bennett?"

It was a green figurine of a pregnant female. "Why, yes. Are you- “

"Mr. Fatah sent me. He has learned that you and he are under discrete surveillance by some Middle Eastern people." The stranger's eyebrows rose suggestively. "I was sent to keep the meeting."

Bennett asked the man to sit down, conscious that the stranger had not offered his name. Bennett introduced Lawrence, who clearly wondered what he had stumbled into.

"Gentlemen, you won't see me again so names don't matter." He placed an envelope on the table. "Mr. Fatah is at the number on the envelope. You are to call him there from any phone except your home, Commander Bennett. The call will merely confirm receipt of the written instructions in this envelope. Any questions?"

The two fliers stared at one another, then at the blond man.

"No, I guess not," Bennett said.

"Then we're done." The stranger stood up, glanced around in a casual fashion. "Oh, one thing. You can't shake these people on your own-they're too good. Just try not to let on that you know you're being watched. Fatah's people will handle things." With that, he walked to the bar.

Lawrence and Bennett cast wary looks around the room. Unless the Israelis were using grandparents or had rented a family of four complete with unruly children in the adjoining dining room, there were no shadowers. From what little he knew of discrete surveillance, Bennett was confident the shadowing team would not follow him into a public place. Most likely there were three or four individuals outside, forming a moving box around the subjects. Equally effective but less obvious. At least, that's how Frederick Forsyth described it in his novels.

Bennett got up and made a call from the pay phone. He returned in moments, rotating a forefinger in the air. The start-engines signal. Lawrence got up and followed him out.

Levi Bar-El's presentation at the daily intelligence briefing came toward the end. His main topic was the American naval aviator who had visited Saudi Arabia two months previously, but Bar-El had more current information this morning.

''Two days ago our people followed this man Bennett to a restaurant in San Diego. After about forty minutes he and another man, apparently who met him there, took the new man's sports car to another restaurant about seven kilometers away. Our people waited ten minutes after assuming position, then sent in a female operative to locate the subject. She did not see them."

Bar-El checked his notes. "The sports car remained in the parking lot, apparently to make our team believe the subjects remained in the restaurant. But now we believe that a van was waiting in the alley behind the building. It was seen there upon taking station but was gone a few minutes later. It was dark, and-"

"Yes, yes, we know the routine." It was the section chief, Colonel Chaim Geller. He liked young Bar-El, but noted the lad had a tendency to make excuses for field agents he didn't even know. A natural enough reaction, but one that would have to be trained out of him. ''The question is, where are they?"

Bar-El swallowed. "We do not know for certain, sir. It appears they have left the San Diego area. Maybe they have left the country. We should know shortly."

Geller waved a hand. "Well, they handled themselves pretty well for amateurs. Apparently no outward signs of suspicion. No doubt the Saudis or their hirelings spotted our team. No real harm done. Now, who is the second man? Also an aviator?"

Relieved at the change of subject, Bar-El flipped the page of his folder. "Edward R. Lawrence. An airline pilot who retains a reserve commission as a full commander in the navy, second in command of a fighter squadron. We identified him by his automobile registration. According to our air force intelligence, he flew with Bennett during two tours in Vietnam. Lawrence shot down three enemy aircraft and became a tactics instructor like Bennett. Two of our people knew him during his duty instructing at the Navy Fighter Weapons School at Miramar Naval Air Station, San Diego."

"What do they say of him, Levi?"

Bar-EI was pleased-double-checking with the air force had impressed his chief. "Sir, they say he is a pilot and nothing else. He seems to care only for flying. One of the types you need in a shooting war, but who does not do as well in peacetime." He glanced down again. "An accomplished flier, a good leader, and both our men agreed he was one of their best instructors." Bar-El smiled.

"What is it, Levi? Something else?"

"Well, naturally I didn't tell our pilots the reason behind this investigation. But one of them said that if Edward Lawrence was looking for a job, we should hire him right away."

The chief tapped a pencil on his desk. "Apparently somebody else thought of it first. I only wonder why they disappeared like that. It tells us they're aware of our surveillance." Geller bit on the eraser. "What's your estimate, Levi?"

Bar-EI was not used to being asked what he thought-only what he knew. "Sir, I would have to say that probably… " Think fast, Levi, they're testing you, he thought. "Sir, it's only a guess, but perhaps the Saudis feared we would expose the men to their government." No, no. They've done nothing wrong, and the State Department already knows Bennett visited Arabia, quite legally. "The only other thing is-well, Colonel, are we planning a wet operation against them?"

The section chief returned Bar-El's wide-eyed expression with emotionless brown eyes. "No, of course not. We have two Mexican nationals who can do such work for us in that area, but there is no need. At least not now."

Bar-El realized the recent Israeli intelligence operations in the United States would make such a move politically impossible. And besides, far better to run an assassination operation outside the United States, if it came to that.

"But," Geller continued, pointing his pencil at the lieutenant, "I think you are getting warm. The Saudis may fear we would eliminate Bennett and Edwards. Therefore, they became overly anxious and moved the men too quickly." He nibbled the eraser again. "Whatever they're up to, we'll know of it soon enough. Keep me informed, Levi. Thank you."

The morning after eluding the Israeli team in San Diego, the two aviators entered an apartment on Beverly Glen Boulevard. Damned amazing, thought Bennett. He'd never been in Beverly Hills before. "The Saudis thought of everything," he said as he and Lawrence inspected the furnished apartment.

Lawrence opened a cardboard box on the dining room table and emitted a low whistle. "I'll say they thought of everything. Check this out." He held up fifty crisp new hundred-dollar bills. "Let's go to Vegas and let this ride one time. Get in practice for Tailhook. "

The annual Tailhook reunion at the Las Vegas Hilton was a landmark event in naval aviation. Only now living down its riotous early reputation, the symposium had become more professional. But still it was great fun.

Bennett.laughed. "Hey, do you remember Tailhook '74 when Hoser McAllister disappeared Friday night? They didn't miss him till Saturday afternoon. Found him laid out in a closet, dead to the world with one bare foot and a toe tag. Even had his arms folded across his chest-with that lily in his hands."

The men found clothes in the bedroom, each bathroom stocked with toilet articles, and the refrigerator crammed with enough food for two weeks. There was even a rowing machine in one bedroom. Lawrence noticed the coffeemaker and began brewing a pot. "You notice, the Moslems didn't leave you any booze. By the way, when we get wherever the hell we're going, will the guys be able to drink or will they have to go cold turkey for a couple years?"

"We'll be based in Bahrain, which is pretty lax by Muslim standards. Actually, I think there's two reasons for that. One, it keeps us Yankee air pirates out of Arabia most of the time, and two, we'll be positioned to intercept hostiles from Iran if need be. But in Arabia the guys better get used to the 40-weight oil that passes for coffee. "

The redhead flashed a white grin. "I always knew clean living would be its own reward. I'll be the only instructor who's not having DTs after a couple months."

Bennett said, "Like I always told you, I never trust a fighter pilot who doesn't drink. Actually, we'll have our own compound. I checked with Fatah, and Bahrain is a lot looser situation than Arabia. Our guys can hoot with the owls, and there's European women employed in Bahrain as nurses, dental technicians and the like." Bennett held up a warning finger. "But in Arabia, where we'll be spending a lot of time, it's the straight and narrow for all hands."

"You think that'll scare off many guys?"

"Some, I suppose. We'll just lay down the law. The rule is, anybody who takes one drink too many in Bahrain or who gets out of line in any way in Arabia gets a one-time warning. Especially if any of our students are around. A second time gets the offender a one-way ticket home."

"Fine by me. One thing I don't understand, though. I don't have my passport. How do I get out of Uncle Sugar and into the land of oil wells and camels?"

"Fatah said on the phone that this unexpected change of plans would require some innovation. I don't have mine, either. He's supposed to call in a couple days to fill us in. Meanwhile, we sit tight. We can use the time to lay some groundwork."

The next forty-eight hours passed more quickly than either man had expected. The more Bennett studied the situation, the more he was convinced the answer was men more than airplanes. Late the second evening he tossed his pen down and rubbed his eyes. A stack of papers testified to the work they had accomplished.

"You know, Ed, I've been thinking of the Ticonderoga cruise when we lost five pilots in the first two line periods. You remember? We got replacement aircraft but no new sports until we got back."

Munching a sandwich, Lawrence said, "That was before my first tour, but I sure heard about it."

"Oh, that's right," Bennett said. "God, it all runs together sometimes. But the point still applies. Like the RAF in the Battle of Britain. Their problem wasn't so much Spitfires and Hurricanes. It was experienced pilots. Every civilian who got killed in London meant a load of bombs that should have been dropped on airfields. The Germans had the RAF on the ropes and switched from attacking airfields to cities."

Lawrence bit into his sandwich again, wondering where this led. "Well, my point is," Bennett continued, "that nothing's changed today. Even with limited numbers of high-priced birds, it's a lot easier to produce a fighter plane than a proficient fighter pilot. It takes, what? Eight to ten months to roll out an airplane from the factory? It takes about five years to put a combat-ready pilot in that bird's cockpit.

"This is where we come in, why the Saudis really want us. They know they can buy airplanes almost anywhere. But producing world-class pilots is a much bigger job."

The phone rang then, the first time since they had entered the apartment. Lawrence picked' up the receiver. "Hello."

"This is Safad Fatah."

"Oh, sure. Hi. This is Ed Lawrence."

"Ah, Mr. Lawrence, just the man I need to talk to. Do you still have your house key with you?"

"Yes. In my pocket."

"Splendid. Please leave it in the mailbox. And tell me where we may find your passport. It will be delivered today."

Bennett heard Lawrence describe the desk drawer containing his papers. Lawrence also asked why it had not been obtained before.

"Dear sir," said Fatah in a diplomatic tone, "if we had done that, it would have given our other friends time to trace you."

The redhead felt like a student asking what day it was at graduation. "Mr. Fatah, I need to make arrangements with my airline and the Naval Reserve. What's the situation?"

The response was immediate. "We have sent letters over your signature to all parties concerned. We shall handle any follow-up details for you on this end."

Lawrence was impressed. Like Bennett, he appreciated professionalism wherever he encountered it.

"Oh, one more thing. What about my Porsche? We left it at the second restaurant."

"Mr. Lawrence, we shall buy you another Porsche if needed. I will not stay on the line any longer. Tell Commander Bennett that you will be contacted before much longer, and I extend my regards. "

The line went dead.

Lawrence left his house key in the apartment's mailbox that night. At 0800 there was a knock on the door. Bennett opened it, drowsily rubbing his eyes, and looked around. Seeing no one, he glanced down. There was a paper sack with Lawrence's passport and his own. Funny, I didn't ask them about mine. He paged through it. They don't have a key to my place, or the code to my alarm system, he thought. Then it occurred to him. This was not his original. It was completely authentic, using an official form. But how did they get the photograph and the signature?

Then he remembered. His photo had been taken shortly after arrival in Riyadh, and he had signed a letter of intent. Bennett smiled in appreciation. These people are real pros, he thought. They didn't have time to duplicate Ed's passport, but they had mine ready to go, complete with forged signature. If the Israelis search my place they'll find my passport and figure I'm still in the country. Slick.

Bennett knocked on Lawrence's door. "Flight quarters, Commander. I think we'll be gear-up in a little while."

President Walter Arnold was upset. In office barely four months and already his press secretary and two cabinet members told him the administration showed declining confidence ratings in the polls, especially where foreign policy was concerned. Secretary of Transportation Pamela Cousins had heard party pros who were comparing Arnold with Jimmy Carter-unfavorably. It was a hell of an attitude for a formal cabinet meeting.

"Well, damn it," Arnold said, "what the hell am I supposed to do? Everybody in the Middle East wants us to do something different. It's a no-win situation all around. You people have told me that one of the best ways to dent the trade deficit is to sell weapons abroad. You've also told me that if we sell to the Arabs, the Israeli lobby will scream its head off and there'll be editorials all over the country. "

Secretary of Transportation Cousins thought, Welcome to the real world, Mr. President. There were those in the administration who said, only half-jokingly, that the five-foot-three blond was a better man than Walter Arnold.

"Mr. President, that brings us to the last item." It was Secretary of State Thurmon Wilson, a scholarly, balding political ally from Arnold's native Connecticut. "You are aware that last week the Israelis noted that several dozen American citizens, all believed to be ex-military pilots or mechanics, have traveled to Europe and Saudi Arabia. This seems related to sudden Saudi interest in a fighter aircraft called the F-20. "

The president said, "Yes, I saw the memo. Do you think it's cause for alarm?"

"No, not yet." The New England accent cut through the heavy mood in the room. "But we'll have to make a decision pretty fast, the way they're pushing. They seem really interested in this plane. I'm sure Ben has details."

Benjamin Wake was Secretary of Defense. A self-made millionaire from a Florida electronics firm, he prided himself on keeping data under his white crewcut only slightly less efficiently than the computers his firm made. "Yes, I'm acquainted with the F-20. And frankly, this seems an answer to a prayer. It's called the Tigershark, designed by Northrop in Los Angeles, and it's a relatively unsophisticated piece of hardware. It's a single-seat, single-engine air superiority fighter based on Northrop's old F-5 Tiger. If we decided to sell the Saudis another airplane, that's the one. The Israelis can't holler too loudly because it's no match for what they're flying."

Arnold pursed his lips. "Then why would the Saudis want it? They already have some of our most advanced equipment."

"Yes, sir, that's right. But remember, they and most other countries which have bought the F-20 don't have the ability to maintain high-tech weapons without extensive support. I have a list of nations that currently fly the Tigershark: Malaysia, South Korea, Chile, the Sudan, and Morocco. Taiwan is almost certain to buy it, since Mainland China is off our backs now that F-20s are manufactured under license. A European consortium now builds the airplane, mainly for export."

Wake sensed that the president was becoming sympathetic to his viewpoint. "Now, sir, you may remember during the Reagan Administration there was quite a flap about making exceptions to Third World nations. Most of them wanted our frontline equipment — F-15s and F-16s. Because we didn't buy the F-20 ourselves, others perceived it as inferior. Now that's changed, mainly because of economic factors. A Tigershark costs under half of what some other fighters run."

"Hmmm. What does State make of this, regarding the Israelis?"

Secretary of Defense Ben Wake interrupted. "Excuse me. But we know that the Saudis want simpler aircraft to supplement their F-15s and British Tornadoes." Wake glanced around the table. "You all remember how the Saudis bought billions of dollars of British aircraft when we wouldn't sell them more Eagles. No telling how many thousands of U. S. jobs that cost. Well, I think this is an excellent opportunity for us, Mr. President. The F-20 is far easier to maintain and to train pilots for than one with sophisticated electronics. Also, the Saudis are ordering Tigersharks without radar-guided Sparrow missiles. The Israelis can't complain too much."

"Why not? Isn't this F-20 still a potential threat to them?"

"Well, theoretically, yes. But with limited armament of guns and two heat-seeking missiles, the F-20 would be similar to the F-16, which we and the Israelis already fly." Wake pressed his point. "Remember, Jordan wanted F-16s and we refused so they bought Fulcrums from the Soviets. We've only been hurting ourselves by acceding to the Israeli lobby in Congress all these years." There, it was out in the open.

The president shifted his gaze to the Secretary of State. "Thurmon, what do you make of all this?"

"State has no serious objections, sir. In fact, I'm in favor of selling the Saudis or anybody else whatever they want to buy, within broad limits. Aside from economic reasons, it makes good political sense. The Saudis are the key to the whole region if we're going to maintain any kind of balance there. Especially now that Israel occupies Jordan. If we can keep the Saudis happy by selling some second-line airplanes, by all means do so. Anything we can do to maintain our presence and influence should be encouraged, especially with the growing Iranian fundamentalist movement."

Walter Arnold lightly tapped his fingers on the table, his mind already made up. "Very well. We'll approve the F-20 sale and put up no obstacles if the Saudis want to hire some former military pilots as instructors. But let's try to keep this as low profile as possible." He looked around the table. "This meeting is adjourned."

Levi Bar-El braced himself for another grilling from Colonel Chaim Geller. The man torments me, thought the young lieutenant, because he has no other diversion. In truth, Bar-El recognized that the section chief was pushing a protege's limits, forcing him to become more competent, less dogmatic in his thinking. Dealing with the recent Jordanian crisis saw to that. And right now Bar-El was ready for more "therapy."

"Ah, good morning, Levi. Sit down." Geller pushed a chair out from the table. "What do you have on our mysterious Americans?"

"Sir, we believe they are no longer in the U.S. Our covert team inspected Bennett's apartment and found nothing out of order. His passport was there, but because of the sighting in London we believe the Saudis provided him with a duplicate. Our people did photograph a strange object, however. It seemed odd enough to bring to your attention." Bar-El unclipped a Polaroid photo from the report and slid it across the table.

Chaim Geller examined the photo. The green figurine of a pregnant woman intrigued him. "It's not from North America, I can tell you that." Bar-EI was taken aback. He knew almost nothing about his superior's outside interests and never would have taken the shrewd intelligence officer for an archaeologist or art historian.

"Well, no, Colonel. Our evaluation from the university is that the piece came from the Middle East-probably Arabia or Oman. It dates from about the tenth century B.C., but whatever the date, it is rather rare and therefore very valuable. Professor Mersky at the antiquities center said he had only seen six or eight such figures himself, and this one is in better condition than most."

The colonel handed back the photo. "Very well. What else?"

"Bennett and Lawrence seem to have been in London for several days, as I noted. But it is unlikely they will return to California anytime soon." The lieutenant checked his notes. "Lawrence's sports car was taken to his home and put in the garage. Evidently both Bennett and Lawrence have someone looking after things-watering lawns, paying bills, and so on. Bennett's son at Arizona State University seems to know relatively little, but doesn't appear overly concerned. Our contact thought it best not to press the matter. We'll· monitor him on a regular basis."

Geller stood up and stretched. He wanted to go for a walk in the sunlight, but glanced ruefully at the paper stacked on his desk. "All right, Levi. I saw the report on the other American fliers, and I see there are two or three British pilots on the Saudi list. I've forwarded a memo to Air Force intelligence. Obviously, the Saudis are expanding their training cadre. The cabinet will want to know about this, and no doubt there will be concern. But for now, let's not draw hasty conclusions. The Saudis are in the middle of all this."

Geller noticed the mild look of surprise on the lieutenant's face.

"Now don't misunderstand, Levi. Of course the Saudis wish us no good. But you want to develop your sense of objectivity in this business. Put yourself in their position. With Iran, Syria, and even Iraq and others becoming more unified under the Muslim radicals, a relatively moderate regime will be hard-pressed to remain apart."

Bar-El said, "It may be impossible for the Saudis."

Geller decided to play devil's advocate. "Let's say you're now the king of Saudi Arabia. What would you do to help keep your throne and guarantee your family's position and prestige?"

Thinking for a moment, Bar-EI spoke carefully. "Well, I would try to maintain a balance, try to have it both ways. I would open channels to the fundamentalist Muslims while strengthening my position with the Western powers-the source of my military equipment and market for my petroleum."

Geller gave a decisive nod, his double chin outthrust. "Just so."

He flexed his shoulder muscles. It was getting warm inside. "I'll make a prediction, Levi. We'll see relative calm-I said relative calm-for another couple of years. But once the Arabs have time to consolidate their gains and increase their political unity, we're in for one hell of a fight." The colonel smiled. "You're a fortunate young man. You're going to live to see some very interesting times."

Chapter 4

"Now this i somebody who appreciates our talent," opined Ed Lawrence. Looking about him, he took in the immaculate new facility on the Persian Gulf island, still not wholly completed. "It's amazing what you can do when the head office just says, 'Do it.' If this was in the States, the ink would still be drying on the letter of intent. "

Bennett said, "The advantages of a monarchy, my boy."

In truth, Bahrain was an independent state, nominally autonomous from Saudi Arabia. But Riyadh had long paid most of the little nation's defense bills. Now, with establishment of the F-20 program, the king wanted his second air force built and trained here. It was near enough to Riyadh, but away from prying eyes and-if need be-closer to Iran to intercept unwelcome ships or aircraft.

The new compound inside the airport perimeter was solely for the American and British instructors. It included single-level apartments with a central swimming pool, lighted tennis courts, and a plush lounge. The latter featured elegant wood and leather decor, comfortable chairs, and a horseshoe bar.

Not yet completed was a gymnasium and a fifty-meter pistol range. Bennett intended to teach small-arms proficiency in order to create well-rounded warriors.

"Besides," he told Lawrence, "I like to shoot."

The Saudis had made startling progress in the three months since Bennett and Lawrence had arrived from London. British supervisors and foremen had ensured quality work. The combination auditorium and briefing room where instructor pilots and maintenance supervisors would meet, and where preflight and debriefings would occur, was ahead of schedule. Bennett recalled the king saying that much groundwork had begun even before instructors were recruited, and the time saving was substantial.

The academic buildings for student pilots and F-20 simulators were finished, and the sophisticated equipment was being installed. The General Electric Company had developed what Bennett and Lawrence considered an outstanding pilot-training syllabus for F-5 students in Tempe, Arizona. It was near Williams Air Force Base, where the 425th Tactical Training Squadron provided training in the Tiger II. A similar format for the Tigershark was intended for the Bahrain field. It featured individual study cubicles with color-coded course material-light colors for the early topics, growing to blue and black toward the end of the course. Thus, students progressed at their own best rate with increased comprehension.

The two naval aviators sat in the air-conditioned bar, reviewing their notes. The next day they would make their final presentation to the king and his ministers. Bennett flipped through his notebook marked INSTRUCTOR PILOTS.

"We're up to speed now on IPs. It didn't take Fatah's contacts as long to screen them as I thought it might. Do we have the maintenance billets filled now?"

Lawrence sipped an iced tea. "Yup, nailed down a former F-5 type who retired a couple years ago and got tired playing golf five days a week. He's sixty-one and about to climb the walls. Jumped at the chance to get his hands dirty again, though he's mainly a supervisor. He's supposed to arrive next week. Also filled out the armament section. Fatah's guys in London recruited a Royal Navy warrant officer who seems to know everything worth knowing about twenty-millimeter weapons. He retires next month."

"Good deal. Let's see… that puts us up to speed with forty IPs and twenty maintenance folks. The simulator and academic people are being handled by Fatah's contacts in the U.S."

Lawrence fished a crumpled letter out of the Navy. I've always been curious how long he could stay on flight status before they got rid of him. He must be the oldest lieutenant commander still flying. Like Admiral Rickover-they'd have to kick him out."

Lawrence barely swallowed a mouthful of tea without choking.

"What I want to see is how he gets along in the land of Allah. Can you imagine a skirt-chaser like Malloy going without women for two months, let alone two or three years?"

"Well, he'll just have to make the most of his thirty-day leaves. "

The 737 jetliner paralleled the eastern bank of the Red Sea. Bennett could see, out the port side, several dust devils racing across the arid sand. As the Boeing landed at Jidda, the nation's administrative center, he reflected that the sacred city of Mecca was only a short distance inland.

Bennett folded up his working papers and stuffed them in his briefcase with his well-thumbed copy of the Koran. He carried E. H. Palmer's 1880 translation, still widely circulated, and referred to it whenever possible. Combined with reading regional history, Bennett had educated himself about the region's geopolitical and cultural relationships over the past few months-something Ed Lawrence largely resisted.

Sitting beside his friend, Lawrence tucked away the F-20B pilot's manual as the 737 taxied to the gate.

It was a short drive over blazing-hot tar roads to the small castle nestled on the cliffs above the Red Sea. A thick wall, ten feet high, surrounded the castle and Saudi soldiers patrolled the parapets. A uniformed sentry in impeccable khakis saluted as the chauffeured Mercedes slowed before the gate. Dark sweat stains formed half circles under each arm and a line down his shirt front.

"Poor bastard," murmured Lawrence. "That's about like standing guard in hell."

Unlike most American briefings, which arrayed the principals in front with the speaker behind a rostrum, the conference room featured a large wooden table about twenty feet long. Arranged around it were twelve chairs. The preliminaries were brief but cordial; King Rahman warmly greeted Bennett and made Lawrence feel at ease. Safad Fatah was his usual elegant, composed self.

The king sat at the head of the table, directing the Americans to the opposite end. Among the attendees Bennett recognized Aziz, the finance minister, and General Maila. There were only three air force officers among the participants, the reminder being introduced as financial and political ministers.

Bennett mentally ticked off that bit of information; it showed the king was keeping his promise about minimal contact-i.e., interference-with the established military forces.

Safad Fatah leaned over to speak quietly with the two aviators.

"Gentlemen, I am asked to inform you that you should report to your embassy in Riyadh within the week. They have some procedures to follow and reports to submit to Washington. No need for alarm, I assure you. Merely routine."

Bennett and Lawrence made appropriate notes, then passed out photocopied documents for each person there. After a few more moments the king called the meeting to order.

"This presentation, as you all know, is the final briefing we will receive before actually beginning the F-20 program. Commander Bennett and Commander Lawrence have worked long and hard, and I fear we put them through some unusual procedures to get them here. "

The two Americans glanced at one another. The sudden departure from California those months ago now seemed far away.

"As it turned out, our concern for their safety was unfounded, but we should remain vigilant and cautious. I trust our guests will understand that we were motivated solely by concern for their well-being. "

Bennett lifted his right hand to indicate his appreciation.

Then the monarch began in earnest. "All of you have met Commander Bennett, but some of you do not know Commander Edward Lawrence. " The king acknowledged the American, who rose briefly, then resumed his seat. "Commander Lawrence is an experienced warrior and fighter pilot instructor from the United States Navy. He will serve as Commander Bennett's second in command. Gentlemen, I have the honor to inform you that you are being granted equivalent positions of colonel and lieutenant colonel, respectively. We understand that your American citizenship does not allow you to hold rank in a foreign military, but within the confines of my kingdom and for purpose of authority you should find these titles sufficient to your needs."

Bennett, in his thorough way, had studied this potentially sensitive situation. He knew that Douglas MacArthur had served as a field marshal in the Philippine Army before World War II, and he personally knew veterans of the Flying Tigers and Eagle Squadrons who held military rank in the Chinese and British armed forces-clearly in violation of American neutrality, but with full knowledge and permission of the Roosevelt Administration. With that precedent, Bennett felt on safe ground. Bennett's attention was drawn back to the meeting when the king introduced him.

''Thank you, Your Majesty. We appreciate this significant honor. Now, gentlemen, a brief summary on the advisory personnel. We have forty instructor pilots under contract, following careful screening by Mr. Fatah's people and our own evaluation. Most of these pilots are personally known to us, except the British, of course. Seventeen are former U.S. Navy pilots, one former Marine Corps, and fourteen former U.S. Air Force. The remaining eight are from the Royal Air Force and Royal Navy. Of these forty, eighteen have combat experience, including two of the British from the Falklands War of 1982. All are well-qualified flight instructors and combat tactics instructors in jet aircraft. Each has been screened not only for professional competence, but for maturity and stability.

"The contracts provide for a pay scale averaging a hundred and ten thousand dollars per instructor annually, with thirty days off each nine months. All transportation and living costs will be absorbed by the Saudi government. The funds will be deposited in a Swiss bank account on a monthly basis, with a three-month advance upon each man arriving in Saudi Arabia. In addition, the government has purchased a million-dollar life insurance policy for each individual with Lloyd's of London." Glancing down, he continued, "Each contract runs for two years, at which time it may be renewed."

Bennett looked up from his notes, aware that he had the undivided attention of everyone in the room. "As for the maintenance and other personnel, their expenses will be met either by their employers such as Northrop and General Electric, or by the Royal Saudi Air Force in the event we bring current Saudi pilots into the program. It is our intention to push qualified individuals into leadership positions as fast as possible. The instructor pilots will remain airborne mission leaders and tactics advisers beyond the second year, but maintenance and support-the all-important aspect of an air force-could be fifty percent Saudi in less than three years.

"Now, we also have developed a third community which will have much importance in determining how fast the F-20 program develops. Mr. Fatah has hired two flight surgeons from the United States and a British psychologist and a Lebanese psychiatrist. These gentlemen have devised entrance examinations for the Saudi applicants, based upon a time-proven system which rates psychological, personality, and other traits. We believe this should allow the highest possible number of graduates per class-approximately sixty-five percent."

Bennett did not discuss the behind-the-scenes maneuvering that had led to this system. It had taken some hard talking to convince all the Saudis involved that applicants for the F-20 program-already a prestigious assignment before the first class convened-would be rated wholly on merit. As in many third world nations, military aviators largely came from the politically well connected upper class.

Bennett and Lawrence had bluntly told Fatah that not even royal blood would ensure a seat in the course. However, the number of well-educated Saudi males with 80 percent proficiency in English automatically meant that young men from privileged backgrounds would fill most of the classes.

Bennett continued. "Gentlemen, you all realize that the investment of this many of your brightest young people in this type of program will limit their usefulness elsewhere. The individuals we seek are high school graduates between eighteen and twenty-two years of age. They will be selected from only about six percent of your national population. This is the same ratio in most countries. Only this proportion is found in the general populace with the attributes necessary to become a successful fighter pilot. We are looking for youngsters in excellent health with perfect vision and superior motor skills. They must be highly motivated, willing to work long and hard toward their goal. As I noted, about thirty-five percent will not finish the course, but we can make good use of those who make it to the halfway point, provided they wish to do so."

General Maila interjected. "What uses do you foresee for such students? Would they remain in the F-20 program?"

"Yes, if they had aptitudes for maintenance or operations. But those who make it to the halfway point in Tigersharks will be fairly accomplished aviators. Their problems are likely to be spatial orientation in dogfighting or poor G-tolerance, things of that sort. If any of them want to fly less demanding aircraft, I would recommend transferring them to units better suited to their abilities."

Bennett referred again to his notes. "Mr. Fatah's organization has identified an initial group of nearly a thousand young Saudis who meet the eligibility criteria for age and education. Others will be similarly identified as each group of young males approaches age eighteen. Our first class involves sixty-five candidates, who already have begun extensive remedial English instruction. We expect this to continue for one month, with language tests at intervals throughout the academic and early flying portions of the syllabus.

"Preflight training stresses physical fitness, with emphasis on those physiological traits needed to withstand the high-G environment of aerial combat. Cardiovascular training will be stressed, as well as upper body development, which provides a sort of built-in resistance to blackout-up to a certain point. The F-20, remember, is a nine-G airplane. It will require a pilot in peak physical condition to fly it to its limits.

"Ground school will last six months. The course outline and the methods are explained in your handouts. In addition to such topics as aerodynamics, mathematics, engines, and airframes, the students will have classes in the Koran and Arab history. Each barracks will be named for an Arab martyr or hero. We wish to impress these students-and they are at an impressionable age-that they are being groomed as warriors. Toward that end they will live under strict military supervision. They will learn the manual of arms and close-order drill to instill pride and discipline. But I hasten to note that as Lieutenant Colonel Lawrence and I have learned, this training must be tempered with encouragement. The students will be allowed to visit their families at regular intervals as well.

"We think that all sixty-five who begin preflight training probably will complete it. Normally only those who fall ill or cannot keep up academically will be left behind, but in many cases these individuals can fall back to the next class.

"Hands-on experience will come at the end of preflight when the students learn to start and run jet engines in a test cell. They will also learn ejection seats and desert and water survival."

Bennett stopped to sip his lemon-flavored water. "We envision a graduation ceremony at the end of six months, with all family members present. His Majesty has agreed to attend, but the publicity will be minimal. The event is mainly for the benefit of the cadet and his family, with two weeks leave at that time." He knew the next revelation would concern some of the men around the table.

Here goes, Bennett. Hang on. "We will start flying the cadets immediately in the two-seat F-5F. This is without prior instruction in propeller aircraft or training planes of any kind, although at first I had thought we might use other aircraft as lead-in training. Now I don't think that is necessary. The two-seat F-20Bs are being delivered at a rate sufficient to replace the F-5Fs before the first class is completed. Thorough simulator instruction can prepare the students for about seventy-five percent of the tasks they must complete in the air, but there is no substitute for actual flying. Since the Tigershark is practically stall-proof and resistant to spinning, it affords a unique opportunity to save time and money in the training curriculum."

Bennett stopped to let the impact sink in. "Are there any questions?"

The senior Saudi general, Mustafa Halabi, raised a hand. "Colonel Bennett, I remember you mentioned this before. But is it absolutely certain this will work? Obviously, placing young boys in high-performance aircraft could involve great risk."

"Yes, sir, I am absolutely certain it will work. As you know, it's easier to fly a jet than a piston-powered aircraft. The key is training-thorough, intensive training until the students know each procedure reflexively. We'll keep the cadets flying with IPs longer than normal to be doubly certain of each boy's ability before he solos. The U.S. Navy conducted a similar program many years ago, starting a study group in two-seat Grumman Cougars as their first aircraft. There were no significant problems, and I can only assume that the entrenched training organization and manufacturers prevented the service from adopting the program."

Warming to his topic, Bennett pressed on. "There's another example, too. One of our Air Force instructors tells me that the Singapore pilots he worked with are among the best F-5 pilots anywhere. One of his students was twenty-two years old, had been flying the Tiger II since age eighteen, and had one thousand hours in it. I believe the Singapore syllabus involved preliminary instruction in propeller trainers, but it's been proven that the accelerated program really works."

Lawrence cleared his throat, gaining Bennett's attention. The redhead was letting his friend know that he was beginning to speak rapidly and his voice was rising because of the passion he felt for this topic. Bennett continued in a modulated tone.

"Our F-20 pilots will fly one airplane and one only in their entire careers, most likely. Their first fifteen flights will be in the front cockpit with an instructor in back. After basic airwork and about seventy-five landings they will go solo-one of the high points of their lives, I assure you." Bennett glanced down the table at the king and Fatah. "I might add that I've been assured we will not face the problem of fuel shortage which plagues many other air forces."

There was a ripple of laughter around the table.

"The post-solo stage will concentrate on navigation without electronic aids. As you know, most of our F-20s are being ordered without radar or navigation equipment. The value of this training will be apparent if the force is committed to combat. In today's world, electronic countermeasures can preclude navigation, communication, and many weapon systems. Our pilots will not know any such problem since their entire training will be directed toward visual navigation, radio silence in most cases, and gun armament with heat-seeking missiles. Many authorities say those days are over and apparently believe that only the most sophisticated aircraft and systems can do the job. However, we believe otherwise. In your country, with clear weather most of the year, with well-trained pilots flying simple, easily maintained fighters, we expect to match or beat any likely opponent.

"We expect that about five of the sixty-five students in each class will wash out during this phase of training. At the end of the formation-flying stage the student will have about a hundred hours, and here we expect our highest attrition from dropouts and washouts. Approximately ten students will be disqualified at this level, but as I noted they may be useful in other capacities.

"At this point, having flown approximately five thousand hours of instructional training, we can expect two or three aircraft will be written off or grounded from damage. Our procurement policy has taken aircraft attrition into consideration.

"The next phase is instrument training. Now, this is not because we expect to do much night flying. But the frequent haze over the gulf and heavy dust storms will require instruments. It is a demanding phase of flight and will stress the student to a considerable degree. If he can fly a high-performance aircraft alone, on instruments, he has what we Americans call the right stuff. Instrument flight is one of the greatest teachers of discipline, and a tremendous confidence-builder. We will continue instrument training at intervals throughout the syllabus. Probably this will involve two night flights per month.

"Subsequent stages include advanced formation flying, including tactical formations based on the American loose-deuce two-plane section. Next comes weapon employment. This is the portion toward which all prior training has been directed. Students will begin with air-to-ground gunnery, quickly progressing to aerial gunnery. There will be twenty flights in this syllabus, all in loose-deuce formation or four-plane flights. Inert Sidewinder missiles will be on board, and students will take turns attacking and defending against missile-equipped opponents. We expect to make heavy use of simulators in this phase, as it will be an excellent means of recognizing AIM-9 missile-firing parameters.

"Finally, tactics flights against a mixture of instructors and other students will put together all the cadet has learned previously. Frankly, this is the most dangerous regime in the entire syllabus, and we expect to lose some aircraft. Instructors will use a moderate degree of effort to' stress the students and keep them from getting overly confident. By now the students will have some two hundred hours, and some nations have committed pilots to combat at that point.

"By the end of this final stage we should graduate forty to forty-five students of the original sixty-five. Properly led, they could give a good account of themselves in combat at this stage. But naturally we prefer greater experience before committing the F-20s to such a test."

Bennett paused to see if anyone had a question. He noted that he had kept the audience's wholehearted interest, so he pressed on. "Graduation ceremonies will be the most moving emotional experience of the young pilot's life. His family and friends will see him receive his silver wings and his commission as a lieutenant. Pay will rise to about a thousand dollars per month. He will have more freedom of movement and will be rid of drill and marching. I recommend a three-week period of leave, and the commissioned pilots would be eligible to marry. I do not recommend marriage prior to graduation. These young men will have their hands full just keeping up with the curriculum.

"Upon reporting back to base, the graduate pilots will begin to sharpen their skills. An eight-month period involving a hundred and sixty flights will be conducted entirely under combat conditions. Every takeoff, every landing, every briefing will be made under the assumption that hostilities are imminent. The same will apply to maintenance personnel. The pilots also will fight other types of aircraft-Saudi F-15s and Kuwaiti Mirages, for instance. Barring completely unforeseen problems, at the end of this eight-month period, our pilots in the F-20 should be able to defend Saudi airspace against any probable opponent. Frontline assignments will follow, with fifteen pilots and thirteen aircraft per squadron.

"We intend to plow back into the system about half of the outstanding Arab students to ease the instructor burden on our current IPs. This will be done on a rotational basis after we have identified those with talent and aptitude for flight leader and instructional duty. In this manner we will reinforce the self-sustaining concept for the F-20 program, building on each successive class."

Bennett gulped another mouthful of water. He was nearing the end of his first presentation, and knew his audience was intrigued by the program.

"In each of the first three squadrons there will be an American or British adviser who, though not officially the commanding officer, will possess nominal command. Lieutenant Colonel Lawrence will lead the first such unit, and over a period of time these leaders will be replaced by your own people. We will continue recruiting instructors as new classes are formed, and we expect to begin basic flight training every two months-sixty-five students each. At the end of three years there should be eight to ten operational F-20 squadrons, with a maximum strength of a hundred and thirty aircraft. By that point there is little question that your Tigershark pilots could defeat most air forces in the world, fighting against even odds. The F-20's in-commission rate should enable this force, if necessary, to meet or beat a larger enemy with a lower in-commission rate.

"At this point I should say a few words about the F-20 systems."

Bennett glanced around, for he knew some men in the room would disagree with his proposal. "The Tigershark has a superb radar. It can distinguish buildings on the ground and even individual aircraft parked on a field from a considerable distance. But I do not intend to purchase many aircraft with radar." He raised a cautioning finger. "I'll tell you why.

"My own experience tells me that a well-trained fighter pilot can survive and win in combat without relying on radar. And because all major air forces now have powerful jamming capability, I'm convinced that the radar option will be denied both sides. That puts us back to square one. The battle will most often be decided by individual skill, training, and aggressiveness.

"However, to hedge our bets I'm recommending acquisition of radars in one-quarter of our aircraft. Selected students will be trained in its use-those most likely to become flight leaders. But the extra investment in training and resources would add nearly two years to our initial operational date if we were to go for one hundred percent aircraft and pilot radar capability. 'We can use low-cost part-task simulators for teaching switchology and radar technique, while our own radar-equipped F -20s-and maybe with help from some F-15s-should afford an adequate capability. But I stress again: In a major war neither side will have unimpeded radar. Victory will go to the side with the best-trained pilots who use their assets most intelligently.

"Finally, a word about maintenance. This is the overlooked aspect of military aviation, but it is the most crucial since all other factors depend upon it-training no less than combat.

"We expect a total of two hundred and fifty mechanics and other specialists to train under our maintenance instructors already on hand. We have identified sufficient other qualified people to expand the maintenance program at a rate equal to pilot training. Each student pilot class will have a parallel class of about thirty Arab mechanics graduate about the same time. In the beginning this will require pulling some of the existing Saudi mechanics off other aircraft-most notably the F -5 program, which, of course, is phasing out. Here again, we will return the better students to the system for use as instructors themselves."

Bennett paused and looked around the room. "Gentlemen, this concludes my initial presentation. His Majesty has told me we will break for lunch and resume the briefing thereafter."

There was complete silence. No one said a word-not the king, nor his air leaders, nor his ministers. Then Bennett caught Safad Fatah's gaze and the aviator recognized what he saw in the Arab's face; a wide-eyed realization. In this room John Bennett, American, had just laid down the key to the box containing the balance of power in the Middle East. "Tiger Force," as it would be called, could become a deciding factor in the future of this region.

Glancing about in concern, Lawrence turned to his friend and leader. He noticed that Bennett's hands were contracted tightly into fists. The redhead slid back his chair as if to rise, but did not, aware of the breach of decorum to stand before the king arose.

However, the movement stirred the Saudis. They slowly filed out behind their monarch and Bennett trailed after them. Lawrence matched him stride for stride, then could stand the silence no longer. "What's eating you, Skipper? I thought your briefing went very well."

Bennett walked a few more paces, then abruptly stopped. His gray eyes met Lawrence's. "I was just thinking. There was a French philosopher who said something I've never forgotten. He said, 'Be careful what you wish. It might come true.' "

Mild pandemonium was in progress in the Tiger Force auditorium. Men who had not seen one another in years grasped out-stretched hands, shouted across the large room, or searched out old friends. Forty of the best fighter pilots on the planet were gathered to hear their commander brief them. But for the moment there were handshakes, loud voices, expressive hands, and laughter.

John Bennett walked among the men, greeting several and calling by name those he recognized. He particularly responded to those who once knew him as their squadron commander and still called him Skipper. Bennett warmly shook hands with Dennis "Masher" Malloy, late of the U.S. Navy's Fighter Squadron 143, and hailed George "Bear" Barnes, whom he had known during an exchange tour with the Marine Corps. Bennett also took note of a few others, recalling names and faces from the personnel folders. The second-tallest man in the room, after Barnes, was a former Air Force pilot with blond good looks-Tim Ottman. Bennett couldn't recall the man's callsign.

The Brits stood out from the crowd, both by dress and demeanor. Whereas most of the Americans wore well-used flight jackets, the former RAF and Royal Navy fliers were impeccably dressed in coat and tie or razor-creased tropical kit. Bennett made a point of greeting Peter Saint-Martin and Geoffrey Hampton, each sporting a regulation mustache.

Slowly the noise subsided as Bennett strode to the front of the auditorium and mounted the podium. Those who had never even seen a photo of the man instantly recognized his position. Anyone who had spent time in the military would describe Bennett's posture with the identical term: command presence. Bennett himself thought of the phrase as he looked out over the audience. Occasionally he told intimates that every leader has to be part entertainer. Some leaders are frightening entertainers, others are personable entertainers. Bennett could be either.

"Gentlemen, welcome. My name is John Bennett. Callsign Pirate. I'm a fighter pilot." This elicited a ripple of enthusiasm and a scattering of applause from those who knew him. "Each of you can call me by my first name-Colonel." Laughter rolled across the audience. It was a familiar gambit, but a welcome one in this strange setting where so much was unfamiliar. It was also to be taken seriously.

Bennett allowed the response to die out, then continued. "This is a great opportunity for us and, I might add, a lucrative one."

A chorus of agreement washed over him. A couple of fliers shouted, "It's about time!" Most of these men had pursued other careers but their first love was pushing a fighter plane to its absolute limits, outmaneuvering another man similarly motivated and similarly equipped. No other part of their existence so absorbed them. Bennett knew that, for some, this was a last hurrah. A last time to bend the airplane and see the other man out in front, to know that you were better than he. The feeling in the air was electric.

"Guys, I won't keep you here too long today. I know most of you are just getting settled in. But we're here to build the best air force in the world. It'll be a small one, but the product we turn out will be the finest on earth because you will make it so."

Bennett paused, wondering how much to pursue this line of thought. He decided on a short diversion. "We've all been to pretty much the same places and done pretty much the same things. I guess in a way that makes us special. Certainly it makes us different. I like to think that we know how to do what the admirals and generals and budgeteers wanted us to do-but usually wouldn't let us."

This brought.a staccato rush of endorsement for the sentiment. Bennett continued. "Well, the Saudis have given us the best chance we'll ever have to prove our point. We're going to make the most of it. By the time we're done, the bean-counters will know they missed a bet when they held us back. We're going to push our concept just as far as it will go-burning lots of gas, shooting lots of ordnance, and yanking and banking till hell won't have it." There was a smattering of applause. "In fact, I hope that at the end of two years-certainly four-we'll all be so damned tired of flying that we'll be glad to hang up our G-suits."

Bennett knew he had made his point. "I'd like to introduce Lieutenant Colonel Ed Lawrence. He answers to Devil on the radio. He's my exec and in charge of instructor training. Ed, stand up."

Lawrence raised himself from the front-row seat and waved laconically.

"Colonel Lawrence will distribute the schedule tonight. You'll begin groundschool day after tomorrow, after your jet lag wears off. Certain of us will take the role of students both in the simulators and upstairs, with two flights in each phase. My feeling is that by the time we each have about fifteen hops we'll be up to speed and ready for our first students. Most of the F-20 two-seaters have been delivered, and we'll have the first single-seaters in a couple more weeks.

"Now, this is important, so listen tight. Here in our compound and among ourselves we'll have the informality we're used to. But outside the compound, and especially among the young cadets and Arab officers, we must maintain a military bearing. One breach of etiquette means a warning and loss of a month's pay. A second time, even for a different offense like boozing or skirt-chasing, and you're gone with the wind, gentlemen. No appeal, no exceptions."

He paused to let that sink in. Then he continued, with a lighter tone to his voice. "I've been reading the Koran as time allows, and that combined with close contact with the Saudis has shown me a few things." He paused to glance at his notes.

"The Muslim religion is a warrior's religion. Death in battle is exulted. One sura says it all: 'Prescribed for you is fighting, though it be hateful to you.' The faith is characterized by extreme fatalism, and this trait must be handled carefully when dealing with your students. Many Arabs believe that when your time is up, there's nothing to do but accept the decree of God. Inshallah is a phrase you'll hear often. It means 'God's will.' Naturally, this attitude does not go well with military aviation. You must impress upon these cadets that they can never give up, never quit trying.

"Another phrase you'll hear a lot is mafi'misula. It's the Arabic equivalent of manana, meaning 'no problem.' There's a widespread tendency to let things slide, to go around them rather than solve them. It's a cultural difference we will have to deal with, firmly but tactfully. Westerners are far more direct than Arabs, who always want to exchange pleasantries first. Similarly, briefings and debriefings tend to be extremely lax in Arab air forces because it's impolite to praise one person over another, let alone to imply criticism. Consequently, you must always seek to balance your debriefs with something positive, to keep encouraging the students at every stage of the syllabus.

"We've arranged briefings to better acquaint you with Arab philosophy. But there's room for optimism. The students we're getting are barely more than kids, so their minds are relatively open and I'm assured there will be a minimum of culture shock. But get this: We're receiving the cream of this country's crop. I guarantee, if you produce for these boys, they'll break their hearts trying to please you.

"Overall, just one thing to remember tonight. The Arabs will respect strong, quiet men who lead by example. Polish up your Gary Cooper impersonation and you won't go far wrong."

Bennett looked around the room. He was confident he'd made his point. "All right. Last one to the bar buys the first round. "

Colonel Bennett made sure he was the last to place his order.

Secretary of State Thurmon Wilson was angered by the Israeli ambassador's suggestion that some obscure retired naval officer might be breaking the U. S. Code. Wilson pressed the button of his desk phone and asked his secretary to put him through to the Secretary of Defense.

"Ben, good afternoon. The Israeli ambassador just left my office in a huff about some of the U.S. citizens under contract to the Saudis. You recall it was discussed at the cabinet meeting last time."

The defense secretary listened to Wilson's New England accent with controlled petulance. Oh, Christ, he thought. The Israelis again . "Yes, I remember. We decided there was no harm in the arrangement. "

"That's right," Wilson said. "But the Israelis seem especially interested in one man, apparently the leader. He's a retired Navy commander named John L. Bennett." Wilson spelled the name. "He's from the San Diego area. The Israelis seem to know a lot about him, and they suggest he may be in violation of U. S. Code."

"In what way?"

"Employment by a foreign military power, which technically could define him as a mercenary. But that's the broadest possible interpretation. If some lawyer wanted to push it, he'd make a case against every instructor or civilian tech rep we have outside the country. It wouldn't stick, of course, but that's the theory."

Benjamin Wake interjected. "Did the ambassador make reference to the Saudi F-20 buy?"

Wilson paused, uncertain of the aircraft designation. "Is that the airplane we discussed previously?"

"Yes, it's designed by the Northrop Corporation. Long ago we gave permits for export to most of the friendly third world countries and it's also in production abroad. It's called the Tigershark."

The Secretary of State remembered Tom Wolfe's description of the macho appellations given to combat aircraft: a mixture of sharp teeth, cold steel, cosmic warlords, and evil spirits. "Yes, that's the one. The Israelis are trying like hell to slow down the Middle East exports. They're lobbying heavily in Congress, you know."

Wake knew where this conversation was leading. "I know. But do you know how many people are employed by that company? The president said last week that with our balance-of-payments deficit and with the unemployment in Southern California, there was no way we could reduce foreign military sales. It's politically as well as economically unfeasible."

“So what about this Bennett character?"

"I just wondered if your Navy people could check up on him. You know, give me something to show the Israelis and prove we're trying to cooperate."

The defense secretary inhaled, held his breath, and closed his eyes. Just what I need-another project. "Thurmon, what the president said about national economics also applies to geopolitics. The Saudi organization that Bennett is building gives us leverage and political influence we may need badly in that region. Especially with the way things are going with the radical Moslem states."

Wilson decided on a direct appeal. "Can't you just go through the motions? Give me something to throw the Israelis and show our good faith."

"All right, Thurmon. I'll have one of my people get back to you in a couple of days. But I can tell you right now, we can't tell you any more about this guy than the Israelis already know. Christ, they probably can tell you what toothpaste he uses."

"Well, thanks. I appreciate it. Do you have any suggestions about the Israelis' concern regarding the Tigershark?"

Wake's tone was that of a schoolmaster lecturing an earnest but dull student. "You can tell them exactly what we said in the cabinet meeting. The Saudi versions have no radar so far and no radar-guided missiles. That makes them less capable than almost anything the Israelis already are flying. After all, that's why we approved the bird for export."

"Yes, well, thanks again, Ben. Always good to chat with you."

Lieutenant Levi Bar-El felt his cheeks redden in embarrassment. His chief and other intelligence executives had been polite, but he had been lectured on the importance of a sense of perspective, of establishing priorities. His section chief had hinted at that very topic not long ago, he recalled. But Bar-El had pressed right along, sending up smoke signals which had made their way to some very nervous politicians, already edgy about the international reaction to Jordon. He hadn't violated military etiquette, and he had only nudged the borders of military-diplomatic propriety. Now he realized that the people he talked to had in turn spoken to others.

"Lieutenant-" the colonel had begun.

Levi knew right then he was in trouble. Ordinarily Chaim Geller used first names.

"I agree with you that the foreign pilots and the new aircraft are a matter of potential concern. But you have other projects more pressing. Therefore, please do not allow the Saudi situation to become an obsession. Remember, we have the finest air force on earth. No matter how many American and British instructors the Saudis hire, our fighter pilots will handle the situation."

Still, Bar-El could not shake a sense of premonition. He knew that a good intelligence officer developed a sixth sense, and more often than not it proved accurate. He had studied the official color photograph of the man named Bennett, concentrating on the man's gray eyes. They held… what? Dedication, tenacity? That, surely, but something more. Bar-El inhaled. He wondered if the colonel had used the very word to describe this man. Obsession.

Chapter 5

John Bennett approached the sleek fighter with his helmet tucked under his left arm. He wanted time alone to preflight the aircraft by himself, for in the two weeks since his briefing to the king and the Saudi ministers he had been too busy for his obligatory visit to the U.S. Embassy in Riyadh. But today he would fly an F-20-his F-20-to the capital. Bennett noted the name elegantly painted on the canopy rail; the king was as good as his word.

The weather was warm, even at 0700, and Bennett perspired under his Nomex flight suit, G-suit, and torso harness. The ambient temperature was heightened by a hot wind. But he hardly noticed. He stood beside the two-seat Tigershark, aware of his heart beating slightly faster than normal. He savored the smells of the aircraft-a heady mixture of jet fuel, hydraulic fluid, and rubber. Almost self-consciously he glanced around to see if anyone was watching. He was supposed to be a detached professional, and such men aren't expected to be sentimental about the tools of their trade. That's what the groundlings think, he mused. But they don't know, not unless they're aviators. It was a point of pride that the U.S. Navy produced aviators while almost every other service in the world merely produced pilots.

God, it had been good. The sights, the aromas, the feelings all came rushing back. Sensations half remembered-or half forgotten-from his youth. Bennett had been out of the cockpit more than a decade, but many things had not changed. The tension of the G-suit around his thighs and abdomen, the good tightness of the gloves, even the irritation of a helmet pressing one's ears and forehead, and the flesh creased by the oxygen mask. Girding for battle. He imagined warriors had always felt these things, since the days they wore animal skins or chain mail.

But there was more. To impart to young men the skills that only a few ever master. To do something in his own nation's interest in this critical part of the world, Bennett felt an urgency and a newfound sense of excitement and anticipation beating in his chest.

"You look real tactical this morning," Ed Lawrence shouted. Bennett turned, his reverie interrupted, to watch the redheaded flier waddle toward him.

We all look slightly ridiculous, he thought. Like disembodied junction boxes, with our G-suit leads and oxygen hoses and radio cords dangling. Which was exactly the case. Until a jet fighter pilot was fully plugged into his machine, he was simply an independent flight system, useless without his airplane.

"It's great to be getting back in the air, isn't it, Skipper?"

Lawrence ran an affectionate hand along the F-20's fuselage much as Bennett had done.

"Well, I've read the manual a few times through and you'll recall I did okay in the simulator."

The F-20 simulators still were being installed but Bennett had exercised his rank and qualified ahead of most pilots on the schedule. The Saudis would be the first third world country with flight simulators that showed the world outside the cockpit. They were tremendously expensive but invaluable for accelerating training. The computer-generated imagery which allowed students to experience earth and sky as well as the instrument panel previously was limited to nations which produced the systems, such as the United States, Britain, and France. One of the new simulators, with the academic software which went with it, cost almost as much as an "economical" jet fighter.

Bennett climbed into the front seat while Lawrence strapped, hooked, and plugged himself in the back. Lawrence already had twenty flights in the two-seaters and had overseen initial checkouts of two other instructors. As more aircraft arrived, that pace would accelerate.

Lawrence keyed the intercom: "All right, boss, you've got it. Let's fire up this hummer and get going."

Bennett glanced in the rearview mirror. He saw the exec's old helmet with three yellow stars representing his MiG kills over North Vietnam. Just like old times. Now all we need is a flock of MiGs, Bennett thought. He shrugged involuntarily. Be careful what you want-it might come true. After start-up Bennett smartly saluted the line chief and taxied to the active runway.

The hot sun radiated shivers of heat from the concrete as Bennett lined up on the centerline. Holding the brakes, he advanced the throttle to 80 percent of full military power. The Tigershark strained against the brakes like a hungry predator, and Bennett's legs trembled slightly from the pressure on the pedals. Satisfied the General Electric turbofan engine was performing normally, he released the brakes and pushed the throttle into afterburner.

Though the F-20 weighed 15 percent more than the F-5, it possessed 70 percent more power. Seventeen thousand pounds of thrust were ignited as raw fuel was pumped to the TF-404's afterburner section, and 15,000 pounds of Tigershark rocketed off the runway.

Bennett was elated. He let out an involuntary war whoop as he was shoved back in his seat. Hauling the stick back, he kept the airspeed below landing gear limits, flipped the circular knob on the left of the instrument panel, and felt the wheels lock into place. Then he pushed the nose down to almost level, allowing the little fighter to accelerate. In seconds he had 400 knots on the airspeed indicator. He began an abrupt three-G pull-up and watched the altimeter reel off 5,000 feet before he could count it.

Bennett came out of burner and continued a less dramatic climb. He wanted to settle down and get his bearings before sampling the F-20's performance in other regimes. He made slight, deft movements of the control stick, performing four-point aileron rolls, left and right.

"Not bad for somebody who's almost eligible for social security," Lawrence rasped from the backseat.

Keeping the nose level, Bennett selected afterburner again and let the wickedly beautiful Northrop accelerate to 600 knots. Then he rotated the nose to 60 degrees above the horizon and sustained the climb to 40,000 feet. He came out of afterburner, marveling at the F-20's thrust-to-weight ratio.

Bennett keyed the mike. "Judas Priest, Devil, what have you got me into?"

"Uh, I sort of thought it was the other way around, Skipper."

"Well, considering my advanced age, and the fact I've been out of the saddle for ten years, this one-point-one machine takes some getting used to."

The F-8· Crusader they had both flown in Vietnam had almost as much thrust as the F-20's engine, but the Crusader weighted 25,000 pounds combat-loaded for air-to-air. That meant its thrust was about 70 percent of its takeoff weight. The Tigershark, like most other new fighters, had ten percent more thrust than weight-on the order of 1.1 to 1.

For the next thirty minutes Bennett knew again the wonder of high-performance flight. He rolled, pulled the aircraft through a six-G turn, and felt his body weight increased to over 1,000 pounds by the force of gravity. He flexed his abdominal muscles and grunted through the M-l maneuver, which helped delay the onset of grayout. His G-suit inflated and gripped his extremities as if in a giant vise, keeping more blood in his brain than would be possible otherwise. It also allowed him to maintain vision longer, but inevitably the gray fog at the periphery of his sight grew larger, and twice he blacked out completely.

The old bod ain't what it used to be, sport. But damn … ain't this grand! The high side of fifty isn't so bad.

After a half-hour of remembered exhilaration, Bennett turned over control to Lawrence. As IP, the redhead contacted air traffic control and activated his flight plan to Riyadh. Bennett pulled out a notebook and reviewed air traffic control procedures as well as topics for his meeting at the U. S. Embassy. Glancing to the north, he saw a huge sandstorm developing and made a mental note. He would have to be sure the extra canopies and windscreens he had ordered were en route. Flying through blowing sand, Plexiglas became pitted, with reduced visibility in just a couple of years.

Bennett shoved his notebook back in the map case. To hell with paperwork. I'm gonna fly.

In the backseat, Lawrence felt the stick wobble in the familiar "I've got it" signal, and turned loose. Up front, Bennett tapped his gloved fingers on the controls, softly humming "Back In the Saddle Again. "

Claudia Meyers entered the charge d'affaires office in the U.S. Embassy and sought out a volume on the shelf. She found Title 37 U. S. Code and methodically searched through it. Leonard Houston, the charge, had been called away and asked her to cover his appointment this afternoon. Claudia frequently covered for her superior, and in moments she found the section she wanted. She read it twice and marked it. There was no problem, but the procedures had to be observed.

Ordinarily the State Department would not have sent the daughter of a Jewish father and Catholic mother to a position in an Islamic nation, but Claudia Meyers was accustomed to breaking precedent. She had been programmed early for success, and attendance at a Catholic school with very high academic standards had prevented her from taking on a strictly Jewish identity.

Claudia's language ability had won her a succession of positions and the admiration of her superiors. She had learned French at home and was professionally fluent in Arabic. Though religious observance was not part of her upbringing, a shrewd early career move had brought her competency in Hebrew. Thus, she was well suited for Middle East assignments.

Her Anglicized surname, changed three generations ago from Meier, her creamy complexion, and her blond hair belied her more immediate heritage. From a distance she looked a decade less than her actual age of thirty-eight. Only closer could one see the tiny laugh lines either side of her hazel eyes.

There was another reason she was here. Claudia Meyers had requested Riyadh. She knew the Saudi capital was only growing in importance, and she had calculated three years ago that this would be a good career move. Having served in State for almost fifteen years, she had enjoyed the life-styles of Washington and Paris. Now she tolerated the medieval attitude toward women, which still included slavery, in exchange for experience.

Claudia picked up the dossier on Houston's desk and flipped through it again. She gazed at the official photograph of the former naval officer with the usual background of the American flag. He was dressed in a dark blue uniform, wearing the hat featuring what military men called scrambled eggs, and he bore six rows of decorations. She scanned the bare facts of the man's career, which she assumed had been successful by military standards. A fighter pilot, apparently, one of the glamour boys.

Claudia was not fond of military men-overbearing, egocentric macho types, mostly. She had dated a few embassy guards and attaches over the years and two or three had been charming. At least they were preferable to overbearing, egocentric wimps who populated most of the world's embassies. But on the whole, she found the talk of "force structures" and "tasking" deadly dull. There had been no man in her life since she had left the United States and arrived in Arabia, and she did not expect to search for one at the expense of her career.

The intercom buzzed. "Mr. Bennett to see you," said the receptionist.

As the door opened Claudia stood up and crossed the floor to meet her visitor.

John L. Bennett had changed into a lightweight summer suit with a yellow shirt which offset his tan. Claudia appraised him at a glance: five feet ten, graying hair, well built. They shook hands and he was impressed with the strength of her grip. He noted the Phi Beta Kappa key on the simple gold chain around her neck. Then he thought of the three yellow stars on Devil's helmet. We all keep trophies, he thought.

Bennett appreciatively observed Claudia's willowy frame and her beautiful legs. He decided that men would remember her bearing, her manner, and her husky voice rather than her face.

Claudia was unprepared for Bennett's cheerful nature. She wondered if he was always in such a good mood. The tan, the startling gray eyes, and the strong white teeth made a favorable impression. When she released her grip and invited him to sit down, she noted the creases on his face and across the bridge of the nose.

"I flew in from Bahrain," he said, taking a chair.

"Yes, I know." What was he getting at?

"Oh, I noticed your look at my face. I saw the same thing in the mirror when I was changing. The oxygen mask has to fit tight and it always leaves a mark for a little while."

"Then you didn't come by commercial airline?"

"Oh, no. I'm a fighter pilot. We hate to leave the driving to somebody else."

Claudia relaxed more. Bennett's comment provided a logical entry to the business she had to discuss with him. She was a firm believer in first impressions, whether good or bad, and Bennett made a good first impression. His easygoing manner, his infectious smile, and his appearance combined to put her at ease. Claudia was conscious of an immediate attraction to this man. He was not at all what she had expected of… what? A mercenary?

Mr. Houston had implied that the meeting with Bennett was more to placate the Israelis than to conduct actual business. Edward Lawrence was meeting with the U. S. air attache while Bennett saw Claudia, so clearly State was covering the bases in response to pressure from elsewhere. But Claudia found she was enjoying the session.

From experience, she had expected Bennett to be defensive in discussing his dealings with the Saudis or to present a blustering facade. But he did neither. Instead, he answered her questions with a directness that she found refreshing.

"Commander, I've reviewed the facts of your contract with the Saudi government and there is no problem. I merely wish to confirm our understanding of the situation."

"I understand, Miss Meyers. Go right ahead."

Claudia folded her hands on the desk and learned forward. She was a student of body language and noted that Bennett leaned toward her as well. "You are helping the Saudis build an air defense force which-if you'll excuse the expression-will be separate from but equal to their existing air force. Is that correct?"

"Yes, that's right." He briefly explained the king's concern about maintaining the sophisticated aircraft already on hand, and their vulnerability to foreign embargo of parts and mechanics from the West.

"What do the Saudi Air Force leaders think of this situation? Aren't they likely to be jealous of you and your people?"

"That's one of the things Ed Lawrence is discussing with the air attache," explained Bennett. "But I can tell you that the king has guaranteed my organization a free hand, clear of rivalries and intraservice politics." Bennett thought for a moment, wondering how far to carry his discussion with this diplomat. What the hell, he thought. If she's any good at her job she'll already know the facts. "I would not have taken the offer under any other circumstances. You see, service politics is one reason I retired from the Navy. I don't want to fight that battle again-in any language." He laughed, then added, "With any luck, I won't have to do so. Inshallah. "

Claudia shared the humor, secretly surprised and pleased that the aviator possessed a knowledge of Arabic philosophy. But there was something of the hunter about this man. In a strange way-new to her-it was an appealing quality.

Much to her surprise, after the interview Claudia noted that she had spent ten minutes more than the thirty allotted with Bennett. His grasp of regional politics and the importance of maintaining American influence in the region drew her increasing attention and admiration.

She escorted Bennett to the door and shook hands before leaving. Conscious of the pressure in his grip, she said, "I expect you'll get to Riyadh fairly often. Maybe I'll see you again."

Bennett's gaze held hers and she felt mild anger when her eyes lowered despite herself. Two strong personalities, Claudia, she told herself. That could mean trouble. Then she said, "Have a good flight back."

"These kids have come a long way in six months," Ed Lawrence said. "But do you think they're going to make fighter pilots?"

John Bennett glanced down the ordered rows of cadets. They wore neat khaki uniforms devoid of insignia except for the collar pins of the duty officers. Duty officer was a rotational assignment in each fifteen- or sixteen-man section in the first class. The duty allowed the instructors to gauge each cadet's leadership potential.

"We'll know soon enough," Bennett replied. "At least we weren't excessive in our estimates for preflight."

Lawrence agreed. Of the sixty-five students in Class One, all but two had finished the six months indoctrination and ground school, though two more were being held back for Class Two because of marginal English fluency. Some of the others were borderline in mathematics and navigation, but overall the quality was high. The IPs expected forty or more to win their wings.

The Saudi drill instructor bellowed the order in the manner of drill instructors from time immemorial. The cadets snapped to attention, saluted the reviewing stand, and momentarily remained still. Their uniformly high state of physical fitness was evident from tensed muscles, even beneath their clothes. Preflight had invested heavily in cardiovascular development with running, step tests, and weight lifting. Even swimming was emphasized.

Now, Bennett reflected, these youngsters were in the best condition of their lives. He knew they would need that advantage to meet the challenge before them.

At the dismiss order, the students broke formation and were overcome in a sea of congratulatory shouts and gestures. Friends, family members, and cadets of the two newer classes crowded around to offer good wishes.

The two Americans walked into the shade of a pavilion after standing in the Arabian sun for the previous half-hour. They had wanted to make their presence conspicuous for the graduating cadets but neither was wholly acclimatized to the forenoon heat. They accepted iced tea from the waiter and found an unoccupied corner.

Lawrence downed half his drink in one gulp. "You know, Skipper, if you want to leave for a couple weeks I'm glad to fill in."

"Yeah, I think I will, Ed. I sure appreciate your taking up the slack. I guess I still feel guilty about not being there when Paul married his girl. Now that I'm a grandfather I really should go see the kids."

General Mohammad Abd Maila walked over, immaculate in dress uniform. He had been involved with formation of the F-20 program from the start but maintained a discrete distance from administration of the force. Both Americans regarded him as a friend of Tiger Force, yet wondered at the man's apparent inability to perspire. Offering his hand to Bennett and Lawrence, he said, "Gentlemen, my heartiest congratulations. I saw the scores of your first graduating class's academic tests. Seventy percent are above our target median. I really must have our training people consult with you."

"We'll be right happy to oblige," Lawrence said.

Bennett winced. The guy talks like a Hollywood cowpoke. Who'd guess he grew up in Seattle?

"General, I will be returning home to visit my family during the next two weeks. As you know, this class will be on leave for that period. Colonel Lawrence will supervise the preflight stage for the next two classes in my absence."

The Saudi turned to examine the youngsters. ''Tell me, have you identified any of these young men as outstanding leaders?"

"Yes, sir, we certainly have. Two in particular. Rajid Hamir and Ahnas Menaf. Both are bright, well-motivated young men with excellent attitudes. They're extremely anxious to learn but they show maturity and self-reliance among their classmates. 1 would say they're the natural leaders of this class."

General Maila flashed a smile. "I am most pleased to hear of it, Colonel Bennett. You probably do not know, but Rajid Hamir is a nephew of Safad Fatah. I've known the family most of my life. 1 agree, the boy has much potential." He saluted crisply and walked away.

Lawrence looked at Bennett. "Did you know the Hamir kid was related to Fatah? 1 sure didn't."

"No. But it doesn't surprise me. Safad wouldn't want to give the impression to anyone that his nephew carried extra favor with us. It wouldn't have mattered if we'd known, of course, but I'm glad for Fatah's sake. He must be proud enough to pop his vest."

The redhead finished his iced tea. ''That's Safad's normal condition, from what I've seen."

"I wouldn't let the gentleman hear you say as much."

Bennett pondered the two cadets, both near the top of the class academically, both with considerable potential, but each so different temperamentally. Rajid, at nineteen, was shy almost to the point of being introverted. Studious and serious, he went out of his way to help classmates with academics. That alone made him popular.

Ahnas Menaf was two years older, more confident in himself.

Unlike 99 percent of Arab men, he had no mustache, but with a demeanor approaching debonair, he was admired by the younger cadets for his image. Bennett knew from academic records that the lad had ability. Time would tell whether the image fit the man.

Bennett caught the courier flight to Riyadh that evening. He had made a dinner date with Claudia Meyers; he had allowed just enough time to be with her before his departure for Rome and on to the States.

When Bennett arrived at Claudia's door she was fully prepared to go. He admired that about her. Each time he had called upon her in the previous six months-twice at the embassy and once at her apartment-she had been prepared. No shuffling of schedules, no role-playing delays to make him wait and demonstrate his desire to meet her terms.

They took a taxi to a nearby restaurant but Bennett declined a full meal. "I'm reading up on jet lag. It says you're not supposed to have much protein when traveling. Which is kind of tough on a confirmed steak-and-potatoes man."

"Surely they'll feed you on the plane."

"Yeah, I think so. By the way, I had to get an earlier flight to make connections for a nonstop from New York to San Diego. 1 leave ninety minutes earlier than planned."

"Oh… 1 had hoped we'd have more time." Her voice said as much about her disappointment as her words.

Bennett was pleased to know their rare visits meant as much to her as they did to him. A brief, awkward silence fell upon them as they studiously scanned their menus. Each felt that the other wanted to say more. Bennett had just screwed up his courage when the waiter approached to take their order. Claudia rattled off a long string of Arabic with obvious ease and the waiter bowed, then left.

Claudia smiled across the table. "I ordered for both of us. 1 hope you don't mind."

"Not a bit. Thanks. This is still new to me, you know. 1 don't get out very often-"

"Neither do I." She glanced down, then returned her gaze to Bennett. "It's awfully difficult for a single woman to develop a social life outside her profession here. I knew that when I came, but the reality of life in a Muslim country still can be a cultural shock to a Western career woman."

Bennett wondered if she was as lonely as he, and decided she probably was. It was one more thing they had in common, aside from the growing physical attraction between them.

They discussed embassy gossip, regional politics, and Bennett's son. Claudia recalled a previous reference to Paul, and listened with interest as the aviator related his not entirely satisfactory story of the young man-a premature marriage and a child.

Claudia was relaxed enough to ask a personal question. "How are they going to get along like that? I mean, marriage is hard enough at any age, let alone in college. But with a child as well…"

"I've arranged a trust for them, only to be used in emergencies.

They don't even know about it. My attorney will notify them should the need arise. I guess it's best for Paul and his wife to have to make it on their own. If they do succeed, their marriage will be stronger for it." He paused, gathered his courage, and looked into her hazel eyes. "Claudia, have you ever considered marriage?"

She blinked, hesitated an instant, then felt relieved. Now we're getting somewhere. "I don't mind telling you I've had two proposals, John. I turned down both of them. The first was in college, the second a few years ago, from another foreign service officer. Neither would have worked. The first time, I was at UC Berkeley and got caught up in the excitement of the political activism, but we were too immature for marriage."

"I have a hard time imagining you as immature."

Claudia suppressed a smile. "Well, all right. He was too immature, caught up in radical politics. If he knew I'd defected to the establishment he'd demand return of the Che Guevara poster he gave me.”

"And the second guy wanted you to join him on a hardship post in Sierra Leone, right?"

"Not quite. We were both in Washington at the time. But our careers were competitive. It just wouldn't have worked." She shot Bennett a sly glance. "How about you? Ever think of remarrying?"

"Not seriously. After Elizabeth was killed in the car wreck I had my hands full raising Paul. He was in high school at the time and a little wild. He needed all my attention."

"That's about what I'd expect of you." Her tone was both admiring and sympathetic. "But surely there were plenty of eligible ladies in La Jolla."

"Oh, sure. I was out of the Navy by then but I still knew lots of women. Cruise widows we call them, wives whose husbands are at sea. Actually it was a pretty tame arrangement. I'd help them with repairs around the house and they'd fix me dinner once in a while."

Their meal arrived and Bennett cautiously tasted his entree. It was a rather bland mixture of vegetables with small portions of meat which he seasoned to his own taste.

She said, "Go ahead, silly. It's safe. It's lamb stirred into a mixture of herbs and vegetables. I'd tell you the name but you'd never remember it. Just trust me that it's what a traveler needs."

Half joking, half serious, Bennett said, "I don't remember what the Koran says about mixing cuisine. Guess I'll have to read up on it during the flight home."

Claudia leaned her chin in one hand, regarding Bennett with increased interest. "I wouldn't have picked you as a student of religion. "

"Well, normally I'm not. But when I was asked to consider this job, I studied a synopsis of the Koran and have read most of it in translation. I'm just trying to see things from the Saudi viewpoint."

"What do you make of the writings of the Prophet?" Claudia was on firm ground-she had read the Koran in Arabic twice. All one hundred and fourteen suras.

"Most of it's pretty heavy going. For me, anyway. The organization makes no sense, if I understand it right. You know-the short, easily read suras last, which I think were written first. And the imbalance between the Meccan and Median revelations. No wonder it took Muhammad twenty-one years to get all of the text. He must have hardly known which parts came in what order."

Claudia smiled. "Remember, he was beloved of God. When he was gone-"

"Yeah, 632 A.D."

"When he died in June 632," she went on, "the suras were written from memory and organized by the caliph Uthman, who had scholars prepare a definitive version. Enough people knew the writings by heart that it could be done."

They continued discussing the holy book until it was time to leave. Claudia realized Bennett's interest in regional politics had led him to an understanding of the rift in Muslim doctrine: the Shiites believing that only direct descendants of Muhammad, through his daughter Fatima, could lead Islam; the Sunnis adopting a case for individual merit, much as tribal leadership was decided. Though Shiism was the decided minority in the Arab world, it was the dominant sect in Iran. By contrast, Iraq's population was nearly evenly divided while most other nations-Egypt, Syria, Jordan, and Saudi Arabia, to name the more prominent-were Sunni.

Conversely, Bennett was impressed with Claudia's detailed knowledge of the historical Koran: the comparison between Biblical figures described in the Old and New Testaments-Noah, Moses, Abraham, and Jesus. It occurred to him that the three great religions spawned in this volatile region had as much in common as they had to dispute.

Bennett escorted Claudia home and stepped inside just long enough to kiss her decorously on the cheek. But he felt her press close against him and her hand went to the nape of his neck. He wrapped his arms around her, their mouths met, and he felt her lips part in the beginning of a long, delicious kiss. Then he turned to go.

"John." He glanced over his shoulder. "I pray that you have a safe trip and a wonderful reunion with your son. Fii arnaah illaah. Go in the care of God. "

"Masaa' il-khayr," he replied, touching her cheek. Claudia laughed appreciatively before closing the door. "Good evening" was more a greeting than a sign of leaving, but it mattered little. John Bennett offered possibilities that Claudia Meyers had not considered in years.

The morning after Bennett's flight left for Rome and New York, Safad Fatah met with two other Saudi officials. He was very un-Arabic in his direct manner.

"Our pilot training program is proceeding on schedule. The first class completed preliminary instruction this week, and two more classes have entered the same phase. It appears we shall have our hundred and fifty F-20 pilots in barely two years with the rapid curriculum. "

Tewfig al Aziz, the economics specialist, expressed cautious concern. ''That is as we expected, it is not? But how long will it take until all of those pilots are qualified for combat? And what about the maintenance personnel?"

Fatah raised a placating hand. "The instructors still insist that each pilot should have two to three years experience beyond post-graduate training. That is, after the eight months following graduation from flying school and commissioning as officers. 1 do not dispute that claim. Nor do 1 take for granted the quality of our support people. Clearly, we must continue to rely upon our contract foreigners for quite some time. But the important thing is, we should have adequate numbers of trained Saudis in flying and maintenance positions to tide us over. If relations are broken with the Americans in eighteen months, we can draw upon our own resources for pilots and many of the technicians."

Aziz shifted his tiny coffee up. "Very well. What then about the additional aircraft?"

"That is why I wished to meet so soon. His Majesty has asked me to report on our options to lease or purchase the machines currently held or ordered by other nations." He looked to the third man.

Ali Abd Musad was a forty-nine-year-old retired air force officer who had been a Saudi attache to Ankara and Rabat. Fatah had chosen him two years before for a long-term project which, in fact, might never come to fruition. But in the meantime, if the need arose, Musad's exceptionally fine contacts could prove invaluable.

"Our options are good to excellent," Musad said. "As you both will recall, the Turks were willing to appear reluctant to accept two squadrons of F-20s, insisting they preferred more advanced aircraft. This in turn caused Washington to offer favorable terms in exchange for Turkey accepting the Tigersharks. Since the U. S. extended trade credit in order to allow the Turks to complete the agreement, it is satisfactory to all concerned. Deliveries are scheduled to begin later this year, but Ankara has made it clear the F-20s are only an interim measure. Once economic conditions permit, the Turks will press for F-l5s. Under that condition, we have applied to be the ultimate user in a contingency, but should an emergency develop we shall buy the Tigersharks in any case."

Fatah allowed himself a moment's admiration of the man. Musad had been an indifferent pilot but had shown an exceptional capacity for Machiavellian politics. His behind-the-scenes contribution to his nation's defense far outweighed his service in the cockpit two decades ago.

Aziz caught Fatah's attention, pursuing Musad's line of thought.

"We have assured Ankara that our purchase of the aircraft will be at least eighty percent of the contract price. But since the Turks will not be paying in full anyway, the arrangement actually could be profitable for them. They will continue to fly their Phantoms and other machines, so there should be little attrition among the F-20s should we need them."

Fatah wrote a memo on his notepad. Without raising his eyes, he said, "Good. Now what about the Moroccans?"

Musad leaned back, at ease and confident. "That situation is even better. The end-use certificate specifies that those F-20s may only be transferred or sold to a nation already flying the type. It's different from the Turkish contract, since there exists the possibility that Greece might buy some Tigersharks. Between Turkey and Morocco, we can maintain a twenty to thirty percent reserve for our own F-20 force. And I have established contacts with both air forces-and perhaps the Sudan or South Korea-for extra spare parts in the event of an embargo."

Still writing, Fatah asked, "And what is the projected U. S. reaction if we exercise these options before an arms embargo? That is a possibility we must consider."

Musad's face was passive, in contrast to Aziz's. "I should say it depends upon relations between the Americans and the Israelis at the time. You may have heard that Israel provided Skyhawk parts to Argentina during the Falklands War, and Phantom parts to Iran in order to keep the pressure on Iraq. Neither exchange, to my knowledge, was approved by Washington. Yet there was almost no criticism. "

"But you know the Jewish influence in America." Aziz's voice had a brittle edge. "It is endless, there is no bottom to it."

Musad was about to reply that he could not blame any nation or group that acted from self-interest. It was the way of the world. Fatah looked up from his notes. "Yes, that is so. The Israelis can do almost anything they wish where the U.S. is concerned. They can spy on Americans, they can lobby against American interests in the U. S. Congress. They have even killed Americans with impunity." He looked over the top of his bifocals. "They cannot produce oil for the Americans. But we can."

Chapter 6

The intelligence offices were ever empty. Staffed around the clock every day of the year, they operated smoothly as each eight-hour shift alternated or-increasingly-overlapped. Colonel Chaim Geller flexed his legs, walking down the hall. It had been a long day in a long month. The occupation of Jordan continued to require much of his time, even with reduced military activity in that unhappy land.

Moving past the cubicles on either side, the once-sunburned archaeologist pondered his dissipating tan. He seldom got outdoors during daytime anymore. The shift had changed two hours ago and, working overtime, he noted with mild surprise the lamp on young Bar-El's desk remained on. Looking closer, he realized the reserve lieutenant was still there.

"Levi." The young man glanced up, "Here I thought we had said good-bye hours ago. Your active duty ended this afternoon."

Levi Bar-EI shifted slowly in his army issue chair. Geller realized his protege ached as much as himself. "Oh, yes sir. You know how I'm obsessed with this Saudi case." I'm leaving today, he thought to himself. No need to be diplomatic. Not until next year.

The section chief walked over, peering at the papers on the desk. He could not suppress a pleased grin. "By God, Levi, you may not be entirely objective yet, but you're hell for persistence." He made a special effort to pat the lad on the shoulder. "Something new?"

Holding up a report, the lieutenant said, "Our friend John L. Bennett was in America for almost two weeks and now is en route back to Arabia. Evidently the graduation of his first class from groundschool allowed him a short vacation."

Geller scanned the related papers from the file. "It seems they're serious about building this F-20 force. Well, for better or worse they'll probably have time to make it operational. I've not revised my estimate of six months ago."

Bar-El stretched his arms, slumped back, and mussed his curly black hair. "I remember. You said a relatively quiet two years or more. The Air Force staff thinks they will have to deal with these Saudi F-20s eventually."

The colonel dropped the file on the desk. "At least there's time to make plans. The Islamic fundamentalists still have to sort out their internal problems, consolidate their gains, and try to decide how to take us on. I believe their newfound unity has bought us a breathing space. If in fact they are consolidating their national and religious objectives to apply mass against us-"

"The correct procedure," Bar-El interjected.

A teacherlike wave of the finger. "You're learning. But if they are in fact consolidating and planning along those lines, it will take much effort in Iran, Iraq, Syria, and Lebanon."

"So you think they'll continue harassing us, building their military strength, and working diplomatically as well."

Geller said, "Absolutely. The imams must know by now they cannot afford another major loss. But some of them are dogmatic enough to think twice about dealing with the Soviet infidels. It may take time to overcome that attitude about unbelievers, especially after Afghanistan. But eventually pragmatism will win. Next time they'll choose the proper moment and try to do it right."

Bar-El scratched his head. His eyelids felt heavy. "Then what can we hope for in the meantime?"

There was the faintest trace of a smile at the corners of Geller's mouth. "I myself would prefer a miracle. A change of human nature. But lacking that, you know sometimes miracles are the product of a lot of hard work."

Bar-El's face was expressionless. Sometimes he did not understand his chief at all.

"More bickering among Sunni and Shiite, perhaps even some shooting along the South Yemen border." An eloquent shrug. "We’ll just have to wait and see."

Bar-El cocked his head to one side. The colonel thought he looked just like a curious puppy. "Do you mean we-"

"Levi, Levi, my young friend. Surely you realize I mean nothing. And in our line of work, even nothing can be highly significant. You've heard the phrase 'negative intelligence.' " The colonel winked, then heartily clapped Bar-El on the arm. "Enjoy yourself in Ashqelon, and save some fish for me."

Levi Bar-El stared at the retreating form of his section chief, pondering the myriad meanings of mere words.

Ed Lawrence rapped on the door at 1030 hours.

"Come in."

The redhead opened the door and stepped into John Bennett's three-room suite. Lawrence noticed the unmade bed, baggage piled in one corner, and a Browning Hi-Power pistol disassembled on a newspaper on the floor. Bennett emerged from the bathroom, dressed in khaki shorts, a white T-shirt, and sandals. "Hey there, Ed."

"Welcome back, Skipper." They shook hands. "Two weeks passes pretty fast, doesn't it?"

"Sure does. Actually, I got back late yesterday afternoon. Went straight to bed, and I'm still catching up on my jet lag."

"Yeah, I heard Masher and a couple of the guys saw you drag in here. Figured you'd hole up and recuperate." Lawrence sat down in the vacant chair. "So tell me. How's it feel to join the geriatric set?"

Bennett sprawled on the bed and rested his hands behind his head. "Ed, I have a granddaughter. Six pounds fourteen ounces at birth, now up to about ten pounds. She's going to have gray eyes, I think." He smiled widely and Lawrence saw the twinkle of pride in his friend's own gray eyes.

"How are Paul and his bride doing?"

"Oh, pretty good. Paul's decided to major in engineering, and I told him electronics would be a good future. So I expect he'll go for an EE. His wife's been working at a day-care center in Mesa so she has a good handle on children. I'd say they're doing all right. No gravy, but all right."

Lawrence pointed at the disassembled pistol. "New shootin' iron, I see. Nine millimeter, — thought you were a.45 man."

"I am. But.45 ammo's tough to get in quantity in this part of the world. So I looked up a buddy of mine in Phoenix. He's a naturalized South African gunsmith. I told him what I needed and he worked overtime to modify this Browning." Bennett picked up the receiver and handed it to Lawrence. "See, he's enlarged the thumb safety and polished the feedramp. The trigger lets off at about three and a half pounds. Also, he installed high-visibility sights."

Setting the frame back on the paper, Lawrence asked, "Why the concern with ammo? Couldn't you bring a couple boxes of.45 for your Colt?"

Bennett lanced his exec with his best instructor's stare. "How many rounds of twenty mike-mike did you fire in banner gunnery?"

Lawrence was perplexed. "Hell, I don't know. Must have been thousands and thousands with all those gunnery detachments to Yuma and everywhere. I remember Hoser McAllister got frustrated on his third or fourth hop and burned out all four barrels one time, trying to saturate the banner in one pass."

"Yeah-that's why they call him Hoser." Both men laughed. Bennett pressed his point. "Okay, you and I and every other F-8 driver burned up case-lots of ammo in practice. But how many rounds did you fire in combat, air-to-air?"

"Exactly two hundred eighty-three, on my second MiG. So what's the point?"

"You just answered the question, sport. Getting proficient with a handgun or rifle's no different from aerial gunnery. You shoot a lot more in practice than in combat. So instead of trying to bring a few thousand rounds of.45 ACP here, I got a gun to match the local situation. The Saudis can supply all the nine millimeter I can use."

"You really expect a shootout?"

"Well, I'll put it this way. If I don't have a shootout, I'm paranoid and healthy. If I do have a shootout, I'm prescient and healthy. The operative word is healthy." He grinned, knowing he had made his point. "Besides, it'll make a good impression on the cadets to see the head honcho taking his turn on the pistol range. Now, how are things shaping up for the flight program?"

"Real good. The first class started F-20 academics yesterday.

We're sticking to the modified GE syllabus, alternating between classroom lectures and do-it-yourself study with the display consoles. We'll start giving indoctrination rides next week. Keep their interest up.”

"Good deal. Are the IPs up to speed on the schedule?"

"Affirmative. A couple guys have questioned the accelerated pace of flight training but they seem to buy the reasoning."

Bennett had expected that. He recalled his own early instruction at Pensacola-the days lost to marginal or poor weather in the gulf climate, the remedial or make-up flights just to stay current. He and most of the Navy-trained instructors had periods when only ten or twelve flights were possible in two months. But Arabia's clear weather allowed flying almost every week of the year, provided it was scheduled early enough in the morning.

Lawrence got up to leave. "I'll tell the guys you're back aboard. We can get together with the different class IPs for lunch, dinner, and an evening session. I'll set it up for today and tomorrow." He walked to the door. "Oh, by the way. Did you see your lady diplomat when you came through Riyadh?"

"No. I called but she was out at some meeting. Why?"

"No reason. Just some lecherous snooping. You going to see her regularly, do you think?"

Bennett was mildly irritated; Lawrence had a way of making one's personal matters his own. Bennett wondered if it was because the exec had so few close friends himself. "I expect to see her again. When time allows."

"She's quite a bit younger than you, isn't she?"

"As a matter of fact, she's about sixteen years younger. We get along together despite such a vast age difference." His voice was tinged with irony. It also said, Proceed with caution.

Recognizing the danger signal, Lawrence flashed a brilliant white smile and a big thumbs-up. "Outstanding." Then the door closed behind him.

The next six months passed quickly. The first class began dual instruction in the F-20B, flying in the mornings and continuing academics and physical conditioning in the afternoons. The second class of cadets completed indoctrination and ground school, and there was another ceremony when the preflight stage was completed.

Bennett was immensely gratified at the young pilots' progress.

Ahnas Menaf, one of the standouts from Class One, was the first to solo. His instructor, Tim Ottman, said the last four of the scheduled fifteen presolo flights were unnecessary. "I won't say the kid's a natural," Ottman had told Ed Lawrence, "but he catches on real quick, and he retains what he learns." The IPs in each section held a solo party for the students to mark the event. It was a relatively sedate affair by Western standards, but Bennett and Lawrence knew it reinforced morale among the Saudi students.

The F-20 program seemed to be proving Bennett's theory: Military flight training could be far simpler, less expensive, and more efficient than most air forces allowed. But Bennett did not intend merely to monitor the students' progress, nor rely wholly on the observations of his instructors. He kept his finger on the pulse of the budding Tiger Force, and he knew the best way to do that was by flying.

George Barnes was a six-foot-three former Marine corps aviator; a pleasant giant who tipped the scales at 225 pounds in fighting trim. His size and build had earned him the nickname "Bear." It had been his radio callsign from the day he reported to his old Phantom squadron. As the sole Marine among the IPs he was constantly beset by cheerful insults from the Navy and Air Force pilots. But to Barnes, 39 to I meant even odds.

Sitting in the operations office, tapping the eraser end of his pencil in time with "Semper Fidelis" on his portable tape recorder,

Barnes seemed lost in thought. He was gazing out the window to the flight line and did not see Bennett walk in from the opposite side of the room, across the counter.

"Hi, Bear. Still listening to mood music?"

Barnes glanced up. "Hello, Colonel. Yup, guess it's in my blood. I think I was eleven years old before I realized 'The Marines' Hymn' wasn't the national anthem."

"Sure, I remember now. You're second-generation jarhead." Bear straightened in his chair. "Damn straight. My daddy retired as a master gunnery sergeant."

Leaning conspiratorially across the counter, Bennett whispered, "Listen. I wouldn't want this to get around, but I applied for the Marines myself back in Pensacola."

Bear squinted suspiciously. "Oh?"

"Yup. But when they found out my parents were married I was disqualified on the spot." Both men laughed. It was an old joke, probably as old as the Corps.

"All right, Skipper. What can I do for you?"

"I got caught up with my paperwork and figured I'd combine a proficiency flight with a look at how one of the cadets performs. They're all soloed now from Class One."

Bear reached back to the wall, pulled a clipboard off the rack, and scanned the pages. "Once an ops officer, always an ops officer," he said with a moan. He had the operations desk this month, an assignment held in rotation by those IPs not yet flying with students full-time. "Sure, you could put in some time with one of the boys in an extra hop. You'll have to make it clear it's not a checkride. A lot of these Arabs get real skittish about that sort of thing." He put down the first clipboard and thumbed through the aircraft availability chart. Two-seat F-20s still were arriving, and the allotment was not yet filled. "I'm not sure there's a B model available right now. Maintenance is busy with the new birds, checking them out."

"Well, my lad, how about 001? You remember-the bird our employer, His Highness in Riyadh, so kindly purchased for my sport and amusement? Last time I flew her, she still had my name on the canopy rail."

Barnes bowed and touched his forehead. "I hear, your magnificence, and I obey. I'll have the wrench-benders put 001 on the ramp for an 0630 launch. Any particular student you want to fly?"

"Anybody who's not slated for academics. I want to fly with at least three students per class from now on. Which section is free in the morning?"

Barnes flipped through yet another clipboard. "Second section is off. The section duty officer is Halid; alternate is Hamir."

"Good. I'll take Rajid Hamir. I hear good things about him." Bennett walked into the ops office at 0545 next morning, already dressed in flight suit and boots. He carried his G-suit, torso harness, and helmet bag, preferring not to wear them until ready to fly.

Rajid Hamir was already there, scratching earnestly at his paperwork on the table provided for flight planning. He rose when Bennett entered, and stood at attention.

"Good morning, Mr. Hamir. Ready to fly?"

"Yes, sir. I am preparing the forms now."

Bennett smiled, setting his baggage on a chair. "You know, about the time I got out of the Navy, we said that you couldn't fly until the paperwork equaled the empty weight of the airplane. I like it better here, where all we need is a flight plan and takeoff data."

"Sir, I am computing the takeoff roll and weight-and-balance figures. "

Bennett looked over the student's shoulder. The flight plan was complete, with each square neatly filled in. Noting the youngster's circular computer, Bennett sat down and tapped Rajid's calculator watch. "You go ahead and finish the density altitude, but I'll show you its effect when we're airborne."

Density altitude was especially important to flying in the Middle East. In hot climates, basic physics dictate the amendments to the law of gravity. The molecules in warm air expand apart from each other, contrary to cold-air molecules, which crowd together for comfort. Consequently, hot air generates less lift than cool air because the molecular density is not as great.

This phenomenon is called density altitude. An aircraft taking off from an airport at I,100 feet above sea level, with a temperature of I15 degrees Fahrenheit, uses the, same length of runway as during a standard day at over 5,000 feet. But not only takeoff is affected. Every flight regime-climb rate, dive recovery, turn radius-is similarly affected.

Fifty minutes later the two-seat fighter was airborne, tucking its tricycle landing gear neatly away and accelerating into the cooler upper air. Flying in the front seat, Rajid demonstrated what he had learned thus far: turns, climbs, and descents. Bennett noted the boy's movements usually were smooth and precise. There was little tendency to overcontrol, despite the Tigershark's sensitive boosted controls.

"All right, Mr. Hamir. I've got it." Bennett wiggled the stick in the instructor's cockpit to indicate he had control. "You remember what we learned about density altitude? Well, watch your altimeter. We're at fourteen thousand five hundred feet, straight and level at three hundred fifty knots. Ordinarily the airplane will complete a split-S in about five thousand five hundred feet under these conditions. Here we go."

In one fluid movement Bennett rolled the Northrop on its back and pulled the stick into his stomach. The little fighter plummeted downward, recovering into level flight on a reciprocal heading from its entry. "What does your altimeter say?"

"Seven thousand six hundred feet, sir."

"Correct. That was a three-and-one-half-G pull-through, and we lost about seven thousand feet. So you see the effect of density altitude, even up here in cooler air." Rajid's helmet bobbed up and down, indicating comprehension.

"Very well," Bennett said, "take us home."

Rajid looked over his left shoulder, clearing himself for the port turn. He reefed it in tighter than the standard-rate turn he had been taught.

Bennett was pleased. Kid likes to pull Gs. Outstanding.

They entered the traffic pattern on a forty-five degree angle into the downwind leg. Rajid lowered gear and flaps, set up his approach speed, and hit his turning points for base leg and final within fifty feet of prescribed altitudes. "This will be a touch-and-go," Bennett radioed.

The tower acknowledged.

Rajid's touchdown was within the first third of the runway, slightly right-hand tire first. He let the mains settle on, allowed the nose to settle slightly, and advanced the throttle. Lifting off, he accelerated into a nose-high attitude, retracted gear and flaps, and turned left onto the crosswind leg.

Bennett shook the stick again. "I've got it this time. I'll show you something about this bird's slow-flight characteristics. Now, what controls airspeed?"

Rajid thought for two seconds. "Pitch and power."

"Right. If you have zero pitch, or angle of attack, what happens?"

"You fly faster. For the same throttle setting you fly faster. If you reduce power you lose altitude."

Bennett turned onto the downwind leg, leveling off at pattern altitude.· "Now, you know that you can maintain a steady rate of descent at a given power setting with a certain pitch angle. Like you do on final approach to landing. But you can also fly slowly while maintaining altitude with a bit more power."

Rajid just nodded, uncertain where this was leading. Bennett had discussed the situation with Rajid's instructor, being careful not to upset the boy's training. Now he demonstrated his point: Anyone can fly fast. It takes an aviator to fly as slowly as possible.

"Mr. Hamir, I'm pulling the nose up thirty degrees. We'll start to settle at this reduced power setting, won't we?"

"Yes, sir. Unless we add more throttle."

"Exactly right! So here we go." Bennett carefully jockeyed stick and throttle until the F-20 settled into a nose-high attitude, maintaining level flight. "We're doing about a hundred and thirty knots, and I'll see if we can keep that speed all the way down." At each ninety-degree turn he lowered the nose slightly, avoiding the natural tendency to bleed off airspeed in the corners.

"You see there? By leaving the throttle alone, we're controlling our airspeed and rate of descent with pitch. If I set this up right, we'll maintain this rate of descent onto the numbers."

With the nose cocked up, the Tigershark came around on final with the gear and flaps still retracted. Bennett extended the wheels and flaps immediately after rolling out on final approach, adjusting stick and throttle to compensate for the increased drag. He maintained the nose-high descent almost to the runway lip, flying the airplane onto the white-painted numbers well below normal landing speed.

"Now, Mr. Hamir, why do you suppose anybody would want to do what we just did?"

"Well, sir, to land as short as possible."

"Right again. But your training has told you never to fly low and slow near the ground. It's dangerous, and accounts for a lot of landing accidents."

"Yes, sir." They turned off at the first taxiway and headed for the ramp.

"So what do you make of this demonstration? Am I teaching you bad habits?"

Rajid was quiet for a moment. "Sir, I believe this is an exercise to build proficiency."

Bennett liked what he was hearing. Good lad. "And all the students will learn to do this. It's unlikely they'll have to land that short on any runway, but knowing you can do it makes you more comfortable in the airplane. Just don't do it on your own yet-you'll get to it in a few more flights."

Bennett walked away from the F-20 and the quiet young Arab, feeling about as good as a flight instructor can feel.

The door opened and Bennett caught his breath. Claudia wore a knee-length yellow silk dress, her legs outlined against the thin fabric. Her long hair fell free, unrestrained by the ribbon she normally wore. It was the first time Bennett had seen her in anything but a conservative business dress.

She greeted him with a quick hug, then led him to her small dining alcove for coffee. Bennett decided the apartment was much like its occupant: organized, direct, stylish. He had only seen as much of it as was visible from the doorway twice previously, most recently several months ago when they had dined together before he had left for the States.

They sat down and Claudia poured some coffee. Handing him his cup, she looked him squarely in the face. "You flew in with a fighter plane again?" He noticed a peculiar expression on her face, a jesting tone in her voice.

"Yes, I delivered our maintenance supervisor for a meeting. Why?"

Claudia suppressed a girlish giggle. "I was just thinking about the first time I saw you. The marks on your face from the oxygen mask. They're not as noticeable this time."

He leaned far across the table, his face within six inches of hers. "Maybe you're just getting used to being around fighter pilots." He could smell her perfume again. Their noses touched.

Claudia leaned back. "I guess you're flying more often now." Bennett said he was and she caught the gleam in his eyes. This was obviously a man committed to his work. He told her about his flight with Rajid and about some of the other students. The first class was now into its formation-flying stage, and the second had just started dual instruction. The pace was accelerating.

After a time Claudia suggested they move to the large sofa in the living room. The afternoon shadows were lengthening outside. They sat close to one another and Claudia leaned casually against the padded couch. "John, we've known each other for, what? About eight or ten months?"

He thought for a moment. "Yes, about ten."

"I was just thinking. Even though we haven't seen each other very often, I can talk to you. And I hope you don't mind a personal question about your work."

"Not at all."

"I know, or at least I've met, a lot of military people. I go out with some of them on occasion but I don't date anyone regularly. But in your case, I just wonder why you'd want to go back to doing the same thing you did for twenty years. I mean, coming all the way to Arabia and starting an air force when your family is back in the States."

Bennett thought a moment. "This is actually a lot more than just a job, Claudia. I've thought a lot about what kind of person I am to run off halfway around the globe when my son was getting married and I was becoming a grandfather.

"I'll put it this way. Being a fighter pilot, a professional warrior, isn't just something I do. It has more to do with who I am. It's not even a life-style-it's, well, an identity."

"I hope you didn't think I was being critical," Claudia said.

"No, no. I'm plenty critical of myself. But maybe it's programmed in my genes. Maybe I had no choice-I had to be a warrior.”

Claudia looked perplexed. "You mean Robert Ardrey's Territorial Imperative and all that?"

"Well, not exactly. But some of my relatives might agree. You see, my family is from Florida, and we've always had military men in the clan. My uncle was a Navy ace in World War II-that made a big impression on me. But my great-grandfather was the real influence. Great-Granddaddy Bennett was a wealthy plantation owner who also taught mathematics at the college level. He wasn't obliged to go to war-"

"You mean the Civil War?"

Bennett put on a stern face and spoke with an exaggerated Colonel Culpepper accent. "No, ma'am. Ah mean Th' Wah of South'n Independence."

Claudia laughed.

"Anyway," he continued, "the old gentleman went into debt to form and equip his own artillery unit. He had no military training but he was damn good at it, and by war's end he was a colonel in command of a regiment. When I was a kid I read some of his letters that my grandfather had kept. It didn't fall into place until years later, but some of Great-Granddaddy's comments came back to me.

"In I864, after almost three years of war, the old boy wrote his wife that he was actually enjoying himself. I wish I could remember the exact phrase, but he said that leading men in battle was the grandest feeling he ever experienced." Bennett turned somber. "When the South surrendered, it broke his heart. He died a couple years later."

Claudia leaned closer. "And you feel that way about leading men into battle?"

"It may seem peculiar, but I've always distinguished between combat and war. There's a difference. I don't know of anybody who likes war, or the causes of war-greed, envy, ambition, or just plain stupidity. But I wish I could feel the way Great-Granddaddy did about his war. Vietnam was mine-four combat deployments in seven years. For most of us, victory was simply surviving. Down deep, I suppose I regret that my war wasn't as… satisfying as some others." He had almost said as fun.

Claudia gave him a tight-lipped look. But her eyes revealed a willingness to understand him. "So, you're vicariously living your misspent youth all over again, here in the pay of the king of Arabia. "

''There may be something to your analysis, professor." He touched her hand. She did not move it away. "But mainly, this offer lets me continue to do what I think I do best. And some of the friends of my youth are here. It's not exactly the same as when we were in our thirties, of course, but I know this: Any professional fighter pilot would trade his front-row seat in hell to be with us."

Claudia's professional instincts took over. "What effect do you think your air force will have in the region?"

"It's hard to say; I just don't know." Bennett concentrated hard on his thoughts. "Maybe the F-20 force, if it's allowed to grow to maturity, can help stabilize things. If I make some contribution to the Saudis, maybe they'll be able to help moderate the harsher Arab states. They've done it in the past. I hope the king will be able to use his money and influence on some of the radical governments in the area. Especially those that want to throw the Israelis out of Jordan. I know things have been pretty quiet there, but it can't last indefinitely. "

Bennett was voicing thoughts he had seldom expressed. "I really hope, though, that Tiger Force-that's what we're calling it now-can prevent the involvement of U. S. forces in this region. We've seen it for so long, Claudia. The '67 war, Beirut, Stark, and Vincennes. On and on. Americans get killed over here because of ill-defined goals or just bad luck. I saw that sort of micromanagement up close in Vietnam and I want to help prevent it from happening again.”

"Obviously, State shares your sentiment, as do I. But you know, John, the king really is becoming a captive of the Muslim radicals, and he remains in power only because they haven't organized to unseat him. The moment he becomes of little use to them, with his influence abroad, you can bet his regime will fall." She lowered her voice without realizing it, continuing in an almost conspiratorial tone. "I'd have to deny I said this, but there's evidence the king is serving as a back-channel intermediary between some U.N. committees and the Arab hard-liners. Everyone seems to hope there'll be a negotiated settlement leading to Israeli withdrawal from Jordan."

Bennett pressed her hand. "Do you think there's a chance?"

The hazel eyes lowered and the blond head shook ever so slightly. "No, I don't."

Bennett looked off into space for a moment, then turned to her again. "All right, young lady, fair is fair. Now let me ask you a personal question."

"Okay. "

"What's a good-looking girl like you doing on a day like this with an old fighter pilot like me?"

Claudia licked her lips and John thought it must have been a nervous reaction. "At first it was curiosity. As I said, I've known lots of military people in my career. But you were different. I guess you described the difference yourself. You are a warrior. Most of the others-attaches and embassy guards-just wear uniforms.

"Then, as I got to know you more, I found there was more depth to you than I thought. Probably that night before you returned to the States, when we discussed the Koran. That's when I decided you were more than an airplane pilot. You were somebody I wanted to know."

Outside, the capital city was gathering itself for the late afternoon ritual. Imams called the faithful to prayer from the minarets for one of five daily prayers which devout Muslims always make.

Claudia rose. "We've been sitting too long. We could dance if you like." She knelt beside her stereo and flipped through several albums. Finally she selected one, set the record and tone arm in place, and turned back to Bennett. She held out her arms. "Here we go.”

Bennett stepped toward her. "What's the song?"

"You'll see."

They met in the middle of the room, pressing close together. As the first strains washed over them, John closed his eyes. "Oh, wow. You can pick 'em." They began to move.

"I'd almost forgotten 'Moon River,' " he said. The languorous strains filled the room with a pleasant dizziness. Bennett pressed his face close to Claudia's, savoring the silky texture of her blond hair and the fragrance of her skin.

He spun her around and they danced in silence…

It was evening when Bennett quietly slipped from Claudia's bed.

Without disturbing her sleep, he padded from the room and picked up the phone on her desk. After a short delay he talked to the Saudi sergeant who was to have met him this evening. He left instructions to be picked up at the embassy at 0830 next morning. Then he eased himself back into bed, pressing close to Claudia and thanking Whomever had smiled on him.