Warriors

Chapter 7

There was a noisy chatter as the forty instructor pilots settled themselves in the auditorium that night. They arranged themselves comfortably among the cushioned seats with folding-arm writing platforms. Each IP occupied two or even three seats to accommodate himself, his texts, and his notepaper.

Colonel John Bennett strolled down the aisle, pausing occasionally to exchange a word with one of the fliers. Then he climbed the podium and tapped on the microphone. In moments he had everyone's full attention.

"Gentlemen, I know you've been over this material before, and I know a lot of you are tired from flying two hops today. But it's important that we review this phase and coordinate our syllabus on vertical maneuvering. As you know, the F-20 is ideally suited to fight in the vertical plane, and we want to impress the students with that fact from the beginning. You guys whose students haven't reached the tactics phase can benefit from this discussion and file it for later reference."

A mustached flier with flaxen hair raised his hand. Bennett nodded to him. "Peter?"

"I don't wish to seem provincial, old man. But when it comes to combat maneuvering, one only wants a bit of viffing to get the job done. Works every time."

This sparked laughter in the ranks. Peter Saint-Martin, one of the British instructors, had flown Harriers much of his career. Viffing was derived from an acronym for "vector in forward flight" — adjusting the jet nozzles of the "jump jet" to move vertically or laterally without banking the aircraft. Peter had shot down two Argentine helicopters in the Falklands, matching the helos maneuver for maneuver.

Bennett dimmed the lights from his console, focusing the men's attention on the screen behind him. "Here you'll see the basic syllabus for this phase," he said. "It's the same material as written in your instructor's booklet."

He picked up a pointer and ticked off the maneuvers each student would have to master. ''The cadets are now familiar with offensive and defensive maneuvers in the horizontal plane. You guys report that nearly all of them are proficient in these matters, and they understand the theory of energy management."

"Good, maybe they can explain it to me." This brought a chorus of laughter. Bennett wasn't sure, but it sounded a lot like Tim Ottman, the wisecracking Air Force veteran.

In jet fighters, inertia or momentum is characterized as energy-high airspeed or altitude which can be converted to energy. The objective of a pilot is to "manage" his energy state, lest he find himself at a disadvantage. However, there are times when he desperately wants to reduce his energy, forcing an opponent behind him to overshoot and therefore become vulnerable.

A Navy pilot spoke volumes when he said, "Nothing is true in tactics."

"You've dealt with lag pursuit and displacement rolls," Bennett continued. "This, of course, is the logical introduction to the vertical maneuvers we'll be teaching in this next phase. Be sure you emphasize to your students that we're dealing with identical concepts here, but we're moving them from the horizontal into the vertical. We want to strive for consistency at this phase, so it'll all come together for the students later on. Basically, we're indoctrinating the cadets without telling them so. Eventually they'll make the discovery themselves, and that means they'll have learned the lesson. I know that's how it worked with me!"

The red-and-blue ribbon diagrams projected on the screen were familiar to everyone in the audience. As in most military services, red lines signified the enemy, blue meant friendly. The lag pursuit and displacement roll diagrams showed how an "energy fighter" could overcome an "angles fighter," despite the latter's better turning ability. One used airspeed (energy) to turn out-of-plane from the opponent, timing the maneuver to arrive inside the radius of his turn at a favorable position to shoot. Like so much in aerial combat, it was a simple concept which was difficult to employ without substantial experience.

Bennett poked his pointer at the items he wanted to stress. "High yo-yo, low yo-yo, and vertical rolling scissors. You should stress that with the high thrust-weight ratio in our airplane, our pilots are cutting their armory by at least half if they ignore the vertical performance. There's a natural tendency in young studs to hang in there, pulling the big Gs in a wrapped-up turn, trying to 'macho' it out with the other guy. Repeat that a turning fight may be okay in a one-on-one situation, but when there are other bogies around, they're going to become the meat in the sandwich in a level turn. They'll bleed off energy and get low and slow, and that's nowhere to be."

Bennett discussed a few points relative to each maneuver, then quickly reviewed what he had covered. Ten minutes later he brought the lights up and asked for questions. There were none, which is what he expected.

The next morning Tim Ottman waited for his section of five students to gather in the briefing room. The husky, blond New Yorker draped his six-foot frame over a writing chair and nonchalantly exercised a bright yellow yo-yo as the cadets filed in. The toy caused some querulous glances and one or two amused grins.

"Good morning, gentlemen." Tim's distinct New York accent-which Masher Malloy insisted on describing as a speech impediment-took some adjustment for the Saudis. Ottman was always careful to speak deliberately, a habit cultivated years before as an F-15 instructor at Luke Air Force Base.

"Sit right up front where you can see clearly."

The IP continued working the yo-yo up and down, occasionally flipping it straight out at waist level before reeling it in. Once he was certain the Saudis' attention was focused on the yellow spool, he began his introduction.

"Gentlemen, this is a yo-yo. I don't know why it's called by that name, but it doesn't matter. As you see, it goes up and down." He hadn't stopped manipulating the toy since the students entered the room. "But it does other things, too. Allow me to demonstrate."

Ottman stood up and paced back and forth. With practiced ease he let the string out nearly full-length until the yo-yo rolled along the floor. "This is called walking the dog," he explained, strolling behind it. "You can call Rover back with a flip of the hand." Ottman whistled to the yo-yo, retrieving it while calling, "Here, boy. Heel." It was a masterful display of skill. And of education. Ottman knew that the best way to teach any subject was to entertain the student.

Placing the toy on the desk, Ottman said, "You might wonder what all this has to do with fighter tactics. Well, before long you're going to be yo-yoing yourself, in an F-20. You'll use your vertical performance to go almost straight up and straight down-almost like the gadget I just demonstrated."

Ottman turned on the slide projector and focused the light on the screen at the front of the room. He flipped to the first slide. "This is the purpose of what we call the high yo-yo. It's to prevent you from overshooting your opponent. You're turning with him, maybe forty degrees off his tail but inside his turn radius. You're overtaking him because of excessive speed, and in a couple of seconds you'll slide outside and lose your advantage. If you stay in a level turn with him, he's going to start beating you."

Ottman advanced the slide carousel. "So here's what you do. Instead of continuing to turn in his plane of movement-horizontally-you roll wings-level and pull up. Not a lot of pitch-up, but enough to turn out-of-plane." The slide showed the attacking fighter climbing above the bogey, which continued its turn. "What you're doing is equalizing your forward movement with his. Your climb stops the rate of closure and prevents you from making an overshoot." He flipped the selector again.

"Now, with both of you at about the same rate of forward movement, you are high in his rear hemisphere. While he continues his turn, you are gaining separation from him. You have room to play with. You roll into him, maintaining your arc across the top of his turn. But don't get hasty." He advanced the slide tray once more.

"This is the hard part," Ottman said carefully. ''Timing is important. When you get the separation you want, you regain the energy you expended in your pitch-up by diving to the inside of the bogey's turn. How hard you pull depends on what you want to do. If you're going for a guns pass, you commit slightly ahead of him to pull deflection. If you want to kill him with a missile, you go for the high-percentage shot and lag him a bit-let him extend farther out so you finish close to his six o'clock, well within firing parameters."

Turning off the projector for a moment, Ottman spoke directly to each student in turn. "There are a couple of common errors in playing the high yo-yo. You want to avoid excessive pitch attitudes up or down, because that will throw off your timing when you commit into him. There's a tendency to begin the maneuver too late, when the overshoot is well developed. But"-he held up a finger to emphasize the point-"once you're nose-high in his rear hemisphere, the range will open fast, allowing him to extend away from you for separation. In that case, you've prevented an overshoot but-you've gained nothing. You have to start over again, without your initial advantage. So remember, the timing and degree of pitch-up will determine how well your yo-yo works."

The IP turned on the projector again. "I'm not asking for questions yet, gentlemen. This is just an introduction to these maneuvers. But I want you to remember that the yo-yo can work low as well as high." The next slide showed the attacking fighter losing position to the bogey. "Now, in this position, you can use a low yo-yo to increase your closure and angles advantage. That is the opposite of what the high yo-yo did for you, but the principle is the same. By rolling low into the other man's turn, you get a gravity assist by going downhill. When you reach approximately the same heading as his, you can pull up, under his tail, by cutting the comer across his turn. This has the additional advantage of masking you from view. He's likely to get nervous and wonder where you went. If so, he may ease off his angle of bank to look for you. While he's doing that, you can gain position on him.

"A point to remember: Don't plan on winning the fight with a single yo-yo, either high or low. It's unlikely you'll gain proper position and closure rate simultaneously in one evolution. If you get greedy-if you try for too much too soon-you stand a chance of depleting too much energy or of allowing the other guy to gain separation. Then he can take it away from you. So here is the rule of thumb. Two small yo-yos, either high or low, are safer than a single big yo-yo. Conduct the fight in stages, maybe starting with a low yo-yo to close the range, followed by a high yo-yo or barrel roll to gain a better angle. Of course, if you're in a good position to kill him after your first move, don't waste time trying to sweeten up the shot. Usually quicker is better when you have the choice-it lets you get back to scanning the sky around you."

Ottman continued his introductory lecture for another forty minutes. He described the intricate arabesques in detail-vertical rolling scissors, displacement and lag rolls, almost everything the student pilots had done in the horizontal. But now they stood their previous world on end and contemplated the offensive use of the Tigershark in the pure vertical. The third dimension was becoming real to them.

"There's something else I want you to think about," Ottman added. "Up to now you've been concentrating on outmaneuvering an opponent, to get in position to shoot him. But if you play it right, and with a bit of luck, you won't have to engage in a prolonged hassle. Your aircraft is tremendously agile." He yawed the F-20 model's nose rapidly side to side. "You can point and shoot as well or better than any fighter now flying. Master that, with forward-quarter missiles, and you'll be way ahead of the game."

The blond IP set the model down. "You are going to work on each of these maneuvers," he concluded, "starting with a couple of simulator sessions to learn how the bogey should appear to you when things are done right. For now, though, remember the most important thing: Your airplane flies just as well straight up as it does straight and level." He glanced at his watch. Two or three minutes remaining. He produced his yellow toy again.

"Now, gentlemen, who wants to master the yo-yo?"

"Mr. President, halfway into your term, your job rating from the American public stands at barely fifty percent approval. What do you make of that?"

Walter Arnold squirmed slightly in his chair. Damn it, stop fidgeting, he told himself. Makes it look like you're cornered. Which he was, in a sense. He had granted a rare one-on-one interview to Trudy Willard, much to the delight of her network. But Arnold's decision had been based on his perception of the TV journalist, an old hand around the White House. Christ, she'd gone on-camera to report Carter's concession in '80 with visible tears in her eyes. She was supposed to go easy on liberals. Jerry Butler, the presidential press secretary, had said as much.

"Well, I'll tell you, Trudy," Arnold began, recovering his composure. "That means I'm holding my own. It's almost identical to my victory margin in the last election."

Nicely done, Mr. President, conceded the interviewer to herself. But I'm not the fluff peddler you expected, am I? Actually, both individuals were getting what they wanted: Arnold proved his accessibility and Willard could stick another feather in her bonnet.

"I'd like to ask about the Middle East, Mr. President. What can you say about the continuing crisis in Jordan?"

That's more like it, my girl. "There's cause for both encouragement and alarm there, Trudy. Encouragement because at last, after two years or so, the various parties are talking to each other. But I see cause for concern because the Israeli forces in Jordan are coming under increasing harassment from the unoccupied areas. It's still a tense situation, and we're working hard to keep everybody talking to each other…"

"Who's the honcho in the robes?"

Ed Lawrence pointed toward a throng of Saudis showing considerable deference to a man in flowing mishlah and ghotra with the traditional jambia curved dagger at his waist. Bennett glanced to his right, squinting in the bright sunlight. "That, my boy, is our employer of these past two years. King Rahman of Arabia."

"Oh, yeah. I remember he promised to award wings to the first class. But it's still hard for me to ID people in their native duds."

Bennett groaned, glancing around to be sure nobody overheard his exec. Occasionally Bennett had seen the king in immaculately tailored business suits, contrary to the monarch's predecessors. Acknowledging Rahman's temperament and need to balance himself between two poles-tradition on one hand and racing events on the other-Bennett admired the man's sartorial versatility.

More than 200 people occupied the seats and covered bleachers arranged on the flight line. Most were there to see their sons, brothers, cousins, and nephews graduate from pilot training. But no Saudi women were present-some things just didn't change.

Others represented the embassy community-predominantly Arab and Western diplomats and attaches. Though low-key throughout the previous two years, the F-20 program had drawn much professional interest. Now that the first class was graduating, there was speculation as to how the assets would be employed. People had picked up Bennett's phrase, Tiger Force. He had designed a patch and had his personal aircraft repainted. Now 001 sported a wicked shark's mouth on the nose and glaring eyes around the gunports.

The two Americans walked to the pavilion reserved for IPs and maintenance staff near the announcer's platform. The instructors wore their nomex flight suits with brand-new name tags standardized for a more orderly appearance. Velcro-backed Tiger Force patches flashed their orange and black colors from the left shoulder; orange ballcaps and polished black boots completed the outfit. It wasn't entirely regulation, but it looked more uniform than the hodgepodge of U.S. Air Force, Navy, and British gear the IPs had worn previously.

As the announcer asked the guests to take their seats-speaking alternately in Arabic and English-the forty-one graduating cadets stood to attention by their chairs. Bennett reflected on the composition of the class. His estimate of two-thirds completion had proven surprisingly accurate. Over the previous two years, including preflight, twenty-four of the original candidates had fallen short.

Also gone were three of the original instructors. Two had found the prolonged regimen in an Islamic culture too confining and had backed out. The other withdrew owing to family problems back in the States. Replacements were quickly found from Safad Fatah's pool of alternate applicants.

The accident rate had been within limits, considering they were taking fresh students and putting them in a frontline fighter from the first day. The airplane was uncommonly forgiving and the engine superb. Five F-20s had been lost in two years. One of the single-seaters had suffered a disconnected throttle linkage and the engine had gone to idle power. The pilot had no choice but to make a controlled ejection; he'd been rescued unharmed. Another had gone down with its student pilot during a solo aerobatics flight. Judging from witnesses' report, the young man had initiated a split-S from too low-he evidently misjudged the density altitude. Two losses were attributed to GLoC-the unavoidable G-induced loss of consciousness present in all modem fighters.

Two months previously, during a tactics flight for dissimilar air combat training, a two-seater had collided with an F-15 Eagle. Both aircraft were destroyed; the Saudi Eagle pilot was killed. The IP in the Tigershark's backseat ejected with minor injuries but the student was badly burned by jet fuel which ignited on bailout. Several other students washed out of the advanced phase, having proven they could fly the airplane but were poorly adapted to a high-G environment. Two of these were retained when offered the chance to recycle as maintenance officers.

The remaining tigers had done well-most of them uncommonly well. And God, did they push the airplane! There had been several minor scrapes, but the students learned from their mistakes. Each was wiser for his errors.

Having established a baseline of evaluation criteria with the first class, the IPs expected to do better with the second. The next batch, graduating in two months, probably would produce forty-three to forty-five pilots-enough for three full squadrons. Two squadrons would be formed from Class One, with the overflow being diverted at first to instructor and maintenance-engineering slots. From these men would come the future leaders of all eight to ten Tigershark squadrons. In the meantime, senior Saudi pilots from F-5 units were transitioning to F-20s, though the IPs would remain closely affiliated. The king and Fatah were concerned with retaining the independence and "purity" (the word was Fatah's) of Tiger Force.

The band struck up the Royal Saudi Anthem and everyone stood during the short instrumental. Then the announcer-a gifted twenty-year-old linguist from the second class-called the spectators' attention to the left front. Six F -20s started engines in succession and taxied in formation to the end of the runway. Lawrence glanced at Bennett, and they exchanged wry grins. Masher Malloy, looking uncharacteristically regulation, arched his eyebrows and rolled his eyes suggestively. Tim Ottman raised one hand, his fingers crossed.

Bennett whispered to Lawrence. "How much practice did you say the guys put in?"

Lawrence raised the fingers of one hand.

"Five hours?"

"Five flights."

"Sorry I asked."

At almost the last moment, Safad Fatah had passed along the king's "suggestion" that an air show be part of the ceremony. The IPs had already planned a formation fly-by, but the Saudis wanted something more. Against their better judgment, Bennett and Lawrence had assembled an impromptu aerobatic team of six instructors.

Fortunately, there were four experienced air show pilots on the staff: Bear Barnes had been the lone Marine on one Blue Angels team; an Air Force pilot named Brad Williamson had flown with the Thunderbirds; and two British pilots were veterans of the RAF's spectacular Red Arrows. A U.S. Navy and Air Force man were selected as solo pilots. It had not been possible to work up a really quality routine in the limited time, with instructor duties thrown in.

Geoffrey Hampton, the precise Briton who had been a contract Jaguar pilot for Oman and the senior Red Arrow, was designated team leader. He had worked out a twelve-minute routine which minimized formation aerobatics and stressed the F-20's performance. There had been time for just one full rehearsal, including the announcer, before graduation day. Now, huddled at the end of the runway, the team heard Hampton key his mike.

"Brakes off-now." Four Tigersharks accelerated together, lifting off and shifting smoothly into diamond formation. The two solos made a section takeoff fifteen seconds later, occupying the crowd's attention while the four positioned for the first pass.

The show was routine as military flight demonstrations go-but impressive nonetheless. The Tigershark's performance was dramatically illustrated as the first soloist flew across the field in landing configuration at 140 knots. His partner overtook him from behind at 450 knots, lit the afterburner, and rocketed into a series of vertical rolls almost out of sight.

The first solo pilot had positioned himself for a low pass at Mach.92. Many of the spectators never had experienced the phenomenon of near-supersonic flight, and the effortless grace of the Northrop's passing-split seconds ahead of its own sound-prompted murmurs in the stands.

There followed a demonstration of the F-20's low-level maneuverability. The second solo pilot screeched over the field at 510 knots, lit his afterburner, and rolled into a vertical bank. Pulling a constant six Gs around the turn, he made two circuits-720 degrees-then climbed straight up. He was joined overhead by his partner, awaiting the diamond four.

As the six jets touched down and taxied to the ramp, knowing glances were exchanged among the IPs. Whew-we got away with it!

Bennett picked up a valise and walked to the announcer's stand.

He arrived just in time, as the young Saudi announcer was sticking to the schedule his notes required. Mounting the platform, Bennett looked at the crowd. Standing behind him were the students, arrayed in perfectly ordered rows.

The announcer briefly introduced Bennett, then handed him the microphone. Addressing the king, Bennett spoke slowly and clearly for the benefit of all present. "Your Majesty, it is my privilege to present to you the graduates whom we honor today. These young men have worked as hard to earn their wings as any pilots I have known in any nation. We, their instructors, are immensely proud of them. "

The king, striding forward, seemed to glide in his elegant robes.

He warmly shook Bennett's hand and, in precise English, said, "Colonel Bennett, your organization also is honored this day. You have completed the training of the first class on schedule, and we acknowledge the second and third classes which will graduate later this year. You gentlemen from the United States and Great Britain have accomplished all that you set out to do. I have no doubt that your professionalism will be admired by all those present today."

Bennett recognized the latter statement as a mild rebuke to the doubters who insisted the accelerated schedule could not be accomplished. The king now regarded Tiger Force as his own, and no one could deny that the program had succeeded. The first class had achieved the equivalent of more than two and one-half years work in barely two, including indoctrination and preflight.

The instructor for each section of students stood by the rostrum as the announcer called each name in turn. Flanked by his IP, the student watched as the sovereign picked a set of wings from the large felt pillow and pinned them on the khaki uniform. A hearty handshake, a few heartfelt words in Arabic, and the young man stepped off the platform as a commissioned officer.

Bennett took a moment to speak to most of the students. He made a special point of talking to Rajid Hamir and Ahnas Menaf. Each had been identified as potential leadership material. Menaf, more self-confident than most, was among the best stick-and-rudder men in the class. He would go directly to work in the instructor's class, ready to pick up the third class late in its syllabus.

Bennett naturally warmed to Hamir. Clasping the twenty-one-year-old's hand, he could not conceal his pride. "Mr. Hamir-Rajid-you can be proud of yourself. You've done very well in training and I think you'll have a fine career."

The young man smiled shyly, blinking back the emotion he felt.

He introduced his father and brothers. Bennett was surprised when Rajid mentioned his fiancee. There had been no previous indication the young man intended to marry. Eventually Bennett added it up:

The marriage had been arranged when the couple still were children. He did not realize such things still were done. Well, live and learn, Bennett thought. "Congratulations, Rajid."

"Thank you, sir. She will be a good mother for my sons and I hope she will be happy as a fighter pilot's wife." Rajid looked left and right, then leaned close. "Even if it may not be what she hoped for."

Bennett thought better of pursuing that line of conversation.

"You know that after your first squadron tour you'll return as an instructor if the force needs to expand."

"Yes, sir. I am pleased with both opportunities."

"Lieutenant Colonel Lawrence and the other IPs selected eight of you for that duty. We have warned everyone against overconfidence; there's still eight months of operational training in the squadron, and flight leader upgrade. But pilots like you and Mr. Menaf-excuse me, Lieutenant Menaf-will be the basis of Tiger Force's future. It's a big responsibility, Rajid. But you can handle it. "

It was late afternoon before Bennett and most of the IPs could disengage from the reception and displays. Two F-20s, including 001, were available for inspection while student pilots from Class Two took turns answering the litany of questions. Bennett had just untangled himself from the French air attache to Saudi Arabia when Lawrence tapped him on the shoulder.

"Somebody's looking for you."

"Is that good or bad?"

The blue eyes sparkled. "Oh, I'd say good-very good." He pointed to a comer of the hangar. "Close enough for a visual?"

"Affirmative. "

Claudia only recognized Bennett as he drew near. She had never seen him in flight suit and ballcap-somehow he seemed to belong in those clothes, in this place. She extended her hand.

Bennett resisted the urge to hug her. It was not permitted in public. "Claudia., I'm really glad you could make it. I got your note. "

"It was uncertain until almost the last minute. But Mr. Houston had to represent the ambassador so I hitched a ride." She shifted her glance. "Do you know Colonel Mallon? Glen, this is John Bennett."

The Air Force officer shook hands with Bennett. "Sure, we've talked a couple of times at the attache's office. You've done a fine job here, Commander." An earnest smile. "Wish I could trade my desk for one of those F-20s. "

Bennett appreciated another airman's discomfiture with a ground job. "Don't you get to fly?"

"Not nearly enough. I was an Eagle driver at Langley, long ago and far away. Sometimes I beg a ride with the local sports, but it's not the same." Bennett liked Glen Mallon.

The attache glanced at Claudia and set his lemonade on a tray.

"I'd best mingle with the politicos. See you both later." Bennett decided Mallon would have to take an F-20 ride soon.

"Can you stay for a while, Claudia?"

Her voice was low, almost conspiratorial. "I arranged to stay for two days. The others are leaving tomorrow morning. I'll have to write a report on the trade mission here, but I can do that from memory. Besides, the embassy feels guilty about asking me to postpone my vacation. I planned to spend my fortieth birthday with my parents but we're short-handed."

Bennett had almost forgotten-9 October was two days away.

"That settles it, then. You'll have your birthday cake here. The IPs and some maintenance guys are celebrating graduation tonight. Can you come?"

"Are women allowed? I mean, how much mingling can you do?"

Bennett laughed. "Mafi'misula. No problem. We have our own compound here. It's a lot more relaxed than in Arabia. As long as we keep the animals in the zoo, there's no sweat. We're even allowed booze-with British bartenders. In fact, there's quite a few British girls as well-plus Irish, New Zealanders, and some Europeans. Nurses, mostly. Health care is a big item here."

Claudia seemed relieved. "So I wouldn't be the only woman?"

Bennett leaned close. "You are the only woman for me."

"You know that's not what I mean." Her face reddened.

“All right. There are a few wives, too, mainly Brits."

"Okay, I accept. You'll have to pick me up. I can't go unescorted, you know."

"It's a deal. l'

THE HORSESHOE-SHAPED BAR WAS CROWDED WITH SIXTY flight and maintenance instructors and a few guests. The noise level was tolerable, not quite drowning out the attempt at harmonization of four pilots who occupied the jukebox corner.

Bennett edged his way to the bar, ordered iced teas for Claudia and himself, and guided her by one arm. They stopped briefly to talk with Peter Saint-Martin and his wife Lynn, a tall brunette from Buckinghamshire. Then Claudia noticed the squadron badges adorning the wall. Intrigued, she walked over to inspect them. Each represented the donor's previous units, most being enamel mounted on shield-shaped wood backgrounds.

It was an impressive display. Claudia noted the 64th and 65th Aggressors from Nellis. There was the red-starred insignia of the Navy adversaries', the Bandits and the Cylons, and the mailed fist of the Challengers. There were the Silver Eagles from Luke and their partners, the Triple Nickel of the 555th Tactical Training Squadron. And from Topgun and the Air Force Fighter Weapons School. One and all, artists in the realm of aerial combat, teaching it to the new sports or duplicating the opposition.

Bennett let Claudia take in the collection, silently pleased that she found it interesting. She turned to him. "It's fascinating, so colorful. It's almost like medieval heraldry."

"Some of it is taken directly from legitimate heraldry, like VC-13." He pointed to the gold fleur-de-lis emblem of Navy Composite Squadron 13.

Claudia walked down the hall, drawing appreciative glances from the mostly male celebrants. She looked at another panel, then leaned closer. "My God," she exclaimed, "this can't be for real." Bennett moved to look over her shoulder. He laughed aloud.

Claudia was puzzled. "What's funny about that? I think it's disgusting. 'The World-Famous Puking Dogs.' What does that mean?"

"That's VF-143. And it's a long story."

"Well, I don't understand. I mean, what kind of group would actually choose an insignia like that?"

Bennett placed a reassuring hand on Claudia's shoulder. "I'll whistle up somebody who knows the story: " He looked around the room, then motioned to a group of pilots seated around a table. "Hey, Masher. Come here a minute."

A short, slightly built man in Nomex flight jacket stood up and casually strode over, beer in hand. Claudia noted the jacket was well used, emblazoned with several patches. The name tag with the stamped Navy wings said MASHER MALLOY, FIGHTER PILOT.

Bennett made the introductions. "Claudia Meyers, this is Dennis Malloy, known to one and all as Masher. Dennis, this is Claudia. Behave yourself."

Claudia and Malloy shook hands and regarded one another.

Masher had been seeing a leggy Irish governess named Beverly, but she was not present that evening. The little aviator looked Claudia up and down for a long three seconds. A direct question was forming in his mind when he sensed his commander's purposeful gaze.

Flustered, Claudia noted that the man's startling blue eyes darted from her face to her bosom and back again. Apparently he was not going to continue the conversation on his own.

Bennett said, "Masher, I was telling Claudia about One Forty-Three's nickname. You were in the squadron; how'd it begin?"

The query startled Malloy from his preoccupation with Claudia's chest. "Oh, the Pukin' Dogs. Well, it all started a long time before I reported aboard, but the original idea was to have a griffin as the squadron emblem." He sipped at his Coors, as if concentrating on the details with difficulty. "One of the junior officers was supposed to make a papier-mache centerpiece for the commissioning. But he wasn't too good with papier-mache. He got the griffin's wings all right, but the head sort of drooped and the mouth was open too far. They ran out of time and couldn't do it over, so they had to go with what was ready.

"Well, one of the wives walked in, took one look, and said, 'Jesus, it looks just like a pukin' dog.' And that's what One Forty-Three's been called ever since."

"Thanks, Masher." Bennett's tone was one of dismissal. With a last soulful gaze at Claudia, the little flier walked back to the table to rejoin his drinking buddies.

Claudia's expression showed bemusement. "Are they all like him?"

Bennett chuckled softly. "A few, a few. But one of the first things I learned in this business is that a man's personality on the ground may have nothing to do with his flying. Masher's an example. He's a good pilot, but an even better instructor. Upstairs he's all business. Down here, he's real loose."

The couple found a table with two vacant chairs and sat down.

Bennett introduced Tim Ottman, who gallantly rose and seated Claudia. She smiled at him, taking in the handsome six-footer. Well, maybe there are some gentlemen among fighter pilots, she thought. Soon they were deep in conversation.

"Claudia, I guess you haven't met many guys like these." He gestured around the room. ''Tell me, what do you make of us?"

Claudia giggled, shaking her head. "Well, I admit I've never been exposed to so many… different-"

"You mean screwy," Ottman said.

"… so many different and entertaining people at one time. You guys seem to have so much fun together."

Bennett hadn't interrupted, preferring to let Claudia get to know some of the IPs on her own. Now he said, "Well, we do enjoy one anothers' company. After all, we have a lot in common."

Claudia finished her tea. "Yes-you're all crazy."

"That's part of our charm," Ottman insisted. "For instance, most people would think it's crazy for anyone to want to die at age forty-eight. But I think there's something to it. Probably the best thing that could happen to any of us would be getting killed In action at forty-eight."

Claudia's face registered disbelief.

"No, I mean it," Ottman said. And she almost believed him.

"Look at it this way. You're still at your peak mentally, and most of us are in reasonable physical condition at that age. But in another couple years…" He snapped his fingers. "You're on the way out, kid. It's a long slide from there."

Claudia glanced at Bennett, seeking reinforcement. He winked at her. "Listen to the next verse."

Bennett and Claudia spent the rest of the evening mingling with other instructors and guests. Claudia was pleasantly surprised to learn she had mutual friends in London with the Saint-Martins and Geoff Hampton. She also had a discussion with Ed Lawrence.

"You've known John a long time, haven't you, Ed?"

"Yup. Twenty years or more."

"Has he changed any?"

Lawrence thought for a moment. "Not much. Pirate always was a lot of fun to be with-real dependable. You get to know a lot of people in a career, but there's only a few you really trust. I'd trust John with my life. In fact, I have done just that."

"Do you think he's happy here?"

"Yes. I know I'm happy here, doing what I do." He hesitated a moment.

"What is it?"

"Claudia, you and I are different kinds of people. Ordinarily we wouldn't have much in common. But John is what we have in common. I'd say he's been happier than I've seen him in years. Since he met you."

Claudia squeezed his hand. ''Thanks, Ed. I'm pretty happy, too. It's the best birthday I could hope for."

Chapter 8

Claudia spent the next two days with Bennett, mostly in the Tiger Force compound. The other guests had departed and the IPs for the graduating class were given leave. The couple were left mainly to themselves, which pleased them both.

Bennett devoted most of one day showing Claudia the academic area: classrooms and individual study cells. "Here, sit down at the console. I'll show you how easy it is to fly an F-20. "

He tapped out the entry code on the keypad and the full-color screen showed the Tigershark's instrument panel. "You see," he began, "the directions are printed in white for this phase, and yellow for the next. Everything is color-coded from first to last in ascending order. The higher you get into the syllabus the darker the colors. "

"That way you always know where you are in the program," Claudia said.

"Correct." He leaned over her shoulder, allowing one hand to rest on her back while he punched in the next lesson. "This sequence shows you how to start the F-20. It's a tactile screen, touch-sensitive, so you activate the switches in the proper order. You won't hear the engine start unless you do it properly."

Bennett had Claudia touch the appropriate switches, including the plastic safety covers. At each movement the screen showed, in animation, the covers lifted or the toggles activated. Immediately the whine of a jet engine was discernible. "There you go, you just lit off an F404 engine."

Claudia looked up. "Why, that's the most logical teaching system I've ever seen. Did you devise it?"

"Not hardly. This is a General Electric project, first used in their F-5E training center near Phoenix. The Saudis contracted for this facility from GE's simulation and training division."

Running her fingers over the console, Claudia said, "This must do a lot to speed up training. Is it one of the reasons you put the first class through so fast?"

"This and some other innovations in the flight syllabus. The advantage to this individual study cell is mainly psychological. In a classroom you have the teacher up front and he asks Student A a question. Well, Student A may not know the answer. Neither may anyone else, but the others look at A and think, 'Boy, what a dumbell.' This system here allows each student to progress at his own pace, so he retains much more of what he learns."

Later Bennett put Claudia in one of the F -20 simulators for a few minutes. He had the engineer start the program for takeoff and he showed her how to hold the stick and throttle. She made an erratic takeoff, over-controlling as most beginners do. Bennett cautioned her to keep the nose above the horizon and flipped the landing gear lever for her.

"Okay, continue your climb and level off at ten thousand feet."

He tapped the altimeter while leaning on the cockpit edge.

Claudia was stunned by the full-color panorama of the, world "outside" her cockpit. As Bennett coached her through some turns, she over-controlled again and the computer-generated imagery slanted crazily. "I feel a little dizzy."

"That's normal. This simulator can almost make you airsick. Level off for a minute."

Claudia moved the stick less dramatically than before, and the imagery settled down.

"Now, let's say you're going to strafe some point on the ground. That hill over to the left. Turn toward it and lower your nose."

Claudia shoved forward on the stick, aiming at the top of a rounded hill. Bennett saw what was coming. "Don't push it too far. Remember, you're at 95 percent power."

Too late, Claudia realized she was too steep. She gasped audibly, pulling hard on the stick. The scenery tumbled, then the screen went blank. "What happened?"

"Darling, you bought the farm."

"Well, any landing you can walk away from. "

Bennett helped her out of the cockpit, catching her arm when she slipped. "Gosh, I'm still dizzy," she said. ''That thing is too realistic!"

That evening Bennett suggested they have dinner in the club. Claudia preferred to go out, but he insisted. When they walked in, decorations already were in place. A large banner hung across the bar mirror: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, CLAUDIA! Several IPs were there, notably less boisterous than the night of the graduation party.

Claudia turned to Bennett, grasping his arm. "You rat! You set me up for this."

He smiled at her. "Actually, you can blame yourself. I wasn't going to say anything, but you let it slip to Ed at the graduation party. He and Masher set this up."

Lawrence walked over and kissed Claudia warmly on the lips.

"Happy birthday, hon. The Big Four-Oh."

Claudia regarded him through slitted eyes. "So, you're the security risk."

Lawrence said, "Hey, I only acted on available intelligence. You know-loose lips sink ships? Besides, somebody else provided the specifics about age."

Claudia glanced at both fliers, feigning petulance. "Oh, there's that handsome Tim Ottman. I think I'll let him buy me a drink."

For the next two hours Claudia savored being the belle of the ball. The fact that she was almost the only woman present did not bother her in the least. She was accorded a combination of fraternal attention and the respect due the colonel's lady from a cheerful band of warriors. Partway into the evening she realized with a start that she-a career diplomat-actually was enjoying the company of such men. True, some of the courtesy being lavished upon her was attributable to the fact that many of the pilots had not talked to a woman-any woman-in several months. But she felt comfortable, accepted, and warm.

Bennett allowed the others to entertain Claudia, preferring to sit back with Peter Saint-Martin. Peter lit his pipe, settled comfortably, and took in the scene.

"You know, boss," he began, "we've had the women here only a day and a half or so. They'll be gone tomorrow. But I can't help noticing almost a brother-sister relationship among our bachelor or unattached IPs and the few wives-and your Claudia. I've seen it before. As men will do on lonely outposts without women of their own, they begin to focus their love and longing on those present. Some chaps believe it can only lead to conflict, but I disagree. At least, it doesn't have to."

Bennett regarded the former Royal Navy flier with new esteem.

"Peter, I never figured you for a sociologist."

"Armchair sociologist, you might say." He puffed aggressively at his pipe. "Most men are loath to do anything improper in the presence of a woman who simply expects respect. As you know, when men live for long periods without the company of women, one of the first casualties is language. I've noticed that our chaps have minded their manners all evening."

The Britisher sat in silence a few more moments. "There's a dichotomy at work in our business. Men can engage in the worst form of behavior-killing and being killed-and be better at it when deprived of the presence of women. That's because in every society I know of, the promise of woman is of life and birth, of love and compassion. Things not synonymous with war. You see, it's almost a given that to prepare men for war they should be removed from the presence of women. Our instruction and training has to take place away from the female's basic goodness and civilizing influence. That's why war is possible."

Bennett leaned forward, clasping his hands on the table. "I think I agree with you, Peter. But what about the trend of more women in the armed forces?"

A decisive shake of the head. "Can't work, old man. Runs contrary to our civilization. Oh, I'm not saying women can't shoot as well as men or fly as well-we both know better. But I've never seen a cow in a bullring." He knocked out the ashes in his pipe. "You may have read Kipling. 'The female of the species is more deadly than the male.' Some say that females of any species are more dangerous, but read Kipling carefully. The females only become lethal in defense of their children or to feed them. Women will kill, certainly. To preserve their young. And I for one think that's an admirable quality."

Toward midnight, when the cake and ice cream and beer were gone, most of the men had drifted off. Masher Malloy, obviously picking his time carefully, approached Claudia with a small package.

"Miss Meyers, I'd sort of like you to have this. As a birthday present. It's been with me for quite a while and… I, ah, I just want you to have it."

Claudia opened the package, set down the wrapping, and held up the gift. It was a once-dark-blue T-shirt emblazoned with the black and white emblem of Fighter Squadron I43. Claudia laughed aloud, genuinely pleased, and held it up to her shoulders. The shirt hung barely to her hips. "Why, thank you, Masher. I'll think of you every time I wear it." She leaned down to kiss his cheek.

Slightly flustered, the little fighter pilot made an uncharacteristically quiet withdrawal.

Bennett drove Claudia to her hotel and walked her to her room.

As they stepped inside she turned around. "Excuse me, John. I'll be right back." She went into the bathroom and closed the door.

Moments later the door opened. Bennett, sitting on the couch, looked up and gasped. Claudia wore the Pukin' Dog shirt. And nothing else. She turned around twice, a wry grin on her face. "Do you think Masher would approve?"

"I know damn well he would." Bennett took a deep breath and stood up. "Claudia…"

She stepped close to him, put her hands on his chest. "I know we've both been doing a lot of thinking about each other, and our lovemaking has been wonderful this past year or so. But I want to be closer to you, John. I'm forty years old and I really don't have anything but my career. Now I find I want something more. I want there to be an us."

He held her tightly. "So do I, Claudia."

The blue T-shirt fell to the floor.

In the C Ring of the Pentagon, Major General George Miller shuffled his papers, organizing visual aids and data for his next presidential briefing. It was no simple task, especially where the Middle East was concerned. The increasingly complex web of alliances, plots, and feuds cut across not only national borders, but political and religious lines as well. It tended to become very confusing, most notably when longtime antagonists began behaving in a distressingly friendly fashion toward one another. The increasing Arab unity was perpetuated by Israel's continuing occupation of Jordan.

Miller was too experienced a briefer to allow such things to bog him down. He called across the room to his aide, Colonel Robert Kaufman. They were alone in the room.

"Bob, did CIA confirm the data from Tel Aviv?"

Kaufman looked up from his map preparation. "Yes, sir. Not only based upon Israeli information, but there's confirmation from the Brits as well."

Miller penned a note on his first draft of the presentation. As he updated material over the rest of the evening, it would be added, modified, or deleted according to requirements. The final version would be typed less than one hour before President Walter Arnold's briefing.

George Miller sat back in his chair, raised his glasses, and rubbed his eyes. "Bob, come over here and park it for a minute. I want to brainstorm this thing."

The intelligence colonel poured himself a cup of decaffeinated coffee and sat down at the table. "Well, sir, the evidence is pretty conclusive," Kaufman began. "The Israelis, probably with some support from the Omanis and even from the Brits, are supporting guerrilla bands inside Yemen. There's a clear pattern of operations against South Yemen over the past several weeks. That much is indisputable. Raids have occurred."

Miller said, "Sure. But why? What could the Yemenis hope to gain from all this? All they may succeed in doing is upsetting South Yemen and starting a real firefight."

''That is one risk," Kaufman conceded. He tapped the file marked TOP SECRET and flipped the pages. "But it's been proven that South Yemen is intent on exporting revolution, as the old saying goes. My guess is that the government in San'a wants to show the People's Republic of Yemen that it can't have things both ways."

Ever the devil's advocate, Miller said, "Okay, I'll buy that as far as it goes. But let's play the intel game. Who really stands to benefit from border clashes between the two Yemens?"

Kaufman smiled. "Gotcha, chief." He waved a professorial finger. "Israel and Oman."

"All right, we're on the same track. But why? The president will want to know."

"Everybody in the spook business knows the radical Arab states have settled most of their differences over the past couple of years. With the Ayatollah dead, Iran has become a lot cozier with Iraq. In fact, we know that Israeli intelligence predicted it would take about that long to consolidate things. Now the Israelis are looking for a way to further destabilize the situation-give 'em more time to prepare for whatever's coming."

"And Oman?"

"Simple. South Yemen's hostile to Oman, too. Internal dissent, protests, support of opposition groups. It's a marriage of convenience between Muscat and Tel Aviv. By helping each other, they further their respective aims in the region."

Miller jotted down the salient points for inclusion in his briefing. Like a careful professional, he would be sure to distinguish between hard intelligence and that which was supposition and opinion. But all considerations would be available should the president wish a more detailed analysis.

Glancing up from his writing, the general explained, "I'm adding a reference to previous Israeli dealings with Arab nations through back-channel and third-party means. You recall their sale of Phantom parts to Iran during the war with Iraq, and they even advocated that we sell military hardware to Kuwait after the Brits copped that huge deal with the Saudis." Miller shook his head in wonderment. "At least ten billion dollars worth! The president asked recently how many U.S. jobs that would have meant. I heard the Labor Department estimated four-hundred thousand. No wonder Arnold's willing to buck the Israeli lobby. If he could get back some of that foreign trade, the labor unions would elect him king.

"Okay," Miller said, "so much for the poetry. Now what about actual operations in Yemen?"

Kaufman checked his papers. "Press reports, intel, and info from attaches in San'a are pretty much in agreement. Company-size operations in some spots, shooting back and forth across the border, and more recently South Yemen has launched air strikes along the border, which is ill-defined."

"Any aerial combat?"

"Evidently not yet. There's only been a couple of quick hit-and-run affairs. But it seems the South Yemenis have used Saudi airspace to make an end run. If the Saudis get involved, I imagine that would suit the Israelis just fine."

Miller stared at Kaufman's coffee cup. "It sure would."

The DeHavilland I25 taxied to a stop and the engines were cut to idle. As the vacuum-cleaner sound wound down, the business jet's door opened and Safad Fatah descended the steps. He was closely followed by Mohammad Tuqman, a specialist in foreign affairs.

Bennett greeted the two ministers at large and showed. them to the waiting limousine. He turned around in the front seat to talk to them during the short drive to the Tiger Force operations office.

"Mr. Fatah, arrangements have been made as you asked. Colonel Lawrence is occupied with scheduling for the third class but he will attend our conference. I've also arranged for two of our prospective squadron commanders to be there."

Fatah nodded. "You have selected ranking Saudi pilots to lead the F-20 squadrons, then?"

"Yes, sir. We coordinated with air force headquarters, and we've agreed with Riyadh that two experienced F-5 pilots will perform those duties as soon as they finish the transition phase to Tigersharks. It doesn't take too long."

"That is good," Safad said. "We do not have very long." Minutes later, the two Saudi ministers seated themselves in the operations office. Joining Bennett and Lawrence were Major Ali Handrah and Major Mohammed Jauf, who would command the first two Tigershark squadrons in due time. But the current crisis had caught them unprepared for operations. Both men knew they were there to listen.

The ops office was clear of everyone but the four Saudis and two Americans. It was an austere, businesslike room. Navigation and weather charts hung on the walls, with aircraft status boards and pilot training rosters neatly arrayed. The only nonfunctional item readily visible was a sign over the door: EXCEL OR DIE.

Safad Fatah came directly to the point. "Gentlemen, you must be aware of the situation with Yemen and South Yemen. I fear it is not improving at all."

Bennett said, "Yes, sir. I understand there's been border clashes recently. Sounds like the South Yemenis mean to stir up more trouble. "

Mohammad Tuqman interjected. "Worse than that. They are involving us. South Yemen troops and aircrafts have crossed our borders to attack their neighbor."

The Americans were familiar with the situation. The two countries had border disputes dating from at least I934. South Yemen-formerly the British crown colony of Aden-was perhaps the poorest nation in the region. The British had closed their naval base in I967 and, despite severe differences following British departure, the YAR, Yemen Arab Republic (usually called Yemen) and the People's Democratic Republic of Yemen (usually called South Yemen) attempted consolidation. The effort had violently been curtailed in I978 when both presidents were killed in a two-day upheaval. In South Yemen a pro-Soviet Communist, Abdul Fattah Ismail, seized power by military coup and executed his predecessor. Ismail may have ordered the death of the YAR president as well. However, Ismail's regime was toppled by an even more radical element seven years later.

Ed Lawrence leaned forward. "Excuse me, Mr. Fatah, Mr. Tuqman. But I know the borders in that area are not well marked. Is that part of the trouble?" He visualized JNC-35, the jet navigation chart for the area. Most of central Arabia was uncharted, the section a blank white space on the map. Navigation warnings were printed along the unmarked Yemen border.

"Just so," Fatah replied. "That part of the peninsula is sparsely populated and the boundaries have never been properly defined. Much of the terrain is rocky desert. But clearly our sovereignty has been violated. Again and again."

Tuqman waved a bony finger. "And there is much to evidence that South Yemen is causing trouble in Oman."

Tiger Force knew about Oman. Long ruled by a despotic, incompetent sultan, the nation gained more enlightened leadership in I970 when the sultan's son displaced him. British aid helped suppress rebels aided in part by South Yemen, but Britain closed its base on Masira Island in I977. The government remained relatively unstable, and defense was directed almost exclusively by British officers, though Israeli assistance had been reported. Bennett and Lawrence knew some of the RAF pilots flying Omani Jaguar fighter-bombers.

Though he guessed what was coming, Bennett asked, "Where does Tiger Force fit into all this?"

Fatah reached into his briefcase, compressing his paunch as he leaned over in the chair. "These are reports of South Yemen violations of our airspace. I also appended a status report on the People's Democratic Republic Air Force." He handed the documents across the table.

Bennett and Lawrence already were acquainted with the PDRY air arm. They maintained current files on all military forces in the region as a matter of course. Flying MiG-21s, Sukhoi 22s, and one squadron of fast MiG-23s, the South Yemenis were looping north into Arabian airspace by staging from bases at Shibam and Seiyun I50 miles east of the Y AR border. By approaching Yemen from the northeast, they had eluded detection until almost the last moment and caught their opponents by surprise. Through human and satellite sources, it was known that the Soviets operated SA-2 and -3 missile batteries in South Yemen, and Cubans were believed leading some of the MiG and Sukhoi fighter-bomber formations.

"Would you like us to patrol that area?" Bennett asked.

"Yes. Our diplomatic efforts have had no effect," said Fatah. "As you know, we have only minimal contact with Marxist regimes, as a matter of faith."

Bennett clasped his hands, leaning forward. He fixed each Saudi with an intent gaze. Speaking softly, he said, "Mr. Fatah, Mr. Tuqman. You realize that Tiger Force is not fully operational. Our first class is nearing completion of its first six months of squadron formation and the operational training that goes with it. But neither squadron has been expected to be combat-ready yet. That's two months away, with Majors Iauf and Handrah slated to take command."

Fatah nodded. "Colonel Bennett, Colonel Lawrence, we recognize that it probably would be necessary for some of your instructors to provide… advice… during this period."

"Do you mean flight lead, sir? Tactical leadership?"

Fatah regarded the two Americans. "His Majesty takes a personal interest in your safety. As American citizens, none of your instructors could possibly cross into foreign airspace." His dark eyes flashed.

Lawrence said, "We don't mind taking on this job; in fact, it'll give our people some good experience. But why not use the regular Royal Saudi Air Force? You have F-15s down there at Nejran and Khamis Mushayt, two hundred fifty to three hundred fifty miles from the Yemen border."

Bennett interrupted. "Unless you need fighters closer to the borders. Smaller, less complex airplanes that don't need the ground support equipment of the Eagles." He tapped the chart on the table. "We could stage Tigersharks to these smaller strips and react a lot quicker."

Bennett glanced at Majors Handrah and Jauf, who surely would be involved in the upcoming operation. He winked conspiratorially at them. They self-consciously grinned in return.

Lawrence fidgeted in his chair. "Mr. Fatah, we're self-contained for the most part, and we don't need many mechanics. From what we call a cold start, we can be airborne in sixty seconds." The redheaded flier warmed to his subject, envisioning the situation and mentally licking his chops at the prospect of combat.

"In ninety more seconds we can be at thirty thousand feet. That means if we get word of bogeys, we can be at altitude in two and a half minutes from the go signal-"

Fatah held up his hands, as if to fend off the verbal torrent.

"Gentlemen, please! You do not need to convince me." He smiled through his goatee. "Your enthusiasm is gratifying, and the reasons you state have been made by our air staff in Riyadh."

Then the mirthful tone was gone and his voice became more serious.

"But, my friends, there is more to this situation than you know. You have always been forthcoming with me, and I can do no less." Fatah's gaze settled on Bennett. "In truth, you are being tested. There are those who would not be disappointed if your Tiger Force failed. That is, I believe, why this assignment has arisen at this point. Those who envy your relationship with His Majesty realize that your pilots are not fully trained yet. "

Bennett returned Fatah's gaze. "Safad, my boys can handle this job."

The minister nodded and sat back. "I assumed so. But remember, palace politics are at work here. If you had refused this mission, or if you fail, your influence would suffer."

"Then we won't fail." It wasn't a boast; merely a statement. Lawrence interjected. “Well, who's on our side? Will we have any support at all?"

''That is what we are here to discuss," Fatah replied.

"We'll need airborne radar," Lawrence said. ''There's a good ground-control intercept station at Khamis Mushayt, but it's almost useless for targets below ten thousand feet. The mountains interfere too much."

"Please prepare a list of what you need," Fatah smoothly responded. "Anything within reason will be supplied."

Lawrence managed to hold back a smile.

Bennett asked, "Gentlemen, when would you want some F-20s down there, and how many?"

"We estimate a dozen fighters would suffice, one squadron's worth. In, say, three days?"

Bennett said, "Yes, sir. We'll meet with you tomorrow with a preliminary plan."

Walking back to his quarters after the meeting, Lawrence rubbed his hands together. "Put the saddle on the stove, Mother. We're ridin' the range tonight."

That evening the briefing room was quiet-not tense, but definitely attentive. Lawrence had spoken to some of the IPs from Class One and selected three besides himself-all of them unmarried-who were willing to take on the assignment. Now Lawrence and Bennett explained the setup.

"We've decided to share the wealth," Lawrence began, "and we'll have two four-plane flights from Orange Squadron and one from Black." Each F-20 squadron carried a color designator within Tiger Force. It bore no relation to the Royal Saudi Air Force designation, but was used by the F-20 pilots and IPs as an internal identity, a morale-builder. The first two squadrons were traditional tiger colors. The next three, from Class Two, would be White, Red, and Green. Green was Muhammad's color.

Lawrence had chosen these men well, Bennett thought. There was always a tacit pressure on military aviators-an unspoken expectation to accept any proposition. "Never turn down a combat assignment" was a watchword in the profession. Bennett knew that few of the forty IPs would in fact refuse potential combat, but he wanted to be certain. The men sitting before him were warriors.

"You guys know the background," Bennett said. ''The Saudis are concerned about protecting their airspace from intrusion by any party. They're trying to walk a tightrope in the Middle East, and they no more want to encourage a fight than to appear to run from one. That's why they've decided to confront the South Yemenis."

He studied the IPs' faces. Masher Malloy seemed edgy, fidgeting in his seat, but Bennett knew it was excess energy. Geoff Hampton, the former Red Arrow, was the soul of composure. Bennett would have preferred Peter Saint-Martin, who had combat experience, but he was married. The USAF delegate was Tim Ottman. Lawrence had been careful to select one man from each community besides himself.

Bennett smiled at the recollection of Ottman's oft-stated explanation of the I973 Paris Peace Accords. "Here I was, fresh out of training, up to speed in the F-4, and they called off the war. Well, you know why. The MiG drivers mutinied. They said, 'Oh, no, Ottman's coming! Quick, sign the damn paper!'" Well, now perhaps Tim would have his war.

Masher Malloy raised a hand. "Skipper, what about ROE?"

Rules of engagement always were a sore point.

"I'm coming to that. This is supposed to be a show of force. We cruise a couple miles abeam of any unidentified gaggle and one of the Saudis raises them in Arabic. The ROE are clear from then on. If the bogeys ignore an order to leave Saudi airspace, or if they don't reply, we turn to engage. If they bug out, let 'em go. There's no hot pursuit over the border into Yemen."

Malloy squirmed. "Geez, I've heard that tune before."

Bennett pinned Malloy with a stare which made the little flier uncomfortable. "Just remember, this isn't our fight. It's not even our air force. Riyadh makes the rules. Clear?"

Bennett continued. "Otherwise, it's pretty lenient ROE. If the bogeys turn into you, fight's on. If they attempt to gain a rear-hemisphere advantage, you fight. And for damn sure, if they shoot first, you shoot back."

Consulting his notes, the CO continued. "We'll cover this tomorrow and again with the pilots before you head south. What I want to emphasize is your relationship to the Saudis. Each of you has flown with most of the fifteen studs we'll be using from Class One. You know most of their moves, their strengths and weaknesses. We're in a ticklish situation because, though we're senior to these boys, we're not really their commanding officers. One of the Saudi majors has wrangled permission to go along, but it's understood Ed will run the show for this limited time.

"We'll run this exercise zip-lip as much as possible. It's a good opportunity to test our radio discipline. It should be a non-ECM environment, so you can call sightings and breaks as needed, but let's use this first opportunity to impress the young sports with emcon. We should be able to run any intercept under complete emissions control because we won't be radiating."

This drew a few chuckles; most Tiger Force aircraft had been ordered without radar.

"Each of you will be flying section lead in your flight. This will give the Saudis good experience, only calls any of you make, except an emergency, before you have to engage. We've decided to follow up the Arabic challenge with English. If there's no reply after that, expect the worst."

Lawrence broke in, a wry smile on his face. "Of course, we could try hailing them in Spanish. Word is some Cubans are calling the shots with those folks."

Hampton spoke up. "John, any more word on how long this may last? We'll need to plan for resupply to the staging fields."

"Nothing on that yet. But I imagine if there's one or two good hassles, and they lose a few MiGs or Sukhois, things will settle down. At any rate, plans are being made for F-5s to take over the sector patrols as soon as possible. At visual distances it'll be hard to tell one of them from an F-20. "

Ottman chortled. "Good idea. Make 'em respect us, then terrorize 'em with something that looks like us."

''That's about it," Bennett said. "You'll have info on your radar controllers before you leave-E-3s staging out of Khamis Mushayt. You can arrange procedures with them when you arrive.

"One more thing. Be sure to go over loose deuce again with all your pilots. You'll be flying in rotation; an alert flight, a backup flight, and an off-duty flight during daylight hours. With four Saudis per flight, one of them also will be off duty. But you guys will be on the board full-time. So don't take anything for granted. Reinforce the fundamentals. And stress that selection for this job doesn't replace the training syllabus. Even if some of our studs come back with scalps on their belts, they'll still have two months of operational training to finish."

Lawrence noted slightly puzzled expressions on one or two faces. "It's psychological, guys. We need to keep the Saudis from developing overconfidence. If we give special treatment to a couple of pilots who bag MiGs, it could cause morale problems later on."

Masher Malloy interjected. "That's fine by me, Skipper. But, uh, what if one of us gets a kill? I don't suppose there's a bonus, is there?"

Bennett leveled an earnest gaze at Malloy. "My boy, you'll have the satisfaction of knowing you did your duty for the king."

The twin-engine transport bearing Iraq's green triangles on its wings braked to a smooth halt on the ramp at Palmyra Airport. As soon as the turboprop engines wound down the door opened and the Syrian honor guard came to present arms. The Antonov 26 became center stage in the third act of the day's drama, while the Syrian army, band struck up Iraq's "Anthem of the Republic" as the Baghdad delegation deplaned.

Previously the same band and honor guard had welcomed similar arrivals from Tehran and Tripoli.

Some I20 miles northeast of Damascus, Tudmur was remote enough to hold a meeting of Arab military officials without undue attention from outsiders. For despite their ingrained differences, the Muslims had two things in common: an abiding hatred of Israel, and a special interest in the future of Jordan.

Chapter 9

John Bennett and Ed Lawrence stood by the nose of Lawrence's fighter. It was barely daylight, and the air was pleasantly cool. The two friends occupied a few moments with small talk, but soon an awkward silence fell upon them.

Lawrence glanced again at the luminous dial of his watch.

"Well, it's showtime." He shifted his feet. There's nothing worse than times like these, he thought. Intimate friends want to say things to one another but somehow The Warriors' Code prohibits it. Best fire up and get going.

Bennett extended his hand. "Normally I'd say 'Good hunting, Devil.' But now I'm showing my age. All I can think is, take care of yourself and bring the Tigers home."

"Pirate, your halo is showing. Don't worry about us. We'll be fine." Lawrence gave Bennett an extra-hard squeeze of the hand, then turned and scrambled up the boarding ladder.

Bennett stood back and watched the now-familiar preflight process. Crew chiefs jumped down, withdrew the ladders, and motioned the long, graceful aircraft onto the taxiway. Lawrence's jet led the procession, canopy still open, red running light strobing from the fuselage. The exec tossed an ultra-regulation salute at Bennett, who merely waved.

Bennett stood motionless, watching each of the streamlined dark shapes glide past. When Tim Ottman's flight taxied by, Bennett waved again. Then he flipped a sharp salute to Rajid Hamir. His heart pounded a little harder as he thought of Rajid's young fiancee.

In minutes the fourteen Northrops were poised at the end of the runway. Two by two, they made section takeoffs. Climbing sharply, they accelerated in astonishing climbs to make best use of the early-morning air which would provide economical cruising for the 730-mile flight to Khamis Mushayt.

Bennett turned and walked back to the line shack. He felt let down, almost sad, and he did not quite know why. He had taken every precaution possible. The C-130 with spare parts, Sidewinder missiles, 20mm ammunition, and a skeleton force of mechanics had left during the night. It should arrive at Khamis Mushayt well before the fighters. Communications, accommodations, and several contingency plans had been arranged. Even two spare Tigersharks had been allocated, just in case maintenance problems unexpectedly cropped up.

Why do I feel so … unsettled? I've seen men off to combat before and I didn't feel this way. Maybe it's the difference between leading men and sending them.

My God, I miss them already. It's going to be a long wait.

Once settled on course to the southwest, Ed Lawrence rocked his wings. The three flights of four planes each, and the spare section of two, adopted loose deuce formation. It was doctrine in Tiger Force to fly every mission under simulated combat conditions: open intervals to fighting formation, minimal or no radio transmissions, constant vigilance.

From long experience Lawrence knew that his wingman was half turned in his seat, almost facing the lead F-20. Lawrence himself was oriented toward his partner. Some pilots preferred to fly with their left hand on the stick, leaving the throttle untouched in combat spread. But in any case, the orientation allowed each flier visually to clear the area behind his friend's tail-especially important in the jet age, with rapid approach speeds and air-to-air missiles drastically reducing the time to spot and call out an attack.

Lawrence's visored eyes scanned the sky around him, moving in a boxlike pattern perfected by thousands of hours aloft. His scan registered the two cathode-ray tube displays in his cockpit, took in his fuel state, and returned to the outside world. Fighter pilots were always thinking fuel, for they were professional managers of that precious commodity.

Cruising at Mach.82, the F-20's fuel flow was about 2,300 pounds per hour while the Tigershark made nearly eight miles a minute: 450 knots at 35,000 feet. Within 110 miles of destination, the pilot could pull the throttle back to idle and glide at 250 knots, burning only 200 pounds of fuel per hour. Thus, the last 110 miles would consume merely 80 to 90 pounds of JP4 during the 25-minute descent. That was normal fuel flow in a turbofan fighter being flown like an airliner. But a fighter plane is for war, for killing other aircraft. And in combat it uses fuel in an ungodly manner. The F-20 could fight for two minutes 400 miles from its base and return with a safety reserve, or cruise nearly 2,000 miles on the same amount of fuel.

Lawrence felt calm, confident, and slightly hungry-a predatory hunger. It was the kind of hunger the toughest cat on the block feels. A fight was coming. He could feel it.

The next four days were full but unexciting. Settling in at Khamis Mushayt, arranging for rotation to Nejran and advanced fields, the Tiger Force personnel adjusted to the routine. They were taken with the stark beauty of the Empty Quarter, the Ar Rub Al Khali, but even more so with Nejran. Seeing the pure desert oasis for the first time from the air, Tim Ottman was enchanted. The beautiful village of mud structures, with an ancient castle surrounded by dates and palm trees, was straight out of a fairy tale. Now I've really been to Arabia, he thought.

The F-20 pilots met with the crews of two Saudi Air Force E-3A AWACS planes, which would provide airborne warning and control. Ed Lawrence and the other instructors were impressed with the airborne controllers-sharp young men who would monitor Saudi airspace for intrusion from South Yemen and direct F-20s to intercepts if necessary. The two AWACS would stage out of Khamis Mushayt, alternating missions daily.

The two forward fields, southeast of Nejran, were suitable for Tigersharks and F-5s but were not yet adaptable to larger aircraft requiring more support. Most of the pilots were confident of a confrontation with the Yemenis; some earnestly wished for it. Only a few recalled Bennett's warning: "Be careful what you want. It might come true."

Based on Lawrence's schedule, a four-plane flight of F-20s patrolled the Saudi-Yemen border once or twice a day at irregular intervals. There was no discernible pattern to the patrols-predictability is a sin to a dedicated warrior. Varying patrol times, patterns, and altitudes, the Tigersharks trolled impatiently, letting the South Yemen radar get a good look at them.

While the airborne flight made its seemingly random passes up and down the border, the second flight sat runway alert at one of the forward fields. Hangars were available, so the pilots and mechanics were spared the worst of the Arabian sun. These four fighters could be airborne in one minute, ready to reinforce the airborne flight in perhaps ten minutes, depending on the scene of contact. The third flight remained at Khamis Mushayt, rotating forward every third day to allow one of the others a rest.

At dusk on the fourth day Lawrence discussed the situation with Major Ali Handrah, one of the prospective squadron commanders. They were relaxing over lemonade in the small building allotted Tiger Force at Khamis Mushayt.

Theirs was a courteous, professional relationship, devoid of warmth. Bennett had warned his exec against any word or action which could be interpreted as overbearing or superior. Unofficially Lawrence outranked Handrah, but the American also was a foreigner in the pay of the king of Arabia.

"Major Handrah, I've been thinking about our patrol patterns. What would you think if we fly farther inland for a couple of days? Give the appearance that we're not as concerned anymore. It might help defuse the situation if we show the Yemenis that we're working into a routine attitude, with more or less predictable schedules." But his words belied his intent.

The Saudi set down his lemonade. Lawrence knew the officer's orders were to observe more than command. He also knew Handrah was expected to establish a sense of discipline in his young pilots; if Riyadh wanted a show-the-flag mission, the youngsters' high spirits should not lead elsewhere. If the intrusions could be ended without a fight, so much the better.

Handrah said, "Yes, Colonel Lawrence, I agree. Your suggestion is in keeping with our orders. Perhaps. the Yemenis will realize we intend to keep patrols in this area. There have been no more intrusions since we arrived."

Lawrence's plan went into effect the next day. In conferring with the airborne controllers from his staging base, he learned that MiGs out of Shibam had caught the new pattern. For the next two days they flew much closer to the border-wherever it was-thus taking up the slack to maintain closer contact with the F-20s.

Then, on the eighth night, YAR guerrillas struck an army compound twenty miles inside PDRY territory. Tiger Force immediately got word from Saudi intelligence, and Lawrence laid plans accordingly.

The South Yemenis reacted the next morning. But the MiGs and Sukhois avoided Saudi airspace, crossing directly into YAR territory to bomb and strafe two guerrilla compounds. Ed Lawrence bristled with anticipation, trolling as close to both borders as he dared during the raid. His Saudi student leading the flight played it straight, and returned to the advance base upon reaching "bingo" fuel state.

"I'll be a sad sack." The redhead tossed his helmet down to the crew chief and slowly unhooked. "We could see some contrails but that was all." He viciously unsnapped the koch fittings of his torso harness. "Shee-it."

Lawrence arranged for the third flight to join him while Tim Ottman's four planes, plus one spare, took the next patrol. The IPs agreed that they should have full strength available now that things might be heating up. There was still a good chance Lawrence's "restrained" patrol pattern might entice some MiGs over the border.

At the advanced field an ordnanceman stood beside Lieutenant Rajid Hamir's wingtip, flashlight in hand. It was the ninth day of the operation; something would have to happen soon or the operation would be called off. When the F-20s started engines the young Saudi airman watched for a thumbs-up from the pilot, indicating the Sidewinder missile on each wing was activated. The armorer then shined the flashlight on the AIM-9's seeker head, visible behind the thick glass in the nose. By moving the light laterally and vertically, the "ordie" saw whether the thermoelectrically cooled homing system was functioning normally. Such was the sensitivity of the infrared seeker that its eye followed the heat of a mere flashlight.

Developed by the U.S. Navy in the 1950s, the Sidewinder was simplicity itself. It mated the then-new seeker and warhead to an existing rocket motor, and the original models cost $800 apiece. The current versions, with a front-attack capability, ran over $100,000 but they were deadly effective. British Sea Harrier pilots in the Falklands War scored an 80 percent kill rate with their AIM-9Ls.

Rajid Hamir led his wingman off the runway moments after Lawrence had landed. The second section, led by Tim Ottman, was only seconds behind, followed by a spare. Keeping low, Rajid checked the position of the other three aircraft and keyed his microphone button.

In rapid order came the responses: one, two, three clicks. All four pilots had checked in; their radios were functioning. There was mild jockeying as each F-20 took turns flying a mile behind its partner, double-checking the tracking tone of its missiles. Satisfied that each aircraft was fully operational, Rajid detached the spare with a waggle of his wings and set course east-northeast at reduced throttle. In one-mile spread the two sections adopted loose deuce and waited. No one had spoken a word since takeoff.

Captain Julio Martin Cordoba led his four Sukhoi 22Ms outbound from a wadi in the Yemen desert. He had made a surprise follow-up attack on one of the guerrilla bases across the border from South Yemen. The Cuban pilot had shrewdly figured that the YAR "terrorists," accustomed to one bombing at a time, would not expect a second attack moments after the first. And he had been right. The guerrilla camp had just begun to stir, with enough of the smoke and dust settled to allow good visibility from above, when Cordoba's flight arrived.

It had been a well-executed attack. The Su-22s-NATO callsign "Fitter"-had struck from north and south, almost simultaneously. Glancing down, Cordoba doubted that many of the terrorists had survived this time. He was not new to the game. He had flown in Angola years before.

Leading his reassembled formation northeasterly, Cordoba had plotted a return course which described an arc tangent to the claimed Saudi border. Thus, he avoided a reported YAR antiaircraft missile battery which had fired on MiG-23 reconnaissance flights recently. He knew from radar reports over the past week that Saudi fighters had never crossed into Yemeni airspace. Besides, MiG-21s would be airborne to screen his flight during his return along the border.

Ninety miles away, a Saudi captain peered intently at his radar scope in the airborne AWACS. One of his companions monitored the South Yemeni fighter-direction frequency, noting that radio discipline was typically poor for Soviet-trained air forces. With a highly-structured command-control system, the MiGs relied on instructions from ground controllers for almost every phase of flight, down to dropping external tanks and arming missiles.

The Saudi captain placed his cursor on the MiG blips, providing an electronic memory for consultation anytime later. He already had a good idea of the direction and speed of both Yemeni formations.

The geometry was coming together. From its God's-eye view the E-3 radar plane scanned the three groups of aircraft crowding the Sandi-Yemen border area. The Sukhois were headed to a point very near the boundary-perhaps upon it-and the MiGs were converging toward that point from the east-southeast.

The four F-20s, on direction from the airborne controller, turned hard right. Rajid and Tim Ottman took their wingmen in startling climbs, splitting to a five-mile separation between sections. Rajid heard the controller call, "Bogeys on your nose, twenty-eight miles at sixteen thousand." Rajid gave his mike button a quick click to acknowledge.

he Yemeni officer shouted over his shoulder into the darkened hut. "Comrade Colonel Sorokin! Look at this!"

Colonel Kirill Sorokin was a forty-eight-year-old air defense specialist assigned, — semi-permanently, he ruefully thought sometimes-to the People's Democratic Republic of Yemen. He had performed similar duties all over the world, and surely the pest hole he now occupied belonged right at the bottom of the list. Hotter than Hades, thousands of kilometers from anywhere with precious little comfort, there was not even much liquor to ease the burden. "Serves you right for being so good at your work," his superior had said. Some system, which rewards competence with misery, Sorokin thought.

Flinging aside the blackout curtains separating his small office from the control room, the Russian took in the esoteric data contained on the radar scope in just a few seconds.

"Damn it to hell!" he shouted.

The controller visibly flinched. He was well acquainted with the colonel's temper.

To Sorokin it looked as if the Saudis intended to cut off the Sukhois at the border. He yanked the headset off the controller and pressed it to his ear. He did not know the tactical callsign of the MiGs, and there was no time for formality. "MiG flight! Heads up! Interceptors closing on you from the north. Select afterburner and arm your missiles."

Sorokin had played this game many years before, in the air defense center in downtown Hanoi. Seeing a developing opportunity, he relied on the Cuban, Cordoba. He's experienced, Sorokin thought. He'll follow orders without hesitation.

The Russian ordered the lead pair of Sukhois to come hard left, dashing into Saudi airspace. The lead section had Atoll air-to-air missiles while the other Su-22s had been armed solely with bombs and rocket pods. Cordoba would have expended his ordnance and should be down to fighting weight on fuel. The MiGs were to hook right, enveloping the Saudis in a two-pronged aerial pincer. Though it was a hasty decision, it could work if timed properly.

Rajid eyeballed the four MiG-21s on his left quarter, watching them close at a combined rate of some 1,500 mph. He heard Tim Ottman call, "I'm high." Noting the four 21s were flying a "welded wing" formation, with each wingman almost wingtip to wingtip on his leader, Rajid pulled in toward the nearest section. His armament display panel showed the right-hand Sidewinder was selected.

The AIM-9 missile had a forward-quarter capability, with enhanced sensitivity in the infrared seeker head which detected even the aerodynamic frictional heat generated by a high-speed aircraft. Rajid heard the warble of the tracking tone in his earphones, and for an instant he marveled that all his training was being put to use.

Then he called "Snake!" and pressed the trigger.

It was a low-percentage shot, with only a marginal chance to score. But the MiGs were forced to break formation to evade the missile, immediately putting the Yemenis on the defensive. They had not had time to fire any missiles of their own. The nearest two MiGs split from one another and Rajid pressed his attack on the wingman.

Circling overhead like a lethal shepherd watching his flock, Ottman alternately tracked the second pair of MiGs and tried to follow the engaged Tigersharks. So this is combat, he mused. Funny, it doesn't feel much different from practice.

Acting on doctrine, Rajid called, "I have it."

His wingman pulled up to cover the fight, turning to place the lead MiG off his nose. When the second 21 broke hard right to defeat the missile, Rajid had held his course, passing on a reciprocal heading to the 21's belly side. He could have continued his turn, using the F-20's superior maneuverability to gain an angle when both fighters came around the circle. But that would prolong the fight. He recalled Colonel Lawrence's dictum: Don't waste time trying to sweeten up the shot. Kill the bogey soonest.

Instead of turning, Rajid pitched into a high yo-yo immediately after passing the MiG's tail. Pulling up, he quarter-rolled to keep his opponent in view through the top of his canopy, arcing onto his back.

Straining against the G, forcing himself to keep the MiG "padlocked," Rajid felt an odd sense of detachment, almost as if he were a spectator of this combat rather than a participant. I've been here before, he thought, in practice and in the simulator. I'm going to win!

The frightened Yemeni pilot reefed hard in his four-G turn, almost as much as his MiG-21 could sustain. He had difficulty keeping the Saudi in sight above him, and hoped to throw the Northrop outside his turn radius. But by continuing his level turn he gave the Tigershark a predictable path to anticipate the conversion, and it did not take long.

Pulling hard behind the 21, sensing the fuzzy grayness at the periphery of his vision, Rajid waited until his nose was approximately aligned with the MiG's. He recognized that he had a bit more separation than he needed, but he was well within the Sidewinder envelope. He had a favorable angle off the tail and took off some bank to reduce the G on his airplane. Hearing the tone again, he called the shot.

From overhead, Ottman saw the second 'winder come off the left rail, fly unerringly to the MiG, and explode. There was a bright flash in the sky.

"Yeah!" Ottman shouted in his oxygen mask.

The MiG-21 disgorged a cloud of dirty orange flames, with hundreds of tiny metal fragments in its wake. Instantly the canopy came off and the pilot's seat rocketed from the cockpit. The remains of the aircraft plummeted to the desert floor.

Seeing his wingman hit the ground, the MiG leader elected to disengage. The camouflaged delta-winged fighter reversed its turn, no longer sparring with Rajid's wingman. The F-20s' ROE said no hot pursuit, but the second MiG section remained in Saudi airspace. Ottman keyed his mike: "Orange Lead, this is Three. Two bandits still in a level turn with me, coming around upsun right now."

Rajid rapidly scanned the sky, hoping to silhouette the MiGs above him against the high, thin overcast. The glare bothered him. "No visual, Three."

"Lead from Two. I have the bandits." Lieutenant Hasni Khalil had good eyes.

"You have it, Two."

Khalil slid out abeam of Rajid as the two easily traded the lead.

Moments later Rajid saw them, also noting Ottman's section arcing upward to position itself beyond the bogeys. The MiGs were trapped.

“Orange Flight, this is Sentinel. Two bogeys at twenty-two miles, closing from southwest." The AWACS was doing its job.

Ottman cursed to himself. Damn Sukhois-he'd almost forgotten them. "Lead from Three. I'll take 'em."

"Ah, roger, Three."

Ottman rolled over and took up the heading. His wingman moved out abeam, expertly anticipating his move. With a visual on the Sukhois at six miles, the two F-20s began working for position.

The Su-22M is a large single-seat fighter-bomber, as big as a Phantom. Though it has variable-geometry wings, it cannot turn or accelerate with lighter aircraft but it has powerful armament and Mach 2 speed. Julio Martin Cordoba led his Yemeni wingman to engage the Saudis with air-to-air missiles and, if necessary, the seventy rounds in each of their 30mm cannon. Granted position for a gunnery pass, the Sukhois might have done some harm. But against alerted, aggressive Tigersharks the Fitters stood little chance.

Colonel Sorokin sized up the tactical situation displayed in blue-green light on the scope before him. He was not aware of the term, even though he understood some aviation English, but he called for a bugout. "Cordoba! Hostiles ahead and above you. Get out of there, now!"

The Cuban already recognized the setup as a no-win situation.

He called for a disengagement, executing a crossover turn the moment he saw the F-20s zoom-climb for the perch.

Before the Sukhois completed their reversal, Ottman and his wingman were on the way down, cutting the corner and closing in on the big fighter-bombers. He could see the yellow-white glow of the afterburner on the right-hand Fitter, momentarily wondering if the turn was offensive or defensive. He briefly thought of the ROE, then decided the Yemenis were staying to fight.

When the Northrops rolled out they were best positioned against the right-hand Sukhoi. Its partner had made a less radical turn, bleeding off less airspeed, and thus gained better separation from the threatening F-20s. Ottman settled into an easy bank, almost on G, at one and one-half miles. "Four, do you have a tone?" Ottman wanted to give the Saudi the shot if possible.

He heard the carrier wave, then a slight pause. "Negative, Three." The disappointment was audible in the boy's voice.

That was what Ottman actually had hoped for. He heard the death rattle chirping in his earphones, knew his starboard missile was tracking the right-hand bogey, and depressed his mike button. "Snake!"

Accelerating through Mach.88 at 1,200 feet, the big Sukhoi had no hope of evading the missile. Ottman's 'winder detonated close to the tail as the active laser proximity fuse induced a slightly premature explosion.

The astute young captain in the E-3 followed the headlong chase southward. The F-20 answering as Orange Three was too close to the demarcation line; he should be warned. "Three, this is Sentinel. Recommend you break off."

Ottman was in no mood for unsolicited advice. His easygoing demeanor on the ground was ruthlessly shoved aside as his professional fangs came out and his armament system sequenced to the port rail. With a discernible overtake on the Sukhoi, he regained missile tone and fired again.

The Sidewinder took the tail off the Su-22, which rolled violently before searing a long, greasy smear on the shale floor. Ottman had a glimpse of the enemy pilot's seat ejecting from the doomed aircraft as it rolled inverted.

Orange Three and Four pulled up, cleared one another, and called the Sentinel. "No bogeys remaining this side of the border," came the E-3's reply. "RTB."

Ottman acknowledged. "Returning to base." Then, "Orange Lead, do you copy?"

Rajid's voice came through. "Roger, copy. We're five miles in trail." A slight pause. "Orange Two has a kill."

Ottman's adrenaline surged. He pulled into a near-vertical climb to cruise altitude, rolling gleefully all the way. He had not known it was possible to feel so good.

A small crowd was gathered at the staging base as Orange Flight taxied in. Spectators noted empty missile rails on two of the fighters, with gunpowder streaks on a third. There were cheers, grins, and thumbs-up all around. Mechs and pilots hauled Rajid Hamir from his cockpit and bore him upon their shoulders, chanting, "Rajid, Rajid!" The young man smiled his shy smile and grabbed extended hands on either side.

Five minutes passed before Lawrence restored order. Masher Malloy's flight was due back, and the reserve flight had been brought to ready alert. Lawrence got to Rajid just as Tim Ottman broke through the crowd.

The big New Yorker was exultant, and not only for his own success. He stalked up to Rajid and pounded the youngster on the shoulders with unintended force. Then Khalil was dragged into the circle, grinning after his gun kill. Ottman locked both Saudis in his beefy arms, squeezing their necks painfully.

"I'm so goddam proud of these guys I don't know what to say. Ed, you shoulda seen it. We took on six bandits and bagged three!"

Lawrence could tell Ottman's blue eyes were misting over.

After the debrief, Lawrence picked up the phone. He called the communications office at Khamis Mushayt and sent a message for Bennett:

First blood for Tiger Force. Splashed two Blue Bandits and one Fitter. All tigers home. Details to follow. Love and kisses, Devil.

Less than an hour later came the reply, radioed 10 by the teletype operator:

Sura 8: 17. Pirate.

There was a scramble to find a copy of the Koran. One of the Saudi mechanics produced a volume and translated. Amid a crowd of onlookers he flipped to the Chapter of the Spoils and read, "Ye did not slay them, but it was God who slew them; nor didst thou shoot when thou didst shoot, but God did shoot, to try the believers from Himself with a goodly trial; verily, God both hears and knows. There, verily, God weakens the stratagem of the misbelievers."

Masher Malloy was dead.

Lawrence called Bennett the morning after the engagement with the news. As often happened, there was not much information. Bennett knew from the tone of Lawrence's voice that the redhead was upset, but the exec maintained his composure. He had been through this before.

"All we know for sure is that he augured in from over twenty grand," Lawrence explained. "We'd had hydraulic troubles with one bird, and since Masher's flight was on rotation, he decided to test-fly it. Besides, you know how he liked solo aerobatics."

"Sounds like oxygen trouble."

"I don't know how else to call it, John. He made no transmissions after checking the airplane and systems. The E-3 had him the whole flight. There's been no other excitement along the border so they had no trouble tracking him."

Bennett well knew the pattern. Nobody could say how many times aircraft on a routine flight failed to return because of some small malfunction, a tiny oversight which grew to tragic proportions in moments. Most flights in tactical aircraft require 100 percent oxygen above 18,000 feet-the level at which the atmosphere is half as dense as at sea level. Apparently Malloy had succumbed to oxygen starvation.

"Okay, wrap it up down there as fast as you can, Ed. Is your relief still on schedule?"

"Affirmative. We're due back day after tomorrow."

Bennett realized with a pang that Masher had never mentioned any relatives. He leaned back in his chair, hands over his eyes. A soft whisper escaped his lips. "Damn."

Secretary of Defense Benjamin Wake was in his office by 0700, reading message traffic from the night before. His early arrival was typical of the man, for his tireless energy and astute business sense had made him a computer millionaire early in life. "You don't get rich without getting up," he liked to say.

Scanning the summaries on his desk, Wake stopped abruptly and reread one report from the U.S. air attache in Riyadh. The originating office told him that State also must have the information. That meant he'd be hearing from Thurmon Wilson again. The Secretary of Defense pressed a buzzer on his desk console and seconds later Major Emory Kim, USAF, stepped into the luxurious office.

Wake waved the Riyadh report aloft before Kim could speak.

"Major, what else do you have on this Arabian episode?" Kim was responsible for tracking such messages, and he cordially hated the job. He yearned for his comfortable old B-52 back.at Fairchild.

"Nothing yet, Mr. Secretary. I knew you'd want more data so I've requested amplification. Apparently the combat occurred day before yesterday, so we should know more by noon."

Wake leaned back in his overstuffed chair. "What do you think, son? This is hearsay evidence, with no confirmation on U.S. personnel directly involved. Doesn't even mention the source of the report." Wake flipped the paper aside.

"Well, sir, it might be embassy gossip. Or it might be a Saudi officer bragging about their F-20s. You know fighter pilots."

Wake smiled in appreciation of the sentiment. "And I know the president. He'll want details ASAP. Keep on it, Major."

Secretary of Defense Benjamin Wake was in his office by 0700, reading message traffic from the night before. His early arrival was typical of the man, for his tireless energy and astute business sense had made him a computer millionaire early in life. "You don't get rich without getting up," he liked to say.

Scanning the summaries on his desk, Wake stopped abruptly and reread one report from the U.S. air attache in Riyadh. The originating office told him that State also must have the information. That meant he'd be hearing from Thurmon Wilson again. The Secretary of Defense pressed a buzzer on his desk console and seconds later Major Emory Kim, USAF, stepped into the luxurious office.

Wake waved the Riyadh report aloft before Kim could speak.

"Major, what else do you have on this Arabian episode?" Kim was responsible for tracking such messages, and he cordially hated the job. He yearned for his comfortable old B-S2 back.at Fairchild.

"Nothing yet, Mr. Secretary. I knew you'd want more data so I've requested amplification. Apparently the combat occurred day before yesterday, so we should know more by noon."

Wake leaned back in his overstuffed chair. "What do you think, son? This is hearsay evidence, with no confirmation on U.S. personnel directly involved. Doesn't even mention the source of the report." Wake flipped the paper aside.

"Well, sir, it might be embassy gossip. Or it might be a Saudi officer bragging about their F -20s. You know fighter pilots."

Wake smiled in appreciation of the sentiment. "And I know the president. He'll want details ASAP. Keep on it, Major."

Three days later Claudia arrived on a courier plane for the memorial service Saturday morning. Friday is the Muslim sabbath and not all the Saudis could have attended then. She would return to Riyadh on Sunday evening.

Claudia was surprised to find she seemed to take Malloy's death harder than his friends did. She had expected the pilots to be more subdued, if not actually depressed. But upon entering the IPs' club she found an almost exuberant atmosphere. She began to understand that these were men accustomed to sudden death among comrades. Bennett escorted her to a seat and ordered her a drink.

Lawrence came in just then, wearing his flight suit. Spotting Claudia, he walked over to her. He leaned down to hug her and she squeezed his neck.

"Oh, Ed, I'm so sorry."

"I know, hon. I know." He sat down.

Bennett walked up, drinks in hand. "Hi, Ed. Can you join us for a minute?"

Lawrence shook his head. "Naw, I just stopped by to let you know everything's set for the service."

"You're leading the formation, right?"

"Yes, with one student from each class."

Claudia asked, "Are there funeral arrangements in the States?" The two aviators exchanged meaningful glances; neither wanted to speak. Claudia looked from one to the other. Finally Bennett put his hand on hers. "Claudia, his plane exploded on impact."

"Oh." It was barely audible.

The memorial service was a short one. Most of the IPs plus many of the Saudi pilots and maintenance personnel attended. Flying had nearly shut down for the afternoon, and Bennett's brief remarks were uninterrupted. Standing in the shade of a hangar, the assembly bowed heads for a short prayer and sang the "Navy Hymn" from photocopied pages. Most of the IPs knew the words by heart.

Claudia recognized the haunting tune and listened carefully to the words. She shivered involuntarily at the phrase "Hear us when we lift our prayer for those in peril in the air."

Seconds later four F-20s swept overhead, deployed in the World War II "finger four" pattern. As the formation passed the runway intersection at 1,000 feet, the lead aircraft-second from the left-abruptly pulled up in afterburner. Ed Lawrence executed an immaculate series of vertical slow rolls as the three Saudis maintained level flight. There was a gap where Lawrence had been: the missing man formation.

Claudia tightened her grip on Bennett's arm.

The wake-Claudia didn't know what else to call it-was more lively than she expected. But she felt the need to talk quietly with Bennett, and they found a corner where their privacy was respected.

Bennett sensed Claudia's uneasiness. Holding her hands in his, he got her talking about what she knew best. "Honey, I'd like to know what you think will happen in the region now."

She thought for a moment. "I can't speak officially, of course. But there's no doubt the radical Muslim states are preparing for something. My personal opinion is, it's probably too late to avert war. After all, that's why the king organized your Tiger Force. But what will make it especially hard on Israel is that the Arabs seem to understand diplomatic as well as military power now. They still remember the effect of the '73 oil embargo."

Bennett squeezed her hands. ''There's no chance of negotiations?"

She shook her head decisively. "No, I don't think so, John. Not as long as Israel occupies most of Jordan. Remember, King Hussein declared himself out of the West Bank issue before the occupation, leaving the PLO as the Palestinian voice. As long as that matter remains unsolved, there's not much chance for peace."

Bennett softly pinched her arm. ''That's not a very optimistic statement from a nice Jewish girl."

"Half Jewish." Claudia smiled but her voice had an edge. "And remember, there are still some Israelis who think the way I do. However, the current government has a no-compromise frame of mind. Most Israelis honestly feel they can't give up any territory. They want a buffer zone around Israel's border."

Deciding there had been enough shop talk, Bennett led Claudia to the small dance floor. Pressed close together halfway through the song, he whispered, "Hey there, lady. Can I give you a lift to your hotel?"

She regarded him with a twinkle in her hazel eyes. "Sure thing, sailor. If you're going my way."