Warriors

Chapter 10

Thurman Wilson handed Avrim Ran a paper plate containing a hot dog, potato salad, and baked beans. The Secretary of State's elegant Georgetown residence, all brick and ivy, seemed an incongruous setting for an American-style picnic, but Wilson knew how to play to an audience. State's intel on the Israeli U.N. ambassador was quite thorough, and Wilson had noted the genuine grin on Ran's face despite the overcast sky.

Ran had learned to enjoy most aspects of life in America and traveled as widely as his duties in New York permitted. Outdoor barbeques, the Grand Canyon, and even horseback riding all appealed to him. Which was exactly the reason Thurmon Wilson had invited him to this "informal" meeting of their two families. Ran chuckled inwardly. Who but Thurmon Wilson would wear a tie to a picnic? The man was absolutely transparent.

And, the Israeli discovered, his American colleague didn't have much patience today. After exactly thirty minutes of polite conversation Wilson maneuvered Ran into the kitchen, away from their wives and Ran's young children.

"Avrim, I needed this time alone so we can discuss the Middle East situation without interruption. It's going on three years since the occupation of Jordan"-Wilson was careful to phrase the accusation as passively as possible-"and there's no settlement in sight. The president is terribly concerned, and he'd have asked me to talk to Ambassador Palnet, but Shlomo of course is unavailable." Ran nodded, recalling that Tel Aviv's ambassador to the United States remained hospitalized in Israel, recovering from a coronary. "You're the senior Israeli diplomat in this country right now," Wilson continued. "I want to ask you to communicate this administration's deep concern-privately, of course."

Ran blinked in surprise. This was old business to him. "Of course, Thurmon. You may rely on it. But surely you know that little has changed. Our forces remain firmly in control, and the civil unrest has subsided tremendously." He stopped to gather his thoughts. He did not want to promise what he could not deliver. "And our third-party negotiations through U. N. relief agencies and the Saudis seem to be making headway."

"That's just the point," Wilson insisted. "Israel isn't dealing directly with those who matter-the Jordanians. Their government in exile on Crete has been reduced to almost observer status in the back-channel discussions."

Ran made no comment, so Wilson pressed the advantage. "As for the Saudis, I don't think we can rely on their good offices indefinitely. They could get dragged into a war with their neighbors or succumb to internal radicals. Just look at that air combat with the Yemenis a year ago. And it's no secret that Syria and Iraq are planning something-maybe in concert with Iran. Avrim, we know as well as you do about the military buildups on Jordan's borders. This whole issue has helped unite what previously was a pretty fragmented Arab world."

Staring into space through the kitchen window, Avrim Ran thought of what another war would mean to his younger brother David, now leading a squadron of his own. Maybe he'd welcome it.

Ran started out the door to collect his family. "I'll pass along your concerns, immediately. Oh, and Thurmon. "

"Yes?"

"Thanks for the hot dogs."

The air-conditioned conference room was starkly pleasant in contrast to the broiling heat outside. The royal family already had moved to Jidda, the summer capital, but a series of military conferences in Riyadh were necessary.

Tiger Force was slated for the second day, as part of an overall air force briefing. Accelerating events had pressed a carefully drafted contingency plan into effect throughout the Saudi military, and the F-20 squadrons figured prominently. Bennett sat across the polished table from Safad Fatah, noting the immaculate tiled floor and ornate high ceiling with marble columns along the walls. He was still somewhat surprised that he had been invited to attend the full session, but perhaps Fatah had something to do with that. The entire region was gearing up for war, and Bennett thought it unusual that a foreigner would be allowed to attend all the briefings. However, over three years of close affiliation with King Rahman and his ministers had earned him a trusted place.

As General Mustafa Halabi completed his presentation, Bennett looked again at the large-scale map on the wall. Scattered in an arc through northern and eastern Arabia were new airstrips either nearing completion or well under construction. They fit into a plan which Tiger Force IPs had helped formulate months before, and now Bennett would explain the integrated plan in which they were featured.

Bennett was careful to acknowledge the tacit trust inherent in his very presence. He knew it was unusual. "Your Majesty, gentlemen, I consider it a rare honor to attend your conference. The confidence expressed in me, and by extension in all our instructors, is deeply appreciated, and I hope we continue to earn your trust."

Bennett went on. "As most of you know, Tiger Force has reached its status of eight fully operational squadrons. Counting the Saudi pilots turned back into the training program, we could form another F-20 squadron with just a few transfers from remaining F-5E units." The Tiger II had been partially phased out of the Royal Saudi Air Force over the past year, but the little fighter's ease of maintenance endeared itself to the defense hierarchy. With acquisition of F-15s and more recent large purchases of Tornado fighter-bombers from Britain, the Saudis' maintenance situation had increased in difficulty, but F-5 mechanics easily switched to F-20s.

Bennett pulled a standard rescue mirror from his pocket and tilted it back and forth. "Most of you are familiar with these signal mirrors. The light from one of these can be seen for forty miles or more on a sunny day." The mirror had a hole in the reflective paint on the reverse side, allowing the user to align the mirror on the ship or aircraft searching for him. This put the light beam on target. Then, with a simple motion of the hand, the mirror was flashed to attract attention.

"The early warning system we've devised is an adaptation of one that General Chennault used in China during World War II. Clear air and unlimited visibility in the desert will allow us to use mirrors like this as a foolproof communications system. It cannot be jammed or deceived by any electronic means, and if the user is assigned a Morse Code authenticator, the signal cannot be duplicated by an opponent unless he knows that day's signal. Since a full-scale conflict in this region undoubtedly would involve electronic counter-measures by one or both sides, this means of air-raid warning could be crucial."

Bennett took a sip of water. "We intend to establish a net of between four hundred and five hundred fifty watch posts in three tiers from north to south across the upper portion of the country. It is preferable to use Saudi army personnel in two-man teams for at least part of 'this network, since they already can handle radio equipment and could be readily trained to identify aircraft and handle basic mirror signals. However, I'm told that certain segments of the Bedouin population can also be trained in this role.

"This system, if required in the face of radio jamming, could provide about twenty-five minutes warning of the approach of hostile or unidentified aircraft. With the F-20's rapid response time, that is more than enough to scramble, detect, and intercept an incoming raid. Since our signal outposts include positions on the Sinai front, it would be nearly impossible for… intruding aircraft to outflank our system in daylight." He had almost said Israeli aircraft, though Arabia had to be cautious of some Muslim neighbors as well

Turning to the map, Bennett said, “Now, as you have already heard, a series of outlying fighter strips is well under construction. Each will have underground provisions for fuel, weapons, and some maintenance facilities. At least three will have sheltered bunkers for command-control use and a few protected hangars."

He added a few explanatory notes, then asked for comments or questions.

The king immediately spoke up. "Colonel Bennett, I believe this plan contains a fine balance between simplicity and sophistication. But tell me, what provision is there for long-range engagement of enemy aircraft with your squadrons?"

Bennett noted the visible effect of the king's choice of words.

Your squadrons. He did not know whether to be pleased or concerned with the implications, but the regular air force officers seemed content to let him alone.

"Your Majesty, we are reconfiguring many of our two-seat Tigersharks with the radar and Sparrow missile system. Each aircraft can carry two AIM-7s on detachable underwing pylons. After discussing the matter with some of the officers present, we have tentatively decided to add two or three such planes to the existing squadrons. We therefore hope to provide a full range of intercept possibilities, day and night." Bennett considered whether or not he should hammer the old nail again, and decided to hit it once more. "The history of aerial combat in nearly every theater of action in nearly every war is consistent, sir. About seventy percent of all shoot-downs are made in clear-air conditions against alerted opponents. We see the radar missile not so much as a killer, but as a means of gaining an initial advantage. By forcing the opposition to evade the standoff weapons, we gain time for favorable maneuvering to pursue the combat with heat-seeking missiles. And, if necessary, with guns."

The king rubbed his chin. "That is well, Colonel Bennett. So much for our northern flank. Have you anything- to add about possible concerns from the south and east?"

"Well, sir, I might refer you to our friends in South Yemen. Some of them are qualified to comment on the capabilities of Tiger Force. "

This brought a ripple of laughter around the table, even some polite applause. The monarch allowed himself a tight smile and tapped his palm on the tabletop for emphasis. Bennett beamed with pride, but quickly returned to the matter at hand.

"As for concern about Iranian action from across the Persian Gulf, that has been a factor in our planning from the start. You will recall that we established our primary base at Bahrain with just that possibility in mind. And I'm glad to say that there has been no additional problem from either quarter."

Safad Fatah spoke for the first time during the day-long session.

"Your Majesty, if I may interject." He had the full attention of everyone at the table. "The Iranian question is well to be considered. There has been much diplomatic activity in recent months, all at the highest levels. The government in Tehran has been feeling us out, apparently as part of an overall plan to bring the Muslim nations together under a unified banner." He paused to let that point sink in. "We know that communication between Syria and Iran has been especially active along these lines, and it would be folly to ignore the portent of such action."

Bennett glanced around, noting the sober faces. So we're still at square one, he thought. Nothing's changed. The Saudis still are walking a tightrope between their Western economic partners and their radical Arab neighbors.

The king stared at the polished tabletop for a few heartbeats.

Then he said, "Thank you all for your efforts. This meeting is adjourned. "

Bennett passed a word with his friend General Maila, who finally had found time to check out in the new F-2 °C. They talked shop for a few moments before Bennett walked outside. He met the first two Tiger Force squadron commanders, Majors Handrah and Jauf, near the message center. All three men were to return to Bahrain that afternoon. Bennett intended to use the next few hours to see Claudia for lunch; they had much to discuss.

As the limousine pulled away from the curb, Bennett glanced across the street. "Driver, could you please pull into that space up ahead?" The Saudi corporal immediately came to a stop. "Excuse me just one moment please, gentlemen," Bennett said to Handrah and Jauf, "I need a word with the air attache."

Bennett had glimpsed Colonel Glen Mallon, the Air Force delegate to the U.S. Embassy. One of the maintenance supervisors had asked Bennett to pass along a report to the attache's office, and this unexpected opportunity would save time later on. Time for Claudia.

Climbing from the rear seat with his briefcase, Bennett sprinted through traffic, barely dodging a kamikaze taxi, and hailed Mallon. The colonel stopped when he heard someone call his name and turned from his companion, another Air Force officer. Mallon turned toward Bennett, recognized him, and raised a hand in greeting.

Not quite to the opposite curb from the limousine, perhaps twenty-five yards diagonally up the street, Bennett felt the concussion a split second before the sound engulfed him from behind. He staggered forward, pushed by the force of the explosion, and fell. He caught himself with one hand on the curb, badly scraping the palm.

Bennett's survival instincts took over. He flopped face-down on the sidewalk, covering his head with his hands. For an instant he was back at DaNang that night in I968, sweating out a weather divert from Yankee Station while the North Vietnamese launched a rocket attack. The sound, the smoke, and flames, even the debris raining down upon him, all seemed the same. Risking a look, he raised his head and peeked over his shoulder. The limo was aflame, its ruptured gas tank feeding the blaze while thick black smoke boiled up.

Mallon had ducked at the sound of the explosion. Then, quickly recovering his poise, he saw Bennett on the curb a few yards away. He sprinted to Bennett's side. "John! Hey, John. Are you all right?"

Bennett was too stunned to respond. Both men looked back across the street. Thirty yards away lay the burning wreckage not only of the limousine but of two other parked vehicles. Several passersby had been knocked down, and Bennett knew at a glance that some of them were dead.

Colonel Chaim Geller relaxed in his chair, an archaeology book propped open on his knees. Frequently he spent his lunch "hour" this way, though he seldom had sixty minutes to eat anymore. There was so much for Israeli intelligence to keep track of in the region that everyone worked overtime at least three days out of six.

Geller thought of the report from Riyadh and pondered its meaning.. He also thought of young Levi Bar-El, now assigned to field intelligence with a parachute regiment. The eager youngster had declined the option to return to his previous position. Bar-El couldn't stand being a deskbound warrior anymore. Well, the boy's ability with Arabic and his call-up to active duty pointed in that direction. The section chief wondered whether Bar-El would ever hear of the latest event concerning the enigmatic Mr. Bennett.

Nearly all Tiger Force intelligence now went directly to the Heyl Ha 'Avir. But the car-bomb death of two Saudi Air Force majors, their chauffeur, and five civilians was of interest to other intelligence communities. By cross-checking a variety of sources, the story had come together with only a few gaps.

This Bennett was a lucky one, all right, Geller mused. Had the American air attache not been on the street at the same time, Bennett certainly would have died in the car with the others. The natural question was, who and why?

Geller was miffed but not surprised to learn Israel was suspected by the Saudis. Ordnance specialists confirmed the C-4 explosive had been of U.S. manufacture, which to the outside world meant the Israelis could be involved. The section chief knew better and was reminded of the old professional dogma: never assume the obvious without good reason.

"Whom do you suspect?" the director of diplomatic intelligence had asked the colonel that morning.

"Abraham, I'd lay even money it's the Yemenis or the Iranians."

"Explain. "

"The F-20s delivered a one-sided defeat upon the South Yemen Air Force a year ago. We have known, as you are aware, that most of the instructors are Americans. This bombing could shape up as revenge, pure and simple."

The director tugged at his jowls. "Yes, I agree that is possible. But Iran?"

"Things get complicated there. Just a moment." Geller spun his chair, reached for a folder on his desk, and turned back. "We have strong evidence that high-level diplomatic discussions have been going on between most of the Islamic fundamentalist states and many of their more moderate neighbors. The link seems to be this man." Geller pulled a photograph from the folder.

"Ah, my old friend from Damascus!" The senior man's voice almost sounded jovial. "Ali al-Badran." He handed the picture back to Geller.

"Correct. He's probably the most skilled Arab diplomat, certainly the best and most experienced Syrian-"

"And he hates the very thought of Western devils conducting business in Arab countries. It's one of his ideological ties to the old Khomeini regime. That gives him credibility with the new clique in Tehran, which feels it has to pay lip service to the ayatollah's policies. "

Geller tossed a little salute to the older man. "Very good, Abraham. You should consider a career in the intelligence field."

“Maybe I will someday, after I've finished digging up ancient civilizations." Archaeology was their common passion. That and the preservation of Israel. "So you think the Iranians and perhaps Syrians want to kill the head of this separate Saudi air force as a precautionary move?"

Geller shrugged his round shoulders. "It's one possibility. But I'll tell you one thing for sure. I wouldn't want to be in that American's shoes with two types of fanatics after me."

"I understand he's overseeing construction of more advanced airfields in northern Arabia. Is that a threat to us?"

"It could be offensive or defensive, depending upon how the fields are used. It's not for me to interpret, thank God. That's the kind of interpretation which leads to unwarranted assumptions, which leads to unnecessary action, which leads to war." He inhaled deeply. "Let's pray that the politicians don't reach the wrong conclusions. "

His partner concurred solemnly. "Amen to that."

President Walter Arnold settled into his chair for the National Security Council briefing, aware of the officers and civilian aides deferentially waiting behind him. Nearly all had remarked in recent months how his appearance had changed. Three tough years in office had left their mark on the president's face; his tan was long gone, deep lines accented his eyes and mouth, and the trademark silver-gray hair was almost completely white.

The staff and aides took their seats as the chief executive sat down. It was a larger meeting than normal, for the pending crisis in the Middle East had expanded in scope and complexity. Arnold believed in diversity of opinion right up to the point when he made a decision. He had once told his chief of staff, "No historian is going to write about me what they wrote about Kennedy-bad advice from bad advisers. By God, if I make a mistake of the Bay of Pigs magnitude, everyone with me is going to take the heat, too."

As he had for nearly every week in the previous three years and more, Major General George Miller stood before the president to update the global military situation.

"Mr. President, there has been no indication of further overt action on the part of Arab air forces in the past several days. However, there is a high level of diplomatic activity among the Iranians, Syrians, and Iraqis, with lower levels of consultation with other Arab states. This includes meetings of the Syrian ambassador-at-large, Ali al-Badran, with traditional moderates from Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, and the Emirates."

Arnold knew this pattern had existed for at least several months, probably much longer. "Okay. What about Egypt and Jordan?"

Miller was ready for that question. ''The Jordanian government continues to exist in exile, if you will, but of course without exercising much influence as to what happens there. We believe that return of Israeli-occupied Jordan to the Jordanians will be a cornerstone of any proposed settlement.

"As for Egypt, there is nothing to suggest the current fundamental regime will change its attitudes anytime soon. Cairo's geopolitical stance is somewhere between Riyadh and Tehran-not as extreme as the Iranians but certainly not as moderate as the Saudis. That was to be expected after the previous government fell."

Miller flipped a page on his chart and pointed to military dispositions. "Mr. President, there has been movement of Egyptian antiaircraft units into Sinai." The pointer tapped out positions beyond the Suez Canal. "Intelligence photos show that they are remaining stationary at present, and in fact are part of a planned combined arms exercise. But their location could be ominous. These are relatively new units of considerable versatility. Each tracked vehicle contains a twenty-five-millimeter gun and two each short-and medium-range SAMs. They are deployed in battalion strength, and they can keep up with the fastest battle tanks."

"Is that mechanical fact significant?"

"Yes, sir. At least it could be. You see, if motorized infantry with tanks were to suddenly drive eastward across Sinai, they would have to take their anti-air forces with them. By prepositioning such units, they gain a time saving."

"Why couldn't the Israelis knock out these units? That would prevent the tanks and infantry from advancing, wouldn't it?"

"Mr. President, these SAMs have terminal guidance which could be passive-acting upon heat or even noise of the target. They would not be easily defeated. You'll recall the serious losses the Israelis had from Egyptian SAMs in '73."

Arnold did not know the figures, and in fact did not care. But he did know that dozens of Israeli aircraft had been destroyed or seriously damaged by the belt of surface-to-air missiles during the Yom Kippur War. Only extensive U. S. electronics gear and replacement aircraft and parts had kept the Israelis flying in sufficient numbers. Arnold did not intend to oversee another situation in which American aid to Israel incurred economic retaliation from the oil producers.

"All right," Arnold said. "We have definite diplomatic activity among the Arabs, apparently for the purpose of establishing unity among the Muslim states. And we have possible military activity aimed at Israel from Egypt. What about other military cooperation?"

"I was just coming to that, sir." Miller flipped his chart again.

The new page showed operating areas in Syria and Iraq. "Combined exercises have been held in these vicinities with Syrian, Iraqi, and reportedly some Iranian units. Our reports indicate a high degree of coordination between ground and air forces with good communications and control." This was new information, and its significance was not lost on those in the room.

"What this amounts to," Miller summarized, "is the possibility of Arab preparation for a combined offensive against Israel. This kind of alliance-political and military-has never been accomplished before. If it continues at current levels, the Israelis will be in for the fight of their lives."

"I assume the Israelis are as aware of all this as we are."

"Oh, yes, sir. In fact, we have confirmed some of our data with Tel Aviv."

Arnold perked up. "With Tel Aviv… Any chance they're feeding us some of this info just to gain sympathy?"

Miller was surprised-the president did not usually subscribe to Machiavellian theories. Perhaps three years on the job had taught him to consider more arcane and less apparent motives-even with longstanding allies.

"We considered that possibility, sir. All our data has been independently confirmed."

"How soon might such an Arab alliance move?"

Miller glanced at the intelligence representatives. "The Arabs have all the hardware they need, right now, sir. And they have a very large manpower pool-much of it combat-experienced. This is especially true of the Iraqis and Iranians. Additionally, the Israelis are overextended in Jordan. They really can't keep the lid on there and fully defend their homeland at the same time. "

Arnold rubbed his temple with one hand, his eyes closed. There was a long silence before he looked up again.

"General Miller, thank you. As usual, you're right up to date on things. "

Surprised to be dismissed so abruptly, Miller walked offstage. He still had more to say.

The president turned to the NSC staff. "Gentlemen, ladies, we're entering a difficult period. We simply cannot allow ourselves to be forced into choosing sides in another Arab-Israeli war. The economic and diplomatic considerations are too great. I'll pursue this discussion at the cabinet meeting tomorrow."

Walking to his limousine, Arnold strode out of earshot of his Secret Service escorts. Grabbing his chief of staff by the arm, he hissed, "See what Wilson and State can do. By God, we give the Israelis three billion a year, never see most of it again, and they perpetuate this situation despite us. I hate being in the middle like this. It just isn't fair!"

The chief of staff stopped in his tracks, watching the briskly striding figure of the President of the United States. The staff director pondered the wisdom of sending Arnold the speech by Henry Kissinger years ago. "Nations don't have friends. They have interests." Of course, the present situation was not fair. What's that got to do with anything?

Claudia Meyers knocked on the door of Bennett's hotel room.

The door swung open, a tanned hand reached out, grasped her forearm, and pulled her inside. The door slammed shut.

They hugged each other tightly for several minutes. At length Claudia said, "My God, I'm tired of living on letters and phone calls." She squeezed his neck. "You feel so good."

He touched her cheek. "We do have a lot to talk about, don't we?" They sat down on the bed, and Bennett moved a black zippered bag to one side. Curled up with one another, they talked.

Bennett said, "All right, here's what I'm thinking of doing." He looked directly into her hazel eyes. "War's coming. No doubt about it. My boys are ready, and I can't do much more. I'm thinking of asking to be released from my extended contract, going back home with you and setting up a house in California or Connecticut or wherever you like. What do you say?"

She returned his gaze. "Is that a proposition, sailor?"

He grinned the white grin she loved. "Consider it a proposal, Claudia. I've been thinking along these lines for quite a while. Now I want to marry you."

Her voice seemed small in the room. "Okay."

That afternoon they made love and made plans. The main concern was how to accommodate their different work and responsibilities.

Bennett said, "I can probably wrap things up in less than sixty days. If necessary, Ed can take over for me. We're down to the basic requirements of twenty-eight IPs now, including one for each squadron, since basic flight training is winding down." He tickled her ribs and she wriggled away. "What about you?"

"I'll put in for termination of my position here right away. I'm senior enough that it shouldn't be too difficult, especially since I've been at this station so long." She edged closer to Bennett, grasping his near hand to prevent more mischief. "I'd like to finish my full twenty years with the State Department, John. If I got a Washington posting could you tolerate that for a while? It would only be another couple of years. "

The disappointment showed on his face. "Oh, lord. Georgetown cocktail parties, small talk with the temporary acting deputy under-secretary from Lower Slobbovia. You'd really subject the man you love to that sort of thing?"

"Yes. If I was the woman he loved."

"Ouch." He raised his hands. "Okay, I surrender. But old John is going to look awfully funny in a tux. Besides, how will I communicate with anybody? You know fighter pilots can't talk with a teacup in one hand. It takes two, baby." He parodied the gestures common to aviators describing two aircraft engaged in a close dogfight.

Claudia laughed appreciatively, then turned serious. "What do you think you would do for two years or so in D.C.?"

He wrapped his arms around her. "I've never been a house husband. That seems all the rage these days. You know, send you off to work each morning with a healthy, nutritious lunch in your bag. Have a nice dinner waiting when you come home after a hard day with the Bulgarian ambassador."

Claudia kissed his cheek. ''That's a lovely thought, but for some reason I don't quite buy it. Really, what would you do?"

"I think I'd like to write a book about my time here in Arabia. I might not be able to find a publisher, and I couldn't describe some things, of course. But the people I've worked with, especially the students, they're the real story." He warmed to his subject. "I wish you knew some of these kids like I do, Claudia. Doggone, so many of them are really terrific young guys. It's like Chuck Yeager said. You fly with all kinds of pilots from all over the world and there isn't a dime's worth of difference among them. Training and experience are what matter.

"I don't mean to overstate this, but in a way Tiger Force has been my family. I raised these kids, most of them from teenagers. I'm really going to miss them. And most of the IPs, too."

"That reminds me," Claudia said. She got up to fetch her shoulder bag and pulled out a worn blue T-shirt. Returning to the bed, she sat down beside Bennett. "I've kept this but I don't really know what to do with it. What do you think?"

Bennett fingered the familiar garment. "I think you should keep it. Masher would like to know that you still wear it."

Claudia slid under the covers and nestled close. "What do you think will become of the others?"

"Oh, most of them will go back to what they did before. Airlines, reserve flying, commercial instruction. Some will just become beachcombers."

"It won't be the same for them, will it?"

Bennett inhaled, thinking of Ed Lawrence. "No, it won't. You know, in the business we talk about being warriors, of being entirely job-oriented. No bullshit, stick to the basics. Beyond that, we talk about the pure warriors. Well, Ed's the only really pure warrior I know anymore. And it's not a cheery prospect."

She laid her head on his chest. "Why not?"

"Because he really is pure. He's never been married, has no outside interests. Flying and fighting are all he knows and all he cares about. He's very good at it, but there's not much else for him besides sport flying. I worry about what might become of him. There's nothing sadder than a warrior without a war."

Claudia ran her finger around his lips. "Maybe we could adopt him. At least have him to dinner or occasional weekends." Her face turned serious. "John, what's the attraction of combat? I get the feeling that some of you actually enjoy it."

He thought for a moment. "Yes, some of us do. I think of the Marine recruiting slogan way back when. 'Nobody likes to fight but somebody has to know how.' That's strictly public relations. The plain fact is, most of the really good fighters do love to fight. A lot of us just enjoy the hell out of flying the airplane, but Ed and his type are beyond that. The airplane isn't a vehicle-it's a weapon.”

"What makes men like that?"

"Ego. Remove ego or self-respect from the human equation-they're both related-and you remove war." He stroked her back, concentrating on his line of thought. "I believe that implicitly. And it's the biggest factor overlooked in discussions of the causes of war.”

Claudia moved her head to his shoulder, and he savored the touch of her hair on his skin. "I never told you, John, but you scared me and attracted me when we met. There was something about you that was… well, it was dangerously appealing. And I've noticed it among your pilots. They respect you, but I think a lot of them are a little frightened of you, too."

He chuckled. "That's what I hope for. Keeps 'em alert."

Bennett rolled over and nibbled on Claudia's ear. She inhaled sharply between clenched teeth. "You know what that does to me."

"Affirmative. Let's take a bath before dinner."

They adjusted their legs to accommodate one another in the tub. Claudia reached for a bar of soap, unwrapped it, and rubbed it between her hands. Then she leaned forward, lathering his chest and shoulders. Her eyes twinkled as she playfully rinsed the suds from his body by splashing water on him.

In turn, he picked up the bar and applied soap to her breasts and back. Then came a scratching noise, faintly heard, from the door.

Claudia began to ask a question but he silenced her with a raised hand. He heard the sound again and knew it was not a key. He knew everything he needed to know, and his adrenaline surged.

With a silent curse, Bennett leapt from the tub and sprinted eight steps around the comer to his nightstand. He knew he had made two mistakes: He should have taken the black bag with him to the bathroom, and he should have closed and locked the bathroom door. He heard the main door open as he brought the Browning Hi-Power up from the bag.

Bennett heard Claudia scream as a metallic tinkling filled the narrow hallway around the comer. He heard the sound of copper-jacketed bullets striking porcelain and enamel. Keeping low and kneeling, he braced his left forearm against the edge of the wall and centered his front sight on the intruder's upper torso. One glimpse told the story.

The entrance door was open and the gunman had stepped inside to his left, without silhouetting himself. He had pivoted right when he saw the open bathroom door, fired a long burst into the tub, and was swinging back left. The muzzle of the silenced Ingram MAC-ll came toward Bennett, slightly high.

In the next instant Bennett squeezed the Browning's three-and-one-half-pound trigger and the sharp-nosed, armor-piercing round smashed through the intruder's sternum. Without hesitation, Bennett lifted the auto pistol and sighted on the man's forehead and the next round shattered the cranium. The body collapsed backward against the vanity mirror and slid to the floor, twelve feet from the Hi-Power's muzzle.

Two rapid heartbeats later another form appeared against the backlighted hallway. Bennett's loading sequence was armor piercing backed up by hardball, and he fired two quick rounds into the center of mass. The second man, also armed with a silenced MAC-ll, staggered forward and-perhaps from reflex-triggered a burst which went into the wall near Bennett's right rear.

The terror, the lethal pressure, and the semidarkness combined to ruin Bennett's sight picture. He lost the competitive sharp image of his front sight and fired his next round at the assassin's head. It was proper procedure-what the South Africans called the Mozambique Drill. But the sight alignment was off, and the man took a grazing hit in the neck.

Slumping to his knees, still trying to bring the submachine gun to bear, the man strained toward his target.

Bennett was momentarily upset by his failure to stop the fight with two good hits, and he thought of his.45 back home. But then there was a clear and angry mind at work behind the Browning's sights. The reduced distance made sights seem hardly necessary but he forced himself to focus on the front ramp. Then he squeezed the trigger.

It was over. Bennett thought of a reload, but estimated he had fired six rounds; the magazine still held seven. He felt an ephemeral sense of exhilaration, followed by disgust at the unpleasant substances on the walls and floor. Then he thought of Claudia. But he was disciplined enough to order his priorities.

Scrambling to his feet, Bennett checked around the corner and found it clear. He jumped over the cadaver at his feet, slammed the door, and locked it. He turned and threw both Ingrams on the bed, noting a lock-picking kit had fallen from one man's pocket.

Claudia.

He knew what he would find. She lay in the tub, up to her chin in red-dyed water. She had taken ten.380 rounds in the chest and abdomen from that one long burst.

Bennett slumped on the bed, suddenly cold. He huddled into a sheet. Violent emotions tore at him from different directions. Delayed fear, the heaviness in the arms, the raspy dryness in the throat. But there was more: anger, remorse, a numbing sense of loss.

A loud pounding on the door brought Bennett's senses back to the immediate. He glanced around, noting the familiar blue T-shirt on the floor. Picking it up, he held it to his cheek. And that is how they found him, sobbing softly to himself.

When John Bennett returned to Tiger Force, Ed Lawrence was the sole person on hand to meet him. It was contrary to the group of IPs and students who normally were present as a mark of courtesy and respect.

He looks ten years older, Lawrence thought to himself as Bennett came down the stairs of the commuter jet. The exec noted his friend's haggard appearance-especially the circles under the eyes and the slumping posture. Lawrence walked toward the man the students called "King Tiger." Now he resembled neither.

Bennett held out his hand. "Hello, Devil."

"Welcome home, Pirate." Then Lawrence put his arms around Bennett's shoulders.

Bennett unwrapped himself and smiled grimly. "Let's have a drink. "

The redhead said, "I think even Allah would approve."

Seated in Bennett' quarters, Lawrence filled him in on recent events. "You wondered why the Saudis were including you in all the air force planning, remember? Well, I talked to Rajid and a couple of others from Class One. You know there are about five thousand princes in this country?" Bennett nodded. "Well, we have our share flying F-20s. I guess it's still a case of not what you know but who you know that counts. Because it looks like our guys, the Saudi pilots, used some of their influence. After Handrah and Jauf were killed in the car bomb, our tigers told Saudi HQ they didn't want any more outsiders as squadron Cos. They wanted us, the IPs, to fill the gaps."

Bennett showed interest. "That could mean trouble in our relations with the Saudi Air Force."

"That's what I thought," Lawrence said. "So I took it upon myself to propose a compromise, subject to your approval. Some of our sports are CO material-Rajid, Menaf, a couple of others from Class One. What say we recommend them for the slots?"

Bennett thought for a long moment. "They probably will be okay with more experience. But if it comes to shooting… "

"Yeah, I know. But this seems a good way of us keeping an even strain with both sides. At least, it may be the best we can get. "

"You know, Ed, I didn't really know we had that kind of loyalty from these kids. I mean, I'm really pleased that's how they feel, but I'd have expected they'd want their own people."

"I discussed it with Peter and Tim and some of the guys. You know what a philosopher Peter is. He says it makes sense. The oldest of our first pilots still aren't twenty-six. The youngest of the last graduating class are between twenty and twenty-one. Hell, we raised these studs from pups. I guess it's natural that they look to us for continued leadership."

Lawrence poured more Jack Daniels over the ice in Bennett's cup. "John, do you feel like talking about Claudia? I'm a pretty good listener."

Bennett inhaled deeply and slowly let it out. He closed his eyes for a moment. "Yeah, it might help."

"Any idea who the shooters were?"

"The Saudis said both had Lebanese papers. That may or may not mean anything. Apparently one of them was a mercenary connected to a Christian militia outfit in Beirut years ago. I was told that a lot of those people went free-lance."

"If they were Christian militia, that means Israeli support, doesn't it?"

"Yes. The Saudi investigators are convinced of it but they wouldn't discuss sources beyond the Beirut connection."

"Wow. Then the timing means-"

"The timing probably means the Israelis have planned preemptive strikes against airfields in reach of their Jordanian positions. That's how I see it. Decapitate Tiger Force and follow up with attacks into northern Arabia. But there's just one thing wrong with that. "

"Yeah," Lawrence interjected. "They haven't hit us."

"Right. And it's not like the Israelis to telegraph their punches."

"So what do you think?"

"There's another theory that the Yemenis might have been behind it-a revenge thing. But I'm inclined to think it was Israel-maybe an unauthorized operation of some sort. There might have just been a slip-up and the assassins hit too early. One of the investigators said there's evidence they waited outside my hotel for most of the day, maybe expecting to hit me in the street. They might have gotten tired of waiting and decided to come in shooting. "

Lawrence said, "What do you want to do about it, John?"

"I want to kill whoever's behind this. But I can't afford a vendetta." He took off his shoes. "I'm gonna turn in, take some sleeping pills, and get some rest. I'd like 001 ready for an I830 launch tomorrow. Can you set it up for me?"

"Sure thing. No problem." He slapped Bennett on the shoulder.

"Goodnight, pardner."

Walking to the operations office, Ed Lawrence knew exactly what his friend had in mind. "He's got a world of hurt inside him," the exec told Bear Barnes. "Now he wants to take it upstairs and leave some of it there."

Chapter 11

That afternoon the instructor pilots seated in the briefing room were more subdued than usual. They had been called to the meeting on short notice, and several still wore flight suits from their training flights. Tim Ottman and Bear Barnes speculated that the Saudis wished to renew their contracts. Others, like Geoff Hampton and Brad Williamson, adopted a wait-and-see attitude.

Lawrence and Bennett strode down the aisle and took the stage.

There was immediate quiet in the room. Bennett asked that the doors be locked, though this had never been done before.

"Gentlemen, good afternoon. I'm sorry to call you here on such short notice-I intended to do some flying myself." Bennett was dressed in his Nomex flight suit with the Tiger Force patch on the right side and the Tigershark patch sewn on one shoulder.

"Early this morning there were two large hassles over eastern Jordan. One involved Syrian MiG-23s and the other apparently had more MiGs plus Iraqi Mirages. We don't know the full story, but it seems to have been quite a shootout, with losses to the Israelis as well as the Arabs. It's suspected but not yet proven that Iranian pilots were involved in at least one of these incidents."

A murmur ran through the room.

"Evidently the first combat was the result of Syrian overflights of Jordan to assess Israeli strength and dispositions. This has happened before, but has never been answered with such a hostile reaction. What makes this morning's events of interest to us is the fact that at least two Iraqi aircraft entered Saudi airspace to avoid pursuit by the Israelis. One Mirage was shot down barely on our side of the border. The other, already battle-damaged, landed without permission at one of our advanced fields." He paused to allow the gravity of that news to sink in. ''This means we can expect attention from the Israelis almost anytime."

Bennett had expected a vocal response to this news. Instead, there was dead silence.

"I've been on the line to Riyadh several times since noon. This could well begin the direct involvement of Tiger Force, and all Saudi Arabia for that matter, in combat with the Israelis. They'll see our forward strips as a threat, offering assistance to other Arab aircraft. And they may decide to come after us, even though F-15s are patrolling the border to try and head off other Iraqi or Syrian intrusions.

"Consequently, I've reached an agreement with Safad Fatah and the Royal Saudi Air Force command. Each of you will be paid the balance of his existing contract, with a release from obligation to complete the tour, effective today. Mr. Fatah said to regard it as a bonus for a job well done." He paused, knowing that the audience awaited the other option.

"However… " Bennett let the word float for a moment, "if any of you should choose to remain with Tiger Force in the capacity of a planner or flight leader, you will be welcome. The legal implications will be explained in writing. I'm not saying you can have it all your own way because we don't know how the State Department might interpret it. But there's precedent which allows U.S. citizens to serve in the armed forces of foreign nations as long as those nations are not engaged in armed conflict with the United States. We don't have a full reading from London on this point-not yet."

Tim Ottman raised his hand. "Boss, what are you going to do?" Bennett had anticipated the question. And he had decided that he would hold his counsel, preferring each man to decide for himself rather than follow the CO's example. "I've not made up my mind yet. You should decide what you want to do without considering anybody else's decision."

Peter Saint-Martin asked, "How long do we have to decide?"

"Riyadh needs to know by noon, day after tomorrow. That means I'd like a written decision from each of you by 2100 hours tomorrow." He looked around. "See you then."

Bennett knew there would be many transatlantic phone calls in the next several hours. He and Lawrence had already gone down the list of remaining IPs. They identified three who almost certainly would stay, and perhaps three more. Lawrence was already committed.

"Don't act hastily, Ed. You ever think about going home and picking up things again?" Bennett already knew the answer.

"My God, John," Lawrence had replied, "don't you get it? There's a war just around the corner. I am home." After an uncomfortable silence Lawrence had asked, "What about you?"

Bennett stared at the floor momentarily, then leveled his gaze at the redhead. "I'm staying."

Next day at noon, well ahead of Fatah's dead-line, Bennett and Lawrence met with the three other IPs who had decided to stay. Bennett looked around the room, checking off the motivation and capability of each pilot.

He had known that Bear Barnes would stick, and he had been equally confident of Geoff Hampton. Brad Williamson, the former Thunderbird, was a surprise. Bennett knew that Williamson had a family in Ohio and could get a slot in a Reserve F-16 squadron without difficulty. Well, never mind, Bennett thought. Maybe he needs the extra money.

Bennett went over the pertinent federal laws, just to reinforce the Americans' legal status. "According to Title Thirty-seven U. S. Code, Section Nine-oh-eight, Subsection A, Congress consents to retired members of the armed forces and members of the reserves-that's us-being employed by foreign governments provided the Secretary of State approves such employment. We're already covered, since State approved the Saudis' original request for us under this provision. We are acting on the assumption that as long as we don't hold military rank, we're not in violation. Technically we're civilian employees advising the Saudi government, despite any honorary titles. Whether we're called to account later on is uncertain."

Bear Barnes spoke everyone's mind. "With what the Saudis are paying, it doesn't much matter." There were nods of assent all around.

Bennett glanced around the room. "Bear is remaining as head of Tiger Force operations. As such he'll remain here, but may fly out to the staging bases as necessary. I'll be here part-time, spending the rest of my time at the fields and coordinating with Riyadh. Ed, that means that you, Brad, and Geoff will be de facto squadron commanders, but operationally you'll be flight leaders."

The exec stood up. "Suits me fine. I want to take two flights from Black Squadron out to the strip where the Mirage landed. If there's any activity tomorrow or the next day, it'll be there."

Bennett looked up at the eager redhead. "All right. Coordinate your departure with Bear. Geoff and Brad, you're with White and Red squadrons, respectively. Rajid has taken over Orange and Ahnas Menaf fleeted up from IP to lead Green. Former F-5 COs are running Blue, Yellow, and Pink. Rajid and Ahnas are good flight leaders-that's the biggest step on the road to command, as you guys well know. But when you're working with them keep an eye open. They have a hell of a lot to learn in a short time. "

Lawrence strode toward the door. "I'm gone. Good hunting, guys. Bear, I'll check in regularly."

Bennett was mildly upset with his friend's hasty departure. But there were other matters to attend to. "Bear, I'd like you to schedule a meeting with the two of us and the maintenance folks sometime tomorrow afternoon. We'll probably receive some of the birds from Turkey and Morocco before this is over, and I expect they'll have a lot of deferred maintenance."

That evening, before going to bed, Bennett looked up Tim Ottman. They sat in Ottman's room for half an hour, and the instructor thought that Bennett seemed even more withdrawn than when he had returned from Riyadh and Claudia's death. At length Bennett produced a thick folder from his briefcase. He handed the manila envelope to Ottman.

"I'd like you to take this back with you," Bennett said. "It's a summary I've compiled of our training syllabus, selection process, academics and flight grades, and debriefs on the combat down by the border."

Ottman's eyebrows went up. Flipping through the pages, he asked, "Anybody's name in here I might recognize?"

Bennett gave a tight grin. "No, nobody's names. Your secret is safe. What I want to do is ask you a favor, Tim. Sometime, when this is all done, I know goddam well that the managers and bean-counters will return to form. They'll start talking complexity and sophistication again. They'll come up with buzzwords like 'self-escorting' and try to make one airplane do everything.

"Well, you know and I know that it can't work. You build a thirty-five-million-dollar airplane that'll fight air-to-air and drop bombs, but the pilot doesn't have enough time or funding to train for both jobs equally well. He gets jumped inbound to the target, has to jettison his ordnance to survive, and even if he bags one or two MiGs, the opposition has won. Our guy is prevented from bombing his target."

Ottman said, "Boss, you're preaching to the converted."

"Old habit of mine." Bennett tapped his fingers together, as if in time to an imaginary tune. "Look, what I want you to do is hang onto this file. Put it away somewhere safe, make a duplicate copy. Then someday, when I'm gone and they start pushing more complex birds on the guys, you can show them in black and white what we've done. Our doctrine works, our training works, and our airplane works. I tell you, Tim, I'd give anything I have left to fly the 20 in combat. But that's not my job." He paused to catch his breath. Ottman noted with surprise that Bennett's eyes were misting. "Will you do that for me, Tim?"

Ottman extended his hand. "Count on it, Skipper." Bennett gripped the proffered hand, then was gone.

Tim Ottman had trouble getting to sleep that night. Bennett's phraseology worried him. When I'm gone. Anything I have left. Though he was not a religious man, Ottman said a short prayer. He asked that John Bennett find peace of mind.

Early next morning two Israeli RF-4C Phantoms streaked south-east across the Jordanian border into Saudi airspace. The reconnaissance aircraft had orders to photograph several of the advanced airfields now that Saudi F-l5Ss no longer were flying standing patrols. The Eagles' replacement by Tigersharks was not yet known to the Israelis.

Still, this was to be a quick mission-in and out in minimum time, minimum exposure. One pass at each target, taking oblique photos to evaluate the type and nationality of aircraft on each field.

Assigned to each recce bird was a four-plane flight of F-l5s.

Trailing the RF-4s at two miles, one flight of Eagles crisscrossed 10,000 feet above the Phantoms, which would make their runs at 8,000. The other Eagle flight was deployed by sections, one upsun of the RF -4s, the other on the opposite side.

Saudi radar had tracked both flights over Jordan before they crossed the border. Reaction time had been calculated by the Israeli planners, who estimated the Saudis could not intercept before the photos were obtained and the mission was egressing back into Jordan. But from the moment of radar warning, Tiger Force had sprung into action.

A call to Black Base had Ed Lawrence's squadron airborne less than two minutes after the alert sounded.

Lawrence flung his second section out to his left at a range of six miles and sharply banked his own fighter to the northwest. Streaking across the barren desert at 2,000 feet, his wingman was in right-hand loose deuce at a mile and a half. Up to his left at 4,000 was his second flight. Lawrence had decided to keep his planes low even though the F-15 had a good lookdown-shootdown capability.

He gambled the Eagles would rely on ground-based radar in this limited-war scenario, hoping to surprise any Saudi pilots searching for airborne emitters-because "That's what I'd do in their shoes."

Lawrence pumped his control stick slightly, inducing an up-and-down motion of his nose, and four pairs of hands activated armament switches. Lawrence armed his left-hand Sidewinder and moved his gun selector to CHARGE. A reassuring hard thump reverberated through his Tigershark as 20mm rounds were driven into the chambers of his two M39 cannons.

Ed Lawrence still had twenty-fifteen vision, and at twenty-five miles he saw the flicker of sunlight from a canopy. Moments later he made out the distinctive smoke trails of the closest Phantom's twin engines with the range down to ten miles. Briefly he wished he had been able to deploy his other two flights to circle behind the Israelis and cut them off. But there was too much sky to cover all the possibilities. He put the idea out of mind and prepared to engage.

Black Lead made a slight right turn to offset and, at five miles, pulled hard in a climbing left turn. Belatedly, the Israelis visually acquired the second section and started a nose-down hard left turn. Lawrence keyed his mike, partly from long habit from hundreds of mock combats, partly to give the familiar call for morale's sake:

"Fight's on!"

The exec put his gunsight reticle on the lead Eagle. Tiger Force had adopted a West German non-radar sight, capable of switching from the standard 30-mil circle-and-center pipper to the funnel-shaped sight he now used. Both were gyro-stabilized to provide lead computation, and Lawrence selected the latter, wide at the top for minimum range and narrow at the bottom of the funnel to indicate maximum range on a standard-sized tactical aircraft.

When the Eagle's forty-three-foot wingspan filled the narrow portion of the reticle, Lawrence fired his port Sidewinder. The AIM-9 streaked off the rail and headed for the big McDonnell Douglas fighter from the one o'clock position. Lawrence's minor angle advantage from his first turn was not decisive, but it was a start.

The Eagle, already in afterburner, pulled up abruptly to defeat the missile. Lawrence used the seconds thus gained to pitch up, roll almost 180 degrees, and follow the maneuver from his opponent's belly side. Invisible to the Israeli pilot, Lawrence allowed himself to drop back slightly in a lag pursuit. When the Eagle pulled over the top, the Tigershark was 1,500 feet astern at five o'clock.

Lawrence heard his wingman, Badir Qurat, call, "You're clear," and accepted the estimate as a matter of faith. He rolled out, momentarily at normal G with wings nearly level, and pressed the trigger.

"Guns!"

The big shells, three-quarters of an inch in diameter, hammered into the twin-tailed fighter from almost directly astern. Pieces flew off the wing and fuselage as the Israeli rolled inverted and pulled into a six-G split-S. Lawrence was right behind, hearing the voice of his wingman under heavy G, almost unintelligible. Lawrence estimated that the young Saudi was engaged with an Eagle himself.

What would I do in this guy's position? Lawrence asked himself.

He came off the throttle and pulled up briefly, then pitched back down to regain his spacing. Sure enough, the F-15's huge speed brake behind the cockpit was deployed and the orange-white glow of the afterburners was gone. The Israeli had tried to force an overshoot. But now, with reduced energy the Eagle could not shake the F-20 locked firmly at its six o'clock. Lawrence placed his gunsight carefully and, in the minimum time available, triggered another burst.

Mortally hit, the Eagle rolled violently and the canopy came off.

Out came the seat as the pilot ejected.

Lawrence took no time to savor his victory-he had done this before. Instead, he blinked the sweat from his eyes, checked his tail, and selected afterburner. In the F404 engine's tailpipe raw fuel was sprayed into the red-hot exhaust gases from the main engine and reignited. The normal 2,300 pounds per hour fuel flow which produced 450 knots airspeed rocketed to 60,000 pounds per hour-enough to propel the jet at Mach 1.3. But Lawrence wanted acceleration more than pure speed; he remained nose-level long enough to regain his energy state, then pulled up to rejoin his wingman.

The redheaded flier called, "Black Two, I'm free." Craning his neck hard to the left, he discerned two small dots at his seven o'clock, slightly high. In seconds he was through a vertical reversal, accelerating back into the fight.

The radios came alive with pilots' excited voices as missiles trailed smoky fingers through the clear air. Lawrence's wingman was turning with an F-l5, neither gaining nor losing. It was no place to be in a multi bogey fight-it left a pilot vulnerable to the unseen bandit outside one's periphery. And remaining in a level turn would bleed off airspeed.

As Lawrence crossed over the engaged fighters, Black Two saw him. Badir pitched up, calling, "You have it, Lead."

Lawrence cut across the circle, arcing downward to initiate a low yo-yo. But the Eagle driver was sharp; he recognized the setup, lit his burners, and rocketed upward. Caught nose-low, Lawrence could not match the climb in time to engage. He called his wingman to rejoin and they turned in place back toward the initial contact, accelerating rapidly.

Abruptly Lawrence heard, "Black Lead! Break hard right, now!" Without thinking, Lawrence wracked the little Northrop into a seven-and-one-half-G starboard turn, climbing slightly. His vision grayed, he lost the color of the outside world, and a fuzzy narrowing of his sight accompanied the abrupt draining of most of the blood from his head. He caught just a glimpse of the nose of a cannon-firing F-IS attacking from three o'clock, now dangerously close.

"Where'd he come from?" Lawrence muttered aloud.

The exec intended to pitch up, covering his wingman who would engage the F-15 in a level turn, but there was no chance. With ungodly speed the Eagle continued straight ahead, accelerating through the speed of sound. Lawrence heard a garbled transmission from Black Five, his second flight leader; something about the Israelis disengaging.

Checking his fuel state, Lawrence decided he could remain in the area several minutes longer. He reformed his flight, gratified they were all present, and turned northward, hoping to head off any bogeys which had been delayed near the airfields in that quadrant.

Moments later Lawrence caught a fast-moving shadow on the ground, moving from right to left. He identified it as an RF -4. Calling, "You have it," he went high to allow Black Two to engage. But Lawrence was cautious; he knew the Israeli fighters never would knowingly leave a recon plane unescorted. He deployed his second section, Black Three and Four, then upsun to watch for the Eagles which must still be around.

In Black Two, Badir dropped behind the Phantom, tickling the Mach to keep pace, and settled down at about two miles range. Lawrence glanced down from his perch, mentally urging the kid to shoot. The Phantom was booming along in burner, offering a beautiful heat source from the two big engines cooking away. Lawrence depressed his mike button to speak when Two's first 'winder flashed off the rail. The RF -4 began a break turn just as the missile exploded.

The Phantom kept flying. Apparently the AIM-9 had detonated just outside lethal range-fusing problems, Lawrence surmised.

Seconds later Black Two fired again, this time remembering to call "Snake!" His starboard missile flew to the target and exploded against the white-hot heat source from the RF-4's 179 engines. The Phantom emerged from a dirty black cloud, nosed down, and hit the desert floor. Lawrence had not witnessed the ejection but he saw at least one parachute.

Ten minutes later seven F-20s landed at Black Base. Lawrence scrambled out of his fighter and ran down the parking line, noting that Black Seven was missing. The exec grabbed his second flight leader. "Where's your section lead?"

The young Saudi rolled his eyes. "He didn't rejoin. Eight called him down about twelve miles northwest. Didn't you hear the call?"

"No." Lawrence was skeptical; he prided himself on knowing what happened in every phase of a fight. Turning to the missing pilot's wingman, he asked, "What happened, Ahmed?"

"An Eagle hit him with a Sidewinder. He ejected, sir. I believe he is all right." Lieutenant Ahmed Salim was visibly shaken.

Lawrence pulled off his helmet. Turning to the line chief, he said, "Call the helo guys. Ahmed, you go with him. Give them the coordinates. And tell 'em there's at least two Israeli drivers out there somewhere."

The mechanic said, "We'll refuel and rearm immediately, but you should know that Six has damage. Looks like twenty-millimeter hits in the tail."

Lawrence nodded curtly, swearing under his breath. He rounded up his pilots and got a preliminary report: two kills, one loss, and one damaged. He cast an icy gaze at his pilots. "We'll debrief this in detail later. But we could have done better." Then he strode off to send an initial report to John Bennett.

The communications officer handed the message to the leader of Tiger Force a half-hour later. Bennett read it twice, then folded it and put it in his pocket. He resolved to move his interim headquarters to Orange or Black Base as soon as communications could be established and secured. The airfield construction program, including the primary base at Ha'il, had been started none too soon.

The message read:

That evening Ed Lawrence conducted a thorough, critical debrief. He was unsparing of everyone, including himself.

"I should have seen that 15 before he was in range and gunning," he began. "Probably he was getting out of Dodge at the speed of heat, saw us close aboard, and tried for a quick setup. Fortunately, Badir saw him just in time, and what began most likely as a quick tracking pass turned into a snapshot." Lawrence postulated that the lone Eagle had been trying to catch the RF-4 which Badir shot down. ''The Israelis are real pros; they wouldn't leave a recce bird dangling like that if there hadn't been a mix-up."

Then the Tiger Force exec dealt with other aspects of the combat. "You guys can't take anything for granted, especially when fighting pilots the caliber of the Israelis. You have to think all the time. The only things a fighter pilot has going for him are his hot hands and his cool head. The minute you stop thinking, you're dead." He speared Black Two with a stare. "Badir, you were in a level turn with that F-15. You were holding your own temporarily, but eventually he'd gain on you. The 15 has a large wing·area and its fuselage is a lifting body. We can't fight that way and expect to come home. You guys are trained to use your vertical performance, so use it properly."

Then Lawrence stressed his favorite subject-radio discipline.

He was clearly disappointed. "There was too god-" He caught himself, refraining from swearing. "Too much chatter up there. We've trained this outfit to fight zip-lip from start-up to shutdown, but that went right out the window the minute the BBs started flying. I know it's hard to shut up in a fight. But some body's life will depend on it someday-maybe yours."

Lawrence consulted his notepad, though it was hardly necessary. He had flown in so many multi bogey hassles as both a participant and instructor that he could predict the problems of almost any combat with uncanny accuracy. He turned to his second flight leader, Lieutenant Ahmed Salim. "Ahmed, you guys apparently upset the RF-4's first pass at this base. While you tangled with his escort he had to reposition and make another run, which I think is the reason we caught him egressing. But you lost one bird and brought another back with holes in it. What happened?"

Salim had experienced a bad scare that morning. Two F-15s had separated him from his wingman midway through the fight and neatly scissored him when he tried to evade in a hard descending turn. His second section had broken up the Israelis' offensive scissors but the section leader had been bagged in the process.

The Saudi squirmed in his seat. "Their second flight was split by sections. When we engaged the lead pair, the second got an angles advantage on us. We didn't see them in time."

Lawrence knew the mistakes would be absorbed and were unlikely to be repeated. "Okay. I'm trying to whistle up some F-15s from Riyadh tomorrow for dissimilar ACM. We're likely to tangle with Eagles again and I want to be ready."

Dissimilar air combat maneuvering was mock combat against a different type of fighter than what one flew oneself. Since both Israel and Arabia flew Eagles, dissimilar ACM was possible.

"If the Israelis come at us again, they'll bring F-16s as well," Lawrence said. "I think that little hummer is going to be our main opposition, so we'll hassle among ourselves as well. With the F-2 °C's improved leading-edge droops we can match the 16 better than we could before. But you guys remember: You win or lose the fight up here"-he tapped his head-"as much as here," and he tugged the seat of his pants.

Secretary of State Thurmon Wilson arrived at the White House on time for his two o'clock meeting with the president. The Marine guards saluted and opened the door as the Connecticut-born diplomat briskly walked up the steps and disappeared inside. He was alone, which was rare at meetings with the chief executive.

Wilson had requested a private session with Walter Arnold ever since the White House chief of staff had passed along the president's plea to "do something" in the Middle East. The secretary admitted to himself, if not to anyone else, that he could do precious little to influence events in that broiling arena. United Nations efforts, the third-party Saudi contacts, even military maneuvers, all had failed to alter the hard-line Arab attitude. As for the Israelis-Well, Wilson said to himself, they go their own way. As always.

Arnold greeted Wilson warmly and showed him to a comfortable chair in front of the president's Oval Office desk. They got right down to business.

"Thurmon, you know how concerned I am about the situation between the Israelis and the Arabs. We have serious political and economic matters at stake, and we're being lobbied like never before from both sides. On top of that, the mood among the public in this country is clear. Americans just won't support our getting involved in a big way when our direct interests aren't threatened."

The president spread his hands in a gesture of futility. "If we keep supporting Israel, the Arabs and their oil cartel are likely to take it out on us. But if we moderate our support of Tel Aviv, the Jewish lobby here will raise holy hell. And not only that, we'll run serious risk of alienating other allies in the region-especially the Saudis. A lot of Arab governments already wonder how much they can trust us to keep our word." Arnold stopped abruptly. He thought of the way Congress had cut off aid to South Vietnam-how the ARVN had run out of ammunition that spring of 1975. And there had been the vacillating support of the Nicaraguan Contras before they too lost American aid. Senator Walter Arnold had voted to suspend military shipments in both instances.

"Mr. President, I'm afraid I don't have anything to cheer you up," Wilson replied. "I didn't phone just to issue a status report. I wanted to tell you of new evidence we've developed through neutral sources in Damascus."

Arnold was visibly upset. He did not need more bad news.

"Who's neutral in that country anymore?"

"Well, this comes via the French Embassy. And we're checking with the Swiss in Tehran. But it appears the Muslim states are finally getting it all together. You recall the Syrian ambassador at large who's been conducting his own shuttle diplomacy over the past year or so? Well, he seems to be producing results. Syria, Iran, Iraq, and Libya, plus Egypt to a lesser extent, are presenting a united diplomatic front. We don't know about the Saudis yet-they're trying to stay on the fence. But evidently the others are issuing an ultimatum sometime this month. The Israelis withdraw from Jordan and cede the West Bank as a Palestinian homeland, or else."

Walter Arnold's reply was simply, "Or else… "

"Or else a full-scale war. And this time the Arabs have enough muscle and unity to make it stick. There have already been joint military planning conferences and joint exercises, you know. At least three high-level meetings have been held in Syria and one or more in Iran."

"Judas Priest."

The Secretary of State inhaled deeply. "And that's not all, Mr. President. They mean to play hardball. If we or any other Western power provide arms or other material support to Israel in the event of hostilities, there'll be an immediate oil embargo."

"You're certain of this information?"

"As sure as we can be right now. All we have to do is wait until the announcement in a week or so."

Arnold was ready to grasp at any straw. "But Thurmon, what about our U. N. initiative and the Saudi contacts with the hard-liners? At one time it looked like something might be worked out."

Wilson's gaze dropped to the floor. Then, raising his eyes to the president, he said, "I don't think those meetings were ever held in good faith. Based on available evidence, they were a smokescreen to keep us off balance. Like Japan in '41."

Arnold sat back in his chair, his eyes closed. Why would any sane human want this job? he wondered. He looked at Wilson. "Well, at least an embargo wouldn't hurt us as much as it did in '73. We've enough stocks to last quite a while. But, Christ! Within two months of election!"

The diplomat punched his left palm with his right fist. "I seriously doubt the timing is coincidental, sir." He leaned forward, emphasizing his next point. "Undoubtedly the Israelis already have this information. We can talk to their ambassador again, but I know damn well what he'll say. Tel Aviv calls the shots, and the present government is in no mood to negotiate. It'll be even less inclined to accede to Arab demands that Israel withdraw from Jordan and the West Bank."

The president glumly settled his chin in his hands. "Thurmon, what do you think would be the result if we supported Israel in another war?"

"Aside from the economic and political problems it would pose, there's also the terrorist threat. We don't know for certain, but presumably that's something the Iranians and their friends have discussed. They'd love to blackmail us into doing nothing. It'd be awfully hard to take that kind of political heat in this country."

"We should discuss this with Ben Wake and Defense," Arnold said in a flat voice.

Wilson nodded agreement. "Yes, of course. But nothing's really changed, you know. The Joint Chiefs are unanimous in their view that direct combat in support of Israel would not guarantee success, and undoubtedly would bring severe repercussions, as I just noted. Plus there's the domestic consideration. More American lives lost in the Middle East to no direct gain by the U.S." Wilson shrugged. "Imagine how that'll play on Main Street."

"So you think the best policy is hands off? Don't support Israel?"

For the first time in the meeting, Wilson smiled. ''That's where an old lawyer can do some good, Mr. President. I recommend that we adopt a neutral stance, offering to continue mediating the situation. It keeps our contacts open to the Arabs and the Israelis, and to their supporters over here."

"All right, I'll buy that. But if it still comes to war, then what?"

"Frankly, Mr. President, I'm in agreement with Ben and the JCS on this one. I don't think our support or intervention would significantly change things. It would only get a lot of young Americans killed in a conflict that many people would regard as not in our national interest." He let the point sink in, sensing he had scored with a sensitive topic. Then he added, "Which reminds me. I have a report that yesterday the Saudi Air Force was engaged in a skirmish near the Jordanian border with some Israeli aircraft. This followed air battles the day before between the Israelis and some Syrians and Iraqis. "

"Yes, I remember," said the president.

"It's not confirmed, sir, but apparently American and British pilots were involved. They're part of this Tiger Force the Saudis set up a few years ago."

Arnold's jaw grew slack. "You mean Americans might actually be in combat with Israelis? How is that possible?"

"It's possible, sir, because we bent over backward to keep our presence and influence in Arabia after the British grabbed that huge defense contract. I've checked the law on this point, and there's room for argument both ways. But so far the U. S. advisers in this organization have not broken any laws."

Obviously, we can't let them continue there."

Wilson raised a cautionary hand. "I'm not so sure. The Saudis regard these people very highly and want them to stay. If we insist on pulling them out, there's no guarantee they'll come. They might simply turn professional mercenaries and all we'd accomplish is alienating the Saudis. Right now, I think we need credibility in Riyadh a lot more than we need to rein in a few cowboys."

President Walter Arnold let out a long sigh. "Okay. Keep me informed. "

"Well, there it is," said Chaim Geller. He plopped the two-page document down on the desk of his air force liaison officer at the intelligence complex overlooking the city. ''There's no doubt that at least one American pilot was involved in the combat with our F-15s? These radio transcripts prove it, I suppose."

Major Eli Ashkiron of the Heyl Ha'Avir scanned the printout.

"We didn't expect to get a complete voice intercept, Colonel. The F-20s are using minimum radio transmissions, and only in the heat of battle. But what this paper doesn't show is the individual's accent. He is definitely American, not British. Our linguists say he probably comes from the western United States."

Chaim Geller filed away that very useful bit of information for future reference. As if knowing his place of birth will help us win an air battle, the section chief thought. "I take it that all the transmissions that were monitored were in English?"

The major said, "Yes, including the Saudis'. That only reinforces our suspicion that the foreign instructors are still flying with this… Tiger Force." The officer, though a professional, had difficulty keeping the spite out of his voice. "Colonel, will our diplomatic people make a protest over this? I cannot imagine we would let American and British citizens actually fight for the Arabs without raising the matter in Washington and London."

"I don't know, Eli. That's up to the politicians."

In the following two weeks John Bennett averaged barely five hours sleep per night, logging almost twenty-five hours in his beloved 001. The two-seat Tigershark with the grinning mouth and leering eyes painted on the nose was a familiar sight at the outlying fields as well as Riyadh.

Maintenance and support facilities had to be provided at the forward bases, and provision had to be made for regular resupply. Existing fields were used as primary bases, with staging fields farther out. Wadi al Qalibah, 120 miles inland from the Gulf of Aqabah, was the most westerly. Others spread across the north to the east: Tabuk, with two preexisting strips only 60 miles from the Jordan border; Al Jouf "old" and Al Jouf "new," some 120 miles south of the line; and Badanah "old" and "new," 125 miles from Jordan and merely 40 miles from Iraq.

Tiger Force's main base in central Arabia was northwest of Ha'il, 300 miles south of the Jordanian border. Here Bennett expected to conduct the crucial F-20 operations, and he spent considerable time at the facility. He had drafted plans long ago for this base: parallel runways a half-mile apart to minimize bomb damage, underground fuel tanks, second-level maintenance facilities, and prefab housing and administrative buildings. The king had been as good as his word; the Ha'il base would be operational within the month.

Bennett also had consulted with the Saudi air force command on how best to defend Arabian airspace. He proposed a plan which would force the Israelis to fight the air battle in Saudi airspace, denying them the opportunity to inflict attrition over their own ground. In this manner, Arab pilots who ejected would be available to fight again. Israeli aircrews bailing out would be lost to Tel Aviv. And Bennett knew that, more than aircraft, tanks, or weapons, Israel above all valued her sons. As much, he thought in those bitter moments, as he had valued Claudia.

The Turkish and Moroccan F -20s trickled in, ferried by Saudis as the Northrops became available. Tiger Force also made arrangements to take on two squadrons worth of Jordanian F-5 pilots. Bennett, recognizing their worth, knew the value of keeping a military organization intact. The Jordanians had flown together for years. British-trained, supported by an air-minded monarch, they were among the finest of all Arab pilots. Though displaced three years previously by the collapse of their government, they remained proficient and motivated. Bear Barnes and a few of the Saudis from Class One oversaw their transition to F-20s.

Bennett's main problem in Riyadh was convincing some top-level Saudis that Tiger Force actually could fight the Israelis to a standstill. He had anticipated the Arab attitude, but its depth always surprised him. Confined as he had been to the task of building Tiger Force, with its high morale and professional competence, he realized with a start that the mystique of Israeli invincibility worked a strong influence on Arab minds. One hasty meeting in the Riyadh air ministry was typical.

The discussion started easily enough when a colonel in the Saudi operations office complimented Bennett on Tiger Force's showing against the Israeli F-15s. Bennett's response was unexpected. "Actually, Colonel, we don't regard that action as very successful. We broke even, discounting the RF -4C."

"But surely such a result must be considered a victory for us," the Saudi insisted. "It is most unusual for any Arab nation to fight the Israelis to a draw."

Privately, Bennett conceded the point. How many times had Arab forces, their air arm quickly beaten, suffered devastation that only a modem army can receive from an effective, unopposed air force? Miles of burning tanks, trucks, and artillery pieces tossed about the desert like abandoned toys, the rotting bodies of Muslim soldiers bloating in the heat, was the collective memory of two generations.

Bennett noted that each man in the room was hanging on his every word. He placed his hands on his hips and spoke forcibly, buoyed by the power of his conviction. "I don't know how much military history you gentlemen have read, but permit me an analogy. I'm reminded of the attitude in the German Imperial Navy during World War I. Though sailing in warships of murderous power, many of the Kaiser's admirals never adjusted psychologically to centuries of Rule Britannia. They found it hard to imagine Germany actually defeating the Royal Navy. So the Kaiser's dreadnaughts sortied believing they might lose, while the British never considered anything but defeating them."

Bennett did not realize it immediately, but that short, heartfelt speech was repeated throughout the Royal Saudi Air Force by those who heard it.

Thus, Bennett's "fade away plan," as he called it, won acceptance. The king himself still hoped to avoid a full-scale war in the region, for that would only endanger his nation and his throne. But the monarch's advisers-coaxed along by the suave Safad Fatah-agreed to the air plan at length. Satisfied that the spadework had been done, Bennett addressed himself to a final bit of pleading.

That afternoon at tea with Fatah, Bennett had earnestly pressed his case. "Safad, I wish to ask you this favor for me." It was almost the first time Bennett had addressed the minister by his given name. "I have seen with my own eyes"-a favorite Arab phrase-"the effect of an undeclared war. It is said that such declarations are out of date in the late twentieth century. But please consider my request on behalf of Tiger Force and all of your Saudi warriors." He paused, looking Fatah square in the face. "If there is war with Israel, or with any other country, ask the king to issue a declaration of war. Make it formal, make it official, and make it stick."

Fatah blinked, hiding the surprise he felt. It seemed such an unnecessary request. But he trusted the American's judgment. "What reason should I propose to His Majesty?"

"Legal protection for your people under international law. I saw that absence of a declaration at work on my friends, on my country in my lifetime. At least provide your soldiers with access to the international community and legal recourse if there's a full-scale war." Leaning forward in his chair, Bennett concluded, "I'm not confusing a raid or a skirmish with a war. I recognize the legal and practical differences between them. But, Safad, if a real war is worth fighting, it is worth declaring. Will you pass on my thoughts to the king?"

The dignified old Arab said solemnly, "Yes, my friend. He shall hear your words. "

Chapter 12

Colonel Solomon Yatanahu sat in his office, feet un-militarily propped on his desk, his Nomex flight suit open almost to his navel. He was still perspiring from the forty-minute workout with three of his F-15 pilots. Yatanahu was commander of Balhama Air Base, one of three Israeli airfields near Beersheva. And though he was technically no longer on operational status, the forty-two-year-old officer still liked to compete with the younger men in air combat practice. Prematurely gray with a chiseled face and startling blue eyes, Yatanahu had spent his life in fighter aviation. More than two decades of flying, including combat in three wars and eleven aerial victories, had honed his professional senses to a fine edge.

Yatanahu had come up the hard way, which is to say the only way, in the intensely competitive world of the Israeli fighter pilot. In order to lead a fighter squadron, the commanding officer had to maintain his standing in the top three positions in tactics and gunnery. If he slipped from the upper bracket in either category, he was likely to lose his command.

The Israeli Air Force's attitude is pragmatic if nothing else. The operating philosophy is "experience leads." Yatanahu had led missions as a captain with a lieutenant colonel flying section lead in the number three position. And he knew of special-purpose missions led by lieutenants because the junior officers possessed the qualities and experience which made them best-suited for the job. Ironically, perhaps the only air force in history which had come close to the Israeli philosophy was the Luftwaffe during World War II.

Solomon Yatanahu studied the debriefing reports on the Saudi airfield reconnaissance. It had been known for some time that the Saudis had a capable F-20 force, trained by American and British instructors. Given the background of the instructors, it was to be expected that the Tigersharks would put up a good fight. Yatanahu knew as well as anyone that much of the Israeli fighter doctrine had been absorbed from exchange tours with U.S. Navy squadrons. Unlike most Arab air forces, which adopted Soviet-style formations and tactics, the Saudis had flown loose deuce, employing fluid tactics.

Reading the pilots' comments, Yatanahu noted that the biggest problem was simply seeing the F-20. He could well understand it. Yatanahu had been an exchange pilot at Nellis Air Force Base in the 1970s, flying against the F-5Es of the' aggressor squadrons in the Nevada desert. The Tiger II could not outperform the F-15 and F-16 in most regimes, but with enough F-5s on hand, it was almost impossible for other pilots to keep a safe lookout through 360 degrees. The little F-5 was murderously hard to see, and the F-20 was the same size with 70 percent more thrust!

The school solution was to engage the Northrops at long range with radar-guided missiles. The Israelis had more success with the Sparrow than its American designers had, partly because of far greater institutional experience. The Heyl Ha'Avir remained on combat status every day of the year. But the Israelis were unconcerned with the artificialities which dogged the Americans. Superb military intelligence allowed the Israelis to engage radar targets beyond visual range with little concern about hitting a friendly.

Even so, Yatanahu knew that the simple weapons work best.

Sparrows and other radar missiles were complex and expensive, so the heat-seekers were the weapon of choice. His own experience was typical. Of the eight Syrian and three Egyptian aircraft he had shot down, Yatanahu used Sidewinders or Israeli-built Shafrirs on all but three. Like most fighter pilots, he was emotionally inclined to use his cannon because it was personally more satisfying. "No kill like a gun kill," the Americans always said. But the heat seekers were accurate and efficient. Though Yatanahu loved to tell about his gun kills, he acknowledged the infrared missile was the champion MiG destroyer.

The colonel knew that the Saudis and their advisers would anticipate the Sparrow option and would work to deprive the Israelis of it. As yet, electronic countermeasures had not been a big factor in air-to-air combat. The F-20s facing his squadrons across the Jordanian border came without radar for the most part. The colonel knew also that there would be a reason. This so-called Tiger Force would seek to engage in close-in maneuvering, the "knife fight" where the radar missile could not be used. He fervently hoped the Israeli scientists and engineers were working on a means to negate the various U. S., French, and Soviet jammers now available to all major Arab air forces.

The politicians in Tel Aviv were maintaining their hard line, so there would be another war. The time had passed for negotiation. Yatanahu did not set policy. But there had to be a better way.

Solomon Yatanahu was an agnostic. He would not openly deny the existence of a god-that was contrary to Israeli military law. But he had doubts. In his lifetime he had seen enough misery inflicted upon innocents-especially children-that he had to question the mercy, and therefore the existence, of a supreme being. He acknowledged that this earth also was a place of much beauty, at least as much in the sky as on the ground, so perhaps-just perhaps-there was some sort of ordered plan.

Long ago Yatanahu had decided that if he were a praying man, he would pray for more wisdom in the world. He considered it insane to pray for anything like peace, particularly in his part of the globe. That was the trick, he decided: not to pray for the absolute best that could happen, but to pray for the best that was possible.

John Bennett read the article in his air-mailed copy of the London Times. He wondered what he might have set in motion following his conversation with Safad Fatah, but the question did not bother him. He had told Bear Barnes, "At least if our guys go to war, they'll be entitled to whatever protection the law allows."

But the Tiger Force CO had little time for philosophizing. He had been busy coordinating RHAW acquisition with Riyadh, obtaining a mixture of American and French electronic "black boxes" for his F-20s. There would not be enough to equip every Tigershark, but at least each flight leader could be so equipped. He knew that if the Israelis came across the border again, they would come in strength with full support-including radio jamming and electronic deception. He also knew the Royal Saudi Air Force had configured several Tornadoes for the same role, with modifications to the E-3s to back up ECM operators.

Overall, Bennett expected the respective electronic warriors to cancel out one another. The air battle would be decided on the basis of the human eye and the human heart. And he would not have it any other way.

Brilliant motes of light flashed across the high plateau, 248 times faster than a supersonic aircraft. Forty-two F-15s, F-16s, Phantoms, and Kfirs-all bearing the blue and white Star of David-were supported by the powerful airborne jammers of other aircraft orbiting across the Jordanian border. The attackers' targets were four Tiger Force fields-those considered to pose the greatest threat to Israeli frontiers after the initial clash two weeks before.

The Heyl Ha'Avir plan was a classic. It relied upon simplicity, speed, and as much surprise as possible. From Wadi al Qalibah to the New Badanah strip farther east, the Israeli aircrews had been carefully briefed on times, routes, and altitudes to each Saudi field. Unlike most Israeli blitzes, this one had not been rehearsed as thoroughly as possible, but the timing and heavy radio and radar jamming were enough to encourage mission planners for a good chance of success.

Leaving the Jordanian-Saudi border, most of the Israeli jets were twelve to fifteen minutes from their targets. Monitoring Saudi radar frequencies revealed which operating bands were most likely to be used, and therefore it was possible to cloud the screens with hundreds of false targets. The "snow" on radar scopes washed out the true blips, most of which were below the ground-based radar horizon anyway. Similarly, voice communications circuits were jammed by electronic noise which made extended conversation nearly impossible.

Ed Lawrence had Black Squadron at Orange Base that morning, doubling up with Ahnas Menaf's unit. The policy was to rotate the various squadrons between different bases to prevent the Israelis from gaining a clear picture of the air defense net. The two COs were in the operations shack when the low-frequency walkie-talkie circuit came alive.

"Attention all bases, attention all bases. Unidentified aircraft crossed the border southbound about two minutes ago. Mirror signals indicate crossing on a broad front at low level. Suspect Israeli aircraft inbound."

Lawrence cast a glance at his former student. In two seconds they were both out the door, sprinting for their planes. Lawrence punched the button to activate the siren and the duty flight immediately started engines. Already parked at the downwind end of the runway, the four Tigersharks were airborne in sixty-eight seconds, scrambling for altitude. Twelve more F -20s were started and taxiing in minutes, led by Lawrence. But he feared what was likely to come. Setting a fast pace for his flight, he taxied past two fighters parked on the ramp for maintenance. Then he pushed the thought from his mind.

According to prebriefed plan, the four flights fanned out at staggered altitudes in an arc from west through north to northeast. If bogeys were inbound, they would almost certainly arrive from those quadrants. Lawrence checked his wingman's spread as he leveled off at 18,500 feet. He checked his watch. Four and a half minutes had elapsed.

Menaf's duty flight, first in the air, made first contact. Through scratchy voice radio Lawrence detected the flight leader's report:

"Many bogeys at low level northeast of the field. Am engaging. Out. "

Moments later there were half-discerned calls of bandit sightings, frantic warnings, and G-muffled cries for breaks. Looking to his right, Lawrence saw an ephemeral flash on the desert floor and crisscrossing missile trails. After a moment's reflection he led his wingman in a turn back toward the field. He estimated that by arriving at 12,000 to 14,000 feet in the next few minutes he could interrupt the bombers' roll-in.

The exec had called it correctly, but he was a shade late. The Israelis had maintained a sandblower mission profile, hugging the ground until within four miles of the field. Then the Kfirs popped up to get a look at their target, selected their dive headings, and rolled in. The first two were down the chute as Lawrence and Badir headed for the second section from the right side.

"Black Lead, bandits astern, three miles." It was Khalil, leading the second section.

"You take 'em, Three," Lawrence replied. The response was garbled but Lawrence had to assume it was acknowledgement.

The unexpected appearance of Saudi fighters airborne over their own field was a nasty surprise to the Kfirs. The delta-winged fighter-bombers, an Israeli upgrade of the French Mirage, were caught at a disadvantage. Pulling in behind the second Kfir, Lawrence had a good missile tone at one mile. The Israeli jinked violently in his dive, but refused to abort the attack.

When the tone in his earphones told him the port Sidewinder was tracking, Lawrence pressed the trigger. At only fifteen degrees angle off the tail, the AIM-9 homed on its target and connected. The missile tried to rendezvous on the jet’s tailpipe, but because of the evasive maneuvers the ‘winder’s proximity-fused warhead exploded 15 feet away. The fragments were flung outward, penetrating the targets empennage and slicing through fuel and hydraulic lines. Lawrence had a clear view of his victim arcing crazily into the bottom half of a loop, bombs still aboard. There was no ejection from the fuel-fed fireball.

Pulling up, Lawrence rolled into a hard climbing reversal to look for Badir. The redheaded flier glanced through the top of his canopy and caught site of the wingman's F-20 spiraling upward, engaged in a vertical rolling scissors with an F-16. Lawrence felt an immediate sense of dread — where there was one Falcon there would surely be another. The second Kfir seemed to have disappeared.

Lighting his afterburner, Lawrence accelerated quickly. He was passing through 550 knots when he caught a glint of sunlight at eleven o’clock high. He padlocked the glint, turning to put it on his nose. Damn, he thought, that 16s almost too small to see at three miles. He wondered if the Israeli saw him.

Suddenly Lawrence heard Badir’s muted call, topping out of his spiral with the first F-16 while pitching down to regain lost energy. Simultaneously the Falcon to Lawrence’s left front fired a Sidewinder at him. It was the first time the exec had to cope with a forward-quarter air-to-air missile, but his simulator training at Bahrain had prepared him for this moment. With careful timing, he snapped the stick hard back and left, helping with left rudder. His abrupt upward spiral was more than the AIM-9's small wings could duplicate, and the missile exploded beyond lethal range.

Breathing heavily from the effort, Lawrence regained visual contact with the two Falcons. Both broke sharply away, the glow of their afterburners visible in the morning sky. Lawrence turned to try a Sidewinder shot, but got no tone. He heard Badir call "Snake!" and saw the white wake of the missile, but it could not track at that distance.

The Israelis had made one pass at the field, and though only the first two Kfirs had bombed, they did their job. Lawrence's victim had crashed near the northern boundary and the second evidently had pulled out to avoid its partner's fate. The fight was over in two minutes, and the F-20s began landing by sections under cover of the flight with most fuel remaining.

One hangar was partially destroyed and there were bomb craters in the runway. The latter would be repaired in hours by Saudi workers with access to gravel and steel plating stacked along the edge of the runway. No center hits had been scored on the landing strip itself, but Lawrence's heart sank as he taxied past the smoldering remains of the two grounded Tigersharks. He recalled feeling less grief over pilots who succumbed to carelessness or bad luck.

Only that night, lying in the bunk in his trailer, did it occur to Lawrence that he had achieved a lifelong goal. The Kfir had been his fifth kill in aerial combat-he was a fighter ace. But he could not tell anyone back home about it, and that knowledge robbed him of easy sleep.

The reports were in by noon. All four of the F -20 fields targeted by the Israelis had been hit, but Orange Base and one other got off lightly. The defenders had been late scrambling from New Badanah, and were caught by the F-16 escorts at 9,000 feet. Too involved with the Falcons to intercept the Phantoms, White Squadron's two flights fought at a disadvantage and lost three in exchange for one kill. Overall, the Israelis lost six aircraft to seven F-20s. But two fields were out of commission until major repairs could be made.

Bennett discussed the day's events with Bear Barnes at the new Tiger Force HQ near Ha'il, "I talked to the British air attache in Riyadh this afternoon," Bennett said. "He seems better connected than our embassy people. Looks like the Israelis decided to preempt possible air strikes from Saudi Arabia before taking on the Syrians and Iraqis."

Bear agreed. "So they're going to fight after all. I sort of thought the Israelis might pull out of Jordan. I mean, they're overextended. They can't hold all of Jordan, the West Bank, and part of Lebanon, too. So why push a fight now when they still have time to prepare?"

"My guess is, their government just doesn't think it can survive by ceding territory back to the Arabs. That limits their options. I agree with you, Bear. They are overextended. It's a serious strategic error, but it's not the first time politicians have screwed up things for the military in a country."

Barnes finished his coffee. He wished he had a Coors. "Word from the rumor mill is that the Arabs are starting a big offensive in a couple of weeks. I wonder if the Israelis got wind of it and that prompted these strikes. Seems logical-they'd want to secure their southern flank."

Bennett perked up. "I haven't heard that. Where'd you get it?"

Barnes looked around to make sure no one overheard him. "I was in Saudi Air Force HQ yesterday-you know, about the ECM gear. Heard two colonels discussing contingency plans with a Brit, apparently showing what big shots they were. One of them hinted at October ninth. Not very good security-"

Bennett felt an electric shock. Claudia. He had not thought of her in the past two days. But hearing the date of her birthday brought back a rush of painful memories.

"Skipper? You all right?" Barnes grasped Bennett's forearm in a powerful hand.

"What? Yeah, Bear, I'm okay."

"You sort of drifted off the scope there for a minute."

"I was just thinking." With alarm, Barnes noted that the CO's left hand trembled visibly. Bennett glanced away, clearly embarrassed. The big Marine squeezed the arm.

Bennett ignored the tacit message. "Well, I guess we should go over the fadeaway plan again."

"No need, boss. Devil and the troops have all the details. We sent that stuff by courier to avoid any oral transmission. All we need to do is phone or teletype two words and the plan goes into effect. "

"Devil… I wonder how he's doing up there."

"Hell, I reckon he's happier than a hog in slop. He bagged himself another one, you know. Probably painted the fifth star on his helmet before the turbine blades stopped turning."

Bennett regarded his operations officer. ''Tell me something. Do you ever wish you were flying with these kids? Would you rather be in a squadron than running the ops office?"

Barnes leaned back, regarding his digital wristwatch. "Well, to be honest, no. If I was younger, say, the age I was in Nam, you bet. I was like every other MiG-hungry stud in an F-4. Couldn't wait to tie into some gomer up in Route Pack Six. But now…" He chuckled softly. "I'm honest enough to admit I'm not the stick I used to be. Can't be helped; age does that to a guy." He glanced at his boss. "But I'm not telling you anything you don't know."

Bennett sympathized with Barnes and admired his honesty. "We can't all be like Devil. Hell, the Saudis will have to kick him out of the country before he hangs up his helmet. I guess Brad is still strong in the cockpit. He missed Vietnam, you know. Like Tim Ottman-he wanted his shot at combat."

An ironic smile crossed Bames's face. "What's that saying you mentioned so often? Be careful what you want; it might come true."

"I don't mean to be gloomy, but when I think of Ed and the guys like him, I'm reminded of something attributed to Raoul Lufbery. You may have heard of him. Lafayette Escadrille in World War I."

"Yeah, he invented that squirrel-cage maneuver, a defensive circle. What reminded you of him?"

"He's supposed to have said, 'There will be no after-the-war for a fighter pilot.' "

Barnes was intrigued. "What'd he do after the war?"

"Nothing. He was KIA in 1918."

The debrief was orderly but intense. The Israeli aircrews had dispassionately reported what they had seen and done over the four Saudi fields, knowing that intelligence evaluation would confirm their estimates. Meanwhile, other pilots were sitting cockpit alert in the refueled, rearmed Kfirs, poised to launch immediately from the camouflaged blast pens and dispersal pads.

Despite the outward calm, the underlying emotion was puzzlement. Even with heavy electronic countermeasures, the strike aircraft had met alerted, airborne interceptors. How had the Saudis reacted so quickly in the face of Israeli jamming and deception? Especially since countermeasures had been instituted on an irregular basis days before to "desensitize" the defenders.

Lieutenant Colonel David Ran, veteran of the 1973 war, had led his Kfirs against Orange Base. His bombs, and those of his wingman, had cratered the perimeter of the runway and destroyed two grounded F-20s. But he had lost his number three man to a Tigershark and number four had been prevented from bombing.

"I tell you, they knew we were coming," Ran insisted, speaking to the intelligence officer, bespectacled twenty-six-year-old Captain Danny Peled. ''They were up in force and had enough altitude to intercept with an advantage."

"Could it have been a standing patrol?" asked Peled.

"No. We only saw two aircraft on the field, and the number of interceptors was too large for a standing combat air patrol. Somehow our jamming must have broken down."

"We've had no report of that, sir. But there will be a full account in the mission summary." The report from Hovda would go to Air Force headquarters for compilation with the other units' accounts, after which a summary would be issued.

Ran's wingman handed him a cold glass of lemonade. "Come on, David. Let's get changed. I think Ari can use some cheering up. He feels badly about not bombing."

The CO stood silent for a moment. He thought of the old adage:

No battle plan survives contact with the enemy. But damn! The mission should not have met as much opposition as it did. "All right. He's probably upset about Ephraim. Well, I am too. But it couldn't be helped. Ari wouldn't have done any good to press his dive with an F-20 locked at his six o'clock."

The intelligence officer was scribbling at his notepad as most of the pilots filed out. Ran took a detour to Peled's desk. Leaning on the top, the Kfir leader said, "I want every available detail on the mission as soon as possible. In my office tomorrow."

"Yes, sir." This was not the time to address the CO by his given name. "I believe we'll have data on the SAM batteries tonight."

"Good." Saudi Hawk surface-to-air missiles, plus those purchased from Britain and France, had taken a toll of the attackers. A Phantom and a Kfir had been shot down despite Israeli jamming. There was little opportunity to counter the simple electro-optical aiming systems adapted to the U. S.-made Hawks or the passive infrared guidance of the European weapons. Ran turned to go. "Oh, one more thing. Don't contact Ephraim's family yet. I'll do that myself. "

Waiting outside was David Ran's wingman. Lieutenant Asher Menuhim stretched his arms, rolling his shoulders. Sometimes it was just good to be alive. Merely to stand on your own two feet and breathe God's pure air. When Ran emerged, moving at his usual four-miles-per-hour stride, Asher fell in beside him. As they paced along together Asher remarked, "David, I've been wondering about something. It's this whole series of strikes."

"What about it, Asher?"

"I wonder if it's good doctrine. We knocked out two airfields for perhaps a few days. But we've taken losses we never used to take. It's obvious that the Saudis are definitely more proficient."

"Yes, they are." Ran thought of his A-4 squadron's losses the first day of the Yom Kippur War. No, the Arabs aren't always pushovers.

"Well," Asher continued, "I wonder if we shouldn't conserve our resources for our own defense." He broke step slightly, wanting to stop and talk.

Ran slowed imperceptibly, leaving his wingman two steps behind. "You know the procedure, Asher. We don't make policy, we just carry it out." He was lapsing into his commanding officer tone of voice. It said, Tread lightly.

"Yes, I understand that. But do the politicians? Look, I don't mind dying. But I don't like the idea of dying for a political whim."

Ran stopped cold and glared at his wingman. "What's the matter with you? We're going to be fighting for our survival in a few days. You know and I know, and probably the ice cream vendor down the street knows. What choice do we have?"

"I just can't help thinking there's another way. We're never going to be loved by the Arabs. I know that. But maybe…"

Ran's voice cut off the thought like honed steel. "Damn it, Asher, I don't want to talk about it. I didn't make this world, and neither did anybody I know. It was decided for us long before you or I were born. All I know is this." He held up a finger before the younger pilot's face. "We have one spot on this earth, just this one. There are millions of people around us who would cheerfully cut the throat of each man, woman, and child in Israel. We have two choices, Asher. Only two. We can fight, or we can die. We can't reason with them or argue the moral subtleties. We can answer only to ourselves. Nobody else is going to look out for us. Not the Americans, not anybody. So, Asher. When it comes down to a choice of fighting or dying, I choose to fight."

The two men stood face to face for several seconds. Asher's face was red beneath his tan, and he made a conscious effort to unclench his fists. Then his CO clapped him on the arm.

"See what you've done? You've turned me into an orator. That's the longest speech I've made in years." He smiled broadly. "Come. Let's see if we can cheer up poor Ari. Drinks on me."

Asher allowed himself to be pulled along. David was right; there's no room for doubt in a warrior's heart. But he could not shake the feeling. Something terrible was coming.

Ed Lawrence poked his head inside John Bennett's office. Rapping on the doorsill, the exec asked, "Skipper, can we talk?"

Bennett looked up from his paperwork. "Sure. Come on in." Lawrence stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and sat down in the vacant chair. "We got trouble, John." Bennett leaned back, folding his arms behind his head. He expected another supply problem or a bureaucratic snag. "Black Squadron gunned a parachute yesterday."

Bennett's easy posture evaporated. "That's for sure? No possible mistake?"

Lawrence vigorously shook his head. "Negative. We have the HUD tape. The pilot doesn't even claim it was accidental." The videotape showing the view through each plane's head-up display was intended as a debriefing tool. Whatever the pilot saw when he fired his guns or launched a missile was recorded for later analysis.

Bennett expelled a long breath. It spoke of infinite sadness. He looked at his friend. "All right. Who?"

"Ahmed Salim. Good stick, good kid from Class One. He was just cleared for flight lead. No disciplinary problems at all."

Spreading his hands, Bennett asked, "Then why'd he do it?"

"Well, you know we lost Karasi in that hassle. Salim was real close to him. Apparently they grew up together. Karasi was jumped by two F-16s at low level and got clobbered with twenty mike-mike. He ejected okay but he was only about 800 feet off the deck. The Israeli was close astern and pulled up directly over the chute. The 16 probably couldn't do anything else, but it collapsed the canopy and Karasi went in with a streamer."

"And Salim saw this happen?"

"Yeah. His wingman took on the other 16 and Salim went for the leader-did a good job and bagged him. When the pilot punched out, Salim honked around and hosed him." Sensing Bennett's impending outrage, Lawrence was quick to add, "The wingie told me the Israeli probably didn't mean to collapse Karasi's chute, but Salim thought it was intentional. He figured he was within his rights."

"Have you talked to Salim yet?"

Lawrence scratched his pockmarked face. "Yes. He seems kind of sorry now, but he's still shook about Karasi."

Bennett shook his head. "Damn it!" He stood up and paced his office. "I won't have my pilots killing defenseless men in parachutes-especially over our territory. We've discussed this in the military ethics portion of preflight. It's not just morality, Ed. There are practical aspects as well… "

"Sure, I know. You start gunning chutes and you open your own people to retaliation, and there's always the chance of mistaken identity. Either way, we could lose pilots we'd otherwise save or at least have them survive as prisoners."

Bennett's gray eyes bored into Lawrence. "What do you recommend?"

The exec shrugged. "In this case, heat of combat, retaliation for perceived enemy offense… I'd let it go with a warning."

"That's awfully damn lenient, isn't it?"

"It's pragmatic, John."

Lawrence saw Bennett bite his lip, as if stifling a retort. Lawrence shifted nervously in his chair. In all the years he had known John Bennett, the man seldom had allowed pragmatism to interfere with a personal code of behavior. Privately, Lawrence considered his friend an anachronism, a throwback to the era of single-combat warriors deciding affairs of state in the arena. The twentieth century was alien ground to such men.

At length Bennett said, "From now on, no Tiger Force pilot will even harass an enemy pilot in a chute or on the ground as long as it's in our territory. Violation will result in immediate grounding. I'll reconsider this policy only if the opposition makes a habit of shooting our parachutes, but any change must come from me. Write it up and distribute it to all squadrons."

"Okay. What about Salim?"

Bennett thought for a long moment. "He can keep flying, but he's lost his flight lead. He'll have to requalify."

"John, I don't-"

"That's my decision." Bennett's voice had an uncharacteristic bite.

Lawrence left the office. He felt, as Bennett did, that killing a defeated opponent who could be captured was bad policy. He was less certain he would allow an enemy pilot who ejected over enemy territory to get another jet and come back tomorrow, abler and wiser. Then he put the matter out of mind. Instead, he was more convinced than ever that John Bennett had been born five centuries too late.

The cabinet meeting had several domestic items on the agenda, but the rapidly deteriorating situation in the Middle East took precedence. The president and Secretary of State each referred to a set of contingency plans drafted against the increasing probability that the major war so long feared and predicted would have to be enacted.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Walter Arnold began. "You have before you a document which has been compiled by White House and State Department staffers and revised by Thurmon and myself. It deals with our possible options amid the very serious situation between Israel and the Arab nations." He glanced at the SC representatives in attendance, some of whom disagreed with the administration's neutralist Middle East policy. But Arnold had learned that he couldn't please everyone-nobody possibly could. Then, addressing the conferees in general, he said, "I earnestly solicit your comments and suggestions. Take your time. I've set aside the rest of the afternoon."

After several minutes of reading, most cabinet members put down the four-page appraisal and waited for others to speak. A couple of individuals, however, quickly penned notes to themselves. At length Secretary of Defense Ben Wake spoke up.

"Mr. President, my opinion has not changed significantly since discussing this with Thurmon last month." The two secretaries, never intimates, regarded one another cautiously. "I'm in full agreement with this thinking as far as it goes," Wake continued. "I share your opinion that we should not commit ourselves to a course of action which probably would earn further enmity from the Muslim world. Toward that end, an even-handed, neutral approach makes sense.

"However," the Secretary of Defense persisted, "I think we must have a clearer idea of our possible military posture in the region in the event of hostilities. This paper only provides for recall of nonessential diplomatic personnel from combatant nations and contingency plans for a crisis evacuation by air or sealift."

Arnold, though a strong advocate of the position paper, played moderator at most cabinet meetings. He threw the challenge to the Secretary of State for comment. ''Thurmon? Your thoughts."

Thurmon Wilson leaned forward to look down the table at Wake.

"Ben, there's more to it than that. Right there on page one, we state that rules of engagement now standing will remain in effect. Our people in the area are fully permitted to defend themselves. My God, your people and the Joint Chiefs have agreed we shouldn't jump in militarily but we have the right to a presence. So what's your objection?"

Wake waved a placating hand. "Yes, yes. I note that feature in the second paragraph. But as I said before, we can't simply wander into this thing with optimism and good intentions. We have ships in the Mediterranean and North Arabian Sea. We have Air Force units flying in and out of many of these places. And, I hasten to add, we have some U. S. citizens still under contract to the Saudi government in what amounts to a combat role. Now, I recognize the benefits of maintaining a regional presence and of keeping communications open through all possible avenues. But do we really want our people in a position to get shot at? Another Stark or Vincennes incident is a very real possibility. The domestic reaction alone could be… well, decisive."

Everyone knew what the Secretary of Defense meant. The election was a month off.

"All right," the president responded. "Ben's framed the big question. Do we pull our forces out of the region in deference to the political situation here? Or do we stay put, maintain a presence, and risk the possibility of getting involved in the shooting? It's no easy choice, and there are advantages and disadvantages to each in this evaluation." He flipped the paper.

"Mr. President." Secretary of Commerce Lawrence Janowitz spoke up. He was a short, stocky financier in his mid-fifties, an old political crony of Arnold's who could be counted upon to speak his mind.

"Yes, Larry."

"I don't like the idea of being seen as running for cover when trouble brews up. We might invite problems for ourselves by pulling out as well as by staying in the Middle East."

"That's exactly my point, Larry." Wake' voice was slightly higher than normal, his words nearly colliding with each other. "We need a clear-cut policy stated up front, before we have to choose from any number of possible actions. We need a starting point, that's all I'm saying."

"Well, how about a compromise starting point?" Janowitz replied. "Reduce our naval and air forces in the area to those levels. necessary to remind the locals that we can get involved if necessary-even though we don't plan to. At the same time we would be limiting the possible exposure of American servicemen to hostile action, but we're close enough to meet the evacuation criteria listed in the paper."

The president suppressed a smile. Trust Larry to find a bargaining stance that would appeal to both sides. Arnold glanced around. "Comments, anyone?" He looked directly at Wake.

"Yes, that's all right with me. But with reduced force levels in-theater our mutual support will be degraded. I would urge that we pull our people well back, beyond the likely range of hostile action-even by accident. At least that way we'll avoid most chances for mishap. As Larry says, we can jump in with strategic airlift or carrier aviation on very short notice, if need be."

"Sounds good." Arnold was pleased that a consensus was emerging.

"One other thing, though," Wake interjected. "We can't pull back our people in the Saudi F-20 squadrons like we can move our own ships and aircraft. Has there been any idea of what to do about those fliers still under contract?"

Arnold and Wilson exchanged a quick look. The president said, "Thurmon and I have discussed this matter. It's a ticklish point. The Saudi foreign minister has made it plain to State that he wants the U. S. and British advisers in this capacity to remain. Thurmon and I agree that to withdraw them would risk our current relationship with Riyadh, which remains fairly good. At least, it's the best contact we have with any Arab nation right now.

"Very well," the president continued. "We'll discuss particulars about ship and aircraft dispositions tomorrow with the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Let's move on to the next item…. "