Warriors

Chapter 13

The jihad against Israel began in the predawn. And it was led not by Soviet T-72 tanks or supersonic MiGs, but by a twenty-three-year-old Iranian zealot named Omar Razlavi.

Omar was legendary to the crusaders engaged in the holy war.

He had come to prominence midway through the hard-fought bitter war with Iraq when, as a teenager recruited to fill the Ayatollah's ranks, he found his niche in life. At five feet five and 118 pounds, the boy was ideally suited to wriggling through barbed-wire entanglements, probing for enemy mines. The life expectancy of sappers often was measured in hours-sometimes in minutes-but Omar Razlavi thrived. He outlived his comrades by orders of magnitude until finally his division, which suffered 120 percent casualties in his first eight months-was renamed in his honor.

Moving out from his sandbagged trench south of Mount Hermon, Razlavi was armed with a plastic knife to probe for mines and a knapsack of fifty white-flagged stakes to mark them. Scrambling across the ground on all fours, ferretlike in his agility, the youngster felt completely at home. He had been doing this work for years and accepted as an article of faith that he was immortal. A grimy headband with a religious slogan testified to his devotion.

The Razlavi Division had moved into place east of Al-Kuneitra during darkness over the previous several nights, relieving the Syrian unit which usually held that portion of the front. It was considered a signal honor to lead the assault on the Golan, but the Razlavi Division expected no less. Most of the Iranian soldiers awaiting the jump-off signal fully expected to die in the next several hours; their imams had told them as much. But the Muslim priests also had promised that paradise awaited.

With infinite calm, Omar Razlavi probed the earth before him.

His plastic knife, unable to detonate a magnetic mine, struck something solid. The metal outline of instant death. It was a sensation Razlavi had experienced thousands of times. He had long since lost count of how many Soviet, French, American, and Israeli-manufactured mines he had located. He inserted a wooden stake with its white cloth next to the mine and continued forward, probing as he crept along. Behind him, his platoon leader watched through night-vision glasses, noting the path to follow as the hour of attack approached.

Nearly 500 meters to the west, another set of night goggles was in use. The Israeli sergeant carefully scanned left and right, taking in the green-tinted imagery of the Litton glasses. Catching a movement, he swung on the location and stabilized the device. After what seemed an interminable wait, the motion repeated itself. There… emerging from behind a discarded spool of barbed wire. The human form edged along the ground with surprising economy of motion.

Picking up his field phone, the sergeant called his command post. The sleepy young lieutenant who answered was mildly upset at being disturbed. He listened to the NCO's professionally terse report and consulted the area's topographical chart on the wall. With a routine phrase, the officer ordered the sergeant to take routine measures. These probes had gone on before, but now there was a way to halt them.

In eight minutes Omar Razlavi had reached the position shown on the lieutenant's map. The noncom opened the access to an electrical panel, flipped a switch, and the circuit closed.

Omar Razlavi's frail body was hurled into the air by the force of the explosion. The garish splotch of light ripped the night air and the Iranian platoon leader instinctively reeled away from his glass. The white light of the explosion strobed in the scope, temporarily ruining his night vision.

He knew that, at long last, Omar sat at the right hand of Allah. From the Al Biqa-the Bekaa Valley-which runs a hundred miles along the Syrian-Lebanese border-south to Mt. Hebron in the Golan, and on to Jordan, Araby massed its legions. Some thirty divisions of infantry, mechanized, and armored formations-plus supporting air, artillery, and special forces-were poised to strike. Including logistics troops, nearly two million men were engaged in the enterprise which began with crushing, single-minded violence.

Ninety minutes before dawn the Arab army began to move. It rolled forward behind a shattering barrage of artillery, rockets, and low-flying helicopter gunships. And though the Israelis were not caught by surprise this October, the strength and volume of the offensive destroyed any lingering sense of smugness in Tel Aviv. The hard-eyed men in Damascus, Baghdad, and Tehran had worked more than three years for this moment, and they had chosen their time carefully.

With more contempt than concern, the Muslim leaders had assessed the American government's reaction would be determined by a desire for neutrality. To back either side would invite severe criticism from the other-and harsher considerations from the Arab world. Thus, the most attractive course would be the middle road. Imams and generals alike agreed that the president's cherished role as mediator would work to their benefit. And they would be proven right.

Washington issued declarations of concern, repeating the oft-quoted offer to serve as "the lightning rod of reconciliation," in Walter Arnold's own words. But nobody on either side expressed an interest in arbitration. This was a fight to the finish, pure and simple.

"Well, boys, we're in it now." Colonel Solomon Yatanahu addressed his grim-faced F-15 pilots in the auditorium. "We'll give you all the support we possibly can. Our maintenance and ordnance crews have shaved every possible second off your turnaround times. We should be able to generate maximum sortie rates as long as fuel, spare parts, and weapons hold out." Yatanahu did not need to mention that all three items soon could be in short supply. If this war went beyond the second week without resupply, Israel would be in very poor shape.

Upon concluding the briefing, the base commander returned to his office. Inwardly he was furious at the government's obstinacy.

Yatanahu had railed his frustration time and again, most often to his wife. "The idiots! All they care about is where they stand in the opinion polls. They've spread us throughout most of Jordan, where we haven't a hope of holding that much territory, and once war comes we'll be forced to withdraw to shorter lines." He had known he would be proven correct; now one look at the map showed the situation. A two-pronged Arab assault down the road from Damascus to Jerusalem and from the Iraqi border toward the holy city could cut off thousands of Israeli troops.

Yatanahu sat down at his desk and called for his aide, Lieutenant Yoni Ben-Nun. "Yoni, we're going to have our hands full. Set up a cot for me in the rear office. Then collect the signals from Air Force HQ. We're likely to be concentrating on the Bekaa at first, but if the Saudis and Egyptians jump in, we'll be spread awfully thin. I want constant updates on all enemy forces-especially the northern F-20 squadrons."

John Bennett wandered alone outside the Tiger Force advanced headquarters. He enjoyed the solitude of the desert night, picking out constellations in the crystal-clear air. For most of his flying career he had seen the stars as they really were, viewed from above 30,000 feet. Beyond the natural haze and man-made pollution which covered so much of the earth, they represented a reassuring constant in his life.

Walking a hundred yards from the half-buried command center, Bennett sat down and wrapped his arms around his knees. He mused to himself that never would he have believed he would come to this place in this capacity.

I'm an aerial warlord in charge of ten squadrons of eager young Arabs who soon may become actively engaged in a holy war against Israel. How did that happen? What set of circumstances conspired to bring me to this situation? What god of irony gave me Claudia at this time in my life, then took her from me and committed me to a war against her historic people?

Bennett recognized the onset of a melancholy mood which he seldom allowed. He concentrated on facts, not conjecture.

Face it, Bennett. You wanted this, you worked for it, and you cherished it. No, it wasn't luck or circumstance that brought you here.

Be careful what you want. It might come true.

All his professional life Bennett had heard the catchphrase, "I'd rather be lucky than good." But he had never believed it. Instead, he was convinced that you made your own luck most of the time. What others attributed to fortune, Bennett believed was 90 percent hard work.

Well, old Pirate, that may be true upstairs. But how to reconcile hard work with finding the right woman? You've been lucky-if that's the right word-twice in your life. You found two good women over twenty years apart. They both gave you happiness and they're both gone. You've come out ahead, John. Finding happiness once in a lifetime is rare enough. Twice hardly seems possible. But nobody promised it would last.

He leaned his head on his arms and breathed deeply. The desert air felt good in his lungs. Then he said one word to the night.

"Claudia…"

Later that evening General Mohammad Abd Maila gave a briefing to Tiger Force at Ha'il. Brad Williamson and Geoff Hampton already were there with Red and White Squadrons. The Arab commanders or executive officers of each of the other F-20 units attended, including delegates from the two Jordanian squadrons. Maintenance, communications, and ordnance supervisors also sat in.

Bennett was pleased that Maila had been chosen as liaison between the Royal Saudi Air Force and Tiger Force. The American and the Arab had developed a close professional relationship over the past few years, for temperamentally they had much in common. A former F-5 pilot, Maila had completed two advanced courses in the United States during his career, which qualified him for higher pay and the attendant prestige. However, he seemed unaffected by his elevated status, remaining wholly mission-oriented. He was, Bennett thought, a true warrior.

"Gentlemen," Maila began in British-accented English, "I am here to answer some of the questions you must be asking. And I want to set a brief picture of what you may expect in the coming days.

"As you know, His Majesty has made good his commitment to see Jordan returned to its rightful owners and to the Arab alliance goal of securing the West Bank for permanent Palestinian settlement. By stating these limited goals at the beginning of hostilities, we hope to ease global concern and strengthen our case.

"The Saudi government does not seek the destruction of Israel. It has been made plain that our armed forces will not participate in activities aimed at occupying Israeli soil, and that was a precondition of His Majesty's commitment to the alliance. Under these carefully defined circumstances, our goal is beyond question."

Turning to the map behind him, the general said, "The Egyptians are moving armored and mechanized infantry forces eastward in the Sinai. At present this is to force the Israelis to commit troops to defend this front, thus preventing their employment elsewhere.

"We have a similar role here in Arabia. The difference is, we shall use our air arm to accomplish the same purpose. Colonel Bennett and his staff devised a contingency plan long ago, when the F-20 force was being organized. Colonel, please proceed."

Bennett walked to the front of the room. Without consulting the notes in his pocket, he began his presentation. It had been imprinted in his mind for three years.

"Many of you have heard us discuss portions of what we call the fadeaway plan. It is based upon two principles: goading the opposition and economy of force.

''The Israelis have run recon flights over several of our forward fields, and they attacked four of them, as you well know. Two bases were badly damaged but now are back to a limited operational status. The timing of the raids indicated that the Israelis were confident that hostilities would very soon occur. They didn't want to have to deal with their southern flank at the same time as the main threat out of Syria and Lebanon.

"So the object is to give them a reason to come after us. Just running counter-air operations against our northern fields is well within their current capacity, and all we would accomplish is about a one-to-one exchange rate. That means attrition warfare, grinding them down a bit at a time. It could work over a prolonged period-assuming they had little or no resupply. But to accomplish our goal, it has to be done at a condensed period in time and space."

Bennett moistened his lips. He was coming to the crucial part of his plan. ''The Syrian Air Force, and to a lesser extent the Iraqis, are involved in supporting their ground forces. Riyadh indicates that the Egyptians will conduct offensive sweeps over Sinai, requiring Israeli attention on their western flank. This leaves us to play the main role in drawing the bulk of their air force into battle-on our terms.

"A bit of philosophy, gentlemen. I believe that the air weapon is the most fragile of all. Tiger Force is a prime example. It's taken us nearly four years to bring the F-20 squadrons to their current combat-ready status, and we've done it faster than anybody else ever has. It's been a combination of streamlined training, rigid pilot selection, and a relatively inexpensive, easily maintained aircraft. But even the few losses we've sustained have not been replaced in kind.

"The same applies to the Israelis. They cannot put an equally competent, experienced pilot in the next available cockpit after losing one of their first-line aviators. Thus, the experience level is degraded with each loss.

"If we can force the Israelis to come out and fight us over our own territory, we gain a double advantage. We're fighting close to our bases, and we keep anybody who ejects. The Israelis will lose not only their KIAs, but most of those who bailout."

Bennett thought back to the long-ago War College class and the treatise he had written-the paper which had brought him to the attention of Safad Fatah.

Only airpower can defeat airpower. And in the Middle East, with no weather to hide in, without forests and towns to conceal one's troops, everyone is vulnerable from the air.

Looking around the room, Bennett was confident his air arm could do the job. He saw Ahnas Menaf, skipper of Green Squadron, stylishly sporting a green scarf. He noted Rajid Hamir had sent his exec, preferring to remain with Orange Squadron. The acts were typical of each young Saudi. Ahnas leading from the most visible position, confident and assured; Rajid accomplishing the same results in the opposite manner.

Bennett briefly thought of Ed Lawrence, moving tonight with Black Squadron to a second-line base for two days. They're living like supersonic gypsies, Bennett thought. Devil must be enjoying himself. At least I hope so; this is the biggest thing he has to look forward to for the rest of his life.

The U.S. Air Force Boeing E-3 made a gentle turn, taking a heading west-northwest toward its base on Crete. The huge radar disk mounted atop the fuselage, capable of detecting targets almost 500 miles away, was secured, its mission completed. The vast array of monitors remained in operation, however, to detect electronic emissions of any kind.

Previously the U. S. Air Force had kept the sophisticated airborne warning and control systems aircraft in Saudi Arabia. In fact, it had been a political sore point for two U.S. administrations, since the Israeli lobby protested loudly. But with Arabia's declaration of war on Israel, in support of regaining Jordan and the West Bank, it was not feasible to keep the AWACS planes in Arabia.

Normally, constant monitoring flights were made by the converted Boeing 707s, collecting valuable intelligence from almost every nation in the region. But this October evening six fast, low-flying jets temporarily went undetected by any radar. Their mission plan had taken into consideration the E-3's routine schedule, noted several days before.

The Six British-built Panavia Tornadoes, each bearing the green and white cockade insignia of Arabia, penetrated Israeli airspace from three directions. Flying at low level, in the dark, their navigation had to be precise if the plan was to succeed. And it very nearly did.

Mission planners had timed each two-plane section's approach to coincide exactly for weapons release: one section from seaward into Tel Aviv, two more from east and northeast over Jerusalem. But the wide-ranging western section had missed a turning point by fifty seconds and was late popping up to identify its target.

The nature of the three targets could not be ignored in Tel Aviv.

In less than three hours the picture was clear to the Israeli leadership, and orders were hastily transmitted to air force headquarters:

Destroy Saudi bases earliest time possible. Highest priority. Prepare contingency plan for air raids on Mecca and Riyadh.

Avrim Ran stepped down from the rostrum amid a scattered chorus of shouts and catcalls. The Israeli ambassador to the United Nations had cut short his prepared speech to the General Assembly, for clearly the mood of the international body was against him. His face flushed, fists clenched, he crumpled his text, stared straight ahead, and walked from the hall.

Ran had intended to cite the Arab assault upon occupied Jordan when he prepared his speech the day before. But the news from Tel Aviv and Jerusalem during the night had changed the complexion of his address.

Avrim Ran went straight to his office, locked the door, and sat by himself. He felt humiliated, embarrassed, and angry. But most of all, he imagined the grim smile he knew must cross his younger brother's face. David Ran had never believed in the power of diplomacy. Avrim had set his life and his career to the pursuit of peace through negotiation. Now, it appeared David had been proven right. Only military force could retrieve the situation. The thought galled the ambassador.

Pulling the telex from his file once more, Ran reread the starkly objective report which still was less than twelve hours old. The Wailing Wall destroyed and the Knesset damaged. How were such things possible?

Despite the emotions seething within him, Ran knew that the Arab outrage was calculated in its objective. The television news early this morning contained vivid images: the crumbled stones of the Wailing Wall open to Israeli cameramen anxious to show the world what the Jewish State now faced. No scenes were permitted of the Knesset.

Ambassador Ran was enough of a realist to know that air strikes against military facilities were more important than cultural or political targets. But wondered what his brother would think of the retaliation orders which were certain to follow.

"The fools! The goddam idiots! Not even those imbecile politicians can be this insane!" Lieutenant Colonel David Ran brandished the warning order alerting his squadron for strikes against Mecca and Riyadh. "It's playing straight into the Saudis' hands. Don't they realize that?"

Ran vented his anger at the desk, at the walls of his office, and peripherally at the two flight commanders standing before him. His face was flushed and the veins stood out in his forehead and temples.

"Sir, maybe headquarters can get the order rescinded." It was Major Yarom Sarig, the senior flight commander, second in command of Ran's Kfir squadron.

"That's already been tried," Ran snapped. ''The Knesset is running-scared right now. The damage was minimal but you know politicians. They're hellfire orators when they send somebody else to get shot at. But let a couple of bombs fall near them and they start thinking about their own skins."

The political fallout in Israel was beyond all magnitude of the actual damage inflicted. When the six Saudi Tornadoes struck within minutes of one another, the full spectrum of the nation's vulnerability lay exposed: political, cultural, and military. Most of the military professionals recognized that loss of the sacred Wailing Wall was trivial in practical terms, even less so than targeting of the legislative assembly. But the Saudis had struck a nerve. David Ran bitterly wondered what hard-eyed intellect was behind it.

At length the squadron CO calmed down. He heaved a sigh which spoke volumes. He was physically drained and mentally spent. Both flight commanders recognized the symptoms; they had only to look in the mirror to see the same strain on their own faces. They had been flying multiple sorties for three days, with no letup in sight.

"Well, I have to say one thing," Ran declared. ''The Saudis did a professional job on this mission. It's now apparent that they sent in the first two Tornadoes to focus our attention on Jerusalem while the other four went after the wall and the Knesset. Their electronics coverage and deception tactics across the Jordanian border were well conducted. We can't assume they are anything but first-class opponents. "

Captain Uzi Nadel, the second flight commander, spoke up.

"Excuse me, sir, but isn't it true that we shot down two Tornadoes? That's a thirty percent loss rate on this mission."

Ran lanced the captain with a frosty glare. "Wouldn't you trade two aircraft for a shot at an enemy's primary political and cultural centers, with a major airfield thrown in?" He let the question dangle momentarily. "Of course you would! It's partly our fault that they succeeded as much as they did, anyway."

"How is that, sir?" Nadel asked.

"We've known for the past few years that the Saudis were buying Tornadoes from Britain. We know the performance and ordnance capabilities of those aircraft as well as the designers. It's basic doctrine to evaluate the threat based upon what the enemy is capable of doing, not what you expect him to do."

The captain knew his CO was right. The twin-engine, two-seat Tornado, built by a consortium of British, German, and Italian firms, was one of the world's premiere strike aircraft. It regularly won NATO bombing competitions, and with a two-man crew it was capable of delivering precision weapons at low level in any weather. "Do we know how they conducted the strike, sir?"

"Pretty much, based on known capabilities." Ran's voice was flat, almost toneless. "Their Tornadoes are configured for the French AS.30 missile, directed by the Atlis laser pod. This system gives at least a ten-kilometer standoff launch capability with accuracy of under two meters. Apparently both missiles launched at the Wailing Wall scored hits, but it was risky from their viewpoint. They passed within two hundred meters of the Dome of the Rock."

The two officers instantly grasped the significance of that fact.

The Dome of the Rock is a mosque covering the site where Muhammad was said to have ascended to heaven and therefore is the oldest monument in Islam. But the site also is sacred to Jews. Abraham, patriarch of the Hebrews, prepared to sacrifice his son Isaac on the same spot. The Wailing Wall, also called the Western Wall, formed part of the 60-foot-high perimeter around the Dome, but now most of its 160-foot length was reduced to rubble.

Sarig spoke up. "Sir, is it known why the missiles launched at the Knesset fell short?"

"Supposition. We know that one Tornado was shot down during its approach. The second was hit, apparently after launch. Evidently that hit caused the laser operator to flinch off-target just before impact. The AS.30 struck about fifty meters short of the building but there was still a lot of damage." The missile's 528-pound warhead, impacting at nearly 1,500 feet per second, was capable of penetrating two feet of concrete. Blast damage alone would have been considerable. "Anyway," Ran continued, "we still have to plan for the Mecca and Riyadh strikes."

"We're going after Muslim shrines, then?"

"No, I don't think so. My guess is the government wants to present a high moral tone to the world, so we won't retaliate that way. If that were the case, we could use the upgraded Jerichos. But the Saudis have surface-to-surface missiles from China and since nobody can defend against them, nobody is likely to use them."

''Then what is our target, sir?"

"I don't know yet. Evidently we'll be told when Tel Aviv condescends to let us in on it." Ran's voice dripped bitter sarcasm. "Meanwhile, pass the word to the maintenance and armament sections. And get Asher in here to start work on mission profiles and planning. That's all."

The two flight commanders had been dismissed, leaving the CO to rub his temples with his fingertips, closing his eyes. David Ran, warrior, prepared himself for an unnecessary mission from which he quite probably would not return.

Chapter 14

John Bennett and Bear Barnes checked the Tiger Force status board, pleased to note that aircraft availability was running at more than 90 percent full-mission capable going into the crucial test. There were ample stocks of fuel and ordnance, including Sparrow radar-guided missiles. The two-seat Tigersharks attached to each squadron were ready with radar installed. The General Electric APG-67 system was capable of detecting a five-meter-square target 85 percent of the time at more than forty miles, and this day the F-20s would employ their Sparrow option.

Bennett asked his operations officer about coordination with other Saudi units.

"We're all set," Barnes replied. "The schedule has been passed by discrete land line to the F-5 and F-15 squadrons, which will move to the northeastern bases. We've confirmed authentication codes with every unit, and the Eagle drivers understand they're not supposed to engage. They're only Sparrow shooters today."

Bennett concurred. With F-15s on both sides, the Saudis did not want any of their $35 million Eagles shot down by F-5 or F-20 pilots. Instead, the Eagle's outstanding long-range Sparrow capability was to be used as a preliminary means of breaking up the anticipated Israeli strikes. Bennett was less enthusiastic than the Saudis themselves about the prospects for scoring many kills with radar missiles, but that was beside the point. He knew that "the great white hope," as the AIM-7 was called, would force the Israelis to' concentrate on evading the initial shots. That would give the Northrops time to position for an advantage when the close-in, cut-and-thrust dogfighting began.

Barnes was smiling to himself for no apparent reason. "What's so funny?" Bennett asked.

"Oh, I was just thinking of what Tim Ottman used to say. You remember? He said he'd just as soon have a cardboard tube filled with a smoke generator to get the opposition's attention. It'd be a lot cheaper than a radar missile and accomplish the same thing."

Bennett chuckled aloud. It was a reassuring sound; Bear had not heard the CO laugh since Claudia died.

"Yeah, I remember. And that's from a thousand-hour Eagle driver. I just hope none of our 15s gets buck fever and piles in. The way the Tiger Force honchos are keyed up, not to mention the F-5 troops, I wouldn't want to get within visual range of an Eagle today. "

Bennett recalled the briefing from the night before. The Israelis would come with everything: F-15s, F-16s, Phantoms, and Kfirs.

Bennett's word on aircraft recognition: "If it isn't built in Hawthorne, California, shoot it!" It shaped up as Northrop against nearly everything in the Israeli inventory.

Rubbing his back, Barnes straightened up from the table. "You know, Skipper, this is going to be one hellacious donnybrook. There will be bogeys all around the clock, heat-seekers and radar missiles, heavy ECM from both sides. It's going to be a jet-propelled Dawn Patrol." He grinned. "I'm almost sorry I won't see it."

Bennett did not respond for several seconds. Then, softly, he replied, "I used to feel that way. But I think a lot of good drivers are going to die pretty soon. The desert's going to be littered with smoking piles that once were beautiful flying machines." He raised his gaze to Bear's face. "You know something? I'm glad I won't see it." He noted the concern on the ops officer's face, and understood. "Oh, don't mistake me, Bear. I'm not having second thoughts. After all, it's my plan. But whoever was behind Claudia's killing, it wasn't any of the guys in cockpits over there. No, I'm just glad I won't have to watch it, that's all."

Bennett turned to the situation map in the briefing room. The forward lines were revised every two or three hours, according to field reports and photographic reconnaissance. It was obvious that the Israeli Army, overextended into Jordan, had been unable to hold its ground in the face of the massive, violent assault. The units in danger of being encircled had made a reasonably orderly withdrawal toward the West Bank, fighting hard all the way. Low-flying jets with the Star of David had inflicted heavy losses on Arab troop columns, and antitank helicopters made sizable dents in enemy armored columns.

But from Amman to Al-'Aqabah, Israeli units had been forced to pull back in the previous three days. Those not actually in contact often were left in precarious positions, one or even both flanks exposed by the withdrawal of adjacent regiments. Fighting had stabilized on the East Bank of the River Jordan, mainly helped by Israeli armor and airpower. But nearly half the Heyl Ha'Avir tactical aircraft had been siphoned off for the massive retaliatory strikes ordered by Tel Aviv. The air force professionals recognized it as a blunder. And so did a young paratroop captain fighting near Amman.

Captain Levi Bar-El had had no time to think of his fixation on the American John Bennett lately. The intelligence officer had been fully occupied identifying nearby Syrian and Iranian units, interrogating occasional prisoners. Other than that, it was. a constant routine of filling in small pieces of the overall puzzle, making some order out of near-total chaos.

Bar-El was leading a recon ground patrol that afternoon, searching a gully south of the Jordanian capital. He was aware of the jets almost constantly overhead, but he paid them little attention. Israeli infantry were accustomed to having friendly aircraft around, and Bar-El's unit had only suffered two attacks from enemy aircraft:

Syrian MiC-21s which strafed the area before being run off by F-16s, and Iraqi Mirages which bombed and rocketed.

The point man in the patrol knelt at the bend of a ravine, scanning the area ahead. Bar-El had just placed the handset back on his radioman's harness when a movement caught the patrol leader's attention. Hefting his Calil rifle, Bar-El stood up and walked four paces to his left. He intently searched the scrub brush topping a small sand dune, signaling his corporal to spread out to the right.

Abruptly three Syrian commandos broke cover near the crest of the dune. Two opened an undisciplined fire with their AK-74 automatic rifles, wounding one of the Israelis. Bar-El's men returned fire with better accuracy, toppling the two in a cloud of noise, dust, and blood.

The third Syrian was visible from the belt up, perhaps twenty-five meters from the captain. Bar-EI saw the man retract his right arm to throw a grenade.

Despite its boxy appearance, the Calil rifle is an excellent-handling weapon. With his folding-frame stock extended for proper use, Bar-El instantly mounted the rifle to his shoulder, got a quick glimpse of his front sight settling on the man's pinkish camouflage shirt, and took the slack from the trigger.

The Syrian's hand already was moving forward, loosening the grip on the grenade which arced toward the Israeli officer.

The trigger sear disengaged from the hammer and the Calil bucked in a three-round burst.

The grenade, now well toward its target, was twelve meters from Levi Bar-EI, shoulder high.

When the first.223-caliber bullet hit the Syrian's chest, a gout of blood erupted from his shirt. The second and third rounds were wasted, going high. It had been a quick-and-dirty shot, not as well centered as a rifleman would have preferred, but it did the job.

The grenade struck the ground, bouncing once.

Bar-EI moved his sights, trying to realign on the soldier, who tumbled sideways and collapsed into a bush.

The grenade exploded knee-high, three meters to Levi Bar-El's left.

Operation Fadeaway was based on two elements, a hammer and an anvil. At daybreak Bennett watched his hammer sweep off the runway, Geoff Hampton leading twenty-two fighters from White and Blue Squadrons. They flew northeasterly to an auxiliary strip near the Kuwait border and landed on the single runway. Fuel tanks were topped off and ordnance checked. Then the former RAF flier led a taxiing procession of Tigersharks to the takeoff end of the runway and shut down. Fully fueled and armed, they waited.

The anvil was led by Ed Lawrence from Black Base. Forty F-2 °Cs from his own squadron, Rajid's Orange, and Ahnas's Green were dispersed along the taxiways and end of the runway. They also waited, as did one twelve-plane Jordanian squadron at Ha'il with Brad Williamson's Red Squadron in reserve. Tiger Force was glad to have the Jordanians-British-trained, experienced, and angry.

Bennett was not sanguine about the prospects for fully coordinating his plan. As a lifelong student of military history, he knew that even the simplest plan could turn to hash in the opening minutes of combat. But he knew that if even most of the elements came together, the Israelis would sustain losses they could not replace in time to make a difference. He checked the status board for the eighth time that morning. The Saudi F-15s had their schedules and the F-5s were deploying northward at that moment.

Everyone on the ground now sat back to wait.

Orbiting the most fought-over city on earth, Colonel Aaron Hali reduced power to the twin F100 engines of his F-15A, settling down to a five-mile-circumference turn at an indicated 285 knots. Below and behind him he could see his squadrons joining up with a discipline born of years of experience. Aircraft in two-plane sections joined into four-plane flights which became building blocks for squadrons. Soon the entire force of seventy bomb-laden attack aircraft and sixty-four fighters headed east, stacked between 8,000 and 14,000 feet above ground level. Behind them, E-2Cs took up station to lend electronic support and early warning.

The large size of the strike force required more fuel for join-up than a normal mission, and the Israeli Air Force had not been able to acquire enough aerial tankers to support such an endeavor. Realistically, it had not been needed very often. The aerial combat arena of the Middle East was small enough to cross in a supersonic aircraft in several minutes; long-range strikes were unusual.

True, the Heyl Ha'Avir had demonstrated its superb professionalism on special missions-the 1981 Baghdad nuclear reactor strike and the 1985 precision attack against PLO headquarters in Tunis being best known. This, however, was about as close as Tel Aviv's air arm had come to the massive applications of power which the U.S. Air Force and Navy had launched against North Vietnam during Operation Rolling Thunder from 1965 to 1968.

Today's main target-Ha'il-was 450 miles deep into hostile territory.

John Bennett knew as well as Aaron Hali how much fuel each Israeli pilot would need to fly from sea level, to reach cruising altitude, to descend upon the Tiger Force airfields, and to return to base with perhaps 1,500 pounds remaining. The mission profile, checked and rechecked by planners and the strike leader, allowed for no more than five minutes to attack and three minutes of hard combat in afterburner. Upon withdrawing, anything which forced them to pause, to turn and fight again, would whittle away their safety margin.

From a hundred hands across the desert came an incessant flashing of sunlight on mirrors. For the Saudi soldiers and nomadic tribesmen recruited into the Tiger Force warning net, this was their sole reason for existence. Many were frightened, a few terrified. The combined noise from so many jet engines bespoke an awesome power bound upon a mission of single-minded violence.

Some of the Saudi radio channels remained usable for a few minutes before they were obliterated by jamming. But enough early calls, plus confirmation from the mirror system, told the defenders what they needed to know. The single key of a radio transmitter issued a micropulse message from the air defense center at Ha'il. The ultra high frequency message contained two words:

Fadeaway. Go.

John Bennett had done everything he could. Now the outcome lay in the lap of the gods and the hands of his fighter pilots.

Ed Lawrence raised his hand from the cockpit and rotated his finger in a circular motion. The other pilots saw his signal and repeated it down the line, starting their engines. The anvil pilots lifted off the runway in two-plane sections, stringing out in trail as the plan took shape. Each flight leader knew his orbit point and altitude-a designated bearing from Black Base spread northwest to southwest.

Simultaneously Geoff Hampton led twenty-one of his F-20s off the single runway near the Kuwait border, headed west. One plane sustained a last-minute hydraulic leak and ground-aborted, leaving the twenty-four-year-old Saudi pilot nearly in tears. They were starting the war without him.

At other fields, other squadrons were working on their prearranged schedules, some delaying their launches, others scrambling to medium altitude and heading south, away from their bases.

This was the impression Tiger Force wished to give the Israelis.

By apparently fading away from the attack, they might entice some of the escorting Israeli fighters deeper into Saudi airspace. Bennett held out little hope for this option, as the Heyl Ha'Avir was too professional, too disciplined. But it was worth a try. At the very least, the radar picture emerging in the Israeli E-2s would show a logical reaction-enemy aircraft scrambling to get out from under whatever was coming.

Aaron Hali checked his watch and his map. So far, so good. At designated points his flight leaders would break off right or left to approach their briefed targets. Hali would continue to a point equidistant from most of the Saudi fighter strips en route to Ha'il in order to lend a hand in case of unexpectedly strong opposition. He recalled his parting words with his lifelong friend Solomon Yatanahu, barely an hour before.

"Well, you see the advantage of being a junior colonel. I get to fly the missions while you sit at your desk and run base operations."

Yatanahu mimicked his friend's breezy attitude. "Yes, it's the burden of rank. A beautiful little sabra brings me iced tea and lemonade at the push of a button. While you're up there sweating in your boots, adding to the lines on your face from peering into the sun, I'm taking a leisurely lunch. A dog shouldn't have to do what I do."

Hali had looked at the morning sky, craning his neck. "It's a long way from Kibbutz Deganya, isn't it, Sol?"

"Farther in time than I like to imagine." Yatanahu paused a moment. "Aaron, what do you remember best?"

"Ah, the bananas. I never tasted better."

Kibbutz Deganya, near the Sea of Galilee, had been founded in 1911. It was famous in the region for its wheat and bananas and as the boyhood home of Solomon Yatanahu. There were nearly 300 kibbutzes in Israel, and though they represented only 3 percent of the nation's populace, they typically produced 60 percent of the military officers and over half the political leadership. Yatanahu and Hali both were products of that system.

Finally Yatanahu spoke what was on his mind. "This is a no-win mission, Solomon. Even if it accomplishes its goal, it won't change the course of the war. We're barely holding onto the West Bank now. I cringe to think what will happen if we lose as many planes and pilots as we might." The operational analysts had predicted a twenty percent loss rate, assuming everything worked well. Both fliers knew that was unlikely.

Aaron Hali said, "At least headquarters talked the politicians out of the Mecca strike. My God, over six hundred miles one way just to make a point of no military value. What were they thinking?"

"I have no idea, my friend. That's why you and I are fighter pilots, not politicians." Yatanahu wanted to say more, but time was running short. Besides, there were some things one just did not say to a comrade at times like these.

The two men had shaken hands, then walked away.

Colonel Hali shook himself from his sentimental musings. He nudged up his twin throttles a percent, forcing himself to concentrate on his flying. With a mild surprise, he realized he was beginning to lose the sharp edge which had characterized his entire professional life. Better get a grip on yourself, Aaron. Start daydreaming up here and you'll wake up dead. He checked his radar screen with the vertical and horizontal-lined grid. Any time now, the blips would appear. He wondered how soon he would gain a visual on the bogeys that must be deploying.

Hali could not know that Tiger Force and the Royal Saudi Air Force had agreed on the most basic principle of war: concentration. They committed 70 percent of their fighter-interceptors to the campaign in central and northern Arabia, and the combatants now were screeching toward one another at 1.8 times of the speed of sound.

Lieutenant Colonel Mohammad Agadir checked his order of battle one more time, though it was hardly necessary. The thirty-nine-year-old Saudi already knew his battalion's lineup by memory. The thirty tracked missile launchers had been deployed during the night over a ninety-mile front with two other battalions arrayed in depth behind him. His senior NCO had reported that electronic countermeasures were appearing on the mobile radar vehicles' screens, and the operators were switching frequencies on a random basis. As soon as the oncoming Israelis reached optimum range, Agadir would order three-quarters of his launchers to fire. The remaining 25 percent would wait until the attackers were outbound.

Agadir approved of the plan. Though he had never been in combat, he benefitted from exchange tours with missileers in Egypt, Britain, and France. He had hoped for a tour in the United States but that goal had eluded him. A sober professional, Agadir nonetheless relished the good times his counterparts always seemed to enjoy in America. They came back full of stories about the people and places. Some of them still sang cowboy songs their American friends taught them, though Agadir had trouble following the plot line of "I'm Walkin' the Floor Over You."

The air defense officer returned his attention to matters at hand.

This plan would ensure that most of his radar-guided missiles, two per launcher, would be employed against high-flying aircraft. The Israelis were taking diverse routes and altitudes, but after the attacks and dogfights many would egress at low level. They would come within range of his passive heat-seeking and electro-optically guided weapons.

Agadir tapped his gloved hands in a rhythmic pattern on the hatch of his command vehicle, recalling another song. He could not remember the lyrics, but the story had something to do with a young cowboy who got in a gunfight with another man over a Mexican girl.

Someplace called El Paso, which apparently was in a vast wasteland. Well, Agadir knew about that sort of place. He remembered many years ago the wisdom of his old grandfather, who had no idea how prophetically he spoke when he repeated the ancient wisdom, "No man meets a friend in the desert."

Aaron Hali keyed his mike twice, the signal for his first group to break off toward its targeted airfield. It was unnecessary, as the flight leader already had the time down pat, but Hali never took details for granted. He watched the Eagles and Kfirs break away to port, accelerating toward the southeast.

At that moment Hali's radar warning system demanded his attention. Visually and aurally he picked up the emissions of Saudi radars. He knew immediately from the frequency and tone that it was SAM tracking, undoubtedly with the track-on-scan feature which allowed short electronic glimpses of aircraft without constant monitoring. The colonel experienced two seconds of confusion.

"Where did that come from? The intel briefing mentioned nothing about SAM batteries this far north!"

Then he knew. Whoever was running the Saudi air defense net was a shrewd bastard. Undoubtedly they had moved portable launchers north of the Tiger Force bases on short notice-probably during the night. Hali ruefully admired the professionalism of the setup. Then he concentrated on dealing with it.

Warning calls came rapidly as pilots saw the missiles lift off, blowing large geysers of dust and sand as the first-stage boosters ignited.

Without looking, Hali knew his suppressors were in their dives, rolling in on the most threatening sites, but there were too many of them. Goddam it! How many were there? The desert before him seemed saturated with the telltale dust clouds of lift-off and the smoky white trails of missile boosters headed toward his formation at a slant range of ten to thirty miles.

The next few minutes were aerial bedlam. Even in the clear air it was difficult to spot the missiles in sustainer stage, lancing upward at twice the speed of sound. But there were so many-no Israeli flier had ever had to deal with such an intense concentration of SAMs.

The orderly, spaced formations became ragged as pilots opened out to loose deuce, flying the "SAM box" which allowed two planes to maneuver independently without drawing a missile toward either one. But with each wrapped-up, mind-blurring turn, with each diving countermove to defeat a missile, the formations began to disperse. Sections became separated from flight leaders, wingmen from section leads. Air discipline-a hallmark of the Heyl Ha'Avir-was sorely tested. Some pilots had to take their planes down below 3,000 feet to escape the missile barrage. Then, climbing back to altitude with heavy bomb loads still on board, they bled off energy and became more vulnerable.

Aaron Hali spotted a SAM streaking toward him from almost dead ahead. From long experience, he turned twenty degrees port, to better gauge the threat's closure. At the moment his professional instincts told him it was now or never, he wrapped his Eagle into a hard barrel roll, defeating the SAM's tracking in two planes. He snapped his head to the right, watching the smoke trail flash past him and continue to its inevitable end.

The mission leader also sensed something else. The Saudi fighters would be approaching at this very moment. He knew because that is how he would time it if he were running their show. With his pilots concentrating on evading the SAMs, their mutual support degraded by violent evasive breaks and altitude loss, this would be the perfect time to commit interceptors.

Hali glanced at his radar screen. It showed the tentative traces of Arab jamming, but he could discern blips with the fifty-mile grid.

He hoped most of his other F-15s also acquired long-range targets before both sides' ECM wiped out the radar option. The radio channels were clogged with warning cries; not much chance of alerting his Sparrow shooters. But then he relaxed a bit. They were professionals; they'd take action on their own.

The Israeli strike groups passed through the ninety-mile SAM belt in less than ten minutes. There were dirty gray tendrils in the clear blue sky, and dissipating SAM trails. There also were parachutes, and smoking wrecks on the ground. With the superb visibility from his F-15 cockpit, Hali took in the situation. It would be a few minutes before his squadrons reformed, but he estimated four to six planes had gone down. It was a small loss rate considering some 135 missiles had been launched, but any loss was irreplaceable. Hali looked again to his screen, hit the auto-acquisition switch, and locked up one of the radar blips. Then he pressed the trigger, sending an AIM-7 off the number one station at ten miles.

Major Abdullah Ben Nir glanced to either side, admiring the excellent view from his F-15. He keyed his microphone, uttered a terse order, and returned his attention to his radar scope. The Israeli jamming was taking effect; his two flights would have to shoot fast. The Saudi squadron commander designated his target and pressed the trigger, firing his first Sparrow at twelve miles. He anticipated the built-in delay but the AIM-7 never appeared. Its rocket motor had failed to ignite.

Cursing to himself, Ben Nir double-checked his switchology, confirmed lock-on, and pressed the trigger again. This time his weapon functioned properly. The radar-equipped F-20s also fired their two sparrows, then prepared for the coming "knife fight."

Airpower historians later would describe it as the largest radar missile shootout ever. Nobody would ever know for certain, but it was reliably estimated in staff studies-in Riyadh, Tel Aviv, London, Washington, and Moscow-that over the next few minutes some eighty Sparrows were fired, slightly more by the Saudis than Israelis. Since ECM efforts already were in progress, many of the missiles were decoyed or diverted. Others were evaded by hard maneuvering which further split up leaders and wingmen. Four Israeli aircraft were knocked out of the air or too badly damaged to continue. Seven Saudi planes were lost in the exchange. Major Ben Nir knew his orders were to disengage as soon as he'd expended his AIM-7s, but he found the opportunity too much to pass up. Rocking his wings, he led his wingman and second section into the fringes of the fight he knew would be developing.

In the second flight of Black Squadron, Lieutenant Mohammad Assad caught sight of the white smoke trail headed for his F -20. Hurtling toward him with an inhuman intelligence at nearly Mach 4, the big Raytheon missile seemed to eat up the miles. With pounding heart, Assad executed the barrel roll maneuver he had been taught for such cases. He loaded six Gs on the wings of his Tigershark, completing the maneuver three seconds too early.

Timing is crucial to defeating an airborne missile. Too late a countermove allows no latitude at all. Too early, and the missile has time for a mid-course correction. Assad had a glimpse of the Sparrow compensating for his turn out of plane, and yanked the stick hard over. He knew as he initiated the maneuver that it was too late.

The AIM- 7 smashed into the Northrop just behind the port wing. A violent explosion blew the fighter inverted at 200 feet over the rocky terrain. Instinctively, Assad pushed the stick full over in an attempt to right the aircraft. Never quit trying. From inverted, he looked through the top of his canopy in the last seconds of his life and watched his homeland rush up to greet his stricken aircraft. Like a canister of napalm, a large fireball scarred the desert landscape, marking the end of Mohammad Assad, citizen of Saudi Arabia, fighter pilot, and martyr at age twenty-one.

Ed Lawrence caught the orange-black fireball in his peripheral vision, then led his anvil force into the Israelis. He saw the F-l5s, having expended most of their Sparrows, close to visual range, lowering their noses and meeting his three squadrons head-on. There were bogeys all around the clock, and what remained of the formations moments before was shredded as the opposing forces swept through one another at 1,100 knots closure. They each pulled into abrupt, mind-blurring climbing turns to bring weapons to bear. But two Saudi flights kept going.

Devil flashed through the initial line of Israeli fighters, passing up the option for a head-on Sidewinder shot. The percentages were too low at that rate of closure. Instead, at high speed he raced on west. He knew the second line of Israeli jets would be about five miles behind the Sparrow shooters. From 500 feet above the terrain, his four sections pulled up to attack the second group as the first line of Israelis desperately reversed to assist. But most were too closely engaged with the pilots of Black, Orange, and Green Squadrons. Lawrence knew, having occupied the Israelis on his anvil, that Geoff Hampton's hammer would be swinging downward just about now.

Twenty-five miles southeast of the main combat, orbiting behind Orange Base, were two Tornadoes. Both were specially fitted for electronic warfare, the ECM pods on the hardpoints under their variable-sweep wings. Both also carried electronic counter-counter-measure avionics attempting to neutralize the Israeli jamming, but this met with limited success. The radar portion of the combat was limited to the early phase, and now it was eyeball to eyeball.

Geoff Hampton looked down at the "furball" of milling fighters 4,500 feet below him. He deployed his two squadrons, sending Brad Williamson's Red around to the north to hook in behind the main Israeli force, while leading White straight into the fight.

Hampton had never been in aerial combat. His twenty-two years of flying had included twelve on active duty with the RAF and four as a contracted Jaguar pilot in Oman. The remainder of his career had been spent in clandestine activities in Africa and the Middle East, affording a wide variety of experience. Now he moistened his lips beneath his oxygen mask, anticipating the ultimate test of his life.

Rolling over, Hampton called, "White Lead is in."

He began stalking a lone Eagle on the fringe of the furball. It was sound doctrine-avoid the center of the fight, where an opponent may appear at any quarter and surprise you. Don't go "tits up" if you can help it-far better to avoid inverted attitudes and retain better orientation. Hampton accepted this tenet, despite the fact that his extensive aerobatics background had made him as comfortable inverted as upright. But above all, he wanted to maintain what the Yanks call "situational awareness." Know what the hell is happening in the three miles of airspace around you.

Hampton pressed his attack on the Eagle from its nine o'clock position. The Israeli saw him at two miles and made a hard left turn into the attack. Hampton leveled his wings, pulling the F-20 into eighty-degree climb and passed the lead to his wingman, Lieutenant Quabis Mendat. With the nose well up, Hampton kicked rudder and brought the Northrop around to a nose-low attitude in position to support Mendat. But it was not necessary.

Few things are as terrifying for a fighter pilot as to turn as hard as his aircraft will sustain, the airframe at its structural limits under heavy buffet, and see behind him an opponent who cannot be pushed out of his radius of turn. The Israeli captain watched in awe as the F-2 °C out-turned him, its nose beginning to pull inside his own turn radius. When he saw the underside of the Northrop's fuselage, an icy hand clutched his stomach-a terrible certainty that the pilot behind him was able to track him in the gunsight. The Israeli's turn into Hampton had set him up for a six o'clock pass by the wingman, whom he had not seen.

With his neck twisted to scan behind him, the twenty-seven-year-old Israeli's head weighed nearly a hundred pounds. His neck muscles strained to sustain the five-G load which his entry airspeed allowed in a maximum-banked turn. Momentarily he thought of reversing the turn, but he knew that would gain a few seconds respite at best. At worst it would get him killed sooner.

He thought of the other option. He could pull the yellow-and-black-striped handle between his knees and catapult himself out of the fight, into the Arabian desert. He could live to see his family again.

Or he could sustain his turn, knowing that if the Saudi behind him didn't shoot in another few seconds, the Eagle's surprising maneuverability would begin to stabilize the combat.

He decided to fight.

In that instant he saw the bright flashes from the F-20's nose, and his life ended as 12 of the nearly 200 rounds in the burst raked the top of his aircraft, smashing the canopy, cockpit, and seat.

Brad Williamson took his flight into the combat from the north-northeast, gaining a favorable initial position on four F-16s. The Falcons were covering some Phantoms, which boldly dived to the deck and proceeded to their target at 200 feet. Williamson sent his second flight after the bombers and locked horns with the nearest F-16.

The Israeli saw him coming and pitched up into a climbing turn.

Brad was willing to play that game. He admitted to himself that he was not as comfortable turning with a 16-he had 2,000 hours in Falcons-but he would play the vertical game willingly. After two upward-rolling scissors he was gaining the advantage and knew the third evolution would be decisive. The trick was energy management. The former Thunderbird knew the F-16 could not fly as slowly as his own airplane in the pure vertical. When the Israeli reached minimum controllable airspeed, he would have to nose over. The Tigershark, however, could go to zero airspeed and hammerhead-turn back on top of him.

With his neck craned back, Williamson carefully watched the dancing F-16, suspended in infinity through the top of his canopy. There was no up or down, left or right; only motion relative to one another. Then the American saw the movement he needed. The F-16 abruptly pitched over and nosed down to regain airspeed:

Instantly Williamson stomped right rudder, forcing the nose to slice down and around, emerging from a sixty-degree dive above and behind the brown-and-tan-camouflaged Falcon. Williamson got a good missile tone, closed to less than one mile, and pressed the trigger.

The port Sidewinder flashed off the rail and corkscrewed slightly as it sensed its target. The F-16 had gained enough momentum to begin an evasive turn but it was not enough. The AIM-9 sliced off the Falcon's tail and the pilot ejected.

Williamson let out a howl of exultation. Briefly he pondered the chance of buying that Israeli driver a drink this evening. What a kick to hear it from that guy's viewpoint! He glanced down again, taking bearings on where his opponent would land, and began to circle the likely spot.

"Red Lead! Break right! Break… "

Williamson's instincts began to take over. In automatic response to his wingman's call, he slammed the stick hard over to begin evading whatever Red Two had seen. He felt a heavy lurch, heard an impossibly loud bang, and vaguely felt the onset of searing heat. Then Brad Williamson died.

Red Two looked down at the aerial debris. He could hardly believe what he had just witnessed. The F-16 he had been fighting zoom-climbed from Brad's bellyside in a turn and collided. In an instant both aircraft were windblown smoke and shards of metal. The Saudi shook himself, glancing around the clock, and detected friendlies out at three o'clock. He bent the throttle to join them.

At this point the fight had been in progress for six minutes. Since most jet combats seldom last more than two minutes, it was several eternities in duration. But Ed Lawrence knew that time was almost impossible to measure in combat. He recalled an F-4 pilot who dueled with a MiG-17 over Vietnam and returned swearing the fight had lasted four to five minutes: The mission tape proved it was barely forty seconds.

Lawrence and Badir had jumped a flight of Kfirs and destroyed two. The fight now was dispersed over an area measuring thirty to fifty miles on a side, and the intensity of combat was diminishing. Black Lead's flight reformed and trolled the perimeter of the arena, looking for additional bogeys.

During a momentary pause in the jamming, Lawrence heard a call from Ahnas Menaf with Green Squadron: "Bogeys pulling away northward. Am pursuing. Out."

There was also a short transmission from Orange, though the call sign was garbled. Lawrence figured that Rajid was patrolling the nearby fields. Good lad. Always does the right thing

Aaron Hali knew that things had turned to hash around him.

Orbiting north of Ha'il, waiting to provide withdrawal support for part of the strike force, he knew there had been heavy losses on both sides and doubted that more than two flights would reach the target, still more than a hundred miles away. He checked his fuel state-ample but getting low-and looked around for his wingman. The boy was right there, spread out to two miles.

Hali's nomex flight suit was soaked in sweat and his arms felt heavy. He had been through the toughest fight of his life: two engagements with F-20s. He out-turned one, which he caught at a depleted energy state, and was going for a Sidewinder shot when two more dropped out of nowhere and forced him to break tracking. There had followed the damnedest set-to he had ever experienced.

In the confusion Hali surprised another Tigershark and killed it with a 'winder.

Never had he seen Arab aircraft flown so competently and aggressively. But then, he mused, why not? They held most of the cards-fighting over their own territory close to their own bases, flush with fuel.

He called on mission frequency and ordered the withdrawal northward. He would remain on station with his flight a few more minutes to provide a rear guard.

Major Abdullah Ben Nir was frustrated. He had gained visual sightings on several Israeli aircraft and had a good shot at a Phantom. But he had fired too soon and the F-4 had evaded the missile. To make matters worse, the McDonnell Douglas fighter-bomber-essentially a generation older than its Eagle relative-had disappeared in the shadow of a ridgeline.

Ben Nir realized he had stretched the limit of his orders and then some. He was farther north than he should have been in the first place, and it was time to think about returning to base. He began a turn into the sun, wondering how the "wall of missiles" tactic had worked against the Israelis.

Captain Hasni Khalil's heart was pounding in his chest. He knew he would never be able to relate the proper order of events he had just experienced. The past five minutes were a wild kaleidoscope of spiraling, turning fighters, smoky missile trails, and brownish black smoke rings in the air, and plumes on the ground. He shuddered involuntarily at the memory of two near-misses: once with a Kfir and once with another F -20. He was rattled, upset with himself for not getting a kill. But it was good to be alive.

Khalil scanned the horizon. He prepared to patrol Orange Base when he caught a glint in the distance. He padlocked the speck and accelerated toward it. In a few moments he was visibly overtaking. It was a large aircraft, definitely not a Tigershark.

Turning in his seat to check his wingman's position, Khalil bobbed the nose of his fighter up and down. Though he could not see the bogey, Khalil's wingman repeated the motion and clicked his radio button to acknowledge.

Khalil arced in behind the bogey, slowly overtaking. He wondered why it was flying at basic cruise power. As he got closer he made out four of them-all F-15s. He knew that no friendly Eagles were to be in the area after the initial missile exchange. These four were heading parallel to the Kuwaiti border. Well, if they were Israelis they'd probably be conserving fuel, flying at altitude in a moderately fast cruise.

Keying his mike, Khalil transmitted on B channel. He wondered if he could get through; jamming still was persistent. He tried twice and got no reply. Maybe we'll get close enough. to look at their paint, he thought.

The F-15s began a lazy turn to the left, Khalil noted, which simplified his intercept geometry. He continued his approach from below and slightly to port. At two miles Khalil squinted, hoping to make out the markings but it was still too far.

"TWO BOGEYS EIGHT O'CLOCK LOW! BREAK LEFT!"

Major Ben Nir reacted instantly to his wingman's warning. He looked left to see the specks of two small aircraft over his shoulder and loaded more than six Gs on his airframe. He nearly blacked out, forgetting to contract his diaphragm and abdominal muscles to aid his G-suit.

KHALIL'S PULSE JUMPED. "THEY'RE ENGAGING! COVER ME.!”

Favorably positioned, the lead F-20 crossed behind the closest Eagle and cut the comer on the leader. Khalil rolled in trail, got a high-pitched steady tone in his earphones, and pressed the trigger. "Snake! Watch the shot!"

The AIM-9 hurtled toward the F-l5's tail but exploded well below the target. Damn, Khalil cursed inwardly, another fuse failure. He prepared to reattack when he saw the third Eagle in planform as it pulled up. The green-and-white roundels on the wings stood out clearly.

"Knock it off, knock it off! The Eagles are friendly!"

In his cockpit, major Ben Nir was extremely busy. Fire and warning lights came on across the board. He had felt the near-miss and knew that fragments of the warhead had punctured the belly. He was rapidly losing primary hydraulic pressure.

The wingman slid under his leader, assessing the damage.

There were dozens of holes from the blast-several large ones. "You're venting a lot of hydraulic oil and some fuel. There's smoke from the left engine. How does it feel, sir?"

Ben Nir scanned his instruments again. The Eagle has a large hydraulic reservoir but the gauges told a grim tale; PC-l was near zero and the second system, PC-2, was fading. That only left the utility system. "I want to get clear of the border," Ben Nir said. "I can make it farther south."

Above the stricken F-l5, Khalil watched with bitter frustration.

The sinking feeling in his stomach threatened to reverse itself and spew up his breakfast.

The Eagle completed its turn and rolled wings-level when Ben Nir called again. "PC-2 is falling off… utility looks weak. Controls are getting stiff."

"Get out, Major. Eject while you still have control." The wingman's voice had risen an octave.

Ben Nir swallowed hard, focused his attention, and replied, "Negative. I want to get farther from the border." The Code called for self-control, studied indifference to danger.

The minutes dragged by. The Eagle's increasingly erratic flight betrayed its imminent doom, but the pilot remained committed to his decision. The wingman called again. "Major, you must eject right now. You're-"

"Ahhh… I've… I've just… " The modulated voice was gone. Abdullah Ben Nir never finished the transmission. As his utility hydraulic system failed, the controls locked. The big slabs of the unit horizontal tail dropped with a decisive thunk into the full-down position. The violent pitching movement was impossible to duplicate in simulation-no pilot could ever be prepared for it.

As the nose snapped viciously through the horizon, aerodynamic forces in excess of thirty negative Gs smashed the pilot upward out of his seat, against the canopy. Ben Nir blacked out instantly, never realizing what happened. But his wingman saw the entire ghastly evolution. He would never forget the incredible sight of his squadron leader splayed like an insect on a glass slide despite the fittings meant to keep him secured to his seat.

The F-15 nosed into the bottom of an outside loop, but solid earth interrupted its arcing path. A fireball marked the end of one more life this day.

Bennett had attempted to follow the progress of the battle from the operations center. He knew it was futile, as the combat was too disjointed, spread over too much ground and hundreds of miles of sky.

Climbing atop the camouflaged command and communications center, the chief of Tiger Force surveyed the area. Smoke still drifted from bomb holes and dust was swept up in eddies of wind. He looked toward the runways. There appeared to be a cluster of bomb hits near the approach end of the nearest strip, but he could not tell about the parallel runway. Bennett had laid out the field with parallel runways just for this purpose. On conventional airfields, with crossed runways, it was simple to shut down the facility by bombing the intersection.

Six Phantoms had gotten though to Ha'il. Two fell to SAMs and antiaircraft guns but four pressed in to deliver their ordnance. At least one hangar was destroyed, and one fuel tank had been leveled. Fortunately, it contained little JP4 at the time.

Bennett breathed deeply. Well, it looks like the base got off light. Then came the scarlet thread of anxiety. Wonder how the boys are doing.…

Colonel Aaron Hali finally turned northward. He had seen Israeli aircraft pass below him singly and in pairs, but not one four-plane flight. It appeared the battle was over, and he wondered if Solomon Yatanahu had listened in on the morning's events. Hali looked forward to debriefing with his old friend. Time permitting, they would get drunk together.

Continuing his scan through the turn, Hali saw nothing. He heard calls from pilots ahead of him, crossing the SAM belt again. My God, how many missiles,do the Saudis have? He could not imagine how they retained any after the godawful barrage they had unleashed-was it possible? — less than an hour ago.

"Bogeys six o'clock high!"

"More out to the east, Lead. Three and four o'clock."

"I'm in!"

"Cover me, Benny, there's Tigersharks up here."

"Where did they come from?"

Colonel Hali wracked his Eagle into as hard a turn as his airspeed allowed. The last call bothered him-it was unnecessary, contributing nothing. That seldom happened in the Heyl Ha'Avir.

Feeling his G-suit compress about his abdomen and thighs, Hali sustained a maximum-rate turn into the unexpected threat, seeing two Northrops pass to port. He noted twin motes of light at their tails. Tigersharks had only one engine.

''They're F-5s! All Eagles, all Eagles, this is Aaron. These are F-5s. Out."

Hali stole a glance at his fuel gauges. He knew that he would be lucky to walk home from this one.

The Jordanian portion of the hammer was well timed. Those Israeli pilots able to disengage from the anvil had begun climbs to optimum cruising altitude, flying profiles for greatest range. The F-15s carried bags of fuel, affording it exceptionally long "legs." But repeated combats, using afterburner, were not part of the equation. Any additional full-power usage would quickly erode the fuel reserve to dangerous levels. A thirty-minute reserve built into the mission plan would not accommodate five more minutes banging in and out of afterburner-especially at lower altitudes.

Those two-plane sections closest to the mission commander had no choice. They unhesitatingly turned to engage, willing to take one more enemy with them before they were shot down or flamed out. The others had a fifty-fifty chance-accelerate away, trading fuel for distance and the chance of a Sidewinder up the tailpipe, or accept battle.

High over Arabia Deserta, grim choices were made in F-15 and F-16 cockpits. In a few minutes only windblown smoke and drifting parachutes remained to tell the tale.

Chapter 15

John Bennett raced his jeep from revetment to revetment, occasionally swerving to avoid cheering mechanics and exultant pilots. He noted with professional concern that few of the men were refueling or rearming the aircraft immediately upon return. He grabbed a maintenance supervisor, shouted a few words, and depressed the clutch. Shifting into low, he resumed his initial review of the returning Tiger Force pilots.

From his own combat experience, Bennett knew what the young Saudis were feeling. It would be hours before the adrenaline abated and hypertension drained away. Then an inner calmness would wash over them, and many would lie awake.

Grateful and proud, they also would remember the men they had killed this day. Most would realize that the enemy were men very much like themselves, skilled, dedicated adversaries. In the heat of combat one saw only airplanes, not men. Somehow it was always a shock for a fighter pilot to realize there often was a dead body in the wreckage of the airplane he had just destroyed.

Seeing Rajid Hamir climbing down from his F-20, Bennett braked to an abrupt halt. He saw the young squadron commander run down the line and scramble up the ladder of Orange Five, his exec. They exchanged a few terse words, then Rajid dropped back to the ground. He began to unzip his G-suit when he was hoisted upon the shoulders of his pilots and mechanics. Once again the chant rose. "Ra-jid, Ra-jid!" But this time the young man seemed more withdrawn.

Bennett pressed his way through the crowd, ordering the armorers and mechs to return to work. The eight-plane standing patrol would have to be reinforced soon.

Rajid saw his mentor coming and asked to be put down. Bennett reached for the Saudi's hand and pressed it firmly. "How'd it go, Rajid?"

The young CO mussed his sweaty hair and rubbed the lines on his face left by his oxygen mask. "It was a tremendous fight, sir. We hit them just after the Sparrows fired. The timing was good. After that, I cannot tell you very much. It was…" he searched for the English word, "a madhouse up there. But we did well, I believe. "

"How'd you do, son?" Bennett realized he had never before used that term with one of his pilots.

Rajid rubbed his forehead. "I got an F-15 before he saw me and then another in a rolling scissors. After that I went for a guns pass on a 16 but only damaged him." Rajid gulped water from a canteen offered by a mech. "After that I took my flight and two loners to patrol our case. We were ordered back here to refuel and rearm."

Bennett patted his shoulder. ''That was smart thinking, Rajid. I'm afraid we may have lost Ahnas. He isn't back yet."

''That was what I heard on Green's channel. I checked with my exec, and he thought Ahnas went north to chase the Israelis. Ahnas is a better pilot than I am, Colonel Bennett. He always was, since we were students together. I wonder-if he didn't make it-"

Bennett cut off the boy's doubts. "Rajid, listen to me." His voice was cold and unemotional. "If Ahnas went glory-hunting with his flight, he committed a mortal sin. Yes, he's a good pilot. One of the best. But hot hands aren't enough. He should have used his head, too."

Rajid said, "I had better check my people, sir. We have had losses."

"Of course, son. Go ahead. I'm coordinating the search and rescue efforts from here. We'll know more this evening."

The flight line was arrayed with serious, quiet maintenance personnel and staff officers. The Israeli Eagles landed by ones and twos, taxiing to their dispersal areas, where mechanics and armorers immediately went to work. In some cases the big fighters were fully serviced before the fatigued pilots climbed stiffly from the high cockpits.

Colonel Solomon Yatanahu stalked down the line, looking for the mission commander's aircraft. Not seeing it, he turned around and jogged back to one of the flight commanders. The captain stood between the twin tails, inspecting battle damage inflicted by a 20mm shell. Yatanahu called up to him.

"Hey, Benjamin!" The captain looked down at the base CO.

"Oh, hello, Colonel."

"Aaron?"

The captain slowly shook his head, then returned to his inspection of the shell hole.

Lieutenant Colonel David Ran ripped the helmet from his head and lofted it in a high arc over the side of his cockpit. One of the enlisted men caught it. The Kfir squadron commander sat for several seconds with his gloved hand rubbing his temples.

The crew chief put the ladder in place but decided against climbing to assist the pilot. He knew when the CO was in one of his moods.

At length Ran unplugged and unsnapped himself from the cockpit. Some of his intense anger had dissipated, and he felt the onset of a growing numbness. He wanted to return to his billet and sleep, but he knew there was much to do before he could indulge in that luxury. Climbing down the yellow ladder, he accepted his helmet from the mechanic and walked alone toward the operations shack. One of the maintenance officers trotted over to him.

"Colonel, we're missing three planes so far and-"

"Not now, damn it." With a slicing wave of his hand, Ran continued walking in brooding silence.

John Bennett and Ed Lawrence sat in the dining hall of the command center. They occupied a corner by themselves, enjoying one another's company as much as debriefing.

"I have the preliminary figures from Bear," Bennett said. Digging a sheet of paper from his pocket, he toted up the score. "Looks like our guys claimed about thirty kills, plus whatever the Eagles bagged and the F-5s got in the end run. We should have the figures from the SAM battalions tomorrow. Meanwhile, it looks like we lost twenty-two, including Brad in a mid-air."

Lawrence tapped his fingers on the metal tabletop. "Wonder how many of the Israeli drivers jumped when they ran dry?"

"Don't know yet, Devil. Several of them undoubtedly came down in Jordan. It'll take the Saudi Army a while to scoop 'em up and count the wrecks. Bear is preparing a tentative report to Riyadh. It'll include all this data plus our preliminary analysis on ECM and rescue operations. The helo guys are out now and will continue through tomorrow."

Lawrence said, "I lost two planes and one pilot. The first went down when an AIM-7 hit him. The other lost a turning contest with a 16-apparently our guy overloaded himself and blacked out. Got hosed and ejected. He was lucky, but I'm going to have a word with him.”

"What did you guys claim?" Bennett glanced at Bear's notes. "Eight or nine?"

"Eight confirmed, plus another probable," Lawrence said. "Badir and I each got a Kfir climbing back to altitude after the SAM break. Then we latched onto a section of F-16s. We must have fought 'em for three or four minutes. Damnedest fight I ever was in. Finally nailed one but the wingie got away."

Lawrence leaned forward, his blue eyes animated. "You know, Pirate, I felt invincible in the F-8. Nobody ever got a clear win over me after I got out of the training squadron. Not even you. But in this 20… " The redhead whistled softly. "In the Tigershark, I'm immortal. I tell you, no lie, G.I. As long as I play my game and keep my eyeballs moving, ain't nobody can take me. And I've been up against the best."

Bennett chuckled inwardly, recognizing the same world-class ego in his friend which he had once possessed in himself. "Well, Jesus, Ed. I should hope you're that good. I mean, you only have seven thousand hours and one war up on the rest of these sports."

The exec waved a deprecating hand. "No, no. I mean it. Look, it's like I'm the world champion chess player. I don't have to fear any other grand master. Whatever he shows me, it's a move I've seen before or a strategy I've used myself."

"Okay, I won't dent your fighter pilot ego. But for Pete's sake, Devil, remember you're pushing forty-eight years old. You can't keep this up forever."

Lawrence gulped the last of his iced tea. Crunching the ice cube, he shook his head. "Won't have to. Hell, I'll probably be KIA before this is over. Not through any fault of my own, of course. That's a statistical impossibility. But late one dark and stormy night, Allah might tap old Devil on the shoulder and ask me to help organize things in Paradise."

Bennett looked his friend straight in the face. ''That's not the worst thing that could happen to you, is it?"

Lawrence returned the gaze. "No, it sure isn't, pardner."

"You know, I never mentioned this, but Claudia asked me about you and what you might do when this is all over." He smiled a grim, bittersweet smile. "She thought maybe we could adopt you and try to make you a useful citizen in society."

"Bless her heart. I almost believe that girl could have saved me." Lawrence paused, unsure of his ground. He had not heard Bennett mention Claudia's name since she was killed. "You still miss her a lot?"

Bennett closed his eyes for a moment. "Sometimes it's like she never existed for me. I mean, it's hard to believe I ever found her. Like she was just a pleasant dream. Other times… God, I can hardly stand it." His voice dropped an octave. "Whoever it was that killed her, I hope they're paying for it now.

Lawrence touched his friend's ann. "After what happened today, maybe they are."

Modi Aharon, a paratroop lieutenant colonel, opened a dirty knapsack and deposited the contents on the table. "These were on the prisoner," he said, "and we picked up these items from Saudi patrol members." The paratrooper handed the two piles of personal effects to the intelligence officer.

"Thank you, Modi. As usual, you have been very thorough."

Chaim Geller thumbed through the documents. Then he picked up a standard rescue mirror. "Where did you say you found this Saudi patrol?"

Pointing to a map coordinate, the lieutenant colonel said, "About here, just south of the Jordanian border. We wouldn't have seen them if they hadn't shot at our scout helicopter. We already had the prisoner aboard and one of our own pilots. The gunship escort made one pass, then we landed to pick up documents. One of the bodies had this mirror and a signal book."

Geller rubbed his chin. "Now why would a Saudi foot patrol be up in that area, and why would only one of the men have a rescue mirror? You'd think each member would be equipped with this type of emergency gear." He turned to the paratrooper. "Which is the signal book?"

"Bottom of the stack, sir."

"Hmmm. I'll have our linguists get right on it. Something is peculiar here, Modi. We'll have the answer soon enough." He laid down the document. "Now, where is our hotshot Saudi fighter pilot?"

"Outside in the hallway. We're giving him small quantities of water. He's partially dehydrated and the medics don't want to overdo it."

The intel chief said, "Now would be a good time to talk to him. His resistance will be down after a day and a half in the desert. "

They walked around the comer to where a medic and two paratroopers stood watching the young flier. His face was sunburned and he lay on a bench with his knees elevated, sucking on a handkerchief containing ice cubes.

"Good afternoon, Lieutenant," Geller said, glancing at the Saudi's rank insignia. "I trust you're feeling better. What is your name and unit?" English would be their common language.

The Saudi sat upright. "I am Lieutenant Menas Abd Halif, Royal Saudi Air Defense Force."

"Yes, Lieutenant, I know your air force. But what is your squadron?"

"I am not obliged to tell you, sir. Our nations are at war and I am a member of the Saudi armed forces which have lawfully declared war against Israel."

"Come now, Lieutenant Halif. You needn't be coy with us. We know you are an F-20 pilot with the so-called Tiger Force. We know about your leaders, Colonel Bennett and Lieutenant Colonel Lawrence. We know you trained at Bahrain. We're merely filling in the necessary forms." He waved a sheaf of blank papers in the air. It had worked several times before, but this was a new war against a new enemy.

The Saudi pilot made no reply, so Geller pressed on. "We also know that your squadron leader, Captain Menaf, led your flight northward to pursue some of our aircraft, and was trapped by our withdrawal force of fighters."

The lieutenant's face revealed surprise. Then the curtain descended, expressionless. They've intercepted our radio calls, Halif thought. Just as Colonel Lawrence warned.

The Saudi looked up at Geller. "What I do not know, sir, is who you are. What is your authority?"

Geller was momentarily surprised. For the first time in his life, the intelligence officer looked into the face of an enemy and saw reflected there an equal.

The combined staffs from each Israeli base which launched planes on the Saudi strike prepared a joint mission summary that night. Working late, the eight planners and intelligence officers finally had completed their work. They were tired, anxious, and some were discouraged.

Major Zev Lapido from Balhama snapped his notebook shut with a crisp movement. "We have to give them credit. The Saudis set this up extremely well. The only fault I see here is the F-20 flight which chased some of our planes north to the border."

Lieutenant Colonel Shimon Weiler, a former Mirage pilot, pounded his fist on the table. "Damn it! Anybody could see this coming. We were suckered, to use the American phrase. And what did we accomplish? We moved some sand dunes, that's about all. In exchange for over forty planes and at least three helicopters. Not to mention the boys out there… "

The colonel directing the debrief, Reuven Yeier, wanted to regain control. "Gentlemen, please. Let's remember we were ordered on this mission." He looked around the room. "We can take this as a lesson learned and avoid similar mistakes in the future."

"Damn it, Reuven, that's no good."· Weiler snapped at his superior, uncaring for the breach of decorum. "The point is, this never should have happened. We were led down the path. The Saudis knew the government would order retaliation for their raids on Jerusalem and the Knesset. Next, we were drawn over the mobile SAMs, then the Sparrow volley, and the F-20s jumped our boys while most of them were still dodging missiles. Finally the Jordanian F-5s cut them off." He picked up a sheaf of pilot reports. "Look at these! Our pilots never even saw the F-5s until too late. They came out of the sun without radar warning due to enemy ECM. God in heaven!"

Colonel Yeier retained his composure. "We knew the Saudis had accepted many of the Jordanians, who have a high standard of training. And we knew the radar jamming would be better than any we've faced before. After all, the Soviets don't like to show their hand by giving the Syrians all their first-line equipment."

A captain from Hovda spoke up. "I think we're missing the point. We're crying over what's past. I believe we should be more concerned with retrieving more of our pilots from Arabia."

"Ezer, nobody in this room disagrees with you." The colonel's tone was calm and reassuring. "We're doing absolutely everything we can. But remember, our helicopters must fly over Arab-occupied Jordan into Saudi airspace to reach those sites. We have already lost three helos and their crews." He looked around the room, making his point with his eyes. "From now on we need to conserve our planes and pilots for the most effective use. That message is going to Tel Aviv this very night. I don't think there will be a repeat of this folly."

With that, he walked out the door.

Watching him go, the Mirage pilot said, "From now on, I wonder if we can hold what we have."

Ed Lawrence wandered into the debriefing room, drawn by the noise and chatter. Despite the hour, he noted with pleasure that morale remained at a peak. Thirteen of the Tiger Force pilots who had been shot down were recovered. Those returned to Ha'il were greeted with a combination of hearty hugs and good-natured ribbing.

In the comer, several Black Squadron pilots were singing the organization's theme song.

Lawrence walked over to join them in the hoarse shouting which passed for singing.

The mirage from — the midday heat shimmered in the distance as the binoculars focused on the West Bank. General Hassan Gamail rotated the knob and set the mil scale along the Israeli-held front. His Zeiss binoculars were a prized possession. He had carried them since 1984 when the Iraqi chief of staff had presented them to the new regimental commander. Gamail had proven himself an accomplished soldier at every command level, and despite his country's military stalemate with Iran, his career had flourished. He had outlived many of his contemporaries.

The Iraqi corps commander carefully tucked away the valuable German glasses and edged back from the sandbagged emplacement.

Motioning to his driver, he scrambled into his command car and gave directions to the nearby divisional headquarters.

With two infantry divisions and a reinforced motor rifle division under his command, the veteran soldier believed he could make an option work for him. He needed to arrange supporting arms on short notice-artillery and air. But if he was correct, the opening he saw developing could turn this war around. It was Day Ten, and if Gamail's plan worked there would not be a Day Twenty. But first he had to talk to the combined headquarters in Damascus. This would require coordination on three fronts.

John Bennett tapped the map with his pencil. "You know, Bear, this war should be winding down pretty soon. The Arabs have control of most of Jordan again and the Israelis only hold this part of the West Bank anymore." He pointed to the slight bulge eastward toward the River Jordan.

"What still surprises me is that the Arabs stuck to their plan so well." The ex-Marine rubbed his neck; he had gotten sunburned two days before. "Once the Israelis began to pull back to shorten their lines, I figured the Syrians and that bunch might try to press right through to Tel Aviv."

Bennett glanced around. He did not want to be overheard.

"There have been rumors to that effect all along, but since the Egyptians and Saudis have declined to back that move, the campaign seems to be living up to its press. The Arabs are playing this one smart for a change. By defining their mission and stating it to the world, they gained a hell of a lot of support. It'd be contrary to their interests to invade Israeli territory."

Bear flashed a huge smile. "Bring the boys home by Christmas? Seems I've heard that one before."

"Don't be so goddam cheerful," Bennett said with mock earnestness. "The day this shooting match ends, you and I are out of a job. "

The big flier said, "Yeah, I know. But somehow being unemployed doesn't bother me much anymore. I guess the main thing we have to worry about is the State Department. They know we're here. Probably know what we're doing."

"Well, don't sweat it, Bear. If necessary, we can dig up a sea lawyer to muddy the waters. After all, we're not in the same boat as the contract maintenance folks, or even the military attaches. We're working directly for the king of Saudi Arabia. State isn't going to rock the boat after that. If anything, the diplomats will be falling all over themselves to return to business as usual in Riyadh. If things do get tight, I think we can count on Safad to smooth things over."

Bennett turned from the wall map and picked up a clipboard with operations reports. "I see the Saudis approved your rotation plan for the northern bases. Are the two Jordanian outfits flying from Green and Blue Bases now?"

"Affirmative. And Black is supposed to rotate back here with Orange in a couple days. Now that it's about over, I guess Devil and Rajid and the guys will look forward to some Rand R in Bahrain or Riyadh."

"Some of them will, but I don't know about Ed. He's having a real good time. He bagged another one a couple days ago and he won't be satisfied unless he gets the last kill with the last missile in this war." Bennett flipped the chart cover shut. "Besides, there's no kind of Rand R Devil would enjoy in any Muslim country."

"I guess you're right. But what about the young tigers? I'd imagine Rajid is anxious to see his boy again. The kid must be… what, almost two years old?"

"Not quite two." For the first time in days, Bennett thought of his own son, and of his granddaughter. God, I'm ready to go home. We've proved our point. ''Things still quiet along the border?"

Barnes leaned back on the table, one leg dangling. "Pretty much. Some of the boys are saying the Israelis are afraid to come back in force after the big shootout, and I lit into a couple of them. I was polite, you understand, but firm. I guess we've both seen that kind of overconfidence backfire on a pilot."

"Damn right, Bear. These kids need to understand the Israelis haven't been back because there's no reason for it. Hell, from their viewpoint there was no good military reason in the first place. The fact that the politicians panicked and ordered their air force south just means our plan goaded them into our hands." He thought for a moment. "There must be some mighty upset Israeli drivers up around Tel Aviv this week. I wouldn't blame 'em for dumping napalm on the Knesset."

Bear consulted his notes. "Tiger Force is deploying standing patrols along the Jordanian-Saudi border, alternating with F-5s. I figure since the radar signature is identical for each type, the Israelis will have to assume all patrols are F-20s. At least, as long as the guys keep zip-lip."

"Remind me to hire you as an ops officer sometime, Barnes. You show real promise. Now, I'm going to log some ACM with a couple of the guys. Is 001 ready?"

"Right where you parked her last time, boss."

Colonel Solomon Yatanahu checked the communications from Heyl Ha'Avir headquarters again. He had informed the air staff that he wanted to consolidate his remaining Eagles into two squadrons instead of the usual three. Attrition had made the ordinary administrative division unwieldy. Now the base commander wanted to pool all his aircraft and assign them to pilots from the same squadrons in order to maintain maximum possible coordination in the air. He proposed putting up four-plane flights from two squadrons at a time, keeping the pilots of his third squadron on rotation.

Yatanahu was reading the availability reports when his adjutant, Lieutenant Yoni Ben-Nun, entered the office. "Excuse me, Colonel. We've just had a bit of good news."

The fighter ace turned around. "I could stand some good news, Yoni. What is it?"

Ben-Nun waved a teletype form. "Word from the International Red Cross. Aaron, Colonel Hali-he's a prisoner of the Saudis. He injured his back on ejection but apparently he's all right otherwise. "

Yatanahu, like many Israeli pilots, was not devoutly religious.

But he closed his eyes and said a short, heartfelt prayer of thanksgiving.

The aide saw the relief on his superior's face. "Evidently several other pilots were captured, too. We probably won't know full details until a cease-fire is arranged."

"Well, that may be quite a while, Yoni. I just saw the kill-loss ratio from the first week. We're destroying eight to ten enemy aircraft for each loss in air combat. It's not as good as it used to be."

The captain said, "We knew the Syrians were working hard to improve in the past three years. And the Iraqis have a lot of institutional experience from fighting Iran. Even the Iranians have produced a few top fliers. You recall that memo about their ace F-14 pilot who claimed sixteen kills against Iraq during the 1980-88 war. But-"

"I know," the colonel interrupted. "The Saudis. We may be lucky to break even against them. They and the Jordanians are very good."

Feeling defensive, Ben-Nun interjected, "But there have been only a handful of engagements, sir. We were fighting over their territory, close to their bases. My God, the Ha'il strike was a nine-hundred mile round trip. And the F-20 is so small. It's very hard to see. Many of our pilots never even-"

Yatanahu waved a hand. "Yes, yes. I know all the pertinent arguments, Yoni. And each one of your points is valid. But we shouldn't have expected a pushover. Intelligence reported the Tigershark pilots were flying a minimum forty hours per month, often sixty. With the quality of their instructors, a fine airplane, and three and a half years, they were bound to build a first-class air force." The colonel looked sharply at his aide. "You remember your basic military doctrine? Never, never assume enemy actions based upon what he is likely to do. Assume the worst case he is capable of forcing upon you and proceed accordingly."

"Yes, sir."

"All right. Enough philosophy. What else do you have for me today?"

Consulting his clipboard, Ben-Nun pulled out a notification of the next day's scheduled operations. "The army is moving some units from the West Bank to reinforce the northern front, where the Syrians are massing. We have to maintain standing patrols over the withdrawal area before daylight and maintain cockpit alert with every serviceable aircraft not assigned to fly."

Yatanahu glanced at the order and initialed it. "Very well. What do you make of this, Yoni?"

The aide hated it when his CO played military professor.

"Sir, I suspect a deception. The Syrians already control all of Lebanon. The stated Arab goal in this war is to drive us from Jordan and the West Bank. If they follow von Clausewitz, they'll concentrate at the decisive point-the West Bank. This activity in Lebanon could be meant to draw us off."

"Excellent!" The colonel clapped his aide on the shoulder. "It so happens I agree with you. It also appears the government wants to seize some Lebanese territory as a bargaining chip to retain a presence on the West Bank if we're forced out."

The young captain asked in a low voice, "Colonel, can we hold the West Bank? If we have to pull back-"

"I know, Yom, I know. There'll be hell to pay."

The Soviet ambassador's heels clicked on the concrete, echoing in the Second Avenue subway station. Twenty paces behind him two security agents kept pace with the fast-walking diplomat. Several blocks to the north was the United Nations Building. Anatoli Servenoff was one of the few old men left in the upper strata of the Soviet hierarchy. A new clique finally had replaced most of the World War II generation, but a few remained because of influence or ability. The United Nations ambassador had both.

As a twenty-four-year-old, Servenoff had been a petty bureaucrat in the Ukraine when the Germans struck in 1941. He had saved himself from liquidation-the usual fate of Communist Party members-by offering to cooperate in locating and exterminating every Jew in his district. He had worked hard and effectively for two years before making a dash for Soviet lines. Taking with him information and marginally useful documents, Servenoff had ingratiated himself with his superiors, who commended him for his espionage work among the Nazi barbarians. By 1945 he was a security commissar, still rounding up "unreliable" elements among the Jewish population.

The prospect of speaking directly and privately to the Israeli ambassador to the United Nations was distasteful to Servenoff. There was a metallic tinge in the Russian's mouth, and he spat several times trying to dislodge the bitter saliva. But the Soviet ambassador, like many of his Kremlin colleagues, was a master of expressionless demeanor. Secretary of State Thurmon Wilson had once remarked, "They may be a nation of chess players but their negotiating face would do credit to a master poker player."

Servenoff glanced around to satisfy himself that nobody was within earshot. He had been directed by Moscow to present his message to the Israelis without a chance of being recorded or overheard. One hundred yards ahead, approaching from the opposite direction, he recognized the Israeli ambassador, Avrim Ran. As if on signal, the Israeli bodyguards stopped when the Soviets halted. The two diplomats continued walking toward one another, each with hands in his pockets.

Neither man extended a hand in greeting.

Ran stared unblinking at the Soviet. He knew Servenoff's life story, knew that this man could be relied upon at Politburo meetings to push for harsher treatment of Soviet Jews. Western efforts to increase Jewish emigration from Russia drew mixed reaction from Servenoff. On the one hand, he wished every Jew gone from the Soviet Union-even the "good" Jews who abounded in Russian life and the Communist hierarchy. On the other hand, a lifetime of harassing, prosecuting, and deporting Jews had become ingrained habit.

Without preamble the Soviet diplomat spoke in near-perfect English. "Ambassador Ran, my government has directed me to convey to you in the most forceful terms the following: Because of our long fraternal relationship with the oppressed Arab peoples, Soviet friendship and assistance for them is a cornerstone of our Middle East policy." He swallowed but the metallic taste lingered. "We have viewed with alarm over the past twenty years the possession by your country of nuclear weaponry. Our intelligence is unassailable." He was sorely tempted to add that much of the information came from inside Israel. Some people would do anything to contact relatives still in Russia.

"We know that Israel has approximately one hundred such weapons." This with a faint smile. But the Soviet was. slightly disappointed when Ran gave no sign of surprise.

"Mr. Ambassador." Ran's voice was even, controlled. "What has this to do with current events in my nation? After all, your client states have invaded Israel."

Servenoff never tired of sloganeering. "After your own illegal invasion of Jordan, and the cruelties practiced upon the Palestinian peoples displaced from their homeland, the Arabs are united in opposition to Israel's military arrogance. We Soviets have no desire to see war come again to your region, but we will supply our Arab friends with whatever weapons are necessary for their legitimate defense. This is the message I deliver to you." He held up a stubby finger. "If you Jews-" He halted from force of diplomatic habit. "If you use atomic weapons against the Arab states, the Soviet Union will immediately provide nuclear-armed artillery shells which could reach almost anywhere in your country. I tell you in candor that these weapons are in position at this very minute."

The Russian glared at Ran for a long moment. The Israeli made no comment. Then, without another word, Servenoff turned on his heel and walked briskly toward his waiting men.

That night Avrim Ran flew to Washington for an emergency meeting with Tel Aviv's ambassador to the United States and the chief military attache. Already a motion condemning the Arab invasion of Israel had been defeated in the Security Council by the Soviet veto. However, Ran now held no illusions about the power of diplomacy. He intended to help press the Arnold Administration as hard as possible to intervene in some form.

Ran told his dinner companions about the Soviet decree. They dined in Mordechai Weissman's apartment, free to converse without distraction from other Israeli embassy personnel. But Ran was visibly shaken. "I think they mean it, Mordechai. This doesn't sound like a bluff."

The diplomats turned to General Lom Olmert. They asked his opinion.

"I don't see that we have any choice," Olmert said. "If we do not employ our nuclear force, we'll go under in a week-two at the absolute most. On the other hand, if we issue a pronouncement, threatening their use, that may provoke the Soviets into carrying out a preemptive strike."

Ambassador Weissman said, "Then it's over for us, one way or the other."

Olmert shook his head and sipped some wine. "I'm inclined to believe the nuclear option should be played without announcement. It increases the shock value and forces the Arabs into a defensive mindset."

"What might the Americans do to help?" asked Ran.

"First, I doubt this administration wants to get directly involved. Particularly when Servenoff's threat becomes known. Even then, it's probably too late." He shrugged. "We are as we have always been-on our own."

Avrim Ran leaned forward, hands clasped under his chin. "I must say, General, that seems a remarkably detached evaluation."

Lom Olmert looked frankly at the diplomat. "Mr. Ambassador, if I'm not objective, you should fire me on the spot." He took another sip of wine. "There's one aspect we've not addressed. Are the Soviets really going to turn over nuclear weapons to the Arabs? Just consider that prospect from Moscow's viewpoint. Atomic artillery in the hands of Muslim fanatics-heirs to the Ayatollah. There's an American fleet in the Mediterranean. What if the Syrians or anyone else fired at those ships?" He paused for emphasis. "No, gentlemen. I do not think the Russians will be so stupid."

Weissman spoke in a near-whisper. "But Lom, what if you're wrong?"

"Then we're finished anyway. You know, I've fought in three wars and I've seen hundreds of dead men. Not a single one ever complained about being killed by a bomb instead of a bullet."

Solomon Yatanahu faced his pilots and maintenance and intelligence officers in the briefing room. It was evening, and the past two days had whittled down his Eagle force even further. Everyone looked tired, the ground officers as well as the fliers. Attrition had set in; the Darwinian principle applied to supersonic aircraft and proud-tired young men.

"Boys, you know the situation." Yatanahu tapped the map.

"These three armored columns are on a converging course. If they merge, we've lost." One glance showed that the projected axes of the Arab thrusts would meet at Tel Aviv. The enemy is going for the jugular, Yatanahu mused. They've read von Clausewitz. They're concentrating on the Schwerpunkt-the decisive point.

The base commander continued. ''The Arabs have changed tactics for this new thrust. They're continuing to move tanks and troops under an umbrella of mobile SAMs, but they're concentrating their fighters better. Coordination between SAMs, anti-aircraft artillery, and fighters means a near-continuous air defense net. We can't get our strike planes at their armor without exposing them to interception." He bit his lip. "In honesty, we've lost aerial supremacy. Now we're fighting for local superiority over our own territory. "

Those words rang with a deadened peal; not since 1948 had such a condition existed within Israel's borders. Few of the men in the room had even been born then. They had grown up with certain natural laws. The sun rose in the east. Water ran downhill. Israel owned the sky. Now it was as if the laws of nature had been suspended.

Yatanahu asked the senior intelligence officer for his projection.

Major Eliazar Maimonides shuffled his papers and began. "We have run these figures with every variation that occurs to us. But the fact is, we have no more than two days to effect a change. The median is one-point-eight days-call it thirty-three hours from midnight. By then, anyone or all of three things can happen."

Maimonides looked at his notes. "Either we'll be out of fuel or out of sufficient planes to put up a worthwhile strike. Or the first tanks will reach Tel Aviv." He glanced up for a moment. "We're still outshooting them over eight to one in the air, without recent F-20 engagements, and we have enough twenty-millimeter ammunition to last. But missiles and fuel are going fast."

"Solomon." It was Major Yehudi Ne'eman, the senior squadron commander. He was thirty-two years old but right now he looked about forty-five. He had shot down six Arab aircraft in the past two days, and landed a crippled F-15 when nobody would have blamed him for ejecting. "It's obvious we need to break the pattern, try a different approach. We have to get into their second echelon."

Yatanahu agreed. "Precisely, but the Arabs also know the importance of their backup formations. They are what sustain the drive. That's no doubt why they allocate their strongest fighters to patrol those areas." He cleared his throat, not wanting to leave anything unsaid. "We're at parity with the Saudi F-20s, trading them essentially one for one. But it's no good, we can't afford that kind of exchange rate. We're forced to back off from the deeper strikes and concentrate over the battle front. "

Maimonides interjected. "Gentlemen, we do have some things on our side. We're definitely superior at night, and what strikes we've flown in darkness have been pretty successful. Also, our decoy measures against the surface missiles are taking effect."

Though he couldn't explain details to anyone likely to be captured, the major was pleased with the latter ploy. It had been his idea. When Soviet-made SS-20 surface-to-surface rockets began dropping on and near Israeli airfields, the Syrians needed spotting reports to gauge their accuracy. Israeli intelligence, already onto most of the clandestine spotters, scooped them up and sent false corrections and optimistic results. It seemed to be working, but some SS-20s still found their mark. Meanwhile, Arab fighter-bombers were freed to concentrate on the front lines.

Mildly irritated, Ne'eman, the heavy-eyed F-15 skipper, pressed his point. "All right, that's fine. But what do we do tomorrow morning? We're faced with a vicious circle. We must stop the armored thrusts, but we can't do that without engaging their fighters. Our losses already are near-prohibitive, as you noted."

The pilot and everyone else knew that the loss of 265 Israeli aircraft had forced the Heyl Ha'Avir into a defensive posture. More shot-down pilots were being saved over friendly territory, but their planes were gone forever.

Yatanahu explained the results of the tactical panel's evaluation. But he also knew that a backup plan was being considered.

Chapter 16

Bennett faced the three remaining Tiger Force instructors. He had called Ed Lawrence and Geoff Hampton to join him in a discussion with Bear Barnes, and they occupied the bunk and one chair in his billet.

"Guys, I want to let you know my thoughts on this new development. When we signed on, it was to defend Saudi airspace against any intruder. We've done that-first with the South Yemenis and now with the Israelis." He glanced at Devil's helmet, stacked in a corner with the rest of the IP's flight gear. There were nine stars now-three yellow, six blue.

''This is just my personal opinion. It doesn't have to reflect your own." He bit his lip in concentration. When he looked up he said, "I'm leaving. I'll stay two more days to wrap up administration and coordination. After that, I'm going home." He did not elaborate.

Geoff Hampton said, "John, I wonder what the effect would be if any of us stay on." He glanced at the others. "We're not actively engaged over Israeli territory-just the odd interception in South Jordan. That shouldn't pose any problems, should it?" The Briton was still considering his options.

"No, I don't think so," Bennett replied. "My reasons are… well, they're personal." From the expression on Lawrence's face, Bennett knew his friend had surmised the reason. Claudia's too closely involved with the Israelis in his mind, Devil thought.

Bennett continued. "Bear will remain at least as long as I do to run the ops office. Ed, are you and Geoff still going to Bahrain?"

The redhead replied, "Affirmative. I need to coordinate a resupply of Sidewinders and spares. Geoff is due for Rand R." He looked at the mustached flier. "What'll it be, pardner? Monte Carlo or Rome?"

"Believe I'll try my luck at the gaming tables, old man. Used to be a croupier in my line back some generations." He smiled under his regulation mustache. Then his face turned serious. "I'm for packing it in, too. I've had a good run here, wouldn't have missed it for anything. But I feel it's time for a change."

"Very well." Bennett stood up. "I'll be in touch by phone when you get to Bahrain. Ed, you and Geoff might as well take my bird to Tiger Base. My 001 is due for an annual. That'll leave your two fighters for use here." He raised a cautionary finger. "But don't you dare scratch my pet. She's been good to me and I may want to take her home."

Lawrence waited for the others to leave before talking to Bennett. "Pirate, I'm staying. This isn't over yet, and I'd sort of like to stick around for the finish." He glanced at the floor. "I raised these kids from pups. I couldn't leave them now. Not while there's still some flying to be done." Bennett knew his exec meant, While there's still some fighting to be done. Ed Lawrence had long since passed the point where merely flying-even flying supersonic fighters-satisfied him. The aircraft had become an extension of himself, of his purpose. And his purpose was combat.

That's the difference between us, Bennett thought. I look at a Tigershark and see freedom. Devil looks at the same airplane and sees a weapon.

Bennett patted his friend on the shoulder. "I figured you'd want to stay. Just keep checking six, will you?" Bennett had the unnerving impression he might never see Lawrence again.

"Always have. Don't worry, Pirate. We'll get all the guys together in a year or so for the first Tiger Force reunion. Maybe the king will foot the bill." They made plans to meet on the flight line before Lawrence took off.

Later that afternoon Bennett stood before the situation chart in the briefing room. It was updated twice daily by the Saudi intelligence officers attached to Tiger Force. With professional detachment, Bennett evaluated the developing blitzkrieg against Israel. In the manner of all staff studies, friendly forces were blue, opposition red. The blue arrows thrusting inward from Sinai, from the north, and particularly from the east threatened to slice Israel into pieces.

It was now two days since the combined power of Syria, Iran, Iraq, and Egypt had smashed into Israeli territory behind artillery barrages, air strikes, armored columns, and mustard gas. Though he lacked precise details, Bennett knew that many-perhaps most-of the Israeli airfields were within range of enemy artillery. As the Heyl Ha'Avir consolidated its squadrons on the decreasing number of operational fields, two factors would work against them. Maintenance facilities, ramp space, and accommodations would become overloaded. And the planes bunched on available fields were more vulnerable to shelling or air attack. It was a descending spiral of options which seemed to lead inevitably to defeat.

Bennett pondered the turbulent history of Israel. Since her birth in 1948, the Jewish· State had lived with the ever-present threat of destruction. She had survived against impossible odds because of superior organization and combat skill. Now that the Arabs had matched Israeli resolve, their vastly superior numbers were wearing down Tel Aviv's fighting edge. Not even American support-crucial to Israel's existence-could reverse the situation. And this time there was no U.S. aid. Washington, acting in its own best interest, lacked the willingness or resolve to jump in.

The Tiger Force leader acknowledged his ambivalence toward Israel's peril. They're undoubtedly the ones behind Claudia's death, he thought, and for that they deserve extinction. But he recognized that "they" did not include the nation's entire population, nor the military personnel who would continue to die in this expanded war.

Bennett also felt mixed emotions about his allies. To an extent he felt betrayed by the duplicity of the Muslim states which had reneged on their pledge of reclaiming only Jordan and the West Bank. The opportunists had seen the chance to carry their crusade much farther than announced. True, the Saudis were not participating directly, for the king had remained true to the letter of his declaration. But neither had the House of Saud spoken against the invasion.

Well, what could the Saudis do, anyway? Bennett found himself engaged in a mental debate which neither part of his psyche was winning. The royal family will be lucky to survive on the throne after this is all over, that's for sure.

To hell with it. There are TW clear answers. It's time to go home. Absorbed in his thoughts, Bennett suddenly became aware of Bear Barnes standing next to him. The ex-Marine asked, "Doing more homework, boss?"

''The irony just struck me," Bennett said. "Most of our European allies long ago abdicated the responsibility for their own defense-the most elemental duty of any government. The Israelis have fought their own battles for over two generations and now they're on the ropes. "

Barnes gave a wry smile. ''That's an odd sentiment for the leader of an Arab air force. Besides, you know damn well Israel couldn't stay afloat without U. S. aid and weapons. They barely repay half of what they receive."

"Yeah, I know. But at least they fight. They call a spade a spade. There's seldom any doubt about their position. Hell, some of our so-called friends around the world take billions of dollars in aid and vote against us in the U.N. Or they look the other way when some assassin or terrorist sneaks through their country en route to somewhere else."

Barnes shrugged his big shoulders. "Well, what's the option?"

Bennett looked at the map again. His gaze fell on the port city of Haifa. "Did you ever hear of a contingency plan called Pharaoh?"

"No, don't think so."

"I studied it at War College," Bennett explained. "It was a scenario in which U. S. naval forces attempted to rescue the survivors of an Israeli collapse. The logistics people estimated that maybe a quarter-million Israelis-mainly women and children-could be recovered by sea. I wonder if they've dusted off that study and delivered it to Com Sixth Fleet." He glanced at the two carrier battle groups plotted in the Mediterranean and thought of Dave Edmonds, a rear admiral now. With a start, Bennett realized he had not thought of his friend in months. Maybe Dave was riding one of the carriers out there.

Barnes whistled softly. "I don't see how they could pull it off, John. Not on that scale. It'd be tough enough in peacetime, but under fire? Man, they'd lose more than they saved just getting from the beach to the ships."

"Probably so." He tapped Bear on the chest with the back of his hand. "Let's see Devil and Geoff tuck their wheels in the well."

Forty minutes later Bennett and Barnes stood near the runway and watched 001's engine run up to 80 percent military power. Bennett could tell when Lawrence released the brakes, then heard the afterburner cut in. Instead of pulling up to climb for altitude, the sleek little fighter remained near the runway, retracting its landing gear in level flight. Then, abruptly, the F-20B rolled inverted and passed the two onlookers at 20 feet, wings rocking in farewell. It was a prideful, foolish piece of flying-something only Devil would do. Bennett shaded his eyes from the sun as the nose came up sharply, angling into the sky under negative G.

Watching the Tigershark disappear from sight, Bennett realized he probably never would see his jet airborne again. He might get one last flight in 001 before he headed home.

Bear Barnes wondered why Bennett stood watching for so long.

The two-seater had disappeared from view two minutes before. Finally he tapped the CO's arm. "Come on, Skipper. Let's go to chow. Dinner's ready."

With a last look eastward, Bennett fell in step with the fast-walking Marine.

Colonel Solomon Yatanahu shifted the piles of documents on his desk. Most of his files and official materials were boxed and ready for transportation or quick destruction. Though the Beersheba airfield complex remained operational, the three bases would come under Arab artillery fire before long-probably in just a matter of hours.

As a professional without illusions, Yatanahu recognized that Israel finally had lost air supremacy. Now it was mainly a matter of aerial parity, but inevitably the margin was slipping. The fighter ace knew that his Eagle pilots were claiming 40 percent of their kills with gunfire these days. It would not be lost upon the Arab fliers, who would recognize that a decreasing stock of air-to-air missiles required the cannon option. The mechanics and armorers were working eighteen-hour days routinely, but still sortie rates were declining. There simply was not enough time to properly maintain the remaining aircraft.

The intercom buzzed and Yatanahu picked up the phone. "Priority message for you, Colonel." Yoni Ben-Nun's voice betrayed the strain he felt, and the base commander marveled at his own stamina. He had heard infantry officers comment on the seeming contradiction: the old men still were going strong when the nineteen-year-olds were asleep on their feet. In truth, he knew the reason: experience in pacing oneself, applying full effort only to priority matters. The youngsters tried to do everything at full speed until fatigue overtook them.

The colonel pressed the lighted key and spoke into the desk speaker. "Yatanahu here."

The voice on the other end was familiar. "Solomon, this is Seth. My authenticator follows…. " The Israeli Air Force director of operations read an alpha-numeric sequence which told Yatanahu to stand by for a special courier.

"I acknowledge. Courier en route?"

"That is correct." There was a pause. Yatanahu thought the connection may have been lost. Then the DO said, "Good bye, Sol." Then the line went dead.

Yatanahu notified his staff that a special courier would arrive within thirty minutes. The officer was to be brought to base headquarters immediately.

Then the colonel studied his situation chart. He saw the red arrows penetrating Israel from the south in two prongs, either side of Beersheba. He noted the arrows from the north and west as well. He knew the blue arrow aimed northeastward at the Golan Heights represented a determined counterattack the night before. Supported by artillery, helicopters, and special forces, it had succeeded long enough to silence several enemy artillery batteries but the Arab riposte had been too strong. Israel had lost the Golan.

Twenty-two minutes later an air force intelligence officer was escorted to Yatanahu's office. The courier, a lieutenant colonel, presented his identification and a second authenticator sequence which completed the original. Then, locked in the office with no witness save the base commander, the courier presented his message on the special-purpose form.

Solomon Yatanahu read the message twice, noting the details printed below. It merely said, "Initiate Jehovah." The remainder was a list of times, coordinates, and desired aircraft.

The base commander felt a surprising calm. He completed the double-check of authenticators and confirmation of orders received and understood. Then he dismissed the courier and picked up his phone. "Yoni. Give me six sections, two Eagles each. Full armament, including Sidewinders and Sparrows. I'll provide takeoff times for you, and I'll conduct the briefing myself."

He listened to the aide's complaints about limited aircraft availability and interference with scheduled missions. "There's no room for argument, Yoni." His voice was calm, matter-of-fact. "This assignment supersedes all others."

Then Yatanahu sat down and pulled a sealed document from his safe. He would have to coordinate with the pilots from Hovda, but that was all right. No specifics would be discussed by phone or radio-merely rendezvous points and times. The final briefings would be conducted face to face. Yatanahu looked at his watch-1635 hours. It would be a nocturnal mission, which was according to doctrine.

Leaning back with his eyes closed, the colonel allowed his mind to retrace the world of his youth. It had been a difficult existence on Kibbutz Deganya, but the hard farm life was the best he could imagine for an active boy. He thought of Aaron Hali, fortunately out of it now, a prisoner of the Saudis. Aaron was right-the Deganya bananas were the best anywhere.

The day before, Yatanahu had learned that Deganya had been overrun by an Iranian division. Most of the inhabitants were dead, missing, or presumed dead. He imagined the rage which the youthful Persians must have unleased upon the community. He also thought of Kibbutz Sha'arhagolan on the southern edge of the Golan Heights. Captured twice and retaken once in the past few days, it lay in ruins. Nobody seemed to know how many of its inhabitants might remain alive.

Yatanahu's blue eyes snapped open. He thought he might fly one of the Eagles himself this evening. It would be pure pleasure. Then his professionalism overtook him. No, Solomon, that's not your job. It's for the youngsters this time. But he remained hard-eyed, certain of his task.

Jehovah. Good. It's about time.

John Bennett climbed the ladder to the roof of the command center, spread with sand and artificial shrubbery. The concrete structure was half buried with only eight feet visible above ground, but it afforded a decent view of the area.

Bennett sat down and pulled a mint from the pack in his shirt pocket. In a few minutes he would return to his small room and complete packing his bags. He would hop a ride with one of the

Jordanians in an F-5F in the morning and be in Riyadh in time to book an airline seat to Rome the following day. A stop at Saudi Air Force headquarters to check out, then he would be on his way home.

Home. Not long ago he had planned on making a new home with Claudia. That dream had ended violently. Meanwhile, there still could be some good years ahead with Paul and his family. Angelina was over three now, and she had been without her granddaddy for too long. John Bennett, warrior, decided to spoil her as no grand-daughter had ever been spoiled.

He stood up to go, then an arcing line of white light caught his attention out to the northwest. At first he thought it might be a shooting star, but it was rising, not falling.

The six sorties had departed on staggered schedules to reach their targets simultaneously. First off, at 1915, had been Major David Ran with his two F-15 escorts. The pilots assigned to each target had briefed together and knew the procedures so each mission could be flown under minimal communications. Ran's two Eagles checked in with terse calls on the discrete frequency and set up in trail, one on either quarter at staggered altitudes. Their radar search pattern was planned for irregular intervals, alternating quadrants.

Ran's initial leg took him northeast to Bar Yehuda on the western shore of the Dead Sea, allowing good radar identification of the hook on the opposite shore. Then it was straight southeast nearly 400 nautical miles, radar off but ECM activated.

Another Kfir and four reconnaissance Phantoms, which possessed a strike capability, also launched that evening. The night was clear, not requiring infrared goggles for the pilots. Since the Israelis were intimately familiar with the geography surrounding their borders, navigation was not difficult.

Ran penetrated Saudi airspace at low level. Rarely topping 500 feet, he streaked along the desert at 400 knots, navigating mostly by dead reckoning. As he approached his target he would accelerate more. The trick was a fast run-one pass in and out.

On the centerline was a special-purpose bomb cradle weighing 70 pounds. The silver-and-orange weapon it carried weighed 760 pounds, measuring nearly twelve feet long and thirteen inches in diameter. Ran, always a methodical pilot, rechecked his precombat list. There had been no opposition thus far, and he had heard nothing from his two F-15s. So far, so good.

Ran's gloved hand engaged the master armament switch, then checked the settings marked FUSING and YIELD. The indicators showed IMPACT and 400, respectively. The latter was adjustable from 100 to 500. The automatic release sequence was timed so the intervalometer would induce weapon separation in a few seconds after pitch-up from the 3,000-foot desert floor.

When his elapsed time showed five minutes remaining to target, Ran pushed his throttle to the stop, selecting afterburner. In minutes he was making nearly Mach 1. Despite the speed and altitude, he felt calm and controlled in the dim red light of his cockpit. He had practiced for this mission many times. But one aspect was different. When the operations order came through listing the two Kfir targets, Ran had exercised his rank. He wanted this sortie for himself, and relegated the adjacent assignment to the captain selected for the mission.

A crisp call came through Ran's headset. "Jehovah Four, Eagle Seven. All clear. Will meet you as briefed. Out." Ran keyed his mike twice in acknowledgment. The F-15s would withdraw along an alternate route to avoid retracing the ingress. If all worked as planned, the three jets would rendezvous along a course back toward the Red Sea. David Ran was now on his own.

John Bennett stood immobile atop his command post. Another missile lifted off, then another. Three launches in a few seconds. There had been no advance warning. He wondered if it was a jittery antiaircraft unit. He decided to stay and watch a little longer. Airbase defense was the realm of the Saudi lieutenant colonel.

To his right, at about two o'clock, David Ran was startled by the ignition of a rocket booster some twenty miles away. He watched the tail of the SAM as it arced high into the dark sky, then began to turn and come down toward him. He glanced at his electronics panel and noted his RHAWand ECM gear were activated. Then he saw two more missiles rise from the dark and follow the trajectory of the first.

The French-designed countermeasures package in the Kfir worked on two independent but related strategies. It attempted to deceive the SAMs' radar guidance, while affecting the fusing of the missile warhead by electronically picturing the target aircraft as closer than it actually was. The black box picked up the radar tracking signals and in milliseconds fed them back to the Saudi fire-control radar. The Israeli watched the missile arcing down and, when the red light pulsed on his warning panel, he started a hard right climbing turn into the missile. He wrapped up the delta-winged bomber in a high-G barrel roll to the right. Completing the roll over the top, he saw the SAM explode harmlessly beyond a range of 350 feet.

Though his night vision was degraded by the blast, Ran resumed his high-speed dash toward the target. The second missile passed well behind him, and he evaded the third with a less violent maneuver.

Two miles out, David Ran yanked back on his control stick and arced the Kfir into a zoom climb. Pulling into the pure vertical, he held that attitude momentarily. He felt the lurch of weapon separation, then continued the arcing pull-up until he was inverted.

Topping out of his four-mile-high Immelmann, Ran pulled the nose down through the horizon before rolling right-side up and diving away to the north.

The Israeli's aiming point was midway between Ha'il's two runways, 800 yards apart. The Kfir pilot knew from long practice that he had made a good release, and he was confident the weapon would land within 200 yards of either runway.

Bennett sensed more than saw the jet describe its startling pull-up and arc over the top. He picked up the tiny fast-moving mote of light which was the American-built]79 engine in afterburner.

Involuntarily, he shivered and wrapped his arms about himself.

The dream came rushing back-the elevated platform, the jet exhaust in the night sky, the bomb which must now be on its way. He knew to a mortal certainty that the fast jet now diving away to the northwest was a delta wing.

Five minutes, Bennett said to himself. If it's ground burst it'll be a bit more.

He sat down and waited.

The bomb, released at 530 miles per hour, immediately deployed its Kevlar drogue chute and two seconds later was drifting downward at 35 miles per hour. From release it would take almost six minutes to reach the ground. By that time the Kfir's headlong plunge would take David Ran 60 miles away.

The Israeli weapon was similar to the American B61 Mod 5, with a permissive action link safety system. All models of this type are one-point safe, meaning that in an accidental detonation in its high-explosive components, the probability of a yield greater than four pounds of TNT is not over one in one million.

Though the bomb weighed over 700 pounds, it contained less HE than an eight-inch artillery shell. Its nose shrouded a package of electronic safety, arming and fusing devices. In the middle of the casing stood two geometric solids-a sphere and a cylinder-composed of the lightest and heaviest elements in the universe. Their architecture resembled a fifty-pound globe on an eighty-pound pedestal, the cylinder resting in a plastic foam structure and the sphere covered with wires.

Bennett sat with his arms folded about his knees. He had time to think of the course of his life, and he was glad of that. One of his friends, a Marine lieutenant colonel, had said that dying should be neither too fast nor too slow. Now Bennett knew what the officer meant. One wanted time to ponder it-but not too much time.

How did I get here? Bennett mused. What sequence of events set me on the path that led to the middle of the Arabian desert this night? He hugged his knees, drawn up under his chin, and then he remembered.

He had been sitting in this same posture that wonderful day at Jacksonville Naval Air Station the first time he saw a Navy airplane up close. His uncle, recently returned from combat, had taken the ten-year-old enthusiast out to the flight line to watch pilots practice carrier landings. The hour that young John Bennett sat alongside the runway, legs drawn up to his chest, had passed like seconds.

Uncle Phil, Bennett thought. It began with him. A tall, glamorous fighter ace wearing wings of gold who indulged a nephew's passion. The boy had only seen him fly two or three times, but the image lingered: one of the original pilots of the team known as the Blue Angels, looping and rolling in gloss-blue Hellcats the next year. Then Korea, and Uncle Phil didn't return.

But the mold had been formed. John Bennett followed his idol into naval aviation and seldom had cause to regret the choice. It had been a wonderful career, with all but two of twenty years spent in the cockpit. That seldom was possible anymore. Bennett reflected on his carrier deployments-the Mediterranean cruises with fabulous liberty ports, and even his four combat tours in the Tonkin Gulf. Vietnam had been fraught with pain and frustration, but combat flying had its own challenges and rewards as well.

Bennett remembered his backseat ride in Dave Edmonds's Phantom. Dave had been one of the aggressive, experienced F-8 pilots transitioned to F-4s to impart air combat knowledge to the Phantom community. After an extremely low practice mission, Bennett had climbed from the rear seat on unsteady legs. ''That was just a might low, Dave. If an engine had coughed we'd be dead."

His friend had shrugged fatalistically. "Beats the hell out of cancer." Well, Bennett reflected, at least now I'm not going to die of cancer, or drift along with Alzheimer's or be a burden to anyone. It's not so bad … not so bad.

The fusion weapon drifted·downward. In another three minutes its electronic fuse circuit would close on impact with the ground, detonating a ring of high explosive surrounding a hollow sphere precisely machined from eight pounds of South African plutonium, together composing the bomb's round primary stage. Though only one-fifth the diameter of "Far Man," this arrangement of perfect geometry and rare matter differed little from the architecture of the twenty-kiloton bomb that flattened Nagasaki half a century before. That weapon had missed by a mile. This thermonuclear device, with twenty times the yield, would land within 600 feet of its aiming point fifty percent of the time.

Bennett remembered that during his retirement ceremony at Miramar, somebody had asked him the inevitable question: What did he most enjoy about the Navy? And he had given the usual answer-the people. It was a cliche, but it was true.

Certainly the hardware had been a big factor. Nobody was more devoted to the F-8 than Bennett had been, and in the past few years the Tigershark had become the icon of his soul. But sharing a life in the air with other men of similar motivation had been the genuine reward: Dave Edmonds, Ed Lawrence, Masher Malloy, and so many more.

There had been others, of course. Bennett thought of Elizabeth and how he missed her those long years after the drunk driver took her from him. He thought with satisfaction that he had provided for Paul's future, and the future of little Angelina, whom he would never hold again.

And he thought of Claudia.

The impact-initiated detonation command passed through a series of stolen American timing switches and ignited forty pounds of plastic-bonded PBX 9404 high explosive in 32 places. The detonation wave raced through the HE lenses at 29,300 feet per second and interacted with embedded lenses of slightly slower-burning explosive, turning from convex to concave to match the curvature of the surrounded plutonium ball.

After ignition the high explosive burned concentrically, imploding the subcritical sphere of South African Pu-239 inward upon itself, symmetrically crushing the seven-inch ball to the size of a small fist. Nanoseconds-billionths of a second-after the mass of fuel went supercritical, a stream of neutrons shot into the plutonium ball to initiate the rapid chain-reaction that is nuclear fission. The freed neutrons then fissioned other nuclei to produce more neutrons and more energy. Billions of plutonium nuclei were split in half a microsecond, unleashing the energy that bound together their 94 protons and 145 neutrons-energy equal to nearly forty kilotons.

X-rays from the fission trigger reaction super-heated the plastic foam surrounding the cylindrical secondary stage into a plasma momentarily denser than lead. The process fused twelve pounds of lithium deuteride into helium, releasing some 200 kilotons-the power of 200,000 tons of TNT-and billions of fast neutrons. These high-speed particles were absorbed by a sixty-pound mantel of U-235 around the core of lithium deuteride, producing over 160 kilotons more of explosive energy from the fission of billions of uranium nuclei. The 400 kilotons generated by this fission-fusion-fission bomb theoretically could be produced with one-third as much nuclear fuel. But the assembly was blown apart before all the fuel was used.

Bennett's thoughts turned to Tiger Force. He wondered whether the IPs would hold reunions in later years. He hoped so, for reasons at once egotistical and sentimental. As long as Tiger Force was remembered, he would be remembered. But he hoped the fliers would cling to one another as well. Maybe the Saudis would participate-his few hundred sons. Bennett thought of Rajid. Gosh, I hope he makes it through this. At least he's away from here. He deserves to make it. Good little guy.

Then, thinking of his best pupil the way any good teacher would, John Bennett died.

First came the light-visible, ultraviolet, and gamma rays. Microseconds later came the heat, infrared radiation from the fireball caused when air absorbs such energy. X-rays emitted by this explosive release were absorbed within a microsecond-a millionth of one second-by the dry, hot air, creating livid pinkish-orange fireball with hints of yellow-green. Temperatures inside the fireball-a little sun blooming on the desert floor-reached 30 million degrees or more. It rose as it expanded, like a mile-wide hot-air balloon, changing to reddish then, within a minute, becoming too cool to be seen: Around the fireball formed a blast wave of compressed air that raged from the fireball at thousands of feet per second.

Two thousand feet from ground zero, this moving wall of air struck objects with 190 pounds per square inch of pressure over the normal atmospheric pressure of 15 pounds at sea level. At that distance, the rapidly-rising mushroom cloud of radioactive soil and weapons debris generated winds of 2,000 miles per hour. Even an earthquake-proof structure of reinforced concrete can be flattened by only 30 pounds per square inch of overpressure.

Within the fireball, all matter was ionized. Before lifting away from the ground, the fireball scooped out a 150-foot deep crater in the dry earth of Arabia Deserta, 700 feet across. Ground shock cracked the base of both runways and the blast wave swept away all above-ground structures, vehicles, aircraft, and crews.

The surging, roiling mushroom cloud spread out along the tropopause at 45,000 feet, carrying glass-like radioactive beads and human aspirations several miles downwind.

Avrim Ran stepped to the rostrum to address the United Nations General Assembly. This time no delegates walked out.

"Last night, the Israeli Air Force launched six special missions against selected targets in Lebanon, Syria, Libya, Iraq, Egypt, and Saudi Arabia. Five of these targets were destroyed. Two of our aircraft did not return."

Avrim Ran carried in his pocket the telex from Tel Aviv.

Lieutenant Colonel David Ran was missing in action. But the ambassador continued reading his prepared speech in a flat, emotionless voice.

"We call upon the Arab states to withdraw from Israeli territory.

We propose a seventy-two hour cease-fire in order to disengage the combatant forces, after which time the government of Israel is willing to participate in negotiations to designate the West Bank of the Jordan as a Palestinian homeland." He paused for emphasis. "Should this opportunity pass, then the Israeli armed forces will continue to employ nuclear weapons, including on our own soil if necessary."

Ambassador Ran folded his paper and walked from the stage. Not a word was exchanged, but he looked the Soviet ambassador square in the face as he passed.

The military attaches in Washington were abuzz with rumor and speculation. Everyone expressed surprise at Ran's disclosure; it was unlike the Israelis to admit any of their planes had failed to reach its target and another never made it home. But there were a few who knew something else. The wreckage of two Mirages shot down over Arab-occupied territory had been closely examined. The aircraft were found to be repainted over the original South African colors. This led to speculation that Pretoria may have provided some of its own rumored nukes to Israel. There was limited knowledge that the Heyl Ha'Avir had a close relationship with the South African Air Force-pilot exchanges, resupply of common aircraft, and air-to-air missiles.

Thus, although Israel had expended some of her own atomic arsenal, she might have an undetermined number of additional bombs. Naturally, Tel Aviv did nothing to refute that speculation.

Chapter 17

The doorbell rang in the house on Mill Avenue. The young father shouted "I'll get it." and walked briskly through the living room. He opened the door to see a well-built man in his late thirties, leaning on a cane. The visitor had a dark tan, and his curly black hair was flecked with premature gray.

"Mr. Paul Bennett?" the visitor asked. "Yes. "

"I phoned you yesterday, from the airport."

Paul opened the screen door. "Oh, yes. Of course, Mr. "

"Levi Bar-El." The visitor extended his hand.

"Mr. Bar-El. Please come in." Paul stepped back and bumped into his daughter. "Be careful, Angelina." The girl was nine years old with light brown hair and big gray eyes. Uncertain of what to make of the stranger, she retreated to the corner to join her younger brother, Edward.

Paul showed Bar-EI to the sofa, careful to seat him where his left leg would not be cramped. Paul assumed the Israeli had been injured in the war, as he had mentioned research for a book when he phoned.

After giving Bar-El an iced tea, Paul Bennett asked, "What may I do for you? I assume you want to know about my father."

Levi Bar-EI sipped his tea and nodded. His gaze took in the dining room and Mrs. Bennett's silverware. Then his scan stopped at the mantle. He leaned forward, staring at a green figurine. It was a pregnant woman.

Momentarily distracted, Bar-El recovered quickly. Turning to Paul, he said, "Actually, Mr. Bennett, I know a great deal about your father. I thought I might be able to tell you a few things about him."

For most of the afternoon the former intelligence officer described the inner workings of Tiger Force. Some of the names were familiar to Paul. Bar-El had talked to Peter Saint-Martin and Geoff Hampton in London, where he had signed a contract with a publisher for a history of the war. They in turn had led him to some of the Americans.

The most helpful IP was Congressman Tim Ottman of New York.

Though few of his constituents knew anything about Tiger Force, they admired the second-term representative for his candor and his humor. He had stolen more than one tense press conference with an elaborate display of skill with an old yellow yo-yo. However, House staffers knew Tim Ottman to be exceptionally well informed on tactical airpower. A few regarded this as normal for a former Air Force pilot, but others wondered about his sense of urgency in procuring a mix of simple, reliable aircraft and complex, expensive ones.

Not all Tiger Force IPs were anxious to talk to an Israeli officer.

But some were professionally curious, and others bore no grudge. Paul Bennett himself was mildly surprised to find he liked the disabled Israeli, and questioned him closely.

Paul asked about the remaining Saudi F-20 pilots. He knew that many had perished in the explosion at Ha'il or from the radiation effects thereafter. While not telling all he knew, Bar-El said that some still were in the program and two or three had been promoted to seniority beyond their years. Paul already knew that Lieutenant Colonel Rajid Hamir was headed for the top. They kept in touch by mail and by phone.

The next day Levi Bar-El took an airliner to Seattle and rented a car at Seattle-Tacoma International Airport. He had phoned Ed Lawrence from Phoenix to confirm the meeting. Actually, Devil already knew of the Israeli's interest in Tiger Force and looked forward to the meeting with cautious anticipation.

Ed and Nancy Lawrence lived on twenty acres near Renton, where they raised Arabian horses and llamas. Peter Saint-Martin and Tim Ottman had said that Devil surprised everyone who knew him by settling down to a happy married life, and the irony was not lost upon them. Like John Bennett, they had expected the Tiger Force exec to die in an F-20 or, failing that, to drift away as an aerial beachcomber.

No one was more surprised than Lawrence himself. A lifelong bachelor, he had met Nancy Mays on a Boeing 737 to Phoenix. An uncommonly pretty brunette, she had startling green eyes and a genuine curiosity about flying that captivated him. But her interest should have been no surprise-she was captain of the airliner, and they talked shop at length.

Two years later they married and built a home on Lawrence's property near Renton. In addition to their animals they maintained a Champion Citabria in a small hangar on their private airstrip. It was a trim little aircraft, sporting a red-and-white color scheme. Lawrence had intended to paint three yellow and six blue stars below the left window, but Nancy refused to allow it.

From a lifetime of globe-trotting the Lawrences were content to remain at home with their son, John B. The boy was almost three now and already had more flight time than some private pilots. Ed and Nancy Lawrence always made it to the Tiger Force reunions, but his attendance had dropped off at the Tailhook and Red River Rat gatherings. He was mildly surprised to find he preferred staying home.

It was mid-afternoon when Levi Bar-EI finally found the farm, "Devil's Den." Nancy greeted him and led him to the hangar, where Lawrence was pulling unauthorized maintenance on the Citabria's Lycoming engine. Bar-El followed Nancy inside, appreciatively noting her shapely figure. She wore designer jeans and a faded blue T-shirt with some sort of black-and-white naval insignia on the front. Nancy introduced the Israeli, made him at ease, and returned to the house.

Lawrence had weathered the years in good form, Bar-EI thought.

The red hair was lightly streaked with gray, but the bright blue eyes and dazzling white smile seemed to erase ten or more of the aviator's 54 years. They sat and talked cautiously at first, feeling out one anothers' attitudes.

At length Lawrence motioned outside and suggested they sit by the fence in the evening's low sun. The Israeli leaned his back against the rails, easing the load on his bad leg. He noticed some llamas and horses in the pasture, but paid them scant attention.

Lawrence was describing his pilot training philosophy when Bar-El let out a shout. It was more of surprise than pain. Lawrence saw the cause and laughed aloud, in spite of himself. When Bar-El turned, he was eyeball to eyeball with a magnificent stud llama. The animal had curiously stuck his nose in the back of Bar-EI's neck.

"He's just mooching," Lawrence explained. "Wants to see if you have anything to eat." He waved his orange ballcap at the black-and-white animal, who raised its head and gurgled. "Damn it, Rambo, get away. You're the biggest chowhound in three states."

Distracted, Bar-El took in the livestock again. "You make a living with these creatures, Mr. Lawrence?"

The aviator shrugged and laughed. "Yeah, pretty good. Rambo here would go for about forty thousand dollars if we wanted to sell him. But he's like an overgrown pet. Llamas seem to go with Arabian horses and Nancy likes to ride. I prefer the llamas myself, but I enjoy the horses, too." He looked around. "That one over there"-he pointed to a dappled gray-and-white mare-"is our prize breeder. Aren't you, Inshallah?" He whistled and the animal pricked up her ears.

Bar-El turned to Lawrence. "Her name is Inshallah?"

"Sure, it's Arabic. But then you know all about that, I suppose." Bar-EI thought to himself, Life is strange. A former mercenary enemy of my country entertains me with his Arabian horses and South American pack animals. Who would believe it?

At length Lawrence asked the question which had been on his mind through all the intervening years. Bar-EI had anticipated it, and he was ready.

Emphasizing that he could not reveal sources, the Israeli said, "We learned a few months after Claudia Meyers's death that the operation was planned by the Iranians, who hired another party to contract the Lebanese mercenaries. Apparently Tehran was concerned about possible hostilities with the Saudis and wanted to eliminate the head of Tiger Force."

"I'll be damned. To tell you the truth, John and I figured it was you people or the South Yemenis."

"Mr. Lawrence, I would have to deny I ever said this. But we knew that you and the Saudi government also were concerned about Iran." Bar-El's mouth tightened in an ironic smile. "I can tell you now that your name also was on Tehran's list but you kept so busy flying that they never had an opportunity to get you."

The expression on the redhead's face told Bar-EI that the American knew the report was accurate.

Finally Lawrence asked about any surviving Israeli fighter pilots from the air battles over Arabia and Jordan. He said that he would like to buy some of them whatever they drank.

Bar-EI said, "Well, I cannot mention any names but you might contact the office of our air attache in Washington. I believe he could investigate." In fact, the current attache was a lieutenant colonel who had been shot down by an F-20 and was rescued by helicopter after the Ha'il strike. "I also know of two others who might be willing to meet you. Both are retired colonels. One was base commander at Balhama during the war. The other is partially paralyzed from back injuries sustained in ejecting from his F-15. They are both fine men-real warriors." Bar-El was tempted to mention their names. Instead, he added, ''The attache would put you in touch with them if he is permitted to do so."

Lawrence had one last question. "What about the two losses during the nuclear strikes? What happened?"

Bar-El was cautious. He had been cleared to write an unusually detailed account of some aspects of the war, but he did not wish to offend his host's sensibilities. Still, he decided to reveal more than he had planned to.

"A Phantom was shot down en route to its target in Syria. Evidently there was an antiaircraft battery which unexpectedly showed up along the flight path. We don't know what happened to the weapon, as far as I am aware. I guess the Soviet advisers probably got it." He paused, pondering the likely options. "We don't think they would have wanted the Syrians to obtain fissionable material."

"Okay. What about the other?"

Bar-El shrugged. "That one is still a mystery. Probably it always will be. It never rejoined its fighter escorts after reaching its target." He decided not to mention the target. "We estimate it was shot down during its egress, but the unit responsible must have been wiped out in the aftermath of the attack. We know of no claims submitted for destruction of a Kfir that night."

Few Tiger Force pilots came to prominence following the war. Most shunned publicity and others preferred to do their talking at reunions.

The most famous veteran of Tiger Force may be seen in the Royal Saudi Air Force Museum six days a week. Mounted on an elevated platform in the rotunda is an F-20B. It forms the centerpiece for the area and is the first exhibit one sees upon entering the museum.

The paint is faded on 00I from exposure to the desert sun and its markings are not as bright as they once were. But visitors walking past the sleek Northrop may count the victory stars painted on the fuselage-one for each kill by Tiger Force. And some pause to read the name on the canopy rail, testimony of a king's promise to a warrior.