Warriors

by Barrett Tillman

  * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Bear squinted suspiciously. "Oh?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Seven thousand six hundred feet, sir."

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

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

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

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

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

  The tower acknowledged.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Riyadh

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Not at all."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "You mean the Civil War?"

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

  Claudia laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Okay. "

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

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

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