Outside, the capital city was gathering itself for the late afternoon ritual. Imams called the faithful to prayer from the minarets for one of five daily prayers which devout Muslims always make.
Claudia rose. "We've been sitting too long. We could dance if you like." She knelt beside her stereo and flipped through several albums. Finally she selected one, set the record and tone arm in place, and turned back to Bennett. She held out her arms. "Here we go.”
Bennett stepped toward her. "What's the song?"
"You'll see."
They met in the middle of the room, pressing close together. As the first strains washed over them, John closed his eyes. "Oh, wow. You can pick 'em." They began to move.
"I'd almost forgotten 'Moon River,' " he said. The languorous strains filled the room with a pleasant dizziness. Bennett pressed his face close to Claudia's, savoring the silky texture of her blond hair and the fragrance of her skin.
He spun her around and they danced in silence…
It was evening when Bennett quietly slipped from Claudia's bed.
Without disturbing her sleep, he padded from the room and picked up the phone on her desk. After a short delay he talked to the Saudi sergeant who was to have met him this evening. He left instructions to be picked up at the embassy at 0830 next morning. Then he eased himself back into bed, pressing close to Claudia and thanking Whomever had smiled on him.
PART II
Death was our new trade. We were training to be professional killers
Brigadier General Chuck Yeager. Yeager, Bantam Books, 1985
Chapter 7
Bahrain
There was a noisy chatter as the forty instructor pilots settled themselves in the auditorium that night. They arranged themselves comfortably among the cushioned seats with folding-arm writing platforms. Each IP occupied two or even three seats to accommodate himself, his texts, and his notepaper.
Colonel John Bennett strolled down the aisle, pausing occasionally to exchange a word with one of the fliers. Then he climbed the podium and tapped on the microphone. In moments he had everyone's full attention.
"Gentlemen, I know you've been over this material before, and I know a lot of you are tired from flying two hops today. But it's important that we review this phase and coordinate our syllabus on vertical maneuvering. As you know, the F-20 is ideally suited to fight in the vertical plane, and we want to impress the students with that fact from the beginning. You guys whose students haven't reached the tactics phase can benefit from this discussion and file it for later reference."
A mustached flier with flaxen hair raised his hand. Bennett nodded to him. "Peter?"
"I don't wish to seem provincial, old man. But when it comes to combat maneuvering, one only wants a bit of viffing to get the job done. Works every time."
This sparked laughter in the ranks. Peter Saint-Martin, one of the British instructors, had flown Harriers much of his career. Viffing was derived from an acronym for "vector in forward flight" — adjusting the jet nozzles of the "jump jet" to move vertically or laterally without banking the aircraft. Peter had shot down two Argentine helicopters in the Falklands, matching the helos maneuver for maneuver.
Bennett dimmed the lights from his console, focusing the men's attention on the screen behind him. "Here you'll see the basic syllabus for this phase," he said. "It's the same material as written in your instructor's booklet."
He picked up a pointer and ticked off the maneuvers each student would have to master. ''The cadets are now familiar with offensive and defensive maneuvers in the horizontal plane. You guys report that nearly all of them are proficient in these matters, and they understand the theory of energy management."
"Good, maybe they can explain it to me." This brought a chorus of laughter. Bennett wasn't sure, but it sounded a lot like Tim Ottman, the wisecracking Air Force veteran.
In jet fighters, inertia or momentum is characterized as energy-high airspeed or altitude which can be converted to energy. The objective of a pilot is to "manage" his energy state, lest he find himself at a disadvantage. However, there are times when he desperately wants to reduce his energy, forcing an opponent behind him to overshoot and therefore become vulnerable.
A Navy pilot spoke volumes when he said, "Nothing is true in tactics."
"You've dealt with lag pursuit and displacement rolls," Bennett continued. "This, of course, is the logical introduction to the vertical maneuvers we'll be teaching in this next phase. Be sure you emphasize to your students that we're dealing with identical concepts here, but we're moving them from the horizontal into the vertical. We want to strive for consistency at this phase, so it'll all come together for the students later on. Basically, we're indoctrinating the cadets without telling them so. Eventually they'll make the discovery themselves, and that means they'll have learned the lesson. I know that's how it worked with me!"
The red-and-blue ribbon diagrams projected on the screen were familiar to everyone in the audience. As in most military services, red lines signified the enemy, blue meant friendly. The lag pursuit and displacement roll diagrams showed how an "energy fighter" could overcome an "angles fighter," despite the latter's better turning ability. One used airspeed (energy) to turn out-of-plane from the opponent, timing the maneuver to arrive inside the radius of his turn at a favorable position to shoot. Like so much in aerial combat, it was a simple concept which was difficult to employ without substantial experience.
Bennett poked his pointer at the items he wanted to stress. "High yo-yo, low yo-yo, and vertical rolling scissors. You should stress that with the high thrust-weight ratio in our airplane, our pilots are cutting their armory by at least half if they ignore the vertical performance. There's a natural tendency in young studs to hang in there, pulling the big Gs in a wrapped-up turn, trying to 'macho' it out with the other guy. Repeat that a turning fight may be okay in a one-on-one situation, but when there are other bogies around, they're going to become the meat in the sandwich in a level turn. They'll bleed off energy and get low and slow, and that's nowhere to be."
Bennett discussed a few points relative to each maneuver, then quickly reviewed what he had covered. Ten minutes later he brought the lights up and asked for questions. There were none, which is what he expected.
* * *
The next morning Tim Ottman waited for his section of five students to gather in the briefing room. The husky, blond New Yorker draped his six-foot frame over a writing chair and nonchalantly exercised a bright yellow yo-yo as the cadets filed in. The toy caused some querulous glances and one or two amused grins.
"Good morning, gentlemen." Tim's distinct New York accent-which Masher Malloy insisted on describing as a speech impediment-took some adjustment for the Saudis. Ottman was always careful to speak deliberately, a habit cultivated years before as an F-15 instructor at Luke Air Force Base.
"Sit right up front where you can see clearly."
The IP continued working the yo-yo up and down, occasionally flipping it straight out at waist level before reeling it in. Once he was certain the Saudis' attention was focused on the yellow spool, he began his introduction.
"Gentlemen, this is a yo-yo. I don't know why it's called by that name, but it doesn't matter. As you see, it goes up and down." He hadn't stopped manipulating the toy since the students entered the room. "But it does other things, too. Allow me to demonstrate."
Ottman stood up and paced back and forth. With practiced ease he let the string out nearly full-length until the yo-yo rolled along the floor. "This is called walking the dog," he explained, strolling behind it. "You can call Rover back with a flip of the hand." Ottman whistled to the yo-yo, retrieving it while calling, "Here, boy. Heel." It was a masterful display of skill. And of education. Ottman knew that the best way to teach any subject was to entertain the student.
Placing the toy on the desk, Ottman said, "You might wonder what all this has to do with fighter tactics. Well, before long you're going to be yo-yoing yourself, in an F-20
. You'll use your vertical performance to go almost straight up and straight down-almost like the gadget I just demonstrated."
Ottman turned on the slide projector and focused the light on the screen at the front of the room. He flipped to the first slide. "This is the purpose of what we call the high yo-yo. It's to prevent you from overshooting your opponent. You're turning with him, maybe forty degrees off his tail but inside his turn radius. You're overtaking him because of excessive speed, and in a couple of seconds you'll slide outside and lose your advantage. If you stay in a level turn with him, he's going to start beating you."
Ottman advanced the slide carousel. "So here's what you do. Instead of continuing to turn in his plane of movement-horizontally-you roll wings-level and pull up. Not a lot of pitch-up, but enough to turn out-of-plane." The slide showed the attacking fighter climbing above the bogey, which continued its turn. "What you're doing is equalizing your forward movement with his. Your climb stops the rate of closure and prevents you from making an overshoot." He flipped the selector again.
"Now, with both of you at about the same rate of forward movement, you are high in his rear hemisphere. While he continues his turn, you are gaining separation from him. You have room to play with. You roll into him, maintaining your arc across the top of his turn. But don't get hasty." He advanced the slide tray once more.
"This is the hard part," Ottman said carefully. ''Timing is important. When you get the separation you want, you regain the energy you expended in your pitch-up by diving to the inside of the bogey's turn. How hard you pull depends on what you want to do. If you're going for a guns pass, you commit slightly ahead of him to pull deflection. If you want to kill him with a missile, you go for the high-percentage shot and lag him a bit-let him extend farther out so you finish close to his six o'clock, well within firing parameters."
Turning off the projector for a moment, Ottman spoke directly to each student in turn. "There are a couple of common errors in playing the high yo-yo. You want to avoid excessive pitch attitudes up or down, because that will throw off your timing when you commit into him. There's a tendency to begin the maneuver too late, when the overshoot is well developed. But"-he held up a finger to emphasize the point-"once you're nose-high in his rear hemisphere, the range will open fast, allowing him to extend away from you for separation. In that case, you've prevented an overshoot but-you've gained nothing. You have to start over again, without your initial advantage. So remember, the timing and degree of pitch-up will determine how well your yo-yo works."
The IP turned on the projector again. "I'm not asking for questions yet, gentlemen. This is just an introduction to these maneuvers. But I want you to remember that the yo-yo can work low as well as high." The next slide showed the attacking fighter losing position to the bogey. "Now, in this position, you can use a low yo-yo to increase your closure and angles advantage. That is the opposite of what the high yo-yo did for you, but the principle is the same. By rolling low into the other man's turn, you get a gravity assist by going downhill. When you reach approximately the same heading as his, you can pull up, under his tail, by cutting the comer across his turn. This has the additional advantage of masking you from view. He's likely to get nervous and wonder where you went. If so, he may ease off his angle of bank to look for you. While he's doing that, you can gain position on him.
"A point to remember: Don't plan on winning the fight with a single yo-yo, either high or low. It's unlikely you'll gain proper position and closure rate simultaneously in one evolution. If you get greedy-if you try for too much too soon-you stand a chance of depleting too much energy or of allowing the other guy to gain separation. Then he can take it away from you. So here is the rule of thumb. Two small yo-yos, either high or low, are safer than a single big yo-yo. Conduct the fight in stages, maybe starting with a low yo-yo to close the range, followed by a high yo-yo or barrel roll to gain a better angle. Of course, if you're in a good position to kill him after your first move, don't waste time trying to sweeten up the shot. Usually quicker is better when you have the choice-it lets you get back to scanning the sky around you."
Ottman continued his introductory lecture for another forty minutes. He described the intricate arabesques in detail-vertical rolling scissors, displacement and lag rolls, almost everything the student pilots had done in the horizontal. But now they stood their previous world on end and contemplated the offensive use of the Tigershark in the pure vertical. The third dimension was becoming real to them.
"There's something else I want you to think about," Ottman added. "Up to now you've been concentrating on outmaneuvering an opponent, to get in position to shoot him. But if you play it right, and with a bit of luck, you won't have to engage in a prolonged hassle. Your aircraft is tremendously agile." He yawed the F-20 model's nose rapidly side to side. "You can point and shoot as well or better than any fighter now flying. Master that, with forward-quarter missiles, and you'll be way ahead of the game."
The blond IP set the model down. "You are going to work on each of these maneuvers," he concluded, "starting with a couple of simulator sessions to learn how the bogey should appear to you when things are done right. For now, though, remember the most important thing: Your airplane flies just as well straight up as it does straight and level." He glanced at his watch. Two or three minutes remaining. He produced his yellow toy again.
"Now, gentlemen, who wants to master the yo-yo?"
Washington, D.C.
"Mr. President, halfway into your term, your job rating from the American public stands at barely fifty percent approval. What do you make of that?"
Walter Arnold squirmed slightly in his chair. Damn it, stop fidgeting, he told himself. Makes it look like you're cornered. Which he was, in a sense. He had granted a rare one-on-one interview to Trudy Willard, much to the delight of her network. But Arnold's decision had been based on his perception of the TV journalist, an old hand around the White House. Christ, she'd gone on-camera to report Carter's concession in '80 with visible tears in her eyes. She was supposed to go easy on liberals. Jerry Butler, the presidential press secretary, had said as much.
"Well, I'll tell you, Trudy," Arnold began, recovering his composure. "That means I'm holding my own. It's almost identical to my victory margin in the last election."
Nicely done, Mr. President, conceded the interviewer to herself. But I'm not the fluff peddler you expected, am I? Actually, both individuals were getting what they wanted: Arnold proved his accessibility and Willard could stick another feather in her bonnet.
"I'd like to ask about the Middle East, Mr. President. What can you say about the continuing crisis in Jordan?"
That's more like it, my girl. "There's cause for both encouragement and alarm there, Trudy. Encouragement because at last, after two years or so, the various parties are talking to each other. But I see cause for concern because the Israeli forces in Jordan are coming under increasing harassment from the unoccupied areas. It's still a tense situation, and we're working hard to keep everybody talking to each other…"
Bahrain
"Who's the honcho in the robes?"
Ed Lawrence pointed toward a throng of Saudis showing considerable deference to a man in flowing mishlah and ghotra with the traditional jambia curved dagger at his waist. Bennett glanced to his right, squinting in the bright sunlight. "That, my boy, is our employer of these past two years. King Rahman of Arabia."
"Oh, yeah. I remember he promised to award wings to the first class. But it's still hard for me to ID people in their native duds."
Bennett groaned, glancing around to be sure nobody overheard his exec. Occasionally Bennett had seen the king in immaculately tailored business suits, contrary to the monarch's predecessors. Acknowledging Rahman's temperament and need to balance himself between two poles-tradition on one hand and racing events on the other-Bennett admired the man's sartorial versatility.
More than 200 people occupied the seats and covered bleachers arranged on the flight line.
Most were there to see their sons, brothers, cousins, and nephews graduate from pilot training. But no Saudi women were present-some things just didn't change.
Others represented the embassy community-predominantly Arab and Western diplomats and attaches. Though low-key throughout the previous two years, the F-20 program had drawn much professional interest. Now that the first class was graduating, there was speculation as to how the assets would be employed. People had picked up Bennett's phrase, Tiger Force. He had designed a patch and had his personal aircraft repainted. Now 001 sported a wicked shark's mouth on the nose and glaring eyes around the gunports.
The two Americans walked to the pavilion reserved for IPs and maintenance staff near the announcer's platform. The instructors wore their nomex flight suits with brand-new name tags standardized for a more orderly appearance. Velcro-backed Tiger Force patches flashed their orange and black colors from the left shoulder; orange ballcaps and polished black boots completed the outfit. It wasn't entirely regulation, but it looked more uniform than the hodgepodge of U.S. Air Force, Navy, and British gear the IPs had worn previously.
As the announcer asked the guests to take their seats-speaking alternately in Arabic and English-the forty-one graduating cadets stood to attention by their chairs. Bennett reflected on the composition of the class. His estimate of two-thirds completion had proven surprisingly accurate. Over the previous two years, including preflight, twenty-four of the original candidates had fallen short.
Also gone were three of the original instructors. Two had found the prolonged regimen in an Islamic culture too confining and had backed out. The other withdrew owing to family problems back in the States. Replacements were quickly found from Safad Fatah's pool of alternate applicants.
The accident rate had been within limits, considering they were taking fresh students and putting them in a frontline fighter from the first day. The airplane was uncommonly forgiving and the engine superb. Five F-20s had been lost in two years. One of the single-seaters had suffered a disconnected throttle linkage and the engine had gone to idle power. The pilot had no choice but to make a controlled ejection; he'd been rescued unharmed. Another had gone down with its student pilot during a solo aerobatics flight. Judging from witnesses' report, the young man had initiated a split-S from too low-he evidently misjudged the density altitude. Two losses were attributed to GLoC-the unavoidable G-induced loss of consciousness present in all modem fighters.
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