Warriors

by Barrett Tillman

  0614 Hours

  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.

  0615 Hours

  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.

  0617 Hours

  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

  Central Arabia, 0830 Hours

  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.

  Ha’il, 0832 Hours

  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.