Warriors by Barrett Tillman

by Barrett Tillman

  "Guys, I won't keep you here too long today. I know most of you are just getting settled in. But we're here to build the best air force in the world. It'll be a small one, but the product we turn out will be the finest on earth because you will make it so."

  Bennett paused, wondering how much to pursue this line of thought. He decided on a short diversion. "We've all been to pretty much the same places and done pretty much the same things. I guess in a way that makes us special. Certainly it makes us different. I like to think that we know how to do what the admirals and generals and budgeteers wanted us to do--but usually wouldn't let us."

  This brought .a staccato rush of endorsement for the sentiment. Bennett continued. "Well, the Saudis have given us the best chance we'll ever have to prove our point. We're going to make the most of it. By the time we're done, the bean-counters will know they missed a bet when they held us back. We're going to push our concept just as far as it will go--burning lots of gas, shooting lots of ordnance, and yanking and banking till hell won't have it." There was a smattering of applause. "In fact, I hope that at the end of two years-certainly four-we'll all be so damned tired of flying that we'll be glad to hang up our G-suits."

  Bennett knew he had made his point. "I'd like to introduce Lieutenant Colonel Ed Lawrence. He answers to Devil on the radio. He's my exec and in charge of instructor training. Ed, stand up."

  Lawrence raised himself from the front-row seat and waved laconically.

  "Colonel Lawrence will distribute the schedule tonight. You'll begin groundschool day after tomorrow, after your jet lag wears off. Certain of us will take the role of students both in the simulators and upstairs, with two flights in each phase. My feeling is that by the time we each have about fifteen hops we'll be up to speed and ready for our first students. Most of the F-20 two-seaters have been delivered, and we'll have the first single-seaters in a couple more weeks.

  "Now, this is important, so listen tight. Here in our compound and among ourselves we'll have the informality we're used to. But outside the compound, and especially among the young cadets and Arab officers, we must maintain a military bearing. One breach of etiquette means a warning and loss of a month's pay. A second time, even for a different offense like boozing or skirt-chasing, and you're gone with the wind, gentlemen. No appeal, no exceptions."

  He paused to let that sink in. Then he continued, with a lighter tone to his voice. "I've been reading the Koran as time allows, and that combined with close contact with the Saudis has shown me a few things." He paused to glance at his notes.

  "The Muslim religion is a warrior's religion. Death in battle is exulted. One sura says it all: 'Prescribed for you is fighting, though it be hateful to you.' The faith is characterized by extreme fatalism, and this trait must be handled carefully when dealing with your students. Many Arabs believe that when your time is up, there's nothing to do but accept the decree of God. Inshallah is a phrase you'll hear often. It means 'God's will.' Naturally, this attitude does not go well with military aviation. You must impress upon these cadets that they can never give up, never quit trying.

  "Another phrase you'll hear a lot is mafi'misula. It's the Arabic equivalent of manana, meaning 'no problem.' There's a widespread tendency to let things slide, to go around them rather than solve them. It's a cultural difference we will have to deal with, firmly but tactfully. Westerners are far more direct than Arabs, who always want to exchange pleasantries first. Similarly, briefings and debriefings tend to be extremely lax in Arab air forces because it's impolite to praise one person over another, let alone to imply criticism. Consequently, you must always seek to balance your debriefs with something positive, to keep encouraging the students at every stage of the syllabus.

  "We've arranged briefings to better acquaint you with Arab philosophy. But there's room for optimism. The students we're getting are barely more than kids, so their minds are relatively open and I'm assured there will be a minimum of culture shock. But get this: We're receiving the cream of this country's crop. I guarantee, if you produce for these boys, they'll break their hearts trying to please you.

  "Overall, just one thing to remember tonight. The Arabs will respect strong, quiet men who lead by example. Polish up your Gary Cooper impersonation and you won't go far wrong."

  Bennett looked around the room. He was confident he'd made his point. "All right. Last one to the bar buys the first round. "

  Colonel Bennett made sure he was the last to place his order.

  Washington, D. C.

  Secretary of State Thurmon Wilson was angered by the Israeli ambassador's suggestion that some obscure retired naval officer might be breaking the U. S. Code. Wilson pressed the button of his desk phone and asked his secretary to put him through to the Secretary of Defense.

  "Ben, good afternoon. The Israeli ambassador just left my office in a huff about some of the U.S. citizens under contract to the Saudis. You recall it was discussed at the cabinet meeting last time."

  The defense secretary listened to Wilson's New England accent with controlled petulance. Oh, Christ, he thought. The Israelis again . "Yes, I remember. We decided there was no harm in the arrangement. "

  "That's right," Wilson said. "But the Israelis seem especially interested in one man, apparently the leader. He's a retired Navy commander named John L. Bennett." Wilson spelled the name. "He's from the San Diego area. The Israelis seem to know a lot about him, and they suggest he may be in violation of U. S. Code."

  "In what way?"

  "Employment by a foreign military power, which technically could define him as a mercenary. But that's the broadest possible interpretation. If some lawyer wanted to push it, he'd make a case against every instructor or civilian tech rep we have outside the country. It wouldn't stick, of course, but that's the theory."

  Benjamin Wake interjected. "Did the ambassador make reference to the Saudi F-20 buy?"

  Wilson paused, uncertain of the aircraft designation. "Is that the airplane we discussed previously?"

  "Yes, it's designed by the Northrop Corporation. Long ago we gave permits for export to most of the friendly third world countries and it's also in production abroad. It's called the Tigershark."

  The Secretary of State remembered Tom Wolfe's description of the macho appellations given to combat aircraft: a mixture of sharp teeth, cold steel, cosmic warlords, and evil spirits. "Yes, that's the one. The Israelis are trying like hell to slow down the Middle East exports. They're lobbying heavily in Congress, you know."

  Wake knew where this conversation was leading. "I know. But do you know how many people are employed by that company? The president said last week that with our balance-of-payments deficit and with the unemployment in Southern California, there was no way we could reduce foreign military sales. It's politically as well as economically unfeasible."

  “So what about this Bennett character?"

  "I just wondered if your Navy people could check up on him. You know, give me something to show the Israelis and prove we're trying to cooperate."

  The defense secretary inhaled, held his breath, and closed his eyes. Just what I need-another project. "Thurmon, what the president said about national economics also applies to geopolitics. The Saudi organization that Bennett is building gives us leverage and political influence we may need badly in that region. Especially with the way things are going with the radical Moslem states."

  Wilson decided on a direct appeal. "Can't you just go through the motions? Give me something to throw the Israelis and show our good faith."

  "All right, Thurmon. I'll have one of my people get back to you in a couple of days. But I can tell you right now, we can't tell you any more about this guy than the Israelis already know. Christ, they probably can tell you what toothpaste he uses."

  "Well, thanks. I appreciate it. Do you have any suggestions about the Israelis' concern regarding the Tigershark?"

  Wake's tone was that of a schoolmaster lecturing an earnest but dull student. "You can tell them exactly
what we said in the cabinet meeting. The Saudi versions have no radar so far and no radar-guided missiles. That makes them less capable than almost anything the Israelis already are flying. After all, that's why we approved the bird for export."

  "Yes, well, thanks again, Ben. Always good to chat with you."

  Tel Aviv

  Lieutenant Levi Bar-El felt his cheeks redden in embarrassment. His chief and other intelligence executives had been polite, but he had been lectured on the importance of a sense of perspective, of establishing priorities. His section chief had hinted at that very topic not long ago, he recalled. But Bar-El had pressed right along, sending up smoke signals which had made their way to some very nervous politicians, already edgy about the international reaction to Jordon. He hadn't violated military etiquette, and he had only nudged the borders of military-diplomatic propriety. Now he realized that the people he talked to had in turn spoken to others.

  "Lieutenant-" the colonel had begun.

  Levi knew right then he was in trouble. Ordinarily Chaim Geller used first names.

  "I agree with you that the foreign pilots and the new aircraft are a matter of potential concern. But you have other projects more pressing. Therefore, please do not allow the Saudi situation to become an obsession. Remember, we have the finest air force on earth. No matter how many American and British instructors the Saudis hire, our fighter pilots will handle the situation."

  Still, Bar-El could not shake a sense of premonition. He knew that a good intelligence officer developed a sixth sense, and more often than not it proved accurate. He had studied the official color photograph of the man named Bennett, concentrating on the man's gray eyes. They held ... what? Dedication, tenacity? That, surely, but something more. Bar-El inhaled. He wondered if the colonel had used the very word to describe this man. Obsession.

  Chapter 5

  Bahrain

  JOHN BENNETT APPROACHED THE SLEEK FIGHTER WITH his helmet tucked under his left arm. He wanted time alone to preflight the aircraft by himself, for in the two weeks since his briefing to the king and the Saudi ministers he had been too busy for his obligatory visit to the U.S. Embassy in Riyadh. But today he would fly an F-20-his F-20-to the capital. Bennett noted the name elegantly painted on the canopy rail; the king was as good as his word.

  The weather was warm, even at 0700, and Bennett perspired under his Nomex flight suit, G-suit, and torso harness. The ambient temperature was heightened by a hot wind. But he hardly noticed. He stood beside the two-seat Tigershark, aware of his heart beating slightly faster than normal. He savored the smells of the aircraft-a heady mixture of jet fuel, hydraulic fluid, and rubber. Almost self-consciously he glanced around to see if anyone was watching. He was supposed to be a detached professional, and such men aren't expected to be sentimental about the tools of their trade. That's what the groundlings think, he mused. But they don't know, not unless they're aviators. It was a point of pride that the U.S. Navy produced aviators while almost every other service in the world merely produced pilots.

  God, it had been good. The sights, the aromas, the feelings all came rushing back. Sensations half remembered--or half forgotten--from his youth. Bennett had been out of the cockpit more than a decade, but many things had not changed. The tension of the G-suit around his thighs and abdomen, the good tightness of the gloves, even the irritation of a helmet pressing one's ears and forehead, and the flesh creased by the oxygen mask. Girding for battle. He imagined warriors had always felt these things, since the days they wore animal skins or chain mail.

  But there was more. To impart to young men the skills that only a few ever master. To do something in his own nation's interest in this critical part of the world, Bennett felt an urgency and a newfound sense of excitement and anticipation beating in his chest.

  "You look real tactical this morning," Ed Lawrence shouted. Bennett turned, his reverie interrupted, to watch the redheaded flier waddle toward him.

  We all look slightly ridiculous, he thought. Like disembodied junction boxes, with our G-suit leads and oxygen hoses and radio cords dangling. Which was exactly the case. Until a jet fighter pilot was fully plugged into his machine, he was simply an independent flight system, useless without his airplane.

  "It's great to be getting back in the air, isn't it, Skipper?"

  Lawrence ran an affectionate hand along the F-20's fuselage much as Bennett had done.

  "Well, I've read the manual a few times through and you'll recall I did okay in the simulator."

  The F-20 simulators still were being installed but Bennett had exercised his rank and qualified ahead of most pilots on the schedule. The Saudis would be the first third world country with flight simulators that showed the world outside the cockpit. They were tremendously expensive but invaluable for accelerating training. The computer-generated imagery which allowed students to experience earth and sky as well as the instrument panel previously was limited to nations which produced the systems, such as the United States, Britain, and France. One of the new simulators, with the academic software which went with it, cost almost as much as an "economical" jet fighter.

  Bennett climbed into the front seat while Lawrence strapped, hooked, and plugged himself in the back. Lawrence already had twenty flights in the two-seaters and had overseen initial checkouts of two other instructors. As more aircraft arrived, that pace would accelerate.

  Lawrence keyed the intercom: "All right, boss, you've got it. Let's fire up this hummer and get going."

  Bennett glanced in the rearview mirror. He saw the exec's old helmet with three yellow stars representing his MiG kills over North Vietnam. Just like old times. Now all we need is a flock of MiGs, Bennett thought. He shrugged involuntarily. Be careful what you want-it might come true. After start-up Bennett smartly saluted the line chief and taxied to the active runway.

  The hot sun radiated shivers of heat from the concrete as Bennett lined up on the centerline. Holding the brakes, he advanced the throttle to 80 percent of full military power. The Tigershark strained against the brakes like a hungry predator, and Bennett's legs trembled slightly from the pressure on the pedals. Satisfied the General Electric turbofan engine was performing normally, he released the brakes and pushed the throttle into afterburner.

  Though the F-20 weighed 15 percent more than the F-5, it possessed 70 percent more power. Seventeen thousand pounds of thrust were ignited as raw fuel was pumped to the TF-404's afterburner section, and 15,000 pounds of Tigershark rocketed off the runway.

  Bennett was elated. He let out an involuntary war whoop as he was shoved back in his seat. Hauling the stick back, he kept the airspeed below landing gear limits, flipped the circular knob on the left of the instrument panel, and felt the wheels lock into place. Then he pushed the nose down to almost level, allowing the little fighter to accelerate. In seconds he had 400 knots on the airspeed indicator. He began an abrupt three-G pull-up and watched the altimeter reel off 5,000 feet before he could count it.

  Bennett came out of burner and continued a less dramatic climb. He wanted to settle down and get his bearings before sampling the F-20's performance in other regimes. He made slight, deft movements of the control stick, performing four-point aileron rolls, left and right.

  "Not bad for somebody who's almost eligible for social security," Lawrence rasped from the backseat.

  Keeping the nose level, Bennett selected afterburner again and let the wickedly beautiful Northrop accelerate to 600 knots. Then he rotated the nose to 60 degrees above the horizon and sustained the climb to 40,000 feet. He came out of afterburner, marveling at the F-20's thrust-to-weight ratio.

  Bennett keyed the mike. "Judas Priest, Devil, what have you got me into?"

  "Uh, I sort of thought it was the other way around, Skipper."

  "Well, considering my advanced age, and the fact I've been out of the saddle for ten years, this one-point-one machine takes some getting used to."

  The F-8· Crusader they had both flown in Vietnam had almost as much thr
ust as the F-20's engine, but the Crusader weighted 25,000 pounds combat-loaded for air-to-air. That meant its thrust was about 70 percent of its takeoff weight. The Tigershark, like most other new fighters, had ten percent more thrust than weight-on the order of 1.1 to 1.

  For the next thirty minutes Bennett knew again the wonder of high-performance flight. He rolled, pulled the aircraft through a six-G turn, and felt his body weight increased to over 1,000 pounds by the force of gravity. He flexed his abdominal muscles and grunted through the M-l maneuver, which helped delay the onset of grayout. His G-suit inflated and gripped his extremities as if in a giant vise, keeping more blood in his brain than would be possible otherwise. It also allowed him to maintain vision longer, but inevitably the gray fog at the periphery of his sight grew larger, and twice he blacked out completely.

  The old bod ain't what it used to be, sport. But damn . . . ain't this grand! The high side of fifty isn't so bad.

  After a half-hour of remembered exhilaration, Bennett turned over control to Lawrence. As IP, the redhead contacted air traffic control and activated his flight plan to Riyadh. Bennett pulled out a notebook and reviewed air traffic control procedures as well as topics for his meeting at the U. S. Embassy. Glancing to the north, he saw a huge sandstorm developing and made a mental note. He would have to be sure the extra canopies and windscreens he had ordered were en route. Flying through blowing sand, Plexiglas became pitted, with reduced visibility in just a couple of years.

  Bennett shoved his notebook back in the map case. To hell with paperwork. I'm gonna fly .

  In the backseat, Lawrence felt the stick wobble in the familiar "I've got it" signal, and turned loose. Up front, Bennett tapped his gloved fingers on the controls, softly humming "Back In the Saddle Again. "

  Riyadh