Warriors by Barrett Tillman

by Barrett Tillman

  Claudia smiled. "Remember, he was beloved of God. When he was gone--"

  "Yeah, 632 A.D."

  "When he died in June 632," she went on, "the suras were written from memory and organized by the caliph Uthman, who had scholars prepare a definitive version. Enough people knew the writings by heart that it could be done."

  They continued discussing the holy book until it was time to leave. Claudia realized Bennett's interest in regional politics had led him to an understanding of the rift in Muslim doctrine: the Shiites believing that only direct descendants of Muhammad, through his daughter Fatima, could lead Islam; the Sunnis adopting a case for individual merit, much as tribal leadership was decided. Though Shiism was the decided minority in the Arab world, it was the dominant sect in Iran. By contrast, Iraq's population was nearly evenly divided while most other nations-Egypt, Syria, Jordan, and Saudi Arabia, to name the more prominent--were Sunni.

  Conversely, Bennett was impressed with Claudia's detailed knowledge of the historical Koran: the comparison between Biblical figures described in the Old and New Testaments--Noah, Moses, Abraham, and Jesus. It occurred to him that the three great religions spawned in this volatile region had as much in common as they had to dispute.

  Bennett escorted Claudia home and stepped inside just long enough to kiss her decorously on the cheek. But he felt her press close against him and her hand went to the nape of his neck. He wrapped his arms around her, their mouths met, and he felt her lips part in the beginning of a long, delicious kiss. Then he turned to go.

  "John." He glanced over his shoulder. "I pray that you have a safe trip and a wonderful reunion with your son. Fii arnaah illaah. Go in the care of God. "

  "Masaa' il-khayr," he replied, touching her cheek. Claudia laughed appreciatively before closing the door. "Good evening" was more a greeting than a sign of leaving, but it mattered little. John Bennett offered possibilities that Claudia Meyers had not considered in years .

  Jidda

  The morning after Bennett's flight left for Rome and New York, Safad Fatah met with two other Saudi officials. He was very un-Arabic in his direct manner.

  "Our pilot training program is proceeding on schedule. The first class completed preliminary instruction this week, and two more classes have entered the same phase. It appears we shall have our hundred and fifty F-20 pilots in barely two years with the rapid curriculum. "

  Tewfig al Aziz, the economics specialist, expressed cautious concern. ''That is as we expected, it is not? But how long will it take until all of those pilots are qualified for combat? And what about the maintenance personnel?"

  Fatah raised a placating hand. "The instructors still insist that each pilot should have two to three years experience beyond post-graduate training. That is, after the eight months following graduation from flying school and commissioning as officers. 1 do not dispute that claim. Nor do 1 take for granted the quality of our support people. Clearly, we must continue to rely upon our contract foreigners for quite some time. But the important thing is, we should have adequate numbers of trained Saudis in flying and maintenance positions to tide us over. If relations are broken with the Americans in eighteen months, we can draw upon our own resources for pilots and many of the technicians."

  Aziz shifted his tiny coffee up. "Very well. What then about the additional aircraft?"

  "That is why I wished to meet so soon. His Majesty has asked me to report on our options to lease or purchase the machines currently held or ordered by other nations." He looked to the third man.

  Ali Abd Musad was a forty-nine-year-old retired air force officer who had been a Saudi attache to Ankara and Rabat. Fatah had chosen him two years before for a long-term project which, in fact, might never come to fruition. But in the meantime, if the need arose, Musad's exceptionally fine contacts could prove invaluable.

  "Our options are good to excellent," Musad said. "As you both will recall, the Turks were willing to appear reluctant to accept two squadrons of F-20s, insisting they preferred more advanced aircraft. This in turn caused Washington to offer favorable terms in exchange for Turkey accepting the Tigersharks. Since the U. S. extended trade credit in order to allow the Turks to complete the agreement, it is satisfactory to all concerned. Deliveries are scheduled to begin later this year, but Ankara has made it clear the F-20s are only an interim measure. Once economic conditions permit, the Turks will press for F-l5s. Under that condition, we have applied to be the ultimate user in a contingency, but should an emergency develop we shall buy the Tigersharks in any case."

  Fatah allowed himself a moment's admiration of the man. Musad had been an indifferent pilot but had shown an exceptional capacity for Machiavellian politics. His behind-the-scenes contribution to his nation's defense far outweighed his service in the cockpit two decades ago.

  Aziz caught Fatah's attention, pursuing Musad's line of thought.

  "We have assured Ankara that our purchase of the aircraft will be at least eighty percent of the contract price. But since the Turks will not be paying in full anyway, the arrangement actually could be profitable for them. They will continue to fly their Phantoms and other machines, so there should be little attrition among the F-20s should we need them."

  Fatah wrote a memo on his notepad. Without raising his eyes, he said, "Good. Now what about the Moroccans?"

  Musad leaned back, at ease and confident. "That situation is even better. The end-use certificate specifies that those F-20s may only be transferred or sold to a nation already flying the type. It's different from the Turkish contract, since there exists the possibility that Greece might buy some Tigersharks. Between Turkey and Morocco, we can maintain a twenty to thirty percent reserve for our own F-20 force. And I have established contacts with both air forces-and perhaps the Sudan or South Korea-for extra spare parts in the event of an embargo."

  Still writing, Fatah asked, "And what is the projected U. S. reaction if we exercise these options before an arms embargo? That is a possibility we must consider."

  Musad's face was passive, in contrast to Aziz's. "I should say it depends upon relations between the Americans and the Israelis at the time. You may have heard that Israel provided Skyhawk parts to Argentina during the Falklands War, and Phantom parts to Iran in order to keep the pressure on Iraq. Neither exchange, to my knowledge, was approved by Washington. Yet there was almost no criticism. "

  "But you know the Jewish influence in America." Aziz's voice had a brittle edge. "It is endless, there is no bottom to it."

  Musad was about to reply that he could not blame any nation or group that acted from self-interest. It was the way of the world. Fatah looked up from his notes. "Yes, that is so. The Israelis can do almost anything they wish where the U.S. is concerned. They can spy on Americans, they can lobby against American interests in the U. S. Congress. They have even killed Americans with impunity." He looked over the top of his bifocals. "They cannot produce oil for the Americans. But we can."

  Chapter 6

  Tel Aviv

  THE INTELLIGENCE OFFICES WERE EVER EMPTY. Staffed around the clock every day of the year, they operated smoothly as each eight-hour shift alternated or--increasingly--overlapped. Colonel Chaim Geller flexed his legs, walking down the hall. It had been a long day in a long month. The occupation of Jordan continued to require much of his time, even with reduced military activity in that unhappy land.

  Moving past the cubicles on either side, the once-sunburned archaeologist pondered his dissipating tan. He seldom got outdoors during daytime anymore. The shift had changed two hours ago and, working overtime, he noted with mild surprise the lamp on young Bar-El's desk remained on. Looking closer, he realized the reserve lieutenant was still there.

  "Levi." The young man glanced up, "Here I thought we had said good-bye hours ago. Your active duty ended this afternoon."

  Levi Bar-EI shifted slowly in his army issue chair. Geller realized his protege ached as much as himself. "Oh, yes sir. You know how I'm obsessed with this Saudi case.
" I'm leaving today, he thought to himself. No need to be diplomatic . Not until next year.

  The section chief walked over, peering at the papers on the desk. He could not suppress a pleased grin. "By God, Levi, you may not be entirely objective yet, but you're hell for persistence." He made a special effort to pat the lad on the shoulder. "Something new?"

  Holding up a report, the lieutenant said, "Our friend John L. Bennett was in America for almost two weeks and now is en route back to Arabia. Evidently the graduation of his first class from groundschool allowed him a short vacation."

  Geller scanned the related papers from the file. "It seems they're serious about building this F-20 force. Well, for better or worse they'll probably have time to make it operational. I've not revised my estimate of six months ago."

  Bar-El stretched his arms, slumped back, and mussed his curly black hair. "I remember. You said a relatively quiet two years or more. The Air Force staff thinks they will have to deal with these Saudi F-20s eventually."

  The colonel dropped the file on the desk. "At least there's time to make plans. The Islamic fundamentalists still have to sort out their internal problems, consolidate their gains, and try to decide how to take us on. I believe their newfound unity has bought us a breathing space. If in fact they are consolidating their national and religious objectives to apply mass against us-"

  "The correct procedure," Bar-El interjected.

  A teacherlike wave of the finger. "You're learning. But if they are in fact consolidating and planning along those lines, it will take much effort in Iran, Iraq, Syria, and Lebanon."

  "So you think they'll continue harassing us, building their military strength, and working diplomatically as well."

  Geller said, "Absolutely. The imams must know by now they cannot afford another major loss. But some of them are dogmatic enough to think twice about dealing with the Soviet infidels. It may take time to overcome that attitude about unbelievers, especially after Afghanistan. But eventually pragmatism will win. Next time they'll choose the proper moment and try to do it right."

  Bar-El scratched his head. His eyelids felt heavy. "Then what can we hope for in the meantime?"

  There was the faintest trace of a smile at the corners of Geller's mouth. "I myself would prefer a miracle. A change of human nature. But lacking that, you know sometimes miracles are the product of a lot of hard work."

  Bar-El's face was expressionless. Sometimes he did not understand his chief at all.

  "More bickering among Sunni and Shiite, perhaps even some shooting along the South Yemen border." An eloquent shrug. "We’ll just have to wait and see."

  Bar-El cocked his head to one side. The colonel thought he looked just like a curious puppy. "Do you mean we--"

  "Levi, Levi, my young friend. Surely you realize I mean nothing. And in our line of work, even nothing can be highly significant. You've heard the phrase 'negative intelligence.' " The colonel winked, then heartily clapped Bar-El on the arm. "Enjoy yourself in Ashqelon, and save some fish for me."

  Levi Bar-El stared at the retreating form of his section chief, pondering the myriad meanings of mere words.

  Bahrain

  Ed Lawrence rapped on the door at I030 hours.

  "Come in."

  The redhead opened the door and stepped into John Bennett's three-room suite. Lawrence noticed the unmade bed, baggage piled in one corner, and a Browning Hi-Power pistol disassembled on a newspaper on the floor. Bennett emerged from the bathroom, dressed in khaki shorts, a white T-shirt, and sandals. "Hey there, Ed."

  "Welcome back, Skipper." They shook hands. "Two weeks passes pretty fast, doesn't it?"

  "Sure does. Actually, I got back late yesterday afternoon. Went straight to bed, and I'm still catching up on my jet lag."

  "Yeah, I heard Masher and a couple of the guys saw you drag in here. Figured you'd hole up and recuperate." Lawrence sat down in the vacant chair. "So tell me. How's it feel to join the geriatric set?"

  Bennett sprawled on the bed and rested his hands behind his head. "Ed, I have a granddaughter. Six pounds fourteen ounces at birth, now up to about ten pounds. She's going to have gray eyes, I think." He smiled widely and Lawrence saw the twinkle of pride in his friend's own gray eyes.

  "How are Paul and his bride doing?"

  "Oh, pretty good. Paul's decided to major in engineering, and I told him electronics would be a good future. So I expect he'll go for an EE. His wife's been working at a day-care center in Mesa so she has a good handle on children. I'd say they're doing all right. No gravy, but all right."

  Lawrence pointed at the disassembled pistol. "New shootin' iron, I see. Nine millimeter,-thought you were a .45 man."

  "I am. But .45 ammo's tough to get in quantity in this part of the world. So I looked up a buddy of mine in Phoenix. He's a naturalized South African gunsmith. I told him what I needed and he worked overtime to modify this Browning." Bennett picked up the receiver and handed it to Lawrence. "See, he's enlarged the thumb safety and polished the feedramp. The trigger lets off at about three and a half pounds. Also, he installed high-visibility sights."

  Setting the frame back on the paper, Lawrence asked, "Why the concern with ammo? Couldn't you bring a couple boxes of .45 for your Colt?"

  Bennett lanced his exec with his best instructor's stare. "How many rounds of twenty mike-mike did you fire in banner gunnery?"

  Lawrence was perplexed. "Hell, I don't know. Must have been thousands and thousands with all those gunnery detachments to Yuma and everywhere. I remember Hoser McAllister got frustrated on his third or fourth hop and burned out all four barrels one time, trying to saturate the banner in one pass."

  "Yeah-that's why they call him Hoser." Both men laughed. Bennett pressed his point. "Okay, you and I and every other F-8 driver burned up case-lots of ammo in practice. But how many rounds did you fire in combat, air-to-air?"

  "Exactly two hundred eighty-three, on my second MiG. So what's the point?"

  "You just answered the question, sport. Getting proficient with a handgun or rifle's no different from aerial gunnery. You shoot a lot more in practice than in combat. So instead of trying to bring a few thousand rounds of .45 ACP here, I got a gun to match the local situation. The Saudis can supply all the nine millimeter I can use."

  "You really expect a shootout?"

  "Well, I'll put it this way. If I don't have a shootout, I'm paranoid and healthy. If I do have a shootout, I'm prescient and healthy. The operative word is healthy." He grinned, knowing he had made his point. "Besides, it'll make a good impression on the cadets to see the head honcho taking his turn on the pistol range. Now, how are things shaping up for the flight program?"

  "Real good. The first class started F-20 academics yesterday.

  We're sticking to the modified GE syllabus, alternating between classroom lectures and do-it-yourself study with the display consoles. We'll start giving indoctrination rides next week. Keep their interest up.”

  "Good deal. Are the IPs up to speed on the schedule?"

  "Affirmative. A couple guys have questioned the accelerated pace of flight training but they seem to buy the reasoning."

  Bennett had expected that. He recalled his own early instruction at Pensacola-the days lost to marginal or poor weather in the gulf climate, the remedial or make-up flights just to stay current. He and most of the Navy-trained instructors had periods when only ten or twelve flights were possible in two months. But Arabia's clear weather allowed flying almost every week of the year, provided it was scheduled early enough in the morning.

  Lawrence got up to leave. "I'll tell the guys you're back aboard. We can get together with the different class IPs for lunch, dinner, and an evening session. I'll set it up for today and tomorrow." He walked to the door. "Oh, by the way. Did you see your lady diplomat when you came through Riyadh?"

  "No. I called but she was out at some meeting. Why?"

  "No reason. Just some lecherous snooping. You going to see her regularly, do you think?"
r />   Bennett was mildly irritated; Lawrence had a way of making one's personal matters his own. Bennett wondered if it was because the exec had so few close friends himself. "I expect to see her again. When time allows."

  "She's quite a bit younger than you, isn't she?"

  "As a matter of fact, she's about sixteen years younger. We get along together despite such a vast age difference." His voice was tinged with irony. It also said, Proceed with caution.

  Recognizing the danger signal, Lawrence flashed a brilliant white smile and a big thumbs-up. "Outstanding." Then the door closed behind him.

  THE NEXT SIX MONTHS PASSED QUICKLY. THE FIRST class began dual instruction in the F-20B, flying in the mornings and continuing academics and physical conditioning in the afternoons. The second class of cadets completed indoctrination and ground school, and there was another ceremony when the preflight stage was completed.

  Bennett was immensely gratified at the young pilots' progress.

  Ahnas Menaf, one of the standouts from Class One, was the first to solo. His instructor, Tim Ottman, said the last four of the scheduled fifteen presolo flights were unnecessary. "I won't say the kid's a natural," Ottman had told Ed Lawrence, "but he catches on real quick, and he retains what he learns." The IPs in each section held a solo party for the students to mark the event. It was a relatively sedate affair by Western standards, but Bennett and Lawrence knew it reinforced morale among the Saudi students.

  The F-20 program seemed to be proving Bennett's theory: Military flight training could be far simpler, less expensive, and more efficient than most air forces allowed. But Bennett did not intend merely to monitor the students' progress, nor rely wholly on the observations of his instructors. He kept his finger on the pulse of the budding Tiger Force, and he knew the best way to do that was by flying.