Warriors by Barrett Tillman

by Barrett Tillman

  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.

  Two months previously, during a tactics flight for dissimilar air combat training, a two-seater had collided with an F-15 Eagle. Both aircraft were destroyed; the Saudi Eagle pilot was killed. The IP in the Tigershark's backseat ejected with minor injuries but the student was badly burned by jet fuel which ignited on bailout. Several other students washed out of the advanced phase, having proven they could fly the airplane but were poorly adapted to a high-G environment. Two of these were retained when offered the chance to recycle as maintenance officers.

  The remaining tigers had done well-most of them uncommonly well. And God, did they push the airplane! There had been several minor scrapes, but the students learned from their mistakes. Each was wiser for his errors.

  Having established a baseline of evaluation criteria with the first class, the IPs expected to do better with the second. The next batch, graduating in two months, probably would produce forty-three to forty-five pilots-enough for three full squadrons. Two squadrons would be formed from Class One, with the overflow being diverted at first to instructor and maintenance-engineering slots. From these men would come the future leaders of all eight to ten Tigershark squadrons. In the meantime, senior Saudi pilots from F-5 units were transitioning to F-20s, though the IPs would remain closely affiliated. The king and Fatah were concerned with retaining the independence and "purity" (the word was Fatah's) of Tiger Force.

  The band struck up the Royal Saudi Anthem and everyone stood during the short instrumental. Then the announcer-a gifted twenty-year-old linguist from the second class--called the spectators' attention to the left front. Six F -20s started engines in succession and taxied in formation to the end of the runway. Lawrence glanced at Bennett, and they exchanged wry grins. Masher Malloy, looking uncharacteristically regulation, arched his eyebrows and rolled his eyes suggestively. Tim Ottman raised one hand, his fingers crossed.

  Bennett whispered to Lawrence. "How much practice did you say the guys put in?"

  Lawrence raised the fingers of one hand.

  "Five hours?"

  "Five flights."

  "Sorry I asked."

  At almost the last moment, Safad Fatah had passed along the king's "suggestion" that an air show be part of the ceremony. The IPs had already planned a formation fly-by, but the Saudis wanted something more. Against their better judgment, Bennett and Lawrence had assembled an impromptu aerobatic team of six instructors.

  Fortunately, there were four experienced air show pilots on the staff: Bear Barnes had been the lone Marine on one Blue Angels team; an Air Force pilot named Brad Williamson had flown with the Thunderbirds; and two British pilots were veterans of the RAF's spectacular Red Arrows. A U.S. Navy and Air Force man were selected as solo pilots. It had not been possible to work up a really quality routine in the limited time, with instructor duties thrown in.

  Geoffrey Hampton, the precise Briton who had been a contract Jaguar pilot for Oman and the senior Red Arrow, was designated team leader. He had worked out a twelve-minute routine which minimized formation aerobatics and stressed the F-20's performance. There had been time for just one full rehearsal, including the announcer, before graduation day. Now, huddled at the end of the runway, the team heard Hampton key his mike.

  "Brakes off-now." Four Tigersharks accelerated together, lifting off and shifting smoothly into diamond formation. The two solos made a section takeoff fifteen seconds later, occupying the crowd's attention while the four positioned for the first pass.

  The show was routine as military flight demonstrations go--but impressive nonetheless. The Tigershark's performance was dramatically illustrated as the first soloist flew across the field in landing configuration at 140 knots. His partner overtook him from behind at 450 knots, lit the afterburner, and rocketed into a series of vertical rolls almost out of sight.

  The first solo pilot had positioned himself for a low pass at Mach .92. Many of the spectators never had experienced the phenomenon of near-supersonic flight, and the effortless grace of the Northrop's passing-split seconds ahead of its own sound-prompted murmurs in the stands.

  There followed a demonstration of the F-20's low-level maneuverability. The second solo pilot screeched over the field at 510 knots, lit his afterburner, and rolled into a vertical bank. Pulling a constant six Gs around the turn, he made two circuits-720 degrees-then climbed straight up. He was joined overhead by his partner, awaiting the diamond four.

  As the six jets touched down and taxied to the ramp, knowing glances were exchanged among the IPs. Whew--we got away with it!

  Bennett picked up a valise and walked to the announcer's stand.

  He arrived just in time, as the young Saudi announcer was sticking to the schedule his notes required. Mounting the platform, Bennett looked at the crowd. Standing behind him were the students, arrayed in perfectly ordered rows.

  The announcer briefly introduced Bennett, then handed him the microphone. Addressing the king, Bennett spoke slowly and clearly for the benefit of all present. "Your Majesty, it is my privilege to present to you the graduates whom we honor today. These young men have worked as hard to earn their wings as any pilots I have known in any nation. We, their instructors, are immensely proud of them. "

  The king, striding forward, seemed to glide in his elegant robes.

  He warmly shook Bennett's hand and, in precise English, said, "Colonel Bennett, your organization also is honored this day. You have completed the training of the first class on schedule, and we acknowledge the second and third classes which will graduate later this year. You gentlemen from the United States and Great Britain have accomplished all that you set out to do. I have no doubt that your professionalism will be admired by all those present today."

  Bennett recognized the latter statement as a mild rebuke to the doubters who insisted the accelerated schedule could not be accomplished. The king now regarded Tiger Force as his own, and no one could deny that the program had succeeded. The first class had achieved the equivalent of more than two and one-half years work in barely two, including indoctrination and preflight.

  The instructor for each section of students stood by the rostrum as the announcer called each name in turn. Flanked by his IP, the student watched as the sovereign picked a set of wings from the large felt pillow and pinned them on the khaki uniform. A hearty handshake, a few heartfelt words in Arabic, and the young man stepped off the platform as a commissioned officer.

  Bennett took a moment to speak to most of the students. He made a special point of talking to Rajid Hamir and Ahnas Menaf. Each had been identified as potential leadership material. Menaf, more self-confident than most, was among the best stick-and-rudder men in the class. He would go directly to work in the instructor's class, ready to pick up the third class late in its syllabus.

  Bennett naturally warmed to Hamir. Clasping the twenty-one-year-old's hand, he could not conceal his pride. "Mr. Hamir-Rajid-you can be proud of yourself. You've done very well in training and I think you'll have a fine career."

  The young man smiled shyly, blinking back the emotion he felt.

  He introduced his father and brothers. Bennett was surprised when Rajid mentioned his fiancee. There had been no previous indication the young man intended to marry. Eventually Bennett added it up:

  The marriage had been arranged when
the couple still were children. He did not realize such things still were done. Well, live and learn, Bennett thought. "Congratulations, Rajid."

  "Thank you, sir. She will be a good mother for my sons and I hope she will be happy as a fighter pilot's wife." Rajid looked left and right, then leaned close. "Even if it may not be what she hoped for."

  Bennett thought better of pursuing that line of conversation.

  "You know that after your first squadron tour you'll return as an instructor if the force needs to expand."

  "Yes, sir. I am pleased with both opportunities."

  "Lieutenant Colonel Lawrence and the other IPs selected eight of you for that duty. We have warned everyone against overconfidence; there's still eight months of operational training in the squadron, and flight leader upgrade. But pilots like you and Mr. Menaf-excuse me, Lieutenant Menaf-will be the basis of Tiger Force's future. It's a big responsibility, Rajid. But you can handle it. "

  IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON BEFORE BENNETT AND MOST of the IPs could disengage from the reception and displays. Two F-20s, including 001, were available for inspection while student pilots from Class Two took turns answering the litany of questions. Bennett had just untangled himself from the French air attache to Saudi Arabia when Lawrence tapped him on the shoulder.

  "Somebody's looking for you."

  "Is that good or bad?"

  The blue eyes sparkled. "Oh, I'd say good-very good." He pointed to a comer of the hangar. "Close enough for a visual?"

  "Affirmative. "

  Claudia only recognized Bennett as he drew near. She had never seen him in flight suit and ballcap--somehow he seemed to belong in those clothes, in this place. She extended her hand.

  Bennett resisted the urge to hug her. It was not permitted in public. "Claudia., I'm really glad you could make it. I got your note. "

  "It was uncertain until almost the last minute. But Mr. Houston had to represent the ambassador so I hitched a ride." She shifted her glance. "Do you know Colonel Mallon? Glen, this is John Bennett."

  The Air Force officer shook hands with Bennett. "Sure, we've talked a couple of times at the attache's office. You've done a fine job here, Commander." An earnest smile. "Wish I could trade my desk for one of those F-20s. "

  Bennett appreciated another airman's discomfiture with a ground job. "Don't you get to fly?"

  "Not nearly enough. I was an Eagle driver at Langley, long ago and far away. Sometimes I beg a ride with the local sports, but it's not the same." Bennett liked Glen Mallon.

  The attache glanced at Claudia and set his lemonade on a tray.

  "I'd best mingle with the politicos. See you both later." Bennett decided Mallon would have to take an F-20 ride soon.

  "Can you stay for a while, Claudia?"

  Her voice was low, almost conspiratorial. "I arranged to stay for two days. The others are leaving tomorrow morning. I'll have to write a report on the trade mission here, but I can do that from memory. Besides, the embassy feels guilty about asking me to postpone my vacation. I planned to spend my fortieth birthday with my parents but we're short-handed."

  Bennett had almost forgotten-9 October was two days away.

  "That settles it, then. You'll have your birthday cake here. The IPs and some maintenance guys are celebrating graduation tonight. Can you come?"

  "Are women allowed? I mean, how much mingling can you do?"

  Bennett laughed. "Mafi'misula. No problem. We have our own compound here. It's a lot more relaxed than in Arabia. As long as we keep the animals in the zoo, there's no sweat. We're even allowed booze-with British bartenders. In fact, there's quite a few British girls as well-plus Irish, New Zealanders, and some Europeans. Nurses, mostly. Health care is a big item here."

  Claudia seemed relieved. "So I wouldn't be the only woman?"

  Bennett leaned close. "You are the only woman for me."

  "You know that's not what I mean." Her face reddened.

  “All right. There are a few wives, too, mainly Brits."

  "Okay, I accept. You'll have to pick me up. I can't go unescorted, you know."

  "It's a deal. l'

  THE HORSESHOE-SHAPED BAR WAS CROWDED WITH SIXTY flight and maintenance instructors and a few guests. The noise level was tolerable, not quite drowning out the attempt at harmonization of four pilots who occupied the jukebox corner.

  He's flown the Foxtrot Two-Zero

  From LA. to Riyadh and back.

  There ain't a fighter that flies in the sky

  He's afraid of or that he cain't hack.

  They taught him to fly down in Texas,

  Sent him to Nellis Air Patch.

  Got an airframe to mark, it's called Tigershark

  And the plane ain't been built she can't match.

  Bennett edged his way to the bar, ordered iced teas for Claudia and himself, and guided her by one arm. They stopped briefly to talk with Peter Saint-Martin and his wife Lynn, a tall brunette from Buckinghamshire. Then Claudia noticed the squadron badges adorning the wall. Intrigued, she walked over to inspect them. Each represented the donor's previous units, most being enamel mounted on shield-shaped wood backgrounds.

  It was an impressive display. Claudia noted the 64th and 65th Aggressors from Nellis. There was the red-starred insignia of the Navy adversaries', the Bandits and the Cylons, and the mailed fist of the Challengers. There were the Silver Eagles from Luke and their partners, the Triple Nickel of the 555th Tactical Training Squadron. And from Topgun and the Air Force Fighter Weapons School. One and all, artists in the realm of aerial combat, teaching it to the new sports or duplicating the opposition.

  Bennett let Claudia take in the collection, silently pleased that she found it interesting. She turned to him. "It's fascinating, so colorful. It's almost like medieval heraldry."

  "Some of it is taken directly from legitimate heraldry, like VC-13." He pointed to the gold fleur-de-lis emblem of Navy Composite Squadron 13.

  He'll taxi up into your saddle,

  Turn on his M-39s .

  He'll blow you to hell with a twenty mike-mike shell,

  Safe up his guns and fly home.

  Claudia walked down the hall, drawing appreciative glances from the mostly male celebrants. She looked at another panel, then leaned closer. "My God," she exclaimed, "this can't be for real." Bennett moved to look over her shoulder. He laughed aloud.

  Claudia was puzzled. "What's funny about that? I think it's disgusting. 'The World-Famous Puking Dogs.' What does that mean?"

  "That's VF-143. And it's a long story."

  "Well, I don't understand. I mean, what kind of group would actually choose an insignia like that?"

  Bennett placed a reassuring hand on Claudia's shoulder. "I'll whistle up somebody who knows the story:" He looked around the room, then motioned to a group of pilots seated around a table. "Hey, Masher. Come here a minute."

  A short, slightly built man in Nomex flight jacket stood up and casually strode over, beer in hand. Claudia noted the jacket was well used, emblazoned with several patches. The name tag with the stamped Navy wings said MASHER MALLOY, FIGHTER PILOT.

  Bennett made the introductions. "Claudia Meyers, this is Dennis Malloy, known to one and all as Masher. Dennis, this is Claudia. Behave yourself."

  Claudia and Malloy shook hands and regarded one another.

  Masher had been seeing a leggy Irish governess named Beverly, but she was not present that evening. The little aviator looked Claudia up and down for a long three seconds. A direct question was forming in his mind when he sensed his commander's purposeful gaze.

  Flustered, Claudia noted that the man's startling blue eyes darted from her face to her bosom and back again. Apparently he was not going to continue the conversation on his own.

  Bennett said, "Masher, I was telling Claudia about One Forty-Three's nickname. You were in the squadron; how'd it begin?"

  The query startled Malloy from his preoccupation with Claudia's chest. "Oh, the Pukin' Dogs. Well, it all started a long time before I
reported aboard, but the original idea was to have a griffin as the squadron emblem." He sipped at his Coors, as if concentrating on the details with difficulty. "One of the junior officers was supposed to make a papier-mache centerpiece for the commissioning. But he wasn't too good with papier-mache. He got the griffin's wings all right, but the head sort of drooped and the mouth was open too far. They ran out of time and couldn't do it over, so they had to go with what was ready.

  "Well, one of the wives walked in, took one look, and said, 'Jesus, it looks just like a pukin' dog.' And that's what One Forty-Three's been called ever since."

  "Thanks, Masher." Bennett's tone was one of dismissal. With a last soulful gaze at Claudia, the little flier walked back to the table to rejoin his drinking buddies.

  Claudia's expression showed bemusement. "Are they all like him?"

  Bennett chuckled softly. "A few, a few. But one of the first things I learned in this business is that a man's personality on the ground may have nothing to do with his flying. Masher's an example. He's a good pilot, but an even better instructor. Upstairs he's all business. Down here, he's real loose."

  Next morning a quarter to seven,

  They sent him to fight once again

  Against a Foxtrot 15, turns tight, fast, and mean

  And they said there's no way he can win.

  Well, he set up in the front quarter

  At a fairly respectable range.

  Hit the disappear switch, rolled out at Deep Six,

  And the Fox 15 went down in flames.

  The couple found a table with two vacant chairs and sat down.

  Bennett introduced Tim Ottman, who gallantly rose and seated Claudia. She smiled at him, taking in the handsome six-footer. Well, maybe there are some gentlemen among fighter pilots, she thought. Soon they were deep in conversation.

  "Claudia, I guess you haven't met many guys like these." He gestured around the room. ''Tell me, what do you make of us?"

  Claudia giggled, shaking her head. "Well, I admit I've never been exposed to so many . . . different-"