"You mean screwy," Ottman said.
" ... so many different and entertaining people at one time. You guys seem to have so much fun together."
Bennett hadn't interrupted, preferring to let Claudia get to know some of the IPs on her own. Now he said, "Well, we do enjoy one anothers' company. After all, we have a lot in common."
Claudia finished her tea. "Yes-you're all crazy."
"That's part of our charm," Ottman insisted. "For instance, most people would think it's crazy for anyone to want to die at age forty-eight. But I think there's something to it. Probably the best thing that could happen to any of us would be getting killed In action at forty-eight."
Claudia's face registered disbelief.
"No, I mean it," Ottman said. And she almost believed him.
"Look at it this way. You're still at your peak mentally, and most of us are in reasonable physical condition at that age. But in another couple years . . ." He snapped his fingers. "You're on the way out, kid. It's a long slide from there."
Claudia glanced at Bennett, seeking reinforcement. He winked at her. "Listen to the next verse."
He wanted to die as a legend,
So he climbed it up seven miles high.
He aimed it straight down, drove it into the ground,
Screaming "That's how a fighter should die."
He died with his G-suit and boots on,
With a throttle and stick in his hand.
He'd never been beat by any fighter he'd meet
And the legend, it outlived the man.
Bennett and Claudia spent the rest of the evening mingling with other instructors and guests. Claudia was pleasantly surprised to learn she had mutual friends in London with the Saint-Martins and Geoff Hampton. She also had a discussion with Ed Lawrence.
"You've known John a long time, haven't you, Ed?"
"Yup. Twenty years or more."
"Has he changed any?"
Lawrence thought for a moment. "Not much. Pirate always was a lot of fun to be with-real dependable. You get to know a lot of people in a career, but there's only a few you really trust. I'd trust John with my life. In fact, I have done just that."
"Do you think he's happy here?"
"Yes. I know I'm happy here, doing what I do." He hesitated a moment.
"What is it?"
"Claudia, you and I are different kinds of people. Ordinarily we wouldn't have much in common. But John is what we have in common. I'd say he's been happier than I've seen him in years. Since he met you."
Claudia squeezed his hand. ''Thanks, Ed. I'm pretty happy, too. It's the best birthday I could hope for."
Chapter 8
CLAUDIA SPENT THE NEXT TWO DAYS WITH BENNETT, mostly in the Tiger Force compound. The other guests had departed and the IPs for the graduating class were given leave. The couple were left mainly to themselves, which pleased them both.
Bennett devoted most of one day showing Claudia the academic area: classrooms and individual study cells. "Here, sit down at the console. I'll show you how easy it is to fly an F-20. "
He tapped out the entry code on the keypad and the full-color screen showed the Tigershark's instrument panel. "You see," he began, "the directions are printed in white for this phase, and yellow for the next. Everything is color-coded from first to last in ascending order. The higher you get into the syllabus the darker the colors. "
"That way you always know where you are in the program," Claudia said.
"Correct." He leaned over her shoulder, allowing one hand to rest on her back while he punched in the next lesson. "This sequence shows you how to start the F-20. It's a tactile screen, touch-sensitive, so you activate the switches in the proper order. You won't hear the engine start unless you do it properly."
Bennett had Claudia touch the appropriate switches, including the plastic safety covers. At each movement the screen showed, in animation, the covers lifted or the toggles activated. Immediately the whine of a jet engine was discernible. "There you go, you just lit off an F404 engine."
Claudia looked up. "Why, that's the most logical teaching system I've ever seen. Did you devise it?"
"Not hardly. This is a General Electric project, first used in their F-5E training center near Phoenix. The Saudis contracted for this facility from GE's simulation and training division."
Running her fingers over the console, Claudia said, "This must do a lot to speed up training. Is it one of the reasons you put the first class through so fast?"
"This and some other innovations in the flight syllabus. The advantage to this individual study cell is mainly psychological. In a classroom you have the teacher up front and he asks Student A a question. Well, Student A may not know the answer. Neither may anyone else, but the others look at A and think, 'Boy, what a dumbell.' This system here allows each student to progress at his own pace, so he retains much more of what he learns."
Later Bennett put Claudia in one of the F -20 simulators for a few minutes. He had the engineer start the program for takeoff and he showed her how to hold the stick and throttle. She made an erratic takeoff, over-controlling as most beginners do. Bennett cautioned her to keep the nose above the horizon and flipped the landing gear lever for her.
"Okay, continue your climb and level off at ten thousand feet."
He tapped the altimeter while leaning on the cockpit edge.
Claudia was stunned by the full-color panorama of the, world "outside" her cockpit. As Bennett coached her through some turns, she over-controlled again and the computer-generated imagery slanted crazily. "I feel a little dizzy."
"That's normal. This simulator can almost make you airsick. Level off for a minute."
Claudia moved the stick less dramatically than before, and the imagery settled down.
"Now, let's say you're going to strafe some point on the ground. That hill over to the left. Turn toward it and lower your nose."
Claudia shoved forward on the stick, aiming at the top of a rounded hill. Bennett saw what was coming. "Don't push it too far. Remember, you're at 95 percent power."
Too late, Claudia realized she was too steep. She gasped audibly, pulling hard on the stick. The scenery tumbled, then the screen went blank. "What happened?"
"Darling, you bought the farm."
"Well, any landing you can walk away from . . "
Bennett helped her out of the cockpit, catching her arm when she slipped. "Gosh, I'm still dizzy," she said. ''That thing is too realistic!"
THAT EVENING BENNETT SUGGESTED THEY HAVE DINNER in the club. Claudia preferred to go out, but he insisted. When they walked in, decorations already were in place. A large banner hung across the bar mirror: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, CLAUDIA! Several IPs were there, notably less boisterous than the night of the graduation party.
Claudia turned to Bennett, grasping his arm. "You rat! You set me up for this."
He smiled at her. "Actually, you can blame yourself. I wasn't going to say anything, but you let it slip to Ed at the graduation party. He and Masher set this up."
Lawrence walked over and kissed Claudia warmly on the lips.
"Happy birthday, hon. The Big Four-Oh."
Claudia regarded him through slitted eyes. "So, you're the security risk."
Lawrence said, "Hey, I only acted on available intelligence. You know-loose lips sink ships? Besides, somebody else provided the specifics about age."
Claudia glanced at both fliers, feigning petulance. "Oh, there's that handsome Tim Ottman. I think I'll let him buy me a drink."
For the next two hours Claudia savored being the belle of the ball. The fact that she was almost the only woman present did not bother her in the least. She was accorded a combination of fraternal attention and the respect due the colonel's lady from a cheerful band of warriors. Partway into the evening she realized with a start that she--a career diplomat-actually was enjoying the company of such men. True, some of the courtesy being lavished upon her was attributable to the fact that many of the pilots had not talked to a wo
man-any woman-in several months. But she felt comfortable, accepted, and warm.
Bennett allowed the others to entertain Claudia, preferring to sit back with Peter Saint-Martin. Peter lit his pipe, settled comfortably, and took in the scene.
"You know, boss," he began, "we've had the women here only a day and a half or so. They'll be gone tomorrow. But I can't help noticing almost a brother-sister relationship among our bachelor or unattached IPs and the few wives-and your Claudia. I've seen it before. As men will do on lonely outposts without women of their own, they begin to focus their love and longing on those present. Some chaps believe it can only lead to conflict, but I disagree. At least, it doesn't have to."
Bennett regarded the former Royal Navy flier with new esteem.
"Peter, I never figured you for a sociologist."
"Armchair sociologist, you might say." He puffed aggressively at his pipe. "Most men are loath to do anything improper in the presence of a woman who simply expects respect. As you know, when men live for long periods without the company of women, one of the first casualties is language. I've noticed that our chaps have minded their manners all evening."
The Britisher sat in silence a few more moments. "There's a dichotomy at work in our business. Men can engage in the worst form of behavior-killing and being killed-and be better at it when deprived of the presence of women. That's because in every society I know of, the promise of woman is of life and birth, of love and compassion. Things not synonymous with war. You see, it's almost a given that to prepare men for war they should be removed from the presence of women. Our instruction and training has to take place away from the female's basic goodness and civilizing influence. That's why war is possible."
Bennett leaned forward, clasping his hands on the table. "I think I agree with you, Peter. But what about the trend of more women in the armed forces?"
A decisive shake of the head. "Can't work, old man. Runs contrary to our civilization. Oh, I'm not saying women can't shoot as well as men or fly as well-we both know better. But I've never seen a cow in a bullring." He knocked out the ashes in his pipe. "You may have read Kipling. 'The female of the species is more deadly than the male.' Some say that females of any species are more dangerous, but read Kipling carefully. The females only become lethal in defense of their children or to feed them. Women will kill, certainly. To preserve their young. And I for one think that's an admirable quality."
Toward midnight, when the cake and ice cream and beer were gone, most of the men had drifted off. Masher Malloy, obviously picking his time carefully, approached Claudia with a small package.
"Miss Meyers, I'd sort of like you to have this. As a birthday present. It's been with me for quite a while and ... I, ah, I just want you to have it."
Claudia opened the package, set down the wrapping, and held up the gift. It was a once-dark-blue T-shirt emblazoned with the black and white emblem of Fighter Squadron I43. Claudia laughed aloud, genuinely pleased, and held it up to her shoulders. The shirt hung barely to her hips. "Why, thank you, Masher. I'll think of you every time I wear it." She leaned down to kiss his cheek.
Slightly flustered, the little fighter pilot made an uncharacteristically quiet withdrawal.
Bennett drove Claudia to her hotel and walked her to her room.
As they stepped inside she turned around. "Excuse me, John. I'll be right back." She went into the bathroom and closed the door.
Moments later the door opened. Bennett, sitting on the couch, looked up and gasped. Claudia wore the Pukin' Dog shirt. And nothing else. She turned around twice, a wry grin on her face. "Do you think Masher would approve?"
"I know damn well he would." Bennett took a deep breath and stood up. "Claudia . . ."
She stepped close to him, put her hands on his chest. "I know we've both been doing a lot of thinking about each other, and our lovemaking has been wonderful this past year or so. But I want to be closer to you, John. I'm forty years old and I really don't have anything but my career. Now I find I want something more. I want there to be an us."
He held her tightly. "So do I, Claudia."
The blue T-shirt fell to the floor.
Washington D. C.
In the C Ring of the Pentagon, Major General George Miller shuffled his papers, organizing visual aids and data for his next presidential briefing. It was no simple task, especially where the Middle East was concerned. The increasingly complex web of alliances, plots, and feuds cut across not only national borders, but political and religious lines as well. It tended to become very confusing, most notably when longtime antagonists began behaving in a distressingly friendly fashion toward one another. The increasing Arab unity was perpetuated by Israel's continuing occupation of Jordan.
Miller was too experienced a briefer to allow such things to bog him down. He called across the room to his aide, Colonel Robert Kaufman. They were alone in the room.
"Bob, did CIA confirm the data from Tel Aviv?"
Kaufman looked up from his map preparation. "Yes, sir. Not only based upon Israeli information, but there's confirmation from the Brits as well."
Miller penned a note on his first draft of the presentation. As he updated material over the rest of the evening, it would be added, modified, or deleted according to requirements. The final version would be typed less than one hour before President Walter Arnold's briefing.
George Miller sat back in his chair, raised his glasses, and rubbed his eyes. "Bob, come over here and park it for a minute. I want to brainstorm this thing."
The intelligence colonel poured himself a cup of decaffeinated coffee and sat down at the table. "Well, sir, the evidence is pretty conclusive," Kaufman began. "The Israelis, probably with some support from the Omanis and even from the Brits, are supporting guerrilla bands inside Yemen. There's a clear pattern of operations against South Yemen over the past several weeks. That much is indisputable. Raids have occurred."
Miller said, "Sure. But why? What could the Yemenis hope to gain from all this? All they may succeed in doing is upsetting South Yemen and starting a real firefight."
''That is one risk," Kaufman conceded. He tapped the file marked TOP SECRET and flipped the pages. "But it's been proven that South Yemen is intent on exporting revolution, as the old saying goes. My guess is that the government in San'a wants to show the People's Republic of Yemen that it can't have things both ways."
Ever the devil's advocate, Miller said, "Okay, I'll buy that as far as it goes. But let's play the intel game. Who really stands to benefit from border clashes between the two Yemens?"
Kaufman smiled. "Gotcha, chief." He waved a professorial finger. "Israel and Oman."
"All right, we're on the same track. But why? The president will want to know."
"Everybody in the spook business knows the radical Arab states have settled most of their differences over the past couple of years. With the Ayatollah dead, Iran has become a lot cozier with Iraq. In fact, we know that Israeli intelligence predicted it would take about that long to consolidate things. Now the Israelis are looking for a way to further destabilize the situation-give 'em more time to prepare for whatever's coming."
"And Oman?"
"Simple. South Yemen's hostile to Oman, too. Internal dissent, protests, support of opposition groups. It's a marriage of convenience between Muscat and Tel Aviv. By helping each other, they further their respective aims in the region."
Miller jotted down the salient points for inclusion in his briefing. Like a careful professional, he would be sure to distinguish between hard intelligence and that which was supposition and opinion. But all considerations would be available should the president wish a more detailed analysis.
Glancing up from his writing, the general explained, "I'm adding a reference to previous Israeli dealings with Arab nations through back-channel and third-party means. You recall their sale of Phantom parts to Iran during the war with Iraq, and they even advocated that we sell military hardware to Kuwait after the Brits copped that huge deal
with the Saudis." Miller shook his head in wonderment. "At least ten billion dollars worth! The president asked recently how many U.S. jobs that would have meant. I heard the Labor Department estimated four-hundred thousand. No wonder Arnold's willing to buck the Israeli lobby. If he could get back some of that foreign trade, the labor unions would elect him king.
"Okay," Miller said, "so much for the poetry. Now what about actual operations in Yemen?"
Kaufman checked his papers. "Press reports, intel, and info from attaches in San'a are pretty much in agreement. Company-size operations in some spots, shooting back and forth across the border, and more recently South Yemen has launched air strikes along the border, which is ill-defined."
"Any aerial combat?"
"Evidently not yet. There's only been a couple of quick hit-and-run affairs. But it seems the South Yemenis have used Saudi airspace to make an end run. If the Saudis get involved, I imagine that would suit the Israelis just fine."
Miller stared at Kaufman's coffee cup. "It sure would."
Bahrain
The DeHavilland I25 taxied to a stop and the engines were cut to idle. As the vacuum-cleaner sound wound down, the business jet's door opened and Safad Fatah descended the steps. He was closely followed by Mohammad Tuqman, a specialist in foreign affairs.
Bennett greeted the two ministers at large and showed. them to the waiting limousine. He turned around in the front seat to talk to them during the short drive to the Tiger Force operations office.
"Mr. Fatah, arrangements have been made as you asked. Colonel Lawrence is occupied with scheduling for the third class but he will attend our conference. I've also arranged for two of our prospective squadron commanders to be there."
Fatah nodded. "You have selected ranking Saudi pilots to lead the F-20 squadrons, then?"
"Yes, sir. We coordinated with air force headquarters, and we've agreed with Riyadh that two experienced F-5 pilots will perform those duties as soon as they finish the transition phase to Tigersharks. It doesn't take too long."
Warriors by Barrett Tillman Page 17