Warriors by Barrett Tillman

by Barrett Tillman

  "Is that mechanical fact significant?"

  "Yes, sir. At least it could be. You see, if motorized infantry with tanks were to suddenly drive eastward across Sinai, they would have to take their anti-air forces with them. By prepositioning such units, they gain a time saving."

  "Why couldn't the Israelis knock out these units? That would prevent the tanks and infantry from advancing, wouldn't it?"

  "Mr. President, these SAMs have terminal guidance which could be passive--acting upon heat or even noise of the target. They would not be easily defeated. You'll recall the serious losses the Israelis had from Egyptian SAMs in '73."

  Arnold did not know the figures, and in fact did not care. But he did know that dozens of Israeli aircraft had been destroyed or seriously damaged by the belt of surface-to-air missiles during the Yom Kippur War. Only extensive U. S. electronics gear and replacement aircraft and parts had kept the Israelis flying in sufficient numbers. Arnold did not intend to oversee another situation in which American aid to Israel incurred economic retaliation from the oil producers.

  "All right," Arnold said. "We have definite diplomatic activity among the Arabs, apparently for the purpose of establishing unity among the Muslim states. And we have possible military activity aimed at Israel from Egypt. What about other military cooperation ?"

  "I was just coming to that, sir." Miller flipped his chart again.

  The new page showed operating areas in Syria and Iraq. "Combined exercises have been held in these vicinities with Syrian, Iraqi, and reportedly some Iranian units. Our reports indicate a high degree of coordination between ground and air forces with good communications and control." This was new information, and its significance was not lost on those in the room.

  "What this amounts to," Miller summarized, "is the possibility of Arab preparation for a combined offensive against Israel. This kind of alliance--political and military--has never been accomplished before. If it continues at current levels, the Israelis will be in for the fight of their lives."

  "I assume the Israelis are as aware of all this as we are."

  "Oh, yes, sir. In fact, we have confirmed some of our data with Tel Aviv."

  Arnold perked up. "With Tel Aviv ... Any chance they're feeding us some of this info just to gain sympathy?"

  Miller was surprised-the president did not usually subscribe to Machiavellian theories. Perhaps three years on the job had taught him to consider more arcane and less apparent motives-even with longstanding allies.

  "We considered that possibility, sir. All our data has been independently confirmed."

  "How soon might such an Arab alliance move?"

  Miller glanced at the intelligence representatives. "The Arabs have all the hardware they need, right now, sir. And they have a very large manpower pool-much of it combat-experienced. This is especially true of the Iraqis and Iranians. Additionally, the Israelis are overextended in Jordan. They really can't keep the lid on there and fully defend their homeland at the same time. "

  Arnold rubbed his temple with one hand, his eyes closed. There was a long silence before he looked up again.

  "General Miller, thank you. As usual, you're right up to date on things. "

  Surprised to be dismissed so abruptly, Miller walked offstage. He still had more to say.

  The president turned to the NSC staff. "Gentlemen, ladies, we're entering a difficult period. We simply cannot allow ourselves to be forced into choosing sides in another Arab-Israeli war. The economic and diplomatic considerations are too great. I'll pursue this discussion at the cabinet meeting tomorrow."

  Walking to his limousine, Arnold strode out of earshot of his Secret Service escorts. Grabbing his chief of staff by the arm, he hissed, "See what Wilson and State can do. By God, we give the Israelis three billion a year, never see most of it again, and they perpetuate this situation despite us. I hate being in the middle like this. It just isn't fair!"

  The chief of staff stopped in his tracks, watching the briskly striding figure of the President of the United States. The staff director pondered the wisdom of sending Arnold the speech by Henry Kissinger years ago. "Nations don't have friends. They have interests." Of course, the present situation was not fair. What's that got to do with anything?

  Riyadh, 23 August

  Claudia Meyers knocked on the door of Bennett's hotel room.

  The door swung open, a tanned hand reached out, grasped her forearm, and pulled her inside. The door slammed shut.

  They hugged each other tightly for several minutes. At length Claudia said, "My God, I'm tired of living on letters and phone calls." She squeezed his neck. "You feel so good."

  He touched her cheek. "We do have a lot to talk about, don't we?" They sat down on the bed, and Bennett moved a black zippered bag to one side. Curled up with one another, they talked.

  Bennett said, "All right, here's what I'm thinking of doing." He looked directly into her hazel eyes. "War's coming. No doubt about it. My boys are ready, and I can't do much more. I'm thinking of asking to be released from my extended contract, going back home with you and setting up a house in California or Connecticut or wherever you like. What do you say?"

  She returned his gaze. "Is that a proposition, sailor?"

  He grinned the white grin she loved. "Consider it a proposal, Claudia. I've been thinking along these lines for quite a while. Now I want to marry you."

  Her voice seemed small in the room. "Okay."

  That afternoon they made love and made plans. The main concern was how to accommodate their different work and responsibilities.

  Bennett said, "I can probably wrap things up in less than sixty days. If necessary, Ed can take over for me. We're down to the basic requirements of twenty-eight IPs now, including one for each squadron, since basic flight training is winding down." He tickled her ribs and she wriggled away. "What about you?"

  "I'll put in for termination of my position here right away. I'm senior enough that it shouldn't be too difficult, especially since I've been at this station so long." She edged closer to Bennett, grasping his near hand to prevent more mischief. "I'd like to finish my full twenty years with the State Department, John. If I got a Washington posting could you tolerate that for a while? It would only be another couple of years. "

  The disappointment showed on his face. "Oh, lord. Georgetown cocktail parties, small talk with the temporary acting deputy under-secretary from Lower Slobbovia. You'd really subject the man you love to that sort of thing?"

  "Yes. If I was the woman he loved."

  "Ouch." He raised his hands. "Okay, I surrender. But old John is going to look awfully funny in a tux. Besides, how will I communicate with anybody? You know fighter pilots can't talk with a teacup in one hand. It takes two, baby." He parodied the gestures common to aviators describing two aircraft engaged in a close dogfight.

  Claudia laughed appreciatively, then turned serious. "What do you think you would do for two years or so in D.C.?"

  He wrapped his arms around her. "I've never been a house husband. That seems all the rage these days. You know, send you off to work each morning with a healthy, nutritious lunch in your bag. Have a nice dinner waiting when you come home after a hard day with the Bulgarian ambassador."

  Claudia kissed his cheek. ''That's a lovely thought, but for some reason I don't quite buy it. Really, what would you do?"

  "I think I'd like to write a book about my time here in Arabia. I might not be able to find a publisher, and I couldn't describe some things, of course. But the people I've worked with, especially the students, they're the real story." He warmed to his subject. "I wish you knew some of these kids like I do, Claudia. Doggone, so many of them are really terrific young guys. It's like Chuck Yeager said. You fly with all kinds of pilots from all over the world and there isn't a dime's worth of difference among them. Training and experience are what matter.

  "I don't mean to overstate this, but in a way Tiger Force has been my family. I raised these kids, most of them from teenagers.
I'm really going to miss them. And most of the IPs, too."

  "That reminds me," Claudia said. She got up to fetch her shoulder bag and pulled out a worn blue T-shirt. Returning to the bed, she sat down beside Bennett. "I've kept this but I don't really know what to do with it. What do you think?"

  Bennett fingered the familiar garment. "I think you should keep it. Masher would like to know that you still wear it."

  Claudia slid under the covers and nestled close. "What do you think will become of the others?"

  "Oh, most of them will go back to what they did before. Airlines, reserve flying, commercial instruction. Some will just become beachcombers."

  "It won't be the same for them, will it?"

  Bennett inhaled, thinking of Ed Lawrence. "No, it won't. You know, in the business we talk about being warriors, of being entirely job-oriented. No bullshit, stick to the basics. Beyond that, we talk about the pure warriors. Well, Ed's the only really pure warrior I know anymore. And it's not a cheery prospect."

  She laid her head on his chest. "Why not?"

  "Because he really is pure. He's never been married, has no outside interests. Flying and fighting are all he knows and all he cares about. He's very good at it, but there's not much else for him besides sport flying. I worry about what might become of him. There's nothing sadder than a warrior without a war."

  Claudia ran her finger around his lips. "Maybe we could adopt him. At least have him to dinner or occasional weekends." Her face turned serious. "John, what's the attraction of combat? I get the feeling that some of you actually enjoy it."

  He thought for a moment. "Yes, some of us do. I think of the Marine recruiting slogan way back when. 'Nobody likes to fight but somebody has to know how.' That's strictly public relations. The plain fact is, most of the really good fighters do love to fight. A lot of us just enjoy the hell out of flying the airplane, but Ed and his type are beyond that. The airplane isn't a vehicle--it's a weapon.”

  "What makes men like that?"

  "Ego. Remove ego or self-respect from the human equation--they're both related-and you remove war." He stroked her back, concentrating on his line of thought. "I believe that implicitly. And it's the biggest factor overlooked in discussions of the causes of war.”

  Claudia moved her head to his shoulder, and he savored the touch of her hair on his skin. "I never told you, John, but you scared me and attracted me when we met. There was something about you that was . . . well, it was dangerously appealing. And I've noticed it among your pilots. They respect you, but I think a lot of them are a little frightened of you, too."

  He chuckled. "That's what I hope for. Keeps 'em alert."

  Bennett rolled over and nibbled on Claudia's ear. She inhaled sharply between clenched teeth. "You know what that does to me."

  "Affirmative. Let's take a bath before dinner."

  THEY ADJUSTED THEIR LEGS TO ACCOMMODATE ONE another in the tub. Claudia reached for a bar of soap, unwrapped it, and rubbed it between her hands. Then she leaned forward, lathering his chest and shoulders. Her eyes twinkled as she playfully rinsed the suds from his body by splashing water on him.

  In turn, he picked up the bar and applied soap to her breasts and back. Then came a scratching noise, faintly heard, from the door.

  Claudia began to ask a question but he silenced her with a raised hand. He heard the sound again and knew it was not a key. He knew everything he needed to know, and his adrenaline surged.

  With a silent curse, Bennett leapt from the tub and sprinted eight steps around the comer to his nightstand. He knew he had made two mistakes: He should have taken the black bag with him to the bathroom, and he should have closed and locked the bathroom door. He heard the main door open as he brought the Browning Hi-Power up from the bag.

  Bennett heard Claudia scream as a metallic tinkling filled the narrow hallway around the comer. He heard the sound of copper-jacketed bullets striking porcelain and enamel. Keeping low and kneeling, he braced his left forearm against the edge of the wall and centered his front sight on the intruder's upper torso. One glimpse told the story.

  The entrance door was open and the gunman had stepped inside to his left, without silhouetting himself. He had pivoted right when he saw the open bathroom door, fired a long burst into the tub, and was swinging back left. The muzzle of the silenced Ingram MAC-ll came toward Bennett, slightly high.

  In the next instant Bennett squeezed the Browning's three-and-one-half-pound trigger and the sharp-nosed, armor-piercing round smashed through the intruder's sternum. Without hesitation, Bennett lifted the auto pistol and sighted on the man's forehead and the next round shattered the cranium. The body collapsed backward against the vanity mirror and slid to the floor, twelve feet from the Hi-Power's muzzle.

  Two rapid heartbeats later another form appeared against the backlighted hallway. Bennett's loading sequence was armor piercing backed up by hardball, and he fired two quick rounds into the center of mass. The second man, also armed with a silenced MAC-ll, staggered forward and-perhaps from reflex-triggered a burst which went into the wall near Bennett's right rear.

  The terror, the lethal pressure, and the semidarkness combined to ruin Bennett's sight picture. He lost the competitive sharp image of his front sight and fired his next round at the assassin's head. It was proper procedure--what the South Africans called the Mozambique Drill. But the sight alignment was off, and the man took a grazing hit in the neck.

  Slumping to his knees, still trying to bring the submachine gun to bear, the man strained toward his target.

  Bennett was momentarily upset by his failure to stop the fight with two good hits, and he thought of his .45 back home. But then there was a clear and angry mind at work behind the Browning's sights. The reduced distance made sights seem hardly necessary but he forced himself to focus on the front ramp. Then he squeezed the trigger.

  It was over. Bennett thought of a reload, but estimated he had fired six rounds; the magazine still held seven. He felt an ephemeral sense of exhilaration, followed by disgust at the unpleasant substances on the walls and floor. Then he thought of Claudia. But he was disciplined enough to order his priorities.

  Scrambling to his feet, Bennett checked around the corner and found it clear. He jumped over the cadaver at his feet, slammed the door, and locked it. He turned and threw both Ingrams on the bed, noting a lock-picking kit had fallen from one man's pocket.

  Claudia.

  He knew what he would find. She lay in the tub, up to her chin in red-dyed water. She had taken ten .380 rounds in the chest and abdomen from that one long burst.

  Bennett slumped on the bed, suddenly cold. He huddled into a sheet. Violent emotions tore at him from different directions. Delayed fear, the heaviness in the arms, the raspy dryness in the throat. But there was more: anger, remorse, a numbing sense of loss.

  A loud pounding on the door brought Bennett's senses back to the immediate. He glanced around, noting the familiar blue T-shirt on the floor. Picking it up, he held it to his cheek. And that is how they found him, sobbing softly to himself.

  Bahrain, 26 August

  When John Bennett returned to Tiger Force, Ed Lawrence was the sole person on hand to meet him. It was contrary to the group of IPs and students who normally were present as a mark of courtesy and respect.

  He looks ten years older, Lawrence thought to himself as Bennett came down the stairs of the commuter jet. The exec noted his friend's haggard appearance--especially the circles under the eyes and the slumping posture. Lawrence walked toward the man the students called "King Tiger." Now he resembled neither.

  Bennett held out his hand. "Hello, Devil."

  "Welcome home, Pirate." Then Lawrence put his arms around Bennett's shoulders.

  Bennett unwrapped himself and smiled grimly. "Let's have a drink. "

  The redhead said, "I think even Allah would approve."

  Seated in Bennett' quarters, Lawrence filled him in on recent events. "You wondered why the Saudis were including you in al
l the air force planning, remember? Well, I talked to Rajid and a couple of others from Class One. You know there are about five thousand princes in this country?" Bennett nodded. "Well, we have our share flying F-20s. I guess it's still a case of not what you know but who you know that counts. Because it looks like our guys, the Saudi pilots, used some of their influence. After Handrah and Jauf were killed in the car bomb, our tigers told Saudi HQ they didn't want any more outsiders as squadron Cos. They wanted us, the IPs, to fill the gaps."

  Bennett showed interest. "That could mean trouble in our relations with the Saudi Air Force."

  "That's what I thought," Lawrence said. "So I took it upon myself to propose a compromise, subject to your approval. Some of our sports are CO material-Rajid, Menaf, a couple of others from Class One. What say we recommend them for the slots?"

  Bennett thought for a long moment. "They probably will be okay with more experience. But if it comes to shooting ... "

  "Yeah, I know. But this seems a good way of us keeping an even strain with both sides. At least, it may be the best we can get. "

  "You know, Ed, I didn't really know we had that kind of loyalty from these kids. I mean, I'm really pleased that's how they feel, but I'd have expected they'd want their own people."

  "I discussed it with Peter and Tim and some of the guys. You know what a philosopher Peter is. He says it makes sense. The oldest of our first pilots still aren't twenty-six. The youngest of the last graduating class are between twenty and twenty-one. Hell, we raised these studs from pups. I guess it's natural that they look to us for continued leadership."