Warriors by Barrett Tillman (18 page)

       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?"

       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.

       GEORGE BARNES WAS A SIX-FOOT-THREE FORMER MARINE corps aviator; a pleasant giant who tipped the scales at 225 pounds in fighting trim. His size and build had earned him the nickname "Bear." It had been his radio callsign from the day he reported to his old Phantom squadron. As the sole Marine among the IPs he was constantly beset by cheerful insults from the Navy and Air Force pilots. But to Barnes, 39 to I meant even odds.

       Sitting in the operations office, tapping the eraser end of his pencil in time with "Semper Fidelis" on his portable tape recorder,

       Barnes seemed lost in thought. He was gazing out the window to the flight line and did not see Bennett walk in from the opposite side of the room, across the counter.

       "Hi, Bear. Still listening to mood music?"

       Barnes glanced up. "Hello, Colonel. Yup, guess it's in my blood. I think I was eleven years old before I realized 'The Marines' Hymn' wasn't the national anthem."

       "Sure, I remember now. You're second-generation jarhead." Bear straightened in his chair. "Damn straight. My daddy retired as a master gunnery sergeant."

       Leaning conspiratorially across the counter, Bennett whispered, "Listen. I wouldn't want this to get around, but I applied for the Marines myself back in Pensacola."

       Bear squinted suspiciously. "Oh?"

       "Yup. But when they found out my parents were married I was disqualified on the spot." Both men laughed. It was an old joke, probably as old as the Corps.

       "All right, Skipper. What can I do for you?"

       "I got caught up with my paperwork and figured I'd combine a proficiency flight with a look at how one of the cadets performs. They're all soloed now from Class One."

       Bear reached back to the wall, pulled a clipboard off the rack, and scanned the pages. "Once an ops officer, always an ops officer," he said with a moan. He had the operations desk this month, an assignment held in rotation by those IPs not yet flying with students full-time. "Sure, you could put in some time with one of the boys in an extra hop. You'll have to make it clear it's not a checkride. A lot of these Arabs get real skittish about that sort of thing." He put down the first clipboard and thumbed through the aircraft availability chart. Two-seat F-20s still were arriving, and the allotment was not yet filled. "I'm not sure there's a B model available right now. Maintenance is busy with the new birds, checking them out."

       "Well, my lad, how about 001? You remember-the bird our employer, His Highness in Riyadh, so kindly purchased for my sport and amusement? Last time I flew her, she still had my name on the canopy rail."

       Barnes bowed and touched his forehead. "I hear, your magnificence, and I obey. I'll have the wrench-benders put 001 on the ramp for an 0630 launch. Any particular student you want to fly?"

       "Anybody who's not slated for academics. I want to fly with at least three students per class from now on. Which section is free in the morning?"

       Barnes flipped through yet another clipboard. "Second section is off. The section duty officer is Halid; alternate is Hamir."

       "Good. I'll take Rajid Hamir. I hear good things about him." Bennett walked into the ops office at 0545 next morning, already dressed in flight suit and boots. He carried his G-suit, torso harness, and helmet bag, preferring not to wear them until ready to fly.

       Rajid Hamir was already there, scratching earnestly at his paperwork on the table provided for flight planning. He rose when Bennett entered, and stood at attention.

       "Good morning, Mr. Hamir. Ready to fly?"

       "Yes, sir. I am preparing the forms now."

       Bennett smiled, setting his baggage on a chair. "You know, about the time I got out of the Navy, we said that you couldn't fly until the paperwork equaled the empty weight of the airplane. I like it better here, where all we need is a flight plan and takeoff data."

       "Sir, I am computing the takeoff roll and weight-and-balance figures. "

       Bennett looked over the student's shoulder. The flight plan was complete, with each square neatly filled in. Noting the youngster's circular computer, Bennett sat down and tapped Rajid's calculator watch. "You go ahead and finish the density altitude, but I'll show you its effect when we're airborne."

       Density altitude was especially important to flying in the Middle East. In hot climates, basic physics dictate the amendments to the law of gravity. The molecules in warm air expand apart from each other, contrary to cold-air molecules, which crowd together for comfort. Consequently, hot air generates less lift than cool air because the molecular density is not as great.

       This phenomenon is called density altitude. An aircraft taking off from an airport at I,100 feet above sea level, with a temperature of I15 degrees Fahrenheit, uses the, same length of runway as during a standard day at over 5,000 feet. But not only takeoff is affected. Every flight regime-climb rate, dive recovery, turn radius-is similarly affected.

       Fifty minutes later the two-seat fighter was airborne, tucking its tricycle landing gear neatly away and accelerating into the cooler upper air. Flying in the front seat, Rajid demonstrated what he had learned thus far: turns, climbs, and descents. Bennett noted the boy's movements usually were smooth and precise. There was little tendency to overcontrol, despite the Tigershark's sensitive boosted controls.

       "All right, Mr. Hamir. I've got it." Bennett wiggled the stick in the instructor's cockpit to indicate he had control. "You remember what we learned about density altitude? Well, watch your altimeter. We're at fourteen thousand five hundred feet, straight and level at three hundred fifty knots. Ordinarily the airplane will complete a split-S in about five thousand five hundred feet under these conditions. Here we go."

       In one fluid movement Bennett rolled the Northrop on its back and pulled the stick into his stomach. The little fighter plummeted downward, recovering into level flight on a reciprocal heading from its entry. "What does your altimeter say?"

       "Seven thousand six hundred feet, sir."

       "Correct. That was a three-and-one-half-G pull-through, and we lost about seven thousand feet. So you see the effect of density altitude, even up here in cooler air." Rajid's helmet bobbed up and down, indicating comprehension.