Warriors by Barrett Tillman (35 page)

       Breathing heavily from the effort, Lawrence regained visual contact with the two Falcons. Both broke sharply away, the glow of their afterburners visible in the morning sky. Lawrence turned to try a Sidewinder shot, but got no tone. He heard Badir call "Snake!" and saw the white wake of the missile, but it could not track at that distance.

       The Israelis had made one pass at the field, and though only the first two Kfirs had bombed, they did their job. Lawrence's victim had crashed near the northern boundary and the second evidently had pulled out to avoid its partner's fate. The fight was over in two minutes, and the F-20s began landing by sections under cover of the flight with most fuel remaining.

       One hangar was partially destroyed and there were bomb craters in the runway. The latter would be repaired in hours by Saudi workers with access to gravel and steel plating stacked along the edge of the runway. No center hits had been scored on the landing strip itself, but Lawrence's heart sank as he taxied past the smoldering remains of the two grounded Tigersharks. He recalled feeling less grief over pilots who succumbed to carelessness or bad luck.

       Only that night, lying in the bunk in his trailer, did it occur to Lawrence that he had achieved a lifelong goal. The Kfir had been his fifth kill in aerial combat-he was a fighter ace. But he could not tell anyone back home about it, and that knowledge robbed him of easy sleep.

Ha’il, 1210 Hours

      
The reports were in by noon. All four of the F -20 fields targeted by the Israelis had been hit, but Orange Base and one other got off lightly. The defenders had been late scrambling from New Badanah, and were caught by the F-16 escorts at 9,000 feet. Too involved with the Falcons to intercept the Phantoms, White Squadron's two flights fought at a disadvantage and lost three in exchange for one kill. Overall, the Israelis lost six aircraft to seven F-20s. But two fields were out of commission until major repairs could be made.

       Bennett discussed the day's events with Bear Barnes at the new Tiger Force HQ near Ha'il, "I talked to the British air attache in Riyadh this afternoon," Bennett said. "He seems better connected than our embassy people. Looks like the Israelis decided to preempt possible air strikes from Saudi Arabia before taking on the Syrians and Iraqis."

       Bear agreed. "So they're going to fight after all. I sort of thought the Israelis might pull out of Jordan. I mean, they're overextended. They can't hold all of Jordan, the West Bank, and part of Lebanon, too. So why push a fight now when they still have time to prepare?"

       "My guess is, their government just doesn't think it can survive by ceding territory back to the Arabs. That limits their options. I agree with you, Bear. They
are
overextended. It's a serious strategic error, but it's not the first time politicians have screwed up things for the military in a country."

       Barnes finished his coffee. He wished he had a Coors. "Word from the rumor mill is that the Arabs are starting a big offensive in a couple of weeks. I wonder if the Israelis got wind of it and that prompted these strikes. Seems logical-they'd want to secure their southern flank."

       Bennett perked up. "I haven't heard that. Where'd you get it?"

       Barnes looked around to make sure no one overheard him. "I was in Saudi Air Force HQ yesterday-you know, about the ECM gear. Heard two colonels discussing contingency plans with a Brit, apparently showing what big shots they were. One of them hinted at October ninth. Not very good security-"

       Bennett felt an electric shock. Claudia. He had not thought of her in the past two days. But hearing the date of her birthday brought back a rush of painful memories.

       "Skipper? You all right?" Barnes grasped Bennett's forearm in a powerful hand.

       "What? Yeah, Bear, I'm okay."

       "You sort of drifted off the scope there for a minute."

       "I was just thinking." With alarm, Barnes noted that the CO's left hand trembled visibly. Bennett glanced away, clearly embarrassed. The big Marine squeezed the arm.

       Bennett ignored the tacit message. "Well, I guess we should go over the fadeaway plan again."

       "No need, boss. Devil and the troops have all the details. We sent that stuff by courier to avoid any oral transmission. All we need to do is phone or teletype two words and the plan goes into effect. "

       "Devil ... I wonder how he's doing up there."

       "Hell, I reckon he's happier than a hog in slop. He bagged himself another one, you know. Probably painted the fifth star on his helmet before the turbine blades stopped turning."

       Bennett regarded his operations officer. ''Tell me something. Do you ever wish you were flying with these kids? Would you rather be in a squadron than running the ops office?"

       Barnes leaned back, regarding his digital wristwatch . "Well, to be honest, no. If I was younger, say,  the age I was in Nam, you bet. I was like every other MiG-hungry stud in an F-4. Couldn't wait to tie into some gomer up in Route Pack Six. But now . . ." He chuckled softly. "I'm honest enough to admit I'm not the stick I used to be. Can't be helped; age does that to a guy." He glanced at his boss. "But I'm not telling you anything you don't know."

       Bennett sympathized with Barnes and admired his honesty. "We can't all be like Devil. Hell, the Saudis will have to kick him out of the country before he hangs up his helmet. I guess Brad is still strong in the cockpit. He missed Vietnam, you know. Like Tim Ottman-he wanted his shot at combat."

       An ironic smile crossed Bames's face. "What's that saying you mentioned so often? Be careful what you want; it might come true."

       "I don't mean to be gloomy, but when I think of Ed and the guys like him, I'm reminded of something attributed to Raoul Lufbery . You may have heard of him.
Lafayette Escadrille
in World War I."

       "Yeah, he invented that squirrel-cage maneuver, a defensive circle. What reminded you of him?"

       "He's supposed to have said, 'There will be no after-the-war for a fighter pilot.' "

       Barnes was intrigued. "What'd he do after the war?"

       "Nothing. He was KIA in 1918."

Hovda Air Base 1215 Hours

      
The debrief was orderly but intense. The Israeli aircrews had dispassionately reported what they had seen and done over the four Saudi fields, knowing that intelligence evaluation would confirm their estimates. Meanwhile, other pilots were sitting cockpit alert in the refueled, rearmed Kfirs, poised to launch immediately from the camouflaged blast pens and dispersal pads.

       Despite the outward calm, the underlying emotion was puzzlement. Even with heavy electronic countermeasures, the strike aircraft had met alerted, airborne interceptors. How had the Saudis reacted so quickly in the face of Israeli jamming and deception? Especially since countermeasures had been instituted on an irregular basis days before to "desensitize" the defenders.

       Lieutenant Colonel David Ran, veteran of the 1973 war, had led his Kfirs against Orange Base. His bombs, and those of his wingman, had cratered the perimeter of the runway and destroyed two grounded F-20s. But he had lost his number three man to a Tigershark and number four had been prevented from bombing.

       "I tell you, they knew we were coming," Ran insisted, speaking to the intelligence officer, bespectacled twenty-six-year-old Captain Danny Peled. ''They were up in force and had enough altitude to intercept with an advantage."

       "Could it have been a standing patrol?" asked Peled.

       "No. We only saw two aircraft on the field, and the number of interceptors was too large for a standing combat air patrol. Somehow our jamming must have broken down."

       "We've had no report of that, sir. But there will be a full account in the mission summary." The report from Hovda would go to Air Force headquarters for compilation with the other units' accounts, after which a summary would be issued.

       Ran's wingman handed him a cold glass of lemonade. "Come on, David. Let's get changed. I think Ari can use some cheering up. He feels badly about not bombing."

       The CO stood silent for a moment. He thought of the old adage:

       No battle plan survives contact with the enemy. But damn! The mission should not have met as much opposition as it did. "All right. He's probably upset about Ephraim. Well, I am too. But it couldn't be helped. Ari wouldn't have done any good to press his dive with an F-20 locked at his six o'clock."

       The intelligence officer was scribbling at his notepad as most of the pilots filed out. Ran took a detour to Peled's desk. Leaning on the top, the Kfir leader said, "I want every available detail on the mission as soon as possible. In my office tomorrow."

       "Yes, sir." This was not the time to address the CO by his given name. "I believe we'll have data on the SAM batteries tonight."

       "Good." Saudi Hawk surface-to-air missiles, plus those purchased from Britain and France, had taken a toll of the attackers. A Phantom and a Kfir had been shot down despite Israeli jamming. There was little opportunity to counter the simple electro-optical aiming systems adapted to the U. S.-made Hawks or the passive infrared guidance of the European weapons. Ran turned to go. "Oh, one more thing. Don't contact Ephraim's family yet. I'll do that myself. "

       Waiting outside was David Ran's wingman. Lieutenant Asher Menuhim stretched his arms, rolling his shoulders. Sometimes it was just good to be alive. Merely to stand on your own two feet and breathe God's pure air. When Ran emerged, moving at his usual four-miles-per-hour stride, Asher fell in beside him. As they paced along together Asher remarked, "David, I've been wondering about something. It's this whole series of strikes."

       "What about it, Asher?"

       "I wonder if it's good doctrine. We knocked out two airfields for perhaps a few days. But we've taken losses we never used to take. It's obvious that the Saudis are definitely more proficient."

       "Yes, they are." Ran thought of his A-4 squadron's losses the first day of the Yom Kippur War. No, the Arabs aren't always pushovers.

       "Well," Asher continued, "I wonder if we shouldn't conserve our resources for our own defense." He broke step slightly, wanting to stop and talk.

       Ran slowed imperceptibly, leaving his wingman two steps behind. "You know the procedure, Asher. We don't make policy, we just carry it out." He was lapsing into his commanding officer tone of voice. It said,
Tread lightly.

      
"Yes, I understand that. But do the politicians? Look, I don't mind dying. But I don't like the idea of dying for a political whim."

       Ran stopped cold and glared at his wingman. "What's the matter with you? We're going to be fighting for our survival in a few days. You know and I know, and probably the ice cream vendor down the street knows. What choice do we have?"

       "I just can't help thinking there's another way. We're never going to be loved by the Arabs. I know that. But maybe . . ."

       Ran's voice cut off the thought like honed steel. "Damn it, Asher, I don't want to talk about it. I didn't make this world, and neither did anybody I know. It was decided for us long before you or I were born. All I know is this." He held up a finger before the younger pilot's face. "We have one spot on this earth, just this one. There are millions of people around us who would cheerfully cut the throat of each man, woman, and child in Israel. We have two choices, Asher. Only two. We can fight, or we can die. We can't reason with them or argue the moral subtleties. We can answer only to ourselves. Nobody else is going to look out for us. Not the Americans, not anybody. So, Asher. When it comes down to a choice of fighting or dying, I choose to fight."

       The two men stood face to face for several seconds. Asher's face was red beneath his tan, and he made a conscious effort to unclench his fists. Then his CO clapped him on the arm.

       "See what you've done? You've turned me into an orator. That's the longest speech I've made in years." He smiled broadly. "Come. Let's see if we can cheer up poor Ari. Drinks on me."

       Asher allowed himself to be pulled along. David was right; there's no room for doubt in a warrior's heart. But he could not shake the feeling. Something terrible was coming.

Ha’il, 17 September, 1500 Hours

      
Ed Lawrence poked his head inside John Bennett's office. Rapping on the doorsill, the exec asked, "Skipper, can we talk?"

       Bennett looked up from his paperwork. "Sure. Come on in." Lawrence stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and sat down in the vacant chair. "We got trouble, John." Bennett leaned back, folding his arms behind his head. He expected another supply problem or a bureaucratic snag. "Black Squadron gunned a parachute yesterday."

       Bennett's easy posture evaporated. "That's for sure? No possible mistake?"

       Lawrence vigorously shook his head. "Negative. We have the HUD tape. The pilot doesn't even claim it was accidental." The videotape showing the view through each plane's head-up display was intended as a debriefing tool. Whatever the pilot saw when he fired his guns or launched a missile was recorded for later analysis.

       Bennett expelled a long breath. It spoke of infinite sadness. He looked at his friend. "All right. Who?"

       "Ahmed Salim. Good stick, good kid from Class One. He was just cleared for flight lead. No disciplinary problems at all."

       Spreading his hands, Bennett asked, "Then why'd he do it?"

       "Well, you know we lost Karasi in that hassle. Salim was real close to him. Apparently they grew up together. Karasi was jumped by two F-16s at low level and got clobbered with twenty mike-mike. He ejected okay but he was only about 800 feet off the deck. The Israeli was close astern and pulled up directly over the chute. The 16 probably couldn't do anything else, but it collapsed the canopy and Karasi went in with a streamer."