Warriors

by Barrett Tillman

  "Sir, I would expect to use American and British instructors, and as we noted perhaps some Saudis as well. The U. S. and British should receive from a hundred thousand to a hundred and twenty thousand dollars per year in order to attract and hold the very best men. There would have to be a schedule allowing them to return home periodically, as I do not envision families at the training bases. Most of the instructors would have three-year contracts. At the end of that time, a smaller number would have the option to renew for one or two more years. With flight instructors and maintenance supervisors, probably fifty-five or so in all.

  The king and Aziz glanced at one another. Aziz gave an elegant shrug.

  Bennett, you're playing with the all-time high rollers.

  "Yes, that is fine," the king said. "But what of yourself?" Bennett had spent part of the night considering that question.

  "Your Majesty, I ask nothing for myself." He paused. "However, as you gentlemen know, I have a son in college. I would like a trust opened in his name, to be administered by an attorney of my choosing. As for myself, full compensation for all transportation, accommodations, communications, and any other expenses related to this work."

  The king said evenly, "And that is all?"

  Bennett returned the level gaze. "Well, not entirely, Sir. You see, I wish one more thing."

  "Yes?"

  "Your Majesty, I would like my name painted on one of the first F-20s."

  The king, a worldly man, interpreted this odd request literally.

  "That is all? Just paint your name on the machine?"

  Bennett glanced at the Saudi generals. They were both grinning and the younger one-Maila-flashed a thumbs-up. "You see, sir, that means it's my airplane. I'm the one who flies it."

  A laugh escaped the monarch's lips. He pounded a hand on the table. "Very good, commander. We shall paint your name on the first F-20 we receive. But you won't mind if we borrow it from time to time."

  Bennett's smile was ear to ear. "Not at all, Your Majesty."

  The king rose, and with him all the others. He spoke briefly in Arabic to Fatah, who ambled from the room.

  Fatah was back in a moment, carrying a small, elegantly wrapped box. He handed it to the king.

  "Commander John Bennett, we wish to present you with this gift in appreciation of your visit. We would have given it to you regardless, but now I am even happier that I may send you home with it. Please open it."

  Bennett fumbled with the wrapping, feeling embarrassed at the attention focused on him. As he opened the lid he withdrew a small green ivory figurine of a pregnant woman.

  "Commander," the king explained, "this is a fertility symbol which was excavated near Jiddah in 1976. Artists tell me its design is dated to thirteen hundred years B.C. This one is not that old, but it is ancient. Legend has it that a man who owns this figure will meet a woman who will give him happiness and children. I pray that it will bring the companionship and warmth of a woman back into your life."

  Bennett felt the lump rise in his throat and the moistness well up in his eyes. He glanced down at the green figurine and spoke in low, halting words. "Your Majesty… I don't think… I can't say what this means. Only, thank you."

  * * *

  After Bennett had left for the airport, the king sat smoking and drinking coffee with Fatah and the other civilian representatives who had attended both sessions.

  "My compliments, gentlemen. You did your work very well indeed."

  Fatah inclined his head. "Thank you, Your Majesty. We were confident he was the best candidate."

  The king blew a smoke ring. "Yes, yes it was. Dr. Hamoud, well done. Have you any new insights into our air leader?"

  The Lebanese psychiatrist set down his cup. "No, Your Majesty. Only reinforcement. We knew that Bennett's driving ambition is to prove his point about air combat. This is what separated him from the other three choices. They are equally well qualified-in fact, one U.S. Air Force officer is a retired two-star general. But Mr. Fatah and I had considered the possibility that Bennett might work for nothing. A man of conviction. This is his chance to vindicate his theories that have not been accepted by his countrymen. Now we have given him a golden opportunity and I am certain he will make the most of it."

  "How does his psychological profile indicate future attitudes?" the king asked.

  "Your Majesty, there should be no significant change. Especially once the machines arrive and Bennett becomes involved in training and flying. We have selected him at the most opportune time. He is alone and vulnerable. You saw the reaction when you presented him with the fertility symbol. Such men do not show emotion easily."

  Hamoud licked his lips, warming to his subject. "Sire, when he asked for the trust for his son, I felt my analysis had been accurate. When he asked for his personal machine, I knew it absolutely. "

  The king turned to Fatah. "You will coordinate with Aziz. You may tell the other parties that our plan has begun, but secrecy is important. Their contributions will be needed in a few months."

  "Yes, Your Majesty."

  Tel Aviv

  Israeli Intelligence occupied a twenty-one-story steel and concrete antenna-crowned complex on the outskirts of the capital. Radio antennae allowed immediate communication with any field unit while pulling in transmissions from many other sources in the region-all part of the endless process of information-gathering and analysis. In a secure space in this complex Lieutenant Levi Bar-El slouched in his chair, reading dispatches from the day before. The young man was a reserve officer from the port city of Ashqelon, serving a full year of active duty based on his skills as a language instructor.

  Though Bar-El's khaki uniform was clean, with moderately shined boots, it would not have passed an American drill sergeant's inspection. An almost studied informality had grown up in the Israeli armed forces, and casual dress combined with longish hair presented a disarming picture to most military professionals.

  The report which Bar-El carried to his chief's office seemed insignificant. It involved the flight of a Saudi aircraft two days before from San Diego, California, to Riyadh.

  Israeli agents in Los Angeles had photographed the passengers with 300-millimeter lenses. One they knew as an agent of the Saudi military establishment who had visited several Southern California defense contractors over the past two years. Two were middle-level diplomats. There was a four-person party comprised of two college-age princes of the royal family and their European girlfriends. And another man was an American perhaps six feet tall, approximately fifty years old, whom the operatives noted had carried himself with military bearing. The field representatives could not identify him yet, but they suggested following him upon his return. The apparent extravagance of flying eight people in a jumbo jet was not commented upon-the Saudis seemed to enjoy such displays from time to time.

  Since the American desk of Israeli Intelligence had thought the flight worthy of note, it had passed the data to the Israelis' Saudi desk of army intelligence. The two offices agreed on a coordinated surveillance and now Bar-El had to arrange for technical assistance from his chief.

  Israeli early-warning aircraft would attempt to relay information when the 747 was en route to the United States. American satellite tracking equipment would intercept communications between the Boeing and ground controllers as it transited half the world's surface. Bar-El's other responsibility was to notify the operatives in Riyadh that Safad Fatah's guest would be leaving within the next day or so, and the departure time should be relayed immediately.

  With his field cap tucked under one epaulet, Bar-El checked his watch in the hallway. His chief was a stickler for punctuality and the morning briefing was thirty seconds away. Bar-El counted down the seconds, then punched the access code on the key pad and waited for the light. When it came on, he turned the knob and walked in with six seconds to spare.

  Over the Mediterranean

  The huge jetliner cruised easily at 37,000 feet, leaving the Middle Eastern landmass twenty-five
miles south of Beirut. Its westerly heading took it along Oceanic Route G2 parallel to the Cyprus coast.

  The sun shone brightly off the blue water, and Bennett looked out the left side at the green outline of Israel. When you flew in this part of the world Israel looked like a child's geography book. It was green at the edges, but mostly brown in the middle. However, he knew that the coastal area was not the only productive region. The Israelis really had made the desert bloom.

  Such an industrious, productive people, the Israelis. Bennett did not know any Israelis well, and nearly all his contacts had been military, He found their aviators of a uniformly high professional standard, though frequently hard-headed, even arrogant. But you had to hand it to them. They started from zero and built not just a world-class air force but that rarest of commodities in the Middle East-a lasting democracy. Bennett knew that no war had ever been fought between democracies. That had to be the way to peace, if ever it came.

  Then Bennett's practiced eyes picked up the small dots at the 747's eight o'clock position. He did not know it, but the Boeing had reached the mandatory reporting point called Velox, seventy nautical miles out of Beirut where Route B17 crossed Route G2. Bennett did know that he was in international airspace. As the dots closed the range he recognized them as F-15s, and the blue Star of David on the white disk plainly stood out. He wondered if they were running practice intercepts.

  Fascinated, Bennett watched the lead Eagle extend its massive speed brake and ease into position. The wingman remained back about a half-mile in echelon. The Israeli leader stabilized himself low and behind the port wing, settling about a hundred yards out. Bennett had the eerie sensation that the pilot's eyes were fixed on him.

  The leader read the Saudi Air's registration letters and relayed the data to his ground controller. This confirmed the identity of the aircraft which intelligence wanted. The helmeted figure in the twin-tailed fighter raised his right hand in salute, made a sharp left turn, and resumed the lead. Simultaneously the two gray fighters lit their afterburners and pulled into a sixty-degree climb, doing a matched set of aileron rolls. They were stylish fliers.

  Tel Aviv

  The next morning Levi Bar-El entered the access code into the pad and again waited for the light. The door opened and an enlisted dispatcher handed him a two-inch-thick pile of messages from the previous night. The young officer found the one he was looking for near the bottom. It was from the Israeli Embassy in Washington, providing details of the San Diego arrival of the Saudi airliner.

  Field operatives had followed the hired limousine from Lindbergh Field north to the community of La Jolla. In front of a small apartment building on La Jolla Village Drive they noted a name-plate: J. L. BENNETT. Nothing was known about him yet.

  Two hours later another dispatch reached the intelligence collection center. It identified John L. Bennett as a retired naval aviator. Less than forty-eight hours after that came a complete background report from Washington. The man had made at least two recent visits to the Northrop Aircraft plant in Los Angeles.

  John Bennett was put under discreet surveillance.

  Then Levi Bar-El turned to his stack of other unfinished business. Most of it had to do with events in Jordan.

  Over Central Jordan

  Major David Ran led his four delta-winged Kfirs along the Al Ghadat Highway, keeping three to four miles north of the paved road. Antiaircraft gunners and missileers loved pilots who flew down roads, establishing an easy tracking solution for surface-to-air weapons. As a tactics development officer, Ran was well aware of the danger and thus kept away from the straight-line route.

  Not that there was much genuine concern. Ran's flight was out to test a new cluster bomb on reported vehicles nearby, but the targets had fled. The various Arab forces inside Jordan seemed to have drifted away in the past week or so; Ran had only been fired upon twice in that time. He noted with satisfaction that the Israeli occupation of the country was nearly complete, so his recent combat data could be analyzed. Much had changed since David Ran flew Skyhawks in his first war. Now he was in line for a squadron of his own, and that very thought thrilled him more than the barren landscape rushing beneath him at 365 knots.

  Chapter 3

  San Diego

  John Bennett sat alone at the Tailhook restaurant. Located off Harbor Drive, it provided a view of North Island Naval Air Station, where two aircraft carriers were moored. He knew one was the Constellation, number 64. She would deploy to the Pacific in a few more weeks. The other ship was less distinct. Bennett squinted and thought he made out the white numeral 61 on the massive shape. Ranger, he thought. That's right. Pete Clanton had been busier than a one-armed paper-hanger getting her back in commission. The short, balding engineering officer was an over-worked commander who collected Oldsmobile’s. John recalled that Clanton had about three dozen scattered between Norfolk and San Diego.

  Bennett had just set down his vodka and tonic when he was startled by two hands on his shoulders and a high-pitched, loud voice in his ear: "Check six, Pirate!"

  Bennett turned to see a set of brilliant white teeth and an unruly thatch of red hair. The face was slightly pockmarked-the kind of skin which does not tan, but easily sunburns. Pirate, he thought. His old callsign, the nom de guerre which all tactical aviators use.

  "Ed Lawrence, as I live and breathe. They still let you out without a leash?"

  "How you doing, John?" They shook hands, warmly regarding one another. They lived within fifty miles of each other but seldom met more than two or three times a year.

  Bennett waited while Lawrence ordered an iced tea with lemon.

  Lawrence took a swallow, let it settle, and got right to the point. "Okay, what's the super-duper secret, Skipper?" The redhead had been Bennett's operations officer in VF-24 and consequently Bennett was still the CO.

  "Just a couple of preliminaries, Ed. I suppose you're still flying for the airline?"

  Lawrence fingered his drink. "Yeah, I'm a copilot with enough seniority to call most of my trips. Straight and level all week, don't upset the passengers, arrive on time. All that good stuff. But on weekends and days off I go bend it with the Reserves. I'm exec of VF-301 now, and I enjoy the F-14 even with another body in the cockpit. I'll tell you, though, I wish to hell you and I could strap on a couple F-8s and go hassle again."

  Bennett leaned forward, across the table. "Ed, maybe we can bend it again. Not in Crusaders, but something even better." He checked his watch. "In about forty minutes a man will show up here. His name is Safad Fatah. He's a Saudi minister at large and I've agreed to do a job for — them. I need some help. Your kind of help. I need a good executive officer-somebody I know and trust. And I need an ass-kicking fighter pilot. "

  Lawrence's eyes grew wide with curiosity. "Well, don't stop now. Tell me more." He gulped half his drink.

  "This job is about four or five years steady work. It'll pay between a hundred and a hundred and fifty grand per year, and it'll be exciting as hell. Other than that, unless you're on board I can't say much else."

  Lawrence emitted a low whistle. "Judas Priest. Who do I have to kill?"

  Bennett's gray eyes gleamed, his mouth suppressing a grim smile. "Don't ask," he said. "Actually, it's fighter pilot instruction, building an air force from the ground up."

  Lawrence cocked his head, his eyes narrowing. He waved a finger at his old skipper. "Wait a minute. You're telling me some raghead sheikh is willing to pay me more than I'm making now, to fly fighters and teach people to do what I used to do for thirty grand?"

  "That's about it."

  “If that's the deal, I'm in." Lawrence pounded the table. "Miss, another round for me and my friend, please!"

  Bennett waved away the waitress. Ed Lawrence was a teetotaler, one of only two Bennett had ever known in naval aviation. The first had been pretty much a washout. The redheaded fighter pilot sitting across from him may have been the best stick-and-rudder man he had ever known.

  "Remember, Ed, these
people are Muslims. If our guys go boozing on them, it's a quick ticket home. That's rule number one…. “

  "Okay. What's rule number two?"

  A smile creased Bennett's tanned face. "You remember what Deacon used to say?"

  Lawrence thought a moment. "Oh, sure. Topgun instructor. Always came up with pithy sayings." He frowned in concentration. "Which pithy saying?"

  ''The one that goes, 'Never trust any pilot who would rather use a slide rule than kick your ass.' "

  "Hot damn, this sounds too good to be true. Who else is involved? Can't be just the two of us."

  "It'll probably involve forty or so flight and tactics instructors and maybe a dozen-plus maintenance, weapons, and avionics folks. That's why I started with you. The Saudis already have a list of prospective pilots. I need not only good sticks, but pilots who can teach. Masher Malloy and Bear Barnes and' probably some Air Force types as well. Even some Brits."

  "Sounds good. But where are the Saudis going to find enough pilots like that? There aren't many in my situation-unmarried, free to pick up and move. Not many airline captains or pilots with other careers will go running off to Arabia."

  "Fatah people have been very thorough over the past couple years," Bennett replied. ''They've saved us a lot of time with groundwork, not just with instructors but with facilities over there. Most of the work will be done by the time we arrive."

  Both men knew that the kind of talent they needed was rare. Instructor pilots with sufficient experience and willingness were few and far between. There were a few score in the Free World: men with combat in their logbooks, still young enough and unencumbered enough to uproot themselves for this type of challenge. Fewer still would be capable of living and working in a strict Muslim nation for years at a time.

  Lawrence said, "John, what about your boy Paul? What does he know about all this?"

  "I spent most of a weekend with him in Tempe last month. He's gotten a girl pregnant and they say they're going to get married. Well, I guess we all have to learn the hard way. At least he doesn't have AIDS. I told him I wouldn't stand in his way, but he couldn't count on me for help. I told him I'd be doing consulting work out of the country and probably wouldn't be around very regularly."