Colonel Sorokin sized up the tactical situation displayed in blue-green light on the scope before him. He was not aware of the term, even though he understood some aviation English, but he called for a bugout. "Cordoba! Hostiles ahead and above you. Get out of there, now!"
The Cuban already recognized the setup as a no-win situation.
He called for a disengagement, executing a crossover turn the moment he saw the F-20s zoom-climb for the perch.
* * *
Before the Sukhois completed their reversal, Ottman and his wingman were on the way down, cutting the corner and closing in on the big fighter-bombers. He could see the yellow-white glow of the afterburner on the right-hand Fitter, momentarily wondering if the turn was offensive or defensive. He briefly thought of the ROE, then decided the Yemenis were staying to fight.
When the Northrops rolled out they were best positioned against the right-hand Sukhoi. Its partner had made a less radical turn, bleeding off less airspeed, and thus gained better separation from the threatening F-20s. Ottman settled into an easy bank, almost on G, at one and one-half miles. "Four, do you have a tone?" Ottman wanted to give the Saudi the shot if possible.
He heard the carrier wave, then a slight pause. "Negative, Three." The disappointment was audible in the boy's voice.
That was what Ottman actually had hoped for. He heard the death rattle chirping in his earphones, knew his starboard missile was tracking the right-hand bogey, and depressed his mike button. "Snake!"
Accelerating through Mach.88 at 1,200 feet, the big Sukhoi had no hope of evading the missile. Ottman's 'winder detonated close to the tail as the active laser proximity fuse induced a slightly premature explosion.
* * *
The astute young captain in the E-3 followed the headlong chase southward. The F-20 answering as Orange Three was too close to the demarcation line; he should be warned. "Three, this is Sentinel. Recommend you break off."
Ottman was in no mood for unsolicited advice. His easygoing demeanor on the ground was ruthlessly shoved aside as his professional fangs came out and his armament system sequenced to the port rail. With a discernible overtake on the Sukhoi, he regained missile tone and fired again.
The Sidewinder took the tail off the Su-22, which rolled violently before searing a long, greasy smear on the shale floor. Ottman had a glimpse of the enemy pilot's seat ejecting from the doomed aircraft as it rolled inverted.
Orange Three and Four pulled up, cleared one another, and called the Sentinel. "No bogeys remaining this side of the border," came the E-3's reply. "RTB."
Ottman acknowledged. "Returning to base." Then, "Orange Lead, do you copy?"
Rajid's voice came through. "Roger, copy. We're five miles in trail." A slight pause. "Orange Two has a kill."
Ottman's adrenaline surged. He pulled into a near-vertical climb to cruise altitude, rolling gleefully all the way. He had not known it was possible to feel so good.
Southeast of Nejran, 0749 Hours
A small crowd was gathered at the staging base as Orange Flight taxied in. Spectators noted empty missile rails on two of the fighters, with gunpowder streaks on a third. There were cheers, grins, and thumbs-up all around. Mechs and pilots hauled Rajid Hamir from his cockpit and bore him upon their shoulders, chanting, "Rajid, Rajid!" The young man smiled his shy smile and grabbed extended hands on either side.
Five minutes passed before Lawrence restored order. Masher Malloy's flight was due back, and the reserve flight had been brought to ready alert. Lawrence got to Rajid just as Tim Ottman broke through the crowd.
The big New Yorker was exultant, and not only for his own success. He stalked up to Rajid and pounded the youngster on the shoulders with unintended force. Then Khalil was dragged into the circle, grinning after his gun kill. Ottman locked both Saudis in his beefy arms, squeezing their necks painfully.
"I'm so goddam proud of these guys I don't know what to say. Ed, you shoulda seen it. We took on six bandits and bagged three!"
Lawrence could tell Ottman's blue eyes were misting over.
After the debrief, Lawrence picked up the phone. He called the communications office at Khamis Mushayt and sent a message for Bennett:
First blood for Tiger Force. Splashed two Blue Bandits and one Fitter. All tigers home. Details to follow. Love and kisses, Devil.
Less than an hour later came the reply, radioed 10 by the teletype operator:
Sura 8: 17. Pirate.
There was a scramble to find a copy of the Koran. One of the Saudi mechanics produced a volume and translated. Amid a crowd of onlookers he flipped to the Chapter of the Spoils and read, "Ye did not slay them, but it was God who slew them; nor didst thou shoot when thou didst shoot, but God did shoot, to try the believers from Himself with a goodly trial; verily, God both hears and knows. There, verily, God weakens the stratagem of the misbelievers."
* * *
Masher Malloy was dead.
Lawrence called Bennett the morning after the engagement with the news. As often happened, there was not much information. Bennett knew from the tone of Lawrence's voice that the redhead was upset, but the exec maintained his composure. He had been through this before.
"All we know for sure is that he augured in from over twenty grand," Lawrence explained. "We'd had hydraulic troubles with one bird, and since Masher's flight was on rotation, he decided to test-fly it. Besides, you know how he liked solo aerobatics."
"Sounds like oxygen trouble."
"I don't know how else to call it, John. He made no transmissions after checking the airplane and systems. The E-3 had him the whole flight. There's been no other excitement along the border so they had no trouble tracking him."
Bennett well knew the pattern. Nobody could say how many times aircraft on a routine flight failed to return because of some small malfunction, a tiny oversight which grew to tragic proportions in moments. Most flights in tactical aircraft require 100 percent oxygen above 18,000 feet-the level at which the atmosphere is half as dense as at sea level. Apparently Malloy had succumbed to oxygen starvation.
"Okay, wrap it up down there as fast as you can, Ed. Is your relief still on schedule?"
"Affirmative. We're due back day after tomorrow."
Bennett realized with a pang that Masher had never mentioned any relatives. He leaned back in his chair, hands over his eyes. A soft whisper escaped his lips. "Damn."
Washington. D. C.
Secretary of Defense Benjamin Wake was in his office by 0700, reading message traffic from the night before. His early arrival was typical of the man, for his tireless energy and astute business sense had made him a computer millionaire early in life. "You don't get rich without getting up," he liked to say.
Scanning the summaries on his desk, Wake stopped abruptly and reread one report from the U.S. air attache in Riyadh. The originating office told him that State also must have the information. That meant he'd be hearing from Thurmon Wilson again. The Secretary of Defense pressed a buzzer on his desk console and seconds later Major Emory Kim, USAF, stepped into the luxurious office.
Wake waved the Riyadh report aloft before Kim could speak.
"Major, what else do you have on this Arabian episode?" Kim was responsible for tracking such messages, and he cordially hated the job. He yearned for his comfortable old B-52 back.at Fairchild.
"Nothing yet, Mr. Secretary. I knew you'd want more data so I've requested amplification. Apparently the combat occurred day before yesterday, so we should know more by noon."
Wake leaned back in his overstuffed chair. "What do you think, son? This is hearsay evidence, with no confirmation on U.S. personnel directly involved. Doesn't even mention the source of the report." Wake flipped the paper aside.
"Well, sir, it might be embassy gossip. Or it might be a Saudi officer bragging about their F-20s. You know fighter pilots."
Wake smiled in appreciation of the sentiment. "And I know the president. He'll want details ASAP. Keep on it, Major."
Wa
shington, D.C.
Secretary of Defense Benjamin Wake was in his office by 0700, reading message traffic from the night before. His early arrival was typical of the man, for his tireless energy and astute business sense had made him a computer millionaire early in life. "You don't get rich without getting up," he liked to say.
Scanning the summaries on his desk, Wake stopped abruptly and reread one report from the U.S. air attache in Riyadh. The originating office told him that State also must have the information. That meant he'd be hearing from Thurmon Wilson again. The Secretary of Defense pressed a buzzer on his desk console and seconds later Major Emory Kim, USAF, stepped into the luxurious office.
Wake waved the Riyadh report aloft before Kim could speak.
"Major, what else do you have on this Arabian episode?" Kim was responsible for tracking such messages, and he cordially hated the job. He yearned for his comfortable old B-S2 back.at Fairchild.
"Nothing yet, Mr. Secretary. I knew you'd want more data so I've requested amplification. Apparently the combat occurred day before yesterday, so we should know more by noon."
Wake leaned back in his overstuffed chair. "What do you think, son? This is hearsay evidence, with no confirmation on U.S. personnel directly involved. Doesn't even mention the source of the report." Wake flipped the paper aside.
"Well, sir, it might be embassy gossip. Or it might be a Saudi officer bragging about their F -20s. You know fighter pilots."
Wake smiled in appreciation of the sentiment. "And I know the president. He'll want details ASAP. Keep on it, Major."
Bahrain
Three days later Claudia arrived on a courier plane for the memorial service Saturday morning. Friday is the Muslim sabbath and not all the Saudis could have attended then. She would return to Riyadh on Sunday evening.
Claudia was surprised to find she seemed to take Malloy's death harder than his friends did. She had expected the pilots to be more subdued, if not actually depressed. But upon entering the IPs' club she found an almost exuberant atmosphere. She began to understand that these were men accustomed to sudden death among comrades. Bennett escorted her to a seat and ordered her a drink.
Lawrence came in just then, wearing his flight suit. Spotting Claudia, he walked over to her. He leaned down to hug her and she squeezed his neck.
"Oh, Ed, I'm so sorry."
"I know, hon. I know." He sat down.
Bennett walked up, drinks in hand. "Hi, Ed. Can you join us for a minute?"
Lawrence shook his head. "Naw, I just stopped by to let you know everything's set for the service."
"You're leading the formation, right?"
"Yes, with one student from each class."
Claudia asked, "Are there funeral arrangements in the States?" The two aviators exchanged meaningful glances; neither wanted to speak. Claudia looked from one to the other. Finally Bennett put his hand on hers. "Claudia, his plane exploded on impact."
"Oh." It was barely audible.
The memorial service was a short one. Most of the IPs plus many of the Saudi pilots and maintenance personnel attended. Flying had nearly shut down for the afternoon, and Bennett's brief remarks were uninterrupted. Standing in the shade of a hangar, the assembly bowed heads for a short prayer and sang the "Navy Hymn" from photocopied pages. Most of the IPs knew the words by heart.
Claudia recognized the haunting tune and listened carefully to the words. She shivered involuntarily at the phrase "Hear us when we lift our prayer for those in peril in the air."
Seconds later four F-20s swept overhead, deployed in the World War II "finger four" pattern. As the formation passed the runway intersection at 1,000 feet, the lead aircraft-second from the left-abruptly pulled up in afterburner. Ed Lawrence executed an immaculate series of vertical slow rolls as the three Saudis maintained level flight. There was a gap where Lawrence had been: the missing man formation.
Claudia tightened her grip on Bennett's arm.
The wake-Claudia didn't know what else to call it-was more lively than she expected. But she felt the need to talk quietly with Bennett, and they found a corner where their privacy was respected.
Bennett sensed Claudia's uneasiness. Holding her hands in his, he got her talking about what she knew best. "Honey, I'd like to know what you think will happen in the region now."
She thought for a moment. "I can't speak officially, of course. But there's no doubt the radical Muslim states are preparing for something. My personal opinion is, it's probably too late to avert war. After all, that's why the king organized your Tiger Force. But what will make it especially hard on Israel is that the Arabs seem to understand diplomatic as well as military power now. They still remember the effect of the '73 oil embargo."
Bennett squeezed her hands. ''There's no chance of negotiations?"
She shook her head decisively. "No, I don't think so, John. Not as long as Israel occupies most of Jordan. Remember, King Hussein declared himself out of the West Bank issue before the occupation, leaving the PLO as the Palestinian voice. As long as that matter remains unsolved, there's not much chance for peace."
Bennett softly pinched her arm. ''That's not a very optimistic statement from a nice Jewish girl."
"Half Jewish." Claudia smiled but her voice had an edge. "And remember, there are still some Israelis who think the way I do. However, the current government has a no-compromise frame of mind. Most Israelis honestly feel they can't give up any territory. They want a buffer zone around Israel's border."
Deciding there had been enough shop talk, Bennett led Claudia to the small dance floor. Pressed close together halfway through the song, he whispered, "Hey there, lady. Can I give you a lift to your hotel?"
She regarded him with a twinkle in her hazel eyes. "Sure thing, sailor. If you're going my way."
PART III
The beginning of all war may be discerned not only by the first act of hostility, but by the counsels and preparations foregoing.
John Milton. Elkonoklastes, 1849
Chapter 10
TEL AVIV, Aug. 1. (Special to Mideast News Service) — Despite a period of relative quiet in the Middle East over the past I2 months, various military authorities anticipate a continuing growth of tensions in months to come. Few serving officers or defense ministry spokesmen in the region were willing to speak for the record, but nearly all those queried believe that conflict between Israel and the Arab bloc may occur in the near future.
Israeli sources cite the continuing buildup of Soviet-supplied forces in Syria, Iraq and Lebanon as a matter of concern. In turn, Arab sources point to Israel's prolonged occupation of Jordan as reason for smoldering tensions.
Aside from sporadic incidents in Jordan, the largest military clash during the past year occurred last August. Responding to South Yemen intrusions into their airspace, Saudi F-20s intercepted a PDRY formation and reportedly shot down three fighter-bombers. Border incidents between Yemen and South Yemen have tapered off since then, with no further air combats in the region.
However, reports persist that a number of conferences have been held by Muslim military planners in the past several months. Details are not available, but informed speculation has it that Syria, Libya, Iraq and perhaps Iran are drafting contingencies for military action should negotiations fail to gain a settlement in Jordan. Most neutral observers feel that Tel Aviv would be hard-pressed to meet a combined Arab offensive with Israel's forces thinly spread throughout Jordan.
Diplomatic contacts agree that Saudi Arabia holds the swing vote among Muslim nations. Thus far Riyadh has steered a neutral course but hard-line Arab states have been lobbying the Saudis for a more active role in settling the Jordanian situation.
Washington, D.C. 1 August
Thurman Wilson handed Avrim Ran a paper plate containing a hot dog, potato salad, and baked beans. The Secretary of State's elegant Georgetown residence, all brick and ivy, seemed an incongruous setting for an American-style picnic, but Wilson knew how to play to an audience. State's i
ntel on the Israeli U.N. ambassador was quite thorough, and Wilson had noted the genuine grin on Ran's face despite the overcast sky.
Ran had learned to enjoy most aspects of life in America and traveled as widely as his duties in New York permitted. Outdoor barbeques, the Grand Canyon, and even horseback riding all appealed to him. Which was exactly the reason Thurmon Wilson had invited him to this "informal" meeting of their two families. Ran chuckled inwardly. Who but Thurmon Wilson would wear a tie to a picnic? The man was absolutely transparent.
And, the Israeli discovered, his American colleague didn't have much patience today. After exactly thirty minutes of polite conversation Wilson maneuvered Ran into the kitchen, away from their wives and Ran's young children.
"Avrim, I needed this time alone so we can discuss the Middle East situation without interruption. It's going on three years since the occupation of Jordan"-Wilson was careful to phrase the accusation as passively as possible-"and there's no settlement in sight. The president is terribly concerned, and he'd have asked me to talk to Ambassador Palnet, but Shlomo of course is unavailable." Ran nodded, recalling that Tel Aviv's ambassador to the United States remained hospitalized in Israel, recovering from a coronary. "You're the senior Israeli diplomat in this country right now," Wilson continued. "I want to ask you to communicate this administration's deep concern-privately, of course."
Ran blinked in surprise. This was old business to him. "Of course, Thurmon. You may rely on it. But surely you know that little has changed. Our forces remain firmly in control, and the civil unrest has subsided tremendously." He stopped to gather his thoughts. He did not want to promise what he could not deliver. "And our third-party negotiations through U. N. relief agencies and the Saudis seem to be making headway."
"That's just the point," Wilson insisted. "Israel isn't dealing directly with those who matter-the Jordanians. Their government in exile on Crete has been reduced to almost observer status in the back-channel discussions."
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