Lawrence fingered an ice cube. "Geez, that's rough."
Bennett leaned back. "Oh, it's not as bad as it might seem. I'm helping with his tuition and he has a partial scholarship. What I didn't tell him is that the Saudis are establishing a trust for him and the baby instead of paying me. It'll be administered by a family friend here in San Diego." Bennett glanced out the window again, looking at the two carriers. "What about you? When can you break loose from the airline and the Reserves?"
"Far as the line goes, I'll finish this month's schedule. That's less than two weeks. I can resign from the Reserves anytime."
"Is that going to cause problems, create bad feelings? I mean, it's mighty short notice."
The redhead shrugged. "In words of one syllable, who the hell cares? For twelve years I was an underpaid fighter pilot. Now I'm an overpaid airline pilot. I look forward to being an overpaid fighter pilot, the best of all possible worlds."
Bennett raised his glass. "Short war."
Lawrence clicked his glass against Bennett's. "Short war." The traditional warrior's toast.
At that moment a blond man in a business suit walked up to the table. "Excuse me, are you John Bennett?" Neat, professional man. Calm demeanor. Oh, God, Bennett thought. Not FBI.
"Yes, I'm Bennett."
The stranger reached inside his suit coat. He's going to show me his damn badge. We're had. But I haven't done anything.
The stranger produced a color photograph. "Do you recognize this, Commander Bennett?"
It was a green figurine of a pregnant female. "Why, yes. Are you- - -“
"Mr. Fatah sent me. He has learned that you and he are under discrete surveillance by some Middle Eastern people." The stranger's eyebrows rose suggestively. "I was sent to keep the meeting."
Bennett asked the man to sit down, conscious that the stranger had not offered his name. Bennett introduced Lawrence, who clearly wondered what he had stumbled into.
"Gentlemen, you won't see me again so names don't matter." He placed an envelope on the table. "Mr. Fatah is at the number on the envelope. You are to call him there from any phone except your home, Commander Bennett. The call will merely confirm receipt of the written instructions in this envelope. Any questions?"
The two fliers stared at one another, then at the blond man.
"No, I guess not," Bennett said.
"Then we're done." The stranger stood up, glanced around in a casual fashion. "Oh, one thing. You can't shake these people on your own-they're too good. Just try not to let on that you know you're being watched. Fatah's people will handle things." With that, he walked to the bar.
Lawrence and Bennett cast wary looks around the room. Unless the Israelis were using grandparents or had rented a family of four complete with unruly children in the adjoining dining room, there were no shadowers. From what little he knew of discrete surveillance, Bennett was confident the shadowing team would not follow him into a public place. Most likely there were three or four individuals outside, forming a moving box around the subjects. Equally effective but less obvious. At least, that's how Frederick Forsyth described it in his novels.
Bennett got up and made a call from the pay phone. He returned in moments, rotating a forefinger in the air. The start-engines signal. Lawrence got up and followed him out.
Tel Aviv
Levi Bar-El's presentation at the daily intelligence briefing came toward the end. His main topic was the American naval aviator who had visited Saudi Arabia two months previously, but Bar-El had more current information this morning.
''Two days ago our people followed this man Bennett to a restaurant in San Diego. After about forty minutes he and another man, apparently who met him there, took the new man's sports car to another restaurant about seven kilometers away. Our people waited ten minutes after assuming position, then sent in a female operative to locate the subject. She did not see them."
Bar-El checked his notes. "The sports car remained in the parking lot, apparently to make our team believe the subjects remained in the restaurant. But now we believe that a van was waiting in the alley behind the building. It was seen there upon taking station but was gone a few minutes later. It was dark, and-"
"Yes, yes, we know the routine." It was the section chief, Colonel Chaim Geller. He liked young Bar-El, but noted the lad had a tendency to make excuses for field agents he didn't even know. A natural enough reaction, but one that would have to be trained out of him. ''The question is, where are they?"
Bar-El swallowed. "We do not know for certain, sir. It appears they have left the San Diego area. Maybe they have left the country. We should know shortly."
Geller waved a hand. "Well, they handled themselves pretty well for amateurs. Apparently no outward signs of suspicion. No doubt the Saudis or their hirelings spotted our team. No real harm done. Now, who is the second man? Also an aviator?"
Relieved at the change of subject, Bar-El flipped the page of his folder. "Edward R. Lawrence. An airline pilot who retains a reserve commission as a full commander in the navy, second in command of a fighter squadron. We identified him by his automobile registration. According to our air force intelligence, he flew with Bennett during two tours in Vietnam. Lawrence shot down three enemy aircraft and became a tactics instructor like Bennett. Two of our people knew him during his duty instructing at the Navy Fighter Weapons School at Miramar Naval Air Station, San Diego."
"What do they say of him, Levi?"
Bar-EI was pleased-double-checking with the air force had impressed his chief. "Sir, they say he is a pilot and nothing else. He seems to care only for flying. One of the types you need in a shooting war, but who does not do as well in peacetime." He glanced down again. "An accomplished flier, a good leader, and both our men agreed he was one of their best instructors." Bar-El smiled.
"What is it, Levi? Something else?"
"Well, naturally I didn't tell our pilots the reason behind this investigation. But one of them said that if Edward Lawrence was looking for a job, we should hire him right away."
The chief tapped a pencil on his desk. "Apparently somebody else thought of it first. I only wonder why they disappeared like that. It tells us they're aware of our surveillance." Geller bit on the eraser. "What's your estimate, Levi?"
Bar-EI was not used to being asked what he thought--only what he knew. "Sir, I would have to say that probably ... " Think fast, Levi, they're testing you, he thought. "Sir, it's only a guess, but perhaps the Saudis feared we would expose the men to their government." No, no. They've done nothing wrong, and the State Department already knows Bennett visited Arabia, quite legally. "The only other thing is-well, Colonel, are we planning a wet operation against them?"
The section chief returned Bar-El's wide-eyed expression with emotionless brown eyes. "No, of course not. We have two Mexican nationals who can do such work for us in that area, but there is no need. At least not now."
Bar-El realized the recent Israeli intelligence operations in the United States would make such a move politically impossible. And besides, far better to run an assassination operation outside the United States, if it came to that.
"But," Geller continued, pointing his pencil at the lieutenant, "I think you are getting warm. The Saudis may fear we would eliminate Bennett and Edwards. Therefore, they became overly anxious and moved the men too quickly." He nibbled the eraser again. "Whatever they're up to, we'll know of it soon enough. Keep me informed, Levi. Thank you."
Los Angeles
The morning after eluding the Israeli team in San Diego, the two aviators entered an apartment on Beverly Glen Boulevard. Damned amazing, thought Bennett. He'd never been in Beverly Hills before. "The Saudis thought of everything," he said as he and Lawrence inspected the furnished apartment.
Lawrence opened a cardboard box on the dining room table and emitted a low whistle. "I'll say they thought of everything. Check this out." He held up fifty crisp new hundred-dollar bills. "Let's go to Vegas and let this ride one time. Get in practic
e for Tailhook. "
The annual Tailhook reunion at the Las Vegas Hilton was a landmark event in naval aviation. Only now living down its riotous early reputation, the symposium had become more professional. But still it was great fun.
Bennett .laughed. "Hey, do you remember Tailhook '74 when Hoser McAllister disappeared Friday night? They didn't miss him till Saturday afternoon. Found him laid out in a closet, dead to the world with one bare foot and a toe tag. Even had his arms folded across his chest-with that lily in his hands."
The men found clothes in the bedroom, each bathroom stocked with toilet articles, and the refrigerator crammed with enough food for two weeks. There was even a rowing machine in one bedroom. Lawrence noticed the coffeemaker and began brewing a pot. "You notice, the Moslems didn't leave you any booze. By the way, when we get wherever the hell we're going, will the guys be able to drink or will they have to go cold turkey for a couple years?"
"We'll be based in Bahrain, which is pretty lax by Muslim standards. Actually, I think there's two reasons for that. One, it keeps us Yankee air pirates out of Arabia most of the time, and two, we'll be positioned to intercept hostiles from Iran if need be. But in Arabia the guys better get used to the 40-weight oil that passes for coffee. "
The redhead flashed a white grin. "I always knew clean living would be its own reward. I'll be the only instructor who's not having DTs after a couple months."
Bennett said, "Like I always told you, I never trust a fighter pilot who doesn't drink. Actually, we'll have our own compound. I checked with Fatah, and Bahrain is a lot looser situation than Arabia. Our guys can hoot with the owls, and there's European women employed in Bahrain as nurses, dental technicians and the like." Bennett held up a warning finger. "But in Arabia, where we'll be spending a lot of time, it's the straight and narrow for all hands."
"You think that'll scare off many guys?"
"Some, I suppose. We'll just lay down the law. The rule is, anybody who takes one drink too many in Bahrain or who gets out of line in any way in Arabia gets a one-time warning. Especially if any of our students are around. A second time gets the offender a one-way ticket home."
"Fine by me. One thing I don't understand, though. I don't have my passport. How do I get out of Uncle Sugar and into the land of oil wells and camels?"
"Fatah said on the phone that this unexpected change of plans would require some innovation. I don't have mine, either. He's supposed to call in a couple days to fill us in. Meanwhile, we sit tight. We can use the time to lay some groundwork."
The next forty-eight hours passed more quickly than either man had expected. The more Bennett studied the situation, the more he was convinced the answer was men more than airplanes. Late the second evening he tossed his pen down and rubbed his eyes. A stack of papers testified to the work they had accomplished.
"You know, Ed, I've been thinking of the Ticonderoga cruise when we lost five pilots in the first two line periods. You remember? We got replacement aircraft but no new sports until we got back."
Munching a sandwich, Lawrence said, "That was before my first tour, but I sure heard about it."
"Oh, that's right," Bennett said. "God, it all runs together sometimes. But the point still applies. Like the RAF in the Battle of Britain. Their problem wasn't so much Spitfires and Hurricanes. It was experienced pilots. Every civilian who got killed in London meant a load of bombs that should have been dropped on airfields. The Germans had the RAF on the ropes and switched from attacking airfields to cities."
Lawrence bit into his sandwich again, wondering where this led. "Well, my point is," Bennett continued, "that nothing's changed today. Even with limited numbers of high-priced birds, it's a lot easier to produce a fighter plane than a proficient fighter pilot. It takes, what? Eight to ten months to roll out an airplane from the factory? It takes about five years to put a combat-ready pilot in that bird's cockpit.
"This is where we come in, why the Saudis really want us. They know they can buy airplanes almost anywhere. But producing world-class pilots is a much bigger job."
The phone rang then, the first time since they had entered the apartment. Lawrence picked' up the receiver. "Hello."
"This is Safad Fatah."
"Oh, sure. Hi. This is Ed Lawrence."
"Ah, Mr. Lawrence, just the man I need to talk to. Do you still have your house key with you?"
"Yes. In my pocket."
"Splendid. Please leave it in the mailbox. And tell me where we may find your passport. It will be delivered today."
Bennett heard Lawrence describe the desk drawer containing his papers. Lawrence also asked why it had not been obtained before.
"Dear sir," said Fatah in a diplomatic tone, "if we had done that, it would have given our other friends time to trace you."
The redhead felt like a student asking what day it was at graduation. "Mr. Fatah, I need to make arrangements with my airline and the Naval Reserve. What's the situation?"
The response was immediate. "We have sent letters over your signature to all parties concerned. We shall handle any follow-up details for you on this end."
Lawrence was impressed. Like Bennett, he appreciated professionalism wherever he encountered it.
"Oh, one more thing. What about my Porsche? We left it at the second restaurant."
"Mr. Lawrence, we shall buy you another Porsche if needed. I will not stay on the line any longer. Tell Commander Bennett that you will be contacted before much longer, and I extend my regards. "
The line went dead.
Lawrence left his house key in the apartment's mailbox that night. At 0800 there was a knock on the door. Bennett opened it, drowsily rubbing his eyes, and looked around. Seeing no one, he glanced down. There was a paper sack with Lawrence's passport and his own. Funny, I didn't ask them about mine. He paged through it. They don't have a key to my place, or the code to my alarm system, he thought. Then it occurred to him. This was not his original. It was completely authentic, using an official form. But how did they get the photograph and the signature?
Then he remembered. His photo had been taken shortly after arrival in Riyadh, and he had signed a letter of intent. Bennett smiled in appreciation. These people are real pros, he thought. They didn't have time to duplicate Ed's passport, but they had mine ready to go, complete with forged signature. If the Israelis search my place they'll find my passport and figure I'm still in the country. Slick.
Bennett knocked on Lawrence's door. "Flight quarters, Commander. I think we'll be gear-up in a little while."
Washington D. C. the White House
President Walter Arnold was upset. In office barely four months and already his press secretary and two cabinet members told him the administration showed declining confidence ratings in the polls, especially where foreign policy was concerned. Secretary of Transportation Pamela Cousins had heard party pros who were comparing Arnold with Jimmy Carter-unfavorably. It was a hell of an attitude for a formal cabinet meeting.
"Well, damn it," Arnold said, "what the hell am I supposed to do? Everybody in the Middle East wants us to do something different. It's a no-win situation all around. You people have told me that one of the best ways to dent the trade deficit is to sell weapons abroad. You've also told me that if we sell to the Arabs, the Israeli lobby will scream its head off and there'll be editorials all over the country. "
Secretary of Transportation Cousins thought, Welcome to the real world, Mr. President. There were those in the administration who said, only half-jokingly, that the five-foot-three blond was a better man than Walter Arnold.
"Mr. President, that brings us to the last item." It was Secretary of State Thurmon Wilson, a scholarly, balding political ally from Arnold's native Connecticut. "You are aware that last week the Israelis noted that several dozen American citizens, all believed to be ex-military pilots or mechanics, have traveled to Europe and Saudi Arabia. This seems related to sudden Saudi interest in a fighter aircraft called the F-20. "
The presiden
t said, "Yes, I saw the memo. Do you think it's cause for alarm?"
"No, not yet." The New England accent cut through the heavy mood in the room. "But we'll have to make a decision pretty fast, the way they're pushing. They seem really interested in this plane. I'm sure Ben has details."
Benjamin Wake was Secretary of Defense. A self-made millionaire from a Florida electronics firm, he prided himself on keeping data under his white crewcut only slightly less efficiently than the computers his firm made. "Yes, I'm acquainted with the F-20. And frankly, this seems an answer to a prayer. It's called the Tigershark, designed by Northrop in Los Angeles, and it's a relatively unsophisticated piece of hardware. It's a single-seat, single-engine air superiority fighter based on Northrop's old F-5 Tiger. If we decided to sell the Saudis another airplane, that's the one. The Israelis can't holler too loudly because it's no match for what they're flying."
Arnold pursed his lips. "Then why would the Saudis want it? They already have some of our most advanced equipment."
"Yes, sir, that's right. But remember, they and most other countries which have bought the F-20 don't have the ability to maintain high-tech weapons without extensive support. I have a list of nations that currently fly the Tigershark: Malaysia, South Korea, Chile, the Sudan, and Morocco. Taiwan is almost certain to buy it, since Mainland China is off our backs now that F-20s are manufactured under license. A European consortium now builds the airplane, mainly for export."
Wake sensed that the president was becoming sympathetic to his viewpoint. "Now, sir, you may remember during the Reagan Administration there was quite a flap about making exceptions to Third World nations. Most of them wanted our frontline equipment -F-15s and F-16s. Because we didn't buy the F-20 ourselves, others perceived it as inferior. Now that's changed, mainly because of economic factors. A Tigershark costs under half of what some other fighters run."
"Hmmm. What does State make of this, regarding the Israelis?"
Secretary of Defense Ben Wake interrupted. "Excuse me. But we know that the Saudis want simpler aircraft to supplement their F-15s and British Tornadoes." Wake glanced around the table. "You all remember how the Saudis bought billions of dollars of British aircraft when we wouldn't sell them more Eagles. No telling how many thousands of U. S. jobs that cost. Well, I think this is an excellent opportunity for us, Mr. President. The F-20 is far easier to maintain and to train pilots for than one with sophisticated electronics. Also, the Saudis are ordering Tigersharks without radar-guided Sparrow missiles. The Israelis can't complain too much."
Warriors by Barrett Tillman Page 8
