Warriors by Barrett Tillman (25 page)

       Lawrence noted slightly puzzled expressions on one or two faces. "It's psychological, guys. We need to keep the Saudis from developing overconfidence. If we give special treatment to a couple of pilots who bag MiGs, it could cause morale problems later on."

       Masher Malloy interjected. "That's fine by me, Skipper. But, uh, what if one of
us
gets a kill? I don't suppose there's a bonus, is there?"

       Bennett leveled an earnest gaze at Malloy. "My boy, you'll have the satisfaction of knowing you did your duty for the king."

Tudmur, Syria

      
The twin-engine transport bearing Iraq's green triangles on its wings braked to a smooth halt on the ramp at Palmyra Airport. As soon as the turboprop engines wound down the door opened and the Syrian honor guard came to present arms. The Antonov 26 became center stage in the third act of the day's drama, while the Syrian army, band struck up Iraq's "Anthem of the Republic" as the Baghdad delegation deplaned.

       Previously the same band and honor guard had welcomed similar arrivals from Tehran and Tripoli.

       Some I20 miles northeast of Damascus, Tudmur was remote enough to hold a meeting of Arab military officials without undue attention from outsiders. For despite their ingrained differences, the Muslims had two things in common: an abiding hatred of Israel, and a special interest in the future of Jordan.

Chapter 9

      
JOHN BENNETT AND ED LAWRENCE STOOD BY THE NOSE of Lawrence's fighter.
It
was barely daylight, and the air was pleasantly cool. The two friends occupied a few moments with small talk, but soon an awkward silence fell upon them.

       Lawrence glanced again at the luminous dial of his watch.

       "Well, it's showtime." He shifted his feet.
There's nothing worse than times like these,
he thought. Intimate friends want to say things to one another but somehow The Warriors' Code prohibits it. Best fire up and get going.

       Bennett extended his hand. "Normally I'd say 'Good hunting, Devil.' But now I'm showing my age. All I can think is, take care of yourself and bring the Tigers home."

       "Pirate, your halo is showing. Don't worry about us. We'll be fine." Lawrence gave Bennett an extra-hard squeeze of the hand, then turned and scrambled up the boarding ladder.

       Bennett stood back and watched the now-familiar preflight process. Crew chiefs jumped down, withdrew the ladders, and motioned the long, graceful aircraft onto the taxiway. Lawrence's jet led the procession, canopy still open, red running light strobing from the fuselage. The exec tossed an ultra-regulation salute at Bennett, who merely waved.

       Bennett stood motionless, watching each of the streamlined dark shapes glide past. When Tim Ottman's flight taxied by, Bennett waved again. Then he flipped a sharp salute to Rajid Hamir. His heart pounded a little harder as he thought of Rajid's young fiancee.

       In minutes the fourteen Northrops were poised at the end of the runway. Two by two, they made section takeoffs. Climbing sharply, they accelerated in astonishing climbs to make best use of the early-morning air which would provide economical cruising for the 730-mile flight to Khamis Mushayt.

       Bennett turned and walked back to the line shack. He felt let down, almost sad, and he did not quite know why. He had taken every precaution possible. The C-130 with spare parts, Sidewinder missiles, 20mm ammunition, and a skeleton force of mechanics had left during the night. It should arrive at Khamis Mushayt well before the fighters. Communications, accommodations, and several contingency plans had been arranged. Even two spare Tigersharks had been allocated, just in case maintenance problems unexpectedly cropped up.

      
Why do I feel so
...
unsettled? I've seen men off to combat before and I didn't feel this way. Maybe it's the difference between leading men and sending them.

       My God, I miss them already. It's going to be a long wait.

              **       **       **

      
ONCE SETTLED ON COURSE TO THE SOUTHWEST, ED Lawrence rocked his wings. The three flights of four planes each, and the spare section of two, adopted loose deuce formation. It was doctrine in Tiger Force to fly every mission under simulated combat conditions: open intervals to fighting formation, minimal or no radio transmissions, constant vigilance.

       From long experience Lawrence knew that his wingman was half turned in his seat, almost facing the lead F-20. Lawrence himself was oriented toward his partner. Some pilots preferred to fly with their left hand on the stick, leaving the throttle untouched in combat spread. But in any case, the orientation allowed each flier visually to clear the area behind his friend's tail-especially important in the jet age, with rapid approach speeds and air-to-air missiles drastically reducing the time to spot and call out an attack.

       Lawrence's visored eyes scanned the sky around him, moving in a boxlike pattern perfected by thousands of hours aloft. His scan registered the two cathode-ray tube displays in his cockpit, took in his fuel state, and returned to the outside world. Fighter pilots were always thinking fuel, for they were professional managers of that precious commodity.

       Cruising at Mach .82, the F-20's fuel flow was about 2,300 pounds per hour while the Tigershark made nearly eight miles a minute: 450 knots at 35,000 feet. Within 110 miles of destination, the pilot could pull the throttle back to idle and glide at 250 knots, burning only 200 pounds of fuel per hour. Thus, the last 110 miles would consume merely 80 to 90 pounds of JP4 during the 25-minute descent. That was normal fuel flow in a turbofan fighter being flown like an airliner. But a fighter plane is for war, for killing other aircraft. And in combat it uses fuel in an ungodly manner. The F-20 could fight for two minutes 400 miles from its base and return with a safety reserve, or cruise nearly 2,000 miles on the same amount of fuel.

       Lawrence felt calm, confident, and slightly hungry-a predatory hunger. It was the kind of hunger the toughest cat on the block feels. A fight was coming. He could feel it.

       THE NEXT FOUR DAYS WERE FULL BUT UNEXCITING. Settling in at Khamis Mushayt, arranging for rotation to Nejran and advanced fields, the Tiger Force personnel adjusted to the routine. They were taken with the stark beauty of the Empty Quarter, the
Ar
Rub Al Khali,
but even more so with Nejran. Seeing the pure desert oasis for the first time from the air, Tim Ottman was enchanted. The beautiful village of mud structures, with an ancient castle surrounded by dates and palm trees, was straight out of a fairy tale.
Now I've really been to Arabia,
he thought.

       The F-20 pilots met with the crews of two Saudi Air Force E-3A AWACS planes, which would provide airborne warning and control. Ed Lawrence and the other instructors were impressed with the airborne controllers-sharp young men who would monitor Saudi airspace for intrusion from South Yemen and direct F-20s to intercepts if necessary. The two AWACS would stage out of Khamis Mushayt, alternating missions daily.

       The two forward fields, southeast of Nejran, were suitable for Tigersharks and F-5s but were not yet adaptable to larger aircraft requiring more support. Most of the pilots were confident of a confrontation with the Yemenis; some earnestly wished for it. Only a few recalled Bennett's warning: "Be careful what you want. It might come true."

       Based on Lawrence's schedule, a four-plane flight of F-20s patrolled the Saudi-Yemen border once or twice a day at irregular intervals. There was no discernible pattern to the patrols--predictability is a sin to a dedicated warrior. Varying patrol times, patterns, and altitudes, the Tigersharks trolled impatiently, letting the South Yemen radar get a good look at them.

       While the airborne flight made its seemingly random passes up and down the border, the second flight sat runway alert at one of the forward fields. Hangars were available, so the pilots and mechanics were spared the worst of the Arabian sun. These four fighters could be airborne in one minute, ready to reinforce the airborne flight in perhaps ten minutes, depending on the scene of contact. The third flight remained at Khamis Mushayt, rotating forward every third day to allow one of the others a rest.

       At dusk on the fourth day Lawrence discussed the situation with Major Ali Handrah, one of the prospective squadron commanders. They were relaxing over lemonade in the small building allotted Tiger Force at Khamis Mushayt.

       Theirs was a courteous, professional relationship, devoid of warmth. Bennett had warned his exec against any word or action which could be interpreted as overbearing or superior. Unofficially Lawrence outranked Handrah, but the American also was a foreigner in the pay of the king of Arabia.

       "Major Handrah, I've been thinking about our patrol patterns. What would you think if we fly farther inland for a couple of days? Give the appearance that we're not as concerned anymore. It might help defuse the situation if we show the Yemenis that we're working into a routine attitude, with more or less predictable schedules." But his words belied his intent.

       The Saudi set down his lemonade. Lawrence knew the officer's orders were to observe more than command. He also knew Handrah was expected to establish a sense of discipline in his young pilots; if Riyadh wanted a show-the-flag mission, the youngsters' high spirits should not lead elsewhere. If the intrusions could be ended without a fight, so much the better.

       Handrah said, "Yes, Colonel Lawrence, I agree. Your suggestion is in keeping with our orders. Perhaps. the Yemenis will realize we intend to keep patrols in this area. There have been no more intrusions since we arrived."

       Lawrence's plan went into effect the next day. In conferring with the airborne controllers from his staging base, he learned that MiGs out of Shibam had caught the new pattern. For the next two days they flew much closer to the border--wherever it was---thus taking up the slack to maintain closer contact with the F-20s.

       Then, on the eighth night, YAR guerrillas struck an army compound twenty miles inside PDRY territory. Tiger Force immediately got word from Saudi intelligence, and Lawrence laid plans accordingly.

       The South Yemenis reacted the next morning. But the MiGs and Sukhois avoided Saudi airspace, crossing directly into YAR territory to bomb and strafe two guerrilla compounds. Ed Lawrence bristled with anticipation, trolling as close to both borders as he dared during the raid. His Saudi student leading the flight played it straight, and returned to the advance base upon reaching "bingo" fuel state.

       "I'll be a sad sack." The redhead tossed his helmet down to the crew chief and slowly unhooked. "We could see some contrails but that was all." He viciously unsnapped the koch fittings of his torso harness. "Shee-it."

       Lawrence arranged for the third flight to join him while Tim Ottman's four planes, plus one spare, took the next patrol. The IPs agreed that they should have full strength available now that things might be heating up. There was still a good chance Lawrence's "restrained" patrol pattern might entice some MiGs over the border.

Southeast of Najran, 0840 Hours

      
At the advanced field an ordnanceman stood beside Lieutenant Rajid Hamir's wingtip, flashlight in hand. It was the ninth day of the operation; something would have to happen soon or the operation would be called off. When the F-20s started engines the young Saudi airman watched for a thumbs-up from the pilot, indicating the Sidewinder missile on each wing was activated. The armorer then shined the flashlight on the AIM-9's seeker head, visible behind the thick glass in the nose. By moving the light laterally and vertically, the "ordie" saw whether the thermoelectrically cooled homing system was functioning normally. Such was the sensitivity of the infrared seeker that its eye followed the heat of a mere flashlight.

       Developed by the U.S. Navy in the 1950s, the Sidewinder was simplicity itself. It mated the then-new seeker and warhead to an existing rocket motor, and the original models cost $800 apiece. The current versions, with a front-attack capability, ran over $100,000 but they were deadly effective. British Sea Harrier pilots in the Falklands War scored an 80 percent kill rate with their AIM-9Ls.

       Rajid Hamir led his wingman off the runway moments after Lawrence had landed. The second section, led by Tim Ottman, was only seconds behind, followed by a spare. Keeping low, Rajid checked the position of the other three aircraft and keyed his microphone button.

       In rapid order came the responses: one, two, three clicks. All four pilots had checked in; their radios were functioning. There was mild jockeying as each F-20 took turns flying a mile behind its partner, double-checking the tracking tone of its missiles. Satisfied that each aircraft was fully operational, Rajid detached the spare with a waggle of his wings and set course east-northeast at reduced throttle. In one-mile spread the two sections adopted loose deuce and waited. No one had spoken a word since takeoff.

Over the Yemen Arab Republic, 07115 Hours

      
Captain Julio Martin Cordoba led his four Sukhoi 22Ms outbound from a wadi in the Yemen desert. He had made a surprise follow-up attack on one of the guerrilla bases across the border from South Yemen. The Cuban pilot had shrewdly figured that the YAR "terrorists," accustomed to one bombing at a time, would not expect a second attack moments after the first. And he had been right. The guerrilla camp had just begun to stir, with enough of the smoke and dust settled to allow good visibility from above, when Cordoba's flight arrived.