Warriors by Barrett Tillman (30 page)

       Claudia kissed his cheek. ''That's a lovely thought, but for some reason I don't quite buy it. Really, what would you do?"

       "I think I'd like to write a book about my time here in Arabia. I might not be able to find a publisher, and I couldn't describe some things, of course. But the people I've worked with, especially the students, they're the real story." He warmed to his subject. "I wish you knew some of these kids like I do, Claudia. Doggone, so many of them are really terrific young guys. It's like Chuck Yeager said. You fly with all kinds of pilots from all over the world and there isn't a dime's worth of difference among them. Training and experience are what matter.

       "I don't mean to overstate this, but in a way Tiger Force has been my family. I raised these kids, most of them from teenagers. I'm really going to miss them. And most of the IPs, too."

       "That reminds me," Claudia said. She got up to fetch her shoulder bag and pulled out a worn blue T-shirt. Returning to the bed, she sat down beside Bennett. "I've kept this but I don't really know what to do with it. What do you think?"

       Bennett fingered the familiar garment. "I think you should keep it. Masher would like to know that you still wear it."

       Claudia slid under the covers and nestled close. "What do you think will become of the others?"

       "Oh, most of them will go back to what they did before. Airlines, reserve flying, commercial instruction. Some will just become beachcombers."

       "It won't be the same for them, will it?"

       Bennett inhaled, thinking of Ed Lawrence. "No, it won't. You know, in the business we talk about being warriors, of being entirely job-oriented. No bullshit, stick to the basics. Beyond that, we talk about the pure warriors. Well, Ed's the only really pure warrior I know anymore. And it's not a cheery prospect."

       She laid her head on his chest. "Why not?"

       "Because he really is pure. He's never been married, has no outside interests. Flying and fighting are all he knows and all he cares about. He's very good at it, but there's not much else for him besides sport flying. I worry about what might become of him. There's nothing sadder than a warrior without a war."

       Claudia ran her finger around his lips. "Maybe we could adopt him. At least have him to dinner or occasional weekends." Her face turned serious. "John, what's the attraction of combat? I get the feeling that some of you actually enjoy it."

       He thought for a moment. "Yes, some of us do. I think of the Marine recruiting slogan way back when. 'Nobody likes to fight but somebody has to know how.' That's strictly public relations. The plain fact is, most of the really good fighters do love to fight. A lot of us just enjoy the hell out of flying the airplane, but Ed and his type are beyond that. The airplane isn't a vehicle--it's a weapon.”

       "What makes men like that?"

       "Ego. Remove ego or self-respect from the human equation--they're both related-and you remove war." He stroked her back, concentrating on his line of thought. "I believe that implicitly. And it's the biggest factor overlooked in discussions of the causes of war.”

       Claudia moved her head to his shoulder, and he savored the touch of her hair on his skin. "I never told you, John, but you scared me
and
attracted me when we met. There was something about you that was . . . well, it was dangerously appealing. And I've noticed it among your pilots. They respect you, but I think a lot of them are a little frightened of you, too."

       He chuckled. "That's what I hope for. Keeps 'em alert."

       Bennett rolled over and nibbled on Claudia's ear. She inhaled sharply between clenched teeth. "You
know
what that does to me."

       "Affirmative. Let's take a bath before dinner."

       THEY ADJUSTED THEIR LEGS TO ACCOMMODATE ONE another in the tub. Claudia reached for a bar of soap, unwrapped it, and rubbed it between her hands. Then she leaned forward, lathering his chest and shoulders. Her eyes twinkled as she playfully rinsed the suds from his body by splashing water on him.

       In turn, he picked up the bar and applied soap to her breasts and back. Then came a scratching noise, faintly heard, from the door.

       Claudia began to ask a question but he silenced her with a raised hand. He heard the sound again and knew it was not a key. He knew everything he needed to know, and his adrenaline surged.

       With a silent curse, Bennett leapt from the tub and sprinted eight steps around the comer to his nightstand. He knew he had made two mistakes: He should have taken the black bag with him to the bathroom, and he should have closed and locked the bathroom door. He heard the main door open as he brought the Browning Hi-Power up from the bag.

       Bennett heard Claudia scream as a metallic tinkling filled the narrow hallway around the comer. He heard the sound of copper-jacketed bullets striking porcelain and enamel. Keeping low and kneeling, he braced his left forearm against the edge of the wall and centered his front sight on the intruder's upper torso. One glimpse told the story.

       The entrance door was open and the gunman had stepped inside to his left, without silhouetting himself. He had pivoted right when he saw the open bathroom door, fired a long burst into the tub, and was swinging back left. The muzzle of the silenced Ingram MAC-ll came toward Bennett, slightly high.

       In the next instant Bennett squeezed the Browning's three-and-one-half-pound trigger and the sharp-nosed, armor-piercing round smashed through the intruder's sternum. Without hesitation, Bennett lifted the auto pistol and sighted on the man's forehead and the next round shattered the cranium. The body collapsed backward against the vanity mirror and slid to the floor, twelve feet from the Hi-Power's muzzle.

       Two rapid heartbeats later another form appeared against the backlighted hallway. Bennett's loading sequence was armor piercing backed up by hardball, and he fired two quick rounds into the center of mass. The second man, also armed with a silenced MAC-ll, staggered forward and-perhaps from reflex-triggered a burst which went into the wall near Bennett's right rear.

       The terror, the lethal pressure, and the semidarkness combined to ruin Bennett's sight picture. He lost the competitive sharp image of his front sight and fired his next round at the assassin's head. It was proper procedure--what the South Africans called the Mozambique Drill. But the sight alignment was off, and the man took a grazing hit in the neck.

       Slumping to his knees, still trying to bring the submachine gun to bear, the man strained toward his target.

       Bennett was momentarily upset by his failure to stop the fight with two good hits, and he thought of his .45 back home. But then there was a clear and angry mind at work behind the Browning's sights. The reduced distance made sights seem hardly necessary but he forced himself to focus on the front ramp. Then he squeezed the trigger.

       It was over. Bennett thought of a reload, but estimated he had fired six rounds; the magazine still held seven. He felt an ephemeral sense of exhilaration, followed by disgust at the unpleasant substances on the walls and floor. Then he thought of Claudia. But he was disciplined enough to order his priorities.

       Scrambling to his feet, Bennett checked around the corner and found it clear. He jumped over the cadaver at his feet, slammed the door, and locked it. He turned and threw both Ingrams on the bed, noting a lock-picking kit had fallen from one man's pocket.

       Claudia.

       He knew what he would find. She lay in the tub, up to her chin in red-dyed water. She had taken ten .380 rounds in the chest and abdomen from that one long burst.

       Bennett slumped on the bed, suddenly cold. He huddled into a sheet. Violent emotions tore at him from different directions. Delayed fear, the heaviness in the arms, the raspy dryness in the throat. But there was more: anger, remorse, a numbing sense of loss.

       A loud pounding on the door brought Bennett's senses back to the immediate. He glanced around, noting the familiar blue T-shirt on the floor. Picking it up, he held it to his cheek. And that is how they found him, sobbing softly to himself.

Bahrain, 26 August

      
When John Bennett returned to Tiger Force, Ed Lawrence was the sole person on hand to meet him. It was contrary to the group of IPs and students who normally were present as a mark of courtesy and respect.

      
He looks ten years older,
Lawrence thought to himself as Bennett came down the stairs of the commuter jet. The exec noted his friend's haggard appearance--especially the circles under the eyes and the slumping posture. Lawrence walked toward the man the students called "King Tiger." Now he resembled neither.

       Bennett held out his hand. "Hello, Devil."

       "Welcome home, Pirate." Then Lawrence put his arms around Bennett's shoulders.

       Bennett unwrapped himself and smiled grimly. "Let's have a drink. "

       The redhead said, "I think even Allah would approve."

       Seated in Bennett' quarters, Lawrence filled him in on recent events. "You wondered why the Saudis were including you in all the air force planning, remember? Well, I talked to Rajid and a couple of others from Class One. You know there are about five thousand princes in this country?" Bennett nodded. "Well, we have our share flying F-20s. I guess it's still a case of not what you know but who you know that counts. Because it looks like our guys, the Saudi pilots, used some of their influence. After Handrah and Jauf were killed in the car bomb, our tigers told Saudi HQ they didn't want any more outsiders as squadron Cos. They wanted us, the IPs, to fill the gaps."

       Bennett showed interest. "That could mean trouble in our relations with the Saudi Air Force."

       "That's what I thought," Lawrence said. "So I took it upon myself to propose a compromise, subject to your approval. Some of our sports are CO material-Rajid, Menaf, a couple of others from Class One. What say we recommend them for the slots?"

       Bennett thought for a long moment. "They probably will be okay with more experience. But if it comes to shooting ... "

       "Yeah, I know. But this seems a good way of us keeping an even strain with both sides. At least, it may be the best we can get. "

       "You know, Ed, I didn't really know we had that kind of loyalty from these kids. I mean, I'm really pleased that's how they feel, but I'd have expected they'd want their own people."

       "I discussed it with Peter and Tim and some of the guys. You know what a philosopher Peter is. He says it makes sense. The oldest of our first pilots still aren't twenty-six. The youngest of the last graduating class are between twenty and twenty-one. Hell, we raised these studs from pups. I guess it's natural that they look to us for continued leadership."

       Lawrence poured more Jack Daniels over the ice in Bennett's cup. "John, do you feel like talking about Claudia? I'm a pretty good listener."

       Bennett inhaled deeply and slowly let it out. He closed his eyes for a moment. "Yeah, it might help."

       "Any idea who the shooters were?"

       "The Saudis said both had Lebanese papers. That may or may not mean anything. Apparently one of them was a mercenary connected to a Christian militia outfit in Beirut years ago. I was told that a lot of those people went free-lance."

       "If they were Christian militia, that means Israeli support, doesn't it?"

       "Yes. The Saudi investigators are convinced of it but they wouldn't discuss sources beyond the Beirut connection."

       "Wow. Then the timing means-"

       "The timing probably means the Israelis have planned preemptive strikes against airfields in reach of their Jordanian positions. That's how I see it. Decapitate Tiger Force and follow up with attacks into northern Arabia. But there's just one thing wrong with that. "

       "Yeah," Lawrence interjected. "They haven't hit us."

       "Right. And it's not like the Israelis to telegraph their punches."

       "So what do you think?"

       "There's another theory that the Yemenis might have been behind it-a revenge thing. But I'm inclined to think it was Israel-maybe an unauthorized operation of some sort. There might have just been a slip-up and the assassins hit too early. One of the investigators said there's evidence they waited outside my hotel for most of the day, maybe expecting to hit me in the street. They might have gotten tired of waiting and decided to come in shooting. "

       Lawrence said, "What do you want to do about it, John?"

       "I want to kill whoever's behind this. But I can't afford a vendetta." He took off his shoes. "I'm gonna turn in, take some sleeping pills, and get some rest. I'd like 001 ready for an I830 launch tomorrow. Can you set it up for me?"

       "Sure thing. No problem." He slapped Bennett on the shoulder.

       "Goodnight, pardner."

       Walking to the operations office, Ed Lawrence knew exactly what his friend had in mind. "He's got a world of hurt inside him," the exec told Bear Barnes. "Now he wants to take it upstairs and leave some of it there."

Chapter 11

       TEL AVIV, Sept.1-Israeli and Arab warplanes twice clashed over occupied Jordan today, in the largest Mideast air battle of recent years. As many as forty fighter jets may have been involved in the dogfights, resulting in the destruction of perhaps a dozen or more Syrian and Iraqi planes and an unspecified number of Israeli U.S.-built F-15s or F-16s.

       Official accounts from Tel Aviv and Damascus were incomplete or contradictory, with no comment yet from Baghdad. However, military sources indicated that eight or nine Syrian MiGs were downed in the early-morning clash and four Iraqi jets about two hours later. Syrian spokesmen admitted that "a number" of their planes had not returned from a reconnaissance sweep over eastern Jordan, but claimed destruction of "several" Israeli warplanes. A carefully worded Israeli communique said that all its pilots were "accounted for" after each combat.