Warriors by Barrett Tillman (41 page)

       Lawrence and Badir had jumped a flight of Kfirs and destroyed two. The fight now was dispersed over an area measuring thirty to fifty miles on a side, and the intensity of combat was diminishing. Black Lead's flight reformed and trolled the perimeter of the arena, looking for additional bogeys.

       During a momentary pause in the jamming, Lawrence heard a call from Ahnas Menaf with Green Squadron: "Bogeys pulling away northward. Am pursuing. Out."

       There was also a short transmission from Orange, though the call sign was garbled. Lawrence figured that Rajid was patrolling the nearby fields.
Good lad. Always does the right thing

Central Arabia, 0830 Hours

      
Aaron Hali knew that things had turned to hash around him.

       Orbiting north of Ha'il, waiting to provide withdrawal support for part of the strike force, he knew there had been heavy losses on both sides and doubted that more than two flights would reach the target, still more than a hundred miles away. He checked his fuel state--ample but getting low-and looked around for his wingman. The boy was right there, spread out to two miles.

       Hali's nomex flight suit was soaked in sweat and his arms felt heavy. He had been through the toughest fight of his life: two engagements with F-20s. He out-turned one, which he caught at a depleted energy state, and was going for a Sidewinder shot when two more dropped out of nowhere and forced him to break tracking. There had followed the damnedest set-to he had ever experienced.

       In the confusion Hali surprised another Tigershark and killed it with a 'winder.

       Never had he seen Arab aircraft flown so competently and aggressively.
But then,
he mused,
why not? They held most of the cards-fighting over their own territory close to their own bases, flush with fuel.

      
He called on mission frequency and ordered the withdrawal northward. He would remain on station with his flight a few more minutes to provide a rear guard.

                **           **           **

       MAJOR ABDULLAH BEN NIR WAS FRUSTRATED. HE HAD gained visual sightings on several Israeli aircraft and had a good shot at a Phantom. But he had fired too soon and the F-4 had evaded the missile. To make matters worse, the McDonnell Douglas fighter-bomber--essentially a generation older than its Eagle relative--had disappeared in the shadow of a ridgeline.

       Ben Nir realized he had stretched the limit of his orders and then some. He was farther north than he should have been in the first place, and it was time to think about returning to base. He began a turn into the sun, wondering how the "wall of missiles" tactic had worked against the Israelis.

       CAPTAIN HASNI KHALIL'S HEART WAS POUNDING IN his chest. He knew he would never be able to relate the proper order of events he had just experienced. The past five minutes were a wild kaleidoscope of spiraling, turning fighters, smoky missile trails, and brownish black smoke rings in the air, and plumes on the ground. He shuddered involuntarily at the memory of two near-misses: once with a Kfir and once with another F -20. He was rattled, upset with himself for not getting a kill. But it was good to be alive.

       Khalil scanned the horizon. He prepared to patrol Orange Base when he caught a glint in the distance. He padlocked the speck and accelerated toward it. In a few moments he was visibly overtaking. It was a large aircraft, definitely not a Tigershark.

       Turning in his seat to check his wingman's position, Khalil bobbed the nose of his fighter up and down. Though he could not see the bogey, Khalil's wingman repeated the motion and clicked his radio button to acknowledge.

       Khalil arced in behind the bogey, slowly overtaking. He wondered why it was flying at basic cruise power. As he got closer he made out four of them-all F-15s. He knew that no friendly Eagles were to be in the area after the initial missile exchange. These four were heading parallel to the Kuwaiti border. Well, if they were Israelis they'd probably be conserving fuel, flying at altitude in a moderately fast cruise.

       Keying his mike, Khalil transmitted on B channel. He wondered if he could get through; jamming still was persistent. He tried twice and got no reply.
Maybe we'll get close enough. to look at their paint,
he thought.

       The F-15s began a lazy turn to the left, Khalil noted, which simplified his intercept geometry. He continued his approach from below and slightly to port. At two miles Khalil squinted, hoping to make out the markings but it was still too far.

       "TWO BOGEYS EIGHT O'CLOCK LOW! BREAK LEFT!"

       Major Ben Nir reacted instantly to his wingman's warning. He looked left to see the specks of two small aircraft over his shoulder and loaded more than six Gs on his airframe. He nearly blacked out, forgetting to contract his diaphragm and abdominal muscles to aid his G-suit.

       KHALIL'S PULSE JUMPED. "THEY'RE ENGAGING! COVER ME.!”

       Favorably positioned, the lead F-20 crossed behind the closest Eagle and cut the comer on the leader. Khalil rolled in trail, got a high-pitched steady tone in his earphones, and pressed the trigger. "Snake! Watch the shot!"

       The AIM-9 hurtled toward the F-l5's tail but exploded well below the target.
Damn,
Khalil cursed inwardly,
another fuse failure.
He prepared to reattack when he saw the third Eagle in planform as it pulled up. The green-and-white roundels on the wings stood out clearly.

       "Knock it off, knock it off! The Eagles are friendly!"

                **           **           **

       IN HIS COCKPIT, MAJOR BEN NIR WAS EXTREMELY BUSY. FIRE AND warning lights came on across the board. He had felt the near-miss and knew that fragments of the warhead had punctured the belly. He was rapidly losing primary hydraulic pressure.

       The wingman slid under his leader, assessing the damage.

       There were dozens of holes from the blast-several large ones. "You're venting a lot of hydraulic oil and some fuel. There's smoke from the left engine. How does it feel, sir?"

       Ben Nir scanned his instruments again. The Eagle has a large hydraulic reservoir but the gauges told a grim tale; PC-l was near zero and the second system, PC-2, was fading. That only left the utility system. "I want to get clear of the border," Ben Nir said. "I can make it farther south."

       Above the stricken F-l5, Khalil watched with bitter frustration.

       The sinking feeling in his stomach threatened to reverse itself and spew up his breakfast.

       The Eagle completed its turn and rolled wings-level when Ben Nir called again. "PC-2 is falling off . . . utility looks weak. Controls are getting stiff."

       "Get out, Major. Eject while you still have control." The wingman's voice had risen an octave.

       Ben Nir swallowed hard, focused his attention, and replied, "Negative. I want to get farther from the border." The Code called for self-control, studied indifference to danger.

       The minutes dragged by. The Eagle's increasingly erratic flight betrayed its imminent doom, but the pilot remained committed to his decision. The wingman called again. "Major, you
must
eject right now. You're--"

       "Ahhh ... I've ... I've just ... " The modulated voice was gone. Abdullah Ben Nir never finished the transmission. As his utility hydraulic system failed, the controls locked. The big slabs of the unit horizontal tail dropped with a decisive
thunk
into the full-down position. The violent pitching movement was impossible to duplicate in simulation-no pilot could ever be prepared for it.

       As the nose snapped viciously through the horizon, aerodynamic forces in excess of thirty negative Gs smashed the pilot upward out of his seat, against the canopy. Ben Nir blacked out instantly, never realizing what happened. But his wingman saw the entire ghastly evolution. He would never forget the incredible sight of his squadron leader splayed like an insect on a glass slide despite the fittings meant to keep him secured to his seat.

       The F-15 nosed into the bottom of an outside loop, but solid earth interrupted its arcing path. A fireball marked the end of one more life this day.

Ha’il, 0832 Hours

      
Bennett had attempted to follow the progress of the battle from the operations center. He knew it was futile, as the combat was too disjointed, spread over too much ground and hundreds of miles of sky.

       Climbing atop the camouflaged command and communications center, the chief of Tiger Force surveyed the area. Smoke still drifted from bomb holes and dust was swept up in eddies of wind. He looked toward the runways. There appeared to be a cluster of bomb hits near the approach end of the nearest strip, but he could not tell about the parallel runway. Bennett had laid out the field with parallel runways just for this purpose. On conventional airfields, with crossed runways, it was simple to shut down the facility by bombing the intersection.

       Six Phantoms had gotten though to Ha'il. Two fell to SAMs and antiaircraft guns but four pressed in to deliver their ordnance. At least one hangar was destroyed, and one fuel tank had been leveled. Fortunately, it contained little JP4 at the time.

       Bennett breathed deeply.
Well, it looks like the base got off light.
Then came the scarlet thread of anxiety.
Wonder how the boys are doing .
...

Northern Arabia, 08153 Hours

      
Colonel Aaron Hali finally turned northward. He had seen Israeli aircraft pass below him singly and in pairs, but not one four-plane flight. It appeared the battle was over, and he wondered if Solomon Yatanahu had listened in on the morning's events. Hali looked forward to debriefing with his old friend. Time permitting, they would get drunk together.

       Continuing his scan through the turn, Hali saw nothing. He heard calls from pilots ahead of him, crossing the SAM belt again.
My God, how many missiles ,do the Saudis have?
He could not imagine how they retained any after the godawful barrage they had unleashed-was it possible?-less than an hour ago.

       "Bogeys six o'clock high!"

       "More out to the east, Lead. Three and four o'clock."

       "I'm in!"

       "Cover me, Benny, there's Tigersharks up here."

       "Where did they come from?"

       Colonel Hali wracked his Eagle into as hard a turn as his airspeed allowed. The last call bothered him-it was unnecessary, contributing nothing. That seldom happened in the
Heyl Ha'Avir.

      
Feeling his G-suit compress about his abdomen and thighs, Hali sustained a maximum-rate turn into the unexpected threat, seeing two Northrops pass to port. He noted twin motes of light at their tails. Tigersharks had only one engine.

       ''They're F-5s! All Eagles, all Eagles, this is Aaron. These are F-5s. Out."

       Hali stole a glance at his fuel gauges. He knew that he would be lucky to walk home from this one.

       The Jordanian portion of the hammer was well timed. Those Israeli pilots able to disengage from the anvil had begun climbs to optimum cruising altitude, flying profiles for greatest range. The F-15s carried bags of fuel, affording it exceptionally long "legs." But repeated combats, using afterburner, were not part of the equation. Any additional full-power usage would quickly erode the fuel reserve to dangerous levels. A thirty-minute reserve built into the mission plan would not accommodate five more minutes banging in and out of afterburner-especially at lower altitudes.

       Those two-plane sections closest to the mission commander had no choice. They unhesitatingly turned to engage, willing to take one more enemy with them before they were shot down or flamed out. The others had a fifty-fifty chance--accelerate away, trading fuel for distance and the chance of a Sidewinder up the tailpipe, or accept battle.

       High over Arabia Deserta, grim choices were made in F-15 and F-16 cockpits. In a few minutes only windblown smoke and drifting parachutes remained to tell the tale.

Chapter 15

Ha’il, 0705 Hours

      
JOHN BENNETT RACED HIS JEEP FROM REVETMENT TO revetment, occasionally swerving to avoid cheering mechanics and exultant pilots. He noted with professional concern that few of the men were refueling or rearming the aircraft immediately upon return. He grabbed a maintenance supervisor, shouted a few words, and depressed the clutch. Shifting into low, he resumed his initial review of the returning Tiger Force pilots.

       From his own combat experience, Bennett knew what the young Saudis were feeling. It would be hours before the adrenaline abated and hypertension drained away. Then an inner calmness would wash over them, and many would lie awake.

       Grateful and proud, they also would remember the men they had killed this day. Most would realize that the enemy were men very much like themselves, skilled, dedicated adversaries. In the heat of combat one saw only airplanes, not men. Somehow it was always a shock for a fighter pilot to realize there often was a dead body in the wreckage of the airplane he had just destroyed.

       Seeing Rajid Hamir climbing down from his F-20, Bennett braked to an abrupt halt. He saw the young squadron commander run down the line and scramble up the ladder of Orange Five, his exec. They exchanged a few terse words, then Rajid dropped back to the ground. He began to unzip his G-suit when he was hoisted upon the shoulders of his pilots and mechanics. Once again the chant rose. "Ra-jid, Ra-jid!" But this time the young man seemed more withdrawn.

       Bennett pressed his way through the crowd, ordering the armorers and mechs to return to work. The eight-plane standing patrol would have to be reinforced soon.