Warriors by Barrett Tillman (45 page)

       Bennett continued. "Bear will remain at least as long as I do to run the ops office. Ed, are you and Geoff still going to Bahrain?"

       The redhead replied, "Affirmative. I need to coordinate a resupply of Sidewinders and spares. Geoff is due for Rand R." He looked at the mustached flier. "What'll it be, pardner? Monte Carlo or Rome?"

       "Believe I'll try my luck at the gaming tables, old man. Used to be a croupier in my line back some generations." He smiled under his regulation mustache. Then his face turned serious. "I'm for packing it in, too. I've had a good run here, wouldn't have missed it for anything. But I feel it's time for a change."

       "Very well." Bennett stood up. "I'll be in touch by phone when you get to Bahrain. Ed, you and Geoff might as well take my bird to Tiger Base. My 001 is due for an annual. That'll leave your two fighters for use here." He raised a cautionary finger. "But don't you dare scratch my pet. She's been good to me and I may want to take her home."

       Lawrence waited for the others to leave before talking to Bennett. "Pirate, I'm staying. This isn't over yet, and I'd sort of like to stick around for the finish." He glanced at the floor. "I raised these kids from pups. I couldn't leave them now. Not while there's still some flying to be done." Bennett knew his exec meant,
While there's still some fighting to be done.
Ed Lawrence had long since passed the point where merely flying-even flying supersonic fighters-satisfied him. The aircraft had become an extension of himself, of his purpose. And his purpose was combat.

      
That's the difference between us,
Bennett thought.
I look at a Tigershark and see freedom. Devil looks at the same airplane and sees a weapon.

      
Bennett patted his friend on the shoulder. "I figured you'd want to stay. Just keep checking six, will you?" Bennett had the unnerving impression he might never see Lawrence again.

       "Always have. Don't worry, Pirate. We'll get all the guys together in a year or so for the first Tiger Force reunion. Maybe the king will foot the bill." They made plans to meet on the flight line before Lawrence took off.

       LATER THAT AFTERNOON BENNETT STOOD BEFORE THE situation chart in the briefing room. It was updated twice daily by the Saudi intelligence officers attached to Tiger Force. With professional detachment, Bennett evaluated the developing blitzkrieg against Israel. In the manner of all staff studies, friendly forces were blue, opposition red. The blue arrows thrusting inward from Sinai, from the north, and particularly from the east threatened to slice Israel into pieces.

       It was now two days since the combined power of Syria, Iran, Iraq, and Egypt had smashed into Israeli territory behind artillery barrages, air strikes, armored columns, and mustard gas. Though he lacked precise details, Bennett knew that many-perhaps most--of the Israeli airfields were within range of enemy artillery. As the
Heyl Ha'Avir
consolidated its squadrons on the decreasing number of operational fields, two factors would work against them. Maintenance facilities, ramp space, and accommodations would become overloaded. And the planes bunched on available fields were more vulnerable to shelling or air attack. It was a descending spiral of options which seemed to lead inevitably to defeat.

       Bennett pondered the turbulent history of Israel. Since her birth in 1948, the Jewish· State had lived with the ever-present threat of destruction. She had survived against impossible odds because of superior organization and combat skill. Now that the Arabs had matched Israeli resolve, their vastly superior numbers were wearing down Tel Aviv's fighting edge. Not even American support--crucial to Israel's existence--could reverse the situation. And this time there was no U.S. aid. Washington, acting in its own best interest, lacked the willingness or resolve to jump in.

       The Tiger Force leader acknowledged his ambivalence toward Israel's peril.
They're undoubtedly the ones behind Claudia's death,
he thought,
and for that they deserve extinction.
But he recognized that "they" did not include the nation's entire population, nor the military personnel who would continue to die in this expanded war.

       Bennett also felt mixed emotions about his allies. To an extent he felt betrayed by the duplicity of the Muslim states which had reneged on their pledge of reclaiming only Jordan and the West Bank. The opportunists had seen the chance to carry their crusade much farther than announced. True, the Saudis were not participating directly, for the king had remained true to the letter of his declaration. But neither had the House of Saud spoken against the invasion.

      
Well, what could the Saudis do, anyway?
Bennett found himself engaged in a mental debate which neither part of his psyche was winning.
The royal family will be lucky to survive on the throne after this is all over, that's for sure.

       To hell with it. There are TW clear answers. It's time to go home.
Absorbed in his thoughts, Bennett suddenly became aware of Bear Barnes standing next to him. The ex-Marine asked, "Doing more homework, boss?"

       ''The irony just struck me," Bennett said. "Most of our European allies long ago abdicated the responsibility for their own defense--the most elemental duty of any government. The Israelis have fought their own battles for over two generations and now they're on the ropes. "

       Barnes gave a wry smile. ''That's an odd sentiment for the leader of an Arab air force. Besides, you know damn well Israel couldn't stay afloat without U.
S. aid and weapons. They barely repay half of what they receive."

       "Yeah, I know. But at least they fight. They call a spade a spade. There's seldom any doubt about their position. Hell, some of our so-called friends around the world take billions of dollars in aid and vote against us in the U.N.
Or they look the other way when some assassin or terrorist sneaks through their country en route to somewhere else."

       Barnes shrugged his big shoulders. "Well, what's the option?"

       Bennett looked at the map again. His gaze fell on the port city of Haifa. "Did you ever hear of a contingency plan called Pharaoh?"

       "No, don't think so."

       "I studied it at War College," Bennett explained. "It was a scenario in which U
.
S. naval forces attempted to rescue the survivors of an Israeli collapse. The logistics people estimated that maybe a quarter-million Israelis-mainly women and children--could be recovered by sea. I wonder if they've dusted off that study and delivered it to Com Sixth Fleet." He glanced at the two carrier battle groups plotted in the Mediterranean and thought of Dave Edmonds, a rear admiral now. With a start, Bennett realized he had not thought of his friend in months. Maybe Dave was riding one of the carriers out there.

       Barnes whistled softly. "I don't see how they could pull it off, John. Not on that scale. It'd be tough enough in peacetime, but under fire? Man, they'd lose more than they saved just getting from the beach to the ships."

       "Probably so." He tapped Bear on the chest with the back of his hand. "Let's see Devil and Geoff
tuck their wheels in the well."

       Forty minutes later Bennett and Barnes stood near the runway and watched 001's engine run up to 80 percent military power. Bennett could tell when Lawrence released the brakes, then heard the afterburner cut in. Instead of pulling up to climb for altitude, the sleek little fighter remained near the runway, retracting its landing gear in level flight. Then, abruptly, the F-20B rolled inverted and passed the two onlookers at 20 feet, wings rocking in farewell. It was a prideful, foolish piece of flying-something only Devil would do. Bennett shaded his eyes from the sun as the nose came up sharply, angling into the sky under negative G.

       Watching the Tigershark disappear from sight, Bennett realized he probably never would see his jet airborne again. He might get one last flight in 001 before he headed home.

       Bear Barnes wondered why Bennett stood watching for so long.

       The two-seater had disappeared from view two minutes before. Finally he tapped the CO's arm. "Come on, Skipper. Let's go to chow. Dinner's ready."

       With a last look eastward, Bennett fell in step with the fast-walking Marine .

Balhama Air Base, 1818 Hours

      
Colonel Solomon Yatanahu shifted the piles of documents on his desk. Most of his files and official materials were boxed and ready for transportation or quick destruction. Though the Beersheba airfield complex remained operational, the three bases would come under Arab artillery fire before long-probably in just a matter of hours.

       As a professional without illusions, Yatanahu recognized that Israel finally had lost air supremacy. Now it was mainly a matter of aerial parity, but inevitably the margin was slipping. The fighter ace knew that his Eagle pilots were claiming 40 percent of their kills with gunfire these days. It would not be lost upon the Arab fliers, who would recognize that a decreasing stock of air-to-air missiles required the cannon option. The mechanics and armorers were working eighteen-hour days routinely, but still sortie rates were declining. There simply was not enough time to properly maintain the remaining aircraft.

       The intercom buzzed and Yatanahu picked up the phone. "Priority message for you, Colonel." Yoni Ben-Nun's voice betrayed the strain he felt, and the base commander marveled at his own stamina. He had heard infantry officers comment on the seeming contradiction: the old men still were going strong when the nineteen-year-olds were asleep on their feet. In truth, he knew the reason: experience in pacing oneself, applying full effort only to priority matters. The youngsters tried to do everything at full speed until fatigue overtook them.

       The colonel pressed the lighted key and spoke into the desk speaker. "Yatanahu here."

       The voice on the other end was familiar. "Solomon, this is Seth. My authenticator follows .... " The Israeli Air Force director of operations read an alpha-numeric sequence which told Yatanahu to stand by for a special courier.

       "I acknowledge. Courier en route?"

       "That is correct." There was a pause. Yatanahu thought the connection may have been lost. Then the DO said, "Good bye, Sol." Then the line went dead.

       Yatanahu notified his staff that a special courier would arrive within thirty minutes. The officer was to be brought to base headquarters immediately.

       Then the colonel studied his situation chart. He saw the red arrows penetrating Israel from the south in two prongs, either side of Beersheba. He noted the arrows from the north and west as well. He knew the blue arrow aimed northeastward at the Golan Heights represented a determined counterattack the night before. Supported by artillery, helicopters, and special forces, it had succeeded long enough to silence several enemy artillery batteries but the Arab riposte had been too strong. Israel had lost the Golan.

       Twenty-two minutes later an air force intelligence officer was escorted to Yatanahu's office. The courier, a lieutenant colonel, presented his identification and a second authenticator sequence which completed the original. Then, locked in the office with no witness save the base commander, the courier presented his message on the special-purpose form.

       Solomon Yatanahu read the message twice, noting the details printed below. It merely said, "Initiate Jehovah." The remainder was a list of times, coordinates, and desired aircraft.

       The base commander felt a surprising calm. He completed the double-check of authenticators and confirmation of orders received and understood. Then he dismissed the courier and picked up his phone. "Yoni. Give me six sections, two Eagles each. Full armament, including Sidewinders and Sparrows. I'll provide takeoff times for you, and I'll conduct the briefing myself."

       He listened to the aide's complaints about limited aircraft availability and interference with scheduled missions. "There's no room for argument, Yoni." His voice was calm, matter-of-fact. "This assignment supersedes all others."

       Then Yatanahu sat down and pulled a sealed document from his safe. He would have to coordinate with the pilots from Hovda, but that was all right. No specifics would be discussed by phone or radio--merely rendezvous points and times. The final briefings would be conducted face to face. Yatanahu looked at his watch--1635 hours. It would be a nocturnal mission, which was according to doctrine.

       Leaning back with his eyes closed, the colonel allowed his mind to retrace the world of his youth. It had been a difficult existence on Kibbutz Deganya, but the hard farm life was the best he could imagine for an active boy. He thought of Aaron Hali, fortunately out of it now, a prisoner of the Saudis. Aaron was right-the Deganya bananas were the best anywhere.

       The day before, Yatanahu had learned that Deganya had been overrun by an Iranian division. Most of the inhabitants were dead, missing, or presumed dead. He imagined the rage which the youthful Persians must have unleased upon the community. He also thought of Kibbutz Sha'arhagolan on the southern edge of the Golan Heights. Captured twice and retaken once in the past few days, it lay in ruins. Nobody seemed to know how many of its inhabitants might remain alive.

       Yatanahu's blue eyes snapped open. He thought he might fly one of the Eagles himself this evening. It would be pure pleasure. Then his professionalism overtook him.
No, Solomon, that's not your job. It's for the youngsters this time.
But he remained hard-eyed, certain of his task.

      
Jehovah. Good. It's about time.

      
Ha’il, 2025 Hours

      
John Bennett climbed the ladder to the roof of the command center, spread with sand and artificial shrubbery. The concrete structure was half buried with only eight feet visible above ground, but it afforded a decent view of the area.