The next six months passed quickly. The first class began dual instruction in the F-20B, flying in the mornings and continuing academics and physical conditioning in the afternoons. The second class of cadets completed indoctrination and ground school, and there was another ceremony when the preflight stage was completed.
Bennett was immensely gratified at the young pilots' progress.
Ahnas Menaf, one of the standouts from Class One, was the first to solo. His instructor, Tim Ottman, said the last four of the scheduled fifteen presolo flights were unnecessary. 'I won't say the kid's a natural,' Ottman had told Ed Lawrence, 'but he catches on real quick, and he retains what he learns.' The IPs in each section held a solo party for the students to mark the event. It was a relatively sedate affair by Western standards, but Bennett and Lawrence knew it reinforced morale among the Saudi students.
The F-20 program seemed to be proving Bennett's theory: Military flight training could be far simpler, less expensive, and more efficient than most air forces allowed. But Bennett did not intend merely to monitor the students' progress, nor rely wholly on the observations of his instructors. He kept his finger on the pulse of the budding Tiger Force, and he knew the best way to do that was by flying.
George Barnes was a six-foot-three former Marine corps aviator; a pleasant giant who tipped the scales at 225 pounds in fighting trim. His size and build had earned him the nickname 'Bear.' It had been his radio callsign from the day he reported to his old Phantom squadron. As the sole Marine among the IPs he was constantly beset by cheerful insults from the Navy and Air Force pilots. But to Barnes, 39 to I meant even odds.
Sitting in the operations office, tapping the eraser end of his pencil in time with 'Semper Fidelis' on his portable tape recorder,
Barnes seemed lost in thought. He was gazing out the window to the flight line and did not see Bennett walk in from the opposite side of the room, across the counter.
'Hi, Bear. Still listening to mood music?'
Barnes glanced up. 'Hello, Colonel. Yup, guess it's in my blood. I think I was eleven years old before I realized 'The Marines' Hymn' wasn't the national anthem.'
'Sure, I remember now. You're second-generation jarhead.' Bear straightened in his chair. 'Damn straight. My daddy retired as a master gunnery sergeant.'
Leaning conspiratorially across the counter, Bennett whispered, 'Listen. I wouldn't want this to get around, but I applied for the Marines myself back in Pensacola.'
Bear squinted suspiciously. 'Oh?'
'Yup. But when they found out my parents were married I was disqualified on the spot.' Both men laughed. It was an old joke, probably as old as the Corps.
'All right, Skipper. What can I do for you?'
'I got caught up with my paperwork and figured I'd combine a proficiency flight with a look at how one of the cadets performs. They're all soloed now from Class One.'
Bear reached back to the wall, pulled a clipboard off the rack, and scanned the pages. 'Once an ops officer, always an ops officer,' he said with a moan. He had the operations desk this month, an assignment held in rotation by those IPs not yet flying with students full-time. 'Sure, you could put in some time with one of the boys in an extra hop. You'll have to make it clear it's not a checkride. A lot of these Arabs get real skittish about that sort of thing.' He put down the first clipboard and thumbed through the aircraft availability chart. Two-seat F-20s still were arriving, and the allotment was not yet filled. 'I'm not sure there's a B model available right now. Maintenance is busy with the new birds, checking them out.'
'Well, my lad, how about 001? You remember-the bird our employer, His Highness in Riyadh, so kindly purchased for my sport and amusement? Last time I flew her, she still had my name on the canopy rail.'
Barnes bowed and touched his forehead. 'I hear, your magnificence, and I obey. I'll have the wrench-benders put 001 on the ramp for an 0630 launch. Any particular student you want to fly?'
'Anybody who's not slated for academics. I want to fly with at least three students per class from now on. Which section is free in the morning?'
Barnes flipped through yet another clipboard. 'Second section is off. The section duty officer is Halid; alternate is Hamir.'
'Good. I'll take Rajid Hamir. I hear good things about him.' Bennett walked into the ops office at 0545 next morning, already dressed in flight suit and boots. He carried his G-suit, torso harness, and helmet bag, preferring not to wear them until ready to fly.
Rajid Hamir was already there, scratching earnestly at his paperwork on the table provided for flight planning. He rose when Bennett entered, and stood at attention.
'Good morning, Mr. Hamir. Ready to fly?'
'Yes, sir. I am preparing the forms now.'
Bennett smiled, setting his baggage on a chair. 'You know, about the time I got out of the Navy, we said that you couldn't fly until the paperwork equaled the empty weight of the airplane. I like it better here, where all we need is a flight plan and takeoff data.'
'Sir, I am computing the takeoff roll and weight-and-balance figures. '
Bennett looked over the student's shoulder. The flight plan was complete, with each square neatly filled in. Noting the youngster's circular computer, Bennett sat down and tapped Rajid's calculator watch. 'You go ahead and finish the density altitude, but I'll show you its effect when we're airborne.'
Density altitude was especially important to flying in the Middle East. In hot climates, basic physics dictate the amendments to the law of gravity. The molecules in warm air expand apart from each other, contrary to cold-air molecules, which crowd together for comfort. Consequently, hot air generates less lift than cool air because the molecular density is not as great.
This phenomenon is called density altitude. An aircraft taking off from an airport at I,100 feet above sea level, with a temperature of I15 degrees Fahrenheit, uses the, same length of runway as during a standard day at over 5,000 feet. But not only takeoff is affected. Every flight regime-climb rate, dive recovery, turn radius-is similarly affected.
Fifty minutes later the two-seat fighter was airborne, tucking its tricycle landing gear neatly away and accelerating into the cooler upper air. Flying in the front seat, Rajid demonstrated what he had learned thus far: turns, climbs, and descents. Bennett noted the boy's movements usually were smooth and precise. There was little tendency to overcontrol, despite the Tigershark's sensitive boosted controls.
'All right, Mr. Hamir. I've got it.' Bennett wiggled the stick in the instructor's cockpit to indicate he had control. 'You remember what we learned about density altitude? Well, watch your altimeter. We're at fourteen thousand five hundred feet, straight and level at three hundred fifty knots. Ordinarily the airplane will complete a split-S in about five thousand five hundred feet under these conditions. Here we go.'
In one fluid movement Bennett rolled the Northrop on its back and pulled the stick into his stomach. The little fighter plummeted downward, recovering into level flight on a reciprocal heading from its entry. 'What does your altimeter say?'
'Seven thousand six hundred feet, sir.'
'Correct. That was a three-and-one-half-G pull-through, and we lost about seven thousand feet. So you see the effect of density altitude, even up here in cooler air.' Rajid's helmet bobbed up and down, indicating comprehension.
'Very well,' Bennett said, 'take us home.'
Rajid looked over his left shoulder, clearing himself for the port turn. He reefed it in tighter than the standard-rate turn he had been taught.
Bennett was pleased.
They entered the traffic pattern on a forty-five degree angle into the downwind leg. Rajid lowered gear and flaps, set up his approach speed, and hit his turning points for base leg and final within fifty feet of prescribed altitudes. 'This will be a touch-and-go,' Bennett radioed.
The tower acknowledged.
Rajid's touchdown was within the first third of the runway, slightly right-hand tire first. He let the mains settle on, allowed the nose to settle slightly, and advanced the throttle. Lifting off, he accelerated into a nose-high attitude, retracted gear and flaps, and turned left onto the crosswind leg.
Bennett shook the stick again. 'I've got it this time. I'll show you something about this bird's slow-flight
