Warriors

approval. What do you make of that?'

Walter Arnold squirmed slightly in his chair. Damn it, stop fidgeting, he told himself. Makes it look like you're cornered. Which he was, in a sense. He had granted a rare one-on-one interview to Trudy Willard, much to the delight of her network. But Arnold's decision had been based on his perception of the TV journalist, an old hand around the White House. Christ, she'd gone on-camera to report Carter's concession in '80 with visible tears in her eyes. She was supposed to go easy on liberals. Jerry Butler, the presidential press secretary, had said as much.

'Well, I'll tell you, Trudy,' Arnold began, recovering his composure. 'That means I'm holding my own. It's almost identical to my victory margin in the last election.'

Nicely done, Mr. President, conceded the interviewer to herself. But I'm not the fluff peddler you expected, am I? Actually, both individuals were getting what they wanted: Arnold proved his accessibility and Willard could stick another feather in her bonnet.

'I'd like to ask about the Middle East, Mr. President. What can you say about the continuing crisis in Jordan?'

That's more like it, my girl. 'There's cause for both encouragement and alarm there, Trudy. Encouragement because at last, after two years or so, the various parties are talking to each other. But I see cause for concern because the Israeli forces in Jordan are coming under increasing harassment from the unoccupied areas. It's still a tense situation, and we're working hard to keep everybody talking to each other…'

Bahrain

'Who's the honcho in the robes?'

Ed Lawrence pointed toward a throng of Saudis showing considerable deference to a man in flowing mishlah and ghotra with the traditional jambia curved dagger at his waist. Bennett glanced to his right, squinting in the bright sunlight. 'That, my boy, is our employer of these past two years. King Rahman of Arabia.'

'Oh, yeah. I remember he promised to award wings to the first class. But it's still hard for me to ID people in their native duds.'

Bennett groaned, glancing around to be sure nobody overheard his exec. Occasionally Bennett had seen the king in immaculately tailored business suits, contrary to the monarch's predecessors. Acknowledging Rahman's temperament and need to balance himself between two poles-tradition on one hand and racing events on the other-Bennett admired the man's sartorial versatility.

More than 200 people occupied the seats and covered bleachers arranged on the flight line. Most were there to see their sons, brothers, cousins, and nephews graduate from pilot training. But no Saudi women were present- some things just didn't change.

Others represented the embassy community-predominantly Arab and Western diplomats and attaches. Though low-key throughout the previous two years, the F-20 program had drawn much professional interest. Now that the first class was graduating, there was speculation as to how the assets would be employed. People had picked up Bennett's phrase, Tiger Force. He had designed a patch and had his personal aircraft repainted. Now 001 sported a wicked shark's mouth on the nose and glaring eyes around the gunports.

The two Americans walked to the pavilion reserved for IPs and maintenance staff near the announcer's platform. The instructors wore their nomex flight suits with brand-new name tags standardized for a more orderly appearance. Velcro-backed Tiger Force patches flashed their orange and black colors from the left shoulder; orange ballcaps and polished black boots completed the outfit. It wasn't entirely regulation, but it looked more uniform than the hodgepodge of U.S. Air Force, Navy, and British gear the IPs had worn previously.

As the announcer asked the guests to take their seats-speaking alternately in Arabic and English-the forty- one graduating cadets stood to attention by their chairs. Bennett reflected on the composition of the class. His estimate of two-thirds completion had proven surprisingly accurate. Over the previous two years, including preflight, twenty-four of the original candidates had fallen short.

Also gone were three of the original instructors. Two had found the prolonged regimen in an Islamic culture too confining and had backed out. The other withdrew owing to family problems back in the States. Replacements were quickly found from Safad Fatah's pool of alternate applicants.

The accident rate had been within limits, considering they were taking fresh students and putting them in a frontline fighter from the first day. The airplane was uncommonly forgiving and the engine superb. Five F-20s had been lost in two years. One of the single-seaters had suffered a disconnected throttle linkage and the engine had gone to idle power. The pilot had no choice but to make a controlled ejection; he'd been rescued unharmed. Another had gone down with its student pilot during a solo aerobatics flight. Judging from witnesses' report, the young man had initiated a split-S from too low-he evidently misjudged the density altitude. Two losses were attributed to GLoC-the unavoidable G-induced loss of consciousness present in all modem fighters.

Two months previously, during a tactics flight for dissimilar air combat training, a two-seater had collided with an F-15 Eagle. Both aircraft were destroyed; the Saudi Eagle pilot was killed. The IP in the Tigershark's backseat ejected with minor injuries but the student was badly burned by jet fuel which ignited on bailout. Several other students washed out of the advanced phase, having proven they could fly the airplane but were poorly adapted to a high-G environment. Two of these were retained when offered the chance to recycle as maintenance officers.

The remaining tigers had done well-most of them uncommonly well. And God, did they push the airplane! There had been several minor scrapes, but the students learned from their mistakes. Each was wiser for his errors.

Having established a baseline of evaluation criteria with the first class, the IPs expected to do better with the second. The next batch, graduating in two months, probably would produce forty-three to forty-five pilots- enough for three full squadrons. Two squadrons would be formed from Class One, with the overflow being diverted at first to instructor and maintenance-engineering slots. From these men would come the future leaders of all eight to ten Tigershark squadrons. In the meantime, senior Saudi pilots from F-5 units were transitioning to F-20s, though the IPs would remain closely affiliated. The king and Fatah were concerned with retaining the independence and 'purity' (the word was Fatah's) of Tiger Force.

The band struck up the Royal Saudi Anthem and everyone stood during the short instrumental. Then the announcer-a gifted twenty-year-old linguist from the second class-called the spectators' attention to the left front. Six F -20s started engines in succession and taxied in formation to the end of the runway. Lawrence glanced at Bennett, and they exchanged wry grins. Masher Malloy, looking uncharacteristically regulation, arched his eyebrows and rolled his eyes suggestively. Tim Ottman raised one hand, his fingers crossed.

Bennett whispered to Lawrence. 'How much practice did you say the guys put in?'

Lawrence raised the fingers of one hand.

'Five hours?'

'Five flights.'

'Sorry I asked.'

At almost the last moment, Safad Fatah had passed along the king's 'suggestion' that an air show be part of the ceremony. The IPs had already planned a formation fly-by, but the Saudis wanted something more. Against their better judgment, Bennett and Lawrence had assembled an impromptu aerobatic team of six instructors.

Fortunately, there were four experienced air show pilots on the staff: Bear Barnes had been the lone Marine on one Blue Angels team; an Air Force pilot named Brad Williamson had flown with the Thunderbirds; and two British pilots were veterans of the RAF's spectacular Red Arrows. A U.S. Navy and Air Force man were selected as solo pilots. It had not been possible to work up a really quality routine in the limited time, with instructor duties thrown in.

Geoffrey Hampton, the precise Briton who had been a contract Jaguar pilot for Oman and the senior Red Arrow, was designated team leader. He had worked out a twelve-minute routine which minimized formation aerobatics and stressed the F-20's performance. There had been time for just one full rehearsal, including the announcer, before graduation day. Now, huddled at the end of the runway, the team heard Hampton key his mike.

'Brakes off-now.' Four Tigersharks accelerated together, lifting off and shifting smoothly into diamond formation. The two solos made a section takeoff fifteen seconds later, occupying the crowd's attention while the