Masher Malloy interjected. 'That's fine by me, Skipper. But, uh, what if one of
Bennett leveled an earnest gaze at Malloy. 'My boy, you'll have the satisfaction of knowing you did your duty for the king.'
The twin-engine transport bearing Iraq's green triangles on its wings braked to a smooth halt on the ramp at Palmyra Airport. As soon as the turboprop engines wound down the door opened and the Syrian honor guard came to present arms. The Antonov 26 became center stage in the third act of the day's drama, while the Syrian army, band struck up Iraq's 'Anthem of the Republic' as the Baghdad delegation deplaned.
Previously the same band and honor guard had welcomed similar arrivals from Tehran and Tripoli.
Some I20 miles northeast of Damascus, Tudmur was remote enough to hold a meeting of Arab military officials without undue attention from outsiders. For despite their ingrained differences, the Muslims had two things in common: an abiding hatred of Israel, and a special interest in the future of Jordan.
Chapter 9
John Bennett and Ed Lawrence stood by the nose of Lawrence's fighter. It was barely daylight, and the air was pleasantly cool. The two friends occupied a few moments with small talk, but soon an awkward silence fell upon them.
Lawrence glanced again at the luminous dial of his watch.
'Well, it's showtime.' He shifted his feet.
Bennett extended his hand. 'Normally I'd say 'Good hunting, Devil.' But now I'm showing my age. All I can think is, take care of yourself and bring the Tigers home.'
'Pirate, your halo is showing. Don't worry about us. We'll be fine.' Lawrence gave Bennett an extra-hard squeeze of the hand, then turned and scrambled up the boarding ladder.
Bennett stood back and watched the now-familiar preflight process. Crew chiefs jumped down, withdrew the ladders, and motioned the long, graceful aircraft onto the taxiway. Lawrence's jet led the procession, canopy still open, red running light strobing from the fuselage. The exec tossed an ultra-regulation salute at Bennett, who merely waved.
Bennett stood motionless, watching each of the streamlined dark shapes glide past. When Tim Ottman's flight taxied by, Bennett waved again. Then he flipped a sharp salute to Rajid Hamir. His heart pounded a little harder as he thought of Rajid's young fiancee.
In minutes the fourteen Northrops were poised at the end of the runway. Two by two, they made section takeoffs. Climbing sharply, they accelerated in astonishing climbs to make best use of the early-morning air which would provide economical cruising for the 730-mile flight to Khamis Mushayt.
Bennett turned and walked back to the line shack. He felt let down, almost sad, and he did not quite know why. He had taken every precaution possible. The C-130 with spare parts, Sidewinder missiles, 20mm ammunition, and a skeleton force of mechanics had left during the night. It should arrive at Khamis Mushayt well before the fighters. Communications, accommodations, and several contingency plans had been arranged. Even two spare Tigersharks had been allocated, just in case maintenance problems unexpectedly cropped up.
Once settled on course to the southwest, Ed Lawrence rocked his wings. The three flights of four planes each, and the spare section of two, adopted loose deuce formation. It was doctrine in Tiger Force to fly every mission under simulated combat conditions: open intervals to fighting formation, minimal or no radio transmissions, constant vigilance.
From long experience Lawrence knew that his wingman was half turned in his seat, almost facing the lead F-20. Lawrence himself was oriented toward his partner. Some pilots preferred to fly with their left hand on the stick, leaving the throttle untouched in combat spread. But in any case, the orientation allowed each flier visually to clear the area behind his friend's tail-especially important in the jet age, with rapid approach speeds and air-to-air missiles drastically reducing the time to spot and call out an attack.
Lawrence's visored eyes scanned the sky around him, moving in a boxlike pattern perfected by thousands of hours aloft. His scan registered the two cathode-ray tube displays in his cockpit, took in his fuel state, and returned to the outside world. Fighter pilots were always thinking fuel, for they were professional managers of that precious commodity.
Cruising at Mach.82, the F-20's fuel flow was about 2,300 pounds per hour while the Tigershark made nearly eight miles a minute: 450 knots at 35,000 feet. Within 110 miles of destination, the pilot could pull the throttle back to idle and glide at 250 knots, burning only 200 pounds of fuel per hour. Thus, the last 110 miles would consume merely 80 to 90 pounds of JP4 during the 25-minute descent. That was normal fuel flow in a turbofan fighter being flown like an airliner. But a fighter plane is for war, for killing other aircraft. And in combat it uses fuel in an ungodly manner. The F-20 could fight for two minutes 400 miles from its base and return with a safety reserve, or cruise nearly 2,000 miles on the same amount of fuel.
Lawrence felt calm, confident, and slightly hungry-a predatory hunger. It was the kind of hunger the toughest cat on the block feels. A fight was coming. He could feel it.
The next four days were full but unexciting. Settling in at Khamis Mushayt, arranging for rotation to Nejran and advanced fields, the Tiger Force personnel adjusted to the routine. They were taken with the stark beauty of the Empty Quarter, the
The F-20 pilots met with the crews of two Saudi Air Force E-3A AWACS planes, which would provide airborne warning and control. Ed Lawrence and the other instructors were impressed with the airborne controllers- sharp young men who would monitor Saudi airspace for intrusion from South Yemen and direct F-20s to intercepts if necessary. The two AWACS would stage out of Khamis Mushayt, alternating missions daily.
The two forward fields, southeast of Nejran, were suitable for Tigersharks and F-5s but were not yet adaptable to larger aircraft requiring more support. Most of the pilots were confident of a confrontation with the Yemenis; some earnestly wished for it. Only a few recalled Bennett's warning: 'Be careful what you want. It might come true.'
Based on Lawrence's schedule, a four-plane flight of F-20s patrolled the Saudi-Yemen border once or twice a day at irregular intervals. There was no discernible pattern to the patrols-predictability is a sin to a dedicated warrior. Varying patrol times, patterns, and altitudes, the Tigersharks trolled impatiently, letting the South Yemen radar get a good look at them.
While the airborne flight made its seemingly random passes up and down the border, the second flight sat runway alert at one of the forward fields. Hangars were available, so the pilots and mechanics were spared the worst of the Arabian sun. These four fighters could be airborne in one minute, ready to reinforce the airborne flight in perhaps ten minutes, depending on the scene of contact. The third flight remained at Khamis Mushayt, rotating forward every third day to allow one of the others a rest.
At dusk on the fourth day Lawrence discussed the situation with Major Ali Handrah, one of the prospective squadron commanders. They were relaxing over lemonade in the small building allotted Tiger Force at Khamis Mushayt.
Theirs was a courteous, professional relationship, devoid of warmth. Bennett had warned his exec against any word or action which could be interpreted as overbearing or superior. Unofficially Lawrence outranked Handrah,
