but the American also was a foreigner in the pay of the king of Arabia.
'Major Handrah, I've been thinking about our patrol patterns. What would you think if we fly farther inland for a couple of days? Give the appearance that we're not as concerned anymore. It might help defuse the situation if we show the Yemenis that we're working into a routine attitude, with more or less predictable schedules.' But his words belied his intent.
The Saudi set down his lemonade. Lawrence knew the officer's orders were to observe more than command. He also knew Handrah was expected to establish a sense of discipline in his young pilots; if Riyadh wanted a show- the-flag mission, the youngsters' high spirits should not lead elsewhere. If the intrusions could be ended without a fight, so much the better.
Handrah said, 'Yes, Colonel Lawrence, I agree. Your suggestion is in keeping with our orders. Perhaps. the Yemenis will realize we intend to keep patrols in this area. There have been no more intrusions since we arrived.'
Lawrence's plan went into effect the next day. In conferring with the airborne controllers from his staging base, he learned that MiGs out of Shibam had caught the new pattern. For the next two days they flew much closer to the border-wherever it was-thus taking up the slack to maintain closer contact with the F-20s.
Then, on the eighth night, YAR guerrillas struck an army compound twenty miles inside PDRY territory. Tiger Force immediately got word from Saudi intelligence, and Lawrence laid plans accordingly.
The South Yemenis reacted the next morning. But the MiGs and Sukhois avoided Saudi airspace, crossing directly into YAR territory to bomb and strafe two guerrilla compounds. Ed Lawrence bristled with anticipation, trolling as close to both borders as he dared during the raid. His Saudi student leading the flight played it straight, and returned to the advance base upon reaching 'bingo' fuel state.
'I'll be a sad sack.' The redhead tossed his helmet down to the crew chief and slowly unhooked. 'We could see some contrails but that was all.' He viciously unsnapped the koch fittings of his torso harness. 'Shee-it.'
Lawrence arranged for the third flight to join him while Tim Ottman's four planes, plus one spare, took the next patrol. The IPs agreed that they should have full strength available now that things might be heating up. There was still a good chance Lawrence's 'restrained' patrol pattern might entice some MiGs over the border.
At the advanced field an ordnanceman stood beside Lieutenant Rajid Hamir's wingtip, flashlight in hand. It was the ninth day of the operation; something would have to happen soon or the operation would be called off. When the F-20s started engines the young Saudi airman watched for a thumbs-up from the pilot, indicating the Sidewinder missile on each wing was activated. The armorer then shined the flashlight on the AIM-9's seeker head, visible behind the thick glass in the nose. By moving the light laterally and vertically, the 'ordie' saw whether the thermoelectrically cooled homing system was functioning normally. Such was the sensitivity of the infrared seeker that its eye followed the heat of a mere flashlight.
Developed by the U.S. Navy in the 1950s, the Sidewinder was simplicity itself. It mated the then-new seeker and warhead to an existing rocket motor, and the original models cost $800 apiece. The current versions, with a front-attack capability, ran over $100,000 but they were deadly effective. British Sea Harrier pilots in the Falklands War scored an 80 percent kill rate with their AIM-9Ls.
Rajid Hamir led his wingman off the runway moments after Lawrence had landed. The second section, led by Tim Ottman, was only seconds behind, followed by a spare. Keeping low, Rajid checked the position of the other three aircraft and keyed his microphone button.
In rapid order came the responses: one, two, three clicks. All four pilots had checked in; their radios were functioning. There was mild jockeying as each F-20 took turns flying a mile behind its partner, double-checking the tracking tone of its missiles. Satisfied that each aircraft was fully operational, Rajid detached the spare with a waggle of his wings and set course east-northeast at reduced throttle. In one-mile spread the two sections adopted loose deuce and waited. No one had spoken a word since takeoff.
Captain Julio Martin Cordoba led his four Sukhoi 22Ms outbound from a wadi in the Yemen desert. He had made a surprise follow-up attack on one of the guerrilla bases across the border from South Yemen. The Cuban pilot had shrewdly figured that the YAR 'terrorists,' accustomed to one bombing at a time, would not expect a second attack moments after the first. And he had been right. The guerrilla camp had just begun to stir, with enough of the smoke and dust settled to allow good visibility from above, when Cordoba's flight arrived.
It had been a well-executed attack. The Su-22s-NATO callsign 'Fitter'-had struck from north and south, almost simultaneously. Glancing down, Cordoba doubted that many of the terrorists had survived this time. He was not new to the game. He had flown in Angola years before.
Leading his reassembled formation northeasterly, Cordoba had plotted a return course which described an arc tangent to the claimed Saudi border. Thus, he avoided a reported YAR antiaircraft missile battery which had fired on MiG-23 reconnaissance flights recently. He knew from radar reports over the past week that Saudi fighters had never crossed into Yemeni airspace. Besides, MiG-21s would be airborne to screen his flight during his return along the border.
Ninety miles away, a Saudi captain peered intently at his radar scope in the airborne AWACS. One of his companions monitored the South Yemeni fighter-direction frequency, noting that radio discipline was typically poor for Soviet-trained air forces. With a highly-structured command-control system, the MiGs relied on instructions from ground controllers for almost every phase of flight, down to dropping external tanks and arming missiles.
The Saudi captain placed his cursor on the MiG blips, providing an electronic memory for consultation anytime later. He already had a good idea of the direction and speed of both Yemeni formations.
The geometry was coming together. From its God's-eye view the E-3 radar plane scanned the three groups of aircraft crowding the Sandi-Yemen border area. The Sukhois were headed to a point very near the boundary- perhaps upon it-and the MiGs were converging toward that point from the east-southeast.
The four F-20s, on direction from the airborne controller, turned hard right. Rajid and Tim Ottman took their wingmen in startling climbs, splitting to a five-mile separation between sections. Rajid heard the controller call, 'Bogeys on your nose, twenty-eight miles at sixteen thousand.' Rajid gave his mike button a quick click to acknowledge.
he Yemeni officer shouted over his shoulder into the darkened hut. 'Comrade Colonel Sorokin! Look at this!'
Colonel Kirill Sorokin was a forty-eight-year-old air defense specialist assigned, — semi-permanently, he ruefully thought sometimes-to the People's Democratic Republic of Yemen. He had performed similar duties all over the world, and surely the pest hole he now occupied belonged right at the bottom of the list. Hotter than Hades, thousands of kilometers from anywhere with precious little comfort, there was not even much liquor to ease the burden. 'Serves you right for being so good at your work,' his superior had said. Some system, which rewards competence with misery, Sorokin thought.
Flinging aside the blackout curtains separating his small office from the control room, the Russian took in the esoteric data contained on the radar scope in just a few seconds.
'Damn it to hell!' he shouted.
The controller visibly flinched. He was well acquainted with the colonel's temper.
To Sorokin it looked as if the Saudis intended to cut off the Sukhois at the border. He yanked the headset off the controller and pressed it to his ear. He did not know the tactical callsign of the MiGs, and there was no time for formality. 'MiG flight! Heads up! Interceptors closing on you from the north. Select afterburner and arm your missiles.'
Sorokin had played this game many years before, in the air defense center in downtown Hanoi. Seeing a developing opportunity, he relied on the Cuban, Cordoba.
The Russian ordered the lead pair of Sukhois to come hard left, dashing into Saudi airspace. The lead section had Atoll air-to-air missiles while the other Su-22s had been armed solely with bombs and rocket pods. Cordoba would have expended his ordnance and should be down to fighting weight on fuel. The MiGs were to hook right, enveloping the Saudis in a two-pronged aerial pincer. Though it was a hasty decision, it could work if timed properly.
