kill.'
Ottman's adrenaline surged. He pulled into a near-vertical climb to cruise altitude, rolling gleefully all the way. He had not known it was possible to feel so good.
A small crowd was gathered at the staging base as Orange Flight taxied in. Spectators noted empty missile rails on two of the fighters, with gunpowder streaks on a third. There were cheers, grins, and thumbs-up all around. Mechs and pilots hauled Rajid Hamir from his cockpit and bore him upon their shoulders, chanting, 'Rajid, Rajid!' The young man smiled his shy smile and grabbed extended hands on either side.
Five minutes passed before Lawrence restored order. Masher Malloy's flight was due back, and the reserve flight had been brought to ready alert. Lawrence got to Rajid just as Tim Ottman broke through the crowd.
The big New Yorker was exultant, and not only for his own success. He stalked up to Rajid and pounded the youngster on the shoulders with unintended force. Then Khalil was dragged into the circle, grinning after his gun kill. Ottman locked both Saudis in his beefy arms, squeezing their necks painfully.
'I'm so goddam proud of these guys I don't know what to say. Ed, you shoulda seen it. We took on six bandits and bagged three!'
Lawrence could tell Ottman's blue eyes were misting over.
After the debrief, Lawrence picked up the phone. He called the communications office at Khamis Mushayt and sent a message for Bennett:
First blood for Tiger Force. Splashed two Blue Bandits and one Fitter. All tigers home. Details to follow. Love and kisses, Devil.
Less than an hour later came the reply, radioed 10 by the teletype operator:
Sura 8: 17. Pirate.
There was a scramble to find a copy of the Koran. One of the Saudi mechanics produced a volume and translated. Amid a crowd of onlookers he flipped to the Chapter of the Spoils and read, 'Ye did not slay them, but it was God who slew them; nor didst thou shoot when thou didst shoot, but God did shoot, to try the believers from Himself with a goodly trial; verily, God both hears and knows. There, verily, God weakens the stratagem of the misbelievers.'
Masher Malloy was dead.
Lawrence called Bennett the morning after the engagement with the news. As often happened, there was not much information. Bennett knew from the tone of Lawrence's voice that the redhead was upset, but the exec maintained his composure. He had been through this before.
'All we know for sure is that he augured in from over twenty grand,' Lawrence explained. 'We'd had hydraulic troubles with one bird, and since Masher's flight was on rotation, he decided to test-fly it. Besides, you know how he liked solo aerobatics.'
'Sounds like oxygen trouble.'
'I don't know how else to call it, John. He made no transmissions after checking the airplane and systems. The E-3 had him the whole flight. There's been no other excitement along the border so they had no trouble tracking him.'
Bennett well knew the pattern. Nobody could say how many times aircraft on a routine flight failed to return because of some small malfunction, a tiny oversight which grew to tragic proportions in moments. Most flights in tactical aircraft require 100 percent oxygen above 18,000 feet-the level at which the atmosphere is half as dense as at sea level. Apparently Malloy had succumbed to oxygen starvation.
'Okay, wrap it up down there as fast as you can, Ed. Is your relief still on schedule?'
'Affirmative. We're due back day after tomorrow.'
Bennett realized with a pang that Masher had never mentioned any relatives. He leaned back in his chair, hands over his eyes. A soft whisper escaped his lips. 'Damn.'
Secretary of Defense Benjamin Wake was in his office by 0700, reading message traffic from the night before. His early arrival was typical of the man, for his tireless energy and astute business sense had made him a computer millionaire early in life. 'You don't get rich without getting up,' he liked to say.
Scanning the summaries on his desk, Wake stopped abruptly and reread one report from the U.S. air attache in Riyadh. The originating office told him that State also must have the information. That meant he'd be hearing from Thurmon Wilson again. The Secretary of Defense pressed a buzzer on his desk console and seconds later Major Emory Kim, USAF, stepped into the luxurious office.
Wake waved the Riyadh report aloft before Kim could speak.
'Major, what else do you have on this Arabian episode?' Kim was responsible for tracking such messages, and he cordially hated the job. He yearned for his comfortable old B-52 back.at Fairchild.
'Nothing yet, Mr. Secretary. I knew you'd want more data so I've requested amplification. Apparently the combat occurred day before yesterday, so we should know more by noon.'
Wake leaned back in his overstuffed chair. 'What do you think, son? This is hearsay evidence, with no confirmation on U.S. personnel directly involved. Doesn't even mention the source of the report.' Wake flipped the paper aside.
'Well, sir, it might be embassy gossip. Or it might be a Saudi officer bragging about their F-20s. You know fighter pilots.'
Wake smiled in appreciation of the sentiment. 'And I know the president. He'll want details ASAP. Keep on it, Major.'
Secretary of Defense Benjamin Wake was in his office by 0700, reading message traffic from the night before. His early arrival was typical of the man, for his tireless energy and astute business sense had made him a computer millionaire early in life. 'You don't get rich without getting up,' he liked to say.
Scanning the summaries on his desk, Wake stopped abruptly and reread one report from the U.S. air attache in Riyadh. The originating office told him that State also must have the information. That meant he'd be hearing from Thurmon Wilson again. The Secretary of Defense pressed a buzzer on his desk console and seconds later Major Emory Kim, USAF, stepped into the luxurious office.
Wake waved the Riyadh report aloft before Kim could speak.
'Major, what else do you have on this Arabian episode?' Kim was responsible for tracking such messages, and he cordially hated the job. He yearned for his comfortable old B-S2 back.at Fairchild.
'Nothing yet, Mr. Secretary. I knew you'd want more data so I've requested amplification. Apparently the combat occurred day before yesterday, so we should know more by noon.'
Wake leaned back in his overstuffed chair. 'What do you think, son? This is hearsay evidence, with no confirmation on U.S. personnel directly involved. Doesn't even mention the source of the report.' Wake flipped the paper aside.
'Well, sir, it might be embassy gossip. Or it might be a Saudi officer bragging about their F -20s. You know fighter pilots.'
Wake smiled in appreciation of the sentiment. 'And I know the president. He'll want details ASAP. Keep on it, Major.'
Three days later Claudia arrived on a courier plane for the memorial service Saturday morning. Friday is the Muslim sabbath and not all the Saudis could have attended then. She would return to Riyadh on Sunday evening.
Claudia was surprised to find she seemed to take Malloy's death harder than his friends did. She had expected the pilots to be more subdued, if not actually depressed. But upon entering the IPs' club she found an almost exuberant atmosphere. She began to understand that these were men accustomed to sudden death among comrades. Bennett escorted her to a seat and ordered her a drink.
Lawrence came in just then, wearing his flight suit. Spotting Claudia, he walked over to her. He leaned down to hug her and she squeezed his neck.
'Oh, Ed, I'm so sorry.'
'I know, hon. I know.' He sat down.
