John Bennett knew as well as Aaron Hali how much fuel each Israeli pilot would need to fly from sea level, to reach cruising altitude, to descend upon the Tiger Force airfields, and to return to base with perhaps 1,500 pounds remaining. The mission profile, checked and rechecked by planners and the strike leader, allowed for no more than five minutes to attack and three minutes of hard combat in afterburner. Upon withdrawing, anything which forced them to pause, to turn and fight again, would whittle away their safety margin.
From a hundred hands across the desert came an incessant flashing of sunlight on mirrors. For the Saudi soldiers and nomadic tribesmen recruited into the Tiger Force warning net, this was their sole reason for existence. Many were frightened, a few terrified. The combined noise from so many jet engines bespoke an awesome power bound upon a mission of single-minded violence.
Some of the Saudi radio channels remained usable for a few minutes before they were obliterated by jamming. But enough early calls, plus confirmation from the mirror system, told the defenders what they needed to know. The single key of a radio transmitter issued a micropulse message from the air defense center at Ha'il. The ultra high frequency message contained two words:
Fadeaway. Go.
John Bennett had done everything he could. Now the outcome lay in the lap of the gods and the hands of his fighter pilots.
Ed Lawrence raised his hand from the cockpit and rotated his finger in a circular motion. The other pilots saw his signal and repeated it down the line, starting their engines. The anvil pilots lifted off the runway in two- plane sections, stringing out in trail as the plan took shape. Each flight leader knew his orbit point and altitude-a designated bearing from Black Base spread northwest to southwest.
Simultaneously Geoff Hampton led twenty-one of his F-20s off the single runway near the Kuwait border, headed west. One plane sustained a last-minute hydraulic leak and ground-aborted, leaving the twenty-four-year- old Saudi pilot nearly in tears. They were starting the war without him.
At other fields, other squadrons were working on their prearranged schedules, some delaying their launches, others scrambling to medium altitude and heading south, away from their bases.
This was the impression Tiger Force wished to give the Israelis.
By apparently fading away from the attack, they might entice some of the escorting Israeli fighters deeper into Saudi airspace. Bennett held out little hope for this option, as the
Aaron Hali checked his watch and his map. So far, so good. At designated points his flight leaders would break off right or left to approach their briefed targets. Hali would continue to a point equidistant from most of the Saudi fighter strips en route to Ha'il in order to lend a hand in case of unexpectedly strong opposition. He recalled his parting words with his lifelong friend Solomon Yatanahu, barely an hour before.
'Well, you see the advantage of being a junior colonel. I get to fly the missions while you sit at your desk and run base operations.'
Yatanahu mimicked his friend's breezy attitude. 'Yes, it's the burden of rank. A beautiful little
Hali had looked at the morning sky, craning his neck. 'It's a long way from Kibbutz Deganya, isn't it, Sol?'
'Farther in time than I like to imagine.' Yatanahu paused a moment. 'Aaron, what do you remember best?'
'Ah, the bananas. I never tasted better.'
Kibbutz Deganya, near the Sea of Galilee, had been founded in 1911. It was famous in the region for its wheat and bananas and as the boyhood home of Solomon Yatanahu. There were nearly 300 kibbutzes in Israel, and though they represented only 3 percent of the nation's populace, they typically produced 60 percent of the military officers and over half the political leadership. Yatanahu and Hali both were products of that system.
Finally Yatanahu spoke what was on his mind. 'This is a no-win mission, Solomon. Even if it accomplishes its goal, it won't change the course of the war. We're barely holding onto the West Bank now. I cringe to think what will happen if we lose as many planes and pilots as we might.' The operational analysts had predicted a twenty percent loss rate, assuming everything worked well. Both fliers knew that was unlikely.
Aaron Hali said, 'At least headquarters talked the politicians out of the Mecca strike. My God, over six hundred miles one way just to make a point of no military value. What were they thinking?'
'I have no idea, my friend. That's why you and I are fighter pilots, not politicians.' Yatanahu wanted to say more, but time was running short. Besides, there were some things one just did not say to a comrade at times like these.
The two men had shaken hands, then walked away.
Colonel Hali shook himself from his sentimental musings. He nudged up his twin throttles a percent, forcing himself to concentrate on his flying. With a mild surprise, he realized he was beginning to lose the sharp edge which had characterized his entire professional life.
Hali could not know that Tiger Force and the Royal Saudi Air Force had agreed on the most basic principle of war: concentration. They committed 70 percent of their fighter-interceptors to the campaign in central and northern Arabia, and the combatants now were screeching toward one another at 1.8 times of the speed of sound.
Lieutenant Colonel Mohammad Agadir checked his order of battle one more time, though it was hardly necessary. The thirty-nine-year-old Saudi already knew his battalion's lineup by memory. The thirty tracked missile launchers had been deployed during the night over a ninety-mile front with two other battalions arrayed in depth behind him. His senior NCO had reported that electronic countermeasures were appearing on the mobile radar vehicles' screens, and the operators were switching frequencies on a random basis. As soon as the oncoming Israelis reached optimum range, Agadir would order three-quarters of his launchers to fire. The remaining 25 percent would wait until the attackers were outbound.
Agadir approved of the plan. Though he had never been in combat, he benefitted from exchange tours with missileers in Egypt, Britain, and France. He had hoped for a tour in the United States but that goal had eluded him. A sober professional, Agadir nonetheless relished the good times his counterparts always seemed to enjoy in America. They came back full of stories about the people and places. Some of them still sang cowboy songs their American friends taught them, though Agadir had trouble following the plot line of 'I'm Walkin' the Floor Over You.'
The air defense officer returned his attention to matters at hand.
This plan would ensure that most of his radar-guided missiles, two per launcher, would be employed against high-flying aircraft. The Israelis were taking diverse routes and altitudes, but after the attacks and dogfights many would egress at low level. They would come within range of his passive heat-seeking and electro-optically guided weapons.
Agadir tapped his gloved hands in a rhythmic pattern on the hatch of his command vehicle, recalling another song. He could not remember the lyrics, but the story had something to do with a young cowboy who got in a gunfight with another man over a Mexican girl.
Someplace called El Paso, which apparently was in a vast wasteland. Well, Agadir knew about that sort of place. He remembered many years ago the wisdom of his old grandfather, who had no idea how prophetically he spoke when he repeated the ancient wisdom, 'No man meets a friend in the desert.'
Aaron Hali keyed his mike twice, the signal for his first group to break off toward its targeted airfield. It was unnecessary, as the flight leader already had the time down pat, but Hali never took details for granted. He watched
