Warriors by Barrett Tillman (11 page)

       "But," Geller continued, pointing his pencil at the lieutenant, "I think you are getting warm. The Saudis may fear we would eliminate Bennett and Edwards. Therefore, they became overly anxious and moved the men too quickly." He nibbled the eraser again. "Whatever they're up to, we'll know of it soon enough. Keep me informed, Levi. Thank you."

Los Angeles

      
The morning after eluding the Israeli team in San Diego, the two aviators entered an apartment on Beverly Glen Boulevard.
Damned amazing,
thought Bennett. He'd never been in Beverly Hills before. "The Saudis thought of everything," he said as he and Lawrence inspected the furnished apartment.

       Lawrence opened a cardboard box on the dining room table and emitted a low whistle. "I'll say they thought of everything. Check this out." He held up fifty crisp new hundred-dollar bills. "Let's go to Vegas and let this ride one time. Get in practice for Tailhook. "

       The annual Tailhook reunion at the Las Vegas Hilton was a landmark event in naval aviation. Only now living down its riotous early reputation, the symposium had become more professional. But still it was great fun.

       Bennett .laughed. "Hey, do you remember Tailhook '74 when Hoser McAllister disappeared Friday night? They didn't miss him till Saturday afternoon. Found him laid out in a closet, dead to the world with one bare foot and a toe tag. Even had his arms folded across his chest-with that lily in his hands."

       The men found clothes in the bedroom, each bathroom stocked with toilet articles, and the refrigerator crammed with enough food for two weeks. There was even a rowing machine in one bedroom. Lawrence noticed the coffeemaker and began brewing a pot. "You notice, the Moslems didn't leave you any booze. By the way, when we get wherever the hell we're going, will the guys be able to drink or will they have to go cold turkey for a couple years?"

       "We'll be based in Bahrain, which is pretty lax by Muslim standards. Actually, I think there's two reasons for that. One, it keeps us Yankee air pirates out of Arabia most of the time, and two, we'll be positioned to intercept hostiles from Iran if need be. But in Arabia the guys better get used to the 40-weight oil that passes for coffee. "

       The redhead flashed a white grin. "I always knew clean living would be its own reward. I'll be the only instructor who's not having DTs after a couple months."

       Bennett said, "Like I always told you, I never trust a fighter pilot who doesn't drink. Actually, we'll have our own compound. I checked with Fatah, and Bahrain is a lot looser situation than Arabia. Our guys can hoot with the owls, and there's European women employed in Bahrain as nurses, dental technicians and the like." Bennett held up a warning finger. "But in Arabia, where we'll be spending a lot of time, it's the straight and narrow for all hands."

       "You think that'll scare off many guys?"

       "Some, I suppose. We'll just lay down the law. The rule is, anybody who takes one drink too many in Bahrain or who gets out of line in any way in Arabia gets a one-time warning. Especially if any of our students are around. A second time gets the offender a one-way ticket home."

       "Fine by me. One thing I don't understand, though. I don't have my passport. How do I get out of Uncle Sugar and into the land of oil wells and camels?"

       "Fatah said on the phone that this unexpected change of plans would require some innovation. I don't have mine, either. He's supposed to call in a couple days to fill us in. Meanwhile, we sit tight. We can use the time to lay some groundwork."

       The next forty-eight hours passed more quickly than either man had expected. The more Bennett studied the situation, the more he was convinced the answer was men more than airplanes. Late the second evening he tossed his pen down and rubbed his eyes. A stack of papers testified to the work they had accomplished.

       "You know, Ed, I've been thinking of the
Ticonderoga
cruise when we lost five pilots in the first two line periods. You remember? We got replacement aircraft but no new sports until we got back."

       Munching a sandwich, Lawrence said, "That was before my first tour, but I sure heard about it."

       "Oh, that's right," Bennett said. "God, it all runs together sometimes. But the point still applies. Like the RAF in the Battle of Britain. Their problem wasn't so much Spitfires and Hurricanes. It was experienced pilots. Every civilian who got killed in London meant a load of bombs that should have been dropped on airfields. The Germans had the RAF on the ropes and switched from attacking airfields to cities."

       Lawrence bit into his sandwich again, wondering where this led. "Well, my point is," Bennett continued, "that nothing's changed today. Even with limited numbers of high-priced birds, it's a lot easier to produce a fighter plane than a proficient fighter pilot. It takes, what? Eight to ten months to roll out an airplane from the factory? It takes about five years to put a combat-ready pilot in that bird's cockpit.

       "This is where we come in, why the Saudis really want us. They know they can buy airplanes almost anywhere. But producing world-class pilots is a much bigger job."

       The phone rang then, the first time since they had entered the apartment. Lawrence picked' up the receiver. "Hello."

       "This is Safad Fatah."

       "Oh, sure. Hi. This is Ed Lawrence."

       "Ah, Mr. Lawrence, just the man I need to talk to. Do you still have your house key with you?"

       "Yes. In my pocket."

       "Splendid. Please leave it in the mailbox. And tell me where we may find your passport. It will be delivered today."

       Bennett heard Lawrence describe the desk drawer containing his papers. Lawrence also asked why it had not been obtained before.

       "Dear sir," said Fatah in a diplomatic tone, "if we had done that, it would have given our other friends time to trace you."

       The redhead felt like a student asking what day it was at graduation. "Mr. Fatah, I need to make arrangements with my airline and the Naval Reserve. What's the situation?"

       The response was immediate. "We have sent letters over your signature to all parties concerned. We shall handle any follow-up details for you on this end."

       Lawrence was impressed. Like Bennett, he appreciated professionalism wherever he encountered it.

       "Oh, one more thing. What about my Porsche? We left it at the second restaurant."

       "Mr. Lawrence, we shall buy you another Porsche if needed. I will not stay on the line any longer. Tell Commander Bennett that you will be contacted before much longer, and I extend my regards. "

       The line went dead.

       Lawrence left his house key in the apartment's mailbox that night. At 0800 there was a knock on the door. Bennett opened it, drowsily rubbing his eyes, and looked around. Seeing no one, he glanced down. There was a paper sack with Lawrence's passport and his own.
Funny, I didn't ask them about mine.
He paged through it.
They don't have a key to my place, or the code to my alarm system,
he thought. Then it occurred to him. This was not his original. It was completely authentic, using an official form.
But how did they get the photograph and the signature?

      
Then he remembered. His photo had been taken shortly after arrival in Riyadh, and he had signed a letter of intent. Bennett smiled in appreciation.
These people are real pros,
he thought.
They didn't have time to duplicate Ed's passport, but they had mine ready to go, complete with forged signature. If the Israelis search my place they'll find my passport and figure I'm still in the country. Slick.

      
Bennett knocked on Lawrence's door. "Flight quarters, Commander. I think we'll be gear-up in a little while."

Washington D. C. the White House

      
President Walter Arnold was upset. In office barely four months and already his press secretary and two cabinet members told him the administration showed declining confidence ratings in the polls, especially where foreign policy was concerned. Secretary of Transportation Pamela Cousins had heard party pros who were comparing Arnold with Jimmy Carter-unfavorably. It was a hell of an attitude for a formal cabinet meeting.

       "Well, damn it," Arnold said, "what the hell am I supposed to do? Everybody in the Middle East wants us to do something different. It's a no-win situation all around. You people have told me that one of the best ways to dent the trade deficit is to sell weapons abroad. You've also told me that if we sell to the Arabs, the Israeli lobby will scream its head off and there'll be editorials all over the country. "

       Secretary of Transportation Cousins thought,
Welcome to the real world, Mr. President.
There were those in the administration who said, only half-jokingly, that the five-foot-three blond was a better man than Walter Arnold.

       "Mr. President, that brings us to the last item." It was Secretary of State Thurmon Wilson, a scholarly, balding political ally from Arnold's native Connecticut. "You are aware that last week the Israelis noted that several dozen American citizens, all believed to be ex-military pilots or mechanics, have traveled to Europe and Saudi Arabia. This seems related to sudden Saudi interest in a fighter aircraft called the F-20. "

       The president said, "Yes, I saw the memo. Do you think it's cause for alarm?"

       "No, not yet." The New England accent cut through the heavy mood in the room. "But we'll have to make a decision pretty fast, the way they're pushing. They seem really interested in this plane. I'm sure Ben has details."

       Benjamin Wake was Secretary of Defense. A self-made millionaire from a Florida electronics firm, he prided himself on keeping data under his white crewcut only slightly less efficiently than the computers his firm made. "Yes, I'm acquainted with the F-20. And frankly, this seems an answer to a prayer. It's called the Tigershark, designed by Northrop in Los Angeles, and it's a relatively unsophisticated piece of hardware. It's a single-seat, single-engine air superiority fighter based on Northrop's old F-5 Tiger. If we decided to sell the Saudis another airplane, that's the one. The Israelis can't holler too loudly because it's no match for what they're flying."

       Arnold pursed his lips. "Then why would the Saudis want it? They already have some of our most advanced equipment."

       "Yes, sir, that's right. But remember, they and most other countries which have bought the F-20 don't have the ability to maintain high-tech weapons without extensive support. I have a list of nations that currently fly the Tigershark: Malaysia, South Korea, Chile, the Sudan, and Morocco. Taiwan is almost certain to buy it, since Mainland China is off our backs now that F-20s are manufactured under license. A European consortium now builds the airplane, mainly for export."

       Wake sensed that the president was becoming sympathetic to his viewpoint. "Now, sir, you may remember during the Reagan Administration there was quite a flap about making exceptions to Third World nations. Most of them wanted our frontline equipment -F-15s and F-16s. Because we didn't buy the F-20 ourselves, others perceived it as inferior. Now that's changed, mainly because of economic factors. A Tigershark costs under half of what some other fighters run."

       "Hmmm. What does State make of this, regarding the Israelis?"

       Secretary of Defense Ben Wake interrupted. "Excuse me. But we know that the Saudis want simpler aircraft to supplement their F-15s and British Tornadoes." Wake glanced around the table. "You all remember how the Saudis bought billions of dollars of British aircraft when we wouldn't sell them more Eagles. No telling how many thousands of U. S. jobs that cost. Well, I think this is an excellent opportunity for us, Mr. President. The F-20 is far easier to maintain and to train pilots for than one with sophisticated electronics. Also, the Saudis are ordering Tigersharks without radar-guided Sparrow missiles. The Israelis can't complain too much."

       "Why not? Isn't this F-20 still a potential threat to them?"

       "Well, theoretically, yes. But with limited armament of guns and two heat-seeking missiles, the F-20 would be similar to the F-16, which we and the Israelis already fly." Wake pressed his point. "Remember, Jordan wanted F-16s and we refused so they bought Fulcrums from the Soviets. We've only been hurting ourselves by acceding to the Israeli lobby in Congress all these years." There, it was out in the open.

       The president shifted his gaze to the Secretary of State. "Thurmon, what do you make of all this?"

       "State has no serious objections, sir. In fact, I'm in favor of selling the Saudis or anybody else whatever they want to buy, within broad limits. Aside from economic reasons, it makes good political sense. The Saudis are the key to the whole region if we're going to maintain any kind of balance there. Especially now that Israel occupies Jordan. If we can keep the Saudis happy by selling some second-line airplanes, by all means do so. Anything we can do to maintain our presence and influence should be encouraged, especially with the growing Iranian fundamentalist movement."

       Walter Arnold lightly tapped his fingers on the table, his mind already made up. "Very well. We'll approve the F-20 sale and put up no obstacles if the Saudis want to hire some former military pilots as instructors. But let's try to keep this as low profile as possible." He looked around the table. "This meeting is adjourned."

Tel Aviv

      
Levi Bar-El braced himself for another grilling from Colonel Chaim Geller.
The man torments me,
thought the young lieutenant,
because he has no other diversion.
In truth, Bar-El recognized that the section chief was pushing a protege's limits, forcing him to become more competent, less dogmatic in his thinking. Dealing with the recent Jordanian crisis saw to that. And right now Bar-El was ready for more "therapy."