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.We've decided to follow up the Arabic challenge with English.If there's no reply after that, expect the worst."Lawrence broke in, a wry smile on his face."Of course, we could try hailing them in Spanish.Word is some Cubans are calling the shots with those folks."Hampton spoke up."John, any more word on how long this may last? We'll need to plan for resupply to the staging fields.""Nothing on that yet.But I imagine if there's one or two good hassles, and they lose a few MiGs or Sukhois, things will settle down.At any rate, plans are being made for F-5s to take over the sector patrols as soon as possible.At visual distances it'll be hard to tell one of them from an F-20."Ottman chortled."Good idea.Make 'em respect us, then terrorize 'em with something that looks like us."''That's about it," Bennett said."You'll have info on your radar controllers before you leave--E-3s staging out of Khamis Mushayt.You can arrange procedures with them when you arrive."One more thing.Be sure to go over loose deuce again with all your pilots.You'll be flying in rotation; an alert flight, a backup flight, and an off-duty flight during daylight hours.With four Saudis per flight, one of them also will be off duty.But you guys will be on the board full-time.So don't take anything for granted.Reinforce the fundamentals.And stress that selection for this job doesn't replace the training syllabus.Even if some of our studs come back with scalps on their belts, they'll still have two months of operational training to finish."Lawrence noted slightly puzzled expressions on one or two faces."It's psychological, guys.We need to keep the Saudis from developing overconfidence.If we give special treatment to a couple of pilots who bag MiGs, it could cause morale problems later on."Masher Malloy interjected."That's fine by me, Skipper.But, uh, what if one of us gets a kill? I don't suppose there's a bonus, is there?"Bennett leveled an earnest gaze at Malloy."My boy, you'll have the satisfaction of knowing you did your duty for the king."Tudmur, SyriaThe 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 9JOHN 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.There's nothing worse than times like these, he thought.Intimate friends want to say things to one another but somehow The Warriors' Code prohibits it.Best fire up and get going.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.Why do I feel so.unsettled? I've seen men off to combat before and I didn't feel this way.Maybe it's the difference between leading men and sending them.My God, I miss them already.It's going to be a long wait.** ** **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 [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]