Israeli agents in Los Angeles had photographed the passengers with 300-millimeter lenses. One they knew as an agent of the Saudi military establishment who had visited several Southern California defense contractors over the past two years. Two were middle-level diplomats. There was a four-person party comprised of two college-age princes of the royal family and their European girlfriends. And another man was an American perhaps six feet tall, approximately fifty years old, whom the operatives noted had carried himself with military bearing. The field representatives could not identify him yet, but they suggested following him upon his return. The apparent extravagance of flying eight people in a jumbo jet was not commented upon-the Saudis seemed to enjoy such displays from time to time.
Since the American desk of Israeli Intelligence had thought the flight worthy of note, it had passed the data to the Israelis' Saudi desk of army intelligence. The two offices agreed on a coordinated surveillance and now Bar-El had to arrange for technical assistance from his chief.
Israeli early-warning aircraft would attempt to relay information when the 747 was en route to the United States. American satellite tracking equipment would intercept communications between the Boeing and ground controllers as it transited half the world's surface. Bar-El's other responsibility was to notify the operatives in Riyadh that Safad Fatah's guest would be leaving within the next day or so, and the departure time should be relayed immediately.
With his field cap tucked under one epaulet, Bar-El checked his watch in the hallway. His chief was a stickler for punctuality and the morning briefing was thirty seconds away. Bar-El counted down the seconds, then punched the access code on the key pad and waited for the light. When it came on, he turned the knob and walked in with six seconds to spare.
The huge jetliner cruised easily at 37,000 feet, leaving the Middle Eastern landmass twenty-five miles south of Beirut. Its westerly heading took it along Oceanic Route G2 parallel to the Cyprus coast.
The sun shone brightly off the blue water, and Bennett looked out the left side at the green outline of Israel. When you flew in this part of the world Israel looked like a child's geography book. It was green at the edges, but mostly brown in the middle. However, he knew that the coastal area was not the only productive region. The Israelis really had made the desert bloom.
Such an industrious, productive people, the Israelis. Bennett did not know any Israelis well, and nearly all his contacts had been military, He found their aviators of a uniformly high professional standard, though frequently hard-headed, even arrogant. But you had to hand it to them. They started from zero and built not just a world-class air force but that rarest of commodities in the Middle East-a lasting democracy. Bennett knew that no war had ever been fought between democracies. That had to be the way to peace, if ever it came.
Then Bennett's practiced eyes picked up the small dots at the 747's eight o'clock position. He did not know it, but the Boeing had reached the mandatory reporting point called Velox, seventy nautical miles out of Beirut where Route B17 crossed Route G2. Bennett did know that he was in international airspace. As the dots closed the range he recognized them as F-15s, and the blue Star of David on the white disk plainly stood out. He wondered if they were running practice intercepts.
Fascinated, Bennett watched the lead Eagle extend its massive speed brake and ease into position. The wingman remained back about a half-mile in echelon. The Israeli leader stabilized himself low and behind the port wing, settling about a hundred yards out. Bennett had the eerie sensation that the pilot's eyes were fixed on him.
The leader read the Saudi Air's registration letters and relayed the data to his ground controller. This confirmed the identity of the aircraft which intelligence wanted. The helmeted figure in the twin-tailed fighter raised his right hand in salute, made a sharp left turn, and resumed the lead. Simultaneously the two gray fighters lit their afterburners and pulled into a sixty-degree climb, doing a matched set of aileron rolls. They were stylish fliers.
The next morning Levi Bar-El entered the access code into the pad and again waited for the light. The door opened and an enlisted dispatcher handed him a two-inch-thick pile of messages from the previous night. The young officer found the one he was looking for near the bottom. It was from the Israeli Embassy in Washington, providing details of the San Diego arrival of the Saudi airliner.
Field operatives had followed the hired limousine from Lindbergh Field north to the community of La Jolla. In front of a small apartment building on La Jolla Village Drive they noted a name-plate: J. L. BENNETT. Nothing was known about him yet.
Two hours later another dispatch reached the intelligence collection center. It identified John L. Bennett as a retired naval aviator. Less than forty-eight hours after that came a complete background report from Washington. The man had made at least two recent visits to the Northrop Aircraft plant in Los Angeles.
John Bennett was put under discreet surveillance.
Then Levi Bar-El turned to his stack of other unfinished business. Most of it had to do with events in Jordan.
Major David Ran led his four delta-winged Kfirs along the Al Ghadat Highway, keeping three to four miles north of the paved road. Antiaircraft gunners and missileers loved pilots who flew down roads, establishing an easy tracking solution for surface-to-air weapons. As a tactics development officer, Ran was well aware of the danger and thus kept away from the straight-line route.
Not that there was much genuine concern. Ran's flight was out to test a new cluster bomb on reported vehicles nearby, but the targets had fled. The various Arab forces inside Jordan seemed to have drifted away in the past week or so; Ran had only been fired upon twice in that time. He noted with satisfaction that the Israeli occupation of the country was nearly complete, so his recent combat data could be analyzed. Much had changed since David Ran flew Skyhawks in his first war. Now he was in line for a squadron of his own, and that very thought thrilled him more than the barren landscape rushing beneath him at 365 knots.
Chapter 3
John Bennett sat alone at the Tailhook restaurant. Located off Harbor Drive, it provided a view of North Island Naval Air Station, where two aircraft carriers were moored. He knew one was the Constellation, number 64. She would deploy to the Pacific in a few more weeks. The other ship was less distinct. Bennett squinted and thought he made out the white numeral 61 on the massive shape. Ranger, he thought. That's right. Pete Clanton had been busier than a one-armed paper-hanger getting her back in commission. The short, balding engineering officer was an over-worked commander who collected Oldsmobile’s. John recalled that Clanton had about three dozen scattered between Norfolk and San Diego.
Bennett had just set down his vodka and tonic when he was startled by two hands on his shoulders and a high-pitched, loud voice in his ear: "Check six, Pirate!"
Bennett turned to see a set of brilliant white teeth and an unruly thatch of red hair. The face was slightly pockmarked-the kind of skin which does not tan, but easily sunburns. Pirate, he thought. His old callsign, the nom de guerre which all tactical aviators use.
"Ed Lawrence, as I live and breathe. They still let you out without a leash?"
"How you doing, John?" They shook hands, warmly regarding one another. They lived within fifty miles of each other but seldom met more than two or three times a year.