"Ah, roger, Three."
Ottman rolled over and took up the heading. His wingman moved out abeam, expertly anticipating his move. With a visual on the Sukhois at six miles, the two F-20s began working for position.
The Su-22M is a large single-seat fighter-bomber, as big as a Phantom. Though it has variable-geometry wings, it cannot turn or accelerate with lighter aircraft but it has powerful armament and Mach 2 speed. Julio Martin Cordoba led his Yemeni wingman to engage the Saudis with air-to-air missiles and, if necessary, the seventy rounds in each of their 30mm cannon. Granted position for a gunnery pass, the Sukhois might have done some harm. But against alerted, aggressive Tigersharks the Fitters stood little chance.
Colonel Sorokin sized up the tactical situation displayed in blue-green light on the scope before him. He was not aware of the term, even though he understood some aviation English, but he called for a bugout. "Cordoba! Hostiles ahead and above you. Get out of there, now!"
The Cuban already recognized the setup as a no-win situation.
He called for a disengagement, executing a crossover turn the moment he saw the F-20s zoom-climb for the perch.
Before the Sukhois completed their reversal, Ottman and his wingman were on the way down, cutting the corner and closing in on the big fighter-bombers. He could see the yellow-white glow of the afterburner on the right-hand Fitter, momentarily wondering if the turn was offensive or defensive. He briefly thought of the ROE, then decided the Yemenis were staying to fight.
When the Northrops rolled out they were best positioned against the right-hand Sukhoi. Its partner had made a less radical turn, bleeding off less airspeed, and thus gained better separation from the threatening F-20s. Ottman settled into an easy bank, almost on G, at one and one-half miles. "Four, do you have a tone?" Ottman wanted to give the Saudi the shot if possible.
He heard the carrier wave, then a slight pause. "Negative, Three." The disappointment was audible in the boy's voice.
That was what Ottman actually had hoped for. He heard the death rattle chirping in his earphones, knew his starboard missile was tracking the right-hand bogey, and depressed his mike button. "Snake!"
Accelerating through Mach.88 at 1,200 feet, the big Sukhoi had no hope of evading the missile. Ottman's 'winder detonated close to the tail as the active laser proximity fuse induced a slightly premature explosion.
The astute young captain in the E-3 followed the headlong chase southward. The F-20 answering as Orange Three was too close to the demarcation line; he should be warned. "Three, this is Sentinel. Recommend you break off."
Ottman was in no mood for unsolicited advice. His easygoing demeanor on the ground was ruthlessly shoved aside as his professional fangs came out and his armament system sequenced to the port rail. With a discernible overtake on the Sukhoi, he regained missile tone and fired again.
The Sidewinder took the tail off the Su-22, which rolled violently before searing a long, greasy smear on the shale floor. Ottman had a glimpse of the enemy pilot's seat ejecting from the doomed aircraft as it rolled inverted.
Orange Three and Four pulled up, cleared one another, and called the Sentinel. "No bogeys remaining this side of the border," came the E-3's reply. "RTB."
Ottman acknowledged. "Returning to base." Then, "Orange Lead, do you copy?"
Rajid's voice came through. "Roger, copy. We're five miles in trail." A slight pause. "Orange Two has a 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.