"Good afternoon, Lieutenant," Geller said, glancing at the Saudi's rank insignia. "I trust you're feeling better. What is your name and unit?" English would be their common language.
The Saudi sat upright. "I am Lieutenant Menas Abd Halif, Royal Saudi Air Defense Force."
"Yes, Lieutenant, I know your air force. But what is your squadron?"
"I am not obliged to tell you, sir. Our nations are at war and I am a member of the Saudi armed forces which have lawfully declared war against Israel."
"Come now, Lieutenant Halif. You needn't be coy with us. We know you are an F-20 pilot with the so-called Tiger Force. We know about your leaders, Colonel Bennett and Lieutenant Colonel Lawrence. We know you trained at Bahrain. We're merely filling in the necessary forms." He waved a sheaf of blank papers in the air. It had worked several times before, but this was a new war against a new enemy.
The Saudi pilot made no reply, so Geller pressed on. "We also know that your squadron leader, Captain Menaf, led your flight northward to pursue some of our aircraft, and was trapped by our withdrawal force of fighters."
The lieutenant's face revealed surprise. Then the curtain descended, expressionless. They've intercepted our radio calls, Halif thought. Just as Colonel Lawrence warned.
The Saudi looked up at Geller. "What I do not know, sir, is who you are. What is your authority?"
Geller was momentarily surprised. For the first time in his life, the intelligence officer looked into the face of an enemy and saw reflected there an equal.
The combined staffs from each Israeli base which launched planes on the Saudi strike prepared a joint mission summary that night. Working late, the eight planners and intelligence officers finally had completed their work. They were tired, anxious, and some were discouraged.
Major Zev Lapido from Balhama snapped his notebook shut with a crisp movement. "We have to give them credit. The Saudis set this up extremely well. The only fault I see here is the F-20 flight which chased some of our planes north to the border."
Lieutenant Colonel Shimon Weiler, a former Mirage pilot, pounded his fist on the table. "Damn it! Anybody could see this coming. We were suckered, to use the American phrase. And what did we accomplish? We moved some sand dunes, that's about all. In exchange for over forty planes and at least three helicopters. Not to mention the boys out there… "
The colonel directing the debrief, Reuven Yeier, wanted to regain control. "Gentlemen, please. Let's remember we were ordered on this mission." He looked around the room. "We can take this as a lesson learned and avoid similar mistakes in the future."
"Damn it, Reuven, that's no good."· Weiler snapped at his superior, uncaring for the breach of decorum. "The point is, this never should have happened. We were led down the path. The Saudis knew the government would order retaliation for their raids on Jerusalem and the Knesset. Next, we were drawn over the mobile SAMs, then the Sparrow volley, and the F-20s jumped our boys while most of them were still dodging missiles. Finally the Jordanian F-5s cut them off." He picked up a sheaf of pilot reports. "Look at these! Our pilots never even saw the F-5s until too late. They came out of the sun without radar warning due to enemy ECM. God in heaven!"
Colonel Yeier retained his composure. "We knew the Saudis had accepted many of the Jordanians, who have a high standard of training. And we knew the radar jamming would be better than any we've faced before. After all, the Soviets don't like to show their hand by giving the Syrians all their first-line equipment."
A captain from Hovda spoke up. "I think we're missing the point. We're crying over what's past. I believe we should be more concerned with retrieving more of our pilots from Arabia."
"Ezer, nobody in this room disagrees with you." The colonel's tone was calm and reassuring. "We're doing absolutely everything we can. But remember, our helicopters must fly over Arab-occupied Jordan into Saudi airspace to reach those sites. We have already lost three helos and their crews." He looked around the room, making his point with his eyes. "From now on we need to conserve our planes and pilots for the most effective use. That message is going to Tel Aviv this very night. I don't think there will be a repeat of this folly."
With that, he walked out the door.
Watching him go, the Mirage pilot said, "From now on, I wonder if we can hold what we have."
Ed Lawrence wandered into the debriefing room, drawn by the noise and chatter. Despite the hour, he noted with pleasure that morale remained at a peak. Thirteen of the Tiger Force pilots who had been shot down were recovered. Those returned to Ha'il were greeted with a combination of hearty hugs and good-natured ribbing.
In the comer, several Black Squadron pilots were singing the organization's theme song.
Lawrence walked over to join them in the hoarse shouting which passed for singing.
The mirage from — the midday heat shimmered in the distance as the binoculars focused on the West Bank. General Hassan Gamail rotated the knob and set the mil scale along the Israeli-held front. His Zeiss binoculars were a prized possession. He had carried them since 1984 when the Iraqi chief of staff had presented them to the new regimental commander. Gamail had proven himself an accomplished soldier at every command level, and despite his country's military stalemate with Iran, his career had flourished. He had outlived many of his contemporaries.
The Iraqi corps commander carefully tucked away the valuable German glasses and edged back from the sandbagged emplacement.
Motioning to his driver, he scrambled into his command car and gave directions to the nearby divisional headquarters.
With two infantry divisions and a reinforced motor rifle division under his command, the veteran soldier believed he could make an option work for him. He needed to arrange supporting arms on short notice-artillery and air. But if he was correct, the opening he saw developing could turn this war around. It was Day Ten, and if Gamail's plan worked there would not be a Day Twenty. But first he had to talk to the combined headquarters in Damascus. This would require coordination on three fronts.
John Bennett tapped the map with his pencil. "You know, Bear, this war should be winding down pretty soon. The Arabs have control of most of Jordan again and the Israelis only hold this part of the West Bank anymore." He pointed to the slight bulge eastward toward the River Jordan.
"What still surprises me is that the Arabs stuck to their plan so well." The ex-Marine rubbed his neck; he had gotten sunburned two days before. "Once the Israelis began to pull back to shorten their lines, I figured the Syrians and that bunch might try to press right through to Tel Aviv."
Bennett glanced around. He did not want to be overheard.
"There have been rumors to that effect all along, but since the Egyptians and Saudis have declined to back that move, the campaign seems to be living up to its press. The Arabs are playing this one smart for a change. By defining their mission and stating it to the world, they gained a hell of a lot of support. It'd be contrary to their interests to invade Israeli territory."
Bear flashed a huge smile. "Bring the boys home by Christmas? Seems I've heard that one before."