Today the questions always were about aircraft design, whether it should be complex and capable of several missions or a single-purpose, specialized plane. Because the political supporters of complexity had prevailed, the results were extremely expensive fighter planes. But Bennett and Edmonds had grown up in the least expensive and oldest fighter in the Navy inventory, and the Vietnam War had proven the validity of their arguments for simplicity. Their Vought F 8Bs had outperformed every other fighter in the U. S. stable in that long war, winning the highest kill-loss ratio.
But that was the shooting war, Bennett reminded himself. He thought of his farewell speech to his squadron when he retired. "The United States Navy, gentlemen, is an eighteenth-century institution reluctantly being dragged into the nineteenth century." That had caught the press's attention. So, with one foot in the grave, he jumped in with both feet. He had told his junior officers that their value as aviators would only become apparent to the U. S. government during the next war.
The reporters had lined up to pursue the retiring aviator's thoughts on the subject. They sensed a controversial quote, or at least a colorful one. "Tell us, Commander Bennett, does that mean you think there will be another war?"
The junior officers had braced themselves, knowing the skipper's reply. "Well, if we don't think there'll be another war, all of us are wasting a hell of a lot of the taxpayers' money." The base's public affairs officer had his hands full explaining that one!
It was a February evening in La Jolla, but the air was balmy with a gentle breeze off the Pacific. Bennett loved this small enclave carved into the California coast. He had raised a son and lost his wife here. The memory pained him again. The drunk driver had served barely a year in prison.
Inside his coat pocket, Bennett felt the engraved invitation to Dave's change of command ceremony. His friend would become captain of the carrier Saratoga on the east coast in a few weeks. Dave had specifically taken time to get together, despite a hectic visit to San Diego. Damn it, he was a good man. Old Dave had chased that MiG-19 right over Hainan into Chinese airspace and ran the bastard out of fuel. No manager or chairbound warrior would have done that, risking his career in the process. But the nagging doubt returned-what had Dave done to ingratiate himself to the power brokers in Washington? Maybe he had changed.
Or maybe, Bennett mused, I've stayed stagnant while everybody else has progressed.
Bennett loved the landscaped entrance to his apartment. It was a jungle of bent pines and well-tended flowers. He took in the simple beauty of the place, paying no notice to the figure closing on him from behind. A cultured Middle Eastern voice broke the silence. "I beg your pardon, Commander Bennett?"
John turned to face a man in gray trousers and expensive light-blue worsted jacket. The stranger carried himself with an air of dignity; of one accustomed to authority. His swarthy complexion was punctuated by a well-trimmed goatee. Bennett thought the Rolex on his left wrist must have cost $5,000. The gray-and-red tie was elegantly knotted and snugged to the perfectly starched collar of his dress shirt. This man had what soldiers called command presence.
The gentleman extended his hand and Bennett appreciated the firm grasp. This was a very self-composed individual, and Bennett's four-inch height advantage seemed to dwindle.
"My name is Safad Fatah. I am a Saudi Arabian diplomat. Could I please speak with you a few minutes?" The accent carried a trace of British influence-probably the result of an expensive education in England.
"What do you want to talk about?"
"Is it perhaps possible we could talk in your apartment?"
Bennett started to hedge but the Arab gentleman interrupted.
"Please, Commander, it will only take a moment. I think you might find it most interesting."
Bennett unlocked his door, stepped back, and swept his hand inward, inviting the guest to enter. Fatah took in the apartment in a single glance.
"Please sit down. By the way, how did you know my name?"
Fatah rested his hands on his plump belly. "I have been in your country for the past five years. I am presently with the Saudi Embassy in Washington, and we obtained your address from some friends in that area."
Bennett's curiosity intensified.
"Can I get you something cool to drink? A beer perhaps?"
Immediately Bennett realized his error. Muslims don't drink alcohol, he thought.
"No thank you, sir." If Fatah took offense he covered it admirably. "If you have a Pepsi that would be nice."
Bennett rummaged through his cluttered refrigerator. One of the women he occasionally dated was fond of Pepsi, and there were two cans left.
As he poured the soda into a glass, Bennett searched his memory. Whom did he know in D.C. who traveled in diplomatic circles? Feeling the warrior's suspicion of diplomats, Bennett kept his distance. He acknowledged the supremacy of civilian leadership over the armed forces, but he drew the line at meddling.
Bennett sat down across from Fatah and both men sized up one another. Bennett had removed his own jacket but the Arab sat impeccably clad with his coat still buttoned.
Barely sipping his drink, the Saudi leaned forward and his dark eyes fixed on Bennett's. "Commander, my government would like to discuss with you ·the possibility of a venture in my nation which would make use of your expertise. If it's agreeable to you, we would be pleased to have you as our guest in Arabia. If your schedule permits, we can set the meeting in Riyadh six days hence. I must leave this evening but I shall meet you upon arrival. We will, of course, pay all your expenses and we think you might enjoy a few days as our guest."
Bennett masked the confusion he felt. His face belied any uncertainty but his mind raced. "And what would you want me-"
Again Fatah smoothly interrupted. "Please, Commander, I cannot say more than I have. Everything would be made clear to you, but for the present would you please consider that I am not at liberty to divulge more information? My sovereign will explain everything to you in due course."
The Saudi's initial contact with Bennett was the result of a two-year effort Riyadh had invested in selecting the retired aviator. There was nothing about John Bennett the Saudis did not know; he even looked the part, as if cast for a motion picture. There were the clear gray eyes which could display disarming charm or icy rage. Women especially would see and be moved by those eyes, and Arabs knew women as perhaps no other men on earth. The Prophet had given that knowledge to his people. Of that, Fatah was certain.
Bennett's cheeks were tanned and there were small lines at the comers of both eyes-testament to 5,000 hours aloft, many of them squinting into the sun in search of adversaries. The carefully groomed hair had a touch of gray now, but the overall impression was one of energy and vigor.
Following orders from his government, Fatah had selected the fifty-four-year-old retired naval officer after extensive screening.
Bennett's combat record, his writings on aerial combat, his reputation among his contemporaries and-most important-among his former students, were well known to Fatah. He knew of the man's marriage, the death of his wife, the fact that Bennett's son was enrolled at Arizona State University.
There had been difficulty obtaining a copy of the thesis Bennett had written at the Naval War College. It had been classified as secret, but the Saudis had obtained Bennett's document, plus several written by other prospective agents. Bennett's opus, Airpower-Key to the Middle East, had confirmed he was the man the Saudis wanted.