Warriors by Barrett Tillman

       Warriors

       By Barrett Tillman

ADVANCE RAVES FOR WARRIORS:

"Spiritual heirs of the medieval knights, today's fighter pilots are the last true warriors extant in our uncertain age. Tillman captures their honor, skill, and courage perfectly in this excellent book." -Stephen Coonts

"This is an excellent book. Barrett Tillman puts you inside the fighter pilot's head and makes you understand what a warrior feels." - Larry Bond, author of
Red Phoenix.

Acknowledgment.

MANY THOUGHTFUL PEOPLE-AVIATORS AND OTHERWISE-HAVE EASED my transition process from history to fiction. Among the first was David Ballantine, who thought enough of the original draft of
Warriors
to endorse it to his brother. Ian and Betty Ballantine accelerated the usual glacial pace of publishing negotiations, and Greg Tobin at Bantam has been an encouraging editor.

Additionally, grateful recognition is extended to those who contributed special knowledge or support, starting with the Champlin Fighter Museum in Mesa, Arizona. CFM is the finest institution of its type, and by happy accident it became the scene of meetings with pilots from Saudi Arabia, Jordan, and Israel. Lieutenant Colonel Jim Anderson of nearby Williams Air Force Base, who has since traded in his F-5 for a Boeing 737, was especially helpful with introductions and critiques.

Dick Jonas of Phoenix, a former fighter pilot himself and full-time balladeer, kindly allowed me to rewrite one of his songs. Also an Arizona asset is Jeff Cooper, the gunfighter's guru, who is the basis for small-arms doctrine.

Lieutenant Colonel Tom "Skip" Ostermann, an Eagle driver from Luke and Nellis, made valuable comments on current fighter aircraft, weapons, and procedures.

But the Navy also came through in fine style. Bob and Sally Lawson of
The Hook
magazine read the manuscript and provided a wealth of suggestions and advice. So did Captain Wynn Foster, USN (Ret.), whose knowledge of the A-4 Skyhawk and light attack aviation are golden.

Rear Admiral Paul "Punchy" Gillcrist, USN (Ret.), provided aeronautical charts and useful data on the Northrop F-20 as did Captain Phil Wood, USN (Ret.). Though the Tigershark never entered production, its private-enterprise origin remains deserving of thanks from every American taxpayer.

I could hope for no finer critics than Bob and Curt Dose, Navy fighter pilots who have left indelible impressions on two generations of enemy airmen. Another tailhook aviator, Steve Coonts, was similarly encouraging.

Navy Fighter Squadron 143 responded quickly to a request for T-shirts of ''The World-Famous Pukin' Dogs," who truly are
sans reproche.

John Tillman provided a lucid explanation of nuclear physics while yet another jet pilot, Debra McCormick, lent a copy of the Koran and a knowledge of the Middle East.

As depicted herein, the geography and military capabilities of the region's nations are accurate to the extent known. The most significant departures from fact are the mythical Hovda and Balhama air bases in Israel.

Finally, those in the business know that there exist actual fighter pilots with callsigns mentioned in these pages. Neither too much nor too little should be made of that fact. But to the real Pirate and Devil-and to their fellow warriors with
noms de guerre
like Diego, Snake, and "the original Maverick"-this book is dedicated.

To set the cause above renown,

To love the game beyond the prize,

To honor, while you strike him down,

The foe that comes with fearless eyes;

To count the life of battle good

And clear the land that gave you birth,

And dearer yet the brotherhood

That binds the brave of all the earth.

              Sir Henry Newbolt

PROLOGUE

WAR IN THE AFTERNOON

But we touched the heavens and found them filled with a mighty guard and shooting-stars; and we did sit in certain seats thereof to listen; but whoso of us listens now finds a shooting-star for him on guard.

Suret. LXXII.B

Chapter of the Jinn

Chapter 1

DAY ONE

8 October 1973, 1405 Hour.

      
MOST WARS BEGIN BEFORE DAWN. THIS ONE WAS DIFFERENT.

       When the Klaxon sounded, a few of the pilots on alert at the Skyhawk base hesitated a single heartbeat before conditioned response hurled them into motion. The scramble was not wholly unexpected; for a recall still was in progress-ever since Israeli intelligence had determined that hostilities were imminent. After all, it was the tenth day of Tishri and most units were on partial stand-down for Yom Kippur, the holiest day on the Jewish calendar.

       That combination of facts told thirty-seven-year-old Major Ariel Kadar that this was no drill.

       Sprinting through the door of the ready room and into the hall leading to the hangar, Kadar overtook his young wingman. The squadron commander thumped the new lieutenant on the shoulder. "Come on, David. Don't let an old man beat you!"

       The two pilots turned hard right into the covered alert pad housing their Skyhawk attack planes. Each was fully armed with 500-pound bombs and 20mm ammunition. With practiced ease Kadar was up the boarding ladder and almost mechanically plugging and strapping himself into the cockpit: torso harness fittings; G-suit lead, helmet with oxygen and radio plugs. In seconds he was starting his Pratt & Whitney JS2-P8A engine, glancing across at the other jet.

       Lieutenant David Ran was almost fifteen years younger than his commander and should have been a shade quicker. But he wasn't. Despite the unrelenting pace of training, which continued after he joined his operational squadron, much of the job still was new to him. As he lit off his own engine and saw the RPM and temperature gauges flick to life, he looked up. The boarding ladders had been removed, wheel chocks pulled free, and mechanics were signaling clear to taxi. Ran saw Kadar nod vigorously and the two Skyhawks taxied into the bright sunlight.

       From the adjoining pad two more A-4s appeared, swinging behind the lead section.

       During the fast taxi to the runway, the canopies came down and locked as each pilot silently ran through his pre-takeoff check list. By the time they turned at the intersection onto the runway they were ready to go, and Major Kadar smoothly advanced his throttle as 9,300 pounds of thrust boosted his aircraft off the ground. All four jets tucked their tricycle landing gear into the wells and climbed for altitude.

       It was exactly four and one half minutes after the siren had sounded.

       Thus far not a word had been spoken. David Ran was only aware of the measured sound of his own breathing under his oxygen mask and the carrier wave in his earphones. He was the newest pilot in the squadron, but he knew his job and was proud that Kadar had chosen him as wingman. The CO had been flying Sky hawks for six years--ever since the first American-built A-4Hs had been delivered to Israel in 1967.

       Ran looked over at his leader. It was typical of the man that his seniority counted for nothing in normal duty rotation. Even though Ariel Kadar was more devout than many Israeli pilots, he had passed up the chance to spend Yom Kippur with his family. The Day of Atonement was turning into something different this year.

       In the lead aircraft, Kadar spoke with his ground controller. The airborne planes were given a westerly heading and told to investigate reported activity along the Suez Canal.
So, it's Sinai,
the squadron leader thought to himself. He knew the area well. It was only twenty minutes flying time from his base, and he had logged repeated missions over the sandy expanse. There had been frequent alarms since the Six-Day War-it was part of everyday life in the Israeli Air Force, or
Heyl Ha'Avir-
and
consequently the nation's air arm was in a constant state of readiness.

       Lugging a dozen 500-pound bombs westward at three hundred knots, the four Skyhawk pilots and the few other jets scrambled in the opening moments of the 1973 war unknowingly faced an unpleasant change of routine. Egypt in the west and Syria in the east had launched an unusually well coordinated two-front assault on the Israelis, intending to recapture territory lost in the 1967 war. The Egyptian assault was especially well executed, combining the cherished trinity of massive force, surprise timing, and overwhelming violence.

       Reports varied, but on Day One between 500 and 800 Egyptian tanks crossed the Suez Canal at three points. The assault was supported by some 4,000 artillery pieces plus MiGs and Sukhoi fighter-bombers pounding the Bar Lev line of defensive positions which Israel had built parallel to the east bank of the canal.

       That wasn't all. Egyptian planners knew the Israelis had placed explosive charges along the canal, ready to detonate in the face of an assault. Scuba divers had stealthily, skillfully removed or disarmed the explosives, and other commandos blew up Israeli radio and radar stations within reach of the waterway.

       Almost simultaneously with the overture at 1400, the Arabs began jamming Israeli communications. It was a fully integrated operation, precisely the type of action most Israelis felt that no Arab nation was capable of executing.

       Little of this was known to Major Kadar or his pilots on the first mission that afternoon. But as professionals they were prepared for most contingencies. They checked and rechecked their navigation, their aircraft instruments, and their armament switches. They activated their A-4s' radar homing and warning (RHAW) equipment. These "black boxes," as their American suppliers called them, were designed to provide advance warning of hostile radar tracking. The U.S. Air Force and Navy had learned hard lessons in the air war over North Vietnam. American involvement had only ended in January, so current information was available to the Israelis on Soviet-built air defense equipment. But some pilots of the
Heyl Ha'Avir
were disdainful. The Arab nations simply weren't capable of maintaining sophisticated electronics without extensive Soviet assistance. Everybody knew that.

       With the canal in view well ahead from 14,000 feet, Major Kadar led his flight in a lazy turn to the left. He intended to swing down the east bank on a reconnaissance sweep, for he was authorized to attack any Arab unit displaying hostile intentions. Against that possibility, he double-checked his master armament panel.

       David Ran looked to his left front, past his leader's Skyhawk.

       He noticed dust clouds along the canal and a vague milling activity on both banks. Abruptly he became aware of several things, each competing for his attention. Down to 12,000 feet, only a few miles from the waterway, he could see the aftereffects of an artillery barrage-by far the largest he could imagine. He saw formations of armored vehicles crossing west to east on pontoon bridges, and he heard an increasingly high-pitched scratching in his headset.

       Ran's RHAW gear was quiet-no evidence of radar scanning.

       That much was encouraging, at least. Lingering dust clouds swirled into the air from shellbursts and tracked vehicles, making detailed observation difficult. But the flight had passed beyond the northern-most area of conflict and Ran noted his leader setting up for a diving attack on something below to the right.

       Radio communication was almost impossible but each pilot followed his leader regardless; they knew the procedure by rote.

       As Ran allowed the usual interval between his leader's roll-in and his own, he judged the target to be a cluster of portable bridges and waiting vehicles on the west bank. From this point it was a routine attack: one pass-put your bombs where they belong and get the hell out. So far nobody seemed to be shooting at them; perhaps they had caught the Egyptians by surprise.

       Major Kadar's Skyhawk disappeared in an orange-black fireball.

       Small bits of debris lingered briefly in the sky, then were gone.

       Ran absorbed the knowledge that his squadron commander-his friend-had just died. Then, not knowing what else to do, he pressed his dive on the portable bridging equipment and placed his illuminated sight reticle just short of the target. He made sure his wings were level, pressed the button on his stick grip, and felt his low-drag bombs kick off their racks.

       After a brief wait to ensure that no bombs were skewed sideways, he began a steady pull.

       Blue-green tracers flashed by Ran's canopy; somebody was tracking him with 23mm. The air bladders of his G-suit compressed about his thighs and abdomen. Instinctively, he grunted against the oppression of nearly six times the force of gravity as his nose came level with the horizon. More tracers and two twisting smoke trails drifted behind him. Realizing he was flying northwest-into Egypt-he rolled almost 90 degrees, pulled hard, and stomped opposite rudder to slew his A-4 erratically. Then he bent the throttle, exiting at thirty-five hundred feet.

       The young pilot looked around, wanting to rejoin the second section. He spotted one Skyhawk and turned toward it. There was no sign of the number four man, and Ran feared the worst.

      
Four took off, two are coming back. That's no good. We've got to tell somebody what's happening .
...