Warriors by Barrett Tillman Read online

  General Abrash sat back in his padded chair. "Well, we have discussed tactics since this afternoon, but frankly there's no easy cure. Ordinarily we'd send our airplanes in at low level to get under the missiles, but then we're exposed to antiaircraft artillery and small arms. It's what the Americans encountered over Vietnam."

  Rolling his sloped shoulders, Baharov said, "I seem to have nothing but bad news for you tonight, but there's more. The Russians have equipped the Arabs with vast numbers of SA-7s. At least in the Egyptian units, there seem to be Grails down to squad level."

  Baharov did not need to elaborate. The SA-7 first appeared in the Middle East in 1969. A hand-carried missile five feet long and weighing only forty pounds, it required no elaborate guidance radar. It homed on the hot exhaust of its target and, being completely passive, gave no warning to its intended victim. Grails could hit a jet from as far as four miles away.

  Abrash, the director of operations, spoke again. "We'll concentrate on deception measures using chaff and flares until we can counter the electronic problem. Meanwhile, we're going to continue taking heavy losses." The general, who had flown in two wars, bit the end of his pencil. Almost to himself he said, "You know, I had a call from the army chief of staff today. He said his frontline commanders were reluctant to call for air support because they saw so many of our boys shot down."

  No one in the room needed to respond. Such a thing had never happened in Israel's turbulent history.

  DAY THREE

  Suez Canal

  The Phantoms came in low and fast from the north, parallel to the east bank of the canal. The short overwater leg of their outbound flight had been in two compact four-plane flights, but now, over Sinai, they adopted combat spread. Modi Tal, the twenty-seven-year-old captain in the lead F-4E, waggled his wings and the formation smoothly broke into four two-ship elements.

  Another captain leading the second flight had anticipated the move and smoothly slid abeam of his own second section.

  It was typical of the Israeli Air Force. The Heyl Ha'Avir lived by the motto "Experience leads" and mere rank would not fill the leader's slot. Far too much was at stake. The young captain had flown more of these missions than anyone in his squadron.

  It was Day Three and Israel was fighting on two fronts against the most competent adversaries she had yet faced.

  Captain Solomon Yatanahu, one year younger than Modi Tal, had flown combat six years before under very different circumstances. The Six-Day War had gone entirely Israel's way from the opening hour. He had actually regretted the limited opportunity for combat. But this new war was entirely the opposite. Back-to-back sorties, friends dead or missing, aircraft destroyed and damaged at a terrific pace. Even MiGs over his home base-unheard of! And though the Heyl Ha'Avir still was master of its enemies-in one famous case two F-4s took off to engage a skyful of MiGs and shot down seven-the flak and SAMs were deadly. Yatanahu had joked with his radar operator that the desert camouflage paint on their new Phantom was barely dry in time for this first mission. Seventy-two hours previously it had borne the green tones of the U.S. Tactical Air Command at Ramstein, West Germany. But not even U.S. reinforcement could keep pace with the staggering attrition thus far.

  Still, morale remained high. The squadron ready room bore the neatly lettered boast CEILING 80 METERS, a mark of professional pride. In order to destroy Egyptian tanks and avoid the heart of the air defense system, the Israeli pilots regularly flew at or below 250 feet, or 80 meters, altitude. It was hard enough in a high-performance jet making 400 knots or more on a training mission. Doing it in combat, retaining awareness of all that happened within shooting distance, called for skill and experience of exceptional order.

  In the lead Phantom, Modi Tal shot a glance at his map. He didn't need it, for he'd flown almost a dozen missions over this area in the past two days. But he was too thorough, too professional, to wholly trust memory or habit. A gloved finger tapped the point on the canal indicating his run-in to the target. He -spoke into his oxygen mask. "Estimate six minutes to initial point."

  The "hot mike," continually open to his backseater, carried his words with electronic clarity. The response came almost instantly. "Concur." The radar operator, a twenty-two-year-old reservist, was backing up the pilot's navigation.

  With a rock of his wings Tal indicated that the formation should split. Yatanahu led his flight to the southwest, pushing his throttles to accelerate ahead of the main formation and arrive from a different quadrant a few seconds before the lead flight, orbiting to intercept any Egyptian fighters.

  The target was a ring of mobile antiaircraft batteries protecting a large Egyptian tank unit that threatened Israeli defenses east of the canal. Another formation, composed of six Skyhawks, was bearing down on the same target from the east and south. The F-4s would provide top cover from enemy fighters and attack the defenses while the A-4s went after the tanks. Assuming everyone's timing was perfect, the attack sections would hit from three directions in ninety seconds.

  At 400 knots the F-4s were as fast as a .45-caliber pistol bullet at the muzzle. The ground ahead was blurred to a distance of more than 1,500 feet, so the pilots focused and refocused on more distant points. Their 250-foot altitude kept them in "ground clutter," the mixture of radar returns which diminished or ruined the effectiveness of Egyptian Gun Dish tracking units, but conventional flak and hand-held SA-7 missiles still posed a threat.

  West of the canal, Solomon Yatanahu saw the sweep hand of his watch tick off the final seconds. He moved his twin throttles through the detent into afterburner and felt the J79-GE17 turbojets each kick in 17,900 pounds of thrust. Pulling the stick into his belly, he led his wingman in a full-power climb toward 15,000 feet, where they would briefly orbit to intercept any Egyptian aircraft attempting to break up the impending strike.

  Thirty miles to the northeast, the main Phantom formation entered the target area. A carefully choreographed aerial ballet had just debuted as the mission commander held course and altitude. With precise timing, he swept into the outer fringes of the SAM belt, then popped up to 3,800 feet as he and his wingman released chaff and flares.

  On the desert floor, patient Egyptian gunners and missileers watched the curtain rise in the preview of interim Israeli tactics. A similar routine was performed to the south, where the A-4s would appear in several seconds.

  Tiny flickers of light reflected the sun as aluminum chaff-lengths of metal cut to match known radar frequencies-erupted by the thousands in the air. White-hot magnesium flares burst into existence, competing with the heat of jet engines and drawing off some of the missiles launched at the brown-and-tan camouflaged fighters. On each side of the target, Phantoms crossed one another's flight paths, adding more "hot spots" in the sky which might lure one or two SAMs from genuine targets.

  The Gainful missiles-three to a vehicle--were unable to track fast, low-flying targets under these circumstances, and their threat was negated. But dozens-perhaps scores-of soldiers with shoulder

  mounted Grails pointed their launchers skyward, acquired the green light indicating they were tracking a heat source, and fired. The desert blossomed with dust clouds as the SA-7s lifted off, crowding the flak-filled sky with lethal fingers groping for an unwary or unlucky victim.

  The Phantom leader, seeing his countermeasures taking effect, noted the first white flashes in his peripheral vision as bombs exploded to the southeast. Good; the Skyhawks arrived on time. He turned back for another pass to assess the damage.

  "MIGS FOUR O'CLOCK LEVEL!"

  Captain Yatanahu whipped his head over his right shoulder in response to his wingman's call. Almost immediately he saw a camouflaged delta-winged shape bearing down on him. The Phantom pilot estimated its distance as two miles, closing fast. Not much time.

  Yatanahu had 550 knots on his airspeed indicator. He pulled the stick into the right rear comer of the cockpit, stood on the right rudder pedal, and loaded almost seven Gs on himself, his radar operator, and his aircraf
t. With adrenaline surging and full concentration upon his adversary, he was hardly aware of the physiological effects of seven times normal gravity.

  The MiG-21 had begun a countermove, curving to its left in an attempt to maintain position on the F-4. Yatanahu's momentum was too great to gain an angle advantage at this speed and distance so he momentarily stopped his turn, maintaining 135 degrees of bank. When he judged the moment was right, he continued his maneuver into an elegant barrel roll above, beyond, and below the MiG's flight path.

  Yatanahu heard a garbled transmission from his wingman, who presumably was engaged with a MiG of his own. The captain was aware of his backseater's labored breathing on the hot mike, his favorable position relative to the MiG, and his parameters for weapons employment. He had already discarded the Sparrow option; he was too close for a radar missile and he wasn't convinced the electronic countermeasures the enemy had so unexpectedly developed wouldn't defeat an AIM-7.

  Therefore, Yatanahu pulled into three-quarters of a mile of the MiG's tail, slightly offset to the left. His armament switch was selected for HEAT, and he heard the manic chirping in his earphones which told him his Sidewinder missile was tracking the enemy's hot tailpipe. Yatanahu pressed the trigger, and after a pause saw the AIM-9 surge past his left side. It arced toward the MiG and exploded in the engine's plume.

  Instantly the Phantom pilot shifted his armament switch to GUN.

  He had a 20mm cannon in his nose and fully intended to use it. But the MiG-21 pilot chose that fortuitous moment to eject himself from his doomed fighter.

  Yatanahu looked around, and his backseater anticipated his concern. ''Two is rejoining at three o'clock." Two Phantoms had taken on three MiGs, destroying one and damaging another. Thirty-five seconds had passed. Yatanahu glanced at his watch and set a circuitous course for home. Whatever had happened with the anti-tank mission, he had done his job.

  MODI TAL WAS PLEASED. HE HAD TIMED HIS WIDE TURN away from the target to allow much of the dust to settle, and now was screeching toward the southeastern corner of the armored pocket at nearly Mach 1. He wanted another pass to evaluate the results of the raid, which seemed to have been well executed. He counted at least eight vehicles aflame-either T-54 tanks or tracked missile carriers.

  Several trip-hammer blows pounded the F -4E, sixteen in all.

  The Phantom rolled violently to the right, shedding parts as the aerodynamic forces tore at the ragged gouges left by 23mm explosive shells.

  There had been no warning from the Gun Dish continuous wave radar. The Egyptian battery commander had shrewdly placed two vehicles beyond the obvious perimeter, camouflaged with sand-colored nets, and had obtained a firing solution on the speeding jet.

  In the rear cockpit, the young reservist initiated command ejection without waiting for word from his pilot. At low level there was no time for corrective action, and as the stricken F-4 began its second roll both canopies came off. The rear seat fired, hurling the radar operator out of the Phantom one and three-quarters seconds before the pilot's seat rocketed away. The sequence prevented the front seat ignition from searing the backseat occupant, but it didn't matter. Both fliers were flung into the violent turbulence of supersonic air, and neither survived.

  The battery commander saw the American-built fighter plunge to the ground and explode in a fireball of jet fuel. He was glad of his unit's success, but he was enough of a professional to know that one airplane in exchange for nearly a dozen armored vehicles was no bargain. The Israelis were learning fast.

  North Arabian Sea

  The four Vought F-8Js cruised effortlessly at 20,000 feet, deployed in combat spread. Each was armed with 20mm ammunition and AIM-9 Sidewinder missiles. Though the world's attention was riveted on events nearly 2,000 miles to the north, the aircraft carrier USS Hancock took nothing for granted. The four Crusaders on combat air patrol were proof of that. As "Hannah" approached the Gulf of Aden she came within range of several nations that wished no U.S. Navy warship smooth sailing.

  One war had just ended--or at least American involvement had ended-and the thirty-year-old carrier was a veteran of that war. She had been on her eighth cruise to the Tonkin Gulf when ordered south at high speed with her escorts and fleet oiler. Now Hancock's crew and Air Wing 21 wondered what role they might play in the new conflict in the Middle East.

  Aloft in the lead F-8 was Commander John L. Bennett, skipper of Fighter Squadron 24. With three previous combat tours and a MiG-17 to his credit, Bennett was one of the most experienced fighter pilots in the U.S. Navy. At age thirty-eight he recognized that he was near the acme of his professional life. If fortunate, he might obtain one more flying tour as an air wing commander. After that, he did not want to think about it.

  Bennett glanced at his fuel gauge, noting he had ample JP5 remaining. Engine rpm, fuel flow, tailpipe temperature all normal. Bennett's practiced scan took in his aircraft's vital signs in seconds and returned where it belonged--outside the cockpit. But he mused upon the events of the past few days.

  Only days before Hancock's task force had reached the strait separating Indonesia from Malaysia, Malaysia's strife-ridden government had declared the Strait of Malacca as its own. Foreign vessels transiting the waterway would have to pay a fee or be subject to attack. Reports of pirate activity only enhanced the tense mood, but Bennett smiled to himself. He was known in the fighter community as "Pirate," his tactical callsign.

  The rear admiral leading the task force had passed through the strait at high speed without requesting permission or paying tribute. Instead, he kept at least one four-plane division of fighters airborne with armed Skyhawk attack planes ready to launch. The passage had been uneventful.

  Now, orbiting 150 miles from the ship, Bennett considered the prospects of a clash with other regimes. From 20,000 feet he could see the Gulf of Aden adjoining .Somalia, Ethiopia, and the People's Democratic Republic of Yemen. Soviet-built MiGs would come out for a look at the "Yankee air pirates"-there was that word again-and VF-24 was ready for them. It had been five years since Bennett had killed a MiG, but constant practice had kept him ready. Besides, it wouldn't be the first time he had tangled with MiGs from a desert airbase.

  Bennett rolled his shoulders and strained forward against his Koch fittings, easing the strain. He recalled the secret projects in the Nevada desert, "Have Drill" and "Have Doughnut." The Israelis had captured all manner of Egyptian equipment when they occupied Sinai during the 1967 war. Aircraft, tanks, missiles, artillery, and communications gear had been scooped up and sent to America for evaluation. Nine MiG fighters-a mixture of Type 17, 19, and 21-had been included, with a large supply of spare parts. U.S. Air Force and Navy pilots flew them almost daily for three years, evaluating every nuance of performance. Bennett had participated in that program, and what he did not know about the enemy aircraft was not worth knowing.

  The test facility was spartan: a 15,000-foot runway with a prefab hangar and a couple of fuel trucks. All flying was timed to avoid exposure to Soviet satellites that passed over twice a day, and Bennett surmised the runway was bulldozed with sand when not in use. But the flying was terrific. Phantoms, Crusaders, Skyhawks, and other U. S. aircraft tangled in no-holds-barred hassles with the MiGs, pilots often switching cockpits to better appreciate each type's strengths and weaknesses.

  Bennett knew that any pilot in VF-24 would give a year's flight pay to tangle with a MiG of any nationality or origin, for the Checkertails-like the rest of Air Wing 21 and the U.S. Navy-now were warriors without a war. Bennett felt that after Vietnam, protracted conflict was to no advantage. Short wars were the best. Just look at the Israelis.

  DAY NINE

  Ben Gurian Airport

  Tel Aviv's airport had never been so busy. By 14 October almost constant traffic flew in and out, resupplying the Israeli armed forces, whose stocks of weapons, ammunition, and fuel had been sorely depleted. This morning, however, General Baharov, the IAF technical intelligence chief, anxiously awaited the unloading o
f several crates from the belly of a U.S. Air Force C-141. The crates contained neither missiles nor spare parts, though God knew how badly the Heyl Ha'Avir needed both.

  The general's aide, Major Ephraim Bachman, was accustomed to the man's eccentricities. After all, geniuses traditionally are accorded some latitude in that direction. But the gardener with the Ph.D. in electrical engineering was not personally supposed to supervise forklift drivers.

  "Quickly, quickly. That's it ... straight back. Good! Now, take it over to the shed." The teenager driving the forklift glanced at the air force major. They exchanged knowing shrugs and smiled at one another as the intel chief continued badgering the line crew. "No, no, not like that! Where did you learn to drive, anyway? Here, let me show you."

  At length Bachman diplomatically pried his superior away from the Starlifter's ramp and thereby restored a modicum of order to the harried logistics personnel. Opening one of the crates, the major removed some of the stuffing to expose the contents.

  He stepped back, smiling widely. "There it is, Schmuel." Probably in no other nation on earth did a major address a general by his first name.

  The gray-haired officer leaned down, compressing his ample stomach against the green fatigue shirt he wore. He touched the electronic object with almost fatherly affection. "There you are. Just what we need, Ephraim. The ALQ-100. With this on our tactical aircraft we'll finally even the odds against the electronic threat."

  The aide agreed. "I just hope there are enough of them." Schmuel Baharov seemed not to hear him. Preoccupied with the self-protection jammer that could mean survival for Israeli pilots, he rattled off a litany of characteristics that his aide already knew by heart. "Not only does this device cover the X and S bands, but the L band as well. And it even has a built-in chaff dispenser."