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.This current conflict, evidently headed for conclusion, was proof positive if further evidence were necessary.He reached in his shirt pocket, produced a notepad, and scribbled a few lines.John Bennett had certain opinions on the nature of airpower-attitudes not wholly in keeping with American policies.He was not sure what to do with his concepts, but he felt someday they might be put to use.DAY NINETEENSinaiThe shooting on the Egyptian Front ended 24 October.However, clearing up the human and technological debris took longer than it had taken to produce the carnage.A few well-connected military attaches from nonbelligerent countries were able to examine the residue of combat, noting the effects of modem weapons for future reference.Among those inspecting the battlefield around Suez was a Saudi Arabian Air Force officer, Major Mohammad abd Maila.He saw the charred, gutted hulks of trucks, tanks, and personnel carriers.He tasted as much as smelled the residue of burned rubber, diesel, and gasoline--and roasted flesh.It was not difficult for him to imagine.the Israeli aircraft descending from the sky to destroy what had once been a powerful armored column.The screech of jet engines, the staccato pounding of antiaircraft guns, the high-pitched ring of armor-piercing rounds penetrating tempered steel.Maila turned away from the wretched sight.He had excellent contacts in Riyadh, including well-placed members of the royal family.Perhaps he could spare his own countrymen some of what he had seen.Walking back to his jeep, the phrase echoed in his consciousness, This must never happen again.PART ITo steer an aircraft is nothing.To fly It is difficult.••••••• French Fighter Tactics Manual, World War IChapter 1ANGER WAS EVIDENT IN HIS LONG STRIDE AND THE force of each heel on the sidewalk.But there was something else-embarrassment.He had not seen his friend in a long time, and to learn how a once-valued comrade had turned out was cause for embarrassment and anger.Pausing at the intersection, he unbuttoned his blazer and stepped off the curb.Both hands were thrust into his pockets, and the angry stride slowed to a more casual gait.Damn, they were right, he thought.All of them.Old John Bennett just can't stop tilting at windmills.You're not in the Navy anymore, Bennett.It's no longer your problem.Why can't you let it go? Dave only had a few hours, and you led him into another argument and started the whole thing over again.Poor bastard only wanted to see some old friends and have a drink, and you start lecturing again on what's wrong with naval aviation.A brief smile creased Bennett's tan face.God, he thought to himself, it's true.They do breathe helium in Washington.It was an old joke in the operational forces that when a good guy-somebody who understood what was important-got orders to D.C., his personality changed.Damn, in a few months it was like they gave him a prefrontal lobotomy.When you saw him next he was mouthing inane ideas in Pentagonese.These converts always seemed full of new buzzwords which, like a bumper sticker, tried to pass for philosophy.John Bennett and Dave Edmonds had been fighter pilots for twenty years; served together in two squadrons.Both men enjoyed reputations as out-standing aviators; they had written the Navy's first tactical manual for supersonic fighters.When pilots talked about the "super sticks," Bennett and Edmonds always were mentioned-like Lewis and Clark or ham and eggs.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 [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]