Eagle in the Sky

towards the solid square tower of the library whose windows were lighted

already against the swiftly falling darkness. They had climbed the

library steps and reached the glass doors when a party of students came

pouring out, and they were forced to stand aside.

They were -facing back the way they had come, across the plaza with its

terraces and red-bud trees, towards the restaurant.

Suddenly the dusk of evening was lit by the searing white furnace glare

of an explosion, and the glass windows of the restaurant were blown out

in a glittering cloud of flying glass. It was as though a storm surf

had burst upon a rock cliff, flinging out its shining droplets of spray,

but this was a lethal spray that scythed down two girl students who were

passing the windows at that moment.

Immediately after the flash of the explosion the blast swept across the

terrace, a draught of violence that shook the red-bud trees and sent

David and Debra reeling against the pillars of the library veranda. The

air was driven in upon them so that their eardrums ached with the blow,

and the breath was sucked from their lungs.

David caught her to him and held her for the moments of dreadful silence

that followed the blast. As they stared so, a soft white fog of

phosphorus smoke billowed from the gutted windows of the restaurant and

began to roll and drift across the terrace.

Then the sounds reached them through their ringing eardrums, the small

tinkle and crunch of glass, the patter and crack of falling plaster and

shattered furniture. A woman began to scream, and it broke the spell of

horror.

There were shouts and running feet. One of the students near them began

in a high hysterical voice, A bomb. They've bombed the cafe. One of

the girls who had fallen under the storm of glass fragments staggered up

and began running in small aimless circles, screaming in a thin

passionless tone.

She was white with plaster dust through which the blood poured in dark

rivulets, drenching her skirt.

In David's arms Debra began to tremble. The swine, she whispered, oh,

the filthy murdering swine. From the smoking destruction of the

shattered building another figure shambled with slow deliberation. The

blast had torn his clothing from his body, and it hung from him in

tatters, making him a strange scarecrow figure. He reached the terrace

and sat down slow, removed from his face the spectacles that were

miraculously still in place and began fumbling to clean them on the rags

of his shirt. Blood dripped from his chin.

Come on, grated David, we must help. And they ran down the steps

together.

The explosion had brought down part of the roof, trapping and crushing

twenty-three of the students who had come here to eat and talk over the

evening meal.

Others had been hurled about the large low hall, like the toys of a

child in tantrum, and their blood turned the interior into a reeking

charnel house. Some of them were crawling, creeping, or moving

spasmodically amongst the tumbled furniture, broken crockery and spilled

food. Some lay contorted as though in silent laughter at death's crude

joke.

Afterwards they would learn that two young female members of El Fatah

had enrolled in the university under false papers, and they had daily

smuggled small quantities of explosive on to the campus until they had

accumulated sufficient for this outrage. A suitcase with a timing

device had been left under a table and the two terrorists had walked out

and got clean away. A week later they were on Damascus television,

gloating over their success.

Now, however, there was no reason nor explanation for this sudden burst

of violence. It was as undirected, and yet as dreadfully effective as

some natural cataclysm. Chilling in its insensate enormity, so that

they, the living, worked in a kind of terrified frenzy, to save the

injured and to carry from the shambles the broken bodies of the dead.

They laid them upon the lawns beneath the red-bud trees and covered them

with sheets brought hurriedly from the nearest hostel. The long white

bundles in a neat row upon the green grass was a memory David knew he

would have for ever.

The ambulances came, with their sirens pulsing and rooflights flashing,

to carry away death's harvest and the police cordoned off the site of

the blast before David and Debra left and walked slowly down to where

the Mercedes was parked in the lot. Both of them were filthy with dust

and blood, and wearied with the sights and sounds of pain and

mutilation. They drove in silence to Malik Street and showered off the

smell and the dirt.

Debra soaked Davies uniform in cold water to remove the blood. Then she

made coffee for them and they drank it, sitting side by side in the

brass bed.

So much that was good and strong died there tonight, Debra said.

Death is not the worst of it. Death is natural, it's the logical

conclusion to all things. it was the torn and broken flesh that still

lived which appalled me. Death has a sort of dignity, but the maimed

are obscene. She looked at him with almost fear in her eyes. That's

cruel, David. In Africa there is a beautiful and fierce animal called

the sable antelope. They run together in herds of up to a hundred, but

when one of them is hurt, wounded by a hunter or mauled by a lion, the

lead bulls turn upon him and drive him from the herd. I remember my

father telling me about that, he would say that if you want to be a

winner then you must avoid the company of the losers for their despair

is contagious. God, David, that's a terribly hard way to look at life.

'Perhaps, David agreed, but then, you see, life is hard. When they made

love, there was for the first time a quality of desperation in it, for

it was the eve of parting and they had been reminded of their mortality.

In the morning David went to join his squadron and Debra locked the

house on Malik Street.

Each day for seventeen days David flew two, and sometimes three,

sorties. In the evenings, if they were not flying night interceptions,

there were lectures and training films, and after that not much desire

for anything but a quick meal and then sleep.

The Colonel, le Dauphin, had flown one sortie with David. He was a

small man with a relaxed manner and quick, shrewd eyes. He had made his

judgement quickly.

After that first day, David and Joe flew together, and David moved his

gear into the locker across from Joe in the underground quarters that

the crews on standby used.

In those seventeen days the last links in an iron friendship were

forged. David's flare and dash balanced perfectly with Joe's rock-solid

dependability.

David would always be the star while Joe seemed destined to be the

accompanist, the straight guy who was a perfect foil, the wingman

without personal ambition for glory whose talent was to put his number

one into the position for the strike.

Quickly they developed into a truly formidable team, so perfectly in

accord that communication in the air was almost extra-sensory, similar

to the instantaneous reaction of the bird flock or the shoal of fish.

Joe sitting out there behind him was for David like a million dollars in

insurance. His tail was secure and he could concentrate on the special

task that his superior eyesight and lightning reactions were so suited

to. David was the gunfighter, in a service where the gunfighter was

supreme.

The I. A. F. had been the first to appreciate the shortcomings of

the-air-to-air missile, and relied heavily on the classic type of air

combat. A missile could be induced to run stupid. It was possible to

make its computer think in a set pattern and then sucker it with a break

in the pattern. For every three hundred missile launches in air-to-air

combat, a single strike could be expected.

However, if you had a gunfighter coming up into your six o'clock

position with his finger on the trigger of twin 30-mm. cannons, capable

of pouring twelve thousand shells a minute into you, then your chances

were considerably lighter than three hundred to one.

Joe also had his own special talent. The forward scanning radar of the

Mirage was a complicated and sophisticated body of electronics, that

required firstly a high degree of manual dexterity. The mechanism was

operated entirely by the left hand, and the fingers of that hand had to

move like those of a concert pianist. However, more important was the

feel for the instrument, a lover's touch to draw the optimum results

from it. Joe had the feel, David did not.

They flew training interceptions, day and night, against high-flying and

low-altitude practice targets.

They flew low-level training strikes, and at other times they went out

high over the Mediterranean and engaged each other in plane-to-plane

dogfights.

However, Desert Flower steered them tactfully away from any actual or

potential combat situation. They were watching David.

At the end of the period, David's service dossier passed over

Major-General Mordecai's desk. Personnel was the Brig's special

responsibility and although each officer's dossier was reviewed by him

regularly, he had asked particularly to see David's.

The dossier was still slim, compared to the bulky tomes of some of the

old salts and the Brig flicked quickly over his own initial

recommendation and the documents of David's acting commission. Then he

stopped to read the later reports and results. He grinned wolfishly as

he saw the gunnery report. He could pick them out of a crowd, he

thought with satisfaction.

At last he came to le Dauphin's personal appraisal: Morgan is a pilot of

exceptional ability. Recommended that acting rank be confirmed and that

he be placed on fully operational basis forthwith. The Brig picked up

the red pen that was his own special prerogative and scrawled J agree at

the foot of the report.

That took care of Morgan, the pilot. He could now consider Morgan, the

man. His expression became bleak and severe. Debra's sudden desire to

leave home almost immediately David arrived in Jerusalem had been too

much of a coincidence for a man who was trained to search for underlying

motives and meanings.

It had taken him two days and a few phone calls to learn that Debra was

merely using the hostel room at the University as an accommodation

address, and that her real domestic arrangements were more comfortable.

The Brig did not approve, very definitely not. Yet he knew that it was

beyond his jurisdiction. He learned that his daughter had inherited his

own iron will. Confrontations between them were cataclysmic events,

that shook the family to its foundations and seldom ended in

satisfactory results.

Although he spent much of his time with young people, still he found the

new values hard to live with - let alone accept. He remembered the

physical agony of his long and chaste engagement to Ruth with pride,

like a veteran reviewing an old campaign.

Well, at the least she has the sense not to flout it, not to bring shame

on us all. She has spared her mother that. The Brig closed the dossier

firmly.

Le Dauphin called David into his office and told him of his change in

status. He would go on regular green standby, which meant four nights a

week on base.

David would not have to undergo his paratrooper training in unarmed

combat and weapons. A downed pilot in Arab territory had a much better

chance of survival if he was proficient in this type of fighting.

David went straight from le Dauphin's office to the telephone in the

crew-room. He caught Debra before she left the Lauterman Building for

lunch.

Warm the bed, wench, he told her, I'll be home tomorrow night.

He and Joe drove up to Jerusalem in the Mercedes, and he wasn't

listening to Joe's low rumbling voice until a thumb like an oar prodded

his ribs.

Sorry, Joe, I was thinking.

Well, stop it. Your thoughts are misting up the windows. What did you

say?

J was talking about the wedding, Hannah and me. David realized it was

only a month away now, and he expected the excitement amongst the women

was heavy as static on a summer's day before the rain. Debra's letters

had been filled with news of the arrangements.

I would be happy if you will stand up with me, and be my witness. You

fly as wingman for a change, and I'll take on the target.

David realized that he was being honoured by the request and he accepted

with proper solemnity. Secretly he was amused. Like most young

Israelis David had spoken to, both Debra and Joe claimed not to be

religious. He had learned that this was a pose. All of them were very

conscious of their religious heritage, and well versed in the history

and practice of Judaism.

They followed all the laws of living that were not oppressive, and which

accorded with a modern and busy existence.

To them religious meant dressing in the black robes and wide-brimmed

hats of the ultra orthodox Mea Shea rim, or in following a routine for

daily living that was crippling in its restrictions.

The wedding would be a traditional affair, complete with all the

ceremony and the rich symbolism, complicated only by the security

precautions which would have to be most rigorously enforced.

The ceremony was to take place in the Brig's garden, for Hannah was an

orphan. Also the secluded garden and fortress-like walls about it, were

easier to protect.

Amongst the guests would be many prominent figures in the government and

the military.

At the last count we have five generals and eighteen colonels on the

list, Joe told him, to which add most of the cabinet, even Golda has

promised to try and be there. So you see, it's going to make a nice

juicy target for our friends in Black September. Joe scowled and lit

two cigarettes, passing one to David. If it wasn't for Hannah, you know

how women feel about weddings, I would just as soon go down to a

registry office. You are fooling nobody, David grinned. You are

looking forward to it. Sure, Joe's scowl cleared. It's going to be

good to have our own place, like you and Debs. I wish Hannah had been

sensible. A year of pretending, he shook his head. Thank God it's

nearly over.

He dropped Joe in the lane outside the Brig's house in Em Karem.

I won't bother to invite you in, Joe said. I guess you've got plans.

Good guess, David smiled. Will we see you and Hannah? Come to dinner

tomorrow night.

Joe shook his head again. I'm taking Hannah down to Ashkelon to visit

her parents graves. It's traditional before a wedding. Perhaps we'll

see you Saturday Right then, I'll try and make it. Debra will want to

see you. aloin, Joe. Shalom, shalom, said Joe and David pulled away,

flicking the gears in a racing change as he put the Mercedes at the

hill. Suddenly he was in a hurry.

The terrace door stood open in welcome, and she was waiting for him.

Debra was vibrant and tense with expectation, sitting in one of the new

leather chairs with her legs curled under her. Her hair was freshly

washed and shimmering like a starling's wing. She was dressed in a

billowing kaftan of light silk and subtle honey colours that picked out

the gold in her eyes.

She came out of the chair in a swirl of silk, and ran barefooted across

the rugs to meet him.

David! David! she cried and he caught her up and spun on his heels,

laughing with her.

Afterwards she led him proudly about the rooms and showed him the

changes and additions that had turned it into a real home during his

absence. David had convinced her that cost was not fundamental and they

had chosen the designs for the furniture together. These had been made

and delivered by Debra's tame Arab and she had arranged them as they had

planned it. It was all in soft leather and dark wood, lustrous copper

and brass, set off by the bright rugs. However, there was one article

he had never seen before, a large oil painting on canvas, and Debra had

hung it unframed on the freshly painted white wall facing the terrace.

It was the only decoration upon the wall, and any other would have been

insignificant beside it.

It was a harsh dominant landscape, a desert scene which captured the

soul of the wilderness; the colours; were hot and fierce and seemed to

pour through the room like the rays of the desert sun itself.

Debra held his hand and watched David's face anxiously for a reaction as

he studied it. Wow! He said at last. You like it? She was relieved.

It's terrific. Where did you get it? 'A gift from the artist.

She's an old friend. 'She? That's right. We are driving up to

Tiberias tomorrow to have lunch with her. I've told her all about you,

and she wants to meet you. 'What's she like? She's one of our leading

artists, and her name is Ella`Kadesh, but apart from that I can't begin

to describe her.

All I can do is promise you an entertaining day. Debra had prepared a

special dish of lamb and olives and they ate it on the terrace under the

olive tree. Again the talk turned to Joe's wedding, and in the midst of

it David asked abruptly, What made you decide to come with me, without

marrying? She replied after a moment. I I discovered that I loved you,

and I knew that you were too impatient to play the waiting game. I knew

that if I didn't, I might lose you again. Until recently, I didn't

realize what a big decision it was, he mused, and she sipped her wine

without replying. Let's get married, Debs, he broke the silence. Yes,

she nodded.

That's a splendid idea. 'Soon, he said. Soon as possible. Not before

Hannah. I don't want to steal her day from her.

Right, David agreed, but immediately afterwards. Morgan, you have got

yourself a date, she told him.

it was a three-hour drive to Tiberias so they rose as soon as the sun

came through the shutters and tigerstriped the wall above the brass bed.

To save time, they shared one bath, sitting facing each other,

waist-deep in suds.

Ella is the rudest person you'll ever meet, Debra warned him. She

looked like a little girl this morning with her hair piled on top of her

head and secured with a pink ribbon. The greater the impression you

make on her, the ruder she will be, and you are expected to retaliate in

kind. So please, David, don't lose your temper.

David scooped up a dab of suds with a finger and smeared it on the tip

of her nose.

I promise, he said.

They drove down to Jericho, and then turned north along the valley of

the Jordan, following the high barbedwire fence of the border with its

warning notice boards for the minefields, and the regular motorized

patrols grinding deliberately along the winding road.

It was hot in the valley and they drove with the windows open and Debra

pulled her skirt high around her waist to cool her long brown legs.

Better not do that if you want to be in time for lunch, David warned

her, and she smoothed them down hurriedly.

Nothing is safe with you around, she protested.

They came at last out of the barren land into the fertile basin of the

Kibbutzim below Galilee, and again the smell of orange blossom was so

strong on the warm air that it was difficult to breathe.

At last they saw the waters of the lake flashing amongst the date palms

and Debra touched his arm.

Slow down, Davey. Ella's place is a few miles this side of Tiberias.

That's the turnoff, up ahead.

It was a track that led down to the lake shore and it ended against a

wall of ancient stone blocks. Five other cars were parked there

already.

Ella's having one of her lunch parties, Debra remarked and led him to a

gate in the wall. Beyond was a small ruined castle. The tumbled walls

formed weird shapes and the stone was black with age; over them grew

flamboyant creepers of bougainvillaea and the tall palms clattered their

fronds in the light breeze that came off the lake. Other exotic

flowering shrubs grew upon the green lawns.

Part of the ruins had been restored and renovated into a picturesque and

unusual lakeside home, with a wide patio and a stone jetty against which

a motor-boat was moored. Across the green waters of the lake rose the

dark smooth whale-back of the Golan Heights.

It was a crusader fortress, Debra explained. One of the guard posts for

traffic across the lake and part of the series leading up to the great

castle on the Horns of Hittern that the Moslems destroyed when they

drove the crusaders out of the Holy Land. Ella's grandfather purchased

it during the Allenby administration, but it was a ruin until she did it

up after the war of independence.

The care with which the alterations had been made so as not to spoil the

romantic beauty of the site was a tribute to Ella Kadesh's artistic

vision, which was completely at odds with the woman herself.

She was enormous; not simply fat or tall, but big. Her hands and her

feet were huge, her fingers clustered with rings and semi-precious

stones and her toenails through the open sandals were painted a glaring

crimson, as if to flaunt their size. She stood as tall as David but the

tent-like dress that billowed about her was covered with great explosive

designs that enhanced her bulk until she seemed to make up two of him.

She wore a wig of tiered curls, flaming red in colour and dangling gold

earrings.

It seemed she must have applied her eye make-up with a spade, and her

rouge with a spray gun. She removed the thin black cheroot from her

mouth and kissed Debra before she turned to study David. Her voice was

gravelly, hoarse with cheroot smoke and brandy.

I had not expected you to be so beautiful she said, and Debra quailed at

the expression in David's eyes. I do not like beauty. It is so often

deceptive, or inconsequential. It usually hides something deadly, like

the glittering beauty of the cobra, or like the pretty wrapper of a

candy bar, it contains cloying sweetness and a soft centre. She shook

the stiffly lacquered curls of her wig, and fixed David with her shrewd

little eyes. No, I prefer ugliness to beauty.

David smiled at her with all his charms upon display. Yes, he agreed,

having met you, and seen some of your work, I can understand that.

She let out a cackle of raucous laughter, and clapped the cheroot back

in her mouth. Well now, at the very least we are not dealing with a

chocolate soldier. She placed a huge masculine arm about David's

shoulders and led him to meet the company.

They were a mixed dozen, all intellectuals, artists, writers, teachers,

journalists, and David was content to sit beside Debra in the mild

sunshine and enjoy the beer and the amusing conversation. However, Ella

would not let him relax for long and when they sat down to the

gargantuan alfresco meal of cold fish and poultry, she attacked him

again.

Your martial airs and affectations, your pomp and finery. A plague on

it I say, a pox on your patriotism, and courage, on your fearlessness

and your orders of chivalry. It is all sham and pretence, an excuse for

you to stink up the earth with piles of carrion.

I wonder if you will feel the same when a platoon of Syrian infantry

break in here to rape you, David challenged her.

My boy, I find it so difficult to get laid these days that I should pray

for such a heaven-sent opportunity. She let out a mighty hoot of

laughter and her wig slipped forward at an abandoned angle. Nothing was

safe from her, and she pushed the wig back into place and streamed

straight into the attack again.

Your male bombast, your selfish arrogance. To you this woman- and she

indicated Debra with a turkey leg, to you she is merely a receptacle for

your seething careless sperm. It matters not to you that she is a

promise for the future, that within her are the seeds of a great writing

talent. No, to you she is a rubbing block, a convenient means to a

Debra interrupted her. That definitely is enough, I will not allow a

public debate on my bedroom, and Ella turned towards her with the battle

lust lighting her eyes.

Your gift is not yours to use as you wish. You hold it in trust for all

mankind, and you have a duty to them.

That duty is to exercise your gift, to allow it to grow and blossom and

give forth fruit. She used the turkey leg like a judge's gavel, banging

the edge of her plate with it, to silence Debra's protests.

Have you written a word since you took young Mars to your heart? What

of the novel we discussed on this very terrace a year ago? Have your

animal passions swamped all else? Has the screeching of your ovaries

Stop it, Ella! Debra was angry now, her cheeks flushed and her brown

eyes snapping.

Yes! Yes! Ella tossed the bone aside and sucked her fingers noisily.

Ashamed you should be, angry with yourself - Damn you, Debra flared at

her.

Damn me if you will, but you are damned yourself if you do not write!

Write, woman, write! She sat back and the wicker chair protested at the

movement of her vast body. All right, now we will all go for a swim.

David had not seen me in a bikini yet, much he will care for that skinny

little wench when he does! They drove back to Jerusalem in the night,

flushed with the sun, and although the Mercedes seats had not been

designed for lovers, Debra managed to sit close up against him.

She's right, you know, David broke a long contented silence. You must

write, Debs. 'Oh, I will, she answered lightly.

When? he persisted, and to distract him she snuggled a little closer.

One of these days, she whispered as she made her dark head comfortable

on his shoulder. One of these days, he mimicked her. Don't bug me,

Morgan. She was already half-asleep.

Stop being evasive. He stroked her hair with his free hand. And don't

go to sleep while I'm talking to you.

David, my darling, we have a lifetime, and more, she murmured. You have

made me immortal. You and I shall live for a thousand years, and there

will be time for everything. Perhaps the dark gods heard her boast, and

they chuckled sardonically and nudged each other.

On Saturday Joe and Hannah came to the house on Malik Street, and after

lunch they decided on a tourist excursion for David and the four of them

climbed Mount Zion across the valley. They entered the labyrinth of

corridors that led to David's tomb, covered with splendid embroidered

cloth and silver crowns and Torah covers. From there it was a few steps

to the room of Christ's last supper in the same building, so closely

interwoven were the traditions of Judaism and Christianity in this

citadel.

Afterwards they entered the old city through the Zion gate and followed

the wall around to the centre of Judaism, the tall cliff of massive

stone blocks, bevelled in the fashion of Herodian times, which was all

that remained of the fabulous second temple of Herod, destroyed two

thousand years before by the Romans.

They were searched at the gate and then joined the stream of worshippers

flocking down towards the wall.

At the barrier they stood for a long time in silence.

David felt again the stirring of a deep race memory, a hollow feeling of

the soul which longed to be filled.

The men prayed facing the wall, many of them in the long black coats of

the Orthodox Jew with the ringlets dangling against their cheeks as they

rocked and swayed in religious ecstasy. Within the enclosure of the

right hand side, the women seemed more reserved in their devotions.

Joe spoke at last, a little embarrassed and in a gruff tone. I think

I'll just go say a shma. Yes, Hannah agreed. Are you coming with me,

Debra?

A moment. Debra turned to David, and took something from her handbag.

I made it for you for the wedding, she said. But wear it now. It was a

yamulka, an embroidered prayer cap of black satin.

Go with Joe, she said. He will show you what to do. The girls moved

off to the women's enclosure and David placed the cap upon his head and

followed Joe down to the wall.

A shamash came to them, an old man with a long silver beard, and he

helped David bind upon his right arm a tiny leather box containing a

portion of the Torah.

So you shall lay these words upon your heart and your soul, and you

shall bind them upon your right arm Then he spread a tollit across

David's shoulders, a tasselled shawl of woven wool, and he led him to

the wall, and he began to repeat after the shamash: Hear, 0 Israel, the

Lord our God, the Lord is one His voice grew surer as he remembered the

words from long ago, and he looked up at the wall of massive stone

blocks that towered high above him. Thousands of previous worshippers

had written down their prayers on scraps of paper and wedged them into

the joints between the blocks, and around him rose the plaintive voices

of spoken prayer. It seemed to David that in his imagination a golden

beam of prayer rose from this holy place towards the heavens.

Afterwards they left the enclosure and climbed the stairs into the

Jewish quarter, and the good feeling remained with David, glowing warmly

in his belly.

That evening they sat together on the terrace drinking Goldstar beer and

splitting sunflower seeds for the nutty kernels, and naturally the talk

turned to God and religion.

Joe said, I'm an Israeli and then a Jew. First my country, and a long

way behind that comes my religion. But David remembered the expression

on his face as he prayed against the wailing wall.

The talk lasted until late, and David glimpsed the vast body of his

religious heritage.

I would like to learn a little more about it all, he admitted, and Debra

said nothing but when she packed for him to go on base that night she

placed a copy of Herman Wouk's This is my God on top of his clean

uniforms.

He read it and when next he returned to Malik Street, he asked for more.

She picked them for him, English works at first but then Hebrew, as his

grip upon the language became stronger. They were not religious works

only, but histories and historical novels that excited his interest in

this ancient centre of civilization which for three thousand years had

been a crossroads and a battleground.

He read anything and everything that she put into his case, from

josephus Flavius to Leon Uris.

This led to a desire to see and inspect the ground. It became so that

much of the time that they were free together was spent in these

explorations. They began with the hill-top fortress of Herod at Masada

where the zealots had killed each other rather than submit to Rome, and

from there they moved off the tourist beat to the lesser-known

historical sites.

In those long sunlit days they might eat their basket lunch sitting on

the ruins of a Roman aqueduct and watching a falcon working the thermals

that rose off the floor of the desert, after they had searched the bed

of a dry wadi for coins and arrowheads brought down by the last rains.

Around them rose the tall cliffs of orange and golden stone, and the

light was so clean and stark that it seemed they could see for ever, and

the silence so vast that they were the only living things in the world.

They were the happiest days that David had ever known, and they gave

point and meaning to the weary hours of squadron standby, and when the

day had ended there was always the house on Malik Street with its warmth

and laughter and love.

Joe and David arranged leave of absence from the base for the wedding.

It was a time of quiet, and le Dauphin let them go without protest, for

he would be a guest.

They drove up to Jerusalem the day before and were immediately

conscripted to assist with the arrangements. David laboured mightily as

a taxi-driver and trucker. The Mercedes transported everything from

flowers to musical instruments and distant relatives.

The Brig's garden was decorated with palm leaves and coloured bunting.

In the centre stood the huppah, a canopy worked with religious symbols

in blue and gold, the Star of David and the grapes and ears of wheat,

the pomegranates and all the other symbols of fertility.

Beneath it, the marriage ceremony would take place.

Trestle tables covered with gay cloths and set with bowls of flowers and

dishes of fruit were arranged beneath the olive trees. There were

places for three hundred guests, an open space for the dancing, a raised

timber stand hung with flags for the band.

The catering was contracted out to a professional firm and the menu had

been carefully decided upon by the chef and the women. It would have

two high points an enormous stuffed tuna, again a symbol of fertility,

and a lamb dish in the bedouin style served upon enormous copper

salvers.

on the Sunday of the wedding, David drove Debra to the home of the chief

surgeon of Hadassah Hospital.

Hannah was one of his theatre sisters and he had insisted that she use

his home to prepare for the wedding. Debra was to assist her, and David

left them and drove on to Em Karem. The lane leading to the house was

cordoned off and thick with secret service men and paratroopers.

While he watched Joe dressing, losing and finding the ring, and sweating

with nerves, David lay on Joe's bed and gave him bad advice. They could

hear the guests gathering in the garden below, and David stood up and

went to the window. He watched an airforce colonel being carefully

scrutinized and searched at the gates, but taking it all in good part.

They are being pretty thorough, David remarked.

Hannah has asked to have as few as possible of the guards in the garden.

So they are being damned careful about who they let in. Joe had at last

completed dressing and already he was beginning to sweat through the

armpits of his uniform. How do I look? he asked anxiously. God, you

handsome beast, David told him.

Piss off, Morgan, Joe grinned at him, crammed his cap on to his head and

glanced at his watch. Let's go, . he said.

The Chief Rabbi of the army was waiting with the Brig and the others in

the Brig's study. The Rabbi was the mild-mannered man who had

personally liberated the Tomb of the Patriarchs in the war of 67. During

the advance on Hebron, he had driven a jeep through the disintegrating

Arab lines, shot open the door to the tomb with a submachine-gun and

chased the Arab guards screaming over the rear wall.

Joe sat at the Brig's desk and signed the ketubbah, the marriage

contract, then the Rabbi handed him a silken cloth which Joe lifted in a

formal act of acquisition to a chorus of congratulatory Mazal toys from

the witnesses.

The bridegroom's party trooped out into the crowded garden now to await

the arrival of the bride, and she came accompanied by the chief surgeon

standing in for her dead father, and a party of festively dressed women,

including Debra and her mother. They all carried lighted candles.

To David, Hannah had never been particularly attractive, she was too

tall and severe in body and expression; however, in her white bridal

dress and veil she was transformed.

She seemed to float cloudlike upon the billowing white skirts, and her

face was softened by the veil and by the inner happiness that seemed to

glow through her green eyes. Red-gold hair framed her cheeks, and the

freckles were disguised under make-up applied by Debra's cunning hand.

She had used it to mute the rather harsh lines of Hannah's bony nose,

and the result was that Hannah was as near to beautiful as she would

ever come.

Joe, looking big and handsome in his airforce tans, went forward eagerly

to meet her at the gate to the garden and to lower the veil over her

face in the ceremony of bedeken dikafle.

Joe moved to the chuppah canopy where the Rabbi waited with a taffit

over his shoulders. After Joe the women led Hannah, each of them still

carrying a burning candle, and the Rabbi chanted a blessing as the women

and the bride circled Joe seven times in a magical circle which in olden

times would serve to ward off evil spirits. At last bride and groom

stood side by side, facing towards the site of the Temple with the

guests and witnesses pressed closely about them and the ceremony proper

began.

The Rabbi spoke the benediction over a goblet of wine from which bride

and groom both drank. Then Joe turned to Hannah, her face still veiled,

and he placed the plain gold ring upon her right forefinger.

Behold you are consecrated unto me by this ring, according to the law of

Moses and Israel. Then Joe broke the glass under his heel and the sharp

crunch was a signal for an outburst of music and song and gaiety. David

left Joe's side and worked his way through the joyous crowd of guests to

where Debra waited for him.

She wore a gown of yellow and she had fresh flowers in the dark sheen of

her hair. David smelled their perfume as he hugged her surreptitiously

about the waist and whispered in her ear, You next, my beauty! and she

whispered back, Yes, please! Joe took Hannah on his arm, and then went

to the improvised dance floor. The band began with a light bouncy tune

and all the younger ones flocked to join them, while the elders spread

out at the tables beneath the palm-decked trellis.

Yet amongst all the laughter and the gaiety, the uniforms added a sombre

touch; almost every second man was adorned with the trappings of war,

and at the garden gate and the entrance to the kitchens were uniformed

paratrooper guards each with an Uzzi submachine-gun slung at his

shoulder. It was easy to pick out the secret service men. They were

the ones in civilian clothes who moved without smiling, alert and

vigilant, amongst the guests.

David and Debra danced together, and she was so light and warm and

strong in his arms that when the band paused for breath he resented it.

He led her to a quiet corner, and they stood together, discussing the

other guests in the most disrespectful terms until Debra giggled at some

particularly outrageous remark and struck his arm lightly.

You are terrible. She leaned against him. I'm dying of thirst, won't

you get me something to drink?

A glass of cold white wine? he suggested.

Lovely, she said, smiling up into his face. For a moment they studied

each other, and suddenly David felt something dark welling up from

within him, a terrible despair, a premonition of impending loss. It was

a physical thing and he could feel the chill of it enclose his chest and

squeeze out all the happiness and the joy.

What is it, David? Her own expression altered in sympathy with his, and

she tightened her grip on his arm.

Nothing. Abruptly he pulled away from her, trying to fight off the

feeling. It's nothing, he repeated, but it was still strong in his

belly and he felt a wave of nausea from it. I'll get you the wine, he

said and turned away.

He made his way towards the bar, pushing gently through the throng. The

Brig caught his eye and smiled bleakly across the garden at him. Joe

was with his father and he called to David, laughing, with one arm

around his bride. Hannah had her veil pushed up and her freckles were

beginning to emerge from under the makeup, glowing vividly against the

snow-white lace. David waved at them but went on towards the open-air

bar at the end of the garden, the mood of sadness was still on him and

he didn't want to talk to Joe now.

So he was cut off from Debra at the moment when, with a flourish, a

procession of white-jacketed waiters came in through the iron gate of

the garden. Each of them carried a huge copper salver from which, even

in the warm sun, rose tendrils of steam, and the odour of meat and fish

and spices filled the garden. There were gasps and cries of

appreciation from the guests.

A way opened for them towards the high table on the raised terrace which

led to the kitchen doors and the house.

The procession of waiters passed close to David, and suddenly his

attention was drawn from the display of fine food to the face of the

second waiter in line. He was a man of medium height and ark

complexion, a mahogany face with a thickly drooping mustache.

He was sweating. That was what had drawn David's attention, his face

was shiny with sweat. Droplets clung in his mustache and slid down his

cheeks. The white jacket was sodden at the armpits as he lifted the

gigantic platter on high.

At the moment that he drew level with David their eyes met for an

instant. David realized that the man was in the grip of some deep

emotion, fear, perhaps, or exhilaration. Then the waiter seemed to

become aware of David's scrutiny and his eyes slid nervously away.

David felt suspicion begin to chill his arms as the three figures

climbed the stone stairs, and filed behind the table.

The waiter glanced again at David, saw that his gaze was still locked

upon his face, and then he said something out of the corner of his mouth

to one of his companions. He also glanced at David, and caught his

stare, and his expression was sufficient to send alarm flaring urgently

through David's chest and brain. Something was happening, something

dangerous and ugly, he was certain of it. . Wildly he looked about for

the guards. There were two of them on the terrace behind the line of

waiters, and one near David beside the gate.

David shoved his way desperately towards him, mindless of the outraged

comments of those in his way. He was watching the three waiters and so

he saw it begin to happen.

It had obviously been carefully rehearsed, for as the three waiters

placed the salvers upon the table to the laughter and applause of the

guests crowded in the garden below them, so they drew back the sheet's

of plastic on which a tin display of food had been arranged to cover the

deadly load that each copper salver carried.

The brown-faced waiter lifted a machine pistol from under the plastic

sheet, and turned swiftly to fire a traversing burst into the two

paratroopers behind him at point-blank range. The clattering thunder of

automatic fire was deafening in the walled garden, and the stream of

bullets slashed through the bellies of the two guards like a monstrous

cleaver, almost cutting them in half.

The waiter on David's left was a wizened monkeyfaced man, with bright

black berries for eyes. He, too, lifted a machine pistol from his

salver, and he crouched over it and fired a burst at the paratrooper by

the gate.

They were going for the guards, taking them out first.

The pistol shook and roared in his fists, and the bullets socked into

human flesh with a rubbery thumping sound.

The guard had cleared his Uzzi, and was trying to aim as a bullet hit

him in the mouth and snapped his head back, his paratrooper beret

spinning high into the air.

The machine-gun flew from his arms as he fell, and it slid across the

tiles towards David. David dropped flat below the stone steps of the

terrace as the Arab gunners turned their pistols on the wedding crowd,

hosing the courtyard with a triple stream of bullets, and unleashing a

hurricane of screams and shouts and desperate cries to join the roar of

the guns.

Across the yard, a security agent had the pistol out of his shoulder

holster and he dropped into the marksman crouch, holding the pistol with

both arms extended as he aimed. He fired twice and hit the monkey-faced

gunman, sending him reeling back against the wall, but he stayed on his

feet and returned the agent's fire with the machine pistol, knocking him

down and rolling him IJ across the paving stones.

The yard was filled with a panic-stricken mob, a struggling mass of

humanity, that screamed and fell and crawled and died beneath the flail

of the guns.

Two bullets caught Hannah in the chest, smashing her backwards over a

table of glasses and bottles that shattered about her. The bright blood

spurted from the wounds, drenching the front of her white wedding gown.

The centre gunman dropped his pistol as it emptied, and he stooped

quickly over the copper salver and came up with a grenade in each hand.

He hurled them into the struggling, screaming throng and the double

blast was devastating, twin bursts of brightest white flame and the

terrible sweep of shrapnel. The screams of the women rose louder,

seeming as deafening as the gunfire - and the gunman stooped once more

and his hands held another load of grenades.

All this had taken only seconds, but a fleeting moment of time to turn

festivity into shocking carnage and torn flesh.

David left the shelter of the stone steps. He rolled swiftly across the

flags towards the abandoned Uzzi, and he came up on his knees, holding

it at the hip. His paratrooper training made his actions automatic.

The wounded gunman saw him, and turned towards him, staggering slightly,

pushing himself weakly away from the wall. His one arm was shattered

and hung loosely in the tattered, blood-soaked sleeve of his jacket, but

he lifted the machine pistol and aimed at David.

David fired first, the bullets struck bursts of plaster from the wall

behind the Arab and David corrected his aim. The bullets drove the

gunman backwards, pinning him to the wall, while his body jumped and

shook and twitched. He slumped down leaving a glistening wet smear of

blood down the white plaster.

David swivelled the gun on to the Arab beside the kitchen door. He was

poised to throw his next grenade, right arm extended behind him, both

fists filled with the deadly steel balls. He was shouting something, a

challenge or a war cry, a harsh triumphant screech that carried clearly

above the screams of his victims.

Before he could release the grenade, David hit him with a full burst, a

dozen bullets that smashed into his chest and belly, and the Arab

dropped both grenades at his feet and doubled over clutching at his

broken body, trying to stem the flood of his life blood with his bare

hands.

The grenades were short fused and they exploded almost immediately,

engulfing the dying man in a net of fire and shredding his body from the

waist down. The same explosion knocked down the third assassin at the

end of the terrace, and David came to his feet and charged up the steps.

The third and last Arab was mortally wounded, his head and chest torn by

grenade fragments, but he was still alive, thrashing about weakly as he

groped for the machine pistol that lay beside him in a puddle of his own

blood.

David was consumed by a terrible rage. He found that he was screaming

and raging like a maniac, and he crouched at the head of the stairs and

aimed at the dying Arab.

The Arab had the machine pistol and was lifting it with the grim

concentration of a drunken man. David fired, a single shot that slapped

into the Arab's body without apparent effect, and then suddenly the Uzzi

in David's hands was empty, the pin falling with a hollow click on an

empty chamber.

Across the terrace, beyond range of a quick rush, the Arab's face was

streaked with sweat and blood as he frowned heavily, trying to aim the

machine pistol as it wavered. He was dying swiftly, the flame

fluttering towards extinction, but he was using the last of his

strength.

David stood frozen with the empty weapon in his hand, and the blank eye

of the pistol sought him out, and fastened upon him. He watched the

Arab's eyes narrow, and his sudden murderous grin of achievement as he

saw David in his sights, and his finger tightening on the trigger.

At that range the bullets would hit like the solid stream of a fire

hose. He began to move, to throw himself down the stairs, but he knew

it was too late. The Arab was at the instant of firing, and at the same

instant a revolver shot crashed out at David's side.

Half the Arab's head was cut away by the heavy lead slug, and he was

flung backwards with the yellow custard contents of his skull

splattering the white-washed wall behind him and his death grip on the

trigger emptied the machine pistol with a shattering roar harmlessly

into the grape vines above him.

Dazedly David turned to find the Brig beside him, the dead security

guard's pistol in his fist. For a moment they stared at each other, and

then the Brig stepped past him and walked to the fallen bodies of the

other two Arabs. Standing over each in turn he fired a single pistol

shot into their heads.

David turned away and let the Uzzi drop from his hands. He went down

the stairs into the garden.

The dead and the wounded lay singly and in piles, pitiful fragments of

humanity. The soft cries and the groans of the wounded, the bitter

weeping of a child, the voice of a mother, were sounds more chilling

than the screaming and the shouting.

The garden was drenched and painted with blood.

There were splashes and gouts of it upon the white walls, there were

puddles and snakes of it spreading and crawling across the paving, dark

slicks of it sinking into the dust, ropes of it dribbling and pattering

like rain from the body of a musician as he hung over the rail of the

bandstand. The sickly sweetish reek of it mingled with the smell of

spiced food and spilled wine, with the floury taste of plaster dust and

the bitter stench of burned explosive.

The veils of smoke and dust that still drifted across the garden could

not hide the terrible carnage. The bark of the olive trees was torn in

slabs from the trunks by flying steel, exposing the white wet wood. The

wounded and dazed survivors crawled over a field of broken glass and

shattered crockery. They swore and prayed, and whispered and groaned

and called for succour.

David went down the steps, his feet moving without his bidding; his

muscles were numb, his body senseless and only his finger-tips tingled

with life.

Joe was standing below one of the torn olive trees. He stood like a

colossus, with his thick powerful legs astride, his head thrown back and

his face turned to the sky, but his eyes were tight-closed and his mouth

formed a silent cry of agony, for he held Hannah's body in his arms.

Her bridal veil had fallen from her head, and the bright copper mane of

her hair hung back, almost to the ground. Her legs and one arm hung

loosely also, slack and lifeless. The golden freckles stood out clearly

on the milky-white skin of her face, and the bloody wounds bloomed like

the petals of the poinsettia tree upon the bosom of her wedding-gown.

David averted his eyes. He could not watch Joe in his anguish, and he

walked on slowly across the garden, in terrible dread of what he would

find.

Debra! he tried to raise his voice, but it was a hoarse raven's croak.

His feet slipped in a puddle of thick dark blood, and he stepped over

the unconscious body of a woman who lay, face down, in a floral dress,

with her arms thrown wide. He did not recognize her as Debra's mother.

Debra! He tried to hurry, but his legs would not respond. He saw her

then, at the corner of the wall where he had left her.

Debra! He felt his heart soar. She seemed unhurt, kneeling below one

of the marble Grecian statues, with the flowers in her hair and the

yellow silk of her dress gay and festive.

She knelt, facing the wall, and her head was bowed as though in prayer.

The dark wing of her hair hung forward screening her and she held her

cupped hands to her face.

Debra. He dropped to his knees beside her, and timidly he touched her

shoulder.

Are you all right, my darling? And she lowered her hands slowly, but

still holding them cupped together. A great coldness closed around

David's chest as he saw that her cupped hands were filled with blood.

Rich'red blood, bright as wine in a crystal glass.

David, she whispered, turning her face towards him. Is that you,

darling? David gave a small breathless moan of agony as he saw the

blood-glutted eye sockets, the dark gelatinous mess that congealed in

the thick dark eyelashes and turned the lovely face into a gory mask.

Is that you, David? she asked again, her head cocked at a blind

listening angle.

Oh God, Debra. He stared into her face.

I can't see, David. She groped for him. Oh David I can't see.

And he took her sticky wet hands in his, and he thought that his heart

would break.

The stark modern silhouette of Hadassah Hospital stood upon the skyline

above the village of Em Karem. The speed with which the ambulances

arrived saved many of the victims whose lives were critically balanced,

and the hospital was geared to sudden influxes of war casualties.

The three men, the Brig, Joe and David, kept their vigil together all

that night upon the hard wooden benches of the hospital waiting-room.

When more was learned of the planning behind the attack, a security

agent would come to whisper a report to the Brig.

One of the assassins was a long-term and trusted employee of the

catering firm, and the other two were his cousins who had. been

employed as temporary staff on his recommendation. It was certain that

their papers were forged.

The Prime Minister and her cabinet had been delayed by an emergency

session, but had been on their way to the wedding when the attack was

made. A fortunate chance had saved them, and she sent her personal

condolences; to the relatives of the victims.

At ten o'clock, Damascus radio gave a report in which El Fatah claimed

responsibility for the attack by members of a suicide squad.

A little before midnight, the chief surgeon came from the main theatre,

still in his theatre greens and boots, with his mask pulled down to his

throat. Ruth Mordecai was out of danger, he told the Brig. They had

removed a bullet that had passed through her lung and lodged under her

shoulder blade. They had saved the lung.

Thank God, murmured the Brig and closed his eyes for a moment, imagining

life without his woman of twenty-five years. Then he looked up. My

daughter?

The surgeon shook his head. They are still working on her in the small

casualty theatre. He hesitated.

Colonel Halmin died in theatre a few minutes ago The toll of the dead

was eleven so far, with four others on the critical list.

In the early morning the undertakers arrived for the bodies with their

long wicker baskets and black limousines. David gave Joe the keys of

the Mercedes, that he might follow by the hearse bearing Hannah's body

and arrange the details of the funeral.

David and the Brig sat side by side, haggard and with sleepless bruised

eyes, drinking coffee from paper cups.

In the late morning the eye surgeon came out to them.

He was a smooth-faced, young-looking man in his forties, the greying of

his hair seeming incongruous against the unlined skin and clear blue

eyes.

General Mordecai?

The Brig rose stiffly. He seemed to have aged ten years during the

night.

I am Doctor Edelman. Will you come with me please?

David rose to follow them, but the doctor paused and looked to the Brig.

I am her fiance, said David.

It might be best if we spoke alone first, General. Edelman was clearly

trying to pass a warning with his eyes, and the Brig nodded. Please,

David. But- David began, and the Brig squeezed his shoulder briefly,

the first gesture of affection that had ever passed between them.

Please, my boy, and David turned back to the hard bench.

In the tiny cubicle of his office Edelman hitched himself on to the

corner of the desk and lit a cigarette. His hands were long and slim as

a girl's, and he used the lighter with a surgeon's neat economical

movements.

You don't want it with a sugar coating, I imagine? He had appraised the

Brig carefully, and went on without waiting for a reply. Neither of

your daughter's eyes are damaged, but be held up a hand to forestall the

rising expression of relief on the Brig's lips, and turned to the

scanner on which hung a set of X-ray plates. He switched on the back

light.

The eyes were untouched, there is almost no damage to her facial

features, however, the damage is here he touched a hard frosty outline

in the smoky grey swirls and patterns of the X-ray plate, - that is a

steel fragment, a tiny steel fragment, almost certainly from a grenade.

It is no larger than the tip of a lead pencil. It entered the skull

through the outer edge of the right temple, severing the large vein

which accounted for the profuse haernorrhage, and it travelled obliquely

behind the eye-balls without touching them or any other vital tissue.

Then, however, it pierced the bony surrounds of the optic chiasma, he

traced the path of the fragment through Debra's head, and it seems to

have cut through the canal and severed the chiasma, before lodging in

the bone sponge beyond. Edelman drew heavily on the cigarette while he

looked for a reaction from the Brig.

There was none.

Do you understand the implications of this, General? he asked, and the

Brig shook his head wearily. The surgeon switched off the light of the

X-ray scanner, and returned to the desk. He pulled a scrap pad towards

the Brig and took a propelling pencil from his top pocket.

Boldly he sketched an optical chart, eyeballs, brain, and optical

nerves, as seen from above.

The optical nerves, one from each eye, run back into this narrow tunnel

of bone where they fuse, and then branch again to opposite lobes of the

brain The Brig nodded, and Edelman slashed the point of his pencil

through the point where the nerves fused.

Understanding began to show on the Brig's strained and tired features.

Blind? he asked, and Edelman nodded. Both eyes? 'I'm afraid so. The

Brig bowed his head and gently massaged his own eyes with thumb and

forefinger. He spoke again without looking at Edelman.

Permanently? he asked.

She has no recognition of shape, or colour, of light or darkness. The

track of the fragment is through the optic chiasma. All indications are

that the nerve is severed.

There is no technique known to medical science which will restore that.

Edelman paused to draw breath, before going on. In a word then, your

daughter is permanently and totally blinded in both eyes. The Brig

sighed, and looked up slowly. Have you told her? and Edelman could not

hold his gaze. I was rather hoping that you would do that. Yes, the

Brig nodded, it would be best that way. Can I see her now? Is she

awake? She is under light sedation. No pain, only a small amount of

discomfort, the external wound is insignificant, and we shall not

attempt to remove the metal fragment. That would entail major

neurosurgery. He stood up and indicated the door. Yes, you may see her

now. I will take you to her. The corridor outside the row of emergency

theatres was lined along each wall with stretchers, and the Brig

recognized many of his guests laid out upon them. He stopped briefly to

speak with one or two of them, before following Edelman to the recovery

room at the end of the corridor.

Debra lay on the tall bed below the window. She was very pale, dry

blood was still clotted in her hair and a thick cotton wool and bandage

dressing covered both her eyes.

Your father is here, Miss Mordecai, Edelman told I her, and she rolled

her head swiftly towards them.

Daddy? I am here, my child. The Brig took the hand she held out, and

stooped to kiss her. Her lips were cold, and she smelled strongly of

disinfectant and anaesthetic.

Mama? she asked anxiously.

She is out of danger, the Brig assured her, but Hannah Yes. They told

me, Debra stopped him, her voice choking. Is Joe all right?

He is strong, the Brig said. He will be all right David? she asked.

He is here.

Eagerly she struggled up on to one elbow, her face lighting with

expectation, the heavily bound eyes turned blindly seeking.

David, she called, where are you? Damn this bandage. Don't worry,

David, it's just to rest my eyes.

No, the Brig restrained her with a hand on her arm. He is outside,

waiting, and she slumped with disappointment.

Ask him to come to me, please, she whispered.

Yes, said the Brig, in a while, but first there is something we must

talk about, something I have to tell you.

She must have guessed what it was, she must have been warned by the tone

of his voice for she went very still. That peculiar stillness of hers,

like a frightened animal of the veld.

He was a soldier, with a soldier's blunt ways, and although he tried to

soften it, yet even his tone was roughened with his own sorrow, so that

it came out brutally. Her hand in his was the only indication that she

had heard him, it spasmed convulsively like a wounded thing and then lay

still, a small tense hand in the circle of his big bony fist.

She asked no questions and when he had done they sat quietly together

for a long time. He spoke first.

I will send David to you now, he said, and her response was swift and

vehement.

No. She gripped his hand hard. No, I can't meet him now. I have to

think about this first.

The Brig went back to the waiting-room and David stood up expectantly,

the pure lines of his face seemingly carved from pale polished marble,

and the dark blue of his eyes in deep contrast.

The Brig forestalled him harshly. No visitors. He took David's arm.

You will not be allowed to see her until tomorrow.

Is something wrong? What is it? David tried to pull away, but the Brig

held him and steered him towards the door.

Nothing is wrong. She will be all right, but she must have no

excitement now. You'll be able to see her tomorrow.

They buried Hannah that evening in the family plot on the Mountain of

Olives. It was a small funeral party attended by the three men and a

mere handful of relatives, many of whom had others to mourn from the

previous day's slaughter.

There was an official car waiting to take the Brig to a meeting of the

high command, where retaliatory measures would certainly be discussed,

another revolution in the relentless wheel of violence that rolled

across the troubled land.

Joe and David climbed into the Mercedes and sat silently, David making

no effort to start the engine. Joe lit cigarettes for them, and they

both felt drained of purpose and direction.

What are you going to do now? David asked him. We had two weeks, Joe

answered him. We were going down to Ashkelon, his voice trailed off. I

don't know. There isn't anything to do now, is there? Shall we go and

have a drink somewhere? Joe shook his head. I don't feel like

drinking, he said. I think I'll go back to base. They are flying night

interceptions tonight.

Yes, David agreed quickly, I'll come with you. He could not see Debra

until tomorrow, and the house on Malik Street would be lonely and cold.

Suddenly he longed for the peace of the night heavens.

The moon was a brightly curved Saracen blade against the soft darkness

of the sky, and the stars were fat and silver and gemlike in their

clarity.

They flew high above the earth, remote from its grief and sorrow,

wrapped in the isolation of flight and lost in the ritual and

concentration of night interception.

The target was a Mirage of their own squadron, and they picked it up on

the scanner far out over the Negev.

Joe locked on to it and called the track and range while David searched

for and at last spotted the moving star of the target's jet blast,

burning redly against the velvety blackness of the night.

He took them in on a clean interception creeping up under the target's

belly and then pulling steeply up past its wing-tip, the way a barracuda

goes for the lure from below and explodes out through the surface of the

sea.

They shot past so close that the target Mirage broke wildly away to

port, unaware of their presence until that moment.

Joe slept that night, exhausted with grief, but David lay in the bunk

beneath him and listened to him. In the dawn he rose and showered and

left Joe still asleep. He drove into Jerusalem and reached the hospital

just as the sun came up and lit the hills with its rays of soft gold and

pearly pink.

The night sister at the desk was brusque and preoccupied. You shouldn't

be here until visiting hours this afternoon, but David smiled at her

with all the charm he could muster.

I just wanted to know if she is doing well. I have to rejoin my

squadron this morning. The sister was not immune either to his smile or

the airforce uniform, and she went to consult her lists.

You must be mistaken, she said at last. 'The only Mordecai we have is

Mrs. Ruth Mordecai. That's her mother, David told her, and the sister

flipped the sheet on her clipboard.

No wonder I couldn't find it, she muttered irritably. She was

discharged last night Discharged? David stared at her

uncomprehendingly.

Yes, she went home last night. I remember her now.

Her father came to fetch her just as I came on duty.

Pretty girl with eye bandages - Yes, David nodded. Thank you. Thank

you very much, and he ran down the steps to the Mercedes, his feet light

with relief, freed at last from the gnawing doubt and dread.

Debra had gone home. Debra was safe and well.

The Brig opened the door to him, and let him into the silent house. He

was still in his uniform, and it was wilted and rumpled. The Brig's

face was fine-drawn, the lines crudely chiselled around his mouth, and

his eyes were swollen and bloodshot from worry and sorrow and lack of

sleep.

Where is Debra? David demanded eagerly, and the Brig sighed and stood

aside for him to enter.

Where is she? David repeated, and the Brig led him to his study and

waved him to a chair.

Why don't you answer me? David was becoming angry, and the Brig slumped

into a chair across the large bare room, with its severe monastic

furnishings of books and archaeological relics.

I couldn't tell you yesterday, David, she asked me not to. I'm sorry.

What is it? David was fully alarmed now.

She had to have time to think, to make up her mind. The Brig stood up

again and began to pace, his footsteps echoing hollowly on the bare

wooden floor, pausing every now and then to touch one of the pieces of

ancient statuary, caressing it absently as he talked, as though to draw

comfort from it.

David listened quietly, occasionally shaking his head as though to deny

that what he was hearing was the truth.

So you see it is permanent, final, without hope. She is blind, David,

totally blind. She has gone into a dark world of her own where nobody

else can follow her Where is she? I want to go to her, David whispered,

but the Brig ignored the request and went on steadily.

She wanted time to make her decision, and I gave it to her. Last night,

after the funeral, I went back to her and she was ready. She had faced

it, come to terms with it, and she had decided how it must be I want to

see her, David repeated. I want to talk to her. Now the Brig looked at

him and the bleakness in his eyes faded, his voice dropped, becoming

gruff with compassion.

No, David. That was her decision. You will not see her again. For you

she is dead. Those were her words.

Tell him I am dead, but he must only remember me when I was alive David

interrupted him, jumping to his feet. Where is she, damn you? His

voice was shaking. I want to see her now. He crossed swiftly to the

door and jerked it open, but the Brig went on. She is not here. 'Where

is she? David turned back. I cannot tell you. I swore a solemn oath

to her. 'I'll find her You might, if you search carefully, but you will

forfeit any respect or love she may have for you, the Brig went on

remorselessly. Again I will give you her exact words. "Tell him that I

charge him on our love, on all we have ever been to each other, that he

will let me be, that he will not come looking for me. " Why, but why?

David demanded desperately. Why does she reject me? She knows that she

is altered beyond all hope or promise. She knows that what was before

can never be again. She knows that she can never be to you again what

you have a right to expect - he stopped David's protest with an angry

chopping gesture of his hand. Listen to me, she knows that it cannot

endure. She can never be your wife now. You are too young, too vital,

too arrogant- David stared at him - she knows that it will begin to

spoil. In a week, a month, a year perhaps, it will have died. You will

be trapped, tied to a blind woman. She doesn't want that. She wants it

to die now, swiftly, mercifully, not to drag on Stop it, David shouted.

Stop it, damn you. That's enough. He stumbled to the chair and fell

into it. They were silent for a while, David crouched in the chair with

his face buried in his hands. The Brig standing before the narrow

window casement, the early morning light catching the fierce old

warrior's face.

She asked me to make you promise - he hesitated, and David looked up at

him, - to promise that you would not try to find her. No. David shook

his head stubbornly.

The Brig sighed. If you refused, I was to tell you this she said you

would understand, although I don't, she said that in Africa there is a

fierce and beautiful animal called the sable antelope, and sometimes one

of them is wounded by a hunter or mauled by a lion The words were as

painful as the cut of a whiplash, and David remembered himself saying

them to her once when they were both young and strong and invulnerable.

Very well, he murmured at last, if that's what she wants, then I promise

not to try and find her, though I don't promise not to try and convince

her she is wrong. I Perhaps it would be best if you left Israel, the

Brig told him. Perhaps you should go back to where you came from and

forget all of this ever happened. David paused, considering this a

moment, before he answered, No, all I have is here. I will stay here

Good. The Brig accepted the decision. You are always welcome in this

house. Thank you, sir, said David and went out to where the Mercedes

was parked. He let himself into the house on Malik Street, and saw

instantly that someone had been there before him.

He walked slowly into the living-room; the books were gone from the

olive-wood table, the Kadesh painting no longer hung above the leather

couch. In the bathroom he opened the wall cabinet and all her toilet

articles had been removed, the rows of exotic bottles, the tubes and

pots, even the slot for her toothbrush beside his was empty.

Her cupboard was bare, the dresses gone, the shelves blank, every trace

of her swept away, except for the lingering scent of her perfume on the

air, and the ivory lace cover upon the bed.

He went to the bed and sat upon it, stroking the fine lace-work,

remembering how it had been.

There was the hard outline of something thin and square upon the pillow,

beneath the cover. He turned back the lace and picked up the thin green

book.

This year, in Jerusalem. It had been left there as a parting gift The

title swam and went misty before his eyes. It was all he had left of

her.

it seemed as though the slaughter at Em Karem was the signal for a fresh

upsurge of hostility and violence throughout the Middle East. A planned

escalation of international tensions, as the Arab nations rattled their

impressive, oil-purchased, array of weaponry and swore once more to

leave not a single Jew in the land they still called Palestine.

There were savage and merciless attacks on soft targets, ill-protected

embassies and consulates around the world, letter bombs, and night

ambushes on school buses in isolated areas.

Then the provocations grew bolder, more directly aimed at the heart of

Israel. Border infringements, commando-style raids, violations of air

space, shellings, and a threatening gathering and massing of armed might

along the long vulnerable frontiers of the wedge-shaped territories of

the tiny land.

The Israelis waited, praying for peace, but girl for war.

Day after day, month after month, David and Joe flew to maintain that

degree of expertise, where instinct and instantaneous reaction

superseded conscious thought and reasoned action.

At those searing speeds beyond sound, it was only this training that

swung the advantage from one combat team to another. Even the superior

reaction times of these carefully hand-picked young men were unequal to

the tasks of bringing their mighty machines into effective action, where

latitudes of error were measured in hundredths of a second, until they

had attained this extra-sensory perfection.

To seek out, to recognize, to close, to destroy, and to disengage, it

was a total preoccupation that blessedly left little time for brooding

and sorrow.

Yet the sorrow and anger, that David and Joe shared, seemed doubly to

arm them. Their vengeance was allconsuming.

Soon they joined that select half-dozen strike teams that Desert Flower

called to undertake the most delicate of sorties. Again and again they

were ordered into combat, and each time the confidence that Command had

in them was strengthened.

As David sat in his cockpit, dressed from head to foot in the stiff

constricting embrace of afull-pressure suit, breathing oxygen from his

closed face mask, although the Mirage still crouched upon the ground,

there were four black, red and white miniature rounders painted on the

fuselage below his cockpit. The scalps of the enemy.

It was a mark of Desert Flower's trust that Bright Lance flight had been

selected for high altitude Red standby. With the statter lines plugged

ready to blow compressed air into the compressors and whirl the great

engines into life, and the ground crew lounging beside the motor, the

Mirages were ready to be hurled aloft in a matter of seconds. Both

David and Joe were suited to survive the almost pressureless altitudes

above sixty thousand feet where an unprotected man's blood would fizzle

like champagne.

David had lost count of the weary uncomfortable days and hours he had

sat cramped in his cockpit on Red Standby with only the regular

fifteen-minute checks to break the monotony.

Checking 1115 hours, fifteen minutes to stand down. David said into the

microphone, and heard Joe's breathing in his ears before the reply. Two

standing by. Beseder.

Immediately after stand-down, when another crew would assume the arduous

waiting of standby, David would change into a track suit and run for

five or six miles to get the stiffness out of his body and to have his

sweat wash away the staleness. He was looking forward to that,

afterwards he would There was a sharp crackle in his earphones and a new

voice. Red Standby, Go! Go!

The command was repeated over loudspeakers in the under-ground bunker,

and the ground crew boiled into action. With all his pre-flight checks

and routine long ago completed, David merely pushed his throttle to

starting position, and the whine of the statters showed immediate

results. The engine caught and he ran up his power to one hundred percent.

Ahead of him the blast doors were lifting.

Bright Lance Two, this is leader going to take off power.

Two conforming, said Joe and they went screaming up the ramp and hurled

themselves at the sky.

Hallo, Desert Flower, this is Bright Lance airborne and climbing. Bright

Lance, this is the Brig, David was not surprised to find that he was in

charge of command plot.

Distinctive voices and the use of personal names would prevent any

chance of the enemy confusing the net with false messages. David, we

have an intruder approach at high level that should enter our air space

in four minutes, if it continues on its present course. We are tracking

him at seventy-five thousand feet which means it is either an American

U. 2, which is highly unlikely, or that it is a Russian spy plane

coming over to have a look at our latest dispersals. Beseder, sir,

David acked.

We are going to try for a storm-climb to intercept as soon as the target

becomes hostile in our air space. 'Beseder, sir.

Level at twenty thousand feet, turn to 186 and go to maximum speed for

storm-climb. At twenty thousand, David went to straight and level

flight and glanced into his mirror to see Joe's Mirage hanging out on

his tail.

Bright Lance Two, this is the leader. Commencing run now. 'Two

conforming.

David lit his tail and pushed the throttle open to maximum afterburner

position. The Mirage jumped away, and David let the nose drop slightly

to allow the speed to build up quickly. They went blazing through the

sound barrier without a check, and David retrimmed for supersonic

flight, thumbing the little top-hat on the end of his stick.

Their speed rocketed swiftly through mach 1. 2, mach 1. 5.

The Mirages were stripped of all but their essentials, there were no

missiles dangling beneath them, no auxiliary fuel tanks to create drag,

the only weapons they carried were their two 30 mm. cannons.

Flying lightly, they drove on up the mach scale, streaking from

Beersheba to Eilat in the time it would take a man to walk a city block.

Their speed stabilized at mach 1. 9 just short of the heat barrier.

David, this is the Brig. We are tracking you. You are on correct

course and speed for interception. Prepare to commence dimb in sixteen

seconds. 'Beseder, sir. Counting now.

Eight, seven, six . . . two, one. Go!

Go!

David tensed his body and as he pulled up the nose of the Mirage, he

opened his mouth and screamed to fight off the effects of gravity. But

despite these precautions and the constricting grip of his pressure

suit, the abrupt change of direction crammed him down into his seat and

the blood drained out of his head so that his vision went grey and then

black.

The Mirage was standing on her tail still flying at very nearly twice

the speed of sound and, as his vision returned, David glanced at the

G-meter and saw that he had subjected his body to nearly nine times the

force of gravity to achieve this attitude of climb without loss of

speed.

Now he lay on his back and stared up at the empty sky while the needle

of his altimeter raced upwards, and his speed gradually eroded away.

A quick sweep showed Joe's Mirage rock steady in position below him,

climbing in concert with him, and his voice came through calm and

reassuring.

Leader, this is Two. I have contact with target. Even under the stress

of storm-climb, Joe was busy manipulating his beloved radar, and he had

picked up the spy plane high above them.

In this manoeuvre they were trading speed for height, and as one

increased so the other drained away.

They were like a pair of arrows aimed directly upwards. The bowstring

could throw them just so far and then they would hang there in space for

a few moments, until they were drawn irresistibly back to earth. In

those few moments they must find and kill the enemy.

David lay back in his seat and watched with fresh wonder as the sky

turned darker blue and then slowly became the mid-night black of space,

shot through with the riM prickings of the stars.

They were at the top edge of the stratosphere, high above the highest

clouds or signs of weather as known to earth. Outside the cockpit the

air was thin and weak, insufficient for life, hardly sufficient to keep

the jets of the Mirage's engines burning, and the cold was a fearsome

sixty degrees of frost.

The two aircraft slowly ran out of energy, and they came out together at

the top of a mighty parabola. The sensation of flight was gone, they

swam through the dark forbidding oceans of space and far below them the

earth glowed strangely, with a weird unnatural light.

There was no time to admire the view, the Mirage was wallowing in the

thin and treacherous air, her control surfaces skidding and sliding

without bite.

Joe was on the target, tracking quietly and steadily and they came round

carefully on to the heading, with the aircraft staggering mushily and

beginning to fall away from these inhospitable heights.

David stared ahead, holding the Mirage's nose up for sustained altitude

but already the stall warning device was flicking amber and red at him.

He was running out of time and height.

Then suddenly he saw it, seeming startlingly close in the rare air,

ghosting along on its immense wings, like a black manta-ray through the

sable and silent sea of space, ahead and slightly below them, calmly and

silently, it drifted along, its height giving it a false sense of

invulnerability.

Desert Flower, this is Bright Lance visual on the intruder and

requesting permission for strike. David's cool tone hid the sudden gust

of his anger and hatred that the sighting had released.

Report your target, the Brig was hedgin& it was a dangerous decision to

call the strike on an unknown target.

Desert Flower, it's an 11yushin Mark 1 7-11. No apparent marines.

It needed no marking, it could only belong to one nation. David was

closing fast, he could fly no slower than this, and he was rapidly

overhauling the other machine. Those huge wings were designed to float

upon the feeble air of the stratosphere.

Closing fast, he warned Desert Flower. Opportunity for strike will pass

in approximately ten seconds. The silence in his headphones hummed

quickly, and he readied his cannons and watched the spy plane blowing up

rapidly in size as he dropped down upon it.

Suddenly the Brig made the decision, perhaps committing his country to

heavy retaliation, but knowing that the spy plane's cameras were

steadily recording vital details of their ability to resist aggression,

information that would be passed quickly to their enemies.

David, his voice was curt and harsh, this is the Brig.

Hit him? Beseder. David let the Mirage's nose drop a fraction, and she

responded gratefully. Two, this is leader attacking. 'Two conforming.

He went down on the Ilyushin so fast, that as she came into his sights

he knew he had time for only a few seconds of fire.

He pressed the trigger with the aiming pipper on the spy plane's wing

roots, and he saw her rear up like a great fish struck by the steel of

the harpoon.

For three seconds he poured his cannon shells into her, and watched them

flash and twinkle against the massive black silhouette. Then he was

through, falling away below the giant's belly, with his power spent,

dropping away like the burned-out shell of a rocket.

Joe came down astern of him, backing up the attack, and in his sights

the spy plane hung helplessly on its wide wings, its long rounded nose

pointing to the black sky with its cold uncaring stars.

He pressed the trigger and the plane broke up amidst the bright flashes

of exploding cannon shells. One wing snapped off at its roots and the

carcass began its long slow tumble down the heavens.

Hello Desert Flower, this is Bright Lance leader.

Target destroyed. David tried to keep his voice level, but he found his

hands were trembling and his guts were aching cold from the spill-over

of his hatred that not even the enemy's death could expunge.

Again he pressed the button to open the flight net. Joe, that's one

more for Hannah, he said, but for once there was no reply, and after he

had listened in vain to the throb of the carrier beam for a few seconds

he closed it, and activated his doppler gear for a homing signal, and

silently followed him back to base.

Debra had been a steadying and maturing influence, but now David reacted

so wildly to her going that Joe had to continue his role of wing man,

even when they were off base.

They spent much of their leisure time together, for although they seldom

mentioned their loss, yet the sharing of it drew them closer.

Often Joe slept over at Malik Street, for his own home was a sad and

depressing place now. The Brig was seldom there in these troubled

times, Debra gone and his mother was so altered by her terrible

experience that she was grey and broken, aged beyond her years. The

bullet wound in her body had closed, but there was other damage that

would never heal.

David's wildness was a craving for the forgetfulness of constant action.

He was only truly at peace when he was in the air, and on the ground he

was restless and mercurial. Joe moved, big and calm beside him,

steering him tactfully out of trouble with a slow grin and an easy word.

As a consequence of the downed spy plane, the Syrians began a policy of

provocative patrols, calculated infringement of Israeli air space, which

was discontinued as soon as retaliation was drawn. As the interceptors

raced to engage they would swing away, declining combat, and move back

within their own borders.

Twice David saw the greenish luminous blur of these hostile patrols on

the screen of his scanning radar, and each time he had surprised himself

with the icy feeling of anger and hatred that had lain heavy as a rock

upon his heart and lungs as he led Joe in on the interception.

Each time, however, the Syrians had been warned by their own radar and

they had turned away, increasing speed, and withdrawn discreetly and

mockingly.

Bright Lance, this is Desert Flower. Target is no longer hostile.

Discontinue attack pattern. The Syrian MIG 2i's bad crossed their own

frontier, and each time David had answered quietly, Two, this is leader.

Discontinuing attack pattern and resuming scan.

The tactics were designed to wear on the q& of the defenders, and in all

the interceptor squadrons the tension was becoming explosive. The

provocation was pushing them to the edge of restraint. Incidents were

only narrowly being averted, as the hot-bloods crowded their

interceptions to the very frontiers of war. Finally, however, there had

to come intervention from above as Desert Flower tried to hold them on a

tighter leash.

They sent the Brig to talk to his crews and as he stood on the dais and

looked about the crowded briefing room, he realized that it was unfair

to train the hawk and then keep the hood over his eyes and the thong

upon his leg, to hold him upon the wrist, when the wild duck were

flighting overhead.

He started at a philosophical level, taking advantage of the regard that

he knew his young pilots had for him.

the object of war is peace, the ultimate strategy of any commander is

peace -'There was no response from his audience. The Brig caught the

level scrutiny of his own son. How could he talk of placation to a

trained warrior who had just buried the mutilated body of his ! bride?

The Brig ploughed on manfully.

Only a fool allows himself to be drawn on to a field of the enemy's

choosing, he was reaching them now, I won't have one of you young pups

pushing us into something we are not ready for. I don't want to give

them an excuse. That is what they want, They were thawing now, he saw a

head nod thoughtfully and heard a murmur of agreement.

Any of you looking for big trouble, you don't have to go to Damascus,

you know my address, he tried for his first laugh, and got it. They

were chuckling now. All right, then. We don't want trouble. We are

going to lean right over backwards to prevent it, but we are not going

to fall on our arses. When the time comes, I'll give you the word and

it won't be the soft word, or the other cheek, they growled then, a

fierce little sound, and he ended it, - but you wait for that word. Le

Dauphin stood up and took over from the Brig.

All right, while I've got you all together, I've a little news for you

that may help to cool the hot-heads who want to follow the MIGs over the

border. He motioned to the projection box at the end of the

briefing-room, the lights went down and there was a shuffling of feet,

and an outburst of coughing. A voice protested resignedly.

Not another film show! Yes, the colonel took it up. Another film show

Then as the images began to flash upon the screen he went on, This is a

military intelligence film, and the subject is a new ground-to-air

missile system that has been delivered by the Soviet Army to the armies

of the Arab Union. The code name for the system is "Serpent" and it

updates the existing "Sam IIP system. As far as we know, the system has

been installed and is operative in the Syrian defensive perimeter, and

will shortly be installed by the Egyptians. It is manned at present by

Russian instructors. As the colonel went on talking, the Brig sat back

in his chair and watched their faces in the silver reflection from the

screen. They were intent and serious, men looking for the first time on

the terrible machines that might be the instrument of their own deaths.

The missile is fired from a tracked vehicle. Here you see aerial

reconnaissance shots of a mobile column.

Notice that each vehicle carries a pair of missiles, and you will

realize that they constitute an enormous threat - The Brig picked out

the marvellously pure profile of David Morgan as he leaned forward to

study the screen, and he felt a pang of sympathy and sorrow for him and

yet this was underlined by a new respect, a realignment of judgement.

The boy had proved himself to be constant, capable of embracing an ideal

and remaining loyal to it.

The improvements in design of the "Serpent" are not certain, but it is

believed that the missile is capable of greater speeds, probably in the

order of mach 2. 5, and that the guidance system is a combination of

both infrared heat seeker and computerized radar control. Watching the

handsome young face, he wondered if Debra had not misjudged his

reserves. It was possible that he would have been capable of, no, the

Brig shook his head and groped for a cigarette. He was too young, too

greedy for life, spoiled by good looks and riches. He would not be

capable of it. Debra was right, as so often was the case. She had

chosen the correct course. She could never hold him, she must set him

free.

It is expected that the "Serpent" is capable of engaging targets at

altitudes between 1500 it. and 75, 000 it. There was a stir amongst

the listeners, as they assessed the threat of this new weapon.

The warhead delivers a quarter of a ton of explosive and it is armed

with a proximity fuse which is set to fire if the target is passed at

range less than 150 feet.

Within these limits the "Serpent" is lethal. The Brig was still

watching David. Ruth and he had not seen the boy at their home for many

months. He had come with Joe to spend the Sabbath evening with them

twice after the outrage. However, the atmosphere had been stiff and

artificial, everybody carefully avoiding mention of Debra's name. He

had not come again after the second time, nearly six months ago.

Evasive tactics at this stage will be the same as for

"Sam III".

Prayer and good luck! someone interjected and that raised a laugh.

maximum-rate turn towards the missile, to screen the radiation from your

jet blasts, and attempt to force the "Serpent" to overshoot. In the

event that the missile continues to track, you should climb into the sun

and then make another maximum-rate turn. The missile may then accept

the sun's infra-red radiation as a more tempting target And if that

doesn't work? a voice called, and another answered flippantly, Repeat

the following: "Hear Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one. " But

this time nobody laughed at the old blasphemy.

The Brig timed his departure from the briefing-room to fall in beside

David.

When are we going to see you, David? It's been a long time. 'I'm

sorry, sir. I hope Joe made my apologies Yes, of course. But why don't

you come with Joe this evening? God knows, there will be enough food

I'll be very busy tonight, sir, David declined lamely.

I understand. And as they reached the door of the O.C.'Is office the

Brig paused, Remember you are always welcome, and he turned away.

Sir! the Brig stopped and looked back at him. David spoke rapidly,

almost guiltily.

How is she, sir? and then again, how is Debra? Have you see her, I

mean, recently? She is well, the Brig answered heavily.

As well as she can be. 'Will you tell her I asked?

No, answered the Brig, ignoring the pleading in the dark blue eyes. No.

You know I can't do that David nodded and turned away. For a moment the

Brig looked after him and then with a frown he went on into the

colonel's office.

David dropped Joe in Em Karem, at the entrance to the lane, and then he

drove on into the main shopping area of East Jerusalem and parked

outside the big new supermarket in Melech George ! to do his shopping

for the weekend ahead.

He was hanging over the freezer tray pondering the delicate choice

between lamb cutlets and steak, when he became aware that he was being

watched.

David looked up quickly and saw that she was a statuesque woman with a

thick mane of blond curls. She stood beside the shelves farther down

the aisle. Her hair was dyed, he could see the dark shadow of the

roots, and she was older than he was, with a womanly heaviness in her

hips and bosom and tiny lines at the corners of her eyes. She was

eyeing him, a steady appraisal so unashamedly sensual that he felt the

check in his breathing and the quick stirring of his loins. He looked

back at the meat in the freezer, guilty and angry with the treachery of

his body. It had been so long, so very long since he had experienced

sexual awareness. He had believed that he never would again. He wanted

to throw the pack of steak back into the freezer and leave, but he stood

rooted with the breathless feeling squeezing his lungs, and he was aware

of the woman's presence at his side. He could feel the warmth of her on

his arm, and smell her, the flowery perfume mingled with the natural

musky odour of the sexually aroused female.

The steak is very good, she said. She had a light sweet voice and he

recognized the same breathless quality as his own. He looked at her.

Her eyes were green, and her teeth were a little crooked but white. She

was even older than he had thought, almost forty. She wore her dress

low in front, he could see the crepe effect of the skin between her

breasts. The breasts were big and motherly, and suddenly David wanted

to lay his head against them. They looked so soft and warm and safe.

You should cook it rare, with mushrooms and garlic and red wine, she

said. It's very good that way. 'Is it? he asked hoarsely.

Yes, she nodded, smiling. Who will cook it for you?

Your wife? Your mother? No, said David. I will cook it myself. I

live alone, and she leaned a little closer to him, her breast touching

his arm.

David was dizzy and hot with the brandy. He had bought a bottle of it

at the supermarket, and he had drunk it mixed with ginger ale to mask

the spiritous taste. He had drunk it fast, and now he leaned over the

basin in the bathroom and felt the house rock and sway about him. He

steadied himself, gripping the edge of the basin.

He splashed cold water on to his face and shook off the drops, then he

grinned stupidly at himself in the mirror above the basin. His hair was

damp and hung on to his forehead; he closed one eye and the wavering

image in the mirror hardened and squinted back at him.

Hi there, boy, he muttered and reached for the towel.

He had dripped water down his tunic and this annoyed him. He threw the

towel over the toilet seat and went back into the living-room.

The woman was gone. The leather couch still carried the indentation of

her backside, and the dirty plates were on the olive-wood table. The

air was thick with cigarette smoke and her perfume.

Where are you? he called thickly, swaying slightly in the doorway.

Here, big boy. He went to the bedroom. She lay on the bed, naked,

plump and white with huge soft breasts and swelling belly. He stared at

her.

Come on, Davey. Her clothing was thrown across the dressing-table, and

he saw that her corsets were grey and unwashed. Her hair was yellow

against the soft ivory lacework.

Come to Mama, she whispered hoarsely, opening her limbs languidly in

invitation. She was spread upon the brass bed, upon the lace cover

which had been Debra's and David felt his anger surge within him. Get

up, he said, slurring his words. Come on, baby. Get off that bed, his

voice tightened and she heard the tone and sat up with mild alarm. What

is it, Davey? Get out of here, his voice was rising sharply. Get out,

you bitch. Get out of here! He was shaking now, his face pale and his

eyes savage blue.

Quivering with panic, she climbed hurriedly from the bed, the great

white breasts and buttocks wobbling with ridiculous haste as she stuffed

them into the grey corset.

When she had gone, David went through into the bathroom and vomited into

the toilet bowl. Then he cleaned the house, scouring pans and plates,

polishing the glasses until they shone, emptying the ashtrays, opening

the shutters to blow out the stench of cigarette and perfume, and

finally, going through into the bedroom, he stripped and remade the bed

with fresh sheets and smoothed the lace cover carefully until not a

crease or wrinkle showed.

He put on a clean tunic and his uniform cap, and drove to the Jaffa

gate. He parked the car in the lot outside the gate and walked through

the old city to the reconstructed Sephardic synagogue in the Jewish

quarter.

It was very quiet and peaceful in the high-domed hall and he sat a long

time on the hard wooden bench.

Joe sat opposite David with a worried expression creasing his deep

forehead as he studied the board. Three or four of the other pilots had

hiked their chairs up and were concentrating on the game also. These

chessboard conflicts between David and Joe were usually epics and

attracted a partisan audience.

David had been stalking Joe's rook for half a dozen moves and now he had

it trapped. Two more moves would shatter the kingsize defence, and the

third must force a resignation. David grinned smugly as Joe reached a

decision and moved a knight out.

That's not going to save you, dear boy, David hardly glanced at the

knight, and he hit the rook with a white bishop. Mate in five, he

predicted, as he dropped the castle into the box, and then, too late, he

realized that Joe's theatrical expression of anguish had slowly faded

into a beatific grin. Joseph Mordecai used any deception to bait his

traps, and David looked with alarm at the innocuous-seeming knight,

suddenly seeing the devious plotting in which the castle was merely

bait.

Oh, you bastard, David moaned. You sneaky bastard Check! Joe gloated

as he put the knight into a forked attack, and David had to leave his

queen exposed to the horseman.

Check, said Joe again with an ecstatic little sigh as he lifted the

white queen off the board, and again the harassed king took the only

escape route open to him.

And mate, sighed Joe again as his own queen left the back file to join

the attack. Not in five, as you predicted, but in three. There was a

loud outburst of congratulation and applause from the onlookers and Joe

cocked an eye at David.

Again? he asked, and David shook his head.

Take on one of these other patsies, he said. I'm going to sulk for an

hour. 'He vacated his seat and it was filled by another eager victim as

Joe reset the board. David crossed to the coffee machine, moving

awkwardly in the grip of his G-suit, and drew a mug of the thick black

liquid, stirred in four spoons of sugar and found another seat in a

quieter corner of the crew-room beside a slim curly-beaded young

kibbutznik, with whom David had become friendly. He was reading a thick

novel. Shalom, Robert. How you been? Robert grunted without looking

up from his book, and David sipped the sweet hot coffee. Beside him,

Robert moved restlessly in his seat and coughed softly, David was lost

in his own thoughts, for the first time in months thinking of home,

wondering about Mitzi and Barney Venter, wondering if the yellowtail

were running hot in False Bay this season, and remembering how the

proteas looked upon the mountains of the Helderberg.

Again Robert stirred in his chair and cleared his throat. David glanced

at him, realized that he was in the grip of a deep emotion as he read,

his lips quivering, and his eyes too bright.

What are you reading? David was amused, and he leaned forward to read

the title. The picture on the dust jacket of the book was instantly

familiar. It was a deeply felt desert landscape of fierce colours and

great space.

Two distant figures, man and woman, walked hand in hand through the

desert and the effect was mystic and haunting. David realized that only

one person could have painted that, Ella Kadesh.

Robert lowered the book. This is uncanny, his voice was muffled with

emotion. I tell you, Davey, it's beautiful. It must be one of the most

beautiful books ever written.

With a strange feeling of pre-knowledge, with a sense of complete

certainty, of what it would be, David took the book out of his hands and

turned it to read the title, A Place of Our Own.

Robert was still talking. My sister made me read it.

She works for the publisher. She cried all night when she read it. it

is very new, only published last week, but it's got to be the biggest

book ever written about this country.

David hardly heard him, he was staring at the writer's name in small

print below the title.

Debra Mordecai.

He ran his fingers lightly over the glossy paper of the jacket, stroking

the name.

I want to read it, he said softly.

I'll let you have it when I'm finished, Robert promised. I want to read

it now!

No way! Robert exclaimed with evident alarm, and almost snatched the

book out of David's hands. You wait your turn, comrade!

David looked up. Joe was watching him from across the room, and David

glared at him accusingly. Joe dropped his eyes quickly to the

chessboard again, and David realized that he had known of the

publication. He started up to go to him, to challenge him, but at the

moment the tannoy echoed through the bunker.

All flights Lance Squadron to red standby, and on the readiness board

the red lamps lit beside the flight designations. Bright Lance. Red

Lance. Fire Lance. David snatched up his flying helmet and joined the

lumbering rush of G-suited bodies for the electric personnel carrier in

the concrete tunnel outside the crewroom door. He forced a place for

himself beside Joe. Why didn't you tell me? 'he demanded. I was going

to, Davey, I really was.

Yeah, I bet, David snapped sarcastically. Have you read it? Joe

nodded, and David went on, What's it about?" "I couldn't begin to tell

you. You'd have to read it yourself Don't worry about that, David

muttered grimly, I will, and he jumped down as they reached their hangar

and strode across to his Mirage.

Twenty minutes later they were airborne and Desert Flower sent them

hastening out over the Mediterranean at interception speed to answer a

Mayday call from an El Al Caravelle who reported that she was being

buzzed by an Egyptian MIG 2 1J.

The Egyptian sheered off and raced for the coast and the protection of

his own missile batteries as the Mirages approached.

They let him go and picked up the airliner. They escorted her into the

circuit over Lad before returning to base.

Still in his G-suit and overalls, David stopped off at le Dauphin's

office and got himself a twenty-four-hour pass.

Ten minutes before closing time he ran into one of the bookstores in the

Jaffa Road.

There was a pyramid display of A Place of Our Own on the table in the

centre of the store.

It's a beautiful book, said the salesgirl as she wrapped it.

He opened a Goldstar, and kicked off his shoes before stretching out on

the lace cover of the bed.

He began to read, and paused only once to switch on the overhead lights

and fetch another beer. It was a thick book, and he read slowly,

savouring every word, sometimes going back to re-read a paragraph.

It was their story, his and Debra's, woven into the plot she had

described to him that day on the island off the Costa Brava, and it was

rich with the feeling of the land and its people. He recognized many of

the secondary characters, and he laughed aloud with the pleasure and the

joy of it. Then at the end, he choked on the sadness as the girl of the

story lies dying in Hadassah Hospital, with half her face torn away by a

terrorist's bomb, and she will not let the boy come to her. Wanting to

spare him that, wanting him to remember her as she was.

it was dawn then, and David had not noticed the passage of the night. He

rose from the bed, light-headed from lack of sleep, and filled with a

sense of wonder that Debra had captured so clearly the way it had been

that she had seen so deeply into his soul, had described emotions for

which he had believed there were no words.

He bathed and shaved and dressed in casual clothes and went back to

where the book lay upon the bed. He studied the jacket again, and then

turned to the flyleaf for confirmation. It was there. Jacket design by

Ella Kadesh. So early in the morning he had the road almost to himself

and he drove fast, into the rising morning sun.

At Jericho he turned north along the frontier road, and he remembered

her sitting in the seat beside him with her skirts drawn high around her

long brown legs and her thick dark hair shaking in the wind.

The whisper of the wind against the body of the Mercedes seemed to urge

him, Hurry, hurry. And the urgent drumming of the tyres carried him up

towards the lake.

He parked the Mercedes beside the ancient crusader wall and went through

into the garden on the lake shore.

Ella sat upon the wide patio before her easel. She wore a huge straw

hat the size of a wagon wheel adorned with plastic cherries and ostrich

feathers, her vast overalls covered her like a circus tent and they were

stiff with dried paint in all her typically vivid colours.

Calmly she looked up from her painting with her brush poised.

Hail, young Mars! she greeted him. Well met indeed, and why do you

bring such honour on my humble little home? 'Piss on it, Ella, you know

damn well why I'm here. 'So sweetly phrased, she was shifty, he could

see it in her bright little eyes. Shame on it that such vulgar words

pass such fair lips. Would you like a beer, Davey? 'No, I don't want a

beer. I want to know where she is?

Just who are we discussing? Come on, I read the book. I saw the cover.

You know, damn you, you know. She was silent then, staring at him. Then

slowly the ornate head-dress dipped in acquiescence. Yes, she agreed. I

know. 'Tell me where she is. 'I can't do that, Davey. You and I both

made a promise.

Yes, I know of yours, you see. She watched the bluster go out of him.

The fine young body with the arrogant set of shoulders seemed to sag,

and he stood uncertainly in the sunlight.

How about that beer now, Davey? She heaved herself up from her stool

and crossed the terrace with her stately tread. She came back and gave

him a tall glass with a head of froth and they took a seat together at

the end of the terrace out of the wind, in the mild winter sunlight.

I've been expecting you for a week now, she told him. Ever since the

book was published. I knew it would set you on fire. It's just too

damned explosive, even I wept like a leaky faucet for a couple of days,

she giggled shyly. You'd hardly believe it possible, would you?

That book was us, Debra and me, David told her. She was writing about

us. Yes, Ella agreed, but it does not alter the decision she had made.

A decision which I think is correct, by the way. She described exactly

how I felt, Ella. All the things I felt and still feel, but which I

could never have put into words. It's beautiful and it's true, but

don't you see that it confirms her position.

But I love her, Ella, and she loves me, he cried out violently.

She wants it to stay that way. She doesn't want it to die, she doesn't

want it to sicken. He began to protest, but she gripped his arm in a

surprisingly powerful grip to silence him. She knows that she can never

keep pace with you now. Look at you, David, you are beautiful and vital

and swift, she must drag you back, and in time you must as certainly

resent it. Again he tried to interrupt, but she shook his arm in her

huge fist. You would be shackled, you could never leave her, she is

helpless, she would be your charge for all your life, think on it,

David. I want her, he muttered stubbornly.

I had nothing before I met her, and I have nothing now. That will

change. Perhaps she has taught you something and young emotions heal as

swiftly as young flesh.

She wants happiness for you, David. She loves you so much that her gift

to you is freedom. She loves you so much that for your sake she will

deny that love. Oh, God, he groaned.

If only I could see her, if I could touch her and talk to her for a few

minutes. She shook her massive head, and her jowls wobbled dolefully.

She would not agree to that. Why, Ella, tell me why? His voice was

rising again, desperate with his anguish.

She is not strong enough, she knows that if you came near her, she would

waver and bring even greater disaster upon you both. They sat silently

together then and looked out across the lake. High mountains of cloud

rose up beyond the heights of Golan, brilliant white in the winter

sunlight, shaded with blue and bruised grey, and range upon range they

bore down upon the lake. David shivered as an icy little wind came

ferreting across the terrace and sought them out.

He drank the rest of his beer, and then revolved the glass slowly

through his fingers.

Will you give her a message from me, then? 'he asked.

I don't think Please, Ella. just this one message. She nodded.

Tell her that what she wrote in the book is exactly how much I love her.

Tell her that it is big enough to rise above this thing. Tell her that

I want the chance to try. She listened quietly, and David made a

groping gesture with his hands as though to pluck words from the air

that might convince her.

Tell her- he paused, then shook his head. No, that's all. just tell

her I love her, and I want to be with her. All right, David. I'll tell

her. And you will give me her answer? Where can I reach you? He gave

her the number of the telephone in the crew ready room at the base.

You'll ring me soon, Ella? Don't keep me waiting. 'Tomorrow, she

promised. In the morning. 'Before ten o'clock.

It must be before ten He stood up, and then suddenly he leaned forward

and kissed her sagging and raddled cheek.

Thank you, he said. You are not a bad old bag. 'Away with you, you.

and your blarney. You'd have the sirens of the Odyssey themselves come

running to your bidding. She sniffed moistly. Get away with you now,

I think I'm going to cry, and I want to be alone to enjoy it.

She watched him go up across the lawns under the date palms and at the

gate in the wall he paused and looked back. For a second they stared at

each other and then he stepped through the gate.

She heard the engine of the Mercedes whirr and pull away slowly up the

track, then the note of it rose as it hit the highway and went racing

away southwards. Ella rose heavily and crossed the terrace, went down

the steps towards the jetty and its stone boat houses screened from the

house by past of the ancient wall.

Her speedboat rode at its moorin& restless in the wind and the chop of

the lake. She went on down to the farthest and largest of the boat

houses and stood in the open doorway.

The interior had been stripped and repainted with clean white. The

furniture was simple and functional.

The rugs on the stone floor were for warmth, plain woven wool, thick and

rough. The large bed was built into a curtained alcove in the wall

beside the fireplace.

On the opposite wall was a gas stove with a double cooking ring above

which a number of copper cooking pots hung. A door beyond led through

to a bathroom and toilet which Ella had added very recently.

The only decoration was the Ella Kadesh painting from the house on Malik

Street, which hung on the bare white wall, facing the door. It seemed

to lighten and warm the whole room; below it the girl sat at a working

table. She was listening intently to her own voice speaking in Hebrew

from the tape recorder. Her expression was r apt and intent, and she

stared at the blank wall before her.

Then she nodded her head, smiling at what she had just heard. She

switched off the recorder and turned in the swivel chair to the second

recorder and punched the tran sinit button. She held the microphone

close to her lips as she began to translate the Hebrew into English.

Ella stood in the doorway and watched her work. An American publisher

had purchased the English-language rights of A Place of Our Kin. They

had paid Debra an advance of thirty thousand American dollars for the

book, and an additional five thousand for her services as translator.

She had almost completed the task now.

From where she stood, Ella could see the scar on Debra's temple. It was

a glazed pinkish white against the deeply tanned skin of her face, a

dimple like a child's drawing of a seagull in flight; V-shaped and no

bigger than a snowflake, it seemed to enhance her fine looks, almost

like a beauty spot, a tiny blemish that gave a focus point for her

strong regular features.

She had made no attempt to conceal it for her dark hair was drawn back

to the nape of her neck and secured there with a leather thong. She

wore no make-up, and her skin looked clean and glowing, tanned and

smooth.

Despite the bulky fisherman's jersey and woollen slacks her body

appeared firm and slim for she swam each day, even when the snow winds

came down from the north.

Ella left the doorway and moved silently closer to the desk, studying

Debra's eyes as she so often did. One day she would paint that

expression. There was no hint of the damage that lay behind, no hint

that the eyes could not see. Rather their calm level gaze seemed to

penetrate deeper, to see all. They had a serenity that was almost

mystic, a depth and understanding that Ella found strangely disquieting.

Debra pressed the switch of the microphone, ending the recording, and

then she spoke again without turning her head. Is that you, Ella? How

do you do it? Ella demanded with astonishment.

I felt the air move when you walked in, and then I smelt you. I'm big

enough to blow up a storm, but do I smell so bad? Ella protested,

chuckling.

You smell of turpentine, and garlic and beer, Debra sniffed, and laughed

with her.

I've been painting, and I was chopping garlic fox the roast, and I was

drinking beer with a friend. Ella dropped into one of the chairs. How

does it go with the book? 'Nearly finished.

It can go to the typist tomorrow. Do you want some coffee? Debra stood

up and crossed to the gas stove. Ella knew better than to offer her

help, even though she gritted her teeth every time she watched Debra

working with fire and boiling water. The girl was fiercely independent,

utterly determined to live her life without other people's pity or

assistance.

The room was laid out precisely, each item in its place where Debra

could put her hand to it without hesitation.

She could move confidently through her little world, doing her own

housework, preparing her own food and drink, working steadily, and

paying her own way.

Once a week, a driver came up from her publisher's office in Jerusalem

to collect her tapes and her writing was typed out along with her other

correspondence.

Weekly also she would go with Ella in the speedboat up the lake to

Tiberias to do their shopping together, and each day she swam for an

hour from the stone jetty.

Often an old fisherman with whom she had become friendly would row down

the lake to fetch her and she would go out with him, baiting her own

lines and taking her turn at the oars.

Across the lawns from the jetty, in the crusader castle, there was

always Ella's companionship and intelligent conversation, and here in

her little cottage there was quietness and safety and work to fill the

long hours.

And in the night there was the chill of terrible aloneness and silent

bitter tears into her solitary pillow, tears which only she knew about.

Debra placed a mug of coffee beside Ella's chair and carried her own

back to her work bench.

Now, she said, you can tell me what is keeping you fidgeting around in

your seat, and drumming your fingers on the arm of the chair, she smiled

towards Ella, sensing the surprise. You have got something to tell me,

and it's killing you.

Yes, Ella spoke after a moment. Yes, you are right, my dear. She took

a deep breath and then went on. He came, Debra. He came to see me, as

we knew he must Debra set the mug down on the table, her hand was steady

and her face expressionless. I didn't tell him where you were. 'How is

he, Ella? How does he look?

He is thinner, a little thinner, I think, and paler than when I last saw

him, but it suits him. He is still the most beautiful man I have ever

seen. His hair, Debra asked, has he let it grow a little?

Yes, I think so. It's soft and dark and thick around his ears and curly

down the back. Debra nodded, smiling. I'm glad he didn't cut it. They

were silent again, and then almost timidly Debra asked, What did he say?

What did he want? 'He had a message for you. 'What was it? And Ella

repeated it faithfully in his exact words.

When she had finished, Debra turned away to face the wall above her

desk. Please go away now, Ella. I want to be alone. He asked me to

give him your reply. I promised to speak to him tomorrow morning. I

will come to you later, but please leave me now. And Ella saw the drop

of bright liquid that slid down the smooth brown curve of her cheek.

Mountainously Ella came to her feet and moved towards the door. Behind

her she heard the girl sob, but she did not turn back. She went across

the stone jetty and up to the terrace. She sat before her canvas and

picked up her brush and began to paint. Her strokes were broad and

crude and angry.

David was sweating in the stiff shiny skin of his full pressure suit and

he waited anxiously beside the telephone, glancing every few minutes at

the crew-room clock.

He and Joe would go on high-altitude Red standby at ten o'clock, in

seven minutes time, and Ella had not called him.

David's depression was thunderous and there was black anger and despair

in his heart. She had promised to call before ten o'clock.

Come on, Davey, Joe called from the doorway and he stood up heavily and

followed Joe to the electric carrier. As he took his seat beside Joe he

heard it ring in the crew-room.

Hold it, I he told the driver, and he saw Robert answer the telephone

and wave through the glass panel at him.

It's for you, Davey, and he ran back into the crewroom.

I'm sorry, David, Ella's voice was scratchy and far away. I tried

earlier but the exchange here Sure, sure, David cut her short, his anger

was still strong. Did you speak to her? Yes, Davey. Yes, I did. I

gave her your message. 'What was her reply? he demanded. There was no

reply. 'What the hell, Ella. She must have said something. 'She said,

Ella hesitated, -and these are her exact words, "the dead cannot speak

with the living. For David, I died a year ago. I, He held the receiver

with both hands but still it shook. After a while she spoke again. Are

you still there? 'Yes, he whispered, I'm still here They were silent

again, but David broke it at last. That's it, then, he said. Yes. I'm

afraid that's it, Davey. Joe stuck his head around the door. -'Hey,

Davey. Cut it short, will you. Time to go. 'I have to go now, Ella.

Thanks for everything. 'Goodbye, David, she said, and even over the

scratchy connection he could hear the compassion in her tone.

It heightened the black anger that gripped him as he rode beside Joe to

the Mirage bunker.

For the first time ever, David felt uncomfortable in the cockpit of a

Mirage. He felt trapped and restless, sweating and angry, and it seemed

hours between each of the fifteen-minute readiness checks.

His ground crew were playing backgammon on the concrete floor below him,

and he could see them laughing and joshing each other. It made him

angrier than ever to see others happy.

Tubby! he barked into his microphone, and his voice was repeated by the

overhead loudspeakers. The plump, serious young man, who was chief

engineer for Lance squadron, climbed quickly up beside his cockpit and

peered anxiously through the canopy at him.

There is dirt on my screen, David snapped at him. How the hell do you

expect me to pick up a MIG, when I'm looking through a screen you ate

your bloody breakfast off?

The cause of David's distress was a speck of carbon that marred the

glistening perfection of his canopy.

Tubby himself had supervised the polishing and buffing of it, and the

carbon speck was wind-carried since then.

Carefully he removed the offending spot, and lovingly he polished the

place where it had been with a chamois leather.

The reprimand had been public and unfair, very unlike their top boy

Davey. However, they all made allowances for Red standby nerves, and

spots on a canopy played hell with a pilot's nerves. Every time it

caught his eye it looked exactly like a pouncing MIG.

That's better, David gruffed at him, fully aware that he had been

grossly unfair. Tubby grinned and gave him a high sign as he climbed

down.

At that moment there was a click and throb in his earphones and the

distinctive voice of the Brig.

Red Standby, Go! Go!

Under full reheat and with the driving thrust of the afterburners

hurling him aloft David called, Hello, Desert Flower, Bright Lance

airborne and climbing.

Hello, David, this is the Brig. We have a contact shaping up for

intrusion on our air space. It looks like another teaser from the

Syrians. They are closing our border at twenty-six thousand and should

be hostile in approximately three minutes. We are going to initiate

attack plan Gideon. Your new heading is 420 and I want you right down

on the deck.

David acked and immediately rotated the Mirage's nose downwards. Plan

Gideon called for a low-level stalk so that the ground clutter would

obscure the enemy radar and conceal their approach until such time as

they were in position to storm-climb up into an attack vector above and

behind the target.

They dropped to within feet of the ground, lifting and falling over the

undulating hills, so low that the herds of black Persian sheep scattered

beneath them as they shrieked eastwards towards the Jordan.

Hello, Bright Lance, this is Desert Flower, we are not tracking you.

Good, thought David, then neither is the enemy. Target is now hostile

in sector, the Brig gave the coordinates, Scan for your own contact.

Almost immediately Joe's voice came in. Leader, this is Two. I have a

contact. David dropped his eyes to his own radar screen and amputated

his scan as Joe called range and bearing. It was a dangerous

distraction when flying in the sticky phase of high subsonic drag at

zero feet, and his own screen was clear of contact.

They raced onwards for many more seconds before David picked up the

faint luminous fuzz at the extreme range of his set.

Contact firming. Range figures nine six nautical miles. Parallel

heading and track. Altitude 25, 5oo feett. David felt the first

familiar tingle and slither of his anger and hatred, like the cold of a

great snake uncoiling in his belly.

Beseder, Two. Lock to target and go to interception speed.

They went supersonic and David looked up ahead at the crests of the

thunderheads that reared up from the solid banks of cumulo nimbus lower

down. These mountainous upthrusts of silver and pale blue were

sculptured into wonderful shapes that teased the imagination towers and

turrets embattled and emblazoned, heroic human shapes standing proud or

hunched in the attitude of mourning, the rearing horsemen of the

chessboard, a great fleecy pack of wolves, and other animal shapes of

fantasy, with the deep crevasses between them bridged in splendour by

the rainbows. There were hundreds of these, great blazes of colour,

that turned and followed their progress across the sky, keeping majestic

station upon them. Above them, the sky was a dark unnatural blue,

dappled like a Windsor grey by the thin striation of the cirrocumulus,

and the sunlight poured down to shimmer upon the two speeding warplanes.

As yet there was no sight of the target. It was up there somewhere

amongst the cloud mountains. He looked back at his radar screen. He

had taken his radar out of scan and locked it into the target, and now

as they closed rapidly he could appraise their relative positions.

The target was flying parallel to them, twenty miles out on their

starboard side, and it was high above them and moving at a little more

than half their speed. The sun was beyond the target, just short of its

zenith, and David calculated his approach path to bring him into an

attack vector from above and into the target's starboard quarter.

Turning to starboard now, he warned Joe, and they came around together,

crossing the target's rear to put themselves in the sun. Joe was

calling the range and bearing, it showed a leisurely patrol pattern.

There was no indication as yet that the target was aware of the hunters

behind and far below.

Two, this is leader. Arm your circuits. Without taking his eyes from

the radar screen, David pressed the master switch on his weapon console.

He activated the two air-to-air sidewinder missiles that hung under each

wing-tip, and immediately heard the soft electronic tone cycling in his

earphones. That tone indicated that the missiles were dormant, they had

not yet detected an infra-red source to excite them. When they did they

would increase the volume and rate of cycle, growling with anticipation,

claniouring like hunting dogs on the leash. He turned them down so he

could no longer hear them.

Now he selected his cannon switch, readying the twin 30-men. weapons in

their pods just below his seat. The trigger flicked forward out of its

recess in the head of the joystick and he curled his forefinger about it

to familiarize himself with the feel of it.

Two, this is leader. I am commencing visual. It was a warning to

Joe to concentrate all his attention on the screen and feed David with

directional data.

Target is now ten o'clock high, range figures two seven nautical miles.

David searched carefully, raking the billowing walls of blinding white,

breaking off the search to look away at a ground point or a pinnacle of

cloud to prevent his eyes focusing short, and to sweep the blind spot

behind them, lest the hunters become the hunted.

Then he saw them. There were five of them, and they appeared suddenly

out of cloud high above and were immediately outlined against it like

tiny black fleas on a newly ironed bedsheet. just then Joe called the

range again.

Figures one three nautical miles, but the targets were outlined so

crisply against their background that David could make out the

delta-winged dart shape, and the high tail plane that identified them

beyond all doubt as IUG 2i J.

I have target visual, he told Joe. Five MIG 2i's J. His tone was flat

and neutral, but it was a lie, for now at last his anger had something

on which to fasten, and it changed its shape and colour, it was no

longer black and aching but cold and bright and keen as a rapier's

blade.

Target is still hostile, Joe confirmed that they were within Israeli

territory, but his tone was not as well guarded as David's. David could

detect the huskiness in it, and knew that Joe was feeling that anger

also.

It would be another fifteen seconds before they had completed their turn

across the enemy's stern, and David assessed the relative positions and

saw that so far it had been a perfect approach. The formation sailed on

serenely, unaware of the enemy beneath their tail, creeping up in the

blind spot where the forward scanning radar could not discover them and

rapidly moving into a position up sun. Once there, David would go to

attack speed and climb steeply up into a position of superior height and

tactical advantage over the enemy formation.

Looking ahead now, he realized that chance had given him an added bonus;

one of the huge tower blocks of cloud was perfectly placed to screen his

climb into the sun. He would use it to cover his stalk, the way the

Boer huntsman of Africa stalked wild buffalo from behind a herd of

domestic oxen.

Target is altering course to starboard, Joe warned him, the AUGs were

turning away, edging back towards the Syrian border. They had completed

their taunting gesture, they had flaunted the colours of Islam in the

face of the infidel, and were making for safety.

David felt the blade of anger in his guts burn colder, sting sharper,

and with an effort of restraint he waited out the last few seconds

before making his climb. The moment came and his voice was still flat

and without passion as he called to Joe, Two, this is leader, commencing

storm-climb. 'Two conforming. David eased back on the controls and

they went up in a climb so vicious that it seemed to tear their bowels

from their bellies.

Almost immediately, Desert Flower picked up the radar images as they

emerged from the ground clutter.

Hullo both units Bright Lance. We are now tracking you. Show friend or

foe. Both David and Joe were lying en their backs in the thrust of

storm-climb, but at the order they punched in their IFF systems.

Identification Friend or Foe would show a distinctive pattern, a bright

halo, around their radar images on command plot identifying them

positively even while they were locked with the enemy in the close

proximity of the dogfight.

Beseder, we are tracking you in IFF, said the Brig, and they went

plunging into the pillar of cloud and raked upwards through it. David's

eyes darted between the boule that contained his blind-flying

instruments and the radar screen on which the enemy images shone bright

and with hard outline so close now that the individual aircraft in the

enemy formation stood out clearly.

Target is increasing speed and tightening starboard turn, Joe intoned

and David compensated for the enemy's manoeuvre.

David was certain that they had not detected his approach, the turn away

was coincidental. Another glance at the screen showed that he had

achieved his height advantage. He was now two miles off their quarter

above them, with the sun at his back. it was the ideal approach.

Turning now into final leg of attack pattern, he alerted Joe to his

intention and they began to pitch in.

The last-second strike which would send their speed rocketing as they

closed.

The target centred dead ahead, and the gunsight lit up, glowing softly

on the screen ahead of him. The sidewinder missiles caught the first

emanations of infrared rays from their victims, and they began to growl

softly in David's earphones.

Still blinded by thick grey cloud they raced in, and suddenly they burst

out into the clear. Ahead and below them opened a deep through of

space, a valley between cloud ranges and close below them the five MIGs

sparkled silvery in the sunlight, pretty and toylike, their red, white

and green markings festive and gay, the clean geometrical sweeps of wing

and tail nicely balanced and the shark-like mouths of the jet intakes

gaping, as they sucked in air.

They were in loose V-formation, two stacked back on each flank of the

leader and in the fleeting seconds that David had to study them, he had

assessed them. The four wingmen were Syrians, there was an indefinable

sloppiness in their flying, a looseness of control. They flew with that

lack of polish and confidence of the pupil.

They were soft targets, easy pickings.

However, it did not need the three red rings about the leader's fuselage

to identify him as a Russian instructor.

Some leery old veteran with hawk's blood in his veins, tough and canny,

and dangerous as an angry black mamba.

Engage two port targets, David ordered Joe, reserving the MIG leader and

the starboard echelon for his attack.

In David's headphones the missiles were growling their anxiety, they had

sniffed out the massed jet blasts below them and already they were

tracking, howling their eagerness to kill.

David switched to command net. Hello, Desert Flower, this is Bright

Lance on target and requesting strike. Almost instantly the voice came

back, David, this is the Brig- he was speaking, rapidly, urgently,

discontinue attack pattern. I repeat, disengage target.

They are no longer hostile. Break off attack Shocked by the command,

David glanced down the deep valley of cloud and saw the long brown

valley of the Jordan falling away behind them. They had crossed over a

line on the earth and immediately their roles had changed from defender

to aggressor. But they were closing the target rapidly. It was a fair

bounce, they were still unaware.

We are going to hit them, David made the decision through the cold

bright thing that burned within him and he closed command net and spoke

to Joe. Two, this is leader attacking. Negative! I say again

negative! Joe called urgently. Target is no longer hostile? Remember,

Hannah! David shouted into his mask. Conform to me! and he curled his

finger about the trigger and touched left rudder, yawing fractionally to

bring the nearest 1VUG into the field of his sights. It seemed to

balloon in size as he shrieked towards it.

There was a heart-beat of silence from Joe, and then his voice strangled

and rough. Two conforming. Kill them, Joe, David yelled and pressed

against the spring-loaded tension of the trigger. There was a soft

double hiss, hardly discernible above the jet din, and from under each

wing-tip the missiles unleashed, they skidded and twisted as they

aligned themselves on the targets, leaving darkly etched trails of

vapour across David's front, and at that moment the MIGs became aware.

At a shouted warning from their leader, the enULC formation burst into

its five separate parts, splintering silvery swift like a shoal of

sardines before the driving charge of the barracuda.

The rearmost Syrian was slow, he had only just begun to turn away when

one of the sidewinders flicked its tail, followed his turn and united

with him in an embrace of death.

The shock wave of the explosion jarred David's machine, but the sound of

it was muted as the MIG was enveloped in the greenish-tinted cloud of

the strike and it shattered into fragments. A wing snapped off and went

whirling high and the brief blooming flower of smoke blew swiftly past

David's head.

The second missile had chosen the machine with the red ring, the

formation leader, but the Russian reacted so swiftly and pulled his turn

so tight that the missile slid past him in an overshoot, and it lost the

scent, unable to follow the MIG around. As David hauled the Mirage

round after the Russian, he saw the missile destroy itself in a burst of

greenish smoke, far out across the valley of clouds.

The Russian was in a hard right-hand turn, and David followed him.

Staring across the imaginary circle that separated them, he could see

every detail of the enemy machine; the scarlet helmet of the pilot, the

gaudy colours of its rounders, the squiggle of Arabic script that was

its identification markings, even the individual rivets that stitched

the polished metal skin of the MIG.

David pulled back with all his strength against his joystick, for

gravity was tightening the loading of his controls, opposing his efforts

to place additional stress on the Mirage lest he tear its wings off the

fuselage Gravity had hold of David also, its insidious force sucked the

blood away from his brain so that his vision dimmed, the colour of the

enemy pilot's helmet faded to dull brown, and David felt himself crushed

down into his seat.

About his waist and legs his G-suit tightened its coils, squeezing

brutally like a hungry python, attempting to prevent the drainage of

blood from his upper torso.

David tensed every muscle in his body, straining to resist the loss of

blood, and he took the Mirage up in a slidin& soaring yo-yo, up the side

of an imaginary barrel.

Like a motor-cyclist on a wall of death he whirled aloft, trying once

more for the advantage of height.

His vision narrowed, greyed out, until his field was reduced to the

limits of his cockpit, and he was pinned heavily to his seat, his mouth

sagging open, his eyelids dragging downwards; the effort of holding his

right hand on the control column was Herculean.

In the corner of his vision the stall indicator blinked its little eye

at him, changing from amber to red, warning him that he was on the verge

of catastrophe, courting the disaster of supersonic stall.

David filled his lungs and screamed with all his strength, his own voice

echoing through the grey mist.

The effort forced a little blood back to his brain and his vision

cleared briefly, enough to let him see that the MIG had anticipated his

yo-yo and had come up under him, sliding up the wall of death towards

his unprotected flank and belly.

David had no alternative but to break out of the turn before the MIG's

cannons could bear. He rolled the Mirage out, and went instantly into a

tight climbing lefthander, his afterburners still thundering at full

power, consuming fuel at a prodigious rate, and placing a limit upon

these desperate manoeuvres.

Neatly and gracefully as a ballet dancer, the Russian followed him out

of the turn and locked into his next manoeuvre. David saw him coming up

into an attack position in his rear-view mirror and he rolled out again

and went up and right, blacking out with the rate of turn.

Roll and turn, turn for life, David had judged the Russian fairly. He

was a deadly opponent, quick and hard, anticipating each of David's

turns and twists, riding always within an ace of strike. Turn, and turn

again, in great winging parabolas, climbing always, turning always,

vapour trails spinning out from their wing-tips in silky arabesque

patterns against the hard blue of the sky.

David's arms and shoulders ached as he fought the control dampers and

the weight of gravity, sickened by the drainage of blood and the

adrenalin in his system.

His cold battle rage turned gradually to icy despair as each of his

efforts to dislodge the Russian were met and countered, and always the

gaping shark's maw of the MIG hung and twisted a point off his shoulder

or belly.

All David's expertise, all the brilliance of his natural flying gifts

were slowly being discounted by the store of combat experience upon

which his enemy could draw.

At one stage, when for an instant they flew wing-tip to wing-tip, David

glanced across the gap and saw the man's face. just the eyes and

forehead above the oxygen mask; the skin Was pale as bone and the eyes

were deeply socketed like those of a skull, and then David was turning

again, turning and screaming and straining against gravity, screaming

also against the first enfolding coils of fear.

He rolled half out of the turn and then without conscious thought,

reversed the roll. The Mirage shuddered with protest-and his speed

bled off. The Russian saw it and came down on him from high on his

starboard quarter . As David pushed the stick fully forward and left he

kicked on full left rudder, ducking under the blast of cannon fire, and

the Mirage went down in a spiralling dive. The blood which gravity had

sucked from his head was now flung upwards through his body, filling his

head and his vision with bright redness, the red-out of inverted

gravitational force. A vein in his nose popped under the pressure and

suddenly his oxygen mask was filled with a flood of warm choking blood.

The Russian was after him, following him into the dive, lining him up

for his second burst.

David screamed with the metallic salty taste of blood in his mouth and

hauled back on the stick with all his strength, the nose came up and

over, climbing out of the dive, and again the blood drained from his

head going from red-out to black-out in the fraction of a second and be

saw the Russian following him up, drawn up by the ploy. At the top

David kicked it out in a breakaway roll. It caught the Russian, he was

one-hundredth of a second slow in countering and he swung giddily

through David's gunsight, an almost impossible deflection shot that

sluiced cannon fire wildly across the sky, spraying it like water from a

garden hose. The MIG was in David's sights for perhaps one-tenth of a

second, but in that time David saw a flash of light, a bright wink of it

below the pilot's canopy, and then David rolled and turned out, coming

around hard and finding the Russian still hanging in the circuit, but

losing air space, swaying out with a feather of white vapour streaming

back from below his cockpit canopy.

I've hit him, David exulted, and his fear was gone, become anger again,

a fierce triumphant anger. He took the Mirage up in another soaring

yo-yo and this time the MIG could not hold station on him and David

flickrolled off the top and came out with the Russian centred in his

gunsight.

He fired a one-second burst and saw the incendiary shells lace in and

burst in quick little stabbing stars in the silver fuselage of the MIG.

The Russian came out of his turn, in a gentle dive, flying straight, no

longer taking evasive action, probably dead at his controls, and David

sat on his tail, and settled the pipper of his gunsight.

He fired another one-second burst and the MIG began to break up. Small

unidentifiable pieces of wreckage flew back at David, but the Russian

stayed with his machine.

Again David hit him with a two-second burst, and now the MIG's nose sank

until she was in a vertical dive still under full power and she went

down like a silver javelin. David could not follow her without tearing

off his own wings. He pulled out and watched the Russian fly into the

earth at a speed that must have exceeded mach 2_ He burst like a bomb in

a tall tower of dust and smoke that stood for long seconds on the brown

plains of Syria.

David shut down his afterburners and looked to his fuel gauges. They

were all showing only a narrow strip above the empty notch, and David

realized that the last screaming dive after the MIG had taken him

down'to an altitude of five thousand, he was over enemy territory and

too low, much too low.

Expending precious fuel he came around on a westerly heading and went to

interception speed, climbing swiftly out of range of flak and searching

the heavens about him for sign of either Joe or the other MIGs, although

he guessed that the Syrians were either with Allah in the garden of the

Houris, or back home with mother by this time. Bright Lance Two, this

is leader. Do you read me? 'Leader, this is Two, Joe's voice answered

him immediately. have you visual. In the name of God, get out of

there! What is my position? We are fifty miles within Syrian

territory, our course for base is 2 5 O How did you go? I took out one

of mine. The other one ran for it, after that I was too busy keeping an

eye on you David blinked his eyes and was surprised to find that sweat

was pouring down his forehead from under his helmet and his mask was

stick and sticky with blood from his nose-bleed. His arms and shoulders

still ached, and he felt drLmken and light-headed from the effects of

gravity and combat and his hands on the control column were shaky and

weak.

I got two he said, two of the swines, one for Debra, and one for Hannah.

Shut up, Davey, Joe's voice was stiff with tension. Concentrate on

getting out of here. You are within range of both flak and ground

missiles. Light your tail - and let's go.

Negative, David answered him. I'm low on fuel.

Where are you?

Six o'clock high at 25, 000. 'As he answered, Joe sat up in his seat,

leaning forward against his shoulder straps to watch the tiny wedge

shape of David's machine far below. it was climbing slowly up to meet

him, slowly too slowly, and low, too low. David was vulnerable and Joe

was afraid for him, frowning heavily into his face mask and searching

restlessly, sweeping heaven and earth for the first hint of danger. Two

minutes would see them clear, but they would be two long, slow minutes.

He almost missed the first missile. The ground crew must have allowed

David to overfly their launch pad before they put it up in pursuit, for

Joe picked up its vapour trail as it streaked in from behind David,

closing rapidly with him.

Missile, break left, Joe yelled into his mask. Go! Go!

Go! and he saw David begin his turn instantly, steeply, side-stepping

the sizzling attack of the missile.

It's lost you! Joe called, as the missile continued its crazy career

through space, beginning to yaw from side to side as it hunted for a

target and at last bursting in self -destruction.

Keep going, Davey, Joe encouraged him, but keep awake, there will be

more. They both saw the next one leave the ground from its camouflaged

vehicle. There was a nest of them on a rocky ridge above a sun-blasted

plain. The Serpent slid off the rock and lifted into the sky, climbing

rapidly towards David's little machine.

Light your tail, Joe told him, and wait for it! He watched the missile

boring in, converging with dazzling speed on David's Mirage.

Break right! Go! Go! Go! Joe yelled and David twisted violently

aside. Again the Serpent slid past him, over-shooting, but this time

not losing contact and coming around to attack again, its seekers locked

to David's machine.

He's still on you, Joe was screaming now. Go for the sun, Davey. Try

for the sun, and the Mirage pointed its nose at the great blazing orb

that burned above the mountain ranges of dark cloud. The Serpent

followed him upwards, hunting him with the dreadful singlemindedness of

the automaton. He's on to you, Davey. Flip out now! Go! Go! Go!

David flicked the Mirage out of her vertical climb, and fell like a

stone, while the Serpent fastened its attention upon the vast infra-red

output from the sun and streaked on towards it, losing the Mirage.

You've lost it. Get out, Davey, get out! Joe pleaded with him, but for

the moment the Mirage was helpless.

In her desperate climb for the sun she had lost manoeuvring speed and

was wallowing clumsily now. It would be many seconds before she became

agile and lithe once more, and by then it would be too late, for Joe saw

the third missile become airborne and dart upwards on its feather of

flame and smoke aiming at David's Mirage.

Joe did not consciously realise what he was going to do until he had

winged over and commenced his dive under full power. He came down with

his mach meter indicating twice the speed of sound, and he levelled

across David's tail, cutting obliquely across his track under the nose

of the oncoming Serpent.

The Serpent saw him with its little cyclops radar eye, and it sensed the

heat of his exhausts, fresher, more tantalizing than David's, and it

accepted him as an alternative target and swung away after him, leaving

David to fly on unscathed.

David saw Joe's aircraft flash past his wing-tip at searing speed, and

but an instant behind him followed the Serpent. It took him only a

second to realize that Joe had deliberately pulled the missile off him,

had accepted the attack that must surely have destroyed David.

He watched with fascinated horror as Joe pulled out Of his dive, and

used his speed to climb into the sun.

The missile followed him smoothly, angling upwards, overhauling Joe's

Mirage with effortless ease. Joe was watching the missile in his

mirror, and at the last instant he flipped out of the climb, but this

time the Serpent was not deceived; as Joe dropped so it swivelled also,

and as earlier David had wallowed helplessly now Joe was in the same

predicament. He had taken his chance and it had not worked for him. The

missile found him, and in a brusque burst of flame, Joe and his Mirage

died together.

David flew on alone, his Mirage once more at manoeuvring speed and his

throat dry with horror and fear and grief. He found himself talking

aloud.

Joe, no, Joe. Oh God no! You shouldn't have done it. Ahead of him

through the gaps in the massive cloud bases he saw the Jordan.

It should be you that's going home, Joe, he said. It should be you,

Joe, and felt the hard ball of sorrow in his throat.

But the instinct of survival was still strong and David yawned and

glanced back to clear his blind spot, and he saw the last missile coming

in on him. It was just a small black speck far behind, with a little

frill of dark smoke around it, but it was watching him hungrily with its

wicked little eye.

As he saw it, he knew beyond doubt that this one was his, the one that

the fates had reserved for him. The attacks he had evaded so far had

worn his nerves and strained his judgement, he felt a sense of

fatalistic dismay as he watched the attacking missile gaining on him,

nevertheless he gathered his scattered reserves for one more supreme

effort.

His eyes narrowed to slits, the sweat sliding down his face and

drenching his mask, his left hand holding the throttle fully open and

his right gripping the control column with the strength of despair, he

judged his moment.

The missile was almost upon him and he screamed with all his might and

hurled the Mirage into the turn, but he had misjudged it by the smallest

part of a second.

As he turned away the missile slid past him and it was close enough to

pick up the shadow of the Mirage in the photo-electric eye of its fusing

device. The eye winked at him and the missile exploded.

The Mirage was in the critical attitude of its turn, and the cockpit

canopy was exposed entirely to the centre of the blast. It hit the

plane with a blow that sent it tumbling; like a running man tripping it

went over, and it lost life and flying capability.

The canopy was penetrated by flying steel. A piece struck David's

armoured seat with a clang and then it glanced off and struck his arm

above the elbow, snapping the bone cleanly so that the arm dropped

uselessly and hung into his lap.

An icy wind raged through the torn canopy as the Mirage hurled itself

through space with suicidal force, whipping its nose through the vicious

motions and flat plane of high-speed spin. David was thrown against his

straps, his ribs bruised and his skin smeared from his shoulders and the

broken arm flailing agonizingly.

He tried to hold himself upright in his seat as he reached up over his

head, caught hold of the handle of the ejector mechanism and hauled the

blind down over his face. He expected to have the charge explode

beneath his seat and hurl him free of the doomed Mirage, but nothing

happened.

Desperately he released the handle and strained forward to reach the

secondary firing mechanism under his seat between his feet. He wrenched

it and felt despair as there was no response. The seat was not working,

the blast had damaged some vital part of it. He had to fly the Mirage

out of it, with one arm and very little altitude left to him. He

fastened his right fist on to the moulded grip of the stick, and in the

crazy fall and flutter and whirl, David began to fight for control,

flying now by instinct alone, for he was badly hurt, and sky and

horizon, earth and cloud spun giddily across his vision.

He was aware that he was losing height rapidly, for every time the earth

swayed through his line of vision it was c ser an more menacing, t

doggedly he continued his attempts to roll against the direction of

spin.

The earth was very close before he felt the first hint of response, and

the ferocity of her gyrations abated slightly. Stick and rudder

together, he tried again and the Mirage showed herself willing at last.

Gently, with the touch of a lover, he wooed her and suddenly she came

out and he was flying straight and level, but she was hard hit. The

blast of the missile had done mortal damage, and she was heavy and sick

in his hands. He could feel the rough vibration of the engine shaking

her, and he guessed that the compressor had thrown a blade and was now

out of balance. Within minutes or seconds she would begin to tear

herself to pieces. He could not try for climbing power on her.

David looked quickly about him and realized with a shock how far he had

fallen in that terrible tumble down the sky. He was only two or three

hundred feet above the earth. He was not sure of his direction, but

when he glanced at his doppler compass, he found with mild surprise that

he was still heading in the general direction of home.

The engine vibration increased, and he could hear the shrill screech of

rending metal. He wasn't going to make it home, that was certain, and

there was insufficient height to jettison the canopy, release his straps

and attempt to scramble out of the cockpit. There was only one course

still remaining, he must fly the Mirage in.

Even as he made the decision his one good hand was busy implementing it.

Holding the stick between his knees, he let down his landing gear; the

nose wheel might hold him up long enough to take some of the speed off

her and prevent her cartwheeling.

He looked ahead, and saw a low ridge of rocky ground and sparse green

vegetation. Disaster lurked for him there, but beyond it were open

fields, ploughed land, orderly blocks of orchards, neatly laid-out

buildings.

That in itself was cheering. Such order and industry could only mean

that he had returned across the border to Israel.

David skimmed over the ridge of broken rocks, sucking in his own belly

as though to lift the Mirage bodily over the hungry teeth of granite,

and ahead of him lay the fields. He could see women working in one of

the orchards, stopping and turning to look at him. So close that he

could clearly see the expressions of surprise and apprehension on their

faces.

There was a man on a blue tractor and he jumped out from his seat and

fell to the earth as David passed only feet above his head.

All fuel cocks closed, all switches off, master switch off, David went

into the final ritual for crash-landing.

Ahead of him lay the smooth brown field, open and clear. He might just

be lucky enough, it might just come Off.

The Mirage was losing flying speed, her nose coming up, the airspeed

needle sinking back, 200 miles per hour, 190, 180, dropping back to her

stalling speed of 150.

Then suddenly David realized that the field ahead of him was latticed

with deep concrete irrigation channels.

They were twenty feet wide, and ten deep, a deadly hazard, enough to

destroy a Centurion tank.

There was nothing David could do now to avoid their gaping jaws. He

flew the mirage in, touching down smoothly.

Smooth as a tomcat pissing on a sheet of velvet, he thought bitterly,

aware that all his skill was unavailing now. Even Barney would have

been proud of me. The field was rough, but the Mirage settled to it,

pitching and lurkin& shaking David ruthlessly about the cockpit, but she

was up on all three wheels, losing speed handily, her undercart taking

the strain. However, she was still travelling at ninety miles an hour

when she went into the irrigation ditch.

it snapped her undercart off like pretzel sticks and she nosed in,

struck the far bank of concrete that sheered through metal like a

scythe, and sent the fuselage cartwheeling across the field with David

still strapped within it. The wings broke away and the body slid on

across the soft earth to come to rest at last, right way up like a

stranded whale.

The whole of David's left side was numb, no feeling in his arm or lethe

straps had mauled him with their rude grasp, and he was stunned and

bewildered in the sudden engrossing silence.

For many seconds he sat still, unable to move or think. Then he smelled

it, the pervasive reek of Avtur jet fuel from the ruptured tanks and

lines. The smell of it galvanized him with the pilot's deadly fear of

fire.

With his right hand he grabbed the canopy release lever and heaved at

it. He wasted ten precious seconds with it, for it was jammed solid.

Then he turned his attention to the steel canopy breaker in its niche

below the lever. This was a tool specially designed for this type of

emergency. He lifted it, lay back in his seat and attacked the Perspex

dome above his head. The stink of jet fuel was overpowering, filling

the cockpit, and he could hear the little pinging and tinkling sound

made by white-hot metal.

His left arm hampered him, he had no feeling or use in it. The straps

bound him tightly to his seat and he had to pause in his assault upon

the canopy to loosen them.

Then he began again. He tore an opening in the Perspex, the size of a

hand, and as he worked to enlarge it, a ruptured fuel pressure line

somewhere in the shattered fuselage sprayed a jet of Avtur high in the

air. It fell in a heavy drizzle upon the canopy like a garden

sprinkler, poured down the curved sides and dribbled through the hole

David was cutting. It fell into his face, icy cold on his cheeks and

stinging his eyes, it drenched his shoulders and the front of his

pressure suit, and David began to pray. For the first time ever in his

life the words took on meaning and he felt his terror receding. Hear O

Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one. He prayed aloud, striking up

at the softly yielding Perspex and feeling the soft rain of death in his

face. He tore at the opening with his hands, bringing away slabs of

transparent material, but ripping his gloves and leaving his blood

smearing the jagged edges of the opening.

Blessed be His name, whose glorious kingdom is for ever The opening was

large enough. He hauled himself up in the seat, and found himself

caught by the oxygen and radio lines attached to his helmet. He could

not reach them with his crippled left arm. He stared down at the

offending limb, and saw the blood welling out of the torn sleeve of the

suit. There was no pain but it was twisted at a comical angle from the

elbow.

You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart - he whispered, and

with his right hand he tore loose the chin strap and let his helmet drop

to the floorboards. The Avtur soaked into the soft dark mop of his hair

and ran down his neck behind his ears, and he thought about the flames

of hell.

Painfully he dragged himself out through the opening in the canopy, and

now not even prayer could hold off the dark hordes of terror that

assaulted his soul. - For the anger of God will kindle against you

Laboriously he crawled across the slippery sleek metal of the wing root

and fell to the ground. He fell facedown and lay for a moment, exhausted

by fear and effort.

I, remember all the commands of God, He heard voices then as he lay with

his face against the dusty earth, and he lifted his head and saw the

women from the orchard running towards him across the open field. The

voices were shrill but faint and the words were in Hebrew. He knew that

he was home.

Steadying himself against the shattered body of the Mirage, he came to

his feet with the broken arm dangling at his side, and he tried to shout

to them.

Go back! Beware! but his voice was a throaty croak, and they ran on

towards him. Their dresses and aprons were gay spots of colour against

the dry brown earth.

He pushed himself away from the aircraft and staggered to meet the

running women.

Go back! he croaked in his own terrible distress, with the grip of his

G-suit strangling his movements and the evaporating fuel cold as ice in

his air and down his face.

Within the battered hull of the Mirage a puddle of Avtur had been heated

by the white-hot shell of the jet compressor. its low volatility at

last was raised to flash point and a dying spark from the electronic

equipment was enough to ignite it.

With a dull but awful roar, the Mirage bloomed with dark crimson flame

and sooty black smoke, the wind ripped the flames outwards in great

streamers and pennants that engulfed all around them, and David

staggered onwards in the midsts of the roaring furnace that seemed to

consume the very air.

He held his breath, if he had not, the flame would have scorched his

lungs. He closed his eyes tightly against the agony and ran on blindly.

His body and his limbs were protected by the fireproof pressure suit and

boots and gloves, but his head was bare and soaked with jet fuel.

As he ran his head burned like a torch. His hair frizzled off, in a

stinking puff of flame and the skin of his scalp and neck and face were

exposed. The flames burnt his ears off and most of his nose, they

flayed off his skin in a blistering sheet and then they ate into the raw

flesh, they burnt away his lips and exposed his teeth and part of the

bone of his jaw. They ate through his eyelids and stripped the living

meat from his cheeks.

David ran on through the burning air and smoke, and he did not believe

that such pain was possible. It exceeded all his imaginings and swamped

all the senses of his body and mind, but he knew he must not scream.

The pain was a blackness and the vivid colours of flame in his tightly

closed eyes, it was a roaring in his ears like all the winds of the

world, and in his flesh it was the goads and whips and burning hooks of

hell itself.

But he knew he could not let this terrible fire enter his body and he

ran on without screaming.

The women from the orchard were brought up short by the sudden forest of

flame and black smoke that rose up in front of them, engulfing the

squashed-insect body of the aircraft, and closing around the running

figure of the pilot.

It was a solid impenetrable wall of heat and smoke that blotted out all

ahead of them, and forced them to draw back, awed and horrified, before

its raging hot breath. They stood in a small group, panting and

wild-eyed.

Then abruptly a freak gust of wind opened the heavy oily curtains of

smoke, and out of them stumbled a dreadful thing with a scorched and

smoking body and a head of flame.

Blindly it came out of the smoke, one arm hanging and its feet dragging

and staggering in the soft earth.

They stared at this thing in horror, frozen in silence, and it came

towards them.

Then a strapping girl, with a strong brown body and a man of dark hair,

uttered a cry of compassion, and raced to meet him.

As she ran, she stripped off her heavy voluminous skirt of thick wool,

leaving her strong brown legs bare.

She reached David and she swirled the skirt over his head, smothering

the flames that still ate into his flesh.

The other women followed her, using their clothing to wrap him as he

fell and rolled on the earth.

Only then did David begin to scream, from that lipless mouth with the

exposed teeth. It was a sound that none of them would ever forget. As

he screamed the eyes were open, with the lashes and brow and most of the

lids burned away. The eyes were dark indigo blue in the glistening mask

of wet scorched meat, and the little blood vessels, sealed by the heat,

popped open and dribbled and spurted. As he screamed, the blood and

lymph bubbled from the nostril holes where his nose had been, and his

body writhed and heaved and convulsed as spasm after spasm of unbearable

agony hit him.

The women had to hold him down to control his struggles, and to prevent

him tearing with clawed fingers at the ruins of his face.

He was still screaming when the doctor from the kibbutz slashed open the

sleeve of his pressure suit with a scalpel and pressed the morphine

needle into the twitching jumping muscles of his arm.

The Brig saw the last bright radar image fade from the plot and heard

the young radar officer report formally, No further contact. And a

great silence fell on the command bunker.

They were all watching him. He stood hunched over the plot and his big

bony fists were clasped at his sides.

His face was stiff and expressionless, but his eyes were terrible.

It seemed that the frantic voices of his two pilots still echoed from

the speakers above his head, as they called to each other in the

extremes of mortal conflict.

They had all heard David's voice, hoarse with sorrow and fear.

Joel! No, Joe! Oh God, no! and they knew what that meant. They had

lost them both, and the Brig was still stunned by the sudden

incalculable turn that the sortie had taken.

At the moment he had lost control of his fighters he had known that

disaster was unavoidable, and now his son was dead. He wanted to cry

out aloud, to protest against the futility of it. He closed his eyes

tightly for a few seconds, and when he opened them, he was in control

again.

General alert, he snapped. All squadrons to "Red" standby, he knew they

faced an international crisis. I want air cover over the area they went

down. They may have ejected. Put up two Phantom flights and keep an

umbrella over them. I want helicopters sent in immediately, with

paratrooper guards and medical teams - Command bunker moved swiftly into

general alert procedure.

Get me the Prime Minister, he said, he was going to have to do a lot of

explaining, and he spared a few vital seconds to damn David Morgan

roundly and bitterly.

The airforce doctor took one look at David's charred and scorched head

and he swore softly. We'll be lucky to save this one.

Loosely he swathed the head in Vaseline bandages and they hurried with

David's blanket-wrapped body on the stretcher to the Bell 2o5 helicopter

waiting in the orchard.

The Bell touched down on the helipad at Hadassah Hospital and a medical

team was ready for him. One hour and fifty-three minutes after the

Mirage hit the irrigation canal David had passed through the sterile

lock into the special burns unit on the third floor of the hospital,

into a quiet and secluded little world where everybody wore masks and

long green sterile robes and the only contact with the outside world was

through the double-glazed windows and even the air he breathed was

scrubbed and cleaned and filtered.

However, David was enfolded in the soft dark clouds of morphine and he

did not hear the quiet voices of the masked figures as they worked over

him. It's third degree over the entire area - No attempt to clean it or

touch it, sister, not until it stabilizes. I am going to spray with

Epigard, and we'll go to intramuscular Tetracycline four-hourly against

infection, It will be two weeks before we dare touch it. 'Very well,

doctor. Oh, and sister, fifteen milligrams of morphine six hourly. We

are going to have a lot of pain with this one. Pain was infinity, an

endless ocean across which the wave-patterns marched relentlessly to

burst up the beaches of his soul. There were times when the surf of

pain ran high and each burst of it threatened to shatter his reason.

Again there were times when it was low, almost gentle in its throbbing

rhythm and he drifted far out upon the ocean of pain to where the

morphine mists enfolded him. Then the mists parted and a brazen sun

beat down upon his head, and he squirmed and writhed and cried out. His

skull seemed to bloat and swell until it must burst, and the open

nerve-ends screamed for surcease.

Then suddenly there was the sharply beloved sting of the needle in his

flesh, and the mists closed about him once more.

I don't like the look of this at all. Have we taken a culture, sister?

'Yes, doctor. 'What are we growing? 'I'm afraid it's strep. 'Yes. I

thought so. I think we'll change to Cloxacillin see if we get a better

response with that With the pain, David became aware of a smell. It was

the smell of carrion and f 3ings ong dead, the smell of vermin in dirty

blankets, of vomit and excreta, and the odour of wet garbage festering

in dark alleys, and at last he came to know that the smell was the

rotting of his own flesh as the bacteria of Streptococcus infection

attacked the expose tissue.

They fought it with the drugs, but now the pain was underlined with the

fevers of infection and the terrible burning thirsts which no amount of

liquids could slake.

With the fever came the nightmares and the fantasies to plague and goad

him even further beyond the limits of his endurance.

Joe - he cried out in his agony, try for the sun, Joe.

Break left now, Go! Go! And then he was sobbing from the ruined and

broken mouth. Oh, Joe! Oh God, no! Joe. Until the night-sister could

no longer bear it and she came hurrying with the syringe, and his

screams turned into babbling and then into the low whimper and moan of

the drug sleep. We'll start with the acriflavin dressings now, sister.

When they changed the dressings every forty-eight hours it was under

general anaesthetic for the entire head was of raw flesh, a bland

expressionless head, a head like a child's drawing, crude lines and

harsh colours, hairless, earless, streaked and mottled with yellow runs

and patches of soft pus and corruption.

We are getting a response from the Cloxacillin, it's looking a lot

healthier, sister. The naked flesh of his eyelids had contracted,

pulling back like the glistening petals of a pink rose, exposing the

eyeballs to the air without respite. They had filled the eyes sockets

with a yellow ointment to soothe and moisten them, to keep out the

loathsome infection that covered his head. The ointment prevented

vision.

I think we'll go for an abdominal pedicel now. Will you prep for

afternoon theatre, please, sister? Now it was time for the knife, and

David was to learn that the pain and the knife lived together in

terrible sin.

They lifted a long flap of skin and flesh from his belly, leaving it

still attached at one end, and they rolled it into a fat sausage, then

they strapped his good arm, the one without the plaster cast, to his

side and they stitched the free end of the sausage to his forearm,

training it to draw its blood supply from there. Then they brought him

back from theatre and left him trussed and helpless and blind with the

pedicel fastened to his arm, like a remora. to the belly of a shark.

Well, we have saved both eyes, the voice was proud, fond almost, and

David looked up and saw them for the first time. They were gathered

around his cot, a circle of craning heads, mouths and noses covered by

surgical masks, but his vision was still smeary with ointment and

distorted by the drip irrigation that had replaced it. Now we will go

for the eyelids. It was the knife again, the contracted and

bunchedelids split and re-shaped and stitched, the knife up ey and pain

and the familiar sickly taste and stink of anaesthetic that saturated

his body and seemed to exude from the very pores of his skin.

Beautiful, really lovely, we have cleaned up the infection nicely. Now

we can begin. The head was cleansed of its running rivers of pus, and

now it was glistening and wet, bald and bright red, the colour of a

cocktail cherry as granulation tissue formed. There were two gnarled

and twisted flaps for ears, the double row of teeth startlingly white

and perfect where the lips had been eaten away, a long white blade of

exposed bone outlined the point of the jaw, the nose was a stump with

the nostrils like the double muzzles of a shotgun, and only the eyes

were still beautiful, dark indigo and flawlessly white between lids of

shocking crimson and neatly laid back stitches.

We'll begin at the back of the neck. Will you prep for this afternoon's

theatre, please, sister? It was a variation on the theme of the knife.

They planed sheets of live skin from his thighs and meshed them to allow

a wider spread, then they laid them over the exposed flesh, covering a

little at each session, and evaluating each attempt while David lay in

his cot and rode the long swells of pain.

That one is no good. I'm afraid we will have to scrap it and try again.

While his thighs grew a new crop of skin, they planed fresh sheets from

his calves, so that each donor-site became a new source of pain.

Lovely! An edge-to-edge take with that graft Slowly the cap of skin

extended -up across the nape of his neck and over his scalp. The

meshing of the skin grafts gave them a patterned effect, regular as the

scales of a fish, and the new grafts were hard-looking and raised. We

can move the pedicel up now. 'This afternoon's theatre, doctor? 'Yes,

please, sister. David came to know that they operated every Thursday in

the burns unit. He came to dread the Thursday morning rounds when the

consultant and his staff crowded around his cot and touched and prodded

and discussed the restructuring of his flesh with an impersonal candour

that chilled him.

They freed the fat sausage of flesh from his belly and it dangled from

his arm like some grotesque white leech, seeming to have a life of its

own, drawing blood and sustenance from its grip upon his forearm.

They lifted his arm and strapped it across his chest, and the raw end of

the pedicel they split and stitched to his jaw and to the stump of his

nose.

It's taken very nicely. We will begin shaping it this afternoon. We'll

have him at the head of the theatre list.

Will you see to that please, sister? With the living flesh that they

had stolen from his belly they fashioned a crude lump of a nose, taut,

narrow lips and a new covering for his jawbone.

The oedema has settled. This afternoon I will go for the bone-graft on

the jaw.

They opened his chest and split his fourth rib laterally, robbing it of

a long sliver of bone and they grafted this to the damaged jaw-bone,

then they spread the flesh of the pedicel over it and stitched it all

into place.

On Thursdays it was the knife and the stink of anaesthetic, and for the

days in between it was the ache and pain of abused and healing flesh.

They fined down the new nose, piercing it with nostrils, they finished

the reconstruction of his eyelids.

They laid the last grafts behind his ears, they cut a double zigzag

incision around the base of his jaw where the contracting scar tissue

was trying to draw his chin down on to his chest. The new lips took

firm hold on the existing muscles and David gained control of them so he

could form his words again and speak clearly.

The last area of raw flesh was closed beneath the patchwork of skin

grafts, flesh grafts and stitches. David was no longer a high-infection

risk and he was moved from a sterile environment. Once again he saw

human faces, not merely eyes peering over white surgical masks. The

faces were friendly, cheerful faces. Men and women proud of their

achievement in saving him from death and refreshing his ravaged head.

You'll be allowed visitors now, and I expect you'll welcome that, said

the consultant. He was a distinguished-looking young surgeon who had

left a highly paid post at a Swiss Clinic to head this burns and plastic

surgery unit.

I don't think I will be having any visitors, David had lost contact with

the reality of the outside world during the nine months in the burns

unit.

Oh, yes, you will, the surgeon told him. We've had regular inquiries on

your progress from a number of people. Isn't that correct, sister?

"That's right, doctor. You can let them know that he is allowed

visitors now. The consultant and his group began to move on.

Doctor, David called him back. I want a look at a mirror, and they were

all silent, immediately embarrassed. This request of his had been

denied many times over the last months.

Damn it, David became angry. You can't protect me from it for ever. The

consultant gestured for the others to leave and they filed out of the

ward, while he came back to David's bed.

All right, David, he agreed gently. We'll find you a mirror, though we

don't have much use for them around here! For the first time in the

many months he had known him, David glimpsed the depths of his

compassion, and he wondered at it. That a man who lived constantly

amongst great pain and terrible disfigurement could still be moved by

it.

You must understand that how you are now is not how you will always be.

All I have been able to do, so far, is heal your exposed flesh and make

you functional again. You are once more a viable human being. You have

not experienced the loss of any of your faculties but I will not pretend

that you are beautiful. However, there remains much that I can still do

to change that.

Your ears, for example, can be reconstructed with the material I have

reserved for that purpose, He indicated the stump of the pedicel that

still hung from David's forearm - There is much fine work stiH to be

done about the nose and mouth and eyes. He paced slowly the length of

the ward and looked out into the sunlight for a moment before turning

back again and coming forward to face David.

But let me be truthful with you. There are limitations to what I can

do. The muscles of expression, those delicate little muscles around the

eyes and mouth have been destroyed. I cannot replace those. The hair

follicles of your lashes and brows and scalp have been burned away.

You will be able to wear a wig, but David turned to his bedside locker

and took from the drawer his wallet. He opened it and drew out a

photograph. it was the one which Hannah had taken so long ago of Debra

and David sitting at the rock-pool in the oasis of Em Gedi and smiling

at each other. He handed it to the surgeon.

Is that what you looked like, David? I never knew. The regret showed

like a quick shadow in his eyes. Can you make me look like that again?

The surgeon studied the photograph a moment longer, the young god's face

with the dark mop of hair and the clean pure lines of the profile. No,

he said. I could not even come close That's all I wanted to know. David

took the photograph back from him.

You say I'm functional now. Let's leave it at that, shall we? You

don't want further cosmetic surgery?

We can still do a lot Doctor, I've lived under the knife for nine

months.

I've had the taste of antibiotics and anaesthetic in my mouth, and the

stink of it in my nostrils for all that time. Now all I want is a

little escape from pain, a little peace and the taste of clean air.

Very well, the surgeon agreed readily. It is not important that we do

it now. You could come back at any time in the future. He walked to

the door of the ward. Come on. Let's go find a mirror. There was one

in the nurses room beyond the double doors at the end of the passage.

The room itself was empty and the mirror was set into the wall above the

wash basin.

The surgeon stood in the doorway and leaned against the jamb. He lit a

cigarette and watched as David crossed towards the mirror and then

halted abruptly as he saw his own image.

He wore the blue hospital dressing-gown over his pyjamas. He was tall