Flash Point

19

Woods wasn’t sure what he thought he’d find, but he was sure he expected to find something: blood, marks on the pavement, empty shell casings, something. But there wasn’t anything. He and Big stood there next to Jacob, the beach behind them, and stared at a very ordinary road.

“Are you sure this is the place?” Woods asked.

“Yes, I am sure. This is where they killed Irit,” Jacob said, his arms folded in front of him, his voice hardening.

Woods stared at him, then at the water. “They came from the sea?”

“Yes,” Jacob said. “In rubber rafts.”

“Why did they do it?” Woods asked.

“It is so hard for others to understand,” Jacob said wearily. His eyes met those of the American Naval officers. “They do it because they hate us. They hate Jews. Just like the Germans before them, and others before them; they want to kill all Jews.”

“But why?”

“Ask them. All we want is to be left alone. This is our land, given to us by God. The Promised Land. They think it is theirs and we stole it from them when we became a nation in 1948. They tried to kill us then, and they try to kill us now. They will always try to kill us. So we defend ourselves. But it is never enough. They come and kill our daughters, our sons…”

“I’ve seen enough,” said Woods with finality. “We owe it to Vialli, Big. We can’t just let this drop.”

They walked to Jacob’s car.

“What are you thinking? Another letter to your congressman?” Big asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Nothing we can do, Trey.”

“Nobody cares. Nobody. Not Congress, not the President, not the Department of Defense, not anybody. Huge power, and no will to use it. That’s us.”

Big looked at Woods earnestly. “Yep. That about sums it up.”

Ricketts waited to board the airplane in Athens, Greece. He was wearing a fine gray Armani suit with a dark blue shirt and a designer tie, expensive loafers, and socks with a diamond pattern. His recently grown moustache was perfectly trimmed and his hair was oiled and combed back. A shiny stainless steel diving watch showed slightly below his French-cuffed shirt. He looked every bit the rich sophisticated Lebanese businessman he was trying to portray.

The Middle East Airline’s clerk took his passport and ticket. She smiled, then addressed him in Arabic. “Going home?”

“Yes. Finally.”

She examined the ticket and checked his name and photograph on his Lebanese passport. “Beirut?”

“Yes.”

“Are you from there?”

“All my life.”

“Me too,” she said. “What part?”

“On the beach. My parents managed the Sheraton Hotel, until the city became like Berlin in ’45. We closed it down, and I have worked in many other hotels since. Now, I own my own hotel.”

“Which one?”

“It is in Spain.” He smiled warmly. “Much safer.”

“Beirut is safer now…”

He shrugged. “My parents say so as well. I just go to visit. I will return to live, and build a new big hotel on the beach, when everyone else is out. The Israelis, the Syrians, the Iranians, everybody.”

“I will come visit your hotel,” she said. “I hope it is soon.” She handed him his passport and ticket and he joined the line of people waiting to board.

“What are you doing here?” Big asked as he reclined on his bunk reading Tolstoy.

“Taylor put in an emergency leave chit. I had to come in to sign off on it.”

“I just don’t get it. This guy introduces a million characters in about fifty pages; they stand around at parties, ‘interact,’ have feelings, it’s boring.”

“What is?”

“War and Peace.”

“Maybe you need to skip to the war part.”

“I’ve been thinking about Irit’s picture. What do you think?” Big asked, closing his book.

“I don’t know. I’m sure she said it was from birth. But I don’t remember talking to her about it. I can’t remember if Vialli said that, or if she did. If it was just him, he might have gotten it wrong. I suppose she could just tell people that so she doesn’t have to explain the accident every day. It might be too embarrassing. Maybe she got it caught in an elevator door or something.”

“Right. Or maybe there’s a lot more to this.”

“Like what?”

“How about the whole fake interview thing?”

Woods shook his head. “That one really got me. I mean Boomer even put that in his postcard. No mistake there.”

“So what the hell is going on?”

“Don’t know. We just don’t know enough.”

“You going to the reception tonight?”

Woods gave him a weary “oh no” look. “What reception?”

“At the Air Force base.”

“What Air Force base?”

“Ramat David.”

“Who is that?”

“You know, Israeli Air Force, F-15s, F-16s. Guys with wings, cool guys, like us.”

Woods pulled his T-shirt off and tossed it into the bottom of his closet. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Well, while you were out playing tourista to the Holy Shrines, the Israeli Air Force sent word to CAG that they wanted to sponsor a reception for all the aircrew in the Air Wing to come to Ramat David. We leave in two hours, by bus. You coming?”

Woods sighed. “I’d love to talk to those guys. That sounds great. What’s the uniform? Is anybody else from the squadron going?”

“Whites. Everybody.”

Woods made a mental survey of the state of his tropical white uniform. “Maybe there’ll be somebody there who can tell us more about this Sheikh guy.”

“Don’t count on it.”

“Never hurts to ask.”

The Americans were in their distinctive white uniforms and the Israelis were in their indistinctive olive-green uniforms. All were young and vigorous, and tried to impress each other. The pilots stood in small groups and traded stories. Many of the Israelis talked of combat victories and MiGs downed; the Americans stuck to carrier aviation, which the Israelis would never experience.

Woods and Big were talking to three Israeli Captains. They were F-15 pilots and proud of it. Pritch hovered outside the group, not sure whether she could participate as a full member of the unspoken but recognized fraternity of fighter pilots. She had insisted on coming even though she wasn’t “aircrew.” She argued that she was an officer in the squadron and should be allowed to come. Bark thought it might be amusing to have her along.

Woods was distracted. He had to write the flight schedule for the morning’s flights, some of which were to launch immediately after the Washington pulled out of Haifa, and he hadn’t even started it. “I’m sorry, what?” he said, realizing one of the Israelis was talking to him.

“You went to Topgun.”

“Not only did he go, he was an instructor,” Big said.

“Thanks, Big,” Woods said sarcastically. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Is that true?” the Captain asked, impressed. “You were an instructor?”

“Yeah. Two and a half year shore tour, flying F-5s and F-16Ns.”

“Must be great flying.”

“Best there is.”

“Is Topgun a good thing for the Navy? It is just Navy?”

“Yes. It’s a Navy thing. The Air Force has Red Flag; but there’s nothing like the original,” Woods said, smiling. “It sure made a difference in Vietnam when it started. Our kill ratio was 2:1 until we started Topgun, then it went to more than 12:1. The North Vietnamese told their pilots not to fight gray Phantoms.”

“What do you mean?” the Captain asked, perplexed.

“Gray Phantoms. Navy Phantoms, F-4s. Fight the Air Force Phantoms, the camouflage ones. They haven’t been to Topgun.”

“Oh, of course. That’s good,” the Captain said. Grinning, he repeated this in Hebrew for his fellow pilots. They laughed weakly. “You think you still fly as good?”

Woods smiled. “We like to think so. We’d love the chance to see how we could do against you.”

Big stepped closer as the stakes went up. “That would be something. Since you guys are clearly the best in the world — because of your combat experience — it would be quite an honor to test ourselves against you.”

“It would be our honor,” the Captain said to Woods. “And we would only hope to do well enough so as not to bring discredit on ourselves.” He studied the white-uniformed Navy pilots carefully. “I wish we could find out,” the Captain said.

At the front of the room, someone tapped on the side of a glass.

“May I have your attention please,” said an Israeli officer. Woods couldn’t figure out how to decode their insignia yet, but assumed the one speaking was in charge. “I am Colonel Yitzak Bersham. I want to welcome the American pilots from the Washington, and thank you for coming to Ramat David, our aircraft carrier that doesn’t move.” He smiled at his small joke. “The reason we asked you here tonight is to get to know you better, let you get to know us better, and talk about airplanes and the great traditions of aviation. We also wanted to thank you on behalf of your country, for your constant support, and for the weapons you have provided us, without which we would never have survived.” He waited as the Israeli pilots clapped, endorsing his thanks.

“Please make yourselves at home, get to know our pilots, and enjoy your stay in Israel.” He raised his glass and then stepped away from the microphone.

A U.S. Navy Captain took the microphone and spoke to the crowd. “Good evening. I’m Captain Dave Anderson, the Air Wing Commander of the Washington. We wanted to thank you for your hospitality, and for inviting us to meet you at your air base. Several of you were able to visit us on the Washington, and next time perhaps the rest of you can as well…”

Woods had stopped listening. He never liked speeches, or toasts, or any other times when people said things other than what they meant. He looked at the Israeli pilots standing next to him, then at his watch. He still had to prepare the flight schedule.

“… and let me simply say that it is an honor to be with the second-best group of aviators in the world.” The Israelis hooted and laughed at the comment, although half were behind because of the translation lag.

Commander Anderson moved away from the mile, and the officers began talking again. Woods didn’t feel like making any more small talk. He toyed with going out and waiting in the bus. “Lieutenant Woods,” the Israeli Captain said, “I want you to meet our Squadron Commander, Major Mike Chermak.” Chermak moved closer to Woods and extended his hand.

Woods was surprised. “Your name is Mike?”

“Yes.” Chermak smiled warmly. “Nice Christian name, yes?”

“Interesting.”

“No, it is short for Micah. Old Hebrew name. There is even a book in your Old Testament by that name.” He watched Woods, then recognized his name on his nametag. “So you’re the Topgun instructor,” he said softly. His brown eyes bore holes in Woods, making him uneasy.

“Former instructor, sir,” Woods said. “Now I’m in a squadron.”

“103?” he asked.

Woods’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve done your homework.”

“Skull and bones,” he said.

“That’s us.”

“I went to your school. I am a Topgun graduate.”

Woods studied him more closely. “When?”

“Oh, before your time. Class of 04/97, in F-16s.”

“That’s why you guys are so good. Navy-trained.”

“How do you like the F-14?” Chermak asked.

“Best fighter in the world,” Woods said quickly.

“You really believe it’s better than our F-15s?”

“Depends on what you’re doing. Can you shoot down six planes simultaneously?”

“No, but how often are you called on to do that?”

“Not often enough.”

“What about in a dogfight?”

“We can beat anybody, except a well-flown F-15 or 16. Really well flown. And we’ll beat him about half the time.”

Chermak changed the subject. “Have you enjoyed your time in Israel?”

“Not really,” Woods said.

“Why not?” the Major asked.

Woods was silent for a minute before he answered. “Because I went to see where my roommate was murdered.”

The Major hesitated. Then he asked. “How did it happen?”

“He came to visit his girlfriend, in Nahariya, and was killed by that Sheikh.”

The Major sighed. “He was the one on the bus?”

“Yes, sir,” Woods replied, his gray eyes full of fire.

“I’m sorry,” the Major said. Shrugging his shoulders, he added, “Americans don’t usually get involved.”

“Shot him in the back.”

The Major responded softly, “I’m sorry… but, you know, Israelis are killed every year. In cold blood. I don’t mean to minimize the death of your friend, but if it had been an Israeli man killed on that bus, you probably wouldn’t have even heard about it.”

“You know, you don’t have a patent on suffering,” Woods said angrily. “Sometimes it seems to me like you’re proud of how much you’ve had to suffer. Well, we suffer sometimes too. Seems like it’s always for someone else, but we suffer too.”

“Of course you do. I didn’t mean to say you don’t. But you must understand, we are in a unique situation here. There have been over fifteen hundred terrorist attacks on Israel since we became an independent nation in 1948. We are a country of four and a half million people, and we are surrounded by forty million Arabs, who have sworn to kill us all and push us into the sea. Sometimes some of them deny that. But never all of them.” He raised his glass and drank deeply. “We are in a constant state of war. Constant. They shoot rockets at us across the border, and hit schools and hospitals. They come ashore in rubber boats and murder families. They blow up buses and kill innocent women and children. And for that, they want recognition and respect.”

“I didn’t mean to say you were wrong, or…”

The Major waved him off with his hand. “I know, I know… We just live it every day. You are feeling what we all feel, every day of our lives. We have all lost family and friends in the wars, in terrorist attacks, and in intimidation.” His eyes came alive. “But now as a nation we can do something about it. We don’t sit back and walk to the gas chambers like lambs to slaughter.” His voice rising, he said, “Deliver those who are being taken away to death, and those who are staggering to slaughter, hold them back. If you say, we did not know this, does he not consider it who weighs the heart? And does he not know it who keeps the soul? And will he not render to man according to his works?” He paused to look for recognition in Woods. “Do you know that? It is from the Meshalim. Your Book of Proverbs, in the Old Testament, as you call it.”

Woods nodded.

“Now, we do something about it. We strike back. Never again will Jews go to their deaths quietly.”

“That’s exactly how I feel, but I can’t do anything about Vialli,” Woods said. Noticing the Major’s confusion he added, “My roommate.”

“What do you mean?”

“I wanted to do something about Vialli. But I’m out of options.” Woods spoke out of frustration. “I just wanted to do something.”

The Major took another sip from his glass. “Like what?”

“To strike back. I wanted to go after the people who did it.” Woods’s eyes showed his intense disappointment.

“Do you know where they are? ’Cause I think some people have an idea of where they are. Or where the Sheikh is.”

“He’s in Lebanon.”

Woods waited. He wasn’t sure if he was being asked, or told. “How do you know?”

“We make it our business to know where terrorists are who murder Israelis. He isn’t always in Lebanon, but he is right now. His headquarters is somewhere else.”

“How do you know he is in Lebanon?”

“Our intelligence people are very good.”

“Where in Lebanon?”

“Eastern.”

“I thought when he sent his statement to the press he signed it in Beirut.”

“Maybe. But now, he’s in eastern Lebanon.”

“You know the town?” Woods asked, wanting to get as much information as he could, whether he was supposed to know or not.

“I do know the town.”

“What town?”

“Dar al Ahmar.”

“Where is that?”

“If I had a chart I would show you.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

Chermak shrugged. “We’re on the same side, aren’t we? Didn’t he kill your American roommate and my three countrymen?”

Woods wondered what Chermak was getting at. Why did he feel as if he was being tested. “If you know where he is, why aren’t you doing something about it?”

“What makes you think we’re not?”

“Because nothing has happened. We’d know about it.”

“You would know about it if we wanted you to know about it. If it was done some other way, you might not hear about it.”

“I hope you hammer him.”

“So why didn’t you?”

“Why didn’t I what?”

“You said you wish you could do something about it. Why didn’t you?”

“It’s not up to me. I went way out on a limb. Even went to see the Admiral, to get him to launch an attack. Kind of stupid. I could have been court-martialed. I think everyone was giving me a lot of room since Vialli was my roommate. Then I had a brainstorm, and wrote to my congressman to tell him about it. I had hoped our government — Congress in particular — would do something. I should have known better. They never do. They say a bunch of words and go to their next party. I guess we’re supposed to just let it happen.”

Except for Big, the other officers had drifted away as the conversation had become more and more serious. The Major looked around the room slowly, then back at Woods, as if considering something. He leaned forward slightly, saying on a soft voice, “May I talk to you outside?”

Woods wasn’t sure. “What for?” he asked, trying to resist but without offending.

Chermak didn’t respond directly. “Yes?”

“I guess so.” He turned to Big, saying “I’ll be right back.”

Big gave him a “be careful” look.

Woods and the Major walked outside the club and into the star-filled night, from the loud cacophony of conversation to the deep quiet of the evening. It was chilly and Woods wished he had something on other than his polyester white uniform. He put his cover on his head and pulled the bill down.

The Major started down the road. “Come,” he said.

Woods walked beside him on the side of the field next to the club. “What’s this about?” he asked impatiently.

“Just a minute,” the Major replied. “I want to make sure we’re out of hearing range of the building. You never know what is attached to a building or who is inside it.”

Woods frowned but didn’t say anything. After a few minutes, the Major stopped. A single spotlight from a building hundreds of yards away lit the Major from behind just enough that Woods couldn’t make out his face. He listened carefully over the chirping of the crickets as the Major stood very close to him and spoke softly, almost in a whisper. “What are you doing tomorrow morning?”

Woods was puzzled. “We sail early, then we’ll be conducting flight ops west of here.”

Major Chermak said, “Can you fly in the morning?”

“What?”

“Can you fly in the morning?”

“I told you, we’ll be flying off the ship in the morning. We’re pulling out.”

“What time?”

“I can’t tell you that. Confidential.”

“What time is your first flight?” the Major asked again, undeterred.

“What difference does it make?”

“What time,” the Major repeated.

Woods hesitated, then said, “I think our first launch is 0700.”

“Can you be on it?”

“Why?”

“Yes or no.”

“Of course. I write the flight schedule. I can put myself on it anywhere I want. But why?”

The Major checked around them slowly in each direction obviously watching for any movement.

“Can you meet us overhead right here,” he said, pointing up, “at 0730?”

“What are you talking about?” Woods asked, his heart pounding as the implications of what the Major was asking sunk in.

“Yes or no.”

“I suppose I could, but what for?”

“Tomorrow we go north. Into Lebanon. We will be after several terrorist strongholds in southern Lebanon, from where they launch their actions, including the place the rubber boats came from in the attack when your friend—”

Woods cut him off. “Where was that?” he asked sharply.

“Never mind about that. We also will be in eastern Lebanon. I will be leading that strike.”

“Why eastern Lebanon if the attack was launched from the coast?”

“We’re going to Dar al Ahmar.”

“You’re going after the Sheikh himself? The one taking credit for Gaza, and the bus?”

“The very one.”

Woods felt goose bumps on his arms. “What would I do?”

“You can cover me. We are expecting the Syrians to come after us this time. We will be baiting them. Just a little.”

“They’re going to be sending fighters after you?”

“Yes.”

“What could I do?”

“Keep them off me. I have to deliver a laser-guided bomb to our friend.”

“Why don’t you want your own fighters doing escort?”

“I do. They will be there. You can fly high cover, above most of the AAA and low SAMs.”

Woods tried to keep his voice from shaking. “I’d never get permission.”

Woods barely heard Chermak’s rueful laugh. “I didn’t expect you to ask.”

Woods’s mind was spinning. “Are you serious?”

“Very.”

“I couldn’t be of much help. I can’t fire my missiles. Can’t very well go back to the ship without them.”

“There may be a way around that too.”

“Are you nuts?” Big asked, quickly glancing around for other squadron officers. “This is the kind of thing that they don’t think is funny. We’ll be making big rocks into little rocks.”

“What’s up?” Pritch asked, strolling up to the two Naval officers she enjoyed being with the most. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said to Big.

Big ignored her and, returning his focus to Woods, said, “You talk to Wink yet?”

“No. I wanted to talk to you. If you’re in, we can talk to Wink and Sedge.”

Big shook his head thoughtfully. Pritch looked at them in frustration. “We’d never pull it off,” Big said finally.

“It’ll work. There’s not that much to plan. We just have to go along with them. Making it look like a regular hop from the ship will be the tricky part, but it will work. I know it will.”

“Maybe you’re not the best person to decide that.”

“Let’s find Wink and Sedge. I’ll go over the whole thing. Then we’ll decide.”

Big spoke to Pritch. “Let’s go.”

They moved toward the back of the room where most of the squadron was congregated, waiting to return to the ship.

“Go over what whole thing?” Pritch said to their backs.