Firebreak

by Richard Herman

  “Shit hot!” Furry yelled.

  “What the hell …” Matt said. Furry was laughing like a madman, relieved that they were still alive. He would explain after they landed how the last-minute change the Israelis had made to their TEWS had enabled one of the black boxes to capture the range gate of the Gadflies’ radar and generate a false range cue which, in turn, caused the missiles to receive a premature detonate command.

  Two explosions from their bombs lighted the night as tracers from a ZSU-23 passed behind them.

  Furry read the safe passage procedures to Matt as they approached Ramon to land. They had to fly a hard altitude at 250 knots airspeed, stay in a narrow corridor, and squawk the right IFF code or the Israeli Hawks and AAA would treat them as a hostile aircraft. “They’re weapons-free,” Furry reminded him. “Weapons-free” made thing more dicey, for every aircraft was treated as a “hostile” unless positively identified as a “friendly.” It was like being guilty until proven innocent. Matt wired the approach and circled to land.

  Before completing their rollout, Matt turned off on the first highspeed taxipath and headed for their bunker at thirty miles an hour. He automatically stabbed at the eight-day clock and stopped the elapsed time hand. He could hardly credit it; the mission had lasted less than fifty-five minutes and they had never flown slower than 540 knots indicated airspeed or higher than four hundred feet above the deck. He pulled his oxygen mask away from his face and rubbed the sweat away with the back of his gloved hand. He could not believe how tired he felt or how wringing wet with sweat he was.

  In the backseat, Furry was busy checking all his systems. “Looks like we’re undamaged and healthy as a horse,” he announced. They had survived their first combat mission as a crew and the Eagle was undamaged. The bunker doors opened as they approached and Matt taxied directly in and shut the engines down. Instead of a ground crew waiting to receive them, two men stood in the bunker. One was the Israeli base commander and the other was an immaculately uniformed but slightly overweight U.S. Air Force colonel dressed in class A blues. The silver cord of an aiguillette looped over his left shoulder announced he was the air attaché from the United States embassy in Jerusalem.

  “What the hell have you two cowboys done?” the colonel shouted, his face rock-hard.

  17

  The Ganef had not left his office for three days as he drove Mossad into a frenzy of activity. He was furious with himself and his organization for what he knew was a basic failure in intelligence. His agents had reported the Syrians were upgrading the quality of their military but they had failed to determine just how deep the improvements had reached. The Syrians were performing miracles on the battlefield and the Israelis were feeing a well-trained and modern army. A knock at his open door caught his attention and the old man lifted his head. He leaned back in his chair, pushed his glasses up onto his forehead and rubbed his nose. Gad Habish was standing in front of him. “Well?”

  “I’m turning the Pontowski case over to Mordechai. He’s been briefed.”

  “I’ll take it over myself,” the Ganef decided. “How’s it going?”

  “It was going very well as of five minutes ago. Colonel Gold, the U.S. air attaché found him just after he landed from a mission.”

  “It would be good if he flew another mission,” the Ganef observed. Habish said nothing. They both believed that Matt could best serve the interests of Israel as a casualty or prisoner of war. The worldwide publicity resulting from the President’s grandson dying or being captured fighting for Israel would unconditionally force the United States into Israel’s corner.

  “Shoshana Tamir has proven most useful,” the Ganef said. “We need to make sure she and the young Pontowski meet again.”

  “Nature will take care of that,” Habish said. “If we can keep him in Israel.” Then he changed the subject. “I’m leaving in an hour. Everything is arranged.”

  The Ganef looked at the man who had served him so well. “I don’t like this. Too rushed.” There was more than a professional worry behind his words.

  “It has to be done,” Habish said. “The station chief in Cairo is onto something and needs help. Maybe we can feed the Egyptians enough misinformation to keep them out of the war.”

  “You two got to have hemorrhoids of the brain,” Colonel Steven Gold groaned. The air attaché was stalking back and forth in the small office he had appropriated in Dave Harkabi’s squadron building. Matt and Furry were sprawled out in chairs, both sucking on water bottles, their sweat-stained flight suits unzipped. “Look at you,” he spat. “Have either of you ever read the manual on dress and appearance?”

  “The side with the simplest uniforms wins,” Furry intoned.

  “What the hell does that mean?” Gold shot back.

  “You ever flown in combat?” Matt asked. Combat had been a new, and in many ways thrilling, experience for the young pilot. He doubted that he would ever be the same again, and for the first time, he understood how he had changed since the day Locke had first dressed him down. He smiled to himself when he thought of how his old, self-assured attitude had planted one of the earth’s axis firmly in his butt while the world rotated there about. That vision of his self-importance had been destroyed.

  “What does that have to do with this?” The colonel was yelling, misinterpreting Matt’s smile, and on the very edge of losing his temper. “Not only did you jeopardize a thirty-million-dollar jet—”

  “Twenty-nine million,” Furry corrected.

  Colonal Gold fought for what was left of his self-control. “But you actively involved the United States on Israel’s side. Do you have any idea of the repercussions if you had been shot down and captured? Especially you, Captain Pontowski.”

  Matt decided it was time to bite back. He had seen too many colonels like the one standing in front of him—desk jockeys good at pushing paper who didn’t have a clue about the business end of the Air Force. “Came damn close, Colonel. They almost got us.”

  “Captain, you seem to have forgotten who your grandfather is. I was given specific orders to find you and make sure you get out of Israel. Right now, your presence here is a political liability—” Gold was interrupted when the young intelligence officer opened the door. He could only stare at her, struck by how such a beautiful woman could be caught up fighting a war.

  “Matt, Ambler,” she said. “We’ve got the results of your mission. Want to see?” She held the door open and gestured toward her office. “Colonel Gold, after you?” The air attaché didn’t hesitate and quickly followed Matt and Furry out of the room.

  “Is this the first time you’ve seen our squadron, Colonel?” the captain asked as she escorted him down the hall.

  The air attaché only nodded. You damn well know it is, he thought. Gold had been assigned to the United States embassy in Jerusalem for two years and even though he was Jewish and spoke Hebrew, this was the deepest he had ever gotten inside the actual operations of Israel’s Air Force. The Israelis cast a dark mantle of secrecy over their military and carefully shielded their capability from outsiders. They believed their security depended on it. Since air attachés are official spies sent by their governments, the Israelis were careful to show them very little. Gold had learned more on his short search for Matt and Furry than in the previous two years.

  Israel’s early warning and air defense net was one of their closest-held secrets and the air attaché would have willingly sold his soul to learn the details of the elaborate structure of orbiting aircraft, fixed and mobile radar sites, command bunkers, and how they were all linked together by a triple redundant system of computers.

  The rotating planar array antenna on top of Mount Hermon was a critical part of that system. Because of constant artillery barrages, the Israelis had developed a fast erect/retract mechanism to protect the antenna and keep it feeding information to its processors and high-speed computers. A counterbattery radar would scan the area, and when it reported the area free of artillery fire, the antenna wo
uld snap out of its protective bunker and come to an upright position. From its elevation of 9,200 feet, the antenna would sweep the Damascus plain and the Transjordanian plateau as far south as Amman in Jordan on every ten-second rotation.

  As Colonel Gold was following the intelligence officer down the hall to her office at Ramon, the Syrians unleashed a heavy artillery barrage on Mount Hermon. The antenna quickly retracted when the counterbattery radar reported incoming and the defenders hunkered down. The captain in charge of the radar site on Mount Hermon was perplexed by the barrage, for the Syrian Third Army stretched out below him had been relatively quiet. He keyed his computer and ordered the antenna to come erect during an interval between explosions. The counterbattery radar sensed a six-second window between the incoming shells and the planar array antenna snapped up and took a 110-degree sweep of the area below before it retracted to safety.

  Inside the bunker, the computers processed the new information and sent out immediate warnings. Under the cover of the barrage, the Syrian Third Army was repositioning on the Golan Heights. Farther to the south, the Syrian Fifth Army had launched forty-six tactical missiles.

  The air attaché had reached the captain’s office at Ramon when the alarm sounded. On top of Mount Hermon, the captain commanded the radar antenna to come erect once more. Again, the antenna popped up and partially swept the horizon. This time, the computers were able to determine the trajectory of the tactical missiles, and since the ballistics of a missile are constant, the point of impact, the target, was determined. Eight of the missiles were headed for Ramon Air Base. Again, warnings went out.

  Deep in the command bunker outside Tel Aviv, computers reported the attack. Intelligence officers scanned the information and noted the targets. At first, the computers determined the missiles to be Soviet-built Scud Bs. But since the distance to Ramon was 320 kilometers, well beyond the range of the Scud B, the missiles arcing toward Ramon were upgraded to Scaleboards. Another warning was sent out for Ramon to expect eight missiles with two-thousand-pound highexplosive warheads to arrive shortly. An Israeli general’s lipscompressed and disappeared as he punched the telebrief phone at his console. Someone was going to have to tell Prime Minister Ben David that the Syrians were using much more accurate tactical missiles and that the battle for the Golan Heights could start at any time.

  The pretty captain disregarded the air raid warnings and handed a set of photos to Matt. She handed another set to the air attaché as Klaxons outside their bunker warned the base to take cover. “We’re as safe down here as anywhere else,” she told him. Sweat glistened on Gold’s face as two of the missiles eluded the Patriots and hit the base. It was the first time that the violence of war had found the colonel.

  Fraser sat panting in the bathtub, his face etched with sweat, still trying to catch his breath. His heart was still beating rapidly and he could feel his temples pound. My God, he wondered, how close did she come to giving me a heart attack? I’ll never let her do that to me again. For a moment he tried to remember all that he had told her. It seemed the more he had dropped names and told her about the rich and powerful people he associated with, the more excited she became. He shook his head and promised himself that he would never crawl into a bathtub with her again.

  Still, he couldn’t take his eyes off her as she sat on the edge of the sunken tub, her legs arched gracefully over his big belly. He was fascinated by the way she handled the old-fashioned straightedge razor as she flicked it up and down her legs. “Where did you learn that trick?” he asked.

  “My grandmother’s sister. Quite a gal in her day.” She reached for a bottle of fresh champagne and wiggled the cork, popping it free. He knew how strong her long fingers were. Then she poured the champagne over her freshly shaved legs. He knew how that felt. In fact, he knew many more things now than he had an hour ago. He had always thought of himself as a sexual sophisticate, one of the things money and power could buy, but Tara Tyndle had destroyed that self-image. He was amazed that a woman with her looks and class could be—he searched for the right word—a modern courtesan, he decided.

  Tara splashed some of the champagne over her naval and let it run down. Then she swung one of her long legs over his head. “Want to lick?”

  Later, when they were ready to go and drinking a last cup of coffee, Fraser marveled at her transformation. Tara had become a young society matron. Or was she a highly successful business-woman? or the pampered wife of one of Washington’s power brokers? He couldn’t tell. “Dinner tonight?” he asked, looking at her over his cup of coffee.

  “Oh I’m sorry, I can’t.” She gave him a sad look. “I’m going out of town for a few days. Switzerland.”

  “Why Switzerland?” Fraser considered that country one of the more boring places on the face of the earth and he did not like the Swiss—especially their incorruptible, self-righteous bankers.

  “Business. I need to make some arrangements.”

  Fraser understood immediately. Her business had to do with secret bank accounts and die transfer of money. If it involved the laundering of “black” money, something he was an expert at, he could help her. “If it involved banking,” he ventured, “you don’t need to go to Switzerland. I do have some contacts …” He deliberately let his words die.

  “I don’t see how I can avoid it,” she said, a rueful look on her face. “I would much rather go to dinner with you.” Her tongue flicked over her lips and he caught his breath. “But the sums are very large.”

  “Like I said, I know some people who might be able to help you.”

  “Thanks for the offer, but I wouldn’t want to impose.” She rose to leave, satisfied that he had taken the bait.

  An hour later, Fraser walked into his office. He settled down behind his desk, still preoccupied with thoughts of Tara. He had convinced himself that she was a power groupie, one of those women who skirted on the edges of true power, exchanging the only thing they had for a chance to be among the influential. And in exchange for a little aimless chatter, he laughed to himself, it’s all for free.

  Steven Gold pulled a small Japanese camera out of his shirt pocket and looked at the intelligence officer. “Go ahead.” She shrugged. “It is your airplane.” He walked around the F-15 and snapped six pictures, recording the damage the jet had suffered in the rocket attack. Since no one stopped him, he walked outside and took a picture of the damage to the underground bunker. It was the first time he had been allowed to take photos on an Israeli air base. Well, at least authorized pictures. He managed to take two more of the area around the bunker as he slipped the camera back into his pocket. He hoped the two unaimed photos would come out. Then he walked back inside and joined Matt and Furry.

  “What do you think?” he asked the two young officers.

  Furry crawled out from under his aircraft and brushed his hands. “Obviously she ain’t going to fly for a while, but she’s fixable. Can you get the Israelis to do it so we can get the hell out of here?”

  “I doubt it,” Gold answered. “They’re maxed out just keeping their own aircraft in the air.”

  “I can’t believe it,” Matt said. “This place takes a direct hit form a two-thousand-pound warhead and all it does is blow some concrete loose and part of the blast door away.” He studied his Eagle, making mental notes. “Most of the damage must have been caused by the blast door shredding.”

  “And that hunk of concrete that fell out of the ceiling and tore the radome off,” Furry added. He was examining the damage to the nose of the F-15. “With the right parts, a combat repair team should be able to fix her in about forty-eight hours.”

  “I’ll see if we can get a team in here,” Gold said.

  “How in the hell did they build this puppy,” Furry said, waving his hand at the bunker. “There should’ve been a fire, what with all the fuel lines they’ve got in here, and hell, they even store weapons over there.” He pointed to a small metal blast door set in the side of the bunker.

  “Can I look ar
ound?” Matt asked the captain. She nodded yes and watched him inspect the bunker. It was obvious that Matt had studied civil engineering at the Air Force Academy as he poked around the bunker. Then they were ready to go and she escorted the three Americans back to the squadron.

  Gold seemingly ignored the F-16s taking off while he calculated the Israelis had repaired the runway in less than twenty minutes. He tried to be unobtrusive as his eyes swept the base. He caught the captain studying him. She knows, he thought. He was certain that the base had become fully operational within thirty minutes after the attack as four F-16s landed and fast-taxied past them. “We need to talk alone,” he told the two Americans.

  The air-cooled V-12 diesel engine in the American-built M60A1 tank ticked over and came to life when the driver, Nazzi Halaby, hit the start button. Without thinking, he sat and locked the throttle at 1,200 RPM. He stuck his head out of his hatch on the sand-gray-colored tank and listened to the engine as it warmed up. He decided it sounded good and that the repair team had done their job well. He laughed when the other three members of his crew had to scurry out of the way of the M88 recovery vehicle as it moved around to mount the left track they had thrown in the last seconds of the battle that had raged around them less than four hours ago. Another forty-live minutes, Halaby calculated, and we’ll be ready to roll.

  “Why’s the Druze laughing at us?” the tank’s loader, Amos Avner, snarled. Avner was glaring at the skinny, ratlike Halaby who was climbing out the driver’s hatch. Moshe Levy scratched the heavy black beard he had been cultivating for months, ignored Avner’s latest jab at their driver, and decided to report in on the M88's radio. The tank commander crawled up the side of the United States-built tank recovery vehicle that made him think of a ship’s superstructure built on a tank chassis, thankful that the M88 had been around to pull them to safety.