The tank crews were finished with redistributing their remaining ammunition, and the squads in the M113 armored personnel carriers had dismounted and deployed along the low ridge that reached west out of the mountains and ran down to the sea to form the border between Israel and Lebanon. One of the squad leaders had suggested that they deploy recon/observation teams on the flanks and send a two-man scout team forward as soon as it was fully dark. Levy readily agreed. When he turned his attention back to his tank, he found Dave Bielski and another gunner boresighting the main gun. “The thermal sight is kaput,” Bielski told him. Their night fighting capability would now depend on how good their backup infrared sight was. I wish the old crew had told me about that, Levy thought. I’ve got a lot to learn.
He checked on Halaby and found him alone under the tank, tensioning the tracks. It was a two-man job and Avner should have been helping him. Levy searched the growing darkness until he found his loader, eating behind a rock outcropping. He took a great deal of pleasure in kicking him into action and sending him over the help Halaby. I shouldn’t have done that, he berated himself.
Darkness had settled over the ridge and Levy forced himself to maintain a listening watch on the radios. He badly wanted to check in and find out what was going on, but he knew that the longer the pause in fighting, the greater the chance of the Syrians’ using radio direction finders to pinpoint his position. Then he could expect an artillery barrage. He rummaged around in the tank until he found his night vision goggles. I’ve got to get organized, he thought, but I don’t seem to have enough time. He had never imagined that one of the main problems a commander had was time management. Why hadn’t someone told him that?
When Levy had the bulky goggled that resembled a squashed set of binoculars strapped to his head, he scrambled to the crest of the ridge and scanned the slope in front of him. Nothing. Then he turned and looked down the reverse slope to check his own disposition again. To the south, behind them, he could see movement of greenish images. Were they surrounded? Isolated? For a moment, he would’ve sworn that his heart was in his throat. Then he saw the distinctive image of an M88 tank recovery vehicle emerge from the dust. He couldn’t credit how gracefully the fifty-seven-ton monster moved, almost floating, then plowing over the terrain, leaving a feather wake of dust behind it. His heart found its proper place and he watched six Merkava tanks supported by a dozen of the heavily armored Centurion tanks that had been converted to APCs sweep toward him. It looked like an armored brigade was coming to the rescue.
Twenty minutes later, Levy was standing by the center hatch at the back of a Merkava tank as an aluf mishneh, or colonel, crawled out of the crew compartment. The colonel was in command of the brigade and using the Merkava as his command vehicle. “Congratulations,” he said, pumping Levy’s hand. “Our attack was turning into a complete disaster until you swung right and cleared this ridge. Apparently, the Syrians were going to use it to anchor an attack on our flank but thought better of it when you magically appeared.”
Levy thought about how easily they had taken the ridge. “I don’t think the Syrians were much sold on the idea,” he said.
“Obviously, you changed their minds. Our latest reconnaissance shows they’re pulling back, probably to reconstitute. We’re moving forward until we come in contact to keep the pressure on them.” He studied the map one of his staff handed him. “This looks like a good place for my headquarters. Moshe, you saved our ass on this one.”
So now I’m a hero because of pure dumb luck, Levy thought.
“I’ve forwarded a recommendation that you be promoted to segen,” the colonel said. “Division will approve when they hear what you did here.”
Levy’s mouth fell open. A segen was a first lieutenant and at the rate he was going, he’d make captain in a week. And that meant command of a company, which he definitely did not want.
The word that Tosh Pontowski was very ill again swept through the White House, casting a dark cloud over the entire staff. For those who knew what lupus could do, the news was especially grim and they struggled with their emotions, trying to soldier on as Tosh would have wanted. Even Zack Pontowski’s political enemies, men who contested with him over every major issue and election, sent their best wishes and hopes for a speedy recovery to the White House. The President’s wife was loved and respected.
Melissa Courtney-Smith had shed her tears in private and thought she was in full control when the President walked through her office. Without thinking, she stood up, wanting to say something, to offer hope. But the words weren’t there. Pontowski nodded at her, acknowledging the unspoken words between them. He paused before leaving. “We need to talk.” He nodded toward his office and she followed him. Once inside and alone, he motioned to a couch and sat down beside her. “Melissa, what have you and Bill Carroll be talking about?”
Her first impulse was to ask him how he knew about her and Bill. But Melissa knew he would not tell her. “About the Arab-Israeli war. Bill is very worried and claims the Iraqis will come in with the Syrians. He says the Arabs are whipping their people up for a jihad and if a cease-fire can’t be negotiated within a few days, the Arabs might win.”
Pontowski stared at his hands. “Why did he tell you?”
Melissa knew that they had come to the heart of the matter and that by rights, the President should fire her for meddling in affairs that didn’t concern her. But she wasn’t about to lie or try to hide what she had done. “Because Bill doesn’t think you’re getting the full picture, that internal prejudices in the CIA and politics are filtering out key items.”
“Where is Carroll getting his information from?” the President asked. Stan Abbott, the head of the Secret Service, had already supplied him with the answer. He was probing to see if she was playing the same type of games.
“From Mossad.”
“Perhaps,” Pontowski said, reassured by her honest answer, “the Israelis have their own special filters in place and want to feed us information to meet their own ends. Making sense out of the mass of information that floods into our intelligence agencies is a nightmare that I wouldn’t wish on any sane individual. Someone has to interpret it all and try to put it into a larger framework. I suppose that’s when a person needs an opinion—if you will, a view of the world—to filter and winnow facts.”
He smiled at his favorite secretary. “I know you don’t like or trust Tom Fraser and probably think he’s pushing for the oil interests in all this. But have you ever thought why I selected him for my chief of staff?”
Again, he had surprised her. Melissa thought she had worked very hard to hide her dislike of the man. She shook her head. “I never did understand why you did that.”
“Because he’s a wheeler-dealer, a hatchet man who scares people. He’s my point man and does all the heavy blocking for me. With him as the bad guy, I get to play the good guy. Melissa, I know where he’s coming from. He’s in it because he savors power. Also, he understands me and, more importantly, knows his limits.” Pontowski squeezed her hand. “Go on back to work, Melissa. Keep sending me memos when you think it’s necessary and let me worry about playing political games.”
Melissa felt like crying for so badly underestimating the man. She smiled weakly at him and stood up.
“Melissa, who should I get to replace Bill on the NSC?”
“General Leo Cox,” she answered.
“Please tell Tom to come on in.” He watched her go. Oh, Melissa, he thought, if only you knew. I use Fraser like I use you. Without him, my campaign would have gone broke in the early days of the primaries. Without a bastard like him to dig the money out, launder it, and then pump it into the campaign, the opposition would have swamped me. You have no idea how hard it was to find him; a man not afraid to act on his own, not involve me, and smart enough not to get caught. But I’ll burn him at the stake if I have to. What a popular sacrifice that would be and I can climb total innocence, the abused party betrayed by his friends now setting things right.
Matthew Zachary Pontowski, the President of the United States, could play hardball politics when he had to for he was a political animal, something his wife knew and understood.
Fraser stood in the doorway, waiting to be recognized. Pontowski heaved himself to his feet and walked over to his desk. “Who’s first on the agenda?”
“A delegation from the Hill.” He named two senators and three representatives.
“The Israeli lobby,” Pontowski said. “I’ve been expecting them. Show ‘em in.”
The senior senator heading the small congressional delegation that looked after the interest of Israel in the U.S. Congress was satisfied by what he was learning. Now if he could just get the junior congressman to shut up, they could gracefully bow out of the Oval Office and get back to work.
“Mr. President,” the young congressman said, “we appreciate that you have opened up the supply channels to Israel. But I’m telling you, it only amounts to tokenism and is not nearly enough to replace the losses in equipment the IDF has suffered.”
Pontowski stared at the young man, willing him to silence. It worked. “I don’t mind repeating myself. Like I said when we last met, I will not let Israel be destroyed or occupied by its enemies. Apparently, that promise isn’t enough for you. But I urge you to remember that there are other problems-”
“Which you’re using as a smokescreen to avoid committing the necessary support to save Israel,” the congressman said, interrupting him.
“Mr. President, let me apologize for my colleague,” the old senator said. He made a mental promise to teach the loudmouthed new kid a few political manners.
“John, it’s not necessary,” Pontowski smiled. “I was young once.”
“Don’t patronize me,” the congressman said, slightly more in control.
“I must take the reaction of the oil-producing Arab states and the Soviets into account when I make any move in this war,” Pontowski explained. “Unfortunately, no one is answering the telephone in the Kremlin now and we can’t tell them what our intentions are. So our actions must speak louder than words or the Soviets might overreact. We do not want to give the hard-liners in the Kremlin-the ammunition they need to come out on top. We must not embarrass the Soviets or, even now, we could find ourselves staring down each other’s gun barrels.”
“Mr. President, I don’t give a damn what you say because I think you’re more concerned with what the oil sheiks will do and are using the Soviets as an excuse to not intervene. The invasion of Kuwait and our reaction marked the turning point in our Middle Eastern policies. You’re sacrificing our only worthwhile ally, the only truly democratic state in the Middle East on an oil barrel. And I’m going to prove it.”
Pontowski’s blue eyes turned crystal hard. “Ah yes, the question about illegal campaign funds. Please tell me what you find. I’d like to get to the bottom of it myself.”
The old senator decided it was time to intervene. “Mr. President, thank you for your time.” Within a few minutes, the delegation had been ushered out and were waiting for their limousines to take them back to their offices. The old senator invited the junior congressman to ride with him. It was not a request and inside the cocoon of his car, the old man pulled off his gloves. “Son, you’re suffering a terminal case of the stupids. Zack Pontowski knows what he’s doing. Now you get your act together or I’m going to rip your balls off.”
“But …"the congressman stammered.
“There aren’t any ‘buts,’ “ the senator said. “Do you remember his saying actions must speak louder than words? Just why do you think Zack has left his only grandson in Israel? Learn to read the signs boy, or you’re dead in this town.”
The USAF colonel who headed the advance party setting up MAC’S airlift command post at Ben Guiron Airport reminded Matt of a hyperactive chimpanzee in rut he had once seen in a zoo. The man was all action and totally out of his element. While Matt piloted the embassy staff car through the oiganized chaos on the ramp at the airport, Furry sat beside him going through the charade of making notes as the colonel spewed orders from the backseat.
“I want that section of the ramp reserved for our aircraft,” the colonel said, “and that hangar as a temporary warehouse where we can inventory all arriving cargo prior to signing it over to the Israelis.”
A sardonic grin played across Furry’s mouth that he took care to hide from the colonel. “I’ll see what I can arrange, Colonel Walters.”
“Don’t see, do it,” Walters barked. He leaned forward in the seat, trying to be conciliatory. “Look, I know you tactical fighter types aren’t used to dealing with MAC, but we run the show based on accountability and flying safety. When that first C-Five lands, I’ll show you how it’s done. We’ll get the cargo offloaded, debrief the crew, and if the plane is code one for maintenance, we’ll get a fresh crew out of crew rest and fly her out of here. We’ll do the whole turnaround in less than three hours. We’ll process the cargo and have it ready for release by tomorrow. Colonel Gold at the embassy is an old MAC hand and that will impress the hell out of him.”
Furry scribbled a note on his pad for Matt to see. The wizzo was of the opinion that the Israelis would not be impressed. But since this was the first assignment Gold had sent them on, neither said a word. The colonel had a lot to learn.
A dirty van drove up and a haggard-looking Israeli lieutenant colonel climbed out. He identified himself as the ramp marshal responsible for unloading cargo planes and clearing the ramp as quickly as possible for the next inbound aircraft. Colonel Walters bridled at his abrupt manner and tried to explain that he was responsible for all MAC aircraft on the ground. The Israeli logistics officer ignored him and acknowledged a call on the van’s radio. Then he pointed to the west. Approaching the airport at four hundred feet and three hundred knots was a C-5.
“What the hell!” Walters shouted, his face bright red. “MAC doesn’t allow approaches like that. I’ll send that pilot’s ass home in a—”
“Colonel,” Matt interrupted. “Israeli air defenses are weapons-free …”
“Damn right they’re free. The U.S. paid for “em.”
“Colonel,” Matt explained, “ ‘weapons-free’ means the Hawk batteries ringing this place will shoot at anything that is not positively identified as friendly. And Hawks don’t miss. Your pilots have to fly that approach”—he gestured at the C-5 that was now almost over the field—“or the Hawks will hose it down. Believe it.”
“I don’t have to believe a goddamn thing, Captain.” Walters fell silent as the huge cargo plane crossed the approach end of the runway, still at four hundred feet and three hundred knots. Walters gasped when the pilot reefed it into a climbing left turn to a thousand feet and circled to land, touching down at the same spot where he had initially popped.
The colonel was beet-red and huffing. Matt was certain he would hyperventilate and pass out. “Captain, what you just saw violates every safety regulation in MAC’s book. I’m going to have some ass.”
“Sir,” Matt tried to calm the man, “that looked like pretty good airmanship to me. Why don’t you talk to the pilot after he lands? He may not’ve had a choice.” Walters shot Matt a look of contempt and stomped off” to give orders to the cargo handlers.
Matt and Furry stood beside their car and watched the C-5 fast-taxi to the ramp. They heard another “Goddamn” as Walters exploded again. “That man’s gonna bust a blood vessel,” Furry allowed. The plane’s engines remained at idle as it knelt down on its landing gear. Both the front and rear cargo doors swung open and ten Hummers with TOW antitank missiles mounted on top drove off both ends. Then an M2 Bradley armored fighting vehicle clanked down the front ramp. The plane raised up on its haunches and a low, flat-bedded cargo platform drove up. The driver nudged it against the cargo bay and pallet after pallet stacked with boxes were pushed off. “That puppy do carry a bit,” Furry mumbled. “Most of those pallets are loaded with TOWs and Stingers,” he added.
Walters bounce
d up to them. “Get on the ramp marshal’s radio and order them to shut down engines,” he barked. “The loadmaster says they’re code two for maintenance. No way I’m going to let them launch until it’s fixed.” The C-5's cargo doors closed and the engines spun up.
“Sir,” Matt shouted over the engine noise, “is it fly-able?” He knew the answer—code two simply meant the plane had minor problems.
“Damn it, I don’t launch unsafe aircraft. Get on the radio and shut ‘em down.” Now the C-5 moved forward and taxied for the runway.
“Colonel Walters,” Matt said, “this is a war zone and well within range of tactical missiles. The safest place for your aircraft is a hundred miles out over the Mediterranean.”
“You’re getting in the way, Captain. I need some action if I’m going to get things under control here.” He spun to look at the departing C-5, which was now taking the active runway and rolling. It had been on the ground less than fifteen minutes. They could see the back of the ramp marshal’s van as it followed the Bradley off the nearly deserted ramp. All the cargo had disappeared and only four men were left standing by a half-empty pallet with tool boxes and an F-15 radome. The colonel’s head jerked back and forth as he tried to understand what had happened to his carefully planned and organized operation.
Finally, he found some words. “They can’t fuckin’ A do this to me!” he shouted.
Furry tried to explain but he doubted if the man would understand. “Colonel, the war over there”—he pointed to the north—“is seventy miles away and is eating up men and equipment like you wouldn’t believe. Right now, the side that’s going to win is the side that can resupply the fastest. The Israelis know that. They haven’t got time to play paper-shuffling games.”
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