by T. E. Cruise
“What else do you have besides this cannon?” Steve asked.
“Lots of stuff.” Benny went over to the gun locker. “A .22 Woodsman target auto, a Browning nine millimeter, a brace of engraved, single-action Colt Peacemakers. Back at the house I’ve got another .45—”
“I know, in case of grizzly attacks,” Steve said wryly.
Benny looked back, smiling. “You can’t be too careful …” He turned back to the locker. “Oh, and I’ve got this pair of Smith and Wesson .38 Special, Combat Masterpieces—”
“Now you’re talking,” Steve enthused. “Get them out. We’ll shoot against each other with those, and I bet I whip your ass …”
“Not a chance.” Benny laughed.
Probably right, Steve thought as he studied the shelf of trophies Benny had won in shooting competitions down through the years. “You win most of these with a .38, or a .45?”
“Some of each,” Benny replied, handing Steve the guns and a box of cartridges. “But lately I’ve been concentrating on the .45. Most of the serious shooters are switching over to autos …”
Steve examined the revolvers. They were blued steel, with four-inch barrels, squared walnut target stocks, red ramp front sights, and adjustable, white-outlined rear sights.
“You know, I carried a piece like this during the Korean War…”
“Well, load them, and we’ll see how you do,” Benny replied, clipping two fresh targets to the pulley system and running them out the length of the range until they were hanging against the backstop.
Steve fed six semi-wadcutters into each gun, and handed one of the revolvers to Benny, who took it into the adjoining stall. Steve replaced his hearing protection, and gripped the Combat Masterpiece with two hands, aiming so that the bright red front blade was level centered in the U-shaped, white-outlined rear sight.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Benny called.
“Now…”
“Huh?”
Steve replied by squeezing off a round. The .38 barked, spitting fire, but the piece felt as smooth as silk after the .45’s mule kick. He emptied the revolver, concentrating on pulling the trigger straight back, not letting the gun jerk right or left as he fired, and resisting the urge to look over his sights at the target to see how he was doing. Benny finished firing an instant after him, and then both men were working their pulleys to reel in their targets.
Steve, grinning, plucked his target from the pulley and confidently strode toward Benny’s stall.
Benny met him halfway. “Read it and weep,” he said, proudly presenting his own target.
Both men laughed as they compared scores. Each had closely grouped all of his rounds in the center X-ring.
“That’s the way we used to do it when we were flying together,” Benny said quietly. “Knocking Zeros out of the sky over the Solomons.”
“Amen to that.” Steve nodded.
“You know, there’s no substitute for experience,” Benny added. “And we were there, old buddy…”
“We surely were,” Steve agreed. “And you were one of the best.”
During the Second World War Captain Ben Detkin had distinguished himself as a triple ace. He’d flown as Steve’s wingman, and had countless times saved Steve’s ass in dogfights by waxing the enemy before they could draw their bead on Steve’s six o’clock.
“Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about those days,” Benny was musing. “We were just a couple of cocky kids sent to do a job, and we did it, but things were so black and white back then …”
“Or maybe they just seemed that way because we were so young,” Steve pointed out.
Benny ruefully nodded. “I still can’t believe I hit the big four-oh last year.”
“And I’m coming up on it this year,” Steve said. “But you don’t look any different.”
“No? What about all this damned gray I’m getting?” Benny demanded.
“Ah, that’s nothing,” Steve said. “Anyway, a touch of gray suits a big-shot lawyer. It makes you look distinguished.”
Benny looked amused. “Well, gray or not, at least I’ve got all of my hair…” He squinted at Steve. “You seem to be getting a little thin up top,” he said merrily.
“Thank you for pointing that out to me, you sonofabitch—”
Benny laughed. “Come on, let’s go back to the house and have something hot to drink. I’ll come back later to clean the pieces.”
“Good idea.” Steve nodded. “It’s damned cold in here.” When he exhaled he could see his breath. “I thought you said this place was heated?”
“It is, to some extent,” Benny said as they gathered up the weapons and put them back into the gun locker, closed it up, and then set the padlock. “This was where they used to keep the cows, and they never complained.”
“That’s right, you said all this was once a dairy farm.”
They put on their coats and left the range. Outside a brisk wind was blowing. It was cold, but sunny. It had snowed a few days before, and everything still looked fresh and clean under its white blanket.
“When I saw how long and narrow the dairy barn was, I thought instantly of having it converted into a range,” Benny said, his breath puffing as they trudged toward the house.
“What’s the matter?” Steve joked, “You don’t like cows?”
“You sound like my wife.” Benny chuckled. “When I told Amy what I wanted to do with the barn she said nice Jewish boys shouldn’t be playing with guns, but what the hell, punching holes in paper relaxes me …”
“Seriously, I think the place is terrific.”
“My little hideaway in the country.” Benny beamed fondly as they entered the house. It was three stories, with a red shingled roof, a white clapboard exterior, and black shutters on all the windows.
“Do you make it up here much?” Steve asked as they paused in the mud room to stomp the snow off their boots and hang up their coats.
“I’m sorry to say only sporadically during the winter,” Benny replied. “But we do get here most every weekend during the summer, when things at the office are slower.”
Steve nodded. Benny was a partner in one of the most prestigious law firms in New York City.
Benny led the way into the big kitchen, which had a fireplace, like all the other rooms in the house. The kitchen’s walls and cabinets were painted mustard yellow. The floor was covered with red and black checkerboard linoleum that was almost worn through in several spots. Benny’s wife Amy had told Steve that the house, furnished with antiques bought locally at auctions, still looked pretty much the way it did when they’d purchased it from the family who had lived here for several generations. “Chic we have in Manhattan,” Amy had said. “Here it’s anti-chic …”
“There’s a little airport a couple of miles southwest of here,” Benny was saying. “Amy and the girls and I leave early on Friday, and fly up in the Cessna. The local guy I hired to keep an eye on the place meets us, and then here we are. By flying my own plane I bet I can get here faster than some guys I know can make it to their weekend places in the Hamptons, or Fire Island.” He paused. “But I know this was a real schlepp for you; I really appreciate you making the trek.”
“Hey, thanks for inviting me,” Steve said lightly.
Benny winked at him and then turned to open the refrigerator. “How about a beer? Or maybe some hot apple cider?”
“Hot cider,” Steve said adamantly, settling down on a kitchen chair. “I’ve been looking forward to this visit ever since you called,” he added as Benny poured the cider into a pan, tossed in some spices and a chunk of butter, and set it on the stove to heat. “I was ready for a week in the country. Things have been hectic, to say the least …”
“Yeah, that’s right.” Benny nodded, getting down two big mugs from the pantry. “You were pretty involved with that Chet Boskins, MR-1 spy plane thing for a while, weren’t you—?”
Steve nodded. In 1960, the Russians had followed through with their threat to try Lowball, an
d had found him guilty of espionage, sentencing him to ten years.
Benny had his back to Steve as he stood at the stove, stirring the heating cider. “Some people I know in Washington told me that you ruffled quite a few feathers to get your buddy back home …”
“There might have been a little bad blood created.” Steve shrugged, remembering how Jack Horton and his CIA buddies newly installed in their Langley, Virginia, headquarters had been looking to put past failures behind them. Horton had spread it around that it would be in the “national interest” to let Boskins molder away forgotten. Steve liked to think that in some small way it was his sincerely made threat to go public concerning all he knew about the MR-1 program that had convinced Horton to be more helpful toward securing Boskins’s release. In any event, last year all the hard work had paid off when the Reds sat down at the bargaining table to agree to trade Chet Boskins for one of their own held by the United States.
“The important thing was that we got Lowball home,” Steve said.
“That’s right.” Benny poured the steaming cider into the mugs and set them on the kitchen table. He then went rummaging in another pantry, bringing out a bottle of rye whiskey. “You help yourself,” he said, setting the whiskey on the table between them.
Steve grinned. “Well, I usually don’t hit the sauce until after five, but seeing as how I’m on vacation …” He poured a healthy dollop of rye into his cider. “When are Amy and the girls due back?”
“Not for hours.” Benny chuckled, pulling out a chair and straddling it backward. “When they go antiqueing, they go antiqueing.”
Steve watched him dribble less than a teaspoon of whiskey into his cider. To keep me from feeling awkward about drinking alone, Steve guessed. He knew that Benny rarely drank except for a little wine at dinner.
“I’m glad the wife and kiddies are gone for the day, though,” Benny said. “The week’s almost over and we still haven’t really had the chance to catch up with each other. For starters, how’s the Air Force been treating you?”
“Well, after that business concerning Chet Boskins was settled, I began to think again about leaving the Air Force …”
“To go to work for your father?”
“Yeah,” Steve replied. “I’ve been getting along pretty well with my brother-in-law …” He smiled. “I guess I really earned myself a bunch of Brownie points with the guy when I convinced my nephew to continue his education.”
“How’s your nephew doing?” Benny asked.
“Okay. He had a rough time of it his freshman year at a four-year school, so he transferred to a junior college.” Steve smiled. “I’ve got to hand it to him. He knew from the outset that he wasn’t going to win any academic excellence awards, but he stuck with it, and that sonofagun graduated,” Steve proudly declared. “He’s got himself an associate’s degree, and he stuck with Air Force ROTC, as well, successfully completing cadet flight training. He went into the Air Force last year, and now my little nephew is Second Lieutenant Robert Blaize Greene. He was accepted into fighter pilots’ training. Now he’s learning how to drive the fast movers.”
“That’s good,” Benny said. “But getting back to you, what made you decide to stay in the Air Force?”
“The opportunity to continue flying all the latest fighters, thanks to my pop’s old buddy, General Simon,” Steve replied. “The general’s still involved in Aircraft Development/Procurement out of Wright-Patterson, and had the clout to get me assigned to him. My job is still pretty much the same old P.R. routine of lobbying for appropriations, but the carrot at the end of that stick is my authorization to fly any fighter/interceptor bird I want, when I want, ‘for purposes of evaluation …’ ”
“It sounds to me like Simon is getting the best of the deal,” Benny said. “Over the years you’ve built yourself an invaluable network of contacts in both the government and the aviation industry, and you’re still putting all of that at the Air Force’s disposal. A guy like you would be invaluable in the business world, either working with your father, or for any company that supplies the military.”
“Maybe … It’s nice of you to say so, in any event.” Steve grinned. “I guess I’ll find out pretty soon …”
“What do you mean?”
“This free ticket I’ve got courtesy of General Simon won’t last forever,” Steve explained. “The general’s coming up on retirement. When he goes, so will my magic carpet ride. I know the kind of desk duty a light colonel gets saddled with, and I know that’s not for me.” He noticed that his mug was half-empty, and topped it off with rye.
“What about further promotions?” Benny asked.
Steve shrugged. “They want to send you to war college before they make you a colonel …”
“So?”
“So you know that classrooms and I don’t mix.”
“Not that bullshit again,” Benny said impatiently. “I swear to God, I don’t see how a fighter jock with your confidence could have such a phobia about education.”
“Let’s not get into all that now,” Steve said.
“No problem.” Benny reluctantly dropped the subject.
Steve took his Pall Malls out of his pants pocket, shook a smoke loose, and lit it. Benny got up to find him an ashtray, and ended up giving him a teacup saucer to use; neither he nor Amy smoked.
“Well,” Benny began again. “Are you seeing anyone?”
“No one special … Anyway, I’m pretty busy. General Simon has me dividing my time between Dayton and Washington. And when I’m not working I’m flying.”
“I always thought you and that cute little brunette newspaper reporter—”
“Nah,” Steve said lightly, shaking his head. “That’s been over for years. Anyway, last I heard she was married, with a couple of kids …”
Benny looked perturbed. “You can’t stay a bachelor forever—”
Once again Steve was feeling uncomfortable over the turn the conversation was taking. “I’m married to the Air Force,” he said and winked. “But enough about me. What have you been doing besides spending your weekends like a country squire on the ill-gotten gains of your shyster legal practice?”
“Nicely put …” Benny said sardonically. “Well, Amy and I have always been involved in work on behalf of Israel …”
“You’ve made several trips there with your family, haven’t you?” Steve asked.
“Yeah, and those opportunities have been very gratifying to me,” Benny replied. “You know, even when I was just a kid growing up in Brooklyn I was always going around shaking the can to collect pennies for Palestine … Now that I’ve become professionally established, I’m able to meaningfully engage in political activity and fund-raising on behalf of Israel. It’s really become a major focal point in my life—excepting my family, of course.”
“I never thought you were that religious,” Steve said.
“I’m not.” Benny shrugged. “But it isn’t about religion, you see. Remember what I’ve told you about my childhood? About how during the Depression—before my family moved to Brooklyn—we were stuck in New Jersey?”
“Yeah.” Steve nodded. “I seem to remember you saying that it was some kind of mill town … and that you were the only Jewish family—?”
“That’s right,” Benny said. “I spent a large portion of my childhood feeling threatened and lonely; feeling as if we were surrounded by enemies—” The smile had gone from Benny’s face. His voice had tensed, and his fists had clenched. “It was a bad time for me. It’s no way for a kid to grow up, always ready for a fight every time you walk out of the house, and then always looking over your shoulder, knowing that the chances are that you’re going to be outnumbered, so you don’t dare make a stand …”
Steve, nodding, thought about the shooting range, and the handgun trophies on the shelf. He wondered what Benny thought about when he was putting his tight groups through the X-rings of those target silhouettes; when he was making up his hot loads for “grizzly bear attacks”—
“… the way it was for me growing up in Jersey, that’s the way it is for Israel now,” Benny was saying. “Since its independence in ‘forty-eight nothing has come easy for Israel.” His voice began to rise. “Just look at the map! It’s just a little sliver of a country, surrounded by a sea of Arab hatred. Nasser and the other Arab leaders are constantly vowing to run the Israelis into the sea.”
“Hey, lighten up,” Steve coaxed gently.
Benny paused, then nodded, smiling. “Sorry, but when I think of all those Israeli children growing up the way I did, living with their shoulders hunched waiting for the blow to land … Well, I get worked up.” He snapped his fingers. “Hey, that reminds me! You’ll be interested in this! Last spring when we were over there, I visited an air base near Tel Aviv, and got to take up one of their jet fighters—”
“Hold on,” Steve interrupted, puzzled. “You’re telling me that the Israeli Air Force let a foreigner civilian fly one of their war birds?”
Benny was blushing. “You know I don’t mean to brag, but over the years I’ve made a lot of money—the stock market, real estate investments, and so on—and that’s allowed me to contribute a lot to Israel … What I’m getting at is that over there my family and I get the VIP treatment. Because of my aviation background I mentioned to some people that I would be interested in visiting an air base, which was arranged for me, and when I made it known that I was still an active pilot who enjoyed flying my own plane, I was invited for a ride in one of their dual-seat jet trainers.”
“I get it now.” Steve smiled. “And now that I think about it, I’ve got to admit that I’ve arranged for a few stateside VIPs to go for a ride in the Air Force’s two-seaters. Well, how’d you like it?”
“It was incredible!” Benny exclaimed. “The pilot even let me take the stick.”
“Now that’s something I’ve never arranged for any of our VIPs!” Steve laughed.
“I tried a few of the aerobatic tricks we used to pull on the Japs.” Benny looked proud. “That pilot was surprised to see what I could do!”
“I’ll bet he was,” Steve said earnestly. “I’ll tell you something, if your Israeli pilot was like any of the youngsters our Air Force is training, he probably thought air combat maneuvers had gone out with the biplane.”