by T. E. Cruise
“Your mother and I are concerned about you,” Gold agreed. “I don’t mean to pry, but I wish you’d talk to me, son.”
“No, that’s okay. I want to talk about it … I guess …” Steve pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket’s flapped patch pocket, then paused, looking back at the aircraft. “Can I smoke in here?”
Gold nodded. “But go on, you were saying—?”
“Right,” Steve said, lighting his smoke. “But let’s keep what I’m going to say to yourself, okay, Pop? I don’t think Mom could understand …”
“Okay …”
“Well …” Steve looked uncomfortable. “It might sound crazy to you, but what’s gotten to me is that soldier…”
“That … soldier?” Gold echoed puzzled.
“The one I shot.”
“Ah … Yes …”
“Now, before you say anything, Pop, let me tell you that I do know that I had to do it. I mean, it was him or me, I understand that, and I’m really glad that it was him …” He paused, shaking his head, his brow furrowed and his lips compressed into a flat line. “This is really hard to explain, but I’ll do my best. You see, Pop, I felt great for a while just after the rescue, but pretty soon I began to feel different. Kind of depressed … I began remembering little bits and pieces of the experience. You know the way a fighter pilot will flash on aspects of a dogfight after the fact?”
Gold smiled reassuringly. “Let me tell you, I’m sixty-eight years old, and to this day I have such flashes about the dogfights I experienced during the First World War … It’s perfectly normal for something that intense to stay with you—”
“Mostly what I flash on is the look on that guy’s face just before I pulled the trigger,” Steve cut him off. “Now I can’t help thinking that maybe he wasn’t a regular soldier at all. Maybe he was just some little gomer farmer who was peacefully minding his own business, you know? And then I got shot down, and somebody in the village militia or something shoves a rifle into this guy’s hands and tells him he’s got to forget about weeding his garden for now, and go help search for the big, bad, war-mongering American.” Steve dragged deeply on his cigarette. “You know what I’m saying, Pop? Maybe that poor jerk was standing around out there in the jungle right on top of my hiding place because he was scared shitless, thought he was safe where he was, and didn’t know what else to do with himself. From his point of view I was probably some cross between Attila the Hun and Dracula.” Steve paused. “And from his point of view, he turned out to be right …”
“They say on the news that over there it’s almost impossible to tell who’s a civilian and who’s military,” Gold quietly pointed out.
“Yeah, that’s true, but so what?” Steve demanded impatiently. “I mean, it doesn’t make me feel any better…”
“I think that if that soldier had been given the chance, he would have captured or shot you,” Gold firmly continued. “You were in a war, son, but maybe because you dipped in and then out of it so fast you didn’t get the chance to emotionally prepare yourself—get the proper mindset. The facts are that you’ve been in three wars now. You’ve shot down so many planes. How many of those pilots you bagged in the Pacific or over Korea lived to tell the tale?”
“I hear you,” Steve acknowledged. “I know I’ve killed before, but never like this. Christ, Pop! It was so close, you know? I guess it was being on the ground that made all the difference. That little guy was standing no farther away from me than you are now. I looked into his eyes, Pop. I saw him die.” He shivered. “I tell you, I thank God I’m a fighter pilot. I don’t think I could have hacked it as a ground soldier. I take my hat off to all those guys in all those wars, on both sides.”
“I’ve always felt exactly the same way,” Gold confided. “Sure, we fighter pilots put up with our own special risks, but at least we know that when we tangle with an opponent up in the sky our adversary is trained to be there. It’s a fair fight …” He paused. “But you know, it was a fair fight as far as you were concerned in that jungle. No! I take that back. It wasn’t fair: The odds were stacked way against you!”
Steve smiled tentatively. “Thanks, Pop. Thanks for listening.”
“You’ve got to get an emotional handle on this …”
“I know,” Steve admitted. “What’s gonna help is to become involved with something. That’s why I’m looking forward to going to Israel, and climbing into the cockpit of that MIG-21 … Best thing for me, I think; to be out and doing something active, to be able to fly …” He smiled. “I’ve got to confess, all the time when you were smuggling those Vector-A systems to the Israelis I never thought there would be a payback; that the Israelis would manage to get their hands on a MIG-21, the Russians’ most advanced fighter plane.”
“I knew they would,” Gold smugly stated. “They’re an amazing people, and the country is an amazing place. I look forward to your reaction to Tel Aviv…”
“I’m sure I’ll have a great time. Why not? You evidently had a ball there …”
“They treated your mother and me like royalty.”
“And rightfully so.” Steve laughed. “They should have erected a statue to you considering what you did for them …”
“I did what I thought was the right thing.” Gold shrugged. “You know, your mother didn’t want to go, but I talked her into it, using the excuse that I needed to see how those Vector-A systems were fitting into the Israelis’ Tyran fighters. Once we were over there Erica had a ball sightseeing … By the way, did you know I’ve started taking Hebrew lessons?” he added proudly.
“Mom told me.” To Steve’s credit, he kept a straight face, but Gold could see the amused sparkle in his eye.
“Well, knowing another language never hurt,” Gold said defensively.
“Right on, Pop …” Steve chuckled.
“Hmmm … You know what they call it when you come home to Israel for good?” Gold asked. “An aliyah.”
“Pop, L.A.’s my home,” Steve chided affectionately. “I’m only going for a little while, and anyway, I’m not even Jewish.”
“You’re half Jewish,” Gold responded adamantly. “You’re my son, and blood is blood.”
Steve was studying him. “Gee, you’re really getting into this, aren’t you?”
“It’s like I told you once,” Gold mumbled. “A man’s heritage—his roots—becomes more important to him when he gets old.”
“Older,” Steve corrected him firmly. “You’re not old yet.”
“Right,” Gold replied wryly. He heard someone entering the hangar, and turned to see Don Harrison and his son Andy in the doorway. “Listen,” Gold whispered quickly to Steve as the others approached. “You let me know if you want to talk more about that other thing.”
“Will do, Pop,” Steve said, putting his hand on Gold’s shoulder. “Thanks—”
Gold pretended not to hear. “Hello,” he called out in cheerful greeting to his son-in-law and grandson. “What are you two doing here on such a lovely Saturday afternoon?”
“We called the house,” Don Harrison replied, smiling. “Erica said you were here.”
For the past year or so, Don had been gradually letting his blond hair grow down past his shirt collar and over his ears. He’d also cultivated a broad, curving mustache, and had replaced his tortoiseshell eyeglasses for a pair of gold wire rims. Gold’s daughter Suzy had been nagging her husband to start dressing “mod,” but Don was sticking stubbornly to his Ivy League wardrobe. Today he was wearing tan chinos, a sky blue button-down collar cotton oxford shirt, a plum-colored crewneck sweater, and mahogany penny loafers with no socks.
“Your grandson wanted a visit with you,” Don said. “So here we are …” He looked down at his son. “Right, boss?”
“Right!” Andy exclaimed. The boy ran toward Gold, who bent to embrace him.
“What do you think?” Gold winked at Steve. “Your nephew is big for eight years old, right?”
“He’s tall, all right, Pop.” Ste
ve pretended to frown. “I think he’s gonna be too tall to be a fighter pilot when he grows up.”
“No way!” Andy said hotly. He had blond hair like both his parents, and his mother’s big brown eyes. He was dressed in elastic-waisted corduroy jeans rolled up at the cuffs, a polo shirt, and an L.A. Dodgers warm-up jacket that was way too large. “Grampa, can we go flying today?”
“Well, I don’t know…” Gold said, sounding troubled.
“What’s the matter?” Steve asked.
“I’ve been laying off flying for a little while,” Gold murmured to his son. “I’ve been on this damned high blood pressure medication, you know … There’s some side effects …” He shook his head. “I don’t trust myself soloing anymore. Especially not with the boy in the airplane …”
“You want me to take him up?” Steve suggested.
“Would you mind?” Gold said gratefully. “The Cessna’s here on the company airstrip, all ready to go.” He looked down at Andy. “How about it, Andy? You want to fly with your uncle? He’s a colonel in the Air Force, you know…”
“Sure!” Andy said. He looked back at his father. “Daddy, can I?”
“Sure, if your uncle wants to take you …”
“My pleasure,” Steve said. “This trip home has been the first opportunity I’ve had to spend time with Andy. He’s a great kid …”
“Well, Suzy and I think so.” Don smiled.
“You coming flying. Daddy?” Andy asked.
Don shook his head, laughing. “I build ‘em, I don’t fly ‘em … You guys go on.”
“Come on then, Andy,” Steve said. “Let’s go—”
As he and the boy walked away, Gold saw Steve take his Dodgers cap off and put it on Andy’s head. “Here, you’d better have this,” Steve told the boy. “It goes with your jacket …”
(Two)
Harrison watched his brother-in-law walk away with his son. As always, he felt the stab of anxiety for the boy’s well-being he suffered whenever Andy was out of his presence.
“You really don’t mind, do you?” Herman asked as Steve and Andy left the hangar.
“I said I didn’t, and I meant it,” Harrison replied, maybe just a little too stridently as he tried to force the anxiety out of his mind.
“Thanks,” Herman was saying. “Being with kids seems to relax Steve. It always has.”
“I know,” Harrison said, smiling. “He was the same way with Robbie when he was growing up, remember?”
Herman nodded, sighing. “Too bad Steve never found the right girl,” he mused. “He could have benefited from kids of his own … It would have grounded him …”
“Is that an intentional pun, or wishful thinking?” Harrison asked, laughing.
“Huh? Oh! Grounded … I see …” Herman chuckled. “No, I guess I meant having kids of his own would have rooted him, given him something to fall back on when the time came. A man can’t be a fighter pilot forever, you know…”
“I know,” Harrison said quietly. “Having a son of his own to raise might have made that difficult transition a little easier.” He brightened. “But it’s not too late for him. He’s only forty-two, and he looks ten years younger—”
“That he gets from his mother.” Herman laughed.
“Except, of course, for his receding hairline,” Harrison teased.
“That, he got from me,” Herman sighed. “But seriously, you really think it’s not too late for him to meet the right woman? You and Suzy don’t happen to know a likely candidate, do you?” he added hopefully.
Harrison pondered it. “Not really, Herman.” He laughed uneasily. “I mean, no offense, but it would take one tough lady to put up with the likes of Steve on a permanent basis, wouldn’t it … ?”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Herman sighed. “Anyway, it really is very kind of you to let him spend time with Andy.”
“If Steve does half the job with Andy that he did with Robbie, my boy will be a better man for it,” Harrison said earnestly.
“Yes, Robbie has turned out to be quite something, hasn’t he?” Herman said proudly. “He got the Silver Star. And he’s a captain … I just wish he and Andy were closer,” he abruptly blurted.
Harrison’s smile faded. Robbie had always been cold and aloof toward his half brother, barely acknowledging Andy’s existence. Harrison and his wife had brooded about it many times. Psychological explanations sprang easily to mind, but all the Freudian mumbo jumbo in the world didn’t alter the fact that the schism existed.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Herman said hurriedly. “I’m very glad that you were able to make your own peace with your stepson. You’ve been a good father to him—No! Not just a good stepfather,” he said. “A good father, period.”
Harrison blushed. The way he saw it, he didn’t deserve any credit for finally coming around and doing just what he’d been obligated to do all along once he’d married Suzy. “Robbie sure grew up to be a damn fine pilot, didn’t he?” he said, anxious to change the subject. “And I don’t say that just because he saved Steve’s ass in Vietnam …”
“And he saved it for a good cause, too.” Herman chuckled. “I loved the way Robbie roped Steve into agreeing to go to war college.”
“Right?” Harrison laughed. “When Robbie wrote us to tell us about it he said that it felt good to return the gesture. You know, he’s never forgotten how Steve convinced him to go to college years ago …”
“First things first, though,” Herman remarked. “Israel is at the top of Steve’s agenda.”
“What I still don’t get is why the Israelis asked for Steve specifically,” Harrison mused. “I’d think it’d be far more useful to send an aviation engineer to look over that MIG …”
“Like yourself, you mean?” Herman gleefully challenged.
Once again Harrison felt himself blushing. “Well, yes … I don’t mind admitting that it would be intensely interesting to find out what makes our adversary’s fighter planes tick …”
“The government is interested in finding out the MIG-21’s capabilities, not what makes her tick,” Herman pointed out. “And that calls for a pilot; one who can take the MIG to the true boundaries of her performance envelope and then bring her back in one piece. There’s no one better suited for that job than Steve.”
“Assuming what you just said is true, that still doesn’t explain why Steve was chosen. There are so many full-time test pilots out there, why select a tighter pilot to do the job?”
“The MIG’s a fighter, not an experimental plane, so why not choose a fighter pilot to put her through its paces?” Herman argued. “And don’t forget, this is a very sensitive international situation we’ve got on our hands. The Russians are already hopping mad at Israel for stealing the plane from Iraq in the first place. If they ever found out that the Israelis were sharing their secret with us, all hell would break loose.”
“I get your point,” Harrison said. “The CIA and Air Force are not increasing the security risk by using Steve because he’s already privy to the Vector-A deal we struck with the Israelis, and he’s got CIA experience …” He paused. “Still, for the Air Force to pull Steve out of Vietnam the way it did …” He snapped his fingers. “Oh, I get it, now—Herman, did you put in the fix for Steve? Is that how he got this assignment?”
“Me? Mix in?” Herman protested.
Harrison fixed him with a skeptical look.
“Well, anyway, not this time…” Herman said weakly. “Honestly, Don. All I know is what Jack Horton at the CIA told me, which was confirmed by my contacts in the Air Force. The Israelis specifically insisted that Steven Gold be sent to examine the MIG, and the United States was so happy to be getting this opportunity that the government would have sent the Mickey Mouse Club if the Israelis had asked.”
CHAPTER 20
* * *
(One)
Lod Airport
Tel Aviv, Israel
12 December 1966
As the jetliner descended, Steven G
old caught a glimpse of the glinting, deep blue sea, and then the urban sprawl that was the city of Tel Aviv. He leaned his forehead against the oval plastic window to watch the jet’s shadow racing across the yellow sand dunes, and heard the electric drone of the jetliner’s landing gear being lowered. A few moments later the airliner touched down on the runway.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the intercom crackled. “Trans European Airlines welcomes you to Israel. The temperature is sixty-four degrees. The sky is clear. Thank you again for giving us this opportunity to serve you, and we hope that …”
Steve tuned out the rest. He ignored the flashing seat belt sign, standing and stretching to get out the kinks as the lumbering GAT 9091 jetliner taxied to a stop. He ran his fingers across his scratchy beard. He could do with a shower and a shave. The past forty hours he’d flown from L.A. to New York, endured a two-hour stopover before his flight to London, and then boarded this flight to Tel Aviv. It had been an eye-opener and a nuisance dealing with airlines’ booking agents for a guy used to traveling the Air Force way, but both the CIA and the Mossad had insisted that Steve arrive here incognito, like any tourist. Evidently everybody had the heebie-jeebies about the Russians finding out the Israelis were letting the Americans take a peek at their MIG-21 …
Steve shrugged into his jacket, grabbed his carry-on bag, and left the airplane. Outside the breeze was warm and dry. He put on his sunglasses against the bright glare of the Mediterranean sun, and then joined the rest of the airliner’s bleary-eyed passengers trudging across the tarmac toward the customs building.
At least Steve thought it was the customs building. Who could tell? All the signs were in hieroglyphiclike Hebrew. Too bad Pop isn’t here with me, he thought, chuckling, assuming the old man has gotten far enough in his Hebrew primer—
A man wearing wire-rimmed aviator sunglasses, and dressed in brown corduroys, a white turtleneck, and a khaki bush jacket fell in beside Steve. “Mister Gold?” the man murmured so softly that only Steve could have heard him.
“Yeah?”