by T. E. Cruise
“Anyway, you should be glad I’m in the Mossad,” Benny was saying. “It was my contacts in the organization that allowed me to persuade the Israeli Air Force that you should be the one sent to check out the MIG.”
“So you’re the one who set that up?” Steve said.
Benny nodded. “When I first brought up with you the idea of smuggling Vector-A systems into Israel, I did promise you that you’d be paid back if you relayed Israel’s interest in the matter to your father…”
“So you got me this assignment.”
“You are my best friend.” Benny smiled. “I figured this opportunity would make you happy…”
“It does,” Steve acknowledged.
“It’s making the United States happy, as well,” Benny added. “I told you that I consider what I do to be of benefit to both America and Israel. I would never betray the United States—”
“You don’t have to prove anything to me, Benny,” Steve stopped him. “Forget I said anything, okay? I mean, what the hell do I know? I’m no one to judge you. You live your life the way you think is right.” He shook his head. “I guess I’m just getting old … The only time I can make sense out of anything these days is when I’m in a cockpit.”
“What do you mean these days?” Benny joked, and they both laughed.
“But speaking of flying, that reminds me,” Steve said. “What’s this about you being in the Israeli Air Force?”
“Like I said, only as a Reserve officer,” Benny explained. “And even that is on a quasi-official status, but having access to Air Force headquarters in Tel Aviv has made my work easier. Most everything I’ve done for Israel has concerned aviation. And there’s one other aspect to it. You know that here fighter pilots are in very short supply—”
“Yeah, I heard this country’s hurting for jet jockeys.”
“I felt that I should lend my expertise in that area,” Benny continued. “I’ve helped to formulate a training program, and now and then I keep my hand in by leading a training flight.”
“You checked out on the Tyran II?” Steve asked.
“Oh, sure,” Benny said proudly, and then smiled. “Maybe you and I can do a little mock dogfighting? If you’re not too scared, that is …”
“Scared? Of you? I’ll wax your ass,” Steve growled.
“Oh yeah? You wouldn’t want to bet your flight jacket on that, would you?”
“I would, but what do you have valuable enough to put up against it?” Steve demanded.
Benny was looking past Steve. “We’ll have to continue this another time. Here’s Captain Yakkov—”
Steve, glancing over his shoulder, did a double take. The captain so purposely striding toward their table was a stunningly beautiful dark-haired woman in her late twenties or early thirties. She was tall, with legs that seemed to go on forever, and looked lean and muscular except for her ripe breasts. She was wearing a khaki uniform: snug-fitting trousers and an open-necked shirt with a cloth flight jacket over her shoulders. Her captain’s bars were pinned to the jacket’s epaulets.
“Colonel Steven Gold, may I present Captain Rivka Yakkov,” Benny said as both he and Steve stood up.
“Shalom, Colonel Gold,” Rivka said in thickly accented English. She offered Steve her hand. Her fingers only brushed his palm before fluttering off like a bird thinking twice about landing. “I am pleased that we will be working together.”
“The pleasure’s mine, Captain.”
“Please, call me Rivka. I feel like I know you already, Colonel.” She nodded, setting her shoulder-length hair billowing in chestnut waves that framed her heart-shaped face. “As Benny’s administrative assistant I have done much research concerning your impressive career…”
“Research on me?” Steve smiled. “I’m flattered. Maybe you and I ought to go somewhere private for a one-on-one interview—?”
“Not necessary, Colonel,” she said evenly. “We will have ample time to talk while working together.”
“You’re going to be working with me?” Steve asked her, and then glanced at Benny.
“I’ll be in and out of Israel during your stay,” Benny explained. “I’ve got a life and a family to deal with back in America, after all, so I’ve arranged for Rivka to be assigned as your assistant. Turn to her for anything you might need.”
“Hear that, Rivka?” Steve winked. “Your boss says anything I need …”
“I will certainly do my best, Colonel—” she replied, her wide-spaced, almond-shaped brown eyes revealing no sign that she was aware he’d been flirting.
“Well, you can start by calling me Steve. Next on the agenda would be a set of wheels.”
“Pardon?” She looked questioningly at Benny, who machine-gunned some Hebrew her way.
“Oh yes! Of course! A car! I’m aware that your time will be spent here at the base, and at Air Force headquarters in Tel Aviv. For that reason I found you housing—a flat—close to headquarters, and I have already arranged for a car.”
“Very efficient,” Steve complimented her. “But I hope the car you got me is something a little more sporty than Dov’s Mercedes … Tell me, Rivka, do you like sports cars?”
She merely smiled politely, and then her eyes fell on Steve’s flight jacket draped over the back of his chair. She studied the shield design. “Please? What is the significance of the vees—?”
“It stands for Vigilant Virgins,” Benny told her. “It was the nickname they gave our fighter squadron during World War Two.”
“But why in the world would they call you virgins?” she asked. Her eyes were large with amused curiosity, and this time a genuine smile was playing at the corners of her pink rosebud mouth.
“It’s a long story,” Steve said. “I think I should tell it to you over dinner …”
Her smile broadened. “I think that I would do well with a jacket such as this,” she murmured, fixing Steve with her penetrating stare, the pupils of her eyes grown so large that her gaze seemed almost black. “It would save a lot of men a lot of pointless effort.”
“Rat-tat-tat …” Benny chuckled softly.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Rivka said. “I have work waiting.”
Steve watched her walk away, her rump working sleekly beneath the snug khaki. He waited until she was out of earshot, and then asked, “Do you think she really is?”
“Is what?”
“A virgin.”
“I really couldn’t tell you,” Benny said, startled.
“I figured you Mossad guys knew everything.”
“There are some places even the Mossad doesn’t stick its nose.”
“Good idea, leave that to me.”
“You are a hound.” Benny laughed, shaking his head.
“Me?” Steve protested. “What about you? Don’t try to tell me you made her your assistant because she’s a great typist—”
“She’s no secretary. It so happens that Rivka received her degree in aeronautical engineering from the Israel Institute of Technology. She’s my assistant because my main area of concern these days is Israel’s project to develop a homegrown jet fighter largely based on the French Tyran II, but incorporating whatever international aviation technology is worthwhile.”
“Then that’s why she’s here?” Steve asked. “To see if there’s anything worthwhile copying from the MIG-21?”
“Yes, but as I said, she’s also here to assist you. She will be your liaison—and when necessary your interpreter—with the rest of the Israeli air defense establishment. The two of you together should make an excellent MIG-21 evaluation team.”
“So there’s nothing between the two of you?”
“Have you been listening to a word I’ve been saying?” Benny frowned sternly.
“Sure, so she isn’t your mistress, or anything like that?” Steve persisted.
“In the first place, Amy knows Rivka,” Benny declared. “Not that I would cheat on my wife in the second place—”
“Okay!” Steve said, beami
ng. “Your loss is my gain.”
“I think the laugh is going to be on you.” Benny smiled.
“Wanna bet?”
Benny gestured toward Steve’s jacket still draped on the chair. “Rivka meant it when she said she ought to have a jacket like this to ward off would-be Romeos. That young lady has shot down more guys than your old man’s wartime buddy the Red Baron.”
(Two)
In the sky over Israel
5 February 1967
Steve flipped the MIG-21 over into a high G barrel roll, feeling the joyful push of the turbojet as he went to after-burn. The altimeter read fifty thousand feet. Below him, Tel Aviv looked like a jumble of children’s building blocks scattered along the sand-banded, blue curve of sea, while the land to the east was a tapestry of crimson and gold, flecked with green.
Well away from Steve, orbiting warily, were a pair of armed IAF Tyran IIs. The Mossad had warned that the loss of the MIG had so infuriated the Russians and humiliated the Arabs that a surprise Arab air strike to destroy the airplane could not be ruled out. The dun-colored Tyran Us were assigned to baby-sit Steve. They would hold the fort in case the Arabs somehow managed to come in undetected by the Israelis’ extensive early warning system, and before the main force of Tyran IIs waiting on deck could scramble.
Steve came out of the barrel roll at 55,000 feet, which was close to the MIG’s ceiling, and put the nimble little Russian bird into a low-speed yo-yo, a steep dive that took the MIG to the limit by trading altitude for speed. As he watched his altimeter unwind he felt the MIG rocketing earthward as solidly steady as a locomotive on a downhill stretch of track.
This was Steve’s forty-second flight in the MIG. During the weeks since he’d first made the proud Russian war bird’s acquaintance he’d taken his time in wooing her. Patiently, carefully, he’d become only a little more forward on each flight, so that now he felt that he knew all of her eccentricities; what liberties he could take and remain unscathed; what insults would earn him a slap in the face … Or worse.
Now Steve felt he knew the MIG’s pure, simple pleasures. Due to her uncomplicated instrument panel, her lack of a HUD Head-Up-Display beyond a weapons sight, or any sophisticated avionics at all, she was in many ways a throwback to an earlier, simpler time in jet-propelled warfare.
That was not to say that this Russian artistocrat was perfect. He’d never quite gotten used to the MIG’s poor visibility in air-to-ground mode due to her strange snout, and the almost total lack of rearward sight lines thanks to that flush-mounted canopy…
He pulled out of his dive, moving the stick back between his legs and cobbing the throttle. The MIG climbed like a squirrel up a tree. At 45,000 feet he leveled off, feeling a mix of exhilaration and sadness. This passionate affair between an American fighter jock and a Russian war bird was fast coming to a close—
Very simply, the MIG had nothing left to tell him. All of her secrets had been revealed, as he and the Israelis now knew.
Last week Benny Detkin had returned to Israel from the United States. Just now Benny was waiting for Steve back at the base. Benny had mentioned something about dinner in Tel Aviv this evening with some Israeli Air Force bigshots. Steve guessed that this was going to be the Israelis’ way of letting him know that he’d overstayed his welcome; that it was time for him to go home. Steve was sorry to see his visit here coming to an end. He loved to fly, and on this assignment he’d spent almost the entire time in the air.
He had Rivka Yakkov to thank for that. As Benny had predicted, Rivka had been an outstanding assistant. Her engineering and design savvy had nicely dovetailed with Steve’s hands-on experience. Together they’d created a thick folder of valuable MIG specification/evaluation reports that had been regularly sent back to the Air Force.
Benny had been right about what a great team Steve and Rivka would make, and, sadly, Benny had been right about one other thing, as well: No matter how hard Steve had tried, he hadn’t been able to get to first base with the beautiful Israeli …
Steve pushed his lewd fantasies about the girl out of his mind and tried to get his thoughts together about the MIG. Chances were that at tonight’s farewell dinner the IAF brass would expect him to say a few words about what he’d learned.
The bottom line was that the MIG was an agile sports car of a fighter, but her lack of avionics put her at a distinct disadvantage to the Tyran II. Like the MIG, the Israelis’ French-built Tyran II was delta-winged, small, and maneuverable, and the Tyran IIs had also been just as limited by their lack of electronics—until GAT had come through with the Vector-A radar ranging system. The Vector-A was the ace in the hole the vastly outnumbered IAF needed to have a shot at taking control of the sky during a war.
Could the U.S. fighters currently rolling off the production line compete with the MIG-21? This was the question that the USAAF would soon be asking him, and it wasn’t nearly as easy to answer, Steve thought as he brought the Russian airplane around in a gentle banking turn toward the air base.
The American aviation establishment’s majority thesis was that one elaborately equipped state-of-the-art fighter could wax any number of smaller, cheaper, less sophisticated enemy war birds. Steve wasn’t so sure about that. There was no question that in a hypothetical, one-on-one duel with equally capable pilots in both cockpits, the MIG couldn’t touch anything currently in the U.S. Air Force’s stable. The problem was that air wars weren’t decided by a single, gladiator-type duel. Wars were won by getting lots of airplanes into the fray, and that required machine reliability.
Steve knew that you couldn’t judge a production line’s entire output by only one sample. For what it was worth, however, this particular MIG had proven supremely reliable despite the punishment that Steve had unwittingly inflicted upon her by putting her through her paces without the benefit of flight manuals or instructors. He couldn’t help comparing the MIG’s rock-solid reliability to that of the Thuds he’d flown in Vietnam. The Thuds were always suffering downtime, or going negative on this or that piece of black box black magic just when it was most needed, despite preventive maintenance …
Yeah, what it all came down to in a war was the ability to get your airplanes flying, and the caliber of the men in the cockpits…
Steve glanced out at the pair of Tyran IIs flying escort. Speaking of the caliber of men in the cockpits, since this is likely going to be my last time out with the MIG, why not have a little fun? he thought.
The Israelis had forbidden any mock dogfights between the MIG and Tyran IIs. They felt that their MIG was irreplaceable, which was true, but Steve thought they were wrong about not wanting to take the rather unlikely risk of the MIG being damaged or destroyed participating in the rough-and-tumble of a mock furball. The bottom line was the MIG was only as valuable as the amount of knowledge concerning Soviet aircraft capabilities that could be wrung out of her. Steve could execute solo high-speed maneuvers from now until doomsday, but it wouldn’t tell him as much as would a single dogfight up against some capable opponents.
Thinking about capable opponents, Steve reminded himself that the Tyran II drivers baby-sitting him were supposed to be as good as the IAF’s. Steve guessed it was time to find out just how good. Chances were that they were going to have to prove themselves for real, sooner or later.
In the past few weeks there had been a gradual but steady increase in the number of border incidents between Israel and its Arab neighbors. Even more ominous, IAF fighters defending the integrity of Israel’s airspace had on several occasions played a tense game of chicken with Syrian and Egyptian jets. So far no shots had been fired in the sky, but Steve knew that it was just a matter of time before one side or the other made a mistake, and the shooting did start. From his conversations with Israelis Steve knew that most in this country were resigned to the fact that war was inevitable.
Steve had made some friends here. He wanted to know for his own peace of mind that the IAF jet rockets had what it took, but there was another, more practi
cal reason for his defying the Israeli Air Force authorities by using the MIG to engage in a mock attack upon his Tyran II escorts. When Steve got back to the States he knew that the CIA and the Air Force would debrief him on what he’d learned about the Israelis’ air combat capabilities. When that time came, Steve wanted to have the answers.
He brought the MIG up and around to gain some altitude, and get behind the unsuspecting Tyrans. He couldn’t warn the Israeli pilots about what he was about to do. The MIG had been equipped with IAF communications gear, but Steve wasn’t allowed to use it except in a dire emergency because he couldn’t speak Hebrew. The Israelis knew that the Arabs had Soviet personnel operating high-tech/long-range surveillance equipment. If the Russians were to monitor Steve’s obviously American transmissions coming from the MIG, international diplomatic hell would break loose.
Steve hadn’t missed the lack of communications. It had been very enjoyable to have made all of these flights in heavenly silence. And it’s certainly to my benefit that we can’t communicate today, Steve thought. They can’t tell me to stop—
It was not going to be a fair fight for the Israelis, he reminded himself as he began his intercept course on the pair of Tyran IIs. Each Tyran was loaded down with twin 30-millimeter cannons and a pair of extended-range fuel drop tanks. The MIG had no drop tanks, and though she had been equipped with 23-millimeter cannon, the weaponry had been removed for analysis by Israeli weapons specialists. The decreased weight gave a speed and maneuverability advantage to the MIG. On the other hand, score a two-against-one advantage for the Israelis.
The pair of Tyran IIs was typically arranged with the leader flying lower and somewhat ahead of his wingman. As Steve closed the gap he knew that the Israeli pilots were watching him. He settled onto the wingman’s six o’clock and waited.
The pair begin to jink, most likely trying through an aerial pantomime to get Steve to disengage. He patiently stayed on their tails, aware that because he couldn’t radio the Israeli drivers a challenge, it was going to take them awhile to figure out what was happening.