by T. E. Cruise
God, it was all so needless! The Super-BroadSword was a good airplane. Frustrated, he balled his hands into fists. It was all so aggravating!
Calm down, he told himself. It wasn’t like the Super-BroadSword was the only thing he had to worry about. Dealing with the Europeans concerning the Skytrain Industrie jetliner consortium of which GAT was a part was always an exhausting burden. And then there was the ever-sharpening competition from Boeing and McDonnell-Douglas in the domestic jetliner market. Sure, Don Harrison was eager to take some of the burden off Gold’s shoulders, and the other executives in the company did their jobs, but Gold had always had trouble delegating responsibility. He was the top man after all … The buck stopped at his desk, goddammit. Nobody else’s; his—
And it all used to be fun, Gold thought, but not anymore. Pondering it, Gold realized that it hadn’t been fun for a long time. It seemed that increasingly his pleasures were diminishing, while the unpleasant aspects of life continued to increase—
For instance he couldn’t fly anymore. When he’d turned sixty-nine last month his wife, his daughter, and his son-in-law had all ganged up on him. They’d sat him down and explained the facts of life: that the various medications Gold was taking for this or that damned ailment had made flying simply too risky.
It had hurt like hell to listen to that. It had hurt even more to realize that what they were saying was true. Dammit! He’d been flying since he was eighteen years old. He was a combat ace before he was twenty…
With flying denied to him, Gold had concentrated on his religious studies for relaxation. At home he had dozens of books on Judaism, and he’d really enjoyed his Hebrew language lessons. It was too bad that he’d had to cut them out when this Super-BroadSword mess developed. There simply wasn’t enough time to do everything—
“Grandpa?”
“Yes, Andy…” he sighed.
“Would you play with me?” Andy was still sitting on the carpet by the display case. He’d removed most of the airplane models from their stands and had them scattered on the level green runway that was the carpet.
“Play?” Gold muttered. “I don’t know … Play what?”
“We could play … Dogfight!” Andy held up one of the airplane models he’d removed from the case. “You could pick one and I could pick one and we could have a dogfight—”
“I’ve got so much work to do here …” But Gold trailed off, thinking, Screw the work.
He got up from his desk and walked over to the case. “Dogfight, huh? I ought to remember how to play that …” He winced from the jolt he felt in the small of his back as he laboriously lowered his girth to the carpet.
“Grandpa, what plane did you fly in the war?”
“I flew a lot of different planes, but my favorite was the Fokker triplane.”
“Is that like a Mess-o-shit?”
Gold burst out laughing. “No, the Messerschmitt was in the Second World War. I fought in the First World War…” He gently brushed Andy’s unruly blond hair out of the boy’s brown eyes. “I think that was a little before your time, right?”
Andy nodded solemnly. “How many planes did you shoot down?”
“Twenty.” Gold smiled. The boy asked him that at least once a week.
“Wow,” Andy gravely replied, as he always did.
“Okay,” Gold said, looking at the models spread out on the carpet. “Pick the plane you want to use for our dogfight.”
“Which one is the one you flew in the war?”
“What? The Fokker? It’s not here …”
“How come?”
“Because I flew it in the war, but I didn’t design and build it.”
“So what?”
“Sew buttons,” Gold said. “Now pick.”
“Okay. I’ll take this one.”
“You’re going to dogfight with that?”
“Sure, why not?” Andy demanded. “It’s big, right?”
Andy had chosen the twin-engine, prop-driven, BuzzSaw Combat Support attack bomber. The CS-1 had been a successful design that GAT had put into production back in ‘39.
Gold pointed at the newest addition to the model collection. “You sure you don’t want Super-BroadSword?”
“I’m sure,” Andy said.
“You and the Air Force,” Gold mumbled. “Okay, then! For our dogfight I’m choosing this one!” He picked up the GC-909I intercontinental jetliner.
“But it doesn’t have any guns,” Andy pointed out.
“Yes, it does. This one has hidden guns,” Gold said seriously.
“Hidden where?”
“In the wings,” Gold said. “Fifty of them. Fifty fifty-caliber machine guns. Twenty-five to a wing—” He hauled himself up. “So you’d better watch out, mister, because here I come!”
“Uh-uh!” Andy laughed, springing to his feet and making varoom-varoom noises as he began running around the office.
“Bogie at five o’clock high!” Gold yelled, feeling silly, and enjoying it. He held the model jetliner out in front of him, keeping its nose pointed at Andy as he ran after his grandson.
“Bang-bang-bang-bang!” Andy chanted, aiming his model at Gold as the boy swung around a pair of armchairs, almost knocking a lamp off an end table in the process. Gold, grinning, faked one way, and then quickly tried to catch his grandson by coming around the other side of the chairs.
“Don’t let me get on your tail, mister!” he gasped, laughing so hard he could barely catch his breath.
“Bang-bang-bang!” Andy yelled nonstop, running toward the desk with his bomber pointed over his shoulder back toward Gold.
“Here comes an Immelman turn!” Gold yelled, maneuvering the jetliner in the air as he chased Andy around his desk.
The boy stopped to thrust his airplane out like a pistol across the desk. “Bang-bang-bang! Take that, you mess-oh-shit!”
Gold, laughing so hard he thought he was going to bust, lunged across the desk, scattering papers as he tried to grab hold of Andy. The boy, giggling, lightly twisted away, dashing to the far side of the room. Gold straightened up and came lumbering after him, the sweat running down his heaving flanks beneath his flapping shirttails. “I’m gonna get you now, mister!” he roared. “Here comes fifty machine guns—”
The chest pain hit him so abruptly that he was still laughing even as the sledgehammer blow brought him short. What is it? He stood stock-still, afraid to move; afraid even to breathe—
The pain eased. It’s nothing. A cramp. It’ll go away—
The pain hit again and he doubled over. The jetliner slipped out of his grasp and crashed to the carpet, snapping off a wing. This is not happening, he thought as the pain wrapped its fingers into a fist around his chest and squeeeeezzed—
“Grandpa?” Andy was calling, sounding very far away.
The pain struck a third time. It began as an implosion in Gold’s chest and then radiated through him. He was staggering blindly toward the nearest chair when the pain brought him to his knees.
“Grandpa?”
As Gold knelt in supplication to the pain he could dimly see Andy standing quietly beside the display case. The boy’s face was pale. His eyes were the size of saucers.
Call someone— Gold waited, staring at the boy, who was still just standing there. Didn’t say it, Gold realized. He was still on his knees. His arms were laced around himself to try and contain the pain. Got to try to talk—
“Andy—” he managed to whisper. “Dial 654 …” He toppled over, his face pressed against the carpet. Moaning, he rolled onto his back.
“Grandpa! Grandpa!” Andy was standing over him and crying.
“Andy, phone on the desk.” His grandson’s hot tears were splashing Gold’s face. “Dial 654—”
The boy disappeared from his line of sight. Gold stared up at a spiraling white circle in a growing field of purple. The pain was grinding its heels into him as he heard squealing casters— Andy, shoving the desk chair out of the way—and then his grandson fumbling with
the telephone.
“654—” Gold wheezed, closing his eyes. He was drifting now, floating on his back on a warm sea. Now and again the dark waves would wash over him … then … slowly … recede …
“Security—”
Andy must not have been holding the telephone up against his ear because Gold clearly heard the male voice on the other end of the line repeat, “This is Security. Is there anyone there?”
“My grandfather!” Andy sobbed. “My grandfather’s sick—!”
“I love you, Andy,” Gold murmured. Another wave turned him facedown into the dark warmth and carried him away.
(Two)
Tel Aviv, Israel
4 June 1967
On this clear, warm Sunday evening, Dizengoff Street, which was Tel Aviv’s main drag, offered more entertainment than a three-ring circus. Schiff’s Sidewalk Cafe, one of the many eateries on Dizengoff’s north end, was the perfect place to watch the summer night’s boulevard show roll by.
Steve Gold and Rivka Yakkov had a candle-lit table on Schiff’s flagstone-paved front patio. The table was back under the striped awning. It was separated from the sidewalk by a wide flower box, but it had an unobstructed view of the street. There was soft jazz playing over an outdoor loudspeaker mounted in the patio’s corner. The music worked as an accompanying background for the crowds strolling by, and for the city lights coming to life. The lights glowed like cool jewels in the gathering purple dusk.
Steve and Rivka had been there for the last hour. They were having an early dinner: roast lamb, rice mixed with pine nuts, and salad. Steve noticed that the bread basket was empty. Rivka saw, and was about to signal the waiter, but Steve stopped her.
“Watch this.” He winked. Steve got the waiter’s attention, and when the man had come over to their table he managed, in very halting Hebrew, to ask for more pita bread.
“Not bad,” Rivka said in English, her dark eyes glinting with amused approval. “Not good—but not bad …”
“Hey, I’m trying to impress you. Am I succeeding?”
Her soft laughter was reward enough for his efforts. She was wearing a turquoise sundress with an elasticized bodice that clung to her luscious curves and left her tanned shoulders bare. Her thick, dark hair was loosely bound, revealing her dangling, crimson earrings. A matching strand of beads encircled her long, graceful neck.
She looked incredibly beautiful, Steve thought, gazing at her. But then she always did, no matter what she was wearing: an alluring dress or IAF khakis. Slowly over the last few months her manner toward him had thawed, to the extent that they’d had several such dinner dates together. Unfortunately for Steve, dinner—and a chaste handshake at evening’s end—was as far as the relationship had gone.
“Have you actually been studying Hebrew?” Rivka asked skeptically.
“Me study?” Steve made a face. “But I was always pretty good at picking up phrases by ear. Forget about trying to learn it out of a book, though.” He grinned, shaking his head. “Anyway, if I’m going to look like an Israeli, I might as well try to sound like one …”
He was wearing brown basket weave sandals, tan linen trousers, and a white short-sleeved shirt with an open, flat collar. In his spare time he’d gradually purchased a small wardrobe to round out what he’d brought with him to get through his extended stay. It amused him that when he was wearing his locally bought clothes, he could walk down the streets of Tel Aviv and nobody gave him a second look—until he opened his mouth, of course. But hell, a couple of times Israeli out-of-towners had actually stopped him to ask directions …
“I think you look handsome,” Rivka told him. Her eyes over the rim of her wineglass had suddenly grown as huge as the moon over the dark Mediterranean. “But should I tell you that? Will it go to your head?”
“I think it might,” Steve softly admitted. “Far more than this wine ever could.”
They were working on their second bottle. Like so many in this city by the sea they were celebrating life by blowing off a little steam. For the past week the commercial radio broadcasts had been full of ominous bulletins about the Arab armor and artillery being massed along the borders of the Sinai and Gaza. Here in Tel Aviv, the Israeli Army’s tanks and personnel carriers were clogging the narrow roads as they headed south to the Negev.
Enjoy the day, the Israelis seemed to be telling each other, evidencing the fatalistic humor characteristic of these eternally hard-pressed people. This is the calm before the storm, so enjoy yourself now. We are two and a half million against forty times that many. Enjoy now. The war is coming …
To Steve, it did look as if war was imminent. It had been a tense few months since he’d begun training several carefully selected squadrons of the most promising IAF fighter pilots. As far as he was concerned, the shit had hit the fan in April, when some of his personally trained boys had mixed it up with some Syrian MIGs, waxing a half dozen of the Commie/Arab bastards. Back at the base that night, the backslapping celebration had been joyous, but short-lived. On May 18, Nasser had demanded that the U.N. forces withdraw from the Egyptian-Israeli border. As the U.N. pulled out, Israel mobilized, calling up its reserve forces. A week later Nasser announced a naval blockade, closing the Gulf of Aquaba to Israeli shipping. Meanwhile the Mediterranean was filling up with American and Russian warships. The super powers were all urging Israel to show restraint, but from his vantage point inside the country Steve knew that the Israelis had to do something very soon. Each day of mobilization was costing Israel twenty million dollars that she didn’t have.
“I think you may have become part Israeli,” Rivka suddenly said.
“Hmm?” Steve asked, pushing the dark thought out of his mind. “How so?”
“You’ve got that same look in your eyes that we all get when we think about the situation we’re in. Well? Am I right? Is that what you were thinking about?”
“It doesn’t take much to guess that.” Steve shrugged. He pushed away his plate, his appetite gone. “How can anybody think of anything else? Look! There goes some more of them—”
They watched as out on the street a World War II vintage truck slowed to a crawl, vainly beeping its horn as it tried to clear a path for itself through the crowds. The truck’s side-railed bed was filled with heartbreakingly young-looking soldiers. They had rifles, and were wearing over-size khaki uniforms and high-crowned, duck-billed cloth caps.
“Reservists from the kibbutzim,” Rivka observed as the truck finally rolled past. “You can tell by the hats, and the awkward way in which they hold their guns …”
“Farm boys,” Steve sighed. He took out his cigarettes, lit one, and placed the pack and his matches on the table within Rivka’s reach. “It’s hard to see how they’re going to stand a chance up against the Arabs.”
“But a chance is exactly what they do have,” Rivka said. “Provided, of course, that the Air Force can help them. That is why what you’ve been doing here is so important, Steven …”
“Maybe,” Steve said, unconvinced. “You’ve seen the Mossad’s latest estimates?”
“Of course I have,” Rivka said.
Steve watched her help herself to a cigarette but did not try to light it for her. He’d once offered her a light and for his trouble had almost received his head handed to him, along with a stinging lecture about equality. The waiter came to take away their plates. Neither one of them wanted dessert, but they ordered coffee.
“The Mossad thinks your fighter jocks are going to be up against odds of five to one in the air,” Steve continued. “Do you think your guys have what it takes to win against odds like that?”
“You’re the one who trained them,” she countered as the waiter returned with their double espressos.
“Sure I did, and they took well to the training, but when it comes to odds like that, it isn’t about what’s up here.” He tapped his forehead. “It’s about what’s down here.” He patted his heart.
“The Air Force will do its part,” Rivka said, sipping
at her espresso. “It always has, just as it has always faced overwhelming odds. You’ve seen the old airplanes enshrined on bases throughout the country, yes? The Piper Cubs, and the Czechoslovakian war surplus Messerschmitts our boys flew in ‘forty-eight, during our war of independence? You’ve seen the photographs from those days at IAF headquarters here in the city? The pictures of our boys loading gasoline bombs to throw out the Piper Cubs’ windows? And remember the pictures showing our pilots in their overalls standing in front of their ME-109s?”
When Steve nodded, she continued.
“Well, what the photos don’t tell you is that those overalls were Nazi war surplus, just like the Messerschmitts. What the photos don’t show is that on some of those overalls those brave boys wore into battle, you could see right here”—she touched her left breast—“right on the pocket, the terrible outline where the embroidered swastika had been razored off!”
“How would you know something like that?” Steve chided. “You were no more than a toddler back then.”
“I know because I asked,” she said simply. “It’s every Israeli’s obligation to ask, and to know, and to remember the heroes.”
“And who is your special hero?” Steve asked. The strong espresso had counteracted the wine, reviving him. He felt alert and immensely intrigued by his beautiful and provocative dinner companion. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a conversation with a woman this desirable, and had concentrated on what she was saying, instead of what he might next try in order to get her into bed.
Yeah, he thought. Rivka is different from all the others … Or maybe it was he who was changing…
Rivka’s gaze had turned inward as she smoked her cigarette. “For me, Steven, I suppose that my special hero is a woman,” she began. “Oh, I know those who take up arms and risk their lives in battle are very brave—” she added quickly. “They are certainly worthy to be called heroes, but in this hard world it is expected that a man should fight for what is right, while women are expected to be docile. That’s why when a woman does great things, it is all the more heroic, do you see?”