The Hot Pilots

by T. E. Cruise

  Ahead Orange Flight went to afterburn, rocketing skyward to begin their bombing run. Steve watched for Blue Lead’s tail pipe to spit fire, and then cobbed his own throttle, feeling the kick in the pants as his Tyran leapt to one thousand feet, which was the ceiling for this bombing run. The Egyptians had Soviet-supplied SAM missiles, but they were useless below two thousand feet.

  As the dunes dropped away Steve saw the target. At the far end of the base he could make out Abu Fayid’s bunker-like control tower complex. It was bristling with radar and radio antennae. Surrounding the tower were the airplane hangars, and branching off from them was a cloverleaf complex of concrete runways. What looked like barracks-type housing lined the base perimeter, and about one hundred yards away from the control tower and hangars were probably the fuel and ordnance depots. Tanker trucks and ordnance vehicles were parked nearby the second runway cloverleaf fronting the depots.

  It seemed as if the Egyptians were being taken by surprise. The concrete revetments lining the runways were filled with parked aircraft. There were at least thirty silvery MIGs, and a dozen of the Soviet-built, TU-16 Badger bombers. The TUs dwarfed the MIGs, and looked a little like the F-105 Thuds that Steve had flown in Vietnam.

  Orange Flight was already executing its dive bomb attack. There was no longer any need for radio silence, so the IAF pilots were now all excitedly chattering away to each other in Hebrew as they went about their work. Below, Egyptian personnel looked like ants pouring out of a broken nest as they ran from the buildings, dashing madly to their planes, and to the sandbagged anti-aircraft gun emplacements scattered about the base. As the Tyran IIs screamed down sporadic tracer fire rose up to meet them. The tracer fire increased as more of the gun emplacements came on-line. Steve watched Orange Flight continue its attack run, skillfully jinking its way through the wildly criss-crossing ground fire.

  And that’s thanks to you, Pop, Steve thought. It’s the Vector-A systems that are getting us through.

  Orange Flight released its bombs over the runway cloverleaf near the fuel depot. Steve watched as the eight, five-hundred-pound bombs hit and detonated, the massive explosions linking together into a smoky black anvil that abruptly blossomed forth its own tower of orange flame as the nearby stores of fuel and ordnance caught.

  Our turn, Steve thought as Blue Flight spread out four abreast and nosed down toward the base. Their target was the complex of runways near the control tower.

  Steve fine-tuned his Vector-A, tracking the glowing green Aim Point target image through the drift-stabilized sight on the portholelike CRT screen. He aligned the Vector-A’s cross hairs on the Aim Point and “froze” it in place, pressed the target insert button, and locked down his bomb-release. He then turned his attention to avoiding the fiery beads of tracer fire so hungrily reaching out to him. No matter how much he weaved and bobbed, the Vector-A kept the Aim Point aligned in its cross hairs. As Steve flew over the target his ordnance was automatically released. He nosed up, coming around hard at five hundred feet, scarcely escaping the shock waves as his own bombs detonated, tearing up the runway.

  Steve switched off the Vector-A. He checked to see that Benny was still with him, and then rejoined Blue Lead and his wingman. Orange Flight was already busy strafing what remained of the parked planes. Steve could see their dual cannons hosing down the revetments with twin streams of 30-millimeter firepower. The helpless MIGs and TU-16 bombers were hammered into scrap metal. Fires sprouted and quickly spread as the ambushed planes’ fuel tanks ignited.

  Steve, orbiting the base, noticed a sandbag gun emplacement still operating. He skated the Tyran around onto an attack approach, and centered his gun sight’s luminous red pipper on the barking machine gun. He pressed his trigger, and felt his Tyran 11 shake as its belly-mounted twin cannons lashed out like twin, striking rattlesnakes. The gun emplacement was quickly blown away.

  Steve eased back on the stick to climb a bit, careful, however, to stay below two thousand feet, just in case there were any SAMs around. As was his habit, he routinely scanned the sky; that was when he saw the sun glint on four silvery specks coming in fast from the east, at about five thousand feet.

  Jesus Christ, those are MIGs, he thought. We’re gonna be bounced.

  His punched the mike, ready to call out a warning. The words died in his throat. He didn’t know the Hebrew. If he called it out in English whoever was monitoring would know that American personnel were involved in the attack—

  Steve looked around wildly at the other Tyran Us so busily buzzing the base like angry hornets tormenting an enemy. The boys flying those planes were all good pilots, but right now, in the excitement, they’d forgotten what he’d taught them about watching each other’s backs. They were all too drunk on their first taste of combat to do anything but concentrate on their targets. Steve was willing to forgive them for their youthful enthusiasm, but he was totally pissed at Benny, who was a seasoned veteran, and should have known better than to forget about watching the sky—

  Especially since Benny was supposed to be flying as Steve’s wingman, and could have alerted the strike force in Hebrew!

  Fuck it, Steve thought, punching on his mike. You play, you pay. If he was going to be found out, so be it. He wasn’t about to put his Air Force career above the lives of these pilots—

  “Listen up,” he growled into his mike. “Bandits, five o’clock high.”

  There was no immediate reply. Steve could imagine the shock the other pilots were experiencing as they heard their trainer’s familiar voice coming over their helmet headsets.

  “Goddammit! Steve!” Benny blurted. “You weren’t supposed to talk!”

  “Fuck you, pal!” Steve shot back. “You weren’t supposed to be bounced like a goddamned rookie!” Steve pulled back on the stick and swung his Tyran around to meet the incoming MIG-21s head-on. “Open your eyes, everyone! Bandits! Coming in fast.”

  “Rog, Steve,” one of the other pilots replied in English. “Coming to join you now…” The pilot paused. “And everyone! Remember to speak English like we … uh …planned!”

  “Yes, to confuse our Egyptian enemies—!” another pilot quickly added.

  “Yes … uh … Bob—!” still another pilot chimed in. “This is … Tony! Like Steve, we must all remember to speak the English, and use our English code names to confuse the enemy—”

  Nice improvisation. Steve grinned. Thanks, fellows…

  He got his mind back on business, lassoing one of the oncoming MIGs in his gun sights’ luminous red circle. The MIG began firing at him with its own cannon. Steve did his best to ignore the enemy tracers, which from his point of view looked like flaming baseballs being lobbed past his wings. He had to make his shots count. The Tyran II carried only 125 rounds per gun. The other guys had all been doing the lion’s share of the strafing, so they had to be pretty low on ammo. It might be up to him to defend them from all four of these bandits …

  Got’ cha—The red pipper landed smack on the attacking MIG-21’s weird snout, just above the flashing barrel of its cannon. Steve pressed his trigger and watched his rounds pelt the nose and canopy of the MIG. The enemy pilot veered away, exposing his underside to Steve’s guns. Steve stitched an ugly line of holes along the bandit’s belly, gutting the MIG. It came apart in a crimson explosion.

  Steve saw Benny drop down on a MIG’s six o’clock, and then cut loose with his guns. The MIG jinked for all it was worth, but there wasn’t a pilot on earth—Steve excepted, of course—who could get away from Benny Detkin. A few seconds later, and Benny’s MIG had disintegrated under his Tyran’s guns like a clay pigeon shattered by buckshot.

  “Does that make up for my screwing up back there?” Benny radioed in apology.”

  “I forgive you.” Steve laughed.

  The rest of the Tyrans had ganged up on the remaining two MIGs. Steve watched his boys go to work just like he’d taught them. It wasn’t long before that last pair of 21s had been turned into smoky fireballs, streaking mournfull
y toward the shifting desert sands.

  “Time to go home, everybody,” Orange Lead radioed.

  “Rog, let’s go home,” another pilot replied.

  They’re all still speaking English, God bless ‘em, Steve thought. Still keeping up their valiant effort to save my skin—

  Yeah, they were a good bunch of boys, all right. Steve was proud to have trained them. And come what may, I’m glad I was with ‘em when they drew first blood—

  Steve took up his place in his flight’s formation as the victorious IAF pilots banked away from the ruined Egyptian base. Benny settled into position on Steve’s wing, and together the two war buddies set their course for home.

  (Three)

  Tel Aviv

  11 June 1967

  It was twelve noon on a Sunday. Steve was in his Tel Aviv flat, busy packing his belongings. He was going home. He was scheduled aboard an El Al flight departing Lod Airport for London at five o’clock. In London, he would be met by American embassy personnel. The Air Force brass in Washington had arranged for Steve to be hustled directly to a waiting USAF transport plane that would then whisk him across the Atlantic. His reports on the MIG-21 had long ago been sent via diplomatic pouch to Washington. He himself was scheduled to be in Washington to begin his debriefing on Tuesday.

  Steve had already said his good-byes at IAF headquarters. Thinking about that, he had to smile. Everyone had seemed genuinely sorry to see him go, but also more than a little relieved to be rid of him. He had become one hot potato since embarking on his impromptu combat mission four days ago…

  As Benny had feared, the enemy had been monitoring radio transmissions that day. Within twenty-four hours, Nasser had gone public with his charge that the reason the Egyptian Air Force has suffered its ass-whipping was because United States air power had intervened on the Israelis’ behalf.

  The United States, of course, had denied the charge, rightfully insisting that they had no idea what Nasser was talking about. Nasser, unconvinced, had retaliated by breaking diplomatic ties with the U.S., and closing the Suez Canal. Syria and Iraq quickly followed suit, and Kuwait suspended its oil shipments to the West …

  To Steve, the idea that he’d personally caused all this was mind-boggling to say the least. It seemed a little funny … but mostly appalling—

  Actually, the incredible ramifications of what he’d done were scaring the hell out of him. Sure he’d ruffled a few feathers, maybe made a few waves, and maybe pissed off a few people in his life … But this was the first time he’d ever caused entire goddamned nations to sever ties with one another …

  Well, Benny told me so, Steve reminded himself. Now the dirty deed was done. If his government found out what he’d done, he was prepared to accept the consequences. Meanwhile, Steve would look forward to Pop’s reaction when he heard all about it …

  The strikes flown against the other Arab air bases that Monday had all gone as successfully as the one against Abu Fayid in which Steve had participated. Within hours the air forces of Israel’s various Arab enemies had ceased to exist. The Star of David ruled the sky.

  Ironically, a lot of very important people in the IAF thought that a good deal of the credit for their success over the Arabs belonged to Steve, due to the job he’d done training the IAF fighter pilots. Steve wasn’t totally convinced. As he’d told Rivka, he’d taught those pilots what he could, but they’d brought their own drive and determination—their own heart—to the job their country had asked them to do.

  Nevertheless, some of the IAF bigshots were insisting on comparing Steve to David Marcus, the American Army colonel who had done so much for Israel’s ground forces during its ‘48 war of independence. Privately, Steve thought that his being compared to a legend like David Marcus was a bit much. On the other hand, he just now wasn’t inclined to argue with his IAF fans because in their enthusiasm they had prevailed on their government to protect him. The official line coming out of IAF headquarters in response to Washington’s inquiries concerning Nasser’s charges was that no Americans had taken part in combat.

  Now Steve didn’t think that Washington was totally buying the line they were being handed, but the Israelis’ goodwill efforts on his behalf had at least created some doubt in the minds of his superiors. Steve had been in the military long enough to know that where there was doubt, there was usually room to worm out of a predicament—

  Maybe I’ll get out of this without being branded the man who pissed off 110 million Arabs after all, Steve thought as he continued packing. If not, well, screw the camel drivers if they can’t take a joke…

  The truly important thing as far as Steve was concerned was that the war had continued to go so well for the Israelis. On that first day of fighting, Israeli armor had been able to advance thirty miles into the Sinai. On Tuesday, the Israelis had captured important Jordanian cities, and taken the high ground north of Jerusalem. On Wednesday, the U.N. proposed a cease-fire that Israel tentatively accepted and the Arabs rejected. The Israelis then proceeded to take Gaza, advance across the Sinai, and capture the West Bank of the Jordan River, uniting Jerusalem under the Star of David. That ended things on the Jordanian front.

  The only real blot for the Iraelis came on Thursday, Steve mused as he finished packing the last of his bags and set them with his others by the door. It was on June 8 that IAF jets mistakenly attacked an American Navy communications ship, the Liberty, killing thirty-four Americans, and wounding many others. It truly had been a terrible mistake, and one for which Israel had quickly apologized, offering financial compensation for the loss of lives and damage to property.

  Later that same day, Egypt and Syria accepted the U.N. proposed cease-fire.

  Isolated skirmishes continued throughout Friday, and part of Saturday, but for all intents what the international press was dubbing the “Six Day War” was over as of yesterday. Last night, people here were rejoicing; dancing in the streets. Meanwhile, news reports had it that the Arab world was in turmoil. Their defeat had been astonishing, humiliating, a total wipeout on every front.

  There was a knock on Steve’s door. It was the IAF man Steve was expecting. The airman was here to collect Steve’s luggage and ferry it to the airport. Steve himself would be leaving for the airport around three. Rivka was going to come by in the Citroën, to give him a ride.

  Once the IAF man had left with his bags Steve decided to go out for a final walk around the city. He’d be back in plenty of time to meet Rivka. He grabbed his leather A-2 jacket and left the apartment. He was surprised to bump into Rivka in the building’s front vestibule.

  “What are you doing here so early?” Steve asked. “I wasn’t expecting you for a few hours yet.”

  “I know, but I thought that before you left Israel you might like to do a last bit of sight-seeing …”

  She was giggling, which was odd … Rivka was not the giggly type. For a moment Steve thought that she was drunk, but then he decided that she was just in a giddy mood like the rest of the city because of Israel’s miraculous victory.

  “Speaking of sight-seeing,” Steve began. “That’s quite an outfit you’re wearing …”

  Rivka’s obviously unfettered breasts were straining the buttons of her white blouse. Steve could clearly see her dark nipples pressing through the thin cotton fabric. Her navy skirt fit tightly around her fine hips and sassy rump. The skirt’s hem banded her smooth, tawny thighs at least five inches above her knees.

  Very nice, Steve thought. He had seen other Israeli girls wearing miniskirts, but never Captain Rivka Yakkov…

  “You don’t like this outfit?” she asked nervously.

  “Oh, I like it fine.” Steve chuckled.

  She blushed furiously, and made a furtive attempt to tug down the hem of her skirt to cover a bit more of herself but quickly give that up as a lost cause.

  “But what other lovely sights did you want to show me?” Steve asked.

  “Well …” She seemed unable to look him in the eye. “For instance, my
flat,” she said softly.

  “Your flat …”

  She nodded, still looking down. “It has a beautiful view of the sea, you know…”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that.” Steve smiled. He could feel his heart begin to pound and his groin stir. “But I think that view was from the bedroom …?”

  Rivka looked up at him, her eyes shining. “Yes.”

  The sun-splashed living room of her flat had white stucco walls hung with colorful Arab prints. Fresh flowers in vases were everywhere. The worn, wide floorboards were covered with scatter rugs, and she made do with big pillows on the floor for furniture. There was a beaded curtain hanging in the doorway to her small kitchen, where atop the refrigerator her languid cat the color of champagne watched with golden eyes as Steve put his arms around Rivka and kissed her.

  “Come, Steven,” she whispered, her breath moist against his ear. “To the bedroom, come …”

  Steve shrugged off his leather jacket and let it fall to the floor. The cat leapt gracefully off the refrigerator and padded over to the jacket to curl up on it. Rivka took Steve’s hand to lead him out of the living room. He walked beside her in a daze of passion, hypnotized by the sensual flow of her body beneath her scant clothing. He couldn’t believe that this beautiful angel was about to be his …

  Her white stucco bedroom was carpeted with a blue and gold threadbare Persian rug. There was little furniture: only a chest of drawers, a nightstand, a mirror on the wall, and her bed, which was narrow, and covered with a pink and black print cotton spread. It had only a single, thin pillow.

  It reminded Steve of a young girl’s bedroom; a child’s place to sleep. The room seemed a stranger to lust. It seemed as pure and innocent as its owner.

  The bed was positioned beneath the wide casement windows that overlooked the great expanse of sea. On this warm June day the windows were swung open, letting in the tangy ocean breeze along with the shrill clatter of the gulls swooping over the waves, and the crash of the surf clamoring against Jaffa’s ancient stone piers.