Flash Point

by James W. Huston

  “What if we sail early?”

  “I’ll take the COD and catch the ship when I can. Same as if I woke up one morning on leave in Naples and saw the big gray ship had left without me.”

  “She know about this?”

  “I talked to her on the phone the last day we were in Venice.”

  “She said it was all right?”

  “It was her idea.”

  Woods shook his head. “I don’t like it, Boomer. Why’d you tell me all this?”

  “You’re my friend. If you see me doing something really stupid you’ll tell me.”

  “Okay. I see you doing something really stupid. I don’t even know if we’re allowed to visit Israel on our own. I don’t know if it’s on the list—”

  “It’s not. I asked Pritch.”

  “Don’t do it,” Woods said.

  “Why?”

  “It’s illegal. It’s not the safest place in the world. You’re going to lose your wings if you get caught.”

  “I’ll be back before you know it.”

  “I’m telling you not to go.”

  Vialli was taken aback. “Telling me meaning what? An order? You gonna order me not to go?”

  Woods had hoped it wouldn’t come to this. “That’s exactly what I’m doing. I’m ordering you not to go.”

  “Oh please. It’s my skin.”

  “It’s mine too, now. If something happens they’ll be all over me for not stopping you.”

  “You can say you didn’t know about it.”

  “Just lie?”

  “Sure. They won’t know the difference.”

  “I sure will. I’m telling you, don’t go.”

  “I hear you, and I’m going anyway.”

  “I can’t let you—”

  “You’re really something,” Vialli said, the veins in his neck straining. “You follow the rules when it suits you. But when you want to have a little fun, like thumping my ass in the middle of the night from a cloudbank, that’s fine! Right? You’re fine with breaking a few rules when it’s you, and you think it’s clever, or funny, or shows how adventurous you are. And I’m just supposed to look the other way, not report you for a flight violation, like I should have. But when it’s someone else who wants to bend one, and not one that’s gonna get us killed, just one to go visit a girlfriend, then you get all high and mighty.” He was angry. “That’s bullshit, Trey!”

  Woods was stung. “It’s completely different.”

  Vialli got up. “Maybe. But I’m going. If you want to tell the CO and get my ass in trouble, feel free. And if you do, I swear to God I’ll write you up for a flight violation for thumping me. Just try me.”

  Before Woods could stop him, Vialli was on his feet, turning his back on his roommate and walking out of the wardroom.

  8

  Vialli stepped off the El Al Airbus 320 at the Tel Aviv airport. He looked at the California-like terrain through the huge windows and was instantly charmed by the brightness of the sunshine and the blue sky. He was in a mood to be charmed. He felt his stomach tighten when he saw Irit waiting for him. She walked up to him slowly, smiling her perfectly shaped smile. She was wearing tight jeans that just touched her black shoes and a black long-sleeved T-shirt sharply outlining her shape, its sleeves pulled up to the middle of her forearms. Her black leather belt had a silver buckle that Vialli immediately noticed. On it, in English, were the words Israeli Defense Force as well as some Hebrew writing and the figure of an Israeli fighter.

  “Hi,” he said softly as she approached.

  She kissed him on the lips, her right hand still in her pocket. “Shalom,” she said.

  “Oh, oh,” he said. “Do I have to learn Hebrew?”

  She smiled. “Of course not. Most people speak English.”

  “That’s lucky,” he said. He glanced around the terminal, taking it all in. “Lot of soldiers around here,” he said, stating the obvious. There were uniformed soldiers with submachine guns every fifty feet.

  “You’ll get used to them. They’re everywhere. I like having them around.”

  “Thanks for inviting me,” he said, picking up his bag. He was trying hard not to look like a Naval officer, to look like any other twenty-something man. He had even let his hair get a little longer, a little shaggier than he normally would have to soften his otherwise military look. He felt very athletic in his loose-fitting jeans and running shoes, with a T-shirt and baggy shirt over it.

  “I’m glad you’re here. You have any other bags?”

  “I’m used to traveling in an F-14. One gym bag.”

  “Great. Let’s go.” Crossing over to his right side and walking next to him, she asked, “Did you have any trouble getting time off?”

  Vialli hesitated. “Yes and no.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Time off, no. The Ops O—he’s sort of my boss—thought it was cool I wanted to take leave in port. Trey recommended he approve it. He said I needed the time off. But they think I’m in Naples.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He had hoped he wouldn’t have to tell her, especially not first thing. “The Skipper wouldn’t have let me come. He’d have told me to wait until we come here on our port call. But I wanted to come now. So I told him I’d be in Naples.”

  She stopped. “You shouldn’t have to lie to him about it.”

  Vialli squinted at her. “You’re one to talk.”

  She lowered her head.

  “Sorry. That was a cheap shot.”

  “I deserved it.”

  “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings . . .”

  “We both probably did something we shouldn’t have done,” she said, smiling conspiratorially. “At least it was for a good cause.”

  “That’s the way I see it. And what are they going to do if they catch me? Cut my hair? Send me to sea?”

  She laughed and they started walking again.

  He shifted his bag to his left hand and held her hand as they walked. “So how do we get to Nahariya?”

  “Train. It runs right up the coast. You’ll like it. It’s very pretty.”

  “Then what?”

  “My father will pick us up at the train station and take us home.”

  Vialli looked at her at the mention of her father. “What does he think about you having a U.S. Navy officer come visit you?”

  She shook her head slightly. “He likes the American part, and the Navy officer part, it’s the goyim part he has trouble with.”

  “The what?”

  “Goyim. Gentiles. Non-Jew, but broader. Um, outsider, I guess. Foreigner, with a touch of unwelcomeness to it.”

  “Is it a big problem? I thought it didn’t matter to you.”

  “It doesn’t matter to me, it matters to him a lot.”

  “Is he one of those Orthodox Jews who wears a funny hat and has curls around his ears?”

  “Tony,” she said in a low tone.

  “What? What did I say?”

  “They aren’t ‘funny’ hats. Orthodox Jews take their dress very seriously. They think the Torah says very specifically what they are to wear, and they comply with it. They think all Jews should. They think the way I’m dressed is disgraceful.”

  “It is disgraceful. You should be ashamed of yourself,” he joked. “I wasn’t trying to make fun of them, I was just wondering if your father was one of . . . of . . . those.”

  “No. He is not. He isn’t even very religious.”

  “Then what difference does it make? I’m not very serious about being Catholic either. I take it you’re not very serious about being Jewish.”

  “Of course I’m serious about being Jewish, what kind of talk is that?” she asked, slightly offended.

  “I don’t get it. You told me you weren’t very religious.”

  “I’m not very religious. Being Jewish means a lot more than being religious.”

  “Like what?”

  She looked up at him with a pained expression that he had never seen befo
re. “Maybe later we can talk about that. It’s complicated. Come this way,” she said pulling him.

  The train station was clean and neat and here too there were soldiers with M-16s or Uzi submachine guns. There was no place in the train station that you could be out of the gaze of one of the soldiers. On the train, they were able to get two seats together. They sat facing forward on the left side of the train. Two soldiers sat in the seat facing them. The soldiers wore very unremarkable uniforms and sat casually. Their hair was over their ears and they hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. What bothered Vialli most were the machine guns resting on their laps that were pointed directly at him.

  The train lurched into motion and Vialli tried to take his eyes off the guns but found himself preoccupied; he had to know whether they were loaded and whether their safeties were on.

  One of the soldiers began talking to Irit in Hebrew, which Vialli had no hope of understanding. She saw that Vialli’s eyes were focused on the gun of the soldier directly across from him. “I’d like you to meet Moshe Levitz,” she said to Vialli. She looked across at Moshe, who was staring at Vialli. “This is a friend of mine, Tony Vialli.”

  “Hi,” Vialli said. The soldier nodded at him and extended his hand. Vialli took his hand and shook it with conscious firmness. “You a soldier?” Vialli asked.

  “No,” the soldier replied, then laughed, saying something to Irit and his companion in Hebrew. “I am banker,” he went on, and laughed again, followed by more Hebrew. “This is what we wear in banks here. You never know when you’ll meet a bandit, like”—he looked at his friend then back at Vialli—“John Dillinger, or Bonnie and Clyde.” He laughed out loud, very proud of himself. His English was good, but heavily accented.

  Vialli blushed. “Sorry. Stupid question.”

  The soldier held up his thick hand and shook his head. “Not a stupid question, American. I am only in the Reserves. During regular time, I am banker!” he said, and once again broke out into laughter.

  Through the window, Vialli could see the city as it went by. It was like New York on a smaller scale, and it also looked like Athens, or parts of Athens, and a lot of other places. There were children playing in the streets, cars driving generally in order—overall a rather nice place, he thought. He looked at Moshe Levitz again and saw the two small ribbons over the pocket on his mostly brown unremarkable unkempt uniform shirt. “Haven’t seen much action?” he asked.

  “Why do you say that?” the soldier asked, looking at him intently.

  “I don’t know. Two ribbons . . .”

  “You are very observant, but very unknowing.” He glanced down at the two ribbons and pointed to the first one. “They are both for fighting. Those are the only ribbons I could get.” His eyes flashed. “There is another award, like your Medal of Honor, but most of us get that when we are . . . under the ground.”

  Vialli looked at Irit. “You got any other stupid questions I could ask? I’m kind of running out.”

  Irit smiled up at him and took his hand.

  “You want to see it?” Moshe asked Vialli, lifting his weapon for Vialli to examine. “I saw you looking at it. You know how to handle a rifle?”

  “Yeah,” Vialli answered. “I qualified as an expert in rifle and pistol.”

  “Where?” Moshe asked, frowning.

  “U.S. Navy.”

  “You were in the American Navy?” he asked, surprised.

  “Still am,” Vialli said, taking the rifle from Moshe. “What is this?”

  “Galil.”

  “Looks sort of like an AK-47.”

  “It is sort of like an AK-47.”

  “Where is it made?”

  “Israel. In the late sixties, Israeli soldiers had only M-16s from America. They didn’t do well in sand and dust. Everyone said AK-47 from Russia—that all the Arab countries had—was better. Israel Galili, the chief weapons designer for Israeli Military Industries, decided to make an Israeli rifle that would be better than all of them.”

  Vialli felt it, weighed it in his hands, and looked at Moshe. “It’s kind of heavy.”

  “Heavier than the M-16, but lighter than the AK-47.”

  “Is it better than all of them?”

  Moshe considered the question. “I think it probably is. Very reliable, good weapon. Accurate.”

  “Does it shoot the 7.62-millimeter NATO round?”

  “You do know weapons. Most shoot the 5.56-millimeter, but there are some that shoot the 7.62. Mostly the ones sold to friends in other countries.”

  Vialli checked the sights, and pointed it toward the window as the train rocked along. “Any other country in the Middle East use it?”

  “We don’t have any friends in the Middle East,” Moshe answered.

  Vialli aimed the rifle again and asked Moshe about the collapsible stock. Moshe wasn’t listening. He was talking to Irit. Vialli lowered the gun. “What’s he talking about?”

  “He doesn’t believe that you’re a pilot. He thinks I’m pulling his leg.”

  “That would be bad,” Vialli said, smiling as he leaned over and spoke quietly into her ear. “Tell him in Hebrew, quietly, I’m an F-14 pilot, and, given the chance, could kick any Israeli pilot’s ass. Anywhere, anytime.”

  She looked at him, shocked, then smiled. She translated quickly to Moshe, whose smile faded as she went on.

  “And tell him,” Vialli said, still whispering, as he looked at Moshe, “I could kick his ass too.”

  Again she translated for Moshe. His face reddened and he studied Vialli. Then he saw the sparkle in Vialli’s eye, showing that he meant it, and that he was full of mischief and good humor. Moshe smiled broadly at Vialli, sizing up his muscular six-foot-two-inch frame. Moshe spoke rapidly in Hebrew, as his friend looked on, concerned. To Vialli Moshe said, “How many men you have killed?”

  Vialli stared at Moshe unblinkingly. “Don’t worry, I won’t kill you.”

  Moshe erupted in laughter and said to Irit in English, “I like your friend. He has courage. I don’t know whether of a lion or a donkey, but courage he has. When he is done with his Boy Scout tour, he can come join the Israeli Air Force after he marries you, an Israeli.”

  Vialli saw that her neck was redder than usual. He laughed. “That’s pretty good.”

  Irit blinked in surprise at his sudden laughter. “Why do you laugh?”

  “Because I don’t think you’d marry me,” he said casually.

  Her eyes clouded with concern and she turned toward him and spoke quietly, disappointment in her voice. “Then why are you here?”

  Vialli was stung. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant . . . I’m not . . . I don’t know, I’m not the guy your father is looking for, probably. We’re just getting to know each other. I didn’t mean it could never happen. I meant it like it isn’t close, it isn’t imminent.”

  Moshe looked at her expectantly. “It’s none of your business,” she said sharply in Hebrew.

  “Did you just tell him off?” Vialli asked, amazed.

  “Sort of.”

  “What for?”

  “Because he wants me to tell him everything we’re saying—he only understands you about three fourths of the time. He wants to know everything he can’t hear or understand, and it’s none of his business. Don’t worry. I’ve known him since I was a little girl. He is a banker—in Nahariya. He’s going the same place we are.”

  Vialli gave the Galil back to Moshe and took Irit’s hand.

  The Sheikh paced in the stone-walled room. The dripless candles that he used for illumination could fight back only half the darkness. He insisted the fortress be lit with candles to save electricity for the things that needed it—the computers and communications equipment. They ran off a portable Honda generator that was two miles away, attached only by an underground cable. It pulled air through a tube that came up under a bush on the top of the mountain. Unless someone stepped on it, it would never be found. And if it was, and they closed it down, or the generator failed, t
here were five others in place waiting to replace it, ready to go at a moment’s notice. The generator could not be heard in the room where the Sheikh was finalizing the planning.

  He looked at Farouk, his trusted lieutenant. “Do you understand it?”

  “Yes. It is very clear.” He was troubled. “How do we know their schedule?”

  “We have received confirmation from inside.”

  “Why am I not able to know the source? I should know everything about this mission. What if there is interference?”

  The Sheikh was growing annoyed. Farouk seemed reluctant. “You might be captured—”

  “They would never capture me—”

  “You would never intend to talk. Agreed. But there are ways. We have been over that. What is it about this that causes you to question it suddenly?”

  “I am not questioning it. I want to know the extent of my authority. I do nothing without your authorization.”

  “You have complete authorization. Exactly as we discussed.”

  “Yes.” He looked at the chart one last time, having already committed every detail to memory.

  “And then we go to the world and tell them who we are, and who we were at Gaza, and why we are taking our stand. Now. Here.” The Sheikh exhaled with deep contentment. “We will show them, and then we will tell them. It will be exactly as we planned. The first communiqué is prepared.” He drank some water from a cup on the table. “Go. Make sure the men are ready. They must be strong and faithful.”

  “I give you my personal word.”

  “What did you think of my father?” Irit asked, slipping her hand into Vialli’s as they strolled along the beach.

  “Serious.”

  “Very serious. He’s a good man, though.”

  “How come you still live at home?”

  She hesitated. “Only sometimes.”

  “When?”

  “I’m not sure what my next move is. I don’t have a teaching job, and I’m not married. I sort of needed to be home for a while. They’re a very stabilizing influence on me.”

  “Any brothers or sisters?”

  “Two brothers. Both older. One’s in the Army, and the other one works for Hebrew University, teaching biology.”