by Kahn, Denise
“Monique!” Jacques cried out and Ahmed’s rifle came down again, this time breaking his arm. The Frenchman screamed.
“Jacques, please, stop,” Monique begged him.
Davina, still on her knees, closed her eyes. She thought she was going to be sick. Jacques’ cries were unbearable. And Monique…
0230 hours. Operation Nightingale was in its second phase. Two dozen Israeli commandos glided silently through the moonless night on hang gliders towards their destination. They wore dark gray hoods and the same color fatigues. The terrorist encampment was easy to spot. The commandos followed the glow of the campfires, landing about two miles away. They were on schedule to the minute. They piled up their gliders over a small explosive set to go off at 0500 hours.
Adam Spencer was the first to see the blade cutting through the tent. He brought a finger to his lips and Alejandro and Eric stood to Adam’s side, ready for whatever was coming. They had nothing but their wits and their hands to defend themselves. They hardly dared breathe as they watched a head in a gray hood poke through the slit that had been made in the tent. Spencer grabbed the head and yanked hard. He was ready with a punch when a woman’s voice said: “Wait, we’ve come to rescue you.” The commando took off her hood and her long blond hair spilled out. Her blue eyes quickly took in the situation. “Shalom.”
“Jesus H. Christ,” Spencer inhaled, figuring the soldier was about five foot nothing and he had almost smashed that lovely face.
“My name is Ruth,” she said. “Listen carefully. We don’t have much time.”
Ruth Rosenblum was the only woman on the mission. She was rated as one of the best commandos in all of Israel. There was no one who did not respect her. She quickly proceeded to tell them about the operation and in turn gathered the information she needed from them. She left two minutes later, blond hair back in the hood.
When Jacques opened his eyes again, he did not know where he was. A woman was crying. It was Davina. She lay doubled over, holding her stomach, on the carpet next to him. Then he remembered, and he could do nothing.
Ahmed pushed Monique down to her knees, roughly tore the rest of her clothes off. He pulled her head back, ready to thrust into her. Jacques prayed to lose consciousness.
Davina stumbled to her feet. “No, you can’t do this!” The big man grabbed her and flung her down, brought his hand up and slapped her. He then went over to Monique and Ahmed. He lifted his gown. He wore nothing under it. They would take turns. He dropped the knife from his belt next to Monique who was still on her knees.
Her screams resounded throughout the camp and petrified the hostages’ hearts.
They’re killing her, Davina thought, and with every ounce of strength she had left, threw herself onto the big man’s back, digging her nails into him. Fayed pulled her off by her hair and pinned her down to the ground, pressing his lips roughly to hers, grotesquely flicking his tongue back and forth in her mouth. Davina caught it and bit down as hard as she could. Fayed, cursing, rolled off of her as blood came gushing out.
Davina grabbed the knife the big man had put down. Blood was running out of Monique’s mouth and down her legs. She was losing consciousness. The man was still ramming her. He hadn’t noticed Davina next to him and the next thing he felt was the blade entering his body. He fell over and saw the face of the American woman who had thrust his own knife into his back.
The Israeli commandos placed explosive charges at each of the twelve tents. The soldiers of this unit had worked together for the past two years, day in and day out. By smell, step or sound, they knew exactly who each was and what he or she was doing. They were like an extension of each other. Their mission was more complicated because the hostages had been separated. ”Two women and one man are in the main tent,” Ruth reported. “They might be dead.”
“Right, we go now,” the commanding officer said. It was 0350 hours. They were still on schedule. The best sharpshooters took out the perimeter guards with silencers and moved further in. Each tent had two guards. They too were taken out with the silencers. The only terrorists left were the ones inside and they seemed to be asleep. Now the commandos positioned themselves at the entrance to each tent and waited for their commander’s signal.
At the main tent, Colonel Yuval Shamir held a finger to his lips. Complete silence. He wanted to keep it that way. It had worked miraculously well so far. He raised his hand and nodded at each of them. When he lowered his hand, the commandos bolted into their respective tents. Shamir, Ben Sned, the second in command, and Ruth went into the leader’s tent.
Ahmed saw them first. He reached for his gun but the trio opened fire before he had a chance. Two bullets pierced him silently and he collapsed. The big man was dead, Davina had killed him. Fayed was sitting on top of Davina, a knife in his hand, ready to kill her, but he flew back with the impact of the bullets. He lay crumpled on the ground in his own blood.
The other hostages were freed. Alejandro started to rush outside. One of the commandos stopped him. “Not yet. Wait until the signal.” He saw the desperation on Alejandro’s face. He had heard the screams. “It will only be a few moments.”
The rest of the unit had charged the other tents, again in complete silence. The terrorists were asleep. The Israelis opened up. They met no obstacles.
0445 hours. It was over.
Ruth covered Monique, who was semi-conscious, and helped Davina put her shirt on. She was in terrible pain and could hardly move. The first blow to her shoulder had turned into a large hematoma. She had bruises all over and her face was swollen. Jacques was barely conscious. A broken rib had cut into one of his lungs. Blood trickled out of his mouth.
In five minutes, two helicopters were in sight and descending fast. As they landed, fresh troops hurried out and into the encampment. They had ten minutes. The first commando group rushed into the big Chinook with the hostages. They carried the wounded to the big bird with the red cross painted on its belly. Jacques and Monique were placed on stretchers. The blanket that covered her was soaked with blood. Horror spread over their faces. They watched the medical team furiously work on them. Alejandro held Davina as carefully as he could. He was crying.
At 0500 hours, the big helicopters were airborne, moving away from the encampment. A huge explosion resounded from the desert. The tents and everything else in the camp and around it, as well as the hang gliders, blew up.
“That’s the end of those fuckers,” Shamir said, then quickly turned to Davina and apologized for his language.
“That’s quite alright, Colonel,” she said quietly. “I’ve said a few choice words myself.” She looked at the people on the helicopter. “Thank you.”
Davina went to her best friend and gently kissed her cheek.
“Davina,” she whispered.
“Oui, Monique," Davina answered. She put her ear close to her lips.
“Davina, I’m dying.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Davina, listen.” Monique shut her eyes and opened them. “Listen. I want you to promise me something.”
“Name it.”
“Promise you will sing.”
“Monique, you will sing.”
“Promise me, if I can’t, that you will sing. Promise me, Davina.”
“Alright, I promise.” Her tears fell onto Monique’s face. “I promise, I promise.” She began to sing softly to Monique.
“No,” Monique said with great difficulty, “I want everyone in the world to hear you…”
One of the soldiers quickly handed Davina a microphone. It was connected to both helicopters.
Davina took the microphone and with all the control she possessed slowly started singing a Hebrew song they had sung together in the past. “Bashana Abaa…, next year there will be peace...”
Both helicopters, full of men and women sang with Davina.
Shamir cleared his throat and went into the cockpit. He shook hands with the pilot. “Well done, Captain, thank you. Can you send a message to Number
One?”
“Right away, Colonel.”
“Good, here it is then.”
The message reached William Walters and the others at the American Embassy in Paris.
0530 hours. The telex machine in the communications room was receiving a message. Walters, Dickinson, Duvalier, as well as Ephraim and Leo ran over to it. It was printing. Yes, this was it. How did it go, they wondered.
PLEASED TO INFORM YOU...
OPERATION NIGHTINGALE COMPLETE SUCCESS.
ALL TERRORISTS INCLUDING ENEMY BASE
COMPLETELY DESTROYED.
NO ONE FROM TEAM WOUNDED OR KILLED.
ALEJANDRO, ADAM, ERIC, PERFECT CONDITION.
“Formidable!” Duvalier exclaimed. The telex continued.
REGRET TO INFORM YOU MUSTAPHA, EGYPTIAN
GUIDE, FOUND DEAD. ALSO…William thought he was going to faint. ...JACQUES BADLY HURT SHOULD RECOVER.
DAVINA...Here it comes...BADLY BRUISED BUT OK.
William sighed with relief.
MONIQUE CRITICAL. IN COMA. BADLY MUTILATED.
DO NOT KNOW IF SHE WILL MAKE IT.
REGARDS, Y.S.
♫
HAIFA
CHAPTER 7
Captain Adam Spencer was the only one of the group who stayed on in Haifa, where the Israeli helicopters had taken them directly from the Egyptian desert. Adam and his co-pilot returned to Cairo to retrieve the DC-3, and then Eric, who longed desperately for the peace of his home in Cork, left that very day for Ireland, promising that he would be back to work in a week. Adam told him to take two. But he only needed a week, Eric protested. A week with his Scottish fold cat Sally. Actually, it wasn’t his cat; the cat belonged to the neighbors but whenever Eric returned home after a long haul of flying, the cat came visiting. She stayed with him, she ate with him and slept with him, for the entire time he was home, which was never very long. Sally had become like an anchor for Eric, a reminder that he had a place, a home of his own, where someone, who happened to be a cat, was waiting for him.
“Two weeks with Sally, and that’s an order,” Adam warned him. He had become like a father to Eric, a man who was his boss but also a man who would hug him and let him cry for as long as he needed.
“Right then,” Eric said, “two weeks, it is.”
“With Sally.”
They hugged each other again and Adam watched Eric board his plane for home. It was then, at that moment, seeing the last of Eric disappear that Adam knew what he was going to do, or rather where he was going. He was going back to Haifa.
Adam and Ruth Rosenblum had already exchanged good-byes, promising to get together soon, which of course meant someday, maybe, Adam told himself, wondering what Ruth would say when he appeared on her doorstep so soon.
Ruth didn’t say anything, at least not right away, not until after they broke off a long passionate embrace. They spent the week together, most of it in bed, making love, talking, but not of the future, that was too difficult. They did not go there until their last night together. Adam could not bear to leave her without some hope of seeing her again. He wanted more than this, much more, and he wanted it so much that he dared not push her too far.
“Have you given it some thought then, luv?”
“I have, Adam, but it’s not that simple. I’m not really my own person, I can’t be. I belong to the military and to my country. I have a duty to fulfill and I can’t just drop everything at a moment’s notice. It would be very difficult to just get up and go.”
“I understand.”
“Besides, I don’t know if I could live a life of leisure day in and day out. I know I’d be happy by your side and we would be passionate for days...”
“Days?”
“Possibly years. The passion doesn’t go on and on forever. That’s the way it usually works.”
“Maybe we’re not so usual, Ruthie. Have you thought of that?”
“Adam,” she said and looked into his eyes. “Passion isn’t what concerns me the most.” How could she explain to him what it meant to be an Israeli? It wasn't just her country. Her feelings about it transcended the idea of homeland. She needed to be a part of it, she needed to defend it as well as live in it. He could never totally be a part of this. And even if they lived together in Israel, she would still be in the military and they could not be together whenever they wanted. She would still go on dangerous missions because that is what she did best. She wouldn’t have it any other way. He would be miserable whenever she left the house. He wouldn’t know if she was going to buy lamb chops or blow up a terrorist encampment. And how could her mind be focused a hundred percent on her mission? It couldn’t be. She would be thinking of him, and that might be just enough to cause the mistake she was not allowed to make. How could she make him understand?
“Adam,” she tried again. “You are a military man yourself or you were. You have souvenirs on your body and in your heart that will always remind you.” She caressed the scars on his back. He had not spoken of them, and he realized that he needn’t. She didn’t need to be told about what happened to him before the Black Angel in Vietnam. She could probably well imagine the details. Ultimately, war is war; the details probably don’t matter anyway. Getting shot or tortured in a rice paddy can’t be much different in a desert.
“But, Adam. I care about you. I care very much. No one can ever take that away. Nothing can. These days with you have been so wonderful. I’ve never been so happy.”
She was a little surprised to hear these words, her own words. But l am happy, she told herself, happier than I have ever been. Surely, it is every woman’s dream to be happy with a man, a special man. “I’m sorry, Adam. I’m not your typical woman.”
“That’s my girl, thank the Lord.”
He could wait. It was against his heart’s will and desire, but he could wait. Of all the goddamn luck. Here she was, in his arms, and he had to wait.
After Haifa, Adam went to his home, a cabin in the northern woods of Maine. This had been home for ten years now, longer than any other place he called home. He chopped wood and finally replaced the rotted front roof gutters. In ten days, he was ready to move on. He called Eric.
“How’s Sally?”
“Ah, she’s grand,” Eric said, happy to hear Adam’s voice. “We’re moving now, are we?” They were indeed. The Black Angel would be hauling cargo. First stop was Alaska. Then Malta.
“Malta? Saint Paul was shipwrecked on Malta.”
“You don’t say.”
“As long as it’s out of the desert.”
“Yeah. And the jungle.”
“You know what we’re carrying?”
“Dog food. To Alaska, as far inland as we can get. The huskies up there are starving. They’re dying, every day. There’s not enough fish to feed them all. That’s what they eat in the winter, fish. And there’s no fish because we keep accidentally dumping shiploads of oil in the water. Fish don’t like oil in their water.”
”And Malta?”
“I don’t want to chop any more wood this winter. After Alaska, we’re going to need Malta.”
♫
PARIS
CHAPTER 8
The doctors said Monique may not recover. She had a severe concussion and slipped into a coma while being airlifted out of the desert. There was always that chance she would come out of her coma, but even if she did, they did not know what her state of mind would be. Davina was with Jacques to hear this news. Jacques’ punctured lung and his shattered bones mended but he was still a broken man. He left the hospital too numb to speak. Davina knew he needed to be alone but she feared for him.
Jacques desperately wished he could have taken Monique's place. Better yet, he wished he had died back there in the desert. He aimlessly walked the streets of Paris. How would he survive without her? Life meant nothing without Monique.
When Jacques was released from the hospital he wandered into a bar that night on the Left Bank, where affluent guys like him were supposed to hang out. H
e felt as though he had no one in the world. He knew of course that Davina cared for him like a brother, but she was out of reach. Alejandro was his best friend, but he too was out of reach. They all were. He needed Monique and that was impossible, out of the question. He drank champagne, affluent wasted mec that he was. A good deal of it. He looked into the glass and decided that this was his only friend. You make me feel good, he told the bubbles. I can talk to you and you don’t think I'm a fool, he babbled. But what about tomorrow morning, are you going to kick my head around like a mule or will you still be sweet and continue to be my friend? I know you, you're devious. You have unscrupulous ways. When I least expect it, you will take your revenge like the rest of this goddamn world. Always from behind, always stabbing you in the back. You're like a bad disease, you're contagious, you would actually let me get hooked on you. You're like a prostitute, sweet and sexy until it’s time to pay, and then you become lecherous. Will you be like that, little bubbles? No, you wouldn't do that to your old friend Jacques. I have been nothing but nice to you. I put you in a beautiful crystal glass and let you sparkle like little stars in the sky. The glass is clean—that's what the bartender claims—and transparent. That way you look radiant, like a ray of sunshine and you can look out at this cruel world of ours. Of course I only want the best for you, my friend, and I will take good care of you just like my little Monique. But I didn't, did I. I let those bastards kill her. But she is not dead. Jacques stood up and held on to the walls as he walked out of the bar. His legs buckled under him and he grabbed a street lamp to cushion his fall. On his knees in the dead of night he sobbed, alone.
Davina was at the hospital every day, all day and all night in the first weeks. She went back and forth from Monique’s room to Jacques’ room.
Alejandro thought this excessive. He blamed the incident in the desert. “Are you moving into this hospital?” he asked her. “What about us? We have a home.”