Herman Wouk - The Glory

by The Glory(Lit)

  "But what about your tank battalion? How could you leave your command for this devilry?"

  "They sent out the call for Sayeret Matkhal veterans months ago. I volunteered, and my brigade commander approved."

  "Well, I hope this is the last time. You've done enough

  special jobs. You've got your decorations, Amos. Your future is in the tanks."

  "You just don't want me to have a good time, Abba, the way you did."

  The telephone rang. Pasternak grunted and pressed an intercom buzzer. "I told you, no telephone calls."

  The secretary croaked in the box, "It's Mrs. Nitzan. She says it's important."

  Sam glanced at his son, whose face went blank. "I'll call her back."

  "Abba, this is an excellent plan," Amos said. "We've rehearsed it down to seconds."

  "I've rehearsed many such plans. Some successful. Some not so successful."

  "I know that. Dado said to us, "The deeper you go behind the lines, the greater the surprise, and the better your chances for success.' I believe he's right, and we'll soon see."

  Pasternak's stern look faded in a laugh.' 'Okay, I've already studied the plan." Senior Israeli officers after retiring tended to stay in touch as consultants. "In fact I contributed a detail or two. I'm still welcome as a kibitzer at the Mossad. I'll probably be in the Pit to hear how it goes." He came out from behind the desk and they hugged each other. "One thing, Amos. Has Colonel Shaked drilled you to bring out not only the wounded but the dead, if there's trouble? At all cost?"

  "That's doctrine, Abba."

  "It's more than doctrine. Your raid may be a big success, but if the Fatah gets one Jewish boy's body, they'll claim a victory. They'll blackmail us to trade for his body all the terrorists we've got in jail, and for millions of dollars, too. They'll hang the body upside down in a public square. They'll stage dancing crowds for American television. They think that's good public relations."

  "You exaggerate, but we'll bring out our casualties. I hope there won't be any." Another embrace, and the son left. Staring out the window, Sam returned Amos's wave from his car across the street.

  Scratchy voice on the intercom: "General, Eva Sonshine called. Her mother's back in the hospital. Dinner is off. She'll phone you at home later and may come by."

  "Anyone else?"

  "Uzi Rubin. He wants you to return his call." This was the chairman of a heavy-industry conglomerate. "Get Mrs. Nitzan."

  Dead of night.

  Three hundred yards from the landing beach, Noah's boat was barely moving on a black glassy sea. The city glow on low clouds shed a sort of artificial moonlight over sea and shore. The cluster lamps of the promenade lined the cliff above the beach, and neon signs glittered and jumped, blue, red, white, yellow. "Could almost be Tel Aviv," said Colonel Shaked, the raid commander. A lean bespectacled officer in uniform, Shaked was remaining aboard the boat to control the many-pronged operation by wireless network linked to the Pit, the underground command center in Tel Aviv.

  "Engines stop," Noah ordered. "Prepare Zodiacs for launching. Raiding party prepare to disembark."

  "There go the headlights," said Amos. The automobiles on the shore were blinking: two flashes, pause, two flashes, darkness. After a full minute, the signal repeated.

  "So, Amos, you move," said Colonel Shaked.

  Heavy splash of rubber boats. Lighter splashes of frogmen who would tow them in; silent approach, not even putt-putting of outboard motors. Noah shook hands with Amos, and Colonel Shaked accompanied the unit leader to the deck. The raiders, in shabby city clothes, went climbing down jingling chain ladders, Amos in a hiked-up red wool dress. Sea and wind conditions lucky, thought Noah. Gentle swell, light offshore breeze. In a fresh wind the frogmen would have had problems pulling in those high-riding Zodiacs, which now moved off smoothly and melted into the night. Colonel Shaked returned to the bridge and put on headphones. Side by side he and Noah watched the promenade with binoculars until the cars pulled away. "Unit Amos en route to target," Noah heard Shaked report to the Pit. The commander laughed and turned to him. "Dado says, 'Keep calm,' " he told Noah.

  The phosphorescent bridge clock read a quarter to one. "What do you hear from the other units?" Noah ventured to ask Colonel Shaked.

  "Holding to plan. So far, so good," said Shaked, and he dropped down the ladder to the control and communications center. Overhead Noah heard the thudding of a rescue helicopter showing no lights.

  Under the bright globe of a promenade light, a man at the wheel of a Mercedes gave Amos a waggish greeting as he was sliding into the front seat. "Giveret [Madame], how's your father?" A woman made room for Amos, a real one, apparently a real blonde, and by the streetlights, quite attractive; especially compared to the phony blonde, a very tough-looking paratrooper under the wig, who was getting into the other car, a Buick.

  "He's fine."

  "Great gentleman, your father." The pudgy driver wore a dark Italian-cut suit and several gold rings. He had the beautifully waved gray hair of a European man of affairs, maybe an importer or a banker; much too soft and sleek a fellow, one would have thought, to be anything else. Amos glanced over to the other car, where all his paratroopers were now inside. The blond-wigged one gave a thumbs-up.

  "Yallah," Amos said.

  The Mercedes drove out into a boulevard jammed with traffic, much resembling Hayarkon Road on the Tel Aviv beachfront. Altogether Beirut was an Arab Tel Aviv: squat old structures and towering new office buildings, shabby shops, fancy shops, and brightly lit cafes lined higgledy-piggledy along the avenues. In the dark narrow side streets the buildings were tumbledown, the pavements full of potholes. Just like home! The driver led the other car in a zigzag route through the city, getting directions in French at each turn from the blond woman. Amos broke his silence to say in French, "You know this city pretty well."

  "Born and raised in Beirut. In the good old days, Papa was in business here?' She smiled at Amos. "You look very pretty."

  "Sorry I'm getting you all wet." The Zodiac had shipped much water, soaking Amos's shoes and nylons and bedraggling his dress.

  "Let that be my worst problem tonight."

  This was his first reprisal raid scented with costly French perfume, thought Amos, quite a change from helicopter drops near terrorist bases, or stealthy night crossings of borders in the wilds. Northwest Beirut was a neighborhood of imposing walled villas, and high-rise flats with large corner balconies, very much like the wealthy district of north Tel Aviv where they had rehearsed every move of this raid. The car halted for a moment in the Rue de Verdun at a darkened two-story villa, with tall palms poking over the high garden wall, before going on. "This is where we'll be posted," said the woman, "until you come out."

  The Buick went by with the squad that would provide cover for Amos's attack on the apartment house. Another assault unit had turned off in different cars to hit the headquarters building. Amos's eye was on his wristwatch, for the two strikes had to be simultaneous. "B'seder, we go," he said. Across the street from the apartment house, two Arabs, guns slung on their shoulders, were talking and smoking cigarettes. They quite ignored the Mercedes as it drove up and stopped; obviously, as intelligence had reported, such posh cars came and went here all the time.

  "Bonne chance," murmured the woman as the car drove off.

  Amos and his three companions strolled nonchalantly into the house under the eyes of the guards. Toughest moment. Pounding heart. Okay, all the way in, beyond the streetlight. One remained in the dim lobby, Amos and the other two bounded upstairs, each to his assigned floor. Deep penetration, total surprise. So it was working out. Behind this third-floor door, Amos's target, was Abu Youssef, the planner of the Munich massacre, and the real brains of the Arab terror network strewing death worldwide. Silencer on the gun. Shoot off the locks and hinges. No misfire of the silencer, thank God, no gunshot, just crunches of metal. Through the doorway! A light snapped on far inside the flat. Amos raced to that room. There naked under a blanke
t was the black-bearded Abu Youssef, unmistakable from his photographs, beside a naked woman, both staring at him in sleepy shock. Rotten job, but this was it, and he killed them both with four shots, mere muffled thumps; they scarcely moved as they moaned and bled and died. In a smell of gun smoke, he hurried through

  the flat looking for documents and record books, swept whatever he found into a suitcase from which he dumped a woman's clothes, and went out to the landing.

  There he waited and listened. Eerie quiet on this staircase! What was going on above? Amos leaped up three flights, saw an open door, and sidled inside with gun at the ready. On a rich carpet in the large front room a clothed mustached man lay dead, blood pooling in his long black hair. A broken Venetian blind dangled in the window, and beside it was one of his men, Yoni, pulling documents from a bookcase. "Amos, this stuff is gold," he said in a conversational tone, riffling the papers. He gestured at books, pamphlets, and documents he was piling on a chair. "Take a look."

  "Listen, take what you can grab and let's go."

  "En lahatz [No pressure], don't rush." Yoni glanced at his watch. "This is a rare opportunity." He took down more papers and rapidly scanned them.

  Amos Pasternak prided himself on keeping his head in tough spots, and he had proved himself often. But in some ways, this old friend was beyond him. Yoni Netanyahu had served with him in Sayeret Matkhal years ago, then had left the army to study at Harvard. Now he was back without having completed his degree; a small guy with a slight physique hardened by exercise and willpower to iron and wire, and kept so despite a grave wound in the Six-Day War. His coolness now was infectious. Certainly he was right, this intelligence bonanza could save hundreds of lives. It could even crack the whole terror network. "Okay, but be quick about it-"

  bratatat, bang, bang! Amos jumped to the open window. Machine-gun bursts outside, cracks of rifles. "It's the headquarters building, Yoni. I see the flashes. Trouble. Yallah!"

  "Sure. What can I carry this stuff in?" Yoni looked here and there. "A pillowcase, maybe. Just a second."

  In the Pit, the cigarette smoke as always was thick and foul. Senior officers paced the enormous map-lined room, Sam Pasternak among them. At a table with a microphone General Elazar and Moshe Dayan sat side by side. "Mano Shaked, Mano Shaked, this is Dado. Say again, what has gone wrong?"

  Reply from an overhead loudspeaker, harsh with static but understandable. "This is Mano. The boys killed the guards outside the headquarters, according to plan. But a machine gun has just opened up from across the street, from some kind of truck or van, and-wait, I'm getting another report."

  Deep silence in the room. Crackling of static. Rasp and flaming of cigarette lighters.

  "Okay, this is Mano. Five of our guys are down. The van has been silenced, but more guards are coming and firing. The demolition squad inquires whether to go into the building or abort."

  The Ramatkhal and Dayan looked at each other. Dayan shrugged. Dado said briskly, "He's the guy on the spot," and spoke into the microphone. "Mano, this is Dado. What do you recommend?"

  "I say proceed with demolition. We have good supporting fire. I'll send reenforcements to cover withdrawal."

  "Approved."

  As the most iron-nerved airline pilot agonizes through a storm when he is only a passenger, because he knows the hazards and cannot act, so Sam Pasternak was shaken by this turn. Amos was attacking a different building, but still the whole raid was already compromised. The gun battle was bound to alert the lax Lebanese police, and army units too might roll. A fast withdrawal to the beach was the raiders' best chance. Once trapped in Beirut, they would be overwhelmed and captured, if not gunned down forthwith.

  Sayeret Matkhal in Arab hands! Blindfolded and chained prisoners on world television, a mockery of Israel's prowess, an ineradicable disgrace! Moreover high Lebanese politicians were hand in glove with the terrorists, that was known, and prison in Lebanon was no haven. Lynching, kidnapping, vanishing, death by mutilation - all real possibilities. An interminable tumble of army jargon on the signal channel, but from the demolition unit no further word. Since the landing, nothing at all from Amos. Sharp voice of Colonel Shaked cutting through, ordering all units to clear the channel.

  "Dado from Mano. No word from apartment unit. Headquarters unit has fought its way out against police and terrorist fire and is heading for the beach, bringing out all casualties."

  Dayan leaned to the microphone and pressed the button. "Mano, this is Dayan. Was the demolition carried out?"

  "Minister, they set the explosives, but they've been in a running gunfight, shooting from their cars. They don't know.''

  With a headshake at Dado, Dayan let him have the microphone.

  "Mano from Dado. What casualties?"

  "This is Mano. Two lightly wounded, one severely." Somber looks around the room. Pause. Mano's voice again: "Two dead. Hagai Ma'ayan and Avida Shor."

  Crackling of static. With a noisy scrape of his chair, Dayan got to his feet. "Fashla [Fuckup]," he said drily, and walked out. Some officers drifted after him. Dado slumped at the microphone, his rugged face a tragic mask in the bleak fluorescent light. Reports kept trickling in. Pasternak's pulse thumped to hear, "This is Mano. Apartment Unit Amos now safe on board Gaash. Mission carried out, three terrorist chiefs killed, two boys lightly wounded." Dado managed a wan smile at Pasternak.

  Within an hour the picture was clear. The entire raiding force, with the Mossad agents who had met them in the cars, were aboard the boats and heading home. At Haifa's Mai-monides Hospital the helicopter had unloaded the wounded and the dead. The high wall clock showed a few minutes past three. Dado stretched, yawned, and spoke after a long wordless time. "Well, Sam, your Amos did valiantly. All the boys did. Still, Moshe's right. Fashla."

  "Dado, they got the leaders."

  Dado leaned his head in his hands. "Two of our boys, just for those three murdering bastards?" The telephone at his elbow rang. He picked it up. "Dado here. What?" His face brightened. "Well, did you record all that?... Excellent, rush the tape over to my office.... Look, Sam Pasternak's here, tell him." Dado handed him the phone. "In America the raid's on the evening news." He went striding out to the steep staircase.

  Slow deep voice of the new Mossad chief. "Sam? The raid is the big news on American TV and radio. They're interrupting regular programs. The story's already coming out of Beirut, uncensored. First of all, the terrorist headquarters building was totally demolished-"

  "Aha! That's definite?"

  "Blown to a big pile of rubble."

  "What's the American reaction so far?"

  "Positive, admiring, and they're all citing the Munich massacre of our athletes, and the murder of their two diplomats in Sudan."

  The big surprise so far, the Mossad chief went on, was the candor of the Lebanese authorities. They had immediately disclosed the name of the chief terrorists who had been killed, and were allowing cameras at the headquarters building, where rescuers were digging for PLO personnel who might be buried in the flattened ruins. No neighboring structures had been damaged.

  Sam broke in, "You're sure of that? Amos told me there was a big dispute over the exact weight of explosives they would need, so as not to injure civilians."

  "Somebody guessed right. The building's a wreck, nothing else touched. That's what our consul saw on New York TV. I just got off the phone with him. Sam, it's an international success, a masterstroke."

  "Two boys died," Pasternak said.

  "I know, I know. Avida Shor and Hagai Ma'ayan, kib-butznik volunteers, just kids. The cost, always the cost! But go and listen to Naftali's tapes, Sam, those boys died for something great."

  .Mediterranean weather can change fast. At sunrise the wind was whipping up whitecaps, and even entering Haifa harbor the Gaash was rolling and pitching. On the unsteady bridge Amos and Noah were peering through binoculars toward the pier. "Quite a welcoming party out there," Noah said. "The Defense Minister, the admiral-"

  Amos exclaim
ed, "There's my father, by my life! Why the devil did he drag himself to Haifa?"

  The blond woman, climbing the ladder to the bridge in a white sweater and tan slacks, overheard this. "Bonjour. Which one is your father?"

  "Ah, bonjour." Amos handed her the binoculars. "He's the short man on Dayan's left."

  "So, that's General Pasternak." The wind tossed her loose yellow hair and the pink scarf flung around her neck. In

  strong morning sunlight she still looked fetching, though decidedly older than Amos; slim, heavily tanned, her bony face alive with excitement. "Hm, quite a resemblance. Ai!" She fell sideways against him, and he steadied her with an arm. "Merci, monsieur."

  Amos was bleary from writing up his report in the wobbly wardroom, and also bone-tired, but not too tired to feel a stir in his loins. His smile, as the woman returned the glasses, was more than polite. "Did you get any sleep?"