by Don Brown
"I, for one, thought the president's letter a stroke of statesmanship," said Foreign Minister Alya Baruch. At forty-six, she was the youngest member of the cabinet and one of two women in the male-dominated group. "I was not offended. But I worry about the male ego of my friend Minister Levine. He's like a kid saying, 'I caught the prisoners, they're mine, and you can't play with them.' "
"You call an old man a kid?" Levine roared, stood, and eyeballed the attractive brunette whom the Western media was betting would become the next prime minister. "My family babysat for you while your family gallivanted around the globe. You once called me 'Uncle Ari.' Now you accuse me of acting like a child? Are we angling for New York Times endorsement when we run for prime minister? Hmm? "
"Actually, Uncle Ari" -- that brought a few chuckles -- "I prefer the endorsement of the Jerusalem Post."
"Okay," the prime minister interrupted. "Enough sniping. Let us focus on the task at hand. Okay, Alya, I agree that Williams's letter is diplomatically written. But Israel is a sovereign nation. And with that comes responsibility to act like a sovereign nation. It wasn't America that brought us back to this land. It was God." He paused, frowning. "Yet America has supported us with billions of dollars in economic and military aid."
The foreign minister leaned forward. "And they were the first nation to recognize our existence in 1948. Harry Truman came to our defense when no one else would.
"Alya, let me finish." Rothstein shook a lecturing finger at his beautiful rival. "The Arabs accuse us of conspiring with the United States to attack the Dome. If we capture these pilots and send them back to America, how will that look to the international community?" Roth-stein flailed his arms through the air. "It smacks of a Jewish-American conspiracy. Every Arab head of state will say so. And the risk of war is escalated to unacceptable heights.
"And what of our own people? We undermine the confidence of the Israeli people in this government if we release these pilots to the Americans.
"These pilots must be brought to trial." He swiped sweat from his forehead. "And they must be prosecuted in Israel under Israeli law!"
Silence.
"But Williams will never go along with that," the minister of agriculture said.
"What will he do?" the prime minister asked. "Send a SEAL commando team to extricate them from Jerusalem?"
"His position is clear, Mr. Prime Minister," the agriculture minister responded. "Nothing Mack Williams would do would surprise me, including the possibility of using force to retrieve his pilots."
"His war criminals." This from the minister of defense.
"Look," Foreign Minister Baruch said. "You make very good points, sir. But if we can't trust the Americans, who can we trust?"
"No one!" the defense minister thundered. "Where were the Americans when our ancestors were gassed in Nazi concentration camps? Israel can trust only herself."
"The Americans liberated those camps!" the foreign minister shot back.
"Five years and six million lives later," the defense minister retorted.
"Alya! Ari!" the prime minister snapped. "Look, Alya. You raise a legitimate question. Who can we trust?" He looked around at a rare sight, the momentarily blank faces of his cabinet members. "There's really one American I would trust with this case."
Puzzled looks were exchanged.
"Lieutenant Brewer. His performance against that Jewish traitor Wells Levinson was formidable. I believe his heart is with Israel."
"Unfortunately, Prime Minister," the defense minister spoke in a much lower voice, "the lieutenant is in the United States Navy. Not the Israeli Navy."
More silence.
"Prime Minister," Alya Baruch said, "there may be a diplomatic solution to this problem that will allow us all to save face."
CHAPTER 32
Mount Helix
La Mesa, California
East San Diego County
Zack sat on the stone wall, staring out at the panoramic vista overlooking San Diego. With the magnificent thirty-six-foot white cross rising above Mount Helix at his back, and with the cool Pacific breeze in his face, he remembered the last time he visited this place, the most tranquil location in San Diego County.
He had come here in the late afternoon that spring day, having just won the most publicized court-martial in the history of the United States military. Diane was at his side as his assistant, and Senator Roberson Fowler, a powerful Louisiana Democrat, had offered him an opportunity to quit the navy and run for Congress. And win.
He had come here that day to get away from the press, and to find solace, and to pray. Beneath the large white cross, its beams turning an orangey hue as the sun made its way into the Pacific, he had prayed that day for guidance and wisdom in what to do: stay in the navy, or switch political parties and take a congressional seat as a Democrat.
Sure, he had mentioned to Diane that he was coming here and that she was welcome to join him. But he hadn't expected her to come. She was engaged at the time to a wealthy Frenchman, a benefactor from her days as a top fashion model. He figured, with the court-martial over, she would fall into the arms of Pierre Rochembeau, resign from the navy, and live happily ever after as Mrs. Rochembeau.
Besides, even though they had formed a sizzling prosecution team and were featured together in magazines and newspapers and on television, their relationship was professional. He was never really sure how she felt about him.
That afternoon when she appeared in the empty amphitheater, just under the cross, wearing a blue denim skirt, a green blouse, and large, almost camouflaging sunglasses, his heart nearly leapt out of his chest.
In that instant, he decided to turn down the congressional seat and remain in the navy.
Coming here today, watching the sun make its glorious trek toward the magnificent waters of the Pacific, feeling the breeze caress his face, absorbing the sight of the magnificent cross transformed from pristine white to a splendid orange, Zack hoped that somehow, by a miracle from God, Diane would once again walk around the corner.
But when the tip of the sun touched the Pacific, then sunk halfway down, he resigned himself to the fact that, for today at least, God had other plans.
As the private park at the top of Mount Helix closed at dark, Zack wiped a tear from his cheek and walked to his car, parked in the gravel parking lot. It would take about five minutes to traverse the narrow, crooked road down the side of the mountain.
He flipped his radio to KSDO, expecting to hear more news of the dangerous situation in Jerusalem, a crisis he had almost tuned out because of his preoccupation with Diane. Maybe, just maybe, the newscast would include a report saying that they had found her and that she was safe.
"More news coming out of Israel today concerning yesterday's mysterious attack by U.S. Navy warplanes on the Dome of the Rock. In the midst of continued protests and an emergency meeting of the UN Security Council by Russia, it appears that the United States and Israel are now in a diplomatic standoff over the fate of the two American pilots involved in the attacks.
"The pilots, whose names have yet to be released, were captured by Israeli Special Forces after they apparently bailed out of their planes over eastern Syria, near the Iraqi border.
"CNN has learned that the U.S. and Israel are at odds over who, where, and how the pilots will be prosecuted. The United States wants the pilots returned to the U.S. for a military court-martial, while Israel contends they are war criminals, whose actions led to the deaths of Israeli citizens. Israel wants the aviators prosecuted in Tel Aviv or Jerusalem by an Israeli tribunal.
"Word out of our Jerusalem bureau is that a very contentious cabinet meeting of the Israeli cabinet concluded this afternoon, in which cabinet officers engaged in heated exchanges over the Williams administration's request that the pilots be returned.
"To further complicate matters, Syrian president Ouday Assad has demanded the pilots be turned over to an Arab tribunal on the grounds that this was, quote, 'a despicable crime against th
e heart of Islam.'
"The Williams administration has remained mum on the standoff with the Israelis, prompting criticism from congressional Democrats and the Reverend JamesOn Barbour. Meanwhile, there has been no word on the whereabouts of Lieutenant Diane Colcernian, whose car was discovered three days ago in Wilmington, North Carolina."
Zack pulled the car to the side of the narrow road leading down the mountain.
"Lord, please be with her. Please protect her. Please, Lord, bring her home."
City Morgue No. 3
East Jerusalem
Alexander Kweskin entered the City Morgue in East Jerusalem, not far from the Dung Gate of the Old City.
A woman who had been sitting to the right of the entry door stood and gave him a quizzical look. "Mr. Kweskin?"
"Yes?"
"I am Kathryn Shadle from the International Fellowship of Christians and Jews," she said in Russian, though she looked American.
"You're the organization that brought us here. Now I wish that I had stayed in Belarus. At least my daughter would still be alive."
The woman waited a moment, then said, "We are deeply sorry for your loss."
"If you will excuse me, I must now claim her body."
Kathryn Shadle gently touched his arm. "Mr. Kweskin, we are here to help. Word has spread quickly about the death of your daughter."
"Anna was only nine years old," he said, his voice cracking.
"I've brought with me a burial dress." She held up a dainty blue dress. "It was donated from a local clothier who is a benefactor of our organization. Please accept it for your daughter, if you wish."
Alexander looked at the dress. It was so beautiful. Much more beautiful than anything he'd ever been able to provide for Anna in life. He wished Yael were here. She would be best at making a decision like this, but she had remained in the shelter with the other three children.
He did not have the money for a decent burial dress. His daughter's funeral, including the mortuary services, was being financed by the government of Israel. She would be buried in a state-run cemetery in the war-torn West Bank.
A rabbi would be provided for the simple ceremony -- an act of compassion offered by the Israeli government that would not be offered by the Belarusian government.
But other than that, nothing special for his precious Anna. She would be buried in the same blood-stained dress in which she died. The same dress she wore when they stepped on the plane in Minsk, and when she held his hand as they stepped onto the soil of the Promised Land yesterday.
They had been in Israel only a day. It seemed like years. Time had stalled, uncompassionate and sinister, as it dragged out every painful moment and burned a fresh hole in his soul with every heartbeat.
He remembered the snowy morning he and Yael had brought Anna home from the state-run hospital in Mogilev. They had wrapped her little six-pound body in the warmest, thickest blanket they could find. And as they stepped out the front door of the hospital into the cold to hail a taxi, he cradled Anna in his arms.
They say that newborn babies have no sight. But on this morning, as the taxi pulled to the curb, he knew his red-cheeked, curly-haired angel could see.
Her sparkling eyes peered up at him, and she smiled, an angelic smile that could have come only from God.
The precious, holy memory accentuated his grief this day. Was his pain punishment for his sins? How could God give him such a beloved gift as this child, only to rip her from his arms, from the arms of her family?
"Mr. Kweskin?" He felt the warm hand of the IFCJ representative on his back. She pulled a handkerchief from her purse and offered it to him.
He accepted the handkerchief and dabbed his eyes.
"Yes, Miss Shadle. Your offer is kind. On behalf of my wife . . . and my daughter . . . we will gratefully accept the dress."
Kathryn Shadle's expression was filled with compassion. "Perhaps I could come with you to help dress her and help prepare her for burial?"
"Forgive me for not having been more gracious at first. I thank you for your kindness. Yes, I would appreciate your help this morning. This is so hard."
A middle-aged Jewish man entered the room from another door. "Mr. Kweskin?"
Alexander glanced at Kathryn Shadle, then nodded to the man.
"I am the director of the morgue, and on behalf of all the people of Israel, I am very sorry for your loss." He spoke in Hebrew, which Kathryn Shadle quickly translated to Russian.
Alexander nodded again after Kathryn had finished the translation.
"If you and your friend could follow me, please."
Kathryn and Alexander followed the man down the hallway about fifty paces, then stopped. "She is in here." The man gestured toward a closed door on the right. "I will give you some privacy."
Alexander opened the door, and he and Kathryn stepped into the sterile, tile-floored room. In the middle, under dangling fluorescent lights, a white sheet was draped over a small body.
"I don't know if I can do this," Alexander said.
"Yes, you can," Kathryn said. "I am a Christian, Guspadyeen Kweskin. The New Testament tells us that we can do all things through Christ who strengthens us. I will be right here with you, praying for you every moment."
CHAPTER 33
Situation Room
The White House
Washington, D.C.
Ladies and gentlemen" -- President Mack Williams looked around the table at the members of his National Security Council -- "we've received a response from the Israelis." The president paused, sipping coffee from his favorite Kansas Jayhawks mug. "It seems that our friend, Prime Minister Rothstein, and his cabinet are, shall we say, none too keen about the prospect of handing us our pilots back."
The responses were quick, sharp, and negative, from all sides of the table.
"Now hang on." The president raised his hand, palm out. "We do have a response. It's not exactly what I was looking for, but I wanted to discuss this with you before I make a decision. I've asked the vice president to read the communique to you." The president glanced at Vice President Surber, seated immediately to his right, nodded his head, and said, "Doug?"
"Thank you, Mr. President."
The vice president pulled an envelope from his blue pinstripe suit, carefully unfolded it, adjusted his wire-rim glasses, and started reading.
Dear Mr. President,
While we, like you, do not understand the reasons or the motives for this tragic incident, we do understand and appreciate the great level of assistance and support that your great country has rendered toward our tiny nation since our rebirth in 1948.
Israel, as you know, has stood with the United States in the war on terror, as evidenced by our cooperation and willingness to share intelligence against radical Islamic insurgents operating within our borders and elsewhere.
I hope you will agree, Mr. President, that our history of cooperating with America is well established. I hope also that you will agree that from time to time, strategic allies do not always agree on the best course of action in certain situations. And in those rare occurrences when such disagreements may occur, this is by no means a sign of disrespect for the other's position or a symbol of deteriorating relations. Rather, such rare disagreements among allies are more akin to the occasional family disagreement, nothing more, and nothing less.
To this extent, I would like to take this opportunity to address the proposal set forth in your letter, wherein you have requested that Israel hand over the two American pilots our forces picked up, pilots who by all accounts, for some unknown reason, appear to have been directly involved in the attacks on our country.
Before I lay out the Israeli position in response to your request, I would ask you to remember the events immediately following the barbaric and savage attacks on your country on September 11. At that time, the United States took all actions it deemed necessary, and rightly so, to protect itself.
In many cases, the United States rounded up foreign terrorists, brought
them to United States Naval facilities such as Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, detained them, and in some cases, court martialed them under U.S. military law.
In contrast to other nations, such as France and Russia, Israel supported your country in each and every endeavor following those attacks, and will continue to do so in the future.
Now, in a manner not so dissimilar to yours, Israel has been attacked. A great landmark, known around the world, much in the way your Twin Towers were known, has been destroyed. But unlike the geopolitical situation following 9/11, where there was no national military power about to attack your country, Israel is surrounded by a host of nations hostile to her existence, nations whose militaries are at this very moment mobilizing.
Arab Scud missiles are at this hour aimed at us, bearing not just conventional ballistics, but nuclear, biological, and chemical warheads.
The Arab world claims that this attack is the product of an American-Israeli conspiracy to destroy the Dome as a prelude to the rebuilding of Solomon's Temple. While we know better, the average Arab does not.
Our government is concerned, therefore, that transporting these pilots back to America would fuel this perception, further endangering an already precarious situation. We feel that these pilots should be placed on trial here in Israel, prosecuted under Israeli law.
Having said that, however, the government of Israel proposes the following solution:
A United States court-martial would convene on Israeli soil, in Jerusalem, for the prosecution of these pilots under American military law. Israel would be pleased to have the case prosecuted by Navy JAG officer Lieutenant Zack Brewer, who, because of his remarkable performance in last year's prosecution of three Islamic chaplains, is greatly trusted here.