by Wilbur Smith
The two aircraft slowly ran out of energy, and they came out together at the top of a mighty parabola. The sensation of flight was gone, they swam through the dark forbidding oceans of space and far below them the earth glowed strangely, with a weird unnatural light.
There was no time to admire the view, the Mirage was wallowing in the thin and treacherous air, her control surfaces skidding and sliding without bite.
Joe was on the target, tracking quietly and steadily and they came round carefully on to the heading, with the aircraft staggering mushily and beginning to fall away from these inhospitable heights.
David stared ahead, holding the Mirage’s nose up for sustained altitude but already the stall warning device was flicking amber and red at him. He was running out of time and height.
Then suddenly he saw it, seeming startlingly close in the rare air, ghosting along on its immense wings, like a black manta-ray through the sable and silent sea of space – ahead and slightly below them – calmly and silently, it drifted along, its height giving it a false sense of invulnerability.
‘Desert Flower, this is Bright Lance visual on the intruder and requesting permission for strike.’ David’s cool tone hid the sudden gust of his anger and hatred that the sighting had released.
‘Report your target.’ The Brig was hedging, it was a dangerous decision to call the strike on an unknown target.
‘Desert Flower, it’s an Ilyushin Mark 17 – 11. No apparent markings.’
It needed no marking, it could only belong to one nation. David was closing fast, he could fly no slower than this, and he was rapidly overhauling the other machine. Those huge wings were designed to float upon the feeble air of the stratosphere.
‘Closing fast,’ he warned Desert Flower. ‘Opportunity for strike will pass in approximately ten seconds.’
The silence in his headphones hummed quickly, and he readied his cannons and watched the spy plane blowing up rapidly in size as he dropped down upon it.
Suddenly the Brig made the decision, perhaps committing his country to heavy retaliation, but knowing that the spy plane’s cameras were steadily recording vital details of their ability to resist aggression, information that would be passed quickly to their enemies.
‘David,’ his voice was curt and harsh, ‘this is the Brig. Hit him!’
‘Beseder.’ David let the Mirage’s nose drop a fraction, and she responded gratefully.
Two, this is Leader attacking.’
Two conforming.’
He went down on the Ilyushin so fast, that as she came into his sights he knew he had time for only a few seconds of fire.
He pressed the trigger with the aiming pipper on the spy plane’s wing roots, and he saw her rear up like a great fish struck by the steel of the harpoon.
For three seconds he poured his cannon shells into her, and watched them flash and twinkle against the massive black silhouette. Then he was through, falling away below the giant’s belly, with his power spent, dropping away like the burned-out shell of a rocket.
Joe came down astern of him, backing up the attack, and in his sights the spy plane hung helplessly on its wide wings, its long rounded nose pointing to the black sky with its cold uncaring stars.
He pressed the trigger and the plane broke up amidst the bright flashes of exploding cannon shells. One wing snapped off at its roots and the carcass began its long slow tumble down the heavens.
‘Hello, Desert Flower, this is Bright Lance Leader. Target destroyed.’ David tried to keep his voice level, but he found his hands were trembling and his guts were aching cold from the spill-over of his hatred that not even the enemy’s death could expunge.
Again he pressed the button to open the flight net. ‘Joe, that’s one more for Hannah,’ he said, but for once there was no reply, and after he had listened in vain to the throb of the carrier beam for a few seconds he closed it, and activated his doppler gear for a homing signal, and silently Joe followed him back to base.
Debra had been a steadying and maturing influence, but now David reacted so wildly to her going that Joe had to continue his role of wingman, even when they were off base.
They spent much of their leisure time together, for although they seldom mentioned their loss, yet the sharing of it drew them closer.
Often Joe slept over at Malik Street, for his own home was a sad and depressing place now. The Brig was seldom there in these troubled times, Debra gone and his mother was so altered by her terrible experience that she was grey and broken, aged beyond her years. The bullet wound in her body had closed, but there was other damage that would never heal.
David’s wildness was a craving for the forgetfulness of constant action. He was only truly at peace when he was in the air, and on the ground he was restless and mercurial. Joe moved, big and calm beside him, steering him tactfully out of trouble with a slow grin and an easy word.
As a consequence of the downed spy plane, the Syrians began a policy of provocative patrols, calculated infringement of Israeli airspace, which was discontinued as soon as retaliation was drawn. As the interceptors raced to engage they would swing away, declining combat, and move back within their own borders.
Twice David saw the greenish luminous blur of these hostile patrols on the screen of his scanning radar, and each time he had surprised himself with the icy feeling of anger and hatred that had lain heavy as a rock upon his heart and lungs as he led Joe in on the interception. Each time, however, the Syrians had been warned by their own radar and they had turned away, increasing speed, and withdrawn discreetly and mockingly.
‘Bright Lance, this is Desert Flower. Target is no longer hostile. Discontinue attack pattern.’ The Syrian MiG 21s had crossed their own frontier, and each time David had answered quietly, Two, this is Leader. Discontinuing attack pattern and resuming scan.’
The tactics were designed to wear on the nerves of the defenders, and in all the interceptor squadrons the tension was becoming explosive. The provocation was pushing them to the edge of restraint. Incidents were only narrowly being averted, as the hot-bloods crowded their interceptions to the very frontiers of war. Finally, however, there had to come intervention from above as Desert Flower tried to hold them on a tighter leash. They sent the Brig to talk to his crews and as he stood on the dais and looked about the crowded briefing room, he realized that it was unfair to train the hawk and then keep the hood over his eyes and the thong upon his leg, to hold him upon the wrist, when the wild duck were flighting overhead.
He started at a philosophical level, taking advantage of the regard that he knew his young pilots had for him.
– the object of war is peace, the ultimate strategy of any commander is peace—’ There was no response from his audience. The Brig caught the level scrutiny of his own son. How could he talk of placation to a trained warrior who had just buried the multilated body of his bride? The Brig ploughed on manfully.
‘Only a fool allows himself to be drawn on to a field of the enemy’s choosing,’ he was reaching them now, ‘I won’t have one of you young pups pushing us into something we are not ready for. I don’t want to give them an excuse. That is what they want—’ They were thawing now, he saw a head nod thoughtfully and heard a murmur of agreement.
‘Any of you looking for big trouble, you don’t have to go to Damascus, you know my address.’ He tried for his first laugh, and got it. They were chuckling now. ‘All right, then. We don’t want trouble. We are going to lean right over backwards to prevent it – but we are not going to fall on our arses. When the time comes, I’ll give you the word and it won’t be the soft word, or the other cheek—’ they growled then, a fierce little sound, and he ended it, ‘– but you wait for that word.’
Le Dauphin stood up and took over from the Brig.
‘All right, while I’ve got you all together, I’ve a little news for you that may help to cool the hot-heads who want to follow the MiGs over the border.’ He motioned to the projection box at the end of the briefing-room, the l
ights went down and there was a shuffling of feet, and an outburst of coughing. A voice protested resignedly.
‘Not another film show!’
‘Yes,’ the colonel took it up. ‘Another film show.’ Then as the images began to flash upon the screen he went on, ‘This is a military intelligence film, and the subject is a new ground-to-air missile system that has been delivered by the Soviet Army to the armies of the Arab Union. The code name for the system is “Serpent” and it updates the existing “Sam III” system. As far as we know, the system has been installed and is operative in the Syrian defensive perimeter, and will shortly be installed by the Egyptians. It is manned at present by Russian instructors.’ As the colonel went on talking, the Brig sat back in his chair and watched their faces in the silver reflection from the screen. They were intent and serious, men looking for the first time on the terrible machines that might be the instrument of their own deaths.
‘The missile is fired from a tracked vehicle. Here you see aerial reconnaissance shots of a mobile column. Notice that each vehicle carries a pair of missiles, and you will realize that they constitute an enormous threat—’
The Brig picked out the marvellously pure profile of David Morgan as he leaned forward to study the screen, and he felt a pang of sympathy and sorrow for him – and yet this was underlined by a new respect, a realignment of judgement. The boy had proved himself to be constant, capable of embracing an ideal and remaining loyal to it.
‘The improvements in design of the “Serpent” are not certain, but it is believed that the missile is capable of greater speeds, probably in the order of Mach 2.5, and that the guidance system is a combination of both infra-red heat seeker and computerized radar control.’
Watching the handsome young face, he wondered if Debra had not misjudged his reserves. It was possible that he would have been capable of – no, the Brig shook his head and groped for a cigarette. He was too young, too greedy for life, spoiled by good looks and riches. He would not be capable of it. Debra was right, as so often was the case. She had chosen the correct course. She could never hold him, she must set him free.
‘It is expected that the “Serpent” is capable of engaging targets at altitudes between 1,500 feet and 75,000 feet.’
There was a stir amongst the listeners, as they assessed the threat of this new weapon.
‘The warhead delivers a quarter of a ton of explosive and it is armed with a proximity fuse which is set to fire if the target is passed at range less than 150 feet. Within these limits the “Serpent” is lethal.’
The Brig was still watching David. Ruth and he had not seen the boy at their home for many months. He had come with Joe to spend the Sabbath evening with them twice after the outrage. However, the atmosphere had been stiff and artificial, everybody carefully avoiding mention of Debra’s name. He had not come again after the second time, nearly six months ago.
‘Evasive tactics at this stage will be the same as for “Sam III”.’
‘Prayer and good luck!’ someone interjected and that raised a laugh.
‘– maximum-rate turn towards the missile, to screen the radiation from your jet blasts, and attempt to force the “Serpent” to overshoot. In the event that the missile continues to track, you should climb into the sun and then make another maximum-rate turn. The missile may then accept the sun’s infra-red radiation as a more tempting target—’
‘And if that doesn’t work?’ a voice called, and another answered flippantly, ‘Repeat the following: “Hear O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one.”’ But this time nobody laughed at the old blasphemy.
The Brig timed his departure from the briefing-room to fall in beside David.
‘When are we going to see you, David? It’s been a long time.’
‘I’m sorry, sir. I hope Joe made my apologies.’
‘Yes, of course. But why don’t you come with Joe this evening? God knows, there will be enough food.’
‘I’ll be very busy tonight, sir,’ David declined lamely.
‘I understand.’ And as they reached the door of the OC’s office the Brig paused, ‘Remember you are always welcome,’ and he turned away.
‘Sir!’ The Brig stopped and looked back at him. David spoke rapidly – almost guiltily.
‘How is she, sir?’ and then again, ‘how is Debra? Have you seen her – I mean, recently?’
‘She is well,’ the Brig answered heavily. ‘As well as she can be.’
‘Will you tell her I asked?’
‘No,’ answered the Brig, ignoring the pleading in the dark blue eyes. ‘No. You know I can’t do that.’
David nodded and turned away. For a moment the Brig looked after him and then with a frown he went on into the colonel’s office.
David dropped Joe in Ein Karem, at the entrance to the lane, and then he drove on into the main shopping area of East Jerusalem and parked outside the big new supermarket in Melech George V to do his shopping for the weekend ahead.
He was hanging over the freezer tray pondering the delicate choice between lamb cutlets and steak, when he became aware that he was being watched.
David looked up quickly and saw that she was a statuesque woman with a thick mane of blond curls. She stood beside the shelves farther down the aisle. Her hair was dyed, he could see the dark shadow of the roots, and she was older than he was, with a womanly heaviness in her hips and bosom and tiny lines at the corners of her eyes. She was eyeing him, a steady appraisal so unashamedly sensual that he felt the check in his breathing and the quick stirring of his lions. He looked back at the meat in the freezer, guilty and angry with the treachery of his body. It had been so long, so very long since he had experienced sexual awareness. He had believed that he never would again. He wanted to throw the pack of steak back into the freezer and leave, but he stood rooted with the breathless feeling squeezing his lungs, and he was aware of the woman’s presence at his side. He could feel the warmth of her on his arm, and smell her – the flowery perfume mingled with the natural musky odour of the sexually aroused female.
‘The steak is very good,’ she said. She had a light sweet voice and he recognized the same breathless quality as his own. He looked at her. Her eyes were green, and her teeth were a little crooked but white. She was even older than he had thought, almost forty. She wore her dress low in front, he could see the crêpe effect of the skin between her breasts. The breasts were big and motherly, and suddenly David wanted to lay his head against them. They looked so soft and warm and safe.
‘You should cook it rare, with mushrooms and garlic and red wine,’ she said. ‘It’s very good that way.’
‘Is it?’ he asked hoarsely.
‘Yes,’ she nodded, smiling. ‘Who will cook it for you? Your wife? Your mother?’
‘No,’ said David. ‘I will cook it myself. I live alone,’ and she leaned a little closer to him, her breast touching his arm.
David was dizzy and hot with the brandy. He had bought a bottle of it at the supermarket, and he had drunk it mixed with ginger ale to mask the spiritous taste. He had drunk it fast, and now he leaned over the basin in the bathroom and felt the house rock and sway about him. He steadied himself, gripping the edge of the basin.
He splashed cold water on to his face and shook off the drops, then he grinned stupidly at himself in the mirror above the basin. His hair was damp and hung on to his forehead; he closed one eye and the wavering image in the mirror hardened and squinted back at him.
‘Hi there, boy,’ he muttered and reached for the towel. He had dripped water down his tunic and this annoyed him. He threw the towel over the toilet seat and went back into the living-room.
The woman was gone. The leather couch still carried the indentation of her backside, and the dirty plates were on the olive-wood table. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and her perfume.
‘Where are your he called thickly, swaying slightly in the doorway.
‘Here, big boy.’ He went to the bedroom. She lay on the bed, naked, p
lump and white with huge soft breasts and swelling belly. He stared at her.
‘Come on, Davey.’ Her clothing was thrown across the dressing-table, and he saw that her corsets were grey and unwashed. Her hair was yellow against the soft ivory lacework.
‘Come to Mama,’ she whispered hoarsely, opening her limbs languidly in invitation. She was spread upon the brass bed, upon the lace cover which had been Debra’s – and David felt his anger surge within him.
‘Get up,’ he said, slurring his words.
‘Come on, baby.’
‘Get off that bed,’ his voice tightened and she heard the tone and sat up with mild alarm.
‘What is it, Davey?’
‘Get out of here,’ his voice was rising sharply. ‘Get out, you bitch. Get out of here!’ He was shaking now, his face pale and his eyes savage blue.
Quivering with panic, she climbed hurriedly from the bed, the great white breasts and buttocks wobbling with ridiculous haste as she stuffed them into the grey corset.
When she had gone, David went through into the bathroom and vomited into the toilet bowl. Then he cleaned the house, scouring pans and plates, polishing the glasses until they shone, emptying the ashtrays, opening the shutters to blow out the stench of cigarette and perfume – and finally, going through into the bedroom, he stripped and remade the bed with fresh sheets and smoothed the lace cover carefully until not a crease or wrinkle showed.
He put on a clean tunic and his uniform cap, and drove to the Jaffa gate. He parked the car in the lot outside the gate and walked through the old city to the reconstructed Sephardic synagogue in the Jewish quarter.
It was very quiet and peaceful in the high-domed hall and he sat a long time on the hard wooden bench.
Joe sat opposite David with a worried expression creasing his deep forehead as he studied the board. Three or four of the other pilots had hiked their chairs up and were concentrating on the game also. These chessboard conflicts between David and Joe were usually epics and attracted a partisan audience.