Firebreak (22 page)

“Sir, I don’t know. I don’t want the damn thing …"He heard a groan from Furry who did want to go. “Someone at USAFE is playing politics and probably thought it would be a good idea to send me because of my grandfather.”

“Yeah.” Martin was leaning across his desk, a shark about ready to tear his dinner apart. “That’s a possibility. But I think it sucks.” He shot a hard look at Furry. “Stifle yourself, Furry. You know I’m pushing formed crews and if Fumble Nuts here goes, you go.”

Martin had taken a cue from the Navy and was sold on the concept of formed crews where a pilot and a wizzo were teamed and always flew together. He was convinced that was the only way to exploit the full capability of the E model. It was proving to be a paperwork nightmare for the bureaucrats on the ground, but was showing positive results in the air. “There’s no way I’m going to let you escape for two months,” Martin told the wizzo. Furry was an outstanding weapons and tactics expert whom Martin kept hopping on special projects at wing headquarters.

“Sir”—this from Matt—“why don’t you put all the crew’s names in a hat and draw the lucky guy?”

Martin grabbed a cigarette and lit it. “Not bad. What do I tell USAFE?”

“Tell them that I decline because of personal reasons. No way they’ll press to test that one. Leave my name out of the hat.”

Another groan from Furry. “Not fair,” he protested. “Let me at the Israelis. In sixty days I can pluck their brains bare on every new tactic they’ve got. It’s a rare chance, Colonel.”

“Okay, your names are in the hat too. Furry, arrange it for this morning.”

The main briefing room in the squadron was jammed as every pilot and wizzo crowded in for the drawing. Furry had turned it into an event and had a pretty civilian secretary there to pick the name. More than one rumor was passed around that she was the prize for the runner-up. With the proper amount of fanfare and hype from Furry, she reached into the hat and felt around. She pulled out a folded slip of paper and read it to the crowd. “Captain Pontowski and Major Furry,” she announced.

Loud groans and accusations of a “fix” greeted the winners. “That’s the name of the runner up, right?” Matt shouted. “Draw for the winner now.” More good-natured shouts of “Scam” and “Fix” were heard as the crowd filed out of the room. Furry joined Matt. “Well, old buddy,” the pilot said, “how’s your Hebrew?”

“Duty’s a terrible burden,” Furry answered.

“Tall ‘Uwaynot,” Mustapha grunted. Shoshana could see their destination in front of them, the isolated and dusty village of Tall ‘Uwaynot. He had picked the village because it was in the extreme northwest of Iraq and lay less than twenty-five miles from the Turkish border. “I’ll bribe some border guards and smuggle you across,” he said. He pulled up in front of a walled compound on the outskirts of the village. ‘ ‘This is our safe house. Stay inside and out of sight until I can get it arranged.”

Time became the enemy again as Shoshana waited for Mustapha to complete the arrangements to get her across the border. She had time to rest and wash their clothes, but no amount of soap and water could wash away what she had become. Bitterness burned inside her as she struggled to bank that fire and forget that she was a murderer and whore. After the initial shock of Habish’s death had worn off, she felt a profound relief at being free of the man. She stopped thinking about Habish altogether when Mustapha’s young wife, Meral, appeared one day, tired and dirty from the eighteen-mile walk from the nearest highway. The next day, Shoshana went with her to the village square and followed her around as she shopped at the various stalls.

Two soldiers from the small army detachment that was assigned to the village stopped them, gave their identification papers a quick glance, and handed them back. “They’re only farmers who were drafted by the government,” Meral explained, “and probably can’t even read.” After that, the soldiers ignored them when they went to the square and the gentle pace of village life reached out and enveloped Shoshana, restoring a semblance of sanity to her life. Tall ‘Uwaynot was exactly what she needed.

Early one morning Mustapha woke her. “Come, I need your help.” He rushed her into the bedroom. Meral was lying on a sleeping pallet, awake but in obvious pain. The girl was miscarrying.

“We’re going to need a doctor or a nurse,” she told Mustapha. He only shook his head and said they couldn’t do that. “Then get a midwife,” she ordered. Again he refused, claiming it was too dangerous to approach strangers. “Then I’ll get one,” Shoshana said and left the room. She had come to the end of her toleration for death and suffering.

Mustapha caught her outside and shoved her back into the house. “I’ll go,” he said and ran into the night. He was back in less than thirty minutes with an old woman who took one glance at Meral and started issuing orders. Mustapha would hurry to do her bidding while Shoshana sat in a corner and watched the old woman work. When she finished and Meral was resting comfortably, the old woman cocked her head to one side and studied Shoshana for a moment. Then she was gone.

“I told her you were my sister,” Mustapha explained, “and that we had to take care of you because you’re a simpleton and slightly crazy.” He stared into the night. “I don’t think she believed me. She’ll gossip. The soldiers will hear and become suspicious.”

“Then it’s time to leave,” Shoshana said.

“I’ll see what I can arrange,” he said and disappeared out the door.

Shoshana walked to the door and stood there. The distinctive
phut
sound of a Walther drifted back to her. She was still standing in the doorway when Mustapha came back. “There was no choice,” he said. “She lived alone and won’t be missed for a day or two. We must leave now.” Shoshana stared at him. “I said there was no choice,” he snapped. “Everything we do has a price. She was the payment.”

Shoshana lay on the ground beside Mustapha’s wife. The young girl was growing weaker and Shoshana had half carried, half dragged her the last three miles through the mountains until they reached their rendezvous point with Mustapha. Shoshana was sorry that they had to bring her along, but she would have never found the hidden niche without her. “At least I could carry her,” she consoled herself, gasping for air. When her breathing had slowed and she felt some strength return to her legs, Shoshana crawled out from behind the rock where they were hiding and scanned the valley below them, looking for Mustapha. Nothing. She crawled back and lay down, glad for a chance to rest. “What is he doing down there?” she said, more to herself than to the girl, and dozed off.

A man’s voice and a sharp guttural command in Arabic caught at the edges of Shoshana’s consciousness and jolted her fully awake. For a moment, her heart pounded rapidly. Then she heard Mustapha’s voice and her breathing eased. Again, she heard the same hard voice followed by a wheedling sound from Mustapha. Both of the women heard it and pulled back into the rocks and brush, trying to become invisible.

“They are hidden here,” Mustapha said in Arabic. Two border guards climbed around the rock and stood in front of the two women. “Do I get a reward?” Mustapha asked from behind the two men. He was cringing and wringing his hands. A perfect toady.

“No, but I will,” the border guard with the hard voice rasped. He swung his AK-47 down off its shoulder strap and jammed the muzzle into Mustapha’s stomach, bending him over in pain. He knocked the Kurd to the ground with the butt of the assault rifle and then took aim at Mustapha’s head. Shoshana closed her eyes, not able to see another killing. She heard a single shot and Meral gasp in surprise. Then she opened her eyes. Mustapha was still lying on the ground, but the lifeless body of the hard-voiced guard was sprawled out over him. The other guard was standing over them, an automatic in his hand. Blood, brains, and most of the dead guard’s forehead were splattered over Mustapha.

“This is the man I bribed,” Mustapha explained. “Unfortunately, this one”—he pushed himself free of the body—“could not be bribed.” While Mustapha tried to clean himself, the guard stripped the dead man’s uniform off and threw it at Shoshana. “Put it on,” Mustapha told her.

“I’ll never pass for a guard,” she said. Mustapha grunted and rubbed more dirt over his skin and clothes. Shoshana hated the smell of the dead man’s uniform. It reeked of stale cigarette smoke, sweat, and urine. It had not been washed in weeks. “What now?” she asked and stood for inspection.

“You go with Kermal here,” Mustapha explained. “He’ll take you to his checkpoint and you walk across the border into Turkey.”

“And you trust him?” Shoshana was incredulous. “I won’t fool anyone in this uniform.”

“He wants the money and it’ll be at night. You’ll get across.”

“Where will you and Meral be?” she asked, concerned about the young girl.

“Near here, waiting for Kermal to come back to get the last half of his money. If anything goes wrong, you come back here. We’ll find you.”

Meral pulled Shoshana aside. “Trust him,” she whispered. “It’s been arranged.”

Shoshana did not like the casual way Mustapha arranged things. “Why don’t I cross the border somewhere in the mountains where it’s safer and away from the guards?”

“The Turks have many patrols on their side of the border,” Mustapha explained. “If they pick you up without an entry stamp on your passport, they’ll turn you back over to the Iraqis.”

“Then how do I get an entry stamp?”

“Simple. The Turkish guards at Kermal’s checkpoint have also been bribed and will stamp your passport. They are expecting you.”

“So everyone has a price or we kill them,” she said, disgusted with it all.

“We have no friends,” Mustapha said, “so we must buy our allies.” He jutted his chin down toward the border. “It’s getting dark and time for you to go.”

Shoshana touched Meral’s cheek and followed Kermal down the mountain.

The small truck was waiting for the Eagle when it cleared the runway at Ramon Air Base. “That must be the Follow-Me,” Matt said. Furry humphed an answer and got his camera out, ready to take pictures of the Israeli air base located in the Negev Desert. “Not much to see,” Matt said. Most of the base was underground and the only worthwhile thing they could see was the control tower and the two jets sittingalert at the end of the runway. Both men were surprised at how fast the Follow-Me truck drove, demanding that they taxi fast to keep up as it led the way to the hardened underground concrete shelter where they would be parked.

The ramp was unusually quiet, and when they did see a truck or person, they were moving fast. At one point, the Follow-Me pulled off the side of the taxi path and stopped. Matt did the same and waited, wondering why the delay. Suddenly, four F-16 fighters erupted from the ramps leading to their underground shelters and taxied quickly to the runway. The big blast doors shut immediately behind them. The four jets slowed as they taxied onto the runway but did not stop. They took off in pairs with ten-second spacing between elements. “Did you see that,” Furry said, wonder in his voice. “We’d never taxi that fast or do a formation takeoff without lining up on the runway.” They were moving again.

“Yeah,” Matt replied. “Well, we’re taxiing that fast now. It doesn’t look very safe to me.”

“Depends on the way you look at it,” Furry said. “They don’t spend much time on the ground in the open. Probably figure they’re safer in the air.”

“You’d think they were in a combat zone.” Matt didn’t say more as they reached the ramp descending into the bunker. It was a massive structure with blast doors at both ends that were wide open. The Follow-Me drove quickly through the bunker and disappeared. A crew chief was waiting, holding his hands up and motioning them forward. Matt did as directed and then the crew chief crossed his wrists above his head, the signal to stop. He glanced at the nose wheel and shot Matt a look of disapproval. Matt was six inches off the mark. A crew boarding ladder was hooked over the left side of the cockpit and the two men clambered down, glad to be out of the cockpit after the long flight to Israel.

Men swarmed over the jet, refueling it from an in-bunker system. At the same time, other men were downloading the wing tanks. A disheveled-looking sergeant from Maintenance came up to them, asking if they had any problems and asking to see their maintenance forms. “No problems,” Matt told him and handed over the forms.

“What the hell!” Furry yelled behind them. “They’re uploading missiles.” Matt turned to his jet and was surprised to see loading crews slipping AIM-9 Sidewinders onto the missile rails on the wing pylons. Four AIM-7 Sparrows were on a missile trailer, waiting to be uploaded under the fuselage.

“Hey, Sarge,” Matt yelled at the retreating back of the maintenance sergeant, “what the hell is going on?”

“It’s a combat turn,” a voice behind him said. Matt turned to see a young man his own age standing behind him. The rank on his epaulets announced he was a
rav seren,
a major. “Dave Harkabi,” he said, extending his right hand. “I’m your escort officer.”

Matt shook his hand, more concerned with what was going on with his jet. “Should they be uploading missiles?” he asked. They were not combatants, at least not that he knew of.

“We practice every chance we get,” Harkabi explained. “They’ll download when they’re finished.” He glanced at his watch. “Won’t be much longer. If they take more than ten minutes, they’ll be out here all day until they get it right.”

“Jesus H. Christ,” Furry said. “A combat turn in less than ten minutes?” He whipped his camera up and took a picture of the men swarming around the F-15. An armed guard stepped up and put his hand in front of Furry’s camera and told him no photographs were allowed. “Oh, oh,” Furry said. “I took some pictures when we were taxiing in.”

“Give me the film,” Harkabi said. “We’ll develop it and return anything that’s not classified. Please don’t take any more photos around the base without permission.” Matt noticed that Harkabi had a definite English accent and decided that Mad Mike Martin would have a field day chewing out any one of his officers who was dressed so casually. Harkabi’s khaki shirt and trousers needed a pressing and his shoes hadn’t seen polish in a long time. Rather sloppy and unspectacular, Matt thought. “Come on,” Harkabi said. “They’re finished.” He led them out to a waiting car. The bunker’s blast doors were cranking closed and Matt caught a last glimpse of his bird, still fully loaded for combat.

“Whatcha think?” Matt asked Furry as they climbed into the car.

“That combat turn was impressive.”

“Can’t say much about their uniforms,” Matt allowed.

“The side with the simplest uniforms wins.” Furry intoned.

“Another one of your ‘rules'?” Matt asked.

“Yep. Also a history lesson.” He stared out the window as Harkabi drove them in and studied the base. It was modern, heavily bunkered, and judging by the ramps, all important buildings were underground. “Take a look around,” Furry said. “You probably won’t see this again.”

“What’s that?” Matt replied, confused.

“A base at war.”

Avi Tamir waited impatiently for his turn to see the prime minister, Yair Ben David. Normally, Tamir would have used the time to dig into one of the scientific journals he subscribed to and never seemed to have time to read. But today was different—Shoshana had called him that morning with the news that she was home. He had itched to leave his lab early and catch the train to Haifa. But Ben David’s secretary had telephoned, telling him that the prime minister wanted to see him that afternoon. Reluctantly, he made the sixty-mile trip to Jerusalem.

“Yair will see you now,” the secretary said. The atmosphere in the office reflected the traditional, egalitarian ways of Israel and every one was on a first-name basis. Tamir wasn’t taken in for a moment; he knew who was in charge.

Ben David met him at the door and shook his hand, “Avi, glad you could make it on such short notice. I know you’re anxious to get home.”

The scientist wondered how the prime minister knew that.

“Please sit down.” Ben David waved Tamir to a comfortable chair, sat down himself, and lit a pipe. The old, massive briar pipe was his political trademark. He puffed for a few moments, not inhaling. “Avi, I was talking to Benjamin Yuriden today.” Ben David did not have to mention that Yuriden was the minister of defense and Tamir’s boss. “We were wondering what progress you have made.” Tamir was not surprised that the prime minister would talk to him directly about his work—things were kept informal in the Israeli government.

Tamir tried to make himself comfortable, but the subject Ben David wanted to discuss did not allow comfort. “There is progress. We should have a working model ready within the next three months.”

“The triggering mechanism?”

“No,” Tamir explained. “The entire system. My people have taken shortcuts using the information provided by Mossad.”

“Ah yes,” Ben David interrupted. He did not correct Tamir. The job of stealing defense technology from the United States was not done by Mossad but by another branch of Intelligence: the Scientific Liaison Bureau. Their agents operating in the United States had penetrated a lab at Sandia Corporation and “borrowed” classified nuclear weapons design information. The “borrowed” information had saved the Israelis years of research and led Tamir and his staff directly to the development of a thermonuclear, or hydrogen, bomb. “Time,” the prime minister said, “time. We need more of it but the Arabs are denying us that luxury.” Tamir waited, knowing there was more to come. “I need a fully operational weapon as soon as possible.”

“But for what use?” Tamir protested. “Why would we need such a terrible weapon?” The closer he came to perfecting a thermonuclear bomb for his country, the more his conscience demanded to know why. “We have more than enough atomic weapons to destroy our enemies.”

Ben David laid down his pipe, folded his hands, and looked directly at Tamir, drawing Mm in. “We live in a trouble world filled with hard choices. One of our agents has learned that the Iraqis are now producing a new binary nerve gas that can penetrate the protective clothing we use.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Tamir protested. “Producing a binary nerve gas is very difficult. Why would the Iraqis go to all that trouble when a more conventional method of production is all they need? And the claim that a nerve gas can penetrate protective clothing? Well, I’m more than a bit skeptical.”

“Believe me, enough is going on around Kirkuk that we cannot ignore it. Two facts. We know they are using canisters that are made of a polymeric material that is difficult to manufacture—but extremely resistant to corrosion. Also”—Ben David was spitting out words like a machine gun—“they are producing a new antidote. Our agent brought out an injector needle that looks exactly like the combo pens we use. We are analyzing it now.” Ben David paused for effect. “Our scientists cannot break down the antidote. We don’t know what it is.”

“But in time we will,” Tamir said. “Then we can manufacture it for our own protection.”

“True … In time. But time is the one thing we don’t have. Arab radicals have made Saddam Hussein a martyr to Western imperialism and are using him as a symbol to force cooperation between all the Arab states. In defeat, Saddam has brought Egypt, Syria, and Iraq together in defiance of the West’s “new order.” So much so that we now have evidence of a renewed military alignment between Syria and Egypt. Also we are seeing signs of much more cordial relations between Syria and Iraq. If that happens …”

“Yes, I see. That means the Iraqis’ nerve gas can be used against us. But they wouldn’t do that. Surely, they must suspect we have the
bomb
and would retaliate. It would be Armageddon …”

“They do. But it hasn’t stopped them from developing their version of ‘the poor man’s bomb.’ The Arabs will be made to understand that using a nerve gas, any nerve gas, on us is unthinkable. The consequences would be too great. That’s why we need a thermonuclear weapon.”

The moral dilemma that had deviled Tamir since the first nuclear test in 1979 was back to torment him. Am I to be a destroyer of nations? he thought.

“I know you are anxious to get home,” Ben David said. He rose from his seat and walked Tamir to the door. “Avi, each of us must do what he or she can to protect our people and our land.” He clasped the scientist’s hand tightly. “Go. See your daughter. And be proud of her.”

The train ride to Haifa gave Tamir time to mull over what Ben David had said. He cursed his probing, analytical mind that refused to rest. “Damn,” he muttered to himself, not wanting to think about the pieces that were fitting together. His daughter worked for Mossad and had been the agent who had brought out the latest intelligence from Iraq. It was just like the prime minister to give him enough clues to figure it out. But why? Ben David always had an ulterior motive. Was it to spur him on? Or did the prime minister have something else in store for the Tamir family?

Rather than walk from the train station in Haifa, Tamir caught a taxi to the family’s apartment. From the moment he let himself in, he could sense Shoshana’s presence. “Shoshe?” he called.

“Here, Father.” She stepped through the French doors opening onto the balcony and stopped. The room separated them. She was wearing a simple dress, sandals, and no makeup. He hair was pulled back into a single, thickly plaited braid. Then she was in his arms and he could only smell the soft fragrance of soap, no perfume.

“I’m glad you finally decided to come back and see your old dad,” he told her. There was no rebuke in his voice, only the old banter.

“I’m so glad to be home,” she said and drew back to look at him. He wanted to hear her say, “Oh, Faah-ther,” but it was gone forever. Even her voice was different and the last traces of the girl he had so loved were gone. This was a mature woman. His daughter had changed and he would never call her Shoshe again.

Shoshana insisted on cooking dinner for them that night and not going out to a restaurant. “I did enjoy going shopping this afternoon,” she told him as they sat down.

“Did you see Yoel?” he asked. He knew her old boyfriend would be anxious to see her.

She shook her head no. “I don’t think there’s anything there. Not now.”

“Well, tell me about Spain.” He promised himself to keep up the charade. For the next few minutes, Shoshana told him a very convincing story about her trip. She’s been debriefed well, he thought. I wonder how long she’s been back?

Later that evening, Shoshana announced that she had quit her job with the fruit export company. Tamir only raised an eyebrow, not sure of what to say. “I’m going to enlist in the
sherut miluim
and train as a medic,” she told him.
Sherut miluim
was the reserve component of Israel’s defense forces. “After I finish training, I’m thinking of becoming a nurse.”

Tamir said nothing, thankful that his daughter was home.

“Now what’s happened?” Melissa said to herself as she hurried to the waiting car that had been dispatched from the White House garage to pick her up. It had to be important for the duty officer to call her at four in the morning and tell her that Fraser had ordered her to work and that a car would be in front of her condominium within minutes.

The driver gave her a noncommittal nod and handed her the final edition of
The Washington Post.
“It’s on the front page,” he said. She opened the newspaper to glaring headlines and a lead story that told of massive amounts of money being fed into political action committees, get-out-the-vote organizations, and Pontowski’s own election committee. The reporter related how a sophisticated money-laundering scheme had covered up the donors and bypassed political contribution disclosure laws. Most of the money had been directed into political action committees that had then engaged in a TV blitz of vicious mudslinging. It was claimed that the get-out-the-vote groups effectively bought votes. The reporter ended the exposé by quoting the Senate minority leader, William Douglas Courtland. “This was a highly unethical campaign with too much money going to the right people at the right time. One person or group had to be controlling the shots and they violated just about every election campaign law on the books.”