Firebreak (3 page)

“Damn, we ain’t out here to engage anybody,” Haney cautioned.

“Like the boss man says, ‘Treat any unknown target like a potential threat and you won’t have a bad day.’ “ Matt rolled the Eagle up onto its right wing when they passed over the slow-moving aircraft passing underneath them. “That guy is really down in the weeds. Wonder if he even saw us? Did you ID him?”

“Civilian, twin-engine. Looks like a Cessna Four-oh-six. What the hell is he doing out here?”

“Too big for a Four-oh-six,” Matt told him. The lieutenant’s eyeballs and aircraft recognition were good and he had caught a few small differences when they flashed by. “Tally on the other two. Shit hot! They’re F-Fifteens.” Now the pilot could see the other two northbound aircraft. He dropped their jet back down to five hundred feet above the ground to pass well underneath. “Why in the hell they screwing around out here?”

Haney had already asked himself the same question and had been analyzing the information on the scopes in front of him. “They were set up in a racetrack pattern, each one on opposite legs. I’d bet they were in a radar search pattern. Now they’re fly in’ slow in a scissors pattern behind the slow mover—like they found who they were looking for. Oh shit, they’re …”

“Got to honor the threat,” Matt growled as the two other F-15s passed over, twenty-five hundred feet above them.

“No way!” Haney shouted over the intercom. Matt was no longer just bending the rules—he was shattering one of the more important ones. An air-to-air engagement with the $29-million F-15E had to be carefully planned and prebriefed so no one would do anything stupid.

The engagement developed quickly. Matt pulled his agle into the vertical and stroked the afterburners, pulling six g’s as he hooked up behind the two F-15's, maneuvering into their six o’clock position. Their headsets filled with the characteristic growl of a Sidewinder missile as the infrared seeker head on the training missile they were carrying started to track. The lock-shoot lights on top of the canopy bow were flashing. Matt mashed the communications switch on the left throttle with his thumb, transmitting over the UHF radio, “Fox Two on the northbound F-Fifteen on the right.” It was a standard radio call telling the F-15 that Matt had simulated a Sidewinder missile shot—at him.

“Come off right!” Haney roared as the two fighters split apart, taking evasive action, honoring the threat Matt had presented to them. The jet Matt had called a simulated infrared missile shot on had pulled into the vertical, pirouetted to get a visual on his attacker, then pulled his nose back after the slow mover on the deck. His wingman broke down and to the left, reversing course to the south. When he had a visual on Matt, he pulled off to the west and rejoined on his flight lead, ignoring Matt who had peeled off to the east as Haney had called, disengaging. Then Matt and Haney regained their original track, flying their low-level mission, back in a bombing role. The impromptu diversion had taken less than a minute and Matt was feeling much better.

The wizzo had twisted around in his seat, following the two F-15s. “They’re still tracking that Cessna,” he told Matt. “Jesus H. Christ, didn’t you see the Sidewinders they were carryin'?” Haney had caught a glimpse of the two air-to-air missiles hung under each wing of the other F-15s. Silence from the front cockpit. “Them puppies were white.” He didn’t need to remind the lieutenant that training ordnance was painted blue and that live missiles were painted white. “We bounced two alert birds. They were probably on a scramble going after a smuggler, a druggie.”

“I thought they were out just messing around,” Matt said. “You think they got our tail number?”

“That’s why they turned on us but it doesn’t matter,” Haney shot back. “Just how many other E models you think are roarin’ around out here?” The Air Force only had two hundred copies of the supersophisticated, dual-role version of the Eagle. “Damn, we really stepped in it this time.”

A laugh came from the front cockpit. “Probably. Not to worry.”

Avi Tamir let himself into the family’s apartment and dropped his briefcase by the door. Sometimes he wondered why he still carried the old battered bag around for there was no way he could bring any work home from his laboratory. Nowadays the bag rarely held anything other than lunch and a newspaper. “Shoshe?” he called. No answer. “Not home,” he muttered and looked around for the note that he knew would be somewhere. She never left it in the same place. He found it in the kitchen, next to the refrigerator. He chuckled to himself. Shoshana always left the note in a place where he would naturally see it as he went about the routine of coming home after being gone for the week. She was never wrong.

The note was a simple “Beach with Yoel. Back at five,” scrawled in her bold, open handwriting. “No doubt in her new swimsuit,” he grumbled. “Yoel will like that.” He poured himself a glass of club soda, threw in a slice of lemon and two ice cubes, and lumbered out onto the balcony. He leaned on the railing and took in the view of Haifa that spread out below him. He loved their big apartment in the “Hadar,” the old residential area halfway up the hill above the old bustling city on the broad bay.

He thought about his daughter for a moment and tried to visualize her in the latest swimsuit she had brought home last weekend. At first, he had been pleased when she announced it was a one-piece—that is until he saw it. Why couldn’t she be more modest and less clothes-conscious. You’re getting old, he told himself, when you go tut-tut instead of wowie. He rubbed his bald head, amused with his predicament at fifty-two years of age. So you lost your hair and want to be a grandfather, he thought. Well, maybe the bathing suit will move Yoel off dead center. He caught himself tugging at his beard and made himself stop. “Now that’s acting too old!” He laughed aloud.

“Faah-ther,” Shoshana called from inside, “I’m back.” Tamir turned and waited for her on the balcony, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. His daughter joined him, still wearing the old shirt she used as a beach wrap. She gave him a kiss on the cheek and settled onto a chaise longue, stretching out her long legs. They talked about the usual things a father and daughter share—his work in Tel Aviv that took him away during the week, her new job with a citrus fruit export firm—all safe and pleasant subjects.

“Did you wear your new swimsuit today?” he finally asked. He mentally berated himself for acting like the father of a teenage girl. It was no longer any of his business what she wore. But he couldn’t help it. He managed a smile, still trying to keep the conversation light and easy.

“Of course,” she laughed, knowing the way he was. She stood up and shed her wrap. “It’s not that bad,” she teased him. His smile faded when he saw it. “I had hoped you’d like it,” she said, modeling the latest in swim wear, a one-piece suit that was severely cut to her waist, showing all of her back and too much of her breasts for his taste. It was cut high on her hips, forming a deep V that accentuated her legs.

A sadness crept into his brown eyes, for he was looking at a twenty-six-year-old woman, vain about her looks and not the young, overweight, ungainly daughter he wanted to preserve forever. Like him, she stood exactly five feet ten inches tall and was big-framed. But unlike him, there was not an ounce of fat on her. Still, she was exquisitely feminine and graceful; her well-shaped legs were not those of a model, but developed and reflected her Dutch heritage; her full hips tapered to a narrow waist and she was big-busted. She turned around for him, smiling over her should. “Yoel likes it,” she said.

“I don’t doubt it.” He glanced at her flawless back, perfect bottom, and sighed. “When are you going to get married?” It was the old argument, but they had both learned to control it and keep it in bounds. Tamir knew that Yoel spent every night in Shoshe’s bed while he was away during the week in Tel Aviv. At least, he consoled himself, they maintain appearances when I’m home.

She spun around and put the old shirt back on and gave him another smile, completely disarming him. “Soon enough Father, soon enough.” It was her face and hair that did it, so much like her mother’s—high cheekbones, doe-shaped brown eyes, a full mouth and perfect teeth, and thick, shoulder-length black hair that she pulled back off her face—a beautiful face. Tamir had long ago seen how Shoshana could stop traffic even though she was not fashionably thin. She was pretty in a way the fashion magazines would never accept. Shoshana was a big woman and could have modeled for Rubens. Looking at her, he smiled, for she was also a thoroughly modern sabra: born in Israel, intelligent, independent, and tough. And he loved his daughter. If Miriam, her mother, were still alive, life would be perfect.

“Where’s Yoel?” he asked, wanting to stop thinking about his wife.

She sat down and started to brush out her hair. “Home. Big family dinner tonight. We’re invited.”

“Must we?” Tamir would have preferred spending a quiet dinner alone with his only child. He watched her work the brush through her hair, again seeing her mother, and he remembered how Miriam’s hair, her long and glowing black hair, had first caught his attention when he was a young man working in a kibbutz.

“Faah-ther!” She pursed her lips and blew a strand of hair away. “You’re the one that keeps talking about marriage. That does involve other families, you know.”

“What time?” He knew when he was defeated.

The young man who had covered the chief of staff’s office during the night had sorted the mail, message traffic, briefs, memos, and whatever else had come into the White House for the President’s attention into three piles. Since it was Saturday and the three stacks were relatively small, Melissa Courtney-Smith was able to quickly review the priority he had given each item. “Good work, Tim,” she said, dismissing him. The woman watched him retreat out the door, picked up the most important stack, and carried it into the inner office.

She followed a well-established routine and aligned the pile of documents and folders on the chief of staff’s large mahogany desk, making sure the left edge of each was lined up with the left margin of the document below it, creating an orderly, staggered pattern. Melissa Courtney-Smith gave the desk one last check before she left. Her boss, Thomas Fraser, was a perfectionist. Her practiced eye swept Fraser’s office—everything was in the proper order and the coffee was made.

It was by chance that she glanced at Fraser’s collection of small pewter soldiers displayed in a cabinet and was shocked that they were not lined up properly. She rushed from the office, rummaged through her desk until she found a ruler, and ran back into the office. A quick look at the clock told her it was 7:59
a.m
.—she had less than a minute. Quickly, she measured the distance between the figurines, spacing them evenly along the shelf. The woman made a mental note to speak to the cleaning supervisor. Someone had fouled up when they cleaned the office during the night and it wasn’t a mistake that Fraser would tolerate. The staff did have to take care of each other.

Melissa was finished and barely back in her office when the door swung open. Thomas Patrick Fraser, the chief of staff, rushed through. He grunted at her in passing. She went to the silver coffee urn, drew exactly two thirds of a cup, and stirred in one level teaspoon of sugar before she followed him into his office. Saturday or not, the daily routine had started. She sighed, wishing she had time to go for a long bike ride. But it was the price she paid for being the chief of staff’s first assistant, a job that was as close as Fraser would let her get to Matthew Zachary Pontowski, the President of the United States.

Fraser was hunched over his desk, scanning the PDB, the President’s Daily Brief, the top document on the stack. “Goddamn it all to hell,” he snapped at Melissa. “Tell the analysts who put this piece of shit together to get it right or I’ll squash some fucking heads.” He threw the thin, twelve-page document at her. “No way I’m going to send intelligence based on pure speculation to Zack.” He was one of the few people who still presumed to use the President’s nickname and it grated on Melissa’s sensibilities.

She thumbed through the professionally printed brief that contained the best and most exclusive intelligence available to the United States. It was considered so sensitive that it was sealed and only twelve people saw the final product. And Melissa and Fraser were two of them. She found fresh red marks slashed across the section on the Middle East. Her eyes scanned the offending paragraphs until she found the name of the analyst at the bottom—William Gibbons Carroll. “Carroll’s the best analyst we’ve got on the Mideast,” she told Fraser. “He’s got an impressive track record and the President knows it.” She paused, letting him digest this information.

“The President if
very
knowledgeable about the Middle East and you know how he works.” Melissa waited impassively, carefully hiding her dislike for the fifty-eight-year-old man. During the campaign, she’d come to understand Fraser’s importance to Pontowski what with his political connections, ability to tap unlimited sources of campaign contributions, and links to the corporate world. She just wished that the President had given him an ambassadorship to an out-of-the-way place in Africa or the South Pacific, rather than made him his chief of staff, but rumor had it that Fraser demanded this position because the Senate would have rejected his appointment as an ambassador. His reputation as a wheeler-dealer matched his slicked-down, grossly overweight appearance that even expensively tailored suits could not hide.

Fraser glared at her, wanting to fire her on the spot. He didn’t like the way she argued. “What’s your point?” he demanded.

“If he reads something in the PDB that doesn’t track with what he’s reading and hearing from other sources, he just might call Carroll in.”

Fraser gestured for the brief and reread what the analyst had said about the current developments in the Middle East. “This is pure crap about the Arab masses seeing Saddam What’s his name as a martyr and forcing their governments to unite to finish his work or that Iraq is secretly rebuilding its military strength. Hell, Iraq is still digging out of the rubble—economically and politically. And I certainly don’t see any signs of growing tension between Syria and Israel. Zack might get the idea that Israel is not able to handle the situation, that things are getting out of control.”