Firebreak (33 page)

“What the hell!” Walters shouted, his face bright red. “MAC doesn’t allow approaches like that. I’ll send that pilot’s ass home in a—”

“Colonel,” Matt interrupted. “Israeli air defenses are weapons-free …”

“Damn right they’re free. The U.S. paid for “em.”

“Colonel,” Matt explained, “ ‘weapons-free’ means the Hawk batteries ringing this place will shoot at anything that is not positively identified as friendly. And Hawks don’t miss. Your pilots have to fly that approach”—he gestured at the C-5 that was now almost over the field—“or the Hawks will hose it down. Believe it.”

“I don’t have to believe a goddamn thing, Captain.” Walters fell silent as the huge cargo plane crossed the approach end of the runway, still at four hundred feet and three hundred knots. Walters gasped when the pilot reefed it into a climbing left turn to a thousand feet and circled to land, touching down at the same spot where he had initially popped.

The colonel was beet-red and huffing. Matt was certain he would hyperventilate and pass out. “Captain, what you just saw violates every safety regulation in MAC’s book. I’m going to have some ass.”

“Sir,” Matt tried to calm the man, “that looked like pretty good airmanship to me. Why don’t you talk to the pilot after he lands? He may not’ve had a choice.” Walters shot Matt a look of contempt and stomped off” to give orders to the cargo handlers.

Matt and Furry stood beside their car and watched the C-5 fast-taxi to the ramp. They heard another “Goddamn” as Walters exploded again. “That man’s gonna bust a blood vessel,” Furry allowed. The plane’s engines remained at idle as it knelt down on its landing gear. Both the front and rear cargo doors swung open and ten Hummers with TOW antitank missiles mounted on top drove off both ends. Then an M2 Bradley armored fighting vehicle clanked down the front ramp. The plane raised up on its haunches and a low, flat-bedded cargo platform drove up. The driver nudged it against the cargo bay and pallet after pallet stacked with boxes were pushed off. “That puppy do carry a bit,” Furry mumbled. “Most of those pallets are loaded with TOWs and Stingers,” he added.

Walters bounced up to them. “Get on the ramp marshal’s radio and order them to shut down engines,” he barked. “The loadmaster says they’re code two for maintenance. No way I’m going to let them launch until it’s fixed.” The C-5's cargo doors closed and the engines spun up.

“Sir,” Matt shouted over the engine noise, “is it fly-able?” He knew the answer—code two simply meant the plane had minor problems.

“Damn it, I don’t launch unsafe aircraft. Get on the radio and shut ‘em down.” Now the C-5 moved forward and taxied for the runway.

“Colonel Walters,” Matt said, “this is a war zone and well within range of tactical missiles. The safest place for your aircraft is a hundred miles out over the Mediterranean.”

“You’re getting in the way, Captain. I need some action if I’m going to get things under control here.” He spun to look at the departing C-5, which was now taking the active runway and rolling. It had been on the ground less than fifteen minutes. They could see the back of the ramp marshal’s van as it followed the Bradley off the nearly deserted ramp. All the cargo had disappeared and only four men were left standing by a half-empty pallet with tool boxes and an F-15 radome. The colonel’s head jerked back and forth as he tried to understand what had happened to his carefully planned and organized operation.

Finally, he found some words. “They can’t fuckin’ A do this to me!” he shouted.

Furry tried to explain but he doubted if the man would understand. “Colonel, the war over there”—he pointed to the north—“is seventy miles away and is eating up men and equipment like you wouldn’t believe. Right now, the side that’s going to win is the side that can resupply the fastest. The Israelis know that. They haven’t got time to play paper-shuffling games.”

“Amb,” Matt said, looking at the four sergeants standing by the pallet, “I think those guys are the combat repair team that came in on the C-Five. Why don’t you get ‘em down to Ramon and get our jet fixed. I’ll check in with the embassy.”

“Love to.” Furry grinned. “That’ll give me a chance to pick a few more Israeli brains about the latest tactics they’re using.” Then the wizzo got very serious. “Matt, rule number four says ‘Know when to get the hell out of Dodge’ and I think it’s time for us to cut and run.” A rueful look crossed Matt’s face. He gave Furry an abrupt nod and drove off, leaving Colonel Walters behind.

It took Matt over thirty minutes to find a phone and get through to Gold at the embassy in Jerusalem. The air attache’s reaction to Matt’s report was a low-pitched belly laugh. “I know ‘Ricochet’ Walters,” he said. “I’m not surprised they sent him here—he does look good on paper. I’ll get him replaced. Don’t worry, MAC’S got plenty of colonels who have a clue and can move cargo.

“We’ve got an Army lieutenant colonel as an observer at Haifa,” Gold continued, “and the Israelis have asked for him on the Golan. I want you to go up there and replace him. He’ll brief you on what he’s been up to.” Matt copied down the detailed directions he needed to make contact, and when Gold told him to “Get going,” he ran for his car.

The directions Gold had given Matt led him directly to the U.S. Army lieutenant colonel at the forward headquarters of Northern Command. He found the LC sitting in a mess tent, discouraged by his total lack of activity and usefulness. He explained how the Israelis kept him on a short leash and that he could probably learn more by reading press releases than by what he was seeing. “This is as far forward as they’ll let you get,” he warned Matt. Then he disappeared, hopeful that he would see more of the action on the Golan Heights.

Within minutes, Matt discovered that the staff officers had no time for him but were not going to let him go anywhere. Late that night, he stood outside the main command bunker and listened to the distant
whump
of artillery. Occasionally, he could see a red glow light the horizon. This is stupid, he thought and decided that if he couldn’t go forward, he would go backward. “Or make an end run,” he mumbled to himself. Fifteen minutes later, he was on the outskirts of Haifa, heading for Shoshana’s apartment.

The Tamirs’ large apartment was filled with children and four harried-looking grandmothers. One of the women spoke excellent English and explained how they had evacuated the children out of a kibbutz in the Huleh Valley at the base of the escarpment leading up to the Golan Heights. “They are not used to being cooped up like this,” she said as she collared a four-year-old who seemed intent on turning the balcony’s railing into a tightrope. Matt was able to piece together a connection between the kibbutz and Avi Tamir, but when he asked about Shoshana, he was greeted with absolute silence.

“The Israeli penchant for secrecy,” he muttered. Finally, the women relented and told him to try the hospital. “Which hospital?” he asked. Again, he was greeted with silence.

After he had left, the woman made a phone call and identified herself as Lillian. “The young American just left,” she reported. “Yes, he knows where to look.” She paused, listening to the voice on the other end. “No, I’m not stupid. I didn’t make it that easy for him.” She slammed the phone down, hoping it split the Ganef’s ear.

Tara Tyndle recognized the signs immediately. The secretaries were huddled in a corner and whispering to themselves, exchanging worried glances. B. J. Allison was throwing a rare temper tantrum and they were seeking cover until she cooled down. Tara smiled at the secretaries. The youngest one, his boyish face now calm, knocked at Allison’s door and announced her. “Well,” Tara said, “you’ve certainly livened things up around here.” She gave her aunt a beautiful smile and sat down, crossing her long legs and making herself comfortable. “Would you like to hear about our mutual problem, Fraser?”

“Fraser,” Allison snorted, “is not the problem. It’s that dumb Polack, Pontowski. Do you know what he’s done?” Tara knew better than to answer the question—Allison wanted to tell her. “Congress”—Allison was sputtering in her fury—“is going to give him the excess profits tax that he’s asked for.” The old woman paced her office while Tara waited. While Allison’s temper tantrums were legendary among the staff, she usually regained control within minutes.

“You would think
we
were the enemy and not—” Allison had almost said “the Jews” but caught herself in time. She did not want Tara to think that she was a bigot, but she held deep-seated prejudices that had formed at an early age. “And if that’s not enough, he’s resupplying Israel, not that I’m surprised. Did you know his grandson is in Israel? If that’s not giving aid and comfort to the—” Again, she bit her words off. She had almost said “enemy.” “I can’t tell you how much it disturbs me that the Israelis have a President of the United States in their pocket.” Tara could sense that Allison was spinning down and would soon be rational. “If he’s notgoing to be sensitive to the true concerns of our country, then I’m going to have to see him removed.”

A thoughtful look crossed Tara’s face. “I’m close to finding out how your money was funnelled into Pontowski’s campaign. There’s a key middle man.”

“Hummm. How fortunate,” Allison said. She sat down and ordered tea. “The press is losing interest, what with all the news from the Middle East. We do need to provide them with a smoking gun.”

A secretary knocked at the door and stood there, waiting to be recognized. “Yes?” Allison asked. The young man told her that a certain congressman was on the phone and would like an appointment. Allison turned to Tara and smiled. “Isn’t he that nice Jewish boy who—”

“Yes, Auntie. He’s the spokesman for the Israeli lobby. Fraser was telling me that he is very unhappy with Pontowski.”

Allison sensed an opportunity and she didn’t care why the congressman was in opposition to Pontowski. Just the fact that he wanted to talk to her was ample indication that all was not well between the Israeli lobby and Pontowski. “Oh dear, do you think he would like to know about illegal activities of our President?”

“Perhaps.”

“Of course I could never tell him myself. After all he is-”

“Aunt Barbara, please be careful. He probably suspects that you’re feeding the press, maybe even the source of the money. How well are your tracks covered?”

Allison’s soft southern accent never lost its charm and innocence. “I don’t make mistakes.” Then she smiled. “Dear, I don’t care to meet the young man, but perhaps you’d like to, ah, establish a relationship?”

Tara Tyndle arched an eyebrow. “Really, Auntie! He is-”

“Yes, I know but …”

“Well, I suppose if it’s necessary.” The two women exchanged smiles, understanding each other perfectly.

“He is rather handsome,” Allison allowed.

The woman at the front desk of the first hospital Matt checked told him to talk with the ambulance drivers out back, next to the tents the army had set up. He tried to cut through the hospital, but the halls were jammed with wounded soldiers and civilians. One silent hall was filled with children engulfed in bandages and casts. He stood there trying to come to terms with what he saw. He had never thought of children being casualties of war. Then he realized that his rescue of the trapped girl in the basement had been the exception, not the rule.

A weary nurse told him to leave or start helping. “We’ve got more coming in. … A rocket attack on Ofra on the West Bank … the Syrians keep hitting the West Bank settlements … I don’t know why. We’re taking the overflow and the ambulances should be here any minute.” There was no decision to be made and Matt went with the nurse.

The first ambulance backed up to the tent the hospital was using to receive incoming casualties and Matt pulled the door open. The first stretcher out carried a badly burnt child that he guessed to be five or six. He couldn’t tell if it was a boy or girl. An overpowering stench of charred flesh and antiseptic washed over him. He froze. “Move!” the nurse barked. Stung into action, he helped a teenage girl carry the stretcher into the tent to a waiting doctor.

Matt lost count of the number of ambulances he helped unload and soon he found himself carrying the stretchers into nearby homes and office buildings as they ran out of space. Another ambulance pulled up and he stood there, wondering if the chain of shattered children would ever stop. This time, the last stretcher out held a body. Judging from the bandages, the child’s chin and lower jaw had been blown away. “Carry her to the morgue,” a voice commanded. “We need the stretcher here.” It was Shoshana.

“What happened?” he asked, trying to come to terms with the carnage around him.

“A direct hit on a shelter at a school,” she told him. “Probably a Scud rocket. The Patriots can’t get them all.” Shoshana looked at him and knew the inner turmoil that had to be ripping him apart. “Don’t think about it,” she said. “Just do something—anything.” Shoshana had been through the hell he was experiencing and had given him the only advice she could.

Gently, Matt picked the small bundle up off the stretcher and cradled it in his arms. He looked up at her, fighting tears. “Don’t go. I’ll be back in a minute.” She watched him go and sank down on the rear edge of the ambulance and rested her head against the side panel. Four minutes later, Matt was back, still shaken. He sat down beside her and waited. “I was lucky to have found you,” he finally said.

“I know,” she replied. Silence. He turned and looked at her. She had fallen asleep, still leaning against the side panel. He searched inside the ambulance until he found a blanket. Then he eased her onto the floor and spread the blanket over her, willing to wait.

“Tamir!” a voice called. Matt realized he had been dozing and came alert. Shoshana had not stirred.

“Over here,” he answered. A young woman in an unfamiliar uniform materialized out of the dark.

“She’s needed. North this time.”

“She’s bushed,” Matt protested.

“Wake her,” the woman ordered.

“I’m awake,” Shoshana said. “Where to?”

The woman jerked a map off her clipboard and brushed past Matt. The two compared maps. “The Syrians counterattacked and are pushing down the coast. Heavy casualties. Get going.” Shoshana nodded and climbed into the passenger’s seat. She had to wake her partner, a slender, dark-haired thirty-six-year-old schoolteacher from Haifa, to start the engine.