The Glory (10 page)

“Benny usually does all right.”

In a sudden movement she put her cheek to his and hugged him. “Ah, Wolf Lightning, seeing you is heaven, that doesn’t change.
Bye.”

Glass in hand, Christian Cunningham was turning off the TV as Barak came into the library. “Hi, class-A fight at the end of
that Hopalong. How about some bourbon?”

“Sure, Chris, thanks.” Usually Barak declined, but this was an occasion when conviviality might help. “Emily looks grand.”

“A little silly, Emily, like most of her sex, but good-hearted.” The maroon wool dressing gown hung loose on the gaunt figure
stooped over the bar. “Splash of water, you take, right? They’re giving you a hard time at the UN, I gather. Cheers.”

“Cheers. That’s what I came to talk about, Chris.”

“I’m listening.” They sat down on a brown leather couch. Cunningham’s wrinkled wise eyes, set deep in skull-like sockets and
peering through thick horn-rimmed glasses, never left the military attaché’s face as he summarized Gideon Rafael’s handwritten
memo which had come with the courier’s pages.

“Your Mr. Rafael sounds a mite shook up,” observed Cunningham. “All that checks out with what we know. The Arabs are on a
roll, Zev, about to get an American-Soviet resolution calling for your withdrawal behind the previous lines.”

“In return for what?”

“Some general language about all parties committing themselves to peace in the region, sometime in the future —”

“Okay, that’s the Goldberg-Gromyko compromise,” Barak struck in, “but the Arabs turned that down back in July.”

“Well, this is November,” said Cunningham. “The Arabs have thought it over, and now they’ll take Goldberg-Gromyko.”

“Israel can’t go along, Chris.”

“No? If the United States cosponsors it in the Security Council, what option have you?”

“The United States mustn’t cosponsor it. Possibly you can help —”

“Hold it
right there
!” Christian Cunningham held up both hands and shoved them palms out toward Barak. “Diplomatic semantics are not my turf,
Zev.”

“Intelligence is your turf. What’s the CIA’s personality profile of our Prime Minister?”

“Eshkol?” Cunningham drank off his bourbon, and somewhat unsteadily went to the bar and poured more. “Shadowy weak successor
to Ben Gurion.”

“Utterly wrong, like some other CIA estimates. A mild-mannered compromiser, yes. But at any threat to Israel’s survival he’ll
be tougher than B.G. ever was. Chris, he’ll defy Lyndon Johnson over this. Does your President want that kind of trouble with
Congress? Or with the American Jews?”

Cunningham refilled Barak’s glass, handed it to him and sat down. “What’s in that envelope, Zev?”

“Documents Gideon Rafael sent me. Abba Eban’s clear and copious handwritten comments show why Israel will have to say no.”

“Zev, what’s the nub of all this? Where does your government draw the line?”

“You’ll smile. At two little words.”

“I’m not smiling. Go ahead.”

“Goldberg-Gromyko calls for
‘the withdrawal of parties from all the territories occupied during the war.’
Since the Arabs occupied no territory but ran away in all directions, that means only the Israelis.”

“It sure does.”

“Okay. Way back in June we offered withdrawal linked to peace treaties. The Russians and Arabs pounced on
withdrawal
and ignored
peace treaties
. That’s been their game ever since. But that principle — withdrawal
linked to peace treaties
, not otherwise — is where Israel draws the line.”

His eyes screwed almost shut, Cunningham slouched far down on the couch, and drank. “And the two little fighting words?”

“
‘All … the …’
If we pull out altogether from the territories without treaties, what room for negotiating a real peace will we ever have?”

“
All … the …
” Slowly Cunningham nodded, rolling the words on his tongue. “True enough. If that wording stands, you’ve lost the war.”

“You’ve got it,” said Barak.

“Tough,” said Cunningham with a bony helpless shrug. “A balk by Israel will go right up to LBJ. He’s well aware of the Soviet
threat in the Middle East, and maybe he sees Israel as an asset, but he’s got Vietnam on his hands, riots in the universities,
an election year coming up, and Bobby Kennedy snapping at his heels. He’s not in a mood to be defied, and for better or worse,
you’re a client state.”

“Can’t you at least correct the CIA’s estimate of Levi Eshkol? It’s dangerously misleading.”

Cunningham again held up flat palms. “I haven’t been asked. Sorry.”

“Well, thanks for the bourbon.” Barak stood up, hiding his disappointment and not too surprised. “And thanks for hearing me
out.”

“My pleasure. Incidentally, can you leave those papers with me? At least the one with Eban’s copious comments?”

On the instant Barak handed him the envelope. “Take them all.”

“Why, thank you. Just curious. I’m a Middle East history buff, as you know. You can have them back tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow I’ll be in Colorado Springs.”

“Right, for that air colonel’s lecture. Well, when you return, then.” The CIA man flourished the envelope. “Next best thing
to Hopalong Cassidy, the Middle East nowadays.”

R
ows on rows of blue-clad air cadets rose to attention with a great clatter of seats when the slender tall superintendent,
a gray-blond man with a big splash of combat ribbons on his uniform, entered the auditorium. Halliday, Emily Cunningham, Zev
Barak, and Danny followed him. Benny Luria already sat alone on the stage. At dinner in his quarters the superintendent had
been jocular with Halliday, his old wingmate, they had called each other “Bud” and “Sparky,” but now he was all stern dignity,
escorting the guests to reserved seats, then mounting to the podium beside a tall white screen.

“As you were, cadets.” They slammed down into their seats, backs straight, eyes front. Looking around at these hundreds of
intent bristle-headed youths, it struck Barak that the entire Israeli pilot force, cadets and all, would fit into the three
rows in front of him. Sitting beside Emily, smelling the faint wildflower scent she favored, was a poignant distraction. So
they had sat through the Mahler cycle and many a play and opera at the Kennedy Center, before Nakhama had come to Washington
with the girls. But now there was Halliday on Emily’s other side.

“Politics stops at the gateway of the academy, gentlemen,” the superintendent began. “Not long ago the academy hosted the
air chief of Saudi Arabia. Today we welcome Colonel Benny Luria of Israel, commander of Fighter-Bomber Squadron Twelve. Air
combat is the cutting edge of the military calling in our time, cadets, something like a world brotherhood. The recent victory
of Israel’s air force is worthy of serious professional study by all modern nations. We don’t expect Colonel Luria to disclose
military secrets or plead his country’s cause. He is here as a man of arms like yourselves, a squadron leader whose record
betokens an integrity of purpose and a striving for excellence, which the fledgling eagles of the academy can well aspire
to emulate.”

The superintendent turned to Luria, and his severe mien relaxed. “Okay, Colonel Luria, now tell us how you guys did it.”

The cadets rose, courteously applauding. The superintendent joined in. Walking to the podium, Benny smiled down at Danny,
standing beside Zev Barak. Looking very mature in a dark suit and tie, Danny clapped hard and winked at his father, but Barak
knew how nervous the boy was. Taking Danny’s hand as they crossed the grounds, he had felt a very damp palm.

Benny thanked the superintendent, and all rustling ceased in a dead hush.

“At 0745 hours on Monday, June fifth,” he began, “our air force struck simultaneously at nine enemy airfields. I led my squadron
in a dive on the Inchas air base, through heavy AA fire.” He looked around at the array of serious young faces filling the
big bleak hall. “And let me tell you, it was scary, but I was less scared than I am right this minute.” The cadets were surprised
into hearty laughter, glancing at each other. Great start, thought Barak. Benny was b’seder, as usual. Danny’s eyes shone.
“Don’t laugh, gentlemen, I mean every word of it. When I was a student pilot, I never dreamed that I would one day address
the United States Air Force cadet corps. My dreams were as modest as our air force was then. Fourteen planes in all, gentlemen,
twelve of them operational.”

He paused to let that sink in.

“Well, times have changed. There have been strange stories and rumors to account for our recent victory — electronic wizardry,
secret weapons, even the ultimate secret weapon, American pilots.” (Side-glances and chuckles in the audience.) “But in fact
there was no mystery or miracle in it. Three unchanging requirements of successful warmaking were crucial to the way we won:
planning, rehearsal, intelligence
.”

For the next half hour, sometimes using slides and a pointer at the screen, Benny Luria talked with calm candor about Operation
MOKADE
as a preemptive strike worked up for years. It was not much like Abba Eban’s version of the attack at the UN, but Barak was
unconcerned. This was a place for reality; the UN was a place for smoke screens. He could sense the absorption of the cadets
around and behind him. Some of what Luria said was new to him; not so much the colorful business of waking pilots in the night
to recite time of departure, distance to target, bomb loads, and so on — all that he had heard before — but rather the dry
hour-by-hour, and sometimes minute-by-minute, narrative of Benny’s own first day of combat. He had flown four sorties, the
last late in the afternoon, to the most distant airfield in Egypt, where his four Mirages with fagged-out pilots had been
jumped by MiGs on fresh full alert. In his picture of the dogfight that ensued there was no Homeric vaunting. Now he was Colonel
Luria, an instructor among student pilots, dropping into a professional clipped monotone. Good for Benny, he knew what to
say to UJA banquets, to children at a dinner table, and to the United States Air Force Academy.

“Those MiG pilots were proficient,” Benny was saying. “Anybody who puts down Arab aviators, or Arab fighting men altogether,
makes a mistake. They are brave able warriors. Their political leadership is something else, and not part of this discussion.
The superiority of our pilots is due to factors of motivation — and therefore of training — that are unique to Israel’s air
force. Maybe we do have one secret weapon at that, gentlemen, called in Hebrew
en brera
. Which means ‘no choice.’ ”

A map of Israel flashed on the screen, with colored arrows and numbers. Slapping the pointer here and there, Benny said, “As
you see, gentlemen, a MiG can cross my country west to east in about ninety seconds. So an Israeli pilot lives and breathes
one mission,
Clear skies over Israel
. That’s his reason for flying and for living. In combat he’ll take risks, plunge into dangers, pierce the envelope of safe
performance, because he knows that Israel’s survival rides on his wings.

“Yes, we’re proud — maybe a little too proud — of being Israel’s eagles. I assure you we all hope for the day when our neighbors
will make peace with us, and these wonderful machines we fly will be grounded as toys we’ve outgrown. Air war is wasteful
and perilous. I’ve seen too many horrible crashes and lost too many dear, dear friends to believe otherwise.”

All at once Benny Luria’s voice weakened and went hoarse. He stopped speaking, and it took him a long moment of oppressive
silence to recover. Danny gripped Barak’s hand. When his father spoke again, the voice was quiet and firm. “So I confess to
you almost in a whisper that nevertheless I’ve loved it, loved every minute of my service. I hope my jet-lagged son here in
the fourth row, who has heroically stayed awake during this dull talk, will one day be a pilot, a
tayass
in the Israel Air Force, as his brother is now training to become one. And in a lower whisper I confess that I’m damned glad
we’re getting those forty-eight Skyhawks.”

The cadets jumped to their feet. The applause this time was the real thing. Barak put his arm around Danny, who was applauding
a bit too much. Emily leaned past him to touch the boy’s arm. “How proud you must be of your father.”

“My English not too good yet,” said Danny with difficulty. “I understood most.”

Speaking over the prolonged applause, Halliday asked Barak, “Where did Luria get his English? It’s excellent.”

“War college in England. Also, our generation grew up under the British Mandate.”

“I see.” An arid smile. “He managed to get in a little politics, at that.”

“Target of opportunity,” said Barak.

“Yes, indeed.”

“A
m I disturbing you?” Emily’s voice again, low and charged. “It’s late as hell, I know.” Barak was bedded down in a VIP suite
of the base guesthouse, and she was calling from the superintendent’s luxurious quarters across the lawn.

“No problem. I’m in my pajamas reading. Reading Plutarch, as a matter of fact.”

“Oh, sure.” They had corresponded at length, off and on, about Plutarch.

“On my life. I found a beat-up Modern Library copy in this room.” So he had, amid a shelf of faded best-sellers.

“Let’s go for a walk.”

He glanced at his travel clock. “At one in the morning?”

“Look, Wolf, I thought we’d talk over breakfast, but I’m not sure I can get away from Sparky and his wife. Anyway, I can’t
sleep. There’s a mantel clock in this room driving me bats, every fifteen minutes going
bing bang bong
—”

“What about Halliday?”

“Bud? He must have gone to sleep hours ago. He has to run his five miles at dawn.”

“Where do we meet?”

“At that eagle statue.”

“You’re on. Ten minutes.”

There she was by the pedestal, a dark huddled shape in bright moonlight. The deep snow crunched under his tankist’s boots
as he hurried to her. “Hi, it’s damn cold,” she greeted him. “Are you warm enough in that sweater?”