The Hot Pilots (43 page)

“My grandfather!” Andy sobbed. “My grandfather’s sick—!”

“I love you, Andy,” Gold murmured. Another wave turned him facedown into the dark warmth and carried him away.

On this clear, warm Sunday evening, Dizengoff Street, which was Tel Aviv’s main drag, offered more entertainment than a three-ring
circus. Schiff’s Sidewalk Cafe, one of the many eateries on Dizengoff’s north end, was the perfect place to watch the summer
night’s boulevard show roll by.

Steve Gold and Rivka Yakkov had a candle-lit table on Schiff’s flagstone-paved front patio. The table was back under the striped
awning. It was separated from the sidewalk by a wide flower box, but it had an unobstructed view of the street. There was
soft jazz playing over an outdoor loudspeaker mounted in the patio’s corner. The music worked as an accompanying background
for the crowds strolling by, and for the city lights coming to life. The lights glowed like cool jewels in the gathering purple
dusk.

Steve and Rivka had been there for the last hour. They were having an early dinner: roast lamb, rice mixed with pine nuts,
and salad. Steve noticed that the bread basket was empty. Rivka saw, and was about to signal the waiter, but Steve stopped
her.

“Watch this.” He winked. Steve got the waiter’s attention, and when the man had come over to their table he managed, in very
halting Hebrew, to ask for more pita bread.

“Not bad,” Rivka said in English, her dark eyes glinting with amused approval. “Not
good
—but not bad …”

“Hey, I’m trying to impress you. Am I succeeding?”

Her soft laughter was reward enough for his efforts. She was wearing a turquoise sundress with an elasticized bodice that
clung to her luscious curves and left her tanned shoulders bare. Her thick, dark hair was loosely bound, revealing her dangling,
crimson earrings. A matching strand of beads encircled her long, graceful neck.

She looked incredibly beautiful, Steve thought, gazing at her. But then she always did, no matter what she was wearing: an
alluring dress or IAF khakis. Slowly over the last few months her manner toward him had thawed, to the extent that they’d
had several such dinner dates together. Unfortunately for Steve, dinner—and a chaste handshake at evening’s end—was as far
as the relationship had gone.

“Have you actually been
studying
Hebrew?” Rivka asked skeptically.

“Me study?” Steve made a face. “But I was always pretty good at picking up phrases by ear. Forget about trying to learn it
out of a book, though.” He grinned, shaking his head. “Anyway, if I’m going to look like an Israeli, I might as well try to
sound like one …”

He was wearing brown basket weave sandals, tan linen trousers, and a white short-sleeved shirt with an open, flat collar.
In his spare time he’d gradually purchased a small wardrobe to round out what he’d brought with him to get through his extended
stay. It amused him that when he was wearing his locally bought clothes, he could walk down the streets of Tel Aviv and nobody
gave him a second look—until he opened his mouth, of course. But hell, a couple of times Israeli out-of-towners had actually
stopped him to ask directions …

“I think you look handsome,” Rivka told him. Her eyes over the rim of her wineglass had suddenly grown as huge as the moon
over the dark Mediterranean. “But should I tell you that? Will it go to your head?”

“I think it might,” Steve softly admitted. “Far more than this wine ever could.”

They were working on their second bottle. Like so many in this city by the sea they were celebrating life by blowing off a
little steam. For the past week the commercial radio broadcasts had been full of ominous bulletins about the Arab armor and
artillery being massed along the borders of the Sinai and Gaza. Here in Tel Aviv, the Israeli Army’s tanks and personnel carriers
were clogging the narrow roads as they headed south to the Negev.

Enjoy the day, the Israelis seemed to be telling each other, evidencing the fatalistic humor characteristic of these eternally
hard-pressed people. This is the calm before the storm, so enjoy yourself now. We are two and a half million against forty
times that many. Enjoy now. The war is coming …

To Steve, it did look as if war was imminent. It had been a tense few months since he’d begun training several carefully selected
squadrons of the most promising IAF fighter pilots. As far as he was concerned, the shit had hit the fan in April, when some
of his personally trained boys had mixed it up with some Syrian MIGs, waxing a half dozen of the Commie/Arab bastards. Back
at the base that night, the backslapping celebration had been joyous, but short-lived. On May 18, Nasser had demanded that
the U.N. forces withdraw from the Egyptian-Israeli border. As the U.N. pulled out, Israel mobilized, calling up its reserve
forces. A week later Nasser announced a naval blockade, closing the Gulf of Aquaba to Israeli shipping. Meanwhile the Mediterranean
was filling up with American and Russian warships. The super powers were all urging Israel to show restraint, but from his
vantage point inside the country Steve knew that the Israelis had to do something very soon. Each day of mobilization was
costing Israel twenty million dollars that she didn’t have.

“I think you may have become part Israeli,” Rivka suddenly said.

“Hmm?” Steve asked, pushing the dark thought out of his mind. “How so?”

“You’ve got that same look in your eyes that we all get when we think about the situation we’re in. Well? Am I right? Is that
what you were thinking about?”

“It doesn’t take much to guess that.” Steve shrugged. He pushed away his plate, his appetite gone. “How can anybody think
of anything else? Look! There goes some more of them—”

They watched as out on the street a World War II vintage truck slowed to a crawl, vainly beeping its horn as it tried to clear
a path for itself through the crowds. The truck’s side-railed bed was filled with heartbreakingly young-looking soldiers.
They had rifles, and were wearing over-size khaki uniforms and high-crowned, duck-billed cloth caps.

“Reservists from the kibbutzim,” Rivka observed as the truck finally rolled past. “You can tell by the hats, and the awkward
way in which they hold their guns …”

“Farm boys,” Steve sighed. He took out his cigarettes, lit one, and placed the pack and his matches on the table within Rivka’s
reach. “It’s hard to see how they’re going to stand a chance up against the Arabs.”

“But a chance is exactly what they do have,” Rivka said. “Provided, of course, that the Air Force can help them. That is why
what
you’ve
been doing here is so important, Steven …”

“Maybe,” Steve said, unconvinced. “You’ve seen the Mossad’s latest estimates?”

“Of course I have,” Rivka said.

Steve watched her help herself to a cigarette but did not try to light it for her. He’d once offered her a light and for his
trouble had almost received his head handed to him, along with a stinging lecture about equality. The waiter came to take
away their plates. Neither one of them wanted dessert, but they ordered coffee.

“The Mossad thinks your fighter jocks are going to be up against odds of five to one in the air,” Steve continued. “Do you
think your guys have what it takes to win against odds like that?”

“You’re the one who trained them,” she countered as the waiter returned with their double espressos.

“Sure I did, and they took well to the training, but when it comes to odds like that, it isn’t about what’s up here.” He tapped
his forehead. “It’s about what’s down here.” He patted his heart.

“The Air Force will do its part,” Rivka said, sipping at her espresso. “It always has, just as it has always faced overwhelming
odds. You’ve seen the old airplanes enshrined on bases throughout the country, yes? The Piper Cubs, and the Czechoslovakian
war surplus Messerschmitts our boys flew in ‘forty-eight, during our war of independence? You’ve seen the photographs from
those days at IAF headquarters here in the city? The pictures of our boys loading gasoline bombs to throw out the Piper Cubs’
windows? And remember the pictures showing our pilots in their overalls standing in front of their ME-109s?”

When Steve nodded, she continued.

“Well, what the photos don’t tell you is that those overalls were Nazi war surplus, just like the Messerschmitts. What the
photos don’t show is that on some of those overalls those brave boys wore into battle, you could see right here”—she touched
her left breast—“right on the pocket, the terrible outline where the embroidered swastika had been razored off!”

“How would you know something like that?” Steve chided. “You were no more than a toddler back then.”

“I know because I asked,” she said simply. “It’s every Israeli’s obligation to ask, and to know, and to remember the heroes.”

“And who is
your
special hero?” Steve asked. The strong espresso had counteracted the wine, reviving him. He felt alert and immensely intrigued
by his beautiful and provocative dinner companion. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a conversation with a woman
this desirable, and had concentrated on what she was saying, instead of what he might next try in order to get her into bed.

Yeah
, he thought.
Rivka is different from all the others … Or maybe it was he who was changing
…

Rivka’s gaze had turned inward as she smoked her cigarette. “For me, Steven, I suppose that my special hero is a woman,” she
began. “Oh, I know those who take up arms and risk their lives in battle are very brave—” she added quickly. “They are certainly
worthy to be called heroes, but in this hard world it is
expected
that a
man
should fight for what is right, while women are expected to be docile. That’s why when a woman does great things, it is all
the more heroic, do you see?”

“Sure.” Steve nodded. “Women do have to start from behind, although during my short time in Israel I have seen women in all
facets of life, including the military. They all seem heroic to me. Who out of all of them is special to you, Rivka?”

She smiled, her eyelids fluttering. For the first time since they’d met she looked shy, almost unsure of herself. “When I
tell you, don’t laugh—It is Golda Meir.”

“Oh, sure.” Steve nodded. “I’ve heard of her …”

“
Heard
of her, have you?” she scolded playfully. “
Only heard?
”

“I mean I know who she is,” Steve said, laughing.

“For many young women
here
she is like, say, an Abe Lincoln would be to you,” Rivka explained. “She is a great soldier for our cause. She fought in
her own way during the war of independence by going to America and winning public opinion over to our side,” she continued,
growing in enthusiasm as she spoke. “After liberation she was elected to Israel’s first Knesset—which is like your congress
in America—and then moved to a cabinet-level post in the Government. For almost ten years, up until ‘sixty-five, she was our
Foreign Minister. I think for many people all over the world she symbolizes the State of Israel …”

“I think that’s true …”

“Sometimes,” Rivka said softly, “I imagine that I could follow in her footsteps …” She stopped abruptly, staring at Steve,
as if daring him to mock her.

“I think you will,” he said earnestly. “You’ve got the intelligence, the opportunity, and most important—” He again tapped
his heart. “You’ve got it here …”

“Ah!” she said dismissively, suddenly businesslike again. “All girls here want to be the next Golda. We’ll see who the next
one will be …” She smiled. “But what about you? Who is your hero?”

“I’ve had many, at different stages of my life,” Steve admitted. “John F. Kennedy, of course, and in the Air Force there have
always been fighter pilots—men of action—to look up to …” He paused. “But now, well, nowadays, I think my hero is my father.”

Rivka was smiling at him.

“I’ve pretty much had things my own way all my life,” Steve continued. “But my father didn’t. He started without a dime in
his pocket. Hell, he didn’t even have a birthright to call his own—”

“He is now a hero of Israel for what he has done for us,” Rivka said.

“And what he’s done for Israel is
beans
compared to what he’s done for America,” Steve said. “And meanwhile, he’s overcome some pretty heavy odds on his own part.
He’s been knocked down a number of times, but he’s always picked himself up, dusted himself off, and gone right back to doing
what he believes in. And despite all the important things he’s done, he’s always been there for my sister and me.” Steve nodded.
“Yeah, these days my hero is my father …”

“Have you ever told him?” Rivka asked.

“Nah.” Steve blushed, shrugging.

“You should, you know.”

“I will … Someday … It’s hard for me to say something like that to him … I guess because my pop and I have locked horns more
than a few times …”

“Steven—Tell him!” she admonished sternly.

“Okay, okay.” He grinned. “I promise I will … Can we change the subject?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Maybe you can answer this for me. No one’s ever told me the story of how Israel managed to get the MIG-21 out of Iraq in
the first place …”

“The Arab pilot was brought here through a honey trap.”

“Pardon?”

She laughed. “It is an espionage term. It means when a beautiful woman—or, I suppose, a handsome man—charms the victim into
whatever course of action is desired. I am not Mossad, so I know only a little, but in this case, it seems the Iraqi pilot
was approached by a beautiful Mossad agent. She is a woman with an American passport, it so happens …”

“Goddamn, another one like Benny,” Steve said sadly. He’d come to know and like the Israelis, but he still had mixed emotions
about his friend’s dual loyalties.

Rivka shrugged noncommittally. “In any event, this woman mixed easily within diplomatic and military circles, so she had little
trouble making the acquaintance of the pilot. You know, of course, that only the highest-ranking, most trusted Arab pilots
are allowed to fly the MIG-21?”