The Hot Pilots (48 page)

He turned away then, and let himself out of her flat and out of her life, closing the door gently but firmly behind him.

Steve was about to board his flight when Benny Detkin intercepted him at the gate.

“What are you doing here?” Steve asked. He’d already said good-bye to his friend at IAF headquarters. They were planning to
get together back in the States.

“I have something for you,” Benny said. “Something that’s pretty much guaranteed to get you off the hook with the big boys
in Washington …”

“Well, I don’t know if I am going to be on the hook,” Steve said. “The IAF has pretty much covered my ass concerning our little
escapade.”

“Well, this is going to close the books on it once and for all,” Benny confidently replied. He took an envelope out of the
inside breast pocket of his linen sport jacket and handed it to Steve. “Go on,” he urged excitedly. “Open it.”

Inside the envelope was a color snapshot of several circular, concrete enclosures out in the desert. Inside each enclosure
was a missile on a launch ramp.

“SAM sites?” Steve asked.

“Sure.” Benny nodded. “But not just any old run-of-the-mill SAMs. Those are SAM-12s, the most advanced version. When the Egyptians
turned tail in the Sinai they left those launch sites virtually intact. The Israelis got it all, right down to the instruction
manuals for the radar guidance equipment.”

“That’s great,” Steve said. “But what does it have to do with me?” .

“Only this.” Benny grinned. “The Israeli Government has communicated to Washington its decision to share this particular bit
of plunder with the United States, as a gesture of appreciation on behalf of Colonel Steven Gold’s services.”

“You’re shining me …” Steve looked down at the photograph in his hand. “The brass would kill their own mothers to get the
scoop on what the Russians have in terms of surface-to-air missile technology.”

“They don’t have to kill their mothers now, though, do they?” Benny winked. “They’re going to have it all laid out for them
on a plate by the Israelis, who have made it clear that the brass has Steven Gold to thank for their good fortune.”

“Benny, this is going to make my career,” Steve quietly said. He shook his head, overcome with emotion. “I don’t know what
to say, how to thank you …”

“You don’t have to thank me.” Benny laughed. “You don’t have to thank anybody. This is just the Israeli Government’s way of
thanking
you
. The actual technical material will travel through the normal channels,” he added. “Consider this photograph a memento of
our little adventure together.”

“Yeah, I will … thanks …” Steve listened as the final boarding notice for his flight was called over the airport’s public
address system. “I guess I better get going—”

“Yeah.” Benny nodded. “Say, speaking of mementos, where’s your flight jacket?”

“Oh …” Steve shrugged. “I gave it to Rivka. Kind of a present …”

“Uh-huh.” Benny had a funny look in his eyes. “Tell me more …”

“Well, there’s nothing to tell,” Steve said quickly. “Except that you were right when you said I’d never get anywhere with
her. I tried every trick I knew, but she shot me down …”

“Oh,
she
shot
you
down, eh?” Benny shook his head. “Before you say anymore, I should tell you that I happened to run into her at IAF headquarters
just before coming here.”

“Oh, fuck.” Steve winced. “What did she do? Tell you everything?”

Benny shrugged. “What can I say, I have that kindly sort of visage that makes girls see me in a fatherly light.” He grinned.
“You better be careful, Steve, a couple more episodes like the one you had this afternoon and girls will be turning to
you
for fatherly advice.”

“Jesus, Benny, just don’t tell anyone else, okay?” Steve pretended to gruffly plead, although he couldn’t keep the smile out
of his eyes. “I got my reputation as a hound to uphold.”

Benny laughed. “You better get on your plane … You
hero
, you—”

As Steve walked through the gate he couldn’t help thinking that this hero stuff wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be.

Herman Gold was in his second-floor study. He was seated in his leather armchair with a yellow legal pad on his lap and a
pen in his hand. He was surrounded by stacks of books: Hebrew primers, Judaic histories, English translations of the Old Testament
and the Torah. Occupying a place of honor in Gold’s bookcase was his latest acquisition: a custom leather-bound, encyclopedic,
thirty-five-volume set of the Talmud. It was the recently published English language edition, translated by Soncino.

Gold enjoyed being in this book-lined den, even if the room did have something of a split personality. Look into the space,
with its fireplace, dark paneling, brass lamps with green glass shades, and heavy mahogany and leather furniture, and you
might think you were in the library of an old English country house. Turn toward the french doors opening out onto the balcony,
however, and you had a typically Southern California view of the swimming pool and landscaped patio.

The only thing Gold didn’t like about the second-floor study was the goddamned chair lift they’d installed onto the staircase
railing to carry him up here. Stair-climbing as well as most other physical exertion was off-limits for him since his heart
attack. He understood the reasoning behind the prohibitions, of course, and he’d pretty much come to terms with them. Hey,
he was grateful to be alive. Nevertheless, he found the chair lift especially galling. Settling into that thing and switching
on the electric motor was a hell of a comedown for a man used to airplane cockpits.

Grateful to be alive
—Gold wrote across the top of the legal pad. He stared at it a moment and then savagely crossed it out. It was just too trite
to use as a Bar Mitzvah discourse …

Gold had been toying with the idea of being a Bar Mitzvah ever since his involvement in the scheme to smuggle Vector-A systems
into Israel had kindled his interest in his religious heritage. Initially he’d dismissed the idea, afraid of the ridicule
he was certain to face from his friends and business associates—and, yes, even from his family—if he attempted to carry it
out. After all, thirteen-year-old Jewish boys take part in the Bar Mitzvah ritual, not seventy-year-old men …

It was, of course, his heart attack that had changed his point of view. Ridicule seemed a very small thing after you’d been
locked in a chest-crushing wrestling match with death. As he’d recuperated in his hospital bed he’d realized how little it
mattered what other people thought. You were only on this earth for a short while …

Once he’d decided to commit himself to the course of study that would lead to his becoming a Bar Mitzvah, he knew that he
had to go all out. He’d found the finest scholars to teach him, because he was fervently committed not just to
do
, but to
understand
…

Gold had been to Bar Mitzvah celebrations in Los Angeles. As often as not they were Hollywood-inspired extravaganzas. To Gold
they had seemed like yards of cotton candy—the catering, the liquor, the gifts, the band—wrapped around a puny little popsicle
stick core—an apple-cheeked boy in a brand-new suit spending a quarter hour in a synagogue mumbling beneath his breath a phonetically
learned portion of the Torah, and then squeaking, “… Today I am a man …” just because his parents had said he had to.

Gold, however, was no apple-cheeked boy. He was a man of substance;
material
substance at least—He had never in his life done anything halfway, and he was not about to start now. It would be at least
another year before he was a Bar Mitzvah, because he fully intended to
understand
and
feel
the
truth
of what he was doing. More than that, his teachers had mentioned that at one time in Europe it was customary for the Bar
Mitzvah to deliver a meaningful discourse to the congregation assembled to witness his right of passage.

Gold intended to follow in that tradition. Hence the pad on his lap, the newly purchased edition of the Talmud on his shelf,
and the puzzled look on his face as he contemplated the still-blank page. It was not a moment too soon to begin honing his
discourse, and he’d been trying to begin for days,
but what to talk about?

The teachers had suggested something pertinent … Gold put his pen to paper and scribbled:
changing of the guard
—

Since Gold’s heart attack, Don Harrison had lifted the burden of running GAT from his shoulders. Gold was pleased with the
job that Don was doing, and the respectful way in which he was doing it. Don Harrison was not coming on like gangbusters,
further unduly upsetting an already jittery executive staff concerning the transition of power. Don always thought twice before
he spoke, and always seemed to take into account other people’s feelings and points of view—

What was most important, Don had made it his habit to consult with Gold before making any important decision. Gold was grateful
that he was not destined to be a King Lear scorned by his children; the ungrateful inheritors of his domain.

Changing of the guard
—Gold pondered it awhile and then thought:
No, it won’t do. What he had to say on that topic concerned his children more than himself
…

“Children,” Gold murmured softly. “The welfare of one’s children is a concern …”

Especially when your children carried arms for their country
—

Gold’s eyes moved across the room to the newspaper still lying unopened on his desk. These days he could hardly stand to read
the international headlines. He had a son and a grandson in the Air Force, after all, and both men were fighter pilots; frontline
warriors in the most crucial battleground of the modern era—the sky. How could Gold bring himself to read about the dozens
of places around the world where his son and grandson might fight and die? There was Vietnam. The Mideast. The uprising in
the Congo. The revolt in Greece. The revolutions in South America—

And wherever duty called, Gold knew his boys would be, taking command of the sky on behalf of their country…

Gold’s reveries were interrupted by a knock on the door. “Come in,” he called.

The door opened and in walked his grandson Andy carrying what looked to be a cake box. “Grandpa?” Andy began. “Grandma said
that you were studying, and that I shouldn’t disturb you …”

“Uh-huh.” Gold laughed.

Andy took a step closer to Gold. “
Am
I disturbing you?”

Gold shook his head. He took off his glasses and put them aside, along with his writing materials. “You could never disturb
me, sonny-boy,” he said lovingly.

Andy grinned. “I have something for you.” He held out the cake box. “I made it all by myself,” he added proudly.

Gold peered at the box in Andy’s outstretched hands. “You made me a cake?” he asked dubiously.

“
Noooo!
” Andy giggled. “Mom just gave me the box to
use
to bring your
present.
” He ran to Gold and plopped the box down on his lap, then took a step back. “Open it!” Andy demanded, breathless with excitement.

Gold opened the box and looked inside. “Oh, Andy…” He gently lifted out of the cake box a model of a World War I vintage Fokker
Dr.I triplane.

“It’s like the one you flew in the war. Right, Grandpa?” Andy eagerly asked.

“It is, Andy,” Gold murmured, holding the airplane up to the light in order to better see it. “Oh, it is …”

The model itself had been put together from one of those airplane model plastic kits that came with instructions. The kind
that you could buy for a few dollars at any hobby shop. Examining it, however, Gold could tell that Andy had assembled the
model with incredibly painstaking care for a nine-year-old. What was even more amazing about the model was its enameled paint
job. The triplane had been painted scarlet everywhere but on the sides of its fuselage and its wings, where it was painted
sky blue. On both rear side quarters of the model were teaspoon-size, bright yellow ovals, each showing a tiny, but perfectly
rendered, centaur —a mythological creature, half man and half horse—rearing up on its hind legs to do battle. Just forward
of the centaurs, and on her wings and tail, the model wore black Iron Crosses, edged in white.

“Andy, these were my colors
exactly
,” Gold said in wonderment. “The Fokker I flew looked exactly like this …” Gold stared at his grandson. “How could you have
known—?”

Andy was beaming with pleasure. “I asked Uncle Steve …”

“Ah.” Gold nodded. His son Steven was here in Los Angeles, staying in one of the Malibu beachfront houses the family owned
as an investment. The Air Force had given Steve a well-deserved extended leave after the fabulous job he’d done in service
to his country, and his country’s ally, Israel. When Steve had told Gold how well the Vector-A system had worked, and how
he himself had fought to protect the Jewish homeland—Well, Gold would not be ashamed to admit to anyone that tears had come
to his eyes as he’d contemplated his beautiful son.

For the past month since Steve had been home he’d come to visit Gold every morning. They would sit in the sunny garden off
the solarium, near the splashing marble fountain, and talk quietly about life and what the future held.

Steve was going to the Air Force war college at Maxwell Air Force Base in Alabama in September. Gold had been gratified to
hear his son confidently predict that he would be graduating at the head of his class come the end of the yearlong course—

“…
I never thought I could do it, Pop, but now I know I can. I did a lot of even tougher work when I was on General Howie Simon’s
staff. And I did a lot of managerial administration and writing in Israel, in order to set up that pilot training program
…”