“The Hawks …” Matt cautioned. Closer meant they would be well within the envelope of that missile when they tossed their bomb.
“Damn it, closer!” Furry yelled. “We simulate turning on the TEWS and burn eyeballs out.” Another peacetime restriction kept them from turning on the active electronic countermeasures in the Tactical Electronic Warfare System to jam radars. On exercises like this aid on Ahlhorn, they could only use the TEWS to warn them about electronic threats. Matt continued to press the attack run. “Locked,” Furry announced, triumph in that simple word. “Cleared-to-pickle.”
Matt lifted the jet to five hundred feet. The TEWS exploded in sound, warning them of multiple simulated SAM launches — all at them. “Bomb gone,” Matt said. In real life, they would have felt the bomb separate from the aircraft. Matt dropped back onto the deck and headed to the northwest while the other F-15s ran in from separate headings.
The F-4s that had been scrambled into a HICAP to defend Ahlhorn were entering the engagement, trying to nail the F-15s as they left the target area. Matt had rejoined his wingman and both pilots configured their systems for an air-to-air engagement. The F-15s that had been delivering bombs a moment ago were now ready for an air-to-air engagement, and there was no better weapons system for killing other fighters than the Eagle.
Matt’s instructions to the aircrews for getting out of the target area had been simple, “We’re not going there to defend anybody, so don’t stick around to fight. Pull your fangs in when a bandit bounces you. Sort ‘em out for one head-on missile attack and simulate a Fox One shot before the merge. Unload and stroke the throttles — blow on through ‘em and keep heading for home. The next element behind you has a contract to do the same thing. The Rules of Engagement say the bad guys have to honor our missile shots and take evasive action. They’re going to be up to their earholes and assholes just getting out of the way of our missiles while we get the hell out of Dodge.”
And that’s what happened as pair after pair of F-15s came at the defenders. Tail-end Charlie was flown by Colonel Mike Martin, the wing’s new DO, the deputy commander for operations, a large and profane man with the personality of a gorilla in heat. He was upset because the Luftwaffe and Dutch had played by the Rules of Engagement and were making like dead men. More fighters were being scrambled out of both Jever and Leeuwarden, but they would be too late to engage the retreating F-15s. He snorted in frustration because he wanted to “kill” something or somebody. Then he gave a begrudging “Shit hot.” He was looking forward to the debrief of the mission because Matt’s plan had worked as advertised and violated Furry’s “rule” that a plan is only good for the first thirty seconds of combat.
“Hey, Matt,” a voice shouted when he and Furry walked out of the mission debriefing in the squadron. “We really knocked their dicks in the dirt on this one!” A chorus of good-natured shouts and obscene comments rained down on diem. Another voice shouted, “The beer light’s on in the lounge!” and the crowd moved in that direction. Furry gave Matt a friendly push and told him to get busy with the important things: “Drinking and bullshitting with the troops.”
Matt stood for a moment, realizing he was part of the squadron and that he had earned it on his own. No, he told himself, that’s not entirely true. He had earned it because Ambler Furry had encouraged him to keep trying and had kept faith in him when everyone else was dumping in his face. “Amb, why did you want to be my backseater?”
“Beats the hell out of me,” Furry deadpanned at him, “I’m probably suffering from a bad case of the stupids.” Then he relented. “I guess I saw a lot of Jack Locke in you. I flew another attack on Ahlhorn that he had planned. This one was better.” He grinned at his pilot. “Come on, let’s get to the serious stuff.” He shoved Matt toward the lounge and the beer.
11
The wind gusted through the cracks in the door and sent waves of dust across the floor. Shoshana had tried to stuff the cracks with rolled-up newspapers, but nothing seemed to block the relentless wind. “I hate the wind,” she told Avidar. The man only responded with a weak smile. “Where are you?” she mumbled to herself, wishing Habish would return. He had left them in the small one-room hovel on the outskirts of Kirkuk over twenty-four hours ago.
“He’ll be back,” Avidar said. She sat on the floor next to him and felt his forehead. The fever was building again. The antibiotics Habish had found after they had reached Kirkuk had broken Avidar’s raging temperature but they needed more now. “Don’t even think about it,” Avidar cautioned. “No doctors.”
“I know, I know,” Shoshana told him, her frustration building. “The risk is too great.” She bathed his forehead with a damp cloth and offered him water. “You saved Gad in Baghdad, you saved me at the roadblock, and now we can’t do anything for you. If I was a nurse, at least—”
“But you’re not.” He squeezed her hand. “We all knew the risks before we started.”
Shoshana tried to keep him warm as his fever surged and he slipped into unconsciousness. “Damn you, Habish!” she raged. “Where are you!” Tears streaked down her cheeks and she wanted to do something, anything to save this quiet man with the soft brown eyes. In her despair, she started to pray, something she hadn’t done for years. “I can’t even do that right,” she told herself.
She sat with him until he died.
The makeshift shroud Shoshana was sewing together was almost finished when Habish came through the door. “You’re too late,” she said, not taking her eyes from her work. He knelt beside Avidar’s body, no emotion on his face. “Well, say something, you bastard!” She was standing, shaking with anger.
“We need to leave.”
Rage crashed through her, driving her anger and frustration before it like a windstorm. “Do we throw him in a ditch like those two soldiers? Or do we just leave him here for the rats to eat? Goddamn you, Habish. He saved our lives and I can never repay that. At least I can bury him.”
“Shoshana …” He wanted to reach out and touch her, to tell her of his grief and sorrow. But he had to continue with what had begun in Tel Aviv when he started on this operation. And then against his better judgment, he gave in. “We’ll bury him.” He rose and brushed past her. “Stay here,” he commanded and disappeared out the door.
He returned an hour later and without saying a word, picked up the body. He laid it gently in the rear of the truck and drove to a cemetery. Again, he carried the body and laid it gently beside an open grave.
“Why in a Muslim cemetery?” Shoshana asked.
Habish looked at her in disbelief. “Where else? Avidar was a Druze.”
“He wasn’t Jewish?” She was shocked by the revelation.
“Why do you think he spoke Arabic so well and blended in like he did?” Habish was slightly irritated. “He was not an aqil, one of the ‘initiated’ into the mysteries of their religion.”
“I didn’t know we could trust any Arabs.”
“Muslims consider the Druze heretics and hate them as much as they do Jews. Avidar’s people gave their loyalty to Israel in turn for protection. You need to know more about your own country.” His voice hardened. “His loyalty speaks for itself.”