“My policies reflect the reality of the situation,” Pontowski replied.
“And what are the realities of the situation, Mr. President?” It was the junior congressman again. He was challenging the President.
“Gentlemen”—Pontowski smiled—“I’ll be glad to discuss my Middle East policies here but we are going to disagree and I would prefer we keep the conversation confidential. We only tell the press that we had a ‘frank discussion.’ Agreed?” That was a polite way of telling the press that a serious head-knocking session went on at the meeting. A “blunt and open discussion” meant they had all but come to blows. Nods and agreement went around the table.
‘ ‘First, I have no intention of letting Israel be destroyed or suffer a defeat at the hands of her enemies.” He could sense the delegation relax. “However,”—the tension was back—“I have no intention of supporting all of Israel’s policies-policies that are creating problems of their own making.”
“What problems are you talking about, Mr. President?” the junior congressman asked.
“Specifically, the occupation of Gaza and the settlement of the West Bank.”
“Gaza and the West Bank are vital for the security of Israel, Mr. President.”
“Perhaps. But because of that occupation, Israel has to make many choices.” This was greeted by silence. “Is Israel going to be a South African-type state in the Middle East where Jews rule a sub-class of Palestinians? Or is Israel going to be a democratic and Jewish state that lives in some sort of peaceable accommodation with its Palestinian neighbors?”
“But the Jews have a historical right to Palestine,” the junior Congressman protested.
“All of it?” Pontowski answered, his voice calm and measured. “And what about the Palestinian claims? Have they no historical rights?”
“Mr. President, you obviously don’t understand the complexity of the situation.” The junior congressman regretted saying it as the words came out.
But Pontowski only smiled, waiting for him to continue. Silence. “It’s allowed to disagree with me,” Pontowski said. He was telling the young congressman to fight fair and that he was willing to overlook one minor indiscretion — as long as it was in private. “I do understand there are factions in Israel who claim the Jews are entitled to all of Palestine and that other fractions are willing to limit the size of Israel and share the land with the Arabs who were also born there.”
“Mr. President”—the congressman was like a bulldog and would not let it go—“the choices you mentioned can only be made by Israel. Why should an internal matter for the Israelis affect our policies in the area?”
The moment of truth had arrived. “Because, their choice will determine my policy toward them.”
Melissa was in the hall when the delegation left. The junior congressman ignored her when he announced, “The oil interests bought him. Read all about it in the Post.”
Matt was tired when he unzipped his flight suit and headed for the shower, shedding the rest of his clothes as he went. Furry was flopped out in an easy chair, unable to move. Occasionally, a groan would slip out. They had ended their sixth week of flying with Israelis and returned to their rooms after an early-morning flight. “I’m too old for this,” Furry boomed across the room as he reached for another beer. “My bones hurt from pulling all those g’s. But damn, we were good today.”
“Yeah, we were,” Matt conceded. He had been surprised to learn that he could hold his own with the Israeli pilots and, in every one-on-one engagement, best them. Furry had repeatedly demonstrated the bombing accuracy of the Eagle’s systems on “first look” targets and impressed the Israeli observers no end. “They ain’t much to look at on the ground,” Matt said from the shower, “but once they strap a jet on, they are something else.”
Furry pulled at his beer, thinking. And so are you old buddy, so are you. “Hey, you think they’re doing a snow job on us?” he called. “These pukes are supposed to be the best in the world.” Got to keep the boy humble, he thought. “We shouldn’t be rompin’ and stompin’ like this.”
“Could be,” Matt allowed, as he stepped out of the shower. “But I doubt it. At least not in the air. Come on, get your bod in gear, Dave’s going to pick us up in a few minutes.”
Furry groaned and launched his bulk from the chair. Dave Harkabi was going to take them on a long weekend when he went home to Haifa. He had apologized for not having room at his parents’ home and booked them into a hotel on the beach. Twenty minutes later, they were in Harkabi’s car, headed north for Haifa. They broke the monotony of crossing the Negev Desert by talking shop. “Your Eagle is most impressive,” Harkabi said. “We could use a squadron of E models.”
“Yeah,” Matt said, deep in thought, “the jet has definitely given us an edge we wouldn’t normally have.”
Harkabi said, “You’ve had input into that advantage. You make the Eagle fly like a demon.”
“We’ve been lucky so far,” Matt allowed. “Your pilots are on to us now and are going to start kicking some ass.”
“You think so?” Harkabi asked.
“Yep. You’re too damn good. Look at your combat record …”
Harkabi laughed. “You’ve been reading our propaganda.” He turned and looked at Matt. “Yes, we are good. We carefully select our pilots and then train like hell. Every flight is a potential combat mission for us. Why do you think we upload all our birds with munitions after we land?”
“Even ours?” Furry said.
Harkabi took a deep breath and ignored Furry’s question. The Israeli major didn’t tell them that every night an Israeli aircrew had powered up their Eagle and had worked the systems. One night, they had even flown the bird. He changed the subject. “When you look at our combat record,” he explained, “always remember who we are flying against. Look at the Syrian Air Force. They have seven hundred fifty pilots. Of those, fifty are as good as any in the world. We know them by name, what they fly, and where they are stationed. The other seven hundred are turkeys, cannon fodder, worthless. We are fortunate because there are none in between.
“We monitor their communications and use it against them. If any of those fifty good pilots take off, we know it. Because they fly like the Soviets and rely on ground control to vector their fighters, we know exactly where the ‘man’ is and — what do you Yanks say? — we double-and triple-bang him in an engagement.”
“You mean you deliberately go after their talent and go three-on-one?” Matt was amazed.
“Exactly. We will let their turkeys enjoy a temporary advantage while we concentrate on eliminating the real threat.”
“Nice guys,” Furry mumbled.
Again, Harkabi laughed. “What do you say? ‘A kill is a kill'?”
When they were out of the Negev and into the heart of Israel, Harkabi gave a running commentary about the countryside, a perfect tour guide. He drove fast, telling them he wanted to reach Haifa before the Sabbath began. “Israel grinds to a stop at sundown,” he explained. “If you’re not religious, Haifa is the best place to spend the Sabbath.”
His timing was perfect and Matt and Furry were deposited at the hotel as Dave sped away. Inside, they learned that their rooms had been paid for in advance. After a brief discussion, they told the clerk that they would have to pay because they couldn’t accept gifts from a foreign government. The clerk shrugged and quoted a very reasonable price, settling the issue.
The next morning, Matt woke up at five-thirty and couldn’t go back to sleep. He wandered out onto the balcony and took in the sunrise before he pulled on a pair of shorts and his running shoes and headed for the beach, intent on a morning run. Two miles from the hotel, he saw a lone swimmer walking toward the water. A sense of déjà vu swept through him as he neared the woman who was now in the water — there was something familiar about the way she walked, her figure. He gave a mental shrug and ran on past as she swam directly out to sea.