“We’ll take it,” Matt said.
The phone call from B. J. Allison came much earlier than Fraser had expected. He checked his watch, surprised that it was only eight o’clock in the evening. Allison came directly to the point. “Tom, we’re worried that the President will overreact—”
“B.J.,” Fraser interrupted, feeling confident if she was so worried to call him this early, “I’ve got it all under control.”
“Oh, I do hope so,” she answered and while the words were charming, the tone in her voice carried steel. “We have heard that the President’s grandson is in Israel. We do hope that is not an indication of his unqualified support.”
“Now don’t go worrying about that,” Fraser soothed. “Captain Pontowski was there on a routine exchange visit and the Air Force is trying to get him out as soon as possible.” He paused, waiting for a reply. Silence. “B.J., we could use a break right now and handle this crisis better if the press would get off our case about illegal campaign funds-”
“Why, I have nothing to do with that,” she interrupted, laying on her southern accent. “Forgive a poor old woman, Tom, but I do worry about what is going on and would be able to rest much better if I could be sure that we will not desert our other friends in the Middle East.”
Fraser knew they were bargaining — she for influence, he for less pressure from the press. “Trust me,” Fraser said, “the President will do the right thing if he can. You know how the media can influence political and economic decisions”—stressing the word “economic” was his way of turning up the heat—“especially during a crisis.” Now get off my goddamn back, he added mentally.
“Tom, if I could only be sure.” She went on for a few more moments and then hung up.
So that’s the trade-off, Fraser thought, we secure her interests in the Middle East and she dries up the press’s sources of information about illegal campaign funds. And how in the hell did she know about Matt?
“He’s being difficult,” Allison said after she had hung up. “He must have buried all that money I gave to their campaign very deep. I do wish I knew how he did that and what’s going on.”
“Do you want me to find out?” Tara Tyndle asked.
“That would be sweet of you,” Allison said, smiling at her favorite grand-niece.
Bill Carroll worked his way through the food line of the restaurant in the basement of the Union train station. Teenagers and their chaperons on school field trips filled the place and offered him the cover he wanted to meet Melissa CourtneySmith. His wife Mary was right behind him, wrestling with their son Brett. For all outward appearances, they were part of the spring tourist rush in Washington, D.C. They found two empty chairs at a table occupied by Melissa and two teenagers. Brett’s activity soon drove the teenagers away and Melissa and Carroll felt it was safe to talk.
“I’ve been listening to Radio Cairo and Radio Damascus on the shortwave,” he said. “It’s much worse than it appears in the papers and on TV. This is not localized fighting between Syria and Israel.”
“The CIA and State,” Melissa told him, “are concerned but don’t think the fighting will go on much longer.”
“Don’t bet on it. The Arabs are whipping their people up for a jihad. You should hear the radio broadcasts. I wish more of those turkeys at the CIA and the State Department could understand Arabic.”
“The President’s trying to get the UN involved and negotiate a cease-fire,” she said.
“It had better be quick because Iraq’s going to come in and join up with Syria. The Egyptians will lie low until the Israelis are fully committed in the north and then attack in the Sinai. The Arabs could win this one.”
“No one has said anything about Iraq coming in,” Melissa said. “That changes everything.”
“Iraq has been a prime mover in this from the beginning and has come up with an ‘Arab solution’ to the Israeli problem with them leading the pack. The President has got to be warned,” Carroll urged.
“Bill, how can you be so sure? After all, you have been cut off from your sources. I can’t pass on hunches or guesses.”
“The Mossad contacted me. I hope they passed it on to General Cox.”
“But the Israelis talk to the CIA all the time. Surely, they must have told us by now?”
“They did,” Carroll answered. “But you know how the CIA works. The Middle East Division chief is in the driver’s seat on this one and he doesn’t believe the Israelis. There’s a strong anti-Mossad faction in the CIA. Probably professional jealousy. Hell, everyone thinks Iraq is still in the Arab doghouse because of the Kuwait war. But Arab opinion and policies can change in three days. They just don’t think like we do.”
“And you think the fighting is going to get worse?”
“Much worse.”
Melissa gathered up her handbag and umbrella and walked away. At a nearby table a man watched her go, sorry that she had sat with her back to him and that he had only been able to read Carroll’s lips. He doubted that his partner overlooking them on the balcony picked the conversation up with hi? directional mike. A teenager’s boom box was creating interference. They ought to outlaw those things as dangerous to national security, he thought. We’ve got enough here, he decided; time to take a close look at the activities of Carroll’s old boss, one Brigadier General Leo Cox.
“Whatever happened to rule number one?” Furry mumbled into his oxygen mask as his fingers punched coordinates into the Up Front Controller’s keyboard. It was one way to load the coordinates for the steer points, offsets, and target for their mission into the aircraft’s computers. With the right computer and equipment like they had in the squadron at Stonewood, he could have cut a data transfer tape cartridge with all the information the Strike Eagle’s computer systems needed for the mission. Then Matt could have simply shoved the cartridge into the Data Transfer Module on the instrument panel in front of him and programmed the computers almost instantaneously. Furry resigned himself to the task at hand and kept punching the numbers in until he was finished. “Okay, ready to taxi,” he told Matt.
“Hold on,” Matt said. He leaned out of the cockpit and checked on the two technicians who were still working on the black box that programmed their Tactical Electronic Warfare System. “I can’t believe you let them get into the TEWS,” he said.
“Why not?” the wizzo answered. “It’s a lot like the one they got on their F-Fifteens and what the hell, we need every break we can get going against those missiles.” The two technicians had been working furiously since the briefing when Matt had volunteered to go after the headquarters. It had been Furry’s idea to use the information the surviving F-4 crew had brought back from Harkabi’s mission to see if they could reprogram the Eagle’s black boxes to counter the Gadfly. Within an hour, the two technicians with their specialized equipment had been flown in and after a lively discussion in which everyone talked at once, they had ripped into the system, scaring the daylights out of Matt.
Harkabi had reassured him that the Israeli Air Force worked like that and they accomplished wonders simply by getting the right people talking to each other and then getting out of their way. Still, Matt felt like they were serving as guinea pigs.
One of the technicians stuck his head out from under the equipment bay and gave them a thumbs-up signal. The other man buttoned up the panel and they were ready to taxi. “Can’t believe they did that with engines running,” Matt grumbled. He checked his watch and taxied out of the bunker, gunning the engines and racing for the runway. He had never taxied that fast before with a bomb load. A green light blinked at them from the concrete bunker that served as the control tower. Matt took the runway and stroked the throttles, rolling without coming to a full stop to run the engines up. The Eagle leaped into the early-morning dark.