“Designating,” Furry called from the rear. He had found the target within seconds, laid his cross hairs over it and locked it up. The weapons computer could do its job now. Matt eased the stick forward and they porpoised back down on the deck. Immediately, he brought the nose back up for a second porpoise so the weapons computer sensed an upward vector and could reach a release solution for the bombs and automatically pickle. The F-15 jerked as two bombs rippled off.
Four bright rocket plumes — Gadflies — were lighting the night and converging on them. Again, Matt headed for the deck but the jagged terrain kept him high. Now he turned into the missiles, certain that he could outmaneuver the first two and generate an overshoot. His situational awareness warned him the second pair were another story. Then all four missiles flashed, exploding short of their target.
“Shit hot!” Furry yelled.
“What the hell …” Matt said. Furry was laughing like a madman, relieved that they were still alive. He would explain after they landed how the last-minute change the Israelis had made to their TEWS had enabled one of the black boxes to capture the range gate of the Gadflies’ radar and generate a false range cue which, in turn, caused the missiles to receive a premature detonate command.
Two explosions from their bombs lighted the night as tracers from a ZSU-23 passed behind them.
Furry read the safe passage procedures to Matt as they approached Ramon to land. They had to fly a hard altitude at 250 knots airspeed, stay in a narrow corridor, and squawk the right IFF code or the Israeli Hawks and AAA would treat them as a hostile aircraft. “They’re weapons-free,” Furry reminded him. “Weapons-free” made thing more dicey, for every aircraft was treated as a “hostile” unless positively identified as a “friendly.” It was like being guilty until proven innocent. Matt wired the approach and circled to land.
Before completing their rollout, Matt turned off on the first highspeed taxipath and headed for their bunker at thirty miles an hour. He automatically stabbed at the eight-day clock and stopped the elapsed time hand. He could hardly credit it; the mission had lasted less than fifty-five minutes and they had never flown slower than 540 knots indicated airspeed or higher than four hundred feet above the deck. He pulled his oxygen mask away from his face and rubbed the sweat away with the back of his gloved hand. He could not believe how tired he felt or how wringing wet with sweat he was.
In the backseat, Furry was busy checking all his systems. “Looks like we’re undamaged and healthy as a horse,” he announced. They had survived their first combat mission as a crew and the Eagle was undamaged. The bunker doors opened as they approached and Matt taxied directly in and shut the engines down. Instead of a ground crew waiting to receive them, two men stood in the bunker. One was the Israeli base commander and the other was an immaculately uniformed but slightly overweight U.S. Air Force colonel dressed in class A blues. The silver cord of an aiguillette looped over his left shoulder announced he was the air attaché from the United States embassy in Jerusalem.
“What the hell have you two cowboys done?” the colonel shouted, his face rock-hard.
17
The Ganef had not left his office for three days as he drove Mossad into a frenzy of activity. He was furious with himself and his organization for what he knew was a basic failure in intelligence. His agents had reported the Syrians were upgrading the quality of their military but they had failed to determine just how deep the improvements had reached. The Syrians were performing miracles on the battlefield and the Israelis were feeing a well-trained and modern army. A knock at his open door caught his attention and the old man lifted his head. He leaned back in his chair, pushed his glasses up onto his forehead and rubbed his nose. Gad Habish was standing in front of him. “Well?”
“I’m turning the Pontowski case over to Mordechai. He’s been briefed.”
“I’ll take it over myself,” the Ganef decided. “How’s it going?”
“It was going very well as of five minutes ago. Colonel Gold, the U.S. air attaché found him just after he landed from a mission.”
“It would be good if he flew another mission,” the Ganef observed. Habish said nothing. They both believed that Matt could best serve the interests of Israel as a casualty or prisoner of war. The worldwide publicity resulting from the President’s grandson dying or being captured fighting for Israel would unconditionally force the United States into Israel’s corner.
“Shoshana Tamir has proven most useful,” the Ganef said. “We need to make sure she and the young Pontowski meet again.”
“Nature will take care of that,” Habish said. “If we can keep him in Israel.” Then he changed the subject. “I’m leaving in an hour. Everything is arranged.”
The Ganef looked at the man who had served him so well. “I don’t like this. Too rushed.” There was more than a professional worry behind his words.
“It has to be done,” Habish said. “The station chief in Cairo is onto something and needs help. Maybe we can feed the Egyptians enough misinformation to keep them out of the war.”
“You two got to have hemorrhoids of the brain,” Colonel Steven Gold groaned. The air attaché was stalking back and forth in the small office he had appropriated in Dave Harkabi’s squadron building. Matt and Furry were sprawled out in chairs, both sucking on water bottles, their sweat-stained flight suits unzipped. “Look at you,” he spat. “Have either of you ever read the manual on dress and appearance?”
“The side with the simplest uniforms wins,” Furry intoned.
“What the hell does that mean?” Gold shot back.
“You ever flown in combat?” Matt asked. Combat had been a new, and in many ways thrilling, experience for the young pilot. He doubted that he would ever be the same again, and for the first time, he understood how he had changed since the day Locke had first dressed him down. He smiled to himself when he thought of how his old, self-assured attitude had planted one of the earth’s axis firmly in his butt while the world rotated there about. That vision of his self-importance had been destroyed.
“What does that have to do with this?” The colonel was yelling, misinterpreting Matt’s smile, and on the very edge of losing his temper. “Not only did you jeopardize a thirty-million-dollar jet—”
“Twenty-nine million,” Furry corrected.
Colonal Gold fought for what was left of his self-control. “But you actively involved the United States on Israel’s side. Do you have any idea of the repercussions if you had been shot down and captured? Especially you, Captain Pontowski.”
Matt decided it was time to bite back. He had seen too many colonels like the one standing in front of him — desk jockeys good at pushing paper who didn’t have a clue about the business end of the Air Force. “Came damn close, Colonel. They almost got us.”
“Captain, you seem to have forgotten who your grandfather is. I was given specific orders to find you and make sure you get out of Israel. Right now, your presence here is a political liability—” Gold was interrupted when the young intelligence officer opened the door. He could only stare at her, struck by how such a beautiful woman could be caught up fighting a war.
“Matt, Ambler,” she said. “We’ve got the results of your mission. Want to see?” She held the door open and gestured toward her office. “Colonel Gold, after you?” The air attaché didn’t hesitate and quickly followed Matt and Furry out of the room.