Without being told, Halaby reversed the tank, backing over the ridge. As they came down the slope, a wire-guided Sagger missile hit their front right track and exploded, blowing their track off the front idler. Halaby still had enough momentum and control to back the tank down a few more feet before they came to a halt.
The commands came quick and furious as Bielski traversed the turret and sought out the BMP that had launched the missile at them. Finally, the tank quieted and only the harsh noises of the radio filled the turret. Levy keyed his mike and spoke to his platoon before he popped the hatch and scanned the killing field in front of him with binoculars. Satisfied they were safe, he ordered the other tank commanders and squad leaders from the APCs to gather around his tank while he established contact with his company’s command post. As expected, his orders were to hold and stand by for orders.
Bielski and Halaby were examining the battle damage to the tank when Avner slid down to the ground. “Where the hell are we?” he asked, trying to get his bearings.
“Apparently stuck in the middle of nowhere all by ourselves,” Bielski said.
“Now what the hell are we going to do now?” Avner grumbled.
“Get a new tank,” Bielski said. “This one is going to take some major repairs before it moves again.”
Avner spun around and glared at Halaby. “Damn you! You were never ordered to go over the ridge. If you had stayed on this side, we would’ve never taken that last hit. You’re a jinx, Halaby.”
Nazzi Halaby shrugged, his way of fending off the heavy-set, nineteen-year-old Avner. Then a thought occurred to him. “You’re still alive, aren’t you?”
Fraser was standing in front of the President’s desk, waiting to escort him down to the Situation Room in the basement. Pontowski stood up and led the way as Fraser’s short legs tried to match his long strides. “Who’s giving the briefing today?” he asked.
“William Hogan from the CIA,” Fraser told him.
“When will BUI Carroll be back?”
“He won’t, Mr. President.” Pontowski raised an eyebrow and Fraser knew an explanation was in order. It was die moment he had been waiting for. “We had him checked out and discovered he had an unauthorized contact with Mossad.”
“Was he working for Mossad?” Pontowski asked.
“No, just talking to them when he shouldn’t. Rather than take chances, we pulled his clearance and put him out to pasture. We’re still watching him. By the way, another interesting connection showed up.” They were almost to the Situation Room. “Carroll has been talking to Melissa.”
Pontowski paused at the doorway and stared at Fraser. He humphed and walked through. Inside, the National Security Council, along with the director of central intelligence and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, were standing, waiting for him. The CIA briefer, William Hogan, was standing nervously beside a set of briefing charts. Pontowski nodded and sat down. Everyone but Hogan shuffled into his chair. “Mr. Hogan, I hope you have some good news for us,” Pontowski said.
“I wish I did, Mr. President.” With that, he started his briefing on the latest installment of the Arab-Israeli conflict. In a few words and with three charts, he summarized the situation. Fraser relaxed into his chair next to the wall and made desultory notes, easily splitting his attention. The Israelis are going to take a beating on this one, he thought. That should make B. J. Allison and her Arab buddies happy.
Matt’s name caught Fraser’s attention and he focused on the speaker, Admiral Scovill, the JCS Chairman. “Our air attaché has found Captain Pontowski and Major Furry and they are providing us with the best intelligence we have from inside Israel. It’s all in Colonel Gold’s latest report. We’re talking a gold mine here.” Scovill looked over his reading glasses. “Pun intended, sir. The intelligence is so good that our ambassador has requested that we make them official observers and give them diplomatic status.”
“Too many political liabilities,” the secretary of state said. “Your grandson as an official observer could be read as a personal commitment to the Israelis. And it is dangerous. If he were taken hostage or killed …” He let the thought trail off.
“Recommendations?” Pontowski asked.
The room was split evenly on the question. Finally, only the director of central intelligence, Bobby Burke, remained to be heard from. “I think they should stay in place. The Israelis are famous for crying wolf to get more arms and aid. With a good source of intelligence, we can better judge what they really need and just how bad the situation is.”
“If the ambassador wants them, he’s got them for now,” Pontowski said. “If they are taken as hostages, nothing special.” The men and women in the room could see the pain of that decision in the President’s eyes. “Next item. Are we making headway in the UN to get the fighting stopped?”
The secretary of state knew the question was for him. “No, sir,” he answered. “The Arab bloc of nations senses a victory and is stalling. Winning is a new sensation for them and they are collecting on every favor and debt owed them for support. There won’t be any progress in the UN until the Israelis start to win.”
Silence came down heavy in the room. “So the question is,” Pontowski said, “should we start the resupply of Israel now?” This time, the room was unanimous that a resupply of arms had to begin immediately. Especially urgent was the need for more Patriot, TOW antitank, and Stinger surface-to-air missiles.
“Mr. President,” the secretary of state counseled, “I agree that we need to start now. But, what we are sending Israel will be used against a very important client state of the Soviet Union. Given the turmoil going on inside the Kremlin, we had better tell the Russians what we’re doing and send them reassuring words that we will not let Israel defeat Syria. God only knows how the hard-liners will react if they see a threat to their interests. We could be playing right into their hands and give the hawks in the Kremlin an excuse for a military coup. They ‘re not above using an external threat as a reason for reestablishing a dictatorship. If they have their way, this fighting could jump the firebreak we’ve got around it now. We don’t want to turn this into a wider, regional war.”
Pontowski sat for a few minutes thinking about the options open to him. There was little doubt that the United States had to react now or that Israel would be overrun, and that he could not allow. But what were the Egyptians and Iraqis up to? Would they come into the war? What would the Israelis do once they were on the offensive? Yair Ben David was a tough old bird with a belief in vengeance and a deep-seated hatred of Arabs. What end game would the Russians accept? Was there anyone in charge in the Kremlin? Were the Syrians acting as a wild card on their own? Too many questions and no answers, he thought. Well, this is what I was elected to do, what I wanted to do.
“Mr. President?” It was the secretary of state. “Since the Soviet ambassador has been recalled home, may I suggest we use the Hot Line to establish contact and relay our intentions before we start resupply operations?” He pushed a sheet of paper across the table to Pontowski. “I’ve taken the liberty of drafting a message.” The Hot Line was not a voice link with the Kremlin’s leaders but a Teletype. “Also, perhaps we should send our own Russian translation with it so that … ah”—he sought the right diplomatic words but gave up—“the dumb bastards don’t get it wrong.”
The President read the message. It was concise, to the point, and made it very clear that the United States would cut off the flow of arms and material once the fighting had stopped and a return to the status quo had been achieved. “Get it translated and on the wires,” he ordered. He rose and walked back to the Oval Office, mulling over how and when to tell his wife that Matt was still in harm’s way.