“Sit down, Tom.” Pontowski waved Fraser to the couch and slumped in his own leather-covered chair. He spun and looked out the window, not seeing the President’s Park stretched out before him. This has got to be the loneliest job in the world, he thought. And it doesn’t help with Tosh coming out of remission. Lupus was rampaging through her body, this time attacking her heart, killing his wife, his Mend, lover, and best counselor. Suddenly, he felt very old.
“Mr. President?” It was Fraser bringing him back to the moment. Strange, he thought, how much I rely on Fraser and I don’t even particularly like him. “Shall I order you some lunch?” Pontowski nodded. Before Fraser could pick the phone up, it rang. The President nodded and Fraser answered it. His face visibly paled as he listened. “The Hot Line is down,” Fraser said, “no one is acknowledging our calls.”
“That’s not good,” Pontowski said. He sank back into his chair, considering the implications. The crisis in the Kremlin had gone critical and he was making decisions in the dark, not knowing how the Russians would react, not able to cable them his intentions. “How many Russian advisers are there in Syria?” he asked.
“Over fifteen hundred at the last count,” Fraser replied. “Our weapons are going to kill some of them,” the President predicted.
18
What I don’t know will kill us, Moshe Levy thought as he watched his platoon consolidate their position. He had hated ordering one of the other tank crews to switch tanks with him, but as the platoon’s commander he had to have mobility if he was to survive and get them to safety. His old tank was mostly hull-down behind the ridge and still capable of using its main gun. But if the Syrians attacked, it would be the first target. It amazed him how the other tank crew had readily accepted the change. Even Avner had commented on it and said that he would not obey that order. Levy had let it go.
The tank crews were finished with redistributing their remaining ammunition, and the squads in the M113 armored personnel carriers had dismounted and deployed along the low ridge that reached west out of the mountains and ran down to the sea to form the border between Israel and Lebanon. One of the squad leaders had suggested that they deploy recon/observation teams on the flanks and send a two-man scout team forward as soon as it was fully dark. Levy readily agreed. When he turned his attention back to his tank, he found Dave Bielski and another gunner boresighting the main gun. “The thermal sight is kaput,” Bielski told him. Their night fighting capability would now depend on how good their backup infrared sight was. I wish the old crew had told me about that, Levy thought. I’ve got a lot to learn.
He checked on Halaby and found him alone under the tank, tensioning the tracks. It was a two-man job and Avner should have been helping him. Levy searched the growing darkness until he found his loader, eating behind a rock outcropping. He took a great deal of pleasure in kicking him into action and sending him over the help Halaby. I shouldn’t have done that, he berated himself.
Darkness had settled over the ridge and Levy forced himself to maintain a listening watch on the radios. He badly wanted to check in and find out what was going on, but he knew that the longer the pause in fighting, the greater the chance of the Syrians’ using radio direction finders to pinpoint his position. Then he could expect an artillery barrage. He rummaged around in the tank until he found his night vision goggles. I’ve got to get organized, he thought, but I don’t seem to have enough time. He had never imagined that one of the main problems a commander had was time management. Why hadn’t someone told him that?
When Levy had the bulky goggled that resembled a squashed set of binoculars strapped to his head, he scrambled to the crest of the ridge and scanned the slope in front of him. Nothing. Then he turned and looked down the reverse slope to check his own disposition again. To the south, behind them, he could see movement of greenish images. Were they surrounded? Isolated? For a moment, he would’ve sworn that his heart was in his throat. Then he saw the distinctive image of an M88 tank recovery vehicle emerge from the dust. He couldn’t credit how gracefully the fifty-seven-ton monster moved, almost floating, then plowing over the terrain, leaving a feather wake of dust behind it. His heart found its proper place and he watched six Merkava tanks supported by a dozen of the heavily armored Centurion tanks that had been converted to APCs sweep toward him. It looked like an armored brigade was coming to the rescue.
Twenty minutes later, Levy was standing by the center hatch at the back of a Merkava tank as an aluf mishneh, or colonel, crawled out of the crew compartment. The colonel was in command of the brigade and using the Merkava as his command vehicle. “Congratulations,” he said, pumping Levy’s hand. “Our attack was turning into a complete disaster until you swung right and cleared this ridge. Apparently, the Syrians were going to use it to anchor an attack on our flank but thought better of it when you magically appeared.”
Levy thought about how easily they had taken the ridge. “I don’t think the Syrians were much sold on the idea,” he said.
“Obviously, you changed their minds. Our latest reconnaissance shows they’re pulling back, probably to reconstitute. We’re moving forward until we come in contact to keep the pressure on them.” He studied the map one of his staff handed him. “This looks like a good place for my headquarters. Moshe, you saved our ass on this one.”
So now I’m a hero because of pure dumb luck, Levy thought.
“I’ve forwarded a recommendation that you be promoted to segen,” the colonel said. “Division will approve when they hear what you did here.”
Levy’s mouth fell open. A segen was a first lieutenant and at the rate he was going, he’d make captain in a week. And that meant command of a company, which he definitely did not want.
The word that Tosh Pontowski was very ill again swept through the White House, casting a dark cloud over the entire staff. For those who knew what lupus could do, the news was especially grim and they struggled with their emotions, trying to soldier on as Tosh would have wanted. Even Zack Pontowski’s political enemies, men who contested with him over every major issue and election, sent their best wishes and hopes for a speedy recovery to the White House. The President’s wife was loved and respected.
Melissa Courtney-Smith had shed her tears in private and thought she was in full control when the President walked through her office. Without thinking, she stood up, wanting to say something, to offer hope. But the words weren’t there. Pontowski nodded at her, acknowledging the unspoken words between them. He paused before leaving. “We need to talk.” He nodded toward his office and she followed him. Once inside and alone, he motioned to a couch and sat down beside her. “Melissa, what have you and Bill Carroll be talking about?”
Her first impulse was to ask him how he knew about her and Bill. But Melissa knew he would not tell her. “About the Arab-Israeli war. Bill is very worried and claims the Iraqis will come in with the Syrians. He says the Arabs are whipping their people up for a jihad and if a cease-fire can’t be negotiated within a few days, the Arabs might win.”
Pontowski stared at his hands. “Why did he tell you?”
Melissa knew that they had come to the heart of the matter and that by rights, the President should fire her for meddling in affairs that didn’t concern her. But she wasn’t about to lie or try to hide what she had done. “Because Bill doesn’t think you’re getting the full picture, that internal prejudices in the CIA and politics are filtering out key items.”