Furry scribbled a note on his pad for Matt to see. The wizzo was of the opinion that the Israelis would not be impressed. But since this was the first assignment Gold had sent them on, neither said a word. The colonel had a lot to learn.
A dirty van drove up and a haggard-looking Israeli lieutenant colonel climbed out. He identified himself as the ramp marshal responsible for unloading cargo planes and clearing the ramp as quickly as possible for the next inbound aircraft. Colonel Walters bridled at his abrupt manner and tried to explain that he was responsible for all MAC aircraft on the ground. The Israeli logistics officer ignored him and acknowledged a call on the van’s radio. Then he pointed to the west. Approaching the airport at four hundred feet and three hundred knots was a C-5.
“What the hell!” Walters shouted, his face bright red. “MAC doesn’t allow approaches like that. I’ll send that pilot’s ass home in a—”
“Colonel,” Matt interrupted. “Israeli air defenses are weapons-free …”
“Damn right they’re free. The U.S. paid for “em.”
“Colonel,” Matt explained, “ ‘weapons-free’ means the Hawk batteries ringing this place will shoot at anything that is not positively identified as friendly. And Hawks don’t miss. Your pilots have to fly that approach”—he gestured at the C-5 that was now almost over the field—“or the Hawks will hose it down. Believe it.”
“I don’t have to believe a goddamn thing, Captain.” Walters fell silent as the huge cargo plane crossed the approach end of the runway, still at four hundred feet and three hundred knots. Walters gasped when the pilot reefed it into a climbing left turn to a thousand feet and circled to land, touching down at the same spot where he had initially popped.
The colonel was beet-red and huffing. Matt was certain he would hyperventilate and pass out. “Captain, what you just saw violates every safety regulation in MAC’s book. I’m going to have some ass.”
“Sir,” Matt tried to calm the man, “that looked like pretty good airmanship to me. Why don’t you talk to the pilot after he lands? He may not’ve had a choice.” Walters shot Matt a look of contempt and stomped off” to give orders to the cargo handlers.
Matt and Furry stood beside their car and watched the C-5 fast-taxi to the ramp. They heard another “Goddamn” as Walters exploded again. “That man’s gonna bust a blood vessel,” Furry allowed. The plane’s engines remained at idle as it knelt down on its landing gear. Both the front and rear cargo doors swung open and ten Hummers with TOW antitank missiles mounted on top drove off both ends. Then an M2 Bradley armored fighting vehicle clanked down the front ramp. The plane raised up on its haunches and a low, flat-bedded cargo platform drove up. The driver nudged it against the cargo bay and pallet after pallet stacked with boxes were pushed off. “That puppy do carry a bit,” Furry mumbled. “Most of those pallets are loaded with TOWs and Stingers,” he added.
Walters bounced up to them. “Get on the ramp marshal’s radio and order them to shut down engines,” he barked. “The loadmaster says they’re code two for maintenance. No way I’m going to let them launch until it’s fixed.” The C-5's cargo doors closed and the engines spun up.
“Sir,” Matt shouted over the engine noise, “is it fly-able?” He knew the answer — code two simply meant the plane had minor problems.
“Damn it, I don’t launch unsafe aircraft. Get on the radio and shut ‘em down.” Now the C-5 moved forward and taxied for the runway.
“Colonel Walters,” Matt said, “this is a war zone and well within range of tactical missiles. The safest place for your aircraft is a hundred miles out over the Mediterranean.”
“You’re getting in the way, Captain. I need some action if I’m going to get things under control here.” He spun to look at the departing C-5, which was now taking the active runway and rolling. It had been on the ground less than fifteen minutes. They could see the back of the ramp marshal’s van as it followed the Bradley off the nearly deserted ramp. All the cargo had disappeared and only four men were left standing by a half-empty pallet with tool boxes and an F-15 radome. The colonel’s head jerked back and forth as he tried to understand what had happened to his carefully planned and organized operation.
Finally, he found some words. “They can’t fuckin’ A do this to me!” he shouted.
Furry tried to explain but he doubted if the man would understand. “Colonel, the war over there”—he pointed to the north—“is seventy miles away and is eating up men and equipment like you wouldn’t believe. Right now, the side that’s going to win is the side that can resupply the fastest. The Israelis know that. They haven’t got time to play paper-shuffling games.”
“Amb,” Matt said, looking at the four sergeants standing by the pallet, “I think those guys are the combat repair team that came in on the C-Five. Why don’t you get ‘em down to Ramon and get our jet fixed. I’ll check in with the embassy.”
“Love to.” Furry grinned. “That’ll give me a chance to pick a few more Israeli brains about the latest tactics they’re using.” Then the wizzo got very serious. “Matt, rule number four says ‘Know when to get the hell out of Dodge’ and I think it’s time for us to cut and run.” A rueful look crossed Matt’s face. He gave Furry an abrupt nod and drove off, leaving Colonel Walters behind.
It took Matt over thirty minutes to find a phone and get through to Gold at the embassy in Jerusalem. The air attache’s reaction to Matt’s report was a low-pitched belly laugh. “I know ‘Ricochet’ Walters,” he said. “I’m not surprised they sent him here — he does look good on paper. I’ll get him replaced. Don’t worry, MAC’S got plenty of colonels who have a clue and can move cargo.
“We’ve got an Army lieutenant colonel as an observer at Haifa,” Gold continued, “and the Israelis have asked for him on the Golan. I want you to go up there and replace him. He’ll brief you on what he’s been up to.” Matt copied down the detailed directions he needed to make contact, and when Gold told him to “Get going,” he ran for his car.
The directions Gold had given Matt led him directly to the U.S. Army lieutenant colonel at the forward headquarters of Northern Command. He found the LC sitting in a mess tent, discouraged by his total lack of activity and usefulness. He explained how the Israelis kept him on a short leash and that he could probably learn more by reading press releases than by what he was seeing. “This is as far forward as they’ll let you get,” he warned Matt. Then he disappeared, hopeful that he would see more of the action on the Golan Heights.
Within minutes, Matt discovered that the staff officers had no time for him but were not going to let him go anywhere. Late that night, he stood outside the main command bunker and listened to the distant whump of artillery. Occasionally, he could see a red glow light the horizon. This is stupid, he thought and decided that if he couldn’t go forward, he would go backward. “Or make an end run,” he mumbled to himself. Fifteen minutes later, he was on the outskirts of Haifa, heading for Shoshana’s apartment.
The Tamirs’ large apartment was filled with children and four harried-looking grandmothers. One of the women spoke excellent English and explained how they had evacuated the children out of a kibbutz in the Huleh Valley at the base of the escarpment leading up to the Golan Heights. “They are not used to being cooped up like this,” she said as she collared a four-year-old who seemed intent on turning the balcony’s railing into a tightrope. Matt was able to piece together a connection between the kibbutz and Avi Tamir, but when he asked about Shoshana, he was greeted with absolute silence.