“Don’t count on it.”
“Never hurts to ask.”
The Americans were in their distinctive white uniforms and the Israelis were in their indistinctive olive-green uniforms. All were young and vigorous, and tried to impress each other. The pilots stood in small groups and traded stories. Many of the Israelis talked of combat victories and MiGs downed; the Americans stuck to carrier aviation, which the Israelis would never experience.
Woods and Big were talking to three Israeli Captains. They were F-15 pilots and proud of it. Pritch hovered outside the group, not sure whether she could participate as a full member of the unspoken but recognized fraternity of fighter pilots. She had insisted on coming even though she wasn’t “aircrew.” She argued that she was an officer in the squadron and should be allowed to come. Bark thought it might be amusing to have her along.
Woods was distracted. He had to write the flight schedule for the morning’s flights, some of which were to launch immediately after the Washington pulled out of Haifa, and he hadn’t even started it. “I’m sorry, what?” he said, realizing one of the Israelis was talking to him.
“You went to Topgun.”
“Not only did he go, he was an instructor,” Big said.
“Thanks, Big,” Woods said sarcastically. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Is that true?” the Captain asked, impressed. “You were an instructor?”
“Yeah. Two and a half year shore tour, flying F-5s and F-16Ns.”
“Must be great flying.”
“Best there is.”
“Is Topgun a good thing for the Navy? It is just Navy?”
“Yes. It’s a Navy thing. The Air Force has Red Flag; but there’s nothing like the original,” Woods said, smiling. “It sure made a difference in Vietnam when it started. Our kill ratio was 2:1 until we started Topgun, then it went to more than 12:1. The North Vietnamese told their pilots not to fight gray Phantoms.”
“What do you mean?” the Captain asked, perplexed.
“Gray Phantoms. Navy Phantoms, F-4s. Fight the Air Force Phantoms, the camouflage ones. They haven’t been to Topgun.”
“Oh, of course. That’s good,” the Captain said. Grinning, he repeated this in Hebrew for his fellow pilots. They laughed weakly. “You think you still fly as good?”
Woods smiled. “We like to think so. We’d love the chance to see how we could do against you.”
Big stepped closer as the stakes went up. “That would be something. Since you guys are clearly the best in the world — because of your combat experience — it would be quite an honor to test ourselves against you.”
“It would be our honor,” the Captain said to Woods. “And we would only hope to do well enough so as not to bring discredit on ourselves.” He studied the white-uniformed Navy pilots carefully. “I wish we could find out,” the Captain said.
At the front of the room, someone tapped on the side of a glass.
“May I have your attention please,” said an Israeli officer. Woods couldn’t figure out how to decode their insignia yet, but assumed the one speaking was in charge. “I am Colonel Yitzak Bersham. I want to welcome the American pilots from the Washington, and thank you for coming to Ramat David, our aircraft carrier that doesn’t move.” He smiled at his small joke. “The reason we asked you here tonight is to get to know you better, let you get to know us better, and talk about airplanes and the great traditions of aviation. We also wanted to thank you on behalf of your country, for your constant support, and for the weapons you have provided us, without which we would never have survived.” He waited as the Israeli pilots clapped, endorsing his thanks.
“Please make yourselves at home, get to know our pilots, and enjoy your stay in Israel.” He raised his glass and then stepped away from the microphone.
A U.S. Navy Captain took the microphone and spoke to the crowd. “Good evening. I’m Captain Dave Anderson, the Air Wing Commander of the Washington. We wanted to thank you for your hospitality, and for inviting us to meet you at your air base. Several of you were able to visit us on the Washington, and next time perhaps the rest of you can as well…”
Woods had stopped listening. He never liked speeches, or toasts, or any other times when people said things other than what they meant. He looked at the Israeli pilots standing next to him, then at his watch. He still had to prepare the flight schedule.
“… and let me simply say that it is an honor to be with the second-best group of aviators in the world.” The Israelis hooted and laughed at the comment, although half were behind because of the translation lag.
Commander Anderson moved away from the mile, and the officers began talking again. Woods didn’t feel like making any more small talk. He toyed with going out and waiting in the bus. “Lieutenant Woods,” the Israeli Captain said, “I want you to meet our Squadron Commander, Major Mike Chermak.” Chermak moved closer to Woods and extended his hand.
Woods was surprised. “Your name is Mike?”
“Yes.” Chermak smiled warmly. “Nice Christian name, yes?”
“Interesting.”
“No, it is short for Micah. Old Hebrew name. There is even a book in your Old Testament by that name.” He watched Woods, then recognized his name on his nametag. “So you’re the Topgun instructor,” he said softly. His brown eyes bore holes in Woods, making him uneasy.
“Former instructor, sir,” Woods said. “Now I’m in a squadron.”
“103?” he asked.
Woods’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve done your homework.”
“Skull and bones,” he said.
“That’s us.”
“I went to your school. I am a Topgun graduate.”
Woods studied him more closely. “When?”
“Oh, before your time. Class of 04/97, in F-16s.”
“That’s why you guys are so good. Navy-trained.”
“How do you like the F-14?” Chermak asked.
“Best fighter in the world,” Woods said quickly.
“You really believe it’s better than our F-15s?”
“Depends on what you’re doing. Can you shoot down six planes simultaneously?”
“No, but how often are you called on to do that?”
“Not often enough.”
“What about in a dogfight?”
“We can beat anybody, except a well-flown F-15 or 16. Really well flown. And we’ll beat him about half the time.”
Chermak changed the subject. “Have you enjoyed your time in Israel?”
“Not really,” Woods said.
“Why not?” the Major asked.
Woods was silent for a minute before he answered. “Because I went to see where my roommate was murdered.”
The Major hesitated. Then he asked. “How did it happen?”
“He came to visit his girlfriend, in Nahariya, and was killed by that Sheikh.”
The Major sighed. “He was the one on the bus?”
“Yes, sir,” Woods replied, his gray eyes full of fire.
“I’m sorry,” the Major said. Shrugging his shoulders, he added, “Americans don’t usually get involved.”
“Shot him in the back.”
The Major responded softly, “I’m sorry… but, you know, Israelis are killed every year. In cold blood. I don’t mean to minimize the death of your friend, but if it had been an Israeli man killed on that bus, you probably wouldn’t have even heard about it.”
“You know, you don’t have a patent on suffering,” Woods said angrily. “Sometimes it seems to me like you’re proud of how much you’ve had to suffer. Well, we suffer sometimes too. Seems like it’s always for someone else, but we suffer too.”
“Of course you do. I didn’t mean to say you don’t. But you must understand, we are in a unique situation here. There have been over fifteen hundred terrorist attacks on Israel since we became an independent nation in 1948. We are a country of four and a half million people, and we are surrounded by forty million Arabs, who have sworn to kill us all and push us into the sea. Sometimes some of them deny that. But never all of them.” He raised his glass and drank deeply. “We are in a constant state of war. Constant. They shoot rockets at us across the border, and hit schools and hospitals. They come ashore in rubber boats and murder families. They blow up buses and kill innocent women and children. And for that, they want recognition and respect.”