The exec switches on the squawk box. “Bridge to fire control. Hold steady on target awaiting command to fire. Repeat, steady on, awaiting command.” He pauses. “Bridge to sea-to-air battery. Sea-to-air, come in.”
An affirmative noise responds.
“Sea-to-air, acquire spinner at two o’clock, range three hundred meters, altitude one hundred meters and holding.”
Another noise, this one longer, and clearly not affirmative.
The executive officer turns to the admiral. “Excellency, sea-to-air battery reports target is clearly marked Press.”
“A Jewish trick,” the admiral replies.
“Excellency?”
“Shoot it down. Then order gunners to take out all marine targets dead ahead starting with…” He raises his binoculars. “Star of something.”
“Star of Bethlehem, excellency.”
“Indeed, the star. What did I tell you, a Jewish trick.”
“Excellency?”
“Yussef, Yussef. Tell me, what is the symbol emblazoned on the Jewish flag?”
“With all respect, excellency. The ships fly the white flag.”
“Never mind. The Jewish flag, what is its well-known emblem? The cross? The crescent?”
The exec sees where this is going, but can do nothing other than give the required answer. “The star, excellency.”
“The star is correct, Yussef,” the admiral says. “The Jews’ star. Now do your job without further delay. We are in battle.”
71
FROM THE EAST, THREE pink F/A-18 Super Hornets cross from the Sinai Desert and are now over open water heading due west at almost twice the speed of sound. In the lead aircraft, Jimbo opens communications, until now suppressed lest their electronic signatures be picked up by US signal-monitoring satellites overhead. “In four to engage. Reducing to attack speed. How you ladies doin’? Over.”
Stan: “Reducing speed. Guys, not too late to turn back. My war. Over.”
Chris: “Shut your pie hole. Over.”
Stan: “I’ll never forget this. Over.”
Chris: “Ain’t happened yet. Over.”
Jimbo: “Happenin’ in two. Ourah! Over.”
Stan: “Roger that. Ourah! Over.”
Jimbo: “We have tally. Repeat, we have visual at nine o’clock. Careful of them cargo tubs, ladies. Ourah and shaalome!”
72
ON THE DECK OF CV Star of Bethlehem, the singing continues with a kind of resolute hopefulness, less fervent than earlier but with a good deal more affirmation. If something very bad is about to happen—and there is every indication it will—the mostly Christian crew clearly wishes to die pronouncing words of faith, not fear. They have just broken into “Rocka Ma Soul in the Bosom of Abraham” when Connie Blunt, her producer, and her cameraman scramble up the ladder leading to the bridge and burst in.
“We’re flying the white flag. Don’t they see it?”
Captain Frank is circumcising a large cigar with a small, very sharp knife. He does not look up from his work except to gaze out at the approaching fleet. “At this range, they sure do.”
“Well, what’s going to happen?”
“Like I said, sister, there’s no telling. I’ve been Morsing we’re unarmed, but they don’t reply.”
“But what’s going to happen?”
“Dunno. Maybe they’re waiting for your press friends in the chopper to run low on fuel and leave the scene. Maybe they intend to ram us. I haven’t been briefed.”
Blunt is losing it. “Ram us? We could drown! Captain, I need for you to contact the press helicopter and get us evacuated immedia—” A tremendous boom cuts her short, followed by a series of smaller booms as the helicopter’s aviation gasoline explodes along its fuel lines.
“What was that?” Blunt shouts. It’s as if she needs someone to confirm what she sees. “What’s happening?”
She barely completes the phrase before hot steel and flaming plastic begins raining down to starboard.
Captain Frank sticks the cigar in his mouth. “What was your alternate plan?”
“Oh my God. Oh my God! They’re going to attack us! You have to get us off this ship!”
“Sister, that was my thinking first time I laid eyes on you.” He picks up the loud hailer, carries it out to the deck, and turns on the waa-waa-waa. “Attention, crew of Star of Bethlehem. This is Captain Levine. All hands into lifeboats. Repeat: get your sorry asses into those lifeboats now! To all hands. We are abandoning ship!” He steps back inside.
“But where will we go?”
The captain is rather busy at the moment. He picks up the radio mic. “To all masters, to all masters. This is Captain Levine. We are abandoning ship. We are abandoning ship. According to Uniform Code of Naval Procedure, I cannot order you to do the same, but strongly suggest it. Those trigger-happy Gyppos seriously don’t like us. Don’t take it personal. Just get your people into those damn boats.”
He has not signed off when the ship is engulfed in a rolling boom that comes out of the east and then seems to head up and away as the thunder of three low-flying jets echoes across the sky.
“Holy shit,” Blunt’s producer says. “It’s an air attack!”
Captain Frank picks up the handset. “Attention all masters, attention all masters. This is Captain Levine. Revised orders. Continue to man those lifeboats, but do not deploy. Just stand by. I don’t know what the hell just happened, but those planes are friendly. We’re being buzzed. Stand by for further information.” He picks up the hailer. “To all crew, to all crew. Hold fast those lifeboats. Repeat: don’t bother getting your asses wet. All that hymn singing seems to have had an effect.”
“What?”
“F/A-18s.”
“What? Speak English, for shit’s sake!”
The captain shades his eyes. “Super Hornets. Pink ones.”
73
THE THREE AIRCRAFT LEVEL off at twenty-eight hundred feet, sufficiently out of range of the frigate’s sea-to-air missiles to take evasive action should they be targeted. Likely that will take time. Israel’s air force is known to be destroyed—the Egyptian Navy is not prepared to defend from aerial attack.
Jimbo: “Stan and Chris, fore and aft. I’ve got the superstructure. We’ll deal with the small fry later. Ourah! Over.”
Chris: “Copy that, Jim. Ourah! Over.”
Stan: [Muffled.]
Jimbo: “Stanny, come in. Over.”
Stan: “I’m just crying, you big schmucks. Over.”
Chris: “Jew-bastard. Over.”
Jimbo: “Clipped-dick sissy. Over.”
Stan: “You ladies wanna stay the fuck out of my way. Permission to solo. Over.”
Jimbo: “Roger that, Jewboy. Chris, let’s give David some room to tickle Goliath. Party on. Ourah! Over.”
74
TWO PINK FIGHTERS CLIMB as the third swoops low over the Egyptian frigate, its 20 mm. cannons blazing at five hundred feet before it loops to come right back, sending two AGM Harpoon missiles into the Egyptian vessel’s superstructure.
It collapses like tinfoil.
On the frigate, the crew dives for cover, abandoning the very guns that are its only defense.
On her bridge, the admiral is both surprised and incensed. “What is that?”
His executive officer is already on the squawk box. “All hands, defensive posture. All hands, defensive posture. We are under aerial attack!”
“By whom?” the admiral shouts above the tumult. “Who has pink Hornets?”
“Super Hornets, excellency.”