“The fucking gays have an air force?”
75
ON BOARD CV STAR of Bethlehem, Connie Blunt, abruptly aware she is out of danger, scrambles to the bow for a stand-up. She is in full professional mode, except that absent her French sailor hat her hair is blowing the wrong way as the freighter plows thirty degrees to port to avoid the conflagration ahead. Having turned one way and then the other, Blunt gives up on attempting to have her hair stream behind her and simply holds it back as she prepares to describe the action into a hand mic that will avoid picking up ambient noise, of which there is plenty.
“Hurry up, Buddy!” she screams to her cameraman, who is having trouble keeping his footing on the slippery deck as the freighter hits a swell. “Come on! I’m going to win a Peabody!”
Her producer grabs the cameraman by the waist, stabilizing him sufficiently. “Hooked up to satellite!” he shouts. “Three, two…”
“Damian, this is amazing! You are watching a live attack by unidentified jet fighters on the Egyptian battleship that was bearing down on this humanitarian aid flotilla. Just a moment ago, an Egyptian naval rocket destroyed a BBC-chartered press helicopter, which exploded in midair, almost certainly leaving no survivors. No one on board the Star of Bethlehem has any doubt that this was to be our fate too, as well as that of the other five ships behind us bringing much-needed food, water, and medicines to the beleaguered city of Tel Aviv.”
A boom.
She turns.
“Life boats on board were about to be lowered after our captain gave the order to abandon ship, when literally out of nowhere there appeared a squadron or whatever you call it of three so far unidentified warplanes, F-16s or F-18s or, and you can quote me on this, F-U’s, that have literally saved the day. Behind me, a lone pink—yes, pink!—jet fighter is single-handedly pounding the bejesus out of that enormous Egyptian battleship, which—”
She turns again.
“—which omigod, it is sinking. I repeat, the Egyptian battleship is apparently sinking right in front of us live on CNN. Can you get this, Buddy? Buddy, get the camera off me. Forget what I said! Get the battleship!”
A double boom.
“Omigod, Atlanta, two other pink warplanes have now descended and are apparently taking on the two smaller vessels, which may or may not be destroyers, both of which have been hit by missiles.”
At CNN in Atlanta, with the screen behind him filled with the scene five thousand miles away, Damian Smith cuts in. “Connie, we have confirmation the large ship is a frigate, the two smaller vessels corvettes. All three seem to be stopped dead in the water. Connie? Connie?”
On the screen behind him, the three pink jets regroup and come in low directly over the Star of Bethlehem. Connie dives for the deck. Her cameraman is already there, with her producer on top of him. On the studio screen, there is nothing but deck, then sky, then deck again, and then sky blacked out as the jets buzz the freighter, dipping their wings.
“Omigod, I think they’re about to attack us! I never signed on for this! F(bleep) this sh(bleep)!”
Smith comes in. “Connie, take it easy. It looks like they’re just saying goodbye.”
Blunt regains her feet. “You think so, Damian?” She turns. “Yes, you’re right. The three warplanes are leaving the area, beautiful double plumes of smoke streaming behind them.”
“Contrails,” Smith says quietly.
“Yes, absolutely, Damian. They are disappearing to the—well, I can’t really tell what direction, but they’re becoming tiny dots on the horizon.”
“Connie, does anyone aboard the Star of Bethlehem know whose warplanes came to the defense of the aid flotilla?”
Her answer is drowned out by Captain Frank’s waa-waa-waa and then his amplified voice. “Attention all hands, attention all hands. This is Captain Frank. Belay all lifeboats. Repeat, belay all lifeboats. Crew, make fast all boats.”
CV Star of Bethlehem steams past the listing Egyptian frigate as its corvette escorts burn and lifeboats pick up survivors.
“To all hands: good job all around. Return to normal stations. Repeat: return to normal stations. Next stop, Tel Aviv!”
76
HAVING RETURNED FROM A three-day leave, in her quarters at USMA Forward Attack Squadron Wildcat Lieutenant Colonel Iris McKendrick, her hair in curlers, stubs out a Marlboro, then drains her shot glass. On the television screen before her, a CNN cameraman is panning CV Star of Bethlehem as its crew makes fast its lifeboats. Over the sound of the freighter’s ancient engines and the pounding of the waves can be heard the joyful song of the miraculously saved. As angry as she is, she cannot help but join in:
77
LIEUTENANT COLONEL MCKENDRICK IS not alone. The song, a staple of the Christian hymnal since it was composed in 1772, will become so popular that everyone from mezzo-sopranos to rap artists will cover it in the weeks ahead. Existing versions are already playing on radio stations while the soundtrack of the crew singing loops over and over again whenever television news reruns footage of the aid flotilla, which every television station outside the Muslim world does with great frequency. The song seems to have touched a nerve even with Russian and Chinese media, which up to this point have shown a sincere lack of interest in the tragedy unfolding in Tel Aviv.
That no onsite reportage emanates from the ghetto itself goes unmentioned even among the most sympathetic news outlets, which hardly wish to flaunt their impotence: so little news gets out of Muslim-controlled former Israel because news personnel find it impossible to get in. Journalists are summarily turned back at their home airports when they attempt to fly into Yasser Arafat International Airport, and the entirety of former Israel is sealed off from access by sea. Without a functioning Internet connection and no electricity to power short-wave broadcasts, Ghetto Tel Aviv is effectively cut off.
Only those governments with satellites have any idea what is going on in Tel Aviv or in the country’s huge prisoner of war camps. Primary among them is Washington.
78
IN THE WHITE HOUSE operations room, the president finds himself impressed by the day’s events in the eastern Mediterranean.
“Flo, didn’t I tell you those Israelians have an ace or two up their sleeve?” he says, tapping his foot to the sound of Amazing Grace playing on CNN. “Will you look at that footage. Our flyboys couldn’t do it better.”
“Should we not be concerned, sir? We had no intel. And still don’t.”
“Maybe not. But if IDF’s got three planes, they’ve got more, which means those Jews could deliver nuclear. We’d better give ’em that airlift. Anyhoo, there is no more Egyptian blockade.”
“Right on it, Mr. President.”
“And have Defense mix a little steel in with the vitamins. Other-wise that colored preacher…”
“Gerry Stallwell, sir.”
“Otherwise Pastor Gerry gonna piss on our parade.”
“Wise move, sir.”
“What I want to know is, how did we miss those F/A-18s? And why are they pink? Who knows what else those foxy kikes, no offense, got up their sleeve?”
“They’ve got nuclear, sir.”
“Well, send them that care package. Maybe they’ll take a Christian attitude if we send some aid. Forgive and forget. Turn the other cheek and all.”