79
AT MARINE FORWARD ATTACK Squadron Wildcat, high-pressure hoses blast the pink paint off the three F/A-18s, whose still-hot engines throw off a cloud of pink steam. In front of the planes on the tarmac, Jimbo, Chris, and Stan pose in their flight suits, their helmets tucked under their arms as Sergeant Major catches the moment with his cell phone camera.
“Sirs, respectfully suggest this here film not be shown in public for a good long while,” Sergeant Major tells them. “Like never.” He glances back at the base commandant’s quarters, whose windows overlook the tarmac. “Colonel’s reaction gonna be bad enough.”
“Wise advice, Sergeant Major,” Jimbo says.
Sergeant Major turns to his maintenance crew. “You handjobs swab my runway down so it’s as virginal as the entire fucking US Army. And once that’s done, you will not recall it ever happened! Semper fi!”
80
ON CV STAR OF Bethlehem, Connie Blunt stands with her back to the bow, beyond which in the distance the low white buildings and glass towers of Tel Aviv’s long shoreline glimmer in the sunlight. From this far away, it could be any beachfront city on the Mediterranean.
“Damian, what viewers are seeing over my shoulder is Tel Aviv, known as the White City. It must be a happier city if, as I hope, news has reached its people that aid is less than two hours away. We can’t be sure, of course, because as CNN has reported Tel Aviv remains cut off from effective communication with the outside world. But as this brave aid flotilla draws closer, there’s no doubt…”
81
SHE IS CORRECT. IN Yigal’s office on the fourth floor of the Isracorp building, the chief of staff’s spotters have already identified the ships steaming closer. Pinky is there, and Misha, who has taken to wearing a semi-automatic pistol on both hips. If he had a sheriff’s star, he would no doubt wear that. The two men seem to have reached a modus vivendi similar to that which appears to have become the rule in the ghetto now that there is a sense of order, if not law. They will never be friends, but they are allies, comrades in arms.
“We need to secure unloading,” Yigal says. “Hungry Jews get pushy at a bar mitzvah. These haven’t eaten properly for weeks.”
Misha looks offended. “What do you think we do all day? Already moving into place.”
“You knew the ships would get through?” Yigal asks.
“We plan for contingencies,” Pinky says.
“And I was going to shoot him in the nuts,” Misha mutters.
“Miracles have been known to happen in this neighborhood,” Pinky says. “Manna falling from the sky. A burning bush that isn’t consumed. The ten plagues—nobody expected that. And now… Kuwait.”
“This is going to work?”
“Yigal, their air force is just sitting there, sixty beautiful F/A-18s, barely used, low mileage, doing nobody any good.”
Misha snorts. “And they call me a thief?”
“So it’s a go?”
“I don’t have any other F/A-18s in my pocket,” Yigal says.
“In that case, Mr. Prime Minister, Mr. Minister of Police,” Pinky says, grinning for the first time in weeks. “The State of Israel is about to steal itself an air force.”
82
ON THE TARMAC AT Marine Forward Attack Squadron Wildcat, eighty-two officers and enlisted men are lined up at attention as Lieutenant Colonel I. C. McKendrick steps up on a wooden box. She has purposefully kept them waiting in the heat of this Middle Eastern afternoon. To underscore her disapproval, she informed her sergeant major not to offer the assembled Marines the solace of stand-at-ease. They have been at attention in the sun for twenty minutes. When she is sure the squadron has been sufficiently roasted, she signals the sergeant major with a nod.
“Ma’am!” he barks. “All hands on deck, ma’am!”
The base commander is mistress of the Marine officer’s trick of speaking quietly and slowly. Even so, her voice has all the feminine charm of a 50 cal. machine gun. Her delivery is pointed, humorless, staccato. Lieutenant Colonel McKendrick did not get where she is in the Corps because she is a pussy.
“Marines, I’ve been informed there has taken place a bit of unauthorized pleasure flying. In case it is not known to any of you assholes, the aircraft on this tarmac are property of the government of the United States of America, which does not look with favor on anyone borrowing same without official sanction. The original price tag on each of these aircraft is $67 million dollars, stripped. Losing one on an unauthorized flight would not only be sufficient for general court martial for the fist-fucker who does so, but would stain the reputation of this entire squadron, of which up to now I have been damn proud.”
She takes a moment to light a cigarette, something the commandant of any other base would never do, but this one is so far from official purview she can get away with anything up to but not including shooting several of her pilots in the head.
“Be that as it may, we’re in Office Hours.” This is the Marine equivalent of Captain’s Mast in the Navy, a form of military justice from which there is no appeal, and in which there are few limitations on punishment. “Sergeant Major?”
“Office Hours in session, ma’am!”
“Very good, sergeant major.” She looks out at her men with a mixture of anger and pity. “Now all of you gyrene cunts who participated in or aided this morning’s excursion, identify yourselves.”
At once Stan, Chris, and Jimbo step forward. Two other officers join them, then an enlisted man, then another, and another. Two officers follow. When the sergeant major steps up, the entire squadron joins him.
Col. McKendrick shakes her head slowly. “You sorry palm-fuckers make it so easy. Every gyrene on deck is hereby found guilty of violation of UCMJ Article 86, Unauthorized Absence, and is consequently restricted to barracks.”
The colonel pauses for a long time, her scowl slowly melting.
“For a period of two hours. Anyone ever mentions this offense or its level of punishment, I will personally remove his liver with my teeth. Sergeant Major, dismiss these Marines. Semper fi! And God bless America.”
83
TEL AVIV HAS NO harbor capable of berthing ocean-going ships. At the very center of its beachfront, a large marina shelters several hundred pleasure craft, mostly sail, but the port itself is far too shallow for commercial tonnage. Just to the south, in the tiny fishing port of Jaffa, lighters could be used to offload cargo from a freighter lying at anchor in deep water, but the ancient harbor, which was the region’s main port until the construction of Haifa in northern Israel and Ashdod in the south, now has neither the fleet of small boats necessary for the job nor the manpower trained to row them out and back.
Instead, the six freighters of the aid flotilla lie at anchor about two thousand feet beyond the breakers. Crew members on four of the ships pass boxes of supplies to others in lifeboats, who pass these on to a long daisy chains of civilians—male, female, young, old, secular and religious—standing waist deep in the surf. From the other two vessels, tankers filled to the gunwales with potable water, civilians shoulder fire hoses leading to tanker trucks on the beach.
84
AS HER CAMERAMAN SHOOTS the unloading from CV Star of Bethlehem, Connie Blunt manages to carry two pieces of expensive luggage to where Captain Frank oversees the unloading.