The Hot Pilots (38 page)

“That he gets from his mother.” Herman laughed.

“Except, of course, for his receding hairline,” Harrison teased.

“
That
, he got from me,” Herman sighed. “But seriously, you really think it’s not too late for him to meet the right woman? You
and Suzy don’t happen to know a likely candidate, do you?” he added hopefully.

Harrison pondered it. “Not really, Herman.” He laughed uneasily. “I mean, no offense, but it would take one tough lady to
put up with the likes of Steve on a permanent basis, wouldn’t it … ?”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Herman sighed. “Anyway, it really
is
very kind of you to let him spend time with Andy.”

“If Steve does half the job with Andy that he did with Robbie, my boy will be a better man for it,” Harrison said earnestly.

“Yes, Robbie has turned out to be quite something, hasn’t he?” Herman said proudly. “He got the Silver Star. And he’s a captain
… I just wish he and Andy were closer,” he abruptly blurted.

Harrison’s smile faded. Robbie had always been cold and aloof toward his half brother, barely acknowledging Andy’s existence.
Harrison and his wife had brooded about it many times. Psychological explanations sprang easily to mind, but all the Freudian
mumbo jumbo in the world didn’t alter the fact that the schism existed.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Herman said hurriedly. “I’m very glad that you were able to make your own peace with your stepson. You’ve
been a good father to him—No! Not just a good
stepfather,
” he said. “A good
father
, period.”

Harrison blushed. The way he saw it, he didn’t deserve any credit for finally coming around and doing just what he’d been
obligated to do all along once he’d married Suzy. “Robbie sure grew up to be a damn fine pilot, didn’t he?” he said, anxious
to change the subject. “And I don’t say that just because he saved Steve’s ass in Vietnam …”

“And he saved it for a good cause, too.” Herman chuckled. “I loved the way Robbie roped Steve into agreeing to go to war college.”

“Right?” Harrison laughed. “When Robbie wrote us to tell us about it he said that it felt good to return the gesture. You
know, he’s never forgotten how Steve convinced him to go to college years ago …”

“First things first, though,” Herman remarked. “Israel is at the top of Steve’s agenda.”

“What I still don’t get is why the Israelis asked for Steve specifically,” Harrison mused. “I’d think it’d be far more useful
to send an aviation engineer to look over that MIG …”

“Like yourself, you mean?” Herman gleefully challenged.

Once again Harrison felt himself blushing. “Well,
yes
… I don’t mind admitting that it would be intensely interesting to find out what makes our adversary’s fighter planes tick
…”

“The government is interested in finding out the MIG-21’s
capabilities
, not what makes her tick,” Herman pointed out. “And that calls for a
pilot;
one who can take the MIG to the true boundaries of her performance envelope and then bring her back in one piece. There’s
no one better suited for that job than Steve.”

“Assuming what you just said is true, that still doesn’t explain why Steve was chosen. There are so many full-time test pilots
out there, why select a tighter pilot to do the job?”

“The MIG’s a fighter, not an experimental plane, so why
not
choose a fighter pilot to put her through its paces?” Herman argued. “And don’t forget, this is a very sensitive international
situation we’ve got on our hands. The Russians are already hopping mad at Israel for stealing the plane from Iraq in the first
place. If they ever found out that the Israelis were sharing their secret with us, all hell would break loose.”

“I get your point,” Harrison said. “The CIA and Air Force are not increasing the security risk by using Steve because he’s
already privy to the Vector-A deal we struck with the Israelis, and he’s got CIA experience …” He paused. “Still, for the
Air Force to pull Steve out of Vietnam the way it did …” He snapped his fingers. “Oh, I get it,
now
—Herman, did you put in the fix for Steve? Is
that
how he got this assignment?”

“Me? Mix in?” Herman protested.

Harrison fixed him with a skeptical look.

“Well, anyway, not
this
time…” Herman said weakly. “Honestly, Don. All I know is what Jack Horton at the CIA told me, which was confirmed by my contacts
in the Air Force. The Israelis specifically insisted that Steven Gold be sent to examine the MIG, and the United States was
so happy to be getting this opportunity that the government would have sent the Mickey Mouse Club if the Israelis had asked.”

As the jetliner descended, Steven Gold caught a glimpse of the glinting, deep blue sea, and then the urban sprawl that was
the city of Tel Aviv. He leaned his forehead against the oval plastic window to watch the jet’s shadow racing across the yellow
sand dunes, and heard the electric drone of the jetliner’s landing gear being lowered. A few moments later the airliner touched
down on the runway.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the intercom crackled. “Trans European Airlines welcomes you to Israel. The temperature is sixty-four
degrees. The sky is clear. Thank you again for giving us this opportunity to serve you, and we hope that …”

Steve tuned out the rest. He ignored the flashing seat belt sign, standing and stretching to get out the kinks as the lumbering
GAT 9091 jetliner taxied to a stop. He ran his fingers across his scratchy beard. He could do with a shower and a shave. The
past forty hours he’d flown from L.A. to New York, endured a two-hour stopover before his flight to London, and then boarded
this flight to Tel Aviv. It had been an eye-opener and a nuisance dealing with airlines’ booking agents for a guy used to
traveling the Air Force way, but both the CIA and the Mossad had insisted that Steve arrive here incognito, like any tourist.
Evidently everybody had the heebie-jeebies about the
Russians
finding out the
Israelis
were letting the
Americans
take a peek at their MIG-21 …

Steve shrugged into his jacket, grabbed his carry-on bag, and left the airplane. Outside the breeze was warm and dry. He put
on his sunglasses against the bright glare of the Mediterranean sun, and then joined the rest of the airliner’s bleary-eyed
passengers trudging across the tarmac toward the customs building.

At least Steve
thought
it was the customs building. Who could tell? All the signs were in hieroglyphiclike Hebrew.
Too bad Pop isn’t here with me
, he thought, chuckling,
assuming the old man has gotten far enough in his Hebrew primer
—

A man wearing wire-rimmed aviator sunglasses, and dressed in brown corduroys, a white turtleneck, and a khaki bush jacket
fell in beside Steve. “Mister Gold?” the man murmured so softly that only Steve could have heard him.

“Yeah?”

“Shalom, Mister Gold. I’m here to meet you …” The guy took Steve’s arm and gently steered him away from the rest of the passengers.
Only then did he flash a picture I.D. “I’m Dov Sachar. Lieutenant Sachar, of the IAF.”

“Israeli Air Force?” Steve murmured, looking the guy over. He was in his thirties, thin, and hawk-nosed, with longish, auburn
hair.

“I apologize for not addressing you by rank just now, Colonel, but as you’re aware, we’d much prefer that your visit here
pass unnoticed.”

“Sure, I understand. How’d you recognize me?”

“I had a picture, not that I needed it.” He smiled. “We don’t get many tourists wearing one of those.”

Steve looked down at himself. He was wearing white sneakers, tan chinos, a navy blue cotton polo shirt, and his A-2. “You
must be referring to my flight jacket … Sorry about that. I know I’m not supposed to be in uniform, but I figured an old World
War Two jacket wouldn’t give me away.”

“No problem,” the Israeli said.

“Thanks.” Steve smiled.
Because I’m not giving this jacket up
, he added to himself. He’d worn the A-2 during his stint in the Pacific and in Korea, and in both war zones things had gone
just fine. The only time he hadn’t had this jacket was in Vietnam … “I’ve gotten kind of superstitious about having it with
me, you see …”

“Like I said, no problem,” the Israeli repeated. “Leather jackets are very popular here, although I must say that I’ve never
seen one like yours,” he added, studying the squadron and USAAF patches that adorned the jacket’s front and shoulders, and
looking at the faded, painted design that took up almost the entire back: a turquoise shield emblazoned with two large, scarlet
vees in its upper left and lower right corners. Connecting the vees, running diagonally from upper left to lower right was
a scarlet lightning bolt.

“What’s this stand for, Colonel?” the Israeli asked, pointing to the shield.

“The Vigilant Virgins,” Steve replied.

“The
what?
”

Steve shook his head, smiling. “It’s a long story, pal. It starts in the Solomon Islands, around 1943. Maybe we can get into
it another time …” He paused. “I’m sorry, but what’d you say your name was?”

“Dov.”

“Got it.” Steve nodded. “Like the bird.”

“Good one!” Dov grinned obligingly. “If you’ll follow me, we can skip customs and passport check-in. Your bags are being collected.
They’ll be waiting for us at the car.”

“You speak English fairly well,” Steve remarked as Dov led him out through a guarded gate toward the parking area.

“I ought to, Colonel. I was born in Albuquerque.”

“I see … and your folks named you Dov…?”

“My parents named me Leon, Colonel,” the Lieutenant replied patiently. “I changed my name when I came here to live.” He paused
in front of an old-looking, dark blue Mercedes-Benz four-door sedan. “Well, here we are.”

“This is the car?” Steve murmured.

“Yeah.” Dov opened the trunk, and then stood aside so that Steve could check to see that all of his luggage had been loaded.
“You look perturbed, Colonel. Are we missing any bags?”

“No, nothing’s wrong … But I do have a question …”

“So ask.”

“Well, this is a
Mercedes
,” Steve began. “A
German
car,” he added carefully. “Pardon me for saying this, but considering what happened to the Jews in Germany, and all … Well,
I’m kind of surprised the IAF would—”

“Yeah, I get the idea,” Dov cut him off. “Look, in this country we must be practical, Colonel. We cannot afford otherwise.”
He smiled. “Why bite off our own nose to spite our face? Mercedes builds good cars.”

Steve gestured to the front passenger side of the Mercedes. “Can I ride shotgun?”

“Climb in, Colonel.”

“Call me Steve,” he said as he settled back against the Mercedes’ red leather upholstery. His father had told him about how
informal the Israelis were concerning titles.

Dov started up the engine and pulled away. “What’s next is up to you, Steve. We can go directly to the flat in Tel Aviv where
you can get some rest, or we can go out to the base where we’ve got the MIG—”

“Let’s go to the base,” Steve said, taking out his cigarettes. “I want a look at that MIG.” He winked at Dov. “That way I’ll
have something to dream about when I do go to sleep.”

“The base it is,” Dov said.

“Smoke?” Steve asked, offering the pack to Dov.

“Is the Pope Catholic?” Dov replied, reaching for a cigarette.

They followed a blacktop road out of the airport, through a densely settled rural area. The traffic was heavy, the drivers
aggressive in their worn-out midget, foreign automobiles and trucks. Seemingly oblivious to the strident mechanized traffic
were the Arabs in their ancient-looking horse-drawn carts plodding along the road’s shoulder. Mixed in with the stink of engine
exhaust and horse manure was the salty tang of the sea, the scent of eucalyptus, and the aroma of oranges.

“I didn’t know the Arabs still wore all that Sheik of Araby stuff,” Steve remarked. “The flowing robes, and that headdress
thing, and all …”

“Here, the more things change, the more they remain the same,” Dov said as he slowed, and then turned off onto a dirt road
pretty much vacant of traffic. “Downtown Tel Aviv is just a couple more kilometers the way we were going,” he said as the
Mercedes bounced and rattled its way over the mounds and ruts. “Forgive the condition of the road,” he added, glancing at
Steve. “The rainy season has ended only a few weeks ago. The damage done has yet to be repaired.”

Steve studied the terrain. They’d left the ocean breezes and towns and villages behind. Here the hilly landscape was covered
with thorny, dark green scrub above which oak trees with thick, gnarled trunks spread their branches wide.

“What’s that sweet smell?” Steve asked.

“Carob,” Dov replied. “Usually it grows northward of here, but we’ve planted some to see what’ll happen.”

“This all reminds me somewhat of the American Southwest.”

“Somewhat,” Dov agreed. “Like certain parts of Arizona, maybe …”

“Right.” Steve chuckled. “I keep forgetting you were born in America.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Dov smiled. “Lots of times I forget, too.”

The Mercedes slowed to turn left onto an even narrower road, and rounded a bend to come upon a checkpoint gate barring the
way. A pair of bearded soldiers armed with matt black machine pistols, and wearing berets and desert camo uniforms, appeared
from out of a tent along the side of the road. The soldiers gave the Mercedes a hard look as it rolled to a stop. Steve heard
Dov and the sentries grunt and cough their way through an exchange in Hebrew, and then the guards waved them on.

“All of our air bases are secret, of course,” Dov explained wryly as they drove away. “But this one is
really
secret …”

Over the Mercedes’ mellow rumble Steve heard the buzz saw sound of higher-pitched engines revving. He looked back to see another
pair of armed soldiers astride motorcycles quickly overtaking them. The cyclists managed to find the room on the narrow road
to whizz past, and then took up escort positions in front of the Mercedes.